Sweating to Sweet Rocksteady
Last night, amidst the surreal strands of internal soap opera and usual nightmare material, I had a Lord C. dream.
During it, I felt ridden in the Haitian sense. It took place in a West End club. I am not sure of the exact location, but somewhere aspiring to be off Oxford Street rather than facing up to the fact it was in Soho. 1960s timeframe. On the dance floor, West Indians and working class whites sweating to sweet Rocksteady. Libations of dark rum, Jamaican Obeah oozing into the cracks of the city’s circuits. Bursts of electric spit and crackle as English Hoodoo results. The Loa of Bouncers watching the door. Cultural syncretism. The first seeds of skinhead culture.
The dream is still skulking. Images of a shebeen in Powis Square, the predatory Thelema of Stephen Ward and hustlers like Michael de Freitas making the scene by putting on Blues dances are refusing to be easily dismissed. History echoing loud in the chambers of my waking mind. All the old material burning more bright in the membranes today for reasons I cannot pull out of the shadows.
During it, I felt ridden in the Haitian sense. It took place in a West End club. I am not sure of the exact location, but somewhere aspiring to be off Oxford Street rather than facing up to the fact it was in Soho. 1960s timeframe. On the dance floor, West Indians and working class whites sweating to sweet Rocksteady. Libations of dark rum, Jamaican Obeah oozing into the cracks of the city’s circuits. Bursts of electric spit and crackle as English Hoodoo results. The Loa of Bouncers watching the door. Cultural syncretism. The first seeds of skinhead culture.
The dream is still skulking. Images of a shebeen in Powis Square, the predatory Thelema of Stephen Ward and hustlers like Michael de Freitas making the scene by putting on Blues dances are refusing to be easily dismissed. History echoing loud in the chambers of my waking mind. All the old material burning more bright in the membranes today for reasons I cannot pull out of the shadows.
posted by David at 11:59 PM
3 Comments:
You have a very canny knack of conveying an image in my mind that plays on more of my own imagination than of your words.
I don't understand half of what you just said, but it doesn't really matter, cos what I do get I like !!!
Don't worry mate, unless you are well into the English Hoodoo, you'll have no idea!
True, true ... it's not the first time and it won't be the last.
His personality and writing is much more suited to Lovecraft than Little Britain and it would be a crime for him to dumb himself down just to make it easy for part of his audience.
And why the hell should he anyway? It challenges me to search out his words anew each time.
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