Not bad for £37.

Djinji Brown - Mojumba
(off 'Mojumba' EP)

Buy it off hardtofind
Djinji Brown page/interview

Djinji Brown discogs.com


One such scheme involved lying. Lying to others about the state of the clutch cable on the new car. It had been bought second-hand and looked a bit battered. It was a wonder it went, but it went quick and efficient: speedy, efficient, fast. Upon arriving at the house Kenneth would announce to the family that the clutch cable was broken, either that or it had slipped. It was too rainy and dark for a tow to be feasible. At least, not from there to the nearest town. Kenneth would wait for him to volunteer to drive it, sans clutch, to the next town, and drop it off at Kenneth's house. The others would drive behind him and Kenneth, and pick them up at Kenneth's. That way, they could listen to deep house on the road, together, alone. Over the course of a few years, no-one noticed, and if they did, their suspicions remained isolated and were never consolidated in a feat of group conjecture. No-one noticed how the heads of him and Kenneth got closer and closer as the journey progressed - it was too dark, with lightning in the sky. Their attentions were elsewhere, and even if they weren't, there was no way to see how the hands of him and Kenneth met on the handbrake. Not from their vantage point. Besides, the storm was interesting, and allowed for a variety of sins. In the woods, especially, him and Kenneth would meet after school, the clouds already gathering. In a large tent they had carried around school all day, they would grow restless and angry at a multitude of human rights abuses, for which no-one could take the blame. A wireless would play all the latest deep house tunes. There were some greats - the Milwaukee sound had them buzzing - but the scene was on its arse back then. Every thursday afternoon, at least one clearing in an almost empty Warrington woods shook to the sound of the local deep house pirates. The sound of a genre choking echoed up to the sky - and there, whose to say whose alone? For him and Kenneth, there were small consolations in the mattress and its lukewarm pleasures that passed over into repulsion. Nowadays its different. Brian Clough has died. His deep house mixes remain in the form of forgotten mixtapes and long-repressed memories of teenage sexual experimentation. Ethnology and phonetics have taken a hold of the public imagination and television especially, that former bastion of deep house culture, fills its schedules with ethnological this, and phonological that. Roman Jakobson is public enemy number one, and the few deep house tracks to make it out of bedrooms are lovingly-crafted tributes, of interest to lone collectors and enthusiasts of kitsch. They bring back a host of memories - not all of them pleasant. The new records sit uncomfortably alongside the old. The sense of hope is gone, our latter day tempos making a farce of the earlier mid-range enthusiasms. The market for such conjuring tricks is, naturally, small. There is a restricted scope for innovation. The equipment is modern and has been modified to replicate the ancient sounds.