The Auteurs are another one of those bands that I feel have never received their proper acclaim and dues. At least over here, in America, this has something to do with them being English. I’ve never fully understood this, but Americans have some kind of deathly aversion to anything that exudes “English-ness” and the Auteurs do more than exude it. They openly, proudly flaunt it. However, the Auteurs most defining (and often alienating) characteristic is frontman Luke Haines’ irrepressible fury towards the world. Thanks to Haines, the Auteurs were one of the most vindictive, lacerating bands of their time.
However, the beauty of the Auteurs is that they rarely sound angry. For the most part, their songs have a certain English pleasantness, a gentle acoustic kind of lull that would be rather comforting if it didn’t come with some brutally sharp lyrical barbs attached. In other words, to borrow a phrase from their “Chinese Bakery”, their aesthetic was like saying “excuse me while I’m tearing off your head.” Haines would also disguise his bitter screeds in some of the most obtuse, dense lyricism around. I challenge you to figure out the meaning behind “some missionary said that this week we’ve got to shoot all the dancing girls and replace them with satellites instead.”
The Auteurs formed at a time when English songwriting was going through a momentary renaissance. The early 1990s saw the emergence of Blur’s Damon Albarn, Oasis’ Gallagher brothers and Pulp’s one-and-only Jarvis Cocker. With Haines’ carefully constructed lyrics and prominent accent, he was immediately lumped into that camp. But while those other songwriters went on to create Britpop in the following years, Haines took great lengths to distance himself from his supposed peers. He spent most of his time in the press whining at great length about how Britpop was ruining music. Perhaps his greatest piece of pop music criticism is the song “Lenny Valentino”, an impossibly dense, vague assault upon hipsters and the sense of knowing “cool” they surround themselves with. His curmudgeonly nature even got so bad that, at one point, he jumped off a wall, breaking his legs just so he wouldn’t have to go on tour. Haines is probably best described as “difficult.”
Even with all his moaning and bitching, Haines found time to guide his band through a series of peerless albums, meaning he actually put his proverbial money where his prov
erbial mouth was. Their 1993 debut album, New Wave, introduced the world to their prickly-but-gentle sound, best heard on the fuzzy “Show Girl”. The next year, they followed that album with the louder, angrier Now I’m A Cowboy, which kicked off with “Lenny Valentino” before the band careened through another ten songs that explored the darker, most bitter corners of Haines’ mind. Songs featured grin-inducing titles like “I’m A Rich Man’s Toy” and “New French Girlfriend”. The album also gained much from the prominent role played by cellist James Banbury, allowing the Auteurs to add a unique twist to the otherwise formulaic sound of British rock.
By 1995, Haines had pissed enough people off that commercial success wasn’t really a viable goal. So, being a calm, rational thinker, he decided to go find the one person more angry and cynical that himself to produce their next record: Steve Albini, of Big Black fame. One can only imagine what those recording sessions were like. However, the resulting album, After Murder Park, pushed the band even further in the direction they’d been threatening to go. Suddenly with vicious music to match the lyrics, After Murder Park is a deeply unfriendly record. Highlights include the snide “Light Aircraft On Fire” and the hilariously casual “Unsolved Child Murder”. I mean, with a title like that, you know it’s gonna be a killer.
Haines would finally end the band following Murder Park. He went on to create an album inspired by the Baader Meinhof terrorists in Germany (surprised?) before settling into a much more accessible style with Black Box Recorder. In 1999, he got the old gang together again for one last record, the mostly unnecessary How I Learned To Love The Bootboys. Although it has moments of interest, such as the electro beat-flavored “The Rubettes”, the album lacked the punch and bite of the first three. That trilogy stands as Haines’ greatest contribution to music history. Alternately lovely and spiteful, the Auteurs have created an unsung legacy of tremendously strong music. However, I know I’m not the only one who thinks so. Haines has said for years that he expects his music to be rediscovered by future generations and recognized for how great it really is. While you may not get many points for humility in my book, Mr. Haines, I sure hope you’re right.
However, the beauty of the Auteurs is that they rarely sound angry. For the most part, their songs have a certain English pleasantness, a gentle acoustic kind of lull that would be rather comforting if it didn’t come with some brutally sharp lyrical barbs attached. In other words, to borrow a phrase from their “Chinese Bakery”, their aesthetic was like saying “excuse me while I’m tearing off your head.” Haines would also disguise his bitter screeds in some of the most obtuse, dense lyricism around. I challenge you to figure out the meaning behind “some missionary said that this week we’ve got to shoot all the dancing girls and replace them with satellites instead.”
The Auteurs formed at a time when English songwriting was going through a momentary renaissance. The early 1990s saw the emergence of Blur’s Damon Albarn, Oasis’ Gallagher brothers and Pulp’s one-and-only Jarvis Cocker. With Haines’ carefully constructed lyrics and prominent accent, he was immediately lumped into that camp. But while those other songwriters went on to create Britpop in the following years, Haines took great lengths to distance himself from his supposed peers. He spent most of his time in the press whining at great length about how Britpop was ruining music. Perhaps his greatest piece of pop music criticism is the song “Lenny Valentino”, an impossibly dense, vague assault upon hipsters and the sense of knowing “cool” they surround themselves with. His curmudgeonly nature even got so bad that, at one point, he jumped off a wall, breaking his legs just so he wouldn’t have to go on tour. Haines is probably best described as “difficult.”
Even with all his moaning and bitching, Haines found time to guide his band through a series of peerless albums, meaning he actually put his proverbial money where his prov
erbial mouth was. Their 1993 debut album, New Wave, introduced the world to their prickly-but-gentle sound, best heard on the fuzzy “Show Girl”. The next year, they followed that album with the louder, angrier Now I’m A Cowboy, which kicked off with “Lenny Valentino” before the band careened through another ten songs that explored the darker, most bitter corners of Haines’ mind. Songs featured grin-inducing titles like “I’m A Rich Man’s Toy” and “New French Girlfriend”. The album also gained much from the prominent role played by cellist James Banbury, allowing the Auteurs to add a unique twist to the otherwise formulaic sound of British rock.By 1995, Haines had pissed enough people off that commercial success wasn’t really a viable goal. So, being a calm, rational thinker, he decided to go find the one person more angry and cynical that himself to produce their next record: Steve Albini, of Big Black fame. One can only imagine what those recording sessions were like. However, the resulting album, After Murder Park, pushed the band even further in the direction they’d been threatening to go. Suddenly with vicious music to match the lyrics, After Murder Park is a deeply unfriendly record. Highlights include the snide “Light Aircraft On Fire” and the hilariously casual “Unsolved Child Murder”. I mean, with a title like that, you know it’s gonna be a killer.
Haines would finally end the band following Murder Park. He went on to create an album inspired by the Baader Meinhof terrorists in Germany (surprised?) before settling into a much more accessible style with Black Box Recorder. In 1999, he got the old gang together again for one last record, the mostly unnecessary How I Learned To Love The Bootboys. Although it has moments of interest, such as the electro beat-flavored “The Rubettes”, the album lacked the punch and bite of the first three. That trilogy stands as Haines’ greatest contribution to music history. Alternately lovely and spiteful, the Auteurs have created an unsung legacy of tremendously strong music. However, I know I’m not the only one who thinks so. Haines has said for years that he expects his music to be rediscovered by future generations and recognized for how great it really is. While you may not get many points for humility in my book, Mr. Haines, I sure hope you’re right.
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