by Tricky
As management and label and live coordinators, we were able to look at things holistically. After Island, Tricky hadn’t toured Latin America, for instance: we were able to put marketing into place, working with Latin American bands on vocals of versions, and building a Latin American profile with tours there, which then really opened up that market.
Now we are there. I think if I’d known from the beginning what I was getting into, I probably would have said no. But I’m happy that I forced myself to do it. Tricky can leave me tomorrow, and he can take all his catalogue with him, and !K7 have no rights to it. It’s his. There are no strings attached. I think that’s important. He could roll everything together and sell it tomorrow.
In the seven years we’ve worked together, he was never interested in doing something that was related to the past. If you go to most concerts by artists of Tricky’s generation, the average age there is forty-three. Go to a Tricky concert, and you’ll see that 60 to 70 per cent of the people are around thirty. That’s because he doesn’t look back, he always looks forward, and he’s been committed to creating a new, younger fanbase.
People come to him and want to work with him because of now, and not because of 1990-something. He’s not a heritage artist, who gets engaged for heritage reasons. He is current, he is performing out there, and I think that’s something that we should be proud of. Nobody foresaw that.
This approach makes Tricky one of the last few remaining hundred per cent pure artists. Where do you find that purity in music these days? It hasn’t been easy, but at the end of the day we preserved Tricky as an artist, and we released some albums we are really proud of, and all of them were completely what Tricky wanted to do. There was no A&R-ing involved, just Tricky.
The financial pressure was definitely forcing his creativity. There was pain, hunger, frustration, anger. There was, ‘I wanna get out there and scream about how fucked up it is.’ It put a lot of useful energy into the mix.
TRICKY: Every move I made for two and a half years, whether it was touring or making a record, was done under the shadow of the taxman, to meet those monthly payments. Inevitably, that purpose was always in the back of my mind. I found that I was trying to get things done fast, because I felt this constant pressure to cough up the money. It was almost like, ‘Alright, that track’s done – next track!’ It felt like I didn’t have time even to sleep on things overnight, or think them over. I just had to get them out there as fast as possible, to reduce the burden.
The records weren’t done in a hurry exactly, but I realised that it was stressing me. My lifestyle didn’t change, I was still travelling all over the world, but when you have a responsibility every month, it’s bound to affect you.
In 2012, False Idols was made at my home in Paris, and even for me it was done pretty quick, as the money problems were starting to unfold. There are a few good things on there, but people seem to be getting to it now, and loving it more and more, like happened with Pre-Millennium Tension and Angels with Dirty Faces.
Two years later, I did another album in Paris titled after my real name – Adrian Thaws. Now I was back living in Europe, it was about looking back at that journey I’d been on, and finding my way back home to see who I really was. It was another solid record which went under the radar. Everyone missed it – it’s only now that it’s getting some love. False Idols is turning into a bit of a classic, and Adrian Thaws will eventually do it as well. Like Marc Marot said, people are catching up with me!
After I toured that one was the time when I began to get disillusioned with Horst’s strategy. I couldn’t see an end to it. I would go to the ATM, and there was nothing coming out. I didn’t understand why. That’s when Horst came up with the idea of cutting down the size of my band – losing a few members, because it’s harder to make money touring when you have to pay a full band’s wages. Before hitting the road, I made an album of more stripped-down music to play with this new line-up, called Skilled Mechanics. To be honest, it was produced pretty quickly, and it’s definitely my least favourite album that I’ve ever made, but it helped pave the way to paying off the rest of my debt.
I toured for most of 2016 with just a guitarist and a drummer, and for the first time ever, I was doing all the vocals myself, without a female singer onstage. One of the first shows was at the BBC 6 Music Festival in Bristol. The plan was like, ‘C’mon, we’re gonna go out and do it!’ But when I first went out onstage, I realised, ‘Oh fuck, I’ve got no singer!’ If there’s only three onstage, there’s nowhere to hide. Just the thought of doing a whole show by myself was scary, but I learnt a lot from it. My performance changed because I had to focus. It made me better because I had to work harder, and be present for the whole show.
That year I was doing some of the worst festivals I ever did in my life, but we couldn’t say no to anything. Even for low fees or in places I didn’t wanna go, I did them to pay the rent. That was how bad it was, and it’s so disheartening being in that position. I would play in a bar if the price was right. And it’s a vicious circle, because you need money to tour: to pay for flights, hotel rooms. And if you’re only there to pay your rent, how are you gonna do a good show?
We had a lot of good press and good vibes, but some people were like, ‘Why are you using backing tracks when you are a rich artist?’ It’s funny how people ain’t got a clue! They think you are wealthy, but I was nearly at the end of my debt: it was, ‘Alright, let’s just get this done!’ We toured a lot, and it was hard work, but afterwards a lot of the pressure was finally off.
In 2017, I made Ununiform, and it felt different. I noticed that I would complete a track, and then it would be, ‘Okay, let’s put that aside, sleep on it and listen to it tomorrow’ – a luxury I didn’t feel I’d had for a good few years. And instead of just sticking everything I made on there in a rush, I’d sometimes say, ‘No, that’s not good enough, I don’t want it on the record,’ because there was no pressure to bring the album out.
I actually recorded some of it in Russia. I spent Christmas 2016 over there, because Christmas isn’t such a big deal in Russia. Since I’d been back in Europe, I’d spent the odd Christmas in England, and it gets too much. I liked going back to see my cousin Michelle, my dad, and having a drink with mates, but that is exhausting as well. So I thought, ‘You know what, I’m gonna escape there instead.’
My ‘son’ Alex came for some of the time, but most of it I spent by myself. It didn’t even feel like it was Christmas out there – you wouldn’t really know. You don’t see all the Christmas things on TV, and it’s not all consumerism gone crazy like in England. Russia has become my second home almost. I went in the studio, I just got away from all the Christmas bullshit. I worked with some Russian producers and two rappers, Scriptonite and Smoky Mo – I like having people on my records who maybe aren’t known all over the world, It’s too easy having a name person.
With that record, I finally felt like Horst had put me in a position where I could focus on my music and my shows. I can’t be focusing on my business and being an artist. After becoming so involved in getting myself set up financially, I now feel engaged with my False Idols label and making the right decisions.
I now travel Economy, for instance! Before, if my label put me in the cheap seats, I’d be thinking, ‘Why the fuck am I travelling Economy?’ Now it’s like, ‘This is my business.’ The five grand that I would spend on a First Class ticket to America – I could make a video with that.
I’ve started thinking like a businessman, which is really good for me. Instead of all my money going on stupid shit, it’s going into the music, and I get something out of it. I didn’t think like that as a 25-year-old, but as a mature person, I suppose I’m thinking more realistically and logistically – okay, maybe not totally like a businessman, but thinking of my business, and through that my business is growing, and some really good things are starting to happen. Because who gives a fuck about a First Class ticket? It’s mental, when you think about it: you get on th
ere, you get off, and that’s it, and you’ve wasted five grand. All I need on a plane is some books.
When I did labels before like Durban Poison and Brown Punk, the trouble was that I was signed to a label, but trying to do my own label as well. With this, I’m on my own label, and so are the artists I sign. You can’t do it when you’re on a major, because the major only really cares about you.
People are catching on to False Idols, posting things online about my releases – they’re like, ‘Wow, this song!’ The more I’m touring, the catalogue is becoming special again. When we tour, people go crazy in the crowd for certain songs. It’s about building, and I can choose what shows to play. It makes a big difference to your performance if you’re there because you wanna be there.
In some ways it’s an injustice that I don’t get any income from my old music. But fuck it, I’m about my new music now. If I can record and have somewhere to live, I’m good to go.
You have to sell like Drake or Kanye West to make money out of the recording business these days. There ain’t no in between or half measures: you only make any cash in that game if you’re a mega-popstar, so you have to make it work as a live performer.
In 2012, my manager at the time persuaded me to do some UK shows playing Maxinquaye in full. I only agreed because of the money, to pay off my tax bill. Why would I do a Maxinquaye tour otherwise? It’s in the past, get over it! This old guy said a brilliant thing to me in a pub once: There’s a reason your rear-view mirror is small – because it’s the past! Don’t keep looking back!
Once I’d signed up, I was scared, and it felt horrible actually doing the shows. Every night after a couple of songs, I kept bringing on some people from Bristol and London, basically to kill the boredom. I’d say, ‘Jump in!’ and they’d freestyle unrehearsed over the tracks. It was about having my little brothers and other friends with me, so it was a party, less boring.
BEN WINCHESTER: That tour didn’t work, and in retrospect it was obvious that it wouldn’t. That was a different time. Matt Willis was managing Tricky. He thought it was a way of getting back into the UK market, but Tricky’s show had moved on so far, and trying to wind the clock back wasn’t a good fit. The original Maxinquaye shows had a session-musician band twenty years older than him wearing black tie. It was a showbiz feel, but the contemporary show was dark, powerful and intense, and the tracks Tricky plays from any given album are nothing like the recorded versions. He’ll jam and riff on them, and that’s why his shows are so special because most people can’t and won’t do that. So rewinding to those days where he was playing a faithful reproduction of the record with a big band, but today with his current band – that wasn’t a good idea.
TERRY HALL: Me and my kid went to see the Maxinquaye show at Indigo in London a few years back. It was in the period where Patti Smith did Horses again, and Pixies did Doolittle. He was doing his big album, but after two songs he got bored, so he called some of his cousins on and it went somewhere else! I was cool with that, because I didn’t expect him to do it religiously anyway – but I didn’t expect him not to do it at all!
But I admire that. That’s what I would consider a great artist: you’re never quite sure what’s gonna happen next. It could be terrible, but it doesn’t matter. It could be fantastic! Just keeping yourself fresh in your own head is the most important thing. You do what you wanna do, and people either go along with you or they don’t. Tricky always does his own thing, and I think that is his greatest attribute.
TRICKY: I haven’t performed ‘Hell Is Round the Corner’ onstage for fifteen years or more. I stopped doing it, because as soon that starts, everybody goes, ‘Aaaaaaah!’ and it’s like, ‘We haven’t even fucking done anything yet!’ Fuck that. It’s the same with ‘Black Steel’. Recently I’ve been doing ‘Black Steel’ with my guitarist guy singing it, which changes the vibe. Touring gets so boring if you don’t keep yourself excited.
When people get me nowadays, they don’t really know what they’re getting. It ain’t like you’re gonna get any Maxinquaye. I’m always doing the last couple of albums. You just keep moving on. Sometimes I do still feel uncomfortable onstage, but I think that’s part of the journey as well.
After that Skilled Mechanics tour, I got a new singer in. It was going well, but sometimes I can be pretty particular with my crew on tour. I was giving what I would call constructive criticism to her, and maybe I came down on her too strong, because she quit the next day.
That was the opening night of a tour: after that we had four more to do in Poland, before going on to the UK, so I said to myself, ‘Okay, we’ve lost seven songs in the set now!’ When we arrived for the next show in Krakow, I said to the Polish promoter, ‘Can you find me a singer to do a couple of songs, and then maybe I could do a song in Polish, to please the crowd?’ Almost immediately this girl called Marta Zlakowska turned up.
‘Do you know a song in Polish?’ I asked.
‘Not really,’ she replied, ‘but I have learnt one of your songs!’
She tried it in soundcheck, and I said, ‘Can you learn another one before the show?’ So she did two songs that night, four the next, and five or six the night after, and she has been with me ever since. She has toured America, she has been through Europe and I’m signing her to my label. She’ll be on my next album, too.
Marta is a sweet girl, but tough as well. At the time, she was working in a bar in Krakow and wasn’t sure if she wanted to take doing music seriously. Her choice was like,‘Am I just going to work in a bar all my life?’
The first proper show she ever did was with me in Krakow. At the start, she was often totally uncomfortable, but she didn’t try to hide it or strike a pose. She got it, without me having to say anything. It was like, ‘Ah, this is the perfect girl!’ You could say it was luck, or you could say it was meant to be. It wasn’t like we auditioned fifty singers, she was the first girl who came in. It was through no choice. And from no choice, she was exactly what the show needed.
She is in her own world. She ain’t got no fake about her. Sometimes me and my drummer Luke will smile at each other onstage because she is so honest, so fucking real. She has done shows in front of 3,000 people in New York, and not only is it the first time she’s doing that show in front of 3,000 people, it’s the first time she’s been to New York! She is a hard worker, and she’s got a good spirit, and this amazing soulful texture to her voice.
There’s a lot of freedom when you perform. When you’re up there and everything’s working, you don’t need anything: you’re not hot, you’re not cold, you’re not thirsty, you’re not hungry. You forget about someone calling you, you forget what you’ve got to do tomorrow, you forget everything. In that respect, it’s a form of meditation, like you’re going somewhere else – getting away from the world for a couple of hours.
After you’ve been in the game for a while, you realise that touring is all about those two hours every day: they are the reason why you put up with the other shit stuff, because they are the only thing in your day that really matters. Beforehand, you could be in paradise, you still don’t know what to do with yourself. Then after the show, it’s finished, game over – even if you go out and have the best fun at an after-party, whatever, the only thing that means anything is the show itself.
Beforehand, I’ll usually go to the venue with the band around 2pm for soundcheck. They’ll usually leave around 6pm after the soundcheck, and go to the hotel and get some food, but I’ll stay at the venue from 2pm until the show is over at midnight or whatever, because there’s nothing else for me to do.
As I said before, dressing rooms are always shitty, and venues in general are horrible, but I’ll sit in the dressing room and I literally don’t leave there, because in my mind going back to the hotel just breaks the cycle. Once I’m in there, I’m in ‘do the show’ mode and I can’t go back into the real world. If I go back to the hotel and shower and crash out on the bed and turn on the TV, I won’t want to go back to the venue again. I could
have the nicest room ever, but I’m not there to enjoy the nice room.
Most of the time I’m by myself in the dressing room, because none of the band are gonna sit there for eight hours. To while away the time, I listen to music, watch YouTube and have a whisky. It’s my own space, so I’ll bring some speakers in there, and I listen to all my favourite music really loud, like having my own little private DJ set. I’ll play the first Specials album – the whole thing – because at home I never seem to find the time. I’ve got eight hours to kill, so I get to do the stuff I used to, when I was a kid. I’ll get all my old hip-hop out, and old reggae. Old dancehall compilations, David Sylvian, or old hip-hop classics by Rakim. It’s like catching up with your past almost.
Otherwise I might watch a movie. I don’t smoke weed much anymore, so I’ll have a couple of whisky and Cokes, and chill out.
When I’m doing that, I really don’t want people coming in there. I don’t want to be hanging out with people in their cities, pretending we are friends. I’ll see Charles in Paris, Alex in Russia, and my family when I’m back in England, but anywhere else in the world, no one is coming in.
Coming offstage is the hard part. Even if I’ve had a few drinks and you’re the friendliest person on earth, you still ain’t hanging out in the dressing room. Sometimes I let some of the audience back to get something signed, but not often because people always want to talk about me. I say to people, ‘Tell me about your city, tell me what good music there is here, otherwise you’re gonna have to leave!’
After the show, that’s where alcohol comes into it. You’re buzzing, you come into that shit dressing room, and it’s a real big comedown. What now? I rarely go to an after-party, because I want to keep myself to myself – socialising with fans can be difficult, especially right after you’ve been onstage. You need something to keep the buzz going, to make the transition, and I think that’s why lots of musicians get a drink problem. Like any other job, you use it to kill the pain of the shit part of your profession. You know it’s coming, and that’s how you deal with it. Sometimes we’ll go out for some food, or I’ll cook backstage, then we’ll go back to the hotel, and it’s on to the next one.