Chicago was ground zero for industrial music as the 1990s began. Home of Wax Trax! records, Ministry, Pigface and innumerable other mischief-makers and noisemongers, the city roared and glowed with a fierce fire as audiences around the world were introduced and entranced by the metallic and mechanical. After a while, the whole scene collapsed into a dense dark mass and exploded outward, showering its individual components far and wide. Those who remained at the core shed their skins and began periods of metamorphosis while the rest of us--the unwashed audiences clamoring for more--kept vigil.

I loved this scene. This is where I first had my exposure to music that would have a permanent, lasting impact on me. I won't say Ministry's The Mind is a Terrible Thing to Taste changed my life, but it certainly ruined me for the more sprightly, poppier things in life. And I can't say that I'm really sorry for that loss of innocence. There were names that I first came into contact with at that time; one of those was Chris Connelly--chief howler for the Revolting Cocks (Ministry's thrash-lounge mindfuck side project) and occasional vocalist for Ministry.

Scottish-born Connelly came to America specifically at the request of Al and Paul to front the Revolting Cocks and he stayed with them from 1987 until 1993 (leaving a most entertaining version of Rob Stewart's "Da Ya Think I'm Sexy?" in his wake). During that time, he fell in with nearly every project that came out of Chicago at that time, including that frenetic industrial circus known as Pigface. Martin Atkins (chief mayhem maker of Pigface and founder of Invisible Records) caught Chris' ear one afternoon and convinced him to front the Killing Joke-esque Murder Inc. project. They did one album and a tour together before it was time for Chris to step away from the limelight.

I caught up with Chris by phone at his home in Chicago. Coming in as a fan of Ministry and Pigface and the Revolting Cocks, I was caught by my own preconceptions of who and what an artist is. Listening to any of his solo projects--either under his own name or hidden under the moniker of The Bells--you can't help but realize that what you may know and hear isn't what is true now.

It's interesting that where one starts in something always has a strong pull on that person. A lot of where I'm at as a music listener and as a critic starts with where I began to seriously listen to music and that was definitely the industrial period of the late '80s, early '90s. That's where I first heard a lot of names: Bill Rieflin's. Chris Connelly. And people are moving on.

Chris Connelly: [Laughs]

And sometimes you have to play catch-up with the growth of an artist and you have to let go of preconceptions of an artist. It's always fascinating to watch where an artist goes. And yet, there are always people who are reluctant to let go of a notion of what sound an artist should be tied to. Which all translates to: I guess I didn't appreciate Shipwreck enough when it came out. Sorry.

Chris: That's alright. Don't worry. One moves on, but one takes one's baggage with you. It's all relevant. You know what I mean? I was talking to someone about this the other day on my website and they mentioned a record I had done a long, long time ago--ten or eleven years ago. They were saying, "This is my favorite record that you've ever done. And I don't like--don't really listen to what you're doing now. I've tried to get into it and I can't." And I replied, "Look, that's totally fine. An artist will only measure himself by his latest work and that isn't the same for a listener."

An artist will hopefully always think they are moving in the right direction creatively, and they are moving in the right direction for them. But if you've reached album number ten in your career and album number two is the one that people liked, you have the option to keep making records but you can't expect the audience to fall in love with every one. They aren't you. I used Alice Cooper as an example. When I was a kid, I really loved Alice Cooper. Then in the mid-'70s he did this record--Lace and Whiskey I think it was called--and it was horrible. Ever since then I've never bought an Alice Cooper record and, if I've heard them, have never really liked them. So for me, I like his first four records and I don't care for the rest. But he might like them fine. It's not the listener's fault if they don't like what you do.

Sure. Is this something in the back of your mind when you're making a record? Do you consider the possible reaction of your audience to your work as you are making it?

Chris: No, no. Not at all. I used to. But you can't second-guess what people are going to like. Ever. I think it is a very naïve thing to think that you can. Of course, there are some musicians that are popular because they have a formula, and they stick to that formula--that's their bread and butter. But that doesn't interest me. The only reason I start a new project is that it's interesting for me to do. And, being a person who has never really sold that many records, what do I care? I'm not going to make that much money off it anyway. [Laughs] I've gotten a lot more kudos for that than anything else in my career. When I start a project, I'm always very excited by it. But at the same time, projects for me are never started or finished. Say I wrote something two years ago that never made it onto a record, I might drag it up again and use it on another. I'm always continually writing. It doesn't have a beginning or an end. If I feel something is relevant to a project, I'll use it. If not, then I won't. But I'm always just tackling the subject at hand and I can't be concerned with what other people might think of it. It's something that I used to do and I found it did no good whatsoever.

Is there some liberation in being a smaller-selling artist since you aren't strapped in by what a label might be looking for?

Chris: Sure. I'm an artist who does what he wants because that is why I do it. No one's ever asked me to do anything--for a start--and I'm used to working that way. And I don't think anyone would ever approach me to do that. At the same time, I'm not willfully trying to be obtuse by doing that. I do what I like and some people really, really like it. And for some, it doesn't reach them. That's the path I've chosen.

Chris: Well, exactly that. I was approached about doing the project and I said, "Sure, send it over." And I heard it and I thought it was definitely something I could make a contribution to. I'm not interested in contributing to something when I feel that I'm not bringing anything new to the table. I really excluded myself from writing anything musically for this project. I said I'd write lyrics. It was interesting to me because I hadn't done that for a while--where I've just been given the music and been asked, "What can you come up with?" It was very exciting--I had a great time writing--and I'm very satisfied with what I've done lyrically. That's important to me. I mean, I can write to order if that is what you need. I can do that. But I was given carte blanche to go ahead with whatever I'd want and the music was invigorating enough that I felt I moved forward and didn't stay in the same place.

Did they just send you unnamed tracks? "Here's a little ditty..."

Chris: Yeah. "...have at it." That was really wonderful. I recorded everything here in Chicago. All the music was recorded in England. So it was just me in a studio for a couple of weekend sessions. Martin was there for the first session. We had a good time working together. He's the producer; he's not a singer, not a vocalist, which means he was coming up with ideas for backing vocals that I would never have considered. The second time it was just me and an engineer and I had a lot more vision of what the project was going to be like since I had had a hand in shaping it. I had done half the tracks and was very confident about [them]. So I walked away having gained quite a lot. Even if the record never sees the light of day--which it will--I'll have certainly gained a lot from the project.

And you're doing a pretty comprehensive tour behind it. It seems like there was mention of more than one continent.

Chris: Oh yeah, we're out for the long haul.

How does that bode for you?

Chris: I'm thrilled. I can't wait. I love to tour. I don't have many ties to anything so it's no big thing for me to up and leave at any given moment. I love to travel. I've lived in America for twelve years now and I've never really felt like I've had a home base because so much of that time has been involved in touring and what have you. I haven't settled and I'm very much at peace with not having done that. So I'm not uplifting any roots to do this. I love to tour. I like to play live. It's a great energy.

Your bio on your website calls you "a leading figure in industrial music." Considering the direction of your solo work...well, I'll just throw that out for you to tackle. "A leading figure in industrial music!"

But there's a lot of water under the bridge since then--I've learned a lot since then--and like I said earlier, you carry your baggage with you. And it is very important to do that. So everything I learned as a teenager playing in a band, I still carry with me to this day and it still--to me--very relevant. Though probably not to anyone else. Say I play someone--someone I've just met who doesn't know anything about me--I play them a tape of a band I was in during the early '80s or late '70s and I think it sounds great. But they'll probably think it sounds just god-awful. But there is something in [that tape] that I've kept with me. It brings forward the lineage for me, if you like.

Sure. You remember the time. Probably a lot of the subsumed memories of that period come back when you hear that.

Chris: Yeah, yeah. It's all self-perpetuating. Everything I do now is relevant to what I did then. And everything in between as well. But it's all hit or miss. There's a lot of records that I've done that are, I think, humorous now that I thought were brilliant at the time I completed them. But now they serve the purpose of making me laugh.

A lot of comments have been made about Phenobarb Bambalam. It's been what? Almost a decade since that album was done. You've mentioned in other places that the album is simply a historical document--a record of what you were experiencing at that period. Now that you've had even more distance, what's your take on that record?

Chris: To this day there are still songs from that album that I play live--songs like "July" and "Heartburn"--that mean a lot to me. They're very personal songs and they always will be. You know, I read a really brilliant interview with Bob Dylan recently where he was asked about the songs he plays in concert--songs that he has been playing since 1960--and they are altogether different now. And he said, "Yeah, all my songs are blueprints and I'll keep changing them live and keep reinventing them because that is my job."

In reference to Phenobarb, I have some problems with that album because I don't think it sounds particularly great. It was done in a hurry at a time when maybe I shouldn't have been recording. And that's par for the course and all very well for me to say, but the record is out there and a lot of fans really like that record. You know, if you had asked me that question a few years ago, I probably would have said, "Bah. I don't want to talk about that fucking record at all." But it is what it is and it is a very flawed record, but I think it has some very great moments on it.

I was charting out the History of Connelly and it seems that during the period of 1989 to 1993 you were in, like, eighteen different projects all at once.

Chris: [Chuckling] Yeah.

And after 1993, you seemed to drop off the map. Well, that's not entirely true. You still pop up from time to time, but in much smaller roles--you produced a track here, provided backing vocals there. As far as the creative process goes, I'm curious as to your take on the difference between such a period of highly collaborative reativity to this period of working solo. How has the creative drive changed?

Chris: It's changed a lot for me. You've got to understand that until 1992-93, I was involved with Ministry, I was involved with Pigface--things like that--and a lot of these things were no-brainers. I would go in and play a very small part in something that would become a much greater whole. But because of that and because of [the nature of] pop music, you have a much higher profile since you are involved in so many different things. And yeah, okay, then I seemed to drop off the face of the earth, but that was at that point when I decided: no more collaborations. I realized there was something I needed to develop within myself. I sat down and started to really, really concentrate on my songwriting. And at the same time, I went through a number of really complicated and very boring legal problems with whatever record label I was involved with at the time. And there were times when I couldn't move, I couldn't do stuff. I left the record company and, in my naïveté, thought it would be easy to get another deal and that just didn't happen. So I recorded and I wrote and I wrote and I wrote, and I played by myself. I went out and started playing solo acoustic shows and actually really found myself as a writer. So, paradoxically, when I dropped off the face of the earth I was being a lot more prolific than I ever have been. I had to make a move, I had to make a change, I had to realize that I had to do something for myself. So that means when I step out of that space and back into the arena now I'm a lot more confident about what my contributions to a project can be. That's why this [the Damage Manual] is so important to me. Before, I felt kind of fraudulent sometimes. "Oh my God, what am I doing? This is great! I'm getting to go on tour. What the fuck? This is brilliant." And people liked it. That's fantastic. Perhaps the gratification wasn't as complete as it is for me now. It's a lot better for me.

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