Editors vs We Are Scientists – A flashback from the Fused magazine archive
Chris Urbanowicz from, soon to be stadium sized, Editors quiz’s Keith from NYC indie superstars We Are Scientists on cats, coolness and Lambrini’s. Yay!!
I single handedly introduced you to England’s finest beverage, the Lambrini. I have since learnt you have a penchant for being twat-cunted, buzzed, canned, juiced, fuddled, hosed, totalled, jugged, laced, befuddled, gassed, oiled, on a bun, pie-eyed, crocked, plowed and stewed. What has been your finest moment when intoxicated?
Ah, Chris, my sweet prince, I remember it as if it were yesterday. In fact, it was yesterday – or, at least, it included yesterday. That is, my finest moment of intoxication is the stretch between March 5, 1999 though just now, this present moment, in which I’m squinting at the keyboard, trying with all of my might to keep the keys from swirling into some centrifugal vortex. My god man, it’s been a hell of a six-year run, this bender I’m on.
Your mountainous following of contessa forced all varieties of femme to see us play on previous tours. Thanks. I know first hand that you get a grandiose level of lady attention as well as boy love. Who/what are your favourite types of fans?
Oh, Christopher, you are the apple of my eye, but you are a fool. For us to make a distinction in such matters, to try to categorize and quantify the constituency of our fan base would be the height of coarseness. Let’s maintain a certain degree of humility here, shall we? As far as I am concerned, every fan of ours has, via their love of the band, distinguished themselves as clever, sensitive aesthetes, philosophers of the highest order, and thus, each is worthy of the highest commendation whether she be a taut, young blonde or a teenage brunette with a killer body.
On your web site you have an advice section, what is the best and worst advice you have given another man?
Best advice: “Oh, don’t buy that CD. It’s just more of that angular, Brummy gloom-rock.”
Tom Smith from Birmingham’s Editors beat not only his band mates but also all of We Are Scientists in NME’s cool list. The whole world needs to know…How did this happen?
Well, Chris, my supple lamb, let’s just take a good hard look at the facts: Tom is a tall, handsome, intelligent man, gifted with a singing voice so thick and rich and lustrous that it causes women to spontaneously ovulate, right there at the show, in some sort of bizarre biological ovation. Most important, though, is his position in the band – he’s the lead singer, my boy. The front man. As has been empirically demonstrated time and time again, the lead vocalist of any band is the only member of any import, whatsoever. The other “musicians” – your guitarists, your bass players, your (god forbid) drummers – are nothing more than parasitic opportunists, talentless troglodytes bereft of any value, who can (and should) be replaced by minimum-wage studio musicians or common street urchins at the earliest convenient moment.
So that explains his trouncing of you lot. How he edged me out, on the other hand, is a matter most inexplicable and is currently being investigated by my legal team.
What is heavier? One ton of Tapper’s beard or one ton of lead?
Chris, you doe-eyed poet, I love you, but you are a man crippled by his obsession with weight ratios. You’re constantly wandering about, thoughtfully hefting various items, whipping out your portable scales, asking if you look fat in this or that pair of trousers. Let’s not worry so much about the weight of Tapper’s beard, my man. Let’s worry about its powers. Let’s worry about the fact that it can be used to hypnotize men and influence their morals. Let’s worry that it draws women to it, reducing them to mindless animals who crave only the brush of its organic thread against their soft inner thighs. Let’s consider the rumours that it provides him with the powers of flight and voluntary invisibility. Enough of these trick, “ton vs. ton” questions! We’ve got a crisis on our hands!
We often get compared to Hot Hot Heat whom we studied note for note on our debut long player. You are clearly influenced by Interpol and Joy Division. Do you feel the comparisons are fair?
Well, Chris, my succulent sweet-meat, I didn’t want to bring this up, as you’re a dear friend with a rightfully fragile ego, but: we toured the states a couple of months ago with Hot Hot Heat. We found them to be a delightful bunch of guys – even-tempered, prone to charity, as charming and gentle as hummingbirds. But once we’d mentioned that we’d been on tour with you lot and that we regarded you as our dearest friends (no! as our brothers!), it was a different story entirely. They grew sullen and surly. They stopped inviting us onto their tour bus and banished us from all backstage dressing rooms, even our own. Vocalist Steve Bays stabbed Chris in the throat and played it off as an accident. Their stage manager, in a by-then-uncommon demonstration of charity, explained to us that they were deeply involved in investigating the possibility of serving Editors with a lawsuit for “willful and woeful violation of copyright, vis a vis the uncanny and unethical appropriation of ‘Make Up the Breakdown’ in its entirety, modifying it only by re-titling it ‘The Backroom’ and wrapping it in different packaging.” Chris, I wanted to defend you, but, man, I listened to them back to back. You ought to be ashamed.
Incidentally, Interpol calls us every day to thank us for our help “fighting the good fight.”
The cover of your album features cats. I lived in a house with a cat once and it urinated on my trousers when I was asleep, woke me up in the middle of the night and gloated. Why do you associate yourself with these heinous creatures?
Chris, you gorgeous swan, it’s a simple matter of association. Just like your noble housecat, so have all of the members of We Are Scientists urinated upon your trousers while you slumbered, only to celebrate our moral and physical victory once you’d awakened. We feel a certain allegiance with the cats is what I’m saying, as we’ve all got the same goals in mind. It’s important to consort with men and beasts who share your ideals, Chris.
Is Chris taking my suggestion of naming his newborn baby Dwayne Jeramine Cain Fontaine Wayne Cain Jr seriously? If so, does that make me the father?
Chris, my darling plum, when will you learn this most simple of biological truths? It is not your bestowment of an appellation that dictates your fathering of Chris’ “son” it is the fact that nine months ago, under the cover of night and with the aid of a particularly low brand of alcohol (I’ll not speak Lambrini’s name here, although I’d love to cast blame where it is due), you coupled with Chris’ girlfriend, fertilizing an egg in her womb, and producing what is sure to be a lovely child, with porcelain skin, deep brown eyes, and impeccable taste in footwear.
“My body is your body, I won’t tell anybody, if you want to use my body, go for it.” Whose body would YOU most like to use for your own pleasure?
Chris, you quivering Adonis, this is neither the time nor place for this sort of come-on. Let’s leave it for the next tour.
Interview first appeared in Fused magazine issue 27
