Hell Is Round the Corner

by Tricky

  The Wild Bunch was very competitive, but we had a good feeling about what we were doing. You wanted to be the best DJ or the best rapper in England. But there was also a community, like, we used to play with people from London. Even though it was competitive, there weren’t no bad vibes. It wasn’t like, everyone’s got to have a beef with each other. If there was a great rapper in London, I knew who he was, and he would know who I was, and we had no problem with each other. It was like, ‘That’s a really good rapper there,’ and there was nothing negative between you.

  Part of what hip-hop was about, was this: a rapper is someone who don’t know how to sing, getting on the mic. I can’t sing, but I can rap. Kind of like The Specials, hip-hop was a voice for people that didn’t have a voice. Rap gave ghetto kids a voice, and it’s easier to get over the first hurdle if you’re in a group. It’s not just me on the mic, it’s D [3D] as well, and there’s others coming in and out. I was a shy kid, and you can hide almost, because it ain’t all about you.

  I was writing, but I wasn’t like, ‘I’m going to be a big rapper, working it.’ The writing started when, say, there was something big coming up, like the St Paul’s festival. Because you wanted to be the best, it was, ‘Ooh, I better start writing.’ You always wanted to have new lyrics for the next show. You couldn’t come with the same rhymes all the time. Being the best was all about having fresh rhymes. It was a continuation of what I’d always done, scribbling down words on my nan’s concrete floor.

  At that time, I was just writing about my everyday life, and observing people. Never any ghetto stuff, funnily enough. I’d write about Margaret Thatcher, no opportunities, that kind of thing, but never like, ‘I’m a bad boy’. I never mentioned prison, selling weed or robbing. That stuff I didn’t want to dwell on, more on not being able to get a job. After I came out of prison, I forgot about it straight away, and I certainly didn’t write about it. Some of the words like the ‘trendy Wendy’ bit in ‘Five Man Army’, and most of ‘Daydreaming’, date back to Wild Bunch days.

  One time, me and Milo were in Grant’s house, and G was on the turntables and I was on the mic. At some point, it was just Milo cutting up and me voicing. There were only thirty or forty people there, and when I did the vocal, you could hear a pin drop. Afterwards, people were whistling and going mad. I’ve got no idea what the track was, but we were taping that night’s session onto cassette, and the tape went all around Bristol and became a little classic thing. It was almost like my very first record, my first release or recording – like, ‘I’m here.’

  I didn’t even know I was any good. I liked rap, and I liked writing words, so I used to rap them. I didn’t consider myself good, however, or even really a proper part of Wild Bunch. It was a loose thing for me, something to do. I can remember being out walking with Whitley, and there was a poster up on the wall for the Wild Bunch and it had my name on it. That was the first time I realised, ‘Oh, okay, I must be in the Wild Bunch then,’ because I really wasn’t looking for it.

  Here’s how committed to it I was. Whitley and I had been up in Wales for a long weekend. We’d come back and were just heading over to buy some weed at the squat in Totterdown, when we bumped into these people who lived there, Dick and Joanne, on the street. We went to the pub with them and they were like, ‘We’re moving to a squat in London – come up!’

  At that point we didn’t know anything about the culture, or how you got by in the squatting lifestyle, but a couple of days later, on the Friday, we each got all our stuff together in bin liners, jumped on a National Express bus, and made our way to an address in King’s Cross – and we ended up living there for the best part of two years – all from a quick chat over a pint in Totterdown.

  The squat was in a council block called York Way Court, five minutes’ walk around the back of King’s Cross station, where you’d see a lot of prostitutes. It was as dodgy as fuck, quite a notorious estate, and was a dangerous area in those days, with hard drugs everywhere, but me and Whitley were cool there. People had somehow squatted all these council flats, which you accessed through Copenhagen Street, and we were in one on the second floor. There were two rooms, and it was just sleeping bags, and you’d sleep wherever – no curtains, no furniture, no nothing … and there was only half a sink.

  On arrival, we were totally broke. How were we going to survive? Luckily, the barefoot squatter-hippy guy, Gary, taught us how to live with nothing. He was from Bedminster in Bristol – a bit of a surfer, long hair, suntan, Hawaiian shirts, and really into his Northern Soul. He took us to the markets early in the morning to pick up vegetables that had fallen on the floor, before they’d been kicked around and turned to mush, then we’d go home, clean them up and make a soup with them, or a vegetable spaghetti Bolognese. We’d then go down with a big cardboard box, gather up unwanted veg, and even steaks and poultry, and go home and eat like a king for nothing.

  That whole area behind King’s Cross was a total wasteland, not like it is now, all gentrified for Eurostar. There was a pie and mash shop, selling jellied eels, a shady little gay club, and that was about it. There were a lot of drugs, though, especially heroin. York Way Court was fucked. I never did heroin or any of that. Coming from the reggae thing, it was always weed for me and Whitley, but we definitely saw it.

  We used to hang out at this old woman’s flat, and one time we went in there, there was this guy shooting up on the couch – really well dressed, like a bit of a cockney wide-boy. He was definitely local, but he had a nice shirt on, a smart pair of slacks, bit of a gangster, and there he was, nodding out.

  We used to go to these amazing parties right across the road from the Copenhagen Street squat. They were in these old warehouses behind King’s Cross, which eventually went legit as a nightclub called Bagley’s. The people who put them on were the beginnings of that mad collective Archaos, with the motorbikes and the mohicans – the whole Mad Max thing.

  Going to London wasn’t about furthering my music career – anything but! For better or worse, I didn’t give a fuck. It was just to go to clubs and parties. I wasn’t even thinking about making music, or that there would be more opportunities up there. I went there just for the adventure, and to go out and hear music. By now I was eighteen, nineteen, and me and Whitley were still obsessed with music. Yeah, I was chasing girls, but music more – always listening to it, always going to see it.

  How we’d finance it was, we would work a couple of weeks, so we could then go out partying for a couple of weeks. We would do agency work, then sign on for a bit, then do scaffolding for a month, then sell a bit of weed. One agency job we got was polishing the brass outside this posh office building in the City. That was such an easy job because it was winter. We’d give the brass a quick scrub, then slope off down to the boiler room in the basement and sleep off the previous night’s partying. It was so cold out, but as warm as fuck down there. We also worked in Iceland for a bit, packing stuff into freezers on the night shift. We worked in an office in London somewhere too; I can’t remember what we were doing because we obviously weren’t at a desk, maybe moving stuff or packing.

  London was totally exciting to us – just the energy of the place, and so much fun after growing up in Knowle West. It was good to get out of there. Me and Whitley definitely didn’t want to stay there. There was nothing there for us – just like in ‘Ghost Town’ by The Specials, everything had been closed down, no pubs, no clubs, nowhere to go, nothing to do. You’d literally just hang around outside chip shops and stuff. If you’re into music, you just want to get out. So, looking back, coming to London was the obvious move.

  I think my first job was for a scaffolding company in King’s Cross, cleaning floors and putting up the scaffolding, getting about forty or fifty quid a day. When you’re squatting, you’re not paying rent, so it suddenly felt like I had decent money – no rent, no electricity, and you could party. It wasn’t a poor life, certainly not to us anyway. Sometimes we were totally broke, because we’d party hard for a while,
and then we’d have to go out and get work again.

  Squatting is exciting, because it’s total freedom. You’re in one place, and then you could meet someone, they live in a different squat, and they’re saying, ‘Oh, this one is better,’ and then you just move there. You get a bin liner, stuff in your clothes, and then you’re living in another squat! You’re talking about absolute, total freedom. You could meet someone, and the next day you could wake up living in a different area altogether. Or a different city! No paperwork, and no responsibilities whatsoever. And you work when you need to work, not because you feel like you have to work.

  While we were there, me and Whitley would sometimes hang out with my ‘cousin’ Shaun Fray in East Ham. His mum, my auntie Iona, had been my mum’s best mate, so we weren’t actually blood relations. It was quite a schlep for us to go and see Shaun, but we would see him on weekends sometimes, and he’d take us out to clubs. Whitley noticed it before me, how he had an aura around him. People were wary of him. He wasn’t much different in age to us, maybe early twenties, but he owned a house and two shops on Lonsdale Avenue in East Ham. I didn’t know what he was about back then, but later on he did a security van robbery in London, for a few million quid I think, and then he went to prison for seven years. But this was before he did the job.

  Whitley noticed this thing about him, how we went to a club once, and Shaun just walked straight in. He must’ve been a serious guy, and he’d done well for himself, probably by illicit means. In a way it was lucky that me and Whitley weren’t into money in a big way – all we wanted money for was to go out – because if we’d have asked him if we could make some money with him, he probably wouldn’t have been against that, and who knows where that may have led?

  Every now and again, we’d go back down to Bristol on weekends, but hardly ever. London was so enthralling for us, coming from a small city like Bristol. Even getting on the Tube was exciting. So we kind of forgot about Bristol. I stayed very involved with my family, we’re quite tight-knit like that, but they were happy for me, getting away to London.

  And the whole rapping thing with Wild Bunch, and anybody else, I kind of left behind. When I say I never chased the music, it really is true. While I was in York Way Court, the Wild Bunch went to Japan to do some shows, and they ended up arguing loads and breaking up. It wasn’t like my world was ending, just because they’d packed it in.

  WHITLEY ALLEN: Going to London, it was like, ‘Yeah, let’s do it!’ I’m sure he would have done it on his own, but he knew if he asked me, it would be, ‘Let’s go! Come on, then!’ That’s how we were, and we were stronger together.

  Before we actually moved up, we’d gone up to London on an overnighter because Public Enemy, Eric B & Rakim and LL Cool J were playing at Hammersmith Odeon – a legendary run of gigs, which ended up featuring as crowd noise between the tracks on PE’s It Takes a Nation of Millions album. I think Ade must have organised it: ‘We’re going!’ ‘Okay!’

  In the daytime, we were in Kensington High Street, mucking about. We’ve gone into Kensington market – and remember, we are Knowle West guys. I’m thinking, ‘Whoa! It’s all a bit lacksadaisy up here on the security front!’

  Meanwhile, he sees a pair of red brothel creepers, like the Teddy Boys used to wear, with the thick rubber sole.

  ‘I’ve got to have them!’ he beams.

  ‘Shut up,’ I say, ‘we’ve only just arrived.’

  He tries them on, puts the trainers he’s been wearing in the box the brothel creepers came in, and just walks out of the shop with the box under his arm. So, he was wearing red brothel creepers that night at Public Enemy. Clothes-wise, we always made our own style.

  We actually went with Shaun Fray to the gig, and he’d said he would take us out afterwards. We were sat around having a smoke, and it was like, ‘Are we going out or what?’ He was just sat there, chilled, and we were raring to go. Eventually he was like, ‘Come on, then.’ This was like midnight, and he took us uptown in his metallic-blue VW Beetle – the most gorgeous Herbie I’ve ever seen, kitted right out. That’s when I began to realise he was different.

  He was the same age as me, but he talked to me like an elder. We’ve gone in the first club, had a bit of music, then he was, ‘Come on, we’re going to another club.’ Then we’ve gone into this next club, and we’re just walking into these clubs, without paying. I twigged, like, hold on a minute …

  We’ve gone into the last club, and the next minute, all the Public Enemy geezers we’ve just paid to see onstage turn up, and now they’re doing the same routine as they’ve done onstage, but in the club. Like, holding DJ Houdini up while he’s scratching on the decks. They’ve got all the security around them, they’ve got the chains, and we’re like, ‘What the hell?’ but I clocked Shaun, and he’s looking them all up and down. I’m thinking, ‘What the hell is this guy on?’ He’s got a nice little gold chain on, not a fat one, but I’m looking at him different, like, these were big security guys, and the penny dropped – this dude is a known person, he’s connected. He had some serious weight. He was a lovely guy, and I felt comfortable around him, but I felt like a kid, and he was the same age.

  On the way home, Adrian was sick in the car, and he ended the night praying to the porcelain god. We had to take the door off the hinges to get him out, because he’d locked himself in, and I remember Shaun cleaning the car in the morning. I don’t know what we were smoking, but it flipped us out, and he just reacted badly. When we got back to Bristol the next day, we must have gone home and then gone straight out again – Sunday night at the Inkerman. We never stopped.

  By the time we were living in York Way Court, Michelle had a daughter with Claude from the Wild Bunch but, soon after, Michelle came up to London to visit, and we went clubbing. We had a load of acid in at the time, and me and Ade dropped some on the Tube going uptown. When we got to the club, the bouncer was like, ‘Are they with you?’ pointing to Michelle and this other girl with us. I said, ‘Yeah!’ He said, ‘Then you’re not coming in.’ The guy was going to let me and Adrian in, because he had seen us before, but not them.

  We ended up going to a gay club right in front of where we lived. We went in there, and Ade smokes a joint and I watched him wafting smoke towards this dude, and the guy just looks round … Oh my God! He had done it totally on purpose. I always used to watch him and say, in my head, ‘Don’t let him talk, you just need to hit him!’ Because as soon as they let him talk, he wins, game over. People initially want to fight him because he’s lairy and mouthy, but then he twists their words, and they end up mates. I would be like, ‘You should have just hit him while you had the chance!’

  I think that’s why he ended up a rapper. He can captivate people. You’ve got to be careful because he’s a likeable fellow when he’s on his mission. He’s complex. If he likes you, he likes you. If he don’t, he will hate you forever. He’s deep.

  Living up in London, we had money and we were living the life. We were doing agency work, we were shoplifting, and I had this job in a warehouse. I used to get searched on the way out regularly, because they knew we were having stuff, so he used to turn up in this massive army-surplus coat, load up the pockets and disappear. When money started getting tight because we’d been partying too much, we’d get the Evening Standard, look in Situations Vacant, and end up on a building site.

  He’d go back occasionally to do stuff with Wild Bunch, like St Paul’s Carnival. He had a lyric about ‘Trendy Wendy’, because he was seeing this girl from Clifton/Redland – ‘trendy Wendy rolling up her jeans’. That was a new lyric he did at the festival, and it just went off in the crowd big-time. People instantly reacted to it.

  The Wild Bunch became the big sound that everyone went to at Carnival, because it wasn’t just a reggae sound. Wild Bunch was already established by the time he was on the mic with them. He obviously had a connection because he grew up with a couple of them, and Claude was seeing Michelle, and had a kid with her.

  We were Knowle W
est kids in our late teens, but we were getting around, like getting into the Dug Out, which wasn’t easy. It closed down in ’86, before he was actually old enough to get in legally, but he would, because he was with Michelle, or he’d call the sound system and get in that way. He saw a lot very young, with his wild family life as well, and that’s why I think he evolved quicker than anyone else.

  We were both strong, and we went out and did stuff. We were already being drawn into the serious side of music, because we were mixing with these heavy-duty people without knowing. Like Ray Mighty, from Smith & Mighty – he used to scare the hell out of me. We used to call him Medusa, with all his dreads hanging out. But I knew him through Nicky Tippett’s family, because he was good friends with them, and I’d seen him around Knowle West going way back.

  When we were in Bristol, me and Adrian started doing this thing with some other guys from Knowle West. Me and him were inseparable by now, and he was always, ‘It’s me and you – you DJ, and I’ll MC.’ But these other guys were all about themselves. They were in it for the wrong reasons, they just wanted to be famous, whereas we loved music, and that was the driving thing. I don’t think Adrian thought he was going to be famous, he just wanted to rap.

  It was all DJs and one MC, and these guys wanted both of us, but we would be with them, and as soon as they had to go home, we were off down to St Paul’s or Easton. We were always together, and they weren’t part of that, and it kept us outside of their clique. He was doing a lot of writing in his own room, but he freestyled a lot, probably on stuff he’d worked out before.