The Twilight Sad on Anxiety, Anguish, Touring with the Cure, and Flipping the Rock Star Switch
This is a free post from Larry Fitzmaurice's Last Donut of the Night newsletter. Paid subscribers get one or two email-only Baker's Dozens every week featuring music I've been listening to and some critical observations around it. Subscriptions currently run $3/month or $30/year, hit one of those little pink buttons on the right side of your screen to tap in, you won't regret it.
And the spring subscription sale is just getting started! 26% off monthly and annual subscriptions, that's $2.22 a month for the first six months, or $22.20 for an entire year. All in all, it's cheap and it's nourishing. You can grab the monthly sale here, and the annual sale here.
OK, let's get into it: Until recently, the Twilight Sad hadn't released an album in seven years, but they weren't exactly dormant as they'd been spending some of that time touring with one of the greatest still-active bands in existence, the Cure—and, wouldn't you know it, Robert Smith ended up throwing in on the Twilight Sad's excellent new album It's the Long Goodbye. I've long been fascinated by the band's chocolate-and-peanut butter merging of brawny Scottish indie rock and the gorgeously overcast sounds of shoegaze and goth, so it was a pure pleasure to have the very kind and insightful James Graham on the newsletter to chat about his harrowing personal experiences that led to this new record and much more. Check it out:
This is the band's first record in about seven years. Talk to me about what went into the time taken.
There was a pandemic. I had two children—two boys, four and eight—and we went on some amazing tours with the Cure again, which was "pinch me" stuff. It happened once, we never expected it to happen again. Within that, my mother had got diagnosed with early-onset dementia. It was the type of dementia that Bruce Willis has, where it's the frontal lobes. After the first year of diagnosis, she couldn't really speak anymore. It was a pretty horrible situation to be in. I also got very ill, and my mental health deteriorated. Within all that, I was writing music with Andy, which was helping me get through it. I wasn't even thinking about a record, if I'm being honest. It was just to get these feelings out of my body and head.
Talk to me about having to take care of your mother. I spoke to Will Oldham for the newsletter very recently, who went through something similar with his mother throughout the 2000s and right up until COVID. It sounded quite intense for him.
Yeah, I'd just became a father as well, so I was seeing life grow from the start and I was seeing my mum decline at the same time. It was so cruel. I came from my mother, you know? I wouldn't be here talking to you if it wasn't for her. To watch the person that gave you life just deteriorate was the worst. But because we were going through COVID at the same time, there was a lot of worry about how she was going to be cared for. It was just brutal.
It took seven years to write this record, and I wasn't well enough to write. I wasn't well enough to sing or tour. Life really slapped me around the face, and the band didn't mean anything. There was nothing happening within COVID times anyway. My family was the most important thing for me. But within that, Andy would occasionally send me four or five tracks, and he'd say, "If something clicks here and it helps you, feel free to write to it, but no pressure." I would if I felt like I needed to get something out, and there was no other way of doing it. The music was the thing again. It's been the thing since for 20 years now.
I never expected it to be this for me. When you get into a band, you just think, "Look at all the cool stuff and all that," you know? And this became something that's an outlet for me. But it's also terrifying. I've put all down my feelings—the most horrible thoughts in my head—in these songs. And I'm feeling quite vulnerable at the moment, because it's going to be out quite soon, and I don't know what people are going to think of it. But my experience with it just changed everything—how I feel about life—if I'm being honest.
It sounds like it's something of a concern for you when it comes to being vulnerable in public, even though the ways people talk about vulnerability and mental health have changed quite a bit. I'm really curious to hear you talk about your own evolving perspective—because putting yourself in your art, you know, that's pretty naked to have to deal with.
Yeah. I was a lot braver when I was younger—the naïveté of youth. I've always been an anxious person. I've always dealt with, like, depression and things. You can hear it in the music. There's no denying that. It subconsciously comes out anyway. I've always been attracted to that side of art as well. But, as a 41-year-old man now, compared to the 21-year-old who released Fourteen Autumns and Fifteen Winters, —that brave young boy is not here anymore. I feel like a shattered old man now.
But there's something that's keeping me doing this, you know? It's what I've done for 20 years. I'm finding out about the record within the past two months even just speaking to people about it. Before that, it was just Andy and I, it was our record—and Andy and I speak a lot, obviously he's one of my best friends, known him from school. He's been there to help me through all this. But I haven't spoken in depth about it. I didn't go, "Hey Andy, what do you think about this song?" So, talking about it, I'm actually figuring out quite a lot about it as well, and understanding the work in progress.
I definitely can hear how bad things were, but I still like to think there's a bit of hope in the records, and the lyrics as well. I suppose the hope is with the fact that I did it. That's the achievement. It's down, it's there. I've got it out of myself, I can reflect on it, and it can make me understand why I was feeling that way with my own words. But I'm not the confident person I used to be. It's a bit of a brave face, if you know what I mean. So, yeah, jumping back into this scares me.
Talk to me a little bit about working as a duo now and what that entails as far as the creative process is concerned and how ideas are shared.
To be honest, it's the exact same. Every record, Andy sends me music, and whatever one sparks some ideas in my head, I'll go to first and I'll work on that, and I'll send that to Andy like, "Throw everything at the at the wall and see what sticks." Then he'll produce the demos and layer it up. Andy's produced every record that we've ever done. We've worked with different engineers and mixers, but we've changed, not the process.
We were very lucky to be able to get Alex Mackay, who plays with Mogwai, and David Jeans, who's played drums in Arab Strap. Both bands, I'm sure you're aware, without them, we wouldn't be a band. We put our trust in people that we were fans of. So the writing process didn't really change. I think the demos will come out from this record at some point, and you'll be able to clearly see how fully formed it already was before we went into the studio, to be honest. Andy spent so much time pre-planning before we went—and you have to these days, if you go into a studio because it's so expensive.
It's just two friends writing music together. I know that sounds quite simple, but that's how it starts off every time. The process for me was different just because of my situation. I found myself in a flow state. On certain songs—like, for instance, "Waiting for the Phone Call"—when that music stood out to me, I was in a bad place that day. I went for a walk, headphones on, listened to it, and by the time I came back, I'd written that song and I went home and recorded it and sent it to Andy. The song as it is just now is pretty close to the story that came out of my head whilst I went out for that walk, and a lot of songs were written that way. I don't want to say I didn't put too much thought into it. There was obviously a lot of thoughts going on in my head that I just managed to get them out.
Speaking of Mogwai, this is your second album on Rock Action. Obviously, for those guys, the label is the furthest thing from a vanity project. Tell me about what the label means to you.
Nobody else wants us. [Laughs] Without Mogwai, there would be no Twilight Sad. I used to write my lyrics to their music, because I'd like the ideas that would come into my head. They took us on tour, they've helped us, they've saw something in us that reminds them of us—and when times were really tough for us on the third record, they gave me a job to help pay my bills. I know the inside and out of it. And like you say, it's not a vanity project. They only release records that they care about, and now they can put the music in front of the right people so that the artist can get out there.
They've felt part of their family for a long time. When everything felt like the world was caving in, they were still there for me as a person, and not just as James, the singer in this band. For me, it's a personal thing because they put a record out as an investment. For them to have the confidence in me after being ill and things like that—to think that I can continue to do that...It's very important for me to be surrounded by people that give a fuck about me.
You had Robert Smith contribute to this record, and you've also spent quite a bit of time on on tour with the Cure, which you mentioned earlier as one of those "pinch me" moments. I'm really curious to hear what that experience has been like for you, playing to audiences like that, as well as what the Cure's music means to you.
First of all, for us to have played with them so much is unbelievable. There's so many bands in the world that Robert could've picked for multiple tours. The 2016 tour, I felt we were a bit like deers in the headlights. It was an arena tour, and we hadn't been in that situation before. We'd been in the back of a van. It was alien to us. So, to get up in those stages and play was a big learning curve. I came away from it thinking, "What an amazing experience."
Then, to have a second go at it after the pandemic, I really wanted to to take full advantage and actually learn a lot about the job that I've got. I was given the opportunity to watch one of my favorite bands for three hours every night and see exactly how they do it. They hadn't released their new record yet and they were slowly playing each song from the record and rehearsing it in soundcheck, so I made sure I watched every soundcheck. I wanted to be there to really take it all in, and learn from it as well. It would've been such a missed opportunity, to have one of the best bands in the world practicing what was one of the best records of last year.
The subject matter as well, that Robert was singing about, to see an icon up there doing what we were talking about—talking, getting it all out, showing real vulnerability and emotion in front of thousands of people—that was really inspiring, especially since I'd already written some of the songs for this new record. I was thinking to myself, "You're on the right track. Look at this—this is magical and beautiful, you get to see this every night." So many bands and fans would've done anything to be in the opportunity that we had, so I wanted to make sure that I made the best of it and the most of it. And it wasn't just about playing the set and then going and having a laugh.
My mum was very ill at home at that point. It was torture being away from her. But she would've wanted me to be there to experience that, so I made sure that I was present. It was just amazing. I can't even really explain it, to be honest, Larry. Think of your dream, and then times it by a million. And we've been asked back not because we belong on a stage like this, but for the opportunity for our music to fill those kind of spaces. And our music's big, you know. It should fill those spaces. If there was a few people in the crowd that could like us, I really wanted to do my best to make sure that they walked away going, "Who the fuck was that? That was all right."
When you put out the first record, working within shoegaze-y textures was happening much less in indie than it is now. Now, you could probably call shoegaze one of the dominant rock sounds in the world at this point. From the vantage point of the Twilight Sad, has there been an increased interest from younger listeners that you've observed based on this trend?
Honestly, man, I have no idea. I'd love to say that I knew, but I've been so locked in my own head for so long, just trying to survive. I really try not to look at the outside world as much as I used to. What I'll say is, I was a big Slowdive fan, and watching the way that their career since they've reformed, and the youth really taking to their music, was inspiring as well. Seeing young kids around even when I've been down in London a couple of times, wearing t-shirts of shoegaze bands—it's amazing.
Honestly, I feel like I've got imposter syndrome, massively. I don't really play music. I can't play the guitar, I don't think I've got much rhythm. But here I am, on my sixth record, I've written loads of songs, and I still don't feel like I belong.
Why do you think you still don't feel that way?
I don't know. There's so many talented people around me that I'm in awe of. People are really nice to me. Don't get me wrong, I'm not sitting here going, "Nobody understands me." I wouldn't have got this far if we weren't doing something right. But I don't want to be one of those people that believes too much in themselves. The part of me that kicks me is the part that helps write the music. I'd rather be this person than be like, "I'm brilliant." I don't like that. There's so many bands that have done so many bigger things than us, that have not lasted as long as we have. There must be something in it that I love still doing, although it's very testing at times.
As you said, you've been doing this for a while. I'm curious to hear you observations when it comes to how things have changed regarding making and releasing music.
Every record we make, it's felt like the industry's changed, man. Part of me has always felt like, "The industry's changed, don't get ideas above your station." In a way, it's used as a tool to shut me up—but it makes sense. All my interviews that I've been doing are like this now, whereas we would have to meet in person before, or with a phone call. It's just technology in itself. I'm not really good with technology.
Jumping back into it on this record, I always try to see how bands are putting themselves across to the world. Spotify, TikTok, all these things—everything's video now. And for a guy who would rather sit in the corner and hide from everything, I'm finding that quite jarring, if I'm being honest. I don't want to be one of these people that are like, "Hey guys, how you doing? Fucking buy my album about my mum dying really horribly and losing my mind, yay." I don't want to be part of something like that.
It's really hard, because—I don't know, how do you sell this, you know? It's selling grief, and mental health. I feel like my message is strong, and this is so corny, but if I put this record out and there's one person that's been through something quite close to what I've been through, and they can hear the feelings i've been going through and it can make them feel better—a horizon past those feelings—then that's why I did it i mean. I didn't do it to sell it, and it's such a weird feeling of creating something and then being a salesman about it. I've never felt like that before, but with all these devices and things, it's just jarring me, if I'm being honest.
The selling aspect that you're talking about is definitely the biggest way in which things have changed, from where I sit. It used to be somebody else was selling the record for you, and you just focus on making it. A lot of people I talk to always say to me, "When am I supposed to have time to make the music?"
Exactly, very fair. Honestly, I look at a lot of the young bands, and they're so used to that method of communication. It just feels false to me. A conversation like we're doing just now—a conversation where I've learned stuff, like what Will Oldham had been through—these are the things that I enjoy. Me standing with a selfie camera, pretending to sell myself, just feels unnatural.
I'm with you on that. The ease of which people use front-facing video—I'm still like, "Wow, you're way more comfortable with this than I would ever be."
I hate to look at myself. I don't want to see myself constantly, especially when it feels like a character. I was talking about jumping back into this and going on stage, and over the years a lot of people have said to me, "Wow, you're a completely different person up there than you are here." And I'm like, "Well, that's a good thing." You wouldn't want that guy hanging about with you. Would you take him out to dinner with you?
I don't know how that happens. I can be honest—I'm scared to go into a supermarket on my own. I've got mad anxiety. But I can go up there and do the things that i've done for 20 years. It's just a switch that can turn. But to be that person all the time terrifies me, and if that's where I have to be to sell it, I won't do it.