Skipped Intro

  DJing is easy. The technicalities involved are very simple. Once you have learnt to operate a mixer and synch records to the same tempo, you are able to 'mix' records into a continuous groove. Like anything, however, with deep understanding and precise refinement, it becomes an art form.  The most important attribute necessary to be a good DJ is a  love of music . Just as to love someone, you must understand them, so it is with music.  Those who have a passion for it pay close attention to it and develop a deep understanding of how it is constructed, how it moves and what it is saying. This evolves into an instinct for matching records together on a deeper level that transcends technical ability. Just as some jazz combos can be technically superb but boring, soul-less, rigid and formulaic in sound, so it is with the technically competent DJ with little or no understanding of music.  The DJ with an understanding and love of music who lacks technical skill could...

 

 

 

 

 

 The whole world is full of people with stories to tell. They just don't know it. Most of them are running around with their heads down, struggling to deal with the day-to-day.  Yes, everyone has their own story to tell, and the reason they have that story is also the reason most aren't able to tell it; the stress of maintaining from day-to-day while a world full of pimps, ten-percenters and other thieves in suits put the screws on you to fuel their greedy desires so they're alright and fuck you, Jack.  And that's before we get to personal interaction or anything even vaguely relating to humanity. Only a pawn in their game indeed! Dylan knew that scene. It's the stress of making it in a shitty system where everyone's out for something from you, but no-one wants to give anything back that makes you question things and realize you've got to value your own self-worth because no-one else is going to. Unless you're making it on a screen somewhere, being paid ...

 

 

 

 

In rooms with no windows, strange things can happen to a man's mind. It's the only explanation, surely.  In a cavernous cellar bar buried deep in the underbelly of the city with a heavy mix of rain and pressure in the Friday night air, it can warp you beyond recognisable shape or form. That's what happened to a man before my very eyes. He lost his shape.  He knew everybody but was a friend of no-one. The room moved around him as if he were the eye of a storm. But he couldn't be. He lacked the calm of a storm’s eye. His disposition was one of rigid turbulence. I'd seen him through the evening hopping between the people in the place and the bar. Never very long with the people. Always a long time at the bar. Trying to pick up drinks and conversations. Not many conversations, not long ones anyway. Plenty of long drinks.  When I found myself next to him at the bar, he claimed that he knew me. At first, I thought maybe he did. I sort of recognised him. I've met a lot...

 

 

 

 

A few years back, I was living above a second-hand record shop in the centre of town. A funny little place specialising in second-hand ska and reggae records. The owner was a veteran of the old school, a guy in his late forties who looked like John Lennon in his mind but not to anyone else’s eyes. He went by the name of The King and the shop was his castle, where held court in his own kind of way. He used his shop as a way to get hold of good records for himself cheap from collections and make a profit on what was left. My flat shared the doorstep with the shop and I was always in there listening to records on his all-in-one 1970s portable turntable setup. Two turntables, a two channel mixer, built in speakers, microphone facility, and preamp all packed into a black veneer flight case. It was almost the size of a coffin. A power cord plugged directly into the case and you were away. I'd generally be in my flat reading books, listening to the reggae skank booming through my floorboa...

 

 

 

  As seen from a bed, round about midnight.