Funk, Style and Swing - An Interview with Skore79 (12OZ Prophet 2016)

Purveyor of the most complete and bad ass Wild Style known to the whole of Europe, Skore79 has been carefully crafting his artwork for decades - I caught up with him to chat style and how having 3 daughters has changed his approach to painting
@skore79

 Introduce yourself and give us a little bit of background as to how you got started

I got started writing graffiti in the early 90s in a small town at the northwestcoast from Germany. Inspired by the movies Beatstreet and Wildstyle , I was tryin to do the same. Breakdancing  and writing Graffiti.
My first Name was ROM, then ROB. Quite simple letters with a little Bubbletouch.
95-96 I startet to write Skor, then Skore. I liked the letter "S" on the beginning of the word, because it is wild in the nature and you can combine a lot of other letters to it.

Did you ever have much luck with breakdancing? 
No, i was quite funky at the uprockthing, my sixstep was ok, but my powermoves were wack as hell. But I had a fresh Adidas trainer back in da days, lmao

What interests you about graffiti over anything else?

The science of letters. It has no borders. You can add anything you want to it, to bring your  letters to life. Meanwhile it is a big part of my life.   Graffit helped me, finding some very good friends and crew-member over the years, which I dont wanna miss.

How would you describe your style and approach? 
I would describe it as "classic Wildstyle", with some new aspects. I always had a straight focus on to the styles and not to the technique. For me its more important to have a good swing in the letters, as to have very sharp and cutted outlines. Another important thing is to have good and fresh combination in between the letter structure. Trying to stay fresh and original is my motto.

Why does such technical wild style appeal to you over simpler designs?
I don't know exactly. Maybe I´m feeling it more. Maybe to hide my blurry lines, haha. No due to graffiti I´m more the aggresive one. I think with Wildstyle you can give your letters a bad look, you know...something like that.

Everyone is said to have their own arrow and connections, what do you think yours give to your graffiti? as in, how do you use yours? 

There are some limitations, you cannot have your own arrows I think. Everything has already been painted, but what you can do is to have a different kind of combination of the letters and elements. You can have a different or own connection in between the letters, which is important to me. The connections need to have sense, without damaging the single letter….what you can also do, is to have your own swing or movement in your letters. I would compare my style with old Kungfu movies, not just that jet li shit…a mix with looney toons, haha.

Do you have any sort of rituals when you paint? Such as listening to music, drinking beer or smoking?
Yes all of that, lmao! It depends. But mostly I´m trying stay clear in the head and only listening to music, while I´m doing a piece at the wall or on the paper. Generally I´m doing my sketches all at night, while my kids are sleeping.

Any music in particular you listen to when you’re painting?

 I like jedimindtricks, vinnie paz, ill bill, prodigy. My favorite tune is still alchemist feat prodigy: albert einstein and MobbDeep’s HellonEarth. Listening to some german mc`s as well, but they're rare.

What are your main influences at this current moment in time? Whether they be from within graffiti or from outside. 
I can say my current influences are coming from my both crews SBB&ABS.  There are People like Phet, Dejoe, Sbeck, Pork. Which are in my eyes stylemasters in many levels. And the list goes on and on. I love also the styles from KidKaro(Spade)TPM,SureTPM Keep6 from Canada, Ores from Italy  and many more. But my original influences are of course the old New York Style & Berlin in late 80´s till mid90´s.

With you having such a classic and bold Wildstyle look, do you have any opinions on what people call the other side of graffiti, the 'anti-style'? People like PAL crew from Paris, Germes Gang from Portugal etc - where the expression is more important than the letters or tradition itself.

 Never heard of them, you mean this standard Cap, dirty Blade copies? Don't know what to say about that. I mean you have such great tools today like different spray can companies, different caps, cheap ground colours etc and all that they (can) produce is this whack letter-structure. Not worth a look in my opinion. But live and let live, I say.

How have you found balancing being a graffiti artist and a parent? The two can seem very incompatible. Im not that every-day-painter. It is enough for me to have12-15 pieces a year, which leaves a lot time for my girls. When I have to decide, to paint a wall or my girls, I would definately choose my girls.

Could you sum graffiti in 3 words ?
Funk, swing, style

Shout out to my SuperBadBoys, To my ABScrew, Uts . My man Dosar, Fakt47,Suck, Bers, Rafe, Ples Phon, Dragan, Marko, Zeljko, Assir, BjörnUlli, the MFR crew, Hek, Pock, Done, Spade, Keep6, Ores, Stan brate, Sure, York, East, Causeturk, Worm kardes, Leon,KevinAstek, Krome-magazine, Eddy Dibz, Stem ynn, JLo ynn, RageFua and all the others. PEACE! Ephiq,  Shuen, Kine, Wuper,GraffFunk, Knut, Ast, Lens, Toe, Irie.
THANK YOU!

Lefebvre

A man with no teeth sat in a mound of bottles and smiled at me, before lifting the can to his mouth

Nestled between two sections - one silent and one full of sound
I went there to listen to the bats, have a beer and sit down - most of my time is spent wandering around
paint teaches you to interract with things in a sacred way - you grow with the place you paint because you appreciate it being
it makes a place sacred.
things are navigated by them
who there they when? did big burners back to back by the wall next to the old railway track.
it cant be understood by those not initiated, those not gone from place to place with - those not trudged undergrowth and miles of mud with
Thorns, thorns and thorns
Trains, lights and dawn

The way the lines intersected, spent ages looking and how those lines criss crossed and made some savage energy along the wall.
sat with my limbs like that, some kinda yoga position. mimiced what i saw.
 thought more about the blanks, planned maps of meaning. what colours, this and that.

A little old lady on an electric scooter confronted me as I emerged
glances had, not said a word

My Sons Name Is Festival

Never been one to hide from the fight but I might dip and strike again, collect another force and form a plan to penetrate your friends, plan to have you disappear for 10, end up water lung like concrete clogs see we be saying never saw him again
Angst in this hunchback clap a few tracks, back with the sickness sip a few bhang
Slack with the riddim gonna get yourself slapped
Cos tact ain't a tool that I use to attract

My sons name is festival
He said to me whilst we stood crowded round the door of a hurtling train set for Jaipur, it was 6am and I caught him chanting at the sunrise birthing from the mountains the distance.
He offered an open blue foil wrapper in which was nestled some brown substances, I thought rude to reject so took it ecxpecting nuts – rather not, instead it was chewing tobacco. Quite a shock right considering on this tour id already taken opium.

He then introduced me to his family, told me he was an english teacher (this I thought funny as his interpretation of my native tongue wasn't great)
and then gave me a breakfast of a shortbread type cake made of ghee, wheatflour and baking powder I apprehensive in my acceptance of it duely forgot all imagined ills when it touched my mouth, beautiful.

My suns name is festival.

Stay lit with a short fuse well travelled
Keep my eyes out searching for that high mountain
Don't stay put

Now my timings not quite perfect and I admit that
Bit off beat, but bite this nah that no easy feat you see geeze
On a Sleepy Sunday in the rain
I penned a couple notes of pain
My many muscles spoke of troubles blend again
A stale hour absorbed in name
But been A hot minute since I knew her frame
Still, Set fire to a piece of parchment
As my fingers dribble with the question of conversation with you

"Chitodgadh & it's very nice place to see"
I hung out the train doors hurtling towards Jaipur,
I told him my name was Ben and he said
'Pen? What a name!'

Push

Beneath the shadow of the mountains we watched Hindus attempt immortality through immersion and chanting, it is quite a sight to behold man give himself to the gods in the hope of some sweet taste of safety.

I couldn't comprehend this mass enmeshed across the ocean over there 

I couldn't comprehend as the sun did set 

As orange crested building bricks I couldn't see only heard attempts

Your vocal chords they undulate over a PA system across a lake 

The crowd a call to meditate 

So loud I felt reverberate 

I cannot fathom why man would make himself immortal

Though immortal he must be

To hope to find a slice of peace 

Amongst this pile of trash and steam 

Your flesh is weak

Your arms they bend

Your bones they break

Your vision weak 

Your heart is hurt

But song is never stone 

And God is never done

So sing another and long hope 

This water dirty full of shit and socks 

Found a fish float upon its shores

Eyes all wide 

Brahmas tears did not cleanse

The chemicals we expend 

Did rot and row its own natures hand away into its end

Despite your effort for eternity your chemicals do not disappear

Your flesh is weak

Your shit is strong

All holy this, all holy that

But open sewers

Do death attract

I alone a vessel did wake in wicked hour and float with them in crooked song and hymn

 I lost myself in prayer later on

Inspecting every twitch my mind did make in remembering 

All memory is recall anyway they say

So I guess I summoned up a thousand lives from across the lake

Felt all their fates

Lax Sapien

I planted shrooms
waited for while, sipped shots with the moon
breathing in gloom, chatting gaps with a lesser of devils from an unholy few
with cider we rattled all cages, no shot low enough for debasing
every idea and weight of those cases, beyond good and evil is where had we claimed shit
we kicked it a dymanic loose duo, swung round all the haunts that the populace follow
I absorb from the roots and then shoot
play chess with the sleuthest of crews
whilst me and those powers that be, rake creeps into heaps
freewheeling in speech
but never sleep, that for the weak
unless you underneath
in which case I beat bodies, leave em hobbling and soggy

absorb from the roots and then shoot
eat all the fruit
lax sapien stick knowledge in skull which snake brew

oh how i grew
in thorns wine and spew
learn debate plato seven chakras bit snacks this cold mute

yickety yack
hack prezs bank
throw a few phrases then reassemble attack
volcano ebola over whack tongues new track
keep it here keep it now
keep it hymnal and holy in sound
keep that torch lit til baccanal found
I wandered town to town
naked unbound, still tripping on facts
stood straight ape
mistaken for grace a disgusting abstract

I lie down

(2013)

This was written at the grimmest period of my existence a few years ago; post-death of many kinds, I was sleeping on a mattress in my dads bungalows front room, it was christmas, i was alone and due to his dementia he wasn't aware of the season. I was incredibly depressed.

Good times.
Still a favourite though.

I write a lot about love, death, fire & home.
forever the cliche would say next that "theyre all ive ever known"
but as an infection spreads to the heart, my dearly departed ma & me discuss Ginsberg over coffee in a kitchen where the sun warms your face, spilling the room next to the brick walls with a sense of aching normality
like ive been filled to the brim with content, free from all earthly sin (excluding those inherited)
but she aint dancing in those mortal coiled shoes, long since tapping her feet to the great bass drum
the one that scratches at your face to take the skin for what it convinces you is sacrament.
but is actually kidnap. a stopped mid sentence silent vanishing.
and ill be standing before the reaper squealing, asking the only question that matters still
"but..does she still love me? like she used to?"

"has she kept that dimple acquainted with my fingers? has she hidden boxes of photos in a treasure chest?
am i allowed to assign hope to a ship long lost to a swamp?"

but she
always she, the forevermore Sma. forevermore, forevermore the biggest darkness in the hall, the gust of wind thats blowing down walls. the chill that creaks spine.
ive missed you. ill miss you. i am missing you. it is missed.
like there was never meant to be none of this but im piling books of knowledge like ignorance was going out of style.
histories lessons are stamped, or more scarred into skin that yellows with age.

ive learnt to know better, or so id hoped, so id penciled down on some red lines at the back of an old schoolroom class in a maths lesson i wasn't paying attention to. loud booming over the numbers at myself
but i scribbled and sat, scratching marks to paper that would last a life time in the heart.
then i buried it. and whispered to the ground that it better not tell a soul in the wind it blows lest i cut out a tongue with a pastry knife.
not that nature needs nurturing into silence, it doesnt do to tell the mountain about moving. it doesnt dwell on dancing.
but slow burns the skeletons, ravages the exo-ignorance.

'I'll never be alone, ill always have death'
i once wrote on a stone that i then cast out to sea.
i turned away from the shore, walked home & sat in front of a fire like before. light illuminating, old miser buddha position. i fell into the flames again (yet to feel alive). i cut off my arm to dissect the nerves to try and find the ones that were rattling the bone machine, spluttering cough medicine all over the carpet. i collapsed and went further, motorhomed it towards the sunset on a mattress the carers kept under my Dads bed for festive occasions,
but baubels dont reflect itv, christmas trees dont green to dying domesticity.

i've given enough to let go.
i've given enough to escape
what more can you take?

'There is a lifetime in the mornings sun' i woke up to know this stanza from a poem id built.
little light casting through the blinds, i pushed my eyes & tried to find the horizon point to disappear on.
little leprechaun, how does a rainbow grow? where can i melt into the colours, blues & hues?
he handed me a shovel, and recounted Sinking Ships:
"6ft between the days we spent and the way we wish things couldve been"
i sat hunched alone, a meditation my back had learnt and mused upon the best direction to dig in, the comfiest size to sleep in.

I'm shedding skin, but wanting sleep
I'm kneeling for prayer to bring a guillotine
I'm washed under history & seldom find peace.

All To Write My Name (45RPM BabMag Article)

For those who can't wait, here's the latest article I wrote for BabMag on celebrated Bristol based nutter 45RPM.

ALL TO WRITE MY NAME

“This was planned and persistent vandalism designed to show off to others similarly minded, with no regard as to the wider impact” 

- Judge Michael Leeming on the sentencing of SMT Crew.

“Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.”

- Friedrich Nietzsche

How do you unlearn subversion? Once you have been through the fence how do you ignore the gaps? Graffiti is dangerous not only because of it’s inherent ability to put its practitioners in the light of the law but because many of the most memorable moments it gives us are not the action itself, but all those beautiful stupid things that surround it and the wider viewpoint it gives us. The oddballs and addicts, the ways in and over, can you ever make a successful transition to mainstream reality once you understand how to cheat it? Would a 9-5 not ache?

“Once a cleaner walked into our hotel room and started screaming as i’d had a nose bleed in the night and was covered in blood...plus someone had drawn a hammer head shark over my whole body. Another time I woke up upside down on a fence as my trainer had split on its three prongs and I’d fallen on my face and knocked myself out. I have a million of these pieces of rubbish, someone once asked me what I would say to a kid starting out, those are the things I thought of.”

To look at 45RPMS work is to see a sea of colour and humour and to speak to him is to hear nothing but a genuine warmth, a boundless and unadulterated love for this culture but graffiti can will destroy your life if you let it and amongst the daydream haze of adventures he recounted in our conversation, you could sense the twitch of loss and gnaw of time (R.I.P Buzz, Wayne and Ekons) were digging. From funky letterforms to his endless throwup variations to his perfect phrase based characters he is an individual for whom art is everything, an obsessive creative who dedicates most hours to any number of outlets and has done for the best part of two decades. Now living in Bristol his time is spent between graffiti, illustration, photography and until recently getting himself into as many anarchic situations as life will allow.

"I’ve been painting since 1999, i’ve moved cities, i’ve lost girlfriends, good mates and jobs all to write my name on a wall for a handful of people to see. I’m always tired, scared, hungover or nervous, my hands are cut up and my clothes ruined but I’m a positive person, even in the worst moments."

This fascination with new possibilities, the opportunity to find / forge new pathways and curate his own life is at the crux of 45RPMs celebrated work but therein for him (as for many readers I assume) is the core of the problem. There is an absolute and vibrant fascination with language, place, people and the way not only that they are used – but can be used, talking to RPM you get the idea that painting is beyond just putting medium to surface, it is the key to a different world. To get a proper insight into this we need only start with his photography, this predominantly 35mm work may not be the primary outlet of his creativity but it provides perhaps a more illuminating glimpse into it; whilst painting may be a depiction of the hand, photography is surely a depiction of the heart and in his snapshots graffiti meets halloween costume meets street life meets weird tattoos in a 35mm presentation on not what could be (as his painting serves) but what actually is. Little light hearted incidences of importance, the every day hours between action that bleed comedy. Some graffiti photography can be beyond dull but 45RPMs viewpoint is infectiously inviting.

Within these photos lies RPMs letterform variations but more notably that which has bought him to the limelight in the past few years, his characters. These operate around representing in literal terms the little oddities that language births and start life as beautifully clean ink drawings whose influence is taken from either well known pieces of cockney rhyming slang (‘dog & bone’, ‘apple & pears’), subcultural lexicon (‘biter’) or simple unique takes on phrases (‘no fox given’, ‘a pizza the action’). Beneath simply stating your name graffiti is a love for how language functions as an action inherent to our encounter with the world and whilst not all writers take their name directly from slang there are huge similarities between slangs idiomatic, openly metaphorical inventiveness and graffitis stylistic exploration and the spatial possibilities of meaning. A good piece of graffiti is its own poetry and looking at RPMs characters, who not only take directly from slang but add in the visual / spatial element of graffiti you can’t help but feel there is an overwhelming enthusiasm for how we construct and value meaning.

This inventive playfulness acts as a common theme throughout RPMs work, his desire to explore and encounter the world in as many ways as possible shows through even when the form is simplified to pure weaponised style; the throwup. These to 45 are “graffiti at its purest form”; mobile, agile beings able to be executed anywhere to maximum effect in minimal time andtherefore perfect for the natural wanderlust of a writer. Graffiti strives at its heart to uncover, to understand the world in a more unique way and the throwup is one of its strongest weapons, providing immediate access to that adrenaline fuelled existence -  “when I'm painting one I don't think about anything but that throw up, its like a switch is flicked. Its just you and the silence, a hyper awareness to noise and movement that if your lines well enough become a dance”. But again it comes back to pure enjoyment - “how can you can walk past an Oker throwup and not smile?”

It is this utter concentration on the moment, this fleeting escapism of which all writers are aware which is unfortunately, the most troubling – because it is this which is the crux of the problem which so concerns RPM at the moment. The more time you spend in your own world, as all great artists do, the more developed that vision becomes, the more divorced you are from ‘reality’. Adding in softly near the end our chat he remarks “Bukowski said find something you love and let it kill you, I have”.
Bumping into an old friend recently he tells of how he stared blankly when they mentioned their recent BBQ and kids, replying “nothing” when asked what he had been doing with himself because how are you supposed to explain all of this? In the words of writer Buford Youthward “after all, when the sun comes up, graffiti is beyond documentation” The longer you go the more affinity you find yourself having with drug addicts & armed robbers, and what are we if not both of those?

45RPM is an artist who creates passionately and this enjoyment is obvious in all his work, you cant help but laugh with him, but in answer to this question of ‘what happens next’ I would say one word; adapt. Life is a series of chapters, utilise your skills in a different way and make the most of it. To those doubting their path remember it is not the destination but the journey that matters and to me it seems that 45RPMs work is a pure celebration of this idea. Allow yourself a moment of clarity, we are luckier than most.

We could all stand to learn a lot from 45RPM.

“I’m 36, single and without a mortgage but I wouldn't have it any other way, one day i’ll have to calm down so until then i’ll keep burning the candle any way I can.” 

- 45RPM