In 2011 Kate Bush ended a six-year silence with the launch of self-covers album Director’s Cut, followed by a completely new work, 50 Words For Snow. She discussed the matters arising with Prog in her trademark maverick manner.
You wait six years for a Kate Bush album, then two come along at once. By the standards of most musicians it’s is an impressive work rate. By the standards of this most reclusive of artists, it’s nothing short of miraculous.
50 Words For Snow may have been recorded in parallel with its immediate predecessor, Director’s Cut, but it’s no companion piece. Where the latter album found the singer re-imagining songs from her own back catalogue with a perfectionist’s ear, 50 Words For Snow is a brand new work – and one that Ronseals her standing as one of British music’s great mavericks.
Which other artist would sympathise with Bigfoot, as she does in Wild Man; or fantastise about a roll in the slush with a snowman without a hint of a blush, as in Misty? She evens adds Stephen Fry to her list of unlikely collaborators –the plummy-voiced raconteur recites the eponymous words for snow, all of which sound like they’ve been completely made up: ‘whippoccino,’ ‘phlegm de neige,’ ‘merenguer peaks.’
An exploration of humanity’s relationship with the elements, 50 Words represents the latest step on Bush’s 30-year journey from the wide-eyed ingénue of debut album The Kick Inside, through the mystical pagan-folk faerie queen of The Hounds Of Love, to her current incarnation as a regal, if slightly batty, earth mother. Musically, it’s intricate and otherworldly – prog with a small ‘p.’ Not for her the grandiose musical statement; for Bush, it’s all in the details.
The myth of the singer as some sort of reclusive Miss Havisham isn’t strictly true. She simply had pop stardom thrust on her early, and has spent the past 30 years beating a retreat, preferring the comforts of domesticity to the trials of self-publicity. She is a reserved interviewee, preferring to mull over answers rather than serving up zinging quotes. But then that’s just something else that sets this quiet maverick apart.
50 Words For Snow is a very wintery-sounding album.
I see it as a winter album. I love the feel of a cold, long winter in the countryside. I love everything about it, really. Making snowmen, how the moonlight reflects on the snow, the muffled sounds, log fires, midnight Mass, walking through the woods. I noticed that when I left London, I started to experience the seasons more deeply.
Modern civilisation seems intent on eliminating every ounce of mystery we have left
The song Misty is about a woman who spends the night with a snowman. You sing, ‘I can feel you melting in my hand’ – is that meant to be as rude as it sounds?
No, nothing that graphic! I just wondered what it was like to sleep with a snowman, to experience that kind of fleeting intimacy. Of course, the lyric can be interpreted as containing symbolic references: wet sheets...
In Wild Man, you describe a mythical, Bigfoot-like creature who seeks human contact.
I love mystery – things we don’t quite know for sure; uncharted territory. And modern civilisation and so-called progress seems intent on eliminating every ounce of mystery we have left. Knowledge is a beautiful thing, but sometimes not knowing something, not being absolutely sure, can be beautiful too. Maybe on some level we don’t want to be told Santa Claus doesn’t exist.
Having said that, of course I’m all for science. And maybe one day science will allow us to communicate with angels or other mysterious creatures. Never say never.
You often use background noises to create an ambience. In Lake Tahoe, it’s crows.
Rooks, rather. I wanted to suggest desolation; a bare, slightly depressing landscape. You often hear that sound in movies about the Middle Ages. I’ve always found it odd that, in a lot of popular music, you almost never hear nature. Maybe it’s because I live in the country, but I find nature is so overwhelming.
There’s a real magical-realism feel to Snowed In At Wheeler Street. A pair of lovers turn up in different eras: in Paris in the 20s, London during the Blitz, New York post-9/11.
I’m fascinated by other eras, but I’m glad to be alive now… not that long ago, women weren’t allowed to be creative
I was looking for an original approach to tackle reincarnation, and that déjà vu feeling you get. Like meeting someone who seems so familiar it’s uncanny. Sometimes it’s hard not to feel you’ve known them before, sometime, somewhere. The lovers I describe are mad about each other, but torn, like magnets, attracting each other and pushing each other away.
Your music seems to soundtrack events from a different era.
Well, I’m fascinated by other eras, but I’m glad to be alive now. I mean, not that long ago, women weren’t allowed to be creative, to have a career. Women were expected to sacrifice their own aspirations to their husbands.
Of course, any artist would like their work to have a timeless quality, in that it transcends fads and trends. I think I’ve been quirky and stubborn and original enough not to be stuck in a trend.”
Which historical characters would you invite to dinner?
Winston Churchill and Stephen Fry.
Stephen is on the new album, reciting the 50 different words for snow. Some of them, like ‘zhivagodamarbletash,’ sound completely made up.
I made most of them up! I mean: ‘phlegm de neige’ – ‘boomerangablanca’? I loved Stephen’s delivery; I wanted a voice that could project both authority and warmth.
Given the quirkiness of your songs, how do you give directions to the musicians you work with? Do you ever say, “This should sound like a willow tree in a rain storm?”
I’m not happy about working so long on one project… But what’s the alternative? Releasing a mediocre album?
I usually start by explaining the structure of the song. I tell them what the rhythm should be, and the key obviously. And I point out where the song should remain bare or understated, and at which points in time they can add fills, little touches. Sometimes, but not always, I tell them what the lyric means, what the song is about. And then it’s their turn to surprise me.
Do you tend to write ‘up’ music when you’re feeling good, then moody, ‘dark’ stuff when you’re down?
No, I don’t think so. Aerial had a couple of heavy songs – I sang about the death of my mother. And yet I was happy during that period.
Aerial came out 12 years after your previous album, The Red Shoes. Why did it take so long?
I’m not happy about working so long on one project or about not having released more work. It is hard work, it can be tedious, absorbing, exhausting even. But what’s the alternative? Releasing a mediocre, rushed, half-finished album?
You continue working on songs even after they’ve been released. Isn’t that a bit obsessive?
That has happened, yeah. I wouldn’t call it obsessive – it’s simply being dedicated and caring, I suppose. I’m never content. It’s never quite perfect. That’s why I did Director’s Cut. I hear a perfect version in my head, and sometimes the version on record wasn’t quite that. I don’t know whether that’s just me or whether all artists feel like that.
To some people, visibility is everything. We tend to forget that fame and all that should be a by-product of talent and hard work
Last year and this year were pretty intense. People tend to think you’re idling when you don’t release any work, but I work all the time. Only at my own pace, and to my own standards.
Do you work at home?
Yeah. I function better in controlled surroundings. Simply being at ease, surrounded by... well, love and beauty. And nature. And I didn’t want to miss out on my son growing up.
To some people, visibility is everything. We tend to forget that fame and all that should be a by-product of talent and hard work, not the other way around. I’ve found seclusion and creativity to be natural partners.
You’ve famously only toured once, in 1979. What’s keeping you from doing it again?
I don’t know. I hear people claim that my first and only tour was such a horrible experience, but that’s not true. I had a great time; I loved the show and the circus troupe-like camaraderie. Maybe not the stress and the travel. But when I think about it, I feel primarily a sense of euphoria. And those were pioneering days, you know. I think we were the first to use headset microphones – made from a coat hanger!
You were in the audience when David Bowie ‘retired’ Ziggy Stardust, at the Hammersmith Odeon in 1973. So you know how much fans hanker for more.
I remember that Bowie gig quite clearly. I cried, like all other girls. I remember he seemed rather moved too. It seemed the end of an era.
Performing live isn’t a priority for me. Creating new work in the studio is, as is family life. I keep busy – and then when I look up another five years have passed.
My father was always prepared to listen to any new song… even if it wasn’t very good
What advice would you give to a young songwriter just starting out?
Persevere. Don’t be afraid. Realise it’s a learning process – nothing will ever be perfect. Be stubborn. Demand respect. Don’t rush a song that doesn’t want to come just yet.
Create a pleasant working environment; surround yourself with people who encourage you. I’ll always be grateful to my father who was always prepared to listen to any new song I’d made, even if it wasn’t very good.
I’d like to say more, but it’s hard to put in words. That’s one of the problems with interviews.