Each new musical revolution mutates and morphs into something utterly
different and unique in no time at all. In less that the time it took the Beatles to shift from She Loves You to Tomorrow Never Knows, the all encompassing upward mirth of acid house had shapeshifted into happy hardcore; ergo jungle, a moment’s notice from the panel beaters of Prague, four to the floor industrial techno. By 1993 the dance music whisper of the late eighties was a full blown cottage industry supporting hundreds of club nights, record stores, clothing outfitters and small time drug dealers. It had burgeoned all out of proportion. Ruth and I went to London for the weekend, we had a three year old and never seemed to go anywhere. We thought we might just trundle around, see some friends and if Andrew Weatherall was playing local, maybe find him and see what he was up to. I’d met Andrew a few years previous, we’re almost the same age, we bonded through a mutual love of pretty much exactly the same things at exactly the same time in our lives. We’d become good friends. He was currently in his guise as Lord Sabre. I called him and he told me he was playing two London gigs that Saturday night, one in a roller rink in Edmonton and the other in a community centre in Brixton called the Voxx. The roller rink in Edmonton was just that, however it looked as though they’d let the infants art class in beforehand to daub the walls with fluorescent paint. As art projects go, it was without doubt, one of the worst I’ve ever seen. There may have been two rooms, but in the main arena, the overbearing stench of hardcore could be felt everywhere. That very fine line where your 175 bpm break becomes the seed that created jungle is just about to be erased and the full muscle of drum and bass is to be flexed and create a niche for itself, which despite numerous predictions to the contrary over the years, is as healthy and happy as ever, 25
years later.
The great Brian Barnard was Andrew’s driver at the time. An incredible fella, they made a great double act, he sets them up, Weatherall knocks ‘em down.
Comedy gold. Andrew was booked to do an early set here, possibly first act on, it was ridiculously early when he started. Brian, Ruth and I milled about the roller rink, blended in with early arrivals and the masses of security. It was completely uneventful, other than a brief conversation with a trollied young ‘un from Hackney Wick who couldn’t really understand what I was saying. What I was saying was, I couldn’t see the point of hardcore – and to be honest, he just gurned at me and nodded. More comedy gold.
By midnight, I reckon we were back in chez Weatherall, south of the river.
Following a quick set change we were mobile to The Voxx in Brixton, a
community centre with a sound system the size of several bin trucks. Man it was fucking loud. And the bass, all encompassing, aiming straight for your chest bones, making you feel like you’re having a heart attack. Sensational.
The decks were being occupied by Mario de Bellis, playing that yummy sound of high end electronic thrash: techno without a single prisoner being taken.
Ruth had to go outside for a respite, the bass was killing her. That’s when and where we first met Adam Harris (more of him elsewhere.) When Lord Sabre fired up, he did that absolutely amazing thing of playing absolutely amazing music, none of which you have ever heard before and will probably never hear again. As a footnote, he still does that to this very day. Every – and I mean every – time you ever see him play. Right at the very end of the set, Brian said “He’s gonna play that tune again, he played it last night in Sabresonic. You’re gonna shit your pants” Then he stopped the music momentarily to announce his last record, then came back with hi-hats sent from heaven to usher you in to a wondrous place. What followed was a classic example of how chemicals and music can make the most agreeable neighbours: David Holmes’ remix of the The Sabres Of Paradise’s Smokebelch II, a record that had been sent from above to play havoc with my soul for the rest of my life. An inspiring and uplifting cacophony of electronic genius and pounding drums. And that melody, and when it played the building erupted, the roof was last seen flying upwards towards heaven or space, or whatever’s above. Frozen to the spot by the power of music and the coercive nature of ecstasy, I cannot recall one single instance when I was so utterly over awed by a record of first hearing. In just under fifteen minutes, it was all over and the lights were up. All that was left were steaming, gurning revellers loking for the next space to dance in.
Some years ago, I gave all my records away to my children, thought they would come in handy for them one day, they needed them more than I do. I kept one, only one. The 12” copy of Smokebelch II (David Holmes Remix) by The Sabres Of Paradise that Andrew had given me. Still the only actual vinyl record I possess. Don’t even own a record player.
This piece was written a few years back when Andrew was still with us. Hence the present tense. Thanks.
The Sabres Of Paradise – Smokebelch II (David Holmes Remix). Sabres Of Paradise. PT009R. 1993.
bernie@happening-things.com 