A (Failed) Interview with Mike Doughty
What follows is a failure of an email interview with Mike Doughty, an interview that was an attempt to talk about his recent book The Book of Drugs. It's the worst interview I've been part of, and I'm not sure it's smart to bother being public with this, but, as you'll note, Mike threatened to post it on his own blog, so it was seemingly going to be public regardless. What I'm ultimately trying to do is put this in the context it was written in.
What follows is what I sent Mike and what he sent back. I changed nothing. I'd like to note that I was asking about his book + writing, a book I'm not alone in finding "mostly enjoyable but unremarkable," and I stand by my earlier review, and I wish this interview had gone much better. For what it's worth–Mike seemingly wanted to explode and then not take part: I replied to him, on getting his responses, apologizing hugely for whatever in my tone had made him feel attacked, and asking if he'd be willing to go through more questions so that we could clear the air and try to get down something of value, but he declined, saying he couldn't see how I'd meant that question as anything *other* than rudely.
Read at your own risk. I wish I hadn't read it.
Can you talk at all specifically what working with Sekou Sundiata helped you get to, in terms of writing? One of the things I like most about your work—certainly older SCoughing stuff, and the book as well—is the distinctive tone you've got, this consistent wordplay (though it seems also likely that it's just that you're around truly strange stuff: I've never had a friend named Wind-him-up-and-watch-him-go-Joe). Mostly I'm just interested in your language, how it works—if it was hugely different in writing nonfiction vs writing songs (I know you addressed this in other interviews—I'm not necessarily asking about just the fact of writing, but the sense of how you use words).
One of the great things Sekou taught me is that soul is the deepest version of yourself. If I were to ape rappers, as opposed to locating my own weirdness, there'd be a ceiling on what I could reach artistically.
Night and day, in terms of prose vs. lyrics, or poetry. Songs are assembled line by line, or phrase by phrase, whereas for the book I had to start in one place and work my way towards a well-defined point on the horizon. I did it by focussing on particular stories, whatever I happened to be interested in on a particular day, then assembling them chronologically at the end, and writing connective tissue where it was needed.
There were two huge things in my recent life that were great boons in taking up prose non-fiction: Twitter, and my intensive study of German. Twitter because I did it obsessively, and so I had this exercise, many times a day, where I had to tell a compelling story with all extraneous language removed.
I studied German because I became intensely interested in the sound of the language. I went to tutors for–four years? Five years? In German, the grammar is so complicated–for instance, to say, "Because I am hungry, I want to go to the store," you'd say "Because I hungry am, must I to the store I go." Very elegant, and very tricky. So I had this kind of Jedi training in sentence structure.
(Saying "Jedi" might be appropriate, in fact, because I've wondered if Yoda-speak came from somebody's Yiddish-speaking relatives. Yiddish and German are extremely close to each other.)
Another thing about German: they don't have progressive tenses, as English does (and, in fact, very few languages do). I'd say something, in German, like, "I have been going to the store every day," and I'd be told that this doesn't exist in German. So I was very conscious of just using the simplest past tense.
Also, just because I'm curious: did the way you use language change when you got sober? Your music since 2000 seems to lack some measure of both violence and really wild associative stuff. That's not any judgment, it's just the way it seems. Is that remotely close? Did you see a change in your own writing? Do you feel a change, still? Is this totally wrong?
That is a judgment. You say "lack." That, and other ways of phrasing your questions demonstrate that you're clearly a Soul Coughing person. That, of course, is just fine.
(ed note: I cannot resist, just for the sake of language: lack is not a judgement. The sky presently lacking visible stars does not mean it's bad.)
I've done a couple of interviews lately that, when I read the finished article, are extremely kvetchy about my dislike for, and abandoment of, Soul Coughing. I suspect yours will be along those lines. You certainly don't have a responsibility to appease your subject–you have to write for your readers– but in these situations, I feel like I've been treated unfairly.
I see heart, and honesty in the songs I've written since 2000. There's a lot more depth and complexity. The lion's share of the Soul Coughing songs seem glib to me. My guess is when you say "violence" and "wild associative stuff" you're referring to a certain style I mostly see as juvenilia, en route to the work I'm doing now.
It's frustrating to be obliged to speak of work that I feel utterly disconnected to. Particularly at this time in my life, when I'm truly engaged in the work I'm doing. I feel like the work has expanded immensely, really exploded. When I speak to you, I have to navigate your taste. What I'd like to be doing with you is talking about the work I'm doing–and, in fact, for the purpose of promoting the songs to your readers.
I was one of those fervent mid-90's dorks who actually read what you wrote about 90210, and you of course bring it up in the book, though when you bring it up, it's pretty casual. You were, of course (or, at least, seemed) For Real Into the show—you took it seriously. I don't know if there's a legit or good question here, but I'm curious about your treatment of 90210, and how you wrote about it. Basically: was it ironic? Does it matter? This might be a sort of bullshit question, but I've been wondering about it for awhile.
It was both real and ironic. I dislike the word irony–I'd say sardonic, or wry.
Irony implies, to me, a kind of sneering viewpoint. Irony has served a cultural function, in the past few decades, of building a bridge to what's beautiful in something that's considered corny. Irony can be a pose; Karen Carpenter was amazing, those songs are amazing, but her fans, among the groovy people, were unable to just state that aloud.
It started, for me, with the title: "Peach Pit Babylon." Kind of putting this David Lynchian, Kenneth Anger layer in the very glossy and bland essence of that show.
I'm kind of proud that Peach Pit Babylon was a blog before the term existed. I posted it in an AOL message board every week.
This might take some work. I really like Soul Coughing, and I certainly understand your frustration with the group, and with its legacy in your life. I get that it was toxic and terrible, and I'm emphatically not that fan who'd ask you to like it—I truly don't care. I guess I'm more interested in this tone that pervades the book—you seem to be trying, in the book, to have the cake and also consume it. You talk about being sober, and, at least for those of us who know about meetings which feature anonymous in the title, we know about making amends and all these other aspects. In the book, it seems like you're trying to be a good person now, but you're not at all willing to give yourself or your bandmates a break on the years you spent together. I'm sure this is thorny and too big to answer, or at least gets toward stuff that's likely too big to answer, but the vitriol and anger toward your band is so at odds with this otherwise seemingly open, nice attitude toward things. I don't know if you even want to address this, but it's striking. (there's also this whole other thing, of how openly you hate the band and all things about it, but at the same time talk about what it could or should have been—which just seems striking, that you could both resent it and love it enough to still lament it somehow)
It makes me frustrated, sad, and angry to be asked this by you, Weston. I hope you run this piece as a straight Q&A, because this answer is, in all respects, in the context of your question.
My interpretation is that you believe I don't have a right to my feelings.
"I certainly understand your frustration with the group, and with its legacy in your life. I get that it was toxic and terrible, and I'm emphatically not that fan who'd ask you to like it—I truly don't care."
I think this is disingenuous. I think you might believe that you can get a pass for saying hurtful things by tacking that on the top of the paragraph.
Soul Coughing was an emotionally abusive marriage. Having read the book, you know the specifics of this: my bandmates were a decade older than me, and they denigrated me, telling me that I was untalented. They played this bizarre trick on me, in which I wrote songs, and they told me I wasn't writing songs. In fact, I own just a minority share in the copyrights of songs that I wrote in their entirety.
I felt, and feel, so, so violated.
"…so at odds with this…"
Do you think that feelings must be neat, non-contradictory, in line with rules of logic to be valid?
They're not. They won't be. I'm curious whose feelings, in any kind of human relationship, would be.
"Give myself or my bandmates a break." A break? What does that mean? To omit stories? To insert an excuse for their behavior? To say, "Though I'm deeply disappointed in the music, there must be something that I like about it, that I've buried"–?
Do you think my feelings about that music aren't valid? That my feelings are, actually, somehow, a mistake?
A hallmark of abusive relationships is that someone will live with abuse, and yet somehow be unable to leave. The break I've been trying to give myself is forgiveness for having stayed in such a toxic, destructive place. I'm just as angry, if not angrier, at myself for remaining there, and continuing to be hurt, for a long, long time.
"Have your cake and consume it too." Wow. What's the cake here? What a horrible thing to say to somebody who got fucked up by emotional abuse.
It's curious that you'd bring up amends in this context. You want me to make amends with my former bandmates, i.e., to apologize to them? Do you feel that, by taking responsibility for my own behavior–which I tried hard to do in the book, doing my best to be very honest about my behavior, who I was–I must then stuff the trauma? Pretend it's gone?
Speaking of amends, what you're referring to is the 9th step: "We made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others."
I read that and see a suggestion to take responsibility for my own actions. I don't see a suggestion to forgive.
I certainly don't see a suggestion to pretend that I haven't been hurt, and I don't have the feelings I have; to stuff the trauma because it's wrong to be traumatized.
What's your definition of forgiveness? Can you forgive through gritted teeth?
What is forgiveness if you can't let go? Do you see me as being unable to let go because I'm not doing something correctly? Is forgiveness a decision?
Do you think that someone still deeply hurt should stuff the pain? Or say something to the effect of, "Though I'm hurt, I know, on some level, that it'd be better to let this go"–? Should I also say it's a personal failing that I'm still hurt?
Do you realize that the function of the twelve steps is to keep you clean? Do you think that stuffing trauma, or minimizing it, or denying it, would be helpful?
What sort of magic trick could I do to be cured of toxicity and trauma?
"It seems like you're trying to be a good person now." Underline the "seems" and the "trying." I diagnose that as passive-aggressiveness.
"Hatred and vitriol." I reject that. I'm telling stories. I painstakingly did my best to exclude intentional hurtfulness. If I had forgiven–either by your definition of forgiveness, or mine–would these stories be substantially different?
"Which just seems striking, that you could both resent it and love it enough to still lament it somehow."
Mystifying. Where do you see the "love it"? Are you assigning that to me because you want me to love it? Are you trying to convince me that, in fact, I love the music?
Is disappointment or frustration a sign of love?
Do you feel that, because you love the music, I must be mistaken? Can someone's opinion of music be a mistake?
It seems to me that you repeatedly disown your questions by telling me how impossible it is for me to answer them. I'm curious–if this is truly how you see it–why would you ask them?
It's a big fat paragraph–double as long as any other question–and you say you don't expect me to answer it. Is that true?
If that's truly the case, why would you spend that much time typing it? Did you include it as a backhanded means of telling me you think I should alter my opinion?
Are you, actually, trying to be hurtful?
Would you ask someone you knew to have been in another kind of emotionally abusive relationship these questions?
Did you truly feel comfortable saying this stuff to me? Who else would you feel comfortable asking these questions to? A non-writer? A non-musician?
(I may blog your question, and my answer, if you don't publish this in full. Please keep me posted.)
(ed note: Again, on getting this hurt a response, I apologized profusely, asking Mike to let me try again, which, again, he declined, saying that it's clear that I *meant* to hurt him with the above question.)
Do you still love and believe in New York City? I'll absolutely admit I moved there (like an idiot, in 2005) because of bands like yours—believing the place was some great energy playground. Do you still like it lots? I know you said somewhere that being sober makes you appreciate the city even more, that there's beauty and craziness there and all, but I'm curious if you feel like there's been a huge change in the 20 years you've been there, and if it still offers just as much.
So many people that I love are in New York. That's why I stay. I love the place in a much different way than I felt when I arrived–on Easter, 1989–at the age of 19. That was utter enthrallment. I still love it, but love changes in a funny and wonderful way.
As a teenager, and when I was just out of school, I ran around the East Village and the Lower East Side. I guess I could still afford to live there, but there's nobody I know, nothing I need, nothing that I'm involved in there. It's like Manhattan left me for a rich dude. It's cool, she wanted to move on, she grew up, but, you know–it stings a little.
I've been getting my hair cut at Astor since the 80s. Every time I go back, I wonder when they'll disappear.
What's the view out your window?
I'm en route to New Orleans from Alabama, on I-20. So: Shell, Waffle House, Denny's, Burger King, Hampton Inn, Super 8, Chik-fil-A…
