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Spry Scots quartet annoy New York with scrunchy rock, soul-dripping slowies, and illicit smoking.
Regardless of such treatment, the band's dynamo singer, Francis "Frannie" Healy, loves the place.
"New York is fantastic. We're going to live here, we decided yesterday. It's not that we love it,
though it is a wonderful city. It's just that we need a constantly changing backdrop. It's like fuel
for us. We moved from Glasgow to London for that reason. We've all been given legs; we're
meant to use them."
The first band to be signed to ex-Go! Discs supremo Andy Macdonald's new
Independiente
label in September of last year, Travis's transformation from struggling wannabes to one of the
year's brightest new acts has been seemingly swift and effortless. Not so. This quartet of
24-year-olds (Healy on vocals, Andrew Dunlop on guitar, bassist Dougie Payne, and drummer
Neil Primrose) formed seven years ago, and continued haphazardly through the tail end of school,
stints at art college and on the dole, and several line-up changes along the way. "It's been a
fucking hard slog," informs Primrose. "One long, organic process."
"We were shite when we started," says Healy. "Absolutely fucking rubbish. It was only after we
got Dougie in on bass that things started going right. The first song we wrote together was
(debut single) 'All I Wanna Do Is Rock.' Then we played this gig, March 1, 1996. The
sound was terrible, the audience could give a shit--but we were up there having a ball. I'd look to
my left and there was a best mate on guitar; to my right, a best mate on bass; behind me, a best
mate on drums. We were grinning madly, we all just knew. Something clicked. It's been legendary
ever since."
The success of the band's debut album, Good Feeling, a record which possesses an
admirable quota of lusty Faces-like glam rackets and soul-searching ballads (laddism and a
pronounced sensitivity in equal measures), won't solely be down to the band or producer Steve
Lillywhite, but to Frannie's mum.
"She's fantastic. She's been there every step of the way with a constant stream of encouragement,"
says her son, as the other three nod. "Now that we're taking off, at the family gatherings, she'll be
able to tell them about the album, our support slot on the Oasis gigs (in September), the
American tour, everything. Ach, she's so proud of us."
He removes his sunglasses, for this is not a rock 'n' roll moment. It's a family thing. "Think I'll give
her a call, y'know, say hello."
Q
Travis are new to New York. Although the Scots recorded their debut album in upstate Bearsville
late last year, they've yet to fully acquaint themselves with Grande Pomme etiquette, much to the
chagrin of the tightly sphinctered staff at their hotel. Upon firing up a Silk Cut each in the hotel's
nonsmoking restaurant, they are quickly -- and harshly -- reprimanded, a passing waiter tersely
suggesting they take their cigarettes downstairs, pronto. They then attempt to purchase booze in
the restaurant. The now hovering waiter informs them, through gritted teeth, that the bar serves
alcohol; here in the restaurant, they serve food. So Travis settle in the tranquil lobby, where they
each crack open a small bottle of Evian. "Excuse me, sirs," says a porter, appearing from
nowhere, "drinks are not allowed in the lobby. If you could please take them and yourselves
outside."
October 1997
by Nick Duerden
