|
It's a blustery fall afternoon in the Big Apple. Leaves are swirling across town, and it's a perfect day for warm socks and hot chocolate. But instead of staying inside and watching Court TV or the History Channel, David Berman, the man behind the Silver Jews, is standing alone outside a dog run in Central Park. "I can't tell you how much I miss my dog, Jackson," he says. "I come here so I can pet them all and spend a little time with the animals. And it seems to make the owners feel good, too, when you make a fuss over their dogs." Probably the most endearing character in indie rock, Berman is the kind of guy one would want to take to grandma's house. He is friendly and genuinely interested in everything around him. He seems to have an almost impish quality, a combination of youth and experience. "People are very open to things when they are born, but we all unlearn that openness as we grow up. It's a shame, really. I've always been a fairly unafraid person," he says. "I am affectionate and I like to show that to people I am close to." This "new openness" Berman addresses has gotten a fair amount of attention lately, with Palace's Will Oldham and the members of Guv'ner joining the club. But Berman finds talking about the subject to be counter-factual. "I can't really describe it anymore, it is just something that is in me, in everyone, to be open and not lie or pretend. I can't deal with that fiction," he says. Untruths are certainly not a part of Berman's music. On its latest album, American Water, he takes the Silver Jews to a new level of maturity and depth. This is adult music with a twist - a metamorphosis of all things born and bred in America and beyond. The album is lyric-driven and emotion-charged at every junction. Songs like "Random Rules" and "We Are Real" punctuate the heartbreak with bits of everybody's reality. Berman's constant attempt to string a series of consequences together are apparent in every moment of his music. Each song is a story leaving the listener feeling like a voyeur. "I don't have a single secret in my life. I tell everybody everything," he says. "I can't not. If I don't tell someone, at least one person, the details, it's like it never happened. I have to divulge it to harden it." Berman's lyrics have a kind of seductiveness. There is always hope at the end of the sentence. There is no distance on American Water. Berman's image-filled music drags pieces of his real-life narrative along with every word. "You need to heighten the experiences and make them into more than what they are. Not make up stuff, but put things in an order. Every moment or detail or phase or sentence has to modify another. That's when it becomes a story," he explains. Joining in this story is friend and Silver Jews bandmate Steven Malkmus, along with Tim Barnes, Michael Fellows, and Chris Stroffolino, has helped to craft Berman's into a dynamic final product. Although Malkmus' involvement in the archetypal neo-slacker outfit Pavement may have brought a lot of attention to The Silver Jews, he is quick to point out this band is not about him. "This is David's project, and I am so happy to be part of it. It is fun and it's valid. He is doing something very worthwhile, and I think the world needs more of that," says Malkmus. "It took a long time for David to get his confidence. But at this point, the Silver Jews have taken on more meaning and more intense than we ever expected." When The Silver Jews began, it was the ultimate in lo-fi. The band's first EP, The Arizona Record, was recorded in 1993 on a Walkman while the gang wandered around the house. "The Walkman was kinda like taking notes. It froze the moment really well," he says. But since then, Berman has taken his music to the studio. It would seem like the thought of going into a full-scale studio would put the fear of technology into the hearts of these men, but Berman is indifferent to the change in venue. "The first time I went into the studio, it was great. It doesn't stress me out because I don't pay any attention to the technical side. If you have too many options, it can be very difficult -- paralyzing, even. I just always remember a parable I once heard about a donkey who starved to death because he was given two perfect barrels of hay and he couldn't decide which one to eat from. That's what happens to a lot of bands. If you know you can do everything, you can't really do anything. Limits are the key." |
