Today, every song released into the ether is accompanied by the obligatory ‘remix package’. The engineer (or today, the shmuck sitting behind the computer, who is carrying out the roles of writer, producer, mixer, tea maker, psychoanalyst etc) will be required to commit the vocal to the nearest hard drive. This will then be sent to several of the hottest re-mixers, and in time, regurgitated gracelessly onto the dance floor, in an attempt to extend the songs demographic reach.
In 1987 this phenomenon was yet to be encountered, except perhaps in the world of ‘Dub’, where reggae originals would be mashed up by the likes of Osbourne ‘King Tubby’ Ruddock and Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry, ambient and vocally economical re-workings of the classics, laced with reverbs, delays and extra special effects. Our singer, who had perhaps one of ‘the’ definitive collections of ‘Dub’ records, would, with a bespoke ‘Bose’ system fitted to our tour bus, treat us to his own ‘ganjah’ fuelled ‘remix package’ as we drove through the night. Albeit enjoyable, to me the volume was blistering, harsh on the ear and the possible reason why my ‘top end’ hearing today, has had its edge smoothed away. As a captive audience member, only my ‘onboard’ bunk could provide me with a means of escape. We were told to always sleep with our heads towards the back of the bus, as a sudden stop could be a potential neck breaker. Our drummer however confided in me that on occasion he chose to lie ‘head facing the front’ so he could imagine he was ‘Superman’ as he fell asleep. There’s an irony in there somewhere, as time would attest to.
We had recorded a version of Bunny Wailer’s ‘Love Fire’ for our second album, produced by the late Alex Sadkin, who was responsible, amongst many other things, for the sublime ‘Nightclubbing’ album by Grace Jones. Despite the fact that remixes were rare in these days, it was decided that Lee Perry would be invited to put his spin on the track. A couple of the band had connections with Adrian Sherwood, a producer/engineer Perry was working with at the time, and to everybody’s excitement he had agreed to come along with Adrian to work his magic, and even more surprisingly, there was an invite to come to the studio and watch.
We were told to meet at a small underground London studio, sometime after 9pm. The studio door, once opened, led straight from the street down a long narrow corridor, thick with the inviting odour of the finest Jamaican weed. The first thing I noticed was a microphone lead that seemed to come from the main control room, but disappeared into a door way to the right of the corridor. This room turned out to be the toilet. In it, with door open, was Mr. Perry, standing with microphone in hand, capturing the sonic charms of the contents of his bladder. It might be fair to point out, that Lee Perry, was by some, and putting it mildly, regarded as eccentric (‘clinically insane’ might be more accurate) In 1980, he had burned his Jamaican ‘Black Ark’ studio to the ground. When asked why he might do such a thing his response was immediate, “I’m a toaster”. Silly question, I suppose.
Publishers live for one thing only, a ‘smash hit’ single. Album tracks are now of course redundant, as they will be left in cyber space to fester, with only the radio friendly singles being deemed worthy of a download. In the last fifteen years or so it has become increasingly common to send writers away to various parts of Europe to take part in ‘Song Camps’. Here, small numbers of young (and some not so young) hopefuls, will gather to chase that illusive ‘smash hit’. These trips are expensive, but in recent years publishers have been all too keen to stump up the cost, knowing that if their investment pays off, they can recoup it all from the writers share of the spoils. More recently, however, the ‘credit crunch’ has tempered this uncharacteristic seam of ‘temporary’ generosity.
In 2008 I was invited to attend a Finnish ‘Song Camp’. Ordinarily I would have declined but a good friend, and fellow songwriter had also agreed to go, so I decided to join the crowd. I knew we would have fun, and who knows, we may also come home with a means of repaying our un-recouped balance. My partner-in-crime, was to say the least, a character. A master of the funniest anecdote, he divulged to me, on the way to the airport, that as a teenager, he dated a now very famous singer with a stage name that rhymed with the word ‘sink’. He added that, instead of enjoying sex in the way most of us hope to do, she had a penchant for climbing to the top of his wardrobe fully naked, and launching herself onto him, where below he would be laid out on the bed, also naked, with crown jewels suitably prepared. With eyes watering, and grateful for my own more mundane approach to such activities, I couldn’t help imagining the unthinkable scenario of a bad landing.
Once arrived and acclimatized, shocked by the minus ten Helsinki temperature and the foot of snow that lay outside, we were split up into two’s and three’s and led off into various temporary studios to start the hit making. It was what happened at the end of the day though, that will stay with me for some time.
Dinner was going to be served in the sauna.
I don’t mind telling you, I have a fair skin. So fair, that once on a cross country run at school, a revolting child, by the name of Lee,( no relation to the afore mentioned) decided to ‘nick name’ me ‘ghost’. Thankfully none of my better friends were present at the time and it didn’t stick (until now perhaps). At any rate, the prospect of de-robing in front of perfect strangers of both sexes (in Finland, swimwear is not expected to be worn in a sauna) was filling me with dread, let alone the technical challenge of then eating, and chatting, all in a stifling heat and with the knowledge that another English songwriter present at the camp had the reputation of being hung like a donkey. It was too much to bear. After a quick ‘heads up’ with my UK colleges it was decided that we would wear towels and with a stiff upper lip we entered the sauna and sat down to enjoy dinner. As the booze kicked in, naively thinking my troubles were over, I couldn’t help picking out the words ‘ice pool’ and ‘plunge’ in an otherwise bland conversation. The horror of sitting semi naked in a sauna full of strangers whilst eating dinner, had now just been dwarfed by the incomprehensible horror of having to jump into a hole, cut from ice that had formed on a nearby lake. Fully stocked up on vodka, I ventured out to at least give it try and despite the fact that I could hardly swim at all, I was determined to at least somehow submerge my ghost-like body, now fully camouflaged by the snow, into the water. What followed was not elegant and to add insult to injury I spotted my ‘well endowed’ and bronzed colleague, exiting the ice cold water (I stress exiting) yet still in clear danger of tripping himself up on his appendage. Some guys have all the luck. This was my first and last song camp.
Back in the land of Lee, sitting at the back of the studio, like students taking part in a master class, we eagerly watched the proceedings unfold. Bladder emptied and the intro to his remix, quite literally ‘in the can’, Perry entered the control room resplendently, with ‘dreads’ folded up into an impossibly tall hat. He then proceeded to add his own touches to our tune. Various bottles were used as percussion instruments and smatterings of his ‘Toasting’ were overdubbed into the mix. In those days, all the effects had to be hand administered, as the remix went down to tape, unlike today where everything can be rehearsed and ‘automated’. Sherwood and Perry would stand at the desk and perform ‘live’ all the necessary ‘knob twiddling’, while we looked on in ‘smoke fuelled’ awe.
If you listen to this mix (which is still available on ‘YouTube’) you will hear at the beginning, Lee Perry, AKA ‘The Upsetter’ imitating a baby, crying out “I want my mummy” with his very own watery accompaniment in the background. A moment in time, I will treasure forever. It was, and still is, indeed a privilege to be able to say, that Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry had ‘pissed’ all over our tune.
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