westlifeweb.com - Interviews - 'Westlife' June 2000

Westlife

Q Magazine, June 2000

Bejaysus!

They walk on water. They are child-explodingly popular. They are the biggest band in Britain. And, in Israel, they are "gods". Screaming, wardrobe, transsexuals, rucks with Five, vodka and more screaming: such is the lot of Westlife. "Bros were kind of guinea pigs," they tell David Quantick.

Ben-Gurion Airport, Tel Aviv, 5.30am, Saturday 6 May 2000. In a stoneclad VIP lounge apparently based on Elvis Presley's fireplace, Westlife are engaged in animated debate.
"Grey and white," says blond, cheekbone-faced Nicky Byrne. "Blue and white," suggests blond, tall Bryan McFadden.
"No, man," says black-haired, chisel-cheeked Shane Filan, "We can't wear blue and white."
"Black," says McFadden. Byrne interjects. "We can't wear black because of the lights." Inspired, he makes a suggestion to the other four group members. "Two all grey, three grey and whites." There is much relief all round. "Well done, Nicko," says Filan. Then Kian Egan, blond, intense-eyed, says, "That's the first half of the show. What about the second half?"

RTE Studio, Dublin, 11.30am, Friday. In the foyer is a statue of Eamonn Andrews, a woman with a jumper that says I LOVE MY BAD DOG, and many excited young girls who are nominally here to take part in RTE's People In Need Telethon but may also be here to see Westlife. "I hope I don't wet myself," says one girl, wisely. In a nearby studio, full of kids and presenters, Father Jack from Father Ted sits on a chair. Nearby two puppets called Socks and Dustin the Turkey are rehearsing a terrible version of Flying Without Wings with Westlife and presenter Damien McCaul. Then Westlife sit on stools and mime If I Let You Go (afterwards, scarily, someone shouts, "Stools! Get them to autograph the stools!" and, indeed, they do). Father Jack says, "Feck!" and McFadden is overcome with joy. It's a chaotic afternoon. Westlife spend every second between rehearsals signing things, whether they are photos, posters or furniture. They laugh even when Dustin The Turkey calls them Shelflife, farts and says that there's nothing wrong with Sligo "that a bulldozer wouldn't fix". Father Jack assaults Damien. The band sing Flying Without Wings and kids wave their arms in time. Rather touchingly, some of them aren't very good at it. Everything is watched from afar by one half of Westlife's management, Louis Walsh (the other manager is Ronan Keating, of Walsh's other hit group, Boyzone).
"I met them when they were called IOU. I liked them before hearing them sing. I liked their attitude and I asked them to come to Ronan's 21st," says Walsh. "I didn't want to sign them but then The Backstreet Boys were in Dublin and I got a phone call saying, Get me a support act, will you. So I rang them up and said, Hey guys, you're supporting Backstreet Boys, and they went crazy. There were six of them in the band so we dropped three of the boys in the band." Walsh axed half of IOU "because they weren't right. Ha ha ha! Pop is very fickle," he insists, "you have to look good. It has to be almost perfect, onstage and offstage, so the other three didn't fit the bill, that's the best way to put it. Diplomatically."
Boy band life is strenuous and Westlife are a new breed of boy band. Two of them - McFadden and Byrne - are from Dublin, and met in karaoke competitions. The other three - Filan, Egan and the quiet, dark-haired Mark Feehily - are from Sligo. Together, they are the only group ever to have their first five singles go in at Number 1 in the UK singles chart. Their debut single, Swear it Again, released in far-off April 1999 sold 102,000 copies while the millennial festive tune/death disc combo of I Have a Dream/Seasons in the Sun shifted an awesome 213,000. Westlife are, in short, successful the way people only think Travis are. And, with songs designed to be more "mature" than Take That's, Westlife make even Boyzone look flippant.
"Boyzone was different. Boyzone was fun. They were fun characters," says Walsh. "With these boys, its business, 24 hours a day. Take That were really good. They copied New Kids. East 17 were just dressed-up couriers with a record deal."

Backstage the band are posing for photos with a puppy and a kitten. Byrne holds a kitten. Suddenly there is a terrible smell. "It's shat on his hand!" roars Filan happily as the studio fills with the smell of rotting Boeuf Bourguignon. Three fans appear, one announcing herself with a razorbacked scream. She is Tara Thackeray, 15, with her friend Sharon Murphy, also 15.
"I absolutely love them," says Tara. "'Cos they're the sexiest guys around and they've got deadly voices and gorgeous hair. And they're from Sligo, which is great because it's really small and nice and you can go to their houses. Can you get us to meet them?"
No, says harsh old Q, asking what bands Westlife fans hate. There is some confusion.
"Boyzone"
"Shut up! We like Boyzone. We like Backstreet Boys and we hate Five." Ah, Five (or 5ive, as they think they are called). Five are the slightly rap-influenced, naff Backstreet Boys clones who tried to start an East 17/Take That war with Westlife. J from Five, the one who apparently romances Mel C, said: "Westlife are wimps. They have frilly, silk blouses," presumably contrasting this with the hard, violent image of Five, who were once mercenaries in Angola and not kings of Pot-kettle Land.
Westlife are wearily diplomatic about Five, as we shall see. For now, however, excitement beckons and Westlife have to leave the building. With, fantastically, a Garda motorcycle escort. Sirens squeal like angered fans as Dublin's Friday afternoon traffic is disrupted. The band are very happy.
"It's like Moses parting the Red Sea!" says McFadden, aptly as we are now off to Israel. A confused driver does a U-turn and blocks the road. "Get out of the way! I'm having a baby!" shouts Byrne, dishonestly.
The van roars through town. Byrne reveals that this is the first leg of a tour called East Meets Westlife. "There's a skyscraper in Singapore with our faces on the side," he says, awed, and adds, with a touch of self-deprecation, "We're really big in Israel. I don't know how many we've sold but apparently we're gods."
At Dublin Airport, there are more fans, whose attitude is a chatty and familiar one. Byrne shows Q a photo of himself with a fan where his blond hair is sticking up. "There's Something About Mary!" he laughs, and then says, "Watch this!" Suddenly he runs off, and is immediately chased by 50 girls.

The plane lands, far too early for sleep and sanity, in Israel. Where Ireland, like Mick Jagger, reckons itself to be slightly over 2000 years old, Israel is only a year younger than David Bowie. The band are greeted at the airport by a small group of - what else? - screaming fans. After a brief conversation in the VIP lounge about lighting (McFadden: "What about black?") and local star Dana International (Filan: "He's had his dick chopped off?"), Westlife are driven to their hotel.
The hotel is so full of teenage girls just hanging round that it may well be playing host to the World Teenage Girl Championships. Westlife autograph their way past them all to sleep, photo sessions and Saturday lunch, Israeli style (which means a cold fish and cheese buffet as it's the Sabbath). Westlife are unfazed by the lack of sleep and, indeed, giant meat pies.
"Not at all, man, this is the life," says the ever-affable McFadden. "It's like going on holidays."
"It's the price," says the phlegmatic Filan. "We knew that from the start, from speaking to Ronan."
"Once I freaked out," confesses Byrne, who has been going out with the Prime Minister of Ireland Bertie Ahern's daughter since his mid- teens. "I woke up and I didn't have a clue where I was. Fortunately I had my mobile, I pressed redial and got through to my girlfriend... I was panicking, and she was like, Calm down, you're in Poland."
Not very often one gets to use the phrase "Calm down, you're in Poland". The interview progresses in grooves that Westlife have worn well. They are friends with Mariah Carey and Puff Daddy ("But I don't think we're very close friends with any of them," says Feehily, practically). They love Mariah, Filan claiming "she's very nice to talk to, very normal, she doesn't talk down to you." "A PR person came over to get her," says Byrne, wonderingly, "and she was, No! I'm talking to the Westlife guys!"

Indie fans may hate them. Bands who slog up and down motorways with their dirty guitars will weep.
"Bands like that have it a million times harder," says Egan. "My brother's in a rock band and he's been slogging around for three years. They go into the studio, record their own stuff, try to get development deals. It's such a different ballgame in the rock world. For us, it either happens for you or it doesn't, simple as that. If it doesn't happen in the first six months, you'll probably get dropped."
"We know we have it very easy," says Filan. "That's just the game we're in. We're not claiming to be a super-talented rock band who write all our own music. We're singers."
Feehily is the diplomat. Choosing his words like wedding rings, he says quietly, "I think it's a little bit unfair for people to say that we shouldn't be here and that we shouldn't have the success we're having. We obviously bring joy to the kids who buy our records and come to our concerts."
Times are less hard for boy bands. Westlife learned from Boyzone, who learned from Take That, who learned from the unluckiest (arf, arf) boy band of all, Bros.
"People like Bros - I know it's a horrible thing to say - were kind of guinea pigs for everybody else," says Byrne. "They made millions and lost it all. How? Why? And people have learnt from that - Take That, Boyzone, us. We deal with bank managers and accountants and lawyers every second day."
It's not rock'n'roll. But then, it's not meant to be. Besides, there's always the chance of a thrilling scandal. If Louis Walsh phoned up tomorrow and said, Lads, you have to split up in dramatic disarray, what would you like to do best?
"I think there'd be no better way than a serious bang," says Filan. McFadden agrees. "Shoot each other, like Reservoir Dogs."
"Eat each other," says Egan. "I'd starve to death if that was the case," says Feehily.
"Two of Westlife get married. To each other!" is Byrne's winning suggestion.

Westlife - once Westside until it was discovered the name was taken, then almost Westhigh and, according to McFadden, Westicles - have had their lunch-cum-interview. Now it's time for a press conference. Normally these events are a great chance to play Press Conference Bingo and win points for people saying "How did you get your name?", "What are your influences?" and "When will you be playing Nizhni-Novgorod?", but the Israeli press are smart. Having already dismissed Five for being - ha ha! - "grumpy" at their press conference, they have press conferences sewn up.
A man from Channel Three asks, "Ever wake up in the morning and say, Thank God for hormones?" Filan replies, "A few years ago you could get away with one voice and five good bodies. Nowadays it's a lot more about the songs." McFadden sums up brilliantly: "Harmonies rather than hormones." Channel Three persists and tries to connect youth with screaming fans.
"Tom Jones gets screams," parries Filan. "Michael Jackson gets screams."
"Yes," says Channel Three, "but that's because people are frightened." The conference progresses. In a move that leaves him out on a limb, Middle East-wise, McFadden expresses the urge to become a pig farmer. Five come up. "Jay and Shaun we don't know because they don't talk to us," says Egan. "They're very private people," says Filan, inventing a new dimension of tact. Asked if it's true that Westlife can't smoke or drink in front of fans, Feehily promptly coughs his face off. They end the press conference by singing an acapella If I Let You Go. They are very good. Q tries to imagine Embrace singing acapella and shivers like a wet hound.
The soundcheck is shambolic for what is, amazingly, Westlife's first ever live (ie. Live vocals, taped backing) concert. Outside, the venue is surrounded by huge dragons (all right, screaming teenage fans). Inside, the only men in the building run through various songs not all at the same time, sing over bits of backing tape and even play a couple of songs on acoustic guitar in the dressing room. Madly, the organisers let the crowd into the lobby. Soon faces are pressed against the glass fire doors like victims at the portholes on the Titanic and, despite McFadden's request to rehearse Seasons in the Sun, Anto the tour manager says, "We'll have to open the doors now or there'll be an accident." There are more pleas for rehearsal. Filan ends by saying, "Lads, we were late. Full stop," and Westlife vanish.

Tel Aviv Sports Palace 9pm. There really is an international language of Screaming. Screaming, screaming overlapped with more screaming, fills the venue, along with placards that say MARK MARRY ME, and IRISH LADS ARE THE BEST. Down the crowded front, a teenage girl does her make-up, unaffected by the 3499 other bodies on her back. McFadden hears the screaming. Apparently some band called Westlife are on, Q says, hilariously. "Shite," beams McFadden, "They're fucking shite. Bunch of fags!"
The band do backstage one-to-one hugs and run onstage into a teenage windtunnel. Like a bloodbath at the teddy bear's picnic, stuffed animals rain down on Westlife. The follow-up assault involves bras, many of which McFadden waves at the crowd. The show is marred by receiver trouble and one by one the band are called backstage to have flat batteries replaced, like pop stars with pit stops. A fan is pulled out in a faint. Then, as a security man carries her off, she suddenly sits up in his arms, leans over his shoulder and takes a photo of the band. There's an interlude for the band to change (Byrne: "I've got that yellow shirt") where Riverdancey music is played and the stuffed toys are bagged up and taken away. The band return, more bras are hurled, Seasons in the Sun is performed - a song much loved here despite the fact that every single member of the band dies during it - the band are off again, back for an encore of Seasons in the Sun and then If You Let Me Go. A group of small girls bring on flowers, to the band's consternation. Westlife let the girls sing along, and then lead them offstage as they wave goodnight, gents to the end, and conquering heroes all. For Westlife, these are the days of bras and roses.

One thing that anyone travelling with Westlife gets used to is the look of disappointment every time a door opens and a waiting group of fans realises that it's not the band, just some older, fatter oaf.
Tonight, however, we are in luck as our van has tinted windows and the fans cannot see who we are as they batter the van like hail with palms. Back at the hotel, in a bar disguised as a Bedouin tent, Champagne and Maccabee beer are distributed, although when McFadden discovers that Stolichnaya is $200 a bottle he sends it back ("Is it Cristall Vodka?" he inquires, clearly knowing more than Q about vodka) and Filan fetches a crate of Red Bull from his room. Byrne invites Q to sit. "That was fucking manic," he says. "We only choreographed it yesterday. We had half a day's rehearsal in Dublin. And when they brought the kids out at the end I was like, Get the fuck off the stage, but you can't do that."
Drinks are drunk. Mcfadden and Byrne engineer an acoustic singalong with Israeli support band Unisex on Extreme's More Than Words (alas the other support band, Eurovision stars Ping Pong, have gone home). The band are off to Dubai in two hours, Byrne minus a £400 bracelet stolen from a heavily-guarded dressing room. The last words of the night are on the end of Q's tape. They are, mysteriously, the sound of McFadden shouting, "I don't smoke!" The next day, Westlife are gone, to wow the world. In Q's room is a sachet of local sugar. On one side is a picture of Martin Luther King. On the other are the words "I HAVE A DREAM". So, it seems, do Westlife.