But beneath all the gloom, there lurks an indefatigable charm, a bruised romanticism that makes you want to cling to its every note. From the aching monotone delivery to the languid harmonies, and impressionist strokes of sonic color, every inch of it is suffused with a glorious despair.
Much of that is due to a quality in the writing and music so intensely personal, you almost feel as if you're eavesdropping on Miles' internal dialogue. Yet there is something universal about the lament. A quality that allows a complete stranger to identify with it as the soundtrack to his own misery, to use it as sympathetic testimony of his own wasted and confused youth.
Annette Callahan
Juarez front man Brent Miles: "We're going for the seratoninly challenged audience, I think."
Juarez: From left, Matt Wiser, Brent Miles (at microphone), Jon Saccoman, Bobby Lundberg and Mark Kopenits.
Details
Scheduled to open for the Muddy Violets on Saturday, December 9. Juarez will also open for Los Guys on Sunday, December 17, at Long Wong's in Tempe. Showtime for both is 9 p.m.
Arizona Roadhouse in Tempe
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"I'm surprised there's been that kind of reaction, because they are so personal," admits Miles. "As a writer, I don't see that someone else could actually relate with my stuff -- the way I phrase things and the words that I put together, it's kind of my own thing," he says. "But I've realized, 'Hey, there's other people out there who probably feel the same way as I do.'"
In all, Juarez is an odd debut. Slow, weepy and rife with unadorned emotionalism, it is arguably one of the darkest local releases in memory. Bridging the barroom blues of Merle Haggard's Serving 190 Proof and the existential angst of Lou Reed's Berlin, the band has created a record so uncompromisingly bleak that it should come (as Nick Hornby comically suggested in High Fidelity) with a warning sticker.
"We're going for the seratoninly challenged audience, I think," jokes Miles.
Mostly, though, the record captures the dilemma of a generation of hopeless and chronically disappointed romantics. It's the story of what happens to the brokenhearted boys of pop songs when they grow into adulthood, incapable of escaping their youthful discontent.
"Girls and breaking up and relationships. It's an integral part of your life because it kind of determines how you're going to feel about the opposite sex once you approach your 30s," says the 27-year old Miles.
It's also the underlying theme of the record: that the so-called trivial experiences of adolescence, written off as so much teenage turmoil, are really the determining factors in shaping a person.
Miles knows firsthand the dangers of such emotional pitfalls. "Especially like in high school, that's the time when relationships aren't supposed to be that serious or meaningful," he says, "but that stuff really affected me. I carried it with me for a long time and pretty deeply, too."
Part of that sting is felt by the jilted protagonist of "Coming Home" ("I just can't drive with tears in my eyes") or the devastated boyfriend in "After All," who clings futilely to a faded love ("I'm holding on to things long after they're dead").
As with most auteurs of heartbreak, there seems to be a built-in, intrinsically negative view of women. It's an element to his work that Miles, for one, is unsure of.
"[That's] hard for me, because I have a real trust of women because of the way I was raised -- by my mother, grandmother and aunt. But at the same time, you think, 'Ah, women will just leave you or just jilt you.'"
Miles wrestles with the thought for a moment, takes a pull of his beer and then gives a shrug, "Hell, I don't really know."
Located just past the mile-long row of car dealerships in downtown Glendale, in the middle of a strip mall, is The Gray Room Studios.
Mark Kopenits spends his days here recording everything from commercial jingles and mariachis to heavy metal groups -- this is, after all, the west side.
It's early on a Friday night, and the area is quiet. Juarez is setting up in the back room, band members taking their positions against a nondescript brick wall and a jumble of equipment.
They are a subdued bunch, nervous, it seems, in the presence of strangers. But they chat eagerly among themselves about recent developments.
Early response to the record has been surprisingly good, with several cuts earning airplay on college and commercial radio, mostly in odd locales -- Alaska, New Mexico, Rhode Island, even Germany and Yugoslavia. "All the places that don't have any clubs," deadpans Miles.
The group was recently asked to contribute a track for a tribute album dedicated to Monkee and country-rock pioneer Mike Nesmith. The band will record Nesmith's "Some of Shelly's Blues" for the Dren Records comp, due for release in the spring.
Juarez is also readying a batch of original numbers for a follow-up, newer songs crafted since the group came together as a unit. Of the material, Miles says, "It's a little more upbeat. Well, a little more up-tempo. Hopefully, I'm out of thatphase."
The singer has reason to be cheerful. Thanks to a new prescription, he's battled back his demons, has gotten engaged and is set to be married next summer.
Life is good, and he likes it that way. Besides, if he needs to be reminded of how bad it can be, he's always got his songs. And if he can't use them, surely someone -- maybe driving around heartbroken in the dead of night -- can.
