Tales from Troubled Truths

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Mosta might be best known for its Dome, but the playground is earning its place in history. Jon Mallia’s No Bling Show is the soundtrack to a jilted generation. By Wayne Flask

I always loved that line in Dan le Sac’s “Thou Shalt Always Kill.” It goes something like, Thou shalt remember that guns, bitches and bling were never part of the four elements and never will be. By standards, the song is a sociorealistic rant where allusions to everyday British life are not so grossly exaggerated, and the painful reference to the pureed MTV hip hop that has catapulted its protagonists from ghettos to “cribs”: it’s turned into a joke.

Jon Mallia, fortunately, doesn’t wear a ton of jewellery round his neck and unlike those you see on the box, doesn’t talk ghetto gibberish. He greets me in track suit pants and t-shirt, walking out into a chilly Mosta evening without bothering to put his shoes on yet making it a point to avoid the puddles as we head to his house. “Don’t be scared of the dog. It will ba…” he says before Sammy, a giant two year old mongrel, drowns our discourse.

As it turns out, Sammy makes friends with the newcomer rather quickly. “I share the house with my mum, sixteen cats, a dog, and I’ve lost count of my brothers and sisters,” Jon titters as his mother prepares coffee and cigarettes.

Jon is the creator and one-half of No Bling Show (the other being fellow Sixth Simfoni talent Phil Zammit), the hip hop sensation that rose to acclaim this summer with their homemade debut “Stejjer mill-Bandli tal-Mosta” (Tales from the Mosta Playground). Brash and occasionally corrosive yet witty, piercingly recited in the native tongue, their first attempt slithers through Jon’s personal experiences and the grim realities of Maltese society, letting skeletons out of padlocked closets, recounting teenage angst that ends helplessly in the dark throes of substance abuse. If for a moment you suspected No Bling Show was being tongue in cheek, the sordid life embedded in the rhymes crafted in anger is a shattering thud to earth.

We’re settled down around the table, in the company of a courteous eighteen year old cat who sets on a discreet inspection of my belongings. Eager to answer and polite, the singer exudes self confidence and determination, even though he behaves very much unlike the reputed rabble-rouser you hear of.

“It all started off this summer. Sixth Simfoni was a natural basis for us, it’s a great thing, experimental and flowing. But I felt a sting inside me. I felt it the first time after a festival in France three years ago. Almost all the hip hop acts who performed were doing so in their native tongue. We were the only ones to sing in English. It stung my conscience... hip hop is a voice to the oppressed in society. How can I be that voice without even using my mother language?”

“I was spending a lot of time negotiating and all this bureaucratic stuff. I just couldn’t sit still without doing any creative work, like letting something die inside me. I found myself writing Lucija u Samwel on my own at night, thinking, this could lead to something. It was a good thorough look at the culture I’m living in right now.”

Joining forces with Phil, Jon moved quarters to his garage (“a complete junkyard”) armed with basic recording equipment and tons of enthusiasm. “We only had a half a song written, and we set ourselves a deadline to finish the piece in five weeks. We stuck to it. We wrote, arranged, recorded, printed and marketed the album in just five weeks.”

Acknowledging the challenge of bringing together two very disparate key elements, a Semitic language and an Afro-American music genre, Jon lists Brikkuni’s Kuntrabanda as the spark that convinced him to record in Maltese. “They were an inspiration. Kuntrabanda showed me how descriptive Maltese could be.”

“I admit it wasn’t easy. I had written some things before and ran them by Niki Gravino. He pointed out that I was rapping in Maltese but there was still something borrowed from English. Maltese has a lot of consonants and that did help our diction a great deal. After much practising it all became natural. In those five weeks I had started to believe in it, and I wanted to do it so much that it became easier.” His rap routine has had an effect on his pronunciation, leading him to elongate and emphasise his ‘a’ during the course of our chat.

Stejjer... does not stick to an accepted formula, not even in the course of its twelve tracks. It reaches its climaxes with the two parts of the epic Lucija u Samwel, a tale of violated innocence and drug bingeing (brilliantly filmed and produced by the crew of Take 2, another Youtube hit these days) and meanders almost lazily during the Police inspired ska beat of Anzi s-Sajf. It plunges to the pseudo-sleaze Ritornell, a recount of an intimate moment that serves, if anything, to defuse the tension of Lucija u Samwel. U l-Iskola is another highlight, a tour among the gallery of Jon’s first sworn enemies: teachers.

He sings as matter of factly as can be, naming them in person, paying respect to those who deserve it, and vowing no forgiveness to the others. The album is deeply personal, in some phases Jon seems to tell too much. I lower my voice when I ask him about the frequent references to drug abuse.

“Don’t worry, mum knows about everything, unfortunately she’s witnessed all of it. The root of hip hop is to create a positive from the negative. I lived an obscure life for a period of time. I’ve tried everything and done everything. Now I put all my anger at the centre, looked at it in an objective manner, analysed it, and decided to tell the truth without shying away. If I don’t sell drugs myself, I will know someone who does. I’m not saying anything new. There’s no point in saying these things don’t happen, therefore I decided to be honest. It’s my duty as an artist.

“I’m not trying to tell people what’s right and what’s wrong. I’m only saying these things are happening. At least the mothers, the parents know what’s going on. There’s a disillusioned generation. Many great aspiring musicians are amongst those worst hit by drugs. The truth is what it is. There are repercussions. I can forget about a sponsor. But at least I sleep at night.”

Released to positive reviews this summer, the album is a raw deal, produced entirely in a garage with a 1995 software. “My sleeping bag is still down there,” smiles Jon. “And I used to shower once every three days.”

Feedback from the live audiences was very encouraging. “Our songs are well known, even when we played to crowds who don’t know hip hop. People who’re more open minded and listen to a lot of different music liked it. As raw as it is, it’s still a breath of fresh air.”

You sense, however, that the hype surrounding No Bling Show needs a more mature follow up. Precious seconds of the album are wasted on banter between Jon and Phil, which seems to capture the camaraderie of those days, but doesn’t necessarily sound funny. So is the refrain of Bla Xinxilli. Jon is disarmingly honest when faced with criticism, saying the next album needs more thought and experiment, admitting to a few venial sins while recording.

“I’ll be very frank, I skip the first 1min26 of the opener, I can’t stand it. Same goes for the very last track. There’s a lot of room for improvement, in every track. Every song has a defect...in the first part of Lucija my tempo fluctuates, Bla Xinxilli needs higher vocals, maybe you’re right about the chorus. We recorded it on a PC in a 1995 Q-base, mate. It’s a pure garage recording, it needs more air. On the whole, musicians or pseudo-musicians can spot where the mistakes are. For all its rawness it did get good feedback.”

As expected, they struggled to get any airplay. At one point Jon had even engaged a discussion with a foreign DJ to ask why songs in Maltese wouldn’t get played – Anzi s-Sajf, despite a couple of beeps, would have made a decent single – even though nowadays Jon is seeing things differently.

“The Maltese artist doesn’t need radio. It would be nice if they could lend us a hand, but radio isn’t as important as it was in the nineties, before we could copy albums or download mp3’s.

Ultimately the radio wants to make money, not play good music or defend the Maltese language. Three commercial radio stations have foreign station managers, what do they care about the legacy of the Maltese language? They only want to play hits and get their cheque at the end of the month. It irritates me to have foreigners leading our stations, but ultimately you can’t blame them. They don’t care about us, Brikkuni, Xtruppaw... it was angering me at first, but between internet and critics we can get through.”


I bid my goodbyes to Jon’s ma, and my new friend Sammy. Jon accompanies me out into the darkness of Mosta, an unusual setting for any album. It’s hip hop, but certainly not the LA ghetto or the MTV mansions. That’s why they its called No Bling Show.

“Before the album was out, many youths had already discarded hip hop because it was becoming mediocre, killed by MTV. Real hip hop is very far from 50 Cent. Hip hop is not the mediocrity they want to sell us, it’s a social commentary, a spiritual message, political, it’s a teacher. People who push this consumerist philosophy have chosen to push the other genre, to sell us sneakers and bling. They've turned hip hop into a selling tool. That’s not the root of hip hop.”

Infectious albums like “Stejjer mill-Bandli tal-Mosta” grow on you easily. For artists like Jon, pushing the parcel is a must. “My next album? It’s going to be pretty much out the f*****n box.”

Sounds like a promise.