A Missing MC

By Asmar Gondal

Chris Ready may be recognised as the most versatile DJ in Leeds, but he has been caught cold by a digital revolution where IT geeks hold more sway than his musty record collection.

It’s a far cry from Ready’s romantic beginnings as a student DJ at the turn of the century, dazzling Drum ‘n’ Bass nights with his old sidekick, MC Strait.

When Ready discovers that Strait, now travelling in South America, has been kidnapped by Colombian guerrilla fighters, he gets drawn into a family’s emotional campaign and decides to reconnect with the old friends who shared the ‘Ready and Strait’ heyday.

But when the pilgrimage for Strait becomes an insight into the intriguing world of twenty-something, Ready starts to wonder whether his beloved ‘crew’ have forgotten the Values of the mercurial MC, and plunges into an identity crisis he never saw coming....

Set in newly refurbished Leeds, amid the backdrop of a country basking in the final months of lofty Blairite aspirations, A Missing MC is a novel about how friendships change over time and the burden growing up can place on precious ideals.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Asmar Gondal
• Release date: Feb 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310662393

Asmar Gondal

I grew up in Manchester and studied History at the University of Leeds. I then lived in Paris and Newcastle before I returned to Manchester not long after starting A Missing MC, some six years ago. I work in public relations. In my spare time I write short stories and have now started working on my second novel. I am 32-years-old. All my writing is shaped around some common themes that fascinate me; journeys, both physical and emotional, and the meeting of different cultures.

Book preview

A note from the Editor

In his first novel Asmar Gondal creates an intimate, intoxicating world with plenty of heart. He manages to bring his places as well as his people into glorious life.

He explores the eternal themes of friendship, maturity and ambition, against a heady backdrop of electronic music and international politics. And he does it in one small snapshot of time.

Approaching this as an editor I wondered whether I would be put off by the Drum ‘n’ Bass motif. I wasn't. It's simply the quirky background music.

Gondal's strength is in his ability to make you care about his protagonist and what happens to him.

It's subtly done; through sharp, credible dialogue and careful scene-setting.

His geography throughout is unerringly precise yet we learn about his cast of characters through what they do and what they say rather than how they look.

The fact we are left with such a strong impression of Chris Ready 's youthful complexities is a great tribute to Gondal's writing. He builds vivid pictures in your mind

If ‘Ready and Strait’ are of a moment in time, A Missing MC captures its very essence.

Jan Disley

#amissingmc

A Missing MC

A novel by Asmar Gondal

Copyright 2014 Asmar Gondal

Smashwords Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover image by Tim Slater

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

A note from the Editor

1. Chris Ready

2. David Webster

3. Sajinder Singh

4. Joel Miller

5. Daniel Perry

6. Adam Ellis

7. Josie Sharpe

8. Katherine Kay-Stevenson

9. Sean Webster

10. Naomi Korn

11. Christopher Ready

Acknowledgements

To my friends

1. Chris Ready

I had lost my way by the time MC Strait was kidnapped by terrorists. I kept going but with empty spirit, and for that I wanted to blame a new breed of turntable. A lousy excuse, I admit it now, but when I had the chance to adapt to what was known as the ‘scratch unit’, something in me folded. Connect this clever concept to your laptop and mix and scratch as you please, but even if it looks like the original, it will only ever be an arcade version. The new crop saw Jeff, an ambassador of this and more, as an agony uncle, but all I saw was a computer geek. They thought the scratch unit was taking DJing forward; all I saw was a hopeless attempt to seek approval from the past.

Maybe I shouldn’t have been so harsh. This was, after all, that odd moment in clubbing history where the DJ was suddenly faced with three different types of turntable. Vinyl was the Holy Grail, where it all began. But its authority was being questioned, not so much by CDs, which were next, but when new music stopped being physical altogether, just a file on your laptop with dot mp3 on the end. From here we threw ourselves headlong into the prism of electronic chaos and only those who fully adapted survived. Maybe it got the better of me because I was the only one who stopped and wondered whether the shift was actually the dumbing-down of our craft. Twenty-seven and already out of touch, longing for a time when it was all so pure.

The night I found out about Strait, I was launching my pitiful attempt at a revival, or should I say Soul Survival, and maybe that’s why I reacted to the news the way I did.

*

The city’s lights and people sliding past me from behind the window of a taxi, with nothing more than a simple deck bag slung around my shoulder. Forget the rest; I was going back to basics. No need for a record box with its trolley wheels that always got caught in the Leeds cobblestones, and no need for a laptop, burdensome in its own way. Just me and a few carefully selected records.

Of course, Big Trev already had all that was needed at the HiFi; all of the Four Tops, all of the Smokey Robinson, all of the Stevie Wonder. If I wanted to, I could just turn up and use his more than adequate vinyl for the night. But Trev knew me; he knew the instincts that would never leave a DJ, because he had them himself.

I was especially excited about dropping in a Tammi Terrell EP I’d recently managed to get hold of. Everyone remembers her for the duets with Marvin Gaye, but I discovered a lush recording of All I Do is Think About You, which would certainly get the crowd going, not least because it had recently enjoyed a soulful house remix by Bryan Chambers.

The purposeful strut to the HiFi’s door. I knew I looked the part; my new Guess mock neck jacket, Leeds’ finest and most recognisable afro (even the black dudes admitted as much), small, simple Technics Deck Bag and of course the latest set of Pioneer cans nestled around my neck. I would not be budged on headphones; I could only wear mine and mine alone. Firstly there was the hair to think about, and then there was all the trouble I had when I started, with snapping necks and flimsy wires that got tangled. I wasn’t going back to any of that, no thanks; the best £150 I ever spent.

Before I got in I came across Trev’s new Soul Survival poster, boasting the words ‘launch night for our new resident DJ Chris Ready’. Resident DJ Chris Ready. I couldn’t quite get the hang of it. Firstly, accepting this residency saw me break a self-enforced rule, a rule that came from The Values. To keep doing the same thing was to get too comfortable; we always felt the thrill of playing music to crowds was best when we had our backs against the wall. But my circumstances meant that in order to stay in the game and fight back, sacrifices had to be made. Besides, I needed the regular income.

Then there was the ‘DJ Chris Ready’ part. I preferred to be known as ‘DJ Ready’ but the ‘Chris’ was naturally beginning to creep in because, DJ Ready never sounded as good after there was no more ‘Ready and Strait’.

It was always useful to turn up to the venue early, to check the sound, the monitor and the crossfaders, but I knew the HiFi’s decks like my own so I didn’t really give it a full sound check. I really went to have a drink with Trev and the guys, a nice weekly routine in a life often without one. Too much of it bored me, everyone knew that, but there was usually a laugh and a joke at the bar before everyone started working, and it was nice to have that for a few minutes.

Sure enough the guys were there, sitting, drinking, smoking, laughing. James Brown was obscure in the background; one of the old JB band CDs. Big Trev’s black head was glossy in the dim brassy lights. His smile, as usual, was beaming.

‘Here he is!’ he shouted as I approached them.

I exchanged swinging handshakes and smiles with him, then Rob, the newest student barman, and the bouncers Gladdy and Daz, who just looked like bigger versions of Trev. Stacey gave me a gentle peck. Her and Rob were stood gripping beer pumps and the others were sitting on stools. I took off my jacket and bag and pulled another stool up next to Trev.

Rob handed me my first Kronenberg of the night as I pulled out my baccy, Rizla and filters. Trev, as ever, looked pleased to see me. He had a funny way of being the nicest guy in the world, one of my closest friends in the club scene, and very irritating at the same time. He’d started billing himself as the ‘man who saved Ready’, by offering me the residency, and deep beneath the grin and paternal hand round the shoulder, there was, I could tell, the feeling I would always be in his debt.

‘We were just talkin’ ‘bout you Ready’, he said, the slight dab of Caribbean returning whenever he spent time with Gladdy and Daz. Gladdy started sniggering. Clearly the laughing this evening was at my expense.

‘Judging by the vibe, I’ll guess it wasn’t about my concern for Gladdy’s fringe’, I replied. This brought mild laughter. I wasn’t really good at jokes, but once, I just happened to notice how small Gladdy’s forehead was, and everybody burst out laughing.

‘Actually, it’s funny you say that’, said Daz, his voice deep and croaky as usual. He turned to Gladdy ‘I walked past one of those posh salons in Victoria Arcade, they might be able to help ya, man. Lift the hairline. Trus’.’

The image of Daz dragging Gladdy to a hair salon was making all of us giggle childishly. We were interrupted.

‘No man’, said Trev, ‘forget about Gladdy’s fod for a minute. How did it go yesterday?’ He was looking at me.

‘What?’

‘You know, the interview. With the magazine?’ Now everyone was looking at me.

‘Oh, that’, I said.

Oh. That.

‘Fine, really’, I continued. ‘Think it did the trick anyway. Miserable bitch though. Not the same bird that went up to you that night. Rachel, I think that’s what her name was.’

‘Front cover of Living Leeds then Chris?’ asked Stacey.

Gladdy started laughing. ‘They’ll have to cut off his ‘fro to make his head fit on the page, maybe you should take him to the salon Daz.’

*

I didn’t know whether I would be on the front cover yet, or when it was coming out. I wasn’t looking forward to seeing it. The interview just didn’t feel right. First of all, there was a change of plan. Originally Naomi, the girl whose idea all this was after she saw me play at one of the HiFi’s funk nights, was supposed to do the interview. That was what she discussed with Trev when she approached him that night. Naomi was happy to meet me in the late afternoon in Coco Café, about 30 yards from my flat. Then at lunchtime I got a call from this Rachel person, who introduced herself as ‘features editor’, and said Naomi was off sick. Instead she would be interviewing me. She couldn’t get out to Hyde Park, so asked if she could buy me a coffee in City Square, Leeds’ business district.

It was not my favourite part of town. I hardly recognised it at first; all swished up with new buildings, full of suited tossers with their fashionable haircuts and saggy faces. It was a section of the city that didn’t seem to know when to stop changing. And I clearly stuck out.

Nor did Rachel make me feel comfortable when she got there. It looked as though she was trying to keep her bare shoulders in line opposite me. Her lips were permanently pouted, as if she needed convincing about what she was being told. Her hair was short, her eyes a steely grey. She was neat, tidy and nerveless.

As she scribbled in her quick, efficient, effortless way, I compared it to the interview Strait and I once did with Leeds Student when our night at the Mint club got off the ground. I forgot the girl was interviewing us when we were out on the students union bar terrace under the sun, just talking naturally about what we were doing and about our interest in music. I forgot it was an interview when, as agreed, she turned up to Mint that night and had a drink with me while the support was on. I forgot it was an interview when we were zoning out with a spliff at the flat, her finally understanding why Drum ‘n’ Bass was so important to us. And I certainly forgot it was an interview when we screwed in front of my curtainless window, her bare back exposed to the moonlight. The resulting double-page spread was spot on.

I knew it was unfair to make comparisons, but I could feel myself getting bored during what was actually an important opportunity, a chance to remind everyone that ‘Ready is still out there’ according to Trev. At least it started well, as the first question was one I hoped she would ask.

‘So, you call yourself DJ Ready. I know that’s your actual surname, but is there more to it than that? Is it a way of, you know, expressing your versatility in the club scene? To say that you are, literally, ‘Ready’ for whatever?’ She made no attempt to hide the fact that Naomi suggested this question.

‘That’s right, my record collection is so large I even keep some of it in the back of my landlord’s shop below my flat. I want to keep in touch with all the club styles, because I can see the unique value of every one. I learnt a long time ago that if you want to be recognised in this game as someone who can give people nights to remember, you’ve got to keep it fresh. This is my way. So now, whether it’s a house set, or hip-hop, or breakbeats, I can never do the same thing twice. ‘

I was pleased with this answer, not only because I introduced the Values without having to go into their intimate detail, but also because I mentioned I was still interested in playing house music. This scene was taking on the new technology more than any other, and as a result its movers and shakers cast me off as a jack of all trades, no longer in fashion. But however half-hearted my attempts had been, I had bought the scratch unit, and on top of that MySpace forward slash DJ Ready was a repertoire of mix demos, each seven minutes long, in all of my styles. Hard techno house was the opener. I made my name in Drum ‘n’ Bass, a style as inspired by the acid house revolution of the early 90s as what they were doing then. I knew their music, but I was no longer an easy fit.

Others didn’t seem to understand the Values, a series of personal rules to ensure I was playing music to crowds in the right spirit, to ‘Keep it Real’ as the phrase went. But the Values were formed when I started out and I made a promise that I would always stick by them. And one of the key Values, which defined DJ Ready, was to remain versatile to all styles. It was a way of ensuring I didn’t become too associated with one area and start to grow too much. It was a deliberate way of keeping me local to Leeds, being the antithesis of the superstar DJ. And every nightclub, every city, needs at least one of those. Whenever I tried to explain this, people looked at me but didn’t say anything; they probably just suspected I had lost my mind. I certainly wasn’t going to elaborate too much to the journalist.

The truth is it wasn’t really me who came up with The Values. It was more MC Strait, my partner in crime. We met when we started university and set out on all of this together, me practicing at the decks and him having a go at the mic. After hours of practice we would smoke, talk, listen to music together and reflect. That was one way I knew me and Strait were different to the others; we would always find the time to press pause and make sure whatever we were doing was right, and coming up with the Values helped us with that.

Not only did Strait shine as soon as we started to play in front of crowds, but he came to embody the Values, which only strengthened my faith in them. Every time Strait picked up the mic he would somehow grasp the vibe, which in his view was different each night. He would close his eyes, immerse himself in my beats, let his small frame sway wherever he was being taken, and only when he truly understood the room did he start. It was electric, watching someone be so fresh and talented, following nothing but his gut instinct. I worked hard at everything to improve; my mixing and cueing, controlling sounds with EQs, the obsession with building up my collection. But Strait’s approach, as someone who never learnt how to use decks, taught me the most important lesson of all.

‘You know that Kipling poem?’ he’d once asked me. ‘Well, he missed a line: ‘’If you can judge a dance floor and feed it, yours is the crowd, and every pair of tits in it, and which is more, you’ll be a turntable master, my son!’’ ’

‘Okay…’ said the journalist, rounding up her scribbling to my answer, still appearing uncertain. She glanced at a separate pile of notes to her left. ‘Well, from what I can see, you’ve just started as a resident DJ at the Wednesday Motown night at the HiFi Club, ‘Soul Survival’ is it? Tell me about that.’

I pictured Trev’s cunning smile in my head. He didn’t tell me he had mentioned our agreement on Soul Survival to the magazine. He had twisted Naomi’s interest in me into something for his own gain. So much for his charity. I was thrown by this question and started mumbling whatever came into my mind; that it was a chance for people to enjoy the soul classics and discover that some of their favourite songs were covers from the Motown era. The journalist looked up at me suspiciously when I said it was always nice to go back to your roots. I could tell what she was thinking: ‘I could only put that in if he was black.’

*

No matter what price I had paid in my principles, my residency was always going to be more for Trev’s benefit than mine; that was how it worked with him. We both knew full well he could easily have taken to the decks himself; he already had the tunes and a lot more experience than I did. But among Soul Survival’s steady mix of students, shift workers and city girls, I was known as a DJ who had been around for years, spinning records for many of them during the Ready and Strait heyday, and Trev cashed in on what little value my name brought to his night.

And I had to cash in too. But my cause, my objective, was the more noble. I may have given up on one of the core Values, but I was here to embrace another. This was my opportunity to interact with crowds again. Only then could I regain momentum. In terms of technique, a Motown set involved little more than ‘drop mix’, which wasn’t mixing at all, I just needed to ensure there was little disruption between one track and the next. Sometimes I would cue potential tracks with the Pioneers to see if there was some harmony between the beats of the two songs, but not even this was necessary.

Too much of a set like this was dangerous as old bad habits like sloppy cueing could creep back in. But the Technics SL 1200 in front of me brought a nice sense of home from home. Trev’s record box was at my feet, and I was pulling out potential tracks to follow, sitting the record sleeves diagonally against the rim of the box so the corners of the sleeves stuck out. I placed the needle delicately, precisely onto the spinning disc of Martha Reeves crying the The Vandallas’ Heatwave into the dim, hollow room, savouring the prospect of the sound becoming more matted as the number of bodies increased, sliding that thick, slightly grazed rubber under my fingertips. This was the joy of vinyl.

As I looked out on the busying bar I saw Rob and Stacey now had their hands full. I noticed two girls wearing patterned dresses and brightly coloured tights by one of the pillars, sipping cocktails through a straw, rocking their heads and swinging their hips. They were in the mood, and so was I.

But as the tracks rolled on, I could feel the lurking memory of the magazine interview, and the curse of the interviewer. When all I should have been hearing was the music in the room or in the cans I could make out her sharp, prickly tone of aspiration, making me feel as though by being here I was cheating myself. Rachel may have figured this was hardly the sort of platform where I could show off my technique. If I was re-launching my career, would it not be better to do a hip-hop set somewhere like Norman’s, where I actually needed to mix? During our encounter, I may have been looking across at her as someone who didn’t quite get it, but she was probably thinking the same of me.

*

‘You’ve been doing this for a good few years now, Chris. Do you give any advice to the younger crop of local DJ’s?’

Oh yes, the new crop. Who had now found their way and no longer felt they needed me. I was different to them, and that was something I took pride in, but now I felt more alien than different. Whenever a new DJ met me there used to be lots of questions, and I was always happy to be the adviser, as Rachel’s question suggested. But more recently it was a knowing nod and not much else. As they were taking the gigs I was hoping for, maybe they didn’t feel I had anything else to offer them. Or maybe what intrigued and inspired them came from somewhere different altogether.

Their real adviser, their guru, was Jeff, who had never set foot in a DJ booth. I had recently been put in touch with him by some of the guys at Crash, my record store of choice. When I mentioned my dry patch in the house scene they said that as well as ensuring I was getting the most out of the scratch unit, Jeff had Ableton Live, the new sequencing programme where tracks could be chopped up and remixed, and it may be a good idea to spend