Last spring, United Reggae had the privilege of speaking with Chris Lane, alongside John McGillivray, his co-founder of Fashion Records and Dub Vendor. At that time, the conversation centered on Chris’s roles as a producer, musician, and engineer. However, true aficionados of reggae music are well aware of Chris Lane’s earlier and equally significant contribution: he was among the first to seriously write about Jamaican music within the mainstream UK music press during the 1970s.
Many contemporary reggae journalists can relate to Chris’s experience of writing part-time, juggling it with various day jobs. Despite this, his articles for prominent publications such as “Blues & Soul,” “Black Music,” “Melody Maker,” “New Musical Express,” “Let It Rock,” and “Music Week” are highly sought after. Though physically archived in places like the British Library, they are virtually revered and shared across internet forums. Last summer, Angus Taylor, from United Reggae, visited this foundational figure of reggae journalism for an engaging two-hour discussion, listening to records and delving into Chris’s insightful perspectives. Opinionated yet humble, Chris had a wealth of stories and thoughts to share. Part one of this insightful conversation is presented below.
You were originally from Islington, but your life involved moving around London quite a bit, didn’t it?
Yes, I was born in Angel. My father was a police officer, and back then, they were provided with accommodation. We initially lived in a house on Barnsbury Street, then moved to Marylebone, to Macready House flats, which, ironically, much like my birthplace, the Royal Free Hospital on Liverpool Road, are now luxury apartments (laughs). When I was around 16 or 17, we relocated to Belgravia, to another block of police flats, which has also been demolished to make way for – you guessed it – luxury flats. It’s a recurring theme in my life: everywhere I’ve lived seems to become luxury flats after I move out. After leaving my parents’ home, I resided in Battersea for a couple of years, then in Aragon Tower on the Pepys Estate, which is now, predictably, luxury flats!
You received a private school education at Latymer Upper School in Hammersmith. What were your strengths in school?
Mostly disrupting classes and annoying people! I wasn’t particularly academic, actually, not at all. I enjoyed English, but I wasn’t exceptionally good at it. Maths wasn’t my forte either. I was probably slightly below average in most subjects. I wasn’t a stellar student, and I was aware even then that I was wasting an opportunity at a good school due to my rebellious nature. I only attended Latymer because I received a scholarship; my parents could never have afforded the tuition fees.
My parents envisioned a middle-class office career and university for me.
What were your parents’ aspirations for you at that time?
(laughs) Well, like many parents then, they hoped I’d get a respectable middle-class office job and go to university. However, university was financially out of reach for us, and academically, I wasn’t prepared. That was a problem at Latymer. Once they realized you weren’t university bound, you became less of a priority. They’d suggest, “If you’re not going to university, visit the careers office.” In the careers office, the advisor would just say, “Oh, banking!” and hand you an application form, without any real conversation about your interests. Ironically, until I was about 14 or 15, I dreamed of being a pilot in the Royal Air Force (laughs). That was from reading comics as a kid. I wanted to be like Paddy Payne, a comic book pilot hero.
You are not the first person in the reggae industry I’ve interviewed who initially aspired to be a pilot. Little Roy mentioned wanting to be a pilot, not a singer.
Really? Well, he probably got as far with it as I did, which wasn’t far at all. The reality was, I realized I wasn’t academic enough and likely wouldn’t fit into the officer role in the RAF. I doubt I would have thrived at Cranwell, the RAF College.
When did you first pick up a guitar?
I really wanted a guitar for Christmas when I was about ten, I think. I received a guitar for Christmas, and to their credit, my parents insisted that if I was going to have a guitar, I needed to learn to play it properly. So, they enrolled me in lessons at a music shop in Angel. My main memory of the teacher is that he was a chain-smoker, constantly lighting up. He taught me the basics using Mel Bay guitar tutor books. I learned fundamental music reading, which I’m still terrible at. I can decipher it very slowly, but I still get confused easily. I played guitar for a couple of years, then stopped when I started secondary school.
My parents supported my guitar lessons to learn properly.
Why did you stop playing?
Because reggae began gaining popularity when I was around 13, and my friends and I became fans. Lead guitar isn’t a prominent feature in reggae, especially back then, so I didn’t have guitar heroes to emulate, unlike the more middle-class kids at school who idolized Jimmy Page, saying things like, “Oh, he was a session musician at 14.” They could play tunes like “Angie,” “Cocaine Blues,” and “Albatross” by Fleetwood Mac, which didn’t really interest me. I lacked the motivation to continue playing guitar, so I simply stopped. It’s funny now, listening to some of those records I loved then, and I think, “That’s a really nice guitar part – I wonder if that’s Ranny Bop playing?” or “That’s a great Ranglin record from 1970,” or “What he’s doing there is really skillful.” But as a kid, you don’t listen analytically; you absorb the whole sound; you’re not dissecting it.
What was the first reggae song you remember hearing?
I always enjoyed pop music. I loved The Monkees, and I don’t care who knows it. Loved The Beatles, The Kinks, Small Faces, and Motown. So, I’d heard records like “My Boy Lollipop,” the Johnny Nash hits like “Cupid,” “You’ve Got Soul,” and “Hold Me Tight.” I also really liked “Without You” by Donny Elbert, which wasn’t a massive hit but I remember it being played. My best friend’s older brother was a record collector. He owned albums like “Coxsone Special,” “Bluebeat Special,” and “Put It On: It’s Rock-Steady” on Island Records. Shortly after, he got the first “Tighten Up” album.
I’ve recounted this story before, but I was at my friend’s house one day when his older brother came in with a couple of records in a bag. He announced, “I’ve been to this reggae shop in Kilburn.” It was a big deal because back then, for a white kid to venture into a black reggae record shop was quite an undertaking. I vividly remember him playing “Mama Look Deh,” and my friend and I were like, “What are they talking about? We can’t understand a word,” but there was something incredibly captivating about the record. To this day, there’s still one line I can’t decipher. Interestingly, years later, when I interviewed Sydney Crooks for Blues & Soul, I asked him about “Mama Look Deh.” He explained the entire song to me. I’m not sure if he glossed over that line or if I’ve just forgotten, but there’s still a line that remains a mystery.
My early pop music tastes included The Monkees.
What was your first piece of writing?
Funnily enough, I actually found it a couple of weeks ago, but I’d be too embarrassed to show it to you. In my second year of secondary school, for a school essay, I wrote a review of “Tighten Up Volume 2.” My first proper writing for publication was for Blues & Soul. John McGillivray and I were avid readers of Blues & Soul, along with other music papers like Melody Maker and NME. If these papers covered reggae at all, it was usually just a direct reprint of the press release. There was no one offering critical perspective, saying things like, “This record is good, but what about this one?” or “There’s this great pre-release from Jamaica.” John and I thought Blues & Soul was the perfect place for a dedicated reggae column. So, we decided we’d both write in and see if one of us could get a column. Like a fool, I was the one who actually wrote, and John never bothered. But they replied to me and said, “If you want to give it a try, we can’t pay you, but if you’re willing, go ahead.” That’s how I started. After about six months, they acknowledged it was working out, saying, “This is alright. We still can’t pay you, but we’ll cover some expenses.” Of course, I might have inflated the expenses a bit, plus I was getting free review records, so it was worthwhile, and I genuinely enjoyed doing it. I’ve never considered myself a particularly skilled writer. Looking back at some of those early pieces, they’re not very well-written technically, but I hope my enthusiasm came across. I used to include pre-release charts and review records that were often overlooked elsewhere. Occasionally, people tell me, “Oh, I used to read your column in Blues & Soul. I wouldn’t have known about this or that if it wasn’t for you,” which is fulfilling and something I’m quite pleased about.
Blues & Soul 125
When I previously spoke with both of you, John mentioned that there wasn’t really anyone writing about reggae at that time. When did figures like Carl Gayle and Penny Reel emerge?
This was well before Penny Reel. I think I started in ’73. I first became aware of Penny Reel when he and Nick Kimberley launched the “Pressure Drop” fanzine, and I contributed to the second issue. That’s when I first met Penny Reel. Before I started writing, there was someone named Dalrymple Henderson, I believe. He had written a pamphlet and a couple of pieces for NME or Melody Maker. I read his work and thought, “I’m sure I could do a better job than that.” I don’t think he wrote for very long. I never met him or heard of him again. Carl Gayle had written a few things as well. “Pressure Drop” fanzine actually republished an article they found, which turned out to be by Carl Gayle, though there was no attribution on the original piece they discovered in an office. But at the time, there weren’t really others doing dedicated reggae writing, and then Penny Reel came onto the scene. Nick Kimberley was also writing. So, while I was writing, I did encounter others who shared the interest. Also, my first job after leaving school was at Junior’s [Music Spot] on Stroud Green Road, which was the origin of the Bamboo and Banana record labels. It was there I met Tony Rounce and Dave Hendley, who succeeded me at Blues & Soul when I moved to Black Music. I’m trying to recall where I met Nick Kimberley; it might have been there as well. Through Nick Kimberley, I connected with Penny Reel when they started their magazine.
Early music papers often just reprinted press releases with little critical reggae insight.
Tell me about your first trip to Jamaica in December 1973 at the age of 17.
(laughs) That trip really happened because I was interviewing Lee “Scratch” Perry for Blues & Soul. Naturally, visiting Jamaica was a dream. I must have mentioned something like, “I must try to get to Jamaica one day,” and Scratch, very kindly and perhaps naively, said, “When you come, you can stay with me.” He had been telling me about his new studio he was building, the Black Ark. I thought, “Great, I’ll take you up on that,” and I did. I booked a charter flight. I wrote to Scratch, confirming, “Is it alright if I come and stay with you?” and he wrote back, “Yes, it’s fine.” That was incredibly generous. So, I went. The flight was delayed by a day or two due to a major fuel crisis at the time. I landed in Jamaica at two o’clock in the morning and ended up sharing a taxi with about six other people. I was the last one to be dropped off, and I thought, “Oh no, this is it; this is the end of me. I’m just going to disappear now.” But the taxi driver was very helpful and took me to a couple of hotels that were full before I finally got a room at the Pegasus. It was a large, posh hotel in the middle of Kingston. I managed to find Scratch by the end of the next day, but it was too late to leave the hotel, so I spent two nights at the Pegasus. Half of my spending money went on those two nights alone!
Lee “Scratch” Perry’s generous invitation led to Chris Lane’s first Jamaica trip.
How easy was it to actually find him?
Finding Scratch turned out to be quite an operation! I woke up, left my hotel, walked down Orange Street, saw Bunny Lee’s record shop, and went in. I asked, “Hello, is Bunny Lee here?” “No.” “Any idea when he’ll be back?” “He might be back later.” I walked around a bit, returned: “Where’s Bunny Lee?” “He’s upstairs.” I went upstairs, and we had a drink. He asked, “Where are you staying?” I said, “I’m at the Pegasus at the moment but I’m supposed to be staying with Scratch.” He said, “I’ll take you round there. I’ve got a couple of things I need to pick up.” I didn’t realize at the time that Bunny Lee and Scratch were in the midst of some kind of war! So, he’s taking me to Scratch’s place with Blackbeard. I went in to see Scratch, Blackbeard came in and retrieved a couple of microphones that Bunny Lee had apparently lent Scratch or something. Bunny Lee himself didn’t come into the house. Scratch’s wife, Pauline, started ranting about Bunny Lee. Oh my god, I was right in the middle of it, you know?
A 17-year-old kid caught in the middle of that!
Yeah! I even had my 18th birthday while I was there, in January. The next day, I moved to Scratch’s and stayed for just under a month. He had just built the studio, and although it was January, traditionally a quieter time for recording, it was fascinating to see things in motion. He took me to Dynamics and Federal Studios, and Harry J’s. We visited King Tubby’s studio a couple of times, which was incredibly interesting. Seeing someone with a studio set up in their living room showed me you don’t need a massive purpose-built facility; you can just do it in your house. It was fantastic.
Bunny Lee and Lee Perry’s conflict was unexpected for a young Chris Lane.
Who made a lasting impression on you from all the people you met during that trip?
They all did, really. Many of them I had already met and interviewed in the UK. It was great because everyone was so welcoming. People like Tommy McCook and Bobby Ellis came up to me, saying, “Oh yeah, it’s great to see you here.” Bunny Lee was fantastic, Scratch was amazing, Keith Hudson was great too. Keith Hudson said, “Come down by my shop,” and I said, “Alright, I’ll do that tomorrow.” He had this little shack down on South Parade, which is this big roundabout area. North Parade had Randy’s and Joe Gibbs’ shop. All around the parades were these little shacks selling all sorts of things. I went to his shack, and he said, “Let’s go to the beach.” We went to this beach just behind Bellevue, sitting in this shack with these dreads, and Keith Hudson rolled this enormous ice-cream cone sized spliff. I thought, “Oh, he’s going to enjoy that!” and then he offered it to me, “Here…” It was for me! I thought, “Hell.” I had tried smoking before, but it really didn’t suit me. Anyway, I managed to get through about half of this spliff, and I was completely out of it, barely able to stand. It was time to go, and I remember we went back, and I just kept thinking, “I’ve got to get out of here, I’ve got to get out of here.” I said goodbye to Keith, came out of the shack, turned right, walked about ten yards, and then I sort of woke up sitting in the gutter by the side of the street. I had passed out but not actually fallen over, just sort of slumped down.
Just crumpled.
I thought, “This really won’t do.” Some skinny white kid in the middle of Kingston, completely stoned. I managed to get to my feet, hailed a cab, fell into it, and went to the Green Gables hotel, which we later stayed at on subsequent trips. Opposite it was a McDonalds, but not an American McDonalds. Jamaican-style, they had just borrowed the name. The hamburgers were really, really good; a hundred times better than any McDonalds hamburger. Really nice hamburgers, really nice chips. I thought, “You know what? I’m hungry. I need some food.” So, I was sitting there having a hamburger and chips when Niney and Chinna walked by. They said, “What have you been up to?” and I told them. They said, “You shouldn’t smoke that stuff on an empty stomach!” I was like, “Yeah, now I know!” (laughs). That was quite an experience.
Keith Hudson’s generosity with a spliff led to a memorable experience for Chris Lane in Jamaica.
When you returned, did your perspective on the music change? Did you listen to it differently?
That’s an interesting question. I’ve never really considered if my perspective fundamentally changed. I might have started listening a bit more analytically because I had been inside a couple of studios and seen how tracks were broken down on tape. I already understood the concept of dub records, but actually watching someone mix a dub and manipulate the sounds, you think, “Oh right, that’s how they do it.” It probably just reinforced my passion and commitment to the music.
It wasn’t a sudden epiphany, then.
No, no dramatic revelation. I just became more deeply immersed in it. I didn’t even witness any sessions where rhythms were originally laid down. I saw Chinna and Winston Wright doing overdubs. I watched Bob Marley sing a couple of tracks. I saw Horsemouth and Ansell Collins record “Herb Vendor,” and Delroy Butler voice the track “Give Thanks” that’s on the B-side of that record. I saw Earl George, who later became known as George Faith, record his first version of “To Be A Lover.” I intensely disliked that rhythm; I heard it for two solid days, constantly, nothing else. God Almighty. If I never hear that rhythm again, I’d be happy. It was number one at the time, along with “Have Some Mercy” by Delroy Wilson and “Here I Am Baby” by Al Brown. When Bob Marley was at Scratch’s studio, I even contributed a couple of lines to one of the tunes he was working on, one of those Leo Graham tracks. I loved the collaborative atmosphere, everyone just hanging out and vibing. The singer would say, “I’ve got an idea for a tune,” and start singing it, and then Scratch would suggest, “Oh, you could say this, you could say that.” You get caught up in it and start adding rhymes yourself. When one of your lines gets accepted, it’s like, “Oh wow! I’ve co-written a song!” Seeing that part of the creative process, and Scratch explaining, “See how I can drop in here on these machines,” showing how mistakes could be corrected without re-recording the entire song, those technical aspects were fascinating.
Did that experience draw you towards engineering?
It probably did nudge me towards the technical side without me even fully realizing it. I’ve said this before, and I know it sounds arrogant, but I started listening to tracks and thinking, “Oh blimey, I don’t like the way he sings that line there. He could have sung that better,” or “Why didn’t they bring the horn section in earlier?” I suppose those are production considerations, but I just thought, “This record could have been better if they’d done that.” Also, I tend to be quite critical. There were records that people raved about, and I’d think, “Well, I don’t think it’s that good.” Especially if it was, say, the third deejay version on a particular rhythm, you know? I’d be thinking, “Big Youth’s version is great, and I-Roy’s is really good, but do we really need another version adding very little new?”
As time went on, did you become less interested in the writing side of things, or were many things happening concurrently?
Yes, I did get tired of the writing. I never really enjoyed the act of writing itself. I loved interviewing people, hanging out in studios, meeting my musical heroes, like any young fan would. But actually sitting down and having to produce a thousand words or so, I found it hard work. I know some might say they found it hard work to read my writing, but believe me, I often found it very hard work to write it sometimes. Funnily enough, I recently wrote some sleeve notes for a Japanese company and actually quite enjoyed it, perhaps because it was the first time in a long while. I think it’s similar to DJ-ing. I enjoy DJ-ing, but I couldn’t do it every week. I couldn’t even do it every fortnight; it would drive me crazy. But it’s nice to go out and do it every couple of months. Writing is the same; if it’s something I’m interested in and I have something to say about it… I’m not sure how you find writing. Maybe for you, it just flows easily, and you find things to say, but often I’d just be tapping my fingers on the table, thinking, “Oh, what can I write about this?”
Interviewing and studio visits were more enjoyable than the writing process itself.
Was financial pressure a factor at any point?
No, I was always working other jobs. When I was writing for Blues & Soul, Black Music, Melody Maker, it was always in addition to something else. I’ve had countless jobs, doing all sorts of things. I never considered writing as a full-time career; it was always a hobby that, when I started getting properly paid for it, union rates and so on, was a bonus. Plus, you got all the free records, and you were doing something you genuinely enjoyed, meeting people, although some were not as pleasant as you’d hope, but they are all human beings, so you take the good with the bad.
What was the worst job you ever had?
I was a milkman for six weeks. I really disliked it. I preferred ‘job and finish’ type jobs. At one point, John and I both worked at Young’s Brewery in Wandsworth as draymen.
Didn’t David Rodigan also work at a brewery? Fuller’s in Chiswick, I think.
Oh, at Fuller’s? Their beer isn’t as good as Young’s was! The problem with being a milkman was that if you had an easy route and you could run it quickly, you’d finish early. But as soon as they saw you were finishing early, they’d start adding extra sections to your route. They’d say, “But you’ll get a bonus,” and you’d think, “Wait a minute! I’m doing another hour’s work here for practically nothing.” The person who previously had the route I was on, which I was just starting to manage and get used to, wanted his route back because the one he’d been given was too difficult. So, they gave me his old route, and it was absolute murder! I did it for about four days and thought, “You know what? I can’t do this.” Back then, you could quit a job and find another one the next week. I’ve had loads and loads of different jobs.
When you were running Fashion Records, were you still writing occasionally?
I believe I was still writing for Black Music at that time. I remember going to Birmingham to interview UB40 at the producer’s home studio where they recorded their first single; he had a sort of 8-track setup. They told me they were planning to do an album and wanted to record in a proper big studio in London. I had just recorded the first tracks with The Investigators as The Private Eyes for Dave Hendley’s label at a studio called TMC, Tooting Music Centre, in Tooting. I suggested, “They do a lot of lovers rock stuff, The Investigators use them all the time, the engineers are really good,” because finding a studio where they actually understood reggae was a major hurdle in those days. I’ve been in studios where the engineers knew nothing about reggae, and everything took too long, resulting in something you didn’t want. So, I recommended TMC. When UB40 released their first album, where did they record it? TMC: The Music Centre, Wembley, which is a huge pop studio. I thought, “Well, you never listened to my advice!”
As you became more involved in the engineering and music production side, how did that affect your writing, if at all?
I think it just made writing harder. I remember getting increasingly fed up with writing and just thinking, “Pfff! I just can’t be bothered to do it anymore.” Another factor was that because I had always written from a very grassroots perspective, I wasn’t particularly interested in promoting the latest pop reggae tune, and I generally avoided mainstream reviews, even when I was writing for Melody Maker. I was always focused on the reggae page or column. My recollection of that period is that I found writing more and more laborious and simply got tired of it. The mainstream journalists were being treated to trips to Jamaica and all sorts of perks, and I felt a bit like, “Hang on! I was writing about these artists years ago, and I’m not getting any of that.” Really, I think I was just becoming more and more interested in making music and less and less interested in writing about it, especially since I found it hard work anyway.
Mainstream music journalists received perks that reggae writers like Chris Lane often did not.
I imagine especially if you’re juggling various jobs, then having to sit down, knowing you have limited time and a deadline, it’s different from being someone who wakes up in the morning, looks out the window, and feels inspired to write.
(laughs) Yeah, I’ve never had that luxury! So, I just became more and more focused on music. When John and I started Fashion Records, I had done some work for Dave Hendley and his partner on their Cruise label, which was reasonably successful. John suggested, “We should get back together,” as I had previously left Dub Vendor. I thought, “Yeah, that’s a good idea.” When we released “Let’s Dub It Up” and “It’s Too Late” and had a very strong start with “Let’s Dub It Up,” I realized that this was something I could do and that I enjoyed immensely. It’s the same feeling as when you write something and then see it published in a magazine with your name, which is fantastic. But making a record and hearing it played on the radio, hearing it in a club, even seeing it on the label and people buying it in a shop, is incredibly satisfying.
I used to live by the river, and in those days, sound systems would travel on boats. I remember lying in bed and hearing “Let’s Dub It Up,” “Swing and Dine,” and other Fashion Records tracks blasting from these boats at 3 a.m., thinking, “That’s my tune!” It’s an incredible feeling. It must be even greater if you’re the singer and it’s your voice; that must be the ultimate feeling. So, I transitioned from something I somewhat enjoyed to something I enjoyed a lot more.
Read part 2 of this interview.
