Author: Angela Sanchez

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METAL DAD shirts! Click here to get yours.

The site is celebrating ten years of existence and, coincidentally, so is Brandon Schott as today is the tenth anniversary for his remission from cancer. 

Both the new album and this milestone are worthy subjects for conversation. Brandon was only too happy to do both.

Popdose – You have mentioned that Room 8 was recorded in an unconventional way and because you “needed this” (which was how I interpreted your description). First, could you discuss how you did things differently from your regular process and second, what do you think brought you to feel that you needed such a deviation?

Brandon Schott – There was no intention to record an album, let alone do so in this manner and release it so quickly. Back in September 2017, on a whim I reserved a room a couple months in advance at the Joshua Tree Inn for a solo trip to the desert to unplug from the grind a bit and spiritually re-connect. I think I’d been feeling at that time, like many, that there was such an air of intolerance in our social climate, empathy in our public discourse at an all time low – I needed to reset my perspective and Joshua Tree has always been a tried and true source of renewal for me. 



When I booked the room, I also impulsively chose the Gram Parsons room, the very room in which he tragically died in the early 70s. Now, the weeks go by and the date grows closer and the weight of the admittedly curious decision to stay in that room slowly came into focus, and I began searching for a way through that darkness. Yet I was still being pulled there, and I didn’t understand why. I wasn’t much interested in being a ‘Gram’ tourist in that space, and it seemed the most reasonable way to approach this would be to claim the room for myself, transform it in a way. So, I decided to do a little writing and packed up a portable Pro Tools rig to capture whatever resulted.



Once I had everything set up the day I arrived, I started singing some of my own existing songs to the space – prayers, peace offerings to myself, to Gram – hoping to sage the vaulted ceilings into my own, one song flowed into another and another…even took on a few live via Facebook. There was definitely a ‘vibe’ in the air, and a movement in my heart. Around dinner time I had around 8 songs, which seemed like a poetic place to break.



Ten years ago, on February 23, you were informed that your cancer went into remission. I have to think that particular event changed your approach to writing music after that. How might that event have shaped this particular recording?

Many of the songs I’ve written since (and performed in this session) were certainly informed by that time – in the years that followed I’ve learned a humility and sense of spirit for sure. But its impact on this project was largely subliminal. It wasn’t until I’d burned the Room 8 performances to disc and listened back on my way home that I started to put it together that my ‘calling’ to the desert directly coincided with the 10 year anniversary of my own cancer diagnoses and treatment in the fall of 2007, that I was pulled into a room marked in death to perhaps confront my own life and mortality, and that I did so through song and without intent makes this quite a record of convergence.

By the same token, let’s play “what if” and pretend your cancer never happened. Ten years later, what might your music have sounded like? Would you have come to the same directions your are in now, or would Alternate Timeline Brandon have been very different?

Before I was diagnosed, I was already writing for another record – it was a very pop focused project, largely airy in theme and content. Some of the songs (“Verdugo Park”, “Henry”, “Dear Daisy”) were lifted onto later records, but I think it’s hard to say what tone my writing would have taken – what of life’s challenges would have resonated differently, or would my writing have dried up altogether? I don’t know. But I’d like to think there was always a sense of upward reaching to my creative voice – a longing for universal context, I’m just not sure it would have been as intensely informed as it may be now.

The economy of Room 8 and its intimacy is much different from where independent artists are at the moment. I feel like there is a sudden, added pressure on indie artists to parallel mainstream acts for fear that the music won’t get heard unless it sounds very heavily layered and orchestrated. Is there that sense of the current state of things, that whatever the “independent spirit” is, it cannot survive without a larger budget or ambition. And is Room 8 kind of a rebuttal to that notion?



I admit that many of my last few records have been very measured and produced, a lot of emphasis placed on orchestration and presentation. Perhaps there was a thought at some point to strip it back on the next recording but I never dreamed that would manifest in this way. The sequence you hear is exactly as the songs were recorded and rediscovered that night, and all on one microphone at that. I guess what marks a shift for me on this one is that Room 8 wasn’t at all premeditated, it simply exists as a pure moment in time. So much so that it was deliberately released two days after it happened, so I wouldn’t have time to overthink it or second guess.

The collection in and of itself is peculiar, in a good way. You do a stripped-down version of your song “Dandelion Rain” but also a pretty emotionally raw version of “We Belong,” which was famously done by Pat Benatar. What prompted these choices?



I honestly just pulled on the thread and let the moment take me where I needed to go. These were all songs of mine that spoke to a heart in need of healing. WE BELONG seemed to speak to a universality, a larger spiritual commitment to each other “whatever we deny or embrace for worse or for better – we belong”. It just fit. As I noted in my press release on the project, these were words I needed to feel in my heart and in my throat – they were all tied into a place of change, of reckoning. Perhaps by letting them out into the world in the way I did, they could provide a measure of that for others. All I can say is that for me, it was one of the most truthful, vulnerable and un-inhibited offerings I’ve ever been party to.

As an artist, where are we in this period of time as artists. Are creators feeling new pressures to either be a mouthpiece or to suppress themselves?

Neither of those approaches really connect with me – but I do believe we owe it to ourselves to continue to be honest and speak our truths without fear.  In this case, with so much unrest happening all around us, my contribution at this time is to give of and to myself a measure of hope. In my heart, these songs all speak to our shared humanity – we are all connected, and intensely worthy of each other’s compassion.  Room 8 is an ending and a beginning; where I am led next is still a mystery to me, but I hope my voice remains in service of our greater (and greatest) spirit.

Brandon Schott’s Room 8 is available now. You can find it at https://goldenstatemusic.bandcamp.com/album/room-8

With a sense of movement falling somewhere between the piano phrasings of Cage (thinking The Seasons, from ‘47) and Glass’ more emotionally driven Metamorphosis, Brooklyn-based composer Léah Lazonick offers us the beautific Movimenti della Luna d’Oro, translation: Movements of the Moon of Gold, a chamber suite in three parts now available on Francis Harris’ Kingdoms label. And it’s a singular accomplishment, if only for the fact that Lazonick unwinds her work in a bare sliver of time – offering slight but resonant piano etudes fleshed out with a small string section. It’s uncluttered and pure, and, on tracks like melancholy waltz “Movimento II Mezza Luna,” it positively radiates.

This is modern classical in a pretty straight-forward sense; though Lazonick’s work sometimes calls to mind fellow American pianist/composer Rachel Grimes, there’s little trace here of the post-rock-laced atmospheres of, say, Jóhann Jóhannsson. But there are moments where Lazonick’s flights on piano, her too-infrequent departures from providing structure, hint at the jazz leanings of Art Tatum or even Joplin, if only in their buoyancy. It turns out that, when she wanders from the path, she is at her finest. In fact, it’s hard to imagine –  though Lazonick is adept at framing short films with scores – that she can unfurl a piece as cinematic as “Movimento III Luna Piena” in less than four minutes. Intense stuff.

Though the first half of the EP offers few lulls, I could’ve done without the go-nowhere, 13-minute-long remix from Romanian producer Petre Inspirescu. That said, all in all, it’s a minor mis-step and the EP remains a shimmery-sweet little morsel worth tracking down, 12 minutes of chamber bliss.

-30-

Thursday, January 12, 2017

I’m beginning to feel distinctly that I am more trouble than I’m worth. It’s crunch time for Roscoe’s Basement — we’ve got a gig in less than a month, and our bass player will soon need couple of weeks off — but I am, by any reasonable metric, not pulling my weight. It’s bad enough that I can’t play a note, being as I am still in the early stages of physical therapy after my accident; I find myself having to bum a ride like a damned teenager.

My car is still fucked, and will be for some months while I sock away money for a full brake job. I work from home, and I live close enough to the PT practice that I can hoof it, and Danielle and I can make arrangements so I can cover appointments and family obligations — but she works full-time and has obligations of her own; imposing on her for transportation to and from band functions is out of the question. My bandmates have been incredibly generous; Tom has, on multiple occasions, come all the way out to pick me up, and Chuck has been kind enough to bring me home, even though I live on the ass end of Nowhere and am not in fact on anybody’s way to any damn place.

I should, in fact, be at rehearsal tonight. But despite everyone’s best efforts, we couldn’t find a way to get me across town. And so we have had to reschedule, which inconveniences everybody all over again. And so the band — one of the few areas of my life where I have felt like I was pulling my weight and making a net contribution — becomes another line in the deficit column. Another mark against me.

When I started looking for a band, I drew up a list of dealbreakers. One of them was: I will not play with anyone who I have to carry. And now that’s me. I’m the dealbreaker. I’m the That Guy that every band has to deal with. Every band but ours. Until now, anyway.

Monday, January 16, 2017

Craig goes in for his hernia surgery today, which will keep him out of commission for a while. He’s on complete bed rest for a few days, then under doctors’ orders to lift nothing heavier than ten pounds for about a month after that. He weighed his bass before going into the hospital, and it came in at nine pounds five; still, he’ll need to keep off his feet wherever possible.

Meanwhile, I’m starting my second full week of physical therapy, and amid the tears and groans and cursing, there’s some hope. My left arm still won’t bear any serious weight — I accidentally roll over in my sleep one night, and gasp so loudly I wake Danielle — but the fear is abating. Hearing it said aloud that what’s holding me back is just plain old muscle stiffness changes the equation. I know what it is to feel stiff. This is something I can push through, something I can work my way out of.

And I work at it. I do my routine of stretches religiously, twisting and reaching and bending though the cords of my arm are so tight they nearly twang, like a banjo tuned sharp ‘til the strings are ready to snap and take out someone’s eye. I push through. And I start to see results. In these early days, starting from zero, the initial gains are big; but “big” is relative. I can chop a carrot again, do the dishes, button a shirt. Little things. There’s so much still to get back. But it’s a start.

Saturday, January 21, 2017

We’ve convened for a Saturday-afternoon practice, trying to squeeze in as much rehearsal time as our diminished state will allow; I’ve borrowed Danielle’s Jeep for the occasion. Craig is still laid up, but he’s left his gear in our practice space; the plan is for Mike or Chuck to trade off on bass and guitar throughout rehearsal. Before we really get started, on a whim, I sling on Craig’s bass. I’ve scarcely looked at an instrument since that first day out of the cast; I reckon I might try to play a little — just a few scales, to see how the physical therapy is paying off. And by God, I find my reach coming back! It’s uncomfortable and awkward, but I can play again — at least, after a fashion.

We plow through our usual opener, “10 AM Automatic,” then I stretch my arm out, twist it, shake it. It feels… weird. Not bad, though; just weird. Deanna must see the puzzled expression on my face, because she asks if I’m okay. “Getting there,” I say. “I think I’m good for another song or two, actually.” Just to stay limber, I think to myself.

And pretty soon “another song or two” turns into an hour-and-a-half solid, and it is the purest joy I have felt in months. I have always loved the bass — its tactile quality, the way the thump carries through your whole body — and while I can’t muster much flash in my compromised state, I can still fuckin’-A groove. Tom’s drumming impresses me all over again; he finds the pocket early on, and we slide on in and stay there, locked in tight. It’s magic.

And then I have to stop — though not on account of my elbow. In the euphoria of regaining some range of motion, I have forgotten what else I’d lost: my calluses. My hands have gone soft during those six weeks in the cast, and my fingertips look like raw hamburger after a single afternoon of playing hard. I will be all blisters in the morning.

For the rest of practice and all through my drive home, though, I’m too high to care. Weeks wasted moping around, and suddenly I am useful again. I feel on top of the world.

The feeling doesn’t last long. Danielle and I have a social event in the evening, and I can’t quite manage to tie my own necktie; I have to ask my teenager for help. Still, I’ve leveled up. One rehab goal achieved, and the next within sight. Not a bad Saturday’s work.

Saturday, February 11, 2017

We’re at Finn’s Tap Room in Victor, New York. My wife and kids are here. We’re finishing up a pretty good meal, and I am psyching myself up to morph from family-man Jekyll to rock ‘n’ roll Hyde.

The run-up to tonight has been intense. I’ve been an absolute monster in physical therapy, and at home I’ve set about rebuilding some rudimentary guitar chops. I started on an old nylon-string of Danielle’s, and worked my way back up to my Martin. As of our final rehearsal, I could manage three out of the four chords to “Sympathy for the Devil” with some skill — full barre chords are still tricky — and given that I only play on a handful of songs anyway, I’m ready to take the shot. (Playing the tambourine still feels like I’m sending an electric shock up my arm with every hit, but I suck it up.)

And this isn’t just a big night for me personally — it’s the longest gig we’ve ever played as a band, our first full show by standard bar-band definition: three sets spread over four hours. I’ve taken the lead in writing the set list, drawing on years of solo and band shows to craft something with pacing, something that moves, that almost tells a story — breaking up blocks of songs in the same key or with too-similar tempo, salting our originals throughout the night, looking for natural segues, mentally rehearsing patter to yoke it together when we do shift gears; I’ve working with the others in the band at every step in the process, kicking ideas back and forth over email, and we’ve written and scrapped a half-dozen lists on the way to tonight. And now we’re here. Thirty-four songs, three-and-a-half-hours and two breaks.

Finn’s Tap Room is a newly renovated space, a clean, spacious bar and restaurant that caters to a ski-resort crowd. We made the drive out in the late morning to set up and run a soundcheck in the nearly empty house. It’s making for a long day, but it has allowed us to be picky with our sound. We’ve got dedicated monitor mixes and reasonable stage volume. We’re spread between a raised platform in the corner and a small wooden dance floor immediately in front of that; the tiering lets us all hear each other without being uncomfortably loud, while giving us room to move. Craig — who’s still not at 100% but is, God love him, game to try — has a comfortable chair for when he needs it.

I’ve never been one to drag my family out to these things, but Shaun is home for the weekend, has never heard us play, and has expressed an interest in doing so. And so we’ve driven out an hour early and gotten a table for dinner. I pick at mine — I don’t want to get too loaded up before the show, and I have a mild phobia of accidentally belching on mic — and before dessert, the rest of the crew rolls in.

And then it’s go time.

And we are goddam dynamite.

Our hard work pays off in the pacing. The first set, the songs are is short and poppy; the middle is heavy on love songs in honor of Valentine’s Day, but sequenced to constitute a commentary on love and love songs, before things get spiky for the conclusion. We are just on — no technical glitches, no trainwrecks, all in good voice and good spirits, listening to each other, tight and solid. A quick break, then a second set — a little more hard rock, a little more new wave angularity, and a set-closing romp through Harry Nilsson’s “Jump Into the Fire,” climaxing in a three-way percussion fight between Tom’s drumkit, Deanna’s cowbell, and my darabouka.

In the break, I amble down to wash my face and refill my water bottle. The hour is getting late, but there’s still a good-sized crowd at the bar and out at the tables; some friends and family, sure — though Danielle and the kids had to split mid-set — but plenty of strangers and new friends here for the long haul. Business is brisk. The owner is happy. This is what we live for.

The third set is loose and jammy. If writing a set list is occasionally an exercise in “One for you, then one for us,” this go-round is mostly (if I’m being honest) just for us — a ramble through Weezer’s “Undone,” a raging “Helter Skelter,” a tear through “Sunshine of Your Love.” By this time, though, we’ve built up enough goodwill to have earned a little self-indulgence; and even our self-indulgence is disciplined. The power pop format keeps our guitar players on a pretty short leash most of the time, but Mike and Chuck are unshackled here. Their interplay on “Love Buzz” crashes like waves, ebbs and flows like the tides; and Mike takes a long solo on “Sympathy” that raises the huckleberries on my arms, his hair in his eyes, long face blank with concentration. We end at the four-hour mark on the dot, wrung out but absolutely satisfied in the knowledge that we have delivered the goods.

We take our time with the load-out, and have a leisurely beer at the bar. For some reason Mike gets started talking to Deanna about horses, her great passion, and I start to lose track of the conversation.  Even having to impose on Chuck for a ride home doesn’t get me down.

It’s another level up; and even though I will get up on Sunday aching head to toe, with ears ringing and my voice shot, tonight, at this moment, I feel ten feet tall and bulletproof.