by Tricky
A lot of people criticised Nearly God, and the form it took, with a different artist name, but if you look at Island under my stewardship, there was a history of people doing side projects, from PJ Harvey to Jah Wobble to Julian Cope.
Nearly God was nearly good. I sided with a few of the critics, who basically said that if he had just kept his powder dry and had delivered that record with a bit more effort and energy into the production, it could have been an absolute classic follow-up to Maxinquaye. But he just needed to get it out of his system, and got it recorded in a month.
JULIAN PALMER: Chris Blackwell was okay with Nearly God. In amongst the humongous success Island was having with U2, PJ Harvey and The Cranberries on the white rock side, all of a sudden, it had what Island was really all about – the most inventive young black artist of that moment, and Chris was happier for the artist to dictate than any record mogul I have ever met. All Chris’s friends, and all the artists who grew up here, like Grace Jones – everybody was saying to him how incredible Tricky was, and that carried more cachet to him than any chart placing. Tricky was dangerous at every turn, and a showman, and a chameleon – all the things that represented the best of Island Records. So Tricky’s every twist and turn was cherished by everybody.
Tricky started to remind me so much of what Bowie did in the ’70s, where you will get something completely different every time. With him it was, you’re not even getting me as an artist anymore, you’re getting this persona. We had to go with where his head was at, and how he felt about the world.
He always had that feeling that ‘the world wants a piece of me, and everybody has got it in for me’. With real artists, it all comes out, and there has not been one moment in Tricky’s career where it hasn’t just been him pouring everything out, and that comes at a price. I don’t think he’s ever had a manager for longer than ten minutes. He would be the first to accept that that side of himself is unmanageable.
But with Nearly God he had some good influences around. There’s no question that Terry Hall was a useful person for Tricky to talk to at that point, having been through meteoric success himself in the early ’80s.
I introduced him to Björk at a party at Nellee Hooper’s house-slash-studio in England’s Lane in Belsize Park. Nellee was working with her and, of course, Kate Moss, Naomi Campbell and everybody had been going to Tricky’s shows, because Tricky was the kid to go and see. Therefore, he started to receive the cooler party invites, so he and I were going out and about all the time.
At Nellee’s, a day’s recording session would blur into an evening’s party, which then blurred into a day’s session again. Nellee obviously looked at Tricky differently after Maxinquaye: they had known each other so long, from the early Wild Bunch days, and maybe there was a bit of love–hate.
I wanted Tricky to meet Björk – of course I did. I just thought they were like-minded, and there weren’t many out there for him like that. PJ Harvey was obviously another, but Björk was maybe being cleaned up and prepared for pop stardom at that point, after the success of Debut.
Musically, I saw an umbilical cord between them. She was excited to meet him, and in that situation you just leave them to it, don’t you, and hope they hit it off. They seemed to immediately, and it really felt like they were meant to be together creatively in some shape or form.
He met her at absolutely the right time for him, and they were an inseparable item for a short period of time, as tends to be the case with Tricks. Everything was so transient, but if you look at the two songs she had on Nearly God, she definitely wasn’t scared to go into his darker side.
For quite a while, me and him were as bad as each other, encouraging each other to do all sorts of narcotics. He could walk into my office and shut the door, and we could do whatever we wanted, and the world could just fuck off. He used to bang on all the time, ‘I’m not making a fucking radio record, Jules!’ I’m like, ‘No, you are not!’ Nobody could tell us anything.
At the Brit Awards in February 1996, we were up for a few Brits, and I remember thinking, ‘I’m not going to let Tricky know this, but I think we should be walking away with these.’ I personally would’ve liked a Brit for him, more perhaps than he did for himself, but it was always a step too far for the establishment to recognise him. I think he would be recognised like a shot today, but who cares? It wasn’t about winning Brits, we had already succeeded, on his terms.
We were in the loos at one point in the evening, and Liam Gallagher strolled in and came on a bit strong, and Tricky took umbrage. Liam is a fiery character, isn’t he? And Tricky was beyond fiery, and menacing and dangerous – he was always up for it, switched on, and hyper, almost looking for trouble. For a moment, it got a little bit hairy, and I just said to Liam, ‘Look, you really don’t want to be fucking with this kid – you really don’t, he is just gonna go fucking lunar!’ Then suddenly it all just diffused. It was one of those Brits moments.
TRICKY: I was nominated for three Brits, and I was sitting there watching everybody get awards except me. I was sat there drinking with Shaun Ryder for a lot of the night. I can’t remember if Shaun was actually nominated or not, but I was seeing all these Brits going to all these different people. I didn’t give a fuck about winning one, I was just noticing.
‘How come me and you don’t win stuff like this?’ I asked Shaun, once it was obvious we weren’t going to.
‘Because we’re ugly, Tricky,’ he goes.
‘What are you talking about?’ I said. We’d both had a lot of free drink.
‘Because we’re ugly inside,’ he says.
Then I knew. I looked at all the people winning, all the shiny glossy people who were very good at being pop stars, and me and Shaun Ryder were a mess. Our demons showed. We weren’t hiding our demons with make-up. You can’t airbrush me and Shaun Ryder. I’d say we are ‘wear your heart on your sleeve’ kind of people.
Some people are just special, I believe that – when you meet someone like a Shaun Ryder, they have a psychic energy and they just feel a situation instantly. I can forget some of the biggest things I’ve done in my life, but the little things like that I’ll never forget – ‘because we’re ugly inside’. He might not even remember it, but I remember it, and that’s almost twenty-five years ago. Ugly on the inside. That kind of taught me about the industry. They don’t want to give awards to people like me and Shaun. Too real.
Shaun is one of the best artists to come out of England. I’ve always wanted to work with him. I’ve talked to him about it, but it never happened. He’s crazy, I’m crazy – it should work. I’ve always got on with him. I love that guy. He should be a legend like Bowie is a legend – that’s how big he should be. I think he’s been a gangster for real. I’ve never seen that side of him, but I’ve heard stories of him pulling guns out on people and shit. If he wasn’t into the music, he would be properly naughty. Music saved him from the streets.
SHAUN RYDER: Me and Tricky got on really well. We was pretty similar sort of kids. I definitely identified with him coming from a shit place and making something good out of his life. He was a good kid, he was one of us, and I loved the music he was doing. I was always big into rap, and I liked the way he was doing his own thing with it. He wasn’t trying to be American, was he, he was just being himself.
I know me and him hung around quite a bit, but I can’t fucking remember. I’m under a specialist at the moment for my memory. I’ve also got to have both my hips replaced, all my fucking hair’s fallen out all over my body, my thyroid is fucked, and my testosterone, and then I’ve got a bloody great lump on my testicle that’s pressing on a nerve – and there’s a load of problems with my fucking memory.
I think we spent quite a bit of time together at the Brits, which must’ve been 1996 – sat around smoking most of the time, probably staring at everyone else, muttering to each other, ‘What a fucking bunch of middle-class cunts!’ That’s probably why we ended up talking to each other, because we couldn’t get on with anyone el
se.
I’m pretty sure what happened that night was, I got up from our table, told him I’d be back in a minute, and then nipped out to get some gear – I was on the smack at the time. I went to this flat around the corner from there, but it turned out the police were watching the gaff. I go in, and then of course at that precise moment they decide to raid the fucking place, and I get nicked – all of this is when I’m supposed to be nipping out for ten minutes during these awards.
Somehow, I managed to blag my way out of it with a fucking bag of skag on me! I’m sat there telling them I’m at an awards show, and eventually they let me fuck off. So I walk back in, sit down: ‘Sorry about that, Tricks, I got held up.’
It turned out that Tricky’s relatives in Manchester knew some of my people. Me and this kid called Pat Ward grew up together. We used to say we were cousins, but we were really just pals. He’s actually doing life now in prison – never going to get out, Pat. He’s going to die in there. When I got in the music game, he came in and did all sorts for us. He basically used to do security for the Mondays. Tricky’s Uncle Tony knew Pat’s brother, Dave Ward, so his uncle ran with those kind of dudes!
At the time, Tricky was just getting into a bit of acting. He was just back from shooting his bits in The Fifth Element. He didn’t enjoy it very much, but he made a better job of it than I did. I was in The Avengers in ’98 and I fucked mine up big-time, didn’t I? The worst you can do with a big Hollywood production is tell the truth and say it’s a load of shit, so I never worked again. My co-star, Eddie Izzard, went to Hollywood afterwards, and I just fucking vanished.
TRICKY: After dating Björk, I’d be on the front page of the Sun, but I didn’t win one fucking Brit. You know what was really nice, better than winning: one year, The Cure were getting a Q Inspiration award, and Robert Smith asked for me to present it to him, so I got up and did that. That’s better than winning, for him to ask me.
After two visits, I’d worked out what the Brits were: they’re just a pat on the shoulder, like, ‘Oh, you’ve made a lot of money for the industry this year, well done!’ It ain’t what you’ve accomplished; it’s because you’ve made the industry money. These people know what they’re doing: ‘Good boy, good girl, keep selling those records, then maybe you’ll get one of these again next year.’
What is a Brit anyway? What does it mean? Is it the industry saying you’ve written the best songs this year? Or you’ve played the best guitar? Do you think these money guys sitting around at the ceremony actually care? The artists think they’re getting them because they’re talented. It amazes me! All these corporate fuckers who do this Brits shit, or the Oscars, it’s just a pat on the back to say, ‘Keep making money for us!’ When artists get these awards, it boosts their egos through the roof. They should look where that award is coming from and ask, is it anybody you respect giving you that award?
Island were a little bit outside all of that. Someone told me once, ‘U2 make big money, which enables Island to look for credible artists like you.’ One of the reasons I signed to Island was because they had credible artists.
That’s what they thought about artists then. These days, they don’t give a fuck who you are. If that’s the wrong record for the label, you ain’t releasing it. Back then, there were no discussions about Nearly God, or with subsequent albums. It was just, ‘This is the album!’ ‘Okay!’ No discussion whatsoever, which I think was probably unusual, even then.
I bumped into Marc Marot a few years ago and he told me something, which I couldn’t quite believe: he said I was signed to carry on the Bob Marley legacy. I just didn’t get it. I don’t sound like his music or nothing. But apparently that’s what I was there for, which is kind of mind-blowing.
A weird thing happened: one time back then I was having dinner with Chris Blackwell, and Rita Marley, Bob’s widow, was there. I was talking to her, and she goes to me – it really scared me – ‘Oh, you remind me of Bob, you know!’ It made me feel really fucking uncomfortable. It’s a beautiful thing to say, but too scary. Bob Marley is mythical, isn’t he? If that was now, I would’ve found out more from her, but that night I was so stunned I couldn’t say anything, so I just went silent.
Chris always had these people around him. I met Rita, Cedella and Rohan Marley through him. I met the guy who started MTV, too, who was a really good guy. He said a mad thing to me. I had blown up with Maxinquaye, I was all over MTV, but he said to me, ‘Tricky, just because you’re on MTV Europe, don’t think that you’ve made it yet. I see a lot of artists like you who think they’ve conquered the world, but it’s a big world out there!’
I thought, ‘You know what, that’s absolutely right – let’s get to America.’ Six months later, I was living in New York.
CHAPTER TEN
DURBAN POISON
My auntie Marlow says that my strongest asset is not my music-making or my lyric-writing; it’s that I can move somewhere by myself and not know anybody there. I can just get up one day and decide I’m going to live in a foreign city and move there, and I don’t care about being by myself. Marlow says that I can up sticks and go, with no friends or family there, and no plans, and that not a lot of people can do that by themselves.
Personally, I think I just don’t like familiar – I like strange. I wouldn’t describe myself as a confident guy, but I’ve always let life lead me wherever it goes.
In 1995/96, everything was moving very fast for me. Everyone’s life goes fast anyway, you realise, but as a musician your life goes faster than average. It certainly all speeds up when you’ve got a record deal, with studio bookings, tour itineraries and promo schedules forcing you to plan months ahead. It feels like you’re always ahead of yourself, wishing your life away, then you’re off somewhere, and before you know it, all those months have actually gone by.
In amongst all of that, one minute I was living on Kensington High Street, the next minute I was living in New York City. London had been very different for a Bristol kid, but New York was like, ‘Holy fuck!’ and I think I definitely thrive on that strangeness.
I knew I was going to live there, right from the first time I touched down at JFK with Massive Attack, when I felt the energy rush from my feet up to my head. I moved there because of that energy, and because of the music. As well as The Specials, I’d grown up on American music, the sound of it, everything. When you were influenced by hip-hop in those days, New York was your Mecca, so it was almost like you’ve got to live in New York at one point in your life. That’s your dream.
For a few weeks after I arrived there, I lived in an apartment on 34th Street in Manhattan, on the border of what used to be called Hell’s Kitchen. Once, it was the old Irish gangster neighbourhood, but it wasn’t like that when I lived there in 1996. It was as busy as fuck. I was about three or four flights up in this glass building, all glass outside, and it had glass ceilings so you could have a spliff and lie down on the sofa and see helicopters flying overhead. Mad!
One morning, I came out onto the street, and there was this little kid trundling along on a tiny three-wheel tricycle – he must have been only three or four years of age – and it just looked so weird, this little nipper surrounded by huge high-rise buildings. Just mind-blowing. It really was a different world. Another day, there was a taxi strike on, and it was crazy to see how quiet the streets were without the taxis working. Almost a bit haunting. It made you realise how manic it was the rest of the time.
Another reason for moving to New York was, they’ve got so many famous people there, they ain’t gonna give a fuck about someone like me, know what I mean? In London, I’d had paparazzi after me, and it really fucks you up. You feel trapped. In New York, I went to restaurants where De Niro was also dining, and it wasn’t even a big deal. No one was making a big fuss about him, so you can feel a bit more normal. If no one’s making a big deal about seeing De Niro, they ain’t gonna give a shit about seeing me! Moving from England to New York, you’re like a speck of dust. There’s the film industry
there, the music industry, so many well-known people, and you can slip in there easily without being noticed, which suited me just fine.
Having said that, I loved going out to all the bars and clubs, and one night I was in this exclusive little place and Ben Stiller came up to me and said, ‘I love your music, da-da-da, do you want to come and sit down?’ So I went and sat down with him in this quiet section upstairs, and he was with this girl, and the girl kept staring at me – staring and staring and staring. I was thinking, ‘This guy has been nice enough to invite me to sit down and to buy me a drink, and this girl is staring at me!’ I said to her, ‘What are you looking at?’ Then Ben Stiller said to me, a bit angrily, ‘Hey, that’s my sister!’
After that, our quiet drink together was obviously over. I actually ran into him outside the gym not long afterwards, and I tried to apologise to him, but he just kind of brushed me off.
I embraced the New York nightlife with open arms. All these little bars and clubs, which were open much later than London in those days – I went to them all. Anything that was going on, I knew about it. I loved living in Manhattan; it was such a great 24-hour vibe. To be honest, it’s a bit too busy for me these days, too hectic and cramped – I like slower places now, which is what happens as you get older.
After the first place on 34th Street, I lived in a series of other apartments – always nice ones, and usually pretty mad. I had one on Christopher Street in the West Village, which is a cool neighbourhood, and there was another in the financial district around Wall Street. I think that was the one that had an elevator which took you from street level straight up into your own apartment. As facilities go, that was pretty cool, but I found I couldn’t sleep very well because of it. There was no way anyone could get out on my floor without the key, but every time I heard the elevator, I always thought on some instinctive level that they might do, so I found it hard to sleep in there. You know it’s not possible, but it’s hard to get that out of your mind.