John Grant: To live with loneliness and to embrace intimacy

Disclaimer: The following interview with John Grant was originally commissioned and published by Danish music magazine Undertoner.dk – direct link here. The interview and both the original Danish version and the English translation were conducted and written by me. Enjoy.

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John Grant: To live with loneliness and to embrace intimacy
By: Laura C.F. Petersen

It has been 8 years since John Grant had his first major breakthrough with the album Queen of Denmark. Now he is back with his fourth, Love is Magic, and is in Copenhagen to play a gig as part of his European tour. We spent an hour in Grant’s company and had a long, interesting chat with him about love, change, happiness, loneliness and, of course, Denmark.

It beautiful day in November; the sun is reflecting in the windows of Vesterbro, one of the many districts in Copenhagen, and everything seems peaceful in front of Store Vega where I will shortly be interviewing John Grant. The prospect of having to interview as big and famous a musician as Grant undeniably is can be a little bit intimidating. Frankly, you never quite know what to expect –  you just hope you will be walking out of there with what you needed. But as soon as I step into into the tiny dressing room backstage and shake hands with this tall, broad-shouldered man, he makes a little ‘oh!’-sound and begins to warm my cold hands and I immediately feel at ease; I feel like I am quite literally in good hands. And as he is sitting there, now, in the corner of the sofa, he seems completely relaxed and comfortable; his kind, sleepy eyes are attentive; his presence is warm and friendly.

Denmark – a very special place

»It feels great [to be back in Denmark]… [but] I didn’t sleep well on the bus last night, I kept waking up. It’s good to be back, though…Copenhagen is, you know, it’s a beautiful city, architecturally speaking it’s just beautiful and the people are lovely as well…uhm…«

A pregnant pause; I sense a ‘but’ coming up.

»But it’s not…from the outside it’s not the friendliest city in the world. You know?«

It can come off as… rudeness maybe?

»Yeah, but it’s not, it’s not considered rude here…. I think people, what people think they’re doing is staying out of other people’s business…So it’s not actually a rudeness, it’s sort of like, ‘Well, I’m staying out of your business cos that’s your personal world’…Do you feel like that’s accurate?«

I nod. It seems to me that Grant has the Danish people sussed out pretty accurately, and before I know we are chatting about some of the many things he loves about Denmark; Danish design, Lars Von Trier (particularly the TV-Show Riget, which he pronounces almost flawlessly), the Danish film Italian for Beginners, which he’s just seen, and Danish humour, which he describes as »very dry and… not in your face«. And then, of course, there’s the famous concept of ‘hygge’. »Hyggelig?« he asks. I nod again – pronunciation approved.

»[But] I really wish that I could interact in Danish… ‘cos I love the language«

It is not only Denmark that has a special place in Grant’s heart. Iceland, too, and the Icelandic language plays an important part in his life. Three out of four of his solo albums have been recorded while he has been living there, which is now seven years – a fact he has a hard time comprehending:

»[It] blows my mind because I feel like I went there yesterday.«

Silent thinking.

»…but yeah I don’t know what I’m doing… I know that I love learning the language [Icelandic]. I’m starting to get good at it. Takes a long time to get good at that language it’s so … complicated.«

What Iceland and the Icelandic language has done to his music, however, is not really something he has an opinion about. He thinks I should ask someone else about that. Also, his newest album, Love is Magic, was not recorded in Iceland, but in Cornwall and Texas.

»…I don’t really know what effect those different landscapes had [on the album]. All I know is what I want to do is feel comfortable in a beautiful surrounding and be with good people. That’s how I make a good album.«

Happiness is to exist with loneliness

It clear that Grant is proud of his new album. He is proud of having reached this stage in his life – both personally and in his career.

»I feel like everything that is going into these albums has been there for decades…I feel like a caterpillar in a cocoon and it’s just been sort of gesting…I feel like this is just a slow process through the years of finding my own voice and I … I feel like I am finding my own voice.«

The latter is said with a mixture of pride and shyness. Being a sensitive, homosexual man growing up in a Methodist household in the state of Colorado cannot always have been easy. But he has come a long way since then.

»I mean, for me getting sober was my way of facing the world – without alcohol addiction and, you know, drugs, and I also tend to abuse sex and relationships in the same way…I think for me it’s about not running, not constantly try to change the way I feel. For example I don’t feel like happiness means being happy all the time. It’s more of a state contentedness…that you can also be with loneliness and not feel like you have to run away from it.«

Loneliness; to be an outsider longing for the unobtainable has been one of the most important themes flowing through Grant’s songs throughout the years. That, and love, of course – the big, bold, awesome, terrible love. A love which he now, maybe, at the age of 50, has learned how to handle.

It seems that the central theme of it [the new album] is not only love… but it’s also about change…

»Yeah«, he interrupts, »it’s about metamorphosis« he says, referring to the new album’s first track, the appropriately named “Metamorphosis”

Is it… love through change? Is it change through love?

»I think it’s change through love. But that’s a great question. First of all love is not… I think it’s letting go of the myth, a lot of the myths that humans are telling each other about love.«

“Is it really what you thought it would be?”, I say, attempting to quote one of the lines from the title track “Love is Magic”. I tell him that those exact words really hit home with me.

»Yeah… intimacy…[and] thank you. I love it too….it sounds like a simple ‘no shit Sherlock’… but it’s not. Because people think sexual intimacy is intimacy but intimacy is so many different things.«

He’s got his mother’s hips…

On your track, “Preppy Boy”…

»I love that track« he says, smiling, and chuckles as I try to make lyrical connections between this particular track and one of his older songs, “Silver Platter Club”. On both tracks, lacrosse seems to be a kind of symbol of that unobtainable thing that Grant sings so passionately about.

»It’s [lacrosse] just sort of this image of these Adonises from that time, who are rich«

His voice gets more serious.

»Basically “Preppy Boy” is a study of self-loathing. Because in worshipping these men the way you are, in this specific context, you are rejecting what you are. You’re saying ‘that’s what I should be’ and ‘this is bad’« – he points his finger at himself – »and that’s not what we want and it’s not good.«

He is perfectly aware of his own development within the context of this song, however.

»The thing that’s changed in that song [“Preppy Boy”]is that the protagonist is not wishing that he’s him anymore.«

Tell me about the song “He’s got His Mother’s Hips” – what or whom inspired you?

»Hmmmm« Grant rumbles, eyes gleaming with cheekiness.

»I can’t say. I mean, I don’t want to say, but there is a specific person that inspired that…somebody from my personal life.«

He takes a sip of his coffee. Another pregnant pause.

»I remember seeing them one day together with their mother and just thinking ‘oh my god’« He giggles, feigns looking both of them up and down before, and then he bursts out laughing. »You know? That discovery!«

But it is not all fun and games and we chat further about both the #MeToo-movement, silly douchebags who run around thinking they are God’s gift to women, but also the narcissism which seems to be everywhere at the minute.

»Something that I react to a lot is narcissism, that seems to be coming out of the wood work everywhere these days. No longer is it [anything] to be ashamed of. Like, naked ambition and greed and narcissism is like… you see people saying ‘yeah… so what?’«

Theatre of the absurd and Fad Gadget

When talking about the cover of the new album, it is clear that this is something that means a lot to Grant. »It’s an amazing artform«, he says.

»There’s a Roisin Murphy cover, Overpowered, which is one of my favourite record covers and I wanted to work with those guys [Scott King and Jonathan De Villiers] who did that…and Scott came up with this idea of ‘doing whatever it takes to get the right sound’ … into the absurd…so you see me in the pool, in the kiddie pool, playing guitar, and what’s mic’ed, though,  is the waves of the little kiddie pool.«

Grant has hardly finished talking about the kiddie pool before he switches gears.

»There’s a lot of Fad Gadget in there [the album cover] too« he says, proudly showing me the Fat Gadget badge pinned to his jacket.

»It’s some of the greatest music in the world for me. And his [Frank Tovey, the man behind the stage name Fad Gadget] album covers are incredible. If you just, um, I don’t know if you’re in the mood but if you just google Fad Gadget…«

And before I know it, Grant is showing me album cover after album cover on his phone. He pauses by the cover of the album Incontinent.

»Do you see the face in the background there? There’s this horrible face in the dark back there«

He cannot help himself and plays me the first few beats of the first song on that album, “Blind Eyes”.

»Isn’t that wonderful?«

It yes.

»But listen to, um…«

He plays me another song, “Coitus Interruptus” from the album Fireside Favourites.

»I just love it!« he excitedly exclaims. »And um… I can even play for you real quick…”Preppy Boy” was born from [the Fad Gadget track] “Love Parasite”«

He hits ‘play’ on his phone and in response to my obvious look of recognition, he says »But totally different pattern [than “Preppy Boy”]… but wait until you hear the bass though.«

And then we wait (only slightly awkwardly) in silence until the bass kicks in. After we had nodded along to the beat for a while, he turns it off.

»So “Preppy Boy” is a love letter to Fad Gadget«

Love and love letters

What do you feel like at this stage [in your life] love has taught you?

He ponders for a while.

»There’s nothing that you need to escape from. I think that’s good. And true. And solid.«

Do you believe it?

»I do. I mean, it comes down to death, I think… you know, we go about our daily lives not thinking about the fact that we’re gonna watch each other die – all of us, like, every single person.«

He chuckles at the thought, tragicomically, and continues to talk about how you spend your entire life learning to love someone and how that just makes the whole thing worse.

»I think that’s the thing that bothers me so much about love is that if you do find a way to do it, to love, to let yourself love without fear [then] there’s going to be this reckoning, ‘cos you have to let go, and that horrifies me«, he says and continues:

»I mean, I don’t have a child so I don’t know how parents survive the death of a child, for example. I don’t know how the fuck they survive it. I mean, I just watched that new movie, the new Danish movie The Guilty…«

My facial expression has betrayed me, and as soon as he realises I am not entirely sure which film he is talking about, out comes the phone again so he can show me the cover of the film that I simply have to watch. Then we spend some time pronouncing the starring actor Jacob Cedergren’s name. And after that, he teaches me how to say ‘the parents’ (”foreldranir”) in Icelandic, a lesson that amongst other things includes him inviting me to put my finger on bridge of his nose so I can feel the little snort one has to make to get the right t-sound – the sound that is produced when the letter r and n are placed side by side.

Grant puts life and soul into everything, that being love, art, music or grammar. And although I have stopped recording a while ago now that does not mean that we are done talking. Before I have finished shoving my laptop into my bag and put on my coat and scarf, we have talked about everything from the quality of the wood that frames the mirror hanging in the dressing room to my Dr. Martens’ shoes, and the fact that they last forever. And after receiving a big, warm, unexpected hug, I enter the outside world again – a world which somehow feels different to the one I left way over an hour ago.

Being in the company of such a thoughtful and sensitive man, who aside from writing amazing songs also has a voice that gives you goosebumps leaves a lasting impression on you, way after the fact. I digest the experience with the help of two pints of beer and way, way too many cigarettes. And that same night, as he’s standing there on the stage of Store Vega with dramatic, dark-blue eye-make up, I wonder if he used that mirror we talked about to apply it. During the gig, after just finishing a song, he suddenly exclaims, in perfect Danish, »Det er så sprødt«, meaning »It’s so crispy«. Triumphantly I elbow my friend a little too hard in the ribs and whisper, »I taught him that!«

I’m not entirely sure why, but knowing you have somehow made some small impression on this man is a wonderful feeling.

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Full link to the original Danish article with some amazing photos here: http://www.undertoner.dk/2018/11/john-grant-at-eksistere-med-ensomheden-og-omfavne-intimiteten/

Alive and Kicking: Dead Writers @ The Water Rats – 18/08/17

‘Hi Laura! I had to run back for a piece of equipment, sorry! I’ll ask the guys in the band to find you, I should be with you soon‘

How very polite. I sneak back out of the main venue space into the pub, away from the guitarists, drummers, singers trying not to step on each other as they get ready for tonight’s gig with their respective bands. There’s a definite vibe of excitement; but despite the amount of people, and instruments, it’s not chaotic. It’s more of a pleasant buzz of anticipation that’s slowly but steadily filling the room.

I’m here to see Dead Writers, a band who despite being on the bill tonight at the famous The Water Rats, has only existed for about 5 months in this, its current, final constellation. ‘Paul has a lot of contacts’, Sebastian, the band’s rhythm guitarist explains to me later on. ‘He was a solo artist for many years.’

But right now Paul is running late; the piece of equipment turns out to be his mic stand, which considering his position as the band’s lead singer and frontman does seem rather important. I’ve replied back to him that there’s no rush but I haven’t sat down outside for more than five minutes before, as promised, Sebastian sticks his hand out at me. As it turns out, 3/5 of the band are sitting directly behind me.

‘You’re here with the entire rhythm section! But we’re much more interesting’, he jokes. ‘Have you met Chris?’, Agustín, the band’s drummer asks me. He, Sebastian and Renato, the band’s bassist, let out a collective sigh of pity when it turns out that I haven’t. ‘He’s an incredible guitarist’, they all agree. Indeed, this is a sentiment that prevails throughout our conversation – a remarkable respect for each other’s musical abilities. It seems that as each member joined, beginning with Paul convincing Sebastian to play with him – ‘I resisted a bit in the beginning’, he laughs – the more the music fell into place all by itself. It’s clear that the three of them know that they’ve got something. It’s not an arrogant boast, or a naive proclamation, it’s more of a judicious statement, largely unspoken. The feeling of being in the company of a band that runs on realistic hopefulness, feet planted deeply in mature yet enthusiastic ground, is palpable. ‘The music speaks for it self’, they shrug.

Photo: David Chin

They’ve only got a handful of finished songs. And listening to the one song they’ve so far recorded, ‘Stranger To Me’, having also seen the band perform live once before, it seems it doesn’t quite represent them, and lies somewhat far from how they come across on stage. Though melodic and beautiful, it seems contained, restrained even. ‘The studio guy was drunk’, Agustín explains. Not much else is said, or needs to be said about that experience. ‘We did our best, so…’ is left hanging in the air. They’re well aware that they need more songs recorded. That’s the future. Along with more song writing, more gigs, more exposure.

But for now, Paul has joined us, mic stand safely procured, and he’s all smiles and energy. ‘Have you met Chris?’, he, too, asks me, but again I must disappoint. ‘Oh well, he’s a great guitarist’. The atmosphere is more vibrant now, as more and more people arrive. Wives, friends, even parents of friends have either sat down for a chat or stopped by our table to distribute hugs or handshakes and a ‘good luck tonight!’. The relaxed and casual atmosphere is slowly moving into pre-show electricity. I ask Paul if they have any kind of ritual before they go on stage. ‘Hm not really, I think we’re still a bit too new for that, each person just sort of does their own thing’, he says, referring to Sebastian who only moments earlier has left us to go for a walk and get some alone time before the show. Paul doesn’t need alone time, it seems – he’s excited, animated. Asking him if he’s looking forward to the show would just be silly.

And so, the band drifts inside, daylight is exchanged for nighttime, and I’m wondering if the music really does speak for itself.

It does. Because as I’m standing there in the darkness of the crowd, a couple of songs into the gig, and as the first few notes of their song, ‘Medusa’, slowly emits from the stage, it’s most definitely clear that this is not a drill. This is a band that completely takes you in. The rhythm section is tight, the lead singer is charismatic, his voice powerfully cutting through the music, and Chris is, indeed, incredible on a guitar. ‘Where the energy of rock & roll meets sensitive melodic songwriting’, it says on their Facebook profile, but when the music swallows you up, the sound is almost progressive in nature. It’s quite hard to believe that the last piece of this musical puzzle only joined in April of this year, and here we are, on a Friday night in August, and they sound like they’ve played together for years. They transcend the stage, waves of music washing over the crowd, and it’s alive – it’s exciting.

They’re playing the Fiddler’s Elbow in Camden on September 21st. I suggest you go. You won’t be disappointed.

Dancing in the rain with the fear of terror, in Aarhus

Translated from the original Danish version, written by me for Danish website Netudgaven.

It is raining. Not sideways rain. Not pouring rain. No, the kind of rain you do not really know where you have. The unreliable rain. It is annoying, to say the least.

I have just arrived from London, the terror attack after an Ariana Grande concert in Manchester at the end of May still under my skin. 23 people dead, one of them an 8 year old girl. About a week later the German festival Rock am Ring is evacuated due to a bomb threat. And now here I am, on a bus from Aarhus Airport heading towards Northside Festival 2017. Everything is as it should be… I think. Everything seems familiar, at least, yet something feels different. It is hard to put my finger on what, exactly.

A couple of hours later and I am ankle-deep in mud, queuing up for a beer. A gentleman seems to have read my mind when he, halfway agitated, suddenly erupts, ‘Seriously, somebody ought to send their staff on some sort of efficiency course!’. The alcohol is not being served quickly enough. That is a good sign. There is still life in the old dog yet. And now a familiar 90s sound is coming from Bastille, playing on the Green Stage. ‘This is the rhythm of the night’. Even the bitterest of 30-somethings must give in and shake their arses, even here in the cheap seats.

What is different? Music as uniting, a safe harbour, has been violated. That is a fact and letting your mind wander towards, ‘What if?’ is easy. Is it the lyrics that suddenly seem more meaningful? Are we hearing them in a new perspective? I will be the first to admit that when MØ, in the pouring rain, worshipping hands carrying her through the crowd, smiling, singing, ‘All we need is somebody to lean on’, well… yeah, life makes a lot of sense then, intensely and intensively so. Ageing lovers embrace and fall in love again to Frank Ocean. And thankfully we have not lost the desire for a singalong either; we still have the courage to sing in unison. There is no need for Richard Ashcroft to sing more than a couple of syllables of that most famous of opening lines before the audience takes over, benevolently: ‘Cos it’s a bittersweet symphony, this life’. Yes… it is.

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And there is still room for it all – glowsticks and The Prodigy, and a middle aged lady who begins to clear away the enormous pile of food waste before sitting down, no hesitation. And should you, indeed, have let your mind wander; seen a couple of security guards looking a little too focused or have noticed the concrete crash barriers designed to defend us from cruel intentions, well… should that have happened, you are instantly reminded of where in the world you are when Thomas Helmig, Danish pop singer extraordinaire, tenderly whispers, ‘Oh, Aarhus…’. A festival-goer chassés past a line of empty food stalls towards the Blue Stage where most of the festival seems to have gathered judging from the sound level, to see the long lost son returned. A couple of police officers, sans hats, smile and chuckle next to a couple of civilians. The guards are down.

There is no doubt whatsoever that everything is in control. Beneath the surface of wood chips, festivities and temporary escapism is a tightly organised network of security, police, procedures, plans. Those who need to be are ready for battle. They were ready at Rock am Ring, Manchester Arena, Bataclan. But no one seems to want to talk about it – not those in front of, behind or on stage. Some simply say no thank you to discuss the topic. Others dismiss me, or tell me to shut up. Is it too painful for us, for me, to talk about? ‘The band would rather not talk about Manchester and Paris as it is still a very sensitive topic for them’.

It is not offensive. Maybe it is just a little bit sad. Understandable. Human. But asking is difficult, too. Should we even talk about it more than is absolutely necessary? Yes, we are conscious about the fact that something has happened to, and in, the world, and thus to us. And we have to come to terms with the fact that there are people who want to hurt us. The time spent in good company – the company of music, friends and good times –  is the time where we are at our weakest. And it is scary and can make you awfully sad and scared. But there are a lot of colours between black and white. And tonight, the sky is violet, pink, azure. It is lovely.