The Streets. Discuss.

I don’t hold with the insidious theory that making brilliant art is a young man’s game – or, in the words of Sickboy in Trainspotting, that “you have it, then you lose it”. It’s a trope that’s been with us since the beginning of rock’n’roll, dammit since the romantic poets, that idea that inspiration is intrinsically tied up with the energy of youth, that great works come like a bolt from the blue and artists are best off dying young[1] rather than chasing round in ever-decreasing circles trying to relight your creative fire the rest of your sorry life.

It’s clearly rubbish, a denial of craft and labour, put about by fantasists and advertisers and used as justification by those with a vested interest in keeping us emotionally immature and by the worst kind of poseurs for their ghastly Peter Pan antics.

But every so often, though, something I see or hear will make me think again – will make me have a flickering moment of belief in the essential white light of youthful creativity. And ‘Original Pirate Material’ is one of those things. I mean, have you heard it recently? Really heard it? Played it loud from the beginning, given it your full attention, let that utterly insane opening salvo of "Turn the Page", "Has it Come to This" and "Let’s Push Things Forward" work their magic on you? It’s arm-hair raising stuff, it really is. The false hierarchies and dreary consensus of best-ever lists is another of those things I don’t hold with, but yeah this really, really deserved to be on all those best-of-the-2000s lists, and I will gladly fight its corner against the Arctic Monkeys, Dizzee, Radiohead, Outkast, whatever you care to bring in fact.

Like almost all the best music, I didn’t really get it at first. It was tinny-sounding and clattery, where I was used to dance music’s oomph; I couldn’t work out what Skinner’s roaming accent was getting at as he slipped and slid across the rhythms, in and out of ordinary conversational cadence, lurching from sublime to ridiculous within single phrases. It was intriguing right enough, but it was impossible to shake the idea that it was all a bit contrived, an indie-weakened version of soundsystem/MC culture, or even more naggingly the idea that it was a wind-up, that this music was taking the piss out of all of us. Lines nicked from ‘Gladiator’ and talk about his Reeboks? Be serious. And then I had the epiphany.

The scene couldn’t have been set better, really. I was out in Amsterdam for eight days on my first ever magazine feature assignment – to cover a conference on Amazon shamanic practice AND a High Times convention. I’d been hanging out with psychonauts, ravers, witch doctors[2] and Dutch farmers, and experienced the best that ancient cultures and modern science had to offer; I was in a terrific mood as I was finally doing the job I’d always wanted to, and had been able to utter the immortal phrase “can I claim my ritual on expenses[3], please?” on the phone to the Face magazine office. So when someone mentioned “that new band The Streets are playing the Melkweg” I was pretty much up for it.

The DJ beforehand, a Dutchman called Big Head, was playing what was generally known as “breakstep”, a kind of funky uncle to dubstep, and I liked it so much I bought his mix CD[4]. The Streets were very late coming on, but the crowd were raving and so was I, so who cared? When they did crash onto the stage, it was a glorious disruption of the groove, their sound spiky and awkward, and from the beginning I loved it. I don’t remember a lot about the band except there was an ex-member of the Senseless Things[5] on bass, and that Skinner and his co-vocalist spent a lot of the set pushing, shoving and trying to trip one another up.

And that’s when it clicked into place: yes, this was a piss-take, but it was a deadly serious piss-take. This child-like 24-year-old was not just meandering between voices, themes and levels of seriousness; he was embodying every single one of them. He was a shaman too[6]. What was chaos and what was control became impossible to discern[7]. The only time I could remember seeing elemental clowning like this before on a stage was the Happy Mondays back in 1990, but I also recognised the spirit of so many loony rave urchins I’d been bamboozled and bantered at and had lighters stolen by over the years[8], the never-ending babble of these Shakespearean monkeys, possessed by the endless power of the English language to spin out shaggy dog stories, to make jokes of the most serious matters and suddenly turn jokes deathly serious. The films that were projected as back stories to each of the tracks matched the quotidian urban subject matter of those songs – but they, like the lyrics and the music, revealed something so much more primal beneath. And still you could dance, laugh, drink and carouse to it.

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