Personal Essay: "Easter '93"

Easter Day, 1993. There it was, finally, in pink wrapping paper and surrounded by jelly beans and Pez in my Easter basket, a copy of Kris Kross's debut album, Totally Krossed Out. The record had been out for a year and I'd been asking my parents to buy it for 11 months. At last, there it was - all the hits, in my reach. "Jump," "I Missed the Bus," "It's a Shame" and, most importantly, "Warm It Up." For exactly 10 minutes I floated on air, hovering above the couch, ready for church, holding the squarish plastic case, looking at the liner notes, anxious to get home from Easter mass so I could watch my Sunday morning barrage of Nickeloeon originals before popping my new treasure into the still-new portable CD player I'd just received for Christmas. I'd wanted the disc more than anything else for Christmas, but didn't get it and was upset. My parents, clearly, took note. For kids back then, in the 90s, it was easy. We didn't need much. Maybe a little McDonalds here and a late night spent watching movies and eating candy there. But a new CD to call my own?! Totally Krossed Out was, in those days, the pinnacle. My parents didn't know about this kind of happiness, but I did.

Before I could listen to my CD on Easter day 1993 my life stopped, started again, steadied, then took a nose dive.

Dad came downstairs, acting cold as ever. "Get in the car," he barked, stinking of Old Spice. "Mom's not feeling well, she's going to miss Easter mass this year." Something was wrong. People have told me all through my life that I have intuition, and that was one of the moments where I felt it most. All through mass I sat still, not thinking about "Rocco's Modern Life," "Clarissa Explains It All," my new Jermaine Dupri-produced treasure or the Flying Spaghetti Monster in the sky. Rather, I was stumped, wondering what could be wrong at home. Mom wasn't sick; I'd just seen her the prior night and she was fine. My stomach turned and turned as I stole glances of my dad's face while he sang along to the usual hymns. Those ridiculious fucking hymns that I'll never forget.

Dad had been a different person for a year or so, and it had changed mom, too. But not for the better. Mom had been staying up late at night, long after dad went to bed, to talk to my older sister. She'd vent about this and that - all the bad things dad was doing - with anger while Laura sat listening and eating at her fingers. They'd heat up frozen pizzas and watch TV and talk until 1 a.m. I'd sit and listen, not understanding a bit of their speculative girl talk. All I knew for sure was that dad was as happy as ever, mom was as sad as ever and Laura was staying up really late into the night. Weeks earlier, on Christmas afternoon when I was supposed to be in my room playing with my new CD player, I caught my parents doing something strange. They were laying together on the recliner, wrapped in a blanket. I'd never seen them so much as hug before now, yet here they were, tangled together, red-faced - either fighting, crying or fucking. My guess was crying, but only because I still wasn't quite sure what this whole "fucking" thing was yet. The closest I'd gotten was a few mysterious crotch pains after looking at Kathy Ireland in the Kmart ad on the weekends.

When we returned from church mom was nowhere to be found. I wandered into the house and looked around, then sat and held my CD, pretending to stare at the liner notes as my mind raced. Dad went upstairs for what felt like forever and Laura went to her room, slamming the door. Eventually the phone rang and dad picked up. All he said was "okay," but he did so in a voice I'd not ever heard him use. Not once. Dad looked out the window for a while before going into the bathroom with the phone. He whispered to someone - was it mom or was it the woman mom had been talking about at night? - for a few minutes then came out and headed back upstairs as I continued sitting in silence, wondering where mom and my little sister might be. Just as I was about to give up on my bad feelings and forget about whatever was mysteriously going on behind the scenes I heard crying. Loud crying. It went on and on, for minutes and minutes. It was Laura, in her room, and she was really, really crying. In a way I'd not heard her cry before. She was only 15 at the time, but was already a smoker who dated boys who claimed to be in gangs. But none of that gangster shit mattered now, because when Laura cried like this, well ... she may as well had been six years old.

I cracked Laura's bedroom door and looked in to see my sister and dad hugging, both crying. "Your mom left with Dani," Dad finally said. "Come here."

I joined the hug/cry, still frozen and most definitely clueless. What did dad mean? Did Laura know something? What made her cry so loudly and was I supposed to be crying loudly? Would I ever listen to Kris Kross again or had my sub-culture exploration been spoiled? Would I ever watch my Sunday morning Nickelodeon line-up again? Had Easter been called off?

"Mom's going to call back in a bit and we'll know more," Dad finally said. "But she's okay, and so is Dani ... why don't you go watch TV and relax, buddy."

Oh, sure. Easy, buddy. But I did as told. I always did as I was told. Eventually dad, seemingly oddly happy all of the sudden, turned off the TV and knelt in front of me. "Mom is coming back with Dani in an hour," he said. "But she wants me to leave. So I'm going to go stay with my friend Jack for a while. You look out for your mom, okay?"

The time inbetween when mom came back and dad left was terrifying. Why would dad leave and where had mom been? Would someone explain to me what was going on! Or did they maybe just assume I understood. In those days I understood Kris Kross, Major League Baseball, the NBA, a number of sitcoms, and was starting to understand the NFL. Little else. Eventually, after a few more phone calls from mom, dad suggested that I leave for a while. "Why don't you go over to Teddy's house and play basketball," he said. "I just talked to his dad and they're expecting you."

This was odd. Dad had never once called Teddy's dad or took any interest in my budding basketball obsession (dad liked baseball, swimming and rollerblading). "Mom will be here when you get back," he added. "I love you ... are you okay? ... don't worry ... did you like your new CD? ... is it the right one? ... did you enjoy mass this morning? ... go have fun with Teddy ... we'll talk tomorrow ... I'll come by and we'll go look at some new Rollerblades for you ... it'll be fine ... I'll call you tonight ... hurry, if you go now, quickly, you'll beat the rain." I just stood there, looking at my dad's dirty green eyes, clueless. There were brown flecks in the green that made him seem distant. "You have to go now, they're waiting for you."

And so I jumped (Jump! Jump!) on my bike, absolutely dazed, and peddled to Teddy's house, which was about two miles directly east of my house. When I got there Teddy and his dad were already shooting baskets. Teddy's dad, Ted, smiled big at me and just said "hey dude." The three of us shot and shot and shot, not talking, until the rain came. Then we went inside and ate leftovers from the previous day's dinner and, eventually, played video games, listened to Totally Crossed Out and shot more baskets. All day the rain and sun traded places until the grey evening began to set in. Ted and Teddy just kept on hanging out until finally the phone rang and Ted told me my mom wanted me to come home.

I rode home, frightened. What was waiting for me beyond the greyness I rode slowly through? Dad? Not dad. Mom? Yes mom. After putting my bike in the garage I walked outside and looked at the sky, wondering where all the rain really came from. Wondering if dad had maybe done some of the bad things mom had been talking about - or worse. Not yet anywhere close to the knowledge that Easter would become not just my least favorite holiday, but my least favorite day of every year for the rest of my life.

I don't remember what happened after I walked into the house, but people kept coming in and out of our house all night long. Friends and family. My mom's sister came down from Indianapolis. Three or four of my mom's friends stopped by and talked to my mom late into the night. Even Jack, my dad's friend, stopped by for a while, "just to check up and get some things for Victor," he said. Why couldn't my dad get his own things? He slept here last night. He woke up here this morning. Flecks of his shaven facial hair were on the sink and his grass-cutting shoes were in the garage. Before I knew it the moon was up and it was nearly midnight. Mom, also oblivoius to the time, finally came up to my room, where I was, for some reason, playing with Legos. I hand not played with my Legos in years and years. Half my life at the time, probably. "Do you want to come down and watch TV with Laura and I? I can make us some dinner." I had no reply. "You can miss school tomorrow if you want. Just this once."

I took my Totally Krossed Out CD downstairs with me, feeling better, as well as some of my Easter candy. I was excited to stay up late and sleep in the next day and eat dinner and see that my mom was still alive. I didn't yet know the pain of real human growth, but I was beginning to see that life was tricky. Sometimes you had to lie about being sick and sometimes you have to leave. And happiness, for most, doesn't boil down to something as simple as discs containing music or shooting hoops in the driveway, or kids wearing their clothes backwards, or staying up late watching the still-pretty-damn-great Thelma and Mah'Fuckin' Louise while eating prozen pizza and egg rolls. (After Thelma ended Laura went to bed while mom and I stayed up. The next movie on USA Up All Night was National Lampoon's Vacation, which meant that my mom and I were about to share a glimpse of Beverly D'Angelo's then-perfect boobs - a memory I'll probably never forget.)

I often ask myself these days if I've been since stuck in a state of suspended reality. Am I stranded at age 13 because of the emotional horror of Easter 1993? Do I love CDs the way I do because my parents decided once and for all, on the same day I got Totally Krossed Out, that they were splitsville? Has the importance of holding that CD on that day lasted all along? Because, well, I most definitely still turn to CDs in times of need, and have always done so ever since.

A few days ago I happenstantially ran into Teddy's dad, Ted, at Best Buy. He was on his way out, carrying some sort of huge electronics box with a big smile on his face, practically bouncing through the store; I was on my way in, planning to buy Craig Finn's mediocre debut solo album. This was the first time I'd seen Ted, now in his 60s, in at least 10 years. Ted was a self-made man. A successful psychologist who spent most of his life working at a very rowdy State Mental Hospital located on the north end of Fort Wayne. He played college football and was one of the best amateur weightlifters in the country for 25 years. Growing up Teddy and I would often go to Ted's weightlifting competitions, where he'd always win first place in his age group while Teddy and I wandered around the town where the meet was held.When I saw him recently I realized that, at 5'9 1/2", I was now taller than the aging Ted Striverson, Sr. who always seemed bigger than life to me and Teddy. But, damn, he still looked just as muscular as any linebacker I'd ever seen. And, more than anything, he looked very happy. Happy to see me? Happy to get home and plug in whatever new toy he'd just picked up? My guess is that Ted had just bought a 3D projector for his house, because that's exactly the kind of thing Ted would buy. Not a coffee maker, not a computer.

As much as I despise the 3D fad of the day, I can't help but wish I could go back over to Ted's house again to hang out, watch television, eat leftovers and shoot baskets and forget about the pain my family has been in since that gray Easter day in 1993. As much as I love music and look forward to cracking open any new CD I buy - even a strangely Christian one by the fading frontman of The Hold Steady - I can't kid myself. I'd much, much rather hang out with Ted and Teddy again, sitting on the floor, watching NBA games or whatever movie happens to be on. Passing around a bottle of hot sauce as we sip sodas and aim funny comments towards the television. Shoot hoops, listen to raps and forget about the mess that is real life.

Interview: Magnolia Electric Co.

Published by NUVO, circa 2008

Greg W. Locke: Did you release any recordings before Secretly Canadian started putting out your records? In general, do you remember much about your early days before Secretly Canadian?

Jason Molina: I recorded a lot of music in the mid- and late-80s that was given away at either garage shows or other places. I used to record songs on my boombox at home then hand them out to the other guys sitting the bench during gym class. That’s not a joke, I really looked forward to hanging out with people who could care less about being molded into a perfect student. I had a few official releases over the years prior to Secretly Canadian that I can remember: several cassette-only releases by my old band, The Spineriders; a compilation track on a record called Clearing the Air around 89-90; a few compilation tracks; and several other cassette releases in the Cleveland area. I also did a flexi disc for a magazine along the way and a 7” all prior to Secretly Canadian. There are a lot of things out there with songs I wrote but did not sing on.

GL: So there was a good 15 years there that saw you playing and recording before picking up with Secretly Canadian. Can you tell me a bit more about the time before you were able to focus on your music as a career?

JM: I was playing live a lot, working full-time shit jobs, spending my money on guitars and books while my friends were all buying dope.

GL: Sticking with that time of books and guitars for a moment, is it true that you were in metal bands before your Songs: Ohia days? If so, are you still into heavy music?

JM: Not so much metal but more so heavy psychedelic rock. We liked Pink Floyd but also collected Folkways Records.

GL: Moving forward to the last 10 years or so, it seems like you have spurts where you record and release a lot of music in a short period of time. Do you work in spurts or are you always writing?

JM: I write everyday. I put together records and sometimes set them aside to start on another one. As far as my output goes, that all really depends on what Secretly Canadian sees as a strategic time to put something out. There’s more music sitting on the shelf than I’ve ever put out.

GL: Speaking of all these records, do you have anything you’re working on right now? Any plans for a new release anytime soon?

JM: I just finished a wonderful record with a well known Texas-based songwriter and am writing and doing demos for a solo record. A plan to record another Magnolia Electric Co. record in November with Steve Albini producing has been confirmed.

GL: Albini again? That’s great news. One of my favorite albums you’ve released, the final Songs: Ohia record, was recorded with him, too, so I’m already looking forward to that not-yet-recorded Magnolia album. I’ve followed the careers of Will Oldham, Bill Callahan, David Berman and Jason Molina for what feels like forever at this point. The four of you - as well as a few others - have really done an amazing job of continuing in the spirit of Dylan, Young, Townes and so on. I know that me and a lot of my friends feel very lucky to have you guys around. I know that you either are or have been linked to Will at times, do you know these other guys? Any thoughts on any of them?

JM: I’ve known, met and worked with most of those people. Some of them are good friends, others I only know from playing together or a handshake on the road - that’s enough for me in most cases.

GL: I liked Fading Trails quite a bit but was absolutely blown away by Sojourner. Why did you decide to put together Fading Trails like you did? Nashville Moon is a huge record for me personally, many people I know, too.

JM: Secretly Canadian came up with the idea to do Fading Trails and then work on the Sojourner box. It was a good idea and I’m glad I said yes to it. Otherwise I think those records would’ve come out over a five years period. I was too busy thinking about working on new music to wait that long.

GL: There’s not a whole lot of info about you on the Internet, which I love. I like music. I like to write. I like to write about the music that moves me. That said, I don’t really understand the world of media, and really appreciate you taking the time to “talk” to me, a fan who happens to write. How much do you put into this sort of thing? Is the mixing of art and business something you’re comfortable with?

JM: Well, I don’t put much time into reading music writing. I like to just get to my work. My job is to go and write songs and work hard.

GL: Okay. Getting back to your work, your lyrics imply that you’re a literate guy, or at least someone who knows and loves words. As far as the basic art of stringing words together goes, are there any major influences - be them songwriters, poets or whatever - you’ve carried with you?

JM: I was once really excited by old writing, old books and old sources. I have since worked on something closer to writing like I would say it. I do love words but I don’t live in books … but I do read everyday. I’m always looking for a good piece of trouble to get into or near so I can hear that language that gets thrown around in those situations.

GL: Tell me about being on the road; I’ve seen two of your shows, both of which were lean, mean and very memorable. Are you a big fan of touring and do you usually tour with the same people?

JM: I always tour with the Magnolia Electric Co. It is a name and it has many members. Touring is magic. Touring is very hard. Touring is not for everyone and not for me sometimes. That being said, I’d rather be looking at the town I’m heading towards than the minefield I just made it through - which thankfully is over my shoulder. Writing on the road is a pure joy and about as difficult to do as anything. Hungry? Cold? Exhausted? Lost? Worried? Stressed? Sick? Being treated like a dog? Now go write a song!

GL: Well, I think your true fans all appreciate the work someone like yourself puts in. I’d imagine you’re not making millions of dollars, you’re just making a living and putting your art out there - which is a lot more than most people manage. Okay, last question. I get the impression that your albums are put together in a way that nods to 60s and 70s albumcraft, meaning that you seem to consider the details - everything from sequencing to the small details that carry a level of consistency from album to album. Ten or less songs, simple artwork. Albumcraft. Do you think of the whole process as a part of the art?

JM: For me making a record is always Side A and Side B … or else a start-to-finish piece. The themes, art, lyrics and overall sound only work their best if they are carefully placed.

Feature Story: Lee Miles

Published by Whatzup, circa 2006

Before breaking into places-you-been questions with lo.automatic’s chief singer/songwriter there was a purely superficial issue to address. Was his simple, poetic name – Lee Allen Miles – a gift his parents gave him at birth, or was it a stage name? Miles’ response was stripped-bare-honest: “Stage names, like beards and expensive cars, are for people with something to hide.” Miles’ uncommon guts-without-glory stance seems to reign over every aspect of his life, most notably his music. Onward with the places. After graduating from Fort Wayne’s Wayne High School, Miles headed to Bethel College in South Bend, where he studied music, philosophy and literature. Aside from the humdrum task of graduating with a liberal arts degree, Miles kept busy. “I spent my time working random jobs for the school, landscaping and playing music,” he said. His band at the time, Dark Blonde Water (originally named “Hagas”), saw success in South Bend, a town known for its competitive original music scene. While there, Miles learned the importance of playing original material. “If you weren’t doing something you truly created there, then no one gave you the time of day. [Fort Wayne] isn’t like that, but I think the tide is changing as more folks forsake the bar scene for house shows,” he said.

Dark Blonde Water played shows, recorded songs and, unfortunately, ended with a fall as the young band ran into major problems with their management. “It was all a learning experience, and the issues with our management eventually proved to be the undoing of the band,” he said. “We were a moderate success, sold a decent number of albums and played a ton of shows. We had one song, ‘Cadillac Dawn,’ that was a No. 1 single on South Bend radio for two weeks,” explained Miles, adding “It was a horrible song, but I wrote it when I was 19 years old.”

One of the first things anyone will mention when discussing Miles’ music is his distinct voice. “I can’t stand my voice, but some folks seem to love it. Love it. They’ll come up to me and say this or that about it, but I usually think they’re lying. When I first started playing music, I couldn’t hold a tune in a bucket. I would write the songs and let the other guys in the group sing,” Miles said.

Miles ultimately found a new, “booming” slant to singing while taking a sight-singing/ear-training course at Bethel. “I learned to sing from my diaphragm, which gives singers a powerful, robust voice,” said Miles. “It can also be overbearing and obnoxious, which is how I sang up until recently.” Miles’ “robust” approach to singing – which can be most defining heard on the booming “Mrs. James” – helped him find comfort as a lead singer.

After the dissolution of Dark Blonde Water, Miles found himself back in his hometown of Fort Wayne, in time recording his debut solo album, So Much Pain, So Much Sorrow. Somewhere along the way Miles began having brutal problems with his digestive system due to over four years of antibiotic use, leaving him bed-ridden for two years. Remembers Miles, “I slept 12 hours each night and at least six hours through the day. I lost most of my friends because I could no longer spend quality time with them.”

Miles’ health problems led to anxiety and food allergy problems, ultimately resulting in the need for a lifestyle overhaul. “My family saw me through [the problems] when it became clear that if something didn’t change I might not last much longer. I still wrestle with the food allergy and anxiety problems to this day. However, they are much less pronounced.”During this time Miles made his first striking mark on the Fort Wayne music scene with the release of his second solo album, Bear, in 2005. Despite looming health issues he started playing out frequently, eventually meeting like-minded songwriter Kyle Morris. The two solo artists soon began playing shows around town as a duo. Said Morris about first meeting Miles, “When I met Lee at an open mic some two years ago, I had just been fired from my job and he was sick. Even though we were both pathetic, we saw promise in ourselves.”

The rare circumstances of their meeting led to a musical kinship that hit its stride as the two artists formed lo.automatic, eventually adding other players, including James “Longsleeves” Musselman, who has since relocated to San Diego, where he recently released an excellent, Radiohead-in-your-pocket album called Killing Aesthetics. “James and I were both on a bill for a show at Convolution Records,” explained Miles, “He found me on Myspace. At the time I was still very ill, but I was on my way up. One thing I would say to myself as a means to stay positive was that I was stronger than 1,000 lions. I posted this blatant lie on my web page. James saw it and, not knowing my situation at the time, thought I was being cocky.”

Musselman and Miles began working together in the spring of 2006 on what would become Miles’ third solo album, the aptly titled 1,000 Lions.“After the Convolution show we spoke at length and discussed music, recording gear and other topics,” said Musselman, “Before the end of the night I offered my recording services in the event he needed them.” The project quickly fell into place as Musselman worked as the album’s co-producer and engineer, offering Miles his lo-fi mobile recording techniques, a set-up that Miles welcomed compared to the expensive studio sessions he’d been a part of in the past. Eventually Musselman’s wandering spirit landed him in California. “We’d marched on through the recordings despite real-life obligations until James disappeared to California, leaving me to sort it all out. I called (lo.automaic guitarist) Jon [Keller], who is a registered engineer, and he took over as producer,” said Miles when asked about the recording of 1,000 Lions.

Quickly becoming known as one of the area’s most stirring young guitarists, the 20-year-old (E-bow-clad) Keller – who Miles says “can play any Elliott Smith song” – hit it off with Miles quickly following the same Convolution Records show at which Miles and Musselman became acquainted at. “I wasn’t really looking to join a band and had never met another musician that I wanted to be in a band with,” said Keller. “After Lee and I met I found that we liked a lot of the same music.”A studying guitarist now for over half his life, Keller also had much to offer on the topic of Miles’ modus operandi, “Lee is very opinionated and doesn’t put up with [much]. Those qualities tend to make people think he’s a jerk, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth. Lee is a quite sensitive and honest musician that puts his heart any emotions into his music and lyrics.” Trying to explain Miles’ abovementioned “guts-without-glory” stance is not always easy. He’s the type of artist that takes his work very seriously and isn’t afraid to make the kind of music he loves, even though it might not go over well in a city like Fort Wayne.

When asked about his influences and approach to songwriting, the highly literate Miles mentions writers Charles Bukowski, Ayn Rand and Allen Ginsberg as well as songwriters Jandek, Bob Dylan, Neil Young, Elliot Smith and, most notably, Will Oldham (Palace, Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy), adding “I’d say Will is my … yeah, he’s probably my favorite songwriter.” While the actual sound of Miles’ music would most easily be compared to the typically cryptic and oddly whimsical Oldham, his “no thanks” approach brings to mind the spirit of Jandek. Known as an “outsider musician,” Jandek has self-released some 49 albums since 1978, never offering his real name, personal information, interviews or anything else resembling self-promotion. Basically, Jandek lets his music, and only his music, speak for itself. “I saw Bob Dylan play at Notre Dame in the late 90s. He didn’t say a word in between sets. He didn’t have to. This is the kind of music I want to hear, the kind of music that doesn’t need to be sold with a bag of [B.S] tricks,” said the ever-candid Miles. This attitude, along with his penchant for substance and originality over accessibility, echoes the attitude of both Jandek and Oldham, two artists who have never seen much commercial success yet continue following their own artistic progressions regardless.

While in correspondence for this very article Miles sent over a song called, “Wait for Thee,” with an accompanying note that simply said “Here’s a new one I just finished.” Weeks earlier Miles had also passed along an early, unfinished copy of 1,000 Lions and a covers-only album titled Leaves That are Green. While Leaves was full of bare, well arranged interpretations of off-the-cuff tracks, 1,000 Lions was a loose, lyrically dense offering full of subtly varied Americana tunes that featured, as hinted at earlier by Miles, brilliantly detailed, toned-down vocals reminiscent of early Oldham. Anyone familiar with the famed initial home recordings of both John Darnielle (Mountain Goats) and Oldham himself will have an instant soundcrush on 1,000 Lions. But don’t be fooled by the expression “home recordings.” Miles craft is long-labored, and he knows how to use his resources. The results, frankly, are better than the previously mentioned (and often spotty and lazy) early work of Darnielle and Oldham, two artists who’ve gone on to release shelves full of first-rate, fully-baked Americana albums. Explaining the sound of Miles’ recent work any further is tempting, but probably better saved for a future review. Let’s just say that Miles rightfully calls 1,000 Lions the best work of his life.

On the subject of his plans for his latest, greatest batch of recordings, Miles seemed nearly exhausted when thinking about 1,000 Lions, an album he’d originally planned to have completed long ago. “I wanted it out by 2006,” he said, “but it’s already a fourth of the way through 2007 and it’s still not out. It will, however, be out by mid-April.” When then asked about marketing for the album, Miles’ honorable Jandek-inspired spirit came to the forefront. “I’m sick of marketing. Marketing is for T-shirts and hair products and other [stuff] you don’t need. If people want my music they’ll find it. Otherwise, they can obviously live without it.” Upon further prodding, Miles did say that people interested in acquiring his music should start by checking his website at www.leemiles.us.This lack of enthusiasm for selling himself to potential fans doesn’t necessarily mean that Miles is against the concept of getting his music out to record labels. When asked about his intentions in this regard, Miles said that he plans to shop the recordings to labels in hope for some interest, adding “I will single out [Chicago’s] Drag City most certainly.”

Though not a big label by any means, Drag City has – over the last 15 years or-so – established a reputation as the label for often misunderstood, too-smart-for-their-own-good songwriters. Songwriters like Smog’s Bill Callahan, the Silver Jews’ D.C. Berman and, naturally, Will Oldham. Sounds like good company for Fort Wayne’s most uncompromising and persistent young songwriter and his ante-upping new album, 1,000 Lions.

Feature Story: Jon Keller

Published by Whatzup, circa 2008

“My ultimate plan is to create lifelike dolls of all of my friends and then keep them in my bed,” songwriter/guitarist Jon Keller recently told me. “Then, when they come to hang out with me, I'll say something like ‘oh, I'm sorry you had to see this, I wasn't expecting you so early,’ then quickly cover their doppelganger doll up with a blanket.”

Keller, who has played in a number of Fort Wayne bands and is now jumpstarting a solo career of sorts, is a genuinely peculiar dude. Before his DDP (Doppelganger Doll Plan) days he would drive around with a life-size clown doll in his car, slyly puppeteering it to jolt people in nearby cars.

But before all that, he himself was a clown.

“Yeah, it's true, I used to be a clown,” he told me. “But it was never my goal to become one. I went to a Christian school in Kokomo and my homeroom teacher thought it would be a good idea for us to have a clown-themed ministry. I have no idea why. Anyways, everyone had to come up with their own clown character and make the costume. Naturally, I veered more towards the Hobo style. I used to juggle all sorts of stuff.”

Before making his way to Fort Wayne for college Keller lived 15 minutes outside of Kokomo in a town called Galveston. Not exactly a cultural hub.

“I loved growing up there. I didn't really have any friends in my neighborhood, so the majority of my time was spent riding my bike around. There really wasn't anything to do but play guitar or go see movies,” Keller said when asked about his notoriously eccentric taste in film and music. “I got tired of the mainstream crap movies they were showing in Kokomo, so, when I got my first car I would drive 45 minutes to Muncie a few times each week, just because they had a nice theatre that played more independent films.”

As far as his early music-related inspirations go, Keller, who now plays in The Illegitimate Sons, went through a number of phases at a young age, starting with The Beatles, Derek & the Dominos, The Allman Brothers Band, Neil Young and Bob Dylan.

“I read as much as I could on all of those bands and who their influences were. And thus, when I was in middle school I began to get into some of the more popular jazz musicians like Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Bill Evans, Wes Montgomery and Charlie Parker - all because I read an interview with Duane Allman where he said his biggest influence was [Miles Davis’] Kind of Blue,” Keller told me. “So when I was in the eighth grade I went with my church to the Keystone Mall in Indy for some sort of dumb scavenger hunt activity. Instead of doing the hunt I went  to the music store and bought my first copies of Kind of Blue and In a Silent Way. When I got home I set my stereo up with the speakers on both sides of my bed so I could listen to Kind of Blue while falling asleep. I did that for a year or two.”

Once in high school the clown got into artists who remain staples for him to this day, including Radiohead, Wilco, Tom Waits and, more than anything else, Elliott Smith.

“I actually first heard Elliott Smith by accident. I was really into a jazz pianist named Brad Mehldau for a while, and he had a song called ‘Bottle Up and Explode.’ Somehow my copy got deleted off my computer, so I was trying to find it again online, stumbling across a version by some guy named Elliott Smith,” Keller told me. “I bought all of his albums within two weeks, soon finding out that he’d just died weeks earlier.”

Years ago Lee Miles told me that Keller, known for his ability to pick up on songs as quickly as anyone, could play the whole Elliott Smith catalog on guitar, this likely due to the manner in which he first started playing.

“I started playing music at about age 10. My brother plays guitar, so growing up there were always guitars around the house that I would pick up and try to figure out,” Keller, who is currently mixing down his first solo album, told me. “The biggest thing he did was write out a few scales for guitar and bass. He told me that, as long as I figured out what key the song was in, I could play any of the notes in the scale and it would sound good. He was mostly right.”

After high school, not sure what to do with himself, Keller went to The Recording Workshop in Chilicothe, Ohio, where he learned “how to work in a recording studio.” The main thing he learned, he says, was that he didn’t want to work in a recording studio.

“After that, at age 19, I moved to Fort Wayne in January of 2006. When I got here I looked up everyone in town who listed Elliott Smith as a music favorite on Facebook, then added them as a friend,” Keller said. “You could say I didn’t have good social skills. Anyhow, I added some dude named James Musselman as a friend, later seeing that he was a musician. He was about to play a show, so I decided to go.

“So I went to his show at Convolution Records. I only caught his last song, but decided to stick around to see this other act  called Lee Miles and Kyle Morris. I was immediately stuck by how much Lee sounded like a beefy-voiced Neil Young. I thought he was so good. So after that I contacted him and found out we had a lot in common.”

Soon enough Miles invited the still very young Keller to join his then-band, lo.automatic, on bass. The day Keller was set to join the group Miles called him up to tell him that he’d already found a bassist, inviting Keller to come play along anyhow.

“I remember playing a lot of bizarre, e-bow feedback type of stuff. I don't know why he wanted me to play with him so bad. I don't know why anybody wants me to play with them,” the sad clown said. “That was about four years ago. Since then I've been in a number of lineups with him, both solo and full band. We've also lived together many different times, which is always interesting.”

In the years since first meeting Miles, Keller has become a local staple, often playing with Wooden Satellites, Mark Hutchins and Thunderhawk, all while working on solo material, going to school, delivering pizzas and getting engaged.

And more, too.

“Lee is doing a solo album with a few guys from Sweetwater. He asked me to record it, so I think that'll happen sometime in June,” Keller told me. “And we're trying to finish the new Illegitimate Sons album right now. And I think I’m going to play some stuff on Mitch Fraizer’s solo album”

The highlight of the moment, though, is the Keller solo album, which has been long discussed on the local music scene.

“I've got pretty much all the recording done and am now just mixing and mastering,” Keller said. “It initially turned out really acoustic-y and soft, then I started attending more Superhunk and Thunderhawk shows and decided to go back and add some heavier guitars. I still sort of hate everything I've recorded, but at this point I'd rather just release it and get rid of it.”

Oh yeah? Well, I’ve heard the record, or at least an early version of it, and it’s anything but hateable. There’s an Elliott Smith vibe to the vocals, for sure. Mostly, though, I’m personally excited about Keller’s solo live shows.

“I'm just now starting to play more solo shows, which is completely new to me. I have to learn all that stupid stuff like singing into the mic and whatnot,” Keller laughed. “What a drag. I don't really know what I prefer yet. I love playing with the Illegitimate Sons, and I don't want that to ever end, but I'm also starting to enjoy playing by myself.”

In addition to the Sons, school, work and recording, Keller also has much going on personally to be excited about.

“I officially got engaged a few weeks ago and we are getting married in September. I can't wait!” Keller told me. “Our whole dating relationship has been long distance, which has made things interesting, but still amazing. Anyways, my fiancé, Amy, is moving back to Fort Wayne in May, so I can't wait for that. I think we're going to stay around Fort Wayne for a while after the wedding - at least until I finish school. Then who knows what.”

Hopefully a lot of rock shows, some records and more clown-related shenanigans.