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GEORGE WONG
THE ALL SAINTS (PART II) FUNKENSTEIN AND THE SYNDICATE
THE ALL SAINTS (PART II) FUNKENSTEIN AND THE SYNDICATE
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"You ever kill anyone?"
"No"
"You know when people say, they hate someone so much, they wish they were dead?"
"Yeah?"
"They don't mean it. You know when they do?
"No?"
"When they pull the trigger."
Jimmy sat on a bench seat in Franks recounting the conversation. Franks was a burger hut off Marble Arch. The cafeteria was frenetic. Workers in their lunch break, squeezing every second; speed snoozing, cramming an hour's worth into 30 minutes.
"That Dean's a bit scary?" said Jimmy.
"He's not ya know," 'Happiness is a Warm Gun' played through the store speakers. "Listen, hear that? fucking cuckoo. Lennon wrote that, you wouldn't say he's mad would ya?" said Simon.
"Not you too? Dean is nuts,"
"That's the curse of genius,"
"Genius? Are you chums now, is that it?"
"I like the shit he says and you know the best part," He shook his head. "He plays drums."
Jimmy and Pra, were in Kael's band Funkenstein. Without a drummer they were going nowhere fast. Their old drummer left for a rival band, De-Funkt because unlike Funkenstein, De-Funkt had gigs. Drummers were hard to come by, all the best ones were taken as to play you either needed a deaf neighbourhood or have cash to rehearse. Simon volunteered to manage, keen to get them gigging and turn a profit.
"He's a session drummer,"
"He wouldn't be interested in us?"
"Ah, I thought he was nuts?"
"Yeah, alright you got me. So what do we do now?"
"Leave it up to me."
Dean, a dark solitary figure, worked at Franks to top up his pay. Session work was light on the ground, not much call for funk drummers in Peckham. Electro and New Wave Romantics had taken over. Most bands packed an 808 or if you had the money the ubiquitous Linn.
"He's a purist, hates playing on shit for money,"
"A purist working at Franks, give me a break."
"I'm serious. He loves JB, Funkadelic, Monk,"
"Monk, shit. Kael will love that,"
Simon hired a room at a youth club off Tottenham lane. The building was an old crumbling prefab, marked for demolition. The rehearsal space tatty, cluttered with archive boxes, twitchy amps and a drum kit.
"Can he play, I mean what do u know about him? " asked Kael.
"Si says he's good. No worries if he's shit I'll swing the axe; heaven knows he's not here for his personality."
"No"
"You know when people say, they hate someone so much, they wish they were dead?"
"Yeah?"
"They don't mean it. You know when they do?
"No?"
"When they pull the trigger."
Jimmy sat on a bench seat in Franks recounting the conversation. Franks was a burger hut off Marble Arch. The cafeteria was frenetic. Workers in their lunch break, squeezing every second; speed snoozing, cramming an hour's worth into 30 minutes.
"That Dean's a bit scary?" said Jimmy.
"He's not ya know," 'Happiness is a Warm Gun' played through the store speakers. "Listen, hear that? fucking cuckoo. Lennon wrote that, you wouldn't say he's mad would ya?" said Simon.
"Not you too? Dean is nuts,"
"That's the curse of genius,"
"Genius? Are you chums now, is that it?"
"I like the shit he says and you know the best part," He shook his head. "He plays drums."
Jimmy and Pra, were in Kael's band Funkenstein. Without a drummer they were going nowhere fast. Their old drummer left for a rival band, De-Funkt because unlike Funkenstein, De-Funkt had gigs. Drummers were hard to come by, all the best ones were taken as to play you either needed a deaf neighbourhood or have cash to rehearse. Simon volunteered to manage, keen to get them gigging and turn a profit.
"He's a session drummer,"
"He wouldn't be interested in us?"
"Ah, I thought he was nuts?"
"Yeah, alright you got me. So what do we do now?"
"Leave it up to me."
Dean, a dark solitary figure, worked at Franks to top up his pay. Session work was light on the ground, not much call for funk drummers in Peckham. Electro and New Wave Romantics had taken over. Most bands packed an 808 or if you had the money the ubiquitous Linn.
"He's a purist, hates playing on shit for money,"
"A purist working at Franks, give me a break."
"I'm serious. He loves JB, Funkadelic, Monk,"
"Monk, shit. Kael will love that,"
Simon hired a room at a youth club off Tottenham lane. The building was an old crumbling prefab, marked for demolition. The rehearsal space tatty, cluttered with archive boxes, twitchy amps and a drum kit.
"Can he play, I mean what do u know about him? " asked Kael.
"Si says he's good. No worries if he's shit I'll swing the axe; heaven knows he's not here for his personality."
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