by Alex Wheatle
Garnet nodded. “I jus’ come from work myself a short while ago,” the woman added.
Cynthia made the tea. In between sipping and polite conversation, Garnet kept stealing impatient glances at the front door. He had to wait half an hour until he heard the sound of a key turning in the lock. When Juliet entered, she clocked Garnet peering around the doorway.
“Oh, hi. Long time no see. Soon come, just going upstairs.”
A few minutes later, Juliet appeared downstairs, dressed casually in slippers, jeans and pullover. Her mother and Garnet were still seated in the kitchen exchanging pleasantries. “Evening Mum, Garnet. Wanna come inside the front room?”
Without answering, Garnet left Ms Massey in the kitchen and pursued Juliet into the lounge. “Where you been, man? How comes you don’t bell me? My sound played out last week, it was a nice dance and the party was ram and t’ing. But where were you? You let me down, man, everyone was asking for you. All Hilary dem were asking me if I was gonna pick you up. I had to tell them some bogus that you were sick.”
Juliet had endured a demanding day at work, and the last thing she wanted right now was an argument. “Listen, Garnet,” she said firmly. “You don’t own me, right? I don’t have to go with you every time your stupid sound plays out. Besides, I’m bored with your sound anyway, and as for Hilary, she don’t need me to hold her hand. Every time I go out with her, she’s always crubbing with Clyde all night anyway.”
Garnet decided to sit down, thinking the pretty girl who was slumped in the chair opposite was also bored with him. “You didn’t complain when you used to call me so I could pick you up to take you to all the big dances. Yeah, you and your foolish friends. Is that why you went out with me? ’Cos I had wheels?”
Juliet shook her head. “I never used you. Them times I was into roots music and I did love to go to them big hall dances. But now, I’m into soul, you know what I mean? People’s taste changes, innit? When’s the last time you called me and offered to take me to the Lyceum or up Bali Hai on a Friday night when they play soul? It’s always your boof, bang, bing sound system, which breaks down half the time anyway.”
Garnet peered into the carpet, not knowing what to say. I don’t wanna wait in vain for your love, he thought, realising he might be losing the girl he had chased since he headlighted her riding the dodgems at the funfair. He remembered the day Juliet came round to his yard, where she saw the speaker boxes, records and the sound-system control tower. He felt so proud, sure in the knowledge that the owner of a sound system was well respected and known by all the sweet bwais and bad bwais alike, especially in the council estates and tenements of the inner cities. In some ways, the big sound men were like the film stars of Hollywood. Kids would look up to them in awe and older youths would get red eye of the notoriety they enjoyed. But all this fame and Garnet still couldn’t manners the girl he craved.
So giving up the quarrel, he thought he would just accept that Juliet gave him his P45. There were other girls out there who could satisfy him, ones who hung around the sound set when Garnet was playing out - but none as appetising as her.
“Hey, Juliet. I ain’t gonna argue with you. Bad vibes, know what I mean? I have to be chipping now anyway, so take care and stay pretty, seen.”
Garnet quickly got up, sought out Ms Massey and bade farewell to her. He returned to the front room where Juliet was still slouched in the chair with her eyelids dropping. “Don’t bother see me out, I’ll check you a next time seen. Later.”
“Yeah, I’ll see you around. Don’t feel no way, will you? You’re all right but I need my space, you know.”
Garnet departed, wondering how he was gonna tell his brethrens that he wouldn’t be dating the fittest girl in West Norwood any more.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Ring The Alarm
Saturday, 22 March, 1980
Brenton Brown’s last day of being a juvenile coincided with the sound-system event of the year, the Gold Cup competition - a tournament in which the top kick-arse sounds in London would musically cross swords in Brixton Town Hall.
Brenton and Floyd had to be there to support their favourite sound system - Moa Anbessa. Everyone had been debating about the contest for weeks, and fast-talking hustlers, who in the last few weeks became friendly with the promoters of this dance, laid out odds on who would win.
The two spars departed home at six-thirty in the evening, hoping to arrive at the venue early to beat the expected ramjam at the entrance. Apparently, many other roots rockers had the same idea, because the 35 bus, routed to Acre Lane, Brixton, brimmed to over-capacity.
The two friends claimed their seats on the upper deck, taking a sense of identity in the red, gold and green belts and scarves that everybody seemed to be wearing. “Look like this dance is gonna ram,” commented Brenton.
Floyd, confident in a grey trench coat, black Stetson and black polo-neck sweater, attempted to make eye-contact with the girls around him. “It’s true, Gold Cup dance is always ram. I just hope ‘Bassa’ can win it. I’ve heard the sound men have been studio and cut nuff dub-plates.”
One beret-topped guy apparently couldn’t wait for the music to start. For in the rear of the upper deck, taking up most of the room on the double seat, he had his fingers on the control of an enormous Brixton suitcase - which was more like a London trunk. He was playing a tape of all the latest reggae releases from Jamaica, massaging the appetite of the roots heads.
A fearful conductor emerged from the stairwell, wearing a cap and his ticket machine strapped to his chest. He stole a glance at the DJ’s luggage, then eyed the vociferous passengers before slipping back down the stairs.
The conductor was a picture of relief as the throng of black youngsters vacated the bus at Brixton Town Hall. A mass of people grouped near the entrance of the Hall, blocking the path of pedestrians and watching a big white rental van park awkwardly near a zebra crossing.
Walking alongside Brenton, Floyd clocked the disorganised scene and nudged him. “That’s Coxone man just reach. Yeah, I recognise Festus the operator.”
Brenton turned his head sharply to look at the proud-visaged Festus, who resembled a general arriving at the scene of battle, confident of victory.
All of a sudden, the shutters at the back of the van were raised to reveal about ten black youngsters, none of whom looked old enough to drain liquor. They bullfrogged out of the van and vigorously started their evening’s work. They were the ‘boxboys’ of the sound system, responsible for the lifting and carrying of all the heavy equipment.
A gravel-like voice of Jamaican accent boomed out, “Mind yuh back, mind yuh back.”
As the double doors at the entrance swung open, the boxboys bumped the huge boxes, the size of double wardrobes, into the ‘arena’.
Meanwhile, Brenton and Floyd queued up to gain entry, hoping to sight Biscuit, Finnley, Coffin Head or anybody else from their posse. There was another liquor-belly man, dressed in army garb and sporting a hairstyle akin to Jimi Hendrix’s, receiving the entry tax while shouting in a Kingstonian twang: “One pound fifty fe come in. One pound fifty fe come in. If yuh nuh ’ave it, fuck off an’ remove from de gate. One pound fifty fe come in.”
The two brethrens paid their tax and made their way to the arena, with Brenton looking here and there, wary of the presence of Terry Flynn, and Floyd wha’appening and greeting fellow Brixtonians he knew. Three threats from the doorman later, Brenton and Floyd finally met up with Biscuit, who was crocodiling a Mars bar, Finnley and Coffin Head - the latter being the owner of the squarest forehead this side of black London.
This was the sound owners’ busiest time. Cables of electric wire resembled a giant man’s helping of multy-coloured spaghetti. Each of the four competing sounds claimed a corner, scowling at each other as they connected record decks, pre-amplifiers, echo chambers and the like, while the boxboys were busy stringing up the speaker boxes. The only space near the walls where you couldn’t find a speaker box was either at the entra
nce, or where the sound ‘control towers’ were placed. This was usually aluminium casing, about head height, housing all the amplifiers and the extras topped off by a record deck.
Floyd and his posse were spellbound, like many others, watching the Moa Anbessa controls get pieced together. While the youngsters stared at their heroes, the hall filled up rapidly as the sound guys applied the finishing touches to their routine.
The crowd savoured the almost ritualistic atmosphere, feeling a sense of belonging as they marvelled at the red, gold and green colours. Rastafarians wore their long locks proudly and black females, adorned in their African-type dresses, added a spice of culture to the event. Pictures of the late Emperor, Haile Selassie of Ethiopia, hung or were Sellotaped to the walls. The aroma of West Indian cuisine drifted through the air, blending with the exotic breath of marijuana. There was a serious trade at the bar, where strong beers and soft drinks were selling at inflated prices.
The dreadlocked operator of the Moa Anbessa sound drew the crowd’s attention. He carefully placed a record on the rotating table and spoke into the microphone.
“Test one, test one. One, two, microphone test.”
The amplified voice was a cue for the people massing around the lobby to rapidly converge in the hall, where they watched the operator finger-wipe the needle of the record deck, producing a heavy scratching sound that earthquaked from the speakers. Looking very proud and clocking the crowd around him, the Moa Anbessa operator announced through the microphone, “In tune to the Al champion sound of de world - Moa Anbessa!”
Then he proceeded to play a record, which delighted his followers.
Within half an hour, every sound was ready, so the competition commenced. Soferno B, Jah Shaka, Sir Coxone and Moa Anbessa were about to compete for the prestigious title of ‘Champion Sound of London’.
The lights in the hall were switched off, which acted as a stimulant for excited youngsters to start shouting, jumping and skanking whenever their favourite sound played a record. Everyone became infected with the skanking vibe, hotstepping on the stage, in the lobby and even in the queue leading up to the bar.
The hall juddered to the relentless drum and bass rhythms of Johnny Osbourne, The Twinkle Brothers, Gregory Isaacs, Dennis Brown and other top-ranking artistes from Jamaica. A lone rastaman grabbed some roots-heads’ attention by holding a bongo drum between his knees and trying to keep in time to the music. Skankers in black tracksuits with red and green trims showed off their new moves and party pieces, with onlookers marvelling at the way they controlled their bodies. Most of the youngsters besieged the control towers, captivated by their heroes and cheering every time they were commanded to.
At around eleven o’clock, the competition came to a climax, and the judges declared Jah Shaka the winner. Jah Shaka’s followers hollered and whooped their approval, along with the illegal bookmakers. Floyd and his posse, backed up by others, barked their disappointment as they threaded their way out of the building.
The scene at the bus stops could have been the warm streets of downtown Kingston as Brenton and Floyd bade laters to their spars. Brenton looked forward to the Clint Eastwood film on telly that night, but Floyd felt the night wasn’t over yet. “Char man, Bassa got robbed. Dem judge are crooks, man. Bassa played the most wicked music.”
“I reckon some of them judge are in the Shaka posse anyway,” Brenton agreed, scanning the crowd for any sight of his Nemesis, Terry Flynn.
The two spars observed the hordes of reggae-heads jostling and pushing to get aboard a 37 bus. Floyd had an agitated appearance on his dial. “I don’t feel like going home, man.”
This was the last thing Brenton wanted to hear. He had arranged to go out early next morning with his sister to a Sunday market in East London; Juliet had promised her brother she would buy something for him to wear for his birthday present. Unaware of this, Floyd mentioned, “I have hardly got no herb left, so I might go and check out Chemist. He lives off Brixton Hill, and then we’ll go and see what Sharon is saying. She might have a rave.”
Although reluctant to go, Brenton tried hard not to show his aversion, knowing Floyd always wanted company when he was stepping the streets of Brixton. So the spars turned right off Acre Lane and trod up Brixton Hill, passing St Matthew’s Church.
With his spirits rising up again, Floyd remarked, “Did you see Druffy? He’s dread. He should do something about his hair, man. When he was skanking, all dust and rust was coming from his head-top. His hair’s as dry as the African desert. I told him, ’cos the shops are closed, he should go petrol station and buy some oil and slap it on his head quick time.”
Brenton laughed out loud. “Yeah, it’s true, but he don’t care, does he? He should at least wear a bloody hat or something.”
“What about Biscuit in his 1950’s trousers? Doesn’t he know that man nowadays wear trousers that reach down to his shoes? I don’t know where he’s going with dem three-quarter trousers. Check him to me ’bout he’s gonna check some gal later on. He ain’t checking nutten with those trousers.”
Brenton laughed again then stopped abruptly. He’d seen something to alarm him – a beast van travelling slowly towards them, just passing Brixton College.
“Floyd, look, radication squad.”
Floyd glanced up. “Shit, stay cool and step it over on the other side of the road. If we have to chip, then we can burn across the grass and into the flats.”
The duo crossed the road, both sensing the dark cloud of danger in the shape of a white van overswilling with pigs. Brenton and Floyd kept the vehicle in their sights as they ambled innocently up the hill. The van performed a U-turn and neared the teenagers. “Stay cool,” Floyd advised. “Remember, pigs can’t burn as fast as us.”
The white van pulled up alongside them and out stepped a double-chinned pig. This action prompted the driver of the van to accelerate until he was abreast of the black youths. The pig trotted up to the teenagers and oinked spitefully, “So where are you two niggers going tonight? Planning a burglary? Or are you waiting for a little old dear to walk by so you can nick her purse?”
“Who are you calling nigger, you big white shit.”
Floyd’s sharp eyes spotted some movement in the van. As the officer closed in, Brenton and Floyd backed off onto the grass verge. “You’re a cheeky wog, aren’t you? You won’t be so cheeky inside a cell.”
“Run!”
The two brethren burned as hard as they could as the van emptied out another four hungry pigs. Floyd led the way, heading for the flats. Cars stopped on Brixton Hill as motorists watched the beast being outpaced by the two youngsters. Gaining a lead into the council estate, Floyd and Brenton leaped without thought or hesitation, into a large grey metal rubbish bin. Fearfully they waited submerged in garbage and trying to murder their heavy breathing. The sounds of heavy trotters made Brenton and Floyd keep very still. When the beast arrived in the forecourt they hovered around for a while, with two of them searching the balconies. Brenton and Floyd could hear one of the officers grunt after a period of ten minutes: “The charcoal bandits have fucking disappeared. Come on, let’s go. There’s many more coons out there in the sea.”
The radication squad dispersed from the estate, leaving a nervous Brenton and Floyd up to their necks in black bags full of rubbish. Floyd whispered to his spar, “You think the beast have gone?”
“I don’t hear them, but even if they are still around, I can’t stay in this shit for too long. I stink. Which one of these blocks does Chemist live in?”
“The one just in front of us.”
“So why the fuck didn’t we go there straight away?” hissed Brenton, glaring at his spar.
“Too risky. Say the beast caught us at Chemist’s yard, he would have got pull as well ’cos he’s got a big bag of herb at his yard with all scales and t’ing,” explained Floyd, sniffing and catching scent of something that might have died in prehistoric times.
Brenton took a peep over the top of the large bin. “H
ey Floyd, come on, man. I can smell shit but I can’t smell no pigs.”
They climbed out of the bin and stealthily made their way to the block of flats nearby, checking behind them all the time. They eventually reached Chemist’s front door and Floyd gently slapped the letterbox. Seconds later, the front door opened to reveal a spliff-smoking Chemist, adorned in many gold chains and heavy gold rings. “Quick, close the door.”
Topped off by a leather beret, and with an arching scar on his forehead. Chemist was a large imposing figure. “What the hell is going on? And what the blouse an’ skirt is that smell?”
Floyd took off his Stetson and inspected his stained, creased hat. He licked the palm of his hand and attempted to rub out the unsightly blemishes. “Radication just chase us innit.”
Chemist glared at Floyd. “And you run here! You want two slap in your head or what?”
“Nah, nah, we had to jump in a friggin rubbish bin downstairs. We did wait for a while until the beast dem chip. Then we reach up here.”
Chemist’s face turned from one of anger into one of humour. “You jumped into that big rarted bin downstairs? You know all man fling their dead dog and t’ing in der? And some man fling their dick macs in der after they just done use it. You’re dread, I would rather get pull than jump in that.”
Brenton, dusting himself down, alertfully watched around him, not trusting anyone he didn’t know too well. “It wasn’t you getting chased by the beast, was it? Anyway, they’re too slow, man.”
Chemist led the way into the front room. “Don’t bother coch down on me furniture, y’know. I don’t want my woman complaining that my spars come and renk out her yard, y’hear? And don’t touch nutten.”
Floyd was not amused. “Just give me a five-pound draw and we’ll chip.”
Chemist laughed. “Yeah, hold on. My t’ings are in my bedroom.”
Before he disappeared, Floyd called out to his herbalist: “Hey, Chemist, I don’t want no tea granules or thyme mixed up in my herb, man. And I don’t want no Brockwell Park grass which you cut up and soak and give to dem fool-fool white man. Just the other day some man down the line gave me a draw mixed up with dem t’ing der. So treat me proper, man, I’m a good customer.”
