FRI., JANUARY 04, 2008
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eMusic Q&A: Scritti Politti
by Chris Roberts
When Green Gartside returned from the presumed-missing in 2006 with his first album in seven years and first live shows in no less than 26, he must have noticed the tide of goodwill that embraced him. His whispery, delicate pop was not born for these times, but its intelligence, charm and subversive wit remain timeless. So much so that the Rough Trade “comeback” album White Bread, Black Beer picked up a Mercury Prize nomination (effectively a lifetime achievement nod), while a compilation of older, experimental material — Early — was greeted like tablets from the mountain-top.
The warmth was merited: everything Scritti Politti did has since proven subtly influential. After his philosophy-quoting post-punk phase, his blue-eyed soul phase (“The “Sweetest Girl”” survives as a peerless waft of understatement), and his big-in-America dance-floor deconstructionist era (which involved praying like Aretha Franklin and collaborating with Miles Davis), Green turned his back on the whole shebang. He’d found pop stardom “50% really uncomfortable.”
He retired to rural Wales where his next discovery was “sloth.” Moving to Hackney in the late '90s, he emerged from his shell, playing with local musicians and getting married. He recorded at home alone, and recovered his enthusiasm. He’s now writing not one but two new albums…
What took you so long?
A mixture of fear and disinterest. Principally fear. For twenty plus years I wouldn’t play live. Then Geoff Travis (Rough Trade) coaxed me out of retirement: we played a gig under an assumed name in a pub and if I’d still hated it I’d never have done it again. But I didn’t hate it. It wasn’t so bad. I mean, I still get anxious, but not to the debilitating level that led to panic attacks and hospitalised me in 1980. That said, it’s still mainly about the writing for me...
Did White Bread Black Beer, and the healthy reception it got, restore your confidence and desire?
It did. It was very gratifying. Particularly considering it was made in a small room in my house, and principally just to please me and Geoff Travis. I didn’t think beyond that. There was no attempt to, you know, wake everybody up and make them pay attention. It was a very low-key, personal affair. And since, I’ve started dozens and dozens of new songs. What I’m not so good at is finishing them.
What themes and motivations fuelled White Bread Black Beer?
There was a kind of relaxation back into my innocent childhood influences. Whenever I’ve left a home over the years I tended to leave under some dark cloud, or drama, or relationship break-up. So I’d leave all my old records there! So I slowly went around re-acquiring things I used to listen to in my early teens, before I became very wrapped-up in hip-hop and r&b. Mad, different stuff — anything from the Incredible String Band to Henry Cow to the Beach Boys to rockabilly.
As for lyrics, sometimes they come easily, sometimes they take days. There are elements of the autobiographical, for the first time for me, in songs like “Road to No Regret.” For me though it’s important to work hard at ambiguity. I grew up not understanding most lyrics I heard, and I liked having to figure out what was going on. I like wordplay and clues more than straightforward narratives or confessionals. A sense of mystery.
I never listen to my own music once it’s recorded.
Your oldest material, as compiled on Early, is accompanied by overly apologetic, self-effacing sleeve notes by yourself...
I never listen to my own music once it’s recorded. I try my hardest to never hear it after mixing it. Some things I’ve literally never heard since, which is the way I like it. But I had to listen to Early for the label, and…yes, I squirmed all the way through it. But I would do that anyway, whatever it was like. If “The Sweetest Girl” comes on in, say, a shop, I run out of the shop. It makes me feel ill. It’s just one of those things. I tell my new live band that if they want to learn a song from the records, fine, I’ll sing it. But I won’t listen to the original track.
Is there anything about your pop stardom period — of slick international hits like “Wood Beez (Pray Like Aretha Franklin)” and “Absolute” — which you recall with affection?
No, not at all. I remember it with great discomfort. It felt so wrong. It was something I’d wanted to try in an ironic way. There was no way I could buy honestly and earnestly into the whole pop thing, because I knew too much about pop, as it were. I wasn’t naïve. And yet in another way, I was. I’d thought it’d be fun to explore and play with, both musically and politically. To see what happens when you’re in Black Rock New York or Warners offices in LA…to go to the heart of things and see what it’s like.
And I just HATED it. I felt uneasy 24 hours a day. I felt a complete phony. It really got to me. There was an irrational emotional response to the whole business of being…looked at. And made to do silly, bullshit things on television, to be a little performing thing. I don’t ever remember thinking “well done,” not even quietly to myself. So I stopped making music altogether, for a long time. Now as I get less uptight about things generally, sure, it’s nice when Timbaland says he used to listen to it, and I have fond memories of meeting Miles Davis. But back then a little bit of me died every time I did some TV rubbish…
So during the quiet, Garbo years, what did you actually do?
Went back to Wales where I was born, got a cottage by the river, and just drank beer and played darts and read books. For years. People now say: God, do you regret the time you spent doing absolutely nothing? And I don’t at all! It just had to be that way. I effectively left everything and everyone and went off on my own. And sometimes that’s what you gotta do.
Relocating back to London, you found the hunger again?
I have the right attitude now. It was a long enough sabbatical. I realised that if I’d taken that long off and I still wanted to make music, then it must be an important thing in my life. I got on well with Hackney, met musicians in the pub, started to get my lazy finger out. My next album should be finished fairly soon and come out next summer ('08), and I’m also collaborating on a duo album with Alexis Taylor from Hot Chip. I’m interested and engaged again.
The warmth was merited: everything Scritti Politti did has since proven subtly influential. After his philosophy-quoting post-punk phase, his blue-eyed soul phase (“The “Sweetest Girl”” survives as a peerless waft of understatement), and his big-in-America dance-floor deconstructionist era (which involved praying like Aretha Franklin and collaborating with Miles Davis), Green turned his back on the whole shebang. He’d found pop stardom “50% really uncomfortable.”
He retired to rural Wales where his next discovery was “sloth.” Moving to Hackney in the late '90s, he emerged from his shell, playing with local musicians and getting married. He recorded at home alone, and recovered his enthusiasm. He’s now writing not one but two new albums…
What took you so long?
A mixture of fear and disinterest. Principally fear. For twenty plus years I wouldn’t play live. Then Geoff Travis (Rough Trade) coaxed me out of retirement: we played a gig under an assumed name in a pub and if I’d still hated it I’d never have done it again. But I didn’t hate it. It wasn’t so bad. I mean, I still get anxious, but not to the debilitating level that led to panic attacks and hospitalised me in 1980. That said, it’s still mainly about the writing for me...
Did White Bread Black Beer, and the healthy reception it got, restore your confidence and desire?
It did. It was very gratifying. Particularly considering it was made in a small room in my house, and principally just to please me and Geoff Travis. I didn’t think beyond that. There was no attempt to, you know, wake everybody up and make them pay attention. It was a very low-key, personal affair. And since, I’ve started dozens and dozens of new songs. What I’m not so good at is finishing them.
What themes and motivations fuelled White Bread Black Beer?
There was a kind of relaxation back into my innocent childhood influences. Whenever I’ve left a home over the years I tended to leave under some dark cloud, or drama, or relationship break-up. So I’d leave all my old records there! So I slowly went around re-acquiring things I used to listen to in my early teens, before I became very wrapped-up in hip-hop and r&b. Mad, different stuff — anything from the Incredible String Band to Henry Cow to the Beach Boys to rockabilly.
As for lyrics, sometimes they come easily, sometimes they take days. There are elements of the autobiographical, for the first time for me, in songs like “Road to No Regret.” For me though it’s important to work hard at ambiguity. I grew up not understanding most lyrics I heard, and I liked having to figure out what was going on. I like wordplay and clues more than straightforward narratives or confessionals. A sense of mystery.
Your oldest material, as compiled on Early, is accompanied by overly apologetic, self-effacing sleeve notes by yourself...
I never listen to my own music once it’s recorded. I try my hardest to never hear it after mixing it. Some things I’ve literally never heard since, which is the way I like it. But I had to listen to Early for the label, and…yes, I squirmed all the way through it. But I would do that anyway, whatever it was like. If “The Sweetest Girl” comes on in, say, a shop, I run out of the shop. It makes me feel ill. It’s just one of those things. I tell my new live band that if they want to learn a song from the records, fine, I’ll sing it. But I won’t listen to the original track.
Is there anything about your pop stardom period — of slick international hits like “Wood Beez (Pray Like Aretha Franklin)” and “Absolute” — which you recall with affection?
No, not at all. I remember it with great discomfort. It felt so wrong. It was something I’d wanted to try in an ironic way. There was no way I could buy honestly and earnestly into the whole pop thing, because I knew too much about pop, as it were. I wasn’t naïve. And yet in another way, I was. I’d thought it’d be fun to explore and play with, both musically and politically. To see what happens when you’re in Black Rock New York or Warners offices in LA…to go to the heart of things and see what it’s like.
And I just HATED it. I felt uneasy 24 hours a day. I felt a complete phony. It really got to me. There was an irrational emotional response to the whole business of being…looked at. And made to do silly, bullshit things on television, to be a little performing thing. I don’t ever remember thinking “well done,” not even quietly to myself. So I stopped making music altogether, for a long time. Now as I get less uptight about things generally, sure, it’s nice when Timbaland says he used to listen to it, and I have fond memories of meeting Miles Davis. But back then a little bit of me died every time I did some TV rubbish…
So during the quiet, Garbo years, what did you actually do?
Went back to Wales where I was born, got a cottage by the river, and just drank beer and played darts and read books. For years. People now say: God, do you regret the time you spent doing absolutely nothing? And I don’t at all! It just had to be that way. I effectively left everything and everyone and went off on my own. And sometimes that’s what you gotta do.
Relocating back to London, you found the hunger again?
I have the right attitude now. It was a long enough sabbatical. I realised that if I’d taken that long off and I still wanted to make music, then it must be an important thing in my life. I got on well with Hackney, met musicians in the pub, started to get my lazy finger out. My next album should be finished fairly soon and come out next summer ('08), and I’m also collaborating on a duo album with Alexis Taylor from Hot Chip. I’m interested and engaged again.
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