Graham Linehan once wrote that he was so jealous of a certain, effortlessly gifted, young novelist that whenever he saw a new book by the writer, he would take it from the shelf in the shop, strangle it and buy it.
Musicians must feel this way about Devendra Banhart. With a voice as rich and unique as Tim Buckley, the personality of a merry prankster, songs like Love mixed with Edward Lear, and a punishing work rate, he has just completed, without breaking sweat, his third album in a little over a year.
Were I a rival, I would stare malevolently at Cripple Crow before buying it. But buy it I would. Banhart is prodigious, and it’s singular, gorgeous music. He has bad hair, if that’s any consolation.
When we meet, he offers me chewing tobacco from Malawi. We break the ice with talk of Africa, with which he excitedly declares an affinity.
“I like Ethiopia’s history very, very, very much,” enthuses Banhart, who was born in Texas and raised in Caracas. “It’s my favourite food, Ethiopian food, and generally, African food. I love Ethiopian music and culture. I love Mali’s music. When Ali Farka Toure first started getting his records to the West, my father bought them, and he turned me on to them. So I’ve always been into his music. I love The Palm-Wine Drinkard, by Amos Tutuola. My Life In The Bush of Ghosts, too.
“I love the theory that we all came from Africa,” he continues. “That to me can completely calm down any insecurities you may have in yourself. Hey Africa! We all came from there. And anything you might have about your body, or any insecurities, that thought, in my eyes, just kind of erases them.”
With amusing results, I ask him why precisely this is reassuring to him.
He hesitates. “Reassuring. ‘Em... I’m just going to repeat what I said already. I can’t elaborate any more! That’s my fault, not yours. I’m not very good at elaborating.”
That’s really weird, I say. That’s the opposite of how I think about conversation. Aren’t you supposed to start out with nothing, throw something out, see where it goes, and turn it into something?
“Yeah I know, I wish I could, but I can’t. I like to take a couple steps, then I stop.”
Not much of a spokesman, then, except that he is. Last year, Banhart curated Golden Apples Of The Sun, an album of songs by 20 new artists in a genre that has since been christened ‘freakfolk’ — meaning, they use acoustic instruments and they sound like they could be on drugs.
This made him leader of a scene that shouldn’t really have a leader. If anything unites the stalwarts of the movement — Banhart, Antony, Joanna Newsom, Scout Niblett — it’s their utter individuality. Each is unlike anyone, least of all each other.
“You’re one of the first people to notice that. Others say it seems that there’s a folk thing going on. To me, it’s so different from song to song and person to person.
“And that’ll be clearer and clearer as people make more and more records. If you look at the career of someone like Joni Mitchell or Neil Young, those are records that change from record to record but maintain that person’s individuality.”
One other thing connects Antony and Banhart (and Joni Mitchell): extraordinary, spectral voices that seem to bypass language.
“OK,” says Banhart, animated. “Let’s go back to Ethiopia. You know the Ethiopiques series? (A classic set of recordings of Ethiopian music of 1965-75 - N.C.) I love the Ethiopiques series, every single one of them. I don’t understand a single word. People are using different languages, but they’re all trying to convey the same thing. And I understand that thing, because I’m a human being, you know?”