Good Grief: An Interview with Little Green Cars

Music
11 Mar 16

After their debut album launched them onto the world stage, a series of tragedies in their personal lives shook Little Green Cars to their core. Back with their sophomore effort, Ephemera, they discuss the meaning of loss – and their growth as artists.

"Our first album was recorded when we were 19 or 20 years of age. Trying to present an identity at that age is difficult. But after its release, and the tours that followed, we know ourselves. We now know what we’re trying to say.”
While guitarist Adam O’Regan’s statement is certainly considered, Little Green Cars always came across as let-the-music-do-the-talking types – and when your debut album is as musically adept as Absolute Zero, there’s something in the idea of staying schtum. The record catapulted the band to international recognition, and signalled the start of a rollercoaster ride both professionally and personally. It’s a pleasant surprise, then, as Hot Press pulls up a chair across from three of the group, that they’re all sitting up straight, apparently eager to tackle some probing inquiries. If I can think of any, that is!
“It’s a lot different than doing the press for the first album,” grins Faye O’Rourke. “Back then, the main question was ‘where did you get your band name?’”
That particular brainteaser, you reckon, has probably been replaced by equally inspired inquisitions regarding the title of their sophomore album. As the press release elucidates, Ephemera is taken from a WB Yeats poem, and is defined by frontman Stevie Appleby as “things that are important to you, but only for a short time.”
Which is, in a certain way, ironic – as the vision behind the album is anything but short-term.
“This might be a clichéd remark to make,” the aforementioned Mr. A begins, “but things just come and go these days; fads that people don’t even notice. What we were hoping to make was something that would be important to someone during a particular time in life – one that, again, will pass – but the emotional connection to that time will still linger. It would be nice to make something important enough for people to remember nostalgically.”
The resulting record is a collection every bit as uniquely arresting as their debut effort, replete with the band’s singular blend of folk, rock, pop, alt. country, and more. But unlike second albums – which have a habit of talking about life on the road, or other indulgent forms of self-discovery – the tracks on Ephemera were inspired by a period of intensely personal turmoil and tragedy.
“Shortly after we’d finished Absolute Zero, my father passed away,” Adam says. “Two or three weeks later, we went on our first tour of the States; after the album came out, we were back there five or six times, as well as Russia, Australia, Europe and so on. It’s not easy to grieve in the middle of a travelling circus. It’s not a comfortable place to mourn. But you do it.”
Stevie also went through a difficult time, when a tour in Russia meant that he was not only out of the country when his grandmother passed away, but also missed the funeral. “Death has an amazing ability to transform you,” Adam continues, “and change the way you look at things. When my dad died, it was the most unbelievable state to be in: it’s like a twilight zone. Nothing like real life.”
But from such pain comes great beauty: two of the album’s standout tracks are ‘Brother’ and ‘The Garden Of Death’, inspired by Adam and Stevie’s respective grief.
“You have to write a song that’s direct enough not to be perceived incorrectly, but broad enough to be applied in any number of situations,” Stevie opines. “Adam wrote ‘Brother’ –
but I can apply it to lots of things in my life.”
“Faye is singing those words that are so personal to me," Adam adds, "which makes it a much more universal thing.”
Another constant presence on the record is a focus on loneliness and isolation. We don’t want to go all Dr Phil on it, but it’s a five-piece band: do we all just need to talk a bit more?
“You might be right!” Stevie laughs, secure in the knowledge that a closer bunch you might never meet – they’ve been friends since they were in their early teens. “I think it’s to do with making a second record, when the world already has a certain perception of who you are. You can’t help but look at yourself and ask questions: about how you’re perceived, and if it’s accurate; about how you want to be perceived, and if you’re going the right way about it.
“Add in the fact that you’re on tour," he says, "where you’re constantly under the microscope – everything you do leaves a lasting impression – and these thoughts crop up even more. You really want to know who you are, before going out to explain to other people how they feel!”
Out of this dilemma comes the soul-searching of lead single ‘The Song They Play Every Night’, the resigned heartbreak of ‘You vs Me’, and the brooding textures of ‘Clair De Lune’. The last of those, granted, ends on a note of optimism – perhaps betraying the duality of the birthing process itself.
“People think that writing the song is the therapeutic part,” Stevie points out. “It’s not. Writing it means that it materialises. Rather than getting rid of that horrible feeling, it’s now sitting next to you, poking you in the ribs. But playing it to the band, and the band playing it together? That’s when it dissipates. And then, to have someone say that it meant a lot to them – to go through pain, but bring someone joy – means that bitter taste is gone. Suddenly, it just feels worthwhile.”
There’s a refreshing honesty and self-awareness to the band’s acknowledgment that how they’re seen and heard matters to them. That, at least in part, stems from the reaction to their debut, and the rush to find a nice tidy category under which they could be filed.
“We were kind of tossed into that nu-folk basket, right alongside Mumford & Sons,” Adam shrugs. “We really didn’t connect with that, or feel like we belonged there.”
“People had this impression we were a harmony band," says Faye. "Yes, we use harmonies, but it’s not some sort of trick we had. It would never push us away from using multiple voices, or a warm acoustic guitar, because people are always going to put some spin on it; compare and contrast, size up and measure.” Not always going in a negative sense, Stevie points out. “Right when you think you have a song figured out, and you know it back to front, someone comes up and tells you what they think it means – and your mind is blown," he reflects. "In that way, the song never gets old, because it’s constantly re-inventing itself in other people’s eyes. My greatest musical revelation was realising that I’m not special, or one-in-a-million, but actually much like everyone else. Therefore, if there’s a song that’s true to me, it’s likely true for someone else. This album is ours, but it’ll become something new when we play it live and see people’s reactions. A few months down the line, it’s not going to be what it is to us right now.”
Make no mistake: there’s nothing ephemeral about the record, or Little Green Cars. These guys are built to last.
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