Hell Is Round the Corner

I believe that Tricky thinks he's experimental and as such, he's giving himself a lot of leeways, partly good, partly bad. If something doesn't work, well, on to the next thing. If it does work, it can really shine.

As such, with that on the plate, I often felt 'hell, this could have been so much better if it'd been edited properly!' when reading this book. I'm not talking about the contradictions—e.g. 'money doesn't matter to me!' vs the multitudes of times when Tricky counts how much money he's made—but of how the entire book is filled with little anecdotes that, in the end, left me feeling this book is a more a mosaic that forms a weird pattern as a whole, instead of becoming a lovely brocade. Tricky should have had a look at Bret Anderson's two autobiographical books for inspiration: those are intricate and, at the same time, filled with air and form a cohesive base that brings out the content much better than Tricky's book has.

Having said all that, there are good things going for this book. The fact that Tricky has let others take part in this book is great: in the middle of chapters, somebody comes in and provides their perspective on things. It's refreshing, even though I can't help but wonder how much has been omitted from the final book.

My first memory is seeing my mum in a coffin, when I was four years old. In those days, when somebody died, you had the coffin at home for a week or two, so all the family could come and say their goodbyes before they buried the person. When you’re that young, you don’t really understand what’s going on. Obviously I could see a lot of people were sad – family members coming into the house crying and stuff – so I knew it wasn’t good. She’d committed suicide, and I didn’t understand that, either.

He's had quite the hard life growing up:

The person who first sent me to boxing training was my auntie Maureen. One day, Maureen stabbed my uncle Martin, which I saw happen. I don’t think Martin liked Maureen’s husband very much, and he might have been trying to get money off him, so he used to go around and smash the house up sometimes. One day he went around there, and my auntie Maureen opened the door, threw pepper in his eyes and stabbed him in the stomach.

When music entered your life in the sense that it does when you're young and discover a band that's yours:

The Specials changed everything. Their first album was like my life on a record. Just called The Specials, it came out in 1979, and I was only eleven then, so I can’t quite remember how old I was when I first actually heard it, but I knew right away that they were the ones for me. Seeing them on TV was the first time kids like me had a band representing us – someone like myself on television!

He went into Massive Attack and I think there's something really telling about this paragraph on how and when he decided to leave the band or/and Wild Bunch:

I only went to London with them once, while they were mixing. No disrespect to those guys, but we came from different worlds. We drove up there to work on a song, and I was a kid – I had no money. On the way back, we were at the services, and everybody got off the bus to go and eat – we had a tour bus for some reason but we were just on a studio trip. We walked into the service station, and it was £2.50 for sausage and chips, and I was starving. I said to G, ‘Here, lend me two quid!’

I was just a kid, but he wouldn’t lend me the money. That affected me a lot. That day was when I realised I would end up leaving Massive Attack, although it was way before I truly knew it or actually thought about leaving. When he wouldn’t lend me two pounds to eat, that was the end of our relationship on a certain level. Like, you know, these people come from a different place to you. Where I grew up, they would steal that money so I could eat. That’s when I knew that it was about business, about a band and a music career – and Massive wasn’t even big at that point.

There are some lovely words on people who should be recognised more, like, say, Rakim:

I felt like these artists deserved to be opened out to a wider audience. You can’t just call Rakim a rapper. That guy is a genius. Some of his words are the most amazing poetry. It frustrated me when people said, ‘Rakim, the rapper’. He isn’t really, he’s a poet who doesn’t sing; instead he uses the avenue that is available to him. People called me a rapper, too – why? I find it weird; it puts you in a box – ‘rapper’! I might have started off thinking I was a rapper, but even from when I first started, I have never been one really.

About 'the Bristol scene':

I was being written about as part of ‘the Bristol scene’, which made no sense to me. There was a lot of music being made in Bristol, but everybody kept to their own little corner. People saw each other in clubs, because it’s a small city, but there weren’t no scene. It ain’t like Manchester, where you had all these different rock bands doing their thing – the Stone Roses are hanging out with the Happy Mondays, but the Stone Roses are one thing, and Happy Mondays are another.

Portishead made music like they did because of Massive Attack. Geoff Barrow would never have been doing music like their Dummy album if he hadn’t met us guys. He didn’t come through hip-hop like we did. Some people even thought that Portishead came before me. How can that ever happen? Come on! I’m a hip-hop head! People fell for this ‘Bristol scene’ shit. Here’s another thing: Portishead are not even from Bristol. They’re from Portishead. And when people started talking about the ‘Bristol Sound’, what they didn’t realise was, I had recorded some stuff there, like my stuff on Blue Lines, but Maxinquaye was made in Harlesden. It came from being isolated up there, not knowing anyone.

On PJ Harvey:

Most of the first touring I did was with Polly Harvey, who is a West Country girl, too. We went through England, Europe and America. Polly is lovely, and very chilled out. She ain’t got none of that popstar bullshit about her. Just as real as they come. I was lucky to tour with her at the beginning, because she’s one of the best live artists you could ever see. Normally when I’m watching a live show, I get bored, not because the show is bad necessarily, or the person is bad, it’s just that from this point on performing onstage became part of what I do for a living. It’s not that I’m not impressed, or I don’t like the songs, it’s that thing of not eating chocolate if you work in a chocolate factory. Watching Polly, though, it’s always been, ‘Fucking hell, that is some power!’

There is some lovely reminiscences in this book, but it lacks editing; if you can handle that, and love pop-culture and entertainment tidbits, read up.

I believe that Tricky thinks he's experimental and as such, he's giving himself a lot of leeways, partly good, partly bad. If something doesn't work, well, on to the next thing. If it does work, it can really shine.

As such, with that on the plate, I often felt 'hell, this could have been so much better if it'd been edited properly!' when reading this book. I'm not talking about the contradictions—e.g. 'money doesn't matter to me!' vs the multitudes of times when Tricky counts how much money he's made—but of how the entire book is filled with little anecdotes that, in the end, left me feeling this book is a more a mosaic that forms a weird pattern as a whole, instead of becoming a lovely brocade. Tricky should have had a look at Bret Anderson's two autobiographical books for inspiration: those are intricate and, at the same time, filled with air and form a cohesive base that brings out the content much better than Tricky's book has.

Having said all that, there are good things going for this book. The fact that Tricky has let others take part in this book is great: in the middle of chapters, somebody comes in and provides their perspective on things. It's refreshing, even though I can't help but wonder how much has been omitted from the final book.

My first memory is seeing my mum in a coffin, when I was four years old. In those days, when somebody died, you had the coffin at home for a week or two, so all the family could come and say their goodbyes before they buried the person. When you’re that young, you don’t really understand what’s going on. Obviously I could see a lot of people were sad – family members coming into the house crying and stuff – so I knew it wasn’t good. She’d committed suicide, and I didn’t understand that, either.

He's had quite the hard life growing up:

The person who first sent me to boxing training was my auntie Maureen. One day, Maureen stabbed my uncle Martin, which I saw happen. I don’t think Martin liked Maureen’s husband very much, and he might have been trying to get money off him, so he used to go around and smash the house up sometimes. One day he went around there, and my auntie Maureen opened the door, threw pepper in his eyes and stabbed him in the stomach.

When music entered your life in the sense that it does when you're young and discover a band that's yours:

The Specials changed everything. Their first album was like my life on a record. Just called The Specials, it came out in 1979, and I was only eleven then, so I can’t quite remember how old I was when I first actually heard it, but I knew right away that they were the ones for me. Seeing them on TV was the first time kids like me had a band representing us – someone like myself on television!

He went into Massive Attack and I think there's something really telling about this paragraph on how and when he decided to leave the band or/and Wild Bunch:

I only went to London with them once, while they were mixing. No disrespect to those guys, but we came from different worlds. We drove up there to work on a song, and I was a kid – I had no money. On the way back, we were at the services, and everybody got off the bus to go and eat – we had a tour bus for some reason but we were just on a studio trip. We walked into the service station, and it was £2.50 for sausage and chips, and I was starving. I said to G, ‘Here, lend me two quid!’

I was just a kid, but he wouldn’t lend me the money. That affected me a lot. That day was when I realised I would end up leaving Massive Attack, although it was way before I truly knew it or actually thought about leaving. When he wouldn’t lend me two pounds to eat, that was the end of our relationship on a certain level. Like, you know, these people come from a different place to you. Where I grew up, they would steal that money so I could eat. That’s when I knew that it was about business, about a band and a music career – and Massive wasn’t even big at that point.

There are some lovely words on people who should be recognised more, like, say, Rakim:

I felt like these artists deserved to be opened out to a wider audience. You can’t just call Rakim a rapper. That guy is a genius. Some of his words are the most amazing poetry. It frustrated me when people said, ‘Rakim, the rapper’. He isn’t really, he’s a poet who doesn’t sing; instead he uses the avenue that is available to him. People called me a rapper, too – why? I find it weird; it puts you in a box – ‘rapper’! I might have started off thinking I was a rapper, but even from when I first started, I have never been one really.

About 'the Bristol scene':

I was being written about as part of ‘the Bristol scene’, which made no sense to me. There was a lot of music being made in Bristol, but everybody kept to their own little corner. People saw each other in clubs, because it’s a small city, but there weren’t no scene. It ain’t like Manchester, where you had all these different rock bands doing their thing – the Stone Roses are hanging out with the Happy Mondays, but the Stone Roses are one thing, and Happy Mondays are another.

Portishead made music like they did because of Massive Attack. Geoff Barrow would never have been doing music like their Dummy album if he hadn’t met us guys. He didn’t come through hip-hop like we did. Some people even thought that Portishead came before me. How can that ever happen? Come on! I’m a hip-hop head! People fell for this ‘Bristol scene’ shit. Here’s another thing: Portishead are not even from Bristol. They’re from Portishead. And when people started talking about the ‘Bristol Sound’, what they didn’t realise was, I had recorded some stuff there, like my stuff on Blue Lines, but Maxinquaye was made in Harlesden. It came from being isolated up there, not knowing anyone.

On PJ Harvey:

Most of the first touring I did was with Polly Harvey, who is a West Country girl, too. We went through England, Europe and America. Polly is lovely, and very chilled out. She ain’t got none of that popstar bullshit about her. Just as real as they come. I was lucky to tour with her at the beginning, because she’s one of the best live artists you could ever see. Normally when I’m watching a live show, I get bored, not because the show is bad necessarily, or the person is bad, it’s just that from this point on performing onstage became part of what I do for a living. It’s not that I’m not impressed, or I don’t like the songs, it’s that thing of not eating chocolate if you work in a chocolate factory. Watching Polly, though, it’s always been, ‘Fucking hell, that is some power!’

There is some lovely reminiscences in this book, but it lacks editing; if you can handle that, and love pop-culture and entertainment tidbits, read up.