|
If punk was about rage and grunge was about pissed-off
frustration, Americana is about depression. Not depression in the
flighty Prozac Nation sense, but depression in the sense that life
is a series of minor disasters and strange episodes that most of us
can't control. Country music can be uplifting and joyous, but its
greatest works are about heartbreak, longing for a better life and
plain old despair. It's about sadness on a small level, dealing with
the day-to-day traumas that everyone faces--the ones that never make
headlines, but shape and affect people's lives.
Even at 22, Ryan Adams, leader of Whiskeytown, knows about this
kind of sadness. He's young enough to sound thrilled about two
sold-out shows, yet mature enough to realize that it doesn't have
any effect on a broken heart.
The band is touring in support of Strangers Almanac,
its second album. It's a stirring collection of moody, twangy
numbers all made stronger by Adams' powerful, already weathered
vocals. Three duets with Alejandro Escovedo are among the album's
strongest songs, especially "Excuse Me While I Break My Own
Heart Tonight," which is as close to a sucking-the-top-of-a-longnecked-Bud
tearjerker as it gets. But the smooth melody may have you nodding
along without realizing the pathos of the lyrics. This happens
throughout Almanac, and it's part of what separates
Whiskeytown from a crop of similar bands. Adams twists meaning and
mood in a way that makes these songs worth listening to and thinking
about.
He says he's surprised now when he listens to the record.
"The record's the least favorite thing that I've
recorded," he says, sounding as sincere as a 22-year-old can.
"I had a lot of trouble singing that record because my heart
was totally broken. When I listen to it I can hear myself being
wounded, but other people seem to think I had this elated sense of
spirit."
Some might think this gives him material, but Adams demurs.
"That's a cheap, rock-boy thing to do," he insists,
"get in a bad relationship so you can write a good
record."
Though Adams grew up in North Carolina, he didn't start out
playing country. His most recent band was the alternative-rock Patty
Duke Syndrome, but Adams scoffs at the idea that his genre-hopping
is inconsistent. "I'm still as punk now as I was then, if not
more. I never was really punk. Any of the bands I was in
could never really be considered punk. It was not
'one-two-fuck-you.'
"I think I had more of an American Music Club idea in
my head when we started Whiskeytown, although definitely everyone
else's ideas changed it to be more country," he adds. "I
just wanted to use pedal steel, and fiddles and accordion and
whatever we could get our hands on, just to make a really cool mood
for all the songs that I was going to write."
This casualness belies a thoughtful guy who's very conscious of
both the benefits and the pressures of his situation. He still gets
a little stage fright and is upset by negative reviews, but he tries
not to mind. "I can't let myself pay attention to that kind of
stuff," he says. "I'm far enough away from home as it
is."
Adams isn't talking about home in the sense of a place to
live--which for him has been Raleigh, N.C.--but home as in a place
where he feels it. "Even when I'm home now, it's not
home," he says sadly. "I get treated different. I always
run into people that I don't really know, but I feel obligated to
talk to them. That makes me really paranoid or nervous, because I
just want to get some milk."
Whiskeytown,
The Volebeats
Berbati's Pan
231 SW Ankeny St., 224-8499
8 pm Wednesday, Sept. 17
$5 advance
|