Zaki Moosa travels upon the yellow brick road to Newcastle to see all-round madman Lee “Scratch” Perry himself…

the upsetter | non-blairite reggae | they’re coming to take me away…

The upsetter
Lee “Scratch” Perry is to reggae what The Beatles are to rock, although the analogy might be more appropriate had Paul McCartney taken to playing Widow Twankey in pantomimes. At various times he has spent a year walking around backwards, renamed himself the distinctly unlikely “Pipecock Jackxon” and accused Chris Blackwell of “psychic vampirism”. At the moment, we are expected to believe that he is an alien from Mars (here to “heal” all those who like his gigs and “kill” those who don’t) and also that he is white. In a quiet moment, he also managed to find the time to become a leading figure in the development of dub and built his own studio, the Black Ark, in which he could experiment with dub to his heart’s content, and produce songs for the great reggae artists, most famously his “house band”, The Wailers. In this way he built his reputation as the most influential figure in reggae, although one day in the seventies he allegedly (the story changes regularly) got bored of Black Ark, left a burning match in the corner and moved to Switzerland – of all places. It was later rebuilt with a pond where the drums used to be.

Non-Blairite reggae
Newcastle on a chilly autumnal evening resembles Jamaica about as much as Tony Blair resembles a Labour politician, and so it was a relief to enter the Digital club on Times Square, which is not yet reaching the heights of its New York counterpart. To describe Mad Professor as the support act would frankly deserve a slap, and undermine the impact his inventive and original mixing has had on dub since the 1980s. With the added advantage of his not being inclined to prance around the stage shouting “I am gay! I am gay!”, his mixing included elements of dancehall and even bhangra, and set the tone for a lively evening. That he could uncover dancing abilities in those of us who spend their lives studiously avoiding doing exactly that – by whom I mean of course myself – was a testament to his vitality, still strong after many years. Unfortunately, that there was room for us to dance was a disappointing sign, and even when Perry was on stage there was no feeling of claustrophobia. Coldplay have already sold out for December: this gig wasn’t even sold out on the evening, and the crowd was generally exactly as you would imagine – students and the odd older reggae fan, the air thick with the smell of green.

They’re coming to take me away…
Before any sense of gloom could take over, Mars attacked and Perry, holding a church candle, was heralded on stage by a woman who may have been his wife. Apparently wearing a magpie’s nest on his head, and holding a microphone decorated with more bling than your average Elizabeth Duke’s, he launched into a wide variety of pieces (all linked by a common theme: I am called Lee “Scratch” Perry) interspersed with babblings about why the police should crush the thief, and something about black people being superior because only devils have white shadows. Has somebody perhaps smoked a bit too much cannabis? Hidden among the preaching was, luckily, some fine music, a great mixture of his distinctive voice and his excellent band, whose playing resonated around the club. After an initial disappearance, the encore was played with Perry now wearing a wizard’s hat. It has been said in the past that his eccentricity can get tiring. If that was once the case it is no longer, and after too short a time a supernaturally thick fog descended on the city, and his UFO whisked Lee Perry away.