Ike Reilly

My phone rings 30 or so minutes after I thought Chicago area singer/songwriter Ike Reilly flaked out on our scheduled interview: “Hey man, I just got out of a meeting at my kid’s school,” the raspy mystery voice on the other end growls. “My kid got in trouble so I had to go in and get yelled at. That f&#@ing teacher kept going on and on. But I’ve got time now if you do.” 

It’s Ike Reilly, and he’s feisty. At first my questions don’t amuse him. I know from his recent record, Hard Luck Stories, that he loves talking to people, but for five minutes he doesn’t love talking to me. His answers are short and to the point.

When I ask him about the decision to release Stories, his sixth proper studio album, as a download two months before the CD hit store shelves, he simply says “I don’t know. I don’t do the marketing.” There’s a long pause and a bored sigh. “That’s a record label question. I didn’t even know there was going to be a hard copy.”

Eventually, however, he warms. We talk about records and music into our cell phone devices, only 172 miles from each other’s front door. He’s the New Dylan. The New Waits. He’s even the new Todd Snider - though he’s not new at all.

“This is kind of nice, ya know,” he says. “You’re the most informed writer I’ve talked to in a long while. I’ve been an asshole to some people lately just because they call me and talk to me for an hour and haven’t even listened to the new record.”

From there, the short, stoic responses disappear; suddenly, I’m talking with the storyteller. The darkly funny father. One of the most loved-by-rock-critics songwriters in America today. I’m lucky. More than anything else, I want, very badly, to ask him about his writing, which is some of the best out there. I edge around the subject, hoping he’ll find his way to my point. I ask if he takes inspiration for writers?

“I’m not a big reader. I mean, I have read, but I’m not a reader. I’m too busy writing to read. I’ve maybe read a book or two.” he tells me without so much as a chuckle. “Just because I’m a liar doesn’t mean I’m a reader,” he says, finally laughing. “I’ve just been around a lot of great storytellers. I’m excited about other people’s lives.”

From this point on Reilly begins matching me, question for question, as curious about me and Fort Wayne as I am him and his records.

“What’s this venue like that we’re playing? The Tiger Room, right?” he asks. “I think we’re playing a show there and then a second show at some loft or something?”

I explain that CS3’s The Tiger Room reminds me of some of the non-tourist-y places I’ve been to in Nashville. And the “loft” he speaks of is actually part of the One Lucky Guitar workspace - an amazing place to see an intimate show. He’s instantly relieved, joking that the “loft show will be like Lenny Bruce meets Will Rogers, then I’ll play a song or two.”

Next, of course, I ask about the main event, his new record, which sounds notably different from his last proper release, 2007’s great We Belong to the Staggering Evening.

Staggering was recorded live with a band. We were bashing  shit out, quickly. The new record was recorded in a little more isolated fashion. And it had some different players on it,” he tells me. “The other record is more reckless, almost cocaine rock. But this record is groove oriented. Why do you think they sound so different?”

I tell him that I agree that Staggering feels more organic, more live-in-studio, adding that it reminds me of Exile On Main Street in that way, and that Stories feels like a record that took much longer to perfect.

He likes my answer, or at least seems to. And even if he doesn’t, something I said opens him up. Now we’re talking.

“In the past I’d avoided doing songs that had beginnings, middles and ends. But when we did this, we had a bunch of songs. But I ended up using all the songs that were, for the most part, story songs. Linear stories, where the other stuff is more like vignettes with a theme.”

At this point I jump in, babbling on and on about how, considering some of the press releases I’ve read about him, I think his label might misunderstand his albums. I go on and on for minutes, not hearing anything back.

“Are you still there,” he finally cuts in. “I think I muted you. I was talking forever. Did you hear the thing I said about Whitesnake?”

No, I didn’t hear that. I didn’t hear anything. But I must about Whitesnake.

“You were asking me about accessibility or something the label said about the record or something, right? That’s not real,” he laughs. “Let’s say you got a guy who was brought up on Whitesnake or Toby Keith or something, right? So he hears one of these songs on Hard Luck Stories and says ‘hey, I like that song about the pot dealer.’ Or, you know, ‘I like that song about the veteran - the girls in the other room. I like that song!’ This guy kind of knows what they’re about without having to invest too much in them. Some of my other shit though, you know, you have to be more invested. I mean, what do you think? Do you think that’s right?”

I do. But, before I can ask him about the fine art of storytelling songwriting, he continues …

“Making this record, I had in mind that, you know, these are the songs I want to hear on a jukebox in Fort Wayne,” he says. “It’s what I perceive jukebox music to be, with the girls in the backroom. So I thought more about what it would sound like coming out of a jukebox than I did on any of my other records.”

From here I ask him about the radio shows/podcasts he’s been hosting in support of his Stories.

“There’s 10 of them so far, and we’re still doing more,” he says. “At first it was shameless self promotion because my label wanted me to be more interactive with my fans. I don’t do Facebook or any of that shit. I play my songs and I play songs I like. There are some stories and other shit. But it’s basically about my financial demise. My banker is my sidekick. He comes in when we do the show and we drink and talk.”

I next tell him that I’ve always thought there was a cinematic feel to the way he tells stories in his songs. He likes that.

“Well, there’s some talk about the podcast thing becoming a TV show. We’re shooting a pilot in the fall, which is pretty hilarious,” he laughs. “It’s put together by someone who has had some success, so I guess I’m willing to do it. The first episode is about me trying to get one of my kids diagnosed with ADD so I can get his adderall.”

Speaking of adderall, I ask Reilly about his writing and touring habits. He tells me that he’s going to keep busy playing shows, even playing Lollapalooza this summer. In addition to shows and being featured in Steve Almond’s new book, “Rock N’ Roll Will Save Your Life,” Reilly is already talking about new material.

“I’m starting with a new batch of songs right now, just laying the songs out. It’s totally thrilling to do that part of it. The release of the record is less thrilling, but the creation of the music is what keeps me doing this,” he says. “I’ll probably start recording one song at a time over the next few months. I wouldn’t mind having a record out by Christmas.”

Good news. And, before we get off the phone, and since we’re getting along, I decide to ask the dangerous question: do you remember the last time you played Fort Wayne?

“That was one of the nicest hospitality events I’ve ever been to,” he says with missing a beat. “Some of the greatest food and the people were great. It was a beautiful night and it in this big open square downtown and it was the beginning of a tour. It was our first stop before heading straight down to Texas for Austin City Limits.”

Before hanging up Reilly starts giving me ideas for titles for this story. He tells some jokes and assures me that he’s as excited about the Fort Wayne show as anyone. I believe him, and we laugh. And that’s it.

It’s nice when they live up to their records.

Written by G. William Locke