FABIAN PEAKE |
Writing |
The Three D.J.s A father lived in the northern part of a great city. He had three small boys. One day an old woman living in the adjacent street, cast a spell and turned them into young men. Their father sought to influence their taste in music, but to no avail. He was a follower Rolomeelo, the music of the forest people of median Borneo . He would listen to nothing else. Naturally, his three sons preferred music of a more urban and contemporary style. But between them they could not agree on anything about music. The eldest son was passionate about Tackati-tip music. The second son loved Urban and Eastern music; the third championing Maste-on-the-Paste as the only truly authentic music for modern times. The family house was riven with argument about music and how to play it. Also, of course, where to play it. The father challenged the three young men to a music duel. "Name your time and place!" he roared, shaking the very foundations of their council dwelling. "Collie's front room!" retorted the eldest son; "The South Coast, where the dirt track meets the cliff top!" shouted the second son; "Aunt Sally's farmyard", suggested the youngest son in a reasonable voice of middling volume. "None of those!" was the decision of the irate father. "We will meet at 2a.m. tomorrow on the village green at Tester-cum-le-Grant. His sons groaned but knew it was useless to object. So they spent the next several hours organising their records and equipment for transport to Tester-cum-le-Grant. They had a 1947 Standard shooting brake in which to store the decks, amplifiers and gear necessary for sound. With their father's 78rpm.s and his wind-up gramophone they set off on the five hour journey to the village. None of the family knew where it was but there had been talk that their mother's uncle's aunt's daughter's cousin had once made a daisy chain there. Fantastic sounds were heard on that village green, and contrary to expectations, the local people greeted the family enthusiastically. Dancing and mad partying was enacted all night and even the policeman threw off his doublet and walked round the music area on his hands. The only thing to spoil the night was the insistence of the father to play his music longer than anyone else, but that irritant was relieved when it was found that there was a fan club in the village specialising in Rolomeelo music. So nobody really minded. In the end there were no winners because when the night had cast off its starlit cloak and the people had been asked to vote, the extraordinary result was 79 for each of the four D.J.s. They all got back into the Standard shooting brake and returned to the city, having realised how petty they had always been about their music. They all said, "I'll be nice about your music if you will be nice about mine".
January 21 st. 2004.
© Fabian Peake
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