Dave Matthews Band plans to take on Britain
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Dave Matthews is a smooth operator with a well-rehearsed bloke-next-door routine. Unkempt and unshaven, he greets us at the fancy Malibu restaurant chosen for our interview and, lest we might think him the kind of guy who would come to a fancy place such as this, announces immediately that the food is pretty bad. “The best thing’s the hot dog,” he confides, reinforcing his regular-guy credentials while fatally betraying that he must be something of a regular here. This is the user-friendly persona that has helped the Dave Matthews Band (DMB) become America’s most successful touring act this century. Only the Rolling Stones have sold more than their 12m concert tickets, or topped their gross ticket earnings of $500m. As another Rolling Stone — the US rock bible — recently put it: “Summer in America means two things: it’s hot, and the Dave Matthews Band are on tour.”
This summer, Matthews and his band are taking a week out of their lucrative schedule to come here and play a big gig with Bruce Springsteen in Hyde Park, sandwiched between smaller ones in London and, er, Wolverhampton. For some years, it has puzzled Matthews, a native South African whose family briefly lived in Cambridge during his childhood, that his monumentally popular music (albums reliably enter the US chart at No1 and gigs always sell out) has so far failed to win our hearts, minds or wallets. So far, his mild ambition to “break Britain” has been stymied by some wildly off-the-mark marketing campaigns (“Who the hell is Dave Matthews?” asked one lamentable poster — “Who the hell cares?” retorted the British public), and his career-long unwillingness to play by rules, with the usual single-video-album-tour routine.
Quite why he should care about us is something of a mystery. Because, at the age of 42, Dave Matthews would seem to have it all — lovely wife (Ashley, a naturopath), lovely kids (seven-year-old twins, Stella and Grace, and baby son, August), lovely homes (one in Seattle and an organic farm in Virginia), great popularity, great wealth — and, to cap it all, very little trouble with those pesky paparazzi. Perhaps it’s because, more than a decade ago, he played Glastonbury and nobody noticed. “We were like the breakfast band,” he recalls. “It felt like people were peering out behind trees and over the field, shouting: ‘Shut the f*** up. What the hell is that noise?’”
Somehow, this South African with a stutter, receding hair and a bit of a double chin has managed to man oeuvre himself into being an American institution while staying off the celebrity radar. So, how does he achieve the enviable position of enjoying the wealth and eschewing the fame? “Because I’m the Khmer Rouge of boring,” he grins. “I live in Seattle, I have a wife and kids, and I don’t hang out with celebrities, or go to their parties. The nearest I get to being recognised is when I go to the grocery store and the kid behind the counter goes, ‘Dude, I saw you with the Stones.’ ” Even at the Grammys, where he won awards in 1997 and 2004, Matthews claims, amusingly but implausibly, that his were the only band to maintain their anonymity. “We walked the entire length of the red carpet without anyone taking pictures. People just stared and wondered why these white guys and black guys were going in together.” I have my doubts about any of this stuff; the last time I met Matthews, in Las Vegas three years ago, he made the front page of the paper just going out to dinner. He has even had the ultimate accolade of American pop culture — Ben & Jerry’s has named not one but two ice-cream flavours in his honour (One Sweet Whirled and Magic Brownies, since you ask).
Yet, for all this false modesty, he’s so likeable that you can forgive him for it. He is a Bono-like campaigner on a huge range of liberal issues, as well as a prominent Obama supporter. He’s also a dedicated environmentalist, despite an embarrassing incident in 2004 when the driver of a DMB tour bus was accused of dumping 800lb of human waste from a Chicago bridge... on top of a boatload of day-trippers below. Two years and a couple of expensive lawsuits later, the band pledged to fight global warming by offset-ting their entire carbon emissions from touring since they formed in 18 years ago by funding renewable-energy generators. Today, the list of causes supported by Matthews — through benefit shows and direct financial contributions — ranges from schools in New York and Hawaii to Tibetan independence, lung-cancer research, nature conservation, the victims of the Virginia Tech shootings, tsunami relief in Sri Lanka and, most notably of all, helping the people of New Orleans in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. He was also a prominent performer on the 2004 Vote for Change tour in support of John Kerry’s failed presidential campaign against George W Bush, sharing a stage with Bruce Springsteen — as he will be in London, though there is no political agenda this time.
So, we’re bound to like Matthews, the man — with his self-deprecating humour and fondness for rude stories and a good drink, he’d go down a storm on Jonathan Ross or Graham Norton. But will we ever get his music?
Matthews himself is convinced things will change with his band’s seventh studio album, Big Whiskey and the GrooGrux King, a reference to the band’s private nickname for their sax player, LeRoi Moore, who died last summer following a quad-bike accident. Recorded in New Orleans and suffused with the Big Easy’s sultry melting pot of influences — funk, jazz and soul — the album stands as a tribute to Moore, whose mournful sax opens the album and is woven through a set of songs imbued with a sense of melancholy, mortality and morbid fear of impending global catastrophe. Mortality is never far from the surface in the lyrics of Matthews — whose sister was murdered by her husband in 1994 — and his latest songs pack a powerful emotional punch, reinforced by the sympathetic production of Rob Cavallo (Green Day, My Chemical Romance), taking over after a long stint by Steve Lillywhite. Big Whiskey is certainly a radical departure from the DMB’s previous work, which has, their leader concedes easily, failed, after their first two albums, to capture the fluid and freewheeling live sound from which they made their name and fortune.
Matthews, having moved to the American South after school in South Africa, formed his band in 1991 in Charlottesville, Virginia. His fellow band members were a multiracial group of jazz musicians, including the drummer Carter Beauford, Moore, and the then 16-year-old bass prodigy Stefan Lessard, later joined by the violinist Boyd Tinsley. Playing regular gigs at the bar where Matthews worked, and soon becoming a fixture around their home state, they had a far from conventional line-up and a unique sound, with sax and violin the prominent instruments, married to Matthews’s soulful delivery and folk-influenced guitar playing. Their career developed largely through word of mouth and, to a lesser extent, still does so today, with the band continuing to encourage its fans to trade bootleg tapes of live shows (although they were also prominent in a legal crackdown on bootleggers trying to profit from their shows), which are built on improvisation among the band’s highly proficient musicians.
“Dave Matthews is a very American phenomenon,” says Rolling Stone’s assistant editor, Andy Greene. “The whole thing started on college campuses in the mid-1990s. They were a sort of frat-rock landmark, where every dorm room would play this music, and going to see them play was a kind of dating ritual. And those fans have stayed with them.”
Now Matthews is hoping to convert some new ones in a new country. In a rare burst of belligerence from such an unassuming man, he predicts confidently that England will finally embrace the Dave Matthews Band phenomenon. “I feel like I can either play you the record or I can punch you in the face,” he declares with a wild grin. “That’s really the way I feel about it. If I was run over by a car now, then this album — none of the other ones — is what I’ve done in my life. This is my greatest single achievement besides my children — if, as I hope, they turn out well. This is the best thing I’ve ever done.”
Warming to his theme, he adds: “I feel I could play it for somebody or just choke them or kick them in the shins and laugh at them. I’ve never felt like this before with a record.” But what if he’s wrong? He looks as if he has never countenanced the possibility. “If this album doesn’t move more people around the world,” he declares, collapsing into a heh-heh-heh kind of laugh, “then I will think that, truly, we should stay the f*** here in America.”