Jamie Lidell
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Jamie Lidell, who plays Metro on Oct. 8, is a futuristic quasi-R&B crooner from with hammy streak and a surfeit of soul. Starting with his 2005 breakout Multiply and on through this year's Jim, Lidell has made a play to fall in line with smoky old classics by Otis Redding, Stevie Wonder, and Sly Stone—and he's advanced a more convincing case than might be expected from a slight Englishman who started out making fractious electronic music. (His last three albums, significantly, came out on the epochal post-rave bleep label Warp.) These days, Lidell has been catching on with a showy stage persona that gets over on his striking, expressive voice. Decider spoke with him about smoking too much, premature ejaculation, and Jean-Michel Jarre.
Decider: When did you first become aware of the fact that you had a strong singing voice?
Jamie Lidell: It was basically in the womb, when I had the heartbeat of humanity beating strongly there. Or maybe when I was about 16 or 18. I think I sang on the toilet as an escape from the boredom of family events, and also the perhaps nervousness of going for a shit. That's actually an honest answer. People sing because they're nervous. They like whistling to themselves, talking to themselves. It's a fine line, isn't it?
D: Your voice has grown notably stronger and more distinctive in the past few years. Do you train to sing?
JL: I wish I did. I wish I had more discipline. It's coming to that point now where I have to think about that, because I just get wasted and smoke, and it's not really working. I think that's my new game plan. I'm just gonna go down screaming. I haven't got any technique. I feel the music and that's it. I remember once I was playing with Björk, and she has a really expensive vocal coach who worked with Pavarotti and Axl Rose. She said, "You must meet my vocal coach." He came over and before I had a chance to say anything, he already had his paws around my throat saying, "go ahhhh." Basically I need work, is what he said. For me I always felt music, and that's half the battle. It can be technique, but that's nothing really. Someone who wants to be a photographer can learn the technique, the f-stop and all that crap, but you can't take good photos to save your life if you don't have an eye—that thing. I know I have that thing. I don't know what it is, but I love it.
D: What do you feel your voice is lacking?
JL: It's like the same thing as premature ejaculation, but from the mouth. You can get really excited about the prospect of singing and jump right in there, but you have to pace yourself, and do some sport, and not smoke 10 to 20 a day. Do some warm-ups, relax your throat, don't sing from the throat.
D: Your records have grown increasingly traditional, while your live shows during the change have continued to be fractious and cut-up. What's changed now that you perform with a band?
JL: I'm thinking of getting them all up to speed to play other instruments just to keep it interesting. I'm a little bit wary of having a band, because then I'll just be another cunt onstage being a frontman. It's all looking pretty dodge: neo-soul Lidell comes out with a neo-soul band.
D: There's been a good amount of more song-oriented electronic music happening in the last years.
JL: I find it offensive, because I started it, and everyone's hopelessly trying to keep up with me. That's why I'm trying to become as square as possible. I hope I become invisible in a puff of gold up in the Malibu hills, smoking in my own house. Before they even have a chance to say "electro."
D: Electronic music retains a self-image of being futuristic even though it's been around for decades now. Does it strike you as a fiction? Is it valuable?
JL: It's not very useful, because our vision of electronica has become so boring. In the '50s, it was quite exciting to think of an electronic future, and it's become cheap as we grow old, surrounded by gizmos with our lives run by tacky devices. It's hard to dream the same way people did back in the '50s.
D: What was the first record you heard that made consciously aware of music made by electronic means?
JL: Jean-Michel Jarre's Oxygene [from 1977]. My mum sat me down as a child and said, "Welcome to the future." But the thing is, it means nothing. It's like handing someone a mobile phone and going, "That is electronic." Okay. What does it do for me? How are the sounds of rain and thunder created by electric synthesizers? It made me really intrigued. It's like a facsimile of the real world. Perhaps a bit like when you go into a sushi restaurant and they make an exact replica of the foods in plastic. But Kraftwerk used to play flutes. Nowadays, that could be futuristic.
Jamie Lidell plays Metro on Oct. 8 at 9 p.m.
