Guided By Voices’ latest CD, “Do the Collapse,” is the record I’ve been waiting for all along. With the help of producer Ric Ocasek (the Cars), the band finally kissed off their lo-fi indie-rock past and made a record artistically and sonically worthy of the British invasion bands and ’70s prog acts that inspired Pollard. The components of the first single, “Teenage F.B.I.,” are indicative of much of the album: untamed guitars, lost lyrics, adolescent alienation, catchy hooks, Hollies-worthy harmonies and great production. I got to ask Pollard about the disk over the phone last month.

You’ve been quoted as saying that “Do the Collapse” is “pop, but real powerful power pop.” You’ve also said that the tracks are all “fucking hi-fi.”

These are all fucking hi-fi, yeah. ‘Cause this is the first record that I’ve done that is entirely, all 100 percent hi-fi. No filler.

Although I can honestly say that this record made me appreciate your older stuff, I’m glad that you resisted your four-track.

No four-track stuff whatsoever. Because I’ve always had that temptation to go, “Man, I need to fuck this record up slightly. What can I throw in to mess it up?” Just to satisfy my own kind of experimental nature. But not this one. I was totally satisfied with it. We had a lot of songs for it and we were able to narrow them down to 16, so I think it’s really solid.

Even 16 is quite a lot for an album on a major independent label.

I know. Originally it was going to be 19. When I talked about it with Ric, he said, “We need to probably shorten this, because that’s a lot of songs for the listener to try to swallow.” So we got it to 16, and we –

That’s the worst excuse I’ve ever heard.

It’s bad, isn’t it? It’s terrible. I like getting a lot of songs. I’ve always been a big Wire fan, and they were the first band to turn me on to the idea of having 20 songs on a record. I loved it, because, if you’ve got 20 songs on a record, six or seven of them can suck, and it can still be a great record

Also, in this day and age, it’s not like with turntables, where, if you don’t like a song, you have to actually get up and move the needle.

You just push the button, exactly. What I liked about LPs was that, if I didn’t think a song was grooving enough for me, I would look at the grooves. You know how you can see a darker shade of color in the groove? I thought, “Well, that might be a cool part there, so I’ll check that out.” Usually it means there’s some kind of experimental thing, so I’m always looking for cool things like that. Now, you’re looking for the perfect pop song of all time. I know that.

That’s true.

I do too, you know. That’s what you live for. If you can find an album that’s got one great pop song on it, it’s worth it. You listen to it first, and then you take the record off after that, don’t ya?

I’ve been known to do that. From the sound of “Do the Collapse,” it seems that Ric Ocasek shared your love of ear candy.

He’s written some great songs. I love the Cars’ records, especially the first one. To me, that was something really new and really good. The harmonies are amazing and the songs are amazing. And Ric writes similar lyrics to mine, too — or mine are somewhat like his.

Slightly oblique?

Yeah, definitely. He’s one of my influences. If I were to list 20 influences, I know he would be in there.

One subject that often finds its way into articles about Guided By Voices is alcohol. Addicted to Noise ran an article on a GBV concert that said, “Pollard, drunk as usual …”

That’s bullshit. It implies that I’m always drunk. I’m drunk onstage because I’m very shy. When I get onstage, I have to be a little bit inebriated just to be able to handle it. I’m not as bad as I used to be. When we first started playing, I would start drinking really, really early in the day, because I would be petrified. Now I start drinking an hour before the show.

Do you think you’re technically as good a singer as when you’re not drinking?

I think I am. I once tried to go out without drinking anything, and I wasn’t as loose. My attitude was not as good. Maybe it’s a crutch for a performance, but, hey, performing’s a scary thing, man. You don’t understand until you have to do it and you got a thousand people screaming “G-B-V” and everything.

I don’t want you to think I’m out of control. I don’t drink every day. All I can tell you is that I need to be at this certain level of inebriation to go onstage. I used to not know at what point I would cross over the line, and it would hinder my performance. Now, I’ve learned how to get to a level where it’s perfect. And I apologize if it offends anyone. I don’t want to seem like a bad example to youngsters who think we’re an alcohol band.

The thing is, I don’t know how much longer I’m going to play live anyway. For the last couple of years, I’ve entertained a notion of saying I’m done. I think maybe a few more years and that’s it. Hopefully, that will happen, because I don’t want to continue to perform as I get older. And there might be a point where I don’t need to drink beer before I go onstage. Maybe I’ll get used to performing enough where I don’t need it. But the thing is, to me, a rock show’s a bit alcohol-fueled, and that’s why I don’t think I’ll continue to perform much longer.

There was reportedly an article in The Onion a long time ago making light of your penchant for firing band members — something along the lines of “Bob Pollard Fires Himself.”

I’ve talked about that with the band before. Like, I’d fire myself and let them continue without me. That would be funny. You know how you see these bands like the Grass Roots come and play and there’s only one guy left, like the drummer?

Can you understand why people might think you’re egotistical or on a rock star trip, because you’re always firing people?

I’ve claimed I’m the Ian Anderson [Jethro Tull] of indie rock! They may think that — I know some people do — but that’s too bad. I actually get along well with most of the people in my bands. In order for us to persevere and continue to have fun and everything, the chemistry has to be right. So, if it’s not, I’ll make a change.

I really do seek and want and crave a solid lineup that stays with me forever. It’s not my intention to go, like, “You guys are going to last one album and then your asses are out the door.” My band right now, we get along really well and it’s really cool, and I’m hoping that this is it.

You have said that you derive some of your inspiration from psychedelic-era groups such as the Byrds and the Millennium. Those bands were highly spiritual, and they tried to reach listeners on both conscious and unconscious levels. Do you try to do the same?

When I write a really good song, I’m touched and I feel like I’ve come in contact somehow with some kind of spiritual nature. But I’m kind of schizoid. Sometimes I tap into a darker nature, too. Guided By Voices is the angel on one shoulder and the devil on the other. Sometimes there’s a darker nature and a harder-rocking, negative polar side, but, for the most part, the best stuff is the really inspirational, uplifting anthem-type stuff.

See, when I write songs, I don’t consciously say, “I’m going to write a pretty song,” “I’m going to write an anthem,” “I’m going to write a hard rock song,” whatever. I just let it flow, like stream-of-consciousness. I get as many ideas as I can, until I burn out. Then I go back and pick my best stuff.

You like to have a lot to choose from.

People say, “I can’t believe you write so many songs. I heard you can write 10 songs in a day.” Well, I actually write 50 songs and I choose 10 songs. I have a page of titles, and I go, “This song’s called –” whatever the title is, and I make it up and go to the next one.

It sounds like the closest thing you have to a drug addiction.

Oh, yeah, it is. It’s a total addiction. I tried to kill it — to cure it a long time ago, around “Propeller” [1992], and I was going to quit. I said, “I’m done, I can’t do this anymore. I need to get more responsible and pay more attention to the important things in life.” And there was no way I could do it. Every once in a while, this inspiration comes over me to write either poetry or songs, and I love that. That’s the fix.

Some critics claim that the second album by San Francisco’s Beulah, the lavishly arranged “When Your Heartstrings Break” (Sugar Free), is on the same level as the Beach Boys’ “Pet Sounds” or the Zombies’ “Odessey and Oracle.” These are the same people who said that the Gallagher brothers were the rightful heirs to Lennon and McCartney. The album actually sounds like nothing so much as the Velvet Underground’s “Loaded.” Which is not necessarily a bad thing.

Not since Edwyn Collins played Maxwell’s three years ago has the stage seen such a serious auteur as Beulah singer/guitarist Miles Kurosky. On Saturday, he was all study, watching his bandmates and glancing down at his own guitar. Although his concentration canceled out some of the abandon in his songs, it was somewhat excusable, given the band’s tight and focused performance. The effort wasn’t lost on the audience, which treated Beulah more like a headliner than an opening act. (The band belongs to Elephant 6, the loose collective of bands that includes the Apples in Stereo, Neutral Milk Hotel and the Olivia Tremor Control, which gives them a little more recognition than most relatively new groups enjoy.) While most of Beulah’s songs sound pretty samey, they have a killer tune that goes way beyond the rest, which they save for last. The wonderfully titled “If We Can Land a Man on the Moon, Surely I Can Win Your Heart” is an extended, ultra-catchy number (with a great trumpet solo) that could have come from David Bowie’s “Hunky Dory.”

I’m scribbling in my notebook when the 15-year-old girl next to me asks what kind of review will I write. “Mixed,” I say. Disappointed, she shrugs: “I just think they’re the perfect pop band.” I feel jaded. Maybe, for this girl half my age, they are the perfect pop band. I guess the Knack were right. The little girls do understand.

If Kurosky seems a bit cold, the Apples in Stereo err on the side of niceness. Guitarist and front man Robert Schneider is the Stuart Smalley of rock ‘n’ roll, revealing all his joys and insecurities through both his music and his funny, self-effacing banter. The Apples aren’t terribly tight tonight — they sound much better on their records. Fortunately, most of their songs don’t require anything more complicated than a bar chord or two — and that’s the beauty of what they do. Like the Ramones before them and, even more so, like the 1910 Fruitgum Co. before them, the Apples in Stereo have learned how to distill pop to its most basic elements.

What puts the Apples closer to the 1910 Fruitgum Co., the Buddah Records studio group, is the way they put cheesy organ riffs and sweet harmonies on an equal level with chunky guitars. They also display a refreshing lack of irony not normally found in modern purveyors of ’60s-style pop.

There’s no question that the audience appreciates the opportunity to enjoy sweet tunes without shame. As the Apples perform tunes like “Ruby,” from their latest release, “Her Wallpaper Reverie” (spinART), the pogo-ing crowd proves that bubblegum remains as gloriously irrelevant as it was 30 years ago. Better still, instead of being manufactured primarily by cynical hacks, it’s now being done by people who truly believe in it. As Smalley would say, the Apples in Stereo really are good enough and smart enough. And, gosh darn it, people like them.

Mannix takes those two attitudes and applies them to modern pop. The New York City duo’s debut album, “Pretty Strange,” is a bundle of ear candy from the word go. Its 15 genre-crossing songs hold in common superb melodies, heart-on-sleeve vocals, evocative lyrics and the kind of intimate, acoustic guitar-based arrangements traditionally favored by song-oriented artists, from early Nilsson to Marshall Crenshaw.

The leader of Mannix was born with an engaging singing voice and a memorable last name. Much later, toward the end of the ’80s, Joe Mannix found partner Chris Peck, who is one of those rare creations — a solid drummer who sings like an angel. By the time Mannix made “Pretty Strange,” the pair had rounded up a variety of session players to give the album a full-band sound.

It’s difficult to describe what makes Mannix, the band, special. Heard individually, the tracks on “Pretty Strange” don’t sound more unusual or innovative than those of other underground pop artists. Together, however, they have a deep, intricate and conceptual feel that makes the whole album greater than the sum of its parts. Some of the charm is Joe Mannix’s predilection for sad songs that sound happy.

“I’m sick of watching the others pass us by while we crawl,” he sings about a relationship falling apart in the chorus of “No Longer Angry.” At the same time, the song’s insistent melody and tastefully crunchy guitars recall Paul McCartney and Wings, a group not exactly known for its cynicism.

If “Pretty Strange” has a weak point, it’s the production, which errs on the side of subtlety. The instrumental balance is static and each song essentially has the same mix, making it sound not so much like a studio album as a live show in a coffeehouse with noise restrictions. Which, in fact, is the sort of place Mannix — still a relative unknown, even in New York — can normally be found live.

But Joe Mannix’s unusually strong talent for original, stand-alone melodies raises “Pretty Strange” above most of the other albums that have sprung from this decade’s power-pop revival. Wistful, evocative songs like “Time Travel” and “Sweet Sevillian Song,” with their classic structure, universal lyrics and instantly memorable tunes, would fit right in with Harold Arlen, Rodgers and Hart and other Tin Pan Alley greats. That’s another way of saying that Mannix is timeless, not timely. Then again, Bernstein’s equation never implied that good music had anything to do with currency.

Myers appears to be nowhere near the “Austin Powers 2: The Spy Who Shagged Me” soundtrack. Most likely, the suits at Maverick saw a blockbuster in the making and hijacked the skimpy 12-song CD, populating it with platinum-selling acts performing covers or affecting a ’60s front — hardly groovy, baby! The disc opens with Madonna’s “Beautiful Stranger,” a pleasant if unmemorable attempt at re-creating the warm feel of ’60s pop with loopy Doors-style organ riffs. Unfortunately, the rest of the instrumentation seems cold and clinical, like the bastard progeny of a sampler and a Macintosh computer. Madonna is genuine enough as she swings through another new genre, but she has trouble with unaffected romanticism. When she sings, “To know you is to love you,” she sounds for all the world like she’s singing “blow” instead of “know.” Phil Spector is probably not amused.

R.E.M.’s version of Tommy James’ excellent 1970 smash “Draggin’ the Line” is another thing entirely. Like their semi-hit cover of the obscure Clique song “Superman,” “Draggin’” is faithful to the original and shines. Lenny Kravitz, on the other hand, distorts his voice and sings over the melody of “American Woman,” robbing the power of the Guess Who’s classic rock standby. Scary Spice, aka Melanie G, sings like Eartha Kitt with throat cancer and absolutely murders Cameo’s “Word Up.” Unbelievably, not this or any other of these abominations is as awful as Scott Weiland and Big Blue Missile’s version of one of the Zombies greatest songs, ruined by a constricted vocal suggesting that it’s the “Time of the Season” for Metamucil. The version is so wrong that I’d bet money that the former Stone Temple Pilot heard the song for the first time when his lawyer dropped it on his manager’s desk.

Sadly, Austin Powers’ own group, the excellent Ming Tea (which also includes ex-Bangle Susanna Hoffs and popsmith Matthew Sweet), is absent. Dr. Evil, however, drops a hilarious rapped cover of Bill Withers’ “Just the Two of Us.” If Myers did have any remote influence on the soundtrack’s compilation, he probably suggested the Flaming Lips, whose buoyant “Buggin’” captures the spirit of bubbly ’60s stars like the Association without sounding the least bit revivalist. (OK, maybe the least bit, but that’s it.) Doubtless Myers would also push for Burt Bacharach and Elvis Costello, who grace the album with a gorgeous version of Bacharach’s “I’ll Never Fall in Love Again.” Put on that track, turn off the lights and turn on the lava lamp, and you have the perfect setting for a shagadelic evening.

He has his work cut out for him.

Lennon’s failure to win the hearts of Americans can be attributed, in large part, to his failure to live up to what listeners and critics believed to be John Lennon’s legacy. When the Beatles broke up in 1970, they were immediately canonized by the rock press. Nearly 30 years later, they remain untouchable, impervious to criticism. The difference is that today, when rock critics say they like the Beatles, what many of them really mean is that they like John Lennon. And the Lennon they idolize is the countercultural icon — the Lennon of the bed-ins and protests, Yoko’s partner in outrageousness, the revolutionary.

Atlantic Records released “Valotte” the same week that America voted Reagan into office for a second term. But for many, the Reagan era had really begun four years earlier when John Lennon was murdered. The Beatles’ American fans, still smarting from the loss, expected John’s 21-year-old son to carry his father’s rebellious torch.

As it happened, Julian did speak with his father’s voice — the similarity was so eerie that it spooked many listeners. The songs, however, were lightweight pop confections, about as countercultural as a Levi’s commercial. It was as if Atlantic intended for “Valotte” to act as a mere stopgap between Phil Collins albums — which, in fact, it did.

Forced to carry an unrealistic burden of expectations, Julian crashed. The downward spiral began in 1986 with the failure of his second album, “The Secret Value of Daydreaming,” and continued until 1991, when he took a much-needed break from the music business.

“After I left school at 17, it was only a year or two later that I went into the music business — there hadn’t been any relevant part of my life not associated with music,” explains Lennon, now 35, as he sits down for an interview after practicing with his band at a rehearsal studio on the west side of London. He is dressed in black boots, black jeans and a black sleeveless T-shirt, and sporting a light goatee. My fears of being unable to look at him without seeing his father prove unfounded, although the resemblance remains strong. The vocal similarity, however, is unmistakable. He speaks unaffectedly in that same nasal Liverpool accent, in jarringly familiar tones. “It was necessary for me to find out who I was outside of the business. If music stopped tomorrow, who am I?”

While Julian laid low, the rock press’s search for a new Lennon continued unabated. On May 18, when he re-entered the recording world with the European release of “Photograph Smile,” many critics felt they had finally found their man — only the long-awaited heir to the Lennon throne wasn’t Julian, but his younger half-brother, 22-year-old Sean, who released his debut album, “Into the Sun,” that very same day on the Beastie Boys’ Grand Royal label. What was supposed to be Julian’s moment in the sun turned into the U.K.’s biggest press battle since Blur vs. Oasis. Not surprisingly, given Julian’s reputation for less-than-sterling releases, most of the media put its money on Sean.

As the era of conservatism came to a close in both America and England, critics no longer measured a new John Lennon by the same standard that they did in 1984. Instead of a countercultural savior, they wanted a countercultural fashion plate, someone with an air of radical chic, but without the incontrovertible artistic genius that made John Lennon and his music such powerful weapons against the establishment. By that token, Sean had the stuff of a rightful heir: radicalism (he claimed the CIA assassinated his father), avant-gardism (he spent two years in an expensive studio to make his album sound like a demo) and a romance with a wacky Japanese artiste, Yuka Honda of Cibo Matto.

In England, the arbiters of taste had to do an about-face when both
“Photograph Smile” and its single, “Day After Day,” made the charts, while
“Into the Sun” faded into the ether. Julian, however, took no joy in the
“victory,” telling reporters that he would much rather have avoided the
battle. In fact, to avert a similar head-to-head confrontation in the
states, he delayed the American release of “Photograph Smile” (on his own
Music From Another Room label) until October 1998. He needn’t worry.
Despite near-unanimous rave reviews, “Into the Sun” has dropped from
Billboard’s Top 200 album chart (it peaked June 6 at No. 153).

The close relationship that Lennon once was said to have had with his brother had already been strained in recent years, a situation exacerbated by the concurrent releases. Could it have been a coincidence? “I know for a fact that Sean’s representation were looking into exactly when mine was being released,” he insists. “Apparently, they were asking some of the same companies that we’re working with distributionwise to release his either a week before or at the same time as me. I know that for a fact. Not that I’m putting Sean down,” he asserts. “I love Sean and I like what he does, but I don’t know whether he’s completely aware of who’s doing what around him.”

When I ask Lennon what he thinks of “Into the Sun,” he answers quickly, “I like
it.” That hangs in the air for a second before he adds, “It surprised me. I’d heard a lot of [Sean's] earlier demos, a couple of years before, which were more just him, and I was surprised to hear that it felt like more of a duet album. There was a lot of influence from his girlfriend, which surprised me for a debut album. If that’s what he wants, then cool, I’m very happy for him. It just surprised me, because the stuff I’d heard on demos felt like they were more inside of him.”

Lennon has to rely on the media for information on what’s going on inside his brother’s head. He says they haven’t spoken in years. “I’ve exchanged telephone numbers with him a thousand times, but he’s never called me back.”

Ten days after Lennon uttered those words, it was reported that he and Sean met by chance in London, where they went out for dinner and seemed to get along famously. Judging from what Lennon said to me, the reunion would not have happened were Sean not separated from his usual circle: “I think maybe there’s more influence than just his own that’s holding him back from calling me.”

- – - – - – - – - -

Julian notes that Sean has more pressing things to do right now than make up for lost time with his older brother. “He’s only just moved out of the Dakota recently, to somewhere in the Village, so, I mean, separation from home is the first thing he’s dealing with,” he says. “When the time’s right, I’ll get a phone call.” I observe that Sean, who lives with his girlfriend, has still never really been on his own. Julian nods. “There’s always been a watchful eye over him, that’s for sure.”

For much of Sean’s life, that watchful eye has been Yoko’s, who guards her son’s privacy as jealously as she guards John Lennon’s estate. Although Julian has always been diplomatic about his stepmother, he can’t hide his disgust over how she licenses his father’s legacy. “I don’t like it. I don’t like any of it. I don’t like the silk ties that I’ve been sent with his lithograph drawings on them. I don’t like the mugs that I’ve received. I think there are other ways to deal with his memory than how she’s dealt with it, and I’m not fond of it at all, and I’m just sad that I have no control over that whatsoever. That sickens me.”

Julian, who was left out of John Lennon’s will, started Music From Another Room with money from his court settlement with Ono, the culmination of a long battle to gain a share of his father’s estate. When I bring up the reported figure — #20 million (about $32.6 million) — he interjects, “Reported, only.” Although he is not allowed to divulge the exact amount of the settlement, he insists, “It certainly wasn’t the figure that’s been quoted in the papers, by any means. It was minimal compared to even that figure.”

It’s difficult to reconcile the wise, peaceful soul who was a model father to Sean with the selfish bastard who left his eldest son out of his will. Beatles biographies are rife with tales of how John Lennon mistreated his wife Cynthia, and Julian. There’s no doubt that John had a great capacity for warmth and affection, but Julian says that very little of it went to him. While Lennon played with the press, it was Paul McCartney who was keen to play with the young Julian.

“Paul had a much more tender way with people, and therefore had a greater understanding of handling children,” Julian recalls. “That’s how his association with me was tightened.
When I was a kid, Dad wasn’t necessarily the playing-around type, whereas Paul was, so there was cowboys and Indians and all that kind of stuff.”

In 1968, John left Cynthia for Yoko Ono. McCartney felt for Julian, who was only 5 at the time, and wrote a song for him, “Hey Jules,” which became “Hey Jude.” I ask Julian how he feels when “Hey Jude” pops up on the radio. “It puts a smile on my face. I mean, for anybody to write a song about anybody, I think it’s special that someone thought about you that much, taking the
time to do that on your behalf. For someone to write a song about worrying about your future, how you’re gonna make it through and how you’re gonna survive, which is basically what the underlying story is, that’s special.”

In America, I note, it was the number one single of 1968.

Julian nods. “That just goes to show that a song written out of pure emotion always wins out. It wasn’t necessarily a commercial song by any standard. It was about a person, and a life, and a story.”

That story has changed dramatically during the last seven years, as Julian put an end to his partying, put his musical career on hold and put his priorities, both personal and
musical, in order. “Atlantic had me running around like a lost puppy. I mean, I was hosting TV music shows, so many bloody shows, I didn’t know whether I was coming or going, and I thought, What am I doing here?” Even when he changed labels, the situation remained the same. “I consider myself very simple, a humble singer/songwriter. Finally, I’d had enough, and I said, ‘No, this is wrong. This is not what I’m about.’”

“Photograph Smile” is Julian’s first truly mature effort, both musically and lyrically. He no longer tries to hide his vocal and musical similarity to his father, nor does he exploit it. The Beatlesque touches that he sprinkles throughout seem like nothing so much as photographs in a family album. While the hook-filled rockers and atmospheric piano ballads sound like they would be more at home on vinyl, they nonetheless are closer to 1998 than 1968.

“I felt I got thrown all over the place in the past 10 years, with the treadmill of the business, and, after the last album, I said, ‘I’ve had enough. It’s bullshit. Too many broken promises, too much lack of support, it’s crap. Why am I doing this? It’s not fun anymore.’ Atlantic didn’t have a clue. If they’d have let me go back home and take six months to a year writing some songs, then they would have had another good album, but they didn’t, so I hold them responsible for what happened to my career, basically.”

I remind him that he did nothing to prevent them from marketing him as John Lennon’s son. “I know, I know, I know. Back in those days, I was too shy, and I just didn’t
have the strength — I just didn’t know back then.”

And so, I say, it looked to the public like he was trying to ride on his father’s fame. Julian bristles at the memory. “Which was the worst thing possible for me.”

Although John Lennon introduced Julian to the guitar, he didn’t actively encourage him to become a musician. “On the rare occasions that I visited Dad,” Julian recalls, “he would sit down and play a couple of chords with me and show me some new chords. That was about it.”

Julian sought out other influences, including Steely Dan, Keith Jarrett, Led Zeppelin and AC/DC. “It was Keith Jarrett who indirectly inspired me to play piano, really. I started writing basic songs with the guitar from age 11, but it wasn’t until I got my piano at age 16
from Mum — a beautiful old Steinway upright, hand-carved — that I started
playing improvisational music. I really got into music from playing the piano, really, not from the guitar. That’s when I started to write the sort of big long ballads that I love to do, because I just feel that the piano is much more of a playground for emotion.”

Julian dedicated “Photograph Smile” to the late Roberto Bassanini, who was his stepfather for several years in the early ’70s. “He played a very, very serious part in my life,” Julian explains. “He was the guy that picked me up from school, he was the guy that took me to the park, he was the guy that took me on holidays. So, for me, this was my father. That’s how it felt.”

In 1996, when Julian was preparing to record the album, he chose Bob Rose — who gained his first studio experience as a 15-year-old second engineer on the Beach Boys’ classic “Pet Sounds” — to be his co-producer. Although Rose has since produced George Harrison, Edie Brickell and others, he retains an enthusiasm for music rarely seen in career hit makers. The freedom he brought into the studio was manna to Julian, whose past efforts were marred by the kind of clinical, highly polished production beloved of major labels. “For the first time in a long time, it was about having fun in the studio — nobody knocking on the door, just being allowed to do whatever the fuck you wanted. That was such a big difference for me, just being able to play and have fun, and keeping that element of reality in it all,” he says. “Nothing in life is perfect. And I think through mistakes some wonderful things can happen — that’s where realizations come through. There are many things that are not perfect on the album, but for a reason.”

Whereas Sean is into sounds, Julian is devoted to song craft. “There are still a couple
of great songwriters out there,” he observes, “but it seems a lot of that has gone by the wayside, because it’s not about a great song anymore. It’s about an era, it’s a time and a place, and rhythms and samples and this and that and the other. But unless the song underneath all that crap is solid, then, yeah, you can have a No. 1 hit and you can dance to it, but, a year later, I don’t see hearing the same song again.”

Julian seems so comfortable in his own skin that I don’t really have to ask if life is treating him well, but I do anyway. He describes the “peace and contentment” he finally felt last year when, he says, “I understood who I was.”

“One of the major things that was very important was to structure life in such a way that music was not 100 percent of my life. Before, it was. Now, I refuse to do that, because there are much more important things in life. Music’s a big part, but so many of my relationships have been lost to the business — friendships, contacts and family. I think it’s very important to keep a life outside the music business, being alive and well and healthy. Because success in the music business is not always going to be there.”

I note that his happiness is at odds with the public’s perception of him as the perpetual victim.
“I never, per se, felt that I was a victim,” he insists. “I felt that I had been dealt a difficult hand. We all get our hands to play in life. My ambition, especially after what happened over the last 10 years, was to finally start turning those cards around and shuffling them about, choosing better hands, so that I could play the game a lot better and also get to a position of control, where I would start to win. For me, that’s just beginning to happen.”