Of course, it was never going to happen. But in the unlikely event that the US football team had reached the World Cup final, Pink Martini would have been the ideal band to serenade them at a post-game party. Just as soccer seems an exotic pursuit to most Americans, so Thomas Lauderdale’s lounge band is a restless, multicultural entity with its base in countercultural Oregon and its heart somewhere in a Parisian cafe. Mini big band, world-music explorers and kitsch revivalists rolled into one 12-piece ensemble, they are the embodiment of our new download culture, mixing styles and traditions, from the Balkans to Japan, to create what Lauderdale, the band’s founder, describes as “exquisite musical wallpaper”.
The phrase doesn’t do full justice to the quality of the performances. Pink Martini may be easy on the ear, but they amount to more than an easy-listening act with postmodern trimmings. Lauderdale and his colleagues are global travellers who have set themselves the task of reintroducing us to a sense of beauty. An unfashionable quest, to be sure, but they appear to be succeeding, judging by their growing word-of-mouth following in this country and beyond. While our radio programmers may not quite know which box to put them in, the musicians are winning over a young audience with an appetite for the traditional virtues of well-crafted songs and elegant arrangements.
The chances are that even if you have never heard of the band, you have heard their lead singer, China Forbes, trilling “Je ne veux pas travailler...” on a television commercial. It goes without saying that Pink Martini are immensely popular in France, a country where there is, by and large, a greater reverence for the music of the past. Their first album, Sympathique, became a cult hit there almost a decade ago, helped along by a debut concert at the Cannes film festival. But in Britain, too, there is a growing appetite for grown-up pop. At Sadler’s Wells last autumn, the demand for Pink Martini tickets was so intense that the musicians played two shows in one day. A matter of months after two successful concerts at the Barbican, they return to London on Saturday. Slowly but surely, the word is spreading.
Lauderdale, a fastidious thirtysomething Harvard graduate, has always seen the group as part of a broader mission. A classically trained pianist, he formed the line-up in 1994, originally with the aim of playing left-wing political fundraisers in his adopted home town, Portland. (Running for mayor in the city was an early ambition, and one he still toys with.) Depressed by the lumpen hard rock and techno that was standard fare on the circuit, he decided to create an ensemble dedicated to a gentler form of popular song.
The multicultural element reflects his own mixed heritage. Fond of describing himself as the group’s “mystery Asian”, he is the product of a mixed marriage and was adopted by a family in Indiana, America’s heartland, before moving to Oregon as a child. Two of his adoptive siblings were black, the other was Iranian. What is more, his father is now an openly gay pastor. Given that background, it hardly seems surprising that Lauderdale spends his career crossing artistic borders.
While the music is mellow and relaxed, his assessment of the way we live now verges on the apocalyptic. In his eyes, American music — and popular culture generally — took a wrong turn somewhere in the early 1960s. JFK’s assassination was a pivotal moment, as far as he is concerned, though he also points the finger at the rise and rise of television. His politics may be those of a righteous radical à la Michael Moore, but his perfect world, you suspect, would be found on a 1930s cruise liner, with cocktails flowing on all sides and Irving Berlin on the gramophone.
“Things really turned in 1963 or 1964,” Lauderdale observes. “There was a certain kind of optimism in the culture until then. You could see the change everywhere, from music to advertising and fashion. Things became darker. Products became expendable. Somewhere along the line, we lost the ability to dance. When they don’t do that, people retreat into themselves. Disco was the last time we were actually dancing together. You had tunes with people singing in choruses, bands like Earth, Wind and Fire or the Village People. If you look at techno, all the attention now is on the DJ. It’s a totally different dynamic.”
An oversimplification? Perhaps, but Lauderdale is surely onto something. Technology has given us far greater musical choices than previous generations, yet it seems curious that the symbol of our age is the iPod, a sleek device that wraps us in our favourite hits while closing us off from the messy world outside. A fan of old-time jazz, Lauderdale makes a thoughtful point about the narcissistic tendency in the modern improvising scene. Many years ago, that splendidly unconventional music critic Henry Pleasants wrote a book arguing that popular music begins to wither whenever it loses its intimate connection with dance rhythms. Lauderdale adopts a similar stance. “I prefer the older, pre-1940s styles where players worked harder at supporting melody. I guess you could say I’m more Louis Armstrong and less Wynton Marsalis. When bebop came along, jazz became all about one person’s virtuosity. The song was reduced to a crazy display of notes.”
Given those strong opinions, it comes as no great surprise that Pink Martini cherish their independence. Although record labels have made approaches, Lauderdale prefers to release albums on his own label, Heinz (named after his dog). He even supplies the artwork for the sleeves. Wouldn’t a deal with the right company ease some of the pressure of running such a sprawling band? Absolutely not, he counters: “We’d be broke. The band would cease to function if we weren’t independent. The choices made by record executives tend to be pretty bad. The popular culture is pretty desolate right now; there’s a constant underestimation of the American public. I don’t want to sign to a company, then wake up one day and find I’m owned by Disney. Besides, at a practical level, running our own label is the difference between earning 25 cents per record sold and eight dollars.”
Sometimes, it has to be said, you sense that Martini could benefit from a little more outside guidance. Enjoyable though their shows are, the occasionally gauche presentation can create the air of a rehearsal rather than a concert. More sophisticated lighting would make all the difference too. Lauderdale, not one of nature’s front men, tends to keep his nose to the keyboard while Forbes lacks the grand gestures of a true diva. At times, you might easily mistake the group for a party of software engineers gathering for a musical picnic.
Not that most of the audience really seem to care. In an age where two rappers and a turntable can fill Wembley Arena, expectations are that little bit lower. Besides, when Lauderdale and his team kick into a Neapolitan ballad or a Balkan horn riff, there’s no questioning their commitment.
When we spoke, Lauderdale was still buzzing about a recently completed recording session with the androgynous jazz balladeer Jimmy Scott, who will make a guest appearance on the new album, due out next spring. The last release, Hang on Little Tomato, won almost universally positive reviews. Why the strange title, you may ask? Lauderdale borrowed it from a 1960s advert for ketchup — just the kind of quirky social detail that always catches his eye.
Pink Martini play the Tower Music Festival, E1, on Saturday; www.towermusicfestival.co.uk
