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DKatz’s introduction to the world of Lee “Scratch” Perry was a surprise. The Jamaican producer lived in London for a few years, and Katz, a Jewish reggae historian who fell in love with the music as a teenager in San Francisco, moved to the UK capital in 1987 and wanted to interview the famous escapist artist.
Katz found him at a recording studio in Rotherhithe, across the river in south London. Perry welcomed him before insisting that he give him “13 stones from your country” without further explanation. When Katz told him that he couldn’t just go back to the west coast, Perry told him to “go to the Thames and get me 13 stones!”.
When he came back, Perry counted the rocks and then went to watch TV. Katz said: “He unzipped the machine, put the stones in, rolled it up and went back to work. Then he spent several hours with Perry, which included trying to summon an alsatian dog.”
All of this seemed like a challenge to Katz – who would later work with Perry on his record – and the start of a pioneer in creating a well-known, mysterious and unique way of making music.
Although Perry’s methods were surprising, they had impressive results. Before moving to London, he helped Bob Marley and the Wailers develop their sound on Soul Rebel and Soul Revolution (before the brutal violence). He produced Super Ape, one of the most popular records of all time, and through his Black Ark studio he achieved nearly a decade of peerless roots reggae.
His productions, which featured samples of baby cries, rib-crushing sub-bass and an often overlooked love of good music, attracted artists from around Jamaica who sought his advice. The Beastie Boys sought him out, as did the Clash and Keith Richards, while John Lydon is said to have tracked him down to the Black Ark to remaster some of the Sex Pistols’ previous records, although Lydon’s representatives told me the story is apocryphal.
Five years after his deathas fans try to remove the lies from the legend, a much-needed re-examination of reggae’s eccentric is taking place. Katz’s new book, Dub Revolution, explores the genre through artists such as Perry, and is part of a broader trend. This year has seen an increase in the number of high-profile cases, including the Congolese spiritual, the Ark of the Covenant. Another book – home artist Lee “Scratch” Perry: Black Ark – reveals the secrets of Perry’s famous studio; and there is his “last” album, a collaboration with a German electronic outfit Mouse on Mars it was written two years before his death.
Perhaps one of the reasons that has made the job so difficult is the desire to catch Perry, an artist who is considered by many in Europe to be a reggae player. Towards the end of his life he often wore fluorescent clothes, had red hair and a beard, spoke in idioms, and called himself “crazy”. The lack of good governance over the past decade has not helped.
There was also his tendency to turn interviews into farce. Krishnan Guru-Murthy tried to interview him in 2009 try itbecause he might have been talking to a a cloud of smoke. Perry offered his answers in lyrical terms while sticking out his tongue, saying things like: “I kill the devil’s brain, so the devil won’t rule.” Jools Holland once asked Perry why he put a grill on top of a Jamaican hurricane wall. “It means I’m a toaster,” He repliedon the ground. (Obviously he was talking about “flashing the tires”, or emceeing, but he seemed to be enjoying himself which meant he believed it was a small electronic device.)
Adrian Sherwood, a longtime colleague and friend, says Perry was well pleased. The two sat next to each other during a screening of Volker Schaner’s 2015 documentary, which followed Perry’s career over 15 years. Sherwood, who believes Perry, “always liked bad things,” said: “He poked me in the ribs and laughed.”
Katz tells me that if you want to understand Perry, you have to go back to Jamaica. Born in 1936, Rainford Hugh Perry grew up in Kendal in the northwest parish of Hanover. His father was a professional dancer and craftsman, while his mother practiced thisa form of West African spiritual healing and “magic” that was outlawed by British colonialists in the 16th century and is they are still illegal today (Perry’s first hit with Marley, Duppy Conqueror, was a mockery of this performance).
Katz’s “founding stone” on the Thames came from Perry’s faith in oah, which he thought was a guide for the rest of his life. After working as a quarryman as a boy, he said that the sound of the stones brought him to Kingston (“I’m going to King Stone”) where he worked at Studio One. Coxsone Dodd such as A&R and handyman. He found it the Maytalshe worked with a young Delroy Wilson and had his favorites, such as Chicken Scratch, which gave him his nickname.
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But it was in his studio, Black Arkwhere the legend of Perry grew. When it was completed in 1973 in the grounds of his home in Kingston’s Washington Gardens, it boasted an informal setting and was joined by an annexe and recording studio. The original mixing desk was bought for £35 in London, the drums were said to have belonged to Ringo Starr, while the music was collected on a cheap Teac 3340. What they lacked in modern equipment they made up for in the show and tradition: they blew weed smoke into the desk; he poured whiskey and urine on other instruments; I cried out the inscriptions in the garden. Compared to other Jamaican studios, Perry’s lacked power but his talent did not mean anything that came out of his production house was inferior.
Artist Edward George, who has taken the reggae world by storm with the Strangeness of Dub radio show, says that Perry’s artistry is only part of his greatness – and Black Ark’s. It was part public space, part spiritual sanctuary. “The Ark’s idea was that it would be something that black people, especially Jamaicans, could be saved and saved through music,” says George.
Rastafarians were always welcome at Likasa and the politics of black empowerment permeated his output. “On the one hand, it was an industrial building, but it also had this kind of culture and politics,” says George.
The process of opening the doors to the Black Ark led to chaos, open to persecution by hangers-on and grifters posing as devout Rastas. Perry first closed the space to outsiders in 1978. Then there was an incomplete renovation – which led him to throw some faulty equipment into the septic tank. In 1982, after starting a fire to “clean up” the area, they burned down the control room. Perry insisted he did it on purpose; relatives who were there said it was an accident. Either way, the event tragically ended one of the world’s most important recording studios.
Despite previous records made at Black Ark such as Super Ape and Heart of the Congos, some Scratchheads swear that his old time as a pay gun moving between studios was the best. My favorite Perry is him as the producer of Black Ark, or “Black Emperor” as he was recently coined, sprinkling his talent on other people’s music. Listen to Junior Delgado’s Sons of Slave, a stormy song, or his ode to Rasta, Don’t Blame Me and the Congos, then follow it up with Leo Graham’s Doctor Demand, where a simple keyboard line and wah-wah on the guitar give a minimal impression. They are sonic opposites, but both are filled with Perry’s magic, his aural obeah.
Sherwood argues that Perry’s behavior often obscures his talent. “What pissed me off in later years was that people thought of him as a joke,” says Sherwood. People saw an eagle, when they should have seen someone who made music again. From reimagining the studio as a tool, pushing dub reggae to its sonic limits or sampling, few producers have come close to what Perry has done.
Katz added: “When you listen to the music, what he was able to do is amazing. “He had a very wrong career and a strange way of life. But sports news? It’s confusing: the artist is the musician.”
When Mouse on Mars played their concert at the Barbican Centre’s Pit theater earlier this month, there was one seat facing away from the band. Above it was a small shrine to Perry, made up of “We Love Bob Marley” mugs, an empty bottle of Wray & Nephew rum, apples and a candle. The band’s vocalist, Louis Chude-Sokei, visited Black Ark’s studio to record the album, which features roots music, drums and electronic instruments.
As Chude-Sokei walked around the audience, the singing of Jamaican birds could be heard as he repeated the words: “This is the proof.” It felt like a perfect fit for Lee “Scratch” Perry: the founder of reggae, the evil producer, the legendary Black Emperor.
Black Ark: Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry it’s out now (Patrick Frey Edition); Dub Revolution by David Katz was published on 2 July (White Rabbit); Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry and Mouse on the Mars album Location, No Problem is out now on Domino Recordings.
