Ssssh. Don't tell a soul, but Fran Healy--erstwhile singer/songwriter with forlorn indie-ish antiheroes Travis and official male haircut of the last 12 months after adapting the Hoxton-frightcut-mo"irony"hawk into the more user-friendly "fin" (copyright: someone or other)--likes the Backstreet Boys. No, hang on one second there. Fran Healy--reluctant guitar-slinging lovegod; the only South Glaswegian, Cathcart-born art school pinup that can actually do push-ups--loves the Backstreet Boys. And he's not averse to a bit of Britney, while we're on the subject.
Franny Travis--as he has become indelibly imprinted in the popular imagination since the astronomical, year-long rise of the Travis sophomore set The Man Who--doesn't think that anyone should buy records. His favourite medium to hear music is the radio ("more democratic," he says, with particular, Cathcartian emphasis on the ancient ideal of democracy). And the records he always listens out for on the radio are those by the Backstreet Boys. Not the Beta Band, the Bad Seeds, Black Flag, Bong Bladder Implosion, or even Blur. Not any of the other grumpsome pseuds that people of the indie-ish persuasion are supposed to listen out for whilst glued to their precious tranny. It's the Backstreets that do it for Franny, every time.
"The Backstreet Boys are great. Hands up. I love 'em. There's this guy, right, called Max Martin who just sits and bangs out these absolutely fucking amazing songs for Britney Spears and the Backstreet Boys. You kow that song 'I Want It That Way?' I fucking love that one. There's one that I'm hearing on the radio at the moment [begins mournsome rendition of Backstreet Boys' 'Show Me the Meaning of Being Lonely' in his uniquely affecting lullaby croon and carries on for an entire verse and chorus eternity in a genuinely touching fashion]. It's really creeping up on me. It works in exactly the way that a great song should work. And the way those guys sing. There's no ego involved. They just...splash it out the way it should be sung. Getting the harmonies exactly right. Somewhere in the '70s, songwriting stopped being about song and started being about faces. A brilliant song is like a star in the night--a big firework into the blackness that leaves this amazing star. You used to throw your song up the air to see if it would stick. Now there's this big package that surrounds it, and it's about the stars on the ground, not those up in the sky. Because none of them are sticking."
How does Franny Travis think that his thesis would sit alongside his so-called contemporaries? The saggily denimmed, loosely and often incorrectly identified Camden set that, since the early '90s, has thrown up approximately one steller act per annum, no bother, as they unleashed their career-defining albums ('93: Suede; '94: Blur; '95: Oasis; '96: Pulp; '97: Manic Street Preachers; '98: the Verve; '99: Travis, obviously; somewhere in between them all: Radiohead), thus rearranging the upper echelons of Britain's popistocracy mainstream into a decidedly more guitar-oriented concern? The sorts that have rendered such ephemeral totums as the inkie music press, terms like "alternative" and indeed "indie," and a bunch of wizened old music industry folk that still wear sublimal CND badges and trenchcoats completely and utterly impotent.
"I don't give a fuck, man. We don't fit in. Never have done. People might try and tell me that the Backstreet Boys are a pile of old wank, and you know, in a way, they are. But so are Travis. But we both have our weapons."
The tunes?
"Exactly. Guitar bands, man. There is sooo much indiewank. Give it up. Don't just make angry music. Make people fucking feel something. We never have and never will belong to an indie ghetto."
Consider the climate of the contemporary pop hemisphere. On the one hand, the post-Oasis, Britrush of guitar folk with their earnest intent to party like it was, ooh, 1969. A cock-rock meritocracy that dates feisty Britrock birds, schmoozes TFI Friday hookers, hangs at the Met Bar, and expects A-list playlist status, even though it was a mere ten years ago that, say, all of their spiritual forefathers the Stones Roses couldn't get arrested on daytime radio. Ten years ago, it is safe to say, a couple like Jarvis Cocker and Chloe Sevigny would have failed to happen individually (ask Jarvis if you don't believe me, he was trying hard enough).
On the other, some might say contradictory hand, their nemesis: the arch pop brigade. The post-Take That slew of manipulated machine fodder, rescued--miracle-like--from the Kwik Save checkout counter of their destiny and slipped into a D&G shirt suit (boys) or bodice-ripping Topshop pearly pink bra top (girls). Then thrown into the workaholic, relationship-free fray of selling numbskulled, demented, and slightly genius pop product to a target market that, given a parallel twist of fate, they may very well have been babysitting.
Consider this peculiar hemisphere next time you hear Richard Ashcroft's "Song for the Lovers" next door to Britney's "Oops I Did It Again" on the super soaraway Sara Cox morning Radio 1FM show. Franny Travis's favmorite medium (democracy, remember). It's probably happening as we write.
Then consider the fact that maybe Travis's meteoric rise to national treasure status over a mere 12-month period is because they are located precisely halfway between the two. Four boys that dress their songs in the traditional cloth of guitar, bass, and drums, and themselves in a uniform of thrift-reliant, fraying corduroy but that would like to sing you a punchline to a song as tippety-toppety, rip-roaringly efficient, and evocative as "Hit me baby one more time." Indeed, they do. Regularly. Their Britney cover is a staple of their ever-swelling, crowd-pleasing live performance and made it to B-side status for the searing single "Turn." It wasn't an irony thing. It was heartfelt, a tribute.
"A song," says Franny Travis, "should be written with the sole intention of lifting you off the ground when it gets to the chorus and then gently easing you back down the scale again. You shouldn't hear the instruments. As soon as they touch the song, they should just disappear."
With which he is off into his own pop horizon, interpreting Britney's singular magical pop moment, a cappella, with those three dramatic introductory notes.
"Duh-der-ner! It's soooo good."
Oh baby, baby.
Two days earlier, we interrupt the Travis/Attitude photo session to introduce ourselves. The four Travis boys are sat round eating kitkats (rock 'n' roll, eh?) and drinking a variety of sparkling water and tea ensembles (rock 'n' even roller!) in Lorded photographer Lord Patrick Lichfield's studio kitchen. Each one will depart, make-up bound, and come back looking slightly embarrassed after their individual shots, in the approximate manner of school boys returning from a summons to see the cross headmanster. They are pelasnatly engaging chaps, interested, interesting, and clearly a little aghast at the favourable card that public affection has played them. Franny will later tell us that the band have "never argued. There's never been a cross word betwen us. We totally love each other." It figures.
In the interest of polite chit-chat/interpid frontline journalism, we will learn the following facts about the three remaining Travis people that have not revolutionized mens' hair over the preceeding 12 months. That Dougie thought it "absolutely bonkers" to have met Cherie Blair at the Brit Awards (at which Travis swept up, obviously). That Andy acquired his interesting 6-inch demin jacket cuff situation from the fashionista hangout of Harvey Nichols' basement menswear department. ("I used to shop in charity shops only," he imparts, "but we're not doing so bad since..." and trails off.) That Neil was told by his record company before The Man Who unleashed its stealth-like attack on the nations' wallets that they were hoping for it to sell 200,000 copies, absolute tops (at the time of writing, it's hovering around the 2 million mark, five times platinum in the U.K. alone). That Dougie like the Moby album ("wicked album") and, on learning of Attitude's allergy to art galleries, instructs it to "go stand in front of a Rothko and you'll just fucking lose yourself in it. I guarantee it." That Neil used to tend the bar of top Glasgow pub The Horseshoe and the landlord would charitably afford them free rehearsal space in their early days above the bar ("He's put a plque outside it now, saying 'Travis used to rehearse here,' Canny wee fuck.") That none of them is basking in any kind of aforeglow at the likelihood that The Man Who Will knock their old pals Oasis off the top spot after only one week, on their album's third vistiation to the top slot (it does). In fact, they seem rather embarassed by it.
Most interestingly, we learn that all of them wince slightly when "Why Does It Always Rain on Me?"--the ubiquitous radio smash from The Man Who--is aired for possibly the zillionth time on Mark and Lard's super, soaraway Radio 1FM afternoon show.
"Oh, gi's a break, man," chortles Neil, adjusting the dial.
With which, they trot obligingly onto Lord Lichfield's roof to have group shots taken and play a casual footballing routine from up high with the kiddies in the neighbouring school. Fran chucks the last of the stray balls from the roof into their yard to a mild cheer from the tots.
"Now go and buy the album," he mutters under his breath, wry smile and fin firmly in place.
Further Nobbling of Franny Travis
"Take the gay out of that sentence and you could be talking about anyone." Fran is arguing well for his position as counsellor for the defence of the underdog from his Camden abode, woken from slumber by Attitude's further "queeries" and "that fucking annoying alarm clock." He knows about the underdog sort of thing.
"Let's take gay out of it and replace it with X."
We are discussing discrimination in all forms.
"X was lambasted. Thought of as shit. Considered not worthy. X isn't a proper, normal thing. But this whole life, this whole alternative existence is available and X knows it is. And X isn't afraid. So X goes for it. For years and years, X gets on with his own little endeavors and everyone says No! No! No! It's not right. So X decided to go to London and chance his arm. It's a bit bigger there. There are more opportunites, and suddenly, X realizes that nobody is bothered. There are lots of X's looking for the same thing. And X realizes that that very thing that they said was wrong about him was his strength. All that stuff is very, very human, and lots of people know about it. We do. It can be a ball and chain, but at the end of the day, you have to say, 'Fuck it!' We all have to make sense of a fucked-up, corporate, bullshit, money, money, money world. A massive part of the gay community does that. They just get on with it and fuck everyone who thinks otherwise. I think that's brilliant."
Franny Travis is talking about his understanding of the gay "experience"--not from any personal "experience" but not far off the mark, let's be honest. One of his favorite recurrent themes is facing "the fear." So while his lovely X analogy stands strong for the homo contingent, he is just as righteously talking about himself and his band. Once very much the underdog, earmarked as Oasis support act by royal (well, Liam's at least) appointment and destined for not much more.
The debut Travis album Good Feeling--recently purchased publicly on Victoria (Adams-Beckham-Posh)'s Secrets on Channel 4 by none other than His Holy Highness Elton John in Virgin Records--had not left Travis in a particularly strong bargaining point vis-a-vis their engagement with an apathetic public. It had--and this is being generous--underperformed. A sprinkling of low-end top 40 entries, the odd TFI moment, a trawl around the world in the formerly gargantuan shadow of the brothers Gallagher.
They shied away from their slight public profile and put together The Man Who, the gold dust therein tinkered over by former Radiohead and Beck studio brain Nigel Godrich. First single "Writing to Reach You," legend has it, reduced a normally tear-shy Liam Gallagher to a quivering blubsome wreck on first hearing it. "Everything is open, nothing's set in stone," declared second oddly uplifting single tear-jerker "Driftwood," and so it appeared to be for Travis, who rewrote their own history and swiftly entered the hearts of a newly receptive nation. Elton, it should be added, owns half a dozen copies of it now.
Franny freely and graciously admits a debt of gratitude to gay support for Travis. When the "serious" music press that now can't get enough of them were wishy-washying around coverage for The Man Who (reviews: not good. "Fuck, man, some of that stuff was really personal"), your friendly neighborhood gay freesheet Boyz instantly spotted a fey, artsy charm at work and whisked them away, cover-bound. "It was our first cover for the album," he says, grinning. "They asked us all sorts."
The man who proceeded to enter the realms of the nation's favourites has clear ideas as to why The Man Who has struck chords all over the record buying shop. He is neither surprised nor embarassed when I inform him that former Blue Peter "hunk" and fellow Scot John Leslie had that very monring enthused and passed on congratulations about the multiple Travis Brits triumphs on his This Morning stand-in slot.
"Is that the Scottish guy? Aye, that's sweet. It's really good. I'm glad he likes it. The thing with our album is that it's one of those records that people speak about in hushed tones. It doesn't say anything about the people that buy it. It's one that people play in the house. I remember a couple of years ago when OK Computer came out, and everyone was going, 'Yeah, man, cool, cool, have you got it?' Because people bought that album to say something about themselves. It's like people who buy The Guardian. They think that says something about them and it probably does. But most people don't buy it. It's like buying a chair. You buy something comfy that you just...fall into. You don't buy a piece of art that you can't sit on. Our album is a simple chair. It isn't a trendy album. Your i-D people wouldn't touch it. Loads of people have bought it, though. It's like a cross-section of people aged 3 to 85. We've sold nearly 2 million copies while the cool people were out buying something else. And I think--I hope--it's making people really happy."
Attitude suggests that some of the "cool" people may have purchased the album in the first instance and shied away on learning of its mass populus approval. He's having none of it.
"No. No, I'm quite adamant on this one. And I don't give a fuck. The 'cool' people aren't cool at all, and even they know it. The sort of people that buy our albums are the sort of people that do most of the working, lviing, and dying in this country."
Just as Franny Travis holds little truck with the cool vehicle, so too does he with the star vehicle.
"So many people turn into wankers. They think 'we did that so we must be fucking brilliant. Check us!' Well, fuck you. About six yeras ago, I wrote my first proper song, and it humiliated me so much I burst into tears. I do think 'I did that,' but I don't think 'that belongs to me.' It belongs to anyone who wants to get anything out of it. You're a vessel. That's what artists are. When you make art, you cease to matter. You don't matter. You are the lowest of the low. It's that Backstreet Boys thing."
Do you honestly feel like something "other" is traveling through you when you're writng?
"Totally. See, 99 percent of the stuff I do is total toss. When I was 20, I wrote about 20 songs, and I thought, 'Right, this is it. I can be this vessel.' But there are piles and piles of fucking wank. Piss. So many people put that piss out. It's facing your fear. Travelling with a song. The beauty of a good song is its fearlessness. You have to be unafraid of melody. Songs should give a name to a place that you don't know."
Which is why people always react to songs when they're heartbroken, right?
"Right. And that's weird form a songwriter's point of view. People don't talk about how songs feel anymore, they talk about how songs sound. You don't have to analyse a great song, you just feel it. So you have to be unafraid of where you're going with it. It may be pure cheesy, but it's a great little song because of the invisible components. Music and songs defy fear. They make you human."
Facing the fear. He likes this one. Allow him to extrapolate on the subject, replacing X with gay for a while.
"Being in a minority means struggle. But we struggled, man. You always struggle, but I wouldn't be concerned about that. Gay men and women have existed for, like, billions of years. It's like if you're gay or straight or whatever, then one day, touch wood, you'll find pure love. It could be with a man or a woman. It's just this one...thing. It's to do with sex, and if you're afraid of sex, then you won't get it. Everyone concerns themselves with sex and orgasms and this and that. But sex is fun and so is sexuality, and it's stupid to think otherwise."
Attitude comments that Clause 28 is the very definition of note encouraging people to face their fear. Franny Travis is unacquainted with the anachronism that is the Clause.
"What is that?"
[Brief explanation of Clause 28.]
[Genuinely astonished] "That's ridiculous. There are obviously kids out there who feel different in some way. Teachers, adults should be helping them face that fear. You have to be open to everything. Let nature guide you. Let it take you where you want to be. Minorities are always used as scapegoats. Women, blacks, gays: gay black women. You know?"
We know (kind of).
"By definition, gay is happy, and that's what it should be. It's opening yourself up and that thing should be liberating. It should make you free-er. But then there are all thse walls that are supposed to be controlling. Facing your extremes is a brave way to behave."
Attitude suggests that Franny Travis might like to step forward and be counted as a new spokesperson on our behalf.
"Och," he demurs.
Where does all this come from? Why on earth does one of our favorite rock people step aside the Met Bar circus and find the time to concern himself with the very stuff of the human condition? It's his mum.
"My mum is one of the strongest women in the world. She's fucking cool. She thought, 'Fuck work' and brought me up by herself. Instilled some humanity in me. She's got this amazing femininity, nurturing, beautiful characteristics. I've got her to thank for everything.
Franny Travis, then. There you have him. Loves his mum, cares about The Backstreet Boys and Britney. and knows how to pen a bit of a tune (next installment: addictive big guitar swayer "Coming Around"). Bless.
Attitude
June 2000
Words: Paul Flynn
Photo: Karl Grant
Travis may be on top of the world, but their feet are still firmly on the ground. Fran Healy tells Paul Flynn why the Backstreet Boys tickle his fancy, how to write the perfect song, and why cool isn't cool anymore.
