2012 marks FILTER Magazine‘s tenth year in print. To celebrate, we are looking back at some of our favorite magazine features, from July 2002’s Issue #1 all the way up to this coming November’s Issue #50.

A True Story about Blur, Survival and Laughing at Doomsday (Issue 5, May/June 2003)
By Gregg Lagambina
Photography by Hamish Brown

THE ARRIVAL OF THE END OF THE WROLD is nearing and we all know it. This is not some bearded man afflicted with dementia, holding a cardboard sign, screaming out the Bible and selling pencils. This is the real deal. The world is coming to an end and we’re all going down with the flaming fireball. The funniest thing about denial is, know that you’re doing it and still getting fooled by it. Ha. Ha. Ha.

“There’s this kind of worldwide pessimism where everyone’s writing off stock markets, music, the economy, the environment, the world—everything. Everything’s going to end tomorrow. If the world were going to end tomorrow, it would have ended already. People are far more durable than they’re given credit for. The veneer or civilization is rather thin, but there’s a solid bedrock of culture underneath it that’s made of sterner stuff.”

That was David speaking. David Rowntree. He’s the drummer from Blur and this is the story of Blur today, before the dive, before the end, before we all shriek and have sex with strangers and loot. Damon is here too. Damon Albarn. He sings and plays guitar and writes a lot of Blur’s songs. They are very familiar with a sense of doom. In fact, they thrive on it.

“We’ve disappointed a lot of people that we haven’t quit after every record,” says Albarn, with a bit of the demon twinkle in his eyes. “The most consistent prediction about Blur is, ‘Now, it’s all over.’”

We’re sitting in a solitary booth in a tiny hotel somewhere in the middle of America. There’s a single candle playing with our shadows and all three of us are talking about the end of the world, the end of Blur, and how none of it really matters. Blur, you see, have a bit of a con set up with survival. They’re playing their cards underneath the tabletop and their grins are sharp enough to make the sinless tremble. They’re slouching, they’re tired and Damon’s come back from a lap in the pool to announce, “That didn’t work and I refuse to have a third wind.”

Blur have had many winds. This is a band that is perennially dismissed by their own countrymen in the press and have never felt firmly entrenched in the elite foundation of serious British pop music, if such a thing exists. They’ve been doubted (like Jesus) and slighted (like the Milwaukee Brewers) since day one.

“We were terribly bullied,” says Albarn about the recording of the band’s debut Leisure, back in 1991. “We were threatened with unspeakable things that would happen to us. Not with violence or anything like that, but saying, ‘You’re going to fail. If you don’t do it this way, you’re going to fail. Fail. Fail. Fail.’ That record would have been very different if we had been allowed to evolve normally, but we weren’t. We had a very, very strange upbringing with a very dictatorial head of a record label. From Modern Life Is Rubbish [in 1993] on, there were reasons for making records. With the first one, we didn’t have a reason. We didn’t know what our reasons for making records. With the first one, we didn’t have a reason. We didn’t know what our reasons were. We didn’t know who we were. We were very naïve and we allowed ourselves to be bullied.”

“We’ve done the best we could every time we’ve made a record,” adds Rowntree. “I have nothing to be ashamed of. It’s all the best we could have done at the time.”

“We now know why we made those mistakes, so we don’t make them anymore,” Damon rebuts philosophically. “That’s all you can do in life, is learn from your mistakes.”

From Modern Life Is Rubbish on, Blur have had peaks of brilliance that have had them flirting with the post-Kinks throne of quirk-pop royalty for over a decade now. But all of the accolades—when they’ve been reluctantly handed over by the largely dubious and tight-lipped—seem to come a bit late. Blur is always on the next thing once the rest of us have just started tapping our feet to the last one. That’s not really saying they make revolutionary music, but that their songs are kind of like wet paint in a bedroom—you’re not too fond of the new color until it dries.

The Great Escape came out in 1995 and you were disappointed because it was a bit more “gay” than the Steve McQueen film of the same name. Then you grew up and realized you meant to call it “grandiose pure pop.” No one really liked Parklife at first, but now you can’t find a place to park your Vespa at the local bar’s “mod night” in time to catch the last strains of “Girls and Boys” rattling the lit-up Guinness Stout sign against the windowpane. How many Pavement fans derided Blur for “Song 2” before being afflicted with the kind of amnesia that made them wear ugly sweaters, forgive the band, actually like the track and secretly buy their self-titled record in 1997? Their 1999 release, 13, was dismissed early by many who took to referring to the record as a CD single, calling it “Tender + 12 bonus tracks,” until the rest of the songs started making sense during the long wait for this weird thing called Think Tank in 2003.

“We wouldn’t have had the career we’ve had, and we wouldn’t have a career now, if the music didn’t change,” says Rowntree. “We’re far too bored and have far too short attention spans to repeat ourselves and churn out the same record over and over. Even though we certainly could have translated the Parklife success or formula and kind of repeated it ad nauseam throughout the world and nobody would have thought any worse of us for doing that. That’s what’s made our success last and that’s what pisses people off about us. When it’s too hard to pigeonhole us, or write us off, or figure out what we’re going to do next—those are the three things that the media in Britain certainly thrives on and people get pissed.”

Damon raises and eyebrow, considers this and adds, “If people started really liking us, we’d probably go away. We wouldn’t feel the need to be driven in the way that we are, to be honest. We’re quite driven, actually, to come back from all of that. I mean, a lot of people would have just thrown in the towel and said, ‘Well, I’ve done my bit. I’m gonna chill out now.’ But we’ve never felt like that for one second, even now.”

“That’s because we made such a good record,” Dave says to Damon and they both nod in agreement.

Think Tank might be a sprawling mess. Following suit with the seeming Blur formula, it’s still too early to tell. The story behind it at least, reads like a mess. With the departure of longtime guitarist and songwriter Graham Coxon, Blur has been pared down to a trio. Bands, especially British ones, are hives that teem with rumor and buzz, little of it resounding with anything like truth. Depending on who you ask, Coxon was either flat-out booted, or he left because Damon’s head surpassed the size of a gorilla’s after the overwhelming success of his hip-hop influenced Gorillaz side-project. Or he didn’t get along with Fatboy Slim who was brought on by Damon unannounced as the record’s producer for a few tracks. Or he never showed up for the recording sessions. Or he just plain didn’t feel like being in Blur anymore.

“I think he’s on sabbatical,” says Damon matter-of-factly. “Which I think is a nicer way for it to be. Maybe he’ll come back again, but if he doesn’t, it doesn’t even matter, obviously. Graham made a very deliberate decision. And that’s fair, really. He doesn’t want to be a part of that life anymore and if that’s the case, we have respect for him.

“It doesn’t matter because we’ve shifted the emphasis to just the music now,” he continues after a reflective pause. “So, it doesn’t matter who’s making it. Maybe that’s something I learned in Gorillaz—that it doesn’t matter who’s doing it, if it works, it works. And we choose to work together. That’s the point, you know? We’ve got a very clear policy: if you’re not around and you miss a day in the studio, then you weren’t on that song and someone else would do it. It’s a good rule to have and we all have to abide by it.”

It’s arguable that Coxon’s departure and Albarn’s new “policies” are exactly what made Think Tank such a stylistic leap from anything the band has done previously. Blur’s music has always sounded like they’ve stretched themselves—stretched maybe even beyond their own actual abilities. And that’s what makes Think Tank such an unnerving document of a struggle, perhaps. A struggle to ditch the assumptions and conventions associated with being “Blur.”

“It’s just fucking music,” says Albarn with a calm chuckle. “Who gives a fuck what banner is under us? Either it’s worth listening to or it’s not worth listening to. What is this? An egg and spoon race? It’s music. There’s nothing competitive about it whatsoever.”

But it is competitive and there are winners and losers and when you’re in a position like Blur’s, the world must creep in and it must affect change within the music you make. It was Damon himself who just a few minutes ago proclaimed that the band probably wouldn’t even care to exist if it wasn’t for people wanting them to fail. And there will be people grabbing for the garlic and wooden stakes, calling Think Tank a spiraling experiment gone to the devil. But they’re wrong.

Think Tank comes outfitted in majestic ambition. A song like “Crazy Beat” will appease the mass that glommed onto them after the “Song 2” “woo-hoo” fascination. While “Brothers and Sisters” might drum up some recollection of Albarn’s Gorillaz, with its chanting drug-dipped stanzas (“Cocaine is for murderers… smoking makes you holy.”) Graham Coxon’s guitar work is definitely missing (it might be up to others to determine whether it’s missed), and a song like “Jets” seems to almost mock his absence with a guitar line so childish, it’ll be in your head like a lullaby for days. “On the Way to the Club” tumbles forth on the whimsy of juggled drums, deconstructing itself into ‘80s synth lines that sound plucked from the soundtrack to a cancelled Saturday morning television show. “Moroccan People’s Revolutionary Bowls Club” features the Damon Albarn proclamation: “Being English is not about hate. It’s about disgust. We’re all disgusting.” Which, incidentally, is destined to become the yearbook quotation of a hundred thousand adolescent wankers. Tracks like “Ambulance” and “Out of Time” serve to open the record with two doses of comparatively straightforward melodic beauty, not quite preparing you for the twists and turns over the course of 14 songs which will literally take you to Morocco and back before you’re ready to admit to your friends whether you actually like it or not. Think Tank is a thrilling listen. Its mess is its virtue.

“All of the vocals were sung outside,” says Albarn, addressing the reasoning behind bringing a portion of the sessions to Northern Africa, to Morocco, and perching himself atop a ratty barn, surrounded by farm animals.

IF THE WORLD WERE GOING TO END TOMORROW, IT WOULD HAVE ENDED ALREADY. PEOPLE ARE FAR MORE DURABLE THAN THEY'RE GIVEN CREDIT FOR.

“It was nice. When it’s nice weather, it’s nice to be outside. I think the big studios are a con. They charge people to make less exciting records. That doesn’t make any sense to me. I mean, recording as it is now, you don’t need studios. You can do it on whatever you want, whenever you want. That’s a great liberation that computers and technology have given us. It basically means that it’s just going back to where it comes from, which is music on the streets and in the houses.”

The idea of bringing music back to where it comes from—back to streets and people and lives being lived—leads to a question for Damon that involves his relevance, his ability to reach into the sphere of strangers and to affect change in the world. Whether it’s a T-shirt, or a message, or a T-shirt with a message, what Damon Albarn does and says is armed with impact. Some people will wear what he wears and will probably think what he thinks. During a time when both his country and ours is enmeshed in conflicts aimed to eradicate evil in the world, what do you do with that box beneath your feet that puts you above the crowd and wrests its attention to yourself, even briefly?

“Clothing?” smiles Damon. “It’s just sort of a T-shirt and jeans, which are not hard to find [laughs]. Well, I have said a lot [about the war in Iraq], but I only feel comfortable saying those things in my own country. I feel, as a foreigner who has strong connections with America now, especially after Gorillaz, it’s not appropriate. Do you know what I mean? It’s very clear where I stand, but it’s not for me to openly criticize somebody else’s affairs. You should be respectful of other people’s cultures and not try to invade in any way.

“It’s a very different kind of significance,” he says about whether his music has a heightened sense of purpose during times of unease. “[Music can change things] but only in the way like when the sun comes up. It’s like weather, really. I don’t know. I just find people infinitely more receptive to what we’re doing at the moment, than they ever have been before.”

Damon says Think Tank is a record of “political love songs.” “[Unease] forces people to value what they’ve got. And that, hopefully, will pay dividends and help change the world to a better place. Hopefully. Touch wood.” And he knocks on the table.

“Sometimes you have to live through trauma, you know? Deal with it.” David Rowntree has effectively settled the matter for all of us in the booth and put a damper on my doom.

This puts me back to this feeling that Blur is on to something. As a band, it really does seem like they never should have lasted this long. I’m not sure what it is exactly, but they’ve been dealt some hand that the rest of us lost in the deck. It’s assurance and ease of purpose and maybe the notion that risk is not really risk, it’s just living. Think Tank is a risk and a lot of people are going to hate it for just that—it’s not easy listening.

There’s that bumper sticker that some dick has on his pick-up and it reads, “What doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger.” Decal wisdom be damned, but in Blur’s case, it’s the obvious adage to drift to. Here’s this world we’ve been handed and it would be an easy out to dance like a wicked banshee in the face of pollution, traffic, garbage, billboards, wars…Jesus, I’m not about to list every thing that can make a globe ache. But to take it all like a blister on your palm that makes the next burn sting a little less, to endure and choke cynicism at the source—these are things that ought to be done and there are lots of things to do. Sitting in a booth in the middle of America with a British band that’s endured and to have a bit of doom taken away like a dirty napkin by a waitress—it makes you want to shave your beard, give away your pencils and recycle your cardboard sign. There’s no use running for your life if the end is already near.

“This is a very privileged job and lifestyle,” Rowntree muses. “And if you can’t be happy doing that, then why bother doing it? Being in a band isn’t that bad. It’s very hard to complain about.” F

PREVIOUS "10 YEARS OF FILTER" FEATURES
Issue #1 (July 2002) Getting To Know: Bright Eyes, Doves, Balligomingo, South and Breakestra
Issue #1 (July 2002) Cover Story: On the Dark Side of the Moon with Weezer
Issue #2 (September 2002) Getting To Know: Haven, Interpol, Division of Laura Lee, Jazzanova and The Cato Salsa Experience
Issue #2 (September 2002) Cover Story: Looking Back in Wonder: Björk Takes a Pause
Issue #3 (November/December 2002) Getting To Know: Röyksopp, Thievery Corporation, Clinic, Hot Hot Heat + The Pattern, Ikara Colt and The Music
Issue #3 (November/December 2002) Cover Story: Coldplay: At Home in the World
Issue #4 (February 2003) Cover Story: Art Imitating Life Imitating… THE DANDY WARHOLS
Issue #5 Revisited, Getting To Know The Raveonettes, Elefant, Longwave, Verbana, Cave In and Paloalto

This article is from FILTER Issue 5

2012 marks FILTER Magazine‘s tenth year in print. To celebrate, we are looking back at some of our favorite magazine features, from July 2002’s Issue #1 all the way up to this coming November’s Issue #50.

Getting To Know is a section in the magazine that serves as a good gauge for our predictions of greatness. In FILTER Issue #5, released May/June 2003, we introduced The Ravonettes, Elefant, Verbana, Longwave, Cave In, and Paloalto. Here is a brief look at those artists, then and now.

Stay tuned for Issue #5's complete "Blur: Surviving Soomsday, a True Story" cover story to be posted later this week.

Getting to Know Recap

ISSUE 5:  May/Jun 2003

Photo Courtesy of Cave In

Band: Cave In
Where They Were Then: Gaining critical acclaim and mainstream attention by moving away from their heavy metal roots with the release of their third studio album Antenna.
Where They Are Now: After a three year hiatus, the reformed lineup of Cave In released their fifth full length album, White Silence, in May of 2011.
FILTER Said: Cave In are ready to up the standards of mainstream rock with their multi-layered compositions and intricate harmonies, while still delivering fun, loud rock shows.
They Said: “I’m not gonna say we grew out of metal because we certainly haven’t. I mean, I still love heavy music, but this feels more our niche.”

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Band: The Raveonettes
Where They Were Then: About to release their first full-length album Chain Gang of Love, while broadening their musical sound beyond their “under three minute” rules.
Where They Are Now: The Raveonettes have been incredibly busy touring their latest studio album Raven in the Grave (2011), and releasing a newly packaged B-sides and rarities collection.
FILTER Said: Something else that distinguishes this brave duo from the denizens is a four-part Code of Conduct they instituted for Whip It On. The Songs all consist of three chords in B-flat minor, contain no high-hat or ride cymbals and are under three minutes apiece.
Band Said: “It’s a challenge to have all the songs stick out and have personalities when they’re all in the same key.”

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Photo by Mayumi Nashida

Band: Longwave
Where They Were Then: Following the New York buzz and hype of their debut EP, Endsongs (2000), through to the release of their sophomore album The Strangest Things, Longwave was making a name for themselves in Europe and with heavy hitter bands such as The Vines, and The Strokes.
Where They Are Now: After a series of three EPs and another full-length album, Longwave changed labels and most recently released Secrets Are Sinister in 2008.
FILTER Said: Longwave’s music manages to be both grand and intimate all at once. And despite the fact they have emerged from a scene hyped to the hilt, they have also somehow managed to maintain a unique and separate identity.
Band Said: “Maybe it was naïve of us, but I think we thought they would take the record as it is, rather than placing us in this particular New York scene. I guess what we hope is, despite that, people can eventually relate to the album on its own and find something in it that they enjoy.”

_____________


Photo Courtesy of Paloalto

Band: Paloalto
Where They Were Then: Exploring the world of mid-level success with the release of their second album Heroes & Villains produced by Rick Rubin.
Where They Are Now: While the band is still technically active, Paloalto has not released a new album since Heroes & Villains. Grundler and Black are now part of a new band project: Golden State.
FILTER Said: Paloalto is a nice band that you might be able to share with your dad if they ever make it to an arena. And they want to make it to an arena.
Band Said: “Music was never supposed to be viewed as such a commercialized thing, although it can be commercial and there is success involved and that’s great, but I think people need to really realize what music should have to offer. It should offer you something with a little more depth to it. That’s my opinion anyway.”

_____________

Band: Elefant
Where They Were Then: Elefant was a confident foursome constantly being praised and loved for their explosive debut album Sunlight Makes Me Paranoid.
Where They Are Now: Broken up. Elefant only released two full-length studio albums before their quiet 2010 departure from the music scene: Sunlight Makes Me Paranoid, and The Black Magic Show (2006).
FILTER Said: The music which I’ve been hearing on record for days now, ignites and glows and warms and is suddenly bigger, richer. Elefant have been “good” from the get-go, but tonight, even I have to admit, they are very near something like “great.”
Band Said: “It would have been really easy for us to make a raw record, but we tried to do something that would get people dancing again. We wanted to test ourselves. I’m glad we’re doing more dance than rock. That’s more where I am, at least. Stupid dance beats, sweet songs.”
_____________

Photo Courtesy of Verbana

Band: Verbena
Where They Were Then: A no frills southern rock and roll band who just released their third album, La Musica Negra.
Where They Are Now: Verbena broke up after an extensive tour in support of La Musica Negra.
FILTER Said: It is unapologetic rock music made by Southern Americans armed only with guitar, bass and drums. Sounds horribly dull, until you remember that no one is doing very well with that kind of simplicity anymore. Supposed reinvention of things past, instead of a simple remembrance of things past, is sort of a lost art.
Band Said: “All you can really do is reflect your times, or what you’re going through. You’re not supposed to take your cues from every magazine or every little thing that’s going on. Just tell stories and deal.”


PREVIOUS "10 YEARS OF FILTER" FEATURES

Issue #1 (July 2002) Getting To Know: Bright Eyes, Doves, Balligomingo, South and Breakestra
Issue #1 (July 2002) Cover Story: On the Dark Side of the Moon with Weezer
Issue #2 (September 2002) Getting To Know: Haven, Interpol, Division of Laura Lee, Jazzanova and The Cato Salsa Experience
Issue #2 (September 2002) Cover Story: Björk: Look Back In Wonder
Issue #3 (Nov/Dec 2002) Getting To Know: Clinic, Röyksopp, Thievery Corporation, Hot Hot Heat & The Pattern, Ikara Colt , The Music
Issue #3 (Nov/Dec 2002) Cover Story: Coldplay: At Home In the World
Issue #4 (February/March 2003) Getting To Know: 2 Many DJs, The Datsuns, The Microphones, Turin Brakes, Muggs, and The Coral
Issue #4 (February/March 2003) Cover Story: Art Imitating Life Imitating…THE DANDY WARHOLS

2012 marks FILTER Magazine‘s tenth year in print. To celebrate, we are looking back at some of our favorite magazine features, from July 2002’s Issue #1 all the way up to this coming November’s Issue #50.

Some interviews are standard Q+As and some are just plain old hang-outs, our interview in FILTER Issue #4 with The Dandy Warhols falls somewhere between hang-out and tell-all. Singer Courtney Taylor-Taylor gave us the ins and outs of their studio space, what he thinks of the critics and the many cracks in the rock-star facade that Taylor seems to put on.

Art Imitating Life Imitating… THE DANDY WARHOLS (Issue 4, February 2003)
Photography by Stephen Dewall- Illustrations by Tom Manning


THERE'S ALWAYS that moment in an interview when you’re talking to somebody famous, somebody you’ve read about, somebody who’s already an image in your head, somebody who up until now was only a sketch of quotes and back stories and old press photos folded into some ratty notebook--and all the while you’re checking your notes to make sure you’ve asked the right questions, nodding approvingly at whatever’s being said, wondering if your hair is cool enough, if your clothes are cool enough, if you can write something cool about it, something that doesn’t mix metaphors or start with a big run-on sentence--and so you’re sitting there thinking about all these things while you smile and try to play smooth and then suddenly the moment comes. And you’re always glad for it. It’s a moment when something happens: a joke, a seagull shits on your shoulder, the fourth beer, whatever--and for just that moment you are no longer a journalist and the guy across from you is no longer a rock star and you’re just two guys having a pretty fucking good conversation.

That moment happened for Courtney Taylor-Taylor and me during the national anthem of the Super Bowl. We were sitting in Cal-Sports, a dark, ironically-themed tavern somewhere in the maze of brick warehouses and concrete skyways which make up the “Industrial Quarter” (really, it’s on the street signs) of Portland, Oregon. Courtney was holding, uh, court with his collection of scarf-clad, leather-jacket-bound , mop-topped twenty to thirty-something pals—locals mostly, from what I could tell, who treated the lead singer of the Dandy Warhols with the type of zealous affection generally reserved for the patriarchal leaders of certain isolated cults—and I was sitting there with Steve (our photographer who had nothing to do until the photo shoot on Sunday night) and we were listening to Courtney’s incessant monologue (because damn it, the guy can really talk) which, for the moment, was focused on Celine Dion whose hand was migrating slowly across her chest as she sang “God Bless America” on TV—Courtney playing the part of the flustered stage manager speaking into her headset (“Don’t touch the nipple, Celine. You can grab the breast, but for God’s sake, don’t touch the nipple”).  When into this rather surreal scene of leather bracelets, eyeliner, beer, John Madden and Raider apparel, walked in a thin, medium-sized white dog with blue eyes. The dog came in through the front door as if it was the most natural thing in the world and sat down next to us. Courtney looked up.

   

“That is a cool fucking dog. I want that dog.” All agreed. And we laughed. And the dog stayed. And we fed him hot dogs.  And everything become sort of normal again.

We’d met Courtney two hours earlier when, after walking aimlessly through the serpentine, rain-soaked streets of Portland, we showed up at the band’s new photo/ movie/practice/performance/art studio dubbed “The Odditorium.” On the phone from L.A., Courtney had described the place as a cool and aesthetically perfect location for our photo shoot. What we saw was a one-story commercial office space in an alley beneath the overpass. Courtney was walking out to the street with a vacuum cleaner to pick up some glass. I wasn’t entirely sure it was him at first, since he looked shorter in his photos (they always do, I know) and in his tight, ripped T-shirt, walking out of the garage, appeared to be less like the slick, urban bohemian of reputation, and more like James Dean or a young Marlon Brando. His hips rotated when he walked, his body moving from side to side like a dimestore cowboy; and I frankly wasn’t sure if he did it on purpose or if it was a result of the fact that his jeans were so damn tight. In any case, he made an impression.

He showed us around the studio, which was for the moment, still a dusty mess of exposed dry wall, paint brushes, broken glass, cigarette butts, screws, and florescent lights. “Capitol’s paying for all of this,” he said as we looked on into the main room: a very large converted machine shop with a new concrete floor cut into a checkerboard. Half-painted Roman columns hung from the ceiling. “We can play gigs here, have dinners, it’s a great space.” And though he described his vision of an all-in-one art studio with the tone of a teen stoner describing the ways in which he’s going to trick out his van until it’s “totally sweet,” by the end of his monologue, I believed him. Listening to him, you get the sense that you’re always participating in a grand, elegant, well art-directed day dream. Maybe it’s his clothes. Or maybe it’s the slouch of his lip. Or maybe it’s the fact that everything about him—his attitude, the cadence of his voice, the permanently-fixed expression of one who is unimpressed—suggest a man who is completely convinced of his coolness, his attractiveness and his ability to get shit done.

It must be great to be a rock star. Especially one like Courtney who is not the lest bit vexed by the fact that Capitol Records is funding his burgeoning empire of thrift-store cool up there somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. “This label has shelled out hundreds of thousands of dollars for us to fucking get stoned, get drunk, whoop it up, plug in our equipment, buy weird stuff,” he confided to me over his Frito boat back at Cal-Sports. “They have been incredibly good to us.” It’s a strange comment on capitalism really (or Capitol-ism for those of you keeping score at home) that the lifestyle of the tragically hip and marginally-employed musician is funded by a company that hopes to market and sell that very concept.


How did we get here?
The Dandy Warhols formed in 1994, when Courtney and guitarist Peter Holmstrom (a shy, soft-spoken and incredibly endearing Jeff to Courtney’s Mutt) decided that there just wasn’t enough cool music in their little universe (and far too many hours in the unforgiving day). They met up with a game, 19-year-old hippy child named Zia McCabe who, at the time, didn’t even play an instrument (keyboards and bass aren’t that hard anyway)—but was fun, and smart, and cool, and up for absolutely anything. Add a since-replaced drummer named Eric Hedford, some enthusiastic shows for the locals, a propensity to disrobe on stage (Courtney sans pants, Zia sans blouse), local radio airplay, a contract with Portland indie label Tim/Kerr, and you got yourself a hip little rock band.

Sugardaddy Capitol Records signed them the next year with a big bonus and then proceeded to reject their first album because it had no singles. Unfazed by Capitol’s chagrin, the Dandies headed back to the studio to rework what eventually became their first major album Come Down which included a minor hit song entitled “Not If You Were the Last Junkie on Earth.” The video for that song was played on MTV and featured a warped game show in which drug-users were rewarded for their habit with prizes like a toilet to vomit in, or a car crash. The video was directed by another tragically hip individual, David LaChapelle, who was (according to local legend) lured into working with the Dandies by a picture he received of Eric and Pete in a bathtub, Courtney peeing in a sink, Zia on the toilet, and a dead dog nailed to the wall, along with a note, written in Courtney’s hand, reading, “Yes, this is me licking your ass. But if it’s working, call and let me know.” The video was a minor sensation. There was a message about the ills of drug use in it somewhere, but that message was mostly eclipsed by the spectacle of dancing syringes.


I asked them about this image the next day while having lunch at a yuppie café in Northwest Portland, if people always expected them to be there big drug-users, if they were ever asked to do something like drop e and run through the forest, when all they wanted to do was eat a cheeseburger. Peter fielded, “The only time the image has worked against us was in the British press where it was all they wanted to talk about. It went away with the last record.” 

“I’ll drop e an run through the forest,” Zia interjected, a coy little smile forming on her lips.

Peter flashed his reticent grin, “And anyway, they did finally focus on the music. Like we stuck around long enough and made enough records to actually matter.” 

Courtney picked up, “You’ve got the British press who are a lot of chronic masturbator, drippy-nosed, dweebs. English bands traditionally have drug problems. But they don’t talk about drugs, because they have problems with it. Well, we don’t have any drug problems. We don’t give a fuck. If it’s there, we do it. If it’s not, if we need to sleep, we don’t. I mean, who gives a shit? It’s like eating [pointing at his plate]. Do you have a fish and chips problem? No. We don’t talk about fish and chips. And we don’t eat it everyday. But if that’s all you ask me about…so, of course, all they want to talk about is sex and drugs and blah, blah, blah. With the last record, there were no photo studios involved, no slickness to our image. We had to react to everybody’s opinion.”

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2012 marks FILTER Magazine‘s tenth year in print. To celebrate, we are looking back at some of our favorite magazine features, from July 2002’s Issue #1 all the way up to this coming November’s Issue #50.

Getting To Know is a section in the magazine that serves as a good gauge for our predictions of greatness. In FILTER Issue #4, released February/March 2003, we introduced 2 Many DJs, The Datsuns, The Microphones, Turin Brakes, Muggs, and The Coral. Here is a brief look at those artists, then and now.

Stay tuned for Issue #4's complete "Art Imitating Life Imitating...The Dandy Warhols" cover story to be posted later this week.

Getting to Know Recap

ISSUE 4: February/March 2003

Photo Courtesy of Deltasonic Records

Band: The Coral
Where They Were Then: Dazzling the U.S. with good pop songs consisting of a range of psychedelic, reggae and soul influences.
FILTER Said: Rather than reflecting rap's distinct ghetto culture or musical recycling, the Coral have forged a new sound that embodies the underlying credo behind the rap game: listen, sample, and create.
Band Said: The Coral are a musical contradiction, or 20 bands in one.
Where They Are Now:  The band toured abroad over the summer of 2011, hitting up Glastonbury Festival.

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Band: 2 Many DJs
Where They Were Then:  As two bootleg-DJs from Belguim, 2 Many DJs (Stephen and David Dewaele, members of Soulwax) were having fun mashing-up all sorts of genres for eclectic variations. Soulwax and 2 Many DJs were questioned on each artist's success and future.
FILTER Said: Two journalists are attempting to conduct an interview with two rock-musicians-turned-bootleg-DJs from Belgium who have become nothing less than a force of nature in Europe for their creative (and fully-licensed) mash-ups of Salt-n-Pepa with the Stooges, Dolly Parton Röyksopp, and Barement Jaxx with Emerson, Lake, and Palmer.
Band Said: "I think a lot of kids are fed up with with the whole music industry culture. The fact that they have to pay too much money for a CD. They can burn it. I mean, what the fuck are they giving these kids? Honestly. Just put on MTV. Remember when we were kids, you would always be that one band you were looking out for? They were giving you something. Weezer or something. And now, they're not giving them anything.
Where They Are Now: Currently keeping it all alive with the renewed interest and strong electronic following. They're also very active on their social media properties, and have been hitting up Barcelona, Rennes, Madrid, Lausanne and other European cities for DJ sets.

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Photo by Rickard Eriksson

Band: The Datsuns
Where They Were Then: The Datsuns had just released their debut self-titled album, receiving praise from many indie critics and tastemakers.
FILTER Said: In seven short years, the Datsuns have graduated from tireless clubbing and self-financed indie release and gone out into the world to blow your jaded ass away.
Band Said: Rock and roll didn't need to come back, it's just as alive as ever. It's just that people need rock and roll right now for some reason.
Where They Are Now: As of January 24, 2012, the band has announced they're recording a new album (their fifth) out at Roundhead Studios in Auckland, New Zealand.

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Photo by Wheat Wurtzburger

Band: The Microphones
Where They Were Then: The year was 2003, and Phil Elvrum's Mount Eerie had just been released. Elvrum saught geographical solitude in an Arctic cabin.
FILTER Said: His special attention to the 'experience' of sound is evident on any Microphones record. You just need headphones. 
Phil Elvrum Said: I would hate to be something that was easy to ignore, or something that you've seen a million times.
Where They Are Now: Phil Elvrum is continuing his work with The Microphones. K Records will be releasing the “Distorted Cymbals” Dub Narcotic Disco Plate in February 2012.

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Photo Courtesy of Turin Brakes

Band: Turin Brakes
Where They Were Then: Coming off the second full-length effort, Britain's Turin Brakes were reaching great strides with their familiar sound. 
FILTER Said: Ether Song (Source/Astralwerks) expands vastly on the minimalist "quiest-core" elegies of their previous The Optimist LP, making a case for Turin Brakes as the best British band around that sounds strangely like Southern California circa 1978.
Band Said: There's an inherent risk with the way we work. Somewhere along the line, we're gonna fuck up.
Where They Are Now: The band has recently wrapped up the Optimist Tour, revisiting the album released 10 years ago.

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Photo by Estevan Oriol

Band: Muggs
Where They Were Then: Long-time Cypress Hill producer Muggs distinguished himself amongst his peers with his down-tempo rock solo record.
FILTER Said: What is surprising is that it's a beautifully-arranged ethereal, downright vulnerable down-tempo tock album that suonds pretty.
Band Said: People have got to give hip-hop kids a little more credit. Their musical vocabulary goes beyond just beats and sampling and shit like that.
Where They Are Now:  Muggs helped produce half of Cypress Hill's 2010 release, after his solo album Smoke N Mirrors released the year prior.

 

PREVIOUS "10 YEARS OF FILTER" FEATURES
Issue #1 (July 2002) Getting To Know: Bright Eyes, Doves, Balligomingo, South and Breakestra
Issue #1 (July 2002) Cover Story: On the Dark Side of the Moon with Weezer
Issue #2 (September 2002) Getting To Know: Haven, Interpol, Division of Laura Lee, Jazzanova and The Cato Salsa Experience
Issue #2 (September 2002) Cover Story: Björk: Look Back In Wonder
Issue #3 (Nov/Dec 2002) Getting To Know: Clinic, Röyksopp, Thievery Corporation, Hot Hot Heat & The Pattern, Ikara Colt , The Music
Issue #3 (Nov/Dec 2002) Cover Story: Coldplay: At Home In the World

2012 marks FILTER Magazine‘s 10th Year in Print. To celebrate, we are looking back at some of our favorite magazine features, from July 2002’s Issue #1 all the way up to this coming November’s Issue #50.

Rather than explain to you what this cover story was all about and why Issue #3 was special, we decided to reach out to the photographer who shot the cover, and in this case, it was a little band called Coldplay's first ever U.S. magazine cover.
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“Alan Sartirana, the co-publisher of FILTER, asked me to photograph Coldplay for the magazine’s cover as he used to attend my weekly Britpop club, Cafe Bleu in Los Angeles. It seemed appropriate I'm sure for us to work on this as I loved the music of our scene back then. The photos were taken at the Chateau Marmont where I had photographed Joe Strummer a couple years previous. I hadn't met the Coldplay guys yet, but I had recently done the music video for the band ASH's song "Envy." Chris Martin and Tim Wheeler of ASH were best mates back then, so it was nice to mention to Chris I had just done ASH’s new video. As soon as he knew this, we dropped into a common ground and some trust was created.

At the Chateau they had a book on people who had also done shoots there. Led Zeppelin had been photographed in the window facing the back patio. I asked the band if they were interested in recreating the photo when Johnny said 'I'm Jimmy Page!' They all picked their band member and jumped into position. I have no idea how the jumping thing came about, but Chris basically said he wasn't going to do it, then when I said 'OK, I guess if you can't jump…' he retracted and said 'I can jump!' So when I said, 'Well then, prove it...' the rest is history!” —Piper Ferguson
 

"Coldplay: At Home in the World" (Issue 3, November 2002)

I don’t think Chris Martin knows where he is. He and his band Coldplay are from England. Their music is on the radio, and radio waves, for lack of strict scientific knowledge, fly through the air. Coldplay is on the road a lot, so you can see the people who make this music in person, in the flesh. Things they’ve done have been digitally preserved on compact discs and are in countless bins for you to purchase and listen to. Sometimes one of Chris’ songs might even end up in your head, without the assistance of electricity, without even owning one of his recordings. Sometimes, Chris Martin is in your head and that’s a weird thing to think about, if you have the room to think about something else while Mr. Martin’s up in there tinkering about. And this happens a lot. His songs are catchy.

Rumors have had him dating Gwyneth Paltrow, which means he’s also in the tabloids. You can see him often on television, usually on a music video channel, mouthing the words to one of his own compositions. You can see him in magazines and listen to what he has to say in interviews. He’s on this page even. He’s on my mind as I write this and now he’s on yours.

There’s this idea that a physics teacher once shared with me: when a sound is made, it never really goes away. It may be inaudible, but the sound waves are really just being absorbed by physical objects and getting smaller and smaller without ever disappearing entirely. This teacher looked and dressed like he smoked marijuana, often. But if he’s right, that means Coldplay’s music is playing constantly, ad infinitum, for the rest of eternity, somewhere inside a countertop or maybe in a car bumper, just drifting through the objects that make up the world, forever. Coldplay is everywhere always.

While listening to A Rush of Blood to the Head (Capitol), this feels true. Much of the music is drenched in reverb; the vocals echo and the guitar strings chime so clearly, they mingle with the piano as if attached and played simultaneously. Listening to Coldplay is reminiscent of church, not necessarily because the music itself inspires a transcendent experience (neither does mass, by the way), but because it literally sounds like it was performed in a cathedral. Not in some contrived, dramatic Goth music kind of way—it just sounds expensive. Cathedrals were built with spires because architects didn’t want the building to end—they come to a point at the top and they disappear into the ether in an effort to mingle with heaven. So does this music, I think. During its best moments, it floats.

This may explain why Chris Martin is so concerned with place. Coldplay is a young band and if they’ve thrown an anchor overboard, it’s still floating and still finding it way down to the bottom. All over A Rush of Blood to the Head, Martin begs for maps of the world and maps of the heart, or any line that can delineate purpose or identity. “Look at earth from outer space, everyone must find their place,” are the very first words Martin sings on the album’s opener, “Politik.” It sets the tone for a record that is largely about finding and defining, or the complete lack of ever being able to find or define anything. He doesn’t know whether to look for his proper place, or ask to be put in it.

Speaking with Martin is a similar experience. He displays an odd combination of confidence and defensiveness. He’s defensive when the subject of politics arises, not because he doesn’t have genuine conviction, but because he can’t believe anyone would doubt his motivations to begin with. Currently, his place in the world is public. He is affecting people, for better or worse, and these people want answers about why they feel the way they feel about him and his music.

There are crazy people that chase limousines and it would be interesting if just once, some celebrity shouted, “Stop the car!” and when a fan caught up and was out of breath, the celebrity swung open the door, yanked the youngster inside and said, “What?” Is there an answer? Is there even a question? People just want to be near the things that inspire them, or the people they would prefer to be, and perhaps these questions and these answers from Chris Martin of Coldplay will put you closer to his place—a place he has yet to truly define, but is still willing to share. For now. By the time you read this, he’ll probably be someplace else.

Your music sounds like it’s made by someone who likes rain. What kind of weather makes you feel the most creative?
That’s a great question, man. Of course I love sunshine and everyone else does, I think. But I don’t think it makes you feel the most creative because you just want to go outside and look at girls. We certainly seem to work best in Liverpool, which is a town that is almost perennial rain. People always ask, “Why do your songs always sound sad?” I don’t know. I suppose it’s ‘cause we sort of do music cathartically. And when you’re feeling great and the sun’s shining, you want to go out and eat ice cream.

Was you childhood happy or sad? How much of an influence has your childhood had on your adulthood?
Um [sighs]. Oh man, my entire life has been unbelievably amazing, I think. Especially when I talk to other people. I think, “Fuckin’ ‘ell, my childhood was pretty idyllic.” Of course, like any kid, you go through weird things when you start growing and all. But it was pretty amazing in the countryside, you know? I didn’t really have a clue about anything that went on outside of our town. Until I went to London, I didn’t really know anything. I didn’t know who Aerosmith was, you know? [Laughs]

Can you pinpoint a time in your life that changed you the most dramatically?
Definitely. I think it was when my mum gave me a keyboard. I thought that was pretty cool. I was about nine or 10. It was the first time someone had given me a musical instrument that didn’t frighten me. There weren’t grades to learn or anything. You know what I mean? You’d just get on and do what you like and not worry about it. I’m from quite a middle-class background and the way you learn music, it’s all grades and examinations and shit—it’s just not quite liberating.

As you’ve become more famous, do you find yourself lying more often in an effort to maintain your privacy?
Privacy? No, not really. We check in under false names now in hotels, but I always find that slightly ridiculous. I always feel slightly embarrassed when I have to say to one of my friends, “I’m under a different name.” They say to me, “Oh, what a tosser!”

Has all this new attention become an isolating experience?
We can still go anywhere we like, you know? Pretty much. We’re not the sort of band where people attack us with knives. Anyone that recognizes us generally comes up and says, “I think you’re all right, your lot.”

It seems like your band has taken its increased popularity in stride. For the past few years it’s been in vogue to lament about fame. Is it possible that you’re actually enjoying it?
Yeah, man. I mean, fuckin’ ‘ell, we’re playing exactly the music we want to play in exactly the way we want to play it and lots of people are coming to watch it. That’s amazing. U2 said to us, “Don’t take fame too seriously, but just have fun with it.” That’s the right way to approach it, I think. Of course, fame is terrible nonsense. Things like The National Enquirer—it’s founded on terrible bollocks. But if you appreciate the fact that it’s just something to have fun with, then I reckon that’s better than worrying about it too much. Because certainly, we could be like, “Ah, fuckin’ ‘ell, I don’t know about this.” But, you know, it’s brilliant. How can you possibly complain about it? And also, we’re not that famous, really. We can go anywhere. We can go anywhere we’d like.

Characterize your relationship with your band mates? Are you genuine friends, or does your productivity derive from a healthy amount of conflict?
I don’t know. We go everywhere together, and do everything together. I suppose we’re best friends, but of course we fall out a bit, but not really. We’re better than we used to be.

While making A Rush of Blood to the Head, did you feel like people wanted you to fail?
No. no, no, no, not at all. That’s funny, because at first I did. And then I thought, “Yeah, but there’s loads more people that want us to succeed and want us to make an even better record.” That was a really encouraging thing. In fact, the big shift that happened for us last year is when we started focusing on the people that liked us rather than the people that didn’t. That made us much more confident and much more willing to try different things, even if we knew that some people wouldn’t like it. There’s lots of people that want us to get better.

Do you spend more time trying to prove things to yourself or to other people?
We’re constantly searching for new things and new songs. I got up a bit miserable this morning because this new song that we’re working on doesn’t sound very good. That pissed me off a bit. Like any band, though, I think you sort of feel like you’re conning everybody and so you want to get better.

When I first got the new record, I was thumbing through the liner notes and I have to admit that my first reaction was “Uh-oh” when I saw the page entitled “Politik” and the stuff about fair trade. I don’t necessarily have anything against this cause; it’s just that historically, when a band begins to use their position to support a cause other than the music itself, it becomes a bit dangerous. It’s riding that fine line between preaching and just professing a belief…
That’s not preaching at all, it’s advertising some websites. That’s fucking bollocks. I mean, look at all…[sighs]. That’s fucking bollocks, man! Look at everyone advertising Gap or Starbucks or whatever, and we’re just choosing to advertise a few websites about something that we believe in. We’re not preaching at all, we’re just fucking putting it in our album.

I just…
It fucked me up the other day—this guy went on our website apparently and was like, “Oh fuck, they’ve gone all political and I don’t like them anymore.” Just grow up, you know what I mean? We’re just saying something that we believe in. We’re not preaching. Bands get more shit for doing that than for doing advertising for fucking huge, multi-national corporations. No one has a go at Iggy Pop for advertising Virgin “upper class” Airways. And that’s [sighs and pauses]… Ah man, I don’t even want to get into that because I’m immensely proud of the fact that that’s in our album.

As someone with a social conscience, do you feel like America often acts like the bully on the playground and makes everyone else play by its rules?
Yeah.

You do?
Yeah, but I mean, luckily there could be worse bullies. George Bush is probably clinically insane, but it’s not like Colonel Khadaffi is in charge of America, or something. Well, not quite [laughs]. I’d rather have America as the dominant power of the world than Libya. It is frightening being from another country, when you hear George Bush giving these speeches where he seems to ignore the fact that anyone else exists outside of America, on any sort of human level. We’re just allies or enemies.

You’re still very young and you probably feel like you have an unlimited well of things to draw from creatively. Do you ever have fears that’s you’ll end up like Mick Jagger and lose your relevance because you’ll live in a bubble of rock stardom for most of your life?
I always worry about that. I don’t think we’ve got an unlimited well at all. There’s only so many times you can sing about girls not liking you, or upsetting someone. That’s why I think someone like Springsteen is amazing, ‘cause he can write stories and I think that’s an amazing skill—him and Tom Waits and Bob Dylan. And I can’t do that. We can’t do that.

You don’t consider yourself to be a storyteller?
No. Every time I try and write like that, it sounds like a bad Harry Potter imitation. No one wants to hear songs about young wizards [laughs].

Didn’t the band Yes make a career out of that sort of thing?
Exactly, no one wants to hear songs about young wizards [laughs].

What is your primary motivation for making music?
It’s just everything. I can’t explain it, but it’s just everything. Apart from family and relationships, it’s just it. It’s just it for me. I can’t imagine not having it. I mean, when someone says to me, “I’m not really into music,” to me, that’s just saying, “I’m not really into breathing.” I bet that sounds terribly, well, that does sound fucking ridiculous, but…

I know someone who doesn’t like to read, doesn’t like films and never listens to music. I always wonder what she does…
She aches.

Exactly. The favorable attention towards your band and your music has been increasing at such a rate that it must end up feeling tentative. It must give rise to this feeling of wanting to destroy it before someone else does. I think that’s why a lot of young bands turn to drugs or alcohol. What is your relationship to self-destruction?
I can’t stop eating this stuff called Cracker Jacks. Have you ever had it?

[Laughs]
Seriously. Honestly, I can’t stop. [Pauses] I don’t know. We always liked the idea of doing two albums and then calling it a day. Then we have some new tunes an then we’re thinking, “Well, maybe we’ll try three.” I don’t know, man. These are tough questions. I’m getting the feeling that you don’t really like us.

No, no, that’s not true. I actually think you’re a really good songwriter. I guess I just don’t feel like asking you what “Coldplay” means. Maybe I caught you on a bad day.
You couldn’t have caught me on a better day. We’re playing the most amazing places—these outdoor theaters—and I’m buzzing about 24 hours a day. We’re playing better than ever and we all look all right—none of us are fat. Everything’s cool.

I once spent an entire summer evening lying under the stars—and heavily under the influence—in Joshua Tree National Park, listening to Parachutes over and over again, mostly because I couldn’t stand up. But also because it was a beautiful thing to listen to out there in the middle of everything and nowhere. I get a psychosomatic hangover just from listening to that record now.
Oh, wicked. That’s a good story. That sounds like the sort of thing our manager would do [laughs].

So, I’m sorry if I got under your skin a bit…
No, no, it’s okay. The thing about putting those things in our album—I’m proud of that. We’re not preaching at all. Celebrities always use their position to advertise things, so why shouldn’t we? We’re not selling a product. It’s something we believe in.

Some people react viciously to that kind of stuff.
Well, those people are cunts.

As far as using your position to advertise something, I think it was U2 who once said they’d only let Harley Davidson or Guinness sponsor them because those are the only two products they’d be happy to help promote.
Yeah, right. We might have talks with Cracker Jacks, but apart from that, we’re closed [laughs]. F

PREVIOUS "10 YEARS OF FILTER" FEATURES
Issue #1 (July 2002) Getting To Know: Bright Eyes, Doves, Balligomingo, South and Breakestra
Issue #1 (July 2002) Cover Story: On the Dark Side of the Moon with Weezer
Issue #2 (September 2002) Getting To Know: Haven, Interpol, Division of Laura Lee, Jazzanova and The Cato Salsa Experience
Issue #2 (September 2002) Cover Story: Looking Back in Wonder: Björk Takes a Pause
Issue #3 (November/December 2002) Getting To Know: Röyksopp, Thievery Corporation, Clinic, Hot Hot Heat + The Pattern, Ikara Colt and The Music


This article is from FILTER Issue 3

2012 marks FILTER Magazine‘s tenth year in print. To celebrate, we are looking back at some of our favorite magazine features, from July 2002’s Issue #1 all the way up to this coming November’s Issue #50.

Getting To Know is a section in the magazine that serves as a good gauge for our predictions of greatness. In FILTER Issue #3, released November/December 2002, we introduced Röyksopp, Thievery Corporation, Clinic, Hot Hot Heat + The Pattern, Ikara Colt and The Music. Here is a brief look at those artists, then and now.

Stay tuned for Issue #3's complete "Coldplay: At Home in the World" cover story to be posted later this week.

Getting to Know Recap

ISSUE 3:  Nov/Dec 2002


Photo by Stian Anderson

Band: Röyksopp
Where They Were Then: Röyksopp had just released their first album, Melody A.M., on Wall of Sound/Astralwerks and were rapidly gaining international acclaim on the charts.
FILTER Said: They’re eager to bring their creation to our shores, perhaps scaring the shit out of us while changing our very notion of music.
Band Said: “We love drama! There is a vastness to it, it’s big and it’s serious. Combined with humor, it can be an unbeatable combination. With the machine, we couldn’t be all humor because we’d look like clowns, so we adjusted to being quite serious with it.”
Where They Are Now: Currently touring Australia for the next two months in support of their 2010 release, Senior. Featured in FILTER 35 in an interview with idols Depeche Mode.

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Photo by Andrzej Liguz

Band: Thievery Corporation
Where They Were Then: Rob Garza and Eric Hilton had just released their breakthrough album The Richest Man In Babylon, and were remixing their first album (Sounds From the Thievery Hi-Fi) for Abductions and Reconstructions.
FILTER Said: Progressing organically, while staying true to their unerring feel for warmth, “gentle music with soul” is a tagline that has come to be identified with Thievery Corporation. The Richest Man in Babylon sees Hilton and Garza developing exponentially as artists and producers.
Band Said: “We’re into production and hybrids where you combine sounds from different cultures [that] hit you on this visceral level. We have a certain sound and we can incorporate other sounds, but there’s a common thread that combines the songs. I don’t want to be an imitator of other music, I’d rather be inspired by it and incorporate it.”
Where They Are Now: Beyond releasing the new single “Unified Tribes” in December, dedicated to the Occupy movement protestors, Hilton and Garza have created their own streaming Internet channel and signed onto headline Lollapalooza Chile and Brazil later this year.

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Photo by Corinne Day

Band: Clinic
Where They Were Then: Quickly building a name for themselves with their first two releases including the timely Walking With Thee on Domino Records, Clinic were opening for (and being championed by) Radiohead on tour and becoming known for their onstage surgical attire.
FILTER Said: Whatever you want to call it, Clinic unabashedly drinks from the same lysergic waters that spawned countless bands like The Seeds, Modern Lovers, Kim Fowley and The Velvet Underground. However, while other similarly inspired bands choose to dwell in that swamp, Clinic has emerged from those waters, brushed the moss away, crawled over and suckled up to ’70s punk, dub and ’80s kraut-rock, creating some truly unique noise in the process.
Final interview question:

FILTER: Did your parents want you to become a doctor?
Clinic: [laughs] Yeah, especially after hearing our music.

Where They Are Now: Six studio albums in (including Winchester Cathedral, Visitations and 2010’s Bubblegum), Clinic most recently released an EP entitled Ladies Night (2011) and continue to be a festival staple.

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Photo by Andrew Paynter

Bands: Hot Hot Heat & The Pattern
Where They Were Then: Both bands had just respectively released their first full-length studio albums: Make Up the Breakdown (Hot Hot Heat) and Real Feelness (The Pattern), and were about to embark on a tour together (hence the combo story).
FILTER Said: The music of Hot Hot Heat, as displayed on their first full-length, Make Up the Breakdown (Sub Pop), is new in that it comes out this year, yet old in that you can place it in the context of things that have come before it. Ditto The Pattern. Real Feelness (Wichita Recordings) has The Pattern playing a very real brand of old rock, probably originally rehearsed in a room where you would normally park a car (let’s refrain from using the “g” word).
Bands Said:
The Pattern: “Sometimes you get to a point where there’s nothing that really represents you and maybe right now, all of these disaffected elements are congealing. It seems like some good bands are being discovered and touted and I think that’s a good thing and I’m excited to be a part of that.”
Hot Hot Heat: “I don’t know, it always just seems to go from the underground into the malls and back down into the underground again. This just seems to me to be another passing phase. I think the reason why it’s particularly cool is that it could mean the demise of underbite rock like Creed and all those crappy bands. That would be cool. [Laughs.]”
Where They Are Now: After following the 2010 release of Future Breeds, Hot Hot Heat is still going strong, filming music videos and spawning side projects (Steve Bays and Parker Bossley’s Fur Trade). Sadly, their article counterparts The Pattern broke up in 2004. Members of The Pattern have spread their musical endeavors to bands that include Off Campus, The Mooney Suzuki, Swann Danger, and Saviours.

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Photo by Scarlet Page

Band: Ikara Colt
Where They Were Then: The budding art school creation mixing social politics, a punk attitude and guitars had just released their first album, Chat and Business on Epitaph Records.
FILTER Said: These are tightly wound melodic anthems spilled out in the lazy, arrogant art-school sneer of singer Paul Resende.
Band Said: “A guitar will always be there, because they’re cheap and you can buy one for 20 quid and you can just play it in your bedroom. It doesn’t really matter what you use—whether it’s guitars or computers, drum machines or anything—the tools aren’t important, it’s what you do with them.”
Where They Are Now: Broke up in 2005 after two full-length records and one EP including Chat and Business (2002).

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Band: The Music
Where They Were Then: Coming off of the electric high of releasing their self-titled and impossible-to-Google first full-length studio album, The Music were at the time “traipsing about the Isle of Enchantment on tour.”
FILTER Said: Packaging echoes of The Cult and Led Zeppelin and wrapping it up with an acid house bow, these lads are just inventive enough to tickle the American palette while remaining familiar enough not to confuse or frighten the public.
They Said: “We get up around one, hang around, have a sound check at about five, hang around a bit more, do the gig around 10, then get pissed. Better than working at Burger King.”
Where They Are Now: That lifestyle finally caught up with them as The Music broke up just over a year ago. August 2011 marked the end of The Music, complete with a farewell tour including Japan, London and their hometown of Leeds.

PREVIOUS "10 YEARS OF FILTER" FEATURES
Issue #1 (July 2002) Getting To Know: Bright Eyes, Doves, Balligomingo, South and Breakestra
Issue #1 (July 2002) Cover Story: On the Dark Side of the Moon with Weezer
Issue #2 (September 2002) Getting To Know: Haven, Interpol, Division of Laura Lee, Jazzanova and The Cato Salsa Experience
Issue #2 (September 2002) Cover Story: Björk: Look Back In Wonder

2012 marks FILTER Magazine‘s tenth year in print. To celebrate, we are looking back at some of our favorite magazine features, from July 2002’s Issue #1 all the way up to this coming November’s Issue #50.

Below you will find Issue #2's cover story, in full, where we sat down with Björk before the release of four live records in one year to discuss her unquenchable thirst for creative outlets, how much her dreams cross into real life and where her favorite place in the world is. 

"Looking Back in Wonder:  Björk  Takes a Pause" (Issue 2, September 2002)

People crash cars into lampposts after seeing themselves on the sidewalk. Doppelgangers roam the earth looking for their other halves. Tap them on the shoulder and you’ll apologize with red-cheeked unease after they’ve turned around: “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.” That guy’s funny like Jerry Lewis, tall like a glass of water. That girl’s ageless like Sophia Loren, pale like Joan of Arc. Everything is like something else except  Björk .

Björk is a genre. Sometimes you go looking for the Beatles when the Kinks will do. When you’ve lost your Serge Gainsbourg, Charles Aznavour comes closer than a croissant. When your ears are seeking Björk, only Björk will do. After disbanding her beloved Sugarcubes and over the course of Debut, Post, Homogenic and Vespertine, Björk has institutionalized a sound. Her sound. You’re tempted to use words like elfin, half-human or otherworldly, because a word like unique is not unique. You think of things like moss and rocks and rivers, hibernation and seclusion. Where is Iceland anyway? She is a woman who wears swans and has a voice that hovers somewhere between earth and “out there.” When singers sing, they sing out and above. When Björk sings, it’s as if she’s already been away and above and is returning only briefly to share a secret.

The year, Björk is preparing the release of four live recordings: a collection entitled Family Tree, which explores her post-Sugarcubes, pre-solo work; and a fan-picked “greatest hits” collection. If there was an artist who would seem burdened by the notion of a retrospective, it’s Björk. Restless, small, and unpredictable, sending Björk into an attic to dig through relics would be like giving a child a pair of scissors and a trampoline. But she’s emerged from the dust and the boxes and arrived with rewards from her journey backwards. With a bit of reluctance, after 10 years of playing the pioneer, Björk is looking at her feet to see where she’s standing, instead of ahead to see where she’s going.

Is there any music that you’ve made over the years that you feel uncomfortable listening to now?
Overall, no. I knew at the time, when I did Debut, that I was a beginner and the only way to do that album was to forgive myself. I would make a lot of mistakes, but you’ve got to start somewhere. So, I haven’t been hard on myself in that way, because there’s a lot of clumsy stuff going on there. But that’s okay. I think the only sort of problematic thing has been that the business people really wanted “It’s Oh So Quiet.” They really liked that song and they thought that was the only thing I’d done and the rest was invisible. I was a bit confused because that’s a song from the ‘50s and I just don’t think it represents my work. Then, when we asked the fans to vote for their favorite songs, it wasn’t even in their top 15. So, I was really pleased [laughs]. That was a good thing. But for a couple of months, I was like, “Why the fuck did I do 10 years of entering the unknown and having this feeling of being a pioneer?” I’m sorry. It sounds a bit big-headed, but I don’t mean that I succeeded. I’m just saying that when you go blindfolded into the unknown and you’ve been on a mission that the world needs new music and you’ve experimented with all sorts of people and have this excellent adventure—doing that for 10 years and sitting down with the record company people and they say, “Oh, forget about everything you’ve ever done. The only thing that’s worth anything is ‘It’s Oh So Quiet.’” You just go, “What?!” I didn’t work like a lunatic and wave the flag and the trumpet, with this fierce belief for all this time, to have that song be the only result.




They were nice enough to narrow your entire career down to a cover.
Yeah, which is sort of ironic, really. But then I was so pleased when the fans voted and there were, like, 15 other songs that they thought were better. Then I was like, “Okay. You don’t have to think I’m amazing or anything, but at least that I’ve made the effort to do new stuff.” It’s nice when people actually acknowledge that.

It’s probably more rewarding anyway, when an actual fan recognizes that, rather than a record executive.
Yeah, I guess record executives are maybe more conservative musically.

Maybe? I think “conservative” isn’t a harsh enough word…
Maybe that’s not what they’re in it for. So, I mean, you have to forgive them [laughs]. I’m please I did that song. Don’t get me wrong, there’s no regrets. I think it was very right in the context of that album, Post—it was sort of a slapstick tune. But 10 years later and that’s the only thing to survive! That’s a bit too much for me.

I can’t imagine someone as creatively restless as you are would get any kind of fulfillment from looking backwards. Has looking back taught you anything about yourself?
I started off feeling a little guilty because I was so eager to just move ahead. I couldn’t handle the past. I would just tell them, “The recordings are up in the attic.” And then they would just pile up there and become bigger and bigger and bigger, so it was time to start going through them. I thought that looking through all the old material and the live songs would only take a couple weeks. It’s easy. It’s just old stuff. But it actually took half a year—listening to all my old songs and getting together what we’re calling The Family Tree. [The Family Tree] is something that I wanted to do. It’s all the different songs I did before Debut. It’s like the story of how I got there. We ended up asking the fans on the Internet to choose the “greatest hits” songs, but I’ve been listening to old stuff of myself for months now and I never ever do that. It’s like the last thing I would ever do. It’s sort of been awkward. Part of it as been great. It’s been very educational. But I’m getting very, very eager to move on and do new stuff and forget that all this ever happened. It was a stronger feeling than I ever expected it to be. It’s quite liberating.

Liberating because you feel like you can finally move on from the past and put it behind you?
Yeah. It was the right time to do this. If I didn’t do this now, I would have gotten into trouble.

In what way?
Every 10 years or so, you sort of have to look back and think, “Okay. What have I covered and what haven’t I covered?” Not that it’s ever that clear why you covered it in the first lace. This kind of mission you’re on is just so intuitive. It was interesting that certain things that I though I hadn’t covered, I’ve covered far too many times. Then there’s other things that I sort of took for granted that I had managed to express, but I haven’t yet. I guess it’s because you’re doing things really fast and you just go from tour to record and tour to record. It’s excellent and it’s very exciting, but sometimes it makes it accidental what you end up documenting and what you leave out.



You once referred to the Sugarcubes as a joke band—something that was never supposed to last as long as it did. If the Sugarcubes were a joke, how would you characterize your solo career up to this point? Is this the serious drama, or is it still funny?
Yeah, there’s definitely funny moments. That Sugarcubes were more about having a good time. It was like a teenage band. It wasn’t necessarily a question of life or death, which is excellent and very important. The people you first bond with like that, they end up molding you for the rest of your life. A lot of these people end up being your friends for life, too. Sugarcubes had that thing, for sure—that kind of gang thing. It’s a teenager’s need, you know? What you’re doing is not so much about yourself. You’re not being self-indulgent, you’re sort of being the opposite. It’s all for one, one for all. I wouldn’t necessarily say my work is more serious, but it’s more self-indulgent. It’s more about me. I mean, I’m not necessarily all serious. I’m definitely occasionally a drama queen, for sure. But I’m occasionally very silly and I’m not afraid of it. I quite like being silly. But I couldn’t take any song of the Sugarcubes and say, “This is me.” Not because it’s not good, it’s just group work. It’s different.

For someone who is perceived as fearless, do you have a lot of fears?
Yeah, sure!

Do you ever limit yourself when you’re making music, because you’re afraid of you own ambition?
Yeah. I guess I’m lucky because I do so many things. For example, I’m touring and usually I don’t write very much when I’m touring, so by the time I come home and start writing, I’ve starved myself for so long I can’t wait to write. And then, it’s a different stage when you’re beginning an album—it’s like one mood. And it’s a completely different mood later on, when the songs are already there and you’re arranging stuff. There’s a lot of stuff I’ve always done on my own, where it’s self-indulgent diary-writing, going alone on trips and taking long walks and being solitary. Then there’s the complete opposite, when I write with people. You become very, very close with people when you work with them. It’s very intimate. There are definitely fears involved, in every section there. It’s a very different kind of fear. I’ve always made sure that everything isn’t bulletproof when I start a tour. I try to leave the other musicians big spaces so things can develop, so no two shows will be the same. It’s a bit of a Russian roulette whether it’s going to be a good show or not. I’m addicted to that risk. That’s the only way you can do a good tour because that means later on, the tour will become its own beast. Whereas, when I did Debut, I rehearsed everything so well, that the first show was the same as the last show—nothing had space to change or grow. Those tours become very stagnant. There’s not a lot of freedom and spontaneity. So, when I start a tour, I’ve got a lot of fears, but it’s good fear. Like, “Will tonight’s show work or not?” Then I jump off a cliff and kind of manage somehow and halfway through the tour I solve most of the riddle.

I’m starting to write again now and I have my little fears, of course, but I think they’re good fears. Every time I start an album I think, “Okay. That’s it. I can’t. I’ll never be able to do this again.” I have to have that option, that it’s a possibility that there won’t be another album. I mean, I’m not saying it’s a big drama or something. It’s just like anything. Like friendships, or love things—you have to appreciate each day for what it is. You’re never sure that maybe in a month, it won’t be there anymore. I quite like that sort of fear. Of course, it can be too much fear and then you just don’t do anything.

It could free you or freeze you.
Yeah, but I guess it’s the same with everyone. You have to walk that tightrope and enjoy it. Or try, at least. But sure, I’m scared shitless a lot of the time.



How much of a role do your dreams play in your creative life?
My dreams have always been very vivid. A lot of the time, they feel a lot more real than every day life. I could probably quite easily do songs that would just be my dreams, but I also think that’s too easy. I try to move on to the next level where the dream has sort of a handshake with reality. I think that’s braver—if you wake up and remember a dream and it helps you to deal with the next day. You have to make them push each other to the right place. Much of Vespertine was about being introverted and escapism. I’m not particularly fond of just the dream world, or just escapism. It’s a bit too easy, you know? For example, I’m not really into psychedelic stuff—like when it goes too far that way. As much as I like to be aware of my dreams and my subconscious and everything, I would like to take the real world on too.

Where is your favorite place in the world?
I guess my heart belongs somewhere out in the tundra in Iceland. But to be honest, I don’t spend that much time there. It’s more of a sanctuary that I go to if everything else fails. I try to go once a month, or every two months. Iceland is very important to me, but because I’m made of that place and I lived there until I was 27, I felt destined to leave and take the world on. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that the place was isolated for 1100 years. There’s not one foreigner in my family tree for 1100 years back. Ninety-nine percent of me is Iceland. Everything about me: my nose, my thoughts, my dreams, my language…everything. I’ve heard lots of islanders say the same things. People that come from Japan or Hawaii or Jamaica, or whatever, they kind of have this urge, this lifelong, “Should I stay or should I go?” thing. I try to keep my relationship with Iceland on edge, so that it’s productive. I stayed there for a year, like three years ago, and it sort of became stagnant. It just became stale and I ended up becoming some sort of a person in society, or a diplomat. I was figured to stand for certain things and issues, which I’m very flattered by, but it’s got nothing to do with my songs. I kind of have that sense of duty, that I have to keep writing songs. Strangely, the most romantic, patriotic songs I wrote to Iceland, I wrote in Spain. I was homesick as hell. So, it’s sort of abstract, these things about where you are.

How is your celebrity treated in Iceland?
It seems to change. I think when I was a teenager it was one thing, then 10 years ago, it was another thing. And now, when I go back, the next generation is happening and they’ve sort of watched me for the majority of their lives. I was a little saddened by the fact that the kids, who are teenagers now, look at my work and think that what I’ve done has kind of been about fame and power and money. They think that’s really exciting. Whereas, 10 years ago, what I stood for was someone who just worked to make her dreams come true and who went on an individualistic mission. It was about the music. It’s a very small place. I mean, the capital has only 100,000 people. It’s funny when you become this kind of institution [laughs]. But, thank God, I think it also has a lot of good effects. I get tearful every time I hear a Sigur Ros track. I’m just so happy that someone like them—who are so completely original—are doing it for the music, not for fame or money or something stupid like that. Maybe, in some way, they were influenced by my celebrity thing. I wouldn’t be the right person to say how, but we’ve got mutual friends, and they’ve said how I did things made them braver in not wanting to compromise. They could just be themselves and they didn’t have to sound like Oasis. I’m not dissing Oasis, or anything like that, but they could just be an Icelandic band and they could still be okay. Overall, I’m really pleased with that. I would like to think that these things win in the end.

In the past, you’ve mentioned how you seek a certain time for self-reflection and seclusion because it helps your art. How would you characterize your relationship with loneliness now? Do you have to seek it out more aggressively because of your fame, or is being famous lonely in and of itself?
I’m lucky because I’ve had most of my mates before everything happened. I’ve stayed with the same people. They don’t give a shit, really. So that’s good. And the people I’ve met on the way, that I meet through my work, a lot of them I don’t become close with. You become close while you’re working with them and that’s fantastic, but it’s not like a lifelong thing. That’s okay. That’s how everybody is. I’ve been really surprised that even when I’ve had a lot of so-called “famous people” around, and you think they should be pretty artificial, but I still manage to meet gorgeous people. Every couple of years, I’ll meet a new person I didn’t even know existed before and I’m thrilled and I can’t believe it. They function in a completely different way and I didn’t even imagine that a human being could even be that way. It’s very exciting.

In a way, [my sense of loneliness] has sort of stayed the same. It’s something that hasn’t changed much. I guess the need for contact and communication is so strong that it sort of conquers everything. It’s sort of meant to be. All these other little bullshit things don’t matter, you know? But, I see what you mean. I’ve always been surrounded by friends and family. It’s like where I am now—we’re 12 people here in the house, so it seems to always end up like that in my life [laughs]. My songwriting seems to be a lot about me sneaking off and creating my own kind of chamber and being really self-indulgent. It’s more about my relationship with myself. It’s always tricky to find that place. And if I once found something that works, but the next time it doesn’t, I have to find something else. But that’s a good riddle to solve.

As a musician, the development of your artistic life is under constant judgment and essentially defined by strangers. As a parent, your child judges you as a mother and a human being. Have you learned more about yourself through your music, or through your child?
That’s a good question. I don’t know. I think I’m really hard on myself as a musician. I think I’m harder on myself than any critic could be. So, I have learned a lot about myself through my music, but a lot of it has to do with how I feel. I do read reviews occasionally. It’s not like I’m completely blind to what people think of me. But, I would say it’s equal—what my music teaches me about myself, and bring up a child. But it’s very different. I mean, you almost can’t compare it. They’re very, very, different. My boy is 16 now and he doesn’t need me that much anymore. The music always with you. You have a child for 15 or 16 years and it’s gone.

They’re off and running…
And they’re kind of their own thing. I believe children are born with certain characters and there’s not that much you can do to change them. I think it’s more about supporting them to be what they are. I could talk forever on this subject.



If one is born with a certain character already in place, what character were you born with?
[Long pause] I guess it’s hard to say. Your family members always tell you that you were really cute, or something, but I was told I was very self-sufficient and kind of in my own little world. I guess that makes sense [laughs].

In life or in music, what has continuously caused you the most frustration?
It’s hard to sum it up, because I’m such an emotional person. I have sort of an “all or nothing” kind of character. I would say both my best experiences, and also the more difficult ones, have been in human relations. I’ve been very lucky, though. I’m blessed to say that the majority of people that I work with say that some of their best musical experiences have been with me. So, overall, apart from a pain or two, I’ve been very lucky. I think it’s been pretty good. F


Hair & make-up: Thorsten Weiss
Stylist: Victoria Bartlett
Cover: Warren Du & Nick Thornton-Jones

PREVIOUS "10 YEARS OF FILTER" FEATURES
Issue #1 (July 2002) Getting To Know: Bright Eyes, Doves, Balligomingo, South and Breakestra
Issue #1 (July 2002) Cover Story: On the Dark Side of the Moon with Weezer
Issue #2 (September 2002) Getting To Know: Haven, Interpol, Division of Laura Lee, Jazzanova and The Cato Salsa Experience

2012 marks FILTER Magazine‘s tenth year in print. To celebrate, we are looking back at some of our favorite magazine features, from July 2002’s Issue #1 all the way up to this coming November’s Issue #50.

Getting To Know is a section in the magazine that serves as a good gauge for our predictions of greatness. In FILTER Issue #2, released September 2002, we introduced Haven, Interpol, Division of Laura Lee, Jazzanova and The Cato Salsa Experience. Here is a brief look at those artists, then and now.

Stay tuned for Issue #2's complete "Björk: Look Back In Wonder" cover story to be posted later this week.

Getting to Know Recap

ISSUE 2: September 2002


Photo by Pieter van Hattem

Band: Interpol
Where They Were Then: The dapper New York foursome—composed of singer/guitarist Paul Banks, bassist Carlos D, drummer Sam Fogarino and guitarist Daniel Kessler—released their glowing debut, Turn on the Bright Lights, on Matador Records in August of 2002.
Where They Are Now: In the 10 years since the release of Turn on the Bright Lights, Interpol has released three more albums: Antics (2004), Our Love to Admire (2007) and Interpol (2010). While the band signed with Capitol Records in 2006, Banks put out a record of his own, Julian Plenti is… Skyscraper on Matador in 2009, and Fogarino formed a duo with Swervedriver’s Adam Franklin called Magnetic Morning. The group also parted ways with Carlos D in 2010, hiring indie mainstays David Pajo on bass and Secret Machines keyboardist/vocalist Brandon Curtis to fill on tour. Pajo has now been replaced on tours by former Animal Collective collective member Brad Truax.
FILTER said: While cars filled with parents line up outside CBGB’s to pick up their little revolutionaries, Interpol is corrupting a whole new batch of runaways at the other end of town.
Band said: “None of us has an over-arching sense of what the band should sound like and no one ever shoots down a song because they think a certain song doesn’t fit our vibe. Sometimes it just takes a little while for everyone to be satisfied.” –Paul Banks
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Photo by Micky Smith

Band: Haven
Where They Were Then: Produced by none other than The Smiths’ Johnny Marr, the British four piece released their first record, Between the Senses, in early 2002. Haven had toured with countrymen Badly Drawn Boy and New Order and also signed with Virgin Records.
Where They Are Now: In 2004, they put out their sophomore album All for a Reason and broke up the next year. Vocalist Gary Briggs and guitarist Nat Watson would give it another go as members of The Strays and most recently Freebass. The latter—which also included New Order’s Peter Hook, The Stone Roses’ Gary Mounfield and The Smiths’ Andy Rourke—broke up in 2010. Former Haven bassist Iwan Gronow and drummer Jack Mitchell also pressed on and are currently in Mutineers.
FILTER said: Haven isn’t really from Manchester, but they’ve been living there long enough for its grit and grime and its salty seaport energy to make its way under their skin and into their sound.
Band said: “Nothing felt more real and more safe than when the rehearsal door was shut. In the music, I was free to go wherever I wanted.” –Gary Briggs
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Photo by Chris Mottalini

Band: Division of Laura Lee
Where They Were Then: These Swedes’ latest effort, Black City, had already hit the streets and they were getting ready for their first Stateside tour in the fall.
Where They Are Now: DoLL have a few more records to their name; including 97-99 (2003), Das Not Compute (2004) and Violence Is Timeless (2008). Late last year, they made a new song (“Cabin Jam”) available to stream or for download on their website.
FILTER said: Division of Laura Lee, yet another Burning Heart Records export, along with the Hives, has been lumped into the mass of Stooge-thrash themselves, even though these cats use a far greater assortment of sounds and styles than their starry-eyed brothers.
Band said: “We grew up with punk in the early ‘90s—Fugazi, Sonic Youth, Drive Like Jehu and the like—but also old soul music, the records of Television, The Velvet Underground, plus My Bloody Valentine and Ride. What we were and are really seeking to do, is not be ordinary or typical.” –Per Stålberg
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Photo by Ben Wolf

Band: Jazzanova
Where They Were Then: Jazzanova’s Claas Brelier spoke to FILTER the day before the release of their first full-length, 2002’s In Between, about their role in ushering in the nu-jazz movement.
Where They Are Now: They live to dance another day. The Berlin group has released a handful of remixes and compilations as well as another album, Of All the Things, in 2008. Upside Down, their latest effort, will hits streets this month and they begin a European tour in February.
FILTER said: Jazanova, along with London’s 4Hero, are the founding fathers of the nu-jazz movement. It was a reaction against the “coldness” found in club music of the mid ’90s, and an extension of the mojo found in early ‘90s acid jazz. And like all great dancefloor innovations, it began in the clubs.
Band said: “We were playing old tunes so often,” says Claas of their extensive residency at the Berlin-based Delicious Donut. “Everything from Brazil to folk to soul to hip-hop to…everything. We wanted to transfer the feeling of these songs to electronic productions, only make it fresher.”

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Photo by Kim Nygard

Band: The Cato Salsa Experience
Where They Were Then: The Scandinavian rock and rollers were touring behind their debut A Good Tip for a Good Time and working on their next record.
Where They Are Now: Since then The Cato Salsa Experience have put out The Fruit is Still Fresh, Sounds Like a Sandwich (with The Thing and Joe McPhee), Cato Salsa Experience No. 3 and 2007’s Two Bands and a Legend (also with their former collaborators). It’s hard to say where they are today; they’ve fallen off the map.
FILTER said: From the country that invented paperclips and gave us A-Ha, Norway now brings us The Cato Salsa Experience, a spunky little band that has about as much in common with the whiny grunge of the ’90s as they do with the garage rock from the ’60s which they emulate.
Band said: “People call us a garage rock band, but we consider ourselves to be a rock and roll band because that’s what we like to play. The garage tag is just common because we’re in a garage rock wave of music right now.” –Christian Engfelt
 

PREVIOUS "10 YEARS OF FILTER" FEATURES
Issue #1 (July 2002) Getting To Know: Bright Eyes, Doves, Balligomingo, South and Breakestra
Issue #1 (July 2002) Cover Story: On the Dark Side of the Moon with Weezer

Story continued from Part 1.

Are you always working or writing? Can you turn it off if you need to?

Sure I can. I have to. I do have a state that I live in. Which is why no one ever hears from me. [Laughs.] But this business we call show, it’s rather absurd sometimes when you really think about it, because you think you’re making stuff that’s gonna be around but you’re making popsicles that will sit on bus benches in Florida in the summer and melt. That’s what we’re making, this kind of music, this sound. And then they tell you that you’re the king of something—you’re the king of the schoolyard, king of the front seat, you’re the king of the weeds—just because you can draw really cool pictures on a dirty car with your finger, just ’cause you draw in the dirt with a stick and everyone likes what you do. None of this stuff is designed to stay. Except that you will retain some of it. The first time you heard “Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag.” Ah, man. They do stay with you, these musical things that you squirt into your ear. Some stay, some don’t. They either grow or they don’t.

How bout these band names now, huh? The Slacks? As soon as I hear a band that’s called The Slacks, I think they’ll probably be on the bill with The Bras, The Slippers, The Buttons, The Underwear and The Collars. Maybe it’ll be a festival. Band names.

You didn’t mess around with one of those.

I didn’t have to. I really wish I changed my name when I got started in show business though. It makes you cleaner. That’s the “me”—that’s the ventriloquist and this is the dummy. I wish I’d called myself something else. Bill Brassiere and the Sleepwalking Assassins. Beaumont Zipperhorn and the Canadian Ankle Fans. Jihad Gingerpoodle and the Shoehorn Orchestra. Just so you know the difference between you—the real you—the show, and the reality. Alvin Trickleshirt and the Belvedere Shinolas. One night only. I’m on a roll.

People talk about your benchmark albums, changes in sound: when you jump labels the sound changes, when you met Kathleen the sound changed… What got you from Real Gone to Bad As Me?

I’ll never say. I don’t know. There’s 100 things. Who knows what the ingredients for tunes are when that whole thing starts feeling like a record? Again, you want to know but you really don’t want to know, because if I told you and it wasn’t interesting, you’d go, “Ah, Jesus.” In other words, when you have the truth and you have the myth, print the myth. “Chicago” had just the right number of syllables for that song. Try Reno. Try Miami. Bern, Switzerland. Didn’t work. There’s too many or there’s not enough. This was just right, like the Three Bears. Chicago, Chicago. When you say it, it stops being a town and just sounds like a conjuring word, like abracadabra.

It was the magical solution.

It was for that moment. It’s just travelling music for immigrants. Here’s the truth: We definitely wanted to do three-minute songs, 12 of ’em. No fucking around. I tried to sustain that, to honor that. I thought it was a good idea. Now that you got CDs, you can put 19 of ’em on there, I love that. That’s not always the right idea. So, 13, that’s not bad. I lobbied for one more. Some of those songs are really long and had to be cut down. That “New Year’s Eve” song was really long. It’s about a night that went badly. So you think, “OK, how much do we tell?” Had a little to eat, Marge got food poisoning, Stan lit the sofa on fire, the dog ran away, the car got towed, our neighbors called the cops…there’s a song in there somewhere. You have to pull weeds and you have to do the dishes.

Do you know those people in the songs?

No, it’s code, remember? Protect the innocent. I’ll leave it up to you as to whether there’s a real Sergio or not because it doesn’t really matter. It’s just a song, it’s song logic. That always rules.

Less specifically, can you tell me what a “raised right man” is?

You’ll know when you get married. You’ll know that you aren’t one and you need to be, and you’re not ready. And you’ll know why there’s a sofa in the living room. You’ve not stood before God and had to explain yourself.

Do you see yourself as more of a conductor or as more of a facilitator when it comes to working with other musicians in your studio?

Maybe a little bit of a conjurer. Some of them already dance, but nobody really knows the answer to why a song’s not working. It’s like taking your pet snake to the vet. “I don’t know, Doc, he’s just been laying here for weeks. I can’t even get him to bite me. What do you think it is?” [Laughs.] And everyone is entitled to offer their opinion about what is wrong: “I don’t know, Tom, too much bass.” “Not enough bass.” Well, which is it? “Let’s start over.” “The song is shit.” “No it’s not.” You have great performances on really mediocre songs. Hey, the radio’s full of them. And vice versa. The poor performances of really great songs no one will ever hear. It has to all come together. 

Song ideas have humble beginnings. Stood up on a date, my dog died, my dad was killed in the war… You put yourself in the room with people who are known healers, known entities. Sometimes if you go in there with somebody you’ve never worked with before, something surprising happens. If everybody has already worked together before, many times you’re just gonna chase a chicken around on the beach all day, you’re tired and go hungry. Sometimes you need someone to think outside the boxes. And you gotta trust the people you go in with, just like a cast on a play or a movie. “Let’s get him, man, Harry Dean Stanton, he should be the king! Let’s get Louise Brooks, have her be the queen. Let’s start there.” I work with great people, I know I do because I have an instinct about ’em. Les Claypool, great. Ribot, great. Flea, great. Dave, great. Keith, great. Casey Waits, great. Charlie Musselwhite, indispensable. Charlie brings about 600 harmonicas to a gig. “Jesus, Charlie, we can’t use all of those!” But he knows: If you don’t bring it, you’ll definitely need it. That’s true of every session.

I don’t know how much people want to know about what goes on inside the studio. I don’t even know how much these guys want to be known. Some of ’em, they’ll love to tell you, make shit up. Or tell you what really happened. Fact is I make ’em sign a…whaddya call it?

Non-disclosure agreement?

Yeah, right! They’ll start calling their high school history teacher, sendin’ pictures all over the place… It’s like, this was a private affair here; what happens in here stays in here. ’Course it’s never true, but we’ll all pretend.

That’s the fun part with music, if you really do let yourself go, you do find something. “The bass player had to leave by 9, so there’s no bass on this song.” Well, hey, it was better! Again, I still think we’re drawing in the dirt with a stick. Which is part of the excitement of it, too; there’s a certain energy in the room when you’re doing that. We’re not inventing the wheel here; there’s plenty of wheels, we’re getting the benefit of them. But you have to feel that what you’re doing is somewhat unique, even though there’s really nothing new under the sun. Read Ecclesiastes and you’ll learn all about that. Everything’s being borrowed, forgotten, made-up, left out, cannibalized; everybody does that, it’s that kind of work. In that “Bad As Me” song, when I stop and do that spoken-word thing… “Oh man, that’s Screamin’ Jay Hawkins all day, man!” So what? It’s a tribute to Screamin’ Jay. He’s gone, tip your hat to him. 50 children. So sometimes it’s just that.

Code or not, there seem to be a few hints toward recognizing some sort of mortality here. Or even immortality, like “Last Leaf.” Is that a theme you find creeping in more and more?

Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. Sometimes the last leaf is just the last leaf. It’s fall. And there’s one more leaf on that tree and he’s not going.

Can you envision reaching a point where you won’t want to do this anymore?

Oh, well, I don’t know, yeah, sure, probably. I need to move on to different things. Who knows where it’s taking you? If you knew exactly what you were doing, it wouldn’t be any fun, would it? You wind up drawing giraffes using Tabasco sauce on the back of coasters with a nail. I could sell those for big money.

I’m sure you could, Tom. Here’s my last question: What does it sound like in your house when you’re the only one awake?

It’s very rare that this place is empty, or quiet, and I’m up. But I do find it fascinating, the things that you notice when you’re trying to be so quiet—if you’re trying to make some eggs at three in the morning, and you get in that drawer with all the pots and pans, what it sounds like. I try to think of that when I’m in the studio, because it is like that, you’re isolating sounds, you’re taking them and putting them in the place where there’s just sound, and then they’re somewhat disembodied, and it’s an interesting thing, what the microphones do—things that happen only because it’s so quiet that you notice and then you want to keep. When the orchestra is tuning up, many times it’s the most interesting moment in the show. They had no idea it was gonna be that exciting, they didn’t even know they were making music. So if you bring in musicians and they’re goofing around getting ready to play, many times you have to pay attention to what they’re doing before they start playing with a capital “P.” They have no idea how interesting what they were doing before they knew they were doing anything was. Acting is the same, you’re kind of catching wildlife.

You gotta get one of those little military-engineered flies to really capture it.

They’re getting smaller and smaller, those things. I have relatives in the C.I.A., that’s how I know all that. Uncle Bill. He risks his life every time he calls me.

And you told it to a man with a tape recorder.

Oh my god. Now I’m gonna have to make you promise that you’ll never print any of this. Alright, this is the last question I’ve got for you: There’s one line that is said more than any other line in the entire history of cinema. Do you know what that line is?

I’m gonna go with… “What’ll it be?”

“What’ll it be?” No, no. That’s pretty good, though. You mean, guy’s walking into a bar and the bartender says, “What’ll it be?” That’s pretty good! It’s probably in the running, but it’s not the one. I can’t give you the prize.

So, what is the number one most-spoken line in cinema?

Here it comes, you ready? “Let’s get outta here.” That’s it. Let’s get out of here.     F

2012 marks FILTER Magazine‘s tenth year in print. To celebrate, we are looking back at some of our favorite magazine features, from July 2002’s Issue #1 all the way up to this coming November’s Issue #50.

Below you will find Issue #1's cover story, in full, where we sat down with Weezer frontman Rivers Cuomo in the summer of 2002 to discuss the band's just-released fourth studio album, Maladroit, his increasingly intense relationship with internet fans ("They're my best friends."), and his now-proven confidence in the band's ability to last.

"A Largely One-Sided Conversation About God Knows What With Weezer's Rivers Cuomo" (Issue 1, July 2002)

Talking to some people makes you wonder why anyone asks questions about anyone, ever. Questions are perhaps best left to find out specific things like driving directions, because at least you'll get somewhere. Questions are the only ammunition of the young--kids who ask their fathers why the sky is blue, or where babies come from. Questions without answers stretch the brain to ponder the unknown, only to slacken again and find comfort in the concrete. Ask enough questions and you'll either find God or an absolute-zero nihilism, both of which are designed to make you stop asking questions. So why am I about to enter this room with this stranger Rivers and subject him to a barrage of queries that I'm not even sure I need to know the answers to, especially if he's not even sure he's committed to the truth of his answers? What is the value to this kid of information? I don't know the answer and I'm guessing Rivers doesn't either.

There are numerous reasons why Tucson, Arizona is the perfect place to subject yourself to the Weezer experience. This is where you'll find the truest Weezer fan--abandoned in the middle of a dusty oblivion, subjected to the bright melancholy dryness of a land that rejects water. This is a place where you wait for someone from someplace else to vocalize your innermost yearning and to lift you from your languor, even if it's just for the duration of a three-minute pop song. If Rivers Cuomo is a voice speaking for the adrift and vulnerable teen, you'll find most of his brethren within the confined of this municipality.

The band is in town to play one of a series of low-profile amphitheater shows before they get to the "real" venues and launch the "real" tour in support of their fourth full-length, Maladroit. The venue is bathed in the colors of the desert. If it's not tan brick or brown paint, it's beige cinder blocks and off-white sheet-rock walls. The most colorful decorations are provided by the red vinyl Budweiser signs advertising the five-dollar, 12-ounce, show-enhancing nectar of said brewery--a liquid that will be off-limits to about eight-five percent of this evening's crowd.

Before I'm shuffled off to the myth-laden exclusivity of the backstage area, I notice that some of the die-hard kids have already pressed themselves up against the fences, necks upward like birds in a nest, craning for a glimpse of their heroes who have made this unlikely stop in their town. The big black Cadillac I'm riding in is quickly mistaken for a limousine, and when my eyes make contact with these kids, you can see the disappointment slacken their stares at the sight of little old anonymous me. I even feel sorry I've let them down and wish I was somebody, anybody they'd want to meet; not for my ego, but purely for their fulfillment. As it is, I can't give them anything.

But maybe I can. I'm being allowed access to the inner sphere of Weezer and the opportunity to speak with their reclusive ringleader, Rivers Cuomo. The kids might arrive four hours early to stretch their necks limp to just get a glimpse of him, but I get to pick his brain for an hour. I'm filled with new purpose. I need to suck some truth out of this Howard Hughes of  rock and spread my bounty amongst the children of Tucson and beyond.

Much of the potency of my melodramatic sense of purpose wanes in the duration of time I spend staring at the buffet table, awaiting my cue to enter Rivers' dressing room. But when I'm finally gathered up by his assistant and led into his backstage lair, I feel the warm draft of an intangible eccentricity waft over me like pot-smoke drifting out of a dorm room's open door. It is so quiet in here, you could hear the sound of a soggy Jack Purcell shoe drop. After hesitant introductions, I reach over to place my tape recorded on the desk in front of him, and he intercepts it, turning it over and over again in a slow inspection, as if I just handed him an armadillo carcass collected from the sprawling deer outside. It passes the test and he places it gently in front of him, next to his open laptop computer which will command more of his attention than I will for the next hour.

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