D Double E has lived and breathed Grime from day one. From the original Deja 92.3 tapers, down to the internet generation, and everyone who came before and during, D Double remains as highly revered to all as most of the scene's newer household names. Critical parts of his outstanding longevity lie deep within his gargantuan variety of trademark lyrics and that old-school flow, stemmed from years of Jungle and Drum 'n Bass, pre-grime, and his frightening ability to shut down any rave. Even more crucial you could say, is his willingness to switch it up on the productions he embraces, with his recent collaborations with Swindle and Riddim Commision sharp examples of how to be the torchbearer and not just one of the "old guard".




Dem Tings reaches out to the clubbers, with Swerve and Marco Del Horno's basslines hitting all the right notes, whereas Swindle's funk-infused rhythms create a mellow, Summery-haze. Not that either of these beats wouldn't survive alone, but it's D Double's contributions on tracks that are often the gateway to massive crowd reactions - that added vocal presence can be the difference between scurrying on to the next track or succumbing to hoards of reload demands.

Long live the king.

trees

Mumdance x Riko

Following up another excellent showing from Lewisham youngsters Vision Crew on Rinse this Saturday, Mumdance chimed in with a one-hour Hardcore and Jungle special, featuring the veteran MC Riko Dan on mic duties. The set is all kinds of nostalgia, with lots of great moments, including Riko getting excited on Rude Bwoy Monty's Warp 10, the faces/hand gestures I was pulling on my own to Original Ses (particularly the John Holt sample), and the great speech from Riko just after (49:48 to be precise). There are some great references and shouts in there as well, some you probably wouldn't have heard back in the day, like references to Pressure FM, and Eastman (leading Kool FM 'guvnor') who would have been a direct competitor against Rinse in the 90s, who didn't let Riko on the station for having "too many gun lyrics". Albeit only an hour long, this is a decent little set, and made me realise how much I still love old school, despite not being from that time. (sidenote: did anyone stay locked to the 'dark techno' set afterwards? Probably the first and last time I'll ever hear Faithless' Insomnia on the station, although we all know there's a far better mix.)

"If you don't know about this music, you should be ashamed of yourself"

I wish I had the same knowledge of the Hardcore/Jungle eras as I do Grime, even Acid to some extent. There's so much golden music from that period, but little means of identifying it, a lot of records I've accumulated from that branch of this massive tree of Dance music that we continue to grow have been guess work, with probably 90 percent of them being belters, thankfully. Buying compilations to pick out tunes from was one of the better methods of building any sort of collection, then I'd check the remixes, spam-buy like 3 or 4 records from the artist and end up with a good portion of quality tunes. Using Discogs to look-up artists and then listen to the embedded YouTube videos is cheating in my book - the feeling of flicking through crates is still a thrill to this day.

A photo posted by Frankie Mines (@frankos9191) on Aug 20, 2016 at 11:00am PDT

Dreamscape!

A photo posted by Frankie Mines (@frankos9191) on Jun 26, 2016 at 6:20am PDT

Some other bits played that I particularity like:





Talking of which, if you've listened to Jammz' Underdog Season download earlier in the year, then you'd remember him taking on Remarc's Jungle classic from above, and it's gun-fingers-galore when Mumdance drops it in the above set.

Looking for some of the classic ragga-jungle samples recently, Discogs pointed me in the direction of a 1994 soundclash in Bermuda between King Addies of Brooklyn, and legends from my manor, Saxon. I can't find the sample Remarc used specifically, but this is definitely worth a listen, if not only for the amazing dubs but also BabyFace's blistering commentary - click here for the Soundcloud. I'll hope my interest in sound clashing is reinvigorated long enough for me to check out the 1994 world cup which gets a (bitter) mention at the start of the clash, after Saxon took victory at Sanctuary, Milton Keynes - later this club became the home of Sidewinder: one of Grime's biggest raves.

Riko also shouts a couple of names that you should know if you're one of the #RunComeFollowFriday crew. For all the reading massive out there, both Uncle Dugs and Billy Bunter have books available for pre-order over on the Music Mondays website, Billy's entitled 'The Love Dove Generation' and Dugs' 'Rave Diaries and Tower Block Tales, both of which essential reading for anyone with an ounce of interest in those scenes - try and jump on the orders quick-time for Dugs' book as you get an 8GB memory stick with all of the #RCFF interviews on there, pretty much pivotal listening for everyone with interests similar to mine.

More old-school and vinyl themed posts due very soon.

1

I felt strange after my last post, one which described my personal drug use at a music event, especially after Fabric's damning but non-surprising closure. It wasn't because I felt guilty for taking drugs - what I do with my mightily hard-earned wages really is up to me, but there was an overwhelming sense of hypocrisy sweeping through me every time I tweeted a counter argument versus some armchair veteran, the ones bemoaning the availability of drugs in the club scene, all the while I'm pictured at every rave starry-eyed clutching a bottle of water. Whether or not we buy into the reasons given for the clubs closure, and anyone with half a brain cell left shouldn't, I felt my post on SW4 only helped perpetuate the notion that everyone and anyone at a dance-music-do is off their head, but further, I questioned where exactly I'm heading with my writing.

The truth is that I don't know. I've never known, and I'll probably never ever realise. When I was on a hot-streak years back, the biggest feedback I got was on my interviews - I liked to think they went against the grain of samey-samey bullshit questions, idiots wasting people's time with enquiries on how crews developed their names - OK Magazine rubbish from middle-class journalists, many of whom pretending to be anything but, being dressed up as journalistic sensations. Facebook memories promptly reminds me daily of some of my better bits, but often I look back and cringe, so I promise form now on to produce content that won't make me rage-exit my browser in six years time having read back, nor should it make you do similar whilst reading.

I think some sort of diarised (made up word? verb? to record in diary-style?) writing will work for now, helping to cover a lot of things I won't have the time to type extended posts for, even though they may deserve it. Negative reviews aren't worth the energy, interviews will be aplenty (albeit, having grown tired of the question and answer format, I'll probably opt for some opinion/quote mixture) and I'll cover the best of radio where appropriate.

The glaringly obvious thing to cover before any of that: the Mercury Awards. Thirteen years after Dizzee picked up the prestigious prize, Skepta did the unthinkable and followed suit, putting Grime on it's highest pedestal yet - higher than the Culture Clash win, higher than the Shut Up/Stormzy phenomenon, higher than the chart entry's, American endorsements, the legal wins - all of it. It was unthinkable for me simply because I didn't believe as an album that it was superior to Kano's Made In The Manor, but for wider audiences, on name-value alone, the surprise will lie in beating Bowie (god-like), Radiohead (dross-like) and The 1975 (pop-like). The question now: where does Grime go from here? I'm not going to attempt to answer a question of such proportions, but I'm convinced the answer will in some form come from the aforementioned Croydon boy.

Regular posting to resume shortly.

SW4: Heisenberg, Balloon Divs and John Digweed.

Omelette du Fromage mother fuckers! We all get to that stage after a boring few weeks where we need a massive blow-out, and Sunday's leg of SW4 looked to be my best bet. Saturday's lineup appeared far more suited to my usual tastes, but having seen a large majority of that lot at least twice in one capacity or another I opted for headliners the Chemical Brothers. With Carl Cox also on the bill, my attendance was guaranteed months previously, and so it was set - an Elephant & Castle pub for midday.

If you're not keen on reading about the use of drugs,  I'd advise you stop reading. Having picked up my bits and bobs for day, the most expensive of which a bag of five red/orange coloured pills shaped in the face of the lead nutter from Breaking Bad, I made my three-year old mistake of overtaking early on. Walloping one down and quickly dismissing it's quality, I bombed another half quick time and, before I knew it, I'm smack-bang in the middle of the crowd under the Amnesia tent, vibsing away to the sounds of god knows who, eagerly anticipating John Digweed's set.

I was warned long before my arrival at Clapham Common about the issue of noise pollution from the festival, and the dramatic effect that has on the main-stage sound system, but in the hazy moments underneath the lasers, with my head now feeling like one of those fuzzy LED jelly balls, I assured myself it would all be nonsense. After my fifth toilet visit in what felt like as many minutes, with only the last visit a successful one (a feat that prompted me to start dance-walking a la Bez-meets-Liam Gallagher) Digweed touched the decks, delivered a set of immense quality and I was honestly mesmerised - I've got loads of the CDs he's showcased his talents on, including the ones alongside Sasha, who I unfortunately missed on the day, but I still didn't expect a set like that.

A good halfway through the day's supplies, half of us ventured over to the main stage whilst another group popped over to Jamie Jones. Bobbing back and forward trying to stay in anyway possible conscious in order to see one of my true musical heroes, Mr Carl Cox himself, a large of group of clowns around us seemed to be focused one one thing and one thing only: balloons. I'd already spotted this particular group outside the tube station earlier, one of whom clearly visible in his white "dench" branded tank-top/shorts combo, an outfit so outrageous even Elton John would tell you to fuck off if you suggested it to him.

The TOWIE-reject looking blokes, with the straps of their manbangs appearing like seatbelts moulded into their chests via the blazing sun were treating these balloons as if they were the product of 43 years hard graft from a Columbian dingy-runner, or the favoured pastime of late drug-smuggler Howard Marks - let me tell you now, there's not much more annoying then walking around a field, barely knowing what universe you're in, having to dodge pathetic silver canisters plastered across the green like bullet shells on the Gaza strip. My issue isn't necessarily with balloons themselves. If that's your comfort level as far as anything past alcohol goes, that's your shout completely, but my word please stop going on like like you've just emulated the Happy Mondays brown-filled trip to the Caribbean or spent six hours spark out cold on a gondola through Amsterdam having sprinkled angel dust on your Corn Flakes!

Mini rant aside, it's time for God himself, Carl Cox. Simply put: too long, didn't write. It was awful. The sound-system prophecy proved to be all too true - why the fuck can I hear rows of people in front of me talking to each other? Why am I not on the verge of two collapsed lungs with the bass having destroyed my ribcage? DISASTER. Not even a decent sounding modern take on Lil Louis' French Kiss perked many people's moods, so I did what anyone else would do in that situation: go home.

As if.

I tried to shove as much as what goodies I had left down my throat with the aid of piss-warm water from what I think was an ice cream van, waiting for the legendary Chemical Brothers. The entire field went pitch-black, the fairground rides stopped and the muffled conversations eerily came to a halt. The lights slowly came back up, the time was now: "HEY BOYS. HEY GIRLS. SUPERSTAR DJ. HERE WE GO." Poor system aside, I was just overjoyed to hear that tune and was in such a state that my head just said go with it. By the time Galvanize was played toward the end of the set, me and a group of others were sitting on the floor like obedient yoga students, feeling every beat pulse through our bodies - a confused lad was heard shouting, "this is photosynthesis".

All in all, unless they guarantee a lineup that will see me plotted outside the common as eager as one of those human forms of STDs, or after-party flyer distributors as they're officially known, with a sound system that actually has a chance of tearing my ears off, I won't be rushing back to SW4. I was rushing home on a bus though, a different type of rushing, with my phone dead but my desire to play Pokemon GO far more alive, and so the lucky passengers of the N21 helped me catch an imaginary Butterfree. Twice. Poor fuckers.

Big up Heisenberg, John Digweed and the ice cream man!

FABRICLIVE 88

It's meaningless to review these sort of releases track-by-track as I feel compilations, or mixed ones anyway, are there to serve a different sort of purpose. Whilst it's without doubt the DJs selection that's most scrutinised, it's what the selector does with those tracks and how they present them that matters. Flava D's effort, number 88 in a line of mixed-genre and frankly mixed-quality releases is a shining light.

The best DJs utilise tracks in this release format by creating a theme, a scenario, some sort of state a listener will instantly connect with. Anyone who's been a keen raver over the last few years will instantly feel at home with this mix - even from the comfort of your own living room, there's a legitimate sense that you're actually somewhere much livelier, perhaps not even raving per se but just in the club, existing amongst the music.

Largely the mix is influenced by Flava's own productions, most of which are modern, garage-tinged efforts, the culmination of growing-up through the Grime era whilst being under the heavy influence of pirate radio 2-step, her time amongst labels such as Butterz undoubtedly spiriting her willingness to go further than the standard expectations. As a mix the joints are thrown in and out quickly, exciting the listener with build-ups and drops in the right places, switching between the silkier gloss of 'Closer' and the waving bassline of 'Bleeding' all the while encompassed by frantic bursts of energy such as Riddim Commision's D Double E collaboration 'Dem Tings Dere' and DJ Q's 'What I Like' remix.

In regards to my earlier comment on creating feelings, 'Conflict' is a great example of that. If you could capture the sound that accompanies the sometimes distant moments you have during the night, that sort of subconscious stop in time where you briefly acknowledge your surroundings and all there is in the background is that one pulsating rhythm, a continuous thump from the sound system, 'Conflict' is that. I don't think tantalising would be too extreme a term to use - Flava's mixing style married with the right beats is a tease - a rave that jitters along steadily but gradually sparks into action, inducing audible ecstasy with bangers like 'Happy' and 'To My Heart' whilst appealing to the serious gun-finger crowd with Distro's 'Off The Chain' and Terror Danjah's 'Juicy Patty/Dollar Sign' combo.

Purchase via this link.

the songs that saved my life

22nd January, 2016. There I was, sitting in a doctor's surgery, having arrived alongside my Mother minutes before closing time. She'd managed to grab an appointment at the last second, after explaining in no uncertain terms over the phone to the stereo-typically snobby receptionist the desperate terms on which her request was built upon. Those terms, in short, were as followed: her Son had been missing for 24 hours, had not made contact with his large circle of friends or family in typical fashion and he's not been to work, according to his boss, since before Christmas. Having arrived home safe, the doctor agreed to see me immediately.

Roughly half an hour later, I'd left the surgery with a doctor's note.

"Anxiety & Depression" was the official medical diagnosis. I'd tried to kill myself twice. Once standing on the edge of a balcony 14 floors in the air off of the Old Kent Road and another time slitting my wrists. I'd been suffering with panic attacks for at least six months. There were no obvious triggers for them - at times they would appear whilst sitting in the pub with the friends I'd practically call family - the most embarrassing one occurring whilst sitting there amongst family watching Titanic of all things. After my diagnosis and my consequential time off of work, there was one thing and one thing only that got me out of bed in the morning. It wasn't my medication. It wasn't the "everything's going to be ok eventually" mentality - it was music.

So in a way which you as readers and listeners may find slightly more depressing, I've decided to compile some of the tunes that I genuinely believe saved (and changed) my life on to a YouTube playlist. I'll update it as and when I decide to write an accompanying post - I'm not in the writing game for money, plaudits, friends or anything other than a sense of self-satisfaction to be honest. When lending words to proper outlets my sole aim is to create something not educational, but informative at the very least, whilst interjecting occasionally with the odd opinion where appropriate, trying my utmost best to better whatever I'd written last time around. Therefore I ask you forgive the below words, they appear like random paragraphs of rambling, but honestly they mean something.

I'll start proceedings with The Kinks and a live version of 'I'm Not Like Everybody Else' from their 1994 album 'To The Bone'. Most famously this song was featured in The Sopranos (non-coincidentally my favourite ever television program) over the end credits of 'Cold Cuts', an episode that primarily focuses on Tony Soprano's inside depression being an inversion of rage and anger that he holds for the outside world for reasons unknown - a theme that I've discussed with my own therapist on numerous occasions.

Lyrically the song plays with the idea of non-conformation but for me, music is open to interpretation on so many levels: there's an undertone to one verse that follows the sort of narrative in my head when explaining mental health to someone who didn't know that at one point, mine was non-existent.

But darling, you know that I love you true
Do anything that you want me to
Confess all my sins like you want me to
There's one thing I will say to you
I'm not like everybody else...

That final line coupled with the brief but eternally satisfying solo in the middle made sure this song found a place deep within me. Regardless of your personal philosophy on life, it cannot be argued that somewhere deep down in all of us is a need to be wanted. To some extent, some individuals more so than others, we actively seek conformity in our everyday lives - social media platforms like Twitter and Instagram's primary functions are to get us interacting via heart-shaped approval systems, but for someone with anxiety, the lack of hearts is a bullet to the brain. This song is the non-conformity anthem of sorts: a fuck you to those who seek so desperately to not get in where they fit in but push in where they want to fit in.



If you're worried about your own mental health, I urge you to desperately seek help. Please call The Samaritans FOR FREE on 116 123 or visit their website here or please just talk to somebody. Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.