Mind The Gap Issue 1 by mindthegapmagazine

BRITAIN BEYOND ZONE 6

1. SELF TAUGHT

DESTINATION Mundane Nonsense Meanwhile in York The Scene That Sustains Itself

Adam Jones loves pubs. Heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s worked in them, sat in them and now creates clothes from them. The 28-year-old fashion designer is sat in another one today to talk about why

Pubs on the mind in Adam Jonesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; beer mat vest 10

PHOTOGRAPHY: CHRISTOPHER FOWLER ART DI RECTION: LUCY FOWLER

t seemed fitting to meet Adam Jones in a pub. Surrounding us are the mats, carpets, wallpapers, framed pictures and colours that Jones rips apart and stitches back together for his pub inspired garments, which he’s been creating since 2015. You’d think someone who has spent most of their time both working and relaxing in pubs would be bored of them by now, but Jones seems perfectly happy – half blending into the surroundings, speaking in his quiet Welsh accent that melds into the chatter. Jones is an observer. Growing up in the Welsh border town, Froncysyllte, a ‘Welcome To England’ sign sat at the end of his road, perfectly encapsulates his placement in the fashion world – observing from the edge, yet designing with an insider’s knowledge. Graduating from Manchester School of Art in 2013 with a BA in Fashion Design, Jones then went to work for menswear brand Christopher Shannon, with the late Judy Blame’s recommendation (who found and supported Jones’ work through Instagram). Working with Shannon, Jones realised he didn’t need to fit in to the ‘cool kid scenes’ of fashion that he’d been obsessing

over back in Manchester. “Chris was just taking the piss out of everyone in fashion,” he says, “and taught me you could be a down to earth person and you don’t have to lick arse to make it basically”. Jones went on to set up his own brand, showing his first collection at the pub he worked in for London Fashion Week Menswear in 2016. The inf luence Christopher Shannon had on Jones can be clearly seen - Shannon himself often using British iconography in his garments, such as knitted sweaters with plastic bag logos and garments inspired by the litter on teenage emos’ bedroom f loors. Jones describes his own collections as a messy ‘Wabi-Sabi’ view of Great Britain - a style originating in Japan that favours roughness, irregularity and the mundane over perfectionism. Recycled beer mat vests, horse head and dog prints taken from pub signs, and early pigeon dirt inspired designs from his graduate collection, all ooze with Jones’ vigilant eye for the everyday things we tend to lose sight of. Fashion is no stranger to taking rubbish and turning it into garments – Matthew Needham and Patrick McDowell are two designers both reusing old mate11

“I’m just drawn to pubs - the colours, brown woods, faded carpets and the beer mats” 12

Another round at The Unicorn, Manchester

Hulme Sweet Hulme 14

rials to create new – but Jones manages to keep the concept feeling fresh with his chosen assortment of discarded textiles and personal touch. Jones’ parents, Dad a factory worker and Mum an NHS worker, have no background in fashion – but he took an interest in clothes early on. Dressing up in his grandmother’s clothes, who he describes as both an artist and a hoarder, and drawing garments and trainers first gave him the itch to learn design. At sixteen he enrolled in a fashion design course at a local college in Wrexham, learning to pattern cut for two years, which gave him an advantage over his classmates in Manchester. His Welsh hometown is also where he first spent his time in ‘old man pubs’ with his friends. “Growing up there I hated it,” he says. “It was like Midsomer Murders - tug of wars, bake sales, everyone has to have their gardens nice. You’d have to walk half an hour to get the bus into town, I just really hated it”. Going from the country to the city, however, he realised he could learn to embrace the clutter of mundane nonsense that locals may become oblivious to. Pubs in his hometown suddenly became beacons of inspiration. “I’m just drawn to pubs,” he says. “The colours, brown woods, faded carpets and the beer mats.” Now his Welsh roots, he says, are what keeps him grounded as a fashion designer. Building his label has been a constant uphill struggle. After graduating, he made the decision to move back in with his parents

for two years to be able to fund freelance designing. Working in a fancy-dress factory and paying £60 a month for a studio, he’d hop on a bus from work and spend every evening until 10pm in his studio before a half an hour walk home. Jones now designs and manages his brand in his small London bedroom, working two jobs to scrape by on a London living wage. He recently set up a GoFundMe page to help fund his designs, raising £1190 of his £8000 target to be able to grow his business. It’s a story heard far too frequently today – a London artist or designer working tirelessly to fund their projects but left with barely any time or mental space to create, and it’s why a lot of artists are basing themselves elsewhere. “So many young creatives are moving to Margate and these seaside coastal towns,” he says, “which I have thought about, but I am still clinging on”. Rent prices in London continue to go up, Jones’ own rent rising nearly £100 since last year. It raises the question of how long young artists and designers, particularly those from a low-income background, can feasibly continue living and creating in London. Even with these setbacks, Jones is determined. In five years’ time he hopes he’ll be able to work full time on his brand, to have a studio, that Grayson Perry will become Prime Minister and that people in Wales will still be “freaky”. For now, I leave him sitting by the arcade machine, pint in hand, taking in the sights around him.

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Proper pub, proper old, proper tiles, proper quirky, proper worth a visit. Haunted by Mark ah E ah Smith ah. Morrissey is barredâ&#x20AC;? - the immortal words of Ronniethe1 of Tripadvisor - 11/ 19 16

Out to dry in Adam Jonesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; pub sign printed dress

Stepping into Chun-yin Chan's world. Jacket by Chun-yin Chan for his final collection 'Forgotten Memories' at Manchester School of Art

MEANWHILE IN YORK... Head full of memories from a childhood in Hong Kong - fashion designer and artist, Chun-yin Chan, invites us in for tea PHOTOGRAPHY: CHRISTOPHER FOWLER ART DI RECTION: LUCY FOWLE R

alking into Chun-yin Chan’s home feels like walking into the scrapbook of his mind. On the outside it’s a small, semi-detached brick house on a quiet residential street, neatly tucked 20 minutes away from York’s centre. Inside, it’s an explosion of the fashion designer's ideas for new garments and art projects. Mannequins are lined up at the window with his dyed fabrics draped across, next to an old table he uses for pattern cutting. A rail of his 2019 BA Menswear graduate collection from Manchester School of Art (a part of Manchester Metropolitan University) hangs in the corner in garment bags. A sewing machine, piles of old clothes, used materials and papers litter the floor. A table in the middle of the living room is cleverly made from cut up old jean legs. “I don’t want anything to go to waste,” Chan says in his quiet tone. He goes up the narrow stairs where frames sit waiting to be hung, and into his bedroom, where his walls are covered top to bottom in magazine cut-outs, posters, old train tickets and photos. Everywhere you look there is a slice of Chan’s life blue-tacked onto the wall, from

his childhood in Hong Kong with his mother, to his new home in York with his father. “I don’t want to let myself have nothing to do,” says Chan, moving a box of chemicals he uses to develop his own film photography out of the way. “I have to keep busy. If I go to bed without doing anything creative that day, I feel like I’ve wasted time.” A mindset no doubt learnt from his mother, who moved Chan to his father in York when he was 15. “She kept telling me to do something useful and felt I was wasting time on guitar - I played in a heavy metal band in Hong Kong,” he says. His home here is a quiet space that he shares with his brother, a film student, and is owned by his father - a chef at chain restaurant, the Slug and Lettuce. On one of the mannequins sits his father’s handmade hat, a hobby reminiscent of his own days dabbling in fashion design. It’s he who encouraged Chan to try it out himself. “I had no idea what I wanted to do when I came here,” Chan says, “I asked my father and he said just follow me, I was doing fashion! So, I started and I fell in love with it.” Fashion became one of many ways to express himself – others including photography,

Chun-yin Chan in his Forgotten Memories jacket. "I see Western people really obsessed with Chinese language. I asked many people why before starting this project, and they say that Chinese characters to them are like a symbol which has many meaningsâ&#x20AC;?

â&#x20AC;&#x153;If you want to know something about a city, just go down the streets. The walls are a history of the city and the peopleâ&#x20AC;? 22

Chun-yin Chan's bedroom wall is covered in cut-outs and memories

Chun-yin Chan's Forgotten Memories jacket and trousers made from scraps of recycled denim and screen printed receipts and newspapers

graphic design and music. “Every time I finish a project, I feel like an empty area of my body gets completed,” he says. Although he started studying womenswear in college, he decided to focus on menswear when he applied for his degree – loving the way he could experiment with texture and fabric on simpler silhouettes. Now, with a Menswear degree in his pocket, Chan is currently waiting to be accepted onto a masters - setting his sights high for Royal College of Art, Central Saint Martins and University of Westminster. In the meantime, he works at a small Chinese restaurant down the road to save up for it, six days a week from 12pm-11pm. He squeezes as much as he can out of his free hours – from new fashion projects, to music, to his freelance graphic design job – but he relishes the time he spends on his own ideas. “I hate working with other people,”

Bethany Williams using old bell tents and waste ribbons to make garments, yet Chan’s policy to waste nothing feels more sincere. Bold Chinese characters are printed on reused denim sleeves in blues and reds over the top of McDonalds receipts, train tickets and cigarette boxes. White paint fades the details and gives it an appearance of a wall full of ripped posters and graffiti. Like his own bedroom walls – he finds others’ stories from the messy walls and grounds of cities. “If you want to know something about a city don’t ask the people, just go down the streets,” he says. “The walls are a history of the city and the people.” His portfolio shows a huge range of influences – from Zhang Huan’s Family Tree (a Chinese performance artist who invited calligraphers to write names and personal stories on his face until they covered his skin in ink), to James Bond’s Goldfin-

Chan laughs nervously, looking down at his hands that are still shaky from being the centre of focus. He reaches into his wardrobe and brings out his portfolio from his graduate collection – titled Forgotten Memories. His collection is a homage to both his Hong Kong and British heritage – an attempt to fuse the two together through an amalgamation of personal collected items - screen-printed and sewn into jackets and trousers. “Since I’ve moved here I started to pay more attention to the time I was in Hong Kong,” says Chan, “I don’t know why – probably because if you move to another country you really miss home. You feel like you need to find something, a memory, to feel at home again.” Upcycling has become a popular go-to for making clothing more sustainable, designers like

ger - to the 2019 protests in Hong Kong. One piece combines traditional Chinese silk with Scottish tartan to create his own interpretation of Hong Kong meets British style. On the way back to the train station in his father’s car, Chan sits in silence for a while. “York is a nice place to live,” says his father, who moved here from Hong Kong when he was younger. “It’s safe and quiet”. Chan laughs. “Another way of saying that it’s boring,” he says. Chan, though slightly nervous of big cities, intends to live “somewhere with lots to see, lots to do and lots of people to meet.” The car stops at the station, which sits opposite a huge turreted wall – York is a city of old castles and Cathedrals. Chan waves goodbye and wanders off to the high street – head bustling with ideas and hopes for the future.

Chun-yin Chan in his room in York , 2020 26

Anything from the shop? Anything from the shop? Anything from the shop? Anything from the shop? Anything from the shop? Anything from the shop? A whimsical walk through Norwich with shoegaze musician, Bug Teeth 31

ugBug Teeth picks up to some Teeth pops the shops mportant supplies

PHOTOGRAPHY: CHRISTOPHER FOWLER ART DI RECTION: LUCY FOWLE R

“

et me take you to my favourite shop in Norwich,” says 20-year-old Poppy Johnson, also known as musician Bug Teeth. Pale cropped pink hair, a bright blue denim jacket and a pair of rounded glasses framing her face - Johnson starts off down the cobbled roads of Norwich. She stops on Magdalen Street, a more rugged area filled to the brim with second-hand shops, and points excitedly at a sign for Looses Emporium. She pushes through the doors and is immediately immersed in the chaos of second-hand items that cover the f loors of the shop. Johnson, originally from Chelmsford in Essex, moved to Norwich three years ago to study at the Universit y of East Anglia. It’s here, she says, that she’s found her home – talking of it with an infectious admiration that makes every street seem like an exciting secret pathway into the underground scene.

It’s where she first shared her music, which has since settled nicely into the nooks of the small city. “It’s so supportive as a music network,” she says. “You can go to places and gigs on your own and find an entire group of people - music brings everyone together here.” This network is what spurred Johnson to start making a name for herself in music – playing her first gig at Oxfam’s mini festival, Norwich Oxjam in 2018. In 2019 she was picked for the BBC Introducing Norwich st age at Latit ude Festival – the biggest crowd she’s played to so far. Johnson’s music takes inspiration from the shoegaze movement of the 80s/90s – swirling sustained guitars and synths, with her ethereal voice glazed in reverb to create something out of a dreamscape. ”I listened to My Bloody Valentine when I was 17,” she says, “and I started listening to a load of artists like that - Slowdive, Massive Attack. I

just thought, this is what I want to make.” Johnson started playing around with instrument s at 13, before experimenting with making music on Garageband. “I’ve always expressed myself creatively,” she says. “I always wrote and read and made art and this was a natural progression. As soon as I started making music I couldn’t stop, I did it every single day, it’s so addictive.” Finished exploring Looses Emporium, she starts off back over a bridge into Norwich Market – an outdoor square of nearly 200 clothing and food stalls that’s been a tradi-

live bands use to create that quintessential wall of dreamy noise, though Johnson’s set up is prett y simple, using one amp for all her effects. “I play synth and guitar and loop every thing on top of each other,” she explains. Johnson still gets stage anxiet y – but her quiet demeanour only reinforces the typical reserved Shoegaze performance style, the name itself deriving from the performers looking down at their foot pedals they play. It was originally a derogatory term coined in 1991 by music journalist Andy Ross for

tional part of the city since the 11th century. In the span of four minutes, Johnson has bumped into three different friends passing by. “It’s very easy to be recognised here because ever yone k nows ever yone,” she says. The small scale of the scene makes it loyal and easy to get involved – Johnson has constantly been approached to play gigs without even needing to ask. The st age is where Bug Teeth’s music comes alive, particularly with her newly added band members on guitars, drums and synths that add a magical energy. Shoegaze’s trademark lies in the number of foot pedals

Sounds newspaper, and later used by NME who slammed the genre for being self-indulgent (or “The Scene That Celebrates Itself”). Long 1960s bowl cuts, slouchy jumpers from charit y shops and brown corduroy jackets hidden by dark lighting on stage ended up creating a Shoegaze uniform. Somehow the small scene that was born in Britain’s universit y halls has not only continued today, but evolved on an internat ional scale dream pop bands such as Beach House, DIIV, M83 and Wild Nothing are just some of the few big names who have taken it into a new digital realm. “It survives because the genre

Bug Teeth finds a vibrant new friend in Norwich Market to he carry the groceries

ug Teeth begins to dream in green

still sounds new,” Johnson explains. “There’s so many different forms it can take, and people are still experimenting with it. You don’t even need a band now – you can just do it yourself, all you need is a laptop and a guitar.” As the afternoon gets colder and darker, Johnson decides it’s time to visit her favourite bar, Norwich Playhouse - a cosy venue next to a small theatre that is a hotspot for students. Shivering, she orders both a hot cider and, naturally, a hot-water-bot tle something the bar gives out in the winter

a really small London, but I find everyone so much more supportive here - there’s a lot less competition.” As the music scene is largely dominated by students, most of the bands and musicians make music purely to enjoy it rather than to make money – a luxury not often found in bigger cities. It’s this that gives the scene its rough, DIY sound and communal mindset, which is a breeding ground for bands and collaboration – it’s a scene that sustains itself. As Johnson finishes off her drink, she considers the future of Bug Teeth. With

months. Cradling these in her hands, she sits at one of the wooden tables and is met by two more of her friends: Emmally, a born and bred Norwich-ian - and Alex Calder, a member of Noriwch band Gladboy and recent addition to Bug Teeth’s live band. Both her friends share the same enthusiasm for the Norwich scene, labelling it a collective. “It’s incest uous and incredibly diverse,” says Emmally, a Brighton universit y graduate and artist, “and very self-sufficient. It’s like

gigs cropping up in London and Norwich, she continues to approach her music organically – simply hoping in five years’ time to be working a “crappy full-time job” and indulging in music on the side. “I don’t really care about being noticed,” she says. “That’s a great bonus and it’s important, but if that hasn’t properly happened I don’t care, as long as I make things that I love and am proud of.” And with that she's off, back home to make more music on her bedroom f loor .

Bug Teeth finds her newest band members in Norwichâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s antique centre, Looses Emporium 38

BACKSTAGE WITH

Gladboy drawn in quarantine by Norwich's very own cowgirl, Morwenna Farrell, for Mind The Gap

’m on my way to meet Gladbo y, on a cold and rainy day in February - head full of their punchy sounds I’d been pum ping into my ears on the train ride down to Norwich. Tonight they’re supporting rising Halifax band, The Ori elles, at The Waterfront - a music venue on the edge of the River Wensum of Norwich, run by University of East Anglia stu dents. As I go through the backstage doors, I spot the band huddle d together watching another support act of the night, Rio t Grrrl band Peanness, doing their soundcheck. After trailing thr ough narrow, wire-riddled corrido rs and accidentally intruding on a rowdy screening of a footba ll match next door, we’re give na space to talk in Peanness’ dre ssin a few hard chairs, a fridge fille g room. It’s a small area with d with beer and a door to a toilet with a sink attached that eve ryone spends five minutes ma rvelling over. After a lot of scra ping of chairs, people poppin g in and out with stools and bee rs being passed around - I get myself comfortable in one of the arm chairs and face the five musici ans staring back at me from the opposite side of the room. iece for With 15 minutes to go before three p ow a s a d soundcheck, I wonder how gr oun they are feeling about tonight’s sho began to went ar and w. “Fidgety” is the general con and we he band soon percussionist n. s s a b sensus. As fans of The Orielle y T o la r, .” d e p n w ld io to a a t s, they’re excited to support F them joined us ut much direc h player Alex C player James red – though it nearly didn’t hap o t s u pen, after the email asking to h s t n a x it y r s ore te book a bit w and b ns of them ended up in their spam folder. “I’d just like to use this ecame m tinues. anathan e additio interview to publicly say fuck with th nani Arudselv rs our sound b d,” Orton con n with Outlook emails,” declares fron in e Ja s b m s r mem ad in obse io tman singe George Orton. A Facebook me ese new we originally h fatuation and all bring their ssage away from missing out h t h it in on an “W ey ideal show feels fitting to the to what ssical to chaotic sounds Gladboy brin r, and th e had an gs to and akin members hav can remembe g pot - from cla efore, is Norwich’s quiet, cobbled stre r y ets. in All six g as the Gladboy melt eir sound, the alike This six-piece (one member r as lon d e Th is running late) band was bor music fo l tastes into th chedelic rock. ns and the ban erimenone of the demolished Univer n in a fa p y u sity of East Anglia halls. “Or s x h e p id t o d iv ’s b n d It a in to iginally s. k it was me and Sonny,” says Ort own define, session ost pun on, looking over to drummer noisy p t a mystery to ally from jam pop, or in their rock’s and guitarist, Sonny Mitchell, beh a t ic t h u n ind him, “and we’d go and pra somew brewing orga h a twist of ar iscent of Kra houty ctise after our classes and make in s it a lot noise. Then eventually ly m w t ’s e s e k r o p Co –m nds Adam c roc e fuzzy e it sou chedeli in Julian tal - psy nkadelic’. To m ergetic vocals melting into th u can u n s o words ‘j rhythms, the e and sometime closer listen y apes, c a n d texture ord Saint Julia arly work. On ey 90s sounds ring c e e c ’ a e d s p r r n s a o 7 e ’s o 8 D m ed 19 dboy om The iritualiz lk Talk’s synths fr ences from Sp ollages and Ta ated by the Gla hirts, u c u s t hear infl t’s shiny noise n. It’s all punc elic patterned nani’s small community Ede d Ja dcas ched f of student-led ba n a y o a s o r it s p r B ir d e p nds portunity to beco um, S t jump ces only ; printe me one of the city’s has given them the op1988 alb of this evening sers, blue velve at their influen holding most exciting new “Someone said Gl n u th adboy is a really No lineups. uniform ther tha rtan tro ure me rfolk name and I that,” says Orton. hirts, ta s. Gladboy ass new sounds, ra h energy that -s t really like They’re still youn N A C s s g in ever, and Norwich finding ve a fre oral dre isn’t going to be th their music career, howfloaty fl m forward into ey certainly ha eir home forever. enpersonally it’s no h e t “I th t re Adam B push th he past – and bassist production, “There’s a select few ally competitive enough here,” Orto ink f o t . s w in m e o n n says. artists – Bug Teet ng them usic io ro Crylaugh, Ronald how em feeli udies m he stud Reagan Rotary Or h, Birds of Hell, Captain keeps th -produced in t s, where he st ork – and that’s n gan, they’re all gr They kind of mak to d lf r e w e e O s L ir ,” ea ll e e yo t bands. A th tell y in when you watch th u want to get better at writing an do it rol over niversit couldn’t d playing em.” ham’s u complete cont l freak, if you . “I like that we rees. t g o “Norwich is pretty e d r a v t n a e n u h h o o c r y ,” y kg the it. “I’m a that wa ct. Its wich sits in its ow insulated and isolated,” Mitchell sa the bac ey want tham nods in want to keep it city they respe n bubble – way of ys. Norh t f to the East of En n a turesque Norfolk, I e , d B gland in picthat feels out of th laughs. uch as possible launchpad an e don’t really go to Norwich to get fro way from other cities. “You IY as m a safety net, a D m an “you go to Norwich h is because you want ywhere else,” Orton says, Norwic this limits their sc to go to Norwich.” ope of playable gig For them, s– comes a stressful affair of running to travelling elsewhere becatch the last train They all are adam home. ant that they want after university, ho to keep the band going wever, even if that means moving aw Norwich. Leeds se ay from em have a healthy fan s to be the current favourite – wh ere they base, and new ba nds are forming th day. As all student ere every s, aside from Cald er who works full (“shoutout to Yo-S time ushi!”), it’s a conv ersation they’re pl have when they gr anni ad day,” says Mitchell. uate. “I just want to be able to do th ng to is every “Just the thought of being able to wr like is pretty sexy ite or play whenev to me,” agrees Or er we ton. Before they leave fo to Gladboy. “I don’t r Soundcheck, I ask why we shou ld lis think we take ours experimental and elves too seriously, ten we’re a good live band,” says Bentha we’re “Megaphone!” excla m. ims Orton, “I use a megaphone.” With that they ar e off through the stage doors for th check, carrying gu eir soundita tantly – a megapho rs, tambourines, trumpets and mos t imporne.

Norwich born ‘junkeledic’ band, Gladbo y, prepare for the ideal gig th at accidentally landed in their spam box

Ablaze! Issue One, 1987, by Karren Ablaze featuring the "blazing yellow sun and an unbelievably useful free gift." All images are scanned from Karren's self published 2013 book, This City Is Ablaze 42

FROM NERVOUS PUNK TO OUTWARD-FACING GRRRL Fiery dyed redhead, Karren Ablaze, wasn’t afraid to make herself heard above the noisy indie scene that surrounded her in Leeds – and that’s what made her ‘80s zine, Ablaze!, shine so bright

itting in a garage, in the suburbs of early 1980’s Manchester, was a young Karren Ablaze - radio blasting the new wave rhy thms that were unfolding around her. She would spend every evening engrossed in DJ John Peel’s selection of new sounds in his BBC Radio 1 evening shows, or the underground tracks of Stockport’s pirate radio: KFM. When not attending her convent school in the weekdays – she’d take 10p bus rides to central Manchester and occupy her Saturday afternoons mooching about record shops, shif ting through vinyl to feed her hungry appetite for new music. During one of these af ternoons she spotted a messily photocopied booklet on the counter, selling for only a few pence - and so began an obsessive consumption and creation of zines. I couldn’t reply fast enough when Karren agreed to talk to me about her own zine, Ablaze!. I had been avidly digesting every page of her 2013 self-published book, This Cit y Is Ablaze!, for months - which paints the story of her zine-making days, and adolescent adventures through the ‘80s Leeds scene, with infectious energy. I felt closer to the music I’d loved for years - as though I

was taking a trip back in time to pre-internet days, when a notepad, pen and photocopier was all you needed to be heard. “Possibly the first zine I read was Kvatch by Clare Wadd, who went on to co-run Sarah Records,” says Karren. “I sent off for it to her home in York after John Peel gave it a mention on his show.” There was a sea of zines f loating around the UK back then, that were quickly t y ped, printed, photocopied, and handed around at gigs for less than 50p – stuffed in bags and piled up in teenager’s rooms as a gateway to the underground. It was through these zines Karren found a network of people who understood her angry teenage anguish – exchanging hand-written letters with the “zine-writing heroes” she adored. It wasn’t until a local radio show spoke about how to ‘do-it-yourself’ that Karren decided to make her own – shaping the next few years of her life into a sporadic, messy, stuck-togetherwith-Pritt-stick mosaic of the Thatcher-era Leeds scene. Trailing off the diminishing echoes of punk and new wave, early 1980’s British music outside London was twisting synth driven track s and punchy guit ars into the new

l place

Karren Ablaze and William Potter at a basement party in Hopewel

s relaxe

'80 e earl y ze in th h la is b b A b n vely ru Karre some lo next to

swirling noise of indie pop. ‘Indie’ had a more literal meaning back then – the mainstream had been shrugged off and bands were still holding onto punk’s anti-establishment attitude, which had led to a rise in independent music labels and DIY bedroom producing. It was a DIY ethos somewhat born out of necessit y, too - unemployment rates were rising rapidly with Margaret Thatcher’s new reign in 1979, money was scarce and riots were boiling and bubbling over from London to Liverpool. If you wanted to make something, you had to find the cheapest way to do it. Hitchhik ing was t he best way to see your favourite bands play on limited funds – queues of young teens at the sides of motorways, looking to catch a ride to other cities with army surplus kit bags slung over their backs, and a friend’s cold f loor to crash on at night. Bands like The Smiths, Gang Of Four, The Stone Roses, Inspiral Carpets and Happy Mondays were reigning – singing with either cheek y sarcasm of the times or romantic, reverb-soaked dreams of something better. Gone were the safet y pins, tartan trousers and chains and in came the quiet, innocent ‘jumble-sale’ look – cardigans, basin haircuts, f loral frocks and plimsoles found from digging around in charit y shops, bought

with dole money. It was a time of dressing up a shared shyness through music and clothing – the awkward, gangly figures who had been nervous punks. This was the textured backdrop in which Ablaze! was born - Karren’s self-made, fearless zine that dominated Leeds bet ween 1987-1993 - with interviews ranging from the then upcoming Stone Roses, Pale Saints, The Sundays and Pixies. Talking over the top of slurred guitars backstage at West Yorkshire’s music venues into faulty cassette tapes, transcribed with a clunky typewriter that was missing the let ter ‘q’ – Ablaze! made itself heard over the ruckus of male voices, punctuated by the exclamation mark that sits unabashedly at the end of its title. “I realised I could inf luence people’s opinions when I saw how much my writing could upset people in bands,” she says. “They were supposed to inf luence me – how could I, a mere teenage girl, have such a devastating effect on pop stars like Ian Brown, Thurston Moore and Morrissey, when I wasn’t even trying?” Karren created three other zines before Ablaze! – a name that came to her whilst listening to a Julian Cope Record. The Value Of Defiance, Karanoia ‘86/I Hate Punks and

Ablaze ! Is in the a sue One featu utumn months red a very he lp and h a nd to s ful free gift tudents a in need match to kee p warm of a lig ht

Mo de rrisse m fan and y's d Sm s pa ing w isgru n ith ssin h sg g o y he tl ed ig at ut an didn repl y the 't d t Fre bein do m o Kar r eT gs o rad qua re to en's l et e H sh p e all. d d reve ter uri nt ng a

Made In Manchester were all zines she made whilst she was still in school or sixth form, and were what she describes as “a girl only contemplat ing coming out of her shell”. These were the protot ypes of what Ablaze! would become, and a foot in the backstage doors she would spend much of her future knocking down. Ablaze! Issue One was released in 1987,

first Sonic Youth gig and a scribbled sketch of “Glastonbur y Wear” of ’87, to fighting backstage with other Zine makers to get an interview with band The Pastels – it was delightfully scrappy, punchy and picked up by readers straight away. “People bought it and I made two lifelong friends in the first week of publication, after selling them the zine in my local underground music venue,”

when Acid House was teetering on an explosion elsewhere in the UK and Thatcher had been re-elected. It was a fast-written, typo f illed yellow book let - w ith a fearsome sketched sun on the cover and a free match stuck on the inside, to generously hand to an “impoverished student” if they ask for a lighter. Saving up the printing costs with dole money f rom dropping out of six th form - it was a zine, you could say, sponsored by Thatcher. From a review of her

says Karren. The friends she made during the early Ablaze! days would become invaluable to the zine’s design, writing and content. Whilst making Ablaze! Issue Two, Karren decided to move f rom Manchester to Leeds to study philosophy, right when the Madchester scene and the jangly, oversized looks and sounds of Baggy were taking off (a decision she looks back on with relief ). Leeds was the home of her teenage obsession, pop

Karren's map of '80s Leeds 46

band Scrit ti Polit ti. “Although I was over them by the time I was choosing where to go to universit y, Leeds had been imprinted on my mind after I’d bunked off from school one day to explore the city and universities,” says Karren. Leeds had become a hotbed for rising indie bands – from Soft Cell to Gang of Four, and Karren wanted to be a part of it. In a series of shared, run-down student rooms and bedsits with no cookers, fridges or beds, and rowdy drug-fuelled parties (that they’d clear space for by sticking every thing up on the wall with tape) – Ablaze! found its home in the Leeds scene. She also met many of the

and a strangely competitive spirit in relation to all other zines,” says Karren, “which went into making it bigger and brighter than your average zine.” As much as Ablaze! was a noisy documentation of the music scenes that surrounded it, it was also a story of a young girl finding her voice. It led Karren from the indie scenes that were filled with egotistical male musicians (think the lyrics from ‘I Wanna Be Adored’ by the Stone Roses), right into the heart of the ‘90s Riot Grrrl movement. Riot Grrrl originally started in America in the early 90s – a feminist movement with punk roots that developed its own sound

later contributors there – including artist William Potter, who designed Ablaze! from Issue 5 onward. “To begin with the design was a typical mix of collage, typed-out stuckdown text and stuff scrawled in pen,” says Karren. “The main catalyst for innovation was William Pot ter, who created the logo and taught me how to warp images using a photocopier (swerve them around under the lid while the light’s on).” Potter injected his eclectic cartoonist touch into the illustrations and logo, giving the zine its own brightly coloured personalit y that shone over its competition. “I had a manic energy

and st yle, whilst addressing social issues with zines, protest s and meetups. Leeds had become increasingly inf luenced by the grungy sounds coming across from America, which Karren began picking up in Issue 5 of Ablaze! of ’89 – boasting a glossy cover, free f lexidisc and interview with American band Sonic Youth. R iot Grrrl, therefore, nat urally seeped t hrough t he crack s when it arrived in Britain, with acts like Brighton based Huggy Bear and Scotland’s Sacred Paws. They were loud, unapologetic - women supporting other women – and a refreshing contrast from the

s, 1989

The

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d e, Lee ell Plac Hopew

Karren's third zin which s he mad e before Ablaz e for he e in 1987 r Comm !, Made In Ma nch unicatio n Studie ester, s A-Lev el

laddish scenes of ‘90s Britpop. Karren notes that Riot Grrrl was an ‘on’ button – a chance to take action against male-heavy music scenes. Surrounded by Grrrls she was suddenly able to try, fail and enjoy whatever she wanted, forming three bands: Coping Saw, Wack Cat and Action Central. “The Leeds and Bradford gang [of Riot Grrrls] definitely had its own f lavour,” says Karren. “We were more actionbased, less discursive, I think, than groups in other areas. And because we weren’t being

tumbling toward online life. It was a confident, future-looking Issue that included a manifesto on Riot Grrrl and girls reclaiming the guitar. However, things started to change for the then 25-year-old Karren, starting with a violent mugging in ’92 on the way back from a Blur gig. Following this came an incident with Thurston Moore’s Sonic Youth, who sent her angry letters calling her ageist, after a comment she made in Ablaze! 10: “Now Sonic Youth tour with the finest and

hounded by the media as the Grrrls in London were, we had a lot of freedom to just go and do stuff (zines, bands, art, shows, workshops etc).” It was a “BE CR AP, WHO CARES” mentality, women standing up for each other and doing things themselves. Ablaze! stopped at Issue 10 in 1993 – a cleaner designed digital book let, made on her friend’s slow PC, that showed a culture

freshest bands, vampirically siphoning off as much cool as the possible can, to supplement that deficiency in their ageing reputation. Cos they need it – SY got that cool habit bad,” she wrote. “Karren Ablaze is ageist – a trait in solidarit y with sexism,” Thurston replies in scribbled handwriting, “I don’t hate her, but I can see why some people do.” 48

Ablaze!

sted a ased in April 1989, boa Abl aze! Issue five, rele c idis flex free and er glossy cov

Issue o ne

gave so

me help

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Though he apologised later - her friend and occasional Ablaze! cont ributor, Ross Holloway, believes this was the beginning of the end for the zine. Karren packed up for London to work for record label Southern Studios, and Ablaze! took a backseat. “I took to doing other stuff,” says Karren, “like getting a job to pay my printing debts, playing in bands, having Riot Grrrl adventures, and somehow these things broke the continuum of producing the zine.” Midway through the job, however, Karren found her life drastically changing when she began to feel the effects of her badly injured arm as a result of the mugging. Diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis, a long-term condition that causes pain and swelling in the joints, things started to feel harder. On return from London, she found Leeds had changed – new bands didn’t want to talk to her and her illness was slowing her down. She felt she’d sold-out and become a part of the establishment she had sworn against, though this had become inevitable - DIY scenes were changing and had to find their footing in a new digital world. Karren brief ly brought Ablaze! back in 2015 for an 11th issue, including interviews with Sleaford Mods and Kate Nash, but ran into similar issues. “I don’t think there is the same infrastructure now for selling your 49

stuff,” says Karren. “For example, a shop like Rough Trade might have taken 100-200 copies of my zine in the 90s, but when I put another one out in 2015 they didn’t want to sell it at all. That was pretty weird for a shop that markets itself as being ultra-DIY.” A my thical Ablaze! 12 still hangs in the air, though Karren has turned her at tention to other projects from her new home in southern Spain – such as a series of feminist adventure novels and set ting up her own publishing house, Mit tens On Publication. W hether Ablaze! makes a future return or not, the seven-year backlog of zines fossilises her story - the noisy gigs and unapologetic thoughts packed tightly into every booklet. With each Issue contributors grew, ending with 17 writers and boasting a print run of over 5000. It led Karren from, as she notes in her book, “the world of a folded-up girl who could barely speak, to an outward-facing Grrrl who would not stop.” For me, this is what Ablaze! should be remembered for, and what drew me to it. As a young woman slowly f inding her voice and conf idence through writing, Karren’s stor y resonates with me and pushes me to write more freely. Ablaze! leaves behind a reminder to future Grrrls to pick up a pen, write what you think and do-it-yourself.

stival g

oers

LIVE THE FROM LIVING ROOM W

hen lockdown restrictions were put in place on the 23rd of March 2020 – Britain’s nightclubs and music venues closed their doors. Real life parties and raves have ground to a halt, whilst gigs and festivals have been cancelled left and right – but communities found new ways to get together. Taking to the internet, with livestreamed concerts, Zoom parties and DJ sets – DIY music communities are holding on through the pixels of computer screens. Keeping them stuck together are Britain’s online independent radios – broadcasting night and day from living rooms and bedrooms across the country. Online radios are nothing new, owing their existence to the beginnings of Pirate Radio, which was pioneered by Denmark’s 1958 station, Radio Mercur. British radio, in its 1922 beginnings, was government owned due to it’s ability to spread messages, particularly during World War II. The government would deter publications from publishing information about the overseas broadcasts coming in, like Radio Normandy and Radio Lyon. People still tuned in, though - hungry for variety.

In 1964, Irish music manager Ronan O’Rahilly started Radio Caroline - the first Pirate Radio broadcasting from an offshore ship to the UK. Started as a frustrated response to the chart-structured BBC radio shows, that left British youth starving for the new rock and pop sounds – pirate DJs would illegally broadcast new bands from the waters outside Britain’s territory, to avoid legislation issues. Radio Caroline’s transmissions inspired a whole slew of new Pirate Radios, and by 1967 there were over ten stations broadcasting to 10-15 million eager listeners around the country. From Radio 270, broadcasting off of Norfolk’s coast, to Radio Scotland anchored in the Scottish East coast – DIY stations also began taking the emphasis away from London, focussing on bands in specific regions. At the end of the ‘60s, the government had become so frustrated with the legal loopholes these stations were hopping through that they set up the Radio Agency. They managed to pass the Marine Broadcasting Offences Act in 1967, making it difficult for stations to continue and eventually forcing them to close down. The

Britain's

independent radios are the glue keeping

DIY SCENES

together during

lockdown DJs that had become synonymous with their stations, such as Tony Blackburn and the late John Peel, felt they had no choice but to join the BBC. Peel joined BBC Radio 1 – a new station the BBC had put in place to emulate the format of pirate radios. He managed to uphold the DIY mindset through his show, John Peel Sessions, playing underground and obscure artists, from punk to rave, and becoming an integral part of DIY scenes during the 1970s-80s. Though it had become harder to broadcast, it didn’t stop new pirate radios from cropping up over the decades, and many took to setting up in city tower blocks with aerials erected high up on the roof. The ‘80s saw even more regions setting up stations – from Birmingham’s People’s Community Radio Link to Manchester’s KFM radio. These stations also began to celebrate and open up spaces for Black artists – such as London’s first black owned station Dread Broadcasting Corporation, or the soul, reggae and hip hop sounds pouring out of KISS FM. In the early 00s, a fresh wave of pirate radio began, with stations such as Kool FM

and Rinse FM who championed the new jungle and UK garage scenes. As the internet began to rise in the 00s, setting up your own radio station became easier, as DJs were no longer confined to the broadcasting laws. Gone were the days of holding up masts on ships or steadying homemade antennas on the roof– the online world opened up a whole new way to broadcast music, from one living room floor to another. Though today they compete with streaming sites like Spotify or YouTube, people still come to radio for the human touch - algorithmically made playlists and suggestions can only do so much. To dive into the underground scenes of British music it still takes a good DJ, who supports local artists and dives into global, obscure new music not available (or under-appreciated) on mainstream platforms. During lockdown, these stations become even more important for supporting and giving musicians exposure, whilst they’re unable to arrange physical gigs. So, turn the dial and tune in to the conversation with some of Britain’s current DIY radios.

VANDELAY RADIO Based loosely in Swansea, Wales, Vandelay Radio is brought to you by producer Dare Balogun, DJ Ollie Gordon and computer-whiz Roxy Jahansouz. " Don't take us too seriously, you'd enjoy yourself more" says their Facebook page, but their roster is no joke. Boasting a huge range of talent, from DJ MOLL, Foamek and Not Bad For A Girl - Vandelay has grown from a boredom buster to a strong network of musicians all across the globe.

Photo: Vandelay's living room set up in Swansea, Wales

ISOLATION STATION

When Covid-19 struck, Brighton's radio station Platform B set up Isolation Station - some much needed company in these lonely lockdown days. Coming live from Matt Leppier's (AKA BrickCellPhone and Off License Magazine's editor) flat in Hove, there's daily shows to fill all your music needs, so grab yer slippers and tune in from your sofa.

Isolation Radio's setup in Hove

Not Bad For A Girl outside The Thirsty Scholar, Manchester, taken by Christopher Fowler

RAVING IN PINK Whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s behind those pink balaclavas you ask? Put simply - a collective giving the middle finger to anyone who thinks women canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t DJ, and a group of mates having a good time.

“W

e lost nearly all our masks at a part y in Ibiza, we really need to get some more,” says the Not Bad For A Girl founder and promoter, Martha. Gathered in The Thirst y Scholar – a sparse pub under an archway on New Wakefield Street – the all-female, Manchester DJ collective are unmasked, hungover and ready for a chat. The f ull list of NBFAG resident s i nclude Da i Su , K ia na , Ma r ac uy a , ThtGrl, Velmz, Moll and Eggs on Toast. With a range of selft aug ht DJs who a ll bring their individual niches, f rom techno to house – NBFAG has a r ea l homeg r ow n, DI Y energ y pumping t hrough it s veins. It all started on the 8th April, at a period poverty fundraiser party for Manchester’s student radio, FUSE FM. Events promoter, Mar tha, had put together an all-female DJ line-up to perform - from the self-sufficient and tight-knit music scene around her. “After that I said fuck it, let’s just form a collective,” Martha says. “It all happened from there. In the first 48 hours we had about 600 likes on Facebook”. Donning their signature pink balaclavas, found for £1.50 on Ebay, their launch party turned into a huge event that sold out in seconds – bringing 1000 people together in an abandoned

leisure centre for an explosive, sweaty night of dancing. Since then it’s been a mixed bag of raves, house-parties and collaborations with other collectives. “We’re very all over the place, we’re just having a good time,” says Martha, “but I think women like to see the kind of representation we bring, and they identify with it.” Hitting back at the inequality in club scenes, there’s been a surge in female and LGBTQ focussed DJ collec t ives forming in Manchester and around the UK over the past few years. Other

Manc unian organisat ions, such as Shifting Spheres and All Hands On Deck, give DJ training workshops to inspire and educate young women on how to mix and get involved. NBFAG may have a more laid-back approach, but still have a strong impact on the scene. “We don’t t ake ourselves too seriously,” says DaiSU, a disco, house and techno DJ who moved to Manchester from Bristol. “So many male DJs take themselves way too seriously, it’s boring. It’s music, it’s meant to be fun!” The pink balaclavas are a slight poke at t hose all-too-serious male 61

collectives – they’re not a way to hide, but a way to pass the NBFAG identit y around at parties. For most of them, it wasn’t until they saw friends and other women DJing that they thought about doing it themselves – taking inspiration from people like Annie Mac, LCY, 6 Figure Gang and Caterina Barbieri. Using each other and YouTube as their teachers, they’ve become competent DJs - such Iranian born Kiana, a third-year engineering student who finds exciting tracks from the underground Iranian music scene. For all the wellthought out set s and ex hilarat ing raves, t hough – t h e r e ’s a l w a y s t he bad nig ht s . “House parties are the main culprit,” s ay s Ma r ac u y a , whose free part y inf luenced sets could single-handedly tear down any argument that harder genres are a male-only world. “I’ve done one where these guys kept coming up to me asking me to play Weezer or Oasis. I’m like no, I’m a techno DJ! They just wanted some Wonderwall.” Being only a year old, there’s still a lot to come from Not Bad For A Girl. For the future they see bigger parties, their own record label, more members, more drinking and more time spent together. For now, the next step is to find newbalaclavas, mask up and get back on the decks.

SLUT DROP

Homegrown in Leeds, this collective of female, LGBTQ+ and BAME DJs are fighting inequality in Britain's music industry

t all started in a bedroom in Leeds, 2014, with a mates' laptop and a cheap controller. Cat Snell, AK A DJ TACAT, was sick of not hearing the experimental electronic and hip hop sounds she and her friends loved, in the local clubs and parties. As a bedroom and house part y DJ struggling to get booked herself, she realised a platform was missing. "This got us thinking about how hard it must be for loads of women in their bedrooms DJing," says Cat, "we wanted to challenge that and hear the music that weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re now known for. Slut Drop was born!" Slut Drop is an open and inclusive DJ collective for women, LGBTQ+ and BAME artists. It finds a secure home in one of Leeds' most prominent DIY venues - CHUNK, who chipped in to get Slut Drop up and running from the beginning, and hosts nearly all their events. Slut Drop's core ethos is finding emerging artists and talent to provide them with a platform and a helping hand. "We also want to encourage people to get into the industry, " Cat says, "to learn to DJ, learn to be a promoter, we provide support and workshops to try and inspire and help people to go for it because sometimes we all need a push!" They do such a good job of backing emerging talent, in fact, that they often f ly the nest to continue their success across the UK. As a DIY collective, money can be tight, particularly during lockdown when events have been cancelled. "Until we start turning over some decent money or get funding it is really hard to support the team for their work," Cat says. Whilst they pay all their acts for every event - behind the scenes Cat and the other organisers are working for free. "If people are there in their own time, it is because they really want to be there; it shows real passion and brings the best out of them." It's the thrill after the events and parties that keeps Slut Drop raving on. "Also, I still feel like there is a way to go in diversifying the industry," Cat says, "so when I see the problems happening, it lights the fire in my belly again." For the future, Slut Drop hopes to find more sustainable funding, and Cat has a vision of turning it into a label or booking agency - a natural progression from who they are now. Most importantly, Slut Drop isn't going to let the lockdown get to them. "If there is ever a time to come together, share profits, reinvest in each other and essentially get through an incredibly difficult social and economic time it is now," Cat says, "and it is that community spirit that is the key to our future." 62

Cat Snell (right) next to Slut Drop resident DJ, Maryam, at their 9/11/2019 show in CHUNK. Photo taken by Chloe French

Slut Drop's crowd having a boogie at their 9/11/2019 show in CHUNK. Photo taken by Chloe French

Chen, aka DJ Chenice, works the decks at her first Slut Drop performance, 9/11/2019 at CHUNK. Photo by Chloe French

Dancing with Zoya (far left) from another Leeds collective, Equaliser, who Slut Drop collaborated with in 2019 for an event in Leeds' club Wire. Photo by Chloe French

Nik Nak, a resident DJ at Slut Drop, performs at the collectives' 5th birthday party at CHUNK, 3/2/2019. Photo by Chloe French 67

Sean O’Connell has “worked for a lot of dickheads and earned shite money” to get his photos, and he wants you to know it

WASHING LINE. Taken in Hyde Park, Leeds, 2017. "This lady lived a few doors down from me"

ashion loves the North. It loves the ‘realness’, the ‘grit tiness’, t he ‘roughness’ t hat ’s missing from its shiny, expensive ex terior. “There’s almost something exotic about the North,” Bedfordshire born Lou Stoppard once said, in an inter v iew about t he 2017 ex hibit ion she co-curated, called North: Fashioning Identit y. There’s nothing exotic about it for documentary photographer Sean O’Connell, who grew up and lives in Barnsley, a small town in South Yorkshire, about 30 minutes from Leeds. Riding around on his BMX, he takes forthright shots of Yorkshire characters, local spots that take his fancy and his ‘scally’ mates messing around. His work was recently shown in 2019, right nex t door to North: Fashioning Identity’s tour to Barnsley, in his solo exhibition Brothtarn (tarn meaning town, broth an in-joke with his friends meaning ‘a bit shit’), at The Civ ic. W here one showed garment s from Virgil Abloh’s ‘take’ on Northern style – Sean placed three mannequins in his own labouring clothes, to show his “attitude isn’t an act.” He’s worked and sweated for these photos, and his muddied Adidas t rack suit bot toms stand alongside them to prove it. Sean began taking photos in 2015, when he decided to study photography at Leeds College Of Art, though at first he didn’t really take it seriously. “I hated Tarn when I moved, like most young uns did,” he says, “I fucked about in Leeds for a few years, now I’ve come back I understand what work I wanna make and believe in it. Without that confidence you’re shagged.” Frustrated

by the lack of jobs his degree had opened up to him, he t urned his at tent ion to building up his ow n photography por tfolio. From snaps of fights breaking out in the streets of Leeds and builders on their lunch break, to his late grandmother quietly eating breakfast in her home – Sean affectionately captures the banal or impulsive moments of South Yorkshire life in clear black and white. The new-found conf idence in his abilit y has led to a healthy following on Inst agram and caught the relevant-hungry eye of Burberry in 2017 – commissioning him (with a lot of haggling) for a portfolio of work. If ever there was a brand that ref lected the British class system, it’s Burberry – the brand that panicked when ‘chavs’ supposedly ruined their luxury image, and were found in 2018 to have burned £28.6m of unsold clothing a year to prevent counterfeits and retain their exclusivity. When streetwear became ‘cool’ and the working class ‘aesthetic’ became a topic of interest – the brand hurriedly tried to realign themselves with a part of British culture they once ridiculed, by hiring Italian designer Riccardo Tisci in 2018. “Here, people see [class] more, it’s a look”, Tisci told Another Magazine in 2019. “You have punks, you have skinheads, you have the aristocracy, you have the Queen, who I love.” His first collection for SS19, Kingdom, was what he called “a patchwork or a mix of the British lifest yle”, which ended up being an attempt to please everyone and their

grandmother in Britain, putting bourgeoisie evening wear next to punk and streetwear. “Because I come from the street, I design dresses sometimes that are expensive, but I need to have a product for people,” Tisci said in 2018 interview with the Evening Standard. Sean’s grit t y images are the perfect backdrop for this realignment with the ‘street’, especially with Barnsley being right near one of Burberry’s factories in Castleford, so it’s no wonder he was approached. To the photographer, though, it was just a job and a dull one at that – the main highlights being his mates wearing the expensive gear down to the corner shop for a pint-a milk. With O’Connell’s feet placed firmly in his hometown, all this class stuff comes prett y naturally to him – capt ioning his photos of t he diggers working on Barnsley’s £120m regeneration project as “gentrification in process”. The rips, tears, the intent iona lly weat hered t rainers t hat Fashion so loves to adopt from ‘working-class-aesthetics’ (remember those dirt y Gucci Screener Sneakers being sold for £615 in 2019?) - Sean can capture the real thing. With shots of his mates in two grand Burberry coats, in the backyards and streets of Barnsley – he takes the Nova check and gives it back to the ‘scallies’ it was taken away from. Would he shoot for a fashion brand again? “Yes, stop paying old rich folk to do same shit, they've had their crack, it’s our go now.”

Hunslet Shop, LS11., 2016 "There's a good spot we used to ride next to it." 72

"My mate, Sam Batley, in my back garden in Barnsley" for Burberry 2017 75

"Barnsley artist Jenny Beard, in my Grandad's garden" for Ley Clothing co, 2017

"My mate Grace Oneill for Burberry" taken in Osmondthorpe,

2017

QUESTION

ANSWER

"Random lad that walks around Hyde Park in Leeds asking everyone if they're sound" taken in 2016 79

"Me and my grandma having breakfast. RIP love ya" taken in Barnsley, 2018

Robert Newman's 'Living Grass Jacket' is placed at Chanctonbury ring, degrading back into the Earth it came from and ready to start a new life cycle 84

WALK IT OFF Fashion and walking go hand in hand, or foot in foot - something Stone Island’s Consultant Designer, Robert Newman, knows well

ver since lockdown – walking has been on my mind. There’s a tiny g reen dow n my road t hat I’ve never given much thought - full of weeds, brown grass, rusty old goal posts and a few sad looking trees. Over the two months I’ve spent in quarantine, this small patch of land has become my one escape. Walking laps around the outskirts, I’ve watched the trees blossom, the bushes grow thicker and the people coming out in twos and threes with a football to kick around at a distance. Walking has suddenly become a luxury. The simple act of get ting from A to B – from work to home, home to friends – has

imitating how clothes will move up and down the street. Entire lines of clothing have been designed around walking – for hiking up mountains or through winding forest trails. From the first Mackintosh sold in 1824, to the surge in synthetics such as nylon in the 1960s that began revolutionising lightweight outdoor wear - raincoats, walking boots, thermals have all been created to enhance the walking experience. This is the world that Stone Island’s consult ant desig ner, Rober t New man, knows and loves. As an avid hiker, his own collections take inspiration from the nature and landscapes he enjoys – quite

been disrupted. Going outside only once a day has put an emphasis on every step we take, one foot after another. The idea of ‘walking something off’ is often how we deal with stress or creative blocks to get our brains up and running again. Walking can be political, too – rioters marching across American and British cities to take a stand against police brutality, after the murder of 46 George Floyd - killed by ex-policeman Derek Chauvin on the 25th May 2020. Walking is a physical, psychological and symbolic part of our lives. So of course, where there’s walk ing – there’s clothing. Walking holds an integral beat in fashion itself - with catwalks

literally. From jackets made out of living grass – to practical, technically sound and streamlined outdoor parkas or trousers, he competently designs with the outdoors in mind. Raised in Bristol, hiking and rambling has been a par t of his life from early on - biking up to picturesque spots like Tintern and Avebury as a teenager. This time spent walking in nature shapes the way he designs today. “I remember telling people when I was 5 or 6 that I wanted to be an inventor, which I guess is sort of the same as fashion design,” he says. “My first experience in the industry was a week’s work experience when I was 15 in Alfred

Robert Newman's pollen jacket runs free. Photo by Rory Griffin 86

Dunhill’s Jermy n st reet store, helping grumpy old men try on Blazers and hunting jackets.” Graduating with both a BA and an MA in Menswear Design from the Universit y of Westminster – along with internship experience at various brands, including Christopher Raeburn and Stone Island – Newman began to build his own brand in 2017. “About the time I began to become involved with Stone Island, I was living a prett y absurd lifest yle doing an MA in London, whilst trying to set up my own brand in Glasgow, and going hiking whenever I could find time off,” he says. “This involved a lot of sleeping on trains, on buses and in my van, and as a result I got really into having the right gear for this weird nomadic life - buying things that

of how they work,” Newman says. His designs, much like Vexed Generation, are political statements on climate change and tests on how nature and clothing can work together. His recent 2019 exhibition The Marches, at the Art Hub Gallery in Deptford, showed off his abilities in a series that he calls “imagined technologies and fictional protest gear.” In the centre of the exhibition, he displayed his living grass jacket and hat. These utopian garments capture the terrain of a particular piece of land, picked by Newman either by its folk significance or vegetation, and last two to three days before they are turned into haystacks. Gat her ing supplies for his gar ment s involves a lot of sleeping in cars to harvest grass covered in early morning dew.

had to do a job and do it really, really well. That came through stronger in my designs after that time.” W hilst working for Stone Island has refined his knowledge of what makes solid outdoor gear, he's not afraid to create more abstract pieces as well. Inf luenced by conceptual designers, such as Final Home (who created the 1994 ‘Sur vival Jacket’ designed to be a ‘wearable shelter’) or the ‘90s cult label Vexed Generation (who used technolog y based fabrics to protest environmental issues such as air pollution) – he finds ways to incorporate natural growth and repair into garments. “I think landscape and the natural world are the most expansive research materials available, both visually and in terms

“I’ve been caught in the snow trying to build them, and nearly drowned in a tidal marsh that we had to reach by canoe," he says. "The last one I made ended with me and my friends being chased away by a pissed off farmer who was trying to spray pesticides.” Lockdow n has given New man space for his ideas and outcomes to move more slowly. “The oppor t unit y and need to re-invent the world completely after this feels pret t y inspiring ,” he says. With a new company in the works, called Middle Dist ance (an out let for ex per iment al designs and knowledge sharing) - Newman marches towards his dream of living away from London, closer to the landscapes he draws inspiration from.

The Living Grass jacket shown at Newman's 2019 exhibition THE MARCHES at Art Hub Gallery, Deptford

Newman harvesting grass from Norfolk for his grass suits. Photo by Laura Plant 89

The pollen coated Mylar/mesh/ chenille knit lined parka is from Newman's 2018 MA collection 'The Optimist'. Photo by Rory Griffin

DIY starts in the bedroom. As teenagers it's where we spend time listening to music, writing in notebooks and putting together looks in the mirror. When Covid-19 hit, everyone suddenly found themselves confined between their bedroom walls - beds became exam desks and kitchen tables became work surfaces. Mind The Gap asked 16-18 year olds around Britain to send portraits of themselves in their rooms, as they go through one of the biggest disruptions the country has faced since wartime. This is the generation whose futures have been thoroughly shaken up by Covid-19 - with GCSE and A-Level exams cancelled or changed and university placements becoming more and more uncertain. Find out what they've been doing to fill the time...

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LUKE, 16, COVENTRY

EMMY, 16, BELFAST

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EMILIA, 17, NOTTINGHAM

SHERLY, 16, SHEFFIELD

MATTHEW, 18, SWANSEA

BOBBI-MAE, 16, SWANSEA

TARYN, 19, NORWICH

LOTEM, 16, EDINBURGH

ALIFE, 17, CLAPTON

KIYANA, LONDON

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