Little Things We Like: The Capitol Steps

When it comes to nibbling away at politcal institutions, this 30-strong musical troupe is right at the coalface. The self-proclaimed “only group in America that attempts to be funnier than Congress”, the Capitol Steps are formed entirely from current and former members of its staff, five of whom are pianists.

Since 1984 they have been in the business of lampooning everyone in a position of power in the US and beyond, and now you can get their 24th album, aptly named Papa’s Got a Brand New Baghdad. It forms part of a parody-studded legacy that has included songs such as On the Sunny Side of Tikrit, Son of a Bush, Osama Come Out Tomorrow and, harking back to the heady days of the Clinton administration, Our Love is Here to Stain.

As if world affairs don’t provide enough comedic value alone, several songs also make extensive use of the common spoonerism to pull humour out of the most unlikely places. For, as their website solemnly acknowledges, “something comes over a person when they learn to whip their flurds, or spew up their screech.” Sometimes, of course, senior officials don’t need any assistance to wrap themselves in verbal silly-string. capsteps.com

This article was published in The Guardian (G2 section), Friday 6th August 2004

Reconnected to Paradise

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Rob B squats on the carpet in the cluttered-but-cosy Brixton front-room, and plunges a hand into his medley of raisins and nuts. Perched on a chair beside him, Nick ‘the Head’ Hallam is poised to reveal – in no uncertain terms – why the Stereo MCs have cut all ties with music industry titan Island Records and gone it alone. One thing’s for certain: it feels pretty good.

“There’s a new energy; it’s like there’s a point to putting records out,” enthuses the Nottingham-born DJ/producer. Stacks of papers, rolled-up posters and sound equipment – sheathed in polystyrene - lend the room a kind of casual urgency, offset by the central attraction: a gleaming table football table. Mates who get together and make a sound, says Nick: that’s what music should be about. “For a while it was like a vacuum, but it feels natural now – like we’re where we’re meant to be. And we’re going somewhere.”

No longer shackled by the high expectations of one of the world’s most influential labels, their 2005 release Paradise marked a welcome return to form for one of the pioneers of British Hip Hop. The title seems somewhat ironic considering the hostile world in conflict on which it comments – the hauntingly apocalyptic vision of “Vigilantes and the Stars and Stripes / Crack pipes burning in the morning light” resonating siren-like from opening track Warhead.

But the bustling vibrancy depicted on the cover hints at an alternative interpretation: just down the road from their studio, the pair see Brixton market as a melting pot of ideas and cultures – a raw creative environment to inspire the next wave of their music.

“An athlete in peak condition, whacking down races – that’s what making the album was like,” adds Rob, crunching a sunflower seed thoughtfully. “Everything kicked in: we got a spurt of energy and tracks just pulled together. Suddenly it took a giant step forward and reached a level that we didn’t anticipate.” Infused with a fresh desire to create, they’re already working on the next one.

As the name of their newly-formed label – Graffiti Recordings – suggests, Rob and Nick have always been keen to buck the commercial money-sucking industry in favour of fierce individuality. Ripping up the stencil and freestyling, they’re finally remembering how to enjoy themselves again – and there’s renewed bounce in their funk-heavy, dub-tinged beats. For it’s soon clear that in latter years Island Records and the Stereo MCs didn’t exactly see eye to eye.

“I’d never sign to one of those big labels again,” declares Nick. “They’re a bank. Some people sign bands because they hear something and believe in it, and even if their first record’s not massive they stick with it. That’s what [Island founder] Blackwell was like: he had a real cross-section of bands, from Grace Jones to Roxy Music; Spencer Davis; Bob Marley and the whole reggae catalogue – to bands like us.”

“But now they’re all chasing the next big thing. Those A&R guys who never sign a band until twenty other A&Rs want to sign them – that leads to situations where bands are signed for £3 million and their first record doesn’t make that back. So hang on, why not sign a band for £50,000, put some effort into it, help them tour and build something? They put so much pressure on a record doing well that it sucks the life out of bands.”

Things had changed considerably since the two mates from the East Midlands set up their first label – Gee Street – in the mid ’80s, energised by pressing up records and driving round the local music shops. It just depends how close to ground level you are, as they rapped in ‘92 – and the lofty heights of the Island boardroom didn’t exactly pulse with positive vibes.

“There was no motivation down there,” Nick sighs. “We had a meeting about working with other artists, and they came up with Pharrell, Outkast – the big thing at the time – or getting Mos Def to do a rap on a track. That’s really original: Mos Def’s been guest rapper on about fifty other records, what does it have to do with ours? Or we pay Pharrell forty grand to try and buy a hit. That’s not what we’re about: it’s just total laziness.”

It also smacks of commercial achievement for its own sake – and at the expense of the music. It was partly the mounting pressure for the next hit single in the wake of flagship tracks Connected, Step It Up and Elevate My Mind – not to mention Brit Awards for Best Band and Best Album, and world tours with U2 and the Happy Mondays – that put a dampener on their creativity post-1992. “Sometimes success can de-motivate you,” admits Nick. “We never thought ‘let’s make a number one hit’ – it was just about making some good records. The minute we started thinking like that was the minute we forgot how to make anything.”

After that much-lamented nine year interval, 2001’s Deep Down and Dirty was always going to face close scrutiny. “Island put an overwhelming expectation on it to sell a few million, and I don’t think it was that sort of record,” he goes on. “Major labels turn off if a record doesn’t perform how they want it to. But there’s more to life than selling two million copies. It wasn’t a failure for us: we toured for a year on that record, and it sold more than our first album easily. For us it was an important part of getting ourselves together again and doing something.”

Commercial pressure aside, the perks to signing to an industry giant with serious clout are hard to ignore. “If you’ve got the money to tell people that your record’s available, they’ll at least check it,” reasons Rob. “The main pro of being on a big label is they have the money to buy shelf space. That’s one thing I’ve learned over the last few years: retailers sell shelf space.” And while the creative freedom might be absolute, getting work out in front of people becomes a personal challenge.

“But it’s not difficult to start a label,” Nick insists. “It’s just down to belief and hard work. Millions of bands out there have put a record out on their own label – pressed out a thousand copies, got a buzz going and then signed to a bigger small label. If you can make it work with a team of your mates, you’ll enjoy what you’re doing a lot more – and you won’t get shafted.”

Laying down tracks in their bespoke basement studio helps keep that personal touch in the recording process. But increasingly powerful – and portable – software has also widened the scope considerably since they started in the mid ’80s. “You can work on ideas wherever you are,” says Rob: “Little vibes for a track come all the time. The B-side on our next single is something we did on the tour bus going through Germany.”

“That’s the fun aspect of it: one day you’ll be doing it in the snow, the next you’ll be in the sunshine, looking at the sea through a hotel window hours before you play to 5,000 people at a festival. It’s a bit of a new thing for us,” he grins.

“During that era of bland Trip Hop music – when people thought ‘everyone can do this with a few break-beat CDs’ – we had a Deep Purple record that our drummer gave us, an old cassette deck with a turntable, and a four-track reel-to-reel. We were whacking down break-beats, pressing play and record, rewind, rewind, bang. I think it gave us a natural feel for what’s good.”

And with famously energy-infused live performances and a uniquely infectious sound that defies genre boundaries – they’ve been described as everything from jazz funk to rock rap to electronica – the Stereo MCs are nothing if not independent-minded. Now they’ve pushed through the rough patch and reinvented themselves: in the words of Set It Off, “Take the pressure, take the pain – it’s the only way you’re coming round again.”

© Nick Carson 2006. First published in Issue 3 of TEN4 magazine

The Whitmo’deans

“Our music is the lovechild of Led Zeppelin and James Brown,” grins Danny Jenks, founder member and drummer for Wolverhampton’s home-grown funk collective The Whitmo’deans.

Sinking into worn leather sofas above the Little Civic, it’s hard to imagine that the poster-plastered venue below will soon be filled with ass-shaking funk fiends. But it’s a dead cert: the Whitmo’s are building quite a reputation for getting a room fizzing.

“We like to get people dancing and shouting,” shrugs guitarist Matt Rogers. “That fits in well to a party atmosphere, and if there are big DJs coming people put us on to add to it. We want to get on stage, do our thing really well, and then be down partying with everyone else.”

“Supporting DJs was our first step on the ladder,” notes Danny: “We’ve played with some pretty big names now – Ashley Beedle, Norman Jay, 4Hero – and that sets the scene for the people we’re aiming for. But we fit into any situation, from a cabaret to a club night.”

Three years ago Matt, Danny and bassist Gavin Lloyd squeezed into keyboard player Sam Davis’ living room for their first jamming session. When the chance arose to support drum-and-bass pioneers 4Hero at the Halfway House pub they wasted no time in planning their first instrumental set.

By stroke of fortune, Devonshire diva Jo Palfrey was on the other side of the stage that night – their grooves hooked her immediately, and one rehearsal together was enough to cement her soulful vocals as an integral part of their sound. Five since swelled to an impressive nine members – including MC Dass, Richie Fingers on sax, conga-player Joel Essex and sound engineer Bill.

“We’re like a family. It’s not just about playing instruments,” insists Matt. “We’re lucky to have Bill: he’s always on the other side of the speakers making sure what’s coming out is right.”

“We all bring our bit to the table,” adds Danny. “Matt usually lays down the grooves he’s got going round in his head, and we play around it. We’re putting together a collection of tracks later this year – it’ll start off as an EP, but owing to our perfectionism will probably come together as an eight-track album.”

They’re as yet unsigned and unmanaged, although admit to racking up plenty of dodgy post-gig offers to help them ‘crack London’. “We’re very protective over what we’ve got, and don’t want a third party stepping in and giving orders,” asserts Matt. Fortunately a diverse range of skills honed in their day jobs has enabled the Whitmo’s to keep everything in-house and build things their own way.

“Dan’s a great promoter and organiser; I do the website and poster design; Sam’s great at making videos,” reels off the guitarist. “And then Gary works in PR; Bill’s knowledge of sound and production is great; Jo’s very good at making people move their ass, and Gav… Gav plays rugby,” he chuckles.

So with their first album on the cards for late 2006, will they be pushing it out on their own label? “We have all the ingredients to do that with our various skills, but would have to make some sacrifices,” reasons Jo, while not ruling it out. “I think we’ll continue to grow organically like we have done.”

They’ve built their name on a live reputation – word-of-mouth testimonials from foot-tapping fans – and aspirations to support musical touchstones Poets of Rhythm, the Meters and Quantic Soul Orchestra will widen their fan-base further. “Music’s a great release for us, and it just so happens people are feeling it,” concludes Danny. “We sold four tickets for a gig once, and when we turned up they were queuing down the street.”

© Nick Carson 2006. First published in Issue 3 of TEN4 magazine

Paranoid Androgyny

Lynn Fox thinks nothing of boundaries. Has no respect for what is real or unreal; male or female; possible or impossible. The prospect of making contact is both exhilarating and terrifying.

‘I’m looking for Lynn Fox.’

A pause; an intake of breath. Clutching the receiver tightly to my ear I strain to make out the soft voice three hundred miles away, just a faint digital signal here in Birmingham. A distant gatekeeper, no doubt clad in black trenchcoat and shades, poker-faced as she stands between me and my enigmatic quarry. I should have found a back-door. I should have taken the blue pill. The silence thickens as I stare into the gaping void before me. Too late.

‘OK.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome,’ the dulcet Parisian tones purred down the line, before routing me into the mainframe. Let’s see how deep this fox-hole goes.

Lynn Fox is not easy to track down. With several identities she can slip in and out of the virtual world with ease, kneading gender like putty and twisting the familiar into something alien and mysterious. A voice materialises over the line, I can make out three in total. One seems to have a slight Germanic lilt; another is slightly fainter; but they harmonise to form a whole: so this is Lynn Fox, creative nexus from whom some of the world’s most hauntingly beautiful visuals have spawned.

‘We’re a three-headed beast,’ one voice declares. ‘We’re slightly unused to this way of working, so it helps to have the other two brains there to keep you on track.’ A psychic alien trinity, perhaps? The present-day creative equivalents of the Minority Report ‘pre-cogs’. ‘We’re on completely equal terms, and always find a compromise.’

Permeating Lynn Fox’s work is a blurred distinction between human and alien, male and female. A video for Bjork’s Nature is Ancient depicts two translucent, amoeba-like creatures floating in an environment equally reminiscent of the depths of the ocean, a distant galaxy, or the microscopic workings of the human body. The two join in sexual union and it ends with a fragile human foetus, shrouded in a swirling nebula.

Released in 2003, the techniques used to create these few minutes of eye-candy were groundbreaking. Soho-based animators Glassworks, regularly interfacing with Lynn Fox on more advanced computer-generated projects, developed bespoke software to create the millions of soft particles that formed the characters’ membranes. These cutting-edge models were combined with live-action shots of an illuminated water tank, filled with dust and particles, to complete the effect. ‘Computer work is great: you can take on projects without a huge budget, and still make something outstandingly visual,’ the voices agree.

They seem fascinated with distorting organic forms into something mesmerising; sometimes horrifying. The naked protagonist of Pluto is torturously mutated to the tune of electronically warped screaming, arms plunging out of his head as he leaps around a black backdrop that offers no clues. And Desired Constellation sees ghostly, whale-like beasts swimming through another mystical cosmic-aquatic world, which on closer inspection resemble deformed hands, clenching and unclenching like a squid’s tentacles.

‘We don’t give everything to the viewer; it’s never entirely resolved, so there’s always room for imagination. But we have no particular drive for naturalistic forms; the organic nature of our work is incidental,’ they insist.

The ultimate enigma is, of course, ‘Lynn Fox’ herself, an androgynous blend of trained architects Bastian Glassner, Chris McKenzie and Patrick Chen. ‘We wanted to get away from the generic; there are a lot of industrial-style names out there. We wanted more personality. This doesn’t typecast us,’ they suggest. Chatting to a speakerphone in a post-production suite in Paris, where they’re shooting a new Audi commercial, their voices filter back to me en-mass.

‘Stylistically we’re similar to our name: not defined by a word. We tend to treat things in a similar way, but it’s good to keep your mind open.’ The design trinity formed during their postgraduate years at the Barbican in London, and their skills seem to transfer pretty well into video production. ‘Architecture is a method of working: you take ideas apart, fuck around with them and re-assemble them into something new. To some extent we’re ignorant: we don’t try to be arty – we’re not nerdy, following trends – but as an architect you need an inherent interest in fine artistic details. It’s a broad education.’

Attention to detail is putting it modestly. Their videos are endlessly symbolic; a rich visual feast that laughs in the face of their churned out, straight-from-the-mould MTV counterparts. ‘Some of it is not at all based on reality; other things are completely real; others blend the two together,’ they explain. Unravel, for instance, sees a flurry of delicate white threads pouring from Bjork’s back as she performs, as if her very soul is unravelling before your eyes and weaving into an organic, undulating form outside of her body.

‘A good music video should stand alone; you should be able to watch it as a piece in its own right, not just as a record promotion for the artist and their music,’ is the Lynn Fox take on their profession. ‘It’s kind of weird, because when we work on a music video it’s because we find it interesting; we don’t really think about what it does for the artist.’

Given that the vast majority of their work has been with Bjork, their highly distinctive style has to some extent become synonymous with her music, itself fiercely original. ‘She’s one of the all-time classics. From day one we made a list of people we wanted to work with, and she was pretty near the top,’ they admit. ’We’re real fans of her music; she makes good work, rather than just doing anything to make money.’

‘She’s got a very visual mind, which comes across when she’s writing music.’ But they refuse to flatter themselves that she could be influenced by them, working backwards with potential Lynn Fox visuals in mind when beginning fresh material. My question is met with three-fold laughter. ‘She’s very strong-minded.’ But they will admit to having a positive working relationship with her.

While their work invariably stands alone as a fascinating cross-over between sculpture and film, it’s never a case of thinking of a fabulous concept and then laying an appropriate score over the top: Lynn Fox’s generation of ideas must always start with the music. ‘We put it on a loop thousands of times, and then chat to each other for days about the ideal treatment. We’ve yet to make a video which has compromised our style: we’re lucky in that we’ve had amazing clients who give us the chance to unify the visuals with the music.’

As they slip into mechanical metaphor at the end of the interview, my mind wanders once again to entertain visions of a Borg-like collective: ‘We don’t get into gear before ten o’clock; we never function properly before then,’ they admit. This creative trinity may be more machine than (wo)man, but they still have their basic human foibles.    

This article was published in the December 2004 edition of Blowback magazine