Photos by Ana Kraš
Devendra Banhart: "Mi Negrita" on SoundCloud.
When Devendra Banhart used to read interviews with his favorite bands as a teenager, he'd scan the articles looking for one question: What are you listening to these days? "For me, that was it," he says, sitting in his drawing studio, which overlooks Manhattan's Lower East Side, "I found out about so much music through them." And now that he's an interview-worthy artist in his own right-- and an absurdly sponge-like one at that-- he's looking to pay that sort of wisdom forward.
He played a random stream of songs from his iPod stereo during our entire talk-- often pausing the conversation to effuse about a certain track or musician-- and dropped the names of his favorites at a quick clip, including, but not limited to: Morrissey, Nirvana, avant-garde composer Harold Budd, Guns N' Roses, Kronos Quartet, Oasis, Yo La Tengo, Blur, the soundtrack to the 1959 Brazilian film Black Orpheus ("my number one soundtrack of all time"), Helado Negro, Robert Wyatt, Pulp, Julee Cruise, Orange Juice, Caetano Veloso, Scott Walker, Thurston Moore, John Cage, and Grace Jones ("I saw her show recently; she's in her 60s, in a g-string, and she says, 'I want to suck some dick tonight!'-- unbelievable"). His music fandom can even involve an element of foolproof fantasy. When I point out a couple of identical black-and-white press photos of famously gruff Yonkers rapper DMX on his floor, he lights up. "I love him so much," he explains, "and I like press photos because the joy is what you write on them, like, 'To Devendra, duh duh duh...' So often it's very disappointing when you meet your heroes, so this is my way of assuring that it's a fantastic experience, and that they send me off with a beautiful message."
Devendra Banhart: "Never Seen Such Good Things" on SoundCloud.
Cross-legged in a wooden chair with a chomp taken out of its back, Banhart says he's always wanted to be a "radio disk jockey-- introduce a song, give a little bit of history, perhaps a personal anecdote, say what the music reminds me of and then ask my audience, 'Does it remind you of the same thing? Why don't you call in?' That kind of communication. Sounds like paradise." That curatorial spirit extends to his new album, Mala, which features a heartbreaking tale of a two people waiting in line to see Suede, an acoustic-guitar tribute to late pro skateboarder Keenan Milton, and a surreal yarn about 12th-century Saint Hildegard of Bingen getting a job playing videos on MTV. The album was recorded in Banhart's L.A. home with longtime co-conspirator Noah Georgeson, and while it still skips from genre to genre like his last three LPs, it's also his most concise effort since 2004's Niño Rojo.
And while Mala is marked by songs about the aftermath of broken love, the 31-year-old seems to have reached a newfound peace. He shares his artist's studio with his fiancée, Serbian photographer and designer Ana Kraš, and several her vibrant, hand-strung lanterns are perched on a nearby table; at one point, in mid-conversation, Banhart casually cuts out a foot-wide paper heart and sticks it to the front of Kraš' computer screen. Mala, which is Serbian for "my sweet dear thing," is highlighted by a sly duet between the two called "Your Fine Petting Duck", where Kraš pines after a deadbeat ex, played with knowing humility by Banhart: "If he doesn't try his best, please remember that I never tried at all," he advises her on the song.
True to form, the two moved to New York City last year after Banhart read Tim Lawrence's book about Arthur Russell and the downtown Manhattan scene, Hold Onto Your Dreams. Turns out it's something of a triumphant return to the city, which didn't treat the singer so well 10 years ago. "Back then, I was living in an abandoned salsa club with fucking no electricity, no water, meth heads walking into my room in the middle of the night, and a rat trying to eat through my wall," he remembers. "So I thought I should give New York another shot, see what it's like in a different place in my life."
Banhart says he's more excited about the art studio and his sturdy wooden desk than the new album (for which he once again drew the cover himself), though when asked if he would rather do visuals or music for the rest of his life, he's more diplomatic: "I want to take both more seriously; I don't know if I like the music I make, but I certainly love making it."
"I think five percent of all songs can be love songs, and
another five percent can be miscellaneous or political,
but the rest should just be about medieval feminists."
Pitchfork: You got engaged recently, but instead of love songs Mala is filled with songs about the complexities of love and losing it and wondering if you're ever really going to figure it out.
Devendra Banhart: Well, I had a song about Ana-- a real love song-- but I thought it could have been more romantic, so we didn't put it on there. The almost-nihilistic, devoid-of-any-hope observations on relationships on this record have nothing to do with her. The record I'll be writing next would be more about the celebration of finding someone you really love. Still, it seems very boring to write a song that goes: "Everything's going so good/ We fight now and then/ But still, everything's going great/ Being with you baby is so good." [deadpan] Actually, now that I say that, I think it would be a great song. I like those lyrics. Maybe I'll do that.
But it just seemed more fun to write about relationships in this [pessimistic] way. And it's experiential. Quite often, it's just a composite of bad relationships, an amalgamation of awkward situations-- which I'm a magnet for. Really. This morning, this old guy came up to me and said, "Would you like a bag of goodies?" He opened it up, and there was a copy of the first Harry Potter movie on VHS and some other weird shit. Really creepy. "No, thank you."
Pitchfork: Do you think it's easier to write these negative love songs as opposed to more positive ones?
DB: The lines on the album about how we've just met and can't wait to fuck it all up are what's fun about writing a pop song. That's pop music, and a lot of these songs are also love songs to that genre. The song I sing with Ana, ["Your Fine Petting Duck"], is a love song to that type of love song, which often goes like, "Baby, I'm so sorry, take me back." So on this one, she's ready to take me back, but I remind her that she doesn't want to do that.
Pitchfork: I read that you asked Ana to marry you the first day you met her.
DB: I did. It's the first thing I said to her. It was not well-received, it really pissed her off. We met because she was supposed to shoot the interior of my house for this magazine called Apartamento, but she still hasn't shot the fucking thing. As far as the proposal, I thought, "If she says yes, this is going to be so cool if we do get married, and if we don't, who cares?" But she doesn't see how awesome and charming it is that we're actually getting married.
Pitchfork: Have you ever instantly proposed to someone like that before?
DB: [sarcastically] Yeah, I say that every time. [laughs]
Pitchfork: Well, why her then?
DB: I was just so shocked. I couldn't believe this person was in my house. She's quite stunning, easy on the eyes. So it just kind of flopped out, very casually. And I understand how it was a real turn off for her. I had to work hard to make up for that one. But she came to take the photos and she just stayed. We haven't been apart since that day.
Pitchfork: Was there a more official proposal later on?
DB: Yes. I took her to this place called Pocono Palace. It's frozen in time; it's still 1975 there. So horrifying. From the surrounding area, it looks like the place where you're either going to get raped or murdered, or raped and murdered. So creepy. But when you open the door, it's another world! It's so beautiful, but also tacky and gaudy. Totally charming. There are heart-shaped hot tubs in every room, giant champagne-glass hot tubs. There are comedians, air hockey, ping-pong, mini-golf, strip night-- which is actually a strip steak night-- and erotic bingo. There's a big sign that says, "Please, no guns allowed in dining room." It's a place where your aunt and uncle would go to celebrate their 45th wedding anniversary.
Pitchfork: The Mala track "Daniel" tells an affecting story of a whole relationship-- the start, the end, and beyond-- in just a few lines. The economy of the songwriting is impressive.
DB: I'm so happy you used that word in particular-- "economy" has always been part of my whole thing. I look at the words like a food budget; I'm going to the bodega and I've got four bucks, how do I make a meal? I don't know if I have an economy of words, but that's the goal. I went through this shift. As anthropomorphic and surreal people have said my early writing was, to me it was really stock and almost banal in the sense that it was just description, the poetry of comparing: "Your feet are like A, and your eyes like B."
But now I've moved a lot closer to my favorite kind of poetry, which is Japanese poetry; it doesn't say what the thing is like, it just says what the thing is. One of my favorite haikus goes: "New Year's/ Stars in the sky/ Vomit in the streets." It's so perfect, it's an entire film. My favorite poem actually is by Oswald de Andrade. It's called "Amor"-- that's the title-- and the poem is: "Humor." A one-word poem. It's very full. It doesn't need more words. I've always wanted to write a song that goes, "I love you" and a book that goes, "Something happened." Something very direct. I have yet to do that, but now I'm trying to say the most in the least amount of words.
Pitchfork: Sonically, this album is more pared down than your last few; the overall presentation is more modest, like your earlier albums.
DB: I forget the old albums are just acoustic guitar and voice because, even on [2002's Oh Me Oh My], I still wanted each song to sound completely different. I didn't want to make a record that was just guitar and voice, that was just the technology available to me. At the time, I remember thinking, "I am making a Faust album." That didn't translate.
I would like to make another me-and-a-guitar album someday, though. I can't tell you how many times I've had a friend tell me, in this tender and discreet voice, "It's just you and me bro, and I want to tell you the truth: make a record of you and an acoustic guitar. Please. That's what everybody actually likes." That's so funny to me.
Pitchfork: Something I really enjoyed while listening to this album and going over the lyrics was looking up some of the musicians and artists you sing about. When you decide to say someone's specific name in a song, is part of it about spreading the things you care about?
DB: I would feel presumptuous saying that the only reason I'm writing about something is because I want you to learn about that person, but I certainly care about it enough to put it in a song. For "Für Hildegard von Bingen", for example, I just think all songs should be written about medieval feminists-- five percent of songs can be love songs, another five can be miscellaneous or political, and the rest can just be about medieval feminists. I was a fan of hers because Kronos Quartet had recorded some of her music, and they choose incredible composers, so I looked for her biography, and it's unbelievable. She's a saint! I thought it was a worthy subject.
Pitchfork: When you're making music, do you ever wish you weren't into so many different things?
DB: No. I try to listen to as much as possible. I know some people really try to avoid music when they're writing and recording, but I am very inspired by so many different musicians, and I need to learn. I sit around and try to play along to certain songs that I really love. It helps you explore new territory. I don't think I listen to enough.