Issue 109 / September 2020

ISSUE 109 / SEPTEMBER 2020
NEW MUSIC + CREATIVE CULTURE
LIVERPOOL
TEE BEIJA / ALL FLO WE / ARE LO FIVE / DECAY
JAMIE ASOK WEBSTER/ / SIMON MOLLY HUGHES GREEN

12 Aug - 13 Dec 2020
AND SAY
THE ANIMAL
RESPONDED?
FACT / 88 WOOD STREET
FREE EXHIBITION
Image: Alexandra Daisy Ginsberg, The Substitute (2019). Installation view at FACT, Liverpool. Photo by Rob Battersby.

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New Music + Creative Culture
Liverpool
Issue 109 / September 2020
bidolito.co.uk
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Words
Christopher Torpey, Sam Turner, Elliot Ryder, Nik
Glover, Will Whitby, Julia Johnson, Tara Dalton,
Anouska Liat, Jessica Phillips, Cath Holland, Stuart
O’Hara, Stephen Lewin, Sufiah Abbasi, Eve Machin.
Photography, Illustration and Layout
Mark McKellier, Tamiym Cader, Stuart Moulding,
Michael Kirkham, Esmée Finlay, Rebecca Hawley, Liam
Jones, Zoë Moungabio, David Cusack, John Johnson,
John O’Loughlin, Xenia Onta, Daniel Frost, Martha
Harris, Ella Fradgely.
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EDITORIAL
I
don’t know about you, but there are several elements of
the Covid recess that are really starting to grate: the social
distance that has developed; our clunky new vocabulary of
‘lockdown’, ‘new normal’ and ‘Zoom’; Matt Hancock.
The upheaval we’ve had has been necessary, of course
(apart from Matt Hancock). We owe a lot to the selfless
among us who’ve been working hard to limit the effects of the
pandemic. And while I could get used to the new table service
regime and click-and-collect supermarketing, I do still long for
the before times, the sharing of moments, the communality of
groups, the witnessing of a performance together. There’s only
so much music you can listen to on your own, after all.
That cycle that we had grown so accustomed to is now
massively different, changed by our basic knowledge of
epidemiology and infection. Live performances and even
medium-sized gatherings look to be verboten for the foreseeable
future, which causes a massive worry for the precariouslybalanced
music ecosystem – which barely gets by anyway.
We’ve already seen fractures develop in the foundations of this
culture; a quasi-religion of going out, ‘doing a festival’ and Red
Stripe cans at gigs, which is second in the unofficial national
faith stakes to football. In the closure of venues and space, it
is the small fry who prop this pyramid up who have suffered
the most, without the capital to tide them through these tough
times.
There are actually lots of similarities between music and
football. Like in football, if you only protect those at the top then
you remove the very soul of the game. Football in the UK isn’t
just the Premier League. Sure, it’s the home of the best players
and the biggest crowds, but it’s not accessible for everyone,
and as much joy is derived from the fans and players of Prescot
FEATURES
12 / PLAYING IN
The first findings from research in partnership with University of
Liverpool assessing the impact of lockdown and social distancing
on Liverpool City Region’s musicians.
14 / ALL WE ARE
“It’s a summer record. It’s about the good times and we need to
focus on the good things when they aren’t going so well at the
moment”
16 / BIRKENHEAD WON’T DIE
Can culture-led regeneration be the way to narrowing the divide
across the river Mersey? Enter Future Yard.
18 / MOLLY GREEN
Tara Dalton looks for the threads that hold together the jazzy,
soulful undertones of the abundantly creative singer-songwriter.
REGULARS
Cables and Wallasey Wanderers as from Liverpool and Everton.
Value isn’t just measured in profit, or turnover, or jobs sustained.
It’s something more primal that is felt, enjoyed, shared.
I’ve long thought that the health of The Zanzibar was
indicative of the general health of Liverpool music, even if it’s not
been the cultural hotspot that it was 15 years ago. The building
occupies a prime spot on Seel Street, but its presence is far
greater, giving music a place at the heart of a bustling, noisy city.
Sound, on Duke Street, was perhaps on its way to becoming
The Zanzi’s spiritual successor, a special place for a small group
of artists who saw it as their playground. What does it say that
The Zanzi, Sound, and even Parr Street Studios, can’t afford to
hack it in our new-look city centre? Admittedly, the cracks in
this venue-gig-artist-crowd ecosystem existed pre-pandemic,
and have been accentuated because of the lockdown. But that
doesn’t mean we should accept our lot and let them slide away,
does it? When I think of what I want to enjoy in a world free of
Coronavirus anxiety, I think of places where I can listen to music
with others, and feel part of something bigger. Is that too much
to ask?
It might be a small thing, but having Bido Lito! back in print
is a step towards that ideal. Through these pages, we can start
to share an appreciation of music again, as a community rather
than as isolated individuals. And as the gears of pink industry get
moving once more, it’s an apt time for the new people leading
this drive to take up the baton and run with it. Here’s to the new
team leading Bido into a bright new era, as I watch on from the
Mersey’s west bank. This ain’t farewell – it’s see you soon. !
Christopher Torpey
Founding Editor
21 / TEE
With the long overdue arrival of his debut EP, TEE is finally ready
to take his rightful place front and centre.
26 / DECAY
Stuart Moulding / @OohShootStu
“I’ve done everything in my power to be emotionally transparent”
28 / CURATING SAFE SPACE
“Even as an artist I recognise that galleries can be quite
uncomfortable places”
30 / JAMIE WEBSTER
With a debut album centred on the everyday symphony of
working-class Liverpool. Cath Holland profiles the personality
breaking through in his original songwriting.
32 / AS CLOSE TO FLYING AS
YOU’RE GONNA GET
With the way we travel changed for the foreseeable, Stuart
O’Hara looks local and makes the case for finding our two feet on
two wheels in the age of the new normal.
The views expressed in Bido Lito! are those of the
respective contributors and do not necessarily
reflect the opinions of the magazine, its staff or the
publishers. All rights reserved.
8 / NEWS
11 / HOT PINK
34 / SPOTLIGHT
36 / PREVIEWS
38 / REVIEWS
44 / ARTISTIC LICENCE
47 / FINAL SAY

NEWS
LAAF Film Programme
In 2019, four filmmakers responded to four Yemeni poets
from four different Yemeni communities in the UK; Liverpool,
Cardiff, Birmingham and Sheffield. What resulted is a
series of new poem-films, created in direct response to new
works by the poets and commissioned by Liverpool Arab
Arts Festival, forming the heart of Yemen And Conflict,
a new partnership bringing together the festival and the
Universities of Liverpool and Leeds. How can Yemeni
literature and poetry be preserved during the conflict, and
how can it be used to further the understanding of those
outside of the country? The poem-films are available to
watch at arabartsfestival.com/yemen-in-conflict.
Two Coloured House by Noor Palette
Writers Workshops
Aspiring scribes take note! BYLINES is a free Arts Awards-accredited course
facilitated by the editorial team at Bido Lito!. Starting from mid-September,
the course offers future writers from a wide range of backgrounds the
opportunity to develop their craft. Over a period of 10 weeks participants
will learn key journalistic skills, the best ways of documenting culture,
and tools to equip a career in the industry. We encourage applications
from artists from underrepresented backgrounds, and are committed
to prioritising spaces for participants who identify as BAME, LGBTQI+,
working-class, disabled and female. Applications are open now to
participants between the ages of 16 and 25, closing on 13th September.
bidolito.co.uk/workshops.
Vinyl-ly It’s Happened To Me
As with just about everything else on the planet, Record Store Day – the
annual event celebrating the humble vinyl emporium – was inevitably hit by
the pandemic. Organisers decided to pivot from the usual April date to three
separate ‘Drop Dates’ on 29th August, 26th September and 24th October. In our
neck of the woods, Probe, Jacaranda Records, 81 Renshaw and Defend Vinyl,
as well as Southport’s Quicksilver Music, Chester’s Up North and Kaleidoscope
Records of St Helens, will all be stocking limited edition releases for the occasion.
The three dates will be followed by a RSD Black Friday in November when more
rare wax will be up for grabs. recordstoreday.co.uk
Film Fund
A funding pot of £250,000 is open for applications from film and TV
makers until the end of September. The Film and TV Development
Fund from Liverpool City Region is offering awards between £2,500
and £25,000 for established and start-up production companies to
develop scripted or factual programming. The pot was repurposed
from an existing production fund to support regionally-based
producers, writers and other creative talent during a time which has
been tremendously challenging for screen professionals. Priority
has been promised to diverse, high-quality productions which will
spend budget locally, and decisions will get a 10-day turnaround.
Go to liverpoolfilmoffice.tv for more information.
Theatres Update
Everyman Theatre
While at the time of writing the return of public performances to
our theatres’ stages is still unknown, Liverpool’s thesp roster are
ensuring their community is not going completely unused. As well
as the charming Love, Liverpool podcast story series, the Everyman
and Playhouse’s youth company YEP have recently concluded a
radio series entitled The Visit, available from their website. Around
the corner, Unity Theatre is opening its doors for artist support,
community engagement, and business hire. From the beginning of
September the Hope Place hub is also inviting artists to apply to use
their spaces for free rehearsal and development. Meanwhile Liverpool
Empire have been busily rescheduling shows for what is shaping up to
be a massive 2021.
8

Direct Input
Ever wondered how a band suddenly shot from nowhere to
everywhere? Future Yard’s new webinar series, DIRECT INPUT,
might be able to help. By speaking to the people – managers,
agents, record labels – behind some of music’s recent success
stories, this series of fortnightly live events aims to lift the lid on
some of the techniques, and bring you the inside track on the
different kinds of careers and strategies that work across the
music spectrum. Each live webinar is free, and you can sign up at
futureyard.org. Following on from the opening conversation with
Girl Band’s guitarist Alan Duggan, who also manages the band,
the Direct Input series catches up with Leeds-based musician
Katie Harkin on Monday 31st August, uncovering her path from
indie duo Sky Larkin to solo project Harkin, via session work,
backing vocals for Dua Lipa, and touring as a live member of
Sleater-Kinney and Wild Beasts.
Katie Harkin
Liverpool Lighthouse
Hillsborough And Me
Anfield music base Liverpool Lighthouse are
calling out to the creativity of their community.
As they are putting the finishing touches on an
album commemorating the final memorial of the
Hillsborough disaster, they are asking for a fitting
name for the charity LP. Money raised from sales
will go to the Hillsborough Family Support Group
and has been made possible by contributions from
more than 60 volunteer singers. The mixture of
professional and non-professional vocalists have
been working with the Love and Joy Gospel choir
over Zoom, and, at the end of a round of auditions,
have formed a newly established choir around the
project. Go to the Hillsborough and Me section of
liverpoollighthouse.com for more details.
Art Studios Network
As with many facets of the culture sector, arts
studios have come under increased pressure
over recent months. Independently-run spaces
which provide vital space for freelance and
self-employed creatives to produce their work
are the lifeblood of the city’s visual art scene,
and are now looking to work together to
achieve strength in unity. A newly established
network which connects 35 studios, home to
over 500 artists, has been set up to carry out
research into how coronavirus has impacted
their work and how best to recover for longterm
sustainability. The project is being led by
Art In Liverpool with help from Arts Council
England. artinliverpool.com
Homotopia News
Homotopia returns in the Autumn with a programme to be announced
imminently. The UK’s longest running LGBTQIA arts and culture festival hasn’t
stopped working since lockdown; a digital performance with EAT ME + Preach!
was followed by a series of new commissions, Queer Art Always, capturing life
in lockdown and the power of art to connect and unite. The forthcoming line-up
promises to look a little different but will bring the usual eclectic mix of queer art
and culture. In a year where everything has changed, the festival will bring new
voices into the spotlight and tell us why the journey is just as important as the
destination. homotopia.net
Timeless Melody
The success of Melodic Distraction’s Breakfast Club broadcast
has given the Baltic based radio station cause to extend the
programming into the Autumn. Wake Up With! has become the
best way to rise for lots of music heads with the MDR team mixing
pitch-perfect beats with friendly chat. The following 10am-12pm
slot brings in the likes of NuTribe’s Sticky Dub, Go Off Sis Podcast,
Dig Vinyl and others for great tunes, competitions and even phonein
action. The station are also happy to announce they are returning
to their Jamaica Street base having been coordinating home
broadcasts from across the region since March.
Educating Beta
The learned folk at the University of Liverpool
have made their Continuing Education courses
more accessible than ever with a varied array of
subjects to indulge your passion, up your skills
or delve into a whole new discipline. Their online
short courses, seminars and workshops arrive
with the forthcoming academic year and include
Creative Writing, Ancient and Modern History, the
world’s most-used and influential languages and
much more besides. For many, now is the perfect
time to get that Computer Coding qualification or
Neurofinance certificate. Surf over to
liverpool.ac.uk/continuing-education for more info.
Pride Foundation Grants
A city based LGBT+ heritage tour, a campaign to increase
gender neutral toilet facilities, a ‘Big Irish Gay-lí’ and a multigender
inclusive hockey squad are among the recipients of
the LCR Pride Foundation’s inaugural Community Fund. The
£20,000 pot, supported by Barclays, was launched in June
with three separate funds for Inclusive Physical Activity and
Sport, Film and an Open fund. Trans Youth - Trans Truth
from youth collective GYRO, I See Gay People from Light
Factory and Betty & Jean by Tmesis Theatre make up the
trio of successful film projects. The full list of 16 successful
recipients represent an eclectic array of ideas and initiatives
from what LCR Pride Foundation Chair Lewis Collins
described as an “extremely high” standard of applications.
Pride Foundation
NEWS 9

(Michael Kirkham / @MrKirks)
SIX MONTHS LATER
Elliot Ryder considers the lessons learnt from lockdown and the need to take this summer’s protests forward.
It feels surreal to be writing in these pages again. If you’d
have said in March that we’d be able to return to print in
August, I’d have been sceptical. Back then, it was painfully
clear early-on that printing Bido Lito! would have to stop.
What was more worrying were our fears of when, or if, there’d
be an accepting climate for it to return. Even as I write this, the
cultural landscape remains in a state of rubble. But those early
stages were telling.
Like many in Liverpool, my life is unhealthily shaped by
the footballing calendar. By the first weekend of March, I’d
unscientifically assured myself that I’d see Liverpool play three
more times at Anfield before there was any real worry of a
lockdown and curtailment of the football season – similar to the
prelude of the UK’s fate that was
playing out in Northern Italy. The
suggestion of seeing Liverpool
play at home three more times
was partly in line with the ‘two
weeks behind’ narrative that was
prevalent at the time, and partly
because three more times was
the required number to finally
wrap up the Premier League. But
in the space of seven days the
situation changed at an alarming
rate. By the time I’d glumly trudged
from Anfield towards the train
after watching Liverpool lose to
Atletico Madrid, the focus of my
disappointments was to massively
change.
By 13th March, the government had been doing their utmost
to foster a state of ease. Boris Johnson was still shaking hands
with Covid-19 patients. Herd immunity was still bandied around
on radio talk shows as though a sterile fiscal policy. Yet, from the
morning of the 13th March all forthcoming football was to be
cancelled for an initial six week period.
Perhaps ironically, it took the removal of football from my life
for my head to click into gear regarding the severity of what was
taking place nationally. The initial humour and intrigue of a fan
dressed in a DIY hazmat suit, stood a few rows behind me on
The Kop for the Atletico game, paled into a harrowing reality that
was sat on the crest of coming weeks.
The severity of the moment set in. The night after I was
struggling to see how Bido Lito! could continue as the cultural
sector pulled down the shutters and gig after gig was cancelled.
As the penny dropped internally, so did a guillotine cutting off
the magazine from potential advertisers for the foreseeable. I’d
have taken a glass-half-full outlook in that moment. But in the
initial doom it resembled something more empty and shattered.
“As ever, we’re
looking forwards”
The psychological impact of the virus would flare up in similar
instances in the coming six months. As a magazine that is
always looking ahead, it felt like the future was already written.
I wasn’t certain of the significance of my profession in such a
moment.
How much of a city can you see through a 13-inch screen
or never-ending scroll function? That’s what I wrote in early
May, eight weeks after the digital plunge we’d taken – issue 109
lost somewhere on the horizon. As it turns out, you can still see
quite a lot of a city, its creativity and communities. They do not
cease to exist when removed from their natural habitat. As I’ve
noted previously, in our lockdown zine released in July, the early
stages of lockdown were punctuated by adaptation, generosity
and accessibility. Music may have
been on hold for the most part, but
everything that we produced on
a weekly basis aimed to shine a
light on the creativity that took on
the health crisis locally. So much of
this was arranged and organised
via laptop screens and chatboxes,
collaborative playlists and via
community radio stations.
The online world was always
created as a great equaliser. A
realm in cyberspace that borrowed
from the ideals of 1960s acid tests
to sketch out the potential of a
different reality, one free from the
over-bearing corruption and control
of the established order. Ultimately,
the internet was designed to offer an alternative. Yet, rather than
be a home to counter culture, the resulting weeks of lockdown
saw the internet become home to culture en masse. Family
occasions, escape, work, society in general rested on the online
world for an essential line of communication and communality.
It may have been far from the utopian vision that the latestage
hippies had hoped for the internet as a place to make the
acid test become reality – with large corporations and callous
algorithms governing much of what we can see – but there were
strong indications that life can continue bound to micro and
macro webs of community in the online sphere. In Liverpool, so
much of what is good about the city raised its head above the
parapet, with community groups and individuals leading the
way where central government would not. Culturally, too, the
landscape had never been so accessible and democratic. With
online variants the main offering from artists and institutions,
so many have never seen so much. But even with this static
omniscience we attempted to acquire from our homes, there was
still so much as a city we didn’t see or challenge until the days
following the 25th May.
As Jennifer John wrote in Bido Lito! following the killing of
George Floyd, Black Lives Matter was a long time coming. Not
in a sense of momentum, but in the glaring systemic inequalities
that had been consistently overlooked. It took the modern day
lynching of a man on the streets of Minneapolis for people to
look closer at was happening on streets of their own.
That initial doom and fear I’d harboured in the days leading
into lockdown, the feeling of a future already being written;
all that weighed insignificant when taking part in the protests
that took place outside of St George’s Hall in the weeks that
followed. Prior to the resurgence of Black Lives Matter, I’d felt I
had a good handle on Liverpool’s role as an exporter of systemic
racism, something still felt in street names and the necessity
of an International Slavery Museum. But this is only the macro
picture and far from comprehensive or contemporary. The legacy
of chattel slavery is more subtle, more institutionalised. Its very
nature will argue its non-existence. Look closer at Liverpool in
general and it’s important to consider whether it stands as a
destination for black artists, both musical and visual. Just how
many stages are there across the city that aren’t predominantly
filled by indie, psychedelia and rock ‘n’ roll? Why is it that The
La’s one album is widely regarded as the defining sound of the
city’s streets rather than The Real Thing’s 4 From 8? It is simply
because one paints an alluring picture of white working-class
existence, and the other displays a contrasting reality felt in
Liverpool’s minority black communities?
It’s important not to be lulled into the belief that Liverpool is
a utopia of socialism, anti-racism and equality. This city leads the
way in so many social movements, but we’re not yet at an end
goal. In believing so, systemic issues will continue to proliferate
quietly under the radar. More work needs to be done both
institutionally and personally to confront systemic racism and the
health crisis that is far from over.
Bido Lito! returning to print is a joyous occasion personally
and signifies a win in a 2020 characterised by upheaval (oh, and
The Reds making it 19 – eventually). But, as ever, we’re looking
forwards; the tangible aspect of the magazine isn’t what defines
it. More so, it’s the open source nature of the ideas contained
within that make this worthwhile and, I hope, a community
asset. And thankfully these pages cannot yet be guarded by an
algorithm, meaning each idea can be as democratically served as
the next.
In many ways, through being cut off from the city our
eyes were opened wider than before. It is my hope that this is
reflected in this and our upcoming issues. Special thanks to all
those who have supported Bido Lito! over the course of the last
six months. Without you, this magazine wouldn’t be in your
hands right now. !
10

HOT PINK!
Our HOT PINK! playlist is the place to find the newest, brightest and hottest music from across Merseyside.
Featuring the newest drops from local artists, the mix is updated regularly with a multitude of bangers from
an array of genres, guaranteed to pique your interest and please your ear drums. It’s the perfect digest to
keep you briefed on the best sounds currently coming out of Merseyside.
Ragz Nordset
Don’t You Forget (Drumwarp & Guevarism Psychedub)
Mellowtone
The Nordic singer-songwriter continues a triumphant return with some delectable mixes of her
single out on Mellowtone Records. This bassy reimagining, from a duo melded from the Super
Weird Substance and Keep It Cryptic stables, explodes the tune wide open to find trippy Eastern
scales which suck the listener into its dubby vortex. ST
Feral Wheel
The Dolphin Way
The second slice of FERAL WHEEL is a loungey throwback to Echo & the Bunnymen and arrives
with its own Python-esque animated video. More expansive than their previous track Death To The
Humans, The Dolphin Way builds upon the sonic landscape of that track and calls back to classic
Scouse New Wave. NG
Bye Louis
Between The Hedges (Steve Amadeo Remix)
Emotion Wave
Here we have the first fruits of BYE LOUIS’ egalitarian experiment of throwing the stems of his
Same Boy record out into the ether and inviting reworkings. Producer STEVE AMADEO’s addition
of sumptuous strings gives the song pronounced emotional heft while retaining the intimacy
of the original. Gone is the lo-fi feel of the original and in its place a more expansive, dramatic
atmosphere. ST
Niki Kand
It Ain’t Cool
NIKI KAND seemingly arrived fully formed. We last spoke to her at the back end of 2018, when the
Iranian-born singer waxed lyrical about her development as an artist and feeling comfortable in
her own creative skin. It Ain’t Cool feels about as natural as is possible – yearning, dusty soul that
recollects the wonder of Mary J Blige. As is the way at the moment, the next time we’ll be able to
see her live isn’t until February 2021, when she’s set to join All We Are at Arts Club. Should be a
good one, that. NG
Dan Croll
Hit Your Limit
Communion Records
Adopted Scouser DAN CROLL returns with a summery LP packed with pop hammers. The title
track continues to pay Croll’s career-long respects to King of American Pastoral Paul Simon in the
vocal style, but with additional synthy groove vehicle which sets the tone for another well-crafted
collection of tunes. “Everyone succumbs / Everyone’s got their point / Everybody bends and breaks”
Croll coos on Hit Your Limit. I think we all shared this sentiment at some point during the isolation
marathon just endured. ST
Campfire Social
Awake In The Wake Of A Wave
Mai 68
Deacon Blue aren’t everyone’s idea of a good time but as the concept of the guilty pleasure has
all but been assigned to the history bin with CD giveaways and alcopops, maybe time’s ripe for
a reappraisal of the Glaswegian soft rockers. CAMPFIRE SOCIAL seem to be setting out such a
campaign with this single. The satisfying build from sustained keys and skeletal guitar to beatdriven
boogie and anthemic chorus is fitting for arms-round-shoulders set closer glory once we’re
seeing live music again. Then the Deacon Blue debate can begin. ST
Georgie Weston
Around My Room
Lush harmonies aplenty, forlorn vocals, and a driving beat make for a fabulous sophomore single
from GEORGIE WESTON. The addition of sax is always welcome in these parts, and it’s used with
tempered expertise towards the end of this pop nugget. ST
Words: Nik Glover and Sam Turner
Follow Hot Pink! on Spotify: bit.ly/bidohotpink
(Photography from left to right: Ian Skelly, Niki Kand, Dan Croll, Ragz Nordset)
Ian Skelly
Wake The World
Silver Song Records
A highlight from The Coral drummer’s new album Drifters Skyline, this is noisier than much of
the record and steps further from the template you’d perhaps expect from a member of one of
the country’s most distinctive acts, with a fuzzy rock ‘n’ roll strut punctuated by Skelly’s languid
vocal. The rest of the record walks a satisfyingly hazy path between countryfied rock and softer
Americana. A discreet gem. NG
FEATURE
11

PLAYING IN
Lockdown and social distancing delivered a huge blow to Liverpool’s cultural sector, with
its music scene one of the most adversely affected. In response, Bido Lito!, in partnership
with University of Liverpool, has carried out research looking into the impacts on
musicians across the city region, with initial findings painting a devastating picture.
Back in February, if you’d have prophesised that by the end of the
summer the city’s musicscape would be on its knees, few would have
believed you. Enter Coronavirus.
When Boris Johnson addressed the nation on the evening of
23rd March, the country was commanded to grind to a halt in fear of the global
Covid-19 pandemic. Venues across the country shut their doors not knowing
when they could reopen. All gigs in the following months were cancelled. Festivals
were called off. Release schedules damaged, stacks of gig opportunities for
emerging artists no longer going ahead. The best part of a year of live music and
artist progression completely wiped out.
It’s an adjective that has been thrown around the
past few months to the point of extreme tedium, but the
impact that Covid-19 and lockdown has had on the music
industry in Liverpool and internationally is unprecedented.
The loss of live music in Liverpool in the months
that followed have had a devastating effect on the city’s
musical communities. The Zanzibar and Duke Street’s
Sound have now permanently shut their doors after the
ramifications of lockdown took their toll. These stages
were essential for emerging artists to hone their craft,
get key experiences and develop fanbases in the process.
The former was a building of cherished memories shared
by multiple generations, with the latter a key part of the
contemporary DIY scene. Without them, Liverpool is
weaker.
While the devastation of the last few months have
rightly generated an emotive reaction, this emotion needs
to be channelled into cohesive conversations for change.
Bido Lito!, in partnership with the University of Liverpool, constructed a survey
exploring the impact of lockdown on musicians within the Liverpool City Region
boroughs of Sefton, Halton, St Helens, Knowsley, Liverpool and Wirral. It collected
data on a range of themes, including the immediate economic implications,
quantifying creative loss, how supported musicians have felt during lockdown,
adaptations to new limitations and attitudes towards moving forward and social
distancing.
The proposed outcomes of this information will allow us to present a datasupported
reality to policy-makers outlining how lockdown has devastated local
musicians. This will help influence key decision-making processes as musical
organisations and the local combined authority aim to roadmap a strategy that will
get the region’s music economy and communities back up and running safely. The
data further allows the voices of many to be taken into account in the process, and
to make the case for what support LCR’s musicians actually need moving forward
to offset the losses of the last six months.
The survey was open from July 27th to August 7th. In total 175 respondents
took part. We saw replies from all types of musicians from all genres and projects
of all sizes, from bedroom producers to bands, community choirs and larger scale
groups and ensembles including musicians from the Royal Liverpool Philharmonic
Orchestra.
“At one point in
lockdown I was
made homeless as
income stopped”
We aim to cover the survey results and what they mean thoroughly in the
coming issues of Bido Lito!. This first piece will focus mainly on the loss of live
music within the city.
Firstly, 87 per cent of the musicians who took part in the survey had scheduled
performances cancelled due to lockdown and the temporary closure of music
venues. The combined total number of gigs unable to go ahead between March
and July was 2,991. As venue doors shut and the lights turned off for lockdown,
the city’s promoters were eager to reschedule, but wary whether this could be
achieved. Out of the performances cancelled, 2,584 (86 per cent) have been
completely cancelled and not rescheduled, with only 442 shows getting rebooked
for potential future dates – which may yet be subject to
social distancing measures. More shows are expected
to be rescheduled in the coming months, as performers,
promoters and venues get used to the new conditions.
But it will still be a fraction of what we would have been
likely to see had the pandemic not intervened.
While it is possible that some of the same shows
would have been included in different individual
responses, it is also likely that the number of lost shows
is greatly higher than the identified 2,500 when we
consider the sample size of the musicians asked and the
greater amount of musicians within the LCR that might
not have taken part in the survey.
The numbers are overwhelming and hard to take
in; at the time of publication, lockdown has closed
Liverpool’s music venues for six months. Some of these
lost performances were headline shows where emerging
acts finally reached that milestone of topping the bill
themselves. Others were the acts’ biggest shows to date, and some respondents lost
out on entire world tours, with upwards of £1m in performance fees taken away.
One individual said it has been “Totally catastrophic, financially, emotionally,
socially and creatively. Everything I’ve worked so hard to achieve has just crashed
to the floor”. Although most were understanding, given the global pandemic
situation, this sense of a doomed future was echoed throughout the responses.
Performance is a key aspect of being a musician and to some it is a
fundamental part of their identity as an artist. For developing a fanbase, live
performance is the best vehicle of promotion, with support slots being a key
platform for putting an artist’s music in front of an already eager and attentive
room of potential fans.
Even when excluding high profile artists’ international tour postponements
from the calculations, the financial impact of lockdown on the city region’s
musicians is seismic. The estimated total loss in performance revenue for the
regional performers asked was a massive £1,747,527. On average, each musician
will have lost £2,397 of live fee income so far due to lockdown.
With the venues closed, many musicians’ incomes were devastated with one
respondent saying they had “90 per cent reduction in earnings gone overnight”.
Another added: “At one point in lockdown I was made homeless as income
stopped.”
12

Creative organisations nationwide, and more locally the LCR
Combined Authority, provided funding to support affected musicians.
Funds were used to allow musicians to support themselves and to
buy new gear to be used at home to help generate new income.
Other services like Help Musicians provided important mental health
support for struggling individuals and their Coronavirus hardship fund
helped out 19 of the artists surveyed. Organisations like PRS and the
Musicians’ Union were also praised for the direction, advice, funding
and support they gave during this time.
However, only 23 per cent of respondents actually sought funding.
And althought the majority of those who did were successful, 45 per
cent received less than £500 and half of them received less that £100.
The funding received has been a drop in the ocean compared to the
amount of money lost to cancelled performances.
A further concern is that 44 per cent of those surveyed were
unaware of the range of specific support available to assist musicians
as they continued to struggle, uninformed about the potential help on
offer.
Funding pots continue to be created to help support musicians as
lockdown continues for the performance industry. The National Lottery
is the latest to open funds to help support artists. Details on how to
apply for this funding can be found on the Arts Council website.
Aims to get the live music sector back onto its feet and running
to a pre-Coronavirus level have moved at a snail’s pace. As we saw at
the start of August, moving into stage four of the reopening strategy
was postponed as the infection-rate nationwide remained too high.
However, the government has since announced that socially distanced
events can take place from 15th August. Yet it must be noted that
the Music Venue Trust remain sceptical of making live performances
financially viable under social distancing. More clarity from central
government is clearly needed.
The nauseating figures noted so far were regarding the six months
of lockdown. Looking ahead to the rest of 2020 the scene is pretty
bleak. The survey ended on 7th August, and from then an expected
143 shows were still scheduled for August, few of which actually took
place. The financial loss of just these shows alone was an estimated
£56,443.
Looking at the remainder of 2020, only half (49 per cent) of the
surveyed musicians have any shows booked, and though these could
potentially generate nearly half a million pounds (£496,622), even with
the easing of certain restrictions most of these are unlikely to go ahead.
If venues remain shut until the end of 2020, Liverpool’s musicians
will have lost out on over £2.2 million in performance revenues.
Furthermore, this estimated figure does not include the loss to the 38
per cent of respondents who had gigs cancelled but are yet to have any
new performances booked in.
The return of live music raises as many questions as it actually
solves. Yes, live music can return in front of an audience within a venue,
albeit with stringent safeguarding measures in place, curtailing the
very essence and enjoyment that live music offers.
Interestingly the split in confidence between the artists towards
the viability of performing with social distancing was quite even in the
results, with those confident or unconfident both at around 37 per cent,
with 24 per cent left undecided.
“I feel if we are innovative, patient and willing to do things
differently to what we’re used to, then it could possibly work out,” said
one respondent. Contrastingly one unhopeful reply said “my job is to
bring people together, to make them dance and create an atmosphere.
This is now entirely discouraged.”
Audience rules for limiting transmission of Covid-19 are almost
draconian. No singing along, no dancing with other people, as little
contact with others as possible within a set one-to-two metre distance.
The prospect of going to a show and being unable to sing along and
dance is otherworldly. It eliminates the collective voice and humbling
moments that are only available when hundreds of people sing along
to their favourite act on stage. Replacing it with subdued applause inbetween
songs just isn’t the same.
Worse still for venues, socially distanced shows put immense
stress on the organisation, the logistics, staff and finances of the
building. Live events are a financially precarious business at the best of
times, and it just isn’t possible for both venue and artist to benefit from
a 10-20 per cent capacity of a usually sold-out room.
The first analysis from this study proves that the impact of
Covid-19 on not just Liverpool’s but the nation’s musicians is massive.
But without proper intervention on a national level the state of play
will only get worse and more venues will be forced to close, more jobs
will be lost and more musicians will simply not have the capacity to
continue. This cannot happen. Damningly for the Tories, 55 per cent of
those asked didn’t feel supported at all by the national government. Put
simply, more has to be done to support the music industry.
The next issue’s analysis of the survey will investigate how
musicians have coped and adapted during lockdown while moving
operations online to try to stand out and break through the cacophony
of online gigs and promotion. For now, we long for the first encoure,
sing-along chorus and the joyous escapism that fans and musicians get
from live music. !
Words: Will Whitby / @WillyWhitby
Lead researchers and data analysis: Richard Anderson and Mathew
Flynn (University of Liverpool)
Illustrations: Esmée Finlay / @efinlayillustration
The next stage of this research will take place in October via a Zoom
consultation event led by Bido Lito!, University of Liverpool and other
musician support organisations. The event will consider the wider
impacts across the sector with venues, promoters, educators and other
industry professionals encouraged to take part. Registration of interest
is available on the Bido Lito! website under the feature.
FEATURE
13

The trio return to dish out sunburst rays of joy in the face of an ever uncertain climate. Sophie Shields sits
down for a socially distanced chat with the band following the release of their third album, Providence.
We’re pretty familiar with ALL WE ARE at Bido Lito!. Since emerging almost a decade
ago, the band have woven themselves deep into the fibres of Liverpool’s music
scene through two albums and countless spirit-raising shows. As we reconvene for
what will be the magazine’s fifth interview with the band, in what’s been a year of
unpredictability, All We Are remain as essential and joyous as ever.
We’re returning to talk today in an old converted primary school turned artists’ dream space. It’s
the home of drummer and vocalist Richard O’Flynn. It’s also where we first caught up with the trio
of Rich, Guro Gikling (bass) and Luís Santos (guitar) back in 2012. Back then the trio had only just
stumbled into formation and lit the touch paper for their eight-year career that’s followed. But today
is all about album number three.
Looking on from EP Heart Of Mine, the bridge between 2017’s Sunny Hills and new LP
Providence – at first listen you get the sense that album number three is a bit of a step away from
their first two offerings. It has a similar vibe, the same twangy guitar hooks, funky basslines and
groovy beats; but it leads with a much more euphoric sense of positivity and warmth in the themes
and narrative. Where debut All We Are had ice running through its funky veins, and Sunny Hills
channelled a more insistent aggression, Providence is the perfect combination of catchy tunes with
a summery outlook on life. An apt time to be releasing it into the world after the last few months
and a fine example of how the power of music can offer a bit of respite for musicians and listeners
alike.
Sitting comfortably on tiny chairs (we are in what was a primary school after all) in the
sunny back garden of Rich’s home/music studio/groove factory, it’s difficult to not take a second
to acknowledge we’re able do this again. To physically sit together, albeit at a distance, and talk
about music without a computer screen and a dodgy internet connection between us. A sense of
normality may not have completely resumed but it’s a step in the right direction.
You can’t come to Rich’s creative heaven of a home and not want to know more about it, and
how it feeds into the make-up of the band. “We got this place when the band started nine years
ago, about May 2011,” Cork native Rich tells me. “We were talking about starting a band and then
my girlfriend broke up with me and I was looking for a place. Luís came with me to see the nursery
and it was totally fucked,” he adds. “There was weird shit everywhere. I think some artist from
Newcastle lived here. I didn’t really have any vision and was like, ‘Yeh, I can’t live here,’ but Luís
[convinced me of its potential] and so we just moved in and started the band.”
The space has played an important role in the workings of All We Are, an unofficial fourth
member and the birthplace of Providence. “We wanted to have the familiarity and the space to
spend as much time as we wanted on the album. It’s always been quite key.”
The trio of All We Are hail from all corners of the world: Rich, as mentioned comes from Ireland,
Guro from Norway and Luís from Brazil. Coming together in Liverpool and adopting it as a place
to start their musical endeavour feels like a bit of a calling for them. Like a lot of bands in Liverpool
they met in the Liverpool Institute for Performing Arts. There’s something about the city, it draws
people in from all walks of life, with an abundance of talent. But, looking back at the first steps that
bring us here today, what was it about Liverpool for these guys?
“I just wanted to come to Liverpool, I had heard about LIPA and wanted to come,” Guro
explains. “I was also a huge fan of The Beatles growing up. I always found like I had a bit of a
connection to Liverpool.”
These sentiments are shared by Rich who describes coming to Liverpool as a bit of a
pilgrimage. “It definitely felt like coming to Liverpool was quite monumental. As a young Irish fella,
it was like ‘Oh My God, this is where it all happened’. It has such an amazing musical history it felt
amazing to be coming here.
“When I used to visit I came into Liverpool through Bootle. I got a black cab and had a pocket
full of pounds that my dad gave me,” Rich laughs. “It’s really stereotypical but I was like, ‘Fucking
hell, this is amazing!’”
In the midst of all the reminiscing of everyone’s travels to Liverpool, a wasp lands on Luís’ lip
which leads to an impromptu conversation about the unscripted scene in Raiders Of The Lost Ark
when a fly lands on Dr Belloq’s lip and crawls into his mouth. The jovial swerve in conversation is a
reminder of the comfort and ease the band share with one another. They project a welcoming sense
of friendship and familiarity into their presence, owing much to their friendship for over 13 years.
“We figured out that lockdown is the longest that we’ve been apart from each other and not
playing music in about 14 years,” Guro explains, highlighting how close-knit their relationship is. It’s
a friendship that seems to have only strengthened over the years.
“I often think about how different it is now to when we first started hanging out or even if it is
different at all,” Rich muses, as Guro responds: “I think the importance of things has changed. What
seemed like the most important thing back then might not be now.” A valid point for a band who,
early in their career, signed with Domino Records imprint Double Six, for the goals only to keep on
coming. “I guess when we started, we wanted to get signed and then we did,” Rich explains. “Then
we wanted to put out an album, which we did. We wanted to play Glastonbury and go to Australia
and we did those. Things change but, ultimately, we just want to put out music. Putting out records
and being signed to Domino is pretty much like… we couldn’t ask for anything more than that.
“We’ve always had a connection. That’s integral to All We Are and it’s inspired by our
different musical backgrounds. It makes the band special,” Rich continues. Having such different
geographical backgrounds alongside a range of musical influences sheds light on their varied
musical stylings. Described in the past as everything from “The Bee Gees on Diazepam” (Spotify)
to specialising in “creeping psychedelia” (Bido Lito! 2015) and producing “languid funk” by Lauren
Laverne, it’s hard to put a finger on exactly what they are, but that’s not a bad thing.
Rich notes his musical influences come from listening almost exclusively to 80s music. “Prince
is a massive influence for me, as well as Tears For Fears, Madonna and Japan. I also listen to a lot of
hip hop from the 90s.” It’s a far cry from Luís who states Radiohead, Broken Social Scene and music
from his home country as his influences. “The last few years I’ve been listening to a lot of Brazilian
music to reconnect with my roots, alongside loads of boogie, funk and soul. I’m not going to say
it’s a guilty pleasure because I’m not guilty but also, Steely Dan. My housemate is really into Steely
14

ALL
W E
ARE
Dan. We have Steely Dan Sundays where we get together and play Steely Dan songs. It’s a very
exclusive club,” Luís laughs.
“It’s hard to know what you’re inspired by as well,” Guro adds. “It just comes out of you and you
don’t know what has influenced you so much. When you’re a kid and listen to music you might pick
up stuff not even knowing you’re doing it. Thinking now, when I play basslines, they are very all
over the place and when I think about it it’s quite like Paul McCartney, but I would never think that.”
“You just thought it…” Rich laughs.
“I did listen to a lot of The Beatles growing up,” Guro clarifies,
laughing, “but I’ve never thought it was my influence. I listen to a lot of
pop music – big bangers with massive hooks is always something I’ve
enjoyed.”
Hearing about their musical influences makes it clear why their
songs have so much variety running through them. You can hear the
80s synth influence from Rich, the funk elements from Luís, and the
pop hooks from Guro. It’s the perfect combination that results in their
toe-tapping tracks. Take recent single Not Your Man as an example:
the bouncing, funky bassline, tropical trumpets and catchy lyrics make
for the perfect summery track to bop away to. With the lyrics “Like a
piña colada, you’re not going to waste me” filling up the chorus, it gets
stuck in your head for the rest of the day. “We had a lot of excitement
from the label about that track,” Rich says after I explained how my
housemate now has a bit of an obsession with aforementioned drink.
“We shot the music video for it in the middle of lockdown, which
was interesting. We had to sign health declaration forms and it was
all properly socially distanced. The director and the stylist were on
Zoom and it was just us in the studio. It was all a bit apocalyptic.”
Watching the video back you would never think it was made under
such constraints and shows how creative and dedicated the band are to their craft. “We never really
discussed postponing the record,” Rich explains, nodding towards some high profile releases that
have been rearranged due to social distancing measures. “It’s a summer record. It’s about the good
times and we need to focus on the good things when they aren’t going so well at the moment,”
Guro adds.
A bit of positivity is something we could all do with at the moment and it’s a theme that
runs throughout their album, alongside everything from friendship, love, lust and loss. “It’s a very
human, honest and emotive record,” Rich muses. “I think the spirit of it is really positive. Making the
record and moving on from the second one was quite healing. To get a different vibe out there and
spreading joy feels incredibly appropriate to put it out.”
The album wears the clothes of a cast of characters, shapeshifting and bouncing in a Hawaiian
necklace. But do any of the tracks carry a personal entity? “I really like How You Get Me,” Luís offers.
“It’s a summer record.
It’s about the good
times and we need
to focus on the good
things when they
aren’t going so well
at the moment”
“We wrote it in Ireland on a writing trip in this cottage by the sea. I wrote it on this guitar that I
found when I went back home in my grandad’s old house. It turned out to be this 60s Brazilian
guitar, so I brought it back because it has this really special sound. There is a lot of sentiment and
feeling to the guitar and it came out in that song.”
“It does kind of sum up the spirit of the album as well,” Rich adds. “The songs are different
thematically and there is a narrative running throughout them, but How You Get Me does sum up
the joyous vibe of the record.”
“For me [it’s] maybe L Is For Lose because it captures all the best
bits from all of us,” Guro adds. “We all shine in that one. All of our
personalities come out in it. It was also written in the same cottage in
Ireland. It must have been something about the air.”
The title Providence also has a rooted connection with the band,
apart from being the first track on the album. “Providence is like, it
is what it is, things will be as they are, an act of God, so in a way it’s
quite a positive thing. Things are the way they are and you just push
on,” Rich explains. “We had to change the album artwork last minute,
too, and it all worked out in the end. Another act of providence in
itself!” On the finalised cover, the trio are scattered around a sunburst
throne of their own making. Each one of them has an air of nobility
about them, a deft assurance. It’s a metaphor that rubberstamps their
entitlement of deity status within not just Liverpool, but modern funk
itself.
As we come towards the end of our chat, the sense of pleasure in
simply being able do that, chat in person at a safe distance, returns to
the fore. Lockdown will have been a contrasting period for many, but
its constraint on the day-to-day regularity of before is not lost on the
band.
“I feel extremely creative now,” replies Luís. “You forget how important practice is and you can
get a little rusty sometimes. It’s good for me to start doing stuff again.”
“I think I needed the break to figure out how much I missed it,” Guro adds. “Now I just really
want to play. We’ve started again and it’s bringing me so much joy.” !
Words: Sophie Shields
Photography: Rebecca Hawley
thisisallweare.co.uk
Providence is available now via Double Six Records. All We Are play Arts Club on 26th February
2021.
FEATURE
15

BIRKENHEAD
The River Mersey draws a physical and psychological line between Liverpool and Wirral, allowing opposing
narratives and identities to take hold. With a publicly accessible bridge over the river’s shortest crossing
a near engineering impossibility, cultural regeneration may just be the road to shortening the divide. Enter,
Future Yard.
Birkenhead, where the dominant waves of Liverpool
broke and rolled back, carries an echo of historical
stasis rather than any discernible glimpse of the
future. On the dockside, ships remain still in a
stripped back Cammell Laird. The town hall and Hamilton
Square remain grand, but even this Grade I listed cluster is
presented as a historical artefact of more favourable times.
Towards the town centre, a frayed array of once optimistic
post-war modernism haunts the contemporary commercial
district. It’s an area that’s neither coming nor going. So, why
look for a creative future in its apathetic resilience? A harsh
question, but perhaps overdue.
Culturally, Birkenhead sits in something of a no-man’s land,
claimed by nobody as their own. Much of the rest of Wirral
doesn’t seem to want it. From New Brighton, Liverpool is
literally more visible. Towns on the western coast such as West
Kirby have their own sense of identity, partly informed by the
‘Leisure Peninsula’ image that doesn’t suit the industrial streets
of Birkenhead. Even Oxton – which is definitely Birkenhead,
geographically – prefers to define itself as a village apart.
And then there’s the river. There’s just about a mile between
the two sides, but the psychological distance it creates is much,
much wider. It’s believed that the Mersey was a historical
border between two ancient kingdoms; on the East bank lay
Northumbria, while the Wirral peninsula lay in Mercian territory.
Maybe it’s the echoes of this historical divide which still pervade
along its shores. Different councils, ‘wools’ and ‘Scousers’, the
river is still seen as a demarcation of difference. Never mind that
the two sides are extremely well connected, with it taking just
three minutes to reach the centre of Birkenhead from Liverpool,
convincing people to make that trip is easier said than done.
Because right now, why should they? A long period of industrial
and commercial decline has left Birkenhead lacking not just
destinations, but a sense of identity or purpose. Right now, and
so close, Liverpool just has more: more venues, more artists,
more willing audiences. More to shout about.
But there are those who see the separation set by the river
and current aimlessness of Birkenhead as opportunities, not
obstacles. After all, this is a town which has always traditionally
been a commercial and community epicentre in its own right –
the town hall and Hamilton Square proudly remind you of this.
Rather than tagging onto the coattails of “over the water”, the
potential exists for Birkenhead to find, or create, its own purpose.
FUTURE YARD began 2020 with the intention of working
towards this purpose. Having tested the waters of what was
possible with 2019’s two-day music festival over some of
Birkenhead’s main landmarks, a series of gigs in a pop-up venue
on Argyle Street was announced. Featuring artists including
Evian Christ, Self Esteem, She Drew The Gun and a special,
two-man performance by Orchestral Manoeuvres In The Dark’s
Andy McCluskey and Paul Humphreys, the venue was to be
a great statement of a vision for Birkenhead that cut through
the prevalent negative stereotypes of the town. Decorated
with enormous pink letters which read “THE FUTURE IS
BIRKENHEAD”, Future Yard declared its ambitions even before it
opened, when the very structure of the venue was still a work in
progress.
With the spread of Covid-19 putting the brakes on these
plans, some major rethinking has had to take place for the venue
and CIC. The fact that the music programme hadn’t started has
in some ways left Future Yard in a better position than some
venues. The postponement of their pop-up summer schedule
has only hastened their long-term ambition of becoming
established as a permanent space for Birkenhead. And while
the “Near Future” shows originally scheduled for this summer
have mostly been moved to 2021 in one form or other, the team
behind the venue have also been able to schedule new events
for “Near Normal”, a series of socially-distanced in-person
events in their venue on Argyle Street, which will also be live
streamed beyond the 60 people allowed inside. The first limited
capacity event is with She Drew The Gun on 19th September
– a date which feels tantalisingly close after so many months of
empty schedules. More socially-distanced shows are still to be
announced, coming in clusters of three in September, October
and November, appetite-whetters before normal service can be
resumed next year.
It’s a much-needed positive story from the cultural sector,
which has so prominently and heavily struggled under the
lockdown restrictions of Covid-19. Amidst numerous stories
of music venues, theatres and arts organisations being forced
to close – Liverpool already losing integral spaces such as
Sound, Studio 2 and now The Zanzibar – we’re being forced to
consider the reality of what a world without easily accessible
live culture looks like. And for many of us its absence has been
keenly felt; holes left in plans for weeks and months ahead. The
recommencement of live music, in whatever capacity, is cause
for celebration in this climate. But Future Yard co-founder Craig
Pennington’s vision for the venue goes beyond it being, as he
puts it, “a space that opens to the public at half 7 and closes
at 1am”. It’s not just the events that are being missed, but
the culture around them. The opportunities not only for social
interaction, but for artistic growth. Future Yard is about more
than just putting on shows. It’s about building, sustaining and
supporting cultural shifts of the kind that feel more needed now
than ever.
Choosing to open a venue in Birkenhead might be regarded
by some as an unusual choice at the best of times. This is
perhaps best exemplified by the reaction on social media to their
“THE FUTURE IS BIRKENHEAD” mural being unveiled back in
March. For every supportive comment there were three snide
voices: “If Birkenhead’s the future, God help us” and the like. This
reaction actually delighted Pennington, who had “hoped there
would be as much piss-taking and negative reaction as positive”,
adding, “That’s the point!”. The mural is now gone, replaced by
a new design more suitable for the venue’s now-permanent
status as it works towards being the UK’s first carbon neutral
grassroots venue. But the objective of being a starting place for
changing the perceptions of an entire region has been achieved.
“It’s like setting off a flare,” Pennington illustrates. “The response
to that is the conversation.”
There’s a growing recognition that Birkenhead has been
culturally under-served and seeking to correct this imbalance.
There’s a real potential for Birkenhead to be a cultural hub of
its own, to be proudly claimed by Wirral, and Liverpool, as their
16

“It’s about
changing
the story of
a place”
WON’T DIE
own and a model of optimism for others. To have a relationship
with Liverpool that’s not just in its shadow, but to be a centre
for new, self-sustaining, ambitious activity. The audience
certainly exists; Future Yard found that the majority of last
August’s festivalgoers were from the peninsula. And no words
are minced when Pennington calls it “a tragedy... that there’s
not a venue dedicated to supporting new music on the Wirral”
– an astounding fact when you consider the bands which have
emerged from this part of the world.
For culture-led regeneration to begin laying foundations, a
quality music venue is as good a place to start – a stark contrast
with the gentrification that has swept through many areas, such
as the Baltic, laying claim to its few, integral music venues. It
may sound idealistic to say ‘music can change the world’, but
the Future Yard team not only believe this, they have a clear and
practical plan about how to make this apparent in Birkenhead.
That fact about having no new music venues in Wirral matters,
because opportunities which aren’t visible can’t be understood
as real possibilities. How will the next generation access careers
such as sound engineer or promoter unless they have access
to a space where these roles are modelled? Again, there’s a
danger that we can take Liverpool for granted when it’s actually
local involvement which matters most. “When you’re at a stage
at your life like mid-teens, you’re not spending all your time in
Liverpool,” Pennington reminds. “Working within the live music
industry – if there’s not a venue in the town, that story is not
even presented to young people as something they can do with
their lives.”
Right now, when the majority of the news seems weighted
towards the gloom of closures and losses, Future Yard is
determined to set an example of how venues can actively
support the artists they exist for. “We know what we can’t
do, but we also know what we need to be able to do,” says
Pennington. “We’ve got to find ways of artists navigating this
new reality. Both in terms of building their way back into playing
live shows, but also thinking about how we support artists to be
the best versions of themselves.”
As a start, from August, they’ll be running Direct Input,
a programme of webinars with established industry figures
exploring the stories behind their careers. With live gigs set
to restart in September they’ll also be running Sound Check,
a training programme for young wannabe sound and lighting
engineers. “We’ve got a fully structured programme...you come
and shadow on all the shows, and by the end you’ll be able to
proficiently mix a live band.” An exciting and meaningful entry
point into a career which, though central to live music’s success,
is often hidden from the spotlight.
The ’new normal’ has also meant the introduction of other
new ways of working, particularly with the increased importance
of online events. Though they’ll never be a replacement for
the full experience of attending live music events, interest
in streamed performances has undeniably grown amongst
audiences since March. They have been crucial in maintaining
interactions between artist and audience, as well as vital
opportunities to recoup some income. Pennington and his Future
Yard partner Christopher Torpey recognise the potential here
for artists to build audiences by creating an experience which is
deliberately different to the live show – not a pale substitute, but
a product of its own. “If you can make it work in a format which
is considered for the way people are engaging with it,” believes
Pennington, “you can create some element of a cinematic
experience.” “You’ve got to approach it differently,” agrees
Torpey. “I think there’s space for streams, ongoing. It’s never
going replace live music, but it’s going to be an additional tool.
But it might not necessarily stay along the lines of traditional live
performance.”. With Autumn’s preliminary Near Normal shows
operating at low capacity, and some people understandably
reluctant to return to enclosed venue spaces, the option of a
digital ticket to stream the gigs is also available. She Drew The
Gun’s show on 19th September will be filmed and mixed live,
relayed to punters at home as a high-quality live broadcast in a
step on from the now tired bedroom gig live stream.
Even if the digital experience still dominates for some time,
the ultimate aim remains to get audiences to connect with this
venue in the heart of Birkenhead. Digital may even offer greater
opportunity, the chance to pique the interest of audiences who
wouldn’t ordinarily think of making the three-minute journey
under the Mersey. “We can build the situation where people are
going to a venue, rather than going to see a particular artist,”
says Pennington. With exciting programmes of gigs, artists
and events to get involved in, we can all add our voices to the
emerging conversation.
“It’s just about storytelling. It’s about putting on great shows
and events, and changing the story of a place.” That idea of the
world-changing power of music can be more than a dream;
Pennington points out at how it was music venue The Picket
and arts group A Foundation who first saw the potential of the
Baltic Triangle. How it was the incubation of culture which began
the process of revival that’s led to it now being one of the most
popular districts of Liverpool. Similar shades of change can be
observed by the community power that’s literally reclaiming the
former Smithdown Road Conservative Club, now the Smithdown
Social. Co-operatively run, the venue is a hub of socially
conscious club events with external promoters Wavertree
Worldwide leading their own culture-centred regeneration in
South Liverpool.
Lockdown may have curtailed Future Yard’s plans this
summer, but it’s also made the existing excitement about the
opening of a new venue feel like a beacon of hope. Future Yard
has always been about the long-haul process of major change.
Pennington’s estimation prior to lockdown was that it would take
10 years and continuous innovation to change popular attitudes
about Birkenhead. But with its programme of quality events to
attend and participate in, and offer of access to training in the
skills which can make a scene sustainable, Future Yard feels like
the right place at the right time. Its opening is a welcome piece of
optimism for both Birkenhead and its cultural scene, brightening
otherwise gloomy conversations around the outlook for both
a long-undervalued town, and a sector which has value to so
many beyond the stark financial calculations holding its fate in
the balance. The need to come together and help music thrive
is more urgent now than it has been for a long while. While
the river may still divide many aspects of Merseyside identity,
there’s no reason why it should also be the boundary of cultural
opportunity. !
Words: Julia Johnson / @Messylines_
Photography: Liam Jones / @liamjonesphotie
futureyard.org
Full listings for Future Yard’s 2021 live programme, and further
limited-capacity Near Normal shows for the Autumn, can be
found at futureyard.org. Artist-focused Direct Input live webinars
take place fortnightly, with conversations with Katie Harkin (31st
August) and Rebecca Lucy Taylor (14th September) free to
attend.
FEATURE
17

18

MOLLY
GREEN
Tara Dalton looks for the threads that hold together the jazzy, soulful undertones of the abundantly creative
singer-songwriter.
On the outside, MOLLY GREEN is a youthful 22-year-old
dripping in style from head to toe. But on the inside,
she holds an old crooning soul that can grip you from
the moment she opens her mouth.
The native Bristolian singer-songwriter has a past that will
leave you green with envy; performing from a young age and
hitting stages from Colston Hall to Glastonbury. As if that wasn’t
credit to her talent enough, four years ago she decided to move
north to study music at the Liverpool Institute for Performing
Arts. This year, over a Zoom call and a cuppa, we are both totally
dressed to the nines, and I’m eager to dive deep.
Although we’re 100 miles away from each other, it’s crystal
clear to see that Molly’s upbringing was integral to her sound.
In her smooth and jazzy undertones, you can hear the entwined
romance between her grandpa’s love
of sax and her mother’s love of RnB.
While not as obvious from the outside,
even in her acoustic sets, Molly admits
her late father’s love of artists such as
Jack Johnson and Paul Weller crept its
way into her life.
Yet, behind her old soul, Molly is at
most a realist. “I’m actually pretty shit
at genres for a musician,” she giggles
as she attempts to describe her style
to me. To Molly, music shouldn’t just
be another listening process. With a
middle finger to the idea of genres, it
isn’t just sound that’s important, but
where it will take you.
“It’s purely just from how I
appreciate music, I like music to take me somewhere and I
almost forget where I am. When the song finishes, you just want
to be transported there again,” she replies. “I think that’s when
music is at its most powerful, when you forget where you are.
Especially at live gigs as well, I like being totally lost.”
We’ve all felt it. Total enchantment by an artist on stage,
wrapped around their fingertips while the room around them
turns. To Molly, that click into reality after a set has finished is
how she wants every song of hers to end.
With Molly, it’s all her. If music was her personal paint box,
she’s all authentically green as her business and pleasure are
merged together. Her stage name is her own, her girlfriend is
her manager, and her sister is the illustrator of the Naked EP
artwork.
Created and recorded in lockdown, the acoustic EP shows
a stripped-down style to Molly; her usual RnB style straddling
modern neo-soul. As well as original tracks I’m Ready Now and
Dusky Haze, Molly proves she’s ready to capture your heart with
a slowed-down cover of Brockhampton’s SUGAR. In its delicate
13 minutes, you can feel its lockdown influences, as it transports
you to a serene setting of not total isolation, but relaxation.
From the nape of a neck to the curve of a waist, all the
silhouettes featured on the single artworks are a part of Molly.
Each pose is based on a selfie sent to her sister in order to paint
“I like music to take
me somewhere
and I almost forget
where I am”
the full ‘naked’ picture. While it creates a beautiful black and
white storyline, it has, however, left a mark on her photo library.
“I now have a lot of weird pictures on my phone of my ankles
which I should probably delete now,” says Molly. “I’ll be showing
people pictures of my holiday and go one too far and, surprise,
there’s my elbow!”
From single artworks to social media, Molly isn’t just here to
be heard, but to be engrained in your senses. Through her looks,
she aims to capture attention. “You kind of want your fans to
see you as a desirable thing, not sexually, but you want them to
look up to you. There is something to be said for going a little bit
extra, rather than being boring and average,” she explains.
And boring she is not. As well as being musically gifted,
Molly can hear this vintage rhythm in her everyday life. Not only
is she a talented songstress, but a
talented seamstress, creating her
own outfits for both onstage and
offstage use. Having learned the
skill for her Gatsby-themed 21st
birthday, Molly wants Alicia Keys
to be her first client. She channels
her sound into her outfit because
who needs genres, when you have
organza? “I do think if you can pull
something off, you can pull it off,”
she replies. “If you go on thinking
you look ridiculous, people are going
to think it’s ridiculous.”
Fashion is to Molly what
purple is to green; a match made
in heaven. She tells me of her love
for style, and even over our call you can see the twinkle in her
eye as she compliments fabrics and patterns. Her latest peach
piece, created for her supporting set with Abbie Ozard, was
the first item she had made entirely herself, but it’s definitely
not the last. To some of us, the thought of a sewing machine is
too stressful, but in Molly’s eyes, it is another creative escape
outside of music. “Sometimes when you’re so focused on doing
the one thing, it can get a bit monotonous and you can get a bit
bogged down,” she starts. “I can get into a rabbit hole where I
have no motivation to write and I’ll be thinking ‘You know what,
the music’s not doing it for me today, let’s make an outfit’. It
sometimes feels so nice to get that bit of escapism but still be
doing something I love.”
Where some artists try to maintain a persona online, Molly
is here to be herself and no one else. From her socials, her
connection to fans is unrivalled, letting them in to her day-to-day
life to understand who she is as an artist. Her latest video Just A
Girl is a “visual photo album” for fans, showing snippets of the
singer-songwriter having fun and being herself.
It was quite the task during lockdown to create a music video
for the acoustic sets so, as she was already looking back on old
times, she delved into her library. While the track sweetly deals
with parted lovers, the video encapsulates her youth through
snippets of her performances and adventures faced over the
past few years. Collecting these snippets from friends and family,
Molly experienced the same feeling you get when you’re tidying
your room and pick up that one childhood toy from underneath a
cupboard. The faint nostalgia just ignited a spark that she knew
she had to share with friends. With life outside the window
remaining unrecognisable, to make a simple video to get lost in
took on a greater importance.
“I didn’t want it to feel laborious,” she says. “You don’t have
to try and figure out a meaning. Just watch it and enjoy. It is what
it is.”
Being an artist is difficult at the minute, with it being an
unwritten social cue that you have to be creative in lockdown or
else… well, you don’t want to know. The pressure to be creative
can be a motivator for some musicians, giving them free-rein
to experiment. But for musicians like Molly, isolation has only
widened the gap between an artist and their art and therefore,
an artist and their fans.
“I was going to post on Instagram for a monthly recap
in April, so I thought ‘Let’s get a few pictures of me being
productive, like learning how to play the guitar’,” she explains.
“But I remember turning and thinking as I waited there, who’s
that helping? Just because I have been sat at home looking at
everyone else doing this kind of thing, thinking, what the fuck am
I doing?
“I’m not going to lie to the people that support me,” she
continues. “Instead, I’m going to be straight up and say, ‘You
know what, it has been shit and I don’t have any nice pictures of
me because I look like shit so this is what it is’.”
While truthful to fans, Molly giggles as she lets me in on the
white lies woven into her records. “No matter what I do, I always
stand by one thing,” she says, “and that’s to not write a song
about anyone you’re close to.” Molly learnt this lesson after a
writing session with her girlfriend, when a simple brainstorm led
to a romantic tune telling the story of how they got together. For
the outsiders looking in, this seems like the ideal outcome, and
we all do have a sneaky desire to be the character of a ballad.
But the truth isn’t always desirable, as she explains. “Sometimes
you bend the truth a bit or exaggerate a bit because that’s how
you feel when you write the song. If somebody hears it’s about
them, but you threw in that you fell in love right away, just cause
that’s what worked and it made it a bit more romantic, and you
have to say that you threw it in for that reason, it’s always better
to never do that. Ever!”
Lockdown hasn’t hindered her on her path forwards. Even
as she stumbles for a charger to save her laptop, she hasn’t
stumbled once in illustrating the bright future that lies ahead of
her. And we’re on the edge of our seats, waiting. !
Words: Tara Dalton / @tistaradee
Photography: Zoë Moungabio / zoevictoire.com
mollygreenmusic.com
Naked is available now via Modern Sky.
FEATURE
19

BYLINES
Workshops for Culture
Writers of the Future
Free writers skills workshops
with the Bido Lito! editorial
team start September 2020.
Bido Lito! is committed to providing places on
courses to writers of diverse backgrounds.
Applicants who identify as BAME, LGBTQI+, working class,
disabled, and women are encouraged to apply.
Go to bidolito.co.uk/workshops
Apply Now!

TEE
For the past four years, Tee has established himself in roles behind the
scenes as bassist and producer. With the long overdue arrival of his
debut EP, he is finally ready to take his rightful place front and centre.
FEATURE
21

“I’m not
allowed to hide
anymore”
Today’s sun is stretching high above the Anglican
Cathedral as it moves through the steps of its summer
ascent. It’s the hottest day of the year so far. Everything
below wears a lick of golden paint. This includes Terell
Farrell, as the hues catch his pristine white T-shirt on the corner
of Duke Street where we meet.
Much like the religious icons that bears down on us
(including the sun), Farrell, better known as TEE, is an artist
quietly defined by faith, by commitment, by purpose. His
character and music have been tentatively shaped by faith as
much as the cityscape that looms on the shoulders of the skyline.
“If I hadn’t gone to church,” he says, as we retreat into the shade,
“I probably wouldn’t be into music as much as I am.”
Rather than perusing the storied collection of houses of
worship across the city, we’ve climbed the humble spire of our
office space to meet today. The window is open as far as it will
allow. Through it sweeps the clunky symphony of city centre
beer gardens. Sadly, a breeze doesn’t follow.
It’s currently above 30 degrees in the mid-afternoon sun.
It’s the type of heat when unforgiving chairs fuse with your back
and spinal cord. Unforgiving like the two leather office chairs we
occupy, seeking to find a quiet spot away from the beating rays
and sun tipsy streets. Tee remains unfazed.
Sitting there, nonchalantly swaying on the axis of the chair,
he’s almost excitedly beckoning the red light of the recorder to
be turned on and our interview to start. Comfortable would be
an understatement. Confident? Humbly. Cool? More than most,
especially in today’s heat. “I’m, like, the coldest person,” he wryly
remarks as we savour the heat streaming down. Judging by how
he’s happily reclining in the chair, you’d be lulled into thinking it’s
a fresh spring day.
Just as faith quietly punctuates his art, Tee, originally
hailing from East London, has quietly been garnering attention
in Liverpool over the course of the last five years. But you’d be
excused if this is the first you’re seeing of him, front and centre.
Until now, you’re more likely to have noticed his handiwork
on the other side of the recording-studio glass, to the side of
the stage. Maybe in prosaic writings and monologues which
occasionally surface on his social media.
His production fingerprints can be seen on recent releases
by Sub Blue, Deliah and Little Grace, with his services highly in
demand by local artists pursuing an emotively charged spectrum
of pop and RnB. As a bassist, you may have seen him backing
local behemoths MiC Lowry and neo-soul polymath XamVolo.
But in the artist’s own words, now is time to move to the front of
the stage. “Producer,” he started in an Instagram posts at the tail
of 2019, “this is a hat I’ve had on for a couple years now. I think
it’s time to hang it up for a little while.”
This has given life to A Dozen Roses // A Love Story, his
debut EP as Tee. Given that the assertion to move away from
producing came in over nine months ago, you wouldn’t be wrong
in thinking there’s been a few obstacles for the transformation.
“Lockdown has been up and down,” he says as we start to talk
about everything that’s shaped the EP, unintentionaly beginning
with the inevitable conversation starter of 2020. “It’s been good
in that it gave people a bit of a break. I definitely need the rest
and to revaluate,” he starts. “But it’s also been bad as the EP was
supposed to be put out in April with a full installation presented
at LightNight.” The event, like many in the cultural calendar of
2020, was postpned.
Delays aside the EP has no issue speaking for itself, whether
now or when it was originally slated for release. In many ways
the themes it covers have grown in perspective over the course
of five searching months. And the digital shift in life is met,
too, as Tee and his band will deliver an immersive live-stream
performance in place of the original show.
A Dozen Roses // A Love Story is Tee in his comfort zone,
dealing with the uncomfortable. Across seven varied tracks,
spoken-word interludes and soundscapes, the EP tackles
fatherhood, vulnerability, mental health and love within its
umbrella concept. It is highly ambitious and cinematic in its
sensory delivery. “In the most basic sense, it’s a twisted love
story between a man and a rose,” he says, with eyes and hands
gesturing as if to say ‘wait, hear me out!’. “It sounds wild but… I
played with the concept of the rose, which never had thorns in
the garden of Eden until Eve ate the apple. A lot of it all stems
from the baggage people carry, and that they will love you, but
can still hurt you.”
The end product is all the more impressive given it’s his
debut body of work. Opener A Dozen Roses authoritatively sets
the pace, but the EP offers plenty of time to reflect On I Hear A
Kid, a song written from the perspective of a man who grew up
without a father, reciting the conversation he’d have when the
two meet again. From the early rush of 808s which fades into a
moonlit croon, to the explosive Real, both tracks have a bi-polar
character as they duck and weave through Tee’s repertoire of
22

delicate arrangements and raps, delivered so hard they almost
bleed with conviction. But it’s not just elaborate for the sake of it.
“The art that I was wanting to produce and the music that I was
wanting to create has been leading to this point,” he tells me. “I
think for me, more than anything else, it’s all about storytelling.
That’s why there’s spoken word, rap, why the music is so
emotional. Whatever I deem necessary to tell the story.”
The sonic palette is therefore complex in its emotive range.
It’s as you’d expect when going so deep below the skin. No
binary this or that, happy or sad. It stirs the emotion of social
experience to evoke a vast understanding of the human
condition. In relative terms, it reflects much of the chameleonic
Madvillainy, minus the hazy headspaces of MF Doom and Madlib.
There’s no smoke and mirrors in Tee’s observational lyricism.
“I wanted to talk about things that I’ve seen and been a part
of,” he tells me when pressed on whether the EP is a personal
diary entry. “I’ve lived the experiences through other people.
Telling the story the way that I do helps it seem more real,” he
adds. “Not a confession, more observations.” In the role of the
observer Tee paints self-portraits on other’s faces, instantly
building an emotive connection to the subject and their stories
put to music. These songs aren’t solely from him to learn from.
Crown Of Thorns is the song most discernibly owing to faith.
It’s a track that lays its roots in gospel, albeit spliced by Tee’s slick
production and lyrical motifs of self-empowerment and worth.
It’s the entry point to Tee’s innate musicality of natural rhythm
and deft ear for choral arrangement.
“Both of my families are religious,” he starts when looking
back to the first building block in his musical journey. “Me and
all of my cousins grew up in church and we’d go every Saturday,
which meant I’d be playing drums in church every Saturday. I
was very much into it, asking about which churches we’d be
going to. You’d see your friends there, listening to the same
music. When the latest gospel album dropped, you’d all be trying
to learn it. That was the environment I grew up in, the music that
I was surrounded by.”
Religion itself isn’t something Tee wants to draw on
too much as an artist, but he’s open about its influence and
atmosphere surrounding his musical beginnings. “Gospel is such
powerful music,” he replies, “it’s the kind of energy that I want
to bring into my own music. Being able to do a gig, and for the
music to hit the audience in the same way gospel did for me back
then.”
The early introduction to music would suggest a firm rudder
in following life’s path. And yet, music remained a church-bound
vocation through his mid-teenage years. Ideas of becoming
an engineer were more prevalent until blown off course by the
results of his first year’s study of Maths, Physics and Business at
college. Looking back, it may prove to be divine intervention.
“I remember walking through the park on my way home
and crying, wondering what was I going to do,” he recalls of
receiving the results that suggested engineering may not be a
true calling. “I remember speaking on the phone to my dad, and
he said, ‘Well, what is it that you want to do?’ And I hesitantly
replied ‘music.” He says this, elongating the word, almost as
if to relocate the shy subconscious influence that took hold of
him almost a decade ago. “It was the first time that I ever felt as
though I’d been asked what I wanted to do with my life, because
until then I’d just assumed what would be best. Him asking the
question was the turning point in my head.”
Already well-versed on drums through years of church
concerts, studying music at college saw a switch towards bass.
“There were already too many drummers,” Tee remembers,
outlining his transition to the instrument he’s now renowned for.
“My teacher suggested I go with bass, and I just went with it,
which was probably a terrible idea,” he says laughing to himself,
“as I had to learn it all as quick as I could in two years.” Though
the challenge was happily undertaken, and two years later his
abilities secured him a place at LIPA and a move up north.
Surrounded by a wealth of classically trained musicians at
university, Tee himself was more of an instinctive player and
listener. Most of his experience had come from gigs in churches,
hours sat around in a practice studio with his friends in college.
The change in scenery didn’t instil illusions of star power in his
first few years in Liverpool. “It took me a while to find my feet,”
he says honestly. “I’d been writing my own poetry all the way
before university, but I didn’t return to it until mid-way through
my second year. It just took me a while to work out what I was
comfortable with.”
Come the end of university, Tee had started to leave his
own mark, but through the work of others rather than his solo
production. As the sonic range and intricacies of A Dozen Roses
// A Love Story would allude, his abilities at the studio controls
stood out. “If you’d have told me I’d become a producer I’d have
said, ‘No, I don’t have the time nor the patience’,” he laughs with
a jovial disbelief.
FEATURE
23

It’s rare for an artist capable of mastering a wealth of instruments and sculpting
a dense debut EP to still evade the charms of self-confidence. “To be fair,” he quickly
follows up, “producing was something that I’d done [on my own], but only as a
means of making my own music. I didn’t have the money to pay people to make the
music that I want to make, so I had to learn.”
The self-taught path of producing has proven fruitful. Rather than market his
services out, it was writing sessions and collaborations with fellow artists that led
him towards the studio chair. More natural than a determined choice. In a room full of
voices, it’s his hands that always appeared to draw out the best from the arrangement.
It’s no coincidence when Tee nods back to the years engulfed by the intricate power of
gospel choirs. “[Producing] grew from being in church,” he says when I ask him where
the seemingly innate ability to arrange stems from. “Playing pretty much all of the
instruments in the church band, swapping over with everyone, you get a knowledge of
what a band should sound like. And in a live sense,” he continues, “you get a knowledge of
what a producer should listen out for. Having the ear to do that, I was definitely building it
up subconsciously in church.”
This subconscious framework he’s honed is built on emotion. The feeling of the music
“hitting you”, as he explained earlier, is always the desired effect. That same feeling when the
gospel choir is in full flight and blankets the audience with its wall of sound. Emotion therefore
acts as the compass that guides his music, and those he produces. “I think people come to me
to get their songs produced because we can bring out whatever emotion or feeling you want to
bring out,” he explains. “That’s something I strongly believe in.”
There’s been no mercurial rise with Tee. Every step has been measured along the way. Every
step a lesson of sorts. Rather than take blind control when producing other artists, he’s allowed
their qualities to reflect onto him. The holistic approach of emotive production opens up his own
creative outlet as well as those he’s working with. All the initial shyness about ability is deceiving.
It’s actually a state of study. “As a person I am very observant,” he starts, with the sun jutting in
through the windows at a lower angle, causing a swivel in his chair.
“In 70 per cent of social circles I am quite quiet – human behaviour intrigues me. Being able to
predict or make someone feel a certain way is fascinating. It’s something that I want to be able to do
on stage. I want to be able to silence a crowd, make people lose themselves a bit. I’ve been able to sit
in and watch performers like MiC Lowry and XamVolo and work out what parts of their art I’d like to
build into my own. I don’t want to be the person who draws the attention in a room, but I do when I’m
on stage.”
Understandably there’s currently a limited number of stages where Tee can announce his new front
facing role. But it’s not all lost. In many ways it’ll only enhance the eventual power of the coil when the
live embodiment of the EP springs out. He notes that after the first performances of his own projects at
university he was often greeted with reactions by his peers of “Where did that come from?” The quiet
and humble demeanour of the day-to-day was in stark contrast to the emotive displays some were able to
glimpse. It’ll likely be a different reaction now, four years down the line; assertively planting a flag as if to
say, “I’m here”. And ultimately, it’s what Tee says is most important to his music.
Across the EP and a scattering of live performances, there’s a consistency of monologues and spoken
word. The medium isn’t unfamiliar to him. One of his
first forays into music was part of Spxken, a spoken
word duo set to music. Even now his more contemporary
performances remain punctuated by the starkness of the
spoken word interludes.
In a similar vein to Kae Tempest, when Tee arrives
at these moments, such as on I Hear A Kid, each word
seems to press against the skin. Each rhyme seems to be
wrestled out of the body. You hear the joy in the eventual
release. Every sentence seems to bulge and swell with
magnitude; even the pauses and silences in between the flow
say so much. In his view, the style of delivery isn’t acting, but
enhancing. “I’m very aware that I’m bringing out an emotion,” he
says. “Even if I write a lyric, it’s not necessarily of that moment,
but I’m bringing it from a moment that I’ve experienced.” But this
is not to say words are sterile until forcibly hurled from the body
with performative effect. The written language is what inspires
“Language can be
a really strong tool
for change. It’s a tool
and a release”
the stirring delivery, as though the words are tangible and Braille-like, with a trapped emotion released by the reader and
listener.
“Language can be a really strong tool for change. It’s a tool and a release. If we talk about fatherhood and if we talk
about Black Lives Matter,” he begins, looking to the sky in a more thoughtful manner to his earlier nonchalance as the
conversation moves the role of language in the continuing protests. “Over the past few months, I’ve posted lots of things,
but I struggled to work out what to say. Everything around [Black Lives Matter] was so quick and emotive. I’d feel like I’m
doing myself a disservice because, yes, I’m reposting things and I’m fully here for this, but I don’t fully know what I want
to say. I’m assuming that I’m not the only person who didn’t know what they wanted to say.”
It’s here where Tee sees an ability to unpack the self and world around him through written art forms. He continues in
outlining how his thoughts came to find their flow when changing the medium for using his voice. “For me to be able to put
[the feelings] in a piece of poetry and put that out, hopefully it captured my voice and what I wanted say in the way that I
wanted to say it. It was undeniable,” he affirms. “And I hope that somebody else heard it and thought, ‘That’s what I wanted
to say, too’. Language is important because it gives people a voice. It gives me a voice.”
This desire to connect with other voices is the watermark of Tee’s music. It stems from his observational tendencies, the
idea of placing himself in as many pairs of shoes as possible in order to understand their stories better. There are no solipsistic
tendencies on show. He’s the ear on the other side of the confession box, one that listens out for the diversity of the chorus as
opposed to zeroing in on the soloist. The communality of gospel is always present. “Talking to my audience, in a conversational
way,” he says, “I hope it’s therapeutic for other people as it is for me. It’s the same thing as talking about vulnerability.
“It’s like saying, ‘I go through this as well’, so you can talk to me about it. because I’m telling you I’m going through it. And if
you don’t want to say it first, I will – I’ll take that plunge. Having that conversation is letting people know that it’s going to be OK.
I think that’s necessary in this time. If I have the time, I will 100 per cent talk about issues and what’s happening to me, and the
relations to the songs. Every one of my songs is a conversation, a feeling that I’ve had.”
For Tee, music and lyricism are the purest form of communication, the medium whereby he can best make sense of his own
feelings, and those around him. “The best message I could receive is someone coming away from the end of a gig and saying, ‘What
you said there touched me, I’ve been having similar conversations’. You know what I mean?” he says with a genuine air of sincerity.
“That makes me feel like I’m doing my job. That’s what I want to do. I want to be able to open conversations. As a society we’re better
at it. But there’s not enough conversations about real shit.”
The sun is now lower in the sky but the heat hasn’t departed. But there’s no sense of fatigue in Tee. If there’s any on show, it’s
nervously stemming from having to talk about himself for such an extended period. He clearly sees himself as the messenger rather
than the message, the interpreter for so many others and their vulnerabilities. So much of his journey to now has been about everyone
else, his place in their lives and the whole communities he’s a part of. Until now he’s never been the spotlight focus. I ask him if there
still remains a will to remain behind the scenes. He’s humble as ever, happy in the self-understanding of his once veiled capabilities and
talent. “This, it’s front and centre for life,” he rounds off, as we descend the stairs and back out onto Duke Street where the golden hues
reattach themselves to his white T-shirt. “I’m not allowed to hide anymore. [Being Tee] is me telling myself I can do it.” !
Words: Elliot Ryder / @elliot_ryder
Photography: Tamiym Cader / @tamiym.photo
soundcloud.com/anartistcalledtee
Real and Crown Of Thorns will be available on 11th September and 2nd October. A Dozen Roses // A Love Story will be released 17th
October. The VR immersive experience of the EP in partnership with LightNight takes place 23rd October.
24

FEATURE
25

26

DECAY
The four-piece have been making considerable waves in the UK’s post-hardcore
scene over the course of the last year. Following up on their debut album, released
in July, Anouska Liat taps into the unguarded emotional spectrum of the band.
“At first I’ll think, ‘Oh, it wasn’t that bad’, and then
after I’ve written about it, I’m like, ‘Oh, shit’.”
DECAY’S frontman Danny Reposar is
currently recalling the colourful self-assessment
and repeated ritual he puts himself through in order to come to
terms with the more disconcerting areas of life. Although a hardhitting
moment of realisation, it also provides a higher sense of
understanding on how musical appreciation is a platform for so
much more than just audio pleasure. Rather, it’s a pivotal moment
in time to comprehend the complexities you may not initially
acknowledge – something that Danny is more than happy to
revisit during a pleasantly down to earth bus-ride chat over the
phone.
The post-hardcore band’s full-length debut album, Staring
At The Sun, is the pinnacle of these reflective moments. Each
song weaves together stories of self-loathing, loss and love.
Although obvious themes of melancholy protrude throughout, a
parallel theme takes shape. The album
illustrates how with each unfortunate
card dealt throughout life, there comes
a time where things become easier
via a sense of feeling “uncomfortably
comfortable” in your own skin. Be this
an honourable inner strength or a chink
in the mental health support chain, the
album overall presents the bare bones
of human emotion; both reactive and
reflective. This in turn provides a sense
of common ground with their audience,
in hope that speaking their bluntest
truths may be something of a beacon,
as Danny confirms: “I just want people
to connect with it, and I think that’s
what this album was really about – trying to help people.”
This attitude of help-get-a-leg-up is common among the
Liverpudlian community, enhanced further by Decay’s modest
beginnings before rising to become one of the most exciting
movers in the post-hardcore scene. “We all grew up on council
estates or just not in the richest of areas,” Danny notes. “There
are a lot of bands who act bigger than what they are. I know
you have to do that to a certain extent, but we’ve always been
humble and honest from the beginning which is a good portrayal
of our background.”
Growing up with shared streets and stories, the members
of Decay – Nathan Peloe (rhythm guitarist), Toby Hacking
(drummer) and Matthew Pickford (bassist) – are a refreshing
breakaway from your laddish traditions of bottling your emotions
up and turning a blind eye to the more pressing issues ‘at large’.
Instead, they speak about them in an upfront and personal
manner – both through lyricism and achingly expressive riffs
and crashing drum fills. Danny explains this approach. “I always
thought that when comparing our songs to others, I don’t feel
like we’re a real band because we’re so on the nose lyrically – I
just say what I’m thinking instead of just chatting shit about
metaphorical stories.”
Crediting the likes of the emotionally-charged Welsh rock
band Casey for their straight-talking lyrics, it’s explained how this
overarching honesty and openness is what they wish to portray
to listeners – demonstrating their solidarity towards the problems
“I’ve done everything
in my power to
be emotionally
transparent”
of the average fan.
“The type of music we make resonates with listeners, and for
me it struck a chord and helped understand that not everyone
has that perfect generic life that you see on TV,” says Danny.
Digging further into the roots of Decay’s philosophy, Danny notes
how much more unflinching music has become in the past 10
years. “It’s blunt and the storytelling is so honest,” he says, “there
are a lot of artists coming out with their hearts on their sleeves
now.”
Mental health awareness is talked about a lot these days,
progressively getting on with it is a debatable area of discussion.
Where promotion of further aid falls somewhat flat in some
circumstances, other means of self-help present themselves;
a creative umbrella facilitating the healing, understanding and
growth of each individual. For Decay, and many others, this
comes through the form of music. Whether you find yourself on
the creative or the simply appreciative side of the fence, the two
often intersect to make music the
unifier for ways to help deal with
your mental struggles. Similarities
begin to surface that bring to mind
how the making of an album can be
viewed as metaphorically parallel to
the process of improving your mental
well-being.
Keeping your head active and
creative is key for continual positive
growth, however it may not appear
instantaneously, and that’s OK. “I
saw a lot of people getting really
creative during lockdown,” replies
Danny, “and I’m just not that sort of
person – when I force creativity, it
just causes stress.
“I like to keep myself busy by creating things,” he adds,
“whether that be writing, drawing or creating artwork on
Photoshop – I need to keep creatively busy to keep my head on
straight and stay sane!”
Things become easier once the ideas begin to flow, a goal
difficult to reach by those deterred by the intimidation of time and
persistence. Despite fear of the unknown, new experiences are
usually the ones that push us out of our comfort zones and into
a higher state of understanding; a place where we can see what
works for us, and what is in fact hindering our progression. Off
the back of releasing their first EP in the summer of 2019, the
idea of Decay immediately creating an entire full-length album
was quite a shock to the system. “With the album you have to
structure it narratively and find out how it ebbs and flows into
each song, and just overall tell a story with it. It was hard,” Danny
admits. “We’d never really done something like that”.
Creative growth is an ongoing discovery; whether
subconscious or intentional, both are integral to success and
should therefore be embraced. “I’m always writing lyrics,”
Danny recites when discussing his creative process, “especially
definitions of words, which I’ll then write down along with certain
phrases. Writing is like closure, in a way.”
Closure is a word that many refer to, devoting their faith to
the ideal, in hope that, once they peak the mountain, closure is
there waiting to relieve them of their dismays. A journey towards
this desired sense of closure comes in many forms. “I’m quite an
emotional person and I’m not afraid to cry, but I don’t really dwell
on things long enough, so I tend to disregard my life situations,”
Danny continues. “So then I tell stories from my childhood or
current life in order to gain that sense of closure.”
The old mantra of ‘it’s not about the destination, it’s about
the journey’ sometimes may be looked over by those striving for
greatness with their blinkers on. Taking the time to pause and
ground oneself can lead to a better understanding of feelings,
and therefore how to better help others via our experiences. “Feel
Better is an emotionally-driven song that deals with a whole host
of things, from love to loss to love again,” says Danny. “It’s an
honest and naive representation of our story telling that I hope a
lot of people can resonate with and take comfort in.”
While there have been some positive movement towards
shattering the stigmas surrounding mental illnesses, the support
for male mental health in particular is still fighting an uphill battle,
as Danny asserts. “It’s never hard to talk about it, I just don’t want
to feel like I’m burdening others or trying to gain pity.”
Be it pride or shame, it’s no secret; more must be done
to reinforce the valuable awareness recently brought to light.
Thankfully, there are those who are more than aware of the
impact those around them can achieve. “I do feel as if the
emotional openness of a lot of males is rejected, I’m just blessed
to be surrounded by so many people who embrace being
emotionally open because it gives me a good sense of security,”
Danny says. “A lack of openness is a toxic masculinity trait that I
absolutely hate because I’m quite an open person emotionally,”
he continues. “I was always told at a young age to not express
negative emotion and to bottle it up – so, since then, I’ve done
everything in my power to be emotionally transparent.”
As drained by Covid-19 as we all are, it is only fitting to
emphasise the impact such a high-risk global hazard has had on
a fast-rising band like Decay. With their debut album released in
July this year, it’s an obvious assumption that social distancing
will come to hinder touring. “I’m dying to get back to gigs,” Danny
confirms excitedly, “but, obviously, we’re not going to try and get
back out there until it’s safe to do so. I’m happy to let the album
speak for itself – it’s done well so far, so no harm in waiting a little
longer. I think we’re doing a full UK and possible EU tour when
this is all over.
“I’m definitely more excited than nervous, although I do have
to relearn everything,” he adds, with a jovial sense of trepidation.
While some may take music at face value – dance to it,
sing along with it, learn how to play it – it is the moments
in-between that are equally as valuable. Those pauses to
acknowledge the laughter, the tears, the reflection, and then how
gratitude, understanding and growth follow. Danny conveys this
thankfulness towards Decay’s music in just a few simple words.
“It helped me embrace all the negativity in my life and turn that
into positivity.” And that is what life is all about. !
Words: Anouska Liat
Photography: David Cusack / @cusackphotography
decayuk.bandcamp.com
Staring At The Sun is available now via Fox Records.
FEATURE
27

CURATING
Visual artist Frances Disley’s latest exhibition, Pattern Buffer, housed at
Bluecoat until November, invites visitors into an atmosphere of tranquillity,
contemplation and relaxation. Before lockdown, and prior to the exhibition’s initial
opening in March, Jessica Phillips delved inside Pattern Buffer with its creator
to talk about the importance of making galleries more welcoming spaces.
28

A
beige and green room, late afternoon sunlight filtering
in through floor-to-ceiling windows. Exotic – perhaps
extraterrestrial is more apt – bromeliads erupt from a
cream carpeted floor; moss grows lazily on the walls.
Behind me, there’s a trickle of noise as someone lovingly waters
the still-growing greenery. On a television screen a video zooms
into the lulling motions of someone having their hair brushed.
This is FRAN DISLEY’s latest exhibition, Pattern Buffer, at
Liverpool’s Bluecoat Gallery. Both a blend of classic sciencefiction
tropes and a celebration of self-care, the exhibition space
itself is carefully curated to instantly lower an audience’s anxiety.
“Even as an artist I recognise that
galleries can be quite uncomfortable
places that are difficult to linger in,”
Disley tells me. “I tried to realise what
it is about these spaces that makes
people feel anxious, and to puncture
that barrier between the artworks
and the viewer. The ambience was an
integral part of that.”
She’s right. The exhibition, which
spans two floors of The Bluecoat,
doesn’t give off any of the stuffy,
clinical vibes I’d associate with a
traditional gallery. The beige and green
walls have been interspersed with
adhesive tape to create a grid pattern
which opens up the room, and huge
stickers to give the impression of standing inside a painting. The
audience is no longer a separate entity – they become the art.
In this vein, Disley intially set up gaming tables around the
room for visitors to play dominoes or complete a jigsaw, either
solo or in tandem. The tables themselves had been decked out in
felt, pleather, resin, to leave a tactile impression in players’ minds
(though, for health reasons, many of the tactile elements of the
“Even as an artist
I recognise that
galleries can be
quite uncomfortable
places”
note. “There’s a fun and a freedom to the way he talks about art;
rather than it being anchored in heavy theory, he values play and
fun, which I find really liberating. Art is about not listening to the
negative voices in your head.”
Disley’s return to her northern roots after a stint at the Royal
College of Art in London allowed her to rediscover some of this
freedom for herself, and her relief is almost palpable. “Everyone
felt really stuck in London. It was all about controlling output,
and there were loads of negative voices about doing your own
thing. When I moved back to Liverpool in 2010, finding people
at the Royal Standard just playing with stuff and having fun was
really inspirational. There’s a sort
of collective happiness when one
of your fellow artists is doing well,
which was liberating in itself.”
This is all very evident across
Pattern Buffer. The created spaces is
dedicated to lowering anxiety from
the get-go, and allowing Disley to
share this newfound freedom with
her audience members.
We follow a trail of painted
stickers to the second floor, where
nature has taken over the window
boxes and the space above. Between
the quasi-terrariums, the slow curls
of steam keeping them alive, and the
greenery above our heads – all taken
in the Palm House at Sefton Park – I’m not sure where to look
first.
Prior to social distancing measures being introduced, there
were plans for this space to become home to group guided
visualisations, animal yoga sessions and kung fu classes.
Additionally, twice a week, a huge quilt would be taken down
from the wall for people to sit comfortably on, wrapped in fleece
SAFE SPACE
exhibtion have had to be amended). Most notably, it’s all quite
‘green’, from the colour of the walls to the plants growing freely
about the place.
“I looked at studies into spending time with greenery, and
how it can have a restorative cognitive impact,” Disley says. These
studies found that urban green spaces can help lower stress
in people on their lunch breaks, or even how just looking for a
while at a green roof can boost mood. The bromeliads, a type of
epiphyte whose native home is on the side of trees in the jungles
of South America, have been transported to Liverpool to sprout
from volcanoes of cheerfully coloured expanding foam, while the
Spanish moss – or beard lichen, for obvious reasons – survives
solely on the moisture in the air. “I like the idea that they appear
exotic, that they can transport you somewhere else,” she divulges,
“but they’re also representative of the transient nature of the
artwork itself, and its ability to find a home in various hosts.”
Pattern Buffer clearly takes much of its inspiration from
classic sci-fi, plants and all; Disley’s obsession with Star Trek
seeps through into her artwork, and the whole space boasts an
otherworldly feel. She aimed to create her own version of the
Holodeck – a virtual space for hardworking Starfleet officers to
unwind with a leisure activity. “They pick whatever experience
they want, whether that’s skiing in the Alps or something
completely different, and relax that way,” Disley says. “I love the
idea of turning the gallery space into the Holodeck, and running
my own Holo programme.
“Most of all I [wanted] people to spend time together and
have their anxiety lowered. I liked the idea that people can
socialise, play games, do something that’s completely comfortable
while being alien to the gallery space,” she adds. “I’m an artist and
sometimes I still stand in galleries wondering if I’ve spent enough
time looking at a piece. I like the idea that someone could be so
immersed that they take in the art in an incidental way.”
Disley’s affinity with artistic freedom stems from some of her
contemporaries, namely post-minimalist Richard Tuttle, whose
work focuses on bridging the gap between art, philosophy
and life. “You could empty your bin in front of him and he could
compose it in an amazing way,” she says of an artist who’s
clearly left a mark on her, her voice taking on an almost wistful
blankets to imagine themselves as air plants travelling through
familiar countryside. The initial aims of the exhibition were to
encourage socialisation and, despite the pandemic-induced
changes to these tactile, communal aspects, Disley believes such
activities are an integral part of self-care, or rather “group care”.
“I do feel like sometimes self-care can actually be a
distraction from group care,” Disley admits. “It’s obviously
important to offer yourself that kind of care if nobody else is
going to do it for you, but I’d also like to encourage more group
care, and to see more collective positive experiences. Here, you’re
safe in a room with other people, whether you’re starting a jigsaw
for someone else to finish or playing a game of chess together.”
My gaze is drawn to the videos playing on a smattering
of screens around the gallery space. One features hair
stylist Sheetal Maru and her model, who Disley met through
Liverpudlian dance company Movema. “Seeing someone get their
hair done is a big ASMR trigger,” Disley tells me. “I’ve always
loved having my hair played with, and watching other people
have theirs done feels like it’s happening to me. That’s why
there are loads of close-ups of the French braiding, and why the
camera lingers on the brushing. There’s no narrative structure but
hopefully it’s a comforting relaxation aid.”
There’s something distinctly alien about the whole
experience, but if Pattern Buffer achieves anything it’s this
instinctive, almost foetal state of comfort, helped along by the
incubated soothing white noise emanating from somewhere
beneath our feet. It’s something best experienced in all its
multisensory glory, in quiet companionship, or with a stranger
spaced out at safe distance. As I leave the gallery, I’m glad I got
to experience it with the artist herself. !
Words: Jessica Phillips
Photography: Bluecoat Gallery
francesdisley.com
Pattern Buffer runs at Bluecoat Gallery alongside Jonathon
Baldock’s Facecrime until Sunday 1st November. This article was
initially written prior to lockdown in March.
FEATURE
29

30

JAMIE WEBSTER
The singer-songwriter has already witnessed his words sung by a chorus of tens of thousands. Yet the
echoes of football terraces are far removed on his debut album, replaced by the everyday symphony of
working-class Liverpool. Cath Holland profiles the personality breaking through in his original songwriting.
Walking through Liverpool’s north docks, it’s
difficult to ignore the conspiracy theories
sprayed on to walls in big, angry red letters.
If we love our family enough and want a free
world, we need to wise up about 5G, or something like that.
A few steps away, in the building round the corner, and I’m
inside another world entirely: JAMIE WEBSTER’s modest but
well-equipped rehearsal space. There’s a nice selection of guitars
hung on the walls. Each has a personal back story, cheerily
relayed to me by the affable Webster. The affectionately-told
précis of each is in tune with the singer-songwriter’s reputation
as a consummate storyteller, a skill evident on his debut album
We Get By.
I’ve read interviews and listened to podcasts in preparation
for our meeting, and they principally focus on the 26-yearold’s
intrinsic relationship with football. With colourful tales
to accompany events around the sport, both funny and sad,
working-class assurances are typically peppered in. And, true
to form, he describes We Get By, chockfull of stories, as “a
document of the joys, escapes and struggles of working-class life
in a nutshell”.
This seems a little too rehearsed. What does being workingclass
mean to him? It’s tough to define. It can mean poverty, but
doesn’t have to. If we go to uni, move to a leafy suburb and have
two cars on the drive, can we still claim ‘working-class’? The
pair of us chew it over, listing criteria in a ‘how long’s a piece of
string?’ scenario. We settle on an awareness of our roots never
leaving us, no matter what.
“Having that mindset where you can respect people who
don’t do as well as you, you understand their struggle. I could sell
three million records but still be working-class in the sense that
I still understand my mate’s been laid off and he’s looking round
for work,” he explains. “I feel that feeling, that fear. Having that
automatic thought, ‘Is there anything I can do, what can we do?’.
Having that sense of togetherness, sense of community.”
Webster’s album views the world through a working-class
lens, for sure, alternately stark, and in a broader romantic sense.
It’s both scathing and affectionate. Witty,
too. On Common People he sings, “So
officer is it your arse I’m supposed to
kiss/I’m sorry lad today I’ll give that one
a miss…” Carrying a strong narrative,
Webster’s songs can be intensely personal.
He lost a couple of friends due to mental
health issues, and The Joker is “about how
many times someone is abandoned by the
system and for how long does someone
have to put on the mask of a smiling clown
before it cracks”.
He may take a well-aimed swipe at
things that get under his skin, like valuing
appearances over people, and the Tories –
of course – and in the striking Weekend In
Paradise he takes to task going out on one bender too many; but,
ultimately, it’s a record of affection, warmth and honesty.
Webster’s ascendance is a story in itself, “an anomaly”:
winning popularity singing songs long loved by The Kop, videos
of football chants going insanely viral before introducing his
audience to his own material, all while working as an electrician.
His story is the epitome of working-class kid done good, if you
like. We get sold the myth of the everydayness of pop stars,
politicians and public figures all the time, but scrape the surface
and the strong whiff of bullshit clarifies the situation pretty damn
quick. Webster literally got his hands dirty, starting work on a
building site the day after he left school. “Didn’t even have my
summer holidays!” he attests.
At work, at the match, in local pubs, he got to know lots of
people. “Some of them have it well, some of them don’t have
it so well,” he says. It’s their stories as well as his, he explains,
informing his songs on We Get By. In a band when in his midteens
(“we weren’t very good”), he kept his hand in by doing
covers in pubs on Friday nights before moving on to playing what
he calls “the Liverpool gigs”.
“I’ve had the strangest route ever into this industry through
the football back door,” he admits.
He performs with a full band now, and in true Liverpool
tradition, has Scouse music royalty firmly around him. With
Lightning Seeds’ Tim Cunningham on bass, Jim Sharrock
(nephew of There She Goes-era The La’s Chris Sharrock) on
“I’ve had the
strangest route ever
into this industry”
drums, Mick Head’s Red Elastic Band member Danny Murphy on
guitar; plus, he’s produced by Rich Turvey (The Coral, Blossoms)
in Parr Street.
Jamie is proud of his Lakewood acoustic hanging on the wall
in his rehearsal space (“I paid it off monthly over three years. It’s
paid for itself”), and his acoustic singer-songwriter roots earn
comparisons with fellow anomaly, Scotland’s Gerry Cinnamon.
Both men found success by “people power”, as Webster puts
it proudly. But he is gutted he won’t get to play legendary King
Tut’s in Glasgow on the forthcoming tour. Like the Liverpool date,
it’s been upgraded to a larger venue. I suggest it’s a nice problem
to have. “Yeh,” Jamie laughs. “It is.”
Perhaps unsurprisingly, Webster’s musical references
are familiar and close to home. Based on his acoustic singersongwriter
origins, 1980s Liverpool scally pop is unashamedly
present, with toe-tapping tunefulness and heart-on-sleeve
sincerity. The Beatles and Oasis pushed through in his teen years.
“My early songs reflect that,” he replies. The La’s are an ever
present source of inspiration to him in the here and now as an
adult. Bob Dylan’s a big one for him as well, on the surface slightly
more random but in the hours before we meet up, he is taken to
nearby Dublin Street for photographs, where those famous Barry
Feinstein pictures of Dylan with a bunch of Liverpool kids in 1966
were taken. Dylan looked like an alien in black and a noisy checked
shirt, Cuban heels and bird’s nest hair against the empty brick
backdrop, and yet totally at home at the same time.
Jamie finds solidarity with the logic of Dylan’s “I’ve got three
chords and the truth” ideology. “His music’s not unbelievably
complicated. Alright, his lyrics are profound, but he says things
how you’d say them in a conversation.”
Writing a song about Liverpool as Webster does in This
Place, about his love and respect for the city, it’s easy to fall facefirst
into a vat of cheese and sentimentality. He neatly sidesteps
that trap.
“It’s about not forgetting where I’ve grown up. To try
and make the lyrics like me, rough and ready, but they hold a
meaning, there’s a story behind it. Once you’ve got the full story
out, the lyrics start to make sense a
little bit more. It’s like an argument;
you start off an argument but you
don’t stop it two sentences in and take
questions, do you? You put your point
firmly down.”
We go over Noel Gallagher’s
songwriting, how Oasis lyrics are often
as close to nonsense as you can get. In
truth it’s the melodies which capture
the imagination. What Webster takes
from Gallagher is keeping melodies
fresh.
“When I write songs I’ll get my
phone out, record [hums a tune], then
I’ll listen back, and I’ll be, ‘Is that too
generic, maybe?’ So I’ll listen again and [hums similar tune but
not the same], it’s finding the little differences. Wonderwall is a
cracking song, but if every line was ‘today is gonna be the day
they’re gonna…’, and then another one and another one is like
that, it wouldn’t be the song that it is.”
These days he’s more likely to throw on The La’s than The
Beatles, he tells me. That’s even with The La’s reaching its 30-
year milestone this year, meaning it’s older than he is.
“I think it’s a lot more working-class,” he says after a pause.
“He’s talking about Doledrum… without being snobby. I love The
Beatles, but I’m looking for something more ‘now’ in lyrics.”
The Beatles were incredible in capturing their own time, from
those early fresh Lennon songs to the later, darker, more cynical
psychedelic works. Could it be The La’s sum-up your world now,
maybe?
He nods. “Looking Glass is one of my favourite ever songs. I
think the journey it takes you on – the way it builds – is amazing,
but it leaves open-ended questions. The La’s make you think,
they sort of make me want to explore, make me want to write.
Looking Glass is ‘tell me where I’m going, tell me where I’m
bound’: that’s a question everyone asks themselves because no
one knows that, do they? ‘Turn the pages over, turn the world
around’ that could mean one of a million things, but to me it
means let’s keep going, keep moving, see where it takes us.”
Webster’s life has changed so much, going from the day job
to full-time musician. Stopping working for the family business
a couple of years ago was unavoidable after realising mid-tour
he’d been working the equivalent of two full-time jobs. “When I
should’ve been at my happiest because I’m doing all these great
things, I’m thinking ‘Ah, I’ve got loads of paperwork to do when
I get home’. It was an awful lot of pressure, and my personal
relationship with my mum and dad suffered because of it,” he
explains.
“It’s a good trade, it’s made me what I am,” he says of his
days as an electrician. “It’s done everything for me, I wouldn’t
change a thing. But it was my dream to be able to get up in the
morning and play my guitar and write songs.”
He tells of the support he’s had from his community, family
and friends, the Liverpool fans, BOSS Nights, practical advice and
support from The Anfield Wrap and label Modern Sky, adjusting
to this new stage in his life. When his record label explained
to him about booking agents, press, the different people who
support an artist, Webster’s response was “what, can one fella
not do all that?” Everything was a learning curve, writing songs
to a deadline, recording, playing to a click, even maintaining his
social media.
“It was a whole new world to me.” He gestures around us.
“I sit in this room sometimes 13, 14 hours a day writing songs,
thinking about so many different concepts and complexities.
Even changing lines, sometimes, because people might think I’m
having a go but I’m not. Stuff like that. It’s nerve-wracking.”
He confesses to nervousness when he first introduced his
own songs to the world. He sells venues out now, but has recent
memories performing to audiences unfamiliar with his songs. The
crowd gassing to each other about what they had for tea, waiting
for the headliner to come on.
“When it’s not your crowd and you can hear people talking,
you can hear people coming in and out. I can’t wait for the album
to be out so people can get used to the music and fall in love with
it, hopefully.”
So if he has an awkward crowd, how does he cope with it,
how does he get them on his side?
“Early on it put me off big, every single thing was getting
to me. But you’ve got to win them over, that’s what you do, you
can’t let it get you down or moan about it. There’s 300 people
there, but 100 people clap and cheer. You take that and move
onto your next song. It builds as the gig goes on.”
Recently, he was named on the Liverpool Echo list of most
influential people in the city. Does he feel influential?
He laughs. “I just feel like a normal lad who’s had a lucky
break, really.”
Oh, come on! He admits younger musicians “might try and
emulate how I’ve done things, take a few little tricks off me,” but
jokes “it’s not going to add any inches to my height”.
What about your lyrics’ impact?
“I’m hoping so. I’m not trying to start a massive movement
where I’m marching down to Parliament, but there’s a lot
of things that I know people like me feel, people from my
background not only in Liverpool but up and down the country
and other countries.”
It seems to me, seeing his audience’s response to him and
even looking at comments on social media, it’s a collective sense
of shared experiences, that notion of community, which seem to
me as much a part of Jamie Webster’s success as his links with a
popular football club.
“If you feel on top of the world stood on your own, you’ll feel
ten times better on top of the world with ten mates that feel the
same. That sense of togetherness is an invincibility.”
Granada TV are due to film Webster after my allotted time is
up, but there’s a lot to pull apart in the time remaining. The way
the working-class were manipulated over Brexit and blamed for
so much of society’s ills, fingers pointed for using the bus to get
to work during lockdown, and the first ones to suffer in the bad
times. Eventually, I bid him goodbye and return back to town
the way I came, the 5G graffiti still very loud and very there. But
from this angle I glimpse up ahead rolled up nuggets of chewing
gum lined up neatly on a rubbish bin’s ledge, because ‘Only Meffs
Drop Litter’, further graffiti reads. Positive community spirit? It is
alive, and very well indeed. !
Words: Cath Holland / @cathholland01
Photography: John Johnson / @john.johno
@JamieWebster94
We Get By is available now via Modern Sky.
FEATURE
31

AS CLOSE TO FLYING
AS YOU’RE GONNA GET
With the way we travel changed for the foreseeable, Stuart O’Hara looks local and makes
the case for finding our two feet on two wheels in the age of the new normal.
As fine a sport as cycling is, this article isn’t about
Lycra, doping, yellow jerseys or cowbells. It’s about
what might simply be called Riding Your Bike.
Getting from A to B, vernacular cycling, Active
Transport (Liverpool City Region’s term), or just whizzing around
Liverpedlarpool with a bird on your head. There’s a forgotten
Mark Ronson single from 2010 called the Bike Song, featuring
a lad from The View who briefly clambered out of landfill to
sing it, like an indie Stig Of The Dump. That was a good song
about bikes. The chorus goes “I’m gonna ride my bike until I get
home”, which is the most wholesome sentiment going, relatable
to anyone who’s ever gone about on two wheels. On the other
hand, Queen’s Bicycle Race is a bad band’s bad song about
bikes. That of which we cannot speak, we must pass over in
silence.
Getting from A to B on Merseyside has a chequered history,
and been dominated by the car – or, rather, the predicted
dominance of the car. Post-war reconstruction banked on
increased car ownership (pending social mobility that didn’t
always come to pass), justifying the dismantling of the tram
network in 1957 and complementing the closure of railways
which left estates like Norris Green stranded. There were even
plans for the M62 to terminate at the Queensway Tunnel – hence
The Rocket being junction 4 – and a Ballardian city centre with
separate levels for pedestrians and motorists, ne’er the twain
meeting. Even the compromised outcomes of these aborted
visions were dully car-orientated, with one-way systems and
partial street closures which, although they did slow traffic
in residential areas, were implemented with social order (and
control) in mind. In trying to prevent rat-runs, city centreadjacent
neighbourhoods like Everton, Kensington and Toxteth
were neglected as their commercial fortunes faded. Whole
communities were uprooted from condemned terraces in the
north end and those who weren’t housed in piggeries or the
few central new builds were moved to Huyton, Skelmersdale,
Kirkby, Maghull – satellites, suburbs, and new towns(). With a
motorway between them and Liverpool, a car was the only way
of commuting, or just getting the heck out of Dodge.
It’s a bit better these days. Some of those disused railways
have been converted into cycle paths, like the Loop Line, part
of the National Cycle Network, under the auspices of Sustrans.
It runs between Aintree and Hunt’s Cross, a sort of cycling
counterpart to Queens Drive. But it’s wild in parts and, crucially,
unlit, meaning it’s not the commuter’s first choice for half the
year. In great swathes of the city, cyclists must share the road,
facing heavy traffic, poorly maintained surfaces like Kensington
and Picton Road, and brutal (the cycling journalist’s adjective
of choice) inclines into headwinds – though the weather here is
no worse than in cycle-friendly countries such as Denmark and
Holland.
Those streets barred to cars partway along their length,
in Kensington, for example, are now largely passable by bike.
The dock road has segregated cycle lanes, hopefully benefitting
entities like IWF, Ten Streets Market and Wired theatre company,
and surely implemented with Sound City, the Titanic Hotel and
Everton’s dreamed-of Bramley-Moore stadium in mind. But the
result of that 20th-century carousel of semi-fulfilled planning is
continued dependence on cars (and, to a lesser extent, buses)
around a modestly-sized city. Therein lies the insensibility of a
car-dominated Merseyside – it’s not huge. According to Liverpool
City Region’s Local Cycling and Walking Infrastructure Plan
(LCWIP), two-thirds of all journeys made here are under 5km.
Half of those are taken by car. In May 2019, it says, 2 per cent of
journeys were by bike. The LCWIP’s goal is to improve the image
of cycling on Merseyside, but the desire to ride was already there
in those cycling casually, those thinking about driving less, those
teaching their kids how to ride a bike; it’s only in the last decade
or so that the infrastructure’s appeared. More could have been
done already, but all that can be done now is to look ahead.
So what’s the plan? In 2014 Liverpool City Council pledged
to triple the number of cyclists by 2017, a goal of 45,000 people
cycling once a week. It isn’t clear if that target was achieved, but
there were visibly more cyclists about in 2019, and there seems
to have been another spurt during lockdown, but it remains to be
seen if that will last. Metro Mayor Steve Rotheram has appointed
Simon O’Brien (off Brookside) as a Cycling Commissioner,
and their current plan fits into a ‘Connectivity Scheme’ which
aims to make walking and cycling the primary modes of city
centre transport by 2023, through extensive redevelopment of
Lime Street, the Strand, Tithebarn Street, Victoria Street and
Moorfields. Note that these are mostly around the business
district, though Brownlow Hill – probably the most significant
non-student residential area in the centre – is set for wider
pavements and bike racks.
It’s a nice gesture, but with the best will in the world, it
appears that increased cycling is the means to an end – namely,
reduced traffic, lower emissions and a healthier population.
There is an argument for not looking a gift horse in the mouth,
but why not invest in cycling for cycling’s sake? Not as a discrete
activity but just ‘getting on your bike’. As Guardian journalist
Peter Walker has argued, ‘cyclist’ is often an identity in a way
that ‘driver’ is not. Maybe we need to become the new drivers in
that respect.
The blame can’t always be laid squarely at the council’s
door though. There is a ‘Car is King’ culture on- and off-road
which, being kind, is the inevitable product of a society that’s
long been geared toward car use at every level. Being less kind,
it’s just plain entitlement. A case in point – pop-up cycle lanes
piloted around Liverpool during the relative calm of lockdown,
segregated by plastic bollards, have been repeatedly ignored by
drivers parking across them. It brings to mind Casey Neistat’s
viral video from 2011 in which he gets a $50 fine from the NYPD
for not riding in a cycle lane. He then stays unswervingly in his
lane, literally crashing into scaffolding, parked vans, and a police
car. It’s a bit childish but it makes the point painfully.
Cycling has the potential to be a truly popular mode of
transport in every sense of the word. It’s been argued that the
invention of the bicycle expanded the gene pool in the late 19th
Century, letting people reach the next town or village with ease,
no longer limited to starting a family with their neighbours and
most distant cousins. Bikes aren’t exactly cheap (and sexism in
the marketplace needs calling out more), but running one is far
more affordable than a car for a lot of people. You can tinker with
a bike in a way you no longer can with most cars due to reliance
32

on onboard computers. Those 60s urban planners could (just
about) be forgiven for reading the signs as they did – cars were
small, there was ignorance about fossil fuels, and the post-war
project was utopian, in an individualist way. It wasn’t so long
after, as that project began to sour, that it was plausible for the
Prime Minister to have claimed that anyone over the age of 26
riding a bus was a failure (some people need to sit at the front of
the top deck more). That forecasting created a negative feedback
loop which is still going.
To be clear: this is not a crusade
against all motor vehicles. Buses are
vital, particularly for those with need
of greater mobility and accessibility.
In a city with a strong music scene
and – yeuch, sorry to use this term –
nocturnal economy, there still needs
to be access for motor vehicles to
load bands in and out, for vans to
stock restaurants on Bold Street. But
it should be equally safe for couriers
and Deliveroo riders to navigate.
Influential research conducted
by New York City Department of
Transport found that independent
businesses fared better in districts
with segregated cycle lanes. That
might be a single piece of data but it
opens up a rabbit hole about how cycling can be our means to an
end too – the end being getting politicians to listen in terms they
understand. And bikes are cool. They will never suffer the stigma
other modes of transport have.
On the face of it, competitive cycling’s had a positive
influence on your average rider in the 2010s. Moves to ‘clean up’
doping, a string of British Tour de France winners, and 2014’s
Grand Départ in Yorkshire have almost certainly contributed to
the increase of urban cycling, and not just at rush hour. But the
“It’s not about
picking a far-off
date by which to lay
more red tarmac;
it’s about prioritising
the cyclist from
here on in”
available data isn’t always so useful. Lists of ‘best and worst
cities for cycling’ tend to draw on numbers of cyclists and
Strava, and though that’s often shared with local authorities,
it isn’t always easy to find out who cycles, why, and where to
and from. Though we’ve all heard horror stories illustrated by
footage of road rage and driving that, merely sloppy to the driver,
is potentially lethal to the cyclist, it isn’t easy to track down
quantified data about the cyclist’s experience and how safe they
feel on the road.
There is hard data about cycling
fatalities. Liverpool came bottom
in a Walk And Cycle Merseyside
(WACM) table of metropolitan
boroughs, with 42 deaths per
100,000 of the population (the UK
average is 29/100,000) between
2014 and 2018, and Sefton sits
only a few places higher. Focusing
on fatalities and injuries among
child cyclists, the North West
fares little better, with St. Helens,
Liverpool, Sefton and Wirral in the
bottom 10. But it’s hard to parse
the data (not every local authority
is a metropolitan borough) and put
it in context – higher numbers of
cyclists may imply a greater risk of
injury, but most cycle lanes in Liverpool so far have been painted
on, rather than segregated from other traffic. Cyclists can only
protect themselves so much. Here’s the rub: should building
bike-friendly infrastructure encourage and determine future use,
or reflect and improve the current cycling experience?
Syd Barrett’s Bike occupies the God tier of bike songs. It’s
a very good song but it’s not really about bikes, a bit like many
cycling initiatives at local government level. Similar language
appears over and over in plans for improved conditions for
cyclists. Pretty utopian, drenched in colourful graphics, with a
sense that the only thing stopping better cycling was the lack
of a plan. But cycling’s already simple enough. You strap on
your helmet, check your lights, and you’re off. But the language
of the focus group, the cabinet meeting, or the optimistic
item on North West Tonight doesn’t adequately describe the
cyclist’s experience. It doesn’t describe the near miss with the
cement mixer, the prayer that the dotted line will be enough of
a barrier, the polka-dot jersey waiting at the top of Rice Lane
or Smithdown when there’s a bus up your arse. There’s a gap
between vision and reality, between policy and people, that
could be closed if more cyclists were involved in the process. It’s
not about picking a far-off date by which to lay more red tarmac;
it’s about prioritising the cyclist from here on in. One of the best
things about cycling is the freedom – faster than running, with
the wind in your hair, it’s as close to flying as you’re gonna get.
Every now and then, ‘before and after bikes’ photos of
Amsterdam surface on Twitter’s online trash vortex. The narrow
streets familiar from centuries of Dutch painting and stag dos,
photographed in the 70s, could be present-day Walton, with
cars parked bumper-to-bumper on either side leaving just
enough room for a third to crawl through. It seems astonishing
that such a car-centric European capital could eventually
prioritise the sole, the pedal and half as many wheels. The grass
isn’t greener on the other side of the fence – it took 20 years for
those changes to take place, but they are proof that there’s no
need to accept how things are now. Those holding the purse
strings can’t just clap their hands together and say “job done”,
whistling off to the next planning application for more student
accommodation. Climate change is already happening, cultural
change is necessary, and those making the decisions must be
persuaded to de-incentivise the car. !
Words: Stuart Miles O’Hara / @ohasm1
Illustration: John O’Loughlin / jolworkshop.co.uk
FEATURE
33

SPOTLIGHT
“I’m influenced by
a sense of urgency
to acknowledge
and open up
dialogues about
more challenging
subject matters”
LUKE MAWDSLEY
On his debut album Vulgar
Displays Of Affection, the prolific
polymath goes solo and digs deep
into the human condition for a
sonic exploration of the self.
As with many creative personalities, trauma and
internal conflict are touchstones of Liverpool polymath LUKE
MAWDSLEY’s work. Just as his debut solo EP, Obsessive
Compulsive was, in parts, a reflection on the emotional ebb and
flow of that often-misunderstood condition, his first long-player
Vulgar Displays Of Affection is a work derived from therapeutic
creativity and compulsive necessity. Drawing on a journal of
collected intrusive thoughts, Mawdsley has recorded spokenword
performances bolstered by glitchy soundscapes and
chiming guitar, somewhat akin to Tim Hecker, Xiu Xiu or lateperiod
Scott Walker.
Released this summer on Maple Death records, the album
also features the production talents of Doomshakalaka/Bad Meds’
own Paul Rafferty as well as the bass abilities of Waffle Burger,
from Glaswegian garage-troupe Fallope And The Tubes.
Fans of Texan metal may have already spotted an elephant
in this particular room: that there’s a striking similarity between
the title of Mawdsley’s latest release and Arlington thrashers
Pantera’s 1992 opus Vulgar Display Of Power. However,
Mawdsley is keen to dismiss any notion of paying homage to
a band led by a “white supremacist arsehole” and claims to be
much more interested in the “deconstruction of metal as a tool of
masculine dominance”.
Despite his aversion to the white male machismo of Pantera,
Mawdsley admits that his interest in music does have a childhood
root of sorts in another incarnation of masculine Americana.
“I was gifted a country and western tape with, amongst
other gunslinger classics, various versions of Rawhide on it,” says
Mawdsely. “Dressed in makeshift western attire and whipping a
chair with a belt in time with the beat I would listen to this tape
till the prairie wind changed direction.
“This kind of percussive experimentation was encouraged by
my parents, likely due to the fact that I did not show particular
aptitude for much else,” he adds. “I think the physicality and
accessibility of percussion as a child was hugely empowering and
enabled me to manifest the desires my imagination seemed to
demand.”
There are hints of this early infatuation with Western
soundtracks noticeable on Mawdsley’s latest release; with tracks
such as Misery Gland reimagining the sparseness of Morricone’s
compositions, while Little Blanket maps out a prairie landscape in
screeching oscillations.
As we talk, Mawdsley recalls other childhood memories
which he sees as equally pivotal to his immersion in music and
performance. “I was really sick as a baby and vomited a lot. My
parents nicknamed me Puke,” he illustrates. “As is consistent with
all children at that age, the retching and crying was an innate
expression of something troubling I was unable to fathom. My
personal pallette of expression has, arguably, expanded since
then. However, the compulsion to express through sound has
never really felt like a choice I have consciously made.”
Finding a way to process these compulsions and the
unconscious is something which can so often be key to coping
with OCD. Mawdsley’s approach on Vulgar Displays… sees him
process these suggestions and intrusions from the unconscious
into spoken-word monologues. He then manipulates the tone
of the vocals, creating a sort of obtuse, distorted narration. It is
almost as if, by making the timbre of the speech unrecognisable
as his own, he has cathartically separated these unwanted voices
and ideas from himself.
Vulgar Displays… consists of nine such works, each with its
own level of lyrical and sonic profundity. From the bubbling pulse
of Piss & Leather and the distorted drone of The River Takes
It All to Beberian Sound Studio escapee A Grudge Supreme,
every track manages to entrap Mawdsley’s unnerving modulated
confessions perfectly within its noisy grasp.
In addition to processing trauma and addressing mental
health issues, his compositions also tackle a variety of other
topics of importance to the artist. Mawdsley has described some
of the ideas which appear throughout the album as “shame,
disassociation, grief, control and repressed adolescence”. He
tells us: “I have made attempts to establish spaces to explore
and challenge my own perceptions of the human condition. I’m
influenced by a sense of urgency to acknowledge and open up
dialogues about more challenging subject matters.”
There is arguably much need for acknowledgment and
dialogue at the current moment in time. Certainly, mental health
is one area which could stand to be discussed a lot more. In the
quarter of a century since Pantera’s paean to aggression was
released, it could also be argued that not much has changed in
the sense that wider society, as a whole, fails to address these,
often crippling, tropes of the human condition. The real “power”
of Luke Mawdsley’s creation lies in the fact that he has found one
way of doing so. !
Words: Stephen Lewin
Photography: Xenia Onta / @xeniaonta
lukemawdsleymusic.bandcamp.com
Vulgar Displays Of Affection is available now via Maple Death
Records.
34

TOKKY
HORROR
Rising from the hot ashes of Queen
Zee, the trio of Zee Devine, Ava
Akira and Mollie Rush make their
full throttle introduction as Tokky
Horror. Blink and you might miss.
“When I was a child
I wanted to be Steve
Irwin but there weren’t
many opportunities to
wrestle crocodiles in
Birkenhead, so I decided
to learn drums”
If you had to describe your music in a sentence, what would
you say?
Fast music.
Have you always wanted to create music?
No. When I [Zee] was a child I wanted to be Steve Irwin,
but there weren’t many opportunities to wrestle crocodiles
in Birkenhead, so I decided to learn drums, which, I was
disappointed to learn, has equally few opportunities.
Can you pinpoint a live gig or a piece of music that initially
inspired you?
I remember dancing around my parents living room in a lil white
vest and no pants pretending to be Freddie Mercury, so it was
probably just having MTV on constantly as a child that got me
intrigued. My first CD was a single of Queen’s We Will Rock You
covered by 5ive.
What do you think is the overriding influence on your
songwriting: other art, emotions, current affairs – or a mixture
of all of these?
It’s definitely emotion. I’m very emotional and do just write
obsessively to help block out all my shit. I’m also just influenced
by the music itself and a desire to write better and better.
If you could support any artist in the future, who would it be?
I’d like to open for artists where you’re getting a mixed bag,
something we don’t properly fit with, like Slipknot, which would
be fun. But then again, all time heroes like Goldie or Underworld
would be major. To be honest, anything where I’m gonna get paid
at this point.
Do you have a favourite venue you’ve performed in?
I got to play at Brixton Academy, that was weird. I was too
anxious to really enjoy it in the moment, but now I can look back
and be like holy shit that was Brixton. Liverpool Olympia is also a
beautiful venue, I really enjoyed playing there.
Why is music important to you?
It’s how I make sense of the world and how I connect to it. I’ve
always struggled with my autism, to really connect to people, and
I find the world overwhelming or confusing most of the time. So,
it’s through music I can have a common ground with people and
make sense of emotions.
Can you recommend an artist, band or album that Bido
Lito! readers might not have heard?
Get onto Donny Soldier, he’s rockin’ it on the main stage.
Photography: Dan Frost / @danfrost.jpg
@tokkyhorror
Girl Racer is available now via Alcopop! Records.
LAZYGIRL
Through saccharine melodies
cooked up in a bedroom studio,
Lazygirl draws you into her haze of
sentimentality.
If you had to describe your style in a sentence, what would you
say?
Upbeat-meets-melancholy bedroom pop – kind of indie, kind of
solemn, but soothing.
Can you pinpoint a live gig or a piece of music that initially
inspired you?
I was initially influenced to start producing my own dreamy, lo-fi
stuff when I saw Clairo’s Pretty Girl music video in 2017. Seeing
someone about my age making massive waves in the industry
from her bedroom was so inspiring, and made me start producing
the music that I would listen to myself.
Do you have a favourite song or piece of music to perform?
I really enjoy performing with my guitar, especially my songs
which are vocals and guitar only. I wrote Papercut (off my first
EP) when I was 16, and I love playing it because I feel like it’s an
homage to my younger self; nurturing her and carrying her on
somehow. The song is about my struggle with OCD which, after
years of treatment, is finally a faded memory. When I’m playing
Papercut now, I can show that vulnerability and really mean the
lyrics, but it’s like therapy – like being able to go back to 16-yearold
me and saying ‘Don’t worry, you survived girl!’
What do you think is the overriding influence on your
songwriting: other art, emotions, current affairs – or a mixture
of all of these?
Definitely a mixture. I write a lot about past and present feelings,
especially mental health, relationships or my sexuality, but my
new EP is based on a lot of stuff that makes me passionate… or
angry. I’ve got a song about rape culture and misogyny and a
couple about the various emotions I’ve felt in lockdown – mostly
missing my other half and annoyance at the Conservative party!
If you could support any artist in the future, who would it be?
It would be my dream to support Clairo. Her discography has
been so influential to me as an artist, so I think it would be the
perfect full circle moment.
Do you have a favourite venue you’ve performed in?
The Zanzibar. It’s such a sweet venue and everyone there is so
lovely – it was the first gig I ever performed in Liverpool, with
my Uni band, and the last gig I did before lockdown. I’m so
heartbroken it’s had to close its doors because of Covid. It’s been
such a special venue to me and countless others in the scene.
Why is music important to you?
It’s so universal. Quite often, people can be really closed off
about their feelings, and music is such a unique outlet to express
emotions and ideas. It’s been such a huge part of my life, but
every year I discover so many layers, artists, types of music
and more that I never knew about. Getting older, I’ve learnt to
appreciate the politics in music, too, and how it can be used to
talk about injustices but also to find community and togetherness,
like in queer culture. It’s so vast, you can never scrape the surface
in a lifetime. Every day there’s the potential for something new.
Photography: Martha Harris
soundcloud.com/lazygrl
Lazygirl’s Orange Roses EP is out on 28th August.
SPOTLIGHT
35

PREVIEWS
Paul McCartney
EXHIBITION
LINDA McCARTNEY RETROSPECTIVE
Walker Art Gallery – Until 01/11
The Walker Art Gallery is welcoming visitors back with a big hitter of an exhibition to
see them through until November. Rescheduled from an original opening date in April,
it’s a much anticipated show displaying the iconic work of a woman who captured the
essence of multiple decades at the close of the 20th Century.
The Linda McCartney Retrospective is open now and can be enjoyed via advance booking on the
Walker’s website. An impressively comprehensive career overview, curated by husband Paul and
daughter Mary, the exhibition covers everything from LINDA MCCARTNEY’s early-career music
photography among the movers and shakers of the 1960s, through intimate family moments at her
home in Kintyre, to her more stylised Sun Prints series. It is rare that a photography exhibition takes
in so much of a career and gives a fully holistic picture of a life at the same time.
The exhibition takes in more than 250 photographs, spanning from the photographer’s early work
when based in New York City, to the 1990s when McCartney was either side of the Atlantic having
conquered the pop world as part of Wings. For local audiences there are familiar scenes around
Liverpool and Wirral in warmingly candid familial moments; for the music historian, rock luminaries
Simon and Garfunkel, Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin all make appearances in the exhibition. There are
rare shots of the Fab Four loitering at the iconic crossing before the famous Abbey Road shoot, as
well as in the studio for the recording of their later, seminal works. The show provides a fascinating
window into the life of a passionate activist, artist and family woman.
FESTIVAL
LIVERPOOL DIGITAL
MUSIC FESTIVAL
Various venues – 29-31/08
LIVERPOOL DIGITAL MUSIC FESTIVAL is building on the success of its inaugural event in May
to host a multi-venue streamed festival from across the city. The free event, featuring sets from
ZUZU, The Merchants, Munkey Junkey and Natalie McCool, follows a lockdown edition which
raised over £2000 for the NHS and Music Venue Trust. The M&S Bank Arena have contributed
their space as the headline stage for the August Bank Holiday event while a trio of worthwhile charities
will benefit from viewer donations. L8’s community mental health charity Mary Seacole House, Claire
House Hospice and Merseyside Youth Association are partner charities for the event.
Virtual festival goers in May were treated to sets by the likes of All We Are, Spinn and Zuzu playing from
their own homes, as was the style at the time. Now restrictions have eased artists will set up on stages at
city centre venues Phase One, EBGBS and SAE Institute, as well as the dockside main stage. The students
of SAE will get valuable real world/digital world experience with students of Audio Production to Game Art
Animation taking on a range of roles. Full artist line-up and stage times are still to be announced at time of
writing.
Zuzu
36

LIVE STREAMED GIG
She Drew The Gun
Near Normal @ Future Yard – 19/09
Birko’s newest venue opens in all its weird Wirralian
wonderment this month with a socially-distanced show
from some hometown heroes. While physical tickets
sold out in under a day, SDTG fans thirsty for live action
from a real venue can tune in online with a digital ticket.
The multi-camera broadcast will carry IRL-quality audio
and video mixed live by partners AdLib and Vessel, and
provide a near-immersive experience to virtual ticketholders.
The gig is part of a series of in-situ and streamed
gigs which the venue is rolling out ahead of full capacity
shows scheduled for early 2021.
FILM
September Cinema Events
Picturehouse at FACT is back up and running in a
safe manner with a smorgasbord of interesting indies,
mighty mainstreamers and streamed live-streamed fare
to scratch our big screen itch. Amongst the screenings
slated for September are NT Live: Fleabag Encore (3rd
Sept), La Haine (11th Sept) and filmed guided tour A
Night At The Louvre: Leonardo Da Vinci (16th Sept).
Also upcoming is a special screening of Karate Kid with
a Remembering Of… featurette preceding the classic,
and the beautiful Gints Zilbalodis animation Away, with
dates TBA. There’s lots more to be announced by the
cinema as they ease their way back to normality. Do
support your local cinema.
EXHIBITION
Don McCullin
Tate Liverpool – 16/09 – 09/05
A popular exhibition when on display at Tate Britain, the work
of photographer DON MCCULLIN has come up north to the
Albert Dock sister gallery. With an arsenal of iconic images and
a career taking him to historic conflicts all over the world, the
exhibition is an eye-opening show from a legendary lensman.
As well as his poignant images of war-torn Vietnam and Syria,
the Tate exhibition will also feature images from working-class
life in the north of England and London’s East End. The show
promises unforgettable images from a photographer who has
been unflinching in his recording of tragic conflicts and the
realities of life near the poverty line.
Don McCullin
FESTIVAL
Lime Carnival
Various venues - 29/08-31/08
LIME are bucking the trend and introducing a whole new IRL festival
for the August Bank Holiday. A trio of venues play host to three events
bringing a strong contingent of DJs for our socially distanced pleasure
across three nights. Friday night begins at Baltic bastion Constellations
with Dancehall and Afrobeats aficionado TOM HALL leading the roster of
selectors. On Saturday night the action is transferred to Kazimier Garden
for more wax jockeys turning the tables with the likes of PAPU.RAF and
DOOPS.SAN on the bill. Sunday night leads us up north to Meraki for the
closing party.
CLUB
Humanoid Collective
Table Service @ Meraki – 04/09
North Docks vibe hub Meraki are continuing their social distanced programme
of DJ nights with Table Service welcoming HUMANOID COLLECTIVE for the
first event of September. The popular nights have been a smash hit with those
wanting to hear the best beats while staying safely apart. Signal x Humanoid
are coming together on this Saturday night, 4pm-11pm, to bring a rare
selection of selectors to the Ten Streets. As the monikers alludes to, drinks are
served to tables of no more than six people and there are 22 tables to purchase
tickets for via Resident Advisor. Other guidelines are in place and can be read
on the Meraki website.
EXHIBITION
The Time We Call Our Own
Open Eye Gallery – 02/09-03/10
Dustin Thierry – Opulence.
The nightlives of cities all over the world are currently on life support due to the virus. The full
gamut of hustle, bustle, chips and discarded heels may not be making a return for a while, but
we can experience it to some degree at Open Eye Gallery with their new exhibition. THE TIME
WE CALL OUR OWN explores the nocturnal pulses of cities around the globe with photographic
projects from an assortment of photographers. Style, location and music are central themes to
a show that investigates visibility and counter-cultural scenes which thrives under neon lights.
There’s also a chance to see highlights from the Bido Lito! photo archive with You Out Tonight?, a
special exhibition curated for the Mann Island atrium.
EXHIBITION
And Say The Animals Responded?
FACT – Until 13/12
LIVE STREAMED GIG
Möthmas
Twitch – 30/08
Alongside their online offering of podcasts, live streams, videos, challenges and activities entitled
The Living Planet, FACT’s IRL exhibition AND SAY THE ANIMALS RESPONDED? has reconvened
at the Wood Street space. While lockdown gave us cause to reflect on our relationship with the
natural world, we can deepen our knowledge and seek further exploration through this exhibition of
works from international artists. Whales, dolphins, chimps and a wolf pack all feature in an eclectic
selection of work focussing on humans’ interaction with the animal kingdom. Ariel Guzik (Mexico),
Amalia Pica (Argentina/UK) with Rafael Ortega (Mexico), Alexandra Daisy Ginsberg (UK), Demelza
Kooij (Netherlands/UK) and Kuai Shen (Ecuador) all have work which can be safely consumed with
FACT’s Covid measures in place.
For a healthy dose of multi-threat unbridled creativity, VICE MÖTH return on
August bank holiday weekend for a special show. Bank Holiday Möthday,
streamed via Twitch, will feature live performances from BEIJA FLO, MT HALL,
DOM LEWINGTON and more as well as the usual mix of irreverent sketches from
the likes of MOUNTAINEERS, MELODIEN and LAURA SPARK. The brainchild of
Stealing Sheep’s Emily Lansley and Alex Germains (AKA Germanager), Vice Möth
started out as a musical improvisation project and has spawned life as a multilegged
collaborative project with the Möthmas annual arts show. The event will
be re-streamed as part of Liverpool Digital Music Festival. twitch.tv/vicemoth
PREVIEWS
37

REVIEWS
Angel Olsen and Hand Habbits (Ashley Connor)
ISLANDS
IN THE
STREAM
Well, this doesn’t half feel strange. In a normal
month, these reviews pages would be full of
tales learned from the floors of gig venues and
arenas. Reports of sweaty, cathartic or moving
gatherings – accompanied by photos taken from the upwardstilted
perspective of the pit – have been an integral part of Bido
Lito! for the past 10 years. Though the hundreds of reviews we
have published may not say it explicitly, their words speak of the
thrill of experiencing something together; they are memories,
homages to shared moments, a communion of sorts.
Then in March of this year, things changed. A live gig or
concert of any type hasn’t taken place in Merseyside for almost
five months since the country went into lockdown. And, with all
of the Covid safety precautions still in place, it doesn’t look likely
that we’ll see anything close to normal for the rest of this year.
Our reviews section – half of Bido’s output – will be forced into
hibernation for the first time (beyond exhibition reviews, of which
we are continuing), until it can resume its place in documenting
the stories made in the intense moments of connection that live
performances bring us.
Despite the closure of venues and halting of all performances
in March, the artists soldiered on, determined to still connect
with their fans. As a way of relieving the cabin fever of lockdown,
impromptu ‘gigs’ popped up on live streams all over the place,
hosted by those gamely mastering the new skills of streaming
and bedroom production. The sight of an artist (or occasionally
a duo) crammed in to shot, the dusty acoustic guitar jostling for
space alongside mics, laptops and novel lighting setups became
normalised. As an immediate reaction to the forced isolation
of lockdown, these certainly scratched an itch – see Bido’s
own Friday Night Live! series of streamed shows with ZUZU,
BYE LOUIS, STRAWBERRY GUY and DAN DISGRACE – but it
wouldn’t be long until fans and musicians both started to grate at
the limitations. Despite some great efforts, the production values
of bedroom gigs were generally naff, leaving very little room to
do justice to the music. And for those whose only problem was
the buffering of a shaky broadband connection, think about those
artists without the wherewithal to perform from home at all, cutoff
from vital outside engagement as the walls closed in.
If there was any expectation that musicians would sit on
their hands and accept their lot, then that was short-lived.
SAMURAI KIP didn’t let the barrier of being quarantined in four
separate locations stop them from putting together a live version
of Smoke, with neatly collaged video to boot. ALL WE ARE
weren’t content for even those restrictions, setting up in Vessel
Studios for a full live set streamed on YouTube, amps, lights,
natty outfits and everything. In light of their cancelled tour, this
was a chance for the trio to keep contact with their fans ahead
of their imminent album release, and also push a crowdfunding
campaign to help them recover lost earnings from cancelled
live dates. Indeed, the concept of
leveraging financial support from fans
through digital tipping and crowd
funders was finally broached, which
could well be something that stays in
the artist’s arsenal once normal service
is resumed.
Michael Lovett, aka NZCA LINES,
was also not to be deterred from
having a party for the release of his
album A Pure Luxury. Along with
promoters Bird On The Wire, Dice
and Behind The Notes, he set up
a virtual album launch party with
breakout Zoom Rooms for fans to
chat and show off their downloaded
virtual backgrounds. A slick mastery of
video streaming brought the requisite sense of occasion, but the
performance was still a bedroom gig (albeit with programmed
lights and great-sounding audio). Support act CHARLOTTE
ADIGÉRY brought more of a suspension of disbelief with
her green-screened set, beamed in from Belgium as an hors
d’oeuvre. But this show wasn’t necessarily about the show – it
was about the connection with fans, promoting the album,
making it all feel real. Those points of contact that musicians
have with their fans – when they can truly develop the world
they’ve built around themselves – are few and far between.
Performances like this will never be a substitute for concerts,
“Digital shows can
only be a temporary
fix, a stepping stone
towards normality”
but they might be able to open up a different kind of connection
between artist and fan that has been long overlooked.
LAURA MARLING’s live streamed show at Union Chapel
in June saw over 4,000 fans pay £12 for a ticket to see the
Mercury-nominated artist play a show filmed in cinematic luxury.
Despite thousands of fans (plus hundreds more US fans) taking
the option to see Marling performing songs from her brand new
album, Song For Our Daughter, for the first time, the show still
didn’t run a profit. Or, at least, not the kind of profit you would
expect for a full-house Union Chapel show with a live audience
a quarter the size of the dialled in streamers. Naturally, the
streamed set’s lavish production
and multitude of camera angles will
have had something to do with that,
but the scale of economy shows
the level of risk involved in these
performances, even for artists of the
profile of Laura Marling.
But the bug for the cinematic
was catching, especially for those
artists caught mid-album campaign
who had seen touring and promotion
plans pulled from under their feet. I
tuned in to ANGEL OLSEN’s second
Cosmic Stream in July, where the
artist performed live from the
Masonic Temple in Asheville, North
Carolina. The performance was shot
by Olsen’s long-time collaborator Ashley Connor in one glorious,
sumptuous take, that occasionally pushed in close to Olsen as
she sang forlornly to an empty room, circling around her to show
the empty seats gathered in silent congregation. Even Olsen’s
sharp quips fell eerily limp as the absurdness of the situation was
laid bare in the awkward moments between songs. Yet, it all felt
worth it when the camera took you inside the artist’s personal
space, allowing you to feel an energy that you wouldn’t normally
get to experience. When Olsen and support act HAND HABITS
duetted at the pivot of the event, the crackle of emotion that
coursed through my internet connection made me temporarily
38

Tomorrowland Around The World
forget that I wasn’t there with them, in that room in North
Carolina with other fans, revelling in the crispness of Olsen’s
voice just as much as the bum notes and the mistakes. As the
show ended and the camera retraced its route back through
the entrance to the room, it felt like the ending to an arthouse
film: perfect for the setting and the artist, but a reminder of the
distance that was between us.
Jarvis Cocker’s fascination with the Peak District saw him
bring his new outfit, JARV IS…, to Peak Cavern in 2018. So, what
better place for Jarv and crew to host a live streamed show to
mark the release of new album Beyond The Pale in the middle of
lockdown? Streamed free on YouTube, the Live From The Centre
Of The Earth show was shot by Iain Forsyth and Jane Pollard,
who also directed the 2014 Nick Cave documentary 20,000
Days On Earth. The Devil’s Arse, as Peak Cavern is affectionately
known, added a delicious sense of oddness to the whole setting,
a 53-minute trip inside the mind of one of British music’s most
mysterious characters. The seven-piece group – featuring
Serafina Steer, Emma Smith, Jason Buckle, Andrew McKinney,
Adam Betts and Naala – came alive in a cave that was lit by
spectacular lighting and visuals playing across the walls. “This is
not a live album – this is an ALIVE album,” Jarvis intoned at the
beginning, as their kitchen disco house music swept through the
space in the kind of cinematic drama that only the British could
dream of, never mind pull off. It was a shame when Jarvis bade
us farewell in his breathy baritone; I’m not sure if it left me more
likely to visit Peak Cavern or buy the record.
The summer shutdown has meant that festivals have taken
a huge hit during the pandemic. Their very model relies on one,
big communal experience, which leaves them more vulnerable
than most in the live industry. Those owned by the large live
industry behemoths are the most likely to be able to tide things
over to next summer, while those festivals with smaller but loyal
audiences had to think creatively if they were to have a future
beyond 2020. Organisers of Bluedot and Supersonic festivals
were, somewhat predictably, at the head of this pack, re-tooling
some of their programmed content for an online variant.
Bluedot’s A WEEKEND IN OUTER SPACE featured plenty
of their popular science talks, done as online webinars. HENGE
presented some suitably oddball space-themed live streams, and
ORBITAL signed off the live proceedings with a set streamed
from a home studio, where the voices of Greta Thunberg and
Brian Cox were sampled over some of their organic beats.
SOFASONIC was Supersonic’s response, a similar collection of
live streamed Q&As and sets, which served as a chance to bring
their close-knit community together. PIGS PIGS PIGS PIGS PIGS
PIGS PIGS’ hosting of an online bingo and some cooking classes
showed both ends of Supersonic’s bizarro spectrum, with
recorded sets from previous years of the spectrum serving as a
reminder of what should have been happening. Neither event
was hardly a replacement for the festival, but the digital activity
did give a chance for fans to show their support and raise some
much-needed cash for the teams behind the events.
Tomorrowland, the Belgian EDM festival that welcomes
400,000 fans to its two bonkers weekends each summer, are
renowned for doing things differently. So, when they announced
that they’d booked KATY PERRY and were taking the festival
online instead, not many eyebrows were raised. The festival is
an OTT carnival with garish set design, which comes across as
something between Disneyland and Middle Earth for fans of
Euro house music. Their plan for TOMORROWLAND AROUND
THE WORLD, their digital experience for 2020, was to create
a whole digital environment in which to enjoy a still ridiculous
line-up of performances: DAVID GUETTA, FEDDE LE GRAND,
AMELIE LENS and STEVE AOKI among those joining Katy Perry
over two days. At €12.50 a day, it seemed like a punt, even if the
economics didn’t completely tally (until, that is, you sign up and
get bombarded with never-ending ‘exclusive’ drink and merch
offers) – especially when you see what your €12.50 granted you
access to.
Pāpiliōnem was the virtual setting for the digital festival,
realised by Tomorrowland’s tireless visual team, that came
with the tagline ‘The Reflection Of Love – Chapter 1’. Entering
the festival was like the beginning of a computer game – and,
indeed, the whole festival felt like an extended cut-scene from
an elaborate fantasy game, with various stages (one of which
looks exactly like Fort Punta Christo in Croatia, used as the home
for Dimensions and Outlook festivals) perched on mountains
and in clearings on the island of Pāpiliōnem. As the camera
swooped in to each arena, thousands of computer-generated
arms waved as the most out-there light show danced
over their heads. The performers on the stages were
merely part of the vastness, with DJ performances
melded into the environments using green screen
technology. At times, it felt like the computer game
engine controlling your viewing was more keen on
showing you the elaborate structures it had built,
making for a rather exhausting mental experience
for someone sat in a chair at home.
Katy Perry’s headline set was a remarkable
piece of digital wizardy, giving the impression
that Perry and her dancers were performing
on this blatantly digitised virtual stage. As
bizarre as it was, you have to tip your hat
to the Tomorrowland team for creating
an experience true to their ethos which
also gave you an excuse to suspend your
disbelief long enough to have a good time.
Isn’t that what live performance is meant
to do, after all?
The efforts of artists, festivals and
their teams to find a way around the
problems that lockdown has thrown
up have not only shown remarkable
creativity, but a dogged determination
to keep the music playing. However,
this shouldn’t mask the catastrophic
effect that the paralysing of the live
music industry has had on thousands
of people. Countless artists saw
their plans go up the spout, with
long scheduled release plans for
albums and singles suddenly
compromised. Without the ability
to go out and perform in front of
fans, the ability for all but a tiny
handful of musicians to earn
money was immediately shut
off. And the teams behind the
artists, in PR, radio and at
labels, all suffered as a result.
Venues and promoters have
been pushed to the brink,
and production crews are
still facing huge uncertainty
over their careers as the
live industry remains in
shutdown.
There’s a thrill
to watching a live
performance, a knifeedge
uncertainty that
it may all go wrong
which tautens the
senses. The pay-off
when it lands is
massive, a rush that
is hard to replicate.
Streaming live
performances can
get close to that sensation, but not close enough to give you the
full hit. With the situation as it is currently, these digital shows
can only be a temporary fix, a stepping stone towards normality.
Hopefully, by the time we are able to return to the dancefloors
again, we’ll have a full appreciation of what live music means to
us, and be prepared to support it. !
Christopher Torpey / @CATorp
JARV IS… (Jeanette Lee)
REVIEWS
39

Accessible and
flexible learning
with the University
of Liverpool
Enjoy world class teaching with a short course from the
University of Liverpool.
• Over 80 online courses to choose from
• Teaching and feedback delivered by experts
• Fit your learning around you with our fully supported online courses
We have courses in creative subjects, business and management skills,
technical programming, modern languages, and more.
Visit www.liverpool.ac.uk/continuing-education/
to view the full programme and to enrol

Jonathan Baldock
Facecrime
Frances Disley
Pattern Buffer
Thu 30 Jul – Sun 1 Nov
Free
Bluecoat, School Lane, Liverpool, L1 3BX
Pre-booking recommended.
Visit thebluecoat.org.uk to book.
@thebluecoat
@the_bluecoat
@thebluecoat
Facecrime is commissioned by Camden Arts Centre with Tramway.
The work was developed through the Freelands Lomax Ceramics Fellowship.
The 2020 installation at Bluecoat is supported by the Henry Moore Foundation.
Pattern Buffer is supported by Art Fund.
Funded by:
Supported by:
Frances Disley, holo programme 222 – restful focus, 2020 Jonathan Baldock, Facecrime, installation view at Bluecoat, March 2020.
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ARTISTIC
LICENCE
This month’s selection of creative writing is by Sufiah Abbasi, a short
story that recalls a chance meeting with one of Liverpool’s most
shadowy and celebrated muses.
I Met Lee Mavers In 2012
We were both housekeeping and distracted by the thick grim air. I’d seen him before and the time had not been right.
I have nothing to lose any more.
I approach the car.
“Are you Mr Mavers?” He looks suspicious. I begin fawning. “I just want to say that I have known your music for a long
time and it is a genuine pleasure to meet you.”
He seems relieved and surprised. “Yes, it’s me, do you want to go for a coffee?”
Now, I’m surprised. I hesitate for a micro instant. “OK.”
Then it’s diving into the almost universal vision of the world. Not much is said about the cosmos, but there is God,
purity, insanity and perfection.
“Do you love Liverpool?” I ask.
“I love what it’s going to be,” he says mysteriously. OK, I think, but I’m confused.
“I hate music,” he says. I stay confused. “I know who you are. I can see you.” He looks at me.
“I know who you are too,” I respond quickly and reassuringly. “Oh, why 95 in Doledrums?” I’ve always wondered why
he wrote that into the tune.
“It sounded right,” he says.
“Oh, fuck you,” I shout.
I notice that his hands are small as he easily manages to stretch to the chords on my niece’s jazz bass. He’s playing
music and singing. Sometimes he just recites his lyrics. I ask him about the size of his hands. Our palms meet and his
are only slightly bigger than mine.
I play him Old friends/Bookends. He doesn’t like Simon and Garfunkel particularly. He likes real music, but I don’t
understand at the time and it becomes apparent a few days later. I play it to him to demonstrate the discordance
which spins into pure light and magically transforms into a clear note. He is untroubled by my question as to how this
happens. If God were playing the most beautiful music and taught all the angels to play as well, what would happen if
God stopped playing and took His teaching away?
“They would have to learn it themselves?” I ask. He smiles and I’m right.
All the reflections of the souls that ever lived folding upon themselves. I imagine that it would be the most infinitely
tremendous musical note.
Prophetic, lunatic, poet – all I ever expected him to be.
I told him my dreams and he told me his, with full performance and a raw revisiting of the feeling.
I tell him the Kali dream and describe how Dawn brings one of her friends into my flat. Dawn is supporting this girl
and two others are with her. Dawn is supporting the girl as she is very sick. He butts in, “Heroin addict.”
I stop, look up, “What makes you say that?” I ask.
“It’s like a leprosy round here.” He indicates with his eyes all outside the four walls of my lovely flat. “You need to get
out of here.”
He said that he had felt nauseous following me home through the yellow tipped park. He thinks its toxins – not literal
but mental and emotional – need to be expelled. I tell him that I was crazy nervous as I was driving home.
He says he doesn’t watch films. We both have a connection with Morocco, but he’s stayed with the Berbers.
I play him the Gonjasufi album and during the intro, he puts his head back against the wall.
“Hopi Indians,” he says.
“I didn’t know that.”
He sits up a little when Gonjasufi sings Duet.
“I like this one. It sounds like Walk On The Wild Side,” He says without looking at me.
He can tell as soon as Error Operator’s remix of Philip Selway’s Beyond Reason begins that it is a good one. He
reluctantly admits to liking Massive Attack’s Unfinished Symphony and I guess it’s the over production that he’s not
keen on.
I play him the only tune on the bass I know – House Of The Rising Sun. The bass is massive compared to me. I sit
cross-legged on the floor and play it so shit that he doesn’t recognise it. He takes the bass and plays it on open
strings and is trying to teach me.
“It just clicks,” he says. “When you’re on your own.”
I tell him two jokes: one in the Other Place – almost minutes after we met. I saw it on Old Jews Telling Jokes off the
iPlayer. It’s a blue joke and he laughs with his head back. I clap my hands quietly and quickly in front of my face
because I’ve entertained him.
The second joke is from the same programme but hinges on an image. He laughs and then stands up, “That wasn’t
funny. It was a bit Monty Python.”
I remember the sketch he’s talking about: from The Meaning Of Life where the waiter makes you follow him out of the
restaurant and keeps beckoning the camera and you as he walks and walks through the streets and countryside.
“Oh, you like that film as well,” I say.
He recited his own lyrics with me joining in the end of lines, like I was his hip hop hype guy. Then or at another time,
he cried, remembering the pain of his father’s passing. His father contracted asbestosis when building St John’s
Market. I wanted to dry his tears and was an inch away from his face. He didn’t want me to do this and wanted to
leave the salt on his face. He tilted back his head and looked relieved.
“I believe that tears are a mercy,” I proffer. I’ve already made a show of myself when recounting my dream. The one I
had when I moved into this place. We were in the Other Place sitting outside, me scavving a rolly off him, when I tell
him about the moment I hear him and the group singing a cappella. It’s tune so beautiful that I start to well up while
I’m remembering it. I’ve known him minutes.
“You must think I’m fruit loops.” The whole time he is with me, he never looks weirded-out by my behaviour.
“What do those mean?” he asks, pointing his eyes in the direction of my niece’s two small canvases which have
Arabic calligraphy on them.
44

“Grace and Mercy.” I look at him and explain flippantly, “They’re just words”
He made me tea.
He met Bill Shankly, who ruffled his strawberry blond hair. He’s a blue-nose, though.
He thanks me for the beans on toast or tea. I say, “I owe you, you owe me”. I suddenly realise that I have absorbed his
words into my consciousness and often say it to people.
I then punched the air with both hands in victory, like Ian Rush after a dink. “I got to say that to YOU,” I squeal.
He turns his face to me and says, “I know YOU can stand on your own two feet.”
I’m delighted.
I play him my party mix – it is a party after all. He plays the bass along with Silicone Soul’s Right On! and seems to perk
up when Carwash comes along.
“You know the bassline I love. The bassline to Hey Joe,” I say. He pulls the guitar and points it up to the sky, just knocks it
out – he’s got to like it too. I start conducting the steps of the notes of that most perfect bassline.
I ask him why he thinks I’m so excited. He says, “Because you’ve found a kindred spirit.”
“Thank you.” I’m surprised and utterly impressed with us both.
Another cup? We’ve run out of milk. Neither of us have slept very well. My back’s against the wall at work and he’s
recently been betrayed. We’ve caught each other at an unusual moment. I ask him to come to the shop with me. Neither
of us go out a lot but we didn’t notice anyone else. As we whisked past the corner of Ivanhoe, I ask him what his name
means. He doesn’t know.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” I shout. “You don’t know what it means?” I’m genuinely weirded out.
“So, what language is your name from?” he asks.
“It’s Arabic in origin.” I say. “A Semitic language.”
“I thought that was Jewish,” he says.
“Oh no,” I gesticulate wildly, “we’re all Semitic... in that neck of the woods,” I add.
We fly by Phil’s shop and turn the corner.
Now, we’ve picked up the pace and we’re bumping into each other as we swagger up the Lane. We pass the afternoon
drinkers outside the Rhubarb.
“So, what happened there, then?” he asks. “Why the split?” He’s referring to the Jewish/Arab spilt.
“Oh,” I splutter, “it’s that… erm, err… biblical story… erm.” I’m furiously trying to shake the facts in my brain into view. “It’s
the story of Jacob… no.” It’s coming. Bingo. “It was Isaac and Ishmael.”
“What’s that about?” He asks.
“I’ve got no idea.” I look at the ground, disappointed, as if the two of them had made a mistake.
We’re at the cash machine. He doesn’t realise where I’ve taken him because we’ve been engrossed in the talk. I get my
cash out.
“I’ve got £20, I know you’re on your arse. Why didn’t you say?” he says.
I tell him no and make a mental note to discuss this offer with him later. We’ve got the milk and we’re flying back home.
We both tend not to look around. We’re aware of our surroundings. I look up and catch the glance of a young-looking old
vampire. I’ve no fear when I see this guy now, though, I’ve got the Custodian with me.
We’re back in, the kettle’s boiling again.
“So what does my name mean, then?” he asks.
“Oh, it’s going to take a bit longer than that. I’ll have to look in a book or Google it.” I’ve had no internet for over a month
and I have had to entertain myself. This has been like living in a fucking cave and my nerves are shot.
(I cycle over to my sister’s some time later and ask my niece to look it up. Lee – sheltered from the storm. Mavers –
custodian. My sister quietly suggests the Arabic word for this – Khalifa. This word has great potency.)
I remember that he’d offered me money and I pick him up on this.
“You can’t be that generous. I didn’t ask for anything from you,” I tell him firmly.
He doesn’t understand. “There’s no harm in greasing your neighbour’s palm.” He quotes his lyrics.
“That’s right,” I tell him, “but not all the time.”
The kettle’s boiled. He’s tired, I know, but I’m surprised that he hasn’t picked this concept up. I shouldn’t be this frustrated.
I don’t have the right to be because I only learnt it from a book. My voice rises like a soft Dalek.
“Why are you getting angry?” he asks.
I check myself. Yes, I went too far.
“Tell me like I’m a child,” he says quietly.
I sit down at the table with him and demonstrate. “You can’t always have your hand open. It’s got to close sometimes,” I
say and demonstrate by flexing my hand open and closed – not a fist though, more like flapping the hand open and close
like a wing.
He mentions getting shivers as he saw that old building on the corner and tells a story about his friend who he thinks is
lost. He describes to me how she clutches at her rosary beads now. It’s related to a dream he had.
“What are prayers, but dreams,” I suggest. “And some of my dreams seem to be preparation.”
He looks over at me and nods in agreement.
I’ve asked him if I can write about him. He’s generous and comes up with, “Write so that I might know you”.
Words: Sufiah Abbasi / @sufiahbear
Quotes within this story are the account of the writer.
ARTISTIC LICENCE
45

75 ARGYLE STREET, BIRKENHEAD VISIT FUTUREVARC.ORG

SAY
THE FINAL
“After this pause, is
it time to reflect upon
and reassess issues
in the scene, or will
womxn continue facing
the same issues?”
Eve Machin is one half of Where Are The Girlbands?, an online platform dedicated to highlighting the
community of femxle musicians and artists operating in Liverpool. After a tumultuous and sobering few
months for musicians, Eve asks whether the indefinite hiatus on live music will open space for conversation
and eradication of previous microaggressions aimed at womxn in the music industry.
One August afternoon a couple of years ago,
my bandmate Ella and I were sat at our usual
brainstorming spot in Leaf on Bold Street, struggling
to plan our next gigs for the summer. Off the top of our
heads, we couldn’t imagine any line-ups where we would find
ourselves on the bill with a similar style to us; most of the gigs
we’d been to recently had been dominated by similar-sounding,
four-piece jangly pop boy-bands. Not that we don’t love that
classic Liverpool sound; we just felt pretty embarrassed to
admit that we couldn’t name more than two Liverpool acts that
included a woman.
And of course, this issue is everywhere. It was further
brought to attention in the autumn of 2019 after music blogger
Lucy McCourt tweeted a graphic of the 2020 Leeds/Reading
Festival line-up. The poster reveals that, after removing artists
without a femxle member, only 20 of the 96 acts remain. Soon
after, The 1975 frontman Matty Healy declared that the band
would only play at events with a 50/50 line-up, following the
PRS Foundation’s gender pledge initiative, Keychange, which
over 150 festivals subscribe to. This has been met by much
controversy and accusations of tokenism; a gender-balanced
line-up seems to value gender over talent, and at the end of the
day, good music is good music.
Esme Grace Brown’s previous column for Bido Lito!
describes perfectly how booking ‘female-fronted’ or ‘girlbands’
for the sake of it is patronising and diminishes genuine talent.
The issue lies somewhere deeper than just having balanced lineups;
encouragement, empathy, and a bit of respect would help
achieve genuinely fair representation, and so festival bookers and
promoters would have a bigger pool to choose from, naturally
restoring a balance. Really, it’s not about satisfying a statistic, but
rather integration
The meeting between myself and Ella got us thinking about
the reasons for this lack of representation. And so, WHERE
ARE THE GIRLBANDS? was born. It started off as a project in
the form of an Instagram account; we began seeking out local
musicians to feature on the page, and Ella – an artist by trade
– provided a little illustration. We wanted to create an online
community of femxle creatives, almost as a kind of reassurance
that more were out there.
You might be thinking: “I see plenty of women playing
music. There’s nothing wrong with the Liverpool scene; it’s a
very inclusive place.” And you’d be right. In fact, we were met
with immediate backlash, saying that our aims undermine all the
work womxn already do. But our name is purposely ironic; we’re
aiming simply to improve representation and create a space
where womxn can be celebrated, because it’s never easy.
There are all sorts of underlying issues that result in
subconscious microaggressions that affect femxle musicians
daily. We’ve been posting weekly polls on the account to hear
people’s opinions; one week, we addressed whether musicians
had ever felt discriminated against for their gender, and received
countless anecdotes. Being asked if you need help lifting kit;
ignored when talking about sound engineering; being told what
to wear at gigs; being mistaken for another band member’s
girlfriend, despite carrying an amp and guitar. To be honest,
I even think it starts at school; from lads dominating practice
rooms, to parents having their girls play the flute and boys
thrashing the drum kit. Before we jump to conclusions and think
that 50/50 line-ups will solve the problem, we need to look at
why this subconscious behaviour manifests itself in the first
place.
I moved to Cambridge two years ago for university, and
was immediately struck that there wasn’t an obvious music
scene to get involved in, despite the abundance of organ recitals
and choral evensongs. This year, I’ve set up fortnightly gigs at
different venues in the city, making sure they’re free, accessible
and have a jam element at the end so people can meet and play
together in a friendly atmosphere. But even at my own event,
the same subconscious sexism gets to me; the stage is usually
dominated by men, especially during the jams, where I speak
to women in the audience too shy or uncomfortable to get up
and perform. Myself included. At the last gig, I told the guys on
stage to wrap up jamming as the venue was closing. After being
ignored twice, I had to get my male friend to tell them to get off,
to which they immediately responded. It’s frustrating knowing
that although this isn’t overt sexism or harassment, it’s still not a
level playing field.
We’re also not entirely focussed on promoting womxn and
challenging the issues they face in the music scene; in order
to be truly heard you have to engage with men, too, because
otherwise you’re just preaching to the choir. The involvement of
men is just as important as the involvement of womxn because
you want them to be engaged in these kinds of discussions. We
Are The Girl Bands? is inclusive and open to address class, race,
sexuality, disability and more. We’ve also talked to people about
venues and space, age gaps in the music scene, collaborations
with visual artists and cliques. The account has become a
kind of hub for news on gigs, events and opportunities; a
platform where musicians and creatives can go for promotion
or encouragement; a network for promoters to seek out artists,
and, above all, a community – without the artists themselves, the
page wouldn’t exist, of course.
So is it important to have femxle-focused organisations
like ours, or is it patronising? We try to keep the conversation
as inclusive as possible to all genders. Organisations like
Bitch Palace and WeWantWomen do fantastic work to
promote and empower femxle musicians. In a recent interview
with Merseyside punk band Rival Unit, they expressed
their appreciation for the events these promoters put on:
“There’s definitely a different atmosphere. Particularly with
WeWantWomen; they want female artists, most of the crowd
know what they’re coming to see… a lot of the people who do
go to these events are people who want female artists to be
at the forefront… nights like [these] are important for getting
women onto that ladder [when starting out]. It’s a really tough
experience.”
In light of everything that’s gone on over the last few
months, the future of the gig scene is obviously uncertain. With
the closure of legendary venues like The Zanzibar and Sound
– which supported so many local musicians, first-timers in
particular – support for local businesses matters now more than
ever. In a post-Covid-19 world, it’s up to the consumer what the
gig scene will look like to a certain degree. After this pause, is
it time to reflect upon and reassess issues in the scene – or will
womxn continue facing the same issues? Will there be a new
hunger for live music once it can resume – and how can we make
sure that womxn are part of it?
Sometimes I’m a bit sceptical about how we come across; I
feel like a lot of the work I do in both Liverpool and Cambridge
seems to carry a big ‘Feminist Agenda’, but really I just want
womxn’s place on the scene to be normalised and more
integrated – sometimes it feels like it’s either belittled or overexaggerated.
At the same time, it’s clear there is a need for an
accessible space or community outside of what’s presented to
womxn on the scene. !
Words: Eve Machin
Illustration: Ella Fradgely
@wherearethegirlbands
FEATURE
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