Blood Simple
Alan Jackson / Vox
03.1992
03.1992
Refusing beers, learning to drive and confessing to an admiration for Suzanne Vega - what's happened to Britain's favourite noise terrorists? In search of the missing link, Alan Jackson tracked down the Jesus And Mary Chain in their new private studio.
Within a red-brick block of carbuncular design, a mile or so south of the Thamas, is a council-owned leisure centre, a McDonalds, and Jim and William Reid's brand spanking new studio. During the recording of next month's new, as-yet-untitled LP, the pair have been rendezvousing late each morning at one or other's north London home, ready to negotiate the traaffic en route to yet another 12-hour stint behind the controls.
That they've been able to travel in William's own car, rather than any vehicle more fitting to one-time noise terrorists, seems to be a source of wonder to many who think they know the Jesus And Mary Chain. But, confirms Jim, cheerfully dispensing cans of lager on a bleak midwinter's afternoon, William really has been involved in a tearing-the-L-plates-up-type scenario. Futhermore, he's a very good, very safe driver.
"When I passed, so many people said they couldn't imagine me behind a wheel," grumbles the BSM's woefully under-estimated success story. "I kind of understood what they meant, but I couldn't help feeling insulted. I mean, there are people I know who I can't imagine driving a car, but that's because they're pretty much semi-retarded."
That gripe aside, it's a noticeably friendly, even funny Jim and William who submit to their first press inquisition in some two years. It's not a process they're used to enjoying too much - having cheery foreign reporters ask 'Which one's Jesus and which one's Mary?' understandably dulls the appetite - but the comforts of this recently acquired home-from-home ensure they remain in relaxed mood.
"Being in a rented studio is like being in someone else's house, with strangers walking in and out the whole time," says Jim, peeling open another can which his brother, admirably self-disciplined motorist that he is, refuses. "We're quite shy people, and just like to be left alone to get on with our work."
"Also, it's not as if we're furniture-makers or plumbers, people who just turn up at a certain place and do the job," adds William. "It's supposed to be creative and it's a ridiculous that, just because you book a studio for the 22nd of March, you're going to be feeling creative when that day rolls around.
"You can find yourself with a week's studio time booked, but no ideas to work on. Now we can work when we want and for however long it takes. I know we're not the first people to think of it, but I'm surprised this way of working doesn't occur to more bands."
In the time they've been away, the Mary Chain have seen the windsock of critical and peer-group opionion swing back in their favour. Almost passé back in 1990, they're now right back in vogue - thanks largely to the number of slavish admirers nestling within younger bands of the monosyllabic name and shoe-gazing variety. Not that the Reids are sufficiently mindful of any of this for it to put them under any pressure while recording the work in hand.
"We were aware of that from the time of Psychocandy to the release of Darklands, I guess," shrugs Jim, pleased at the attention from younger disciples, but preferring not to single out any one for public comment. "Since then I don't really think the pressure's been there.
"That period was, basically, our five minutes in the limelight, and it suits us fine to be out of it now. At the time the responsibility felt enormous. We read all this stuff in the papers about how it was impossible to follow Psychocandy, how we'd blow it if we tried, how we should just split up there and then."
"It's kind of what The Stone Roses must be going through now," considers William. "If I was them, I wouldn't read any of the debate - just go away and record. But that's probably why Darklands ended up being so different. We realised that there was no way we could get better in that particular style, so instead of doing Psychocandy II we made a complete change."
The Mary Chain's subsequent direction was also shaped by a rather touching disappointment that their reputation, post-Psychocandy, was as noise terrorists rather than songwriters. "No-one ever quoted a lyric from that album," complains William. "OK, maybe it's because you can't hear them all - but you can hear some. It kind of got on our nerves. We'd actually written them all on acoustic guitar. The noise came later."
This admission leads the Reids on to a shock declaration of admiration for the Suzanne Vegas of this world - those seemingly frail but undeniably brave souls who face their audiences metaphorically naked. "It's a completely different kind of performing, and I've got so much more time for artists who do that than I have for all the Spandex-trousered heavy rock bands," says Jim, shaking his head in disbelief at the sheer folly involved. "One person on stage with just an acoustic guitar and a microphone - that's a really direct way of communicating with other people and one that I find really terrifying.
"We did an acoustic thing with the Sugarcubes a couple of years ago, and something later with the Cocteaus, and I don't think I could handle it again. You can hear people talking out front, and there's always the thought that someone could just shout out 'You're shit' and everyone would hear. Our noise is definitely something to hide behind.
"We once played a festival in Estonia before 150,000 people and that was just a breeze in comparison. Absolutely no nerves, 100 feet away from the front rows on a completely huge stage - there's a totally disconnected feeling to it, as if the audience's reaction has nothing to do with you. And if anyone does shout any abuse, you just swagger round ignoring it, thinking, 'A few more seconds pal, and we're going to blast you away with noise'."
"This far down the line they've got used to the way we work," judges William. "They know that when it comes to making records with Brian Eno, it just isn't going to happen. We don't rule out the producer thing - we've always kept an open mind about it, and have met and worked with a few. But it's never come out right so far. As we see it, what you're basically getting is an extra band member for the duration of an album, and we've never met anyone who's understood what we're about sufficiently for that relationship to be possible.
"It's shouldn't just be a question of saying: 'Okay, we want our record to sell 20 million - we'll get such-and-such.' Hiring a producer should be just like auditioning a guitarist. When we've met producers, no matter how big their reputation, we haven't gone in looking for favours. We treat it as: 'If you're good enough, you can get to produce our record.' It's funny how they don't seem to like that."
Self-produced then, in time-honoured JAMC fashion, the new album's direction provokes good-natured fraternal bickering. "It's not really got anything to do with what we've done before - other than that it touches on the best of everything," pronounces Jim. "It's not really a reaction to or against anything."
"I think I disagree totally with everything you've just said," counters William, without offering an alternative definition. Rock'n'roll, but without the clichés, is the eventual compromise.
While the public waits to deliver its verdict, the Reids are limbering up for the inevitable round of international promo activities. And while we can rest assured we won't be seeing them with Phillip Schofield and Sarah Greene some Saturday morning, they worry that things become more difficult to control abroad.
"This country's not so bad - they know who you are, and only ask you to do certain things," explains Jim. "But in Europe and America there are no musical categories, particularly when it comes to TV. So you go out to appear on some show and you find you're on next to Sonia, with no one having thought to say: 'You really ought not to be doing this, boys'.
"So there you are, you've got an awful hangover, and you're wheeled onto the set of what you suddenly realise is some idiotic kiddie show, and before you can do anything about it someone's got a microphone in your face asking: 'What's your name?', 'What's your favourite colour?', 'What do you do in your spare time?'. And you end up going (adopts a tone of exquisite pathos), 'My name's Jim. My favourite colour's black. I like to fuck a lot...'
"It's a difficult area. In-store signings are another thing. In the States you'll find all sorts of bands who wouldn't be seen dead doing them here sitting down with their magic markers. So if you object, you'll get the record company saying: 'Oh yeah? Well, REM and New Order did it, so what makes you think you're too good for it?'.
In April the Reid brothers will embark on a live tour of Britain (UK appearances alone will involve the mega-supporting cast of Blur, My Bloody Valentine and Dinosaur Jr), mainland Europe and the United States.
In-store signings are not on the agenda, but Jim points out that the inclusion of the lines "I want to die like Jesus Christ/I want to die like JFK' and 'I want to die in the USA" within the lyrics to 'Reverence', the new single, could ensure them a US profile far higher than any publicist would ever dare plan.
"Never mind drinking Jack Daniels for breakfast and sleeping with a snake - that's dangerous," he says triumphantly. "We're inciting someone to shoot us on stage, and knowing our fucking luck it'll happen. Lee Harvey Oswald's cousin will show up in Dallas and we'll be killed. Meanwhile everyone will continue to call Slash 'dangerous'."
If you really believed your end was nigh, boys, you'd rewrite the lyric. "No we wouldn't," protests an outraged Jim, artistic integrity slighted.
"Yes we fuckin' would," sneers knight of the road William. "Sacrifice myself for rock'n'roll? Fuck off!"
Within a red-brick block of carbuncular design, a mile or so south of the Thamas, is a council-owned leisure centre, a McDonalds, and Jim and William Reid's brand spanking new studio. During the recording of next month's new, as-yet-untitled LP, the pair have been rendezvousing late each morning at one or other's north London home, ready to negotiate the traaffic en route to yet another 12-hour stint behind the controls.
That they've been able to travel in William's own car, rather than any vehicle more fitting to one-time noise terrorists, seems to be a source of wonder to many who think they know the Jesus And Mary Chain. But, confirms Jim, cheerfully dispensing cans of lager on a bleak midwinter's afternoon, William really has been involved in a tearing-the-L-plates-up-type scenario. Futhermore, he's a very good, very safe driver.
"When I passed, so many people said they couldn't imagine me behind a wheel," grumbles the BSM's woefully under-estimated success story. "I kind of understood what they meant, but I couldn't help feeling insulted. I mean, there are people I know who I can't imagine driving a car, but that's because they're pretty much semi-retarded."
That gripe aside, it's a noticeably friendly, even funny Jim and William who submit to their first press inquisition in some two years. It's not a process they're used to enjoying too much - having cheery foreign reporters ask 'Which one's Jesus and which one's Mary?' understandably dulls the appetite - but the comforts of this recently acquired home-from-home ensure they remain in relaxed mood.
"Being in a rented studio is like being in someone else's house, with strangers walking in and out the whole time," says Jim, peeling open another can which his brother, admirably self-disciplined motorist that he is, refuses. "We're quite shy people, and just like to be left alone to get on with our work."
"Also, it's not as if we're furniture-makers or plumbers, people who just turn up at a certain place and do the job," adds William. "It's supposed to be creative and it's a ridiculous that, just because you book a studio for the 22nd of March, you're going to be feeling creative when that day rolls around.
"You can find yourself with a week's studio time booked, but no ideas to work on. Now we can work when we want and for however long it takes. I know we're not the first people to think of it, but I'm surprised this way of working doesn't occur to more bands."
In the time they've been away, the Mary Chain have seen the windsock of critical and peer-group opionion swing back in their favour. Almost passé back in 1990, they're now right back in vogue - thanks largely to the number of slavish admirers nestling within younger bands of the monosyllabic name and shoe-gazing variety. Not that the Reids are sufficiently mindful of any of this for it to put them under any pressure while recording the work in hand.
"We were aware of that from the time of Psychocandy to the release of Darklands, I guess," shrugs Jim, pleased at the attention from younger disciples, but preferring not to single out any one for public comment. "Since then I don't really think the pressure's been there.
"That period was, basically, our five minutes in the limelight, and it suits us fine to be out of it now. At the time the responsibility felt enormous. We read all this stuff in the papers about how it was impossible to follow Psychocandy, how we'd blow it if we tried, how we should just split up there and then."
"It's kind of what The Stone Roses must be going through now," considers William. "If I was them, I wouldn't read any of the debate - just go away and record. But that's probably why Darklands ended up being so different. We realised that there was no way we could get better in that particular style, so instead of doing Psychocandy II we made a complete change."
The Mary Chain's subsequent direction was also shaped by a rather touching disappointment that their reputation, post-Psychocandy, was as noise terrorists rather than songwriters. "No-one ever quoted a lyric from that album," complains William. "OK, maybe it's because you can't hear them all - but you can hear some. It kind of got on our nerves. We'd actually written them all on acoustic guitar. The noise came later."
This admission leads the Reids on to a shock declaration of admiration for the Suzanne Vegas of this world - those seemingly frail but undeniably brave souls who face their audiences metaphorically naked. "It's a completely different kind of performing, and I've got so much more time for artists who do that than I have for all the Spandex-trousered heavy rock bands," says Jim, shaking his head in disbelief at the sheer folly involved. "One person on stage with just an acoustic guitar and a microphone - that's a really direct way of communicating with other people and one that I find really terrifying.
"We did an acoustic thing with the Sugarcubes a couple of years ago, and something later with the Cocteaus, and I don't think I could handle it again. You can hear people talking out front, and there's always the thought that someone could just shout out 'You're shit' and everyone would hear. Our noise is definitely something to hide behind.
"We once played a festival in Estonia before 150,000 people and that was just a breeze in comparison. Absolutely no nerves, 100 feet away from the front rows on a completely huge stage - there's a totally disconnected feeling to it, as if the audience's reaction has nothing to do with you. And if anyone does shout any abuse, you just swagger round ignoring it, thinking, 'A few more seconds pal, and we're going to blast you away with noise'."
"This far down the line they've got used to the way we work," judges William. "They know that when it comes to making records with Brian Eno, it just isn't going to happen. We don't rule out the producer thing - we've always kept an open mind about it, and have met and worked with a few. But it's never come out right so far. As we see it, what you're basically getting is an extra band member for the duration of an album, and we've never met anyone who's understood what we're about sufficiently for that relationship to be possible.
"It's shouldn't just be a question of saying: 'Okay, we want our record to sell 20 million - we'll get such-and-such.' Hiring a producer should be just like auditioning a guitarist. When we've met producers, no matter how big their reputation, we haven't gone in looking for favours. We treat it as: 'If you're good enough, you can get to produce our record.' It's funny how they don't seem to like that."
Self-produced then, in time-honoured JAMC fashion, the new album's direction provokes good-natured fraternal bickering. "It's not really got anything to do with what we've done before - other than that it touches on the best of everything," pronounces Jim. "It's not really a reaction to or against anything."
"I think I disagree totally with everything you've just said," counters William, without offering an alternative definition. Rock'n'roll, but without the clichés, is the eventual compromise.
While the public waits to deliver its verdict, the Reids are limbering up for the inevitable round of international promo activities. And while we can rest assured we won't be seeing them with Phillip Schofield and Sarah Greene some Saturday morning, they worry that things become more difficult to control abroad.
"This country's not so bad - they know who you are, and only ask you to do certain things," explains Jim. "But in Europe and America there are no musical categories, particularly when it comes to TV. So you go out to appear on some show and you find you're on next to Sonia, with no one having thought to say: 'You really ought not to be doing this, boys'.
"So there you are, you've got an awful hangover, and you're wheeled onto the set of what you suddenly realise is some idiotic kiddie show, and before you can do anything about it someone's got a microphone in your face asking: 'What's your name?', 'What's your favourite colour?', 'What do you do in your spare time?'. And you end up going (adopts a tone of exquisite pathos), 'My name's Jim. My favourite colour's black. I like to fuck a lot...'
"It's a difficult area. In-store signings are another thing. In the States you'll find all sorts of bands who wouldn't be seen dead doing them here sitting down with their magic markers. So if you object, you'll get the record company saying: 'Oh yeah? Well, REM and New Order did it, so what makes you think you're too good for it?'.
In April the Reid brothers will embark on a live tour of Britain (UK appearances alone will involve the mega-supporting cast of Blur, My Bloody Valentine and Dinosaur Jr), mainland Europe and the United States.
In-store signings are not on the agenda, but Jim points out that the inclusion of the lines "I want to die like Jesus Christ/I want to die like JFK' and 'I want to die in the USA" within the lyrics to 'Reverence', the new single, could ensure them a US profile far higher than any publicist would ever dare plan.
"Never mind drinking Jack Daniels for breakfast and sleeping with a snake - that's dangerous," he says triumphantly. "We're inciting someone to shoot us on stage, and knowing our fucking luck it'll happen. Lee Harvey Oswald's cousin will show up in Dallas and we'll be killed. Meanwhile everyone will continue to call Slash 'dangerous'."
If you really believed your end was nigh, boys, you'd rewrite the lyric. "No we wouldn't," protests an outraged Jim, artistic integrity slighted.
"Yes we fuckin' would," sneers knight of the road William. "Sacrifice myself for rock'n'roll? Fuck off!"
