Travis - Melody Maker, February 27, 1999

Missive Attack

With TRAVIS's new single all about writing to someone after the collapse of a relationship, we take Fran and co. to a handwriting analyst to discover if they're deeply sensitive souls--or just twisted buggers...

"You're always looking for problems. You delve and you probe, but you lose heart too quickly if something isn't going right, always giving up, never finishing anything.."
All Fran Healy can do is nod, a worried little bob of his blushing face. And the woman just goes on and on and on...
"You're really a spectator in life. You keep back a lot inside yourself, careful not to overspend emotionally." Another nod, another blush. "You can be a bit intolerant, obstinate, hard to have your mind changed. You're difficult, Francis. You're belligerent. And you're always making excuses. Excuses, excuses, excuses!"

Sorry, mum! Erm, but it's not his mum, actually. The lady's name is Ruth Myers, she's a top-notch handwriting analyst, a certified graphologist, and she's getting all this from Fran's too-angular scrawl. Fran's lower loops are causing him no end of trouble today--they're very narrow, you see, which means he just won't let people in. And his i's are dotted too far to the left (a born procrastinator). And his communication letters, the a's, e's, and o's, they're alarmingly looped (a perennial repressive). And on and on and on...
"Um, do you see anything really worrying there?" he frowns.
"No, but you criticise things far more than you praise them," she scolds, a tad too brutally. "Watch out. Watch out!"
"Hmmm," pauses Fran. "That would appear to be the outstanding message."
"Well done!" giggles Neil Primrose, Travis's drummer, as we slope dejectedly off toward the nearest pub. "You've managed to kill Travis off in one fell swoop there!"
Oops! Well, how are we to know, Neil? Anyway, the rest of you got glowing reports.
"She said I was deeply sensitive," beams bassist Dougie Payne proudly. "And that I get an emotional satisfaction from things of beauty! I'm an optimistic dreamer. I must be because I cross my t's like I'm shooting an arrow at the beautiful sky!"
"I think she fancied my writing," boasts Neil. "I'm in control, and I always jump in to rescue the underdog, and I'm much more emotional than any of yous, and I've got good concentration, and I'm dead resilient and everything!"
"She said all that?" queries guitarist Andy Dunlop. "Well, it only took 30 seconds before she started mentioning booze to me!"
"That's because you've got such a red face, y'idiot!" teases Fran, pausing (or should that be "repressively holding back"?) at a zebra crossing. "Anyway, did you notice how all the pictures on her wall were slanted over to the left? Freaked me out, she did! You know, I wasn't that impressed with her--she needs handwriting, but I can tell what someone's like after spending two or three minutes in their company. She got me bang on, but no, I'm not impressed."
"Pub?" says Andy, by way of a welcome reminder to his bandmates. "Pub?"
There's a reason we subjected poor Fran to Ms. Myers's analysis, of course, and it's as simple as simple can be. Travis's comeback single, the liltingly lovely "Writing to Reach You," is--literally speaking--about writing to someone after the collapse of a relationship. Except nothing's ever quite that simple with Travis, a band much loved (and every bit as hated) for their supposedly schizophrenic style. Sure, "Writing to Reach You" is about missives, but it's also about missing, and it's about failure, and longing, and hopeless, hapless confusion. And, um, it's about Franz Kafka, too.
"I wrote it years ago, actually, on December 27, 1995. It was just never the right time to release it until now," explains Fran, finally relaxing over a single pint, which quickly becomes five, six, seven. "I was in the coldest flat in Glasgow, minus 22 degrees outside. I had two Calor Gas heaaters blazing in the room, and I was going out of my nut, man. I'd just got chucked, and I was reading this book I'd got that Christmas, Letters to Felice by Kafka. And I was writing loads of letters too, but never sending them--so I think it's a mixture of those two things. I dunno, it's about me, I suppose.
"The line in the chorus," he continues, "'My inside is outside/My right side's on the left side,' that's a feeling I get. When I was bullied at school, I felt this funny sensation like my legs were crossing, like I was turning inside out. And I still get that whenever I'm feeling threatened. My eyes swap, my ears swap, everything feels the wrong way round. And I know when I'm writing this letter that everything's jumbled, and I'm chasing my tail, that there's no point, that I'll never even send it."
But that's not the line everyone's going to notice, Fran. Everyone's going to be far more interested in "The radio is playing all the usual/And what's a wonderwall anyway?" Especially seeing as how, two years later, you actually went out on tour with Oasis.
"Sure," he agrees, "but when I wrote it in that freezing flat, it was no deal, no fucking prospects--the thought of touring with Oasis, the biggest band in Britain, was nowhere near my fucking mind! I just thought, 'That is a brilliant song,' and I was tipping my cap to 'em. I just thought, 'I'm an artist. Noel's an artist. If John Lennon and Noel Gallagher can borrow bits from other people, so can fucking I!'"
There's a slight suspicion of a pisstake there too, though, isn't there?
"Aw, I know it might read that way, but my whole thing was I'd already ripped off the guy's fucking chords and thought: 'This song is too like "Wonderwall," and I've gotta acknowledge that.' But in no way--and I say this totally straight down the line--was there any disrespect at all. It was totally a namecheck thing, that's all."
"And don't worry," sniggers Dougie, "we mention plenty of other songs on the new album!"
"There's this song called 'Slideshow'," laughs Fran, "and it mentions 'Wonderwall' again! It's all about the memories songs evoke. The chorus goes: 'There is no design for life/There is no devil's haircut in my mind/There is not a wonderwall to climb or step around/But there is a slideshow/So slow/Flashing through my mind.' It's not meant to be disrespectful in any way, but the thing is, as artists, you're children of your time."

What do you reckon Noel will make of it?
"'That f***ing little c***! I'll f***ing kill him!' But really, it's not meant to be cheeky at all. And I'd fucking tell Noel that if he had a problem, too!"
And you'd fight. And he'd win.
"I know! He's got bigger fists!"
And he'd get his brother in on the act, too.
"Yeah," hums Neil, rhetorically jumping in to help the underdog, just like our graphologist suggested he would, "and I'd kill the two of 'em!"
Since their triumphant Reading appearance last summer, Travis have been hiding in numerous studios in numerous cities in numerous countries, recording the follow-up to 1997's Top 10 album Good Feeling, with Mike "Manics" Hedges and Nigel "Radiohead" Godrich. Under their belts is a fanbase perhaps more devoted than any other in Britain, that Oasis tour, and countless smitten reviewers. But under their skin, there were an equally large number of detractors who complained that Travis's sound was far too erratic, willfully indecisive, a watered-down oscillation between Radiohead passion and Wonder Stuffing pomp. Love it was. Hate it was. Nothing in between. But how about now, Fran? Have you reconciled that supposed schizophrenia now?
"No," he gasps, "it's still totally schizophrenic. This album will fuck people off even more! For a second, I actually thought: 'Right, I best try not to be like that this time. Maybe we should sound a bit more like the Verve or something.' And I'm really pissed off that I even thought about that, but in the end, I just thought, 'Fuck you all. We'll do it our way."
But, without changing, how are you going to win over the cynics? How are Travis going to grow?
"It's like when do you ever see a good photo of yourself?" answers Fran, seemingly off on a wild tangent. "Hardly ever, right? But that's what we're after. We don't want to change, we just want to see the best-ever photograph of ourselves...and you know what? I hope we never get it 'cos that'll be the end."
Do you know what Travis are, Fran?
"Travis is a fucking weird thing!" he pants. "All I can say is that from the moment I joined this band, I couldn't take my hands off it. It was like a DC current, not an AC one. I could've taken my hands off it, had it been AC, but I couldn't with this. And I can tell you right fucking now, totally totally from the bottom of my heart, anybody that touches it can't let go. It's almost fucking religious: convert, convert, convert!
"That woman was right about me," he sighs, lighting up a consoling cigarette. "I am f***ing belligerent. If I say an orange is a banana, I'm f***ing sticking to my guns and that orange is gonna be a banana. This is why Travis willl never f***ing go away and why, once you touch it, you cannae f***ing let go of it. It's the fact that I'm out there, and I want the world to know that an orange is a banana. And I will f***ing succeed. I will! I just know I will."
The album will help. Travis are madly excited about it. Those of us who care are madly excited about it too. Those of you who don't care might just start. From the disarmingly feminine honesty embodied in tracks like "As You Are" to the simple joy flooding through tracks like the next single, "Driftwood" ("radio song of the f***ing year," according to Neil), this album promises to be the kind of record that will define its year. This kind of record you could use like a photo album for the rest of your life, a reminder of when "now" becomes "then."
Neil says it's "evocative." Andy says it's "textural." Dougie says it's "emotional." And Fran? Fran says it's just "Travis," and it's all he can think about from dawn to dusk. When he should be working, it's there, dragging him under with dreams. When he should be sleeping, it's there, buzzing him awake like an emotional alarm clock.
"I'm like a woman who's got a big, gigantic belly," he swells, maniacally enthused. "She doesn't go to bed thinking, 'Ooh, I put a fork in the knife tray.' She's gonna be thinking, 'It's moving! It's moving inside me!' And this album's kicking it like a bastard. It's gonna be a big, fat baby, a beautiful baby girl. What's it gonna do with its life? It's gonna grow up and be a teacher. What's it gonna be called? Ooh, I can't tell you that just yet! But if it had a human name, it'd be called Jude. 'Cos Saint Jude is the patron saint of hopeless causes!"
He's always looking for problems, Fran. He's always delving, probing, losing heart. Giving up hope. But Travis don't need hope any more. Touch the DC, grab on tight. Travis, you see, are hope.
Melody Maker
February 27, 1999
Write On: Robin Bresnark
Snap Happy: Lucy Scott-Harris

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