Making ‘The Drift’: The mania that led Scott Walker to the spookiest album ever
Few albums in modern music can genuinely claim to exist beyond genre, beyond reason, and beyond human understanding. American singer-songwriter Scott Walker’s 13th studio album, The Drift, is one such creation. After a long hiatus following the release of his previous record, Tilt, Walker began writing The Drift in 1997. The creative process was deranged and obsessive, yet painstakingly slow, reflecting the album’s uncompromising depth and intensity.
Throughout the course of the next nine years, Walker laboriously crafted the album, fine-tuning every possible angle over and over again, every breath, every burst of static. To say the musician was ‘writing’ was, in fact, the understatement of the century: he was crafting what he believed to be a séance, summoning shadows and disturbing apparitions deep from within his psyche, a ritual that felt like he was courting with madness itself. Walker wasn’t too moved by the idea of musical experimentation; he yearned for the avant-garde, but he was chasing something far more primal – something much more twisted and tangible, as if he was peering through the cracked screen door of his own mind.
Recording The Drift was not a typical experience. Walker had long-abandoned traditional instruments and instead chose to use unconventional objects and methods to conjure up his sounds. Punching meat carcasses, smashing blocks of wood, or scraping sheets of metal to bring his nightmare-worthy visions to fruition was not out of the question. He had long searched for tones and sounds that, in his eyes, weren’t even conceivable to the average Joe recording at Electric Lady Studios.
Walker would rigidly observe everyone around him and often request that his musicians push the boundaries – if boundaries ever existed with him to begin with. Nothing became too extreme or obscure, it only fed the monster that the album was gradually turning into, or, rather, that Walker was becoming. Near its completion, studio sessions became more and more intense. He became increasingly more isolated not only from his bandmates, but the outside world in general, venturing deeper into a psychological labyrinth of fear and insecurities. Walker was a lethal drop into a dark, jagged abyss, one that would occasionally open up when things became heated during recording, only to close up again when he was visibly pleased with the work – sealed with a broad, paper-thin smile.
Upon first listen, you immediately feel claustrophobic, as if you too are being dragged into the darkness. No comforting hooks, no light, just all shade – nauseating greens, browns and blacks permeate your brain, much like the cover art. Tracks like ‘Jesse’, which imagines Elvis Presley talking to his dead twin brother, or ‘Cossacks Are’, which alludes to war crimes with abrasive, industrial noises, are a far cry from your traditional songwriting and storytelling. Almost schizophrenic in nature, there is an underlying violence and intensity that cannot be ignored. Walker’s typical baritone vocals are nowhere to be found, instead he growls, hisses and wails, stretching his voice to its uppermost limits.
Defying easy categorisation, The Drift has become a cult-classic since its release more than 18 years ago. It remains a touchstone for musical outsiders, kissed with a dusty lostness. The album solidified Walker’s reputation as an artist who, like many others, was willing to descend into a filmy, filth-laden pool of mental decay in the pursuit of art and truth, but also an artist who had almost ventured too far into the void to ever return – The Drift proving a very apt name.
