Cans (1992)
April 12th, 2009
Maybe 20 different brands from a time when it was still a real mission to get hold of a decent range of colours in England. Working around all the reactions from overlapping different paint formulations was a real chess game.
In the mix you can see some original Marabu Buntlacks with the horizontal logo, the choice of 80’s Euro kings. Then there are some bland England car paint colours vs vibrant German car paints. I never really figured out why they’d want a mauve or purple motor but cheers for the colours anyway.
Standing black and proud in the front is a French Sparvar picked up from our Parisian friend Simonz – he’d bring us a carrier bag over every time he’d go back to visit his fam.
The foot soldiers of the army are some classic standbys of the British scene – filthy Japlac enamel, Stonechip black and Finnigan’s Smoothrite from before they ruined it. Most British 80’s / early 90’s graffiti was outlined with it – black, white, blue, green, red, yellow and that’s your lot. I recall Vulcan from NY saying it was the best outline paint in the world.
Swimming in Daddy’s Big ‘Ole Nuts (1992)
March 6th, 2009
It’s a dirty job but someone’s got to do it.
Long before spraypainting on things became trendy, some of us would travel way out into the middle of nowhere just to have a place to paint big walls in peace. Ascot was a good example of this – a drainage tank with wicked walls, huge flat expanses of delicious concrete canvas ready for burners and beef alike. There was way more to Royal Ascot than toffs and ornate hats at the races.
Here’s Stylo and I riffing on the Grand Puba Maxwell lyric from the time. I got testicular on yo’ ass with inexplicably blue sperm characters. The first one has a Camberwell Carrot of a spliff with BYI crew letters in the smoke, the next is blinging with a chunky gold “S” medallion, the last rocks a Guardian Angels beret. Don’t ask me why … should have put a raccoon tail on it.
This picture pretty much sums up the Ascot experience – deer and foxes ambling through delightful forestry and a tank full of finest vandalism and more mud than Glastonbury Festival. I slipped over in that shit and had to borrow clothes from Stylo to go out that night.
Over on the left you can just about see Dref beefing at Rough for calling him “his little protege”. Fat silver letters right through his new piece.
