Mark Burton Photography

The 1912 Flitch Trail: shot using an early Canon Rebel

For all those with a keen interest in true-love and cured, salted bacon, this is a time of great anticipation.

Many of you will have read an earlier blog entitled ‘The Quest for the Flitch,’ which was a heart-warming tale about three American couples applying to compete in the upcoming ‘Flitch Trials,’ which are held in Great Dunmow every four years.

The next trials, where six maidens, and six bachelors decide whether the married couples being tried have not wished themselves assunder in the previous twelve months, will take place on Saturday July 12th.

Victorious couples are paraded around the town with their Flitch (a cured side of salted pork), on a chair held aloft by a cohort of brawny hunks. The losing couples, meanwhile, walk behind in shame - with a mere ham as reward for their efforts.

It’s a tradition that goes back to 1104 and five couples are tried throughout the day. Competition is extremely fierce to even reach this stage, and although I’m unable to give specific details (for fear of breaching some sort of rule would end up with me in the stocks), I am optomistic one of the competing couples will be speaking with an American accent.

Warborough and Shillingford cricket club: theatre of dreams

One of the things I love most about being a photographer, is being there with my camera when people experience a life-changing - or at the very least - extremely significant moment in their lives.

Often these moments are with my clients, on their wedding day. Sometimes, its with friends or family and I have been there for times of great joy - as well as sadnes. And then yesterday, I was there with my camera, when young Fin Treadaway walked to the crease, batting number 10 for Nottingham Old Boys as they played Warborough and Shillingford Cricket Club. (Nottingham Old Boys - also known as ‘The NOBS.’)

Fin Treadaway: heart of a lion

Fin is only 9 years old, and was invited to play because someone had dropped out last minute. There was hardly a throat without a lump in it, as the diminutive cricketer strode out to bat, seemingly fearless against a team of grown men.

From this angle, he looks like a giant

His Dad, Ben, had scored 11 earlier on. Messers Flood and Hobbs had both blasted handsome 50’s. Your author had scored one of the most stylish two-balls ducks ever seen on this particular ground.

Grandad, proud and overcome with emotion……..

Young Fin’s Grandfather, Nick, was umpiring, and had to wipe more than one tear away as Fin reached the middle. He looked tiny, and the charming comedy of his size was accenuated by the fact he was playing with the tallest player on our team, my cousin Peter. (Noted musical impressario, and night-club mogul, to be seen in an earlier post about the ‘Grime’ scene.)

Large and little

The Warborough team sportingly continued with their slow bowlers, and Fin calmly survived several deliveries before scoring a run. This was met with raptuos applause and deservedly so. He was out soon afterwards, but he’d scored his run, and won the admiration of all watching.

Fin gives the ball a good wack

Fin’s first run

Their hero: Fin walks back to Mum, Grandma and his adoring sisters

“Not like it was in my day….”

The NOBS closed on 238. A very respectable effort indeed. We had a superb lunch with wine and port. The surroundings couldn’t have been more perfect. The shadows began to lenghten, the church bell chimed when it should, and we knew the prospect of tea and sandwiches wasn’t too far away.

“Pass the port would you old boy?”

Inside the club-house I had a good look at the team photos. Stretching back to the 1960’s there were pictures of each of the successive Warborough and Shillingford teams. My uncle Mike, the other umpire for the day - features in many of them. Then my cousins James and Andrew appear. One notebale frame is a copy of the scorecard entitled ‘Chips off the old block.’ It records the day James and Andrew, opening the batting, scored 80 and 70 respectively, and were still ‘not-out’ at the end of the innings against Didcot. They were 14 and 13 that day - so Fin isn’t the only young man to have had a big experience, at a young age, on this particular field of play.

The day Andy and James gave Didcot a good drubbing

Andy and James went on to play for Oxfordshire, their universities and some very good club teams. This day’s game, ‘The NOBS’ versus Andy’s old village club has been an annual, friendly fixture for ten years, and it can only be a measure of Andy’s concern over the thinning ranks that he turned to me with a desperate invitation to play. To my credit, my last innings was 26 not out. In the debit acount, this last game was in August 1989 and I suspected there were chaps on the other side that weren’t even twinkles in their father’s eyes when I last put on pads. Nevertheless, I was delighted to receive my first NOB cap.

NOBS team huddle

Turning back to the game, the Warborough and Shillingford opening batsmen found it difficult to cope with the NOB bowlers. Runs came slowly, but a harsh tea-time team-talk must have ensued, because Warborough came out blasting, with a string of fours, and several sixes.

One particular fellow, named ‘Horse,’ which may have been his Christened name (in these west-country parts one is never quite sure) decided it would be mirthful fun to swivel his ample hips around and belt the ball at Fin - who was fielding in the compartive safty of long-leg.

If I’d been Fin I would have made a heroic dive in the opposite direction. Fin, ever the team player, and braver than me, crumpled towards the red-rocket, and received a smarting blow to the knee as thanks. Needless to say, after some words of encouragement, and the huddled concern of the whole team, Fin resumed his fielding efforts.

Perhaps as reward for their dastardly batting, the Warborough wickets started to tumble. Andy bowled himself and picked up five wickets. He even gave his long-time sparring partner, and team comedian Edward ‘Chunder’ Williams a second spell. Stupefyingly, Ed managed to take two wickets. All day, Ed insisted that the team take turns in carrying around a small pink handbag, and even took it out to bat himself. Apparrently, its a ‘mascot’ from an earlier cricket tour.

Father, Grandfather and Grandson

It soon came clear that despite the belting efforts of the Warborough team, the NOBS were going to come out on top. Andy threw the ball to Fin. He bowled two tidy overs, and while he did, Bronny took a photograph of the three generations of Treadaways on the field together.

The NOBS 2008

Andy took the final wicket, by taking a catch off his own bowling. There was only one over left, so it ended up a close finish. The NOBS headed off to the various parts of the country from which they journied, saying ’see you next year.’

Andy coaching in Africa. Cricket is proving a great help in spreading Aids awareness messages

In a few weeks, Andy and Ed will be heading out to Kenya, Uganda and Rwanda. In 2005 they founded a charity called ‘Cricket without boundaries’ with their friend Chris Kangis. Since then, they have led four trips to Africa, using cricket coaching as a means to help teach Aids awareness. They work in places of extreme poverty, and set up long term projects that go on instructing, long after they leave. Its a great organisation, and you can find out more by going to:

www.cricketwithoutboundaries.com

One of the people going out on this next trip is Fin’s Dad, Ben, another experienced cricketer. Whatever adventures they all have - and travelling and working in Africa is always an adventure - its certain Fin isn’t the only young cricketer whose life these enthusiastic and dedicated coaches will influence this year.

Before the misery sets in

Last year, in a moment of madness, Bronny and I decided to join our friends Jane, Jo and Brian at the Glastonbury festival. We’d heard of the fun, the music and the drugs, and in hindsight, if we’d started munching Class-A’s as soon as we left the car park then we’d have been far happier people.

When we were young

Even looking back at this photo is hard. So young, so carefree… without the scars and the miserable memories……

I could have gone to Margate

All during the first night, and into the next day it rained. It wasn’t just your ordinary rain, but the torrential sort that usuallly last a few battering minutes. But not at Glastonbury. It battered non-stop for hours. The place has its own unique micro-climate which dictates monsoon weather as soon as more than three people start pitching tents within twenty yards of each other.

Jane’s matching boots and bag ensemble.

Fortunately, we were travelling with Jane, whose a girl. She went to a posh school, and knows all the cocktails and dates blokes called Trevor and Miles. At the mere sight of this downpour, surely, she’d burst into tears, and demand that we hopped straight back into Daddy’s Range Rover and head back to Hampstead?

Jane: bench presses 350 and fights with knives to relax

Regretably, Jane is also a police detective and is tough as old Jimmy-Choo’s. I don’t think she’d even noticed the sheets of water lashing other people into a dazed submission.

Fancy the loo in 40 minutes?

Fortunately, some genius had ensured there was a tent selling warm cider. A brilliant idea, only marred by the fact that drinking such beverages meant using the toilets would be required sometime in the near future.

Exhibit A: Mud

What I started to find quite amazing, was that people actually seemed to be enjoying this purgatory. The mud, the smell of the toilets, the endless marches from A to B to get food, or to go to the toilet……

We could be in Ibeza right now

It was like watching a strange natural history programme. Who were these strange creatures that enjoyed this unique form of torture? It was like an adult version of detention….

Up close and personal: The Killers, somewhere half a mile away

Well OK, some of the music was pretty good. ‘The Killers’ were superb, and ‘The Arctic Monkeys’ lived up to their billing. Maybe if the acts had been James Brown, Stevie Wonder and Curtis Mayfield then I’d have looked beyond the mud…. but wherever I looked there it was…..

Exhibit B: more mud

As the weekend progressed, Bronny and I began to realise that Jane wasn’t going to weaken. There was absolutely no chance of her bursting into tears. Three nights running we left her dancing or cavorting, with energy to burn (usually sometime between midnight and 2am). Off we’d go, to seek the temporary refuge of our pitiful tent, that didn’t fit the airbed - and was next to one couple that persistently communicated their vigerous… *ahem*…. ‘hugging’ with animated grunts and groans while the tent next door blared their music at us with a grim determination.

Having or good time or just delerious?

On the last day, there was nothing for it. Waking up to our now miserable neighbours, faces streaked with mud and tears, as they quietly sobbed over their broken hearts, I chirped, ‘Not so ****ing chipper now are we?’ (I didn’t really say that, but I should have.)

Anyway, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em….

Happy? We’re going home in three hours, of course we’re happy!

It was time to get-down, Glastonbury style. Unable to ‘cut-the-rug’ we squelched the mud….

Quite how Jane managed to look this glamourous, after four days of mud, lack of sleep and a strict diet of warm cider and cold falafels, while lying on an old bin liner, in a field of mud, surrounded by raving luncatics, I have no idea….

Exhibit C: ankle breaking mud

And then, late into Sunday evening, Jane suggested that maybe it was time to make our way home. We avoided breaking our ankles, unlike 13 other poor folk who snapped theirs over the weekend, and left 100,000 people behind us as they enjoyed the final acts.

Shaking our booties

We packed our tents and began the long tramp to the car park. Eventually we reached Jane’s Dad’s Range Rover, and negotiated our way out of the car park. The next day, other souls would spend 10, 12, 14 hours or more doing the same journey we did in two minutes.

Then, as the headlights lit up the motorway infront of us, and as the early morning hours clicked by, I knew my home and a warm bed was getting ever closer. It was one of the few moments in my life I can say without any doubt, that I experienced the purest feeling of joy….

Much as I love my vintage BMW, there are just some jobs it can’t handle. Especially when it comes to carting around all my photography equipment.

So, I’ve gone and got myself one of these new fangled vehicles. Its more robust and significantly, has its own unique form of ‘climate-control.’

Will look forward to visiting you sometime soon!

By remarkable coincidence, Charlottesville, the town where I once lived in Virginia, is home to some of the world’s most well-known and respected photographers. They include Sally Mann, Sam Abell, Bill Allard and Michael ‘Nick’ Nichols.

The last of these, Nick Nichols used to host an annual slideshow party at his home where friends and photographers from the area could share their latest work. Its from this event that the ‘Look 3′ Festival of the Photograph has grown.

I’ve just got back from the second annual event, with my brain packed to bursting with new ideas after seeing numerous fantastic exhibits and listening to three talks by world renowned photographers Mary Ellen Mark, Joel-Peter Witkin and James Nachtwey.

The show-stopping event was James Nachtwey’s talk on the final evening. His war photography has documented conflict in Rawanda, Chechnya, Bosnia, Iraq and the Congo. I was curious to know what he was like. Was he going to be a ‘gung-ho’ hard-man war photographer, bristling with tales of daring do?

He was the complete opposite. A quiet, gentle character that was extremely nervous about talking in front of 1000 people in the sold-out Paramount theatre. He was interviewed by photo-editor MaryAnne Golon, a friend and colleague of 30 years. She put him at ease and was able to ask more direct and insigtful questions than a professional interviewer could have done.

The story that I believe will become part of photographic legend was his description of photographing 9/11. Just back from assignment, he was at home in his lower Manhatten apartment when the Twin Towers were struck.

He was framing a shot with a church and crucifix in the foreground as the first tower fell. He then moved to the second tower, which he admitted was ‘an error of judement’ in light of what had just happened. (Go to ‘9/11/01′ at www.jamesnachtwey.com” )

He recalled looking up and seeing the second tower starting to crumble. It was like a waterfall, he said, and one of the most beautiful things he’d ever seen. He knew he didn’t even have time to take a photograph, and in the 5 or 6 seconds it took for the tower to fall was able to dash into the elevator bank of a hotel, which protected him from the crashing rubble and shattering glass. He said he didn’t know how he was able to cover so much ground, so quickly, ‘it was like I was able to teleport myself across the street.’

The story was cajouled out of him by MaryAnne Golon, who was able to add her own experiences and viewpoint. She recalled talking to to other photographers during the day that said, ‘I’ve seen Jim.’ She asked, ‘was this before or after the second tower fell?’

She didn’t know if he was alive or dead until he walked into ‘Time’ magazine’s mid-town office, exhausted at the end of the day and covered in dust. He left footprints as he walked across the carpet, and his imprint as he sat in a chair. The following day, people asked ‘You’ve seen James?’ And MaryAnne could point to the floor and say, ‘you can walk in his footprints, and see the ghost of him on the chair.’

These revelations - and what was to follow - were significant in themselves, but even more-so in the context of the festival and talks by photographers and artists in general. It is extremely rare to have someone talk about their life and experiences with such intimacy and candour. Often, people will revell in the attention and delight at their opportunity to show-case and promote their work.

The question that drew gasps from the audience was when MaryAnne asked, ‘When you have seen so much pain, and so much suffering, do you still have the capacity to love?’

There was a pause, and we all realised that only a friend could ask such a question - and perhaps there was a momentary thought that maybe she’d gone a bit too far…… asking something like that in front of so many people.

‘Witnessing pain and sadness,’ James Nachtwey replied, ‘is an act of love.’

This reply was met with thunderous applause.

And rightly so. He told stories about 9/11, about leaping from fox holes after premonitions about shells exploding, about being in the back of a humvee in Iraq when a grenade was tossed in. (The writer with him, grabbed it and was in the process of throwing it out when it exploded. ‘That one hand saved four lives.’)

However, what shone through was his compasion and an inexpicable drive to document the worst that humans can do to each other. There are two images that are burned in my mind. The first, is a never ending pile of machetes from Rwanda. The second, is of an emaciated, African man crawling on hands and knees during famine. James Nachtwey explained how this man has probably lost everything. Farm, animals, family… yet his determination to keep going, even though he can no longer walk, should give us all hope.

(Go to ‘Famines’ at www.jamesnachtwey.com” )

The following evening, with the festival over and the attendees on their way home, I was sat on the downtown Mall in Charlottesville eating a slice of pizza with friends. As we chatted an un-assuming man with grey hair walked past. He looked completely anonymous and could have been someone’s uncle or Dad. However, I recognised that it was James Nachtwey walking back to his hotel.

Part of me wanted to run over and thank him for his honesty the night before, and give him a hearty hand-shake.

But instead, I decided to let him continue his walk in peace, with a silent and grateful thank-you.

To see a short film slideshow on the festival, you can go to:

www.npr.org

Sarah, Del and Bronny on their way to the bat walk

About half a mile from my home in Walthamstow, the streets and industrial units all come to an abrupt halt. The cityscape is replaced by the waterways and marshes of the Lea Valley Park Authority.

The park runs for 26 miles from the banks of the River Thames out into Hertfordshire and is dedicated to nature conservation and recreation. On a casual afternoon stroll you’re likely to share the park with people running, biking, canoeing or boating.

But at night, the park becomes a different place when the nocturnal creatures - like bats - come out to feed.

Curious to know more, Bronny, Del, Sarah and myself decided to join a ‘bat walk’ - and weren’t entirely sure what we’d let ourselves in for….

Del: not sure what’s he’s let himself in for….

Our guides for the evening, Jeanette and Lisa immediately, and unexpectedly, plied us with tea and hob-nobs at the visitor centre. Lisa is the park ranger, and Jeanette a volunteer from the ‘Lea Valley Bats’ and was our bat expert for the evening.

Bats, bats, bats….

Jeanette gave us a intoduction to the various types of bats we might see and would hopefully hear with the help of bat detectors.

You can detect bats, but not Meatloaf with this device

Bats orientate themselves in flight, and detect their prey by sending out a sonar know as ‘echolocation.’ This is where the bat detectors come in, because apart from some young children, these sounds aren’t audible to the human ear.

Bronny and Sarah: having fun twiddling knobs

As dusk encroached, about a dozen of us headed into the marshes.

If I was a bat, I’d like to live around here too

The marshes are an oasis of peace and tranquility in the middle of a busy city. Much of this grassland covers debris from WWII bomb sites, and became a protected area in a bygonne era when central and local government believed that creating such natural spaces were essential to the well being of their citizens.

Bat alley comes alive

Jeanette walked us down to an avenue of trees called ‘bat alley’ explaining it was unlikely we’d hear any bats yet at this early hour. But much to her delight, our bat detectors suddenly fizzed to life and in the half light we caught glimpses of the darting bats.

Jeanette, identifying the bats

I had been ’so-so’ about the whole bat experience up until this point, but seeing and actually hearing the bats and the sounds of their remarkable ‘echolocation’ was an exhilarating moment.

Tuning into hear the bats ‘echolocation’ signals

Different species of bats can be heard on different frequencies, and we were able to identify the Noctule and Pipistrelle.

Lisa: a ranger, but doesn’t look anything like Chuck Norris…..

Lisa, the park ranger of five years told us more about the work in the marshes. Nearly all the conservation work is only made possible by volunteers, who’ll turn up to weed, plant or build on weekends.

Burn baby burn… the lights that hurt the bats

A growing problem for the bats and other nocturnal creatures on the marches is the number of lights on the parks borders that blaze away during the night.

They draw insects - the bats food - towards them, so the bats have to follow. This is extremely unpleasant for the bats. I’m reminded of the later stages of ‘Lord of the Rings,’ where Frodo has to enter Mount Doom……

Our friends, the bats. Watch them while you can…

Half a mile from bat alley, a new housing development is springing up. Across the other side of the marshes, a gargantuan development of 2,000 flats is planned. This latter project is against the local communities wishes, and will soon concrete over well-loved playing fields.

Activists cite many reasons why this development is poorly planned, including the lack of parking space and any thought for where the new residents children may go to school.

Another reason, is that it will be built right on the border of the Lea Valley Park and the lights from these new homes will illuminate a great swathe of the park where the bats once roamed. People have to live somewhere….. but so do the bats……

http://www.leevalleybats.org.uk

 

A flitch

What, you might wonder is a Flitch?

Well, dear friends, it is a salted and cured side of bacon. What you may question even further has this got to do with anything?

Well, later this summer three couples from the USA will be travelling to our fair shores in the hope of winning one in the famous Great Dunmow Flitch Trials on July 12th. Not only are our hopeful contestants all good friends of mine, lovers of pork products and officionados of beef jerky, but they all had their weddings photographed by your humble author.

The Dunmow Flitch Trials, which were first held way back in the thirteenth centuary, exist to award a flitch to ‘married couples’ if they can satisfy the Judge and Jury of 6 maidens and 6 bachelors that they haven’t made a ‘nuptual transgression’ and ‘not wisht themselves unmarried again’ in the last year and a day.’

The last few months has seen some careful planning, but now, the tickets are purchased, the applications have been sent and we await the verdict of the Flitch Committee….

Will our hopeful applicants be tried? Will they end up winning? Will they be paraded around Great Dunmow with a side of salted and cured bacon?

Its what dreams are made of…..

However, its a tough road to travel. The court sessions are attended by hundreds of Great Dunmowians, whose instincts have been honed over 800 years of flitch trialing.

Jeff and Erin on their wedding day, both making ‘notes-to-self’ to remember July 12th 2008, the date of the Flitch Trials

‘Yes its a long way to travel,’ explained Jeff, who has never had a cross word with his wife, Erin, and are making the journey from Nashville, Tennessee, ‘but even if we are not selected, I would like our presence and the snubbing of our application to be well noted at the trials.’

Chris and Nat on their wedding day. Don’t talk to him about sophistication!

‘I can trace my ancestors back to Barty St Vincent,’ explains Chris, whose love for his wife Natalie, is stronger today than it ever was, ‘and I know he’d be desperately disappointed if one of his ancestors was unable to compete for a flitch. After all, wasn’t it the great Sir Barty III that rid Sudbury of the terrible fire eating Dragon-Pig of 1437?’

Elaine and Shawn on their wedding day (before colour was invented.)

‘I realise this is not your typical vacation,’ mused Elaine, whose devotion to her dear husband, Shawn, knows no bounds, ‘but ever since I was a little girl I’ve dreamed of a white wedding, a happy home and an abundance of salted, cured pork.’

With the days ticking down to the application date, we can only hope that the efforts of these fine examples of married bliss are given a chance to stake their claim!

The Ashes… Rangers vs Celtic…. the north London Derby….. England vs Germany…. Ross County vs Inverness Caledonian Thistle….these are just some of the great sporting rivalries in the world. And now, we can add to this list: the darts challenge between the villages of Shieldaig and Lochcarron.

You’re going home in a Lochcarron mini-bus

Nestled in the picturesque highlands of Scotland, passing tourists will admire the landscape and the rows of whitewashed cottages. However, unknown to them, underneath this picture-postcard facade, there lurk the beating hearts of some of the fiercest darts competitors in the northern hemisphere.

Kenny Cool with Cuddy: brilliant arrows when sober

The Shieldaig team, captained by my good friend, Kenny ‘Cool’ MacLeod, threw down the gauntlet (or ‘Claymore’) to Gus and the gnarled, arrow-chuckers from Lochcarron. Only few weeks before, Shieldaig had beaten Lochcarron, and now there was the smell of revenge (and scotch eggs) in the air.

Tommy and Mattie: the future of darts

The Shieldaig team comprised of the veteran players - as well as the younger athletes including Tommy and Mattie. They obviously look delighted here, as being selected for the Shieldaig team is a great honour, and the result of a rigerous training regimin that invloves early morning runs, complicated mental arithmatic and a strict diet of Irn-Bru and Tennants.

Jim: Shieldaig’s expert pub sportsman and botanist

Over eight singles matches, and four doubles the advantage swayed one way and then the other. For a while it looked like Lochcarron would be a pushover. But they came back strong and Shieldaig had to rely on players like fisherman, one-time botanist and local pub legend, Jim Alexander, to bring Shieldaig back into the game.

Kenny Cool, Shieldaig’s team captain

The main personal rivalry is between the two teams best players and captains, Kenny and Gus. Last time they played, Kenny won. Gus was clearly determined to restore his personal honour and Lochcarron’s reputation as the bully-boys of highland darts.

Gus, Lochcarron’s team captain

This time, Gus’s power game shone through and he won his match with Kenny. But before long, Kenny bounced back with the nights only ‘one hundred and eighty’ and this highlight helped win his doubles match.

Murdo John wins a match for Lochcarron

The tension mounted. Lochcarron’s Murdo John clinched a nail-biter. Meawhile, a phenomenal amount of beer was washed down with numerous multi-coloured shots; players and spectators alike were then thankfully kept on their feet by a well timed arrival of scotch eggs, pizza and haggis drumsticks.

Its thirsty work being a Shieldaig WAG

Despite the Shieldaig WAGS best attempt to distract the Lochcarron fellows with their ravishing good looks and a fine exhibition of speed-drinking, after twelve matches, the teams were even.

To decide the game, it was going to be a team match of ‘1001.’ The darts equivalent of a penalty shoot-out. Initially, Lochcarron stormed into the lead as each player took it in turn to throw. But when all looked lost, boy-band look-a-like, and local heart-throb, Scott Taylor, calmly threw a 140.

Throwing on the McFly: an old head on young shoulders

Nevertheless, Lochcarron were way ahead and throwing to win. But they just couldn’t close out. Even so, it seemed a certainly Shieldaig would lose any minute.

Gary: shortly to have a rendevous with destiny

Cometh the hour, cometh the man….. with all eyes on the dart-board (except the Shiledaig WAGS who were sinking another round of shots), Gary calmly stepped up to the ocky.

The WAGS relive the tension with another round of shots

The last time I can remember this amount of sporting tension, Colin ‘Monty’ Montgomery, was putting to win the Ryder Cup.

What would happen? Would Gary cover himself in glory? Would this be the moment of failure that would haunt him to his dying days? One can only imagine the pressure he felt.

He threw… HE SCORED!

The moment of victory: Gary hits the spot

The bar errupted. It was a magnificent victory for Shieldaig, but more than that, it was a victory for darts.

There were handshakes and congratulations all round. Lochcarron were spirited losers, knowing their day would surely come, sometime in the future when the two giants of highland darts meet again.

The darts over, its time for the ’sesh’ to begin

Purple and G Double: checking I’m in the house

I will always be eternally grateful to M.C. G Double, for the public name-checks he’s given me.

They’ve only happened twice, and each time it was upon entering a packed-out night club.

They go something like this: ‘Yo, yo! It’s Mark Burton, photographer, in the house!’

At which point, I’d like to pretend that I’d just made an ‘American Gangter-esque’ entrance into the club, replete with full length fur coat, Fedora, and a bikini-clad babe on each arm. Instead, I was fiddling with a flash gun, and Bronny and Kalleen (my ‘babes’) were having a good chat by the bar.

Kalleen and Bronny: We’ll wear our bikini’s next month

I know G Double, his M.C. buddy, Purple, and several other Grime artists as my cousin, ‘DJ Magic’ (or Peter, as he’s still referred to at family parties) runs London’s hottest Grime club night, ‘Dirty Canvas,’ with his friends David Moynihan and Robin Pasricha. As I realise people of all ages, and from different countries read my blog let me clarify: ‘Grime’ is the name used to describe a genre of music with its roots in rap, reggae and dance music.

M.C.s Purple and G Double: by the light of the silvery mobile phone

Grime is very ’street’ and also very hip. This leads to an interesting mix of folk at these nights, as Grime draws its followers from a wide social and cultural background. There is a lot of standing around at these nights between acts - and when the performers are on stage, the audience does a lot of head nodding and taking photos on mobile phones. The day it becomes evident their pictures are better than mine, I fear I may longer be given a backstage pass……

M.C. Ghetto, live on stage

Peter, David and Robin started ‘Dirty Canvas’ about four years ago with a modest night in the Whitechapel Art Gallery bar. Fifty people was a good turn-out, but the atmosphere was always lively and kept people interested enough to come back for more. Dirty Canvas then moved onto the ICA where the numbers increased to about 200. Its new home is now at Rhythm Factory on Whitechapel High Street. From the difficulty I had making my way from one side of the club to the other, its fair to say there were about 400,000 people ‘in the house’ that night.

Probably the best name in Grime? M.C. Griminal backstage

Personally, I think one of the big draws of the music is that is there is a limited amount of money to be made in Grime. There are a few exceptions - artists like Lethal B, Dizzee Rascal, Wiley and Kano have all had commerical success to varying degrees - but generally, whoever is involved is there for the love of it.

Show me the money: I know its here somewhere…..

The limited resources available to the Grime artists gives the scene a creative edge - and encourages a very ‘DIY’ approach to music making. Pirate radio stations play the latest tunes; independent releases get mixtapes and vinyl out to Grime’s followers. M.C. Ghettos latest mixtape, by way of example, sold 2500 copies in its first week of release. Pretty impressive stuff! Peter, David and Robin have also founded a record label called ‘No Hats, No Hoods.’

D.J. Logan Sama: to be found on the wheels of steel in nightclubs - and on Kiss FM

Its true, that Grime nights had a poor reputation about three years ago for being potentially, and sometimes, actually violent. Its also true that Dirty Canvas isn’t the kind of place you want to repeatedly keep treading on the biggest fellow’s trainers (you know, the one standing at the back with a hooded top and about ten burly mates).

Don’t stand so…. Don’t stand so…. Don’t stand so close to me trainers……

But Peter, David and Robin have had great success with their violence-free ‘Dirty Canvas’ nights. Much of this - I think - is down to their extremly calm personalities. Hyped-up rappers and their ego-monster managers can be ‘challanging’ to handle - especially when the club is packed, and they all think their boy should have been on stage ten minutes ago. This is where I’ve observed Peter at his serenist. Squeezed into a back-stage area the size of a garden shed, with umpteem artists, managers and posse members, Peter has a gift for absorbing stress and deflecting the demands of the unreasonable. Somehow this attitude backstage, and David’s calm demeanor on the door, filters outwards.

DJ Magic: like a cucumber……

This means Dirty Canvas can be all about the music. Frenetic, creative, sometimes dreadful, often superb.