The pause on the other end of the phone line seems interminable, as if filtered through the delay of a satellite connection reaching somewhere beyond the ranges of normal communication. Stephin Merritt, the notoriously wry leader of the Magnetic Fields, lingers, supposedly, on the other end. Finally, his almost abnormally low and scruffy voice responds: “I’m fine. How are you?”
Merritt is often regarded as a difficult interview subject, perhaps unfairly. After all, even if the languorous and somewhat impatient inflections of his answers are unsettling, it should be expected from a songwriter who has consistently penned some of contemporary music’s most caustically humorous pop songs, and woven heartache, depression, and longing with steely deadpan amusement. It is often difficult to ascertain whether Merritt’s songs are intentionally coy or, having reached the bottom of a psychological well, laughter is all that is left. Like his music, however, there is an undeniable charm and sincerity to Merritt, even as his measured responses set an uncomfortable distance, and it is impossible to decipher through his stoicism whether he is actually being funny or not.
“I’ve been told that it’s all about solitude,” says Merritt of the Magnetic Fields’ new album, Distortion (Nonesuch). “I don’t know that I agree. I was told more than a year ago that this was a concept album about solitude and I haven’t bothered verifying that, and I don’t really care. If someone said that it seemed retroactively like a political diatribe, then I guess I would care. I would go back to it and say, ‘Oh my God, what have I done wrong?’”
Distortion is a departure from Merritt’s previous efforts, his deep, smooth baritone often embedded within a cloud of guitar fuzz and effects. Yet even amid the raw haze, Merritt’s wit and dry humor cuts like a leaden knife, and he is dismissive of the production as a last minute whim.
“I write the songs completely separate from arranging the songs,” he attests. “When I write a song I’m not hearing an arrangement in my head, usually. I had written the record and I wanted to record it quickly and so about two weeks before we started recording, I decided on the Jesus and Mary Chain Psychocandy production style, thinking that that would help us record it quickly. I was wrong. But I had fun with not changing a word or note of how the album was supposed to go after adopting this production style that was radically unsuitable for most of the songs.”
Distortion may have developed its titular style circumstantially, but Merritt admits the album’s sound also provided the advantage of leveling the sonic playing field between artist and listener. He suffers from “hyperacusis” in one ear, a sensitivity to loud sounds that results in an ambush of feedback and static to above-normal noise levels.
“In a way, it’s a sidestepping of the issue, because in making Distortion I didn’t need to worry that the sounds were going to sound more distorted to me than they really do, because they’re about as distorted as they’re going to be,” he says. “I have trouble mixing records at any reasonable volume because I hear distortion that isn’t there, in one ear and not the other. It’s hard when you hear something in one hear and not the other.”
The condition also forces Merritt to pare down his live performances, and for the Magnetic Fields show Tuesday at the Paramount Theatre, the rearrangements for the songs on Distortion may be their most dramatic divergence from recorded form.
“As always, we sound nothing like the record,” he offers by way of a preview. “We have no amplifiers on stage and we are probably the quietest pop group you will ever hear.”
This article appears in October 3 • 2008.
