Overhead, The Albatross: New album became the "elephant in the room"

While we don’t want to stray too far into the territory of a Hot Press Ornithology Column, there’s a lot to know about the albatross. As well as having a record-breaking wingspan, it’s also got one of the longest lifespans of any bird. Which is handy, because if we were writing about a band called Overhead, The Northern Shrike, it might already be over.
Overhead, The Albatross are more than aware their debut album took a while. There’s the obvious fact that they were the ones working on it – for days, months and years – but also the fact that nobody was slow to remind them.
“With media and stuff like that, it was always a bit of fun,” says Luke Daly, one of the sextet’s three guitarists. “But when we were constantly being asked by the same people every week, you started getting annoyed.”
“My dad was probably the worst for it,” proffers drummer Ben Garrett. “He’d keep on me; ‘Is this ever going to happen?’”
Though even inquiring family members are nothing compared to when the questions start cropping up within the group. “You can get apathetic at times,” Luke admits, “when it’s going on for so long, and you’ve dedicated so much to it. You start questioning it; ‘Is this good enough to justify so much? Is it worth it? Why are we doing this?’ It’s a strange process.”
To fully get to grips with the journey thus far, we need to go back to 2012, when the band – Ben, Luke, Joe Panama, Vinny Casey, Stevie Darragh, David Prendergast – decamped to Czech Republic, with a view to writing and recording an album. “We really weren’t happy when we came back,” Luke says. “By then, though, the songs had evolved, so we brought them right back to their bare minimum where they were just ideas without structure. And spent months...” he catches himself, grinning, “No, years, rearranging those until we were happy.”
If there’s an argument for music being capable of creating a different world, then instrumental post-rock bands probably lead the way. Turns out that during the stay in Písek, a small and altogether quiet Czech town, the O,TA boys probably went a bit too far.
“There was a cleaning lady who called round after a couple of weeks,” Luke smiles. “All six of us gathered around the front door when she knocked, because we had no idea how to act with someone from the outside world. It was like something from The Walking Dead, that someone had finally made their way into our little sanctuary.”
The whole thing sounds like something from a sketch comedy show; the picturesque lake outside their door was so cold noone – from the hardiest and toughest to the most craven and gutless – could enjoy a swim, a lack of disposable cash meant a few months of enforced vegetarianism, and the escape of a few beers – even at those attractive Eastern European prices – was also outside their budget.
If there’s one thing the period did achieve, though, it was opening their eyes to the path forward. “We were learning the whole time,” Ben reasons. “We’d start off playing live, and then go to the control room to work on the computer a lot more – and that’s one of the things we were doing wrong. We got back to Ireland and couldn’t play live what we’d actually made. That was a learning curve.”
“The toughest thing is for your songs not to sound like it’s mashed together,” Luke explains. “What you’re trying to do is make them blend and come together seamlessly – and that’s not easy when you essentially have six producers, and six different opinions on how something might sound. But that’s where we’ve got to; some of our earlier stuff was parts that we like cobbled together, but with this project I feel like we’ve achieved that.”
Needless to say, it took time. What made it to the album as ‘HBG’ had more incarnations than Lord Vishnu, while even the most well-developed plans are all but guaranteed to meet a grisly end. “You can’t be precious about anything,” Luke warns with a knowing smile. “Your idea, or your riff, or your piano line, or whatever it is, will be destroyed once you’ve brought it to the other five.”
Most of the destruction – and subsequent reconstruction – occurred at Clique Recordings, the studio of their own pianist Prendergast. Finishing touches required the procurement of a string section, and what Luke describes as “one of the best musical experiences of my life”.
“We sat above Studio 8 in RTÉ, having only ever heard the music done digitally, with soft strings. So to hear it played by a quartet, live, was a really special moment. It was jaw-dropping.”
Ben shrugs, smiling: “I only got to hear it down the phone.”
“Moments like that make you want to write another album,” Luke reflects. “Through the turmoil and anguish of writing something like this, there are times you think, ‘Yeah. It’s worth it after all.’”
With nine epic, dynamic, monumental slabs of instrumentalism in the bag, they chose Phil Magee to mix the finished product, though not without a now-trademark delay. “Even when everything was sitting there, on a hard drive, we were all off doing our own separate things,” Luke explains. “We could go weeks without talking about it, to the point that it became an elephant in the room: ‘So, hey... should we finish our album?’ We had to plan PR and all of that – and we had to get Phil.’”
The man Magee is in high demand these days, with everyone from Kodaline to Hermitage Green keeping his diary filled to capacity. But O,TA were determined they’d get their guy, and when a window of opportunity opened, they knew they’d called it right.
“He took it and did his own thing, bringing out certain sections of a song or moving things around,” Ben says. “I loved that, because that way it’s fresh.”
“His creative work was unbelievable,” Luke adds. “Whether it’s necessarily because he’s a better engineer, or that he cared about it so much, I don’t know. But we were delighted. After such a long period of time, you become a little more relaxed about how a song should be.”
He laughs: “It might be your baby at the start, but by now it’s a four-year-old child and we’re fucking sick of it!”
While the gestation period was indeed laboured, the tracks that make up Learning To Growl are now ready to face the world. So too are its creators, whose live appearances have been sporadic at best – and even when they emerged from the darkness, as at The Workman’s Club in December, forces conspired to dump them right back again.
“The power-cut gig was terrible,” Ben smiles. “Making it through a set is like making it through an obstacle course, so to be interrupted halfway through was annoying. If you play enough gigs, stuff’s going to go wrong – but that one was bad.”
“People were shouting ‘Doesn’t matter, still deadly,’” Luke points out. “That was quite reassuring. Nobody wanted their money back. Which is just as well...”
Now though, the stage is well and truly set. Ben’s even kicked the cigarettes, to make sure he’s up for challenging stints behind the kit. “There’s a lot of moving parts – I’ve written myself into a corner,” he chuckles. “I had to give up the smokes because it wasn’t working; at our last gig we got to the second last song and I was absolutely spent.” The marathon journey to this point has certainly seen its share of huffing and puffing, but there’s fire in the belly now. So much, in fact, that the almost unmentionable is starting to creep into view.
“There’s moments I’d like to relive,” Luke admits. “I’m sure they’d be completely different for a second album, but there’s moments that would make you want to write another album.”
Ben winces. “I’d rather say that I’d like to go away again. Let’s just go away to work on new stuff, but say no more than that. That’s where it all starts, for us.” He pauses: “But maybe just for two months this time. And somewhere warmer...”
Check out the video for 'Indie Rose' below.
 Learning To Growl is out now