As soon as David Lynch speaks his voice is instantly familiar. It coaxes in a strange but alluring tone, very precise and sharp, crisp and clean, like his tightly buttoned-up white shirt. He speaks fervently with vigour and warmth, a perhaps contrary image one might expect for someone pushing 70 years of age.
“It’s just interviews but every day is exciting,” he tells me when I enquire if he’s doing anything exciting today.
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‘The Big Dream’ packs weight as a title, too. It’s singular but infinite in its possibilities, and it is of course suitably – even perfectly – Lynchian in its construct. “Night time dreams are not so important for feeling in my work,” he tells me, “but I love dream logic and dream logic is something that thrills me and I like to daydream. I like to just sit in a chair and daydream.” Lynch once elaborated: “The world is getting louder every year, but to sit and dream is a beautiful thing.”
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‘The Big Dream’ charges simultaneously with momentum and stillness; a chugging, propulsive force accelerates the album but engulfing the drive is a nocturnal, quiet calm. Like hurtling down a road in the black of night, the speed and the silence blend into one. “I agree with you,” he says. “I think everybody loves moving forward and especially driving music. As soon as you can picture flying down a highway because of the music, it’s a very good feeling and that’s something that I really love. I love highways, I love driving and the freedom of the open road and moving from one place to another. I think it is a thrilling thing for human beings”. One only has to watch the opening and closing scenes of Lynch’s Lost Highway, or take a winding trip up to the eerie ambiance of Mulholland Drive (where we met and shot Lynch in his home for this feature) to get a semblance of such a vision.
Lynch has now been at the helm of the industry mechanics for film, TV, art and music, but finds no particular one more comfy or insidious. “They’re all super comfortable,” he’s says gently. “The people at Sunday Best [Lynch’s record label] are solid gold and I’m mainly working with the French in terms of cinema, and they believe in the auteur thing and freedom and support and enthusiasm, so I’ve been very very lucky. You know, the number one thing is the work. I always say you should enjoy the doing of a thing and so all the mediums are very, very beautiful to me and I love each one of them and I love working in it.”
Lynch offers some insights into the mentality of some predatory behaviour in the music industry, saying: “It seems to me that everybody that does something should have that freedom. Why would they do it if someone could take it away or change it?… It seems like if a record company is interested in a person it’s because they’ve heard them and they see promise for money and it seems to me to be common sense to let that person do what they do in freedom and not try to make it something that will just make money. It seems like it would kill the person. I think the rule should be: never turn down a good idea but never take a bad idea.” Lynch goes on to joke: “Now, your middle name is Dylan so you have to be in the music business! You’ve got your name Daniel and I was writing this down: Daniel Lanois, Bob Dylan and Ray Charles. A very musical name!”
“Or maybe Link Wray?” I retort.
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“There you go, you’ve got it!”
Getting over the bemusement that David Lynch has been sat around his L.A home writing my name on bits of paper, we move onto the subject of one of those names: Bob Dylan, who Lynch has covered on his latest album.
“Big Dean Hurley drew me to that song and he said, ‘you should think about doing this’ and we did it.”
The song in question is the 1964 poverty and murder folksong ‘The Ballad of Hollis Brown’. “It was guided by a Nina Simone version,” Lynch informs me. “I really like the song, it’s a great story. A very sad, tragic story, but unfortunately it’s really relevant today.” Unable to take the agonising pain of watching his family starve in front of his eyes, the song’s protagonist spends “your last lone dollar on seven shotgun shells”, leading to the tragic outcome, “Seven shots ring out like the ocean’s pounding roar/There’s seven people dead on a South Dakota farm.”
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