It's Gettin' Better, Manhattan!

They're Noel's favourite band and are soon to support Oasis on their tour. We travelled to New York to see what makes people love TRAVIS...

New York is great. So great that American airlines will offer you $1,000 to hang back and let weird old women with comically mysterious plastic bags get on flights to there before you. Then they'll tell you they were only joking, cram you at the back of the plane and feed you the worst food you will ever eat in your life.

You'll turn up at JFK airport tired and hungry, wilting in the humid heat of Labor Day, the acknowledged full stop to summer when an entire nation is permitted to spell words wrong and clog up every road going. Just 'cos they can.

Half an hour later you'll see the silhouette of Manhattan etched on the haze and your frustration will flip inside out, recreated as giddy delight, a barely controllable joy at being absorbed into the most wantonly exciting city on earth.

It'll happen very time. And the 20th tingle will be just as good as the first. Guaranteed.

Even on an off day, New York rocks like continents colliding. This week, as a bluster of bands and music biz lapdogs hit town for the annual CMJ festival, the place is drenched in expectation.

Hardly more so than for Travis, the ebullient Scottish rocksters who intend to stud the week with their increasingly confident melodics. And, while the gathered corporate executives clog proceedings with their dumb pursuit of the sanctuary of the mediocre, Travis are cockily focusing on an appreciation of the energy that pulses through the city.

"It's all about passion," says bassist Dougie Payne. "You can write a million words about why people makes music and why there's good bands and bad bands but, really, it all boils down to people who care about what they do. We care."

Travis care. In an ideal world we'd blow those two words up and run them as the feature. It's certainly the straighforward explanation for why they deserve to be heard.

But, hey, who wants to suck a gobstopper from the inside out? Or run through conjuring tricks backwards? Especially when the outer layers and the build-up pattern are so much fun. Travis are sensational company.

First time I meet them in New York, they come at me from about four feet in the air. Tumbling out of the hotel's gloomily unsettling "Whiskey Bar" (wherein icy goddesses with rictus smiles politely endure moronic bonhomie from burly dullards), the band bounce all over me, photographer Chris and press officer John (virtually snapping the ribs of the latter with their bear hugs).

"Come and have some drinks," they say.

"Some drinks" for starters. I know we're going to get on.

It's the first time we've met, but me and Travis go way back, tangled in a tragedy that, despite the week's media's sanctimonious soundbytes, affected some of us much more personally than a brutally premature Parisian swerve to sainthood.

I had a friend called Leo, a journalist who worked for the trade press, but managed to bring genuine enthusiasm to what he did, cocking snooks at the drearily cautious accountants and pop-as-Pedigree Chum merchants who constitute a far greater percentage of the music business than you might imagine. Last year Leo interviewed Travis, enchanted and inspired by their "All I Wanna Do Is Rock" debut EP, released in October 1996 on their own Red Telephone Box label.

"He was brilliant," says Doug. "He just came along and we hung out for an afternoon. He was completely enthusiastic, really into the whole spirit of the band. A few days later we went off to work on the album, then, just before Christmas, there was a phone call and we found out he was dead. It was, well, devastating, and we'd only met him once. He'd really understood what we were about and then he was gone. When we heard there was going to be a benefit for him, we knew we had to play it."

I was DJing that benefit and had invited minor celebrity and 10-hit wonder Noel Gallagher along, pleasantly surprised when he turned up. And even more surprised when, with the Roller waiting outside, he stayed to check out Travis as they negotiated their way through a ragged, and occasionally thrilling set. The bad bits were at least bravely over-ambitious. The good bits just twinkled with promise.

Gallagher certainly seemed to agree, checking out their ensuing gig at London's 100 Club and keeping an eye on their progress from then onwards. The result is that Travis have been personally invited to support Oasis on the bulk of their forthcoming tour, a display of patronage that inevitably catapults them from a peripheral, if solid, development towards the glare of attention and expectation. It's the big time. Will they be able to handle it?

"I think we will," says Doug. "It's like I was saying, playing well isn't about how many gigs you've done or where you've played, it's about self-belief and communicating that self-belief to an audience, giving them something they can share. That's what Oasis do so well. And a band like the Manics as well. I saw one of the last gigs they played with Richey at Barrowlands in Glasgow and there was this real feeling of sharing some sort of communal celebration. That's what rock's supposed to be about."

"It's all about passion. You can write a million words about why people makes music and why there's good bands and bad bands but, really, it all boils down to people who care about what they do. We care."--Dougie

Tonight, however, barely hours after their plane touched down in America, Travis have more important things on their mind. Like getting as much alcohol inside them as possible. And where better to choose for their careless wassailing than a downtown bar that appears to only sell Harp lager. If things weren't unreal enough to start off with, it's clear that they're going to get a whole lot weirder. Neil, Travis's drummer, has headed back to the hotel already, followed shortly afterwards by the beany-hatted singer Fran. They've a date with a late-night screening of Poltergeist on the TV and seem at least vaguely aware that they have a gig less than 24 hours away. Guitarist Andy, meanwhile, seems to be a couple of sips away from forgetting what country he's in, let alone that he's got a gig to play. Remarkably he manages to stay exactly that way for a good two hours before accepting defeat and gently sliding into oblivion. It's left, therefore, to bassist Doug to keep the Travis flag flying. And he does so with some aplomb.

Despite best intentions, prejudice will always out, and I have to admit that, as a rule, bassists are rarely the most engaging of characters. Peter Hook hitherto being one of the few exceptions. Doug, however, is a splendidly vociferous fellow, and a fine drinking companion. Like the rest of the band, he's possessed of an enthusiasm for music that consistently bubbles just beneath the surface and, as the beer kicks in, he can't hold it in any longer.

"Oh, yeah," he admits. "I'm a complete fan. That's why writers like you and ET and Robin Bresnark at MM should appreciate the importance of what you're doing. You're the people that write about stuff cos it can still touch you and inspire you. It's the same with us, I mean, every year there's so many bands who really don't give a fuck about what they do, they're just killing time. I'm in Travis because I care more about this group than anything else. I can't imagine not doing it. And the longer we do it, the better it gets."

The band have actually been together since 1990, Doug doing a sculpture degree at art college, Fran and Andy studying art. The band at the time was little more than a tentative exploration of what it would be like to make music, any really serious intent only entering proceedings in the middle of last year.

"We moved down to London and all lived in this house together in Haringey like The Monkees or something. And that was a really important part of how Travis got shaped. We were like a gang, and although we've moved to different parts of London now, I think we've kept that gang feeling. Were there arguments about the drummer nicking the milk? Well, the drummers always nick the milk, don't they? No, we got on really well. We're very close."

Their closeness is patently obvious. Unashamedly physical with each other and sharing countless private jokes and references, they recall the tender interdependence that I've only previously witnessed in Oasis, The Charlatans and The Bluetones. They don't put up barriers to outsiders, quite the opposite, but you're aware that the four of them together have created an unshakeable strength that's based on far more than just their music.

Never was that strength better demonstrated than in the recording of the band's debut album, Good Feeling, released on Independiente this week, a label whose head honcho, Andy Macdonald (having sacrificed his Go! Discs label rather than see it consumed by the corporate monster) is held in high regard by the band.

"I really admire his integrity," says Doug. "That's the great thing about the band at the moment. We've got people around us who are in all this for the right reasons. It's like, we had Steve Lillywhite producing the album and even though he's been in the business for years, he's managed to keep his integrity. He was telling me that he doesn't listen back to anything he's produced until years later, cos it just breeds complacency or delusion. He's done Sparkle In The Rain and some Banshees stuff and God knows what else, but he genuinely seemed to be as enthusiastic about producing us as whatever he'd done in the past. You've got to respect that."

The album was initially to be recorded in London, but, finding all the studios were full, Lillywhite suggested Bearsville Studios in upstate New York, near Woodstock, a place ideally suited to the band's working mentality.

"It was brilliant," says Doug. "The place was a farm right out in the middle of nowhere and that's exactly what we needed. There were no distractions and we could just focus on the record, put everything into it. When we record, we do it as a band, like we're playing live and if someone fucked up in the middle of a song but it still sounded good, we used it. I think that's what's given it an edge. We've kept the energy and not diluted any of what we're about. I've very proud of it."

With some justification. It's a fiercely impressive debut, supplementing the already familiar surge of "U16 Girls," "Tied To The 90s," and, of course, "All I Want To Do Is Rock," with songs like "The Line Is Fine" and "Happy" that barrel towards the glorious and aren't about to have much truck with resistance.

Singer Fran (a chap who confines his inspiring impact to the stage rather than the interview) is adamant that Travis are more than just an assembly line guitar combination.

"We're fuckin' great," he reasons. "Live, we can be brilliant or the worst band in the world, but we're never boring. It's all or nothing, isn't it?"

"Playing well isn't about how many gigs you've done or where you've played, it's about self-belief and communicating that self-belief to an audience, giving them something they can share."--Dougie

Comparisons have been made with Radiohead, and on a number like "Funny Thing," you can glimpse some sort of foundation for the comparison, but as one who has never really understood the appeal of Thom Yorke and his "merry men," I'd urge you to head for the lovely "Good Day To Die." The latter, while ostensibly a bit of glum 'un, acknowledges the sunshine that slashes the darkest of clouds, affirmation of life dazzling between the lines--a similar spirit to that currently best articulated by The Verve. Doug likes Radiohead, but wishes they'd "do some funny stuff, show a sense of humour." He hasn't heard the Verve album, so we head back to the hotel, accompanied by MM's favourite New Yorker, Tessa Rock Chick and worship at the altar of Ashcroft for a bit. Very loudly.

Just before the sun comes up, Tessa having rung up Blondie's Clem Burke at home in bed to settle a spiralling argument about what the initials of CBGB stood for (he can't remember), Doug begrudgingly admits that it might be time to cram in a few minutes of quality sleep.

Half a blink later, it's morning. 80 degrees. 95 per cent humidity. And time for a photo session. Oh joy.

"I need a drink," says Andy. After staggering around the streets, including a visit to the Variety cinema where Travis (Travis!!??!! - Yes!) Bickle went in Taxi Driver and the admission from Fran that the band were actually named after the Travis character in Paris, Texas, everyone goes to lie down for a bit and come to terms with the fact that there's a gig to play. The kids want their anthems and "All I Want To Do Is Have An Aspirin" isn't one of them.

Magical powers of rejuvenation being a prerequisite for bona fide stardom, it's only just a surprise to find the band very nearly bright eyes and bushy-tailed a couple of hours later, enthusiastically prepared to loon about up lampposts in Times Square and well up for playing at cult venue, Don Hill's in Greenwich Village. This despite the fact that they've just seen Lou Reed riding down the street on a pushbike ("A pushbike!"--Neil).

The "gig" isn't quite the proletarian free-for-all everyone had been led to believe, turning out to be an Epic Records party, wherein the few still trusting in music's restorative grace are outnumbered by zombie cunts in bandanas and panicky executives desperately wondering how to disguise the fact that headliners Furball are about as useful as navel lint.

Not an ideal environment for Travis to prove much, particularly when hampered by technology getting all capricious and smothering proceedings with random appropriations of early Mary Chain B-sides.

Not that Travis seem hugely arsed. Guitarist Andy (having insisted to me moments earlier that he be referred to from now on as "Handsome Fucker" and who only took to the stage after a tentative reintroduction to the healing properties of alcohol at the bar down the road) mooches about for a bit and smokes some cigarettes. Fran waits for the buzz to disappear of its own accord, and Doug and Neil have long conversations in mime with friends in the crowd.

The fuzziness detracts from much of the first half of the performance, but when it disappears, as inexplicably as it moseyed along in the first place, the band accelerate confidently into a more specific demonstration of just how assuredly they're tilting at excellence. "Funny Thing" still nods to Radiohead, but sparks off into intriguing new directions and, at times, the Rod Steward comparisons that I'd earlier laughed off, actually bear further consideration. There is something of The Faces to Fran's cracked vocalising over the shape-shifting pop outlines of the instrumental undertow.

Five Travis Absolutes
1. There are a lot more fish in the sky. 2. Hobbies, schmobbies. 3. Half-heartedness is worse than failure. 4. Cigarettes are a dependable source of fiber. 5. Beer is good for you.

Fran is a fine frontman, charisma is a matter of instinct rather than calculated intent, engaging lyrics and ever-increasing self belief making Travis as much fun to watch as listen to.

And, when watching them, only the most curmudgeonly could fail to be captivated by Andy's approach to playing the guitar, a technique that brings to mind the equally unpredictable style of Chad from Mansun. Half the time he looks at his instrument like it's just gone off in his hand, or he's woken up to find himself holding some weird wood and string thing, the purpose of which eludes him. The rest of the time, he braids fiesty guitar lines around Travis's prismatic pop. While lighting a cigarette.

Weaving back to the dressing room after a particularly stomptastic take on "Tied To The Nineties," the band are eager to announce that it hasn't been one of their better performances, promising that their show the next night will be far better. When they've got as good as this on one of their bad nights, and evolved from chancers to players so quickly, you can only wonder just how good their best will be.

"Fancy a drink?" asks Andy, making for a side street with arbitrary determination.

Twenty-four hours later, the band--playing alongside Mansun--blast the roof off, impressing an increasingly excitable slice of NY punterdom. The future's essential viewing. Travis rock.

Melody Maker
Sept. 13, 1997
Tied To The Bar: Paul Mathur
Good Feeling: Chris Floyd

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