My youngest brother is a famous rockstar. I used to worry about him, but now I feel so proud
This story ends at the Royal Albert Hall in London in 2018. I stand alongside the rest of the sold-out arena, hitting the dry ice, roaring to the Lights during the sale at closed doors of Interpol. on the show, as my youngest brother, Daniel, crosses the stage cutting his guitar, vocalist Paul Banks leading the crowd. "That's why I care about you," we all sing, "that's why I care about you."
But that's not how it begins this story. It begins in 1985 in Paris, where I have just announced to my mother that I will not be joining her when she emigrates to Washington DC with my two brothers, Mark, 13, and Daniel, 10. I'm 16, soon to be 17. We moved from London four years ago for my dad's job, but my parents are getting divorced. I'm going back to London where, I tell mum, I'll become someone who listens to music professionally. Eventually I did, working as a staff on NME throughout the 90s.
Through much of our upbringing together, my brothers and I shared a room in a small flat in London, sleeping in bunk beds. Our relationship was inevitably close, but explosive. I often fought physically with Mark. Sweet, gentle Daniel was the peacemaker. His desire was for us all to get along, a need that became more acute when he became aware of our parents' separation.
The three of us had land agreement beyond the parents' drama, however. Above all, we shared a true religion: pop music. Music had been my obsession for as long as I can remember and that devotion descended from my top bunk, mesmerizing my brothers too. The youth culture of the early 1980s – the haircuts, the clothes – affected the three of us very much. When, as teenagers, we finally had our own bedrooms, the house echoed through three stereos.
After leaving the house, physical distancing meant we we only saw each other once a year, but the music maintained our bond, the shortcut we took for brotherly intimacy. We exchanged mix tapes, went shopping for records while browsing together. During one visit, I noticed that teenager Daniel wore a guitar around his neck at all times in my mother's apartment, repeatedly playing the same riffs. I had never had the attention span to learn an instrument, but Daniel's focus was constant.
One day in 2001, a package arrived from New York, where Daniel lived. The envelope contained a stack of demo CDs stamped with the name of a group: Interpol. My brother played guitar in that band, apparently, and he wanted me to hear them.
I knew that for a few years, after studying French and literature at NYU, he had been in a band, but I didn't envision him traveling across the ocean to me. I thought it was a hobby, that his career in independent record labels was his main goal, but this package undermined that assumption.
Our evangelism for the music continued separately into adulthood. As I became a music journalist, he interned at labels before landing full-time roles. He proved to be a shrewd operator. Recently, he had opened the American branch of the British label Domino from his apartment, so I was surprised by this demo. Wasn't he a young tycoon rather than a musician?
I realized then that I didn't know him well. I was too involved, too focused on my work and my life to wonder about his. It was just my little brother who got a great job in the music industry. I didn't know about his creative dream.
Nevertheless, these CDs seemed like an incursion into my field of music journalism. What would people in my company think of my brother's group? I hoped out of family loyalty that it would be brilliant, that Interpol would be a success, but I feared they wouldn't. And if it fell badly with the critics? What if people hated Interpol? Shamefully, I wondered if I was going to be judged by what anyone thought of my brother's music.
His note with the package asked me if I would listen to this demo, maybe pass it on to anyone who might be interested. Too nervous to give it much more than a cursory listen (sounds good I guess), I put the demos away for another day. That moment came when, in the summer of 2002, I found myself in the NME office. One afternoon, the reviews editor walked across the room holding a CD.
"I've got that Interpol EP," said- he proudly declared to the gallery. The ambient noise from the NME office died away as the room paused to listen in anticipation. This was the first official release for the latest hip New York name and the expectation of judgment was raised.
He pressed play. I immediately recognized my brother's guitar line. PDA, the first song from the demo Daniel sent me, a jagged cascade of melodies that unfolds rapidly in...
This story ends at the Royal Albert Hall in London in 2018. I stand alongside the rest of the sold-out arena, hitting the dry ice, roaring to the Lights during the sale at closed doors of Interpol. on the show, as my youngest brother, Daniel, crosses the stage cutting his guitar, vocalist Paul Banks leading the crowd. "That's why I care about you," we all sing, "that's why I care about you."
But that's not how it begins this story. It begins in 1985 in Paris, where I have just announced to my mother that I will not be joining her when she emigrates to Washington DC with my two brothers, Mark, 13, and Daniel, 10. I'm 16, soon to be 17. We moved from London four years ago for my dad's job, but my parents are getting divorced. I'm going back to London where, I tell mum, I'll become someone who listens to music professionally. Eventually I did, working as a staff on NME throughout the 90s.
Through much of our upbringing together, my brothers and I shared a room in a small flat in London, sleeping in bunk beds. Our relationship was inevitably close, but explosive. I often fought physically with Mark. Sweet, gentle Daniel was the peacemaker. His desire was for us all to get along, a need that became more acute when he became aware of our parents' separation.
The three of us had land agreement beyond the parents' drama, however. Above all, we shared a true religion: pop music. Music had been my obsession for as long as I can remember and that devotion descended from my top bunk, mesmerizing my brothers too. The youth culture of the early 1980s – the haircuts, the clothes – affected the three of us very much. When, as teenagers, we finally had our own bedrooms, the house echoed through three stereos.
After leaving the house, physical distancing meant we we only saw each other once a year, but the music maintained our bond, the shortcut we took for brotherly intimacy. We exchanged mix tapes, went shopping for records while browsing together. During one visit, I noticed that teenager Daniel wore a guitar around his neck at all times in my mother's apartment, repeatedly playing the same riffs. I had never had the attention span to learn an instrument, but Daniel's focus was constant.
One day in 2001, a package arrived from New York, where Daniel lived. The envelope contained a stack of demo CDs stamped with the name of a group: Interpol. My brother played guitar in that band, apparently, and he wanted me to hear them.
I knew that for a few years, after studying French and literature at NYU, he had been in a band, but I didn't envision him traveling across the ocean to me. I thought it was a hobby, that his career in independent record labels was his main goal, but this package undermined that assumption.
Our evangelism for the music continued separately into adulthood. As I became a music journalist, he interned at labels before landing full-time roles. He proved to be a shrewd operator. Recently, he had opened the American branch of the British label Domino from his apartment, so I was surprised by this demo. Wasn't he a young tycoon rather than a musician?
I realized then that I didn't know him well. I was too involved, too focused on my work and my life to wonder about his. It was just my little brother who got a great job in the music industry. I didn't know about his creative dream.
Nevertheless, these CDs seemed like an incursion into my field of music journalism. What would people in my company think of my brother's group? I hoped out of family loyalty that it would be brilliant, that Interpol would be a success, but I feared they wouldn't. And if it fell badly with the critics? What if people hated Interpol? Shamefully, I wondered if I was going to be judged by what anyone thought of my brother's music.
His note with the package asked me if I would listen to this demo, maybe pass it on to anyone who might be interested. Too nervous to give it much more than a cursory listen (sounds good I guess), I put the demos away for another day. That moment came when, in the summer of 2002, I found myself in the NME office. One afternoon, the reviews editor walked across the room holding a CD.
"I've got that Interpol EP," said- he proudly declared to the gallery. The ambient noise from the NME office died away as the room paused to listen in anticipation. This was the first official release for the latest hip New York name and the expectation of judgment was raised.
He pressed play. I immediately recognized my brother's guitar line. PDA, the first song from the demo Daniel sent me, a jagged cascade of melodies that unfolds rapidly in...
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