Songs and Sonics

His career as a professional recording artist spans over 20 years, his Wikipedia entry calls him one of the “elder statesmen of indiepop,” and he’s worked with laundry list of distinguished artists, including The Clientele, The High Llamas, and former XTC guitarist Dave Gregory.

Louis Philippe (real name Philippe Auclair) is a unique figure on the pop music landscape. He has the ear of a seasoned orchestral arranger, yet is musically self-taught. (Anyone with an interest in arranging should check out his excellent blog post on writing for strings.) He crafts sophisticated tunes which pay their respects to the shrine of Pet Sounds, but his music is gentler than anything on that album. And, as you’ll discover in the following interview, he doesn’t employ the methods that a typical pop songwriter might use when capturing ideas.

Elegant is the word that most often comes to mind when listening to Louis Philippe’s latest album, An Unknown Spring. The songs are highly literate, delicately arranged, and supplemented with real orchestral instruments. Make no mistake — this is indeed pop music. It’s just smarter and a little quieter than what typically falls under the pop umbrella. There’s no screaming guitars, no trace of the modern loudness wars. Instead, An Unknown Spring boasts an intriguing mix of confessional songwriting, Brill Building-like pop craftsmanship, and cinematic but intimate orchestral arrangements. And then there’s Louis’s angelic vocals soaring over top of it all.

Not only does Louis make great music, but he gives great interviews too.

Louis: I’d become quite disillusioned, to put it mildly, with what I was hearing around me; most of it seemed very reactionary to my ears, beat-and groove-driven, with hardly any attention paid to melody and harmony in any sense of these words. I wanted to see if I could get closer to my ambition of writing pop lieder, in which repetition would be a device used with far greater economy that is the norm (including in my own work). By the way, this was not a choice as such; it’s the music I was hearing in my mind and that coming out when I walked in the street or sat at the piano. It’s something I’ve been atrracted to ever since Danny Manners and I worked on our album of Poulenc mélodies. When the songs started to take shape, I noticed that my writing had evolved towards more evolutive lines, more fluid harmonies. It was more a matter of going with a natural, ‘organic’ flow than a decision as such.

The analytical process took place afterwards, if you see what I mean, when I had to build the record in Ken Brake’s studio. Another thing: the form of the songs, and the curve of the album were also influenced by a personal necessity: sing a body of songs which would have a common emotional colour, and a very tender one at that. There is hardly any place for tenderness in pop these days, whereas it is ever-present in the music I love. Nostalgia too.

I guess this is more of a constant in what I’ve done over the years than a “new” inclination. I couldn’t say if it is a theme as such… Maybe it’s an echo of Ray Davies’s obsession with weather in albums like Face to Face and Something Else (and Village Green, of course!). Do you think it has to do with living in a country where we experience four seasons in a day? And a clue — every time “spring” is used (and it is quite a few times), it is in all its meanings. What you said about the weather could also be said about water.

Do you mind if I bat this one out of the park? It would be a bit like answering a question like, “How often do you have sex?” But there isn’t a line in this song that doesn’t come from very, very deep within me. “You’re a clock without a hand, a broken shell turning to sand” — when love has gone, death asserts itself.

This is a very flattering thing to say — so much so I’m not sure what to add to it. One thing I remember about writing this song is that I first “heard” the first verse in its entirety, lead line, chords and lyrics all together, something that is (alas) very rare… Don’t forget that the one dream I’ll never fulfill is to be a Brill Building songwriter, banging on the piano from 9 to 5 with the divine Carole King for a neighbour, and looking forward to present a demo to Jackie DeShannon (at which point I made my excuses and left).

Spot on as far as colours are concerned.

I most certainly don’t. I find understanding what Olivier Messiaen said about the purpleness of certain tonalities an impossible task.

That is different. Yes, the combination of the two CR78s is actually meant to reflect the “snowishness” of the snow, the precision of the crystal structures, with its peaks and radiating spikes. As to the adequation of sound and instruments to lyrics, absolutely — very much the arranger’s prerogative. Are we sounding a bit pseud-ish here? Who cares? I’m trying to think of another example… You’d have the french horn on Wild-Eyed and Disheveled, a very sylvian instrument, which seemed appropriate when thinking of the America that Scottish crofters discovered when they landed in Nova Scotia; and the “surf” organ in the same track, a sonic hello to God, i.e. Brian Wilson.

The sparseness is out of fidelity to one of my guiding principles as an arranger: economy. The arranger’s work should consist of taking out as much as needs to be done; ideas can be like weeds, and proliferate to the point when they negate each other’s beauty. I was listening to Ravel’s L’Enfant et les sortilèges a couple of nights ago — and I defy you to find one note that is not “needed” in this luxurious score. As Poulenc said, “I’m not Ravel, unfortunately”; but what was good for him (and how) has got to be good for a minor craftsman like me.

The other thing is: I hear my songs in orchestrated form, not as lead line/chords compounds. It’s a great asset — until you realise to need to work like mad to unravel what is played in your mind’s ear. As an arranger, I do not have a philosophy as such; the work I’ve done for bands like The Clientele or, very recently, Humbert Humbert (a very good Japanese “psych-folk” duet) bears little relation to the way I work on my own material. With other artists, my role is to enhance colours (sometimes find some when there are very few), to enrich the harmonic patterns, draw out the most arresting lines, embellish, whilst remaining in the background; a matter of technique as much as anything. With myself, as songs do ‘come out’ in already-arranged form, it’s a question of finding means to execute what’s been found. In any case, one priority doesn’t change: less is definitely more.

All background vocals on that particular song were recorded part-by-part with three singers singing in straight octaves or unison: Alasdair and Mel of The Clientele, plus me. Each of the four parts was triple-tracked, using a very transparent reverb. There was no use of Auto-Tune or any other gizmo… It’s just the way our three voices combine! We only used a “special effect” on two songs of the album: we put the background vocals to Fallen Snow through an old AC30, whacking the tremolo by hand as we were laying the tracks; and Ken processed the background vocals to An Unknown Spring (the song) through a reverse-reverb plug-in. Other than that, the sound of these harmonies was the result of coaching Al and Mel through their parts, and not just pitch-wise. I’m very pleased with the ghostly chromatic line you can hear, and not hear at the same time, in the bridge. It’s done entirely by multi-tracking my voice, but singing “as a trombone” (can’t put it any other way — a vocal technique I also use in Toi le coeur de la rose) — great fun to do.

Is it 16? You’re probably right. I feel like this after every single record! It’s horrible.

Paddy McAloon had a trick to get over this sense of vertigo you cannot fail to feel when you finish an album. “I’ll never write another line as good as this,” etc. He always kept 3 of the most striking songs he’d written in a kind of musical savings account, if you will! Like a greedy child who puts away the best bits of his meal to have a special mouthful to look forward to (Yes, used to do it). That way, Paddy knew that, should he stumble and have to face a bad case of writer’s block, he’d have something to lean on, a springboard for new songs.

I felt awful after An Unknown Spring, totally dried out, an old jellyfish stranded on a not particularly clean beach… My remedy against this type of hangover hasn’t changed: keep to the discipline of writing, every day, carry on, even if you come out with rubbish; at one point, it’ll click.

Further than that… Arnold Schoenberg used to tell this story about a caterpillar who was asked by an ant: “How do you manage to move all these legs at the same time?” The caterpillar stopped and thought: “Yes, how do I do it?” And it thought for so long, and got so confused, that it never moved again.

It can be. Every song I write is an attempt to bring a particularly intense experience out of the memory, and give it a shape in the timelessness of music. It is already a very narcissistic process, you see.

I’ll probably sit at the piano for a couple of hours every day, mostly in the evening. Playing through bits and bobs I’ve already “found,” refining the harmonies, and, crucially for me, the scansion (almost a lost art form these days). I’ll stand up and walk about, trying to listen to the mind’s ear, and find what I’m doing wrong in transcribing what I’m hearing. I’ll do a lot of work in the street too, walking, shopping, whatever. This may explain why the beat my songs have slowed down in recent years; I’m a more sedate walker than I used to be.

I hardly throw anything away, inasmuch I’ll keep a score of everything (I’ve never used dictaphones or portable recorders, and don’t own any form of recording equipment — pen and paper always), and rummage through the lot from time to time. It might just be that a 4-bar sequence, which was originally the first draft of a verse, and led to nothing, might provide me with just the bridge I was looking for.

Did you know Roy Orbison combined three different songs to create Only the Lonely? And may I just add that I still haven’t got over what his death has robbed us of? This man was more than a genius, he was an angel.

The most important one is: do what you do out of a personal sense of necessity. Then here a few others: never underestimate your audience. Be daring. Don’t be afraid to be naked in front of your listeners, lay yourself bare, until it hurts. Have the spontaneity of a lover, the meticulosity of a craftsman. People like Sean O’Hagan and Bertrand Burgalat are brothers to me, if you need names. But the resistance movement is growing all the time. Think of Testbild!, the Swedish band, The Lionheart Brothers, King Creosote, Brian Campeau…

One confession: I hate ROCK. (love rock ‘n roll, though — the Burnette Trio, Buddy Holly, John Fogerty). I despise every single “value” which is attached to “rock,” in the Bruce Springsteen sense. We’ve just lost four readers.

Good.

The drive of that track is phenomenal. Just phenomenal. That bass line, good grief… It’s just perfection. Born out of precious stone like Venus emerging fully-formed from the ocean. It has a certainty about it that is akin to the certainty of loving and being loved by someone. A statement that is irrefutable, undeniable, which makes you feel drunk.

I first heard that song in 1974, in my father’s car. We were going through a forest in the Auvergne. I still remember the light of the sun exploding on the leaves.

Yes, and there are many. Duke Ellington’s Perfume Suite. All of Ravel. Sibelius’s symphonies… then the Easybeats! Bobby Fuller (Never To Be Forgotten, wow)… Rock Bottom. I am haunted! But The Zombies‘ Odessey & Oracle has, in many ways, had a more direct impact of my way of working than Pet Sounds or any other album. Odyssey is almost something I could conceive myself “equalling,” if you see what I mean (I should be so lucky…), whereas Pet Sounds is a miracle that can’t and won’t be replicated.

I’ve just realised I haven’t mentioned Burt Bacharach. Probably because his presence feels so natural that I don’t even realise it. Sonically, and harmonically speaking, no one, not even Brian Wilson, had had and has as much of an influence on me than Burt has.

Christ — a book, which I need to finish by August. A track for a Joe Raposo tribute album (to be recorded), another for an album dedicated to the memory of Keith Girdler, the Blueboy singer who passed away so tragically a few months ago. Work on Stuart Moxham’s new album (the demos are pure gold); a gig at a festival in Bremen on July the 2nd; another one, hopefully, at the Rip It Up festival in Sweden later on in the summer; knocking into shape the 15-20 songs that will comprise my new solo album; kick-start my own label (Wonder Records) for good with a compilation; help Cathal Coughlan do a new CD; have some rest, some time in the future. A long way away.

Still a secret; in fact, I’m still hesitating between 3 or 4. And it’ll be an instrumental!

THAT is still a secret! Publication date is February 2009.

The best bar none is the unbelievable flexibility, and cheapness of modern digital recording technology. An Unknown Spring hardly cost more to make than my first proper studio album for él/Cherry Red in 1986…and that one (Appointment with Venus) was one of the cheapest ever recorded. Then, the community web sites, MySpace in particular, thanks to which it is now possible to initiate collaborations with almost anyone you care for, and have brought about a tightening of the emotional bond between artist and fan.

The worst… Where to start? The collapse of independent distribution networks, which was a catastrophe in England in particular; the disappearance of “mid-market” recording studios, and of the fabulous craftsmen and engineers who worked in this environment when I started out. There are very few “ears” left in the business today, believe me. The total utter bullshit that is mainstream “independent” music today, with its reactionary music, its vapid acts, its fucked-up obsession with “the new” which almost always turns out to be very old. The unavoidable death of the album format because of the MP3 downloads dictatorship; the cowardly attitude of 99.9% of the music media, or of what’s left of them. I need a drink.

It’s not every day that someone asks you about synesthesia. You certainly won’t read about it in Mojo. So thank you too, Jeff, it’s been an absolute pleasure.

Love, and memories of love.

Memory, precisely.

The generosity of Francis Poulenc.

Pet Sounds, forever.

Odessey and Oracle, for as long as Pet Sounds.

Horace Silver’s piano playing.

Robert Wyatt’s voice.

The sea.

My hatred of violence, in any form.

The poems of Philip Larkin.

Love, again.

Louis Philippe’s web site | Louis Philippe’s MySpace page | Order “An Unknown Spring”