CAPTAIN ROCK AND THE PHONE TAPE ASSASSINS
The Spurs vs Chelsea game was a bad idea. We lost by two nil and my throat was in agony. My tonsils were the size of golf balls and after the game ended I headed straight for the A and E department at the local hospital. I waited for a fucking hour and a half before I was seen by doctor. When I finally did see a quack, my throat was so inflamed I couldn't move my jaw. I had always been in tip top shape and being sick wad quite frankly, an inconvenience. The doctor was concerned and insisted on injecting penicillin and steroids as I was finding it hard to breathe. Being a Saturday, the A and E department was packed to the rafters with drunks. As an opium suppository was being shoved up my rectum, two piss heads walked in and started laughing. The nurse told them to close the door.
'Fuck off,' I shouted, feeling violated.
'That’s a Kodak moment mate!' said one of the blokes, an ugly ginger twat.
My tonsils were removed two years later, but that experience had left me feeling shitty.
Waking up on Sunday, I decided that a bit of vinyl shopping was in order. I had bought decks but was no good at mixing rap. I got a buzz just playing the tracks and playing with the mixer. I whipped out an old Spurs shirt and grabbed my Adidas windbreaker and headed to Notting Hill Gate. Inside the record shop always felt good. It was always warm to the point that it was unbearable in the summer, but the best thing about record shopping was forgetting the outside world. Once your fingers were tapping over the top of the vinyl sleeves, you remembered nothing of the outside world or your problems. I was forgetting the outside world and my problems when I heard somebody call my name.
'Jason?'
I turned around to see somebody I had never seen before.
'Jason? Your name is Jason? Right?' said the shaven headed geezer.
'Err, Yeah.....'
'Don't worry. It's not your memory. You don't me. But you know Karl, right?'
'Yes...'
I did know Karl. He was a good bloke, but he had become a bit of dickhead since his Deejay career had taken off.
'He's got a picture on his bedroom wall of you and him with Mohawk haircuts.'
I remembered those stupid haircuts. We got trashed one night and had ended up necking a bottle of brandy back at his. I hadn't had my hair cut for few weeks and we ending playing silly buggers with a pair of clippers. The photo was reminder of the stupid shit me and Karl could get up to when we were pissed. Mind you, it wasn't funny when I woke up late for work the morning with a banging headache and tuft of stupid hair on my bonce.
'I do remember that photo. What a grim reminder. Pleased to meet you,' I said extending my hand to meet his.
'Adam,' said the shaven headed geezer.
Adam was strange looking. He had long black sideburns and small goatee that hung from the bottom of his chin. His father was Arabic and his mother was Scandinavian, which he explained owed to his unique good looks. He had a thick gold chain and baggy jeans. He looked like the funkiest motherfucker who had ever walked the face of the planet. I liked him off the bat.
We ended up looking through a ton of records together and discussing a number of topics. We both like rap, we both liked funk. We both knew a ton of the same people. We both liked booze. He was the most charming dude I had ever met.
Standing outside with our record bags, Adam made me a proposition.
'Shall we go to the pub?' he asked while lighting a Marlboro cigarette. It's not like I was the type of guy who needed asking, but he wasn't to know that. We talked a lot and then he made another proposition outside the pub.
'You wanna check out my studio?' he said, lighting another Marlboro.
'Sure. Why not?' I replied, genuinely intrigued. A studio? Jesus….
We got back to parents house in Harlesden ad headed for the basement. It had that dank musk that most basements have, but walking inside, it was a true joy to look at. He had everything! Guitars, bass guitars, drums, turntables, a mixing desk. A fucking mixing desk! It was too much to take in all at once.
'Impressive, I like the lava lamp!' I said, trying to be funny by making a gross understatement.
'Yeah man, got it in Camden. We found this stall with this..'
'Adam. I'm joking. I mean, the lava lamp is cool, but this place? Shit! It's wicked. How'd you put this together?' I said, still shocked at its beauty.
'Yeah man. My and brother bought most of it. My parents bought some of it..'
'This is the coolest gaff I have ever seen mate.'
'Thanks,' he said, lighting a spliff. 'Me and my band make our demos here and then we take them to a proper studio.'
He started playing a cd of his band Aromatic Joker, it sounded okay, pretty damn funky. You could definitely shake a leg to it. Their sound was comprised of lots of slap bass and funky guitar licks. The singer had a weird Spanish voice that sounded exotic over the funky music, especially when he would sing 'Babeeey' or make grunting sounds when the groove got heavy.
'Cool singer,' I said giving my positive critique.
'Julio? Yeah. He's from Brazil. He's a bit if a knob. He only sings with us 'cos he thinks it will help him as an actor,' said Adam with amazing honesty.
Adam was keen to show me a documentary about the Red Hot Chilli Peppers called Funky Monks. We watched it and it was pretty amazing. His younger brother came in and introduced himself. Everybody called him Bizarro, even though his name was Mike. He looked like a thinner version of Adam, except he had a sensationally wacky sense of humour. I left the basement at midnight having had a blast. The next nine odd months I would see Adam about once a week, either drinking or hanging at the basement. I would always bring blank cd's to copy his amazing collection of old school funk albums. Sly And The Family Stone didn't leave my cd player for three months at home.
Bizarro played the bass, very