Mark Oliver Everett—better known simply as E, the ageless, bathrobe-wearing, gravel-voiced heart behind Eels—is not the kind of artist who chases trends. He’s the kind of artist who writes a soul jam about strawberries and popcorn because, frankly, that’s what was in his kid’s leftovers. “I just thought, no f*** it, I’m just gonna eat that for dinner,” he says. “I really enjoyed it, by the way. It was a good combination.”
That might as well be the Eels mission statement.
On Extreme Witchcraft, Everett reunites with Souljacker co-conspirator John Parish for the first time in two decades—because of a random text from music video director Mark Romanek reminiscing about the 2001 album. “That just got me thinking about John Parish… maybe I should see what he’s up to,” E says. “It just turned out to be good timing. He immediately started sending me stuff, and a few weeks later we had an album.”
The result is a dirty, riff-heavy, surprisingly hooky set of songs with titles that could double as vintage Vincent Price films. Everett describes it as “not a sequel per se” to Souljacker but maybe a “continuation.” That’s a generous understatement. The two titles look like they were scrawled on the same Ouija board planchette.
“I mean, they are kind of spooky titles both of them, you’re right,” he says.
Unlike the old days, the pandemic forced them to build the album from across the ocean—Parish in Bristol, E in L.A. “It’s probably not as fun as being in the same room,” he admits. “Sometimes you have to wait a whole day. I’d wake up at four in the morning to check the latest version from John.”
And yet, somehow, none of the disjointed pandemic chaos shows up on tape. “If it felt disjointed, I can’t tell when I listen to it,” E says. What does show up is a record that slinks between gutter fuzz, surprisingly pretty melodies, and lyrics that toggle between self-lacerating and surreal.
Grandfather clocks tick through the background, riffs swagger and then collapse, and mortality gets unpacked over slow funk. “It’s not about the end of the world,” he clarifies. “It’s about the end of your world.”
Songs like “Steam Engine” ruminate on aging, a subject Everett treats with a combination of awe and gallows humor. “I still feel quite vibrant,” he insists, before describing the song as something that “just kind of came out” and only later revealed itself as a meditation on personal demise. “You know that thing you hear about old people—like, they don’t feel like old people inside? I can recognize that in myself.”
Even when he’s ripping through grimy garage rock or laying down torch songs for some fictional 70s soul diva, the humor’s never far behind. “Some songs are autobiographical and some aren’t at all,” he says. “It ends with [the character] being remorseful for being an idiot. Hopefully he’ll bounce back from that. We’ll see.”
One of the album’s strongest moments, “So Anyway,” sounds like the weird spawn of Gladys Knight and a busted tape deck. “I wanted it to be something that could’ve been sung by a classic 70s soul act,” E explains, “but completely in the trashy, f***ed-up John Parish world.”
As for whether he consciously knows what songs are about, he’s refreshingly anti-thesis statement. “No, I don’t think you have to be conscious. I love that songs can be interpreted differently by each listener.”
Listeners have been doing that for over 30 years now. This year marks the 30th anniversary of his major label debut A Man Called E, and while Everett doesn’t hate it, don’t expect a deluxe vinyl reissue anytime soon. “That one goes a little too far back for me, really,” he says. “It’s probably not my favorite if I listen to it—because of the production on it. The early 90s was really still the late 80s.”
But even back then, he was defying music industry logic. “I got signed before I had ever performed live,” he recalls. “Nobody expected me to be a good live performer.” His first show? Opening for Tori Amos. “I think it was in Louisville, Kentucky actually.”
Despite having a discography that’s earned cult devotion and critical praise, Everett has had his fair share of pushback. Souljacker was, in his words, “a jarring left turn,” and the label told him there weren’t enough radio-friendly singles. “It didn’t do very well commercially… which I’m used to,” he deadpans. “But it took on a life. That’s the real test.”
Even 2018’s The Deconstruction, the first Eels album after a four-year break, was born out of a breakdown more than a burst of inspiration. “Normal people take vacations. I was going 25 years non-stop,” he says. “I hit a wall. Something needed to change.”
During that break, he also became a father. And yes, that colors the music. “You’ve got to try to stay positive,” he says, half-referencing Trump-era America. “My goal was to not work at all as much as possible. But if I woke up and felt like I had to write… maybe six months later another song would come out.”
And while he won’t reissue Broken Toy Shop—“I haven’t heard it in a long time, and I kind of want to keep it that way”—he does love the lo-fi, stitched-together quality of albums like Electro-Shock Blues, even if it took 20 years and a chance encounter at a stoplight with producer Mickey Petralia to think about it again. (“We should’ve celebrated,” he laughs. “Had no idea.”)
There are side quests too: he’s a Freeman of the City of London, complete with tie and cufflinks. “If you’re drunk, supposedly they don’t put you in jail—they put you in a taxi home,” he says. “I don’t know if that’s still true. That might be from the 1700s.”
He acted in Netflix’s Love and got tips from Gillian Jacobs. “It was half fun, half terrifying,” he says. “I was basically playing an even more pretentious version of myself.”
He even played with Steve Perry and became friends with Jon Hamm. “I think he might be one of the only guys that has Broken Toy Shop,” E says. “He’s not a groupie—that would imply a sexual relationship, and while I find him extremely handsome, it hasn’t gone that far.”
Extreme witchcraft, indeed.
Listen to the interview above and then check out the videos below.
