Music
Interview
Stage Times: The Brian Jonestown Massacre’s Anton Newcombe
Hecklers, histrionics, and haymakers: The Brian Jonestown Massacre’s mercurial leader Anton Newcombe reflects on his out-of-the-ordinary history of live performances.
“What hasn’t been said about me?” shrugs Anton Newcombe over Zoom from his studio in Berlin. The Brian Jonestown Massacre – and their mercurial main man – are no strangers when it comes to pandemonium.
Outspoken, uncompromising in his vision, and belligerent in his self-belief, Newcombe ensured his band became a word-of-mouth wonder throughout California during the 90s. Merging shamanic psychedelia with shoegaze, the San Franciscans undoubtedly paved the way for the retro-indebted garage rock revival of the early 00s. They were renowned for their prolific output and Newcombe’s desire to write, record, and self-release everything himself as much as they were their self-destructive nature. He’s certainly ruffled a few feathers throughout his career, even sabotaging opportunities to get signed to major labels in favour of owning his own music.
After featuring in 2004 documentary, Dig!, alongside frenemies The Dandy Warhols, The Brian Jonestown Massacre soon became a cult phenomenon. Not solely because of their music, however.
In-fighting, stricken by heroin addiction, and a revolving door of band members made for heartbreaking albeit compelling viewing. Even their live performances were at risk of unravelling, often resulting in verbal and physical altercations with each other. It’s a trait that they haven’t quite shaken off – as recently as 2023, a show in Melbourne, Australia was cancelled due to fisty cuffs on stage between the band, with the entire tour Down Under being pulled subsequently.
Last year however, Newcombe underwent a double heart bypass. At the age of 57, he has no inclination to court any more drama. “I’m a different person,” he soberly reflects. “I spent four months on my back. It changed me in a lot of different ways. I never even used to think I was old. I was in my own headspace, I guess. So, it gave me perspective on the finite amount of time I have. Putting my guitar down this year, I’d never done that before, since I was a kid. That was strange.”
Fully recovered and fighting fit, a ruminative Newcombe is preparing to take The Brian Jonestown Massacre on tour throughout the UK for the first time since his major health scare. With a renewed sense of excitement and gratitude about slinging on his guitar again, the band’s forthcoming shows are set to be just as intoxicating. Just without any histrionics, hopefully.
“I’m really excited to be playing again. I’m in a unique position. When I think about all my heroes, most of them, I’m doing way better than they did. The route that they took, the nature of the industry, maybe what they wanted out of life. Whatever it is, I’m thankful. You can’t take it for granted.”
Ahead of Brian Jonestown Massacre’s 2025 tour, we talked with Anton about his band’s storied, out-of-the-ordinary on-stage career.

Photo: Francis Dalacroix
The gig that made you want to become a musician
I saw so many excellent bands in southern California growing up. I saw Minor Threat, Fugazi, The Smiths came over, The Jesus and Mary Chain. It’s a combination of bands, really. The punk stuff, the energy of slam dancing, and the psych bands. I used to like this band called The Three O’Clock, and I remember all the girls looking at them thinking “they’ve got it going on”. But watching punk bands made me think “these guys are idiots, I could do this”. Even if I didn’t want to play like that.
So, were you already playing guitar at this point?
I was in bands from the age of 12/13. Whenever someone’s parents were gone, it was an excuse to have a party, which was an excuse to play in a band. Even just to jam for 30 minutes until the cops came. Which was every weekend where I’m from. House parties were the way in.
The first
The first one as The Brian Jonestown Massacre I think, the very first one, was at a frat party in Berkeley. But in those days, we were banned immediately because of our name. Then we played at this Masonic Temple for African Americans. They had a lounge, so [we] went down there and asked “Mr. Peterson, my brother’s getting married and we want to have a party. I come from a family of builders, so can I rent out this room?” He goes “ohh ohhh ok”. No security, no age limit, we played all night. Who cares, you know. That was the 90s.
One of my teenage bands was called Electric Koolaid. After I quit, all these guys from bands you’d know of now, like Mark McGrath [from Sugar Ray], they all had their turn singing after me. Once they finally pooped out, I took the name back for the hell of it, and used it for more of the 60s aspect of my music. The Brian Jonestown Massacre was more experimental, that car crash between Sonic Youth and My Bloody Valentine, with hip hop beats and weird tunings. We used to open up for ourselves, and get totally weird.
The smallest
We played Brownies in New York City, which was just tiny. We played the cellar in France where people play? I have no idea where it is. There’s water constantly dripping on your head. Same kinda thing in Switzerland; it was a water cistern that turned into a wine cellar, crazy places.
Another place in Switzerland, we played in their smallest canton – which is like a state – and every canton gets an entertainment budget so you don’t have to keep driving through the fucking mountains to see stuff. So, on this farm they had this café, with cows. At a stretch you can fit a hundred and five people in there. Outside on the yard they have festivals, but they could get anybody. Fontaines D.C., anybody right now. AC/DC if they wanted to blow their whole budget. Really bizarre. Inside though, it’s no bigger than a Greggs or something. You look at the list of people that have played there, and it’s everybody. It’s called Bad Bonn.
The biggest
We’ve played Field Day in Victoria Park a couple of times. We played on the main stage in the 20:00 or 21:00ish slot. We were essentially headlining, even though we weren’t. We were in the prime slot. There were definitely 25,000 people there.
I remember that show vividly. The weather was proper miserable all day. But when you started playing the opening riff to ‘Pish’, the sun burst through the clouds. It was majestic.
Anton: Yeah! I couldn’t see it, but everyone had that look on their face. People told me there was a double rainbow. It was a beautiful thing. We were staying in this hotel, out of town. I remember waking up and just praying that it was going to be a decent day, everybody having a good time you know. The shocker of that whole day was that Air were in a tent playing to 500 people. I was really disheartened for them, but they’ve come back in spades. The business with the 20th or 25th anniversary. Playing to millions at the Olympics didn’t hurt. It’s like your country saying “this is our baby”.
There was a couple of years where we headlined Austin Psych Fest, when there were tornado warnings, and we played to 20,000 people. We’ve played Rock am Ring and Roskilde which is about 60,000 people. But I don’t really consider that. The crowds are there to see Jay-Z, or whoever, and to have a good time.
The weirdest
Wow. Ok, I’ve got one for you. Ready? We were at Webster Hall, I don’t know if it was Halloween or what. We were headlining the big room on the top. Truck pulls up, Insane Clown Posse play the middle room. Downstairs in the basement, it was Otep. The mixture of those bands in the same venue was like “what?!” New York babyyy. What I heard happen was a truck pulled up with all the fizzy pop Insane Clown Posse drink, because everyone sprays it all over the place. So Otep’s playing, and they short circuit the entire room as pop leaked through the floor. So, that was pretty weird.
When we played the LIQUIDROOM in Tokyo, at that time Japanese people used these hand signs, like sign language. They were bouncing up and down in unison using these hand signs, like the illuminati. Like, what the fuck? That was weird. In Argentina they love singing “Olé Olé Olé”, and in France they sing melodies like football chants. It’s very touching but it also throws me off. Just shut up so I can play. That kinda stuff to me is strange.
The worst
Well……
Obviously fans of yours will remember The Viper Room gig because of Dig!…
Yeah, and that sucks because we were putting something together. It’s an interesting position to be in when there’s all these people surrounding you that want something out of you, or for you, that you don’t want at all. But you’re trying to push things forwards.
Would you say you subconsciously jeopardised that show?
Look. Nina from Elektra [Records] got her boss to finance the van or whatever was needed for that show, and got all the industry people there to start a bidding war. Say I signed with Elektra… and now, Elektra doesn’t exist! Tim from Stereolab, he was their darling at the time. He lives here [in Berlin], I know how he lives. That wouldn’t have done me any good. They were on MTV, on 120 Minutes, you see what I’m saying. Even if it went as well as it could’ve gone for me, without me opening my trap, I’m still doing better than I would have. It’s all perspective. Even in hip hop, before those guys thought about owning publishing and being the producer, that was my game. My thing was always that I’m going to own the publishing, and I’m the producer. Or else, no. Or I’ll make horrible records. Then we’ll see what happens.
It’s all about different opinions. You’ve got Robert Johnson, right. He recorded on a steel wire. He was too shy to even point the microphone, so he’s singing towards the wall with the mic behind him and that’s the record. Then you’ve got Eric Clapton saying ‘oh he’s my favourite guy ever’. So, the recording quality had nothing to do with it. It’s the spirit of the music. The suspension of disbelief. I already knew that, with certain records. Look at The Velvet Underground. Some of it sounds lovely like ‘Sunday Morning’, then there’s other stuff like ‘Run Run Run’ where it’s just blazing noise into one microphone at the same level as the drums. The problem was that nobody liked them. If you know your rock ‘n’ roll history you know that The Doors only sold like 700,000 copies in the 60s, but they sold millions and millions in the 80s. A different ball game. Now, it’s a different world. I’ve sold hundreds of thousands of records, but I’ll never get that kind of credit because I live on a different planet. But I’m so fortunate for what I’ve got. Kids are fighting tooth and nail for their digital presence nowadays. Some people are still kicking butt though.
So, in many ways, The Viper Room gig was ‘the best’ gig?
You know what, it really sucked. I don’t talk about the movie… At the time it seemed like this guy was starstruck, and I wasn’t. I was dropping bongs and playing songs. He dropped the ball playing just E and A. I was like ‘what the fuck are you doing? You just blew that whole set’. It’s neither here nor there. We played so many shows, but people won’t remember the ones that are phenomenal. Let’s put it this way. I can go on YouTube now, watch The Byrds, and the drummer can’t remotely play drums at all. It sounds like he’s gonna get his butt kicked out the band back down the hall. I just want my shows to be super good.
There’s a section of fans that still seemingly come along to your gigs just to antagonise you. Does that bother you at all?
Anton: It’s just ridiculous man, I’m 57 years old. You can’t please everyone. Without being political, we live in hyper complex times, and tolerance is the way to go. To the best of your ability. Not schadenfreude. People don’t understand that kind of shit. Provoking me, you know. I came from a rough place. California has gangs, like real gangs. Not a guy on an electric scooter stealing your phone. I’m taking gangs that have 250,000 members, with people in jail, so you’re screwed no matter what. You have to stand up for yourself. But I don’t want any of that. I just want to play my songs to the best of my abilities, and keep my mind straight. I just want to entertain people. People try to heckle me on the internet. That’s why I’ve never shown pictures of my kids. Do you think I want people bashing my kids? They surely would. It’s like that.
But that’s the price of fame. We’ve sold out the Barrowland Ballroom again, right. Nobody’s going to say shit to me there. And that can be a rough crowd! They’ve bottled people off the stage there. The worst thing that can happen is getting a drop of beer on you after they chuck their £8 pint in the air. The UK’s pretty good though. I did get into it with somebody last time I played down south, but that’s it. One time. It’s just when people are out of line. I’m not having any of that. I don’t want to give away my secrets, but between you and I, it’s not worth my life. It’s not worth anybody getting hurt. I’ve been a fond believer for a long time that being stupid is not something to die for, or to go to jail for.
The best
I wouldn’t say it’s the best gig… Well? That’s a tough question. Some really amazing things have happened. You know they have the red button stream for Glastonbury Festival. A lot of people watch that shit from their couches.
Guilty as charged…
I went to the truck the last time we played and said “don’t do anything to us, just put a bunch of reverb on the voice. Keep the drums a bit jazzy, but otherwise don’t do anything. Please.” I’m watching this band that’s playing before us, called The Preatures, from Australia and they were kicking ass. Then you turn around backstage by the bar, where they’ve got those speakers, and it sounds awful. Worse than a rehearsal. So we play, thinking this is going to be horrible. The funny thing about having Joel [Gion] in the middle – this always happens on tv, at festivals in France, everywhere – is that the music starts and the camera points at Joel waiting for him to sing. Then they point it at another guy and he ain’t singing. Then they finally figure out it’s me the whole time, it’s a giggle. Well, that happened. We had one extra guitar player, Matt Hollywood, it was cool. People were lifting up the flaps on the tent to see us. It was a good day. Glastonbury is always what I call ‘a crapshoot’. You don’t even know who’s going to play, so how can your audience be there? Especially a band like us. So if you play on one of the bigger stages, and it’s packed, that’s saying a lot. If you’re on Radio 1 or Radio 2 it’s fine, like, ‘oh look the Stereophonics are playing’ or whatever. We’re not really a festival band, but Glastonbury was a good time.
Anton’s new album Parallel with All Seeing Dolls is out on 21 February via A Records.
The Brian Jonestown Massacre start their 2025 UK tour on 1 February. Find tickets here