Neil Hannon, singer/songwriter
Having made two albums with a chamber vibe, I was thinking, “Where do I go from here?” I started hearing your Suedes and Saint Etiennes, and Blur were referencing stuff from the 60s and 70s too. I could see the way the wind was blowing. That sounds quite knowing, but I already loved John Barry, the Kinks, Adam Faith and, of course, Scott Walker.
I’d come up with a very eurocentric chord sequence, not the type you get in rock’n’roll, almost slightly Pet Shop Boys. Watching the 1995 adaptation of Cold Comfort Farm, I noticed that the grandmother’s repeated line, “There’s something in the woodshed,” scanned with the tune I was writing.
The conversation between the woman in the song and the would-be Lothario evolved from that line. Of course, the guy gets his comeuppance, because that’s how my mind works. He goes down to the woodshed and the woman’s heavies assault and rob him. It was all a ruse.
I returned to my favourite galloping snare drum groove, which had worked well on the last song of the previous album. That had been inspired by a documentary featuring Eurovision songs from the 60s, which included a clip of France Gall singing Poupée de Cire, Poupée de Son for Luxembourg. I thought, “That’s the best sound I’ve ever heard!” In those days it was harder to find a song again so I was working from memory. The engineer, Darren Allison, played the drum part and I had to fit everything else over the top as tightly as I could.
One of the studios had a Hammond organ, which became the driving force on Weekend. When I said the track needed some giggling at the start, a young fellow working at Setanta said, “I’ll get my sister to bring a friend.” I put them in a little booth and they started giggling out of nervousness. Me doing that sort of Terry-Thomas voice was recorded separately. I skip that when we perform the song live these days – I’m in my mid-50s, it would be creepy.
There hadn’t been any money for Divine Comedy singles before, but Keith Cullen, head of Setanta, knew that not promoting this song would be cutting off his nose to spite his face. We made a video in Venice. It was the first time I ate tiramisu. I thought, “My God, I’m living the life now!” They hired a statuesque Italian model to hang around with me, looking cool, but she was a foot taller than me. In the shots where you see us side by side on a boat, I was standing on a box.
Chris Evans said something on his Radio 1 breakfast show about having been blown away by a song he’d heard at a friend’s house, by Divine something-or-other. My plugger, listening in the shower, battled travel chaos as he rushed to get a copy to the studio. He handed it in about 10 minutes before the show ended, and Chris played it twice.
I was in a cab while doing promo in Paris when I heard we’d made number 14 on the UK charts. I don’t think I’ve ever been more excited. Super Furry Animals had an album out with a song of the same name. They changed it to Something 4 the Weekend when they released it as a single a fortnight after ours, but their singer Gruff Rhys later gave me a Robin Sarstedt LP he’d found in a charity shop that proved someone had beaten us both to the title by decades.
Joby Talbot, orchestrator
A friend had been playing cello with Neil, who asked him if he knew anyone who played oboe and piano. I remember meeting him and thinking, “Wow, he’s wearing eye makeup! What a rock and roll thing to do.” It turned out he had two black eyes after being punched in the face by a French journalist.
For the Casanova album, Neil made demos on a four-track recorder. I’d take manuscript paper to whichever squalid garret he was sleeping on the sofa at and notate each part, so we could go into a studio and record it. We’d get a couple of days here, a couple there, and would be begging for more time as we bounced from one studio to another – it was a ludicrous way to make a record.
I really just scored what Neil had demoed and tarted it up a bit. I conducted the strings, but I’m there in spirit more than performance, though I was one of the people who gathered round a mic to record the “Aaaaah-whooooo!” that leads into each verse.
At the time, I was studying composition at the Guildhall and many people who played on the record were friends from there – the touring band was put together later. Robin Smith, who I got in to play the trumpet leading into the first verse, did take after take – his lips were turning blue. Eventually he said, “Look, I’ve been here for hours, I think I’m done.” Neil piped up over the headphones, “There’s another 20 quid in it if you can hit that high note,” which seemed to give him the impetus he needed. I guess that’s a lesson in how to deal with brass players.
We were touring medium-sized venues in the French provinces when we got the call to appear on that week’s TFI Friday. We had to postpone three gigs, whiz back to London, grab a shower and rush to the soundcheck, having found a trumpeter, string players and someone to hit the tubular bells at short notice.
I remember Neil being taken aside beforehand and given a pep talk by two girls from the record company: “Don’t mess this up.” His face was even greyer than usual. We managed one rehearsal, then there we were on live national TV. That changed everything. Until then, we couldn’t get arrested in the UK but we went straight back on tour and were being booked for every festival going.
