Man, these guys were gifted with the right guy to have as a fan -- amazing coverage to hit some small Phillie band playing to only dozens in NYC. December 14, 2004
Amid Harmonies and Chaos, a Young Band Starts to Find Its Way
By KELEFA SANNEH
The New York Times
Last week, an obscure Philadelphia band called Dr. Dog embarked on a compressed tour of New York City. First came an early show at Rothko, on the Lower East Side, where the band roared through its extraordinary catalog of off-kilter ballads and light-headed riff-rock, harmonizing all the while. The few dozen people in the audience applauded after every song, but the band played extra fast anyway, as if to make sure no one had a chance to object.
When the set was over, the group's minuscule but enthusiastic New York City fan base (in case you haven't already guessed, it includes at least one reporter) traipsed three blocks west to another club, Pianos, where the same five musicians were setting up: it was time for the second Dr. Dog show of the night. This set was even better, half an hour of friendly chaos, with band members trading instruments and stumbling through old songs. Then they packed up their van and drove back to Philadelphia, leaving only a handful of homemade CD's in their wake.
That homemade CD is "Easy Beat," and the band released it without a record label a few months ago; it's the kind of album that seems sure to attract a rabid cult of indie-rock fans - if only they can find it. (Start your search at the band's Web site:
http://homepage.mac.com/sonofsheepdog/.) There are nine songs, all filled with breezy vocal harmonies and unexpected digressions. "Oh No" begins as a blissful love song, pauses for delicate string arrangements, then explodes into a hard-charging sing-along. And "Say Something" slowly builds up steam as folk rock gives way to a wailing guitar solo; as with a lot of Dr. Dog songs, it sounds both epic and cobwebby.
On Friday night, the five members of Dr. Dog played a show closer to home in West Chester, Pa., the town where Dr. Dog was born. The band's songwriters, childhood friends Scott McMicken and Toby Leaman, were terrorizing the town with a chaotic project called Raccoon, living in an overcrowded apartment known as the Pirate House while spending just enough time at West Chester University to emerge with bachelor's degrees.
A recording session in the flooded basement gave birth to "Psychedelic Swamp," a concept album that laid the foundation for Dr. Dog. Suffice it to say that the album received limited distribution: Mr. McMicken - the long-haired, plastic-sunglasses-wearing guitarist, who's always paying more attention than you'd suspect - estimates that he passed around perhaps 20 copies of the album, 10 on cassette. He remembers, "We were just stockpiling songs," and the band eventually compiled 10 of these recordings for its second release, "Toothbrush."
Gathered for an interview in a friend's apartment, the members of Dr. Dog cheerfully acknowledge the debt they owe to classic rock. Some of the members spent time playing in a just-for-fun Beach Boys cover band called Heroes & Villains, and they admit that studying the vocal arrangements on the "Pet Sounds" box set helped them learn how to sing harmony. When Mr. Leaman mentions that he loves Procol Harum's "Whiter Shade of Pale," Mr. McMicken mentions that he's recently recorded his own version of the song, two in fact.
But if you get your hands on a copy of "Toothbrush," you won't hear anything that resembles Procol Harum. Instead, you'll hear 10 tape-hissy songs that capture a wildly idiosyncratic band figuring out what it sounds like: the left-field love song "Jealous Man," for example, could be a bunch of glassy-eyed kids trying to reinvent doo-wop. In short, it's irresistible.
The band won its first break when Mr. McMicken gave a copy of "Toothbrush" to Jim James, the lead singer of My Morning Jacket, the celebrated neo-Southern rock band that now records for Dave Matthews's ATO Records. Not only did Mr. James listen to the CD (Mr. McMicken says he was charmed by the rainbow sprinkles rattling around beneath the transparent tray), but he also invited Dr. Dog on tour - twice.
Using the $1,000 they earned during the first tour, the members of Dr. Dog bought a microphone, which they used to record "Easy Beat"; the album shows off not just the group's range but its ambition, too. This is not the sort of band that cherishes its obscurity, and there are songs on "Easy Beat" that wouldn't sound out of place accompanying the closing credits of "The O.C." The indie-rock label Devil in the Woods plans to reissue "Easy Beat" in March (through a new imprint, National Parking), and the band members are hoping that having an album in stores will raise the group's profile even more.
Still, the Dr. Dog bandwagon hasn't started rolling yet, as the members were reminded later on Friday night, when they took the stage at Rex's, a rock bar that Raccoon used to play. There was a group of Dr. Dog fans near the front, but many other patrons were clearly just there to hang out and the listless atmosphere was contagious: Dr. Dog's set never quite ignited, and it didn't help matters when the sound man quickly threw on a heavy metal CD after the last song, before Dr. Dog could play the encore that people were clapping for.
Whatever happens, the band members don't seem terribly distracted by the prospect of cult favoritism. Earlier, Mr. Leaman provoked howls of laughter from his band mates by declaring: "This has been a long time coming. Dr. Dog has been trying to happen for 15 years," a big claim from someone who's only 25.
He continued in a humbler but no less determined vein, remembering his early recordings with Mr. McMicken: "The difference between us and most high school bands was that we knew we weren't as good as we wanted to be."
Mr. McMicken thought about it. "I still feel that way," he said.
"Yeah," Mr. Leaman said. "We're getting closer."
