Danielle: Rhubarb Soda
Photography: Lucy Werrett
It’s late in October and Danielle has just flown into Prague ahead of her first gig at the city’s renowned Ankali.
I’m sleep-deprived and I’m stood outside the Skautský institut in Prague’s cobbled Old Town Square. It is on the opposite side of the square from where the Church of Our Lady before Týn stands, a gothic church that towers above at double the height of all the surrounding pastel buildings.
It is also only a few metres away from the astronomical clock. As I stand here waiting to meet Danielle, a crowd of people are standing around the astronomical clock as the clock strikes five o’clock. I’ve been in the city now for three weeks working night shifts in a hostel and I always see people standing around the astronomical clock and, to be honest, I’ve never understood the significance of the astronomical clock.
This brisk but busy day in the Czechian capital sees sun shine on the last weekend before the clocks go backwards and daylight becomes a luxury. I’ve also never quite understood why the clocks change.
I do understand, however, that I’m here to meet Danielle. She flew in to Prague earlier this afternoon ahead of her gig tonight at Ankali, one of the city’s most revered venues, and is supporting one of the world’s most revered artists, DVS1.
I spot her distinctive black curls as she wanders through the crowded square. She walks over to me all smiles, invitingly opens her arms and gives me a hug and we enter the Skautský institut, climbing the stairs to the second floor where the café is. We are met with the jarring sounds of coffee machines screeching as we go in.
“I think there's an historical lesson I could give you,” I say loudly over the coffee machines.
“On this building?” Danielle asks.
“Yeah, but I don't know the significance.”
“My history is pretty shit.”
“That makes two of us,” I say.
Danielle laughs. “Even my geography. Like, when I got here to Prague I had to actually look up where I was. It's one of those places that could kind of be anywhere. Like, when you walk through, part of it seems like Berlin and some of it seems like Orléans and another bit felt like Brussels. It's amazing.”
“They do say it's where East meets West.”
We find ourselves at the top of the queue at the counter of the café. Danielle orders a rhubarb flavoured fizzy drink, while I pour myself a glass of water from the communal dispenser. We walk out onto the balcony of the second floor. There are narrow balconies with wooden panelled seating and tables on every one of the four floors, all of which wrap around the four vanilla walls that look down to the courtyard. Blue skies remain overhead as we sit down on the far side.
“How do you find European crowds typically react to your sets,” I ask, “which obviously has that leftfield UK influence?”
“Yeah, I do have a very UK sound,” Danielle says. “Sometimes it's fine. It depends. When I play in places I've never been before, like this, I'm quite scared because I don't know what they like because I've never even visited.”
“I see.”
“I feel like if you've been somewhere you get a sense of the place.”
“Yeah, of course.”
“But I've never even been here, so I have no idea. Sometimes it's a bit scary.” There is a jitteriness to Danielle’s cadence, which I assume is probably due to the chill that is spiraling down passed us from the open air above and towards the courtyard, as opposed to any pre-gig nerves.
“I was wondering as well if there was a Bristol connection with Ankali,” I say, “because I know Batu is playing there soon.”
“I don't know,” Danielle says, drinking her bottle of rhubarb soda while pondering. “I don't think so. I don't know why? I think they just booked me because they like what I play.”
“Of course.”
“I don't know if it's necessarily linked to Bristol.”
“You’re originally from London, though, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, but I love it in Bristol. I don't want to go back to London.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. And I live really close to my dad and I'm completely a daddy's girl. So I'm just going to stay there.”
“What do you think Bristol offers that nowhere else can offer?”
“I think even before I lived there, when I was in London, I was just obsessed with the Bristol sound. I have that sound. That is what my sound is. Whatever that is, is what I have. I've always been obsessed with it anyway. I've always felt a pull towards that place. I think even if my dad hadn't moved there, I think I would've ended up there somehow.”
“I see.”
“But, yeah, just generally, it's a lot more friendly. It's one of the most friendly places, I think.”
“I lived in Bristol for a month,” I say.
“Do you think it's friendly?”
“Yeah. Friendlier than London.”
“That would have been shit if you said no,” Danielle laughs. “I was a proper Londoner. If you caught eyes with me for longer than was comfortable, I would be like, 'What do you want?'”
A stern face descends upon Danielle’s face as she impersonates her ‘London’ self and I laugh at the thought.
”I would literally be like, 'Are you ready for a fight?'“ Danielle laughs some more. “So aggy. But it was just normal. I thought that was normal behaviour. I still sound like I'm from London, but I'm just friendlier.”
I look above to the square shaped segment of sky cut out by the courtyard’s four walls. Without any warning, it has gotten dark. I check my phone to find that it’s already six o’clock.
“And you're 30 now, aren't you?” I ask.
“Yes, yes,” Danielle shrieks upon being reminded.
“So the recognition you are getting now is probably a long time coming.”
“Well, yeah, no one ever realises that I am 30. I feel better being older and being where I am. I feel like — I don't know. Especially since Covid, there's been a lot of younger people in their twenties — 24, 25, 26 — that have come out of --- somewhere.”
“The woodwork,” I suggest.
“Yeah. I think when that started to happen, I was bit like, ‘How can I still stay as relevant as these people are?' But I think knowing that I've got that background, starting work in a record shop at 18, and having 12 years behind me, it means that wherever I am now there's going to be more longevity behind that because of all that, if you know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“I think that's helpful. I'm still not that old,” Danielle insists.
“No, no. Of course not,” I assure her. “But if you were to look back at your 18-year-old self — As we get older and we achieve goals and the goal shifts again, are we then continuously trying to reach that peak of the insurmountable mountain?”
“That’s an interesting question. I think it’s good to think about what’s next and what’s the next goal, but I don’t often think of it like that. What I'm doing now is what 18-year-old me wanted to do, if you know what I mean?”
“Of course, yeah.”
“So the fact that I'm doing it, I just want to carry on doing it. I don't necessarily now have the next thing in mind which is this other big step. I just want this to carry on for a bit, maybe. I'll look at someone like Josey Rebelle. She's my idol. That's what I want. I want to be doing that. I don't know exactly how old she is, but she's older than me, and I want to be doing what she's doing and have the respect that she has at her stage in her career.”
“But what is required to validate that? Is it just respect from peers?”
“Yeah,” Danielle says, “and just to get booked at the right nights and getting more of an audience, because getting an audience is good. That's always the aim, I guess, to go from 5,000 followers to 50,000 followers, but only just organically and because the more people see what you do and like it, the better.”
“But isn't that, I suppose, indicative of a society in which we base success off the metrics of Instagram?”
“Yeah. You want to avoid it. I don't want to think about that, but you kind of can't help it.”
“Of course. That's what I'm saying.”
“Even when it happens to you, you'll get those followers and you'll wonder what it means. Usually you feel something towards it. Whether that's right or not, I don't know. I don't think it is. But, yeah, I just want to keep doing it for as long as possible.”
“While we’re on the topic,” I say, “I have to mention, through scrolling on your Instagram I noticed you haven't archived anything. It was kind of refreshing to see what Instagram used to be.”
“Oh, you mean like before I was anyone?”
“Yeah. I was going through it all.”
“Oh God, maybe I should check,” Danielle says. “God, you're making me panic now. What have I got on there?”
“I saw you had a Charles Bukowski obsession.”
“Oh, yeah, I do. I love it. Because my dad really liked him.”
“Do you ever write yourself?”
“No.”
“Well then, what are your therapeutic practices, let's say?”
“Watching shit tele on my phone.”
”DISTRACTION,” I shout.
“No,” Danielle says. “I typically just give my dad a call. I did tell you I was a daddy's girl.”
“You did.”
“He can resolve any issues that I have in a two minute phone call. It's quite ridiculous. But I don't know, if I'm on my own — I don't know. Honestly, I'm not sure. I think it is distraction, but not just mindless distraction. I like to be busy. I do Mix Nights, which is the DJ course. I work at Idle Hands. I DJ. I do illustrations. I do A&R for Origins. I do consultancy for Love International. I've literally got about six jobs, so there is always something. Everyday, there will always be something. I guess keeping busy is how I get through stuff.”
“Do you know where you get that from?”
“My dad, I’d say. He's always, as all dads are, saying 'Say yes to opportunities.' He's always been the kind of person that says 'Say yes to everything,' which is what I've always done. He even got me the job at Phonica when I was 18. I'd always been into music, but didn't think there was a job in that. I never studied it. When you're growing up, you think that you study something and then you get a job in it. I think that's why I've always had that opinion of art.”
“I suppose we can tend to base who we are and what we are off our source of income and the professionalism is needed to validate that.”
“It does validate that,” Danielle says. “But it's also really idealistic to be able to think you can do this thing because you're good at it and it can be your career and you can survive without making money. That's not real life. People that can do that obviously have some rich parents that can subsidise their life while they can go and make art and not make money from it. You have to earn money.”
Danielle finishes the last of her rhubarb soda and places it on the table before swiftly switching to her phone to check where Nadja (her agent) and Sanjin (Ankali’s booker) are. She is meant to meet them for dinner in the next hour, before heading to the venue.
“Do you go to Ankali a lot?” Danielle asks.
“I haven't actually been to Ankali yet,” I say.
“Oh, no?”
“No. I'm looking forward to it.”
“I'll put you on the list so you can come whenever you want.”
“I'll be there for 11. I may take a nap before.”
“You don't have to be there for 11.”
“No, I want to see you play.”
“I don't know if anyone is going to be there at 11, except you.”
”I doubt that. What set times are you typically getting lately?”
“A lot more closes. I’m more trusting in myself now and I'm just glad that I've been given the chance to play closing sets. I like doing it. But this is my first warm up set that I've had in ages and I'm really excited. I just like being booked. I don't care what time.”
I nod. I’ve never understood why I care more about time itself than what I do with it.