[Read our review of Bad Meditation here]
To coincide with the release of his debut solo album Bad Meditation, I had the chance to talk with Mara TK (formally of Electric Wire Hustle) to discuss, amongst other things, the album’s look into life in New Zealand for a person of Māori descent. It offered a fascinating glimpse into the world of a musician in a small country, managing to stay afloat in tough times.
Unafraid to own his frailties, the interview shows the same winningly human spirit that permeates throughout the album itself and his desire to act as witness to—and advocate for—his Māori kinfolk. It was an entertaining and engaging conversation that revealed an artist undaunted by uncomfortable truths.
Thank you so much for taking the time to speak with me today. I know it’s late over there, in New Zealand, so thanks for staying up for me.
Oh no worries, I’m very used to talking to labels and PR and so on either late at night or early in the morning when our schedules coincide.
Are you based permanently in New Zealand?
Yeah, born and raised over here and other than a couple of years living in Berlin, I’ve been here my whole life.
Obviously, there may be ties like family, but is it important for you to remain where your roots are?
I think so. It’s actually pretty inseparable from the identity of the indigenous people here—identity is attached to sovereignty and the access to land. It’s kind of drilled into our psyche to tell people of the link between place and identity; showing folks our ancestral mountain or stream and so on. I think for non-Māori people too, it’s just the kind of place that gets into your psyche and under your skin. Do you think that’s the same for a lot of people? I guess it’s harder in the city?
I can only answer from a personal point of view, really. As someone raised in a greener, more rural place than where I currently live, I find myself wanting to return to those roots, the older I get. It certainly must be a strong pull for you.
I’m not sure how familiar you are with the different political struggles that have taken place around Māori culture, but they are all linked to the land. Water is a big one at the moment—it’s the new battleground as we think about privatizing new things that have previously been in common ownership. The Māori model of things being in common ownership has to be put into Crown Law or colonial law—these are interesting times.
I read this morning actually about the All Blacks rugby team being partially sold to some kind of venture capitalist. It was only 15%, but it is the same thing that has caused such uproar here in the UK with the formation and swift dissolution of the European Super League in football (soccer). The loss of connection between those who are the club and those who own the club is something we can see in music too, with the never-ending creep of exploitation.
I marvel at how record companies managed to trick us into saying that a “stream” was a mechanical royalty when we could have argued more successfully that it was the same as a radio “play.” There’s actually nothing mechanical about a stream at all—it’s digital!
Which leads to the obvious question then—how do you, as a musician, survive?
Well, you have to get pretty crafty, especially in a small country. For example, if you wanted to tour the whole of New Zealand, then it amounts to about 3 shows! We all do different things—some people teach music, some do other things. The guy I started Electric Wire Hustle with back in the day, David “Taay Ninh” Wright, he had a 9-to-5 job for 7 or 8 years while doing that group. I do some film scoring now and then, but sometimes a song will go out into TV land, live on its own for a bit and might one day come back with a cheque!
I’ve spoken to a few musicians recently and Jordan Rakei was talking about having to hustle and diversify more to make things work. I wonder if you have had to do that all along because of the small size of the country you’re based in?
I think you’re probably right there. A few of us had a few different hustles going on there! Some of those side hustles had to take center stage from time to time. We are also lucky that we are able to get some support in the shape of government funding—the systems aren’t always the best and are riddled with inherent bias, but the help exists. Once you are in the cycle of releasing an album, your manager will apply for funding to do videos, etc., and those avenues are quite well known.
I was going to mention this later, but it seems apt to talk about it now. There’s a tendency in the UK to talk about New Zealand as some kind of progressive paradise (that was helped by the handling of the pandemic by your Prime Minister Jacinda Ardern), but the album clearly points towards prejudice against Māori people. How do you square that circle?
We’ve had years and years of experiencing inequality. When I was younger, I would look at our neighborhoods and see drug dealing on the corner or young kids drinking in the street and think that all neighborhoods were like that. But it wasn’t until I moved, years later, to a more affluent part of town that I realized it wasn’t “normal.” We missed out on so many things including basic necessities, education and the ability to have fun! We didn’t go on holidays, we had no money to go anywhere—we just stayed in the home unless we were touring (because my parents are musicians).
The struggle is well known to Māori people. It’s one of those things that some days you don’t want to dwell on it, but other days it has to come out and it comes out in my songs. As far as our “progressive” government goes, it has only been progressive for those who already have means, properties or investments. Most of those in parliament are upper middle class—our previous PM has a personal fortune of over 10 million dollars—but we have a whole class of working poor; people who work 50-60 hours a week and still don’t have enough to have basic necessities. I’m happy to chuck my two cents in the ring, but it’s interesting to see how places are perceived from outside.
It seems that the system continues to do the thing that it was designed for!
Of course. It wasn’t designed by us, so it can’t be designed for us. There are some changes—there’s a foreign minister who is a Māori woman for example, so things are starting to change, but it can’t come soon enough.
You’ve spoken with such passion about the subject but in thinking about “Toroa/The Albatross” from the album, it was a chance for me to learn a little about the struggles you have mentioned. It must be important to you to use your music to tell some stories that are less well known to some people.
I wish I was an originator in telling these stories, but it has become a feature of our identity that we like to talk about these past struggles and acts of our ancestors. Parihaka is particularly interesting because it is one the earliest recorded acts of passive resistance in relatively recent history. This was 1881, years before Gandhi’s time and there are plenty of these stories throughout our history. As you can imagine, you think you have a place or country to yourself and then someone comes over who looks and acts totally differently and takes things over. You know, there are so many acts who wipe the floor with me—Māori songwriters who are still writing in traditional ways. They take the form of chants and wipe the floor with all of us!
Part of the joy must be using a musical framework (soul music) that might offer greater exposure to raise the important points around identity and sovereignty that you want to?
That’s the hope, but half of me just wants people here to hear and receive it too. Do my aunties and younger cousins dig it, you know?! I also tune into BBC Radio 1 and hear some really interesting things from global music and feel like DJs are more open to playing non-English stuff too.
I think also despite what we have said about the financial limitations of streaming, it offers a massive opportunity to discover new music and break boundaries of language, etc. I want to talk more specifically about the album, which I really enjoy. Parts of the lyrical content and the press release talk about you “messing up” and re-finding your path. In what ways did you step off and how did you get back on?
Oh, man. I’m not sure! Some people might think I’m still off it!
Do you feel back on the path?
Gosh. I’m getting there. The thing about taking a fall like that is that you still feel like your knees are scraped up. Some days the breeze blows a little bit cold and you feel it in your lower back! I guess, to be honest, I feel like we have to be grownups but many of us (myself included) don’t really grow up until something slaps you in the face!
I don’t think I had the maturity at a critical time in a relationship. I think I could have steered things in a different, more positive direction if I’d known myself a little more. In terms of what they should expect from me and what I could expect from them. It was a lot of things, really. There were some really interesting things done by Māori psychiatrists in the ‘70s and ‘80s that deal with the concept of the “four pillars of the house.” Those pillars are your spiritual health, your physical health, your social or family health and your mental health. They are all interlinked and enable you to have a stable “house” to flourish as a person. They are designed to help you unpick the way you are feeling, but I couldn’t do that.
I found comfort in a lot of other places that weren’t good and took place between the hours of 10pm and 5am. Some of those drugs I got over the counter and some I got from under the counter or table. I still don’t have the answers, but knowing more about myself definitely helps. A little bit of self-knowledge is a powerful thing. It can be scary and overwhelming, but definitely empowering. This album was a bit of therapy, but the music is what I obsess over.
One thing that came across for me was a strain of ‘70s soul music, most obviously on the slight cover of the Jackson 5 song “All I Do Is Think Of You.” Where does that come from?
That comes from my dad, who is a psychedelic rock guitarist. His stuff is on YouTube and he still mostly listens to stuff from the ‘70s. That’s probably 50% of the music I love along with ‘90s hip-hop stuff. Hip-hop was my first love and I’m always trying to make music using drum machines in the same way ‘90s hip-hop did. Found sounds and looping things—it always comes from that.
You talked about ‘90s hip-hop—what are the prime influences from that era?
The very first tape I ever had was MC Hammer’s Please Hammer, Don’t Hurt ‘Em with “U Can’t Touch This” and “Pray.” Then it was Warren G and “Regulate” and Bone Thugs-n-Harmony’s “Crossroads.” In later years, I got a job washing dishes and it allowed me to buy a set of turntables and then I’d be buying records. Dilla has ended up as a touchstone for me along with The Roots and D’Angelo, of course. I think hip-hop was our own thing, it was so different from the music of our parents—we had our own relationship with it.
And it changes so quickly as well, doesn’t it?
Yes, it’s so dynamic. It will change immediately. If you took your eyes off it for two years, it would be a totally different beast than when you left it.
One thing I love when listening to records is being surprised by instrumentation, like the tuba on “Still Ray” by Raphael Saadiq or the strings on “Pink & Blue” by OutKast. I got that feeling when the harp popped up on your record—where did the inspiration for that come from?
Without a doubt it comes from Alice Coltrane. I think she was one of the most glorious musicians ever and as much of a genius as her husband was. So, she is 100% the inspiration. I got a chance to do a session with a harpist here 6 years ago and it was just such a medicine because of the instant shot in the arm—I feel like the harp is one of those sounds. Mostly, it is a woman called Michelle Velvin—shout out to her! She is mostly a classical harpist—she’s in our city orchestra so she’s a big fish!
The way it pops up is just such an invigorating surprise.
I’m just so glad to hear you use the word surprise, because I think that’s what you want music to do. You forget that is one of the key things that music should do to be interesting is to surprise.
There are a couple of collaborations on the album. How did the work with Xenia Manesseh, the Kenyan singer-songwriter, come about?
That was through the label—they put us together. She’s special because she writes so well for other people, she has written songs for Teyana Taylor. She’s making moves and doing interesting things. She’s a real interesting person with a great approach.
The other guy that pops up here (as you have on his work) is Troy Kingi. What makes him a good collaborator?
Well, Troy is one of my best friends. You remember me saying it is hard to do more than a 3-date tour of New Zealand? Well, he and I have stretched it out into other provinces and been to the seafront to gig together. He is a dive instructor too, so that became our band pastime between gigs. The collaboration came out of just enjoying spending time together. He’s committed to a challenge to make an album a year for 10 years—he’s so hardworking!
I love the song “Te Kete Aronui” on the album. What does it mean? What is it about?
So, it is from the mythology about our deities—they ascend the heavens and bring back things like knowledge, etc. It’s a really intricate story but to boil it down they bring back these baskets of knowledge to take humankind out of the Dark Ages. “Te Kete Aronui” refers to concepts of community and how to get along with one another. I wrote that song to remind my two girls about that basket and the story and the importance of community.
Time for the final question. As we are dedicated to the joy and wonder of the album format, what are your favorite albums of all time?
I have to start with Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On. It feels like the kind of album one could only make at the height of his powers. It’s crazy, but Marvin said he couldn’t remember much of the making of this record and that it came together very quickly, which is almost unbelievable to me.
Mama’s Gun by Erykah Badu is another masterpiece, both for Erykah’s songwriting which is arguably some of her best conceived and for the production, which was mostly handled by Erykah and James Poyser, who I heard had to check himself into hospital straight after handing in the final mixes.
D’Angelo’s Voodoo is still such a heavy hitter. The amazing thing to me is that he and his band managed to make soul music sound like it had reinvented itself overnight.
Hirini Melbourne’s Forest and Ocean is an absolutely fundamental record for many Māori here in Aotearoa (New Zealand). He was from our largest forested area and he really retained many of our traditional ways of thinking about the forest and its birds. But he was also listening to the latest folk music of the day, so the melodies and guitar playing are hip.
Troy Kingi’s Zygertron: I think this is one of the most interesting albums to come from this country. It’s a sci-fi inspired soul record that puts him into a rarified category as a Pacific Futurist and much like Sun Ra found in America, our colonial history has precedents where we have not recognized Samoan, Niuean, Tongan, Fijian, Māori, Chinese and other people of color as equals in our society. This album speaks to that in places, but it also just bangs.
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