Photo credits: Tell A Vision |
Rock
‘N’ Roll Anima
TELL A VISION 27/04/2001
Concert: "Warehouse" Toronto Canada
Background
note: Several weeks after I conducted this interview for Alternative
Press, singer Brian Molko phoned asking if my group Ether Net would open
for Placebo in Canada. A definite first in all my
years as a journalist. We had recently lost our drummer but of course I said
yes, then hustled to find a replacement. Weeks later I found myself vomiting
backstage in a fit of pre-show jitters at Toronto’s sold-out Kool Haus, then
stepped onstage to perform for three thousand or so Placebo fans. They were
very kind. I subsequently made some lifelong Canadian friends on that mini
tour, which also included Montreal and Ottawa.
Hang out with Placebo for a night and
you’ll begin to understand what Lou Reed meant by his challenge in Metal
Machine Music’s liner notes: “My week beats your year.” Even severe jet lag
doesn’t impede Brian Molko and his “two husbands,” as he calls bassist Stefan
Olsdal and drummer Steve Hewitt, from juicing the Big Apple. At the Soho Grand
hotel bar, orders for double Sea Breezes keep pace with Molko’s candid
responses to queries regarding Black Market Music, the corrosive,
more political follow-up to 1998’s break-through Without You I’m Nothing.
Detailing Placebo’s coincidence-riddled
history, the openly bi-sexual Molko recalls his impression of the openly gay
Olsdal when they first encountered each other at school in Luxembourg: “I
thought you were an aloof snob, and you thought I was a pot-smoking fag. How
ironic life can be.”
As if on cue, a vaguely familiar figure
appears at the bar’s dimly lit entrance. “Oh my god, it’s Gina!” shouts Molko,
bolting off to say hello. Who’s Gina? Why, it’s Boy George, who’s DJing in
town. “He’s a sweetheart,” explains Molko, returning to the table. “We have the
same hairdresser and make-up artist in London. They call me Brenda and him
Gina.”
Turns out George has a penthouse suite
adjoining Placebo’s. That fateful interconnectedness underscores the symbolic
link between the two artists. As Molko attests, “I get insulted on a weekly
basis in London because the British are still a homophobic culture. I don’t
know why they’re unsettled by it. There’s nothing shocking about a cock in a
frock.”
Informing Olsdal of George’s
accommodations, he confides, “We plan to have a little party tonight.” So much
for jet lag.
Do
you ever feel trapped by your image? If I were expecting you to play the rock
’n’ roll animal, for instance, and I started
buying shots and producing drugs…
Olsdal: [Leans forward with a conspiratorial grin] Are you trying to
tell us something? [Laughs.]
But
do you feel pressure to live up to that image?
Molko: In the past I think we may have been guilty of putting the
lifestyle before the music. Now the focus is on doing what we do to the best of
our abilities. And when you’ve managed to do that, then you can reward yourself
and go a bit crazy. As long as you’ve got enough time to get over it before the
next show. We don’t want to let each other down, or the fans, even though maybe
we never did let them down by embracing the rock lifestyle. Maybe it’s what we
needed to do. But then our capacity for consumption was far greater than it is
now. As soon as you hit 25, hangovers completely change.
Have
you discovered any remedies?
Olsdal: Living as if there’s a tomorrow. There’s a great Chinese
proverb: Live as if every day is your last, and as if you’re going to live for
another 100 years.
Is
that new outlook just a by-product of age?
Molko: You’re not the same person you were when
you were 22. You’re 22 years old, you’ve been on
welfare, and now you’ve got a record in the charts, money, people paying
attention to you for the first time. You’re going to go absolutely fucking ape
shit. But then comes the post-coital depression. And that was Without You
I’m Nothing. That’s waking up after the party. You look around at the debris,
and the memories come back. You feel ashamed and you place your head firmly
against the pillow and go, “Oh, no… why?”
On
the new album’s “Passive Aggressive,” you sing, “God’s in crisis. He’s over.”
If you don’t believe in God, do you have a higher power you appeal to when
you’re at the end of your tether?
Molko: Yeah, my older brother. [Laughs.] I was raised a born-again
Christian. I gave my life over to Jesus when I was 11; took it back when I was
14. But that stays with you for a long time. I remember my mother saying, “When
Jesus knocks on your door, it’s your choice to open the door or to leave it
closed. And Jesus will knock for a while, but then your heart will become
hardened, and he will leave.” And the song can be about that, or it can be
about not letting someone else into your heart.
Has
your mom heard “Black-Eyed,” in which you sing, “I’m forever black-eyed, a
product of a broken home”?
Molko: I don’t talk about our music with my
mother; but she is proud of me. I think the song
would have more of an effect on my dad. He tried to dissuade me from pursuing
any artistic endeavors whatsoever. He ignored me for most of my life, and then
wanted to be my friend when success came along. I think he studies the songs
more. And I think he probably gets the message.
That’s
an unusual way to communicate.
Olsdal: It’s shit.
Molko: But that’s dysfunctional families for you. And it made me
the person I am today. The fact that my mother was extremely religious and my
father was a businessman made me forge my own identity at a very young age.
What,
did your dad expect you to go into banking and your mom expect you to become a
minister?
Molko: You hit the nail on the head. I was being primed for the
ministry. My leadership qualities were recognized, and I had private bible
study with the pastor.
What
was the inspiration for “Slave To The Wage,” then? You’ve never had a straight
job to runaway from.
Molko: The song tells you to be an individual, believe in yourself
and have the courage to chase your dreams. If you do, the rewards at the end
are ten-fold, versus doing what your parents tell you to do: Get a good job,
get married, have 2.4 children, 1.2 goldfish, 3.6 cars…. To a lot of people,
that’s the epitome of personal success. Which is why so many people go through
a mid-life crisis. People reach a point in their lives and go, “Is this it?”
A
career in rock has its dangers, too. In “Commercial For Levi,” you sing a
laundry list of excesses, followed by the plea, “please don’t die.” To what
extent are you speaking to yourself?
Molko: Very much so. At the time of Without You I’m Nothing, I
made a lot of bad lifestyle choices. Steve and a couple other close friends had
to grab me by the scruff of the neck and go, “You’re my friend. I love you. We
depend on each other. You’ve really got to”–like the song says–“change your
situation, otherwise you’re not going to be on the planet for much longer.” I
was very lucky to have those people around me.
So
the song itself almost becomes a higher power, a voice outside of yourself
saying…
Molko: Come back. You’re worth more than this.
Did
you ever get to the point where it flashed in your mind to join “that stupid
club,” to quote Kurt Cobain’s mother–to become a rocker who burns out at 27?
Molko: The world does not need another rock ’n’ roll casualty.
Cobain, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin–we don’t need more casualties like them. I
refuse to let that happen. It doesn’t mean I’m stronger than they were, but I
just have this picture of myself as an old man, getting together with Stef and
Steve at the age of 60. Not playing music, but sitting down and going, “Do you
remember…?” So far my premonitions have been correct.