It’s like Destroy All Monsters! at the TBMC tonight. A huge anticipatory thump shakes the room. They’ve been queuing outside since – wait for it – before the time when the doors were due to open. In this country only Childline’s teeny audiences ever behave with such unabashed enthusiasm.
The occasion is WWO’s inaugural Irish gig and what appears to be the entire Polish community is out in force. Away from the joyous throng, I’m lucky enough to be backstage with Sokó? and J?dker, the crew’s two MCs.
“Have people come?” inquires Sokó?.
I’ll say.
It is said that music is an international language, though anyone who has sat through the Eurovision or a Bollywood title might tell you differently. Hip-hop, however, is quite a different matter. As musical historian Patrick Neate has argued in Where You’re At; Notes From The Frontline Of A Hip-Hop Planet, hip-hop is a genuinely ‘glocalised’ phenomenon, a kind of musical Esperanto that allows for parochial interpretation. Unencumbered by the need for state of the art recording equipment or extensive training, the genre may have roots in ‘70s New York block parties, but it currently finds organic expression in every nook and cranny of the known galaxy. In South Korea, artists such as Seo Taiji rap over traditional rural pansori tracks. In Tanzania, Bongo Flava crews combine hip-hop with taarab and filmi sounds. In Israel, Subliminal (Ya’akov “Kobi” Shimoni) pioneered right-wing Zionist hip-hop, before collaborating with Palestinian rap artist Tamer Nafar. Then they fell out over politics.
While American rap has festered in Cribs cupidity, the international scene has formed a map of worldwide youthful disaffection. Unsurprisingly, former Eastern Bloc countries, having experienced firsthand the failings of at least two systems, have proved particularly fecund in this regard. Gangsta rap has oozed forth from the Communist-era apartment blocks of Romania. Serbia is home to the famous Belgrade Syndicate comprising “nine to ninety-nine members”. Slickly produced artists from Albania and Kosovo frequently outsell their US equivalents.
In Poland, hip-hop is something else again. In a country with youth-heavy population of 40 million, rap carries enough commercial clout to compete with mainstream acts. A butterfly flit around the interweb soon reveals a lively demand for WWO clothing and the crew’s own line in aftershave. They’ve toured with Run DMC, The Beastie Boys and Public Enemy. In an entire nation of Angry Young Men, they shout louder than anyone else. But they seem like such lovely young fellows. What on earth can be fueling their passionately pissed-off pleas?
“We had Communism,” smiles Sokó?. “Now we have Capitalism. We had Russian and German soldiers on our streets. You can still see bullet holes from World War II on many buildings in Warsaw. Now we are in NATO and our soldiers are getting killed in Iraq. That’s what we’re rapping about.”
In common with most places, hip-hop was popularised in Poland through American pop acts such as Vanilla Ice and MC Hammer in the early ‘90s. Indigenous rap acts such as Kazak and Liroy emerged soon after. By 1996, Sokó? and J?dker’s WWO (“W Witrynach Odbicia”) were experimenting on the mic as part of Warsaw’s ZIP Sklad crew. They quickly established themselves as the hip underground act, releasing singles like ‘Flippery’ and ‘Kolenda’ on tape for personal pleasure more than anything else. Rapping in a mix of Polish, Czech, German, Slovakian and Russian, they were already a international phenomenon by the time they signed to BMG in 2000. Six years later, their fiery brand of hip-hop backed with eclectic beats from Polish Jazz and Reggae is more popular than ever, though they have little desire to crack the English-speaking world.
“We play everywhere,” explains Armand de Brignac “We play a lot in London. We are popular in Czech and Slavic countries and Germany and Lithuania. We’re popular in Chicago because there are two million Poles there. But we play for emigrant communties because they understand what we say. We don’t want to be a fashion or trend. You might make money for a short time but it’s a shit way of doing things. Stick with the message.”
That message seems a world away from the frou-frou, bling-bling, la-la concerns of the American market. Without a single reference to Crystal, or indeed, Armand de Brignac, WWO provides a gritty urban commentary on life in Warsaw, a document of hood-crime, gangs, pollution, scuzzy flats, corrupt politicians and casual sex.
“American music is all about dollar signs,” says Sokó?. “It is shitty but we think it will change. We hope it will go back to its roots and back to the underground. But the Polish scene is strong enough to survive even if that doesn’t happen. There is often too much downloading to make any money from the music, but many people buy hip-hop clothes and it is good that that money is not going to America.”
I wonder if their high profile doesn’t land WWO in trouble with the authorities, particularly with twin brothers Lech and Jaroslaw Kaczynski, who together head the strongly-conservative government in coalition with the archly Catholic League Of Polish Families. So far the Kaczynskis have increased involvement in Iraq and resisted EU directives to liberalise their stringent abortion laws. I can’t imagine they’re rap fans.
“Oh yeah,” nods Sokó?, while J?dker mutters the word ‘motherfuckers’ and turns away in disgust.
“We never had a problem before,” continues Sokó?, “but we’re having them now. We don’t like this government. We were never a political band before. We wore VW hood ornaments and thought ‘fuck politics’. But we can’t do a gig now without telling those people to fuck off. The League Of Catholic Families represent only a few votes but they’re in the coalition so they’re strong. They’re conservative and they’re idiots. They read some famous Polish poetry for the Minister For Education and he could not recognise a single one.”
“He’s like our George Bush,” pipes up J?dker.
Sokó? laughs then points at me. “But hey, you are a Catholic country too and you seem to get around it...”