My hour with Barbara Panther is coming to an end and I ask her, prompted by some of the lyrics on her excellent eponymous debut album, whether she’s religious. What follows is a seven-minute monologue that centres around a trip to Rome in 2000, during which Panther took a dip in the sea only to have a panic attack prompted by the feeling that the sun was actually a giant lamp pointed at her in order to make her grow in a certain way. Later that evening she was bitten by a mosquito in her hotel room, an everyday occurrence during a hot summer that left her in such a state of paranoia that she bought a Bible and a copy of Dracula the next day and saw parallels between the two so vividly that she renounced religion. The “flower with thorns”, as she saw it, that had grown inside of her was gone and she was free of its “parasite”.
My face must be a picture of blank astonishment by the story’s end because Panther lets out a giggle and exclaims, “What an answer !” In a conversation that’s touched on harrowing tales from a country ravaged by genocide (Panther was born in Rwanda|Rwanda and her family fled to Belgium when she was three years old), as well as temporarily mutating into an episode of professor Brian Cox|Brian Cox’s Wonders Of The Universe (“In our bones we have neutrons and protons and matter that comes from the stars that fell on the moon”), it’s still brilliantly baffling. In fact, it sums up Barbara Panther to perfection. On paper her answers can look needlessly flowery or awkwardly spiritual, but there’s a humour lurking behind the intensity that makes you not only agree with everything she says but come away feeling energised. That we leave the interview singing the lyrics to Wham Rap ! at each other seems completely obvious.
When Barbara Panther arrived in Brussels at the age of three she did so with the rest of her family. For reasons she won’t elaborate on other than to say that her parents “had other plans”, she and her siblings were adopted into separate Belgian families. “As a kid when you are forced into a situation where you need to adapt, I think you act your way out of it and you accept your way out of it through understanding,” she says. “It was not a natural situation for me, you know, all of a sudden I’m [in Belgium], there is another language, there are other children that are not my blood, and all of a sudden you need to adapt to a situation that is unnatural to a child.” Her early childhood was spent being expelled from schools, with a last-ditch attempt by her adoptive parents leading to her enrolling at a Catholic school run by nuns. This too was short lived : “The nuns thought I was autistic. I had a lot of energy and I wouldn’t accept the things they were telling me, I kept thinking, ’There must be more.’“
In her early teens she left home and enrolled at a performing arts school. She thrived, but left after two years. Later, this same restlessness saw her up and leave Belgium for Berlin after hearing German electronic music for the first time on the radio. “I’m a nomad, it’s in my blood,” she says. “Nietzsche said it once, and Einstein too, that when you stop growing in a certain place you have to move on if you believe that you can grow more.” When the Guardian asks whether, before settling on singing, she ever tried anything else, Panther is quick to correct us : “I never ’tried’ anything, I always ’did’. Never trying.”
At some point post-performing arts school and before a year spent at a dance academy in Venice, Panther joined a group of Belgian journalists and researchers on a trip back to Rwanda. “I wanted to meet myself and see my roots again. I was in this crisis of like, ’I want to see who I am’ ; find my roots, basically.” The trip saw her come face-to-face with the scars left by years of war and genocide. While her reason for going was to learn, the reality was that it left her empty and unable to create. “I could only write stuff down, but it was very ugly,” she says. “It was kind of like an innocent child that could only describe what it saw, like bones and death. I couldn’t speak, I was in a state of shock.”
The year she spent in Venice with choreographer Carolyn Carlson acted as a kind of therapy. “It was more than dancing. She explained to me the ways of the universe and how to overcome the heaviness of life, or the trauma which is life, and to be an energy like all the other energies,” she explains. “Through that I learned not to have this emotional stone in my stomach, to kind of go through it and go over it.”
Once in Berlin (where she’s lived for five years), Panther started to hand out demos of her songs in clubs and eventually started collaborating with various producers and DJs. From there she signed to City Slang and suggested to them she’d like electronic music innovator Matthew Herbert|Matthew Herbert to help finish the songs. Initially, Herbert – whose solo work has included turning an edition of the Guardian into music|turning an edition of the Guardian into music – was asked to mix the album, but once in the studio the two decided to collaborate fully.
“The songs were already written, that’s very important. Write this down : ’My songs were all written !’” Panther growls playfully. “My beats would be all over the place because I would have this very innocent, childish idea of you have a verse, you have a beat but then it goes faster in the chorus. He [Herbert] gave them a root. I had a lot of ornaments and I think he grounded my songs.”
The finished album is a ridiculous mix of musical ideas (Panther calls it “modern electronic baroque music”), bound together by the sheer force of her personality. There’s a mechanical aggression to it which pins you back in your seat, while the lyrics are either spat out in anger or cooed luxuriantly over an intoxicating mix of crunchy beats and found sounds (the beat in Rise Up is punctuated by the prang of chains being thrown at a radiator). It’s an intoxicating blend of experimentation and melody. As with Björk|Bjrk, who Panther is being compared to, the words are sung in a way that seems to disregard the normal rules of syntax and all that boring stuff. “English isn’t my first language so I am free to choose,” she explains. “I don’t have this systematic thing of ’this belongs here and this is the way you speak’. Also, I believe that I have the freedom to find my own words. If for me it makes sense and it sounds good to my soul, that is the way it’s going to be.”
Lyrically, Panther betrays the anger she still feels not only about Rwanda but about the ongoing conflicts worldwide. On the tribal-pop cacophony of Voodoo she opens with the arresting : “Every night I pray like a bitch/ That one day the poor will eat the rich/ And I don’t care if that makes me a wa-wa-wa-wa-witch“. The words are almost rapped over what sounds like a thousand drummers learning to play a 90s drum’n’bass anthem on some saucepans. Panther laughs when I read the lyrics back to her. She’s aware of their naivety, but that doesn’t mean they’re not grounded in her reality.
“When I visited Rwanda I saw a lot of skeletons and bones, and for me they were eaten by cannibals,” she says. “I believe now that the rich are eating the poor, not literally, but I hope that one day when the poor wake up and rise up, they turn it around.”