Re: bloodsports promo and reviews
Posted: 11 Mar 2013, 06:46
http://www.musicweek.com/news/read/sued ... nes/053909
Suede: 'Music is becoming a rich kids' plaything'
Tim Ingham
10 March 2013
Brett Anderson is unlikeable. Speak to the right people, and you’ll also learn he’s a bit of a fruitcake.
These aren’t my observations. It would take a braver man than I to suggest to Anderson – perhaps the most unrestrained, acerbic voice to emerge in the 1990s melodic British guitar boom – that he is at all unhinged or unpopular.
In this case, that man is Mat Osman; articulate, affable Suede bassist and trusted confidant of Anderson since the pair were at school together as teens. Two feet away from his old mucker, he grins as he recalls Anderson’s libidinously brusque, disconcertingly reptilian mainstream TV debut at the 1993 BRIT Awards – a performance that shocked Middle England on its own centre stage.
The inevitable, depressing comparison to 2013’s damp squib of a ceremony doesn't take long to arrive.
“The record business now is suffering and going for the safest thing - competent singers who are pushed down your neck every Saturday for 12 weeks,” says Osman. “It’s wiping out eccentricities and oddness; the things that UK music is known for. You look at the best British music stars throughout history and they’re nutcases, generally.”
The presumed nutcase who now once again delivers the splenetic howl to Suede’s claustrophobic, powerful brand of indie rock sits unmoved. Shamefully, as I’m told in the lead-up to this interview that Osman will be accompanying Anderson, my heart sinks slightly. The journalistic instincts are carnivorous for controversy – my fingers crossed that big mouth will strike again, alone, right onto my dictaphone.
In reality, Anderson is too laconic and untrusting to deliver a sudden plastic diatribe; in no hurry to spill forth the sort of scathing, aggrieved soundbites that once won him exclamation mark-strewn cover blobs on Melody Maker.
He reclines on the sofa of his management company’s sleek Shepherd’s Bush offices, suspicious; black T-shirt, black trousers, black shoes – and the faint air of a black cloud.
As Osman confidently tussles exclusively with almost all of my initial questions, Anderson is making it perfectly clear that this time, in this era, there will be no wasted words from his corner.
Suede’s new studio album, Bloodsports, will be the band’s first for 11 years when it is released on March 18. Bernard Butler, the maverick guitarist who drove Suede’s classic, self-titled breakthrough and much-vaunted follow-up Dog Man Star, has not returned, despite his involvement in Anderson’s mid-Noughties side project The Tears. However, the producer of those seminal albums, Ed Buller, is back behind the studio desk, alongside Butler’s fanboy-turned-mid-Nineties-replacement, Richard Oakes.
Indeed, Suede’s 2013 line-up mirrors that of the gang behind their pop breakthrough third LP, Coming Up (1996) – which spawned two Top 3 singles in Trash and Stay Together. That release was to be Suede’s sugary high, but the teeth-gnashing comedown was waiting in the wings.
With Anderson’s crack and heroin dependency escalating, fourth album Head Music - a UK No.1 - divided fans and critics, with some accusing Anderson’s lyric writing of becoming lazy and too easily calculable. Their fifth effort A New Morning (2002), produced by Stephen Street, reportedly cost £1million to make, but was a certified, crushing flop. It peaked at No.24.
Osman says he does not miss the days when Suede were “part of this strange little world of bands and record companies, where charts become this battle between you and the people around you. Everything about that last record is the sound of a band getting caught in the machinery”.
With the sort of clarity of hindsight that only a decade-long hiatus can bring, both Osman and Anderson now accept that their last two records contained mis-steps which were a direct result of bad advice – whether from the execs that surrounded them, or from their own recalcitrant prickliness.
“Whenever we’ve got involved with business decisions in the past they’ve always been disastrous,” accepts Anderson. “Even the release of [single] We Are The Pigs from Dog Man Star was the band making a questionable move because of our stubborn bloody-mindedness. We had the head of Sony basically on his knees in front of us pleading with us to release something else.
“But mistakes make you human. I hate seeing these bands taking these safe little steps up the ladder to success - Suede’s career has been a rollercoaster. I’m quite proud of that. At least it’s interesting. At least it’s been our own bloody story.”
That story looked to have a pretty definitive full stop at its denouement until, in March 2010, Suede agreed to perform their greatest hits for a packed Royal Albert Hall to raise money for Teenage Cancer Trust. A pair of warm-up shows at London’s 100 Club and Manchester’s Ritz preceded this glorious big stage return, both of which were rapturously received. Live showings then followed in Denmark, Spain, France and Berlin, as well as at Latitude Festival and the O2 Arena.
As the group’s enjoyment of playing together bloomed, so did their desire to add a new chapter to the Suede story. Anderson has now been clean for years and is determined to make a relevant, head-turning record in 2013 – but, hearteningly, he hasn’t lost a droplet of his us-against-the-world neuroticism or bullishness.
“You see lots of other acts who can just coast on their reputation,” he says. “For some reason that’s never happened to us. We’ve always had too many enemies. People are waiting for us to fall. A lot of people don’t like us out there.”
Osman smiles and knowingly glances at his friend. “Actually, it’s you, I think. They don’t like you.”
Anderson admits defeat. “You’re right. I’m not a particularly likeable person, publicly. They don’t know me, they just look at my persona, which isn’t me, of course. I’ve learned to deal with it. But if it means we live or die by the quality of our work, that’s good for us.”
So far, the reaction to Bloodsports has been nothing short of exemplary. The NME says it “really is classic Suede”, dubbing it the “comeback to beat in 2013”. Teaser track Barriers is a mutinous, pulsating three minutes of arena-sized heartache; first proper single It Starts And Ends With You a catchy sprint through sun-soaked riffs and a scampering, optimistic vocal.
Anderson has likened Bloodsports to the meeting point between Dog Man Star and Coming Up - which is technically cheating, because that’s the perfect Suede record. He’s not far wrong.
“If you’re a good band, as soon as you start playing, ideas for new records start niggling at you,” says Osman. “That’s what happened after we did the Albert Hall. We were very cagey about it early on: history is littered with the corpses of bands who got back together and thought they could make a new record. We agreed this couldn’t be nostalgia.
“It’s really easy to say, ‘We’re going to play the songs nice and neat, we’ll get an orchestra in, it will be £80 a ticket and everyone will buy a fancy programme.’ This isn’t a fucking souvenir of our career. This is something new that we’re extremely proud of. We’re going to work at it the way we would if we were 18.”
As Anderson’s comfort and conversational contributions increase, we hit on the subject that seems to bug him more than any other: the bleak mundanity of the modern UK music scene. We agree that despite his contempt for ‘Britpop’ retrospectivism, it was an era full of big egos and even bigger characters - elements that are now devastating by their absence at the top of the charts.
The million-selling kook - the unrestrained weirdo drawing parental discomfort and bemusement on TOTP - appears to be extinct. Who’s to blame?
Osman observes that Suede have greatly benefited from the spread of their work across the world via the likes of YouTube and Spotify - something born out in the tens of thousands who have bought tickets to see the band in China and South America of late. However, he clarifies, "If I was 20 and I’d just formed a band, I don’t think I’d think that way. I’d be saying: ‘Fuck you, pay me.’
"What scares me is the idea that being in a band is becoming a rich kids' plaything. It’s genuinely happening. It’s becoming that because you can’t afford to live on the dole anymore and the price of getting heard has risen and the music industry has been hurt, it’s becoming a hobby of public schoolboys.
"It’s tragic: music was once one of the few places on earth where privilege got you nothing. Genuinely, if you were from a Liverpool council estate you probably stood a better chance of having a hit record."
“The lack of money in the music industry means a lot of bands on the margins of making a living aren’t able to do so,” adds Anderson. “That’s a really sad thing, it’s often where the truly interesting music comes from. I wonder if The Fall could ever start off today - one of the most inspiring bands ever.
“I do think, though, it will go into another phase. When we were on the BRITs in 1993, we were reacting against something. It felt so thrilling to be playing this song which was really violent and dark [Animal Nitrate] in front of people in suits.
“It was a ‘fuck you’. Suede have always been at their best when they’ve been working against something, including the industry - I’ve never had any respect for the industry. I don’t think the industry’s had much respect for me.”
For good reason, our chat hovers over the marketplace ad for a new guitarist that Anderson placed in the NME back in 1989; a message that would become a defining creed for Suede to evolve by: ‘No musos. Some things are more important than ability. Call Brett.’
“Sprit and eccentricity and originality are key in great art,” the singer responds. “You need ability, the yin and the yang, but you’ve got to have those piquant elements.”
Osman agrees: “Are there two worse singers than John Lydon and Morrissey? Two people with no range, none of those tricks you see on TV now, and yet two of the most listenable musicians of all time.”
“I hate it when you see young artists cosying up to the industry,” adds Anderson. “Any youth movement loses its vitality when it starts hanging out with the insiders. We’ve always been outsiders.”
Yet Suede’s allure is about far more than just their interloper status. The heroes they reference - Morrissey, Mark E Smith, John Lydon - were all working class boys with an imposing, impressive self-education behind them.
They were venomous yet erudite - they had nothing to lose, but plenty with which to debate. Anderson remains a vital part of this lineage. His shocking turn at the BRITs all those years ago, his eyeballing of the establishment, seemed intrinsically linked to an upbringing that was intellectually aspirational, but practically tough.
“I never wanted this clichéd position of being a working class boy that celebrates all the working class things,” he agrees. “I was brought up on a council estate but there was Franz Liszt playing on the stereo, Aubrey Beardsley prints on the wall.
“I’ve always wanted to defy those narrow bands of categorisation - I think all the interesting artists have done that. Do I see that in anybody in the current crop? No, sadly. There’s lots of bands I find inspiring, but I can’t see that sort of character.”
Which inevitably means the return of Anderson and Suede comes at a juncture where they stick out every bit as much they did two decades ago - only now they look rakishly healthy, can afford to fund their own record and get to claim an indelible place in the soap opera of British music history.
They’re no longer hooked on class-As or erotically-tinged confrontation; but as evidenced here, they’re hardly mealy-mouthed Rock Hall Of Famers, either. Now well into their 40s, what’s driving Suede to create new music?
“The quest for making great art, if that doesn’t sound too crushingly pretentious.”
Of course it does, Brett. That’s kind of the point.
And with that, off Suede saunter into the midday London air, stuffed to the gills with ability - yet unsettling, captivating, peculiar proof that some things really are more important.
Suede: 'Music is becoming a rich kids' plaything'
Tim Ingham
10 March 2013
Brett Anderson is unlikeable. Speak to the right people, and you’ll also learn he’s a bit of a fruitcake.
These aren’t my observations. It would take a braver man than I to suggest to Anderson – perhaps the most unrestrained, acerbic voice to emerge in the 1990s melodic British guitar boom – that he is at all unhinged or unpopular.
In this case, that man is Mat Osman; articulate, affable Suede bassist and trusted confidant of Anderson since the pair were at school together as teens. Two feet away from his old mucker, he grins as he recalls Anderson’s libidinously brusque, disconcertingly reptilian mainstream TV debut at the 1993 BRIT Awards – a performance that shocked Middle England on its own centre stage.
The inevitable, depressing comparison to 2013’s damp squib of a ceremony doesn't take long to arrive.
“The record business now is suffering and going for the safest thing - competent singers who are pushed down your neck every Saturday for 12 weeks,” says Osman. “It’s wiping out eccentricities and oddness; the things that UK music is known for. You look at the best British music stars throughout history and they’re nutcases, generally.”
The presumed nutcase who now once again delivers the splenetic howl to Suede’s claustrophobic, powerful brand of indie rock sits unmoved. Shamefully, as I’m told in the lead-up to this interview that Osman will be accompanying Anderson, my heart sinks slightly. The journalistic instincts are carnivorous for controversy – my fingers crossed that big mouth will strike again, alone, right onto my dictaphone.
In reality, Anderson is too laconic and untrusting to deliver a sudden plastic diatribe; in no hurry to spill forth the sort of scathing, aggrieved soundbites that once won him exclamation mark-strewn cover blobs on Melody Maker.
He reclines on the sofa of his management company’s sleek Shepherd’s Bush offices, suspicious; black T-shirt, black trousers, black shoes – and the faint air of a black cloud.
As Osman confidently tussles exclusively with almost all of my initial questions, Anderson is making it perfectly clear that this time, in this era, there will be no wasted words from his corner.
Suede’s new studio album, Bloodsports, will be the band’s first for 11 years when it is released on March 18. Bernard Butler, the maverick guitarist who drove Suede’s classic, self-titled breakthrough and much-vaunted follow-up Dog Man Star, has not returned, despite his involvement in Anderson’s mid-Noughties side project The Tears. However, the producer of those seminal albums, Ed Buller, is back behind the studio desk, alongside Butler’s fanboy-turned-mid-Nineties-replacement, Richard Oakes.
Indeed, Suede’s 2013 line-up mirrors that of the gang behind their pop breakthrough third LP, Coming Up (1996) – which spawned two Top 3 singles in Trash and Stay Together. That release was to be Suede’s sugary high, but the teeth-gnashing comedown was waiting in the wings.
With Anderson’s crack and heroin dependency escalating, fourth album Head Music - a UK No.1 - divided fans and critics, with some accusing Anderson’s lyric writing of becoming lazy and too easily calculable. Their fifth effort A New Morning (2002), produced by Stephen Street, reportedly cost £1million to make, but was a certified, crushing flop. It peaked at No.24.
Osman says he does not miss the days when Suede were “part of this strange little world of bands and record companies, where charts become this battle between you and the people around you. Everything about that last record is the sound of a band getting caught in the machinery”.
With the sort of clarity of hindsight that only a decade-long hiatus can bring, both Osman and Anderson now accept that their last two records contained mis-steps which were a direct result of bad advice – whether from the execs that surrounded them, or from their own recalcitrant prickliness.
“Whenever we’ve got involved with business decisions in the past they’ve always been disastrous,” accepts Anderson. “Even the release of [single] We Are The Pigs from Dog Man Star was the band making a questionable move because of our stubborn bloody-mindedness. We had the head of Sony basically on his knees in front of us pleading with us to release something else.
“But mistakes make you human. I hate seeing these bands taking these safe little steps up the ladder to success - Suede’s career has been a rollercoaster. I’m quite proud of that. At least it’s interesting. At least it’s been our own bloody story.”
That story looked to have a pretty definitive full stop at its denouement until, in March 2010, Suede agreed to perform their greatest hits for a packed Royal Albert Hall to raise money for Teenage Cancer Trust. A pair of warm-up shows at London’s 100 Club and Manchester’s Ritz preceded this glorious big stage return, both of which were rapturously received. Live showings then followed in Denmark, Spain, France and Berlin, as well as at Latitude Festival and the O2 Arena.
As the group’s enjoyment of playing together bloomed, so did their desire to add a new chapter to the Suede story. Anderson has now been clean for years and is determined to make a relevant, head-turning record in 2013 – but, hearteningly, he hasn’t lost a droplet of his us-against-the-world neuroticism or bullishness.
“You see lots of other acts who can just coast on their reputation,” he says. “For some reason that’s never happened to us. We’ve always had too many enemies. People are waiting for us to fall. A lot of people don’t like us out there.”
Osman smiles and knowingly glances at his friend. “Actually, it’s you, I think. They don’t like you.”
Anderson admits defeat. “You’re right. I’m not a particularly likeable person, publicly. They don’t know me, they just look at my persona, which isn’t me, of course. I’ve learned to deal with it. But if it means we live or die by the quality of our work, that’s good for us.”
So far, the reaction to Bloodsports has been nothing short of exemplary. The NME says it “really is classic Suede”, dubbing it the “comeback to beat in 2013”. Teaser track Barriers is a mutinous, pulsating three minutes of arena-sized heartache; first proper single It Starts And Ends With You a catchy sprint through sun-soaked riffs and a scampering, optimistic vocal.
Anderson has likened Bloodsports to the meeting point between Dog Man Star and Coming Up - which is technically cheating, because that’s the perfect Suede record. He’s not far wrong.
“If you’re a good band, as soon as you start playing, ideas for new records start niggling at you,” says Osman. “That’s what happened after we did the Albert Hall. We were very cagey about it early on: history is littered with the corpses of bands who got back together and thought they could make a new record. We agreed this couldn’t be nostalgia.
“It’s really easy to say, ‘We’re going to play the songs nice and neat, we’ll get an orchestra in, it will be £80 a ticket and everyone will buy a fancy programme.’ This isn’t a fucking souvenir of our career. This is something new that we’re extremely proud of. We’re going to work at it the way we would if we were 18.”
As Anderson’s comfort and conversational contributions increase, we hit on the subject that seems to bug him more than any other: the bleak mundanity of the modern UK music scene. We agree that despite his contempt for ‘Britpop’ retrospectivism, it was an era full of big egos and even bigger characters - elements that are now devastating by their absence at the top of the charts.
The million-selling kook - the unrestrained weirdo drawing parental discomfort and bemusement on TOTP - appears to be extinct. Who’s to blame?
Osman observes that Suede have greatly benefited from the spread of their work across the world via the likes of YouTube and Spotify - something born out in the tens of thousands who have bought tickets to see the band in China and South America of late. However, he clarifies, "If I was 20 and I’d just formed a band, I don’t think I’d think that way. I’d be saying: ‘Fuck you, pay me.’
"What scares me is the idea that being in a band is becoming a rich kids' plaything. It’s genuinely happening. It’s becoming that because you can’t afford to live on the dole anymore and the price of getting heard has risen and the music industry has been hurt, it’s becoming a hobby of public schoolboys.
"It’s tragic: music was once one of the few places on earth where privilege got you nothing. Genuinely, if you were from a Liverpool council estate you probably stood a better chance of having a hit record."
“The lack of money in the music industry means a lot of bands on the margins of making a living aren’t able to do so,” adds Anderson. “That’s a really sad thing, it’s often where the truly interesting music comes from. I wonder if The Fall could ever start off today - one of the most inspiring bands ever.
“I do think, though, it will go into another phase. When we were on the BRITs in 1993, we were reacting against something. It felt so thrilling to be playing this song which was really violent and dark [Animal Nitrate] in front of people in suits.
“It was a ‘fuck you’. Suede have always been at their best when they’ve been working against something, including the industry - I’ve never had any respect for the industry. I don’t think the industry’s had much respect for me.”
For good reason, our chat hovers over the marketplace ad for a new guitarist that Anderson placed in the NME back in 1989; a message that would become a defining creed for Suede to evolve by: ‘No musos. Some things are more important than ability. Call Brett.’
“Sprit and eccentricity and originality are key in great art,” the singer responds. “You need ability, the yin and the yang, but you’ve got to have those piquant elements.”
Osman agrees: “Are there two worse singers than John Lydon and Morrissey? Two people with no range, none of those tricks you see on TV now, and yet two of the most listenable musicians of all time.”
“I hate it when you see young artists cosying up to the industry,” adds Anderson. “Any youth movement loses its vitality when it starts hanging out with the insiders. We’ve always been outsiders.”
Yet Suede’s allure is about far more than just their interloper status. The heroes they reference - Morrissey, Mark E Smith, John Lydon - were all working class boys with an imposing, impressive self-education behind them.
They were venomous yet erudite - they had nothing to lose, but plenty with which to debate. Anderson remains a vital part of this lineage. His shocking turn at the BRITs all those years ago, his eyeballing of the establishment, seemed intrinsically linked to an upbringing that was intellectually aspirational, but practically tough.
“I never wanted this clichéd position of being a working class boy that celebrates all the working class things,” he agrees. “I was brought up on a council estate but there was Franz Liszt playing on the stereo, Aubrey Beardsley prints on the wall.
“I’ve always wanted to defy those narrow bands of categorisation - I think all the interesting artists have done that. Do I see that in anybody in the current crop? No, sadly. There’s lots of bands I find inspiring, but I can’t see that sort of character.”
Which inevitably means the return of Anderson and Suede comes at a juncture where they stick out every bit as much they did two decades ago - only now they look rakishly healthy, can afford to fund their own record and get to claim an indelible place in the soap opera of British music history.
They’re no longer hooked on class-As or erotically-tinged confrontation; but as evidenced here, they’re hardly mealy-mouthed Rock Hall Of Famers, either. Now well into their 40s, what’s driving Suede to create new music?
“The quest for making great art, if that doesn’t sound too crushingly pretentious.”
Of course it does, Brett. That’s kind of the point.
And with that, off Suede saunter into the midday London air, stuffed to the gills with ability - yet unsettling, captivating, peculiar proof that some things really are more important.