In one of your bios, you speak about "inventing a new language through [your] music and lyrics in order to express [your] creative vision." How did this evolve over the years, writing-wise and recording-wise, from your earlier projects to Hell-On?
Well, I think there were a lot of years where I didn't realize that that's what I was doing, even though I went to art school. When you go to art school, you have to ask yourself all the time, "What is art? What am I doing?" The really important question I got from art school was, "Does my project say what I'm trying to say to the viewer?" You think about that all the time. It's a really deep question. From that question, you take away a billion answers; but, basically, you're trying to express something inexpressible. You have to invent a new language made of a collage of other languages that will hopefully reach people in a way that they don't expect. You can't reach everyone. You can hit, like, 60 percent of the mark… probably. There are a few people who will get more out of it. It's not because your audience doesn't get it. It's because maybe you haven't pushed the idea far enough. I don't know how it's evolved. [But] I've never stopped thinking about that particular question. I'm a little too close to things to see how it's evolved, per se. I tend to think of songs very cinematically. I think of songs as trailers for movies, in a way. You know how sometimes the [trailer] can be really great, but then the movie isn't so great? I'm always obsessed with getting to the movies before the trailers. There's something about the trailers that I really love, because there's so much possibility. You don't know [what's going to happen]. It generates a feeling of excitement. [With] songs, I always want to have plenty of space. I want the transitions to be interesting. I want every strange part that happens during the recording to be audible later. It doesn't so much affect what mics I use, or specific gear, so much as it makes me spend a shit ton more time editing and making sure that things poke out or get compressed a lot more so that they really are audible.
You mean individual performance parts?
Yeah. If somebody's fingers slipped off a string at some point and it sounds really interesting – a lot of those moments are really valuable. I don't want them to be lost. I love using [the] stereo image to create space, as well as allowing things to move – or placing things in a space where you don't expect them to be. Whether people know it or not, they understand stereo image.
I like to make people excited in that way. Even though I'm not a fan of low-quality MP3s, at least there's still something that somebody can hear that's interesting on headphones. I think a lot about that. It's part of the job, but you've got to make sure that it sounds decent in a crappy pair of headphones, or on a computer. I can't get really excited about a cell phone speaker, though.
But I have to say, your albums sound phenomenal on that cell phone speaker.
Thank you. I have to give a lot of credit for that to Peter J. Moore, who masters my records. He started in the world of vinyl. He's one of those people who can tell what kind of tape he's using by smelling it, but he's also worked in the digital world for just as long. He's really good at finding the middle ground to satisfy both things. He deserves all the credit for that.
Have you always been aware of the stereo spectrum, or has that developed over the years?
I've always known about it. My dad was a stoner with a nice pair of headphones, so I listened to a lot of music that way as a kid. It was an exciting journey – going into another world. I [was always aware of] those things, [but] I made a lot of records before I really started thinking about the way things are placed [in the stereo spectrum]. There were a lot of things that k.d. lang did in the studio that were interesting [on the case/lang/veirs album]. We'd have a problem with something rubbing, and she'd say, "Just flip the positions of me and you in the stereo image." That would fix it. It was crazy! Just these strange little nudges can really make something exciting. Recently, I heard Beach House's "Black Car." They used a keyboard sound like [the beep that] a car door makes when it's opened. They [positioned it in the mix] where a lead vocal would normally be, and then put the vocal way off as a kind of ambient sound. It was really interesting. I didn't expect it at all. I was excited to hear somebody getting playful and experimenting with the stereo image.
There was a fire at your Vermont farm while you were tracking vocals for the new album in Sweden. How have changes in your personal life affected the recording and mixing processes of your albums over the years?
Well, the fire didn't affect it very much, except that things took a little longer. We were about two weeks away from finishing, at that point. I actually ended up staying in Sweden a bit longer. Over the years, I think I've had a lot of problems with confidence. I am a person who's very immediate. There are a lot of people who are very methodical, who learn every single aspect and every single fact about something they're working with. Let's say we're talking about Pro Tools, for example. I don't have time to wait for the result. I've been that way all my life. Like in art school, I never made drawings. I never made notes of things. I never made sketches or plans. I had to work on the final version right away. It's taken me a lot longer to learn things than some people, but I have a valuable perspective from outside of the more academic way of looking at it. I have enough lingo, as well as enough skills and engineering [knowledge] to be able to communicate well with an engineer. [I can] trust them to take the reins so that I can experiment with things. I think that's my favorite way to work. There's a desperation to get to the music, the musicality, and the feeling that you're in that moment.
It sounds like you feel most creative, and most in the flow, when the engineering process is transparent – when you're able to express yourself, and not worry about what's going on in Pro Tools or "in the control room?"
Exactly. If it's something as simple as using an ADAT machine and tracks are armed, that's fine for me. I can do that. But with really deep, multi-screen displays and super tiny buttons you can flip on that you don't remember you have on, my brain doesn't work that way. I enjoy coming from outside of a really technical place, from more of a musical and instinctual place, and applying that in the studio. It's very rewarding. I love working with people who aren't used to it, like Lasse Marten [who mixed Hell-On with Neko]. He's a great mixing engineer, maybe one of the best in the world. I remember going in there, and we had such a great time. We get along and communicate really well. He told me, "This is the first time in about seven years that I've worked on a record that doesn't have a click track!"
As I listen to your recordings in chronological order, from the earliest Cub to Maow recordings you drummed on, up to the present album, the evolution of your sound seems very natural and organic to me.
That's because I was learning in front of people. I didn't have any idea what was happening. It's just the desire to do it that you don't even understand.
Did you have any idea at the very beginning when you were playing drums that you would end up making a name for yourself as a songwriter?
It's not really different. The desire and the ambition to do things – the need to do things – isn't different. It's still very DIY, because I'm a control freak who's in charge of what I do. I'm not really good at relaxing – which is kind of good, and not good at the same time. It's good if you have a business, but it's not good if you don't want your adrenal glands to dry out like little raisins or something.
It seems to have been productive for your musical output.
It's productive, for the most part, although it's really weird. When I get interviewed, people say, "You haven't put out a record in five years!" Like I've been off growing a beard or something. No, I've been in three other bands. People make records really fast, and I don't know if that's the way to do things, necessarily. I don't enjoy making a record really fast, with time limits. In fact, it makes me kind of unhappy.
So when people have been asking that question during interviews, it's as if they're only seeing Neko Case the solo artist, and not looking at The New Pornographers and other projects you've done in between as an expression of your creativity.
I think bands are pretty much expected to put out a record every two years. I don't know who made that up – probably record companies. I can see why. Financially it makes sense, but I would be dead from some sort of stress-related hemorrhaging. Some things take time. I like to take time to do it; it's important. Maybe I'll never get to make [another] record again. I don't know. I hope that's not the case, but it's entirely possible. I do take a while to make records, and there's no such thing as advances anymore because of streaming. Who knows what'll happen. I might have to open a restaurant or something...
Lyrics take time. Making good music takes time. Life takes time.
It does. And I don't Auto-Tune anything. I actually make sure I sing it right the first time – or the fiftieth time – depending on how long it takes to get it right. Sometimes you change things... Ear fatigue is real. There's a certain point in the day where every frequency in my voice has a witness protection program box over it, and I can't hear that frequency any more. It's time to go. It's like when you look at a certain color too long and all you see is the opposite color on the spectrum because the cones in your eyes have become fatigued; they cannot maintain that level of intensity anymore.
Let's talk about the wonderful crossroads where songwriting and production meet. Were you more focused perhaps on songwriting earlier in your career, and more aware of song production later on?
I think it just took some time to figure out that I'm a collage person. I had to look backwards to figure it out. I'd often come to the studio with three or four songs fleshed out – maybe some that the band and I had toured and we'd had a good feeling of, as well as some that we had practiced. There would be lyrics and moments that would just happen in the studio. I started to trust that and be okay with not knowing [in advance] where everything was going to go, and knowing that it would be formed in the studio. Studio and live are so completely different. Taking that time to get inside, and play with the machines and the technology, and see where that might push something is always really exciting. Indulging myself in serious rabbit holes. Ideas make other ideas. I'm a completist. I don't like to leave any stone unturned. That makes people nervous sometimes. Time limits are time limits. People don't want to go in without knowing what they're going to do. I really enjoy going in and not knowing exactly what I'm going to do. But that doesn't invalidate the other way of working, because that's an incredible discipline and I envy people who can do it. I also learned to stop beating myself up because I couldn't do that.
You co-wrote most of the songs on Hell-On with your longtime writing partner, guitarist Paul Rigby. What is your demo process like? Do you record the first version of a song as you write it?
Often the [initial recordings] happen at my house. I just sing things into a recorder, which is now my phone, so I have snippets of things. I used to have an Aiwa portable cassette recorder that was my favorite, but it eventually ended up dying.
These snippets are a cappella?
Yeah. Probably about 65 percent of the time it's just a cappella. Sometimes I play guitar, or make a melody on piano. I can't play piano for shit. Paul is a trained jazz musician, and I am an untrained intuitive musician. I'll generally have pieces; some aren't really related, if you listen to them as pieces. But I will think that they relate thematically, or would pair with something. So I'll say, "Paul, this part and this part here; will you play me every single note that could go between to put them together?" He'll be like, "Yeah!" He totally gets off on playing every possible note. Sometimes I'll find a note, but he'll go, "You gotta hear the rest of the notes!" We do a lot of that. We like to find the chord less used, or things that aren't usual but [which] also aren't necessarily going to punch you in the face like we're trying too hard. I sometimes have different time signatures that need to be wedded together, so we'll figure out how to do that. Then there's the process of what chord would work under [a certain word or phrase]. How can we make that sound sadder? I don't want that chord to resolve – I want it to be more of a question. There's also a lot of belly laughing. Paul and I have known each other for years and years – we're close friends. The thing that I love about Paul is that he's still fucking amazed by music. There's no jadedness. We're huge fans of music. We'll listen to other music and be like, "Can you fucking believe that they fucking did that?" Or we'll watch The Staple Singers in The Last Waltz. How the fuck does Pops Staples make the guitar sound so huge when he only plays three notes at a time? Things like that. We're both very amazed. We really love it, and we think that music is the greatest thing to ever happen to humanity. And harmony singing, the feeling of making an actual, physical force with your human body and another person's human body… It's one of the most amazing feelings in the world – that vibration, that resonance. It really is the greatest feeling I can think of. Sadly, I'm not a great harmony singer because I'm so nasal and I don't blend well.
But the case/lang/veirs album has some wonderful, tight harmonies.
We worked hard on that. k.d. and Laura [Veirs] are master harmony singers. They're both incredible musicians, and they know what they're doing. They make me look good.
In addition to your various studio and live recordings, you released Canadian Amp in 2001, which was comprised of home recordings that you did in your kitchen at the time.
I did that on an 8-track ADAT machine.
How did your experience of recording an EP in your kitchen differ from the larger studio productions of the more recent albums that you've released as a solo artist?
I thought I was going to be doing that so much more, and I didn't have that much time. When I finally got an ADAT machine, it was too late and it shit the bed on day two. I tried to deal with it and get it fixed, but I didn't have enough time to commit to it – even though I love recording that way.
It seems like home recording would be really up your alley. You might want to consider trying one of the more basic USB interfaces out there that record pretty good song quality and fidelity.
I would love that. Maybe it's the answer to my question of not knowing if I'll be able to make a record again, because I don't know if I'll have money to do it.
You've recorded quite a few albums with Craig Schumacher [Tape Op #10] in Tucson, Arizona, as well as with other producers and engineers over the years. What did you learn from those previous recordings, production-wise?
Well, I would have to take it back a little further to recording with Darryl Neudorf, who is basically my mentor. He had a studio in Vancouver called the Miller Block, and I recorded my first few records with him. I think I was like, "What's a producer?" He looked at me and said, "Well, you're producing right now." He was always teaching me, answering questions, and encouraging me to ask questions. Frankly, he's one of the greatest feminists I've ever known in my life. I got so much confidence from him. Much like Paul Rigby, he was always excited to get into new sounds. He was interested in every technology, and he'd always know about the new things coming out every time we'd get together to record something. He was excited to work with new people, and to meet people. He was just excited to learn. I realize I'm saying "was" like he's dead. He IS a rabid teacher and learner at the same time. The man loves what he does.
Do you still keep in touch with him?
Oh, yeah; absolutely. I have every intention of working with him again. When we were recording, we were still using really big mixing desks. We used an SSL, which is my favorite console. We had to do manual fades. We had to ride the faders and do things in real time.
It's a choreographed dance.
It really is. He's a great musician, and an incredible drummer. He has really great pitch. It's always a fun experience. I got the same experience recording with him as I got with my bandmates being in a band – that immediate need to learn something and to satisfy curiosity. Rabbit holes were not looked down upon. They weren't treated as frivolous. We would bring music in and try to dissect what was happening. He had so much knowledge about keyboards and synthesizers. He could always get in there. I learned so much from him, and I still learn things from him. Then going to WaveLab – Craig [Schumacher] is just such a musical person, and he's also really excited about technology; especially analog technology. We had a really good thing going, because I could trust Craig to tell me if something wasn't right. People can be really polite, and people can also want you to finish doing things and hurry up with it. Craig was very patient. I'd be like, "All right, tell me when it's not sharp." He'd be like, "Sharp, sharp!" He knew I wanted it to be good, and he wanted it to be good. Then Chris Schultz started working there, and I've been working with Chris Schultz through the years. Between the two of them and their enthusiasm for everything – and just straight-up nerd-dom – there was never any sort of seriousness going on in there. It was always a total mixed bag of men and women. Craig also teaches a lot. I've been very fortunate to work with engineers and producers who never once mansplained something to me. They appreciated my curiosity – and, again, I was coming from outside and had ideas they might not always think of. They understood the fresh ears concept. I'm not saying that I've done anything fucking revolutionary; but it really helps with storytelling, and it really helps with creating a cinematic space. The sound of your voice can only go so many ways. There are really great singers out there, and I'm not comparing myself to these women – or just comparing myself to women, because that drives me crazy. Björk and PJ Harvey are great at doing this thing where they have these huge ranges – but they're also not afraid of making their voices sound ugly, or being more of a character than something that's expected of a woman's voice. I like seeing women's voices used in different ways, and I love a low range. Women who can sing in a low range are rare. I guess different peoples' voices do different things, over time. But when you're the one using it all the time, you get fucking sick of it, frankly. That's one of the reasons I wanted to go to Sweden and work with Björn Yttling [Tape Op #65]. After working with case/lang/veirs, we were three control freaks getting together to cede control. That was our goal. We wanted to make it hard. We wanted to write songs from the ground up, and all have a say in each song. We were three control freaks who went to "Give Up Control Island." It was hard! It was scary. We had to serve the song by democracy, in a way. Also, Tucker Martine [Tape Op #29] was our honorary lady. He's part of case/lang/veirs too. He did most of the production. He was our great fourth member, but not attached to anything, because he didn't write the parts. He's also great to work with. He's such a fluid, hilarious person who really wants to be there. And that's the key: people who really want to be there. Anyway, after that experience, I was like, "Okay, that's what ceding control really feels like. It feels really good! It's another option; an Oblique Strategy. Give up control!" I came out of that and I thought, "I'm so sick of my voice. What can I do [with Hell-On]?" I loved what Björn Yttling does with choruses. I thought, "Wow, that could be a really good place to go." I do big choruses with the New Pornographers all the time, as well as with my band; but it'd be cool to get a new take that on in a different place. We met and got along. He said something really great. I was talking about transitions in songs, like going from a bridge to [another section], and he said, "Why do people always have to have transitions? How come sometimes the hook can't be the whole song? I just want the hook!" That's so fucking obviously genius. Being introduced to Lasse Mårtén as well. He's one of the greatest mixing engineers out there. It was such a joy to work with someone who'd done things that were super Top 40 – and then not do them Top 40.
