Majid Jordan (PHOTO: norman wong)

Pop CultureJuly 16, 2018

Majid Jordan: ‘Things could fall apart in so many different ways’

Contributing writer

Majid Jordan (PHOTO: norman wong)

Hussein Moses speaks to Majid Jordan, the Toronto duo making noise thanks to one hell of a co-sign from Drake.

While Drake might be experiencing whiplash right now after getting owned in a rap beef he started then breaking records with his album Scorpion, the Canadian superstar has put together an impressive roster of artists with his label OVO Sound, including PARTYNEXTDOOR, dvsn and Majid Jordan – the Toronto duo who co-wrote Drake’s mega anthem ‘Hold On, We’re Going Home’ and ‘Mine’, the subtle, slow-burning highlight from Beyoncé’s #flawless self-titled fifth album.

Singer Majid Al Maskati and producer Jordan Ullman first met while studying at the University of Toronto and the pair’s own music, including their 2016 debut album and last year’s follow-up The Space Between, swings back and forth between smoldering, earnest R&B and booming pop music.

On the phone from Toronto, just over a month out from their one-off Auckland show at the Powerstation, it seems that Drake’s shadow still looms large. Local music journalists were instructed to “focus on Majid Jordan” during interviews, not Drake or OVO Sound. Instead, like seasoned vets, they’re quick to go out of their way to hype up their impending visit. “I’ve met some people from New Zealand – just from around the world – and they always tell me how incredible it is and how scenic it is,” says Al Maskati. “I always find them super kind so I’m really looking forward to going there.”

What are some of the things you do that help you get in the right mindset to go out on stage and play to thousands of people? Are there any pre-show rituals you could share?

Majid: I think the more that we do this, the more we realise we’re very comfortable on stage. We love performing. We just try to make the most of the day, even before the performance. We try to go and explore the city, we try to be with our friends, maybe make some music. Usually, we have something around us, like someone playing a video game or music being made or Jordan producing. The energy’s alive so when we get on stage, we’re not breaking stride.

You were born and raised in Bahrain before you made the move to Toronto. Is there anything from your Middle Eastern upbringing that has stuck with you now that you’re a little older?

Majid: It’s crazy. I was thinking the other day, when I left Bahrain, did my parents know they were just giving me up to the world? I was 17 when I moved out and it was like, I don’t know if I’m ever going to come back. It’s not guaranteed, you know? I don’t think I’m going to go back anytime soon. I don’t get to see my loved ones. I only see them once a year if I’m lucky, but I speak the language fluently and I understand the culture completely. It’s slow moving over there. It’s very laid back. It’s a desert island. So I feel like it’s frozen in time. Anytime I do go back, the same people are still around and the same things are still happening.

What was the moment when you felt like things were really starting to fall into place for you, career-wise?

Jordan: I think when we were really making the first project – the debut album – we got to that point. We had already collaborated with Drake and worked with everybody. Since After Hours, it was really the first project that we fully worked on to complete. Once we got to that point, it was really a breakthrough moment knowing that we love to make music and we really love to do this.

Majid: I feel like things continue to fall in place in different ways. You start with one platform and then you move onto the next one and it keeps expanding. Right now, things are falling into place in the way that we have a studio on the go – we’re able to work from anywhere. It took us awhile to get there and we are also now building a studio of our own. A physical location that we can always go back to, so we’re able to work remotely and then we’re able to have a home base too.

A lot of other artists would dream of breaking through like you have, but is there an example of one of the downsides that has come with that success?

Jordan: Honestly, I don’t really think so. I’m very grateful for the life that we live. I think it’s always important to stay grounded and know that, and give to the world as much as you possibly can.

Majid: It’s easy to lose sight of what you’re doing, or what you love when you don’t stay grounded like that. Just keep the people that keep feeding that energy around you. I think don’t dwell on the downsides – understand them for what they are, learn from them and continue to move forward. We’re so lucky to have what we have and things could fall apart in so many different ways, so we’re just focusing on building right now.

What other advice would you give to young artists who are looking to emulate the same sort of success that you’ve had?

Majid: Wake up and make music every single day.

Jordan: The risks that you take as an artist are ‘you’. That’s your originality, so take as many risks as possible.

Is writing for other big-name artists something you can see yourself doing more of in the future?

Majid: For now we’re just content on working on our own music, at this point in time. We’re not saying it won’t happen or will happen, but right now Jordan and I are just reconnecting because we’ve been on the road – we did like 50 shows, North American and European tours, and we’ve already done four festivals – so it’s been a lot of live performance. We’re just focusing on getting back in and writing ideas and starting from scratch.

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Keep going!

Manon Blackman as Renee Chignell.

Pop CultureJuly 16, 2018

Review: Mistress, Mercy struggles against the constraints of doco-drama

Sam Brooks

Contributing writer

Manon Blackman as Renee Chignell.

Based on one of the most notorious murder cases in New Zealand history, Mistress, Mercy finds itself hamstrung by the limits of the doco-drama genre.

In 1989, Renee Chignell and Neville Walker were convicted of the murder of Peter Plumley-Walker. Police alleged they had thrown him into the Huka Falls after a bondage session with Chignell, who was aged 18 at the time. It took two retrials for a jury to be convinced that Plumley-Walker had actually died during the bondage session, accidentally, when Chignell was out of the room. The story was a media sensation, and 30 years later, we’ve got Mistress, Mercy, a doco-drama that combines recreations of the events with Chignell’s own words, which have not been heard until now.

There’s no question of the worthiness of Renee Chignell’s story. There’s no question that we all need a reminder about how our justice system and by proxy, our society, is rigged against women, and especially rigged against sex workers. When we see scenes of Chignell being mistreated by the police, by her boyfriend and by the court proceedings, it nudges something in you. This happened 30 years ago, but how much has actually changed? How much are the voices of the already marginalised being minimised and warped in the name of expedited justice?

In some ways, there’s something quietly revolutionary about a story like this, which reframes Chignell’s story in her own words, in the Sunday Theatre slot. There is a luridness to the depiction of the story – especially the scenes in which Renee engages with clients – that feels very HBO, or what HBO was 20 years ago. It’s definitely not a story about Kate Sheppard, or Katherine Mansfield, or any number of women who lived very period-costume-drama lives that lend themselves well to these television events.

That Sunday Theatre slot is generally reserved for real-life TV movies which get huge ratings on their premiere, and then find their place on the media shelf afterwards. A lot of stories ripped from headlines through the years. Lots of stories worth telling, but not necessarily being told in the most revolutionary or even the most appropriate way.

Xavier Horan as Neville Walker and Manon Blackman as Renee Chignell.

Which is what brings me to Mistress, Mercy‘s one big problem. The doco-drama aspects play up the luridness of the case, particularly Chignell’s circumstances and work – it’s all moody noir lighting and dialogue that gets the maximum amount of exposition across with the maximum amount of drama. Often, it feels like the recreations aren’t trusting the story. The scene where Walker dies is a particular misstep: it’s all slow-motion, extreme close-ups and muffled screams. Chignell’s words are chilling enough on their own. Do we need the Lifetime movie theatrics around them?

And that’s where the entire piece turns in on itself. Is doco-drama really the best vehicle for Chignell’s story, or for this kind of real life true crime story at all? Over the past decade, we’ve seen a hunger for these true crime stories – and to see them examined at length and with as much depth as possible. Single cases are explored through podcast series or 13 episode shows; details are pored over by producers and audiences alike. Just look at at The Jinx, Serial, S-Town: there’s a real demand for this type of content.

But in 2018, doco-drama seems like such an antiquated way to present it. Recreations never have the same impact as fully-scripted drama, or actual archival footage – you’re seeing snippets of scenes and people rather than anything properly fleshed out.

It’s hard to give Chignell’s words and story the space they need when half of the two hours (including ads) are taken up with fictional recreations. While Mistress, Mercy includes a lot of Renee Chignell talking directly to the camera – and these parts are invariably the best part of the whole thing, because she’s a charismatic and articulate woman who has an incredible handle on what happened to her and why – it also includes a lot of dialogue recited by actors who are playing the idea of real people, rather than characters or anything close to those real people.

To Mistress, Mercy‘s credit, in terms of journalism it’s about as robust as you can get in two hours. It does a good job of balancing the actual facts of the story – the killing, the investigation, the courtroom proceedings – with Chignell’s interpretation of them. It doesn’t feel like we’re missing anything, necessarily, by telling this story in this way, even though Mistress, Mercy is weighted far more heavily towards the crime and the investigation, at the expense of what came later.

But it also doesn’t seem like we’re gaining anything from telling the story like this, other than Chignell’s own words, which are vital and necessary. It’s so rare that we’re actually given the opportunity to listen to how people dealt with injustice, especially women and especially sex workers.

But the recreations? They’re not vital, or necessary. Docu-drama is neither the best fictional treatment this story could be given – no story or performer is served well by skeletal scenes and generic dialogue – nor is it as immediate and powerful as a completely factual retelling. So why do it at all?

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