The 1975: A story from the song, 'Is There Somebody Who Can Watch You' :

Wednesday, March 16, 2016

A story from the song, 'Is There Somebody Who Can Watch You' :

There was a phone call interview done by a blog owner of the AMBY blog when The 1975 were in Tokyo. They have been keeping up with the band's update since their first album release until now.
One of the question was, "Some of the songs have some unbelievable lyrics! So I just wanted to ask you, which The 1975 lyric is your favourite?" And Matty answered, "Oh that’s hard. I’d really hate to say. I mean, it spans so much because it really is an extension of my identity. I suppose there’s certain songs that connect with me more than others. On the album, for example, the last song Is There Somebody Who Can Watch You, that’s probably one of the more saddening songs for me that I’ve ever written because it’s about me leaving my family essentially—me leaving home—and making sure that there was somebody there to watch my little brother. It’s songs like that, and songs like Me that put things into perspective. I suppose every other day I’d probably have a different lyric depending on what mood I’m in. And you can probably see that by our music because it goes from really upbeat guitar-pop to somber and almost R&B. Do you know what I mean?"

- SA

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One of the solid raw interviews :

This all came as the group were approaching the end of two years of solid touring in front of crowds that were growing ever bigger and ever more voracious. It was like, Healy says, being in a “really glamorous version ofDawn of the Dead. Instead of being followed by zombies, it was iPhone-clutching kids. There’d be 100 kids between the tour bus and the stage door, when I’m in my boxers with a hangover. So my first reaction with human beings is in a resentful, semi-clothed situation – ‘Matty! Matty! Matty!’ – and I’d be, ‘They don’t even care about the music! They’ve just got their phones out!’”

Healy found himself tumbling towards a crisis, which arrived on 6 December, onstage in Boston. “There was girl stuff,” he says. “There was family stuff. There was financial stuff. There was drug stuff. I remember hearing the crowd and having an identity crisis. I thought: ‘If you want to see a show, I’ll give you a fucking show. If you’ve come to see the jester drink himself into a slumber, I’ll give it to you.’ I felt like I’d become an idea as opposed to being a person.”

At one point, a fan shouted, “I love you, Matty!” He’s ashamed of his response. “What did I say to the poor fucking girl? ‘You don’t have the right to love me. You don’t know me. I love you but you don’t get to love me.’ Jesus. Can you imagine your favourite band shouting that at you? What a dickhead. What a horrible thing to say to a kid who fucking does love me.”

At the show’s end, Healy fell to the stage and refused to leave. “George carried me off, cos I would have stayed there, apparently. I just wanted to sit there and do something you don’t. It was so blurry and of such a particular colour: I remember everything as orangey yellow.”

The easy reaction to take – and one we see again and again when members of groups with startlingly passionate teenage followings hit a wall, as opposed to troubled stars with middle-aged male followings, like Wilco’s Jeff Tweedy – is to say: suck it up, pal. You’re in a band. People love you. You’re making money. Grow a pair.