POST-CURFEW SKANKING

I was introduced to the Parchmore Youth Club in Thornton Heath by my Shirley Oaks sisters Denise and Brenda in the fall of 1976. I was thirteen and knew little of the world outside of the home. I had played for the school football team on fields in New Addington, Mitcham, Merton, Sutton, South Norwood, and Thornton Heath, but I had never roamed at night in those locales.

The heat wave had ended, homeowners could water their gardens once more, and kids who played truant at the open-air swimming pool by Purley Way found other locations in which to hide from school.

Parchmore Youth Club had the usual fare: pool table, table football, banter, a resident boom-box guy, an arts-and-crafts space, and a TV room. It also had a once-a-fortnight event that no other youth club that I knew of could ever match: a sound system dance. When I heard this news, I almost combusted with excitement and anticipation.

My curfew at the children’s home was still nine p.m. The dance finished at ten p.m. A live sound system! I simply had to attend.

Brenda, Denise, and I took the 194b bus from Shirley to Thornton Heath. The youth club was a five-minute step from the clock tower. Denise had already advised me to “burn” my flared pants, fly shirt, and school shoes. “You can’t go in there looking like a soul boy! Don’t shame us!”

I wore my black school trousers, a blue T-shirt, and borrowed a pair of black moccasins that were too tight. Again, I didn’t care that my toes were crushed––I just had to be there.

Once we arrived, I felt an unbelievable sense of belonging. It was much darker than any disco I had ever attended. The only light I could see was the red one glowing from the sound system’s control tower. I noticed it wasn’t just cigarettes the ravers were smoking. It was a joy to be surrounded by other reggae-heads.

The resident sound system was the Mighty Observer, operated by a dreadlocked guy named Austin. One of his crew was a bulky brother nicknamed Rhino. When he hit the floor, you had to be careful he didn’t take you out with his wild skanking, hence his moniker.

The first track Austin played as I took up my position close to a double-bass speaker box was the Heptones’s “Party Time.”

Although this version of the song wasn’t the original, it could not have been produced by anyone else but the great Lee “Scratch” Perry. Four seconds into the track, I knew it was him. The positive lyrics bounced along to a superb rhythm track that got me moving immediately. You’ve got to live some life … It had the trademark Scratch echo and reverb underscored by a rolling bass line. I put my ear close to the eighteen-inch bass speaker and I swear it cooled off the sweat on my forehead. Like most Scratch productions, it has a timeless quality to it.

The lead singer and songwriter was the unheralded Leroy Sibbles. For me, he is an absolute giant of reggae music, one of the artists who created the genre. While working for Coxsone Dodd’s Studio One label as a bassist, songwriter, and arranger, he laid down rhythms and bass lines that are still being sampled and used today.

I arrived home just after eleven p.m. I was screamed at, threatened with being grounded, and warned how dangerous it was to walk the streets late at night.

Ironic. The most danger I had ever been exposed to was in Holly House.

They could no longer physically abuse me or intimidate me. By the time I had reached twelve, I’d started fighting back with fists, shoes, and on one occasion, a coal shovel I picked up to defend myself.

In another incident, I smashed my housemother Joyce Cook’s glasses, right-hooked her jaw, and kicked her on the ground. Other staff pulled me off her, dragged me outside, and locked me in the outhouse to cool off.

Lurking in the corner of the outhouse was what looked like the remains of some sort of scarecrow. Years later, I described this scenario in my novel Brixton Rock.

Still, “Party Time” and so many other new reggae songs I first heard that night in Parchmore made my confinement more than tolerable.