By Melissa Fossum
By Lauren Wise
By New Times
By Amanda Savage
By Jason P. Woodbury
By Troy Farah
By New Times
"See, I never think about canisters rolling off shelves," laughs Myers, relaxing on his front porch in Old Town Tempe on a quiet Sunday night. "That's my career snafu. The after-the-fact thinking. From my writing to our packaging, the last thing I look at is those details.
"It can be completely satisfying. And real frustrating."
That could also describe Myers' enduring search to find a place for himself in pop's commercial landscape. The music he makes is harder to cram into a predesignated slot than the eye-catching packages he and Casebeer, his live-in love of eight years, design together. Even Myers finds it hard to characterize his music without sounding hollow as a lite-beer ad.
"Less folk, less new agey," he puts forth. "I take all these influences and try to be less of them. The new-age tag doesn't work for me at all."
Although he clearly has the chops, Myers is an unlikely guitar hero. He's an astounding technician and instrumentalist, able to sound like a full band by hitting the guitar percussively and using bass pedals. But he's also an accomplished singer/songwriter with a poet's eye for life. Record labels would prefer he be one or the other, the easier to market.
"What should I do?" he asks. "Well, because it's in my control, if there's no one producing or signing me, I just make these hodgepodge albums that have instrumentals, vocals and sparse production. I've got something I know can work. I'm just not sure I can sell it to the bigger companies."
Fourteen years ago, Myers left Indiana for the lights of Glendale, taking along his drummer and brother Matt, who has drummed with Looking for Aldous Huxley and the Fake McCoys and now lives right across the street from Joe. Back then, Matt and Joe's goal was simply to jam in bars and make money so they wouldn't have to work a day job. The classic-rock repertoire Myers drew from them might be a dependable moneymaker now, but it wasn't drying flies then.
"We were in a band called Children that mostly played Doors, Hendrix, a lot of Sixties rock. But there really wasn't any retro thing happening," Myers says. "And Tempe wasn't happening at all--it was really small. The west-side scene dominated, with heavy-metal bands like Surgical Steel and Raven Paine. Children later evolved into a trio called Tribe, which featured Brian Golda [Commander Slim from Space Rig] as bassist. That was five years of being out here with no money, really creative but going nowhere."
Myers later got into a band called Groove Garden that played mostly biker bars. "That's where we could get work," he says. "I grew disgruntled . . . so I started to play solo, electric only." The guitarist incorporated classical styles into his playing, and drifted out of what he now calls "the whole band thing."
"It seemed like a comfortable place to be when you're struggling--away from all the psychological problems with bands that I'd been through so many times. Now I miss the camaraderie of playing with other people, but I don't miss the hassles."
Another plus is not having to split a night's wages three or four ways, although Myers confesses the fiscal advantages weren't the primary incentive. "I liked the solo thing because it was so personal."
The personal touch is what initially attracts many curious consumers to his CDs. "Zia [Record Exchange] usually put some of my CDs on the top of the bins because they know some of the records will sell based on the packaging alone," Myers says.
"People see the packages and say, 'How can you afford to do every one like this?' You make use of your resources."
Indeed, things get downright Mickey Rooneyish at chez Myers around CD production time. "We do a ton of the production like actually gluing and stamping. Everything's in-house except the textiles, and we wish we could do that because we hate when it goes out of our hands," Casebeer cracks. "We have a lead press from 1897 out back that we'll probably use to print the next album."
Of the latest title, Myers has about "two or three hundred Under the Crazy Hats fully assembled and the rest in pieces." When those sell out, like Doritos chips, he and Casebeer just make more.
But what should one make of this Thurston Dreambox feller? When David Bowie wasn't yet being hailed as a superstar, he rechristened himself Ziggy Stardust, the next big thing from Mars. Is Myers adopting a persona similarly poised for stardom?