The Spirit of Mark Hollis

On February 25, 2019, Mark Hollis, the enigmatic singer-songwriter of influential art-pop band Talk Talk, died. The week of his death, I spent several early mornings revisiting his work, and reflecting on how his sense of space, trust in improvisation, and melodic meditations influence both my life and my approach to composition. The following is a short free-form essay written during that time. — Rolf-Carlos Klausener

The Spirit of Mark Hollis

04:50

My eyes opened. A thick pre-dawn.
Made a cup of coffee, put on Spirit of Eden and slide back into bed to write.

In the low light, and the dead spaces between the album’s eerie opening moans, I thought I heard my father’s spirit shuffle past my bedroom.

I tentatively looked up, half expecting to see him there.

My cat was giving herself a bath in the doorway.

NATURE’S SON

I thought about Hollis’s instincts, and his trust in the unintended, his patience.

As songwriters, we spend so much time honing our craft, cutting the fat, and getting to the point. Forgoing that instinct isn’t unlike mining a raw gem, scarred with imperfections nature intended. With a lot of polish and surgery, it’s commodified. Untouched, it’s just an individual treasure.

More than ever, pop music preys on the hard-wired mechanisms that seduce our attention: success measured in hooks-per-second. As he retreated from the spotlight, Mark Hollis reconnected with music’s inherent charity. He offered as much rest as chaos: sun-strewn fields before a flood.

I’ve always envied narrative songwriters, but never having truly mastered an instrument myself, I related more to singers who used words and melodies as a surrogate: chording with clashing consonants; assonance in place of glissandos. Words are sound, they don’t always have to be meaningful.

TO RESPECT TO BE BORN

Mark Hollis loved deception.

Talk Talk’s most spectral albums, 1988’s Spirit of Eden and 1991’s Laughing Stock, were built on sonic fibs. They sound exquisitely live, raw, and on the precipice of disintegration. But they were meticulously constructed from improvisation, fiendishly, often mercilessly, at the expense of his bandmates’ mental and physical health. But what monuments were ever raised without sweat in their wake.

To write “Ascension Day”, Mark Hollis had drummer Lee Harris play the same part for almost twelve hours a day, for six straight days, until he “found” the song. By the end of that session, forty-eight reels of tape were stacked in the corner containing countless, nearly identical, takes.

But like grains of sand through a microscope, Hollis heard their microtonal variations, broad shifts in mood, and vast oceans of rhythmic subtleties.

DESIRE, WHISPERED, SPOKEN

I sat on a park bench before a gig in Brighton UK in the fall of 2008 with Les Inrockuptibles’ Jean-Daniel Beauvallet. I credit him with turning me on to Hollis’ work. Beauvallet has kind eyes, and a measured, if irrepressible, enthusiasm about him. We talked for an hour, and he was surprised I hadn’t explored Talk Talk. He said I’d find kinship there.

A year later, I spent three weeks in Northern Quebec writing and recording with The Acorn. Spirit of Eden was a sonic thesaurus. I’d take the album running in the forest surrounding the cottage.

One morning before a run, I remember my bandmate Jeff enthusiastically pointing out how the chorus on “Rainbow” was a sort of reverse chorus: it was the quietest part of the song, with the drums dropping out, replaced by a single shaker. This reminded me of an old studio adage which I always felt was a solid metaphor for life: you can make something louder by turning everything else around it down.

In the album’s moments of dead silence, my pace became a meditative loping as I got lost in the decay of clanging guitars, muted drums, and the trumpet-like sonority of Hollis’ voice. I thought about the album’s themes of creation and sin, and how they wove their way into its tapestry.

THE WEALTH OF LOVE, 05:30

I thought about my dad again.
He was the most patient person I knew.

More than once, I watched him endure the fury of irrational people. He let his impulse to react flow through him like radio waves. He transmuted aggression into breath.

I think Mark Hollis had a similar kind of restraint.

I remember sitting on a small hotel bed with my bandmates in Folkstone England one night in 2009. Hobbit-size beds and musty carpets. Folkstone was our regular overnight stay before racing to catch the early morning Eurotunnel train from Dover to Calais. We were en route to Düsseldorf on tour with Bon Iver. They’d played a gorgeous cover of “I Believe In You” the night before with drummer S.Carey taking the lead on the vocals.

Talk Talk - The Rainbow (Spirit of Eden)

Before lights out, our beloved tour manager Nico pulled out his portable speaker. He was appalled that our guitar player at the time, the painter Howie Tsui, hadn’t delved into Spirit of Eden. A viking-like woodsmith, Nico played bass on Robbie Williams’ 1998 hit Millennium and wore a gifted leather jacket from Julian Lennon. He’s 6 ft tall, all protein, and never loses anything. He’s also among the most endearing, tireless, and sensitive men I’ve ever met.

We sparked a joint and sat mute and immobile listening to the album’s opening triptych of “Rainbow", “Eden”, and Desire.
I remember opening my eyes to gauge Howie’s reaction; his mouth was agog.

ASCENSION DAY, 06:45

Sun’s up, and I put on Laughing Stock.

The furnace comes on like a sonic fog, drowning out the details of its opening track, Myrrhman.

Talk Talk - Myrrhman (Laughing Stock)

I get up and shut it off. I don’t want to miss a frequency. I picture footsteps on wet cobblestone in a film noir. Hollis skips acres between vocalisations, and he sounds like he’s at the end of an argument or the start of some bitter sermon. The strings and lone trumpet ache like a black canvas being stretched over an ill-fitting frame.

It’s all so ludicrous that I start the song over again.

Talk Talk - Ascension Day (Laughing Stock)

07:41

A truck drives by my bedroom window in a hiccup of clanging steel. Just then, Mark Hollis throttles his guitar as “Ascension Day” kicks into gear. The distortion is flush with overtones: a rancorous dissertation.

07:55

I put on “New Grass” from Laughing Stock.

Talk Talk - New Grass (Laughing Stock)

It’s meditative and reminds me of travelling: hay bales in farm fields from a train window. The snare is hushed but insistent. A locomotive pulsing in triplets.

Hollis’ guitar drips mercury, repeating a phrase so eloquent and assured, it sounds like a good parent explaining the night sky to their child. Shades of Sade, proto R&B, art-house soul-jazz.

There’s no drop or explosive chorus, just the soft steps of a piano marking transitions.

Descending.
Descending.
Down.

And the train rolls into the station.

INHERITANCE, 8:14

After his only solo album in 1998, that was it. Hollis walked away from music having said everything he felt he needed to, one could suppose. Maybe it was something else. Through success and obscurity, his intentions seemed virtuous and clear, if not always understood. What a glorious approach to art and life.

Like my father, I’ve always valued patience and restraint. I was an impulsive and hyperactive child, and I think his lack of presence in my adult life meant I looked elsewhere for that kind of nurturance. Discovering Hollis and Talk Talk was, and continues to be, a reminder of what happens when you pause, listen, and allow nature to fulfill its improbable destiny.

And that’s how I want to start the day, with intention and allowance.

Hollis’ investments lingering in my ears, holding space in my mind, accruing interest in my heart.