The Church founder Steve Kilbey is keeping it real, sitting in the middle of Australia’s Perth Airport before boarding a flight and chatting with me via Zoom on his phone. And his first response to my very first interview question is: “Do you want the sort of political answer, the bullshit answer? Or do you want the real answer?”
I request the latter, of course. And he most definitely obliges. The entire interview that follows is filled with unguarded moments.
I’d expect nothing less from the legendary alt-rocker, who willfully abandoned the formula of the Church’s breakthrough Billboard Hot 100 hit “Under the Milky Way” to have success on his own terms, artistically if not commercially, with cosmic psych/prog albums like Priest=Aura, Hologram of Baal, and the recent concept album The Hypnogogue and its sequel/companion piece, Eros Zeta and the Perfumed Guitars. “You can see, I’m a stubborn old devil. I’m rude and arrogant and insolent, and I probably, as my mother said, shoot myself in the foot all the time,” he quips. “But I’m happy. Believe it or not, I’m happy. I’m happy because I’ve followed my muse.”
Kilbey is promoting the Church’s upcoming “The Singles” tour of the U.S. — a surprising move for a man that seems to have zero interest in nostalgia, although he wryly points out that most of the band’s non-“Milky Way” singles are basically “deep cuts” in America anyway — and he is actually a delightful conversationalist. [Editor’s note: Since this interview took place, the tour has been postponed until 2026, due to an undisclosed family medical emergency. We here at Lyndsanity send Kilbey and the band good energy and well-wishes during this difficult time.]
Even when Kilbey goes off a bizarre, protracted, and completely unprovoked tangent about his hatred (or loveless fascination, if you will) for one of my all-time favorite bands, Duran Duran, he’s still strangely charming, so all I can do is gigglingly interject an occasional “no comment.” [Kilbey’s opinions expressed here belong solely to Kilbey, and do not reflect the views of this writer.]
Suffice to say, whatever Kilbey is talking about, he’s passionate. And he maintains that passion right up until the moment when it’s time to board his plane. In the wildly entertaining video above and Q&A below, he discusses the Church’s early struggles (including an ill-fated and ultimately aborted 1982 U.K. tour opening for, you guessed it, Duran Duran); the surprise success of “Under the Milky Way”; the group’s awkward transition to the grungy ‘90s; why he’s still on a “mission” to “provide quality music” after 45 years in the business; his excitement over the Church’s upcoming 28th “American-sounding” album, Lacuna; and much, much more.
LYNDSANITY: It’s interesting that the Church are embarking on a singles tour, because I get the impression you’re more into doing new stuff and don’t really like the nostalgia circuit. This the first time in your four-decade career that you’ve decided to do a retrospective tour. Why now?
STEVE KILBEY: Do you want the sort of political answer, the bullshit answer? Or do you want the real answer?
The latter, please!
The real answer. OK. The real answer is in Australia, a promoter came to me and said, “Steve, if you do a singles tour in Australia, which I’ve been asking you to do for a long time, I guarantee you’ll sell out everywhere. You’ll make a load of money. You’re an old guy. You don’t have a lot of money. You need to make some money for your retirement.” I said all right — bearing in mind that our singles aren’t terrible singles. It’s not like we live in the completely dualistic world where our album tracks are wonderful and our singles are awful. Also, bear in mind that almost all of our singles didn’t start as singles; they started as album tracks. … Anyway, then our management company in America said, “Oh, you’re doing a singles tour in Australia? That’d be a great idea for America!” I’m not so sure, because we had all these early hits in Australia that we never had in America, because we didn’t really have a proper [U.S.] record deal. We were with Capitol Records [in the beginning], but they didn’t really understand what we were.
I’ve heard that Capitol wanted you to sound more the Little River Band, or some other Australian artist on the label?
They were complete fucking idiots and philistines. They really were. One of them had the hide to come to Australia and track me down [years later] and said, “I’m sorry for what happened.” It wasn’t one of the philistines. And I’m like, “Whatever, man. It’s too late now.” They took “The Unguarded Moment” and they butchered it. Guys at record companies are not the cleverest guys in the book, and by the time they’ve got hold of whatever they’re telling you, it’s already three or four years out of date already. So, they thought, “You’re longhaired, scruffy, Aussie hippies. That won’t work with American kids.” And then of course we delivered our second album [The Blurred Crusade]. It’s a sublime album. Come on! It was produced and mixed by Bob Clearmountain. It’s still beautiful, 44 years later. We delivered it to them and they went, “No singles. American kids won’t like this.” Fuck off. It didn’t come out [in the U.S. at that time]. How could that have happened?
So, some of our singles in America are actually deep cuts. In America, there’s maybe three singles people would recognize: “Under the Milky Way,” “Metropolis,” and “Reptile.” They don’t know anything else. All of the rest of the singles tour will be a lot of early stuff that we don’t normally play in America, and then some deep cuts — tracks that never got really any traction, to use an industry word.
Obviously, if there was one song for the U.S. tour that you would have to do, it’s “Under the Milky Way.” And there are some artists, when they’re known for a very big song — Radiohead and “Creep” comes to mind — where they resent the song, and sometimes they don’t play it. But I remember I interviewed Neil Finn once and he was like, “Thank God I like ‘Don’t Dream It Over’ so much! Because for the rest of my life, I’m going to have to play it.” So, what’s your relationship with “Under the Milky Way”?
I’m the same as Neil with his song: Thank God I like [“Under the Milky Way”], because I’m going to have to play it for every night no matter where I am, no matter what the circumstances. No matter if it’s a wedding, a bar mitzvah, a funeral, a Church show, a solo show, guest star, whatever it is, I’m going to have to do that song. Thank God it’s a great song to do. … I don’t resent “Under the Milky Way,” and I’m very happy to play it. I’m very grateful to that song.
You mentioned how a lot of your singles not initially earmarked as singles. Was “Milky Way” one of them, or did you know from the get-go it was a hit?
No, that was one. We made Starfish, and everybody felt like there wasn’t a single on Starfish. And one of the producers was saying to me, “It’s going to be ‘Spark.’” Marty [Willson-Piper] wrote that on the album, in an exercise of democracy, and I fucking did not want that song to be a single. I didn’t know what was going to be the single. There was a very bad feeling towards “Milky Way,” to tell you the truth. They all bullshit now if you talk to anyone, but oh no, they didn’t [like it at the time]. We had one manager who said it was good, and he insisted it was on the album. Then Clive Davis, the head of Arista, came in, and we played him the album. Played him all the tracks. “Spark” — thank God that didn’t do anything for him. But then when he heard “Under the Milky Way,” he stopped it halfway through and said, “Gentlemen, we have a hit single!” He shook my hand. He said, “Congratulations, Mr. Kilbey. You have a hit single.” And then all of his lackeys — he had about five lackeys with him — they went, “Congratulations, Steve!” And they all went out and Arista made it happen. I didn’t understand what it was. It was just a song. I wrote it, luckily. I used to write a lot of songs. I put them on a cassette and the manager made the band put that song on the record, but nobody involved with it up until that moment thought it was a hit. And then everybody went back and revised history: “Oh, I always knew! I loved that song right from the first moment!” But they didn’t. That song was not ever going to be a single until [Clive Davis] said, “That’s a single.”
By then, the whole Capitol Records debacle was over, and you were now on Arista. And you’d already been on three major labels at this point. It’s a cliché question, but was “breaking America” a goal for you? I think for a lot of international bands, that is the dream.
The dream was if you were from Australia — bearing in mind, I’m an Englishman; I never like people to think I’m Australian, because I’m not, I was born in England — but the dream [for Australian bands] was either break England or break America. And if you are really lucky, you could break both, but that didn’t happen for a lot. It was usually one or the other. You could go to London, do the hard slog, and then eventually get a good review in the NME. We did get some good reviews in England. … But “Under the Milky Way” wasn’t much of a hit in England.
I read in the early days, the Church toured England with Duran Duran, but it didn’t go so well.
I fucking hate Duran Duran. I fucking hate them.
[Pointing to my Rio gold record plaque hanging behind me] Um, don’t look at what’s on the wall over there!
I’m sorry. But I hate them. We were opening for them and our record company, in 1982, paid 30,000 pounds to get us on this tour. Not only did I hate them and their music, but we went on every night and the audience was 11-year-old girls.
Yeah, I could see how it wouldn’t go well for you. The Duranies back then didn’t want to see any opening band. They just wanted to see Duran Duran.
Jesus Christ could have walked out there and they didn’t want to see it. They just wanted see Simon Le Blob. And I’m not fucking throwing myself at a brick wall. We did three or four gigs with them, and there was no point. I said, “I’m not doing this anymore.” And I had to fly to Paris to meet the record company guy, and I said, “If you are taking me out to dinner, I’m telling you, I’m a vegetarian.” And he took me to a seafood restaurant. I said, “What the fuck?” And he went, “Vegetarians can eat fish.” I told him, “I don’t care about your 30,000 pounds. I’m not going back and playing with Duran Duran. I fucking loathe them.”
Do you loathe them as people, or just musically?
The music. I’d never met them. I mean, look, to tell you the truth, who’s the little one who’s sick now?
Andy Taylor. [Editor’s note: The original Duran Duran guitarist is currently battling cancer.]
He came backstage and went, “Welcome to the tour!” He was trying to be very nice, and I think we were all really rude to him, and that was the end of it. So, we never met any of them. And every time, and rightly so, they were snooty towards us. And I was very rude to them. I have nothing against them personally. I hate their music. I hate whatever they think they are. Simon Le Bon sings out of tune. He sings flat or he sings sharp, and it’s just like… nothing. I don’t want to be involved with them in any way, shape, or form.
No comment. But like I said, even if you liked Duran Duran’s music, that would be a really tough audience to win over in ‘82. The fans just wanted to see their favorite Taylor or Rhodes or Le Bon.
How the fuck does Nick Rhodes look these days? He looks like my Auntie Betty. Seriously. What a fucking disgrace.
He’s got style, though!
What? He’s got no fucking style. Look at him, the way he’s an old bloke in his sixties with eye makeup. Come on.
No comment!
Sorry, sorry. I’m getting carried away. I just want to make a footnote here: My capacity for loving music, the way I love Marc Bolan, also goes the other way. I’m never neutral. And I’m sorry. I’ve said too much about Duran Duran. But when I hate something, I hate it with such an incredible, unearthly passion. It’s like taking a Cordon Bleu chef to McDonald’s or something. Music that I don’t like, it just drives me crazy. So, sorry about that.
No apologies necessary — well, apologies to Duran Duran, maybe! But none to myself. But I guess this whole conversation is leading up to the fact that the success the Church eventually had, seemingly very much on their own terms, was certainly not a linear path. And maybe not an expected path at all.
And then it all went away again.
Well, I wouldn’t say that, but was there that cliché of your label saying, “Can you please write ‘Under the Milky Way Part 2’?” Did you feel that pressure?
They were idiots. The record company were giving me such useful advice: “Could you write another ‘Under the Milky Way,’ but a bit different?” And it’s like, “No, I can’t.” They assumed that I was being difficult, but it just doesn’t work like that. It didn’t work like that for me. I still even wouldn’t know how to do that, and I’ve never tried to do it. So, there never was another “Under the Milky Way,” and yeah, they were disappointed.
“Metropolis” was a decent-sized hit in America, from what I recall.
I was disappointed with that song. I would say that was the one song where the Church was trying to write a “single.” And it’s not evergreen, like “Under the Milky Way.” To me, the best things I do happen accidentally, when I try and keep my ego out of things and let this pure thing happen. With “Under the Milky Way,” the last thing on my mind was writing a hit single; with “Metropolis,” the band sat down and tried to write a hit. And it was sort of semi-successful.
I love that song, actually. Are you going to play that one on the tour?
Of course, of course. I’ve learned to love it, and I see the pleasure it brings people. I wouldn’t take that away; if people love songs, they love songs. … I’m glad you [like it]. I’m just saying it’s not really my favorite song. But we are definitely doing it.
That whole Starfish follow-up album, 1990’s Gold Afternoon Fix, I understand it didn’t go the way you wanted — that you wanted to work with John Paul Jones, or a different producer. What happened?
I did want to work with John Paul Jones, and our managers and our record company fucked that up. We had to go back and work with Waddy Wachtel, and the album was mediocre and awful. However, our next album, Priest=Aura, was a fucking masterpiece. It was such a masterpiece. And unfortunately, it came along at exactly the wrong moment, 1992. Grunge came along and suddenly everything changed and people weren’t looking for the kind of thing we were trying to do with Priest=Aura. They were looking for Pearl Jam.
But there were a few “college rock,” 120 Minutes bands of the ‘80s, like Depeche Mode and especially R.E.M., that managed to transition to the ’90s grunge/rock years. I feel the Church could have. But maybe you didn’t want to.
I could have, but you can see, I’m a stubborn old devil. I’m rude and arrogant and insolent, and I probably, as my mother said, shoot myself in the foot all the time. But I’m happy. Believe it or not, I’m happy. I’m happy because I’ve followed my muse. My muse writes all this music for me and helps me create all this stuff, and will always be there. I have been true to her or it or the universe or wherever it all comes from. And in the last three years, [the Church have released] another masterpiece, The Hypnogogue.
That’s why it’s so interesting that you’re doing a singles tour now, when what you were doing on the last tour couldn’t have been more opposite. Is it fair to call The Hypnogogue a concept album? Do you like that term?
It’s fair to call it that. Yes, it is a concept album. … I’m kind of pleased with the way it all worked out. For me, just making lots of money and being hugely successful, it isn’t just about that. This sounds really corny, but it’s also about being true to yourself and doing what you want to do. And the people who don’t want to do what I want to do, if you’re at a record company or if you’ re in my band and you don’t want to do what I want to do, then fuck off out of my life. I have a mission, and my mission is to provide quality music with quality lyrics, to incorporate all my great loves like Bolan and Bowie and Dylan and the Beatles, all of the things I loved about them. And have Greek mythology and ancient history and the Bible and the Bhagavad-Gita and all of the great books I read when I was a kid, all of these mystical and dreamlike and surrealistic and poetic and literary things. That is my mission: to bring quality to rock music.
Rock music does not have to be a cartoon medium. Rock music can make beautiful, brilliant, artistic statements. That’s what I do. And whether I’m not selling out Carnegie Hall or Madison Square Garden, maybe I’m only playing to 300 or 400 people a night in America, but the people who are there really love it, and they really need it. And now that Bolan and Bowie have gone, I really feel like I’m carrying a torch for this certain kind of thing. … It’s not a grocery; if we’re a restaurant, we would be a boutique vegan restaurant, making food for people who really need this and really care about it.
Not a seafood restaurant, then.
Not a seafood restaurant [laughs]. No. It’s like, I’ve realized that I’m 70 years old and [I could complain], “Oh, why wasn’t I big? Why wasn’t I famous? Why wasn’t I really rich?” But fuck, I’ve stayed true to myself. I think the universe said to me somehow, “Steve, if you had been really successful, you wouldn’t have carried on doing what you were doing. It would have been the end of your creativity.” The universe kind of made the choice for me, that to go on doing what I did, it had to be this way. If I’d made 10 bazillion dollars and was living in a house in Malibu, I might not have made Priest=Aura. I think in the end when I go, it won’t matter how much money I had, but the things I leave behind me and the relationship I have with my fans and people I meet who tell me how much my music means to them. It’s much more important than making money. Besides that, I am very comfortable. I’m not ridiculously rich, but I’m comfortable. I’ve made a living out of making music. I have five beautiful daughters and I’m kind of a happy guy. And as long as I can keep going, I’m going to stay true. And when you come and see me, or when I do an interview, I tell the truth. I don’t fucking bullshit people. My music isn’t bullshit.
You definitely are not a bullshitter! So, what is next for you musically?
We made a brand-new album in Austin last year. I am so proud of it. I think we’ve made a new masterpiece, up there with The Blurred Crusade and Priest=Aura. I know the universe laid some more really good music on me and the whole band. It’s not just me; it’s the other guys I got in the band. All of the old characters are gone. They were great musicians, but they did not want to harness themselves to my vision anymore, and that’s OK with me as well. So, I’ve got new musicians who really want to do this and understand what we’re all trying to do. We are crusaders for good music, as we see it.
Is the new album a concept album, like the last one?
It is not a concept album. It was made in Austin, Texas, and it’s called Lacuna, which is a word a lot of people aren’t really familiar with. It [means] a place where something once was and it’s no longer there. And I allowed Austin, Texas, to permeate me. I lived there for six weeks and I let the sights and the sounds and the feelings and the rivers and the creatures and the people in, to permeate me. There are a few songs on there that are sort the most American-sounding things I’ve ever done — but American in the way I want to do America, not sort of like the Grand Old Opry. A lot of people don’t know this, but I love America, and I understand America. I’ve been touring America for 40 years. I had a wife who was American. I’ve got two daughters who are American and I love America — and especially Texas, strangely enough. I allowed it to permeate everything I did, and we made this album, and I think people are going to like the side of America that we took on. I’m really hoping they do. It’s not a British or European sort of album. It’s an American album, but not in a dumbed-down way. It’s the essential America that I love.
I can see you lighting up as you talk about it. You’ve been doing music for more than 40 years, but you’re as excited as you ever were, maybe even more so. You’ve touched on it a little bit already, but what is the secret for maintaining that passion?
It was always my vocation. When I was 4 years old, my dad grabbed me and said, “Music’s the most important thing in life. I want you to be a musician.” And then when the Church came along, that seemed too corny, so I tried to pretend, like everything had this ironic distance or I don’t want to appear too passionate about things. But now, at age 70, looking back on it, I realize I was just a missionary. The universe told me to do this and helped me do it. It was always my mission.
It’s really cool that your dad said that to you, because most parents would be like, “Don’t go into rock ‘n’ roll, kid! Become a dentist!”
I know. And the great thing about him doing that was when I got to 16 and went, “All right, now I need a fucking bass guitar, I need an amplifier, I need a PA, and I need a car to drive it all around in,” my dad signed off on the loans. He definitely put his money where his mouth was, for me to be able to do this. He was a musician too.
Was he excited when the Church finally took off?
He died before I ever had any success, which is a real great regret, because he would’ve loved to have seen this. But I feel him with me all the time, and I feel in some other world he is proud of what I’ve done
I am sure he is. As he well should be. As you well should be.
Thank you. And I’m sorry about my vicious stuff about Duran Duran. Sometimes my own vehemence takes me by surprise. I can’t control myself. When I think back to 1982 and how hopeless it was, being in some city in Scotland and walking out in this theater and these 11-year-old girls looking at us and hating us…
Well, those 11-year-old girls, a few years later when they were 16- or 17-year-old girls, were probably listening to “Under the Milky Way” and probably wishing they’d paid more attention at that Scotland show, so they could have bragged that they “saw the Church before they were big.”
Ha. Maybe.
