Jon who?
The invisible Jon Brion writes pop songs, produces hits and -- oh yeah -- performs regulary
By Rachel Leibrock -- Bee Staff Writer
WEST HOLLYWOOD - You don't know Jon Brion.
Well, actually, you probably do, you just don't realize it.
To the mainstream, Brion is the Invisible Man of contemporary pop, better known for what he does for others than for his own songs. As a producer for artists such as Fiona Apple and Rufus Wainwright, he's received accolades for the pop sheen he gives to his projects. He's scored soundtracks for films: "Magnolia" (earning him a Grammy nomination) and this year's "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind."
Although soundtracks provide an apt metaphor for Brion - he seems to exist in the background - he's also a well-respected singer-songwriter who stages a one-man show every Friday at West Hollywood's Largo nightclub.
It's this weekly hours-long set - an eclectic mix for a cult following - that best illuminates his musical ethos.
"I'm very intrigued by creative things - there's plenty of mystery in music," says Brion, relaxing in his cramped, cluttered dressing room on a recent Friday night.
During his seven-year run at Largo, he's learned to tap his intuition and respect the art of the show.
"Even when I'm following whatever whims my subconscious has thrown at my hands, I'm still aware of the (audience)," Brion says of his "erratic, free-floating" set. "I always make sure everybody's still along for the ride."
Game theory
Jon Brion is seeking inspiration. Seated at Largo's piano, dark moppish hair falling in his eyes, he calls for an audience request. Suggestions fly through the air - everything from Cheap Trick to the Pixies.
Dressed in a plaid sports coat and mismatched pants, Brion finally perks up at a demand for "Electric Avenue," the cheesy '80s-era Eddie Grant tune.
But the rest of the audience is doubtful. "No!" yells a skeptic.
Brion looks up in disbelief, and a devilish smile spreads slowly across his pale, boyish face.
"Was that a no?" he asks.
Game on.
With his instruments hooked up to a tape machine, Brion quickly lays down a few keyboard notes and then jumps behind the drums to play some beats. With a skeletal melody thrashing about in the air, he dashes to the front of the stage and picks up his guitar. Smiling wickedly, he strums a few chords and starts singing Grant's tune with fevered flair.
The audience, packed into Largo's 120-capacity room, goes wild, and the rest of the evening's four-hour set continues on the same high note. Throughout the evening, Brion, occasionally aided by Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers keyboardist Benmont Tench, bounces between his own songs and covers - from Nirvana and Neil Young to a blues rendition of the Beatles' "Strawberry Fields Forever."
Such imaginative touches motivated Largo owner Mark Flanagan to ask Brion to do a weekly show.
"I knew he was versatile - whether he was doing his own songs or covers," says Flanagan, a friend of Brion's for more than a decade. "He's just a great entertainer."
Brion wasn't so sure.
"I said, 'C'mon man, that's the one night a week you can really make money for your club,' " he says.
Brion relented on the condition that he'd be taken off the calendar if he didn't fill seats.
The first weeks were slow but, thanks to word of mouth, the show started selling out and remains a hot ticket. Although Brion's infrequent habit of inviting famous guests onstage - Beck and Michael Stipe, to name two - has attracted curious star-seekers, Flanagan credits Brion for the show's appeal.
"He's just gotten better over the years," Flanagan says. "He started out being much more withdrawn on stage, and now he's game for anything ... and therefore, he succeeds."
For Brion, the show retains its fascination for the way it challenges his creativity.
"There's no set list, so if I'm not interested in what I'm doing, then it's my fault," says Brion, who's missed only a handful of Friday nights. (For information about attending a show: www.largo-la.com.)
Longtime fan Alicia Clough admires Brion's shows for their impromptu, unrehearsed nature.
"He plays every instrument, and to be able to take requests or play with pals who've just popped in - to be able to be that spontaneous - is very impressive," says Clough, 27, of Long Beach.
Brion's spontaneity makes for a pace that is at once chaotic, intimate and engaging. A recent show provided a wealth of inspiration: The violent sound of a piano D string suddenly snapping is looped into a rhythmic percussion track. A broken guitar string moves Brion to attack his instrument with an unabashed, joyful fury until additional strings flail, a flurry of silver entrails. Blasts of monitor feedback rush through the air to provide a screeching harmony.
At one point, a stagehand shrugs off the equipment mishaps.
"Hey, if everything was perfect ... " he says philosophically.
Brion laughs.
"Yeah, what good would that do?"
All in the family
Jon Brion's mother, LaRue, an amateur singer, bought Brion his first Fats Waller and Chuck Berry records. His father, Keith, a Yale University band director, often turned the family's Connecticut household into a performance space where he and his friends used hubcaps and other motley objects to create "crazy, avant-garde, atonal" tunes. Other musical influences included the Beatles, a local radio station that played everything from polka to punk and a tape deck collection that, as a teen, Brion used for recording experiments.
Now 40-something, Brion says his destiny was decided early.
"By the time I was 7, I knew I was going to do this for the rest of my life," says Brion, who is single. "I also knew it was a good choice because it would always be over my head; there would always be more to learn."
Eventually, music became Brion's primary education.
At 13, he joined an ensemble led by esteemed musicians Willie Ruff and Dwike Mitchell. At 17, Brion dropped out of high school and moved to Boston and later Los Angeles, where he formed the Grays with Jellyfish guitarist Jason Faulkner.
The Grays folded in the mid-'90s; since then, Brion has fostered a low-key solo career. In 2001, Atlantic shelved "Meaningless," a 12-track collection of literate, poignant pop, and Brion released the album himself.
Despite label disappointments ("It's frustrating because you think, here's a vote of confidence"), Brion remains busy. Over the years, his nuanced production work has earned him comparisons to producers Brian Wilson and Phil Spector.
He's also in demand as a session player, lending his vocals and multi-instrumentalist chops to countless albums and artists, including Marianne Faithfull, Fiona Apple, ex-girlfriend Aimee Mann, Beck, the Crystal Method, Macy Gray and jazz pianist Brad Mehldau. There's a good chance you own a record with Brion's name on it.
But if it seems Brion takes on work arbitrarily, think again. Singer-songwriter Grant-Lee Phillips says his friend is cautious about new ventures.
"He has an incredible knack for following his gut, and it can take quite a bit of coaxing to pull him into a project," says Phillips, whose recent album "Virginia Creeper" features Brion on the bass ukulele.
"But if he knows he can sink himself into what he's doing, then he's willing to leap headfirst into the fire with you."
Soundtrack of our lives
Jon Brion didn't want to do another score. After arranging, conducting and producing soundtracks for projects such as Paul Thomas Anderson's quirky "Punch Drunk Love" and mainstream flicks such as "Shrek," he needed a break.
Then he learned that Michel Gondry, a French director best known for his arty music videos, and "Adaptation" screenwriter Charlie Kaufman wanted him for "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind."
Brion watched a rough cut of the film and fell in love with its story: a couple trying to erase their memories of each other.
In the film, which opened last month, Brion's music serves as a delicate thread - a series of artful, orchestral punctuation marks for Gondry's dreamy time-warp. The score is at times pretty and mournful, impulsive and joyful.
Brion, now working on a soundtrack for David O'Russell's upcoming "I (Heart) Huckabee's," admits he's drawn to such collaborative efforts.
"I'm not crazy about decision-making by committee," he says. "(But) when you get two or three people in a room learning to fire on all cylinders together, it's a remarkable thing."
Brion would like to focus on his own music; there's a new record in the works and the promise of a tour. Whatever the undertaking, however, he's content with his place in the musical sphere - even if you don't know his name.
"I look at what other people have to do to survive and I'm grateful - it doesn't matter who hears it."
That's because whether in the forefront or on the fringes, Brion knows the song never has to remain the same.
