Back To Back

The program for Back To Back, an exhibition featuring newly commissioned works by chukwumaa, Ngu Asongwed, and RP Boo, curated by Guy Weltchek

Four friends dance to each other in a circle. They share their energy generously and take it in turn to hype one another up. Their jubilant expressions fold into a pattern, many lifetimes of meaning behind each gesture. In perfect flow, they write the future together.

That’s the scene that came to mind when I encountered wreckin (2022) by the artist chukwumaa, who’s also in sound and performance art duo SCRAAATCH. Four sound sculptures of various heights, composed of car batteries and speakers and a variety of objects held together by orange tape, each emitting a burst of music in sequence and inviting the audience to eavesdrop. The fragmented nature of this listening experience — rhythm in fits and skitters — direct the ear’s attention to the space between the sculptures, to the often obscured relationships between the people and places that pollinate the music.

wreckin was commissioned for a new exhibition titled Back To Back, which explores the connections between Black regional dance music forms, including Jersey club, Baltimore club, Chicago footwork, and Miami bass. It was curated by Guy Weltchek, who grew up in New Jersey, for his thesis exhibition at Bard College. “Back to Back was inspired by my interest in what I’ve loosely referring to as club music,” Guy told me over email. “I use this term to describe genres that emerged beginning the late ’90s and broke from the four to the floor pattern in house and techno.”

Initially, I wondered if each sculpture represented a specific city, but after reading the exhibition notes, my assumption revealed itself: “One of the sculptures incorporates a block of solidified palm oil, a cooking and topical oil extracted from a species of palm tree native to West Africa, referencing the West African origins of many of the musical traditions explored in Back to Back and their subsequent migration around the world in the modern era.”

I reached out to chukwumaa to ask if wreckin more generally represented the dialogue between the various musics and locations.

“I realized early on in making wreckin that I couldn’t really separate any of the sounds along non-porous boundaries any more than I could separate Western Africa and Western European influences or the sounds in or around the Gulf of Mexico,” chukwumaa told me over email. “So each speaker is more about *some* examples of *some* transformations of sounds, for example, Miami bass music feeding into Baltimore club via Frank Ski’s direct influence, or DJ Tameil talking about physically traveling to and from places like Chicago and Baltimore for tracks that went off well in the New Jersey parties of the time or how early Brazilian funk is heavily connected to the sound of Miami bass too!”

“Long answer short, yes, it’s focused on the dialogs, especially in response to what I commonly experienced in dance music journalism as a ‘Galapagos fallacy’ of isolation,” chukwumaa continued. “‘We found this new sound coming out of the hidden and isolated hoods of xyz place and it sounds like nothing we have ever heard, so it obviously sprouted out of thin air!’ Well I imagine that sample-based musics (many of these sounds are!) would have to at least come from those references, for starters! So I took Guy’s thesis around the connections between Jersey and Chicago and just kept going, the sample chains never stopped.”

In Back To Back, chukwumaa’s sculptures dance in a space of adjacencies. Alongside the premiere of a specially commissioned mix by Chicago footwork pioneer RP Boo, and next door to a new video work by New Jersey artist Ngu Asongwed that stars Jersey club dancers Khari Johnson-Ricks and Blue Smith, who shape their limbs into language in response to music by producer Tah. There’s a lovely moment in the short film where a series of text messages bubble up on-screen in anticipation of a night out. Visual representations of an internal ache, somewhere between the organs, to dance with friends through time and space.

Update: April 18 2022

I followed up with chukwumaa to ask about the title wreckin. Did it refer to the salvaged parts that each sculpture is made of? The use of car batteries made me think about the crisscrossing of literal and metaphorical roads that the artists and sounds have taken.

wreckin is definitely meant to be multi-meaning, but I hadn’t thought of that one,” chukwumaa replied over email. “I like it! Especially because found and post-consumer materials are important to how I make sculptures. Including the provenance/origins of materials and the stories and associations that come along with them.”

“I was originally thinking of a ‘trainwreck’ (or clang etc) mix, as well as a (dance) battle or fight,” continued chukwumaa. “Where I grew up, some people called fighting wreckin. I wanted to reference on a micro level the dance circle and the way many of these dance music styles have a tightly-related dance and/or dance battle culture (I also did this through the arrangement of the sculptures) and on a macro level how different scenes and sounds sort of find themselves vying for credit, attention, and ultimately, the resources that come with them (I think back to every time I’ve heard someone from one scene say, ‘We did x before x scene that is getting more shine right now,” the Chicago —> UK —> BK drill continuum, for one with a linear connection, or Chicago and NY/NJ simultaneously birthing House and Garage respectively, for one with a parallel relationship, or even seeing younger Ghetto house/early juke scene folks deride Jersey Club as stealing their sound). For me, this is again connected to the colonialist and capitalist myth of isolation (and related distortions) that typical dance music journalism introduces and even encourages. The sense of a trainwreck mix here is formal in that each separate culture is not synched to each other, so the sounds are expected to clash at moments.”

There’s a lot for writers with an interest in electronic music to digest here. Thanks to chukwumaa for sharing so generously. Check out more of chukwumaa’s work here.

Writing about music

I was invited to give a talk at Leeds College of Music earlier this week (thanks to Jez Willis of the Utah Saints, who now lectures at the college). The prompt was to do a “masterclass” in writing about music (I broke it down into three sections: role and voice, editing and fact checking, and morals and purpose), as well as trace my own career path. I’m trying to practice what I preached (blogs are a great way to flesh out thoughts and hone your writing!) so here’s a little of what I shared.

As I told the students, I moved to Leeds in 1998, ostensibly to do a degree in English Literature and Sociology at the University of Leeds, but the real reason I went was to go clubbing. Having grown up in a small Midlands town with a weekly cattle market and a claim to fame in locally made pork pies (as a vegetarian family, I’m not sure how we ended up there), I was, like most young teens in the mid 90s, obsessed with Top of the Pops. Week after week, I would be rewarded with tunes I dreamed of dancing to in rooms full of people all doing the same; tunes by Baby DGraceReel 2 Real, Tony di Bart, N-Trance, and so on. Dance music, or a crossover take on it, was pop music in the UK of the mid-’90s. And it made me want to move it, move it.

So when I landed in Leeds, I quickly worked out who among my new neighbours in my student accommodation were as eager to embrace clubbing as I was, and then I got right to it. We’d be out three or four nights a week, dancing to everything from house to techno to breaks to trance to hard house. Almost every Saturday, we’d be the first on the dance floor at Back To Basics at The Mint Club and the last to leave. (Alongside Ralph Lawson, the excellent residents included Paul Woolford, who is also now known as Special Request.) Everything I’ve ever learned about dance music has its roots in these formative clubbing experiences. At Basics, I learned that house music came from Chicago thanks to seeing phenomenal DJs like Derrick Carter and DJ Sneak play. Some friends started a night called Technique, where I learned from UR’s DJ Rolando that techno’s liquid emotion is the sound of Detroit, and from Miss Kittin that being in dialogue with the past can help forge a new path forwards. For my five years in Leeds, nearly everything I learned came from dancing; I moved my body to the music to soak up its signals.

Early on, I discovered that writing about a club night meant I could get on the guest list. I applied to become one of Mixmag’s “Let’s ‘Ave It Corp” reader reviewers and was overjoyed when I got the go-ahead, dutifully filing something like 50 words after satisfyingly sweaty nights at Basics, Speed Queen, and more. Once I had a few clippings to my name, I cut them all out (the magazine collector in me is wincing) and stuck them in a folder alongside a feature I wrote about the rise of women DJs for the Leeds Student Paper (circa 2001). This I took to the editor of local listings magazine, The Leeds Guide, who kindly gave me the job of Clubs Editor in winter 2001, a few months after I graduated. For two years, I compiled the magazine’s clubs listings, wrote about upcoming nights, and interviewed visiting DJs. I think it paid £50 a month. But as a skint clubber getting by as a waitress at Pizza Express, it was my dream job: I got in everywhere for free. 

The moment I really fell in love with the world of music writing, however, was when I bagged a work experience gig at the now-defunct Jockey Slut in early 2002. It had long been my favourite magazine in the whole world – I also regularly bought The Face, but it was Jockey Slut‘s nerd-level love for electronic music that had my heart. I got the opportunity off the back of a passionate letter I mailed to the editor (I still have a copy somewhere). It no doubt helped that I was a regular at Bugged Out, a night the Jockey Slut founders ran. In February 2002, I spent a month in the Jockey Slut office in London and was very much in awe of the editorial team (I remember cramming in the weeks before, re-reading all the back issues, lest they quiz me on my dance music knowledge). As well as transcribing a badly recorded Chemical Brothers interview and the like, I was instructed to tag along on a cover shoot with The Streets and ask passersby on the streets of Brixton what they thought of his debut album Original Pirate Material for a side feature (see below). It was the first time I got to peer inside the machine of a story: the subject, the writer, and the photographer, all working in real-time to stitch it together. I was smitten. 

That’s some of the story, anyway.

kids on the streets

Mixed Feelings

Naomi Shimada and Sarah Raphael have written a very timely book called Mixed Feelings about the “emotional impact of our digital habits.” Namely, the way social media has crept into every aspect of day-to-day life, from work to relationships, bringing with it a whole host of positive and negative influences. Alongside their own poignant essays and personal stories, they invited a bunch of other people to share their perspectives. As someone who seesaws between feeling passionate about social media and passionately hating it, I chose to answer the question: How does social media frame the way you feel about your work? That excerpt is above. Highly recommend picking up a copy for a whole heap of insights, inspiration, and intel about these high-voltage times.

Letting things out

I have been trying to write fiction for many years, but it only ever seems to exit my body in fragments. Last year, a small chunk ended up in 3049, a zine that patten made with a bunch of contributors. I’m posting a couple of other scraps here because it feels good to let things out, even if they’re not really going anywhere.


The weekend tasted of nectarines. That sharp sweetness, that perfumed wetness, that taut moment of resistance before the flesh gives way. 


Pure green. Fresh, wet, alive. It swarmed her nose, knocking her back in her seat. With each inhalation, the scene in her head grew clearer: a house, a garden, and the sound of a lawnmower over which someone called her name. She was laying down, and the grass tickled her arms as the sun warned them. The green filled her lungs, coursed through her veins. It danced inside her. Then she coughed – fuck, the bag she was sucking on was empty. She panicked, snuffling deeper into it like a dog with an abandoned crisp packet but there was nothing left. Instead, her nostril hairs gripped another, more familiar scent: it was damp and it was rotting. This is the world she knew, and the world that knew her. 


A sign that reads Gentle Dentistry on a bruise coloured building.


Telly addicts and togetherness

The trees are strung with TVs in Berlin. The cables that hang from them creep along pavements toward the bar or restaurant that rigged the public screening. It’s the World Cup and the whole city’s a living room. The streets are filled with seats, and eaters become watchers, sharing their team allegiances with staff who let them linger over empty plates. Passersby slow as they approach the action, pausing long enough to catch the score. The screen, like every screen, is a magnet. It’s virtually impossible not to look, not to keep looking, not to feel its incessant pull on your attention. But there’s something about the TV trees that feels different.

I just had this Shirley Valentine-referencing Prudential ad pop into my head, in which a deluded husband declares, “We just want to be together,” as his wife divorces him with a look. (The ad’s from 1991 and is for a pension aimed at women. Haaa pensions.)

Togetherness is a volatile sensation. It’s possible to feel it for a few seconds with a group of strangers, but it can fail to show at an intimate dinner. It’s not about the just being there, it’s about the shared interest. Maybe that’s why I’m enjoying watching people watching football. The street screens don’t nag me the way my phone does. They say “gather round,” rather than “look at me until you die.”


A conversation with Jonas Mekas


Back in early March, a couple of days before I left New York, I had the honour of interviewing Jonas Mekas at his Brooklyn home for the Japanese magazine Libertin Dune‘s 15th issue, out now and available in Japan and New York. Follow Libertin Dune on Instagram for a peek inside the issue. With thanks to Kazumi Asamura Hayashi and Masaki Naito for allowing me to publish the English version here. Portrait by Jacqueline Harriet.


Opening the pages of A Dance With Fred Astaire, the latest book from Lithuanian American filmmaker, poet, and artist Jonas Mekas, is like falling down a rabbit hole. Non-chronological, it puzzles together anecdotes from six decades of adventures at the heart of New York’s avant-garde film world. While the history books trace the outline of the era’s events and achievements, Mekas does the colouring in. The bustling social life of ‘60s Manhattan is rendered as vividly as the struggles its heroes endured, and icons like Andy Warhol, Yoko Ono, and Jackie Kennedy are revealed as idiosyncratic human beings simply trying to make sense of the world just like the rest of us. Along the way, Mekas shares glimpses of the spirituality that a lifelong commitment to the arts — he founded the Anthology Film Archives in 1970 — can sustain.

The 95-year-old has a knack for telling stories in a loose, intimate fashion, as if he’s known you forever. It was pouring with rain when I visited his library of a Brooklyn apartment on a grey March afternoon; all around him were shelves and tables filled with his archives. A sleek and wiry black cat called Pie Pie, who used to belong to his daughter Oona, made herself comfortable on the table between us as we talked. Witty and razor-sharp, Mekas smiles with his eyes and speaks with genuine excitement. It’s not hard to see why the best and brightest of the New York scene were drawn to him.

I’m really enjoying A Dance With Fred Astaire. How did the book come together?

Sometimes when I am with friends, as we’re eating and drinking, some memories come that relate to what we are talking about, and later I wrote them down. They were recorded during a period of maybe 10-15 years. Then at some point, I had so many of them, I thought, Why not put them into a book? It’s a form of autobiography in a way.

It features many giants of the avant-garde New York scene of the ’60s and ’70s, as well as introducing the reader to less familiar characters of that era. It’s a really beautiful journey of discovery.

[In my life,] I have worn many different hats. I seem not to be able to stick to one area. I seem to be a vagabond. Sometimes I am pulled to one direction and then I’m pulled to another one. Because I live with no plans — I go where I feel I am needed.

Where did your curiosity come from?

I am not that curious! I don’t think I am. I go, as I said, where I am needed. It’s something that has to be done, but nobody else can do, or wants to do, or knows how to do. Almost all the projects I initiated — like Film Culture magazine or Film-Makers’ Cooperative or the film department in the Village Voice — it had to be done, but nobody else was doing it. Or somebody needed [something], like Jackie Kennedy needed someone to teach her children film. So I fell into that position. It just happened with no plan, no effort.

In the book, you talk about the excitement you feel when you see something you’ve never seen before in art and film.

Yes! That sense of excitement. I get into it when I see something unique and something special, and yes, I get excited about it — with no restraint. It does not always have to be a work of art, poetry, or film. It could be a person, like Peter Beard. When I met Peter Beard for the first time, as a person he was so unique, so full of energy, and very much interested in nature. And we remain friends since ’62, ’63, when I first met him. So it could be anything that has energy. There is a certain energy that is contagious. Same as a work of art can be the energy, beauty can be contagious. To me, at least.

Your friendship with Barbara Rubin is very much alive in this book.

Barbara, she was an amazing person. Spector Books in Leipzig this summer will be bringing out a book of her letters to me. Her letters will show some of the same energy. She was a contagious person.

What was the energy running through New York in that period like?

We are in the beginning of the ’60s, in transition from the ’50s, when all the classical art forms and styles of living that we had came to an end, and new forms in theatre, in music, in every art were emerging — everything was changing. So it was very exciting period, and that was where Barbara Rubin appeared. She was a trouble-making teenager, so suddenly she found herself in the middle of the most active period in New York. She immediately got submerged in it and met everyone and became a very key person in that mixed, exciting family. Going from Jack Smith to Warhol to Velvet Underground to Bob Dylan, and all the smaller personalities. And they were not always the easiest personalities, and not always talking to each other even. But she managed to work and accept, and they accepted her, all of them.

One of the things you did back then that had to be done was finding the money and resources to support the important work of the avant-garde film community.

That was one of my functions. I was the Minister of Finances, the Minister of Defence, Minister of Propaganda. [Laughs.] Yes, all those.

You mention people like Hiro Yamagata and Jerome Hill in the book, who both acted as patrons to many of your contemporaries.

Hiro Yamagata, he came in a little bit later [in the ’90s], but I introduced him to Allen Ginsberg. It was actually a very funny story because at that point Hiro Yamagata wanted to paint portraits of all the important persons in the arts in America. I don’t know what he actually completed. But he said, “I want to meet Allen Ginsberg!” I said, “Oh, I will introduce to Allen. Because as it happens, today his photography show opens at New York University gallery. So come because I have to be there.” So I took him to the opening. It was not open yet. Allen was still hanging his photographs. I introduced them and I had to do something, so I left them talking. Then a few days later, I met Allen in the street: “So you had a good talk with Yamagata?” He said, “Who is this person? He just bought my complete show!” [Laughs.] He bought all his photographs, the whole show. Later he became a big supporter of Allen, and Allen wrote an introduction to one of his books.

These days, brands seem to have become the new patrons of young artists.

You see, that is the scene today. But if you go to the ’50s, there was no such market yet for artists, especially for film and video artists. You could not survive from what you were doing. There was no tradition yet. Now some video artists can sell their work and [there are] galleries that show, and, of course, we have the whole business art collectors scene. But not in the early ’60s — even big names like Andy [Warhol], when I met him he was not known, he hadn’t had a big show yet.

Do you think that brand involvement in the arts has a negative or positive effect?

The way I see it, it has a negative effect on art. [In the early days], there were no foundations supporting art, neither individual foundations like Guggenheim or Ford, or the state or the city. There was no tradition. I remember some of the filmmakers, they all came in around 1970, after the ’60s were already over. I used to meet in the ’80s some of the filmmakers and I remember asking Paul Sharits, “What are you doing? Another movie?” “No, I’m not making another movie because I applied, but I did not get a grant.” So the dependence on sponsors began.

Or, okay, you go into the new Whitney Museum — when it opened, I went and I saw those big, huge spaces. I remember the original Whitney, when it was still on 8th Street, in a little place, small rooms; it felt like home, almost. So I was telling my friends, “Go and see the new Whitney because you will see a museum designed for big art.” Then the Whitney Biennial came and I go to the Biennial and there are only big pieces. There are no small, personal pieces. So I asked one of the curators who was involved, “Why it’s only big pieces?” She said, “We did not find small pieces. If we would have found, we have spaces upstairs, we could have exhibited them there.” But what artist wants to be in a closet in the attic? Artists want to be together! So now already the space dictates what art [is shown].

Have you heard about The Shed? The biggest art structure for presentation, for dance, for music. It’s conceived as a space that will be able to change the shape, the size, adapt itself. It will be opening, I think, next year. Huge! So everything is only for the big art, but where are the other places for personal, small pieces? Now art is made for [being] like a subsidiary to the airports, hotel lobbies, bank lobbies. Decorative, in a way. Okay, in the old centuries, the church [was a big space for art],  but the churches had so many other little spaces that you could put [your art] besides covering the whole ceiling or the wall.

I wonder how much attention span feeds into into it—

Just to interrupt, I was afraid that that would [also happen] with MoMA. But I went just last week to see Stephen Shore’s photography, which is an amazing [show]. The largest photography exhibition that I have ever seen — he deserves it. What they did was they built almost a room within a room, a museum within a museum. Some of the new spaces are also big, but not as big as the Whitney.

Fortunately, in cinema, the big theatres have disappeared. They’re getting smaller and smaller — 70 seats, or under 100. And, of course, the whole internet situation now permits a very personal communication, like sending a postcard. So it’s very unpredictable what the effect will on public cinema, and on the different forms, technologies, and the theatres.

It seems the biggest problem facing avant-garde cinema in the ’60s was censorship, of which you write in the book.

Censorship and the lack of public exposure. With the creation of the Film-Makers’ Cooperative, we managed to create our own venues. Mostly through universities and colleges. We never succeeded getting into those 3000 or 4000 [-seat] public theatres across the country. Even the [films] conceived for the wider public, like Shirley Clarke’s films, had a very minimal run, maybe 10 theatres or 20. And it was very expensive. I remember Shirley Clarke released The Connection in ’62 I think, and after it ran for a year or two here and there, I asked her how did it do. The film cost around $200,000, and I asked, “Did you make a lot of money?” “A lot of money? I received a bill from the distributor.” It enumerated how much for publicity, how much for making prints, this and that, and it ended in a deficit and a bill for I don’t know how many thousands of dollars.

What are the problems facing avant-garde cinema today?

It’s very difficult to tell who is making what and where. The biggest, largest chunk of it is on the internet, but you don’t always know where and under what name you should look. I will jump to the ’60s and ’70s. In the very beginning [of avant-garde cinema], you knew almost everybody who was making films or, later, video. You could say, “I have seen everything made in New York.” Then around the ’70s and into the ’80s, it begins to explode. By the end of the ’60s, you have Gay and Lesbian Cinema, Asian American Cinema, Native American Cinema, Black Cinema, all those different branches emerge. And you had to be from the black community or from the gay community to know who is making films in that community. So if you have a survey of what is being done in 1980, you had to have representatives [from each community] who knew what is being done. That’s why at Anthology Film Archives we introduced different festivals. We began with Gay and Lesbian Festival, because that was the only way to see [what was being made]. They curated it, people who knew what is done there.

With the internet, it became totally impossible to know what is being done and where. So I think it will take some time to gain perspective because there is some kind of Darwin’s Law that can be applied to the art: survival of the fittest. That’s not what survives because of the technological aspects, but pieces that people like and want to see again and again. So I think from all those millions and millions of pieces that float around now, there will be some that people of different persuasions, races, backgrounds see something special in and want to keep. They won’t permit it to disappear. When people say, “Oh, YouTube, everything is going…” No. There will be some pieces that will remain. And some of it, of course, will remain for pure human interest. Some pieces I have seen on YouTube are with birds and animals, they are so unique and so spectacular. We could not record it before, with huge film cameras. What survives is not only art.

Some of the literature that survives is also biographical. I was just reading a book by Athenaeus, a Greek. I found it in the street! A cookbook from the 3rd century BC. We’re kind of traveling around subjects here.

That’s the best way. What else are you reading?

Not much that I am reading is contemporary. I tried many times to read Virginia Woolf’s The Lighthouse — three times I started — but then I got to The Waves, and it is amazing. Everybody should read The Waves. It’s not easy reading: The Waves is not written in normal grammatical sentences, it’s written in three-dimensional sentences — a little bit Joycean. And of course, A Room Of One’s Own, every woman should read, and every man should read.

In your brief interview with Anna Karina in A Dance With Fred Astaire, you make a reference to the Women’s Liberation Movement. That is still going strong, not least with the Time’s Up movement in Hollywood. I wondered what you thought about that?

Women and students will change America. It’s coming, yes. It goes beyond America, actually. It’s already beginning in Asia. It’s easy to try here, but in some of areas of Asia it’s very dangerous for women to start a school.

Do you follow what Hollywood releases?

My favourite film is Lady Bird, it’s an amazing film. You should see it. It’s very simple, a series of scenes, a young girl growing up. If you go to my website, I have my little review. I taped Greta [Gerwig] talking about the reasons why she became a filmmaker. It’s a very moving personal statement, which I put on my website. It is a film that can only be made by a woman. It cannot be made by a man, because its subtle observations could not be seen and put into the film the way she did it. It’s very well made.

Also, Three Billboards — the performance of lead actress [Frances McDormand] is so amazing. And, of course, the subject is very timely: the rape of the daughter.

One of the things that comes through very strongly in your book is your spirituality. What informs that?

I grew up in nature. Some of my reading includes a lot of sufis and mystics, like early Ibn Arabi. My mother was very spiritual, so I think there is some influence there.

Do you believe in an afterlife?

Yes, I do. I believe that this is one stage, and then you go another, and after that still another. All philosophers and religious prophets, the further back you go [in your research], the more you understand those steps that lead into other dimensions. We have lost that understanding, that’s why I am going back to the old literature, before Plato, where I find more truth. Of course, the real tragedy began with the Industrial Revolution, when everything became so practical: jobs, jobs, money, money, buy, buy, buy more. That’s where we are today, which is leading to ignoring the nature, ignoring the results that we have today in the world. We don’t talk to each other, we fight each other, because of the neglect of the spiritual part, and neglect of education in schools. The arts are out, but sports are in. In the old days, Plato participated in the Olympics — he was a wrestler. Sports were there, but the spiritual aspect was also strong. Now we have only the physical aspect, but no spiritual aspect.

I am not a pessimist. There are still millions of individuals that retain work on the spiritual part of humanity. But if those who run the countries are pushing only the practical aspects, then humanity suffers. I think we are in that period now. But somehow the Earth and humanity eventually takes care of itself. There are some bad periods, but we are still moving ahead. If we don’t destroy ourselves with the technology, then we will pick up again the spiritual part. But maybe we should pick it up now, before we self-destruct. I’m not giving up. But we have to be aware that we are in a dangerous period: technology has progressed far ahead of the mental and spiritual and moral development. That affects the Earth, the nature, which is beginning to make itself visible and we are still ignoring.

Did you ever contemplate retiring?

No! I don’t understand what retiring is, really. Only if you do what you don’t like just for money, then, of course, if there is a chance of retiring, you take it. You escape that boring job. But what I do, it’s not even a question of liking or not liking, it’s something that I must do. That’s my nature; it’s part of me.

Plus, I am doing so many other things. I have a big show now in Seoul in Korea. This year I had two or three books out besides A Dance With Fred Astaire. There is a new edition of I Had Nowhere To Go. There will also be Conversations With Film-Makers, which is going through the final stages. But my main work in this period is building a library on top of the current Anthology Film Archives building. I’m adding another floor and a cafe on the side. The cafe for our survival, and the library for the huge amount of paper, reference materials, books, periodicals, documentation, posters, and also audio materials related to cinema. They’re all boxed, not available to scholars, research students. So that’s a $12million project. But I managed already to raise $6 million. So another year, maybe, of fundraising work and then maybe we can begin building construction. I will never stop doing what I am doing. Like a bird singing, you cannot stop. That’s how I am.

Rip it up and start again

I’ve been doing a lot of walking recently, and it’s been helping me think. When I am sat in front of a screen, things can get stilted pretty quick; physical motion oils my brain as much as my joints. One of the things I’ve been thinking about on my walks is time, and how warped a relationship some humans have developed with it, myself included. Screens, with their addicting glow and infinite-scroll distractions, stretch one’s experience of time into an eternal present: how many days have screens gobbled up, and why is it never enough? I think about what that means for the future, and specifically, what that means for a chance of a future that doesn’t simply replicate the past.

Then, of course, since it’s a field in which I am involved, I think about what that means in terms of the music journalism landscape. In a recent paper about music and gender, Jes Skolnik pointed out that white male critics have “until the last five years or so…been overvalued in the industry and have taken up too much critical space, controlling the dialogue.” The result being that music journalism has been on a treadmill for decades. That who does the gatekeeping has an undeniable impact on which artists get championed, and just as importantly, how they are written about, shouldn’t need an explanation.

The shift of the past few years that Jes references is one that I was privileged to witness from the vantage point of New York’s music and culture publishing world. During my four-year spell in N.Y.C., I saw new and old media alike make hiring decisions that felt like a step toward a more inclusive and incisive future. Thanks in no small part to social media, specifically Black Twitter, the industry began to self-regulate: poor commissioning decisions were called out, and good ones praised; the level to which cultural context fed into criticism was analysed with care; and who did the writing and the editing (and photographing and styling etc) was as much a discussion point as who was written about. That momentum allowed for the kind of internal conversations that push publications to serve their readers better, and pay their contributors more. Taking a step back, the thorough and thoughtful documentation of this particular moment not only signposts a new era, but acts as a map to get us there.

That’s not to say it was all rosy. Publications and websites sometimes failed to retain the black and brown writers and editors they hired because their largely white environments proved too toxic. But in turn, that became part of the discourse: Who does the heavy lifting in cultural criticism and who benefits from it?

I’ve been back in the U.K. two months now, and all I can think is: Britain is caught in a time warp. Where American publications at least project a sense of listening to public opinion, it feels like many British publications have their fingers in their ears. It’s ironic because the British have a way of looking down at America — It’s a mess! The racism! Guns! Trump! — that conveniently allows for denial about the state of the U.K. to flourish, which is reflected in the U.K. media’s own endemic racism, transphobia, Islamophobia, homophobia, and sexism.

If you think that the U.K.’s music and culture media is immune to the above, then you’re also in denial, or part of the problem. White publishers and editors who claim to understand what white privilege is need to put that privilege to work and invite black, brown, and trans writers and editors, as well as those from other marginalised groups, into the spaces they occupy. Representation matters, but presence matters more: you can’t ask questions if you’re not in the room. If U.K. music and culture publications and departments hired black, brown, and trans editors and writers as staff, rather than simply calling on them for (often poorly paid) freelance work, the industry’s future would have a shot at actually being progressive rather than simply posing as that. (For the record: 15 white men, 3 white women, and 1 black woman does not equal a “diverse workplace.”) That said, sometimes it feels like even hiring the right freelancer for the job would be a Radical Act. (This was a missed opportunity.)

At a time when governments and corporations are actively working in favour of the 1%, every aspect of the so-called free press should be in service to the 99%. Art and music have been defunded and devalued in part because they have the ability to encourage reflection and action. That’s why art and music criticism still carries weight, and why we should care about who is authoring and commissioning it. It’s no secret that western history was written by white men. If today’s criticism and journalism is tomorrow’s archive, what kind of progress has really been made if it’s largely written and commissioned by their descendants?

Perhaps the public should ask of the media what it does of politicians: democratically elected media representatives in power for ring-fenced periods of time. I don’t know, I only know there has got to be another way. Just like with walking, if the collective U.K. music media industry takes a different route, we’ll all get someplace new.

Give a word a break

A lot of people, myself included, learnt how to write about music by reading about music. (What evidence do I have for such a huge generalisation? I’ll come back to that in a minute.) When I was in my late teens, I was obsessed with Jockey Slut — a now-defunct U.K.-based dance music magazine — and as in awe of its writers as the artists they wrote about. The language they used felt authoritative, and I took note. Of course, it’s not just media preference that helps shape a person’s perspective on music — personal experience, cultural background, and listening habits all feed into it, too. The more we listen and read, the wider our taste and knowledge grows.

Decisions around word choice, however, sometimes seem caught in a cul-de-sac. In the mp3 blog years, for example, you could barely move for breathless posts describing grime as “dark” and “alien.” Even the “real” journalists seemed to fish for adjectives to describe the black London sound from the same pond. Either they were all coincidentally arriving at the very same sonic description — informed by both what they had and hadn’t listened to previously — or they were all reading one another.

Fast-forward to my time at The FADER in the mid-2010s. One of my responsibilities as managing editor was to oversee the internship programme, which I saw as an honour: an opportunity to help train the next generation of music journalists. Something I always tried to instil was the importance of finding your own voice. The simplest way of kickstarting that journey was sending them a press kit for a new song release and asking them to write a post about it. More often than not, they borrowed descriptors from the press release. When your writing voice has yet to crystallise and you’re presented with “official” information, it can seem like there is a “right” and “wrong” way to talk about something. “Take the facts from the press release, and throw out the language,” I would say. “Listen again. What do you think it sounds like?” Without fail, they’d always come back with something fresh and exciting — they just needed the encouragement to trust their own opinion.

I continue to remind myself to do the same. I’m still learning how to be a better writer, and I hope I keep learning until the day I die. Writing for me is mainly editing. Constant editing. Writing a sentence, looking at it, thinking about what the words mean and what they symbolise, changing the words, rewriting a paragraph, starting again. I’ve had to intentionally develop this practice because it is easy to word-vomit — and, as it happens, more profitable, given the quick turnarounds required on a lot of music “content.” But as with actual vomit, what you throw up on the page often reflects, in part, what you’ve digested. (In that regard, what makes matters trickier is that the internet tends to direct more love — and more hits — towards an exclusive interview with an artist over an in-depth piece of criticism about their work. But that’s a whole other rant.)

After I got laid-off from The FADER earlier this year, I realised I didn’t have a website to speak of, and so slowly started to update this decade-old blog. Pulling together a portfolio of sorts meant reading a lot of my very early work. Bits of it I liked, but a lot of it felt unsure of itself. The same words would pop up, illustrating that I used to cover insecurities about my musical knowledge with language that had been given a tick elsewhere. I was reminded that it wasn’t until a couple of years into my time at Dummy Mag that I realised it wasn’t my musical knowledge that was the problem; I’d been bamboozled by the swaggering confidence of a lot of the white male journalists I’d met and read, and made the foolish mistake of seeing my opinions and insights as less than.

It took time and effort to find my own voice, but I still slip into music journalism’s equivalent of legalese now and then. Despite what they say, first thought isn’t always the best thought. More recently, I have started to interrogate my word choices once again. What are the implications of the repetition of certain words used in relation to artists making the same kind of music? How do those descriptors relate to the cultural contexts of those musics? Are those descriptors in fact reinforcing the status quo? What does it mean when artists of the same gender, race, or sexuality are continually compared and contrasted when the music they make has nothing in common? Do music journalists have a responsibility to help decolonise language? (The short answer: yes. Especially because music is youth culture, and music blogging often a young writer’s entry point into journalism.) Music journalism by definition involves symbolism: one must conjure up an image or an idea of a sound using a bunch of letters. It follows that the way in which different kinds of music are written about often communicates more than just the words on the page.

With that in mind, below is a non-exhaustive list of words that I started making a couple of weeks ago, and have been thinking about ever since. All of them I have worn thin in my own writing about electronic music over the years. I’m going to try to avoid them from now on. After all, as the music artist Leonce recently tweeted, “Music writers always quick to say when a established artist isn’t innovating but I haven’t been seeing any innovation in music writing.”

Words I’m giving a break


Eartheater feature

GEN F: Eartheater
March/April 2018 issue of The FADER
Photo by: Micaiah Carter

The placenta that nourished Alexandra Drewchin in the womb is buried under a cherry tree in the garden of her childhood home. The artist, who makes industrial-spiked pop as Eartheater, grew up on a remote horse farm in north-east Pennsylvania. She was born to a British mother and a Russian father who met and fell in love in New York before moving to the countryside. Drewchin’s father, the son of a Soviet-era propaganda artist and himself an abstract painter, was absent for much of her childhood. When Drewchin was eight, her parents split up, leaving her mom to bring up four children on her own.

“She’s the most badass lady,” Drewchin tells me one morning in December, as we sit at a wooden table in her light-filled bedroom in Queens, New York. “She gave birth to us all on her own in the house, and home-schooled us all.”

Around us, flowering orchids, platform shoes, boxing gloves, and musical gear wrestle for attention; two of her father’s paintings hang on the walls. Drewchin has lived here for six years, renting the room from an established visual artist in her 60s. The roommates share an affinity for metallic sculpture and lush vegetation; from behind a closed door I hear what sounds like the call of an exotic bird or three.

“I was extremely sheltered in some ways,” she continues, explaining that her family didn’t have a TV or a computer. “I remember the first time I managed to hear a Lil’ Kim song when I was 11 or something — naturally I was just so inclined to get the fuck out and find that stuff.”

Read the rest of my Eartheater feature on