Paul Westerberg – Beyond misanthropy
ND: Are the things that inspire you, or that motivate you to write, substantially different from what they were, say, ten years ago?
PW: I don’t know. I’m struggling with that. I think there are less and less reasons to write. The only real reason to create something is if you feel the need to create it. I can train myself not to create, but then I become sort of a zombie, and then I’m not happy. Two weeks ago I wasn’t creating at all, but I felt very dull, like I was walking around with hollowed eyes. Recently I bought a camcorder, and that’s brought me to life, because it’s making me think in different ways, and it’s actually forced me to put strings on my guitars, and tune the piano. I need things to inspire me. I used to look for people to inspire me, and when you don’t leave the house, you lack for inspiration. (laughs)
ND: How has the camcorder inspired you?
PW: Well, it may be my tour. I may simply record [on videotape] each of the songs in my basement, in some form or another, and release those to at least whet people’s appetites. Another thought was to do a pay-per-view from the basement, but that makes it sound like I’m afraid to leave the house. I want to travel, but I’m just not prepared to go onstage and present a good deal of this music. It’s not really geared for performance. To go onstage and perform “Self-Defense” for people in a bar, or an auditorium…I don’t know. Something about the intimacy of that [type of song] would be destroyed. I mean, can you imagine one heckle? I’d end up telling someone to fuck off, and that would be the end of the song.
And I’ll tell you, honestly, I don’t know if I could sit down and play any of the songs on the record. My brain has gotten to the point where it can only go forward; it can’t go stop, or go in reverse. A lot of this stuff was written in funny tunings, and I didn’t even write down what the chords were. It was really — terrible word, here — “organic.” I don’t know how these songs grew. In some cases, it would be painful to figure out how to redo them. Some of them — “Final Hurrah”, for instance — I can remember, but in most cases, I played them once, and then the next day forgot about them. And that’s a good way to go, because then you don’t consider yourself a performing artist. You just make things, and if you can record them for money, then that’s great.
ND: Are there people working today whose songwriting you particularly admire?
PW: You know, I’m not necessarily in awe of a great songwriter. It’s like, if I’m considered one, great, but I’d rather listen to a Sheryl Crow song that maybe isn’t great, but that gets the job done. I’d rather hear something that gets me from the bank to the store than listen to the deep, Elliott Smith-type stuff, because I can hear that shit in my head any time I want to. When you really become the artist you set out to be, you focus on your own art, and that takes all your time. You don’t have time for anyone else.
ND: How conscious are you of trying to leave a legacy? Do you think at all in those terms?
PW: No, I guess I don’t. If you’re a major success, you think about those things, because that’s the next step. I still think it would be nice to just to sell more records than Lucinda Williams. (laughs) I don’t give a shit about 50 years from now; I’d just like to move some units. But I’m confident enough in what I’ve done to feel it’ll be sought out, and known about.
Russell Hall lives in Anderson, SC, where he’s still trying to explain to his parents what he does for a living. His first published music article was a review of Paul Westerberg’s 14 Songs.