A Prayer for the Prairies: Richard Ashcroft's Search for God in Open Spaces
by Malcolm Devereaux | 00.00.0000

There's a doctrine written somewhere that tells us God is everywhere. Yet, something beyond doctrine tells us that God is less likely to be near a puddle of puke in the restroom of a mid-town Manhattan discotheque, than he is within the wind that bends the wheat stalks at dawn in a wide Montana field. Richard Ashcroft has been in both places. He's emerged from the pharmaceutical rainbow of his former band the Verve, and gone looking for pots of gold elsewhere (previously content to transform gold records into bags of pot). Human Conditions (Virgin) is a spiritual document of that search. The often overwrought psychedelic strobe epics of his former band have given way to a brand of gospel maturity. Instead of plowing through pill bottles, Ashcroft has aimed his allegorical scythe at the heavens, seeking redemption through questions and quests. Televisions may still get tossed from the windows of hotel suites, but this time around, the Bible in the top drawer of the nightstand might be spared. Ashcroft is hardly religious and barely reformed, but his search has moved beyond the chemical cranial buzz and into the wide-open spaces of a life lived, instead of a life avoided.


Most of the songs on Human Conditions remind me of gospel music, yet they're not necessarily concerned with endorsing any particular religion. Is this record about religion or about any specific kind of spirituality?

A track like "Check the Meaning" is more about where the seekers go—people who have some sense of spiritualism, or some sense of wanting to seek or discover their own spiritualism. When, in reality, there doesn't seem to be much time left for the search when the rest of the world's imploding in the names of other people's faith. It's like an urban sort of prayer, in a sense, in at the end of the song the characters find a hole in the sky—through the light pollution, or whatever—and say, "Jesus Christ, buy us some time." In "God is in the Numbers"—the film Pi influenced me a lot.

Really?

Yeah, I really liked that film. The concept of God in the numbers and the concept of so much number-crunching going on now, that it's almost like once we define that final code, it's almost like Monty Python—the funniest joke [sketch], you know? Once a person sees it, they'll be enlightened immediately because it's so beautiful. But I wouldn't say there was anything specific. There's no flag wearing, there's no document like a Bible, or anything. It comes from a general sense of insecurity and a feeling that I've got a tribe now. I've got a child and I've got a tribe and I suppose I've got more of a duty with my music to do something that sends out a certain vibration, rather than sending out nihilism just for the sake of it. Not that I've totally changed, by any means, it's the same concept that's been on from the start, but the sound I think on this record has kind of advanced from the last one. Even on a track like "Sounds of Science," it's such a catchy tune, but essentially it's just saying that I'm actually finding my peace and finding my God in my wife's eyes, in a moment, in a second. It's feeling something so awe-inspiring and perhaps that's how you define it. With "Nature is the Law," I'm saying that nature in its purest form can stir you like nothing else. And the timelessness of that, and Brian [Wilson] being involved in that obviously gave it an amazing edge. It was the song itself that led me to Brian. He was like a descendent of the tune. I could imagine Brian as sort of the bank of the river—him and his story.

Did you learn anything from him?

It was an insight to be able to hear how he stacked his vocals. That was an honor in itself. I mean, there's definitely purity to what he's done with his vocals there. When I was writing songs like "Lucky Man" and "Sonnet," at some point, I'd involuntarily move my arms almost in a kind of gospel way—almost as if I was in the church, getting it at that moment. I think, once I'd done that with songs, I just got kind of addicted to that kind of thing. You don't have to make happy music to soothe people, it can be melancholy, yet it has these warm rushes and waves of hope. At the end of the day, I have no concept of what I'm doing when I'm actually doing it. Some of my ideas are just, I'm thinking of film, I'm thinking of John Ford westerns, [Ennio] Morricone and things like that. It all goes into a big stew and what comes out comes out.

So you're big on American westerns...

No, not necessarily. With "Nature is the Law," it's more like Aaron Copland. I was introduced to Aaron Copland's [music] a few years ago and I kind of like that sort of early American, ancient American folk. It's sort of the church tradition and how the folk and church thing passed on to pop music—just the whole cycle of it. The country tradition as well. I mean, there's something so pure and beautiful in all of them and there's so much to be drawn from all of them. But definitely with "Nature is the Law," when we first did that French horn line, it was like, "Ah, this is like Aaron Copland's coming out here." Without the vocals in it, it gives you a picture of the prairies almost.

When you think about the current state of the world, do you feel doom or do you feel hope?

[Pause] Essentially, I've got to feel hope. I've gotta feel hope for my own family. I think the doom factor comes in with the acceptance that we're all pretty much ill. And how ill are the guys in power? How ill do you have to be to make that decision at some point in your life that you want to go for that role? I think that's been the thing historically. There've been very few good men who've gotten to these positions of power. That's what's giving me a sense of doom more than anything else. With [Britain], we had the Falklands War and then it was over and then the Iraq thing and then it was over. It came to a head. But recently, events have been happening for the first time in my life, where the repercussions are gonna be here long after I'm gone and generation after generation. That's one difficult thing I think for people to comprehend. In a sense, Kennedy was shot and it happened and it was gone and it reverberated and people mourned. But this is something else. We're in a precarious place. Sometimes it's chilling. It's difficult. I'm probably like the majority of us. I go out and buy a big Christmas tree...

Crawl into your house, draw the blinds and enjoy your day.

[Laughs] Yeah.

With your former band, there were consistent rumors about substance abuse and songs like "Buy It in Bottles" and "Lord I've Been Trying" from Human Conditions seem like you're endorsing an entirely different way to arrive at the kind of release drugs promise but never deliver.

I've always felt like I've been too stamped, too early, to recover. So, coming to terms with a sense that you're either gonna grow a huge fucking beard and get the robes on, or you're gonna walk a semi-kind of tightrope for your life, where your kind of mental condition, your physical condition, have to be put through a certain process. I mean, I have to go through a certain process daily, like a number of people have to, to function. Whether that's a few beers or whatever, do you know what I mean? I'm aware that I need a number of things to function. It's just the way life is. So, I don't see myself as someone who's completely spiritually enlightened, but I'm more enlightened in many ways, in many more simple ways, in which things motivate me. I think a lot of the time, maybe in your 20s, you're running it kind of blind, you know? It takes a long time to understand your own space and how silence and stopping can be a good thing—something rewarding, something enjoyable. But in a way, "Lord I've Been Trying" is a song I wrote a long time ago. So, sometimes it's difficult to say. Sometimes songs are almost prophetic. I don't even understand them until a few years later.

Messy rock and compact songs are all the rage and everyone's heralding a return to the garage and all sorts of stupid shit like that. But the music you make is complex and orchestral and expansive...

Yeah, I'm totally out of time [laughs]. Which is fine with me.

Yeah, I was going to ask how you perceive your place in this current scramble to define the situation, the movement?

The one thing about any new situation is—the moment it becomes a situation, a scene, the moment the camera crews move in, the moment the A&R guys are in there—it's dead anyway.

Exactly.

It's cool to be out of time. The thing about a lot of that music, it's very similar. And it's very similar to a lot of film. It's very bombastic, it's very strobe-like, it's smacking and vying for your attention. I think in this day and age, there's so much vying for your attention on a daily basis, it's kind of nice to have music you can swim in, you can float in, music that draws you in and has got more depth to it. The only thing with my music is, do people have time anymore to listen to music like that? And that I don't know.

It's nice to escape into a song as opposed to having it come at you.

I mean, it's cool. I'm cool with anyone who's creating and getting on with it and making a living. I'm happy. I'm not against a fucking scene or anything like that. But it's also cool not being involved with anyone else and being on your own trip, because I think the only way that music—pop music, rock music—is gonna survive is by the eclectic thing kicking up. Hip-hop should have been the lesson, really, for us to say, "Let's not keep putting things in brackets. Let's not keep underlining things and making things simple for people." Because, fundamentally, most of the people that'll come through this thing will probably have never considered themselves a garage band. We've seen that time and time again. We saw it with grunge and we saw it in England with Brit-pop. I mean, how many great records do you get out of these big things when you look back with hindsight. There doesn't seem to be that many.

How much of your music is about you?

The vast majority of it, I suppose. But, what's "you." It's about defining "you." And I suppose that's what's part of the trip anyway. Surely there are elements in it that are brought from imagination. A lot of it flows out from the part of my head that's not necessarily the part of my head that's talking to you right now. I mean, it's the part of the head that isn't underlined and preparing every word that comes out. And sometimes things flow out and sometimes it's difficult to explain. And like I said before, for me, they sometimes feel more prophetic, like warnings or part of your psyche talking to yourself. Sometimes it's a simple message, a simple thing coming out of the speaker for the listener. It's also a big confused jumble sometimes. It's difficult to define, really.

It's always written that the Verve disbanded at its peak. Is that how you perceive it, or do you feel like it ran its course and it was over?

At the time, it was about the emotional sacrifices people were gonna have to make. It was about judging and analyzing the various individuals involved, or the mental state of everyone. It became, I think, pretty apparent for me and everyone else, this wasn't something that really was destined to continue. But musically, I don't think it reached a peak. I mean, commercially, we came from a band that sold 50,000 albums to seven million. There was definitely some kind of leap that had gone on there [laughs].

When I say "The Shining" do you think of a really good Stanley Kubrick movie, or a really good rock band? [Epic Records recording artists, the Shining, boast two former members of the Verve]

[Laughs] It's a great film, man.

I guess we'll just leave it at that...

Yeah, good film [laughs].

Was it ever your intention to be a rock star?

I mean, it's part of me. I don't know if you've ever seen the film Stardust...

I haven't.

It's a follow-up to a film called That'll Be the Day that David Essex starred in. And Ringo Starr was in it as well. It's the kind of cliché rise to fame. I mean, when I was a kid, the concept of...well, basically, I'll put it quite simply, there were things driving me, when I was very young, when music wasn't actually the chief motivator. There was a big feeling that I was going to be up to something in my life, you know? I hadn't quite figured out what it was, but I had that sort of urgency that other people didn't seem to have at the time. Whether that was being a rock star, I don't know. I mean, I've been saying for a long time that the whole concept of the rock star is just something that's almost insane. It's bizarre. It's a caricature and it's a sort of an old carcass. But I think, fundamentally, if I put on another ten stone and cut my hair like a skinhead and broke my nose again, perhaps people wouldn't say that as much.

I don't even think you make rock music anymore.

I like to think I make soul music. There's a gospel element. It's a big brew, you know? I think, yeah, I've done the cliché thing. I have thrown things out of rooms. I have taken large amounts of substances. I have, you know, done the shit. I'm not saying that I've completely and utterly cleaned up of that at the moment. What I'm saying is there's definitely a time when you look at that shit and you think, "Well, you know, you've done it now." Once you've done that kind of stuff once, you realize how ridiculous it is.

Are there things you haven't done yet that are going to scare the shit out of people?

[Laughs] In this game, it's quite strange that I'm actually still making a record. With all of the decisions I've made over the years that have been perceived by the people as commercial or career suicide, I'm still making music. Now, I think whatever happens, fuck it. I've managed to make records for about 10 years, and with the amount of people that have been hatched and then gone over the years, it's incredible.

It seems like it all goes by so fast, but maybe I'm just depressed and hungover.

[Laughs] No, man. Let me tell you. When you start making albums, that's when you get depressed ‘cause you start thinking, "Well, the last album was two years ago, so..."

I better get back to work...

Right. You add up the albums and then you're around 45 years old and you've only recorded another four albums and you're thinking, "This has got to speed up." It's ridiculous, you know?

It must feel like it's measuring your time in some weird way. Four years go by for me and I've got nothing to show for it, so it's like, "Hey, it's four years later from four years ago!"

[Laughs] I don't think even when you do stuff, you have time to sit on it and look back and get the cigar out. I just can't. I move on.