Desolation and Redemption: Midweek Shows in the Midwest

The midweek is always hard times for a van band far from home—bar
crowds are thinner, local bands we co-operate with for audiences are
working regular jobs—and at times this Midwest midweek put our
determination to the test. The landscape, too: the perfectly level
horizon is occasionally dotted with wind farms, and the arbitrary
alternation of stubble and corn field speckled with yellow and purple
wildflowers, but the sheer endlessness of these things makes the
motion on the GPS seem like a lie. We’ve been driving around six hours
a day, from Muncie to Madison to Minneapolis to Milwaukee, and now to
Bloomington.

But we also stumbled upon the great joy of empty-nester couchsurfing.
We stayed with an amazing couple in Madison who took us in as if we
were their grandchildren. We grilled out in their back yard, and we
all slept in beds. John told us vulgar jokes and traveling stories
that night, and Sandy told us about their upcoming trip to Rome over a
humongous breakfast of eggs, sausage, hashbrowns, and cantaloupe.
They’d said they had all this space after their children married and
started families, so they share it through couchsurfing.

On Tuesday we drove north until hills rose from the fields and the
evergreens grew thick, and arrived in Minneapolis. We played there
earlier this summer and it’s now one of our favorite stops. Our spot’s
in the Dinkytown district near the university, a place called the
Kitty Cat Klub. When we first booked it we were almost expecting a
strip club, but it blew away our expectations. The rooms are only lit
with green, blue, pink, or red light, and filled with sumptuously
sunken couches and leather armchairs gathered around weighty wooden
tables. The chandeliers and candles illuminate bizarre portraits, a
catwoman with claws, Rasputin’s crazy stare, Venus emerging from a
lagoon. After eating our traditional meal at the Chinese joint down
the strip we set up shop in the corner, reading and writing and
painting our faces with tribal intensity.

The opener was pleasant, a dude named Al Church with guitar and drum
machine, sounded like a Thom Yorke solo show from twenty years ago.
We played our best set so far this tour (musically speaking) to a
small but appreciative audience that listened, clapped, and even
danced – not bad for a Wednesday far from home. Andy Ulseth’s band
played a dreamily autumnal closing set, wearing autumnal sweaters. It
made me look forward to trading out my shorts for another sweater in
my suitcase when we drop back through Nashville next week. We got
pretty silly while breathing in the gothic air for that long, deciding
that we should write a song based on the diagrams in Chris’s book on
Chaos Theory, and then we rocked out pretty hard to the last song of
the night. We drove to our hostess’ house to sleep. She was a very
kind and funny lady, and made us very comfortable in her colorful
home. I just found out that I left my pillow there, so I hope she
finds a good spot for its beige humility amongst her funky furniture.

Yesterday we drove from Minneapolis to Milwaukee, which we discovered
to be a well-built town with nobody enjoying it. We hung out in a
gorgeous park on Lake Michigan and it was relatively empty aside from
joggers. We did, however, take the time to shoot another acoustic
video of Kristen singing “Girl from the Northern States”.

That evening we went to Zad’s Roadhouse where we were to play. A
fifteen-foot wide construction ditch obscured the entrance, but we
were able to pull up on the sidewalk and unload. The place was almost
entirely deserted, except for the owner, his buddy who lived upstairs,
and five older fellows drinking at the bar in work clothes. The place
was well built and clean, but after the regulars finished their
customary afternoon binge and departed, uncomfortably empty. As a
touring band we often book bars on weekdays with the expectation that
we can at least play to regular customers. There were none and the
owners were getting restless. We were too. A brief interlude shifted
the mood to crime noir when some cops came in, we still don’t know
why, and we ate a satisfying grocery dinner of cucumber, tomato,
sausage, cheese, and triscuits, but once they left we were back to
trying to understand the Milwaukeean’s tipsy smalltalk and shying away
from the fact that no-one was there. We’d played packed shows last
weekend, so our morale wasn’t too depressed, and we finally had the
dreaded conversation with the owner—yep, wouldn’t make much sense to
play to nobody. We loaded back up and left Zads, cursing a little and
wondering if we could salvage the evening by busking. We went
downtown; it was deserted. We asked a bar if we could play for tips;
it was volleyball league night and they didn’t want to disturb their
regular customers, try again on the weekend. In a moment of
desperation Julian threw himself down on a boardwalk and told us to go
on without him.

But, in the midst of a desolate Milwaukee Wednesday night, we found a
nice green spot by the canal, met up with our couchsurfing hosts
Trisa, Kevin, Tracy, and Marissa, and played them a little private
show. We were joined by a couple out for a romantic walk, and a dude
walking his dog, so counting the dog the audience even outnumbered the
band. The weather was perfect, the occasional boat party passed
through behind us, and I remembered that singing country harmonies in
a beautiful place is always wonderful. And we had great company: our
hosts treated us wonderfully. Kevin shared Kiwi culture in the form of
Vegemite on toast, which I abhor but Rene and Joey really enjoyed.
Chris and I slept over at Marissa’s to make Trisa’s place more
spacious, and she not only anticipated our every need—a glass of
water, using the washing machine, towels for the shower—but also
delighted in putting bendy straws in our drinks for a flourish, and
waking up hours before her work to cook us eggs, pancakes, and
biscuits. In the South we pride ourselves on our hospitality, but she
really took it to the next level.

Today we departed Milwaukee for Bloomington, poorer but in good
spirits. We’ve continued being coy with Chicago, driving by but never
through. Today we just dropped into Whole Foods in the suburbs for
sandwich supplies, and ogled all the tasty things we’ll eat if we’re
ever superstars. This Saturday we’ll finally requite our love and play
down at the Horseshoe, so if you’re in the area, come check it out.
We’ve had a strange drive since then. The windmills made us feel like
Sky Captians in a zeppelin, and the huge insectoid construction
vehicles on I-65 appeared as alien spacerovers. Then out of nowhere a
rock popped up and hit our front window shield like a bullet, cracking
the outside, which we’ll have to replace when we get back to
Nashville. Later, when we were listening to Vampire Weekend’s “Oxford
Comma” Chris pointed to the crack and then the driver’s side while
they sang “first the window, then through the wall,” which hopefully
wasn’t prophetic.

Still, we’ve had some good jams, and we’re all pumped to play tonight,
especially since the inimitable Andy D is sharing the bill. He’s a
walking sexsplosion of rhyming disco funk, with dynamo moves and a
handlebar moustache. Come out tonight, Bloomington, and bring your
dancin shoes to Club 902.

In our eardrums recently: Nas, Bob Dylan (Bringing it All Back Home),
Doyle Dykes, Bruce Springsteen, Black Sabbath, Rage Against the
Machine, The Band, The Beatles (Magical Mystery Tour), Spoon, Vampire
Weekend (during which we admired our buddy Hamilton’s excellent cello
playing), the White Stripes, and Andy D

The Young Republic on the banks of Lake Michigan

SMR pt. 2

Righto! The Sky Mountain Revue is in full swing, and we’ve been
rumbling across Ohio and Indiana to sing our songs and shake down
walls. On Saturday the 25th we left Cincinnati for Dayton. The drive
was gorgeous, we gentlemen let our inner redneck tendencies run amuck
and we cruised farm bordered highways with the windows rolled down,
shirts stripped off, and music turned up. We’ve been playing Neil
Young’s song “Harvest Moon” as part of our acoustic set and the
scenery was too apropos to pass up, so we pulled over by a corn field
and made a little performance video – check it out.

In Dayton we played to a rambunctious, well-watered crowd at Blind
Bob’s bar down in the Oregon district. We were joined by some fellow
Nashvillains, our friends The Avery Set, who got everything moving
with their foot-stompin country rock. Once again, we were happy to see
new fans and old faithfuls in the crowd.

As we were wandering the Oregon district and investigating thrift
stores and music shops I met a homeless man named Mark August, the
“poet of Oregon [district]”. He’s been selling his poems on the corner
for many years. I’ll reprint one here, with his permission:

“Patience”
I sit here, I look down in my hands that used to work so hard and
provide for my family
And come home and hug the prettiest woman in the world
And sit down and play kid games with my kids
But now I can’t.
But if I ain’t got the patience of a tall boat mast holdin’ the sails of life
The boat mast will break
And the sails of life will blow away
And I will too.
Patience.

We left the club late that night and wandered to a country home where
we met Jennifer, our hostess for the evening, and crashed thankfully
on the carpets and couches, three or so in the morning.

On Sunday we drove to Muncie, Indiana for what would be one of the
most surreal days of our lives. We arrived at Doc’s Music Hall on time
and loaded in our gear. The place was spacious, with a nice big stage
and a huge PA. In the far corner on a small raised platform a fellow
was strumming and singing his folk songs to the bartender. There was
no one else there, and the bartender didn’t know what the deal was
with the music, so we just set up and sat around reading or practicing
(our usual routine). After a while the sound man showed up, long
enough to tell us he wasn’t working that evening and that we should
use the little raised platform and forego the big stage. We crammed
our stuff into that corner as another strum and singer prepared to
play for the bartender.

With a couple more hours to kill we drove over to our couchsurfing
spot. We entered a white two-story townhouse in the student
neighborhood and were enthusiastically greeted by some dudes, who
generously cooked us burgers and made us promise to play “Boomtown”
with them that night, which they said involved pingpong balls, a cup,
and loads of beer. Then they let out their pig.

Yup, they kept a little black pig as a pet, named Porkchop. He was
their vacuum cleaner, entertainment, and sixth roommate. We threw
potato chips at him, which he ate furiously; he squealed incessantly
every time someone picked him up, and could even squeal and eat at the
same time. Porkchop’s emotional state was either one of terror or
ecstasy. Unfortunately the woman who came once a week to vacuum had
discovered the pig and complained to the landlord, and we were
witnesses to Porkchop’s last night in the animal house. They were
going to give him to a friend, although a couple of times I heard the
suggestion that we just toss him on the grill. There is an inevitable
perversity that comes with keeping a pig in America, which these guys
had completely embraced. One of them had fed Porkchop a ham and cheese
hot pocket the day before, which he’d eaten shamelessly.

The guys also had a pet snake, a red corn snake, which they carried
around all curled up in their hands. As they said, they were trying to
keep Muncie interesting. When we left they were taking stock of the
beer, sending a friend to retrieve some vodka that had somehow
survived Saturday, and trying to remember if the grocery lifted the
Sunday ban on beer sales at midnight or 3 am.

We drove back to the club, which had collected a smattering of people
for Trivia Night, which we were due to follow. There were no more than
twenty people, but a relatively diverse crowd: punks and old folks,
hipsters and hip-hoppers, drunk friends and serious loners. A man came
in with a frisky black dog that seemed to prance around in an odd way,
until we realized that it only had three legs. We entered the
competition and held our own. I thought it would be easy work and a
laugh to make poems out of trivia answer sheets:

Yellow Black Death, Alderon,
marigold timpani in Istanbul,
piccolo placebo.

But during trivia, we had a crisis. A man approached us and told us
that he was a musician, and that he had been booked to play that
evening at the same time. We were double booked. The only person
actually working at Doc’s was still the bartender, and he didn’t know
a thing about booking; the guy who’d booked us wasn’t picking up the
phone. It was a shit sandwich. They eventually gave up and left, which
made sense because 10% of bar sales split two ways on a Sunday night
aint worth scrapping over. The drummer and tour manager were really
nice (Chris said he was a weak tour manager if he couldn’t hustle us
out of the spot), but the singer was moody and pissed about the whole
situation. He was emanating bad vibes, which we tried to shake off as
we continued to put up a fight in the trivia game.

After losing trivia and putting up with the mc’s funny but offensive
jokes about Hitler and Kentucky incest we played, to a crowd of about
seven (including the bartender). We actually had a lot of fun, and
played songs from our acoustic set that we usually don’t do electric,
like “Harvest Moon” (during which a cute young couple slow danced) and
“Friend of the Devil”. We’ve also been working out a new song called
“Sky Mountain Blues”, which emerged during a studio jam, and we gave
it a whirl. During our show the drunk trivia losers danced, the three
legged dog pranced, and a man we dubbed The Growler came into our
lives. He was drunk, bearded, and ready to party. His voice was a
nearly incomprehensible growl, like a rusty tablesaw, and he roared
enthusiastic praise at all our songs. When we played “The Alchemist”
he gave an appreciative “urrrungahahhh” during Kristen’s violin
cadenza, and after the show kept shouting, “whiskey, taker shotter
whiskey whimme” at us. When Julian declined he said, “well, at least
pet mah dog”, which we were happy to do.

We loaded up and headed back to the house. Most of the fellows were
asleep. When Joey and I headed upstairs to see if we could hunt up
some brew, if not some full-on Boomtown, everyone had crashed. So we
opened the fridge, which was empty except for mustard, ketchup, and
the last two inches of a handle of Skoal vodka. For the sake of it
Joey and I quickly took two shots of the stuff, me chasing with a glob
of mustard on my finger, and Joey taking it raw. I asked him how he
could manage that, and he blamed it on Alston, where the Berklee kids
went to drink in Boston. Julian declared that we were his idols, and
we all went to bed. That night Joey and I went dream-clubbing until
dawn, when the sun rose in our dream and in real life. We left before
any of the guys in the house were awake and headed for Wisconsin,
still dazed and confused about what had just happened.

In our eardrums recently: Thelonious Monk, Charles Mingus, Squirrel
Nut Zippers, Outkast, Beach Boys, Yes (which is awesome) [this opinion
is not endorsed by The Young Republic –ed.], Metallica, Iron Maiden

The Young Republic plays Neil Young’s “Harvest Moon”

The Sky Mountain Revue Tour has begun

The Young Republic, joined by
label-mates Adrien and the Fine Print, will be gallivanting around the
country in our big maroon van for the next month and a half, playing
rock n’ roll and country music in clubs, dives, and farmer’s markets
near you. Well, if you live in any of the places listed on our
myspace: http://www.myspace.com/theyoungrepublic.

Our lineup for the tour is as follows: Captain Julain Saporiti, songs
and guitars; Wing Commander Kristen Weber, songs and fiddle; First
Mate Joey “Dirty T’s” Bennett, screamin’ magical guitar; Engineer
Chris Miller, tasty basses; Bombardier Felix Dowsley, boom-bahs and
jangles. Our crew is joined by two rogue troubadours, chronicler of
the times Adrien “Cannonball” Saporiti and ninja-star specialist Renee
“Featherflight” Izzi of Adrien and the Fine Print. Together we are the
Sky Mountain Revue, and we will be performing jointly and in unison at
our shows. So, hopefully you are one less person to whom we will have
to explain our complicated entourage.
Our first day on tour was nice and quiet, which is improper for rock
and roll but proper for singer songwritery things, which is what we
were doing. We headed up to Cincinnati from Nashville to play in the
Midpoint Music Festival, our second year on the bill. On Thursday
Julian and Adrien played as part of a songwriters in the round. Their
company was a patchwork of indie frontmen and self-styled folksters,
one of whom was so intoxicated that he only hit the mic with about a
third of his words, he swayed so violently as he sang. Chris said he
needed a headset, which gave me the image of the guy quaking out in a
Riki Martin video.

Julian and Chris were able to walk over and check out our friend
Ringo’s band Mad Anthony. By all reports they kicked a lot of ass.
Their new record is called “We Spent All Our Money on Speed Metal”,
check it out.

Before that whole episode we’d walked around the “Over the Rhine”
neighborhood in Cincinnati. It was real hip, black and young, murals
everywhere, strong splashes of green, red, blue, yellow lacquer paint
on old bricks. There was lots of radical propaganda on the walls: a
portrait of a woman with a fro and “power to the people” spaced around
her headsphere. The buildings were well built, often ornate, and had
aged well despite receiving no repairs. Young fellas walked around
shirtless, cutting wide diagonals across streets. Bootlegs for sale on
the corner, barbershops, retro antiques, catholic churches, head
shops. On one street an apartment on one side was blaring hip-hop, and
on the opposite side someone had cranked up some classical. In the
park some friends played poker while their kids played on the
playground. Since we spend much of our time on the road in bars,
seeing a happening neighborhood is always refreshing. Still, it wasn’t
a utopia—it was, as one mural declared it, a “ghettopia”. The kids on
the playground played with police caution tape, but they were happy.

The next day we played our acoustic country set (of which many songs
are featured on the Music From Sky Mountain album) at the library, and
then in Fountain Square. However, the wind was so strong in the Square
that we eventually had to desist, lest our hats and tips fly off. The
wind carried spray from the fountains twenty yards to drizzle on us.

That night we played at an art gallery called Artworks for the
Midpoint festival. A garage-punky band of oldsters called Poke opened
for us. They were really fun because they were having tons of fun. We
played a solid set, first Adrien and the Fine Print, then the Young
Republic, then the whole Sky Mountain Revue—our regular full show for
this tour. The audience was great, and amongst some new fans we saw
some old friends and dedicated fans in the crowd.

After us a gent named Henry Wagons played his ole guitar and told some
stories. He’d come all the way from Melbourne, Australia. He’s not as
purely farcical as the Flight of the Concords boys, but he has a
similar self-aware approach, applied to loads of different roots
musics. Even though the crowd had thinned out as the evening wore on,
the steadfast remainder was laughing, hollering, and singing along for
most of his set. He brings more rock than one man should be carrying
around. He was very funny, with a great sense of his audience—a sort
of entertainer that is too rare in our American folk scenes. All you
Nashvillains, catch him at The Basement on the 30th.

Alright, that’s our first road post, expect many more as we spend
hours each day in our trusty (so far) van. If anybody in Dayton, Ohio
is looking for something to do tonight, check us out tonight at Blind
Bob’s.

Our recent van jams: The Allman Brothers Band (Filmore East), The
Libertines, The Walkmen, Blur, George Jones, Vampire Weekend.

THE SKY MOUNTAIN MUSIC SHOW: Fall 2010

This fall, The Young Republic will be once again hitting the road on a massive tour, bringing along label mates and fellow Boston defectors ADRIEN AND THE FINE PRINT. TYR has been busy helping this young band record their first full length album at Sky Mountain Studios and will be happy to share the stage, instruments and songs in a big old fashioned music show.
Into the wild the over the moon.

A Review From a Fan and Friend

Hello Dear Readers of the world’s most inconsistent band blog. This edition comes to you from one of The YR’s most loyal fans Miss Katie Baum. She has taken the time to write a review of our most recent Maine appearance with the lovely Devon Sproule attaching insights that only someone who’s been there from the beginning could author. After all these years she is not only a die hard fan (and maker of the fine I ❤ YR buttons) , but like a fair few of you, a friend. So, three cheers to Katie and all of you who have stood by our music for years. And remember, a new EP is coming out in July:)

(copy and paste)
watchingforthemagichour.blogspot.com/2010/05/music-aficionado.html

A Brief History and Analysis of “Autumns in the Trees”

Author’s Note: This is not meant to be any kind of proper formal analysis, only my own musings on the construction of the notes in my own way of thinking about music, and my own experiences in helping to create it throughout the song’s history.

Like most of our compositions, it is fair to begin with the songwriting. “Autumns in the Trees” is the oldest song on the record, and if my memory serves, Julian initially wrote the chords, lyrics and melody in the fall of 2005, soon after our grand “Girl from the Northern States” tour and during the first couple months of our sophomore year at Berklee. The chord progression is a slight variation on what I call the classic “kings cross” progression, (a more official name for it I can’t seem to find) which dates back to medieval times, an anthemic yet melancholy collection of 5 to 1 chords that triumphantly modulate from relative minor to major key, before resolutely plunging back to the initial Aeolian conflict. Julian only substitutes the dominant resolution into the relative major with a sub-dominant one; it achieves nearly the same effect while being a bit less jarringly bright. The subject matter in Autumns does lean more towards the melancholic end of the lyrical spectrum than anthemic, afterall, no? I am enough a product of my harmonic time to be an unabashed lover of liberal interchange between relative minor and major keys, and this progression is a lovely example. It can also be found in the popular Wilco song “Jesus Etc.” But Julian adds a tasty and emphasized (and for its time, quite progressive) vii-7 b5 chord afterwards, pausing the forward momentum, before making amends with an additional resolution of a major V to I. (And perhaps making up for the inherently partial satisfaction of the earlier IV-I variation, as well as staying true to the modulative intentions of the original “Kings Cross” progression, and allowing for that always-dramatic direct plunge from I to relative i to begin the new phrase) To this day, Julian specifically mentions that chord, as well as the modulation into the repeating 7th chords of the instrumental section, as being new harmonic ground for him that was influenced by the Jazz harmony classes he was  attending.

The melody is very representational of a couple notable ideas Julian had been kicking around during that sophomore year. It was a troubled couple of semesters in some ways for him, and in general there was a slightly darker and dramatic hue which began to creep into his output. (A tendency I always support) A few songs during this time began with a i-v (or on those days with an inclination for leading tones, i-V) progression, including Paper Ships, Girl in a Cemetery, Bows in Your Arms, She’s Not Waiting Here This Time, as well as Autumns. Julian’s melody boldy begins with a minor 6th intervalic jump down before circling to rest on the 3rd of the v chord. These sorts of jagged intervalic distances were rare in his early output, and perhaps were indicative of his developing vocal control during this period. Listen to the first lines of “She’s Not Waiting Here This Time” and “Autumns in the Trees” and you’ll hear what I’m talking about. To my ears, no interval signals sadness like the minor sixth – I can’t listen to the Stones’ Under My Thumb without feeling a touch of tragedy.

The next idea added, forming the rhythmic backbone, (and one that is quite exposed) is Chris’s bass line. The basic concept is simple enough, outlining each triad in classic dotted quarter + dotted quarter + quarter fashion, that he himself labels as “pseudo latin.”  Its a textbook case of simple contemporary syncopation and resolution, with the oddball and-of-2 lending interest whilst the 4-1 each and every bar assures the downbeat. He began playing the pattern when the band initially arranged the song in the spring of 2006, yet when pressed for potential insights as to his thought process in crafting the part, he coyly parries that “I can’t really remember to be honest.” Sly devils, those bass players.

The initial arrangement was made during what I term the “2nd Period” of the Young Republic, (Post Girl from the Northern States Tour, pre Jon Lee’s departure) and is representational of our lineup at the time. There survives a live recording of our original electric version, made at the “Rutyard Kipling” restaurant in Louisville, Kentucky during our Take the Moral High Ground Tour in May of 2006. The quality is imperfect, but you can hear that Chris’ bass line, and the tambourine strikes, are about the only elements of the arrangement that made it on the Balletesque version 3 years later. Hear it here:

For those of you hardcore fans that are curious, in order of appearance: Julian on vocals and electric guitar, Kristin on violin (sometimes even my Viola for this one), Katherine Neis on flute, “MJ” on piano, Chris on electric bass, Mathew Smith on drum kit. I (Nate) am hitting the since-retired war-tom with a mallet made from a branch from my backyard wrapped in old t-shirt scraps and duct tape, while also striking our plastic tambourine with the wooden end. Jon Lee plays the muted trumpet, and Bob is on pedal steel (though playing a part pretty different from whats on Balletesque) The instrumental section is primarily improvised, with some beach boys inspired percussion interplay, a band Bob at the time was pretty obsessed with.

There was also an acoustic version we had worked up, and made a recording of that about a week later on that same tour in May of 2006. We were in my grandparents’ home for the night, right on the banks of the Mississippi river in Wabasha, Minnesota. We had the whole house to ourselves, and the performance was just after a dinner Katherine had prepared of some sort of tasty submarine sausage sandwiches. You can hear it here:

For the acoustic version, a few necessary modifications were made: its Julian on acoustic guitar. Matt Smith is playing my old, since-retired Doumbek. (the silver chalice-style model I once celebrated our first all-girls-school-show with by drinking a soda out of it in a chinese restaurant) Bob is playing his grandfather’s 100-year-old german banjo he tuned like a guitar, MJ is playing an old accordion she lugged around on a little metal cart for acoustic shows.

Stay tuned for part 2: The making of the “Balletesque” version

The Young Republic BANNED IN NORTHERN VIRGINIA!!!

Shortly after returning home from months on the road, The Young Republic’s manager Danny Ross was emailed the following message by Stephen V. Negrey, manager of the IOTA Club in Arlington, VA,
“Due to Julians behavior at Mondays show with Devon Sproule I will not consider The Young Republic for any future shows here at IOTA Club & Cafe. It is a shame because I like the band. I wish you all the best.”
The Young Republic,  a notoriously well behaved group of young musicians, has been banished from ever performing again at the IOTA Club in Arlington. We here at the Sky Mountain Blog feel the need to report to the group’s fans about what happened.
On the last night of a three month tour, the band and their tour mate Devon Sproule pulled into the lovely town of Arlington, VA to play that night at the IOTA Club. It was a beautiful night, warm with a hint of summer tugging at the treetops, tempered by the cool Northern Virginia breeze. After the soundcheck and a pasta dish provided by the bartender the crowd started trickling in and the “trouble” began. The purported poor behavior stemmed from a 20 year old female member of the press who was not allowed into the 21+ club. Lead singer Julian Saporiti – a former writer for the TENNESSEAN – attempted to assist the young reporter at the door, but the door girl was very strict in keeping her out. When questioned, Saporiti had this to say,
“They wouldn’t let this reporter in who was on Devon’s guest list. Granted she was 20 but at every other club we’ve ever played, people and especially press have been allowed in after having their hands X’d so the bartender knew they couldn’t drink. The reporter said that she had no idea the show was 21+ because it didn’t say so on the site.”
The IOTA Club’s website does in fact say shows are 21+ but not on the front page or on the show calendar. Saporiti continues,
“When I use to write for the paper in town I was always allowed into every bar, as they understood that I had a job to do and would be giving them publicity. There’s a slight leniency in these situations. I asked the young woman working the door if she could just X the reporter’s hands and let her come in for the show, or even open the door for her so she could hear the performance. To the door girl’s credit, she did call her manager to ask his opinion, which uninformed of the details, was no.”
The reporter and her friend (who was of drinking age) was turned away. Julian gave her one of TYR’s CDs in consolation and Devon and the band thanked her for coming out and apologized that she was not allowed in. Saporiti goes on,
“Of all the places we’ve played I’d never seen someone ON THE GUEST LIST AND A MEMBER OF THE PRESS be turned away from a club. I know a club has to look out for the law, but there’s an understanding with every other place we’ve ever played and to not even let someone stand outside, that’s sort of cold. I felt bad because she came a long way on a weeknight just to see us and write a review of the show.”
When asked what the club might have taken offense to Saporiti explains what he thinks might have happened.
“We played a blues in our set that night and I dedicated it to the young reporter who was turned away at the door. That’s what really set off the door girl. She looked like she didn’t have the most pleasant disposition in the first place and maybe she was just having a bad day. But after the show she went out of her way to tell me how disrespectful I was for saying that on stage. I told her it was no big deal and walked away. She then came out when I was selling merch and continued to berate me about how out of line I was for trying to help that girl get into the club. I was really tired and worn out as this was the last show of the tour. I attempted to take the high road and said very little in response, but she just was not happy, felt insulted and kept jawing at me. It was just not a nice situation to be in for a visiting performer.”
When asked how he felt about his band’s first banishment, Saporiti light heartedly responded,
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s a little extreme I suppose and kind of silly. I have no problem with those people. The club was fine and they treated the band well. It’s their policy and that’s fine. We still played, I was just trying to get this girl in because I felt bad for her. It seems like that (door) girl was having a bad day already and was in a foul mood from what my bandmates told me and I guess rubbed her the wrong way and she blew it out of proportion. These things happen to all of us. I do find it funny that the guy who sent the email wasn’t even there to see any of this. I still think that if you are underage, you should be able to get your hands X’d if you’re family or doing something like writing about the show. I remember how much I appreciated that when I was working. Plus her friend would have had a few drinks and made the club some more money. Look, I’m a grown up, I apologize for making anyone feel uncomfortable because I’m just a singer, this is just a band and we go to these places to make folks happy. I still wish that girl had been able to get in though.”
So fans of The Young Republic, that is the story of how after 6 years and hundreds of shows, this band of music college grads was banned from a Northern Virginia club.

– Amy Stetson
Publicist

Autumns in the Trees History and Analysis pt. 2

Welcome back readers to the 2nd portion of the Autumns in the Trees History and Analysis.

 

After the aforementioned Take the Moral High Ground tour of May-June 2006, Autumns in the Trees fell out of the Young Republic repertoire. With Jon Lee’s departure from the band in October we lost our trumpet, and with the new 8-person lineup we concentrated on beginning to form a tighter, more pop-y sound. If memory serves, the song may have surfaced once or twice in an acoustic set, but for the time being it was put on the back burner, with the intention of it eventually being recorded, for what at the time was considered our 3rd, as of yet untitled “dark” album.

 

In the spring of 2008 it was momentarily ressurected during a single band practice, and although nothing definite was decided, there were inclinations towards a more string quartet-based approach. But it was again put on hold while we continued to record a pop album that was to be the follow-up to 12 Tales from Winter City.

 

Soon after our drummer, piano and flute players quit, and upon urging from our label End of the Road Records, the partially-completed Pop album was shelved and we jumped right into making this 3rd “dark” album, now known as Balletesque. Many of the songs intended for Balletesque were shelved as Julian wrote new stronger, more cohesive material. But Autumns in the Trees, upon appeal from members of the band who remembered it as a favorite, as well as approval from our management, was able to stay on the tracklisting.

 

In the midst of recording Balletesque in the fall of 2008, Autumns in the Trees was re-introduced to our current 6-person lineup, with the intentions of crafting the version for the record.

 

With the differing instrumentation we now had, a few general arrangement changes were made. Katherine’s flute solo after the first verse was replaced with pedal steel, and all other primary instrumental duties were given to a theoretical, as of yet unwritten string quartet arrangement. The rythmn section developed their parts through an intensive process of simplification, in the end basically doubling Chris’ bassline with a deadened, woody texture of toms and guitar. Julian utilized his Fender ‘Jazz Master Jaguar’ electric guitar famous for its 1960s surf rock sound, creating a staccato percussive quality with a right hand palm muting technique. It was later described as sounding a bit like “spy” guitar, because of that 60s sound it evoked. The rhythm section had established a far more sparse, relaxed and disciplined bed for this new version.

 

Since Kristin had her hands full taking string writing duties on the new big folk song “Tough Year,” I jumped at the chance to have a go at Autumns, as the song had always been a favorite of mine. I wanted the quartet to sound like they were trying to rise out of an empty state of depression to form a full, sweeping big-string arrangement, but each verse it would be defeated by the lyricist’s melancholic state of mind, and the 4-part harmony would thus deflate and evaporate into its former state of nothingness, before making another doomed effort in the following verse. Finally, in the first part of the instrumental, the quartet accepts defeat, embraces the sadness, and emotes accordingly. The tragedy is thus realized. This actually isn’t really what I was thinking when I was writing, but upon later reflection I feel it is a valid interpretation. All I was thinking at the time was, well, to try to make it sound good. I was thinking about voice leading, avoiding non-creative violations of the rules of common practice, not interfering with while simultaneously complimenting the melody, relating in a congruous way to the rhythm section, capturing those tiny little precious moments of inspiration before they escaped back into the ether, and generally trying not to ruin the song. Sometimes it comes easily soaring upon the wings of that inspiration, sometimes you have to stomp along the ground and just pound through it. The real test of a composer’s chops is what emerges when they have to pound through it, note by note. And I suppose the real measure of their talent in how high the soaring can go. But I digress!

 

Going off of suggestions received in band practice, for the instrumental section I wrote a sort of counterpuntive bit of motivic development based on the idea I had in the verses, and a new more positive sounding counter-subject. Once complete with this first draft, I then began writing another completely different version, which was far less melancholic, and more a slinky groove-based approach closely working off of Chris’ “pseudo latin” bass line. I brought both versions into a band practice for feedback, (figured having two completely different approaches would give band members more room for constructive criticism) and to my slight surprise they reacted more favorably to the first melancholic version.

 

Taking a brief break while I was immersed in the rising Tidal Wave, I returned to my arrangement in November. I met with Kristin for a string section brainstorm on Autumns and Tough Year, and she gave the suggestion of making the verses more closely rhythmically match the vocal melody. This led me to extensive re-working. Meanwhile I was unhappy with the first part of the instrumental, and threw out my flat- sounding harmonization of the vocal melody and concocted an original melody that came to me on my viola. Kristin liked the idea of the vocal melody more, but I preferred the original melody, so I wrote a version that was based solely on my own melody, as well as one that was the vocal melody, and just for the hell of it, one that was a hybrid of both. (My original melody is the version in the final recording) As it so happens the day I wrote the hybrid I also bicycled down the street to the nearby Jewish community center to vote for our 46th president.

 

As for the modulated bulk of the instrumental, in my second version I took on the conceptually ambitious idea of weaving in various little favorite quotes from throughout the album Balletesque. Guitar fills, basslines, vocal melodies, just parts that my bandmates had created that I was particularly fond of. I wanted to make the quotes not obvious, and meld together in a musical way. This proved, as you could imagine, to be quite a challenge. I completed a “thin” version of it before grudgingly rejecting the whole notion as simply too conceptual for its own good. Thus having written two versions of the instrumental, I lamented to Kristin that I didn’t know what to do, and she offered to take it on.

 

The instrumental section, as in Julian’s original composition, is comprised of a simple repeating Ab to Db chord progression, softened with 7ths. You would barely notice it however with Kristin’s arrangement, as it freely wafts and spins upon uninhibited pentatonic breezes. The four members of the quartet are akin to leaves flitting about the air of an october’s wind-swept afternoon, briefly alighting upon some branch or stoop, only to be swept again into spontaneous harmonized choreography, warmed in the chill season’s air by a slanting sun. It is liberated, intuitive writing.

 

The quartet was recorded live wednesday November 19th, following a single rehearsal the night before. Each verse was done separately, as well as the two portions of the instrumental. Julian spent a bit of studio time editing those sections together as seamlessly as possible. Recording an ensemble of musicians playing a composition of my own was proved once again to be an absolute thrill of the highest order.

 

Bob wrote a pedal steel solo for after the first verse, painting up and around the chord progression with weary sliding strokes leaving quickly fading residual streaks. His dramatic use of multi-directional intervalic leaps juxtaposed with intimate leading tone resolutions are in close relation to both the vocal melody and my Cello solo in the proceeding verse, but the nature of his chromatic resolutions are rooted in american country and blues scales (chromatically flirting with nines and flat threes in a major pentatonic context) rather than the european-derived neo-classical and folk scales. (chromatically flirting with sharp fours and flat sixths in a harmonic minor context) Same dramatic techniques, same emotive effect, but using a vocabulary rooted in divergent scale traditions, and ones from differing hemispheres. When inquired over the phone on the possible inspirations of his pedal steel solo, Bob reacts with wide-eyed bewilderment and an aversion to coherent commitments, exclaiming things like “I’m sorry man, I don’t know songs very well!” He does, however, eventually point to a guitar part that Nels Cline plays in the Wilco song “You are my Faith” as a source for creative stimulus. When recorded, Julian decided to double the part in octaves, creating spooky semi tones for an “uneasy, slightly unsettling” and “ghostly sound.”

 

The last instrument to be added was a wurlitzer electric piano. This was Chris’s idea after having an unforgettably rapturous experience hearing a certain little falling fill over the g minor chord MJ played on the old live version. (You can hear it on piano 1:38 into the 2nd electric Rudyard Kipling recording I posted in the last blog.) Only a couple days before Christmas, after most everything for Balletesque had been recorded, our engineer Morgan was able to sneak us into Ronnie’s Place studio he works at for some free late-night christmas break session time. I played about as authentic a Hammond B3 organ as they come for a couple songs, and we were able to realize Chris’ dream with the Wurlitzer Electric Piano they had on hand for Autumns in the Trees. The studio was originally built by Roy Orbison, and its where most of his legendary hits were recorded. Its an absolutely gorgeous space, one that could have only been built in a pre-mp3 music industry. The walls were predominantly richly finished hardwoods inlayed with plush velvet, with a multi-teered design that featured a balcony capable of accommodating the entire “Only the Lonely” string section while simultaneously recording the rest of the band in pristine isolation. I felt completely unworthy to be recording in this setting on Roy Orbison’s electric piano and organ, but at the same time was empowered by the “this is freakin’ sweet” element. The part Chris had me play was actually a bit different than what I can decipher MJ’s original part to be, but the wurlitzer really did add a perfect soft, organic sound to the record to help fill out the space behind the lead instruments. You barely notice it on the finished record, while being entirely audible – and I think thats indicative of its effectiveness.

 

The first song written for Balletesque, and the last to be completed, Autumns in the Trees is quieter and more reflective than any of the other cuts. It is not  conventional in its structure, yet also not the spectacle of some of the album’s other unconventional tracks. It is an example of individual members of the Young Republic conceiving ideas separately, and then joining them together to see what reactions may occur. I feel it is a lovely representation of our chemistry as artists, and I’m proud to have been involved.

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Sountrack to Julian’s Life & Some New Press Pics

http://www.thisisfakediy.co.uk/articles/soundtracks/the-young-republic

Tomato Festival and Birmingham Welcome-Back

Of course its been 2 weeks off from the band for summer break, and the moment we reconvene there is like three thousand shows we have to play that very weekend. Not that I’m complaining! The first, opening for “How we became the Bomb” in Knoxville, I was unable to attend due to Violin teaching obligations. (in the life of a struggling rock musician, one is occasionally forced to opt for the paying gig, especially when the paying gig has already been forced to rescheduled 3 out of the last 4 weeks…) But I heard it was a doozy, what with a single rehearsal’s worth of preparation, an eight hour drive, zero audience attendance, and the van stubbornly refusing to relinquish first gear on the journey home. Safe to say, in rehearsal the next day at noon, my friendly advances and curious inquiries to my bandmates were met with uncommunicative, vacant looks of exhaustion, the very life in their eyes virtually extinguished.

The next show, (or shows, rather) 2 days later proved to be a far more rejuvenating affair. The great east Nashville tomato festival, a bubbly assemblage of organic street-side attractions and lycopene-rich gallivanting, had invited our band to play their stage at 5 corners. We actually had a pretty choice slot, right after dark and just before the street directly in front of the stage was reopened, transforming audience rows 3-10 back into an automotive thoroughfare. The response was positive, and it was a good feeling to be playing out in the open again, and in our hometown. Wes joined us backstage, dapper and dashing as ever, and went with Bob in an investigation of a Pedal Steel player performing down the way. Julian ran into old friends, Logan shepherded real estate deals, Chris spoke at lengths in his flashy black suit with shady, unidentified bearded individuals, Kristin mowed-down hippies with her brawny utility vehicle, and I had one of my students and hiking-pals come to the show! Later we moved our stuff down the block to the Post-Depression theater, and played a more laid back late-nite set to an intimate group of longtime fans.

And the next night it was Birmingham! The damned van was left at home to wallow in its own dysfunction, and we split into two groups for the drive down I65. I was with Bob and Logan, who had worked each other into a a frenzy over a pop record called “So Much for the Afterglow.” The hype for this CD was so energetic, my fellow passengers nearing the edge of such hyperbolic hysteria, I braced myself for what would undoubtedly be a singularly seminal classic 90s rock album. What felt like 3 hours later of listening to the same sort-of catchy, mind-numbingly uninteresting song over and over again, I allowed myself the chance to be reminded of my own treasured opinion that the validity of music is not in the notes themselves, but in the listener’s god-given perception of them. I proceeded to make my best efforts to share in the enthusiasm, if not the source. And hey man, I listen to The Big 80s eight hours a day, four days a week at work. This kind of grin and bearing is child’s play for me.

……..and then I was treated to “The Offspring”…….

Things soon looked up however when we arrived at our venue in Birmingham and it turned out to be a rusted-out, comprehensively decrepit, and surely long-abandoned iron and cement bunker ridden with bullet holes and habitual vandalism, far within the condemned confines of the fiercest, most harrowing ghetto I have ever bore witness to. Desperately pleading there was some kind of gross miscalculation committed by our navigator, our deepest fears were soon confirmed when we were able to make out a shattered, post-apocalyptic excuse for a marquee, which, sure enough, in mispelled, mangled letters, displayed “H0M l Pecam the B wb w/Te oung Rip blic.” Looks like it was going to be one of those shows.

After nervously waiting in locked vehicles, at about 11 at night the bartender finally arrived, bolting for the iron-clad door which was literally coming off its hinges, sporting a bandana and kevlar vest. Struggling to hear him over the omnipresent sirens and gunfire, he cheerfully informed us the local band, known as “Dead Lung,” was not going to be able to make the show. Apparently, this gig was too hopeless of an affair for a group of people who call themselves “Dead Lung.”

“How I Became the Bomb” showed remarkable morale and constitution in the face of this hardship and life-threatening danger, who in addition to presenting an enjoyable 70s flavored indie-pop set, also doubled as a supportive, if understandably smallish crowd for our own performance. (A role we in turn reciprocated) Go figure the sound was actually pretty decent in there, and it was likely our best performance since break.

Making a military-style evacuation for our vehicles while dodging the crossfire, we gunned for the interstate and a chance to make it back home alive. It was now 5AM Monday morning, and it really felt like we were back in the YR groove again.