Back before they were the critics’ darlings, packing concert halls around the globe, Spoon was broke and the lead singer was thinking of chucking rock for new country. In a brief encounter I got caught up in his new country idea and was somehow transformed into a Dwight Yoakam fanatic.
Fourteen years ago I found myself in one of those situations where a thoughtless, off-hand comment lands you in an argument. Suddenly, the tone of the conversation was off, voices were raised and I was backpedaling.
The voice on the phone was snapping, “So what’s Hank Williams Jr.? What is he?”
I was interviewing Britt Daniel, the lead singer of Spoon, and he was going through a rough patch.
Spoon had put out its first release on Matador Records, ground zero for indie rock during the ’90s and home to acts like Pavement, Yo La Tengo, Liz Phair, Superchunk and Daniel’s Austin band named for a song by the experimental 1960s German band, Can.
Indie rock was supposed to be the next grunge – an underground sound due to burst lucratively into the mainstream. Big labels sniffed around, trying to tempt some of Matador’s roster. Having been dismissed as a Pixies knockoff by Rolling Stone, Spoon wasn’t getting much love among the indie cred set and decided to decamp for Elektra Records. Shortly after, the band’s A&R representative Ron Laffitte ditched Elektra, leaving Spoon with no champion on the label.
Spoon band members soon found themselves on the street with a hefty bill for producing A Series of Sneaks (the title a nod to a song by British post-punkers, Wire – you can see marketing wasn’t their strong suit). Spoon ended up in Omaha, working on an EP called The Agony of Laffitte, and waiting to see what came next. At that point I tracked Daniel down for an interview for a school project on the music industry.
I was shocked when Daniel said he might fold the band and start writing songs for new country acts. Spoon may not have had much luck so far, but they were a really good band. They would eventually be one of the best-reviewed bands of the next decade, their songs appearing in Jaguar ads and on network TV shows like The OC. I believed in them.
Country I could handle, but new country? That fallow stomping ground of Garth Brooks and Billy Ray Cyrus? What university music snob could approve?
Unfortunately, I didn’t express my disappointment diplomatically, and said Daniel could do better than writing for Hank Williams Jr.
Daniel wasn’t having it and demanded to know if Williams was what I thought new country was. “What about Dwight Yoakam? You don’t think he’s any good?”
I was stumped. “He’s the guy in the skinny jeans, right?”
Daniel’s call waiting beeped and I escaped. He agreed to finish the interview the next day, and I went directly to a record store to grab Yoakam’s greatest hits in hopes of backing up my low opinion of new country.
On first listen, the argument was won. Yoakam is amazing. The next day I apologized, though shortly after the interview Spoon signed with Merge Records, home to indie darlings from the Magnetic Fields to Arcade Fire, which put a stop to any thoughts of a new country career change.
Weirdly, I now find myself in the role of Yoakam advocate. You haven’t heard him? You must! There’s a richness in Yoakam’s voice, and a crossover credibility in the Ohio-raised singer who worked his way up from an opening act in L.A. punk clubs. And though these days he’s better known for appearing in films like Sling Blade and Crank, he’s a creative person I find impossible not to respect.
Despite the esoteric musical influences he name-checked throughout his career, Daniel knew good music when he heard it. I’m glad he set me straight.
Related links:
Faith, Willie, Shania: What did they do before they were country stars?