Press and Radio
Paste Magazine
Low Turns It Up
Amanda Petrusich
"When we first started, we knew everyone was gonna hate it," Alan Sparhawk sighs. "But if you believe in what you're doing, then it's OK if no one else gives a shit. It's OK if you show up to play and everybody leaves."
Sparhawk, the lead vocalist and songwriter for Duluth, Minn.'s Low (along with wife/percussionist Mimi Parker and bassist Zak Sally) may be a decade deep into a remarkably successful career, but he's still surprised by Low's unbroken reign as the go-to band for kids
seeking layers of slow, gloomy drone. "If you had told me when we started that this would last 12 years, I would have laughed in your face," he confesses.
Sparhawk's humility is not entirely surprising: Critics have long wondered if Low's self-ascribed limitations (album after album, the trio has plodded dutifully through thick, majestic "soundscapes") have left the band creatively paralyzed, trapped by its now-iconic slo-mo restrictions. But 2005 has Low primed for a colossal reinvention: boldly adopting a new label, producer and a freshly tweaked sound.
Since 1993, Low's desire to transgress its slo-core origins has been impressively steadfast, as the band gently modified its founding aesthetic, deviating from trudging, atmospheric lethargy just enough to persuade most nonbelievers. Low played a Halloween set in the frenzied, leg-kicking style of The Misfits in 1988, and in 1999, the band released a famed Christmas EP of up-tempo takes on holiday classics (the band's version of "Little Drummer Boy" was featured prominently in a Gap commercial later that year). Low released its seventh full-length in January. The Great Destroyer, a tough, raucous rock record, instantlyÑand violentlyÑdistinguishes itself from the rest of Low's terse, moping discography. Finally, Low fans have something to sing along to in their cars, bobbing their heads and pounding their steering wheels: The Great Destroyer is not the Low of yesteryear.
"After we made our first couple of records," Sparhawk admits, "we recognized that [the Low aesthetic] was going to be something we would be leaning against for a long time. The Low sound, essentially, was built on rulesÑeven before we had songs, we knew we wanted to play as slowly and as quietly as we could, and still have it sound like music. But we've always been pushing against those rules, and this time we finally thought, eh, let's just do whatever we want. Let's just see what these songs want to do."
With its roaring mood swings (flitting incessantly from introspection to poppy sweetness to something awfully close to metal) and heavy guitar (witness, even classic solos!), The Great Destroyer is brave, brisk and transcendentÑa fully realized, indignant hop away from all preconceived Low notions. Both Sparhawk and Parker are casual about the transition, understanding the album as only the most logical, organic step for the band. "It was just something that happened," Parker shrugs. "There was no discussion, it was never ÔOK, we're going to do this now.' I think we've been hinting at it for a while."
Certainly, dedicated fans will recognize traces of The Great Destroyer from previous Low tracks (the prophetic noodlings of "Canada," from 2002's Trust, or the leisurely pop of "Dinosaur Act," plucked from 2001's Things We Lost in the Fire). But Low's recording habits have long belied a penchant for brash experimentation. Over the course of numerous releases, Low has tinkered with its genre-de1Ú2ning swells, investigating new and varied production techniques, opting to record both in shiny, professional studios (working with celebrity knob-twiddlers Steve Albini and Tchad Blake) and in the Sparhawks' comparably modest Duluth home. "We've learned that limitations are what make interesting things happen," Sparhawk explains. "Don't feel like you need to go hi fidelity, Pro Tools, 80 tracksÑI mean, there are great records that are made that way, but most of my favorite Low stuff was done on a four-track or an eight-track, where we really had to pare down what we were doing."
For The Great Destroyer, SparhawkÑnow freshly cleansed of inhibitionsÑdecided to think big: "I realized I didn't want to just go and make another Low record. I wanted do something I'd never done before. I wanted to go visit Phil Spector in jail, and have him record my record. From jail!"
Penitentiary aspirations grounded, Low opted for the next best thing: Flaming Lips/Mercury Rev producer Dave Fridmann, indie rock's unassuming, reverb-pushing answer to Spector's infamous dramatics. "With Dave, it was the first time someone had ever come in and said ÔLet's try this song a little faster, let's try a dizÿerent sound on the guitar here, let's try something on the drums here.' In the past, we'd mostly worked with people who just recorded what we did," Sparhawk explains. Like Steve Albini?
"Yeah!" Sparhawk laughs. "Yeah. Steve's great. You go in there, and it's just you and your stupid songs and a really good engineer. But we wouldn't have been able to do our first couple of records with Steve, because we were all, ÔUh, I dunno, I just have these songs.' We barely knew how to play. And then we went on and learned quite a bit, and now I wanted to work with someone who knows more than me. I wanted to work with the guy who recorded that stinking ÔGoddess on the Hiway' song [by the Flaming Lips]! It never really hit me until I heard that song. I went, ÔHoly crapÑwe've got songs that are this good. Why don't they sound like this?'"
"Dave wasn't afraid to throw his two cents in, which was good," Parker agrees. "We kind of need that sometimesÑwe're the same three people, we get in ruts, we need someone to jostle the mix a little bit."
Instead of dropping the completed tapes off at Kranky, Low's label since 1997, the band took them to Seattle's Sub Pop Records. The decision to split, Sparhawk emphasizes, was wholly amicable. "Kranky is a great label. They were fans of Low, and put out our records, and did a great job. But they were always like, ÔLook, we're two guys here, and this is all we want to be. We're not into glad-handling or buying ads in magazines. But if you ever want that, and a label comes along, go there.' Eventually we started poking around, and before we know it we're in L.A., meeting with a couple of big labels. We've been through that beforeÑit's like, ÔThanks for lunch, buddy, but no.' So the rumor got around, and Jonathan from Sub Pop called us. And we were like, ÔGreat, Sub Pop, they have The Shins! Let's go there!'"
"We're happy with the change, and hopeful that things will be good there," Parker adds. "We loved Kranky, so it wasn't a falling out. It's just that Sub Pop can ozÿer a different perspective."
Besides being relentlessly pigeonholed for its sound, Low has endured much speculation about the band's political and religious affiliations (both Alan and Mimi are practicing Mormons). The topic reached an uncomfortable apex in the German tour film Low in Europe, which traced Low's stint as opening act for Radiohead's 2003 European tour.
"It was really annoying, actually," Sparhawk sighs. "We were in London around the time there were these huge, pre-Iraq-war protests. The whole city was flipping out. And the film became sort of political. It's very well done, but it makes us look like fence-sitters. Because at the time it was kind of confusingÑit was like, what's going on? There was a time where it wasn't quite so obvious; of course, a couple weeks later it became very obvious that it was totally f---ed up. But the film was shot in that in-between time, which completely sucks because I hate this administration. I think they're the devil. It's so sad to see this guy waving the flag in the name of Christianity, and it's like, well, gee, Hitler was Christian, too."
Sparhawk exhales slowly. "The thought of what could happen for the next four years is just too much to deal with. But I'll do everything I can. If voting doesn't make things better, I'll do something else. We're not all homeless and eating bagels like we were in the early '80s."
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