Tag: Sebastian Steinberg

Calexico and Iron & Wine Reunite for ‘Years to Burn’

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Sam Beam and Joey Burns are just a few feet apart, but they can hardly hear each other. Sitting in nearby booths at a café in Washington, DC, they’re on a conference call – an old-school party line that, for all our technological advances since the invention of the telephone, isn’t working very well. As they discuss their lush, lovely new collaborative album, titled Years to Burn, they speak uncertainly, tentatively, as though testing the ground for landmines. Burns, chief singer and songwriter for the band Calexico, has to repeat himself for Beam, the man behind Iron & Wine.

This is the exact opposite of how they normally work. The sessions for Years to Burn, their first album together in nearly fifteen years, was defined by its easy, fluid communication, or sometimes by the lack of any need for communication at all. Beam’s puzzle-box lyrics reveal deeper meaning with each close listen, while Calexico’s lush accompaniment is grounded in, but not constrained by Latin American traditions as well as straightforward country rock.

The result is a record that takes more risks and yields more rewards than their strong 2005 EP, In the Reins, toggling between the dusty R&B of opener “What Heaven’s Left” to the stomping country-folk of “Father Mountain” to the Spanish-language lullaby that opens the multi-part epic “The Bitter Suite.”

“The sound we made together,” says Beam, “wasn’t about planning or conceptualizing or anything like that. We tried not to get too heavy about it. I’m always interested to hear the ideas they come up with. That’s where the joy is for me.”

Both Calexico and Iron & Wine are indie lifers, each act boasting long careers and sprawling, ambitiously diverse catalogs. Perhaps the secret to their longevity is their openness to new perspectives, new voices — in short, to collaborations like Years to Burn. What follows isn’t the precise conversation they had with the Bluegrass Situation, which was prevented by faulty technology. Instead, after speaking to them separately, their responses have been edited into something like an imagined conversation, a loose oral history of their lively new album as well as an exploration of their close collaboration.

BGS: It’s been nearly fifteen years since you released In the Reins. What made this moment a good time to follow it up?

Joey Burns: It was scheduling!

Sam Beam: “Why are we doing it now?” Is that the question? I can’t speak for Joey and John [Convertino, Calexico drummer and co-founder, who is sitting in the same café], but I always wanted to work with them again. It wasn’t a matter of us not wanting to or not having a good reason. We’d just gotten busy. We’re two different working bands, so it wasn’t very often that our schedules lined up. Finally we had to say, hey, if we don’t just make the time, if we don’t put it on the calendar, it’s never going to happen.

You recorded the album in Nashville. Why there?

SB: I’ve never recorded there before, but we’ve ended up being there a lot. We have a lot of friends who live there, so it was nice to finally work there.

JB: We did a couple of songs back in 2003 with Mark Nevers, but that was it. This time we worked at Sound Emporium with Matt Ross-Spang. Matt’s the master. And he’s got some badass hair, too. The man has got serious style.

SB: The last time we recorded, we didn’t really know each other. We learned each other through that process and from touring that record for a while. I felt like this recording session was about what we learned about each other as musicians touring on the road, although it’s hard to even compare the two sessions because they were so dramatically different.

What can you tell me about “The Bitter Suite,” which is the most elaborate arrangement on the record but also the centerpiece of Years to Burn?

JB: The simple answer is, I said to Sam, why don’t we take part of a verse of “Tennessee Train,” translate it into Spanish, and let Jacob [Valenzuela, Calexico trumpeter and vocalist] have a go at it? And we just kept on experimenting, to see what kind of direction the music would take. Then we were like, why don’t we just do some kind of groove? Because at that point there was no song yet that had a groove. So why don’t we bring that back into mix and see what happens? That song just because a variation on a theme. Sam, you came up with the title…

SB: That idea came from Sebastian [Steinberg, Iron & Wine bassist], who is always saying funny things. It’s a sober-sounding track. It’s bittersweet. So we took music that was the product of serendipity of something that happened in the studio, and we gave it a silly title. But it wasn’t planned. We just went in with these songs and tried to keep an open mind. When you’re in a room with people who have good ideas, you have to keep your ears open. But it was all just something that seemed fun at that moment.

I wish I could say there was some design to “The Bitter Suite.” There’s this thing in poetry where your brain really tries hard to make connections and make sense of things in a certain way. You put two lines together and you can dismiss them, but you can put three lines together and your brain will go nuts trying to figure out how they connect. I felt like that song was something along those lines: Let’s put together different sounds and different structures, let’s vamp on different chords and different feels, and let’s see what happens when you put them all together.

How much of the album was conceived that way?

JB: It was all completely intuitive. We received some demos from Sam a week before we met in Nashville, and I knew from experience that those demos were not necessarily set in stone. They’re just reference points. I think we were all open to them being malleable and adaptable. Plus we only had four or five days max booked for studio time. That was it. Those parameters forced us to do as much homework as we could, but also it forced us to be as open to what kinds of possibilities there could be.

If we’d had another two, three days, who knows what would have happened? But I had a lot of fun working within that framework. We didn’t invite others in, and we didn’t send track out to the other members of Calexico. It was just six musicians in the studio, the six who will go on tour. The only person outside that ensemble who played on the record was Paul Niehaus on pedal steel.

SB: Since we were only in the studio for a few days, all the decisions had to be made pretty quickly. I like that. I have a tendency to overthink things, especially if I don’t put a time limit on myself. So the album is a snapshot of what we were doing on the fly rather than the ultimate example of creative expression.

JB: Everyone is pretty comfortable behind their own instrument, so we got great sounds in that short period of time. When you start adding more layers or textures, that’s where things can sound congested… or they can sound even better. It can be tricky. Most of the record was done live. Sam’s really quite a phenomenal musician, so a lot of the basic tracks are first takes, then we added some overdubs, then we were done.

Sam, were you writing songs with these guys in mind?

SB: Not really. I finished some stuff for this. You end up with so many bits and bobs laying around that don’t fit into other songs, and they’re perfect for this kind of project. Folk-rock melodies are good for this sort of pairing, so I moved the more country-ish songs to the top of the pile. The one thing I did want to do was … bring in a finished script, one that has plenty of room for interpretation, because that was the only way to get finished in the amount of time we’re talking about.

Were there any songs that changed more than others during that process?

SB: The one we worked on the longest was the opening track, “What Heaven’s Left.” It’s really the only one where I had a more specific idea of what I wanted to get at, but I didn’t know how to communicate it. That’s why it was more difficult; I had something specific that I wanted to achieve. But even that one had lots of room, especially that full-band crunch at the end. We thought it should go longer, so we just decided to play longer and see what happened. The ending became a whole separate thing, just letting the ideas take hold and not limiting yourself and capturing what you’re feeling.

JB: That was one of those things where we had recorded the song and then listened back, and it must have been Sam who said, what if we just kept on playing? It feels like the song ends too soon. Then Jacob arrived; he came on day three. So we thought, why not just add him to the outro? I really enjoyed that moment, and it’s one of my favorite songs on the record.

SB: The guys in Calexico are very sensitive listeners, not just in terms of the music but the point of the song: What’s happening here? What are we trying to communicate? That’s something you don’t always get to talk about. Also, they like to rock the fuck out as often as possible. I trust them enough that even if we get into some kind of argument, they’re going to be feeling it just as much as me, so I should at least listen to them.

Were there any disagreements?

SB: No, we didn’t really have time! Everybody was being really supportive. There was never a shortage of ideas, so it was just a matter of how to politely say we need to concentrate on this or that if we’re going to get anything done.

JB: This was one of those instances where the music really reflects your inner voice. Every turn we took just seemed to come about naturally and effortlessly. I think we all expected we’d probably walk away with another EP, like In the Reins, which would have been great, but we wound up having such a good time and getting through the songs quickly enough that we came up with something much bigger and more experimental.

Photo credit: Piper Ferguson

Inspired by Dylan, J.S. Ondara Spreads His Own ‘Tales of America’

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Six years ago just about now, J.S. Ondara landed in Minneapolis on a pilgrimage, lured by his love of Minnesota native son Bob Dylan’s music. He made his way north to Duluth, where Dylan was born, and Hibbing, where the singer-songwriter was raised. It was not quite what he expected.

“I thought I’d go to Hibbing and it would be a magnificent city with music coming from all over the place,” he says, now, laughing at his thoughts of the small town as the Emerald City. “There wasn’t much to find.”

We can forgive him his youthful fantasies. He’d never traveled like that before. He’d never seen snow before, let alone a Minnesota winter. He’d never really been away from home, and home was a long way from there — Nairobi, Kenya, where as a teen he’d fallen completely for the music of Dylan. But at just 20, he impetuously decided to trek to where his hero’s story began.

“It was all very romantic for me,” he says. “I just said, ‘Oh, I’m going to do this. It makes sense right now.’ It was all a very romantic choice, a thing I tend to do regularly in my life, make all these romantic decisions and not have any expectations out of it other than, ‘Let’s see how it goes.’”

That, uh, freewheelin’ spirit went pretty well for him. This month sees the release of his own debut album, Tales of America, on Verve Records. It’s a collection of moving, personal folk-influenced songs drawn from the journey he’s made and the observations along the way, produced by veteran Mike Viola (who as vice president of A&R at Verve signed him to his deal) and featuring appearances by such fellow Dylan acolytes as Andrew Bird, Dawes’ Taylor and Griffin Goldsmith and Milk Carton Kids’ Joey Ryan. The release comes on the heels of his first major tour, opening for no less than Lindsey Buckingham, and a subsequent European jaunt.

And while the Dylan influence is present, this is in no way an imitation or even homage, per se. With an almost jazzy looseness, often swaying around stand-up bass played by Los Angeles stalwart Sebastian Steinberg, there’s a closer resemblance to Van Morrison’s Astral Weeks. At the center is Ondara’s high, pure, finely controlled voice, an instrument unlike any of his heroes’, though you might hear some Jeff (and Tim) Buckley in it, at times piercing the heavens with an otherworldly falsetto, movingly unguarded on the haunting a cappella “Turkish Bandana.”

Hibbing wasn’t Oz, but he’s definitely not in Kenya anymore. And what swept him to this new life was, of all things, grunge and indie-rock.

“We really didn’t have much growing up,” he says. “Had food, a place to sleep and that’s about it. And a tiny little radio, about the size of my iPhone. That was all we had.”

Through that little radio came Nirvana, Radiohead, Death Cab for Cutie, transmissions from another world in a language the Swahili-speaking youth didn’t understand. It was magical.

“I was intrigued by the music and language, all these sounds,” he says. “I couldn’t make any sense of it. To me it was a spaceship to another universe.”

He tried imitating those sounds, though not knowing the language he sang gibberish — well, maybe not that far off with some of Kurt Cobain’s often hard-to-decipher mumbling. But it worked its way into him.

“I heard all these songs and developed a kinship for a long time, and used them to study English because I wanted to understand what Cobain was saying, or [Radiohead’s] Thom Yorke or [Death Cab’s] Ben Gibbard,” he says. “I was curious about the language and the spirit and that spurred me to learn English, and I built my vocabulary listening to these songs.”

Another song that caught his ear was “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door” — the Guns ’N Roses version, which he assumed was an original by that band. It was only after losing a bet to a school mate about the song’s authorship that he discovered the music of Dylan himself. It was an epiphany.

“I wrote stories and poems, from a very young age,” he says. “I wrote about a puppy, about school, I wrote a lot about the sun for some reason. I was fascinated by the universe in general and wasn’t really receiving the answers I needed. So I would write poems and stories about it as a way to process it and learn about the world. But I never wrote songs. One reason I believe I was drawn to Dylan was listening to his records I thought, ‘These are poems with melodies! I could probably do this!’ I felt I saw a path for me. ‘Perhaps there is hope. I can take these stories and poems and put them in melodies and perhaps people could like them in a grand way. This is something people like? Great! Maybe I’m not lost in my path!’”

He soon set his sights on America, where he had a few relatives and friends scattered about, including an aunt in Minneapolis. But finding a way was rough.

“I started by applying to the University of Minnesota and looking for work opportunities in the state, but nothing bore any fruit,” he says. “As I ran into a wall and was running out of options, I was suddenly awoken, quite rudely, in the wee hours of the morning to be told that I had won a green card lottery and could move to the States. Turns out an aunt had applied for these green cards for a few of us and mine went through. I had no idea. The mischief of the universe!”

His family helped get the money together for the trip after he told them that he was going to become a doctor. That was a fib, he admits. Once settled in Minneapolis, he dove into music-making seriously.

“I picked up a guitar and learned a couple Dylan songs, a couple Neil Young songs, then would go back to those melodies and these poems I’d written, turn them into a melody, call it a song and then go out and try to play for people. That’s how it began for me.”

He hit up the open mic nights around town, started getting some small club bookings, “gradually, very gradually trying to get these songs in front of people.”

And with some money he’d saved from work via a temp agency, he made an acoustic EP that he put online. Soon a local public radio station put his songs in regular rotation. Word spread and contacts started to come in from the music business, both in Minneapolis and around the country.

Among those reaching out was Viola, a veteran musician (the band the Candy Butchers, as well as singer of the title song from the movie That Thing You Do) who had recently taken the job at Verve. The two hit it off right away.

“I had done meetings with others, but with Mike there was a connection,” he says. “I’d do meetings and mention favorite Dylan records and no one knew what I was talking about. Freewheelin’ remains my favorite. When I met with Mike I brought this up, the idea of trying to make a very stripped-down record like that. A few things happen, but not crazy, doesn’t take away from the stories. And I brought up Astral Weeks, which does the same thing. A few things on it that embellish the stories. Those two records. He went, ‘Oh yeah! Those are my favorite records, too!’ There was just chemistry I hadn’t had before.”

From there it was simple.

“It was the old troubadour style of making folk records,” he says. “You get into the studio — you wrote a bunch of songs and maybe get some people around you and play this, and that’s the record.”

The result is an album that portrays the wonder and delight — and also the struggles and heartbreaks — of his time in America, with a facility for language that escapes most native speakers. (An essay he wrote about his life, “The Starred and Striped Fairy of the West,” shows another facet of that.) The opening song, “American Dream,” is equal parts welcoming embrace and distancing suspicion, his poetic images boiling the national spirit to an intimately personal level, a dream world, as it were. That inner view is there throughout the album.

It all came naturally from his experiences.

“I wrote the words ‘I’m getting good at saying goodbye’ just a month after moving to America,” he says of the chorus of the somber “Saying Goodbye.” “They were just words at the time. I didn’t know what they meant. But after turning them into a song and singing them over and over, I can see that I was grappling with thoughts of the past and future. I could see that the totality of my past — being family, culture, upbringing, all of it — was stopping me from becoming not just who I wanted to be but who I’d be best at being, which is the true ‘self’ within.”

That said, he’s also found that echoes of his past can be heard in some of these songs, even if very faintly. He wasn’t a big fan of Kenyan music, traditional or modern while growing up, but it seems some of it crept in anyway. A few of the songs, notably the loping “Lebanon,” bear rhythms echoing those common in music of that region of Africa — the national benga or Nigerian highlife, Tanzanian taraab and Congolese soukous, all quite popular in Kenya. And there’s something ingrained in the vocals that even Ondara only heard after the fact.

“I was listening back to some of the songs and I can hear toward the end of some that I start to make some sounds influenced by my native language, which is not something I tried to do,” he says. “There is African influence there, but subconscious. The more I listen, the most I can track down those sounds.”