![]() ![]() Between October 1988 and the summer of 1990, a steady stream of of genuinely innovative records (some of which, such as Unique 3’s ‘Only The Beginning’ and Forgemasters’ ‘ Track With No Name’, are covered elsewhere in the Bleepography series) hit record shop shelves and codified the “bleep” blueprint – think skeletal, electro-influenced house rhythms wrapped in sparse but addictive electronic melodies, the glassy-eyed futurism of Detroit techno and the booming low-end pressure of dub reggae. ![]() When the track was finally released the following summer, it was almost impossible to escape the growing influence of “Yorkshire bleep”, a style initially pioneered by Bradford outfit Unique 3, but enthusiastically embraced by others in Leeds and Sheffield. For it was here, in the Spring of 1989, that one of British dance music’s most significant and influential records was recorded, LFO’s peerless ‘L.F.O’. This itself isn’t all that extraordinary – bedroom studio spaces, used by groups of friends who pooled equipment, were ten-a-penny during this period – but the property does have a greater case for being awarded a blue plaque than other similar set-ups. Lots of music was recorded here in 1988, ’89 and ’90, with a variety of friends and like-minded individuals joining Williams in the cramped attic space – either to work on tracks, listen to what he was up to or simply hang out. In turn, they shared it with a procession of music-mad local young people who came to spend time in Williams’ studio – a converted attic that housed his record collection (the envy of many in the neighbourhood), an Atari-ST, a sampler, drum machine and a small collection of synths. ![]() Williams shared his Bayswater Mount home with his girlfriend and baby daughter. Martin Williams AKA DJ Martin, pictured in the Bassic Records studio he established in 1990 The house belonged to Martin Williams, a much-loved local DJ who worked two part-time jobs: one behind the counter at Crash Records as their ‘dance buyer’, and another teaching computer skills to unemployed teenagers at the Sidestep training centre, one of many organisations dotted around the country set up to try and give working-class youngsters a leg up during the tail-end of the Thatcher era. Over the Pennines in Leeds, another nondescript terrace house on Bayswater Mount in Chapeltown was a hive of music-making activity. In Manchester, former footworker and breakdancer Gerald Simpson recorded oodles of demos – including one for groundbreaking chart smash ‘Voodoo Ray’ – on his mum’s kitchen table, with various drum machines and synthesisers connected to a tiny home mixing desk. Helped by cheap, readily available second-hand electronic instruments and, in the Atari-ST, an affordable home computer that boasted in-built MIDI ports, bedrooms and basements were transformed into home studios by a generation of young people inspired by a mixture of transformative Ecstasy experiences, forward-thinking records from the United States, and the up-all-night allure of acid house culture.Īs a result, a swathe of important, influential and inspiring records were created at home, often within inner-city neighbourhoods which those within the more affluent suburbs viewed with suspicion – and sometimes outright hostility. By the late 1980s, the DIY ethos of punk had infected dance music culture. ![]()
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