At 66 years young he's more a contemporary of Phil Spector and Joe Meek than Dr Dre or The Neptunes, but Lee Scratch Perry is arguably the most influential producer of all time. Certainly he's had more effect on what we listen to in 2002. Without Scratch the career trajectories of anyone from John Lydon to Primal Scream to Missy Elliot would be markedly different. His Black Ark compositions of the mid-70's brought bass to the world like never before. We've felt the reverberations ever since.
We're talking about a man who had his first UK hit in 1968 ('Return of Django'), who cut records for both Bob Marley and The Clash, who tore up the rules of music production with his cut 'n' paste experimentalism. The Upsetter. The Super Ape. The man, who many say, invented reggae. In short: a living legend.
Such status is apparent from Perry's entrance alone. Emerging from amongst diners on the Jazz Café balcony he descends the staircase, like a Jamaican George Clinton, clutching a large burning candle. He is wearing an outsize blue 'Lion of Judah' T-shirt, a plastic crown and more rings than he has fingers. His hair - recently imitated by Joe Cole - is a shock of white with purple trim, while his microphone has been soaked in glue and dipped in the jewellery box. Even his baseball boots are customised with mirrored buttons of Haile Selassie. The most kleptomaniac magpie would have nothing on him.
Drawling, "Reggaes' Kingdom's Come," he appears spry and relaxed, before leading a three-piece band of drums, bass and electric piano - all mixed by long-time collaborator Mad Professor - through an hour of gently skanking sounds. These aren't songs exactly, more like some hybrid jazz, with the deceptively complicated rhythms and freeform melodies laying the basis for Perry's eccentric toasting.
We get poetry about sitting on a lizard egg and confirmation he is both a genie and magician. In Perry's world this is all to be expected. But when the band starts to cook and the echo and effects ring out from the mixing board then the sound is otherworldly and hypnotic. Scratch does his little hopping dance, the none-more-mellow bassist joins him and the keyboardist jumps up and down like a bullfrog. On cue the crowd go off their bobbing heads and leap around, waving their hands in the air.
The music, of course, has moved on - for a snapshot of Reggae 2002 you'd take a trip to the dancehall - and the man will be forever stuck in a universe of his own making. But in such joyous moments we witness a snapshot of history. His best work might be behind him, but there'll never be another like Scratch and he knows it. All Hail the King.
