Jah Wobble & The Invaders Of The Heart

Full Moon Over The Shopping Mall
Sleeve notes by Clive Bell 25.4.99

Alas! tonight I drank a glass of red wine just before going on stage. It was a South African Shiraz, and quite tasty, though unfortunately opened to the air immediately before pouring. But when I arrived on stage and the music started, I recalled why I prefer to be stone cold sober when embarking on an hour and a half of high volume and freshly improvised trance dub. Nothing can be allowed to dilute your concentration, to jog your focus, to sap your strength as you draw back the mighty bow of music and peer into the murky venue where your target awaits. That target is not the audience, but the communal state of enlightenment that listeners and musicians may reach together at any moment, maybe between the drawing of two breaths.

The Master Wobble asks us whether we consider our lovers while we play. He takes the guise of the evil one to test us, to see if our focus on the task is perfect, or if we waver, if we toy with his art rather than dedicate our lives to it. The Master Wobble sets an example of perfect creative focus and freedom, and laughs at his followers: his laugh says, see, it’s easy you tossers, and we bite our lips and redouble our concentration. The Master’s bright blue suit symbolises the infinite heavens, and his taped-up fingers remind us of the damage done to vulnerable humans who dare to attempt this task, to compete with the Gods at play. So what do I think about while I play? Sometimes I marvel at my weakness, sometimes at my strength. Weak as I am, I draw inspiration from considering the Holy Ones who have trod this path before. I try to penetrate the web of harmonics woven by the Master Musicians of Joujouka. I gaze into the spaces opened up by Miles Davis in his Silent Way period. I bounce on the castles of rhythm built by King Tubby and Lee Perry. On stage we improvise: the Master Wobble has thrown away our A To Z’s so that we may be more alert, and more surprised when we emerge at Hanger Lane and we could have sworn we were in Tottenham Hale. Every decision must be perfect: shall I play the stereo goathorns now, or the Thai free reed flute, or the little double reed pipe with the map of Crete painted on its side? How much space to leave, how much to occupy, and every choice must serve the greater purpose, the mighty roar of the present moment that surrounds and deafens me.

Tonight, before we went on stage, I presented a pair of underpants in a plain envelope to my friend and fellow disciple Jean-Pierre Rasle. On one level this was a simple act of returning something lost, something left in my bathroom after the last concert. And at first Jean-Pierre failed to realise they were his own underpants. But we all marvelled at the cleanness and whiteness before us (Jean-Pierre hadn’t worn them), and we beheld a symbol of the purity that each of us must constantly maintain in order to reach our goal together. The Master Wobble uttered a demonic chuckle and we set off toward the stage.

Clive Bell