Listen
to Cage the Elephant
Ten minutes before taking the stage in a small, jam-packed basement venue in
Brighton, the singer Matt Schultz stands, unrecognised, among the crowd. You
could observe of most vocalists that their transformed persona — beneath
stage lights and with a sound system blasting out behind them — bears little
relation to the demeanour they exhibit at other times. But there is
something about Schultz, standing there shyly with a beer in his hand,
swivelling slowly round to take in the audience, that, for all that nobody
has an earthly idea who he is, marks him out.
When, a short while later, his band, Cage the Elephant, rip into their first
song, the pent-up energy his earlier stillness hinted at is explosively
confirmed. Indeed, each of the Kentucky five-piece performs as if physically
jolted by an unseen current: they crash into one another or the crowd at the
front; sweat pastes their hair over their faces; and Schultz reveals himself
within minutes as one of music’s most charismatic new front men.
What’s their music like? Some sniff that Cage the Elephant make
lowest-common-denominator cock-rock, short on subtlety and long on misogyny,
that they are little more than a party band for neanderthals. Their fans beg
to differ, hearing echoes not only of very early AC/DC and Aerosmith in
their music, but of the raw, thrilling power of the MC5 and the Stooges,
too.
Now, you and I know that the snippy-sniper camp very likely contains uptight
folk who, when in drink, are the type you see crashing around the dancefloor
to songs they wouldn’t be seen dead praising when sober (and who probably
have cherished vinyl copies of Highway to Hell and Toys in the Attic on
their shelves). But what do the band themselves think of such critics?
Schultz’s brother Brad, the band’s rhythm guitarist, is clear: “I don’t give
two shits about what they say. People are either scared or offended by us.”
Matt adds: “It’s right in people’s faces from the start, and some don’t know
how to take that.”
In conversation, the siblings mix profanities with a Southern courtesy that
must owe something to their upbringing on a commune that was initially
druggie and then turned, heavily, to God. Matt is the more coiled of the
two, cracking his knuckles or tapping the table furiously throughout the
interview. Brad, though he seems more open, is also watchful in his own way.
Discussing the contract the band signed — to an American record company,
which then licensed their debut album to labels in other countries — he
says: “We haven’t done a lot of marketing in the States” (which sounds more
savvy than punk). Later, explaining why they didn’t sign the worldwide deal
that was on offer, he explains: “If everyone’s going to have their hand in
your cookie jar, or change your recipes, well, f*** that.”
They get on just fine, they say, although, as Matt observes: “If it goes to
blows, it goes to blows.” Most often, scraps kick off with gripes such as
“Wash the dishes, man” or “Who keeps on using all the toilet paper?”. The
band have, since last autumn, been sharing a flat in Leytonstone, east
London, and are dry as a bone on the area’s charms. “There’s, like, a pub
there,” says Matt. “Plus, we have an Asda right in front of the house.” “Oh,
and Tich [the bassist, Daniel Tichenor] witnessed a hit right outside his
window,” adds Brad. The line-up is completed by Lincoln Parish on lead
guitar, with Jared Champion on drums.
The brothers had their fair share of trouble growing up in the small town of
Bowling Green (principal industries: Chevrolet and Fruit of the Loom
underwear). They had plenty to rebel against. After their parents found
religion, the family (the pair have two younger brothers) would attend the
local Pentecostal church “pretty much every day”, says Matt.
“Everybody sang,” Brad continues. “A lot of people danced. Or they’d run up
and down the aisles, going, ‘Aaarrgghhh’ or ‘Whoooo’.” They were only
allowed to listen to Christian music, although, as Brad recalls, “When our
dad was in a good mood, when he was feeling saucy, he’d put on some Joe
Cocker or Pink Floyd, and perhaps a little Steppenwolf, too. Daddy didn’t
want us to listen to all that shit, because it was all about, or made on,
drugs.” He once smashed a Pearl Jam cassette in their presence, though some
may feel Mr Schultz was doing them a favour on that occasion.
The family was also poor — “two adults and four kids in a two-bedroom
apartment”, says Brad — with a kitchen whose floor had a huge crater in it,
and cockroaches that roamed both free and plentifully. “You’d check your
cereal bowl for them before you ate,” remembers Matt. Their reminiscences
contain no hint of self-pity or resentment about either the grinding poverty
or their father’s strict approach to parenting. “Our mom had a great sense
of humour,” says Brad. “We had this toy tape recorder with a little
microphone, and, I guess to make us feel better, she’d walk around imitating
Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, going, ‘I’m Margie Schultz and we’re here
with the poor and deprived. Look at this hole in the kitchen floor.’ If you
listen to the tapes now, you can hear Matt going, ‘Mom, it’s not playing my
voice,’ and she’s saying, ‘Well, son, that’s because you need to wind it
back.’ ”
It’s playing his voice now, of course. The band’s brilliant debut album is,
both on disc and on stage, a record that, on the surface, demands to be
played at maxi-mum volume, the soundtrack to a weekend-long summer gathering
where no questions are asked and no purists admitted. Songs such as Ain’t No
Rest for the Wicked — which describes picking up a hitchhiker who turns out
to be a prostitute — are unlikely to pass muster with the taste police, even
though the act that its strung-out riffing most recalls is Beck. But what of
Tiny Little Robots, a straight punk tirade against conformity, or the
Iggy-like, anti-war Drones in the Valley, both of which betray a caustic
turn of phrase worthy of Alex Turner?
Equable and, with their rolling, drawn-out Southern cadences, polite they may
be, but the Schultz brothers are not keen on the word “party”. At first,
they disagree about this when the subject comes up. “I don’t like talking
about it,” says Matt. “Brad is more like, ‘Well, it’s the truth, it’s what
we do.’ But people then start looking at you and going, ‘You’re just a party
band.’ I just don’t want to get misconstrued.”
A straw poll conducted after the Brighton show suggests that Matt has little
cause to worry. A few admit to disappointment that he hasn’t, on this
occasion, essayed one of his famous bar-top dances. Nobody, though, shows
the slightest sign of concern that they might have just been enjoying a
guilty or dumbed-down pleasure. “They’re punk, man,” says one woman,
borrowing the brothers’ favourite verbal book end.
In the doorway, a young lad is surrounded by enthusiasts. Matt Schultz has
been recognised and looks pretty pleased about it. Even shyness, it seems,
has its limits.
Cage the Elephant is released tomorrow on Relentless
