Inspiration Series: No.2 - Russell Herman

I know very little of my father, so when today I received photographs of him playing with his band District Six in 1983 it sparked a desire in me to collect the images together in one place with a little piece for him. Russell Herman was of South African descent and moved to London in 1982. Alongside playing in District Six, a band made up of other South African musicians from the infamous district in Cape Town, he also stood as a member of the ground-breaking band Estudio. What set apart Estudio, who left almost no recorded legacy, is that they existed as a mixed-race group playing together in the midst of the apartheid - at a time when it would have been forbidden to do so. 

Estudio performing in South Africa in the 70s

My memories of the period we shared are scarce, and revolve mainly around his love of Tunnock's tea cakes, and so it is his contribution to music that I choose to remember him for. The kind of unity it exhibits is something that I hope to continually channel in my own life, in a bid to stand against the systems that I disagree with, and commit myself to holding strong beliefs. In his later life, Russell continued to support the distribution of South African music in London, in particular through the pianist Bheki Mseleku. He left the world in 1998 as a man well respected among his peers, as a jazz musician and avid lover of music. Though we do not often hear his name shared it is not for want of contribution to the musical arts. Today he acts as my inspiration. Indeed, one that may be distant and hazy in the best sense of the word, but all the same a man that I must recognise as a strong part of my identity.

Photos courtesy of Kenneth J Gill

Clothes, Clothes, Clothes. Music, Music, Music. Boys, Boys, Boys.

To claim a book has life altering capabilities is not uncommon, though whether this is a substantial claim to make always comes into question. I have always been impressionable. The art that I come into contact with has a tendency to imprint itself upon my person, at least for a fleeting period of time. This goes back as far as carrying around a piece of ribbon in my pocket so I could pretend to be Violet Baudelaire at the age of 10. Even so, I do not throw around the term life changing lightly, or for that matter frequently. When discussing Viv Albertine's autobiography this is a phrase that reemerged from each person I spoke to, as a significant commonality.

For those of you who don't know, Albertine is perhaps most noted as guitarist of the 70s all-female punk band The Slits. Her recent autobiography, Clothes, Clothes, Clothes. Music, Music, Music. Boys, Boys, Boys. stitches together a painting of a life that stretches much further than this. Yes, it is emblazoned with a frank depiction of the UK punk scene - with personal accounts of Sid Vicious and Mick Jones, both of whom Albertine was acquainted with. Beyond this,  however, lie engaging reflections of a daughter, mother and wife. The book is underpinned with the passions of a musician, yet stands alone as an often painfully honest piece of writing. Viv takes leaps over a simple portrait of the music industry by considering the position of women and the choices they are faced with in a way that is continually relatable.

The whole of Clothes reads at great ease. Albertine's distinct voice, which is both humorous and grounded, resounds throughout. All in all the book is likeable. It is a pleasure at each turning and remains without pretence. For me, it was not so much life changing as life affirming. The doubts and falters that line a life as full as hers are still entirely recognisable. To have the same level of consciousness echoed in the words of a woman who has stood as such an inspiration, above all was reassuring. That those same uncertainties break through as clear as day, signposting each point alongside a voice that remains unapologetically defiant, is refreshing. What Albertine offers is a full and uninhibited portrayal of the self, providing a guiding light of reference for women both young and old. Almost as an accidental role model, it is through her honesty that Albertine reveals truths about being a woman that have perhaps been refined to the corners of our psyché. Her words resonate as the shared difficulties that permeate everyday life. It may not make claims for every woman's experiences, yet it does not attempt to hide its own and thus acts as an example of the kind of openness that can only be helpful for such a mystified gender. Here is not just a reflection of one woman's story, but a necessary invitation into at least one reality of womanhood. 

There's a Party in Croatia

The way that I observe my life appears as something along the lines of a prolonged comedy sketch. A string of embarrassing mishaps and continual mistakes that I have gradually learnt to seek humour in. Probably (hopefully) more characteristic of my age than my core person. It then appears that if you take a group of girls entering their 20s and place them in a foreign country the disastrous elements become heightened. Spending the past week in sunny Croatia at Outlook Festival this was certainly evidenced.

An experience that began with almost missing our 6 hour train from Budapest, followed by queuing for an hour and a half in a torrential downpour, losing my purse with the contents of all my bank cards and money on the second night, tied up by a series of misadventures that are perhaps not so blog appropriate - it seems that almost everything that could go wrong, did... All the same, as I find myself back in the familiar confines of my mother's sitting room all I can muster is a desire to be back in the dusty ruins of Fort Punta. Despite the initial fear of being forced to beg for tokens at the side of arenas, I can say with the upmost assurance that I have never spent a week feeling more without a care than the week just gone. So then what is it about the bass festival, now in its 7th year, that has the ability to instil such ease even at times of panic?

Entering into the campsite just outside Pula on the first day, drenched to the bone and covered in mud, I found myself fighting the urge to feel immediately disheartened. The general morale of the group had been rapidly dashed by continual complaints and despite my best efforts I found myself struggling to resist comparisons to the rainy backdrops of UK festivals. After ditching our backpacks, the clouds had cleared but my scepticism had kicked in in full force. Maybe I travelled all this way for yet another mud bath. I could've just caught a ferry to the Isle of Wight instead of trekking to the other side of Europe. 

Mustering the last of the days strength we set off towards the beach with low expectations and a healthy dose of British cynicism in tow. As with other festivals I've become accustomed to the fact that you hear the music well before you see it. Similar to the moment of standing on a sweat filled tube as it nears Westbourne Park on Carnival day and you feel the structures underfoot begin to rattle. Rising anticipation as you feel the bass start to run through you. Then it's upon you, the sight of a swarm of bodies, locked together in exaggerated movement. This, however, was unlike anything I've seen before. A crowd outstretched along crystal waters, extending as far as the eye can see. In the snap moment it took my eyes to adjust, taking it in, all those stresses and doubts had vanished, dispersed into thin air. It's that age old thing - no description can match the reality. Though I've seen the photos and heard the stories, it takes for you to stand in the midst of it to truly grasp it. 

The consecutive days passed in a length of bliss. Beginning by lazing in the beating down sun and swimming in the clear streaks of water before descending on a playground of ruins lined with some of the best soundsystems I've ever come into contact with. The creators of Outlook claim they wanted to reflect soundsystem culture - 'heavyweight soundsystems, in a friendly, warm and inspiring peninsular, sea-side location.' Well with one of the most incredible settings they seem to have stumbled upon the perfect combination; thousands of people out to have a good time in a literal paradise. Whenever people comment on the friendliness of festival crowds I'm always sceptical. Largely happy groups are easily hindered when among such a high concentration of people, and although you might reflect my scepticism I've never been among such an entirely warm congregation. It could be the influence of the surroundings, but over the week it was simple to observe, everybody seemed to be in a state of ecstasy. Days that felt like months and a feeling of calm that is yet to shift, all I know is I'm counting down every second until I find myself back under the Croatian sun. 

Wilderness Festival

This weekend I had the pleasure of working at Wilderness festival. I quickly discovered that the scenic four day extravaganza, set in the idyllic Cornbury park, is the rich man’s dream, but what does it offer if you don’t have two pennies to rub together? There were elements of the organisation of the event that were slightly off-putting. Namely, the focus on commodities — everything initially appeared to have a price. On top of the ticket, you are faced with an assortment of extra costs if you want to take part in anything from extravagant banquets put together by Michelin star chefs, to the late night roller disco. Of course there is an element of marketing to every festival, but at this one in particular it seemed that everyone was attempting to fill their pockets. After a day of feeling exasperated by our lack of money, we did start to discover that there was indeed fun to be had for free. 

One of my favourite elements of a festival is that moment which convinces you that you have discovered the best place in the entire site. Stumbling upon a snippet of magic that is so wonderful that you are simply grateful that you get to be a part of it. The bottle blue dragonflies skirting around an empty lake before the punters had arrived. Dancing madly to a great rock n’ roll band that I’d never heard of previously as it poured down with rain. Being in a crevice of the woods that stands as the late-night Pandomonium as they played Fleetwood Mac and everyone seemed to join in. Attempting to go to bed only to be distracted by a band that sung everything from James Brown to Otis Redding with enough soul to (almost) do the songs justice — well come on, what’s the likeliness of living up to the greats? 

The highlight of these, however, came from an unexpected place. In a seemingly tame and peaceful tent filled with sofas and carpets, and books lining the stage and hanging from the ceiling, the late night revelry of story telling took place. That still sounds relatively low key, especially for all the other sorts of adventures that are bound to be occurring at 2 in the morning, but when you take a marquee full of intoxicated strangers and hand them a microphone you never know what might come out. A series of confessions that broached the crude and inappropriate with great force, with a few spontaneous sing-a-longs and poetry readings thrown in for good measure, and one slightly distressed presenter who ended up having to excuse himself to go to bed, we found ourselves in the midst of one of the funniest affairs to have appeared in my life for a long time. Even as the 4am curfew came and went (one massive downside to the festival) the host of the tent ignored the pleas from the sound crew in favour of continuing with the fun; despite eventually having to shut off the microphones and shout from the stage instead. I can’t remember the last time I laughed so hard and with one of my favourite people at my side I couldn’t have asked for more. Then there is the consideration of how many of those moments must be occurring simultaneously over one field, thousands of people blissfully happy and entirely convinced that they would rather be in that spot than anywhere else in the world. It turns out that all you really need to enjoy even the most expensive of festivals is good company and an open mind — the rest will find you. 

The Return of Neneh Cherry

I've always had a slight apprehension towards holding the famous as role models, finding it much more rewarding to seek inspiration in the every day acquaintances that offer a much greater connection to the personal. With Neneh Cherry, however, I have to make an exception. I have always greatly admired Neneh's fierce take on the world. Here is a woman that has decidedly marked out her own path, and after taking a hiatus of 18 years in order to raise her children, she is back with an album that speaks volumes of her long departed pop days.

First, it must be noted at how refreshing it is to see a successful female musician place the reasoning for her stint away from the musical world upon the fact that she didn't want to see her kids raised by other people. In a world that advocates the image of the woman who does it all, holding down a career while raising a family, there remains a lack of acknowledgement for the validation of choosing motherhood as a full time occupation. It seems strange to argue against how rewarding bringing new people into the world and watching them grow is, yet it seems to take a backseat to the depiction of the career woman striving to take on the business world. Though there are certainly arguments towards the cruciality of breaking the ever ominous glass ceiling, the core of equality is having the option to make those choices for yourself. Either way, at a time when artists such as Beyonce are placed in the limelight for being forward thinking when it comes to feminism, Neneh Cherry offers a true indication of what it is to pioneer women's liberation.

The arrival of Neneh's fourth solo album sees a transformation from her chart-topping youth. Produced by Four Tet's Keiran Hebden, the record takes a much more minimalist approach which allows Neneh's artistic flare to really take the forefront. A greater appreciation can be taken for the depth of her voice, which seems to have only strengthened in her time away from recording, and the sculpted lyrics that transcend topics such as the death of Cherry's mother and her menstrual cycle can be fully absorbed without an excess of embellishments. A far cry from the commercialisation of modern music, here are songs that actually have something to say for themselves. The artistic composition of the entire work is such that it resonates, leaving traces upon the person at mercy to its wonders. We can thank our lucky stars that Neneh is back, for here is a lady that will certainly transform the current state of modern music, remoulding it into something really worth caring about.

Sounds of Sunday
Blurry eyed and lazy boned, the culmination of the week deserves listening that is as smooth to the senses as it is sweet to the soul. Soothing away the aching limbs of a harsh weekend with some honey tones. There is nothing better to lie around to without a care in the world, allowing the trials of the previous week to fade into the haze of the background. Then with a gentle nod to the forgotten past, you're ready to drift into the week ahead with the remnants of the record as the only blues in tow. 

Sweet Summer Sounds

I never really wondered up until now, what you would get if you crossed Marvin Gaye with Mos Def, but now it seems like the question is necessary in its requirement of an answer. Yasiin Gaye sees the apparently dream combination culminate in a feature length album, entitled The Departure (Side One). Acting as a continuation of Amerigo Gazaway's Soul Mates series, this new ambitious project far exceeds the title of mashup. Instead, we find ourselves in the presence of a seamlessly mixed album that manages to remould the classic stylings of Gaye in a way that brings them right up into the forefront of innovation. The collection is both smooth in its manipulation and presentation, making it exactly the kind of thing you'd want to kick back and listen to in the sun. With beats that make it impossible to resist getting up and soul that means you can't possibly refrain from smiling, I already know that this is the record I'll be playing all the way through the summer months. I can already hear the birds singing, feel the grass between my toes, see the bare honey flesh glowing in the fresh rays and taste a cooling ice lolly on the tip of my tongue. 

You can listen to the full album and download it for free here.

Library Listening

I may be confined to the library until tomorrow with a looming deadline but it would be wrong not to devote a snippet of my attention to my blog. Attempting to get my work handed in may be a boring fate, but what it has given me the opportunity to do is attempt to find music that I can work to. Usually I'm the silent type of worker, but when your sat with no interaction for a full day it often takes a bit of music to perk you up and keep you going. So for those of you who are also partaking in that last minute run to get coursework in, then I'd prescribe a bit of Dave Brubeck to nurse those ailments. As for the rest of you - who doesn't love a bit of jazz on a grey Sunday afternoon? Especially from a musician who brings to mind the dreaminess of a Wes Anderson film, making even the greyest of day become coloured with a pastel hue. 

Jungle Is Massive

I find that it is easy to forget just how much jungle music has the ability to lift your spirits, that is until you find yourself on a night where you can allow the music to run over you. In a second it seems every care is washed away and all you are left with is a night that is nothing but smile inducing. 

Last Saturday I attended Congo Natty and Run Tingz at Concorde 2. Having spent the previous night at the venue I was overcome with initial apprehensions at returning for the second day in a row, but all that was instantly dispelled upon hearing the genius mixing of the great Congo Natty. Upon entering through the doors I was instantly enchanted by sounds of Bob Marley pulsating through the walls - if there is anything else more calming than a room full of people singing and dancing to reggae music I am yet to find it. 

With a transformation into bass filled jungle music, a night of non stop dancing ensued. Despite having had a heavy night the day before, my feet refused to give out and we ended up staying right until the end. Not only a sweet night in itself, I found myself getting increasingly excited about the promise of Outlook festival later this year. Set in an abandoned fort in Croatia, the festival has already released a stellar lineup of bass music which seeks to fulfil all my musical needs - from hip hop and reggae through to jungle and drum and bass. For the time being though, I am relying on Concorde 2 to pander to all my bass cravings and somehow I don't think I'm going to be disappointed.

A Reggae Match Made in Heaven

My reggae prayers have been answered! Anyone who knows me will be aware of the immense love I have for Mungo's Hifi. Jumping at every chance to see them (including a total of four times at Glastonbury last year) they never fail to make me want to get up and move. For that reason, hearing that they have been paired with Brighton producer Prince Fatty is music to my ears.

Prince Fatty is a producer I have been following since I came across the magical stylings of Hollie Cook, daughter of the Sex Pistol's Paul Cook, who started out as part of the rad reggae/punk band The Slits before breaking off into the solo world in order to create heart melting reggae. Prince Fatty is the genius producer of Hollie as well as my all time favourite dreadlocked MC, Horseman. Based above one of the best venues in Brighton, The Blind Tiger Club, which is adorned with a mural of the brilliant threesome, it's pretty impossible not to fall in love with their musical brilliance.

Prince Fatty's monthly night at The Blind Tiger Club, entitled Rub-a-dub Club, never fails to offer a heart-racing night of great tunes. Living in Brighton I've become increasingly attached to the producer and now feel a sense of pride at living in the very place in which he resides. The news of a collaboration on the upcoming full length album from two of my favourite crews has anticipation pulsing through my veins, and with the preview of the first track there is no sight of disappointment on the horizon. A day spent confined to my bed without much hope of wishing to leave has been substituted for non-stop skanking. March 24th can't come soon enough. Listen to the first track here. 

Tagine and Toe Tapping

A new term at university has to be the right time to try new things. I often find that with Brighton the second that I find a nice place to go to, it is then impossible to draw myself away from it and go anywhere else. The vast expanse of wonderful places in Brighton often means that I end up missing out because of this. That's why last night it seemed like the right time to try a new place to eat. 

The Blue Man is somewhere that I spotted when I was exploring last week. Located on Queens Road, very close to the train station, the cafe-bar jumps out at you as you pass it. With Moroccan style decor the place is quite literally lit up with an array of lanterns, practically begging you to go inside. Well boy am I glad we did. The atmosphere in the cafe is nicely laid back so you immediately feel at ease. The staff are among some of the friendliest I've come across which is a huge compliment in a place like Brighton. As for the food (which unfortunately was gone far too quickly for me to take any photos of it) all I can say is that you really should put it on your list to try. 

We went for a vegetarian shared platter which consisted of falafel, tortilla and halloumi with apple (who would have thought the combination would be so perfect - the pair really should never be separated). To top it off a vegetable tagine which was definitely the highlight. There still remains nothing I enjoy more than mopping up juices of a homemade meal with some soft french bread. Automatically I'm transported to a place of comfort - as if I've lived in that one little cafe for my whole life. My only advice would be not to share! I wish I could have eaten all the delicious food to myself, but if you insist on being a generous person then the platter is great between a couple of you as you have a delicious variety to play around with.

 

After the Blue Man we headed to The Blind Tiger, which is located opposite the pavilion on the Grand Parade. I sometimes feel like the bar is the best kept secret in Brighton but perhaps I'm simply kidding myself that I'm the only person that's discovered the magic that's held between the walls. Painted blue with an incredible jungle mural on the outside, the bar is hard to miss. Yet it is actually what is beyond the colourfully decorated walls that is really what should be seen. The people inside are always incredibly happy and friendly - expect lots of mad dancing and somewhere where you can really let loose. As your feelings of self consciousness rapidly fade away you find yourself having one of the best nights you can remember.

Stay Sick is a monthly night held at The Blind Tiger that I had been meaning to check out for the past couple of months. Described as 'A night of wild, weird, delinquent filthy fifties & sicksties rock 'n' roll to dance ya feet to the bone to.' it certainly did not disappoint. We arrived late but managed to catch the end of King Salami and the Cumberland Three, a 50s style band whose lead singer seemed to sum up the vibe of the bar nicely as he concluded in his raspy voice that Brighton was 'one of the places in the world where everything is about a smile'. I don't know where else you can go from listening to 50s rock n roll to 70s punk (and of course, anywhere that plays The Clash is good in my books). 

With grindhouse b-movies projected on the walls, featuring clips of the gorgeous Bettie Page, and music that frankly does make you just want to move your feet, by the end of the night I felt as if I were a character in a film. This was only aided by the fact that Jan Pehchan-Ho was played (see the clip below from Ghost World) which made me feel like I had been transported into Enid's TV screen. Then on top of that The Coaster's Down in Mexico which has to be my favourite song from Quentin Tarantino's Death Proof, which has one of my favourite soundtracks of any film. I managed to just about resist attempting to reenact the lap dance from the film but if you want to get an idea about how difficult that was I've posted the scene below as well. By the end of the night I was jumping around without a care in the world and dancing in a way that usually is solely reserved for the privacy of my bedroom. I'm left with aching feet and the knowledge that I may have just attended one of the best nights in Brighton. The night ended with Fever and the distinct thought that I will definitely be returning next month!

Ghost World Opening Credits with Jaan Pechechan Ho by Mohammed Rafi

Scene from Death Proof featuring Down in Mexico by The Coasters