Pitchfork

At the tail end of January, as winter plunged the Northern Hemisphere into its darkest, bleakest days, Deerhunter released their Kranky Records debut, Cryptograms [album review]-- the consummate soundtrack to that cruel, impenetrable stretch when shorts, sweat, and beach towels begin to seem like anthropological relics.

The record quickly cemented Deerhunter's status as Atlanta's premiere purveyors of swirling, art-damaged psych-rock, and in February, we sat down with frontman Bradford Cox to discuss the recording process, the album dedication, concert-goers' reactions to his striking appearance, and future plans.

Pitchfork: I picked up your first album on impulse about two years ago. The cover was so deranged I had to find out what it sounded like.

Bradford Cox: That's Jared from the Black Lips [on the cover]. I took that photo of him. I made him get a half hard-on and pose against a white wall, and I took a photo of him. Some people recognize it because of the tattoo. It's Photoshopped, the collage or whatever, but the cock size is totally real.

Pitchfork: Yeah, I was kind of surprised when I heard the new album, because the first one is so chaotic. It's the kind of record that makes sense to have a cock on the cover.

Bradford Cox: I hate that album, I really do. I liked it when we did it, but we were a young band-- just really desperate to put something out-- and I don't think we were ready. Lockett [Pundt, guitar] hadn't joined the band, and our drummer started playing drums maybe two months before.

Pitchfork: Plus, it says Turn It Up, Faggot all big on the spine.

Bradford Cox: [laughs] It wasn't even like a common thing, but one or two times some hardcore kid was coming to our shows, and there weren't very many people at the shows, so if somebody would yell something it was really obvious. And this guy kept yelling, "Turn it up, faggot!" at me, because evidently, we're really loud.

The guy who put out the record is this aging hardcore warehouse punk dude, DIY distribution guy. And he asked, "What do you want to call the record?" And I was laughing and I said, "We're gonna call it Turn It Up, Faggot," and we thought it was going to be really good. It takes time for you to realize how much something sucks. At the time, we thought we'd made a good album, so we wanted it to be self-titled, like, "This is our statement." So both titles are retarded. There's lots of embarrassing stuff.

Pitchfork: There's not a lot of the first record's aggression on Cryptograms, but your live shows can be pretty confrontational. You guys elicit a lot of very extreme, visceral reactions.

Bradford Cox: People think I'm trying to shock them. I don't have an agenda. I have no idea what I'm doing, at all, about anything. Regardless of if we're talking about the band, the live performance, the record, my day job, my tax returns...I'm a very fumbling person. I have no agenda; I have no idea what I'm doing.

Pitchfork: Come on, seriously? A lot of what you guys do seems pretty thought-out. The new record especially feels like there was at least some kind of blueprint.

Bradford Cox: No, there's really not. I like the record a lot and I'm very proud of it, but it would be pretentious and false for me to act like we had this vision from the beginning, because we didn't. We were very confused. I think we would have broken up if it weren't for the Liars becoming friends with us and being really good advisers.

I can't really explain the thing about Liars with us, but I can say that the way you feel really touchy about your family...I have more respect for them than anyone I've ever met playing music. They were really crucial to our staying together, which is why I talk about them. And I don't like the whole name-dropping aspect of it, talking about Liars all the time, but really, if you want to know the truth, they encouraged us to stick around and try something.

Pitchfork: That's something you hear bands say a lot-- that "we almost broke up over it," real dramatic inner-band turmoil kind of garbage, but you guys had a genuinely shitty time trying to make this album, right?

Bradford Cox: Okay, well, there was this festival called the Notown Sound Festival [that] had Excepter and Magik Markers and all these other bands, some of whom I thought were amazing, some I thought were fucking bullshit. But [singer/songwriter] Samara Lubelski was among them, and-- I don't want to mean or hurtful or dickheaded, but...she's a fucking bitch, dude. Talk about the antithesis of what I'm talking about with Liars-- like a very calculated, queen of the scene, diva-type person with this guise of taking her art really seriously.

Well, she offered to record us at the Rare Book Room [in New York], and I had really liked her set [at the festival]-- it was folk and kind of ethereal, and I was so self-critical after that first record that I almost wanted a retreat into the ultra-feminine. We'd been hoping that [the sessions with Samara] would develop out of more ambient things, like treated pianos and tape loops. We were trying to have it be more out-of-the-ether, not writing the songs too much or having too much of a specific direction, and I was expecting to go in there and work with her.

First things first, [it sounded] like if you listen to Loveless on mushrooms, and I mean that in not a complimentary way-- just hazy and washed-out. The tape kept warping, and first of all, nobody fucking noticed. Emotionally, I was a fucking wreck for it because of some personal shit that I don't really talk about involving weird mental...I was just not exactly the easiest person to be around at that point, I'm sure, I was probably really weird. And I kept noticing it before anyone else.

Anyway, I hadn't slept much. I had the flu and the walking pneumonia. And I guess I was just really sensitive, because I kept hearing this subtle phasing, and nobody else heard it, and they all thought I was being a brat, being over-analytical. And I was like, "Dude, I hear it, the tape is fucking phasing, the machine is not! calibrated!" And everybody was like, "No, you don't know what you're talking about." We had these people come in from this band Talibam! to play horns and I was really excited about it. There was originally a horn section on "Lake Somerset" and it's gone because the fucking chick didn't know how to fucking record. I mean, that's fine because we could never afford to go to the Book Room at that point, and she let us come in for very cheap-- for next to nothing.

Pitchfork: So you got what you paid for.

Bradford Cox: Yeah. I thought we were going to hang it up. When we came home, I had to get on antidepressants and shit-- not just because of the record, but in general. Things were just shitty and I didn't feel like being in a band or doing anything anymore. And then Liars encouraged us to re-record it.

When we finished it was still was a little bit rough, but then [Rare Book Room founder/engineer] Nicholas [Vernhes] was like, "Well, why don't you let me try and mix it?" Not just re-mixing it, and not just changing the levels, either. He altered the drum sounds radically, and I think he really gave it that Martin Hannett sound. And I'm really interested in those old [Hannett-produced Factory] records from a distance, but that's never something that I would say is an influence on us. I would've never thought to do that, and it turned out great.

Pitchfork: Do you still have a copy of those Samara sessions?

Bradford Cox: [laughs] That still exists on a scratched CD-R under my bed. Nobody will ever hear them. After that, we worked harder on ironing out the songs.

Pitchfork: Both of your records have dedications. The first one was dedicated to a friend and the new one has a dedication that's a little bit more cryptic.

Bradford Cox: The first record was dedicated-- and it sucks because he deserves a really good record dedicated to him-- to our first bass player. He was our bass player when we were forming. His name was Justin [Bosworth] and he was such an incredible person. But he was pretty out there with heroin. He did clean up, but as soon as he did, he fell off of his skateboard, or got hit on it by a car...We don't fully understand it. All we know is that it was something to do with his skateboard. But he died from the concussion. Out of nowhere.

Pitchfork: Jesus. How old was he?

Bradford Cox: 24. And that's why Josh [Fauver, bass] joined the band. I mean, Justin was insane. I remember how he could get something stuck in his head and obsess on it. And during that time, we played this show and he was on acid, and he just kept playing Birthday Party bass lines. And I was just like, "What are you fucking doing?" in the middle of the set. He was just a wild kind of guy and had a lot of creative energy. And I miss him a lot, but yeah. That was the first record.

But we had this friend who our guitar player grew up with and who I became really close with. But unfortunately, he was also involved with heroin, and the thing about him was that I really related to him, more than anybody. And I feel like this record could've meant something to him, because it comes from the same place.

He was gay, a heroin addict, an outsider, alienated all of his friends. But he could've been such a happy guy if it weren't for all that fucked-up stuff that happened to him when he was a kid. He was involved with that "bear culture" where they go to leather bars and start shooting up and getting really tame. That kind of shit really freaks me out but also motivates me to keep a focus on something for myself so that I don't fall into those traps.

I don't want to act like that's some sort of lifestyle that's fulfilling in any way, but it's become more intense lately. And my personality can be misinterpreted, too-- like sometimes I think my friends can take it the wrong way because it creeps them out a little bit. I'm very much more into innocent, child-like things. I'm not a very big drug person. I couldn't be because of my physical condition. And plus, my dad would kick my ass.

I had a lot of freedom as a kid and I didn't abuse it. I really respect my parents and I'm really glad that I have them, because when I look at someone like my friend Bradley, whom Cryptograms is dedicated to-- it's hard to say this, because you don't want to insult somebody's parents-- I wish he could've had parents like mine sometimes. I could've fallen into all of those traps so easily. Especially because growing up, I was such an outsider.

Pitchfork: It seems like having that kind of outsider experience as a kid forces you into one of two roles: You either try to become as invisible as possible, or you accept that you make people uncomfortable and relish that and become almost confrontational about it.

Bradford Cox: Yeah, and the live thing, I'm not in any way in a position of getting stage fright. A lot of my close friends think that I should be, and you'd think I would be, because I kind of grew up awkward. I know that a lot of people who grew up awkward have serious complexes about getting in front of people, and have negative body images. I have no problem with it; I don't take myself super seriously.

Every show, I try to get to the point where I'm in a mental state where creative things can happen spontaneously, which to me means stripping things away so the shows will be a little bit darker and unexpected. So I can understand why a lot of people hate us once they've seen our live show. The people who want something that's primitive and unfocused and hazy, I think they'll enjoy it a lot, but I think there's also people who want to hear songs and melodies. We do the best we can, but we don't have as much control on the dynamics as most bands do.

Pitchfork: The blog reactions to your shows have been incredible. I don't think there's a single other band going right now that inspires the kind of intensity in writing-- both negative and positive-- about its live shows. Some people are really disturbed by it.

Bradford Cox: Yeah, really disturbed. Some actually become upset. I don't take it personally. I'm sorry. I don't victimize myself. I don't give a fuck. And I don't like people who get complexes and who are there to challenge society's notions and this and that, but I'm definitely there to challenge some cunts. Especially if they attack me based on stuff I can't control. And their argument would be, "He doesn't have to get on stage if he looks like that," or, "He doesn't have to get on stage in a dress if he looks like that," or, "He doesn't have to get on stage in a sleeveless t-shirt." I just wear what I feel like wearing and do what I feel like doing.

Maybe I don't think about it enough. Maybe I should look at these photos of us playing and look at myself and wonder if I seriously need to see a doctor. But it's like, I don't need to see a doctor. I'm fine the way I am. And I don't understand what kind of hateful people think like that, that they are to attack somebody. If anything, I'm guilty of not being super self-conscious about my body. I just don't think about it.

Pitchfork: Yeah, but it's weird-- I think a lot of people still don't know [that you have Marfan Syndrome]...

Bradford Cox: People think I'm a junkie.

Pitchfork: Right.

Bradford Cox: I watch them. Like at this one show, it was completely packed. And their eyes are glued to my fucking body. They think that they're not being watched. They think that they're the audience and I'm the performer, but for me, it's always like watching a film of people. I see it on their faces, that half-smile, you know? That "what the fuck" expression, wrinkled eyebrows and half-smiles, just staring at me. And they don't notice the music-- it's almost like they're deaf.

What am I supposed to do? Wear bulky clothes and be a shoegazer and stare at my feet and act all sensitive? That's not who I am. I've never been afraid of being loud. I talk too much. I'm obnoxious. But that's who I am. And I am now because I was worried about it for so long. You know, you want to be cool. You want to be good-looking and all that stuff. When I was a kid, I wasted so much time feeling guilty about things that I never had control over, like who I'm attracted to, i.e. not girls. So not only am I totally weird physically, but I'm also mentally not like other guys. I'm set apart in so many ways. I don't want the biggest audience in the world. I just want the audience of the people who can understand me.

Pitchfork: But again, coming out in dresses, the fake blood, and the things you do on-stage, your style of performance almost seems set out to force a reaction. I know you say that it's not something that you put a lot of thought into, but isn't that also a filter, like a way of separating those who can meet you on your wavelength from those who can't?

Bradford Cox: See, that's a very good question. Maybe subconsciously, I do that. But the dress thing, it's my idea of rock. Kurt Cobain, even though he was straight, he made a lot of gay kids feel an inch closer to acceptance. And he did that by challenging gender images. My sister Julie, she's real conservative, and I love her, but I got away from doing so much myself, that when it came to things like Nirvana, my sister would be like "Oh!!! He's wearing a dress!!! Oh!!!!" People really freaked out over that.

Pitchfork: Yeah, everybody that I knew really enjoyed that he was taking advantage of being in the very rare position of being able to challenge convention. We just thought it was fucking funny and cool, you know?

Bradford Cox: It inspired me intensely. I remember with my friends when I was in 6th grade, dressing in these dresses and plugging a Harmony guitar into a crate amp in my bedroom, and jumping on my bed playing along to In Utero and feeling extremely liberated. And then of course, if anybody saw me doing that, I would have fucking cut my wrists or something. I would have been terrified.

I think I've said this before, but I guess I relate to somebody like [filmmaker] Todd Solondz, and the fact that I don't think he means to inspire as much hatred and rage as he does, or that he's trying as hard to be a provocateur as people think he is. He's just presenting things in the sad, sick way that they are. That's how I feel.

If people started coming to see us based on, "Oh, let's go see the freak show," on a reputation of my appearance or something, I would just probably have to go back on antidepressants. It would be a miserable, intensely terrible experience. I want people to go because they're interested in a good band. It's not the 'Me' show. The whole band is working really hard to create a sound. There's a lot that goes into it, and my physical appearance is the last thing on my mind. Wearing a dress is just a funny footnote.

Pitchfork: You have an EP, Fluorescent Grey, that feels something like the second half of Cryptograms in that it's much more tightly song-focused, not as drifting or dreamy.

Bradford Cox: Yeah, there's no ambient passages in it. It's like four singles. I almost feel like we should have saved the songs for the next record, but then I want to do something totally different for the next record. But they're all four singles; they're all four good. They could stand on their own.

Pitchfork: Do you already have a direction in mind for your next record?

Bradford Cox: I do, but I know that it'll get dismantled and reconfigured. I'll tell you, I've decided completely that I want to say goodbye to the 80s references that kind of surfaced [in our music], and I want to record a record that could have been recorded in 1966, but have it have a lot more-- like the ambient elements still being there, but done with tape hiss and tape delays instead of having it be digital ambience. Are you familiar with Joe Meek?

Pitchfork: Yeah, "Telstar", "I Hear a New World"...

Bradford Cox: I'm obsessed with Joe Meek's I Hear a New World. I just love it so much. Also, Quickspace. And the Breeders. With Cryptograms, I was really into the idea of how ambiance and atmospherics could take you to a place nostalgically and trigger memories. And now I want to try to do that using...like, I've been challenging myself to write some really good hooks and write more pop. And people are going to take it that we're trying to become more accessible, so I guess they'll have a surprise after it comes out and it's full of weird shit.

It's just where I'm at, what I want to hear. I want to hear more hooks. I've been listening to doo-wop constantly, too. Older things, things that are more comforting. Music, for me, is the most comforting thing in the world. I dedicate everything I do to it, all my time and everything. And what I needed when we were doing Cryptograms was to be comfortable with these warm, lulling, droning kinds of thing. And that's what made me comfortable at that time, and it still makes me comfortable. But what else makes me comfortable is when "Divine Hammer" comes on my iPod on shuffle, and I'm suddenly in 1993 again.

[Last Splash] means so much to me. It's the first CD I ever bought. Everything about me now is because of developments that began when I was around that age. I could sit here and act like Terry Riley is my biggest influence. It's not like I didn't spend from ages 17-22 trying to be the most well-educated person on avant-garde music and all that shit. I went through that, too-- and there's a lot of stuff I love about that kind of stuff, like David Berman and Pauline Oliveros-- but I definitely don't want to repeat the ambient type shit.