E in the LA Times

E! The True Hollywood Story!
The Eels' last album turned mental illness, suicide, and death into pop
magic. Their new CD is lighter, prettier, and more concerned with survival.
Is E having fun yet?
By Bill Holdship
It's late January and the Eels are onstage at the Roxy. It's the band's first
local performance in two years, although group leader E often shows up at
Club Largo unannounced to try out new material. In fact, with the exception
of E and drummer Butch Norton, the only other permanent member of this group,
the Eels are a completely different band than they were the last time they
played Los Angeles. A six-piece unit, the current "honorary Eels" include
artist-in-her-own-right Lisa Germano on strings and things; Probyn Gregory,
one of the most valuable pop players in town (recently part of the Brian
Wilson tour), on horns and assorted instruments like banjo; reed player David
Lhebo; and stand-up bassist Orest Balaban. Most of the people onstage can
play at least four different instruments. It's a beautiful sound they produce
live and probably one of the most musical the pop world is apt to experience
this year.
The show has the sense of a true artistic event, yet one that's also full of
fun and mirth and lightness. Gregory wears a Santa Claus suit; the always
lovely and graceful Germano has glitter on her face. The concert even begins
with an overture. ("Butch had a dream that we started the concerts with an
overture, featuring bits and pieces of various Eels songs played in different
styles," explains E. "So we decided to do it.") E alternates between guitars
-- electric and acoustic -- and an acoustic upright piano. Halfway through
the set, the charismatic (in a modest sort of way) lead artist acknowledges
that he realizes the band is debuting this lineup in front of a Los Angeles
audience and then passes out copies of the Hollywood Reporter, Billboard, and
Daily Variety to the tables in front to share, just in case "anyone gets
bored."
The band plays material, much of it reinterpretations, from all three Eels
recordings -- Beautiful Freak, Electro-Shock Blues, and their forthcoming,
wonderful Daisies of the Galaxy. "Grace Kelly Blues" sounds even more like
early Tom Waits-meets-Dylan circa Blood on the Tracks than it does on the new
album. But in true artistic temperament fashion, the band plays several new
songs during this 25-song set that won't be available on the forthcoming LP,
including typically E-titled gems like "Suicide Life," "Cheater's Guide," and
"Fucker," not to be confused with "Motherfucker," the following song in the
set and probably the one that has DreamWorks releasing the new album in
"Explicit" and "Nonexplicit" versions. Perhaps most telling, though, is that
the song that follows the overture, essentially the opening song of the show,
is titled "Feelin' Good."
Now, this wouldn't seem so strange if it was a song by many other performers.
But this is from E, an artist whose last LP documented the breakdown and
suicide of his older sister as well as the long illness and eventual death of
his mother. What amazed both critics and fans alike about the album was how E
was able to take such tragic events and turn them into pop music that was
both beautiful and cathartic. And with titles like "Elizabeth on the Bathroom
Floor," "Going to Your Funeral (Parts I and II)," "Hospital Food," "The
Medication Is Wearing Off," "Cancer for the Cure," and the title track, the
subject matter of Electro-Shock Blues was very gloomy, indeed.
Although "Feelin' Good" isn't featured on Daisies of the Galaxy, which hits
stores March 14, the sentiment pretty much sums up the spirit of the new
album. (The current single, "Mr. E's Beautiful Blues," is actually a "bonus
track" tacked onto the end of the album. "It really didn't fit into my
artistic concept," explains E. "I didn't want it on the album, but the label
kept insisting, so I finally gave in. The result is, they finally let me know
last week that it's official: I'm now considered one of those 'difficult
artiste' types by my record label.")
Again produced by E, the album was recorded by the two core Eels, with the
assistance of Peter Buck and longtime pal Grant Lee Phillips. ("Essentially,
what you have on the album is the bass played by people who are nonbass
players -- either Grant, me, or Peter. Mostly Grant, because he turned out to
be a great bass player.") Not that the material has lost any of its edge or
even, at times, its misanthropic bent. "I can't stand in line at the
store/The mean little people are such a bore/But it's all right if you act
like a turd/'Cause I like birds," E sings on the hilarious and appropriately
titled "I Like Birds."(He later explains the song is a tribute to his late
mom. "You wouldn't know that if I didn't tell you. But birds were her big
thing. I wish she could hear that song. After she died, I brought back all
her bird books and put her bird feeders in my backyard. I was sitting there
one day and just thought, 'This is pretty fun.' ") "Estate Sale" is about
going back to his family home in suburban Virginia to clear it out after the
death of the last two family members. But even the New Orleans jazz funeral
brass that opens the gorgeous "Grace Kelly Blues," the first track on Daisies
(and the third song of the Eels' live set), signals a sense of emotional
redemption -- which is fitting since Electro-Shock Blues ended with the line:
"Maybe it's time to live."
"Daisies of the Galaxy sounds like a very pretentious, prog-rock kind of a
title," E later explains. "But the title is to be taken very, very
literally." The album actually has two songs about daisies -- the other's
called "A Daisy Through Concrete" -- and E claims he originally had three. "A
daisy is a good symbol for what the whole record represents. And a daisy
through concrete is an image I like -- a delicate but strong and beautiful
thing trying to break through all the funk. [The title song] is based around
a short story I wrote about a kid going to a movie theater called the Galaxy.
We know there are a few of those. And there is a flower bed out front. These
two young kids go to see Terminator 2, and it's way too apocalyptic for one
of them. It really upsets him. So afterwards, his friend gives him a daisy
out of the bed to try to cheer him up. So I just see a daisy as a symbol of
something to cheer you up."

The day before the Roxy show, E -- born Mark Oliver Everett -- is discussing
both Electro-Shock Blues and Daisies of the Galaxy over a chicken burrito at
Allegria, a Mexican restaurant in a ministrip near the Silver Lake/Echo Park
border. Things have been hectic because two days after the show, the Eels are
flying to Europe -- "We're landing in Germany in February! What fun!" -- for
a long tour of that continent, where the band's material is better
appreciated. "We're pretty invisible here in America it often seems," he
acknowledges. "But we've got something going in Europe." Perhaps invisible is
overstating his lack of American success, though. "Novocaine for the Soul,"
from the Eel's debut album, went to number one on Billboard's Modern Rock
charts. "Yeah, I guess," chuckles the seemingly always calm and mild-mannered
singer-songwriter. "It was an 'alternative' hit or whatever. Which basically
means alternative to selling records."
E certainly realized going into it that an album about sickness -- both
mental and physical -- and death, no matter how sweet it often seemed, was
probably not going to be a huge success in the pop music mainstream. The CD's
inside sleeve featured the drawing of a gravestone with the words "Everything
Is Changing" written on it. This is something many people don't want to be
reminded of. Ever. "Well, that's why...," he begins and then changes course.
"We were offered a lot more money to go to other labels. I got a lot of
flack. There are still people working with us who think to this day that I
was a total idiot. But I wanted to work with [DreamWorks label head] Lenny
Waronker. They have some of the only people, maybe the only people running a
major label, who still love music. So I was happy to take less money to be
able to do what I want to do.
"When I finished Electro-Shock Blues, I took it in [to the label]. And Lenny
was great. He gets into his listening stance and doesn't move until it's
over. When it's over, he comes up for air. He stood up, shook my hand, and
said, 'Thanks.' He didn't say anything about it going to be a hard sell. But
I know he was thinking that. And I really appreciate that he didn't make it
an issue with me. So I always wanted to work with him. I always sort of saw
myself as maybe being like the Randy Newman of a label; this guy who makes
these crazy records that only a core group of people like. And, of course,
Lenny worked with Randy Newman. But now that they've signed Randy Newman [to
DreamWorks], I don't know that I'm so safe in that role!" he laughs.
"It seems that Electro-Shock Blues always gets the one-sentence review of
what a downer it is. But to me, it's the most positive record I think I'll
probably ever make. The new album is happier, more blatantly on the surface.
But I think that Electro-Shock Blues is even more positive because it's such
a hard-won victory at the end."
One would think that a happier-sounding album like Daisies of the Galaxy
should be a much easier sell to audiences at large, but E -- who looks much
younger than his 36 years ("I have this strange disease where I look young
but feel old; people say I look 26 or 27, but I feel 90") -- isn't so sure.
"Have you heard KROQ lately?" he asks. "I just started listening to it the
other day for the first time in a long time, and it's all...you know. We made
an entirely different album at the same time we recorded Daisies. And it was
probably way more commercial. If I had any sort of commercial timing, I'd
have put that one out instead. It has a lot of loud guitars and it's kind of
scary sounding. This one is very light and pretty. And I imagine a kid who
listens to KROQ would be bewildered. Imagine one of those children of the
Korn -- and that's Korn with a K, of course -- the second they put this on
and heard the horns, they'd be like: 'What the fuck is this? Get it out of my
CD player!' But young, white teenage boys are full of rage these days, and
they need to get it out."
So who is the Eels audience? "If I could pinpoint what an Eels fan seems to
me -- the ones that I meet and the ones I keep running into are
manic-depressives. It's always something like, 'Hi, I'm a big fan of your
music...and I've now been awake for several days.' The hardest thing about it
is I don't think we can ever become all that popular because our fans don't
have any friends. So there isn't a lot of word of mouth about us. But, you
know, I'm also proud of this fact. I had a friend who recently had a mental
breakdown. He went into the hospital, and there was this girl there who had
obviously slit her wrists. And the first thing he noticed about her was an
Eels CD poking out of her purse. So I'm very proud and happy if we do indeed
comfort people. It's not why I do it, but it's a great by-product. I would
think someone going through a bad time might not want to hear more about the
subject or deal with it, but some people, I guess, are willing to dive into
it and ultimately find it to be a comforting and rewarding experience."

E has now lived in Los Angeles for a decade. Since the death of his family,
he now considers it home. He moved here -- Echo Park, to be exact -- from the
aforementioned Virginia suburb. "There was no artistic community whatsoever,"
he recalls. "Everyone was either a drug addict or a redneck. Or both, which
usually ended up being the case and was the worst possible combination. I
think I wasted so much of my life there, but I didn't know what to do with my
life and didn't really care, like everyone else around me. I was a drummer.
That's all I did for years was play drums, from the age of six to 18. That
was my entire identity -- the young kid who played drums really good with all
these older bands. That's why it's so weird to be the old member of the group
these days. Toward the end of high school, I got a four-track machine and got
into writing songs. They were terrible, but just like now, I kept trying to
get better. I'm really not all that talented as a writer or musician, but I
do work hard.
"I ultimately realized there must be a better life somewhere else, so I
loaded everything I owned into my car and drove to L.A. Looking back, it was
really crazy. I didn't know a single person in California. There was a big
question mark as to whether there was even going to be a career of any kind
at that point. So I spent a few miserable years out here, working jobs I
hated. My car would break down, and I'd end up working at the garage. But I
kept making my four-tracks. I made a new tape every week, and always had one
in my pocket to give people, though nothing came of it. But then I got signed
and started making records, and it made life a little easier for me. I could
quit all my day jobs and make four-tracks all the time."
Prior to signing with Mercury Records, for which he recorded two albums under
the moniker E -- 1991's A Man Called E and 1993's Broken Toy Shop -- E had
never performed in front of an audience as anything other than a drummer. He
made his first appearance at Club Largo, and he seems to recall that he may
have been the club's very first booking. "But I wasn't really fully developed
yet," he claims. "I got lumped into the 'pop' category back then, which I
never intended."
Indeed, publicists at the time were pitching him to writers as yet another
Brian Wilson heir. "That was in reference to my social life," he deadpans.
"The ironic thing is, I got more into Brian Wilson later, around the time I
was recording Beautiful Freak. After all the comparisons, I really started
listening to him. I saw his show last year at the Wiltern, and it was a
beautiful thing, a really great experience. I paid a hundred bucks for that
ticket, and it was totally worth it. He ended with a solo version of 'Love &
Mercy,' and it was just so perfect. You realized that this guy truly believes
that's all the world needs. I found it to be a heartening experience. And
who'd have thought he'd be the one in his family to survive it all? In that
respect, I've certainly got a lot in common with him.
"After the two solo albums, there were a few years there where I wrote a lot
of songs and got very excited about sampling. I strapped on an electric
guitar for the first time. Most of Beautiful Freak was recorded during this
time, before I was even signed. So I just decided to give it a new name and
breathe some new life into it. The only real difference [between E and the
Eels] is I got a little more adventuresome. But, in many ways, it's still the
same thing."
The Eels' imminent trip to Europe brings up some strange family memories for
E, especially when it's mentioned how much the British press seems to like
the band. "I try to avoid reading the English press in general," he says. "I
try to avoid all press, but especially the British press. They just hate
themselves so much and take it out on each other. It's such an ugly
situation. I really would've killed myself if I'd grown up in England. Don't
even get me started! Most of my family problems come from and started in
England. They just moved to New England with my mother's family. You know?
It's that kind of stiff upper lip, New English, standoffishness. It's a very
bad way to raise kids."
E's father died when he was still a teenager. "That's how I learned CPR," he
acknowledges. Dad was also a genius physicist. "His mother -- my grandmother
-- was a published poet, and I think the two things are maybe sort of
related. I was always really bad at math, so I obviously got more of my
grandmother's thing. But my father was famous in the world of physics. He was
the author of a thing called the Everett's Miniworld Theory, which he came up
with in the '50s. It's about parallel universes and mirror worlds. Many Star
Trek episodes and sci-fi movies are based on it. That movie Sliding Doors was
based around it. Einstein wrote my dad a letter when he was 13. They actually
got involved in some nasty letter writing to each other over a disagreement.
But, as Einstein's wife probably could have attested, the genius business
does not make for good family men.
"I saw a documentary about Einstein and it really helped my own peace of mind
because it was the same situation with his family. It's like they're always
there, but they're pretty much this lump on a chair that's always off in
another world. I don't blame him. There was a lot going on. My dad even had a
big head -- this big egghead. Lots of room for things to be going on in
there. He looked just like Orson Welles -- same beard and everything. He was
a huge smoker, heavy drinker, heavy eater. He lived life to the fullest, so I
don't think he had any regrets. But 51 is a pretty young age to die."
One could argue that 36 is a pretty young age for someone to experience all
the pain and tragedy E's endured in life thus far, even if he does transform
that agony into gorgeous art. "The good thing for me is I got a lot of it out
of the way early," he concludes. "Now let the fun-filled, carefree years
begin. I'm ready to have some fun. Am I having fun yet?"
Is he?
"Well, let's just say I think I'm heading more in that direction."
newtimesla.com | News | Arts | Music | Calendar | Dish | FilmClassified |
Letters | Web Extra | Archives + Search | About© 2000 New Times, Inc. All
rights reserved. | Privacy Policy