Incubus’ rise in the late 1990s found them lumped in with nu metal. But as Metal Hammer discovered when we met up with Brandon Boyd and co in their native LA shortly after the release of 2001’s Morning View album, it was a scene that were at great pains to distance themselves from.
“We don’t want to be part of anyone’s bullshit little scene,” spits Mike Einziger, guitarist of SoCal heroes Incubus. “I’ve been quoted on this before and you’re welcome to do it again, but the whole world of rap-metal is just pathetically ridiculous. It makes me wanna throw up. It’s a horrible place to be and we’ve turned our backs on it completely.”
Gazing out of the window from a plush tour bus on a buzzing Los Angeles highway on the way to a sold‑out venue, with two million and counting copies of his band’s previous album under his belt he can say this safe in the knowledge that he already has it made.
It’s a suitably mild November Friday afternoon in California and Mike and his bandmates are preparing for the final three dates of a lengthy West Coast tour in support of their recently unleashed album, Morning View. Incubus’s fourth long-play release and follow-up to breakthrough third album – ’99s Make Yourself – not only fortifies their vocation as the sensitive metal alternative to acts such as Limp Bizkit, Slipknot and Korn, but allows them as artists to stand completely on their own ground.
Harbingers of new 21st-century optimism (being angry is so last year), not least in light of recent worldwide events, the uplifting sentiment of Incubus has really struck a chord. Could this be the end of teenage angst in music? Try a smile for size. Don’t worry – a change will do you good.
It’s a slick and suited chauffeur named Pedro who picks up Hammer en route to meet the band. He’s had Lenny Kravitz, among other luminaries, in the back of his limousine recently, so today must be a defining moment in his career as he gets to ship a lowly jet-lagged English music hack to a remote car park in Calabasas.
A small suburban LA community near Malibu, said town is where Mike and three fellow Incubus cohorts– Brandon Boyd (vocals), Dirk Lance (bass) and Jose Pasillas (drums) – attended high school together. It also happens to be where Hammer joins the quintet for a bus ride along the West Coast to Santa Barbara’s UCSB Events Center, the venue for the evening’s show.
“They sure are good kids – I hope I’ll get to go out on the road with them next year,” raves Bobby, the band’s bearded bus driver. An amiable Father Christmas doppelgänger who only once parted company prematurely with a band (that’ll be Motörhead – incessant alcohol-induced chundering on a new bus eventually tried the old fella’s patience), he’s the first to confirm that yes, the rumours are true. Incubus, bless their little cotton socks, are the nicest sorts in rock.
But bassist Dirk Lance (real name Alex Katunich), the first band member to arrive, won’t hear of such allegations. Proud of his “cruel streak” and self-appointed role of counteracting the beautiful, positive energy in the band, he retreats straight to his bunk for 40 winks. (Fair enough, it is 2.30 in the afternoon after all.) Sarcastic and moody (during the Hammer photo shoot later that day, he turns Incredible Hulk on his bandmates for “fucking around”) yet impressively intelligent (Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov has been recent bedtime reading), he’s more akin with the concept of irony than being American usually allows.
Next to arrive are the terrible twosome: drummer Jose and resident turntablist DJ Chris Kilmore, the latter having joined the band in ’97 following the departure of original member DJ Lyfe. Jose – who can pull off wearing a sideways cap without looking like a complete chump, and brandishing a permanent shit-eating grin like a cat who’s got the cream – brings a necessary dose of impudence to Incubus. He even goes so far as to tell Erika, the MTV camerawoman shadowing the band’s every move for a forthcoming video diary, that he is in fact the backbone of the group.
“What can I say?” he shrugs. ‘I am Incubus. Without me there is no band. I have to stay for the sake of the other guys because they’d all be out of a job and I couldn’t have that on my conscience.”
Conclusive proof, then, that drummers should be seen and not heard.
Competing for how many close-up shots of eating with his mouth open he can hog, googly-eyed Kilmore is the Buddha of the band, telling MTV in his best Barry White brogue that the cameras need to be switched off if he’s “getting busy with a girlie girlie”. Imperturbable and soft-spoken, he’s so laid-back he’s horizontal – until, that is, Jose drops a bomb. “I have pictures of you when you’re asleep. Naked,” the drummer taunts.
It doesn’t matter how mellow your mojo is – when someone claims to be harbouring a pic of your meat and two veg, it’s time to lose your cool.
Amid the calamity enters Mike Einziger. Diminutive, instantly likeable but at times distant, he bears all the hallmarks of one of the finest musicians of an era. Finally it’s frontman Brandon Boyd, who flies in fashionably late. His good-natured sensitive New Age guy appeal and hippyish good looks set him apart from the proprietors of testosterone rock. And his charisma is overwhelming.
The son of a 70s model/actor (his father’s appearance in a Julio Iglesias video is a source of much pride for Boyd Jr) and a spiritual mother (she’s currently writing a book about her remembrance of her past incarnations – her metaphysical pursuit having rubbed off on a yoga-loving Brandon), he speaks thoughtfully and more often than not philosophically.
Though desperately trying to escape the resident heart-throb image (not even the orange tank top he’s wearing is likely to affect his pin-up appeal), he seems well adjusted to the fame game and remains humble. “Incubus selling out Wembley Arena – that’s the coolest thing I’ve ever heard,” he smiles, sweeping back his floppy mop.
“It’s spectacular, in fact, seeing we never had a radio hit in Britain or any real television coverage. To sell out a venue like that through bona fide hard work, the grass-roots motion of touring and popularity by word of mouth has gotta be the coolest way to do things – it’s certainly the most gratifying.”
Jose is somewhat less modest on the matter. “We’ve been together over 10 years now. We’re not the overnight success that people think – we’ve worked out asses off.”
However, Jose is less defensive about the suggestion that Incubus are the ‘Backstreet Boys of rock’. “Hey – we’re a good looking band, one of us in particular,” he says preening his eyebrows, presumably referring to himself. “Yeah – that’s right, we’re a boy band and proud of it.”
Brandon opts for the more astute answer. “To be honest, I don’t care,” he shrugs. “I don’t mind being called pop music because we’re very self-aware of what we are. We’re secure enough in ourselves as musicians; we write out own music. We don’t cater our music for the radio or TV to the popular demographic as it were.”
Being put in the pop bracket is one thing but nu metal? Despite stints on both the Ozzfest and Family Values tours, and emerging from a scene that harvested many of nu metal’s top rankers, this is how to get Incubus’s backs up.
“The term nu metal is ridiculous in itself – we were even called that at a time and secretly it always made us cringe,” says Brandon. “We never identified with anyone in that particular scene. The whole business of being angry at the world has been so overplayed, so to be called the antidote to that is right on.
“To an extent I agree with Mike – music is in a shit state. Take Korn as an analogy. It happens in all genres. There’s some really good stuff that dominates for a second, then you get a whole bunch of imitators who trivialise the original idea. But then if you look to the underground there’s a whole heap of great new ideas that come out as a backlash. But now we’re in dire need of a backlash.”
So they’re not pop, they’re not metal – hell, how would Incubus like to be perceived? “Perception is a very fickle thing and it’s a fascinating thing as well because it’s constantly shifting,” philosophises Brandon. “But if I could control it, I would want us to be perceived as neophytes, which is the opposite of a neophobe – a neophobe being someone who is afraid of change and a neophyte embraces change and is into ideas that are changing and evolving. I like to think of us as a band that’s on the move. Hopefully people will see us as a living example that anyone can pursue the things that really excite them.
“When we formed as kids, we didn’t know how to play our instruments, but we stuck to our guns, we persevered and it’s continued to reward us in many different ways. People have the tendency to underestimate themselves – but as human beings, we have the potential to do anything we want. Fly, transcend, levitate… At the end of the day, we just make music that makes us happy, and I know at heart we are all nice guys too. But we have bad days – I mean, I can be a dick. Stick around, you’ll see it.”
He doesn’t have us fooled for a second, though. “No, really – if this tour lasts much longer I’ll turn into a complete dick.”
Mike, on what turns into a desperate campaign to convince Hammer that Brandon can indeed be a dick, offers his two-penneth worth. “I swear if for one week you don’t give him coffee for breakfast in the morning, he’ll turn into the biggest dick you ever saw. You’ll see his bad side.”
But although the other band members deny him ever acting vindictively (“Fucking liars!” Brandon chides), it’s the frontman who’s proud to recall a ‘vengeful’ incident from his school days.
“When I was very young and I rode on the school bus, there was this older girl who used to just pick on me, literally just eat at me, and I never knew why. So eventually I started picking on her back,” he titters mischievously. “And one day, I was like, ‘You know what? That’s it!’ and I wrote her a letter that said, ‘I think I love you – you have the nicest boobies in fifth grade and I wanna marry you’ – being a jerk, a smart-ass kinda thing. And the next day I was called into the principal’s office and he read it back to me, and I was so embarrassed.”
It’s a sorry attempt to prove us wrong, and Brandon knows it. “I’d like to sleep with six women at the same time but it would never happen,” he offers in a last-ditch attempt to sabotage the band’s holier-than-thou facade.
“Oh, I’m sure we might be able to find six girls who’ll comply,” deadpans Mike, rolling his eyes to the heavens.
“We met Cindy Crawford last night and she kissed me on the cheek,” the guitarist continues. “I was stoked about that. I turned around and she just started talking to me.”
Brandon recollects the meeting somewhat differently. “Dream on – she had eyes for me. I was like, ‘Cindy – I know we’ve only just met each other, but I think we’re at a point in our relationship where you should move into my place.’ Then security wrestle me to the floor. Anyway, I don’t really want to sleep with six women… I wanna sleep with 10 women!” he guffaws.
“You wanna be careful what you wish for too,” warns Mike. “But yeah, you should go for the bad boy image now – like totally.”
Concerned that he may have tarnished his reputation, Brandon backtracks. “I grew up watching Superman movies and reading books with my parents which all say you shouldn’t use your powers for evil because that would make you the bad guy,” he grins wryly. “Although I root for the bad guy sometimes in movies, I think that people should never use their gifts for anything other than good. There are particular ways you can do that, whether they be sexual conquests, your opportunity to ingest substances that will take you away from the world… I’m more interested in developing my powers so they will benefit mankind.”
Any attempts to incite a reaction from the band are duly abandoned, as they claim they’re indifferent to such endeavours. “We don’t take ourselves seriously enough that would warrant a journalist getting nasty with us,” Mike explains flippantly. “German journalists, for instance, try and get weird with us and one even sat down and was like, ‘So how does it feel to be a Faith No More rip-off band?’ and we just said, ‘Great!’ That was the answer – ‘Great!’”
Predictably, intrusive personal questions are out of bounds, with Mike in particular, who veers purposefully away from questions about a car crash in which he was seriously injured at the age of 14, leaving one of his best friends dead.
Though the uplifting nature and often euphoric mood of Incubus’s music would have us believe that life in the band is all hearts and flowers, this hasn’t always been the case. Tension was even running so high during the recording of breakthrough album Make Yourself that in true Smashing Pumpkins form, the band resorted to group therapy.
“Making music is the five of us making love – in a platonic sense, of course,” Brandon reveals. “It’s funny, the therapist didn’t really talk that much – I think it was just the idea that there was someone there to mediate and it was mostly us just talking, which was pretty damn stupid because we could’ve done that without paying this guy.
“It did a lot of good for the band in the end though, as far as being able to really communicate with each other. It gets difficult when one of us gets under the weather, but we all realise that we get to go out and make music for ourselves and each other and circumvent the banality of normal everyday life on a nightly basis. But do you know what?” he ponders. “I don’t think anyone’s ever asked me if I’m happy.
Well, put us out of our misery…
“Thanks for asking. For the most part I am, yeah. People always dance around the question about whether they’re being fulfilled with the path they’ve chosen in any profession – especially music. I read in so many interviews that bands are tormented, that they’ve retreated to drugs and shady women to quell that torment. Maybe I’m young and naïve, but I think we all pursued this because it made us happy. It’s not always peachy, but how on earth can we complain?
“Besides, I think it’s kind of ridiculous when bands focus on the ‘Woe is me – how hard my life is in a band,’ and, ‘Which T-shirt should I wear today to look cool?’ or, ‘There’s no beer in my dressing room…’ The ‘woes’ of being in a rock band. It is a difficult job to have, but it’s still in my opinion the most fulfilling job I know.”
Blissfully unaware of the current line of conversation, Mike bounds back to the front section of the bus, “I’m going to explode! I’m wounded… I’m wounded,” disparagingly flattening his impressively bouffant Afro, much to Brandon’s amusement. The timing is perfect. “Playing shows in LA is really hectic. I feel like a puppet,” he sighs. “Plus I’m having a really bad hair day.”
Mike has come to take refuge from unsavoury events at the back of the bus. With him he brings the news that there’s a “cornhole-kissing contest” going on at the moment. If Kilmore wins the task, then the band’s tour manager Adam has to kiss his butt right on the hole. Nice.
Arriving at their destination, the band’s tour bus is greeted by a throng of rabid fans. It would appear that because of this unexpected turnout, a planned photo shoot by Hammer snapper Mick Hutson at the back of the venue, which would capture the band against a breathtaking backdrop of the Santa Barbara sky, has been shelved on the band’s personal request for fear of their safety. A brief moment of prima donna self-importance or genuine safety fears? The jury’s still out. A pungent yellow locker room is the other option.
“Wouldn’t it be great if you could capture the putrid smell of this place? How about Hammer’s first scratch’n’sniff cover?” says Brandon.
“Maybe they can capture this,” announces Jose before breaking wind loudly.
Visibly relieved the photo session is over and readying themselves for the night’s show, the band do admit to not being entirely comfortable with the much-coveted rock-star roles, citing anonymity, if they had the chance, as a preference. The little fibbers.
“I go back and forth on that one every once in a while,” admits Brandon. “I’m alright with it right now. Fame does have its drawbacks, but it would be lovely to be the new Pink Floyd of the world, where you could turn into that faceless band who continue to make music. To me, that would be the ideal because then we could concentrate solely on the music. But maybe I’m being naïve.”
Maybe, but as the size of the swelling crowd out front attests, there’s no turning back now.
It’s a special night for Dirk. “I went to college here,” the bassist reminisces of the venue’s significance. “But I dropped out to be in the band.”
Mike – who also reluctantly bypassed further education for the love of music – recalls a time when the band was in limbo. “There was a show following us around at the time called Hollywood Lives, documenting young artists/musicians/actors struggling in LA,” he says.
“It was actually quite an interesting show,” continues Brandon, “but we were all like 17 years old, right out of high school, and they made out the drama of our band as [distressed urgent voice] ‘The guys might be going to college – but will the band stay together?’” He sniggers. “There were shots of me on the beach in Santa Barbara, all introspective, sad music in the background.”
And who has had the last laugh? Mike recalls, “They interviewed all these pseudo record executives who had no affiliation with the band whatsoever and they were like, ‘Incubus? Those guys are never gonna make it.’ Well, look at us now.”
Originally published in Metal Hammer in January 2002