To celebrate the recent live tour Red Snapper have completed celebrating their 1996 debut album Prince Blimey, we invited Seekers International to feed the tracks through their phased scapes, jump-cut edits, worn tapes and delays.
The result is this deconstructed dub version of the original album. All the elements you can hear in the finished two-part mix are from the Prince Blimey album, aside from a couple of bits of overlaid dialogue.
Artwork by Studio Tape Echo, based upon metal mannequins made by the band’s late friend Anis Harrison, originally appearing on their Mooking 12”. Liner notes by Dr Rob.
The past whispers through the hiss of worn tape. Voices of parties passed. Chimes are chopped. Fragments phased and twisted. Shrunk. Expanded. To the size of Big Ben. Finding a rhythm where before there was none. Pulling beats out of the ether. Constructing new code. Something non-linear. “Something nice and mad for the DJs”. Less than a bar hooked up into a solo. That`s how we run it. Shadow-boxing. At midnight in a less than perfect world. Jazz spins wildly. Given a fresh swing. Arms lashing and flailing. Hold it now. Hold it now. Hold it now. Hit it. Making this shit look easy. But any showboating understated. For the connoisseur. Drums moving this way. That way. Fast forward. Rewind. Until they`re jumping on the spot. Never losing their groove. Paused, stuck, stuttering. Fucking with the flow like throwing in a freeze. Only adding to the funk. Old patterns cut up, repeated. History crunched and compressed. A Babel of breaks translated. Revealing the new. Transformed, augmented. Amour-plated, battle-ready. Clattering metallic. Industrial echoes. MCs and rudeboys made chrome and steel cyborgs. As the BPMs drop, the more muscular it grows. Masters of musical mixed martial arts. Hi-hats shimmer and seem to float. Blurred like hummingbird wings. Tiny symphonies ring with disorientation. Morphing micro-expressions. A detuned, distorted ambience hesitates and false starts. Ravers caught with their whistles out. Arms aloft, waiting. Waveforms extended. Rippling. Reverberate. Plunged into Dubwise. A battery of delay. Become earthquakes. Heads spinning. Down unlit alleys and up to unmarked after-hours drinkers. Tapping occult morse on the doors of blues and shebeens. Open sesame. Rubbing shoulders with 21st Century chancers. Navigating a criminal class. Knowing the apple. Evading the chase. The spectres of a forgotten London digitalised, encrypted. Hanging in the air, like a 1950s pea-souper. Or a cloud of skunk. The Flamingo, Africa Centre, Carnival, Dirtbox, illegal warehouses, Soundsystems, Metalheads, and Speed. On three day benders accompanied by neon fairground hallucinations. Wurlitzer organs on course for red planets. A slapped upright bass growls blaxploitation themes. Noir Thames Side Stories. The B-line tightening and un-tightening like a rubber band. A syncopated street revolution. Amen, brother. Where nanotech precision incisions edit paranoid torch singers into flickering flame. Every cut bleeding into the next. Where bottom end piano grounds a percussion of sabres sharpening. Pennies dropping. Technology gave us the tools to cunt the rules. Take a little bit of power back from The Man. New age anarchy. Meditation manifestos. Psycho strings. Thunderstorms. Crucial selections. Rimshots knocked lop-sided as your focus goes to pot. Dancers shifting in slow-motion. Limbs leaving vapour trails. The kick locked on to your heartbeat. The two of them twinned. Faster. Slower. Faster still. Familiar samples accelerate to lightspeeds. Transformed. Unrecognisable. Pinched into obsidian shapes. Snares roll. Each crash forming fractals. As fingered analogue dials scream whoops of delight. Or is that the sound of the police? Sucked through subterranean lairs. Sonic swampland. Dread bubbling. Skanking. Lo-beam lasers and duppy guns set to stun. Minds blown. Eyes to the sky. Out with the stars, counting comets. Racing through inner space. No thoughts of night buses or attending to that eventual long walk. Done in and wasted. Tar-stained fingers and shuttered shop fronts greeting the dawn on a cold, deserted city street. Rattling the length of the underground line. Home to flight path estates. All that’s for later. When someone`ll shout, “One more”. The last one. Then “Get some sleep, Tiger.”