Black Lips, shot for SPIN's July 2011 cover by Ture Lillegraven
Or, How to Succeed in (the Music) Business Without (Looking Like You're) Really Trying (and While Occasionally Peeing in Your Best Friend's Mouth).
The Black Lips clean up just fine. Infamous for their love of scatological mischief and global misadventures as much as for their scuzzy garage-punk -- like the Monkees, only with more ketamine binges and indecent exposure -- one could be forgiven for thinking that dinner at Keens, a tony, centuries-old Manhattan steak house, on a rainy April night might result in, at the least, the ornate ceiling covered in mint jelly. And that's fine by them. Because if you're shortsighted enough to mistake their casual hedonism as barbaric or their urinating into their own or one another's mouths onstage as anything less than gestures of brotherhood, then they have you right where they want you -- underestimating them.
"You've got to be smart if you want to be stupid," says guitarist Cole Alexander, 29.
"We're professional amateurs," adds drummer Joe Bradley, 27.
Grammy-brandishing Mark Ronson may have produced nine of its 16 tracks, but to say that Arabia Mountain, the sixth album from these Atlanta-based road dogs, is destined for crossover glory is probably folly. The cause for gout-inducing celebration tonight is that it doesn't need to be -- after spending nine months a year for the past decade humping across the country and into corners of the globe no Western rock group had previously thought to grace, the Black Lips are in fact the very model of the modern working band. (Name another American indie act that considers Sardinia a regular tour stop.) All four members trade off lead vocals and write to maximize productivity, and they are proud to serve as golden reminders that when it comes to making dreams come true, that whole "stay in school, say no to drugs" thing is kinda bullshit.
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Click to enlarge
"The way I always looked at it," drawls guitarist Ian St. Pe, 33, ordering the first of several bottles of Malbec, "is that if you don't have a fallback, you can't fall back. The Rolling Stones put out 14 albums between 1964 and 1969 -- how bad do you want it? Musicians are the guys who sell us strings. Entertainers are the ones who are legendary, and we're entertainers."
Alexander's voice rises. "When Christopher Columbus and Marco Polo woke up in the morning, do you think they said, 'We want to stay in Spain and Italy'?"
"Hell no!" amens St. Pe.
"People might break their neck at our shows," Alexander says, and he means this as a point of pride, that rock shows should be immersive at all costs. "When you pee on a crowd, you're giving them your essence."
"But we ain't fuckin' puppets," says St. Pe, wagging a finger. "You're not going to see that every night."
Alexander points across the table: "Does he have strings on his arms? You have to feel it. If we don't have to pee, how are we gonna pee on those motherfuckers?"
"I pay taxes, I have a nice home," says bassist Jared Swilley, 28. "But I will pee on you maybe once in a while." Alexander nods. "It's about balance."
The banter may be as much a part of the shtick as the hijinks, but that doesn't mean it's not heartfelt or thrilling -- Chuck Berry's duck walk wasn't ad hoc either. It's one thing to risk life and limb and sanity crammed together in a fetid van for nine months a year. They travel light, with only a stouthearted tour manager in tow, and forego tour buses because of party-pooping 2:30 a.m. curfews; their concession to luxury is to spring for hotels rather than crash on floors. But commitment to Black Lips-ness is a 365-days-a-year thing, and their danger-baiting esprit de corps, which extends to an appreciation of exotic gastronomy, almost killed Ronson when they were in New York recording the album. (NB: The Black Lips have happily feasted on maggots, but St. Pe just tried lobster for the first time three months ago.)
"We ate calf's liver sashimi at a Japanese restaurant I won't name," says Swilley. "We all got sick, but Mark had a 105-degree fever."
"Two degrees more, you get brain damage," says Alexander. "We had to call his mom and rush him to the hospital. We feel we get nutrients from weird foods -- the Chinese are really into it. Then we were trying to finish this record, shitting and vomiting and singing." (Alexander in particular is playing with fire -- his notorious acid reflux has led to puke-related mishaps onstage and, very nearly, while getting his picture taken for the cover of this magazine.)
The arrival of the giant platter of raw oysters could not have been better timed. Alexander shrugs. "You only live once, man."
