Murray Lightburn is a family man, travelling the world with his baby daughter. He's thoughtful and gregarious. And he possesses a boisterous, disarming laugh, which he busts out at the slightest excuse.
All this, and the Dears front man still can't shake what he acknowledges as "this reputation of being this dark, brooding fella" - a reputation that goes beyond the acclaimed Montreal band's dramatic sound and dark lyrics. And pleasant as our chat is, it's not difficult to see why.
Many musicians mouth platitudes about their enthusiasm for the music business even as they sound like they'd rather be having their teeth pulled. But rare is the upbeat personality consistently dishing out downbeat quotes.
"I think when I sit down with a lot of journalists and I'm grumbly, they don't recognize that maybe I hate doing this," he says. Then he laughs heartily, and carries on where he left off. "I do it because I'm part of a f---ing machine - a machine that I loathe. The music business is that machine, and it's the weirdest love-hate relationship that you can have. I love playing with my friends on stage and making records that hopefully mean something, and I'm fortunate enough to sustain my life doing this art. But a part of the sustenance is doing this stuff like talking to your ass and autographing stuff and making posters and doing TV things that you don't really want to do."
Lightburn's complaints with the music industry might seem a little much from a guy who took his band on a two-year world tour to ensure that its breakthrough album, 2003's storming No Cities Left, found a wide audience. But even if it's a bit of a put-on, Lightburn's insistence on playing the jaded outsider is probably necessary to push the Dears forward.
Otherwise, they probably would have taken the easy way out and made a bigger-budget version of No Cities Left. Instead, they attempted to recapture the innocence of their early days, recording in drummer George Donoso III's parents' basement.
"I think a lot of this album was about trying to capture some of the romance that is there when you're just starting out," Lightburn says. "Back then it was like some pure expression going on, and it was all just about that. ... It was never about record sales or promo trips or publicists.
"It's kind of like if you're losing your virginity in a romantic, beautiful way," he says, repeating an analogy he recently gave to an American magazine, "and 10 years later you're a porn star and you've got a boom mic and gaffers around you and a director saying, 'Can you do that again?'"
It's debatable whether Gang of Losers, the new album released last month, is exactly virginal. But there's certainly something fresh and adventurous about it. While Lightburn's world-weary lyrics remain, it's a big musical departure from the hyper-complex, undeniably Smiths-like No Cities Left.
While most tracks are still epic in their scope, much of the clutter has been stripped down - particularly on Whites Only Party, which almost passes for jaunty. Even more grandiose entries (lead single Ticket to Immortality and the achingly gorgeous Hate Then Love) have an unfamiliar, uplifting quality. And as a whole, it's considerably more varied and unpredictable than their past work - as though they've broken free from whatever expectations they previously felt obliged to live up to, and maybe even had a little fun.
Or perhaps they've just matured. "We're becoming more focused and more articulate as we grow," Lightburn says. "Some people want us to stay babies forever. That's fine. But the Dears aren't a baby anymore. We're in, dare I say, adulthood."
