Babylon By Bus: DJ Derek’s Grand Finale

It’s hard to believe that DJ Derek is finally hanging up his skates. The dinosaur DJ that just wouldn’t quit, Derek is an institution in Britain, a national treasure that kept calm and carried on, despite becoming a pensioner. Yet, since every dog must inevitably have their day, he was bound to retreat from the wheels of steel, trading his stylus for a quieter life that will allow him to travel the country on long-distance buses, in search of the fine ales he’s not yet sampled, and the thrift stores that may house exceptional waistcoats, without the need to lug heavy gear around. And since he’s soon to be 73, we’ll let him off without too much protest.

He was born Derek Morris in 1941 and raised in Bishopston, then one of Bristol’s most impoverished areas. His father was an itinerant carpenter who often struggled to make ends meet. During the brutal winter of 1947, the family had to beg for books and other unwanted items from neighbours, acquired as fodder for the family fireplace, in an effort to keep the home warm.

Music has always been the main motivating factor in his life. Like many Britons of his generation, his initial involvement came through skiffle. While still at school, in 1956, Derek joined a group called the Vampires as the washboard player, but switched to the drums when they became a rock band, initially constructing his from the fabric of a parachute that had landed on his house during the War, which his mother stretched over a cheese box to form a makeshift instrument.

In 1959, following the demise of the Vampires, Derek joined local rock ‘n’ roll band Dale Rivers and the Ramrods, and performed with them in different parts of the country for the next four years, during which his interest in the music of black America deepened. His older brother Gerald had first turned him onto rhythm and blues through exposure to Radio Luxembourg (one of the first broadcasters to challenge the stolid content of the BBC), but the American Forces Network broadcasts were even more intense, with the sounds of Fats Domino, Nellie Lutcher and Aretha Franklin drawing him in heavily.

The Ramrods never managed to hit the big time (despite nearly backing pop duo David and Jonathan, who later enjoyed considerable fame), and since Derek was doing well in his day job as an accountant at Fry’s chocolates, he eventually settled into the work full-time, relegating him to the role of listener where music was concerned. Nevertheless, as the huge influx of Caribbean migration brought a sizeable Jamaican community to Bristol, Derek’s love of black music saw him cultivating an interest in the emergent ska, rock steady and early reggae scenes, as well as the soul (and later, the funk) that was evolving in the USA.

The first Jamaican record he bought was Derrick Morgan’s “Blazing Fire,” a pre-ska hit that was released by Island Records in 1963; many others soon followed. The place to hear these kinds of sounds was St Paul’s, the centre of the black community in Bristol, and from the mid-’60s, Derek became a regular fixture at the blues dances and shebeens held there, as well as at nightclubs like the Bamboo, opened in 1966 as the first club catering to Bristol’s Caribbean community. Soon, Desmond Dekker and the Aces, Toots and the Maytals and Justin Hinds and the Dominos became a big part of the soundtrack to his life, and Derek fostered a mutual affinity with the people of St Paul’s through the music, the distinctions of social class proving a stronger uniting force than the differences of race that might have formed a barrier.

Things took an unexpected turn in 1977, after Derek quit his job at Fry’s, following a period of domestic upheaval. Then, a Jamaican music promoter, based in Birmingham, asked Derek to balance his books. Derek had terrible trouble understanding the patois spoken by the man and his business partners. Thus, the promoter arranged for Derek to take up residency at a Jamaican barbershop in Bristol’s Grosvenor Road, which enabled him to become a fluent patios speaker. Spoken patois would later become one of the peculiar trademarks that helped make Derek a uniquely appealing DJ, along with a love of slightly filthy banter, and a down-home manner that instantly puts punters at ease. The notion of a white Englishman trying to sound like a “yardie” might sound distasteful, unless you’ve seen him in action, in which case you’ll know that he’s got nothing to prove, in terms of “authenticity”; it is obvious that the man is thoroughly Bristolian, and that the years spent in the company of Jamaicans has seen the lingwa become a part of him.

In 1978, when a Jamaican friend took over a pub called the Star and Garter, he asked Derek to play there, and the reaction was instantaneous: the public loved the “sweet memory sounds” of the ska and rhythm and blues he was playing, which took them right back to their days in Jamaica. However, when black out-of-towners came to Bristol on holiday coach trips, some baulked at the idea of a white DJ playing black music – especially Jamaican music – which was a real novelty at the time. As a result, Derek installed shutters around the DJ booth, which he would not open until the dancefloor was fully jumping, and the audience had already voiced their approval of his selection. The shrewd move paid off, and he was soon accepted by audiences of all ethnicities, nationwide.

Derek’s skills on the decks, and his unusual microphone chatter, had a tremendous influence on Massive Attack during their Wild Bunch days. He’s since played with some of his musical heroes as well, including Toots and the Maytals and Prince Buster, and was even given kudos by grime star Dizzee Rascal, who cast Derek in a cameo for the “Dirtee Disco” video, playing himself in a geriatric dancehall.

Whether playing to an intimate crowd in a local pub, or a festival main stage in front of 50,000, a DJ Derek set was always guaranteed to be a good time. With a reported 32,000 songs in his collection, it’s no wonder that he always had a few tricks up his sleeve to win over a tough crowd. Derek employed a broadly appealing blend of ska, reggae, soul and rhythm and blues, rather than tailoring his sets to anoraks, or concentrating on niche themes. And although much of what he played was recorded in the 1960s and ’70s, he never restricted himself to the past, being just as likely to play an upfront creation by Macka B or Hollie Cook as Eddie Lovett or Chris Kenner.

The final furlong, which took place on New Year’s Eve in London at the Notting Hill Arts Club, was no exception. Resplendent in a magenta suit jacket, which he explained was made for him in 1960 during his days in the Ramrods, Derrick began his set with a typical non sequitur, hitting us with Marcia Griffiths’ digital dancehall cut “Trench Town Rock,” rather than Marley’s original, and following it up with the vintage sound of “Feel Like Jumping,” her rock steady landmark for Studio One. Then back to electro mode, for her cut of Labbi Siffre’s “(Something Inside) So Strong” (which fans may recall from its inclusion on Derek’s Sweet Memory Sounds compilation CD).

Then came a tribute to Nelson Mandela, with an odd “Duppy Conqueror” re-cut saluting the man, followed by Eddy Grant’s “Gimme Hope Joanna,” and a digital remix of Third World’s “Now That We Found Love.” Since most of the crowd in this basement dive were young twenty-somethings out for a good boogie (except for the smattering of older folks at the bar, many of whom had Caribbean heritage), Toots’ “54-46” and Jimmy Cliff’s take of “I Can See Clearly Now” kept things light and bouncy, as did Inner Circle’s “Sweat,” and Apache Indian’s “Boom Shack-A-Lak”; an extended medley of soca hits was an excuse to form a conga line, which snaked its way around the venue with Derek in the middle of it. But after the midnight chime had come and gone, our man lit up the place with Max Romeo’s “Chase the Devil,” and a rousing live version of Bob Marley’s “Jamming,” which kept everybody well sweet.

If Derek’s mission to travel Babylon by bus leaves something of a gap, fear not. The good news is that Don Letts is currently working on a documentary film about the man, making sure his sweet memory sounds, and the unusual story behind his presentation of them, are preserved for posterity.