Aint Never Easy: Through the Eye of the Whirlpool with BRMCs Robert Levon Been
Issue 201 / September 2005 More from this Issue
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By Ryan Michael Painter
rien@davidbowie.com
It was a surprisingly pleasant spring afternoon as Peter Hayes took to wandering the streets of Salt Lake City. Caught between sound check and doors, and while many fans had already started to line up, he walked, unnoticed, away from the venue. I watched him for a few minutes as he banged on his acoustic guitar, the harmonica wired to his shoulder occasionally breathing in and out like a Tom Waits vocal. I considered stopping him for a chat, but sometimes you simply can't bother a man when he's straightening out keys and chords. Later I would ask him if he was working on his solo record; after all, this was the guitarist for Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, the band who had pulled the dead heart out of their Jesus & Mary Chain records and revitalized buzz-saw rock 'n' roll."No, not a solo album," he laughed.
Bassist Robert (then Turner, now Levon Been because a lot can happen in a year-and- half) was grimacing as he looked down at the full summer schedule they'd committed to. He was trying to find a gap where the touring paused just long enough to log a handful of days in a studio.
Perhaps none of this seems atypical; the crowd that night seemed acutely unaware and the band wasn't about to say anything, but BRMC were entering dark times. They just didn't realize how dark it would get before the end.
"It's always been dark; it just got worse." I can hear the London traffic passing by as Robert stands outside the aptly named venue The Garage. Over the next few days, the band is celebrating the release of their third LP, Howl, with a handful of small concerts and an in-store appearance before playing several festivals where many of the new songs will receive their live debut.
"The songs were written a little bit here and there," explains Robert. "It's taken a long time to learn the complex piano parts because they were added on the fly."
He talks with me for 20 or so minutes, then has a two-minute break before he's asked to repeat himself (although hopefully, for my sake, not verbatim) in another interview with another journalist.
"It's funny; I've tried to put all the big things into one day. The album, the show, and it's my birthday."
"Is this a day you thought would never come?" I ask.
He pauses, takes a deep breath and responds, "This is turning into an epic interview. Did I ever think I wouldn't see 27?" he ponders.
Just as they were pulling into Salt Lake a year-and-a-handful of months ago, their relationship with Virgin Records had been severed. The UK press, in typical fashion, turned negative on the band once hailed as "Saviors of Rock n' Roll." They had no tour support. Any studio time was going to have to be paid for out of their own pockets. Only days later, their appearance at the Coachella Festival disintegrated in technical difficulties, forcing the band into an impromptu acoustic set. Lollapalooza and a summer's worth of gigs were canceled soon after. Two months later, in Edinburgh, Scotland, drummer Nick Jago quit the band in the middle of their European festival tour. Speculation was that Peter might be writing a solo record after all.
"There were a few times when I thought " Robert pauses, and reconsiders. "No, I had some kind of blind optimism. I never really looked at the numbers. I was pushing to make this album. I never thought that it wouldn't happen."
"I couldn't think about anything but the music. I didn't know what the future was. When in doubt, the music guides you. It was dark times; we each had our own burdens to go through. We were caught at the bottom of the whirlpool and didn't know what to cling to."
rien@davidbowie.com
It was a surprisingly pleasant spring afternoon as Peter Hayes took to wandering the streets of Salt Lake City. Caught between sound check and doors, and while many fans had already started to line up, he walked, unnoticed, away from the venue. I watched him for a few minutes as he banged on his acoustic guitar, the harmonica wired to his shoulder occasionally breathing in and out like a Tom Waits vocal. I considered stopping him for a chat, but sometimes you simply can't bother a man when he's straightening out keys and chords. Later I would ask him if he was working on his solo record; after all, this was the guitarist for Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, the band who had pulled the dead heart out of their Jesus & Mary Chain records and revitalized buzz-saw rock 'n' roll."No, not a solo album," he laughed.
Bassist Robert (then Turner, now Levon Been because a lot can happen in a year-and- half) was grimacing as he looked down at the full summer schedule they'd committed to. He was trying to find a gap where the touring paused just long enough to log a handful of days in a studio.
Perhaps none of this seems atypical; the crowd that night seemed acutely unaware and the band wasn't about to say anything, but BRMC were entering dark times. They just didn't realize how dark it would get before the end.
"It's always been dark; it just got worse." I can hear the London traffic passing by as Robert stands outside the aptly named venue The Garage. Over the next few days, the band is celebrating the release of their third LP, Howl, with a handful of small concerts and an in-store appearance before playing several festivals where many of the new songs will receive their live debut.
"The songs were written a little bit here and there," explains Robert. "It's taken a long time to learn the complex piano parts because they were added on the fly."
He talks with me for 20 or so minutes, then has a two-minute break before he's asked to repeat himself (although hopefully, for my sake, not verbatim) in another interview with another journalist.
"It's funny; I've tried to put all the big things into one day. The album, the show, and it's my birthday."
"Is this a day you thought would never come?" I ask.
He pauses, takes a deep breath and responds, "This is turning into an epic interview. Did I ever think I wouldn't see 27?" he ponders.
Just as they were pulling into Salt Lake a year-and-a-handful of months ago, their relationship with Virgin Records had been severed. The UK press, in typical fashion, turned negative on the band once hailed as "Saviors of Rock n' Roll." They had no tour support. Any studio time was going to have to be paid for out of their own pockets. Only days later, their appearance at the Coachella Festival disintegrated in technical difficulties, forcing the band into an impromptu acoustic set. Lollapalooza and a summer's worth of gigs were canceled soon after. Two months later, in Edinburgh, Scotland, drummer Nick Jago quit the band in the middle of their European festival tour. Speculation was that Peter might be writing a solo record after all.
"There were a few times when I thought " Robert pauses, and reconsiders. "No, I had some kind of blind optimism. I never really looked at the numbers. I was pushing to make this album. I never thought that it wouldn't happen."
"I couldn't think about anything but the music. I didn't know what the future was. When in doubt, the music guides you. It was dark times; we each had our own burdens to go through. We were caught at the bottom of the whirlpool and didn't know what to cling to."
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