1.
What does Bradford Cox want and will he ever get it? This was the question that plagued me after spending nearly two hours sitting on the floor of a hotel room listening to him wax philosophical on topics as diverse as Gucci Mane and gay marriage (Note: he’s not really in support of either, but it's complicated). The notorious behavior of the Deerhunter frontman has been confusing and fascinating journalists, audiences—and even his publicist— for the greater part of a decade. We agreed to attend Cox’s elaborately private, highly exclusive, and semi-annoying press conference expecting more antics. Surprisingly, I found myself spellbound by Bradford Cox. He seems to enjoy his own bizarreness as much as he’s trapped in it, grappling with the very real boundary between sharing his passion for art, culture, and music, and maintaining some personal privacy.
Cox shares characteristics with other figures flirting with art and sensationalist spectacles—he references Tiny Tim in his Pitchfork interview and his stunts and sound bring to mind fellow fringe musician Ariel Pink. Even the anti-media stance he perpetuates in the press junket for their fifth studio album Monomania signals a break with norms—in an industry that encourages playing nice Cox is all petulance and preening. Between mocking journalists for recording and writing down his quotes and comparing the press cycle for his music to an economic orgy, Cox ensured that his position on media was firmly cemented by finally comparing his previous interviews of the day to psychological rape.
Ostensibly, the press conference was with Deerhunter, but as most things related to the band, it ended up being all about Cox. Taking place in Manhattan’s hip Ace Hotel, journalists were grouped in chairs around Cox reclining on the lime green colored chaise—the rest of the band sat on a nearby couch, mostly mute aside from laughter or stock responses if Cox called on them. To say the environment in the room was hostile would almost be an understatement—none of the journalists seemed to be interacting, most seemed intent on impressing Cox with their questions, maintaining a certain level of “cool” around the musician. I’d never met or seen Bradford Cox before, but it was immediately apparent that everyone in the room was orbiting around this figure. As the type of artist that falls outside of society’s stricture, his struggles with music, sexuality, love, life and pain suddenly felt all too real. His candor was compelling, at times forced, other times he casually deflected any meaningful inquiries into his own art.
Both the textured rock of Deerhunter and his abstract, spindly side project Atlas Sound wander through loneliness and fuzzy nostalgia, both examine emptiness, loss and pain. But if these elements are present in Cox’s music, they’re far more apparent in his public persona and presence.
Cox’s tediousness is belied by a very self-aware sense of instability, and he continuously references the “very bad time in his life” that the songs for Monomania were born from. He refused to address specifics (what the song “T.H.M” is about, for instance) but the sadness in his eyes says it all, Cox has always been an outsider it seems. In the past, Bradford repeatedly addresses his own insecurities: he hates the sound of his own voice, he’s been burned, the media portrays him wrongly, and people are intimidated. He has a genetic disorder known as Marfan syndrome that makes him impossibly gangly, long thin limbs and a tiny torso, and he cites this perceived ugliness or physical difference as another feature that separates him from the well-groomed ranks of today’s hoodie-and-tee clad indie rock legions. Notoriously deviant, Bradford seems to relish his perceived weirdness, but is also confused by it.
“People will debate how stupid and pretentious it is that I constantly refer to stuff that I do as avant-garde,” he said. “But honestly, the avant-garde is stale. We’re not even trying to achieve anything.” As a cultural critic, Cox alternates between grating and brilliant, whiny and poignant, his personal and emotional struggles are inexplicably tied to the music he puts forth. Both the textured rock of Deerhunter and his abstract, spindly side project Atlas Sound wander through loneliness and fuzzy nostalgia, both examine emptiness, loss and pain. But if these elements are present in Cox’s music, they’re far more apparent in his public persona and presence. As he decried the downfall of the avant-garde from his perch on the chaise lounge, I pushed him on that point, if the avant-garde is past, what does he think is next?
2.
“Not camouflage, which everyone is saying. I don’t think it’s that. If I had to guess I would say, pastels.”
Although I’d love to believe this was his attempt at converging the changing aesthetics of fashion into a larger metaphor, his smug, self-satisfied expression rushed that idea out of mind—this answer also drew nervous laughs from the rest of the room. No one wanted to look stupid under Cox’s cutting, sarcastic heavy retorts, but no one wanted to miss getting a serious answer out of him either.
It’s always been Cox that has been the heartbeat racing behind Deerhunter’s swaying loops and grizzled garage rock and it’s always been Cox at the center of their tumultuous public unraveling. A brief examination of Deerhunter’s history reveals his obsessive control, members left or were asked to leave, albums were recorded and then kept “hidden away forever” only to be posted on the blog, his stage antics, dress and behavior are continually difficult to parse. He co-founded the group in 2001, first as just a duo composed of himself and Moses Archuleta, but they quickly grew into a full-fledged band—one that has undergone numerous few lineup changes, most recently, the departure of longtime bassist Josh Fauver.
Now, it seems, it’s Cox who has nothing but the band left—the other members are now married, settled down, they don’t need the aura of the spotlight or the drama of celebrity—some even fall asleep during the lengthy monologue-like two hour group interview. What’s easy to see, though, is that Cox wants to be noticed. In a world of Instagram selfies, Facebook statuses and immediate life-updates in the succinct 140 characters of a tweet, Cox chooses to stretch out his exposure for all it’s worth. It’s fascinating, in a way, to meet a man who is so eagerly about himself, so hyper-actively ready to share his sharp, dissenting opinions. “I wouldn’t say that aesthetically I draw from anything current, I wish I could,” he states just as dismissive of the current musical climate as he is of the now worn-out avant-garde movement.
“I wouldn’t say that aesthetically I draw from anything current. I wish I could.”
Back in 2007, Tom Breihan writing then for Village Voice described his behavior thusly: “Bradford Cox's aggressively desperate look-at-me antics” which really hasn’t been surpassed as a neat summation since, nor have the shenanigans at all rescinded. A short recap includes an old, now deleted but well-documented poop blog and a supposed onstage blow job from a man. The Voice also called out Pitchfork’s obsessive coverage of the band—which is enormous—when was the last time someone reviewed a live iTunes session album? Leading to the question, just how good of a band is Deerhunter? Is it really the music that has drawn extensive coverage of the band’s interstitial garage rock jams, or is it the idea of the spectacle that Cox promises? Are we drawn to the idea of a rock star still, something different, something we can’t quite pinpoint on normal terms?
In a way, Cox has become more interesting than this music, the mix of art-punk, shoegaze, ‘70s rock and more is compelling, but it’s buoyed by the uncertainty of its unpredictable creator. Deerhunter’s music is haunting, and the new album is perhaps their best yet—it lingers in the ear, it’s intricate and shifting, a prism of sounds projected out in angled, rainbow striped tracks. It’s very clear that Cox takes his art seriously, but it seems that it’s about the only thing he will take seriously. He’s so deadly serious about it that his flippancy at the event, as that press conference became, is disheartening.
3.
One of the most telling parts of the press conference was when Cox voiced his views on gay marriage—he essentially rejected the idea that as a gay man he would be interested in the heterosexual norm of marriage as a construct, and reiterated that he has never had sex. This might seem off topic, but in a way, it seems more relevant than anything else as a revelation of how he sees himself in opposition to the status quo. Sex is one of the most basic forms of human connection, sharing self with others—marriage a commitment to maintain a communal relationship with at least one other person. According to Cox, he has few relational desires—there’s only monomania. The existential crises that plague the man behind the mask of Deerhunter seem to be summed up in the siren-like end of the record’s title track: “Monomania” as his confession, as his safety net, as his life.
Amidst the sound and fury of his media personality, it’s hard to distinguish what is façade and what is fact—or if Cox himself even knows the difference.
Amidst the sound and fury of his media personality, it’s hard to distinguish what is façade and what is fact—or if Cox himself even knows the difference. With the proliferation of indie rock bands, sub-genres, and media outlets to disseminate music, what really stands out these days is something people can’t figure out, a puzzle, a mystery. Cox has translated himself fully into the concept of “other”—whether this be to reject societal expectations or create some sort of rockstar persona. In his world, wearing a dress onstage is showing more respect to the categorical demands of musician, artist, and rockstar than most currently afford it. In his mind, staying after a concert to talk to the audience for 20 minutes is a totally viable option. In his mind, donning a wing and fakely bloodied fingers for a performance on Jimmy Fallon is a good way to show solidarity with his recently injured father.
You can hear him dismissively saying at the end of “Backspace Century” on 2008’s Microcastle/Weird Era Cont. “not good enough.” There’s a wealth of knowledge and talent here, there’s a drive that’s fascinating, but that perfectionist sadness persists, the self-inflicted isolation feels palpable, especially in this kind of prolific insistence.
Perhaps we’re the ones that made him this way, that indulge him in his eccentricities, that perpetuate the myth of his quirkiness. He’s right, indie rock has become stale, the phrase avant-garde is tossed around as a descriptor for anything people don’t understand. Cox offers us something we can’t quite grasp, a blip on an otherwise stable chart, a flash of the unknown in an increasingly transparent society. If what he wants is to be a profound cultural figure, a Rock Musician, a creator of meaningful art, it seems that he has achieved it. The group’s records are critically acclaimed: Deerhunter are surrounded by a media blitz, fêted by the critics, plastered on television screens and heralded by the indie rock sphere—they are rockstars. Is that what Bradford Cox wants? Who knows. But it seems he’s stuck with his monomania, and for better or for worse, so are we.
