Brick Briscoe has just got in from London and he is, by his own admission, worn down from going 24/7. The Indiana songwriter, filmmaker and producer has been releasing records since 2013, recording one of them during chemotherapy, and has recently been ill again. His new album, Found Footage, draws on songs written for films that never got made, sits with a bittersweet nostalgia. Jason Barnard spoke to Brick to talk illness, economics and punk angst in agricultural Indiana.
You describe Found Footage as touching you “deeply in a way I haven’t felt in a while”. What does it feel like when your own work surprises you?
Well, maybe I got it right, is my initial reaction. Really though, this time, as I was reviving a few songs from long ago, combined with new songs written in this bizarre time to be a human (and American), that I found common ground with the bittersweet nostalgia combined with the horror of the now. And in each case I found ways to interpret those conflicts without being too “woe is me”. I’m still wondering if the bittersweetness is about those commonalities or if it is about not being settled on career choices, like continuing a pursuit to make feature films and music at the same time. Many of the earlier tracks were written for films that never were made. My new ones are my way of writing scripts that will actually get made, albeit as songs.
One song, “Final Romance” was from a film of the same name made by Boris Damovski. I was actually in that film. Apparently it exists somewhere in Skopje.
The title Found Footage implies something recovered and possibly not meant to be seen. Is that discomfort intentional, and how much of what you make do you consider almost too honest to release?
Very intentional. If it is “too honest” I change the names to protect the guilty and innocent. Even if it is me. And many times I change the setting completely and try to interpret how the same feeling plays in different narratives.
IV was recorded during chemotherapy, with sessions in a hospital. Does the narrative of illness feeding creativity ever feel reductive to you, or does it actually describe how the work gets made?
With IV those songs were already written. My goal was to just finish it, as I was stage four and you never know where that goes. That reductive quality didn’t probably show up in my work until “From Lucky Point to Père-Lachaise”. I made that record after I went into remission #1 and just returning from my first trip to France to film a documentary about WWI. It was at that time, I knew I could still work. Those themes show up from then on, but only a few songs are meant to be obvious. “Maggie Might” is a song on Found Footage that maybe tries to make light, but layered work of cancer. If you don’t make it seem facile when you are going through it, the pressure and reality of cancer will be what kills you. Attitude is everything, reductive or not.
You’ve been ill again more recently. At what point does surviving something stop informing the music and start becoming the music, and is that a line worth protecting?
What I learned in the first foray with “the big sick” was that you can’t waste time. But, that’s a great question. I’m not sure I’d know the difference. It is interesting to imagine whether I’d still be doing music had I not been so ill. The glories of survival truly hit you when you go into remission (for me anyway). That where the unexplained bouts of ugly crying were, only present at the very beginning of being well. And I was crying for reasons I wasn’t sure of. I think that really inspired me to try to find out why. Wow, thanks for that,we may find out a next record! I’m not sure that there are any lines worth protecting when creating something.
You say once music hits the streamers, you have to be physically in front of people to sell anything. Has the live show become an economic necessity as much as an artistic one, and has that changed how you approach it?
I used to work in television. Even just going to work was a sales job. I’ve never been good at selling something I don’t believe in. It is readily evident when folks see me live, whether with full band or solo/duo. I find new “family” and make a certain connection that makes folks want a shirt, or even a cd. Whether that’s because they became a fan, a friend. or they really liked something about me is not something I can control. But seeing me in person is the best way for them to decide. Streaming is so impersonal. If you only hear me pop up and it is the song of mine you’d hate if I was The Stones even, I’d have trouble convincing them to come back.
In reality, I know I make a certain kind of niche music. But I also know it doesn’t “completely suck”. I just ask for the opportunity to connect with you, even it is at a drink at the bar after the set.
Economic necessity doesn’t relate to me. I’m very ambitious, but unfortunately I prefer happiness. I hope I’ve describe how above. Selling something you make is fun, whether it is a song or a hammer. I don’t see them giving hammers away.
Your influences, including The Jam and Gang of Four, are artists with a specific relationship to place and English working class life. What do those references mean to you from where you come from, Petersburg, Indiana?
The easy answer to that is that being a small town kid who didn’t fit in that there was a lot of similar angst between us. And I live in a working class agricultural and coal economy where people have to really put that angst into work.
The Jam in particular offered a glimpse into their life that reflected kids like me more than the music we were hearing, except for songs coming out of The Ramones or Television or Jonathan Richman. For me the UK bands, by just being in the UK, made that more romantic in relation to what I was seeing in Indiana. And possibly a way out. NYC was just as romantic too. And I got out and went to live in NYC and LA. The same was true for me in film, by the French New Wave or Mike Leigh.
Now I’ve learned it is easier to be me in Indiana where the cost of living is better and I can save up to go to London, Paris, or wherever.
You write about sexuality and identity with real directness, yet your live show is described as surprisingly tender. Where does the aggression end and the vulnerability begin, or do you think that’s even a useful way to frame it?
Uh, Thank you? I love that question at the beginning. I’m not quite clear on any aggression in the way I approach sexuality, other than (and i’m guessing), maybe the personal emotion side. Which could be true. I see friends dealing with such things. Maybe that’s it and I’m living vicariously.
I think vulnerability is a key to living a truthful life. And a key to accepting both love and criticism. I’d be anxious to know more about that question. It is very intriguing. Maybe I’m playing a part in the songs you might be thinking of. But as a human, I’m not sure that many human things can be alien to me. I’m paraphrasing here.
You describe your live shows with the phrase “things can get messy.” What’s the messiest a show has ever got, and did you consider it a success?
There are two answers to this.
I play with musicians who are much better craftspeople than I am. And they also understand that I can get somewhat improvisational. I run with my whims based on how I’m feeling at the moment in a live setting. Everyone I play with gets that and are so good that they just know somehow. I can’t remember a bad outcome, but I know that sometimes I wonder myself if I can keep up and not lose focus. Sometimes that happens because we play the songs show after show and I want to mix things up… never because I want to fuck things up. And the players get that, and do it too.
For solo shows, I can sometimes quit playing the guitar, or stop singing until I feel right. I think I get a bit out of control emotionally as I try to find the character I’m being in the song against who I really am. In those cases I become quite emotional when it all hits home closely. It’s cathartic, it’s thrilling, and for me at least, it’s real.
Yet another terrific read!