by Dillon Khan
Well …
You’d trust her in this situation, right? Justin went on.
Yeah, but …
Everyone from work will be there. Do you want to be the only person on Monday morning who’s left out of the conversation? This is where you get people to like you for that permanent position. Why isn’t she being supportive like a girlfriend’s meant to be?
But I think –
So don’t you think you should make a stand against it or she’ll do it every time she feels insecure? he continued.
Well, I don’t –
Don’t get bullied by her. That’s what she’s doing, bullying you. Stand up for yourself for once.
Justin had convinced me that I was right and she was wrong. I put £1 into the machine and the wet clothes began to swirl around in the big dryer. I picked up the phone and called Sophia back to state my case and to once again offer her a way out – to come with me.
The phone rang and rang but she didn’t pick it up. With every ring I could feel my blood pressure rising. Why wasn’t she picking up? This was childish and unreasonable. OK, fine. I was trying to be grown up about it, but two can play that game. I will go to the party and what’s more I’ll get as drunk as I want and do what I want. I put my headphones back on and sat back, listening to Kelis’s ‘Caught Out There’. The hook said it all.
I turned my attention to the ‘homework’ I had been set by Max for next week’s shows – listening to several yet-to-be released albums and reading Blues & Soul and The Face magazines.
I had spent years copying albums and CDs to tape that I’d borrowed off friends. When you’re poor you don’t think it’s stealing and you certainly don’t consider the morality that it’s the artist’s music and they deserve to get paid for it. Like crack to a fiend, you just want it, by any means necessary. Radio helped give me my fix too. I’d record from the aficionados such as David Rodigan on Kiss FM, Zane Lowe on Xfm, DJ Swing on Choice FM, Pete Tong on Radio 1 and Capital FM’s Tim Westwood. My house was filled with 90-minute Sony and TDK tapes that I’d label and store meticulously in my bedroom.
Luckily I was now getting the music for free and legitimately. I was on all the major labels’ mailing lists thanks to Max and was getting CDs by the bucketload. There was so much music and so little time to listen to it all – it was a dream come true.
As tastemakers and journalists that kids looked to, The Beat needed to know it all; it was expected from us. If we didn’t, it would be like an economist not knowing what the current Bank of England base rate was. My passion had turned into the job and the job into the passion. Where to draw the line was confusing, but it was a win-win when it came to getting CDs for free.
As I listened to an advance copy of The Marshall Mathers LP, my thoughts turned back to tonight’s party. I mentally flicked through my wardrobe for anything that could double up as a costume. There was a suit in my wardrobe, but it wasn’t very pimpish, more wimpish. There was a dressing-gown à la Hugh Hefner but that would be as obvious as a seventies’ afro and gold medallion.
My phone started flashing with Sophia’s name on the screen. She’d grown up and wanted to talk.
Well, guess what? I’m not ready to talk to you, I thought.
I distracted myself and looked out of the window for inspiration. A dog ran up to a lamp post and cocked its leg against it, and people wandered into the corner shop. My eyes darted around and landed on a big red phone box that no one entered any more unless it was to take a piss or leave postcards that read ‘38FF Busty Blonde Massages’ or ‘Asian Whip Mistress’. Suddenly an imaginary lightbulb lit up above my head.
If I could get enough cards of women hiring out their services and some safety pins from the corner shop, I could pin the cards all over a black turtleneck and be the walking epitome of a pimp! I didn’t quite have a golden goblet or walking stick like Archbishop Don ‘Magic’ Juan, but it wasn’t bad with a few hours to go.
My fight with Sophia was pushed to the back of my mind. I got up off the bench and started jigging a celebratory dance at having found a solution. The old man looked across at me for a split second then went back to watching his machine. My sanctuary had come to the rescue.
15
Purple Haze
JamMasterJay is online
SaraD is online
JamMasterJay: Sara D, what you doing you loafer? Long time no sprechen.
SaraD: Just back from Berlin weekend with the others from Uni. I’ve returned royally mashed up. You so should have come.
JamMasterJay: I wish. How’s the gang?
SaraD: Good. You were sorely missed.
JamMasterJay: Had to work. Beat party in Liverpool.
SD: Oh I feel sooooo sorry for you. Boo hoo. What was the theme?
JamMasterJay: Pyjama party. Was v. funny. VIP footy players, TV soap stars and a few thousand screaming fans all in their PJs.
SaraD: Sounds like it was boring! How’s Sophia?
JamMasterJay: Hmmm … There’s been beef for a few weeks since I went to a party without her.
SaraD: Why?
JamMasterJay: Just arguing over small, stupid things!
SaraD: Sit down and talk it through. Long distance is hard. Mainly about insecurities.
JamMasterJay: Would love to but she’s studying hard before her exams and I’ve got more working weekends coming up. Won’t get a chance to see her for weeks now.
SaraD: Don’t leave it too long & let things fester.
JamMasterJay: You’re right. Just wanted a bit of support, that’s all.
SaraD: Well, are you supporting her?
JamMasterJay: The only support you need as a fresher is a lamp post after a drunken night out … I think you’ll remember!!
SaraD: I plead the fifth. Besides those days are behind me. I’m in the respectable world of PR now.
JamMasterJay: Respectable?
SaraD: Speaking of which, how is the new job?
JamMasterJay: In my memoirs this will be the chapter called ‘The Week From Hell’.
SaraD: Memoirs? Haha.
JamMasterJay: Coming back from Liverpool, my bag gets stolen on the train.
JamMasterJay: Went to mum’s place, my car’s been broken into. Stereo nicked.
JamMasterJay: Go to mechanics to get quote, get snapped speeding. 3 points & a fine.
JamMasterJay: Garage wants £200 to fix car. Can’t afford that.
SaraD: Wow. Bad week.
JamMasterJay: Then boss tells me last minute I can’t go on an upcoming shoot to Denmark. Work can’t afford my ticket. But he’s taking his 2 mates from the department instead.
SaraD:
JamMasterJay: Some bloke calls me at work and mouths off about me getting off with his gf at the Liverpool party. Kept talking about being in a gang. Blah blah.
SaraD: Loser.
JamMasterJay: Work’s taken over majorly. There’s not enough hours in the day. I get so much on my plate and I can’t say no. That’s what interns do.
SaraD: Really that bad? We were all talking about it in Berlin and thought it looked like a lot of fun.
JamMasterJay: It is. Just don’t want you to think it’s all a barrel of laughs!
SaraD: OK, now you’re really killing my Berlin buzz.
JamMasterJay: Lighter note. Made a new friend. Isabel, a party presenter we just hired.
SaraD: Oh yeah! Nudge, nudge
JamMasterJay: Not like that. Besides boss has already moved in. We don’t speak or meet, just play text tennis.
SaraD: Careful Jay, some cultures consider that adultery. Sophia might chop your balls off!
JamMasterJay: Haha … OK, what else … Sanderson Hotel opened, Ian Schrager & London’s latest hotspot. Went to a movie premiere for Ewan McGregor’s new film.
SaraD: Cool. Who did you see?
JamMasterJay: All the
big celebs. Sat behind Jonathan Ross as he stuffed his face with popcorn! At least I think it was him. Kept letting off silent ones.
SaraD: LOL.
JamMasterJay: Another intern, James III, magic’d us into the BAFTA Awards afterparty at Grosvenor House.
SaraD: Haha. How was it?
JamMasterJay: Not bad. Boy George in full DJ mode entertaining Royle Family, Eastenders and Corrie casts plus me, while James III shared some Daz off a drinks menu in the women’s toilets with an actress.
SaraD: James III – the good-looking guy you work with that you’re going to introduce me to?
JamMasterJay: For the right price
SaraD: Your presenter came in last week. PJ?
JamMasterJay: What for?
SaraD: The partner of the firm was giving him some clothes to wear on the show I think. We’ve got a load of brands that need exposure and presenters are our first port of call.
JamMasterJay: Oh really? He gets free clothes? I thought he bought them.
SaraD: Irony is he can probably afford to buy them but gets them free.
JamMasterJay: Lucky sod.
SaraD: Payment for getting snapped for papers & mags or seen on TV. Public wants to be like them and go buy that brand. Basically free advertising.
JamMasterJay: Walking ads. Genius. Better than the guy holding luminous ‘Golf Sale’ sign on Oxford Street.
SaraD: That reminds me, my boss said PJ wanted to give some PlayStations away on his show.
JamMasterJay: Yeah, defo.
SaraD: Brill. PS2’s not out in the UK till end of this year but we’ve managed to get some for key tastemakers. Can you give them to the other presenters too?
JamMasterJay: Sure.
SaraD: Also gonna send you a football game with it called ISS Pro Evolution. Apparently it’s the latest rage in Japan and the boys in our office are totally addicted.
JamMasterJay: Cool.
SaraD: So what music should I be buying right now?
JamMasterJay: Buying? Don’t be silly. I’ll put together a stack for you along with some tickets for the Jazz Cafe.
SaraD: OK, thanks. I’d better shoot. I have PR’ing to do.
JamMasterJay:
SaraD: XXX
16
Chalo Dildar Chalo
‘Twenty-four hours a day, Sunrise Radio …’ chimed the jingle as I stood next to the mechanic. Mr Rafi was a lovely ‘ickle’ old man who looked like the wind would blow him over any moment as he stood next to my car inspecting the damage through his thick-framed glasses. Someone at work had recommended him after my car got broken into a couple of weeks earlier, and his workshop was luckily a few streets away under the A40 flyover. The wrinkles on his face and his rough hands suggested he’d worked here nearly every day for the past thirty years. That, and the yellowing poster of a Page Three girl from the 1970s in his workshop. Having taught me about ‘proper’ music of his generation, from Lata Mangeshkar to Diana Ross, we haggled on a price. Content, I left as he began lighting a cigarette with a match that refused to ignite on the first few strikes. The overpowering smell of petrol and oil from his workshop made me walk that bit quicker.
The noise levels in the office were high on the decibel meter that morning as Milly sat by the tape-viewing machine in the middle of the department, surrounded by girls from all over the office. The boys looked on, trying to figure out what the huddle was for. On tiptoes at my desk I could see the screen: soul singer D’Angelo – naked. OK, naked from the pelvis upwards. Body covered in baby oil, ripped like an athlete and singing his heart out on the song ‘Untitled’.
Most of the girls didn’t know who he was but when his torso came on the screen there was a combined sigh that seemed to say, Finally a video of a scantily dressed man we can ogle over, non-stop, for four minutes and twenty-six seconds.
‘That’s disgusting. Leering at a man and judging his naked specimen not his vocal talent,’ said Stuey with deliberate irony.
‘If we sat here watching a woman singing totally naked you’d be on to HR in a jiffy,’ said Hugh, backing him up.
‘Like you don’t have your choice of naked women to look at on the channel,’ Milly retorted.
‘Oh no,’ said Lizzie Hudson, presenter for iWant, ‘they get to do that filming up girls’ skirts at Beat parties.’
‘It’s The Beat way. We don’t like doing it,’ said Oli with a serious face.
A communal groan came from the girls.
‘Let’s fight fire with fire,’ said Stuey as he reached for an unmarked VHS tape in his rucksack. ‘In the name of equal rights I play this,’ he said in a Winston Churchill tone as he placed the tape into the video player.
The girls, intrigued by what he was going to show, elbowed their way past the boys to the front. As the fuzzy start on the tape turned to black, there was a heightened anticipation. The boys were hoping for porn and the girls expecting it. All of a sudden a man appeared on the screen.
‘Right, it’s the part of the season you’ve all been waiting for, it’s Goal of the Season time,’ said sports presenter Gary Lineker.
As the girls groaned and barged their way out and back to their desks, Stuey quoted from Gladiator, ‘Are you not entertained? Is this not why you are here?’
To this the boys shouted back, ‘Stuuuey, Stuuuey, Stuuuey!’
Playtime for the girls was officially over. For the boys, this was better than porn and as each goal flew in, it was greeted with a chorus of orgasmic noises to goad the girls.
Lunchtime arrived and as the rest of the office emptied the other interns and I were all still sat at our desks, eating food and competing about who had it the worst: from who had been asked to do the crappiest job that week to who was most skint. All the while flicking through the papers and magazines, continuously researching for our shows. We had every print under the sun from music and fashion to cars and politics and everything in between, including Playboy. Anything that provided interesting insight into modern culture for our editorial. James III provided the soundtrack, whistling his repertoire of Christmas carols. I hit the US news websites next, hoping for a breaking newsflash, and came across the name Amadou Diallo.
‘Did any of you guys see this thing about the guy who got shot forty-one times?’ I enquired.
‘Yeah, it was last year, but the family have just filed a lawsuit against the City of New York and the police officers involved. I can’t believe this is still happening in this day and age,’ said Tola.
‘Hip hop needed to come together on this one. Barring Mos Def, why aren’t there more voices on this?’ said Sam.
‘Hip hop lost its intellectual voice long ago with the demise of Public Enemy and KRS-One,’ I replied. ‘Now it’s bling-bling, booty-booty and kill-kill. Anyway, music in general doesn’t seem to have a voice.’
‘Well, there’s still Dead Prez isn’t there, and what about Asian Dub Foundation?’ said Cara as the conversation went back and forth across the small table dividers.
‘Yeah, but they don’t get any love, even The Beat doesn’t play them much. Too busy showing naked women gyrating on the screen,’ said Sam.
‘Nothing wrong with that,’ James III spoke up in all seriousness. ‘Us kids don’t want to hear a political lecture. Gimme more dance. More dance, damn it! Music is meant to be fun. I don’t want to slit my wrists or hear a preacher. There’s some really good stuff out there from pop and rap to dance and –’
Cara interrupted. ‘I totally disagree. We’re not dumb. Anyway, it’s about money and heavily marketed acts. Music used to be all about being lyrical and thought provoking not “Oops! … I did it again”.’
‘No, that’s what pop music is and always has been. Besides it’s called show “business” for a reason. Course they want to make money,’ argued James III.
‘These acts will only be successful if consumers like the stuff being put out,’ I said, try
ing to keep the debate balanced.
‘It’s hard when as a consumer I don’t have any choice in the music that’s being given to me,’ Cara argued. ‘It’s played over and over, pumped into people’s heads till they’re brainwashed into liking it.’
