Beirut’s Zach Condon
As the singer and songwriter behind Beirut, Zach Condon has always pulled inspiration from disparate sources: for Beirut’s 2006 debut, Gulag Orkestar, Condon mined Balkan folk music. For 2007′s The Flying Club Cup, he incorporated bits of French chanson. And for March of the Zapotec/Holland — a new double EP — he borrows from Oaxacan church bands and, surprisingly, his own bedroom-electronica past. eMusic talks to Condon about how the release came together.
I know you were originally in Mexico to work on a soundtrack to series of short films. But you ended up recording a handful of new songs there.
I was supposed to record a soundtrack for a film, and the guy was sending me reference material from all over Mexico. In the end, I think he wanted more of a string ensemble-type soundtrack, and I was getting really invested in this brass stuff I was hearing from Oaxaca, specifically. And I asked him if he would be interested in me going down there and using some of those musicians to play original compositions. And he basically said that wasn’t something he was interested in, and so I decided just to do it myself.
How did you find your way to that music?
I wasn’t seeking it out, it just kind of fell in my lap. The guy from the movie had found field recordings of these church-sponsored bands in Oaxaca that were playing very funereal music, and it was sent to me as reference material, and I loved it.
And from there, you partnered with one of these church bands — the Jiminez Band?
It’s funny, I was doing research online about this style of music, what these bands are made of, how loose or how organized they are. I got a good sense of what was going on. I even YouTubed some videos of what they looked like. We have a band member whose mother lives in Oaxaca six months out of the year — she speaks fluent Spanish and she teaches down there. There’s this city that she goes to, and it’s much more famous for its weaving than its music — the [residents] were really surprised when we came wanting music and not, you know, tapestries. But she knew the guy who knows everyone in town. He’s like the unofficial guide to this city, Teotitlan del Valle. And he said “Yeah, the bands? Those martial-sounding bands? Yeah, yeah, I know plenty of them. Just pick one and I’ll tell them to come over.”
It’s interesting — creative people often talk about religious institutions as being stifling or oppressive, but so often it’s church music — gospel music — that gets cited, over and over again, as a primary inspiration.
Oh yeah, totally. It’s funny, my family is pretty hardcore Catholic. I was raised completely Atheist, but I went to church with them. I remember as a kid, I hated sitting through the sermons, but when the music hit, it just came from another place entirely.
Do you speak Spanish?
My Spanish is fucking terrible. Which is really ironic, because I grew up in New Mexico, which is a 50% Spanish-speaking state. I think my teenage rebellion was to learn French instead. I lost all Spanish I might have picked up. We had a translator — that guy I was talking about, that guy who knows everyone in town. And he speaks Zapotec and Spanish and English. Some of the older members of the band didn’t really speak that much Spanish — they spoke functional Spanish, but he would have to explain to them in Zapotec what I wanted. It was all a blur. It was confusing and awesome at the same time.
Man, that sounds like a sitcom setup — just primed for miscommunications. Did you ever ask for something, and then get something else?
What’s funny is that the translator wasn’t a musician. I would say to him “I want a darker, harsher sound to this song.” But I have no idea what this guy is telling this band — who knows what, in his mind, “harsher and darker” translates to. He probably told them, like, “Oh, just play really brutally.” Something totally different. Because it would all come out slightly different than what I asked for. But it’s better to roll with that stuff, because it ends up being much better in the end.
How big of a role do you think place plays in art? Do you think that the food that you eat, the landscape outside your window, the coffee you drink — do you think that informs the way you write and the way you perform?
Location is incredibly important. I’ve noticed that even the songs I write in New York are darker and more sinister than the ones I write when I’m home in New Mexico. I wrote the demos for this EP in New York; the last album, The Flying Club Cup, I wrote all of that back home, in New Mexico. It’s pretty drastic, the change.
Do you have a songwriting ritual?
I mostly do it as it comes. The ritual is more in the emotions you go through when you’re writing a song. I go through periods of insanity about songs, where I get really obsessive-compulsive and over-analytical. There are certain insanities, there are certain periods of euphoria. I see all these things coming as I’m doing it, but I have to experience it anew every time.
The second half of the EP is credited to Realpeople, which was an alias you used before you began recording as Beirut. Why did you decide to resurrect it?
Basically, I was in Mexico, and I was getting really intense with this stuff, and I was working really hard. And then at home, while I was still working on that stuff, I found myself pulling out some of the older songs I’ve written, and just enjoying them for their simplicity and their naivete.
I get that, because there’s an innocence to it. That sounds cheesy, but I do think there’s an honesty involved in making art that you don’t think people will ever see. And that can get lost.
Oh, exactly. I was trying to find a balance between those things. I had released an older electronic song on a charity compilation last year, and the reaction was pretty healthy. People liked it. So I guess I thought that since the Mexican EP was rather short, all in all, that I should give people more for their dollar. I know that people are curious about the Jeckyl to my Hyde. [Laughs.]
Did you have a sense that these two halves would be compatible? Because I think they play off of each other in some really compelling ways, but it’s not necessarily an obvious pairing.
It’s kind of a bold step. I didn’t mean for it to be a challenge to anyone. It’s funny. It’s two sides of the same coin, right? There’s gotta be something similar in there.
Well, you’re the through-line. Do you think this is something you’ll continue to do?
I think that putting out this EP, which these two incredibly, drastically different sounds — one very extreme on one side, one very extreme on the other — I feel like I’ve cleansed the palette. I have a fresh start. I don’t think I’ll do an electro-acoustic mix of the two, I feel like I’ve gotten it out of my system.
You’re about to play two shows at the Brooklyn Academy of Music, which is an incredible space.
One of the first concerts I ever saw in New York was there. It was Stephen Merritt playing a bunch of songs from 69 Love Songs. I remember his voice being so deep, it would rumble the P.A. It is a beautiful space. I don’t normally play such classical venues. It will be interesting for me. I’m bringing a string section along.
How do you prepare for a show?
I get very isolationist. I need to get lost in my own head for awhile before shows. Even if there are people around, I probably won’t notice. I feel bad sometimes, because sometimes a fan will see me before a show, and they’ll be like “Hey, how’s it going?” and I just shut down completely. After a show, it’s quite different. You gotta build it up, there’s gotta be momentum in the night.
Do you enjoy touring?
ZC: It’s rough actually, it’s rough. You’ve got to find a balance, obviously. If you tour too much, it starts to feel like you’re just a career hound. A career horse? Is that the phrase? [Laughs.]
