The word on The Streets

I should be the happiest Streets fan-cum-journalist in the world. It’s a gloriously sunny Saturday in April and I’m on a bus, deep in the bowels of County Meath, en route to meet Mike Skinner. The two year-awaited follow-up album has been couriered to Hot Press in preparation for the interview and the appropriate paranoia/hype surrounding the globally-synchonized release has been established. But in my less-than-professional state of mind, just looking at the headphones hurts my head.

I press play, knowing that I can pass at one least one of the five hours that lie ahead, and the journey to Derry takes a totally unexpected turn – far from the Bus Eireann upholstery and the seemingly looped landscape of sheep-dotted hills and generic church-pub-and-funeral-director towns, far from my hangover… I am transported deep into the world of Mike Skinner.
And it’s an entertaining, sometimes familiar place to be. From his bedroom to the pub, from the bookmakers to the club; through his tripped-out highs and gutteral lows; from lazy Saturdays to package-deal holidays; from the kebab shop queues to the untimely hangovers; broken hearts, broken TVs, fucked up phones and insufficient funds… It’s the most compelling, laugh-out-loud story I’ve ever heard through headphones. In fact, if it weren’t for my contract with Warners, I’d have everyone on that doomed bus enjoying it too. And while I’ve vowed never to let any living organism overhear the advance copy recording, my hotpress travelling partner, inadvertently subjected to the spill from my headphones, seems to concur – A Grand Don’t Come For Free is a work of genius.
After several more spins and a well-rested night, I am prepared to meet the genius himself. In the current media frenzy that has the pint-wielding Mike Skinner gracing magazine covers across the UK, it would seem that hotpress would have followed suit. Take the wild Brummie boy out for a great Irish bender, load him up with Guinness and hit the world-famous clubbing circuit of Derry. Not surprisingly, he’s done that all on his own.
I meet Mike Skinner in the somewhat Spartan conditions of his Portakabin dressing room at Prehen Fields – the muddy (yet still sunny) site of the BBC One Big Weekend festival. The Fred Perry shirt, the blue jeans and white runners – they’re all there, but the visibly tired, frequently yawning and slightly distracted man inside them bears little resemblance to my mind’s image of the lager-lager, loose-lipped lad on record. But more on Crazy Mike later.
Hungover? Possibly, but anxiety more likely. This is the last of Skinner’s press duties before The Streets play to an audience of 10,000 and a live radio broadcast reaching an extra 10 million. You could say that the 25 year-old is feeling the pressure of the Second Coming. So he immediately tells me when I congratulate him on the album. Apparently the reaction so far has been ‘good’.
“I think I always try to do things differently and you have to kind of put yourself out there a bit,” he says. “It feels a bit risky to not do things in the same way as you did it last time. But I think the risk paid off… So far anyway,” he adds.
Is today the first live airing of your new material?
“No we did a few showcase gigs in Europe, but this will be really the first UK gig – are we in the UK here? Is that OK to say?” he inquires with the nearby photographer, who tells him that the republic is “about three miles that way”. “Yeah,” he continues, “this will be the first one on ‘these little islands that we live in’, where I’m playing new songs.”
Skinner may not have pinpointed the geo-political sensitivities of his every movement, but the fleeting exchange seems to represent the inherent appeal of The Streets – a type of gritty geezer gospel that is at once acutely personal but socially conscious, thoroughly British, yet globally aware.
With his genre-busting debut, Skinner found success in such foreign lands as Brazil, Japan and Australia. It even broke durable ground in America. I ask Skinner how the very British nature of Original Pirate Material went down on his three US tours.
“I think we do tend to attract people who are already into the idea of being British,” he says. “It’s funny, I was chatting to the drummer from The Darkness the other day and we were talking about America and stuff and The Streets sells really well in the big cities – in the quite internationally-minded places like New York, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Chicago. And the guy from The Darkness was saying that it’s the opposite for them. They don’t sell in the cities, they sell right out in the… [trails off as he looks out to window to the distant fields]”
“I don’t think we’re ever gonna get out there,” he says matter-of-factly. “I don’t think there’s any desire for them to hear my story. As you get out of the cities it just gets very American, in the same way as London – which has got more in common with New York than New York has with some other little town, or London has with Derry.”

Skinner’s speech is slow and meandering, his words are carefully chosen. It’s a far cry from the rapid-fire delivery of his lyrical communicae. No one that hears his records could doubt his intelligence and perception, but it doesn’t always come across in the all-too-common questions of the ‘what is your favourite drink/drug/swear word’ variety. No doubt his fellow Derry clubbers caught a glimpse of Crazy Mike the previous night, but today I meet with Mike Skinner the artist. And he’s willing to take the notoriety of his geezer alter-ego but whatever you do, don’t call Mike Skinner a wanker.
That’s why Skinner seems to wince when A Grand Don’t Come For Free is described as a ‘concept album’: “I think it probably is but I think the words ‘concept album’ just sound arrogant, or pretentious. And I don’t think it’s a pretentious album. It is kind of one story…” he trails off.
“I like songs referencing each other. I think it happens in a lot in other music and it all goes to make the thing stand as one. I suppose I just got carried away with it,” he says with a smile. “It kind of took on a life of it’s own. I don’t believe in planning things too much… although I do think about it.”
And it’s an understatement he’s well aware of. Admitting that he is a “massive perfectionist”, it’s been two years since unleashing OPM and aside from the tours that followed, he’s been working on the follow-up ever since.
“I can honestly say that it took me two years to make the album because I wasn’t wasting time,” he says. “There’s a lot of detail in that album and there are a lot of things that were rewritten and changed and two years was how long it took.
“Really the way I write is by recording,” he explains. “I write things down on paper, but with most of it, I’m recording and re-recording every day.”
Indeed, little has changed in the creative process for the singer-songwriter-producer. He may have sold millions of copies of Original Pirate Material but Skinner still approaches his craft with the same passionate bedroom professionalism.
“I’ve got my little flat in London,” he says. “And it’s a better flat than I used to live in but when I’m on my own, in my bedroom with the computer, that’s the same world that I’ve always been in all my life. Everything else in my life has changed but that process will never change. It’s just me and the four walls, and I’ve still gotta write the best song I can write.”
You can trace the inter-track referencing back to OPM. What makes the ‘concept album’ are the eleven interwoven ‘episodes’ that develop like a feature-length film – mixing characterization with a stream-of-conscious narrative and a sharp eye for the minutae.
Stylistically, it’s almost an audio equivalent of Human Traffic or Trainspotting. “Yeah, I do watch a lot of films,” he says thinking about my references. “There weren’t really a lot of things I could draw from in doing the kinda thing that I was doing so a lot of my influences came through films. I really like twists. I like The Sixth Sense, The Usual Suspects… I really like twists.”
Did Skinner realize that it would have the overall effect of a musical? “Yeah but I did try and stay away from it being a novelty. I tried to do it in a way that was honest and down to earth.”
There’s that word ‘honest’ again. Like OPM, A Grand Don’t Come for Free is very much grounded at street level – whether the mandatory passing car that drives straight through the nearby puddle or Skinner’s real-life experiences with gambling and epilepsy.
“It’s a story and I wrote it as a story, but everything in it really is coming from something that’s happened,” he says. “I think in a way it is autobiographical, there’s a lot of me in it. It’s very personal and they are my opinions and my experiences and outlook, but I’ve just kind of rearranged it and left other bits out. You know I never write a song about writing songs, and writing songs is the biggest part of my life by far. So I never write about that.”
And other things are off-limits. Although Simone, the love interest, makes for one of this writer’s highlights in ‘Get Out of My House’ (courtesy of Nottingham based rapper C-Mone), Skinner is quick to point out that the hilarious trouble-in-paradise moment has no biographical basis in his long-term relationship.
“It bears no reference to my real personal life,” he says seriously. “There’s no way I would drag my real problems into full view of everyone, but there have been moments in my life very similar to that,” he adds with a smile.
In fact, the record has all the elements of a great story: love, crime, betrayal, action and substance abuse. It’s nothing that will shock seasoned OPM ears, but did Skinner encounter any resistance to the drug references in his lyrics?
“I think I do it in a way that respects people’s intelligence,” he says. “I’m not here to educate people or to set any kind of example. That’s not what my job is. My job is to make stuff that’s exciting and interesting and fun. And I’ve never really had a backlash from the media because I think essentially I’m telling it how it is and people know that.”
As he says this, the thunderous crowd can be heard from the nearby tent. “I mean have you seen the amount of drugs people are doing out there? It’s just unbelievable. Drugs are just so… big.”

It’s twenty minutes ‘til showtime and there’s still no sign of Crazy Mike. Even the mystery regarding the abandoned Chris Martin collaboration yields little in the way of tabloid-style scoop.
“He was very focused, very inspired, an absolute professional,” he says as if reading from Chris Martin’s report card. “I don’t think I’ve ever worked with a vocalist who – you know, we’ve got the song already ‘Dry Your Eyes’ – but the actual job really took about ten minutes. He just stood there and instantly made a really emotional performance. I mean we only recorded it twice, you’ll never hear what it will sound like because it’s never gonna come out but it was moving, you know.”
According to Skinner, the decision to pull the track was made by Chris Martin’s label – but he doesn’t know why. There go the “Martin Slams Skinner For Knocking Up Gwyn” headlines.
Does Skinner envisage any other collaborations in the future? “I do like working on my own and really getting close to the story so I tend to work with vocalists rather than writing or full collaborations.”
There is no one in the hip hop world that you would ever want to work with? “No not really,” he says surprising even himself. “There’s a lot of people that I respect but that doesn’t mean I want to work with them. What I do is very different and very individual.”
After much consideration, Skinner offers up his ‘dream collaborator’ as Jimi Hendrix.
So, pushing ahead with the, shall we say, lighter line of questioning, what’s the best way to spend a grand? “Before I was doing The Streets, if I’d have had a grand I would have spent it on music and bettering myself in some way, but now I’m quite successful I can afford to not be so precious about it and have fun with money.”
So Mike, what’s the best way to have fun with money? “Gosh,” he says looking outside to the fields of Derry, “We’re actually going to Ibiza, later in the year, we’re renting a house for the week and the whole band is coming.”
And there it is – just as he’s saved by the cellular bell. Five trips to Ibiza sounds more like the Mike Skinner I know on record.
“I like Ibiza,” he says almost defensively. “I think people always pull out the quotes of me talking about drugs and drink and stuff, but Ibiza is a really beautiful place. Have you been to Ibiza? [interviewer shakes head] For all the images you have in your head of all these nightclubs and people getting wasted, it’s actually a really beautiful island… As well as people getting wasted,” he adds with a smile.
“I don’t know why I went there really the first time, I suppose it was curiosity. And I was expecting Ministry of Sound-package hell but it was beautiful as well.”
So the pissed-at-3am-in-the-kebab-shop scenario that you paint so well in ‘Fit But You Know It’ is purely fictional? “Oh I don’t indulge in any of that,” Skinner smiles. “I’m not that kinda guy. I sit on the beach all week.”
Although reluctant to pass Crazy Mike the mic, Skinner does seem to take offense to my use of the word ‘caricature’ to describe his hilarious homage to Brits-on-tour.
“I’m not really taking the piss out of people ‘cause in a way I kind of am that… but yeah I kind of am taking the piss… but not totally. Whenever I go to Ibiza that is what we do,” he says finally.
So what’s your average day in Ibiza? “Waking up late, with a hangover, sitting on the beach and getting burnt… and then starting all over again. But it’s not like I’m saying ‘This is great’, that’s just what it’s like,” he adds.

In January 2002 Mike Skinner was a 22-year-old unknown from Birmingham. By the end of that year, Original Pirate Material had rated highly in every respectable critic’s Album Of The Year list. And not just on “these little islands”.
While Skinner enjoys the obvious travel perks of the job, he also admits to the downsides of celebrity. “The scale of some things is just really scary and intimidating, I do understand why some artists go a bit mad sometimes.”
“I suppose the big one is the pressure that you’ve got to continue being good because the whole world’s watching you. It’s like if you fuck up, you really fuck up and that’s at the front of every artist’s mind. That basic insecurity of not wanting to fuck up in public.”
Almost on cue, the distant crowd erupts into an almighty roar. “Aside from that it’s hard to discipline yourself,” he continues. “You have to discipline yourself to not go off the rails and be partying all the time.”
“I’m lucky because the most important part of my life is making the next record better than the last one and that never changes. But I find that if I’m drunk I can’t do that. I would never drink at work in the same way that my mate who’s a carpenter, he don’t get pissed on the job. It’s not acceptable. So as long as I’ve got that work life that isn’t a party I will never go off the rails.”
The only exception – as anyone who’s seen The Streets perform live will attest – is the onstage party. The rhymes and the brandy they do flow. “I think if I was gonna do touring seriously I’d have to stop drinking ‘cause it would kill me. I don’t do much touring but when we do it’s just a bit of fun. We don’t really take it very seriously.”
Skinner works hard and parties hard, and in between he “walks the tightrope of street cred”. He’s a talented artist who wants to be taken seriously – that his content draws from his personal life is entirely consequential. And for all the drug references, Skinner insists that there’s more to his music than pills and pot.
“Drugs do feature heavily because drugs are a feature of our lives. But I don’t write songs about drugs and I think that’s the important thing, that there’s a story to them. I mean, in ‘Wouldn’t Have It Any Other Way’, even though I must mention spliffs about a hundred times in that song it’s a love song. The spliff just happens to be there and in most people I know the spliff is there most of the time anyway. So it just becomes another part of the picture. As long as I’m not putting it in there for the sake of it then it doesn’t piss people off.
And, as Skinner is acutely aware, the same goes for his Crazy Mike media image.
“When you go back to your office you’ll listen to this tape the bits where I say ‘I do drugs everyday’ – in bold print that’s gonna make people pick the magazine up. That’s good copy and I understand that. I become a character, I become Crazy Mike who drinks too much and does loads of drugs. But that’s cool, it helps me sell records as well.”

It’s ten minutes ‘til showtime and Crazy Mike finally gets a look in. The hotpress photographer is scanning the rider for props, passing up the cheap-red-wine-in-plastic-cup look for a banana, which Mike aims at the camera like a pistol-wielding gangster.
And for the record his favourite drink is not Stella: “My drink of choice is actually Kronenberg,” he informs me, “I’d like to be sponsored by them.”
Outside, Crazy Mike pretends to wank off to a copy of Hot Press – the one with Uma Thurman on the front. I ask how he feels about being a sex symbol himself? “Oh absolutely not,” says Skinner. “I think I’m honest… I guess I make quite good tunes.”

[photography: Liam Sweeney]