Kendrick Lamar

In 2008 America's dream of racial equality felt possible. Barack Hussein Obama's presidential election victory marked an end to colour prejudice. Change had come to America.

Two weeks ago Walter Scott, an unarmed black man, was shot whilst attempting to evade the police. It followed analogous incidents involving black teenagers, Trayvon Martin and Michael Brown. Recently, Obama conceded that America hasn’t gone far enough in shifting racial attitudes, begging the question: if America’s first black president can’t accelerate change then who can?

The Audacity of Hope

Compton-born, Kendrick Lamar tackles this quandary on his album, Pimp a Butterfly, the follow-up to his smash hit, good kid, m.A.A.d city. The past album, a verbose trawl through his early autobiography, poeticised the incidents that shaped him. This record, however, marks the chrysalis of Lamar from neighbourhood bawler to inspirational scholar. This personal evolution is the inspiration behind the album title: the caterpillar is Compton, a mad city that leaves men dead on their belly; the butterfly is creativity: the thoughts, ideas and talents that can take you out of there. The success of good kid’s street level reportage took Lamar out into the world, with this experience he has seen how the other half live, allowing him to question fame, consumerism and inequality.

A lot of people put hip-hop on trial for being amoral, egocentric and avaricious. The same charge can’t be levelled against Lamar. Take the single ‘u,’ a vicious self-examination of his flaws. In a fast, frenzied, stream of consciousness bawl he scoffs at his ‘voice of a generation’ tag, arguing there is little point in reaching a huge audience when he can’t stop his teenage sister from falling into pregnancy. Only on King Kunta does Lamar dabble in braggadocio, the swaggering boastfulness that typifies hip-hop, and even then the track provides a lesson in black American history; as Kunta Kinthe, a punished rebel slave, is used to symbolise Lamar's own strength and conviction. Perhaps the most dazzling lyricism on the album is ‘These Walls.’ Just as Jay Z’s 99 Problems used the word ‘bitch’ in different contexts, Lamar does the same with the word ‘walls.’ ‘Walls’ is a revenge tragedy about a character who takes vengeance on the man who killed his friend by sleeping with his girl. The song inhabits the vaginal walls of the woman, the internal walls of the speaker and the prison walls of the convict. If you look past the profanity, the track highlights a virtuosic grasp of language.

‘Blacker The Berry’ shows the young rapper’s manipulation of narrative, informing the listener early on that by the end of the track they will find him a hypocrite. Through the song he attacks the police’s racial profiling and bloodthirsty attacks on blacks – ‘the blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice.’ By the end though he admits that he too has betrayed his people by being involved in black on black shootings. Whether this is a frank admission to an event that happened in his childhood or him speaking in the guise of a hip-hop character, it does challenge the rap industry's paradoxical promotion of solidarity and violence.

Admittedly, the album isn’t as easy a listen as its predecessor. It takes time to appreciate the depth and dexterity at work. One track that does have immediacy is ‘i.’ ‘The track is the redemptive realisation of coming through the challenges of fame through finding solace in home. The sprawling funk guitar, propulsive drum beats and the refrain of ‘I love myself’ is the serotonin hit on an otherwise brooding album.

Things return to reflection though in the album's coda when a simulated interview is staged with dead rapper, 2Pac. Lamar cuts his hero's 90's interview answers and pastes them to make it appear like the two are in conversation. Hearing the two discuss art, enterprise and politics is a rejoinder to the accusation hip-hop is thoughtless bullshit. 

Ultimately, if you aren't a hip-hop fan and want your pre-conceptions challenged, then Lamar is your man; if you're a fan then you'll love his fresh take on old skool hip-hop.

Pimp a Butterfly is out in all good record shops now.

Punk Movements

This week I’ve been watching Selma and Pride, and reading Viv Albertine’s Clothes, Music, Boys.

“Punk rock is just another word for freedom.”
– Patti Smith

Given we’re currently in the throes of an election campaign, there’s never been a better time to watch Selma: dealing as it does with the vote, and how far you would go to secure it. In 1870 the 15^th amendment in the United States Constitution stipulated that colour would no longer be a barrier to vote. Black men were free to use their constitutional right. With female enfranchisement following in 1920, black African-Americans had finally achieved democratic parity with their white ‘superiors.’ However what was enshrined in history wasn’t realised in reality. 

Essentially, the American Constitution was not worth the paper it was written on. Racist legislators gazumped black men and women by introducing a poll tax, a levy that took voting from being a right to being a commodity; a commodity that blacks couldn't afford. Along with this, literacy tests were introduced to stop the uneducated from voting. With few having accessed education it was made impossible to pass. Without the vote, white politicians felt no need to write black concerns, black hopes and black dreams into their manifestos. Equality was a lie. No vote meant no say. 

Fast-forward to 1965. 
Selma, Alabama is under the jurisdiction of Governor George Wallace, a bloodthirsty racist with an IQ problem. In this man Martin Luther King sees an opportunity. 

In Albany two years prior, King had led a campaign to get black people voting; he lost. Given his tactical acumen, this came as a surprise. You see, King was not just a master orator in the classical tradition; he was a media manipulator in the modern one too. He knew if his ideology of non-violent protest was met with violence then the people of America would rise up against injustice. Albany's Chief of Police, Laurie Pritchett never took the bait though, arresting black protestors calmly and orderly. King had been out-manoeuvred. Pritchett had taught him a valuable lesson. Thankfully, Wallace wasn't watching.

King arrives in Selma then, hoping to goad Wallace into a reaction. He plans to march his movement from Selma across Edmund Pettus Bridge to Montgomery and claim the vote. Wallace, the angry troll, has no interest in letting them pass. The game of chess that ensues between them is truly mesmerising. This is in no small thanks to David Oyelowo, who in playing Martin Luther King perfectly captures the rhythm, cadence and intensity of those famous speeches. The Oscar Academy's failure to recognise his performance remains a travesty. I urge you not to make the same mistake.

Pride was a film I re-watched with my mum this week. I have to say it was my favourite film of 2014. Its ideas of community, solidarity and hope really spoke to me. The backdrop is the 1984 miners' strike, an industrial dispute over pit closures between the Tory Government and the National Union of Miners. Having read David Peace’s brilliant, 1984, I knew how cataclysmic the event was. A victory for the miners would mean embarrassment for the political classes – this could not happen. As the miners withdrew their labour, Thatcher’s government increased theirs, sending huge police numbers to suppress strikes and deliver victory to the government.

This is the context for Pride then. Although in the story of miners versus government, there was another significant faction: lesbians and gays.

The 1980’s was not a good time to be gay. With ignorance over AIDS, homosexuality wasn't seen as a sub-culture, it was seen as a threat. Fear over catching the ‘gay virus’ was epidemic in Britain. For gays though, the ire of homophobia proved equally frightening. Vilified by government, attacked by the press and abused by the police, they saw miners as kindred spirits. This led to a group of lesbians and gays coming out in support for striking families. News of this fundraising reaches the remote Welsh village, which creates friction as some of the locals aren't happy about where the money has come from - nor are they thrilled about plans to invite the group to personally thank them. This coming together of dyed-in-the-wool heterosexuals and dyed-in-the-hair homosexuals is the catalyst for this brilliant comedy.

Watching the sides go from suspicion to trust shows how possible diversity can be. The fact that this is shown with such sleight of hand is a credit to scriptwriter Stephen Beresford, who manages to make a film about class and sexual prejudice without sounding preachy. It really is a wonderful film, very much in the tradition of Billy Elliot and The Full Monty, but instead of enlightening you about one issue it informs you on two.

I now must talk about Viv Albertine’s book. I first remember hearing about it on The Culture Shows: Girls Will Be Girls. The programme documented the role women played in the 70’s punk movement, focusing on Chrissie Hynde, X-Ray Spex and The Slits. I was vaguely familiar with The Slits as I was once given a mix-tape with their cover of ‘I Heard It Through The Grapevine.’ What I didn’t know was how hard girls had to fight to have their voices heard in a genre of music designed to promote self-expression.

Albertine’s book is a must-read for anyone interested in punk (she was friends with Sid Vicious, dated Mick Jones of The Clash and regularly frequented the Kings Road shop, ‘Sex’- the fashion playground of Vivienne Westwood). Forget her connections though, Albertine is punk in her own right. Drugged on records from a young age, Albertine’s musical addiction took her from being unable to play an instrument at 18 to playing John Peel’s show at 19. The autobiography is sentimental about music but unsentimental about life, documenting the biological, verbal and physical abuses she went through to be a musician and mother. 

In experiencing these films and books, I'm reminded that punk didn't die in 1977; it endures in anyone who fights to be free.

Old Beginnings

This week I got a new job. After 18 months away from classroom teaching I have decided to return to it. 

Over the last 18 months I’ve made a living from education without doing any classroom teaching. I made this change to free up more time and energy to pursue stand-up comedy. I thought it was what I wanted. Prior to doing this, I would only gig in the school holidays, meaning over seven years I amassed just 50 gigs. I’ve now taken that number to over 300. So why am I giving up on my dream? My line-manager asked me this week if it was my girlfriend’s doing. Like she was Yoko Ono. The sub-text being: had she grown tired of our meals out being subsidized by Groupon? I would love to say that I’m sacrificing my dream to offer a concrete future to the woman I love, but that’s not the case. In fact, she’s been the one who has urged me to continue as long as I’m happy doing it. The truth is stand-up doesn’t make me happy. At least not performing it with the regularity I have.

I’ve had amazing experiences doing comedy. There have been gigs where I’ve experienced true transcendence: highs so high I’ve felt in danger of never coming down. I’m reminded of a gig in Luton where a heckler, Esmeralda, threatened to derail the whole night by talking loudly and persistently through the opening acts. It was only 8 o’clock and she was already hammered. She was only going to get worse, so I wasn’t in any way looking forward to going on. But then the MC challenged her discourtesy to which the audience, instead of sitting and saying nothing, applauded him; thus making her aware she was not wanted. Embarrassed, Esmeralda upped and left, returning to whatever fairytale kingdom her stupid name came from. The gig from that point on was wonderful. The other acts were brilliant, stripping the audience of any inhibitions. By the time I went on the crowd's reserve lay like knickers on the floor, all I had to do was jump on and ride those lungs to laughter town. Which I did over and over again. It was the most incredible feeling. Elated, I barely slept that night.

I've done this to people.

However, there have been time when I’ve failed completely to elicit any joy from an audience. Like a limp dick at an orgy, I’ve disappointed every fucker in the room. It is times like this when the stage feels a very lonely place. The trouble with my material, other than its questionable quality, is that it's narrative-driven. If the audience isn’t on board at the beginning, then it’s very unlikely they’re going to be on the train come the end. Consequently, a poor start usually means a 5-minute set can feel interminable. It’s not just the failure I find difficult to deal with; it’s the nerves. I always feel nervous before I go on stage, particularly when I do new material. Instead of recognising comedy is a process where failure begets success, I beat myself up and think the only thing I'm succeeding in is failing. This clearly isn't healthy.

I've done this to people.

The truth is I feel I’ve pushed my confidence as far as it can go. I know this isn’t what you would read in self-help books but there you go. Just over ten years ago, I left school with no confidence at all. I had gone through secondary education without saying a thing in class. I had confused my Catholic school for a monastery and thought it requisite to take a vow of silence. At university I fared little better: intimidated by students from the debating school classes, I said less. Leaving university I knew that I had to turn myself around; as a result I enrolled on a comedy course. This in turn led me to have the confidence to be a teacher. Comedy gave me the belief that I could stand in front of a group of apathetic teenagers and imbue in them a passion, an enthusiasm, at the very least, a begrudging respect for literature. Without that first foray into comedy, I would never have had the belief that I could lead, motivate and – dare I say - inspire.  I’ll always be grateful to comedy; it has taken me further as a person than the schoolboy me would ever have dreamed.

So yes, I’m returning to my old job, but I don’t see it as a step back; I see it as a return. Better to be a successful teacher than an unsuccessful comedian. If you want to be successful in something, then you have to have a passion for it. I love watching stand-up comedy but I haven’t enjoyed performing it of late. I have huge respect for the people who have the strength of character, dedication and natural charisma to make it; I have neither of those things. What I do have is a burning passion for language and I will do my utmost to impart this on young people. I’ve even been asked to start a stand-up group at my new school so maybe I’ll be responsible for helping inspire a new wave of comedians. 

Comedians who want it more than me.

Ryan is an honorable man of art so will fulfil his contractual obligations to promoters by appearing at their nights up until his last gig in June. If you want to see him unshackled from comedy as a career plan, then dates will follow soon on Facebook.

Inside No. 9

This week I've been watching 'Inside No.9.'

Inside No. 9 is the brainchild of League of Gentleman creators, Steve Pemberton and Reece Shearsmith. A mischievous offspring of Roald Dahl’s Tales of the Unexpected, Inside is a dark delight that revels in the macabre.

However, it would be reductive to simply pigeonhole the show as ‘dark comedy.’ Shearsmith recently expressed consternation over this, saying commentators dwell too heavily on the darkness of their work and not enough on the comedy- he has a point: Inside is more than a menagerie of grotesqueries; it is cleverly plotted and wickedly funny.

Shearsmith and Pemberton: the Lennon and McCartney of comedy. Now in its second season, the first series comes recommended. Although there are six episodes, each one is stand-alone with the only unifying thread being they’re set inside a location numbered nine. The best episode from the last season was the impishly titled ‘A Quiet Night In.' Indeed, it is a very quiet night in as the piece unfolds without dialogue. Executing this form of comedy is not easy- just ask Matt Lucas. TV critics have soundly savaged his silent show, Pompidou. With its precipitous fall in viewing figures, the Beeb has gone Dignitas on the show, sending it off to die quietly on BBC Two. Where Lucas and Walliams’ instinct for comedy reaches a nadir then, Pemberton and Shearsmith’s inventive play with form enjoys acclaim.

Channeling Keaton and Chaplin: silent comedians at work. This series begins on board a sleeper train, journeying from Paris to Bourg St Maurice. It is nighttime and a doctor’s attempt to sleep is disturbed by the entrance of other passengers: stereotypes that include a priapic drunk, horny Australian, Gap Yah twat and bawdy northern couple. Having an academic caged in with prurient sex animals is always going to be a rich source of comedy- and so it proves. With each interruption exacerbating the doctor’s anger, the viewer supposes it won’t be long before he enacts 'Murder on the Orient Express.’ But Shearsmith and Pemberton are master craftsman: they expertly weave stories that confound and deceive, leaving you - like their comedy – in the dark. With only one episode in, there is still time to open the door on 'No. 9' and enjoy more claustrophobic capers.

Inside No. 9 is on Thursday, BBC 2 at 10pm.