Photos by Ben Thomson
I first heard Mark Ronson in 2007 when I spent $15 buying his album Version from a shop that, for inexplicable reasons, sold both CDs and broadband modems.The album felt like contraband. It was the most upbeat variety of pop Iâd ever allowed myself to enjoy and I left the store wondering: should I really be doing this? But Version turned out to be an intoxicating album, and I listened to the song âValerieâ more times than Iâll admit.But that was more than a decade ago. The modem/CD shop has closed, and Mark Ronsonâs career has dramatically shifted gears. While Version included a Britney Spears hit rendered as a boom-bap, hip hop instrumental, Ronsonâs new album, Late Night Feelings, is a byproduct of divorce. It deals in very different shades of melancholy, yet for me whatâs truly interesting is how it arrived after a battle with writerâs block. This begs the question: What happens when one of pop musicâs most successful producersâthe person record labels employ to fix albums for other musiciansâwhat happens when that person runs out of juice?Iâm allocated an atrociously lit hotel room for the interview. While we wait for Ronson, I go through a dozen test shots with our photographer Ben, who eventually settles on moody monochromes to solve the light problem.I keep expecting the 2007 version of Mark Ronson to open the door. For myself and the crowds of former teens who first became fans, Ronson will be forever a fresh-faced Englishman with a slicked back pompadour and a slim-fitting suit; all done-up-top-buttons and thrift-store cardigans. Heâll forever be indieâs eternally stylish kingpin. But instead, Ronson enters the room wearing a comfortable grey sweatshirt and black tracksuit pants. His sudden presence commands silence from the publicists outside in the hallway, but Ronson smiles disarmingly. He tells me heâs exhausted from the flight and looking forward to a pre-show nap, but then turns out to be incredibly frank and forthright.âWhen youâre going through a breakup, you have good days and bad days,â Ronson opens, cutting straight to the chase. âWhen my marriage was breaking up, I spent the first six months of being single drinking and going out. Doing whatever it took to avoid confronting the situation head-on.âThe fallout heâs referring to is his 2017 divorce with French actress JosĂ©phine de La Baume, whom he married in 2011. As he tells me, the divorce created an almost insurmountable creative block.
âAnytime we tried to do something upbeat, Iâd come back the next day and never want to hear it again,â he says. âThere must be 20 unreleased songs sitting on my drive from those sessions. What I was going through affected the music in every way.âCreative burnout is a debilitating equaliser. And as it turns out, megastar producers are just as prone to it as the average 20-something, in over their head during another endless workweek. Getting through it, like most strategies around good mental health, requires small consistent steps.âThe breakup was a catalyst for me. Iâd be ignorant and dumb to think the reason Iâd had all these breakups is because Iâm unlucky in love, or picking the wrong person. The only fucking link between all these relationships is me. It was a catalyst to wake up and invite some more honesty into the way I live my life.âIn what you might call 'therapy-speak', Iâm high functioning,â he continues. âI donât really scream âcrack head.â You donât fix it overnight, but most of the time the best thing is recognising it first and seeing patterns that youâre doing.âThose patterns were leading Ronson down a time-worn, cliched path: a star that goes out relentlessly, drinks too much, and distracts himself with musically fruitless side projects. He knew it, too. Coming to terms with it was the key to making progress.âYouâre still going to repeat some of those patterns, and youâre still going to fuck up,â he says. âBut the best thing you can do is become aware and want to be better.âBorn in London and raised in New York, Ronson has been surrounded with music since he could walk. So much so that Paul McCartney once saved him from drowning at a Long Island beach as a child, during the time he was living with his step-father, Foreigner guitarist Mick Jones. Decades later, Ronson would DJ McCartneyâs wedding. In a lot of ways, he was destined for this life.But lately, Ronsonâs life has got a bit complicated. As his marriage ran aground, the record-breaking single âUptown Funkâ delivered him two Grammys and went on to become one of the highest-selling singles of all time. A self-diagnosed workaholic and perfectionist, he followed that up with an Oscar for the Lady Gaga-helmed hit âShallowâ, which he co-wrote. Ironically, the very workaholic tendencies that offered him success are the same ones that prohibit him from enjoying it. âIt is amazing, but it just doesnât feel right to me to celebrate something that happened in the past,â says Ronson, recalling his triumphant win at the Academy Awards. âYou can celebrate it in the moment, but as far as the next day is concernedâsitting around staring at an Oscar?âitâs not going to keep you there.âAs we continue talking, Ronson rattles off a list of A-list collaborators with the flippancy of someone reading a grocery list: Queens of the Stone Age, Lady Gaga, Bruno Mars, Kevin Parker, Diplo. But thereâs one name synonymous with Ronson thatâs notably absent: Amy Winehouse. In the late 2000s, she was one of worldâs biggest artists. Now, sheâs the indie generationâs entry to the â27 Clubâ; the millennial answer to Kurt Cobain, or Janis Joplin for the Boomers. When prompted, Ronson lights up for a moment and considers what she would think of his music and career now.âOut of anyone I worked with, she was the one who wore her heart on her sleeve the most. Me and Amy were friends from the day we met and up until she died,â he says. Ronson produced Winehouseâs album Back to Black, one of the biggest albums of the early 2000s. Now, the two are forever linked; instrumental in each otherâs breakout moment.âI've had four or five really important people to me that Iâve lost at this point, some younger than me too. For someone whoâs never done heroin, thatâs an unusual amount to lose. All of my friends who canât be here anymore, well, I think about them all the time.âItâs an unorthodox position for Ronson to be in. But here he is: a DJ pedaling an album of air-tight pop hits, channeling a sense of genuine sadness onto the dance floor. Heâs aware of how contradictory it all seems.âNobody wants to hear the DJâs feelings,â he says. His eyes lock with mine for a moment. âYou donât go to the club to hear the DJ get on the mic and say I had kind of a shit day, but I hope you guys are having a fun time. Itâs not that I ever ran away from these feelings before, I just donât think I accessed them. Leaning into it feels good.âSeveral hours later, Iâm at Ronsonâs show. Heâs in full DJ mode. And as DJs do, he gets on the mic, hyping up an already explosive party. As expected, he doesnât talk about his feelings. Not the death of his friends, the crumble of his marriage, or the physical toll of his touring schedule. No one wants to hear that. Instead, he says something to the effect of: Melbourne, youâre my people! Standard DJ banter. But as the crowd swirls around me, lost in a communion of dance and bass, I take a moment to look at him. Heâs behind the decks, still and focusedâthe exact opposite of everyone else crammed into the club. I think to myself, is Mark Ronson alright?Itâs impossible to know. On one hand, Ronson has endured the death of indie to enjoy money, fame, awards, and critical acclaim. On the other hand, thereâs a melancholy energy around him that feels flat; caught in a paradox between the emotionally vulnerable Ronson I meet in the afternoon and the club magician I see the same night.But has he changed, or have I? Weâve all grown up since 2007. Weâre wiser; cynical, even. We demand more from our heroes. Itâs tempting to think this has simply become a job for him. That the intersection of commerce and music has left him trapped: unable to escape the expectations of his own success and personaâthat Mark Ronson is here to help you party.Instead, I think back to something he said during our conversation earlier.âIf anything, music is even more redemptive for me now. As Iâm getting older, Iâm accessing deeper parts of it. I look to music for an authentic connectionâinstead of just nodding my head because the beat is dope or something. Music has always been the most important part of my life. Itâs probably saved my life.âFollow James on InstagramMark Ronson's "Late Night Feelings" is out now.
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âAnytime we tried to do something upbeat, Iâd come back the next day and never want to hear it again,â he says. âThere must be 20 unreleased songs sitting on my drive from those sessions. What I was going through affected the music in every way.âCreative burnout is a debilitating equaliser. And as it turns out, megastar producers are just as prone to it as the average 20-something, in over their head during another endless workweek. Getting through it, like most strategies around good mental health, requires small consistent steps.âThe breakup was a catalyst for me. Iâd be ignorant and dumb to think the reason Iâd had all these breakups is because Iâm unlucky in love, or picking the wrong person. The only fucking link between all these relationships is me. It was a catalyst to wake up and invite some more honesty into the way I live my life.âIn what you might call 'therapy-speak', Iâm high functioning,â he continues. âI donât really scream âcrack head.â You donât fix it overnight, but most of the time the best thing is recognising it first and seeing patterns that youâre doing.â
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