Silhouettes in a Fog: Andrew Wasylyk Interview

Andrew Wasylyk talks about reasonable daydreams, meeting migratory geese and the making of his intoxicating new LP for Clay Pipe Music

The music of Andrew Wasylyk has delighted Concrete Islands since the early days of the site, with The Paralian and Fugitive Light and Themes of Consolation both lovingly reviewed and making the upper echelons of successive albums of the year reports. I remember immediately feeling a deep connection to The Paralian when I listened to the promo at the end of 2018. Here I had encountered “a beautifully instinctive and naturally textured work of analogue ambient” which evoked the North Sea and thus drew out memories and visions of the corner of Scotland where I grew up. Follow-up Fugitive Light and Themes of Consolation pulled me further in, a dream-like album that conjured “the somnambulist passages of Vertigo where Jimmy Stewart follows Kim Novak through the streets of San Francisco to Bernard Herrmann’s mesmerising score.” It remains an experience to get lost in.

I’d suggested Wasylyk’s work is located in outsider waters populated by the likes of The Pastels and Clay Pipe Music, so it was a complete surprise that made all the sense in the world when the unheralded Clay Pipe promo CD of Balgay Hill: Morning in Magnolia arrived through my letterbox. Surely this was a meeting of artist and label that was destined to happen. Some sort of alchemy at least occurred, for Balgay Hill is an intoxicating work of psychogeographic tenderness and a powerful pastoral narcotic. It’s a world of sound rooted in a specific place that allows listeners to travel elsewhere in their consciousness.

I met Andrew Mitchell, the thoughtful Dundonian behind the Wasylyk moniker, after a daytime gig at the Union Chapel a couple of years ago, and although we had a pleasant chat, it’s taken a wee while longer to bring him into Concrete Islands for a full conversation. It was however well worth the wait.

Andrew Wasylyk Balgay Hill Morning in Magnolia

How are things with you?

Yo La Tengo are on the stereo, so all is well.

We were originally going to do an interview last year, but I basically ran out of time. Which is partly a result of time having less meaning during the pandemic, I think. Is this something you’ve found to be the case? Have you been more or less productive than you would have been under normal circumstances?

My memories of last year kind of feel a bit like silhouettes in a fog. The way time passed felt differently. I guess it was the absence of the usual markers, but the months seemed to simultaneously contract and stretch. I attempted to maintain some sense of routine, a comfort or compensation in newness I suppose. It wasn’t always easy to do. I’ve spoken to others who’ve shared the same disconcerting feeling about trying to conjure up creativity through this period though. A guilt almost. I can relate to that.

Where are you based at the moment and what’s happening there? Although I half imagine some remote location, that if revealed, might hint at a future project – so you don’t have to tell us!

Ha. I’m actually at an owl sanctuary in Brechin collecting material for a secret collaboration with Aphex Twin. Whatever you do, please don’t tell anyone. No, I’m in Dundee at the moment. Recently, I’ve been working on some new music to accompany Thomas Joshua Cooper / The World’s Edge exhibition, which has just opened at the Scottish National Portrait Gallery, Edinburgh. My pal, Pete Harvey has contributed some wonderful string arrangements to the pieces. An opportunity I’m grateful to have had, to play a small part in such a beautiful collection of photography. Beyond that, I’m currently writing some things for a theatre play. Which is new, exciting territory for me.

Your records feel really organic, but also utilise conceptual frameworks. It’s a fine balance, done so well, and I therefore wonder how you find and develop ideas? Do you start with a concept or is it much more nuanced than that?

That’s very kind, thank you. Each approach can vary. Having a concrete agenda’s great, but the rewards found in sculpting, tweaking, grinding an answer out can be useful too. Asking a question of yourself, as well as letting an external one in. For example, Balgay Hill: Morning in Magnolia arrived at a time when I wasn’t particularly intent on a new album. Balgay Park has been a source of solace for people in Dundee since opening in 1871 and I’m fortunate enough to live in the neighbourhood. Over the last year, early morning walks there quickly reaffirmed how important access to green spaces and public parks are for anyone living in cities. Perhaps the initial idea imposed itself on me, or at least left a door ajar. Field recordings made of ambiences in the park played an important role; birds in the canopies, dog walkers, joggers, the hum of a passing passengerless bus, or rain on the empty streets outside. Closing track, “The Morning of Magnolia Light” came from that sort of seed. Instrumentation was written to field recordings, tape loops and Mary Oliver reading her poem, “Wild Geese”. In the end, her estate couldn’t grant permission to use the sample but I love the idea that her fingerprint still exists on the song. In fact, a few days later, standing on top of Balgay Hill four migratory geese, separated from their skein, passed about 20 foot overhead. Scrabbling for my phone I managed to capture a few honks. I took the meeting as a sign and overlaid their chattering in the track as a nod and thank you to Mary.

A sense of place permeates your music. Is this what led you to work with Clay Pipe Music on Balgay Hill: Morning in Magnolia? It certainly feels like an artist/label match made in heaven. How did this meeting of minds occur?

My dear pal and crate digger Matthew Marra has been turning me on to wonderful and important records since we were sixteen year olds. He also introduced me to the world of Clay Pipe Music. I quickly became a fan and began buying their records. As an album of recreational meditations gradually came into focus the cheek to chap Clay Pipe’s door only grew stronger.

You’re very involved in the cover design and art/photography of your releases, right? What was the process of working with Frances Castle on Balgay Hill? Her cover illustration for your release is as evocative and gorgeous as ever – it must have been a thrill seeing the final product?

It really was. I generally become quite obsessive about album design and artwork, so there was a sense of relief in letting Clay Pipe handle that side this time around. I’m a big fan of Frances’ illustrations, so I had absolute confidence the work would be good, but the final design, the outer and inner sleeve exceeded all expectations. I’d sent Frances some photographs of the area, but it was still overwhelming seeing that sun hanging above Mills Observatory framed in Magnolia petals for the very first time. The beauty of collaboration!

Non-musical influences such as architecture, the visual arts and literature are apparent throughout your records. Could you talk a little about how you and your music relates to these other art forms? You even collaborated with poet Liz Lochhead. What was that like?

I’m no authority on things like architecture, landscape, visual art, literature (or music for that matter), but they’re incredible worlds and histories to get lost in. They’re from the same tap, I suppose. For me, if overlaps occur they’re often just the natural path to explore at the time. Working with Liz Lochhead on the Isle of Mull with Gordon Maclean on what would become our Still Life, Sweetheart EP [released via Blackford Hill] in early 2020 was a special experience and a really productive trip. At one point we were trapped by a storm and ferry cancellations, the next we’re driving through a Glencoe blizzard to get Liz home and organised for a flight. She flew to Australia and the world turned upside down. Such is her universal power! Liz is one of Thee Greats, a championship storyteller and an inspiration. I’m extremely fortunate to consider her a pal and to have shared that time with her.

Who are your musical influences? The likes of David Axelrod, Virginia Astley, The Pastels, Alice Coltrane and European new wave composers spring to mind as points of comparison at least.

I’m very fond of all those artists. In fact, I watched David Mackenzie’s The Last Great Wilderness while writing the LP and fell in love with The Pastels soundtrack to the film. My listening shifts and swings a lot, but as far as influences on BH:MIM goes, I’d say folk like Mikael Tariverdiev, Dorothy Ashby, Bernard Herrmann, Curtis Mayfield and Joanna Brouk were all playing a role in the back of my mind.

How important is jazz to your music? Is it within that context or thereabouts that you landed on Athens of the North?

Again, I was a fan of the records Athens of the North were putting out. At one point it seemed that the chances of The Paralian ever being released had slipped away, so I was shocked when AOTN replied saying they dug it and were up for putting it out. They were really supportive and the decision do the following LP with them was an easy one to make. Overall, I think jazz is relative, in that I listen to quite a lot of the genre. But, I’m not under any misconceptions that I’m a ‘jazz musician’. Similarly, I wouldn’t have the nerve to call myself some kind of classical player, though maybe there’s some ‘contemporary classical’ leanings here and there. That would be an insult to those dedicated to the pursuit of honing their technical craft. Besides, my music theory is very poor. I kind of exist at the back of the class, somewhere in the grey areas… where dusk meets doubt.

Considering you make mostly instrumental music, how vital is the mood that you create?

If mood is the sum of your arrangement and its timbre then, obviously, that can be important. Not that I’m saying more is better or anything. In the right hands, a well executed one-note drone has the ability to channel as much vibe or feeling as an orchestra. Equally, mood can play more of an instigator role. A frame for the listener’s reference point.

How would you describe your sound?

Given this is my fifth solo album you’d think I’d have some meticulous reply, but I still feel kind of unequipped to answering that question. Apologies. ‘Reasonable daydreams’?

You told me before that Balgay Hill is more understated than Fugitive Light and Themes of Consolation, at least in part due to the challenges presented by Covid. Could you talk about the ideas behind the album and how it was then made? Do you have any music-making rituals that had to be adapted for this record?

Yeah, trying to organise a group of musicians together to play this music was out of the question. That certainly impacted on the method. Also, unlike Fugitive Light and Themes of Consolation, much of the album started life on electric guitar. A consequence of initially not having access to my studio space and writing sketches at home on an 80s Stratocaster my uncle gave me on my 15th. Maybe it was relief at finally being back in the studio, or perhaps it was comfort in familiar methods, but I began responding to these ideas, alongside the field recordings collected, with piano, vibraphone, mellotron, an old Farfisa Syntorchestra and, in places, drum machine and bass guitar. Aside from myself, trumpeter Rachel Simpson and clàrsach player Seonaid Birse are the only other performers. Their contributions are really important, but were only able to happen further down the line. All those elements informed the thinking, feel and overall delivery.

You also said that Balgay “has been saviour and sanctuary” for you. Could you tell us more about this place you’ve described as a “pocket of Paris in Dundee”? The idea of a European and international Scotland is a powerful one.

I guess I was referencing the cloud of anxiety that’s been hanging over us and the relentless nature of the news. Like many, I definitely felt a dip in my mental health and Balgay was a nearby opportunity to escape that outside world for a while, to feel something else. To think, to not think, to just be. That routine soon grew into ritual, and among panoramic views across the Firth of Tay’s inner estuary, cherry blossom trees of the western necropolis, Mills Observatory nestled on top of the hill, other details were presenting themselves. Gifts almost. In the park’s winding pathways I discovered carvings on old sycamores of new love couples from 1910. That below the cast iron bridge lies a deep rocky gorge named The Windy Glack, which was once upon a time a route for smugglers in and out the city. I found out that the layout of the Victorian necropolis (where I have Ukrainian, German and Irish family interred) was inspired by the famous Parisian garden cemetery layout of Père Lachaise. It all fed into the daydream world I was dipping in and out of while trying to understand this new space between us all.

What do you hope listeners take away from hearing Balgay Hill? Your records may be rooted in specific places, yet they always have universal appeal. Do you consider how an evocation of a particular place by an artist can relate to someone else’s own experience elsewhere (I had such an experience listening to The Paralian)?

As a listener, I’ve certainly enjoyed those kinds of albums with a specific journey. There’s often a universal thread to absorb or unravel. I reckon there’s also probably a lot to be said for not pressurizing a listener into an idea too much, rather inviting them to share the experience. To leave enough room for dot joining can be a healthy reward. There’s unity in that.

Could you talk about your relationship with Monorail Music? You’ve done a series of lovely special editions with them and Stephen Pastel is an eloquent champion of your music.

There was a time when Groucho’s (sadly no longer with us) was the only record shop in Dundee. It meant the world to us and also provided the curiosity and, in many ways, the confidence for day trips to Glasgow and visits to Monorail Music. It was a big deal then, and still is now. It’s been a beautiful thing to watch how Monorail has grown over the years, particularly in the sense of community they channel. And, of course, the encouragement they provide lesser known artists and labels. In 2017, I sheepishly handed in a copy of Themes for Buildings and Spaces fully expecting to never hear from these busy people. To my surprise, soon afterwards Stephen Pastel got in touch saying they played it in the shop, really enjoyed listening and could they maybe stock the album. It sort of blew my mind, to be honest. To then go on to do a series of editions with them has meant so much and feeling a sense of pride in that collaboration is a really special thing. I’m grateful to Stephen, the shop and their incredible customers for the support since then. It’ll never be taken lightly. It’s brilliant seeing a shared ethos in the likes of Piccadilly, Assai, Friendly, Thirteen, Drift and Norman too. Every city council should provide record shops the time and opportunity to grow. They’re precious, and just might become tomorrow’s institutions.

You also play with Idlewild and produced Roddy Woomble’s latest solo album. I’m interested in how this intersects with your own music-making and whether you’re planning to produce more music by other artists.

I’d probably say I record, produce and mix my own music out of necessity, rather than some sort of big production ambition. My set-up’s very modest and my ability is limited, but I do enjoy the process. Working with Roddy was great. His lyrics explore interesting areas and it was lovely being able to experiment with arrangements and textures while putting that record together remotely. Scottish musicians Danny Grant and Luciano Rossi also made vital contributions. To be honest, not that I get many offers, but I still feel the pang of impostor syndrome when labelling myself a ‘producer’ and attaching it to other work that isn’t my own. That said, the principle of helping to create something with another artist and their songs does appeal to me and I’ll likely keep producing my own records until my head rolls off.

Have you got any live shows in front of real people on the horizon? That must be a strange but positive idea?

Yes, optimism on the horizon. Saturday 28th August I’m very lucky to be sharing a stage with an excellent group of humans at Edinburgh Fringe. An eight-piece, including brass, flute and strings, and accompanying visuals, performing material from my last three albums. Much of Balgay Hill: Morning in Magnolia too. Most of the tracks have never been played live before, so I’m really looking forward to being part of that with an audience. Everything crossed we can all safely continue with more live events with audiences this year and into 2022. These shared experiences are vital to our collective well being.

Thank you for having me, Concrete Islands.