Nick Lowe SXSW Interview, Pt. V (March 21, 1998)

I wanted to ask you about the album Nick Lowe and His Cowboy Outfit. 

Oh, yeah. I love that album. Yeah, that wasn't a bad one. What was on that? 

It had "Half a Boy and Half a Man." 

Yeah. 

"Maureen." 

Oh, yeah. 

And a quite incongruous song--but one of my favorites nevertheless--"L.A.F.S."

Oh, yeah (laughs). 

That album got me back into you. Then, I was living in Seattle in '85, where KJET-AM had your redone "I Knew the Bride" in heavy rotation, further reigniting my interest in your music, which I'd lost track of from about 1980 to 1984. Did you ever do a video for that? 

Yeah, we did. We did do a video for it, actually, and quite a sort of fancy video--in England, yeah. I never saw it. I think it was sort of in between two stools then because--it was too sort of--it was too old fashioned for MTV, and I'm not sure whether VH-1 had started then. So it never really got much play as I remember. It was quite a good video, quite a good one. 

Back to "All Men Are Liars," I've often wondered what you think now about the Rick Astley verse. 

I've felt very sorry about that. I really do. I really do regret saying that. At the time, I thought that [the Rick Astley song] was so awful. I just hated the sentiment of the thing. I know it's--I mean, maybe I was a little oversensitive, because you hear awful music all the time--"I'm never going to do anything horrible to you." I thought, "What? Can anybody sawllow this, that I'm never gonna do anything--?" Sorry, that was a lie. So, then, I thought, because it was a big hit at the time and it seemed as if Rick was on his way--he was gonna be churning this stuff out. But I regret it because I've since found out that, one, he's a very nice man--I've never met him, but they tell me he's an extremely nice man--and the other thing is that he's down on his luck a bit now. So I do feel rather bad about it because at the time I wrote it, he was huge and about to do more of it, so I thought he was a legitimate target. 

Do you regret that in 1998 people may not follow the reference? 

Oh, no. No, I'm kind of glad that they won't follow the reference actually. And that does happen more and more. I blithely make references about bands and artists from my generations to--I mean, obviously, you're younger than I am, but to some journalists I make these remarks, and I see their faces go creepy blank. You realize, "You've gotta get your references a little more up to date, my friend!" That's the way it goes. 

What did you think of the John Hiatt song on Little Village, "Don't Think About Her When You're Trying to Drive"? 

Oh, I thought that was a really good one. I like it quite a bit. Yeah, that's a really good one. And it was a funny thing, that, because--that Little Village thing--because when we did John Hiatt's record, obviously it was John Hiatt's record. He was in charge, he had the songs, and we were there to back him up. When you take away the front person and you have four people in there trying to create something, people are very reluctant to step forward somehow. If it's somebody's actual record, then obviously they are questioned and asked, "How do you want this? How do we play this?" You know. But when it's four individuals, all rather edgy about it, you come up with a kind of compromise. So John got, I think rather unfairly, got castigated for that thing because he sang so many of the tunes on it that people thought he was stepping forward and hogging the limelight, whereas in actual fact he was doing us all a favor by coming forward and saying, "Well, I'll do it. I'll jump in there." So it was unfair, that, I think. 

You mentioned the way that old pop songs, like Cole Porter's, contained many subtle and sophisticated references. I wondered if when you wrote "Cruel to Be Kind" you were conscious of the phrase's Shakespearean roots. 

No, I didn't know that it was a Shakespearean quote until people started saying to me, "Oh, what a brilliant thing you made up! 'You've gotta be cruel to be kind'!" And I started to say that it's a very well-known expression. Where I come from, people say it all the time, "You've gotta be cruel to be kind." 

You didn't know it originated in Shakespeare? 

I didn't know it was a Shakespearean quote. It was then that somebody said, "Well, it's actually from--" Whatever it is. 

Hamlet. 

Is it from Hamlet? 

"I must be cruel only to be kind." 

Brilliant. That sounds so much better though, doesn't it" (laughs)?

Nick Lowe SXSW Interview, Pt. IV (March 21, 1998)

Q&A: Slayer's Kerry King (May 9, 1995)

The year was 1995. Bill Clinton was in the White House, and Rush Limbaugh was on both radio and television. I interviewed Kerry King because I was writing a piece for WORLD on songs about Rush Limbaugh--of which there were several at the time, pro and con--and Slayer's then-latest album, Divine Intervention, contained the song "Dittohead" (talk-radio slang for "fan of Rush's show"). I quoted from this Q&A in my piece; below is the transcript in its unexpurgated entirety.

......................

ORTEZA: I'm working on an article for WORLD magazine about Rush Limbaugh songs, and "Dittohead" fits in that category.
KING: I think it pretty much owns it (laughs).

ORTEZA: The song doesn't mention Limbaugh. Why did you call it "Dittohead"?
KING: The title came after the lyrics and the music were completely done. I wrote the music, and it was pretty much the punkiest song I'd ever heard, and the pissed-off lyrics were inspired by all the crazy things I'd seen on TV for the past couple of years at that time.

ORTEZA: Like what?
KING: All the blow-out trials and lack of responsibility, and lack of just about everything. That's when I watched Rush Limbaugh everyday. I had the song completely written, but I had no idea what I was going to call it. Then I thought, "Well, it sounds like a radicalized version of what Rush Limbaugh does on TV everyday, so I'll just use that name."

ORTEZA: You wrote it in response to the Rodney King trial?
KING: Rodney King, the Menendez brothers, Bobbitt.

ORTEZA: In retrospect, would you throw the O.J Simpson trial in there?
KING: Oh, certainly.

ORTEZA: What does the appearance of a pro-Limbaugh song on a Slayer album say about rock-and-roll?
KING: It's pretty democratic (laughs).

ORTEZA: Does the whole band tune in to Limbaugh?
KING: Jeff [Hanneman] and I do a lot. I don't get to much anymore because I've been touring. I watch him in California a lot. In Arizona he's on late at night, and I always forget he's on. But Jeff and I always watch him in California.

ORTEZA: I bet most Dittoheads don't listen to Slayer.
KING: That's probably true.

ORTEZA: What do you think you have in common with the rest of his audience?
KING: The main thing is our beliefs about what's wrong with the political system, to start with, things we see that we can change. Obviously, a lot of people wanted change because they overthrew the old Congress in a landslide. But it's hard to say. Our music is pretty much for a pin-pointed age group. The late-to-mid teens to age twenty-one seem to make up the bulk of our audience. It's mostly a teenage audience that listens to us.

ORTEZA: Don't you think most of your fans would describe themselves as liberal?
KING: It's hard to say. I don't know.

ORTEZA: Do you vote?
KING: I'm going to next time (laughs).

ORTEZA: Against Clinton?
KING: Oh, yeah.

ORTEZA: What other aspects of the conservative agenda do you support?
KING: If anybody ever puts on an initiative for a flat tax rate, I'd be the first in line.

ORTEZA: You don't agree with those who say a flat tax demonstrates an unwillingness on the part of the well off to help the less well off?
KING: That's bullshit. I mean, Rush said it best: "Penalizing the achievers." Why should I get penalized for learning how to make money? I didn't have all the opportunities. I didn't have scholarships. But you don't hear me bitching about fucking having to sit in the gutter. I got off my ass and did something with my life. That's what being an American is about, not sitting on your ass and letting the rich people pay for you. It's about getting off your ass and accomplishing things.

....................

(Update: Discussing the song "Americon" [from Slayer's
2009 album World Painted Blood], King said, "It's about what I think the rest of the world thinks of America. We may not be big on a lot of people's lists, but I don't care what you think of my government, of my economy, or whatever. I live here and this is one of the best places that I've ever found to live. So f*#k you if you don't like it.")

Ted Nugent: #@&%!*! (2000)

(As originally published in the Illinois Entertainer...)


“Holy shit! I think I just had a spiritual erection!”

It’s a chilly October morning, and Ted Nugent is looking out the window of his Michigan home, watching a flock of Canadian geese land on his lake. By interview’s end, at least two more flocks will have touched down, arousing his uncommonly sensitive hunter’s instincts and moving him to vow that by day’s end a few of them will be items on a forthcoming Nugent-family menu. “It’s the perfect hunting season,” he says, “and I’m having the best hunting season of my life.”

He’s also having a pretty good rock ’n’ roll season. As you may know, Kiss spent the spring and summer traveling across North American on a “farewell tour,” playing “Do You Love Me” and “Rock and Roll All Nite” to sold-out stadiums and arenas, presumably for the last time. As you may or may not know, Ted Nugent opened each of the shows with sixty-five minutes' worth of greatest gonzos, generating a fair amount of Kiss-fan commentary at kissonline.com.

“We caught Uncle Ted,” wrote Joseph from St. Louis, “and he did not disappoint! It’s amazing what he can do with his guitar backed up only by a bass and drums. I do think some of his language was too foul, but then again I appreciate his blatant rejection of political correctness. Rock on, Ted.”

Frank from Georgia, on the other hand, while savoring some of the Nugent experience (“Ted & his band was [sic] very tight and sounded pretty good ... I love the song ‘Stranglehold’”), did not share Joseph-from-St.-Louis’s appreciation of Nugent’s “blatant rejection of political correctness” (“He still went through the usual bitching ... his banter can get pretty tiresome”).

As for Bryan from Calgary, he didn’t care for Nugent-the-rabble-rouser either (“Of course, the breaks between songs were full of comments that I didn’t agree with”), but he gladly allowed Nugent his right to unfettered speech (“This is a free country, and he is free to think and say whatever he wants--more power to him”). Furthermore, Bryan “was really impressed with [Nugent’s] set.” “He was a man possessed with energy, and [he] really worked for the crowd.”

Alas, not every crowd member enjoyed being worked. “Don't get me wrong,” wrote Reese from Louisiana, “I'm as much a fan of ‘Cat Scratch Fever’ as the next guy, but the Motor City Madman has apparently lost what little sense the good Lord bestowed upon him.... His music only killed time between his pseudo-political rants.”

What, one wonders, does Ted Nugent himself have to say to the Reeses of the world these days? “I’m not specially talented, and I’m not Superman,” the fifty-two-year-old guitar slinger admits in a rare moment of self-depreciation. “I'm just six-foot-two, 190-pounds of fire-breathing shit, and I guess my alarm to my fellow man would be ‘All right! Everyone calm down and take a deep breath! Yes, those are flames coming out of my ass, but don't be scared! Just grab the fucking marshmallows, O.K., kids? Drive safely!

“Oh, and by the way, eat me.”

This month Nugent and his current band (Tommy Aldridge, drums; Marco Mendoza, bass) will return to Chicago--where Nugent formed the Amboy Dukes thirty-five years ago--for two shows at the House of Blues, a venue he calls his “favorite place to play in the whole world.” “Maybe I’m making it up,” he muses. “Maybe I’m perceiving more than there actually is, but because of the Chicago blues history, a soul, a spirit, grows horns when we perform there, no matter whether it’s Damn Yankees, Amboy Dukes, or Ted Nugent Band. The attitude, the spirit, the sound, the invigorating, motivational essence in the air at the House of Blues--I feel Lightning Hopkins, I feel Spoonbill Thornton, whoever the fuck that is, I feel all these wild-ass brothers from the past. I come to Chicago because it’s a gift to me. We play ‘My Girl.’ We play ‘Soul Man.’ We play ‘Hold On, I’m Comin’.’ It’s unbelievable, it’s so intense! People don’t know whether to shit or go blind.”

Neither does the literary community. In addition to rocking out, hunting game, busting druggies, out-swearing the entire rap community, and having sex, Nugent has recently discovered the joys of authorhood. True, he has tested these waters before; his 1991 self-published classic, Blood Trails: The Truth About Bowhunting--120 Detailed Kill Stories remains essential dinner-time reading and is still available through the merchandise link at tnugent.com. His new book, however, bears the imprint of none other than Washington, D.C.’s Regnery Publishing, Inc., perhaps the most august conservative publishing house of the last fifty years. It’s called God, Guns, and Rock and Roll, and the odds that anyone will ever confuse it with George Harrison's I. Me. Mine, David Crosby's Stand and Be Counted, or Jewel’s A Night Without Armor are slim indeed. “Familiarity with both the function of the gun and the tactics of getting it into action could well save your life,” Nugent writes in the chapter titled “Wanna Go To A Gun And Knife Show? I'll Open My Jacket.” “And at the very least, the discipline will go a long way in quality of life upgrade in all other endeavors. As goes the projectile, so goes the soul.”

Word-slinging has long come easily to Nugent. His 1977 Double Live Gonzo album remains to this day as notorious for its ’tween-song jabber as for its hi-amp celebration of all things wang-dang, and during his early-’90’s Damn Yankee phase, his impromptu phone-ins to Rush Limbaugh alerted several million conservatives to the fact that they had a friend in Ted. By the mid-’90’s he was hosting a successful morning talk show of his own in Detroit, a show that he abandoned after two years at the peak of its popularity. “I quit,” Nugent laughs, “because I missed the road so bad I could hardly stand myself.”

The good news for fans of Radio Free Nugent is that the Nuge has plans to be back on the air, nationwide this time, by 2002 if not sooner. “It’ll be on a brand new radio format,” he explains. “First there was AM. Then there was FM. Next year there’s going to be XM. It’s a digital satellite radio subscription service that will be available in all automobiles, and I suspect that, as sure as the deer breed in November, I will be on the airwaves again because I’m too fucking good to keep off.”

In a sense, Nugent’s assault on the talk waves is payback for the silence with which FM programmers greeted his last album of original material, 1995’s Spirit of the Wild (Atlantic). It’s a silence, he believes, that’s entirely attributable to politics--specifically his. Side by side with such quintessential Nugent numbers as “Thighraceous,” “Tooth, Fang, And Claw,” and “Primitive Man” were Nugent’s first overtly political anthems, the Second-Amendment touting “I Shoot Back” and the hilariously liberal-baiting “Kiss My Ass,” a song that on the Kiss Farewell Tour, incidentally, has metamorphosed into the centerpiece of Nugent’s seventy-minute sets. During a performance last August in Lafayette, Louisiana, Nugent backed his way into the track by declaring Janet Reno, Jesse Jackson, and Sarah Brady “pieces of shit” while the assembled thousands roared their concurrence. (“You want to cure AIDS?” Nugent asked an Irving Plaza crowd in New York City one month later. “Everybody, repeat after me: No more butt-fuckin’!”)

Nugent’s tone for most of God, Guns, and Rock and Roll’s 315 pages is far less inflammatory. Just as Nugent the Champion Cusser morphs into Nugent the Airwave Friendly Talk-Show Host at the drop of a hot mic, Nugent the Scribe comes on far more thoughtful than the Nugent who during that aforementioned Louisiana performance introduced “Cat Scratch Fever” by saying “Even the faggots will be eating pussy tonight.” True, the book probably has two or three too many hunting stories to hold the attention of readers used to procuring their sustenance in the drive-thru lane, but the stories about Nugent’s real-life law enforcement adventures, his aggressive confrontations with drug abusers and pushers, his hunting trips with Joe Perry (who along with Charlton Heston, Kirk Gibson, Mitch Albom, and Congressman Bob Barr contributes a blurb to the book’s back cover), and his wilderness-awareness-raising Kamp for Kids reveal a man far more well-informed than his ’coon-tail and headdress-wearing onstage alter ego.

He and all his gun-brothers, for instance, eat everything they shoot and insist that anyone who doesn’t--anyone, in other words, who kills animals just for fun--is no gun-brother of theirs. Nugent also substantiates his claims that animal populations allowed to run amok can be destructive of the eco-balance and that therefore hunting can be as conservationist an activity as protesting the cutting of old-growth forests.

“You should communicate with all the players at Regnery and ask them what it was like to deal with Ted Nugent,” he says by way of pointing out that it was they who approached him to write the book and not vice versa. “The outcome’s going to be, basically, ‘Fun, fun, fun, fun, fun, fun, fun! Nugent is dedicated, he’s sincere, he gives a shit, and he’s reasonably intelligent for a guitar-slinging idiot.’ And why? Because I’m clean and sober and my brain and everything else works pretty damn good!"

Obviously, the rock-star mold that Ted Nugent shattered just by being born remains in pieces, and, lest anyone get any bright ideas about gluing it back together, don’t bother. Ted’ll be there, fully loaded, ready to blow it back to smithereens.

Nick Lowe SXSW Interview, Pt. IV (March 21, 1998)

You've done so much good work in the '90's, it seems to me that someone's going to have to bring Basher up to date. 

Oh, well, I hope so. I hope so. 

Has anyone shown an interest in gathering your more recent-- 

Yes. They have actually. There's talk about box sets and things like that, which--I don't know. I can't work my way through a box set, even of people that I like. I've got a Johnny Cash box set. I've only listened to the first one. Whenever I want to hear Johnny Cash, I just put the same one. I never listen to any of the others, you know.

Speaking of Johnny Cash, did you write "The Beast in Me" for him? 

I did, actually, yes. 

Was there ever the chance that he would've rejected it? 

Oh, yeah. He did. I actually thought it up when he came to London and came to stay with me and Carlene [Carter]. He came around. Carlene phoned him up and said we'd written this song. And, in fact, what it was is, I had this first--I had the title and the first verse, and when he came along--he came 'round to hear it, and the song really wasn't finished--we'd made up a whole bunch of other stuff to tag onto it, but I knew that the first couple of lines were great. Anyway, I sang it to him, and he said, "Well, you're onto something here, but it's not quite right, is it?" I said, "Well, it's not really." He said, "Well, when you finish it, send it along." And that was about 1980. And every so often--I finished it in what? 1994 or something. But every so often I'd get this song out, or if I'd run into him, he'd say, "How's 'The Beast in Me,' Nick?" And I'd get it out again, and it was one of those songs where you think you've said it all in the first verse. There's nothing else to say. But something must've clicked one day, and I just finished it off. It just seemed to all fit, which sometimes happens. The song hasn't kind of revealed itself to you or something until some time passes, and that's the danger time [tape ends] ... the song we'll be revealed. So, anyway, I sent it off to him and didn't hear anything, and next thing I know American Recordings has come out, and it's on it. So-- 

He didn't tell you he was going to record it? 

No, he didn't tell me he was going to do it. It was fantastic. I did know that my step-daughter, who hangs out with him a lot, she said that he'd been playing it to people who'd come around to the house. He'd been singing it to them. So I thought, "Oh, that's interesting. So he got the tape." I thought he just might've listened to it and thought, "Oh, no! He still hasn't got it right." But, no, I thought it was good. 

"The Man That I've Become" sounds like a Johnny Cash song. Yeah. Yes, it is a Johnny Cash song--a Johnny Cash-style song. But I think Johnny Cash is such a great artist--I'm such an admirer, a fan, of his--as well as my familial connections to him--that I think it's sort of--he's a great enough artist--if you've got a good song, even if it sounds like--I don't know--like a good Barbra Streisand song--but a good song, good song--"People Who Need People," for instance. It's a good pop song of a kind, from the point of view of being in every airport, playing in every airport around the world. It's a crafty piece of work that everybody knows. But if you send a song like that, a really good song that doesn't necessarily sound like Johnny Cash, he'd be able to spot--"This is a really good song!" Here comes Johnny Cash singing it: (in mock Johnny Cash) "People--boom-chick-boom"--Now, he'd do something with it. He'd do something with it and make it brilliant, but I think it's sort of insulting to send a song to somebody that just sounds like them. It's sort of insulting to. People have done it to me. They mean well. They mean well. But they say, "Ah, here's a song! You're gonna love it!" And it's this rather embarrassing pastiche of three or four of your things slung together, and you go, "Thanks very much. That's very nice of you. That's very interesting, but it's not quite what I'm trading with at the moment." So I never would've dreamt of sending him "The Man That I've Become" because it does sound like him, especially with that Luther Perkins lick on it, that really does--it just cries out for it, you know. But the other thing is, it's got that country and organ music. I think organ on country tunes sounds so cool. It just puts something in there that's--on country songs--that's really emotional, better than a pedal steel for me, even though I like pedal steel played well. You know what they say, that women don't like pedal steel. It's only men who like pedal steel. There's something about that tone. Men react to the pedal steel much more than women do (laughs). I don't know. It's just one of those things. I think it's more sonic than anything else. 

I first heard "High on a Hilltop" as an extension of "What's Shakin' on the Hill." In both the "hill" is a metaphor for what's really important. 

I suppose it is. I hadn't thought about it like that. I think that that is a gospel song. I think "High on a Hilltop" actually is a kind of gospel song. I felt inspired with "High on a Hilltop." It's still pop, you know. It's still pop. I still think, "Would Dan Penn do this, or Arthur Alexander?" You know, some of the people that I like. Ivory Joe Hunter. I think, "Would they do something like this?" If I think they would, I think, "Oh well, I will too" (laughs). 

When I first saw the title "High on a Hilltop," I thought, "Yet another gospel song!" 

Yeah. 

"The Man That I've Become" goes well with "Failed Christian" because they both have verses about the choir. 

Oh yeah, yes. That's true. Yes, I didn't know that until we actually--I hadn't realized that until they sequenced it. But they do. Yes, they've both got the choir reference.

They sound as if they're being sung by two people coming at the same emotional or spiritual state from different perspectives. 

Oh, well, that's great. That's great. 

Such connections seem to continually emerge from your albums. I have the feeling that ten years from now I could play this album and discover more. 

Well, I hope so. I really hope so because--well, I like listening to it too. See, that's the strange thing. You get a real kick from sitting down and listening to your own record. There comes a time when you stop, but generally it's when you start thinking up a new way of telling your story. But until that comes along, to listen to your own record and really enjoy it and not be going--twitching and--you know, because you can hear yourself going to work--there are always things that you wish you'd done slightly different. Of course there are. But they're all honest, honest--you know, you overlooked something. I mean, it's honest. But to be able to listen to your own record and for it to sound like somebody else, for you to enjoy it as if it were somebody else, is a very curious sensation. Or maybe it's not curious enough. Maybe it's not a curious sensation. 

Did you always listen to your own records and enjoy them, even in the '70's? 

I did, but some more than others. Definitely some. Whenever I thought I'd done a good thing, oh yes! I'd listen to it over and over again and dig myself, you know (laughs)? But, no, there was a period when I was striving for something and not--I was very unhappy, and I felt very uncreative and at a low ebb and trapped. I felt--I was still with a big record label then, and when it's time for an album, you've gotta come up with one. It doesn't matter if you don't feel like it. 

Columbia? 

Columbia, yeah. And that's a terrible feeling, to go into the studio with feet like anvils, you know, just dragging them. And that's, of course, when you start taking to the bottle and thinking that if you've got half an idea--if you get drunk enough, you can actually turn it into something good. And the awful thing is that occasionally it works. But, of course, the next time you do it, what you're left with is this drunken mess. And that's awful, when you've got to--when you know you've done a record that, in your heart, you know is a sorry thing. 

Part III: https://arsenioorteza.blogspot.com/2009/05/nick-lowe-sxsw-interview-pt-iii-march.html

Part V: http://arsenioorteza.blogspot.com/2009/05/nick-lowe-sxsw-interview-pt-v-march-21.html

Nick Lowe SXSW Interview, Pt. III (March 21, 1998)

I'm a Catholic, so when I first heard "Soulful Wind," I thought you were singing about the Apocalypse or the Holy Spirit or something. Was I way off base?
No. I was thinking of something good. I rather thought the soulful wind was kind of a good thing, but at the same time maybe a good thing that could sweep away the bad stuff. So whether that's apocalyptic, I don't know. I always think of the Apocalypse as something that sweeps away a bunch of good stuff too. Everyone's history.

You use phrases like "the lion will lie down with the dove"--
Yeah.

Familiar biblical phrases--
Yeah.

And I thought, "Oh, he's writing a song about ultimate hope."
Yeah, I think it is. I'm--I find I'm using a lot more of that sort of language in the songs I write now, but it seems sort of natural somehow. I don't give it much thought. You know, I'm an--I suppose I'm an Anglican, you know, which they describe as "Catholicism lite" (laughs), but I'm not a practicing Anglican. But I have a sensibility about this, and the older I get as well, the more I'm at ease with whatever this thing is. But to me it's a kind of language. It's not something I thought up. It's a kind of a language and a way of expressing a feeling, and those--as we all know, those biblical phrases and things are--they strike chords and are really fantastic fun to sing. It's just great to say them.

Then I heard on this album--
"Failed Christian," right.

But also "Lead Me Not"--
Yeah.

And I thought, "Well, he's continuing in that. It's growing instead of shrinking."
Yeah, it does seem to be, but as I say, I haven't thought it out at all. It's so hard to come up with a sort of three-minute, simple song with a very direct lyric and a direct tune that people haven't heard millions of times before that if I started boxing it off and saying, "Oh, you can't do that. You can't do that. You've gotta--No, it's going too far this way." If I started corraling it too much, it would sound stiff and kind of make people feel uncomfortable somehow. I've done that in the past. I've had good ideas for a song--in my opinion, again, in my opinion--I've had a good idea for a song, but I've rather squashed the idea at birth. I've said, "Oh, it's that kind of tune! Right! It goes in this box!" And I've forced it into a box, and in fact the thing probably--you haven't served it well. I'm much more apt to letting the song--letting the lyrics and the melody and how long the thing is structured, whether those things are structured--I try and let the music do the talking much more now than me doing the talking. At least, that's what it feels like to me anyway. And one of them is in the strange sort of quasi-religious thing that seems to have come in. But, you know, I haven't had somegreat revelation, sadly (laughs). It's a sort of a device, but it's one that makes me feel good to use.

Why did you choose to cover "Failed Christian"?
Well, do you know who Henry McCullough is?

No.
Well, he's a very interesting man. He's from Northern Ireland, with all that that implies. And he's also a really fantastic musician. He was in the sort of Woodstock lineup of the Joe Cocker and the Grease Band. He was the guitar player--you know, "A Little Help from My Friends" and all that. And he was also the guitarist in the first lineup of Wings as well.

Henry McCollough?
Yeah.

Isn't there a Jimmy McCulloch who played in Wings too?
Yeah, there is, but they're no relation. Jimmy was--Jimmy followed Henry, actually. Henry was the person who did "Band on the Run" and "My Love," all those. But coincidentally the next guy's name was McCulloch too, although Jimmy was a Scot, and Henry was from Northern Ireland. Although they're very similar. You know, when you get up to Northern Ireland and Scotland, they're not very far apart. It doesn't sound like it. Their accents are completely different, but they're very similar sort of people. But, anyway, Henry had a lot of--am I rambling too much? Maybe you've got a bunch of questions that you want to ask, and I'm just--

No, this is fantastic!
Oh, all right. Well, Henry had a lot ups and downs with drink and drugs and what have you, and he really blew his--blew his thing, really. So he decided, in the nick of time, to go back to Northern Ireland and kind of clean himself up and get himself straight again and organized again and stop hanging out with these hoodlum friends and whatnot. And I lost touch with him. I was never really a big friend of his, but he got Brinsley Schwartz--the band I was in, Brinsley Schwartz--onto the Wings tour to open for them. He got us onto it. And, anyway, I lost touch with him. And about two summers ago, myself and my boys were doing a show in Belfast with Van Morrison, who, by the way, Geraint Watkins, the keyboard player, and Robert Treherne, the drummer, who play on my record and on The Impossible Bird, have just finished doing Van's album, Van Morrison's, the next one. Yes, it's coming out.

That'll be a different sound.
Yeah, I can't wait to hear it. I don't know what it's going to be like. I said to them, "Now, don't give away all your stuff that you do with me to Van" (laughs)! Anyway, no, it's a different thing, although he records live as well. He records his vocals live as well. Anyway, so we did this show with Van in Belfast, and Henry, right out of the blue, just came backstage, and it was really fantastic to see him. And he gave me a tape of some songs that he'd been working on. One of them was "Failed Christian," and I just thought it was a really great song because it had that--it's got that sort of naivete and wisdom thing working for it. It's not a particularly original thought. I've heard it expressed before. But the point is well made yet again.

I thought it was probably fifty years old or something.
Well, he's got that (laughs)--he sometimes seems extremely old. But, oh yeah, I think it's a really good thing, although people who haven't really listened to it right and heard what the song is saying have put it together with a few other things like you were saying--you know, those other biblical references -- and said, "What do you mean 'Failed Christian'? What's happened to you? Steady on now" (laughs)! And I say, "No, no, no. Just listen to it. It's all right. Everything's fine."

It's good to know that he's still--
Yes, he comes up with something as strong as that. Right. And he hasn't recorded it. I phoned him up and said, "Look, Henry, I've been listening to your tape, and 'Failed Christian' I think is so cool. What do you think about letting me record it?" And obviously he recorded the demo of it, but he hasn't got a record deal or anything like that. But he said, "Yeah, go ahead." So that's pretty good to give away a tune like that.

When The Impossible Bird came out, the publicity accompanying it made mention of the fact that you'd recently become wealthy by virtue of having a song on The Bodyguard soundtrack.
That's right, a song of mine you might be familiar with, "Peace, Love and Understanding."

Whose version was on the soundtrack? Yours?
No, it was done by Curtis Stigers.

So it was a new version.
Yeah, a new version. But it's a song that's been covered by lots and lots of people. I've got covers of it by a gospel choir--a sort of black gospel choir from Harlem--and it's a fantastic version. And bluegrass--I have a great bluegrass version of it.

I heard you say one time that you wrote it tongue-in-cheek.
Yeah. When I first thought it up, it was supposed to be like an old hick because everything was changing, you know, in the '70's so fast. You know, hippies were going right out of fashion. And it was supposed to be this sort of washed-up old hippie sort of saying to the new, you know, "Well, I might be out of the window, but one thing: what's so funny about peace, love, and understanding? You can answer that with your flash new ways." It was supposed to be sort of funny. But when Elvis recorded it, he put that anthemic thing into it, and even when I do it now, I do it with the--I've forgotten the original thing. I've got so used to people doing--but it is--it's got a great title, that song. I think that's why people identify with it. The song itself is very simple and trite, really, and sort of pretentious. "As I walk this wicked world" sounds a little bit much. But that's the way it was supposed to be when I did it. But now I don't think about it. It just seems to me all dead righteous now.

Pt. IV: http://arsenioorteza.blogspot.com/2009/05/nick-lowe-sxsw-interview-pt-iv-march-21.html

Nick Lowe SXSW Interview, Pt. II (March 21, 1998)

You said that you'd explain your reasons for cutting your vocals with the band.
Well, I've been trying to figure out--ever since--you know, the received wisdom says that you do your best work when you're a kid, and then come thirty or so--thirty years old or so--it's all over, basically. Everyone only likes--you do your best stuff when you're a kid, and then you go off. Either you try to redo what you did when you were a kid, only kind of grown up--and it's a rather embarrassing, not very edifying spectacle--or you just lose it and give up. So when the--you know, I had a brief job--a job for a short while--as a pop star in the late '70's. And it seemed totally natural. I don't ever remember once going, "I've made it!" I never remember thinking that. It seemeed totally that me and my friends--my contemporaries--it was our time, and everything we did was totally current, totally bang up to date, they were all hits, no matter if it was records I was producing--even my own records were hits. Or if I played bass on someone's record, it was a hit. Rockpile was having hits. We made lots of records, and they were all hits. And then the wheel turns, as it does, you know, all the time. The wheel turns and suddenly starts turning away from you. And that's when some artists--there are some artists who quite mystifyingly manage to stick with the wheel, like Elton John, for instance. The man has had a career that just goes through the decades. Cher, she just goes on and on and on. And so now especially--Madonna's getting up there. Prince almost did, but he got fed up with it and jumped off. He sort of stumbled a bit. But some of these others seem to go on and on. So I have no interest in doing that, but the elements of being a star--you know, famous I mean--when you start out, that's all you're interested in. That's the only thing that interests you, being famous. But it's amazing how quickly that you soon realize that it's the worst part of doing this job--being famous and pointed out in the street, pointed out, noticed. That's a real nuissance. So when the wheel started turning away from me, I said, "Look, what am I going to do now?" But I realized thart what was falling away was being in the public eye. And I said, "Don't worry about that. You never liked it anyway. So who cares?" What was more worrying was that I was perceived--on paper my career was perceived as being all over, and yet I'd had hit records, but I was perceived as being all over. "Sorry, you're history, man"--by the music business in general.

What period are you referring to?
I think sort of '82--1982--something like that. But I felt, even though I'd had hits and things like that, I thought I hadn't done anything that was much good up to this point. I thought, "You've got your pop-star thing over now. Now you can get on and do something." I thought, "Well, what is it that I feel I haven't done? I know that I feel that there's something not working here, but I don't know what the hell it is." So I started to try and figure out what this was, and how to record and write--how to write songs for myself and record myself in a way that uses the fact that I'm getting older in a business that values youth sometimes more than talent, but certainly as much--how I can use the fact that I'm getting older in this business as an advantage, as a real asset, as opposed to its being this terrible hindrance, because it's coming along anyway, so you might as well get with it now. Well, it took me a long time to figure it out, and because I couldn't figure it out, I couldn't persuade anyone to kind of help me. I couldn't tell anyone what I wanted them to do so they could maybe give me a hand and help me out, because I didn't really understand it myself. But, bit by bit, things got revealed to me that--a great thing that happened was when I got to meet, and play with and make music with, Ry Cooder and Jim Keltner and those guys, and John Hiatt.

You're referring to Little Village.
Well, not necessarily. The record, in my opinion, is not good. I think it's overfancy and fussed with, I think. But the experience of playing with those guys, in making that record--and the one before, the John Hiatt record Bring the Family--was a tremendous experience for someone like me, especially thinking the way I was. To suddenly be pitched into playing with these people--I learned a lot from that, and I saw a lot of the things that I thought were out of my reach, maybe, that I couldn't do, were possible. You've gotta have a certain amount of faith, you know, and things that I hadn't considered before. And I've gotta be really careful here because I love talking about this stuff, but it looks really pretentious in print. So you've got to be very, very careful (laughs) what quotes you use from me. But are you with me so far?

I think so.
O.K. So one of the things that bugged me was how I'd write a song--and putting aside whether the song was any good or not--and I'd sing it into a little thing like that [pointing at my tape recorder], a little Walkman, at home, and I'd play it back, and it would sound--again, putting aside whether it was a good or bad song--but it would sound great. You know, you have a guitar there and this voice sitting on top of it, and everything would make sense. And so I'd take it to the studio, and piece by piece this would be kind of chipped away and taken away, and it seemed that the people I was playing with, the people I was--you can't really blame them--but they were locked into a way of making pop records, pop band records. "There's a way of doing it. We all know how it goes. Let's get on with it." So my little song--well, suddenly it's a little too slow, so speed the tempo up. And when the tempo goes up, suddenly it's a bit too low down to sing in the key it's in, so we've gotta put the key up. So suddenly I'm singing it in a different way, a different character. A different character comes along now. And you're caught up in this, and suddenly your song is taken away from you and suddenly turns into something else. Occasionally it would be better--occasionally. But the overwhelming--

Can you think of an instance when a song got better as the result of those changes?
Well, I don't really want to do that because it could be something--a tune that people really like, and I don't want to spoil that. While I like talking about the way I make music and things like that, I don't want to spoil people's perception of--

You were saying that sometimes it would get better--
Occasionally it would get better--to my mind. This is all to my mind, all to my mind, it would get better. But the overwhelming number of times, I thought--after it happened about two albums in a row--not all the way through, necessarily, not every track--you know, it's an album full of things that I thought, "This sounds so tired and kind of not the--this ain't real. This sounds like it's too young for you or something. There's something not right here. It doesn't sound correct." So I figured out--I resolved that I had to find a way of writing songs for myself and recording myself so that it sounded like that thing on the Walkman, only bigger and with other musicians on it. And this all coincided again, as I said, with meeting Ry and all those people. But also I'd started doing solo shows. That was a real eye-opener as well, because when you stand up in front of a bunch of people and play your songs, you suddenly see your song in sharp relief, and you start thinking--as you're playing it, you think, "Why did I put this thing in, this bit in? This is hopeless! Why am I saying this again? I said it. Everyone thought it was really cool the first time I said it, but now you've done it again. It's sort of hopeless. No, no, no, you haven't done this right at all." So it started to make me write songs in a different way, because you use everything you've got. If you try to start writing songs, you use everything you've got. You've only got your voice and your guitar, but you make everything count--not too many chords, get on a nice groove and keep it there, and say something nice--and funky. Try and make it funky and uplifting in some way. I started thinking about all this stuff. And then, well, I started to sort of get it. I started to get it, although I suppose when I did Party of One--I did that with Edmunds, Dave Edmunds--he wouldn't have it. I remember saying to him, "Look, I really want to sing some of these songs when the boys are playing them. Give me a mic, and I'm going to perform it for you." And he said, "Well, yeah, yeah, yeah. Look, let's just do it the way we know, all right? Just make the backing track, and then you sing on top of that." So I did it.

You did it his way?
I did it his way, and some of them came off.

"All Men Are Liars" sure sounds live.
Well, you know what? I think that might've been the only one that was. I've suddenly got a feeling that I did do that one live. In fact, there might've been a couple that I managed to do live, and that one might be one of them. There were some pretty good tunes on that. But after that record, I thought, "This is almost a good record. This is almost a good thing, but it isn't what I've got in mind at all." Then a few things more started dropping into place, and then I did The Impossible Bird, and by that time I'd had a few things that happened to me in my personal life, which had really made me blue. You know, I'd really started to know what being blue felt like. And, luckily, I'm an artist, and I can write some cool songs about it (laughs). I don't know how people deal with it if they can't do that.

They listen to your songs.
(Laughs) Well, that's pretty nice to know. But I know that's what I do. See, I listen to blues music, and it cheers me up. It makes me feel good. But at the same time, I don't want to put my diary to music. I want these tunes to be really good pop songs so that people will go, "Oh, I know--" Even though I'm saying, "I, I, I" all the time in the songs, it could just be a character saying "I, I, I." It's not necessarily my diary, you know. But the thing about atmosphere is really interesting and exciting. So I realized, as I say, that I have to sing the songs at the same time as we do the track. So what I did was, I started going to this--well, you'd describe it as a little kind of dance hall, a little dance hall which is near where I live in west London. And it's got a sort of wooden, sprung dance floor and a vaulted ceiling, and they have--it's a sort of community center. They have Cub Scouts meeting there, and they have aerobics classes, and they have a dramatic society--you know, all that. So I rent this place by the afternoon. When I've got a few tunes going, I go in there--to finish them off, I go in there and just sing them out into the room, just take a guitar there and sing them out into--because the acoustics are so great, really quiet, and it fills the room. When you sing loud, the room seems to absorb it, so it's a very inspiring sort of room to sing in. Then I'd let the songs kind of say where they wanted to go, you know? That experience would just take the uptightness out of it. And I'd sing these songs over and over and over again until--not so that I found one definitive way of doing it. Quite the opposite. It would get that I'd know these songs so well that they'd stop being my songs. It'd be like I'd be singing a bunch of covers. It'd be like I would open my mouth and sing "In the Midnight Hour" or "Bye Bye, Johnny" or something like that, something really familiar, so that when you open your mouth, you don't know how it's going to come out. You're going to interpret it different every time. But all you know is it works, and you know how it goes. So then I'd go to the studio with my guys, and they--as I say, they're really great musicians. I should say a bit about that because--especially being here at South by Southwest. Now, this town has been full of really good musicians all this week, and the world, in fact, is full of good musicians. You come from an area where particularly fantastic music comes from. And the people who've come here to this town are probably the best ones from their cities, the top guys who pack the places everywhere. When they come in here and they get with everybody else, it all levels out to kind of this--this level of talent, you know, this level of excellence which suddenly goes extremely bland. It seems to be like everybody can do it--except when you hear someone who is really good, and they just zoom out. They're so much head-and-shoulders above the average. And that's what I've found. I've been lucky enough to play with some really, really highly rated musicians in my time. And I won't name any names, but in my opinion some of these people are extremely overpraised. You know, they've got licks and chops and things like that that they do, but they don't really know how to open themselves up. And to find musicians who know how to do that, to open themselves up and reinterpret what they--different every time, is extremely rare, and so whenever I find people who are like that, I like to hang out with them. So I go to the studio with these fellows, and I show them how the song goes maybe once or twice, so they hardly know it at all. I know it inside out, but they hardly know it at all. And they know that they've got to listen to the vocal to get their cues, and they also know that I am going to be performing this thing, so they can trust me that I'm not going to be stopping it every two minutes and saying, "Oh, no! Not that!" They know I am going to be going for it. And I trust them as well. And they are good enough so that they interpret this song different every time, and if they make a mistake, well, a mistake is a mistake, and you stop and you fix it. But with this process, you just get these incredible little accidents and little clashes and things like that that come along, which you can't dial up because we're continually trying to trick ourselves into being like the way we made our first records--in other words, not having all the experience and knowledge that we've got. Because when you hear a record that's made by someone with bags of experience and knowledge, it sounds really dull somehow. The great artists that somehow transcend that sound have this great naivety and continually find ways of tricking themselves into doing stuff that you don't normally do. And then it sounds exciting and fresh and exhilarating. It doesn't sound like yours. It sounds like some other thing. This other element seems to come into the music. It doesn't always come along, but I've found that if you record like this, I get--I stand a chance of getting that element that I was trying to find when I listened to my thing on the Walkman--that naturalness--except it's with other people as well. I mean the sidemen, the musicians. And they're making these comments and kind of agreeing, you know, that sort of thing. These people, funnily enough, are--they can't really do sessions, you know? Not like session men do. The world is full of session men who've got loads of chops. A producer says, "Right, we need heavy metal on this bit." They bang a few pedals, and suddenly out it comes. "We want that!" And the world's full of those people, and they're very, very--that's admirable. Anyone that can make a buck out of making music has got my vote, but the people I'm looking for are the guys that--they play it one time, and the producer says, "That's great what you did in that--!" "What? I'll try. Uh, can you play it to me?" Because they don't really know what they're doing, but these people are great, great musicians in my book because they're not afraid to go into a studio and open themselves up. It's not a common way of making records. I can't help it if my records don't fit on the radio or anything like that. Too damn bad. It's too damn bad. I go through a lot of trouble to make my records sound the way they do, and I'm sorry, I can't help it if (laughs)--

Your hard work is paying off. These records, without sacrificing any naturalness, are so rich and detailed that some day--maybe in five years, maybe in twenty--someone is going to pick up on them and appreciate them in a big way.
Well, I really appreciate your saying that. That's really fantastic. I thank you very much. That was a very good compliment.

Pt. III: http://arsenioorteza.blogspot.com/2009/05/nick-lowe-sxsw-interview-pt-iii-march.html

Nick Lowe SXSW Interview, Pt. I (March 21, 1998)

(Originally posted at the now-defunct popped.com; conducted at the SXSW, Austin, Texas. His latest album was Dig My Mood, hence the preponderance of questions about it.)

I found this [the first Brinsley Schwartz album] recently in a pawn shop.
Amazing.

Were you the lead singer on it?
It's been so long since I've even seen it. Let me just have a look. I know I did quite a lot. Oh, yeah, I did. I did most of the singing on this, I think. Yeah. Good God! There's only three tracks a side on one (laughs).

One of them goes on for quite awhile.
I know (laughs).

Side one reminded me a good deal of Crosby, Stills and Nash.
Yeah. We were very influenced by their first album, and being young, you tend to wear your influences very much on your sleeve until you get a little older and you start to find out where they got their thing from, and you start listening to that, and so on, and so you start discovering other people. But, yeah, Crosby, Stills and Nash were the thing at that time, and we were very influenced by it.

You did a better job than America, who were also influenced by them.
Well, they had the "Horse with No Name" though, didn't they?

Why did you dedicate Dig My Mood to your parents?
Well, that's nice of you to ask that. I think probably because they--well, not in my mother's case. You know, my mother has always been a tremendous fan of mine, even through some of my less successful artistic efforts, but my dad definitely hasn't. He's really--poor old chap, he's had to--when I used to bring my records back and put them on at home, I used to see him sit there, kind of with this really long-suffering look on his face, having to sit there and listen to it. But recently he's started liking my records.

Your recent records or your old records?
I think a bit of both actually. I think a bit of both. Certainly, he likes my recent records and records that I sort of play on and things, you know, I bring home and say, "Well, this is so-and-so. I was playing on this" or "I did this," you know. He likes the company I keep, if you know what I mean, as well--Little Village and things like that. He likes John Hiatt. And I think he started listening to some of my earlier things and enjoying them now as well, certainly more than he did. But my mom and dad are really getting on quite a bit now, although they're very sprightly and fit, really. I thought that probably now was an appropriate time to make a little dedication to them.

Is it the slower material on your last couple of albums that he's especially liked?
I suppose so, yeah. I think he likes the songs. I think he likes the songs, and he likes the sound, I think. The sound seems to get to him. You know, he's a sort of a jazz fan. He likes that kind of mellower thing. He always professed to not like music at all actually, but I've found out lately that he's kind of a closet music fan, and with rather good taste, as a matter of fact, but he's always kept it rather quiet, strangely enough.

Has he come around yet to "Marie Provost"?
No, I don't think that--he doesn't like the sort of cluttering drums very much.

You mentioned jazz--the first time I heard the first line of "Faithless Lover," I heard Gershwin's "Summertime"--
Oh, did you?

Do you have an appreciation for Gershwin?
Well, of course, yes.

Not all rock stars would say, "Well, of course" to the question of whether or not they liked Gershwin.
Oh, well, I suppose so, yeah (laughs). Well, you know, I'm a songwriter, so I'm very interested in the craft of songwriting, which, of course, those great songwriters had--and with their bafflingly sophisticated lyrics, which, of course, everyone used to sing, you know? Even if you were pumping gas back them, you'd be singing these really sophisticated lyrics with references to these rather well-traveled subjects, which doesn't really play nowadays, I don't think, in quite the same way, sadly.

It might play in twenty years.
Well, it might. At the moment, you know, you've got Andrew Lloyd Webber's version of it, which I--you know, that doesn't happen for me. But "I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Out of My Hair" is a brilliant, brilliant showtune, or tune on any level, just to name but one. Was that Rogers and Hammerstein?

I don't know.
Anyway--I can't remember what you asked me.

I mentioned that "Faithless Lover" had reminded me of Porgy and Bess--
Oh, I see. No, actually, with the "Faithless Lover" song I'd been listening to a lot of French chanson--you know, like Jacques Brel and Gilbert Bécaud and Charles Aznavour--you know, that sort of Parisian street music, which really is fantastic stuff. I don't speak French very well. I've got schoolboy French. So I don't always know what they're singing about, but the French have a reputation for having the worst pop music in the world, and yet they've got this brilliant, indigenous street thing, which is rather elegant even though it's tawdry and comes from the gutter. It's got this--the purveyors of it are rather elegant, are rather interesting people, and the songs are incredible-- the stories and the songs. They're about transsexual strippers, you know, and how (laughs)--you know, completely over the top.

There's a moment in "Faithless Lover" when this high-sounding instrument comes in behind the melody.
Oh, it's just a fuzz guitar. We were trying to get that sound like you hear in French porn music. You know, they have that sort of funny fuzz guitar, that really over-the-top fuzz guitar. That's what we were trying to go for. And that kind of funny clicky bass they always have on it.

That song and "You Inspire Me" both sound like something Frank Sinatra could've recorded.
Yeah. That song--I told the guys when we went to record it--I said, "Look, this has got this--this song has got a little descending little line in it, which is very redolent of the '40's and the '50's. It sounds like one of those late-night, sort of loungy kinds of tricks." But I said to them when we went in, "Look, this might sound like jazz, but let's just remember, we're not jazz guys. So don't try and push it into something that sounds really phony and fake." Not that these guys would, because they're really great players, these people that I play with. But they're not--

You didn't want them to think "jazz."
Yeah, exactly. I said, "If it comes along--" you know, because I cut my stuff with the vocal at the same time, for reasons I'll go into if you want me to. But there's a great English eccentric, a guy called Viv Stanshall--I don't know if you've ever heard of him. He had a sort of satirical group in the '60's called the Bonzo Dog Do Dah Band. He was the singer. He was a very eccentric bloke. And he had this little thing he used to say about jazz. He used to say, to describe jazz, he'd say, "Jazz-- delicious hot, disgusting cold." And I said to them, "Look--" Viv's no longer with us, of course--I said, "Look, Viv is looking down on us now. Just remember, 'Jazz--delicious hot, disgusting cold.' So please handle with care." I think it came out really sounding sweet and wistful. It doesn't make go, "Oh! It's that horrible fake jazz thing!" Because the song itself is basically a three-chord, four-chord song. It sounds like a country-western song when you just play it on the acoustic (laughs). So I wouldn't dream of saying, "Oh, I'm really into jazz now." I like pop music, albeit pop music from my era. You know, that's what I'm schooled in--two verses, middle eight, chorus, and out.

Your dad must like "You Inspire Me."
Oh, he does like that one, yeah. Yes, he does like that one. But he likes some of the others as well, which are not quite so obviously of his era.

Why did Rounder pick up Party of One, of all of your albums it could've chosen to reissue?
I didn't even know it was.

It's listed on the Rounder website with your two latest albums and the live EP.
Oh. Well, maybe they leased them off Demon, because Demon--you know, all my back catalogue--they've got all my back catalogue. And they recently reissued Party of One, with a new cover and two-- that awful thing they do where they take two outtakes--

You don't like that?
Oh, man! There's a reason why they're outtakes! I think it's such a shame. I know that if you're a real fan--real fans would be interested in it, but if it's not very good music, I think it's kind of a shame to do that. But that's the way it is.

You had no say over whether they did that or not?
Well, but I can be persuaded very easily, and if they tell--"Well, that's what everyone does, man! Wake up! It's the real world! It's only just trying to sell some records!" I'll go, "Oh, yeah. All right. Maybe I'm getting a little aloof about this."

I think your reservations are in large part correct. I found most of the outtakes on Bob Dylan's Bootleg (Volumes I-III) box set rather underwhelming.
Well, exactly. What the ear don't hear, the heart don't grieve for.

Part II: http://arsenioorteza.blogspot.com/2009/05/nick-lowe-interview-pt-ii-march-21-1998.html


"CRACKIN' UP" (Not the Abba song.)