«What’s the name of your band?»
You probably haven't heard of it.
“Well, what is it?”
It’s, um, just me. It’s my name!
«Ok. What’s your name?»
Eh… Sondre Lerche.
«What kind of a strange name is that?»
I’ve had multiple variations of this conversation since I was in my late teens. Especially in America, where the idea of a band called Sondre Lerche seemed even more preposterous than anywhere else. Which is fair, cause I’m not a band.
Whenever I gain insights into the complicated inner-lives of some of my colleagues who are in proper bands — some of them highly successful one way or the other — I usually feel quite thankful that I am not in a band. All I ever wanted to be was a highly autonomous artist on my own terms. I’ve built a life around this desire to create and communicate music that feels urgent and crucial to who I am.
However, I’m left with one major takeaway from revisiting the Two Way Monologue album recently, while at the same time being in the midts of writing and recording new music: profound gratitude that none of these experiences have — or would have — occurred if I were entirely on my own. Like Zach Efron’s character in the instant classic Netflix turkey A Family Affair, I too have grown accepting of the fact that I am no island. So while I continue my deeply individualistic lifelong endeavor, I count myself extremely fortunate in that I get to share it with my musicians, producers and several more who contribute immensely to fulfilling the scope of my ambitions along the way.
In that sense I suppose I get the best of both worlds. Cause it still seems quite wild and impossible to me that some adults are in an actual band over the course of a lifetime. Rock bands, especially, look more and more peculiar, the older (and bigger) they get. I often look at photos of middle aged men in bands and marvel at the strange unions they form, years on from what originally drove them together as young adults. To be universally and forever attached to a shared identity like that, to me, would seem claustrophobic. I don’t know how they do it, I’m just grateful I still get to do what I do the way I want to do it.
Today I had a great first meet over Zoom with Beth Meyers, the woman in charge of creating string quartet arrangements for the extra special Two Way Monologue dates in New York, Chicago, Los Angeles and London this fall and December. The thought of bringing some of the less-played songs back to life and maybe even reinventing a few of them on stage is exciting. Thankfully, this is the kind of work I can outsource to trusted professionals, rather than sit with it all alone. It would easily feel as if going backwards in time to repossess my old self, alone in a room. I need to be writing the new songs!
Developing a shared language through collaboration takes a lot of time and dedication. I’ve felt highly blessed many times over because I’ve had so many beautiful collaborations. And the most joyful ones go on and on to this day. Those relationships and, by extension, the language we develop, are the most valuable tools I have at my disposal to most efficiently get to where I hope to go with the songs I write at any given time. This also requires that the people I work with are willing always reassess where I’m at whenever we start something new, and that they are curious and open to find out where we’re going this time around. These are not skills that just anyone possesses. Trust me.
This is probably the main reason I’ve not felt compelled to constantly chase new producers or a new group of musicians for each new album I make. When I find my people I pray that I can keep them engaged and excited to stick around for the next one, and the next one and so forth. I’m not looking to lease someone else’s sound or vision. I am carving out my own, and I treasure the seemingly endless hours I spend alone with the prospect of a song, trying to conceive something that might be worth sharing with others. But in order to do so I will need a little bit of help from the friends who know where I’ve been, what more I might be capable of, and who wish to understand where I wanna go. As opposed to constantly having to retell my story from scratch to strangers. Collaborations that are strong and rewarding enough to develop over time allow me to explain myself less and less — while also becoming more and more hilarious as the archives of silly references expands along with the body of work.
And quite contrary to what I get the sense that some tend to think, I feel a lot freer and bolder in collaboration with those that know me well.
I write this having recently been reminded by the Two Way Monologue 20th Anniversary remaster that there’s plenty of reason to be thankful that I still get to work with some of the great talents that made that old record so special.
Kato Ådland was my guitar player at the time, but he stepped up during the early phase of demoing the TWM songs, as both bandleader, engineer and arranger. I think he could tell I was in the process of biting over a little more than I could chew with some of the songs I was writing and trying to write, and he really took the time to encourage me and help bridge the gap between my ambition and my abilities. We’ve worked together ever since, and he’s produced and recorded some of my most meaningful songs, including Bad Law, Dead Of The Night, Soft Feelings, I Can’t See Myself Without You, Magnitude Of Love, and so forth. We were just in the studio again last month, recording new songs. And they sound like nothing we’ve ever done before.
The co-producer/mixer on TWM, Jørgen Trœen, was instrumental in mixing and mastering Avatars Of Love. He also mastered Pleasure and Patience, and also produced Duper Sessions back in the day. A wizard!
The string arranger Sean O’Hagan from one of my favorite ever bands, The High Llamas, worked on both Faces Down, Two Way Monologue, Heartbeat Radio and Avatars Of Love. Last month we ran into each other at Lyse Netter, a fantastic music and arts festival in Moss, a little outside Oslo, and got to perform together. I am now the age Sean was when we first met. Longterm and long distance relationships like these constantly stretch my sense of time and perspective. It’s wild and beautiful.
Another wild thing that just occurred to me: on the opening track of Two Way Monologue — the instrumental Love You, which picks up the same chord sequence and riff that Faces Down had faded out with — there’s background chatter and ambiance that I recorded at Logen Bar in Bergen on March 30th, 2003. I remember I was briefly home between tours to finish the album, and we were all going out after a session to watch some friends play at a local bar. That night I heard a young singer/songwriter by the name of Matias Téllez for the first time. He was barely 14 years old, and he blew us all away with his fearless musicianship and bold sensitivity. Less than ten years later our paths had crossed again, via his tremendous project Young Dreams and a European tour we did together, and we found ourselves in his recording studio recording the song Sentimentalist, which he produced, along with a bunch of other tracks on the Please album. We’ve worked together ever since, and had a fantastic time last month recording some hot new songs with my drummer Dave and keyboardist Alexander, who were, typically, on fire.
As for my band; Dave, Alexander and Chris, who plays the bass, I hope that we will be able to take super hot band photos and play music together when we are twice the age we are now, even though I’ll always be a solo artist with a complicated name, blessed with a ferocious band of friends. With ever more new songs to tell our stories, and renewed joy and inspiration in revisiting some of the old ones that we can’t help remembering.
I’ll be seeing you!
With love,
SL
We’re gonna live forever!
Thank you for sharing insight into the man/band behind the music I’ve been enjoying for decades. See you in Chicago!