Rian Brazil sounds like the kind of exotic stage name a John Smith might invent—someone burdened by a boring moniker at birth. But for Rian Brazil, a real musician from Brighton, it’s his government title––no bullshit. “I don’t know if my mum was in a place where she was, like, making crazy sick decisions,” he says from his kitchen in East London, reminiscing about the moment his mum’s pen hovered over his birth certificate. “Are there any legendary R-I-A-Ns? I don’t know. But I know I’m the first legendary Brazil.”
Fervent South American stans aside, he might be right—and he’s making music that suggests he has the juice to back that up. Just 18 months into his career as a solo musician—an endeavor that was, itself, a happy accident—Brazil has dropped a four track EP, People like u, that rumbles with the rhythm of young Britain. It’s loud and shapeshifting, indicative of a man with eclectic tastes he’s been stomping about in since his childhood: drum’n’bass, metal, and the alt-rap flow of The Streets’ Mike Skinner. “Waited my whole life / where the fuck was you?” Brazil asks on the titular lead track, layered with electric guitar chords, drum and bass beats, and dog barks. It comes with a very good, sort of trippy music video too, in which Brazil professes his love for a wigged woman in a white morph suit.
It was almost written in the stars that he’d end up here. As a kid, when he was still known to everyone as Sid (his middle name), his mum was obsessed with happy hardcore. Later, she met and married a drum and bass DJ, a turn of events that sent Brazil headlong into a life dedicated to music. The garage attached to their house (“20-cap,” he jokes, as if it’s a gig venue), became the site of several fun, lawless DJ sets and parties he’d stumble into, witnessing emcees and lyricists grabbing the mic. By the time he’d reached Year Seven, around 11 or 12 years old, he picked it up himself.
Still, he felt a sort of shame attached to the idea of anyone knowing he was taking it seriously. While doing impromptu performances in the garage, he wrote lyrics and hid them in the plastic sleeves of CD folders, terrified of someone finding them. “I couldn’t imagine someone who couldn’t rap, or had no perception of rhythm, reading them and misinterpreting them,” he says. “That was the worst thing that could have happened. But when you’re up there and you can show someone—shout it at them—it’s just a different thing.”
Thankfully, he kept writing. He fucked about in school and left early, joining a DIY rap trio called Nokia Mansion, known for their hyperactive, loud music. They were semi-successful, playing shows and getting some blog press, but Brazil supplemented his income by selling weed and, later, working as a mortgage representative. “I’ll chew your ear off all day,” he says. He was the perfect salesman. But “about a year and a half ago, I sort of came to the realization that I want to make music for myself,” he says. The combination of three sparking creative minds also, on the flip side, means the vision had to suit everybody. “In a group situation, you can easily fall out of the habit of making music that’s you. It can just get lost a little bit. So around that time, I had a bit of a self awakening with music.” He dropped Sid and became Rian Brazil.
What’s happened since? He didn’t really expect it. He had “about 40 monthly listeners” on Spotify when his manager got him a residency at Laylow, the now-shuttered member’s club in West London. He left Brighton behind and moved to London. Shortly after, he got offered a record deal—and now here we are. He knows what he likes and what he doesn’t, and has an idea of how he wants work to gel come together in future, whatever comes next. “The only thing I strive to achieve when I’m making music? I call it ear candy,” he says definitively. “I just want everything to just be ear candy. My next project is going to be mad sounds—just super exciting on the ears.” He shrugs. “And that’s it.”
NINE FURTHER QUESTIONS FOR THE MUSICIAN RIAN BRAZIL
What are you bad at?
Dancing. Fuck, you know, I like to think I could [get better at it] one day. Honestly, I’ve got rhythm in so many other areas, but I just feel so out of place when I’m dancing.
Name a place you’ll never go back to.
Never say never. If you’ve had a bad experience there the first time, there’s always a second time.
Put the conch shell of your country to your ear. What does it sound like?
Vivaldi’s “Spring” sounds like Britain. I was playing it in Viccy Park the other day.
Do you have a strong opinion on nepo babies?
No. I think some of the best musicians in the world came from privilege and were nepo-d into [the industry] in some way or another. But I do think there’s room for less of that in the industry, and it could evolve to be a more accommodating to people from low-income environments.
Are you the jealous type?
Everyone has a little bit of that in them, even if it’s subconscious. Sometimes you want things that other people have. But no, I wouldn’t say I’m a jealous type overall. I’m very thankful for everything I’ve got in my life and the people that are around me.
What do you miss right now?
Football. I used to play a lot, and it’s my love language. Every muscle in my body is made to play it. I haven’t been doing it much since I moved to London, but it’s so therapeutic—and good for my music—to just go out there and do something completely unrelated to it..
What’s the longest you’ve gone without talking to someone?
Like, an hour? I’m very close with my brother, so I talk to him every day. I love talking to people. Can’t stop me!
Money and access are no barriers––what track are you sampling?
“Has It Come to This?” by The Streets.
Do you believe in end goals?
I wouldn’t say it’s something that I’ve ever fixated on. I just go into the studio and react to music. I didn’t make it to get rich, and I didn’t make it to please anyone else, and I just made it because it’s something that I’m proud of and it makes me happy. You can’t, can’t fail if you never expected to succeed. I’m just gonna keep going. Everything’s a dub.