Jay Trivella on Mare Street is for the hip-hop desaparecidos, innit?
Shortly after the centre of London, in the East end, there is enough space to cross the street without looking at anyone. The hoodie pulled up, the hands in the pockets, the headphones telling you the same stories that never happened to you, and with which you grew up in the middle of nowhere, elsewhere.
The pace is brazenly slow, low profile, something to laugh about, the head swings in a hypnotic journey, the eyes veiled by that mixture of discomfort and shyness, the smells of the neighbourhood flutter around the corner.
From India to Jamaica in seven steps. A grin of life, a splinter of smoke.
– So whassup? What do you say?
– …quiet. I’m making a mixtape for sb.
The time flies in the meanwhile, and with it also the sun and the rain, the clouds, the heat and then the cold and then the damp and the cool, and June comes as October, the leaves at the park and the couples on Fridays, a load of booze for the weekend and then a message.
– I send you two versions.
– Okay. How about the cover?
– I send you a picture.
– Is it ugly?
– Send it to me now.
– Which version do you use?
– The worst one, you know.
– The picture?
– It sucks.
– Perfect. You convinced me.
Look out the window and just light one, suck in large puffs. Cement, ganja, boom-bap.
The aforementioned meeting never happened. The new episode of Blast Podcast instead yes.
Mare Street Tape, he’s Jay Trivella, and this urban story, of course, never happened, yet it happens every day.