Throughout the past few decades, there have been countless bands that started out playing aggressive, shambolic and most of all, noisy, rock music before slowly shedding the dissonance to reveal the melodies lurking beneath all the clamor—think seminal indie-rock bands like the Replacements, Hüsker Dü, Pavement and Deerhunter. The Midwestern Charm seems to be reverse engineering that sonic trajectory. Their 2012 self-titled debut found them leisurely shuffling through a cocktail of pop-punk and twangy country music. The record not only morphed two genres into a compelling amalgamation, but also signaled the dawn of a new force in the city’s strong Americana scene.
But alas, on their follow-up, Growing Pains, The Midwestern Charm toss that good ‘ole twang out the window of the band’s metaphorical pick-up truck, which they recently traded in for a beat-up Mustang. What’s left is a thunderously loud (and great) pop-punk record with some slick guitar licks that help underscore Connor La Mue’s angsty, journal-like lyrics. The album was recorded with (whom else?) Shane Hochstetler at Howl Street Recordings and just the sheer volume that comes through on the recording makes his touch abundantly clear.
I talked to the band about recording with him, losing the acoustic guitars, being tagged as emo, and when lyrics get too personal.
What ideas did Shane present to you guys when recording?
CLM: It wasn’t ideas; it was just being around the right person. We had these guitars that we thought were really gnarly on the first go-around. Then we sat on them for three months until we could get back in with Shane. Then we’re like, “it could be bigger.” And that’s Shane’s shtick. It was the perfect storm. We didn’t know what we wanted, but then we realized we wanted loud guitars because that’s what feels right. He had these amazing stacks. There was no turning back.
Do you have any trouble capturing that big sound live?
CLM: Yeah, because you can’t push the vocals through over it. There are so many shows we play that people complain they can’t hear us.
Ryan McCrary (guitar): We have to play some big ‘ole festival stage, or something, where we can be loud.
CLM: I want to get stacks.
RM: That would be amazing. One thing I like is that you demand attention with that presentation. I get excited when I see some big amps. I’m like, “I’m about to get rocked.” That was really fun to feel in the studio. We played with ear plugs. You’d be deaf without them.
CLM: The guitars were so loud. We tracked in the room with the amp. That’s why it’s drenched in feedback because it was just feeding back constantly. You had to play all the time or else you had to dance or shimmy with it so it wouldn’t feed back.
Why’d you shed the country twang?
CLM: It’s got some twang elements to it, in parts.
RM: Your songs are different this time around and different influences to some degree.
CLM: When we were doing the country twang thing, we were playing a lot of bars and we were playing acoustic. It was a drag. It wasn’t how I would want to see a show. If I was going out, hanging out on a weekend, and there was some guy with an acoustic guitar … there are people who can do it. I just don’t think we were doing it. I didn’t feel comfortable with it, so I started playing electric guitar and it started feeling better. It’s not like we won’t do a country-flavored tune. That door’s never closed.
RM: I want to extend way beyond that, instead of being in that little box. There are a lot of people around here that do cool stuff with acoustics, but I like to do weird stuff with guitar. With Connor starting to play electric the past few years, we can do a lot together versus him doing acoustic and me writing something with it. It’s so much more fun to be Thin Lizzy or something, emulate that kind of thing. I think people like that.
It’s always nice to diversify your albums because then you can play the country shows, you can play the rock shows, and even the straight metal shows, if you ever got that loud.
CLM: It’s possible.
RM: The next batch is going to be really interesting.
CLM: That’s the thing—a lot of people think you have a band that’s different to what you’ve been doing then you should start a new band. It’s an evolution. If you listen to The Figgs—they’re a power pop group from Saratoga [Springs, NY]—you hear their earlier stuff and it’s really punk rock and pop punk. But not like New Found Glory pop punk, you know, like rough around the edges, but pop tunes fast and loud. Then they evolved into this pop thing where it’s not necessarily loud and in your face anymore but straightforward pop tunes. It’s not loud or anything—although, sometimes it is. They’re still one band; they’ve been around for 25 years. You can do that. You don’t have to start a new band.
RM: And their records get better and better.
CLM: And you love them for different reasons. I love their earlier stuff because if I’m drunk and pissed off, I just want to rock out. I want to hear them play loud and talk about getting drunk. And sometimes I’ll be driving and just want to listen to their later stuff because its pop sensibility makes you happy.
Your lyrical style reminds me of second wave emo bands like The Get Up Kids. Do you listen to that kind of stuff growing up?
CLM: I never listened to The Get Up Kids. I was more into Conor Oberst. I liked Bright Eyes.
What else did you listen to when you were growing up?
CLM: It’s kind of lame, but I was into the Counting Crows. Their first couple records, like Recovering the Satellites and August and Everything After, and even Hard Candy were good ‘90s records.
Recently, I guess, when it started changing, I started listening to the Lemonheads and Superdrag, The Replacements, obviously, and Big Star, naturally from that. Lyrics are a weird thing. They’re so dumb (laughs). I mean, they’re not dumb; they’re finicky. You gotta try and do something with them. Or you don’t and you can just say fuck it.
That’s surprising. I would have pegged you as someone who liked emo in high school or grade school.
CLM: I was into the Early November and Motion City Soundtrack. But I wasn’t into Chiodos, which I guess is screamo.
Would you feel comfortable with this album being considered an emo record?
CLM: I think Myles (Coyne) who plays in Temple called us an emo band and I was like, “I guess you’re right.” The lyrics are kind of like that. That’s the thing—like Promise Ring, the up-tempo tunes. It’s not like Taking Back Sunday. Whenever I hear emo I still think of Taking Back Sunday.
RM: I think some of those bands ruined it.
CLM: But I love the Promise Ring and Maritime. We listen to Jimmy Eat World and that kind of stuff. For some reason, for me emo is always just like Taking Back Sunday, The Used.
It’s been used as a derogatory term, but now, over the past year, there’s been an emo revival. Emo is making a comeback and becoming more critically acclaimed than ever.
CLM: Really? I guess I haven’t been keeping tabs on the emo scene. I don’t even know any new-ish emo bands.
What are your takes on being considered an emo band and if you thought it was a derogatory term?
CLM: I don’t know. The next record’s not going to be like this one. It will always have similar themes lyrically—like what are we doing here and what is going on. But stylistically, I want it to be even more aggressive.
RM: It’s a bridge of angst. The last record was prancing around. It wasn’t my kind of thing to play these folk, Americana tunes. I just want to play guitar all the time. When I was a kid, I just wanted to shred. It’s interesting to collide in a way, with how he does things and how I do it.
CLM: I had never played electric guitar before, so doing that was a different animal in of itself. It definitely shapes songwriting a bit. It makes it more focused. There’s so much space that can be wasted and I never want to waste it.
How much of your lyrics come from your personal life?
CLM: It’s all personal narrative, which is pretty awful. I really don’t like that about it. That’s why writing is so difficult because I’m so overly aware of what I’ve been saying. You’re just being a dick in front of a bunch of people—stop doing that. It’s personal narrative and it bothers me.
Why does it bother you?
CLM: Because I don’t have a filter enough to say, “Maybe I should lock this away in a diary.”
There’s a line from the first song “Bloodbath” that particularly stuck out to me. It goes “Good year for murder/ To pin us with disorders/ Throw us in our padded rooms/ We’ve learned to love these prisons.” Can you explain what you mean by that?
CLM: I could… It’s about people dealing with things in the wrong way. Trying to solve their issues without taking a good look at things… It’s a personal thing.
It’s a comment on parenting. I have a brother who’s been heavily medicated most of his life. He’s starting to grow up and I see myself in him. He’s always been that kid that my family’s been like, “He’s got something wrong with him.” They always look at me as the person who does good, and I’m like, “you have no idea about reality whatsoever.”
RM: There’s a lot of underlying cultural issues. Anybody can relate to that kind of thing—being institutionalized in kind of a weird way
CLM: Where you find answers for problems that don’t even exist.
RM: People trying to feel comfortable by trying to fix people in ways that there is no true solution.
CLM: Exactly. Everything’s gray. Nothing’s black and white. Just because you need to comprehend something you need to make it black or white.
The Midwestern Charm celebrates the release of Growing Pains on Sunday, August 24 at Linneman’s Riverwest Inn. Doors open at 9 p.m.
