Will Travis prove to be rock ’n’ strollers with their Ode To J. Smith
Travis no longer sell millions and are grateful for it
Pete Paphides
"Nice doesn’t come into it,” says Fran Healy. Coming from his mouth, the word “nice” hisses momentarily like a deflating tyre. “That’s the thing that people forget when they criticise our band. It’s like, ‘They’re so nice.’ F*** off! To get the best taste of tequila, you have got to lick the salt and suck the lemon, and the action of doing that with regards to this band is to understand that we’re from Scotland. And when you understand that, it all makes sense. If someone has a go at us, we’ re not like Liam Gallagher saying, ‘I’m gonna knock yer f***ing block off’.” With an almost defiant flourish – odd considering what he’s saying – Travis’s 35-year-old frontman concludes: “We bend very far before we bristle.”
If Travis had a coat of arms they could do worse than translate that quote into Latin. The band who once saturated the air-waves with Why Does it Always Rain On Me and Sing bend very far before they bristle – some might say to their detriment. “By pioneering the vile concept of adult-oriented indie,” NME fulminated last year, “Travis greased the pole for every quivery-lipped drip from [Snow Patrol’s Gary] Lightbody to [James] Blunt.”
In this deserted West London pub, anyone looking to use such sentiments as a way to bait Healy may be disappointed. This morning he isn’t biting. They no longer sell records in huge quantities – though it remains to be seen if their imminent sixth album, Ode To J. Smith, reverses that trend – but Healy says it’s enough that they once did.
Had he not said early in the conversation that he is pathologically incapable of lying, it might be hard to believe him. In fact, the longer Healy talks about Travis’s imperial phase – festival headlining slots, multiple Brit awards, playlist ubiquity and, in this country alone, 2.7 million sales of 1999’s The Man Who – the less nostalgic he sounds. When they put out the record, he says it was universally decried as an act of commercial suicide.
Without the benefit of hindsight, a melancholy album of mid-paced introspection did indeed seem like an obtuse move. But The Man Who – a record whose careworn frailty has remained exquisitely intact over the years – descended on the post-Britpop comedown like a fine autumnal spray. When Healy sang, “Where did the blue skies go?” it was the right question at the right time.
It was, says Healy now, a period of nagging anxiety. “No one ever tells you this. You have to work it out for yourself. But when your dreams have been fulfilled and you’re selling millions of albums, the next job is being a janitor. Your mission is to simply keep things ticking over. We were spinning plates. You’re defending what you’ve got rather than trying to acquire it in the first place.”
Coming to the conversation late, Travis’s bassist Dougie Payne picks up the thread. “At the time, I thought it was just us. But you meet bands who are going through the same thing now, and they’re all in pieces. You can see it in their eyes. They’re terrified.”
It is, indeed, interesting to observe how different musicians internalise the pressure. In their latter years, Abba started writing songs about Russian dissidents losing their marbles while waiting for the KGB to knock on the door. The title track of Coldplay’s Viva La Vida concerns an ex-dictator looking back on the immeasurable power he enjoyed.
“Exactly,” smiles Payne affectionately. “It’s like, ‘What could you possibly be alluding to there?’ ”
“When you meet Chris Martin,” says Healy, “it all makes sense. The guy doesn’t sleep.” Is that because he wants to succeed so badly? “No. I don’t necessarily think he could sleep any better beforehand. That’s just what he’s like. If you plugged him in, you could power a small Scottish town with all of his energy.”
If that’s a quality Healy no longer sees in himself, it’s one he appreciates in Martin. Last year Healy and his family relocated from Crouch End, North London, to Berlin, the home town of his wife Nora Kryst, a city whose tenements and cobbled streets, says Healy, remind him of his Glasgow childhood. Before that, Healy and the Coldplay singer had become close, getting together to share childcare duties — their sons Clay and Moses were born at roughly the same time.
Naturally, the mind can’t help but sketch out a mental image of the sometime mild-mannered janitor of mainstream indie and his successor getting to grips with the joys of modern fatherhood. But whatever the mind sketches, the reality is far better. “He helped me to reconstruct my teepee,” says Healy.
Seeing my reaction, Healy realises he’s going to have to elaborate on this. “Myself and Nora bought one on a whim. We put it in our garden and it pretty much took up the whole space. Anyway, I had taken it all down and forgotten how to put it up, but Chris came over and we went on the internet and figured it out.”
It sounds like an episode of Stella Street. “It was!” smiles Healy. “We could have had the best YouTube moment ever — Chris Martin and Fran Healy constructing a teepee together.”
If Healy wanted to go on an indefinite teepee-building sabbatical, the continuing radio royalties accrued from the old hits could comfortably subsidise him. He might not have the drive of his chum in Coldplay, but Travis’s swift return — a year after their fifth album, The Boy With No Name – suggests that his own ambition is far from spent. As often happens with bands who part ways with their major label paymasters, the songs on Ode To J. Smith shudder with a newfound sense of urgency.
Relieved of the pressure to write hit singles, Travis entered the studio last December, aware that the birth of Dougie Payne’s first child (with the actress Kelly McDonald) would be a logical deadline for completion. Chinese Blues was the first thing they recorded – an unadorned display of pop alchemy delivered with all the abandon of a freewheeling steamroller. Keen to seize the momentum unleashed by the song, Healy sketched out a narrative conceit to help him finish the rest of the lyrics in time. With more than a nod to Ray Davies, the eponymous protagonist of the recent single J. Smith grapples with his purpose on this planet before a bizarre accidental death takes the matter out of his hands.
Fine, if this was what it took to get Healy working again — but the more salient plotline of Ode To J. Smith is that of a band who have finally learnt to respect their own instincts. What that means on Quite Free is an exercise in the kind of feverish, falling-apart janglepop that R.E.M. finessed on their 1984 breakthrough, Reckoning. In Song to Self — a song that heaves tentatively into view like a red-eyed older brother to their hit from 2001, Sing — they may even have landed themselves a future monster hit.
For such a nice bunch of people it would be a just outcome, wouldn’t it? Finally, Fran Healy bristles! “Here we go again.” Regarding the “nice” thing, I venture that maybe he doth protest too much. There are far worse crosses to bear. Besides, in this matter, I have evidence to present. I relate an episode, dating back to the height of his fame, which Healy has forgotten. Does he want to hear it? He hesitates. “Do I come out of this badly?” Far from it, I say.
Here’s what happened. Unbeknown to Healy, we were both in the same café and he found a pair of spectacles at the counter. He then proceeded to ask every single person in the room if the glasses belonged to them. Most unusual behaviour for a well-known person, I suggest.
“I don’t know,” he shrugs, “You’d have to ask someone who was well known.” Which, of course, is exactly what someone nice would say.
Ode To J. Smith is released on Sept 29 2008 by Red Phone Box"
I think thats right - Travis have nothing to prove to anyone , their music just keeps coming and its its all so good and interesting . I went for an interview the other day and this chap had guitars hanging on the wall all around his office - for the type of office it was , it was dead cool! When I mentioned I love Travis he said " now thats what I call a REAL Band!
As for 'nice' well , it is a word I can see that grates . Maybe another word would be better , but whatever that word is , if more people were like it , the world would be a much better place. :)
Nice stuff. Can definitely see why being constantly described as 'nice' grates, but........they are. It's a nice compliment. Interview is, er.....nice. Nice bit about the teepee. Very nice of Fran with the glasses. Nice summary of the album.
As for 'nice' well , it is a word I can see that grates . Maybe another word would be better , but whatever that word is , if more people were like it , the world would be a much better place. :)
Agreed.
Quote:
If that’s a quality Healy no longer sees in himself, it’s one he appreciates in Martin. Last year Healy and his family relocated from Crouch End, North London, to Berlin, the home town of his wife Nora Kryst, a city whose tenements and cobbled streets, says Healy, remind him of his Glasgow childhood. Before that, Healy and the Coldplay singer had become close, getting together to share childcare duties — their sons Clay and Moses were born at roughly the same time.
Naturally, the mind can’t help but sketch out a mental image of the sometime mild-mannered janitor of mainstream indie and his successor getting to grips with the joys of modern fatherhood. But whatever the mind sketches, the reality is far better. “He helped me to reconstruct my teepee,” says Healy.
...
It sounds like an episode of Stella Street. “It was!” smiles Healy. “We could have had the best YouTube moment ever — Chris Martin and Fran Healy constructing a teepee together.”
I SO WANT A VIDEO OF FRAN HEALY AND CHRIS MARTIN CONSTRUCTING A TEEPEE TOGETHER.
Haha I'm happy Fran and Chris Martin are pals. I like both the bands, though Travis better, but it's good to see them getting along, hanging out and "sharing childcare duties"! :D
