by Dan Fox

2009 was looking sweet for Telefon Tel Aviv and the two musicians at its core, Joshua Eustis and Charles Cooper. Having just completed their latest album, Immolate Yourself (on Germany’s BPitch Control label), Eustis and Cooper were ready to release it in January amidst an already healthy buzz, due in large part to a monster tour circuit that had taken them all the way to Russia and Indonesia (where, Eustis described, they were introduced to Miss Indonesia at a press conference held specifically for them). Their unique, ethereal sound, which constantly mocked the descriptions applied to it (but here’s a few tries anyway: snowflakes magnified, the ripples of an oak tree), had already attracted thousands of adoring fans and an impressive resume of collaborators like Nine Inch Nails and Bebel Gilberto—just to name a few. Not bad for a couple of NOLA boys brought up on bounce rap and Westbank skate spots. And then the worst thing that could happen, did. After going missing for several days, Cooper was found dead of an overdose, suicide being only one possible cause. The news of his death sent shockwaves around the world but it was in New Orleans that his sudden and inconceivable absence was felt most intimately. ANTIGRAVITY was fortunate enough to speak with Eustis shortly before he left New Orleans for Chicago, where he and Cooper had been living and working for years. Knowing both of them for well over a decade was both a blessing and a curse as I spoke with Eustis under a New Orleans evening sky that could’ve well inspired a TTA track. This dialogue is just one feeble attempt to make sense of Cooper’s death, but more importantly to honor his life and the music he helped to create during his all-too short time here with us.

ANTIGRAVITY: Even for someone who knew you, the level of friendship you communicated to the world after Charlie died was intense. Can you flesh that out a little bit to help people understand exactly what kind of relationship that was?

Joshua Eustis: It’s kind of hard to put into words, really, but we depended on each other for everything. Aside from being best friends, we worked together, we lived together for many years, we made three records together, did remixes together and basically never argued about music in the studio. If somebody had an idea, cool: try it. If I had an idea and maybe Charlie didn’t think it was a good one, we’d try it anyway and vice versa. We’d humor each other. We had a relationship such that it got really strained after the second record and the tour really beat us into the dirt. After that we took a break; we didn’t know if we were going to make another record, but after a year of talking on the phone (I was living down here at the time) he was the kind of guy who was like, “Really? We gotta make a record, man! Don’t think about it! Let’s just write songs and see what happens.” How could I say no to that? That’s exactly what I wanted to do. So I moved back to Chicago in May of ’06. We got a place together, set up the studio and started working on stuff. The type of relationship we had was also such that whoever was broke, the other one would pay. We depended on each other for a lot: moral support, goofing off support, going out getting wasted, whatever. When somebody’s your best friend they’re your best friend. Couple that with being in a band where it’s just the two of you and you’re touring together—it creates a relationship that goes much deeper than just a friendship. We relied on each other for everything.

Going back a little further, how exactly did you meet? He was a Marrero/Shaw kid and you were an Uptown/Jesuit boy.

Yeah, but Anton Falcone [who lived on the West Bank] went to Jesuit and by tenth grade Anton and I were boys, hanging out all the time at school. I had given him a tape of this electronic stuff I had been working on. He gave it to Charlie because Supafly was looking for a keyboard player and Charlie called me out of the blue and asked “Hey, come play keyboards for my band.” I told him, “Dude, I definitely know who you are and I definitely know who your fucking band is because y’all are the most popular band in New Orleans, but I am not qualified to play keyboards for you. I’m not even going to lie.” His response was, “Aw fuck it, it doesn’t matter. C’mon, just come hang out, come play keyboard; let’s do stuff!” I never ended up playing for them, of course, because I was just not qualified to do it, but we ended up talking on the phone for three hours that night and I was completely amazed by how much he knew about everything. We totally hit it off and we’ve been friends since then, since we were about 15. We started working together in ’99. I ran into him at Saks Fifth Avenue: he was with his shitty girlfriend at the time; I was with my shitty girlfriend at the time. I was buying a suit; he was buying a suit. We ran into each other and started talking about gear and music and all this crap, and our girlfriends were sitting there giving each other the once-over, stamping their feet. We talked for an hour in the store and Charlie said, “I got a session I’m working on right now. I don’t know what the hell to do with it, so I’m going to bring it over to your house and let’s just see what happens.” That session that he brought over was actually “Introductory Nomenclature,” which was the first song we ever did together and it was on our first record [Fahrenheit Fair Enough].

Are you mad at Charlie at all?

Sure. I like to tell myself, to give myself comfort in a very selfish way, that it’s a natural response to something like this. But I can’t really be mad at him because the Medical Examiner, for instance—I’ll tell you this, since everybody is wondering—ruled inconclusively. They couldn’t rule that it was a suicide, because there wasn’t enough evidence to indicate that it actually was. It very well could’ve been an accident and that’s what the Medical Examiner thinks at this time. We get the toxicology report in a week and it’s going to stay between me and his family. If it wasn’t intentional, then I’m a lot sadder, but I’ll take comfort in knowing he wasn’t trying to take an easy way out of life’s problems. But, if it was intentional (which I don’t think it was), then yeah I’m pissed off because it’s a bullshit way of dealing with life’s problems—problems that everybody has: girl problems, money problems. Fuck, everybody has those problems. To despair when you have problems is the height of folly, because despair is only for people who know the end beyond any doubt. If you know for a fact that it’s going to end badly, then you can despair, but nobody ever knows that everything is going to completely fall apart and your life is going to end. For that reason I would be pissed off if the Medical Examiner comes back and rules it a suicide.

And it seemed like Charlie was on top of the world, so to speak. But I guess success is always relative.

Well, you know, Charlie had the kind of personality that was super happy-go-lucky, easy-going, gregarious, garrulous, outgoing party guy, life of the party, center of attention… He would say the mole he had on his chin was the center of the universe—and it was, in Chicago and in New Orleans. He was also the kind of guy who, if he were having problems, wouldn’t want anybody to know about it because it would show a sign of weakness. And that’s an old school, alpha tendency he had and that’s fine; that’s not a problem. But if you’re in a really dark place, your friends and family are there to talk you out of your tree. So nobody will really know what was going on his mind, not even me and I knew him like a brother. More than that. Same with Fredo [Nogueira, a longtime friend and TTA collaborator]. There wasn’t that much we could know or do about any of it.

One impression I get from scanning the internet is that a lot of people have used Telefon Tel Aviv to get them out of their own dark places. What is that for you?

It’s the best feeling in the world, because I really wasn’t aware of it until now. Naturally, with Charlie passing away, I was thinking: Jesus, was all of this for nothing? Did this not make anybody’s life any better at all? All this work and all this bullshit, the dismal adjuncts of being in a band, and that’s your job, making records and everybody steals it—is there a point to it? Is it worth it? There’s been an outpouring of letters from fans, e-mails, comments on the Myspace page where people say, “Just so you know, Josh, when I was on a fucking ledge two years ago with my iPod, one of your songs came on and I thought the better of it.” Or “I bang my girlfriend to your music all the time and it’s great! I finally got laid when you put records out.” This is a huge amount of comfort to know that the music, however stupid it is to me, and the fact that I’m still like a kid making beats in a stupid little studio—it’s enriched people’s lives. Even if it’s [just] one person or twenty thousand. If you can make one person’s life better with whatever you’re doing, then it’s absolutely worth it.

The new record is obviously a big reminder of Charlie. Is that a source of consolation for you or a burden now?

It’s not a burden at all. I’m taking great comfort in the fact that the record, at least by our standards, is doing really well. It’s doing better than any of our previous stuff that we’ve done together and I wish he were around to see it, because I think it would give him a great amount of comfort. He cared a lot more about the records than I do, historically. I haven’t ever really given a shit. I never read the press; I don’t look for it. He would look for the stuff and try to find out what people were saying about it. I was always taking the attitude like, “Who cares what anybody’s saying, good or bad?” If you start reading your press you’re going to drive yourself up the wall. So now I have the responsibility of reading what people are saying about the record and most people aren’t saying that much about it. They’re talking about Charlie and I’ve taken a great amount of comfort in that.

Are you looking forward to promoting it?

I am trying to look forward to that; I’m a little lost on how I’m going to do it. I don’t know how it’s going to go down exactly but there’s definitely going to be a massive tour later this year, basically July through October, ideally. The world, U.S., everywhere else that I can get a show. I don’t know who’s going to be involved or how it’s going to go down: I’m not there yet. If the band’s going to continue…I don’t know. We’ll see.

When someone close dies, it’s easy to have these one-sided conversations with them, where you wonder what they would want. What do you think Charlie wants you to do with Telefon Tel Aviv?

I have no idea. Everybody is telling me, “He would want you to keep going.” And I’m thinking Charlie’s the kind of dude that might’ve been like “I don’t know, playboy. I don’t know how you’re going to do it without me.” I believe in an afterlife and a human spirit and I believe that Charlie had a very strong human spirit. I hope that whenever I do have to make these definite decisions about the future of the band that if I keep going he won’t get pissed off, or if I quit going he won’t gloat—which I don’t think he’s that kind of guy. That’s a tricky question, only because I haven’t answered it fully for myself yet. The grief is still too near to make those decisions. Hopefully, if Charlie’s on the beach in heaven having a Corona and a Pina Colada with a bunch of girls around him, he’s saying, “Josh is down there on Earth, slumming it and trying to keep going with Telefon—all right, that’s cool. Do what you gotta do, brah. Do what you gotta do.”

For more info on Telefon Tel Aviv, go to telefontelaviv.com or myspace.com/telefontelaviv.