Sandwell District on Reuniting, Grief, and Doing It for the Glory

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OK let's get down to business...the Sandwell District collective are basically legends when it comes to grayscale, no-nonsense techno, and for a while it was assumed they were basically and totally finished. Not so! Karl O'Connor (aka Regis) and David Sumner (aka Function) just returned after 15 years apart with a brand new album, End Beginnings, which arrives after the tragic death of collective member John Juan Mendez (aka Silent Servant) last year. I've long admired what Sandwell District have gotten themselves up to across their careers—before and after their acrimonious breakup in the 2010s—and I very much enjoyed talking to David and Karl about what it took to come back together, as well as the seismic shifts that have taken place in their personal headspaces over the last several years. Check it out:

How long have you lived in Berlin for, David?
David: 17 years. I had a really mystical experience moving here. I moved here on November 29, 2007, but I'd come for a couple of weeks the previous August and stayed with Regis and did a bunch of gigs around Europe and used his apartment as a base. I came over with some music, and we sat down one night and listened together and realized my first record on Sandwell District, which was Function Isolation. We put it into mastering, then I went back to New York to gather my things and I moved there on the same day that record came out on the same day I landed. It completely changed my life. I'd struggled as an artist and a DJ up until that point in New York, and on this day I hit the ground running. The record sold out, and it got DJ Mag's Techno 12" of the Month. Abundance flowed from there.

How has Berlin changed in your eyes since you started living there?
It's still the most liberated city on the planet—it's where the Cold War ended. We have to look at the history and and realize that this city saved the world from nuclear war. It's where East met West, and where the Wall came down—and the result of that was freedom, complete liberation. I was really conscious of that when I first moved to Berlin, because coming from New York and seeing the Statue of Liberty in the harbor promoting freedom, but the bars closed at 4 a.m. and there were a lot of restrictions. Then I moved here, and the bars never had to close, the clubs stayed open. It really showed me what freedom was really like—apart from the tax system. [Laughs]

Tell me more about your early experiences with dance music before your career kicked off.
I was growing up in Brooklyn, and dance music was New York City and disco and high-energy electronic music, early hip-hop. It was resonating from every car coming down the street. I grew up in Canarsie, and I lived across the street from this outdoor swim club called The Brook. We were members, and we were going there during the week, but they had Saturday night dance parties on the weekends and I was too young to enter. But our backyard faced it, and we had a swimming pool in our backyard, so from a very early age I was experiencing loud, continuous music and DJs playing from across the street. Also, in Brooklyn there were a lot of block parties, where people get permits to close off their streets and cars can't come down and they bring in sound systems. So my childhood was like a block party.

When I was growing up in the house, my dad was a bit older and he grew up listening to big bands, Jack Benny, Bing Crosby, Dean Martin, and a lot of tiki bar music like Esquivel. He heard me play piano one time by ear and saw that I had musical skills from a very early age, so we got a piano. From that point, I was listening to all the music that he was playing, I started becoming familiar with instruments—and then I started hearing this electronic music and I couldn't figure out where these sounds were coming from. That's what triggered me on my quest to figure out where these alien sounds were coming from.

Were you a car owner in NYC when you got older?
I was, but we moved out to New Jersey when i when I was in the seventh grade. First we moved to Staten Island for a year, and then we moved to New Jersey. The experience in New Jersey was interesting, because this was a time when a lot of people were moving to the suburbs—so my friends were all from Brooklyn, Queens, and Staten Island in New Jersey. The tri-state area is like that. It's all an extension of New York City. It's a great metropolitan area—but we were brought out there kicking and screaming. I love New York, but my dad grew up on the streets of Brooklyn and saw the things changing in the '70s into the '80s. It was rough. So he was like, "We need to get these kids off the street."

But most of my music listening was done in cars and driving around, and that's definitely had an effect on my production. As much as the dance floor, I'm thinking about driving and a cinematic experience.

Where in Jersey did you grow up?
Manalapan.

Nice. I grew up in Ridgewood.
That's Bergen County?

Northern Jersey, I kind of couldn't wait to get out as soon as possible and get over here—which I did, pretty much.
Yes, it's the same with me. As soon as I was done with college—I only got an associate's degree and went to Brookdale Community College in Lincroft—I was going to get my bachelor's at Rutgers, but I wanted to move to the city and start my life. I moved to West 30th street between 7th and 8th avenues, which is where Karl and I first met because we were introduced by somebody. Funnily enough, his name was Larry, and him and his brother Danny worked for a record shop called Planet X in Edison. That was my local record shop, and that's what saved me from taking the trek into New York and Brooklyn to go to record shops like Rock and Soul and Sonic Groove which were my regular record shops.

Larry and Danny were record buyers at Planet X, and the three of us were obsessed with Underground Resistance, Axis, Jeff Mills, Rob Hood, and Mad Mike. Danny turned me on to Downwards—specifically, Regis' Montreal. He was like, "Go to Sonic Groove and get this record." He was so obsessed with the Downwards catalog that he called the number on the record, and Karl answered the phone. He was still living at his mom's house, and Danny invited him over to play a show in Philadelphia. He was telling him that he had a friend, me, that lived in Manhattan. Karl always wanted to go to New York, so he stayed with me in this apartment, and that's how we became friends.

Tell me about Sandwell District coming back together like this. The last thing you guys released was the Fabric 69 mix, which I thought was excellent.
Fabric 69 was the last thing that we did together—right around the same time as Function's Incubation on Ostgut Ton. That was where we stopped working together. We didn't speak for nine or ten years. Karl tells the story better because it's more of his thing, but Mark Lanegan that was a big fan of Sandwell District and became friends with Karl, and he's the one that brought this whole project together.

Karl: It was actually Soulsavers' Rich Machin who got in contact with me to find out my address. I was just interested that he phoned up—it was good to chat to him anyway—and he said, "Mark Lanegan really likes what you do, and he wants to work with you." I think it was a Tropic of Cancer album that I produced that he really liked. It was really weird, because Mark Lanegan is obviously the king of grunge and Kurt Cobain's best friend. He's a top-tier real artist, but the great thing about him was that he had this insatiable appetite for new music. He really dug into various genres of stuff.

So the acquaintance became a friendship, and he always kept saying, "Why don't you get Sandwell District back together again?" I said, "There's too many fractures and variables in it, and we've all moved on." But he was still saying, "You really should do it." I think, in some way, he was trying to pass over a lot of regret that he had in his own life with certain things and giving me a bit of wisdom—and it was important to get back together, because me and Dave got lots of friends on the periphery, and it affects a lot of people.

We all changed a lot, and my life changed significantly. I moved to New York and had a kid. We wanted some harmony with it, and I wanted to do it for the sake of putting the music out again—or, at least, having it available, because it was never really available, broadly speaking. We thought it might be a good idea to have something out there that was a little bit more concrete rather than this dislocated, fractious past.

We spoke through [John Mendez], and John tried to put me and Dave back together. I think it was difficult for John as well, because he had the sense of foreboding—potentially, a lot of problems, because old habits don't die. But you learn to work around those things, and I think we got back together for all the wrong reasons: We did it for the music. We should've done it for the money.

The press bio for this new record said that you guys have been banned from two separate airlines. Why?
Dave got deported from Scotland trying to smoke on board—just very bad behavior. The thing is, we always started quite early in Berlin—high spirits—and they said, "No, we can't have you back on here anymore," because Dave used to thrill in teasing the air hostess, "So can I smoke?" Obviously, we came from a time where you could smoke on airplanes. There used to be smoking sections in the early days. I've never ever smoked—apart from on airplanes, because I think it's so great. It was also fighting, being idiots, just arguing. Nothing abusive or horrible like you see on flights these days, all these people getting really bent out of shape. It was nothing like that.

You guys worked on this record remotely, sending tracks back and forth.
Karl: The record was a slow starter. We had ideas for it, because I don't think me and Dave were keen to to do an album, if I'm to be honest with you. We were very happy to put Feed Forward out, but I'm not entirely sure me and Dave were that into the idea of it, purely and simply because we knew what possibly could be coming. But John was really into the idea, so as soon as that was implemented, he really went off it for whatever reason. I almost thought I was back in 2009 again, thinking that we'd agreed to do something for the sake of it.

I got a friend of mine, Simon Shreve from Cryptic Minds, and Dave worked on stuff with [Sarah Krans] in Berlin, and we put stuff together—but it was a really long period. We asked John to contribute stuff, but for some reason that never happened. So it was this long gestation period, it was getting to the stage where it was like, "Fucking hell, this is this is not fun." Because I think me and Dave would agree that making music is very difficult for us. It's a lonely process because of the home studio, and the stakes are higher for us than just making the track. It's this dinner date with eternity—you put music out there, and it does mean a lot.

In actual fact, this isn't a follow-up album to Feed Forward. The real follow-up records were Dave's album that he did on Ostgut Tun, and John's album on Hospital. They're the best Sandwell District albums. With this record, we're very aware that it's a different time, musically. So the only thing was to be brave with it, do things justice, and not worry about the noise that's going on in the world or with dance music. So we were doing it very slowly.

We did our first shows together as the three of us, and that went well. John was in Berlin for a while, so we thought that would be a great opportunity for him to work with Dave and do stuff for the record. But it just never worked out.

One thing that led to you guys not speaking for so long is David standing you up at a gig at Fabric. Reflecting on that now, what have been some of the lessons learned when it comes to your friendship and collaborative relationship?
Karl: Well, the good thing is that Dave's a cunt, and I'm a cunt. We're a pair of cunts.

David: We were on the road for a really long time, and touring so closely together with somebody that you know so well—with late nights and the rock and roll lifestyle—it just took its toll after a while. That's ultimately what led to the project disbanding. I wouldn't say it's much more than that. What did you call it the other day—a runaway train?

Karl: I think that's true of a lot of groups as well. It's like a car at full throttle, but there's no steering wheel. That's not uncommon. The thing is, we weren't taking care of business. Our age, at the time, a great friend of ours was pocketing money.
We didn't know what was going on. We were up there at some of these festivals playing in front of, I don't know, 15 or 20,000 people, and the maths doesn't add up.

But we were too lost in the moment—which is kind of weird, really, because we weren't young then. We were still middle-aged when we were doing it all that time ago. It wasn't as if we were green. Me and Dave already had a good 16, 18 years doing it. We thought the chaos was part of the magic, which really added to it as well. We're both very aware of mythology, which the majority of people in dance music aren't, really—it's about the set. It wasn't clear, sober thinking and it just had to end.

Something I find interesting about Sandwell District is the idea of a "group" when it comes to making the type of dance music you guys make. It's not like dance music doesn't have any groups, but it is a little rare.
Karl: Back then, and it's impossible now, but it was about the decentralization of the ego. Funnily enough, the ego took over and destroyed it all, so that was kind of interesting. I'm completely against movements or descriptions, especially art movements. There's always movements that contain stragglers and people who don't pull their weight. What was really interesting about Sandwell is that it wasn't just us—it was a whole load of people. You had Blackest Ever Black happening, and everything they were doing.

Even though we were all heading in a similar direction at the same time being pushed by the momentum of something, but what was unique to us was John's visual identity. It was very unique to that moment, and he brought so many people in who wouldn't have listened to dance music. I did it to a degree, but the way John did it, David would agree, he was just completely out there. He was making friends with everybody. He was informed by the art and the art form, and his aesthetic was there for all to see.

It's interesting—his home, his last flat, the place he died in, it was, like Sandwell artwork come alive. He really lived it, and I admire him greatly for that. I don't own any records anymore. I've got nothing. If anybody went into my house, they wouldn't know what I did.

David: Right before he passed, he'd started exploring some new artwork, and two days before he passed, he sent us this artwork ironically called "One Last Dance." When his brother went in the apartment and took photos and sent them to us, he'd already printed it out on his wall. He was living it.

Karl: Maybe these are the signs you don't...he did romanticize death, quite obviously, but, you know, in his records.Sometimes I thought, maybe that's too clumsy a way of saying the things that might've been going on. But I think he was ready, and so it was the path he was on. His last record was called In Memorial. That's just the aesthetics, that's what he did. I didn't play any more into that, but as time went on, I think, "These were very significant for him and the way that he was feeling."

It was kind of crazy, because he was an amazing person. He was a friend to everybody, but if you're a friend to everybody then you only become an enemy to yourself, really. At the end, it was very difficult, because he was egalitarian. He wanted to drag everybody up—even the way he tipped people who were in the service industry, because he knew where he came from, and it was this blue-collar working class ethic.

Dave was the soundtrack to Sandwell District. That's the fact about the sound. And when they think of the artwork, they think of Juan. Put all these things together, and that's why the collective worked.

David: It was a hive mind. We were working off of each other's energy and ambition, and we were blessed that at the time when I moved over to Berlin and Karl and I were operating out of the same city, which is where its strength came from. But at the same time, Juan was in L.A., and then he moved to Minneapolis for a short stint and had a great job as creative director. With his ambition, he was up at the crack of dawn, immediately on the phone with us—and he had a 9-to-5 job that was so fast-paced that it made him get it all in.

Karl: And, of course, he was doing Tropic of Cancer as well. So if your day is filled with art and you're being propelled onto something, it's a pretty heady elixir, once you taste that, you want to to keep it going. You can only keep it going for so long—that's just natural—but we kept it going quite a long time.

David: That period was electric. you know, It was on the cusp of social media, so social media wasn't playing as big of a part in things as they are now. There was something more pure about it. It wasn't about money or fame—it was about taking care of business.

Karl: I was just in it for the money and the fame, and now I'm just in it for the glory.

Tell me more about your guys' relationship with Juan and memorializing him with this record, which is pretty uncompromising in terms of what someone would expect from Sandwell District.
Karl: This project was fractured because of John's death. We call him John because that's his actual birth name, and his death certificate name as well. But Juan was completely conflicted in all areas of his life. Because of his Hispanic background, people said, "Well, you should call yourself Juan." Then there was conflict in areas between the 9-to-5 work. He could've done it all, really. So it was this really weird conflict.

Within the record's sonics, Dave and I had got to this point just after Christmas of last year, where we got a whole bunch of demos together that were really good. But not only was it covering the same ground, it wasn't doing justice to everything that's in the past. When John actually did pass away, that was a moment where me and Dave still kept working on the demos and trying to hone them down. It was maddening, because we just had to keep working.

David: It was a really bad time. Right before Juan passed, I had a surgery on a herniated disc as well as oral surgery to remove two teeth. Then, I slipped on ice, broke my ankle, and had metal plates and six screws put in—and then Juan died. In this recovery process, we were recording this album.

Karl: We were just kind of lost with it, really. We got all these parts that were really good. It came to April, and me and Dave were still kind of almost traumatized—well, we still are—by what was happening. And it wasn't just by his death, by the way. Processing a friend's death is tragic in its own right. It was so layered, what happened with him, because due to the other people who died with him, it became this spectacle. That was the only thing I was kind of against, in a way. I try to use levity when I talk to people about it, which a lot of people didn't understand, because I was against the spectacle.

To get beyond the spectacle, the only thing you can do is to remain silent—and that's true with music as well. If something's happening that you're not happy with in music—DJs aren't as good as they used to be, people can't mix now, everything should be on vinyl, all this stuff—what you do is you don't get involved in that. You just step back, and that's what me and Dave did, We stepped back greatly last year in so many ways. It got to the point where we were really okay with this record. We were like, "Yeah, this is good, we can go with this." And then something instinctively just said to me, "There's something not right about this." And it was the sound of two people who couldn't go any further with it, and that was because of John. So we had to give it over to somebody else to was a friend of John as well. So we went to Mika Hallbäch, who did a great record on Mego and was a good friend of John.

David: The other good thing is that we've been independent our whole lives, and this was done through a semi-major label. Rich, who signed us, was really A&R-ing the whole project and encouraging us to try different things. That's why we got a mixing engineer in to do it with bigger production—and you can hear that.

Karl: It wasn't about relinquishing responsibility—it was about making the best of it for the sake of the project. The point was to make it very much like anything else. It's not at all fashionable, nor is it a record that anybody would make in this particular day. That was another maxim: "Be brave." That was one of John's slogans, that's what was in my head. You've got to be brave and let things go. It's important to let things go, because a lot of dance music artists don't.