SPITE BOYS: an Arab Strap interview, 1998

 

An interview with Aiden Moffat at the Charlotte, Leicester, 1998.

Originally prepared for potential fanzine publication, this interview later appeared on the Arab Strap fan website, Disco Boys, which has long since disappeared. 

Twenty-five years after the release of their album Philophobia, Arab Strap are on the home leg of their Philiophobia Undressed tour in Scotland. With a photocopied collage put together with photos of the then four piece band from earlier shows and two photos from the night in Leicester, here is the interview with Aiden, unedited and undressed from how it was written - GN. 

The Bastard Band Of Falkirk

Giving out unapologetic recollections of an ordinary precious youth addled by alcohol, ecstasy and bile; Arab Strap give up nothing that you couldn't find on top of a dance club podium or inside a pub cubicle.

But having poured out their lives prior into the low budget, bare structured Chemikal Underground LP, The Week Never Starts Around Here; 1997 saw a dramatic turn up in the prospects of the potential job club journeymen and a progressive development in their work. While the music for the off the top of / out of their heads First Big Weekend single, was used as backing (with added dubbed, audibly authentic, ethnic accent) for an Irish beer advert, they've since doubled their numbers to a proficient touring 4-piece, reworked the same song in a remarkable, feel-good, gospel style (Hey! Fever) and remixed David Holmes to glorious effect (The Holiday Girl).

"Well that's what happens when you break the NME," drawis the singer non-plussed. You broke them down? "No. What it is, if any of 'em like you, you'll be alright. But if they don't, then you're fucked. One person at the NME and suddenly you can get a nice wee tour and sell some records." Surely though it took a bit more than that? "Well that and the fact that we're all remarkably talented in all walks of life!"

One Day, Before the Gig

A nondescript East Midlands' dressing room with no ready breakables in December. Not the most likely of places to break down / beat out any fresh insights into men's psyches with six Scotsmen including their tour manager and driver) who've been touring in a transit for the past week.

"Money. And fame. And pop music," states the singer, declaring his intent. "That's why we're on this tour. Fame and money." And then what? "And then we'll get really, really drunk and take a hellish amount of drugs."

"I'm going to give it to charity," protests the guitarist. "Awright, Malcolm's gonna give his to charity," corrects his modern day, minstrelling partner who himself has merely acquired just a beard and the flu so far. "We all," says Aiden indicating everyone else, "have a good time!"

And so it follows that the musician, zipped up in a green parka, remains content in interview to let the man who provides the spoken word commentary continue doing the talking. Quietly Malcolm rolls a joint to pass round. Aidan doesn't partake but claims the whisky for himself when it arrives.

Aiden Moffat, Arab Strap, the Charlotte, Leicester 1998 

The Boys of Winter

They could be a confused, mullet coiffed, cod metal act, or worse, an ill-disguised, twee indie ensemble. None too promising admittedly and earlier even their driver expressed reservations over the puerile tendencies of Aidan Moffat's self-centred hangover / comedown confessionals. A prime example being the disagreeable sentiments expressed by the bitter ditched boyfriend in One Day, After School.

In this latest episode our hero, having found his ex "with her hands in someone else's pants," goes on to get his head kicked in for his troubles by another of her admirers out "to impress her 'cause he was trying to poke her." Singly failing to shine a decent light on any of its subjects it ends with his mother threatening to choke the heartbreaker herself.

Nice. But like the woman who stitched her former lovers names inside a tent or the English football hooligans trotting out their misty eyed memoirs of off pitch mayhem, Aidan's lyrics relay close and personal encounters from his previous. Friends, Mums and Dads and casual accomplices pass past a backdrop of distant memories and mundane daily events painting a biographic landscape coloured by cultural landmarks, warped by chemical imbalance and battered by his own perspective. Though often they're just nightmares about women as I Work In A Saloon describes literally; "A pub full of all the girls I've ever shagged or tampered with or kissed. Or even just fancied."

And while his musings have attracted an audience of admirers, such praise has come accompanied by a chorus of objections against the main perpetrator's perceived prejudice. The fact that such heart broke on sleeve accounts inherently acknowledges the author's awareness of his own shortcomings seemingly lost on them. Not that Aidan claims to be all that bothered.

"It usually hurts for about the first 40 seconds and then it's just (shrugs) 'Don't give a fuck.' What was the thing in the NME that really pissed me off? (prompted) Oh right! Accusing me of being a pedophile. That pretty much upset me! Aye, and wife beating! I'm nae into that."

That said, unlike the loveable, unlovable rogue I'd imagined, Aidan seems quite prepared to play to the press' impression of being beyond reform. A previous description, "He's all front and back - he has no sides," draws a smile of recognition from the former pop star aspiring adolescent. Admitting to another 5 years worth of material available, clearly there's a fair deal of unresolved conflict still swilling around here.

"It wasn't that many times!" he replies incredulously, unwilling to be drawn into any vague counselling efforts to unravel his subconciousness. "C'mon, fuck! It's only been about four!" Have your views subsequently d rani n changed? (Abruptly) "Yes!" Have you joined the rest of the world? "I was always herel I assume that's why people liked the records."

True, people have always enjoyed watching others suffer but the closest Aiden comes to an explanation is admitting; "I think it's just because I'm a fucking idiot and hung about with the wrong people. That's about it."

Though whether he reflects reality or is just a stroppy bastard reciting soppy bollocks, there are songs in their repertoire that genuinely appear to celebrate life. Rites of passage like the Girls of Summer, getting off yr. face, coming over all emotional, wanking... Ever the spoiler, Aidan won't even admit to any pleasure in that. s

"I don't know if I'm actually celebrating, I think I'm wondering why I fucking bother in the first place."

"It's just N-Joi n' that," dismisses Malcolm of what is ultimately just pop music. "It is a bit like N-Joi!" perks up the singer considering this new direction. "Happy hardcore, here we come!"

Arab Strap: David Gow, Malcolm Middleton, Aiden Moffat, Gary Miller 

Not Dead Yet

Despite this intriguing idea it's the actual combination of Aiden's reflections with Malcolm Middleton's melodic accompaniments that makes them work. Like the inanimate sex aid from which they take their name, when properly applied, Arab Strap can have my attention gripped, breath taken and punching the air in recognition of their having tapped the essence of man's frailty.

Songs like Deeper whose subtle, sympathetic soundtrack not only ably serves the author's fictionalised nervous seduction by a mate's elder sister in the woods but is also opened up physically by its dramatic sense of timing. And then there's The Holiday Girl remix of Don't Die Just Yet which retains the contradicted optimism of Holmes' songtitle as it witnesses our comrade struggling to grasp defeat from the jaws of victory; "Her naked elbow touched mine. And she smiled. But I couldnae say a thing."

At this moment though what's true to say is that our Caledonian correspondent's not really into being pseudoanalysed or rocking the Charlotte. I always say how much I hate the fucker," he reflects in homesick fashion, "but I really would like to be there tonight."

But to assume that his nature is derived from the traditions of British tribalism would be wrong. It's precisely in response to a flippant suggestion that there might be an additional attraction to making money from English audiences that he offers the first evidence of any altruistic motive.

"No! The appeal is people enjoying the music and communicating. It's nothing to do with selling it to the English!" Demonstrating the cross band support, a rogue voice pipes up, "I love the English."

So with his back turned to the audience, crouched over a souped-up Casiotone and subject to an endurance of technical failures, Aiden subsequently proceeds to express himself on stage. While his mumble remains mainly inaudible throughout it nevertheless holds half its audiences attention - which says plenty about the appeal of a man attempting to articulate. Not forgetting the moving support provided by a band that can crank out a thrilling run of majestic interludes to drink beer to as the punchline sinks in.

But it's the bearded bard who has the final word. Asked after the gig whether he would ever consider writing from another person's perspective (as had been suggested earlier by their driver), Aiden replied; "No, ah don't see the point."

To be fair though, he was signing autographs at the time for a couple of women who themselves were in no doubt about Arab Strap's appeal.