Category Archives: INTERVIEWS

Exclusive Excerpt: Ben Lee Interviewed By Actress Rose Byrne

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Here’s an exclusive excerpt of the current MAGNET cover story. To read the whole thing, order a copy of the issue here.

On the new Love Is The Great Rebellion, Ben Lee continues his spiritual journey toward enlightenment and happiness. MAGNET asked Emmy/Golden Globe-nominated actress (and fellow Australia native) Rose Byrne to sit down with Lee in his L.A. home to discuss love and death. And why everything is OK.

Ben Lee and I met when I was 19, standing on Broadway in New York City. It was summer. I had been hearing about him, his name, his music, his friends and his world for some time, and when we finally met, it was an immediate mutual and lovely recognition—of respect and friendship. We went on to act in a film together, to start a pop-up cover band, to share a New York Christmas together and an enduring friendship.

Ben Lee is a music prodigy. He spent his early teen years heading up Noise Addict, being discovered by Thurston Moore and the Beastie Boys, then being thrust into the spotlight with a celebrity relationship and a hit record. I feel protective of him. He has been provocative—with his music and his words—and as a result, he seems to be a divisive figure for people. They want to rip him apart, then put him back together when it suits.

From the raw and rough-hewn DEF and Grandpaw Would, to his embrace of pop on Breathing Tornados, to the wild success of Awake Is The New Sleep, to experimental album Ayahuasca: Welcome To The Work, Ben is always seeking new frontiers. Of music, of love, of what it means to be alive. He is always striving.

We got to sit down in Laurel Canyon and talk about his new beautiful album, Love Is The Great Rebellion. We talked about philosophy, pop culture, a career and faith. About the idea of how having a great future does not require a great past. About rectification and reconciliation. This album is a love letter to his fans, to his music and to life. It is asking us back in and marrying his pop with his spirituality. We are in for a treat, ladies and gentlemen. —Rose Byrne

Rose Byrne: I was wondering when was the genesis of this whole thing?
Ben Lee: The Ayahuasca album, the last album, came out … I can’t remember [April 2013 —ed]. But it sort of was intended as a continuation of that. This record, when I went into it, it was going to be an even more abstract, dense, non-linear album. All of the thinking around the Ayahuasca record and the way music can reflect a shifting sense of consciousness—it got me interested in this music connection to death and dying. So, I started studying dead midwifery and hospice volunteered and all, and I started looking at how music interacts with that process. I was going down the road so that this record would really be a soundtrack to dying—I was going to call it Music To Die To. [Laughs] I thought, “That’s gonna be commercial—if you thought Ayahuasca was a flop, just wait.”
But I kind of realized at a certain point after a few songs came, the few songs I wrote with Jesse (Chapnik Kahn) at the beginning—“Body Of Love” and “Forgiveness,” those two basically—they came really spontaneously. And I was like, “They sound like radio songs, like singles.” It was really unexpected; there was no intention to write songs like that. It sort of opened up this idea that perhaps in my attempt to move into this abstract territory, I was kind of shooting myself in the foot. I’ve kind of realized more recently, when I looked back over my career, that I’ve had this impulse to move against my audience. I’ve sort of thought of them as the enemy, and I’ve always wondered why. And you know me—you know I’ve been through a lot of things. This feeling of “well, I’ll show them—they think I’m like this.” It was this sort of bratty impulse, and I think a lot of young artists go through that. I kind of realized more recently that I was really barking up the wrong tree in terms of where to put my rebellious energy. The people that understand my music, they’re on my side. And to put this energy into working against them and surprising them and working against their expectations, it’s really taking away from what I can do in the world in a larger system.
So, these early pop songs that came on the record, they made me think about re-exploring the idea I had some years ago of using the pop song form—talking about radical ideas and talking about dangerous ideas psychologically, but within a medium that kids like. And I always liked music that you don’t need to know before you go to the concert, and so much of modern music, it’s almost like you need an education in a band before you can appreciate them live. So, if you go with a friend that’s really into them, they’re just in ecstasy, and you’re like, “Ehhh” … After a few songs, you get bored. It’s not designed to engage you in that way, and I’ve always liked the idea that music should be like a pre-school teacher. Just going, “Come on, guys!” So, anyway, I got more and more down that road of, let me explore putting these ideas in a format that would be more accessible.

Byrne: Yeah, right. Wow, so you’re sort of leaning in a bit more.
Lee: Right, and I’m even embarrassed to say it—that’s the most radical thing about this record. It’s the first record, while I was making it, I did consider—and not in a compromising way—“What would a Ben Lee fan like on an album?” And I’ve never asked that. I think most artists probably ask that all the time, and then they make decisions. I am now 23 years into my career, and I never considered that. In a way it was, I hope, a beginning of a stage of generosity with my audience. I mean, I think you’ve gone through this, too, realizing that great achievement occurs because you embrace what’s actually here right now.

Byrne: Oh, absolutely.
Lee: You can have ideals all the way home, but you can’t build anything on ideals. You have to build it on the opportunities available. What can I do with them? And if people think of you as one type of artist, you don’t just throw that away. You say, “Let me start there and see what I can do with that,” and that’s the rule of alchemy. What have you got? What can you build? So, I’m just starting to think like that. And I look at a lot of my peers who have built, in a sense, a career that is much more stable than mine.

Byrne: Who do you consider your peers?
Lee: I’m not sure. Like Bright Eyes or Ben Folds—you know, singer/songwriters who have had long careers, but sort of worked in a medium where there’s a lot of reliability with their audience. And there’s been a dialogue. They haven’t constantly been going, “By the way, you can’t trust me,” to their audience, which is what I’ve been doing. Not that I necessarily want to go to another extreme, but I’m realizing that there’s been an absence of generosity on my part, or perhaps a fear of intimacy, with my audience. Instead of going, “Hey, these are my people—let me speak in them in a language we developed together and continue to bring in new ideas, but with a way that builds on trust and doesn’t dismantle it every time.”

Byrne: No, it felt like that with the songs, like a return to form. I suppose more of a classic pop and rock, but it did feel like it was with a different voice. Like it was trying to marry the two, almost. You reaching a different point personally in your life—I loved all the stuff about the past, and reconciling with it and kind of acknowledging it. I definitely feel like, as an artist, you can just look back at your past and just go, “Why did I do this, why did I do that?” All of these repetitive mistakes and you’ve just gotta reach a point where you love yourself for it, you know?
Lee: Yeah, and you’ve also gotta, like, truly move on. If you’re still punishing yourself over mistakes you made 10 or 20 years ago, how much energy do you have for the present moment? That’s kind of what I realized—undeniably, there were errors, personally and professionally. There were types of ignorance that I displayed in my relationships and in my professional life. They’re undeniable, they involved selfishness, and they were sometimes mean-spirited. It’s always like part of you in the future wants to find a way to defend it and reconcile it and go, “Well, that was where I was at the time.” We have this funny culture, too, of, “Well, I learned from that mistake, so I’m glad I made it.” Whereas I don’t really believe you learn from the mistake; I believe you learn from coming back to the truth after the mistake. You know, the mistake didn’t teach you; the mistake was an act of stupidity. But, we each have an inner voice, a conscience inside us that ignites whenever we’re making a mistake, and that’s what we’re grateful for. It’s dangerous to have too much gratitude for our mistakes. I think they were mistakes, I’d rather not have done them, but here we are now.
You know, someone said, “To have a great future doesn’t require a great past.” And I realized the courage that it takes, and that’s a lot of what the album is about. What does it mean to say—I’ll be 37 this year—to say I would have done things very differently had I the chance to do them again? Do I now just fall into a sort of bitterness and resentment, or do I go, “Well, let’s start today”? What are the values I wish I had then? Let me implement them now. I’m not gonna be anybody’s victim, I’m not gonna just spend my life apologizing; I’m just gonna change.

Byrne: Yeah, I loved also—which I could relate to—the ebb and flow of a career when you sort of work steadily and have incredible lives, and I definitely relate to that. Constantly being the next big thing or the comeback or the big break, and I guess every artist’s journey is so different. Some people obviously hit really hard, and then other people never do. So, I very much related to that idea of the ebb and flow.
Lee: If you spend your life considering, “Well, where am I in the scheme of things,” you realize you have no relationship to your craft yourself. It’s all based on validation and considering, “Well, what do they think of me, or what do they think of me?” It’s all based on considering others. Instead of realizing, “Oh, this is a craft.” To some degree, we are here to get better at something. It’s really nice if you’re given the fortune of it going well for you and having an income, but there’s responsibilities that come with that, too; you know suddenly you’re managing a business. It’s one of those things where I have to become a grown-up and say, “OK, we’re artists, we’re in it for the long haul. This isn’t just about that glamorous bit that started.” Do you remember when we went to see the Vines at the Troubadour?

Byrne: Yeah.
Lee: And I was on one of those down bits where I couldn’t get a record made, I couldn’t find a label to put it out. Me and you were standing there, and there’s like such a sense of excitement around this band we’re watching. And you know, they’re a good band, good rock ‘n’ roll band and everything. But I felt so envious, not of the band or the music, but just of the moment they were at, of that sexy, exciting early 20s—everyone wants to be a part of it, you know? And that has truly been resolved in me in a sense that I actually see that now as one of the most dangerous times for an artist. Because the seduction into a wrong valley system is so intense that, if you make it through that and still want to be an artist, you’re doing great. But at that point I was like, “Ah, if only I could recapture that!” And with one of the songs in the record, “Everything Is OK,” I say, “What a waste/I tried to turn back time instead of chasing my destiny.” Because I realized I spent so much time trying to recapture a moment with the public or with my craft or something instead of moving forward. And the most dangerous thing is to stop moving forward.

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A Conversation With FFS’ Russell Mael And Alex Kapranos

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Ron and Russell Mael formed Sparks in 1970, and since then have crafted iconic albums well-versed in high-pitched power pop, glam rock, art skronk, electronic disco and beyond, with startlingly sardonic lyrics. That’s their thing. What’s not been their thing in a 45-year existence is collaboration outside of the brothers’ very immediate circle. (Todd Rundgren, Giorgio Moroder and Jane Wiedlin aside.) Enter Franz Ferdinand, the hit-making, dancey post-punk ensemble and admitted Sparks fans, whose eponymous first album just happened to thrill the Maels. Along with forming a mutual admiration society, the bands united as one—under the name FFS—for a seamlessly interconnected self-titled album that sounds like both and neither simultaneously. We spoke to Russell and FF frontman Alex Kapranos about the union.

Russell, there’s this great Sparks-fan documentary being made by two documentarians, one in Israel, another in Philly. Have Sparks hooked up with them for your side of the story?
Russell Mael: I’m aware of that thing. We’ve chosen not to be part of it. There are slews of people who want to do documentaries on us.

Look at you.
Russell Mael: I’m not dissing it. We’re happy someone wants to do a film on us. It’s just that we have to pick and choose because of how we might be represented. We don’t really have time to sit over somebody’s shoulder. We could do the film on our own if that’s the case.

Which you are doing with one of two musical movies you’re making soon.
Russell Mael: Yes, neither of which I can talk about until the ink is dry. We like different parameters and conventions—nothing strict or defined that doesn’t allow us to retain 1,000 percent of our personality. Funny thing is, with the musical genre, there are negative connotations surrounding it—the razzmatazz of Broadway, the cringe-worthy stuff of people breaking into song and all those affectations.

Are you saying Sparks doesn’t like razzmatazz?
Russell Mael: Razzmatazz is so 2014.

Alex, let me duck back to that fandom thing. When did you get turned on to the Maels?
Kapranos: I actually didn’t come across Sparks until I was a little bit older. I was too young for their big British hits like Kimono My House or even the Moroder era. However, in my early 20s, I happened onto a secondhand copy of “Amateur Hour”—I would buy anything on the old Island label—and it was totally amazing, a genuinely different approach to songwriting. I realized too that they were still going, a band with great history, still active and still innovating.

What’s interesting, too, is that Sparks loved your first album and “Take Me Out.”
Kapranos: Really? I mean, they never expressed that to us per se. It’s a very male thing to tell other people about how you feel about them, but not the guy himself. Then again, American men are surely more emancipated.

You guys rarely work with people outside the brotherhood. I wouldn’t say you operate in a vacuum, but you do stick to your own lane. This sounds Oprah-ish, but is it hard to let people in? And why Franz?
Russell Mael: It’s not, in a certain way. We just happen to have an unwritten credo of what we stand for—our image, lyrics, melodies—and we have fashioned our own world. In that sense, it’s hard to open yourself to outside influences or input. The vision is strong. You want it to stay pure. (Upon meeting FF), there’s a kinship that’s hard to verbalize. Ron and I knew when we heard and met them that we wanted to see what it would be like working with them, as we got along personally and musically. Out tastes overlap. It wasn’t a stretch.

I know working together has been a long-delayed process from when the idea came about. What broke the ice?
Kapranos: It was supposed to have happened 10 years ago, but things got crazy for us. I’m sure the same happened with Sparks. We barely had time to record our own music, let alone one with someone we respected. When we met up again right before Coachella, we committed to making a time for the album. And as soon as we started sending songs back and forth, it came together quickly—like really quickly considering that’s two bands with their own identity doing something with its own separate identity.

How did the “Piss Off” demo you guys recorded set the tone for what followed?
Russell Mael: I’m not sure it did, although the album definitely has an irreverent spirit. Not every song is about frustration symbolized by something foul. Yet it does resonate.

Is it fair to say you share a sense of humor?
Russell Mael: The laughs were kept to an agreed 12 to 15 per day due to the tight recording schedule.
Kapranos: We do. Remember, too, that the lyrics are occasionally dark. It’s funny, though, when I think of a song such as “Collaborations Don’t Work.” They started the ball rolling, and their first whack at it was really ballsy. We had a good laugh. Then we hit it back hard and worried whether Ron and Russ were going to love it or totally hate it and never speak to us again. Humor prevailed and they loved it.

Ego—do you have to put it aside to be FFS?
Kapranos: Both bands have gargantuan egos. I’m wary of bands who say they don’t have one. For any band to work, you better have loads of it.

You said something previously about upholding your image. What is that? Does FFS suit it?
Russell Mael: I don’t know if it’s always up to us. You see Ron: what he says, wears and plays. He is that guy. I am this guy. The world we’ve made is us. We’re not in a boardroom and haven’t calculated it. There isn’t a Sparks brand or some method. What is methodical is that we work all the time to come up with new material, new ideas and new angles of presenting what it is that we do. FFS is definitely that.

—A.D. Amorosi

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A Conversation With AWOLNATION’s Aaron Bruno

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AWOLNATION (a.k.a. Aaron Bruno) is the coolest music nerd ever. Dressed in a summer-appropriate pink-and-blue collared shirt, baby-blue rimmed sunglasses, tan Keds and sporting a mop of stylishly disheveled blond hair, the Southern California born and bred Bruno speaks of early memories breaking down the chords and bridges of a Madonna song while in elementary school. “I became an obsessed fan of the music I liked,” he says. While he may have flirted momentarily with the idea of becoming a baseball player due to his success as a pitcher in middle school, he never deviated from his desire to pursue career in music, even when one record deal, and then a second, fell through.

Bruno sat down with MAGNET before his set at Firefly Festival to discuss his early years, his creative process and his current success.

How has your Firefly experience been so far?
Well, we just played a short, little, intimate four-song set at the Treehouse Stage. It was really cool, they spent a lot of time building that stage and it had a good vibe for sure. So far, so good.

Awesome. Well, first things first. When did you develop a passion for music?
I don’t know … as far back as my memory goes. It always seemed so untouchable to me, though. It seemed way too far-fetched that I could actually be a part of it. I just loved it and the way it made me feel. Early on, I became an obsessed fan of the music that I liked. I do remember at a pretty young age noticing chord changes and chord progressions and what that meant in terms of an emotion for me. Other things didn’t make me feel quite the same way, like sports. I played sports, surfing and swimming, like most Southern California kids. But I remember when I was younger, asking my mom what a part of a song was—apparently it was a bridge of a Madonna song, and it went to a minor chord progression, and that really impacted me. So I guess at an early age I was already trying to study music and figure it out, figure out why I was feeling certain emotions.

Not a lot of kids think about all the little elements of a song. They just like a song.
I know! My mom still brings that up to this day. It was a fun moment for her. It was a telling sign, I suppose.

Did you play any instruments as a kid?
Yeah, my dad and mom taught me how to play guitar, right around that age. I was never a shredding guitar player or anything like that, but I got good enough to be able to fiddle around in my room.

Have you always had a music career? Did you try anything else?
I wouldn’t call it a career, really, when I was younger, but that is always what I was most focused on, yeah. I had other jobs to make ends meet, of course, but there was never any other option for me. I mean when I was really young I was a great baseball player, believe it or not, so at one point I may have been thinking … I mean I was only 12, so who the fuck knows what you’re going to do at 12. But from age 11 to 14, I was the pitcher, so maybe at that point I was thinking I might pursue that. But that wasn’t going to happen either though because I never grew after that. It’s always been music, I’ve always been chasing it. When I was about to turn 30, my dad had a serious sit-down with me. It was a real moment to decide what the hell I was going to do to figure out how to survive.

At that point, had you had any success with your music?
Well, I’d been in two other signed bands. Which in a way is worse than not being signed, because I had false hope—twice. Two different times I was told by everybody that I was gonna blow up, and then it completely crashed and burned. So that is kind of my story in a nutshell. Then I started AWOLNATION, and it took off.

Did you get signed by Red Bull Records before or after you started AWOLNATION?
After.

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A Conversation With Grateful Dead’s Bill Kreutzmann

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Bill Kreutzmann was part of the culture crunch that was the Grateful Dead for as long as it existed—a drummer whose peaceful, groovy dynamics were as much a part of the band’s jam ethos as its lifestyle. In his memoir, Deal: My Three Decades Of Drumming, Dreams, And Drugs With The Grateful Dead, Kreutzmann talks about the Dead’s music, its vibes, its spooked-out bliss—all that’s Deadhead-y in a warm, conversational tone with weird time signatures not unlike his drumming. Kreutzmann is also busy touring with Billy & The Kids (one of his post-Dead ensembles, in addition to 7 Walkers, SerialPod, BK3 and Rhythm Devils) and readying for not only this month’s tribute event to the late Jerry Garcia in Maryland, but July’s last shows with his Grateful Dead brethren in Chicago.

Having seen you for decades, I’ve always understood that your intuitive talent as a drummer was that you were as interested in exploring the rests as you were punching through the chords and keeping busy. You’re not afraid to not play.
That’s a great compliment to your ears and my playing, as well as getting to know something about me, personally. Playing music should be about knowing the importance of rests. It’s dark and light—you don’t have a contrast until those are in place. A lot of times, I’m leaving holes because of what other people are playing. In the case of the Dead, say with Garcia playing a solo, you might complement, but you really don’t want to play over him. Then again, maybe I’m just relaxing.

Having a nap. That’s a funny thought. So, Aron Magner and Tom Hamilton are in Billy & The Kids. We’re a Philly-based mag, they’re Philly-based players. How do they differ from other ensembles you’ve played with?
These guys will try and do anything. Some of those bands of mine—say, 7 Walkers—have a single groove and stick to it. With Kids, we can go anywhere, especially EDM territory, which Aron increasingly turns me onto. I can be freer. I like EDM a lot. I like anything, as long as you’re not playing soft jazz.

I remember after Jerry passed that you moved to Hawaii to heal, to rejuvenate. How did clearing your head prepare you for Deal?
There was a nice gap between being in Hawaii and starting the book three years ago. I had to take that time after Jerry was gone. I was pretty tired from being on the road all the time. I needed to not be in the Dead. When I met (co-author) Benjy (Eisen), I found a kindred spirit and felt like, with him, I could tell the certain things that I wanted to.

Certain things. Is Deal, like your drumming, as much about what’s left out?
I didn’t spend three years of hard work on something to speak bad of anyone—not that that is what you’re implying, I wanted to make sure there was positivism to it. Plus, I didn’t necessarily have to leave anything out because there’s nothing in my life that I would be embarrassed about. I think I write a very complete picture from when I started to play drums up until, well, this conversation.

I just missed the cut then. No, it’s a fondly remembering book.
Yeah, it’s hardly an exposé. I don’t have the spirit or the memory for that. I wanted to do this time-overlapping thing. That comes from me being a drummer. I have the weirdest timing. Two years go by and they seem like a week. Time doesn’t exist anyway—it’s scientific fact. That’s how I am with stuff. That’s what makes Deal.

Did you know when you wanted this out—timed as it is to the Dead’s 50th anniversary? Did you want another member to go before you, as Phil Lesh did with Searching For The Sound?
No, it’s not as if his book spurred me on. I think three years ago I just had a feeling about doing this, and I was lucky to find a friend to do it with—and not necessarily someone who was an author. I didn’t want someone doing my life in another voice.

Throughout Deal, you sound as if you are closer to Garcia than you are Bob Weir or Lesh, musically and personally.
Wow, if that came across that way, it wasn’t something I intended. That’s interesting, though, really. That’s a cool observation.

Garcia was a more concise player and songwriter; a funny notion given his improvisational largesse.
Yes, definitely. Each had different manners in how they approached songs, but Jerry would come with the most complete version of a song; Bobby came in with skeletons and the hope that the process would fill it in—the whole jam thing. I don’t think I would ever have let on that one was better than the other; each is reflective of the man’s personalities.

No embarrassment. Lots of drugs and death. Were there aspects of Deal easier for you to recall then relay?
Gosh … there were certainly aspects that were hard to write, even if I’m not quite certain as to why that is. I mean, memory is an issue. Tragedy was another, and there was plenty around the Dead. That brought back memories I would rather have not reconnected. Writing about Jerry’s death, of course, was particularly sad.

Sad as you were, Deal sounds as if you found solace, an epiphany.
Most certainly. I fell deeply in love with Amy, the woman who became my wife. I also came to realize—no joking—how amazing the Dead were. ’Cause you forget as you’re in the center of it. She’s a Deadhead. God bless her, she’ll tell you that that straight away. And she would say, “You want proof? Listen to the Spring 1990 tapes.” I did, and she was right. We did some incredible stuff. So, Deal had a double epiphany. I found two loves: her and the Dead’s music.

Like your wife, do you pay much attention to the archival stuff? The Dick’s Picks, the new live volume from 1971 with Pigpen?
I do. I listen, but I can’t quote verbatim like her. My wife works at KKCR in Hawaii when she’s home and does the Dead Hour. She’s got the To The Vault and the Dick’s Picks memorized.

You once said the Grateful Dead without Garcia was like Miles Davis’ band without Miles. That being the case, how did it come to pass that you’re doing the Maryland tribute and the July finale?
They both mean so much to me that I’m practicing non-stop. I mean, I always practice, but now I’m doing double time. I think it’s going to be damn good. Seriously, I think they’re going to relive a place—it’s not the same place as before, but it is going to be a very high place where we’ve never been before, a peak we never achieved. Having Trey (Anastasio) play guitar, I think he’s going to hold his own and then some. It’s going to be wonderful. I can’t wait.

—A.D. Amorosi

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A Conversation With Mark Ronson

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He’ll be forever known as the powerful producer of Amy Winehouse’s best material (to say nothing of behind-the-board stints for Bruno Mars, Paul McCartney, Kaiser Chiefs, Duran Duran, Black Lips and Rufus Wainwright), but Mark Ronson’s solo career has found traction and soul equal to that of his clients. His newest album, Uptown Special, follows the sights and sounds of Manhattan at the end of an era (clubland in the early ’90s) with an arsenal of name contributors (including lyrics by novelist Michael Chabon), but it’s Ronson’s warm, wild, brassy sound and bold, un-obvious melodies that stand out.

I know that you’re not a touring animal. Are you comfortable out in front of the mixing boards and the band?
I think if I do it more than every four years, I can remember how to stand up onstage in front of people. Then again, If you get someone such as Bruno Mars doing the brunt of the work, there’s very little that you need to do, save for standing. It’s a strange thing. When I did the album Version, I was making these cover songs in my bedroom with several great singers. I would have been just as happy putting those songs on those other people’s albums. I don’t necessarily need the limelight. Plus, I don’t know if I can get away with what most of these singers do, you know?

See, now, I know that you have sung a bit on your albums, but can you really sing?
I could fake my way through it onstage if I had to. The whole idea of having to warm up for hours, though? It’s just not worth it for what comes out of my mouth. When you discover so many other great voices out there, as I had to do when searching for singers for this new album, and you find and hear the amazing vocals that I did, you realize how much you don’t have that thing.

You mention limelight. I wanted to ask you a further question about success. A few years ago, I interviewed you with Rufus Wainwright for his Out Of The Game record that you produced for him. He was very specifically interested in making a charting pop record. He laughed while saying it, but he was serious. OK, the album didn’t sell billions. He seemed disappointed, but pragmatic. What is the marker of success for you?
There’s different degrees of success and different things that are important at different times. Like, before “Uptown Funk” came out, I never had anywhere near this level of success under my own name. I don’t know if one of my singles even cracked the top anything. Then again, I don’t know, or don’t remember, if I was ever disappointed. DJing, producing: It’s always opened another door for me, so that’s cool. With Rufus, I remember the situation clearly: He was happy with his music, but concerned about how far it reached. He wanted to make his clearest shot at an accessible record, and that’s what I gave him: a great meat-and-potatoes Rufus Wainwright album without the more ornate touches that some people find challenging. I’m proud of that record.

You should be. It was a lean, mean Rufus record. OK, then, Bruno Mars—pop superstar. Forget about singing. I know he hits the skins here. What sort of a drummer is he? Is he an easy rhythmatist?
Yeah, the more I work with him, the more I find that he’s the most talented arranger, musician, co-producer and writer I’ve even been around in the studio—and that’s saying a lot when I realize just who it is I’ve worked with. And even I forget sometimes. I’ve been in that zone with him for a while, having this amazing run, and it’s definitely electric. He’s at a point where he can’t do any wrong. Everything we’re doing is about making every element better—that bass line, that turnaround. Yeah, so he’s a great drummer, especially considering that a song like “Uptown Funk” has no traditional chorus.

What made you want to work with the guys from Tame Impala on your new album? They’re not the first cats I think of when I think of your stuff.
I hear something—a song, an album—and I become obsessed. Especially if I’ve never met them before. Tame Impala might be my favorite rock band. Around 2012, I became a massive fan of their recordings. I just knew. I heard them in my songs, thought they’d be perfect. They were warm people, and everything they wanted to do surprised me. You get the feeling with them that they are off quietly in their bedrooms like mad geniuses. Working with them is as daunting and joyful to me as having Stevie Wonder playing on the record; like, how does it even make sense that this guy is my favorite musician, probably someone who has influenced my music more than anybody else, literally playing this melody that I wrote? The whole thing was amazing, beautiful and gorgeous. All of it. Tame Impala, Stevie Wonder. It’s enough to make my brain snap.

As far as teenage ennui goes, so much of this album has the feel of late-night early-’90s Manhattan. I know why that moment stands out in my mind. What about you?
I just started going out then, doing some early DJ gigs. I think that was the end of NYC’s golden club era. Before bottle service, before cell phones, before you were able to buy VIP tables, you just found a spot on the dance floor and you stayed there all night. You never even played your first hip-hop record until after midnight; you were too busy playing dance classics. I remember DJing, looking out and seeing the same people on the dance floor in the same spot that they started in earlier in the night. Seriously, that was a nice feeling. That’s the vibe that I wanted to recapture.

—A.D. Amorosi

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A Conversation With Todd Rundgren

Todd

Along with creating Tin Pan, blue-eyed-soul masterpieces (Something/Anything?), prog-rock epics (everything his band Utopia recorded), psychedelic garage classics (his Philly-born Nazz’s “Open My Eyes”) and Technicolor soundscapes for productions clients like XTC and Patti Smith, Todd Rundgren long ago laid down the multi-layered blueprint for much of what EDM pop is today with A Wizard, A True Star. “At least, that’s what they tell me,” Rundgren says with a snicker, before discussing his newly released, 25th solo album (the electro-glide soul of Global), an upcoming collaboration with Norway’s Lindstrøm (Runddans) and time playing and writing with Ringo Starr.

You’ve been gigging with Ringo since you cobbled together a Jerry Lewis telethon band with him, Bill Wyman and Utopia in the late ’70s. You’ve been an on-and-off-again member of his All-Stars for 15 years. His new album finally features your co-songwriting credit. What took so long?
I would like to imagine that my “Jerry’s Kids” band was the inspiration for Ringo’s All-Stars, by the way. Starr was working on an album during his off-time, which isn’t much. One song we all co-wrote together happened to come from a jam with me and Gregg Rolie messing around during sound check. Ringo just wanted to make a song out of it, so we did. As for our one-on-one collaboration, it’s two days before the tour ends, Ringo sits down and says, “Fancy writing a song with me?” Short notice, but sure. There was an idea he banged out on his synthesizer-rhythm box combo with a lyric based on Beatles song titles. Then, he told me a story about a box of postcards the Beatles shared—when they were apart, even after they broke up, they stayed in touch with postcards. He wanted to call it “Letters From Paradise” until I figured that it had to be “Postcards.” I did the demo, sent it, and went on my own tour. I just heard the finished song. I didn’t realize he was using it, let alone making it his new album’s title.

Forget about production charges or cats in Utopia—since you’re pretty much a one-man band, do you find it hard to play nice, to collaborate?
It’s true. I haven’t been good necessarily in one-to-one collaborations in that McCartney/Lennon vein. I’m better at trading things back and forth, which is certainly more convenient nowadays. In another era, I couldn’t have done that thing with Ringo. Now I carry a laptop, recording software and microphones, and can do it anywhere. That’s how I got to work with Peter Lindstrøm in Norway. If somebody has a good start or something has stalled, I can usually help wrap it all up. I remember when I lived in Sausalito, Rick Springfield came to my house wanting to write songs together, and all I could do was sit and stare at him. Same thing happened when Kenny Loggins stopped by. I warned these guys, though—I’m not that guy who comes up with songs cold. I’m a ruminator. I think and think, and when it comes out, it does so in a form of automatic writing, all at once.

The last time we spoke, we discussed how you had just started to hear that A Wizard, A True Star was a big influence on EDM stuff, as well as on the nu-psychedelia.
A younger generation has gone and discovered, bored as they may be by current stuff , that particular music of mine. Curious musicians like Lindstrøm and Tame Impala, both of whom I’ve done remixes for, have told me as much. It’s probably because that album—by today’s standards—still breaks rules. People like that sometimes. Even the guys in the Roots, with whom I’m sharing tracks for a Ruben And The Jets-like cartoon R&B album, talk about how much they’ve felt for my stuff of the past.

Well, you’re all Philly guys. You don’t need that acknowledgement, I’m sure, but how has hearing that steered where you’re going now, say on Global? Did that knowledge and all those technological advances—making your studio more portable—change how you went into new music?
I’ve had a studio since my fourth record. That way of working—using the studio as an interactive compositional device—is ingrained in me. When it became possible to make that all portable and cheaper, I took advantage. I have more power in my laptop than in a tricked-out Pro Tools studio 10 years ago. Guys who started out with that advantage like my music. How it influenced State, my last album, and Global? OK, when guys like Lindstrøm and Tame Impala came to me, they knew more about me than I knew about them, and that wasn’t fair. I began doing my research, but in the confines of what appeals to me. The first result was State, which was technologically aggressive and expressive—and comfortable. As I like doing any next album differently from the last, Global has much of the same feel of State, only with simpler songs, to be more thematically concise and to use more of my range as a singer—especially the R&B part of it. This one’s more vocal.

Not that you’ve been blissfully unaware, but Global—along with focusing on your usual anti-religious stance—concentrates on universality: earth versus skyscrapers, man versus machine. Is that a condition of age or what the planet wants?
I was trying to make, essentially, a cheerleading album—a feel-good record—as much as I can. There’s my usual scolding throughout, but it’s more about looking forward than pointing downward. That’s why I wanted to make it easier to follow than my more usually obtuse work. It’s not so much of a phase, as I don’t think I’d make this record next time. Then again, I have a label now, same one as with the last record. That hasn’t been the case for a while. These guys were great; they didn’t even demand to know what it was about.

—A.D. Amorosi

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A Conversation With Kate Pierson

Kate

Kate Pierson released her debut solo album, Guitars And Microphones, in February. You can’t help but wonder what took her so long. She’s been the toast of Athens, Ga.’s party-balling B-52’s since 1976, and that’s pretty much it. Not that her union with Fred Schneider, Keith Strickland and the Wilson siblings hasn’t kept her busy—the B’s still tour and release new music. And sure, she’s recorded duets with R.E.M. and Iggy Pop, and played a part of Japan’s NINA for kicks (plus, she co-owns two Kate’s Lazy Meadow hotels with her partner, Monica Coleman). It’s just surprising that she hasn’t had much of a yen to make solo music until recently. With the help of Sia and the Strokes’ Nick Valensi, Pierson scratches that sudden itch with Guitars And Microphones, and may even have newer, solo songs to follow.

I didn’t realize that you were born in Weehawken, N.J. Any childhood stuff stick out?
I am a total Jersey girl, and was raised there until I was eight, then moved to Rutherford after my grandmother died. I was there through high school, so I have those vivid memories, but once I left Jersey, I never came back. There’s not much family left to speak of, but who is remaining from Jersey all moved to Florida.

So, what made you want to become a mini-chain motel magnate? You’ve got one in the Catskills and one in Joshua Tree.
The first one was a roadside hotel built in 1952. Really run-down. The rooms were depressing and gray. The land, though, was beautiful, with a lovely creek and goldfinches flying around. It was a real fixer-upper. Monica was a friend, helping me get it together. The more we worked, the more real it all became. Decorating was a blast, and the whole project was just fun, certainly nothing I ever dreamed about. The Joshua Tree location happened when we had mudslides here and had to get everything redone, so we found someplace in the desert to live while the Catskills location got rehabbed.

Throughout your history as a musician—and, of course, most of that means the B-52’s—were there songs you wrote for yourself? Songs that didn’t fit the B’s?
I first had a band in high school called the Sun Doughnuts. We wrote our own songs—protest songs, civil rights songs. I kept doing this until I got to the B-52’s. I really always wanted to be a girl singer, but when I got to Athens, I focused on a back-to-nature thing where I raised goats and such.

I’m just waiting to see how this ties into Fred.
Well, when we got together with the rest of the band, our writing style immediately focused on jamming, and songs being written from the evolution of those jams. We’d play. Fred, I and Cindy would come up with lyrics. It was a very collective mentality, with very few exceptions. There wasn’t room for anyone just coming in with their own songs.

So, you just didn’t or couldn’t write without the band?
Couldn’t really for the longest time. Something inside me just shut down. Then we sort of stopped that for a minute—after (1986’s) Bouncing Off The Satellites, where we tried writing on our own. It was very sudden, as if writing was thrust upon me. Then the band took a big break in the late ’90s, and I had this great opportunity to go to Japan and work with the producer of the Plastics on this NINA project. We didn’t speak each other’s language and had to work with an interpreter, but I really had the floodgates open for me. It was huge in Japan; I just wish Sony would have released it here. From there, I genuinely began writing on my own, but the B’s management discouraged this. There were contracts, we were touring non-stop, plus we recorded (2008’s) Funplex, so again, my writing for myself went on hold. It was overwhelming.

So, no time for Kate?
The B’s are a family dynamic. You can’t leave it. Look, it was my own mental state. No one from the band held me back. I didn’t give myself license to do that. It wasn’t until we broke full-blast touring for a year that I began thinking about my writing again. Sia is a friend of ours—this is before she began writing for Beyoncé and Rihanna. I wrote with her; I was writing with different people. Suddenly, it seemed to flow better. It was easy, positive. Which is how the album got made.

What do you think you require then to make a perfect Kate Pierson solo song?
With the B’s, there’s too much talent. With NINA, it was easy collaboration. I don’t know. Maybe the feeling that I don’t have to push to get heard? I definitely want it to be different from what I’ve ever done, despite having the similarities in my voice. More autobiographical, too, touch on subjects I care about, like addiction and transgender people.

So, before you got to Guitars And Microphones, were there things that you knew in advance that you wanted to bring to the table?
No.

OK.
Well, only because it was all very spontaneous. That’s the beauty of writing songs—at least that’s what I learned now. You just do it. There’s the pop framework of verse and chorus, but that’s it. Then you work with Sia, and she really cuts to the chase. I jotted down titles, then some lyrics, collaged that together with the melodies, Sia shaped those melodies, and that was that. From there, I was able to focus on elements of my life such as growing up and losing friends, like on “Guitars And Microphones.” Plus, I always wanted to play guitar on a record, and I finally did on this one. I used to play guitar while sitting on my dad’s knees. It was a great feeling reliving that.

—A.D. Amorosi

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Can’t Hardly Wait: Superchunk On Opening For The Replacements

ChunkMats

On Sept. 25, 1990, the Replacements released their final record, All Shook Down—the same day Superchunk released their self-titled debut. Nearly 25 years later, rock worlds will collide again when Superchunk opens the May 9 Philadelphia show on the Replacements’ tour. Knowing singer/guitarist Mac McCaughan and drummer Jon Wurster count the Mats as a favorite band, we convened them—as well as bassist Laura Ballance, who has retired from touring due to hearing issues, and her, uh, replacement, Jason Narducy (Split Single, Bob Mould)—for an e-roundtable (candidate for WordHate™?) about their fandom and what this gig means to them. (Guitarist Jim Wilbur didn’t respond to multiple requests. Maybe he doesn’t like Replacements. Or us.)

How important are the Replacements to you?
Wurster: Everybody has that one band they most identity with and claim as their own. For me, the Replacements were that band. (OK, Hüsker Dü was my other band.) I remember sitting in Dead Milkmen guitarist Joe Jack Talcum’s bedroom in early 1984 and hearing “Color Me Impressed” for the first time and really being affected by it. To my ears, it was one of the first great blends of punk snarl and pop melody by a band from my generation. From then on, I was a fan. I bought their records as soon as they came out and went on road trips to see them live. The Replacements were the musical embodiment of the all the crazy, mixed-up feelings you experience in your late teens and twenties. They were the perfect mix of bravado, fear, anger, humor and mental illness—I can say that because I’m a crazy person, too. Did I want to be in the Replacements? Let’s just say I ran to a Dallas-Fort Worth Airport pay phone the moment I heard Chris Mars was out of the band and called their managers to plead my case. Sadly, I was too late.

McCaughan: The records from Let It Be through Pleased To Meet Me were hugely important to me, as well as the earlier ones when I went back to find them after Let It Be came out. I think what’s so key about the Replacements is that they were hard to define. At that time, I loved a lot of hardcore bands, and I loved a lot of pop bands and new-wave bands, and I still loved the classic rock I grew up with—but you couldn’t classify the Replacements. The idea that you could be a band that couldn’t be classified was radical.

Ballance: The Replacements are hugely important to me and probably influenced my life in ways I can’t even express. I first heard them in 1984 when Let It Be came out. I went and got that record and listened to it over and over. It expressed this pain and loneliness that I definitely felt as a 16 year old. I feel like I saw them play at the Metroplex around that time, but I can’t actually find any confirmation on the internet that they played there. I definitely saw them play a show later at the Skate Ranch in Raleigh. They were unbelievably drunk and it was a mess of a show, but it was so fun. It helped me to realize that punk shows didn’t always have to be so serious. Most bands at the time postured in a way that conveyed toughness and that to be punk you had to play fast and loud. The Replacements had some of that, too, but also they were goofy and vulnerable and were just as likely to play a beautiful, well-crafted pop song as a hardcore one.

Narducy: They were an important band to me because I heard Tim when it came out my freshman year in high school. They didn’t sound like any other band I’d heard previously, and they had an absolute perfect pop song in “Kiss Me On The Bus.” My friends and I could call them our own.

What does it mean to you to open for them?
McCaughan: It’s kind of crazy and unreal, but I guess it’s the kind of thing that happens if you manage to be a band long enough. I feel lucky that we get to do it.

Narducy: It means I actually look forward to going to Philadelphia.

Wurster: How often to you get to open for a band that was and continues to be such a big part of your life? Back in 1984, I was drumming in a Philadelphia-based band called Psychotic Norman. One day, our bassist Tom announced a well-intentioned, yet slightly misguided, plan to convince the Replacements to play a show in his cramped suburban basement in between the band’s Trenton and Philly Let It Be tour stops. Psychotic Norman would, of course, be the opening band. You’ll be shocked to learn that the basement show never materialized. To make up for it, and to capture the feeling of what could have been, I’ll be playing our opening set at Penn’s Landing flanked by Tom’s mother’s washer and dryer.

What’s your favorite Mats record and why?
McCaughan: It’s too hard to choose. I go back and forth between Stink and Let It Be and Pleased To Meet Me, which was the last tour I saw.

Wurster: The two that immediately come to mind are Pleased To Meet Me and Hootenanny. For me, they’re the ones that best embody the spirit of the Replacements, but every one of their records contains top-shelf songs. Even the All Shook Down-era Don’t Sell Or Buy, It’s Crap EP has one of their greatest shoulda-been-a-hit songs, Tommy Stinson’s “Satellite.”

Narducy: Tim because it’s so strong top to bottom and has such a wide variety of songs. There are anthems like “Bastards Of Young” and “Left Of The Dial.” There are pop songs like “Kiss Me” and “Little Mascara,” a ballad in “Here Comes A Regular” and a schmaltzy, swinging, sneering tune in “Waitress In The Sky.” Apparently, “Can’t Hardly Wait” almost made it on this record. Holy. Shit.

With the band or otherwise, have you ever crossed paths with the Replacements?
McCaughan: As a band, I don’t think Superchunk has crossed paths with them. It’s weird that our debut came out as their last record did.

Wurster: Never in Superchunk, other than Tommy coming to a show we did at the Roxy in L.A. around 1997. The band I was in five or six years before joining Superchunk was managed by the same guys who handled the Replacements, so I’d get some fun glimpses into their world when I’d stop by the office: a quick spin of Please To Meet Me rough mixes; a peek at a handwritten card announcing the birth of Tommy’s daughter; catching bits and pieces of our manager’s end of a phone conversation with recently fired Bob Stinson about severance pay. This doesn’t make me sound creepy at all, does it? I’ve run into Tommy several times over the years, and he’s always a true gentleman. I’ve never told him any of this stuff, so please make sure this page is blocked from his computer.

Narducy: I avoided seeing the band in the ’80s because my friends would go see them and complain that they were too drunk and only played four songs, and those four songs were covers—done badly. When you’re in high school, 20 bucks is a lot of money to gamble on a concert. I probably should have gone anyways. In 2013, I went to dinner with my friends Dave and Kathleen Philips. It wasn’t until I arrived at the restaurant that I realized Tommy was with them. He’s the only one I’ve met and talked to.

Laura, when you found out about this show, did you think about telling Jason to take a hike so you could play it?
Ballance: I still haven’t heard from any of my bandmates that they’re playing this show! Bastards! I just heard about it the other day from Christina (Rentz) here at Merge. And hell yes, it occurred to me that I should play it, but then I realized I could still go and not have to actually play. I might.

Jason, you’re a replacement in a band opening for the Replacements featuring replacements. Thoughts?
Narducy: (Replacements drummer) Josh Freese and I will be participating in the dunk tank before and after the show. Full cans of Summit beer will be thrown at the target and at us.

What are the chances Superchunk ends up onstage with the Mats during their set as they play “I Hate Music”?
McCaughan: I’ll let the pros handle that one.

Narducy: My guess is that this is on Paul Westerberg’s bucket list.

Wurster: Wouldn’t you rather see me moonwalking and hammering a cowbell during “Asking Me Lies”?

–Matt Hickey

 

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Best Of 2014: Q&A With Ex Hex

ExHex1

If we’re handing out superlatives, we have to award Best Phone Skills to Mary Timony for the rather hilarious way she started our Monday morning conversation. It was a simple hello delivered with quizzical sitcom-quality timing that surprises both of us—maybe it means the Suzi Quatro/Leather Tuscadero references we’d used to describe her new band, Ex Hex, and debut album Rips weren’t entirely off base. And just like the Happy Days rock ‘n’ roller, Rips is just too cool, one of the raging guitar-pop albums that record nerds dream about. “It has been kind of insane,” says Timony. “We just got back from tour, and we’ve been extremely busy. Just a lot of driving and playing—a crazy tour. But it’s good to be back.”

The band is indeed busy—24 hours after we talk, Timony and Co. will be making their Late Night With Seth Meyers debut—and shows no sign of slowing down. Since its first set of shows in the spring (yes, you read that right: first tour ever), Ex Hex has dropped two videos of slapstick alt-rock shenanigans, wooed critics just about everywhere and wowed fans across the country. For real, when MAGNET saw Ex Hex open for Rocket From The Crypt, the ladies had barely unplugged before we were sending out “BEST. BAND. EVER” texts to every person we know. Needless to say, deciding on our album of the year was a no-brainer. We caught up with Timony to chat about skipping work to go see metal shows, public-access TV and punk-rock pastry chefs. —Sean L. Maloney

What was the best show you played in 2014?
It was in Minneapolis a couple of weeks ago on this tour. There were a few reasons it was a crazy night. I mean, the night was crazy, which is why it was my favorite, but it was actually a really good show. You could tell people had heard the record, and people were smiling and dancing, which was really fun. I love playing the 7th Street Entry because that’s where parts of Purple Rain were filmed. So, that’s always fun. There were like four shows … there was a huge hip-hop show—I don’t remember who it was—playing down the street, the Black Keys were playing across the street at some convention-center thing, and at this other club Pentagram was playing, which was really weird. So, we end up playing a really fun show. We get offstage and go to the merch stand, and this girl came up to us. Somehow she had a connection to the Pentagram show. So, we abandon the merch stand—which is very irresponsible [laughs], not a responsible thing to do—but we left it all there to see Pentagram. And it was fucking awesome. It was the best show—Pentagram is so cool and I love all those songs. So, we just walked down the street and saw Pentagram. I feel bad if anybody wanted a record—I’m sorry. We just left a sign that said “Back in 10 minutes.” [Laughs] That was definitely my favorite.

Who was your favorite band of 2014?
I knew we were going to do this interview, so I made a list of my favorite records. It’s hard to pick just one. I’ve been listening to Ed Schrader’s Music Beat—they’re from Baltimore. I’ve heard that live it is just the best thing you’ve ever seen—I haven’t seen them, but that’s what I’ve heard. My friends played with them and were freaking out about it. I really like that record. ’m excited about this band Public Access TV; I don’t know if they really have anything out yet. Do you remember that band Be Your Own Pet? John Eatherly from that band has a new band—I know him from when he played with Eleanor Friedberger. When he was playing with Eleanor, Wild Flag was on tour with them, and somehow I got some of the demos they made in GarageBand. I think a friend sent them to me? But they are so good, and I keep listening to those demos over and over again. And he’s got a new band, and I’ve only heard a few songs online, but they’re the same songs from the demos. They’re really good. Oh, and I’m obsessed with that King Tuff record—it’s probably my favorite record of the year. I am really excited about the Slant 6 Soda Pop Rip Off reissue on Dischord. That’s probably my reissue of the year. That’s one of my favorite records, and it’s nice to know that it’s coming back, that people still love it. I know some younger people [in old-man voice] I know of some younger people [laughs] that really love that record, but they are D.C. people. It’s one of those records that it’s confusing why it’s not a bigger thing. I don’t know—I’m glad that it’s reissued because it is so fucking good.

And what was your best meal of 2014?
Do you know (Born Against/Universal Order Of Armageddon drummer) Brooks Headley? He just had a book come out (Fancy Desserts) about being a pastry chef. We got totally lucky—he hooked us up at Del Posto in New York and let us try all of this amazing food. It’s like the fanciest restaurant in New York, and he hooked us up with a huge-huge-huge mega-discount, so that was really fun. It was this really incredible Italian food, and then a bunch of his desserts that were just out of control. I mean, there was like 10 of them and they were all incredible, all these sorbets and chocolates. It was insane. They were so good.

—photo by Gene Smirnov

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The Brian Jonestown Massacre: Book Of Revelation

BJM

The Brian Jonestown Massacre’s Anton Newcombe finds himself in a healthy space

The best thing you can do when Anton Alfred Newcombe starts talking is get out of his way. Which is challenging, since Newcombe, who endured years saddled by a reputation for difficulty that far outstripped reality, is such an energetic and affable conversationalist. Today’s discussion, like the Brian Jonestown Massacre’s music, spills out all over the place. Mostly, though, it settles on Revelation, the new BJM album drawn from two years of work in Newcombe’s Berlin studio, and how a man who might have become one of contemporary psych/rock’s most tragic burnouts found himself in such a healthy space.

It’s been more than two decades now since BJM’s first show in San Francisco, a sold-out Masonic Temple gig that the group self-advertised (after backlash over the band’s name got it rejected by S.F. club bookers) with a series of posters reading “TAKE ACID NOW!” BJM followed these with a second round of posters with fake blotter attached to them, and a third set of posters reading “TAKE ACID AND COME SEE THE BRIAN JONESTOWN MASSACRE!”

“We also made some signs that read ‘FESTIVAL OF YOGA,’” says Newcombe, remembering how one bona fide Bay Area hippie statesman approached the band as it was tearing down amps and movie projectors to say, “Hey, the show was really groovy, and also, when does the yoga start?”

That’s how it was for years: BJM got tagged as inner-space drug-o-nauts, Merry Prankster egotists and—this was the part that galled Newcombe most—flameout-skirting head cases, a band whose frontman seemed determined to pull the rug out from under it again and again. Much of that rep came via director Ondi Timoner’s 2004 film Dig!, which drew much of its dramatic charge from the supposed rivalry between BJM and the Dandy Warhols—a rivalry both Newcombe and DW’s Courtney Taylor-Taylor have since repeatedly said was largely fabricated through selective edits. It’s an irresistibly watchable film, especially if you’re a fan of the self-immolating talent narrative, but Newcombe’s real story is dramatic in much more compelling ways.

Revelation isn’t the work of the antic young band the BJM used to be. It isn’t the kind of album Newcombe used to come out of the studio with after days of gorging drugs, feeding the manic demon that lived in his brain, the one that insisted he make music so he could direct that awful jittery energy someplace. But it is unquestionably a BJM record, a reverb-saturated hour’s worth of ear candy. Some pieces are sweet, some are dark, but overall the album is as drone-fueled, echo-drenched and compulsively listenable as the band’s most interesting work. It’s also the work of a musician who’s come through half a lifetime of dirt and emerged as unscarred as anyone who’d spent so much time chasing dragons could hope.

“My understanding of ‘psychedelic’ was really always less to do with paisley shirts and acid, and more about mind expansion, being open to different ways of assembling sound,” Newcombe says from his Berlin home. He’d been tinkering for months, writing “imaginary film music” on synth equipment he’s owned since he was a teenager, coming up with disassociated musical themes and segments. “Then my label partners said, ‘Hey, if you wanna tour next year, you’re going to need to put an album out.’ And I had no anchor songs. Maybe one, that I’d written last October or something.”

The initial panic over sequencing and album-shaping gave way to a kind of Zen moment. “Sometimes I have a backbone of an album,” says Newcombe. “Other times I have nothing. And I’ve always thought in terms of albums, even in album sides. But I realized, with Spotify and iTunes now, people manufacture their own playlists. So, maybe I can just put out a bunch of ‘songs’ this time.”

As a collection—a psychic mixtape, as it were—Revelation holds up fine, especially since more recognizably BJM-style cuts like the swirling “Days, Weeks And Moths” and the spacey “Memory Camp” segue gradually into more expansive, even cinematic songs, of which “Fist Full Of Bees” and gorgeous album closer “Goodbye (Butterfly)” are the strongest. Newcombe spent days shifting and sequencing different tracks on his YouTube channel, getting feedback and paying attention to the groupings that stuck in his head.

“Ultimately, I want people to be happy with it, because I want to keep being able to make music,” he says. “But what you’re trying to do is second-guess what other people are going to get out of it, which is where you get led into a deep, dark cave. I know there’s a certain amount of resistance, or people scoffing over my lack of production values. But that doesn’t matter. I’m not going away until I die.”

—Eric Waggoner

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