Interview: Ryan AdamsInterview by Joshua Klein
Ryan Adams is a real talker. The thing is, you never know which Ryan Adams you're going to get on the phone. Funny Ryan Adams? Angry Ryan Adams? Restless Ryan Adams? Free-associating Ryan Adams?
When we spoke with the singer/songwriter-- whose new album Easy Tiger finds him more consistent and focused than he's been as of late-- he was in a surprisingly reflective mood, open and honest about some major changes in his life but exceedingly confident as usual about the direction he's traveling in.
Pitchfork: I understand you are clean and sober now.
Ryan Adams: Yes.
Pitchfork: What does that mean, exactly?
RA: Well, it means that I don't take drugs, and I don't drink. I don't participate in that kind of stuff.
Pitchfork: When a songwriter announces that they're clean and sober before an album comes out, should that affect how people listen to that album?
RA: Well, I didn't really announce I was clean and sober before the record, specifically. I think that I actually took a really, really long...I waited...I wouldn't say "waited." I was very sensitive and I really want to be clear. I felt like that my whole process of trying to figure out what was wrong with me-- because there was some shit wrong; things were getting really dark and it was not going great. I wanted to try to figure out what that was and it took me a while. And even after I felt like I was getting better in my life, after a certain amount of time the consideration of what I do for work comes in. I felt like there was some accountability. After I talked to my closest friends, people I play music with and the people in my life, and even some people who don't do anything with music, people I know who have had some rough times and went through a lot of stuff to try and figure out why they were sick, I probably spent a month or longer thinking about whether or not it would ever be important for me to discuss it. If it would be a good thing for me, a bad thing for me, or a good thing for others, or a bad thing for others. Would it be exploitative in any way? I felt like, for me and more or less across the board, the consensus was that in no way could it hurt to discuss it once or twice. And if anything, if it only empowered one person who was struggling with the same stuff that I was most of the time either singing about or dealing with, it would be completely worthwhile to make myself an ass. For me it felt more like making an ass out of myself than any fucking party trick. I knew that it was basically opening myself up the same way I had before when I was a wreck. It felt like maybe it would have the opposite effect. Maybe somebody was having a really hard time, and they can know, when I come out and say I am the master of hard times, maybe I can give somebody some hope or something. I don't know.
Pitchfork: Was there part of you that felt like an ass just for getting yourself into that situation to begin with?
RA: Well, no. I was basically contributing to that kind of lifestyle since I can remember. I wouldn't say that it was a point that I got to. I mean, it was the point that I ended up at after so many years, but for a time I think it was very much to be expected, or what I thought would be expected, just being a musician: being a hellraisier. In my own time, maybe in North Carolina, being a plumber or working construction and then playing music, there wasn't time to accommodate the kind of addiction issues or things that I later ran into. I feel like now that there were such extremes, it might be worthwhile to talk about. But I did feel a little weird about it. First of all, when I got clean and sober, I didn't really talk to anybody about it. It was something I did on my own time. I'm not a celebrity, so it didn't matter to me to have somebody call the news, or the AP, or whatever the fuck it is and say ‘let them know that I'm going to get sober!” Nobody really cared. But moreover, it wasn't anybody's business at first. I just figured that, after a sustained amount of time, if it was something that I either felt like talking about or not, it creeped me out to consider that it would be a selling point for a record. That really wasn't the issue. But there were issues like, how do I want to continue to present myself as a person that gets in front of people and plays music? Or plays music that's sometimes...I attempt to be very forthcoming, lyrically and in that way. I don't know. It's tricky. But I felt pretty confident that it was the right thing to do.
Pitchfork: In the past you've been very defensive when it comes to negative reviews given to your shows or albums. In retrospect, do you think you may have earned some of that negative attention because you were under the influence?
RA: Hmm. I think everybody who had a point to make, or had a criticism, was within their bounds. I suppose art is intended to do that. Of course, some of those people if not all of those people were right. It's their perspective. I suppose maybe I was defensive because I was kind of falling apart, because what I was doing at times felt like I was maybe biting off more than I could chew. Or writing about stuff that was just too fucking personal, and I would end up feeling even more nervous about trying to communicate that. At least on that side of things. That's one factor. I think maybe at times I was going, "Look, I'm making this really fucking hard to make art, I'm trying to reveal myself here and look for some deeper truth. Please don't tear me down!" At that time, I felt like it was altruistic at that level. It pissed me off, probably. It's very hard to get into my mindset, but I really felt like I was tearing me down so it was equally hard when I felt like I was getting torn down. There was a lot of tearing down. But nobody ever beat me up as hard as I beat myself up. I was just miserable.
Pitchfork: One of the great tragedies of a band like the Replacements is that when they were fucking up, people encouraged them to fuck up. And when they went clean, people complained that they weren't fucked up.
RA: You mean like during All Shook Down or Don't Tell a Soul? Weren't there some attempts at sobriety? Weren't there some relapses?
Pitchfork: I'm sure. Imagine the pressure. Damned if you do, damned if you don't.
RA: Well, I can't really speak for them, because it seems like their situation, also maybe for that time, may have been...that had to have been so intense. There was a lot of romanticism, probably. At least when I was coming around and getting Replacements records, I remember that part. I loved the music so thoroughly, but I remember the stories. The stories get passed on from one record geek to the next. Nobody really writes about it, at least when I was coming around, so that mysticism existed. They were like the Bad News Bears or something. Also, it seems like maybe I'm reaching, but I guess maybe some of those Midwest winters, that stifling environment...when I first traveled through there, I noticed that there really were lots of bars, and placed where people would go to escape the elements. Maybe economically it was somewhat depressed, too. I know the south was.
Pitchfork: There's also a matter of the pace. Even the Smiths, toward the end, were dabbling in drink and drugs.
RA: I've read that even Steven Patrick Morrissey was kicking back a couple of bottles of this or that to try and deal with maybe some of the pressure. They were a very big deal, especially in their country. They were huge.
Pitchfork: And they worked fast, like you do.
RA: Hmm, yeah. I suppose it's kind of an unusual job, because it's a job that people are doing in their little studio caves. You're around nobody for the entire creation of it, except for your friends and maybe an engineer and producer. That's half the time. And then the rest of the time you're in front of everybody. So that's a bit shocking, The hours are weird, and when you travel, you travel in a bubble. You don't see a lot of people. You do a lot of nervous waiting to play once a day, or however often it is, then to go back into a pretty unsocial environment...you know, I imagine some of the boredom or repetition...the wait to do the work you love, there isn't a lot to do. You don't hear a lot about people getting addicted to chess. Maybe some people, I guess. Also, I guess in the mythology of rock and roll, there seems to be a lot of stories where that kind thing is acceptable. It sounds strange, but it's almost more acceptable to be damaged a little bit. It comes with the territory, because maybe it equalizes some of the other stresses that can't be seen as "real" problems or "real" stress unless you're in the situation. It always seemed to me, when I was first coming around, that I didn't understand people who drank, at all. I just wanted to drink a lot of soda and freak out. Play a lot of drums. See how exciting it can be. I remember the first time I saw a musician drunk. I was virtually a kid when I started. In fact, I was a kid, in the true sense of the word, 15-on. Seeing people wasted was always intense. I didn't understand it until later. It's hard to have an overview. Being in a place where you can't have an overview. It's like becoming smaller or something. It's so funny that it still makes me nervous to talk about it.
Pitchfork: Well, you're not alone.
RA: That I have definitely found out. There are a lot of programs in the city. In my experience, it's very rare not to see a lot of different kinds of people going in, and seeing how they can help other people and themselves, just by talking about this stuff. I think each one of those conversations is unique. It's hard for people to sit down and talk about in what way they're weak or sick.
Pitchfork: But it's obviously not that hard for you to do it through your records.
RA: Isn't that the most...is that irony?
Pitchfork: That's irony.
RA: If that's not irony, then it's definitely comedy. [laughs] I understand how that's funny. I also understand how it's always been hard for me. It was never my first choice to be a singer/guitar player. I really wanted to play drums. But where I'm from there were only a certain amount of people who could sing. When I was first playing music, we would try to make three or four bands out of seven people, so we would play different music. For one or two of those I could play drums. The rest I would play guitar, or guitar and singing. I was never much of a bass player. I kind of did it begrudgingly, but I remember the first couple of times I tried it out, with my friend Alan, we thought, hey, this is kinda good! And I'd say, "I dunno, I just want to play drums." But you'd get into it, get encouraged. I always remember my first panic attack. I didn't even know I was going to have one. I didn't know I was nervous having a lot of people watch me play a club gig in Raleigh. In a fall out shelter. I remember my neck stiffened. My arms didn't feel normal. It was so bizarre. All my movements were alien to me. I felt paralyzed in fear. I didn't know what to do, at all. I just remember thinking, oh God, I'm so uncomfortable. I reach over to a Rolling Rock or something and pounded that-- it somehow eased me out, the quick fix. But I remember that very first panic attack. Very strange, having that feeling. I guess I wasn't ready to deal with it.
Pitchfork: A lot of singers seem to have ended up singers by accident. Bernard Sumner. Phil Collins.
RA: Phil Collins, jammin' on drums! He's actually a pretty kick ass drummer. He's the drummer for Genesis, right?
Pitchfork: And on "Easy Lover" with Philip Bailey. Or "No One Is to Blame" by Howard Jones. And the solo album from the girl from ABBA. Also, a record with John Martyn and some Brian Eno records, among others.
RA: But he was the drummer in Genesis even back when Peter Gabriel was in the band? Wow.
Pitchfork: A lot of songwriters people brand "prolific" burn out fast. Creedence Clearwater Revival put out seven albums in four years, then boom.
RA: Those records are sick!
Pitchfork: And Hüsker Dü.
RA: Absolutely.
Pitchfork: But every decade only seems to produce a handful of artists who work at that speed. Why do you think that is? Why aren't there more acts like you who…?
RA: I don't know. I'm still trying to figure out why I do it.
Pitchfork: Why or how?
RA: Well, I know how I do it. I guess the question is, is it worth the effort? Once and a while, when it's a difficult process, you wonder is it worth the effort? You see documentaries with all the things bands go through, the leader becomes deluded, or it's hard to relinquish control and become collaborative. All that stuff goes into it. But I don't know why there isn't more. It seems like there are plenty of people who have a current going. Where there's kind of a current of inspiration going through them and into their work. But you know, maybe a lot of that stuff's going on and we don't get to hear it.
Pitchfork: Like vaults of stuff out there?
RA: Yeah. You hear stuff about even Prince, who has released a lot of stuff, but you always hear the Prince vaults are like hundreds and hundreds of songs.
Pitchfork: He's released some shitty stuff. I can only imagine what the vaults are like. Even Prince has some standards.
RA: He seems like he does a lot of different kinds of stuff. Remember the heavy guitar record?
Pitchfork: They're all heavy guitar records.
RA: But there's one specifically that was sort of at the tail end of the grunge thing?
Pitchfork: Chaos and Disorder? I think that was the contract breaker record.
RA: He's such a ripping guitar player. For me it's like, more guitar please. Seeing that guy play guitar on TV at one of those things, there's no sense of hesitation at all! He's completely in his element. It's kind of shocking. Rocking a Tele. I was thinking, I can't believe it! He's not even looking! He has a very specific tone, a very specific tone. Very funky, very clear. His solos are insane. He's a pro.
Pitchfork: One of the reasons he left Warner Bros. was that the label wouldn't release records at the pace he was completing them. I'm surprised Lost Highway has been so generous with your output. They gave you some guff with Love Is Hell.
RA: I would think that that was really the primary one. That time, I think that was the one time where there was a lot of hesitation. I think a lot of it had to do with the disappointment of the sales of Gold, of that whole time in general. I don't think that Love Is Hell, that part of my personality of writing music, had really shown itself in a real way. My excitement, my vibe from Heartbreaker to Gold wasn't so much about electric guitar or synth sounds. Up to that point it had been kind of...there was more enthusiasm for exploring what I could get out of roots music, what I could find in that stuff. I was finding out a bunch about writing from playing that kind of music. Finding myself, too. I didn't really know how much was in that stuff, because I wasn't around it when I was a kid. But the records that got me into music weren't like that. I'd hear Alabama on the radio every day in North Carolina. You just do. Coming back to that stuff was great for me, but it wasn't the stuff that I learned to play, or made me want to play music. It wasn't the style of guitar playing or songwriting that I had reared myself on. I found out about who I was by writing in that style, so the process was a way of catching up-- this reminds me of home, this reminded me of where I'm from . OK, so what's the next thing that reminds me of home or where I'm from or finding myself? The first music that I loved. I dove into that, and was reinvested in music, but I think it was a shock for them. Also, I had been writing most of that record while I was living in England, with my girlfriend, so there was a disconnection-- geographically and musically. I think honestly that there were mainly some people there that just didn't like it. To them it seemed like, whoa, we didn't do too good on Gold, and we need something big and then you can go experiment. I don't know. I don't really know what the thinking process was. I was just happy I could get to the studio.
Pitchfork: If you had started with Love Is Hell and ended up with Gold, that would have been just as odd.
RA: It was kind of inevitable that there would be a disconnect because of style. It was just a matter of when. Because things were working, I didn't think about that. I was willing to shut that off and cross that bridge when I got to it. At the time it was maybe bad timing on all levels. But I still really respect and love those tunes. I love to play them so much now. In fact, I think that they are usually tunes that the Cardinals and myself get really excited about when they come up in the set.
Pitchfork: You're obviously a lot older now than when you made Heartbreaker. You're 32. Is it at all frustrating that some people still approach you as this enfant terrible?
RA: I remember the first time that I read that exact expression. I was a little shocked. I was, like, oh fuck. There were two ways to go. One was just to shut up and take it. And by take it I mean shut up and accept that people weren't going to necessarily be into what I was doing, and that I should maybe just be happy that I was able to make some records and do what was expected. The other option was to just fucking start fighting for it. Whatever that meant. I did my best then. I didn't know how to act. That's why I played music; my social skills were limited. I think a lot of people that experience that pick up guitars, because they can't communicate otherwise. You jam. But when I first saw that I thought to myself, this is how I'm going to get painted. This is going to sound so ridiculous, but I always wondered: well, are Fugazi like that? It worked out well to be on Dischord, but they always fought against doing interviews unless they were all there. No merchandising. Doing ticket sales in a different way. I always heard tales of major record labels telling them they were going to be huge if they just signed. But there was a lot of resistance so that the work could get done. For me, I knew that I was on a record label that was attached to a major, and that I was just going to have to do what I could to see if make the records that I wanted. My reputation would suffer, and personally I would suffer, but I got to the work, which was good. Even if I had to make an ass out of myself. But to the best of my abilities, I don't really follow what the perception is. In fact, at some point, I think in the last year, I kind of made peace with it. There isn't really anything I can do to change someone's perception of who I am. But I can be careful to try and nurture my perception of who I am. That would be the way toward being peaceful and happy, or at last caught up. I could be real if I could just know who I am and understand the kind of art form I'm in, the kind of gig that I have, shouldn't be about controlling what people think. They're just going to do it anyway. The tunes suffer, I suffer, my friendships suffer, my life suffers when I try to sort of battle the preconceptions. It's a tough thing. It was always tough. Cause you know, enfant terrible? That wasn't isn't the worst of how I've been perceived. I think the general consensus is that I'm just an asshole.
Pitchfork: Everyone's an asshole sometimes, but there's no place to hide on stage.
RA: True. But I don't think I've ever gone on stage to be an asshole. I know one thing, from the past, and that's my intentions always began in a pure way. I really want to just try and play the songs.
Pitchfork: Well, that's not exactly true. I once saw you play a show where you hopped off the stage and went to the bar and brought someone on stage in your place to sing along with Minor Threat records.
RA: Yeah.
Pitchfork: I have to say, your songs suffered that night.
RA: Absolutely. I remember thinking that that was going to be really funny! Those solo acoustic tours, I was always afraid that it would come off as too self-serious. There was never a break in the themes of the tunes. It was hard for me to find a break in the tunes that would break up the dark themes and slower melodies. I thought, I've got to have some comedy, something that will make people laugh for a second so that the tunes don't come off-- and I don't come off-- as pretentious and stupid. I swear, I remember thinking, oh my God, this is the best idea! [laughs] And in effect, I think it really wasn't. Trial and error, and that was definitely an error. I thought, wow, to have someone come on stage and sing over a track while I went to the bar to get a drink, it would kind of level it out! I couldn't have designed a worse plan to make people understand that I was normal. But in my mind, it was a real way to connect and show I'm just like everybody else. Another great idea, right?
