FP: At the time, were you aware of the mixtapes and cassettes rappers and DJs would put out?
ES: No, I was pretty much in the woods about all that stuff. When I first started DJing in Vancouver I didn’t really have any mentors, I had to just figure out scratching by trial and error. Even the mixtape was just me trying stuff. People were saying “Oh, you made that demo so you could get a record deal,” and I was like, “What are you talking about?” Even when I got a record contract, I was in conflict with myself about the whole concept, because I had no interest in making songs. It was just about having fun with the records that I had.
I remember speaking to Strictly Kev after signing the contact with Ninja Tune, I didn’t know what the hell I was doing, because I had no interest in making 14-song albums, I just wanted to make audio adventures, a Monty Python album or something.
The first thing they wanted to do was release a 12-inch single. I said, “A 12-inch single, you mean like for clubs?!?” And they said “Yeah!” And I was like, “I never made no club music! Do you want me to go buy a sampler? Should I get some beats?” I still remember the conversation. I was a huge fan of the stuff on Ninja, from Coldcut all the way up, but Strictly Kev just said “No, just do what you do.” Which was a relief, in one way, but in another way, it was like “What is it that I do?” I don’t actually do anything that sounds like albums. So I was in a real state of conflict, which is why Carpal Tunnel took four years to complete– and it’s only 38 minutes.
FP: Did you have any issues with being with a big label?
ES: No, they were always super-supportive, and they knew I was going through a quarter-life crisis or whatever– mine just happened to be on vinyl. I was doing interviews for the album and I hadn’t even done one song yet, because they had asked how long it was going to take, and I thought, “Well, the tape took three months, and it was a half an hour, and you guys want an hour? So, six months?” [laughter.] It was a funny idea to me– making albums of albums. It was stressful.
FP: So that first 12-inch…
ES: That was like baby steps, and even then, I was like “I don’t know about 12-inch, how about a 10-inch?” But I was totally unaware about this whole machine of the record industry, where they need this much lead time, so that by the time this and this and this happens, you’re on the tour.
The reason why the cassette took next to no time to make was because I had some of those records since I was twelve, some from even before that. When I started Carpal, I had already pretty much tapped my collection. I was basically starting from scratch, having to accumulate more records, then listening to them, trying to find something new to do. I’d take notes on the records– if you look at those notes today, it’s like Diary of a Madman. It’s like watching the demise of a creative process that’s turning into a job, because that’s what it was.
All of a sudden, I had graduated from University, and the only thing I had to do was finish this album. And it was just the hardest thing. I was trying to be responsible with it, and Ninja would call and say “How’s it coming? Can we hear some stuff?” And I’d be all “Waaaah! I’m still listening to records…” I have eight 120-page books of notes from that first album. Each page is notes on one record, things like “There’s this guy saying this on this record, about fl inches from the beginning of track 3.” I came up with little symbols after awhile. It was sort of my way of being like “OK, I have to be working!”
FP: I guess it was all ultimately contributing to the final product.
ES: Yeah, but at one point it reached this capacity, where I had collected all these random samples of guys saying relatively strange things, which, out of context, were even stranger. So I thought, “What am I gonna do with all this? I have enough here for like fifteen albums!”
Then I thought, what if they were all drunk pick-up lines? And then Bar Hopper was the turning point: I thought, why not use all of them in one track? That was the seed—drunk guy at a bar, uninterested women—they’re not having it. And the back and forth. All these records of how to pick up girls were just going to help propel that dialogue.
I was like “OK, cool, we’re going to do it! Now I have to look for responses.” I had to go dig specifically for female spoken-word records, listen to them from beginning to end, and listen for anything that could fit into a response to the world’s worst pick-up lines. All of a sudden it became this really fun game, going to shops and going through poetry albums, female narrators, I’d test them and go “Alright, perfect!”
Eventually I went into Carl Bastien’s studio for Bar Hopper, and came in with two batches of records, one of them Male, the other Female. I had written all the pick-up lines on one piece of paper, and all the responses on another piece of paper, and we just pressed “record,” and I started, put on the first one, and thought “What’s the best response to that line,” find it, pull the record out, then go on to the next one. It was the most ridiculous thing I could have imagined [laughter].It’s like it had nothing to do with music– in fact, it had nothing to do with scratching. It was like screenwriting. Yeah, there’s vinyl, and yeah, there’s scratching in there, but I’m not trying to flex turntable-wise on this. The whole point was to make this guy sound drunk. So if I was listening to one line and thought “This doesn’t sound like a question,” I’d learn to bend it up at the end, intonate.
FP: It’s interesting that the song that really gave birth to your process, to your album, involved a man and a woman.
ES: Yeah, I liked that you can get that human element into it. That song, I must have had to listen to four hundred records just to get all the pieces– not an efficient way to make music. What was funny was after I’d be playing with the band Bullfrog, and we’d do a recording in one take. And that would be the ultimate kick in the nuts for me, cause they’d be like “OK, we’ve finished the album,” and it took a week. Sure, we had to write the music and practice it all and everything, but…
FP: For your sanity’s sake, it must’ve been nice to have the band going on at the same time.
ES: Yeah, that’s why I so totally enjoy the live part of it now. The uncontrolled element is inspiring.
FP: What are some of the more interesting shows you’ve played?
ES: Well, I DJed a “Children’s Parade of Noises” in Brampton last weekend.
FP: “Parade of Noises”– what the hell is that?
ES: There was about 350 fourth-graders, who all invented and made their own instruments. I was playing in this band shell where they ended the parade. It was crazy– the climax, at the end of the piece that was “written” for this, the organizer runs up to the top of this hill and hits this gong –and it was like, blocks away, but you could hear it. And then everybody, all 350 people are playing, he’s conducting them, and you can imagine the noise! Then just when you think it’s loud enough, these ice-cream trucks come in, blaring. And then the fire department comes in, and they were part of the piece, too, with their sirens. I didn’t expect that to happen.
FP: I never thought I’d hear of something so interesting happening in Brampton. What did you play?
ES: Well, for awhile everyone was playing these sustaining chords, so I was matching these chords, and scratching over the chord changes. Then at one point it stops, and then there’s some percussion that starts slow, and gets faster, and there were some solo routines. And then these fire engines [laughter].
Another crazy gig was one with Francois B. and Annie Sprinkle. This was in Milan or Turin, with DJ P-Love. They said “We’re doing this show, it’s in this gallery space,” we said OK.
We show up, the gallery had these high-school style wrestling bleachers on either side, with a path down the middle. We set up our turntables, and Francois B., I thought he was some French rapper or something. He comes up right near us, he’s pretty much naked, completely covered in talcum powder, and he’s got this Philip Glass kind of music playing, and this canvas is unrolled down between the bleachers. And then he puts these little straws in his veins, and he proceeds to squirt blood out of his veins, all over the canvas, walking back and forth, for about forty-five minutes.
And then at the end of his show, he told me “Yeah, I can’t really do that many shows…” And we had to go on after him! I wasn’t sure if we were going to be heavy enough for the audience. I guess if there was one night where we could have gone totally abstract, it was then.
Are we getting off topic here? [laughter] Was this going to be about vinyl? Well, this is where vinyl can take you.
FP: I guess vinyl is the lifeblood of your art.
ES: Yeah, yeah.
Another crazy show was in South Africa, me and Amon Tobin were playing in Johannesburg, in the courtyard of a former prison. And we were in the middle of our set when it started raining buckets. The mixer was filling up with water, still plugged in, still working. It was crazy, there was a sheet of water on the record, and where the needle was playing there was a fishtail, a wake streaming out behind. I was staring at it, thinking “Dude!” And it’s still playing, you know? I was still plugged in, it was not safe. But when you’re up there playing, the show must go on, then after, when the adrenaline comes down, you realize that was crazy!
FP: Were people still digging the show?
ES: Ah, they were dancing their asses off, they were partying like crazy. It happened another time with snow, I was playing with Bullfrog at the apex of Whistler Mountain. It was so cold, when I took my headphones off, the wire was like a stick; it was solid. I had to play with gloves on.
FP: How was playing the Skydome in Toronto with Radiohead like?
ES: Man, that was like going to the moon—or what I think going to the moon would be like. It really felt like you were in some weird space station, because the ceiling’s so far up. The echo in there was insane too—it was so hard to stay in time. I had to put a set together that would fit a bit more with their crowds. They were really supportive, they set up some cameras, and mixed beautiful visuals up on these huge screens. I think their audiences had never seen music like that before. I had a great time.
If you’re wondering what the weirdest gig I ever played was, that was it. Having the lights go over the crowd and there’s 20,000 people, you’re in Madison Square Garden, that was crazy. I mean, how many shows do I have to play in New York before I get to play there?
And my one claim to fame is I almost played tambourine in Radiohead. They were practicing this song, In Limbo, during a soundcheck. I was standing by the side of the stage, and Thom said, “Something’s missing– we need a tambourine.” But they’re all already playing on that song, so who’d gonna play the tambourine? Thom says, “Get Eric to play it!” I thought he was kidding, I started walking away, but then he tells me “No, come stand over here, you just have to go like this,” and he’s got me standing right next to him. And I’m like, “Dude, there’s no way I’m standing here OK?” And he was like, “OK, OK, we’ll set him up next to Phil.” So they set up a mike next to the drum kit at the back. We practiced it once, and they said they might play it later, so be ready! The rest of that tour, I’d be sitting at the side of the stage, all nervous, but they never ended up playing it.
FP: Well, maybe next time.
ES: Yeah, but that’s what I’m saying, is, how do you get there, like all of a sudden you’re playing tambourine with Radiohead during a soundcheck in a giant stadium?
FP: If you had a formula for how that happens, people would snap it up.
ES: I think it’s, uh, two parts sugar and three parts vinyl [laughter]. And ten parts being raised on the Muppet Show and Monty Python.

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