 |
"We're Doing It for the People..." | |
Top of the Pops, custard pies, screaming fans, and breast enlargements: such is a month in the life of Travis, Britain's favorite band.
It's May 17 at the Riverside Studios in west London, and NME finds itself in the middle of an ill-tampered recording of Top of the Pops. On the stage to our left, Radiohead are about to start their fifth attempt at "Knives Out." Thom Yorke's obvious edginess feels like it's about to boil over and most of the studio audience have had enough.
Teenage girls are slumped glumly out of camera shot. They came here hoping for a glimpse of the Backstreet Boys or Shaggy. Instead, they're confronted with a heavy dose of live existential paranoia.
"What time are the A*Teens on?" asks one girl, despairingly.
Half an hour later, it's Travis's turn out front. Like Radiohead, they're here to tape live performances of their next few singles. Unlike Radiohead, however, the A*Teens massive actually likes Travis. When the four of them (singer Fran Healy, bassist Dougie Payne, guitarist Andy Dunlop, and drummer Neil Primrose) hop gleefully onto the stage, there's a delirious cheer. One girl gestures to Fran, and as he bends down to see what she wants, she starts rubbing her hands through his dyed-blond mohican. There are squeals of ecstasy, and Fran just smiles. This sort of thing happens a lot.
That's because Travis are a pop group--more Hear'Say than Coldplay and unafraid to say so. They finish off tonight by miming to their Top Five hit, "Sing," while having a pie fight. As they slip and slide over the stage, pieces of stray custard pie flying everywhere, huge cheers ricocheting around the confined studio, the contrast with Radiohead couldn't be starker.
Afterwards, NME chats to Fran in the band's otherwise deserted dressing room. As he tries to shake the remnants of pie from his ear and waft away the overpowering smell of cheese, we mention the sense of audience relief when they saw that it was going to be Travis onstage next. He doesn't think it's strange in the slightest.
"The people are the most important thing," he beams happily. "When we're doing gigs or anything, we're just aware that we're doing it for the people...almost like a public servant, like the postman or the guy who cleans your street every morning. Whether as a musician you think you're doing it for this reason or that doesn't really matter. Musicians have a duty to the public."
And that's Travis all over. It's what they've always said, and it's the closest you'll ever get to any sort of manifesto. In the aftermath of the astonishing success of The Man Who, it's an idea that's become crystallized in both the band's thinking and their entourage. Eleven days after Top of the Pops, NME will see them play a brilliant gig in Leeds Town Hall. Afterwards, Dougie will tell us that Travis are "public servants" and the group's radio plugger will explain, "It's simple. They're the people's band."
It's May 3, two weeks before Travis are due to appear on Top of the Pops. As part of NME's plan to spend a month with the band prior to the release of their new album, we've gathered at John Henry's, a rehearsal studio just behind King's Cross in north London, where the band are going to be running through material from the forthcoming The Invisible Band.
Strung out in a line across the stage, they're working their way painstakingly through their new set. Despite the fact that friends keep dropping by (Nigel Godrich, producer of their last two albums, turns up halfway through--"You've speeded that one up a bit," is all he keeps saying), centre stage Fran is the model of concentration. The others (Dougie in particular) might find their minds wandering--but he's determined to get it right, constantly correcting the others and offering advice.
When they gel, it's beautiful. If anything, the material from The Invisible Band is even leaner and more accessible than that on The Man Who. "Follow the Light" and "Flowers in the Window" are the two immediate highlights, the sound of a band gliding toward their peak and radiating confidence in the process.
About an hour later, they decide to call it a day, and we soon find ourselves in a pub at the end of the road, talking to Andy and Dougie. Tonight, Andy's having a party in Camden to celebrate his engagement, which will be attended by--among others--Liam and Nicole as well as Gem and Andy Bell from Oasis. Right now, though, he and Dougie are arguing about pop culture and inadvertently explaining what it is that drives Travis.
"Generally," begins Andy, his eyebrows stuck in a frown, "we're surrounded by the most pappy crap, whether that be magazines, songs, TV..."
"...washing powder," nods Dougie sagely.
"It's about a lack of quality in everything. There's the whole dumbing-down thing as well, that whole Heat, OK!, Hello! celebrity culture thing. It's fine. It has a place, but the point is it leads to a general acceptance of less quality in everything."
"I think everything these days is bereft of quality," declares Andy, sipping his beer thoughtfully. "Even supermarkets are rubbish. You've got much more choice, but it's all shit, stuff that's grown as quickly as possible to make as much money as quickly as possible. It's the same with music. Most of it has been put together really quickly and tastes of absolutely nothing."
Where does Travis fit into all this? Some people would argue that you're part of the dumbing down of culture.
"We just try to make the best record we possibly can, something we're proud of," says Dougie, vaguely affronted. "We work within the parameters of the business. We're not exactly punk warriors. Whatever we do, whether it's talking to you or going on Top of the Pops, it's all just about getting something good out there again."
"We've never dumbed anything down," retorts Andy. "What's wrong with doing something good and trying to get it to as many people as possible?"
"That's right," concludes Dougie. "The machine makes a lot of rubbish, so it's great to use it to get something good out there. I don't think anyone could disagree with that, could they?"
Quality might be something that interests Travis but celebrity certainly isn't. That's why their new album's called The Invisible Band. They might be the biggest group in Britain, but they don't get recognised in the street very often. If anything, there's a purity about them and their motives. They want to get "something good out there" and they want to do it "for the people". As they often point out: "Working is important."
This ingrained work ethic is something that's shot through every member of Travis, but none more so than Fran. When we first interview him for this feature, it's 10pm and he's been in the Top of the Pops studio for the best part of six hours. He's tired, but insists we chat now rather than in Leeds, even though he's covered in cake. It's this drive that really propels Travis--and Fran knows it.
"I'm massively ambitious," he nods, "but not so much for myself. To everyone else it looks like I'm the frontman doing this big thing, but really I'm following this invisible path, that's pulling us and everything forward.
"When I was about 11, I was at Blair's College, the priesthood and all that, and they were saying, 'If you want to be a priest, it has to be your vocation,' and I just loved that word because it sounded like 'vacation'. I didn't want to be a priest, but I loved this idea of having a calling, and I suppose being in Travis is my calling.
"As everyone probably knows by now, I got a guitar after seeing Roy Orbison on Jonathan Ross's The Last Resort ('80s equivalent of The Priory--TV Ed}. I like guitars for some bizarre reason, and I've got a musical ear. I like singing, and I like entertaining, and that's what's pulling me. I can't put it into words, and it'll probably look duff in print, but from a very early age, I've been massively, massively competitive."
Of course, if you ask Fran what he's ambitious for, or what he's competing against, he doesn't answer. The closest you get is when he starts talking--as he always does--about radio.
"I guess the ultimate idea for me is to get my songs on the radio," he says, sticking his finger in his ear to remove another bit of pie. "The radio is what makes music such a powerful medium. When I was at art school, me and my friend Eddy would sit and discuss what was so good about music, and we always decided it was because it had radio. It could survive without MTV or whatever because it has its best life on the radio. So the idea is to make a record and get it on the radio so people can hear it."
"Certain songs define certain times," he argues. "When I was a kid, it was like 'Into The Groove' and 'Crazy For You' by Madonna. That was summer '85, and whenever I hear those songs, I think of that time. And I guess a lot of people in my age group do as well. Whether or not those songs were good or bad is irrelevant. It doesn't matter. Those songs were played on the radio endlessly and they defined the time.
"I guess we try and do that. Taste is the thing. I hate taste. I think I've managed to retain an element of that childish outlook where you just like things or you don't. I don't know why, but I've just managed to hold onto it for some reason. The things I hate are self-consciousness and pretentiousness. We're all fucking baldy monkeys really, and we try so hard to pretend that we aren't."
As anyone who's interviewed Travis will tell you, there's something unnerving about their self-effacement and lack of cynicism. We wish we could tell you it all an act and that really they torture small animals in their spare time--but we can't. As Dougie will point out a week later, this is what they're like all the time.
"You know what we're like as people," he'll smile. "You've met us a lot of times, and you know we're true to ourselves all the time. I think the reason why people get fucked up when they're in bands is not because of the amount of work they do, it's just they're pretending to be something else. It must be absolutely exhausting to have to pretend to be something you're not 24 hours a day. I think the thing that stands us in good stead is that we don't play a part."
And it's true, they don't. When Fran says he never reads books or listens to music, he's not lying. That's just what he's like.
"I've got loads of records and books at my house," he admits, pacing around the Top of the Pops dressing room. "I just love the objects. I think they're really nice. I love books, I love the smell of them, and I love their spines, and I love them when they're all in a row and they're all these different colours, but I never read them."
Isn't that a bit strange?
"Not really. It's like if you put a painting on your wall, it doesn't necessarily mean you can paint. You can put books on the bookshelves, and you can still look at them. The other night, me and Nora (Fran's long-term girlfriend) did play (David Bowie's) Hunky Dory. I'd never heard it before. It was amazing, it blew me away."
Wouldn't that experience happen more often if you played all the records you own?
"I think it's because when I was growing up I didn't have a record player until I was 12, and when I did get one, I couldn't afford to get records, so I never listened to them ever. None of my peers bought records either."
"None of them. Besides, when you're at home, there's so much to consider about life, all these other things are almost irrelevant."
What do you think about?
"I don't know. I think about love and time and death...and bowel movements."
Right. You and Thom Yorke both.
"I guess so. Check the back of any woman's mag, that's what I m thinking about."
How to have your breast enlarged?
"Yeah, how to have my breasts enlarged, how to keep the perfect backside, the basic stuff."
He laughs.
You get the impression Fran wants to float through life unencumbered by excess thought. He claims never to look in a mirror, for instance, because he doesn't want to know what he looks like. Maybe it's just he doesn't want his songs to be weighed down by any needless external influences. Or perhaps, as someone in the NME office suggests, he's vaguely autistic. It's certainly true that when he writes, he does so in a trance-like state.
"The other day, I found a MiniDisc of me writing 'The Cage'," he says lighting a cigarette and blowing smoke into the air. "It starts off with this completely different thing altogether and then it stops and goes into something else. It just keeps going and going and going, changing all the time. It's like running towards a wall and trying to jump over it. Suddenly it just happens. I don't know how or why, it just does and it's finished."
Later, Fran will admit that he's trying to tap into his unconscious, and that's why he gets into this state. There's another MiniDisc he's found where halfway through writing a song he suddenly falls asleep. Just like that, midway through a chorus. Maybe that's why Travis's songs sound so effortless and unforced. That, and the fact they're road tested on children.
"It's something we started doing before The Man Who came out. Children are cool because if it affects them it affects them and if it doesn't, it's like it's not even there. If all your songs are written unconsciously, then it will affect them,= because kids are dead pure in their reactions to things. As you grow up, you become tainted. You think, 'I shouldn't like this' or 'I shouldn't like that' because it isn't cool or whatever. Sometimes we miss great songs just because of petty prejudices, and that's wrong."
Of course, the other great inspiration for Fran's songs comes from a more tangible source: his girlfriend Nora. Two songs ("Sing" and "Flowers in the Window") on The Invisible Band are dedicated to her--and she's nearly always by his side." (At the moment, she's pacing about outside this dressing room, wondering when they can leave.)
"She's the inspiration for a lot of what I do, certainly," glows Fran looking at his watch. "She's amazing. I tell you what, here's an exclusive for NME. You know that dress which made Liz Hurley famous? Nora picked that out. She was doing Hugh Grant's make-up and he said, 'Oh, Liz needs a dress for this thing we're going to,' and as a joke, Nora opened a page in Vogue and said, 'Check this out.' He went off and bought it. How weird is that?"
Right on cue, Nora appears at the door and jokingly tells him to get a move on. It's 11 p,m. Time for them to head back home to north London. They both bid us good-bye and head for the door, Fran's hair still speckled with pie.
"See you in Leeds," he reminds us as he heads off down the corridor.
Tonight's venue looks like it could have been specially constructed for them. Leeds Town Hall is decorated with engraved phrases that resonate with the band's spirit. "Goodwill Towards Men" reads one, "Industry Overcomes All Things" another. These are mottos that Travis probably have sewn into their underpants. They certainly sum up their ethos as clearly and succinctly as anything else.
As the gig progresses, it becomes increasingly obvious what makes Travis so special. As Hear'Say once said, they're pure and simple. They offer joyous certainties in a complicated world. Which isn't as glib as it sounds. For most people, there's only so much time they want to spend with the millennial angst of Radiohead or the pantomime aural torture of Slipknot. Life's too long as it is. What about taking it easy every now and again?
And Travis' set is amazing. "Follow the Light" sounds even better than it did in the rehearsal room a month earlier. "Why Does Always Rain On Me?" is sung entirely by the crowd as Fran careers to the side of the stage, and they even manage to pull off an impromptu version of David Bowie's "All The Young Dudes" with Dougie on vocals. They climax with the one song they still play from their first album. It's called "Happy." and its anthemic simplicity is the perfect conclusion.
There are some people out there who still see Travis as the enemy, the Alan McGees of this world who insist they represent "careerist rock" and the death of rebellion. Travis, of course, have never argued they represent anything. They're issues that never cross their mind. They're only interested in the communal vibe.
Right now--and for the foreseeable future--they're the biggest band in Britain. They've got there by virtue of their own good grace and lack of cynicism. Whatever Travis do--whether it's releasing a record or playing a gig--they're not just doing it for the kids, they're doing it for everyone.
NME
"Make sure we get a really big cheer at the start of this one," reminds our warm-up man for the umpteenth time. "In three: one, two, three..." There's a half-hearted ripple of applause and a few stray screams, and Radiohead start "Knives Out" once again.
He may well be right. The phrase "the people's band" may have nauseating connotations post-Princess Di, but it's a statement that's hard to disagree with. There's something universal about Travis--something that transcends accepted ideas of taste and cool. Whether they're headlining Glastonbury or playing live at Top of the Pops, they connect with people. And if they don't with you, you can bet that's a result of your prejudice, not theirs.
What, even in music?
Push him further and he'll just reiterate what Andy said earlier. Travis is an inclusive experience. No one is barred from listening to them. He wants Travis's songs to gain mass acceptance and to become part of the fabric of popular culture.
None of them?
May 28, 9 p.m., and Travis walk onstage at Leeds Town Hall following a suitably rousing introduction from Stave Lamacq ("If there's any justice they'll soon be the biggest band in America as well as in Britain!"). The reception they receive is fanatical. This isn't an audience of 30-something Mondeo owners, this is a crowd of kids, a high proportion of which are teenage girls. It's like Top of the Pops all over again and yet more proof that Travis are a pop band in the best possible sense.
23 June 2001
Text: James Oldham
Photography: Tom Sheehan
| He-ey! |  |
Lyrics | |
Reviews | |
Articles | |
Photos | |
News | |
Links |
| Conversions | |
Discography | |
Quotables | |
Mailing List |
 |
| Comments go in here. |