The band that didn’t die
James frontman Tim Booth says clean living isn’t the reason why the band’s survived so long – they were always bad boys. Interview by
Steve Kilgallon.
It’s often been assumed that the secret to British indie band James’ longevity was clean living. Here’s a group that formed in 1982, which endured the substance-soused Madchester years, took a six-year hiatus principally because lead singer Tim Booth went off to practise meditation, and are still charting now.
But Booth, who has said being in a pub as a non-drinker (because of a once life-threatening liver condition) was like ‘‘wearing a very starched suit in a nudist camp’’, is anxious to set the record straight: they were just as bad as the baddest of gun-toting US rappers. ‘‘I had to live with a liver disease, but it didn’t leave me with a totally clean-living lifestyle: I always wanted to investigate things, I just had to do it periodically, with a lot of intention and care,’’ says Booth, who is bringing James here for their first-ever New Zealand visit next month.
OK, he says, he was into meditation and they did all have a crack at vegetarianism, but look, ‘‘the truth is James in the late 90s were one of the wildest bands out there – but we kept it hidden, we looked after our own.
‘‘We were on a Lollapalooza tour with Korn, Tricky, the Prodigy, and Snoop Dogg, and the bulletins among the security crew was that we were the most difficult band to manage. Except when one of Snoop Dogg’s minder guys drew a gun on security, that is.’’
When I was growing up in Leeds, northern England, all the coolest older kids at school had the James logo – a pastel flower-burst encircling the band’s name – on their satchels. Booth, who originates from neighbouring Bradford, is not surprised. ‘‘It’s a mystery what catches other people’s attention, but we did end up at one point selling more T-shirts than records,’’ he says. His theory is that the trendy kids engaged with the band’s biggest hit, Sit Down. ‘‘Lyrically, it appeals to outsiders – it was definitely written to my adolescent self who was so lonely and isolated, and it was really a thank you letter to Patti Smith and Doris Lessing... I remember discovering them when I was 16 and thinking ‘I am not alone’. I think that we probably spoke to that adolescent feeling of being the only one going through this hormonal nightmare at school.’’
Booth’s inherited liver disease left him in a hospital bed at 21, fearing for his life. How did that experience shape him creatively? ‘‘Good question. No one’s ever asked me that.’’ He says it wasn’t until he was about 26 that things started looking up. ‘‘So I’ve been lucky enough to live life with the illusion that it’s always improving ... what about the kids who were king of the school, captain of the soccer team? They could probably say their school years were the best years of their lives – well, mine f...ing weren’t. That [phrase] is a f...ing lie. So I wonder about them, did those kids get to 30 and 40 and 50 and keep looking backwards? I’m blessed that I am the other way around.’’
Booth is well placed for a musical renaissance. James’ 14th album, Girl at the End of the World, was second in the British charts and almost toppled Adele from top spot. It forced the British music press, he says, to finally notice the band again – and the fact it not only had it’s crusty old fans, but a new generation. ‘‘The media is all about youth ... Here’s a cottage industry like us, a band that’s been around 34 years they don’t even know about, nearly knocking off Adele.’’
The formula for James’ endurance, he says, is never getting lazy and relying on the hits. In fact, he says, when the band re-formed, they toyed with coming up with a new name for the band so there was no dependence on past glories and no opportunity to play greatest hits sets. ‘‘It’s finding that balance between playing what people love and changing and keeping that balance of artistic integrity,’’ he says.
It was a feat he wasn’t convinced was possible until he saw Bruce Springsteen essay new takes on old classics at a gig a few years back. So for their first Auckland and Wellington gigs, James will roll out six or seven of their old hits, but will try to play them with the same energy as the first time around.‘‘We pride ourselves on being very, very present.’’
The band’s latest album, like its predecessor, La Petit Mort, was written in an 18th-century Scottish Highland inn, mattresses gaffer-taped to the walls where, over three weeks, Booth says they pared down a list of 105 – yes, 105 – songs to a final 13. Girl at the End of the World retains the James mix of uplifting, anthemic melodies with Booth’s craftily serious lyrics.
He rarely listens to his old work, but there’s a guy online who tweets a James lyric each week, and it’s a pleasure, he says, to be surprised by his own writing. All, he says, were ‘‘truthful’’ snapshots of life at the time.
While his early work was about isolation and mental health, La Petit Mort, and in particular a song called Moving On, was about the passing of his mother.
Booth wanted it to be a celebration of a good life well lived, and he’s been delighted to find it has become not just a funeral standard but one played to children who want to understand what death means.
As for James themselves, they are very much alive. And while they may have been the ones crashing golf carts at midnight on that Lollapalooza tour, Booth has kept good enough care of his body that, even at 56, his oncefamous dancing – like a tranced-out hippy preparing for the Rapture – will undoubtedly also be on show here next month.
James play Auckland’s Powerstation November 9 and Opera House, Wellington on November 10.