The Bowery Presents
White Denim

White Denim


Sat, June 22, 2013

Doors: 6:00 pm / Show: 8:00 pm

Brooklyn Bowl

Brooklyn, NY

This event is 21 and over

White Denim
White Denim
They say the human body is DNA-programmed to renew itself every seven years. In which case, White Denimʼs now legendary, heart-attack musical timing has accelerated their own development – and then some. Five years on from their
twisted translation of the garage-rock aesthetic via Workout Holiday, new album Corsicana Lemonade announces itself less noisily and demandingly, while commanding just as much attention.
If their UK debut was the sound of a way-cool keg party, then as singersongwriter and guitarist James Petralli sees it, their latest is “a barbeque record, essentially”. Here, then, are summery grooves with a country-funk/boogie-soul bent (ʻCome Backʼ, ʻA Place To Startʼ), classic pop-rock moves from the ʼ70s (ʻCheer Up Blues Endingʼ, ʻAt Night In Dreamsʼ) and riff-centric, dirty blues (ʻLet It Feel Good (My Eagles)ʼ, ʻPretty Greenʼ). White Denimʼs frenetic workouts still feature – after all, this is the band that have always boasted serious chops – but theyʼre far less extended and frequent, designed to complement the newfound laid-back ease, rather than hog the spotlight.
Petralli concedes that the bandʼs aim was to pull back from the complex and considered song structures that took their cues from prog and jazz, and instead make a record that was closer to the White Denim live experience. In other words,
tap into the quartetʼs holy-rolling momentum and exhilarating, in-the-moment energy. “Initially, we did start by recording a bunch of rockist numbers, but we got kind of fatigued with it. I think we felt that we wanted to say something else, and our ears got tired of hearing really aggressive music and trying to work it into something.
“About eight months after D came out, we realised we didnʼt want to play triplets on everything. We didnʼt want to make it so difficult for ourselves and, possibly too, our audience. So we talked about scaling back a little bit, by featuring the
songs more. We really just wanted to say something new. The biggest thing was to set up and play together in a room, to try and get the sound of the band playing live together.”
With that in mind, Petralli, Austin Jenkins (guitar), Steve Terebecki (bass) and Joshua Block (drums) took up a longstanding invitation. In January of 2012 theyʼd
toured with Wilco and afterward, Jeff Tweedy joked – or so they thought – that someday they should record together at the bandʼs Loft Studio. Petralli remembers thinking it was a courtesy comment, but then this year Tweedy called to say that he had a five-day window, and wanted White Denim to go in and cut some tracks. So in late March of 2013, Petralli wrote a couple of songs at short notice and they headed to Chicago, which is where the all-important loosening up
process began.
Only two album tracks came out of that session – ʻDistant Relative Saluteʼ and ʻA Place to Startʼ – but the experience of playing live in the studio as an ensemble was crucial. Explains Petralli: “We spent a day apiece on those two songs and
then the last three days, we just tried out every instrument we could get our hands on and laid out these kind of krautrock vamps. That studio is basically a museum; they have pretty much any instrument you could think of, so we just
threw everything at it. Jeff was really adamant that we play live, so there was a lot of emphasis on the performances from the four of us being definitive. The spirit was to not have any studio fixing. When I listen to the new record now, it
sounds like us learning to play that music, which is cool. To capture that freshness and that…uncertain certainty.”
The Chicago experience galvanised the fourʼs initial determination to make a different kind of White Denim record, and it took them just two months. When they went back to Austin, they rented a house on a cliff overlooking Lake Travis and hired a team who outfitted it as a studio in four days. “We were actually on the porch, trying to write the songs while they were building the studio,” Petralli remembers, “and by the time we got in there, we had enough material to start the
record. Both Josh and Austin had moved to Dallas in 2012, so they lived there for five weeks. When we first got into the house, we were in awe of the view because it was just all windows, but when we went in to start working, theyʼd
boarded them all up for soundproofing. Josh and Austin had this weird psychosis of living in a house with no natural light. Theyʼd be yelling that there was a beautiful view beyond the sound blanket!”
Local producer and “tone guru” Jim Vollentine was in the mix, as was his collection of vintage radio broadcast gear, which lends the record warmth and textured intimacy. “Heʼs been salvaging it from yard sales for the past 20 years,”
Petralli reveals. “We had a pretty nice mixture of ʼ70s hi-fi equipment and really early tube equipment from the ʼ40s and ʼ50s.”
Particulars of process and sonics werenʼt the only features of the Corsicana Lemonade picture; recent listening habits and changes in personal circumstance also played their part. Petralli, who became a father for the first time in January
says that over the past year or two, the band had been thinking a lot about family “and the preservation of [our] personal lives. We decided that we wanted to talk
about relationships and family, so with those kinds of things in the air, it was pretty easy for me to tap that lyrically. Plus, weʼd all been listening to a lot of the country music and pop weʼd grown up with – stuff like Waylon Jennings and the
masterful Townes Van Zandt, but also lesser sung artists like Jim Ford and the guys who played in the Nashville band Barefoot Jerry – they themselves didnʼt really write a lot of great songs, but their music felt really good and it was
comfortable and fun. More groove-oriented country was almost a nostalgic thing that we were connecting with.”
If the spirits of Little Feat and the Allman Brothers still hover in the wings, then Badfinger, Stevie Wonder and Glen Campbell have also made their mark, as has fellow Texan, Steve Miller, particularly on the title track. Itʼs both a light-hearted homage to some of the states non-descript suburbs and small towns (Abilene, Lucas, Nacogdoches and Waxahachie all get a shout-out) and an update of the
classic country road song. “Heʼs one step away from Jimmy Buffet, for a lot of people,” Petralli concedes of Miller, “but he did make a couple of great records.
Sailor is pretty cool, and he was part of the whole San Francisco, late-ʼ60s psychedelic thing. On D we got a lot of those comparisons – I guess itʼs just inherent. We all do it, but none of us really wants to own up to listening to the
Steve Miller Band!”
But Corsicana Lemonade has nothing whatsoever to do with the wrong-headed concept of “guilty pleasures”. Its pleasures are honest, immediate and generous spirited, its sound that of a band somehow all the more settled for having made a
change. It seems that White Denim took their own advice, offered on the grungily twanginʼ and heavily reverbed ʻLet It Feel Good (My Eagles)ʼ: “If it feels good, just let it feel good to ya.” Damned hard to argue with that.

Rough Trade Records, March 17 2015

In the last four years, Houndmouth have learned what it means to be a band. On their second album, Little Neon Limelight, they wear that wisdom like a badge of honor.

A half-decade ago, four twenty-something pals from the small Indiana city of New Albany launched Houndmouth as a modest vehicle for the songs of Matt Myers. He’d crafted his tunes largely in his bedroom, using automated beats as backdrops. He harbored few ambitions of turning them into a spectacle. But within the drums and keys, guitars and harmonies of Houndmouth, those numbers became the irrepressible core of an outfit that turned magnetic, once he discovered that the collaborators he’d found had great songs of their own to bring to the band.

In 2012, the group—Myers, Katie Toupin, Shane Cody, and Zak Appleby—issued a self-titled EP on Rough Trade Records, the legendary imprint that signed them after seeing a single gig. One of 2013’s most incandescent debuts, their From the Hills Below the City LP affirmed what label owner Geoff Travis had heard: the sounds of Americana, renewed by the youthful glow of songwriters, musicians and pals unafraid to both celebrate and desecrate them.

Others noticed, too. The Guardian noted that, with From the Hills, “reservations fade,” while Rolling Stone’s David Fricke lauded the “earthy melancholy with a rude garage-rock streak.” Treks with the Drive-by Truckers and the Alabama Shakes followed, plus performances at the Newport Folk Festival, Lollapalooza and Bonnaroo. In cramped clubs and big theaters alike, Houndmouth earned a reputation as a must-see act, their hooks, energy and charisma making them feel like a lifelong friend you’d just met.

That success, though, turned what had started as fun into something closer to work. Houndmouth learned that being full-time musicians required much more than the nine-to-five endeavors they had left behind in Indiana. But they grew into the role and grew from it. Experiences accumulated; perspectives expanded. Relationships stalled; others progressed.

“We’re not in party mode all the time anymore,” says Myers. “We’re refining how we write songs, writing about people we love, more important things than just nonsensical stuff.” If that was the charge, then Little Neon Limelight is an unapologetic success. These eleven songs sparkle, fade, and sparkle again, mixing innocence and experience, acceptance and aspiration, horror and hope.

Recorded by Dave Cobb in Nashville, Little Neon Limelight pairs the energy and nerves of raw first takes with the accents and moods of a more contemplative, thoughtful unit. Hearts are broken and friends are exiled, love grows cold and drugs do damage, leaders make mistakes and money turns tricks. On the acoustic “Gasoline,” one of the most poignant moments of Houndmouth’s catalog, Toupin barbs the confessions of a perennial party girl with the specter of mortality. “Maybe I’ll meet my maker on a bedroom floor,” she sings, her voice fighting against its own existential fade as bowed cello traces her words. Haunted by samples of the buoyant opener and single “Sedona” and the noisy filigree of a Moog, the beautifully downcast “For No One” stalks through personal blues with conviction. Its world-weariness has been incubated by the world it surveys.

But all of these feelings aren’t worn on Houndmouth’s collective sleeves: Despite the turmoil embedded within many of these songs, they are equal parts energetic proclamation, built with choruses that can’t be denied, harmonies that can’t be escaped and rhythms that can’t be resisted. With its carousel keyboards and start-and-stop drums, “Say I”” is a combination come-on and kiss-off that might make Keith Richards blush. For “15 Years,” Houndmouth conjures barroom bluster to voice the woes of a prisoner, backing the cries of his soul with howling organ and slashing guitar. When all the action drops into a shout-along, gospel-strong bridge, you might feel the urge to bust the fella out yourself. What’s the point of having the blues, Houndmouth seems to say, if you can’t have fun with them, too?

Nowhere is that balance of tragedy and triumph better than on the romp “My Cousin Greg,” a Band-style saga where each member takes a turn with a verse. Written about Myers’ actual cousin and former cover-band bandmate Greg, these four minutes present the title guy as a mischievous, enlightened and acerbic genius. He leaves Florida with his master’s degree in physics for a brainy job in Los Angeles, raising metaphysical hell and questions along the way. Greg thinks his cousin has it made, touring the country by van while playing the songs he’s written.

But Myers disagrees: “If you wanna live the good life/Well, you better stay away from the limelight,” the quartet sings as one in the chorus, repeating the mantra as though it were their only lifeline to sanity. For those long drives, it’s a reminder of the thrill and toil of what they now get to do. “For the first record, we were floating around after having been thrown into this,” explains Myers. “This time, we were able to write more about experiences than random stories, because that’s where we are in life. There had to be an attachment to what we recorded.” For Little Neon Limelight, the charged, charming and preternaturally mature Houndmouth did exactly that.
Venue Information:
Brooklyn Bowl
61 Wythe Avenue
Brooklyn, NY, 11249