PINE OF THE TIMES
by Ben Willmott
He's the MU-ZIQ man, and his brand of leftfield electronica attracts duffle
coat-clad geeks the world over. MIKE PARADINAS might have a propensity for
blowing up machinery but he sure ain't rock'n'roll. Is he techno's brightest
hope or just another mouse potato computer nerd?
The image flashes through our brains, and given Mike Paradinas' reputation
for catastrophes, it's not too unreasonable to assume something limb-
severing, head-mashing or generally life-threatening is about to happen.
We've already shoved poor Mike, or Mu-Ziq as the record buying public know
him best, onto the rickety fire escape of our downtown hotel, where he
wobbled uneasily several hundred feet above a very nasty concrete floor. Then
made him pose by a pine effect Cadillac (because the new Mu-Ziq album is
called 'In Pine Effect') before we realise it's conveniently parked outside
a crack house.
And now this. A chewed-up, graffiti-ridden automobile that looks like it
catapulted straight off Brooklyn Bridge and onto this rubbish-strewn
Manhattan bay beach. As Mike clambers over what's left of its crinkled and
crushed roof, he begins to wobble again. It's not the best time to notice a
ragged bit of very sharp and particularly poisonous-looking metal sticking up
from the wreckage, just about exactly where Paradinas' baggily attired arse
will plonk itself if he loses balance. It's cover those eyes in horror time.
Again.
To say Mike Paradinas' relationship with luck is tempestuous is like
describing New York as a quiet seaside town. Being one of British techno's
most inventive and prolific upstarts is evidently an invitation for the
heavens to dump their worst fortune on this most unfortunate 23-year-old.
Many of the Paradinas palavers have already become techno folklore - his
Phoenix Festival appearance, say, which ended after two and half songs when
Megadog's big top decided to split, sending cascades of water on to some
exceedingly expensive equipment. Elsewhere he's lost entire set-ups through
condensation, discovered allergies to Brazil nuts and almost died and been
stranded onstage nodding away unawares ten minutes into the next DJ's set.
Hell, he even incurred the legal wrath of the Kettle Chip empire for calling
his last EP 'Salsa With Mesquite'.
And he's hardly yer traditional, large-living, image-conscious dance icon
like Andrew Weatherall (who recently described Mike as techno's brightest
hope) or Goldie, who shake off such setbacks with cheeky grins and big
mouths. He may share his middle-parted hairdo with one of The Chemical
Brothers, but he's as far removed from that new breed of techno-cum-
rock'n'roll lad about town as Brooklyn is from his native Wimbledon.
His ascendance to serious cult status, from his widely lauded but notoriously
difficult to find first two albums (1993's 'Tango 'N' Vectif' and 'Bluff
Limbo' the following year), to his split with original band partner Francis
Naughton, his LP of "cheeky" tunes as Jake Slazenger and a deal with Virgin,
contains no tales of illegal substance-related abandon, no indie mates (he's
never even met The Auteurs, despite doing a remix LP for them) and certainly
no TV's through hotel windows. The destruction that follows in Paradinas'
wake is purely and inevitably accidental.
"It's because I actually play live," sighs Mike, his pre-gig nerves flaring
in the bar of our Manhattan hotel, "I don't know anybody else, apart from
Orbital, who actually plays live - so things break down. Water falls on
equipment and it blows up. It's only then that people realise it's not all on
tape. It annoys me because I could just play it off a tape, bop up and down
behind a bank of keyboards and play a really kicking set. Instead, it's a bit
of a fucking hassle."
So why put yourself through such torment?
"It's good publicity," he says in coolly candid mode, "it gets your name
around, it sells records and it keeps people happy. But my records are better
because that's exactly how I want the music to be."
It's a blunt admission, but as Mike says, that traditionally indie technique
of touring your way to success has become a pre-requisite for the new techno
clan. The Aphex Twin did, at least until he didn't have to, and Orbital,
Underworld and The Chemical Brothers all owe at least part of their Top Ten
victories to conquering live arenas nationwide.
Paradinas' distaste for onstage shenanigans seems more a symptom of a year
spent in airports and badly air-conditioned hotels, or chasing round foreign
cities looking for obscure bits of equipment than natural grumpiness.
He seems hyperacitve but dazed as he hurriedly assembles a set list list,
genuinely perplexed by the fuss people make of him - he thinks his obsessive
fans are "sad" and is dubious about the entertainment value of watching him
"pushing a mouse around."
"In San Francisco I got circled by trainspotters while I was playing," he
relates incredulously. "They actually had duffle coats and notebooks. And
apparently, there's a Mu-Ziq web site on the Net that someone in San
Francisco's set up."
The New York gig - at The Kitchen, an avant-garde ballet venue when the CMJ's
not in town - proves relatively uneventful by Mike's standards. Fair enough,
he does try and call off the show when he sees the upstairs dancefloor (he's
in the seated auditorium downstairs) but calms down enough to showcase the
finer moments from 'In Pine Effect' alongside a healthy smattering of earlier
Mu-Ziq and Slazenger moments to a standing-room-only crowd of initially
puzzled then rapturous delegates and punters.
Afterwards he's calmly satisfied for the first time since reaching New York.
He meets one of his heroes - Ectoplasm (real name Brendon) of underground
Detroit outfit Drexciya - and takes congratulations from fans who've realised
he's actually three of their favourite bands rolled into one (records by his
alter egos Jake Slazenger and Diesel M are better known than the only-just-
launched Mu-Ziq material in the US) with vague but polite embarrassment. He
swaps record tip-offs with everyone - get him onto the subject of music as
opposed to old-fashioned trainspotting and the introverted supergeek
pigeonhole he's shoved into seems stunningly irrelevant.
Because Mu-Ziq's is a mind possessed by music - at home, his girlfriend
Jessica tells us, he'll spend hours with headphones strapped on and a 'Don't
Disturb Me, I'm Working' sign pinned to his back. Occasionally, after some
particularly intense toil, he'll wander aimlessly down the shops with it
still on. He defends everything from My Bloody Valentine and early Ride ("you
may slag them off but they had some nice melodies") to obscure US techno and
his eyes light up with desire when he hears his baggy faves Happy Mondays'
back catalogue is up for remix treatment.
But ask him how he cooks up _his_ infectiously melodic but fearsomely
rhythmic electronica and you find yourself facing that peculiarly quizzical
Paradinas face again.
"The music is nothing to do with 'me'," he continues, restlessly twidling the
ice in his empty glass, "I'm just the person who makes it. I don't think the
creative side has anything to do with personality - not in electronic music
anyway. I go into the studio and every other part of me is exorcised through
the music except my personality."
And with that he's off to bed, head full of new worries and hopes sprinting
round his psyche, waiting to re-emerge through warped melodies and nightmare
beats from hell. This is happening without your permission, Mike.
"I'll have to check out that Mu-Ziq Net site," jokes a refreshed Paradinas as
we surface on a fine but humid morning to search for more photo
opportunities, "I'll be able to find out what I was wearing last night."
Last night's war of attrition-style interview is forgotten and with the show
behind him, Mike's on top form as we wander through the greener, more chilled
territory of Greenwich Village and Chelsea.
In other words, time to drop those 'difficult' questions that might have
tipped the balance of Mike's strained sanity last night. Like how he reacts
to being dubbed a geeky mouse potato computer nerd. "Journalists call me me
an egghead or whatever," he reasons, "just because they have to find a little
pigeonhole for everything. But we're all humans and I do it too."
Very reasonable.
Let's try stereotype number two - Mike's betrayed his underground roots by
signing to Virgin.
"Those little labels still have the best music around," he admits, "but
they're badly run - they have the best intentions at heart but they can't get
their shit together. I didn't get any money for two years from Rephlex _(his
first label)_."
And nasty question number three - that you're a leftfield chin-stroker more
interesting in metal bashing than penning decent tunes.
"I think it's pretty poppy, my stuff," he retorts calmly, "compared to a lot
of experimental stuff it is - the Jake Slazenger album is a pop record,
certainly. After all, somebody told me they thought 'Megaphonk' on it sounded
like the _Grange Hill_ theme tune. I just saw it as a good tune."
In Mike Paradinas' curious mind at least, it really is as simple as that.
Just like, in fact, Noel Gallagher puts it: "music, music, music, music!"
(from NME, 14 October 1995)
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ERkki
Tampere, pHinland
trerra@uta.fi