Beirut - The Balkans of America

The beginnings

It all began in Albuquerque, New Mexico. We're not talking about the TV series "Breaking Bad", but about the story of Zach Condon, born in 1986, a folk-music enfant prodige who, thanks to the Beirut project, became one of the leading names on the American indie scene.

A talented, rebellious teenager, Condon had a conflicted relationship with school, which led him to drop out of and return to college several times. Although his grades were generally high, it was music that occupied his thoughts day and night, and he was particularly fascinated by wind instruments.

The melancholic sweetness of brass and wind instruments moves me. From Sicilian funeral bands to Balkan wedding bands, the emotional expressiveness of wind instruments is, to me, as wonderful as the human voice.

(Zach Condon)

Despite this, his earliest musical experiences are a far cry from the sound that would later define Beirut. At fifteen, having borrowed his older brother's four-track recorder, Condon began making music in his bedroom, vowing every night not to go to sleep without having written a satisfying melody. The result of these early efforts is an indie-pop sound that's clearly still raw, but already promising given the composer's extremely young age. These first tracks, dominated by lo-fi keyboard tones, were credited to Realpeople and collected on an album – never officially released – titled “The Joys Of Losing Weight”.

During his teenage years, Condon moved first to Newport News, Virginia, then settled permanently in Santa Fe. Still, he kept dreaming of traveling the world, driven by his love of world music and ethnic sounds. When the monotony of ordinary life became unbearable for a creative mind like his, seventeen-year-old Zach decided to drop out of school once again and follow his brother on a trip to Europe, bound for Paris. The impact the Old Continent had on Condon's musical personality was enormous; he was utterly struck by the sound of European brass bands, particularly Balkan ones. On a later trip to Amsterdam, Zach became friends with a Serbian musician who passed on to him a deep passion for Balkan music, like that of contemporary veterans Boban Markovic and Goran Bregovic. Back in the United States with a completely renewed musical outlook, Condon now had a clear idea of his future as a musician and of the sound his music would need to have.

Legend has it that, due to a wrist injury suffered as a child, Condon can't play guitar without his arm hurting as it moves along the neck. Hence the choice – or rather the necessity – of using the ukulele, a smaller, more manageable instrument, to accompany his voice. As a tribute to his love of the Mediterranean's Middle Eastern shores, Condon's new folk-leaning project took the name Beirut, and it's precisely the ukulele, together with the extensive use of brass instruments, that would make its sound so distinctive and instantly recognizable. Still using his bedroom as a recording studio, Condon then began writing the songs that would make up his official debut album.

At first, the young man didn't seem to have much faith in his own abilities; he gained confidence, however, when Jeremy Barnes – an underground legend in his hometown, leader of A Hawk and a Hacksaw and former member of cult band Neutral Milk Hotel – heard his demos, declared himself a fan of his music, and offered to join as an instrumentalist to help finish the album. Knowing Barnes also proved to be an important launchpad into the independent scene for the talented and (for not much longer) unknown Zach Condon.

2006: “Postcards From Italy”

It's the spring of 2006 when “Postcards From Italy”, Condon's first song under the Beirut moniker, begins circulating on the major American music blogs. The track, a romantic folk song that's also a tribute to a wholly imagined Italy (Condon wouldn't actually visit the country until 2011), opens with a simple ukulele riff before blossoming into a burst of Spanish-tinged trumpets that carry the song toward its sweet, melodic finale. The picturesque blend of joy and restrained melancholy is enough to win over tens of thousands of listeners. “Postcards From Italy” is a small gem, simple and genuine, and it inevitably makes Beirut the musical discovery of the year. It's not a trend-driven sound, but it's compelling enough to win the affection of a crowd of fans who had never before found themselves listening to this kind of music, for whom the song is a true revelation.

And so, having won over both audiences and critics, Gulag Orkestar – Beirut's eclectic debut album – was released in May 2006 on the BaDaBing label, a work that draws as much on world music as on the American singer-songwriter tradition. The result is a wonderful riot of trumpets, flugelhorns, ukuleles and accordions, dominated by a danceable mood forever balanced between euphoria and reflection, enthusiasm and introspection, set against the backdrop of a perpetual, imaginary Eastern European village festival. Condon's own voice is a hugely important element of Beirut's sound, with a timbre somewhere between Rufus Wainwright and Morrissey, filtered through a folkloric lens.

On Gulag Orkestar you can hear glorious waltzes and marches – always dominated by brass arrangements – like “Prenzlaurberg”, “Bratislava” and the title track. Beirut come across as an indie-rock, slightly tipsy version of Bregovic's orchestra, but Condon gives his best when he shows off his superb melodic gifts on tracks like “Mount Wroclai (Idle Days)”, driven by a sweeping accordion, and “Scenic World”, perhaps the only track that recalls Condon's early chamber-pop experiments as Realpeople.

There's also room on the record for gentler, more wistful rhythms, as on “Rhineland (Heartland)” or “The Canals Of Our City”, where a plaintive solo trumpet stands out as the tone turns more elegiac and melancholic. The solemn synth-pop of “After The Curtain”, between lo-fi toy pianos and airy vocalizing, closes the album with dignity.

Masterpiece is always a big word to use, and probably an inappropriate one, especially when talking about a debut album. What's certain, though, is that with this album Condon managed to carve out a highly personal and original musical identity, distinct from the rest of the bands out there. Gulag Orkestar still sounds, today as it did then, like a brilliant debut, but listening to it a few years on, you can also see how, thanks to the well-deserved popularity it earned, it played a decisive role in the folk revival of the early 2010s; this is especially true when it comes to the rediscovery of the ukulele, which has since become a fetish object among new folk bands and has recently been taken up even by established artists (think of Eddie Vedder or Lisa Hannigan, to name two).

In the summer of 2006, Zach Condon set out with a collective of musicians on the first real world tour in support of Gulag Orkestar. Unfortunately, the stress caused by the heavy media pressure on the band, combined with being unprepared to sustain a tour of such scale, forced Condon to cut the run of shows short.

A few months went by, during which, however, Zach didn't sit idle; as early as November of that same year, the unreleased “Interior Of A Dutch House” came out on a split 7" with Calexico, closing out an utterly memorable 2006.

2007: “Lon Gisland” e “The Flying Club Cup”

Buoyed by the success of his debut album, in January 2007 Condon joined the roster of 4AD, the storied British indie label. By the end of the month, it was time for Lon Gisland, a five-track EP led by the single “Elephant Gun”. Unlike the debut album, recorded entirely at home, this release was the first to be cut in a proper studio with a full band behind him. From this point on, it makes sense to talk about Beirut not as a solo project anymore, but as a fully-fledged band, featuring musicians like Perrin Cloutier on accordion, drummer Nick Petree, violinist Kristin Ferebee, alongside, of course, the ever-reliable Zach Condon, undisputed leader and multi-instrumentalist.

In “Elephant Gun”, again opened by a ukulele line, it's as if all the joy that existed only as potential energy on Gulag Orkestar suddenly bursts out in the glorious swell of brass that carries the track, giving it a more triumphant character than any other Beirut song heard up to that point. Many consider this Condon's finest composition; indeed, beyond the lavish horn arrangement, it's impossible not to be moved by the song's beautiful melody and enigmatic lyrics, which for the first time take on real weight rather than being confined to a merely accompanying role to the instruments.

It's clear that Zach Condon is a songwriter in a state of grace: even when he draws blatantly on the sound of the debut album, as in the polka of “My Family's Role In The World Revolution” or the waltz of “Carousels”, the result is surprisingly compelling. The new arrangement of “Scenic World” (adopted from here on in live shows) swaps the keyboard for accordion, giving the song a slower pace, though ultimately less striking than the original version. “The Long Island Sound”, a brief instrumental reprise of “Elephant Gun”, leads the EP toward its close, which is left to the already-mentioned “Carousels”.

With its ups and downs, Lon Gisland Ep still stands as an interesting transitional work, an enticing preview of the new album soon to come: the best, Condon seems to be saying, is yet to arrive.

In the meantime, in February of the same year, the Ep Pompeii is released, containing two previously unreleased tracks recorded the year before, “Fountains And Tramways” and “Napoleon On The Bellerophon”. In July, it's the turn of the Elephant Gun Ep, released to coincide with the video for the title track and featuring the unreleased “Transatlantique”.

Beirut have by now become one of the most talked-about bands on the indie scene, praised far and wide for their compositional skill and bolstered by a strikingly impactful vintage aesthetic. The wait for the follow-up to Gulag Orkestar is finally put to rest on October 9, 2007, with the release of the hugely anticipated second album, The Flying Club Cup. This time Zach doesn't go it alone, and his collaborator is nothing short of exceptional: the visionary Owen Pallett, already known for the baroque-pop project Final Fantasy, is brought in here as artistic producer.

On this record, the epicenter of Condon's music abandons the Balkans to move into continental Europe: it's now the French melodic tradition, that of the decadent, passionate chansonniers, that serves as the source of inspiration. Alongside this shift in perspective comes greater care in the arrangements, with an even richer horn section and frequent string interventions (Pallett's contribution is crucial here). Having set aside the naïve taste for lo-fi sounds, The Flying Club Cup is an ambitious, impeccably produced album, more organic and mature than its already excellent predecessor.

The magnificent choral sweep of the title track, the funereal accordion lament of “Cliquot” (sung by Pallett), the circular and memorable melody of “Nantes” (brilliantly rearranged in the later “Cherbourg”), the sweet nostalgia of the waltzing “A Sunday Smile”: these define what still rank among the finest songs Zach Condon has ever written. But Beirut prove just as fertile and inspired when revisiting territory already explored on their debut, as in the tormented horns of “St. Apollonia”, the woozy, swaying ones of “La Banlieue”, the gypsy symphonism of “Forks And Knives (La Fête)”, and the slow crescendo of “The Penalty”.

Even less distinctive tracks like “Guyamas Sonora” and “Un Dernier Verre (Por La Route)”, both lifted by a stately brass intervention, display an inspired melodic streak of crystalline class; but there's also room for another successful experiment, defined by the urgent, Arabesque melodrama of “In The Masoleum”.

Joyful yet melancholic, understated yet rousing, retro yet fresh and original: the music Condon and Beirut showcase on The Flying Club Cup is moving in its beauty precisely because of its genuine anachronism, which makes it sound sincere and deeply felt. In other words, unique.

The new album didn't disappoint, then, and Beirut confirmed themselves as one of the hottest bands of the decade's second half. As the cherry on top of what is without doubt the band's golden era, acclaimed independent video director Vincent Moon, famous for the video-blog La Blogothèque, directed the film “A Cheap Magic Inside”, in which the band is filmed performing The Flying Club Cup in its entirety through the streets of San Francisco.

Despite the excellent critical and commercial response to the first two albums, from here on attention around Condon's project would steadily wane, partly due to the frontman's reluctance to show himself in public, partly due to the increasingly sporadic release of new music (which from now on would come after ever-longer gestation periods), and partly due to an actual decline in quality in the work that followed.

2009-2011: The Return of Realpeople and “The Rip Tide”

In February 2009, a double Ep is released, March Of The Zapotec/Holland. The release is credited to two names: the usual Beirut for March Of The Zapotec, and Realpeople for Holland. On the latter, Condon thus returns to his teenage moniker, retracing the chamber-pop lines he had already sketched out early in his career.

To be considered overall a minor experiment, Holland nonetheless contains pleasant music, as well as “My Night With The Prostitute From Marseille”, a fan favorite still often played live today.

On March Of The Zapotec, by contrast, Beirut appear as a full-fledged brass band, now more than ever. The vocal melody takes a back seat (with the possible exception of “The Shrew”), and it's the horns that entirely shape the song's structure: broad and sweet in laying out the harmony, sly and percussive in dictating the rhythm. Still, like its companion piece, this Ep adds nothing particularly memorable to what Beirut had already shown up to this point.

That same year, a new track, “Mimizan”, is included on the tracklist of “Dark Was The Night”, a charity compilation raising funds to fight AIDS, curated by Aaron and Bryce Dessner of The National. Alongside Beirut's contribution, the compilation gathers tracks from some of the leading figures of the indie scene and beyond (guests include Bon Iver, Arcade Fire, Grizzly Bear, Bob Dylan and, of course, The National).

A new album would have to wait until 2011, a full four years after its predecessor, when The Rip Tide was released on Pompeii Records (the label founded by Condon). Since Beirut never enjoyed much promotional push, it's hard to say whether the excellent sales this record achieved stemmed from the new direction their music had taken. What's certain is that The Rip Tide is the most conventionally pop of Condon's albums to date, not so much in song structure as in melodic sensibility, which by now isn't too far removed from radio-friendly pop. Either way, quality is not in short supply: throughout its runtime the album delivers delightful folk-pop, marked by numerous memorable melodies as well as (for the first time) substantial lyrics – consider, for instance, the poignant poetry of “East Harlem”, beautifully set against a comforting bed of brass.

"A Candle's Fire" opens the album under the best possible auspices, excellently followed by "Santa Fe," a driving, summery synth-pop march dedicated to Zach's adopted city. Naturally, there's no shortage of more melancholy songs, always dominated by that trademark horn section, like "Vagabond" (an ode to the nomadic life, for anyone given to nostalgic sighs) and "The Rip Tide" (feel free to shed a tear or two without shame).

Between sweet piano ballads ("Goshen"), old-fashioned ukulele strumming ("Port Of Call," which recalls "Elephant Gun" a little) and top-tier guest spots (Sharon Van Etten on "Payne's Bay"), The Rip Tide flies by in a quick listen that's still not without its share of high points. While it's less convincing than its two bolder, more innovative predecessors, the album shows Condon in an unprecedented light, as an inspired and talented pop songwriter.

Although the record is generally less admired than Beirut's first two works, it still secures the band a position of real standing within the alternative scene, to the point that they land numerous headlining slots at major festivals around the world. It's also this tour that brings Beirut to Italy for the first and, so far, only time, to Ferrara, for a night that sees them share the bill with The National at the Ferrara Sotto Le Stelle festival.

From 2015 to today: "No No No" and "Gallipoli"

Once the tour for The Rip Tide wrapped up, Zach Condon decided to take a long break from the scene to reorganize his ideas ahead of the new album. The hiatus was further extended by the trauma of separating from his wife, whom he'd been married to since the days of Gulag Orkestar. It would take meeting a new partner to give Zach back the strength to keep writing music.

Whether to celebrate his newfound peace of mind or simply reflecting an increasingly pronounced taste for poppier sounds, Beirut's fourth album, No No No, released in September 2015, is by far their lightest record. No more funeral marches, polkas or mournful accordions; even the ukulele, long a Beirut trademark, is set aside this time. The horns remain, but limited to decorating the songs, whose harmonies are now consistently traced by a driving keyboard, to the point that No No No feels like Condon's first album to sound more synth-pop than folk.

Having lost the folkloric euphoria of the past and by now fully shed his role as the indie-folk enfant-prodige, Condon still proves to be a fine pop songwriter. However, the only truly memorable songs here are the two singles: "No No No," nicely embroidered with Condon's vocalizing and a horn section, and "Gibraltar," enriched by African percussion. The rest of the record contains no disastrous missteps, but it does carry a sense of boredom that Beirut had always managed to keep at bay until now, and which this time around makes itself felt. As a pop album, essentially lacking the ability to hold the listener's attention, this record can't be called a success.

Since 2017, Zach Condon has been living permanently in Berlin. Beirut's fifth album, written between the German capital and Puglia, came out on February 1, 2019, and is titled Gallipoli, exactly like the lead single released the previous October. With its marching small-town-band gait and its sweet, nostalgic horn melody, the song marks a welcome return to the sound of early Beirut and, in four minutes and seven seconds, reminds us exactly why, back in 2006, Zach Condon's music captivated us all.

One evening we happened to find ourselves in the medieval town of Gallipoli and followed a brass band in procession behind priests carrying the statue of the patron saint through the narrow streets of the town, trailed by what seemed like the whole city. The following day I wrote, in a single sitting, pausing only to eat, the song that would become "Gallipoli." I was very pleased with the result. It felt to me like a cathartic mix of all the old and new albums, and I felt like I'd returned to the old joy of music as a visceral experience.

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