By Melissa Fossum
By Lauren Wise
By New Times
By Amanda Savage
By Jason P. Woodbury
By Troy Farah
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"I feel like shit, man," he says. "I just quit smoking this morning."
A moment later, he's scratching around his room, knocking over books and CDs, looking for cigarette butts in the rented house he moved into -- the day before -- in Cottage Grove, Oregon. The desolate little town of 35,000 is known to locals as the "town of covered bridges" and can boast of being probably the only place in North America where the D.A.R.E. task force vehicle is a shiny, pimped-out Suzuki Samurai that would leave readers of Lowrider inspired.
"It's the only kind of hick town they make anymore. No one's on the streets, the Wal-Mart closes at 9 o'clock, no one cares who you are, and there's absolutely nothing to do," Brock says.
In some sense, Brock seems to be reminiscing in his half-conscious state about Issaquah, Washington, a small town on the fringe of Seattle where he chose to live in a shed behind his mother and stepfather's trailer. "I used to live in a trailer park, although it wasn't a place that I would say I would have liked to have grown up. There's not much pride in saying that you grew up eating government cheese and food that came in boxes, surrounded by hillbillies."
The wise Brock-watcher knows to take the singer's ruminations with a certain understanding of his penchant for poetic exaggeration. It's a quality that has defined much of his band's work (four full-lengths for Up Records; various seven- and 12-inch releases on other labels, including K Records; and the newest, The Moon and Antarctica, just released on Epic) and established Brock as an enigmatic lyricist and indie-rock poet. Yet if his meanings are sometimes opaque and difficult to decipher, at least his themes are consistent and recognizable. (And don't go looking to Brock, a notoriously difficult interview- and media-phobe, to offer any explanation for either: "That's my one rule, man," he says guardedly. " I don't talk about lyrics.") Most of Brock's protagonists are the marginalized, the downtrodden and the particularly self-aware. Along with the small-town impressions from his own childhood, Brock has taken a sideways approach to the narrative legacy of artists who find inspiration in struggle. He paints the down-and-out on Modest Mouse's distinctive musical background, a guitar-pronounced, harmonic and sometimes symphonic sound.
Consider "Trailer Trash," a painfully autobiographical portrait from 1997's The Lonesome Crowded West: "Eating snowflakes with plastic forks and a paper plate of course/You think of everything/Short love with a long divorce and a couple of kids of course/They don't mean anything." Brock also lyrically sketches a melancholic personal awareness during "3rd Planet," the first track from The Moon and Antarctica: "Everything that keeps me together is falling apart/I've got this thing that I consider my only art of fucking people over."
"The Bible is filled with stories about devastated lives, because they're better tales," Brock says. "Using a metaphor about the rich and lucky is fucking boring."
Brock's own disdain for the boring is evident not only in his lyrics, but also in his behavior. At 25, he seems anxious, restless -- qualities that might seem at odds with his small-town surroundings. His campaign to quit smoking officially ends hours after it begins. After driving to the nearest convenience store and mumbling a brand to the clerk, he steps outside and lights up a fresh one. Then, during the short walk from the cash register to his van, he decides to make a spontaneous 120-mile drive to Eugene, Oregon.
"Now I have someone to talk to," he says. "You mind if we head north to Eugene? A friend of mine's band is playing there tonight." Soon, Interstate 5 is racing by at 80 mph, car colors blurring against the Oregon landscape. Brock takes another deep drag and smiles.
He seems at ease while traveling -- regardless of how dizzying the road may get and despite his own mixed emotions about being on it. Though he laments that his new deal with Epic and a heavily promoted album will mean lots more traveling, it also means more exposure to potential material. Brock is known to take cues from snippets of lives that he views while touring, something he and his bandmates seem to do nonstop. Travel and movement are other common Modest Mouse themes, poignantly displayed in "Dramamine" (from 1996's Interstate 8), in which Brock concludes in a lispy and sentimental voice: "I drove around for hours/I drove around for days/I drove around for months and years and never went no place."
Brock and his bandmates (drummer Jeremiah Green and bassist Eric Judy) have traversed the musical landscape and arrived at a destination that some bands might covet and others eye with suspicion. Since Modest Mouse formed in Washington state and signed with iconic indie-punk label K Records six years ago for a seven-inch release, it has been deemed the White Buffalo of indie rock, the last great hope for a genre that's losing audience share to an increasingly nonrocking musical republic. When Brock and company ended up on the doorstep of the Sony-owned Epic records, they felt as if they had been visited by a tarnished angel. Unlike many bands that sometimes compromise their artistic integrity to satiate a major label's appetite for sales and radio hits, the trio has managed to make the switch from indie to major without compromising its methods.