In a candid interview with Ro Maher, gentleman disc jockey Andrew Weatherall chats from his London studio about conspiracy theorists, a follow up to ‘A Pox on the Pioneers,’ not remembering playing at the Hacienda, his ideal retirement plans, and the weird and wonderful Welsh town of Portmeirion, where this September he’ll join Laurent Garnier, Beck, Prosumer, Steve Mason and many others for boutique festival of the arts, Festival No 6.
Andrew, first of all, thank you for taking the time to chat with me. You’re welcome.
Are you in the Bunker today? Yeah, I like to get in of a morning. I’m not actually making music today, but I come in every day because it’s quite a creative place; there’s always plenty to listen to, plenty to read. I like days that are just about cultural immersion, really.
What are you reading at the moment? Just about to finish a biography of Marcel Duchamp, the artist. I can’t remember the name of the author but it’s published by the Museum of Modern Art in New York. And a book called Lure of the "Arcane - The Literature of Cult and Conspiracy" by Theodore Ziolkowski, which is about conspiracy theories going back to Greek tragedies, and the conspiracy theories about how various cults and religions worked. We think the Dan Brown phenomenon is a modern thing. This book points out it’s been going on for thousands of years. It’s a very interesting book.
How do you feel about conspiracy theories? Yes, it’s the intellectual equivalent of living at home in your mum’s basement; a warm intellectual embrace, the conspiracy theory, compared to the cold reality of what’s really going on. You know, the fact that this world’s arbitrary and totally out of control. I guess it’s quite comforting to believe there’s some order to this world, that someone’s responsible.
Just pattern seeking mammals, eh? Well, yes, we’re just the same as chimpanzees. It’s as simple as that really, We think we’re very sophisticated because now we all have devices that we stroke. But the human condition hasn’t changed in thousands of years. You know, what’s the first thing that gets done when film was invented? Pornography. What’s the biggest trade on the internet? Pornography and gambling. We’re not as sophisticated as we like to think.
If other mammals had the means do you think they’d film themselves in the act of love too? Oh yeah, of course they would, yeah. [laughs] Or make drawings of it. Look at us, look what we can do. That’s what it’s all about..
So you’re not tinkering with vintage bass guitars today? Not today, no. My friend Andy Baxter, who sells vintage bass guitars...when my music stops I can hear him playing along to The Who, Led Zeppelin, The faces and the various old soul records. He comes in to do an hour’s practice. Like I said, there’s always something interesting going on here. If you find a man playing along to Zeppelin records, interesting, that is. [laughs]
Scott Fraser (London DJ and producer) works in the same building, doesn’t he? Yeah, he does. He’s in a little studio next door to mine. He’s not in at the moment; he usually works a late afternoon / night shift. We kind of crossover. I’m an eleven till six guy these days, I don’t do the late sessions. He has a regular job so he comes in
after work.
What have you been working on recently? I split my time between my studio and a friend of mine’s, Nina Walsh; she’s got one in Streatham. I go over there sometimes; it’s where I did the soundtrack for the book I did for Faber & Faber, the ‘Unreal City’ thing, and I produced a couple of tracks for Pete Molinari’s album, a couple of months ago. And we’ve just been working on my follow up to ‘A Pox on the Pioneers.’
I just got that feeling in the air that people wanted an album by a 50-year-old, singing acid house DJ, and who am I to deny them that pleasure? Indeed, it would be rude.
Yeah, wouldn’t it?[laughs] Churlish, I think is the word.
When can you tell me about it? It’s the follow up to that, really. It never started out to be that way. I was just working with my friends in the studio in Streatham, and we were recording lots and lots of tracks, and after sort of a month or so we thought, well, this could make an album. It’s kind of how I do everything really. I never get in on day one with a blank canvas, thinking I have to make an album, or I have to do this, or I have to make something under this name. It makes life a lot easier.
How did you find your way into DJing? I just kind of, what’s the word I’m looking for? Blundered into it, really. Or broke into it. I feel like my position within the music business...I feel like someone that’s thrown some poisoned meat over the walls and while the guard dogs of music are chowing down on that, I’ve managed to sneak in, or jump over; you know what I mean? It’s just a love of music: I collected records. Even when I was eleven or twelve years old, when I bought some records I’d invite people around my house to listen to them. Over the years word got out that I had a good record collection and I got asked to play during the nascent, what was to become, acid house scene. I was the go to guy for the weird shit at six o’clock when everyone was too fucked to care what the hell was being played a lot of the time. And then my name got associated with various clubs, which gained me entrance to other clubs around England, just as the acid house scene was beginning to build throughout the country.
I just worked to live in my teens and 20s; and probably pretty much up to the current day, too, really. As long as I’ve got enough money to put a roof over my head and buy some reasonably nice clothes, records, and books, I’m kind of happy. I was never ambitious for power and wealth, really. That’s probably why I’ve managed to achieve some sort of longevity; because I’ve never seen it as a career path. It’s why I’m 50 years old and still living in rented accommodation, but hey-ho.
How long have you been on the road now? I did the odd gig through the ‘80s. But my name was first on a flyer probably ‘87 or ‘88. So we’re talking 27 years.
Week in week out; that must have had quite an impact on you. Well, no, I treat it as a job. Everyone with a job usually has to work hard. I just don’t see it as a career; that’s the constant. I thought it’d be a job that would last for a year or so and I’d go on and do something else. It just so happens it’s lasted for 27 years. I think probably because I’ve treated it as a job and put the hours in I’ve managed to retain a modicum of, erm, self respect. [laughs]
What will you do if you decide to stop? I was just talking about this with a friend of mine. I do artwork as well, I sell my prints, lino prints, and copies of those prints. In an ideal world I’d have a nice attic studio with good sunlight with a printing press and easel, some moleskin notebooks, a record player, you know? And I’d quite happily just make art that wasn’t music based. That’s probably where I’m headed, I would imagine. I just like making stuff; and it’s down to other people to love it, loathe it, sell it or whatever.
Do you have a favourite DJ dead or alive? Yeah, probably. I don’t really listen to music radio very much. I only hear snatches of DJs I play with. Dan Avery’s very much alive, and I like him. [laughs] As for radio DJs, I really like Jonny Trunk; not just for his DJing, but the general cut of his jib, and the records he puts out. I don’t listen to music radio really. I’m in a studio all day so when I go home I don’t listen to much music.
You’ve played Festival No. 6 before, haven’t you? Yeah, I’ve done all of them. Whether that’s 3 or 4, I can’t remember.
What’s it like? It’s good. It’s Portmeirion. It’s a strange and wonderful place, full of strange and wonderful people. There’s some really good music. Yeah, I don’t do social networking or social media, so for me it’s a good way of catching up with old friends, really. And you get the edited highlights, rather than the minutiae of their everyday life [laughs].
You’ve been involved with music journalism over the years. What impact do you think social media’s had on the trade? It’s the same as any form of art, everyone’s an artist now, everyone’s a musician. It’s part of the democratisation of art and literature, which is a double-edged sword. The fact that everyone can do it is a really good thing, but on the other hand, the fact that everyone can do it is also a very bad thing. It’s quality control; there’s just too much... I distance myself from it. I’m not totally anti-it, that would be ridiculous; but I just don’t need to live my life through that medium, really. If someone says, "There’s such and such article you’d like," I’ll read it. But I don’t really feel qualified to comment other than that it’s part of the democratisation of art, which has also meant that people expect their art for free, and people expect you to give your knowledge away for free.
You used to live in a vicarage in Leeds, didn’t you? Just outside Leeds, yeah; a village called Darrington. The old vicarage. I don’t know how old it was; I think it was probably eighteenth century. It was within a stone’s throw of the Haribo factory in Pontefract. It was a while back; various circumstances led me there. I had friends who lived in the rhubarb triangle, which is always a joy to go and visit.
Were you ever at any of the acid house parties in Blackburn? Yeah, I went to Blackburn once actually. I don’t know where we’d been but we then went to Blackburn, and we were all wearing Boy’s Own sweat shirts, which was creating a bit of tension, because you might as well of had a shirt on that said, “Hello, I’m a cockney.” [laughs] There wasn’t a great tension, but there was a little bit of weirdness going on.
I went to one in Manchester. I think it was called the Thunderdome, which was quite heavy. I got out of there quick, because I was a stranger and it was on this sort of council estate I was being set up for a right royal drubbing. But I realised what was going on. These guys were sending girls over to talk to me or dance in front of me; I could see it going on, so I just thought, ‘OK, I’m out of here!’ I used to play at the Orbit in Morley too, which was pretty full on.
I believe you played the Hacienda a good bit? Yeah, apparently so, according to Peter Hook’s book, yeah. My girlfriend was reading 'How Not To Run A Club' a few years ago, and she said, "Oh, there’s a list of all the times you played at the Hacienda." I was like," I don’t remember that one, don’t remember that one." But yeah, according to Peter’s Hook’s book. Better refer to that than me; I don’t really remember. I am worthy, apparently: someone showed me a picture of down by the canal near where the Hacienda used to be, where there’s a big sculpture with everyone’s names on it that played there, and my name’s on it. I felt quite a warm glow inside when I saw that picture.
Do you have any memories of the club? Yeah, I do. There’s a couple of stories, but I’d rather not. [laughs] My abiding memories involve criminality, and there’s been enough of those stories about the Hacienda over the years. It was pretty mind blowing, but it could be a pretty scary place too.
Do you pack different music for a festival than you do for a club? Sometimes the crowds are bigger at a festival. It never depends on the festival or club; it just depends on the size of the crowd. Sometimes subtlety goes out the window...the bigger the crowd, the lower the chance of any subtlety. I never play music I don’t like, but you can go a lot deeper and weirder with 150 people in a sweaty basement than with 5,000 people in a tent in the middle of a field. Each have their plus points, but I’d rather hear any music in a small venue than a stadium. I’m still luckily not playing to many more than 1,000 people or 2,000 people, so it’s not like I have to really lower the bar because I have 30,000 people to entertain.
Do you still enjoy playing techno as much as you used to? Well, I don’t even know what techno is, what is it? I don’t know. I like dance music made with machines, always have done, always will do. Who knows what it is? To some it’s records made in Detroit at certain times, to other people it’s something else. To a kid that listens to Disclosure and doesn’t know the history, it’s probably something else entirely. A lot of people, sadly, when you say techno, think of something heavy and soulless, which is a bit of a shame. I just like sleazy, funky records made with machines. But I always have done. There’s certain rockabilly records that are using the burgeoning electric guitar technology, and spring reverbs, and tape delays, and stuff like that - so yeah, any music made with knackered old machines, really.
Are you playing much of the same stuff you always did combined with new releases and your own productions? Yeah, absolutely. This weekend is A Love From Outer Space, so I’m listening to lots of stuff that’s sub one hundred twenty. But I’m having a big record cull. I’m getting rid of loads of records; I do it every now and again. I’m just going through stuff from 15 or 20 years ago, and I’ve found a few little things.
Obviously you have to decrease the tempo drastically, but I’m finding a lot of things from, sort of, ‘95 that if you take them to minus eight you know you’re gonna have people coming up to you and asking, “Is this new?” And at the risk of sounding patronising, you have to say, “Well no, actually it was made before you were born.” [laughs] But that’s the great thing; it’s timeless music. You get someone who’s probably sort of twenty or something saying, “What’s this?” and you say, “It’s made in 1990,” and their eyes light up, and say, ”Fuck, this makes sense.” Timeless music. My set this weekend will be a mix of old and new. But hopefully, whether it’s old or new, it still sounds like it comes from the future.
That's great, thank you, Andrew. No problem. You're welcome.
Andrew Weatherall plays back to back with Ewan Pearson, at Festival No. 6 on Saturday, September 6.
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