Sock Free Hideaway

SONGS THEY NEVER PLAY ON THE RADIO

16. LIBERATION: THE GOD-LIKE ANDREW WEATHERALL 

PART 1 

ANDREW WEATHERALL'S propensity towards self-destruction was evident by the early nineties.

It made him feel much more real than other, more one-dimensional characters in the dance-scene. What began in my bedroom, being completely blown away by his Hallelujah and Loaded remixes, gradually became something of a shared obsession. I think every record collection I've ever seen contains at least a dozen of his magically fearless records. 

I was also blessed that folk I felt some affiliation with invited him to DJ at so many varied events over the years. 

Folk that became his genuine friends and still feel his loss on a profoundly personal level, and events where folk always seemed to go the extra mile to attend. And then go the extra mile.   

He took some slack on social-media for not crediting LB Bad (when in fact he did) on his masterpiece Smokebelch II. It operates with a completely different momentum than its influence. One capable of both filling the Academy with its majestic soundscape and putting everyone in a trancelike state in the process. Or one capable of adding even more beauty and taking it to the Cafe del Mar with a wonderful Beatless mix. He always found ways of mixing records that could also accomplish as much and stir similar sensations. 

I'd been completely entranced by his sets in London film studios and smiled for days after his legendary Herbal Tea Party sets that have rightly gone down in folk-lore. Watching the Sabres live at Basics and watching him get raised aloft at an early Naked Under Leather were equally memorable. He could be playing hard Djax-Up-Beats records to a peak-time dancefloor before ending the night with Shirley Bassey when nobody else would dare.  

That he reinvented both himself and his sounds to inhabit smaller, more intimate spaces speaks volumes about his reticence, about his potential future as a superstar DJ. Which was there for the taking. Wilmot's Last Skank and The first Lone Swordsmen LP in its entirety best exemplify this seismic shift towards subtler sonics and are both timeless classics. 

PART 2

HEARING WEATHERALL DJ more recently has, at times, been a little underwhelming but never, ever boring. His musical path markedly diverged from my own on several occasions, and, although psychobilly is not my bag, his earnestness about it was never once in question, so I actually gave it a go. 

After my pal Bobby had travelled to Euston Station in his company, way back in 1993, and I fired loads of questions at him afterwards, I was shocked to hear that they barely discussed music. Much later, when he called trainers 'plastic hooves,' I marvelled at his observational throwaway wit. He could hold court with just about anybody, I guess. 

He always, on a subliminal level at least, encouraged me to think independently of others. I sometimes disagreed with what he said in interviews, but only because he said so much about so much. On a less subliminal level, I was caught red-handed, paraphrasing him to my mate Jeff at work. I wrongly assumed he only ever read Husker Du interviews, and that Weatherall was beyond his sphere of influence. More fool me. 

Nobody else shared so freely and so heartily with a younger generation. A generation who'd been programmed to absorb a bit of everything to become much more eclectic. A generation who've lost count of his always diverse and often obscure records that they scribbled down from his sets and lists. And that they still love to this day. 

Such was his influence, I even made attempts at being a rocker but was too constrained by convention to ever transcend my self-conscious state necessary to actually be one. Weatherall is among a select few who actually managed it. And with ease. 

Watching him DJ the Crow's Nest playing a truly eclectic set and smiling like a Cheshire cat in his Anthrax tee-shirt was as visually mind-blowing as any performance on a stage I've ever seen. 

Then the soul-boys claim him as one of their own and seeing him make mutant-funk out of everything he touches it isn't hard to see why. They're right too. Only a true pioneer could create such brilliant confusion.

I, like so many, many others, felt completely stunned two years ago today. I'd only seen him play an authentic dub-reggae set replete with air-horn at the Golden Lion a few months earlier, when he looked healthier than me on his day two. I then felt reassured that his memory will live on forever when almost everybody I've ever met through music felt compelled to post something about his colossal influence. Jockey Slut was even compelled to produce a wonderful commemorative book in his honour. 

That I'm still discovering fresh music connected to him is nothing new. It will no doubt go on for the rest of my life.