The Hunt For KOVEN JULES

 
 
 
J.D.D.F gets on the trail of one of Adelaide's most infamous and audacious graffiti duos...
 
I couldn’t move. I just stood there; neck arched back trying to take the whole thing in. The cold evening air punched the back of my throat, making it difficult to breath. What did it mean I wondered? Surely, these people that were walking by me could see it too? But they didn’t. Each hurried along on some pre-determined path, heads bowed as they solemnly skirted the man in the middle of the path who’d stopped to look up at something they didn’t have time for. “KOVEN JULES” the sign read. Were they names or a code I wondered, was it a claim to ownership? In any case it was a sign of life, evidence that the city had critters that scurried about in the night making use of it as more than a stopover between breakfast and bed. Whoever had done this, wanted to be caught - surely? What were they trying to say to me? Or was it a message to someone else, to the authorities, the government? Someone had literally painted the town red, in 14-foot-tall letters for everyone to see and no one batted an eye lid.
 
Fixing myself into a shape that might resemble a graffiti-friendly journalist and allay the ever pertinent paranoia of a culture which constantly expects the Spanish Inquisition, I hastened my pace to the front door of Clinic 116 on Twin Street. I’d decided last night after staring up at the giant sign, that whoever or whatever KOVEN JULES was, they were most likely known to the proprietor of The Clinic.
 
It’d been a while since I was in here and I wasn’t sure if the proprietor was going to recognise me asa friendly or not. Upon entering, I froze beneath the bright strip lighting in front of the two men behind the counter. It was the proprietor and another man I’d not met before. I felt like an impostor, it was as if they could smell the questions on me. I dove for the CD rack and like an insecure 14-year-old stoner, feigned interest in the selection. Mind racing, I needed an in. But how would I crack this nut. It’d be a test, yes they’d definitely test me. “Hey, have you guys got GZA’s latest album?” I asked, hoping this question carried enough credibility to breach their defences and reach inside their brains to extract the identities of these graff artists. “Pro Tools?” the proprietor asked gruffly. “Yeah,” I managed to fumble. “Nah, we don’t actually. Next week.”
 
 
 
I tried to swallow but it scratched and made me cough. On previous dealings with the proprietor, he’s always been courteous, but then again I hadn’t wanted top secret information before. And I still couldn’t tell if he had recognised me. A whole second must have ticked by in silence. Then, nodding, he stepped out from behind the counter, “how ya doing man?” He offered his hand and grabbing onto the lifeline I shook it, for what, in hindsight, was probably an uncomfortable amount of time. As the paranoia ebbed I proceeded to uncover my CD-browsing as an elaborate ruse to break the ice and immediately confessed my intention to track down KOVEN JULES. “Oh yeah, the roll-ups?” He said it so casually, like it was common knowledge. “You’re interested in the guys who do those are ya?” Gotcha! My first bit of information had fallen into my clutches. KOVEN JULES were actual people, this was something but I needed more. “Yeah.” I blurted my answer out hastily and with an all-too-obvious beady-eyed eagerness. Immediately sensing my desperation, the proprietor receded back behind the counter. “Damn, you’ve lost him now,” I thought. Casting aside my attempt to be dignified, I beg. “Well…” he started out and then paused. This was it; I was on the cusp of something big. “Maybe you should check out this exhibition.” What, what exhibition, what was he talking about? In my mad panic to understand the cryptic clue I didn’t see his finger tapping gently on the counter. He was pointing at a flyer taped to the bench. And there it was, my first lead: a name, date and time. I took out my pen and scrawled down the details. The 19th of September, damn! That was well beyond my deadline. I had to track down Jules and Koven before then. After, I’d finished copying down the details I looked up and saw the two men, once again regarding me expectantly. Did I need to pay them for this info? What was customary? I had nothing. Backing towards the door, I thanked them, turned and fled. If I was going to get an introduction to these guys it was obviously going to take more than a GZA reference.
 
 
I hadn’t talked properly with Big Jim from Area 101 since the falling out over a story I’d written about Ebeneezer Place playing host to two-bit celebrities and wak public art. We’d put it down to a communication error but I knew there was still tension. Now I was heading back to the scene of all that trouble, hat in hand, to ask a favour of a man who owed me none. If you’re not familiar with the Place, Ebeneezer channels a serious saloon-door vibe, with Jim the equivalent of the sheriff. Sitting with another fella, some sort of deputy, Jim eyed my every approaching step as it fell on the pavement. Leaning into his rocking chair, it squeaked as he pushed the brim of his hat back off his brow. He wanted to get a better look at this decrepit drifter sidling up the “Neez”. The piece of wheat he’d been chewing, sat still, clenched between his teeth, his fingers drummed the butt of his gun. I shot him a flicker of eye-contact as I entered his shop and saw him lazily raise his huge frame and follow after. “Hi Jim. Long time no see. Do you know how I can get in touch with Jules and Koven?” The Cliffs Notes to this conversation will read like this but the reality was jolted, bumbling and awkward. Big Jim raised an eyebrow as if to question why I was so obviously nervous. I tried to calm my heavy breathing but hallucinations of the six-shooter lingerd.
 
“Suhn y’all don’t just git introwduced to a wraaituh,” he said as I continued to imagine the slow and deliberate drawl of a mid-western gun-slinger, “it’s owlwayz through a thurrd person.” My heart sank, Jim continued. “You know I didn’t even know who the guys were for a while, in fact I used to refer to them as he or she because I didn’t know if it was a guy or girl who was doing it. I’ve since met one of them but as for going about an introduction… that’s difficult.” My heart was racing, I had to keep him on the line, play it cool and keep him talking while I snuck around the back, riffled through his belongings and stole a phone number or email from the conversation without him realising. “What do you think of this style?” I ask. “Roll Ups? Yeah, well they certainly get a lot of attention?” “Oh Yeah?” I prompt, nodding. “Do you reckon it’s any good as far as graffiti goes?” “Oh man, I think whatever you like, if you like it, that’s cool.” No good. He saw straight through that attempt to distract him. I was going to have to change tact.
 
I bring up Noam Jason Shoan, the member of notorious Melbourne graffiti gang 70K who was locked up for several months last year for graffiti related crime. An eyebrow almost raised, he was interested, good. “People like Stan and Bonez were out for straight damage and that dictated their style a lot. It had to be quick and it was messy because of the public nature of it. I don’t think that’s similar to the big scale stuff we’re talking about.” OK, he was warming up. “Stuff like what you’re talking about, roll-ups, or roll-downs tend to stay up for a long time because of the problems with removing it. There’s Oc Health and Safety issues with the removal plus the cost of removing something like that, you’d probably have to rig up scaffolding…” Oh it was close. I could imagine the next thing, he’d be slapping me on the back and handing me the information I needed but he continued, “A lot of the time they’ll just leave it up because they know, like the Academy Cinema lot, they’re going to build over it. Or the council go to the building owner and tell them about it and the building owner doesn’t care…” I was nodding along, hardly listening, expecting that at any moment he’d offer to call one of them up and pass me the phone… “But hey man, I tell you what I can do, I can let the guy know you’re writing this story and if he wants to get in touch he can.” Not exactly what I was after.
 
Maybe I’d get a call, or an email some time? Unlikely. The sun warmed my back as I sat on the park bench. I didn’t need to arch my neck quite so far back this time to take in the sign, it was easy to see across Hindmarsh Square. And yet people all around me traipsed back and forth, oblivious. If only they knew anarchistic wall-crawlers patrolled the rooftops at night bringing disorder and chaos to otherwise peaceful walls, maybe then they’d be a little bit more interested in this city they lived in. But they were keen not to linger, it was a long way home and traffic would be bad. The city had served its purpose for another day; the critters were welcome to it.
 
 
 
 
 
 

 

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