It seems I had to wait for the sun to come out to write about this one. I cued up the LP on a clear day, the snow almost all gone, and the memories came flooding back. I was working for a skateboard magazine, submitting records reviews, when Tommy Guerrero’s Loose Grooves & Bastard Blues first came out. However, I knew nothing about skateboarding, and had no idea who Tommy was. I’d gotten the gig, instead, through my mates at the cult Brighton clothing shop, The One40five Store. Their connection with skate-associated labels such as Gimme 5, Silas, and its spin-off Tonite. I did a lot of my record shopping in Covent Garden, and, strangely enough, especially the Rough Trade under Slam City Skates. I bought the album purely because the cover caught my attention, and because like a lot of their stock it was really cheap. I don’t know if they deliberately put a few “budget” priced copies of things in the racks to create a buzz, but I often thought the records must have the wrong stickers on them. I’ve just checked, it says 6:99. The guy at the magazine who hired me, an ex-skater himself, had just happened to pop into The One40Five when they were reading my poetry. I used send out monthly batches of things I’d written. He was taken with something I done about hand-stitching a pair of Silas shoes, asked for my number, and got in touch. Boozing, while on the surface very different, we hit it off.

When he came round to my flat, and saw Loose Grooves & Bastard Blues, he said, “Oh shit, Tommy G! I was with him this week, showing him around. He’s doing a few shows. I interviewed him for the magazine. Man, you’d love Tommy! He’s just like you. Everywhere we went he was picking up flyers, tearing down posters. Collecting stuff for his collages.” The fact that this chap, Phil, thought of me as someone at least aspiring to be artistic, really makes me smile now. The walls of my Finsbury Park flat were covered in my artwork. I’d even framed some of it. In the move to Japan I must have thrown it out. Figuring that I’d always be able to make more. I used to stencil tees and sweats as well. I wonder where that time went.

LG&BB was Tommy’s debut. Something he recorded for fun, and never intended to release. However, it got picked up by Tom Campbell’s Galaxia label, outta Santa Cruz. The twelve tracks, a few of them just short sketches, are all guitar-driven gear. Tommy’s fingers sliding up and down strings. Carefully plucking and bending notes. Most of the tunes are acoustic. Some, though, ride a rudimentary drum machine rattle. Others shuffle to homemade funk breaks. All of it’s most definitely Californian, sunstroked, and super laidback. A hip head nodding fusion of folky strum-along and jazzy swing. Anybody into Khruangbin should certainly give the record a spin. Titles, like Azule and Pollo Caliente, reference Tommy’s Puerto Rican roots. Solow is Spanish-edged, but understated. A flight of low key flamenco. Black Sheep Blues stomps its feet, claps its hands, and flashes us a little Chitlin circuit organ. There’s even the odd song, such as Never’s anti-conformist mantra. So Blue It’s Black is a favourite, whose lyrical licks, initially simple riffs, roll into impassioned vamps. The cut conjuring images of a beach bonfire jam. The faces of friends and family laughing, joking, in the warmth of its evening flame. On In My Head the ticking of a thrift store rhythm box keeps time, and small touches of almost Bob James keys, give the tune a kinda Blaxploitation feel. A score not for a chase scene, but more an introspective main theme, or something poignant to accompany the end credits. Funky, but thoughtful. Curtis Mayfield by way of Shuggie Otis. This is, perhaps, the album’s most developed track. Without a doubt, it was the one I played, and still play, the most.

Me and Phil’d spend weekday afternoons in the sunshine of empty Finsbury Park pub gardens, drinking pints of Stella Artois. He’d open his backpack and take out a stack of CDs, scrounged during a morning round of record companies, and hand them over for me to review. He was effectively my first editor. Phil was the first person to show an interest in my writing, and he was a total stranger. He was the first person to ask me to try writing about music, and now that’s how pretty much all of my spare time is spent. I’d given him a file containing copies of my prose, and he’d carry that with him, enthusiastically pulling out pieces. Showing me. “I love this one”:

“I took a short holiday from myself. Unfortunately now I`m back and doing the laundry.”

He’d tell me tales of snogging pop stars in Groucho’s, cock-blocking Steve Coogan, constantly name-dropping, all tall, all true, and then laugh fucking loudly when I appeared unphased, unshocked. “That was supposed to freak you out!”

We’d visit Silas near Old Street and as I`d chat with the owner, Russell, he’d try on the new season’s gear, which he’d neither put back or pay for. We’d visit Rough Trade and the staff’s faces would just drop. Though Dave from Buggersod, behind the counter, would hand him bits when no one was looking. Domino would give us passes to cover gigs for bands like Modest Mouse, and we`d get thrown out for heckling. Well Phil would heckle and I’d feel obliged to back him up. One of his claims to fame was dry humping Ian Svenonius on stage.

He’d come and watch me DJ, and then sleep on my floor. Borrow / pinch my CDs. We’d both dance to Labi Siffre’s I Got The, but we were the post-rock posse. He loved June Of 44 and I had friends at the then fledgling FatCat. Both of us were trying to change destructive habits, to be better people, but neither of us was really succeeding. Nigo’s Freediving always, always makes me think of him.

We’d give the magazine pieces on Shellac, Fuzagi, Mike Ladd, and Cannibal Ox. He’d moan about the rise of finger boards, complain about the demographic, and say that what they really wanted was Britney and the Spice Girls. He’d been a professional, a champion, as a kid. Then he got injured, and then he got too old. He’d regret dropping out of school, and I’d worry about him. Then he disappeared.

Postscript: During the two decades that passed I’d often Google Phil. Trying to find him. Grateful for not just his encouragement, but also his hustle, which for uptight me was a much needed kick up the arse. I sometimes feared the worst, but I more often imagined him some important mover and shaker, high up the food chain, in the music industry or press. Calling the shots, and commanding a sizeable expense account. I can’t tell you how happy I was when he finally popped up on Facebook last year, surrounded by a huge smiling family.

Tommy Guerrero’s Loose Grooves & Bastard Blues can be ordered directly from Be With Records.