Isobel Campbell was at the birth of one of indie-pop's most beloved cult acts: Belle and Sebastian. Formed in Glasgow in 1996 by Campbell and then-boyfriend, songsmith Stuart Murdoch, the twee outfit have become an institution. Yet, after six years in the band —during which time she'd made two solo records as The Gentle Waves— Campbell left B&S behind to concentrate on her own work. This has included two collaborations with former Screaming Trees vocalist Mark Lanegan, whose battles with addiction and gravelly bass vocals are the antithesis to Campbell's sunny nature and gentle, thin singing. Sunday At Devil Dirt, their second disc of duets, took Campbell two years, two continents, two orchestras, and over 100,000 British Pounds to complete. "It was an ordeal," the starlet says, in her soft Scots accent.
After Sunday At Devil Dirt put you through the wringer, how do you feel about it now that it's finally out?
“I'm not sure. Sometimes I have no objectivity, and other times I do. It’s quite strange. But, deep down, I love it. It’s my baby. Completely like my baby. I’ve just tried to do all that I can for it. It’s just been such a nurturing thing, all the way.”
‘Nurturing'?
“I’ve just had to nurture it. I’ve had to sacrifice for it, fund some of it myself just to finish it, because I was running over budget. It was just intense. It was intense in every way. Now, I’m kind of tired. I feel like I’ve fought. I’m so low on energy after having such a big fight. I suppose a lot of bands, or artists, never really get to make the records that they like, because record-companies interfere or what have you. But I’ve always just done my own thing.”
When did you first begin making music, in any sense?
“In primary school, when we were about six, we would all gather around the piano in class to sing. And I lost it. I just went completely crazy for it. I felt so happy when we were all gathered around the piano singing ‘Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do.’ I loved it, from when I first saw Debbie Harry or The Police on Top Of The Pops, when I was really small. I remember gathering all the kids in the back-garden, and we’d hang sheets over the washing line, and I would direct everybody, boss everyone about. I was really into musicals, which was so not cool. Me and my girlfriends would run around the playground singing songs from, like, The Sound Of Music, or Oklahoma!, or something. I was always crazy for it.”
Were you a performative child?
“Not really, though I wanted to. I never made it onto stage. Although, I think I maybe was a dancer in Bugsy Malone when I was 11. I wasn’t very good. But, I had piano lessons, and cello lessons, from when I was 11. Because I played in orchestras when I was a child, I got really into The Beatles, because of the orchestral elements to their records. But, as a female, I never really thought I’d be in a band. As a proper teenager, I had boyfriends who’d be in bands, but I never was. Because, there just weren’t that many female role-models, really. Then, it just sort of suddenly happened. So I was pleased.”
When Belle & Sebastian began, was there any inkling, at all, that it’d go on to be what it became?
“No idea, no! I had no idea.”
What did you think you'd amount to?
“Honestly, when we all first got together I was just genuinely… I just loved it. I really liked everybody, and I just really loved the songs, and I just really loved playing. Simple as that, y’know? I suppose that love must’ve carried through, into the music. Maybe the reason it started to do so well was because people felt that; could feel the love with which the music was made. They were just people that I really, really, really loved. I remember Chris [Geddes] bringing cake to rehearsal! I thought that was the most beautiful thing in the world.”
Did Belle & Sebastian’s success empower you as solo musician?
“It’s hard for me to say, because it’s my life. It’s hard to see what’s happened to me as being some sort of narrative. Let's just say it’s just been a good apprenticeship.”
Are you master, now, or still apprentice?
“I think there’s always more to learn. Always. In everything in life. It never stops. I suppose the trick is just to enjoy the journey. If you can love the battle, not just the end result, then all the laborious bits, all the tedious bits, all the difficult and different bits, then you’ll be happy. I feel as if I’ve learnt a lot, but there’s always more to learn, and always more mistakes to be made. And sometimes that can be quite annoying.”
What was the big lesson Sunday At Devil Dirt taught you?
“It hurts. Being a perfectionist hurts. It really hurts having a romantic vision of how you want a record to sound, then have to try and realize that vision, take something that only exists in your head and make it real. It was really quite gruelling, a real intense experience, something that a less stubborn person would've given up on. I ended up working on it on my own, all the time. It was almost too intense. I was almost too intense. I think I fried my brain.”
Where did your affinity for traditional music come from?
“To tell stories. These songs tell stories that’re just timeless, really. They’re just as relevant now as they were in the 1800s. They’re just so gorgeous, and just so human. About heartbreak, about death; there’s a real earthiness, a real trueness. They’re not effected, or hyped-out, you know what I mean? That’s what I love about folk music. It’s great stories about struggle, about political ideals, about real people! Not like some of the crap that’s about nowadays that I can’t relate to; people enshrining possessions and fashion as being meaningful. It’s just real, you know?"
And you identify with that 'realness'?
"The old folk music, which you can hear in the field recordings of Harry Smith, it’s flawed, but it’s so beautiful. I know that, in some ways, it’s just my taste: I love hearing people’s voices really clear. But, I think it’s more than that. Those songs are primal, basic, real. As opposed to pop music now, which is all about commerciality, money, fashion. There’s no heart in it. That’s why I can’t listen to so much modern music, because there’s no heart in it. And if there’s not, there’s nothing to pull me in.”
