22 October 2010
TVC Voyage to the land of Mush - Part One. Intro.
DJ Si speaks...
As the winter chill draws in early, it’s only October after all, it’s with a sense of self admonishment that I realise I’ve not added a blog all summer.
I’ve had a summer that’s been brilliant and soul destroying in equal measure…for each wonderful party with happy smiling faces feeling the return to our hearts of the artificial internal sunlight that is mum and dad, which lifts my heart and makes me think it’s worth sacrificing sleep, money and any social networks that exist outside of the “deep house community”, there has been one dominated by the banging boys, the boo boys, the petulant horse faced girls full of booze and ket who demand it harder (they can have it harder, for sure, but not musically). The whingers and whiners, fight starters and firestarters, trustafarians, dealers of shit drugs and lovers of ear bleed trance who pollute our free party sanctuary.
It was the summer where it seemed to suddenly be acceptable for people to come to free parties and ask the people providing the sound system if they could play a different kind of music - just for them. How can anyone get it in their head that that’s OK? Tell you what - we’ll spend what paltry money we have left after taxes, food, petrol, child maintenance and the fucking beer in the Neptune and the Smack on records, leads, speakers, decks, cartridges and all the other consumer products needed to play sound in public. Then we’ll spend hours carting it round and setting it up. 3 blokes in their 40s, one with a torn cartilage in his knee and a legacy of football injuries, another with a dodgy back and detached retina. We’ll bust our ligaments humping heavy speakers in and out of houses, cars, sheds, onto beaches, into pubs, gardens, art galleries. All so you can tell us what to play! Sounds great to me…
And what you ask for is always harder and louder, more banging and trancey, more techy and lacking in melody, in vocal, in soul and sweetness. Fuck off! The clubs full of teens with Ket dribbling out of their noses play your shit. Go there! Go to the Source bar in Maidstone, go to Fabric, go to the Brewery Bar. Get the fuck away from our party…we do it cos the places that play your shit, don’t play our shit. Leave us to our sanctuary of deep house; go spend your wages with the other soulless pissheads.
Every party we did - on the beach, at Lee & Lee’s with the swimming pool, the Pharmacy gallery, even in my own fucking house, there’d be somebody asking to bang it up. As Aston Villa manager John Gregory pithily put it when his star striker Dwight Yorke said he was leaving for Man Utd - “if I’d had a gun, I’d have shot ‘im”.
The summer of piss taking twats was neatly top and tailed by playing two events for D, the former cage fighter landlord/overlord of one of Whitstable’s best loved pubs. D, like many of the ICF crew who followed West Ham, was a convert from smashing heads at football grounds to pill popping in warehouses in the rave era. He also has his birthday the day before mine.
So Oz and me are having a couple of pints propping up his bar after work some time in May, bitching about our respective jobs, dodgy drug dealers, Tory politicians, the usual. I’m looking for a way to have a birthday party which doesn’t involve me getting my house trashed for the 3rd year in a row. D’s wingman S (let’s call him Horse from here on in as that’s one of the ways he hails people from one side of a pub to the other in his booming cockney/Irish/Kentish cocktail of a baritone) has come to a couple of our beach parties, and is particularly partial to Warren’s slabs of progressive techno, Oz’s deeper harder numbers, and my acid house back catalogue. The conversation goes something like this…with stage directions….
A bar. Early evening. Two middle aged bespectacled public sector workers, O and PP, are huddled into shapeless coats talking over a beer. Round the corner of the bar, 2 considerably wider men, D and Horse, are staring into fresh pints of lager. Horse jabs a very large finger into the ribs of D. These jabs would fell a bear but D barely notices them.
H: (jabbing) Ay, D, why don’t y’ask dem fellas dere to do your party? Dey know how to trow a party
D: (still looking straight ahead) Oo?
H: Dem TVC fellas, d’ey’re cool and the gang ya know? (Turns to the left) wadda youse two reckon?
O and PP exhange nervous glances. They know these two are affable and amusing in the early evening, but highly volatile and dangerous when drunk. But they also know that they have large doses of the chaotic hedonistic spirit that makes parties fun, and never do things by halves. They’re both suckers for people who never do things by halves.
D: Alright lads. How much do you charge to do a party?
O: Not sure really…it depends. What do you wanna do?
D: Well I’ve got a marquee hired in a big house outside Faversham. Big enough for a hundred people. Bar, hog roast, got a band booked and a the missus has booked a DJ but I’d rather have you blokes playing some ‘ouse.
H nods knowingly and conspiratorially puts a finger to his lips. He leans forwards as if a member of the Flying Squad is listening in, and takes in a sharp breath.
H: and dese boys do a good party…oo hoo hoo…wait til you hear what dat Warren plays…
D: How much then lads?
I have two competing visions in my mind….a marquee full of people rushing pleasantly as we lift them up stage by stage with swathes of beautiful house music at 4am…alternating with D and H lifting us up and throwing us into the Swale with our sound system cos they didn‘t like what we were playing. But when we’re offered a oner towards our new speakers, and learn that the band is Paul the Other One - my ambivalence is overruled…The other DJ is given a score to stand easy, and we’ve got our date.
To read how it turned out, check the blog next week