After high school, Matt Myers didn’t really feel like going away to college, so he stayed in New Albany and went to Indiana University Southeast, across the river from Louisville. He didn’t feel like concentrating on anything, so he majored in general studies with a minor in philosophy. Six years later, when the time came to graduate, he thought a little about working in a coffee shop, but he never got around to finding a job. After one last winery gig, he traded in the acoustic duo he had with Katie Toupin and went electric with drummer Shane Cody, an old friend who’d moved back to town. Cody called up bassist Zak Appleby, and something almost clicked. All they needed was for Toupin to join them on organ, and halfway through a session with too many dogs barking in the background, Houndmouth was born. Recorded over five days in the high heat of the Hoosier summer, From The Hills Below The City (Rough Trade) feels like the second coming of the Band, mixing folk, country and rock into a whole that’s bigger than the sum of its parts, with each member writing songs, switching back and forth between instruments, and taking a turn on lead vocals. Houndmouth will be guest editing magnetmagazine.com all week. Read our new feature on the band.
Myers: I’ve been in Brighton for 75 hours. This fuckin’ place is like Coney Island. It’s got the same amount of seagulls but a lot more exotic transvestites scurrying out of traveling circus caravans (whatever gets you off, I guess). I haven’t been to sleep since my arrival two days ago due to tiny beds, barbaric snoring drummers, a sickness from the Ohio River Valley that followed me here, antibiotics, steroids and some kind of sinus meds that charmingly function like Adderall. My brain is extracting juice to allow my body to keep trudging along, joyfully along, I might add. Cheep beer, middle-of-the-road whiskey and expensive Scotch on top of a pill parade makes it easy to soak in the sea air. Brighton, lovely city.
Just beneath, right before supper the tearing reign of Susanna Whitlock came sterling and upon us. Battleships, toothbrushes and mauve-dressed women lined the harbor fall-off. Signs that said “Fem Dom” read scarcely between the faces. “Get your cheeks right and don’t eat so much,” said we, the non-churchgoers of America. Lazy eyed while the rest of the lot were closed to any beautician manning a bathroom door. “I’ll meet you in there, baby,” said Orvel Irwin Lane, whose father was the engine and mother was the line. Fat old Susanna was faithfully appalled with the O.I.L.’s chivalrous charm. She vibrated under light, but no flattery made its way through her honey teeth. “Is it sunny or is it raining?” she asked.
Video after the jump.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jtK31ZX-nMQ
