Have I really never posted this before? It's hard to believe quite frankly. 'Are We a Warrior', the title track of Ijahman Levi's 1979 LP, sits comfortably among my favourite reggae tunes of all time. It lilts, swings and sways, delivering a plea for universal peace in the most soulful way. Let not your arrow from your bow.
In my mind, this series is a relatively recent, if not altogether regular, feature on the blog. Of course nothing has been particularly regular round these parts for some time, but you catch my drift. Anyway, imagine my horror to discover that the very first Friday Photo entry was way back in June 2021 - 3½ years ago! I set out my intentions in that very first post.
'...a photo, probably taken on my phone while out walking, or maybe an oldie retrieved from the family archive, perhaps even an anonymous antique snapshot plucked from what remains of my collection of such ephemera. To accompany it, a tune, ideally one that's at least partially inspired by the image...'
Up to now, the majority of photos that I've shared have been drawn from the second category - the family archive. Unsurprising really, as it's a gift that keeps giving and there'll be more to come no doubt. Although I've dispatched hundreds of old anonymous photos that I picked up along the way, a few boxes still remain to be sifted through and/or scanned and shared - I hope to make some inroads in that direction over the coming weeks and months.
Here's an unknown drummer from the Royal Army Service Corps during WW2. He has a very modest kit, handy for moving in a hurry I would guess, though I wouldn't have wanted to be perched anywhere near that huge bass drum when it kicked in.
Dad would've loved to have visited New York. He had a life long fascination with the city and would no doubt have spent hours walking its alleys, streets and neighbourhoods, but by the time my cousin relocated to the Big Apple in the 1980s and invited him over, it was already too late. The mobility issues that dogged his later life were beginning to take hold and he knew in his heart that he wouldn't have been physically capable of doing the things he really wanted to do, which would have frustrated him enormously. So he never made it there, but enjoyed hearing about my exploits whenever I returned from a stay with my cousin and I got into the habit of buying him a book about some aspect of New York each time. I got him one on the construction of the Brooklyn Bridge and another about the growth of the subway system, but his favourite was the one I picked up about the history of the Staten Island Ferry. If Dad could have been magically transported to New York and allowed to do just one thing, I think it would have been to have taken that iconic orange ferry, gazing back across the harbour as Manhattan disappeared into the distance. He simply couldn't believe that I'd never done it. This year, on a bright, chilly March morning, I put that right.
Almost exactly a year ago, I was the first of our merry band to roll into Edinburgh for BlogCon '22, allowing me almost a full day to explore the city before festivities formally commenced. I spent the time wandering both hither and thither in an enjoyably aimless fashion, climbing endless steps, stumbling over tricky cobbles and generally gawping at the sheer majesty of the place. Following an enjoyable dustcutter (™ John Medd) at The World's End on the corner of St Mary's Street, I veered off the Royal Mile and found myself outside a restaurant called Makars Gourmet Mash Company. I was intrigued enough to suggest it as a lunch destination to my comrades-in-blog the following day, but alas it was fully booked.
Finding myself back in Edinburgh on Springsteen business last week, I resolved to have another bash at getting into Makars for lunch and this time I was successful. The Makars premise is very straightforward. Choose from one of nine varieties of mashed potato (chilli, smoky, cheesy, horseradish etc), then one of ten toppings (wild boar, chicken, haggis, lamb etc) four of which are vegetarian or vegan, throw in the obligatory neeps, douse in lashings of delicious gravy and presto. How can a meal so apparently simple be so bloody tasty? I don't know, but believe me it was. I had the veggie haggis by the way, but my mate had the real thing and concurred completely with my thumbs-up assessment of the sumptuous repast.
A little later, while consulting my friend Mr Google, I was briefly elated to discover that there was a branch of Makars considerably closer to my own neck of the woods, on Shaftsbury Avenue in London. My joy was short-lived however, as further research revealed that in spite of wall to wall outstanding reviews, the London branch closed down earlier this year.
Well what are the chances? Deep into the second half of a lifetime devoted to music, with a significant amount of those years enjoying the odd beer or two, I wind up in a little Suffolk market town where the local brewery is run by a pair of music obsessed brothers who combine both of those passions with the naming of their products. Step forward Bull of the Woods brewery (itself taken from the title of a 1969 13th Floor Elevators LP), whose front door is just 3 miles from my own. Their range of beers includes Twisted Wheel (named after the famed Northern Soul club), Shine a Light (from the Rolling Stones tune), Vapour Trail (after the 1991 Ride EP), festive ale Season of the Witch (from Donovan's hit of the same name), Woodstock (say no more) and an oatmeal stout called Black Ark, so monikered in tribute to Lee Scratch Perry's legendary recording studio. They're all really really great beers across the board, but, if you pinned me to the wall, demanding that I choose my favourites, I'd have to go for Hacienda, a highly gluggable 4% pale ale and Rocksteady, a malty, caramelly 3.8% session ale, both of which slip down an absolute treat. I'm working up a thirst just typing about them.
Today's photo finds me in the beer garden of my local, nursing a sublime pint of Rocksteady. All being well, that's where you'll also find me the day after tomorrow, for an hour or so at least. Excitingly, Sunday is the day that Bull of the Woods are due to launch a brand new golden ale, brewed exclusively for this very pub. I can think of worse ways to celebrate my 63rd birthday.
Whenever discussing my longstanding unease with air travel, I inevitably reach for the same (absolutely true) anecdote, one that I shared on these very pages several years ago (here). After a 13 year break from flying, I had no idea how I'd feel about the whole darned business in the cold light of 2023. The answer is....well, it was alright really. The rigmarole surrounding the actual flying bit has changed a tad over the course of time, but when I actually got up there I felt reasonably calm and collected, even taking a moment on the way out to snatch a photo of my view along the wing of the good ship Lady Stardust, 6½ miles above the Atlantic.
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Here's a tune from the mighty Keith Hudson, who died of lung cancer in 1984 at the tragically young age of 38. Had he lived, he would've turned 77 a couple of weeks ago.
Fronted by Everton Dacres, cousin of Barrington Levy, The Majesterians released a clutch of singles between the late 1970s and mid-1980s, before disappearing from view. 'So Many Times' was recorded in 1979 at The Black Ark, though with band member Phil Mathias at the controls rather than Lee Perry. Bud Beadle, who played sessions for everyone from T.Rex to Otis Spann and Suzi Quatro to Alexander O'Neal, in addition to being a fully paid up member of Ginger Baker's Airforce, contributes flute to the tune.
Heavy rain on Monday morning made the prospect of a decent day-off walk unlikely, but the weather had miraculously improved by lunchtime, so I was belatedly able to get out and stretch my legs properly for the first time since being knocked sideways by Covid. I took a stroll on the common. It's one of those walks that can be cut short if necessary, or easily extended if desired, by means of a series of looping and inter-connecting footpaths, stiles and gates. The common is vast and there was nary a soul around - it was bliss. The skies cleared completely, it became very warm indeed and, as is my wont, I documented bits of the walk with my phone. Honestly, my cloud storage is chock-a-block with endless shots of big skies and footpaths disappearing off into the distance. I managed 5½ miles, followed a well deserved pint at the end.
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Watty Burnett was essentially a session vocalist for Lee Perry in the 1970s, on standby for whenever a Scratch production required a baritone harmony in the mix. This was exactly how he came to appear so prominently on one of the very greatest albums produced at the Black Ark, 'Heart of the Congos'. Indeed, Burnett's voice became so fundamental to The Congos' sound that by the time of the album's release he was a fully fledged member of the band. In 1977, immediately prior to his adventures with The Congos, Scratch produced a solo single for Burnett, a cover of Brook Benton's 'Rainy Night in Georgia', re-titled 'Rainy Night in Portland'. Remarkably, the masterful 'Open the Gate' was originally hidden away on the flipside of that tune, only gaining a full issue in its own right in 1980.
It's a long held belief among a couple of my closest friends, that I'd been unwittingly clobbered by Covid very early on - here in fact. I never saw it myself and until now I'd always put my physical and mental collapse at the very end of 2019 down to the aftershocks of the personal annus horribilis I'd just endured. Today though, as I emerge blinking and bewildered into the daylight following a 100% guaranteed, 10-day bout with the aforementioned C19, I'm forced to re-evaluate that earlier illness. My main symptoms in each case were virtually identical - a complete loss of appetite, mad, feverish dreams (to the point of doubting reality) and incredible amounts of sweating (seriously, where does all that liquid come from?) So perhaps my chums were right all along and I was indeed among the first of us to have had a brush with this dreadful virus three years ago.
Here's the great Junior Byles, produced by the legendary Lee Perry, back in the halcyon days of 1972.
My mate and I have been going to FolkEast for several years now and, creatures of habit that we are, we always pitch our tents next to each other in the same location, backed right up against a wire fence, facing out across the sea of canvas and campervans. It's a good spot to be in, on the very edge of the site a decent walk from the hustle and bustle of the arena, within reasonable staggering distance of a block of toilets and showers, but far enough away from them that we aren't affected by the inevitable occasional queues and smells. When we arrived on site last Thursday afternoon, on a whim I suggested that we pitch in the usual place, but facing the other way for a change. I don't quite know why it's taken all these years for one of us to make what in retrospect seems such a glaringly obvious suggestion, but the glorious view that greeted us as we crawled, bleary-eyed, from our respective tents on Friday morning ensured that we'll never pitch facing into the camping site again.
The journey back from Blog-Con '22 in Edinburgh the Friday before last began comfortably enough, with temperatures hovering around the 16/17° mark as I made my way to Waverley station for the 9am southbound train. It was difficult in those moments to believe the forecast I was reading on my phone predicting highs of over 30° nearer home. Fortunately though, I did heed the warnings and packed everything possible into my case, wearing only the lightest clothes available for the trip. The first leg was relatively uneventful, save for a rowdy group necking early morning tinnies en route to York races, the views from the train across Berwick and Durham were spectacular and the air conditioning kept things manageable. By the time we rolled into Peterborough though, the aircon was starting to struggle and as I stepped from the train I discovered why - it was beginning to get very warm indeed. My expected 45 minute wait for the connection eventually extended to nearly an hour and when the Norwich bound train finally rolled in I was concerned to see that it consisted of just two carriages, which were already virtually full. The platform was pretty chock-a-block too, so you can probably imagine the chaos that ensued as we tried to board. Long story short by the time I got on it was standing room only - and when I say standing room I mean bodies squashed together standing room, for two hours, in increasingly stifling temperatures. My phone flicked between telling me that it was 32/33° outside, but who knows what it must've been on board. Oh and did I mention that the train was not blessed with aircon, nor windows that opened?
By the time I disembarked, fell to my knees and kissed the platform at Norwich, I and everyone else in that hellhole of a train were completely soaked through with sweat and gasping for breath. I had a 15 minute uphill walk followed by a 45 minute wait for a bus, both of which were uncomfortable in the conditions, but by then I didn't care. I was just pleased to be outside, free from the combined body odours of a couple of hundred clammy sardines in a can. Our mutual chum C started her own journey south a couple of hours after me and had to travel across London on her way home. I can't begin to imagine what that must've been like. In retrospect we were incredibly lucky with our timing for the glorious bloggers meet-up though, as had it been a week later our plans may well have been scuppered altogether in light of the RMT industrial action.
Anyway, all that whinging was just an excuse for me to dig out this beauty from the great Junior Murvin, produced by the legendary Lee' Scratch' Perry and featuring a toast from another prominent reggae name, Dillinger, who turned 68 years of age just a couple of days ago.
Last week was long, busy and, well, pretty darned glorious actually. Deets, as the kids say, to follow, but right now my brain is still mush from an endless, airless train journey on the hottest day of the year thus far, so let's ease into a new week with George Faith's sublime 1977 interpretation of William Bell's 'I Forgot to be Your Lover', here retitled simply, 'To Be a Lover'. The tune, released in the UK on Island's Black Swan imprint, was produced by Lee 'Scratch' Perry who makes an unexpected vocal appearance in the final 30 seconds of the mix. 'To Be a Lover' was a popular choice of cover in reggae circles during the 1970s, not least with Scratch himself who also produced versions of the song by Chenley Duffas in 1971 and George Earl in 1974. This one's the definitive reading though.
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Though Lee Perry's relationship with Island Records faltered in 1978, within the walls of the Black Ark, Scratch's work rate continued at a frantic pace. Whole albums worth of material were apparently cut with legendary artists such as Junior Murvin, George Faith and Augustus Pablo, but much of the resulting music remains unreleased. Old friend Bob Marley stopped off at the studio late in the year, part-way through the Kaya world tour, to record two fabulous sides with Scratch at the controls, 'Who Colt the Game' and 'I Know a Place'. These gems were also shelved, eventually gaining a belated release in 1998.
Meanwhile Perry continued to cut and voice tunes of his own. Here's the dense, intriguing, Nyabinghi-paced 'Free Up the Prisoners', released as a 33rpm 12" single on the Conquering Lion of Judah label in 1978, before reappearing on the rarities compilation 'Soundzs From the Hot Line' in 1992.
You may recognise 'Jah No Dead' from Winston Rodney's impassioned solo acapella version, sung over the sound of crashing waves in the 1978 film 'Rockers'. If you're unfamiliar with the scene, it's well worth a couple of minutes of your time (here). The original Burning Spear studio version of the song was released under the title 'Marcus Say Jah No Dead' on the 'Social Living' LP, also in 1978. Two years later an extended mix appeared on the flipside of the 12" single 'Free the Whole Wide World'.
A belated tribute to the great Robbie Shakespeare today, by way of 'Gates of Zion', a stand alone 1980 single from The Mighty Diamonds. The tune was cut at Channel One, so, given the time frame, my guess is that the backing is supplied by The Revolutionaries, though Robbie and his lifelong partner in riddim Sly Dunbar are in fact the only musicians officially credited, outside of the vocal trio themselves. Rest in dub Robbie.
Southwold was a favourite destination for Mrs S & I. We travelled the few miles over to the coast regularly throughout our years together, particularly out of season, for many a pub lunch and cobweb-clearing walk. I'd been studiously avoiding that part of the world even before the pandemic, for fear of reawakening ghosts - indeed until this week it'd been over two years since I'd set foot in the place. On Tuesday I found myself out in that area on other business and thought that perhaps it was time to tentatively revisit the old haunts. It was a clear, gloriously sunny late-afternoon, but I initially felt myself hurrying around the streets, as if anxious to get it done and hot-foot it back out of town, so I wandered down towards the beach, gulped down several lungfuls of fresh sea air and felt my anxiety drift away. A few short weeks ago I wouldn't have been able to move for holidaymakers, but now it was largely deserted. As the light faded, the air reverberated to the noisy chatter of hundreds of Barnacle Geese coming down onto the grazing marsh beyond the houses on Gun Hill. I pulled out my phone and caught a shot of the sun's final rays, stretching across the ancient cannons that point mutely out to sea. What a lovely evening. The ghosts? They were around alright, but they kept a respectful distance.
The list of golden-age reggae greats who are still performing grows ever smaller with the passage of time. One of the true greats, the mighty U-Roy, passed away in February and his final studio album, 'Solid Gold' has just been released on Trojan Records. It's a mixed bag to be honest, the guest-heavy reinterpretations of classic material are a little hit and miss, though when they are good, they are very very good indeed. Take for example the epic re-working of 1978's 'Every Knee Shall Bow', featuring terrific guest turns by Big Youth and Mick Jones no less. Remember him this way. (Buy 'Solid Gold' here).
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