“Pare, abangan mo ‘to,” Juan Pablo Dream frontman Bing Austria told me one particularly music-filled night in Makati last May. “May ipapasok kaming Scottish DJ [sa] June o July. Hayop magpatugtog ng soul at funk ‘to. Biruin mo, apat na oras siyang mag-spi-spin; walang tigil. Tapos, ni isang kanta, wala siyang uulitin—lahat, mapapasayaw ka.” Such excitement from a man like Austria, I thought, shouldn’t be taken lightly. He is known, after all, to be somewhat of a connoisseur who’s particularly versed in the nuances of soul, R&B, and funk (among other things, of course). If he says that a DJ is preaching the good sermon of dance parties, the very least a non-believer such as me could do is be curious.

And so Keb Darge came to the Philippines (a bit later than intended, though, as prior flight plans were grounded by the Eyjafjallajökull eruptions in Iceland). Eventually, the European skies cleared and his two-night spinning stint in Manila pushed through (although it did not necessarily garner the attention it perhaps deserved). His isn’t a household name here, clearly. Nevertheless, let it be put on record that he’s been spinning in the UK since the 1970s, and is credited with putting “deep funk” in the vocabulary of London club culture. Critics, meanwhile, know him as a very active purveyor of the transatlantic, inherently obscurantist, but extremely danceable music often referred to as “Northern soul.”

“The really good stuff came between the ‘60s and the ‘70s,” shares Darge, his hands quartering off boundaries in the air in an attempt to perhaps delineate the influences that informed his long, storied career. “I didn’t quite like it when they started using computers and all that; I just love it when bands play in the old style,” he continues, gesturing to the Ten 02 stage, where Neighbors were performing. He expresses slight suspicion for people who fawn over Jay-Z, and admits to being mildly irritated when people use “breaks” or “beats” when talking about the mixes that he makes. “No. They’re records. Records,” he repeats.

From a cursory glance, Darge might just come off as a peddler of nostalgia, one who’s driven by a hunger for the “glory days.” His set at Ten 02 featured mostly soul numbers, but he’s also known to drop some ‘70s funk and rockabilly—genres whose heyday, if at all, had already come to pass. Asked if there’s one thing, in his mind, that has changed drastically throughout the years, he says, “We had it very differently then. You just heard something on the radio, and if you liked it, you’d go, ‘Yeah, this is good!’ If you didn’t like it, you’d switch the thing off. Now, kids got everybody else telling them what’s trendy.” His desire to peddle the oldies is evidently spurred by a well-placed disdain for the pop of the present.

Interestingly enough, mainstream music nowadays, particularly stuff coming from the UK, is making throwbacks to this “soulful” past. Very easily, Amy Winehouse comes to mind, her voice slightly echoing Etta James and her lifestyle mirroring the life story of Billie Holiday (British tabloids notwithstanding). In 2008, Mark Ronson earned a Brit Award and a Grammy for the covers album Version, which, if anything, sounds like he got Tower of Power or The Meters to do the hits of Queens of the Stone Age, The Zutons, Coldplay, Radiohead, and The Smiths.

Maybe Darge was right in saying that the good stuff only came between the ‘60s and ‘70s—the music done in that ambiguous “old style.” He relates, “I was spinning in a club recently, and a bunch of young girls came up to me, asking ‘Do you play R&B?’ I said, ‘This is R&B.’ They said, ‘No, it isn’t,’ and left [some mention of Rihanna was apparently made]. Four hours later, they come back, drenched in sweat, saying, ‘What were you playing? We loved it so much!’”

Of course, Darge is neither filling up stadiums nor wowing large concert venues, or at least not yet. But still, his selector skills are critically revered. Paul Weller has worked with him to release the compilation Lost & Found: Real R&B and Soul. Cut Chemist and RZA have likewise collaborated with him for a volume here and there, despite Darge saying outright that he didn’t necessarily like hip-hop.

The fact that he knows how to get a party going (and to keep it that way) is undeniable. This skill is only refined by his own desire to party like it really mattered. “I’m a dancer who DJs,” answers Darge, further clarifying that he isn’t “a DJ who dances.”  He shares of his beginnings, “When I was younger, I’d give the DJs in London stacks of records so that I could dance to them. Soon, the stacks became higher and higher. They started saying, ‘Keb, you have to come on-board. It’s impossible for us to know what’s good in these!’”

It isn’t hard to imagine that much of Darge’s playlists might as well be the soundtracks he himself would dance to. If anything, he is a man that stands by his guns (if guns here are records). When asked what has remained the same throughout his years as a DJ, Darge answers, “It’s still all about kids listening to what they want, dressing [up] the way they want [to]. Who cares if [other songs] are trendy?”

The promo for Darge’s Manila tour read, “Saving the world from the evils of modern music.” Of course, only the true believers and those with firsthand experience can vouch for the good word of Keb Darge’s dance parties. But what exactly about modern music is he vehemently against? Maybe he’s fighting the notion that for music to resonate and be relevant, it always has to be beloved by the multitudes. Then again, there really are a lot of songs out there that have yet to be heard, and possibly loved. Later on, Darge shares that a teenager approached him once (most probably after a set). They started talking and the conversation veered towards favorite albums. Darge was surprised when the teenager mentioned Howlin’ Wolf. Apparently, not all of us need to be saved. (Mikey “Billy B.” Abola)

Photographs of Keb Darge, except the poster obviously, courtesy of the author.