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, but maybe not in anyone else's eyes). He went by the name of The King, and the shop was his castle, where he held court in his own kind of way.
He used his shop to get hold of good records for himself on the cheap. He'd buy up old vinyl collections, take what he fancied, then 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 was almost the size of a coffin. But in theory, it was a portable rig. Plug a power cord directly into the case, and away you go.
Most days, I'd be in my flat reading books, listening to the reggae skank booming through my floorboards, and would inevitably wander down there sooner or later. Sharing a doorstep meant I could see anyone who came to my door through the shop window, so I'd while away my afternoons in there, at ground level, seeing what the action was.
There was a regular crew of characters who passed by to talk shop and talk shit and take shits and drink my coffee when The King ran out. The conversation could be fast or slow depending on the company, but regardless of subject matter, a smutty sense of humour would run throughout. This was The King's influence. He always saw to that.
One time, he put on a gig with an old ska legend—a guy way past his prime who was willing to do anything to keep the glory going. I went along out of curiosity.
Right away, during the first number, you could tell this former legend still felt the music, but he didn't like having to get up there with his candle almost burned out and churn out lacklustre versions of his old hits. He'd rather be kicking back and relaxing than still be striving, but somehow it never worked out that way for him. So what can he do? He's got to keep going because he needs the money. What else is he gonna do—get a nine to five?
Everybody has the capacity to fuck up, so you can understand his predicament. Still, it was sad to watch. Let me explain how far the man who twenty years ago would have drawn a crowd big enough to fill a football stadium had fallen. He was now playing at a low-key working men's club-style venue with a maroon carpet perimeter surrounding a small wooden dancefloor in front of an eight-inch high stage with a bar at the side and a pool table in the back.
I'd gone there with a friend of mine, Nat, an elfish half-Polish girl with blonde dreadlocks. We sat at a round table and watched as The King played records on his stereo coffin hooked up to the venue's rickety PA system. Looking around, we could see a most bizarre collection of people in the place. It was old school, alright. The venue that time forgot. I kept thinking, "how many poor bastards have had wedding receptions here? How many lucky bastards have had wedding receptions here?"
The scene by the wall over to our right looked like a Martin Parr photograph— full of people obliviously indulging in the mediocre side of British life. For a moment, I thought I saw a wedding cake on one of the tables, but I was mistaken. In front of us was a skinhead straight from the seventies—tight jeans, black boots, check shirt tucked in under his braces—stood on his own at the edge of the dancefloor, swaying to the music, locked into the skank. Feet rooted, unmoving, just nodding his head, bobbing his body, and swinging his arms alternately to the rhythm. Simple pleasures.
We went off to play pool. You could hear the balls echoing from the pockets over the music. Our ska legend came on and failed to light any kind of fire in the place. It was a sham. A non-event. The band sounded like some duo you'd find in a two-star Thai hotel foyer or the backroom of a terrible bar. The kind of sound that makes you laugh sympathetically while the nervous, desperate vocalist shuffles uncomfortably through their performance.
Pool game over, I'm sitting at a table at the back of the room with a rasta guy who sells records to The King, watching the spectacle of a man in freefall. We're shaking our heads at the whole scene. We're laughing at seeing a legend reduced to a cheap parody of himself. We're laughing at the crowd of deadbeats. We're laughing at the drunken state of The King. We're laughing at ourselves. There's a girl shooting pool with her man. Late 20's, short blonde hair, great body, great rack. I'm looking at her ass as she bends over to take a shot. The rasta sees me taking her in.
"I bet you wouldn't mind getting up that, eh?"
"It looks good from here," I say.
"I've been up that," he chuckles, "It's good."
But there's no chance anyway. She's off the pool table and on her man now, arms round his neck and smiling a big crooked smile, flashing him a look with her eyes that's capable of causing a whole lot of trouble.
By this time, our ska legend had packed up and left the stage after struggling to convince the crowd he was actually there in the first place. He had lasted barely twenty minutes. I could hear the balls clattering around on the pool table. Nat was there, cue in hand, with a couple of people I knew from the bar out the back of my flat. Just then, The King makes his way to the stage and clumsily takes the microphone. He's swaying from drink, but I know he's had a dab of speed too, so he's ready to spew forth like a burst sewer.
"Our ska legend has gone and finished 'cause he's knackered. He's old and past it and has gone for a lie down."
The man he was talking about was obviously able to hear all this. There's some laughter in the room, but you can also sense something else— an underlying unease about the whole situation. The King starts drawing the raffle that had been taken earlier. Some guy wins a cheap third prize. I forget what it was; I just remember that it was unmemorable.
The King is drunk. He knows the night he's been talking up around town for six weeks has been a washout; he's getting a bit loose of the tongue and gives the guy a fair chunk of abuse along with his prize. The atmosphere begins to turn, and then it happens. The King loses it and gives way to the impulses most affected by the booze and the drugs. Second prize goes to a foreign girl. When The King realises she can't understand English and doesn't grasp his description of the prize, he leers at her from the stage and says into the microphone, "You've won a shaftin' from me, luv."
She understands that alright. Who wouldn't? As The King stumbles forward to give her a prize, he reaches for a tit and tries to give the unsuspecting prizewinner an inappropriate kiss.
The atmosphere turns in an instant.
After that, The King lost all self-control. He was completely given over to the hands of the booze and the speed and the adrenaline and the testosterone—and the hands of all of those things had completely let go of the reins. We didn't even get to first prize. The King had forgotten about the contest and was now acting purely on his maniacally twisted wits. Focusing on the microphone, he tried to pursue the subject one final, desperate time.
"If any pussy wants a screw, come see me in the toilets in five minutes. I'll give you first fucking prize."
The place fell silent. On stage, The King hung from the mic stand like a dirty old rag. I laughed and shook my head. I looked at the rasta, and he was doing the same. We were embarrassed for The King and for the people he had insulted. All this was too much for most of the others. A good portion of the crowd got up and left in disgust.
I looked over to where we'd been sat earlier. The skinhead was still standing in the same place, militantly bobbing away to the skank, seemingly oblivious to everything that had just happened. But there was no music. The rhythm he swayed to was somewhere in his head.
I left soon after with Nat and the crowd from the bar near mine. Predictably, we headed there, but I got the hell out after one drink. I'd seen enough for one night.
As I got to my doorstep, The King was pulling up outside with the rasta and a few others. Radiating incoherence, he was still intent on having an after-party back at his castle. I didn't bother speaking to him. I just entered my flat and went upstairs with nothing else to do but lay on the sofa and listen to the skank boom up from below.
As I lay on the edge of my sofa and consciousness, I imagined the skinhead still stood in the same position on the dancefloor, swaying to the music in his head in an empty room. This image was punctuated a moment later by the sound of the police turning up outside The King's castle gates, and I realised the night had finally reached its logical conclusion.
—2004—