STRICTLY COME SKANKING
On a Thursday evening at the Sir Philip Game Centre in Addiscombe, no player scored a goal on the football table. No sound of ping-pong balls echoed from the table-tennis hall. You couldn’t hear the swipe and thwack of a badminton racket. The heavy slap of dominoes was absent, and nobody lined up a shot on the pool table. No noses pressed against the meshed glass window to watch the boxing training.
Everyone was crammed into a side room at the club to take part or watch the latest skanking contest. Whoever owned the best boom box was the DJ (the criteria was quite simple—who had the heaviest bass line? This serious dispute was always resolved at the last minute).
In this small, sweaty room with minimum ventilation, perspiration dripping from our brows, Valentine and I perfected our revving motorbike, pleading to Jah, and stepping basketball moves. Other skankers rolled up their jeans and pulled on their red, gold, and green wristbands.
The eternal winner of this skanking contest was my bredren from Shirley Oaks, David Miller. He seemed to defy gravity as he skanked away on one foot. You thought he’d topple over—but no! There he was in perfect control of his body as the crowd hollered his name. I soooo much wanted to push him over!
He triumphed one evening skanking to Pat Kelly and Trinity’s “I’m So in Love with You/Jammin’ So.” Pat Kelly’s controlled falsetto grooved over a reggae dancehall beat. Trinity was full of memorable catch phrases on this track: Why you’re jamming so, sister and Rain ah fall, breeze ah blow, no one should be out ah door …
Valentine and I tried to match David as he skanked closer and closer to the floor. It involved bopping your backside in the air, rocking your knees in time to the beat, and tapping the ground with your index fingers in a drumming motion (don’t try this at home). You had to be nimble, supple, and possess the balance of a prima ballerina.
The boom-box DJ pressed pause and asked the crowd who they wanted to cheer for. Needless to say, David was declared the winner once again and I skulked home complaining of a pulled muscle.
In the late 1970s, every young male reggae-head I knew wanted to dress like Gregory Isaacs. You were considered the definition of cool if you sported a Gabicci or a Cecil Gee top complete with a suede collar and trimmings. If you boasted a black felt bowler hat, slim slacks, a red, gold, and green belt, and crocodile-skin shoes, then you were almost on the same level as the “Cool Ruler” himself.
The only thing was, no one could sing quite like Gregory Isaacs. His delicate vocals were distinctive and effortless. Gregory’s appearance in the Rockers film cemented him as a reggae icon (he even had a cool walk that I tried to imitate), not just for his singing and songwriting, but for his fashion sense too. I cannot remember any other reggae artist having the same impact as he did on style.
There were untold Gregory impersonators who attended the Bali Hai club on a Sunday night. It was situated on the London Road in Streatham opposite the Common in the same building complex as the ice rink. To reach the venue, I had to take a bus to East Croydon and then jump on a 109 or 130 to Streatham.
There was a dress code at the door, so “cruffs” or “ragamuffins” wearing jeans, military clothing, tracksuit tops, trainers, and the like were refused admission.
“You cyan’t come in dressed like yuh waan start ah war!” said the doorman to a sufferah clothed in fatigues.
Soferno B, a Brixton sound system, was the resident sound. Their DJ was a heavy-set bearded brother nicknamed Big Yout’. Others called him Chabba Yout’. Every young reggae-head admired him because Big Yout’ cruised around South London in a top-of-the-range 3.5 Rover. He boasted thick rope gold chains around his neck, and more bling sexed up his broad fingers. For reggae-heads like me, the Chabba Yout’s of this world were like A-list movie stars.
The club itself was decorated in fake palm trees and bamboo furnishings. It was a ram-jam affair every Sunday evening. Girls wore their perfume and brothers slapped on too much aftershave.
On my first night at Bali Hai, I wasn’t dressed like Gregory Isaacs, but I did wear a zip-up cardigan with no suede trimmings whatsoever, dark slacks, and a pair of black moccasins. Luckily for me, it was dark enough inside for me to be considered half cool.
Of course, Big Yout’ played a number of Gregory Isaacs tunes. The one I loved most was “Mr. Brown.” The song tells the story of a young romantic hero informing the father of his girl that he’s dating her before getting married. It’s classic Gregory and it launched me into a frenzy of buying anything the singer released.
I couldn’t dress like Gregory, yet at least I had his music.
I often missed my last bus back home to Shirley Oaks, but I didn’t care. I could now say, I raved at Bali Hai! They’d have to dig up my grave and carry my coffin if I was ever to be seen again at a YMCA disco.