Musician records sound of climate change in Arctic
The sound of Arctic wind howling through the strings of Sarah Smout's carbon fibre cello on the pack ice connected to the North Pole is like nothing she has heard before.
She joined a group of artists from all over the world on a trip to research and be inspired by the "breathtaking and absolutely vast" landscape of the Arctic Circle.
The musician and poet spent 16 days on board a specially-equipped ship in the Norwegian archipelago of Svalbard and experienced temperatures of -15C.
She said she saw climate change happening before her eyes as "cracks began to form on the ice, a large shelf broke off and we were hurried back onto the boat, no longer safe on the drifting piece of ice".
Smout is using music, words and sound recordings to make her debut album, which will focus on climate change in the Arctic.
"Music is a brilliant way to bring people together, speak to their hearts and minds and inspire them to make decisions themselves to bring about positive change," said Smout.
"We are witness to the climate changing all around us, but none so dramatic and fast as in the Arctic.
"It might be far away but what happens there affects all of us."
She said visiting Svalbard had made her more driven than ever to bring the sounds she has recorded to the wider public.
She hopes listeners will connect to what is happening in that part of the world and be encouraged to protect it.
Smout said her current research was about water and that she and her cello, which she has named Bernard, had been on many adventurers to explore nature.
"I've always been fascinated by the Arctic and I think being in places and getting a sense of the place first hand sparks my own creativity," she said.
Smout used a hydrophone to record under water and said the sounds she had collected, such as creaking glaciers, would speak for themselves on her album.
Listen to highlights from North Yorkshire on BBC Sounds, catch up with the latest episode of Look North.
The race to save the fastest-warming place on Earth
Arctic 'doesn't want you to survive', says explorer before mission
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(The MLC told Rolling Stone it had already flagged irregularities and suspended the royalties before Blue Smiley reached out, though the band says they were never made aware of that action.) That hasn't stopped Simon from claiming credit for other artists' music. Via the MLC's database, Simon has claimed credit for 33 other tracks by multiple artists, including a song by the Orlando-based artist Suissidee. 'They had no part in working on that song,' Suissidee tells Rolling Stone. 'It was just me and my friend.' Simon has also claimed credit for many songs by the artist Nuvfr, who told Rolling Stone, 'I don't know who Eldde Simon is.' This apparent imposter isn't the first person to try to game the music industry. Last year, the U.S. Justice Department indicted a North Carolina man named Michael Smith for using AI to create hundreds of thousands of songs, then employing bots to stream the songs billions of times. 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'The whole system is set up to require an intense knowledge of copyright law in the United States, along with technical capabilities and an ungodly amount of persistence with constant auditing,' he says. Price argues that the issue facing Blue Smiley and an untold number of other musicians dates back to before the creation of the MLC, when Spotify 'flipped the business model' by launching its platform without licenses in place for every song. At the time, songs were streamed without the proper mechanical licenses, which was especially harmful for independent artists. Then the same law that led to the formation of the MLC gave Spotify and other services a blanket license to stream music. As Price puts it, this method is akin to starting a streaming service that's home to every movie in the world, then only paying Disney if they ask for their money. He's had clients with much larger followings than Blue Smiley who wait months, even years, to receive the money they're owed. 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Part of their bond came from their mutual ability to reflect the character of their birth city in their music. 'You can hear New York talking in both of those guys,' says Laurie Anderson, who married Reed in 2008. 'They're both connected to the language of the streets. When they hung out, they would always riff on it and turn it into a song.' After college, Jeffreys attended the Institute of Fine Arts in New York but dropped out to pursue music. In 1969, he played guitar on John Cale's debut solo album, Vintage Violence, and, that same year, formed a band named Grinder's Switch that was signed to Vanguard Records and performed at the Fillmore East. Their debut album was produced by Lewis Merenstein, who had recently overseen Van Morrison's classic Astral Weeks. Though the Grinder's Switch album flopped, Jeffreys managed to get a solo contract with Atlantic. And while his sole release for the label — that 1973 self-titled debut featuring 'Ballad of Me' — was another bomb, it got good reviews for a sound that favored folk rock, blues, and reggae, a style that was just beginning to make an impact in the U.S. at the time. In an attempt to get attention for himself in that period, Jeffreys told some media outlets he was Jamaican. The lie revealed a flair for self-mythologizing already evident in his choice of a stage name: Born William Jeffreys, the singer chose to use his middle name, Garland, to sound more exotic. Four long years passed before he got another record contract, this time with A&M. His 1977 debut for the label, titled Ghost Writer, featured a song called 'Wild in the Streets' that was inspired by a horrific incident in the Bronx in which two teenage boys raped and murdered a nine-year-old girl. 'He was deeply affected by that story because it happened to children,' Claire says. 'He always felt like a wounded child himself.' 'Wild in the Streets' earned lots of FM radio play and was later covered by the Circle Jerks in what became such a signature piece for the California hardcore punks that few of their fans know Jeffreys actually wrote it. It didn't help that their version inverted its meaning entirely, turning it from a tragedy into an expression of joyous freedom. 'Garland didn't mind,' says Claire, who would go on to marry him in 1989. 'No matter how someone interprets your song, it's still an honor when someone covers it.' Given all the hype behind Ghost Writer, including RS' 'most promising artist' rave, Jeffreys took it hard when the album failed to sell. It didn't help his cause, his wife says, that he frequently fought with his label. 'He never felt like the label was doing right by him, even if they technically were,' she says. 'He always came from a place of insecurity and distrust.' Despite all the setbacks, Jeffreys continued to soar creatively, releasing notable albums like 1979's American Boy & Girl, whose cover featured an image of an interracial couple, and which generated a huge hit in Europe with the song 'Matador.' Stateside, Jeffreys continued to burn through labels, issuing albums on Epic and RCA. His first effort for the latter label channeled all of his frustrations into a stirring 1992 concept album about race called Don't Call Me Buckwheat. Its confrontational title was inspired by an ugly incident in the early '90s at a Mets game when someone in the crowd yelled at Jeffreys, 'Hey Buckwheat, get the fuck out of here,' making reference to the Black character from the 1930s series Our Gang. To drive home the pain and poignancy of that, the album cover featured a photo of Jeffreys as a child dressed in his baseball uniform to attend the historic game in which Jackie Robinson broke the color line. One song on the album was titled 'Color Line,' while another, named 'Racial Repertoire,' discussed what's known today as code-switching. 'The way you speak in the neighborhood is different from the way you speak on the job,' Reid explains. 'Garland wrote about that situation better than anyone.' More daringly, Jeffreys wrote about his own internalized racial shame in 'I Was Afraid of Malcolm,' with lyrics that found him struggling to accept Malcolm X's message. 'Malcolm was demanding an accounting, and Garland was terrified of what that would mean,' Reid says. 'To face the truth of racism is a monstrous thing.' While the album resonated in Europe, aided by strong support by a German record executive, it was buried in the U.S., once again reinforcing issues the singer had long faced as a Black rocker. In an interview I did with Garland in 2011, he talked about that. 'I'm too Black to be white, and too white to be Black,' he said then. 'We faced the same issue in my band,' Reid says of his pioneering group Living Colour. 'Black artists are not considered in the rock field.' At his most frustrated, Jeffreys resorted to painting his face Black, while also creating blackface masks to wear onstage. 'He knew that could be controversial,' his wife says. 'But he felt he had to do something.' Reid considers Jeffreys' blackface move to be an 'act of self-lacerating performance art. He was forcing the issue while also forcing the audience to face their own complicity in the situation.' Jeffreys' lack of success in the States ultimately left him without a recording contract in his home country for nearly 20 years. When he finally returned to recording with The King of In Between in 2011, the album appeared on his own label, Luna Park. Critics raved. Again, audiences remained aloof. Undaunted, Jeffreys continued issuing new work through 2017 with 14 Steps to Harlem. Two years later, he announced his retirement, though his wife thinks he should have stepped back sooner. 'He had been faltering in live performances for quite a while, forgetting lyrics or telling a story that was meandering,' she says. Her initial suggestion to stop didn't go over well. 'It was definitely a case of killing the messenger,' she says. 'It was really rough because performing was so important to him — way more important than success.' Eventually, however, not only did Jeffreys come to accept retirement, he began to appreciate the level of success he had achieved by re-centering his focus on the quality of the work itself. For the documentary, Springsteen offered the most laudatory summation of Jeffreys' talents. 'He's in the great singer-songwriter tradition of Dylan and Neil Young,' Springsteen said, 'one of the American greats.' Spreading the word on that was the main impetus behind Claire Jeffreys making the documentary, but it took some persuading to get her husband to go along. 'At first, he was ambivalent because it brought back all of those hard feelings,' she says. Despite his declining health, Jeffreys was able to appear during much of the filming. Eventually, though, his wife had to jump onscreen to speak for him. Relieved as she is to finally get the film out, it pains her to know that her husband may be unaware of either its release or its reception. Regardless, she believes his story has a silver lining. 'Ultimately, this is a story about perseverance,' she says. 'When each of us gets older, we realize that certain dreams of ours haven't been fulfilled. I hope this film helps people to accept what they have achieved, as Garland eventually did. Despite all that he faced, his has been a life well lived.' 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