Memories of the Bass Smoke.

My hung-over recollections of a London sound.

Its obviously SHAKA at the Tudor Rose//Ding walls, steamed veg and rice, lifting up the air in your lungs to some other place, eyes closed, swimming in hot mud, hands to the air - crackling seven inch, chants from the back… …..// RoomONE at fabric, still not getting over styling it with my fake I.D, negotiating tracksuits and hacket t-shirts, self conscious spaceman skank floating on the stage, ignoring the whispers in the ears, 3-for-tens , just hearing Mampi completely destroy the whole room - my personal underground armageddon…..//Heatwave at the Rhythm factory, eyes definitely open, the shaking of bums in tracksuits, fitted jeans , marvellous miniskirts.. fast pace baselines stab in the legs, music I know I love played fast and loud – Sean Paul and we don’t give a shit because we like dancing and energy….//Fwd at Plastic people – descending, into the dark rollage – the front right bass bin, lanky shoulders leaning over the ten inch whirlwind – the skunked out chats from down that little ally at the back, smoke in my eyes, whisky in a plastic bottle – standing with by back to the speaker, the ribs and the spine at it again, eardrums fading out…//OneNation in Brixton.. walking tall now, easy to negotiate the forest of screw faces, the secret codes, nods, winks, bear hugs.. crumbling skunk in a sweaty hand, DJs orchestrating electric storms – MCs riding it all, bars like spiders trapped in tin drum, tracksuits and chains, the lasers and the dancers – those fucking dancers….>// The mother freaking curving stairway atDMZ.?./// Abashanti-I at Brixton Recreational, those rattling windows , the smiling salesmen, setting up stalls at 3.30am, selling dvds, ganja horns, Selassie-I t-shirts, – the disintegration of that boring alarm clock, time is run by the sirens now, climbing towers of speakers…

You get the idea.

I’m homesick.

Hold TIGHT the weird smells, the big men, the beautiful scary women and mainly the darkness of it all.