THE MENNING O' THE UNIVERSE! ECHO, GOD & THE BUNNY MEN

THE MENNING O' THE UNIVERSE! ECHO, GOD & THE BUNNY MEN

FEATURES

Dave Segal

Echo & The Bunnymen aren’t innovators, They’re re-invigorators. When they started, a lot of critics compared them to the Doors, but one listen to Crocodiles revealed this link to be facile. Sure, Ian McCulloch’s voice vaguely echoed Morrison’s—and the band did recently cover “People Are Strange” with former Door Ray Manzarek producing, for the soundtrack of The Lost Boys—but McCulloch’s voice and guitar, along with the guitars of Will Sergeant, Les Pattinson’s bass and Pete DeFreitas’s drums often tap into a more primal vein of rock than even the Doors could muster.

The Bunnymen have taken psychedetia into the ’80s, stripping it of all kitsch and camp elements, making both wonder and awe th€|r aesthetic aims. They clearly show a respect for the past, but avoid a sychophancy for it And one of the greatest things about the band is the way each album bears a distinctive atmosphere. In this regard, they’re similar to the Velvet Underground and the ,13th Floor Elevators, two immortal ’60s bands that transcended their time and space.

Now comes the release of Echo & The Bunnymen. Initial impressions led to the * conclusion that this -may be the weakest offering in the Bunnymen canon. The guitars sound less caustic and the keyboards too prominent, resulting in a softer, more polished rdcft than we’ve corie to expect

from the band. Which is nos to say that album lackaipotential classics. “NeW rection,” In Ypur Mindfsand *Ups Like Sugar” alt aspire to thl heights of past Bunnymen gems.

But all these words nauseate me. LiS-; ten to all their records—and live with them awhilp. And listen to the char^ipg Ian MeCulloch, the 28-year-old singer/lyricist/ guitarist who will expound on the many facets of Bunnyotics.

CREEM: Why was there a three-year gap between Ocean Rain and the new LP?

McCulloch: ft's fairly long and complicated. Around November of 1984, we decided to have a year away from making records. We thought that with Ocean Rain‡ it was the end of a full set, a history. Jpjades, clubs, diamonds, hearts. We wanted to have ayear of relaxing and not Di-competing with charts and criticisms, just tostep outside of it and, not reassess, but be able to be more objective about the faults. Up until then, we’d just gone from .one stage of saying we’re the best band in the world to saying we’re the best band ever and that it was the greatest album ever made. That was all tongue-in-cheek, but it got to the point where we had to step back and see if any of it was true, not take it so seriously, and write songs when we felt like it rather than because the record company wanted us to. Not that we ever did anyway.

Halfway through that so-called year off, we’d already written five tunes and that was just by accident. We went to Scandinavia for a little club tour. We did some covers and our own songs, just to enjoy it a little more. Since our first independent single, we’ve always been in the position of having to fly the flag of “New Rock Music.” It was a way to relax and enjoy the reason we were doing it in the first place, which was partly to add something to rock’s rich tapestry.

That was one year of writing songs and getting in the groove again. At the end of ’85, Songs To Learn And Sing came out, and we toured England. It felt like we were in a vacuum. We didn' t really know what we were doing or why we were doing it. There was no purpose to it, and not even any irony. We always reveled in the past in doing things that were not careerbuilding. It was like limbo.

Then on New Year’s Eve, (drummer) Pete went to New Orleans and freaked out for a few months. He went on a binge, partied for two months. He said he didn’t want to come back. He had a mission to accomplish. He wanted to change the world by April. I told him it will take at least until June. We were going to start the new album in February of ’86. By March, we were really pissed off, so we said, “You either come back this weekend or that’s it.” And he said, “Fair enough. I’ve got to do this.” I think he was sick of being in any kind of set-up. He joined us when he was 18, straight from school, and he’d never really experienced anything on his own, where he could just be Pete DeFreitas. But even when he flipped out, he changed his name to Mad Louie. He spent all of his money on himself and three friends in New Orleans. And these so-called friends, when the money ran out, phoned us saying they wanted to come home but they have no money, and would we please get them home. We said we would, in the end, and they promised to get him home. They came home without Pete, which was predictable.

We decided to carrry on as a threepiece and use a drum machine and possibly get a drummer later to drum on top of the tracks. We tried that for two-anda-half months. It went wrong. It was an unnatural way of doing it for us. We scrapped that. Pete eventually got back, and we got reports that he was full of remorse about leaving. We met and it seemed the same as ever. By the end of ’86, we were ready to record again with Pete.

The actual time spent in the studio for the new album was only four or five months. I think a lot of people assumed we were in a creative limbo.

People expect product every year, and when it doesn’t happen, they panic.

I don’t understand that. Leonard Cohen albums come out every five years, if you’re lucky, and I buy them and I love ’em. I don’t imagine that he’s been in the studio for five years.

How do you rate your new album compared with the others?

I think the first four were part of a set.

I think this is the beginning of the next set, the next deck of Bunnymen cards. I think it’s a good start. I love a lot of it, and I can see bits where I don’t get that much from. In the past, we used to do an album and, when it came out, we’d say that it’s brilliant and it’s the best thing we’ve done. And a year later, you listen to it, and it wasn’t. So with this, it’s still a bit close. In six months, I’ll be able to get into it a bit more. When I do put it on, I find it therapeutic in a way because, through all the crap we went through, to come out with something that I think is really good is an achievement in itself. It’s less precious to me than the others were at the time they came out, but the others are less precious to me now anyway.

Among your first four LPs, which do you consider your favorite?

As a whole, Ocean Rain.

Is it still fun to be in Echo & The Bunnymen?

Yeah. I think it’s more fun now than it has been since at least six years ago.

You can see the band going on for quite a while, then?

It’s a weird question. Like “When are you going to kill yourself?” With rock music, it has to end at a certain point. Otherwise you become Rod Stewart. I don’t think we are that cliched rock thing that has to die before it gets old. I think we’re more like a Leonard Cohen-y thing which doesn’t really have a time limit.

I notice throughout your albums a preoccupation with religious doubts. Have you experienced spiritual crises?

If your underpants size is getting bigger over the years, instead of saying I have to buy bigger underpants, I tend to put it in a religious setting and call it “Thorn Of Crowns.” My thorn of crowns is really my underpants. It is semi-spiritual, but it also puts it in an environment that can maybe challenge, so it’s not just me I’m talking about. To somebody in Africa, who cares about me? You’ve got to connect with other people, and a spiritual thing is something everybody at some point thinks about. A lot of people say they write religious lyrics, but they’re not really. “Heaven Up Here” was a phrase I used to describe explaining where I thought the band was at that time. I thought we were the best band in the world then. I still think we are. I think the essence is still there, but we have to risk a few things again which we will do. Calling the album Heaven Up Here had more to do with being arrogant than any religious meaning. I sometimes pretend to be loftier than I am, but, hopefully, it comes across tongue-in-cheek.

Sometimes the delivery seems so serious that people wouldn’t catch it.

I know. I’m usually bewied when I do the vocals, and normally when you’re drunk, it comes out like that.

In “Silver,” you said, “Man has to be his own savior.” Do you still believe that?

Yeah. I found there’s no such thing as God. But it seems like this is heaven, and we’re here, and it’s great. I don’t want to go to heaven. Everyone’s got permed blonde hair in heaven, and there’s too many strings on the harp.

Are you more concerned with the sound of words rather than the meaning?

I’m not concerned with words that are full of sound and fury signifying nothing, to quote the Bard. I quite like subtlety and sound of words. Obviously, I am pretty clever to write a bit of gibberish and make it sound all right.

Like “Bedbugs And Ballyhoo?”

Yeah. At one point I thought it was about sex from behind: “Down on your knees again/Saying please again.” Basically it’s just dodgy alliteration. I thought it had a good feel. Some songs don’t have to mean anything. Sometimes you can say a lot more.

On this album, I did make a conscious effort to intersperse things like “Bedbugs” and “Satellite.” “The Game” was a kind of summary where l.felt the Bunnymen were at. I wanted it to be the key song of the album that said, “Pride a proud refusal/and I refuse to need your approval.” That was a way of saying we’re coming back and I don’t care if you like it. For a few years, I thought I was living out the fantasy of these 15-year-old boys in overcoats, that I have in a way created a generation of people in overcoats with sticking-up hair, weight of the world on their shoulders—and I wanted to say I’m not going to live that out for you anymore. I haven’t got the weight of the world on my shoulders, and I don’t want it.

Have you heard the Mighty Lemon Drops?

Just one song. I can’t even remember which one. It was on some dodgy free single from a copy of Sounds magazine.

It sounds like they’re plagiarizing you.

Yeah, but you need a good singer to plagiarize my voice.

One song sounds like it was stolen from “Angels And Devils.’’

Really? I love that song. The words are important, and the voice. Obviously, speaking to me, you can see I’m a bit of philosopher on the side, and I know what I’m on about. I get the impression from them kind of people that they don’t really know what they’re doing it for. There’s no irony in it. But at the end of the day, I’m sure they’re nice fellows. Not very pretfy. I don’t mind them. If we’re helping four lads make a living, fair enough.

I find it flattering in a way and also a bit embarrassing. Even though I think we’re the best band in the world, I find it funny they picked on us. They could’ve picked on somebody who’s sold a million records. If I was gonna rip anyone off, I’d rip off soddin’ Whitney Houston. (Or the Doors.—Ed.)

What’s the story behind your recording of the Doors “People Are Strange”?

It was The Lost Boys director’s idea, and Ray Manzarek’s. He’s a fan of ours. It’s a nice little version, a bit more cabaret than the Doors’ version.

With which Beatle did you identify when you were growing up?

I always prefered John. He had the best name and winklepickers. And the best humor. He was a philosopher but he took the piss as well. He had the best voice. But now, more and more, I see myself moving into the Dakota. ©