Jill Andrews

The New Jill Andrews
Ex-Everybodyfields Singer/Songwriter Delivers First Solo Record... and Baby
By Andrew Clayman
Published in The Metro Pulse, November 2009

It’s only been about a year and a half since I last spoke with Knoxville’s resident nightingale Jill Andrews, but it’s safe to say we’ve both come a long way since then. For my part, I finally retired my favorite pair of sneakers and upgraded to a slightly more snug-fitting Converse brand. Not to be outdone, Jill countered by leaving her old band behind, getting married, having a baby, starting a solo project with a new crew of musicians, writing and producing her debut EP, and performing at the Tennessee Theatre with Willie Nelson. Hey, we all move at our own pace.

“I still feel like the same old girl,” says Andrews, 29, whose heartbreaking voice certainly ranks among the purest in the Americana genre. “Sometimes, I feel awfully young to have a baby and all these responsibilities. I was footloose and fancy-free not too long ago, you know? [laughs] But everything is so good right now. I’m really happy, my husband is really happy, the baby is really happy—it’s just been a great time.”

Andrews realizes that all this happiness stands in stark contrast to our previous interview, when she and ex-boyfriend Sam Quinn were still struggling to determine if their musical partnership as the acclaimed Everybodyfields could outlive their failed romantic one. This past summer, their best efforts finally hit the proverbial wall, as the band’s six-year run came to an official end.

“It wasn’t one particular thing really that ended it,” Andrews says. “It was a lot of little things built up over a long period of time. Finally, it was just like, ‘well, this thing has really kind of run its course. You’ve got your ideas and I’ve got mine. And we’ve both got our music, so let’s just do our own thing.’”

By no coincidence, the sad demise of the Everybodyfields didn’t take long to sprout silver linings, as both Quinn (with his new band Japan Ten) and Andrews have moved on gracefully and creatively with their careers. In Jill’s case, marriage and motherhood never threatened to put her music on ice. In fact, they only seemed to encourage her progression, as she assembled a new band of first class Knoxville musicians (including Everybodyfields holdover Josh Oliver on keys) and headed to Scott Minor’s Elkgang studio to record her self-titled debut EP, which she released independently last month.

The six tracks on the record (most of which were written pre-baby) don’t showcase a drastic new direction so much as a steady, continuing glide toward greater things, with plenty of the sadness and vulnerability that made Andrews’ Everybodyfields contributions so affecting. Standout track “A Way Out,” for example, was penned for an old friend battling with drug addiction, while the gorgeous “These Words” tugs at broken heart strings as effectively as any ballad you’ll hear this year. As for learning to write from the “happier place” that is now her life, Andrews says it’s a work in progress, like many things.

“Yeah, I think it’s a bit of a new challenge for me, but it’s also a challenge just to find times to write at all, since most of my time is taken up with Nico (her son). I just have to be much more organized, which is something I’ve always been bad about in the past. I’ve always lived pretty haphazardly from one moment to the next. And with him, well, I’ve certainly had to change that.”

Not surprisingly, changes have come down on the tour-scheduling front, as well.

“So far we’ve mostly just done weekend runs, just to kind of see how it will be,” Andrews says. “But one thing I think we’ve realized is that we’re never going to know how it’s going to be [laughs]. Every venue is different, every club owner is different, every city is different. And you know, when it’s just you and a band, that’s one thing. But when it’s you and a band and a little baby… it just gets a lot more complicated.”

The good news for Nico and his mom is that they needn’t go too far from home to play a great show. Earlier this month, Andrews nabbed a spot performing at the Tennessee Theatre as part of Willie Nelson’s big family show. With little hesitation, she calls it the “highlight of my whole musical career,” although—in a broader sense-- it probably only ranks as the third or fourth most exciting thing she did in 2009.

“When they asked me to do it, anything I had planned for that night—which was nothing anyway--- went right out the window. I said, ‘yeah, I think I can fit that into my schedule.’ [laughs] I mean, first of all, it’s Willie Nelson! But really, the most incredible thing to me was singing in the Tennessee Theatre—hearing my voice bounce off the rafters. It was just an amazing experience.”

The audience likely would say the same.

Drummer

Drummer
@ Pilot Light, Knoxville, October 15
by Andrew Clayman
Published in The Metro Pulse, October 2009

Paired up on tour with their chums and labelmates Royal Bangs, Drummer is a new five-piece Akron, Ohio, collective comprised entirely, as you might have guessed, of drummers looking to spread their wings outside the kit. It’s no criticism of the band’s music to say that their bass player—Black Keys drummer and Audio Eagle label head Pat Carney—is the main reason for the quick buzz they’ve generated around their debut CD, Feel Good Together. But fans expecting to hear a Black Keys sort of sound (as Dan Auerbach generally provided on his recent solo album) will be in for quite the surprise here.

Carney, Steve Clements (keyboard, vocals), Jon Finley (guitar, vocals), Jamie Stillman (guitar), and Gregory Boyd (the one stuck with the drums)—all veterans of the Northeast Ohio music scene—are no slouches at their new instruments, but their tastes are clearly rooted more in ’70s power-pop and ’90s indie rock than Zeppelin-esque blues. The results, while not earth-shatteringly original, tap into a distinctly Midwestern everyman brand of alt-rock as best exemplified in the past by the likes of Dayton’s Guided by Voices. Other obvious indie touchstones include Built to Spill, Pavement, and a dash of the Replacements, but these drummers throw enough curveballs (such as the occasional dueling synthesizer) to keep things interesting and upbeat.

All in all, Drummer appears to be a side project with some staying power, and a tag-team bill with Royal Bangs pretty much makes this a must-see show.

From the Archive: Lost & Found Records (Knoxville)

From the Archive: A Record Store Day Special
Lost & Found Forever
Local Record Shop Returns Amid Vinyl Revival
By Andrew Clayman
Originally Published in The Knoxville Metro Pulse, Februrary 2007



When Mike and Maria Armstrong officially reopened Lost & Found Records last summer, one of their first customers was a vinyl hound of the literal sort— a stray, flea-bitten basset hound, to be more precise. The sad pooch had wandered his way up to the conspicuously hip plaza on Walker Boulevard, presumably more interested in kibbles than Beatles, but nonetheless, on a collision course with doggie destiny.

“I just kind of fell in love with him,” says Maria Armstrong, standing at her usual post behind Lost and Found’s front counter. At her feet sits Henry the Hound— former skinny puppy turned resident record shop mascot. “I brought him in the store one day, and he’s been here ever since,” she grins. “A lot of people come by to see Henry now. He sort of belongs to all of us down here.”

Of course, aside from being everyone’s four-legged friend, Henry the Hound is also a fantastically convenient metaphor for the resilient spirit of Lost and Found Records itself --a place where things once cast aside may yet prove to be in the highest demand.

This local business’s ballad-worthy tale begins in 1990, when Knoxville natives Mike Armstrong, now 46, and his wife Maria, 41, established the primarily vinyl Lost and Found Records at its original Kingston Pike location. For Mike, it was the realization of a nearly lifelong ambition.

“I was just elated,” he remembers. “I had always been into music, collecting music, since I was a small child. So I always had it in my mind to, at some point, open a record store. Finally, Maria and I just went for it, and the rest was history.”

In its historic context, however, the timing of Lost and Found’s debut looks all the more daring. The world was a very different place in 1990. There was a Bush in the White House, a war in Iraq, and sweeping technological changes in how people could purchase and listen to music. The vinyl record—elder statesman of recording formats—had been brutally supplanted by a smaller, shinier, digital alternative: the compact disc. In the midst of this CD revolution, opening an old fashioned record store could have seemed like a counterintuitive move. As it turned out, the Armstrongs knew exactly what they were doing.

“I remember Mike saying, when we first opened the store, as long as we can get good records, people will always buy them,” recalls Maria Armstrong. “Regardless of CDs or any other format that comes along, people will always want records.”

“One of the things I remember most during those early days,” adds Mike, “is how much we looked forward to coming in to the store on Saturday. Because we knew we’d be looking at 500 to 1,000 records that day. People were coming in and selling by the droves, which is always great for business.”

As it had turned out, the very technology that would supposedly destroy vinyl actually helped jumpstart a flourishing new secondary market, as music buyers “upgraded” to CDs and emptied their attics of perfectly good, collectable records— items still hotly sought after by the city’s DJs, audiophiles, and plain old nostalgic types. With a massive inventory and loyal clientele, business was good at Lost and Found in the 90’s.

“We had pretty good success there for a number of years,” says Mike Armstrong, whose inventory had even wooed visiting band members from national acts like Sonic Youth, Stereolab, and Guided By Voices. “Then the internet came along.” Cue the thunder and lightning.

Yes, things had changed quite a bit by the time 2003 rolled around. There was a Bush in the White House, a war in Iraq, and sweeping technological changes in how people could purchase and listen to music. The combination of mp3 downloading and eBay took its toll on every mom and pop record shop in the country, including Lost and Found. The Armstrongs had already been forced to move to a smaller space on Cumberland Avenue back in 2001, and by March of 2003, they reluctantly decided to close up shop entirely. All hope was not lost, however.

“When we closed the store, I kept all my stuff,” Maria says. “I just had a feeling that one day I could do this again on some different level.”

For the next three years, the Armstrongs continued selling vinyl at antique malls and online, but for the extroverted Maria in particular, it just didn’t feel quite the same. Luckily, a string of events was about to unfold that would put everything in its right place again.

First came the reports of vinyl’s almost mind-boggling resurgence. In contrast to the colossal collapse of CDs, American sales of new vinyl records had jumped from about $75-million in 2000 to $110-million in 2005; solid numbers which didn’t even take into account the gigantic second-hand market. All signs indicated that grandpa’s format was en vogue again.

Then, early last year, Maria Armstrong saw another sign – a space for rent sign, to be exact. “We were literally driving down Broadway one day,” she recalls, “and I saw this spot (3714 Walker Blvd) and I just knew. I thought, I can do this again!”

With Mike working behind the scenes this time, Maria proudly reintroduced Knoxville to Lost and Found Records at its cozy new confines last August. As a final twist of good fortune, she was even able to rehire a past employee, Nathan Moses, who had just moved back into town and was thrilled to rejoin the team. For Moses, 34, the vinyl revival had been no surprise at all.

“There’s a different experience with vinyl,” he says. “You have to pay attention to it, take care of it –it’s a labor of love. A lot of people still want that original packaging, and to hear the sound difference; analog versus digital. That’s why I collect records, for the sound.”

Mike Armstrong concurs. “We’ve always felt that analog sounds better. But I also think that records bring a certain collectibility to the experience. They make you actually want to own a piece of music—to have it in your hand and in your personal collection—rather than just having random songs on your iPod.”

Unquestionably, the single greatest factor in vinyl’s renewed popularity may be its tangibility. In a time when just about everything seems to be going automatic and two-dimensional, many people are eager to use all five senses again—to recover that direct connection with music that has been largely lost in the digital age. Thankfully, there is still no better place to find something you’ve lost than at Lost and Found. Just don’t forget to say hello to Henry.

Katie Herzig

Katie Herzig Climbs the Apple Tree
Nashville Newbie Finds Fame with the Ten Out of Tenn
By Andrew Clayman
Published in The Metro Pulse, November 2008



Katie Herzig is not an intimidating woman. She has the sisterly charm of a camp counselor and sings songs that turn into transitional segments on Grey’s Anatomy. I’m not sure if she’s ever been one of those “VH1 Artists You Oughta Know,” but she certainly seems like one. Nonetheless, there is something that separates Herzig from the ever-growing flock of fair-haired, folk-pop songbirds out there—something that has helped her find her niche in the midst of elite, Music City competition. Katie Herzig might not be intimidating, but she’s not intimidated, either.

“It was a pretty natural move for me,” Herzig says, speaking of her 2006 relocation from Colorado to Nashville. “I’ve had friends here and done some recording, and every time I came to Nashville, I met new people and found it really exciting to be around so many other musicians. It was definitely a challenge in the beginning, because I had never co-written, and I was working with people who were quite established, while I was still making my way. But by the time I moved here, I had a nice little foundation to build from, and it’s just been nothing but positives since.”

Like most overnight Nashville successes, Herzig is actually nothing of the sort. For nearly a decade, she played with the Boulder-based folk outfit Newcomers Home, a band she had formed with friends at the University of Colorado back in the late ‘90s. During the group’s tenure, Herzig evolved from a backup-singing percussionist into a formidable frontwoman and guitarist, leading her into an inevitable, full-fledged solo career after Newcomers Home called it quits in 2006. While her first two solo albums-- 2004’s Watch Them Fall and 2006’s Weightless-- earned some kudos as fine bedroom folk efforts, Herzig hit her stride this year with Apple Tree, a more eclectic and tightly produced batch of Nashville pop nuggets.

“This was definitely a big album for me,” Herzig says. “I think the prior album was a little more of an isolated, solo endeavor, and was kind of a shift I needed to make coming away from being in a band. This one was more reflective of moving to Nashville and being in a community of songwriters and producers, and inviting that collaborative element back into my process a little more. It’s definitely something I’m proud of.”

Herzig is fully aware that Apple Tree, for many people, is her coming out as a solo artist. It’s generated more buzz than anything she’s done before, thanks in large part to her aforementioned plugs on ABC hospital dramas, as well as high profile collaborations with members of The Fray and Nashville’s successful “Ten Out of Tenn” tour. One fact not to be overlooked, however, is that Apple Tree is also essentially free— a Radiohead-style, downloadable record available on Herzig’s own website.

“It’s been cool,” she says, “pretty experimental. For me, my goal in doing it wasn’t to make as much money as I could, but rather to expand my fan base and invite people into checking out my music. Hopefully they end up sticking with me for some years, in terms of buying records and coming to shows. I guess I’m not in a position where I’m in a record deal, so, as an indie, I have that flexibility to do that sort of thing. And it’s been great. I’ve had a bunch of people at shows who found me through that, so it’s worked as a sort of grass roots thing.”

If rubbing shoulders with Nashville stars and giving away her album weren’t gutsy enough moves, Herzig saves her strongest moments for the music itself. Right from the get go, Apple Tree fluidly moves through genres, starting with folky sweetness (“Song Bird”) and advancing to Elliott Smith-ish pop (“I Want to Belong to You”) and a straight-up Killers-style New-New-Wave jam (“Hologram”). This is the spectrum of sounds Herzig gets to show off with her current touring band, featuring guitarist Jordan Brooke and indie pop’s finest cellist, Claire Indie (please be her real name).

Next month, Herzig will return to Knoxville again for a special Christmas show with Nashville’s all-star singer/songwriter squad, the Ten Out of Tenn, including Griffin House, Butterfly Boucher, and Tyler James among others.

“At first you have to ask, what will a tour be like with ten different artists, where you only get two songs per night?” Herzig says. “But it’s just been so fun for everybody and such a great way to introduce ourselves to new people—to show what’s really going on in Nashville. There’s a misconception of mostly country music coming out of here, and that’s definitely not the case. So, I love being a part of it.”

Houseguest

Houseguest
Music from the Mutual Chums of the Black Keys & Royal Bangs
By Andrew Clayman
Published in The Knoxville Voice, June 2008



Regardless of what the name might suggest, Houseguest is not a band interested in being anybody’s Kato Kaelin. Even in their hometown of Akron, Ohio, where singer Ted Mallison helps run a record label with longtime friend and Black Keys drummer Pat Carney, there is zero pandering to the fans of popular fuzzed-out, blues-rock duos. Instead, Houseguest is a quintet quite content with its own wholly unique pop sound, running the gamut from XTC to GBV and quite a few random influences in between.

“That’s what makes songwriting so interesting with this band,” Mallison says. “We all have very different tastes. I think a lot of bands form based on a shared idea of what music they all like, but we really didn’t do that. As a group, we don’t even really work that well together,” he laughs. “It’s hard. Each of us wanted to have a certain kind of band, but we wound up together because we’ve been friends for so long, and it just made the most sense. Our ideas clash a lot, but what comes out is pretty cool, I think.”

The initial seeds for Houseguest were planted in Akron’s own musician factory, Firestone High School, in the late ‘90s. A generation removed from producing the likes of Chrissie Hynde and Devo, Firestone cranked out a few more winners for the new century, including singer/songwriter Joseph Arthur and a couple of noisemakers by the names of Patrick Carney and Dan Auerbach (the Black Keys). The friends who would later become Houseguest were in the midst of this Akron renaissance, as well.

“Yeah, we all went to high school together,” Mallison says. “We were in a bunch of different bands, too. I was in a band with Pat (Carney) when I was in ninth grade. Houseguest actually started out as mainly just our bass player Gabe (Schray) writing some songs with (guitarist) Dave (Whited). Eventually, Dave Rich and I joined on, and everyone started to contribute more and more.”

Since those first gigs in 2002, Houseguest has seen the high and lows of the music business swirl around them. The tragic death of bandmember Stephen Caynon inspired the band to stay together after a near breakup in 2003, and the improbable success of their Black Keys comrades provided a whole new perspective on music as an economically viable career choice.

“Most of what happened with the Black Keys was totally unexpected,” Mallison says. “I mean, that band had only existed for a couple months when they got their first record deal-- which was kind of a fluke. Everyone was just like, ‘how did that happen?!’ And then all of the sudden they got this review in Rolling Stone and they’re going on tour with Sleater-Kinney! That just doesn’t happen. And obviously, that was never the path I expected Houseguest to take.”

Fortunately, the Keys have remained loyal to their hometown and their old friends. When Carney decided to start Audio Eagle Records, he asked Mallison to join him as the label’s Director of Operations. Houseguest also became one of Audio Eagle’s first signings, with their well received record High Strangeness hitting shelves in 2006.

“As far as Audio Eagle goes, it’s been a real positive experience,” Mallison says. “Pat’s hope was to use his notoriety to help boost up bands he likes—the Royal Bangs, for example.”

So, how did one of Knoxville’s most promising bands, Royal Bangs, wind up on an upstart Akron label? Turns out Houseguest had a hand in that, as well.

“Knoxville is one of the cities that we’ve been playing for a long time,” says Mallison, noting that Houseguest drummer Stephen Clements is a UT alum. “During a show a while back, I met Chris (Rusk) from Royal Bangs and liked what I heard from them. Then, when Audio Eagle got started, they actually friended us on Myspace, and when Pat stumbled upon them, he immediately told me he really liked it and wanted to put it out. And I agreed. Their record is really good, they’re good live, and they’re funny guys. We’ve got high hopes for them.”

Mallison also has high hopes for Houseguest’s next album, of course, which is due out this fall. It’ll supposedly be a mellower affair than the band’s usual high energy, humor laced, New-Wave-post-punk sound.

“I think I’m more serious about it now than when I started,” Mallison says. “I didn’t even plan on being in a band. I thought it was fun, but it wasn’t really what I wanted to do. But now I really want to try and make a serious go of it. If it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t work out.”

The Everybodyfields (2)

Sweeping Out the Ashes
The Everybodyfields Break Up, Get Back Together, Wind Up In Knoxville
By Andrew Clayman
Published in The Metro Pulse, June 2008



For those keeping score at home, you can officially call the Everybodyfields a “Knoxville band” now. The alt-country outfit’s sterling tag-team of Sam Quinn and Jill Andrews have always felt like locals anyway, but it took a hop and a skip migration from Johnson City to make their Knoxvilization complete. So far, it’s a regional responsibility that the Everybodyfields are carrying with pride, even when they take their sweet-heart-broken show on the road.

“East Tennessee over the rest of Tennessee, any day of the week,” says Quinn, who often makes similar pronouncements in his stage banter. “It’s an easier way of saying we’re not from Nashville.”

Admittedly, that distinction became a bit tougher to make after the Everybodyfields trekked out to the aforementioned city out West to record their third album, 2007’s Nothing Is Okay.

“I fought that one tooth and nail, and I completely lost out in a democratic type of situation,” Quinn says. “The studio was great, don’t get me wrong. But all the nights in Nashville were spent getting, I don’t know, Nashville-ized-- paying way too much for everything, spending fifty bucks a night just to realize you’re not having that great of a time. I’ll take Knoxville.”

Though she enjoyed the Nashville experience, Jill Andrews essentially agrees. “The key difference I see is that we’re not under a lot of weird industry pressure in Knoxville,” she says. “When we play around East Tennessee, it’s partly to make a living, but it’s also for fun. I’d probably die if I moved to Nashville.”

Unfortunately, Knoxville pride is one of the few topics Quinn and Andrews can safely agree upon these days. Even as Nothing Is Okay earned the Everybodyfields their widest acclaim to date, the album’s subject matter— the end of Quinn and Andrews’ romantic relationship—made the band’s increasing success somewhat bittersweet. It’s a dark chapter that the talented duo are slowly starting to put behind them, but as they both revealed in these separate interviews, plenty of pain still lingers.

“Yeah, man, it was a real pain in the ass,” Quinn says. “And I hope I don’t have to go through anything like that again. It’s not easy when there’s no separation between your personal life and your business life—not that I’m belly aching. But if Jill and I weren’t in a band together, we probably wouldn’t talk for five years or something. We’re just trying to get things in our lives more straight where we can figure this out a little more without it having to be so hard.”

“It’s not steady,” Andrews admits with a thoughtful laugh. “Our personal and musical relationships have been very unsteady. But we love each other in our own way. I have a lot of respect for Sam-- his intellect and his musicianship. I would say he has the same for me. It’s just an every day sort of conscious decision to say, ‘okay, we can do this together.’ That’s the way it is in a lot of business relationships, I’m sure.”

For a while, it looked as though Quinn and Andrews’ break-up would spell the end of the Everybodyfields, as well. Their decision to carry on hinged on their ability to translate their heartache into what they do best together—making music. Nothing Is Okay was their band-saving experiment—a unique record in which both sides of a break-up are given the opportunity to tell their story, while harmonizing with the very person about whom they’re singing.

“I think the album just kind of made itself, through the course of our lives,” Andrews says. “We were writing the songs separately, but because we were addressing the same situation, it almost became like a call and response record. Sam and I, musically, are very entwined. So even without hearing any of what he was writing, I knew what it would be. And I think he was thinking the same thing about what I was writing. We knew that it would work together. And when we came to the table with everything, it flowed really well.”

“Yeah, I can’t really believe it got done,” Quinn chuckles. “When I held the first copy in my hands, I just thought, ‘I can’t believe it’s finished.’”

In the end, the most romantic part of the Everybodyfields story would appear to be the honesty and persistence of the band’s music, rather than the personal relationship of its two singer/songwriters. Still, the improbable cohesiveness of Nothing Is Okay—along with the continuing harmonic perfection of the band’s live shows-- leaves little doubt that Andrews and Quinn, in some way at least, were meant for each other.

“The first song Jill and I ever sang together was ‘We’ll Sweep Out the Ashes in the Morning,’ the Gram (Parsons) and Emmylou (Harris) tune,” Quinn recalls. “Just the way a guy and a girl’s voice can fit together—it can make a good song great and a sad song sadder. It happened with Jill so early on, where I realized, ‘oh shit, I don’t have to tell this girl anything!’ I just have to show her a song and she’s just right on it. It’s still pretty great.”

The Everybodyfields

Heartbreak in Harmony
The Everybodyfields Make Breaking Up Sound Beautiful
By Andrew Clayman
Published (with edits) in The Cleveland Scene (Village Voice), May 2008

See Alternate Everybodyfields Feature in the Knoxville Metro Pulse



Their story may have started out like a fairy tale, but for Sam Quinn and Jill Andrews, a sad country ballad always seemed more suitable.

As the two singer/songwriters for acclaimed Knoxville alt-country act The Everybodyfields, Quinn and Andrews are currently touring behind one of the more intriguing and heartbreakingly honest breakup albums in recent memory. With an appropriate title to boot, Nothing Is Okay offers the rare opportunity to hear both sides of a failed relationship tell their story, often in ironically perfect harmony. For both Quinn and Andrews-- interviewed separately for this story-- the album was a chance to come to terms with their past, while still paving the way for their band’s future.

“I think the album just kind of made itself, through the course of our lives,” says Andrews. She is the epitome of the Southern belle—sweet-voiced and painfully pretty.

“It was a real pain in the ass,” counters Quinn. He has the laid back look of a hacky-sack enthusiast, complete with a pair of muttonchops straight from Neil Young’s storage closet. “Everything was kind of falling apart there for a while,” he continues. “We had come so far with this thing, and now it was almost like seeing your child in intensive care, and everyone wants to pull the plug.”

According to Quinn, the Everybodyfields finally came to the fork in the road while on their way to a gig in Boone, NC, in 2006. Broken up and barely on speaking terms, Quinn and Andrews had to decide if the end of their personal relationship would mean the end of their musical partnership, as well.

“On that car ride, instead of deciding to break up the entire band and trash our plans, we decided to carry on,” Quinn says. “Later, I approached Jill and said, ‘Look, we need to make this record. How about we call it Nothing Is Okay, and just make it about these problems?’ The idea was for Jill to take her tunes and me to take mine, and just to do whatever we wanted.”

Andrews agreed to give the concept a shot, and after a series of tumultuous sessions in Nashville, Nothing Is Okay finally emerged as the band’s surprisingly cohesive and intensely heartbreaking third album in August of 2007.

“We were writing the songs separately,” Andrews says, “but I think we knew that it would work together in the end. Sam and I, musically, are very, very entwined. We like a lot of the same stuff. We’re influenced by a lot of the same stuff. So, without hearing any of what he was writing, I knew what it would be. And I think he was thinking the same thing about what I was writing.”

This deep understanding of one another seemed to be present from the moment Quinn and Andrews met. It was 1999, and they were 19 year-old counselors at a Methodist summer camp in the Smoky Mountains. When it came time for the duo to sing together around the obligatory campfire, something just clicked.

“It happened with Jill so early on,” Quinn recalls. “I realized, ‘oh shit, I don’t have to tell this girl anything!’ I just have to show her a song and she’s right on it. It was pretty amazing.”

“The first time we really got together, we sang a Gram Parsons and Emmylou Harris duet,” says Andrews.

Quinn remembers that it was “We’ll Sweep Out the Ashes in the Morning.”

“Just the way a guy and a girl’s voice can fit together,” he says, “it can make something really great. When you throw a little twang into it, you can make a sad song with one person singing it a whole lot sadder with two people singing harmonies.”

With a mutual love for cerebral country performers like Gillian Welch, the Jayhawks, and eventually, each other, Quinn and Andrews soon formed The Everybodyfields, a name borrowed from Quinn’s childhood moniker for his backyard (a la the “Hundred Acre Wood” in Winnie the Pooh). Based out of Johnson City, TN, the band released a pair of well-received records in 2004 and 2005, and was soon heralded as one of the top new acts in “alt-country”— a vague classification that’s been known to annoy some musicians.

“I actually like the phrase ‘alt-country,’ myself,” Andrews says. “A lot of people these days are just turned off by the term ‘country,’ period. Adding the ‘alt’ kind of gives those people an excuse to be like, ‘oh, maybe this isn’t so bad,’” she laughs.

“It doesn’t mean much to me,” Quinn says. “I’d just call it honest music.”

Honesty is certainly at the core of Nothing Is Okay, an album bursting at the seams with self-reflection, regret, and some acceptance for good measure. Eerily, the subject of each song is also singing backup—whether it’s Andrews on Quinn’s “Don’t Turn Around” or vise versa on “Wasted Time.”

“Because we were writing about the same situation, it’s kind of like a call and response album,” Andrews says.

“It was just a real hard record to make,” adds Quinn. “If Jill and I weren’t in a band together, we probably wouldn’t talk for five years or something. So, just out of necessity, you kind of have to look at that person as not being the same person she used to be—sort of like Anakin Skywalker had to be killed off,” he laughs. “You know, Jill is mostly machine now.”

Andrews doesn’t exactly concede that point. “I don’t know if you’ve ever broken up with somebody who you then had to be around every day—very, very difficult,” she says. “But that’s what we had to do to keep the band together. And now, it seems like things are finally working themselves out.”

“We’re just trying to get things in our lives more straight, where we can figure this out a little more without it having to be so hard,” Quinn says. “It seems the pleasures of life go a lot quicker than the lingering hardships. But I still think there’s better stuff ahead for this outfit.”

“I have a lot of respect for Sam,” Andrews says. “I would say he has the same for me. It’s just an every day sort of conscious decision to say, okay, we can still do this together.”

Josh Ritter

The Science of Songwriting
Josh Ritter Conquers "Small Town USA"
By Andrew Clayman
Published in The Metro Pulse, May 2008



Call it a simple twist of fate or a clever marketing move, but just as Josh Ritter was taking his music to its most adventurous new heights, a relic from his humble beginnings suddenly resurfaced.

On April 8th, Ritter’s new label, Sony/BMG, re-issued the 31 year-old singer/songwriter’s self-titled debut album, nearly a decade after its mostly unnoticed release. Ritter had recorded these songs during his senior year at Oberlin College outside of Cleveland, OH, a school he had originally attended with the goal of studying neuroscience, as his parents had. As it turned out, young Josh’s passions soon shifted from the science of the mind to the science of songwriting—particularly the troubadour stylings of people like Dylan, Cohen, and Cash. But the transition wasn’t as drastic as one might think.

“There are a lot of connections between science and art,” says Ritter, en route to Towson, MD-- the latest stop on his “Small Town USA Tour.”

“What I love about science is the people who do it—who put their lives and creativity into it. It’s really a creative discipline, and like art, it’s an exploration that people choose for a reason, because of an innate need for something. You have to learn the rules and how to work within those rules, and then put in a lot of work to find places that no one’s found before.”

Like a scientific study, music can go through its periods of trial and error, as well. Long since removed from his days of open mic nights at Oberlin, Ritter is now a polished, major label act with a worldwide following and a string of acclaimed albums in his rearview mirror. Still, he holds a special place in his heart for the little record he made as a wide-eyed college student, once upon a time.

“They’re not the kind of songs I would write now,” he says, “but they’re funny, and I kind of love them for what they are. It took me four years to sell 2,000 copies of that first record. Four years of open mics and blood, sweat, and a lot of hours in a car. So I’m just psyched that’s it’s been re-released and it’s actually out there in stores. That’s really cool.”

Also available in stores is Ritter’s latest studio effort, The Historical Conquests of Josh Ritter—an album that’s likely to be remembered as a major transition point in his career.

Lyrically, Conquests treads much of the same ground Ritter has walked before—character studies, lovelorn ‘70s tinged balladry, and literate, often political folk tales of the Dylan variety. The difference is in the delivery. After the mostly mellow but tightly produced sound of 2006’s excellent The Animal Years, Ritter was ready to challenge himself to loosen up, go with his gut, and play a little louder.

“These are big, bruising songs,” Ritter laughs. “A lot of times, you might make a record that feels different to you, but it’s not actually much different from what you’ve done before. With this record, it was important to me to continually go for it and strive to make it new and different enough that everybody else hears the difference, too.”

Fans and critics certainly seemed to hear and enjoy the difference, as Conquests—Ritter’s major label debut— has continued his steady rise toward mainstream recognition. It’s a status he’s already achieved in Ireland, of all places, where the locals have embraced the Idaho native as one of their own (thanks in large part to a long time touring partnership with Frames singer and recent Oscar winner Glen Hansard). Still, regardless of how much fame finds him, Ritter remains protective of his private life, a fact that is evident in his songwriting.

“I just don’t believe in reading your diary on stage,” he says. “I want to read someone else’s. I figure, your own life can’t be as interesting as a life you can make up, and it’s really fun to do that. You know, the whole world is open for you to write about. Why just write about this one little thing?”

On his current tour, Ritter has lined up a number of cities-- not all of them necessarily “small towns”—that he hasn’t regularly played before. He has only performed in Knoxville once previously—a “Sundown In the City” gig with My Morning Jacket back in 2005—but Ritter remembers it well.

“I actually signed the ownership papers on my first house when I was last in Knoxville,” he says, “so it’s kind of a special place for me. It’s good to be coming back.”

Dead Meadow

Dead Meadow
Psych-Rockers Dig Zeppelin . . . Hendrix . . . Ringo?
By Andrew Clayman
Published in The Knoxville Voice, February 2008



Referring to Dead Meadow’s music as simply “college rock” hardly does justice to the full scope of this D.C. trio’s dorm room appeal. To put it more succinctly, no band this decade has done more to desegregate the nation’s classic-rock stoners, acid-dropping shoegazers, and coke-snorting indie-rockers than Dead Meadow. Even the straight-edge kid across the hall thinks they’re pretty sweet.

Boiled down, the Dead Meadow ingredients have always been blatantly obvious: the heavy, fuzzed-out blues rock of Zeppelin and Sabbath, the psychedelics of Floyd, the mystery and reverb of Spiritualized, and the Matador sanctioned coolness of Guided By Voices. Stirred together, however, an intriguing new stew is cooked up.

“As far as original influences, I definitely still listen to Zeppelin and Hendrix all the time,” says drummer Stephen McCarty. “But, having done this for a while now, you’re ready to branch out into more various things and see how you can weave that into the sound you’ve already got. I think a lot of that shines through on the new record, too, just with the different instrumentation—which has always been there, but has never been really recorded in such a pristine manner. It’s got a lot more clarity here.”

McCarty is referring to Dead Meadow’s latest release, Old Growth—their fifth studio album and third for the Matador label.

“We were in the Redwoods (National Forest), right before starting on the record, and something about the phrase ‘old growth’ seemed right to us,” McCarthy says, “based on where we’re at and our whole sound— the way it’s progressing.”

Indeed, the songs on Old Growth do sound like a methodical but relevant push forward in the mellower, more experimental direction the band established on 2005’s Feathers. Still, there were some considerable shake-ups along the way.

First, guitarist Cory Shane was let go after a brief tenure, reducing Dead Meadow back to the familiar threesome of singer/guitarist Jason Simon, bassist Steve Kille, and McCarty.

“It had been a three-piece lineup all but that one year and a half or so that (Shane) was with us,” McCarty says. “So, in some ways, it was really good to get back to the old basics. I think working with Cory gave Jason a lot more ideas of different things he could do. It was a good experience for the Feathers record. But it’s good to get back to something that better illustrates our live sound right now on a record.”

To accomplish that goal, McCarty, Simon, and Kille made another major move, this time of the geographical sort. After nearly a decade in Washington, D.C., Dead Meadow relocated to Los Angeles in 2007, and went to work recording Old Growth in L.A.’s legendary Sunset Sound Studios.

“It was so great!” says McCarty. “The room that we got to use was actually the last one that all four Beatles performed together in. It was for a Ringo recording. And there are some wonderful, haunted rooms above the area where Prince did Purple Rain, where apparently Jim Morrison used to hang out. It’s just so rich with the history of all the musicians who made records there.”

One listen to Old Growth tracks like “What Needs Must Be” and “The Queen of All Returns” would seem to indicate that some of classic rock’s ghosts may very well have been playing the muse for the Meadow men on this session. But there’s a lot more going on.

“We were definitely trying to get more of a live kind of feel, so we played all the basic tracks together, which is something we hadn’t really done,” McCarty explains. “The guitars had always had quite a bit of overdubbing in the past. So, I think the live feel of all the songs, particularly this recording technique, was really ideal for us.”

Frontman Jason Simon also continued his evolution as a songwriter, experimenting with pop melodies (“I’m Gone”), Black Keys-style blues riffing (“Between Me and the Ground”), and—like the great psychedelic acts of yesteryear— traditional Indian music (“Seven Seers”).

With Kille manning the sitar and McCarty infusing Eastern rhythms and percussion, Old Growth captures Dead Meadow’s skill and versatility better than any of their previous efforts.

“I think it’s totally about trying new things and adding more textures to our overall spectrum,” McCarty says.

As one would expect from a talented drummer in a Zeppelin-esque band, McCarty’s own style is usually compared to the great John Bonham. Interestingly enough, however, McCarty cites a very different sort of timekeeper as his all-time favorite.

“Well, Ringo (Starr) really wrote songs with the drums,” he says, bowing to the sometimes underappreciated Liverpudlian. “He played it as a totally musical instrument. Even though there are times where he’s doing stuff that’s unbelievably technical, you never feel like he’s showing off. He really plays to the service of the greater song, which is why so many of the Beatles songs have such amazing grooves. I mean, I love John Bonham, but he did a lot of stuff that was just like, ‘Hey, I can really play the drums really good. Check this out!’ Meanwhile, there’s Ringo, just doing his selfless but sensitive thing.”

Andrew Bird

Andrew Bird
The Words & Whistlings of an Indie Iconoclast
By Andrew Clayman
Published in The Knoxville Voice, September 2007



Lanky, brooding, and dressed to the nines, Andrew Bird is every bit the eccentric sophisticate—a classically trained violinist with a penchant for gypsy folk balladry. He can alternately project the spastic strangeness of David Byrne and the streetwise cool of Tom Waits, but he doesn’t sound anything like either of them. In fact, Bird’s music bares little immediate resemblance to much of anything in the pop landscape, including his supposed singer/songwriter brethren in the indie scene-- Rufus Wainwright, Sufjan Stevens, or the late Jeff Buckley. Such pigeonholing comparisons come as lazily as ornithological puns, and are (tongue planted firmly in beak) hardly befitting a colorful Bird such as this one.

“I’ve always been coming from a different world,” Bird, 34, admits. He’s speaking softly via telephone from his Chicago home. “For years, I felt outside of what was called indie rock, and now I seem to be accepted by that. It’s like crossing pathways in a way. A lot of punk rock or indie bands seem to be going in the direction-- as they get older-- of refining their music or maybe trying to get into more adult music, and I think I’m kind of going in the other direction. I came from this classical world where there is a certain disconnect from the audience, and you’re playing Shostakovich. I really wanted to go toward a more basic, elemental music.”

This desire led a young Andrew Bird out of the conservatory and into a whole new world of early jazz, folk, blues, and world influences. For a while, he landed a recurring role as a guest violinist with the retro swing band, the Squirrel Nut Zippers, and by the late 1990’s, the melodies of old jazzmen like Lester Young and Johnny Hodges had slid alongside Bach and Bartok in his subconscious. It was a strange brew that began manifesting itself on the three albums Bird recorded with his first band, The Bowl of Fire. Critics were impressed, but the buzz didn’t really get going until Bird flew solo on 2003’s Weather Systems, a more pop-oriented record that he had developed while living on a farm outside of Chicago. For many artists, this would have marked the perfect occasion to make the inevitable move to New York or L.A., but Bird has remained quite satisfied with the quieter, Midwestern life.

“I’ve got a nice setup in Chicago,” he says, “because I’ve got the city and the country. If I moved to a coast, it might be an exciting environment, but it’s not always going to offer the space to let ideas diffuse themselves a little bit. Sometimes you need that isolation.”

Bird followed Weather Systems with two more eclectic, otherworldly albums—2005’s Mysterious Production of Eggs and this year’s widely acclaimed Armchair Apocrypha—which finds Bird further developing his mellow mix of carefully layered violin plucking, jazzy guitar strumming, and feathery-voiced beat poetry. It’s unorthodox, sometimes sneakily dramatic, but most assuredly "pop" in terms of its melodicism and hummability. It's also probably the best thing he has ever done, though Bird is hardly eager to hitch himself to such a notion.

“All I know is, when I go from one record to the next, is that whatever worked before isn’t going to work this time,” he says. “It’s definitely not a linear progression towards something better than what preceded it. I’m not in the process of getting better at writing songs, because there never really is a right formula for it.”

As Bird’s famously unpredictable live shows prove, he is not usually very keen on linear thinking. His past songs, including those on the new record, are essentially living organisms for him to modify and adapt on a whim—whether it’s swirling in a new violin loop, or perhaps whistling an entire verse. He views lyrics in a similarly adventurous manner, which is pretty obvious from song titles like “Sovay,” Plasticities,” and “Imitosis.”

“I almost think of myself as an instrumentalist who happens to use words,” Bird says. “So that kind of frees me up with the words in a way, where I can bat them around and disrespect them a little bit. It’s really a fascinating and mysterious thing to me-- where words come from-- not so much where intellectual ideas come from. Sometimes words behave the same way that melodies do. If I fixate enough on a word that I don’t know the definition of, it can actually become more meaningful sometimes. It might be a word like apocrypha, or other words where either I don’t know what they are, or nobody really knows what the actual meaning is. Like sovay, for instance, is an ancient word that’s not in use anymore, so we can ascribe it new meaning. Those kind of things get me going.”

Though he’s been accompanied by the talented pair of drummer Martin Dosh and multi-instrumentalist Jeremy Vlvisaker on the Armchair Apocrypha tour, Bird built much of his reputation from his memorable solo shows, during which he would layer loops of violin, glockenspiel, and guitar over one another-- mad scientist style. In recent years, he’s even added a slightly more organic sound—his own whistling—as a key ingredient in the mix.

“It’s such a casual instrument,” Bird says, “but it’s also intimate. You know, I’m used to instruments being really hard to play, so it took me forever to realize that it’s OK to use one that’s almost subconscious and really easy for me. When I finally started whistling on stage a couple years ago, I realized it actually had a lot of power.”

Still, like any good songbird, Andrew Bird admits he doesn’t always know when to put his whistling to rest.

“If you were out with me for a day, it would probably drive you nuts,” he laughs.

Polaris

Polaris
The Band That Lived In Your Television
By Andrew ClaymanPublished in The Knoxville Voice, May 2007



[Note: This is an old-ass article. Click here for an In-depth 2013 Interview with Mark Mulcahy of Polaris]

For most of the 1990’s, there were only two ways to hear the musical stylings of the semi-fictional and incontrovertibly kick-ass garage band known as Polaris. You could watch Nickelodeon’s ridiculously hip kid’s show The Adventures of Pete & Pete, or, for those seeking a dose of riboflavin with their jangly pop tunes, you could find the band’s lone cassette single in specially marked boxes of Kellogg’s Frosted Mini-Wheats.

Thankfully, the end of the century finally brought the release of Music From the Adventures of Pete & Pete, the posthumous CD soundtrack for the long since cancelled series, and the one and only digital artifact of Polaris, “the band that lives in your television.”

For the un-indoctrinated, trying to grasp the symbiotic cult supremacy of this band and this show can prove a tad challenging. For a certain passionate portion of today’s twenty-something, cable TV generation, however, the surreal escapades of the brothers Pete—and the music that accompanied them— have left indelible marks, somehow capturing the nostalgic essence of a shared and often strange 90’s childhood experience.

So, just who exactly were these Polaris guys? Well, in Pete and Pete’s town of Wellsville, they were Muggy (vocals/guitar), Jersey (bass), and Harris Polaris (drums)— the suburban garage trio that frolicked in the Wrigley family’s front yard at the start of each episode, performing the show’s ultra-catchy theme song, “Hey Sandy.” At the same time, in something a little closer to reality, they were Mark Mulcahy, Dave McCaffrey, and Scot Boutier—three members of a veteran New England indie rock outfit known as Miracle Legion.

Formed in Connecticut in 1984, Miracle Legion started out as a lo-fi, jangle-arpeggio band in the R.E.M. mold. They scored some college radio success with The Backyard EP and the full-length Surprise Surprise Surprise, but critics seemed content to brush aside the band as little more than wannabe Athenians. This sentiment would quickly change as frontman Mulcahy and guitarist Ray Neal started exploring new territory and showcasing their distinctive talents, particularly on the folksy, 1989 Rough Trade release, Me and Mr. Ray. For Mulcahy’s part, his restrained but emotive voice (think David Gray meets Michael Stipe) took its form as a formidable and versatile weapon, inspiring such young, up-and-coming singers as Thom Yorke (Radiohead) and his brother Andy (Unbelievable Truth), both of whom have cited Mulcahy as a major influence.

By the early 90’s, Mulcahy and Neal were joined by McCaffrey and Boutier, and the quartet signed to the brand new music division of Morgan Creek Productions. The goal was to expand the band’s distribution and entice a new crop of fans. Unfortunately, Morgan Creek stumbled out of the gates financially, and Miracle Legion’s intended breakthrough record, Drenched, went quietly into the night.

It was around this time period that Mark Mulcahy received a phone call from Pete & Pete co-creator Will McRobb. Once merely a collection of thirty-second short films about two carrot-topped brothers and their unusual cohorts (who could forget Artie, the Strongest Man in the World!?), The Adventures of Pete & Pete was now becoming a regular, full-length series on Nickelodeon, and McRobb—a Miracle Legion fan—wanted Mulcahy to write some songs for the show. Today, it’s unlikely that any adolescent-themed program would be permitted to leave its score in the hands of an obscure, middle-aged, alt-rock singer/songwriter, but this was Nickelodeon’s daring period, when Devo’s Mark Mothersbaugh was working on Rugrats and Donkeylips was solidifying his own cult status on Salute Your Shorts. So, Mulcahy signed on the dotted line, and Polaris was officially born.

As would quickly become apparent, no show—for kids or adults-- could rival Pete & Pete when it came to street cred. Mulcahy’s original music was complemented in each episode by a stellar selection of cutting edge indie-pop (Magnetic Fields, Apples In Stereo, Luscious Jackson), and everyone from Iggy Pop and Michael Stipe to Steve Buscemi and Debbie Harry made cameo appearances on the Wellsville set.

It was truly the music of Polaris, though, that best exemplified the weird and romantic ethos of the show. For each of the twelve songs Mulcahy penned specifically for the series, McRobb had done little more than suggest a certain feeling or mood that needed to be conveyed. In response, the man also known as Muggy was able to work without restraints, both as a lead guitarist (Ray Neal decided not to take part in the Polaris project) and lyricist.

For a theme song, he delivered “Hey Sandy,” a track famous for its cryptic wordplay. For an up-tempo, closing credits piece, there was “Waiting For October,” a crazily catchy tune about the apocalypse. Then there’s “Summerbaby,” a Lou Reedish anthem that becomes Little Pete’s all-time favorite song. Not surprisingly, the song’s masturbatory references were edited out in that particularly episode.

To be fair, there are times when Mulcahy’s lyrical themes do match up with the show’s plot points (“She Is Staggering” and “Everywhere” work quite nicely during Big Pete’s puppy love moments with his friend Ellen), but for the most part, the songs of Polaris succeed not by speaking for the characters on the screen, but for those on the other side of it. The guitars chime loosely, the bass bounces, the cymbals shimmer, and the next thing you know, you’re a kid again. Each track even seems to inhabit its own season, from the summer fun of “Coronado II” to the autumnal lament of “Ashamed of the Story I Told.” These are the sorts of pop songs that make you dance when you’re twelve and cry when you’re thirty. What better could be said about an album by a make-believe band?

These days, both Polaris and Miracle Legion are in stasis, but Mark Mulcahy has remained active, releasing three critically acclaimed solo albums over the past decade. His most recent, In Pursuit of Your Happiness, featured guest appearances by J. Mascis of Dinosaur Jr. and Joey Santiago of the Pixies. For those who remember, then, the spirit of Muggy lives on.

Lambchop

Lambchop’s Kurt Wagner: A Pretty Normal Guy
By Andrew Clayman
Published in The Metro Pulse, January 2007



(Sidebar to Yo La Tengo feature)

“James from Yo La Tengo says hello.”

“Oh, good! Can’t wait to see him,” replies Kurt Wagner, the gentle baritone behind Nashville’s most enduring and endearing supergroup, Lambchop. “We’re kind of old friends, you know. Usually, they (Yo La Tengo) come to Nashville and we just go down the street and play with them. But, in this case, they figured, ‘Knoxville, it’s close. Let’s see what happens.’ We were, of course, glad to do it.”

Wagner is referring to his band’s upcoming gig in Knoxville as Yo La Tengo’s honorary opening act. As of now, it’s the only show on the Lambchop schedule for 2007. The question is, how many of the group’s dozen or so members will be making the cross-state trip?

“Yet to be determined,” says Wagner. “But the numbers seem to be swelling. Originally, it was going to be seven of us, but I think we’ll have a few more than that, just because it’s close and everybody wants to go and see Yo La Tengo play.”

Wagner and company spent much of last year touring the globe in support of their ninth studio album, Damaged—a complex collection of insight and instrumentation that successfully made the band even harder to describe, if perhaps a little easier to understand.

“That’s an interesting observation,” Wagner chuckles. “I still have trouble describing us. I’ve never really been very good at it. But it’s nice to know that we’ve become a little bit more, um, legible.”

Of course, everything is relative. After fifteen years, Lambchop’s tag resistant blend of Stax soul, punk gall, and classic country—not to mention Wagner’s spoken-word surrealism— is still a bit much for the Music City establishment to fully comprehend. Then again, the humble, 43 year-old Wagner never did have any interest in playing the role of the Nashville Star.

“There are a lot of guys in Nashville who hide behind that idea of being a musician,” he says. “They take on a persona or act weird for weird’s sake. I don’t want to be like that. I mean, my songs are weird enough. I’m a pretty normal guy.”

Jeff Tweedy

Jeff Tweedy
@ The Bijou, Knoxville, January 31
By Andrew Clayman
Published in The Metro Pulse, January 2007



During the opening sequence of his new solo/acoustic DVD Sunken Treasure: Live In the Pacific Northwest, Wilco frontman Jeff Tweedy tells a Seattle crowd about his all-time favorite verbal exchange with an audience member.

“How did you get so insightful?” the random fan had shouted toward the stage, to which Tweedy humbly replied, “Well, insight is overrated.” Without skipping a beat, the fan responded, “That’s very insightful!”

And so goes the sort of unconditional hero worship that’s been following Tweedy around since Wilco cracked the mainstream with 1999’s pop classic Summerteeth. Up to that point, he had already earned some cobblestone street cred as a seminal figure in the alt-country scene— first as co-founder of Uncle Tupelo, then as the earnest, world weary voice behind Wilco’s early work. But it wasn’t really until the turn of the century that his beloved Everyman mystique really started to take hold with a broader audience.

Touring almost constantly behind Wilco’s acclaimed, experimental albums Yankee Hotel Foxtrot and A Ghost Is Born—not to mention some brilliant side projects (Loose Fur, Minus 5, Golden Smog)—Tweedy hit the proverbial wall in 2004, entering himself into rehab for an addiction to painkillers. Having emerged from that experience happy and revitalized, he has since returned to the road, first with Wilco and now for another leg of intimate solo shows like the ones featured on Sunken Treasure.

Tweedy’s solo performances pull from every era of his career, often shedding new light on some lost gems by simplifying the sound down to a guy and his guitar—an insightful guy, mind you. Plus, you can expect more than a few fan favorites and a cheer or tear inducing cover or two.

Gillian Welch

Gillian Welch
@ Blue Cats, Knoxville, December 10
by Andrew Clayman
Published in The Metro Pulse, December 2006



With that long awaited new album coming out any day now (your guess is as good as mine), acclaimed Americana songstress Gillian Welch drops by Blue Cats on December 10th for what might amount to a sneak preview of sorts. It’s been well over three years since Welch and her right-hand man David Rawlings released their fourth CD, Soul Journey, but the duo has remained remarkably prolific in the meantime, touring with Emmylou Harris and guest spotting on recent albums from the diverse likes of Robyn Hitchcock, Solomon Burke, and Old Crow Medicine Show.

On the road, Welch’s rootsy, “O Brother” sound has typically earned her marquee status at the classier theatres of the world (that’s “theatre” spelled with an “re”). This latest tour, however, is a somewhat unassuming one, with Welch tip-toeing across Tennessee for just a handful of small club gigs before finally hitting the Opry on the 15th and 16th. Will her new tunes tell more tales of the downtrodden, or has Gillian gotten giddy? At this point, there is only one way to find out.

Neko Case

The In-Between Girl
Neko Case Talks Nostalgia, Banter & Beards
By Andrew Clayman
Published in The Metro Pulse, April 2007


She is the indie scene’s omnipresent anti-diva— the punk rock tomboy turned alt-country temptress. One week, she’s in New York recording a new album with her Canadian power-pop buddies The New Pornographers, and the next, she’s back in Chicago playing the sold-out opening dates of her own spring tour. At this moment, however, Neko Case is in her new adopted home of Tucson, AZ, stirring a cup of tea and describing what might happen if her bandmate Jon Rauhouse ever battled Calexico’s similarly named Paul Niehaus in a pay-per-view, steel guitarist showdown.

“I think it would just end up being a massive fist fight,” she laughs, then quickly reconsiders. “Actually, they’re both so nice, they’d just be saying, You go ahead. No, after you! Nooo, you! They would eventually wear each other out and retire exhausted, embracing on the stage. It would be adorable.”

The same could be said of Case herself. Even on the phone, her sweet, congenial speaking voice sounds more like it belongs to your hip kid sister than a 36 year-old, Patsy Cline caliber torch singer. It’s a charming characteristic that Case has famously utilized on stage, often juxtaposing a wicked murder ballad with some witty, self-deprecating banter before crooning into the stratosphere once more.

“It’s not something I do on purpose, really,” she says. “I know the reason I talked to the audience, originally, was because I was nervous. And I am not good at pretending or hiding things, so I figured it’d be a lot easier if I just told them as much. From then, it became kind of funny, you know, and I realized that the audience really responds if you talk to them that way. It’s not the same every night, but I do like to talk to everybody, because I hope-- and this is my aim— that it makes the audience feel like it’s their Friday night, too. They don’t have to just stand there silent while we play music. That’s a real drag. I want everyone to feel that good time feeling, because I spent my whole childhood, from about 12 on, going to shows. It was what made me feel good. It was my favorite thing. So I want other people to have that feeling, too.”

In Neko’s case, that good time feeling provided both a stabilizing force and an escape route during her rebellious teen years in Tacoma, WA. Every bit the punk rock girl of Dead Milkmen lore, she left home at 15, played the drums for a string of local bands, and eventually traveled across the border to Vancouver to attend art school in the early 90’s. It was in Canada where Case’s unparalleled pipes were finally heard-- singing and drumming with the girl-punk outfit Maow, becoming the secret weapon in The New Pornographers, and perhaps most importantly, embracing her budding passion for classic country music on her 1997 solo debut, The Virginian. It may have seemed like a bit of a leap to some, but for Case herself, the worlds of punk and country never felt too far apart.

“Looking at it from the inside of the two, I don’t know that there’s much of a difference, actually,” she explains, “except for some stylistic things here or there. They’re both kind of dissatisfied and passionate forms of music. It’s not as much a difference of being punk rock or country as it is the difference of being an independent musician to being a musician on a major label from the time you’re young. Those are the two different worlds more than anything.”

Case’s own musical worlds collided in 2000, when The New Pornographers’ Mass Romantic and her own Furnace Room Lullaby garnered a heap of praise from separate ends of the indie spectrum. Riding that wave, she bolted Vancouver for the deserts of Tucson, enlisting the aid of Southwestern stalwarts Howe Gelb (Giant Sand) and Joey Burns and John Convertino (Calexico) for her 2002 country-noir triumph, Blacklisted.

It was on the Blacklisted tour in 2003 that Case and her then touring band of Jon Rauhouse (guitar, banjo, pedal steel), Tom V. Ray (upright bass), and guest vocalist Kelly Hogan recorded a live set for the Austin City Limits TV program— an appearance that was finally released on DVD last fall.

“It was such a fun time,” Case recalls. “I’m really glad that there’s an artifact out there of when we were a three piece. Of course, we had Kelly Hogan in the set, too. But we used to just travel all the time as a three piece-- Jon and Tom and I-- so I’m really glad there’s an artifact of that.” Case pauses for a moment. “And also, I’m glad there’s an artifact of Tom’s beard,” she laughs, referring to her bassist’s formerly shoulder-length chin-locks. “It’s more for Tommy’s beard than anyone!”

Both Rauhouse and Ray are back in the fold for the current tour, which is the latest in support of 2006’s complex and gorgeous Fox Confessor Brings the Flood— a wildly acclaimed album that has earned Case as much respect for her inventive songwriting as her canyon wide vocal range. Guitarist Paul Rigby and drummer Barry Mirochnick have been brought on to add a new dynamic to the band’s live sound, and Neko Case’s “favorite singer in the world,” Kelly Hogan, is now a permanent member of the family, as well. Adds Case, “Kelly’s pretty much the most badass rock n’ roll assassin of all-time!”

She may have a point, too. When Case and Hogan activate their wonder twin powers for the ghostly, heart-wrenching harmonies on Fox Confessor tracks like “Hold On, Hold On” and “Maybe Sparrow,” the songs’ deeper meanings seem to unfold in spite of their somewhat cryptic lyrics. Casting herself as “the mean girl, or somebody’s in-between girl,” Neko Case is being more wistful than cynical— more reflective than declarative.

“Oh yeah, I’m horribly nostalgic and romantic and all those things,” she admits. “But for my general outlook on life, I think it’s an incredibly positive thing. I still feel like I’m 19 years-old and all the possibilities of the world are open to me. But sometimes in making pragmatic adult decisions,” she laughs, “that may not be the greatest thing in the world. But as you get older, it becomes an art form— balancing your romantic side with your logical side.”

Or your punk side with your country side. Your American with your Canadian. Your present with your past. Whatever it takes to find that good time feeling.

SEE ALSO: Neko Case Special Interview for Tails Pet Magazine. December, 2008.

Yo La Tengo + Lambchop

Yo La Tengo: We’d Rather Rely On Playing
by Andrew Clayman
Published in The Metro Pulse, January 2007



A recent major university, double-blind study found it scientifically impossible for rock critics to describe New Jersey’s own Yo La Tengo without using the word “quintessential”—even if the word is mentioned merely in reference to its own unavoidable usage (see example above). What science cannot explain, however, is how a band this adventurous can go two decades without imploding, or worse yet, slowing down.

“I don’t have an answer for that either,” says longtime Yo La Tengo bassist James McNew, speaking from his home in Brooklyn, New York. “I think maybe my lack of an ability to explain it probably has something to do with whatever it is. There’s not exactly a rule as far as that stuff (longevity) is concerned, but I know that we never really had any specific goals of success for ourselves. We didn’t have a super achievement we were shooting for, so there was less of a chance of us ever being disappointed.”

McNew joined Yo La Tengo in 1992, making him the venerable third man alongside the band’s lawfully wedded co-founders, singer/guitarist Ira Kaplan and drummer/vocalist Georgia Hubley. By that point, YLT had already earned plenty of critical praise and Velvet Underground comparisons for standout LPs like President Yo La Tengo (1989) and Fakebook (1990). It was the addition of McNew as the permanent bass player, however—along with a well timed move to Matador Records—that transformed the genre-dodging trio into indie rock’s “quintessential” outfit.

The Yo La’s twelfth and most recent studio concoction, I Am Not Afraid of You and I Will Beat Your Ass, is every bit as spunky, melodic, and eclectic as 1993’s Painful or 1997’s I Hear the Heart Beating As One—albums that became pop study guides for every dorm formed indie band of the past decade. When it comes to schooling, though, it’s still on stage where YLT deliver their finest lessons.

“The set list changes every night,” McNew explains, merely hinting at YLT’s infamously encyclopedic catalog of tunes. “Literally, every show that we do is different. It’s like a puzzle, sort of, to put it together, depending on where you are. If it’s a place you’ve played before, you want to come up with something different than last time. And if it’s a place you’ve never been before, chances are the shows are going to be longer than usual and the songs are older than usual. It’s always fun putting that stuff together.”

There have even been a few special shows in which Kaplan, Hubley, and McNew played entire sets based on random requests, which begs the question: Why not forget the setlist idea all together?

“Actually, the only reason we don’t just call them spontaneously is for logistical reasons--” McNew replies, “guitar tunings and basic set-up issues. That’s why we don’t just go out and wing it for a while, which would be really fun. If we did wing it, though, we’d have to rely a lot more on on-stage comedy and banter to cover up the gaps between songs. And while we are very funny, I think we would rather rely on playing.”

Despite the demands of their high-energy shows and the toll of twenty years on a tour bus, McNew says life on the road hasn’t worn out its welcome just yet.

“Of course, there are going to be moments in every day when you’re on the road, where you just really wish you were somewhere else,” he admits. “But over all, it’s great. Playing is always great, and I love traveling and always look forward to it. I’m looking forward to it a lot now.”

Adding to McNew’s anticipation on the current leg of the Beat Your Ass tour will be a special, one night appearance by Lambchop, the veteran Nashville band that will serve as YLT’s opener in Knoxville.

“I’ve always loved Lambchop,” McNew gushes. “We’ve known those guys for about twelve or thirteen years, and there’s really nothing like them. Probably among any other band in the world, they are our closest friends-- so much so that we’ll stay in their houses if we’re in Nashville making records— which is easy, because there’s about eighteen of them, so you never really wear out your welcome. But yeah, tell Kurt (Wagner) I said hello.”

--STORY CONTINUED IN SIDEBAR-- Follow link to interview with Kurt Wagner of Lambchop