“All I know is diminishing returns”: dispatches from the mind of Anton Newcombe
Anton Newcombe and the music he creates is the modern equivalent of the pyramids.
We see them, we recognise their beauty, and we can somewhat comprehend the fact that a genius mind is involved, but what goes on inside, the process behind the creation of such beauty, remains a mystery. The difference is that I can’t interview a pyramid, but I can sit down and have a 30-minute chat with Newcombe over Zoom. The result? More questions than answers.
Before the interview, research was done, and warnings were issued. “Be careful when talking about Dig!” was one of them. Reading the stories about Newcombe, his career, and the chaos that is The Brian Jonestown Massacre only made our chat seem more daunting. There are so many questions, but also many sore spots, so many points that have already been touched upon but not followed up by journalists in the past, so many dark places I’m not sure he’s keen to shine a light on.
The moment arrived, and as I sat in front of my laptop, notebook out, Zoom screen loading, I gazed at the 30-plus questions I had written and wondered which few I might actually ask.
When the screen eventually focused, I can only describe the person who stared back at me as a rock star. Newcombe sits with a cigarette in his mouth, a Stetson perched upon his head, and a white shirt unbuttoned, revealing a faded chest scar from a double heart bypass surgery he had little over a year ago. I can’t remember which of us said hello first, or if indeed either of us did, but I was definitely in pole position to ask, “How are you?”
After finding a comfortable spot to hold his phone in, Newcombe replied, “You want the honest answer?” And then promptly asked me to strike his honest answer from the record.
Similar to the pyramids he represents, Newcombe speaks in hieroglyphics: I understand most of what I’m hearing, but piecing it together cohesively is another thing. He was extremely polite and funny, and the chaotic nature of his answers seems to reflect his creative process trickling through and impacting his everyday life. This is a mind littered with ideas, opinions, and philosophies, so when he tries to explain them to you, the best thing you can do is hang on and hope you understand.
So, here we go.
I enjoyed speaking with Newcombe and getting a glimpse into his busy brain, but it is tricky to lay it out in a way that flows for you to read. I’m not interested in moving his answers around or cutting things short in the interest of a linear article. Instead, here are the words as I experienced them: a glimpse into the mind of a musical genius, a stream of consciousness courtesy of Anton Newcombe, the soul of The Brian Jonestown Massacre.
On the road and bigger than ever
“Sometimes I’ll hit a pub, have a drink or two, sneak away, cos then I won’t be drinking at all”.
Our conversation begins with his recent European tour with The Brian Jonestown Massacre and the toll life on the road can take on your body. No one better understands how hard it is to tour than Newcombe. He has been doing it for decades, alternating through 40 different band members in the process, who have quit or been fired after heated arguments, and frustrating audiences as guitars are tuned and songs are restarted because of Newcombe’s perfect pitch and affinity for flawlessness.
“And sometimes I’ll have one or two, maybe, but I’m not drinking anymore during the shows or on the bus or anything. It was just getting too mental,” he says, “We used to tour like 57 shows in a row or something, so you’re just six weeks on the bus. We’d play at some of these breweries or distilleries or something in America, ‘Here, take this clear Rye Whiskey we made, we wanna know what you think’, and you could get shitfaced on a whole bottle of it. By the time I got to Australia, I had someone in my band trying to kill me, it was like, ‘Fuck this, no more of that’.”
Despite the haphazard nature of some of these tours, the band’s recent stint around Europe was their best yet. “We sold out so many places. Most of them were the biggest places we’ve ever played solo in the UK and Ireland,” says Newcombe, “All the grand theatres and all that stuff. I mean, we had already played Albert Hall in Manchester before, a couple of those places we’d played before, but there were a lot of really great towns and people showing up. It’s definitely on the upswing.”
“I’m trying to see if I can even do this”
While the band’s tour was their most successful to date, it didn’t come without its criticism. Many who reviewed or simply posted about the shows hurled complaints at Newcombe about the gigs being slow or the songs taking too long to get started. To that, Newcombe has two responses:
“A couple of people were critiquing me. There’s a couple different issues. Sometimes people were like ‘Oh they take so long between songs tuning’,” he recalls, elaborating, “First of all, we play three 12 strings from the ‘60s that are older than me, and you kind of want them in tune, because that’s a lot of strings to be out of tune […] And if people would ever take the time to notice, it’s not me tuning, I’m not doing that, it’s the other guys.”
He continued, “And then people were like, ‘Oh yeah, they play kind of slow’, you know, ‘a little bit slower energy-wise’. It’s like, well, you know, also, that’s not always me, sometimes that’s the drummer, sometimes you just get what you get. But without blaming him, I also had a double bypass. I’m trying to see if I can even do this. Sorry that you’re the test subjects, but I’m 57, and they just pulled my heart out and put me on a life plug, you know?”
He is adamant that criticisms in the press don’t bother him. His music has stood the test of time already, and it will continue to do so, but the opinions of others probably won’t.
The Dig! Effect
Dig! is a documentary released in 2004 that showcases the chaotic lives of members of The Brian Jonestown Massacre and The Dandy Warhols throughout the 1990s and early 2000s. Many call it one of the greatest music documentaries of all time, as there is little to no explanation about why it has been made and what it is trying to tell you. Instead, you are dropped into the lives of these bands and get to experience everything that they do in what feels like real time.
I haven’t read much into the film, so I don’t know what people say about it, but I believe it’s a tale of jealousy that lies at the heart of any creative endeavour. On the one hand, The Dandy Warhols are jealous of Anton and Jonestown Massacre because they can’t write music as well as they do. On the other hand, Anton is jealous of the former because he can’t seem to find the success that they have. That’s at the heart of the documentary, but surrounding that are fistfights, drugged-up bust-ups and parties, arguments with bandmates and audience members, and all the drama you would expect from a rock band.
Newcombe hates the movie. I don’t think he hates it because of the light in which it shows him. I think he is so connected with his music and believes in his vision so much that the idea of anybody finding out about it through any medium other than the sound itself is blood-curdling. It was made during a period when he was trying to perfect his art, and in doing so, he made a separate piece of art that ended up becoming more successful.
“Fuck, I don’t wanna talk about that fucking movie, but it seems to me like they put that film back together and now they’re following behind me and hoovering up cash”.
He continues, “It’s cheap as chips to rent a showing, like, a ten o’clock showing at a local theatre […] they stream that shit now. So, it’s like cheap as chips, cheaper than me bringing out one of the concerts I play at. You try to get the hall and all the tax and insurance, and Live Nation on board, and get the tour bus and all the money out front, you know, it takes a lot of money to do that. It doesn’t take jack shit to rent a theatre. Less than your cousin having a wedding.”
He explains further, “So, they’re just following along, hoovering up cash, going ‘Oh, those guys just sold out all this stuff, let’s just release the film and see’. But anyway, the people behind that are obviously doing PR work, and they’re putting money into that. I have alerts, like Yahoo alerts or whatever, Google alerts, so anytime anybody talks about me, or talks shit about me, it pops into my email. […] And they’re just trying to say everything possible to get under my skin; it’s not even factual. It’s not even worth me slapping the ten grand down to go to court for libel, you know what I mean?”
“Even with Joel, [Gion, the band’s tambourine player] narrating the thing. I chose not to write a book but I’m the one who knows my motives, I’m the one who knows exactly what happened, a lot of the other shit is just speculation. He said, she said. If you know history, history is just his story, it was never meant to be like this documentary, like David Attenborough or some stuff. It’s just like, this is us against the Persians, this is what we think of them, you know? […] So, let’s get off that subject. I don’t care what people think, but it’s just another round of bullshit for me to live through.”
“Is that how I fucking look when I’m flying?”
Anton didn’t get off the subject; he had more to say.
“It really does affect people, you know?” he expounds on a different side of it, “I got, and then I’ll change the subject, you know, they’re talking about, ‘blah blah blah heroin’ or some shit. Well fuck, they gave me basically a million bucks on a record deal, I was in and out of that shit in two years. I was doing it by myself in the Hollywood Hills, you know? In Rural Canyon with the movie stars and all that shit. I mean, Johnny Depp and Kate Moss lived down below me, and Bob Dylan’s son lived in the next house up from me on the hill. Above him, it was like Marilyn Manson or some shit.”
He goes on, “I was in rehab with fucking Robert Downey Junior, even though you’re not supposed to say that, and he got out of his shit too, and look at him now, how proud everybody is of him, Iron Man and having his family and all that shit. But you don’t hear that all the fucking time? And he was a total mess! When I was in rehab with him […] I saw him in a little kitchenette, talking to him for a minute, and he was higher than the sun. I could tell how smart he was, and it was like a mirror to me. I was like, ‘Is that how I fucking look when I’m flying? Is this how I come off?’ Not to disparage him, I have total respect.”
“Like I said, I don’t care about anything, really, I mean, God, there’s a lot of people who are straight as an arrow that I have zero respect for in this world. The president of the United States should do some fucking drugs. […] Musk is on ketamine; it’s not helping him, so scratch another one off the list. He needs to go to Bristol, you know? Check out the raves. Anyway, let’s get off all these subjects, and I’ll let you talk again.”
What if he were the last genius on Earth?
We were speaking that day to discuss The Brian Jonestown Massacre’s two new songs, ‘Makes Me Great’ and ‘Out of Body’, which are both outstanding. They sound like the two ends of the spectrum within psychedelic music, as ‘Makes Me Great’ creates an expansive sound, putting the listener in a pocket and letting them sit there for a while.
On the other hand, ‘Out of Body’ is more chaotic, with time changes, various effects, shredding solos and sporadic rhythm.
“…it’s like a struggle, because I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to write another song. I have to make something that I like, first of all.”
They’re well worth a listen, and they’re the by-product of one of Newcombe’s writing sessions, where he sits down and forces himself to make music before he finds his flow state, after which composition becomes as natural as breathing. But why the drastic measures?
He believes his talent will not last forever, and every writing session is a pursuit of artistic endeavour alongside a thrilling test of fate. His talent remains while so many others have faded, and it begs the question whether he may one day be the last genius on Earth?
“When I sit down, and I’m writing music, I mean, there’s a couple of different ways that they come about. If you look around, this is sort of my workshop; I don’t use a desk, it’s all old stuff. There’s all these old amps and a bazillion guitars and drums, keyboards, just everything,” he points out, “So, there’s one way I work, and I sit down, and I make music, and it doesn’t matter what it is, right? Just trying to get my head around it, it doesn’t matter what style it is, it doesn’t matter anything, it’s just the sounds. It could be electro, doesn’t matter, right?”
He expands further, “But then another thing happens, I call it like ‘A Purple Patch’, and I just get rolling, and I can bang out just like that single, completely recorded, written, recorded, done the vocals, every single thing in three hours, and then it’s off to be mixed. I kind of record like King Tubby, kind of old school, I’m not looking to ever be like Nigel Godrich and Radiohead, because I can still do that, you know? They can have me. I could still go to Radiohead with some hot shit, whatever, and have this perfect recording.”
“So anyway, I get on this roll, and when I’ve done 50, 60, 70 songs, I just drop it. It’ll be either about me being on tour or just lying around, doing something else. I think it’s healthy. And then when I have to start again, like now or whatever, it’s like a struggle, because I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to write another song. I have to make something that I like, first of all.”
“All I know is that every band gets crappy, so it’s always that wondering, like you’re rolling the dice for when that day comes. But all I know is diminishing returns, it doesn’t matter if you’re George Best or whatever, one day you see it and it’s not happening anymore. That’s what I know about life, and I’m quite old…
…But I’m still doing it.”
