The Chills. Photo / Supplied
It's late on a Friday afternoon in Dunedin. As various nine-to-fivers file home, Martin Phillipps, founder and driving force of the Chills, is relaxing at Lower Stuart St venue Taste Merchants, chatting to a friend as fellow Dunedin music veteran Graeme Downes, of the Verlaines, plugs in his guitar and tweaks his amplifier's controls in preparation for the pair's shared solo performances that night.
"That's quite jazzy," says Downes, the writer of songs which, in other hands, could have been jazz.
Indeed, Phillipps almost resembles a jazz-head. He's dressed top to toe in black. Then again, he is a musician. From Dunedin.
Phillipps is pondering his setlist options, explaining he'll probably sing songs both new and old, including some apparently rare even to him: "It's been 30 or so years since I played one of them, so the lyrics are a little hard to remember ..."
Three nights later, about 30 people gather at University of Otago venue Re:Fuel. Family, friends, supporters, they've been invited to a preview of the Chills' new album, Silver Bullets, which will be released late next month. Finally, almost 20 years since the group's last studio album, 1996's Sunburnt, another has been completed.
The implications of the opening soundscape's title, Father Time, is not lost on those present.
Featuring bells and choral snatches intended for use in the Chills' 1990 breakthrough album Submarine Bells, the samples were captured by Phillipps' father in the same Albany St studios largely used for the latest release.
A loop closing, then?
Phillipps considers this question the next day as he sips a beer at Taste Merchants.
"It seemed the only place to put it was at the start," Phillipps explains. "Because it has my father's voice, it is an emotive thing. There's no coincidence that it's a rip-off of the Beach Boys' Our Prayer, an a cappella song, though theirs is a much more sophisticated vocal work.
"The engineer, Brendan Davies, thought I was being tongue in cheek, but I wasn't. It establishes a kind of tone that at least gets people thinking what the hell is going on."
It is put to Phillipps that, on initial impressions, Silver Bullets is the sound of a songwriter (and band) playing with ideas both big and small, being adventurous while remaining true to the combination of pop melodicism and layered depth that piqued listeners' interest in the early '80s.
Read our review of Silver Bullets here
Many of the songs begin as small ideas, often based around a guitar phrase, be it chiming, soaked in reverb or dark, sinuous and distorted. As per lead single America Says Hello, songs often don't end as they start; several are either twisted into different shapes or balloon out as Phillipps and company add idea upon idea.
In short, it's assured songwriting. On initial impressions, it's no stretch to suggest the album is a return to form. Yet Silver Bullets is also a testament to the force and dexterity of the Chills line-up number 33.
As Phillipps noted the previous night, the version of the Chills that exists now has been together longer than any of the '80s line-ups that might live in some fans' memories.
"This band has stuck with me through some pretty odd times," he says, referring to keyboardist turned bass player James Dickson and drummer Todd Knudson, who joined him in 1999, followed by multi-instrumentalist Erica Stichbury then keyboardist Oli Wilson.
"I think I relaxed the reins a bit on this record, knowing I was surrounded by quality musicians." Again, an interruption to his flow: hasn't Phillipps worked with plenty of talented musicians in the past?
"Of course, those people added their own things to it. And because they helped establish what the Chills are, it was easier for this line-up to understand and bring their own expertise to it, and play parts I'd never think of. There was a lot more freedom.
"This album, because of the technology, involves the most severe editing the Chills have ever done. Huge chunks of songs would be chopped out and moved around. It's actually quite useful to learn how to let go of your favourite pieces. That happened a few times."
Phillipps was a 17-year-old Logan Park High School pupil when he his band played its first gig at Coronation Hall in Maori Hill, Dunedin, in November 1980.
Songs came and soared: Kaleidoscope World, Rolling Moon, Pink Frost, In The Doledrums, I Love My Leather Jacket. On the back of support from a range of labels (including Flying Nun, Warners/Slash and London Records), the Chills' music found its way into lounges in the UK, Europe and the US, and was promoted by influential DJs, including late BBC host John Peel.
Submarine Bells and its key single, Heavenly Pop Hit, were a highwater mark, the album reaching No 1 and the single No 2 on the New Zealand charts in 1990. The same year, the band packed the Dunedin Town Hall.
However, by the time he was penning tracks for 1992 album Soft Bomb, Phillipps' writing had reached a level of sophistication alien to some, especially those caught up in the grunge era.
In assessing Phillipps' career , the list of hiccups is long: incessant line-up changes; the lack of reaction to Soft Bomb; the turmoil of a mid-tour band break-up in the United States in 1992; being dropped by Warners/Slash; artistic ambitions realised but real commercial success denied ... it's little wonder self-belief was more than bruised.
The same could be said for Phillipps' body.
"It's been amazing just how many people are thrilled that I have come through what I've been through, the depression, the drugs." He says this with neither glibness nor self-pity. The facts remain: Phillipps contracted hepatitis C in the mid-90s through his use of opiates. The disease has now morphed into stage-four liver disease.
"I shouldn't be drinking at all," the 52-year-old says before raising glass to mouth.
"There was a trial for a new hep C drug, which does actually cure it, but there was confusion.
The particular group I was in was meant to have done the interferon treatment. I had, but my interferon was the one type - they found out later - that ruled me ineligible. And obviously, there is caution over who they give these things to.
"Also, I was still drinking, which was a risk factor. The chances of me getting a liver transplant are very remote because I'm over 50 and I have no dependants.
"I am eating better than I was and generally taking care of myself better. But the serious damage has been done.
"If I can get on this new drug that would be great. It won't cure my liver disease but it will at least prevent further damage.
"I'd be surprised if I see 60. I think things are going to happen pretty quickly when they do.
The liver is one organ that's not meant to exhibit pain, unless it's bad. And I get liver pains.
"And now I have a new girlfriend for the first time in 10 years ..." Phillipps says, pausing to let the irony bite deeper.
"I met her in England last year. She lives there, so that's obviously problematic, too. But it's a good reason to try to pull myself together better." Ever the lyricist, Phillipps uses his record collection as a metaphor for his experiences.
"The fact I went through all this and managed to keep my record collection intact ..." he trails off, but the inference is clear: not all of the people with whom he was mixing could be deemed friends.
"Being the kind of person who grew up listening to Lou Reed and stuff, the idea of rubbing shoulders with these underground characters was quite romantic at first.
But then you start realising a lot of these people are just sleazy bastards and they're eyeing up your property."
He also recalls being shown off as some sort of trophy.
"Someone would bring a guy straight out of prison to my house and say, 'this is Martin Phillipps. You know, I Love My Leather Jacket?'." So more like, step you out for your leather jacket?
"Exactly. It got pretty dodgy.
"Still, there were some really neat people. I had some wonderful times.
"Frankly, there's nothing quite so nice as sitting around a Conray heater with a bunch of people who are into the same music as you, all having taken drugs.
"But I do regret the amount of time that goes by when you do that sort of stuff. I've lost days, weeks, if not years. A decade I think.
"At the same time, I didn't stop making music completely. So, yeah, not a complete write-off.
"In the years before Scott Muir got involved (in 2001), I was trying to run what should have been an international career from Dunedin, getting little gigs and being ripped off, not really getting anywhere.
"It felt like everything I did was just treading water and the Chills were being treated as some sort of sad remnant of a band that had had some special moments.
Neil Finn was another who helped through the dark times.
"He was very disturbed about my drug use, but he would always front up and be encouraging.
"Of course, my family was always there. Ultimately, I felt I would let down too many people if I just gave up and went right off the rails."
As he sips his beer, Phillipps also contemplates his immediate future. London-based Fire Records is releasing the album worldwide, although Flying Nun will distribute it in New Zealand via its Flying Out offshoot, reflecting a connection first established in the label's seminal 1981 Dunedin Double, on which the Chills were joined by the Verlaines, the Stones and Sneaky Feelings.
"I think with this album there is a general sigh of relief. I'm pleased there is interest in what we are doing and I'm looking forward to being able to talk about this."
A relatively shy person, Phillipps confesses he had to work on his ability to deal with the media in his younger days. Yet he is more confident now.
He's not worried about impressing journalists. And if Silver Bullets doesn't kill a few doubts, he thinks age might garner him just a little more respect."
"They might not know that much about me but they know I'm an old bastard."
Who: Martin Phillipps of the Chills
What: New album Silver Bullets
When: Out now.
Playing: Galatos Auckland, December 10; Echo Festival, Vector Arena, Auckland, January 11 and 12; New Zealand Festival Dunedin Double shows with The Verlaines, March 8 and 9.
Opinion: Weta collaborations and wide spaces make the possibilities endless, and complex.