GOLD CUP DANCE

In early 1978, Valentine and I regularly attended the Sir Philip Game Centre youth club in Addiscombe, Croydon. There, we played table football, pool, badminton, and table tennis. They also had a boxing gym on-site. Once, I spied through the window and watched a young Frank Bruno mutilating a heavy bag.

Reggae-heads practiced their skanking in a small room where the resident boom-box guy would entertain us with his selection of music. I cannot recall his name, but I’ll always remember this boom-box DJ pressing pause on his huge machine and introducing the next tune: “And this track is by the sweet-granulated Lincoln Sugar Minott! Voiced at Channel One studios and mixed at King Tubby’s quarter tower!”

I knew what a sound system control tower looked like, but King Tubby’s quarter tower? I could only imagine the great man’s mixing desk.

Near the lobby, we picked up flyers advertising karate classes, netball matches, lost cats, jumble sales, five-a-side football matches, music lessons, and so much more. It was rare to collect a flyer in this corner of Croydon that promoted a top-ranking sound system clash in South London.

The venue was Nettleford Hall in West Norwood. The sound systems competing were from Brixton the Rum Drinker, Sir Coxsone, from southeast London the heavyweight dub champion Jah Shaka, and the people’s choice from Battersea, Moa Anbessa. They would be competing for a gold cup.

A real gold cup? I wondered. I had a pleasure overload.

Not many reggae-heads I knew had ever heard Jah Shaka play, but the fables and myths about the earth-rumbling bass filled me to the brim with anticipation.

“Shaka’s bass is so deep it’ll wake up your granny’s granny,” a reggae-head insisted. “His speaker boxes are tall like a Brixton tower block!”

“Did you see that film with King Kong brawling with Godzilla? That’s how Shaka bass feels like.”

When we boarded the 68 bus from East Croydon, the top deck was already filled with reggae fans. It was rowdy. Two boom boxes were in competition with each other. We climbed up to Crystal Palace and Beulah Hill before descending Knights Hill. I can’t remember paying bus fare on that journey; the conductor looked relieved when we departed. (I included a similar scene in my novel Brixton Rock.)

We headed for Nettleford Hall. There was an almighty scrum outside and there were reggae-heads as far as I could see. I had never seen so much red, gold, and green. The doorman had trouble collecting the entrance fee. Ravers surged this way and that. People’s toes got stepped on. Curses cut the air. The doorframe and the windows shook as one sound system tested their set. I spotted two girls who had fainted being carried outside. They were propped up against a graveyard’s railings.

“Wake up, sister!”

Valentine and I finally made it inside. I’m not sure if my feet touched the ground as we did so. We looked up to the ceiling. There was a spaghetti junction above us, a mass of cables and wires connected to the sound system control towers. Stacks of speaker boxes filled the walls. Valentine pointed out where Jah Shaka had set up and we barged in that direction.

Jah Shaka himself, shorter than I’d expected, carefully and patiently connected jack plugs to the amplifiers. The aluminum casing glinted blue from the live valves. The transistor was big enough to make it part of the furniture. It was something out of science fiction. He used brown masking tape to add extra safety for the speaker cable connections. There must have been around one hundred pairs of eyes watching Jah Shaka’s preparations.

Finally, his turntable spun. He wiped the needle with his index finger and a sonic boom–like sound reverberated around the hall. There was a long hush as Jah Shaka selected the first 12" track to test his system.

The needle dropped. I opened my mouth. My heart beat faster. The midrange and tweeter boxes kicked in first. Percussion and drums. The vocal came in: Every man do his thing a little way different. Don’t matter what color race or creed that he may be …

The bass dropped. Or something not of this world fell to earth and made its way to Nettleford Hall. Over forty years later, I still have much difficulty describing that moment. It was like a fat dinosaur suffering a severe asthma attack very close to your eardrum. It was utterly overwhelming. An assault on the senses. A defibrillator moment that was unforgettable. There were expressions of astonishment all around me. Valentine and I shared a long look. Neither of us could find the words. I wanted to break out in a mad skank but there was no room to do so.

The track was produced by the masterful Dennis Bovell, with Janet Kay on backing vocals. I’d very much like to know who played bass on that production.

I can’t recall who was victorious in that sound clash. I do remember drink cans and bottles of Lucozade dropping off Shaka’s speaker boxes. Following the event, I also recall the driver refusing to move as so many reggae-heads had squeezed onto his 68 bus. We had to trod home.