The year is 1978, and a young Kerri Camar Chandler has, as usual, patiently waited for his father Joe to take off and do his hustle on the streets of East Orange, New Jersey. The front door closes; from behind the drapes Kerri furtively peeks out of the window as Joe swings a skinny leg over his 10-speed bike and takes off down Steuben Street. It’s a hot, muggy summer day in the Kuzuri Kijiji projects, but Kerri’s cool as a cucumber. His 13-year-old belly fills with butterflies: it’s game time.

He sprints to the living room, so excited he misses a step and faceplants against the shag carpet. Not even pausing to swear, Kerri pops up, grabs a dining chair, and drags it over to the Thing That Shall Not Be Touched. There, against the wall, seemingly glowing like the Holy Grail, sits his dad’s DJ set-up: two modified Acoustic Research XA turntables, a Clubman 101 Meteor mixer, and enough vinyl to make Carl Cox double-take. A smile steals across Kerri’s face. He wipes sweaty hands on his red Adidas T-shirt, pulls a weathered copy of Lonnie Liston Smith’s ‘Expansions’ from the stack, and drops the needle. Fireworks go off in his developing mind.

For the next couple of hours Kerri performs the routine he has for months: perfecting his budding DJ skills while keeping a well-tuned ear to the front yard, perpetually listening for the rhythmic chain of his father’s 10-speed approaching. But on this particularly muggy, hot day, Joe gets a flat tyre and walks his bike home, already furious. When he opens the front door he see his son Kerri, white Panasonic headphones wrapped around his head, holding a 12” maxidisc of Jakki’s “Sun… Sun… Sun…” in one hand and the turntable platter in the other. There’s music blasting out of the speakers. The look on his son’s face is one of pure, undiluted terror.

“It was the bassline. I was like, ‘I gotta hear this damn bassline!’” recalls Kerri Chandler, the details of decades ago as fresh to him as if it was yesterday. “That’s what he caught me on. It seems comical: I’m standing on this chair like a little kid, record in hand, and in he walks. Busted!”

Surprisingly, what Kerri sees on his father’s face isn’t the explosive, volcanic anger he feared, but rather a look of weaponised exasperation. “What the hell are you doing, Camar?” he fumes. Despite his rage he cuts a slightly ridiculous figure in the doorway, sweating profusely in short shorts and green and white Adidas. “That costs a shitload of money, son – I gotta work with that!”

Kerri just stands there, paralysed. “Well, I’m DJing.”

“You don’t know what you’re doing. Get down from there, you’re not a DJ!”

“Well, yeah, I am a DJ,” replies Kerri, slowly regaining his confidence. “I’ve been watching you for months.”

“I’ll tell you what, DJ: show me what you can do.” Galvanising his anger, Joe lays down a test for his trembling son. “If you can DJ, I’ll bring you to the club this weekend. You can warm up for me.” He pauses, real slow, twisting the end of his statement like a blade in Kerri’s gut: “But if you can’t, I’ll crucify you.”

The ultimatum: fucking spin, son, and show you got skills. Or face the consequences. Panic washes over Kerri like a cold shower. “All I could see was myself, like, in a Jesus Christ pose,” laughs Kerri now.

The young boy slips a Martin Circus vinyl from the pile, cues up the record, and proceeds to blow his dad’s mind right back onto Steuben Street.

“I had a few records that I had routines with, just to mess around, so I started mixing these disco records together. And he looks like he wants to cry. He’s just looking at me, like, ‘Wow, you know where all the breaks are, you know where all the parts are! You’re working double records!’” Kerri recalls.

Little Kerri drops Kano’s classic ‘I’m Ready’, Sharon Redd’s ‘Can You Handle That’ and Donald Byrd’s ‘Places Snd Spaces’. It’s an all-out disco and funk assault. When he can finally speak, Joe says “Son, I’m taking you to the Rally Racquet Club this weekend.” A look of unmistakable pride washes over his features. “You’re gonna start opening for me.”

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