Arthur Russell’s song, In The Light Of A Miracle first appeared in 1994 on his album, Another Thought. This was a posthumous release, put together after Russell’s tragic premature passing in 92, by composer, Philip Glass, for his label, Point Music. History has it that an accompanying album of remixes was planned, reflecting Russell’s passion for dance music and New York’s nightlife. Those reworks for In The Light Of Miracle happened to be playing at the Point offices when UK DJ and Talking Loud label founder, Gilles Peterson popped in. Instantly taken, Peterson arranged to license the mixes, and he pressed an undisclosed number, perhaps 100, promo 12s. However, the deal fell through, and the project was shelved. Turning these 12”s into holy grails for fans of Russell and leftfield “disco” (1). Be With Records have now picked up the baton with a bespoke reissue.

Both of the remixes run to 13, 14 minutes. One of them is the work of DJs Danny Krivit and Tony Smith. An amazing expanse of echoed congas, chimes, whistling synths, brass blasts and random bursts of backing vocals – provided by  post-minimalist Elodie Lauten, with pianist Julius Eastman baritone bellowing “in the light, in the light”. While driven by a decent kick and some crazy cowbell, with shakers, acoustic strumming, and a central organ melody, all of these elements are spinning, orbiting one another, so that they’re continually coming together only to fly apart. The groove, though, somehow managing to keep going in your head. Building, collapsing, rising and falling. Constantly changing, it never gets boring. Every time I hear the song it hits me in a different way. Something new catching my attention, imagination. It’s the kind of track that must have been made for David Mancuso’s Loft. Totally bonkers, and totally uncommercial, you can choose to listen or dance. Russell’s nursery rhyme like lyrics seem to rightly equate falling in love with a religious epiphany. The result is like Go Bang! reimagined as a Buddhist mantra. Tony Morgan produces the second mix. He also edited the first. Using hand claps and a beefed up b-line he streamlines the song for the dancefloor. If not exactly “housed”, it’s rhythmic idiosyncrasies are tamed a tad, and it’s more firmly focused on Elodie and hooks from Peter Zummo’s horn. Russell’s friend, beat poet Allen Ginsberg appears intermittently to intone the title.

In The Light Of A Miracle is one of those records that always lifts my mood. Not just because of the positivity it exudes, but also because it’s a reminder that someone had the balls to stick to their vision, refuse compromise, and make something this barmy and beautiful. I’ve long since given up trying to pick a favourite mix.

I bought my copy of In The Light Of A Miracle in Tokyo, around 15 years ago, from Japanese DJ, Marbo. It was in London, though, that Marbo found fame, and then notoriety. In the 1990s, as part of the Tonka Sound System, he played alongside Rev, Chocci, and (DJ) Harvey. When I met Marbo he had just fallen massively out of favour for bootlegging Harvey and Gerry Rooney’s Black Cock edits – which, of course, were bootlegs themselves. As Harvey was elevated to the status of a do-no-wrong disco deity, this was a excommunicable crime as far as the church of house was concerned. Marbo was now a super villain. The Yoko Ono that broke up the band. When Harvey finally got his U.S. green card and revisited Japan after 10 years away, Marbo didn’t show. I thought this was really sad, because Marbo once definitely viewed Harvey as a brother. When I’d visit his place, or any of his later ventures, such as high-end / VIP cocktail lounges, framed photographs of the two of them were all over the walls.

Bar Jam, Ebisu, 2007

I met Marbo in a tiny basement club / closet called Bar Jam, in Ebisu. Together with my friend, “Tokyo” Matt Best, I’d landed a monthly Friday night residency there, which we`d christened “Right Right Right”. We’d got the gig largely because of the Balearic and Cosmic sides we were spinning. When I arrived in Tokyo, as far as the clubs were concerned, David Mancuso was god, and the sound was almost exclusively New York influenced. Marbo was Batch, the bar owner’s mentor – this place was the size of a broom cupboard but kitted out with Altec 7 cinema speakers. Marbo had heard these English guys were playing weird records and came to check us out. Me and Matt both knew who he was, and were more than a little intimidated. Marbo is not a big bloke, by any means, but he is pretty intense. He had a habit of ignoring questions, or giving very “cryptic” answers. Marbo kind of only said what he wanted / what he’d planned to say, and the silence in between could easily make you nervous. He said, “Let’s do a party together. Come and see me at my shop.”

Batch

In London Marbo had also been tight with designers and stylists such as Mark Wigan and Barnsley – it was Barnsley who according to legend gave Shoom and so The Second Summer Of Love its smiley face – and had founded his own fashion empire, Lowrider (2). The HQ was in Harajuku. One weekday lunch time me and Matt popped in, and were escorted downstairs. Given hemp beer to drink, and surrounded by vintage amps and speakers, Marbo lectured us on Hi-Fi and the uniqueness of his set up – part of which involved boosting Japan’s low voltage electrical current (a friend later bought me a box that does this and while I thought Marbo was babbling it makes a HUGE difference to sound quality). He was in the process of launching a “concept”  he called “Tokyo Balearic”. As far as me and Matt could make out this involved taking 140+ BPM trance records and pitching them down to 120. At this point Marbo was committed to vinyl – although this would soon change – and he’d had a couple of Vestax decks customised to allow him to do this.

Marbo at Bar Jam

The first gig we did with Marbo was at Bar Jam. Batch was obviously super excited. The already bespoke system had to be reconfigured to Marbo’s spec, and of course, the Vestax Decks, for the night were installed. Marbo had also brought his own cartridges. “No back cueing!” He barked, and he showed us how to use a can of compressed air to carefully puff dust from the needles. He also asked us to clean each record as we put it on. Marbo was actually an incredible DJ. For most of the night he played mainly classic disco and he beat matched seamlessly between everything. Not only without back-cueing, but also without headphones. Just riding the pitch control. It was the first time I’d ever seen anybody do this.

Lowrider posse

Marbo had brought his Lowrider posse with him, which consisted of photographers, male models, and group of girls nicknamed “The Rosies” – after a song by Japanese punk / rock ’n’ roll band, The Roosters, which was a staple in Marbo’s sets.

All of these beautiful people packed a whole load of attitude, which up until then I hadn’t witnessed in Japan, but some of them like Franco and Hash – who was running the internet radio station Samurai FM – went onto become firm, firm friends. Folks who would share, usually instigate, my funniest Tokyo clubland adventures, including a comedy afters stand-off with House Of Pain. I was drinking heavily back then, and way into the evening, I was given the nod that it was my turn to come back on. Initially terrified I’d stuck to Marbo’s instructions to the letter, but now half-cut and confronted by a clogged needle I couldn’t be bothered to reach for the spray and instead gave a big blow. The whole front of the cart fell off, and I instantly sobered up. Thinking “shit shit shit” I snapped it in place. It still sounded OK to me, but what did I know. Hoping that no one would notice. Or by the time they did I’d be long gone.

The Rosies

Hash

The second gig we did with Marbo was a far bigger Tokyo Balearic event, again in Ebsiu, but in a proper club called The Liquid Loft. His pitched down trance was played in the main room. Me, Matt, Hash, and Hash’s mate Johnny were booked to play “Balearic” in the bar. Now it’s a fact that “Balearic” means different things to different people. It turned out in hindsight that Marbo was thinking along the lines of the Cafe del Mar. However, since he isn’t the best communicator, Matt and I had packed our bags with stuff like Stop Bajon and Jibaro. Marbo had also banned smoking from the main room, so if you fancied a cigarette, or wanted a drink, you had to be where we were. Perhaps predictably the bar was rammed, and a lot of fun, but I later heard that Marbo was pissed. He didn’t ask me to DJ again.

Marbo at Tokyo Balearic, Liquid Loft, Ebisu, 2007

Matt, Hash, Rob & Johnny at Tokyo Balearic

Franco

We did keep in contact though. We’d meet midweek, in a bar, called Bonobo, close to his shop, where they’d clear the tatami-matted top floor for us to talk. Marbo, if it’s not clear by now, was a bit of a cult figure. He was, I think rightly, revered for his past achievements, and he’d collected around him a crowd of devoted young followers – to whom he was like dad or a big brother. He was on a huge health food, and yoga, kick and everyday, at the store, serve these folks an organic, traditionally prepared lunch, with positively-charged rice, boiled in custom cooker. This in turn inspired family-like loyalty, and earned him the affectionate title, “Chef”. He was entertaining the idea of documenting his career with both a film and a book, and while he never said so himself, his “people” told me “He likes you” and that maybe I could do some of the interviews.

Marbo and Rob, Bar Bonobo, Harajuku, 2007

I think he was happy to talk to me because we’d been to a lot of the same London clubs. Marbo was way out the other side of any kind of excess and gave me stick about my boozing, calling me a “typical English man” and prodding my burgeoning beer belly. When I asked him why I never saw him drinking in bars, he said, “The alcohol they serve is poison. It’s very bad for you”, and then gave me sip from his water bottle. Laughing, because it turned out to be around 50:50 water to sho-chu – a traditional Japanese spirit, in my mind akin to moonshine, made from rice or potatoes. He said, “Sho-chu is clean. No sugar. No hangover” I quickly found out that the no hangover bit isn’t true (3).

Unfortunately, although no one knew it, the Lowrider empire was about to crash. Marbo himself probably didn’t see it coming, until it was too late. He’d been brought up in a small village on one of southern islands, and by his own admission, as a kid, had been treated like a prince. This probably accounted for his “elevated” levels of confidence, which outsiders could take as arrogance, and the refusal to accept Lowrider’s worrying finances, until he was forced to close the brand and the store. It was in this closing down that I picked up his copy of Arthur Russell’s In The Light Of A Miracle. The yen was strong then, and it set me back around 100 quid. I`d never seen one, for me these Talking Loud promos were just a myth. I felt kinda bad buying it under such circumstances, but Marbo told me it was OK, he didn’t play vinyl anymore (4).

Sunrise at Akane’s place

When I moved to the sticks, our friendship didn’t end. Marbo’s then partner, Akane, at the time a popular trance DJ, had a family summer house here in Karuizawa. High, high in the mountains, practically inaccessible, but with amazing above the clouds views. It would always be nice surprise to spot him in the supermarket’s organic section, and whenever he was here we’d have them over to dinner. The “enigmatic” Japanese “house hero”, not saying much, but indulging in the local red wine, and falling asleep on my living room floor (5).

NOTES 

(1) One of the remixes did finally, legitimately, appear on Dave Hill’s brilliant Arthur Russell compilation for Soul Jazz in 2004. An alternative, un-remixed, version of the track, wonky and woozy, like a World Of Echo outtake was released by Russell’s estate on the album Picture Of Bunny Rabbit last year.

(2) Matt has a pair of Lowrider custom Converse shoes, where the canvas is printed with the pills from New Order’s Fine Time sleeve. I confess to still coveting these. 

(3) I have Marbo to thank for this trick which played a role in the Japanese part of my alcoholic downfall, and subsequent path to recovery, since having learnt it I always had a bottle in my bag, sipping on trains, tubes, and in taxis, getting loaded before I’d even arrived.

(4) To check its authenticity I called Soft Rocks’ Chris Galloway who confirmed the stamped catalogue number, and the message scratched into the runout, “The books a song”. 

(5) The last I heard, around a year ago, when Hash flew in from Porto, was that Marbo had returned home to look after his dad. 

Rob hammered at Bonobo in a homemade t-shirt and a stranger’s hat.