Saturday, 6:30 p.m., and there's a strife going on. Twenty miles outside Perth, on day one of 1999's T in the Park, and a mini-riot is breaking out in the fields of Kinross.
Rae & Christian have just left the second stage. Outside, packs of sunburnt, inebriated kids--many clutching talismanic Scottish flags--are hovering, waiting to force their way into the tent. The problems is that no one's coming out. Gradually, the numbers outside being to build, clusters of fans attempting to barge their way past a flustered line of security guards.
Six-forty. The flaps of the tent are shut. People start shouting, and hurling abuse. The atmosphere turns ugly. Groups of lads bind themselves together and stampede toward the entrance. Others try to crawl under the sides, only to be hauled out again feet first by roving security guards. There are now hundreds of people outside, and none of them is going to get in.
Inside, the atmosphere is just as tense. Everyone is squashed, fighting for air. Occasional chants break out, waves of noise build up and fade away, drinks are hurled high in the air, spraying their contents over a sweating, restless crowd. And still no sign of a band.
Seven p.m., and the crush inside and outside the tent is getting serious. Near the barriers, a couple faint and have to be dragged out. The chants and catcalls are becoming more and more frequent, but all anyone can make out is the frantic activity of stage hands. By 7:10 p.m., the chanting has become one long continuous drone. The fetid air stinks of BO and stale lager. But then, just as tempers are fraying, the stage is flooded with white light.
The screams are deafening. People start jumping up and down. Four men in kilts stroll on, beaming, with hands in the air. Everyone goes insane. This is what they've been waiting for, this is what's made people faint and argue and knock against each other for the last 45 minutes. This, unbelievably, is Travis, Noel Gallagher's favorite band, the people's choice, and the unexpected success story of 1999.
London, a week later. In a Mexican restaurant, NME meets up with Travis, as they're reflecting on the previous week's triumph. Over a jug of iced margarita, we find the band--singer Fran Healy, bassist Dougie Payne, guitarist Andy Dunlop, and drummer Neil Primrose--still trying to come to terms with what happened in Kinross.
"There were technical glitches," begins Fran, quietly, "we were stuck in this room for an hour waiting to go on. We could hear the crowd outside screaming and shouting, but we didn't know what was going on."
"We were starting to worry because we thought the crowd was going to mental and riot," continues Andy solemnly.
"We could hear this mad noise build to a peak and then go away again. I was getting more and more nervous and spent the whole fucking time thinking, 'Oh fuck! Oh fuck! Oh fuck!'" adds Dougie, with a shake of his head.
Fran: "When we eventually got to the stage, the security guard wouldn't let the band on. He didn't believe we were the next band on. That's why we were so late. We had to get our manager to persuade him that we were. It was mad."
How did you feel when you finally did make it on?
"It was amazing," gasps Fran. "When the lights went on and you could see the tent bulging with all those people, it was...I don't know, just an incredible feeling. The last gig that I went to like that was at T in the Park in 1994 when Oasis played. It was the moment when there wasn't just a tiny core of people who knew about them any more. Everyone wanted to kow about them.
"It's that word-of-mouth thing. I think it's like that for us now. I'd say about half the people in that tent didn't have a clue who we were, they were just curious. And they got into it anyway. It was such a brilliant feeling."
For the band who formed in 1991 as the Glass Onion, who financed their first single with a loan from Fran's mum, who only moved to London in 1996, this was the moment when they finally hauled themselves out of the the post-Britpop swamp. The point when they finally passed into mass consciousness, just like they always said they would. We shouldn't be surprised. It's been coming for a while. After all, here's a band who it's almost impossible to dislike. Unless, of course, you're a journalist.
"At the moment, Travis aren't for the people, they're with the people."--Neil Primrose, July 1999
Anti-elitist, willfully populist, Travis's anti-machismo, feminised folk rock sticks in journalists' craws like nothing else. There are not needles sticking out of their arms, there are not smart quips for the government, fellow bands, or the world at large. It's no surprise that when The Man Who, their second album, was initially reviewed in NME, they were chided for being old, slow, and bland beyond their time. That, though, was to miss the point. Their everyman approach and calm demeanour can't mask a songwriting talent of infinite grace and beauty. The Man Who is a wonderful record--by turns, direct, intimate, and morose. Listen to it all in one go and it's like being bathed in warm air or being whacked out on go-slow drugs.
It sparkles and glides like the third Velvet Underground album or Joni Mitchell's Blue. Its polished edges and marbled finish might owe much to the work of producer Nigel Godrich (Pavement, REM, Radiohead), but it's also a testament to Fran Healy's effortless grasp of melody. He'll never make you struggle.
Which is doubtless why The Man Who just won't stop selling. In fact, that's something of an understatement--it's pulverising the old guard of Blur, Suede, and Kula Shaker. It's already sold over 100,000 copies in the UK alone, and with a new single imminent--the focused, chiming melancholy of "Why Does It Always Rain on Me?"--a TV ad campaign, and a massive national tour in October, it doesn't look like it's going to stop in the immediate future.
For Travis, though, this means nothing--100,000 is chicken feed. They want another nought added to the figure at least. Their craving for success is insatiable, it always has been. Right from the start, they wanted to outgrow the universe of NME, and they won't be satisfied until they have. So make the most of it while you can, readers, because as soon as they've sold the requisite amount of records, they're out of here, into the world of tabloids and Hello! and private jets. Or at least, we think they are...
"I don't know about that," laughs Dougie. "It's just the moment you stop being ambitious, you become satisfied, and there's no point to that, there really isn't. Who wants to be complacent?"
"When I was a wee, I'd look at the poster on King's Tut's [legendary Glaswegian venue] and think, 'I want to get on that poster, I want to be on top of that poster'," recalls Fran, determinedly. "When we got that, it was like, 'Right. What's the next thing?' And now we just want to be the biggest band in the world."
Why?
Fran: "I really don't know."
That's no answer.
"I think the reason why is because I know it's impossible. Too many people set their ambitions at a level they can achieve. Being the biggest band in the world is nigh on unachievable. If you set yourself something like that, you'll get far further than if you set your sights on something that is."
Why do you crave popularity so much? You seem desparate for people to like you.
"The thing that bugs me more than anything else is seeing something horrible that someone has written about us. I just can't stand it. Maybe I've got a deficit somewhere, maybe it's because of being bullied at school or coming from a single-parent family or having soemthing else missing. Perhaps I just crave attention. Perhaps it's because I'm an only child. You'd have to put me on a couch to find out, and I point-blank refuse to get on one for you or anyone else. I write songs for therapy, do you know what I mean?"
For the record, Fran was brought in Glasgow by his mum. His father left when he was six or seven. Their house had no record player, no books, and no artistic aspirations. Money was scarce, and Fran's only contact with the wider world was through the Daily Mirror and listening to the radio. Raised a Catholic, he attended Possil Park School, where he was regularly attacked by local Protestants.
If nothing else, this made him hate any kind of macho behaviour (interviewed in NME earlier this year, he explained: "Men do my head in. Men made my mother's life a misery, men make women's lives a misery. Men are the seven deadly sins.") It also moulded a world veiw that's furiously anti-elitist, one that made him quit art school and take up music full-time because it was the most affordable and universal art form.
"Yes, I am anti-elitist as a person," he agrees. "I don't see the point of limiting yourself. I mean, I saw Mogwai at T in the Park, and they were oustanding. They were fucking amazing, no singing, nothing, just the power of total music, and I think people should be turned on to that. If they say, 'We dont' care if nobody likes us,' that' just bollocks. They should be, 'We're the best band in the world'.
"They were interviewed recently, and they described their music as anti-something or other, which is fine, but I think it defeats the whole purpose of what's music all about, the whole point of why a bird sings a song."
What is the point of music, then?
"It's to bring joy, to make people feel better. Music should be like the sun coming out. It keeps you in touch with something spiritual. It makes you feel human."
And that's it, is it? You just try to make people happy. Music serves no purpose beyond that. Some people would argue that now you've sold over 100,000 records, that puts you in a privileged position where people will listen to what you say. If you wanted, you could change something, help people in a positive way.
Dougie: "At this moment, my personal life is such a disaster. I can't even be bothered to look out onto the wider world."
"Who's saying that anyway?" demands Fran abruptly.
Mogwai, Marilyn Manson, the Manics...
"Can I just say right now," he snaps back, "that selling 100,000 records, in my opinion, gives you a very small soapbox to stand on. To be honest, when bands start talking about issues, I always feel patronized. I don't want to patronize anyone."
"I don't give a fuck whether Mogwai like Blur or not," declares Andy, slugging from his beer. "If you don't like something, don't fucking listen to it. Go buy another album."
Fran: "Why should we sell your magazine for you? I don't know what I've got to say yet."
Do you have any political beliefs?
"I'd rather share my political beliefs with a publication that has more than 100,000 readers," retorts Fran. "I mean, give us a chance, we've only been around for three years."
"What's Nicky Wire said that's worthwhile recently?" continues Andy. "He's said that Billy Bragg's got a big nose and that a couple of bands annoy him. Big deal, it doesn't make a lot of difference, does it? Just because someone's good at the bass, who's to say that they've got an opinion worth listening to?"
Fran: "I think we're at a point in history where politics and religion mean nothing to people. The fact is that making political statements in a time when people are so apathetic towards politics..."
"...It's not apathy, it's worse than that," interrupts Dougie. "People are so cynical about politics and the news that they don't know what is or isn't true, so they end up believing nothing.
"These days, most people sit around talking ironically about '70s sweeties. That's what it boils down to. It's nothing we can change after selling 100,000 records, it might be something you could change after selling 40 million, who knows?"
"Far too many bands open their mouths before they have anything fucking decent to say," concludes Andy suddenly. "If something comes along that we feel really strong about, then we will open our mouths about it, OK?"
OK.
That's Travis riled. Seeing as they've recently played gigs for Kosovo and Campaign For A Living Wage (the organisation attempting to raise the minimum wage for people under 21), they could have pointed out that actions often speak louder than words. Anyway, they're right. Who wants the bassist of Travis or Mogwai telling them how to think? Maybe we're beyond that now.
"There is no design for life/There's no devil's haircut in my mind/There is not a wonderwall to climb or step around"--"Slide Show," Travis
"My mum always used to tell me, 'You've got to have a boxer's attitude. You've always got to get up again.' That's what Travis are like."--Neil Primrose, September 1997
The next hole Travis fall in themselves. It's getting late, around 11 p.m., and people have been drinking steadily. Talk gradually drifts to the state of British music at the moment. It's a subject that Travis feel passionate about.
"Look at the Top 40 at the moment," demands Fran, sluicing margarita around his glass, "they're culling indie rock, they're culling rock 'n' roll, basically. It's interesting to see them getting rid of it. When you come to a point like this, where it's possibly the worst it's ever been, there's only way it can go. And that's up."
One theory about your rise is that it's occurred precisely because of the current trough in music. There's no competition--and you're just filling a gap until something good comes along.
"How dare you!" exclaims Dougie, feigning offence.
"Fuck that," spits Andy. "All the music that's ever been made in still otu there. Just because Steps are top of the charts doesn't mean that there isn't good music out there. If you think music was so great five years ago, it's still there. People who are into good music can always find it."
"By the same token," argues Fran, "why are less people buying your publication? At the moment, there is a downturn, but it's on both sides of the fence. We'll see if Travis are successful because there's nothing else about, because we're going to be around for another 15 or 20 years."
Andy: "I think it's true that it's a weak time for music, but if you put up what we've done in any era, it will stand up. I really believe that."
"The whole thing makes me annoyed, really, not that I'm going to lose any sleep about it," continues Fran. "Your skin beocmes thicker as you go on...I mean, half of me thinks we are shite. I wake up in the morning thinking, 'What am I doing? We're shit. Oh my god! What are we going to do?' But you just have to trust your instinct.
"The way I look at it, when the Beatles first came out, you had all those die-hard Chuck Berry and rock 'n' roll fans saying, 'They're far too nice. They're too charming. We want some danger in rock 'n' roll.' And it's the same now. It's all a load of bollocks."
Dougie: "I think the problem with magazines, but especially the music weeklies is that they think nothing is allowed to be successful unless it gores through them, so it must be real fucker when a band like us or the Stereophonics gets successful."
They laugh--leaving it to Fran to have the last word.
"I don't care about any of that, though. All I know is that I'm married to the band. It's everything to me. The most important thing in your life is the thing you go to bed thinking about, the thing you wake up thinking about, and for me, that's the band. I'd be prepared to sacrifice everything for Travis, my life, everything--and whatever anyone says isn't going to change that. Even if people say we sound like Del Amitri. I know we don't."
It's that strength of feeling that will see Travis through. Whatever the critics say, their current position is not a result of anything other than their own efforts. They haven't compromised, and they haven't sold out. In two years, they've never stopped working, touring with Catatonia and Oasis, playing over 200 gigs, consistently trying to improve, constantly trying to reach more people.
And whatever anyone else says, The Man Who is an album of singlular vision, untainted by commercial considerations--if they'd have been purely motivated by chart positons, they would have never returned with such a subdued collection of ballads. The fact is that Fran Healy has a gift. His songs connect with a directness and humanity. They're like Shack without the smack, a beautiful, effortless rush of melody and melancholy. Difficult to fight, and even harder to know why you'd want to.
Other music might sound more like a riot, but Travis are the only band currently provoking them. If that isn't a testament to the strength of feeling they instill in people, it's difficult to know what is. Forget the lack of idealogy and listen to the sound. Populism isn't a crime. In this case, it's a virtue. Because as many as possible deserve to hear this music.
NME
31 July 1999
Text: James Oldham
Photography: Steve Gullick
The indie wars may be raging, but while their contemporaries do battle, TRAVIS are sneakily becoming the biggest band in the world. The men who...indeed.
