R.I.P. Martin Phillipps

A eulogy for Martin Phillipps, leader of The Chills, one of the architects of “The Dunedin Sound”

Martin Phillipps of The Chills has died. He was just 61. The Dunedin singer/songwriter, guitarist and one of the architects of “The Dunedin Sound”, was a Flying Nun mainstay; his band moving through several line-up changes (and international labels). Martin the only constant.

His battles, successes, and struggles well documented in the recent film, The Tragedy and Triumph of Martin Phillipps. His music the only thing that really matters to many of us, who either never knew him — or knew him only through that handful of amazing songs he wrote, and the fistfuls of other tunes he created that were, at the least, better than many others might manage.

I first heard Martin and The Chills when I joined my very first band. I was 15, and my folks told me it was time to put up or shut up, what with all that noisy clattering of drums in the back room; they told me to answer the ad in the local paper that was calling for a drummer. I rang. I was 10-12 years younger than the others, but they took me on my word. Soon, we were rehearsing after hours in a shop. These 26 and 28 year olds made me a tape of the songs they’d be covering: Mental as Anything and Hoodoo Gurus and Billy Idol and Midnight Oil and Hunters & Collectors. But the song that really blew me away, because I’d heard the others, and I’d never heard this, was Leather Jacket by The Chills. It arrived into my ears around the same time as the band’s big “comeback” tune, Heavenly Pop Hit. So with two great songs — as far as I was immediately concerned — I bought the compilation album with its bonus disc of “ice picks”.

That CD really did the yards. I loved it so, so much.

From there, of course, I got to the albums, worked my way back through the lot. Special love forever for Submarine Bells (1990) and Soft Bomb (1992). Just packed with gems. And even 1996’s Sunburnt — which is not OG, but was fine by me.

The song though that forever haunts, that really is The Chills, well, everyone knows of course, but it’s Pink Frost.

A song that is Dunedin.

Well, to me. Someone that hasn’t been there for years, and has no connection to the place — beyond the music. I don’t want to say that this song, or this band, or this songwriter, is Dunedin for anyone else. But it was a huge part of it for me.

And Pink Frost was one of the first songs I thought of when I was asked to compile 30 of my favourites for my book, On Song. Martin was generous in the process, we hadn’t met, and spoke only through email. But he wrote a lot and was very keen on helping with photos, and memories — and was curious about the book in general, excited about all of the other songs more so than his own entry.

A few years later we did meet. And we had a handful of very nice conversations, and he would write to me, often, with stories about music. He and I shared a great love of Brian Wilson and Randy Newman, there were other things of course. But these two artists in particular were the ones we talked about. Martin would send photos of his own collection, and of CDs and records he’d find in stores around the world. I can’t claim to be great friends with him at all — that is not what I’m trying to do. I just loved that he cared about music. And knew that I did too.

And yeah, I can’t lie, it was crazy for me to think back to being 15 and bashing away at the toms, trying to play a decent cover of Leather Jacket. How could I ever know then that I’d one day be sharing messages with the guy that wrote the song — we didn’t even have the internet back then, you never thought you’d meet anyone, let alone be gushing about how much we both loved The Beach Boys over a casual, easy chat on a device.

I know Martin had that sort of connection with many people. And it went on a much deeper level with so many others.

But I also sensed he was very alone in the world at times. Just him and his music. His collecting. His thoughts.

I was lucky to get him to agree to record a conversation with me for my podcast back in the day. Which I’d like to share (again) here:

This was recorded in Wellington, in a hotel’s conference room in 2019. He was playing a gig that night, and we had a few calls and messages to sort this, after an aborted take another time. Finally it all lined up. Martin had a bag of CDs to show me from that afternoon. And I know we could have just recorded two hours of talking about anyone else’s music. But I managed to make it mostly about his life, and his music. I’m really grateful we got this on record. Not that he was too shy to speak about himself — I mean there’s a whole documentary. I didn’t get any great scoop, I’m not patting myself on the back, I’m just grateful he was available and interested, and interesting. And I’m pleased I had that podcast format cranking for a time. I captured a lot of great yarns.

It’s bittersweet to boast of that of course, especially when re-sharing it at a time like this, and with a reason such as this.

But Martin deserved more than this sort of media treatment:

And, yeah, of course they’ll fix that up — possibly by the time you read this. But look at the soullessness of that, the mess of it all. Just follow the family on Facebook — and don’t worry too much about the typos. Or context. Grim.

There’ll be more eulogies in days to come and proper tributes too — of course. But they could have done a bit more than just that.

For a start, The Chills ushered into the world, or incorporated for a time, the likes of Jane Dodd and Alan Haig and Peter Gutteridge and Martyn Bull and David Kilgour and Justin Harwood and Caroline Easter. And of course that’s just for starters.

And Martin wrote The Oncoming Day and The Male Monster from the Id and Soft Bomb and Come Home and Doledrums and Double Summer and Rolling Moon and Wet Blanket and Heavenly Pop Hit and Pink Frost. And I Love My Leather Jacket. And again, that was just for starters.

The Chills existed across many different line-ups, all in service to Martin’s songs. And a Chills gig was always something — of course I only saw the recent version of the band, but I loved the service they offered, in debt to the greatest hits, but still exploring the new material on the good-enough, sometimes close to great recent records.

I was waiting for another message about Randy Newman. I was waiting for another solo album. I was waiting for another photo of a Brian Wilson CD that I could have picked up from anywhere, but it was one that Martin had found and wanted to share. And I was waiting for more Chills gig announcements, or another record, or a chance to have another coffee and a chat with Mr Phillipps.

Now I’m thinking of all who knew and loved him so well. And of the band members past and present.

R.I.P. Martin Phillipps

Sydney Morning Herald