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With an increasingly sweaty Dictaphone and a Nokia wedged in the same ear, it might all be a little unsettling if the disembodied voice at the end of the line didn't sound equally self-conscious. For a man whose recording career is three albums and nearly ten years down the line, Brendan Benson is still a hushed factor in modern music. His tale frames him as the ubiquitous nearly man, with 'Alternative to Love' the record that could tie up several loose ends, and could maybe just make 2005 the year of solo indie adulation...
Brendan Benson is a riddle. With a major-label debut under his belt in the shape of 1996's 'One Mississippi', he emerged optimistically from extensive touring and was promptly dumped out on his arse. A whirlwind of A&R merry-go-rounds hadn't helped matters, and his fledgling career seemed prematurely flattened by the Industry juggernaut. "They [Virgin] were like: 'why aren't you writing choruses?" he recalls "and pretty soon I was thinking, 'Do I really want to do this anymore?'". So after being promised the Earth, the giant bubble looked set for a disappointing 'pfrrt'. "It was sorta the story of my life" Brendan sadly laments. Thankfully, and as tales of woe go, Benson's salvation was an almighty anomaly: in the form of good, hard, old-fashioned cash - and plenty of it. Brendan moved back to Detroit and filled his house with sound equipment, making a home studio for 'instant creativity' whenever inspiration struck. And before too long he was clutching a fistful of tracks, including the bare bones of 2002's eulogized follow-up 'Lapalco'. After the Virgin experience, however, Brendan's relationship with Major Labels had become, like Phil Spector's defence-case, dodgy, withered and paper thin - and he was deeply mistrustful of their world. Case in point; "This girl I knew offered to help me out, she said 'I know someone who works at a record label' and offered to give them my tape. So I was like, 'sure'. Anyway, there was some interest and she starts asking for a finders' fee - something I knew nothing about - I thought she might want a bit of cash or something - turns out she's got a legal team."
It was only when he hooked up with StarTime's Isaac Green that a deal with a desirable independent label was in the offing. On the recommendation of French Kicks' bassist Lawrence Stumpf, Benson forwarded Green an almost anonymous demo, for fear of being rejected: "I didn't put my phone number on it, I figured if [Isaac] wanted to find out about me, he'd make the effort". Of course Isaac came good and the Benson bandwagon was back on track. And despite a six-year wait, Brendan's devout fanbase (take note Mr. Mason) hadn't forgotten their weary hero.
It's an all-too-often told story, and Brendan's voice becomes lighter as the topic of conversation shifts away from well worn paths - neatly sidestepping any questions about his Detroit buddy and collaborator, Jack White. Apart from their much talked about but seldom heard 'secret' album, what does he see in the future? "I wanna see people come round to solo Artists" he says laughing, before adding with an earnest weight to his voice "I can see why they don't though". There follows a brief-but-serious discussion on the marketability of solo artists compared to what Brendan calls the band 'aesthetic', during which he is keen to name drop a few of his 'branded' favourites. "I wanna hear the next Calexico album" he enthuses "and Graham Nash's 'Songs for Beginners' is a beautiful record". But that's not half as 'branded' or 'aesthetic-y' as The White Stripes is it? Well no, but you have to support your fellow marginalised troubadours, right? Right? They've gotta have a Union or something. Or have you just got to concentrate on shifting your own units? After all, it's a day job, innit?"
Brendan adds: "I haven't sold many records to people, [they've] all been really revered, but not sold. I just wanna sell like, many records instead of getting all kinds of cool reviews." Fine. Yer album's shit then. "No, no, no!" He laughs. "[As for it being a job...] yeah, I think that's what I want most of all. I still don't feel like that even now. I wanna cement my place with this record, I've got high hopes for it." But does he expect to sell any records? "I don't expect to shift a ton or anything" there's a crack in his voice - a mixture of painful desperation and suppressed giggling.
But with February seeing his UK tour a sell-out, and another on the immediate horizon, there's no reason that 2005 should fail to see Brendan set himself new boundaries. After all, he's poised for the best selling album of his career. Where One Mississippi was gritty and Lapalco was sugary-sweet, Alternative to Love bustles through the gaps between Windows-down College rock ('Spit It Out'), Spectoresque doo-wop ('The Pledge') and ELO ('Get it Together'). "I can't hear the influences, I'm so close to the music,' Brendan explains "but I guess they must have crept on there somewhere". And that's just it. It's in his bruised heart, his engaging and softly-spoken devotion to music, his crushing humility. Not forgetting of course, that having played almost every note on the record; Brendan Benson is a band.
