ELVIS, EDISON & UBU ROI: AN INTERVIEW WITH DAVID THOMAS
A: This is your first time to ever play in Alabama. Have you ever visited the state before in any capacity?
DT: I'm sure I've passed through somewhere. We used to vacation up in Cloudland, Georgia which is right on the border. I'm sure I've been here before, just not in any significant way.
A: This is the last stop on your fall Living Room Concert tour. How have the shows been so far? What motivated you to embark on such an adventure?
DT: A couple of years ago...maybe it was only last year…I don't remember…there was a guy in Copenhagen who asked me if I would do a show in his house. It wasn't really his house. He had a little outhouse around back and he had transformed one of the rooms into a small little concert venue, and it had a stage and a PA and everything. Held about 40 or 50 people. And he would put on shows and he would bring some fairly big people in. He brought in Mark E. Smith from the Fall and a bunch of other people. And he'd do maybe 3 or 4 a year. And he invited me down and it was really a great show. It was a great atmosphere…very enjoyable experience. And so, I got the idea from that. And I guess there's a certain amount of it going on in Europe…living room sort of shows. And I guess it's sort of catching on over here, so I thought I'd do it and give it a try. And I did three out in California in April and those were all highly successful, so I'm just doing the second series now. I'd like to do more. I've got a lot of offers, it's just the problem is organizing them, because everybody wants a show on the weekend- for obvious reasons- so, that really limits it to you kind of having to put together three at a time. But they have to be geographically linked, because I can't do these three, and then tomorrow night be somewhere else, and then Wednesday be somewhere else…I mean there's a five day gap. So on just practical matters it's just very slow and catchy to put them together. But I'll announce that I'll do a third one and see if I get enough offers to link some more things together. I've got two offers in Dallas and one in Wichita, so I might put that together. I don't know. It's really just geography (laughs). It's just really that simple.
A: It seems like a very interesting position to put yourself in, especially given the fact that you don't know anything about the people who are hosting them and/or attending?
DT: It's been brilliant. It's been great. I tried to set it up so that it would be a party atmosphere. The relationship of everything is totally different. So, yeah you don't know who the people are and if you screw it up, you've really screwed the pooch. Because at least in a commercial venue, if you screw it up- not that I do it that much, but I do have shows that I think are bad and other people say, "Oh, they're great," but I know that they're not- you just walk out of the place and you're done. Where, I'm sure some day will come along when I mess one of these up- for whatever reason- and that'll be hideous. A really hideous experience. But, so far that hasn't happened, and the audiences have all been really excited, and happy, and overwhelmed, as it were. And, you know, you rely on different skills. It's a totally different environment and relationship with the audience, which is challenging and why I do these things.
A: You just released the first new music from Rocket From The Tombs in 36 years. What was it like to revisit the creative impetus of your youth at this stage in your life?
DT: It wasn't particularly revisiting anything. It's just that we got back together in 2003 and we decided that the band sounded really good and everything worked really well and we just decided to go on being a band. It wasn't any sort of "revisiting" thing. It was a good band, so it wasn't like "we're a good band and just revisiting the past"…..no. It just took us a while to put the record out because there was a lot of volatile stuff going on- drinking and drugs and stuff that would interrupt everything- and there were some issues there that caused a lot of friction and trouble. And over the years all that got sorted out and everybody's dried up and cleaned up. So, we started writing right away back in 2003- or very soon after that- and over the years we'd get together every so often and work on new material and finally the band went into a permanent stable situation and this time we thought, "Let's record this stuff now."
A: The first single off the new Rocket From The Tombs album is titled "I Sell Soul," which is a phrase you have used to describe the nature of the act of performance as a musician. What exactly do you mean by "selling soul"?
DT: Well, what you do is you try to create something that feels like life. Something that feels like life in all its variations and conundrums. That's what I mean. It's not a terribly complicated or sophisticated thought. There's not really a lot of explanation that's necessary for it.
A: The music of Rocket From The Tombs and Pere Ubu has often been labeled as dark and doomstruck, but there has always been a great deal of humor involved as well. In fact, you playfully named the newest Rocket From The Tombs live release When It's Too Late To Die Young. In what ways has humor informed your art and music? And in what ways have people misread- to use your own words- your "strange kind of wit"?
DT: Well, you answered the question: they misread it. I don't know. I mean, everybody has templates that they apply to things. And things like doing stuff that's humorous at the same time that it's- as you say- "dark" doesn't fit any template. They want you to be Marilyn Manson, or they want you to be the Bonzo Dog Band or something. And when something doesn't obey those things- those templates- people get confused. Or they want to describe you according to the template that they like. All the bands that I grew up with in the Cleveland scene used [humor]. It's not that you're "using" humor, it's just that things are funny. It's a very classic "rock" point of view that was established by "Heartbreak Hotel." "Heartbreak Hotel" is not about the narrator. It's not about Elvis- the singer- checking into the hotel. It's about the clerk- the desk clerk- who's observing this whole behavior. That's the unique point of view of rock music, that God's eye point of view, or that third-party point of view. So, if you have that point of view, then it's also the point of view that many people experience in their lives, where they can stand back from themselves and see, "Oh, don't do that. That's gonna be a mess." Or, that's gonna be stupid and funny and foolish. And that's humorous. You can see the humor in the tragedy or the tragedy in the humor. You know, none of that is terribly sophisticated stuff. It's all pretty standard. I don't know…it's not my problem that this is an issue with people.
A: You've also previously equated the role of being a singer with that of a priest "mediating between the musicians and their intentions and the audience and its expectations." It is a paradigm you have suggested was ushered in by Elvis Presley….
DT: He didn't bring it in. It was established by the technology that Edison came up with. That's what established the role of singer as mediator. A priest is a mediator. But the technology- the microphone- established that. The speaker…the microphone…the technology made that inevitable.
A: Did Elvis influence you at all? Was that a voice you listened to?
DT: No, not really. Not more than anybody else. Elvis- in a lot of ways- was the first to do certain things, but I've never been an Elvis fan. I always appreciated what he did though.
A: In your lecture "The Geography of Sound," you also talk about Thomas Edison as being the father of rock and roll and the moment he first recorded sound onto a wax cylinder as the cultural "Big Bang" that would- in many ways- define the 20th century. What do you think that moment must have been like for him? Do you think he realized the implications that the "fracturing of scale" would have on human consciousness, perception, and art?
DT: Totally ordinary. He had no idea what he was doing…or, at least, I don't think he did. Edison was a very practical man. I don't know where he came up with the idea- this issue- that he set out to solve. I mean, he did do a lot of stream-of-consciousness poetry that's extremely weird- so you never know with him- but I haven't really made a study of him. I can just tell from what he did and what he said what was going on in his head. So, I don't know what he thought at the time. I mean, he must have understood to some degree what he was doing, but I don't think he would have understood the massive cultural implications of it right away. Nobody ever does. Most people just have a practical issue that they set out to deal with. Nobody sets out to change the world. And those that do end up being like Hitler or something.
A: In what ways has Edison's "fracturing of scale" informed your work? Have you been conscious of it?
DT: I wasn't conscious of it at the beginning. I came to an understanding of it. At the beginning I just thought that I was into sound. When I was getting into music it was the time of the analog synthesizer. Or, even before that, there was the Velvets who were doing different things with sound. Tons of people were doing different things with sound. And I recognized that pure sound- abstract sound- could play a vital role in music and that you could add great depth and width to the standard musical forms of melody, harmony, and rhythm. So, I imagined I understood what was going on, but it took me years to bother to explain it and put it into words just because, you know- like Edison- you don't sit there and go, "This is going to change the way people perceive things." You just see something and go "yeah." And I was aware of what else was going on in music. I wasn't sitting there thinking I was inventing anything, because we weren't. We were just continuing this very clear path that had been established by others…including Elvis…or Les Paul when he electrified the guitar…or when Edison did the microphone. They're all steps along a path. And in the 60's that path was accentuated by the analog synthesizer. And…you know…we just paid attention to where we were in the stream of time. And this was obviously the direction that it was supposed to go in, so being young and in touch with the moment- as it were- of what was going on, we said, "Well, this is where we're going to go with it. This is interesting. This is different. Few people are doing this. Few people have these ideas. So let's do the thing that few people are doing." As opposed to what everybody else is doing, which we really weren't suited personality wise to do in any case.
A: You have often stated that you have wanted to "change the boundaries of expression in the narrative voice." Are there still boundaries- in your mind- to be changed? Or have we reached a point of stagnation?
DT: Of course. There's always boundaries. There's always stuff to do. There's always further that you can go. The object is to replicate the human experience. And that's a pretty major project…a never ending project. There's no end to the boundaries. If you think in terms of limits to the boundaries then you're already screwed. That's why this is nonsense about "how rock has gone as far as it can." People that say that are just Neandarthals who want rock music to be stupid and like a dog returning to its vomit. Which is what punk was all about. It's no coincidence that punk happened at the same point that the new generation of rock musicians were going off into this abstract world- this greater depth- of creating an art form that was equivalent to literature. Or could certainly be considered to be equivalent to literature and art. And not in some creepy, turtleneck sweater-wearing, flute-playing girl way, but in a real meaningful adventure. So punk was simply a corporate effort designed to turn back progress. It was counter-revolutionary. It was reactionary. A totally destructive force. It worked. It sidetracked the mainstream- or what should have been the mainstream. Pere Ubu should have been the mainstream. In all of the great "new wave" or "punk" bands- the ones that ever really did anything like Television, or Talking Heads, or the Residents, or a hundred other groups- they all started before punk. They all started- really started- in the early-70's when this new generation of musicians was developing these ideas. Very little of substance followed that initial burst. I mean, that's not to say there weren't good bands, or good pop bands, and on, and on, and on…but of substance. It really was sidetracked. Because everybody had something to copy! You know, all of a sudden you could copy- not to criticize the Ramones, because they were a good band- but there was a template. You know: fast and hard, and blah-blah-blah, and angry…yaddy-yaddy-ya. So, you know, you dress a certain way and sound a certain way and you sing about certain sort of stuff…and blah-blah-blah. So there was something to copy. People always prefer to copy something. It's easier. You don't get grief over it. And again, I don't mean to be critical- people have the right to do anything they want- it's just that that's the way it worked and that's the analysis of it. There's no value judgements in the analysis, it's just that that's what happened.
A: The last Pere Ubu project before your new release The Lady of Shanghai was your adaptation of Alfred Jarry's infamous 19th-century play Ubu Roi, whose lead character was not only the inspiration for the band itself, but also your own alter ego Crocus Behemoth. You often talk about the idea of conceptual continuity as being a guiding principle in all of your work. Was there a natural- and perhaps inevitable- narrative arc that lead you to reinterpret the work of Jarry for a new generation?
DT: No, it wasn't inevitable. I've been asked over the decades "why don't I do it"? And I always thought, "Well, I don't really have anything to add to it." I'm not going to do it just because I can do it. What's the point of that? Then along the way I was at a Brian Wilson party at the Southbank Centre and this guy- Glen Max who used to do the Knitting Factory in New York, and then he was music director at Southbank, which is the biggest arts venue in England- asked me to do it. And at the time I had been thinking about the fact that I wanted to make the next Pere Ubu record something that went in a much more theatrical direction…using sound as theater. So I was already set up to do something like that. I had already done "Mirror Man"- which is sort-of an improvisational opera- and I thought, "I can go further with this idea." So, he suggested it and- coincidentally- I had been thinking about some ideas that Ubu Roi would suit…that could be a good vehicle for it. So, I thought, "Alright. I guess it's time to do it." I mean, I took great liberties with it. I tried to stay faithful to the intention and the spirit of the original, but there's a lot of stuff that I just adapted. The play is just…it ain't that good of a play (laughs). You know? Let's face it. I know it's influential and all that, but it ain't that good. There's a lot of crap in it. So I cut out the crap and just focused on the stuff that emphasized certain ideas that I wanted to present.
A: How was the play received?
DT: The people that have seen it think it's great. It's a bit of a mess at times, but it's meant to be a mess. It's meant to be totally chaotic and verging on falling apart at any moment. And it was set up to do that. But the people who have seen it think it's great.
A: Is it the original Disastodrome?
DT: Well, that notion of how to do things has always been part of our work ethic. People like that too. They think it's "dangerous." They feel the tension of the thing just barely hanging on. And it's a technique we've designed into what we do forever. Often at times over the years I would pull the band off the stage if things were screwed up- for various technical reasons or something, or we just weren't playing that well- and I would say "we'll be back in five minutes." Because it's easier just to go off and get your breath, calm down, get the sound man in and say, "Blah-blah-blah this is all screwed up." But there's also another thing to it where the audience is really worried, you know? (laughs) They're going, "Are they going to come back? What's going on?" And that's very beneficial. It's very good technique to use with an audience.
A: Finally, this summer your hometown of Cleveland, OH lost one of its great musical personalities in the form of revered journalist Jane Scott, who was an early supporter of Pere Ubu. How important was she to the music community there and to Pere Ubu in particular?
DT: Well, the thing that Jane did is that she didn't perceive, or treat, or consider some local band like Pere Ubu who had just played a couple of gigs any differently from the Rolling Stones or something. She didn't think any of these weird bands in the Cleveland scene that everybody knows about were any different than any band just doing cover versions that could attract a thousand people...whereas we were getting twenty or fifty in some wretched little club in the Flats. She didn't think she should treat any of those people any differently. And she was always enthusiastic about everything and wrote enthusiastically. She didn't write particularly perceptively, or particularly great, or in-depth, she was just enthusiastic about it all. And in those days when everybody thought we were shit it was important. At least psychologically. I mean- gee- the main writer in town likes us. She writes about us. You know? And that's nice. It's psychologically good. And it was beneficial that she would write about us and people would come to see us. So, she was very important.
In memory of Jane Scott (May 3, 1919 – July 4, 2011). Forever young. Forever 16.
