Bristol Bass
"At a Stokes Croft record shop, vinyl collector Simone introduces shy newcomer to the city's legendary sound system culture—and her own legendary curves."
Stokes Croft was everything London wasn't—graffiti-covered buildings that felt like art rather than vandalism, independent shops that actually meant it, people who looked you in the eye. I'd moved to Bristol three weeks ago, running from a tech job that had eaten my soul, and I still hadn't figured out what I was running toward.
Then I found Roots & Culture.
The record shop was wedged between a vegan cafe and a tattoo parlor, its window a collage of album covers spanning fifty years of Black music. I pushed inside and was immediately lost—crates everywhere, posters on every wall, a sound system playing something that felt like a heartbeat.
"You look confused."
She emerged from behind a stack of imports like she'd materialized from the dub playing overhead. Tall, dark-skinned, with locks that cascaded past her shoulders and a body that the term "voluptuous" had been invented for. Her t-shirt read "Massive Attack 1991" and strained heroically against its contents.
"First time in Bristol," I admitted. "Someone told me this was the place for music."
"Someone told you right." She extended a hand. "Simone. I run this madness."
"David."
"Well, David." Her grip was firm, warm. "What are you looking for? And don't say 'I'll know it when I see it.' I hate that answer."
"Fair enough." I thought about it. "Something that sounds like starting over. New city, new life. That kind of energy."
Her smile transformed her face from beautiful to devastating. "Now that I can work with."
An hour later, I left with four albums I'd never heard of, a mental map of Bristol's music venues, and an invitation to a "little gathering" on Saturday.
The "little gathering" turned out to be a sound system party in a warehouse off the Feeder Road. Simone found me looking lost by the entrance and took my hand like we'd known each other years instead of days.
"You came!" She had to shout over the bass. "Come on. I'll introduce you to the selectors."
The selectors were legends. The sound system was a wall of speakers that you felt in your chest. The crowd was a mix of ages and backgrounds unified by devotion to bass frequencies that could reorganize your molecules. And Simone was my guide through all of it, her body close to mine, explaining the history of what we were witnessing.
"This is where it started," she said during a quieter moment. "Dub, trip-hop, jungle, dubstep—Bristol birthed them all. This city listens different."
"I can feel it." I meant the music, but I also meant her—the way she moved, the way she watched the decks with something like worship, the way she occasionally pressed back against me when a particular bass line hit.
"Feel this too." She took my hand and placed it on the speaker beside us. The vibration traveled up my arm, down my spine, settled somewhere primitive. "That's why we do it. That connection."
By 3 AM, we were outside, ears ringing, sharing a joint she'd produced from somewhere. The warehouse pulsed behind us like a living thing.
"Thank you," I said. "For tonight. For... all of it."
"Don't thank me yet." She passed the joint, her fingers brushing mine. "Night's not over unless you want it to be."
"What else did you have in mind?"
"My flat's above the shop. Got a setup there that puts that warehouse to shame." She leaned close enough that I could smell cocoa butter and something green. "I could show you what Bristol bass sounds like at proper volume. In private."
Her flat was a temple to sound. Speakers in every corner, vinyl covering every surface, a record player that looked like it cost more than my car. She cued up something slow and heavy, dub echoes washing over us while she poured rum and sat beside me on a sofa that had clearly seen decades of similar sessions.
"I don't usually do this," she said. "Bring people up here. This is my space."
"Then why me?"
"Because you listened." She turned to face me. "When I talked about the music, you actually heard it. Most people just nod and check their phones." Her hand found my thigh. "Listening matters. It's how you know someone's worth your time."
"I'm listening now."
"I know." She kissed me, and she tasted of rum and smoke and something sweeter. The bass wrapped around us like a blanket while her body pressed against mine, soft and substantial and exactly what I hadn't known I needed.
We didn't make it to the bedroom. The sofa became our venue, her dress peeling away to reveal curves that the fabric had only hinted at. She was magnificent—full breasts, soft belly, hips wide enough to build a home in. Her skin was dark silk under my hands, and the sounds she made harmonized with the dub still playing from the speakers.
"Touch me like you're learning music," she whispered. "Every curve is a note. Find the melody."
I found it. Slow at first, then building, following the rhythm of her breath and the guidance of her hands. She conducted me like the selectors had conducted the crowd, bringing me to crescendos and letting me fall back to verse. When she finally let me inside her, it was like the bass drop everyone had waited for—all that tension releasing into something transcendent.
We moved together through tracks we couldn't hear, finding beats that existed only between us. She came in waves, each one building on the last, and when I followed her over the edge, the speakers seemed to shake with us.
"Stay," she said after, both of us tangled in the sofa's throw pillows. "For the morning at least. I make proper Jamaican breakfast. Ackee and saltfish. The works."
"I'm not leaving Bristol," I told her.
"Good." She kissed my shoulder. "City needs more people who listen. And I need someone to help me run the shop. If you're interested."
I was interested. I quit my half-hearted job search and started learning the stock. Simone taught me to read vinyl like scripture, to understand the evolution from roots reggae to the sounds that put Bristol on the map. And every night, after the shop closed, we'd retreat upstairs and find new rhythms together.
Some people move to a new city looking for a fresh start. I moved to Bristol and found something better—a woman who taught me to listen, a sound that reorganized my soul, and a bass frequency that felt exactly like coming home.