From The Guardian:
Aesop’s fable The Boy Who Cried Wolf concerns a young shepherd who lies to his fellow villagers about a wolf attack; when a wolf really does come along, none of the villagers believe him, and his flock is killed. The story pops into my head as I talk to Hype Williams, a pair of musicians who have cried wolf so many times that nobody knows what’s real any more – but instead of wanting to ignore them, our fascination only increases.
Dean Blunt and Inga Copeland – not their real names – have claimed various things about themselves over the three years they’ve been together. That they released music by putting USB sticks in apples and selling them in Brixton market. That they’re mates with New York rapper Cam’ron. That Inga recently tried out for Arsenal’s womens’ team. That Dean was caught robbing raccoons from taxidermists and joined the Nation of Islam. One press shot features them lurking in the background of the infamous 1997 meeting between Tony Blair and Noel Gallagher. Their name is a lie in a way – Hype Williams is already the name of a very successful rap video director. “Life’s pretty exciting – some shit is true, some stuff really does happen,” Blunt says. But there’s no telling what shit is true and what shit isn’t, a feeling enhanced by their shadowplaying music that flits between dub, rap and pop as samples stumble in, motheaten by echo.
I meet them at Heathrow as they transfer from a gig in Glasgow to Dean’s home in Lisbon. Copeland politely explains that she doesn’t talk, leaving Blunt to discuss their work. He’s vague on how they met, but it was in London after Copeland, who now lives in Estonia, moved there from Russia. After a short spell in Berlin (“the biggest coffee shop in the world; nothing happens, it’s purgatory for people who failed in their own countries”) they now meet for intense bursts of work, connected by Ryanair.
Blunt grew up in Hackney, and got by through “wheeling and dealing, and one of the wheeler deals ended up with a tape machine, and the rest is history. I didn’t go to uni at all. The world you end up in is not necessarily the one you come from. I just did what I did. I went out with a rich white girl from Islington, and she told me it was ‘fine art’.” This includes sculpture and video as well as music; he compares himself to others with a creative “affliction”. “They can’t not make stuff, and they can’t focus on anything else. I call that an affliction – it would be much better if I just got a fucking job.”
He also boxed at York Hall in Bethnal Green in east London. “Losing boxing matches, that was my income. You get paid to lose in wrestling, and it’s no different in East End boxing. I got knocked the fuck out many a time. Blame boxing – that’s why shit sounds the way it does.”
Continue reading the rest of the story at The Guardian.
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