Maruja: Manchester’s defiant, outspoken and noisy new jazz-punks

Whether it’s Manchester United’s leaky stadium, the infamous air conditioning unit of the Co-Op Live arena or the roof of Salford’s Brunswick Mill Studios – there’s an underlying instability that seems to be running rife through Manchester. The latter venue is home to Maruja, a noisy jazz-punk quartet who have become disillusioned with their hometown music scene which is but a shadow of its former self, saxophonist Joe Carroll tells us.

“The rehearsal studios in Manchester have been very drastic for a very long time. All the decent ones just get turned into flats… there’s no real system in place, the infrastructure is just not there”, he explains, as the band join NME in city centre boozer The Briton’s Protection. “Young creatives don’t have environments to meet one another, so authentic art is becoming less and less of a thing”, adds frontman Harry Wilkinson, incensed at the state of affairs.

How did things come to this? From the ‘Madchester’ golden age of the ’80s and ’90s – spearheaded by The Haçienda and Oasis – the city’s music scene has arguably slumped into complacency, ridden with corporate greed and exploitative promoters who offer little help to independent bands, Maruja tell NME. Having grafted away on the live circuit all over the UK and Europe, their eyes have been opened to another sphere, where live music operates smoothly and sustainably – especially on the continent.

“This is why we’re one of the first bands in Manchester to start coming through in years”, Wilkinson declares – and he’s got a point. While London has recently seen an explosion of jazz-infused punk through Black Country, New Road, Opus Kink and former NME Cover stars Fat Dog, Maruja find themselves in their own lane, channelling anger and internalised trauma through unapologetic songwriting which centres around musical improvisation.

Cinematic, six-minute number ‘The Invisible Man’ is the most visceral example of their artistry, shining a stark light on the mental health crisis that continues to persist all over the country. Having released two EPs – ‘Knocknarea’ (2023) and ‘Connla’s Well’ (2024) – Maruja’s attention is now focused on their debut album, taking form over a relatively quiet summer of festivals, save for a Glastonbury appearance on the BBC Introducing stage.

With a 38-date tour to follow in the autumn which spans from Bedford to Istanbul, Maruja are already building their reputation as an unmissable live band, a testament to the “10,000 hours” that they’ve put in over the past decade. The four-piece spoke to NME about the flawed Manchester scene, their razor-sharp live show and the evolution of their sound.

NME: Do you feel Manchester’s contemporary music scene is still living in the shadow of its former self?

Harry Wilkinson: “Since the major success of the ’90s, complacency has settled in – and a lot of money-grabbing promoters have moved in. They take 80 per cent of the profit and leave you with 20 per cent, and they won’t invite anybody down. They take all the money off these young aspiring musicians, [meaning] that they can’t reinvest in themselves from all the hard work that they’re doing. When did ‘the opportunity’ pay a single bill?”

Joe Carroll: “The promotion companies in Manchester, they’ve got a lot to answer for. It’s a classic line that we learned from our London promoter. 30 years ago, support bands got £50. 30 years on, they still get £50. It’s fucking terrible.”

Matt Buonaccorsi: “The music culture has been picked up by all these vultures, and turned into a game.”

Are there any organisations that you think are making positive changes for the city?

Wilkinson: “We got some funding from Jazz North, they helped fund a lot of our travel and costs for our first tour. There are some good [institutions] in Manchester, but they’re just few and far between.”

Carroll: “Low Four as well, we did a live session with them. It’s just a load of passionate people that have come together to fund this venue.”

Which other cities do you look to for the model to follow?

Jacob Hayes: “In London, they’ve got The Windmill – that is the exact opposite of the problem here. It’s run in-house, so they give loads of money to all the artists. It’s community-run, young artists can play it all the time, it’s really cheap. No promoters are taking any money from it at all. We were on a bill of four [acts], and we got £500 for a show.”

Carroll: “Systemically, in Europe there is way more funding for the arts. The venues pay bands, they sort accommodation, they feed you, you meet all the staff. Even if you don’t sell out, the venue gets the income substituted, so they’re still making profit and aren’t gonna collapse. If artists play a certain amount of gigs per year, you’ll get minimum wage, and you’re seen as a working musician.”

Wilkinson: “Art isn’t seen as work [here], which is so stupid. Everything came from creative intelligence. When the Tories came out and said artists ‘need to get a real job’ [during the pandemic], they made posters about it, which were made by an artist. It’s ignorance, hypocrisy.”

What support does Manchester’s music scene need from the government?

Hayes: “It’s very clear that [Night Time Economy Adviser] Sacha Lord has an agenda which runs into parliament. He runs these enormous ventures [Parklife Festival, The Warehouse Project] which are not beneficial for people like us. There are two or three people that essentially own every [venue] above 500-capacity. When The Deaf Institute and Gorilla went under during COVID times, they got bought out by Mission Mars. They’re waiting for small venues to collapse.

“People will happily come in to the Co-Op Live and spend these ridiculously inflated prices… [but] none of the money is drip-fed to us. They’re not putting money back into Music Venue Trust, it’s not going to benefit Gulliver’s or The Castle Hotel – it’s going straight back into shareholders’ pockets. If he really did care about it, things would be done about [the noise complaint case against] Night & Day Café. He can allow 10,000 people to be in a warehouse until 5am, but you can’t have Night & Day open till 1am on a Thursday.”

Wilkinson: “He needs to take a percentage of what they’re earning and put it back into grassroot levels.”

Carroll: “It doesn’t even need to be a lot – less than 1 per cent.”

In such bleak times, where do Maruja get their inspiration from?

Wilkinson: “We have a lot of love to give, but we also have a lot of anger in us that has been built up over many years. You look back at times of great oppression, there has always been an artist speaking the truth – whether it’s Bob Marley or Nina Simone. That’s what we’re here to do.”

Buonaccorsi: “People get frustrated that they can’t look at politicians for any hope, or aspirations to change. But they can do that with artists. That’s very much my own aspiration witn Maruja, to reach that point – and not use fame for greed, but to actually do good.”

Does the noisy edge to your music reflect the emotions behind it?

Wilkinson: “We have moments where it’s visceral and dark. We also have moments where it’s hopeful and positive.”

Hayes: “We have conversations like this, and immediately press record on the phone. Music will just fall out of us, around these emotions. We’re living through them, and it weighs a lot.”

Jazz-infused punk is emerging all over the UK – why do you think the two complement each other so well?

Hayes: “They’re more closely linked than you recognise. Punk came out in opposition to technical music, progressive music, it’s a working person’s music. That’s what jazz was – the working-class music, back in the day. Pure expression, they’re quite similar [in terms of] energy.”

Much of your music is written through improvised jams. How does that go down in the studio?

Carroll: “When the jams reach a boiling point, it’s like lightning in a bottle. Whatever emotion is touching on, it’s that – pushed to the fucking max.”

Wilkinson: “The five minute song has got to be incredible, because it’s got to reflect the energy of that 30-minute jam.”

Hayes: “We go as mad in rehearsal as we do on stage. One singular improvised piece, we won’t remember any part of it because we’re so locked in. You get pretty good at learning how to read each other’s minds, responding through playing. The most subtle nuanced change to someone’s movement, you can feel the shift.”

Your live show is becoming quite the word-of-mouth phenomenon…

Wilkinson: “We give ourselves totally to the crowd. We’re not afraid to show vulnerability by expressing ourselves. Whether it’s gracious hand movements to reflect the ambience, or whether it’s hardcore and you’re getting in people’s faces and fucking screaming, staring them down. The songs have such deep meanings, we also have to do them justice with our performance. You can’t play ‘The Invisible Man’ and just stand there. That song is about deep-rooted trauma, it’s about mental health. 

“It’s difficult performing that song, because it’s so emotional. But I’m going to do it every night, because the crowd need this experience just as much as we need to get it out of us. It inspires people, when people see other people let themselves go. They feel more inclined to be the same, and they’re more likely to speak to the person next to them, give them a hug, or jump in the pit.”

Where does this mindset stem from?

Buonaccorsi: “I really love the Fever Ray live show. The songs flow into one another, they’re wearing the maddest make-up, and doing mad choreographed moves. We all have our own individual quirks and ways of letting that energy out.”

Wilkinson: “You’ve come to be entertained, at the end of the day. Bands who just stand there and play the album…that’s why a lot of bands fall off, I think. You’ve seen them and I don’t need to see them again, whereas people are following us around the country.”

Maruja’s ‘Connla’s Well’ EP is out now

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