American Songwriter Cover Story

THE AVETT BROTHERS: Life and Art, Ambition and Vision


by Brian T. Atkinson

Scott Avett’s theoretical last will winnows earthly import to a chill. “Don’t bother with all my belongings,” he sings on “Murder in the City,” the unifying nucleus of the Avett Brothers’ recent EP, The Second Gleam. “Make sure my sister knows I loved her/Make sure my mother knows the same/Always remember there was nothing worth sharing/Like the love that let us share our name.” Unflinching intimacy-a defining nexus of Avett song craft-reveals generations of grace and gratitude.

“We’ve seen a lot of temporary, disposable, plastic music in the mainstream,” Seth Avett says. “When the public becomes oversaturated with that, it’s very pleasing to the ear to hear something more simple and human and with less libido, like someone’s just talking to you.” The Avetts’ post-punk mountain tomes-often wrapping Charlie Poole’s banjo blues (”Pretty Girl from Chile”) and calypso great Lord Kitchener (”Pretty Girl from San Diego”) around a single theme-aren’t merely refreshing. They’re reinventing modern confessionals as substantive art.

But forget whimpering whippoorwills. The Avett Brothers’ legendary and incendiary live sets-the Appalachian Crazy Horse antithesis to, say, James Taylor-have shaped their burgeoning legacy. Calm and storm collide.

Rick Rubin abides. The peerless producer scouted and last year signed the Avetts to his Columbia imprint American Recordings. Midas touch alert: Rubin, an enthusiastic advocate of the Avetts’ melodic masterpiece Emotionalism, commandeers their major-label debut tentatively due in June. (Notoriously press-shy, Rubin declined American Songwriter’s interview requests.) “Rick’s a quiet leader in the shadows,” Scott says. “Amazingly, we managed to not get distracted with a producer of such caliber.”

Seth Avett speaks with an alchemist’s precision. The 27-year-old’s thoughts cataract swiftly, preformed-not this morning, but seemingly lifetimes ago-and patiently wait to be extracted by corresponding questions. Even the most careless listener might wake to his frequent coruscations of wit and whimsy. Seth’s intent but not intense, thoughtful yet hardly self-important. At all times, his genuine affability sparks interest. Little passes by unnoticed.

Of course, he well understands the magnitude of pairing with Rubin. “Working with Rick has been very-what’s the word-momentous,” Seth says. Gentle laughter chases the statement’s grandiosity. “I think in our history, it will read that there was a before and an after. This has definitely been a milestone, and it’s intense in ways that recording had not been previously. Not in the way you might expect, either. In the studio, it wasn’t tense or apprehensive or anxious, just very work-oriented and motivated.”


The Avetts are no strangers to robust work ethic. “Scott and Seth pretty much eat, drink and sleep art,” says manager Dolphus Ramseur, whose Ramseur Records jumpstarted the Avetts’ nascent career at millennium’s turn. “They’re always working on songs individually and bringing them to the other to dissect it or finish it off. I think what’s been overlooked from the word go with these guys is that they’re songwriters. It’s the songs-not the screaming and stomping and charisma-that hook you. They’re the greatest songwriters that the state of North Carolina has ever produced.”

The brothers provide glimpses of the upcoming album-untitled, unmixed, unadorned and absolutely unavailable at press time-via YouTube concert clips. It’s an embarrassment of riches. Start with “The Tin Man.” The early standout juxtaposes a cheery melody and burbling dirge against trademark introspection. “You can’t be like me, but be happy that you can’t,” Seth warns. “I see pain but I don’t feel it/I am like the old tin man/I’m as worn as a stone/I keep it steady as I can/I see pain but I don’t feel it/I am like the old tin man/Oh, I miss that feeling I’m feeling.”

The loping soliloquy-much like Emotionalism’s high-water mark “Paranoia in B-Flat Major”-tightropes that conflict in under four minutes. But the clash resonates. “I’ve always been interested in songs that do that,” Seth explains. “You’ll find that a fair amount in Blind Melon’s music. Shannon Hoon had the most beautiful and joyous voice while he was talking about the most heart-wrenching challenges and self-doubt and pain and confusion. He made it sound so sweet. What an apt description of people in general: We’re all complicated, and we all have a way of being two ways at once.”

Conversely, Seth’s “Bella Donna” focuses a direct line to vulnerability. His most tender offering on The Second Gleam-”Have you ever really seen me,” he aches, “Like I want for you to see me now?”-merges bleak and bluster into solemn desire. “At risk of sounding too flighty, ‘Bella Donna’ was a song that just kind of wrote itself,” he explains. “I wrote it in about 10 minutes. It was all just there for me. It wasn’t because it was just so personal, it was because it was in the air, I guess. We haven’t found a way to make writing easy. One song comes in 10 minutes, and the next idea takes three years.”

Now, North Carolina has turned out a few noteworthy songwriters.

Make that more than a few. In fact, simply rationing Scott and Seth’s favorites-Doc Watson, the Squirrel Nut Zippers and Blind Boy Fuller, for a start-threatens to quash Ramseur’s bold proclamation. However, few know the vinyl treasures he’s pocketing right now. If the Avetts’ forthcoming collection pays out on its immeasurable promise (you are, after all, reading a magazine cover story about a band still tweaking an unfinished record), no currency will hold more value than “I and Love and You.” By turns poignant and profound, the elegant ballad effortlessly weaves triumph through drying tearstains.

“My hands, they shake and my head, it spins/Oh, Brooklyn, Brooklyn, take me in,” the brothers sing, “When at first I learned to speak/I used all my words to fight/With him and her and you and me/But it’s just a waste of time/Oh, it’s such a waste of time.” Stop. Pay attention to this seamless strain channeled from the finest songbook: “That woman, she’s got eyes that shine/like a pair of stolen, polished dimes/She asked to dance, and I said it’s fine/I’ll see you in the morning time.”

“I pulled some vocal moves that Townes Van Zandt had used on a couple songs,” Scott explains, “and I wrote it like a Townes song. It was just verse after verse after verse. I love that because the song moves and never gets hung up on a chorus. That’s a true folk or country-folk song. But then Rick was like, ‘Man those two verses are just killing me. I want to hear them again.’” Voila. Rubin the structural guru has arrived. Start taking notes.

“As I recall, Rick said that if Neil Young wrote this song, in between every verse he’d say, ‘Helpless, helpless, helpless,’” says Avett Brothers bassist Bob Crawford. “It was Rick’s idea to have the ‘Brooklyn’ verse repeat. It already was a story, but having that made it a folk song. Instead of this rambling march of verses, Rick understands that music needs hooks. You need that repeated chorus that everyone can sing along to. I saw [children's songwriter] Si Kahn give a workshop at MerleFest in the early 1990s, and he talked about how important that is. That’s what Rick brought to the song.”

“So, we cut out two verses, took the sixth and turned it into a chorus and took another and turned it into a concept and theme,” Scott continues. “Now, you have a chorus, a theme and bridge that ends up as an outtro and a whole new and refined song that keeps all the great elements of the verses. That doesn’t work for every song-and it didn’t work for a couple we tried-but you have to be able to flex as a songwriter.” Intricate word play especially fortifies the new songs “My Heart Like a Kick Drum,” “Standing with You” and the rasta-folk breakdown “And It Spread.” Ambition and vision never stray.

The brothers certainly strive for instrumental elasticity, too. Listen to 2005’s Live, Vol. 2. The most timeless swatches-in particular, “Pretty Girl from Annapolis” to “Do You Love Him” and “Smoke in Our Lights” through the dusky ramble “A Lot of Movin’”-are straightforward derivation of the bluegrass guitar-banjo-doghouse bass blueprint. But by Emotionalism in 2007, Sgt. Pepper had invaded the hills. Meanwhile, “Yesterday” discovered a neighboring holler leading into The Second Gleam.

“Every year, there’s been much less concern about what instrument each person’s holding,” Scott says. “For the demos on this record, we spent more time on drums and piano than we did on guitar and banjo. It shakes things up and keeps songwriting fresh. Now, the downside is that some of the instruments have taken a back seat and a lateral progression because we’re switching up so much that you don’t maintain a solid foundation on any one. But, if you focus on songwriting, you learn the instruments at hand.”

Imagine a songwriting summit between Del McCoury and John Cale and the New York Dolls. The Avetts aren’t too far off. “People expect the bluegrass, but there are also some real punk rock elements to their music, too,” says Nashville-based singer/songwriter Will Hoge, a frequent Avett Brothers touring partner. “The most compelling thing to me is the ground that they cover between those two. My favorite part of a live show is when a band takes you from something really sweet and intimate and quiet to something way more bombastic and loud and frenzied. They do a fine job of mining that territory.”

“I first met the Avett Brothers in New York five or six years ago,” soul-folk songwriter Langhorne Slim recalls. “Nicole Atkins had invited them to do a tiny show at a bar that she was working in at the time. This was their first show in New York and Nicole had called Regina Spektor, Paleface, myself and some other friends to come hear them play. I played a few songs that night and stood and watched them do their thing. We traded numbers and CDs, and I bid them a safe trip back to North Carolina. I left that night in a pleasant mood and feeling like I had made some new friends.

“I was excited to be invited to North Carolina to support them at the [Chapel Hill's] Cat’s Cradle not long after. Expecting nothing more then a good excuse to head south and do a show, I was in for a treat. Remember, there were maybe 25 people at their first New York show. I get on stage at the Cat’s Cradle and about a thousand Avettheads are going nuts! An Avett crowd is one of the best crowds to play. That’s a fact. There were people young and old freaking out all night. I thought to myself, ‘These guys are like some kind of bluegrass Beatles.’”

Scott Avett streams consciousness like an overfed water main. The 32-year-old constantly multitasks-a blue streak of focus and frenzy-but never once dams any running conversation’s flow. He anticipates follow-ups three deep and mushrooms responses into vibrant spoken-word novellas. Avoid runaway train ramps: Unforeseen twists and turns inspire the most elusive insights. Both brothers burn candles at each end, but Scott stares longer at the flame. In other words, creators exhausted creative compulsion on these two. Scott snuck a second helping.

“Scott is little more frantic, more energetic,” Ramseur says. “He’s kind of like a circus in some ways, or maybe a county fair-coming at you at all times. He’s got a great gift of gab. Seth does, too, but maybe in a sweeter, quieter way. Scott’s not boisterous, but he’s the life of the party. Actually, they both are, but Seth’s a little more reserved. Scott is the one who stays until the end.” Perhaps that explains Scott’s more frequent incursions into less palpable recesses. Scott maybe has yet to witness the literal abyss, but he’s clearly enamored of the hardscrabble journey leading toward its descent.

Fittingly, the elder brother’s earthy poetics-exponentially sharp when traced from the restless reflection “November Blue” to 2008’s elegiac “Souls Like the Wheels” -often directly evoke Van Zandt. “There’s not another writer that I relate to more than Townes,” Scott admits. “I cover ‘Highway Kind’ for my daughter. She’s two-and-a-half months old and she’ll get real quiet when I play the piano when she’s crying. It’s so serious and dark and I just love it. Sometimes I hear a line and I think, I don’t even know what that meant, but, God, it makes so much sense.

“Townes’ depth and despair came out in abstract wording that I relate to quite a bit. I’m in a very direct point of relation with that because I’m living that life and writing songs. I understand the despair that the occupation carries. Townes wrote as he felt, and I’m guessing by default developed an orderly fashion. Now, his despair came in other ways-the alcoholism and all the things working against him-that ultimately killed him. But I try to keep that out of the equation. I have a strong family and friend network that really allows that to stay out of the equation.”

Scott’s most elegant moments demand shrewd awareness, but they undeniably clear more transparent paths than Van Zandt. “Close the laundry door,” he sings on the new “Laundry Room.” “Tiptoe across the floor and keep your clothes on/I’ve had all I can take/Teach me how to use the love that people say you make.” “They do a great job of getting to the core of it,” Hoge says. “There’s a real simplicity to their songwriting, and I mean that as the biggest compliment. Simple songs tend to be my favorites. They’re great with lyrical imagery, and they’re not afraid to let a song stand on its own two feet.”

That fearlessness occasionally arrests a fluttering muse. For example, Scott proactively disallowed “Swept Away,” an easy highlight of 2004’s Mignonette, from fading to ether. Aspiring writers, be advised: Purchase pen and pad. Rest on nightstand. Employ.

“I had a dream that Louis Armstrong was playing the ‘Swept Away’ melody,” Scott explains. “I have no idea where it came from. But Louis Armstrong was playing it and singing the song to me. I woke up-it’s a borrowed melody, no doubt-and wrote it down. If I hear a song and I choose not to put it down, that’s me neglecting to accept that song. I think there’s a very spiritual and godly-type thing that happens, and it happens to way more people than we know. It’s just that very few of us choose to engage it.”

You know the saying: Life reflects art reflects life.

The Avett Brothers, even after logging more than 200 road shows again last year, continue that loop at home. “I’m trying to find inexpensive pianos so I can have one in every corner of my life,” Scott says. “As my life gets spread out with family, I realize that if I need to go put some clothes in the wash, there needs to be a piano there. If I just have five minutes when something comes to me, I’d better hurry up and do it. At the same time, we’ve gotta cool it with concerns about being [prolific]. Wishful thinking. We’re pretty hyperactive songwriters.”

“We put as much thought and energy into music as any two people can,” Seth echoes, “without driving themselves completely mad. We’re thankful that our story from the beginning until now has been word of mouth, which can be the most valuable way to hear about music.” That grapevine bears fruit: The Avett Brothers have sold nearly 160,000 albums through 2008. They fill theaters from Boise to Birmingham. Still get along-not brothers, but best friends-and are peaking artistically. A case could’ve been made (and a case was) against signing with American Recordings.

There is, of course, no quotable saying about life rewarding art.

Fortunes fluctuate. Columbia can’t guarantee personal or professional riches. In fact, contemporary independent artists, as Crawford notes, are more empowered and more fashionable. Internet self-promotion alone fortifies the do-it-yourself argument. Not to mention that precious commodity: Artistic control. (Further viewing: Check out the Avetts’ “Murder in the City” video. It’s gutting, and sometimes pretty funny. “We shot it inside the house where we were working on the new record out in California,” Seth reports. “Very tender, very intimate.”)

“Scott and Seth are very protective of their work, and with good reason,” Crawford says. “Now we’re swimming against the tide, but it’s for something that might make us all stronger in the end. We really left ourselves open to at least try things because we trusted the people we worked with. Rick’s whole attitude was, ‘Let’s try everything. Even if it’s not going to work out, you don’t want to not get that idea down.’ My main fear was the classic VH1 Behind the Music: Producer and band power struggle. It never happened.”

Rubin might not be a foundry, but he does turn plenty to gold-and platinum. Variables notwithstanding, Vegas odds back major change on the Avetts’ horizon. “I hear that from everybody,” Scott says with a bemused laugh. “‘Things will be different,’ and ‘Things will change after this record.’ Some of it might be true, but some might just be people assuming. I might be foolishly thinking that things will be the same: I do believe in this record, and I believe we made a classic. I think it’s an important record and Rick feels the same way. It’ll either be heard or it’ll be missed.”

Bottom line: Time and timing grow reputation, but truth and trust cement legacy. “I remember crying over you,” Seth sings on “Tear Down the House.” “And I don’t mean like a couple of tears and I’m blue/I’m talking about collapsing and screaming at the moon.” Few songwriters own conviction to license integrity as timeless.

“They care so much about the art that they leave behind,” Ramseur says. “It’s not about the money or selling records. When I first talked to Scott about making records, we said whether this thing sells 20 copies or a million, down the road we want to hang our heads high on it.” “We aren’t looking to be everlasting by any means,” Seth continues, “but we do want to be proud of what we do as older men. God willing we make it that long, we want to look back and be proud. That certainly motivates us to give it our best every time.” testurl('http://www.americansongwriter.com/2009/03/the-avett-brothers-life-and-art-ambition-and-vision/'); testupload('');

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