Just Juce … from left, Georgia, Chalin and Cherish. Photograph: Sarah Lee for the Guardian
Somewhere in the collective possession of Juce is a purple book in which the three members write their hopes and dreams for what the band can achieve. It’s not a boastful tome, and contains only modest goals outlined with sensible precaution, such as “Win a Grammy”, “Play Madison Square Garden” and “Have a No 1 album in the US”.
“Oh, and headline the Pyramid stage at Glastonbury,” singer Chalin says when we meet. “That one was mine – my ones were the low-key ones.”
If the purple book’s contents seem ambitious, then consider this: since meeting two years ago, Juce have toured with Basement Jaxx, signed a major label deal (with Island) and been the toast of the blogosphere thanks to their groove-addled, 90s-influenced sound and some striking videos, which have featured both synchronised dance moves and branded bumbags. They might look as if they have stepped out of a vintage issue of the Face, but their music contains more than just aesthetic pleasures – it’s soulful and emotional as well as joyful. Certainly, its sheer technicoloured vibrancy stands out in a pop world full of sincere Sheerans and earnest Sam Smiths. And while we’re currently being informed by focus-grouped critical opinion that the future of pop lies in the hands of bland singer-songwriters such as James Bay, it’s refreshing to hear a group gleefully stamping their personalities across what they do, a bit like the Spice Girls if they had ever been any good at playing punk-funk.
It’s music for music lovers, made by music lovers, which is only fitting because it was music that brought the band together. Specifically, Sly Stone’s If You Want Me to Stay, which was playing at a house party and caused Chalin, Cherish and Georgia to congregate on the dancefloor.
“There was lots of trademark finger-snapping and air bass going on that night,” recalls keyboard player Georgia, with a grin. The next morning, however, she found it hard to get the courage up to call the other two.
“I was really nervous,” she says. “It was like a weird blind date. We’d all had fun with a few drinks, but it’s very different in the cold light of day: ‘Do you want to be really sincere and make pop music with me?’”
She needn’t have worried. Juce struck up a musical chemistry as vibrant as their real-life friendship – in person, the band are infectious company, if a little hard to marshal, as they gabble over each other and constantly pipe up with in-jokes. The conversation ping-pongs rapidly: you can be talking about London gentrification one minute and then, before you know it, the topic’s moved on to sleazy clubbers, African headwraps or – at one point – whether or not bassist Cherish would enjoy starring in a cat-food commercial (“You would LOVE that!” is Chalin’s verdict). The potential for misquotes is huge and has already caused problems in previous interviews. “We got asked who our favourite Spice Girls were and when we read the piece it was terrible,” Georgia says, dramatically. “I was like ‘Posh? Never!’”
All three had musical backgrounds before Juce: Chalin was a producer for the Boiler Room live sessions; Georgia has played with artists such as Rose Elinor Dougall; Cherish was just 15 when she found herself touring the UK as a member of goth-tinged post-punkers Ipso Facto. They’re also all clearly children of the 90s. Georgia reminisces about her love for No Doubt, for instance, whereas Chalin loved Erykah Badu. Cherish recalls staring at the inside of her Britney Spears album and thinking: “Those curtains are so cool!”
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But while that decade’s influence is evident, especially in the TLC-referencing video for Call You Out, there’s far more being blended into this Juce: from 70s funk and disco to the experimental New York No Wave scene – the first track they posted online was the ESG-indebted Braindead, produced by Dan Carey, which started a domino effect of hype that has yet to slow. So swift has the group’s rise been, in fact, that in December they set off on their first proper tour – not of dingy toilet venues, but of arenas in support of Basement Jaxx. It was, Georgia says, “really intense”, but Chalin lets the rock’n’roll side down by claiming: “I had visions of rock stars getting wasted, but actually we were really well behaved. We were in bed before 12.”
That is not what a journalist wants to hear!
“Not to be to boring, but they were hard shows,” Georgia says. “We were the support act, with people like, ‘Come on then, are you good or not?’”
Chalin: “It was our first tour and we were playing, like, the O2. You can’t be turning up with Colombian flu trying to do that!”
Cherish’s eyes widen: “Sssshhhh!”
Chalin: “What?! You can’t!”
The crowds weren’t always as well behaved.
“In Newcastle, everyone was fucked!” Cherish marvels. “The front row was just like [she mimics what can only be described as ‘joyous projectile vomiting’]. We didn’t have to win them over at all, I could have been farting in the mic and they’d have fucking loved it in Newcastle!”
Juce are undeniably a party band – only if it served you an overpriced Aperol spritz could Burning Up be any more evocative of a London summer – but that shouldn’t disguise the fact that their music is also admirably sophisticated, full of subtle hooks, smart arrangements and restraint. Check out the way Chalin’s voice somehow increases its emotional heft while dropping to barely a whisper during Call Me Out’s middle eight, or the shimmering guitar lines that echo 6th Floor’s seductive promise of “rainbows of pleasure”. (H)ours has a section where the bassline and handclaps mimic ticking seconds, and standout disco-punk track The Heat features an instrumental build steamy enough to match its title. Of course, that hasn’t stopped the press from finding ways to patronise them – while researching this interview, I was astonished by how many were at pains to point out that Juce could actually play their instruments. Women, utilising D minor chords, and everything!
“Everything has to be so much harder because we have breasts,” Chalin says. “But we always prove them wrong.”
“I do think we have to be way more badass at our instruments [compared with men],” Cherish says. “If you’re a shit female bass player, you’re gonna get fucking ruined. But at least if you’re a badass female band, it’s a talking point – like with Prince, or Beyoncé. We have two session players with us and we want them to be girls because it looks fucking cool.”
“It’s the year of the matriach,” Chalin says, fired up. “And women are coming out, and growing some bollocks.”
‘At least if you’re a badass female band, it’s a talking point.’
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‘At least if you’re a badass female band, it’s a talking point.’ Photograph: Sarah Lee/The Guardian
Have they consciously tapped into the latest wave of feminism with their music? The band believe so, talking about the power slipping away from the major (male) players in the music industry and how they expect their generation to produce a string of inspirational, all-female bands. Indeed, they want Juce to act as an inspiration to others. Next year will see them build on their excellent Taste the Juce EP with an album of fresh songs that Chalin says is “in keeping with that whole thing – the rise of the ladies, girl power”.
“It’s called babeology,” says Cherish, helpfully explaining that this means the “study of babes”.
“It’s more the reclaiming of the word ‘babe’, to be a babe,” clarifies Chalin. “Babeology is a state of mind.”
“Anyone can be a babe,” Cherish says.
“Yeah! You’re a babe, too, Tim,” Georgia adds, entirely correctly, although before I can begin to blush Chalin slightly takes the sheen off the compliment: “Yeah, it’s not just about being attractive, it’s about running your shit!”
So is listening to the album going to be a bit like taking a course? A kind of pop Open University?
In tandem, they all shriek: “No! No! NO!”
Georgia: “Art should never be, like, ‘Eat your greens!’”
Chalin: “It should wake you up in the morning on your way to work and make you think ‘I’m going to get my shit together’ ... but we’re not about beating girls, like, ‘Get out of bed and be a babe!’”
From drunk dancing to the scientific study of babes ... and to think none of this might have happened if the DJ hadn’t spun Sly and the Family Stone at a house party. At the mention of Sly, however, Juce get unexpectedly glum.
“It just makes me sad that he’s living in a car now,” Georgia says. “He was killing it.”
Chalin: “Imagine having £1m in yesterday’s money, and then spending all of it on crack! Not even, like, good drugs. And then you are left with nothing years later, and you were a legend. Not even a house. You’ve pissed off every single person you know, if you’re living in a campervan.”
“But he did bring Juce together,” Cherish says, with an impish grin. “Don’t you think that was his biggest achievement?”
‘At least if you’re a badass female band, it’s a talking point.’ Photograph: Sarah Lee/The Guardian
Suddenly, Chalin has a moment of inspiration: “I think we should promise to buy Sly a new house with our first £1m!”
“A nice little bungalow in England,” Georgia decides. “So we could keep an eye on him.”
“I want him to be part of my house, though!” Cherish says. “You know, a nice little granny annex with Sly in there. Actually, he could move in with my mum! Him and my mum are probably as mad as each other ...”
Do Juce realise that, once this is printed, people might hold them to it?
“Oh, we’re definitely down with it,” Chalin confirms.
Win a Grammy. Star in cat-food adverts. Buy Sly Stone a new granny annex. Is there even room in that purple book for Juce’s 2015?
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