Captain Phoenix Biog
Many bands profess to be a band of the people. The voice
of a generation, champion of the underdog, a band whose songs
strike a chord in the hearts of every kid out there. Very
few succeed.
Captain Phoenix are one of those few.
Despite the fact the four boys are barely in their twenties,
they’ve already mastered the art of encapsulating the
modern condition into hyper-habit-forming gleaming pop nuggets.
It’s a feat largely down to the lyrical deftness of
bassist, songwriter and floppy-haired frontman Ben Burrows.
Growing up in Winchester, a place “full of middle class
people and chavs”, bestowed a premature sense of worldliness
on him. “Most people I went to school with ended up
in comas,” he says, “we hated it, but Winchester
traps you”.
But small town hell has its upsides. It instilled a sense
of defiance in the boys, and saw them through several early
incarnations. Playing together since they were knee-high to
a Marshall, they grew up on 70s rock, air drumming and covering
Supergrass tunes. It was a tight community: “I was taught
drums by Ben’s brother” sticksman Ross Curnow
admits.
Ah yes, Ben’s brother, Andy. As in Andy Burrows, drummer
for Razorlight. So how does being related to indie aristocracy
affect them? “We’ve chosen not to exploit Andy’s
contacts,” Ben declares, “We don’t want
to be in a place we’re not ready to be. If we were offered
a support tour now, we’d turn it down. We’ve only
played with them once, back at The Railway.”
This fierce independence, along with a burning ambition,
saw the driving licence-less band fare-skipping round Hampshire
and playing wherever would have them.
Honing the songs in a soundproofed garage, the music-obsessed
teenagers made beer money by selling demos. “They all
sold out” declares Ben proudly, before admitting with
a smile, “it only took a year to sell two hundred!”
The band relocated to London and moved in together. Bad move.
In a period that sounds like The Monkees on industrial strength
lager, they created much of the forthcoming debut LP. “We
were getting pissed every day, and there was a heatwave when
we wrote the album. There was many a fight…” Fortunately
legendary producer Steve Cooper, a man whose mortgage was
paid by the handclaps on Supergrass’ ‘Pumping
On The Stereo’, was there to keep things together, and
the boys are rightly very excited about the results. Ben:
“It’s awesome, it sounds really fresh and way
above our expectations.”
The bright lights of the big city (and its nefarious inhabitants)
gave Ben more than enough subject matter. Forthcoming single
‘Living On The Guestlist’ - a scattershot Rifles-esque
dancefloor-baiter - is a succinct reflection on the hostile
pretentiousness of London nightlife - something anyone who’s
been the wrong side of the velvet rope can empathise with.
“When I moved to London with this girl, things got very
messy and we were partying every night,” he says, “I’d
come back from rehearsing every weekend and she’d be
out with this Shoreditch scenester wanker, and by the time
I got to meet them the club was full. I was rejected from
the scene.”
As a two fingered salute to the wankerish exclusion of invite-only
events, the band now host their own monthly club night –
in the very heart of pretentious indiedom. Anyone’s
welcome (“we supply the backline, you just roll in and
play”), especially the insane Japanese fans that follow
the band’s every move.
Captain Phoenix are named after “two retro garagey
words we thought sounded cool”, but the twin influences
of Captain’s swoonsome pop and Phoenix’s jerky
inventiveness would be as good indicators as any; it’s
a firmly British sound that traces back from Ben’s older
brother’s Razorlight through to The Strokes and beyond.
“I used to try and hate The Strokes, the Kings Of Leon,
and Razorlight, but I realised that’s a very British
thing to do,” admits Ben, “If you drop your hang-ups
you realise they’re better than you, that’s why
people love them. It’s mainstream for a reason. I love
Jeff Buckley, but I don’t write like him, however much
I try”. Despite this characteristic self-deprecation
though, he’s not far off the mark.
“I’ve known I wanted to do this since I was 8”
Ben declares, “and I fucked up my education entirely
on purpose so I knew I couldn’t turn back.” Before
long he’ll be glad he did.
February 2007
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