Interview

There are a few near-inevitabilities attached to being an iconic band with a 30-plus-year history. There are the breakups and solo attempts; the public disputes and eventual reunions; the deaths and births and divorces and tragedies that befall the members along the way. And then, of course, there's the danger of irrelevance: of getting old, and dated, and, (perhaps worst of all)...cheesy.

Echo & the Bunnymen is a band that rode to fame as a part of the late-seventies British post-punk musical phenomenon, and managed to earn that rare mixture of commercial success and cult-icon status with their inimitably haunting, psychedelic, and melancholic anthems. (One of their most iconic songs, "The Killing Moon," was used for the number one in weirdo teen-angst film epics, Donnie Darko, if that tells you anything.) Over the years, they have survived a breakup, the death of two members (both by motorcycle accident) and any number of hurdles fit for a band with a lifespan that outlasts most marriages. But they've also managed to put out more than ten records' worth of ever-evolving work. This week, The Bunnymen released their latest, The Fountain (produced by John McLaughlin and featuring Coldplay's Chris Martin)–and it's such a departure for the group that lead singer Ian "Mac" McCulloch has called it the equivalent of a debut record.  This Saturday, Echo & the Bunnymen will take the stage at New York's Mercury Lounge. We spoke with Mac about his experience making his 11th album in 33 years.

MADISON: Thanks so much for doing this. How's it being back in New York?

McCULLOCH:  I still feel dwarfed by New York. That's a good thing. I do feel comfortable here as well, and excited. But Peter, my manager, he said, you know, "We can have this! We can, we can have the city!" [Laughs] I said, "Petey, no. No one has New York. You just kind of enjoy it while you can in whatever way. But New York has you." I'm not sure I could live here.  Maybe when I was younger, but I need space now.   

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In 2007, a wide-eyed, curly-haired, falsetto-reaching, veritable singing and dancing machine named Mika exploded (think, like, balloons, rainbows, lollipops, confetti, and children's choirs) onto the pop scene.  His album, Life in Cartoon Motion (2007), recalled the playful theatrics (also: high-pitched vocal tendencies) of artists like Freddie Mercury, and his image was appropriately embodied by bright, bold graphics and cartoon characters, and all things happy and childlike. Overnight, Mika became a superstar.  His single, "Grace Kelly," reached number one on the UK Singles Chart in January 2007. He was immediately nominated for Grammys and Brit Awards, winning one of the latter, and his concerts started selling out all over the universe in a (mainly single-digit) number of minutes.  Today, Mika drops his sophomore album, The Boy Who Knew Too Much, via Casablanca/Universal Republic Records, and it's just as catchy, poppy and experimental as ever. Much like the artist himself, the music has grown up just a little bit over the past few years.  We talked to the 26-year-old Beirut-born singer-songwriter about life as an 11-year-old middle-school dropout, signing to the Majors without selling out, and what you can expect from his upcoming shows. (Hint: it involves tinfoil, puppets, handheld lights and rock opera.) (PHOTO BY JULIAN BROAD)
 
Lucy Madison: You were born in Beirut–but you're based in London now. How did you end up there?

MIKA: We moved to London when I was about 8 years old. We had lost everything as a family. I was born in Beirut, but we were evacuated because of the war and ended up in Paris, where we stayed there for 8 years. But then we had some financial problems, lost everything, and started all over again in London. We lived out of a Bed and Breakfast.

LM: What was it like to spend those early years in Paris?

MIKA: I was brought up as a Parisian boy, you know with the pencil-striped trousers and the [unclear] hat that I had to wear to school. It was very traditional.

LM: Parisian boys have great style.

MIKA: It's really different. There's a pride in looking good, in looking dapper. When I was growing up in the late 80's, you had to look so prim. Do you know what pencil-striped trousers are?

LM: Um, I don't think so?

MIKA: You get the elastic that goes under your foot? Amazing. I used to take pride in making sure there wasn't a single crease–and I was only about five. Slightly demented. I used to make my mother re-iron my shirts after breakfast and I would have a tantrum if there was a crease.

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Photo courtesy of Sony Classics

Oscar-winning filmmaker Davis Guggenheim returns to form this summer with his first full-length documentary since 2006's An Inconvenient Truth. This time around, the director (whose previous documentaries have focused on topics such as global warming, Barack Obama, and child prostitution) has turned his lens to a slightly less political subject: The electric guitar. It Might Get Loud, which opened at select theaters across the countries this month, interweaves the individual histories of guitar legends Jimmy Page, The Edge, and Jack White, with a hall-of-fame worthy rock'n'roll summit in which the three hang out on a sound stage, talking, singing, and–what else?–jamming on the guitar. We spoke with the Guggenheim about working with some of rock music's greatest guitar legends.

LM: You grew up in a very film-oriented family. Had you always planned on being a documentary filmmaker?

DG: My father made documentaries in Washington D.C.  He taught me everything I know. But after I graduated college I knew I had to leave D.C. and move out to Hollywood and make it on my own.  You don't inherit a documentary film business.

LM: I grew up in the Washington, D.C. area as well, and I remember being really surprised when I went away to college in the Midwest and discovered that people didn't tend to care about politics in the obsessive, hyper-informed way that I was used to. Did you find that was the case when you moved to LA?

DG: Yeah, LA seemed to me to be a town that was swept up by business, a factory town.  But the factories happened to make things that I was really interested in.  There are good factories and bad factories, but the kind of discussions you hear in Washington would not happen here in LA.  If you talk about the civil rights movement, someone would say "Yeah!  Like in Mississippi Burning!"  If you started a conversation about something real, the conversation would turn to a movie about that. It would immediately go back to the movie business, and then maybe an actor, and then a deal, and then the person's next project.  That can be really fun and intoxicating for a while, but it's really empty.

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In 2003, at the height of the Iraq War and at a moment of tense international debate about the role of religion in politics, the best-selling and highly influential Senegalese griot singer Youssou N'Dour released an album called Egypt. The record was a personal and spiritual expression of N'Dour's reverence for Islam—a vast departure from his previous, pop material—and its release, during the holy month of Ramadan, resulted in a firestorm of national controversy: The conservative Senegalese Muslim community decried the notion of combining faith and pop music, and the album instantly became taboo. Ads were pulled from the airwaves with no explanation and street vendors sent back cassette tapes.

Elizabeth "Chai" Vasarhelyi, the filmmaker best known for her 2003 documentary about young Kosovars who came of age during the war, was documenting the singer as he performed the album to live audiences all over the world. The resulting film, Youssou N'Dour: I Bring What I Love, captures the initial outcry upon Egypt's release, and the album's ultimate triumph: Egypt won a Grammy; the Senegalese community revisited, and finally, embraced it. (N'Dour auctioned off the Grammy for cash, which he then used to donate to buying an ambulance.) I Bring What I Love opened in limited theaters this month. We spoke with Vasarhelyi about the malaria country, and patience.


LUCY MADISON: What inspired you to make a film about Youssou N'Dour?

ELIZABETH CHAI VASARHELYI: There are two things. I was frustrated by the images of Africa in the media, and I felt frustrated about my own inability to affect change, given the political situation at the moment. I thought that music was one way to look at Africa in a more positive light. A film came out at the time called Amandala, which looks at the events in South Africa through music, and Youssou's name comes up a lot. I wasn't interested in a biopic and I wasn't interested in a concert film, but when I saw him perform live, there was something almost life-affirming about the experience—and I'm not a religious person.  met him and he shared the Egypt album with me, and the moment I heard it I knew that there was a film that should be made.

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