Physical 12" available here:
What began as a fairly loose (for me) arrangement of fellow travelers has coalesced into an actual band.
I like the sustained energy, the capacity for collective growth, the surprises, etc.
Greatly pleased by this development.
Most of this record was recorded by what is by now the core group:
Me (Tim Midyett, formerly of Silkworm and Bottomless Pit) on baritone guitar, almost always 12-string nowadays. Plus some other bits.
Jeff Panall (Songs: Ohia) on the drums, always I hope.
Justin Brown (Palliard) on electric guitar and also, very notably, on pedal steel.
Matthew Barnhart (Tre Orsi and inveterate road dog) on bass guitar. Fun fact: Barney had never played bass until being in this band. Wouldn't have known, right?
We made this record in my basement, as usual. Barney recorded a lot of it. I recorded some overdubs and the vocals, the way I do (haphazardly). Dumped the 'puter stuff to 16-track at Electrical Audio and mixed from the tape.
Had a couple overdubs on Fight It, one on Golden. Nothing extra on Can't Find a Hat.
The last tune, Disappearing Music, is built on a fifteen-year-old (!) demo. I'd always been very fond of it, but I couldn't quite get the tune over the hump.
I did what I have come to do whenever I get stumped on a non-band recording...I sent it to my pal Howard Draper (Shearwater, Tre Orsi) in Portland, OR.
Left a couple minutes of bare drum machine at the end...didn't tell him about it, just left it there to see what happened.
Well, what happened was Howard finished off the track for me, at long last, for which I am grateful.
The record is about longing, I suppose. If I had to boil it down. Which I do, since this is a one-sheet and not me writing a 33 1/3 book about my own record.
I love the cover a lot. Jim Newberry's photos have the vibe. An oblique wistfulness. Young women ride carefully and warily down the street, and the young man is lost in his fingernails, oblivious to their existence--the wiper and side mirror more aware of the world than he is. And padlocks that protect nothing, hanging empty and wide-open on a line.
Heartroller is dedicated to my dear friend Karl Hendricks and his family.