Wednesday, July 1, 2015

el topo | dub discriminator

"Seven years imprisonment for playing a radio in an open window. Should that window occupy a space on a monitor." - ib
No lion of Judah stalks the interior dispensing justice. Holding court in dwarf shrub. Rampant. Bristling with mange.
     Jody the Hat moves like a hyena on singed paw, clinging to peaks, dropping in on favela to dispense dub. The aboriginals receive him oftenetimes without a murmur. At others, retreating into corridor with IV lines trailing. Inviting the Hat to plug them succinctly in the back.
     A Tascam loaded on his hip. The bullhorn as forgiving as flyswatter.

Tuesday, June 30, 2015

4 feet 11 inches tall 2.1 | fucking felled by torpor

"I could not move for damn pygmies. Down there deepthroating dick in the tall grass." - ib
Jody the Hat did not care for pygmies, aboriginals, straights or queers. 
     Jody the Hat was a suit for hire.
     He dressed conservatively. Did not say much. Held no opinions on politics or the weather.
     The only thing which moved him was dub. It flowed through him as the CT sickness stalks the interior. Dividing cabals. Twins. Seeding in the blood like the cargo of a fruit fly.
     The sky was a peculiar shade on the bruised side. Puce as a failing liver.
     The back of the Hat's neck was spotted before the deluge. It rode above the collar of his shirt like a mildewed fire hydrant. The reels kept jamming on the spool. The gears kept laddering his hose.
     There is no better operator east of Port Moresby, and if there is he's long since drowned.
     In the rain, the rain, the rain.
     To be specific, the indigenous peoples eschew dub, but he goes at it regardless. The continual threat of blow dart is an occupational hazard. One builds a resistance to Curare. Over time, the resultant weakness of the skeletal muscles promotes a vaguely pleasant torpor. The thing to do is just keep moving. Ignore the almost overwhelming urge to buckle at the knees.
     Or unbuckle one's breeches and squat down to shit.
     The mission to bring dub to the aboriginals, to bludgeon fibre cabling into submission, is not to be sneezed at. Most of them are hooked on the Central Transmitter. It is a joyless, unenviable, thankless task.
     Many are so addled they are past assisting.
     Only yesterday morning the Hat came across an entire herd of them. Lamont T. Shady's orphan children.
     Plumbed straight into the mainframe, configured head to toe.
     Sprawled out like epileptics kicking.
     The Hat stomps on limbs. Tiny wrists. He obliterates maybe fifteen players, on and off the wire, but of course it's too late. One of them has overdosed on a Pono. God knows where she got it from. The device is jammed on its highest setting, the purest reading he has stumbled on yet.
     93.6% grade A Radiohead. Enough to fell a young elephant.
     The Celtic pygmies, like their Pictish forebears, are a simple people. While it is true they abandoned the practice of painting their faces blue centuries ago, really there was never any need for it. 
     The weather is so cruel here that their genetically pallid hides are given to that colour regardless. 
     Dusted with freckles, crowned with plumes of blazing orange and red, they naturally gravitate to building huge bonfires. Around which they collectively dance. 
     The Ministry soon adopts the practice of employing airdrops over the region. The rapid deployment of industry approved drones.
     Jody the Hat does not dance. Not with Ivor. Not with Auntie.
     Of course, executives from the Central Transmitter Tweet that they are merely supplying demand. Such activities are perfectly legal. Inhale, and it is immediately apparent that they are bent on fostering addiction. Here, in the most remote parts of the highlands, as elsewhere.
     So starved are they for diversity of diet, they will gladly consume the most unpalatable swill.
     At first it was Zunes. Preloaded with The Nashville Eleven. Beyoncé.
     Jody the Hat merely shakes out his pants. Adjusts the crease accordingly.
     A few of the natives are thereafter spotted several miles outwith their natural territories. It's understood they have woven cowboy hats out of the forest vines which proliferate.
     Where some are given over to the primitive theatre of line dancing, others, still, appear to be gyrating most salaciously.
      If one has ever heard a jig and reel one will understand their susceptibility to the crudest intrigues of chicanery. Much like the native American Indian, they are predisposed to all forms of mental illness. Predominately depression. Small wonder, in fact, they invented the very firewater which did for a tribal nation what General Custer could not.
     A short while later, they graduate to 2nd Generation Nanos laced with CT approved Bitrate effluent. Beethoven. Coldplay. Diluted Techno and Acid House at 192 KBPS. The effects on the ground are devastating.
    The cure is basic but may require several "shots" to achieve the intended result. Utilizing those extreme frequencies found in dub, we at the same time tap into HBL activity as dispensing with the need to court the earbud.
    As the needle courts the vein.
    We go in direct and like a cauterizing iron eradicate, or overwrite, the cellular damage caused by low-end interference. Where the casual user exposes himself to infection, we seek to tattoo over underlying distortion.
    DYB, DYB, DYB. DOB, DOB, DOB.
    Dub, motherfucker. Dub. Kit Carson is a long time dead.
    Decant a ribbon of glass beads and out of holes they come scrabbling.
    Jody the Hat does not care for pygmies, aboriginals, straights or queers. Jody the Hat does not care for family. In his younger years, it's true, he favoured the blackjack in tight spaces. He even auditioned for the goon squad. Jail time cured him of that vanity. Jody the Hat does not care for warrants. Supreme court subpoenas. Jody the Hat does not care for anything save deep, righteous dub.

Monday, June 29, 2015

the mouse that yawned

"When the mouse laughs at the cat, there's a hole nearby." - Nigerian Proverb

The mutes patrol the back pages like web spiders in the rough. They read. They register vibration. They eavesdrop from the tangle of a tormented black rag.
     Anonymity is the preferred condition.
     Lockjaw. Trismus. The terminal backfiring of a yawn.
     One attempts to be nice. From a distance.
     Self-contained as boy scouts scavenging for kindling, they pepper the screen with cigarette burns. Peer in at the civilians setting the table for guests.
     Quiet as mice, they fall back to their position in the woods. Dig in to observe. They have nothing to say.
     Quiet as a mouse, they shoulder it like a sniper's rifle. Picking off sentences at will. Nailing the good shit with precision. A bayonet up close.
     They are the assassins one wonders about when one is laid out on the sofa. The ninjas lurking in the outhouse. The old lady knitting a sweater for the accused in the dock.

Saturday, June 27, 2015

the gospel according to ayatollah shady | a fragment

"The greatest threat to civilization right now is not financial ruin. Not even terrorist attack. The greatest threat to our nation comes disguised as liberal intervention." - Lamont T. Shady
I went to the bookcase and withdrew a volume so slim it resembled a minimum wage pay packet. Cracked the spine and hoovered up some Chinaski. The good stuff. Just a little. A line or two, a paragraph at most.
     Enough to prevent the arteries from furring up altogether.
     Not so much so as to get me to idle at the trough.
     That thing with Lamont T. Shady. His fucking Mickey Mouse charter.
     Such a ridiculous name for an author. Such a preposterously mean legislative draft. He could only be a Texan. The kind of name one expects to find on the jacket of some cheap Western novella. Or stitched to the overalls of a pig farmer up to his knees in shit.
     Oil. Gas. A fucking cowboy's lament.
     Small wonder he was so warmly embraced by the pimps on the bleachers. One hand on the abacus. The other on a leash. Reining in their tired young bitches. The wrinkles. Creases. Pimples on the ass.
     Seven years imprisonment for playing a radio in an open window. Should that window occupy a space on a monitor.
     A custodial sentence on a par with manslaughter in less enlightened countries. Rape. More than made men get for inciting genocide.
     I turned up the dub. Practiced pacing around my apartment in my undershorts.
     Shady, while doctoring his texts, might as well prescribe the cutting off of hands and tongues. Routine stonings.
     The Ministry demands hanging for casual eavesdroppers.
     A cruel and unusual punishment for the rest.
     Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Lamont T. Shady plots to padlock the doors on our public libraries. Stops just short of raising them to the ground.
     He postures and drawls like an Ayatollah in Gene Autry hat and spotted neckerchief. A peeping Tom in jackboots. One can't sleep soundly for the lasso sneaking out from under the bed.
     The Ministry is delighted.
     It would call in the firemen right away. If circumstance allowed it.
     If not to cook the books, then put them out of circulation. Nothing excites them more than the prospect of abolishing a free lunch. It's where Jesus went to hell in a handcart. His neglecting to charge those fuckers by the head.
     I turn up the dub some more. Just enough to make a pantomime of it.
     Every time Shady pauses to wipe the spittle of his microphone, the Ministry jumps to its feet and applauds. They can't believe they're getting away with it at last. Murder. After the lean years. The aboriginals have had things their way for far too long. It's about time someone restored a semblance of order. It's about time someone put them in their place
     Getúlio Vargas III immediately produces a calculator and calls his hedge fund manager. The Mouse oils his Uzis and checks both magazines for duds. It's a win win situation. The only element not profiteering can't afford the ticket.

Friday, June 26, 2015

mouse bill 3261

"A mouse can be just as dangerous as a bullet or a bomb." - Lamar S. Smith

A mouse can be just as dangerous as a bullet or a bomb.
Read more at: http://www.azquotes.com/author/13782-Lamar_S_Smith
A mouse can be just as dangerous as a bullet or a bomb.
Read more at: http://www.azquotes.com/author/13782-Lamar_S_Smith
A mouse can be just as dangerous as a bullet or a bomb.
Read more at: http://www.azquotes.com/author/13782-Lamar_S_Smith

Thursday, June 25, 2015

getúlio vargas iii | bean counter

"He looked to be about twelve-years-old. In truth, he was closer to forty." - ib

Getúlio Vargas III occupied such a high position within the Ministry that they had to construct an extra floor. Just to keep up with him.
     He drew an eight figure salary, had three wives, six homes, countless children. In addition to owning one hundred and forty-two pairs of custom made loafers - in which slept the imprint of those women who dressed and stitched them - he drove a Maserati Ghibli five days a week; a Ferarri 458 on Sundays. That is, when he was not piloting his very own private Embraer Legacy. An achievement he was especially fond of, even though it was widely conceded he did not not deserve his wings. Getúlio Vargas III was incapable of flying straight. Even down a lighted runway.
     At the end of the day he was still a fucking bean counter.
     At least so far as his enemies were concerned, and he collected quite a few.

Tuesday, June 23, 2015

smyrna | 2:8–11

"...to the end that vacuous Halloween lantern grin of the junkie. Chiseled in sinew and bone." - ib

The bike was a red Honda. A lion of Judah painted on one side of the petrol tank. A Scottish saltire on the other.
     On it perched an emaciated young boy in oversized goggles. The shock of orange hair partially tamed by Skullcandy headphones, the black ribbon of plastic glued to his head.
     The bike was almost certainly borrowed from the Brotherhood of Dub. The fallen.
     At a distance, he resembled a tiny gladiator preparing to cut a rug with Auntie, bring the roof down on the spoiled, but the sounds bleeding over the rumble of his engine were pure CT. Government approved methadone. He grinned and opened the throttle some more. Balancing the weight of the metal frame on the heel of one boot.
     Aside from the headphones, the boots, he was quite naked.
     In another time and place, a different war zone, we might have reached out to him with sticks of gum.
     "Motherfucker," my sibling pronounced. Nervously dropping one hand to the Tascam dangling on its strap. One finger twitching on the dial.
     Like a child soldier caught in the eye of the lens, the boy exuded a toxic charm. Where correspondents chase awards across a double page spread, the Brotherhood holds to only one objective.
     "Trubba!" the youth exclaimed.
     We let him have it with a full stream of dub. The Fatman. Straight between the eyes.
     He folded over the handlebars, sprawling in a tangle of spoke and chrome. The headphones unstuck. The goggles filled with blood.
     We walked slowly to where he lay on the tarmac. Covering the ground by inches.
     Brother Horse seized the boy by the hair and dragged him back on the seat to expose the tattoos on his chest. Young Team Pygmy Death Squad. We have Come For Your Children. The engine was still gunning. The body convulsed. Splashed urine on the fuel tank. It sizzled on the cylinder block. Horse reached across the youth, snapped it off at the ignition.
     He looked to be about twelve-years-old. In truth, he was closer to forty.
     Under the blue tattoos, the skin was pale as an albino's. Stretched like shrink-wrap over a concertina of ribs. The distended belly. Filtered cigarettes plugged like bullets into a belt around its waist. First generation Ministry.
     A rash of old and fresh tracks wove a dark bloom on both arms. The thread of brown matter issuing from the ear indicated long term abuse.
     We rolled a joint and shared it. After we hauled the body off the Honda. Slung it in those weeds at the side of the road. We lit up the Tascam, too, and listened to some Tubby. Worked out those kinks that result from being in the field too long. We were being watched. Ears other than our own were tuned to the dub.
     Brother Horse checked his batteries and exhaled into the encroaching darkness that falls softly as a blanket in late afternoon. Several hundred yards away, in those corridors dissecting the favelas, bonfires were being readied for the night ahead. Snares laid. Simple meals prepared.
     Overtaken by a weakness to bludgeon the house senseless with a royal flush of dubs, the bleachers echo with the whisper of melodica.
     We were a long way from home, but we were not troubled. Miles above, the clouds were scuffed with violet. We had not seen a drone in days.
      By 1AM the sirens falter. The hammers to the south bed down to a pulse. Pablo never sleeps. Not soundly. The quiet he inhabits is the space between sinew and socket. The dials twitch. The tape rolls. Spooling behind eyelids, the fluttering of moths. East of the Nile. A mile upstream. The engineering nowhere so critical as the end result: chin to midriff, thickening to a river. What started out as an anonymous pouring, a splash from a carafe, a water bearer.
     We saddled up the TEAC and made certain we had enough gas. Contact at that kind of close proximity causes one's skin to itch and crawl. Even though there are seldom cases reporting contagion. We considered torching the body but decided we could not afford to squander the fuel. Much as a dub rat cannot afford second thoughts.
     Rule #1. Check your batteries before you take a pulse. That which seems dead is merely recharging.

know your rights

     "And he had in his hand a little book open: and he set his right foot upon the sea, and his left foot on the earth
     And cried with a loud voice, as when a lion roareth: and when he had cried, seven thunders uttered their voices." - Revelation 10

 ▼ KING TUBBY + PRINCE JAMMY: DUB OF RIGHTS from "Dub Gone 2 Crazy • 1975-1979" 2 x LP Blood & Fire (BAF 013) (JA/UK) 1996

Monday, June 22, 2015

a guiding dub

"The drones seldom hover this close to the edge of the page. We bookmark it regardless." - ib
GRANT PHABAO: ANDUB HEAD YUDU from "Hi-Fidelity Dub Sessions • Chapter One" CD Guidance Recordings (GDRC571) (FR) 1999

young team | pygmy death squad

"We came upon a Wurlitzer standing in the pulpit of a church. A jukebox, not an organ." - ib
 Originally appearing on the Wurlitzer Jukebox 7", WJ 22.

MOGWAI: (NEW PATHS TO) HELICON 2 from "Ten Rapid • Collected Recordings 1996-1997" CD Rock Action (05 CD) (UK) 1997

devolution dub

"North of the border, the drones circle like crows high on the scent of carrion." - ib

Engineered by Bullwackie, Prince Douglas.
PRINCE DOUGLAS: NORTH OF THE BORDER from "Dub Roots" LP Wackie's (WAC 295) (JA/US) 1980

Sunday, June 21, 2015

dub will eat itself 2.1

"Out of that awareness comes dissent. Out of dissent comes the instrument for change" - ib
Midway between sermon and reason, houses of prayer spring up in the most unlikely of terrains. Where the grandest of cathedrals fester desecrated, those rawer divergencies circulate as freely as lice. A shrine. An offering. A dais and several deckchairs.
     Tabernacles infesting road and favela like so many abandoned shoeshine boxes. Havens for the unclean.
     The gatherings are seemingly impromptu and generally involve some token sacrifice.
     The aboriginals are drawn to echoes of the Eucharist. Even as they inject unadulterated quantities of RIAA approved filth directly into their brains and set about consuming themselves. Siphoning all that which can be salvaged between one airdrop and the next.
     The especially wasted, the ones most eaten by desire, simply fall prone to the turf and writhe there still connected to their media players. In the rain. The sleet... Blindly willing the effluent to pour down on them from out of the rectums of government drones.
     Many times I have planted a steel toe-capped boot in a creeping stain only to step on a bracelet of teeth. A gris-gris gumbo of battery acid and undigested parts.
We came upon a Wurlitzer standing in the pulpit of a church. A jukebox, not an organ. The gospel frozen on the spindle behind stained glass. Seven archangels pinned like butterflies.
     It must have involved a tremendous degree of determination. Just to drag it in there.
     The generator lay half buried under a litter of printed hymn sheets. Psalms.
     We did not much feel like tarrying there. Once it was established the juice was spoiled. There was something about those blank rows of pews - the dust, the absence carved in wood - that made one immensely wary. Afraid for those pockets of resistance within oneself. Sometimes it is better to turn one's back.
     Sometimes it is better to move with the dub.
     Where the copper wire which strung me together sang feet above those twisted shrunken remains I could no longer assume I was safely earthed. The vibrations travelled through less vital organs than heart or spleen and concentrated somewhere in my belly. Nesting there. Stitched full of appetites.
     We were on the seaboard. Closer to the coast than we had been in weeks.
     I seem to recall there were boats once. Yachts. Idling at the jetty.
     The memory of it is sentimental. Where the Brotherhood is not.
     I remember.
     Sun ripened runners in pea coat, its longer Afghan cousin, toggled against the stiff salt breeze. Before the voodoo stench. A tangle of cockles. Whelks. Nets laid out on the pier for mending. Dogs snuffling between children's feet. When children were still children.
Not those diminutive high priests courted by the Ministry.
     Dogs, one must take pains to avoid.
     Like addled pygmies they travel in packs, but they are grown feral and have no fear of man. The aboriginals, of course, exhibit no alarm either. Even as they are overrun. I have seen them half-dismembered, disemboweled, ribs snapped open like an ivory toast rack, bratwurst ticker tape spooling.
     And to the end that vacuous Halloween lantern grin of the junkie. Chiseled in sinew and bone.
     Young Team Pygmy Death Squad.
     An arm floating up like a doll's.
     The dub, it must be understood, is neither directed as a means to pacify nor agitate. Where the Ministry for the Central Transmitter seeks merely to control, The Brotherhood of Dub moves at great lengths to nurture awareness. Out of that awareness comes dissent. Out of dissent comes the instrument for change.
     We zipped up only that which was essential and left the Host intact in its spangled box. A vestige of more simple times. Only the reel is key now. The dub. The drones seldom hover this close to the edge of the page. We bookmark it regardless. The CT can go fuck itself. There is no truce, no pretense, no token religious observance. There is nothing save conflict. Division. Bad blood.

Saturday, June 20, 2015

b.o.d.

“A paranoid is someone who knows a little of what's going on. A psychotic is a guy who's just found out what's going on.” - William Burroughs
North of the border, the drones circle like crows high on the scent of carrion.
     The aboriginals are broadly divided into two camps. Those dependent on airdrops to maintain their habit, and those drawn to the cyclic boom of dub permeating deep into the interior.
     Deserted A roads thread the landscape like collapsed veins. Caravans of the afflicted press forward on their bellies where both worlds intersect. A predatory centipde, or parasitic flatworm, bent on devouring itself.
     Wretched. Retching. Melting under the weight of junk sickness, RIAA sowed genome.
     I could not move for damn pygmies. I could not move, period.
     Where the copper wire which strung me together sang feet above those twisted shrunken remains I could no longer assume I was safely earthed. The vibrations travelled through less vital organs than heart or spleen and concentrated somewhere in my belly. Nesting there. Stitched full of appetites.
     The continual threat of blow dart is an occupational hazard. One builds a resistance to Curare. Over time, the resultant weakness of the skeletal muscles promotes a vaguely pleasant torpor.
     The thing to do is just keep moving. Until one simply can not.
     I played out the dials and let the dub rest as bait. My hands shook as I rolled one cigarette after another and watched each stutter and fizz between restless fingers. While parachutes floated down and deposited more filth on playing field. Car park. The cinders of a hospital.
     The old stadiums are a favoured target, naturally. The aboriginals continue to congregate there decades after the colossal PA systems have fallen into disrepair. Squatting on the bleachers. The executive stands. Waiting for some cue or prompt to galvanize disturbance.
     The especially wasted, the ones most eaten by desire, simply fall prone to the turf and writhe there still connected to their media players. In the rain. The sleet. The slavering ferment that is one month only in July. Blindly willing the effluent to pour down on them from out of the rectums of government drones.
     The cure is basic but may require several "shots" to achieve the intended result. Utilizing those extreme frequencies found in dub, we at the same time tap into HBL activity as dispensing with the need to court the earbud.
    Even a cure has its limitations.
    We go in direct and like a cauterizing iron eradicate, or overwrite, the cellular damage caused by low-end interference. Where the casual user exposes himself to infection, we seek to tattoo over underlying distortion.
     The dub, it must be understood, is neither directed as a means to pacify nor agitate. Where the Ministry for the Central Transmitter seeks merely to control, The Brotherhood of Dub moves at great lengths to nurture awareness. Out of that awareness comes dissent. Out of dissent comes the instrument for change.

'kaktəs | CT 49

     "Much like the native American Indian, they are predisposed to all forms of mental illness...
     Small wonder, in fact, they invented the very firewater which did for a tribal nation that which General Custer could not." - ib
RUPIE EDWARDS: BUCKSHOT DUB from "Buckshot b/w Bucksot Dub" 7" 45 Cactus (CT 49) (JA/UK) 1974

Friday, June 19, 2015

assume power focus

"Over time, the resultant weakness of the skeletal muscles promotes a vaguely pleasant torpor" - ib


PSYCHIC TV: PART IV. NEW GUINEA HEADHUNTERS PIPE, LARGE AND SMALL DRUM from "Themes" FREEBIE LP with "Force The Hand Of Change" LP Some Bizarre (PSY1) (UK) 1982

Thursday, June 18, 2015

matthew 4:1-11

stones become bread

Last night I woke up with someone squeezing my hand. It was my other hand.”
- William S. Burroughs, "Naked Lunch"

 Recorded at Tom's Place, San Francisco.

THIN WHITE ROPE: RED SUN (ORIGINAL) from "Red Sun" 12" 45 Demon (VEX 8) (US/UK) 1988

Tuesday, June 16, 2015

the world wobbles

drop down natt'rly loaded


KING TUBBY: DROP DUB from "The Fatman Tapes Vol. 1" LP Culture Press (CP 4002) (JA/FR) 1999

Sunday, June 14, 2015

ah seh won

stations of the flex

From the album recorded variously at 
King Tubby's Studio, Channel One Recording Studio, Southern Studios.
Mixed by Adrian Sherwood, King Tubby, Prince Jammy.


 ▼ BIM SHERMAN: STATION DUB from "Ghetto Dub" LP RDL (RDL 900) (JA/UK) 1988

Friday, June 12, 2015

screwdriver

mind control

On the third knock, I answered the door to my neighbour's eighteen year old grandson and knew before he opened his mouth that I would not say no. The word had gone on vacation. He wanted to borrow a screwdriver, the delinquent son of a bitch, and I had one close to hand. A flat head. Everybody owns at least one. It is not the kind of thing one thinks to borrow.
     Ordinarily.
     Unless one is a spinster. Or widow. Frittering away afternoons grieving after a firm hold on geometry. The architecture behind a wall socket.
     He had not long since caved in his best friend's skull. With a brick. On the street below my kitchen window. Not that it bothered me. This was not the reason I could not refuse. But it did give me pause to wonder just why he might require a screwdriver.
     From the moment he was born, he suffered acutely from problems with his hearing. The small bones in his middle ear.
     Not my neighbour's grandson.
     I have no reason to suspect that he was ever plagued with aches. Infections.
     But this kid, he suffered miserably for the first several years of his life. His mother bound his head in a scarf. Tied it in bows like some drowsy rabbit in an attempt to pacify his mewling. From the age of twelve he began self medicating with whiskey. Rum. Anything he could lay his hands on. Just to dull the serrated edge of it.
     It was not until his forty-second year, half scuttled by psychosis, that he stumbled on epiphany. He was a telepath. That was the root of it. The reason his ears had for so long bothered him. He could not keep out the din of voices. The ringing of cutlery from several hundred yards away.
     At forty-four he decided to be done with it and stepped off a roof.
     His ears troubled him no more.
     I fetched the screwdriver from its box in the cupboard and handed it to my neighbour's boy. I knew I would never see it again. Or that if I did it would be missing its bit. For a second there, I thought of plunging it between his ribs.
     "Stick it through the letterbox when you're done," I gestured.
     "Sure thing," he said.
     The eyes prematurely blunted. His face a freshly harvested cabbage nodding off the stalk.
     His girlfriend had a little dog. I wondered how long it would take before he strangled it to to death on its leash. Or took to beating her with it.
     "Do you like reggae ?" he asked.
     I studied the faint blossom of acne creeping along the hairline where his forehead joined at the scalp.
     "Only, I heard it coming from your door. My nan says it's a lot of shite."
     The next day he still had not returned my screwdriver. I had that fucking thing without losing or misplacing it for close to twenty years. Bills in brown envelopes clung to the bristles of my letterbox, but that was all she wrote. Two days passed and still no sign of it. Children played on bicycles outside beneath the balcony. Fathers attacked glued parts with spoke key and pedal spanner.
     I thought of a hundred small tasks postponed I might perform. Had only I the right tool for the job.
     Quite by accident, I came upon the kid's uncle in the stairwell. I told him very precisely that I wanted my fucking screwdriver back.
     I had an engraved brass plate that needed fixing to my door. The batteries in my son's nightlight needed replacing.
     "Relax," he shrugged. "I'll have a word with him."
     "Do that," I said.
     A couple of days later, the cocksucker was back at my door. Even through the fug of deep bass I could identify the rattle. This time, I answered on the second knock.
     He looked down at his shoes and juggled my screwdriver as though it were a miniature baton. Hunched over the welcome mat like a sack of shit zipped up in a tracksuit. At first I did not recognise it as my own. The cap which ought to have been screwed down into the handle was missing. A crack ran through the red plastic barrel.
     "What the fuck ?" I said.
     "Here," he went. Slapping it into the palm of my hand.
     My former acquaintance, the telepath, would have had none of it of course. The hapless fucker knew too much.
     The river of genes which carried his gift may have been muddied from the first, but still.
     He never married. Never divorced. Never went sleepwalking through those vast wildnernesses of misplaced trust like the rest of us. Some people do not care for dub, the seismic shift, the tectonic rumblings. It fucks with their heads.
     "Have you a cigarette ?" so help me god, the motherfucker sang.

the postman delivers

the hipster kool-aid acid test

With guitar by Doug Cooeyate.

WILLIAM S. BURROUGHS + GUS VAN SANT: THE HIPSTER BE-BOP JUNKIE from "The Elvis Of Letters" 12" 45 Tim/Kerr (PK-714) (US) 1985

Thursday, June 11, 2015

dub poem(s) for self medicating corporate motherfuckers

 die slowly riddim (twice)
 

STEVEN JESSE BERNSTEIN: THE SPORT (PART 1) from "Prison" LP Sub Pop (SP 101)
STEVEN JESSE BERNSTEIN: MORNING IN THE SUB BASEMENT OF HELL from "Prison" LP Sub Pop (SP 101) (US) 1992

dub is the star

cut > cut > cut an' gain


CORNELL CAMPBELL: BEAT THEM IN DUB from "Sound System Dub Plate Specials" LP (Jamaican Recordings (JRLP055) (JA/UK) 2014
DELROY WILSON: A HEAVY DUB from "Sound System Dub Plate Specials" CD (Jamaican Recordings (JRCD055) (JA/UK) 2014

brentford roadworks in dub

dub is my preoccupation

The Dub Specialist is not any one artist or engineer but a series of limited edition dub LP releases from Studio One issued throughout the 1970s, and subsequently repackaged by Heartbeat in the US, Soul Jazz in the UK.
 "The [original] albums were mixed down by a number of engineers over the decade, including Sylvan Morris, Syd Bucknor & Overton "Scientist" Brown, all under the auspices of legendary producer, sound system pioneer and music entrepeneur, Clement "Coxsone" Dodd."

DUB SPECIALIST: BEAM SOUND from "17 Dub Shots From Channel One" LP • CD Heartbeat (HB 142) (JA/US) 1995
DUB SPECIALIST: QUEEN OF THE DUB from "17 Dub Shots From Channel One" LP • CD Heartbeat (HB 142) (JA/US) 1995

Wednesday, June 10, 2015

strickly old school

dub will eat itself

Produced by Linval Thompson. 

SCIENTIST: PRINCE'S WRATH from "Scientist Encounters Pac-Man At Channel One" LP Greensleeves (GREL 46) (JA/UK) 1982
SCIENTIST: THE DARK SECRET OF THE BOX from "Scientist Encounters Pac-Man At Channel One" LP Greensleeves (GREL 46) (JA/UK) 1982

austerity in dub

start choppin'

The sequel to the earlier Prince Jammy Dub LP "Uhuru in Dub" (CSLP 2).
Mixed at Channel One Studios, Kingston, Jamaica.

PRINCE JAMMY: CHOPPING DUB from "Osbourne In Dub" LP CSA (CSLP 10) (JA/UK) 1983

Tuesday, June 9, 2015

tortoise |ˈtɔːtəs, -tɔɪz|

crooked dub

tortoise (n.)
1350-1400; variant of earlier (15th-century) tortuse, tortose, tortuce, Middle English tortuca < Medieval Latin tortūca, for Late Latin tartarūcha (feminine adj.) of Tartarus (< Greek tartaroûcha), the tortoise being regarded as an infernal animal; Medieval Latin form influenced by Latin tortus crooked, twisted (see tort)
 Recorded and mixed at Idful Music Corporation, Chicago 
Illinois, November 29 through December 5, 1993.

TORTOISE: TIN CANS & TWINE from "Tortoise" CD Thrill Jockey (THRILL-013) (US)
TORTOISE: CORNPONE BRUNCH from "Tortoise" CD Thrill Jockey (THRILL-013) (US) 1994

fields and waves

hoo

"From Middle English hoo, shoo "she" from Old English hēo "she". The Hoo Peninsula is a peninsula in England separating the estuaries of the rivers Thames and Medway. It is dominated by a line of sand and clay hills, surrounded by an extensive area of marshland composed of alluvial silt. The name Hoo is the Old English word for spur of land."
With Guitar by Graham Sutton.

.O.RANG: HOO from "Fields And Waves" CD  Echo (ECHCD 10) (UK) 1996

42 strings to one calabash

dali's acoustic toothbrush
Ali Ibrahim Touré
1939- 2006
From the album recorded at Livingston Studios, London 
24th, 25th, 26th June 2005. 

ALI FARKA TOURÉ & TOUMANI DIABATÉ: FANTASY from "Ali & Toumani" 2 x LP • CD  World Circuit (WCD-083) (Mali/EU) 2010

Monday, June 8, 2015

docteur gainsbarre

serge en dub

"Aux Armes Et Caetera" b/w "Lola Rastaquoère"
Philips (6837 549) (PROMO) (FR) 1979

Backing Vocals: The I Threes; Bass: Robert "Robbie" Shakespeare
Drums: Lowell "Sly" Dunbar: Guitar, Piano: Michael "Mao" Chung
Organ: Ansel Collins; Percussion: Uzziah "Sticky" Thompson
Piano: Robbie "Tights" Lyn; Rhythm Guitar: Radcliffe "Dougie" Bryan
 


Recorded in Kingston, Jamaica. 
For Emmett @ Art Decade

SERGE GAINSBOURG: DUB ET CAETERA from "Aux Armes Et Caetera" 2 x CD  Mercury (077 261-2) (JA/FR) 1979 • 2003
SERGE GAINSBOURG: DUB RASTAQUOÈRE from "Aux Armes Et Caetera" 2 x CD  Mercury (077 261-2) (JA/FR) 1979 • 2003
SERGE GAINSBOURG: DAYSI DUB from "Aux Armes Et Caetera" 2 x CD  Mercury (077 261-2) (JA/FR) 1979 • 2003

Sunday, June 7, 2015

the hunting of the snark

fin de siècle

"You may seek it with thimbles - and seek it with care;
You may hunt it with forks and hope
"

Recorded August 19th, 1975 on a 4-track tape machine. 
 
TELEVISION: LITTLE JOHNNY JEWEL from "Little Johnny Jewel (Part One) b/w Little Johnny Jewel (Part Two)" 7" 45 Ork (81975) (US) 1975

Saturday, June 6, 2015

bubble dub

prince of dub-i

Remixed at King Tubby's Recording Studio, 
18 Dromilly Avenue, Kingston 11, Jamaica.
PRINCE JAMMY: IMMIGRANT DUB from "Prince Jammy Presents Strictly Dub" LP Jammy's (1003) (JA/US) 1980

roots bloody roots

roots undubbed 

 Performed by Max Cavalera, Igor Cavalera, Andreas Kisser, Paulo Jr.

SEPULTURA: ITSÁRI from "Roots" CD Roadrunner (RR 8900-2) (BR/US) 1996

Friday, June 5, 2015

rehearsal from the tombs

proto pere undubbed

Featuring David Thomas, Peter Laughner (Pere Ubu), 
Cheetah Chrome, John Madansky (The Dead Boys), Craig Bell (The Saucers).

Recorded Feb 18, 1975 at the RFTT Rehearsal Loft, Cleveland, Ohio.
David Thomas (vocals), Peter Laughner (guitar & vocals), 
Craig Bell (bass & vocals), Gene O'Connor (guitar), John Madansky (drums)

ROCKET FROM THE TOMBS: 30 SECONDS OVER TOKYO from "The Day The Earth Met The Rocket From The Tombs" 2 x LP Smog Veil (SV37) (US) 2002

one more dub

vibration dub 

"The Same Song" b/w "Jam This Jam"
Top Ranking (NONE) (JA) 1978

ISRAEL VIBRATION: THE SAME DUB from "Trojan Presents: Dub • 40 Deep And Heavy Hits" 2 x CD Trojan (SPECXX2072) (JA/UK) 2011

Thursday, June 4, 2015

prince charming

coronation dub

Junior Reid: "Jailhouse" b/w "Crowning Of Prince Jammy (Version)"
Fat Man (FM005) (JA/UK)

PRINCE JAMMY: CROWNING OF PRINCE JAMMY (VERSION) from "The Crowning Of Prince Jammy" 2 x LP Pressure Sounds (PS 25) (JA/UK) 1999

Wednesday, June 3, 2015

"the first time from jamaica"

smart dub payout

produced by Bunny lee.

LEROY SMART & THE AGROVATORS: CHANNEL ONE FEEL IT from "Shame And Pride b/w Chonnel One Feel It" 7" 45 Jackpot (NONE) (JA) 1975

suspect device part 2

dub poem


LINTON KWESI JOHNSON: IRON BAR DUB from "Sonny's Lettuh (Anti-SUS Poem) b/w Iron Bar Dub" 7" 45 Island (WIP 6528) (UK) 1979

Tuesday, June 2, 2015

one more time on the dancefloor

heavy isotope dub

All rhythm tracks laid at Channel One Studios.  
Mixed at King Tubby's by Scientist.  
Produced & arranged by Henry 'Junjo' Lawes.

SCIENTIST: BELOW THE BELT from "Heavyweight Dub Champion" LP Greensleeves (GREL 13) (JA/UK) 1980

Sunday, May 31, 2015

end of dub transmission

beggars dub

treasure

Recorded during August and September, 1984 at 
Palladium Studios, Edinburgh and Rooster, West-London. 
Written and produced by Cocteau Twins.
 Design by 23 Envelope

COCTEAU TWINS: PANDORA from "Treasure" LP 4AD (CAD 412) (UK) 1984

lee perry not lee perry

black ark in dub

Recorded 1977 at The Black Ark Studio. Kingston, Jamaica. 
Written and produced by Aisha Morrison.
Written and arranged by Desmond Bryan.
Junior Murvin: guitar; Aston "Family Man" Barrett: bass;
Carlton Barrett: drums; Ansel Collins: keyboards.

LEE PERRY: HOW DEEP from "Black Ark In Dub" LP Lagoon (LG1-1013) (JA/FR) 1991

fire in the vatican

dreader than dread

"Dreader Locks" b/w "Militant Rock"
Dip (DL 5060) (JA) 1975
Arranged & Produced by Lee Perry.

LEE AND JUNIOR: DREADER LOCKS from "Dreader Locks b/w Militant Rock" 7" 45 Dip (DL 5060) (JA) 1975

the prince him sly

uhuru in dub

"A Eden Pan Street" b/w "Version" (Jammy)
Jammy's (NONE) (JA) 1977
Recorded at Channel One Recording Studio
Mixed at King Tubby's Studio.

PRINCE JAMMY WITH SLY & ROBBIE: EDEN DUB from "Black Uhuru In Dub" LP CSA (CSLP 2) (JA/UK) 1982
PRINCE JAMMY WITH SLY & ROBBIE: FIREHOUSE SPECIAL from "Black Uhuru In Dub" LP CSA (CSLP 2) (JA/UK) 1982

rigid digits

strickly punk rockers

Written by Bob Marley.
Produced by Geoff Travis, Mayo Thompson.
Recorded November 1-13, 1978
at Spaceward Studios, Cambridge.

STIFF LITTLE FINGERS: JOHNNY WAS from "Inflammable Material" LP Rough Trade (ROUGH 1) (UK) 1979