The Bowery Presents
White Denim

White Denim

Houndmouth

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.
Houndmouth
Houndmouth
That first November 2011 night, when it all fell together at the Green House, was nothing more complicated than four friends playing music, armed with something to drink and a curiosity about what might happen. They were the generation who has come of age in the new economy, already adept at shuffling jobs and get-bys, firmly acclimated to the diminished expectations that come with growing up somewhere the rest of the world assumes is nowhere. Which, in this case, is New Albany, Indiana.

Houndmouth, then, knew each other from…around. Matt Myers and Zak Appleby had played in cover bands together for years, schooled in blues and classic rock and Motown, toughened by indifferent audiences and the clatter of empty bottles. Matt and Katie Toupin had worked as an acoustic duo for three years, when she wasn’t on the road tending to a straight job. Katie and Shane Cody had gone to high school together, before Shane disappeared off to Chicago and New York to study audio engineering. In the beginning it was Shane and Matt who’d started knocking around at first, just drums and guitar, once Shane got home and free of a brief bluegrass flirtation.

The rest happened in a tumble, Zak and Katie switching from guitars to bass and keyboards, respectively. Four months later, their homemade EP in hand, Houndmouth made the pilgrimage to South By Southwest. Their booking agent convinced Rough Trade’s Geoff Travis to come have a listen. Of such things are dreams made. Months of conversation and a proper studio later, their debut album, From the Hills Below the City, will be released by Rough Trade.

“We lucked out,” Matt says. “We knew we were making good music. We knew we had something. But we didn’t know it would escalate so quickly. Always the element of luck.”

Before and after that bit of luck, Houndmouth have been on the road, building their audience. Working. Opening for the Drive-By Truckers, the Lumineers, the Alabama Shakes, Lucero, and Grace Potter and the Nocturnals. Headlining on their own. Turning heads.

“You know good art when you see it,” says Newport Folk Festival booker Jay Sweet, an early adopter, “and you know good food when you taste it. Well, you also know good music when you hear it, and when I first heard Houndmouth it was like freshest tasting art I had heard in many moons. A true musical omnivore’s delight.”
“I’m going down where nobody knows me,” they sing during the jaunty chorus of “On the Road.” The opening track to From the Hills Below the City, which is more or less the relationship New Albany has to Louisville, across the river: “I had a job had to leave behind me…I had to move to another city.” A two and a half minute slightly bent pop confection, conscious of all kinds of music which went before. Self-conscious about nothing, not even the neo-rap cutting contest that snaps across one break. A blues for now, then.

The older heads are noticing, the ones who are hardest to convince. “Houndmouth is a great young band,” testifies Patterson Hood of the Truckers. “They toured with us last month and brought it each and every night. They were extremely popular with our fanbase and our band. I look forward to hearing what they do next.”
Rolling Stone’s David Fricke joined the chorus of praise after seeing Houndmouth during SXSW ’13: “They are all singers, leading with individual character and harmonizing in saloon-choir empathy. The music is earthy melancholy with a rude garage-rock streak.”

Houndmouth’s songs emerge with a loose-limbed swing, anchored by a sturdy rhythm and a cagey melodic sensibility. “Penitentiary,” revived from Matt and Katie’s acoustic days, is all dressed up as a rock anthem. It’s dark, yet fun, with all those voices singing, “come on down to the Penitentiary/oh mama, the law came crashing down on me.”

Matt sketches the origins of his song, which became their song. “I met a guy in Reno on a road trip before we started the band, and he was super down on his luck,” he says. “We met him at a gas station, bumming money. He told me a few details that are probably in the song, but I made most of it up. I changed the setting to Texas, because it sounded authentic.” And then he mentions that he was listening to Jimmie Rodgers at the time.
Hard-luck songs, to be sure, betraying a certain criminal bent. Not their stories, Katie is careful to note, but the world they’ve watched walk on by. “We grew up in Southern Indiana,” she says. “It’s not always the classiest place. So all that is not unfamiliar even if we haven’t personally been through the darkest parts of it.”

And yet, as she also says, “No matter how much anyone wants to write a completely fictional or narrative song, there’s ALWAYS part of you in it. I think that it is important, even when writing narrative songs, that there is something real about them. That there is part of yourself in them.” Houndmouth’s truths, then, are emotional. For the most part.

“The dealers and the bootleggers/Got me hooked on freebasing/And I can’t trust my government/So I looked into the other dimension,” Katie sings, tough and innocent. “And now they got me doing bad things.” “The song is a story,” Katie says. “I didn’t get hooked on freebasing. Yet there is part of me in it…It’s also maybe about me wanting to escape, loosen my morals, not opening my heart to people.”

So are the songs. Deeply emotional, that weird, powerful, essential thing the blues does that makes you feel better through the tears. Especially the songs which are deeply personal, like “Halfway to Hardinsburg” or “Palmyra.” Or the sad, slurring loss of “Long as You’re Home,” on which they sing, “Who am I supposed to be?”

Themselves, of course.

Four musicians from New Albany, Indiana, across the river from Louisville. Where Will Oldham, Jim James, and Freakwater’s Catherine Irwin live. A fecund place, and place
matters. Not a sound, not a scene, but a place. A real place. “There is a familiar element about My Morning Jacket that I can’t really pinpoint,” Katie says. “It’s kinda like what I can’t pinpoint about what Houndmouth is that we all sort of get. It just makes us feel at home.”
Venue Information:
Brooklyn Bowl
61 Wythe Avenue
Brooklyn, NY, 11249
http://www.brooklynbowl.com/