Death Cab For Cutie
Abundant Pleasures and Homesick Blues
Published by Under The Radar

At the time of our interview, it’s two months before Death Cab For Cutie’s new album comes out. If you know the tireless touring tendencies of this young Seattle band, you’re not surprised that the guys are in Australia doing shows. For some artists, being on the road is a way to promote a record and make some money. For others, the experience cycles back and feeds the art. Many singers have sung about life on the road; it’s nothing new. Perhaps that’s why Death Cab’s principal songwriter, Ben Gibbard, has taken to writing about the life you come back to.

After intensive career building through the band’s first three full-length releases -- 1999’s Something About Airplanes, 2000’s We Have The Facts and We’re Voting Yes, 2001’s The Photo Album -- Gibbard paused, caught his breath and surveyed the toll on his personal relationships. Out of that came much of the lyrical basis for Death Cab’s forthcoming album, Transatlanticism.

As its title suggests, the record speaks of distances between places. Or more accurately, people. “I was so obsessed with getting out there and doing all this stuff that I think I neglected a lot of people in my life,” says Gibbard. “Once you get out of the van and go home, things aren’t the same as they were before, and it’s because of you. You’ve been gone the whole time and you haven’t been paying attention to these people. It’s something that I’ve been waking up to more for this record than I ever have before.”

It sounds sad, and so do some of the songs. But as with any Death Cab record, there’s a broad buffet of moods stretching through the unorthodox melodies. This time around, though, the four-piece -- Gibbard on guitar and vocals, Chris Walla on guitar, Nick Harmer on bass, and new recruit Jason McGerr on drums -- sounds bigger than ever. There are pianos, loops, even a chorus including Barsuk labelmates John Roderick of The Long Winters and Phil Wandscher of Jesse Sykes & the Sweet Hereafter. Add Walla’s lush production and extra time spent arranging, and Transatlanticism is their most ambitious effort to date.

It’s also their best. Death Cab For Cutie bring an indescribable uniqueness to very accessible pop-rock. Their fans are intensely loyal, requiring that gigs happen in theaters rather than clubs, and their records are fixtures on the college music charts. While Death Cab crowds are sardine-packed with a preponderance of students and indie kids, the band’s appeal gets more arena sized with each quality release.

If Death Cab’s rise continues at its considerable slope, the band could find itself riding a sustained career arc all too rare in this industry’s abysmal state of artist development. For now, their success seems to be outpacing their small label’s marketing machine. Call it a product that sells itself. Death Cab put a glaze of originality on things that sound commonplace on paper: satisfying chord changes, buttery-sweet guitar interplay and smart lyrics. They must know they’re doing something right -- on Transatlanticism their strengths are accounted for and then some. It can be unsettling when a band changes, but Death Cab make it easy for even the creature of habit. Their abundant pleasures are merely stripped and refinished, emerging with new textures and expanded presence.

Guitarist Chris Walla produces Death Cab For Cutie and other bands as well -- Hot Hot Heat, The Velvet Teen, The Stratford 4, and The Long Winters, among others. To his own band’s recordings he has brought a mostly transparent production style, preferring to let the magic happen in a spare, organic context. Either that or he’s been relegated to pretty bare-bones methods. “Whatever record you’re working on, it seems like it’s very much a product of whatever circumstances it was recorded in,” says Walla. “Our first record was recorded in our house on an 8-track. And it would be really easy to say, ‘Yeah, of course, I would have recorded that record someplace else, and I would’ve used all the things that I know now to be true.’ So much of how that record sounds is a factor of the house it was recorded in. The control room was in the bedroom upstairs, and we dropped all the mic cables down into the living room through the heating vent. That’s part of the soul of that record. And the same can be said for just about any record, regardless of where it was done. There are technical problems with everything that I record, but hopefully the technical things are outweighed by personality things -- like the fact that somebody’s unconscious self got on the tape. All these recordings are little snapshots, and you can go in and Photoshop the snapshot if you want, but I don’t know if that’s cool. I typically kind of like the snapshot for what it is.” Gibbard concurs using his own analogy: “Records are like your kids; you love ’em all, but you recognize the pluses and minuses.”

And Gibbard looks at Death Cab’s past output in terms of the demands under which it was created. “It seems with almost every record -- definitely The Photo Album -- we’re like, we gotta get this record done, ’cause if we don’t get it done we’re not gonna have a record in the fall, and that’s gonna be really fucked,” he says. “And I feel that there were some things that were neglected on that record because we weren’t working as well together and we’d been playing the songs live for so long. We were just tired of the songs by the time we went to record ’em.”

He says he’s very proud of that record and happy that people like it, but the band nonetheless approached Transatlanticism differently. “We really took our time,” Gibbard says. “We’d go and record for five days, take two weeks off, and come back and record for another five days. We started working on material in October [2002] and didn’t turn it in ’til June 1st. Between going through demos, rehearsing, arranging, and then really taking our time with recording, I think it’s turned out to be a better album as a whole, just because we spent more time really putting it together rather than just burning through tapes.” And from a production standpoint, Walla is more pleased than ever. “I certainly don’t feel like it’s perfect, ’cause I will never feel like anything that I work on will be perfect,” he says. “But I feel like I got more of it right than not this time. And I think it’s the first time that’s ever happened. More than 50% of it I think is about as good as I knew how to make it.”

Transatlanticism sounds different not just as a result of the settings on the recording console. There’ a lushness and multi-textured quality to the mixes. But also, a whole new pre-production process was at work on a much larger body of material. “The way it’s always worked in the past is that I’ll give demos to the guys in groups of five -- maybe every three or four months,” says Gibbard. “Up until recently I didn’t write a lot of songs. I’d give ’em a batch of songs, and they’d be like, ‘Oh yeah, I like that one and that one.’ And then we’d sit in a room and arrange them and then we’d start playing ’em live. But by the time we started working in October, I was sitting on like 25 demos. I’d give ’em out to the guys and ask for their feedback, but nobody’d really spent a lot of time with the demos because we weren’t making a record. All these songs were still sitting in my demo-y ProTools or four-track style. And I got so used to all these songs existing in this format that I really lost a lot of perspective on the whole batch.”

According to Gibbard, that lost perspective meant that many of the songs he thought were throwaways made it into the rehearsal room and onto the record: “We’d get to something like ‘Title and Registration,’ and I’d be like, ‘Aw, let’s not even listen to this song. This song sucks,’ and the guys are like, ‘No, dude, that’s one of the better songs on these demos.’ And I’m like, ‘Naw, dude, it’s horrible, the lyric’s stupid. I can’t.’ And they’re like, ‘No, we should work on this one.’ And it’s become one of my favorite songs on the record. So for me the hardest part was having so many songs -- and this is definitely not putting it on any of the other guys -- that I didn’t have any feedback on. I’ve never had that many songs ever in my entire life that hadn’t been recorded or been in the process of being worked on.”

There’s one song that Gibbard almost left off for other reasons. “I had reservations about having something that biting on the record,” he says of “Tiny Vessels,” a song that details a fling he had while staying in L.A. To a girl in Silver Lake with streaked hair he sadly sings, ‘You are beautiful, but you don’t mean a thing to me.’ But the girl could be any girl, and the sting is aimed at the singer himself. “It’s kind of an amalgamation of a lot of people that I’ve been in contact with the last couple years,” he explains. “People have talked to me about it. They’re like, ‘God, I can’t believe it. That song is so mean.’ I don’t know, I don’t consider it to be a really vicious song. To me it has more to do with self-loathing than it does the loathing of another person. I’m sure most people have been in that situation where you’re with somebody and it’s like, ‘Man, what am I doin’? This is not right. This is not the answer.’ Given my psyche, instead of just chalking it up to a bad situation or having too much to drink, I just internalize it way too much.”

“Tiny Vessels” is also a turning point in Gibbard’s willingness to reveal his darker thoughts. He is an extraordinarily nice guy. He’s warm and polite. On stage he deals with heckles and ‘Free Bird’ requests like a groomed-for-TV Jesus offering the other cheek. His angelic persona gets magnified almost to the point of exclusivity through the lens of his delicate lyrics, but Gibbard admits to being human: “I can be just as much of a diva as anybody else can. Maybe there’s this impression that I’m just this totally nice guy, but I have issues just like everybody else.” Wondering at first whether he should let it hang out, he decided that the time was right. “I don’t wanna give people the impression that all I ever wanna write about is rosy kinda shit,” he says. “That song is a part of my life and it’s a reflection of my relations with some people. I felt like I wanted to get it out and not censor it just because it was somewhat mean-spirited or uncharacteristic of the material that I’ve been known for in the past.”

If “Tiny Vessels” sounds damaged, Transatlanticism’s title track is about repair. Epic in length, breadth and build, it marches forward in a slow procession of piano and lightly chiming electric guitar as Gibbard repeats, ‘I need you so much closer,’ a refrain he says encapsulates the theme of the record. “Closeness can be construed as physically or emotionally,” he explains. “Granted, I spend a lot of time away from the people I love. My dad’s always said that friendships and relationships fall apart when you stop sharing experiences. And when you’re away for so long, those things kinda crumble.” He sounds ready to bridge those distances, and you can hear it in the outro of “Transatlanticism.” Like a redemptive dose of Spiritualized, a dense chorus belts, “So come o-o-on,” as drums crescendo majestically.

“Right now it seems like everybody’s talking about the new record, which is wonderful,” says Chris Walla of the recent activity on Death Cab’s Internet message boards. He says a copy of the album is already up on the Web somewhere -- two months before release -- and he’s fine with that. “It’s interesting to see what people pick up on, like the sorts of things that people hear and think immediately about it. Like it seems like there’s a consensus that this record is just a huge, huge downer. I mean, it’s a little more somber than the last record, but I didn’t really feel like it was a bomb as far as the weight of the subject matter, but that seems to be a common theme.” Gibbard’s heard from people that it doesn’t rock like the old stuff, and that’s okay with him. “I don’t want it to rock like the old records,” he says. “I want to be this new thing. I want us to concentrate on texture and arrangements and not bang through things like we’ve done in the past.” While he believes Transatlanticism is Death Cab’s best work yet, he understands that each fan has a favorite record, and this one can’t be the one for everybody. Accordingly, he’s putting more faith in his internal critic. “It seems like the longer we do this,” he says, “the less validation I feel like I need from people.”

I sense that he’s gonna get it anyway. Death Cab For Cutie’s loyal legions have allowed an independent, almost grass-roots, business model to flourish -- something many music fans are hoping will eventually replace the greed machine that has left artists without deals and file-sharers without sympathy. But according to Gibbard, it’s different for every band, and Death Cab’s record-and-tour promotional apparatus just happens to be what’s worked for them. “I get the sense that maybe in certain circles there’s this idea that we’re trying to be Fugazi or something like that,” he says. “Which is cool, but we’ve always just managed ourselves and [done] what we thought was a logical move for our band. It’s kind of like, if it’s not broke, don’t fix it. We’re able to make a really good living doing this and most people seem to view our band with a level of respect, which obviously we’re really excited about. So whenever people, especially indie people, start rambling off about how band x is signed to a major label -- like ‘How could they do that? They never even toured.’ It’s like, well dude, it made sense for their band at the time. Not everybody can be Calvin Johnson [Beat Happening]. Not everybody can be Ian MacKaye [Minor Threat, Fugazi]. Not everybody has that network of indie people. If you’re in a rap-rock band, you’re not gonna put out your own records and tour. You’re gonna try to get on a major label and try to do what you gotta do.”

Gibbard once got a call from a major label, and it left him unimpressed. “I got cold-called,” he says. “I was kinda taken aback. Everything when I talked to this dude just stunk of A&R guy who heard our name from somebody and didn’t know anything about our band. We’re not opposed to the idea of talking to people. We don’t trust a lot of people, and the people who work in the industry that I trust are people that know our band and have been somewhat with us the whole time.” Under such circumstances at a future career juncture, Gibbard may well entertain the idea of signing with a major label. “I think people have been given this impression that we’re this staunchly indie band,” he says. “While that’s definitely been the case to date, we would rather not say either way. Who knows? Maybe we’ll land with somebody who can offer us something nice. But to date we’ve never been faced with anything that we’ve thought was a good idea or an option for this band.”

As far as other things Death Cab For Cutie are open to, Gibbard says they’d like to do the Conan O’Brien show and more press in general. I ask Walla if he’ll ever turn over the production reins to someone else, to which he answers affirmatively: “I think that I would like to turn the next record over, hopefully to somebody who I can kind of work with a little bit, somebody who I don’t have to feel like I need to watch all the time. I have thought for years that I’ve wanted to make a record with Tchad Blake [Los Lobos, Soul Coughing]. I think he’s incredibly musical, and by all accounts from people I’ve talked to, he’s just really free, open -- a really cool sort of guy in the studio -- and he doesn’t get hung up in the process. The more stuff I hear from Trina Shoemaker [Sheryl Crow, Queens of the Stone Age], I think that she would be wonderful to work with. Something For Kate, who we just toured with, have done two records now with her and had nothing but great things to say about her. John Goodmanson [Sleater-Kinney, Harvey Danger] did a little bit of work on this record, and he’s somebody I’ve known for years now.”

Whatever develops out of Death Cab’s latest creative step, Walla just hopes that Transatlanticism is recognized as the cohesive work they took pains to assemble. “I don’t really care so much how people perceive it,” he says. “Of course, the hope is that people are gonna like it. I think the biggest thing is that I hope that people get the idea that it’s an album. It’s not just a bunch of songs smashed together. It’s really kind of a timepiece.”

Gibbard has similar hopes. He’s also concerned about perceptions regarding his involvement in Death Cab relative to other projects, most notably The Postal Service. The recently released synth-pop side project with Dntel’s Jimmy Tamborello did surprisingly well, even grabbing some airplay with the ultra-catchy single “Such Great Heights.” I sense that The Postal Service’s success caught Gibbard off guard to the point where he feels like he has some explaining to do. “It’s like there’s this record floating around in the world that has my name on it,” he says. “I’m very proud of it, of course, but I’m not wearing that hat right now. I started Death Cab For Cutie with Chris. It’s taken up all my energy and all my time for all these years. You know, you write some sugary, gooey song and people start playing it on the radio, but it doesn’t mean you’re gonna abandon your entire catalog of work for something ridiculous like that.”

A bit harsh, but I think it’s more Gibbard’s frustration with people’s sense of his loyalty than any comment on the quality of the music. He lays it out nice and slow: “I hope people realize that The Postal Service is a project -- emphasis on project -- and it’s a side project. And this band is a band.”

And he’s not just being a nice guy when he points out that Death Cab For Cutie are a group effort. “While I am the principal songwriter,” he says, “the input and the work that we do together far outweigh the sum of all parts. My only fear as we dive into this record is that people recognize that this isn’t Ben Gibbard and the E Street Band. That’s my request more than anything else.”

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