The person who helped me through 2021: Huey Morgan comforted me in the midst of a deluge of human waste | Life and style
IIt was spring, and human excrement was pouring into our garden. I looked out the window at a puzzled young plumber with a long metal pole hollowed out the dark, gurgling drain. As if confinement weren’t enough, our kitchen was now heavy with the stench of a thousand hot flashes. No one knew how to stop it. There was only one thing to do: brew some military grade black coffee and turn on the radio. This is how I discovered Huey Morgan’s Saturday Morning Breakfast Show on BBC 6 Music. It made everything a little fairer in the world.
What started out as a way to distract from the tide of hot liquid feces on our patio quickly became the highlight of the week for my girlfriend and I. Huey – of Fun Lovin ‘Criminals fame – flips through his records: early 90s rap, early 80s disco and early 70s soul to blow the cobwebs, with modern selections to choose from. marbling retro soundscape.
As the pandemic destroyed his live music opportunities, former marine artist-turned-platinum seller Morgan traded the remnants of his old rockstar lifestyle for a healthy three-hour ensemble in the coveted Maw Fry Slot of wood from Great Britain.
Morgan admits he’s had “essentially the same record collection for 35 years,” and yet the series never seems stereotypical. âI’m proud of my music,â he says. His enthusiasm for his own taste is contagious and it’s hard not to follow that confidence. He is not asking you to trust his choices; you just did.
When we talk to each other, it’s Monday afternoon, an important moment in the weekly creation of The Huey Show. The process is always the same “I start to compile my show on Monday afternoon, noting the ideas in my Moleskine [notebook]. And then – and this is very important to me – I put together a reading list and went to Costco in Avonmouth. I’m American, and they have all my American shit, so I drive over there, grab my hot dogs, and listen to music. Tuesday, he sends the playlist to his producer, T-Bone. He taps the show in the basement of his home in Bath on Wednesday, then sends it to the BBC for checking on Thursday. (âThey want to make sure I don’t say damn,â he says.) Then, if the show is blasphemy-free, it’s on Saturdays, 10am to 1pm.
It’s calming to realize that the person who composes the perfect soundtrack for a young couple’s senseless but important Saturday mornings – scouring the ovens, vacuuming the stairs, splitting your kittens’ deworming tablets in half, open their little jaws with force – go about their business. own stupid, but important routine.
âI need something to look forward to every week,â Morgan says of his 2021. âI have my family, and they’re lovely. But I need discipline. So Morgan puts his show back together, while searching for Frankfurt sausages in an industrial park in Greater Bristol. Every Monday.
His presence at the Huey Show is that of a concise guide, who never goes beyond his welcome. âWhen I was younger,â he says, âand DJing in New York nightclubs, they didn’t even give me a microphone. No one wanted to hear what I had to say. I try to keep this humility. He plays you a bit of Arlo Parks or A Tribe Called Quest, Joe Bataan’s if you’re lucky, and throws puns at dads, and a hoarse half-laugh, and then it’s back to the music.
âI started the show in 2008,â Morgan says, âand I’ve never been the kind of DJ where – well you hear them. You know who they are. They love to talk, man. And they talk so much, you don’t even know what they’re talking about by the time they play the record. This is what I try to avoid.
Routines that stick have been hard to come by during the pandemic. After 2020’s attempts at regular spiritual nourishment failed to take hold – quizzes, jogging, and yoga on YouTube are now a distant memory – I had given up on trying. Monday and Tuesday may have always been crap, but without the ability to play soccer on Wednesdays, the movies on Thursdays, and pints after work on Fridays, the arrhythmia on my schedule left me jaded. But, every Saturday morning, the Huey Show injected something vital.
Since that effluent February morning, I have come to cherish Morgan’s soothing sound antidote to the doomsday news cycle, warm sound. Noo Yawk accent rocking us until lunch. Throughout the week, I count the days of each show, wondering what will ring in our kitchen. The atmosphere he creates, I tell him over the phone, makes a Saturday morning feel like an easy Sunday, but without fear. His show is an atmosphere that transports me far from the molten fecal hell that boils on the cobblestones of society. More than a show, it has become an idealized soundtrack of my new pandemic reality.
âI’m flattered that people include me at certain times in their lives,â he tells me, Costco nodding. âGetting married, deceased people, newborn babies, birthdays, milestones. They really wanna share them with me because I share what I have with them, man. And people can tell when it’s real. It’s a bullshit free zone. I am not a presenter. I am not an actor. You don’t need me to tell you my opinion on all the bad bullshit going on in the world. And I don’t cure cancer here, but if I can keep people away from bullshit for a few hours and play them great music, then this is my path. And I like it.”