Barzin - In the rooms of memory, in a whisper

We already have another long interview with you about your career, so let me jump straight to your latest record, “To Live Alone In That Long Summer”. The press release quotes you describing it like this: “I feel like I've been trying to make this record since I started making records.” Why is that?

Some people learn from their mistakes, and I think I'm one of them. This is my fourth album, so I've had plenty of chances to make mistakes. When I made my first record, I really didn't know anything about producing albums. So it was only afterwards that I realized what I didn't want in my records. The same process applies when I'm trying to find the right arrangement for a song. I have to record a lot of different instruments for that song to hear all the different options, and only then am I able to step back and understand what works and what doesn't. So, with each album, I've learned what I like and what I don't like. And it took me four records to finally get what I was looking for. Some manage to find their sound as early as their first or second record. That's something I really admire in those artists. They're able to lay the foundations very early on and keep building on them with each subsequent album. But I think everyone is always trying to perfect their sound on every record they make. The art of making a record is very difficult. There's no manual that teaches you how. And on every record you work on, you find yourself in a particular state of mind, trying to hit a certain target. Sometimes that means making a very cohesive, consistent record, where the songs don't stray too far from one another. Sometimes your goal is to create songs that are very different from each other. All these things play a very important role in the record you end up making

I read that it took you quite a while to finish it. Do you remember the first song you wrote? Was it already fully formed in your mind?

I started working on this record four years ago, so I can't remember exactly which song came first. But I do remember precisely that I had just gotten back home from a European tour. It was summer. I rented a small studio and started working on the pieces. Many of them grew out of ideas that had inspired me in the past. I had a melody part, a verse, a chorus, and those gave me a good starting point. Then I slowly began to break down and rebuild on those ideas.

If “Notes To An Absent Lover” was mostly a collection of songs (however beautiful), I really appreciated the fact that here you managed to create a musical atmosphere centered on the idea of urban loneliness and the need for contact. I think that's what makes it my favorite record of yours. Was that something you had in mind when you started making this album?

I'm glad you think so. Thank you. No, I didn't know exactly what this album would be like before I started working on it. It was only once I'd written the lyrics and looked at them from the outside, noticing the pattern that was emerging, that I slowly realized what I'd been preoccupied with. I noticed that the recurring themes throughout all the songs were loneliness, the city, and the need for contact. I think that's generally how I tend to write - I let the main issue surface only once I've allowed myself to write without overthinking it. I think our subconscious usually reveals to us what we want to say. All we have to do is sit down and write, and not let our ego interfere with what's coming out.

In that sense, I think you've written your most "literary" record, with a real sense of a story, however intimate. Would you agree?

“My most literary record”; I like how that sounds. I studied English literature, so anything with the word “literary” attached to it always makes me happy. I really spent a lot of time on the lyrics for this record. I wanted to move away from the simplicity of the previous album. That one had a very personal note to it, and I didn't want to make those words too obscure. But here I wanted to turn the page. And I didn't want lyrics that were too poetic either. I've never been a big fan of writing lyrics so inaccessible that they become incomprehensible. I wanted to strike a balance. My main concern with lyrics is balancing light and darkness, ugliness and beauty. I feel like I hadn't managed that on my previous records, so I made it my goal here.

Let me ask you directly: is this “long summer” a state of mind you wanted to portray, or an actual summer you spent alone in the city?

It's really both. It feels like I've spent several long summers alone. But I was also trying to capture the atmosphere and the state of mind during those periods.

The arrangements play a big role on the record in making this picture vivid, real. You'd already broadened your palette starting with “Notes”, but here I found a more open, alluring sound. Can you tell us something about how the record was made? I know Tony Dekker and Sandro Perri were involved, along with others…

Well, it was a pretty long process. First I started working on these songs on my own. At the beginning I wanted to make a simple record. I thought I'd make an album of just acoustic guitar and piano. So I started recording the songs in a very simple setting, at home. I was mainly doing that to see how the songs would sound on their own. Once that was done, I realized the songs needed something more than acoustic guitar and piano. That's when I brought the songs to my longtime musical partner, Nick Zubeck, who's played live with me for several years now. It was in his studio that we started trying out instruments like drums and electric guitar on the songs. That's where we broadened our palette. After that, I asked Sandro Perri, an old friend, to spend a few days with me and the band to help me shape the songs. I put together the musicians who would play on the record, and we spent three days in the studio improvising on the songs and trying out different arrangement ideas. Only after that did we go into the studio and start recording. I've known Tony Dekker for many years. He's another good friend of mine. When it came time to use backing vocals on the record, I jumped at the chance to ask him to sing harmonies on some of the songs.

I have a pretty vivid connection to one of my favorite films of recent years, Steve McQueen's “Shame”. The two “plots” may diverge quite a bit, but I think there's a strong emotional connection. Do you think there's a relationship between the protagonist of “To Live Alone In That Long Summer” and the one in “Shame”?

It's really interesting that you make that comparison. I'm really glad you did. When I saw “Shame”, my first thought was – here it is, this is exactly what I want to convey with this record. I felt that Steve McQueen had made a film about exactly the same thing I was preoccupied with on this album – the growing disconnection between people living in cities, and turning to sex to fill the void. It was interesting to see that film because, when you're working on a project, you think the things you're writing about are part of your own personal concerns, things that maybe don't interest anyone else at all. But when I saw that film, when I saw how it resonated with other people, I realized that what I was writing about was something very relevant to the people around me. Admittedly, there's nothing new about this theme. People have felt unhappy, empty and lonely forever, and sex as the fulfillment of an unspoken need for contact has been going on for a long time. But there's something about the current state of North American culture that feels different. It's as if we're living in a culture that has lost its innocence. Sex and violence are quite intertwined now. There's a sense of cruelty that seems to run beneath all of it. That's just my perception, though – I'm not a sociologist, so I could be way off base with this analysis. But I'm glad you felt that connection between the film and the album.

You're releasing this record in Italy on an Italian label, Ghost – which is a fairly unusual thing. Can I ask how that came about, and whether you have a particular relationship with Italian audiences?

I've been friends with Giuseppe Marmina for many years. He's one of the people who runs Ghost, and he's been a good friend and a devoted supporter of my music for a long time. So when I started working on this record, we began toying with the idea of working together on this release. I've always liked the idea of working with people I've known for a long time. It's like working with your family. I'm really happy that Ghost is releasing my record in Italy. It felt like the right thing to do.

I don't know what it is with Italian audiences, but I really feel a connection to my music there that I don't feel anywhere else. I can't quite explain it. But I love the support I've gotten from people in Italy, everyone's been so generous…

You've established a certain trademark sound by now. Do you see yourself staying on the same track in the coming years? Do you have any side projects or collaborations in the works?

Well, to be honest, I feel like every album I make could be my last. So who knows if I'll ever make another one. We'll see what happens. I have a lot of different ideas for future records, some quite different from my usual stuff. The hard part is making them sound just as honest, just as genuine. That's my main concern, because if they weren't, I wouldn't feel comfortable sharing them with anyone.

Thank you for such thoughtful questions. You really got to the heart of a lot of what I was trying to achieve with this album, so I appreciate your sensitivity toward the songs and the lyrics.

To mark the release of his third album, “Notes To An Absent Lover”, Barzin sets aside the usual introversion of his music to open up as a man and a musician. From his tentative beginnings with the guitar to the slowed-down cadences of his records, his personal experiences run parallel to the maturing of an artistic path that has led him to a well-defined style, always devoted to telling stories, feelings, memories.

How did your passion for songwriting first come about? I read that you started out playing drums in a high-school band and only later moved on to guitar: what was the "discovery" of this instrument like for you? What did you feel it could give you?

The first instrument I ever owned was a harmonica; it was a long time ago, and all I remember today is sitting in the back seat of my parents' car trying to work out and imitate the melody of "Love Me Do" by the Beatles. After that, the first instrument I actually started playing was the drums. But it wasn't out of any particular passion for the instrument; I only started playing because all my friends had taken up the guitar and we wanted to start a band together, so I volunteered for drums, since nobody else wanted to play them.

Looking back at all the instruments I've played, I couldn't say that any single one of them defines me exclusively. I don't consider myself a guitarist, a drummer or a pianist at all. I've always thought of instruments as a means to an end, since I use them to write songs. I'm fond of every instrument I play, but that attachment doesn't compare to my love for songwriting. That's my truest passion.

Several years passed between the genesis of your idea to make music, in 1995, and your first official album, and even afterwards your output has never been especially prolific. Is that a deliberate choice, or does it come from the need to let lyrics and compositions settle?

There are artists and musicians who have a very clear idea from the start of what they want to create, so much so that they can sit down and write a song, a poem or a story in the space of a week. For me, though, the creative process is very laborious and takes a long time. I'd compare myself to those painters who paint the same picture over and over, each time slightly differently, until they reach a result that satisfies them - and that might only happen on the thirtieth or fortieth attempt.

When I start writing a song, I genuinely have no idea what I'm about to say or what kind of melody I might come up with. I just try to be patient and let my ideas flow slowly into the writing; I write constantly, to the point that I routinely end up discarding countless ideas until the lyrics and melody finally surface.

What's your ideal condition for composing? Do you let yourself be guided by the emotions of the moment, or do your songs come about in a more calculated, technical way?

I think the songs I feel most attached to, and that I like best, were sparked by a specific emotional element rather than by an idea or a technical approach.

It's important to understand, in theory, what can make a good song. That kind of knowledge is essential to making good work, but it's just as important to remember that at the moment of artistic creation you have to allow emotions and the subconscious to be present, so that they become part of the work. There have been times when I sat down to make something built around a theme or a musical exercise, but I never felt what came out of it was any good, whereas I think I've done my best work in those cases where I let go and allowed the mysteries of the creative process to work their wonder.

Beyond your experience as a drummer, what's your musical background in terms of listening and inspiration? Do you think it influenced the music you went on to make?

I studied piano and drums, though not for as long as I studied guitar, and I find that the knowledge I gained on those instruments has been very useful for songwriting. Writing a song on piano is very different from writing it on guitar, almost as if each instrument taps into and captures a different part of my creativity. For a while now I've started writing songs on banjo; I'm really enjoying it, because I've found it lets me write in a way that's different again from both piano and guitar.

Your early albums were marked by a strong pursuit of slow, muffled sounds, so much so that in some cases your music was likened to slow-core or even post-rock (whatever those labels are actually worth...), while later on, particularly on "Notes To An Absent Lover", the sound became sunnier, with a greater leaning towards orchestral arrangements. Was that an evolution you deliberately pursued? And what's the difference for you between the first album, when you did almost everything on your own, and now that you can count on an actual group of musicians?

Going into the studio is an intriguing experience for me, because when you record a track everything can turn out different from how you'd imagined it. You might go into the studio with plenty of ideas for a song, only to realize once you're actually recording that the arrangements just don't work.

So, at the start of the recording sessions for "Notes To An Absent Lover" I decided it made sense to record as many instruments as possible for each song, rather than limiting myself to a fixed set of instruments. By doing that, I was able to hear how each song could sound with a different instrumental setup, so in the end I decided most of the arrangements in the studio, rather than planning them out in advance.

On top of that, this time I also worked with a group of musicians I'd toured with, who knew my music very well, and since they're all extremely experienced players they made everything very easy for me - for instance, whenever an idea came to me, or I wanted to try playing a song in a particular way, they were able to put it into practice right away. It was a perfect way of working for me, since I like trying out new approaches to my songs all the time.

Similarly, it seems that over time you’ve focused more and more on the songwriting craft itself. Would you agree? Would you call yourself a songwriter, in the classic sense of the term?

Yes, I definitely consider myself a songwriter. I love the art of writing songs, I'm fascinated by it, and I still get excited thinking about all the things I could learn about it. And the music I listen to most often is also the work of singer-songwriters regarded as true craftsmen of the song form.

You have Iranian roots and lived in Iran for many years: it's clear that this part of your biography doesn't come through in your music, but do you think this element has shaped you as a person, both culturally and on a human-spiritual level?

Authentic traditional Iranian music is steeped in a distinctly tragic and melancholy tone, which I feel is strongly present in my own music. I also have a deep love for poetry, which has been part of Persian culture since its very origins, so I'd say these are two important things I've inherited from Iranian culture.

Over the past decade Canada has given us a huge amount of quality music, and has become known for the emergence of real musical “scenes,” gathered around collectives like those in Montreal or labels such as Constellation, Arts&Crafts, Weewerk, etc. What do you think of the current Canadian music scene? Any names you'd point us toward?

Right now the Canadian music scene is very rich. There's so much good music out there that it goes well beyond just the names that manage to break through.

Personally, I've always been a fan of Michelle Mcadory, who has only released one album so far, but it's a beautiful one. I'm also a big admirer of an artist who goes by the name Bd Harrington: he's one of the most talented people I know, and he just finished shooting a video for me. He's been working on his debut album for two years now, and I think its release is finally getting close.

Still on the subject of Canada, ever since your first album you've been joined by Tony Dekker of Great Lake Swimmers, and you've also collaborated with Sandro Perri, two artists whose style and musical path differ quite a bit from your own. What have you taken away from these collaborations? Are there other artists you'd like to work with?

Both Tony and Sandro are hugely talented artists, and each of them brings something different to the table. I've always thought of Sandro as a producer, because he's genuinely full of ideas when it comes to arranging songs and choosing the right instruments for each individual part; on top of that, he has an experimental sensibility that lets his ideas play out in unpredictable ways.

Tony, on the other hand, is a kind of craftsman, a true singer-songwriter dedicated to trying to write and say something concise, simple and memorable within a three-and-a-half-minute song; and indeed, he's written a lot of beautiful songs. From him I draw inspiration to keep my music simple and to dig even deeper into my own inner world.

One artist I hope to have the chance to work with in the future is Eric Chenaux, a guitarist and songwriter who has released his work on Constellation. I'm really drawn to his way of playing guitar, because I find his approach to the instrument quite unusual. Someday I hope to be able to make an experimental album, and I'd be thrilled if Eric could take part in it.

Turning to Europe, it seems that one of the first European countries where your music found an audience was France, to the point that after your first album you released a collection of songs on the micro-label Hinah. That seemed like a rather unusual choice, especially in terms of how limited that edition's distribution was: how did you get in touch with the label? What kind of experience was it?

I got in touch with Hinah through Liz Hysen of Picastro. It struck me right away as an interesting label, given that it had decided to put out small limited editions by very interesting bands and artists.

While I was working on “My Life In Rooms”, I had a few songs I didn't intend to include on the album, but there were enough of them to make an Ep, and since they seemed to fit well enough with the style of Hinah's releases, I got in touch with the label and they were kind enough to put the Ep out.

It seems that the small number of copies of that mini-album ended up being an incentive for you to revisit some of those songs and rework them for later records. Do you enjoy going back to songs you've already released? What does it feel like to rework something that already felt finished and settled?

I'm used to going back to my songs whenever I'm not satisfied with how they were recorded or arranged. That's why I re-recorded "The Dream Song" for the new album. I try not to make it a habit, but in the case of "The Dream Song" I not only felt a strong urge to record it differently, but I also felt it was particularly suited to the album's theme.

The first of the songs from "Songs For Hinah" that you later revisited (on "My Life In Rooms", ed.) is "Just More Drugs", a track that, in its lyrics and its more electronic guise, seems to differ from your usual musical signature. What's its meaning? More generally, what's your relationship with electronics when it comes to making your music?

While making "My Life In Rooms" I was going through a phase where I'd become interested in electronics, trying to define a "unique" style of my own, which I thought I could achieve by bringing electronics into my music.

I believe that when electronics are used effectively they can lead to great results, as bands like Portishead and Radiohead have shown, with the great taste they brought to blending it with their music. But you have to be careful, because there's always the risk of ruining a song.

Now I think that phase of my musical evolution has come to an end, so I'm gradually moving away from using electronics.

In "Notes To An Absent Lover", on the other hand, you revisit another track from "Songs For Hinah", "The Dream Song", which contains the line "king of all things weak" — one I personally can't imagine separated from your music and the sense of intimate fragility it exudes. Is it in some way autobiographical? Would you like to explain its meaning?

At the time I wrote that song I was living in the United States, in an old rented house with my partner. One afternoon, alone at home, I fell asleep, and when I woke up the sky had turned that strange, almost otherworldly color it takes on just before nightfall. In that moment, the combination of the silence in the house and the dream I'd just woken from instilled a sense of fear in me. I'm not sure what it was, but I felt as though all the thoughts I'd pushed out of my mind had resurfaced. So I started writing about those moments and all the feelings I was experiencing. I think that in doing so I was trying to keep the situation under control by writing about it: it's something I sometimes do. I'm convinced that writing about the things that trouble us can be an effective way of confronting them.

Speaking of the intimism in your music, "My Life In Rooms" seems very close to a true manifesto of your artistic sensibility, and hints at an almost necessary isolation, a retreat into the private sphere in order to rediscover oneself. Is that right? What does a "life in rooms" mean to you?

Yes, I believe isolation and solitude are necessary, not only for artists' creativity, but for anyone interested in exploring their inner world through a process of self-knowledge or personal growth. But I also think — and it's something I tried to address on the album — that too much isolation and self-examination without proper guidance can be draining, both spiritually and emotionally.

Solitude is necessary for artistic creation, but it can also cut you off from life and make you forget how to live. I think artists are always trying to figure out how to live in the world and in their art at the same time.

Many of your songs convey a sense of absence, which you summed up brilliantly in the line "in love with everything that is lost": is this a tangible, real absence, or is it something strictly spiritual?

Generally speaking, I think people turn to spirituality, the arts, drugs, and so on because there's a lack in our lives, a sense of emptiness we hope to fill with something outside ourselves. The path I've taken to escape that void has been art, but I've learned that art alone can't completely remove the sense of absence I've felt in my life.

I'm not sure I'm right about this, but I'm convinced that throughout our whole existence we can never fully free ourselves from this sense of incompleteness. You can find love, turn your art into a great career, or make a lot of money, but no matter how perfect your situation may be, it will never make up for that underlying sense of incompleteness.

In your music, the pain caused by these absences seems to be soothed beneath a very soft, controlled surface; is that a disposition of your temperament, or does it simply come down to your relationship with songwriting?

If there is a connection between these absences and the way I write music, it's something unconscious. I'm not aware of it, if there is one.

Many songs return to romantic themes and feature very intense lyrics, especially on the latest album (“Past All Concerns”, “Won’t You Come”, “Stayed Too Long In This Place”, just to name a few), yet they're never sugar-coated: is there a connection between feelings and your music? What kind of emotions do you draw from each?

Writing a love song is genuinely difficult, because it's a subject that's already been written about endlessly, so it's hard to say anything that hasn't been said before, while it's easy for the words used to talk about it to end up meaning very little. The only way I've felt able to talk about my experience of love and give it meaning has been to make it as personal as possible. I don't think I would have felt true to my own experiences if I'd set out to make my love songs universal.

And when it comes to singing, I find myself always gravitating toward a style that isn't particularly expressive of emotion. I really like the stoic singing style of songwriters like Leonard Cohen and Bob Dylan, whereas I'm not particularly fond of a vocal style that expresses too much emotion.

On “Notes To An Absent Lover”, besides the theme of absence – already spelled out in the title – there's also a recurring theme of memory, and a desire to forget and leave a personal experience behind. In particular, the absence of the loved one is told through the light of memory. Everything is bathed in a sweet melancholy, as if the past, for you, were a river to surrender to, letting it fill you up to make up for every void. It made me think of this poem by Emily Dickinson: “Looking back, is best that is left/ Or if it be – before -/ Retrospection is Prospect’s half,/ Sometimes, almost more”.

Honestly, I don't know. All I know is something simple and not very profound: in my life I suffered a serious loss, which I tried to get away from in the hope of leaving it behind. But that loss kept chasing me, so I tried to confront it by writing this record, taking to heart everyone who says that fears are overcome by facing them. So I thought I could exorcise that memory by writing about it; I don't think it worked, though.

I made several attempts to detach myself from that loss: I simply tried to forget it, I tried writing about it, traveling, and other things besides, but none of it worked. So the main reason I wrote this album came from the thought that it might help me move away from that memory and close that chapter of my life.

But I'm slowly learning that there are things from the past that stay inside us for a very long time, no matter how strong our will to remove them.

A particular theme that recurs in your songs is driving, which appears in the opening tracks of both “My Life In Rooms” and “Notes To An Absent Lover”. Is there a symbolic meaning behind it? What music do you like listening to while driving?

I really love driving, especially at night. And I like listening to music while I drive. I've been living outside the city for a couple of years now, so when I go there I end up driving for long stretches; that's why driving has become an important part of my daily routine.

What I like most about driving is the illusion of freedom it gives you: it's as if you're leaving something behind and heading toward something better. When you stay indoors for a long time, a sense of weariness with the same surroundings can build up, almost like claustrophobia, but once you get in the car, the movement and the changing scenery suddenly stir up new feelings.

What I listen to while driving varies depending on the time of day: in the morning I usually listen to the news, while at night I like to listen to music with reflective lyrics.

Your upcoming European tour will also stop in Italy: will this be your first time here? Do you have any expectations about it?

No, it'll be my third time in Italy. The first time I only played in Milan, while the next time I did about four dates in different cities. Both times were fantastic, so I can't wait to come back!

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