Download: David Serby “Don’t Even Try”

(from Honky Tonk and Vine out now on Harbor Grove)

David Serby was a punk kid in Orange County and then an insurance adjuster in L.A. and took a long time and a lot of lumps to become the country singer he is now. He performs monthly at dark bars with old photos on the walls and he has just released his third album Honky Tonk And Vine. This interview by Chris Ziegler.

If you wrote a song called ‘Blues For An Insurance Adjuster,’ what would it be like?
Oh good Lord. That would pretty much be if I wrote a musical for the movie Office Space. When I was doing insurance I had the back of my cubicle backed up to a big window and I went to my boss and said, ‘Can I take this back thing off because its got this big beautiful window here?’ He said no, so a friend of mine who was next to me brought his little Leatherman tool kit in and hung around ‘til everybody was gone and we took it off and put the back of the cubicle in the storage facility bin back behind a big crate and nobody ever said anything. I don’t think they ever noticed.
What was the most productive creative work you ever got out of those experiences?
I think that you figure out who you are by figuring out who you’re not. You put these clothes on and go, ‘This doesn’t feel right on me.’ When I started working there, my life was completely upside down and that job was really the only thing I had to hold on to. I was probably about six months into that job and my friend who I met there was quitting to go to graduate school back in New York—he said, ‘You hate this job—why don’t you just quit right now and we’ll take three months off and we’ll drive around the country? You can bring a guitar.’ I said, ‘I can’t do it—my life has been a mess for so long. I can’t.’ I was still hanging on to that cliff—I hung on to that cliff for another six years before I actually let go.
Are you more of a risk taker now?
Definitely. It’s a completely different world. I let go of that cliff and I just said, ‘You know what? The game is rigged.’ I don’t want to turn into an anarchist or anything but this whole capitalist system is not really set up to encourage freedom of thought and art. And if that’s what you want to do, as soon as you realize that the system is not set up to really help you or encourage you and that you’re going to have to figure out your own path and make your own rules—as soon as you accept those things, life becomes a hell of a lot easier.
Are these the same sentiments you were talking about in your old punk band?
Kind of. The things I was railing against then—being a cog in a machine and all those teenage things you’re pissed about, like having a number on a social security card and all that bullshit. But you do come full circle. You rail against it and then you graduate from high school—I remember feeling instantly ancient. Just old. And thinking, ‘How did this happen?’ And then it was another 10 or 15 years of realizing that just because I was older doesn’t mean I had to be older. I went to high school in Orange County so that was like in ‘78 and in ‘82 I graduated—there was a lot of great punk rock going on in Orange County at that time. I used to see Mike Ness hanging around. I saw Agent Orange more times than I can count! And the Adolescents and TSOL and all those bands—I saw them in high school gyms, I saw them in Elks Clubs, I saw them at the Lodge in Fullerton—I saw them everywhere. There was a lot of great art happening down there and all of that stuff was cool. But my family had country records and I remember I would play the Johnny Cash Live From San Quentin record all the time and I would listen to a band like X—I remember getting that first X record. I got the first X record and the first Blasters record on the same day and I went to my friend’s house and I put it on her record player and listened to it and just stared at the artwork and was completely blown away by that stuff. That stuff is completely folk music. It’s folk music like it’s people talking about what’s going on in their life and on the street. They’re talking about people who are making it day to day. They’re kind of like historians—especially a band like X, they were just brilliant historians. I love that band.
Guy Clark says you have to leave a space in the song for the guy who’s listening to be like, ‘Hey that’s me…’ Is that something you try to do?
One of the things that I love most about country music is that people identify with it. It’s very common language—a very conversational art form and I think people connect with it because they do see themselves in those songs. If you’ve done that and somebody can listen to a song and recognize themselves in it, then I think you’ve really managed to do something special. That is kind of what I try to do. The thing with country music is that people make fun of it because country music talks about ‘my girlfriend left me, my wife left me, my dog died, my pick-up truck’s broken down…’ But you know what? That shit happens to people! It sounds simple, but it’s not simple—it’s not easy to do that. I remember reading an interview with either Jakob Dylan or Tom Petty—a reviewer wrote about how the songs were all three chords and they were all conversational and how the songs were too simple and he said, ‘Look, if being simple were easy everyone would do it.’ Except for the ones about being in prison—although I’ve been in plenty of metaphorical prisons—I don’t think I’ve ever heard a country song that I haven’t identified with. That’s the brilliance about it.
What’s hard about writing a simple song for you?
You have to pick out the little things. My friend said, ‘My husband is always on the street—he’s always working on his car and he should be in the house working on other stuff, if you know what I mean.’ And I thought, ‘That’s like a universal man-woman experience.’ And I came home and wrote this song ‘Better With My Hands’ about a couple that is falling apart—which I know something about—and a guy who doesn’t know how to talk about what he’s feeling—which I know something about. The fact that I was talking to this woman and she was saying the same thing was happening to her—well, you know, there’s something that I haven’t written about and if it’s happening to me and it’s happening to her then it’s happening to millions of people all over the world. The key is to try and tell it in a fresh original way—it’s tough to be simple when you’re trying to be different.
Harlan Howard would do the same thing—just listen to people talking in a bar.
There’s a song on the record called ‘I Only Smoke When I’m Drinking’ and twice in a week somebody tried to bum a cigarette off of me and both times I said I only smoke when I’m drinking. And the song ‘Permanent Position’—I was talking to my friend at the Cinema Bar about how great it would be if Rod—the guy who owns the Cinema Bar—would pay us to drink beer because that’s pretty much one of our favorite things to do. I’m not the only one who wants to sit in a bar and get paid to drink beer, I’m sure.
What’s the big story you want to tell? What’s on your mind that you want in a song?
That’s a good question. I’m in a good place in my own personal life so I’m kind of looking outward more. The first record had its own story, but for the last two records I kind of moved away from that—what I really want to do is look at other people and their lives. The world needs good art right now—it needs good stories.
What makes you say that?
Well, I don’t know—this place is a wreck. The middle class is disappearing and people are so hypnotized by pop culture that they don’t see it. I look at my sister and her husband who have gone through tough times. I watch people struggle and it seems that it’s people who shouldn’t be struggling. It’s people whose families that for generations, their lot in life has improved—and now this generation, everything has gone backwards for them. There’s a movie called The Interpreter with Sean Penn and Nicole Kidman and there’s a line in that movie—‘There are no more countries, only corporations.’ And it’s that. The corporations don’t give a rat’s ass about the people in this country. It’s the death of the middle class, the Wal-Mart economic model—it’s all that stuff and it’s the effect that stuff is having in people’s lives. That’s what’s interesting to me.
What do you think about that strange kind of split in country? That part of it is so stand-up-for-the-little-guy and yet it’s used to market Wal-Mart and expensive trucks?
I know—I agree with that and I don’t think that it even registers with people. I really don’t and I think it’s the hypnotic effect of pop culture. I went off to Stagecoach a couple weeks ago and there was the Palomino stage and it had some big acts that drew some people over from the main area—the bands had a more independent aesthetic and were more country-based like Dale Watson and Jim Lauderdale. And there were sadly not big crowds for them. I spent almost the whole weekend in front of that stage. Late on Sunday night, the wind kicked up and it was kind of cool and I walked back through the main stage area in the middle of Kid Rock’s set and he was playing a Queen song—I think it was either ‘We Are the Champions’ or ‘We Will Rock You’ and there was supposed to have been 50,000 people in attendance but there wasn’t more than 250 people over at the Palomino stage. At that time I think it was Jim Lauderdale and Dale Watson headlining, who I think are just brilliant contemporary country song writers and the other 49,999 people were over in front of that main stage and it was like a drunken spring break over there. I’m not making a value judgement but it’s completely different from old school country and how that art form was historically approached. It’s more like arena rock and pop music and those two fan bases don’t really cross-pollinate.
Is ‘Get It In Gear’ really about helping a girl get naked photos of herself back from a drug dealer? What happened?
I have no idea what happened to that girl. I knew her many years ago and kinda had a thing for her—kind of like the moth to the flame thing. I met her in junior college. You see those things happening and the signs are not good, but there’s a fascination there and you get to a certain point where you either jump off the cliff or walk back to your car right away.
What’s something you walked away from that you’re glad you left behind?
There was a whole bunch like ten years ago. I chose to go a different way professionally—I chose to go a different way in my relationships and I chose not to wallow in self-pity and depression and to try and use that. There is a tendency to kind of wallow in your bad luck—I think as an artist you probably should do a little of that because that’s how you connect with things, but the key is not getting so destroyed that you can’t do anything. I read an interview with Oliver Stone and he talks about going through a period in his life when he was having substance abuse problems—he said even when he was his drunkest or his most drugged-out or whatever, he got up every day and he wrote. There is a real saving grace in creating art. If you can force yourself to do it when you’re down, it will lead you to the light at the end of the tunnel.
Whenever Harlan Howard went into a bar, he’d always take the barstool closest to the front door—what is your preferred barstool and why?
I would take the farthest barstool from the door—but the one that had the view. I like my bars as dark as possible but I also like to be able to see people come and go. I like to watch people when they don’t know they’re being watched—you get an honest read on what people are doing and how they’re reacting to folks. I love to do that. I told somebody recently that I love to sit in airports when the flight is delayed. I just like to watch people. I might sit by the door but then you gotta turn around—if you’re over there in the back of the bar where you can see the whole deal, that would be my place.

DAVID SERBY ON THUR., JUN. 18, AT THE PIKE, 1836 E. 4TH ST., LONG BEACH. 9 PM / FREE / 21+. PIKELONGBEACH.COM.DAVID SERBY’S HONKY TONK AND VINE IS OUT NOW ON HARBOR GROVE. VISIT DAVID SERBY AT DAVIDSERBY.COM OR MYSPACE.COM/DAVIDSERBY.

Download: Fleet Foxes “Mykonos”

(from the Sun Giant EP on Sub Pop)

Fleet Foxes finished 2008 by overwhelming many best-of-the-year lists and scheduling a set on Saturday Night Live, during which they were wearing at least one smelly shirt. Singer Robin Pecknold speaks before decamping to a creaky new home studio to work on their new album. This interview by Thomas McMahon.

Where exactly is Port Townsend, and what’s it like there?
Robin Pecknold (vocals, guitar): If you’re coming from Seattle, you would take a ferry north. Port Townsend is kind of like on the other side of Puget Sound from Seattle, so it’s on the peninsula. It’s pretty slow moving. It’s nice, because it’s secluded, but it’s not like you can only go to the Wal-Mart or the Safeway. There’s a couple of good restaurants and a good food co-op. And Washington’s first independent record store is here—Quimper Sound. So it’s kind of a sympathetic environment.
You’ve been recording up there?
Kind of writing and setting up a better home-recording situation than we had last time. We could only record two tracks at a time at home, which is cool, but the more you do that—the more you’re layering that many tracks—it starts to sound more like a fake environment. Nothing has any relationship to the other instruments. So now we can record more tracks at once, but it’s still a pretty basic set-up. So mostly getting all the home recording stuff together and learning how to use it, and then kind of working on writing more than recording.
Can you tell us anything about this album in the works?
It’s tough to say at this point how it’s going to all pan out. We’re not in any big rush to get it done. I think people would appreciate us going away for a while as much as getting something out right away. And maybe none of the songs we’re working on right now will be on it if we do spend a long time on it. But I feel good about where the new songs are going. There are elements—maybe more the EP and a couple of the LP songs—elements of that kind of style in it. But it’s a little more, like, manly. Like Nickelback manly.
So you’re going to be a contender in the modern-rock realm?
Yeah, screw this! There’s not enough dough in this indie-rock game. We’re going whole hog.
Did someone call Fleet Foxes ‘The Styx of the late ’00s’?
I did!
And is that a good thing or a bad thing?
Oh, I think that’s a bad thing, right?
Your dad was in a soul group in the ’60s?
Yeah, the Fathoms. I think they recorded one 45. He was like 17. I don’t think they lasted very long. I remember I would look up my dad on Google, just to see what his Internet presence was or something, and there was this thing where he had put out a message on something that was like—‘Looking for my old bandmates in the Fathoms.’ I don’t know what happened.
Are they thinking about a reunion?
That would be awesome.
Maybe they could open for you guys.
Yeah, totally! But he’s been helping out a lot with getting this whole place up and running.
So is it like a cabin that you have there?
It’s not so much a cabin. It’s kind of barn shaped. But it’s two levels. And, honestly, I have a sinking feeling in my gut that we won’t actually be able to do much recording here, as much as I would want to. Because the house itself, it’s one of those houses where it’s all put together with joined pieces of wood, but then bolts or braces—it’s all this conjoined timber. So at like noon, the whole house creaks. It starts to kind of expand because it’s getting warmer. And then at like 8, the whole house starts to contract. It’s the noisiest thing—these ripples of the wood contracting. It’s actually kind of a huge disappointment.
So we might be hearing some house creaking on the next album?
Yeah, it could be like making beats out of the crazy pops and cracks. But between like 2 a.m. and 8 a.m., it’s kind of a silent time. Usually. Unless it’s raining. That’s the other thing. If it rains, there’s a tin roof, so you can hear the rain. I should have spent a few days here just sitting around before deciding this was the spot. But I think we’ll be able to get something done here. I wanted to have it so that we wouldn’t have to go to a studio at all, but maybe that won’t work out.
Did you play guitar and sing from a young age?
I started playing guitar at 13, so not that young. I just started learning Dylan songs. I’m kind of a remedial guitar player. I always wish my parents had forced me into violin lessons or something, so I’d have that knowledge base.
Did you do any singing in school, like choir or anything?
I did school plays, like Annie and Oklahoma!, that kind of thing—which was fun.
What was it like doing Saturday Night Live?
I honestly almost feel like that was a weird dream still. The process of doing it was really fun. They seemed excited to have us there. I think Andy Samberg and Bill Hader were gunning for us to the music bookers. So that made the whole thing feel better than something where you’re just kind of thrown into it. Some TV things can feel like go-go-go and then you’re done, and then it’s like, ‘Get out of here.’ But that felt more like a friendly experience. But the main thing that I still think about: I wore this green shirt that I didn’t get a chance to wash before we did it, and that was the only shirt I brought. So I just am worried—do the cast members think that I’m really smelly? And do they tell people that I was smelly? But there was also a feeling afterward that there was something kind of final about it. Because it was like the last thing we did of all the touring and promotion stuff for the record. But it also kind of … I almost felt kind of guilty about it. To play Saturday Night Live is a big honor, and kind of a dream, but it’s like what do you do after that if you’re … you kind of have to stop defining the experience of being in the band by the individual things that you’re doing, or something.
Like milestones?
Yeah, because if it’s all milestones, at some point it will just run out, and then what are you left with? And I think because we were so busy doing all that kind of stuff the last year, it’s almost like we stopped being a band that was worried about music because we were never having a chance to work on music. So I’m kind of glad that all of that stuff is over for the time being because now we can just work on music and be an actual band again.
In the liner notes of the Sun Giant EP, you wrote, ‘Music to me is just as awe-bringing as the world maybe once was.’ What did you mean by that?
Well, one of the things I love to do on tour is if we’re driving through the Southwest at night, and you’re just on these totally barren roads, and if it’s a clear night, and you get out of the car at like 2 in the morning, it’s like you see the stars so much more vibrant—like you can see the whole Milky Way. There’s no light around for miles. So I’ll just turn the lights off in the car and go stand out there and stargaze or whatever. I love doing that, but it’s also like, at one point in time, that wasn’t something that you were choosing to do—to put yourself in that situation. That was your situation. And I feel like sometimes I’m having to manufacture experiences in that way. It’s almost like how someone that would dress up as, like, a count and go to a renaissance fair. It’s kind of like manufacturing this experience that they want to have but isn’t actually their experience. I almost feel that way, because even if I’m out there in the middle of the desert looking at the stars, I could still pull out my cell phone and call 911 or something.
And you have the car there.
Yeah. It’s still a beautiful experience, but there’s an element to it of tourism or escapism, even though you’re just in the natural environment. I think in connecting that to music, I was just meaning that, to me, music can be really evocative in a really pure way, in that there’s no, like, intellectual barrier almost. When you’re having to put yourself in the middle of the desert at night, there’s an intellectual leap there that you’re having to make from your normal life experience to this old experience. And I feel like music lacks that, or is able to pass that intellectual center of your brain and into just a place of feeling, you know? I’m just as easily transported by a song as I am by that experience, and there isn’t that kind of guilt about it.
One more question about liner notes: In the album, you mentioned not trusting photographs. Why is that?
I think I had been reading or listening to something about memory, and it was weird to think back on all my childhood memories and then be able to look at a photo album that my mom had and see that they were all the same as those photos. It’s like, oh, I remember when I was two, going to the beach with you and your friend and your friend’s son, and then there’s like five photos of that experience, and they kind of matched my memory. But I found that just in the same way that a certain smell can take you back to a place, a song can, too. Almost easier. I feel like a photograph is something that’s guiding your mind or influencing your memory. But then a song, it will evoke something or stir something in you, and because it has no visual quality, it’s not influencing the memory. It’s just bringing it to the surface.

FLEET FOXES’ SELF-TITLED FULL LENGTH IS OUT NOW ON SUB POP. VISIT FLEET FOXES AT MYSPACE.COM/FLEETFOXES.