69 Desire


Once upon a time I lived in a very strange flat on the top floor of an enormous dilapidated gothic mansion in Brondesbury Park, with a very fine man called Matt Mancuso. I didn’t live there all that long, crashing and burning after about six months. It was a crazy place with a constantly revolving cast of inhabitants and casual(ty) stopovers, always anchored by our genial caner host Mancuso. There was never any food in the fridge but every night was party night, when the booze flowed freely and narcotics were (chopped up) on a plate if that was what your heart desired. Aaaahh, yes, Desire…

So, one night in the middle of a week of typical debauchery, I was making the most of an empty flat to try and get some much-needed sleep. I eventually drifted off into the kind of exhausted, deep narcoleptic shut-eye where nightmares rule and you can’t work out whether you’ve been under for five minutes or five days. I was disturbed by a fumbling at the door handle and instantly froze, racked with paranoia and ruing the fact I didn’t keep a baseball bat to hand. After what seemed like an age, the door burst open, and I was confronted by a bear of a man, silhouetted in the doorway clutching a flat, square object between his paws. The Bearman slurred something I couldn’t decipher, but as my eyes adjusted and my brain engaged, I realised it was Mancuso, and he was carrying a record.

“Don’t get up Mr Clay,” he mumbled. “I’m about to do something wonderful. You can thank me in the morning.”
“Piss off Mancuso,” I snapped. “I’m asleep. Whatever it is, it can wait.”
“This can’t,” Mancuso said. “Trust me.”

I groaned and rolled over to face the wall, listening to him fiddling with my stereo with all the dexterity of a fingerless man sowing on a button. The needle dropped clumsily onto the record, and Mancuso staggered back out of my room as it crackled into life…

I contemplated getting up and turning it off, but I couldn’t move. I was pinned to my bed, dumbfounded by the regal majesty of the music that was pouring gloriously forth from my shitty speakers, like liquid gold. Mancuso was right. Of course he was. He knew the power of this mighty song, and decided to administer a potent dose of techno goodness where it was needed.

It’s six simply sublime minutes of the most soulful techno you will ever hear, with a gorgeous string-infused keyboard line that warps like it’s recorded on old tape, and the phenomenal chopped-up break that drops in and takes you away. Carl Craig, you are a genius. I can’t believe I hadn’t heard it before that night, and I don’t know why it doesn’t get played out more – it still packs a colossally emotive punch. I’ve had plenty of people who ‘should’ know what it is, ask me when I’ve played it, and then hunt down a copy at the earliest opportunity. If music can ever be made with a specific time slot in mind, this is one for 4am. Originally released under Craig’s 69 (six nine) alias on R&S in 1994, it is a glaring omission from the otherwise immaculate compendium ‘Sessions’, which came out on K7 at the end of February.

I returned the record to Mancuso (after taping it, of course) the following morning. He was fast asleep, and we never mentioned the moment that had passed the night before. I hope in some small way that what I’m doing on this blog is a virtual version of what Mancuso did for me that night all those years ago – sharing the love, spreading the magic. Perhaps I’m being too idealistic about it, but ever since the demise of the C90 mix tape, sharing music hasn’t felt the same for me – until now. And failing that, I hope that out there somewhere, someone is stumbling into your room at night and enriching your life with music.

Buy Carl Craig ‘Sessions’ from Boomkat
Buy the original ‘Lite Music’ 12″ that features ‘Desire’ from eBay
Carl Craig MySpace
Carl Craig discography
In-depth Carl Craig biography at Planet E website


Joe Clay

  • Re-posted from the supremely excellent The White Noise Revisited, Not on the list yet? To stay ahead of the game, subscribe to The Ransom Note – here