By Isa Jones
By Mary Willson
By Brian Turk
By Drew AIles
By Taylor Boylston
By Bree Davies
By Emerald O'Brien
But it's also a moot point at this stage in the game. Having just released the excellent Kill the Moonlight -- a followup to the breakthrough album Girls Can Tell -- Spoon has found its sweet spot. The band's second release for Merge Records, Kill the Moonlight has done much to solidify notions that said obscurity was a critical -- if not quite criminal -- oversight.
"I guess we are somewhat underrated," singer, guitarist and primary songwriter Britt Daniel demurs, "but it seems like a lot more people have gotten into us in the past year or two. Ever since Girls Can Tell came out, things have been a lot easier." He credits the shift to the quality of Spoon's most recent records -- as well as the indie cachet that comes with being abused by a big, bad label and living to tell the tale. "I think there was sort of a story about the band -- and I think that we had been around long enough that people had gradually, gradually found out about us."
Spoon's trajectory was gradual, indeed. Not too long after Daniel graduated from the University of Texas, he formed the band with his longtime collaborator, drummer Jim Eno, with whom he'd played in a little-known, short-lived outfit called the Alien Beats. Backed by the first in a line of rotating bassists eventually lost to the dustbin of history, Eno and Daniel released Telephono -- a jagged, punky affair that regularly drew comparisons to the Pixies -- on Matador in 1996. The strength of that release caught the attention of Elektra A&R rep Ron Laffitte, who signed Spoon to the label. That should have been good news, but the deal would eventually trigger a major setback for the band.
In 1998, the imprint released Spoon's critically lauded A Series of Sneaks, an album that boasted even more post-punk goodness and Daniel's then-trademark oblique and elusive lyrics. But soon after the disc's release, Laffitte's relationship with the band soured. He was later fired, essentially severing the band's ties to company brass at "Neglectra." Sneaks wasn't exactly tearing up the charts, and label suits glad-handed the band, promising tour support and continued PR while simultaneously sharpening the ax that would end the short-lived partnership.
Not long after their rep's termination, Spoon independently released Daniel's bitterly elegiac song "The Agony of Laffitte" as a seven-inch. In it, Daniel makes clear his feelings about the man who was the catalyst for Spoon's fall: "It's like I knew two of you, man/The one before and after we shook hands/Taking the calls but in all forgetting what's been said." His is the voice of someone truly heartbroken, whose illusions about the ways of the biz have taken a thrashing. As a distraught Daniel told the Austin Chronicle at the time, "I don't look at it as a learning experience. I look at it as unfortunate."
Still, Spoon continued making music. After self-releasing a number of singles, the band had completed most of the tracks for what would be its breakthrough record, Girls Can Tell. The only problem was, it had no label on which to release it. After dispatching two rounds of demos to imprints hither and yon, Spoon finally got a bite from Merge, the Chapel Hill-based endeavor founded by Superchunk frontman Mac McCaughan; Merge has practically built its reputation around snapping up extremely talented bands who have been screwed by the Man. (Merge also scooped up the Radar Brothers and Imperial Teen when those bands were set adrift by their respective parent companies.)
Girls was markedly different from Spoon's previous output: The snarly, aggro riffs and growls were replaced with smart, polished pop that exhibited Daniel's ear for a hook that wasn't cheesy, as well as his newly discovered talent for writing more open and honest lyrics. Gone were the oblique couplets that peppered A Series of Sneaks ("It's unelectrical a bad sharing one/It's on American radio and dedicated c'mon!" he sang on that album's "30 Gallon Tank"). In their place were vignettes like "Fitted Shirt," a love letter to Daniel's father: "They'll start to make/Shirts that fit right/Till then I suppose/I still got Dad's clothes/And that's all right."
"We just wanted to keep it interesting for ourselves," says Daniel. "My favorite bands are the ones where you put on a record and you sort of sit there, amazed at what's happening, either because their songs are so great, or sonically, there are things happening that are surprising you, that you haven't heard before. With that goal in mind, we make records. I don't think I'd be particularly jazzed by making another record that was just guitar, bass and drums."