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Fin Greenall, who is the voice and heart behind Fink, often gets mistaken for other people. 

At the BMI Awards in the US, a ‘roomful of gangstas and playas’ were convinced the Cornwall-born, Bristol-raised Englishman was a lawyer, and not a songwriter picking up an ‘American Urban’ gong – one of three BMIs he received for his work with John Legend on the soul singer’s Evolver album.

In Berlin, clubbing capital of the world, they think he helps run a small minimal techno label. In certain London circles he’s known as the hardworking insider whose past roles at DefJam, Sony Music, Talkin’ Loud, and Source saw him work with a range of artists longer than the horizon. At the BBC, they imagine Fink as perhaps the only musician who has played both the Electric Proms and the actual Proms (was that really the same guy leading a 120-piece orchestra at the Royal Albert Hall in an ‘immense’ cover of Roy Ayers’ Everybody Loves The Sunshine?). 

In record company circles, he’s the producer who worked on the first demos by Amy Winehouse and the writer who’s been crafting hooks for Professor Green. In big-room booths around the world, he’s the internationally-renowned DJ and Ninja Tune stalwart who finally hung up his Sennheisers with a valedictory set at London’s Fabric in 2003. ‘My skillset just seemed so old compared to these guys that could DJ for six hours without one high-hat out of place using Ableton or something,’ he notes admiringly.

Who is Fin Greenall? All of the above. 

Yes, the now-Brighton-based musician acknowledges, he has done – does do – all of those things. ‘But none of that is as important as how I feel when I write songs like "Fear is Like Fire" and "Perfect Darkness". The Fink thing is my main thing.’

As a kid, the one thing of his dad’s that Fin Greenall wasn’t allowed to touch was the old Martin acoustic guitar. ‘It was his one possession where he said, “everything in this house is owned by everybody – apart from that.”’ But with age – and the burgeoning of his son’s skills as a player – came a relaxation of the exclusion zone: Greenall plays the Martin on the punchy, Jeff Buckley-covering-Radiohead-esque "Fear Is Like Fire". It’s sure to become a live stand-out on Fink’s upcoming, 18-month-long world tour. ‘It’s all about trying to look at fear and be optimistic – you can be really negative or fucking embrace it and use it. 

‘The great thing about growing up in a house where music is a big factor,’ he continues, ‘was the fact that music being part of your life was a perfectly natural thing.’ 

Music, it seems, became more than that: it was Greenall’s life. He hoovered up the sounds he heard on John Peel: ‘The Cure, The Smiths, The Orb, African music, Japanese hardcore’. He embraced skateboarding, the music and the fashion – ‘it was an awesome way to grow your own culture’. At university in Leeds, electronic and dance music became everything. 

‘It was definitely about wanting to be part of a revolution that I could call my own,’ he recalls. ‘A couple of friends and I clubbed together our student loans and bought equipment to make ambient techno – we were really inspired by Aphex Twin and The Orb and Moby. We were amazed at how fucking easy it was to make ambient techno. It wasn’t easy to make good ambient techno,’ he laughs. ‘But it was easy enough to make techno good enough to get us signed after six months of mucking around at uni.’ 

The young techno warrior was messianic. 

‘I thought the song was dead, the chorus was dead, playing drums and guitar and bass was so old-school and outdated and why would you want to do that? Dylan did that 50 years ago! We should be part of this new revolution, instrumentalism, acid house, rave culture, techno – this stuff is a brave new avant-garde frontier and you should be involved.’ 

His ardour and his skills saw Greenall become part of the Ninja Tune family – first signed on the back of a cassette-tape demo - as artist, DJ, writer, producer, and remixer. 

‘Brilliant times,’ he sighs nostalgically. ‘Sometimes you’d just have to pinch yourself. Then, other times, you wake up in Bratislava on a Tuesday morning and you’re reminded that there is hard work to all of this.’ All that crate-digging wasn’t all it’s cracked up to be either: ‘You can’t be shit!’ Greenall grins. ‘And because of the community that Ninja has worldwide, if you are shit everybody knows about it the next day. Eight years of DJing have given me an obscenely huge record collection. I just cleared out the breaks section – four crates of twelves that were total pony!’ 

So the wheels of steel started to fall off. 

‘It wasn’t until I’d run that right the way through to its natural conclusion – I’m an international DJ on the biggest DJ label in the world – that I thought: I’m kinda over it. And it was actually working with a young artist straight out of school called Amy Winehouse that inspired me to go, “wow, songs are great! Now I get how difficult it is, and how much talent there is involved in this. It’s more of a challenge than clubbing.”’ 

Greenall melted down his turntables and recast them as a guitar and a stool. Metaphorically speaking. His parents were pleased. ‘My career only made sense to them when I picked up a guitar and started to sing,’ he says. ‘All of a sudden I was doing music, I wasn’t just mucking around. But in my rave days, DJing techno and breaks, they didn’t get that at all. That’s probably why I did it in the first place. 

‘But I realised: if your music had songs in it, it had a much greater reach. Not in business terms, but if a singer of, say, Amy’s calibre sings over this beat, it becomes so much bigger than just a beat. I can’t get rid of my clubbing past, not that I’d want to. But the linear nature of some of my music is definitely because of all those years spent clubbing and DJing, when a very simple idea can make the best club record. And it’s the same with songs – I’m after a really simple riff or really simple lyric or melody. And it’s about keeping that beautiful moment going for as long as you can.’

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Twitter
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[image_upload_id] => 19785 [label_id] => 13 [twitter_username] => Finkmusic [instagram_id] => [instagram_username] => [link] => [listed] => 1 [sortname] => Fink [created] => 2010-07-17 22:15:58 [modified] => 2014-08-11 14:09:15 [slug] => fink [fuga_id] => [description_clean] =>

Fin Greenall, who is the voice and heart behind Fink, often gets mistaken for other people. 

At the BMI Awards in the US, a ‘roomful of gangstas and playas’ were convinced the Cornwall-born, Bristol-raised Englishman was a lawyer, and not a songwriter picking up an ‘American Urban’ gong – one of three BMIs he received for his work with John Legend on the soul singer’s Evolver album.

In Berlin, clubbing capital of the world, they think he helps run a small minimal techno label. In certain London circles he’s known as the hardworking insider whose past roles at DefJam, Sony Music, Talkin’ Loud, and Source saw him work with a range of artists longer than the horizon. At the BBC, they imagine Fink as perhaps the only musician who has played both the Electric Proms and the actual Proms (was that really the same guy leading a 120-piece orchestra at the Royal Albert Hall in an ‘immense’ cover of Roy Ayers’ Everybody Loves The Sunshine?). 

In record company circles, he’s the producer who worked on the first demos by Amy Winehouse and the writer who’s been crafting hooks for Professor Green. In big-room booths around the world, he’s the internationally-renowned DJ and Ninja Tune stalwart who finally hung up his Sennheisers with a valedictory set at London’s Fabric in 2003. ‘My skillset just seemed so old compared to these guys that could DJ for six hours without one high-hat out of place using Ableton or something,’ he notes admiringly.

Who is Fin Greenall? All of the above. 

Yes, the now-Brighton-based musician acknowledges, he has done – does do – all of those things. ‘But none of that is as important as how I feel when I write songs like "Fear is Like Fire" and "Perfect Darkness". The Fink thing is my main thing.’

As a kid, the one thing of his dad’s that Fin Greenall wasn’t allowed to touch was the old Martin acoustic guitar. ‘It was his one possession where he said, “everything in this house is owned by everybody – apart from that.”’ But with age – and the burgeoning of his son’s skills as a player – came a relaxation of the exclusion zone: Greenall plays the Martin on the punchy, Jeff Buckley-covering-Radiohead-esque "Fear Is Like Fire". It’s sure to become a live stand-out on Fink’s upcoming, 18-month-long world tour. ‘It’s all about trying to look at fear and be optimistic – you can be really negative or fucking embrace it and use it. 

‘The great thing about growing up in a house where music is a big factor,’ he continues, ‘was the fact that music being part of your life was a perfectly natural thing.’ 

Music, it seems, became more than that: it was Greenall’s life. He hoovered up the sounds he heard on John Peel: ‘The Cure, The Smiths, The Orb, African music, Japanese hardcore’. He embraced skateboarding, the music and the fashion – ‘it was an awesome way to grow your own culture’. At university in Leeds, electronic and dance music became everything. 

‘It was definitely about wanting to be part of a revolution that I could call my own,’ he recalls. ‘A couple of friends and I clubbed together our student loans and bought equipment to make ambient techno – we were really inspired by Aphex Twin and The Orb and Moby. We were amazed at how fucking easy it was to make ambient techno. It wasn’t easy to make good ambient techno,’ he laughs. ‘But it was easy enough to make techno good enough to get us signed after six months of mucking around at uni.’ 

The young techno warrior was messianic. 

‘I thought the song was dead, the chorus was dead, playing drums and guitar and bass was so old-school and outdated and why would you want to do that? Dylan did that 50 years ago! We should be part of this new revolution, instrumentalism, acid house, rave culture, techno – this stuff is a brave new avant-garde frontier and you should be involved.’ 

His ardour and his skills saw Greenall become part of the Ninja Tune family – first signed on the back of a cassette-tape demo - as artist, DJ, writer, producer, and remixer. 

‘Brilliant times,’ he sighs nostalgically. ‘Sometimes you’d just have to pinch yourself. Then, other times, you wake up in Bratislava on a Tuesday morning and you’re reminded that there is hard work to all of this.’ All that crate-digging wasn’t all it’s cracked up to be either: ‘You can’t be shit!’ Greenall grins. ‘And because of the community that Ninja has worldwide, if you are shit everybody knows about it the next day. Eight years of DJing have given me an obscenely huge record collection. I just cleared out the breaks section – four crates of twelves that were total pony!’ 

So the wheels of steel started to fall off. 

‘It wasn’t until I’d run that right the way through to its natural conclusion – I’m an international DJ on the biggest DJ label in the world – that I thought: I’m kinda over it. And it was actually working with a young artist straight out of school called Amy Winehouse that inspired me to go, “wow, songs are great! Now I get how difficult it is, and how much talent there is involved in this. It’s more of a challenge than clubbing.”’ 

Greenall melted down his turntables and recast them as a guitar and a stool. Metaphorically speaking. His parents were pleased. ‘My career only made sense to them when I picked up a guitar and started to sing,’ he says. ‘All of a sudden I was doing music, I wasn’t just mucking around. But in my rave days, DJing techno and breaks, they didn’t get that at all. That’s probably why I did it in the first place. 

‘But I realised: if your music had songs in it, it had a much greater reach. Not in business terms, but if a singer of, say, Amy’s calibre sings over this beat, it becomes so much bigger than just a beat. I can’t get rid of my clubbing past, not that I’d want to. But the linear nature of some of my music is definitely because of all those years spent clubbing and DJing, when a very simple idea can make the best club record. And it’s the same with songs – I’m after a really simple riff or really simple lyric or melody. And it’s about keeping that beautiful moment going for as long as you can.’

[links_clean] =>

Fink Website

Facebook
Twitter
Soundcloud

[counter_player] => [counter_biog] => ) ) ) [1] => Array ( [Event] => Array ( [id] => 13032 [date] => 2014-06-30 [artist] => Kelis [city] => Glasgow [state] => [country] => GB [venue] => 02 ABC [promoter] => [description] => [ticket_url] => http://www.ticketmaster.co.uk/event/36004CBD946315C8?camefrom=CFC_UK_BUYAT [image_upload_id] => 19296 [created] => 2014-06-05 17:22:31 [modified] => 2014-06-05 17:22:31 [year_slug] => 2014 [month_slug] => jun [day_slug] => 30 [slug] => kelis-glasgow-02-abc [description_clean] => [products_count] => 0 [hidden] => 0 ) [Image] => Array ( [id] => 19296 [media_type] => image [artist] => Kelis [title] => Kelis Artist Shot 2014 [credits] => [buy_link] => [filename] => images/kelis/TRU1157610-OliviaMalone.jpg [checksum] => 1f91e83bcbbdef637395883f88449493 [mime_type] => image/jpeg [size] => 8769221 [external_url] => http://media.ninjatune.net/images/kelis/TRU1157610-OliviaMalone.jpg [image_upload_id] => [first_track_id] => [first_release_id] => [listed] => 0 [active] => 0 [processed] => 1 [artist_slug] => kelis [slug] => kelis-artist-shot-2014 [created] => 2014-04-09 17:06:02 [modified] => 2014-04-09 17:07:52 [embed] => ) [Country] => Array ( [id] => 208 [name] => United Kingdom [longname] => United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland [numcode] => 826 [iso] => GB [iso3] => GBR [currency] => GBP [active] => 1 [parent_id] => 191 [lft] => 413 [rght] => 414 [level] => 2 ) [Product] => Array ( ) [Artist] => Array ( [0] => Array ( [id] => 200 [name] => Kelis [description] =>

Kelis describes her sixth album as “a kind of unspoken lovefest”, albeit one involving two unlikely partners. On the one hand, there is Kelis Rogers, who first came to prominence singing the hook of Ol’ Dirty Bastard’s 1999 hit "Got Your Money"; whose debut album Kaleidoscope helped usher in the wave of sharp, thrillingly futuristic r’n’b that dominated the charts in the early Noughties: as exemplified by her global hit, 2003’s "Milkshake"; whose last album was a pop-dance extravaganza featuring production from will.i.am and David Guetta. On the other, there was Dave Sitek, guitarist in acclaimed Brooklyn experimentalists TV On The Radio; producer by appointment to a certain kind of smart, arty indie band: the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Foals, Liars. “It’s like we’re such different people,” says Kelis, “but I met him and he’s really just this brilliant, strange creature. I musically fell in love with him and I think he’s just a divine person. It’s ridiculous how much we speak the same language, musically and food-wise.”

Ah, food. As you may have gathered from the title, and indeed the tracks "Jerk Ribs", "Friday Fish Fry", "Biscuits n’ Gravy" and "Cobbler", food has quite a large role to play in Kelis’ sixth album, and indeed her life. She is a qualified chef, who took a cordon bleu course in 2008, after a traumatic battle with her then-record label came to an end: “I’d been trying to get off the label for four years. It was all-out war. I was in combat mode. I’d fought them for years, then one Friday I got this call telling me they were finally releasing me from my contract. I was sitting in my kitchen, watching TV, an ad came on for culinary school and I was like, “yeah, I’m going” I started class Monday morning. A year and a half course, seven hours a day, five days a week and Saturdays and Sundays you’ve got to get on the line, ready to be hired in a restaurant.”

Despite her reservations about having to wear “a stupid hat and chef’s getup”, she loved it. She’s about to launch her own range of sauces in the US called Feast – “at school I realized sauce is my thing, I personally think everything is better either smothered or poured” – and there’s talk of a TV cookery series, for which she’s just filmed a pilot episode: “a lifestyle show, it’s my life, and there really is no separation for me between the food and the music.”

You can tell as much from her hugely, infectiously enthusiastic descriptions of the session at which Food was recorded. “First of all, it was recorded at Dave’s house, which is like two minutes from my house in L.A.: ideal because we’re both borderline hermits, so that worked out really nice,” she laughs. “So I’d get there, and he’d be like, “oh, are you hungry?” And I’m like “yes, what do you have?” and I’d go and look in his kitchen. He used to start playing stuff, sitting at the piano, in the living room, right next to the kitchen, and I’d start singing a melody to it, while I’m chopping something. So then I’m frying something or whatever, and he’s playing another melody and I’m like “I love that”, so he says he’s going to call Todd. Todd’s this ridiculously good trumpet player who comes over and does this stupid freakin’ beautiful horn arrangement...

And the next thing you know, I’m cooking pies and there’s all these random musicians arriving, and it’s very calm and chilled, food’s being put on the table in the living room, another guy’s got an idea for a melody and I’m like, “I love that, it makes me think of this” and by the end of the night, we’ve got 11, 12 musicians there and everybody’s stuffed and the music is blaring, the songs are playing, it’s like a freaking zoo in there because he’s got three dogs and two Bengal cats, but it’s also like a freakin’ commune, because he’s got these girls staying there who are in this band CSS, so they’re from Brazil and now they’re cooking, they’re mixing micheladas…” Her voice trails off, happily. “It’s was great. No ego. They guys from TV On The Radio are there, and they’re working with me, and everyone is like: “I know who I am, I know who you are, I’ll do what I do and you’ll do what you do and we’ll do something that knocks everybody out in here.” And in the midst of that, we’ll eat.” She chuckles. “Literally every day, that’s what it was.”

Between mouthfuls, they devised an album entirely unlike anything Kelis has released before: a quick spin of the Simon And Garfunkel-esque ballad "Bless The Telephone" will underline that. It mints a sound that’s rootsy without ever being self-consciously retro, that pitches live horns and gospel-y organ against electronics, that for all its classic soul and funk influences, couldn’t have been made any time but now. “The one thing we did say at the beginning of this record is that whatever we do, we’re not copy cats” says Kelis. “The music I listen to and love, I can’t duplicate it, I would never try. I don’t want to make a copy of an old-school record. It doesn’t make any sense. It almost comes off as disrespectful to think that I could actually recreate what was already created masterfully.

That was never my goal. But what I will say is that thinking about moments of my life growing up, I think about what my parents listened to, what was just playing around the block, in my neighbourhood – half of it I don’t remember, but I remember the essence of it, the smile that it provides.Dave’s wonderful at grabbing a moment as opposed to trying to recreate something that doesn’t need to be recreated. That’s what we wanted to do. It’s not about, “let me duplicate this record”. It’s like, hell, we did something because it was authentic and it was beautiful and it’s rich and it’s flawed and I love it.”

In a way, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that Kelis’ music has taken another unpredictable shift: she hasn’t exactly shied away from pushing at the boundaries of the public’s perception of her from the start (“do I think that record labels in the past have had trouble knowing what to do with me and being unable to pigeonhole me?” she ponders, “um, in short: yes”). Her then-record label thought her second album, Wanderland, was too experimental and eclectic to release in America, while she’s probably the only artist in history to take a David Guetta pop-rave track and turn it into a paen to the joys of new motherhood: "Acappella", a song about the birth of her son Knight in 2009. This time, the results aren’t just unexpected, but highly personal.

Food is about more than just Kelis’ culinary passion, it’s an album about life, relationships and the uncertainty of that – “sure I’m self-sufficient, blah blah, independent,” she sings on "Floyd", “truthfully I’ve got some space I want that man to fill it” - and ridding yourself of anger and bitterness as expressed on Change. I think it’s just about where I’m at right now, and what’s going on around me and wanting to make a record that… that I believe. That I can sit down on a stool and sing for a long time.”

Understandably, she thinks she’s succeeded. “Being as arrogant as I can be, no one on Food is new to this, no one there gives a crap, everybody is literally like, “I do this because I’m good at it, I love it and it’s a blessing, and if I can do this with you, then bring it, let’s do it.” It’s like, OK, we’ve all had big budgets, we’ve all done big studios, that’s nice and whatever, but I’m also like, “I’m great, I don’t need any of that, I’ll go on my own schedule.” It would be a waste of energy throwing money at it, because everyone is there is so well-seasoned. There’s not a second of insecurity, not a second of doubt. The reality is that we’re too talented, too old and too good for any of that.” She hoots with laughter. “Like I said,” she smiles, “that’s putting it as arrogantly as I can.”

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Kelis describes her sixth album as “a kind of unspoken lovefest”, albeit one involving two unlikely partners. On the one hand, there is Kelis Rogers, who first came to prominence singing the hook of Ol’ Dirty Bastard’s 1999 hit "Got Your Money"; whose debut album Kaleidoscope helped usher in the wave of sharp, thrillingly futuristic r’n’b that dominated the charts in the early Noughties: as exemplified by her global hit, 2003’s "Milkshake"; whose last album was a pop-dance extravaganza featuring production from will.i.am and David Guetta. On the other, there was Dave Sitek, guitarist in acclaimed Brooklyn experimentalists TV On The Radio; producer by appointment to a certain kind of smart, arty indie band: the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Foals, Liars. “It’s like we’re such different people,” says Kelis, “but I met him and he’s really just this brilliant, strange creature. I musically fell in love with him and I think he’s just a divine person. It’s ridiculous how much we speak the same language, musically and food-wise.”

Ah, food. As you may have gathered from the title, and indeed the tracks "Jerk Ribs", "Friday Fish Fry", "Biscuits n’ Gravy" and "Cobbler", food has quite a large role to play in Kelis’ sixth album, and indeed her life. She is a qualified chef, who took a cordon bleu course in 2008, after a traumatic battle with her then-record label came to an end: “I’d been trying to get off the label for four years. It was all-out war. I was in combat mode. I’d fought them for years, then one Friday I got this call telling me they were finally releasing me from my contract. I was sitting in my kitchen, watching TV, an ad came on for culinary school and I was like, “yeah, I’m going” I started class Monday morning. A year and a half course, seven hours a day, five days a week and Saturdays and Sundays you’ve got to get on the line, ready to be hired in a restaurant.”

Despite her reservations about having to wear “a stupid hat and chef’s getup”, she loved it. She’s about to launch her own range of sauces in the US called Feast – “at school I realized sauce is my thing, I personally think everything is better either smothered or poured” – and there’s talk of a TV cookery series, for which she’s just filmed a pilot episode: “a lifestyle show, it’s my life, and there really is no separation for me between the food and the music.”

You can tell as much from her hugely, infectiously enthusiastic descriptions of the session at which Food was recorded. “First of all, it was recorded at Dave’s house, which is like two minutes from my house in L.A.: ideal because we’re both borderline hermits, so that worked out really nice,” she laughs. “So I’d get there, and he’d be like, “oh, are you hungry?” And I’m like “yes, what do you have?” and I’d go and look in his kitchen. He used to start playing stuff, sitting at the piano, in the living room, right next to the kitchen, and I’d start singing a melody to it, while I’m chopping something. So then I’m frying something or whatever, and he’s playing another melody and I’m like “I love that”, so he says he’s going to call Todd. Todd’s this ridiculously good trumpet player who comes over and does this stupid freakin’ beautiful horn arrangement...

And the next thing you know, I’m cooking pies and there’s all these random musicians arriving, and it’s very calm and chilled, food’s being put on the table in the living room, another guy’s got an idea for a melody and I’m like, “I love that, it makes me think of this” and by the end of the night, we’ve got 11, 12 musicians there and everybody’s stuffed and the music is blaring, the songs are playing, it’s like a freaking zoo in there because he’s got three dogs and two Bengal cats, but it’s also like a freakin’ commune, because he’s got these girls staying there who are in this band CSS, so they’re from Brazil and now they’re cooking, they’re mixing micheladas…” Her voice trails off, happily. “It’s was great. No ego. They guys from TV On The Radio are there, and they’re working with me, and everyone is like: “I know who I am, I know who you are, I’ll do what I do and you’ll do what you do and we’ll do something that knocks everybody out in here.” And in the midst of that, we’ll eat.” She chuckles. “Literally every day, that’s what it was.”

Between mouthfuls, they devised an album entirely unlike anything Kelis has released before: a quick spin of the Simon And Garfunkel-esque ballad "Bless The Telephone" will underline that. It mints a sound that’s rootsy without ever being self-consciously retro, that pitches live horns and gospel-y organ against electronics, that for all its classic soul and funk influences, couldn’t have been made any time but now. “The one thing we did say at the beginning of this record is that whatever we do, we’re not copy cats” says Kelis. “The music I listen to and love, I can’t duplicate it, I would never try. I don’t want to make a copy of an old-school record. It doesn’t make any sense. It almost comes off as disrespectful to think that I could actually recreate what was already created masterfully.

That was never my goal. But what I will say is that thinking about moments of my life growing up, I think about what my parents listened to, what was just playing around the block, in my neighbourhood – half of it I don’t remember, but I remember the essence of it, the smile that it provides.Dave’s wonderful at grabbing a moment as opposed to trying to recreate something that doesn’t need to be recreated. That’s what we wanted to do. It’s not about, “let me duplicate this record”. It’s like, hell, we did something because it was authentic and it was beautiful and it’s rich and it’s flawed and I love it.”

In a way, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that Kelis’ music has taken another unpredictable shift: she hasn’t exactly shied away from pushing at the boundaries of the public’s perception of her from the start (“do I think that record labels in the past have had trouble knowing what to do with me and being unable to pigeonhole me?” she ponders, “um, in short: yes”). Her then-record label thought her second album, Wanderland, was too experimental and eclectic to release in America, while she’s probably the only artist in history to take a David Guetta pop-rave track and turn it into a paen to the joys of new motherhood: "Acappella", a song about the birth of her son Knight in 2009. This time, the results aren’t just unexpected, but highly personal.

Food is about more than just Kelis’ culinary passion, it’s an album about life, relationships and the uncertainty of that – “sure I’m self-sufficient, blah blah, independent,” she sings on "Floyd", “truthfully I’ve got some space I want that man to fill it” - and ridding yourself of anger and bitterness as expressed on Change. I think it’s just about where I’m at right now, and what’s going on around me and wanting to make a record that… that I believe. That I can sit down on a stool and sing for a long time.”

Understandably, she thinks she’s succeeded. “Being as arrogant as I can be, no one on Food is new to this, no one there gives a crap, everybody is literally like, “I do this because I’m good at it, I love it and it’s a blessing, and if I can do this with you, then bring it, let’s do it.” It’s like, OK, we’ve all had big budgets, we’ve all done big studios, that’s nice and whatever, but I’m also like, “I’m great, I don’t need any of that, I’ll go on my own schedule.” It would be a waste of energy throwing money at it, because everyone is there is so well-seasoned. There’s not a second of insecurity, not a second of doubt. The reality is that we’re too talented, too old and too good for any of that.” She hoots with laughter. “Like I said,” she smiles, “that’s putting it as arrogantly as I can.”

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