8Sided Blog

thoughts about music’s place in the 21st century

Sweet Jesus: Steve Cobby’s One Man Cottage Industry

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Steve Cobby - Sweet Jesus

A lazy Friday in May revealed a righteous surprise. Without warning: the arrival of Sweet Jesus. This event wasn’t a religious awakening, but for fans of Fila Brazillia, it was like unexpectedly finding an apparition burned onto the morning toast. Steve Cobby, one half of the aforementioned Fila B, had dropped his latest solo album — yes, Sweet Jesus — on Bandcamp.

The album opens with the ringing strings of a gently played guitar. The thing that always struck me about Fila Brazillia’s oeuvre is its innate organicness. Though considered an electronic band, the duo (Cobby in cahoots with David McSherry) wasn’t afraid to toss in the odd guitar riff, live drum kit, or shite harmonica. As out-of-place as folksy fingerpicking might sound on Sweet Jesus, it’s all part of a modus operandi that’s a long time in motion.

Recognizable elements of Cobby’s velvet-textured production come into play — the intro of “Chauffeur De Camion” brings to mind at least a couple of Fila B’s mid-90s moments — but it’s the renewed intersection with a prominent guitar that inspires imaginative shifts. Notably, there’s “Feline Plastique” which incorporates a rhythmic Latin shuffle alongside a wealth of melodic riffs and optimistic tones. And jazz features more than we’re used to, allowing the guitar to explore on extended cuts like the Liston-Smith-laid-back-space-jam-ish “Truer Than Words.” Introspection rarely feels so sunny.

The mechanics of the release of Sweet Jesus interest me, too. Steve Cobby is no stranger to independent labels. After a stint with the major-aligned Big Life via his band Ashley & Jackson, Cobby played a part in the formation of no less than four different independent imprints. Déclassé is the latest, launched in 2014, and is the home of this new effort. But it appears a one-person operation, making the surprise release of Sweet Jesus an intuitive experiment.

Steve documented the launch of the album in real-time, live-streaming the click of the ‘publish’ button on his Bandcamp account, followed with a listen of the album accompanied by an affable and enlightening commentary.

I’m always curious about artists who thrived in the independent sector pre-Napster and how they operate now. It’s no secret that I’m one of those artists. Though I get excited about the potential of today’s DIY freedom, the changes remain a constant struggle of adjustment. Cobby’s embrace of the Bandcamp and live-stream platforms led me to believe he’s a lot more confident than me in the modern landscape. But, after an email chat, I see he’s playing it by ear like the rest of us.

Says Steve: “[These tactics were] borne of desperation and curiosity. I prefer to be just creating. I never anticipated being an owner-operator at such a late stage in my career, but necessity is invention’s mother. The times have moved a great deal. I wouldn’t say I’ve moved with them 100%. But I have autonomy so I can try out things signed artists might struggle with. The live-stream idea, for instance, only came to me about a week before the planned release on the 10th and the night before I was still tweaking tunes and mastering. I cannot envisage that scenario being duplicated many places where a committee is involved.”

How long did it take to figure some of this out and how rough was the transition?

“2004 to 2014 was a fallow decade for me. Couldn’t get anything to traction with the collaborative releases put out on the labels I co-owned. Once I went completely solo in ’14, consolidated all tasks to myself, and went direct-to-customer it was revolutionary. The light appeared at the tunnel’s end, and I began to earn money again. I’m a digital busker now, and almost everything that goes in the hat comes home. I think this is more like the many-to-many publishing model we’ll move towards. You’re sustained by a very bespoke coterie that you’ve curated.”

But, that’s liberating, right? So much nicer than being under the thumb of a label I’d imagine.

“I would much prefer financial security to be honest. My one man cottage industry is simply the only way I can get my material to market without interference. Certainly far from an ideal. I did enjoy the liberation of delivering an album completely ‘fresh’ and sans promo. But I’ve not worked within the traditional label machine since being signed to Big Life in the late eighties. They were pricks who wanted to dictate what we did and who we worked with. But If I was signed to an open-minded label, then I don’t see why I couldn’t make the same decisions I’m making now. Who knows.”

Whatever liberation there might be, a lot of artists are finding that Bandcamp is an essential tool for achieving it. Not only is it often used as a direct-to-artist platform, but Bandcamp also encourages artist fandom rather than passive playlist loyalty. I asked about Bandcamp’s role in Steve’s ‘one man cottage industry,’

“Bandcamp has been key to my turnaround. It’s the platform that delivers uncompressed and compressed downloads as well as streaming whilst taking the smallest cut of any retailer. This release was a Bandcamp exclusive for the first six weeks to help promote some more traffic that way. I’d still bother without it, but the returns would be less as all other online portals are serviced through an aggregator. “

I wondered: was Sweet Jesus‘s surprise release date set in stone and was there any temptation to push it back? And, as Steve was tweaking and mastering the album less than 24 hours before he clicked ‘publish,’ would he ever go back and update any of the tracks, Kanye-style?

“The beauty of the surprise deadline is it can be moved on a whim, but I was confident it was coherent work. I’d set that deadline for myself to avoid over-procrastination. As for reviewing post-release, the egg is fried. I don’t beat myself up once material is published and I would only ever re-upload a track for a technical reason, never creative.”

Despite the backed-into-a-corner nature of a self-release (and I can relate), I’m heartened and inspired by the freshness and ingenuity of Sweet Jesus, both in its playful roll-out to Steve’s fans and its bright, sanguine, and thoughtful sound. But, without any constraints, how would Steve Cobby release this album differently?

He answer: “To fifty thousand subscribers.”

Follow Steve Cobby and his Déclassé label on Bandcamp to help him get closer to that number.

SXSW Recap: Sorry I Didn’t Check Out Your Showcase

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I’ve been back from Austin and SXSW for over a week, but I’m just now feeling refreshed and up to speed. It’s taken a little while to process everything, as is always the case with these industry conferences and their non-stop agendas. A short recap, you say? Okay, here you go:

This is the year I attended SXSW solely as a music business professional. Previously I was an artist, performing at various showcases. Then my only worries were finding my way to the label-provided hotel room, doing well at the gig, and hanging out and having drinks with various music friends also in town. This time I flew to Austin to get down to business. I went to catch the mood, feel the vibe, put a wet finger to the wind to determine where it’s all going, and network network network. I’m not sure if I’m any wiser about the future direction of the music industry and I didn’t meet as many new people as I thought I would (though I made a few great new friends), but I’m satisfied with my SXSW experience.

It was maybe a decade ago that I last made it to SXSW. It’s difficult for me to understand how much things have changed (and grown) as I never went to the actual conference. But when I told people that this was my first time in ten years, the reaction was always “well, it’s different” followed by an exasperated look of ‘whew.’ I won’t lie — it was busy. Everywhere you looked you found small groups of people with badges hanging from their necks. There were also ride-share scooters all over the place, and often the sidewalks and pathways were clogged with semi-inebriated attendees perilously dodging on-foot people like me.

When most people think of SXSW, they think of all the bands. I mainly partook in the actual conference, checking out panels and having a few scheduled ‘mentor sessions.’ Those sessions were opportunities to sit with a person of note in the music industry and pick his or her brain for fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes isn’t much, but I came prepared with set questions for the veteran music publishing professionals I spoke with. It seemed like a brain-numbing exercise for the ‘mentors’ as the sessions were one-after-the-other, fifteen minutes in-and-out. ‘Speed dating’ was mentioned more than once. I did get some value — it’s like asking a lawyer that burning legal question that’s been sitting in the back of your brain, and without incurring the hourly rate.

There were some meaty panels, too. I wish I had gone to more, but I ended up mostly running around finding people and having last-minute meetings. I checked out an in-the-weeds panel about contract negotiation (totally my kind of thing) and a terrific panel about how label A&R has changed over the past several years. My friend Craig Snyder was the moderator for the latter, and there was a bit of enlightening information thrown around. Notably, Island Records’ Alyssa Castiglia — a proponent of data tools — put to rest the myth that modern labels now sign acts based on data alone. Instead, data is used to spot trends as they happen, guiding the type of artists for a major label A&R scout to seek out.

And of course, there were bands. 8D Industries flagship band, Monta At Odds, performed — with a new singer and drummer — and sounded excellent. This band is transforming/mutating in real time, and there will be new recordings by the end of this year to document these changes. Other fun bands I saw included Mary Lattimore (sunset by the lake with bats in the air!), The Comet Is Coming, Heart Bones (Robbie Hardkiss and I were laughing our asses off), The Octopus Project, Anemone, and Palberta. It may seem like I saw a lot of bands, but my efforts paled in comparison to my badge-wearing peers.

I’m glad I went, and I’m happy I’m home. I’ll be back next year, I’m sure. And now I’m gearing up for the next conference on the agenda — Nashville’s MusicBiz 2019 in early May. Reach out if you’ll be there, too.

Mark Hollis vs. The Universe

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I’ve been slowly gathering some thoughts about Mark Hollis. His passing hit hard for many in my circle. Maybe it’s because it seems like we abandoned him, like an old friend we haven’t kept in touch with and then we hear he’s departed. The distant and enigmatic Hollis was like an old friend if only in that his music was so personal, the most personal music. And that we’ve been secretly rooting for him — Mark vs. the record companies, Mark vs. the accepted rules of music, Mark vs. notoriety, Mark vs. everything we’ve come to expect really.

Mark Hollis was the frontman for Talk Talk; a band initially positioned as a groovy new wave thing, akin to that other repetitiously named act, Duran Duran. But even in the early days, Hollis spoke about weightier things when interviewed — philosophy, Krautrock, Erik Satie, and other like-minded interests — betraying a more profound ambition. With each album release, the music got artsier but not without some hits, allowing the band to request and receive creative control for the 4th long-player, Spirit of Eden.

You may know how this plays out. A sparse, emotionally raw, and obtuse record, Spirit of Eden mystified its label (EMI) to the point of a lawsuit. As happened to Neil Young a few years earlier, the label sued Talk Talk for being intentionally uncommercial. Hollis and the band soldiered on, parting ways with EMI and recording the equally beguiling Laughing Stock for the newly relaunched Verve Records. The group broke up, Hollis went silent — for the first time — and reappeared for an even sparser, even rawer, even more obtuse eponymous solo album.

Then Hollis quietly disappeared. He hinted that he preferred to be a dad than a musician in the public eye. And soon these albums — including EMI’s problem child — were hailed as masterpieces, intensely beloved by their listeners.

I think the first Talk Talk album I ever heard was Spirit of Eden. Of course, as a teenager, I loved “It’s My Life” — and its brilliant Tim Pope-directed video, which EMI also reportedly hated — and “Life Is What You Make It,” but Spirit of Eden was my first Talk Talk full-length experience. It haunts immediately at first listen and, at the time of its release, like nothing heard before. I’m somewhat disappointed that I didn’t listen to Talk Talk starting with their very first albums, to get to know them as one thing and then experience them stubbornly transforming into another.

I want to believe Mark Hollis didn’t disappear because he was frustrated or let down by a lack of success. All evidence points to success not mattering to him. I feel he put everything out there and there was nothing left. Not in a sad, spent way. But that he made his statements, provided the inspiration for others to carry, and silently stepped aside. Finished and satisfied rather than sad and frustrated.

It’s curious that fellow Mark Hollis fans seemed to pick up on this. No one I’ve spoken to feels deprived of new music, that he owed us a surprise album over these past two decades (compare that to our demands on the similarly hidden My Bloody Valentine). But it makes sense, especially now that I re-listen to Hollis’s solo album. How could music this intimate be accepted now that everyone’s yelling and busy, in a constant state of rebuke? Mark Hollis’s music is endemic of a different century.

I have enjoyed — in a reminiscent, melancholy way — all the beautiful tributes and classic articles I’ve been reading about Hollis. I’ll close with a selection of excerpts from some of those.

Andrew Kirell in The Daily Beast:

The crass commercialism of the music industry has long beaten down artists by placing emphasis on the superficial—in the ’80s, this meant heavily curated fashion-centric personae; and today, it’s an unbearable pressure to polish your social-media persona before your own artistry. … Hollis rejected any such norms, uncompromisingly pursued his own vision, and thus inspired countless fledgling artists to stay true to their craft in the face of commercial pressures. {…}

His music served as the holy grail for music lovers—people who love music not just for the stimuli but for the craft itself and how it serves as a portal into the artist’s mind and into worlds they cannot explore on their own—as Hollis, himself a music obsessive, rewarded listeners who are in constant pursuit of answers on how music works.

Alan McGee (Creation Records) in The Guardian, from 2008:

Spirit of Eden has not dated; it’s remarkable how contemporary it sounds, anticipating post-rock … it’s the sound of an artist being given the keys to the kingdom and returning with art. {…}

I find the whole story of one man against the system in a bid to maintain creative control incredibly heartening.

Jess Harvell in Pitchfork, from 2011:

Unlike many reclusive musicians, though, you won’t feel that Hollis absented himself before his overall project was completed. These albums still stand a good chance of alienating you, but if you find yourself vibrating sympathetically to them, there’s enough mystery and beauty in them to sustain a lifetime’s listening, whether Hollis or Talk Talk ever record another note.

Simon Reynolds for NPR:

The fanatical care that went into the recording of Spirit of Eden and Laughing Stock — the limpid production, the teeming of tiny details, the leaps from hushed softness to squalling harshness — have turned these albums into fetishes for a generation of soundheads. But although their audiophile allure is a factor, these albums conquered hearts through their emotional power — the naked ache of Hollis’s vocals, the oblique bleakness of his lyrics. On Spirit of Eden and Laughing Stock, two kinds of beautiful emptiness confront each other — the stark grandeur of the soundscape, the desolate neediness of the man alone within it.