Tuesday, June 22, 2004


It's a sad fact of life that you can't buy 12" Grime singles over-the-counter for love nor money here in South Somerset. No big deal, you might think, but obviously the sheer frustration of being unable to get a back-copy of "Black Toes" by DJ Oddz, or even "Eyes on You" by Davinchie (and Christ only knows how many months ago they came out) is taking a heavy toll on my subconscious. Last night, I dreamt I was hunting for vinyl Grime in the suburbs of an unnamed city. Denied access to broadband or pirate radio, my fruitless search took me into a dingey, run-down record shop with cracked-plaster, peeling wallpaper and racks of old, mouldering LPs and twelves with split spines and unreadable titles by artists I'd never heard of. There was a strange smell in the air...something dusty and old...animal hair and pipe tobacco, perhaps. A dour-looking North African man in a black suit with a Nehru collar stood behind the counter, watching me warily...I had obviously drifted into some sort of Burroughs-esque Interzone somewhere in the twilight nether regions of my own Imagination. I didn't even need to speak; he knew exactly what I'd come for. Why I was there. "No," he said, sadly shaking his head, "I'm very sorry, but we only sell Eygptian Grime..." I woke immediately, disorientated and out-of-sorts, desperately trying to climb back into the warm embrace of the dream before it completely evaporated. Eygptian Grime...? Fucking Hell. If only...


Post a Comment

<< Home