Down on the beach, warm
Caribbean waters lap against
the lounge chairs of pale
empty-nesters: flocks of
dentists and insurance
brokers, husbands and wives
eager to rekindle the romance
of honeymoons long past.
Ordering mai tai's from
white-uniformed waiters while
the hotel band performs
indigenous island music (e.g.:
"Kokomo," "Yellow Bird,"
"Margaritaville"), they settle
into their blissful reverie, little imagining that, here, in their very midst,
lurks the man who taught their children to sing: "I want to fuck you
like an animal."
Greetings from Nassau, tropical haven for rich recording stars, a
fantasy island that's only weeks away from being pummeled by the
20th century's last great hurricane. But first this tropical paradise will
play host to an even more tempestuous guest:
Ladies and gentlemen, for your dining and dancing pleasure, the
dark auteur who produced and promoted Marilyn Manson, the
mastermind and sole proprietor of Nine Inch Nails, who, in just two
albums, 1989's Pretty Hate Machine and 1994's The Downward Spiral,
managed to reconstruct elements of two "underground" musical
movements--industrial and goth--into an unlikely formula for
hate-pop success, Mister Trent Reznor!
"Pretty rock star-ish, isn't it?" smirks Reznor, sitting cross-legged
on the couch of a seaside suite adjacent to Nassau's Compass Point
studios, where he's rehearsing the touring version of The Fragile (on
nothing/Interscope), NIN's first album in five years. "We had a month
to practice, so I thought let's do it somewhere that I can fool myself
into thinking I'm on my vacation. It hasn't been a vacation, but at
least I'm not looking out the same window every day."
For Reznor, the years between albums were a bleak period. "I had
put out Downward Spiral, and then I lived a downward spiral and
wound up in a terrible place," he says. Shaken by the death of the
grandmother who raised him after his parents divorced, Reznor
discovered that years of making depression fashionable had, in fact,
left him clinically depressed. And who would have thought that
success could, well, suck? "As much as people want to put you up on a pedestal, they just
can't wait to grand-slam you down," says Reznor. "People who you
think are your friends are turning on you, and all these other people
are kissing your ass. And I looked in the mirror one day and went,
'Who the fuck?' What have I turned into, you know?"
Realizing his disposition wasn't quite sunny enough to fit in with
L.A.'s culture and climate, Reznor naturally relocated to New Orleans
and set about recording in a converted mortuary.
"We just found an old building, and it happened to be a funeral
parlor," insists Reznor, whose previous abode in the Hollywood Hills
just happened to be the infamous house where the Manson-Tate
murders took place. "We found one that had large rooms and, bit by
bit, turned it into a full world-class studio that catered to how we
work. We have tons and tons of effects and instruments lying around
everywhere. The control room is really big, so you can make music in
there instead of behind glass. It's mostly me doing it, so it's easier to
have the shit just laying next to the board."
Reznor only spent the latter half of his five-year "hiatus" working
on The Fragile. Prior to that, he was busy producing Marilyn Manson's
Antichrist Superstar album and commandeering his own two-year
marathon tour with Nine Inch Nails. "My philosophy when we're on the
road is that I've always felt like it could be over tomorrow, so let's
enjoy it. If there's something going on, count me in. I like to get
immersed in it. I've toured with bands where it's like nine o' clock and
they're back in the hotel sleeping, reading a book and bitchin' about
being on the road the whole time and how they can't wait to go back
home. And I've always thought, fuck that, enjoy it--how often do
human beings get to be put into a position like that? I mean, it can be
a great thing.
"But then the tour bus comes to a stop, and it's time to go back
and write a record. I'm not the kind of guy that's written a lot on the
road, and my best stuff comes from being able to sit and think, and
being able to achieve some degree of meditation or contemplation.
You know, it's not like when there's 15 minutes before soundcheck, I
can go and get my notebook. It takes me that long just to find my
notebook. But that's also a lack of discipline on my part.
"It's just difficult to stop, take the circus tent down and try to
pretend you're normal again, and the reason I live in New Orleans is
because nobody cares who you are there. You know, nobody cares
about Nine Inch Nails, and I didn't want to get into some existence
where I'm always onstage, where, if I'm going out to 7-Eleven, I've
got to put my costume on, you know?"
Did you know that untreated depression can cause sleeplessness,
eating disorders and even sexual dysfunction? In the studio lounge,
members of Team NIN stare blankly at a TV monitor where the
proprietor of a Miami clinic is hawking his mental health services with
the zeal of a used-car dealer. Guitarist Robin Finck, who recently
rejoined the fold after a stint with the reclusive Guns N' Roses, fixes
himself a sandwich. Down the hall, a New York publicist and
photographer tough out the tropical heat and humidity in stylish black,
while Daisy, Reznor's more sensibly dressed Weimaraner, sniffs
pantlegs and casually bites the arm of a nearby journalist. Further on
is a studio reserved for playback of NIN's newly mixed The Fragile.
While the readout on the SSL mixing console displays an earlier Mariah
Carey session, the music that comes crashing through the monitors is
a far cry from Carey, Puff Daddy or any of the other pop star clients
who tend to record here in the Bahamas.
The making of The Fragile, which clocks in at nearly two hours,
began with Reznor retreating to an isolated cabin in Big Sur, Calif., at
the suggestion of his friend Rick Rubin. "I started this record off
thinking I was going to relearn or break down how I'd written in the
past and try to do it a different way, just simplifying," says Reznor,
whose attempts to compose using just voice and piano or guitar
proved frustrating. "That was a failed experiment," he admits, "but it
started that way, and the idea of that was to get better at the craft
of songwriting. I'd been listening to 'The White Album' a lot, and I just
really appreciate the craftsmanship of the songs. And I started
thinking about how everything I'd done up to Downward Spiral would
start out as just a collage of sound, and then putting a melody and a
vocal on top of it to turn it into a song. I'd never really sat down and
thought about melodies so much as just: Here's the words, here's the
music, put a mic on, and something comes out and it's a melody.
"I just heard a little bit of Downward Spiral the other day," Reznor
continues. "We're rehearsing now, and someone put on a track to
learn a part. It was 'Reptile.' And I walked into the studio, and I
started listening, and I thought, this sounds really naive. A little
primitive, you know? It didn't sound bad, but it just sounded like it
wasn't the same me that did that record, you know? I have morphed
into something else, right? I'd hope to say evolved into something,
you know, but I don't know if that really is the case."
Although Reznor found the Big Sur
experiment more alienating than idyllic, his
attention to songwriting is very much
apparent on The Fragile. Would the Trent
Reznor of Pretty Hate Machine days have
come up with the falsetto melodic hook in
"The Big Comedown," let alone a
half-dozen moody instrumental tracks that
range from aggro to ambient? Working with
Smashing Pumpkins/My Bloody Valentine
producer Alan Moulder, Reznor opted for a
hybrid approach, integrating more
traditionally composed songs with
soundscapes that evolved from using the
studio as a compositional tool. "When Allen
came aboard and I played him 15 demos I
had, I explained to him the approach I wanted to try, and we both
knew we were in for the long haul. We didn't know it would be as long
as it was, but we assumed it would probably be a year. It ended up
being twice that."
Along the way, Reznor brought in a series of guests, including
King Crimson guitarist Adrian Belew, Bowie keyboardist Mike Garson
(who adds some trademark Aladdin Sane dissonance to "Ripe With
Decay"), Skinny Puppy producer Dave Ogilvie, and even rap impresario
"One thing that's come out of this record is that I'm not as
cripplingly shy in the studio," says Reznor. "I have more confidence. I
can work with other people now and not be so intimidated that I can't
make a sound. I feel a lot more confident on a musical level. In the
future, I'm really aiming towards becoming involved in much more
collaborative situations, outside of Nine Inch Nails and maybe even
within Nine Inch Nails. I like the idea of just going head-to-head with
someone else and seeing what we're both capable of."
As an example, Reznor cites a recent session where he actually
handed over the production reins to someone else. "I sat in the studio
with Dr. Dre for a day, just fucking around on some new stuff, and
had him produce me kind of thing. Treating me as a musician, and him
as the arranger and producer. And what little we did--and it was just
done to kill some time while we had nothing to do on something
else--it was really satisfying to not have to wear all hats at all times,
you know what I mean? To have someone else that you respect,
that's coming from a different perspective, I mean, both of us realizing
we're from different worlds, kind of seeing, 'Oh, that's how you do
Quite a step for an artist who once sang, "I'd rather die than give
you control." Reznor smiles. "Just some people, now," he cautions.
"It's a question of respect, remember?"
Thematically, The Fragile finds Reznor moving from the total
alienation of The Downward Spiral toward meditations on
relationships, embattled though they may be. While critics have
already hailed the sunny side of the single, "We're In This Together,"
tracks like it and "I Won't Let You Fall Apart" are more an exploration
of codependent paranoia. Reznor smiles at the suggestion that he's
come up with a "You and Me Against the World" for manic
depressives, and he admits to concerns that the song's ironies will be
overlooked. "I wanted 'We're In This Together' to be a tragic,
desperate kind of song that wasn't as surface as it appeared at the
very first level. We also had a nightmarish time recording that track,
because if it didn't come off desperate enough, it would just sound
bad. So a lot of care went into trying to get the vocals to sit right. I
needed it to sound like the speakers were going to blow up."
While Reznor began The Downward Spiral with an identifiable
story arc, The Fragile was a more intuitive effort. "It wasn't as direct
a message as Downward Spiral, which is about someone
systematically analyzing and destroying every bit of what's around
their core, peeling off the layers, attempts at relationships with love,
attempts at religion, attempts at why I am who I am. To just strip it
away. It takes you down and it stays down . . . You peel away the
layers and kill yourself at the end."
The Fragile is somewhat more optimistic and a whole lot less
linear. The album also finds Reznor indulging a range of musical
tangents, including a marching band (albeit synthesized) on
"Pilgrimage" that harks back to Fleetwood Mac's Tusk. Appropriately
enough, Reznor and Moulder ended up calling on '70s-identified
producer Bob Ezrin (Pink Floyd's The Wall, Lou Reed's Berlin) to sort
out the final running order.
"We had a list of people we thought would be cool to bring
in--people like Todd Rundgren, Brian Eno and Ivo from 4AD--but Bob
Ezrin was at the top of the list. He came to New Orleans for a week,
and we set him up with Pro Tools out back." Ezrin's initial attempts to
sequence the material into a coherent album were unsuccessful and
only served to convince Reznor that, after all this time, the album was
still far from completion. "He was supposed to leave that day, but he
said, 'I'll blow it off, I can't leave you in this state, because I've never
left a project,'" recalls Reznor.
After a last-minute heart-to-heart talk, Ezrin got the insight he
needed to put together the perfect sequence. "He really got into my
head and I got into his head. He pretty much psychoanalyzed what I
had come up with, and after that talk he came up with the order that
you just heard. It wasn't a cry for help so much as we wanted some
Reznor is quick to point out that the recording and mixing were all
finished by the time Ezrin was recruited. "I want to stress that, after
two-plus years of work, it wasn't like in one week this shining knight
comes in. But he came in in this weird role, and what we asked him to
do, he did a really good job."
With its ambitious scope, the
23-track The Fragile almost feels like a
throwback to the heady days of
concept albums, albeit without
characters or a discernible plotline.
"There's a lot of things in there that I
think are going back to my '70s records
roots," says Reznor, "a lot of the song
structures and the fact that I wanted
it to be an album, you know? I used to
like listening to a piece of work that
was 10 or 20 songs long, instead of
'Oh, we got two good songs, just skip around on your CD player.' God
forbid you hit the random button. It's not meant to be that way, you
know? The random button is my enemy."
As for the supposed brevity of contemporary attention spans,
Reznor insists he's unconcerned. "I agree that it's kind of
unfashionable for today's climate, but I don't think that's a bad thing.
I think that's all the more reason to do it. And it's not just to buck
what's going on now. I think there's something to be said for giving
people credit. You should give people the benefit of the doubt."
Still, amid the press frenzy in the wake of The Downward Spiral's
success, Reznor began having doubts of his own. Alternative Press
proclaimed the new Nine Inch Nails the "Most Anticipated Album of
1998," and a year later, after Reznor failed to release anything,
updated it to "Most Anticipated Album of 1999." "It wasn't writer's
block, it was just motivation difficulty," says Reznor. "You know, I was
just really questioning: Wow, I never thought I'd ever even get a
record deal, let alone have people care about what I'm doing. And at
the peak of that, reading 'most anticipated record of the year,' and I
haven't started it yet, you know? I didn't want to start it. I didn't
know if I wanted to do this anymore. And then 'most anticipated of
next year,' and [moans], 'WILL HE SAVE ROCK?' I don't want to fuckin'
save rock! You're sittin' in the studio playing a part, and you're
thinking, 'Is that going to save rock? That part's not going to do it.
What about this idea? I don't know, that might sustain it for a
second, but it's not going to save it, you know?'"
If Reznor was daunted by the prospects of having to save rock,
he was also dismayed when purists accused him of killing industrial
music. "After we started getting big, an interesting thing did happen in
the little subculture of industrial or whatever. What happens when a
band starts to take off? Every major label asks, 'Well, who else is like
that?' And so what do they do? Skinny Puppy gets a big money deal.
Front 242 gets a big money deal. And they implode. If it's the sellout
factor, then they're right in line to get the big paycheck, and a lot of
those bands disappeared because they got sucked into that. When
the stakes get higher, it's a lot easier to fuck up, you know?"
Of course, like most other artists early on in their careers, Reznor
drew upon obvious influences. "I never really sat down and
consciously said, 'I'm going to take X, Y and Z, and then add this to
it,' but that's what I did," he admits. So what were X, Y and Z? "It
would have been the aggressiveness of [British producer] Adrian
Sherwood around the era of Ministry's 'Twitch.' And what interested
me about that aesthetic was, being a keyboard player and liking
electronic music, but feeling that too many people read the manuals
and they were doing it right. Then I heard a lot of Sherwood's
approach, where it sounded like something was really wrong. It had all
the kind of danger of the hardest rock or heavy metal, but it was
done in a way that could never be done before, because there wasn't
the technology to do it. I really liked the music that was umbrella'd
under industrial here in America--Neubauten, Test Dept., Cabaret
Voltaire, Front 242, Skinny Puppy. I really like the bludgeoning
ridiculousness of it, you know, the aggression of it.
"Another part of it was the bleakness of the Cure, the coldness of
Depeche Mode when they were at their best, or like Telekon by Gary
Numan. I still listen to that record, I mean, it's fucking great. Because
it's just cold-sounding. I still remember as a kid when I discovered
Pleasure Principle. Sometimes it was just comical. I didn't take it
seriously, but it scared me at one point. It painted an emotional place
that wasn't pleasant to be at. It seemed creepy, science fiction in an
"And then I liked the lyrical nature of the Smiths and the Cure,
and add to that XTC's songwriting. The musicality of XTC appealed to
me, although it really wasn't apparent in my other stuff. But it all kind
of seeped in."
Though Reznor never set out to be "hated for ruining a genre of
music," he knew melodicism was "what separated us from the pack of
contemporaries at that time. There were songwriting elements in
there that weren't present in some of the other bands.
"I always felt a bit lightweight around other bands I thought I
liked. I wasn't really as tough as they were, you know, I'm not that
macho. You know that stupid shit you get into: My guitar is as loud as
yours. Or we're sellouts because Wal-Mart sells our record, or
because your little sister has 'Head Like a Hole' stuck in her head. Or
MTV played us and they didn't play you! There was a time when I was
concerned about that. It worried me that the fanzines that praised
you initially had to turn their backs on you. Because it's the same
record they liked six months ago, but now, their little sister has it, and
now it's not cool. You know what I mean? I thought that wasn't fair.
What the fuck did I do? Of course, there was a time when I would
have been one of those people.
"In a way, I think [the 1992 EP] Broken was kind of a knee-jerk
to a lot of that. Just to try to piss people off so they wouldn't like me
anymore, and I'd be cool again. And as dumb as that sounds, you
know, you get into that distorted mindset. And then, I finally said,
fuck those people, you know, I'm going to make what I feel is right.
And if I'm a bad guy for having a chorus, then go get something else,
Meanwhile, Reznor has his own bad guy to contend with. After
producing the cartoon version of himself that is Marilyn Manson,
Reznor felt his protégé turned on him in his autobiography.
"We were best friends at one time, and I think some of the
trappings of success have distorted both our personalities in such a
way that we're not friends right now," says Reznor. "And I have acted
as maliciously as he has, you know, so leave it at that. Am I hurt by
the whole situation? Yeah. Do I feel betrayed? Yes. Am I staying up
at night worrying about it? No. Am I ready to make amends? No, no,
not right now. There's too much. He's a smart guy, you know, and I
respect his art. But as a friend, I've been let down."
Marilyn Manson isn't the only one of Nine Inch Nails' opening acts
that have gotten ugly. Hole's Courtney Love took to mocking
Reznor--at one point questioning the size of his, er, nail--and the
artist still winces at the idea of Marilyn and Courtney trying to tour
together. "Well, I knew how it was going to end before it started, you
know? I knew them intimately, and you just knew it was going to end
Asked about the inspiration for The Fragile's most vindictive
songs, "You Don't" and "Starfuckers, Inc.," Reznor insists there's no
shortage. "There really isn't one thing we're talking about," he says.
"If I'm looking for inspiration, I know where to draw from. I mean,
'Starfuckers' had about 75 verses at one time . . . "
I'm invisible right now," says Trent Reznor as the sun sets over
the Bahamas. While that's not technically true, Reznor's recently
shorn hair, "fuct" T-shirt and running shorts do serve as a good
disguise from those expecting the goth poster boy of days gone by.
"While we were mastering the record in L.A., I waited in line at the
Nuart to see The Blair Witch Project. The line went around the block,
and no one recognized me. I cut my hair, and no one knows what I
look like now! Fuck, man."
And what about the music? Will fans stay loyal, especially those
who discovered the band in the less-than- subtle environment of the
rock arena? "I remember when we were getting off TVT and talking to
some labels, an A&R guy saying how we got in at the tail end of the
career artist," says Reznor. "At one point, with Fleetwood Mac or
Bruce Springsteen, people were interested in what they put out. If
there was a big single, all right. But if there wasn't, you still waited in
line to get that record. You were just interested in that artist. [But]
two hours of music, and it's not really background music . . . Am I
thinking that everybody that's ever seen our show or heard 'Closer' is
going to accept this? No, I don't at all. But I think it's an important
piece of work that I'm proud of."
Reznor also feels that he's remained true to himself, although he
sometimes envies his hero and tourmate David Bowie for being able to
reinvent himself though the use of characters. "When I wrote Pretty
Hate Machine, I didn't know how to write songs," says Reznor, who
instead used fragments from his personal journal. "I'm just telling them
the truth about stuff. Because I always felt, you know, I'm not that
exciting. I wasn't like a male prostitute or anything. So I just tell the
truth about things and [so] people kind of know me. They don't know
me as a person, but they know a lot about the way I feel about
things that I didn't conceal. I wasn't smart enough to know what I
was sacrificing when I said, 'Here's my guts, go ahead and do what
you want with it.'"
Perhaps not coincidentally, Reznor is no stranger to the world of
overzealous fans and even restraining orders. "I've had some
intrusions, but that comes with the territory," he says. "I think our
fans are a bit more intense, but I'd much rather connect with
someone on that level than be the 'great to fuck to' band. 'I know
where you're coming from, I can relate to that.' I hear that a lot, and
that's a good compliment. And it's flattering. If I had more of a life for
people to intrude on, I might feel differently."
Getting a life beyond Nine Inch Nails is on Reznor's agenda--it's
just not that high up. "That's part of a trade-off, really, the me that's
not Nine Inch Nails has become far less important than the Nine Inch
Nails part of me. Because it's almost overtaken it really. And I've
sacrificed things to do this. Like, I don't have very many friends, I
don't have much time to do anything else . . . I do have some friends,
but those are the people who hear from me by phone every six
months: 'It's me, I love you, but you know how it is' . . . I envy some
of my friends and acquaintances who have degrees of normality,
things I thought I'd never give a shit about. Christmastime I started
getting crazy. I don't even have a house. I mean, I do now, but it
was always like, fuck, when is the tour over? How many weeks?
Where would I go? I don't even have anybody I want to go with, you
know? I was in that frame of mind."
Reznor's disillusionment with success didn't help. "I foolishly
thought at one point that just being successful would bring me some
degree of contentedness and happiness, and that really was not the
case," he says. "I'm very unbalanced at the moment where the Nine
Inch Nails portion of my life has taken over whatever the other part
was. And I think a part of me tends to immerse myself in things as an
excuse not to deal with people in the real world."
At 34, Reznor is coming around to the idea that people may well
be the only real cure for loneliness. But family life will have to wait
until he has time to fully participate. "My focus right now is really
working on maximizing what I can do within the frame of Nine Inch
Nails while people are still interested. And if the price of that is giving
up a degree of normality for a while--or ever--I wouldn't trade it. I
wouldn't go back if I could."
Reznor smiles, a bit joylessly. "I've got the rest of my life to be
well-rounded," he says, "if I make it that far."
By Bill Forman
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is provided courtesy Keith Duemling and Tracy Thompson from the collection previously
located at SUS.