For somebody who detests shopping, it must have been something very special which made me stop dead in my tracks, cause a line of people behind me to shunt each other bumper-to-bumper, and turn back to inspect the shop window further. I had discovered the home of East Village Radio; not a shop at all, but an independent radio station broadcasting from a former retail floor.

In the East Village, there is an unwritten decree that forbids convention, and, in this day of prohibitive legislation, permits innovation, originality and contrast. EVR is a radio station that meets this remit unquestionably, and embodies the cultural vitality of its surrounding environment. It is dedicated to playing the most eclectic mix of music imaginable, and its broadcasters are passionate experts in their preferred genres. It also has a significant Brooklyn influence, complete with the beats and grooves which so characterise this other New York cultural hotspot.
But alternative does not mean financial hardship. Frank Prisinzano, Director of EVR, sees the enterprise as a fusion of the College radio mentality, which supports broadcasters and artists trying to ‘break the mould’ and offer new ideas, tastes and thoughts, whilst also making the station a viable business prospect. It must be financially successful.
EVR started out in 2003, transmitting on FM, but is now internet-based. Its first members of staff had been working in pirate radio, and got their inspiration for ‘college-commercial’ radio from the WFM New station. EVR benefits handsomely from the dues paid by record labels and shops, eager to get new music on the data waves. Academy Records, Boundless and Turntable Lab all feed their latest and greatest through EVR.
Passion drives the station. “We want to give a platform to people who otherwise wouldn’t have a platform,” says Steve Cohen, EVR Station Manager. This is done by setting up the radar, and searching for the best blips. The result of this is an impressively diverse programming schedule, which takes in ‘20s jazz, gay-orientated electronic, minimal techno and a classic hip-hop show.
Although dialogue does not figure hugely at the moment, there are plans to introduce more chat.  But it won’t be Moyles-esque rubbish: it will be the talk of true aficionados. East Village Radio will be feeding its listeners with inspiration, and hopes to attract more support via its revamped website, due to be released in May 2008. Cohen calls the approach to music at EVR “academic;” a lot of research goes into sourcing the best of the latest, and collaborating with record shops to forecast the new wave in each genre.
Although EVR has recorded listeners in 117 countries, Cohen admits that there has not really been much of an effort to promote the station. In line with the revamped website, there will be more cross-promotion, including a link from the new Globalist website, branding on buildings and a presence at relevant music events. The station itself hopes to offer recording facilities, and become a portal for music enthusiasts and professionals the world over.

Negotiations between the Cultural Ministry of the Generalitat of Cataluña and regional museums are, after recent elections, back on track. Talk of a major retrospective in Barcelona, a touring exhibition, and a permanent gallery space for Armengol’s work is advancing as his story blends with the retelling of one of Spain’s most turbulent eras.

Mariano Armengol Torrella was born in 1909 in San Juan de las Abadesas, a pretty town in the shadow of the Catalan Pyrenees. The second of six children, and the elder of the two sons of Benito Armengol, a wealthy textiles manufacturer, and Francisca Torrellas, Armengol junior was a bright and affectionate boy with unruly auburn hair, and a love of nature. He was voraciously intellectual.

His commitment to study and learning led him in many different directions. The young Armengol loved fishing and patiently made his own flies to catch trout and salmon. Angling became a lifelong joy. He was a regular hill-walker and, later, an accomplished mountaineer. These skills helped him to survive in future years.

He and his siblings learned to swim during regular family trips to the nearby Barcelona coast. They took turns to develop a strong breast-stroke alongside their very large pet dog, occasionally holding on to its tail for safety. The beast seemed to enjoy its role as ‘swimming coach’, under the watchful eye of the family Governess.

However, Armengol’s overpowering love was painting and drawing, and his extraordinary talent was evident from the age of seven. His mother encouraged him from the outset, and a quite remarkable sense of colour and design, and skilful figurative work emerged.

Always an inquisitive boy, his early ‘investigations’ led to a series of death-defying incidents. A wealthy aunt owned one of the first cars to be seen in the province. After learning to ‘drive’ the noisy auto at the age of eight, he was fascinated by the engine and its mass of mysterious moving parts, and he enjoyed hanging upside down over the bonnet to watch the pipes steam, flywheels turn and gears rotate. Hanks of hair were left scorching on the engine block as the shocked boy was yanked free with a souvenir bloody scalp, after toppling over the bonnet edge. Thrilled by the growing sophistication of airplanes, the youngster was moved to launch himself from the upper balustrade of a grand staircase, with braced bed sheets for wings, and was left severely concussed on the marbled floor below. A primal interest in fire led to perilous experiments with petrol and candles, and his hair combusting over a primus stove. The rapid actions of a servant, who wrapped him in a heavy tapestry, saved his life, but left Armengol with a heavily scarred neck and pitted cheeks. These childhood episodes and wounds neither diluted his intellectual prowess, nor the attentions of women in future years.

His industrialist father moved the family to a large, elegant house in the city of Terrassa, which then had a population of 30,000 and was an important regional centre for textiles manufacture. It had played an important role in the development of Spain’s industrial revolution, particularly in the production of woollen fabrics. It flourished further from the 1890s, and has an important art nouveau design and architecture legacy dating from this period.

The Paris of the 1920s and its dynamic artistic community drew Armengol irresistibly. He left Spain to enrol at an Arts academy and continued his studies living on the breadline, telling tales of cold nights under bridges when the cash ran out. But he thrived on the bohemian lifestyle, and made friends with the painters, radicals and free-thinking women with whom he lived.

Armengol’s paintings, with a distinctive, bold style with dashes of impressionism and wonderful atmosphere, began to sell, and his reputation as an outstanding colourist grew rapidly. He held two successful exhibitions, hanging alongside Picasso and Utrillo, and received favourable critical notices in La Gazette des Beaux Arts and mainstream French press.

With starvation allayed, he became very political, and his eye turned searchingly to Spain, then in the midst of one of the most turbulent periods of its history. Post-Russian Revolution, political ideals and pressures for change were building. The desperate poverty of the Spanish rural poor, set against the vast wealth and unbending authoritarianism of the landed gentry, was inflaming resentment and insurrection as never before, and the whole world was watching.

Armengol was in danger under the new regime. He was on a list of ‘undesirables’ being targeted by the Rightists. Using his knowledge of the mountains and climbing skills honed in his teenage years, he fled, crossing the Pyrenees into France, burying his artistic materials on the way lest he be caught and taken for a spy, arrested by the police and, along with many other Spanish refugees, interned in a transit camp.

The French authorities were inundated with Spaniards escaping the Fascists. Armengol was given two choices; forcible repatriation which would result in imprisonment and almost certain death, or joining the French Foreign Legion. He joined the Legion, enlisting with the 2nd Battalion of 13th Demi-Brigade and, following the custom of the Legion, acquired an official pseudonym – Hubert. The young recruit was posted to the Legion’s headquarters at Sidi-bel-Abbes, Algeria. His head was shaved, and he tried to smarten up his ‘Beau Geste’ uniform- always the dandy- by pressing his tunic between two straw mattresses. He wore wooden-soled boots and was bitten mercilessly by insects. But he did try his best to integrate with the strange mix of men that made up the fighting force, many with murkier reasons for taking on a new identity.

Armengol’s poor soldiering skills soon became painfully obvious. Luckily, the Brigade Captain recognised his artistic talents, took him off rock-breaking, target practise and marching drills, and set him to work as a cartographer on topographical surveys. In between mapping expeditions into the desert, he used his pens to create a caricature narrative of his legionnaire’s life.

After Dunkirk Armengol was evacuated to France and fought a rearguard action, before being evacuated from Brest, in North-West France, to Plymouth Sound, and then to Liverpool, where he was interrogated by political and military intelligence officers. Here he was demobilised from the French Army. He had not fired a single shot throughout the hostilities.

In 1941 Armengol was one of thousands of displaced people newly arrived in Britain. He was granted refugee status and official leave to stay. He and two friends, Juan and Agustyn, an Armenian jewellery designer, were befriended by Francisco Madariaga, a restaurateur, wine importer and ‘big noise’ in Liverpool’s long-established Spanish Basque community. With many hours in the day to fill, Armengol found himself, in halting English, talking with the owner of an art materials shop. The man eventually presented him with a box of inks, paints and cartridge paper, which had been ordered, paid for, but never collected by a number of customers. Armengol had the tools to work again. In return for the Basque hospitality he was enjoying, he painted panels of exotic sea food and traditional paellas to decorate the restaurant bar, and designed advertisements and menu cards. The owner was delighted. Here he met Rolindez, the owner’s striking elder daughter; their relationship was to last 60 years. An instant attraction flared between them, but a penniless, already-married (a connection which had taken place some years before) refugee artist was certainly not part of the family plan for their handsome daughter.

Armengol went to London on the recommendation of the International Commission for War Refugees, to work as an artist for the Ministry of Information. He presented his credentials, his caricatures and legionnaire drawings. He found rooms in Hampstead and joined the Latin American Section, then transferred to the European Art Department, led by Edwin Embleton. Rolindez joined the Army and tried to forget him.

A highly sensitive man, Armengol was close to mental collapse after being on three war fronts, rapidly followed by constant bombing in Liverpool and London. The Ministry billeted their valuable propagandist in a tiny village in rural Nottinghamshire, far away from the air raids. He made friends with the villagers of Laneham, who found him truly exotic, many never having seen or heard a foreigner before. He helped on their farms, and drew murals to brighten up their homes. He also painted atmospheric landscapes of the River Trent, a fisherman walking the banks, and a small oil sketch of one of the lads with whom he went fishing. He had fun showing the kids how to make flies, just as he had done as a boy. And he had a relationship with a ‘certain young woman’, whose reputation is preserved to this day. Mister Mario is vividly remembered, in 2008, by the community as a ‘folklore’ figure.

In better health, Armengol moved back to London, coping with hysterical sprints to shelters and the underground to avoid bombing raids, and had two paintings included in an exhibition of Western Art at The French Institute. Other contemporary artists exhibiting included John Piper, Stanley Spencer, Paul Nash, Walter Sickert, Augustus John and Pablo Picasso. Armengol also had his first political cartoons reproduced in British publications, including Tribune. Political cartoons were then published in the mainstream press; the Daily Mail, Daily Telegraph, and several US newspapers including the Chicago Sun and Boston Globe.

Those Three (Hitler, Mussolini & Emperor Tojo), a collection of Armengol cartoons, was published with a foreword written by his old Catalan acquaintance, Dr Josep Maria Batista I Roca. A second political cartoon collection entitled According to Plan was also published, and he won a commission to illustrate a children’s book, Spanish Fairy Stories, translated by the American poet and novelist, Gamel Woolsey.

Armengol was a lonely man in a restless, dark and troubled capital city. He met Sylvia Lawrence, a divorced Czech refugee working as an MOI translator. They lived together, more out of comfort than grand passion, which diluted still further into an uneasy mutual tolerance lasting more than 50 years. Paintings of a woman with magnificent skin tones date from this period; were they imagined, or were they drawn from life?

In 1951 Armengol’s career really took off. He created a mural for the Houses of Parliament- a montage of chess figures representing the First Parliament. He produced displays for the Festival of Britain, a post-war celebration to launch the country’s brand new future. These included transparent sculptures. The new material used, Perspex, was manufactured by ICI (Imperial Chemical Industries). Armengol was one of the first artists to work creatively with this medium. An early experiment was to create a translucent corn on the cob, which was immediately purchased by Brown & Polson, a major corn milling company, and displayed at their Company HQ for years afterwards. These early creative innovations cemented his 20-year designer relationship with ICI, one of Britain’s most successful international companies, during which he won many awards and broke new ground, including being the first British designer to visit Moscow at the height of the Cold War. This included a firm handshake and eye-contact with Khrushchev.

For over 30 years Armengol continued to receive high profile and prestige commissions, won international sculpture and design awards and gold medals, furniture design awards, and worked for some of the biggest companies and institutions of the 20th century, including Dexion, the BBC, ICI, and the British Board of Trade. One of his major works for the government was a sculptural group entitled Brotherhood of Man for the 1969 Toronto World Fair, British Pavilion. The sculptures were then offered at international auction, bought for the City of Calgary, and installed outside the Education Ministry building, where they are still a major tourist attraction today.

The mystery is that Armengol stubbornly refused to hold any exhibitions of his fine art, despite the persistent persuasion of friends, business acquaintances and agents. Was he punishing himself, fearful of failure, or simply perverse? A fear of the possible critical rejection of the work which documented so many periods of his life may have been too worrying a prospect.

In his retirement, Armengol moved to Cornwall, built another studio and worked constantly. He experimented with sculpture again, and produced a collection of fascinating paper sculptures which were then commissioned in vast number by a major greetings cards company, Gallery 5, and sold internationally. They were a development from his habit of customising multiple folded sculptural cards of birds and beasts for friends, who never threw a single one of them away. They were all ‘works of art’.

He died in 1995, and was buried in Nottinghamshire, the county where he had spent much of his wartime years and made many friends. His artwork passed to Rolindez, and then to her daughter, for whom Armengol was a surrogate father, and who owns his Estate.

In 2005 an exhibition of his war cartoons, part-funded by the Arts Council, toured Britain, together with a short documentary film of his time in Nottinghamshire, as part of the WW2 60th anniversary commemorations. An Edinburgh Festival exhibition was sponsored by the Spanish Consulate – the festival theme being ‘Cataluña’. The mayor of Barcelona attended the celebrations, and word broke that there was a dead Catalan with a wealth of wonderful artwork, waiting for recognition in the country of his birth.

Armengol, through his art, may well return at last to his homeland. He might tour the Province, perhaps hang alongside Picasso again, and maybe share wall space with Dali. Recognition in Cataluña of this son of Terrassa is well overdue.

This latest single from Mr Scruff fits the template perfectly. The latin-inspired riff in Donkey Ride, similar to a Buena Vista Social Club piano groove, sits delicately over a hip-hoppy and bass drum-heavy underbeat, which is making my windows rattle and feet skip under the desk as I write.

I particularly like the syncopated bassline, which is not intrusive in the least. In a club setting, however, the drop-in would be amazing. After some inspired rhythmic play, and the establishment of the chordal riff, that ever-so-famous “Warning, incoming bassline” which comes up on Scruff’s video screens to broadcast the moment, would welcome those trouser-buzzing bass notes beautifully.

The B side, Giant Pickle, is more of a chillout tune, with a slightly trip-hoppy sound, which morphs into a touch of drum and bass in parts. My feet don’t skip to this track. It’s more of a gentle, gangster-like rock-with-the-beat affair. Imagine the hand up high on the steering wheel, seat well back, reclined. It doesn’t really speak to me, and it would be at this point in the Scruff set that I’d get my cup of tea.

The Piesn Kozla Theatre was set up in 1996 by Grzegorz Bral and his wife Anna Zubrzycki. Bral, who directs all of the productions, is also the Artistic Director of the Brave Festival in Poland, which stands against cultural exile, supporting and displaying art from vanishing cultures and traditions across the world. The festival showcases dances, songs, stories, rituals, and ceremonies of marginalized groups trying to protect their cultural identities, spirituality and beliefs. “We give them a voice, and dignity, and we want our young Polish generation to meet people that are ‘different’ to us,” says Bral. This year members of certain African tribes, who have never previously travelled beyond their own villages, have been invited to perform. All of the revenue from the ticket sales is given to a Swiss charity which helps to educate over 10 000 orphaned children in Tibet.

The company began its life at the Jerzy Grotowski Centre for Theatre culture Research in Wroclaw. In 2002 the members moved into their own space, the refectory of a 14th century monastery in the heart of Wroclaw. Members of the company all live separately, but come to the Gothic space for rehearsals, which take up the majority of each day, and they often do not finish until late into the night. Much of the daytime is dedicated to fundraising, administration and “discusions on how to the survive the next year.” As is the situation for many theatre companies, “it’s a big struggle to survive”.

Although based in Poland, the company includes performers from France, Sweden, Norway and the UK, as a result of its array of workshops, which take place across Europe. In fact, you can study the company’s own unique way of working as part of an MA in acting at the Manchester Metropolitan University School of Theatre. Every two years a group of 12 to 14 students from about ten nationalities go to Wroclaw to train in their techniques, and receive a Pg Diploma, before going on to do their own practical research in an MA project.

While it follows in the long tradition of Polish ensemble theatre work, the company has developed its own unique avant-garde style through dedicated research into vocal and movement techniques. Bral states that one of the aims of the company is the continual search “for a deep and honest acting technique,” which is based around the specific needs of the individual actor. He compares the training of an actor to that of a musician, and questions why it is that a musician must practice for many years before they are allowed to play professionally, but “we think that actors can be qualified enough after two or three years of acting school?” Song of the Goat however believe in investing many years in the training of its performers.

When explaining how the company’s performance grows out of unique rehearsal methods, Bral describes the “essence” of their work as a focus of “co-ordination, which is based on the understanding that there is a direct flow between what we think, what we say and what we do. That all things are interconnected - between people, nature, nations, and so on. In our theatre, our art, this is reflected in our constant search for connecting acting tools: words, gestures, melodies, rhythm, imagination, timing. Every rehearsal is a laboratory session.” For Zubrzyck it is “non-literal, poetic theatre…every performance is different…it’s like playing jazz…. It is a way in which I, as a performer, can funnel all of my sensations, emotions and understandings at a given moment, but I know that I will never lose control.”

Lacrimosa, which showed at the Edinburgh Festival in 2007, was not based on one specific narrative, but developed through the company’s research into a range of areas. One aspect was the history of the French city of Arras, which during the 15th century suffered a succession of devastating plagues. The performance also drew on the music of the Lacrimosa from Mozart’s Requiem. Not only this, but the physical aspects were heavily inspired by the movements of the practitioners of the ancient Greek fire-walking cult of Anastenaria. When asked what connects these three seemingly unrelated sources, Bral explained that they are linked by the concept of the human mind being “possessed.” Indeed, when watching Lacrimosa, it was hard not to be transfixed by this extraordinary piece of work. This summer the company will be touring across France to perform the show. They are also currently working on a production of Macbeth, part of which has already been presented at the RSC in Stratford as part of the ‘Complete Works’ festival.

Song of the Goat is a completely unique company, unlike any in the UK. Bral recognizes that they are “very privileged” to able to dedicate years to rehearsals, before a final show is produced. Such extensive preparation is something which is almost unheard of in the acting world, as most “contemporary companies are forced to search for popularity and success, in order to survive.” According to Bral, one of the major problems at the moment is that “modern theatre is in competition, and not in contemplation.” This is the beauty of Song of the Goat: their lengthy and detailed investment into research, the development of acting techniques, and extensive rehearsals. The result is the creation of truly mesmerizing and exceptionally distinctive theatre.

I finally arrive for the interview. “Nice to meet you sir.” I am taken aback. Never have I been welcomed so courteously. It must be ‘northern spirit,’ I think, but Scruff is a profound man, and asserts that any impression of a place is governed by the people you meet. “Manchester, I suppose, has a reputation for brashness, a bit of poke-poke abusive humour, but I think we should celebrate regional differences.” I mention that the North seems to be more friendly than the South; I’ve obviously been lucky and met the nice folks!

Andy Carthy, the man behind the Mr Scruff enterprise, is a passionate record buff. Passion is a wonderful quality, which this man exudes. His sound is individual and instantly identifiable, taking a lot from the early ‘90s hip-hop movement in terms of rhythm, but with a lot of brassy jazz and blues-type licks laid over the top of those knee-wobbling beats. It all started in the early ‘80s, “which was a great time to be growing up with some great music, like Madness, the Two Tones and Funboy Three. My dad was well in to trad and contemporary blues, and I started editing on our home hi-fi by the mid-‘80s.” The end of the ‘80s coincided with a bit of a revolution in music technology, when drum machines and samplers became available to artists themselves at a reasonable price, and Scruff jumped on the new wave straight away. This was when he began working on his own compositions, but he is insistent that he is “not a talented musician at all. [His] talent is with working with samples. [He likes] the grit and warmth and dirt from samples,” which you can’t get from modern recordings with faultless digital delivery.

I begin to realise that this interview is not going to be a normal half-hour quick fix. After an hour sitting in Scruff’s café, CUP, in the Northern Quarter of Manchester, amongst the sex shops and drug dens, but which still feels very cosy, more tea arrives. Tea must be Scruff’s other trademark. He owns a tea company in fact- www.makeusabrew.com- and is a great advocate of the drink. Uniquely, as far as I know, all of Scruff’s performances are accompanied by a tea shop at the back of the club. The philosophy is simple: “if you’re in a hot sweaty club at four in the morning, seeing a cup of tea is like seeing an oasis in the desert.” But the inclusion of refreshments usually associated with a Women’s Institute fete also makes people “walk in and smile.” Tea is “cheeky,” Scruff says- but “I’m not sure that the Americans get the whole idea.” This observation does not surprise me. Apparently, mainland Europeans also struggle with the concept. But the tea philosophy has another effect. It seems to discourage excessive drinking and drug abuse. Scruff’s gigs are all about the ‘natural high.’ You get there, you dance an inch off your shoes, then you sleep like a happy baby. And no hangover. Or ‘drugover’ for that matter.

Another point of uniqueness is his stamina. Scruff’s sets are six hours long. “In the ‘60s and ‘70s, everyone used to do it. I just like a really wide range of music, and I need the time to play it all. It’s all about tension and release, about playing with the audience.” This commitment to quality, to doing the job properly, is what makes a Scruff night so incomparable. He is a perfectionist when it comes to sound quality and ambience; a set-up will typically take four to five hours. “The magical quality in anything creative is down to nuance and suggestion. For that to happen, you need the best sound system and the perfect atmosphere. Without this, it would be like going to the Tate to find just a flickering light bulb. Disappointing.” There is a wry smile, which almost implies: actually, flickering light bulbs is what the Tate is all about anyway, isn’t it…

I try my luck, and ask Andy if he would ever be interested in doing a Cambridge May Ball. “I am very reluctant to perform to one demographic. I don’t really like the idea of all students, pissed out of their faces on alcopops and licking each other’s faces.” It transpires that this almost allergic response comes from a bad experience at King’s College, Cambridge. “It was rubbish. The worst gig I have ever done. There were these blokes in tweed jackets wandering round with decibel meters. We couldn’t go above 80 decibels, which is about talking volume. Stupid. It was like holding a boxing match in a library.” So it looks like Scruff will stick to the big international festivals and clubs for the time being. He is set to do the Big Chill in the UK, and the Garden Party in Croatia this summer.

If there is a general life philosophy from Scruff, it is this: “enjoy yourself, look after yourself and be nice to people. Gain experience, and don’t get bogged down by politics.” And maybe, with my inkling of inside knowledge, I could add “drink real ale.” Scruff was particularly complimentary of the latest Cambridge Beer Festival, held on Jesus Green.

Mr Scruff’s latest single, Ninja Tuna, will be out on May 12th. See review for more information.