We met Micah P. Hinson on the occasion of the start of his autumn tour, which, after the appetizer at the beginning of the month in Taranto, includes four more dates in Italy: November 23rd at the Teatro Comunale S. Teodoro in Cantù (Como), the 24th at the Teatro del Parco in Mestre (Venice), the 25th at the Auditorium del Carmine in Parma and the 26th at the Capitol in Pordenone. It was an opportunity to talk about the special vinyl edition of "I Lie To You", released by Ponderosa Music with two rearrangements of previously released tracks. But with the musician from Abilene, Texas, we also talked about the roots of his songbook, along with plenty of anecdotes from the past and his thoughts on the present.
Let's start by talking about your latest work, in which you present two tracks ("Oh No!" and "People") in a rearranged version. Do you want to tell us more about these two songs in particular?
I had completely forgotten about "Oh No!", but that song was released on a small Spanish Ep I made years and years ago ("Presents The Surrendering"). It's definitely worth going back and listening to, because I think the spirit of the track is there. I tried to record it several times because I'd had it with me for a long time, but it never came out right. It was supposed to be on "I Lie To You" and it still didn't come out right, but in the end it worked and I'm really happy with the final result. I wanted something that went beyond the sound of "I Lie To You". And I think we managed that, just like with "People". As for that one, I don't think there's much else to add, except that it can be seen in different ways. It's a very pop song, probably one of the simplest and most pop things I've done, so it's always nice to play it live. The lyrics are very heavy, and I think they can be seen in different ways.
You decided to record your latest album with an Italian label and to start your European tour in our country. Where does this sense of closeness come from?
As far as the tour in Italy and having Ponderosa as my record label goes, I'm not sure I'd call it a sense of closeness to the country specifically: it happened when I didn't have a record label and wasn't sure what was going to happen with my music in the future. I knew Alessandro "Asso" Stefana, and he helped me make "I Lie To You", and thanks to that connection I got in touch with the people at Ponderosa. It was a coincidence, I suppose, because I was working, they were working, and our paths crossed by chance, but it's a pleasure working with them, and they're by far the most understanding record label I've ever worked with. I think the feeling you build with people is in some ways more important than the work itself. The care and kindness behind it. And that's an incredible thing.
“I Lie To You” is your first album written after the period when you decided to step away from the scene. How did you experience this time of “quiet”, and what's the most valuable thing you learned from it?
I assume that by the word “quiet” you mean the reason why I didn't put anything out. I think this is a bit of a different situation than feeling like it was time to stop. As I mentioned in my last answer, regarding the record label at the time, and before that, I was on a small record label on an island country somewhere in Europe. They lacked compassion and any kind of support I think I needed. When I left that label I had nothing on the horizon. I think at that point it felt more important to make that whole situation disappear and then see what life would bring me.
Another thing is that, while the pandemic was going on, I felt like everyone was putting out records and doing online shows and things like that. And that made me really nervous, because now we're in a situation where being a musician gets you interested in the whole world of the internet, of clicks and streaming. Maybe for some people that's important, but personally I can't see that it's worth much. I've reached a point where, when I put out a record, it's important to tour, it's important to get out there and try to make a living. Hence the “quiet” I had: the world wasn't moving the way it used to move, and I didn't have the chance to do the things I would have liked to do. So it made sense not to do anything at all. It didn't feel like a quiet time in my life. Maybe outwardly, maybe physically… I wasn't talking, maybe I was silent, but with the things I was thinking in my mind and the things I was going through with music, I didn't feel quiet, and of course music is directly tied to my life. But what did I learn from all this? That's an interesting question. I've changed in almost every way of thinking. I keep telling my girlfriend that I'm turning into an actual “human” boy and that I'm changing the way I perceive my life and my music.
Listening to your previous album “When I Shoot At You With Arrows, I Will Shoot To Destroy You”, I sensed a feeling of grandeur but also of anguish and harrowing darkness. On your latest work, though, that darkness seems to have dissolved, and a sense of newfound serenity comes through. Do you share these impressions?
I'd say I agree with what you said. I mean, it's definitely a pretty dark record: I've listened back to it and I find it really fascinating, because I wasn't following any of the rules or guidelines I'd set for myself when making records. I listen to that album and I hear a lot of space, whereas before I would have felt like I had to fill in those gaps. But even at the time, when I was recording it, there were very specific things going on with the making of that record, so I think I was more obsessed with the science of sound technology than with how many instruments were involved. I think that's also true of “Holy Strangers”. But even with these things, I could sit here and look back and try to imagine I did it for this or that reason. Maybe I wasn't very interested and maybe I was doing some kind of exercise. When I finished it, I didn't like the record very much, I thought it was something else. But listening back to it now, it feels like it was a really important album, and that I was talking to myself about very interesting things I wasn't aware of at the time. When we started recording “I Lie To You”, as I said, I didn't have a label and I just had these songs and a few new ones, and it was really just about making a record, I think. Then, of course, the pandemic came, and again, there was no chance to travel, so at that point it really ended up in the hands of Alessandro “Asso” Stefana, and we spent a lot of time working on it, but I think it was more time spent figuring out what not to put in than what to put in.
We wanted an album of very simple songs, without a lot of bells and whistles and that kind of thing. In the last part of your question you mention a newfound sense of serenity or something like that with the album? No, I don't really think that's it. I mean, you can definitely hear that the sound is more restrained and serene or something like that, but no, I don't think the songs really speak in that way. Serenity is an interesting concept, and I'm not sure it's something that fits into the way I write songs.
The songs on “I Lie To You” are straightforward and never run longer than four minutes, whereas in your previous work you'd also written songs with longer, more complex structures. Does that choice reflect a desire to experiment with a new, more stripped-down way of making music?
No, I think what you're describing is the brevity of the songs and how concise they are. It wasn't me experimenting with ideas or anything like that. I mean, we were working with Alessandro “Asso” Stefana and we were very limited in what we could do. I guess in a way it was an experiment, or maybe a necessity. I don't know. Experiment maybe isn't the right word, but I think I was experimenting with the idea of using a lot fewer instruments and making things a bit leaner. You'll also notice I didn't put my name on this record, or any of the others (Gospel of Progress, Opera Circuit and that sort of thing). I wanted it to be streamlined and not create confusion, because for someone who's known me since I put out the record, having different names could have been confusing. It's exactly the kind of human being I've decided to be; I'm 42 years old and I'm trying to keep being that for a while longer. I think being clearer will do me good.
I noticed that on the cover of your latest album you went back to using a black-and-white photo with details of female figures, like on the iconic artwork of your early albums. Did the unusual, dark abstract painting on the previous album have a particular meaning for you?
I think you're referring to the artwork of “Holy Strangers“. I didn't do it in the refined way you mentioned, the way I usually do, because of the story behind that record, what I was trying to say and what I was trying to do. It wasn't the moment to use artwork in the same style I'd already used. It wouldn't have worked. The “musicians of the Apocalypse” is actually a painting by my brother, Joshua Henson. He's a brilliant Chickasaw artist and has an excellent touch, and he's teaching the Chickasaw language in some schools he's opening. He's very high up in the Chickasaw government, the Native American people I come from. At the time I was in Oklahoma, or Indian Territory, and I had a dream in which it was dark. I saw these arrows, all pointing upward, and then I started seeing them turn into this square, and I told my brother about it, we talked about it, and he painted that picture during the Covid pandemic, which is an incredible painting, but it was really hard to find. I remember it was very hard to find people who could scan it, people who could take good photos of it. In the end, I found someone right in the middle of God knows where in Dallas, Texas. That's it.
The album pays tribute to the American folk tradition with a cover of John Denver's “Please Daddy, Don’t Get Drunk This Christmas”. What's your relationship with the great American folk tradition?
That's interesting, I'd never thought of John Denver as being part of the great American folk tradition, the way you put it. I guess Denver played Greenwich Village with a lot of the people who were part of the folk movement. But I think he went on to do something very, very different, especially in those early years. Maybe ten years or so, maybe a bit less. Once you got mostly to the '90s, things were very different. At least that's my sense of his music. In those early years he wrote at such a personal and different level, and the things he talked about were sad and lovely, and he was compassionate. And that was very different from all the other things I think I'd want to lump into the idea of American folk tradition. I think a lot of folk music is disconnected. Does that make sense? Yes, because there are people like the Carter Family who gave a huge hand to American folk, and they sang folk songs, but they sang songs they'd bought from other people. So when I listen to their music, I find they're extraordinary songs, but there's really a lack of a sense of emotion or something like that, because they were clearly playing other people's compositions. Not all of them really, but most, and when they sang them, obviously, it was a lot easier not to feel the same emotion as the person who wrote the song. So yes, I get it. It might sound a bit strange. I'd never thought about it, but yes, and American folk doesn't strike me as a very personal form of composition. And John Denver was probably the biggest influence on my songwriting and on the way I want to write. He was an incredible person to listen to. And I think the reason I always play as many of his songs as I can, or put his songs on records, is that I feel he's been very much forgotten. I think all the hippie and slightly odd things he did, and everything he believed, really pushed his path away from a significant number of people who listened to him or took him seriously or something like that.
The roots of your music are clearly American; and yet you've always found huge acclaim in the Old Continent too. How do you explain that?
I don't think I agree with you, because how do you put it? The roots of your music are clearly American. Don't you think? When I started writing songs and had this interest in composing them, I mean, it was all fine. Like we said, I listened to John Denver, obviously, but not only him. I listened, as I've said many times, to the Cure, My Bloody Valentine, Curve, New Order, and then beyond that too, the stuff I was listening to, however much it might have come from the United States, didn't follow the American tradition. Things like Nine Inch Nails, or like the Canadians, Skinny Puppy, Front 242 and Thrill Kill Kult. That kind of thing didn't exist before. It didn't fit into the American tradition, or rather into the folk music tradition of the United States… I think using the word “American” to describe a style of music coming from one very particular place on the whole continent is pretty unfair. So as for United States folk, or its tradition, I think a lot of what you hear is tradition. I mean, it's really inescapable.
I was born in Memphis and then grew up in Texas, so it makes sense that I play acoustic guitar. It makes sense that I write folk music, or country, or whatever we want to call it. But, yes, I definitely wasn't raised, as one might think, on Hank Williams and Johnny Cash. Of course I heard those things around me. I mean, it was inevitable, but it's not something I listened to at home or went looking for the CDs of, and things like that.
What can fans expect from the upcoming tour? Will it mainly focus on your latest work, or will you also be playing songs from your previous albums?
This time it's a continuation of the extensive "I Lie To You" tour, which I hope keeps going. Well, it's still me and Paolo, my drummer and my fucking guru. And then Alessandro "Asso" Stefana, of course, who plays banjo, and piano, and baritone, and harmonica. Did I say banjo? Yes, the guy plays the lapsteel. Yeah, he plays all kinds of things. This month he's on tour with Vinicio Capossela. So he'll only join us for four shows. Tonight, for instance, we're in Belgium. And he also took part in the Italian show earlier this week. But most of the tour is just me and Paolo. We've done a few shows on our own, and he's a really interesting person, on top of being a fantastic drummer. More than playing the drums, I think he kind of embodies them or something. He becomes a drum. He's a special human being. But yeah, we're still learning what we're doing and what we're playing. Still, most of the material will come from the new record. And then we play songs from Gospel or Opera Circuit, sometimes from Pioneer Saboteurs, sometimes from Red Empire Orchestra. So yeah, we're discovering a lot of things, and I think they fit together really well. The older songs don't feel dated or out of place next to the newer ones to me. Yeah, it's all one whole.
Is there a past show you remember fondly?
Yeah, sure. There's one I remember fondly. It was probably 2008, I was living in Abilene, Texas, and working at a comic book store. I found out from one of my coworkers at the comic shop that he was putting on a show at a place called the Paramount Theater, which was the only beautiful 1930s theater in downtown Abilene. And he was bringing in Iron & Wine, Sam Beam, and I had done a tour with Sam Beam in England. I think it was my second support tour, so I knew him. So I ended up going to the show. And playing in Abilene, especially at the Paramount, was a really monumental thing for me, because I had left Abilene irresponsibly. And going back, as silly as it sounds, felt like I'd done something with myself, like a kind of victory. But yeah, I got up on stage and played, and for some reason, that night I felt like I played every song right. I said all the right things. I made all the right jokes, and it was a fucking incredible show. And then Mr. Sam Beam got up on stage and made a horribly ridiculous joke about one of our most famous barbecue joints. From that moment on, I lost faith in him forever!
(23/11/2023)
| The torment of beauty
by Alessandra Trirè Dense, dark, tormented, emotional. The music of Texan Micah P. Hinson, one of the most interesting faces on the US folk scene, is a fire of dark passion that overwhelms the soul and sets hearts ablaze. Modest, reserved, but also candid and extremely approachable: the singer-songwriter from Abilene talks to us about his musical projects, his relationship with fame, his passion for photography, and his collection of typewriters. You're unquestionably one of the most promising singer-songwriters on the independent music scene. So a good way to start this interview might be to talk about the songwriting process itself. How does Micah P. Hinson bring a song to life? Oh! Thank you so much. I don't know whether to believe you or not, but that's damn kind of you. I think the process through which a song comes to life is pretty simple. It can be summed up in a few points: a sequence of chords, a sequence of melodies, a sequence of words, a certain amount of emotion. Not necessarily in that order, although for me, the music always, always comes first. Music can't form around words — only words can form around music. Where do you draw inspiration from to write? From these tiny little bullshit things that make up life. All the fucking little fragments that sometimes come together and somehow end up becoming damn important. Who or what influences you the most? People who wrote, who created, and who destroyed themselves. It's remarkable that your music is so popular in European countries of Latin origin like Spain or Italy, especially compared to how popular you are back home. Do you think that might have something to do with the way people in these countries experience feelings and emotions? I remember back in school when the teacher would look at me and say: “Music is the only universal language.” I had no idea what she was talking about, but the more I venture into these strange and interesting territories, the more I find her words to be true. I imagine some of my biggest listeners have no idea what I'm talking about right now either. It's an interesting thing to try and mull over. A pained striving toward an absolute ideal of beauty seems to run through your music like an obsession: in your opinion, can beauty exist without torment? Yes, it can exist. But human beings are obsessed with pain, whether it's their own or someone else's. The atmospheres of your latest album, “And The Red Empire Orchestra”, seem less dark than those of your previous work. Is that purely a matter of stylistic choices, or does it also reflect a different state of mind, perhaps tied to personal events? I couldn't say whether it's one or the other. With “The Red Empire” I hadn't set out to make a particular kind of album. I just knew I wanted to be as clear as the sun is clear when the days get longer, and I wanted to be more “rigid” compared to my previous attempts. To give an example, in the past I'd record, for a single song, ten different guitar parts... hell, maybe even fifteen. With “The Red Empire” I wanted there to be just one. So that single guitar part had to be really solid, because it couldn't hide behind nine other sons of bitches. There would be no hiding place for any instrument. I thought that could be an interesting concept. And at some point, there it was: “The Red Empire”. I worked really damn hard on that record, I sat many times in a small room that stank of sweat, giving it everything I had to make the damn thing come out right. Who knows if I succeeded or not... we'll see when the sales figures come rolling in... ha! Getting increasing recognition from both critics and audiences also means finding yourself in the spotlight not only when promoting an album or playing shows, but also in everyday life. How well does all this fit with your personality? In other words: how do you relate to popularity? I don't relate to popularity very well. It's something I really don't want to think about. I have the feeling that acknowledging your own popularity can only lead to excessive self-analysis and give a person a false sense of what actually has value in the world. And I couldn't want that... could I? In my opinion, you can't measure your worth in this world by how many people know your name, or how many people bring your name up in everyday conversation. That's ridiculous and stupid. What really makes us matter in this world is how well we've managed to defeat our demons and what we've learned as a result, how well we've treated others... there are really so many things that weigh more than the idea, or the achievement, of popularity. In all your albums you've always shown remarkable talent as a multi-instrumentalist, and on “The Red Empire Orchestra” you even took on a dazzling array of keyboard instruments: Hammond, melodica, grand and upright piano, Wurlitzer, Fender Rhodes, electric keyboard and even a toy piano. What's the instrument you've had the most fun playing so far? The piano. The keys are all just laid out there for you to play. You don't need any particular knowledge of chords or anything to do with the theoretical side of music, as far as the piano goes. I never had any real piano lessons. I signed up for lessons at university, but I failed miserably, because I refused to practice. Hell, I could write songs... what else did I need? Growing up... My grandmother had a piano, which is now here in my house, and which I play every day. I have memories of myself playing that thing, year after year. I've always wanted to create something. I've always wanted to move things with my own hands. Is there one you'd like to try but haven't had the chance to yet? The sitar. And what's the instrument that moves you the most, instead? The cello. It's the only instrument, I think, truly capable of conveying real human emotions. I'm not sure how it manages to do that, but it must be down to the vibration of the strings, or the way the wood is bent and shaped. I'm not sure, but either way, in my eyes it's truly the most amazing and moving instrument mankind has ever created. You've worked, and still work today, with numerous musicians, both in the studio and on stage. What are the qualities you value most in your music-mates? Honesty. Compassion. Empathy. Passion. Without these things, a lot more people would be dying in the streets. During recording, do you tend to take a solo approach, or do you let the musicians you're working with influence the final choices to some extent? I listen to people. I don't shut my ears to people's ideas or opinions, but when it really comes down to it, I try to do everything myself. The Earlies played a huge role in helping me make my first album. They handled most of the accompanying instrumentation, along with guitar, some of the piano, organ and drums. They were damn wonderful, and I think together we made something to be proud of, but as far as the actual songwriting goes—the backbone of those bastards—I'd already recorded and written everything at home here in Abilene, and a friend, Eric Bachmann, had written the horn and string arrangements. Then, with this latest one, "The Red Empire", I had the help of my friend T. Nicholas Phelps and a few other trusted people. With "The Red Empire" I think I gave up more control than ever before, not so much over the arrangements or song structure, but over how the tracks physically sound. I recorded it together with John Congleton of Paper Chase, a whole different breed compared to the people I'd worked with before. But, look, to cut it short... I'm the one in charge. Ha! The artists who've taken part in making your albums are grouped into ensembles with curious names, which then give the albums their titles: "The Gospel Of Progress", "The Opera Circuit", "The Red Empire Orchestra". How did this idea come about? And where do those three names come from? The idea of titling albums this way came to me a long time before I was lucky enough to sign with a label. I was at university at the time and playing with a drummer friend of mine. I'd called our little outfit "MPH and The Opera Circuit". I thought it was an interesting new way of approaching a title and a band name at once. It covered two things: the album title and the band name. Obviously other people had called their group "Blahblah and the Blahblah's" before, but I'd never seen that name change from album to album. I feel this approach gives each album a different atmosphere and lets you tell one album apart from all the other recordings. It also gives each band its own separate identity. On your last European tour you were backed by a stripped-down lineup (just Nicholas and your wife Ashley). To what extent do you think it was possible to recreate the atmosphere you usually get when your band is at full strength? I haven't really had a proper band since, years ago, I toured with the Earlies, who backed me every night. Since then it's always been a different set of three or four people travelling with me on any given occasion, and there have even been times when I've made do touring alone. I know that sounds ridiculous nowadays, with all these huge bands and all this loud music. I'll admit, the choice mainly comes down to money. Since this music thing is my full-time job, I need to be able to make some kind of living from it, and touring is obviously the best way to do that. I find it's better to keep a small band and pay them well, keep them well fed, rather than have a huge band where everyone is underpaid for what they're worth. I also think a small, tight-knit group is good for your mental health while you're on the road. It's hard to stay mentally balanced while touring, so it's important to surround yourself with good people. I'm sure people who come to the shows expect some huge fifteen-piece band capable of reproducing the studio recordings note for note, but that's not what they'll get. I think it's important to shake things up, to give people something different. If a recording was made by a group of ten musicians, I'll play it solo. If a song was recorded as a solo piece, we'll put a big drum part behind it and some Hammond distortion and whatever else feels right. What are the different emotions you try to stir up in the audience when you're on stage? In the end, I think my goal is to trigger every kind of reaction, because there are so many worth provoking. If you get them all, you end up with a mix of different things: the highs and the lows, the good and the bad, the wonderful and the ugly. I find that's a really great thing. On some tour dates you end up playing to little more than fifty people (albeit enthusiastic ones). Do you think it's worth it? Critics are always pretty attentive and positive, but audiences often steer clear of "niche" shows... It's always worth it. I've even played to fewer than fifty people. I find it incredible that there are fifty people in a country I've rarely been to, in some small town I've never even heard of. It's a sight to see. It's things like this that warm me up inside. It's things like this that make it all worthwhile. Playing the music that means so much to me for those souls who are there to listen to it. Incredible. Live, you sometimes seem to come across completely differently than you do on record, as if there were another Micah on stage, a more aggressive one... It's easy to feel confined behind a microphone or within a recording. There's only so much space. Live, I find there's more room to breathe, more space to wander around in, more energy to create, more atoms vibrating in the air, more of everything. I suppose what I do live is just a bit more explosive than what's on my recordings. How do you experience your relationship with the audience when you're on stage? I find the audience to be a strange thing. I don't think of it as a series of individual faces staring back at me, but as a swaying mass. An organism. And sometimes it can be happy along with you, and sometimes it can be angry at you. And when it's angry at you... that can be the best time of all. It’s clear that your life is reflected in your songs. But looking at them from a chronological point of view instead, do you think there’s a correspondence with the different phases of your life? The songs on each album weren’t all written specifically for the album they ended up on. Some of them date back to when I was fifteen or sixteen… and others were written weeks before the records were finished. Life tends to move in circles, so things that were true ten years ago can still ring true today. Even though the words change meaning. Even though the songs shift here and there. But in the end I can look at each of my album covers and feel a certain sensation, a certain energy, from each of them, so yes, I suppose they really do represent all those chapters. What are your most immediate musical plans? I just finished a covers album for my English label, Full Time Hobby Records. It’s mostly made up of old songs, by folk artists like Patsy Cline, Leadbelly, John Denver, Santo & Johnny, Roy Orbison, the Lovin’ Spoonful and so on. I recorded it with an old friend of mine in Dallas, Texas, at a place called Tomcat Studios. It should come out right before summer hits us in the face. I’ve also been working with my friend T. Nicholas Phelps on a side project called "Broken Arrows". We’ve worked pretty hard on this one and, if all goes well, we’ll convince someone to put it out soon – fingers crossed. So far it’s the loudest and strangest thing I’ve ever done. Maybe I’m just keeping a few demons in shape. I also recorded a set of three EPs for my Spanish label, Houston Party Records. Two have come out so far, and I recently finished the third with T. Nicholas Phelps’s help. They’re all live-take recordings, studio live sessions featuring voice, acoustic guitar and banjo. I don’t know exactly when the last one will come out, but once all three have been released, I plan to re-record the whole lot of them, those bastards, stitch them all together, whip them into shape, and then put out a full-length of the finished product worldwide. After that, I think I’ll start working on a new full-length and do everything I can to get it out by the winter of 2010. But that’s about it for now… Let’s talk about the artwork. The portraits of women found in the booklets of your albums are all shot by Micah P. Hinson’s own camera. How and when did your passion for photography start? I think I’ve always found photographs fascinating: the idea of life being stolen onto a piece of paper with the help of some strange machine. I took photography classes in high school and would sometimes leave campus with my camera to go take pictures of things I came across on the street, smoking bad weed and cigarettes… That’s when it started. For the lettering on your albums you always use the same "typewriter" font, which together with the dark tones of the digipacks and the black-and-white photographs of female figures now represents a kind of leitmotif of Micah P. Hinson’s output, giving the albums a dark sensuality and an old-fashioned elegance. Is there a (deliberate) link between the graphic choices on your albums and the atmospheres they convey? As far as the cover art goes, for me it’s necessary that things go hand in hand and that there’s a theme or an idea driving everything from behind. I wouldn’t say there’s a link between the songs on the albums and the covers, obviously, since not all my songs are about women or black-and-white scenes. I just wanted something as strangely dark as I felt in my songs. Also, the "typewriter font" I use isn’t a font at all. On each album I used a different typewriter found here in Abilene’s secondhand shops. The first was an old 1930s Royal, the next was a 1950s Remington, and so on. I still keep them all, taking up space and gathering dust in my garage. I still write daily on my Remington, though. I swear the ribbon must be over forty years old, but it never seems to dry out. It was given to me by my late grandfather, L.J. Nichols, rest his soul. I hope the Remington can live forever. It’s a beautiful machine, made back when people still put real care into things. How would you place, from this perspective, "The Baby & The Satellite"? This album and the three Spanish EPs don’t fall, for me, into the same category as proper full-lengths. They’re a thing apart. Things I want people to hear, but that don’t fit my vision for the LPs. The noir look with the black-and-white women is reserved only for my full-lengths and the singles taken from those albums. The well-known American photographer Paul Strand, speaking about his work, said: "Your photography is a record of your living, for anyone who really sees." Do you agree? Would you extend this statement of his to music and to art in general as well? I think everything a person does is a record of their life, whether they’re taking photos or laying bricks, adding up phone numbers or taking calls, writing songs or driving trucks or delivering takeout… it’s just that we live, or seem to live, in a global society that doesn’t stand up in defense of the ordinary human being, of the ordinary man, woman or child. We all pick out a handful of individuals we hold in the highest regard, failing to realize that each of us has qualities far greater than the ones we give priority to. The last question is a kind of "open question": is there anything we haven’t asked you that you’d still like to share with us and with our readers? I have two dogs, Bandini and Totiana. They look like two little bears and they wrestle like it too. (15/04/2009) This interview, in its English version and in a Dutch version, is also published on the website Stilllife. Special thanks go to Patrick Kuiper, without whom making it would not have been possible. |
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This article is an English translation of the original Italian text by Fabio Ferrara, published on OndaRock.it. It was translated with the help of artificial intelligence, under the editorial responsibility of OndaRock's editor-in-chief, Claudio Fabretti.