John Grant - Tales About The Queen Of Ghosts

From Czars to a solo career

It's a story like many others in the world of rock music, that of Czars: having set off from Denver at a very young age in search of success and recognition, despite a decent cult following and the firm support of Simon Raymonde of Bella Union, they never managed to make the leap in quality needed to leave a lasting mark. Amid disagreements, arguments, ego clashes and drug and alcohol abuse, the band dissolved into nothing in 2005, leaving behind a worthy legacy of six albums, an EP, a handful of truly beautiful songs, and above all the unmistakable voice – warm, deep and moving – of their leader and singer: John Grant.

After the definitive split, the troubled John (born in Denver, Colorado, in 1968) moved to New York and, hoping to exorcise his own demons and not let everything good he had built go to waste, played around the States as a support act for big names in alternative rock, including Flaming Lips and Midlake. It was the Texans of Midlake, enchanted by the songs Grant performed live, who decided it would be a real crime for these new compositions to remain unknown to a wider audience. To actively contribute to the (at least musical) "redemption" of the talented singer, the band invited him to Denton. During breaks in the recording of the new Midlake album, John thus had the opportunity to record his solo debut, co-produced by Paul Alexander and Eric Pulido, bass and guitar of the Texan band.

The debut that won over audience and critics alike

Recorded in just a few months and played by the entire Austin band, Queen Of Denmark is the result of this joint effort: moving and audacious, cynical and painful, it holds all the talent and poetic sensibility that the Colorado musician had always shown he possessed, without ever having managed – until then – to express it fully. While all the Czars albums, even the most successful ones, came across as overstuffed and excessively static, for his first solo attempt Grant avoided the trap of relying entirely on ballads, the genre best suited to his baritone voice: he alternated melancholic, heartfelt songs with brighter, livelier tracks, in search of the balance he had previously lacked. Grant's voice takes on new nuances and acquires a crystalline clarity, becoming a defining element of the whole album. It's therefore no coincidence that the opening is entrusted to three thrilling slow movements: the intense, melancholic folk-rock of "TC And Honeybear", where his voice intertwines with that of a soprano; the following "I Wanna Go To Marz", a song already well road-tested live that takes on an unusual intensity in the studio version; and, to close, one of the peaks of the entire work, "Where Dreams Go To Die", a ballad with a seventies flavour that is both thrilling and dramatic, without ever being cloying or kitsch.

One of the greatest strengths of Queen Of Denmark is Grant's ability to shift registers: hence tracks like "Sigourney Weaver" or "Chicken Bone", which stand out for their more driving rhythms and for the sarcasm that comes through in both the lyrics and the delivery. With remarkable command of means, the record moves from the ragtime of "Silver Platter Club", enriched by horn accompaniment, to songs tailor-made for 1970s FM radio ("Outer Space"). Grant and Midlake lavish the same care and attention on every idea: each track's garments are forged lavishly and elegantly, stitched with real skill, with no detail overlooked. Among the grooves you'll find an enchanting piano that, on songs like "Caramel" or the elegiac title track, goes straight for the heart (the ghost of peak Elton John is never far away), the flute of Midlake frontman Tim Smith is ready to punctuate the dreamiest passages, and vintage synths à-la ELO give the whole thing a distinctly seventies mood, both in its more driving moments (the aforementioned "Sigourney Weaver") and in its more sensual, melancholy ones ("It's Easier"), right down to the sweet, delicate violin that often softens and warms the atmosphere, as happens on the voluptuous "Leopard And Lamb", or on "Where Dreams Go To Die", where Patsy Cline's country (one of John's childhood idols) marries Peter Hammill.

The songs on Queen Of Denmark tell of the discomfort of being a young gay man in a remote town in provincial America, surrounded by bigots and rejected by his own family ("I've felt uncomfortable since the day that I was born…", Grant sings on the bluntly titled "JC Hates Faggots"), of the desire to be someone else, of love affairs and casual sex, of artificial paradises and childhood dreams. Every topic is tackled with sarcasm, grace, anger and recklessness, leaving all hypocrisy behind and deliberately ignoring the risk that such themes might provoke censorship. It would have been easy for Grant to fall into cliché, building the whole record around languid, tear-jerking ballads or using the descent into hell that marked part of his life as the sole connecting thread. Fortunately the American artist steers clear of the genre's well-worn tropes and crafts a sincere, passionate work, leaving no room for self-pity or despair. An album that seems closer to redemption than to its protagonist's final fall.

The electronic turn

After the unanimous critical and commercial success of Queen Of Denmark, 2013 brought the equally accomplished, and perhaps even more ambitious, Pale Green Ghosts, the hugely anticipated second chapter of John Grant's solo career. The former Czars frontman decided to travel all the way to Iceland to record the follow-up to his debut, in search of the right kind of isolation. The goal is to confirm everything that's been said and written about a man who is establishing himself as one of the most authoritative voices in contemporary singer-songwriting worldwide. And the result is absolutely stunning. This time Grant chose to share production duties with Biggi Veira of GusGus, the architect of those electro landscapes capable of shifting the axis of John's songwriting from the bucolic Texas of Queen Of Denmark to the more European fervour of these eleven gripping tracks. Grant is an author who doesn't set out to comfort, but to recount the desperate moments that can mark a life. A man who has lived through very difficult situations, including the recent discovery of his HIV-positive status, made public through a shock confession during a concert at the Meltdown Festival in 2012. Those far-from-euphoric states of mind are poured into his songwriting, enriched this time by arrangements in which a never-banal electronic sound stands imperiously tall. The melancholy folk-rock of "Denmark" remains intact, but here it gains new strength, shedding its excess restraint and even spilling onto the dancefloor with the unusual "Blackbelt", where Grant pairs danceable sounds with lyrics that are anything but lightweight. A deliberately contradiction-laden approach that proves to be a genuine, disarming stroke of genius. The trick reappears on "Sensitive New Age Guy", dedicated to the memory of a friend who died tragically, and on the synth-pop of "You Don't Have To", another case where words steeped in loneliness and dependency ("I needed lots of booze/ To handle the pain") are stitched over dance-club backdrops.

The key to the record lies in the formal perfection of "GMF", the rounded instant classic that will remain etched into the songwriter's discography, but there are many aching gems scattered along the way, among which at least the central "It Doesn't Matter To Me" (an extraordinary loser song about the impossibility of winning over the man you love) and "Why Don't You Love Me Anymore?" deserve a mention, further elevated by the backing vocals of another eternally conflicted soul, Sinead O'Connor. Just as striking are the suffering of "Vietnam", the avant-jazz streaks of "Ernst Borgnine" (where Grant, in touching verses, recounts his HIV-positive diagnosis), the more traditional "I Hate This Town", and the decadent charm of the opening title track, referring to the trees along a road John used to drive often in Colorado, a fitting metaphor for the personal ghosts of his past. Grant never beats around the bush, he always goes straight to the heart of the matter, and with Pale Green Ghosts he extends an exclusive invitation to his own darkened bedside, granting us the privilege of hearing and sharing his disillusioned, tormented stories. The notes that close "Glacier", a tender ballad for piano and strings written while gazing at an Icelandic landscape, are a fitting epilogue to a work that confirmed the star (and the inspiration) of the American musician. An hour of great music with nothing superfluous, the result of a perfect electro-songwriting alchemy forever balanced between melodrama and the (vain) hope of redemption. A small gem built by a wonderful loser.

In October 2015 Grant released his third solo album, Grey Tickles, Black Pressure, featuring guest appearances from Tracey Thorn of Everything But The Girl (on the duet "Disappointing"), Amanda Palmer of the Dresden Dolls, and Budgie, drummer of Siouxsie & The Banshees. Less anguished than its predecessor, Grey Tickles leaves intact the blend of electronics and electro-acoustic songwriting that has by now become the American songwriter's recognisable trademark.

At times confessional ("Global Warning") or steeped in decadent atmospheres ("No More Tangles"), Grant more often than usual opts for a moderately aggressive route ("Guess How I Know") or a generally rock-oriented one ("You And Him"), while also leaving room for some martial-wave detours ("Black Blizzard") and full-bodied alt-pop ("Down Here"). With this work John Grant once again confirms himself as one of the templates for the modern singer-songwriter, fully immersed in his own era both lyrically and in his forward-looking arrangements. One of the most enlightened and inspired artists of his generation.

By 2018 the pairing of John Grant's deep voice with electronic music is no longer news. Having heard everything Grant has produced since 2013, it's no surprise to hear him declare unconditional love for the industrial and minimal wave sound of late-1970s Sheffield, with particular fondness for Cabaret Voltaire. So it comes as no surprise that the Creep Show project gets off the ground, shared with Stephen Mallinder, former voice and bass of Cabaret Voltaire. Rounding out the lineup are Benge and Phil Winter, Mallinder's bandmates in Wrangler. The opening title track presents itself as a bubbling brew of analogue synths pinched from who-knows-which junk dealer and filtered vocals locked in an ongoing, nonsensical cabaret. Throughout Mr. Dynamite there's no shortage of oddities, such as when Mallinder converses in Japanese with the automated voice of the Tokyo subway on "Tokyo Metro".

More measured are the moments where Grant's warm, dense vocal tones take the lead, as on "Modern Parenting", which flows into a finale of female pop backing vocals, or on the closing "Safe And Sound", a track we wouldn't have been surprised to find on his recent solo output. The real appeal of the record lies in the contrast between the two protagonists' approaches: Grant's composed, seductive one, and Mallinder's masked, fragmented, schizoid one. The album comes across as fascinating, though it lacks bite in a few spots ("K Mart Johnny", "Lime Ricky") which, lacking interesting melodic ideas or any real spark, reduce its overall impact.

On 12 October 2018 John Grant returned with his fourth solo album, again on Bella Union: Love Is Magic. The album opens in (deliberately) divisive fashion, throwing the listener off balance with the almost cabaret-like approach permeating the stream of consciousness of "Metamorphosis", so packed with ideas that it borders on confusion. As the listen continues, Love Is Magic reveals itself as a two-faced record: on one hand it forcefully latches onto certain eighties-derived synthetic sounds, on the other it firmly holds onto the traditional songwriting Grant is known for. As it turns out, the synth-pop-leaning tracks ("Preppy Boy", "He's Got His Mother's Hip", "Diet Gum") come across as the least convincing musically, with the exception of the finale of "Tempest", a genuine electro battle.

Grant fares better when he sets his writing against less intrusive backdrops, as on the excellent "Smug Cunt", through which he officially joins the Anti-Trump club, veering toward a more wave-inflected aesthetic. The title track moves in the same mood, as does the closing stretch of the album, given over to markedly slower themes. What ultimately triumphs are the melody and depth of the subjects tackled, probing with confessional candour the dynamics of romantic relationships: not just hearts and rainbows — as the album title might misleadingly suggest — but a chest full of hardships to be faced.

Given all this, would the best way for Grant to express his compositional talent and by-now unmistakable baritone in the future be a return to the folk-rock simplicity of his roots? I'd say no, since the blend of experimentation and playful contamination he's offered over the years has proven thoroughly personal and recognisable. His style has become a trademark, establishing him as a leading figure within his own niche. This stands as one of the finest achievements reached so far by the Denver musician, amply confirmed once again among the grooves of these ten new vignettes, poised between humour, passion, seduction and introspection.

In April 2019 five remix versions were gathered on the EP Remixes Are Also Magic. They are "Preppy Boy", "Touch And Go", "Grey Tickles, Black Pressure", "Voodoo Doll" and "Black Blizzard". Reworkings that add nothing to the artistic body of work John Grant has produced so far.

Boy From Michigan (2021) marks Grant's entry into adulthood. At 52, the musician finds the strength to look back at the past without necessarily needing to be caustic or witty, stepping out into the open and entrusting his personal world of light and shadow to the sincerity of his lyrics. The album is also the fruit of an unplanned collaboration: John and his friend Cate Le Bon found themselves stuck together in Reykjavik because of the pandemic, and two months of recording sessions eventually gave birth to the most fully-realised album of the former Czars frontman's career.

Described by its author as "the Michigan trilogy", the opening triptych is not only deeply autobiographical but also musically intense and compelling. The eight minutes of the title track alternate unease and reflection, as synths and drum machine duet with the evocative sound of saxophone, paving the way for one of the album's most airy and ardent melodies, "County Fair". Closing out the triptych is one of the most anguished songs, "The Rusty Bull", a chilly, industrial-tinged synth-pop track that lays bare childhood fears, symbolically condensed into a metal sculpture depicting a Minotaur, a statue John saw as a child that haunted his dreams along with his earliest anxieties about his homosexuality.

Having freed himself from the ghosts of the past, the musician dives headlong into the arms of the most sensual romanticism: piano leads the dance on "The Cruise Room," while clarinet and synth keep the sound hovering between past and present. It's left to electronics straight out of a skin flick to rein in the voyeuristic, carnal imagery of "Mike And Julie": a tale of casual sex in which Grant uses a female friend's good looks to grab a man's attention.

The American musician's new album is the portrait of a man who is not only strong-willed but also politically and socially aware; it's no accident that the harshest synth tones belong to "Your Portfolio," a fierce attack on made-in-USA consumerism, and the contrast is scathing between the retro romanticism of "The Only Baby" and the wicked depiction of Trump as the bastard son of the Statue of Liberty.

Even when the music veers toward the elusive nonsense of "Rhetorical Figure" and the euro-disco lightness of "Best In Me," it's clear that Grant's metamorphosis is well underway, though still far from complete: Boy From Michigan is the first act of a revelation yet to be fully unveiled. Grant has further refined the way he tells stories and tells his own; even when the emotion seems to slip into predictability ("Just So You Know"), the music remains enchanting ("Dandy Star").

More frank and direct than ever, the musician puts together a set of lyrically striking songs, in which the intensity of the melodies goes hand in hand with the contempt and dread Grant feels toward his homeland (he left America to go live in Iceland). Lavish in its own way, Boy From Michigan is tempered by a brilliant production (Cate Le Bon) and a one-of-a-kind voice, adept at enunciating every word with a depth and authenticity that leave little room for doubt.

As the delicate notes of "Billy" bring down the curtain, Grant takes the listener by the hand: the invitation not to remain a victim of toxic masculinity, the urging to find the courage to assert one's own fragility, is the final message of a poetic, visceral album. An unexpected return to form for an artist who, like only Sufjan Stevens, has managed to recount the many sorrows and few joys of the American dream.

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