Bombay Needs Black People

2012-02-10T21:16:00.005Z

In 2011, I went to India, realised I was in love, went a bit mad, came back, fell in love, got very angry, get angry at myself for getting angry, fell out of love, went to see a psychiatrist or two, did lots of chaotic work which reflected my state of mind, found a home, fell in love again, and got engaged.

I am dreaming up my first long-form work. I am excited by the prospects and the process. Here's the beginning: password is 'mango'.

In the meantime, I've written my first little effort for radio drama, which will air on BBC Asian Network in August;

i've written a little play for the lovely girls at Mulberry school in Whitechapel, which is the culmination of my residency at Rich Mix;

and I'll be workshopping a few ideas with the lovely man and genius artist Hetain Patel, which we'll be showing at Alchemy, a festival of all things Indian, which will take place in April this year. Buy tickets here.

News from mango land

2011-08-17T17:56:00.005+01:00

a quick update!

This weekend, I premiered a new commission at Summer Sundae in Leicester, for Phrased and Confused. It's a nice bit of work which will eventually become a new show. On Saturday, I performed the commission with Bellatrix on beatbox and double bass, and on Sunday with Ben and Alfie, two brothers who play viola and double bass.

Bellatrix and I recorded a new demo, another commission for Hackney Hear, an interactive GPS-triggered audio tour of Hackney. I'm really happy with how the demo sounds - here it is on Soundcloud.

Brown Skin Beauty, the video and song made by Bandish Projekt, Sheila Tequila and me, is sitting inbetween Micheal Jackson and Limp Bizkit in the VH1 Asia charts!

My year-long Rich Mix residency has finally started; read details here.

The Motiroti commission, a new piece of theatre set in a barber's shop in East London, went very well - a couple of pictures here, taken by Marcia Chandra.

Mis shapen

2011-06-27T12:39:00.002+01:00

OMFG I've just found this new band called "Pulp", has anyone heard of them? they're amazing. Hope to catch them in concert soon, once I find out a bit more about them!

Their new single Mis-Shapes is brilliant. It makes being slightly weird cool, like Miranda July and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

The Business

2011-06-17T11:05:00.002+01:00

I'll be performing 'The Business' on July 10th at a hairdressers in Dalston, a performance in which audience members get haircuts, trims, shaves, manicures and massages, whilst thinking about what value means to them in this day and age...

Click here to book tickets.

Double click on the flyer to see it in full glory!

Mango news

2011-06-17T10:49:00.003+01:00

A quick update...

Compering 'Celebrating Sanctuary' this Sunday at Bernie Spain Gardens, just underneath the Oxo Tower in London, SE1, this Sunday; the event looks at the art of refugee communities on London. It's free, and there's a whole host of brilliant acts on, including the Kraa Collective - come!

As part of the Rich Mix residency, I'll be running a short course in creating spoken word theatre for Futureversity on 25th - 27th July;

Then, every week at Rich Mix from the beginning of August, we'll be running Solanki's Salon, a longer programme of free weekly workshops. We'll be devising a piece of theatre which will eventually be shown at Rich Mix in October. It's a really exciting opportunity for anyone interested in creating theatre and writing spoken word, so if you know anyone who might be interested, send them my way!

As part of the year long Rich Mix residency, I am working with a good friend and great artist, Jon Hoskins, to build an interactive installation in the Rich Mix reception area. This installation will grow and evolve over the year - more details soon.

i've just hard news that I've been awarded a small commission from a great spoken word organisation called Phrased and Confused. More deets soon!

Gig-wise, you can catch me at Tongue Fu on 30th June.

The Big Lunch

2011-06-17T10:38:00.006+01:00

The Big Lunch was a great success, despite the fact that it was a grey and rainy day!

What Happened at the Hindu Hen Do in Hendon

2011-05-29T08:01:00.002+01:00

Upon the evening proceeding the honorable event of Harish and Heena's hitching, Heena gathered her girlfriends to gossip in Gretchen's garish Golders Green kitchen. (It wasn't really a hardcore Hindu hen do; though Heena was of course a desi, at least two of the hens were Bangladeshi. Allesia was a Catholic ascetic; Helen was agnostic, having found faith and then lost it; and Gretchen of course was a Jew.)

“Ha ha!” then “Fuck!”howled Heena, as Helen plucked her hairy upper lip; she sucked her teeth and reminisced about the time when underneath the willow trees on Hampstead Heath, she'd snogged a gora boy named Keith. It was moments like these that Heena had reflected upon in the lead up to her wedding; she'd replayed them over and over again, as if reflecting on previous misdemeanours would wipe the slate just a little bit cleaner.

And so it was that Heena hardened her hintent to hold Harish in high regard and pardon him for all his sins; his love of TV shows like 'Skins'; his dodgy right wing politics; his hatred of Mohammedans. Harish was a handsome, wholesome newsagent from Harrow (it was this obscure fact that sealed the deal, for their relationship had been predicted – nay, you could say, revealed - in a tarot reading by a healer in Vietnam, who confirmed the fated mating by reading Heena's palm). His parents lived in Harpenden. His skin was darker than it could have been, considering his roots were Arian; on the plus side, he didn't smoke, he was a teetotaller and vegetarian.

But something just wasn't right... and thus it was that fated night she did what any mere mortal might; in the company of her friends, Heena expressed her doubt. Kvetching, Gretchen shrugged and said, “Come on! It could be worse! You could have married a goy!” Sound advice from a Jew; and though it was true - Harish was a good Indian boy - nobody could have foreseen that it would have been at her predominantly Hindu shabeen, on the borders of Hendon and Golders Green, that Heena would choose to come out.

I have taken to wearing big fluffy clouds on my head

2011-05-26T08:08:00.003+01:00

nice review of Book Slam gig last week;

an article about the Big Lunch press launch here;

here's a short film featuring Boris Johnson, Barbara Windsor and me!

My Rich Mix residency is slowly coming to ground; we'll be announcing details of what the residency involves within the month.

And 'the Business', the Motiroti commission I'll be performing at a hairdressers in Dalston on July 10th, is also taking shape nicely - watch this space!

Reluctant Fun-da-mentalism

2011-05-20T20:54:00.004+01:00

Met Boris Johnson yesterday in my official role as Street Party Champion of Hackney(!) Also present were dudes like Babs Windsor (and her 30 year old permatan toyboy - good on yer, Babs), Levi Roots and Jazzy B, all of us at a press launch to promote the Big Lunch, a nationwide campaign to get as many people as possible having street parties on 5th June as possible. Boris said to me, "It's a fact - if you know your neighbour by his first name, crime goes down!" He then emptied a bottle of Reggae Reggae Sauce all over these vegetables, got on all fours, and started to chomp on the rhubarb.

Also had a good time at Book Slam, performing with Mohsin Hamid. Tomorrow I'm moderating a Q & A with Mihir Bose at Rich Mix, to which I'm looking forward.

What Counts

2011-04-27T15:50:00.020+01:00

“I used to want the Queen's head, but now I want the crown”
- Roots Manuva

The old lady at front of the post office queue draws her breath when she hears it will cost £5 to send her birthday card registered overseas.

“The Royal Mail been stealing my post!” she meekly protests. “We all got a letter about it!”

It's true. We all got that letter. A local postman had been nicking our mail. And now the old lady is getting charged a fiver to send her grandson a birthday card. She seems to be implying that the Royal Mail are criminals, in the act of committing daylight robbery.

The Turner Prize winning artist Steve McQueen battled with the Royal Mail for quite a while. He created a set of stamps featuring the images of dead British soldiers from Aghanistan, after collaboration with the families of the soldiers. He didn't consider the artwork complete unless the Royal Mail published the stamps; but they refused.

A popular graffiti artist, once hunted by the law but now a household name whose street art is protected and celebrated, recently forged hundreds of notes of currency. The Queen's head was replaced by an image of Princess Diana. These £10 notes now exchange on Ebay for £200.

The son of Princess Diana is about to get married in two days time. According to the satirical new show 'Have I Got News For You', The public were encouraged to send in their responses:

Money makes the world go round. All around the world, from Wall Street to the Himalayas, we trade, and barter, using notes and coins – notes and coins often bearing heads of state. You can bet your bottom dollar that most of us want to be richer – we want to have more notes and coins.

But in a world where an energy crisis is ever looming, where an expanding population sees increasing disparity between rich and poor, and where environmental stresses threaten our very existence, I am pretty sure that our relationship to value needs to change if we are either to evolve – or, more bleakly, survive. And it needs to change fast.

This week, Boris Johnson 'personally' appointed me Hackney's street champion. I will be coordinating efforts to promote an initiative called the Big Lunch. Organised by the Eden Project, the Big Lunch aims to get as many people having street parties as possible on June 5th. The premise is simple; break bread with your neighbour. Let's face it - it's harder than we think, isn't it? Whilst many of us Londoners are proud to see such diversity amongst our neighbours when we get on the tube or walk down the high street, we're not often challenged to actually interact with people from a different background to ours. We might nod hello to our Muslim neighbours, but the likelihood is we will never know what they eat in the evenings, and likewise, they will never know what we eat. We're much more likely to have had Chinese takeaways than to actually have stepped across the threshold of a Chinese woman's house. But at least trade brings us together. We'll drop 50p into our Turkish shopkeeper's hand. Our hands might even touch.

The original trigger point for the 1995 Birmingham race riots was an alleged rape of an Afro Caribbean girl by a group of South Asian men, but bad feelings between the Afro-Caribbean and South Asian communities were not uncommon. It was rumoured that South Asian shopkeepers did not like to touch the hands of their Afro-Caribbean clients when giving change. According to Afro-Caribbeans, South Asians viewed them as 'untouchables'.

I come from a family of shopkeepers. My Indian grandfather had a convenience store in Kenya. He, like many other Asians, arrived in East Africa to set up small businesses. Often, these were shops. How do our local shops serve us? Are they there to simply trade? Or do they play a wider role in the community?

Whenever I visit India, I love getting shaved. Often, I'll just visit a man with a cut throat razor on the street, like the one pictured here.

This man will not only shave me with a level of precision and care I've never encountered anywhere else in the world, he will also massage me. I will leave his chair feeling like a million dollars. But the experience will only cost me 50 rupees. What will 50 rupees buy me in London? A cup of coffee, if I'm really lucky (a cup of Starbucks coffee will cost me £2.50, or 170 rupees); whilst a shave at a gentleman's barbers in Regent St will cost me £45. And it won't be as good as mister man with a razor on the streets on Bombay. I could buy 66 of his shaves for that price.

When I'm having a shave, it's not only the end result I appreciate – it's the process. Today we can buy our groceries online. The need to actually talk to people face-to-face is disappearing. We actually crave anonymity. But I love that awkwardness, that tension, that threat of conversation when we sit with a hairdresser. Do we talk? Or perhaps the conversation between my head and his hand is enough? A skilled hairdresser is like an artisan. Do we make pleasant chit-chat when we paint, or sculpt? But hairdressers are different... part of their job is to make a client feel at ease.

Last year a man asked me to climb naked into a bathtub. He bathed me. He then asked me to get out. I put on a gown and he cuddled me for ten minutes. I paid for the experience. But he wasn't a prostitute; he was a performer. His piece made me feel strange for days afterwards. I questioned the notion of intimacy, and of performance.

Five minutes ago I conducted a business meeting with someone who I have never met. She is an illustrator, and we are writing a book together. I propositioned her with the idea after I found her work online. She claims she often works this way, because her Greek clients have differing cultural values to the ones she acquired in London and South Africa. It is easier for her to work with people online, halfway across the globe, than it is her neighbours.

My local high street in Dalston , affectionately called 'the Waste', is a strange amalgamam of shops. Like most UK high streets, it's in a position of flux. Some shops have shutters on them. Some shops are decaying, musty and hardly see a customer all day. Most busy are the two kebab shops and fish and chip shop. Recently, there's been a spate of shops which mirror gentrification; three independent coffee shops cum restaurants. A gastropub. It's only a matter of time before we see a delicatessen selling sourdough bread and fairtrade products. There are two places I can get my hair cut on the Waste. One caters predominantly for African clientel. The other is Wah nails, a nail bar which is celebrated in New York and Berlin alike. There are two Turkish shops which sell vegetables, but they are overpriced. There are two Tesco Metros within five minutes walk, if you like your vegetables uniformly shaped and plastic wrapped. There are no shops within ten minutes walk where you can buy your vegetables accompanied by a smile and some conversation.

Three days ago there was a riot on Bristol over a new Tescos Metro. The locals didn't want it there. Ex-Bristol rapper Dizraeli has a rather tasty little song called 'Bomb Tesco'. The chorus to this song is “The movement! It's the movement! None of your rulers can stop the movement!”

Yesterday, a man was pissing on the outside of my house. He was much bigger than me so I didn't challenge him, per se, but he still threatened me for daring to give him a dirty stare. He had a sweatshirt on made by Converse, the same company which made my trainers.

My Converse trainers are made from a number of different materials. These probably come from loads of different countries. I have no idea where, or who got paid what, along the way. The banana I had for breakfast comes from Africa. My Iphone was made in China, but the tantalum metal it contains comes from the jungles of Eastern Congo. The paper I read my news from? I have no idea, but I bet it's not the UK. But globalisation is not just about growing economic interdependence between countries. It's about viruses; invasions and infestations of foreign species; migration.

In my hand, I hold a Lewes Pound. It is a local currency which works as part of a transition network. You can exchange it for local goods and services in Lewes. Read closely; it says on it, “We have it in our power to build the world anew.”

What happens when we set foot over the threshold of a space? There are so many different kinds of thresholds;

National borders and homes.
Airports, banks and palaces.
Homes, shops, and hairdressers.

But I want to postulate three questions, in relation to crossing thresholds;

Are we welcomed?
Are we asked to behave in a certain way?
Are there certain rules and regulations to which we are bound?

The 2011 National Census is being conducted by the information branch of Lockheed Martin, the second biggest arms manufacturer on the planet. How ethical is it that all UK citizens are legally bound to comply with supplying information to a company which is based on creating weapons of destruction?

I am a comedian and a poet, and the thoughts I've outlined above are the provocations for a performance which has been commissioned by Motiroti. I know that this performance will take place in a hairdressers in Dalston. For the purposes of this piece, I am calling each performer a technician, and each audience member a client. The clients will each pay a fee to cross the threshold into the performance. Each client will be assigned a technician.

The performance will constitute of my playfully exploring some of the themes I've outlined above, and perhaps more importantly, a conversation between each client and customer. This conversation will be documented by each client filling out a form, which I am calling an alternative census.

My first point of departure is finding a hairdressers. I am looking for the right place to do the performance. The hairdressers have to be sympathetic to my cause. Is it important for the hairdressers to get the piece? I think so. But many of the people I've spoken to don't come from a background in the arts. They just want to know how much I will pay them to hire the shop for the day.

After all, money is money, and business is business.

And we're all in the business of making money.

40 candles

2011-04-18T11:21:00.003+01:00

A lovely birthday present from Briony Campbell, whose Dad Project has made it into this year's Webby Awards...

and our next Tongue Fu gig, on Monday May 2nd, about which we're very excited! Soweto Kinch!

Rastamouse got no love for dogpoo

2011-04-16T17:20:00.012+01:00

Boris Johnson, that shock-haired anti-hero famed for saving environmentalists and encouraging Londoners to get on their bike, has invited me to be the Street Party Champion for Hackney. What this means is that I will be bigging up the Big Lunch, a nationwide campaign to get as many people to have street parties as possible on 5th June.

I'm enjoying being back in Hackney after a turbulent three months partying like a rock star in Mumbombai. Here's my favourite nephew, Atlas, enjoying his status as a local citizen.

I've also just done the first bit of street art I'm genuinely proud of, sticking up a few of these posters in my local hood (click to enlarge):

I'm collaborating with a great designer, Sally Brown; here's our first bit of work together...

I have enjoyed running workshops with students from Kingsford School in Beckton; the winners of a slam received this commissioned poem:

Yasmin, Cornelius and Haseeb
All went to work for Aunty Beeb
A fierce old lady with her teeth popping out
Whose future was in terrible doubt

Haseeb beatboxed while he did the dishes
Cornelius, a genius, made stew out of fishes
Yasmin planted vegetables and said “Brrrrap brrrrap!”
And the three of them taught Aunty how to make an iPhone app

All of a sudden, Aunty Beeb got excited,
saying “This is the future! And everyone's invited!”
She got on the landline and called her family -
Fab Four Freddie and I Teddy V

Her cousins popped round to have a new age party
Haseeb taught Freddie Bengali and Marathi
Yasmin taught Teddy how to use a computer
and Cornelius became Aunty Beebie's breakdance tutor

Thankfully, Aunty had a lorra lorra cash
She gave it to the children, who put it in a stash
They gave the interest earnt to their grateful families
And put the rest in a fund to end world poverty!

A pic of me teaching at Kingsford; I love it, because on the board is written 'Strange Fruit' (I was teaching the class about the classic Billie Holiday song, which changed the ballgame for protest songs), and on the interactive whiteboard is a video of the French spoken word artist Grand Corps Malade, with his brilliant song 'Education Nationale'.

Here's a couple of snaps from the show I recently directed with young people from the Voice Youth Group in Hounslow:

Spring!

2011-03-21T13:49:00.002Z

quick catch up...

Last Friday, I hosted an event to launch a funding campaign for Hackney Hear, a new project by the good folk behind Hackney Podcast. Also appearing were Micheal Rosen and Rob Gallagher.

On Saturday, the Voice Group showed a piece I directed at Watermans. A series of mini-performances held in site specific locations around the building, it went down a treat!

Last week I showed a scratch at Battersea Arts Centre as part of the Independents programme; compered and performed at one of Susheela Rahman's Outer India nights; compered and presented an event dedicated to the writers of radio plays in the five Olympic Boroughs on behalf of Rich Mix and BBC London; finished off some short films I made with students from Latymer All Saints school in Edmonton, a collaboration between Eastside Educational Trust and A New Direction; I rocked a few other performances around the country; and started work on beatbox symphony with primary school children in Battersea.

I've also just heard that I've been offered one of three new commissions by Moti Roti this summer.

Up and coming this week is Tongue Fu @ Rich Mix on Thursday.... it's my 40th birthday, so I'll be celebrating!

Everybody Link Your Arms Together Now

2011-03-17T20:54:00.004Z

a great satirisation of the new UK census, provided by the good folks at Indymedia. Click on the oic to enlarge!

The Great Transition

2011-02-28T10:53:00.001Z

‎"Anyone who believes exponential growth can go on forever in a finite world is either a madman or an economist."

Kenneth Boulding, economist

a report by the excellent New Economics Foundation on finding ways to survive and thrive through financial crises, climate change and the peak and decline of global oil production.

Taylor Parkes - "'The Great Trans-Atlantic Stitch-Up"

2011-02-28T09:58:00.004Z

Below is a transcript of something I heard yesterday on the (ever excellent) Jarvis Cocker show on BBC 6 Radio. It's written by music journalist Taylor Parkes. It's particularly relevant in light of my experience of the fledgling independent Indian music industry, which is dominated by metal, rock and EDM, an acronym standing for electronic dance music, the bastard child of a Goan trance mother and an absent father called globalisation. Whilst Indians are understandably excited by the emergence of a scene which deviates from Indian filmi-music (which, of course, being an NRI, I love), what's difficult to comprehend is how much alternative music in India seems to want to imitate Western sounds, and makes no attempt to integrate the unbelievably rich, complex worlds of Indian classical music. Here's a taste of what Taylor goes on to say;

“Empire – even the ghost of empire – degrades the senses, as well as the soul. One of the deepest cultural wounds of Britain's colonial history... is an inability to approach the music of other lands with genuine humility and unconditionally open ears. Globalisation – a one way process – only reinforces this...”

Can the emerging Indian music scene listen to, play, and appropriate sounds from South America, Africa and Eastern Europe with open ears, given the emergence of podcasts, and phone apps which let you listen to thousands of radio stations from around the globe? Perhaps doubtful, given that even in a country like the UK, which has given birth to Real World, Womad and hundreds of other organisations championing new sounds from around the world and challenging Western pop-cultural hegemony, features not a single mainstream radio or tv show dedicated to music from around the world, and the charts are full of... well... Justin Bieber. At least Beiber sounds good here, slowed down 800%.

The sounds of a sitar begin Taylor's piece....

“Errr.. Indian restaurant? Travelodge? George Harrison's Rumpus Room? Actually, it's some of the oldest, deepest, richest and some of the most satisfying music in existence, but there you go.

As pop music's development continues to slow, there's still a certain Anglocentricism choking possibility. All too often, even now, you sense a blithe assumption of what pop is, and must be, forever; English speaking,burger eating, 'live at Che Stadium'...

This great Transatlantic stitch up does no one any favours. In almost every area where technology has increased choice, people seem dazzled and keener than ever to stick to what they know. It's not, you'd hope, that they're actively hostile to music which comes from further afield; perhaps for some it's that too much cultural carbohydrate has left them unsure of how to listen to it.

Still the result is exactly the same – a massive and menacing contraction. Most attempts to assimilate foreign styles into the basic thump of Ango-American pop music have been ham-fisted, or at best, a little silly - a vaguely comical bolting on of unfamiliar scales and inflections...

...More than forty years on, and we still haven't come a whole lot further.

When unfamiliar styles are taken seriously, it's often in a po-faced anthropological way which only emphasises place, and as a consequence, distance. Or else - and this is worse - it's with an earnest hipsterism, left over from the 80's world music boom and the sudden forgotten trendiness of the Buena Vista Social Club.

A lot of the attention foreign-sounding music does receive is shot through with the smugness of a broadsheet travel section. It seems so wasteful, and vaguely unsavoury, to examine this music under glass, or to use it as spray-on sunshine, or a chucklesome break from the serious business of doing the same thing over and over. Better to unlearn bad habits picked up from a culture which turns uncommon modes of expression into a sideshow. The manipulation of context is the key to musical discovery, and it doesn't take much to hear this fascinating noise as something nearby, relevant, and revelatory.

Perhaps, as people, we need a better understanding of where these sounds come from- and why - but as listeners, the first thing we need to do is ditch all our associations, and reference points. Better to hear what's actually there, as this was the first music we'd ever heard...

… Empire – even the ghost of empire – degrades the senses, as well as the soul. One of the deepest cultural wounds of Britain's colonial history – at this end, anyway – is an inability to approach the music of other lands with genuine humility and unconditionally open ears. Globalisation – a one way process – only reinforces this. The English speaking world still has a tendency to view far way goings on purely in terms of how they relate to our interests, real or perceived. This is is true in music as in geopolitics...

... That pop is essentially amoral doesn't need lectures about being a citizen of planet earth. This is about new methods of movement towards and between extraordinary and imaginary places. There's a lot to learn by the countless attempts by foreign musicians to shift or dissolve these make-belief borders."

I fought the law, and the law won

2011-02-27T15:47:00.016Z

This is an edible house. It belongs to the witch who tried to gobble up Hansel and Gretel in the popular fairy tale written by the Grimm brothers. Though slightly mental, the witch perhaps had things right. Edible houses are perhaps the future – or at least houses covered with edible flowers. Architects, artists, scientists and visionaries Usman Haque and Natalie Jeremejenko are researching the concept of buildings as living, breathing organisms. Why? Do they too want to capture small children and eat them, like the witch? No, silly. This is urban gardening, where we collectively address the rapidly deteriorating quality of air in urban spaces by encouraging the growth of plantlife on our balconies, roofs and walls. Plants with a high shoot to root ratio most sensible in densely populated spaces; little root (little room to grow) but loads of shoot... think berries and hops. Apparently everyone in NYC is growing hops and making their own beer. And most sensible of all, according to Natalie, are edible flowers. This makes complete sense to me. I've always rated flowers, along with birds, as highly intelligent species. Unlike humans, flowers and birds make little impact. Flowers express themselves through colour and smell. Birds through flight and birdsong. Humans through Christina Aguilera and Justin Beiber. In our favour, however, we do have people like Natalie. One of her many genius projects is cross-species dining, which feature drinks and dishes that challenge guests to expand their idea of the food web, in order to imagine edible interventions that go beyond sustainability to actually augment ecological health.

Like breast milk ice cream, perhaps. Whilst the Middle East reconfigures itself amidst bloodshed, protest and revolution, an ice cream parlour is churning up breast milk with Madacasgar vanilla pods into ice cream and serving it up at £14 ($23, or 2000 rupees) a dollop. Expect the finest supermarkets in the world to soon have a mother's milk section next to the cow's milk one. Butter, milk, cheese, maybe even eggs. Organic, locally produced and with the right sized molecules – some say cow's milk is so hard to digest (hence lactose intolerance) because cow's milk molecules are sixteen times the size of humans. Who knows – perhaps in the future, we'll find it a bit weird that we supple our young on cow's tits, not human ones...

Lots of news to share, which I'll do so briefly. A month ago I was stopped and searched. I was outside a restaurant in Barnet, having a break from dinner with my dad and stepmum. A police van pulled up and accused me of selling drugs in the car park. Perhaps it was the hood I was wearing.

Two days later I got a criminal record, after losing a court case against the police for an event which happened last summer – namely, I crossed a road. The policemen in question insisted that I stood in the middle of the road, smiled wryly, and put my hand up to stop them, causing them to brake hard and endanger life. This is, of course, complete bollocks. They lied. What actually happened was that I was not paying attention when walking out into the road, and didn't notice them. Stupidly, having watched too much TV, I decided to defend myself, and ths lost the case. I'm appealing and this time I've had the wherewithal to employ a decent solicitor and barrister to defend me. It's such a relief that our police force are doing such a brilliant job, isn't it? That we can rely on them to encourage good citizenship and friendly neighbourhoods with actions based to promote community cohesion, tolerance, patience and understanding? Having been treated in this way, it's not difficult to empathise with people who are often treated as guilty before innocent. You can't help feeling embittered, angry and sullen when something like this happens to you – in fact, you almost start to conform to the stereotype that you were initially being judged as. I've never had any issue with the police before this; I always had quite a lot of respect for British police, judging those who had complaints about them as having chips on their shoulders; but having experienced what I have done, the shoe's on the other (flat) foot, so to speak.

It's been an interesting return to the UK, filled with other spiky events too. Whilst in India, my UK SIM was pinched. My mobile phone company, T Mobile, not only insisted that I pay for the bill the thief ran up (£1,500, or 70,000 rupees) or face prosecution, but also put me on a phone plan which will see me run up extortionate bills until I pay off what I owe them. To buy my way out of my contract will also cost me a fortune. So, despite being the victim of a crime, I'm being asked to pay heavily through the nose for it.

[What are these strange clusters of intense events and experiences I'm attracting to me? Just coincidence, perhaps? Last week, I sent an email to someone which read, “This guy is a grade A Asshole. I thnk he's going to become a politician, like his daddy, and continue to f**k the country.” Unfortunately, it didn't go to the person I intended it to; instead, it went to the person I was referring to himself. To his credit, he shot an email back to me immediately, which read, “At least he doesn't make crap music like sad old mango, bless his racist heart”. Ouch. Instant karma, you might say.]

Certainly, it's worth considering one's relationship to legality and authority . Take Banksy; at times venerated, at times demonised; his work is so incredibly challenging and anti authoritarian, yet he is practically a hero in the eyes of the establishment.

Whilst Steve McQueen struggles to convince the Royal Mail to publish his stamps of dead soldiers, Banksy's fake £10 notes, replete with pictures of Princess Di, are now selling at £200 on Ebay. We're talking about currency here; what we value. Notes with the Queen's head on. Notes which tells us what value is. According to the New Economics Foundation, our relationship to what we value is changing. We value happiness perhaps more than profit. But when notes and coins with the Queen's head on exchange hands, we're effectively buying into slavery – slavery to not only monarchy and class, but also to a world where equality cannot prevail, because we al want to be richer, and have more, in a world of increasingly more scarce resources. The Brixton Pound is an effort to combat this, and it's worth mentioning Totnes, the first town in the UK to be called a transition town – actively working to prepare for on oil-less future.

Brazilian artist Victor Muniz questions value in these works of art – one picture is made from rubbish in a slum, photographed from a great height, and the other is a picture of a sugar cane cutter, made entirely from sugar on black paper.

In these fantastic animated RSA lectures, David Harvey, Slavoj Zizek, Jeremy Rifkin and Sir Ken Robinson suggest our relationship to value is changing – or needs to change, if we either to evolve, or more bleakly, survive. These are possibly the best things I've ever watched online - highly recommended, if not essential viewing. We should make it law to watch them - a bit like paying your taxes... incidentally, it's come to public attention that (as well as the fact that British taxpayers money is used to fund illegal wars and practices like extraordinary rendition, and the UK has admitted its complicity in selling arms to highly dubious dictatorships throughout the world) the compulsory UK census survey (which collects data on all UK citizens) is run by US arms giant Lockheed. If I was to choose deliberately not to fill it out because I didn't want to support Lockheed in any way, then I could potentially go to jail. Meanwhile, bankers are now earning trillion dollar bonuses and Barclays Bank recently got away with tax evasion on a Madoff-like scale. Go figure.

Also worth watching; “15 Funniest TED Talks Ever Given” (in particular, Ze Frank and, if you have time, a long lecture by the genius writer of Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Douglas Adams) and this 1967 short, 'The Perfect Human', hailed by many as the best short film ever made.

A few bits of work to mention;

This is Real is a short film I was involved in last year. I found participants and did some spoken word workshops with them; we then filmed them performing. The director is Matt Sheldon.

In my last post, I mentioned I directed my first film shoot. I filmed four live artists performing pieces in the beautiful setting of the Old Boys Club in Dalston, for a pilot called Clouds TV, which features the best of East London culture.

I'm also making films of students performing spoken word at Latymer School in Edmonton. For the third year, I'm directing a devised performance with the Voice Youth Group, to be performed at Watermans Arts Centre later this month.

Lots of theatrical stuff going on – I'm also doing a short residency at my favourite theatre in the country, Battersea Arts Centre, this month. I'm developing an idea I've had for over two years, an intimate piece of theatre which explores my relationship to India, and asks audiences to question relative cultural values, including issues based around sustainability and social justice. The piece is called 'Solanki Goes to Bollywood'.

Lots of spoken word and compering gigs in the offing in March too, including Tongue Fu, Susheela Rahman, a youth playwriting event for BBC London, the launch of an interactive phone app called Hackney Here; i'm working out the finer details of a year long artist-in-residency programme at Rich Mix, where last week I ran a very successful event called 'I Heartbreak London', featuring an all female bill I'd curated. My favourite bit about the event was the fact that an eight week old baby was in the audience!

My work is becoming more child-centred –one of the projects I'm talking to Battersea Arts Centre about is a show where the performers range in age from 6 months to 5 years. I'm also got a couple of kids books in the offing, including an update on the children's classic, 'The Tortoise and the Hare'. I've been inspired lately by both Ferdinand the Bull (the Disney cartoon I watched as a chld, but I only recently discovered the original book, written in 1937 by American Leaf Munro) and also, Rastamouse – a crime-fighting, 'cheese' loving Rastafarian mouse with a reggae band. I'm not the only one who's fallen for the charms of Rastamouse – witness the proliferation of posters around London town celebrating his genius. Or – does he make crap music, bless his racist heart?

Last, but not least – I've been making the best music of my life, sad old mango that I am. It's produced by Mumbai-based Bandish Projeckt, and I'm quietly excited about it. We're holding it close to our chest at the moment, but watch this space!

Direct Action

2011-02-10T18:49:00.002Z

I directed my first film this week. Can't say too much about it, but here's a still from the shoot...

I heartbreak London

2011-02-10T18:45:00.003Z

Inspired by the 'I Heartbreak Bandra' movement in Mumbai, this is an anti-Valentine's event I put together featuring an all female bill, happening this Saturday.

This is the blurb that went out to press...

Girls!
Girls!
Girls!

Womankind. Often found nurturing and bringing life into being. Excepting Maggie Thatcher, no woman has ever been solely responsible for building tanks, SUV's, missiles, oil wells, nuclear power stations, red Ferraris and porn empires. At this time in our evolution, when we're threatened with the very real and sobering prospect of extinction, it's probably important that we listen a little bit more to the ladies.

That's why Last Mango In Paris has put together an all female bill, featuring over ten acts, plus loads of little moments to get us inspired by women who aren't out to break our hearts, but instead to make us fall in love with the world.

Performances by Z Star and Bellatrix
A TED talk by Nobel Peace Prize winner Jody Williams about women that are changing the world
A sneak preview of the first video by all female accapella group the Boxettes
Plus a coven of rising stars like...
Indigo Williams
Hatty and Ellie
the Voice Trio
Yvette Staelens
Ellie Rose
Sam Lindo
Yoda
Jasmine Cooray
Katie Dove Dixon
An anti-Valentine's event, because Valentine's day is shit. It's a fake festival, with no juicy animistic roots, designed to make you feel bad about yourself. Every day is Valentine's day for people who know how to love themselves

The Empathic Civilisation

2011-02-04T14:45:00.001Z

A brilliant animated lecture from the RSA:

Bestselling author, political adviser and social and ethical prophet Jeremy Rifkin investigates the evolution of empathy and the profound ways that it has shaped our development and our society.

Der Mensch ist, was er ißt

2011-02-03T13:07:00.009Z

Consciousness. It's a funny old word, bandied about willy-nilly by neuroscientists , philosophers and furry hippies.

A Google search paints this picture adequately. Wikipedia (no. 1 in Google's 'consciousness' top ten) sums it up as “subjective experience, awareness, the ability to experience "feeling", or wakefulness.” Consciousness.com (Google's no. 9) uses words like “ascension, celestial humanity, universe, meditation and prayer, cintrifugal fields, and AZIUMS”. What the fuck is AZIUMS? I'm not going to waste time finding out, for fear that I'll walk straight into a cupboard designed by the likes of Elron Hubbard.

Stanford University's School of Philosophy hits second place in the top ten, with the following definition:

“...The problem of consciousness is arguably the central issue in current theorizing about the mind. Despite the lack of any agreed upon theory of consciousness, there is a widespread, if less than universal, consensus that an adequate account of mind requires a clear understanding of it and its place in nature. We need to understand both what consciousness is and how it relates to other, nonconscious, aspects of reality.”

It would take either a neuroscientist, or a furry hippy, to make a stab at what that meant.

Google's 'searches related to consciousness' include quantum consciousness, collective consciousness, Christ consciousness, cosmic consciousness, and Krishna consciousness. An ad at the side of the page, from 'youhavechosentoremember.com', asks you to “Embody Your Higher Consciousness & Experience Inner Peace, Joy & Love.”

Obviously, it's a difficult term to quantify. Perhaps the most simple to get one's head around, if you'll excuse the pun, is no 4 in the top ten, Stephen Pinker's excellent article for Time Magazine, summarized by Google as “You exist, right? Prove it. How 100 billion jabbering neurons create the knowledge--or illusion--that you're here.”

I once heard Laura Huxley talk about consciousness. Laura was the widow of Aldous Huxley, an academic who took a lot of drugs (like LSD), wrote a lot of cool books (like 'Brave New World'), and inspired a lot of dead rock stars (like Jim Morrison). Laura broke it down like this; “Forget LSD, cocaine, coffee or alcohol; everything you put inside your body affects your consciousness. Even spaghetti.”

So what about food consciousness? Can we conscious of the food we eat? A sceptic, a rationalist or an academic would probably dismiss the term 'food consciousness' as being as irrational as 'god', 'free will' and 'cheap sex'. But I would argue that we are becoming conscious of the food we eat – or at least developing a conscience. We're becoming aware that every piece of meat we eat has been bred to be slaughtered (isn't it amazing how reading these words immediately turns you off this article, as if all of a sudden Linda McCartney is sitting on your face and force-feeding you veggie sausages?). This means that many of my friends – a small community, but one that is growing – choose only to eat meat which comes from animals which have been humanely raised (before rabbiting on, bear in mind that I'm far from perfect. I might not go to Maccy D's or fried chicken shops any more, but the kebab roll I just munched from my local Indian probably didn't contain lamb which came from a very happy animal).

Often, the meat my oh-so-conscious friends eat has been killed by the person who sells it to them, so he or she can speak about the life of that animal; how it was raised, what it eat, how it was killed, and what it watched on Sky TV. This is as far away from Tesco's 'value' chicken as you could possibly imagine (ah, another disputed term – 'value'). The meat industry is one of the most protected there is. If ever film makers would be allowed to show the reality of the conditions underwent by most of the animals we eat, the shit (eaten by the animals we eat) would hit the fan. Most poor people value cheap meat, but the price we collectively pay for this will probably be born by future generations.

The same goes for fish. There's lots of films out there which break it down; the fish are dying. En masse. 'A Sea Change', a film directed by Barbara Ettinger in 2009, tells us that ocean chemistry is being altered on a scale not seen for millions of years, explaining that our largest natural resource is becoming increasingly toxic. Ocean acidification threatens over 1 million species; one commentator in the film tells us that "we might even see something that would remove humans from the planet."

Jeremy Jackson's TED talk is pretty frightening; he tells us that there actually won't be any fish left in at most 50 years, and the sea will be so full of things like mercury that swimming in it, or eating anything from it, will literally kill you. Shall I say that again? Within 50 years, eating anything from the sea will kill you....

Jackson's TED talk is full of sobering facts that are like wet fish slaps to your face - facts that are easy to deny, or to ignore the magnitude of - such as "the area of the ocean floor that has been transformed from forest to level mud, to parking lot, is equivalent to the entire area of all the forests that have ever been cut down on all of the earth in the history of humanity. And we've managed to do that in the last 100 to 150 years."

Sound preposterous? Well, it is a TED talk.... propaganda or fact? you make up your own mind. Of course, you could just turn on your TV, party the night away (my preferred option), or work hard to pay your mortgage; even if you do choose to engage with some of the many social issues facing us today, where on earth do you start?

Influential people like James Lovelock (the man who discovered CFC's and put the 'Gaia' theory into the mix- a theory well loved by furry hippies, which states that the planet is one giant self regulating infrastructure) - has given up the ghost; he says there's no chance for the majority of humanity, and that's why he's said “Fuck it; now I don't care. I'm off. I don't care about saving humanity; there's no point preaching about using things which obviously fuck up humanity's chance of surviving on the planet, let alone the countless millions of species we co-habit with. Use oil; create nuclear power. And me? I'm taking the first flight into space on Richard Branson's jet.”

Jackson ends his TED talk on how we are wrecking the oceans like this:

"So the question is: How are we all going to respond to this? And we can do all sorts of things to fix it, but in the final analysis, the thing we really need to fix is ourselves. It's not about the fish; it's not about the pollution; it's not about the climate change. It's about us, and our greed and our need for growth and our inability to imagine a world which is different from the selfish world we live in today. So the question is: Will we respond to this or not? I would say that the future of life and the dignity of human beings depends on our doing that."

How can we imagine such a world? Gandhi's aphorism about 'if you want to change the world, change yourself' is increasingly used in a world where we are becoming aware of the desperate plight of humanity, and realising that probably the only thing we can do about it is change our own habits.

One thing we can all do is change the way we eat.

Photo by Briony Campbell

The People's Kitchen is an initiative run by chef Steve Wilson at the Passing Clouds venue in Dalston, Hackney. Inspired by Berlin's People's Kitchen, the initiative seeks to tackle the problem of food waste. 25% of all our food is wasted. Perfectly good food is either left to rot, or thrown away.

Every Sunday at Passing Clouds, a freegan kitchen run by volunteers offers healthy food for donations only. Freeganism is a lifestyle whereby people employ alternative living strategies based on limited participation in the conventional economy and minimal consumption of resources. Freegans "embrace community, generosity, social concern, freedom, cooperation, and sharing in opposition to a society based on materialism, moral apathy, competition, conformity, and greed." Donations come from volunteers, local organic food shops and homeless food charities.

Steve's sister Eleanor Wilson, who runs Passing Clouds, explained to me that the ethos of the People's Kitchen includes offering a day package to her local community; collecting food, cooking and eating together, learning about nutrition, having the opportunity to watch films and documentaries on prescient social issues, and to participate in an open mic jam session featuring musicians from around the world.

Eleanor is producing a 'How To' guide, which she intends to distribute as an open source document, initially to churches, village halls and community centres. By products of such an initiative would include community engagement, and education about both nutrition and the environment. Imagine feeding the entire population of London, the UK, or the world, a day every week – for free!

Umami's is the brainchild of Rishaal Lodhia and Tatiana Joignant. Born from their “wish to someday have a spot where like minded, forward thinking people could to come together and potentially cohere over other common grounds”, Umami's serve food on a balcony in the fashionably gentrified area of Bandra in Mumbai.

(Monica Dogra chilling on the Umami balcony, phot by Kunal Lodhia)

Five course vegetarian meals are cooked with local, organic ingredients. Menus rotate weekly, and are inspired by Italian, Mexican, Thai or Meditteranean cuisines; dishes include seasoned seitan with sweet chilli and peanut sauces, fresh corn gazpacho with basil; desert might be coconut peanut butter ice, washed down with bitter berry virgin mojitos.

Rishaal suggest that a move towards vegetarianism is necessary because “sooner or later most of us are going to have to become vegetarian if we want to make earth a suitable place for our children to live”.

(Rishaal and Tatiana in the Umami kitchen)

Rishaal continues, “It's hard to trust the stuff churned out by massive companies with profit in mind... If you're out to make a buck and only that, odds are making quality food isn't in your agenda at the same time - so despite tempting ads that make cheaply produced food seem like gold, I've learned that majority of it is crap.”

I often wonder if eating organic, locally produced food is a pursuit of the middle classes (like me), trying desperately to ease their conscience in a world where poverty and injustice are norms, and ecological disaster looms large. According to the currently in-vogue and highly controversial philosopher Salvoj Jijek, we're inadvertently keeping a defunct, corrupt and self-serving system in place by choosing to live more ethically. At this point, if there's ANYTHING you do today, I highly recommend watch this brilliant animated lecture which eloquently breaks down Jijek's perspective.

The same goes for recycling - more 'feel good' factor than an actual effective remedy - if you like, a sticking plaster on a cancerous, terminal wound. In India, there's no recycling, and this can be confusing for people like me, used to easing my conscience by putting my waste paper in the recycling basket. In fact, you might as well throw your litter on the street in India; chances are someone poorer than you will pick it up and make a buck out of it.

Eating healthily makes us feel good too; but I'm suggesting that it's not ineffective. In fact, it will genuinely make us 'feel' better, or healthier. And apparently, it's good for the planet. There's no disputing the fact that we're living on a rock with finite resources, and we're eating them up very, very quickly. There's shit in the meat; there's shit in the seas. I don't want it in my body any more. I just hope my mouth and my stomach will listen to my mind and my heart. Organ-ics, yo.

To end this meandering rant, I'd like to revisit the words of Jeremy Jackson;

"So the question is: Will we respond to this or not? I would say that the future of life and the dignity of human beings depends on our doing that.” A 1923 British advert for beef tells us that "90% of the diseases known to man are caused by cheap foodstuffs. You are what you eat."

Hmm. Something to chew on, over a nice beef casserole...

The Big Wake Up Call!

2011-01-18T01:20:00.000Z

It's time to wake up.
Share what you own.
Feed your neighbour.
Property is an illusion; let's stop paying for buildings that were paid for generations ago. Instead, let's use those buildings we already have to grow communities. Let's grow food on golf courses. Let's invite hundreds of streetkids to stay in Ambani Towers, and grow tomatoes on the fourth floor. Let's invite refugees, forced from their islands by rising sea water, to stay in Buckingham Palace, and to teach the Queen how to cultivate coriander plants on her balcony. Let's never be concerned with money; how much is mine, or how much is yours; what we own, and what we owe. Let's just dish it out. Let's cook dinner for hundreds of strangers. Let's take the time to commit random acts of kindness; to stop people on the street, and make friends with them. Let's stop buying stuff; instead, let's put all our energy into taking care of each other. Let every soldier build hospitals and schools, and learn the art of non-violent confrontation; let every soldier become a broker of peace. Let every youth be taught the art of permaculture. Let us allow musicians to sing, and dancers to dance, and artists to paint and perform everywhere. 80% of the population is engaged in mindless jobs which do nothing to serve humanity, or the environment. It's time to leave your job, and instead do something useful; grow something. Talk to people. Travel. Learn a new language. Swim in the ocean. Do what makes you happy, as long as it doesn't hurt anyone or anything. Teach. Heal. Do yoga. Work to serve your fellow man and woman, even though they might be on the other side of the globe. There is no enemy. We're all in this together. Turn your guns into tractors. Turn your goods into goodness. Aim to please other people. Everyone's beginning to get it. To get that life is too short and fragile to regret, to hesitate, to hoard, to work so you can own a piece of the planet you will never really own. This is a revolution, and there is nothing you can do to stop it. It's a revolution of love. Of freedom. This isn't some mad hippy bullshit; this is the only way we are going to survive as a species. Change needs to happen now, not in twenty or fifty years; we haven't got time. So create the reality you want to live in now. Don't delay. Call your friends; start riding bikes. You won't need oil. You can collect rain water from monsoons and showers. You won't need gas. You can cook on wood fires. You won't even need electricity. No more laptops, no more phones, and you'll sleep under the stars. No more tv. No more recorded music. No facebook or skype; your family will become the people around you. You won't missed your loved ones, because you know they're alright, wherever they are. Carrot patches replace carparks. Parrots nest in rooftops. Who knows; maybe we'll even attract wildlife back into cities. Monkeys; elephants; cows. There won't be any more plastic production, so the animals will only eat the good shit. Officers of the law will work at propogating the law of love; their only mission will be to be nice to people. All judges will be black women, and they'll deliver their judgements in song. All jury members must either play an instrument, or sing or dance along with the judge. Set yourselves free. Now.

Handbags at Dawn

2010-12-17T07:26:00.002Z

Last night was a typical evening in Bombay, full of paradox. At five in the morning, I breakfasted at the Taj Lands End with friends. The hotel is well designed, stylish; this isn't a place for paupers, it's a place for Louis Vitton.

Apparently, Louis Vitton is one of the sponsors behind Anish Kapoor's current retrospective, showing in Delhi and Bombay. The Bombay exhibition is in Mehboob Studios, a famous film studio which has never hosted an exhibition before. The space cost the exhibitors 1.5 crore rupees for three weeks hire; that's around £200,000.

This is a country of wealth. But as a friend told me last night, it's not wealth that's spread around. Drive around anywhere in Bombay at night, and witness the amount of people sleeping on the streets. One school in fifteen in Mumbai receives support from NGOs who bring money in from outside the country. My dining companion tonight has never cooked, washed up, or cleaned his own clothes in his life. Here, there are people to do that for you.

Last night, I met a film maker who told me some interesting facts; today, thirty million slaves exist in the world (he defined slaves as those who work for no money under threat of violence). Thirty million! As a proportion of global population, it's not as high as it was back in the day when slavery was a la mode, but it's certainly the greatest amount of slaves the world has ever seen at one time. This man insisted that nothing – absolutely nothing – I was wearing, or carrying, had not been partially handled by slaves. He cited cotton and mobile phone components, for starters, but just look at what you're wearing now; can you tell me where your clothes got stitched? Where the material came from originally? Who picked the cotton from the fields? Who soldered the components together?

What can we do, if we don't want to invest in the slave trade?

Well, for starters, we can make every purchase a fair trade one. Perhaps difficult? No more difficult than making sure that every time you put a piece of meat in your mouth, you know exactly where it's come from, and what kind of life the animal led. Believe me, I'm a hypocrite – I am far away from living this ethically – but to be aware that I am actually investing in both the slave trade - and inhumane conditions for both people and animals - on a daily basis, is a bit of a wake up call.

What part do corporations play in this?

Last night, I really appreciated the ambience of the Taj Hotel. I felt spoilt; decadent; refined; mature. I felt like I understood the world of Louis Vitton. Last week I shared a plane with Philippe Starck, who'd just finished designing a hotel in Pune. In Pune itself, I stayed at the very sleek O Hotel. These are the luxury brands of the world. By investing in them, we feel like we're a class above. We behave differently. With a touch of class. First class and business class. People who know how to achieve in life. Well mannered people, versed in etiquette and courtesy; who understand that luxury helps to smooth our journeys, so that we may conduct ourselves better in the world at large. After all, we're humans, not animals. We don't travel cattle class.

Do Louis Vitton have a part to play in solving salient issues like response to climate change, water desalination and human rights? Or is it enough that they invest in art, culture and things which make life more aesthetically pleasing?

Coke Studio has given Pakistani musicians a platform that they have not had before to express themselves. Should Coke, therefore, be forgiven for practises around the globe which are considered unethical? According to this website, Coca-Cola's massive extraction of water from common groundwater resources in India has led to lives, livelihoods and communities being destroyed.

Water is not often considered when we look at the world's impending problems. All over the world, lakes are drying up. Fish will also become a scarce resource in years to come, meaning mass migration of fisherfolk from coastlines into cities – which may also occur because of rising sea levels.

Meanwhile, we're not cleaning water fast enough. Today's newspapers in India tell us that “there's serious danger in your drinking water”; six out of ten water samples collected in Mumbai were found to be contaminated by bacteria which could cause stomach, intestinal and eye infections.

So we buy bottled water, where the cost of the plastic manufacture alone should theoretically outweigh what we're actually paying. On top of that, we create waste which will is unlikely to improve the health of our oceans, and therefore, eventually, humans. Beyond the plastic which leaches directly from your Evian bottle into your Evian water, we find traces of pesticide and other chemical pollutants in our breast milk. And meanwhile, billboards here in Mumbai show a woman wiping her baby's bottom with an expensive product, while she says, “My baby never gets anything which is not 100% natural!”

The paradox of modern day living is ever present here in Bombay, perhaps more so than in London, which has been my home for forty years. When you travel through this city, and become accustomed to how teetering and precarious this infrastructure seems to be, then its a perfect mirror for humanity itself. Highly improbable. Strange, and wondrous. And with much, much work to be done to improve the lives of all who live here.

The question is – how do we begin this work? What area do each of us focus on? I'm not sure – so I'll ponder it, whilst stroking my brand new Louis Vitton manbag. I couldn't resist. It just looks so beautiful. It makes me feel like a new man.

Cunts

2010-12-16T11:12:00.009Z

Men and Women. Adam and Eve. Shiva and Shakti. Let's face it – it's the relationship which defines why each and every one of us is here today.

We're all schooled in our differences, and perhaps still none the wiser despite this schooling. Men are from Mars, so we're told. The wandering eye of the horny male, and the female tendency to nurture, can potentially be explained by our genetic differences; an entire planet's worth of potential humans is contained in each male orgasm, but a girl's only got one egg a month... a tomcat will sleep around, but it doesn't stop him from having a barbed penis from which his mate cannot escape until the deed is done.

And then there's the question of power. It's a man's world, according to James Brown. Why on earth do women get paid less than men for doing the same job? Men and women may have physical differences, manifesting in the general model of men going out to earn the bacon, and women staying home to give birth and nurture the family, but if a man and a woman are sitting at a computer inputting the same data, then the only reason that can explain the differential between their pay packets is sexism, or prejudice. All over the world, women are getting fucked.

(A slight deviation, if you will. I've considered the use of expletives in work published publicly online. It's highly likely children I will have taught will read this. We all know it's not big, or clever, to swear. But sometimes, only swearing will do. One of my favourite all time poems is by the genius William Butler Yeats. He wrote it when he was 70. In it, he describes what happens when a priest meets the mad old crone, Crazy Jane. The priest admonishes Crazy Jane for living like an animal, instead of having pure thoughts. And Crazy Jane retorts with the following lines:

'But Love has pitched his mansion in the place of excrement;
For nothing can be sole or whole that has not been rent.'

there's a hyperlink to the poem above; go figure it out for yourselves, kids...)

so... where were we? All over the world, women are getting fucked. Which brings me to talk about things I've experienced in India.

In India, the land which gave us tantra, a do-it-yourself guide to making love as echoed in the eternal cosmic fuck between Shiva and Shakti, there seems to be a lot of repressed men (and perhaps women too). In the last two months, I have had countless conversations with women who have been molested, abused, touched up, eyed up, letched upon, and even raped. One of these women was raped in her seventies. It's common to feel victimised here if you're a woman.

So what is it with Indian men? Wherein does this repression lie, and what can be done about it?

A couple of days ago, I was at a party with friends. A man waddled up to me. Probably aged in his early twenties, he was actually quite sweet; hair oiled and side parted, moustachoied, pot bellied, his short sleeved shirt tucked into his bleached denim jeans, he stood an inch away from my face and said, “Please can you help me?”

I was a bit bemused, but asked him what he needed. “I have never been out before. What do I do?”

I smiled, patted him on the shoulder, and told him to enjoy himself.

One minute later, he did the same thing to my French friend. Except the question he asked of her was slightly different. Completely innocently, he asked her to kiss him. My friend walked away, slightly perturbed. But Vijay (that was his name) kept coming back for more. Kept asking me to help him. Kept edging closer to white women on the dancefloor - as close as he possibly could. My friends all tried to escape. We kept moving to different parts of the dancefloor, trying to ignore him, but to no avail. He was like a dog on heat, bless him. Eventually I got frustrated. I led him out of the party and said, “Alright Vijay, I will help you. What's going on?”

“This is my first time out, ever. I am an MBA student, but I don't know how to behave in places like this. What do I do?”

I gave him some advice, pretty much along these lines:

“Don't touch women. Don't stare lecherously at women. |If you talk to women, ask them about themselves. Try to have conversations. Otherwise, try to make friends with men. If you're going to dance, just try to listen to the music and enjoy it.”

That was the end of the lecture. I tried to befriend Vijay; after all, he'd asked for my help. But it was pointless. He kept on grinning at me, whilst (probably unconsciously) edging closer to girls, and grinding his hips against them, until they moved away.

Most Indian men I've met hold it together a little more than Vijay – but I have even seen close friends here in Bombay display the tendency to be lecherous.

(Can I say at this point that I'm no angel? I, too, have been guilty of making women feel uncomfortable in the past by hitting on them. I'm not going to excuse my behaviour by putting it down to being a man. I've seen girls do it too [invariably towards other women]. Many of us are guilty of letting desire speak before humility, gentility, courtesy and compassion.)

What to do?

My dear friend Monica Dogra is in an interesting position to comment. Her article “it's not cool, jaar” discusses the tendency of Bombay society to sweep issues which need addressing under the carpet (I'll post a link to the article when I find it). Such is India; there's positives to be found in the Indian tendency to be at peace with what is maddening, frustrating and sometimes plain wrong in society; but unless we called for change, we'd probably all still be murdering and raping each other, caveman style.

Another dear friend of mine in Bombay is Suman Sridhar. Like Monica, Suman is a singer who brings her values, opinions and politics to the stage; and like Monica, Suman is a liberated, liberal-minded woman who is not afraid of the power of her own sexuality. Suman turned me onto this video by Erykah Badu, who undresses on Dealey Plaza in Dallas (where JFK got shot). Notice the words 'Evolve' painted between Eryka's shoulder blades. As she finally removes her knickers, she is assassinated, whereupon we hear her deliver a piece of spoken word:

“They play it safe, and are quick to assassinate, what they do not understand. They move in packs, ingesting more and more fear in every act of fear on one another. They feel most comfortable in groups, less guilt to swallow. They are us. This is what we have become, afraid to respect the individual. A single person with inner circumstance can move one to change to love ourself - and evolve.”

Monica and Suman's liberated stance and ability to vocalise their convictions onstage encourage women to find their voice in a society riddled with chauvinism and repression. This is also the central premise of the Vagina Monologues, which hits Bombay this week (it's been shown here since 2003). Based on author Eve Ensler’s ‘Vagina Interviews’ conducted with women from all around the world, the Vagina Monologues encourages women to not be afraid of their sexuality, or their power, as women. I love Eve Ensler! Check this article she wrote for the Guardian, which is entitled 'Girls, ignore adults who wish you to be less than you are.'

But how can women be evolved, be unafraid of their own power, beauty and sexuality, in a society where repressed men rape, grope, grind up against and demonise the opposite sex? Where despite the chivalry of the tantric love affair of Shiva and Shakti, whose sexual (mis)demeanours and sexual positions are plastered over temple walls, kisses, cuddles and displays of public affection are banned from the screen and discouraged in public?

Suman introduced me to Stefan Kaye, a Delhi-based provocateur. Stefan's been getting into lots of trouble lately, whether it be the naughty-but-nice release of 'The Choot Song', or the Stiff Kittens Medicine Show, perhaps India's first touring burlesque cabaret. The sponsors, which included Time Out, objected to aspects of the show, which you can see highlights of here. One particular objection was a sketch where a naked, painted woman danced onstage to a piece of morose piano playing. Such art was not deemed suitable for an Indian audience.

How would India react to a particular piece by British-based Bengalii artist Ansuman Biswas? Ansuman does a lot of work in India, but I'm not sure how a piece he performed recently in the UK would be received. '2free' was part of the 'One-on-One' festival by the forward thinking Battersea Arts Centre in London; performances were meant only for a single audience member at a time.

The audience member entered a dark room and then, depending on their curiosity, might discover and open the door to a smaller antechamber in which they would find Ansuman standing naked, bound and gagged. A written notice then instructed them to remove all clothing, also stating, 'Only when you have done so, feel free to remove any of the restrictions from the other body.' If Ansuman's limbs were released sufficiently, he pulled back a hidden curtain to reveal a shower.

How would you react in this situation? Would you allow yourself to be bathed and anointed by Ansuman? Would you run out of the room, having felt violated? Would it matter what sex, of of which sexual inclination, you were?

Another piece in the One-on-One festival was performed by artist Adrian Howells. His piece was equally as challenging. I entered a room and was given a book to read about hugging. There was also a written notice, if you like a disclaimer, about being touched, which suggested that if I as an audience member felt uncomfortable at any time, I was free to voice this, and leave the performance. I was then shown into another room and asked to take off my clothes and put on a dressing gown. I did so. Then I entered a third room. It was a large antechamber. The most dominant feature in the room was a free standing bath tub, filled with warm water and rose petals. Adrian asked me to take off my gown, and enter the bath, which I did. He then asked me if he could bathe me. He gently washed me with a flannel, keeping clear of my special bits. He then asked me to get out of the bath, and sit with him; he held me in his arms, hugged me and fed me white chocolates. The performance lasted
about half an hour. I left feeling very cared for, soft and gentle, and yet somehow, to achieve this degree of intimacy with a stranger in such a short space of time was quite profound; I was speechless.

So when Adrian contacted me and asked if we could meet, so that he could get feedback about his work, I was happy to do so; I am intrigued by work which crosses boundaries. We chatted at length, and got excited about the possibilities of bringing the piece, along with Ansuman's, to India. We also talked about the ethics of such theatre; Adrian expressed his anger at doctor friends who suggested that there was some kind of violation of ethics in the piece. One particular friend of mine was adamant. "What if the audience member suffered from post-traumatic stress resulting from sexual abuse? What kind of mechanism is in place to ensure that someone won't walk out of that performance damaged and scarred?"

One week later, I received an email from Adrian which told me that he had fallen in love with me. To me, this seemed to defeat the very nature of his performance, which I had wrongly perceived to be about learning to let go; learning to trust that the performer holding you had absolutely no ulterior motive, other than to show you unconditional love.

What Adrian asks of audiences is difficult. To take off your armour, to to allow yourself to be loved and held, must be incredibly hard for some people. It was difficult for me. So I did feel violated afterwards; somehow abused.

The Belgian theatre company Ontroerend Goed actually likes to violate audiences in this way; to leave them feeling uncomfortable. The first piece of theirs I experienced was called 'Internal'. Five audience members stood behind a curtain, which when puled away revealed five performers. The performers eyed us up, and changed places so they were in front of us. A lady pulled me into a candle lit booth. We introduced ourselves to each other. She poured me vodka. We talked for ten minutes, about our lives, the things we had on common, the things we wanted to do in life; the things we might want to do with each other. I fell in love.

We then joined the others - performers and audience members - in a circle. Each pair had shared such an intimate moment in their own booth. The group - led by the performers - talked about their experiences.Somebody asked Sophie (my partner) if we'd clicked. She said she thought so, and drew in to kiss me, full, on the lips. Somebody put a piece of music on, and each set of partners danced cheek to cheek. Sophie told me - whispered in my ear seductively, intimately - she wanted to write to me. I gave her my address.

I left feeling so strange; limke I'd been unfaithful to my partner, and fallen in love with a stranger - in minutes. The next day I spoke to my friend Laura McDermott, at the time a producer at Battersea Arts Centre. she didn't waste any time.

"Did you get Sophie?"

"Yes."

"Did you kiss her?"

Sophie's actions were pre-meditated. The performance was designed for me to fall in love with her. Her actions, the intimacy she created when she was with me, she had created with every audience member she stepped into that booth with. I felt cold; like I had just been fucked, taken for a ride.

Three months later, I received a letter from Sophie. It spoke of all the things we had talked about; created the same kind of intimacy we'd shared together. the letter completely fucked with my head; my wound had been re-opened.

Unlike Adrian's letter, which in my opinion was not a conscious part of his performance, Sophie's latter was; it was designed to leave me feeling a little bit discombobulated, questioning, raw.

There's a lot to consider here; confronting audiences with beauty, nakedness, sexuality, and consideration of violation. Eve Ensler's Vagina Monologues ends with an audience being asked to chant, repetitively, louder and louder, a sacrilegious word; Eve asks us to reclaim that word. To allow our screaming it loudly to liberate us from the shackles of conventionality, the steel girdle of conformity. Is it different when a woman asks us to do so, rather than a man? Let's wait and see. But for the record, that word...

that naughty, harsh, crude, delicious word...

is 'Cunt'.

The Revolution

2010-12-16T08:02:00.002Z

I am Julian Assange.

And so are you.

There is a revolution going on. A revolution which is unstoppable. A revolution which will not be televised.

The revolution is digital, open source and free.
.
Information, and power, used to be controlled. That's why the media was such a powerful beast last century. Adam Curtis's documentary 'The Century of Self' tells this story well, as do people like Noam Chomsky and John Pilger.

But a number of events have happened in the last thirty years which have changed the rules of the game. One of the most important of these is the rise of the internet. Not forgetting that the world wide web was initially a tool developed by the American military, what the emergence of the internet has done, amongst many other things, is provide a platform for information to be distributed peer-to-peer.

This model of information distribution suggests that power, like information, cannot be controlled, as it is in a top-down model (picture slave labour, the relationships between kings and serfs, or even that between Rupert Murdoch and builders with their ass cracks hanging out of their low slung jeans). The green revolution in Iran is a classic example of changing times. Despite media sources being carefully controlled and censored by the state, it was possible for the world to learn about events which transpired because people on the street had the technology to tell their own stories. Now, with the click of a button on a simple device in the palm of our hands, we can upload our own stories, filmed, edited and transmitted to the world.

What does this mean?

Wikileaks broke the rules. It suggested that we live in a world of complete accountability and transparency. Gandhi told us that "It may be long before the law of love will be recognised in international affairs. The machineries of government stand between and hide the hearts of one people from those of another."

Gandhi would have smiled to see the rise of the internet, and how it has resulted in the machineries of government being exposed. The machineries of government are being exposed. We, the people, have the technology. We have the power.

In my heart, I feel like there's an invisible war going on. Who's fighting?

On one side are the kind of people who want to keep power, and money, for themselves. They are the rich. The governments. The corporations. The Bushes and Bin Ladens of this world. The people who want you to buy their shit so they can get rich. Some of the best minds on the planet have thus far been utilised in advertising and marketing; in selling dreams to the masses, to that the few may profit.

On the other side are the freedom fighters. Those who are living from their hearts outwards. Those working tirelessly for things other than themselves; people who care about the environment. NGO's. Teachers, doctors, and nurses. Those who care less about themselves than they do about others. People who rebel from a norm which tells them to accept their lot in life.

Of course, nothing is black and white. As much as I am Julian Assange, I am also Bush. I am also Bin Laden. There is no other to speak of. There is no opposition. As soon as we set up the terms 'us' and 'them' we are fucked.

But, at the same time, watch how on television, instead of continuous films educating us about the world we live in, about how we could better ourselves, about how we could change our actions for the benefit of all around us, we get reality tv and adverts about skin lightening cream, cars and detergents.

Watch how in a world where we are rapidly running out of resources to sustain our species, we are being asked to consume more.

Watch how as we party the night away on champagne, billions of humans struggle on less than a dollar a day, and countless other species disappear due to our greediness and ability to turn a blind eye to the consequences of our actions.

I'm not trying to induce guilt; it's just an observation about the strange world we live in; the strange world we've created.

Of course, we humans love to be entertained; and that's what I am. An entertainer. I get a lot of pleasure out of singing, and dancing, and making people laugh.

But it's not enough to just sing, and dance, and make people laugh. It's time to educate. To teach others we meet about what we know.

Imagine a world of complete accountability and transparency. Where every product you bought showed details of where each component came from, who got paid what, and what the cost was to others. If every time you bought a chicken burger, you saw a film about how that chicken got from egg to mouth.

That's the world that Julian Assange, and millions like him, want to create.

In whose interests is such a world? And in whose interests is it to stop such a world happening?

Figure it out for yourselves. And figure out on which side you want to fight. If you're partying without thinking, we're all fucked. If you're consuming without awareness, we're all fucked. If money and power means more to you than love, we're all fucked.

Music is a weapon. That's what I'm using in my fight. I'm using music as a means to distribute my own kind of information; words and beats to inspire soldiers to rise up, and rage against the machine. To Cage Against The Machine.

I want to mention two writers and activists; Lowkey, and Arundhati Roy. Both are provocateurs, unafraid to voice the unspoken. I think that both would acknowledge this war of information that I'm talking about. Compare this to Paul Hawken, whose book Blessed Unrest is summarised in the excellent lecture, “You are brilliant, and the earth is hiring.”

For Hawken, you can't stop the force. Love, and operating out of love, is changing the world we live in in a very tangible way. There's no need to fight, or be angry - just operate from a baseline of love. I agree with Hawken – but it's not going to stop me from speaking out against the pending prosecution of Julian Assange, and everything that this represents; the most powerful governments in the world trying to silence a man who simply believes that all information should be free. That there's nothing to hide. That it's time to show each other our hearts.

In the Bhagavadgita, which Gandhi described as his spiritual dictionary, the warrior Arjuna is going into battle. Other great thinkers who have claimed the Bhagavadgita as a great influence on their lives include Aldous Huxley, Albert Einstein, Herman Hesse, Ralph Waldo Emerson and Carl Jung. The text is an account of Arjuna's conversation with his virtual rickshaw driver Krishna. Arjuna is pained. He asks why he must go into battle; why he must be asked to kill his brothers. Krishna explains to Arjuna his duties as a warrior and prince, elaborating on different yogic and Vedantic principles.

You're already playing a part in the revolution. Simply ask yourself what you want from life, and you'll know on which side of the battlefield you lie.

I'm not advocating that you all get into chariots, or even rickshaws, and rush off to slay your enemies.

I'm just encouraging you to be prepared to fight.

You are warriors.

You are princesses and princes.

Rise up, my people.

The time is now.

Indian ink

2010-12-06T07:33:00.002Z

I'm writing this overlooking the Bombay sea in the fashionable suburb of Bandra.The sky is alabaster and apathetic, like Nicole Kidman post Tom Cruise. I can see pink bougainvillea blossoms and palm trees, but the view is tempered by the smell. I don't know if it's true, but I've heard that 17.5 million tonnes of raw, untreated sewage effluence gets pumped out into the Bombay ocean every day. This isn't a sea you'd want to dive into without a space suit on.

I'm sitting in my friend Shivraj's place. Shivraj is a genius. A film maker who now uses his experience and skills to give decent production values to videos made for not-for-profits and NGO's (under the guise of his company Global Rickshaw), his American upbringing sees him tackle Bombay uncompromisingly; His methods of transport are longboard, bicycle and Enfield. Shivraj shines. From where I am sitting, I can see two legends on his walls; on a blackboard is written "Bring news; news that CHANGE is coming to stay." On a poster, someone has carefully painted "Where the mind is without fear."

Welcome to Bombay, a city where paradox abounds. Ambani towers,the infamous condo built by the fifth richest man on the planet for his family of four, versus Dharavi, the most densely populated slum in the most densely populated city on the planet. The smell of shit versus the dense, heady aroma of incense. Palm trees and plastic mountains. Everyday traffic seethes, teams, swarms and masses, a perpetual dance of bodies, animals and vehicles whose sense of proximity and personal space can be unnerving for those from the West, from lands where there is more room to swing a cat. This is a city where millions of realities collide, pressing, squeezing and pushing against each other, jostling for space. Only the rich can afford to find it.

So where does a foreigner find his feet? Whose paths does he cross, and what experiences does he happenstance upon? I guess it depends on what he's looking for. In my case, I'm looking for like minded souls; people who are interested in being agents of change at at time when we are experiencing increasing awareness of the planet's finite resources, and of the need for justice and equality for all - and when I say all, I ain't just talking about humans…

it's amazing how much commonality we all share in spite of differences brought about by geography, history, and culture. For instance, the Ahmedabad International Arts Festival, hosts to my first gig on arriving, featured a showing of one of the four films made by director Shabnam Virmani, documenting the effect which the Sufi poet Kabir has had on people's lives. For those in the dark, Sufism is what could be considered an esoteric branch of Islam. But Sufism is kind of revolutionary; whilst honouring both body and spirit, Sufism tends to cut through the hypocrisy of religious dogma. Kabir says:

Im a bird from another country, my friend
I don't belong to this country
People here are unconscious
Every moment, they stumble into oblivion
Oh seeker, my friend
I don't belong in this land

stay locked in your yogic posture all day
but the lord will not descend
Wise ones and meditators have worked themselves to death in that country

That great giver's form is formless
but he takes the form of a name
Not mind, nor breath, can reach that country

This body with feet, head and eyes -
the true guru has made it deathless
Kabir says, meet the formless!
And you're free from death and decay

Kabir's poetry speaks of a world where compassion and awareness out trump slavery to religious texts, dogmas, rites and rituals. And it's compassion and awareness that increasingly more people are seeking in this day and age. In the grounds of the same venue where the film was shown was a environmental awareness conference, where speakers from all around the world had gathered to address some of the pertinent issues that affect us today.

All this - art, culture, spirituality, and debate of ecology and the environment - took place in the capital of a Gujarati state under the sway of a politician called Narendra Modhi, whose xenophobia towards Muslims can be seen echoed in the politics of supposedly liberal countries like Switzerland, France, Denmark, Holland, Germany, the UK and the US. The 80's rap group Digital Underground once released a record called "Same Song" - 2Pac Shakur's debut single… All of us around the world are singing the same song; confronting similar issues like truth, beauty and justice, the essential nature of humanity, and our relationship to our environment.

So, who would I find to hang out with, to build relationships with, on my three month sabbatical in India? Here are some of the most memorable people, and moments, from the last six weeks spent in my favorite country on the planet.

One half of India's most dynamic and avant garde musical act Shaair and Func, Monica Dogra is not only an outstanding singer songwriter and electric performer, but also a talented actress, poet and spoken word artist. She's just starred opposite Bollywood legend Aamir Khan in Dhobi Ghaat, a movie directed by his wife, Kiren Rao. Monica's song 'Dooriyan', from the film 'Break ke Baad', is currently riding high in the Indian charts; it's the first proper Bollywood song she's ever made. Perhaps this is because of her political stance. Monica is an agent of change par excellence. She's not so interested in the gloss, glamour and glitz of Bollywood. Instead, she spreads love and music through her work, like Ania de Franco, or Erykah Badu. Those are the values that drive her. As a liberated, sexy, provocative, humble, grounded performer, she empowers women in a society which is misogynistic and chauvinistic. In the past, India's women have been commodities; bought, sold and enslaved under the guise of marriage; groped, fondled and manhandled by repressed Indian men. In the chivalrous world which Monica brings into life with her words and actions, women are goddesses (and men are gods).

Monica is part of a collective of artists and creatives based in Bombay called We the Pple. Amongst this collective include ethical fashion designers Nor Black Nor White, and Umami, an organic vegetarian catering company which specializes in dinner parties where locally produced, globally inspired food is served in intimate environments. We the Pple also make camiz shirts like the Che, the Ninja and the Professor; and they run parties, like Grime Riot Disco, an event whose promotion artwork featured a hairy transvestite with a shirt bearing the legend "I left my heart at dicso". Genius.

Related to the collective is Karthik Ramachandra, a designer responsible for portraits like this.

As you can see, this is a bunch of highly motivated, politically conscious creatives who are creating waves of change here in Bombay. They're part of an emerging subculture the likes of which the city has not seen before; a subculture which brings art, music, fashion, subversion, and a punky DIY attitude to Bombay's streets. The work of Parisian street artist Stef can be found in an area of Bandra called Chapel Road, whose tiny winding streets are dotted with street art you'd associate with San Fran's Haight Ashbury. Film makers, dancers, beatboxers; they're all here in Bandra, making waves. Shaxeb Shaikh promotes the Carnival of E Creativity, which happens every year in Delhi; just check out the line up - it's an outstanding platform for experimental art and music.

Despite this surge of creativity and gathering of artists, Bombay is not an easy city to create in. It's stifled by the lack of venues. Rent here is extortionate, and as of yet, there is no value placed on the growing independent arts scene by government and authorities. Venues are tightly controlled, and musical curfews are frequent. Warehouse parties are pretty much non existent, so all events take place in bars and clubs. One club has a monopoly on international artists; the Blue Frog is a swanky joint which serves expensive drinks to diners who listen to what the world has to offer. I've played there twice; once with Bandish Projekt and Arun Ghosh, and once with Talvin Singh. Other than that, there's a dirth of decent venues here; my favorite is Bonobo. It's a criminal shame that there are so few places to listen to live music in this city. Hopefully that will change over the coming years.

One group that are responsible for bringing indie music to the fore are OML (Only Much Louder). They're brilliant. They're like an emerging Indian Def Jam. They're just about to run India's first proper indie music festival, NH7, in Pune next week. Their growing empire extends into a record label, software production, and management and booking. On top of that, co founder Vijay Nair is actively involved in TED. OML, alongside the British Council, organized a fantastic music conference called Soundbound in Bombay last fortnight, in which international curators, promoters and artists came together with local entrepreneurs and musicians to discuss how to take this emerging subculture to the next level. Exciting times.

For me, Bombay's been a whirl of parties and work. Besides recording at Blue Frog's state of the art studios and collaborating with Nigerian afrobeat star Jaycub Abraham, I've partied hard with gangsters, Bollywood film directors, and the good and the great of Bombay's music scene. I've also established relationships with companies like Indigreen. The similarities between my work and Indigreen's work abound; both of us remix Bollywood kitsch to highlight global issues - I'm doing it through music, and Indigreen through fashion. I'm happy to be their brand ambassador for many years to come.

Bombay is many things, but one thing which cannot be disputed is the city's intensity. The air is thick with pollution; cloying, clammy, sticky and noisy, it can be relentless here, so I was glad to visit Goa for a week last week. Everyone I know in Bombay tries to get to Goa as much as possible. The paradisical beaches and lush, fertile climate is a perfect escape from Bombay's consistent assault on your senses. I initially went for my friend Surpriya's birthday party, but ended up staying for an extra week. What kept me in Goa? Well, many things… besides the sea and perfect weather, there were sunset boat trips surrounded by dolphins; yoga in the day and daiquiris at night; the nicest fish I've ever eaten; spoken word performances in idyllic locations by the sea; and a whole crowd of beautiful people, including a bevvy of hot single mothers and their kids.

Surpiya herself is without a doubt, my twin sister - separated at birth, reunited in Goa. Her dynamism, passion, charisma, sense of humor, love of nakedness and general goddess-like nature abound. Her and her partner Phil have just gone through the tortuous process of dealing with maddening Indian bureaucracy to sign a lease on a lovely bit of land in Colom Bay. Over the next couple of years, they'll build a cooperative eco retreat there. They live in a sleepy fishing village called Patnam in South Goa, a world away from the tourist-heavy regions of North Goa which have recently been dominated by Russian money, tourists, mafia and drugs.

I met some fantastic characters in Goa, but my favorite is probably Agnes. 78 years old, she looks 50. She smokes, drinks and parties like the best of us. She told me some truly remarkable stories about her life. 9 years old when The Germans invaded Paris, she was incarcerated in a mental hospital at the age of 15 by her parents when she toiled them she no longer wanted to play violin on stages professionally (which she has been doing since a small child). This was the same hospital which her grandfather, the celebrated dancer Nijinsky, had been locked up in for thirty years. And that was just the beginning of her life! Four years ago, Agnes was assaulted by neighbors to the guest house she owns in Sri Lanka. Listening to her speak about this incident with clarity, subjectivity and frankness was an inspiration to me in how to deal with events that some would consider tragic.

After a lovely performance at the quaint Nepali restaurant Laguna Vista, I met Neil Wilder. To clock how much of a dude he is, check who he's photographed in recent years. Neil and I had a fun day filming a poem of mine on the streets of Chowdy Village. We almost got arrested as traffic swerved around us filming in the middle of the road. Neil filmed me performing to fish, fishermen's wives, cows and dogs. I''ll post the film when it's done.

Next week I'm off to Delhi with Jeet Thayil. Jeet's star is rising. His novel, will be published next year on the heaviest of heavyweight publishing companies worldwide. His band Shridhar Thayil, featuring the sublime vocals of Suman Shridhar, are fast developing a reputation as India's most interesting band. He just written the book for two operas, one of which will be in London next year. On top of all that, I reckon he's the flyest dude in Bombay, blessed with inherent New York cool and youthful rockstar looks.

I return to Blighty in exactly a month. I have a rough idea where I'll be travelling to in this time; options include Bangalore, Oroville, and either Kerla for a relaxed Christmas, or back to Goa for more mayhem and merriment. Work, as ever, is a priority. It's been hard to find the space to write either music or words while I've been here, which was always my number one priority - let's see how the next month unfolds. I can't complain - the amount of truly incredible experiences I've had since landing, courtesy of my friends, lovers and family both old and new, has far exceeded my expectations. I love my India.

landing in Bombay

2010-11-08T12:26:00.010Z

After landing, i headed straight to the Blue Frog to see good friends Suman and Jeet perform as Sridar/Thayil. Afterwards we partied on Anamika Singh’s balcony, meeting many excellent people, including drummer Pavan Mukhi, who we pulled on board for our gig at the Blue Frog on the day before Diwali. The gig was quiet but great; we were also joined by genius clarinet player and all round geezer Arun Ghosh.

Diwali was a blast; my mum was coincidentally in town, so we watched ‘Action Replay’, a comedy starring Akshay Kumar and Ashwaria Bacchan Rai.

In Santa Cruz market, I had possibly the best haircut and shave of my life. My mum was so impressed by my treatment she also decided to get a treatment from my barber.

Whilst she was in the chair, I met the hijra above, who asked me if I had any tampax.

Bombay is all about people… I’ve had to pleasure of hanging out with some great cats in recent days:

Nidi Singh runs Indigreen, whose organic bags feature hand painted posters of many movies I feature in my songs.

Kunal Lodhia runs We the Ppl, an organization which does a hundred million things, but makes some especially cool clothes. Kunal’s publish Bombay’s first ‘zine, to be distributed at a party this Thursday called ‘Grime Riot Disco’. The party’s being co-hosted by Anamika, whose promotion events company Flirteve is going from strength to strength.

It’s been a random few days, where we’ve swum, danced, eat, laughed, and partied hard. Bombay is kicking off. Here’s some street art in Chapel Road, Bandra. Bandra’s where it’s at.

It’s been a time of clothes… also had the pleasure of hanging out with Mirgna and Amrit from Nor Black, Nor White, and Sapana Amin. Both companies make contemporary clothes using Indian aesthetics, styles and fabrics – a welcome relief in a world which is becoming increasingly Westernised.

Ahmedabadmaash

2010-11-08T09:42:00.014Z

I spend a few days at Mayur’s, working hard and tuning into his mum’s home cooked Gujarati food at his dad’s retro flat.

Indian cupboards are similar, the world over!

Mayur and I do a storming gig at Ahmedabad International Arts Festival. The performance itself takes place in the grounds of what could possibly be the world’s biggest management college, churning out millions of middle managers into the world to make our planet a more efficient place. The grounds are lovely though. We’re playing on a stage situated in a green between huge brick buildings, perfect for conducting sound. Kites, hawks, and hundreds of other economy class birds circle round huge mango trees. I enjoy the performance greatly; Mayur’s killer electronic beats give me a freedom to dance and enjoy myself which I never usually have on stage, and the lay audience seem to get the irony and satire laced into our work. There's a nice review here.

After the gig, I got a couple of days to relax in the city, eating great food, including mithi paan…

I managed to attend some great concerts, including vocal recitals by Gokulotsa Maharaji and Viraj Amir. Here’s Viraj…

I also saw an excellent film on the Indian mystical poet Kabir, one of a series of four directed by the brilliant Shabnam Virani. The film is shown at the Centre for Environmental Education, at which an Earth Charter conference is about to start: “An Ethical Framework for a Sustainable World”. All around the world, we’re beginning to sing the same song…

I was also a guest at the house of Chintan and Vrushti. Chintan is a scientist who dreams of building his own sustainable house made from clay, from land he owns in Gujarati Kachch, around a bamboo frame. Vrushti makes things like this:

As a city, Ahmedabad’s in the middle of a real estate boom. In the background, if your vision is sharp enough, you’ll see an ad for ‘Real Aura’ real estate – for “neighbourhoods that captivate your soul…”

The roads of the city are some of the cleanest in the country, thanks to the work of Narendra Modhi, the state governor infamous for his xenophobia towards Muslims. On his freshly laid and ethnically cleansed tarmac, the ladies of Abad look like ninjas on their bikes.

Everyone’s preparing for Diwali… these powders are used to make rangoli, temporary artworks which are the Indian equivalent of straw dogs; please dispose of this sacred icon after use...

Homeward Bound

2010-10-27T13:11:00.002+01:00

One golden egg shaky shaky thing; an ankle chain; a feather head dress inspired by owls; a Moroccan jalaba fit for kings; and red hotpants, all shoved into the smallest suitcase possible for a three month odyssey. Bombay, here I come.

Last week I was in Latvia, reflecting on events which transpired on my last visit to the country, when two towers collapsed and the world seemed to change forever. It’s common knowledge that journeys are points of reflection. When travelling to a place you haven’t been to for a while, you often consider how much you’ve changed since the last time you went there, and what you remember from that trip. So my trip to Bombay, and my intent to document it here on blogspot, sent me spinning back into the past like a 12 inch slice of wax in a blue note basement. “Rewind!”

My first trip to India was in 1998. In London, I’d just finished a spell working with Anokha and Ninja Tune. Life was sweet. But I needed more… I needed to explore. So I bought a three month return ticket to Kenya, where my dad lived. But my dad implored me not to travel through Africa. I think he thought that African people would eat me alive. So one week into my odyssey, he bought me a ticket to India and I found myself on a flight to Bombay.

I’d never heard of India before this moment. I didn’t know anyone I could speak to about the country, and certainly didn’t have any friends or family; I didn’t have a copy of Rough Guide To India. I was clueless. The worst thing is that in Kenya I had picked up a bug. After being ejected onto the chaotic streets of Bombay, I needed to take a crap. Very badly. I didn’t know where to go. I had a rucksack on my back the size of a house. I stared into a public toilet, into which five million Indians seemed to be coming, going, coming, going. My heart was racing. I was practically shitting my pants; diaorrhea doesn’t hold back. So I went into the belly of that beast, discovered the joy of Indian toilets, and having cleared the shit from my proverbial slate, my adventure began; an adventure which saw me swimming with blind dolphins and dead people in Benares, and smuggling quite a lot of charas in my pocket through Africa and back to Blighty.

But that was then, and this is now.

Now, I’m excited. I’m going out to work with Mayur Narvekar, a Gujarati gentleman who makes kickass electronic music. We’ve been collaborating with each other for three years, since we met under the shade of a banana tree in Stoke Newington. We’ve written some kickass tracks together, and we’ll be performing them live on a mini tour. While I’m there I’ll record lots of other tunes with him; I have a feeling we’ll churn out an album, at least. That’s the main reason for the trip, but there’s lots more. The last time I was in India was on a ten day tour with the British Council. It was incredibly frustrating being in a country I love dearly, and only engaging with that country via hotel rooms and the places we were performing in. So when the British Council asked me to come again, I asked them to buy me a three month ticket and I cleared my diary from obligations in the UK. To tell you the truth, I have no idea how the next three months will unfold. Hopefully, they’ll involve lots of music making and performing with the many dear and brilliant friends I have in Bombay. I have a feeling they’ll also involve travels and adventures to far flung and beautiful places, like Tamil Nadu and Kerala. But that’s about it; beyond these two objectives I’ll strive to achieve, it’s a blank, shit-free slate. Anything could happen. I’m open to random, chance occurrences dictating my journey. I’m open to jumping on as many stages as I can and performing. I’m open to dancefloors, mangos, slums, palaces, mountains, beaches, sun salutations, hugs, flash mobs, sadhus, feasting with strangers, parathas, traffic, ambivalent headnods, movie stars, Ambassador cars, hijras and haldi.

I going to miss my friends, autumn, and this wonderful green island that until now I’ve called home. Here’s a tune which sums it up, from Dizreali, a man many of us are growing to know and love.

Hasta luega

10:10 on 10/10/10

2010-10-04T14:12:00.005+01:00

Greetings, fellow travellers on spaceship earth

I've just got back from Madrid (I successfully managed to leave my manbag, replete with camera, on board my EasyJet flight, so it travelled by itself around the globe before somehow making its way back to me) and previous to that, I was working on a fascinating project managed by Quarantine and organised by the brilliant Fierce Festival in the wonderful town of Wednesbury in the Black Country, documented here.

Yes, I travelled to Madrid on EasyJet. My conscience took a beating when I saw Richard Curtis's new three minute short, 'No Pressure'. Watch it – it's hilarious, if slightly controversial – though who wouldn't want to see David Ginola, ex footballer and L'Oreal model (“It's because I'm worth it...” ) blown into a thousand bloody pieces, scattering pieces of Italian flesh over the hallowed turf of White Hart Lane? Or for that matter, small children covered in the blood and guts of their apathetic classmates?

Most of us are a little bit undecided on where we stand, with regards to personal responsibility towards the issue of climate change (all us of apart from environmentalists, vegans and rappers, that is). If you haven't been paying attention, here's the news; 10:10 is a UK wide campaign to reduce your personal carbon emissions by 10% before the year is out (10:10 is a campaign whose roots came from a film called 'The Age of Stupid' made by the brilliant Franny Armstrong). Poppycock, say eminent scientists like James Lovelock. Huzzah, say politicians like Boris 'the Biking Vigilante' Johnson. But as Richard 'Love, Actually' Curtis shows us, unless you choose to do something about it, you're going to get blown to smithereens by your friends.

On October 10^th, 2010, I'm hosting a gig at the great new space which Hackney's celebrated independent theatre the Arcola is moving into. It's part of an event which looks at how we're dealing with the changing climate. I've got some of my favourite artists in the country coming together to play a few songs to make everyone feel lovely/guilty/sexy, depending on your outlook. They really are amazing, and I love them all; you will too, if you come.

After that, I'm off to Latvia to support Plaid and Kate Tempest. Then to India for three months, to perform with Bandish Projekt (check our new single, 'Brown Skin Beauty', here). Catch us at Richmix on October 8^th, performing live with Shri at Bobby Friction's night.

And yes, I'm flying to India... sorry, dear planet! I'll make it up to you – unless I get blown up first...

Oct 8^th, 8pm

Bobby Friction, Shri live, Bandish Projekt live @ Rich Mix

35 – 37 Bethnal Green Road, E2

£8.50

Oct 10^th, 6.30 – 9pm

Green Sunday

Last Mango in Paris, Camilo Menjura, Hatty and Ellie, Sam Lindo, Rebecca Tantony, Sonority Turner, Pete the Temp, the Tribe of Doris, and you

The Arcola Ashwin Street, 24 Ashwin Street, London, E8 3DL

Free, free, free, apart from the cost to the earth, innit

postscript: the Earth has been calling out to astronaut Talvin Singh for a while now. Presumed Lost in Space, we're glad to report he's returned - with sweet, sweet music he's sculpted from stars. Be warned.

IRan to IRaq

2010-04-22T17:49:00.002+01:00

There once was a battery farm human
Who decided to split from the coup
He travelled to exotic places
Sampling the weird and the new
But when he got back, things had changed, blood
Or perhaps what was different was him
The humans reacted as if he’d contracted
A virus which coloured his skin
They treated his trip as suspicious;
They said he had changed – and he had
With a tear in his eyes, he whispered his goodbyes
And took flight to go live in Baghdad

Robert Babai

2010-04-22T17:46:00.000+01:00

Robert Babai was a geezer
All Jew-fro and Julius Ceasar;

He’d terrorise us in our lunchbreaks
Laugh and then spit in our milkshakes

Such a nutter! It’s hard to imaginc
He’d suffer an outcome so traginc

He had a reaction quite violent
Eating nuts on an island in Thailand

His throat swelled up; then he went yellow
He was allergic, poor fellow

On an island in Thailand called Fuket
Robert Babai kicked the bucket

(true story)

A day in the life of

2010-04-21T20:06:00.001+01:00

7.30am

I wake up singing the chorus to the tune which Chris Ventriloquist and I wrote and made a video for yesterday.

7.52am

I pick a plastic bag full of wild garlic in the forest opposite
Chris's house.

9.23am

I am waiting for a train at Andover station. Next to me, two soldiers talk about building a fence on an army base in Iraq.

Briony tells me that after her Guardian article and film, an ex-marine
has asked him to accompany her on a six week walking expedition from the North Pole to Canada. He tells her it would be the equivalent of running a marathon a day. He asks her if she's done any fitness training. She tells him she does yoga every now and then.

11.05am

I meet a monk with an American accent. He practises Thai Buddhism. We talk about the difficulties of monkdom, and how much monasticism has to teach the world in a time when our relationship to accumulation is changing I give him a handful of wild garlic.

11.47am

Whilst reading the riotous tour-de-force which is 'The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao’ by Junot Diaz, and listening to a couple behind me
talk about the forty year old culture of sourdough at the River Cottage
Café, I hear a machine doing its best impression of Photek on the Clore Ballroom Floor at the South Bank. It’s built by Felix Thorn. Felix's machines at the South Bank. Felix tells me about his recent signing to Matyhew Herbert's Accidental Records, and his recent talk at TED 2009. It reminds me of Marcus Lyall's ‘Pitch Control’, another great piece I saw at Watermans last week.

(I spent two weeks at Watermans devising and directing a performance by the Awaaz Youth Group. Six incredible artists collectively built a piece we called 'Trapped', under the supervision of Jess Francombe and yours truly. I was so proud of the company, and the work we created.On Thursday I raced from the first performance of ‘Trapped’ to Tongue Fu, which was a classic, featuring Laura Dockrill, Byron Vincent, Chris Paradox, with turns from Ray Antrobus and Deanna Rodger. Friday was the same; I unplugged my laptop at Watermans after the lights went down and raced to the Insulting Cabaret at Southwark Playhouse, where Belle, Arthur and I performed as a trio. What is it about London? I've lived here all my life, am no shrinking violet, and yet every week I discover amazing new venues. At the gig was also fellow rudeboy, priest of the night and raconteur Jeet Thayil.)

1.31pm

I pass two more monks and a builder, who screams, “By the power of Greyskull…”

1.42pm

I'm in Canary Wharf, and the glass buildings are glowing golden in
the sun.

2.15pm

I'm walking through a cemetery in Bow, drowning in the silence, in the poetry of decaying headstones frozen like toppling dominos. I love cemeteries which have been left to rot, especially in springtime, when new life springs from the cracks. Fallen trees and collapsed graves; is there any difference?

3.30pm

I teach a workshop to Bengali kids in Bow; they film each other
delivering poems and talking about their lives. One says what he wants to become when he's older; "Imam of Mecca - and very rich."

The day ends with the recovery of my bike. It was stolen two weeks ago whilst I did a yoga class, and spotted the day after by my flatmate Jon on Brick Lane. This is the first moment I have had to investigate - and there she is, the Golden Nugget, shining in the setting sun, outside the Eastern Eye curry house on Princelet Street. After a lengthy chat with friendly neighbourhood bobbies Tom and Alan, they return the bike to me.

Coincidence abounds. I'm asked to file a report at Bethnal Green nick. Outside the station is a very distinctive car - a souped-up Mitsubishi racer being used to advertise the Liverpool Tate Biennial.

I have a photo of this car, which I took two months ago on
Brick Lane. On the day that I took the photo, I locked my bike up - or
so I thought. When I returned to the bike a few hours later, I found
that it had not been locked properly -anyone could have ridden off on
it. And here I am, filing a report about my bike being nicked in a
station a mile away from where it was returned to me. And the same
flipping car is sitting outside, like a beacon telling me something about bike, theft, and bad taste.

I swear, I couldn't make this shit up if I tried.

South Bank

2010-04-21T19:58:00.002+01:00

A strange weekend, which started with a gig and an argument, featured a fitful nights sleep punctuated by two professional caners, and ended with someone who I am in awe of (trust me, I'm trying to get over it, but it's a bit like meeting the artistic equivalent of Mohammad Ali, Mahatma Gandhi and Margaret Thatcher rolled into one pint-sized bundle of love) drawing comparisons between me and the elf-like national treasure that is Judi Dench.

Last Mango gigged in the Purcell Room. It was a strange old affair; the format of the festival we had been booked to play in meant that people were walking in and out of the gig at their leisure. We’ve done better performances.

At the gig, I flippantly used the derogatory term 'Red Indians' in a sketch which looked at colonialism and post colonialism, or more specifically, appropriation; appropriation of both land (as in “we are
going to invade your country and call it ours”) and ideas (as in “now, we are all going to do yoga, watch Avatar and thank you for what you Injuns have to teach us”).

(Apparently, the politically correct term to use, the term that the collective of tribes from Navaho to Comanche like to refer to themselves as, is ‘First Nation’. But who knows which was the first nation to truly be assfucked? The Aryans smacked up India in days of yore. The Vikings raped and pillaged people from Norfolk. Straw dogs and Englishmen, yo.*

I've always been fascinated by the plight of dudes who got blappsed by the empires. From Maoris to aboriginals, from First Nation to pigmies, it's all the same fate; picture a dude watching a sunset, leaning on a fence, maybe smoking a pipe. In the distance, he sees something approach, and says, "Hmmm. Never seen that before. Wonder what who it is?"

Three centuries later, and all of his family are suicidal alcoholics
with no land, no money and only the vaguest memory of their warrior
ancestry, cultures and traditions. It's a motherfucker, but that's
history for you.

On my recent trip to the States, I passed a 'reservation'; common
parlance for land given back to the 'Injuns' by the man. It was
unbelievable. First off, it contained a casino. Second, it contained a shopping mall, the size of a small city. Third, announcements were being made in Chinese. And not a peace pipe, a dream catcher or a Native American proverb in sight!

In some way, I've always felt affinity with First Gens.

After all, I was named after a cowboy, as a kid I got called Tonto,
Both my people and theirs both got called Indians (that idiot Columbus thought he landed in the land of hope and glory) and both cultures are dealing with the legacy of history.

But my friend Amy took an offence to what she described as a
“glib reference to Native American culture which bordered on racism”
(perhaps it was partially to do with my putting on a feather head
dress and firing arrows at my white band).

In escaping Amy, I found myself talking to the parents of Arthur Lea,
Last Mango's musical director, outside the South Bank. That's when I
got attacked.

This wasn't any normal attack. My attacker was blonde, cute and looked about twenty (though of course, she could have been younger). She stumbled towards us, sized each of us up, then drunkenly lurched my way, wrapping her arms around me neck, her legs around my waist and her lips around my mouth. Somewhat surprised, I motioned non-culpability to Alison and Richard, and tried to continue our conversation. This proved somewhat difficult, as this strange beast bit into my neck and whispered obscenities into my ear. My heart started to race faster, and I became confused as to what to do. Should I force her off me? Should I make an excuse for the behaviour of my 'old friend' and put her into a cab, seeing her home like the noble gentleman I am? Should I call the police? Here we were outside the South Bank, after my first gig in the hallowed Purcell Room. Was this some kind of test, some kind of Jesus-in-the-desert, some kind of Homer-and-the-sirens thing, a test of lusty temptation to question my professionalism? Arthur’s parents smiled at me and continued the conversation like nothing was happening. In the end Dracula fell over and crawled off. All very strange, equally as strange as Biscuit...

Biscuit is the flute playing, driving force behind Speakers Corner
Quartet, who played on my birthday at Rich Mix. The next time I saw Biscuit was the Saturday of the Mango gig at the South Bank; he was playing flute with Nathan ‘Flutebox’ Lee.

And the next time I saw Biscuit? Well, the very next morning. 9am, to be precise. Outside my house. What on earth was Biscuit doing up at this unearthly hour, and outside my house, to boot? Biscuit, of course, had not been to bed. He offered me a rum and ginger (at 9am on a Sunday morning) and, his lower lip wobbling like jelly on acid, said “Shane. I play flute. Hard. HARD!”

I ran away from Biscuit to the South Bank, to rehearse with Mayur for a gig later in the day. That was the gig where Jude Kelly told me I reminded her of Judi Dench, who is a seventy year old woman who played M in the Bond movies.

*’Straw Dogs’ is a killer book by Jon Grey. The title comes from the I Ching, the Taoist Instruction Manual For Humans, which has a passage stating that heaven and earth treats all of us like straw dogs – in other words, cheap and easily disposable things.

brown skin booty

2010-04-12T23:57:00.002+01:00

A little preview of 'Brown Skin Beauty' by Bandish Projekt, with my lyrics. The video will be amazing - final touches are being made to it as we speak. The Liquid Stranger mix is so heavy.

Great gigs at the South Bank this weekend, as part of the Alchemy festival. Sunday in particular was deep. Here's videos of performances from both myself and the totally dope snake charmer that is Arun Ghosh, collaborating with Bandish Projekt. Jude Kelly compared me to Judi Dench. I'm slightly worried about this comparison. The South Bank rock. I hope the Conservatives don't get into power.

It was a full weekend; lovely to see Monica Dogra of Shaa'ir and Func, and Jeet Thayil, multi-disciplined maverick who amongst many things edited the most excellent Bloodaze Anthology of Contemporary Indian Poets. I'm performing alongside Jeet on Friday at the Insulting Cabaret in London this Friday, along with mangos Arthur and Bellatrix. Belle's band the Boxettes played last night at Cargo, and as ever they rocked. Jarvis Cocker was also inspiring. I loved his panache, charm, no bullshit approach to life.

A nice review of my birthday party here.

I'm directing kids from the Voice Youth Project this week; we've devised a great show together. It's on Thursday and Friday at Watermans Arts Centre in Brentford, London. I have loved the process of devising. The more I play with theatre, the more I enjoy it. Play is the word!

I'm posting stuff I'm into at Tumblr.

I Slam

2010-04-05T23:15:00.000+01:00

I Slam

A civil rights worker
Wearing a burkha
Whispered of running away to the circus

Her lingering gaze
Softly betrayed
The fact that she prayed five times a day

I have to say
That by far and away
Her eyes were the prettiest I’d ever seen

I was confused
Between points of view
It didn’t seem right to show her I was keen

I felt like a sinner
And asked her to dinner
She said “I’d love to, but you’re different from me.”

“it’s only a meeting.
We’d only be eating.”
She smiled, cocked her head to one side and agreed

We went to the circus
Chewed on veggie burgers
I tried not to give her the eyeball on purpose

She food was delicious
She gasped at magicians
And grasped my hand tightly,
Breaking all the rules.

Walking between worlds

2010-04-02T21:11:00.002+01:00

Today:

o I shot the breeze with Mary Rahman about how to get more non-white people through the doors of institutions the National Trust and the South Bank
o I got involved with the Quadrangle, a project in Kent which hosts groups of Muslims doing yoga retreats, runs sweat lodges, builds yurts and holds discussions on how we want to live, and hosts Feasts for Strangers
o I hatched plans to take young Londoners to the countryside to cook freshly picked wild garlic on open fires, and brainstormed making a film with young East Londoners about darkness and light
o I planned an interview with Sunrise radio about Raj:Reload, an event at the South Bank next Saturday which the Last Mango in Paris band are performing at
o I started to plan our estate’s vision of the Big Lunch
o My flatmates and I bought seeds for our garden
o I drafted out ideas for stories about Bangladeshi secret guerilla gardeners, refugees taking over allotments, raps buried in the ground which sprout into trees, and a superheroine who makes honey from hives she secretes on urban rooftops
o I posted an article about urban beekeeping for Vivacity
o I penned the introduction to a biography of Ninja Tune, to celebrate their 20th anniversary
o I brainstormed a video for the Boxettes, who will be hosting a superb gig at Cargo on Sunday 11th April
o I read another chapter of John Gray’s superb ‘Straw Dogs’
o I uploaded photos from the Shaking Spears event at Rich Mix on my birthday, which featured performances from many wonderful friends including the Boxettes, Speakers Corner Quartet and a ‘live video link’ with spoken word don Dizreali, who spoke about his marvellous Unplaned project
o I forgot to call my mum

sheepishly slinking back in

2010-03-24T14:57:00.002Z

ok, so I'm back. I said I wasn't going to be, but I am. This is not the first time in my life this has happened. Ask any of my ex girlfriends. Thankfully, this is a blog, so it hasn't moved on/met someone else/isn't too angry at my moodswings.

There's loads of reasons for coming back, but I won't bore you with them.

What news?

Well, since last writing, I've been to Africa to install a film studio; was best man at my dad's wedding; am directing a performance featuring a US soldier currently serving in Afghanistan; recently toured the US, performing in various cities and undertaking many adventures; performed a couple of shows at the South Bank; and much more, including lots of writing, performing and teaching.

At the earliest opportunity, I'm going to write about some of these adventures. In the meantime, here's a nice review of me from a gig I did in Leicester last month.

It's nice to be back. Don't stare at me like that - come over here and give me a hug.

Goodbye

2009-09-04T23:31:00.003+01:00

The time has come to say goodbye to blogspot. I am moving house; all future entries will be posted here...

lastmangoinparis.wordpress.com

seeya there!

love

Shane

Augustine

2009-09-01T00:03:00.008+01:00

A busy month…

I’ve seeded the idea for Moving Space, a project which sees schools around the world having creative conversations via the web;

Tongue Fu in August featured sweet performances by Charlie Dark, Michael Horovitz, and students from Tower Hamlets Summer University, who produced some inspired work in a workshop I taught earlier that day. Dis is dem…

Read a review of the gig here, in the excellent Ctrl Alt Shift online mag.

We did this back on returning from an excellent Big Chill. Tongue Fu rocked on Friday night; Salena Godden, Josh Idehen, Kate Tempest and Ben Mellor all on top form, with impromptu appearances from Polar Bear and Frisko, who both jumped onstage for a freestyle with Kate at the end of the night, rocking the full house crowd before we had our sound cut off.

We performed our new musical, ‘the girl who learned to beatbox out of her ass’. It’s genius! More soon, we want to take it to Edinburgh this year… here’s the band in performance mode!

We’re performing it next month at Stoke Newington International, joined by loads of friends…

It’s part of Hackney Word Fest, which I’m performing for a few times in the next month.

The next Tongue Fu will also kick off; Disraeli is my favourite poet in the country; Caroline and Inua are also hot writers, and Malik is a prodigous talent, even though he’s not even eighteen yet!

I’ll be in America for seven weeks later this year, hitting Chicago, NYC, Vancouver, Seattle, LA, San Francisco and Puerto Rico.

I’m featured on the last track of the long awaited, freshly mastered Bandish Projekt album.

Bandish’s Mayur and I laid down a fresh tune yesterday, and recorded a video for it today, featuring bharat natyam by Jyoti Argade.

I’ve written a fresh killer piece for performance, which I’ll be dropping at various locations over the next month; the first is on September 11th, opening the Poetry Olympics Enlightenment festival alongside John Agard, Michael Horovitz, Mahmood Jamal, Stacy Makishi and many others.

I have also spent a considerable amount of time in the countryside, writing, reading, listening to music, and tuning in to the language of the birds and the trees!

the image above, and the ones from the Big Chill, are taken by the ever-loving Briony Campbell, and the flyers have been designed by the ever-prolific David Cuesta.

Till soon…

Sod hyperlinking this, I'm going for a swim

2009-07-24T12:13:00.002+01:00

I have to admit I’m feeling a little frazzled at the moment. I’ve got a backlog of work, and admin seems to be taking over my life. One of my websites is hopelessly out of date (as is my Myspace), the other is waiting to be developed; I hardly touch Facebook any more. I’m faced with a dilemma. I either pay attention to my marketing (no-one really knows who I am) or I just focus on making my work better, which means all this extraneous stuff just withers away, unloved. At least I’ll have a life. I’m working day and night at the moment, and I never make time in my week to relax, or even to do any exercise - let alone spend time writing, which is what I love doing most of all! And if I think it’s bad now, imagine what it’s like when I have kids…

Enough moaning; I’ve been busy doing good things.

My favourite event of the last couple of weeks has been the Big Lunch. My neighbour Lisa and I had a party for our neighbours. We set up a barbeque on some communal land, cooked food and supplied drinks. One by one, my neighbours came to hang out, to eat, and to talk. We cooked the usual bbq stuff, but included a salad made from leaves from our garden, and Neil’s tofu. The estate is just less than forty years old; some residents have been living here all this time. Many of them complain that community relations are not what they used to be; I’ve heard so many people say things like “no-one knows each other any more”… hence the Big Lunch; to get us all talking to each other, to introduce old, new, rich, poor, English, non-English… we’re so penned in by our walls in this country; in hotter climates, people mingle and chat so much more; which is what we did today. Out of all the things I’ve done this year, this was possibly my favourite; getting neighbours to break bread with each other… everyone chipped in, bringing food and drink; supplying barbeques, tables, gazebos; painting faces; cooking; helping to clear up. Introductions were made which hopefully will be the start of conversations which will last for many years. Or am I being an idealist again? We floated the idea of a communal allotment. This has been a dream of mine for many years; I imagine allotments in every school, hospital, prison… but perhaps I should start with my own back yard!!

I’ve seen a few amazing shows at the South Bank in the last week;

Lemn Sissay’s “Why I Don’t Hate White People”, a piece of spoken word theatre, a tragic-comic reflection on race and identity featuring mixed media (more than a few similarities to my work!);

London Liming was genius. Melanie Abrahams is a promoter I’ve got so much respect for. Every event she does is top notch. This one was hosted and co-curated by Charlie Dark. Every artist on the bill rocked it; Caroline Bird, Rinse, John Agard, Ayanna Witter-Jonson, Daljit Nagra, Nii Parkes, Micheal Horovitz, Spaceape and Deborah Stevenson. Beforehand, Daljit Nagra gave a short talk which summed up why he is excited by the evolution of British poetry at the moment, discussing older movements like futurism, Dadaism and surrealism, and also contemporary movements and modes, which are perhaps reflective of the changing way we think, and see, the world around us.

Beardyman’s Complete and Utter Shambles at Udderbelly, the big upside-down purple cow on the South Bank, wins the prize for 'most entertaining show' hands down though. The sheer chutzpah of the man, married to his improvisational genius, is a joy to watch. Watch him reach continual new heights over the next ten years.

I gigged at Salena Godden’s Book Club Boutique, where my good mate Patrick Neate was doing a launch for his new book, ‘Jerusalem’. He got Sway to write a track called ‘Jerusalem’ for the book; mine’s better, though!

We’ve also been working hard on our new mini comic opera, ‘The Girl Who Learnt To Beatbox From Her Ass’, which we’re premiering at the Big Chill in a couple of weeks. I’m really proud of how quickly this one’s come together. It’s everything ‘Broken English’ is not; it’s totally silly and rude, and gives us all a chance to have great fun. I’ve got a huge amount of lines to learn in the next fortnight!

I’ve also scheduled big events I’m involved with all the way to the end of the year, which currently feels exhausting, so I’ll tell you about them later, mum

I’m off to see Baba Brinkman tonight at the Airport; a legend whose name is whispered in hallowed appreciation throughout the spoken word scene.

boooyaaaa

Reflections on Vipassana

2009-07-12T14:07:00.002+01:00

Check this article.

I also implore you to tune into Ansuman's project!

Out of Place

2009-07-12T13:37:00.009+01:00

Recommended listening whilst reading this post:

‘Galaxy’, by War!

the track features the lyrics “I'll take you out to see the place”… I’ve been fascinated by this idea of being out of place of late.

Last week, a Bengali man knocked on my mate Neil’s door (Neil makes tofu on ‘Brick Lane’). As Neil opened the door, he was surprised to hear the grinning man greet him with the Hebrew ‘Shalom’. Apparently, he wanted a job; convinced that all business owners on Brick Lane were Jewish, he thought that this was a good way to introduce himself as a man of the world.

Have you ever felt out of place? I remember when I went to the RSC in Stratford; I felt a bit weird in my hoodie and trainers, amongst the bow ties and posh accents:

The eyes of Mrs Mansukhani widened, burnt and lingered
When her husband scooped up mouthfuls of risotto using fingers

And the rosy blush upon the cheeks of Mr Johnson’s wife
When her spouse devoured his naan bread, with the aid of fork and knife

Ricky went to Radiohead in work attire. His suit
And tie made him an outcast amongst the trendy yoot

And the way that I got checked at the theatre was just heinous
It seems that Shakespeare disapproves of hooded tops and trainers

Yesterday I bumped into the hoary old crone and charmer Michael Horovitz on a train to Ledbury. He told me about worlds my knowledge of is limited (Alexander Pope, Jaques Tatti, Barenboim’s wife Jackie Dupre) whilst I explained to him what beatboxing was, only for him to say to me “Mango, I’ve been beatboxing with my kazoo for fifty years”. I love Michael. He spent most of the journey inviting the two young ladies in front of us to ‘get off’ with us. Was he talking about the train?

We were on our way to the Ledbury Poetry Festival, where children from John Masefield School, that I've been coaching over the last month, gave a performance. Here's a picture of the kids.

Highlights of the last week or so include:

A performance by my no. 1 flygirl Stacey Makishi in the basement of a deli in Deptford; Stacey performed a short story about the hole in her heart (and her knickers) that leads all the way to China. It was part of a festival called Tasty Diners Club. For £6 we got the most amazing three course meal, and a performance by a living legend. Tasty!!

Next Sunday, my neighbour Lisa and I are setting up the following event, as part of The Big Lunch:

Click on the image to enlarge it!

other highlights include:

Delivering a workshop with Apples and Snakes, which also featured Charlie Dark, Lyric L, Kat Francois and JC001; JC wore a t-shirt emblazoned with the message ‘Le Peuple De l’Herbe’, and sported a Fat Freddie’s Cat bag. I didn’t know that Apples and Snakes would support this kind of subversion!

Performing and compering a Green Sunday event at the Arcola, where I facilitated a discussion about faith and ecology between two Quakers and a Muslim, and gave a presentation on why I think Hackney represents the future, in terms of the common narratives we employ to replace redundant systems like religion and politics:

the 'Paint stuff' picture is a piece of art by Tinsel Edwards; the couple are my neighbours Danny and Lisa, who have planted sunflowers all along our road; the Tarot cards are from a specially commissioned pack put together by the Spill festival.

This picture was given to me by one of my favourite artists and friends, Maria Slovakova. Thanks, Maria!

Persepolis

2009-07-08T23:48:00.002+01:00

Marjane Sartrapi's "Persepolis" is a graphic novel, unique in the perspective it casts on Iranian history and politics. Its simply drawn stories, evocative and detailed, paint a picture of the Iranian revolution when Sartrapi grew up as a child.

Now, two Iranian exiles called Sina and Payman have put together a website called Spread Persepolis.

I find this remix, which has directly copied Sartrapi's images and replaced her words with words which tell the story of Iranians today, fascinating as a piece of social commentary. It is far reaching and immediate. When done well, great art has always had a direct impact on political discourse.

My mum thinks that my fascination with comics and cartoons is puerile, I think. But I think that cartoons and comics are an incisive medium for expression of political commentary. Even Bart Simpson, and more poignantly South Park, are brilliant caricatures of modern day society that make us reflect upon, and laugh, at aspects of our lives. Team America, whilst being deliberately crude and offensive, is scintillating satire. Sacha Baron Cohen's creations are the same.

But novels such as Joe Sacco's "Palestine" and Persepolis tell a different tale; it's a new form of journalism, which paints a very different picture of the world. I find a similar kind of poetry in great street art. The fascinating thing about this current version, which borrow Sartrapi's images, is how much people - both Iranian, and from wider afield - are learning to tell their own stories by borrowing from, and giving honour to, stories which came before. Public Enemy would be proud of Persepolis 2.0. It's sampling in its purest form. It's modern day hip-hop, broadcasting its tunes on its very own pirate channel.

Hermit

2009-06-29T09:54:00.002+01:00

My friend Ansuman Biswas is in the third day of enforced solitude at Manchester Museum, where he will be destroying an item a day form the collection. It's a fascinating process. Read all about it here, on the blog he's writing during his hermitage.

The Factory

2009-06-29T09:45:00.003+01:00

I saw a great piece of theatre last night; a rendition of Chekhov's 'The Seagull', as performed by The Factory.

There was no script, and parts were divvied up amongst the cast by the audience before the play began. Each actor knew what would roughly happen; the rest was improvised. It was performed at the Old Boys Club in Dalston, which isn't known for being a theatrical space.

After the parts were decided, the actors had a minute to gather props, and decide which part of the space each act would be performed in.

The production really excited me. The performance was spontaneous, unpretentious, and dynamic. By putting themselves into this position, the actors were challenged far beyond the usual remit of a performer who has spent weeks learning lines and embodying characters. They'll be doing it again over this summer, as well as attacking other classics; click here to find out about what they're up to. Highly recommended!

Oh, we're going to Chicago..

2009-06-28T13:36:00.003+01:00

Yesterday was the final of the London Teenage Poetry Slam, the end result of a process that has lasted over three months. I'm please to say that the team that I have been coaching, eight students from Kingsford School in Beckton, won. This means that the students, their teacher Marty Cook, and I all travel to Chicago in Autumn for an all expenses paid trip, where we will be working with Oak Park River Forest High School, school of Ernest Hemingway, Ludacris, and Ray Croc, founder of McDonalds (he didn't graduate). Nice one!

Here's a couple of snaps of the students, and the two poems which won them the title.

Caught without an umbrella

The weatherman predicted sunshine
Scorched skin
Bra strap graffiti on the brown of my back
So I left my umbrella at home
Only to be soaked
Drenched by his words
As rain trickled from the holes in his forecast

When I was six
The doctor diagnosed my aunt with cancer
Giving her a month to live;
Prescribed chemotherapy and anguish.
A six year old's splayed fingers reached forward into time
Into thirty days of blue skies,
And beyond those circling ribbons
Sewing in and out of those ebony rolling hills
On that vast blank canvas of an artist’s easel-
All I could see was darkness

The blind direct us to the unknown
Weathermen get it wrong
And doctors are casino croupiers,
Shuffling fortunes and dealing duff hands
Concealing all behind that expressionless
Poker face
Poker face
Poker face
We punch the walls of this house of cards
In anger of being lied to.
All fall down;
Shattered futures
Broken dreams
Every day begins as an unwritten page.

"Good morning.
Today is going to be a good day," said the doctor.
But at exactly 4pm it rained all over my world
Acid rain on cashmere skin
Tears of sadness
Tears of love

They said she had only one month to live
One month

She died an hour later

The cancer ate its way through her lungs like a starved virus
Spreading from organ to organ like a bushfire
Her last breathe fading away to emptiness
Before reaching the splayed fingers of the six year old before her

The weatherman predicted sunshine
He didn't predict hatred
Rage
Fury
Or how quickly night would fall
A Six year old daughter
Weeps into her pillow
Drifts into the void
The pillow supports her head
Prevents her from subsiding
Into the empty abyss
Of her mother’s sobs

Weathermen all over the world
Shrug their shoulders and apologize
But it's not weathermen
That are left cold
Shivering
Soaked

Alone.

Beauty and the Beast

(i)

I draw back curtains and light floods in
My eyes are windows encrusted with gunk
Jewels brought back from the land of fairy tales
I climb out my castle
Tip toeing over a blanket of Lego pieces and broken dreams
And face a face which looks like mine

From the glazed surface
Glares back a monster
Beauty's rejected daughter
A monster yellow-faced with polka dots
They call the mirror gazer vain,
But I christen her 'fearful' -
Fearful of a recurring nightmare
Her hair a curtain across a quivering smile
Hiding her from the world
And the world from her ugliness

I charm the mirror
I charm the mirror
Or secure the insecurity
She looks at me cold,
With fear in her eyes

(ii)

Sitting opposite me on the bus,
An old lady
Face a scrunched up paper ball
Hair bleached witch-white
She looks at me cold,
With fear in her eyes

This is what I want to say to her:
"I am the snarling black dog
The coffee skin night child
Who keeps you awake
When you close your eyes"

All of us are fighting demons

(iii)
As the tray closes, it all kicks off
You look at the screen, through your reflection
Pick up the controller
You see yourself backing away
A push, a slap, a shove, a hit
Achievement -
Proceed to level two

You get the courage to peer our of your room
One step, two step, three step, four
Peeking through the living room door
Your mother cries, before silence
Bang - dad slams the front door - he's gone
Achievement -
Proceed to level three

Mum fills her lungs with despair
Smoke fills the air
Our hearts weaken simultaneously
And then, smack
I collapse
Achievement -
Game over

(iv)
His name was Luke
But I saw Goliath before me -
A small, shivering David
With no sling and no stone
But as he (more monsoon than man)
Rained beats upon my head
I felt no pain, but instead
I became the Hulk
(no transformation necessary)
Vision red -
the red raw wound of mum and dad's divorce,
Triggering Beyblade in the arena

As I screwed my face and murdered him in my mind
I was dressed with a face so ugly
I could turn Medusa into stone

Now that's true beauty.

(v)
Let me tell you about looks which can kill
Dad stared at mum,
And I knew which fairy tale was going to get repeated that night
Argument
Fight
Mum getting hurt
Ambulance outside
The police coming to pick dad up
Me feeling like it was my fault

I remember calling my teacher 'dad'
Because at least, around him, I felt safe

My friend told me that when his parents divorced,
he used to get presents
I thought that when mum and dad split
I'd get presents too
But the only gifts I unwrapped contained ugly truths

Something cracks apart;
Breakdance on a broken heart

All of my ugly thoughts are wrapped inside a cocoon
And I'm afraid that one day,
It will burst

It's not maggots that come out of coccoons but...
It's not maggots that come out of cocoons but...
It's not maggots that come out of cocoons but...

Paris, Public Space, Pernod and Lemonade

2009-06-22T23:28:00.019+01:00

A weekend in Paris saw Iram and I hanging with Angelbert Metoyer, the man who gave birth to Saul William’s alter ego Niggy Tardust, and his new wife, firebrand and all round ladygeezer Charlie Koolhaas. Angelbert’s a dude; a prolific artist, who was once commissioned by Ornette Coleman to paint while Ornette played.

We went to see the brilliant Mike Ladd, who performed with a sh*t hot dancer;

It was great to be in Paris; I haven’t been there for too long. It’s such a classy city, oozing elegance without trying, reflected in both its citizens and architecture. We stayed with Mathilde.

Her flat, in the 10th arrondissement, is classically French. Everything in it is beautiful and considered.

I particularly was drawn to this piece of art, painted onto a cardboard ‘canvas’ by French graf artist C215.

I love the fact that most people I know have little shrines in their homes, composed of a hotch potch of belongings they consider charged with meaning. Playful Indian gods; Japanese toys; rocks and feathers found in moments of inspiration; buddhas in repose; candles to bring light. Coming from a Hindu family, this idea of a miniature temple in your home is something I grew up with, but I enjoy seeing the idea remixed by 21st century nomads, who search for meaning in the world around them.

Occasionally the atheist in me snorts with derision at the way in which we search for something other than ourselves which is unseen and controls our destiny, but it’s an understandable human trait, and in some way allows us to connect with the world around us. What’s wrong with deifying nature? At least it allows us to recognise that mankind is not the sole architect of intelligence, but simply a single manifestation of intelligent life, which abound us in every form; every flower, every cloud, every insect, awe-inspiring and perfect in design. I love the way that often in North West London, you’ll see trees daubed with a spot of paint, courtesy of Hindus (perhaps the original graffiti artists); these ‘bindis’ are a marking to indicate trees as ‘sacred’. Perhaps an important lesson to learn, in these times when species are disappearing on an hourly basis! A message that Ansuman Biswas is getting across in a forthcoming residency, where he is being locked up in Manchester Museum and being given ‘free’ reign to destroy an object a day.

Paris was full of surprises, but my most pleasant moment was had in engaging with an old ritual; sitting by a canal, eating bread, ham and cheese, sipping a white beer, writing, and watching the world go by in the City of Lights.

Highlights of a day’s exploration included finding this Haring tryptich in St Eustache Church:

and a visit to LUV productions, a multimedia clubhouse of hackers, where I bought something emblazoned with the logo ‘Africa is the Future’.

Africa’s in the galleries; my homie the Right Honorable Ammo Talwar, MBE, brought the art of Lemi Ghariokwu to Richmix in London. Leni painted many of my musical hero Fela Kuti’s album covers, like this one, a treatise on skin-lightening from a Nigerian perspective:

The private view was a wicked affair, with live music from Dele Sosimi, featuring Tony Allen on drums. Here’s Ammo looking like a Punjabi junglist, with Richmix headmistress Pawlet Brookes.

I’ve been engaged with Richmix for a few months now, and it’s been an interesting journey. Ammo’s event was one of the first times I’ve felt the building as kicking, and alive, as it should be on a regular basis. Still, it’s getting there. Chris Ventriloquist and I ran one of Chris’s legendary Tongue Fu sessions there last week, featuring poets Anthony Joseph, Polar Bear, Tim Clare, and musicians Arthur Lea, Belle Ehresmann and Graeme Fox. Saul Walker’s done a nice review of it here:

Saulwalker.blogspot.com

I’d like to bring the worlds I work in together; to fill publicly funded institutions like Richmix with the inspiring, dynamic conversations that happen throughout Hackney, in grotty warehouses and reclaimed spaces. These are buildings filled with art encouraging us to converse, to think, and to play. They bypass conventional spaces and our notion that art should be confined to galleries, and theatre to – well, theatres… in Hackney, vending machines are filled with scissors and tape (instead of additive-intensive products made by multinational giants), and the art on the walls turns the world as we know it on its head:

This interactive table is a piece made by Evan from Seeper Productions. The Japanese duo pictured are playing with a game commissioned by Lemon Jelly.

But that’s not to say that conventional institutions can’t be inspiring. It just takes the right kind of creative teams working in these spaces to make juicy things happen in them. Just before I came across the dudes above, I went to see a remarkable piece of theatre called ‘For the Best’, at the Unicorn Theatre. It was a moving treatise of dialysis, families and death; site-specific and devised, the director Mart Storor worked with children to glean their stories of dialysis and weave them into a heart-rendering narrative. It’s only on for another week; go see it if you get a chance.

I’m continuing to have my preconceptions of theatre smashed by pieces of work like this. But what most people in the UK know as theatre happens in the West End, where tourists flock to see the latest blockbuster productions. Last week I took my dad and stepmum-to-be to see Billy Elliott. Its message was ‘Be Yourself’ – a funny message, I thought, when delivered nightly to a crowd of people who excel at confirming to norms defined by popular culture. Nevertheless, I enjoyed the satire of the show and the political backdrop the piece was set in, and as a theatre-maker (yes, that’s what I’m calling myself now) working in music, going to see a musical is always an education in design, narrative construction, songwriting, and more.

It was good to be able to spend quality time with Anju, soon to be my stepmum. I’m happy for my dad that he’s found such a wonderful partner.

Dad had a barbeque this weekend to celebrate his birthday. Family barbeques are a lot of fun; all 890 members of the Solanki brethren gather to chat, dance, eat, watch cricket, be racist, laugh, cook, eat more, and drink. My cousin Paresh makes 400 mojitos, and sloe gin, or perhaps Pernod, with lemonade (for the ladies). The men stand behind the barbeque, rustling up a never ending stream of kebabs, chicken, fish and prawns, all marinated in a special mix which leaves you smelling like an Indian, a vague curry whiff oozing from you for the next 48 hours, whenever you sweat, pee, crap, and even when you come (sorry, mum, but it’s true). My family is a production line; there’s usually a fresh baby for people to coo at and call cute, no matter how ugly it is. As we enter the 21st Century, kids names are getting more exotic. English people give their kids Indian names, but Indians take it one step further; My cousin Ricky has just called his kid Torres, after the Liverpool footballer, for Christ’s sake.

At family barbeques, groups coalesce and disintegrate like weather patterns, before settling into a time-honoured grid formation; kids sit around the tv sneaking alcoholic beverages and making jokes about adults, men stand around the barbeque and make jokes about women and foreigners, women sit down around kitchen tables and make jokes about kids and men (since coming to this country, most of my aunties have been plied with drinks [mostly by my dad] to the point of becoming bonafide alcoholics). There’s usually a smattering of white people looking a bit out-of-place. These unfortunate souls are Ambassadors Of White People Everywhere. It’s good that they’re here at the party, sampling what it feels like to be a minority defined by the colour of your skin.

Here’s dad and mum no. 2 feeding each other cake to celebrate their engagement. There was a comedy moment just after this when dad welcomed Anju’s son Sunil (my impending stepbrother!!) into the family, describing him as ‘a take-away son’…

Storm/Somerset/Stepmum

2009-06-07T23:41:00.012+01:00

This week, I was privileged to be on Storm, a week long project organised by two theatre companies - Graeae and Push - held at the Hammersmith Lyric. Forty artists with diverse practises, ranging from poets, designers, directors, actors, writers, musicians, and dancers were invited to partake in workshops led by facilitators from across the UK. It was an amazing week, in which I learnt a phenomenal amount, and made a whole heap of friends and future collaborators. The week was designed as an exploration of the possibilities of what theatre could be.

My favourite workshops were led by Ferdy Roberts from Filter, Richard Gregory from Quarantine, John McGrath (currently at the National Theatre of Wales), and Lee Simpson from Improbable.

One of the greatest things about the week was working with people with impairmments. There were some golden moments; This rapper's performance was transformed by the signer next to him. translated his lyrics of 'let's get naked' into sign language.

The week had been carefully facilitated; beyond many conversations regarding the development of practise, we had our eye on the future; the last day was a brilliantly structured brainstorm called 'This is all very well, but what next?'. The event was carefully scribed by Manc artists Sketch City:

On the weekend, I bombed down to Somerset to stay with my partner in crime, Chris Ventriloquist, and his partner Mandy. Check out their amazing pad! I'll be staying there for a fortnight's writing retreat in August - I can't wait!

I returned to London on Sunday for a family dinner. My tardy arrival meant I missed my dad's proposal to his girlfriend Anju. I am about to gain a stepmother! I love the juxtaposition of these photos - tunnel vision, as I walk between worlds...

It was lovely to see dad. Here he is, engaging in a game of 'slaps' with my nephew, Ethan...

North West London - the only place in the UK where skips have religious symbols on them.

I also love this photo, taken on my cousin Sangeeta's mantelpiece; it shows her and her husband Rakesh at their wedding, and a photo of their two kids, Kieran and Alisha.

ketchup

2009-06-01T00:12:00.005+01:00

When you walk between worlds, it's imperative to suspend judgement. The only thing you can truly take to the bank is that there are no definitive answers. And WTF can you do with that?

My band rocks. We supported Lemn Sissay, Shazia Mirza and Billy Bragg at the TUC conference centre at a gig organised by anti fascist magazine Searchlight, in order to raise awareness of the necessity to vote on Thursday 4th June, in order that the BNP don't steal seats at the European election. If you’re British and you read this (i.e. you, mum) – VOTE! For anyone (apart form the BNP, that is)!

The band also played at the Great Escape festival in Brighton. It was great to chill with the band outside of a work context; we've only had two rehearsals and a handful of gigs, and outside of this we've never managed to find time to chill, so a road trip to Brighton was great fun. I feel privileged to play with these dudes, who above being amazing artists are lovely, lovely people.

Beyond gigging, there've been a heap of cracking adventures over the last few weeks;

My partner in crime Chris Redmond played the music in Improbable Theatre’s excellent 'Panic' at the Barbican. I also saw Mulatu Astatke and the Heliocentrics at Koko in Camden, and Punchdrunk’s stunning' tunnel 228'.

I’ve been inspired by some great visual narrative stimuli, including ‘La Jetee’, Gilliam's ‘Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas’, Herzog’s ‘Encounters at the End of the World’, and two videos from the increasingly brilliant Bat for Lashes – ‘Daniel’, and ‘What’s a Girl To Do’. I'm also currently enjoying Mediastorm.

I attended an excellent barbeque at a very grand lodge on Regents Park, where my hosts Martin and Ilana served traditional German fare such as Thueringer sausages and sauerkraut, and I learnt about London Insight meditation.

Education work's been going well; I’m working on an interesting graphic novel project for Eastside, and preparation for the London slam is going well; check this article.

Suspension of judgement was vital when I worked on a weekend run by Eyeshine, where the lady in control Tiu believes in magic, healing and the power of love. The weekend entailed lots of parents learning to see the world afresh, through the eyes of their children. My responsibility for the weekend was hanging out with the kids, which was immense fun. We stayed the night out under the stars in a beautiful forest on the wild plains of Dartmoor.

From hippy platitudes to hip hop attitudes; a weekend in Berlin, primarily to support my double bass player Bellatrix, who WON the female competition in the Beatbox World Championships!

Congratulations Belle, you rock! I'm so proud of the girl... She beat the incredible Stef the Chef in the final after winning the heats and a number of battles en route... In the words of German host B’Lo, ‘Maximum Respect’.

The event was crazy; a crowd with mad energy and pure love, supporting a tight family of 140 competitors from 37 countries around the globe, making sounds out of their mouths like you wouldn't believe!

And of course, Berlin had so much more to offer; it was my first visit, but I friggin’ love this city and want to move here. It's clean, quiet and relaxed; artistically it's vibrant and cutting edge; the apartments are massive and airy. The bars are actually really pleasant spaces to hang out in (unlike the majority of London bars), and German people are polite, intelligent and open, devoid of the jaded, cynical been there/seen it/done it of London’s subcultural kids in the know.

Late night partying took me to a number of wicked joints; favourites include Luzia in Kreuzberg and Cafe M in Schoneberg.

It was a good weekend to be in Berlin, with a huge carnival on the streets of Kreuzberg. I also bumped into a protest by Tamils regarding the current situation in Sri Lanka.

It's funny how we react to news; recent British news has been dominated by weeks of anger at politicians playing the system for personal gain, which seems to have distracted the British population from what appears to be genocide, though strenuously denied by the Sri Lankan government. Despite the two month protest in Westminster, general awareness of the situation seems incredibly low. In Berlin, 150 buses travelled countrywide to protest in Berlin – a protest which also used theatre to illustrate what are undoubtedly crimes being committed by the Sri Lanka government in the name of purification. Strange to witness this in Berlin, a city which isn't exactly a stranger to racially motivated murder, as the Holocaust Museum and Liebeskind's celebrated Jewish Museum prove;

Liebeskind’s sharp angles and discombobulating spaces perfectly capture the sickening truths of the holocaust. And yet we complain about our politicians, whilst people continue to die...

I found this picture, taken at checkpoint Charlie, amusing.

This trip was educational in that I had to concede that Berlin is much better off with H and M, and Burger King, than it was in the Soviet-dictated regime before the fall of the wall in ‘89; this is reflected in the personal testimony of Berliners who were old enough to remember life before the wall came down. My concession that the commercial world is not the devil I have consistently painted it to be, is just one aspect of the many concessions I’m currently having to make, with regards to what I believe (currently, the only thing I know for true is I don't know what to believe).

I stayed with my good friend and old collaborator, Mark McCrae.

Mark is a diamond geezer and somewhat of a teacher for me. He's also drop dead gorgeous. It is disconcerting to see the effect he has on women, with his slim, tall build, chilled rock star persona and ubiquitous leather jacket. I try not to let my jealousy get in the way of the fact that he's a dude amongst dudes. He's been in Berlin for a year, en route to Rio or Barcelona. He earns his corn making music for ads and corporate films, which means he can live anywhere on the planet, and live well. Another of my personal beliefs begins to crack at the seams; my abhorrence of 'the man' keeps me rooted to a baseline of subsistence existence…

Fuck that. I want some corn. I want to sell my soul. I want Nike, coke, sweatshops, child labour, major record label, apolitical, Grazia-reading, advert-making, high def, plasma screen, plastic-producing unconscious money earning. Bring it on. I'm not sure how much longer I can be happy getting paid peanuts in the name of supporting political causes. I'm not sure how much longer I can do free gigs which begin with morning meditations where I have to hold hands with a patchouli soaked man complaining of feeling undervalued and unappreciated, and also of having to endure chemicals in his body for the first time in twenty years, having just betrayed his overweight temple of a body by necking a couple of Neurofen for a bad back. Hmmm – do I sound bitter?? ;)

Very much looking forward to starting the Storm programme at the Lyric Theatre tomorrow…

Attenborough kisses his teeth

2009-05-14T01:10:00.001+01:00

I did an interview with Tom Robinson today for his BBC Radio 6 show. I arrived at the same time as Sir David Attenborough, who was doing a Radio 2 interview. As we both waited in reception, we struck up a conversation. I told him I was in to talk about the track 'Kiss Your Teeth'. He didn't know what this meant - so I showed him.

Yes - today, I taught Sir David Attenborough how to kiss his teeth! If I die tomorrow, at least I will die a happy man....

Recycling

2009-05-12T18:44:00.004+01:00

I've been asked to submit a poem for a children's anthology. This is what just sprang out of me. Early days for this one, but thought I'd road test it here... is it too dark, I wonder?

Recycling

Driven onwards by a genetic imperative,
Guided by the earth’s magnetism,
The common plastic bag embarks on an epic journey
Which begins in your waste disposal unit
And spans tens of thousands of miles –

The humble tetrapak carton endures
Trials and tribulations
No human could survive
On its annual exodus -

How noble the liquid detergent bottle’s pursuit
To reach its distant Pacific goal –

A plastic soup –

A floating mass,
Twice the size of Texas,
Stretching from Hawaii to Japan.

That fertile terrain,
That perfect breeding ground;

Upon the banks of this evolutionary miracle,
Styrofoam cups display mating rituals
Before being impregnated
By polypropylene bottle caps.

Sometimes, sympathetic sea turtles
Act as surrogate mothers
Nursing bin liner fetuses in their stomachs
Before birthing complex hybrid hydrocarbons,
Which slowly begin their heroic migration
Back to our shores.

Walk along any beach in the world
To witness survivors of this saga;

Tyres,
Traffic cones,
Toothbrushes.

Polythene bags,
Polystyrene packing,
Polyurethane pieces.

And these are the lucky ones;
Others are not so fortunate.
Victims of Mother Nature’s cruel sense of humour,
Most maligned members of this plastic population
Disintegrate into particles
During their seaward odyssey,
Transforming into fodder for predators,
Like DDT.

Thankfully, even these poor souls
Will one day find their way
To their spiritual home.

Your Coke container,
Like a faithful PET*,
Will return to you –
Albeit having been swallowed by the sea,
Fed on by a fish,
Eaten by an albatross,
Pooped upon a passing cloud,
Recycled into rainwater,
Ingested by an animal,

And served

as supper

sometime

soon.

*Polyethylene terephthalate

Grandpa's picture

2009-05-11T17:19:00.001+01:00

This is unfinished, but I quite like it...

The photograph is monotone and faded
You wear a Nehru jacket and a hat –
A faded fez, as worn by Tommy Cooper
I wonder how to translate “Just like that”

Rabbit in the hat, hat in the picture
Your secret’s buried somewhere in my face
Now I see you - now I don’t - within the mirror
You surface and then vanish without trace

I conjure history to fill the chasms
The memories of you I never had
Milk bottle spectacles and coarse wool trousers
The high-pitched laugh that you passed onto dad

This sleight of hand that passes through the ages;
A magic trick that sometimes reappears
A dodgy knee, a haughty disposition,
Those monster hairs upon my back and ears

(Our relatives in photographs are liars
A monument to memory’s archive
The past is but a terrible illusion
We paint to keep our heritage alive)

Out of Place

2009-05-11T16:13:00.001+01:00

The eyes of Mrs Mansukhani widened, burnt and lingered
When her husband scooped up mouthfuls of risotto using fingers

And the rosy blush upon the cheeks of Mr Johnson’s wife
When her spouse devoured his naan bread with the aid of fork and knife

Ricky went to Radiohead in work attire. His suit
And tie made him an outcast amongst the trendy yoot

And the looks I got at the RSC were nothing less than heinous
It seems that Shakespeare disapproves of hooded tops and trainers

Taste of the Past

2009-05-11T14:40:00.001+01:00

On a blustery day, I take Ba’s sari
(Which is all that's left of her)
To Camber Sands
I walk to the tide’s edge,
With the sari tucked under one arm,
Eating fish and chips

Dad, a fisherman and I
Scattered her ashes in the Indian Ocean
While the fisherman sang lullabies,
The wind howled at us, laughing
The briny spray flew back in our faces
We tasted Grandma on our lips

I hold one edge, and the breeze,
now sympathetic, takes the other
A ghostly wave dancing, a bony hand
Grasping for memories across the sea;
Those polyester temple scrolls
Once draped around her ample hips

Moonlighting

2009-05-11T14:39:00.000+01:00

Walking through Ridley Road market at 4am
After an illicit sexual trist

In the only shop open on Ridley Road market at this ungodly hour,
A Muslim butcher plays Urdu songs on his stereo
A poster of Obama smiles beatifically on the shop wall,
Presiding over dead carcasses screaming in the neon light

In the distance
A fox propositions me in a drawn out stare

A butcher, a scavenger and a whore
holding up the sky whilst they work,
so dawn can silently slip, unannounced ,
into the beds of dreamers and children

Land of Kings

2009-05-01T20:51:00.002+01:00

check out this Hackney Podcast, which features a track called 'Land of Kings', which i dashed out (lyrics, music and all) in a couple of days last month. I like it!

Claim to fame/shame

2009-05-01T20:39:00.004+01:00

Ali G was based on me.

I was in the same year as Sacha Baron Cohen at Haberdashers' Aske’s School for Boys. Sometimes, we took the Northern Line train home from Edgware together; Sacha got out at Hampstead, I got out at Belsize Park. At the time, I was falling in love with hip hop. Little did I realise that this was a constant source of amusement to Sacha and his peers, including William Sutcliffe (in William’s first novel, ‘New Boy’, a really nasty character in the book satirises my experiences at school).

I had a nervous breakdown in 2000. Suicidal, I slept for all day – or, more truthfully, I hid under my bedsheets for all day, unable to face reality. Until I turned on tv, and saw Sacha do a caricature partially based on me.

Obviously, this made me feel so much better about life.

Almost ten years later, Sacha is doing quite well for himself. Meanwhile, I’m playing Watermans Arts Centre in Brentford on Monday and Tuesday, a peak in a career not exactly as stellar as Sacha’s.

So the main thrust of this article came as somewhat of a surprise to me; click on it to enlarge.

Stuck in the Middle With you...

2009-04-26T15:53:00.001+01:00

One for the band! we'll rock this out at festivals this summer - i'll get an mp3 up as soon as I can...

Ah, it’s a lovely sunny day in good ole London town…
Courtesy of the right honourable gentleman, prime minister Gordon Brown
The heads of the member states of the g20 are discussing how best to mend
The broken hearts of countries sold on myths of rich and plenty
in the days when we were told to earn and spend.
And we’re off to make a stand,
Though nobody’s exactly sure what we’re standing against
Could be global warming, warfare, whales,
women’s rights, merchant wankers or washed out governments
But you can bet your bottom dollar we’re gonna have a fun day out!
Look! There’s a band playing Tijuana brass…
A compost toilet, and a pretty girl selling cookies on the grass…
Somebody sold me a brand new Nokia, mine for 50p
Jacked it from a Russell Brand look-a-like, don’t you love community?
And everyone’s happily snapping away, capturing momentos of the day
as if their life depended in it, as if we were all on holiday...
Rumour has it there's going to be a ruck
But there's more people looking for pictures than there are to cause one...
Whatever happened to the good old days of protest,
participation instead of observation?
But wait... No, there THEY are, ranting against the evils of democracy!
Inbetween popping into Tescos to buy one beer, and get another one free…
But it seems there's two sides to every coin –
It's not just the hippies hyped for a fight...
The Metropolitan Police have chosen their most Neanderthal primates
To keep everyone feeling shite…

Well I don't know why I came here tonight,
I got the feeling that something ain't right,
I'm so scared in case I’m hit in the gob
With a baton from the riot squad
Clowns to the left of me,
Jokers to the right, here I am,
Stuck in the middle with you.

Well you started out all peaceful,
proud that you were making a stand,
and then somebody took your picture
as they slapped you on the back,
the police… police…

You might not be surprised to learn ‘kettling’ was used by Nazis on Jews
It's now illegal to take a picture of a policeman, but boy, can they take pictures of you!
while the world is put to right by Barack, Sarkozy and the chosen few
Outside there's a mob being herded like pigs in a pen by the boys in blue;
Jumped up, pumped up officers with no visible identification
laying into the general public without so much as an invitation
and who is this general public? Well, my friends - it’s you and me…
Now we want to make a difference, but how can we, exactly?
We seem to have been hypnotized by Barack’s sweet rhetoric;
We’re under the illusion progression’s achieved through politics.
Our government yields power like a baton, and the Conservatives are shite
There’s clowns to the left of us and jokers to the right...
Meanwhile the g20 talk about the worlds poor,
And why nobody mentions our yearly trillion dollar defence budgets, I'm not sure...
So we come together to protest, though we don’t actually know what for -
How fitting we should find ourselves at the wrong end of the arm of the law...
I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place
Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right
But one thing is for certain, friends - I don’t want to fight

Yes I'm stuck in the middle with you,
And I'm wondering what it is I should do,
It's so hard to keep this frown from my face,
Losing control, yeah, I'm all over the place,
Clowns to the left of me, Jokers to the right,
Here I am, stuck in the middle with you

Well you started out all peaceful,
proud that you were making a stand,
and then somebody took your picture
as they slapped you on the back,
the police… police…

Jolene intro

2009-04-26T12:18:00.003+01:00

i performed this last night with a sitar player named Shama Rahman. I really like it as a spoken word piece, and it will form the beginning of the Jolene video I want to film soon. i've got some great ideas for the video and I'm on the lookout for a sh*t hot director, so let me know if you think of someone!

Aum bhur bhuvaha swaha
Tut savitur varenyam
Bhurgo devasya dimahi
Dhyo Yona prachonaaadayat

Once upon a time in my distant past
When my belly didn’t wobble like jelly and my arse was tight
When vast horizons spread in front of me
Like a phosphorescent sea
Full of mystery
Full of the unexplained
A girlfriend turned around to me and said, “Shane,
I hope you don’t take what I’m about to say bad,
But you’re the best ethnic wall hanging I’ve ever had”.
She unravelled me to her friends
As a sign of how well travelled she was
It was because of her I began to play the brown card
Started using ghee instead of lard
Started rolling rotli instead of baking bread
When my friends wanted tea,
I’d make masala chai instead
Because I got wise to the fact that if I played up my Indian heritage,
To put it simply, I would get more head.
I started slipping indecipherable Hindu mantras into my foreplay
But the only Indian words I knew were the ones I used when I used to pray
Yet these Sanskrit prayers added new layers of complexity to my seduction techniques
I’d achieve in minutes what took my pale-skinned brothers weeks
“Girl, I wanna touch you on your tutsavitur varenyam…
You make me feel like pati tapaavana sita ram…”
My conquests would say to me, “My heritage is so boring,
But you’re so exotic! I can hear the monsoon showers pouring when you speak,
Your skin tastes of fresh mango…”
And I was like, “Yo, - I think I got something here…”
And all of a sudden a new future began to appear in front of me
Like a chapter from the bhagvadgita
I used to whisper into their ears, “it is karma; am your Rama, and you are my Sita…”
Yes – I was a bona fide Gujarati cheater
There was no way I was going to reveal
that that my middle names were Russell and Peter.
Within a year, I was teaching yoga and tantra
Reciting mantras like ‘Ishwara Allah tero naam’
(I got that one from a cookbook by Madhur Jaffery)
I started talking about nirvana, and dharma, and Akram Khan
how your muladhara chakra would be more better kept
if you eat pani puri and chewed mithai paan…
Blood – I was on a roll!
You’ve got no idea how easy it was to get laid by revealing
I was from a culture believing
that we are all part of a universal soul!
I started putting kohl under each eye
I began every yoga class by saying “my brothers and sisters –
Or should I say meri ben ne bhai…
Western science always asks how,
But Indian philosophy answers the question why…”
I talked about things in triplicate;
The three curves of the symbol Aum representing the brainwaves of alpha, beta, theta;
The ayurvedic doshas of kapha, vata, and pita;
The holy trinity of Brahma, Vishnu, Shiva, or creator, preserver, destroyer;
The three gunas, called satvva, rajas, tamas,
Otherwise known as doctor, accountant, lawyer…
I figured out I could pay my rent with just a touch of an Indian accent,
a little head nod and the scent of some burning agharbati,
And here I am today, earning cold cash money from saying shit like
‘Swami Jai Jagdish Hare!’
I got my shit packed down!
I’m getting paid just for being brown!
Believe me when I tell you that if my granddad knew I was using temple songs
to tempt gori girls into removing their thongs,
my ass would be kicked to the grave of the poet Kalidas…
Actually, Kalidas was a Hindu, so his corpse was burned (although not at the stake )
So let’s choose another famous Indian poet – how about William Blake?

Here’s his most famous poem ‘Tigra, Tigra’
from his classic collection, ‘Songs of Immigrants and Expedience”;

(original Blake lyrics are in italics)

Tigra, Tigra, burning through (Tiger, tiger, burning bright)
The tree-lined avenues of Kew (In the forests of the night,)
What immortal eye or hand (What immortal hand or eye)
Caught me speeding, got me banned? (Could frame thy fearful symmetry?)

Just what distant police state (In what distant deeps or skies)
Recognised my numberplate? (Burnt the fire of thine eye?)
What officer could be bought (On what wings dare he aspire)
To stop my visit to the court? (What the hand dare seize the fire?)

Mine’s the hand dared seize the fire
But now, I’m for the fun’ral pire
For when my granddad hears what passed
He’s going to kick my sorry ass

His the shoulder, his the arm (And what shoulder and what art)
Will cause me grievous bodily harm … (Could twist the sinews of thy heart?)
And when he aims to give me beats (And when thy heart began to beat,)
What dread wouldn’t hit the streets? (What dread hand and what dread feet?)

Now I feel discoloured, ill
For I’ve been collared by the bill
I’ve problems with authority -
Did he who made granddad make thee? (Did He who made the lamb make thee?)

Tigra, Tigra, burning through
The tree-lined avenues of Kew
What immortal eye or hand
Caught me speeding, got me banned?

Yes, my granddad is a militant – in more ways than one.
When we were in Italia.
drinking wine in a cobblestoned alley,
A group of dudes with the most beautiful faces I’ve ever seen walked past us,
their pure white robes and headdresses
contrasting against their blue-black sheen of their skin.
my granddad murmured ‘Look at these bloody terrorists,
probably Muhajadin’.

You might think this was a one-off, but last year,
I was at a family serving up the thalis
When someone (observing a bunch of yoot smoking a zoot on the street)
said, “These Somalis, they are turning this country into a shitheap”.
My wince of disgust was noticed by my cousin Prakash,
(who’s shortened his name to Praks)
who said, “Don’t worry Shane, we’re not racist.
We just hate the blacks…”

Even my grandma’s been known to say to me:
“I can’t believe you’re a poet!
Even Sri Lankans earn more money than you!”

And it’s only when you start to look at what’s behind her thought pattern
that a deeper picture is revealed;
I’ve heard black people say that the darker the berry,
the sweeter the juice, once its peeled,
But for Asians, it’s the opposite;
The darker the berry, the worse the hand you were dealed,
And the more proof it is that you’re too stupid or poor to work indoors,
So you have to earn your bucks underneath the burning sun in a field!
Why the f**k do you think we Indians talk about “enlightenment” so much!!
The late, great Ian Dury’s got this song, which goes
‘I wanna be straight!
I wanna be straight!
I’m sick and tired of taking drugs and staying out late!’
Well, I am the Ind-ian Dury, and this is how my song would go:
‘I wanna be enlightened!
I wanna be enlightened!
I’m sick of being dark, I want my skin to be whitened!’

Now here’s a story ‘bout a man
He worked so hard to get a tan
He wanted to become an African
Put collagen into his lips
And traced his name to slavery ships
Though really he was born in Birmingham
But this poor sod had overlooked
The fact that he had overcooked
In tanning booths, and use of St Tropez
So he walked into a pharmacy
And spoke to Mrs. Solanki
Who said, ‘You must apply this every day…’

He said, ‘what is it?’
She said, ‘It’s… Jolen, Jolen, Jolen, Jolen…
India’s no.1 skin lightening cream…
Jolen, Jolen, Jolen, Jolen…
Helping you improve your self esteem…

Used by Condy and Obama
Tiger Woods, the Dalai Lama
And now we sponsor Lewis Hamilton;
What shade do you suppose
Was Daniel Craig before he rose
To the iconic, pleasantly light-skinned James Bond?’
The man was extra chuffed
He knew that he had found the stuff
That would prevent folks from assuming
He worked out in the fields
He walked out of that store
With fifteen kilos, maybe more
And to this day, his skin, it rots and slowly peels..

Why? Because he uses. Jolen, Jolen, Jolen, Jolen…
India’s no.1 skin lightening cream…
Jolen, Jolen, Jolen, Jolen…
Helping you improve your self esteem…

the battle of St George

2009-04-26T10:12:00.005+01:00

'Jerusalem' was played yesterday in Trafalgar Square at the St George's Day celebrations by the rockin' Rita Ray.

St George's Day is so weird, right? A day to celebrate being English... we wave our flags, which we're still having an identity crisis over, reminding us as they do of nationalism, and even fascism.
Amusingly, St George is rumoured to have been black, which kind of puts a shoe up the arse of your average BNP voter.

One of the most stupid English customs is Morris dancing. Here's a picture of Morris dancers celebrating St George's day outside a church in Bishopsgate.

Morris dancing is a bit like the Indian 'dandia', a game played with sticks. Check out the link, it's brilliant! I'm really interested in organising a dance battle, a bit like a breakdance battle, where three crews face each other off to decide who claims rights to St George's identity.

Crew number one would be the dudes pictured above.

Crew number two would look like this:

Crew number three would be ninjas... Ladies. In Burkhas. With skills. Kickin' ass.

We're supporting Billy Bragg tomorrow, so i'll ask his thoughts on the matter...

New videos

2009-04-24T09:25:00.003+01:00

'Pull Your Trousers Up', and an average edit of the Broken English show; we'll have a much better one in a month.

a children's poem which will make a great song one day

2009-04-21T01:23:00.000+01:00

The Yiddish minotaur was a fickle beast.
It survived. That’s the main thing.
But it wasn’t too happy about the situation.

It said

Maa meeney meeney meeny meeney meeny moo

It said

Blaa bliny blinybliny hagadajadoo

I said I was confused
I said I was confused

And the minotaur said to me

Maa meeney meeney meeny meeney meeny moo

It said

Blaa bliny blinybliny hagadajadoo

"Dammit I'm Mad"

2009-04-19T12:17:00.003+01:00

I've been knocked sideways by Demitri Martin of late.

Check out his 224 word palindrome (i.e. something that reads the same if you read it backwards). A palindrome is easily achievable with a word, or perhaps even a sentence, but to do so with a poem? Unbelievable. Catch his genius on Youtube by clicking on his name above.

Dammit I'm mad.
Evil is a deed as I live.
God, am I reviled? I rise, my bed on a sun, I melt.
To be not one man emanating is sad. I piss.
Alas, it is so late. Who stops to help?
Man, it is hot. I'm in it. I tell.
I am not a devil. I level "Mad Dog".
Ah, say burning is, as a deified gulp,
In my halo of a mired rum tin.
I erase many men. Oh, to be man, a sin.
Is evil in a clam? In a trap?
No. It is open. On it I was stuck.
Rats peed on hope. Elsewhere dips a web.
Be still if I fill its ebb.
Ew, a spider… eh?
We sleep. Oh no!
Deep, stark cuts saw it in one position.
Part animal, can I live? Sin is a name.
Both, one… my names are in it.
Murder? I'm a fool.
A hymn I plug, deified as a sign in ruby ash,
A Goddam level I lived at.
On mail let it in. I'm it.
Oh, sit in ample hot spots. Oh wet!
A loss it is alas (sip). I'd assign it a name.
Name not one bottle minus an ode by me:
"Sir, I deliver. I'm a dog"
Evil is a deed as I live.
Dammit I'm mad.

Happy Snap/Clap/Trap

2009-04-19T05:00:00.002+01:00

I took your picture, so that you would live
In memory, furnished with all the lies
We tell ourselves about what’s been and gone;
I’ve lingered on (and thoroughly revised)
The moments that we shared, to match my mood
Of melancholy longing for what’s past;
The fire within my purpose you renewed,
And all the lurking shadows that it cast.
In the distant future, they will say
How pretty was this girl I used to date.
But none will recognise the truth, I pray -
You bore me like a heavy burdened weight.
This is not revealed within the snap.
I’m sorry I bequeathed you with the clap.

This poem is about how we choose paint a favourable picture of the past, but it’s also about an ugly revelation. It’s funny how we choose to record our memories, which are never strictly facts, but instead always clouded by our judgements. So often, our memories are like frozen snapshots which don’t reveal the whole truth. The ‘turn’ in the sonnet is not traditional, in that it comes in the last line; otherwise, it's written in traditional sonnet form to mock a style of poetry which speaks of love and beauty, without revealing more unsightly truths; truths which are more common to accept, or at least discuss, in this day and age.

Warzone

2009-04-09T11:33:00.002+01:00

This is my response to footage revealing Ian Tomlinson was assaulted by police minutes before dying at the G20 protests last week, despite an initial report from the police claiming not only that he had no contact with the police before he collapsed, but also that on trying to help him, medics were attacked by an angry crowd.

People say they love my words because they're funny
Making light of all kinds of serious things
Like the tensions between us caused by pursuit of money
As buy into the nightmares money brings
But every now and then I must get serious
And every now and then I must protest
because even though humour's a dangerous weapon
There's some things which just cannot be addressed
by taking the piss.
One of them happened last week, as I was returning from a job in E14.
I got off the tube at Bank station,
and I found myself in the heart of the machine…
But on this particular day,
The machine’s blood flow had been disrupted
And it seems that things were not quite going to plan
The streets were clogged with police and protestors
As the public expressed their anger towards the leaders of our lands.

Unexpectedly, I was filled with anger
Just ten years ago it would have been me
Breaking windows with my empty slogans
And ranting at so-called democracy
But that day I viewed these protestors with exasperation,
For I’ve been hypnotized by Barack’s rhetoric;
Somehow I've fallen under the illusion
That progression is achieved through politics.
So I get mad at dreadlocked hippies smoking reefer
(No doubt many of them claiming dole,
Slagging off the state which pays for them to be irate
While they complain about corruption and control)

Meanwhile heads of member states of the G20
Gather to discuss how best to mend
The broken hearts of countries sold on myths of rich and plenty
In the days when we were told to earn and spend.

l'm stuck between a rock and a hard place
Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right
But one thing is for certain,
I don’t want to show my face at that march,
Because to put it simply, I don’t want to fight

So when I found myself there quite accidentally
I found myself defending the police
‘They’ve got a job to do’, I tried to argue
‘They’re not neo-fascist thugs, like ones in Greece…’
But it seems that I was wrong,
For in the last two days,
the façade has slowly been removed.
The term used to describe police practise
at the march last week was ‘kettling’ -
The same term was applied to tactics used by Nazis against Jews.

One man called for medical attention
amidst officers and protestors (both hyped for a ruck)
The media reported that medics who tried to help that man
were ‘pelted with bottles by a screaming mob’
Though apparently, only one bottle was chucked…
And minutes later that man was dead
Of ‘natural causes’, said the boys in blue -
Yet all the pictures taken by the information-hungry
Reveal a different, and quite frightening truth…

public space has been transformed into a warzone
both armies ramping up the fear in crowds
the government deploy sonic warfare
(like mosquitos and muzak) in the public sphere
the other army plays their mp3s aloud
one army bombs us with adverts and unjust laws which are sanctified
while the ‘terrorists’ fight back with graffiti and art
now the police can take pictures of you,
but you can’t take pictures of them,
and there’s those who believe that this is just the start…
then there’s those who believe ‘you can’t throw custard in a police state’
but what happened to Ian Tomlinson makes you think…
there’s certain things we need to be aware of -
I’ll provide the clues; you make the link.
Our saviour, Obama, pacifies the Muslim world,
but we’re still about to throw £20 billion away
on a nuclear ‘deterrent’ which cannot be launched without a wink
from our bigger brother, the good ol’ US of A.
Last week I was almost arrested for taking a picture of an advert on the tube… but I don’t remember anyone asking for my permission
To allow for that advert to invade my consciousness and dreams
Suckering me into mindless consumerism.
The police have got an ad campaign at the moment
I think it’s meant to make people feel safe,
but is that really what’s coming across?
‘anything you say may be taken down and used as evidence’…
meanwhile, Ian Tomlinson’s family contemplates their loss
an innocent man , attacked for no reason
by a jumped-up, pumped-up officer, out to maim
Meanwhile, hoodrats who don’t give a fuck will continue to take the piss
and the guilty will use the courts to successfully avoid the blame
clowns to the left of me
jokers to the right
but I’m not laughing.

cool pics and flyers

2009-04-03T17:29:00.005+01:00

Word

Here's a few images pertaining to the next couple of week's nefarious activities... click on each image to view properly, innit

Green Sunday at the Arcola this week, which I'm hosting:

Tongue Fu at Rich Mix next Thursday April 9th:

I was in an art gallery, and saw Warhol's 'Tongue Fu' homage:

'Broken English' at Watermans:

And finally, I'm on the front of this month's Esquire magazine, in the guise of my German alter-ego, Heinrich Van Voo...

Kingship

2009-03-28T07:48:00.002Z

I apologise for being totally slack in posting. Part of me withdrew into an inner world, where i've been busy writing, dreaming and scheming. I'm participating in a Community Building Day today as part of the London Teenage Poetry Slam project, an ongoing project which will culminates in a slam event in June. I've been working with Kingsford School in Beckton. It's been a joy to work with a bunch of poets for the last five weeks, and it was a crime to have to whittle the team I'll be working with over the next two months down to eight. Leading the project is Jacob Sam La Rose, a constant source of inspiration. After he sent me this trailer for Louder Than A Bomb last night, I wrote this for delivery today at the Community Building Day.

KINGSHIP

The only reason it’s on the page
is because it was written last night
When I heard somebody say upon a stage
that all of their life had been a fight
So this is for every kid I ever had the pleasure to meet
Who relinquished their kingship in a classroom -
yet whose tongue was set on fire by a beat
This is for every kid whose heart ticks louder than a bomb
Show me the concrete bricks your inner temple is built from
Show me the kung fu kick in your lip that’s a bass drum
Your melody is crafted from the aftermath of battle raged
Carved into the page,
Like when your heart was halved when your folk’s marriage failed
Or the pain you scarve in your niqab and veil as you reach out, yearning to belong
So speak to me of every tear that your cheek’s been wet by
Every teacher you’ve been met by,
Every memory you savour
Every flavour, every moment you’ve been touched
Every rhyme that’s been forged in the furnace of your heart
And every time you’ve sculpted words to speak of who we truly are -
Because sometimes, we forget our kingship, and fear slips in
Sometimes I forget my kingship, and fear slips in
And that’s when I need your poetry
poems which teach me once again to see
poems which blind me with light
Poetry which dismantles the phallacy
that life is simply black and white
Because we were born in the shadows,
of every distempered emotion and shade
21st century UK, British born and yet made
from the blood of our ancestors,
speaking the tongues of our kin
carrying songs of our forefathers
nurturing wisdom within
so as you grace the stage today,
know that the pictures you paint in your heart and your mind
are the stories which guide womankind to the future
you are the gatekeepers to mysteries unknown
so pull the sword from the stone with your speech
let ancients spirits guide you
let what’s inside you speak;
find your kingship again
and let your tongue be set on fire by the beat.

Ketchup

2009-03-05T13:07:00.002Z

The show absolutely rocked it! It sold out and everyone came away buzzing. I’ve only just come down. The band were amazing, and everyone pulled it out of the bag - it was a hitchless performance. Thanks to all - especially Jesal Padia on sound and Euan Maybank on lights. Euan got off a plane from Singapore, and worked 20 hours without a break! Here are some images…

Other news:

Six Billion Ways at Rich Mix was a great success. I led tours around the local area looking at art, activism and the mediation of public space, and performed in the evening – Bianca Jagger said she loved my show! Ha…

I finished two great school projects – one for Creative Partnerships at Langdon Park in East London, and another at Alec Hunter College in Braintree, Essex. My peers who have also worked there include Jon Hegley, Luke Wright and Malika Booker.

I’ve also been commissioned by the Courtauld Gallery to write poems on time and memory.

Today I’m performing with the Shrine (Rita Ray and Max Reinhardt) at The Museum of London, and it’s the first day of my mentoring a group of students for a London Slam in June. And spring is definitely in the air!!

People Who Give A Shit Are Sexy

2009-02-25T16:26:00.003Z

I'm having a very enjoyable day!

I hadn't slept properly for a week - nerves over tomorrow's show, perhaps - but got good rest in, after a cracking day; a great interview on the Nikki Bedi show on BBC Asian Network (link's active for a week, I'm on 1 hr 10 mins in);

I had a huge breakthrough with a devised theatre project I'm directing with young people in Hounslow;

and I played Manbag at the launch of Made By, an umbrella organisation working with some amazing ethical fashion labels. One of Made By's USP's is 'track&trace', where labels involved show you exactly how each piece of clothing you are interested in has ended up in your house (after originating from a field).

I had an inspiring conversation with force-of-nature Summer Rayne, who has written a kickass book, 'Style, Naturally: The Savvy Shopping Guide to Sustainable Fashion and Beauty'. The title of this post is taken from Summer's mention of this strapline from Loomstate jeans. Ethical, fair trade, green; these labels are enough to scare off anyone in this day and age. How do we create a future where ethical trading is the status quo? By making it goddamn sexy. We are not hippies any more. We don't wear sandals, and we don't smoke weed. But we understand what makes the world go round; functioning systems depend on the happiness of ALL of their parts. Every worker, every piece of land. Exploitation will soon be condemned to the language of yesteryear. At least, that's the world I want to be working towards - and trust me when I say that I'm going to make it happen, together with all who stand with me. We're starting to be counted in our millions. And every single one of us is goddamn sexy.

Other good news;

Lots of gigs are coming in (including a small stint as poet-in-residence, looking at an exhibition in the Courtauld Gallery, spring in in the air, and words are pouring out of me! I ain't posting them, and have been quiet on the blog front, because there's something to be said for internalisation, cogitation, and marination; while the world twitters away, I refused to get sucked in to more time on the computer. I've even started writing with pen and paper again, which I haven't done in a few years!

I'm looking forward to the show tomorrow...

England People Very Nice

2009-02-17T09:27:00.004Z

After practically experiencing artistic orgasm at the design museum’s overview of the work of Hussein Chalayan (spend some time on his site, it's a great overview of his work), I find myself asking Hussein one question, with regards to plugging into the mind and heart of this genius designer; but even he doesn’t know how to clean the stain out of my dad’s trousers. How frustrating.

There’s been an excess of Husseins in the last couple of weeks. Most amusing is Hussein Ismael's vitriolic response to the hilarious ‘England People Very Nice’, a National Theatre production written by Richard Bean and directed by head honcho of the National, Nicholas Hytner. Just before the production, I couldn’t help observing how white and wealthy the people hanging out at the National were. Nonetheless, very nice, I'm sure.

Preparations for the show on 26th Feb at London's Rich Mix are going well. I’ve been gigging loads, finding myself frequenting Stoke Newington International Airport quite a lot; doing a benefit for the Gilly Mundy Memorial Institute on Saturday; and doing a gig with Billy Bragg, Lemn Sissay and Shazia Mirza in April – deets to follow…

Sing for your supper

2009-01-10T09:53:00.001Z

Click here to read an interesting article from the Washington Post; the paper posted violin maestro Joshua Bell as a busker in a subway in a social experiment which asked, “what is beauty? Is it a measurable fact (Gottfried Leibniz), or merely an opinion (David Hume), or is it a little of each, colored by the immediate state of mind of the observer (Immanuel Kant)?”

The experiment demonstrates the irony and paradox of the value of art. Last year, I met two old and dear friends, Del Ruby Winter and Andre Utvek, in Hoxton Square. Del Ruby and I went to Andre’s club Jazid in Norway to dj a couple of times in the 90’s. Now, Del Ruby works at the White Cube gallery, and Andre is a journalist writing about oil magnates. Del Ruby invited us into a private part of the gallery. Andre had a friend with him; a funny man who tried to show us how his healing suction cups were going to make him big money in Nigeria. On the floor was a piece of art; a map of the world, made out of palmyra, the same material doormats are made from. It looked like a doormat. So, naturally, Andre’s friend stepped on it.

“What are you doing? Get off!” Del Ruby screamed. “Do you know how much that is worth?”

He shrugged. “It looked like a doormat to me,” he later confided.

God, and his role in the pharmaceutical industry

2009-01-09T20:56:00.004Z

7.45am

I can’t move. I tried to get out of bed and felt dizzy, nauseous and weak. My limbs burn. My head throbs. My swollen glands have reduced my throat to the size of a small child’s wee wee hole, so swallowing anything larger than a peanut isn’t an option – and God forbid coughing. Did you hear that, God? I command that you forbid coughing. For a few days, at least. Come on, dude, if you’re gonna f*ck with the Palestinians so bad, you might as well show my throat some love. Not that I need it that much. I have the appetite of an aspiring model. Luckily, I have no food in the house.

8.32am

But wait! I have a busy day! I have to drop off the van I use for tofu delivery, deliver the chairs in the van that I picked up last night for my ex girlfriend Briony, go to Homerton Hospital and set up some dj equipment for the mentalists, and then have two meetings in East London! I can’t afford to be ill!

By the time I get back home from dropping the van and the chairs off, via a stop at the shops, I feel like I am going to die. Let me rephrase that. I am going to die. Soon. I make a hot drink and climb into bed.

11.03am

I am hallucinating. My flatmate’s face appears in my bedsheet and smiles. At least it is the pretty female one. God! I told you to forbid coughing, you bastard!

3.24pm

Briony shows up, makes me food, strokes my ego, assures me I am not going to die, and disappears.

3.26pm

I can’t believe it took me this long to figure out that Ibuprofen could dumb the pain. I swallow eight. Am I the brown Heath Ledger? Yesterday, I heard Danny Boyle talk about how the world is waiting for the first multicultural, multi-continental movie star. Can you believe that I have invested more than an ounce of my time believing that it was going to be me? Let’s see… 37 years old… haven’t yet starred in anything that anybody else has written… apart from a German Fanta advert - after which, seconds after leaving the film studio, I got nicked. Talk about bad luck. They were arresting the guy in front of me, who was a drug dealer. I just happened to be in the wrong place, at the wrong time. Goddamn German Fanta. Did you hear that, God?

3.53pm

I love you, pharmaceutical industry. I know I have slagged you off repeatedly in the past, using you as an example of why this world we live in is so f*cked, criticising the way you research, market and invent medications just so your bosses can get richer, but right now, I don’t care if Mr. Glaxo and Mr. Wellcome are riding on the backs of their personal space shuttles through the outer waves of the Milky Way; pass me some more pills.

5.48pm

Some kind of exorcism is occurring. My bedsheets are soaked. But I feel better. My flatmate Lynn makes me some soup. She’s cute. It’s nice when you can say this about your nurses. No offence, mum, I'd love you to take care of me, it's just that even if you were here to mop my brow, I wouldn’t fancy you. That would be wrong. You're my mum. I don't care what Freud says. Oedipus Shmoedipus. By the way, thanks for that hundred pack of Ibuprofen. They're going down quicker than the Ferrero Rocher.

7.89pm

Time is distorting. The fever is moving round different parts of my body willy-nilly, seducing my masses of red blood cells with its evil rhetoric. Sometimes I’m hot. Sometimes I’m freezing. I can’t find my hot water bottle but my laptop seems to be doing the job. I wrap a towel round it and hug it as I fall asleep.

The day after

8.12am

I seem to be a little better. I can move. I make myself a drink that Briony made for me yesterday; chilli, garlic, ginger, fennel, cardamom, honey. While I am doing so, my flatmate Jon pulls one of his billions of pre-prepared soups from the freezer. I smile at him, but in my mind I am thinking, “You tight Northern git. I am completely ill. You could have offered me one of your frozen, pre-prepared soups! I don’t care if you never share a morsel of your food with me again, but now is the time!”
But I don’t actually say anything.

1pm

I decide that I need food. This is good. Food is good. Yesterday, food was bad. I couldn’t stomach anything processed. All I wanted was banana leaves wrapped in spinach. Steamed. Today, as I am ill, I have the luxury of reading cookery books. I choose Nigel Slater.

I love Nigel Slater. Stephen Fry and Nigel Slater are good reasons to turn gay. It’s their minds. I was performing in a club last month (or thereabouts) when this girl did a routine about how much she wanted to ‘do’ Stephen Fry. She had cardboard cut-outs of his face on sticks, and everything. After we both performed, she mouthed the words “Do you want to ****?” to me. The reason I am pretty sure of this is the way the last word was enunciated, silently, with her lips. It's either because she was attracted to my mind, or because she thought I was gay. Either way, I ran off screaming (she weren't no Mary Poppins).

Christ, what a job I have. My dad still thinks he could get me a job as a policeman. Did I tell you about the time I bought (the Perrier Award winning comedian) Reginald D Hunter a drink? He pulled me close, and said, “Man, I’m gonna **** a woman up the *** tonight.” I swear. I met him for all of like two minutes before he dropped this bomb on me. Is it too late to become a politician? Please, God, can I try again?

4.52pm

I return home to attack a meal which involves chicken, broth, lemongrass, noodles, lime, chilli, that sort of thing. It’s nice to be back in a clean kitchen, especially after ten days of Hurricane Jose.

Jose is fresh off the boat from Espagna. Let me get started on the good foot; Jose is a dude. He’s young, spirited, funny, charming, all of these things. But he’s also lazy and dirty; a classic combo. “Did I tell you I met a French girl recently?” he tells me, whilst splattering the kitchen with hot globules of unsaturated oil. “Yeah, she chucked me because she said I wasn’t clean enough. Because I didn’t wipe down the surfaces every day, you know?” He looks at me, as if to acknowledge that such talk is crazy talk.

Jose has left now, leaving (God bless him) only a few bits of washing up scattered around the kitchen (you know, the odd oil-soaked pan, that kind of thing) and only a few other bits (you know, the multitudinous cigarette butts scattered around the garden he promised to pick up after being admonished for treating the garden like an ashtray, that sort of thing). The funniest thing is the job he has gone to do; he’s gone to be a nanny to five children raised by a lesbian couple in Stoke Newington. 21st Century Mary f***ing Poppins, with an accent Dyke Van Dick would be proud of. You couldn’t make this sh*t up. No disrespect, hombre, but I’m giving you two weeks in the job before you run, screaming.

Hmm. I must be feeling better. My wit is returning. Albeit at the expense of others. Such is the tragedy at the heart of all comedy. Or so said God as he resignedly watched the arc of another missile, as it left one man's home and landed in another's.

Seeing Things

2009-01-03T17:23:00.003Z

An article I just read brought tears to my eyes. It was by Norah Vincent, an edited extract from her new book, ‘Voluntary Madness; My Year Lost And Found In The Loony Bin’. It’s a beautiful piece of journalism, which touches on many of the problems that people associate with mental health care; namely, that psychiatric treatment resorts to medication pretty much all of the time. She describe her time at the Mobius centre, where staff recognise that “words and ideas have a physiological effect on the brain that’s every bit as powerful as the serotonin and dopamine you manipulate when you take drugs”. Vincent says “There is great debate in the scientific community about the safety and effectiveness of [dopamine-blocking anti-psychotic medications] in controlling delusions. If they work at all, they work because heavily sedation… in a person is a bit like hitting them over the head with a frying pan.”

I’m pondering this, with regards to two aspects of work. The first is the closest to my heart. In February, I’m doing the first performance of ‘Broken English’, the show that is based around the album. I’m deep into writing the show at the moment. In a way, it’s the culmination of loads of shows I’ve been performing over the last three years; spoken word, music, comedy and theatre. I’m trying to strike the right balance between these mediums, and also the content of the show.

The album’s called ‘Broken English’ as a multi-layered pun. Of course, Broken English is a term used to describe hesitant or badly structured English, specifically as used by non-native speakers of the language. I’ve always been fascinated by the way that language, and culture, mutates and changes through the people that speak it. But it’s also a reference to how England, to me, feels a bit broken at the moment. No-one’s quite sure what being English is.

I guess, in my time, I’ve also felt broken.

Falling apart is never a bad thing; it’s painful, but allows for the process of reconstruction, based on truths that are pertinent in the present, rather than truths formed and fixated from the pain and the baggage of yesteryear.

What's more; memory, like consciousness itself, can be compared to a broken mirror. Every shard tells a different story, and even if you could see all the shards at once, it would only be a reflection; not the truth. Norah mentions a staff therapist standing at a whiteboard scrawling, 'I do not see things as they are. I see things as I am.'

The second bit of my work which Norah’s article will inform is my work as a workshop leader in mental health institutes. Next week, I’m dropping into Homerton Hospital’s psychiatric wards to run DJ workshops. I’ve been observing this ward, and others, for a couple of months now. They’re fascinating places. I only wish I could talk about them, but as in schools, client confidentiality takes precedence (how much I wish I could share some of the things I witnessed last year in institutions!)

I’m looking forward to using music as a therapeutic tool. It’s funny that DJ workshops should be so popular. I’d love to play jazz, classical, minimalist music whilst on the wards, but instead am packing R & B, hip hop, garage and jungle, because it seems that that’s the music the clients on the ward are familiar with, and want to play. Meanwhile, I’m going in with my senses sharpened, keen to observe what I see through the eyes of an artist.

It’s funny, though. Occasionally I lapse back into a state that I recognize, a state which doctors would diagnose with one or other of the labels we attach to people these days; bipolar, depressive, that sort of thing. I’m wary of working on the wards, wary of a world I remember; a world of unhappiness, confusion, pain and delusion.

Norah concludes the article like so; “What had started as a crass willingness to play along, and to take notes about the process of therapy, has penetrated into real memory, real emotion, coiled and waiting and ready to spring. It had taken only the slightest touch to explode.”

All this is just conjecture,
so don’t worry, mum and dad.

I’m getting paid.
Plus I promise I won’t go mad.

Read Norah's article here.

Pull your Trousers Up

2008-12-30T23:29:00.004Z

NEWSFLASH:

“Urban rudeboy and ladies man
Hanif ‘Tikadaadaa’ Tyrone Maximus III
Was today arrested and cautioned for crimes against humanity
That impeccably dressed brother had let his trousers slip so low
That they gathered round his ankles
Enforcing him into a shuffle
Which emulated that of his slave ancestors
And thus, while running for the no.49 bus
Hanif tripped, falling flat on his face
But not before felling the entire incontinent contingent
Of Mrs Elsworthy Gunasekara’s octogenarian ladies bingo society
As if they were ten pin skittles.
As the ancient deities scattered across the street
Tyrone was spotted by that all-too-rare of things –
Yes, a bobby on the beat –
And immediately arrested on charges of assault, battery
And public displays of nudity.
And now to the weather!”

Hanif ‘Tikadaadaa’ Tyrone sat in the dock at the back of the court
In the hope that the judge would be lenient.
He pondered whether
The injuries sustained by those octogenarian birds of a feather
Would lead him to incarceration
At the behest of his majesty’s service -
-.e. whether he would be going down.
“Is it ‘cause I am brown?”
He meekly suggested to the wigged, powder-puffed judge
Whose stare would have bleached holes into Tyrone’s appareil,
Were he not already wearing a white string vest.

“Hanif Tyrone Maximus III,
You are hereby sentenced to one day’s imprisonment in Belmarsh nick
In the hope that when you emerge from this hardly harsh sentence
(And here, the judge smiled an all-too-knowing smile)
You will no longer suffer from the fashion rhetoric
That sees you displaying not only your behinds
But also your ghastly Calvin Kleins
As if you were a baboon,
Proudly displaying his backside
In order to attract a beautiful mate.
In other words, young man,
When you are released from the can,
I firmly hope that you have learnt to
PULL YOUR TROUSERS UP!!”

A third of the way through his sentence
(That is, after a night’s kip)
Tyrone awoke, and thought to himself,
“Raaas! Being inside is an easy ride!
Out on the streets, it’s divide and conquer
But in here, I’m like Willie Wonka –
The epitomy of cool multiplied!”
The cell doors swung open
And Tyrone began to strut around, like lord of the manor
The waistline of his trousers still lower than his perfect bubble butt,
Before he became aware of smacking lips
And hungry leers from desperate eyes;
And then he heard the voice –
“You – boy – come over here!”

You see, what Tyrone failed to realise
(in his infinite wisdom)
was that low slung trousers originated in prison
as a signifier that you were sexually available to other men in your jail;

and that was about the time when Hanif ‘Tikadaadaa’ Tyrone Maximus III
began to scream, begging to be let out on bail.

So here’s a word of warning
to all you fashion-conscious low batty riders;
In your desire to look fly in the eyes of your peers
You are making a statement
that identifies you with homosexuals, queens and queers.

Now, of course, there’s nothing wrong with that –
But I just thought you should know.
Ah, to watch your homophobia battle with your ego…
By wearing your trousers in this manner
It’s like you’re flying a banner which reads,
“Please bend me over and fuck me
As you have fucked me since
You first put my ass on the slavery ships...
As you have fucked me since you claimed my lands as yours
And stole the jewels from my crown...
As you have continued to fuck me
with free trade agreements and economic sanctions...”

So please;
If you believe that the overseas trade in human traffic -
Or the overseas trade on goods that sees
African countries locked into a cycle of poverty -
Or even the overseas trade in ideas that sees
Gangster culture, gun worship,
Validation of drug use
And degradation of women as values to aspire to -
If you, like me, believe that these
Are terrible chapters in our histories
Recognise the part you play in the story today;
If you don’t want to perpetrate the myth
That black people are happy to be raped,
Abused, and ridiculed,
Then, all it takes, my friends,
Is a good sturdy belt –
And the firm, concrete conviction

TO PULL YOUR TROUSERS UP.

When I performed this piece in Africa recently,
I was given a standing ovation.
When I performed it in Brixton last year,
it was a very different situation;
Black people looked at me as if I had committed blasphemy
by linking low slung jeans with sodomy.
What gave me the right to judge how others dress,
By my own standards born, I confess,
in a uniformed and private education?
Did I have the right, the front, the cheek, the face,
to take the piss out of another man’s “race”?
Well - here's the thing.
I am of the unpopular opinion that though we are born equal,
The black man is the prodigal son that was caste out from his land,
And one day will return to his rightful place on the throne as King.
It's only a matter of time; and until then, until the African sun rises,
Then every image that links black people to music, or sports, or crime,
Only perpetuates the legacy of slavery
- and that includes my clever Hanif ‘tikadaadaa’ Maximus Tyrone 3rd rhyme!

Here's a dichotomy:
I see advertising as one of the arms of an economy-driven society which I feel ambivalent towards,
Given that such a society creates not only illegal wars,
But also exacerbates the gap between rich and poor;
And yet every time I see a black person on a billboard I cheer,
Because it's positive role models which are beginning to appear,
Despite the fact that what’s really going on is that non-whites are being subsumed by the mainstream,
Selling an empty corporate-manufactured dream,
which keeps US ALL blind to the real struggle.
So should we celebrate the fact that these positive images exist?
I mean, I'd rather invest in the image of Tommy Smith’s black power fist at the ‘68 Olympic Games.
When I see Will Smith on a billboard,
Somehow it's like the struggle has been tamed!

But- and here's the crux of the matter –
what would you rather see?
Defiant black voices struggling to fight against their pigeonholed role in society, like Fela Kuti or Mohamed Ali,
Or black presidents like Obama and the first father of his homeland, Jomo Kenyatta?
Man, I couldn't believe what my eyes told me when I hit the city of Nairobi.
Of course they're proud of their son, Barack,
But more than that-
I was amazed that no-one in Africa seemed to be hung up on being black!
Because none of them had to fight for their rights in societies that were mostly white!
Of course, much of Africa was colonised,
But it's like as soon as the colonials left, the countries returned to being proud of being dark skinned...
So my hosts couldn't understand my confusion and, yes, my excitement,
at seeing black people advertising lotteries, whisky and gin!
I heard non-black models complain it was so unfair that they didn't stand a chance of getting a job,
And I thought - how odd!
The tables have been turned!
in Zimbabwe, it’s black kids that are wearing the hoods and it’s the white people that are getting burned!
I’m confused!
I enjoy seeing black people read the news,
I’m not sure if it’s because Samuel Jackson is black that I think he’s a dude,
And I’m not sure there’ll ever be a time when I don’t find Jamaicans and Nigerians aren’t rude!
Stereotypes are weird, right?
I mean, it’s impossible to imagine a world were Obama wasn’t dark, son, and Jeremy Clarkson wasn’t white!
So let’s all cheer
And thank god that the ‘08 American election has finally brought us near
to a world where a black conservative fascist middle class bigot will be presenting Top Gear.
Here’s to an equal f-f-f-f-f- future!
And President Obama, I offer you my sincere prayer –
Please, please, please, let nobody sssssssshhhhh...

Seasonal Gifts

2008-12-29T09:56:00.002Z

Here's some crackers:

Classic Aretha...

My favourite tune of the moment - Abdullah Ibrahim sings Desert Air...

Gould plays Goldberg variations 1 - 7...

and Nina Simone doing it like no-one else can.

Incubate

2008-12-28T21:02:00.007Z

This is a year old proposal for a poetry grant. Looking back on it, I really love it! By clicking on each image, you can see it in a good size. I took a few creative liberties in the project, by using artwork by friends without permission... by publishing it, I am owning up! Sorry dudes - I credit you here. The first page, below, contains a snap by Calcutta artist Diya Sarker, and pics of me by David Cuesta.

Pages 2 and 3 contain artwork by Ai Hasegawa. Ai worked her ass off for me a couple of years ago. Her stuff rocks, and I fully intend to use the work she's done; it's too good to waste. She's also responsible for the D'Archetypes logo of a remixed Saraswati.

The pages below feature photos and design by Ben Gold, and more images from Ai.

images by Jia Zhuang and Mo Ling Chui:

I nicked the images in the page below from the web, so apologies to the featured artists, and the photographers! Clockwise from top left, the poets featured are David J, Polar Bear, Lemn Sissay, Yusra Warsama, Zena Edwards and Charlie Dark. These guys are like my most immediate mentors, all legends on the UK spoken word scene.

images by Ai and Diya again, and Ambient TV:

Finally, more by David Cuesta, Ai, and a picture by Briony Campbell.

The tale of the woman whose hymen grew back (part 1)

2008-12-28T18:44:00.000Z

Again, a first draft... also inspired by a true story!

Aged 20, two key processes
manifested within the ample folds of Gavriella Gottlieb’s dresses
after an awkward fumble with the butcher’s son, Simon.
Her self esteem was temporarily bolstered;
But more tragically,
She suffered irreversible damage to her shattered hymen.
In her dreams, she imagined that like her grandmother’s sofa,
she could get her hymen re-upholstered,
But the reality was plain to see;
It had been busted permanently, the day she lost her virginity -
And the month after, there followed another broken part;
For when she learnt that the butcher’s son had been porking
Her best friend, Andrea Dworkin,
Her hymen was joined by her ruptured heart.

Both remained shredded for many years.
In fact, her heart would never recover from that initial attack;
But this is the amazing tale of how Gavriella Gottlieb’s hymen grew back.

Some say it was due to the lack of sexual activity in Gavriella’s life.
In 1982, an elderly man from the synagogue asked if she would be his wife,
But she declined, perhaps because of their age difference,
Perhaps because he was partially blind.
Other than that, relatively little interest had been expressed,
Despite her beautiful, bountiful breasts,
Her capacious behind,
Her cute button nose and her incisive mind.

So if she was blessed with these wonderful features,
Why was she not a hit with the male of the species?
well – her earlier trangression had brought her to the decision
that the only love in her life would be religion.
She never went out.
She was devout!
She lived her life without excess, frivolity or flirtation,
And God forbid the thought of masturbation!

In fact, when she washed,
She used a long handled brush,
Being afraid to touch that part of her which had once been soiled;
And thus is was that Gavriella Gottlieb’s vagina
Went for thirty years without being oiled.

No wonder it felt rejected!
Completely unloved and neglected!
Surely, in such circumstances, you might expect the unexpected?

It happened one fated evening.
After a simple supper of matza and herring,
Gabriella’s ladygarden started repairing itself.
At first, she was blissfully unaware,
But soon she felt something stir “down there” -
Alarmed, she began to strut around and flap her arms,
So confused as to what to do!

After three weeks of tutting and flapping and strutting,
She called Dr Cohen, scared at admitting the truth,
But grateful for the fact that he was a practising Jew.

The doctor went down to examine her mound
And pronounced, after taking a look,
‘there appears to be nothing wrong, Gavriella.
In fact, your hymen appears to be perfectly in tact!’
Little was the doctor to have known about the dirty little episode
With the butcher’s hook…

Though perturbed,
In many ways Gavriella was delighted!
Her service to God had been rewarded
And the sordid incident which marked her youth
Had been wiped off the slate.
That night, as she bedded down, she felt as if a great weight
Had been removed from her estate.

But wait. There’s more to bestow!
As Gavriella deeply drifted into sleep that evening,
the hymen began to grow.

The mucous membrane slowly started to expand,
Around her bottom and waist, around her legs, her feet,
her arms and her hands,
Her chest, her thyroid gland, her throat,
Until it completely covered her in a viscous, slimy coat…

When Gavriella awoke, she screamed.
She didn’t know what to do;
Didn’t know where to go.
Despite her bathing and scrubbing and showering,
Nothing affected the hymen’s flowering.

From that day on, every time she left the house,
She wore a helmet and gloves, and full leather chaps;
No no-one would ever see what she looked like under wraps.
Her neighbours began to call her Mad Max,
But she learnt to persevere,
Even though she felt as if she was condemned
to live in permanent bubble wrap;
And that’s part one of the tragic story of the girl whose hymen grew back.

Blind Man's Buff

2008-12-28T18:42:00.002Z

This is the first draft of a story yet to be finished. It's inspired by a true story. The 'buff' in the title is slang, in modern day parlance, for fit, sexy or just plain good looking.

Blind Man’s Buff (part 1)

They started seeing each other after the event
At which they met; a marketing led arts experiment
Sponsored by a mobile phone company,
Which spelled out their corporate message -
“It's good to talk - especially if you can't see.”
Ten people with perfect vision,
Ten people without sight.
One from each group was partnered with each other,
to fulfill the brief of the night…
The sighted helped the unsighted navigate through the space
By relating instructions down the blower.
"Take a step to your right. Reach down a bit lower.
You've got it!"
As she guided him from a distance, watching his every move,
she slowly became besotted.
It was something about their tender negotiation.
The more they spoke,
The more an intangible electricity was invoked.
Perhaps it was to do with control.
There was something unique about having such a hold.
Once she made love whilst wearing cuffs and a blindfold,
And enjoyed being toyed with like this - senses alive, restricted choice...
She conjured this memory as she led him through the obstacle course with her voice,
Watching his every move;
Muscles rippled through his t-shirt,
Yet remained relaxed in his face.
Full of trust.
Each step full of grace.
This sense of voyeurism instilled a sense of lust in her,
And he too felt sweet sensations inside of him,
Enraptured by the lull of her voice.
As she guided him through each task,
Moving increasingly toward intimacy,
Until he asked (while still on the phone)
If she would like to come out for a drink.
He could hear by the tone of voice that her cheeks flushed pink.
By the time they finally came face to face
Cheek to cheek
The invisible contract that lies between lovers
Had already been signed and sealed.
They agreed to meet Thursday week,
Lips locking to close the deal.

Candle

2008-12-27T23:13:00.002Z

I'm a 21st century British Gujurati;
I put chilis on my chorizo, wasabi on my chapati.
I'm a cowboy AND an Indian.
I've busted kurtas, burkhas, turbans, saris
and I'm not afraid to put a bindi on,
Because a: I got no problems with my sexuality,
and b: I'm aware of the temporal nature of reality.
I'm an activist.
I raise my fist and challenge the status quo.
I’m less of an eagle and a dove,
And more of a pigeon and a crow.
Better attach a second hand Somalian eyepatch to your pineal gland,
because I'm a third eye pirate radio.
When I rehearse for a show,
I consider whether I'm immersed in the flow of the river of souls…
See there’s a constant stream of energy cascading through the human family,
And I need to be an open tap.
I'm like Zapp; I got more bounce to the ounce,
And I can't be bothered to deliver a show that's crap.
I'm a new school priest,
Mixing quantum psychology with wisdom from the east;
I'm here to tell you that there are many paths through the forest,
And each of us carves our very own map.
It's something that every religion has always known,
But now the knowledge is out.
The door is unlocked.
We don’t need to follow the flock;
We can find the divine on our own.
Practising the lion and cobra position in our home…
Having Conversations with God in our headphones…
Feeling the kundalini energy run up our spine…
Paying attention to the manifest signs.
Checking the news but reading between the lines -
We don't drink from the mainstream,
Where the blind lead the blind;
We’ve been filtering all kinds of information through our minds,
Choosy about what went in ever since we heard “My Uzi Weighs A Ton”;
Realizing that we've been spun a pack of lies
By those whose interest it is to keep us hypnotized…
But we're also wise to the fact that if you feel paranoid all the time,
You begin to act like you're the Victim of a Crime.
It's so subliminal;
Those who feel persecuted start to embody the mindset of a criminal,
Mistrusting messages and avoiding contact,
When as a matter of fact,
the human race needs to be cut some slack;
None of us are here to fuck each other up.
All of are drinking out of the same cup.
It's just that some of us starting to wake up.
That's why the internet cropped up;
That's why were starting to think about our relationship to the planet.
That's why were buying fair trade,
And when we can afford it were buying organic.
We’re filling our bellies with good shit -
Broccoli, mangos and pawpaws;
Eating at whole food restaurants,
Singing ‘Ooh baby I like it raw…’
I’m talking about soulfood;
Every Wednesday I deliver tofu in my white van.
I'm a white van man, with a great suntan,
Dropping white van mantras
To anyone who's tuned into the plan.
It's time to activate the activist within.
Locate your kin,
Which may not be the family you were necessarily born into;
I'm talking about a new crew,
Renegade roughneck gypsy warriors redefining the time that we live through.
Trust me.
Every time I see my blood family they cuss me,
Unaware of my reason to be;
I’m a storyteller.
I draw my inspiration from the likes of William Burroughs
and the first black president, Fela.
I consider it my duty to emerge with that which is fruity,
and redolent with deep funk, from the metaphorical cellar
That lies within your booty.
I learnt from the Mothership Connection
That if you free your ass,
Your mind will follow;
Without looking at the gods from the past,
We'll never grow into Buddhas tomorrow...
Take Shiva and Pan; both dirty dancers.
The horny goat god and the yogi mountain man found the answers
to the existential "biggies"
by getting lean and getting jiggy.
Both learnt to confront two of our biggest taboos, sex and death,
By learning that the answers lie within controlling the breath.
Both worshipped nature,
But knew how to have fun....
Now if that isn't the perfect model for us to currently live by,
I'd like you to show me a better one!
Both of these gods
(Lovers of wine, women and sex)
Get such bad press;
One has been moulded into the image of the devil,
And the other didn't do himself any favours, I confess,
When after returning from years of meditation,
He bit off the head of the man his wife was breaking bread with
Before she said "What are u doing, you idjut? That was your son, Ganesh!"
The embarrassed deity gave his progeny an elephant’s head,
And now you'll see the pot bellied smiling one in homes around the globe.
The image of the remover of obstacles is a great metaphor to carry
When dealing with life’s often heavy load.
But perhaps that's where humanity went wrong;
Instead of seeing our gods as metaphors,
We mistook their stories and songs for the real thing,
Confusing the maps with the territories and the menus for the meal...
I guess that's why so many of us are afraid of temples and churches,
because we've confused myths with the real deal;
But like Prometheus, I'm gonna steal
the fire from the gods and show you the path to higher consciousness.
There are no gods, only images to help us make sense of the formless,
The universal soul, para atma,
Or what Buddhists call the void.
Just like we've got eyes to see,
We needed gods to help us paint a picture of the ephemeral nature of reality.
Like Hermes, messenger of the gods,
A.k.a. the trickster, Peter Pan, Anansi and Mercury, the medicine man,
Whose serpentine staff you'll see on ambulances and courier vans,
Conveying the mystery of both the double helix of DNA,
And simultaneously, the chi channelled from the base of our spine;
A metaphor for when Shiva, or matter, or material,
meets his ethereal bride, Shakti, Parvati or Kali;
pure energy, eternal and divine.
And that's also the analogy
Behind the balancing act between one hand holding water,
and the other wine.
I cut and paste my myths like I'm in the mix;
I'm a turntablist, mixing fat mama ancestors with Mayan cosmology;
the prophet Mohamed with Mos Def;
Jesus Christ with Jazzy Jeff,
Or the Fresh Prince with the prince of peace;
I cut Dawkins up with Hawking
and throw in a fat drum break from the Middle East.
I've seen whirling dervish Sufi masters
Touch fists with rastas
who are busting capoeira moves to Latin grooves
in jams from Buenos Aires to Uzbekistan.
I'm trying to help you understand
That there's no one single master plan,
But instead over six billion ways to give grace, thanks and praise.
We are all djs!
Dropping mixes made from the stories we have spun from the light and shade.
We are all djs,
Dropping mixes made from the stories we have spun from the light and shade.
This is a call to arms;
A new school psalm for those that are moved by spirit.
Find some work that makes you sing,
And put your heart and soul in it.
Do your thing.
Nobody else’s thing;
Your thing.
Soon you might find yourself becoming a king,
or queen, of your own world.
A bright new future will begin to unfurl.
If you work hard on getting to what's inside,
No doubt you'll find a pearl, or a diamond;
The more pressure you experience,
the more your soul transforms the lump of coal
which you hold between your head, your heart and your hymen.
It's all about good timing;
I'm creating my own path,
And collecting like minded souls
whose eyes and hearts are shining.
I see ‘em on the streets,
Imperceptibly grooving to roughneck beats,
And I see ‘em at the carnival, windin’.
Take your pick.
You might find worthy rhetoric in Tupac Shakur, Anish Kapoor,
Sai Baba, Che Guavara or George Bernard Shaw,
Mohamad Ali, Mandela, Malcolm or Marcus;
Fight for your corner and fight for your cause,
But remember the famous Quaker proverb,
When you’re fighting your battles and waging your wars…
It's better to light a single candle than to curse the darkness.

It's better to light a single candle than to curse the darkness.

It's better to light a single candle than to curse the darkness.

Santa is a Muslim

2008-12-18T03:49:00.000Z

I know you might think it’s weird,
But I’ve come to the conclusion that Santa Claus is a Muslim.

Who else would work on Christmas day,
Wearing a full length beard?

In some way
It goes to prove
That children are programmed to feel joy instead of fear
So the question begs to be asked;
When did our fear begin?

Perhaps it’s tied up with the notion of sin.
Jesus died on the cross;
We live in fear of our boss;
Is this coincidence, or a telling comparison?

Me – I’m a Hindu,
But I’ve always felt drawn to the Jew.
Perhaps it’s because

Both draw
From a culture that venerates both the mother and the whore.

I can’t be sure;
Maybe this is just another poetic liberty
That looks at the shore,
And sees the union of land and sea.

Tonight I participated in a debate
Which put forward the suggestion that sex workers should study a degree,
But there’s no such qualification for maternity.
If you look at the stories of Shannon Matthews or Baby P,
Surely there’s a case
For putting forward the suggestion that adoption shouldn’t be so hard?
After all, it’s so easy to get pregnant, or apply for a credit card!

After all, both of these examples are liable to end up in a mess,
Whereas most people that apply for adoption have to pass a much more stringent test…

In my world it would be the other way round.
People that wanted to adopt would stand on solid ground.

People that found themselves giving birth
Would have to prove their relationship to their environment; i.e. the earth.

It’s so easy to fuck!
It’s so easy to spend!
We live in a culture in which banks freely lend…
In which we are encouraged to think
That money’s a tap
to be turned on,
Despite the fact
That there’s no plug in the sink!

I love those ladies who wear mink.
We say.
“How dare they?”
even though we have no idea
where the meat on our plate is from.

It’s from an animal,
Killed by the same process
As the fur in which that woman is dressed.

But one is right, and one is wrong…
To a degree,
It’s hipocrisy,
But that’s human beings for ya…

That’s why we invented both the banker and the lawyer…

both are considered invaluable,
raising the standards of human life…

£40 million was the sum that Guy Ritchie got from his wife,
enough to ensure that Botswana,
the land of their adopted son,
didn’t have to go through the strife
it experiences every day,

but hey,
that’s the way the cookie crumbles.

I’m trying to stay humble,
But it’s hard.

I’m trying to stay solvent,
But I just landed another credit card.

Reality Bites

2008-12-05T21:26:00.001Z

On our last full day in Mombasa. Mum, dad and I both sit down at the dining room table.
They tell me that it’s time for me to take control of my own life; that I will never make it at the age that I am; that I need some steady income; that I will never be successful doing what I am doing. Mum asks me, “If your father and I would die tomorrow, what would you do? How would you even pay for the funeral, let alone survive?” Dad tells me how many people gave negative reports of my show at Zen Gardens last week, how many people walked out. He tells me that if I haven’t earnt any money by the age of forty, I never will.

This is not the first time I have been told this by my parents. The relentless hammering in of their perspective is beginning to have an effect on me. Their advice is beginning to sink in, like a hypodermic needle; the question is, what is the needle pumping into my veins?

I came offstage last week feeling like death. Literally. As much as I enjoy performing, there are too many drawbacks, and there is too much pain, too much vulnerability. My father is incensed for having to cover my expenses on my trip. And things are compounded by my return to Nairobi, where the festival producer attacks me vehemently over my demands to cover these expenses, which are unmet. After what was initially an amazing experience, I leave the country feeling like I have been beaten up.

I am desperately confused; confused as to what role to play today, tomorrow, and for the rest of my life. I have always believed that guilt is a senseless emotion, but right now I confess to feeling guilty for having so much, and helping so little. Meanwhile my father berates me for having so little and giving so much.

My dad lives on the coast of Diani, on the north coast of Mombasa. Effectively, he’s got a mile long private beach. Two hundred metres from his house, there is a newly built private development which lies empty for eleven months of the year. It was opened last year in a ceremony which apparently cost four million shillings (around $50,000); a swami was flown out from India to bless the property.

My dad’s maid Lucy has been working for him for twelve years. She calls me her brother. In the day I leave, she is upset. Her sister is days away from death, from HIV. It’s the second of her siblings to die from the virus. The death will leave Lucy’s family looking after two orphaned children. Lucy is the only earner amongst her siblings (or, at least, the only sibling who sends money upcountry to look after her family). Then pressure is on her to provide. She is mortified by the death of her sister, yet noble and soft simultaneously. As I leave, I give Lucy 2500 shillings ($30) of what is effectively my parent’s money. Again, my dad expresses discontent that I have done so. I have given her too much, in his eyes.

As Nivi drives us to the airport to catch the flight back to London, we are stopped by a policeman. He observes an irregularity with the car, takes Nivi’s license, and demands 3000 shillings for its return.

The perspectives of two volunteers for the Samosa festival sum up my confusion. Farrah Nunani tells me that she has seen me change throughout this trip; she has watched anger creep in, and watched me deviate more and more from the path of the heart. On the other hand, the wonderful Wangui Kimari, with whom I have laughed, played and loved on this trip, shares this anger; this desperation at laziness of attitude which inures us from sacrificing that which is surplus to our requirement.

The mobile phone company Orange is one of the first big players to enter the Kenyan market. Orange’s marketing campaign has always been clever, powerful, and simple In the UK, Orange currently has a campaign which states “I am everyone”.

It’s true; I am everyone. That’s the basic philosophy underlying the D’Archetypes.

I am the corrupt policeman.
I am the artist with a big mouth and conflicting value systems.
I am the maid earning peanuts for her family.
I am the citizen who sponsors a country where people only aspire to be drivers, and nothing more.
I am the businessman who believes politicians are milking the country dry.
I am the drunk, bitter at life inside the compound wall.
I am the parent who sees his child struggling to make ends meet.
I am the festival organiser who sees an ungrateful, money-dependent artist who says he works for a wider cause, but patently is concerned with himself.
I am the slum dweller who sees the wealth, and wonders how fate deals its cards.
I am both rich, and poor;
Innocent and guilty;
Sometimes angry, and sometimes at peace…

Never before has the goddess called paradox tossed me about on her shores like this. I’m waiting for the calm, but there’s a storm in my heart, and at the moment I feel wet, cold and miserable. Salaam.

Walking On Fire

2008-12-05T21:25:00.003Z

My dad is a social animal, with many, many dear friends, who are of the age where they are beginning to pop off this mortal coil, one by one. One of dad’s best friends, Rajoo Patel, died last year. Rajoo was a successful businessman who ran a business called The Copycat Ltd, which provides office infrastructure for Kenya’s burgeoning corporate sector. The business has been taken over by Rajoo’s son Vishal. Vishal looks like his dad, but feels softer, less of an alpha male than his warrior father – though this doesn’t stop him being a great director of his company, which employs over three hundred people in East Africa. Vishal is holding a conference for his managers in Mombasa, which is employing new school techniques such as team building games focussing on motivation and empowerment. The weekend is ending with a fire walk a la Anthony Robbins, and dad and I are invited to participate in the fire walk by Vishal.

The motivational pep-talk is given by an Indian man named Dean. I can’t stop myself from giggling, as he is slightly overweight, his shirt isn’t tucked in properly, and the first thing he does as he begins his motivational speech is accidentally break an egg. He speaks with the Americanised empowerment lingo which cynical Brits like me find so hard to stomach.

The first exercise we do, as we build up to walking on hot coals, is karate chop a thick wooden board, on which we inscribe our fears. Dad makes me laugh; the fear he has written on the board is ‘women’. We then bend steel rods using a delicate part of our necks. Our jedi training is complete; we are ready for the fire walk.

The first thing we do is build the fire. After we stack a pile of logs, paper and grass and dowse the pile with gasoline, it’s pointed out that a spark from the fire might set the grass roof of the adjacent bar on fire, so after much head scratching, we take the fire apart and re-assemble it elsewhere on the grounds of Neptune Beach, the posh hotel the conference is taking place in. After the stack is rebuilt, there is more head scratching, as the new fire stack has been built near two lamp posts. Bulbs are unscrewed and for some reason, a wheelbarrow is propped up against one of the lamp posts (later, the wheel of the barrow catches fire). It’s a funny scenario; thirty managers of a successful East African company don’t seem to be able to build a fire without screwing it up. Nevertheless, after procrastination and relocation, we’re ready. Twenty of us walk across hot coals. It’s a synch. By walking across coals, I now know that whatever I want to achieve in life, I can. Aaaah…. life is sweet; I write these words motivated, empowered and devoid of cynicism, in a scene of domestic bliss like nothing I have ever known; dad reads the paper, mum and aunty play cards, nephew is wired into his PSP, and the blue Sky* whispers in our ears.

*(copyright Rupert Murdoch)

Mombasa

2008-12-05T21:25:00.001Z

Mum, my aunt Bhanu, my eight year old nephew Neer and I fly with my dad to
Mombasa, the sleepy beach town whose prejudices and foibles formed the foundation of this blog. Nothing too much has changed, save perhaps I am here with my mother and her family. My dad hosts us well. He has the reputation of being the best cook in Mombasa, and he doesn’t disappoint. On our first night in town he throws a barbeque, preparing lamb chops, sausages, kebabs, papri no lot (a vegetarian dish made from rice flour), and fish biriani. Every meal, we’re either taken out, or he cooks for us. It’s funny, with dad; his infallable ability to be the best host in the world is tempered by the ease in which he disturbs me with prejudices he has inherited from his generation. Nevertheless, on this trip, I’m more immune to his world; for instance, I’m not bothered by the fact that he seems to have learnt nothing from my politically motivated shows, which attacked and derided an Asian world which has cushioned itself in comfort and removed itself from an obligation towards contributing, with heart, to the country it finds itself in. instead, I find his naivety, a naivety displayed by all people of his generation, sweet and becoming.

“It’s a nice phone this Apple one; is it like a blueberry?” he says.

As time goes by and we both get older, the issues I have with dad seem less important. I’d rather enjoy time with him. What’s odd about this is in loving him, I slip into his world, and when you live in luxury, it’s seductive. Sun, sea, sand, oysters, champagne, wine, meat….. an endless cycle of material fulfilment, and suddenly one becomes inured to economic disparity and the responsibility we all have with regards to redress this imbalance.

I’m here with mum, her sister and my nephew. My mum’s family is not one that has slipped as comfortably into a Western lifestyle as my dad’s. My aunt doesn’t drink or eat meat, and as much as she is enjoying herself, I see her at a loss with what to do with herself in all this debauchery (it’s not really that debauched, but for my aunt, ordering a soda seems frugal). It’s difficult for mum, too, being in this environment, understandably so. Thirty years apart from my dad, and suddenly walking back into his world… it’s something that I am almost too involved with to comment upon, as all of us stay together for the first time since I was six years old. But mum seems to have a problem; she accuses me of many things, from menial things like dressing badly and having siestas, to more serious things like showing her no love or respect. This comes like a bombshell from out of the blue, and upsets me greatly. I spend at least a day really down; I guess it’s always the same when you’re castigated by your parents, but just for once in my life, I wish it wouldn’t have to happen. I’m not a bad child, despite repeatedly being made to feel so. The funny thing is, my mum would say the same thing; “I’m not a bad mother, besides repeatedly being made to feel so.” This polarity plays itself out in our lives with alarming regularity. Blame, shame, guilt and anger are batted about like tennis balls. There are no winners. I wish it could stop.