Published in the Stool Pigeon Jan 2008, under the title 'Summit Meeting'
“OK,” says John Darnielle, “Give me the Dictaphone and I will ask you some questions.”
It’s ten minutes into the interview, and I’ve already flaked. I didn’t want to write this article. I didn’t want to write this article because the Mountain Goats are to me what Michael Jackson is to Japanese people, and when you feel that level of hysteria for a person the last thing you want to do is humanize them. Steadily releasing albums for the best part of a decade, first on cassette then on 4AD, they’re the kind of band with a following so cult, you can’t imagine them with faces, let alone with a voice, body, knife, fork and napkin. John is the chief songwriter and only constant member, and he’s in the UK for some Christmas shows ahead of the new album release.
“I would rather you interviewed me about how much I love your band,” I joke. Ten minutes later, after I forget how to speak, he leans across the table, gently extracts the tape deck from my hand and asks, “Where did you grow up?”
I hope you derive from this that John is a nice guy. I hope you also derive from it that he’s a nice guy with a lot of charisma. Not the kind of charisma that makes you shy around Nicole Kidman, but the kind that puts a picture of King Bhumibol on every wall in Thailand. My band have been touring with him for four days, and by the second we are operating a ‘John Love’ competition – points for making him laugh, points for getting a hug. By the third day I am literally Googling fart jokes to try and get ahead, because nothing makes you feel better than when John Darnielle walks into a room, pats you on the back and says, “what’s up?”
It’s this touring business that makes me so nervous. If I’ve learned anything from traveling in a van with the Mountain Goats, it’s that I will do anything to make him like me, and also that he doesn’t like being probed. I have an email in my inbox in which he refers to himself as a cave dwelling hermit, and then ‘a troll’. As much as he joins in with the after-show dork talk (Peter from the Goats knows a lot about New Order), shows you the giant Mini-Cheddar he’s just found in his packet and shares his magazines (Metal Hammer, of course), there are times when you can tell he just wants to be alone. I bet the end of the press day after the last tour of the year is one of those times. I bet if I annoy him, I won’t get a hug at the end of the meal. I am literally speechless. I can’t think of a single thing to say.
“You don’t like doing press much do you?” I muster.
“There’s worse things to have to complain about,” he says, “But it does generally feel weird. I don’t like to talk about myself this much, I kinda hope my stuff does that for me.”
If you had asked the crowd after the Glasgow show what they wanted most of all from him, they wouldn’t have asked to know his favorite color. His stuff really does say something for him. It’s strong in its complicity, and it leaves you feeling part of a greater consciousness. You don’t need to know anything about him because, just by being there, you’re already in cahoots. Witnessing 200 people burst into song at the lyric ‘St Joseph’s Baby Aspirin’, our van driver leans across and tells me,
“I’ve never seen someone control a crowd like that before.”
Our van driver, by the way, has just been on tour with Anthrax. But this grasp of mass hypnosis isn’t something that Darnielle finds overwhelming. To him, it’s just a natural case of cause and effect. “I’m a huge music fan,” he says, “and when I go to a show I get really into it, so when I see someone moving their lips to my words, it’s a kick – in another audience with another artist, that person is me, right?”
You don’t have to be a top level obsessive to know that John’s really, really into black metal, but if you’ve read his webzine, or heard old-skool hip-hop blaring from his headphones on the motorway, you’ll have an idea of how much other stuff he’s into. Tonight, as he waxes lyrical about Cocorosie’s Akon cover, I suddenly realize that as a fangirl, I’m in the presence of my king. “I’ve been obsessed with records since I could crawl,” he explains, launching into a eulogy for Lifter Puller, “but if you’re listening mainly to vinyl these days you’re probably being a little precious…”
This is the kind of discourse you’d expect to find on his Last Plane to Jakarta, recently given a thumbs up from Pitchfork for its quality of writing, and between it and generally accepted Internet knowledge, you could probably draw a map of most of his likes and dislikes. Again I wonder why I’m asking him questions, when he could be doing the same of me – ‘Actually John, you didn’t listen to Hail to the Thief cause everyone was going on about it, but once you did you got pretty into it.” but the thing that you wouldn’t know from typing John Darnielle and any combination of words (try ‘burrito’, it’s funny) into a search engine is that he talks about the Mountain Goats like he talks about other bands. “I like Get Lonely better,” he shrugs, like a friend recommending which files to download, “but most people prefer the Sunset Tree.”
At the end of the meal, I’ve asked no questions, recorded barely any conversation, and spoken entirely in an American accent as not to be difficult. But if you meet your your heroes and still love them at the ed of the day, you’ve done pretty good. Wincing my way dow Tottenham Court Road, I remember something he told me earlier, “Sometimes I finish songs and they’re not very good, and sometimes it bothers me,” he says, “But where else in your life is everything you do perfect? If you work a five day job do you kick ass at it every day? No – but once in a while you have a day when you’re really good and you’re like – man, this place would have collapsed without me today. I am awesome.”
Today, I sucked at my job, but I still think the John Darnielle is awesome. Michael Jackson fans – nil, Mountain Goats – one million.
Friday, 20 June 2008
Thursday, 20 December 2007
Darren Hayman feature
published in November Stool Pigeon under headline 'Class Act - Darren Hayman keeps it comprehensively British and old school
You’ve seen it. The generic Fruit of the Loom t-shirt in block colours, with the word ‘Hefner’ printed across the chest. You see it worn occasionally at a market or a record store, and more often at festivals, where they share a status with Slipknot hoodies at Reading. Walking past one of these t-shirts, some people will think, what is this shit skate label that only sells one thing?, but to others, a quiet society of John Peel listeners and knowing indie boffins, this is the secret handshake, a seal of approval as dependable as a lion on an egg.
The man behind the t-shirts, once the main force behind Hefner, is today comfortably unaware of his cult status. Or at least, if he’s aware, he doesn’t show it. Tucking into a bacon sandwich in between home and the cinema, Darren Hayman talks me through an ordinary day as an underground pop icon. “Some days,” he tells me, “my job is just like anyone else’s job.” He isn’t being blasé, it does sound pretty normal.
“My wife’s alarm goes off at six to the Today programme, and I’m usually up by 7.” He says, “I’ll do a bit of housekeeping, then I’ll walk the dog, do me emails, update the website, this and that. When my wife gets home I usually make sure I’ve done her dinner. Might do a gig.”
You might wonder why we’ve settled so quickly on the unremarkable, but in a world where kids are making big money with songs about owning trainers, it’s rare to find someone who’s living a life as real as he sings. Of course, Darren Hayman started making music with the intention to keep it real. He first picked up a guitar in 1986 after seeing Billy Bragg play, and what follows
“I remember being about 17 when I saw Billy Bragg play,” he says, “and I remember thinking to myself, ‘I could do this.’ up until then I’d never hard anyone sing with an essex accent, just American ones, or Liverpudlian like the Beatles. It just made me think, that if he’s only got his guitar and his voice, maybe I could do it too. I guess it was quite arrogant really.”
Hefner’s songs, like Billy Bragg’s, were at their best with the smallest situations as starting points, songs like Greater London Radio, or Lee Remick, a lament to family dysfunction centred around a teenager’s film star crush. Emerging just as Britpop faded out, Darren largely ignored the fiercely marketed bolshiness of Cool Britannia, ad drew inspiration from observational lo-fi artists from America, like the Mountain Goats, Simon Joyner and the New Bad Things.
“All those bands inspired me because they had an audience but they weren’t rich or famous in any way. They had this real, genuine, troubadour quality that I couldn’t see in bands English bands at the time.” he muses, then continues, “but I was always very keen I would sing about what I saw - British things, with a British accent. That was the most important to me.”
Darren is unique in this country in that he hasn’t really strayed from those early inspirations, or filtered his style as he became more successful. He would tell you its because he hasn’t sold enough records to sell out, but one suspects that at the heart of his music lies a voice that won’t be manipulated. Today, we’re here to talk about Darren Hayman & the Secondary Modern, his first album proper since splitting up with Hefner, and it is still lyrically outstanding, and still Very British. It’s British in the same way that Jarvis Cocker, Graham Coxon and the Arctic Monkeys make British Records, but instead of a kitchen sink drama, we have a full blown episode of Channel 4’s Teachers. Well, maybe without the swearing. And the sex. But there’s definitely some smutty looks in the teachers lounge and a few too many whisky sodas after school. It’s a Britishness that’s peculiar to the high streets of suburban East London, where he grew up and still lives. Songs like Rochelle, which begins, ‘if you can’t walk in high heels, then don’t walk in high heels’, or Elizabeth Duke, about proposing to a girlfriend with a cheap ring, invoke images of a town you’ve never been to, but you’ve seen on telly. Unless of course, it reminds you of a town you do know. That’s the beauty of the album, you can either have experienced it, or not, but either way, you know what he means. The album also unique in that it may be pop’s first age-appropriate album since Kate Bush started singing about dishwashers. You wouldn’t catch Jarvis singing about marriage or mortgages in a hurry, nor any other thirty-something pop star for that matter, but that’s precisely what Darren has done on this record. Is this a nod to the write-what-you-see school of his early influences?
“I have no problems with writing adult songs for adults,” says Darren, “There’s a bit of a gap in the market for that isn’t there?”
If there was a gap in the market for Walthamstow centric, part-time teacher indie pop, then it looks like it’s just been filled. And anyone who was looking for that missing record on the moon-landing, or the new town of Harlow can also expect the wait to be over. Since breaking up with Hefner’s label, Too Pure, Darren has been afforded an unprecendnted amoung of creative freedom. So much so, the next album may well be 14 songs about town planning.
“I’m getting used to the idea that I’m not on a label anymore and I can do all the silly ideas I’ve had.” He says, “I’m sure if Chris Martin wanted to write an album about Harlow, someone would tell him it was a shit idea. I’m sure he would think it was a shit idea.” He giggles, “I’m sure it is a shit idea – but I’m just going to keep doing this until I do something so bloody awful that nobody buys it.”
On last count, Darren Hayman is yet to release a bloody awful album, Coldplay on the other hand... If his initial dream on seeing Billy Bragg was only to represent his own background as well as Bragg did, then he’s succeeded. He's also managed to rival heroes like the Mountain Goats & Simon Joyner on prolificacy, and maintain a double life of artist/ working man of which Phillip Larkin would be proud. Occasionally, however, news of his success will filter into his reality.
“I was doing a music crossword the other day, and the answer was Darren Hayman,” he says, “and I didn’t get it. I left it blank. My wife told me off for that.” He laughs, “That’s a sign isn’t it? That I can’t even get my own name in a crossword.”
I bet the kid on the next table with the Hefner tee figured it out.
You’ve seen it. The generic Fruit of the Loom t-shirt in block colours, with the word ‘Hefner’ printed across the chest. You see it worn occasionally at a market or a record store, and more often at festivals, where they share a status with Slipknot hoodies at Reading. Walking past one of these t-shirts, some people will think, what is this shit skate label that only sells one thing?, but to others, a quiet society of John Peel listeners and knowing indie boffins, this is the secret handshake, a seal of approval as dependable as a lion on an egg.
The man behind the t-shirts, once the main force behind Hefner, is today comfortably unaware of his cult status. Or at least, if he’s aware, he doesn’t show it. Tucking into a bacon sandwich in between home and the cinema, Darren Hayman talks me through an ordinary day as an underground pop icon. “Some days,” he tells me, “my job is just like anyone else’s job.” He isn’t being blasé, it does sound pretty normal.
“My wife’s alarm goes off at six to the Today programme, and I’m usually up by 7.” He says, “I’ll do a bit of housekeeping, then I’ll walk the dog, do me emails, update the website, this and that. When my wife gets home I usually make sure I’ve done her dinner. Might do a gig.”
You might wonder why we’ve settled so quickly on the unremarkable, but in a world where kids are making big money with songs about owning trainers, it’s rare to find someone who’s living a life as real as he sings. Of course, Darren Hayman started making music with the intention to keep it real. He first picked up a guitar in 1986 after seeing Billy Bragg play, and what follows
“I remember being about 17 when I saw Billy Bragg play,” he says, “and I remember thinking to myself, ‘I could do this.’ up until then I’d never hard anyone sing with an essex accent, just American ones, or Liverpudlian like the Beatles. It just made me think, that if he’s only got his guitar and his voice, maybe I could do it too. I guess it was quite arrogant really.”
Hefner’s songs, like Billy Bragg’s, were at their best with the smallest situations as starting points, songs like Greater London Radio, or Lee Remick, a lament to family dysfunction centred around a teenager’s film star crush. Emerging just as Britpop faded out, Darren largely ignored the fiercely marketed bolshiness of Cool Britannia, ad drew inspiration from observational lo-fi artists from America, like the Mountain Goats, Simon Joyner and the New Bad Things.
“All those bands inspired me because they had an audience but they weren’t rich or famous in any way. They had this real, genuine, troubadour quality that I couldn’t see in bands English bands at the time.” he muses, then continues, “but I was always very keen I would sing about what I saw - British things, with a British accent. That was the most important to me.”
Darren is unique in this country in that he hasn’t really strayed from those early inspirations, or filtered his style as he became more successful. He would tell you its because he hasn’t sold enough records to sell out, but one suspects that at the heart of his music lies a voice that won’t be manipulated. Today, we’re here to talk about Darren Hayman & the Secondary Modern, his first album proper since splitting up with Hefner, and it is still lyrically outstanding, and still Very British. It’s British in the same way that Jarvis Cocker, Graham Coxon and the Arctic Monkeys make British Records, but instead of a kitchen sink drama, we have a full blown episode of Channel 4’s Teachers. Well, maybe without the swearing. And the sex. But there’s definitely some smutty looks in the teachers lounge and a few too many whisky sodas after school. It’s a Britishness that’s peculiar to the high streets of suburban East London, where he grew up and still lives. Songs like Rochelle, which begins, ‘if you can’t walk in high heels, then don’t walk in high heels’, or Elizabeth Duke, about proposing to a girlfriend with a cheap ring, invoke images of a town you’ve never been to, but you’ve seen on telly. Unless of course, it reminds you of a town you do know. That’s the beauty of the album, you can either have experienced it, or not, but either way, you know what he means. The album also unique in that it may be pop’s first age-appropriate album since Kate Bush started singing about dishwashers. You wouldn’t catch Jarvis singing about marriage or mortgages in a hurry, nor any other thirty-something pop star for that matter, but that’s precisely what Darren has done on this record. Is this a nod to the write-what-you-see school of his early influences?
“I have no problems with writing adult songs for adults,” says Darren, “There’s a bit of a gap in the market for that isn’t there?”
If there was a gap in the market for Walthamstow centric, part-time teacher indie pop, then it looks like it’s just been filled. And anyone who was looking for that missing record on the moon-landing, or the new town of Harlow can also expect the wait to be over. Since breaking up with Hefner’s label, Too Pure, Darren has been afforded an unprecendnted amoung of creative freedom. So much so, the next album may well be 14 songs about town planning.
“I’m getting used to the idea that I’m not on a label anymore and I can do all the silly ideas I’ve had.” He says, “I’m sure if Chris Martin wanted to write an album about Harlow, someone would tell him it was a shit idea. I’m sure he would think it was a shit idea.” He giggles, “I’m sure it is a shit idea – but I’m just going to keep doing this until I do something so bloody awful that nobody buys it.”
On last count, Darren Hayman is yet to release a bloody awful album, Coldplay on the other hand... If his initial dream on seeing Billy Bragg was only to represent his own background as well as Bragg did, then he’s succeeded. He's also managed to rival heroes like the Mountain Goats & Simon Joyner on prolificacy, and maintain a double life of artist/ working man of which Phillip Larkin would be proud. Occasionally, however, news of his success will filter into his reality.
“I was doing a music crossword the other day, and the answer was Darren Hayman,” he says, “and I didn’t get it. I left it blank. My wife told me off for that.” He laughs, “That’s a sign isn’t it? That I can’t even get my own name in a crossword.”
I bet the kid on the next table with the Hefner tee figured it out.
Friday, 14 December 2007
DisCover - the Wave Pictures
Pretty gushing piece I wrote for Drowned in Sound
Remember when a band used to play and suddenly everything would go soft focus and everything but the players would go dark? Of course not, because even I have only seen that happen in Grease when an angel visits Frenchie in the diner and basically calls her a complete reject (anybody else find that weird?), but I imagine that it used to happen all the time. I imagine there was a certain kind of crooner who could strike one chord on a stage and all the light in the room would go pink, and all the members of the band would be backlit like models in a 1950’s knitwear catalogue. I guess that’s what they call star quality. I’ve never seen it before, but they sure talked about it a lot in Fame Acadamy, and so when I saw this band the Wave Pictures in Birmingham last week, and suddenly the light in the room felt like it was coming out of a super 8 camera, I was able to figure out why it was.
I’ve now seen them play four times. Each time there was a song that I didn’t recognize, or something they’d written new that day, no mean feat when you appear to be playing a different show every single night. And then I spoke to them and I realized they have no idea how good they are. Not a clue. And they don’t know who CSS are, and they’ve never heard the Maccabees, and they live off a diet of Chuck Berry and Jonathan Richman, but occasionally sing the filthiest lyrics you’ve ever heard. Like first there’s a surfs-up guitar solo, and then there’s the line ‘And then you got cystitis, didn’t you?’
I don’t know, maybe I’m like an idiot girl in a poodle skirt swooning over a matinee idol, but I’ve never fallen in love with a band like this before. It’s like discovering the Mountain Goats at their first show, or getting hold of the first Belle and Sebastian tape and getting to tell the weirdo who sold it to you that you like his band. You know the people who get interviewed because they were the first Neutral Milk Hotel fans? Well I get the feeling this article has written me into at least a book or two about the Wave Pictures. But that’s a few years down the line yet. At the meantime they’re on tour with Darren Hayman and about to release a single on Moshi Moshi. A four week residency at the George Tavern starts on Tuesday 13th November and continues on the 20th, 4th & 11th. They also seem to be playing everywhere else, all the time, for the rest of their lives.
Here’s the transcript of the interview I did. The singer David did most of the talking, cause the other two got really shy. We had to force them even to nod their heads- how dreamy is that?
[Transcript at http://drownedinsound.com/articles/2599842]
Remember when a band used to play and suddenly everything would go soft focus and everything but the players would go dark? Of course not, because even I have only seen that happen in Grease when an angel visits Frenchie in the diner and basically calls her a complete reject (anybody else find that weird?), but I imagine that it used to happen all the time. I imagine there was a certain kind of crooner who could strike one chord on a stage and all the light in the room would go pink, and all the members of the band would be backlit like models in a 1950’s knitwear catalogue. I guess that’s what they call star quality. I’ve never seen it before, but they sure talked about it a lot in Fame Acadamy, and so when I saw this band the Wave Pictures in Birmingham last week, and suddenly the light in the room felt like it was coming out of a super 8 camera, I was able to figure out why it was.
I’ve now seen them play four times. Each time there was a song that I didn’t recognize, or something they’d written new that day, no mean feat when you appear to be playing a different show every single night. And then I spoke to them and I realized they have no idea how good they are. Not a clue. And they don’t know who CSS are, and they’ve never heard the Maccabees, and they live off a diet of Chuck Berry and Jonathan Richman, but occasionally sing the filthiest lyrics you’ve ever heard. Like first there’s a surfs-up guitar solo, and then there’s the line ‘And then you got cystitis, didn’t you?’
I don’t know, maybe I’m like an idiot girl in a poodle skirt swooning over a matinee idol, but I’ve never fallen in love with a band like this before. It’s like discovering the Mountain Goats at their first show, or getting hold of the first Belle and Sebastian tape and getting to tell the weirdo who sold it to you that you like his band. You know the people who get interviewed because they were the first Neutral Milk Hotel fans? Well I get the feeling this article has written me into at least a book or two about the Wave Pictures. But that’s a few years down the line yet. At the meantime they’re on tour with Darren Hayman and about to release a single on Moshi Moshi. A four week residency at the George Tavern starts on Tuesday 13th November and continues on the 20th, 4th & 11th. They also seem to be playing everywhere else, all the time, for the rest of their lives.
Here’s the transcript of the interview I did. The singer David did most of the talking, cause the other two got really shy. We had to force them even to nod their heads- how dreamy is that?
[Transcript at http://drownedinsound.com/articles/2599842]
Monday, 12 November 2007
Young Husband
biography for Young Husband, single out November 26th, 2007
One look at the earnest, wide-eyed Young Husband, aka Watford-born twenteen year old Euan Hinshelwood, and you’d be forgiven in thinking him a kid navigating his first tread onto the stage. One deft strike of a chord, however, and a note from his strong, measured voice, and you will realize – ah, he’s done this before.
In fact, Young Husband has been forging his musical path for more than half a decade, playing the pub circuit before he was even allowed at the bar. At the age of 18, in scuzz-pop band the New Shapes, he had his first taste of the rock and roll dream when they were signed to a label and picked up for a Bacardi advert. Touring the country and playing sessions for nationwide radio, he started to hone his skills as a performer, but it wasn’t till it all fell apart that he found his true voice.
“I’ve always written songs, and people have always asked me to do gigs, to the point when it was getting in the way of other stuff,” he explains, “so I just got rid of the other stuff.”
Essentially an introvert who has struggled in the past with ‘thinking too much’, Euan’s initial output was pure, acoustic based self-observation, beautiful, romantic songs about being a boy with a conscience, trying his best to understand the world around him. Lyrics like I’m just a novice, remember that, cause you make me confused, and we overreact knock you dead with their simplicity, delivered with a solemn, puppy dog glance that makes you want to wrap him in a blanket and put him to sleep. As he became more engrossed in the recording process, however, different influences began to creep in.
“I used to be really into Elliot Smith,” he admits, “and almost got sucked into that singer-songwriter vein of sounding quite like him, but things have shifted now.” Talking about the need to have a band, he adds, “I listen to more noisy music these days, bands like My Bloody Valentine, Stephen Malkmus, so it would be great to get a band to demonstrate that.”
If the first thing that sets him apart from other singer-songwriters is his personality, the second thing will be his commitment to recording things his own way. Like Smith, he records onto an 8 track reel to reel (“though mine is a little better,” he confides), lovingly set up in the corner of his bedroom. “I don’t even have a proper bed anymore,” says Master Hinshelwood, “I’ve got a fold up that comes out at night, and the rest of the room is a little desk, some nice old mics. I sit there, press record, play the song, then put stuff over.” Clearly reveling in the process even as he describes it, he continues, “I usually get to record a song straight after I write it, then I just experiment with scuzzy guitars and weird drum beats.”
Certainly, there’s the air of the studio bear about Euan. He may look fresh faced now, but in his already full beard and grungy long locks, you can see his future self holed up in some analog paradise, taking tea and bread in from a hole in the door. At the mention of this he laughs, “some of my friends tell me I remind them of Robert Wyatt. I think that’s really cool, but maybe I’m not there just yet!” He also cites experimental outsiders British Sea Power as a inspiration, so not much hope for a life spent in daylight…
Before the inevitable lifetime of hibernation, comes Young Husband’s very first release – a digital single called Could They be Jealous of Us. Recorded over a year ago, it’s a song he’s proud of, but eager to move forward from.
“I’m ready for the next thing,” he declares, “I’m happy to play the song and promote it, but I’m also ready to move on.” On the subject of what moving on is, he proudly replies, “I’m gonna carry on recording in my bedroom and get an album together. I can’t be bothered to think about labels and stuff, cause I just want to keep being creative.” It’s a refreshingly non-careerist attitude and also sensible for someone who so values self-sufficiency and the evolution of ideas. So there you have it, Young Husband, a bright young talent miles away from the fleeting teen-pop revolution, happy to play the long game and perfect his craft.
“It’s exciting to be my age and already on my way,” he says, “but there are younger people doing it too.” Pragmatic and modest to the end, he finishes, “all I really do it float around with a cold.”
One look at the earnest, wide-eyed Young Husband, aka Watford-born twenteen year old Euan Hinshelwood, and you’d be forgiven in thinking him a kid navigating his first tread onto the stage. One deft strike of a chord, however, and a note from his strong, measured voice, and you will realize – ah, he’s done this before.
In fact, Young Husband has been forging his musical path for more than half a decade, playing the pub circuit before he was even allowed at the bar. At the age of 18, in scuzz-pop band the New Shapes, he had his first taste of the rock and roll dream when they were signed to a label and picked up for a Bacardi advert. Touring the country and playing sessions for nationwide radio, he started to hone his skills as a performer, but it wasn’t till it all fell apart that he found his true voice.
“I’ve always written songs, and people have always asked me to do gigs, to the point when it was getting in the way of other stuff,” he explains, “so I just got rid of the other stuff.”
Essentially an introvert who has struggled in the past with ‘thinking too much’, Euan’s initial output was pure, acoustic based self-observation, beautiful, romantic songs about being a boy with a conscience, trying his best to understand the world around him. Lyrics like I’m just a novice, remember that, cause you make me confused, and we overreact knock you dead with their simplicity, delivered with a solemn, puppy dog glance that makes you want to wrap him in a blanket and put him to sleep. As he became more engrossed in the recording process, however, different influences began to creep in.
“I used to be really into Elliot Smith,” he admits, “and almost got sucked into that singer-songwriter vein of sounding quite like him, but things have shifted now.” Talking about the need to have a band, he adds, “I listen to more noisy music these days, bands like My Bloody Valentine, Stephen Malkmus, so it would be great to get a band to demonstrate that.”
If the first thing that sets him apart from other singer-songwriters is his personality, the second thing will be his commitment to recording things his own way. Like Smith, he records onto an 8 track reel to reel (“though mine is a little better,” he confides), lovingly set up in the corner of his bedroom. “I don’t even have a proper bed anymore,” says Master Hinshelwood, “I’ve got a fold up that comes out at night, and the rest of the room is a little desk, some nice old mics. I sit there, press record, play the song, then put stuff over.” Clearly reveling in the process even as he describes it, he continues, “I usually get to record a song straight after I write it, then I just experiment with scuzzy guitars and weird drum beats.”
Certainly, there’s the air of the studio bear about Euan. He may look fresh faced now, but in his already full beard and grungy long locks, you can see his future self holed up in some analog paradise, taking tea and bread in from a hole in the door. At the mention of this he laughs, “some of my friends tell me I remind them of Robert Wyatt. I think that’s really cool, but maybe I’m not there just yet!” He also cites experimental outsiders British Sea Power as a inspiration, so not much hope for a life spent in daylight…
Before the inevitable lifetime of hibernation, comes Young Husband’s very first release – a digital single called Could They be Jealous of Us. Recorded over a year ago, it’s a song he’s proud of, but eager to move forward from.
“I’m ready for the next thing,” he declares, “I’m happy to play the song and promote it, but I’m also ready to move on.” On the subject of what moving on is, he proudly replies, “I’m gonna carry on recording in my bedroom and get an album together. I can’t be bothered to think about labels and stuff, cause I just want to keep being creative.” It’s a refreshingly non-careerist attitude and also sensible for someone who so values self-sufficiency and the evolution of ideas. So there you have it, Young Husband, a bright young talent miles away from the fleeting teen-pop revolution, happy to play the long game and perfect his craft.
“It’s exciting to be my age and already on my way,” he says, “but there are younger people doing it too.” Pragmatic and modest to the end, he finishes, “all I really do it float around with a cold.”
Friday, 19 October 2007
5 Tips for Greatness
Written for Clash Magazine, September 07
Five Tips for Achieving Greatness:
1. Having a surname makes you look common. Call yourself 'the something' (eg John the Baptist) or 'of something' (eg John of
Norwich)
2. Make use of quotations. use the classics - Pope, Shakespeare, Anchorman, Mallrats.
3. Have a sidekick. Make sure you're not actually their sidekick. This is heavily dependent on what you chose to put at the end
of your name. For example john of norwich is almost certainly somebody else's sidekick.
4. Be prepared for enemies. if you go around quoting Anchorman all day long you are going to make some enemies.
5. If all the above fail, die young.
Five Tips for Achieving Greatness:
1. Having a surname makes you look common. Call yourself 'the something' (eg John the Baptist) or 'of something' (eg John of
Norwich)
2. Make use of quotations. use the classics - Pope, Shakespeare, Anchorman, Mallrats.
3. Have a sidekick. Make sure you're not actually their sidekick. This is heavily dependent on what you chose to put at the end
of your name. For example john of norwich is almost certainly somebody else's sidekick.
4. Be prepared for enemies. if you go around quoting Anchorman all day long you are going to make some enemies.
5. If all the above fail, die young.
Thursday, 18 October 2007
My Camden
This was supposed to be for Time Out but I wrote it wrong and they sent it back.
I moved to Camden in 2002 mainly because of Pump up the Volume at the Underworld. It probably doesn’t exist anymore but I’m too lazy to move again. The Stables Market stopped making sense to me about three years ago when it turned into a cross between Blade Runner and the Super Mario movie, but I’m still rather fond of it, and pisses me off that they’re knocking it down and making it fancy. Apparently there’s going to be a Topshop there, which is cool because it does take a whole fifteen minutes on the bus to get to the WORLD’S BIGGEST TOPSHOP (fact).
This kind of stealthy developing has been happening all over Camden recently. The other week the five pound noodle shop closed down. I can’t even begin to express the void this has left in my life. I can’t imagine paying more than five pounds for a bowl of noodles and I don’t want to. Thankfully my favourite local haunt is part of a global conglomerate and in no danger of closing down soon. Most days I sit outside Fresh and Wild eating apple crisps and wait for Graham Coxon to walk by. He probably looks at me and thinks – that girl has too much spare time. In which case I would have to say – right back at you Graham.
In really good weather I’ll walk further up Parkway to the zoo. If you walk around it you can see the zebras, giraffes, emus and some barnyard animals. I’d like to find the wolf cages from the end of Withnail and I, where Richard E. Grant performs the speech from Hamlet. There’s a book store down by the lock where you can probably pick up a copy for about 50p, but hey, I’ve always thought it would look better as a changing room.
I moved to Camden in 2002 mainly because of Pump up the Volume at the Underworld. It probably doesn’t exist anymore but I’m too lazy to move again. The Stables Market stopped making sense to me about three years ago when it turned into a cross between Blade Runner and the Super Mario movie, but I’m still rather fond of it, and pisses me off that they’re knocking it down and making it fancy. Apparently there’s going to be a Topshop there, which is cool because it does take a whole fifteen minutes on the bus to get to the WORLD’S BIGGEST TOPSHOP (fact).
This kind of stealthy developing has been happening all over Camden recently. The other week the five pound noodle shop closed down. I can’t even begin to express the void this has left in my life. I can’t imagine paying more than five pounds for a bowl of noodles and I don’t want to. Thankfully my favourite local haunt is part of a global conglomerate and in no danger of closing down soon. Most days I sit outside Fresh and Wild eating apple crisps and wait for Graham Coxon to walk by. He probably looks at me and thinks – that girl has too much spare time. In which case I would have to say – right back at you Graham.
In really good weather I’ll walk further up Parkway to the zoo. If you walk around it you can see the zebras, giraffes, emus and some barnyard animals. I’d like to find the wolf cages from the end of Withnail and I, where Richard E. Grant performs the speech from Hamlet. There’s a book store down by the lock where you can probably pick up a copy for about 50p, but hey, I’ve always thought it would look better as a changing room.
Diane Cluck & Barry Bliss
I interviewed my favourite singer in the whole world, Diane Cluck, and her touring partner Barry Bliss for the Stool Pigeon this summer. The word count I got for the article was too small to contain everything I wanted to say, but here is the transcript of an amazing evening with two amazing people.
Green Man Festival campfire, 14th August
D: I never know how sensitive those things are (points to Dictaphone)
E: Not sensitive. How you feeling today?
D: Spicy (laughs)
E: So you grew up in Pennsylvania?
D: Moved to New York when 18.
E: That would be where the song Penn state vs. Louisiana Tech [from the mini album Diane Cluck]came from?
D: My dad hasn’t missed a home game in about 35 years. The year I wrote that song they had a really bad season.
E: And Barry grew up there as well?
B: I grew up in Virginia. Is Pennsylvania under New York? We met in 99/ 2000.
E: Do you make much music anymore?
B: I guess you would say I still do it, I don’t know what I’ll do when I get back. I’ve done 5 albums I believe, in new York.
E: Have you ever made albums together?
B: Not together but in the same room. While each other was out. Oh Vanille was made in the blue room, a couple of mine were made in the blue room.
D: We had opposite work schedules, which is important. We had a day off together, then I’d have a couple days on while he was off.
B: I forgot about that. (chuckles)
D: I was working in a restaurant, you were taxi driving. You had Wednesdays off I’d work Tuesday Wednesday Sunday and you’d work the other days. That way we’d have time to practice when the other wasn’t there.
E: Talks some shit about her own relationship.
D: Yeah, it worked really well for a while.
E: What are you doing in Georgia now?
D: Setting up my house so I can do all kinds of stuff I like, I’ve been mostly gardening. And I got a drum kit so I’ve been learning to play drums. The house doesn’t really have neighbours round it so I can make noise.
E: Is it yours?
D: No I’m renting.
E: What’s the community you were talking about, composting together and eating vegetables?
D: It’s not so much a community, but there’s individuals that I‘ve been interacting with. I feel like I’ve started interacting with people on a macro level, not micro, like even though I’m doing a lot of things by myself, I feel a lot more connected to people in general. But most of my individual relationships are all about that stuff, like connecting people, and composting and eating, is all about connecting people making the most of the relationships. And I do feel that actually I’ll probably want to eventually – I mean – I feel more of a pull of not having all my own stuff, it seems really boring to have ‘my house’, ‘my kitchen’, ‘my fridge’, ‘my dishes’. But I don’t feel yet ready to live communally, but I feel like that’s probably something that might interest me eventually, cause I think that’s it’s a better way to live.
E: Some bullshit about bullshit (my phone goes off) Why did you move to Georgia?
D: Cause NY was so expensive for me, to have a place to make noise. We had a really ideal setup, we kind of knew but we didn’t know how great it was until the building was sold and we had to leave. We had a carpenter upstairs, so there was good reciprocity with the noise there. He made noise, i made noise, he made noise, and the people downstairs, they just kind of ignored their neighbours anyway, and we had an absent housemate on the one side, and a stairwell on the other. But then after I moved about four times in new York, and spent about as much on rent, if not more, but never found anywhere I could sing. Now I have a whole house, with big land around it for the same price I was renting for a tiny studio apartment in Brooklyn, so it made more sense.
E: Is this the first time you’ve had land to tend?
D: Yeah, it’s actually a lot of work.
E: Do you not feel the pull to go somewhere a bit more spacious as well?
B: Yeah I used to do a lot of hopping around, I’ve lived out of garbage cans I've done stuff like that. It’s only just the last couple of years that I’ve hit my stride and been able to do work without thinking about it, find a place that’s mine, and a lot of free time, and so I guess unless the pulls strong enough I’m scared to shake all that up. I have a small room, I meditate quite a bit. I don’t hang out with anybody ever. So I have lots of time, if I want to suddenly sit up and meditate for an hour I can do that. I have nobody to answer to. I sing into a box. I hang a box on to the back of a door and put up foam. I play my guitar and sing with my face right into the box, so I am able to do that and so yeah right now ok, I think about it a lot, and we’ve talked about should we share a house, which we decided was not a good idea as of now. But still I’ve thought about moving to Georgia anyway. Um but I can’t say that’s where I’m going right now. After this I believe I’ll go home, and Wholefoods [Barry's employers] will have their busy delivery season, and I’ll probably do that for the next six months, then maybe move.
E: What are you doing creatively at the moment?
D: A lot of it is the art stuff, and people, relationship stuff, like learning to communicate openly with people, and regardless of consequences having really honest relationships with them. And I have been working on music. I just don’t feel the urge to be productive. Like when I first started, I must have had this left over work ethic from somewhere and I felt like every year I had to make an album and I did. For six years I did that. And then I felt the cycle was getting longer. Like even the last couple it kind of felt like it should have been a little longer but I pushed it, I was like ‘I have to do one this year’. And then all off a sudden I was like I don’t care. If it takes me five years to do something and I feel like it’s important to share, I’ll do it, and if I never do it I’ll never do it, and if I want to do it tonight and share it tomorrow I’ll do that. But I’ve been working on songs, I’ve always felt like music is an expression of a life well lived and I just like living in a way that I feel good about. There’s always a lot of food in my life, I like to cook a lot, so I spend like three hours a day in the kitchen, I make so many things from scratch, I just resign myself to the fact that that’s how I am. Like sometimes I think, oh man I spend so much time doing this, like I make all this stuff, maybe I should taper it down and then I was like, no I really like doing this. And that’s what people have been through for thousands of years. It’s like normal. They used to spend a whole day just heating up water. Not that it takes up my whole day, but it takes a lot of my time.
E: blah blah food is great [I agreed with everything she said, it was quite embarrassing but I couldn't stop myself]
D: Food is a really bug part of my life. I tend to make things and then even though I live alone I’ll always share it with someone, I’ll either bring it to work, or take it to the co-operative shop or to the friend around the corner or invite a friend over for dinner, there’s always a lot of food stuff going on.
E (to b): You don’t have a pull to make albums every year either?
B: I don’t you say?
E: nods
B: The only thing I have a pull to do, is to realise my full potential as a human being. As it so happens I’m drawn to make music, but music per say, I’m not interested in. you know, I’m only interested in being a successful human being, in being a servant of the lord, I guess you would say.
E: But you don’t mean that religiously?
B: No I’m not religious, I hate religion. I just use the word lord sometimes.
E: In the same sense as ‘nothing but god’ in Diane’s lyrics?
B: She has her own way of doing it, but I resonate with the vibe, or whatever, of the things that she sings about, even though she words things differently than I do sometimes.
D: I’m not religious either. Well I think it’s all the same words for deepest intuition. I don’t think that people are bad, I think our strongest voices are the thing we should listen to, and that’s what god is.
E: Shall we walk towards Robert plant?
for a review of Robert Plant (gag) scroll down.
Green Man Festival campfire, 14th August
D: I never know how sensitive those things are (points to Dictaphone)
E: Not sensitive. How you feeling today?
D: Spicy (laughs)
E: So you grew up in Pennsylvania?
D: Moved to New York when 18.
E: That would be where the song Penn state vs. Louisiana Tech [from the mini album Diane Cluck]came from?
D: My dad hasn’t missed a home game in about 35 years. The year I wrote that song they had a really bad season.
E: And Barry grew up there as well?
B: I grew up in Virginia. Is Pennsylvania under New York? We met in 99/ 2000.
E: Do you make much music anymore?
B: I guess you would say I still do it, I don’t know what I’ll do when I get back. I’ve done 5 albums I believe, in new York.
E: Have you ever made albums together?
B: Not together but in the same room. While each other was out. Oh Vanille was made in the blue room, a couple of mine were made in the blue room.
D: We had opposite work schedules, which is important. We had a day off together, then I’d have a couple days on while he was off.
B: I forgot about that. (chuckles)
D: I was working in a restaurant, you were taxi driving. You had Wednesdays off I’d work Tuesday Wednesday Sunday and you’d work the other days. That way we’d have time to practice when the other wasn’t there.
E: Talks some shit about her own relationship.
D: Yeah, it worked really well for a while.
E: What are you doing in Georgia now?
D: Setting up my house so I can do all kinds of stuff I like, I’ve been mostly gardening. And I got a drum kit so I’ve been learning to play drums. The house doesn’t really have neighbours round it so I can make noise.
E: Is it yours?
D: No I’m renting.
E: What’s the community you were talking about, composting together and eating vegetables?
D: It’s not so much a community, but there’s individuals that I‘ve been interacting with. I feel like I’ve started interacting with people on a macro level, not micro, like even though I’m doing a lot of things by myself, I feel a lot more connected to people in general. But most of my individual relationships are all about that stuff, like connecting people, and composting and eating, is all about connecting people making the most of the relationships. And I do feel that actually I’ll probably want to eventually – I mean – I feel more of a pull of not having all my own stuff, it seems really boring to have ‘my house’, ‘my kitchen’, ‘my fridge’, ‘my dishes’. But I don’t feel yet ready to live communally, but I feel like that’s probably something that might interest me eventually, cause I think that’s it’s a better way to live.
E: Some bullshit about bullshit (my phone goes off) Why did you move to Georgia?
D: Cause NY was so expensive for me, to have a place to make noise. We had a really ideal setup, we kind of knew but we didn’t know how great it was until the building was sold and we had to leave. We had a carpenter upstairs, so there was good reciprocity with the noise there. He made noise, i made noise, he made noise, and the people downstairs, they just kind of ignored their neighbours anyway, and we had an absent housemate on the one side, and a stairwell on the other. But then after I moved about four times in new York, and spent about as much on rent, if not more, but never found anywhere I could sing. Now I have a whole house, with big land around it for the same price I was renting for a tiny studio apartment in Brooklyn, so it made more sense.
E: Is this the first time you’ve had land to tend?
D: Yeah, it’s actually a lot of work.
E: Do you not feel the pull to go somewhere a bit more spacious as well?
B: Yeah I used to do a lot of hopping around, I’ve lived out of garbage cans I've done stuff like that. It’s only just the last couple of years that I’ve hit my stride and been able to do work without thinking about it, find a place that’s mine, and a lot of free time, and so I guess unless the pulls strong enough I’m scared to shake all that up. I have a small room, I meditate quite a bit. I don’t hang out with anybody ever. So I have lots of time, if I want to suddenly sit up and meditate for an hour I can do that. I have nobody to answer to. I sing into a box. I hang a box on to the back of a door and put up foam. I play my guitar and sing with my face right into the box, so I am able to do that and so yeah right now ok, I think about it a lot, and we’ve talked about should we share a house, which we decided was not a good idea as of now. But still I’ve thought about moving to Georgia anyway. Um but I can’t say that’s where I’m going right now. After this I believe I’ll go home, and Wholefoods [Barry's employers] will have their busy delivery season, and I’ll probably do that for the next six months, then maybe move.
E: What are you doing creatively at the moment?
D: A lot of it is the art stuff, and people, relationship stuff, like learning to communicate openly with people, and regardless of consequences having really honest relationships with them. And I have been working on music. I just don’t feel the urge to be productive. Like when I first started, I must have had this left over work ethic from somewhere and I felt like every year I had to make an album and I did. For six years I did that. And then I felt the cycle was getting longer. Like even the last couple it kind of felt like it should have been a little longer but I pushed it, I was like ‘I have to do one this year’. And then all off a sudden I was like I don’t care. If it takes me five years to do something and I feel like it’s important to share, I’ll do it, and if I never do it I’ll never do it, and if I want to do it tonight and share it tomorrow I’ll do that. But I’ve been working on songs, I’ve always felt like music is an expression of a life well lived and I just like living in a way that I feel good about. There’s always a lot of food in my life, I like to cook a lot, so I spend like three hours a day in the kitchen, I make so many things from scratch, I just resign myself to the fact that that’s how I am. Like sometimes I think, oh man I spend so much time doing this, like I make all this stuff, maybe I should taper it down and then I was like, no I really like doing this. And that’s what people have been through for thousands of years. It’s like normal. They used to spend a whole day just heating up water. Not that it takes up my whole day, but it takes a lot of my time.
E: blah blah food is great [I agreed with everything she said, it was quite embarrassing but I couldn't stop myself]
D: Food is a really bug part of my life. I tend to make things and then even though I live alone I’ll always share it with someone, I’ll either bring it to work, or take it to the co-operative shop or to the friend around the corner or invite a friend over for dinner, there’s always a lot of food stuff going on.
E (to b): You don’t have a pull to make albums every year either?
B: I don’t you say?
E: nods
B: The only thing I have a pull to do, is to realise my full potential as a human being. As it so happens I’m drawn to make music, but music per say, I’m not interested in. you know, I’m only interested in being a successful human being, in being a servant of the lord, I guess you would say.
E: But you don’t mean that religiously?
B: No I’m not religious, I hate religion. I just use the word lord sometimes.
E: In the same sense as ‘nothing but god’ in Diane’s lyrics?
B: She has her own way of doing it, but I resonate with the vibe, or whatever, of the things that she sings about, even though she words things differently than I do sometimes.
D: I’m not religious either. Well I think it’s all the same words for deepest intuition. I don’t think that people are bad, I think our strongest voices are the thing we should listen to, and that’s what god is.
E: Shall we walk towards Robert plant?
for a review of Robert Plant (gag) scroll down.
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