“There’s nothing [left], not a single thing. We’ve lost everything.”

These words, or similar utterances, are applicable to thousands as one of the world’s most famous metropolises - the City of Angels - smoulders as an unrecognisable hellscape.

Starting on January 7, hurricane-force winds rattled across Los Angeles, carrying embers, fanning pre-existing flames, and setting the city’s outer neighbourhoods alight. Though the winds, as well as drought, an abundance of wooden structures, insufficient preparation and climate change are all catalysts, the jury is still out as to who or what exactly started the blazes. What we do know is that there are (so far) at least 12,300 structures destroyed, 27 people dead and 150,000 displaced.

Behind these statistics, as is often easy to forget once the digits on the TV screen reach a certain magnitude, are individuals; residents who’ve invested decades into building their businesses, establishing their livelihoods and becoming cornerstones of vibrant communities.

Dublin native Reb Kennedy’s home and recording studio were reduced to “dust” after the Eaton fire, which (at the time of writing) has ravaged over 14,000 acres, an area about half the size of Dublin City. Known for helping Imelda May breakthrough early on in her career, the 63-year-old is the founder of Wild Records, an independent label from which he has released over 200 albums.

Living in Altadena in north-east LA, Kennedy said he first noticed a fire on the hills while walking his two bull terriers. He sets an apocalyptic scene.

“I wasn’t that worried because [wildfires] happen every year,” he says. “The wind was blowing away from my house, so as crazy as it might sound to people unfamiliar with the area, it wasn’t a big concern.

“I woke up in the middle of the night becauseDublin-born record producer Reb Kennedy speaks to Riccardo Dwyer about the heartbreaking loss of his home and studio, which were destroyed by the fires that have ravaged Los Angeles this month. of the smell. Outside, the whole neighbourhood was smoky, so I went back inside and said to my wife and son that we had to leave. Then the evacuation order went off on my phone. We grabbed our passports, a handful of photos, the dogs and left. We left everything behind.

“Overnight the winds went from 20 to 92 miles an hour, and they were blowing west towards our home. A neighbour called up and said that their house is on fire. As soon as I heard that, I thought, ‘We’re fucked’.”

“Altadena is one of the oldest neighbourhoods in California. My house was built in 1927, and a lot of people that lived in the area had been there for generations. It looks like an atomic bomb was dropped. The whole neighbourhood is gone. It doesn’t exist anymore.”

Among Kennedy’s losses are a 10,000+ collection of vinyl records, the master tapes from his 25-years with Wild Records and all of the vintage, rare studio equipment that Kennedy had accumulated throughout his career.

“I’m a record person and vintage dealer, and I buy about a hundred 45s a day from flea markets across LA. Emotionally, we lost everything. All the bands on my label are non-electronic. We’re all about guitars, whether that’s punk, rockabilly, blues, gospel, soul, country or jazz.

“We had insurance on the house but it won’t cover my studio. I had two Gretsch drum kits, a Rickenbacker bass, three upright basses, all pre-1960. I had about 10 Gibson amps from before 1950, as well as hundreds of vintage microphones.”

Gear enthusiasts will be aware of the monetary setback, with many of these irreplaceable pieces of equipment worth thousands. There is, however, as Kennedy mentioned, a much greater emotional loss. It’s the physical evisceration of a life’s work – one steeped in stories stretching back to Kennedy’s hometown.

 

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“In the late ‘70s, myself and a group of friends were the first punks in Dublin,” Kennedy says. “There were a handful of us, which included Bono, The Edge, Larry and all the guys. I traveled from Dublin to London with U2 for their first ever show outside of Ireland.

“Myself, as well as my close friends – and one of the most important bands from Ireland ever, The Virgin Prunes – travelled for A Sense of Ireland, which was in Acklam Hall on Portobello Road. It was set up because Island Records were coming to see U2, possibly to sign them, but oddly they passed them that night.”

Kennedy was a prominent figure in the local counterculture of the time, playing the Dandelion Market with his band System X and appearing regularly on TV and radio.

“I had a friend who was one of the producers on the Late Late. Because I have a big mouth and never shut up, he asked me if I’d go on to discuss the punk movement that was happening.

“The next day I was on the front of the Evening Herald and became a sort of spokesman for alternative youth in Ireland. I did a lot of radio stuff over the next three years, they’d get me on if they wanted a bit of controversy because I’d occasionally swear.

“I was a very minor celebrity for a while. I actually left Ireland because I got fed up with fighting every night I went out. I’d get some lad wanting to beat me up because their girlfriend would recognise me from the television.

“I grew up in Coolock, and my dad had to drive me to the school behind my house where I used to rehearse. I would have had the shit beaten out of me if I tried to walk through the neighbourhood. When it became apparent that I was sort of well known, things got absolutely crazy.”

Thus, Kennedy relocated to a comparatively cosmopolitan London in the early ‘80s, where a career in music started taking shape. As well as becoming a well-known DJ, he worked for the legendary Rough Trade label, then-home of Stiff Little Fingers and The Smiths.

After leaving the company, Kennedy obtained a degree in childcare, becoming the director of an exclusive kindergarten.

“My youngest sister had Down Syndrome, and she died in a freak accident when she was seven. Because of that, I started to go to youth clubs to DJ for the kids. I wanted to work with kids so I got a degree in child psychology, and went on to manage the most expensive nursery in Europe.”

This experience, Kennedy says, shaped his life as a producer upon his move to LA in 2000.

“Part of the reason i’m able to work in the way I do with my musicians is because most of them are like fucking children,” he says. “They call me ‘Papa Reb’, and the fan base of the label call us the ‘Wild Family’.

“A lot of the musicians in California had two options. They could play music or be in gangs and deal drugs. Many have been involved in bad things and been in prison. My home, and this is very Irish, was always open to them. My guys will turn up to eat, or borrow a car, because they haven’t got any money. I’ll go get them out of jail, which I’ve done a million times. They’ll come to my house and they’ll sit on the couch and cry when their relationships end.

“The first act [to sign] on my label is still with me and so is the second, and the third, and the fourth. They don’t leave because I put them first. I’m not a businessman. If I was, I would be a fucking disaster. American people don’t get it, but my label is not about making money. The amazing thing to me is I’ve made music that I’m proud of. And I’m proud that it will exist forever.”

At a time where looting, intentionally created fires and other opportunistic crimes are being reported across LA, Wild Records shines as a beacon of community.

“Two of my musicians set up a GoFundMe,” he says. “They didn’t tell me because they knew if they did, I would have said no. The response is absolutely staggering. The kindness of people is amazing.”

Kennedy is also being contacted regularly by Irish singer and longtime friend Imelda May.

 

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“I’ve known Imelda since she was a little girl. I brought Imelda to England to live, to try and help develop her career. I was there with her at the beginning getting everything going. She’s been calling me every day.”

With cadaver dogs still sniffing around piles of ash and the National Guard cordoning off neighbourhoods, ‘What’s next?’ is a question far from the minds of many in Los Angeles right now. For Kennedy though, a film, 11 studio projects and a number of festivals across the world are firmly in his sights.

“We started work on a new movie,” he says. “The date for the table read was last week, and with the disaster the director and crew said it had to be postponed. I said ‘No fucking way’. For my sanity we have to keep moving forward.

“So we did the table read and we’ll begin shooting in February, it’ll be called House Of Wild. After that, I’d already paid for flights for a band from Texas called The Star Mountain Dreamers to come and record a new album. I had a lot of people offering me their recording equipment and a friend offered to lend me his studio, so we did a session and got two tracks recorded.

“What’s next for the family is to find a long-term rental, and then a place where I can rebuild the studio, because this year is the busiest in the label’s 25 years. I have the resilience of an Irish person, which Americans don’t really understand. I think a lot of people would be lying on the ground crying and banging their fists. I don’t think that’s how we work as Irish people. I don’t feel positive all the time, but I have to look to the future.”

• Visit gofundme.com/help-restore-wild-records