Thursday, May 26, 2005

Here Comes the Indie

You know we don't normally fuck with (years-old) electro-acoustic, quasi-improv, avant-indie hip-ster dod-dle, but if more of it sounded like a street party in Marrakesh broadcast over a malfunctioning PA system, we might. Genuinely hectic.

Tuesday, May 24, 2005

Van Guard

It was inevitable. I saw Star Wars. 'Break me a fucking give.'

For some reason Elephant was just released here. But following Rupture - 'blogland overvalues newness' - here goes:

Elephant, like Lars von Trier’s Dogville, characterises a pared-down approach to filmmaking. Customary devices or objects are stripped away, or rather withheld, leaving us with a ‘purer’ and often more effective film surface. The films share a concern with the terms of civility and the politics of morality, but differ in their resolution of these concerns. They differ too in the forms of their presentation, in aims and function of this filmic leanness. Dogville is shot entirely on a soundstage. There are no sets, only chalk outlines indicating building and objects. The action is located in a small town, not so much resembling as representing some American backwater. The movie has, if not the feel, then the look of a (extremely well-) filmed play. von Trier offers up unadorned cinema - the exposed movement of actors on stage captured on film. He eschews embellishment - the extraneous layers of decoration, the phoney agitation – that stands between film and viewer, between meaning and reception of that meaning. Elephant bears a different sort of simplicity. There is little dialogue, no contrivance of fortune or timing, none of the recognisable set pieces or allusions we might expect in a contemporary film. But this makes it less, not more, like a movie. (Or like movies happen to be.) Gus Van Sant presents a picture of life as life, not that genre of film ‘about real life’.

Both techniques achieve a state of detachment, a conscious distance from the events in the movie. In Elephant this has a lot to do with the absence of traditional narrative forms and the pacing, the monotony and sustained uneventfulness of many of the shots (the mechanical, step-by-step process of developing a photograph; the measured stacking of books). We don’t participate in the story, anticipating the standard moves, measuring our expectations against what does transpire. (‘He didn’t get the girl. And it was a romantic comedy!’) The day unfolds like a day unfolds, and we observe. Of course we’re waiting for that inevitable horrific climax. But it’s not something that is resolved through plot – there is no build-up, no explanation or imagined rationale, no internal coherence. We don’t calculate the steps towards that point. The eruption of violence is an intrusion in the film like it is an intrusion into the ordinary day that the film presents. (Not that it is unexciting or unambiguously unpleasant to watch. Rather, there is no movement in the storyline towards the event. It is something that disrupts, or alters, the space which the film inhabits.)

The plot of Dogville in contrast is highly wrought and dramatic (what would be melodramatic, but for the film’s deliberate theatricality). Yet distance is preserved through the emphasis on the film as fiction, as a produced object: the stage, the chalk outlines and corresponding absence of realistic sets. The flow of action is broken up into chapters, and there is a narrator commenting on what transpires on stage. This distance is underscored by (and conversely, this distancing effect lends force to) the film’s allegorical character. We are outsiders looking in, but this allows us a dispassionate perspective to review, to critique, to damn.

Van Sant’s is a different notion of what it means to be an outsider. He takes this as the means and motivation not to judge, to refrain from suggestion. His film is of life, but he does not pretend that this is not life through film. Elephant follows a kind of realism, but is carefully aestheticised – those beautiful tracking shots, the wide autumnal landscapes. And he uses the workings of cinema to get closer to the subject, always aware that this is a mediated familiarity. We walk with the kids, move into their space, observe and re-observe from the angles and points of their own view. But observation is the limit of our participation. There are no standard moves in life either, this film seems to be telling us, no easy conventions of judgement and damnation. Nor do our efforts to empathise, to align ourselves in thought and experience, do very much to diminish our incomprehension. Elephant refuses to stand back and watch, and exclaim shock and indignation and righteous fury. We are observers, yes, but of life, of people; not of systems and states. And when the comforting detachments of allegory, of moral distance, the detachment from life, from real people are removed - when instead we are reminded of the unavoidable failures of empathy, that distance between ourselves - then easy, sweeping judgements start to feel a little hollow. What a masterful and apt approach this film takes to something so defiant of reason, yet so demanding of reflection, as the murder of school kids by school kids.

Friday, May 20, 2005

Bruck Heimer

I'd thought I'd become numb to all those riddims trying to appropriate 'cinematic' action thrillz, so it was with with some surprise that I found myself 1) downloading a version of the "Killer Instinct" riddim (foolishly worrying about some vague correlation between riddim name and sound, shoulda learned by now huh?) and 2) enjoying "No Tampering" riddim. "Instinct", or rather, Mitch feat. Lexxus's "When We Roll", turns out to be just the opposite of intimidating widescreen thuggery (I guess the presence of crooner Mitch should've tipped me off but still) - it's some charmingly naff hotel elevator muzak. It's the kind of summery fluff that I'm probably more tolerant of in wintertime - like the ugly shag carpet you should've gotten rid of long ago but are happy to have warming your feet right now.

Bling Dawg's "Stop Dem Talking", on the other hand (and on "No Tampering"), is a lot closer to what I'd feared - menacing atmospherics complete with synth string swoops and OTT threats (if the drama get hectic, we pull more grenade), but is saved by that fingersnappingly catchy chorus.

Tuesday, May 17, 2005

Trife Aquatic

Mad Cobra - Switch

So the best thing on Ragga Ragga Ragga 05 is a midtempo sea-shanty? Yup. Quiet majesty doesn't tear up the floor, but that's alright - think of it as the congenial, harpsichord-flecked alternative to the violent electro spazzness of Bionic Ras (BTW, if all you've heard of that one is "Spring Break", you should head to Breaking Ranks and cop Gabriel's "Lock Off Anthem", worth it for the choir intro alone).

Friday, May 13, 2005

The Unbearable Whiteness of Cleaning

Hectic makes you smart! Before you get too excited, read Dale ‘Rick Moody is the worst writer of his generation’ Peck’s excellent slash-up of Star Wars.

Anyway, while the management discuss our electrifying new format, there’s still room for us lowly hacks to spin out a bit of incendiary politix.

A few months ago, I was walking down the Durban waterfront with two similarly complexioned companions (I’m guessing my white-maleness is less than entirely concealed in these posts). A blonde surfer dude stopped us and, with conspiratorial nod and no attempt to his hide his distaste, asked if the beaches we had past were ‘all black’. Now I’m not sure how much this says about the guy’s character as a person – growing up in this country does some funny things to you. But I resented the easy assumption that we were on the same side, that we were in this thing together (whatever thing he had constructed in his head. The Durban beachfront has evolved – depending who you talk to - into a vibrant family paradise, a black wasteland, or something in between). The political manipulation of identity has a rich and varied history in South Africa. So perhaps I was offended by the sheer prosaicness of the comments, the numbingly suburban alliance of white people getting together to share their panic and indignation at the black folk. (No, I was offended because the guy was a stupid fuck.)

But things are changing. Not too long ago I noticed in one of those multi-page glossy ads those big stores use to clog up our print media (this one was for, I think, Makro or Game) models wearing the latest in that quintessential South African fashion piece, the maid’s uniform. (Is there any other outfit that so explicitly designates the wearer’s social position? But I’m getting ahead of myself). Something was different though: one of the models was a white woman (a white man may have transgressed people’s sensibilities just a little too much). Never mind that this was a glib gesture of social responsibility by cynical ad people (I’m just bitter because they won’t give me money), this profound little moment in SA cultural history should not have passed unnoticed.

But why should this image be so arresting? A lot has changed over the last ten years. The distribution of wealth is shifting (markedly, if painfully slowly). The trappings of upward mobility attach themselves to all sections of the population. The demotion of the formerly privileged (the perceived flipside of promoting the ‘previously disadvantaged’) is similarly an unremarkable, if not a necessary, phenomenon.

Look closer at the composition of the outfit. Two features stand out. First – at least in the caricature of the popular imagination (a la Madam & Eve), complete with oversized apron, full-length domestic overall and headscarf –is the effect of exaggerated utility. What the hell are domestic workers made to do? (Vacuuming at nine, dusting with active uranium at ten…) The point is that the outfits are clearly and specifically for work. There is no risk that the wearer be mistaken for an ordinary member of the household. (You have to be careful when you take these people into your home, you know.) The wearer is marked out as employee, there to serve. She may spend her time in your home, probably she lives there (sort of), but she at least bears the insignia of service. Maybe that will halt her assimilation into the home. And the uniform is not neutral. The wearer is not broadly placed as some provider of service, a commissioned broker of goods. She is not your doctor or your lawyer. See the apron, the prominent feather duster: she carries the ignoble gear of manual labour; she cleans my oven and dusts my shelves. Strilli Oppenheimer is teaching her gardeners tai chi, but she might do better to give them pin-stripe suits.

The uniform is loaded with another significance. The white lady seemed out of place because we are unused to seeing white people in marginal employment. But let’s not exaggerate this claim. As noted, the economy is changing, and it is a dubious facility to be alarmed or especially surprised at the sight of a white beggar or a black person driving a Mercedes. (With reference, of course, to race. Perhaps you are alarmed at the sight of anyone performing either of these activities.) And there never was anything specifically unusual about the sight of anyone brandishing items of genuine utility. Looking at images of a white guy wearing hardhat/welding goggles/surgical gloves is unlikely to produce any great astonishment. Neither is a more affected uniform certain to be notable. An image of a white woman in a French Maid’s outfit may be provocative, but not for reasons considered here. Rather, the South African maids outfit denotes, or is that is too strong a quality, is closely associated with, ‘Africanicity’ or simply with Africans. For the sake of this post, I had hoped for an easy correlation – long overall denotes Venda blanket, doek in imitation of Xhosa headdress – but this seems unlikely. In fact, I’m unconvinced that there is any obvious connection. But there does seem something intentionally agricultural, perhaps ‘primitive’, in the get up. As if the maid has been plucked from a tribal village, her dress pleasantly civilized, and given respectable employment in a respectable home. Perhaps this is a little excessive. But it is undeniable that to most people (of all races) the maid’s uniform is something naturally associated with Africans (read: with black people). In fact, my notion that there might be some hidden link between ethnic and domestic dress might derive from little more than this deeply ingrained association. Perhaps the outfit is not modelled on the traditional but, like in the eighties burning tyre was to flaming spear, has been acculturated into the indigenous. (Traditional African artefacts: beads, Moropa, Omo.)

One of Apartheid’s more despicable achievements was the distortion of identity. Note that the effect of the maid’s outfit was not merely to mark out the black person as submissive, but also to mark out the submissive person as black. It’s unlikely there was a conscious effort to create the image of African woman fulfilling her traditional duty through cleaning Madam’s house. But this is what inevitably emerged from a culture in which the link between servitude and race was constantly emphasised. Or rather, poverty and servitude were artfully pushed out of the picture. Your role, your social function, was not simply affected by your race – it was overwhelmed by racial considerations to the point where other considerations of self were clouded over. If you were black and exploited, you fought for the liberation of black people. A white drudge with an abusive boss lobbied for more unity within the volk. Apartheid’s supreme accomplishment was to blur the natural divisions of class, replacing them the fault lines of race.

It is a shame to see the present government exploiting these false alliances. Because of our history, the vocabulary of race is legitimate and indispensable. Reforming distortions of the kind that exist here requires clear reference to the racial composition of society, and remedial action based on these terms of reference. And it is necessary to identify and categorise individuals in terms of race if the previous travesties of category are to be corrected (i.e. racial distinction is, in terms of the corrective action we must take, at least as real as it was previously made to be). Affirmative action is not only defensible, it is vital. At the face of it then, ‘Black Empowerment’ seems like a noble and legitimate gesture. But it is a sham. Government’s much-vaunted ‘sound macroeconomic principles’ are well and good if you happen to be a sound microeconomic individual. If, like the majority of the population, you live in poverty and squalor, these principles are small comfort. Why should a person in these circumstances support the government? Because he is black, and the government is empowering black people. The BEE debate is often distorted by jealousy or bitterness (not to mention those relics incredulous at the thought of a financially astute African). As individuals, are the new billionaires deserving of their cash? It’s not a bad question. Certainly no reasonable observer would argue that Sexwale, Ramaphosa or Macozoma are – by the standards of liberal economic orthodoxy – unworthy of their achievements. These are some of the sharpest, most capable, most charismatic leaders, who have used their acumen and connections to stunning effect. That is what the finest business people do. But of course we must be constantly vigilant, with the multitude of new entrepreneurs and various openings for corruption and incompetence. My purpose in this statement of the obvious is to demonstrate how easily details can bog us down, and distract us from questions of principle. If there are white billionaires, then there damn well better be black billionaires. But do we want any billionaires?

That last question is one we ought to be asking more often. But I will leave it open. My central point is related to, but not about, economics. In emphasising its economic actions in terms of ‘blackness’, the government is obfuscating natural class divisions. ‘Black Economic Empowerment’ is a sham not because its actions are illegitimate or that it empowers the wrong people. Within a certain theoretical frame of reference it does all these things – in principle – very well. But it distorts this reference. Government wants you to think that if you are jobless and starving and without access to lifesaving drugs you are being taken care of. There is an aggressive policy of black empowerment, thus, states the equation in its most basic form, you are being empowered because you are black. This is a lie. Because principally – in terms of civic action, in terms of real life relevance, in terms of life and death – you are no longer black, you are poor. And the poor are being screwed. It’s time for the working and unemployed classes to assert their identity. It’s time to refuse to be spoken for under the mantle of ‘blackness’. It’s time to demand the empowerment of the poor.

The revolution is coming. We’re here to give it a hot soundtrack.

Signal Processing

D Double E - D Double Signal

Best speech impediment rapper... ever? Who else is even in the running? I mean AZ's slight slur is hardly his selling point, but that lisp is the crucial bit of noise in the D Double sig-uh-nal. D EE doesn't do much here lyrically but boast about originality, and since he doesn't have to try any harder for it to sound terrific, it makes the point rather clearly. If you insist on close-listening, it does turn out that there are "Newham" rhyme possibilites yet unexplored (through 'im/knew 'em/re-do 'em), but really if there's a lyrical conceit here I like it's the treatment of flow as miraculous, society-improving discovery, with all the surrounding comic book-backpage acme wonderwords - the new creation across the nation. Putting aside the lyricals, the track's built on all kind of churning, growling, industrial (like, as in the sounds heavy machines make and stuff) fx, with and the occasional thing going backwards and tick-tock hi-hats keeping time, but it's those hard, hard drums that lift it above a Def Jux-esque muddle.

Thursday, May 12, 2005

Come to Daddy Yankee

Tofu Hut's epic blogroll has us sorted under "hip-hop and reggae-ton" (though I'd like to think we're a little more eclHectic), which is rather prescient considering I've been wanting to post our first reggaeton entry for a while now:

Daddy Yankee - Machette

I promise I didn't reverse-engineer this from the post heading pun, (I'm already worried enough that what we've got here is just thinly-veiled "Timbaland sounds like Mouse on Mars!" lameness) , but Machette's hyperactive toms and vaguely melancholy pitched synths sounds something to me like a thrilling improvement on Aphex Twin's merely uncomfortably twitchy "Analord" acieeed death-spams. The sadness in my headphones might just be a testament to how lazily accustomed I've become to 'electronica' emotionalism (one-finger minor keys over drum beat, check) but if you're the type who forces poignancy onto vocal gunshot emulations (evidently I am), then this is your shit (otherwise you're probably better off with DJ Buddha's "Gasolina" remix).

Monday, May 09, 2005

johannesburg, enlightened city

Fix Up, Look Sharper

Okay, so some people (like that nice Mr. Rupture) have noticed that Hectic's mix of pointed (occasionally weighty!) local social commentary and zippy (occasionally glib!) international-pop blurbs is perhaps a little uneasy. We at Hectic have heard your cries, and we're working towards some kind of integrated format. For today though, you'll have to make do with the latter.

The Mitchell Brothers - Harvey Nicks (Feat. Mike Skinner and Sway)

Well, okay, I'll give this unified material thing a go anyway - at a stretch, "Harvey Nicks" is sort of about racial profiling and the invasiveness of security culture. But what it's more about is remembering (in the age of the gangsta monodrawl) how funny rap can be, sometimes in the knowing lousiness of its execution - a phrase turned around in just the right way, an awkwardly stressed syllable, an adopted accent - the attention to detail that a "Grand Don't Come for Free" mostly used instead to portray a kind of wearied exhaustion and mild paranoia. So yeah, Tony and Teddy Mitchell are the first signees to Mike Skinner's label, "The Beats" (the name of which makes this obvious pun fan very happy), and what we've heard from them thus far sounds a lot like... The Streets. At their (his?) noveltiest. I didn't much go for "Routine Check", maybe it's the prickliness of this that gets my attention: trapped-wasp buzz, EVIL SYNTH (my fave) (in fact, look out for a Hectic Special dedicated to the topic sometime in the future) and airy handclaps. But what goes on top of that is what has me rewinding (and re-smiling) again and again: that whole extended overall riff ("Overall, All over, overalls don't work"), Sway (who I didn't think much of at all until this, which turns out to be a really good vehicle for his corniness - "Even when I'm just tryin' it on, they think I'm tryin' it on"), and even Skinner's mini-rant at the end - "I'm all about Selfridges man, Selfridges".

Saturday, May 07, 2005

FUCK THE POLICE

[Don’t panic because you see words. More music to follow. Just ignore this post and look for those nice little links to the tunes.]


… is still not something that any reasonable South African could say. To be a cop in SA is still among the most thankless, difficult and dangerous jobs there are. Just today, the Saturday Star - in a new low even for that dirty rag – printed on its front page a photograph of the hysterically distressed 23-year-old widow of Constable Johan Slabbert – the latest of the many police murdered in the line of duty – standing by her dead husband’s coffin. To the editors and management of the Saturday Star: Fuck you. That picture is not for public consumption – when did private grief become a public commodity? Have the public grown weary of national crises, of the suffering masses? Would you have put a story about yet another murdered policeman on your front page if not for the striking, chilling, sensational photograph with which to accompany it? Aids orphans not pulling in readers anymore? And what business does a junk tabloid – for long will you pretend still to be a real newspaper? – have in dealing with real human issues. Fuck you. Print all the shallow, lurid, sensational trash you want - but realise you have lost the privilege of declaring any moral position, of possessing any moral role or status. If Independent Newspapers feels it good for business to run a tabloid, they’re probably right. (A reality the daily Star is every day less abashedly embracing.) But to peddle shock, moral indignation (of the most reactive, unthinking kind), and sordid speculation as serious news and analysis is unforgivable.

After that diatribe, what I was going to say next – the reason I began this post in the first place – feels at some level petty and improper. But I do think it is important and valid, so I’ll go ahead. But I will try to constrain my tone.

Not long ago the Hectic Kru were pulled over by Jozi’s finest. Cars and bodies were searched. Admittedly, we were acting a little shifty, and it was not unreasonable to think we might be up to some form of no good. The cops were extremely professional and courteous. But when I asked whether I could refuse the search, I was told that this is not a right that I have. Apparently section something or other of some act (how is it that we know nothing about these things? Is it just our ignorance? Do the authorities have some obligation to keep us informed? Is this information easy to get hold of?) gives the police the right to search civilians without consent, even if there is no reasonable evidence of a crime committed or intended. If this is correct, that is disturbing. If it is not, it is disturbing that the police feel confident to make the assertion. The fact is, in the majority of cases you are powerless to prevent a police search of your personal property.

Most local readers will be familiar with the spate of police raids over the last few months of clubs and bars. Again, the cops file in and search through your stuff. I always assumed that you were entitled to refuse a personal search. When I asked (yeah, I should probably learn to keep my mouth shut) I was told by a senior-looking officer that as they had a warrant for the premises, the police were allowed to forcibly search through my pockets and personal effects. Could this possibly be true? I doubt it – perhaps some vintage statutes make these kinds of allowances, but surely it’s unconstitutional and shit. (dang, why didn’t I study law?) But if it is, the implications are outrageous: by entering a public venue, you are incriminated, or become an object of legally mandated suspicion. Privately choosing to enter a public space is sufficient provision of probable cause to make permissible a violation of your individual privacy. If this is not in fact the case – and I pray that it isn’t – then the police are consistently and flagrantly abusing their power and misinforming the public.

On the one hand we have Metro Cops straightforwardly asking for bribes. No more hinting, no euphemisms about ‘spot fines’ – just plain, shameless demands for money. On the other hand, we have the national police with their tough new professional take-no-prisoners attitude. (I tried to buy a couple of quarts the other night from my local Louis Botha tavern. The doorman wouldn’t let me take them out because of the new crackdown on these kinds of bylaws. In the end, I was forced to bribe him with Black Labels.) On the genuinely – traumatically - mean streets of Jozi, we were at least assured of the absence of petty-minded authority and harassment (in the privileged environs of the suburbs, anyway. more on that next post). Given the genuine mandate to get serious on crime, and the assurance of overwhelming public support for just about any venture in that direction, the government has exercised remarkable, and commendable, restraint in the deployment of it’s security apparatus. The government has chosen not to impose upon civil liberties excessively – despite how this would bolster authority and control, and despite the fact that there is enormous scope to spew all manner of apparent validation. The government is frequently criticised for being defensive about crime figures. What is overlooked is how they are refusing to incite panic, to play up to our fears, and use this to legitimise an entrenchment of centralised authority and reduced personal liberties.

Now I’ve got to admit that a bit of ‘broken windows’ style policing isn’t the worst thing that could happen to Joburg. Not only is crime no joke, it’s starkly, deathly serious. And this is why there is the suspicion of pettiness, the apparent taint of selfish privilege (‘why can’t I just smoke my joint in peace? Go find some real criminals. I pay your salaries’), when we start to query the methods of criminal prevention. (And if they get serious about enforcing intellectual property legislation, well we’re pretty fucked then, aren’t we…). But we really ought to ask some hard questions before we dumbly accept the Giulianification of our city. Firstly, is this effective? Will lives be saved, will society be improved, by the restriction of our personal and public freedoms. If so, is it worth the price? Perhaps. But let us be very clear what is at stake. For example, they’ve now toughened up on enforcing drug legislation. If they catch you with a bag of weed, or a gram of coke, you spend the night in jail. If this happens at night, you’re pretty fucked. You have to see a magistrate or go through some kind of official process (Ah blogs! No editor, no research, no rigour) before they let you out. Is this really the kind of society we wish to live in? Is it going to reduce violence (in this country more about social dislocation than poverty) to criminalise stupid kids? Do we want and deserve a society of overreaching authority, reduced personal expression, institutionalised fear, official panic and sanctioned state suspicion? Are we going to accept this silently?

And thank you, sincerely, to the thousands of underpaid, overworked policemen and women who daily risk their lives (non-SA readers may not appreciate the terrible truthfulness of that seemingly overworked phrase. Local cops routinely find themselves under fire in the line of duty. It is a horrific, unspeakably hazardous, unbearably demanding vocation) on our behalf.

Friday, May 06, 2005

Milk, Shake

Ghostface feat. Trife - Milk 'Em

I didn't expect the next in the Grindin heritage to come from Ghostface - after hearing about that planned MF Doom collab, I thought he'd committed himself to those full, rich soul beats that he always sounded best on anyway. Not that this is anywhere as lean or sharp as a Trackmasters joint, and it's still weird enough to bear the faint mark of the Wu - the interpolation of "You Are My Sunshine" is kinda inexplicable (and thank goodness Ghost didn't sing it himself) - but when Pretty Toney's lone club track (Tush) didn't get synths, this is at least a mild shock.

And since it's been a lean week, here's some post-Kanye chipmunk vocal booty bounce from Fannypack - one of my favourite singles of the year, and if you're too real to fuck with this, it's your loss.

Fannypack - You Gotta Know

Tuesday, May 03, 2005

Murk Ethic

Lady Fury - Shystie Diss

Shystie (ft. Lady Fury's Mum) - Murderation

I had on the original version of "One Wish" the other day, listening to the verse that apologizes to the victims of gun violence and the chorus that claims that you can't possibly understand it if you don't live it, and pondering the complicated relationship between empathy and excuse, alienation and atonement. Then I heard this "Murderation" diss record, which is so grossly, uncompromisingly, devastatingly (and, yeah, satisfyingly) mean that I forgot about all that. It's the first time in a loooong time that a song has made me feel dirty and uncomfortable (the already-infamous Ying Yang "Whisper" song is just kind of bluntly ugly in comparison, sub-human females wallowing in sub-bass, as ultimately outrageous as The Man Show ). The Fury first-strike is almost playground mean, while Shystie's is straight abject (in that theory-ish Lacan/Kristeva/look-I'm-smart sense) - stained knickers, discharge, used tampons: REAL unmentionables. The gut-churningness is in the details: besides the specificity of the family slander (and the authenticity of the phone message), it's the hallucinogenic realism of the Sidewinder flashback that perhaps cuts deepest. On a completely tangential note, it's a pity we've lost Shystie to the UKHH contingent, though we'll always have the remixes (anyone have the Davinche'd-up "Make it Easy" btw?). And anyway, as far as this one goes, I don't think we've a grime tune as straight purposeful as "Lean Back".