The Stands - Chelmsford, UK, Summer 2003
By: Toby L
'God... the last eighteen months? It's a difficult one...'
Try making Howie Payne, frontman of one of the UK's fastest rising, organically evolving, non-hyped groups - The Stands - assess the merits of the past year and a half, and - understandably - he's stumped.
After all, where does one start? The two top-40 singles, obtained after nothing more than a slew of aiding support-slots and bubbling word-of-mouth enticement; an attachment to the staple-scene of the 21st Century - that of The Liverpool 2K3: an age where The Coral are kings, The Bandits princes, and Shack godfathers, a veritable batch of henchman similarly lined for success in the wings; and plaudits from the likes of Oasis' Noel Gallagher, with whom they shared a stage at their native Liverpool's legendary Royal Court.
'The gigging before this whole period was different,' Payne continues, smoking dreamily, secure in the vacuum of a backstage porta-cabin at this year's V Festival in Chelmsford, Essex, 'as my brother from The Zutons (Sean) was on drums, Bobby from The Hokum Clones was on bass, and different people were always filling in...'
A kind of super-group?
'Nah... the way we were at times, a stupid-group, more like,' he grins. 'It was great the current line-up all playing together for the first time, though - and playing the Royal Court as support to Oasis in such early stages.
'Also appearing on 'This Is Music' on television - that was a massive thing for us, because that was when we met Dean, our bass-player, and it was the start of when we began to get unveiled to people beyond Liverpool, because most people there had already been aware of us and what we were doing, as we played a lot of gigs at the Bandwagon (key breeding-ground for new talent up north). 'This Is Music' was big, because it led to our demo being passed on to Noel, and labels such as BMG and Echo.
'Also, on a personal level,' he proceeds, sentimentally, 'on the bill that day were The Zutons, The Hokum Clones, The Bandits, Tramp Attack and The Coral, plus ourselves - a Wednesday afternoon or something. And although we'd all played with each other at some point or other before, to see how it was creeping out to a wider audience was so exciting.'
Howie speaks with inspiring vigour. His is the enthusiasm that's most immediately infectious, backed with anecdotes galore and sunglasses that quite probably twinkle in just the right light. Coupled with the not-so-hidden truth that his Stands are the providers of the most endearing, wistful indie-jangle-pop this side yet of the 00's, and the country, let alone anywhere else, could be claimed his soon enough.
Like any great songwriter, his beginnings are humble, yet of no less intrigue.
'I was a troublemaker at school,' he reminisces, smirking cheekily. 'I did my own thing, but wasn't given too much stick; my head was never thrown down the toilet too much. But I just didn't get on with teachers, and so I was a bit of a pest. I ended up getting expelled - they tried making me run around a field with no f**king shoes on during a cross-country run, but I couldn't see the point of it; I said to the teacher, 'If you do it, I'll do it, too.' Obviously, he took offence to this, and brought my mother in and, well, I guess they didn't expel me... He just said, 'It was best for everyone' if I left. If you're 13 or 14, like I was, and an offer comes up like that, you just agree.'
He smiles boyishly once again, before trying to defend the action, with an arguably fair case.
'I think, now, if I was in school, I'd do pretty well, but I just always saw it teaching about stuff to the side of the point, to a room full of people they expect all to be interested in the same thing. There should be a more individual approach to it - then people such as musicians could be cultivated more; I got thrown out of my music-class for playing drums like Keith Moon, well, at least I was trying to. The guy said, 'That's no way to play 'Silent Night', mate - get out.'
Scholastic-antics aside, it was the following events in the Paynes' lives that no doubt secured much of the spark now present in the band's produce, let alone Howie's personal influence.
'My family immigrated to America when I was pretty young, though. We lived in New York for a long time, in Queens, and that's when I first got into The Velvet Underground and Neil Young, The Byrds, and Hendrix. Where we grew up was quite a Latin area - Jackson Heights; I haven't been there for seven years now - I keep hearing it's been radically cleared up, and that I'd barely recognise the place, which is quite funny. A lot of good people lived there; I had a friend that was half-Cuban, half-Irish called Eddie Murragan, and he used to take me down to Times Square to hang out, and I heard a lot via that connection... A lot of music was different over there to what was going on in England. But, you know, we were able to hear what else was going on - The Stone Roses, The La's, and stuff - but what with more radio-stations over there, it was easier to tune into what was happening everywhere.
'There was a record-shop at the top of our street; me and my brother used to go there and try and pick up the latest stuff, or go down to the (East) Village to see what was happening. The first place I ever played was in Washington Square Park, too, where I busked, at around the age of 15... Fragments of what were written then have since passed through into present stuff, but nothing as a whole-piece - things have changed so much; only when you get something recorded do you have a definitive version of a song, and - even then - I like to vary versions.
'It wasn't until I got back to Liverpool that I got into the idea of playing in groups, and that. Over there, it was just a couple of people that could half play versions of 'Stairway To Heaven', whilst we busked on 59th Street, and near the subway-station. We figured out that we only needed to learn and play three songs, because the tube would come in and stop, and then leave again, and there'd be different people... At first, though, we'd learnt around hundred songs, mainly easy ones and folk-tunes, and that's how the origins of it came about for us.
'I'm not sure how I've progressed in the way of style,' Howie concludes on the subject, joking, 'but I know a lot more chords now... But when anyone starts, I think the style is already there within them, but it's just the ability that's lacking. The old notion of playing more and more is due to the fact that the ability soon links up with your heart or what you want to do, and you can express yourself more easily - and you don't get frustrated so much.'
And such an everyman, street-level warmth resonates through each and every track of The Stands' repertoire; whether the angelic, doting pop of 'I Need You' or Lee Mavers-esque, upcoming, third single 'Here She Comes' (the sure-fire, early-career clincher), let alone more elaborate, up-tempo frolics, this is British rock 'n' roll at its most tuneful and classically crafted. The line-up complete via pre-mentioned bassist Dean Ravera, guitarist Luke Thomson and drummer Steve Pilgrim, Payne is justifiable in any hidden confidence.
Live, as with the most able and impassioned enough, the band impact hardest.
'I always think about it like film and theatre,' Payne raises, distinguishing the difference between hearing a band recorded, or in present person. 'There's a certain something about going to see a play or comedian, where you've physically had to go out and see it, where there's as much a potential for it to all go wrong as there is for it to be amazing. When you see a film, however, you know it's been crafted, that they've tried to do the best thing they can with it - and it can never change, that's it. Each one is a separate medium - it's down to the individual; if people prefer to sit in and have a beer whilst listening to a record, or being more hands-on with the experience, that's up to them... We try to do the record live as much as we can, because what we do is what we do; there ain't many special effects to throw in there.
'The whole thing with the group is there's a certain human element to it; a guitar goes out of tune - well, yeah, that's what happens, and the drummer will drop a stick,' he explains. And to see how a band copes with it - that's when you're able to judge and see how a band starts flying. You can't capture that on record. You can get moments of brilliance recorded - 'My Generation', for example - but you're still left with a nagging feeling, 'What would 'My Generation' have sounded like in a little club when it'd just been written?' I'd bet it was unbelievable.
'A record can be a representation, and the feeling can be there, but what with equipment such as Pro-Tools these days - where you can chop out things, place them there, move them here, and everything - it just got to the point where we were in the studio and said, 'No way, man - this provides us with too much choice! Let's just stick it down on tape...' 'Cos then you know where you are.'
Despite his reticence towards modern studio-equipment, at least one part of Howie Payne is still looking forward, musically at least.
'We've been talking about the next record, even though the first one isn't even out yet - we're having to wait for the machines of industry to put covers around things and everything at the moment - but we're gonna go and do the next one really soon,' he enthuses. 'We've recorded twenty-five songs for the first one, of which we weren't even sure we were gonna put 'When This River Rolls Over You' (the band's memorable debut-45) on it - we certainly didn't expect that to go top-40; it was just put out like a little meeting-place for all the people that had seen or heard of us over the past year, and wanted something to join everything together... The second one, though, we're going to look at making a lot freer, exploring more avenues on it... I'm very into John Coltrane, where sometimes the notes were wrong... but still sounded right in a strange way.
'The thing about 'perfect recordings' - I don't have a problem with those that choose to implement a lot of technology to get the ideal result - but, for us, and the bands we enjoy listening to, sometimes, you will sing out of tune, or play at the wrong speed, but it will be what was wanted at the time, and it bears the emotion of that moment.
'I played 'Jumpin' Jack Flash' to my brother the other day; you'll notice that the start of it is three times slower than the end of it, because they're having such a good time - they all sped up at the same time! If that had happened these days, it'll be more like, 'Oh no - we'll have to fix that,' but - to me - that attitude lacks spirit. If you saw Nirvana, and a part went wrong, it meant something.'
Similarly meaning something more than ever is the heritage and home-town of The Stands. Liverpool isn't happening, though - it's happening: a city not only endowed with the honour(?) of winning a gong for cultural city of brilliance and magnitude of grandeur, etc. out of the whole of Europe recently, but a town bestowed with a legion of stealthy up-and-comings, as paramount in influence as it has been since... gasp... the 60's.
'It's probably even more communal than people have written about,' confirms Payne of the scene. 'We're all just friends that play in bands - we might as well as be friends that work in an electricity-plant or a shop down the street. When the attention started coming on everybody, it was great, because we all wanted to get our music to as many people as possible, and to play as many gigs as we could, getting to the stage of making enough dough that you can do this without compromising what you do.
'If we, as a scene, were all like, 'Ah, we don't want all the attention,' then we'd all still be up in Liverpool, staying on the same level - but it'd have been selfish of us. It could have happened, because we were all enjoying ourselves just playing gigs; but there's another part of you that makes you think, 'Hey, we should do something with this - go out and make something of it.' The only negative side is that we don't all see each other as much as we'd like, because we're all in different studios or different countries, or whatever... So it's nice to do things like this (the festival today), and hang out. Hopefully, we'll all be doing well enough to be playing again next year, together.'
His point of this collective grace amidst so many esteemed contemporaries prompts another of many exhibited sidelines.
'If these records getting in the top-40, by the likes of us, The Coral, Jet, The Thrills, The Libertines, The Vines, the Liverpool lot - if it's helping the next generation of bands coming through, then there won't be just ten great bands coming through, there'll be hundreds of great acts getting attention all over the place - and there's room for it, in my opinion. It's just up to everybody else to raise their game to keep fresh and keep the records coming out, and keep gigging. People save up for gigs and CD's, and you've gotta do your best, man. It's a worldwide scene - The White Stripes are part of it as much as The Coral are, as much as Kings Of Leon, as much as The Strokes - and there's room for everybody to jump on-board.'
He swigs on a can of Red Stripe and through his wisdom, the keenness and sincerity, you're willing to engage your attention with the man for the rest of the day. Assessing his ideal year ahead, he's typically detailed and ensconcing.
'I'd like this record to do alright, so when we play live, it can get extra special - more instruments involved onstage; I have this vision where, how good would it be, if we had all these instruments onstage and no set-list, and we just play by what the mood requires, rather than going into automatic machine-mode... If you wanna do a song on piano, you go over there, if you wanna try out the banjo, you go for that.
'Otherwise, I'd like people to feel for us what I feel when I hear a great record - it's not something I can put my finger on... 'Forever Changes' (Arthur Lee & Love) is like my favourite record, and 'Pet Sounds', or 'Sgt Peppers', and I just get a special feeling when I stick those on. And I hope people get that for what we might do - that happy feeling. We haven't invented anything, we just write songs; there's no emphasis to bring down the government - it's just literally like, I'll have an idea for a song or not. It's as simple as that.
'But, amidst that simplicity, if there's something people can find amongst it to make them feel good, then that would be enough for me. If it sells well, then that's great - as long as it's out there, and it exists, that's the key; in thirty or forty years' time, someone will get it, and someone could start a band off the back of it - that's important. Some of the records that I'm into are from the turn of the century, and these guys didn't make anything, yet fast-forward to now, and I know six or seven people interested in such acts, whilst people have formed bands off the inspiration of someone like Charlie Patton.
'The main thing is that this musical thing just goes on and on, and on and on, because people need good music - they need music out there that represents every feeling they get. We won't capture every feeling that everyone will wanna have, but if we can provide some of it, and people click with it, then that's fine by me.'
As if you weren't sold already, he provides the ultimate closer.
'The key is remembering why you're doing something; the band is probably a third of the whole picture - there's also the people that work with and for the band, and then the people that are into and interested in the band, who are the final part of it... Without any one of those in the equation, you're just left there sitting and playing in your bedroom.'
The lack of intrusive ego, yet quiet assurance, coupled with an adept musicality and cluster of songs that could wrench the heart... The Stands' ascent from street-buskers and bedroom-luminaries couldn't arise any time too soon.
Artists in this article: The Stands