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THE FORUM
Editor-in-Chief
Pejman Biroun Vand
Creative Director
Josh Hight
Art and Lifestyle Director
Axel Mörner
Sub-Editor
Sam Thackray
Contributors
Photographers
Kira Bunse,
Lorenzo Dalbosco,
Petros Koublis,
Massimo Pamparana,
Pani Paul,
Christopher Sturman,
Erika Svensson,
Stefano Viti
Fashion
Silvia Bergomi,
Julian Ganio,
Eniye Kagbala,
Suzi Lindell
Words
Malina Bickford,
Natalie Dembinska,
Kiriakos Spirou,
Nicky Stringfellow
Advertising Director/Producer
Carl Hasselrot, Attingo Media Solutions AB
www.attingomedia.se
Online Creative
Marc Kremers
Online Editors
Anastasia Freygang,
Nada Diane Fridi
Online Producer
Anna Gullstrand
Web Producers and Partners
Fröjd
www.frojd.se
Printing
MittMedia Print
www.mittmediaprint.se
© 2014
The Forum is published six times a year by Nöjesguiden Holding AB
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or part
without permission from the publisher. The views expressed in the magazine are
those of the contributors and not necessarily shared by the magazine
www.theforumist.com
Welcome to
The Forum
Our mission: to bring together creative talents from all over the world to give
you an inclusive, bimonthly magazine that breaks with traditional thinking and
does away with any limitations previously set by gender, origin or appearance.
The Forum is for anyone who has a passion for life and beauty, anyone whose
interests are art, fashion, music or street and popular culture. You won’t find
unachievable, super-luxe pipe dreams driven by demanding advertisers; the
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Cover image by Pani Paul
Shirt by Raf Simons
Untitled (Woodstock Festival Poland, 2013)
by Kira Bunse
2.
3.
1.
4.
7.
5.
6.
top to toe
Looking for the finishing touch? The item that will bring your whole
outfit together? We found these and many more on Aplace.com
1. Bag by Whyred
A futuristic nylon bag with sporty detailing. Use it to accessorise a more
classic ensemble for an interesting contrast.
2. Shirt by Our Legacy
A classic fit in Japanese printed cotton with oversized buttons. Roll up the
sleeves and wear with chinos, or use it to add interest to a suit. 3. Blouse by Hope
The combination of workwear design, flattering shape and soft fabric gives
this blouse a sophisticated and luxurious effect. Wear it any time of day.
4. Sweater by Uniforms for the Dedicated
A good fit with a playful print that’s evocative of Salvador Dalí. Downplay
with a classic shirt underneath for a more casual look.
5. Trainers by Adidas Originals
The much-loved trainer from the late 1980s is reborn, and it’s sporting the
perfect colour mix and eye-catching details. Faux snakeskin, mesh and suede
all work together to give a luxurious feel and make a strong statement. 6. Shoe boots by Whyred
This is footwear with attitude – put a pair on and everyone will see that you
mean business. The detailing is simple and thoughtful, making it a style that
is far from boring.
7. Trainers by Nike
A sneaker that works equally as well at the gym, in the office or for a night
on the town. The pop of colour at the sole and the mix of materials give
them a more modern edge.
Anaiah (Mile End, London, 2013) by Pani Paul
Claes Göran Skor
Vårnyheter:
Claes Göran, Odengatan 62
www.claesgoran.com
Coat and trousers by Dries Van Noten,
flipflops by Newbark
have you
got it?
When Franca Sozzani singles someone out for It-girl accolades,
we take note. Meet two of her recent choices for Grazia Italia:
the Milanese fashion blogger, film-maker and photographer
Maria Host-Ivessich, and the London-based model, poet and
writer Greta Bellamacina
Maria
Photographer: Lorenzo Dalbosco
Talent: Maria Host-Ivessich
In collaboration with: Thecorner.com
Who are you and what do you do?
“I’m Maria, 25. I’m a fashion film-maker together
with my boyfriend, Marco.”
What does being an It girl entail and how does
it affect your approach to fashion?
“I’m only an It girl on paper! I’m actually really
dorky and most of the time super-shy, too. ‘Doing’
fashion stuff comes naturally and I love it, but
what’s around it… it’s tricky.”
What do you actually choose to wear in real
life? How would you describe your “style”?
“I don’t really try to have a ‘style’ – I just play dressup, like a kid. The only thing is that I can’t stand
discomfort, so I’m putting a veto on troublesome
high heels, bare legs in winter and all of those
uncomfortable fashion things, even though I might
love the look.”
What would you say is your most noticeable
quality? What bothers you about others?
“I don’t judge. I never thought about it, but then a
friend brought it up and I think it’s a nice thing to be
nonjudgmental. Vice versa, I’m lost in space most
of the time – it’s annoying, but I can’t help it – apart
from when it comes to my job, when I become an
obsessive-compulsive psycho.”
Clockwise, from top: dress by Elizabeth and
James. Jacket and skirt by Vivienne Westwood
Anglomania. Sweatshirt by Christopher Kane
Greta
Photographer: Lorenzo Dalbosco
Stylist: Eniye Kagbala
Talent: Greta Bellamacina
What do you do and what is your motivation?
“I am a poet, writer and film-maker. People and
the beauty within simplicity are my motivation.”
What kind of fashion do you really like? What
do you choose to wear in real life?
“I like to wear clothing that is practical. A large
overcoat and cowboy boots.” Is art dead?
“Art is more alive then ever – look around! The
artist is the everyday person.” Does fashion matter? “Yes, because it connects so many people.”
Clockwise from top: dress by Vivienne
Westwood. Jacket by Baum and Pferdgarten,
scarf talent’s own. Sweater talent’s own, shorts
by Baum und Pferdgarten, knee-highs by
Wolford, shoes by Vivienne Westwood
Shirt by Eton, trousers by Vivienne Westwood,
socks by COS, shoes by Grenson
women o f
substance
Cher, Chrissie, Siouxsie, Stevie… When it comes to strength and
experience – proper, eye-watering life experience – only female
stars of the music industry really rock, says Natalie Dembinska
Illustrations by Mark Hardy
As a rule, women in music are cool. Well, the majority are. You get the odd one who is
uncool, but compared with the men, among whom the numbers of uncool far outweigh
the numbers of cool, it’s a small fraction. Even a Celine Dion can be touched with cool. A
residency at Caesars Palace is very fucking cool, and Dion is currently in the middle of her
second. Cher has had a residency there, too. Though Cher doesn’t need a Vegas show to
make her cool. Cher has always been cool. She might even be the coolest living musician
today. Some people will sneer at that, but that’s because they fail to realise that it’s not her
songs that make her cool, it’s her attitude. Though the songs are pretty great, too. She also
just happens to be the woman who, when Sonny Bono kicked her to the kerb, gathered
herself together, despite being fucked over – because what else do you call being left with
no money after being one half of Sonny and Cher? – and came back stronger than before.
Listen to Kathleen Hanna and memorise Rebel Girl. Get hold of a copy of the sadly
now-defunct US teen magazine Sassy and read about how it’s okay to be yourself. To not
succumb to peer pressure. Read about the women who sing about how you feel, because
you are who you are and so what if you don’t have long, blonde hair and perky tits and
aren’t sure how to give a good blow job? It’s okay to be confused, and if you want to master
the art of blowing, practise on a banana, because it’s sort of a rite of passage and, really,
what’s the difference? But don’t let men push your head in their crotch to make you give
them one. Men sing about being cocksure or miserable. They sing a lot about girls and sex.
Women don’t. They sing about being women. They sing about themselves and you. They
sing about acceptance. Accepting themselves and never letting
life bring them down. They sing about, to quote Britney
Spears, being stronger. And they look fucking cool
doing so.
Which is why, before we go any further, I
should probably state that I was once a Kylie
Minogue fan. I was five. I had I Should Be So
Lucky on VHS and owned the Kylie and Jason (as
in Donovan) sticker album. I haven’t been a fan of
hers since. Yes, she’s successful, but to me she
panders to her audience too much. She’s a crowd
pleaser. She will sing anything that guarantees
repeat play at G-A-Y on a Friday night. She hasn’t
lived. She does not sing about things that she
knows about from experience; she sings things
someone handed to her on a printout when she
turned up at the recording studio. Why she is held in
esteem similar to that occupied by Cher I will never
understand. She has no balls. She hasn’t experienced
in the same way. She is manufactured. And not in a
Spears way, who has allowed herself to experience and
live – in rather spectacular fashion sometimes,
such as when she decided to shave her head and
had helicopters circling her house.
Cher, on the other hand, I fell in love with
when I was seven. I was on holiday, visiting my
grandparents in Poland, and I had recently seen
her on television, or heard her on the radio at
some point before then. We were in Warsaw,
walking around the old town. My granddad
wanted to treat me to something and, for some
reason, I led him to a collapsible picnic table that
was piled high with cassettes – all pirate copies,
of course (this being the 1980s, when Poland
was in the last grips of communism, everything
was pirate). Anyway, I led him to the table and I
remember seeing a cassette: on the cover was a
woman with wild hair three times as big as her;
she was dressed in a black biker jacket and a
sheer black leotard covered with spangly bits. For
some reason I was very drawn to this particular
cassette. Maybe it was because, when I turned
it over, I noticed that The Shoop Shoop Song
was on it and, having seen Mermaids before that
holiday, I remembered thinking how lucky Winona
Ryder and Christina Ricci were for having Cher
as a mother. Have you seen Cher in Mermaids?
Who, at the age of seven, wouldn’t think that a
mother who makes star-shaped sandwiches isn’t
an apparition of amazingness?
Whether or not Marc Jacobs thought so, too,
when he cast Cher as his lead inspiration in the
SS14 Louis Vuitton show I do not know, but in
all honesty, he dedicated an entire show – his
final show for Louis Vuitton, no less – to her.
Well, he claims it was dedicated to the women
who have inspired him. But I know different.
The setting was dark and gothic. On the seats
was a press release. Names were listed: Sofia
Coppola, Carlyne Cerf de Dudzeele, Liza Minnelli,
Cher. And then the first model came out. And,
bar the jeans, she was a dead ringer for Cher. At
the Oscars in 1986. Dressed head to toe in Bob
Mackie. That people can say she is no longer
relevant when she inspired the biggest luxury
house after Hermès to create a collection based
on a single outfit of hers is a little surprising. And
yes, he mentioned Minnelli, and also her mother
Judy Garland, but did you see any ruby slippers or
toxic-green nails? No.
The thing that’s great about Cher is that she
truly doesn’t care. That outfit was mocked by
everyone when she wore it and now it’s being
celebrated. Have you ever read her Twitter? Have
you seen the pictures of her leaving a plastic
surgeon’s clinic in LA, her face swaddled in
bandages? Have you seen the trailer for her son’s
TV documentary on how he became a he? In it,
Cher becomes muddled when talking about him
because, in her head, he is her daughter who is
now her son and, to be honest, many parents
with transgender children probably make the
same mistake. But then she laughs it off and
says that he’ll probably kill her for the slip-up. But
despite that, she still comes across as a person
who fully supports him in his choices. It’s just
that pronouns can trip you up once in a while.
Sometimes it’s just easier to resort to “it”. I do and
I don’t have any children. Or pets, for that matter.
Sometimes you fuck up. So what?
Anyway, back to women in music who look
cool and are not Cher. A lot of my favourite
women in music are my favourites because of
a vision I had of them when I was little, how I
imagined them to look when I heard them before
I ever saw them. Siouxsie Sioux, for example, will
always resemble what I imagine she would have
looked like in the video for Hong Kong Garden
if they had made a video. She would be backlit
by a sunset-signifying red glow. She would be
standing (or maybe kneeling) in the middle of a
structure made from wooden trellises. She would
be dressed in a black and white silk kimono with
red and purple accents that would open up to
reveal a studded harness and latex chaps. Her
eyes would be made up like Elizabeth Taylor’s in
Cleopatra. Orchids would be planted all around
and she would crawl across the set, her spiky hair
casting a silhouette on the red wall, while singing
of chicken chow mein and chop suey.
The thing about this fictional vision is that it
could be true and, if anyone could have pulled
it off, Siouxsie could. Maybe she even did. I’ve
never seen her live, so I will never know.
Kate Bush was another one. I constructed a
whole vision of her based on the opening bars of
Babooshka. To my seven-year-old mind, she was
dressed like a granny, hunched over a crate of
apples or some popular Russian root vegetable,
maybe a potato, with a crocheted shawl over
her shoulders and a floral scarf on her head. She
looked like a Russian doll. But older. And then I
saw the Babooshka video. Who was this vision in
backlit gold cavorting with a cello who resembled,
to me then, She-Ra: Princess of Power? But with
a slightly deranged look in her eye. And a flair for
modern dance that must in some way have been
based on drama-class exercises that consisted
of channelling a growing tree. There was a sort
of impish-pixie thing about these moves that
was highlighted by the jumpsuits and billowing
capes. Bush looked rather ethereal, as though
floating ever so slightly above the ground in the
manner of a hovercraft. She looked like the love
child of Stevie Nicks and dance troupe Pan’s
People – something that, back then, when playing
dress-up, I used to aspire to, despite the fact
that I was never really a Pan’s People person. I’ve
never been particularly fond of a leotard (there’s
a reason I never made it past one lesson of
gymnastics, and that was the uniform).
I should also probably say that, back then,
I probably didn’t know who Stevie Nicks was,
really. I knew Fleetwood Mac, but I always
associated them with the tall one with the beard.
Discovering Nicks came later. A discovery to
which I paid homage for about a week – in the
form of a knitted, spiderwebby poncho. The
difference between Nicks and me, apart from the
fact that nobody has ever (allegedly) blown coke
up my arse with a straw, is that I cannot, despite
my best efforts for that brief week, work a shawl.
I am not tiny. I do not, and did not, live my life on
a stage, apart from the one that exists solely in
my head, so have never had to channel a showgirl
in order to hold the attention of a stadium of
people. Nor have I ever needed to make myself
look larger than life so as not to appear as a tiny
blimp in front of that same stadium of people.
Like Nicks said when she first draped herself in
fabric, at first it was just for fun. But for me that
fun didn’t last. The fun got caught in an escalator.
From shawls I moved on to ties. We’ll call
those the Patti Smith days. Based, of course,
on the cover of Horses. Really original, I know. I
mean, who hasn’t ever looked at that cover and
shamelessly ripped it off? Is there actually a less
ripped-off album cover in existence? I swear,
every season, some designer decides to trapeze
his “original” vision for androgyny down a runway,
announcing to the world post show that he/she
just happened across the original vinyl in some
Eastern European flea market that he/she had
visited on a “research” trip and was just suddenly
hit by this bolt of inspiration. Oh please let me slit
my wrists now.
But then you have to admit that Smith looked
fucking cool. Her. Nobody else. The thing about
her, though, is that it was never the cover that
made her cool. It was her. She had style. And she
knew about clothes, too. This is a woman who
said in The New York Times a while back that she
knots her shirts in homage to Ava Gardner. And
would wear a thrift-store Dior dress to school. And
admitted her secret love of ball gowns. Can you
imagine anything more divine than Smith in some
pouf-y couture creation? She then went on to
explain very eloquently why she dresses the way
she does: “Even as a child, I knew what I didn’t
want. I didn’t want to wear red lipstick. When my
mother would say, ‘You should shave your legs’,
I would ask, ‘Why?’ I didn’t understand why we
had to present a different picture of ourselves to
the outside world.”
Not giving a damn about what other people
think and choosing not to pander to other people’s
vision of her might just be the reason I love her
most. It’s also the reason I love Chrissie Hynde.
The woman who wrote a song called Popstar, in
which her lyrics rip to shreds a Minogue wannabe
who an idiot ex left her for. But she was right,
they don’t make ’em like they used to, he should
have just stuck with her.
I could write pages about Hynde, 100 reasons
explaining in minute detail my love, but then I
don’t need to because Morrissey did it in a single
anecdote, and let’s be honest, if Morrissey is
praising you, you must be pretty much up there
on a level with the angels, as this man does not
like anything. But he likes Hynde. Apparently
because she’s funny. And they were once in
a pub. And a woman walked up to her and
screeched something about how much Hynde
meant to her. To which she replied, “Yes. But I
don’t now – so fuck off.”
Sandra Bernhard once did a genius bit about
women and rock’n’roll, about the female band
Heart and how they sang of love and being alone.
About why women like Heart’s Ann Wilson should
have the ground they walk on blessed thrice daily
while all around people bow down: “Just give
me an old-fashioned, sweaty, big-tittied bitch of
rock’n’roll, okay? Give me Joan Jett with a shag
haircut and black eye. Give me Pat Benatar. We
do belong to the night. Give me Alannah Myles.
Black Velvet if you please. For Christ’s sake, give
me Ann and Nancy Wilson… Now when these
women wrote a lyric and sang it, you know they
had lived it. They wrote it, they sang it, they
fucked it, they snorted it, they lived the shit, okay?
These women invented the road. There was no
road before them. They did things that would
break [those waifish alternative singers] in half.”
And they still do.
Body by DKNY, trousers by Adidas
Originals by Jeremy Scott, cap by Lika
i’m
your type
Photographer: Stefano Viti
Stylist: Silvia Bergomi
In collaboration with: Wok-store.com
Bag by Christopher Raeburn
This page: T-shirt by Comme des Garçons,
trousers by Adidas Originals x Opening
Ceremony, sandals by Jil Sander Navy.
Opposite: T-shirt by Uppercut, neckpiece
by Arielle De Pinto This page: baseball shirt by KTZ,
sweatpants by Chloë Sevigny for
Opening Ceremony, sandals by MM6
Maison Martin Margiela.
Opposite: top and earrings by MM6
Maison Martin Margiela, shorts by
Uppercut, bag by Christopher Raeburn
This page: tank top by Kenzo, jeans by
DKNY, cap by KTZ.
Opposite: coat by Anntian, dress by
Kenzo, pouch necklace by KTZ Hair: Ana Rodriguez at The Green Apple
Make-up: Giulia Cigarini
Model: Rita Gao at IMG
Photographer’s assistant: Oggionni Riki
die
mensch-maschine
lebt!
The electronica of German über-group Kraftwerk has been influencing the global
soundscape for decades. On the occasion of their exhibition at the Moderna Museet
in Stockholm, Axel Mörner examines their past and ponders the future of an ensemble
firmly established more as conceptual-art collective than band
Düsseldorf
Postwar Germany was quickly rising from the ashes and their industry was booming. In the 1960s
North Rhine-Westphalia was a densely populated and prosperous area, with Düsseldorf as its capital.
The enormous area of the Ruhr, with its heavy industry nearby, had an impact on the population both
economically and culturally, while all the logistics operations and headquarters lay in Düsseldorf.
At that time, popular culture was imported from the US and Great Britain, which meant their pop
music and contemporary art and brash attitude. As with everywhere else in Europe, the German youth
tried to emulate their Anglo-American idols and re-create the whole hippie movement.
The cultural atmosphere of the city was buzzing and the Kunstakademie Düsseldorf was the epicentre
of avant-garde art and attitudes. A quick roll call of its students and staff then reveals such prominent
names as Joseph Beuys, Sigmar Polke and Gerhard Richter. It was also attended by the photographers/
artists Bernd and Hilla Becher, famous for their photographs of industrial plants; they are also recognised
for starting the Düsseldorf School of Photography movement, which produced such talents as Andreas
Gursky and Candida Höfer.
Ralf und Florian
Ralf Hütter (b. 1946) and Florian Schneider (b. 1947) met at the Robert Schumann Hochschule in
Düsseldorf in the late 1960s, where they were studying music and experimenting with improvisation.
They were the sons of a physician and architect respectively and typical examples of middle-class
Düsseldorfers. Being interested in music they participated in various bands and ensembles and were part
of the German experimental music scene that was trying to move away from the heavy Anglo-American
influence. Hütter played keyboards and Schneider transverse flute, and they were both very keen on
freeform and exploring rhythms and sounds. They had a quiet and thoughtful attitude that has followed
them throughout their careers and more or less became their trademark.
Music
Teaming up with people from other groups, they created some early improvisational music pieces,
hooking their instruments up electronically. Releasing early recordings that had an almost-ambient style,
though always quite rhythmic, they sounded like the other experimental bands around them.
The percussion and their idea of rhythm – continuous, repetitive and driving – has been a common
thread running from their first effort together on the album Tone Float, which they recorded under the
name Organisation, right up until the latest Kraftwerk work.
When they first made music together there was a need to make a break from the conformity and find
a new attitude. Using their strong focus they started to refine their music, to dismantle it, make it more
minimalistic. They began to explore the electronic devices at hand and found them inferior, which forced
them to build their own with help from specialists.
The rhythmic section was of importance, as they were moving away from all ordinary instruments.
Electronic percussion pads were forever a Kraftwerk device. The song Autobahn was a good start for the
band, but it was still too long and peculiar. They started to get a foothold in the music scene with their
album Trans-Europe Express (1977), which contained both longer pieces but also short pop tunes, such as
Showroom Dummies, which put them on the right track.
Kraftwerk was now also assisted by two percussionists, Wolfgang Flür
and Karl Bartos. Having controlled everything up until then, Hütter and
Schneider finally decided to let Bartos participate in the composing, too. This
was a sensible move, as their next album, The Man-Machine (1978), was a
hit, with tracks including The Model and The Robots. With Bartos’s help, they
had finally understood how to make commercial pop tunes. This continued
on their next album, Computer World (1981).
Then came a period when they reaped the
fruits of their success and enjoyed themselves,
becoming cycling enthusiasts in the process.
After five years of troublesome recordings they
were no longer really motivated to work as a
group. Their 1986 release, Electric Café, was
received well, but the music market was by then
flooded with electronic-music acts. In fact, the
competition was great, as many bands were quick
to harness the ever-evolving technology and were
working more swiftly than Kraftwerk.
By the end of 1990 both Flür and Bartos had
left the group, the electronic percussion had been
replaced by drum machines and the main work
consisted of programming. They were replaced
by new members who were technicians from the
band’s private music studio, Kling Klang. Hütter
and Schneider stagnated in their composing and
just issued remixed songs and a handful of more
repetitive pieces.
Art
Always interested in art, Hütter and Schneider
were intent on making good album-cover designs
for the band, as can be seen from the early
albums Kraftwerk and Kraftwerk 2, with their
colourful traffic cones and the photographic
work by Bernd and Hilla Becher on their gatefold
sleeves, to the huge influence of the artist Emil
Schult. Indeed, it was almost as though Schult
was another band member, as he was involved in
most of the Kraftwerk album-cover designs and
was also a songwriter on some of their major hits.
With Trans-Europe Express, the design concept
was complete, the band standing like touched-up
movie heroes from the German film studio Ufa.
The artist duo Gilbert and George also seem to
have been a big inspiration for their look, with
many citing the artists’ performance pieces as
influence, including The Singing Sculpture and
Bend It, for which they appeared in impeccable
suits. For the artwork for The Man-Machine, they
created a mock Russian 1920s constructivist
cover using the bold colours red, black and white,
which gave it a slightly totalitarian feel. The late
Russian artist El Lissitzky was its inspiration.
And we must not forget the Plexiglas boxes
that had the band members’ names written in
neon that Hütter and Schneider used in their early
concerts. In 1976 Bartos and Flür’s names were
included, too.
For their latest work, Kraftwerk Der Katalog
12345678, they went with a stylised version of
each original album cover – simple and functional
but without the artistic quality and wit of the
original cover art.
Image
The group understood that after Autobahn was
a hit they could not continue to look like they did
inside the gatefold sleeve of the album. They got
rid of the hippie-krautrock look and started to look
like their parents, which meant a slight retro feel
with nice suits and short hair. They wanted to be
Germans, or rather Europeans, but with a hint of
the 1930s. They embraced the efficient side of
Germans with a rational attitude. The image of
them standing at the Düsseldorf Hauptbahnhof
when they launched Trans-Europe Express –
wearing smart suits, white powdered faces and
red lipstick – certainly shows that they had a style
of their own. They were showroom dummies
as opposed to the long-haired, raunchy rock
bands they were surrounded by. Even the name
Kraftwerk was very concrete and German. They
sang in German but also in English because they
wanted to sell more records.
There seemed to be a good humour to their
style, which they combined with a deadpan
attitude, toneless singing voices and a generally
dry wit. The next step was to become robots,
evidently. With The Man-Machine, the step was
taken. For the song The Robots, in addition to
dressing in red shirts and black ties and having
short black hair, white faces and red lipstick, they
also made a set of four robots. The effect set
ablaze a whole youth movement, which would be
labelled post-punk and synth. Even today the big
fashion houses are inspired by Kraftwerk’s strict
and minimal style: Versace men’s ready-to-wear
“cyberpunk” collection for AW10 was a big nod
to Kraftwerk’s style, and Prada has always been a
fan. After this the band more or less dressed in all
black, which became a trademark for the genre.
Sex
There has never been any discussion about the
band members’ sex lives, probably because there
is nothing to talk about. They prefer not to write
about their private lives; instead, they again act
as showroom dummies, showing little emotion,
completely asexual. The step to becoming a robot
was an even clearer message to the general
public that they are machines, not human. The
sexual aspect is more a fetish thing. Dressing up
in uniforms and make-up and looking blasé is a
classic look in clubs and fetish circles.
Of course this is purely the band’s image.
The question of homosexuality has never been
raised, really; in addition, it is said that Schneider
has a daughter and had a girlfriend. The real story
is probably that they lead quite normal lives like
the rest of us, they just don’t want to flaunt their
personal details in the same way American and
British rock bands do. “I don’t want to be your sex
object. Show some feeling and respect,” sings
Hütter on Sex Object, from the album Electric
Café, and I guess we have to accept that.
Ralf the Emperor
Hütter has more or less always been the leader
of Kraftwerk, the one that has decided on the
band’s direction, with Schneider by his side.
Hütter was the one who imposed the drug and
drinking ban in 1975 in order to achieve perfect
performances. He was also the instigator of the
cycling obsession, which took up a large part of
the band’s time.
By the 2000s Kraftwerk had entered a new
era of high activity, releasing Tour de France
Soundtracks in 2003 (more or less variations on
the single from 1983) and launching extensive
world tours with new visuals for every song and
digital-tech effects. The touring continued and the
band participated in several festivals. This forced
longtime partner Schneider to quit the band, a sad
day for the hardcore fans. However, for Hütter,
there was no problem – Schneider was replaced
by another Kling Klang technician.
Hütter had really understood the impact that
Kraftwerk had made on the music industry, that
they were responsible for the whole evolution
of electro and techno music. A catalogue
was released with remastered albums and
made available for the Spotify generation: that
streamlined package called Kraftwerk Der Katalog
12345678, with 1 being Autobahn and 8 Tour
de France Soundtracks. It was a smart move,
probably brought on by the realisation that the
possibilities to create high-quality Kraftwerk
material in the future could be limited.
Infinity
When Klaus Biesenbach became Chief Curator at
Large at the Museum of Modern Art in New York
he already had a big idea in his head: he wanted
to exhibit Kraftwerk. He had been in contact with
the group when he was the director at KunstWerke Institute for Contemporary Art in Berlin
and the Berlin Biennale. The show was called
Kraftwerk – Retrospective 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 and ran
April 10–17, 2012, in The Donald B and Catherine C
Marron Atrium on MoMA’s second floor.
Kraftwerk performed all of their albums in
order, one each night, starting of course with
Autobahn. The performances now also had a 3-D
effect, which made the whole experience more
powerful, with the images and numbers flying
into the audience. The series was a complete
success and all tickets sold out within minutes of
going on sale. Indeed, this exhibition confirmed
the group’s status as a conceptual-art collective,
which they had always been. They had now
reached a new level of immortality and Hütter, the
driving force of the group, should be pleased.
More exhibitions followed at Tate Modern,
London, and of course, at the Kunstsammlung
Nordrhein-Westfalen in Düsseldorf, among others.
The new video-installation works were displayed
at Galerie Sprüth-Magers in Berlin last year –
stylised music videos in 3-D. These are the works
that are currently being shown in the exhibition
at Moderna Museet in Stockholm. It follows the
catalogue from 1 to 8, showcasing one song
from each album. The band have also played four
3-D concerts at a nearby venue in Stockholm to
accompany the exhibition.
The only original band member now is Hütter;
the others are Fritz Hilpert, Henning Schmitz
and Falk Grieffenhagen. Maybe Kraftwerk will
continue endlessly exchanging members like
android robots or invent the Kraftwerk perpetuum
mobile to allow audiences of the next millennium
to enjoy a Kraftwerk performance. Meanwhile,
you should definitely go to the Moderna Museet
and sit down in the Kraftwerk room and become
one with their art.
“So what did the band do while they were in
Stockholm?” I asked a museum spokesperson.
“Oh, they went ice-skating every day!” came the
obvious answer.
Dance Machines – From Léger to Kraftwerk;
until 27th April, Moderna Museet, Stockholm
Recommended listening
Apart from the Kraftwerk Der Katalog 12345678,
you should listen to the original recordings of
Kraftwerk before they started to alter and modify
their tracks, and especially the first three albums:
Kraftwerk, Kraftwerk 2 and Ralf und Florian.
Music that inspired Kraftwerk
The Velvet Underground & Nico and White Light/
White Heat by The Velvet Underground
Pet Sounds by The Beach Boys
Karlheinz Stockhausen
The Stooges
Franz Schubert
Pink Floyd
Giorgio Moroder
Contemporaries
Tangerine Dream
Neu!
Giorgio Moroder
Yellow Magic Orchestra
Music inspired by Kraftwerk (a selection)
Joy Division
New Order
The Human League
Afrika Bambaataa
Depeche Mode
Ultravox
Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark
Lustans Lakejer
DAF
Front 242
Die Krupps
Eurythmics
Cocteau Twins
808 State
Front Line Assembly
Skinny Puppy
Belleville Three (Detroit techno)
Michael Jackson
Daft Punk
Happy Mondays
Sven Väth
Technotronic
Trio
Air
Dimitri from Paris
Pouppée Fabrikk
Aphex Twin
Billy Idol
Sigue Sigue Sputnik
Ben Klock
Cari Lekebusch
Alexi Delano
Basement Jaxx
Snoop Dogg
Coldplay
Dr Dre
Rammstein
And so forth…
loo king
Photographer: Pani Paul
Stylist: Julian Ganio
This page: jacket by Alexander McQueen.
Opposite: jacket by Dries Van Noten
This page: jacket and top by Gosha Rubchinskiy.
Opposite: shirt by Christopher Shannon
This page: T-shirt and shorts by Jil Sander.
Opposite: suit by Acne Studios
This page: shirt, neckerchief and backpack by Margaret Howell.
Opposite: T-shirt by Givenchy by Riccardo Tisci
Hair: Lee Machin at Caren using Intelligent Nutrients
Model: Mel at Select
Stylist’s assistant: Cobbie Yates
Creative assistant: Andrea Schinke
Casting: Simon Lewis at Cast & Elect London
home again
When there’s nowhere to go away to, which way should you head?
Kiriakos Spirou shares his odyssey and asks whether true happiness
can be found by returning to your favourite place
Photography by Petros Koublis
“You say you’re cursed? So what? So is the whole damn world” – Jigo to
Ashitaka, Princess Mononoke (Studio Ghibli, 1997)
I love Studio Ghibli films, mostly because they are not based on the usual
good-wins-over-evil formula. The characters are neither good nor bad – they
are far more complex than that. And more importantly, they shift between
being good and evil as the story unfolds. How can you be both at the same
time? I’m still trying to embrace contradictions of this sort in my life, but it’s
hard for me to grasp that we are so many things at once – that we are not
one, monolithic, perfect thing. When I think about how utterly random life is,
the fact that we can actually make sense out of it all seems like a miracle.
I’m 29 and I’m pretty clueless about my life. My name roughly translates
as “Sunday man”, which is rather misleading because I’m a helpless
workaholic. I was born in July 1984 in Limassol, Cyprus, where I grew up,
and what I remember most from my teenage years is summer beaches,
playing video games, writing poems and being secretly in love all the time.
I’m 20 and I move to Athens to study. I arrive on the last day of the 2004
Olympics, and I can see the fireworks of the closing ceremony while on
the bus going from the airport to the city centre. A celebration of closure
and ending – what an appropriate welcome for someone who is away from
home for the very first time… Number of break-ups: one.
I’m 24 and have just passed my piano diploma exams. I throw a party to
celebrate, but I end up sitting on the balcony weeping while my friends are
holding their drinks in awkward silence. I have been playing the piano for
14 years nonstop and for some reason I regret every day of it. I realise that
I’ve been doing this because others told me I’m good at it, without even
thinking about whether I actually like it. A few weeks later I muster all my
courage and ask for a job at a ballet school as an accompanist – I somehow
get the job as a trainee. Eventually, and unexpectedly, playing music for
dance classes makes me fall in love with being a musician again. Number of
break-ups: two.
I’m 27 and I have a degree in musicology, a cat and a job as a pianist
at the ballet school of the Greek National Opera in Athens. However, I’m
packing my things to leave, because I have been accepted on a Masters
course on music composition in the Netherlands. My flat is a mess because
I’m trying to pack everything on time and ship it
to my parents. Ten days later, I’m at the airport
waiting for the flight to Amsterdam. I text my
best friend: “Everything is possible. I can create
the life I want.” I don’t actually believe that. I don’t
want to leave. Yet doing a Masters seems like
a good excuse to leave a country that is sinking
deeper and deeper into crisis. From the airplane
window, I look at the frozen Alps towering in
crystal-clear weather. There will be no mountains
where I’m going. Number of break-ups: three.
Half a year later, I’m sitting in my little Dutch
room in my little Dutch neighbourhood, feeling
miserable. I’m still not sure why I’m doing this
Masters. During my days in the Neverlands, my
thoughts are an intoxicating mixture of nostalgia
and fear. What am I afraid of? I’m not sure. Maybe
that’s what wrong choices feel like. At my first
(and last) meeting with my director of studies
I am reminded that I am a “Southerner”, and
that I should forget the “dreamy mentality that
Southerners have” and “become more pragmatic,
like the Dutch”. In the following months I gradually
become “brown”, “Club Med”, a foreigner –
and my everyday life slowly transforms into
a hysterical theme-park ride revolving around
First World, white-man privilege. Is this what
civilisation is all about? I miss the filthy chaos of
Athens. I miss my cat. I miss home.
I’m 28 and I’m completely disenchanted
with the idea of making art as a profession. I’m
halfway through the second year of my Masters
and I don’t see me belonging anywhere. On
top of it all, the banking crisis hits Cyprus and
my parents are terrified. Looking for a job in the
Neverlands is not getting me anywhere. So I
hit my early-life crisis head on. I decide to stop
whatever I’m doing and try something else. One
by one I complete my musical projects and I
don’t engage with new ones. I volunteer for an
independent queer festival in Amsterdam and I
help them out with administration. I take part in
a critical-writing workshop and write a few blog
posts for Sonic Acts, a new-media art festival in
Amsterdam. I am asked to write reviews for a
music magazine called Gonzo Circus. I simply give
in to writing as a way of escaping the confusion
and paralysis I found myself in, and I slowly
discover that this is actually giving me great joy,
like embracing a long-suppressed desire. I decide
to pursue this further, and I pitch my articles
at various magazines – admittedly, with little
success, but I don’t really mind. And after a few
months, the urge to write poems comes back to
me for the first time in years.
I’m sitting in the kitchen of a young Italian
guy I like. He came to Amsterdam to study and
never left. It’s way past midnight and I’ve missed
the last train home. We’re smoking one last
cigarette before going to sleep while having the
clichéd discussion about leaving our countries,
living abroad, the prospect of going back… He
tells me he would never go back, but he would
like to go away someday. I tell him that probably
there’s nowhere to go away to. “That’s a terrible
thought,” he replies. He hands me a single blanket
and lets me sleep on the couch. The next morning
I get up and leave before he wakes up.
I’m 29 and I’m at Schiphol airport, with all my
belongings in a suitcase. I graduated from my
Masters a week ago. Once more, all furniture was
sold, all lovers kissed goodbye and I’m just sitting
here with a boarding pass in my hand. When
there’s nowhere to go away to, you can always go
to your parents’ place. One of my romantic affairs
– a sensitive, fortysomething, tall Dutchman – is
worried about my career moves. “Okay, move to
a warm country and heal your wounds,” he says,
“but come back and do things! You have an opera
to write!” Yes, it’s true that I’ve always wanted
to write an opera, but I’ve also been wanting to
become a chef, an architect, a magazine editor,
a tailor, a hotel owner, a choreographer and a
poet. If there’s one thing I’ve learned during my
Masters, it’s that I’m probably too much of an
introvert and too reluctant to become much of
anything. Maybe I should just get used to the idea
that, for now, I’ll just be floating around, doing
many things. There’s an airport announcement.
The gate is now open. Number of break-ups: five.
A few months later and I’m staying at a
friend’s apartment in Athens. I’m now writing
regularly for an amazing online magazine called
Yatzer, and I’ve also found a part-time job as an
accompanist for a small dance school in the north
of town. I haven’t felt so good about myself for
a long time. Greece is still in a mess though,
especially socially and politically; it’s not a money
issue any more, but a cultural and personal thing.
I wonder whether some people just don’t want
to solve their crises because they want to avoid
responsibility and facing some hard truths about
themselves. Meanwhile, I’m still getting used to
the fact that there is so much violence in this city
now, sometimes even sheer hate. For me, being
happy, angry and worried at the same time is a
bit difficult to handle – but again, I was never very
good with contradictions to begin with.
I know there are thousands of young people
like me who have experienced a life crisis right in
the middle of the surreal madhouse parade that’s
been marching across Europe for the past few
years. And like anyone else, I’m still clueless. I’m
not sure if I have found happiness by coming back
to my favourite place. What I do know is that my
coming back is not merely geographical. I came
back to a state of mind, back to writing, back to
being able to choose what I like. Am I confusing
happiness with pleasure? I’m not certain.
Sometimes I think – and that’s another terrible
thought – that happiness is a steady flow of
pleasure and nothing more. Someday I will stop
being so uncertain about so many things. Until
then, I’ll explore what it means to be a vagabond,
and make sure I don’t get lost in the storm.
promotion
lift off
Photographer: Jaime Martinez
Talent: Frida Falcón, Ixchel Sélavy,
Lucy Espejel, Stephanie Villagomez
In collaboration with: Tshirtstoreonline.com
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The Silver Lining
of Rock Bot tom
Malina Bickford meets the Detroit-bred DJ Mike Servito and talks
hometown pride and the Motor City’s most valuable export
People from Detroit will find a way to tell you well before it would occur
to you to ask. We’re proud as all hell, and while you may suspect that this
ferocious hometown loyalty is merely a defence mechanism against all
the negative press on the D, it comes primarily from a genuine love for the
richly creative and complex community that’s recently been reduced to a
bunch of sensationalised news sound bites. Detroit – the spectacular widow
of a fallen manufacturing dynasty – isn’t some hopeless, postapocalyptic
wasteland where the American dream went to die. The government,
systems and services may currently be in a shambles, but people still
live there. A lot of them. Folks who work and plan for a prosperous
future. Many of them innovators making the most of possibilities
that arise from the ashes of the former industrial powerhouse.
Here’s another thing you probably haven’t heard about
Detroit: it’s a fucking awesome place to be young and weird.
Think about it. You’ve got 140 square miles – enough space
to fit Manhattan, Boston and San Francisco, with room to
spare – and a dwindling population, leaving thousands
of buildings empty. Vast, raw space up for sale or rent
for practically nothing. Vacancy in its most literal form;
endless room to fill with any sort of identity that a kid could
dream up for himself, unmonitored by authorities or an oppressive
norm. Grand mansions, sprawling defunct automotive plants and
shuttered theatres serve as macabre hosts to dance parties, art openings,
shows and benefits. In the magical years before the world turned its eyes on
and nose up at Detroit, the city truly felt like ours.
Beyond past and present guerrilla activities, music can be found
everywhere in the city. Summers are packed with riverfront festivals of
all genres, jazz and reggae bands play at the farmers’ market on Saturday
afternoons and a solid rotation of local and touring indie acts can be found
shooting pool and drinking beer in the historic Garden Bowl after playing a
set at one of the numerous intimate venues that dot Mid and Downtown.
Famous for cultural behemoths such as Motown and Madonna, as well
as punk-rock legends MC5 and Iggy Pop and the Stooges, Detroit’s place
in music history may already be secured, but yet another misconception is
that the city’s contribution to the musical zeitgeist is a mostly past-tense
situation, with the exception of a few well-known artists such as Eminem
and The White Stripes. Think again, pal! Rather than coast by on Motown’s
good looks, Detroit musicians continue to evolve those sounds into a host of
newer genres, including hip-hop and the innovation of techno.
From the late 1980s into the early 2000s, electronic music permeated
Detroit after dark. A vibrant rave scene blossomed in support of a growing
roster of house and techno artists and DJs. Motown became Techno City, its
futuristic beats spreading like wildfire through the globe’s underground dance
culture. The techno pioneers Juan Atkins, Derrick May and Kevin Saunderson
were gods, and going out wasn’t just about getting fucked up and hooking
up – we were having the tops of our heads blown off by this new sound.
The Brooklyn-based house and techno DJ Mike Servito may not live in the
D any more, but his style and musical tastes are rooted in his hometown.
Born downtown and steeped from an early age in Motown acts – “My
mother singing Supremes songs in the car” – and Prince, “First concert – it
was his birthday”, Servito recalls running home after school to catch The
New Dance Show (Detroit’s late-1980s version of Soul Train, with the sickest
Detroit techno, Chicago house, electro and rap soundtrack) and recording
Jeff “The Wizard” Mills’s DJ sets and the Electrifying Mojo show off the
radio, all contributing to a rock-solid foundation in innovative dance music.
Servito’s fate as a lifelong collector and advocate was probably sealed around
the time he took up roller-skating to disco records in his parents’ basement…
Throughout the early to mid-1990s the underground dance music
landscape swelled with new artists and sounds. While the rest of the world
lined their home-entertainment centres with CD jewel cases, vinyl was king
in Detroit. Practically everyone tried their hand at being a DJ, purchasing
turntables or lobbying for practice time on any set of decks they could find.
Servito began collecting records as a fan, attending parties and going out to
clubs. In 1995, he decided to give DJ-ing a go: “No one ever gave me any
real lessons on how to DJ. I had no hands-on concept of mixing two records
together – only ideas – despite buying them, and hearing music being mixed
on the radio. I didn’t own turntables – to this day, I still don’t have a set-up
at home. My first gig was a Poor Boy party. I never practised. I just took my
records and played – a lot of Dance Mania and Direct Beat stuff. I think my
exposure to hearing mixes on the radio as a kid really left an impression. It
was just set in my head on how things should sound and be pieced together.
I felt like I just knew what to do. Pretty much how I still operate today.”
The only requirement to get into, or in front of, the DJ booth was
a genuine appreciation for the music. In this setting, gender, ethnicity,
socioeconomics, race and sexual orientation
were, inexplicably, a nonissue in an otherwise
culturally divisive city. It wasn’t all Kumbaya all
the time – plenty of posturing, politicking, shittalking and clique forming took place but, for all
intents and purposes, these parties and clubs
were a place of solace for those who made the
pilgrimage into the city – some people driving in
from as far as Ohio on a weekly basis – to dance
on that even playing field.
In the late 1990s the rave scene started
to devolve into sloppy drugs orgies that were
poorly produced and attended by unsavoury
characters with little to no interest in the music
itself. Techno diehards had matured a bit and their
extracurricular activities followed suit. In 2000,
after nearly two decades of underground global
success, Detroit techno had its coming-out party
with the first annual Detroit Electronic Music
Festival, a massive, multi-stage, weekend-long
event on the city’s riverfront, showcasing all
facets of electronic dance music. While Europe
has been known for throwing giant festivals such
as Germany’s Love Parade since the late 1980s,
the United States had yet to host an event of
that magnitude. The first DEMF saw a staggering
estimated 1.1 million attendees from all over the
world. News outlets all over turned their lenses
on the Motor City, and it was a damn good look.
While techno is a defining genre for
Detroit’s underground, it is by no means the
only exceptional music coming out of the city.
Hip-hop, punk rock, garage rock, just plain rock,
experimental-noise shit, gospel, that signature
Motown sound and countless other styles can
be heard all over the city. Despite its diversity
and formidable geographic span, the musical
community in Detroit remains relatively small.
There simply aren’t enough people for there to
be sharply defined lines between subcultures or
scenes. The life of a purist of any sort in a city like
Detroit would be a sad one indeed.
Servito’s subsequent career ultimately helped
to inform the trajectory of Detroit dance music.
Along with some DJ friends, he contributed to
a growing number of events that drew party
animals of all ilks together – most notably a nowinfamous free monthly series of parties known as
Dorkwave. Starting in the back room of Untitled,
an earlier incarnation of the group’s debauched
scheming, Dorkwave evolved from the brainchild
of friend Michael Doyle into a two-floor, party-’tilyou-puke rager, packed with kids who wanted to
go all night and dance to anything and everything.
“Dorkwave wasn’t about the DJ,” says Servito.
“It was about the energy and taking cues
from Detroit’s underground, and completely
flipping it with genres ranging from techno
to punk and new wave. Anything goes.
Sometimes good mixing, sometimes total
train-wreck disasters. Although, personally,
I can’t speak for the train-wrecks part, of
course… I hate that cliché statement of
‘You had to be there’, but you really can’t
fully explain the feeling and the energy of
that time and of these parties. Every one
was an ‘OH SHIT!’ moment. I felt like I
was really making a contribution.”
Dorkwave went on to spawn Sass,
another monthly and a pet project of
Servito: “We wanted to cater to a
more homo-driven audience, fuelled
by the same late-night, debauched
mentality. There was no queerspecific outlet for the kind of music
we wanted to play. It was about
adding another option to Detroit’s
gay nightlife.”
And so, he made that
happen, too – not only creating
an opportunity for him and his
friends to dance to all their
favourite music, but yet another
space for people who didn’t
necessarily fit into the area
designated for them by cultural
norms. With these parties,
Servito and his crew had
broken ground on a new,
all-inclusive style of subculture and truly made
their mark on Detroit nightlife, solidifying Servito’s
reputation as a force to be reckoned with in the
dance-music community. Everybody knew his
name and wanted to be his friend. Party-goers
emulated his dance moves and incorporated his
infamous sarcasm and personal lingo into their
own vernacular.
In 2007, Servito packed up his records and
did what so many, present company included,
ultimately do: he left. Moved to New York City.
I know what you’re thinking – if Detroit’s so
great, why leave? Well, for pretty much the same
reasons anyone opts to move away from their
hometown: “To challenge myself, to just live my
life and start over. I wanted change, to be excited,
to be scared and feel something new. I felt like
it was time to start a new chapter and change
direction in my own life.” Sound familiar? Nothing
about the job market, crime rates, the housing
market, literacy stats or bankruptcies. People
leave Detroit because leaving is a thing that
people do everywhere.
Since the move to NYC, Servito’s DJ career
has steadily grown and he currently juggles a
residency at the cult monthly dance party The
Bunker in Brooklyn with a full roster of gigs in
virtually ever major US city and overseas. “Detroit
music is always represented in my sets,” he says,
“and I find myself constantly referencing bits
and pieces from my past via the music I play, the
way I mix and the energy I’m trying to achieve.”
Meanwhile, many of the friends who he cut his
early techno teeth alongside back in the D have
moved on and seen success in other cities such
as Berlin and San Francisco.
No matter where they live, Detroit artists are
prolific in their versatility, often staying under
the radar of the mainstream because that’s
where they come from. In that small but
powerful creative community that exports
them to all corners of the globe, there’s
no room or reason for grandstanding
and no such thing as conventional.
Musicians, visual artists, writers, art
directors, designers, dancers and
curators are influencing trends
and tastes far beyond the city
limits with an uncommon work
ethic, signature wry sense
of humour and innovation
as a second nature. Think
about the way Madonna got her start in New York
City way back in the early 1980s. A little money, a
lot of style and balls for days.
While Servito and other artists may not hold
the answer to how to fix what’s wrong with
Detroit, they will continue to showcase so
much of what’s special about it. “It’s my
hometown,” says Servito. “It’s where I was
born. It’s part of my DNA, my history.
Detroit’s economic, political and racial
climates have always had a strong
impact on what artists were doing
– from Motown to techno and
beyond in 2014. People tend to
be more creative during trying
times – art often emerges
from a lack of something.
Detroit has hit its bottom in
a lot of ways, but creative
energy and an evergrowing and changing
community always
fuels a rebirth.”
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The wizard of
dobbin street
For nearly 20 years, a Brooklyn-based recording studio has been
quietly guiding and playing host to some of indie music’s biggest talents.
Nicky Stringfellow catches up with the man behind the magic
Photography by Christopher Sturman
Beginning with its aesthetic, the Rare Book
Room studio in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, New York
City, is atypical. Erudite literature lines shelves
alongside kitsch paintings. Whitewashed brick
walls, remnants of the site’s industrial days, and
threadbare Persian carpets provide an offbeat
backdrop for recording sessions. This is not a
white room with a black microphone hanging
down the middle but a lived-in space reverberating
with inspired echoes from the past. “I hate the
antiseptic vibe of commercial studios,” says the
owner, Nicolas Vernhes. “I have filled this space
over the years – 18 and counting – with objects
and furniture that are pleasant to be around. [There are] books about music,
art and Greek philosophy, since the latter was my major in college. People
who first walk in generally have a positive reaction because it is a cosy place,
which makes it comfortable for the long days we spend in there.”
In 1995, five years after moving to Manhattan and playing music,
Vernhes found a ground-floor warehouse on Dobbin Street and filled it with
equipment, realising this would be a smarter investment than renting out
smaller, more expensive Manhattan alternatives. The name Rare Book Room
came from Baby Tooth bandmate David Mecionis. The day they were naming
their album, he “stepped into the rare book room of the medical library he
worked at and it hit him that it should be the name of our record”, explains
Vernhes. Following the band’s tradition “to repeatedly steal from ourselves”,
Vernhes christened the studio with the same name.
The nominal origins signal the owner’s philosophy towards music. “Every
drum beat has already been invented – but hopefully not,” says Vernhes.
Recycling, then, is unavoidable, especially in a world saturated with historical
precedents that are available for never-ending consumption on the web. How
it’s done makes the difference between imitation and innovation; as Picasso
said, “Good artists copy, great artists steal.” Vernhes describes how Bruce
Springsteen once confessed about unintentionally grafting an existing riff
into his own melody. But The Boss’s unique style and talent for incorporation
somehow made it sound fresh and new.
In New York City, musical influence emanates from every corner of
the compass – headphones blast on the girl riding the train next to you,
reggaeton bumps out of windows as you cruise your bike through summer
streets, and bass-heavy rap pounds out of an SUV at the streetlight. Such
diversity makes artists more willing to “try the unknown” and bring new
vernacular into their own style, says Vernhes. He adds that artists gain
much “awareness” from random connections and interactions arising from
the city’s large and motley population and compressed surface area. “All
great art is born of the metropolis,” said Ezra Pound. New York City, though
more gleaming and suburbanised than it once was, could still be such a
place. Furthermore, a musician in New York City has already proven some
of his merit simply because he lives here. To still have energy to create
after working a day job belies a quality that Vernhes believes is key to good
musicianship: passion. Vernhes works with people who are “up all night”
because they’d rather be exploring the sound forest than sleeping. Josh
Dibb, otherwise known as Deakin of Animal Collective, first collaborated with
Vernhes in 2002 on the album Campfire Songs. Noting his broad knowledge
and personal investment in the project, Deakin says, “Nicolas knows what
you want and how to push you to see something you aren’t seeing or trying
in a new way. It’s really amazing to me in hindsight how seriously he took
us from the get-go. You might know the basic building blocks of what you
want, but [at Rare Book Room] the process of getting there is an adventure;
Nicolas is just as excited to discover what is emerging.”
Building on an encyclopaedic knowledge of music as well as his own
trained ear, Vernhes is also an expert with the tools of his trade. He has
methods that will make a track sound “pristine” or “damaged”; he knows
which microphone will suit a certain vocalist. Add to that the ability to
mediate a sometimes-gruelling creative process with all kinds of personality
types, and you get an idea of the dynamism required of his job. Vernhes
works closely with musicians throughout the recording and postproduction
process, funnelling creative juices into a cohesive mix and producing records
known for their individuality. Warren Fischer, of Fischerspooner, who has
also recorded at Rare Book Room, suggests the prowess of Vernhes’s vision:
“The value of Nicolas is that he approaches any music with a tenaciously
punk attitude. Namely that there are no rules, only results, and that anything
and everything is worth trying. I think that’s why his catalogue is incredibly
diverse. He can do electronic as easily as psych or folk, or, what usually
happens, some rare convergence of multiple ideas. In fact, I think Nicolas
sits down and thinks, ‘How can we make this the wrong way?’ – which
usually leads to the best approach.”
Most recently Vernhes created a label that represents artists including
Lia Ices, Talk Normal, Palms and Sebastian Blanck. With its mission to
experiment still clear after almost 20 years, Rare Book Room continues to
explore the sonic realms – happening, every now and then, on an elusive,
never-before-heard rhythm that resonates like sonar in the depths.
Ida Marie Ellekilde 38, set and costume designer
Ellekilde’s immersion in the theatre world includes
her role in the art collective Sort Samvittighed,
which is currently putting together a new show
about the Danish poet and author Tove Ditlevsen. Blouse by RosaBryndis
Preben Roar
27, poet/writer
Roar’s favourite colour is brown – he
believes this is due to his lifelong
curiosity with big, brown working
horses. He writes poetry and is
currently working on his first novel. Morten Søkilde
39, poet
Søkilde made his mark on the poetry scene in
2007 with the double release of his works
Pan – en fable and Landscapes, for which he
received the Klaus Rifbjerg Debutant Prize. He
regularly appears on the popular DR TV comedy
talk show The 11th Hour.
Shirt by RosaBryndis
Camilla Gadsen
34, yoga teacher
Originally from Melbourne, Australia, Gadsen
was invited to Copenhagen in spring 2010 and
kept returning until she decided to stay. She
is currently training some of her students to
participate in the Nordic Yoga Championships.
Shirt by Ganni
Eric Therner
31, designer
The owner of his own company, Therner refuses
to have his work defined as relating to just one
area of design – so far his output has varied
between furniture, fashion, transportation and
accessories. Look out for his Diamond Lights. Christian Gade
32, actor
An Århus Theatre School alumnus, Gade recently
performed in the Copenhagen premier of his
self-written monologue about his father’s fight
with cancer. You can see him in the Lars Von Trier
film Nymphomaniac as The Jaguar, as well as in
his autobiographical documentary called Looking
for Me (available on YouTube).
Shirt by David Andersen
people
watching
Copenhagen is a city harbouring talent in every kind of creative field – acting,
design, poetry, even yoga. Here are the names to keep a close eye on
Photographer: Erika Svensson
Stylist: Suzi Lindell
Danica Curcic
28, actress
After graduating from the Danish National
School of Theatre in 2012, Curcic was
immediately cast in the title role of the
Royal Danish Theatre’s production of Lulu.
She has appeared in the popular television
series The Bridge and Wallander, and has
two films coming out in 2014.
Jacket by RosaBryndis, leather trousers
by David Andersen
Christina Liljenberg Halstrøm 36, furniture designer
Liljenberg Halstrøm graduated in 2007 from The
Royal Danish Academy of Fine Arts, School of
Design. With functionality playing a huge part in
her work, she designs commercial products, such
as the Georg collection for Trip Trap, and arranges
and exhibits at experimental-design shows.
Glasses by Fleye
The Artist as Director
Harassment, bullying, torture, murder, oppression and alienation all appear in
unflinching form in films by the artists Anna Odell and Steve McQueen. Axel Mörner
takes a closer look at how their craft influences their approach to uncomfortable
subject matter that’s often avoided by conventional film-makers
It is 1999 and I am standing in a dark room
at Tate Britain in London, watching a film that is
projected on one of the walls, reaching all the way
to its edges. It’s in black and white with a sepia
tone; it shows a man standing dead still in front
of a house. Suddenly, the wall of the house falls
down, but miraculously he is not hurt: there is an
empty window in the wall, making it possible for
him to remain unscathed. The scene is repeated
over and over again, shot from different angles
and with close-ups of the man’s face and shoes
while the wall falls down. The film, Deadpan
(1997), by and starring the artist/director Steve
McQueen, is a re-enactment of the storm scene
in Buster Keaton’s Steamboat Bill, Jr (1928); it
lasts 4 minutes and 35 seconds.
The exhibition I am attending is of works
by the four shortlisted nominees, including
the controversial Tracey Emin, for the famous
Turner Prize. McQueen won that year, although
Emin’s unmade bed made many appearances
in the press.The art and attitude of McQueen is
apparent in his film: the artist put himself at risk
doing the stunt. He looks quite stern, unaffected
by the brute force coming down around him. It is
a matter-of-fact, no-nonsense style that appeals
to the viewer. McQueen is the kind of artist who
is totally convinced and confident of his work. He
is of a Caribbean descent and was brought up
in London; there is always a discussion of race,
class and uncomfortable truths in his work.
In his short film Charlotte (2004), 5 minutes
42 seconds, we see a close-up of the actress
Charlotte Rampling’s eye; the
image has a red tone, the
kind you get when you are in
a photographer’s dark room.
A finger (the director’s) moves
around the eye, strokes it, but
there is a creepy feeling that something is about
to happen. Suddenly, the finger pokes the open
eye, right on the iris. Like torture or an unpleasant
occurrence that you have to take part in, you
continue to watch as the eye blinks in surprise.
For Giardini (2009), a 35mm dual projection
that was commissioned by the British Council for
the British Pavilion at the 53rd Venice Biennale,
McQueen chose to film in the Venice Giardini (the
site of the Biennale’s pavilions) during wintertime,
when everything was closed down. The stationary
camera made long recordings of the abandoned
pavilions, stray dogs looking for food and details
of the confetti left from the city’s famous carnival.
The dual projection makes for a widescreen
reminiscent of Warhol’s Chelsea Girls, but with
different content. The scenes are beautifully
composed, and the long takes are a trademark
that McQueen also uses in his feature films.
McQueen graduated from London’s
Goldsmiths in the 1990s along with other
artists from the YBA generation. Conscious of
being associated with this highly visible group,
McQueen kept a low profile, working seriously
with his films and exhibiting occasionally at
prominent museums and galleries. He was
unconcerned with making a name for himself in
the commercial art market and securing highpaying clients, choosing instead to focus purely
on what he wanted to do.
In 2008 he entered the more commercial
world of feature films with the project Hunger,
a story about Bobby Sands, the imprisoned IRA
terrorist who led other IRA prisoners in a hunger
strike at Northern Ireland’s Maze prison in 1981.
This film saw the start of McQueen’s collaboration
with the method actor Michael Fassbender, who
seems to share McQueen’s vision and work ethic.
The film contains a series of scenes depicting
the brutality and violence meted out towards
the inmates who were not willing to conform
to the rules. Fassbender lost a considerable
amount of weight to look the part of a ragged,
skinny prisoner – so much so that the crew
became concerned about his health. McQueen
produced long scenes with a fixed camera, an
unusual practice for feature films; also, there is
an noticeable lack of dialogue throughout – it only
occurs when absolutely necessary for the story.
In his second feature film, Shame (2011),
Fassbender is cast as a successful advertising
executive with a sex-addiction problem who
appears quite disturbed and is losing control over
his life. McQueen draws up a dark and sordid
scenario from which there is no sign of escape for
the involved parties.
The social realism continues in his third
feature film, 12
Years a Slave (2013),
his most ambitious
project to date. It tells
the harrowing true
story of the free and
educated Solomon
Northup from Saratoga Springs, New York, who
was abducted and sold as a slave in the American
South in the 1840s. This time, Fassbender is
cast in a supporting role, while the enigmatic
Chiwetel Ejiofor plays the devastated family man.
Presenting a balanced story about slavery might
be a hard thing to achieve, but McQueen does
a good job. Drawing heavily on his resources as
a craftsman and artist he has created a truthful
and realistic picture of the drama, letting the
audience witness horrible wrongdoings carried
out towards the plantation’s slaves. Fassbender,
meanwhile, deftly conveys the plantation owner
Epps’s abhorrent attitude to fellow human beings,
showing the true depths of his character’s alcoholfuelled hatred. It could be easy to go totally
overboard in showing the crimes committed
during this period in history, but McQueen is able
to remain completely honest and truthful; there is
almost a documentary style in this work. Indeed,
he has put the whole important discussion of
slavery on the front pages, so enlightenment
will prevail. At the time of writing, the film had
recieved nine Academy Awards nominations.
Anna Odell (b. 1973), an artist residing in
Stockholm, Sweden, caused a media storm in
2009, while still at Konstfack art school, when she
staged a fake suicide attempt for her graduationshow work Unknown, Woman 2009-349701.
Now she has made a story about alienation and
harassment with her film The Reunion, again
using herself and her background; it is her first
major artwork since graduating and was voted
Best Film and Best Screenplay at this year’s
Swedish Guldbaggegala.
The film tells of a group of old classmates that
has a class reunion after 20 years. It is divided
into two sections: the first is about the actual
reunion dinner, in which Odell acts as herself,
giving a speech in which she outlines her terrible
time in school and how she was totally alienated
by her classmates. She continues to talk about
her experiences in a more aggressive manner and
points out her tormentors, demanding answers
from them. After violent outbursts from all parties
she ends up being thrown out of the reuinion.
The second part is a mockumentary of the
making of the film (the first part). Odell discusses
the process of contacting her old classmates,
with the actors from the first part of the movie
acting as themselves. When she meets up with
some of her real classmates they are also played
by actors. It sounds confusing but it works well.
Her classmates are interested in the project at
first but, except for a few of them, they decline
to take part in any interviews. Odell shows them
the film and demands an explanation for their
behaviour, this time in a civilized manner. They
cannot grasp that she had such a horrific time at
school and refuse to admit that they had a part
in the alienation process. She also confronts the
ringleaders to get some straight answers but they
stick to avoidance tactics and it becomes evident
that, once you have been a bully,
you are forever marked as one.
Odell’s movie has a vital
freshness and directness to it that
makes the viewer understand
how important it is to talk about
this common problem. As she is
talking about her own unpleasant
childhood experiences – and it
is clear she has suffered a great deal – we are
reminded of how seldom we see so clearly how
the rules and hierarchies of one’s school years can
scar people for life.
Thankfully we have fearless and dedicated
artists and directors such as McQueen and Odell
– their work will show the rest of us a way to a
better understanding.
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your lee
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