Phoenix Returns to the Music Scene with Alpha Zulu
Thomas Mars and Christian Mazzalai of French indie pop band Phoenix dive into their creative process as they prepare for the release of Alpha Zulu: "We write for the four of us, and if we like it, we hope others like it too."
Photography Shervin Lainez
With their upcoming album Alpha Zulu, Phoenix resumes their place within the center of the musical conversations of which they have played an essential part for 25 years. With various homages to their music—remixes by the likes of A-Trak and Blood Orange—and features on the soundtracks of films such as Lost in Translation, the band’s influence on 21st century culture is substantial, manifesting itself in admiration from both fans and fellow artists.
On their seventh studio album, Phoenix reflects on the changes that the world has undergone in the past two years, and asks the question of how to hold on during moments of crisis and personal tragedy. Now, ahead of Alpha Zulu’s November release, the band speaks with L’OFFICIEL about their roots, returning from isolation, and recording the album in a Paris art museum.
L’OFFICIEL: When do you decide if a song is finished?
THOMAS MARS: When we are exhausted. If we continued to tweak it, disgust would take over. When we feel that we have tried all possible combinations, and that the final version is the one that betrays the original spirit the least.
L’O: Do you tend to add more or take away?
CHRISTIAN MAZZALAI: On this album, we subtracted—this is one of the key words of the album.
TM: It’s more minimal, according to the principle of “negative space,” to use a formula by Philippe Zdar [our late collaborator, who co-produced Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix]. If one of us doesn’t like something, we’ve learned to be patient. For example, on the song “Rome,” we were stalling, but in the end Deck [d’Arcy] and Chris found something in the chorus that unlocked it.
L’O: Do some songs come from sketches that have been abandoned over the years?
CM: Yes. For example, on this record, “After Midnight” comes from a song we started nine years ago. This is the first time that we have revisited a piece that old, which gives us hope for the future! We’ve been very productive during these recordings. But you always get to just 10 songs…
TM: We’re fantasizing about making an album with 11 songs!
L’O: You recorded this album at Paris Musée des Arts Décoratifs. What was that like?
CM: Being isolated around works of art was a unique experience. Walking from one end of the wing to the other would take a good 10 minutes.
TM: It was crazy to have the key. Especially crazy as we grew up in Versailles. We lived in an open-air museum; it was beautiful, but it was hard to create there. It was complicated to make things move; to disturb the past and the established order. Our studio space at the museum was sometimes a holding space for works, so the art there wouldn’t be presented in an orderly way.
CM: We could have works sitting around from François Xavier Lalanne, for example, like “Hippopotame!” We took very good care of everything.
"When we saw the word come out of its pause, the music came."
L’O: There is an analogy between what this museum presents, with a diverse collection of works, and your music, which is also nourished by wide-spanning inspirations.
TM: The trip to the studio was a bit like what was happening in our brains in terms of sampling and approaches. You could really see everything on the way. The last work we saw when arriving at the studio and the first one we saw when we left was Napoleon’s throne—the version where the eagles had been removed and replaced with acorns. Passing by artworks every day makes you start to have favorites, and that’s kind of what was going on with our songs. As Christian said, we had to remove what was less essential.
L’O: Has your creative process changed over the years?
CM: On this album, with our drummer stuck in New York and no sound engineer, we did everything ourselves. It felt a bit like the first album.
TM: We were also excited to be together again. It had been nine months since we’d last seen each other, because of the lockdown. Up until then, we’d seen each other at least every couple of weeks since we were 16. We felt like teens again—the excitement around making music felt the same as it was then. At first, we didn’t have too much inspiration; we didn’t know when the disquiet would be, when we could play on stage. But when we saw the world come out of its pause, the music came.
CM: Yes, and very quickly, with many first tries that we kept for final versions. We wanted to maintain the candid aspects of the first draft.
L’O: Once you’re in the studio, do you isolate yourselves?
CM: We’re in an almost airtight bubble, working for 14 hours a day and sleeping the rest of the time.
TM: When we went home, listening to music was almost impossible. On the other hand, watching movies felt like taking a shower.
L’O: On average, four years pass between your albums. Have you ever been tempted to do solo projects?
TM: No. Maybe for friends, but rarely and under another name. For example, the song I did under the name “Gordon Tracks” with Air for the soundtrack of The Virgin Suicides.
CM: It’s a pact between us.
L’O: There’s never been so much free music available. How do you distinguish yourselves?
CM: We don’t ask ourselves that question. We write for the four of us, and if we like it, we hope others like it too.
TM: I think there are more than 40,000 songs being released every day on various platforms. You shouldn’t think about it when you’re creating. I try to impress my colleagues, and I think it’s the same for them.
L’O: Do you dream of music?
TM: In the sense that Paul McCartney dreamed of the melody for “Yesterday,” no. It’s much more stressful than that.
CM: But we do have the same nightmares; for example, we can’t find our way to the stage, or we play the same songs...
TM: Or I don’t recognize any part of the setlist. When you’re live and all the sound stops...we’ve experienced the same traumas.
CM: We did the Winter Solstice album when Thomas was stuck in the United States for several months. We sent him a loop of music, without beginning or end, on which he placed his voice and lyrics; a bit like a reverie.