Undrafted

It was around midday when we found Miguel. He was slouching on the steps beneath a human-sized stone cross on the edge of town. Slim, with tanned, leathery skin, thin lips, and dark, lank hair falling on his shoulders from beneath his leather cowboy hat, he looked every inch the Western outlaw. We knew right away he was our man. He got our attention with an almost comic book line, "Hey, you want something to smoke?" We said yes and began conversing in the local tongue. I say we—I left the talking to my travelling companion, Senor Tony, as his Spanish was far more fluent than mine. Within a couple of minutes, Miguel presented us with a small block of hashish. I could tell right away it was good stuff; dark and oily—the best we'd had all trip. This was Ronda, the final stop on our two-week tour of Andalusia. And this had been our customary approach in every town along the way— walk the streets until we found someone who looked like a good bet, then ask to score a smoke....

A few years back, I was living above a second-hand record shop in the centre of town .   A funny little place that specialised 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, at least). He went by the name of The King, and the shop was his castle, where he held court in his own kind of way. His business model was this: He'd buy up old vinyl collections, take what he fancied for himself, then use his shop to make a profit on what was left over. My flat shared a 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, a microphone input, and a preamp—all packed into a black veneer flight case. It looked like a coffin. But it was a fully functioning portable party rig. Plug a power cord directly into the case, and away you go. Most days, I'd be in my flat r...