Julian Cashwan Pratt: “We fought security until the cops showed up”

“Radical love, it compels me to fight,” Julian Pratt howls on ​‘Eat For Peace’, the third, visceral single from New York City post-hardcore band Show Me The Body’s fourth studio album. Alone Together is a profound collection of songs. It’s a product of the storm of feelings Julian is experiencing as a new father, bewilderingly, fiercely in love with his daughter while also grieving the passing of dear mentors and best friends. 

While I can’t profess to be an expert in post-hardcore music, the weeks I spent immersed in Alone Together felt cathartic for me in the way that early 2000s grime raves did when I was a teenager. The album, like those raves, felt like a vessel for communal release.

I’ve only known fatherhood amidst the grief of losing my dad, piece by piece, as dementia pushed him ever further into the abyss, so I felt a sense of solidarity with Julian before we spoke. That feeling only strengthened when he joined our Zoom call from the London offices of Concord Records, sitting on a leather chesterfield sofa, and opening his heart to me about the transformative importance of mentors, putting our bodies on the line for our community and protecting our daughters from our pain.

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What’s your earliest memory of your dad?

I think a wonderful gift that my father gave me is the ability to like be bewildered – to be in awe. I can remember looking at the sunset over the Hudson River in the park and my pops being like, ​“Yo, check that shit out!” He was always reminding me of the gorgeous nature of Earth. That this hell that we live in can also be gorgeous, and that’s pretty much one of my first memories of my father; making sure that I was looking, making sure that I wasn’t just staring at the ground when I was walking around the street. You know what I mean? Because if you look up, you can see so many important, beautiful things, pieces of history. So I think some of my first memories are of my father being like, ​“Yo, look up, motherfucker.”

That’s interesting, because I had really bad existential dread when I was a boy. I would go to my dad when I was struggling and his remedy for it was to talk about the universe and the stars, and encourage me to look at the sky with him. I guess to help me understand that I’m part of something bigger.

And reminding you of how small the bullshit is, too.

Exactly, brother. How important was your dad in shaping your understanding around what it means to be a man? And what values of this have you held onto as you’ve grown into manhood?

My dad is a deep thinker. He used to be a tenant’s rights lawyer, working with people in the hood who were being evicted and stuff like that. So my father has a deep commitment to the city – to our home, to New York City. So much so, that couple years ago he was like, ​“I lost.” [Gentrification and capitalism won.] He fell into a terrible hole of depression. My father would take me to work with him sometimes. I thought my daddy was a drug dealer because he knew all the guys on the block in Queensbridge. But I realised that he was helping out the tenants there. The first time he went out there, he got fucking robbed and beat up. So he had to show respect to everybody on the block. 

My father’s a very smart man, so when I dropped out of school and couldn’t finish, I think my father was ashamed of me for a long time, until he came to one of our shows like probably four or five years ago. He was like, ​“Yo, this is like a street movement that you’re building. These kids listen to you and they respect you and they want to be part of what you’re building.” I think up until then, he really wasn’t aware of how he had shaped my life. I think he spent so much time being ashamed of me as his ​‘dumb’ child. I couldn’t fucking read for a long time. I’m heavily dyslexic. I was in special education, and I didn’t finish school. I think he had an air of shame about me until he really saw what I was able to give. You know what I mean? What I was able to do. I have one blood brother, but there’s seven of us all together, with my mother’s sister’s kids. They were basically raised by my father. My cousins lived with me for a certain amount of time. My father always made sure that everybody was good, always took care of everyone, always cooked hot food for everybody. If there’s some kind of concept about what being a man could be that my father gave me, it’s really looking out for folks, looking out for the folks around you, seeing who needs a hand and being there to give it when you can. 

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My dad is Armenian. He taught me our history of surviving genocide. And he instilled in me a duty to call out that shit and fight it wherever I see it. You’ve expressed a similar sense of duty from a Jewish perspective and advocated fiercely for Palestine. Was this sense of duty something you learned from home?

Well, my grandfather was born in Belarus, and my grandfather’s only good memory of the old world was frolicking in this field in Poland. Before he died, my mother was like, ​“we could probably find the field.” And the field had become [Nazi concentration camp] Treblinka. This positive, beautiful memory of his childhood became this haven of death. He came to this country at seven years old with his auntie, and sang for food on the boat. His family was part of the Bund, the anarchist and socialist workers’ party of Jewish folk in Europe back in the day. My grandfather always hated Zionism, before it was a hot topic. He was like, ​“There’s no state that will bring us liberation.” And with my father being in the street, being part of a social movement, I guess it gave me the wherewithal to see what’s happening around me. 

What have been the consequences of your advocacy for Palestine when touring with Show Me The Body?

There were times when we toured in Germany, and I’d say, ​“We’re three Jews from the city, and we’re here to tell you that it’s fuck Israel, it’s fuck a Zionist. And if you if you want to disagree with me, we can fucking talk about it outside, and I’ll handle you after the show.” That turned into a lot of violent situations. I was fighting after every show in Germany, fighting these confused assholes who wanted to fight and I was happy to oblige them. I’m not a pacifist, at all. My family, people in my life taught me to stand up for myself, and I have no problem standing up for myself and others. 

In the US, two tours ago I was with my brother [Julian’s best friend], who’s no longer with us. We got jumped and ended up fighting the security of a festival for talking about Israel and talking about Zionist apartheid in Palestine. Security throws two jabs. I parry one, and before he can land the second one, my late ​‘brother’ – who’s not a Jew, he’s a black man from New Haven, Connecticut – has this motherfucker off his feet, and he’s on top of him, and I’m on top of them. We fought security until the cops showed up and put us both in a car. God bless our tour manager, Anthony Lupicino. He’s a quality man. He got us out, you know. My father heard about this. He was like, ​“Jules, you should be careful about what you say, and maybe take it easy, you know what I mean?” And I was like, ​“pops, with all due respect, this is how you raised me. This is what you raised me to do. This is why you made me.” He understands. 

It also comes from not just having beliefs, but a willingness to put down [fight] for them. I’m not a fucking communist, and I think a lot of American communists are fucking annoying because they just sit around and talk shit. I found real connection with folks through the SHARP movement [Skinheads Against Racial Prejudice], the Red and Anarchist Skinhead Movement, the American Skinhead Movement. I found brotherhood and mentorship while being able to put your blood down in the street. To actually fight for your beliefs in a real way that’s not just walking, it’s not just chanting and holding signs.

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A recurring theme in a lot of my interviews has been that brotherhood is often forged in the fire. I believe that. The example you gave of your late friend fighting alongside you is a great example of how that brotherhood is strengthened.

Yeah, 100%. My man was a fucking legend, man; a 220lb Black skinhead on a Harley Davidson burning steel.

I’ve spent the past 18 years mentoring vulnerable, marginalised children and young people. I definitely believe in a communal approach to raising kids. I know that you were blessed in your life with three fantastic mentors [Mike Pestalozzi, Mike Down, David Kaplan]. When you reflect, was there a unifying quality that those men all shared, or did they all speak to different parts of you?

Honestly, all three of them were scary motherfuckers that took my hand as a child, allowed me to be myself and told me to be proud of who I am. I was being called dumb, being called slow in school, and my family were kind of embarrassed of me. These men were able to be like, ​“Hey, yo, not only fuck all that, but you got something to give, man.” They taught me things I could then give to the world. They taught me how to play [music], how to fight, how to believe in myself. 

Dude, they were just people from the block. You know what I mean? People who seriously knew the place that they were from and took it very seriously. And also, while being ​‘hard men’, they were willing to take my hand, not only to try to sculpt a young man that needed help, but they also allowed me to cry with them. They allowed me to go through pain with them, which I think maybe I took for granted before. And now that my life is full of pain, I think about that a lot. I thank them for that.

How transformative was it to immerse yourself into the underground hardcore scene in New York, through the encouragement of Mike Down. How pivotal was that in your life’s trajectory?

Oh man, it just gave me everything. You think of yourself as one thing. You see yourself as a silly, stupid, weak child. Other people look down on you. Then all of a sudden we’re together in this place that embraces sweat, embraces violence, embraces stupidity, and embraces laughter. I think that really changed my outlook of who I was, and even my ability to participate. Because I think prior to that, I was kind of nihilistic. I was like, ​“Fuck everybody! I don’t want to be like the other men at school. I’m not a fucking jock. I don’t want to be like the fucking Jews in the synagogue. They’re fucking weak.” These are lies that I told myself.

The hardcore scene and the punk scene in New York was probably the first time where I was like, ​“Oh, I am part of this, and I’m not different from any of these other folks.” It’s not like we were the same, but we all wanted something that was somewhat outside of society. Because it’s a primal happening, right? It’s like back to fucking grunts and shit. One of the most common words used in hardcore is ​“blarf” [laughs]. It’s this primal thing where everything we were brought up with and prescribed to is more or less meaningless in the moment. It definitely gave me the sense that not only was this cool, but I wanted to be part of something for the first time. It wasn’t just a rejection of what was around me, but something that I actually wanted to be part of and grow with, and grow into, and put roots in.

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What does it feel like for you now, then, to be able to offer a protective, sacred space for alienated young people through your own shows? Because I feel like that’s an extension of the idea of communally raising young people.

I think there’s nothing that I am more proud of. We got like a couple young cats in CORPUS that we train with and make sure that they are on a good path, taking care of themselves while staying militant. But also through travelling the world, making real friends and meeting folks who need it. I’d meet a young man or a young woman and they’d be like, ​“Yo, this music has been a shelter for me.” I’d be like, ​“Well, then I wrote it for you.” One time, somebody said, ​“Yeah, I know.” They looked at me like, ​“You don’t gotta say it, motherfucker.” It was one of the most wonderful, proud moments. 

One time we were playing in Dublin. This young kid and he hits me up and he says, ​“The show is 18-plus or whatever, and I’m 15, but I really want to come to the show. I live across the island. But I’ll take the bus if I can come to the show.” I said, ​“Of course! Just pull up and say you’re my cousin. You can help me walk shit in.” We get to the venue, and the motherfucker is not only 15 but like 4ft tall and Indian. We walk up to the club. I’m like, ​“Yo, this is my fucking cousin!” We drank with this kid and we went out all night and fucking got into a local scrap with some boneheads, and then we walked him to the fucking bus stop. It was the most lovely thing, to be with a young person who needed a family and definitely didn’t have a crew. He didn’t even know what he was getting into hanging with us. But we had the most lovely time. To be able to share not only kind words, but to share food and the night with one another, it’s very special.

As you said, through CORPUS you’ve offered free martial arts and self defence classes. Why do you think that is important?

On a surface level, the hardcore scene is a violent one. I spent time as a young person at shows literally fucking hiding [laughs]. So when I started to cut my teeth, and started to get down when CORPUS started, a big part of it was to protect one another. We was out writing graffiti. We was out at shows. We had to fight a lot. So in one sense, I want to make sure that young folks in the city – non-white folks, queer folks – feel safe to go to shows and have each other’s back. That’s one element of it. I realised at the shows there was like a small clique of slightly younger kids. They were like the CORPUS youth, holding each other down naturally. They were cliqued up because they train together. To see that was lovely.

And at the same time, I wish to communicate the importance of necessary violence sometimes. Martial arts can really help you manage violence in a serious way. I don’t look for it. Especially later in life, I’m trying my best to be a good boy. But doing martial arts can give you a sense of discipline. It improved my life immensely and changed my life immensely. If I wasn’t doing martial arts, wasn’t found by David Kaplan and encouraged to train and become militant and become disciplined, I would be fucking dead in the dirt. I was on dust and shit. I was a fucking idiot. It gave me a framework, of not only being militant and knowing that I am strong, but also having respect for myself. That’s a huge part of it; having respect for ourselves and doing things that make us feel good. And knowing that we have brothers and sisters around us that like to see us do that. We like to see them do that. And we get money [train] together in the park.

The discipline of boxing helps me get a handle on other shit, my other vices and stuff. The same goes for being a dad. Without the discipline that boxing and fatherhood instilled in me, I would fucking just disappear into a pit, I think. 

It’s still easy to dream of the pit, absolutely. With all this pain and tragedy happening currently, if I didn’t have my daughter I would’ve definitely made very bad decisions. I’m very blessed to have my daughter. While I am protecting her, on a normal basis like crossing the street, she’s protecting me in a greater way from myself.

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My entire experience of fatherhood has happened alongside the grief I feel around my dad’s dementia. I know the writing of Alone Together is a product of the influx of both the intense love you feel as a father and the intense grief you feel after losing mentors and friends. As fathers, how can we process that grief without slipping into anger and rage and nihilism? Can we protect our daughters from it? Or even include them in the process?

You know, I don’t like my daughter to see me cry. I’m not trying to let that happen. Maybe that’s a silly thing, right? But at least right now, I don’t want to show her all this pain I’m in. She’s almost three, and she has no business trying to understand the pain her father’s going through right now. She’s gotta enjoy life.

Sometimes it’s difficult because she’ll ask where her uncle [Julian’s late friend] is. And I have to tell her that he’s no longer with us. I try to be honest with her. And she understands things. She’s extremely smart. So I think part of it is just remaining honest with your children. I asked her the other day if she remembered her uncle. She said, ​“Of course, I see him in my dreams all the time.” I said, ​“Really? What is he doing in your dreams?” She said, ​“He’s protecting me.” I’m not out here telling her those things, because I don’t know about those things. But she very adamantly told me he’s protecting her. That’s just the most lovely gift.

That’s given me goosebumps, man. I grieve my dad while sitting in the same room with him in the care home, sometimes with my daughter there, too.

My uncle passed away from Lewy body dementia. He was a big part of raising me, and I think about him a lot. That pain where you watch somebody go before they’re gone, is very difficult, bro. I just want you to know, I feel what you feel because it is a constant that is not happening. There’s an absence of the person; they’re still there, but not in the way that we wish them to be, right? But something I learned from that experience is we’re the least important. People in my family were like, ​“Do you remember this? Do you remember me?” And he’d say, ​“No!” And that brought them to terror. But we could still sing Frankie Valli together. It didn’t matter if he thought I was his brother or his dad at that moment, or that his children were different people. Obviously, it hurts so much. But at the same time we could sing together. This is a blessing.

Absolutely. The one thing that still brings my dad to life and makes him react in a way that’s recognisable to me is music. He lights up like a Christmas tree.

I don’t mean to say this because I play it. But I think music is like spell work – it’s like magic, alchemy. Spell work and alchemy are techniques that become something greater. It’s like a football match. There’s technique. You can play with another motherfucker who doesn’t speak your language and have a wonderful experience because you’re both involved in spell work.

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The same as sparring a complete stranger in the boxing gym, doing this beautiful violent dance in the middle of the ring. For me, that’s what life is all about.

The chance to do that with a multitude of folks is the blessing of life, making family larger than just the one we were given and breaking bread with them. Turning water into blood, you know?

Has your idea of radical love changed or deepened since becoming a father?

In one sense, I’m more violent. I have to check myself because I’m like mama bear now, not just to my daughter but to my whole crew. I’m quicker to act up and I have to learn these instincts are not always correct.

And at the same time, my feeling with how I interact with being compelled to fight is changing. I used to just put my body on the line and be like, ​“It is what it is. If I don’t walk away from this one then that’s what it was meant to be. Fuck it.” And nowadays, the future is much more real. I’ve gotta walk my child home. There’s a sense of self preservation that I’m trying to engage with more, because of my daughter.

And finally, for you, what has been the most revelatory lesson of fatherhood so far?

Honestly, seeing myself reflected in my daughter. It’s terrifying. I put my father through it. I put my parents through it. Now, after making life, I have only reverence and apologies to give my folks. There may be things I’m still upset with them about, things that maybe I won’t get over on this earthly plane. Now, all that stuff is put aside because everybody is just doing their best with what they’ve got. And seeing my daughter reflect me in her little body is the most terrifying thing in the world. It makes me realise I’ve gotta tighten up because I’m not done becoming a man. I want to be greater, to be kinder. I really want my daughter to be kind. That’s a big deal to me. I’m not the kindest person, but my brother [Julian’s late friend] was the kindest person on earth. I’m always trying to be more like him, to give people the time of day that most folks wouldn’t. So the scariest, most revelatory thing is I still have a lot of learning and growing to do, and that I have to show her and make sure she sees and feels it. I want her to be kind and I want to show her what that looks like.

Alone Together by Show Me the Body is out now.

Hard Feelings is Huck’s column on fatherhood and masculinity, hosted by Rob Kazandjian. Read more from the series here.

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