Pass the kutchie to the liberal left

THE WRITER’S LIFE

The Musical Youth song actually asked us to ‘Pass the kutchie on the left hand side.’ It was a cover of a song originally by The Mighty Diamonds, and quite why ‘Dutchie’ was substituted is anyone’s guess, as it means nothing, whereas ‘kutchie’ is a doobie, a spliff, a reefer.

Kutchie

Last night I was transported back to my own musical youth when I shared a Trans-Atlantic joint with a Canadian friend and we reminisced in ASCII. It’s all very well two people putting the world to rights, but others might be interested in what they said.

My friend is also a writer, whom I’ve never met in organic form but who’s a closer friend than others I know in real life. We’re comrades of a similar age and we got talking about matters of equality, and of how music can be a leveller in some hands and divisive in others. I put on some music and got into character, so we could talk about possible futures.

It started with a video I posted on Facebook about Skinheads. Specifically it focuses on the infiltration of the far right into the skinhead movement, and their adoption of a previously inclusive personal style as a racist one. There was resistance from the old school skins, and the true skinhead ethos remains today, but the look is still copied by fascists. Fascism is only skin deep, but music has roots, with mine in Jamaica where Reggae gave birth to Ska and all its offshoots. The skinhead connection is better covered in Don Lett’s film, The Story of Skinhead, but captured in social media attention-span by this short film:

In the early 80s I discovered Ska music through Two Tone records, and I joined a movement which was so much more than the music. Rude boys, rastas, skins and punks all wanted to change the world but were frustrated by the narrow media spectrum of the time.

Back then was an age of a confused nation thrown together by Thatcherism in ways no-one expected (history does repeat). Those were the days before mobile phones and the internet, and when a fourth TV channel was cause for national celebration (as it should be still in Channel 4, our alternative national broadcaster and anarchist of the airwaves). I look back on the 1980s with the fondness of a teenager who was there, but with the hindsight of one who was there just the same. I hope we’ll still hear music in the future.

Our 21st century connectivity should mean our voices are louder and greater in number, but – perhaps by media manipulation – I only see an overall rise of the right. Those of us on the left need to do more, say more and write more, if we’re to reclaim our planet for our one race. We can still be anarchists and activists, even if we don’t get out so much now, shoulder-mounted sound systems replaced by laptops as our main weapons. The true skins reclaimed their voice, and humans who believe in humanity as one united race can take back the conversation. History repeats again.

In my mid-teens I got into Bowie alongside Ska. I didn’t realise it at the time, but he was telling me that it’s okay to be yourself. Ska fashion was a uniform, just like mod, metal, skinhead, punk, reggae (the list goes on) but Bowie was about individualism. That was slightly unnerving as a hormonal boy in a same-sex school, but I realised it was perfectly okay to have a crush on some of your mates.

I wish I’d listened, rather than living my life in the way so many our age were conditioned: aspiring to a life in either an office or a factory (further education was a luxury beyond the means of my family, when I needed to get a job straight out of school), conforming.

Bowie’s connection with Brixton is as famous as either, and later in life I lived near Bromley, where he was born. They say you don’t have to be born in a place to be from there: it’s where you feel at home. After working for five years in Bermondsey, I lived in Catford (in the borough of Lewisham) for more than a decade, and that cultural mix of London lives in my heart. It’s all those old social movements together, making human music which carries my soul back there, to my life of conformity but in a microcosm of what life as one race is like, where colour and status are irrelevant and anyone can find home.

At the end of my working life (aged 42, appropriately enough), I was running companies and swimming in a private pool, when I had my alcoholic breakdown and woke up to real life. I’d never go through it again by choice, but that time on the streets was what changed me for the better. Then I had time to think about things outside the life box I’d made by conditioning, so I decided to climb out and write about it.

Now I’m a pot-smoking lesbian transvestite, a bisexual, asexual anarchist, atheist, alcoholic, bi-polar, manic depressive writer, scraping a living but loving the life which freedom of the spirit gives you. I was born a Man of Kent, but I was made in Catford. It sounds so much better than ‘Managing Director’ of anything other than one’s own life as a conscious, self-determining being, connected to the universal web through quantum entanglement.

I once fell to earth and asked, “Spare a pound?” and members of the public would mainly walk on by. Now as a sci-fi writer, the first question I’d ask a passing extraterrestrial would be, “Do you have music?”

The soundtrack of a cracked actor, it’s all about roots and Two Tone. Within those, stoned science fiction writers can see human salvation.

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