Humour is a Glasgow outfit made up of vocalist Andreas Christodoulidis, guitarists Jack Lyall and Ross Patrizio, bassist Lewis Doig, and drummer Ruairidh Smith. Christoulidis and Lyall have known each other since they were five years old, connecting with Smith at the start of high school and Doig and Lyall in university. They released two EPS, 2022’s Pure Misery and 2023’s A Small Crowd Gathered to Watch Me, before setting aside most of last year to work on new music, which will materialize in a few days in the form of their debut album, Learning Greek. Its title is taken from a line from discarded track about Christodoulidis’ decision to start learning the language as a second generation Greek, and though he spends most of the album screaming in an American accent that bears out the characters he’s inhabiting, you can hear him speaking it a bit in conversation with his father on the eponymous track, where they read Andreas Embirikos‘ poem On Philhellenes Street. “This searing heat is necessary to produce such light,” he writes of the overwhelming weather in Athens, not unlike how Humour’s alluring, dreamlike hooks and tender revelations radiate through their blistering post-hardcore. Christodoulidis amalgamates personal, familial, and mythological stories much in the same way the group bridges styles, resulting in a record that is as fiercely heartfelt as it is surrealist, and, well, humorously absurd.
We caught up with Humour’s Andreas Christoloudis for the latest edition of our Artist Spotlight series to talk about his earliest memories of Greece, juxtaposing heaviness and melody, what Learning Greek means to him, and more.
I was really sorry to hear about your grandfather’s passing last week. I can’t imagine receiving that news when you’re supposed to be promoting anything, let alone this record. I was actually listening to ‘Dirty Bread’ when your publicist told me.
Thanks, man. He had the funeral in Athens, but it was too short notice, so I wasn’t able to go. That song was a lot about the sadness of how I would see him in his later years, especially. In the time just before he died, he was very unwell, so it was kind of his time. But I was worried a bit about telling my sister and my parents that it was about him because I didn’t want it to sound callous in any way, just talking about the solitude of old age, especially with it being so specifically about him.
There is a sense of reverence, still, in the way you describe him decorating his place like a museum, like a preparation for dying, especially in the context of an album largely revolving around a fear of death.
I’m really glad that came across. Part of it was a response to the music, which was already mostly written. Quite more so than a lot of the other songs, there’s a sort of triumphant feel to the music. It’s very major and musically a bit more anthemic, so I think that’s why I even subconsciously thought this could be quite a, as you say, reverent song. It’s funny because I have notes on my phone with stuff I’ve written and stuff I’ve read, and I amalgamate and pick and choose lines when I’m writing for a song. The notes that I’d written about my about this topic, about my granddad, and then moving into my own fears of getting old and dying – it was much more somber and depressing and sad, but then moving into the song and then putting it to that music, it became more optimistic and hopeful, this idea of being defiant in the face of dying.
When did you first start coming to Greece, and how do you remember your grandfather’s place?
I started going when I was one year old, so I don’t remember the first time, but I have lots of memories of my grandfather’s place, right up until the last time I was there. That’s a big part of Athens for me.
I know your father grew up in the shadow of the Greek military dictatorship. When did he move to Scotland?
He went to Athens University and met my mom while he was studying. My mom is Greek, but she grew up in London, so like me, English is her first language, but her Greek is fluent. They stayed in Athens while my dad did his military service, and then moved to Scotland, where he was doing a PhD at Edinburgh University. They were planning to move back to Greece, which is why they spoke to me and my brother and sister in English, because they thought we’ll learn English here and then we’ll get the Greek when we move back. But they decided to stay. So, yeah, probably about 35 years ago.
Do you remember becoming curious about your Greek identity?
It was always quite an integral part of my growing up. My first words were in Greek, and they were quickly replaced when I started school. But my dad would always tell me and my siblings stories from mythology, as bedtime stories, basically. So I knew those growing up; it was very familiar territory. And we were sent to Greek school – once a week, we’d go to learn Greek at the Orthodox Church, which I hated. But looking back, I think that was such a good opportunity. We would learn songs as well and listen to music. My parents love Greek music, so it was always playing in the house, so I tried to incorporate that a little bit into the album, like, on ‘Dirty Bread’, the line about dirty blues is from a Soteria Bellou song
Right, the rebetiko [Greek outlaw blues] singer.
Yeah. ‘Μ’ αεροπλάνα και βαπόρια, I think it’s called. I always remember that line growing up because it’s something like – I’m going to butcher this – “Σ’ αυτόν τον τόπο όσοι αγαπούνε τρώνε βρώμικο ψωμί.”
In this land, all those who love eat dirty bread.
Exactly. My sister and I thought this was quite a funny line. And then later, when I got older, my dad explained, it’s about the communists. It’s a metaphor for being noble and brave and hardship going hand in hand. I’ve kind of revisited Greek music as I’ve gotten older, and I thought I would, in some way, bring that into the album.
I think there’s also a song inspired by the poet Cavafy?
Right, ‘Aphid’. Loosely – I was reading that poem again.
Do you know his poem ‘Voices’?
I don’t think so, no. Is it Φωνές?
That’s right. It comes to mind as you’re speaking about the music and mythology you were introduced to as a kid – the voices are the voices of the dead, or people who are like the dead to us, how they speak to us in dreams, and it sounds like the early poetry of our lives.
Oh, I can’t wait to read this poem. [laughs] That’s lovely. That’s a really nice analogy to the early voices. My dad loves poetry and Greek poetry, so he would often be translating it for me, bits I didn’t understand, and I started recording him – just secretly on my phone every so often if we’re having a nice conversation. I didn’t know what I would use it for, but it ended up being very useful for the album.
I want to ask about that recording, but I’m curious if there’s other early music or poetry that comes to mind when you think about your upbringing.
I’ve always been interested in poetry. I wouldn’t say I write it myself – a song is so different from a poem because there isn’t the same pressure on saying exactly what you want to say. With a poem, it’s all in the words, whereas the song has the assistance of melody and music. I don’t think it’s as pure as poetry. But I’ve always loved reading it – I wouldn’t say I’m broadly versed in poetry, just pockets of things that I pulled off the shelf or came across or studied at school. But for me, lyrics as well in songs have always been in many ways the most important part. I grew up listening to Bob Dylan and Van Morrison and songwriters where the lyrics are crucial and very poetic and beautiful.
The album’s title track features you and your dead reading On Philhellenes Street by Andreas Embirikos, which is very relevant as I speak to you from Athens, in the July heat that he writes about.
I was speaking about this with my dad recently. It’s so powerful if you’ve experienced that – walking in Athens, in the height of summer, is almost unbearable.
Deafening.
Deafening, yeah. And it’s literally the noise of the city as well. It’s such a strong memory in my mind. I just love that analogy of the intensity of heat equaling intensity and brilliance of light. You can think of life that way, I guess. When it’s very painful, it’s also very wonderful.
There’s this passage from it: “Things around me were clear, tangible and still visible, and yet, simultaneously, were nearly rendered incorporeal in the heat, all things – people and buildings – so much you’d say that even the sorrow of those mourning nearly utterly evaporated in the same light.” From an outside perspective, it almost sounds like a surreal – he was a surrealist poet, after all – and almost ludicrous thing to say, even offensive to those in mourning. But there’s both a cultural and personal resonance to it, somehow.
You’re so right, and that’s such a beautiful passage. For me, there’s almost a closeness to things when you’re in that kind of heat. Everything is in some ways amplified, but in some ways reduced, in terms of senses. It’s almost like meditation, because it focuses you so much, and it helps you to be absolutely present. I feel like that heat that he’s describing does the same things: it plants you so absolutely in the moment that makes you very present and aware. It’s so familiar, and I wonder if it makes sense to someone who hasn’t experienced that. It just feels particular to Athens or my relatively limited experience of Athens.
This might be a bit of a stretch, but do you feel like that metaphor also applies for heavy music, the idea that it’s necessary for the light or catharsis to exist?
I hadn’t thought of that, but that is a really nice connection to make. Something we’ve always discussed when writing is having that duality of heavy and chaotic and cacophonous and melodic and beautiful – either song to song, or actually even within songs, having those two sides of it. I think the reason we do that is because one is necessary to the other. You don’t get the release and the relief of the melodic part without the juxtaposition with the really heavy, almost stressful part. So in a way, there is that link with the idea of the heat and the light, the intensity and the relief and the beauty. As far in the heavy direction as we push things, I think we’ll always have this tendency to come back to melody and prettiness. It could never be all one or all the other.
In a similar way, there is also a juxtaposition of cultural and family history, like with ‘Dirty Bread’ and ‘Die Rich’.
Yeah, definitely. If ever I feel like the lyrics are leaning towards being obviously about something, I try and pull it back. I like for a song to linger on the threshold of abstract and clear, so some parts will be very close and immediate in terms of lyrics, and then others will be much harder to pin down. I think the whole thing for me is just a kind of synthesis of memories, nostalgia, real history, imagined history, national history, personal history – all these things coming together in different narratives. But none of them are absolutely about anything in particular.
The juxtaposition of ‘Memorial’ and ‘Plagiarism’ specifically feels ironic in a self-aware way, given that the former is drawing from Homer’s Iliad and the latter is about a lyricist who’s afraid of running out of reference points. Was it intentional?
It was kind of a very happy accident that those two are next to each other. I hadn’t even thought of that, actually. A lot of the lyrics – a lot of the lyrics are, let’s say, borrowed. That’s a generous word to use. But in ‘Plagiarism’ specifically, I had the chorus before I had the verses, and the chorus – the lines are directly taken from a Seferis poem. [laughs] I was just putting things together, and I was like, “I don’t really know what this song should be.” And then I just thought, “Well, maybe it can just be about the act of stealing.”
Borrowing.
[laughs] Borrowing, yeah.
Is it always the case that the music comes first?
Yeah, I actually think I’ve never shown the band the lyrics first. They might exist in my notes in a form that is quite similar to how they end up being in the song, but it almost always starts with the music in some form or another. But then, quite often the music will change completely, and my part will stay the same, so they do influence each other in that way. That’s one of the great things about writing songs, the fact that you end up with something you never could have really imagined when you started.
Do you sometimes feel that pressure to put words to music? Is it becoming easier over time, or are there periods where it feels more like a struggle?
It’s like with anything creative. There are days when it just comes easily, and you have a lot of belief in everything you’re doing that day. It just makes you loosen. It makes you try things and be a bit more daring. And then there are other days when the imposter syndrome kicks in and everything sounds contrived and stupid and just shit in your head. [laughs] And that’s the hardest thing, especially when the music is going well, and I think I’m letting us all down because I just can’t come up with anything good.
Do you feel like your communication as a band has developed over time in a way that is conducive to that process?
It’s definitely changed and improved over the years. Especially when we first started, I felt very shy and self-conscious about lyrics and the other guys hearing them for the first time in whatever state they were in. Just because we’ve known each other so long and we’ve written together so intensely for such a long time, there’s a lot of trust there, not just with the lyrics, but with the instrumentation as well. I think you have to have a lot of trust in each other because you’re always putting yourself in quite a vulnerable position when you’re writing, whether it’s music or lyrics, because it’s an ongoing process. It’s not like you’re showing the finished product. You’re showing each other what you’ve got at every step of the way, and sometimes it’s really bad. But we very much feel free to make mistakes and try things out in front of each other. And with singing as well – sometimes I’m very aware, when I’m standing in the little vocal booth that we built in our flat that we lived in together, that they can’t hear the music. Only I can hear it, and I’m screaming my head off, screaming these weird, quite often strange lyrics that they haven’t heard yet. I think you do feel really vulnerable in those moments, but there’s this level of comfort.
With a lot of bands that form at a young age, it’s their love of music that brought them together. Obviously, if you meet when you’re five, you’re not going to discuss Bob Dylan or whatever, so I’m curious if the bond you share with Ross specifically outside of music helps you connect on some of the deeper themes in it.
Yeah. Because this album in many ways is about more personal themes, it’s nice that Ross has experienced that part of my life. He’s come to Greece with me, he knows my parents. He’s heard me struggling away in Greek on the phone with my grandparents. Generally with lyrics, we liked the same things growing up – we were both obsessed with Bob Dylan when we were 15, so that came later. I know that all the guys really like my lyrics, which I think just helps you with that kind of comfort and being able to try things. There’s that belief in you, and we all have it with each other.
Is there anything in particular you find daunting about writing the next album, given how personal this one feels?
I have thought about that, but I think with this one, it happened quite organically, and I didn’t have a plan for it thematically. I think you just have to trust that if you sit down and start writing, the thing will develop into whatever it’s going to be, and I don’t really mind what it is. I don’t mind if it’s less of a cohesive thing with a central theme. If it’s just a collection of songs that are about lots of different things, that’s fine. It never turns out the way you plan it, and it inevitably changes. And it should, I think, because you’re discovering things and working things out.
Even with this album, I can imagine these songs existing in your mind without being tied to Greekness – that’s just the lens through which you explore those hefty emotions, and it became a throughline.
I don’t think the album needs or should be interpreted as being about Greece or learning the language or anything to do with that. I liked the idea of learning Greek meaning exploring the past, exploring memories and nostalgia and fragments of memory and identity. For me, it’s not so much about the language particularly, but coming back to the past and the building blocks of yourself. That really was a really nice way of putting it – the early poetry.
This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity and length.
Humour’s Learning Greek is out August 8 via So Young.
