Ben Schwab is astonished to hear that Coldplay are charging up to €900 for their shows at Aviva Stadium in Dublin next year. As frontman of Sylvie, a DIY indie band with a sideline in soft-rock revivalism, the rangy Los Angeles resident lives in a different world from that inhabited by Chris Martin and his Day-Glo chums. A world where you must always watch your bottom line, where a life in music means a life of constant sacrifice. He’s making it work – but it has been a struggle.
“For the past 10 years I’ve been doing this,” says Schwab. “And like so many of my musician friends, you learn to be resourceful. I live simply because you make that choice to commit to your art. A lot of us sacrifice certain things. You live a certain way – you get used to it. And you get better at it. That’s been an uphill battle and a challenge. I feel in a comfortable place.”
One reason Schwab has made it work is because music is hugely personal to him. His greatest success has been with the acclaimed Drugdealer, an outfit that Pitchfork praised for their “pristine portrait of early 1970s AM radio”. Sylvie might be his most intimate undertaking. Filled out with Connor Gallagher on pedal steel and Sam Kauffman Skloff on drums, they make a honeyed sound that’s steeped in the southern-California soft pop of Laurel Canyon: the lissom, untethered vibe of Crosby, Stills and Nash, Joni Mitchell and The Eagles. But the biggest influence is Schwab’s father, John, who in the 1970s took a shot at the big time with his group Mad Anthony.
Ben created Sylvie in Mad Anthony’s image after uncovering a forgotten demo reel recorded by the ensemble after they moved to Los Angeles from small-town Ohio, dreaming of cracking the industry. That never happened. But Schwab has honoured Mad Anthony’s dreamy sound with Sylvie and an acclaimed self-titled 2022 album.
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He has done more than pay tribute to his father. He has given him back his voice by reissuing those old 1970s demos as The Lost Tapes of Mad Anthony earlier this month. They’re a wonderful time capsule, a beautifully rough-hewn collection of piano ballads and country rockers that suggest an undiscovered lost cousin of The Band or The Eagles.
“I made Sylvie for myself. To address certain things and to go to places that were important for me,” says Schwab. “My father was in a band in his 20s and 30s. And then he moved on from it. But he plays still, and he’s happy we reissued the music. He’s stoked about it. He likes Sylvie. We talk about songwriting a lot – he’ll always have something to say about a new song. He introduced me to James Taylor, all those people. To be in your 70s and see your music reissued on Spotify – it’s a trip for him.”
In that period it was more inexpensive to live. It was a more free-thinking period. Culturally, people today people are so constricted
— Ben Schwab on the allure of 1970s Laurel Canyon music
Mad Anthony is something his dad is proud of – but there are other, more conflicted feelings, too. “It is bittersweet. Personal life pulls musicians apart. Or circumstances don’t work out. There’s that on the surface. Underneath it, some of the feeling in the music they were making is so special and deep and powerful. I thought that’s so sad – no one will ever hear these songs, which are so great. My dad was, in a way, sad about having to move on from that period. As anyone who has been in a band knows, it’s never easy to break up, to separate from friends.”
Sylvie and Mad Anthony don’t exist in a vacuum. Postpandemic, those early-1970s Cali-vibes have struck a universal register. They are referenced in Harry Styles’s blockbusting Harry’s House (which takes its name from a track on Joni Mitchell’s 1975 LP, The Hissing of Summer Lawns) and on the HBO zombie drama The Last of Us, which championed Linda Ronstadt’s 1970 hit Long Long Time.
“It’s a deeper cultural thing,” says Schwab. “In that period it was more inexpensive to live. It was a more free-thinking period. Culturally, people today people are so constricted. With Covid and the way things can work with the internet, human connection is at a weak point. It makes sense that people want something very human. And that period, that music, is the essence of that. When you see those old movies about Laurel Canyon, it’s people enjoying each other’s company, sharing music, helping each other with songs.”
He acknowledges it wasn’t all golden: Joni Mitchell’s ballads brimmed with heartache and loneliness; Crosby, Stills and Nash was an alliance forged in cocaine and groupies; The Band’s Robbie Robertson, who died earlier this month, took the group off the road because he feared the direction their lifestyles were taking them in. He thought someone would die, most likely of a heroin overdose.
Schwab’s dad was not an addict or a danger to himself and others. Still, Mad Anthony had their moments in the fast lane, says his son. They were a rough-and-ready crew: the songs were tender and homespun, but the musicians weren’t above getting into trouble.
“The music is often sweet. They were naturally pretty tough and got into some situations. That adds depth to what they were doing. When you hear someone like Joni – Joni’s pretty complicated. Her music is sweet but also intense. There’s a lot going on. I think it’s cool when people have that and it’s not just one dimension. There’s different layers.”
Crosby, Stills and Nash had a lot of money. Artists don’t have that. In LA everyone wants to be like that. Everyone pretends to be living the lifestyle. But you can’t do it
Crosby, Stills and Nash and their peers could make incredible music while consuming their body weight in drugs because that was how the business operated. They were wealthy and indulged, and could do whatever they wanted. It doesn’t work that way today: artists living at full throttle rarely last long, and rarely write worthwhile songs.
“I don’t think you could do that now. You can’t live that lifestyle and tour and record. Crosby, Stills and Nash had a lot of money. Artists don’t have that. In LA everyone wants to be like that. Everyone pretends to be living the lifestyle. But you can’t do it. Those guys, their first show was Woodstock, right? With hundreds of thousands of people. They had endless resources and could just play music and not have to worry. It’s not like that any more.”
Sylvie play Whelan’s, Dublin 2, on Saturday, August 26th
