Masterclass Spinvis

Coffee in hand, lounging on the sofa as if he’s always been there. This is how we find Erik De Jong, better known as Spinvis, one of the most distinctive voices in Dutch-language pop music. At the age of 41, he released his debut album, cobbled together in his attic using toy sounds and saucepan lids. With poetic lyrics about people on the fringes of society, he cuts and shifts until the puzzle fits. Today he’s doing just that at Club Telex, alongside students of jazz, pop and music production. They play their songs, solo and undiluted. He listens and admires, talking to them about what works, what clashes and why you sometimes only realise later that it was actually already perfect. A sample of the conversation.

Ilja Van Braeckel
You sing in Dutch – why did you choose to do that, and have you ever considered writing lyrics in English?
The distance to English is interesting for creating different versions of yourself. In another language, you think differently, you phrase things differently, you behave differently. And in English, the stress is often right at the end of the sentence, which sounds good. In Dutch, that’s not quite the case, so you have to really rack your brains. It’s a challenge, but if you succeed, you spark interest and draw people in, into your music. Even within Dutch, there are differences. In Belgium, there’s a culture of surrealism; it’s more readily accepted, as you see in fashion and comic books, for example. In the Netherlands, you often have to explain what it’s about, what exactly you mean and how it all fits together.
IV
How do you connect with your audience during performances?
As a musician, you contribute one half, and the audience the other. If you radiate a sense of confidence, you put everyone at ease, and only then can you create a new kind of experience together. And if you’re in love with your music yourself, you can pass that passion on to your audience. Pop music is a sort of party game you play with a billion people. That’s why I write my music with the ordinary person on the street in mind. Actually, I’m a folk singer, but the people don’t know that yet (laughs).


IV
How do you come to terms with what you’ve created? When is something finished?
Never (laughs). When you listen to your own music, you hear the difference between what you wanted it to be and what it actually turned out to be. Only you, as the creator, can hear that. People who listen to your songs with ‘fresh ears’ only hear what it ultimately turned out to be. Sometimes I wish I could rediscover my own songs that way. And often you only really understand what it’s about once a track has been recorded and mixed. It’s like taking a Polaroid photo: you only see what’s on it once it slowly develops.
Incidentally, what you feel ashamed of is often what people appreciate most. They admire the fact that you have the courage to embrace it. What you have to offer in return is a sacrifice you make. Perhaps you’re not happy with the sound of your voice or not entirely satisfied with your lyrics. Instinctively, you want to hide it, cut it out or change it, but choosing not to do so is what makes your music unique.

IV
What would you say if you met yourself 24 years ago, on the eve of your debut?
You only break through once. Once you become well-known, you inevitably lose a certain recklessness. Suddenly, there’s a kind of weight attached to everything you do. You do continue to develop, but you’re not sure whether what you’re creating is actually getting any better. And it can sometimes be difficult to experiment with it unnoticed. What’s more, a sort of snobbery creeps in if you’re not careful. Don’t let yourself be held back by ‘good taste’, whatever that may be. Everything is useful. Leave that ‘good taste’ to others and, above all, remain an admirer of beautiful songs yourself. That’s what it’s all about in the end.



















