Being an indie-rock musician was largely its own reward from the 1980s to the turn of the 21st century. But as Ben Gibbard learned firsthand, in the early 2000s, things started to shift.
Since the late 1990s, he had served as a lead singer and guitarist in Death Cab for Cutie, an indie-rock band known for its chiming guitar lines and wistful lyrics. A chance meeting with the electronic musician and producer Jimmy Tamborello led to a creative spark, and the two formed a group called the Postal Service, named after the nature of their analog partnership: Tamborello, who was living in Los Angeles, sent his airy instrumentals north to Seattle through the U.S. mail system, so Gibbard could add his vocals.
The group expanded to include the singer Jenny Lewis, and when its only album, “Give Up,” was released in February 2003, its romantic tunes set to stuttering beats and bloopy synths became a sensation. It remains the second best-selling record in the history of the indie label Sub Pop — just behind Nirvana’s “Bleach” — and went platinum in 2012.
In the fall of 2003, Death Cab put out “Transatlanticism,” a lush, sweeping record exploring the pleasures and pains of a long-distance relationship that was heralded as a creative high point. With buzz from “Give Up” still reverberating, Death Cab for Cutie landed a few key placements on the inescapable teen soap “The O.C.,” and a year later inked a deal with Atlantic Records.
Gibbard, 47, will be celebrating both anniversaries on a two-month tour starting Sept. 5, where Death Cab for Cutie and the Postal Service will perform both albums in full. In a recent video call from his Seattle home, he discussed one of the most creatively fertile periods of his life, how it feels to become the guardian of a younger generation’s nostalgia and his role in indie rock’s early 2000s commercial renaissance. These are edited excerpts from the conversation.
You first reunited the Postal Service in 2013 for a 10-year anniversary tour. Did you expect to be doing this again?
No, I didn’t. We had done that tour primarily because by the time the Postal Service was done touring in 2004, we realized that the record had taken on a life of its own after we had all gone back to our other jobs. When we were coming up on the 20th anniversary of “Transatlanticism” and “Give Up,” it made sense that Death Cab would do something to mark the anniversary of what is our breakout record, and what has universally been determined to be our best record. After doing the math, I realized that Death Cab usually plays for two hours, and both of those albums are 40-something minutes. So while it would appear to be more work for me, the total number of songs would be fewer than a normal set.
In 2013, you said one of the motivations for reuniting the Postal Service was for you to take ownership of the band and its legacy.
I’ve always had a complicated relationship with that record. When “Give Up” came out, it very quickly surpassed where Death Cab was, sales-wise. It became this ubiquitous cultural phenomenon. Everyone in Death Cab was supportive of me, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel some tension around the success of the Postal Service.
I want to be very clear that I’m not trying to cry with two loaves of bread in my hand. It was humbling and moving to see the response to “Give Up.” At this point in my life, I’m of the opinion that if you’ve made one thing that has an impact on another human being, you’ve succeeded. And the 2013 tour allowed me to be in those songs again. Being in front of people who love that album closed a circle that I needed to close.
Both “Give Up” and “Transatlanticism” sold over 500,000 copies, blowing the ceiling off expectations for an indie band. What did it feel like to be at the center of a transformation of the scene?
To someone becoming a sentient music fan in the late ’80s and early ’90s, selling 50,000 copies was indie-rock gold and platinum. The dream in 1997 and 1998 was only to not have a job while on tour. In 2003, a lot of people of my generation found themselves in music supervision in TV, movies and commercials and could suddenly say, “I don’t want to use Paula Cole in this teen drama, let’s use Death Cab, or Bright Eyes, or Modest Mouse.”
I think that was what started the drive of indie rock into the mainstream — or at least as close to the mainstream as it could get. People in decision-making positions wanted to use the music they loved, at a moment, in the late ’90s and early 2000s, when mainstream rock ’n’ roll was the worst it’s ever been. People who like classic rock, or were into the Cure or Depeche Mode, said, “You know what? There must be an alternative to Creed.” There was a thirst for a change, and as the internet started disseminating pop culture, suddenly there was an avenue to find out about it.
So I was pleased that the music we were making was reaching a larger audience. But I was also a 28-year-old who wasn’t used to the attention that comes from both adoration and scorn. I’m not going to say it was an incredibly difficult time in my life, but it’s only now, 20 years later, that I’m able to have a real appreciation for what these records accomplished and what a unique situation we found ourselves in.
You often talk about how making “Give Up” was loose and enjoyable. What about the Postal Service stopped feeling so easy?
I felt very self-conscious. I was already dealing with the weight of expectations on “Transatlanticism.” My ability to write both of those albums concurrently was predicated by a year-ish long break Death Cab took from touring. We had almost broken up, and we had a meeting where we decided to take some time away. During that break, there wasn’t nearly the same sense of expectation to the songs I was writing. Yes, there were fans of Death Cab who I’m sure were anticipating a new record, but in 2001 and 2002, the band still felt very small. But by the time that “Give Up” was out and had gone gold, and we’re touring “Transatlanticism” with Pearl Jam — we literally signed with Atlantic Records backstage at a Pearl Jam show — I was feeling a ton of pressure from my main gig.
Eventually Jimmy and I had a conversation where we were like, “Hey, this isn’t happening, is it?” He was the perfect partner. Jimmy is the most easygoing dude in the world. If I had made “Give Up” with someone who was a little more success-oriented, or career-oriented, it would’ve gone very poorly.
Without radio or MTV, how did you become aware that you had an indie hit in 2003?
With Death Cab it was more cut and dry. For a long time, and with good reason, there was no mention of Death Cab without “The O.C.” That was our MTV, that was our radio, and that made more sense to me. It made sense that as we were being beamed into people’s homes on network television, our band’s profile would grow. And so, you’d just walk into places and hear the record. You’d hear it in coffee shops, or coming out of people’s cars. I could feel it jumping outside the insular circles of indie rock. But we weren’t famous. We weren’t pop stars.
I think a lot of people know some of the music I made, but they don’t know anything about the band, or who’s in it or what I look like. That’s been an absolute godsend; to have the success that we’ve had, without the visibility.
The Postal Service process got a lot of attention: Jimmy would send you instrumentals on burned CDs through the mail, and you’d add vocals.
In 2001 and 2002, I’m sure people were figuring out how to send files back and forth. We just weren’t technologically advanced enough to have that knowledge. We were both definitely aware of the novelty of it. I’d get an email from Jimmy being like, “Hey, I put a CD in the mail, it’ll be there in a couple of days.” So I’d get a sense of anticipation, waiting for it to show up to my house. I’d get it, put it in my CD player, and walk around coming up with ideas. I don’t necessarily think the anticipation directly correlated to the creative process, but everyone I knew was tickled by the idea of it.
Going on an anniversary tour is engaging pretty plainly with the culture of nostalgia.
One of the most important things for bands and artists who span decades is that you continue to try to make new things, and find new creative ways to express yourself musically, while also having self-awareness for why people are here to see you. To honor your own past.
I’m first and foremost a fan of music, and it’s frustrating to see a band you love — that was formative for you — only for them to say, “Yeah, we’re playing a new album and four old songs.” I’ve always tried to serve that balance. It is most likely that the records that will be on my tombstone have already been made, but I’m also dedicated to making new things that can stand alongside the things that people love. I want our new music to remind people why they love our music. A lot of our music has marked time in people’s lives. It’s not because we’re so amazing, it’s because we make music. And music marks time.
Source: Music - nytimes.com
