Steve Lacy Crack Magazine | Issue 103
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Contents
Kindness:
Kedr Livanskiy
32
40
48
Coucou Chloe 58
The story of Marianne and Leonard 66
crackmagazine.net
Steve Lacy:
James Bridle 52
Editor's Letter – p.27
Recommended – p.28
The Click: Róisín Murphy – p.73 Retrospective: 3 ‘N the Mornin’ (Part Two) – p.87 20 Questions: Jubilee – p.89
Rising: Cuco - p.31
Reviews – p.81 Downtime: Valesuchi – p.88
Meditations… on ambient music and capitalism – p.90
CONTENTS
Holly Herndon
CLF ART CAFE 2
nd
Wally Badarou (Live) / Zonk.Disco
Cult French artist Wally Badarou comes to Peckham for a rare live set. Also performing live will be the new collaborative duo of Egypt 80 keys player Dele Sosimi and UK producer Medlar.
25th August
16
th
Soundclash Margins
Four of London's most exciting experimental crews go head-to-head for a Soundclash at Peckham's Bussey Building. The lineup announced so far includes GAIKA, Iceboy Violet and Kamixlo, three artists operating at the edge of electronic music in 2019.
23
rd
Kartel Carnival Warm Up
Bank Holiday weekend starts with a bang as we return from our hiatus with an action packed bill of Afro and Tropical beats to warm you up for Notting Hill
Hinge Finger x Chrome
Carnival, leaving you all of Saturday to recuperate before it all kicks off on Sunday. Featuring Pedro, Hagan, Boa Kusasa & Jukwa, Moyo & Portara and Scratcha DVA! It's sure to be the best Kartel yet, don't sleep!
30
th
Looney Choonz
A BIG Carnival bank holiday jam south of the river. Expect loose set
Curating a musical experience that showcases the most creative,
times and a range of music from very excited to be joined by DJ
expressive and innovative DJ’s. A collective who keep their audience in
Rosa Pistola for her UK Debut, Joy Orbison DJ Florentino and Anz.
sync to a seamless blend of dutty, heart-pounding rhythms from start to finish. Hard House Banton, Fusion and MORE perform the finest sounds across the 120-140bpm spectrum. Expect UK Funky, House, Trap, Dancehall and everything in between.
17
th
G_IRL Magazine: Art & Apparel (Marketplace)
A marketplace for independent female run brands, artists and zines with DJ's playing all day! To celebrate the launch of ISSUE THREE which will be available to purchase on the day.
22
nd
Balamii Radio Out Of The Blue Live
Balamii Radio bring their brilliant Out Of The Blue YouTube series live to Rye Wax.
23
rd
On the Corner DJs playing happy hour
On The Corner present label DJs for another smasher happy hour with residents playing house, jazz and more.
RYE WAX
9th August
Rye Wax Turns 5! We've somehow made it to the grand old age of FIVE YEARS OLD. To celebrate we're hosting a 12 hour party from FIVE PM to FIVE AM. And we're making it free
Instagram: @c.a.i.g.e.r
before midnight... then its, yep you guessed it FIVE POUNDS after. We've lined up a whole host of core cru and friends, b2b extravaganzas and secret alias DJ sets!
Crack Magazine Was Made Using
What’s the secret of cool. I’d wager Steve Lacy knows. This month’s cover star reveals himself to Tasbeeh Herwees as a grand master of chill, a resistant visionist who’d rather be riding rollercoasters than examining why – at the tender age of 21 – his introspective and genre-blind approach to pop music has invited such descriptions as ‘genius’ and ‘prodigy’, presumably between hyperventilations. In an era of overstatement, Lacy prefers to let his actions do the talking.
Bat For Lashes Kids In The Dark Mr Fingers Amnesia Frankie Cosmos Rings (On A Tree) DJ Screw High With The Blanksta Kelman Duran 1984, PRIMERO, ULTIMO Gabber Modus Operandi Padang Galaxxx Brother May Monopoly Den Maxo Kream ft. ScHoolboy Q 3 A.M. Boreal Massif Low Forties (Sandy) Alex G Hope Charli XCX ft. Christine and the Queens Gone Blood Orange I Wanna C U Squid The Cleaner Kano Trouble Arca, Woody Jackson Country Pursuits Kindness Lost Without Shura The Stage
If only journalists had that luxury – the discourse doesn’t write itself y’know! – but there is something compelling about artists who hang back a little. There’s certainly a few in this issue: Kindness turned away from the spotlight for years, writing for others and rediscovering their own art, and themself, in the process. Elsewhere, Kedr Livanskiy confesses that she’s happiest when she’s in the studio with her mates. I totally get it, I think deep down I feel the same. You have no idea how hard I had to channel a bit of that Lacy cool to write this, my first ever editorial for Crack Magazine. I’m not new to the Crack fold – I’ve headed up the digital team for two-and-a-half years – but I’m exhilarated to be taking over as Editor.
027
August 2019
crackmagazine.net
Issue 103
Fortunately for me, I take the wheel at hugely exciting time for Crack Magazine – and, for that, endless credit and admiration should be directed to my predecessor Anna Tehabsim. A legend. In an era of overstatement, that one’s entirely deserved. Now, let’s go ride some rollercoasters.
Steve Lacy shot exclusively for Crack Magazine by Sasha Samsonova in Los Angeles, June 2019
EDITORIAL
Louise Brailey, Editor
028
Recommended
Tessellate Mick’s Garage 10 August
O ur g ui d e to wh at's goi n g on th i s su m m e r
The Downs Festival Ms Lauryn Hill, Grace Jones, IDLES The Downs 31 August DJ Harvey Three Mills Island 10 August
Josey Rebelle The Pickle Factory 9 August
Thanks to the efforts of Team Love and Crosstown Concerts, the last few years have seen The Downs play host to some of music’s biggest names. 2016’s inaugural edition hosted an action-packed day that featured Massive Attack, Primal Scream and Skepta, while subsequent years have seen the likes of De La Soul, Orbital and Noel Gallagher touch down at Bristol’s number one frisbee spot. This year arguably tops the lot, with undisputed legends Ms Lauryn Hill and Grace Jones headlining proceedings, while local heroes IDLES play their biggest ever hometown gig. Even if the rain does dare show up, there’ll be more than enough fire on stage to keep it at bay.
GAIKA Bussey Building 16 August GAIKA has never done things by halves. Once part of Manchester rap crew Murkage, the Brixton-born rapper and producer has carved out a unique space for himself in music. Basic Volume, his 2018 debut album, saw him flex his dancehall roots through a turbine of industrial electronics, arresting vocals and hardhitting lyrics about identity and the bleak landscape of world politics. Catch him bringing his incendiary live show back to south London – it’s gonna be lit.
Ben UFO XOYO 9 August
DGTL Barcelona Larry Heard, Charlotte de Witte, Jeff Mills Parc del Forum 23-25 August You might recognise Parc del Forum’s shorefront tarmac from Primavera Sound’s yearly turn-ups. But once all of their excited punters are cleared out, the location makes room for DGTL Barcelona, the iconic Spanish electronic festival now gearing up for its fifth edition. With over four stages spread across the minimal site, DGTL showcases the best of established and emerging electronic music talent. The focus is primarily on techno, inviting artists whose sets span across vibrant breakneck beats to more pensive, atmospheric soundscapes. Some of this year’s highlights include big daddy Jeff Mills, Larry Heard (now with Fatima on mic duties!) and local legend ANNA. With a keen eye on innovation and sustainability, DGTL is ramping up to be a must-attend on every techno head’s festival calendar.
Despacio Royal Festival Hall 9 August
Red Bull Music Festival Aphex Twin, Object Blue, So Solid Crew Various venues, London 20 August-14 September
Marie Davidson Studio 9294 9 August
Bokeh Versions Village Underground 10 August
Honey Soundsystem Night Tales 10 August
Field Maneuvers Ben UFO, Umfang, DJ Stingray Secret location 30 August-1 September
EVENTS
Field Maneuvers is a three-day celebration plucked straight from your ravey fever dreams of the early 90s. Taking place at a secret location near the M25 (90 minutes from London, Bristol and Birmingham if you need a clue), outsized production values, heavyweight sound and some of the world’s finest DJs are all that’s needed to make this festival one of the UK’s best for those who just want to get down and have a Large One. Leading you on this adventure are Avalon Emerson, Luke Slater and The Black Madonna, while choice local crews like Bristol’s Housework, London’s Make Me and Glasgow’s 12th Isle keep the family vibe well and truly intact. Sesh of the year? Could be.
While the much-loved RBMA is sadly on its way out, Red Bull’s festival arm is only upping its game. Following the success of their New York edition earlier this year, the institution is dropping an anchor in London for four weeks of events across the city. Highlights are plentiful, ranging from Aphex Twin twisting melons in the vast confines of Printworks to So Solid Crew and Ms Dynamite tearing up a south London car park. With plenty of talks, one-off events and commissioned performances dotted throughout, this is sure to keep the capital well and truly entertained.
Cosima The Jazz Cafe 15 August
SHYBOI The Cause 17 August
Baba Stiltz fabric 16 August
029
Broken Social Scene EartH 19 August
Ariana Grande The O2 Arena 17 August
We Out Here The Comet is Coming, Skinny Pelembe, Nubya Garcia Abbots Ripton, Cambridgeshire 15-18 August
Berlin Atonal 2019 Amnesia Scanner, Objekt, Nkisi Kraftwerk Berlin 22–26 August You never know what you’re going to get from one-off shows and collaborations, but luckily Atonal’s crowd are open-minded enough to let its adventurous performers experiment in the cavernous Kraftwerk and see what sticks. Once again the weekender is crammed with specially commissioned pieces at the intersection of music and visual culture. Debuts include a score from Atonal regular Alessandro Cortini, new live shows from Lisbon DJ Violet and drum’n’bass maven DBridge, NON Worldwide co-founder Nkisi’s audiovisual spectacle Initiation, and so much more from the likes of Objekt, Shackleton and Yousuke Yukimatsu. Embrace the unpredictable.
We Out Here, the yeardefining compilation released by Brownswood in 2017, helped push London’s vibrant jazz scene to the forefront. A launchpad for now-household names like Nubya Garcia, Shabaka Hutchings and Theon Cross, the album explores the experimental pockets of jazz and Afrobeats. Now Gilles Peterson’s Worldwide FM and Brownswood are bringing these electrifying sounds to life with the inaugural edition of We Out Here Festival. Set in Cambridgeshire’s regal village of Abbots Ripton, the festival invites our spiritual jazz leaders to the ultimate celebration in the countryside. Freak out with Sons of Kemet and Moses Boyd, bliss out to Tirzah and KOKOROKO or get down with Kojey Radical. Swim in the on-site lake, sit back at a documentary screening or get your Zen on at a gong bath. Do not miss.
Rock en Seine The Cure, Jorja Smith, Aphex Twin Parc de Saint-Cloud, France 23-25 August The line-up for this year’s Rock en Seine – the music festival held in a park in the outer reaches of Paris – stretches much further than the genre in its title. Guitar-wielding mainstays The Cure, Johnny Marr and Foals are ready to thrash it out, but elsewhere there’s Gen Z R&B from Jorja Smith and Mahalia, hi-octane electronic madness from Aphex Twin and Major Lazer, and the stylish sounds of Clairo, King Princess and Tommy Genesis.
Umfang & Volvox Phonox 23 August
Mount Eerie EartH 8 August
Nils Frahm Printworks 23 August
Drahla The Shacklewell Arms 23 August
Dimensions Festival Anderson .Paak, Mala, Shanti Celeste Pula, Croatia 28 August-1 September
It’s not often you come across a young band whose devoted listeners entirely funded their debut LP, but then again, there aren’t many bands as charming as Crumb. The Brooklyn quartet – made up of uni friends Lila Ramani, Jesse Brotter, Brian Aronow and Jonathan Gilad – brought their neo-psychedelic visions into focus with recentlyreleased debut album Jinx. Not quite indie, not quite psych, their meandering songs take on an otherworldly quality as Ramani’s unsettlingly chill vocal tackles themes of anxiety and introspection. Get lost in their dreamy vibes.
Oscar D'León O2 Shepherd's Bush Empire 11 August
DJ Lag Egg 16 August
Dimensions was one of the first festival success stories to come out of the Croatian renaissance, and its stunning location in the Fort Punta Christo fortress on the Pula coastline was a big part of it. Sadly, 2019 will be the last chance to dance within its walls as the festival moves to pastures new – so this is one you don’t want to miss. The opening concert alone is fully stacked, with Anderson .Paak & The Free Nationals, Tony Allen & Jeff Mills and Objekt’s new live show all taking place inside a 2000-year-old amphitheatre. Once you’ve recovered from that, you can spend the next few days exploring the ramparts and taking in treats such as a special electro set from DJ Bone, the Aphex Twinapproved Afrodeutsche and Perlon wigsman Zip, all inside a gorgeous castle by the sea.
Secretsundaze Pickle Factory 10 August Giles Smith and James Priestley, the duo behind Secretsundaze, are two of dance music’s most reliable and evergreen characters. Besides their ever-expanding empire (recording studio, record label, regular events around the world), they are, at their core, two DJs who know what makes a great night work. This party at Hackney’s intimate Pickle Factory is a prime example. No big headliners, no big fuss, just trust in two young DJs, Will Lister and Jon Sable, holding it down alongside the boys in the main room. The chill out space will belong to regular attendee Giedre J and her finest records, plucked straight from the source in Japan. Bliss.
EVENTS
Crumb The Dome 4 September
030 EVENTS
A pledge to rid Oval Space and The Pickle Factory of single-use plastics by July 31st 2019.
ovalspace.co.uk
031
Rising: Cuco Words: Gemma Samways
Over the course of three years, two mixtapes and a string of singles, Banos has firmly established his own musical world in which sun-warped melodies are a vessel for unabashedly emo introspection. On recent single Bossa No Sé, lo-fi synths mingle with trap beats, while breakout track Lo Que Siento pairs hazy guitar, glockenspiel and muted brass with Banos’ insouciant Spanglish drawl. Growing up seeing very few prominent Mexican musicians operating outside of the Latin genres, Banos acknowledges the importance of his visibility as a Chicano artist in the alt scene. “I didn’t get into music thinking, ‘I need to be an influence as a Mexican’ but once you start making progress you realise you're the only one doing this. It’s cool because I'm able to create a platform for others.”
Sounds Like: A wistful holiday romance Soundtrack For: Golden hour drives File Next To: Clairo, Homeshake Our Favourite Song: Feelings Where to Find Him: fineforest.bandcamp.com
In a dimly-lit bar down the labyrinthine backstreets of Barcelona’s El Born neighbourhood, bilingual psych-pop prodigy Omar Banos is slouched on a black leather sofa, sipping tequila on the rocks. The 20-year-old has travelled from Los Angeles to play Primavera Sound and, with all work obligations now fulfilled, he’s negotiated the rest of the weekend off to check out the festival. Rico Nasty and Future are on the hit list for tonight. Tomorrow he’ll be up front for former tour mate Kali Uchis’ set. Following a serious road accident last October in which their tour bus was totalled by a tractor, Banos and his band have reappraised their priorities somewhat: making time for loved ones now ranks higher than career concerns. He’s still visibly shaken when he recalls the experience – which inspired Hydrocodone, a ballad as woozy as the effects of its opioid namesake – describing it as “fucked up”. But he’s grateful, too, for the reality check it
provided. “I consider everyone in my band my family,” he explains, his words tumbling out. “So spending time with them is super sick.” On this particular trip he’s accompanied by actual family, his mum and auntie looking on today from the corner of the room. The only child of Mexican immigrants based in Hawthorne, southwest LA, Banos remembers spending his early years accompanying his mum as she cleaned houses in predominantly white neighbourhoods. He cites his middle school music programme as the reason he didn’t descend into delinquency like many of his peers, and speaks fondly of the local punk scene, which he became immersed in at high school. While playing in melodic hardcore band Chapters, his listening habits extended from psych bands Tame Impala, Mild High Club and Sunbeam Sound Machine to Latin trap by Pouya, Shakewell and Ramirez. It’s this thrilling culture clash that informs Banos’ output as Cuco.
His forthcoming debut should expand that platform significantly. Recorded and self-produced at home, apart from two tracks set down in the studio with Whitney producer Jonathan Rado, the intelligent arrangements on Para Mi represent a further leap forward for Banos. Writing is reportedly already well underway for the follow-up, and beyond that he’s eyeing a collaboration with his pal Thundercat, and the chance to play more benefits in support of immigrants facing deportation, like last year’s Selena-themed show at New York’s Lincoln Center. “In this political climate I think being an artist of colour – especially a Mexican artist – is already a form of activism, you know?” reflects Banos as we wrap up our conversation. “It's definitely not what our President or a lot of our politicians stand for. Being on the side of the rise up, representing and being there for Latinx artists, trying to create a platform for diversity – that’s what I really root for.” Para Mi is out now via Interscope
Easy
Steve Lacy was still in high school when he shot to success with The Internet. Now 21, his debut solo album heralds him as a true Gen Z pop star. But he’s taking it all in stride
Does It
034
The 21st birthday is a rite of passage for most American kids. It’s the moment they cross the channel into legal adulthood. You can drink now. Rent a car. Adopt a child. In some states, purchase weed. The American cultural canon demands an extravagant celebration: a shot of tequila at midnight, seven more before last call. Not for Steve Lacy, though. The musician forgot about his 21st birthday. “I always go to Six Flags but I forgot to send out invites to people so it was only like three people,” he tells me, before adding, characteristically deadpan: “That was kind of sad.” Maybe it’s easy to overlook your birthday when you’re busy celebrating your debut solo album. The day after he turned 21, Lacy released the fittingly titled Apollo XXI. The record’s release took place in the aeronautical setting of Compton Municipal Airport, where he was embraced like a homecoming king by the community in which he grew up. The follow-up to his widelyloved 2017 EP, Steve Lacy’s Demo, Apollo XXI is the strongest herald yet of his star potential as a solo artist – although there have been plenty of signs before now. By the time he’d turned 17, Lacy, a proficient guitarist and bassist, had already earned a Grammy nomination
for his work executive producing Ego Death, the third studio album from The Internet. By the time he turned 19, he’d earned production credits on projects by the likes of Kendrick Lamar, J. Cole, Denzel Curry and GoldLink. He’s only gotten busier since then. Last year he produced Crush, the delightful EP by R&B singer Ravyn Lenae, and released Hive Mind with The Internet. The latter is a masterful funk-slash-R&B album that is now a mainstay on Spotify hookup playlists. After that, he went on an international tour. When he returned home, he took a mere month and a half to write, record and produce Apollo XXI. “That month is where I just kind of pumped everything. It happened really fast,” he remembers. The nebulous, free-ranging sound of Apollo XXI is hard to categorise. There are strong elements of funk, R&B and hip hop – all categories unified by black music genealogy – but they’re shot through a lo-fi pop prism. The record features appearances by Tyler, the Creator and Solange, who he’s collaborated with in the past, but it’s Lacy’s vocals that cut through the most. They evoke remarkable unbotheredness; extreme chill even in the throes of intense passion. It’s a cool-headed confidence that he radiates in person as well as on his records, a kind of self-possession that emits so powerfully you could feel it even if he was standing silently in the back of a crowded room (he usually is). One publication even called Apollo XXI “the future of sex”, which seems like the most appropriate appellation for his low-key coming-of-age pop. In Like Me, the album’s second track, he divulges more about his private life than he’s willing to do in most interviews. “I only feel energy, I see no gender/ When I talk 'bout fish, I wanna catch you, I'm a fisher,” he sings on the track. “Now they debate on who I like, they wanna see a list of/ Girls and boys out here so they can see if I'm official.” Lacy, himself, refuses to indulge in the subject of his sexuality outside of his music when pressed. “There are so many journalists or people that just want to paint a certain picture and box you, so [artists] are afraid to say certain words because we're afraid that the journalist is going to say, ‘Oh, this is that,’” he says, choosing his words
carefully. “So we speak very vaguely because we've been through that shit.” It’s true that he’s been notoriously skittish around the press and picky about his interviews, which makes sense, because he’s been doing them since he turned 17. Because of that, his personal and professional history has been well-documented: Lacy was born and raised in Compton, California, mostly by his mother. He has one sister – older – and she exposed him to “Tracy Chapman, Musiq Soulchild and… John Mayer.” “John Mayer’s great,” I interrupt. “I know,” he responds. “But if you knew my big sister, you'd be like, ‘You're listening to John Mayer?’ That was actually a fluid time in music, though. My sister is kind of hood, you know what I mean? They were listening to all types of music all night on MTV. Those songs were hits.” Those were his first music memories, and you can see how this freeroaming diet of music would inform his own genre-agnostic approach. His older sister bumping Your Body Is a Wonderland while he memorised the gospel songs he learned to sing in church. And then there’s what he calls “drinking music” – party stuff like Too Short, that he listened to with his middle school friends. “That's when I was still kind of trendy,” he says, sheepishly. “I wasn't as artsy then. I was battling trying to be an artsy boy while being a cool teenager.” His mother, eager to encourage his interest in music, enrolled him in the Humanities and Arts Academy of Los Angeles – HART’s, for short – which is located on the campus of Narbonne High School. In the 9th grade, he met Jameel Bruner, a musician who played the keys for a jazz band. Jameel, now known as Kintaro, was older than Lacy, a senior, and one of the original members of The Internet. “I looked up to Jameel because he was so skilful [at] his craft,” remembers Lacy. He tells me about how Bruner began bringing him along to studio sessions with the band. Slowly he became part of the makeup. “Jameel had his laptop and he was making beats, showing me how to do it. I was like, ‘Oh wow, I can do that.’ I figured it out and got people to trust me to stretch my wings.”
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Words: Tasbeeh Herwees Photography: Sasha Samsonova Styling: Sofia Benito & Chelsea Gaspard Clothing: c/o The Bearded Beagle and JetPack Homme
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The next thing he knew, he was picking up a guitar, recording along with them. In 2013, when he was still in high school, Lacy began production on what would become The Internet’s third studio album Ego Death. Crucially, he did most of his production on an iPhone, using a mobile audio interface called iRig, providing a USP that made him stand out. When the album was released in 2016, it was nominated for Best Urban Contemporary Album at the Grammys. Inevitably, Lacy found himself an in-demand producer, going on to work with The Internet bandmate Syd on Fin, producing tracks for Twenty88, Denzel Curry, J. Cole, Kendrick Lamar (he produced Pride for Kendrick’s DAMN. LP). Suddenly he was doing press interviews and heading out on tour. He went on to be named a Tech Visionary by Wired Magazine and one of Time Magazine’s Most Influential Teens. Lacy had made it, and he hadn’t even graduated high school.
Compton two months ago. “There would be times where I would get home [to my mom’s house] from a long strenuous tour and I just want no noise, no nothing,” he says. “I just want to sit in my room, but it would be too hectic. My sister would have her friends here, and I would be like, man I don't feel like none of this.” So he moved to a neighbourhood tucked away in the Santa Monica mountains, far from the chaos of city life.
people would ask him about fashion. On Instagram, he documents himself in Dries Van Noten jackets, Virgil Abloh’s Louis Vuitton (when Abloh took over as the French fashion house’s menswear art director, he tapped Lacy to walk in his first show), and Carhartt tees (he modelled for the brand once, too, in 2018). Besides that Rickenbacker, the other thing he bought with his first paycheck was a Stella McCartney sweater. On tour, his personal style was characterised by a series of bold
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His family thinks he spends his time partying – on a cruise or at the beach, with his collar popped. But, no, he insists, he’s at home. Alone. He just moved out of his mom’s house in
The stylist present at this shoot is his friend, and he navigates the clothing rack with quiet confidence, selecting shoes and accessories for himself, turning down pieces he doesn’t like, eyeing each one with a neutral gaze. One of his final selections is a matching patchwork jacket and kilt combination. He doesn’t say it to me, but you can see that he likes to keep his friends close. The other person present at this shoot, Chelsea, is the stylist’s assistant. With the familiarity of a biological sister, she grabs his phone and begins to order Thai takeout for the group. She also threw him a surprise birthday party when he forgot about his own. She takes him out to warehouse parties on the edge of the city, where the tempo is engineered to move your body. But he doesn’t last long.
The first thing he bought with his paycheck was a guitar. “The Rickenbacker 330 – I call it my broke Christmas,” he laughs. “As a high school kid, you get $3,500 and think, ‘I'm rich!’” He revels in the memory: “A couple of thousand dollars to a kid who never, ever had that much money in his hand, I was going berserk,” he remembers. “I felt so generous and I was treating everyone, buying stupid amounts of weed. That's when I was a stoner,” he says, explaining the excess was short-lived. “I don't smoke anymore. Coffee fiend.” He gestures towards the coffee cup in his hand. Every day since graduating high school, he’s been a working musician. So it’s understandable why, when he turned 21, all he wanted to do was ride some coasters at the theme park. “I'm a fucking grump,” he says, by way of explanation. “I'm the simplest 21-year-old, I just want to hang out with my friends, find cool music to listen to, read cool books. I didn't envision myself going to a club and getting blacked-out drunk. I just didn't see it, you know what I mean?”
called Jetpack. He doesn’t like ceding control to stylists. “I might wear what they want, but it's very collaborative,” he says.
“You know when you're out and… the wall is right there,” he says. “You feel it.” I know where the wall is, I say. The exact moment you realise you need to go home. The exact moment being out isn’t fun anymore. When you’re young and a little stupid, you ignore the wall, and you stay at the party, and you make regrettable decisions. In Los Angeles, where you might find yourself partying alongside people who can accurately recall the Clinton years, it takes a long time to figure out where the wall is. You want to show up, show out. But Lacy has grown up fast, and well. At just 21, he has the rest of his career ahead of him, with no reason to rush. He’s content to set his own pace, do things his way.
“I have to Uber my friends out to come see me,” he admits. “Isn't that sad? I want company, and they're like, ‘We're not driving to Topanga!’” When he does go out, it’s to eat at his favourite vegan spot in West Hollywood, or to shop for clothes at, like, Uniqlo. He mentions Uniqlo twice over the course of our interview, so it feels important to mention – but only because Lacy loves fashion. A lot. He wishes more
Margiela heels. The notoriously softspoken artist expresses himself loudly with clothing – high, low, all of it.
“I remember when I would just stay out past [the wall],” he says, adjusting his tone. “But now it's like... I feel the wall, I'm going to go.” Apollo XXI is out now on 3qtr
“Some nights, I feel like Uniqlo. This is Balenciaga, I just bought it,” he says, pointing to the piece he’s wearing. “I don't like designer that has its logo or name on it.” At the photo shoot, he exercises control over the outfit options. He mulls over a pair of shoes. Carefully considers a patchwork kilt by a brand
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“I was battling trying to be an artsy boy while being a cool teenager”
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Top: JW Anderson Bottoms: ABAGA VELLI Shoes: Santoni
LEAN ON ME Through their heart-swelling new solo album, Adam Bainbridge has found solace in self-discovery
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Words: Douglas Greenwood Photography: Scott Gallagher Photography Assistant: Joe Wiles Styling: Ade Udoma Makeup: Roberta Kearsey Hair: Shaun Macintosh
“New York has no choice but to be on the cutting edge of a lot of different dialogues about race, gender and sexuality. It was an encouraging place to be because someone was always ahead of the curve. You can reinvent yourself if you choose to”
Kindness is a shoulder to cry on. Since they were young, death has surrounded them and shaped them. “As I get older, part of me wants to gently manoeuvre [those around me] into a position of readiness for the inevitable,” the artist, real name Adam Bainbridge, tells me, glassy-eyed and gazing out the window of a photography studio in east London. “Some of my friends are in their 40s now and it’s like, something very shit is going to happen very soon, and you’re not going to be ready for this. It’s going to change your life completely.” Bainbridge has always been a complex character. Throughout their 11-year career, they’ve earned a reputation for anatomising pop’s most obscure characteristics, and creating grumbling, groove-laced magic from it. Born in Peterborough, but musically raised in the same DIY east London scene that birthed Dev Hynes, they’ve experienced the alt-pop label machine (they were, once upon a time, signed to Polydor) and have since learned how to make do without it. Now independent – and you get the impression that’s where they’re most content – Bainbridge is hardly short of experience when it comes to the way music makes and breaks you.
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On the day we meet, a week has passed since news broke of the death of Cassius co-founder and electronic music legend Philippe Zdar, a close friend and collaborator of Bainbridge’s. The pair had known each other for the best part of a decade. When it came to the making of Kindness’ debut album, World, You Need a Change of Mind, they waited nine months to start work on production and mastering, just so Zdar’s schedule would allow him to work on it with them. “In talking with [Philippe’s] friends and family, I realised
that it wasn’t the music that was the most important thing,” Bainbridge reflects, “it was the fact that the music brought us together. After that, it was friendship, process and discovering things about yourself. In the end, the music is all quite ephemeral.” Still, that “ephemeral” work Bainbridge speaks of is wonderful. Despite the sullen circumstances, we’re here to discuss their third solo album Something Like a War. It’s the first time in five years they’ve released a record with their name at the fore. The time in between has been spent doing other things, namely producing and writing with artists like Robyn, Solange and Hynes under his Blood Orange moniker. “I have to make sure I don’t get sued, but the music business is messy and complicated,” they admit, when I ask what caused the prolonged solo pause. It was a necessary step back, and a fruitful one; their clouded vision cleared again. It was, it turns out, a brutal combination of complex label politics, money problems and a lack of self-belief that led Bainbridge to step out of the limelight as an artist in the first place. “It was easier to go into a removed place and work in a focused way for other people, who had specific things in mind,” they explain, their glossy long hair framing their face. “That’s what’s been wonderful about working with Solange [on A Seat at the Table] and Robyn [on Honey] especially, because there’s no lack of direction. They know exactly what they want. They have visions, masterplans.” Leaving those sessions with brilliant bodies of work – both of which went on to be critically acclaimed – convinced
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Top: JW Anderson Bottom & boots: Loewe
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Top jacket: YSL Under jacket: Armani Jeans: Versace Boots: Corthay
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And so, Something Like a War was born. A 13-track body of work rooted in self discovery, openness and escapism that flits from soulful electrofunk to heart-swelling pop ballads in one fell swoop. It’s disorienting and, considering the rigidity of its meticulous sonic craftsmanship, feels loose-limbed and loved on first play. Raise Up is a disco dance number that will burrow itself into your brain. The strings of No New Lies, layered in between south London singer Cosima’s vocals and sparse drum beats, are so incongruous and sad they could belong to Ryuichi Sakamoto. The whole thing unfurls with such grace, it’s no surprise Bainbridge was mainly responsible for mixing and mastering it themself. To record it, Bainbridge left London for New York City. “Part of the reason a lot of people choose to live overseas is because it’s like hitting reset,” they say of upping sticks and trying out a life someplace new. “New York has no choice but to be on the cutting edge of a lot of different dialogues about race, gender and sexuality.
What Bainbridge went through there – both as a person and as Kindness – feels like less of a reinvention and more like a discovery of a self that was always inside of them. They now identify as gender non-conforming, and prefers they/them pronouns. “The first page of Google results is enough to make me go ‘Oh, I’ve lived a multiplicity of lives already,’” they tell me. This one feels like a person they're far more content with. I wondered if there was any influence, beyond the personal, that led Bainbridge to make their identity public knowledge. "Maybe just because the more gender non-conforming people there will be in the public eye, the more straightforward or normal it’ll be,” they shrug. “The less complicated it is to say, ‘OK, that sounds very familiar, I’d like to use that as a way of describing myself as well.’” If Something Like a War feels like a jubilant record in celebration of that freedom, there are flecks of agony in its plume too. The Warning, one of two tracks featuring Robyn, is one of its more sombre moments. “So will you tell me/ Did you ever care?” Robyn begs in her signature urging register. I wonder what the most agonising feeling is to Bainbridge, and how that translates into song. “Grief,” they respond. Death has “happened far too often in my relatively short life already.”
“That was the motivation to do something called Kindness in the first place, something rooted more in melancholy and sensitivity and less in brashness and Technicolor,” they say. “Some of this was a response to a lurid, nu-rave, neon pop moment in the underground, which I felt was exhilarating, but was not the place to unload my feelings or baggage.”
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It was an encouraging place to be because someone was always ahead of the curve. All new friends. All new environment. You can reinvent yourself if you choose to.”
That's what they're doing with the new album: exploring that suspended moment between grief and catharsis, whether that’s of another person or your old self. It's something, I tell them, that I understand, having lost my mother as a child. Being exposed to it in its most traumatic form made me emotionless for a while. “It’s not that you’re emotionless,” Bainbridge reassures. “It’s just that you’re not phased by what terrifies other people.” Bainbridge is mourning the passing of their friend in their own way: by returning to the music. They compiled a mix for BBC Radio 1 in memory of Zdar that personifies sadness. They’ve been confronting it head on: discussing their friendship in interviews despite its rawness, and listening to that mix ceaselessly in the back of taxis, going about their life, for days on end. It takes time and strength to reach a place where sadness doesn’t scare you. Slowly, it seems, Kindness has found it. Something Like a War is due 6 September on Female Energy
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Bainbridge that maybe they didn’t have to go back to making music under their own moniker after all. It took time to reverse that way of thinking. It took a deep dive into DJing, surrounding themself with other artists, as well as “listening to music and feeling pure pleasure and exhilaration from it” to assure them it was time to make a modest comeback. They visibly cringe a little when I call it that in air quotes. “Where have I been?!” Bainbridge retorts.
Produced exclusively for Crack Magazine by Jordanne Chant - @jordannechant
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Something’s growing in the Russian underground, and Moscow producer Kedr Livanskiy is at the root of it
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Words: Anastasiia Fedorova Photography: Yaroslav Klochkov Styling: Vasilisa Gamaleya-Gusarova Styling Assistant: Lorena Kasparova Make-up: Valeria Vitko Production: Vasilisa Kartashova Production Assistant: Ivan Leontiev Technical: Alexander Shlyantsev Technical Assistant: Fares Demenuk
When I speak to Kedr Livanskiy, she’s on the Los Angeles leg of the third North American tour of her career. It’s set to conclude with two shows in New York, including one for MoMA PS1’s Warm Up series, but, excitement aside, the 28-year-old Moscow-born singer and producer can’t wait to get home. I catch myself agreeing that there is something special about summer in that city: vast highways heated by the sun, the towering housing estates sinking into the lush greenery, the haze which envelops the brutal cityscape. To some extent, Kedr Livanskiy’s music is rooted in this sense of belonging. It reflects a certain time and place, a unique experience of a certain generation. Kedr Livanskiy is part of a new wave of Russian underground sound. Now aged 28, Livanskiy – her artist name – began making music in 2015, first appearing on the international radar a year later with her elegiac debut EP January Sun. Back then, she was part of Johns’ Kingdom, an underground collective that united artists and musicians inspired by the day-to-day grit of Russian urban edgelands. Livanskiy, like many of the Johns’ Kingdom community, was drawn to the raw qualities of lo-fi sound as a means to communicate a DIY romanticism. Home-recorded and charmingly imperfect, her songs invoke the unexpected magic of something overheard through an old car stereo, intimate and playful. Existing in an ambiguous space between drifting pop and experimental music, she established a broad fanbase that spread far beyond the borders of Russia. Livanskiy’s second album, Your Need, released in May, is a remarkable development in her sound. Though it wasn’t conceived as an album – working with her friend, St Petersburg producer Flaty, the two came together with a plan to create a single. Ten days later they had a full-length LP. “We didn’t really conceptualise it, just shared music we liked, looked at videos, and then sat down and tried to connect musically,” Livanskiy admits. “Everything went down at such a crazy pace. Every day we made one or two tracks, there was this burgeoning powerful and unruly energy.” Your Need seems to take its cues from crowded dancefloors as much as lonely bedrooms or desolate cityscapes. Its
melodic pop structures are heightened through a palette of hardcore synth riffs, deep house pads and – on the kinetic Bounce 2 – drums that top 150 BPM. “All the songs refer to classics of breakbeat and house music, but in a timely way,” she explains. “It reflects the mood I was in at the time: very wild and volatile.” Indeed, the unfiltered style of working translated into a kind of catharsis for the artist. “Before writing the album I went through a period of depression. Flaty was a big support, and thanks to him I showed the sides of myself which I might have been scared to expose or didn’t know technically how to express.” Expression has always been central to Livanskiy’s work, despite many of her listeners not knowing Russian – the language in which she sings. Even for Russian speakers, the lyrics are understood as often being fragmented and abstract. For Livanskiy, music always comes first, and words second. “The way you feel is best and most accurately expressed through music. That’s why I like metaphorical rather than concrete lyrics, like poetry – although I’m not saying that what I write is poetry,” she qualifies. I wonder what it feels like to write and perform in a language to an audience that doesn’t understand. “I think the international audience perceive my music exactly the same. People don’t understand the words but they feel the vibe, mood…” To create her distinct mood, Livanskiy turns to nature for help. The video for her single Ariadna is filmed in the remote Georgian mountains, while Ivan Kupala, the final track on Your Need, refers to the Slavic countryside tradition of summer solstice festivities. Even the name she performs under, Kedr Livanskiy, translates from Russian as ‘Lebanese cedar’. “In nature, you can find a reflection of any human feeling or emotion, and nature provides a way to describe it in a more subtle and beautiful way,” she says. Her interest in “the intersection between nature and the industrial environment” also feeds into the inspiration behind the cover for Your Need. It’s an homage to iconic pop album artwork, “like ones by Britney Spears. But the bright, acid-y look is combined with the natural landscape. It creates a contrast between something fierce and something tender. This conflict also exists on the album.”
The overt pop reference feels pointed in other ways too. The Russian music industry is still relatively young, only dating back to the 90s, and doesn’t offer a lot of support for emerging talent. In fact, most cutting edge Russian music today exists in parallel to mainstream high-budget production and media. In Russia, you wouldn’t see Livanskiy and her peers on TV. With little hope for monetising underground music within the Russian media economy, this path often remains a labour of love and matter of community. This sense of community has given rise to a new generation of Russian producers and artists who are content to remain proudly DIY, from underground labels, like the NTSapproved Gost Zvuk, to fellow Johns’ Kingdom alumni Buttechno. When questioned, Kedr Livanskiy mentions underground rap crews 555TRAKC555 and Praztal Fractal as her favourite artists in Moscow’s current music scene. “Of course, it’s a little bit ironic, making Memphis-style Southern rap
in a Russian setting, but I love that the guys are really committed to music. They constantly hang out in their home studio, drink, smoke and record. I am certainly planning on collaborating with them in the future,” she says. “This is my favourite thing about making music – when talented people come together to create something beautiful.” This idea – the potential of music to connect fellow creatives and build the local scene – feels central to Livanskiy’s approach, however far from home she travels. Despite her rapid global rise, success is secondary. “I never expected anything from my music career, and I still don’t. I guess that’s my secret,” she admits. “I don’t have anything I’m desperate to achieve. My main happiness is to write a beautiful song.” Your Need is out now on 2MR This interview was translated from Russian
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“In nature, you can find a reflection of any human feeling or emotion, and nature provides a way to describe it in a more subtle and beautiful way”
Where do humans and machines overlap? Can we ever understand AI? Should we be listening to trees? Composer Holly Herndon contemplates the questions raised by our near future with technologist James Bridle
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Words: Lisa Blanning Artwork: KESH Styling: Olive Duran Hair and Makeup: Christian Fritzwanker
“We're more willing to grant intelligence to things that we've built ourselves than to non-human species”
James Bridle is a British artist, writer and technologist whose first book – called The New Dark Age, about technology, knowledge and the end of the future – was published last year, followed by a BBC Radio 4 show, New Ways of Seeing this year. The pair met for the first time this summer in Berlin for an expansive conversation about AI, the nature of intelligence, and its implications on evolution, culture, governance and more. JB: What did you think was going to happen before you started this process [of building Spawn, the baby AI that features on new album PROTO]? HH: I thought it would be easier. I thought we would get results sooner. It took way longer and it sounded way shittier. Then it became this process of negotiating not just expectation, but allowing it to reveal something of itself to me that I wouldn't always find pleasing and being OK with that, and still trying to find something interesting and different about it. JB: One project I did was I set out to build my own self-driving car, which is a process of hiring a car and sticking a bunch of webcams and sensors onto it. I had to build an app for my phone. It was velcroed to the steering wheel and all these sensors – you're basically training a neural net to drive like you.
The other thing I made was this thing I called “The Autonomous Trap”, which was this salt circle. I haven't tried it with a real [self-driving car], but it should work in that the car has to obey the rules of the road, so it can't cross that line. The day after I did it, someone sent me a video of a Tesla on a highway in California just after they'd salted the roads and this Tesla was jumping lanes. So it obeys salt lines. But subsequently, looking back on it, as a visual artwork the point was to make something that affected the car but was also visible to humans. What I got out of that project was finding not even what we have in common but just visible, audible, sensible to both sides. We're starting to recognise this thing that we call machine intelligence as being something fundamentally different from human ways of thinking. Like, where's the common ground? HH: There's an interesting overlap there with some of the work that we did at Martin-Gropius-Bau. We staged a public training performance involving music and theatre and sets. Basically, I had the public repeating speech and song and then we trained Spawn on the various responses. People had beer bottles in their hands and we had them use their keys to make sharp transient sounds. Spawn really likes this sound, it’s something she responds to, and then I respond to how Spawn responds to that, because I get this very information-rich response. Spawn was struggling with the reverb in that space because the waveforms were becoming smoother, so the differences between the samples were more difficult to make sense of – but when you have sharp transients then that's easy to see the wave shape difference. So it was this area of us coming together, like you're saying. Something that the neural net's responding to and that the human ear is responding to, as well. It was a little bit different with the voice model we were doing, but it was interesting to hear [Spawn] perform
Jlin's music because it was trying to make sense of what my human voice would normally do when presented with these very transient-heavy percussion sounds that my human voice would never perform. I've tried to see if I could perform Jlin’s track Godmother and, of course, I can't go that fast. It's this fun idea of this next version of my voice that's more flexible, faster, has infinite range and never needs to breathe. If we can get it to work, there's the possibility we would be able to perform through anything that we could model, which is wild. And it wouldn't necessarily have to be a vocal input. You could have a drummer performing through whatever model you imagine, like through a crowd. These are the kind of sonic images that I've been dreaming of for a long time. Like, “Wouldn't it be amazing if I could sing through the voice of a thousand people?” And we're inching towards that. You can do some of these things with digital tricks: doubling and chorusing. I've hit the limit with what I can do with digital manipulation and this opens up a whole new box to play with. JB: I'm particularly interested in this relationship you have with a technology and intelligence you constructed yourselves because everyone's obsessed with the idea of AI just at the moment we're starting to acknowledge the intelligence of other things more generally. We're more willing to grant intelligence to things that we've built ourselves than to non-human species, even though it's increasingly obvious that primates, cephalopods and trees have forms of intelligence that we should maybe be listening to. So how do we take this sudden decentring of the human with regard to AI? It's like a Copernican moment when suddenly we have to acknowledge there are other forms of intelligence present. And then suddenly go, "Oh shit, there have been incredible amounts of intelligence here all along, and we've completely ignored them.” HH: That's actually one of the reasons why we chose the child metaphor [for
James Bridle
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Holly Herndon is the American composer, performer and musical futurist who has just released her third album, PROTO, with the help of both a vocal ensemble – hearkening back to her gospel and folk singing roots in East Tennessee – and a self-built, nascent artificial intelligence called Spawn, which uses machine learning to interpret vocal characters and composition techniques. In 2018, Herndon released Godmother, the track that introduced Spawn to the world. It was a collaboration between Herndon and Jlin, whose music was used as one of the datasets from which to generate the track.
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“If we've learned anything from the last several decades, it’s that capitalism is not equipped to deal with issues of climate change or ethics”
Spawn]. We were looking at Donna Haraway's writing about the kind of kinship she feels for her inhuman pet relationships. I think using this metaphor of the child confused a lot of people because they thought we were saying Spawn was a human baby. We're like, "No, this is an inhuman child. It's a nascent intelligence that we're trying to raise as a community and impact at the foundational level." I don't know if you read Reza Negarestani’s Intelligence and Spirit. Basically he taps into this idea of the history of human intelligence being this great collective project and maybe the idea of rational thought is somewhere outside of humanity in some way. We're able to tap into it with our own human intelligence, but other species are tapping into it in their own way, and maybe it's something that's outside of ourselves. But I think you're right. It makes total sense that we would be coming to that conclusion while we're coming to this new obsession as well. It's like part of the public consciousness has opened up to accept those ideas now.
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JB: There's a slightly guilty teleological bent to my thinking that I always think there's some weird purpose inside things. Purpose doesn't imply necessarily a smooth progression to some glorious future, but that there's some reason to the things that we pick up, and that they shape us deeply. I'm reading Kim Stanley Robinson’s Science in the Capital series. It's full of wonderful stuff, including where he's talking about these ancient axe heads, the tools of homo erectus – the previous iteration of our species
homo sapiens. These tools have been described by certain anthropologists as being part of the rapid evolutionary growth of the brain that got us from homo erectus to homo sapien. HH: Entrainment! JB: Right. Tools guide evolution on a deep level. Perhaps one of the things that humans have done recently is figure out that we can take conscious control over those tools. And if tools shape our evolutionary direction, then we should take more conscious decisions over what tools do and actually decide that direction for ourselves. We can pick which way we want to go. Because our tools have been developed deliberately to grab our attention, to steal our time, to make us work harder, all of these things. Those are evolutionary redirecting steps. If we want them to go in another direction, we have to make very serious choices around which tools we use and how we design them. HH: I think this becomes increasingly more complicated as we look at stuff like AI. You're saying you’ve built things from the ground up, but at a certain level there is an abstraction there. There's a reason why AI is called black box technology. It’s really difficult to understand every single inner working decision. And so whether or not we even have the capacity to be able to understand where this is going is a question. JB: Which is why going forward our framework for interaction cannot be based on understanding. Our desire
to know these systems intimately is a sublimated desire for control, that if only we understood everything better – surveillances, whatever – then we would actually have control over them. Our desire for control is precisely the problem. We are never going to understand the world more broadly. We're not going to be able to talk to trees in the way that we talk to one another. But we need to be able to live meaningfully, equitably with them and with all other natural systems. And the same is true of these insanely complex technological systems that we're developing. They extend beyond our own individual understanding, and that goes all the way up to the people who work for the companies developing them. They only understand small [parts of the systems]. They don't have a complete compact understanding, it certainly doesn't extend beyond the black box into the social systems into which these things are embedded. No one has the overview. So the aim therefore cannot be a kind of deep complete technical understanding, but a way of actually living amongst and alongside one another. And ways of forming consensus, acknowledging that we cannot know these things entirely. HH: Yeah, I agree. I guess the question is how to shape policy and the direction of this development without this mastery. We've seen in the States over the last several years a slight shift in dialogue towards Silicon Valley ideology. I see this optimistic option, but then, even watching the Congressional hearings with Zuckerberg and just seeing the lack
of technical understanding... that's when I become pessimistic. I wonder: without a broader political will how these things be shaped? Because right now they're being shaped by the market, by capitalism. And if we've learned anything from the last several decades, it’s that capitalism is not equipped to deal with issues of climate change or ethics. So, how do we find that collective will to shape these conversations actually from the protocol level, from the very foundational level to steer the ship? JB: The other thing is the fact that we also need to start acknowledging the intelligence and cognition of the nonhuman, both machines and plants and animals and trees, and everything else. And so obviously the next logical step is that true cognitive diversity goes beyond the human. Which means future governments have to include genuine consensus with things outside the human, including both machine intelligence and like plants, animals, trees. HH: It sounds super psychedelic, the implementation of that. [laughs] JB: I'm like, “Here's a bunch of scientific research from the last 20 years. And so we need to start talking to trees.” PROTO is out now on 4AD New Dark Age is out now, published by Verso
Holly Herndon
Aesthetic:
Words: Felicity Martin Photography: Sam Hiscox Styling: Lee Trigg Makeup: Thomasin Waite at Julian Watson Agency Hair: Waka Adachi
A few weeks ago, Coucou Chloe woke up to someone tagging her underneath a now-deleted Instagram post by Kris Jenner. The video in question – an advert for a DJ duo made up of hotel heir Barron Hilton and his wife – used a track produced by Chloe and Sega Bodega under their Y1640 alias called Weep. But the pair weren’t credited and, worse still, a comment underneath saying ‘stay tuned!’ implied that the Hilton duo, Humanmosaic, were releasing the track. “I just woke up like, 'What the fuck?!'” Chloe exclaims, as we sit in the bar of Hackney Picturehouse. Though the Hiltons have since apologised, writing “mad respect for them both”, it’s unsurprising that wealthy celebrities trying to shoehorn their way into the music business would turn to Coucou Chloe. The France-born producer and vocalist’s music sounds like it’s from the future. The austere, skeletal beats over which she often drapes her deadpan voice twist the idea of a club banger inside out: she sounds mysterious and unsettling, like nothing you’ve heard before.
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Chloe – real name Erika Jane – made her debut with Halo, a 2016 EP for Berlin label Creamcake, and has kept up a steady rate of releases since. Her most recent, Naughty Dog EP, reveals her tightest songcraft yet. Chloe is also one of the driving forces behind NUXXE, the forward-facing label she runs with collaborators Sega Bodega and Shygirl. The label is going from strength to strength: they’ve just released a bumping club freak-out called XXXTC by internet sensation Brooke Candy, with Charli XCX and Maliibu Miitch contributing verses.
In person, Coucou Chloe is as unassumingly cool as her music. She cites 90s hip-hop and Snoop Dogg as her style inspiration, and today she’s wearing an oversized ‘U MAD BRO?’ troll face t-shirt with a furry leopard bucket hat. She grins while flashing a Ween tattoo on her arm – a tribute to the alt rock band that made an unexpectedly huge stamp on her approach to making music. “I love the freedom they had, they were making everything they wanted to make. It definitely pushed me to create,” she admits. An avid gamer up until the age of 13, you can hear the influence of amorphous video game soundtracks in Chloe’s sound. Her dad would play music on long car journeys as a kid, where she’d uncover parallel universes in her brain and imagine herself as Lara Croft “going on crazy adventures”. Chloe also recounts growing up in “the tiniest” village of Biot, in the south of France. She moved to Nice to attend Villa Arson art school, seeing it as the big city, but left after realising it wasn’t the place for her. “It was so dry there. I started to feel like I was in a cage,” she tells me. London took in the art school dropout three years ago, and she instantly found her feet at outsider club nights like PDA, Bala Club and Oscillate Wildly before NTS brought her into the fold as a resident, and Boiler Room tapped her up for a show – an event she learnt to DJ for in just a couple of days. “It's crazy how everybody's working with everybody here, you know?” she says. “People from music, fashion. Everybody is just kind of together and it's so beautiful and stimulating.”
Doom, a strobing club anthem that sounds like the chain-clinking insides of a BDSM club, was cherry-picked by Rihanna for her Fenty x Puma New York Fashion Week show in 2017, when Chloe had just started making music from her bedroom. Now a firm favourite in the fashion world, Chloe recently DJ’d for Prada and Gucci, and her sharp-jawed model looks have found her fronting Burberry and Vivienne Westwood campaigns. With desires to soundtrack full catwalk shows (“Hit me up!” she beams), Chloe also wants to start to focus on producing for other people this year, naming Playboi Carti as her dream collaborator. “A lot of people assume – probably because I'm a woman – that I don't make beats. Sometimes people ask me, 'Did you make the beat?' and it’s an instrumental track. It’s like, ‘Who do you think made it, asshole?’” But Coucou Chloe’s sights extend beyond taking her production to even more futuristic heights. “I want to express myself through a lot of mediums,” she finishes, explaining she wants to delve deeper into visual art forms. “You know, there is the music, but I also want to build my own universe...” Coucou Chloe’s NAUGHTY DOG EP is out now on NUXXE
Top and skirt: Aliou Janha Bra: Neith Nyer Silver rose earrings: Alan Crocetti
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All clothing: Mowalola Rings: Alan Crocetti
All clothing: Christopher Shannon
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Jacket: Emporio Armani Shirt: Esau yori Silver rose earrings: Alan Crocetti
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Words: Katie Goh
More than a muse: the story of Marianne and Leonard
ARTS & CULTURE
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A new documentary examines the complex relationship between Leonard Cohen and Marianne Ihlen. Here, director Nick Broomfield explains why he was compelled to bring such a personal story to the screen
Nick Broomfield was 20 and disillusioned after a year of studying law when he went to Hydra to become an artist. It was 1968, a year after the summer of love, and a colony of hippies and bohemian artists had descended upon the Greek island for sex, drugs and higher spiritualism. Two days after he got off the boat, Broomfield met Marianne Ihlen, a young Norwegian woman living in the colony with her child, Axel. They struck up a friendship. There, Ihlen introduced Broomfield to her lover: a young Canadian writer called Leonard Cohen. “It was crazy, fun…” Broomfield reflects in a deep, quiet voice with an accent that isn’t quite English or American. “Everyone was on a search or a quest or something. There were so many possibilities.” We’re sitting in a long, echoing boardroom in Sheffield, a long way from Hydra. Broomfield, now 71 and an established BAFTA Awardwinning documentarian, is waiting to introduce his new film, Marianne & Leonard: Words of Love. The mood is quiet and contemplative as he thinks back to the time he spent with his friend.
ARTS & CULTURE
Ihlen met Cohen on Hydra, eight years before Broomfield arrived. Both had left behind their chilly, conservative homelands of Norway and Montreal, searching for a free bohemianism. At the height of the countercultural epoch, the kindred spirits began a love affair that would colour the rest of their lives. The couple’s tumultuous romance became immortalised in the work of Cohen – most famously in the song So Long, Marianne – and, as Cohen established himself as one of the greatest songwriters of the 20th century, Ihlen became an essential part of the mythology. Even the end of their lives played out like one of Cohen’s songs: Ihlen passed away in 2016 and five months later
Cohen followed her. It was the sudden shock of having his old friends and mentors dying so close to one another that made Broomfield start to reflect on his past. “I was outraged, at first, that they dared to die,” he says. “They were such an intrinsic part of my growing up, especially Marianne who was such a big part of me becoming a filmmaker. Being faced with her death almost necessitated me to visit the beginnings of things. I didn’t necessarily know how I was going to make a film.” Broomfield began by reaching out to documentarian DA Pennebaker who had also been on Hydra with Ihlen and Cohen in the 60s. “We called Pennebaker up because he shot everything. He used 16mm like we use our phones now. He had so much stuff from then. Pennebaker’s son went down and spent a weekend digging through his archive and came across footage of Marianne that had never been viewed. It was amazing.” Alongside gorgeous, restored archive footage, Words of Love is made up of interviews with Ihlen and Cohen’s acquaintances, friends and family. Broomfield steers a profoundly personal narrative through his voiceover, reflecting not just on their life story but his own, as he drifted within their orbit. “The personal stuff was the most difficult bit,” he admits. “I was making a film about two superheroes and the last thing I wanted was to force the audience to suddenly go off into some irrelevant separate film about me. I wanted it to be part of the story rather than a digression. I wanted to use the personal stuff as chapters that moved the story along and to look at who Marianne was.” Although Ihlen will forever be remembered as Cohen’s muse, Broomfield was eager to interrogate what that aspect of their relationship actually meant to them both. “Muse is
a funny word,” Broomfield says softly. “She was selflessly encouraging to others, including myself. I think so many people depend on that person in their lives in one way or another. Those people are unsung heroes and I think Marianne was very much a part of Leonard’s development from writer to songwriter. His work wouldn’t have been the same without her.”
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Clockwise: Nick Broomfield © Nick Broomfield Nick Broomfield © Nick Broomfield Leonard Writing © Axel Jensen Jr
Marianne © Nick Broomfield
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“Marianne was very much a part of Leonard’s development from writer to songwriter. His work wouldn’t have been the same without her”
Broomfield clearly has a deep admiration and love for his subjects. However, as in his previous documentaries, Broomfield is careful not to minimise his subject’s darker impulses. Words of Love doesn’t shy away from conveying the unsavoury aspects of Ihlen and Cohen’s relationship, particularly when Cohen started drifting away from Ihlen as his fame increased. In the documentary, archive footage shows young women approaching a smiling Cohen, while on stage he jokingly introduces So Long, Marianne by admitting that he once would spend a whole year with the titular Marianne. Then two months. And eventually, just two days a year. “They were both sexually very fluid. Marianne was involved with women and men and I think Leonard was probably
involved with a lot of women. They had a tolerance for each other despite it being unbelievably painful. There was suffering that went with it.” When asked if Cohen’s fame was the reason the couple broke apart, Broomfield pauses. “I think it’s a bit like that line in Leonard’s poem at the end of the film,” he says carefully, referencing Cohen’s 1985 poem Days of Kindness. “That he overthrew [Ihlen and his loved ones] for an education in the world. He started his music career and there were so many objects of desire that he wasn’t prepared to commit. Friends of Marianne’s were very critical of Leonard because they saw the pain Marianne was going through. But it’s hard because they were both non-judgemental and it’s hard to understand their relationship in a useful way by judging either of them by some other criteria.” Eventually the relationship broke down, and though their lives took divergent paths – she ultimately returned to Norway – they stayed in touch. As she neared the end of her life, a friend of hers emailed Cohen who wrote the now-famous response. In Broomfield’s film, we see the moment Cohen’s letter was read to Ihlen, telling her: “I am so close behind you that if you stretch out your hand, I think you can reach mine.” This brings the conversation full circle. Why did Broomfield want to make this film in the first place? “Because these
were mythical figures in my life who left a massive impression on me. Especially Marianne. I only listened to Leonard’s work as diligently as I did to understand her better. I was trying to find meaning in all his words,” he laughs. “Probably entirely incorrectly.” If Marianne & Leonard: Words of Love is an attempt to gain an understanding of his friends, then it also required some deep introspection on Broomfield’s part. “I really don’t think you should know how you’re going to put a film together. Each film is an emotional journey. I had to go back and relive it all as part of that journey,” he explains. “I was very naive and romantic and impressionable back then. It was a journey of self-discovery for me as much as it was learning about Marianne and Leonard.”
Nick Broomfield
And what did Broomfield learn about himself by making a film about two heroes of that time and place? “That I made a lot of mistakes,” he laughs again, louder, breaking the room’s tension. “And that that was a very good thing.” Marianne & Leonard: Words of Love is out now
ARTS & CULTURE
Does Broomfield think Ihlen ever felt trapped in the role of supporter? “I think she felt inadequate,” he says with a hint of dejection. “I think what she did was amazing and no less of a talent – just different. I think there’s a lot of emphasis on people who make their own product – painters, writers, singers – and I think she felt it wasn’t really enough to be an encourager of others. She had a way of getting people to really talk about feelings and inner thoughts and finding a way of getting that person to move forward, which is a real strength and a real talent. It’s unfortunate she felt that it wasn’t enough.”
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The Click: Róisín Murphy In her own words, Róisín Murphy reflects on the breathing space that gave her creativity a second wind
It’s a brand new world when you've got two kids. When I returned to finally work on my first album, it was a big moment for me, and a big relief. After having children, I was just doing the odd track here and there, or putting out singles – which, of course, I've been doing again over the last year or so. At the time, people thought I was being strange or difficult, but it was really just a practical thing. I couldn’t take on the responsibility of stepping into an album project when I was busy with a baby. I also thought at the time, ‘Oh you know, it was a song that changed everything, so maybe a single isn’t such a bad idea.’ So I didn't look back.
This facilitated a huge creative and personal breakthrough. I had a lovely sense of structure in this time. I thought, ‘I can finally write songs, and I've got plenty of space in my life to be
creative, even with the kids around.’ And certainly, there was a fear of leaving them for the first time to really go into a big project, but that subsided as everything fell into place in the studio. Writing records is totally possible as a mother, but having space definitely helped it all converge. It helped me focus. From where I'm standing, it was perfect. I made music I've never made before, and it was totally unique to its own moment, to its own time. Róisín Murphy’s new single Incapable is out now via Skint Records
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Then after I had my second child with my partner Sebastiano, I got back into the groove. My mother-in-law took my two children away to the Bahamas for five weeks – they have a house there, nice for them! – so I just went into the studio every single day for five weeks and at the end of it I had my third album, Hairless Toys.
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Lives
Rosalía Somerset House, London 15 July
You may never guess that Bilbao, now buoyant with energy, was once a surly port town. A mining hub known for grey, industrial landscapes, the people called for a change. So Bilbao began a period of intense transformation. The opening of the lucrative Guggenheim Museum marked a turning point for the city; the project, entirely funded by the city council, jolted Bilbao into life. Bilbao BBK Live feels significantly placed in the city’s history. Founded by the Basque government in 2006, it’s impossible to imagine the festival ever existing were it not for this cultural revolution. Sat atop Mount Cobetas, the site itself feels spacious but compact, its hilly terrain perking you up as you walk between stages. The Basoa stage, enclosed by trees, feels like its own forest away from reality. Here, Octo Octa lit up the crowd on Thursday. The Brooklyn DJ and producer pummelled through proto-disco and uplifting house cuts as her partner Eris Drew thrashed her body behind her in support. Soon after, Ms Nina was up. The Madrileña reggaeton star’s pounding dembow beats prompted the hardest dancing of the weekend. She played songs off her 2019 debut album Perreando Por Fuera, Llorando Por Dentro, but the true magic was when she played Celia Cruz’s La Vida Es Un Carnaval – the parting anthem of the late Cuban singer and undisputed Queen of Salsa. Although Ms Nina is Spanish, this respectful nod to the Latinx artists that paved the way for her felt important. Friday ushered in a sold-out crowd, as big room acts like Rosalía, The Strokes and Brockhampton made up the night. Each act was a force of nature in their own right. Saturday was the grand closer of the festival, catering to dads and dads only, with Weezer and Hot Chip at the helm. Boldly opening with Buddy Holly, Weezer darted through all their teenage life-affirming bangers. Hot Chip brought the same energy, their ultra-tight set proving they are seasoned professionals. It was perhaps the only time standing shoulder-to-shoulder with balding men could ever feel euphoric. Bilbao BBK Live’s success highlights the importance of governments placing value on the arts. This sentiment feels especially powerful in a time where art is so readily dismissed – venues are closing at lightning speed, local councils are imposing hardline curfews, studios are being knocked down to make way for luxury flats. It really does make you wonder how it could all be. !
Rachel Grace Almeida N Tom Hagen
Sónar Barcelona Various venues, Barcelona 18-20 July Each day, it increasingly feels like we’re tumbling towards uncanny valley. At Sónar, where one of the intended headliners, A$AP Rocky, is currently incarcerated in Sweden with Kim Kardashian, Kanye West, and Donald Trump working together to ensure his release, this felt especially true. As it so often does, technology took centre stage at Sónar. Collaborations between artificial intelligence, music and immersive audiovisual experiences led this year’s bill, inviting hundreds of industry-leading experts and artists out to Barcelona for another year of talks, exhibitions, installations and live music. Opening proceedings was a conversation between Massive Attack’s Robert Del Naja and longtime collaborator Andrew Melchior. The pair spoke of their early encounters with Magic Leap – a start-up creating 3D VR headsets – and decoded the complex process behind Massive Attack’s Mezzanine project, where Del Naja and Melchior re-purposed the song’s musical DNA into a can of spray paint. This year’s musical bookings line up with the festival’s theme of futurism. For a Spanish debut, Berlin-based producer Lotic collaborated with A/V artist Emmanuel Biard for a new show, where Lotic pummelled through their fractured productions inside a cyclical lighting rig. Dutch-Iranian electronic pop producer Sevdaliza seamlessly united music and performance art. Venezuelan producer Arca, who recently relocated to Barcelona, played to a home crowd who welcomed her as one of their own. Friday ushered in Holly Herndon and PROTO, her recently-released album in collaboration with partner Mat Dryhurst and their AI “child”, Spawn. Herndon, clad in white drapes, dove into a set that felt divine. Joined by a small choir, their voices soared over the glitchy electronic underbed – all manipulated by Spawn. The performance offered a curious glance into a future where human creativity and automation could live harmoniously, removed from all the kitsch stereotypes that surround the current conversation. A festival pledged to supporting homegrown talent, it’s hard to think of artists more equipped for the task than Bad Gyal and Virgen María. Spanish artist Virgen María delivered a show steeped in subversion. As she sat motionless on top of the decks, eyes bleeding and completely naked, she declared to the crowd that she’s “here to bless you… here to sex you.” The set then rolled through a patchwork of electronic music: trap, PC Music, trance and gabber. Catalonian singer Bad Gyal ravaged the stage with her army of dancers and bass-heavy bangers. Pounding dembow beats, dancehall riddims and her signature Auto-Tuned vocals sounded as crisp as they do on record. As an institution, Sónar offers a positive glimpse into future worlds. Here, you’re given a space to expand your reach, drink in new ways of thinking and experience the future in real time. The festival’s commitment to the advancement of music, technology and art at this scale remains simply unrivalled. !
Jake Applebee N Sonar
! Gabriel Szatan N Somerset House
REVIEWS
Bilbao BBK Mount Cobetas, Bilbao 11-13 July
If you take figures from recent censuses, the percentage of Spanish and Latin American residents within the UK population comes to below 0.5% – combined. I was concerned that Somerset House, a palatial listed building in the heart of London’s old-world Strand, might be a cast net for casuals that extend Catalan sensation Rosalía the same polite murmurs of approval that have plagued so many shows in its historic courtyard. Thankfully, we called it wrong. The air is punctured throughout with queenly cries of “reina”. There are fans, still very much drunk-after-work Brits, who are making a concerted effort to keep up, even as some of the linguistic nuance is trampled underfoot in a slurry of post-work pints. The atmosphere is befitting of Rosalía’s position as this long decade winds to a close: coronated superstar of the next. Twenty tracks are knocked out in an hour, as Rosalía headbangs like a hesher, slides over to punch kicks in on El Guincho’s SP400 and plunges up and down her vocal register as if she was falling through a trapdoor before being hoisted back again. She positions tales of money, men and mistrust in a grander historical battle of good and evil, selling them with unbeatable emotion and conviction. When she returns for a seemingly unplanned encore, performing an acapella rendition of new single Dio$ No$ Libre del Dinero, it feels as if she primarily wanted to be back out with her core fans, her people. They are the ones constantly generating deafening screams with every flick of the hand, contortion of her body or delivery of a kiss-off line. Six dancers accentuate Rosalía’s movement by joining hands as a chorus line, moving as a phalanx, or carrying the mic and freeing her arms while she does crucifix poses. This is essentially an arena show in an academy clothing. Atop a raised plinth of LEDs, the entire mood is changed from cherry blossom pink to vengeant red as slickly as a finger click (or, a Malamente hand clap). There are stunning moments when the stage declutters, the beats fall, the visuals go dark, the crowd shuts up and – powerhouse voice utterly belting out – it’s all Rosalía. And truly, it always is.
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Shura forevher Secretly Canadian
REVIEWS
Russian-British singer Shura’s music lives in her head, and forevher explores new frontiers of her cautious songwriting. Her 2016 debut Nothing’s Real revealed a rich interiority under the 80s synths, examining shared moments of insecurity, young adulthood and the relationship between the two. Shura’s sophomore album sways towards a newfound sensuality with a classic R&B twist. The album is more aesthetically cohesive than her previous works. Whereas her debut leaned on catchy hooks to gloss over stylistic discrepancies, forevher finds a comfortable groove in electropop with a shoegaze veneer. Shura made a name for herself with open-ended questions about what we can’t, won’t or don’t say, but her latest release feels more like a full stop than a question mark. On flyin’, for example, she declares her love for someone over an off-kilter Bennie-andthe-Jets keyboard line with a confidence that was absent in her previous work. The fragility of her voice is replaced with stylised turns and slaps as she takes on many identities over the course of the album’s 11 tracks. The songwriting is a bit more complex as well: control churns along the backbeat like an Anita Baker B-side, and Shura’s voice sighs over the chorus on side effects with the kind of dispassionate disinterest that indie’s best boys would die for. forevher is smart, thoughtful and an exciting follow-up from one of left-field pop’s most interesting introverts. ! Nathan Ma
"Where is this fool going?" blares a nasally, robotic voice on the Intro of Cuco's Para Mi, a sun-dappled day trip of a debut album. Kicking off one of the year's most highly anticipated projects with such throwaway self-awareness is indicative of the California cool that the singer/multiinstrumentalist born Omar Banos oozes with enviable ease. And while Para Mi may not offer a definitive answer to its formative query, few could deny that this record takes you to places altogether different. Cuco has been independently releasing music since he was 16 and it shows. Even the weakest moments on Para Mi reveal a close attention to detail, from the sharp pop hooks to the gelatinous soundscapes fusing funk and psychedelia. Singles Hydrocodone and Feelings are the gold standard for this intoxicating blend; the former showcasing gutting lyrical sensibilities, the latter a consummate understanding of mixing, where each layer of instrumentation is richly felt, the contours rigid even as they melt together. The forays into full-on trap on Bossa No Sé and Best Friend feel less naturalistic, and it is debatable how successfully Cuco incorporates elements of bossa nova into this frenzied palette. These outings don't fail to entertain, and they put a spotlight on a slew of rising Latinx talents who deserve a moment to shine, but they lack the marriage of form and intention that characterises the woozy synth balladry found elsewhere. Still, it's easy to indulge Cuco in moments that would otherwise feel extraneous. After all, this is – as made clear in the album's title – for him. !
Jake Indiana
08 Jay Som Anak Ko Lucky Number Slipknot We Are Not Your Kind Roadrunner Records Every new Slipknot record heralds a fresh era for the group: new songs, new masks, new legal disputes with former members. We Are Not Your Kind, their first album not to feature lately-fired percussionist Chris Fehn, opens promisingly. Moody post-rock intro Insert Coin and lead single Unsainted strikes a delicate balance between blistering metal and the kind of anthem alt rock that frontman Corey Taylor usually saves for his other band, Stone Sour. The sense that we might be hearing genuine progress by the band is sadly shortlived. Across an unnecessarily sprawling 14 tracks, they either revert to type by pummelling us over the head with mindless thrashes like Red Flag and Orphan, or they take largely unsuccessful stabs at experimentation. The mercurially-paced Liar’s Funeral is a sonic misstep, while Critical Darling dilutes its good ideas by being two minutes too long. The nadir is the faintly ridiculous Spiders, which involves one of the most unfortunate guitar solos in recent memory. My Pain, on the other hand, is the clear standout, clocking in at seven minutes of brooding atmospherics that are reminiscent of their best output. Ultimately, We Are Not Your Kind isn’t radical enough to scare off old fans or reel in any new converts. New costumes, same Slipknot. !
Joe Goggins
Sheer Mag A Distant Call Sheer Mag LLC Sheer Mag are a band you feel. Tina Halladay’s throaty roar makes you suddenly aware of the back of your neck; Kyle Seely plays his ninth consecutive mind-melting guitar solo and your face involuntarily screws up. Even listening to them at an office desk has the hysterical thrill of standing next to a PA and letting the vibration occupy your limbs. You air-drum a little. A Distant Call, the Philly band’s second full-length, exemplifies their virtuosic proficiency, and sees them balance their 70s throwback sound with identity politics and personal concerns better than ever. Socially conscious in the tradition of their DIY punk community, Sheer Mag have always side-eyed the expectation that big, jocular sounds will necessarily accompany sentiments about snorting cocaine atop flaming piles of $100 bills. On this record they channel the electricity of cock rock through idiosyncrasy and vulnerability. From the album’s opening yowl, the band’s derailed train energy matches the righteous fervour of Halladay’s lyrics: affirmations about fat bodies (The Right Stuff), condemnations of Trump (The Killer), a screed about workers’ rights (the deliciously-titled Chopping Block). As a result, A Distant Call, a sort-of concept record following one narrator through personal crisis, recognises and rails against the problems of our world. But ultimately – in its overall optimism – it believes in our ability to affect change, collectively and individually. It also fucking shreds. !
Lauren O’Neill
With her acclaimed 2017 breakout, Everybody Works, Jay Som’s Melina Duterte became an updated symbol of bedroom indie rock. On her anticipated follow-up Anak Ko – which is the Tagalog phrase for “my child” – Duterte sounds fully realised. Still recording out of her bedroom studio, the warm sound that won her fans remains intact (listen closely and you can even hear the soft chug of her washing machine running in the background). But this time around, Jay Som has traded in most of its lo-fi pop allure in favour of precision and controlled intensity. Duterte’s childhood studies of jazz trumpet are showcased in several tracks, from the sensual, syncopated rhythms of Devotion to the seemingly improvised solo entrances on If You Want It. She easily shifts between genres, too, playing to her dream pop strengths on the Cocteau Twins-inspired single Superbike. The album’s title track defies genre altogether, as Duterte softly sings over a drum machine and a hushed bass, before the song transforms into a crunching, chaotic conglomeration fit for the climax of a sci-fi action film. Duterte’s willingness to loosen her grip and experiment with versatility shows just how much control she has gained since her spontaneous debut, Turn Into. It feels like Anak Ko requires real confidence, which, like the hum of a washing machine, subtly establishes its presence from the beginning. !
Natalia Barr
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08 Clairo Immunity FADER Label
Throughout her solo work, Aïsha Devi tends to incorporate ancient concepts – like Vedic philosophy, Buddhist throat singing and chakra awareness – in her forward-reaching, spiritually-imbued electronic music. The Swiss-born Tibetan-Nepalese electronic producer also brings in this tension on her new S.L.F. EP, the more compact and streamlined follow-up to 2018’s DNA Feelings. The EP takes off with the sound of traditional gongs being distorted until they gradually build into grainy and swirling synth sounds on Two Serpents. By digitising and sharpening the sound of a tone that is usually so pure and enveloping, Devi collapses the antediluvian with the avantgarde, drawing upon the past in order to create something that sounds like it could be of the sinister future. She even says it forthright on Uupar-Theory in an icy, robotic voice: “Dismantle time/ Elevate upon the 3D.” If there’s a failing of S.L.F., though, it’s that Devi doesn’t give enough room for her more heady concepts throughout the EP, as some of her spokenword philosophical musings are distorted, especially on Teta 7hz (Tool), making it difficult to fully comprehend the message she’s trying to get across. But the vocal obfuscation seems intentional, especially considering that S.L.F. is composed of some of Devi’s best, most intense club tracks. They’re delightfully brutal when they crescendo to a satisfying climax, like on the closer The Flavor of Fire, when trance arpeggios and pounding drums seem to ascend into a glorious chaos. Even when Devi achieves moments of transcendence in her work, it sounds so jolting and visceral.
This is the third and final album from Carter Tutti Void, the collaborative project of Throbbing Gristle alumni Chris Carter and Cosey Fanny Tutti, and Factory Floor’s Nik Void. Much like 2012’s Transverse and 2015’s f(x), Triumvirate’s largely improvised approach unearths a dark and alluring energy that fogs the mind. Its six tracks are thick with the primitive sensuality at the heart of all good industrial and EBM: pulsating synths throb beneath Carter’s propulsive, rudimentary beats. The burning air of ceremony hangs heavy throughout. Where Triumvirate excels is the live instrumentation that colours and sometimes overwhelms its rhythms. Here, the sound palette is more varied and exhilarating than the gritty minimalism that characterised previous releases. At its peak, great scrapes of effect-heavy guitar grind against razorsharp keys and feverish wails. Often it seems Tutti and Void are working intentionally against each other – and to thrilling effect. On T_3_4 we hear processed vocals bristle with menace over rattling electronics, heightening a sense of conflict. Other tracks cool things down. T_3_3 has a decidedly dub-like feel, with distant drones and cavernous percussion. At many points, there is space for a listener to crawl inside the sound, allowing for hypnotic, hallucinatory moments. Very appropriate for such a rich and intoxicating parting gift from what’s proven a fiercely creative venture – it’s sad to see them go.
Michelle Kim
! Xavier Boucherat
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Carter Tutti Void Triumvirate Conspiracy International
Whitney Forever Turned Around Secretly Canadian A cursory listen to Whitney’s second album would suggest all is well. The breezy songs conjure up the kind of images which suggest band members Julien Ehrlich and Max Kakacek have spent the three years since 2016’s debut Light Upon the Lake enjoying life on a ranch, drinking bourbon as the sun sets behind the trees. Horns and strings float lazily across the record, mingling with Ehrlich’s falsetto. On Song for Ty, he sings “Tell me everything stays the same” – and sonically, nothing much has changed. This is the gorgeous, pastoral major key Americana that we’d fallen in love with (even Elton John declared himself a fan). Yet dig deeper and something more rueful pervades the record. On Valleys (My Love), Ehrlich sings “There’s got to be another way/ Pretending everything’s alright/ We‘ve been drifting apart for some time”. Clearly, behind the easygoing melodies, the band have been grappling with those age-old existential issues, questioning mortality and doubt. That the first song is called Giving Up may have been a giveaway. Its delicate piano is undercut by a mournful chorus, while Day and Night talks of drifting and feeling dizzy. But, amid all the melancholy and allusions to relationships coming and going, is Used to Be Lonely with its declaration: “Well it made no sense at all/ Until you came along.” Then, those horns come in again and you realise the more things change the more they stay the same. !
Daniel Wright
Nérija Blume Domino Records Part of the illustrious alumni that surrounds London project Tomorrow’s Warriors, Nérija sit at the forefront of innovation within modern UK jazz. A seven-person (mostly women) group who blend individual passions with a commitment to the unified voice, their debut album Blume is an astonishing display of technical virtuosity, rhythmic flair and emotional kick. Opening piece Nascence seems to ooze itself out of the speakers, a languid display of texture and mood. Nérija refuse to let this settle, however. Last Straw has a disciplined groove, utilising the club culture influences of Lizy Exell (drums) and Rio Kai (bass). The title track is propelled by those sighing, somnambulist chords, voiced superbly by the trailblazing Cassie Kinoshi, while Swift has a raw, unfettered funk, leaning on Shirley Tetteh’s jagged guitar. Riverfest is a joyous salute from this intimately unified ensemble, while Nubya Garcia’s tenor saxophone – now so instantly recognisable – pervades the bold, stirring Unbound. Indeed, it’s the way Blume can spiral out into fantastic realms while continually returning to the source that makes the record so fascinating. Recorded on a floating studio by the Isle of Dogs with producer Kwes at the controls, Nérija’s debut is undoubtedly one of the most contagious, perplexing and inspired UK jazz releases to come your way in 2019. !
Robin Murray
Following the success of her lo-fi viral hit Pretty Girl in 2017, Clairo – aka 20-year-old Claire Cottrill – was both lauded as a bedroom-pop savant and rumoured to be an industry plant. While these claims had little substance, people may have been right to question her authenticity. Pretty Girl and its video bore striking similarities to the song Nun Lover by another young artist Charles de Crema (real name Charlotte Linden Ercoli), released three years before. Ercoli’s singular aesthetic seemed instrumental to early interest in Clairo. Two years on, this origin story feels unfortunate. Immunity, Clairo’s debut album, feels honest and suggests her potential to become a star off her own back. Unfortunately, she doesn’t quite hit the mark. Lead single Bags is the record’s strongest track, perfectly offsetting the downtrodden trudge of electric guitar with off-kilter synths and plinking keys that compete for attention. The resulting tension is electric. Clairo’s disaffected vocals carve a steady path through the turbulent mix and lines like “Pardon my emotions/ I should probably keep it all to myself” seem supercharged. Lyrically, the record marks a newfound maturity, however timid production choices let many of the songs down. Tracks like Alewife and Impossible feel too skeletal, leaving Clairo’s vocals feeling flat and listless. While previous cross-genre collaborations with artists like Danny L Harle and Rejjie Snow hinted at an experimental record from Clairo, Immunity sometimes feels middle-of-theroad, as if she’s tried to outrun her teenage affectations and overshot slightly. Bets are on that she delivers on all fronts next time. !
Steve Mallon
Blanck Mass Animated Violence Mild Sacred Bones It was Benjamin John Power’s gloriously named partnership with Andrew Hung, Fuck Buttons, that introduced his intense, grainy aesthetic. But it’s his solo work as Blanck Mass that has proven the richer seam, even landing a spot in the 2012 London Olympics opening ceremony, catapulting the deranged euphoria his music channels to a global audience. His fourth Blanck Mass album Animated Violence Mild is a harder, harsher extension of an already angular sound. Opener Death Drop is an unforgiving slab of pounding, industrial electronics, and veers a little too close to Muse-esque pantomime bombast. But get past that hiccup, and the rest of the album races past in an enjoyably intense blur. House vs House comes over like a SOPHIE track stripped of its otherworldliness; a sort of heavy, gothic glitch. When melody rears its mangled head in the first half of the album, it does so only fleetingly – mostly, the production is dominated by a vitriolic roar. The gentle, undulating Creature/West Fuqua and penultimate track No Dice stand out by virtue of being the only tracks not driven by a drilled rhythm or built from layers of scathing static. Power’s previous albums have hinted at this savage energy on display. But on Animated Violence Mild, in line with the album’s theme of anti-consumerist self-loathing, everything is cranked up to an antagonistic, perhaps even intentionally over-saturated, level. !
Adam Corner
REVIEWS
Aïsha Devi S.L.F. Houndstooth
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The Center Won’t Hold It may have cost them their drummer, but the pioneering rock band’s new direction is a bold stride into the unknown
Well, that’s the narrative inevitably set up by events, anyway. Almost immediately after Weiss announced her departure last month, vengeful eyes turned to Carrie Brownstein’s ex, with whom the trio had been working, since 2018, on their ninth album. These are sad times for Sleater-Kinney fans, no doubt, but to suggest St Vincent and her synths “broke up the band” is unforgivably basic. You can, of course, detect her freaky fingerprints here and there; you don’t hire a singular superstar for her first high-profile production job in order to make a straight-up words-and-guitar Sleater-Kinney record. But this doesn’t sound like a St Vincent album. It sounds like a Sleater-Kinney one, but more so, and more strangely so. There were already hints in 2015 comeback No Cities to Love – a roaring resurrection of their core nervous energies – that Sleater-Kinney craved, after riding the reunion wave’s great goodwill, to range further. Most of all in its closer, Fade, with its weird, warped, underwater feel. And from the opening industrial clanks and closing grunge thrash of the title track to the grooving post-punk of lead single Hurry On Home, The Center Won’t Hold revels in that wanderlust, exploring dark textures, desolate spaces and violent, nasty sounds. Though less abrasive, perhaps the most striking departure is Reach Out, a dark peak that invites hands to the sky in allegiance, fulfilling the gothic promise of Corin Tucker’s new spidery eyeliner in lush fashion. It’s anthemic in a more stadium sense than they’ve ever been before, and it suits them.
Yet there are still sure handholds for the wary. Like Love, which pays tribute, in their 25th anniversary year, to Sleater-Kinney’s early days, with a playful pulse that recalls Devo’s Whip It: “Call the doctor, dig me out of this mess… a basement of our own, a mission to begin.” More unsettling than the sonic forays is the mood: we’re in starkly different emotional territory from the confident battle songs of No Cities to Love, and closer to the dark energy of One Beat, the record that followed 9/11 and the birth of Corin Tucker’s first child. The general malaise of public life is vividly present in Ruins, which romps in on a big grinding bass synth, describing “a demon… both ancient and new” that smashes buildings and eats planes. It’s a more personal anxiety and isolation, though, that dominates The Center Won’t Hold, from Reach Out via Hurry On Home and the ironically flippant Can I Go On, to Corin Tucker’s cry, on the subdued and moody The Future Is Here, “never have I felt so goddamn lost and alone”. Perhaps it reflects the record’s more isolated, piecemeal writing process, perhaps just the prevailing melancholy. A little hope flourishes at the bottom of the box of horrors. The Dog/The Body, which begins with a circling, obsessive two-note lick, lost in the same abject infatuation as Hurry On Home, builds to a drunken hug of a chorus with the whole band joining in, before Broken, the closing piano torch song, avows solidarity with Dr Christine Blasey Ford and survivors of all kinds (“She stood up for us, when she testified… me too, my body cried out when she spoke those lines”). Still, you’re left with a sense of songs lost in the fog, falcons that cannot hear the falconer, to reference the Yeats poem that gave the album its name. And with Weiss’ departure, we’re all left feeling a little lost. Whatever her reasons, it feels like a terrible shame.
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The prophetically-titled The Center Won’t Hold is a sure stride rather than a misstep, and now – as after The Woods, the 2005 rock exploration that preceded their long hiatus – we’re swept up in their forward momentum, only to be left hanging. Let’s cling, in our confusion, to Bad Dance, a glorious hoodoo-punk hoedown that greets oncoming apocalypse with a defiant “fuck it, let’s party”, and features some of Sleater-Kinney’s most wonderfully wicked lyrics ever (“My truth is slack and loose/ My morals are unsound”). Whatever happens next – with the band, with the world – let’s dance on as long as we can.
Sleater-Kinney The Center Won’t Hold Mom+Pop
REVIEWS
Roll up, roll up, ladies and germs, and see, before your disbelieving eyes: the album that broke SleaterKinney! Produced by their very own Yoko, Annie Clark of St Vincent, this is – come closer and witness – the record so radical, it forced beloved and redoubtable drummer Janet Weiss to jump ship just to escape its weirdness.
Words: Emily Mackay
SIMPLE THINGS PRESENTS
Carla dal Forno Thursday 14 November 2019 The Exchange
£10 + BF from tickets.crackmagazine.net
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3 ‘N the Mornin’ (Part Two) DJ Screw’s Southern rap-defining opus manipulates time itself Words: Dean Van Nguyen Original release date: 27 August 1996 Label: Bigtyme Recordz
“Time is a flat circle. Everything we have done or will do, we will do over and over and over again, forever.” Leave it to Ruste Cohl to succinctly summarise the relentless, inevitable grind of time. But even True Detective’s nihilistic Texan philosopher might have questioned the linearity of the clock if he’d popped a DJ Screw cassette into his car’s tape deck. The rules of time might be inescapable but that doesn’t mean we can’t bend our brains to manipulate them. We can take photographs to capture and revisit one unique moment. We can take drugs to either slow down or speed up our sense of chronology. In essence, we can screw time, contorting what seem like unbendable straight lines into something beyond recognition. Decades before True Detective aired, DJ Screw (née Robert Earl Davis Jr)
found he could manipulate the fabric of time by pitch-shifting rap songs to a slow, intoxicating crawl. Sounds simple enough, but the Houston-based producer had a magic touch for the form. Adding in record scratches, digital edits and decelerated vocals, he pioneered a sludgy, mono brand of hip-hop to rush the senses. It would become known as chopped ‘n’ screwed, or, more concisely, Screw music, burning the innovator's name into rap mythology before his untimely death in 2000, aged 29. It’s impossible to summarise the influence of Screw in a satisfactory manner. Let’s just say he helped lay the core pillars of Southern hip-hop music forever more. Screw started experimenting with slowed-down cuts sometime around the beginning of the 90s. After nailing down his aesthetic, the burgeoning entrepreneur distributed mixtapes
Released in 1995, 3 ‘N the Mornin’ (Part Two) is an opus of Screw’s methodology. He might have had limited interest in the tactics of traditional distribution, but this record – one of a small number of official albums he released between prolifically cutting his tapes – found Screw seizing the moment, proving himself the untouchable deity of music that’s chopped and screwed, slowed and throwed. Opening cut Watch Yo Screw sees rapper E.S.G. deliver a slurred spoken-word seminar that acts as the precursor: “This just ain’t no inthe-house-flowing-Screw-thang,” he explains, referring to the tapes stacked in the DJ’s house. “Me and Screw trying to expand this shit, ‘naw what I’m sayin’.” The grooves are deep and hypnotic, huge snares and claps power the mesmerising orchestration. On Servin a Duce, 20-2-Life’s jaunty celebration of getting out of the joint is slowed to a desperate crawl. The once vivacious beat now wails and cries, while the rapper’s crooned hook is transformed into a sweaty, mournful refrain. It’s a prime example of
how Screw’s manipulations can form something entirely different, something entirely other. Mack 10’s Foe Life is spliced into a 118-second slow pour. Its presence confirms that while Screw was a Texas monarch, the West Coast’s G-funk kingdom was his natural ally. Tracks like Smokin’ and Leanin’ and Sippin Codine solidify Screw’s association with a favourite drug of his: lean. The man himself might have claimed that it was weed that evoked the same slowed-down perceptions of his music but that didn’t stop listeners insisting that a Screw record was the perfect soundtrack to a lean-induced haze. 3 ‘N the Mornin’ (Part Two) sounds like the purple liquid swirling in a Styrofoam cup – the soothing intoxication of the syrup seeping through your brain. When lean claimed Screw’s life, it tethered his name to the drug permanently, and stole him from the world right as his influence was about to hit new levels. The last two songs capture the album’s surly brilliance. Pimp the Pen sees Lil’ Keke freestyling over UGK’s Southern scripture Pocket Full of Stones, building a world of “Jackers and hustlers, players and macks/ Foreign doors and Cadillacs”. Album closer South Side (Three in the Morning) slows Roy Ayers’ Everybody Loves the Sunshine into a dimly-lit, post-twilight drive around South Houston. To play the track is to feel suspended in a moment. Time might be a flat circle but Screw harnessed that whacked and wonderful feeling of 3am on repeat. He was the man who unlocked the secret of manipulating chronology, whose own time came far too soon.
REVIEWS
on grey Maxell cassettes, selling his products out of his house in south-east Houston before levelling up to his own independently-run store. Sometimes he’d remix other artists’ tracks or pepper the tapes with old R&B cuts. Other times he’d invite his Screwed Up Clique – rappers like Lil’ Keke, Z-Ro, Big Pokey, Big Moe and Fat Pat – to freestyle over the mixes. Whatever the case, each tape was a gloriously fashioned portal in Screw’s outlandish realm. And they were only 10 bucks a piece.
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WORDS: RACHEL GRACE ALMEIDA ARTWORK: COKEOAK
Vivian Caccuri Vivian Caccuri is a contemporary Brazilian artist who uses sound as the vehicle to experiment in sensory perception with issues related to history and social conditioning. Her latest work is a performance lecture that debates the loathing that surrounds
e: ntim Dow
mosquito noises, but previous works include talks about low frequency sound systems and how to consider the cultural interrelations between bass and cult rituals.
Gödel, Escher, Bach: An Eternal Golden Braid By Douglas Hofstadter I studied literature for two years, and in a literary theory class my professor referenced this book. It took me a long time to read it because it is very complex, but it’s so rich in information. Here, Douglas Hofstatdter talks about the self-referentialism in structures and systems of thought and creativity. He seems to think there is a broken logic that comes up in the work of mathematician Kurt Gödel, the artist MC Escher and composer JS Bach. The book also explores themes of Zen philosophy, Lewis Carroll, artificial intelligence and math in a more
welcoming way, let’s say.
Welcome to Downtime: a new series in
which we ask our favourite artists for their
we catch up with Chilean DJ and producer Valesuchi. Linked with countryman Matias Aguayo’s Cómeme imprint, Valesuchi came up through Santiago’s underground dance movement before relocating to Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Incorporating dembow beats and tropical gradients to her elegant brand of electro, she has made her mark as one of the most exciting Latinx selectors to hit the waves. When she’s not filling smoke-filled feminist prose, studying self-referentialism and getting to know her sensory perception. She tells us about it below.
The Master's Tools Will Never Dismantle the Master's House By Audre Lorde My online friend Axmed from Dance with Pride recommended Audre Lorde’s work to me. She’s a black author and this book is a col-
MUSIC
lection of essays where she eloquently touches on poetry, eroticism, racism and unpacks anger. This book changed how I consider my place as a woman and an artist forever.
MAFI.TV MAFI (Mapa Fílmico de un País) is a
non-profit organisation dedicated to
documenting Chile’s audiovisual history
to promote social engagement through imagery. MAFI’s work is characterised
by capturing fragments of frames and
inviting viewers to fix their gaze on them
in order to reinstate the artistic value of imagery as a way of processing reality.
chi
dancefloors, she spends her time reading
su Vale
cultural recommendations. This month,
20 questions
Jubilee There’s something about Miami’s hum
salty air and fuzzy neon lights that
its dancefloors into hysteria. But
What’s your worst habit?
Pressing refresh.
What’s the best piece of advice you’ve ever been
given?
When I was young my mom told me to alway s make
id,
sure I could support myself and to never coun t on anyone else, no matter who I date or get offer s from. I don’t know why she told me this when I was eight but
whips
behind the veneer of the city’s kitsch, lova bly sleazy aesthetic, there is a booming Mia mi bass movement driving its music scen e forward, and Jubilee – real name Jessica Gen tile – is a key figure. The Miami-born DJ and producer, who relocated to New York in 200 5, concocts a blend of bass, trap, two -step and dubstep to create her bouncing productions – a distinct sound which she captured perfectl y in her 2016 debut, After Hours. Lately, she’ s even been incorporating grime into her sets after spending some time in London and falling in love with the genre’s propulsive beats. Here, we talk club survival tips, wor ds of wisdom and a house party in Jam aica with an unlikely guest.
How would your friends describe you
Raver from Florida.
in three words?
Best hip-hop song of all time? Does Get It Girl by 2 Live Crew count as hip-h op?
What gets on your nerves?
I live in New York City, everything is
annoying. Step ping out for a coffee somehow becomes annoying. Weirdest thing you’ve seen happen in
a club? Have you ever been to The Box in New York City? Read the Yelp reviews at your own risk. I can’t even repeat the things I’ve seen in that plac e. Best survival tip for the club?
What’s inspiring you right now?
London. I just spent a month there but also
big chunk of 2018 there, too. Everythi
spent a
ng is inspiring, from the DJ girl gangs taking over the underground scene to African music and UK rap hitti ng the mainstream.
party in Ja-
people were just riding and revving up their
cles inside the house. Oh, and there was
motorcy-
a goat .
What’s your earliest childhood memory?
Being in the car with my mom driving down highways in Miami while she was smoking and listening to Gloria Estefan. Favourite meme? Moth memes still kill me, specifically the
Paul one.
What’s the best gift you’ve ever received ?
Best thing about Miami?
Girls still know every dance move to every
old Miami song. You play Scrub the Ground and every one does the dance.
The second I land at Fort Lauderdale airpo rt and walk outside it always smells like cigarettes and humidity. It’s such a specific Florida smell and takes me right back to riding my bike around my neigh bour-
hood in grade school. My friend Fox is from the same town I’m from and whenever he goes home I always get a text from him that just says “Florida air.” Best DJ of all time?
What’s the best party you’ve ever been to?
maica. The best DJ was playing and
What would you want written on your tomb stone? “Still that bitch.”
What makes you feel nostalgic?
Drink water. Please fucking drink wate r.
I once wound up at some crazy house
it definitely worked.
I decided this year that it’s Uproot Andy. Man
underrated genius.
What’s something really embarrassing you’v e done? I was singing Fiona Apple at the top of my lungs in my car and my phone accidentally called a coworker and left it on her voicemail. What’s your 2019 mantra? Be good to your loved ones and spend as much
with them as possible because literally noth
Sean
My boyfriend got me this vintage Mia mi Dolphins 80s sweatshirt with all the players on it. Then I noticed [in the same package] there was also an old Miami Hurricanes Tasmanian Devil t-shirt in perfect condition. These two items were basi cally made for me, I’m still not over it.
is an
else matters.
time
ing
What instantly cheers you up?
A text from a fave.
If you could give young Jubilee one piece of
what would it be?
advice,
It’s not that deep fam. Jubilee’s new single Miami is out now on Mixp ak
on ambient music and capitalism Words: Jack Needham Illustration: Johanna Burai
Ambient music’s first wave of popularity came during a time of rampant capitalism and social discord. As history repeats itself, Jack Needham scrutinises the impulse for musical solace – and whether we should always follow it.
Amongst this backdrop, as records are exhumed by DJs and reissued by labels keen to capitalise on trends, it’s understandable why ambient is resonating with audiences once again in the very same way it did during its inception.
“People are really rather afraid that this country might be rather swamped by people with a different culture,” Thatcher said to Granada’s World In Action in 1978. The BNP were gaining traction in late-70s Britain, Thatcher had her eyes on Number 10, and this stoking of anti-immigrant sentiment was her way of clawing back support from far-right voters. It worked, and this watermark moment helped secure the party an 11-point lead over Labour, later paving the way for Thatcher’s election.
For listeners, it provides solace from
world around it, yet cherry picks the parts it engages with, it can easily be manipulated. Ambient exists in a strange paradox, a genre made for mass consumption and solitude. As a relatively non-offensive, almost ambivalent form of music it falls neatly into the hands of
OPINION
History repeats itself. In 2015 David Cameron spoke of “a swarm of people coming across the Mediterranean”, a dog whistle during the refugee crisis for a Tory base who’d defected to UKIP. This message, near identical to Thatcher’s, foreshadowed today’s landscape of illegal deportations, anti-immigrant hate speech and celebrity Presidents.
Although on the more extreme end of the spectrum, the art of listening has morphed into an entirely different beast, extending itself to ASMR artists and YouTubers cultivating wealth through an ad-revenue funded, Nazi-riddled, regulation-refusing video platform. Artists such as Sam Kidel and his 2016 album, Disruptive Muzak, do much to dismantle this status quo, and field recordists Jana Winderen and Chris Watson record natural sound to convey how climate catastrophe is affecting habitats. “Ambient is never only music for escapism,” argued the Room40 label owner Lawrence English in FACT, stating how it can “acknowledge sound’s potential values in broader spheres (the social, political, cultural).”
A few months after Thatcher’s racist pandering speech, the term “ambient” was coined with Brian Eno’s Ambient 1: Music for Airports. It was a blissful and phenomenally successful work, remaining the dominant reference point for an entire genre decades after its release. It precursed an era of the individual. As ambient evolved throughout the 80s with Eno, Haruomi Hosono and Ryuichi Sakamoto, it encouraged us to become immersed in the art of listening and to discover fragments of beauty in our daily struggles. Popularised during the era of Thatcher and the presidency of former actor Ronald Reagan, it wasn’t protest music, but rather a serene soundtrack for those who mostly witnessed the Falklands War or The Troubles via news bulletins.
onus of artists, and weaponised music should not be conflated with ambient, but from the very beginning ‘listening’ has accommodated hyper-capitalist dystopia. Music for Airports, after all, soundtracks the flow of people using a profitable, planet-destroying method of transportation.
stagnating wages or a lack of job security. But ambient has cultivated its own necessity to exist in times of hypercapitalist anxieties and feeds itself on these environments. It’s celebrated as something which softens the edges of capitalistic structures, rather than challenges them. Although growing as a largely apolitical genre, ambient almost followed the policy of Reaganomics, an artform designed for the betterment of the self. But cocooning yourself away from the AIDS crisis or miners’ strike to the austerity-driven politics of today is when apolitical beliefs becomes apathy. And if your music draws influence from the
advertisers and venture capitalists who cite it as a booming moneymaker, proven in dozens of studies to influence consumer behavior. On the broader spectrum of background music, Beethoven and Bach are currently used to deter rough sleepers and who the Yorkshire Post describe as ‘yobs’ from bus stations across the UK. Similar methods of human deterrent from public spaces were planned for Berlin’s U-bahn stations, until widespread protests forced their shelving. The ways background music is utilised for unethical means are not on the
Music doesn’t need political motives to be any less culturally significant amidst a backdrop of carnage. Laraaji, who uses ambient as a vessel for his own beliefs in mysticism, is not to be convoluted with the business of background music. Yoga, meditation, screaming into pillows, everyone needs coping mechanisms, and countless studies have explored how ambient can help in everything from stress fatigue to calming the psychic maelstrom. But in the same way ambient swayed in the breeze while The Specials and Eddy Grant protested Thatcher’s crusade toward inequality in the 80s, today, the genre’s growing popularity is doing the same as the Stormzies and slowthais of the world fight the battles others can afford to ignore. Overlooking that is being proudly indifferent to your environment, not more attuned with it.