By Brian Turk
By Drew AIles
By Taylor Boylston
By Bree Davies
By Emerald O'Brien
By Gina Tron
By Jon Solomon
"It was grueling," says White. "It was painful. It sucked."
Six months ago, Second Nature's label head, Dan Askew, asked if the band had "any new recordings," White recalls. "We added it all up, and we had 26 songs. We're in a constant process of recording; Mike writes a song a day. We wanted to do a double CD, but Dan didn't want to because double CDs are annoying and cost too much. So we made a version that was sixty minutes, and we even got a little flak about that being too long. So we reworked it again. It was an ugly process making this album, having to whittle it down from 26 songs to forty minutes. That's why we did the EP." White's referring to The Fundamental Drift, a five-song companion to The Metapolitan available only as a download from music websites such as iTunes. "That's the other twenty minutes we originally wanted on there," White explains. "It's kind of goofy to have on online CD, but if people wanted the music, we wanted it to be available."
Blusom's compulsory self-editing was only compounded by its painstaking songwriting method. Rather than jamming in a practice space with a bunch of buddies over a twelve-pack, the band has a much less social modus operandi. White takes his partner's raw, basic acoustic tracks and tweaks them meticulously, overdubbing keyboards and beats that combine everything from drum machine to djembe.
"It's not just like hitting keys on a laptop," reveals White, whose treatments and modulations are abstract, yet catchy enough to recall both Brian Eno and the Postal Service's Jimmy Tamborello. "It's almost frustrating when people call it electronic production. Yeah, it's all going on a computer, and I use computer modulations and cutting and pasting. But I'll spend months reworking and experimenting and throwing out ideas. Maybe one in ten will actually make it in the end."
But before White gets his hands on them, Behrenhausen logs many hours alone at home assembling the folky skeletons of the songs -- brittle compositions that vacillate between the grainy swoon of classic Portastatic and the equatorial sultriness of Jo„o Gilberto. "I write most of it with my ass on the couch, watching old monster movies and strumming," Behrenhausen admits. "Then something I'm playing will draw my attention away from the movie, and I'll be like, 'Oh, that's cool.'
"I never really play with the intention of writing anything," he adds. "But if I pick up a guitar, I just automatically start putting a song together. I can't even play other people's songs."
A lot of his diffidence has to do with the fact that, despite his delicate, alternately tuned sketches, Behrenhausen isn't even a guitarist. Or at least he won't call himself one: A veteran of such near-legendary local acts as Juhl and Maraca 5-0 (White, to his credit, played keyboards in the lauded Acrobat Down), Behrenhausen is better known as a backbone than a frontman. "I'm a drummer," he states simply. "I've always had the philosophy, 'Never let the drummer sing.' Look at Phil Collins, Don Henley. Name me a drummer who can sing."
"He's fucking shy, is what it is," White quips, and he's only half joking. While Behrenhausen's skin-pounding is effusive, even explosive, he's a notoriously reticent singer. After collaborating with White in Disco Volante (a short-lived outgrowth of Juhl) in the late '90s, Behrenhausen threw together a disc of humble solo recordings called Songs About the Sea under the pseudonym Popsloppy. And although White was taken by the sparse purity of the songs, he couldn't help but start tinkering with them in his home studio.
"I've always been writing songs," Behrenhausen says. "I've got tapes and tapes of four-track stuff that I just kept secret to myself. I was in the basement thinking, 'I don't want anyone to ever hear this.' The first time I heard what Jme did to those songs, I was, like, 'Holy shit, what did you do?' Then I slowly came around. We ended up doing ten or so songs."
"I played it for a few of my friends," White interjects. "But Mike wouldn't even play it for his girlfriend. Nobody heard the album."
"It wasn't meant to be a band," Behrenhausen explains, "just a recording project. But for some reason, some guy in Kansas City wanted to put it out."
That guy was Askew of Second Nature. The Blusom disc had been sent by the band to California to be mastered by Pete Lyman, one of Behrenhausen's ex-bandmates from Juhl. A mutual friend passed it on to Askew, whose label is widely recognized for its hardcore and emo catalogues, including releases from such luminaries as Coalesce, the Blood Brothers and Rocky Votolato. Blusom couldn't have sounded more different from them -- and, at the time, the duo had yet to perform a single live show.