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It's pop, isn't it? For me, these are just beautiful songs that are very emotive," says Andy Watts, drummer for the Seahorses. Adds Stuart Fletcher, the English quartet's bass player: "I feel a lot from the music in this band. All the lyrics are really well written. They all mean something; it's not just ambling about. The tunes are catchy. They bring you up."
John Squire, the group's lead guitarist and principal songwriter, says of the Seahorses' debut album, Do It Yourself (Geffen Records): "It has sort of a classic sound. It sounds big, fat. The songs fit really well together as an album, which is partly due to the speed with which we recorded them."
The Seahorses spent roughly 30 days in early 1997 recording Do It Yourself at North Hollywood's Royaltone studios with producer Tony Visconti. Having collaborated with David Bowie on 10 albums, as well as recordings by T-Rex, Wings, Badfinger and Thin Lizzy, Visconti is considered a key force in the birth of contemporary English pop.
The Seahorses are somewhat reticent to characterize their music - "I think the songs speak for themselves, really," ventures singer-guitarist-songwriter Chris Helme - but Visconti has fewer reservations. "It's very advanced pop music, serious pop music," he offers. "Some of the song titles are wacky, like 'Happiness Is Egg Shaped,' but there's nothing lighthearted about the subject matter. The music lies somewhere on the border of classic pop and alternative rock. It's got that hard edge and strangeness to it, yet once you hear these songs, you'll know them. You'll remember them."
John puts this in a more personal context when he remarks on his bandmate's writing: "If I find myself whistling one of Chris' songs, I know it's because the song is memorable and not because I pored over it for hours and can't help but remember it for all the time I put in on it." This comment illuminates a new direction for John. He confesses to an "extremely precious" approach to the music he made with his former band, the Stone Roses. That outfit's final record, 1995's Second Coming - virtually all of which was written by John - was roughly a year in the making (though this can't be attributed to preciousness alone; by then the Stone Roses were mired in the creative and personal tensions that would ultimately result in their 1996 breakup).
"There were sections of the process where I felt like a cheat," says John of recording Do It Yourself. "We'd spend 10 minutes on something on which I used to spend hours. It was 'Come in and do your guitar part. Alright, play it - done. Next.' I suppose I got used to the recording process being a bit of a trial and I was waiting for that to happen again, and it didn't. It was a relief."
"I was always picking holes with the Stone Roses," he continues, "and I remember never wanting anything to be finished, always thinking something could be added or remixed. But what we're doing now seems fresh and instant. I don't mind people hearing it at any stage. I'm having more fun listening to this stuff than I did my previous work. I left the Stone Roses because I wasn't enjoying it anymore. I fancied my chances of enjoying it more with a different set of people, which has turned out to be the case. The Stone Roses was like a closed club; people we worked with sometimes felt like outsiders. With the Seahorses, everything is open, easily accessed."
The night John left the Stone Roses, Martin suggested he come to York for some consolatory drinking. They went to a pub to see a locally respected blues-rock band. John was struck by the group's bass player - Stuart. What he didn't know was that Stuart was simply filling in that night (the band's regular bassist was forced to bow out due to tendonitis); he'd learned the trio's set in a couple of hours, a task made somewhat easier by his having seen them play numerous times over the years.
John paid his respects to Stuart after the set but didn't introduce himself. Martin tracked Stuart down later and asked him to audition. "John's not just interested in playing ability," Stuart says. "He also wants to see what someone has to offer in terms of their interaction with the other players, their personality and their musical ideas. I think my stepping in with this group made him think I'd be right for a new band."
Indeed, John had noted how well Stuart seemed to fit in, so, he emphasizes, "I was amazed to find out it was his first show. He's that kind of player - I'm quite jealous." Stuart's journey to envy-inspiring chops began when he took up the violin at age six. "Once I moved to secondary school, when I was 11, they didn't have a violin for me to use and I couldn't afford one," he reports. "I went looking 'round some shops anyway and saw a bass for 50 pounds. This lad I knew said, 'I've got a band; do you want to play bass?' He'd tell me what notes to play and after four years I was semi-pro in that band. We ended up playing some of the top venues in England, 3,000-seat houses. When the group split up, I went straight on to another band. I was playing with five bands when I met John. One was a funk-jazz thing; another used to play Beatles covers, '60s stuff. I never really stuck to one style, because I knew if I did I wouldn't get as much work."
Mulling over the possibilities presented by Stuart, John and Martin left the pub for a bite to eat. Martin knew of an Italian restaurant nearby. Chief among the establishment's decor was a five-foot fiberglass sea horse. "I don't remember how the name the Seahorses popped into my head," says John, "but events kept reaffirming that it might be a good band name; I'd spot something about sea horses in National Geographic or on TV. The dream dictionary says the sea horse is a symbol for travel and adventure, which seemed very apt for a new band. So I took the sea horse in the restaurant as a sign - that clinched it.".
Martin was also instrumental in wrangling Chris into the Seahorses corral, or, more precisely, a friend of Martin's was. Chris recounts: "I knew Stuart casually and I heard he got the job as bass player. And I thought, 'Well done, Stuart,' and that was the end of it. But I was busking outside Woolworth's in York and one of Martin's mates walked past. He said John and Stuart were looking for a singer and asked if I had a tape, so I gave him one. I didn't hear anything about it for weeks, but John later came to some of my solo gigs. After one in Manchester [John's hometown], he asked me to join the band. I said, 'I'll think about it,' thought about it, and said 'Alright then.' Martin's mate said if I got the gig I'd owe him 50 quid. So I guess I owe him 50 quid."
Chris started his musical career strictly as a singer. He turned to guitar partly to provoke a fellow musician who said he should concentrate on just being a singer, and partly to become self-sufficient as a performer. "There's nothing worse if you're going out busking and your mate's not ready," he says. "You don't get out until three and you don't make any money." Busking, in fact, would become a significant source of income for Chris. "I had this long succession of jobs," he explains, "all of which turned out to be shit. I was never satisfied because I couldn't do what I wanted to do - play music. So I packed it all in and went busking. I made quite a lot of money at it. And it helps you stand in front of anybody. You've got to get the person's attention before they walk past; if you get a crowd, you want to keep them there. I used to rock it out, shout my head off. It's the same now. People pay to come and see you; it's important to acknowledge them."
Thus equipped with a singer-guitarist, lead guitarist and bassist, the Seahorses began searching for a drummer. And searching and searching. Problem was, they wanted someone who could sing harmony as well as they played drums. Finally, after many months of frustration, Stuart thought of Andy, whom he'd played with when they were teenagers; Stuart and Andy were two-thirds of a trio in which Andy sang lead and played drums. "His drumming was pretty appalling then," allows Stuart, "but he'd played in another band after that and got really good." It turned out Chris knew Andy, too, and, of course, so did Martin.
This demeanor may well be the product of a life immersed in music. Andy bought his first record at four; he got a toy drum kit at five. And though he went on to seven years of classical guitar study, he always wanted to be a drummer. "I used to sit and draw pictures of kits, big sets of drums," he remembers. "I began playing drums with a band when I was 12, just banging away, and pretty much kept at it from then on."
Fully assembled, the Seahorses commenced developing their material, John and Chris providing the impetus for songs, but the band as a whole collaborating on their form. Attests Andy: "This is the first time in years I've been in a proper band. We all encourage each other to play what we feel, and we work things out together. We have a good laugh and it feels good playing." Stuart echoes this, clarifying, "It's not like one person writes a song and tells the others what to play. Most often, John or Chris will have ideas and then come to us and we'll work on melodies and chords as a group. To me, this band is just a load of mates who play about." Says Chris: "Everybody's sort of left to their own devices. If it works, it works; if it doesn't, somebody or other's going to pipe up and say it doesn't work."
As far as his songwriting contribution, John maintains, "I made a conscious effort to keep it as concise as possible and patted myself on the back if I turned in a song under three minutes." He's also pleased to be sharing songwriting duties with Chris, whose songs, he feels, travel some of the same emotional ground he's covering. "The fact that I left the band I was with for 10 years and certain events in my love life made it inevitable that I'd be working through some rubbish. There are definitely themes of separation and rebirth, though there are songs on this record that have nothing to do with that soppy stuff. I've found there are songs of Chris' that I identified with very strongly. Sometimes you can just pick up on the mood or emotions being conveyed and translate it into your own language."
The Seahorses' creative kinship further gelled when they played a series of surprise gigs during the fall of 1996. These outings were almost as much a surprise for the band as for the audience. "Our managers thought it would be a mistake to tell us where we were playing," says John," because we'd talk and word would get 'round and we'd end up getting the press down [the Stone Roses were enormously popular in the U.K.; curiosity runs high about John's new project]. So we arranged this system where we'd meet up in the rehearsal room and just be driven off somewhere. We'd try to guess where we were going to play; it was fun." These blind jaunts - in England, Scotland and Wales - were also excellent preparation for the studio.
The Seahorses' A&R exec, Tony Berg, had earlier presented the band with a list of possible producers. They listened to the records the candidates had produced and John was particularly excited by a T. Rex compilation. It spanned 10 years, but Tony Visconti had produced all the songs. Recalls John: "There was a question mark over whether he'd be right for the job or even interested, but Tony [Berg] seemed to think he'd be a really good bet on both a personal and musical level, and it turned out to have been an inspired choice."
Asked why, John elucidates: "Tony's a musician; he plays piano, recorder, guitar and bass. He writes and sight-reads. He's an arranger and conductor. He brought an enhanced musicality to the recording. And, needless to say, he's got very good ears; he knows what's right. He wasn't dictatorial in any way, but if something was wrong, he'd tell us. If, say, a backing vocal needed changing, he'd suggest a change and we'd work it out right then and there and 10 minutes later it would be on tape." Says Andy: "Tony brought different textures to the songs. He helped us experiment with vocal sounds and guitar layering. He suggested we put tambura [an Asian instrument resembling a lute that produces a distinctive drone] on one track. And his string arrangements are just gorgeous."
"This was my first album," reveals Stuart. "I went into the studio quite nervous. I'd never worked with a producer before, and Tony just made us all feel relaxed. He made us feel like he was part of the band." As far as Chris is concerned, the greatest benefit of working with Visconti was being able to trust his judgment: "He made us feel confident about what we were doing."
It is a trust Visconti worked hard to earn. "When I heard the band's first demos," he says, "it was just guitar and vocals, but I loved the songs. Later on, I recorded all their rehearsals and analyzed everything as carefully as possible. I was brought in to help sort out the possibilities. I usually serve as my own engineer, but I didn't touch one knob on this album. It was a joy to be able to work with [engineer] Rob Jacobs [U2, Eagles]; he's brilliant. His presence allowed me to act as a fifth member of the band. Even so, it's hard to become a fifth member; you have to prove yourself. In the beginning, my ideas didn't really get a 'yes' or a 'no,' just a lot of 'hmmm's. But after a few days, when the ideas started to work, the band began to trust me. We had to go through that. I knew they had a dream and it was up to me as producer to help them organize the elements of the dream and make it come true, and trust is a major part of that."
John's appraisal of Do It Yourself, released June 3, validates Tony's assessment: "It goes beyond what I'd expected. It's not unusual when you're recording, especially when you're starting out, to feel slightly disappointed with the result. You say to yourself, 'I thought we were better than that,' or 'I thought that was a better song, but we've not done it justice.' The reverse is true with this album; I like these songs better now than when we began."
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Albums
| Year | Label | Title | |
| 1997 | Geffen Records | Do It Yourself | |
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