Q&A with Nick Lowe

Nick Lowe
is a great songwriter, a talented singer and an exceptional producer, but his
best quality has always been his timing. He laid the groundwork for British
punk during his pub-rocking days, worked with Elvis Costello and Graham Parker
to bring smarts and soul to the music, and sang some of the wittiest new-wave
of the early 80s. The fact that he never returned to the top of the charts didn’t
seem to matter once he started earning millions in royalties for a cover of
his old song "(What’s So Funny ’Bout) Peace, Love and Understanding?"
on the soundtrack to The Bodyguard in ’92.

Now in his
dignified, white-haired 50s, Lowe has transformed himself into a crooner of
smooth, elegant soul music, following in a long line of British singers who
have studied hard the teachings of Al Green and Otis Redding. His voice has
mellowed into a low, brandy-flavored tenor, and the songs on his latest album,
The Convincer (Yep Roc), have a confessional depth and a simplicity of
narrative that can only come with age. It’s a long way from the arch attitude
of his earlier work, but he sounds more confident and expressive than ever before.
If only everybody in rock could grow old so gracefully.

Did you
always know that you were a soul singer, or is that something you discovered
along the way?

It’s
something I picked up as I got older. But I always loved soul music. I remember
hearing "In the Midnight Hour" when I was about 15. It was probably
the first soul record I ever heard. I couldn’t believe it. I had never
heard horns like that. Horns in England meant really corny dance music. It didn’t
sound like that. It was incredible.

You know,
there are some advantages to getting older. You can sing bluesier stuff that
you couldn’t get away with when you’re younger. When I had my brief
career as a pop star in the 70s, I knew it would all be over one day. I wasn’t
like Elton or Cher, whose careers just seem to span the decades. Most people,
you know, you’re there for a hit or two and then you’re gone. So I
started to work out a way to use the fact that I was getting older to my advantage.

I have been
on an independent label for many years now. That used to be seen as a disgrace,
that after being on a major you’re somehow reduced to being on a small
label. I never felt like that. I’m a big fish in a small pool. And that
situation is really great. There’s no one hassling you, telling you that
you have to polish your songs, forcing you into a studio to finish an album
when you’ve got two good songs and a bunch of rubbish. At this rate, I
can take my time. I only put out records when I want to now, and if I think
it’s great. And you know, I have this thing where if I think it’s
great, then it really is great. I don’t know, I can just feel it.

How do you
feel performing now?

I like performing
very much, especially now. I’m starting to get people who don’t just
shout out for Rockpile songs. People are much more interested in what I’m
doing now. It’s awful when people just want you to re-jig what you did
when you were a kid.

The accepted
wisdom is that you did your best work when you’re young. But I think I’ve
done the reverse. I think I’m making better records now than I ever did.
Don’t get me wrong, when I was younger I had a ball. But I take it more
seriously now. Without being too earnest, of course.

Why not
be earnest?

Because
it’s not soulful. You’ve got to let yourself go.

You’re
a British soul singer now. It’s funny that there’s still that tradition.

Yeah, it
hasn’t died down. I’m 53 now. And growing up in the 50s and 60s, England
was really a gray place. And that music just felt so good. You never lose that
feeling really. If you find that you cannot exactly copy it, some of it rubs
off on your own thing, no matter what you’re doing.

You always
cover one song on an album.

I make a
point of that. I think that if you do a couple cover songs, it shows that you’re
not obsessed with your own thing, even if you are. My heart always sinks a little
bit when I pick up a CD by somebody and they’ve written every song. I just
think, don’t you ever listen to anything else but your own music?

Even if
I was really prolific, which I’m not, I would still want to include a cover.
But it’s tough to find songs that people haven’t heard a million times.
I had never heard "Poor Side of Town," which we did on The Convincer.
But my drummer and keyboard player heard it on a plane, on the MOR channel.
They’d never heard it either. It was never released in England. But they
said wow, this would be great for Nick. So we cut the record. And about a week
later I had some girlfriends over for dinner, Americans who were visiting England.
I played it for them and to my horror they said, "Oh yeah, Johnny Rivers,
1966." They practically quoted the catalog number. And I thought it was
a hidden gem!

The pictures
on the inside of The Convincer are really interesting. You’re standing
in this beautiful old building, with all this Gothic detail and signs of the
good life, but the place is empty and desolate. It seems like a metaphor for
the people you’re singing about. What is that place?

What a wonderful
thing to notice. It was set in this very strange place, an old hotel near one
of the main railways in London, St. Pancras. There’s a big old hotel, the
Grand Midland Hotel, right in the station. They sort of built it right on top
of the station. They closed it in the 30s, and it’s like a time capsule
in there. It’s like going around on the Titanic. It’s a very
weird place, this empty old funny hotel. It was the girl who did the record’s
choice. And I just wanted to go have a look at the place.

Do you miss
producing?

No, not
at all. I gave that up. I know it’s uncool to say, but I don’t like
drum machines. I don’t like metronomical grooves. It’s like they say,
drum machines don’t tell jokes. And now all records sound the same.

My thing
was always more management. I’d go into the studio with people and encourage
them to just go at it. I liked finding where the power lay. There might be a
glamorous lead singer and everyone thinks it’s his group, but it might
not be really. It might be the sulky bass player in the corner who actually
runs things. And you’ve got to get him on your side. Some people liked
to be yelled at. Bullied. Some like to be stroked. Machines don’t do that.

The last
producing thing I did was the Mavericks. They flew me out to Nashville, at huge
expense, and got me to produce one track, for a song for that movie Apollo
13. And they paid me handsomely. I just sort of stood at the back wearing
good slacks, telling them they looked marvelous, while other people did all
the work. That seems to be what people expect from producers now. But it was
sort of boring.

They used
to call you the Basher because you worked so fast in the studio. How much time
and care do you put into recording now?

The actual
recording is done really quick, yes, because I’m on a sort of limited budget.
I put an enormous amount of work getting the songs right before I go into the
studio. What I do is I hire this little dancehall, this rehearsal studio in
West London where I live. It has fantastic acoustics. I go in there with my
guitar and I sing these songs into the room. When they come back to you, you
get a real sense of what’s missing. So when I go to record I’ll have
tried these songs every way there is. And the result is that I don’t feel
like I’m singing my own songs anymore. It’s like doing cover songs,
and I know them inside and out. When that happens, I get the boys together,
and I show them the song maybe once or twice. I’ll know it inside and out,
but they’ve barely heard it.

When I hear
Ben Webster, Coleman Hawkins, guys like that, I think, "Why can’t
I get this stuff on my record?" It’s the feeling of people playing
music together. A mellow thing. There’s another element there and we always
want to get that. You can’t always get it. But when it comes along, it
has a timeless element. You’re continually trying to trick yourself. You
don’t know quite what you’re doing and you surprise yourself. And
hey, presto, you’ve got something that’s grownup sounding, and cool.

Nick Lowe
plays Mon.-Tues., Aug. 5-6, at Joe’s Pub, 425 Lafayette St. (betw. E. 4th
St. & Astor Pl.), 239-6200.