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The leader and driving force of Built to Spill -- Boise, Idaho's greatest claim to musical immortality -- Martsch brings to mind Robert Christgau's old line (in reference to T-Bone Burnett) about being unable to resist a humble man with a proud guitar.
Without question, Martsch has done more than anyone since Dinosaur Jr.'s J Mascis to make endless guitar noodling a respectable facet of underground rock. But during a phone interview from his Boise home, Martsch audibly winces at the notion that he's anything more than a severely limited amateur on the six-string.
"I think most people that think I'm a great guitar player don't really know that much about guitar," he says good-naturedly. "The guitar players that know stuff can watch me play a show and think it sounds good and stuff, but I'm not doing anything very tricky at all."
What even the reflexively humble Martsch acknowledges, however, is his unique ability to stitch together modest individual guitar parts into an impressive whole. His intertwining, serpentine phrases are rarely self-indulgent in the classic-rock, Ten Years After sense, because they feel like they're built into the structure of his songs, not added as ornamental afterthoughts. And his knack for melody manifests itself in short instrumental phrases that answer and complement his soft, endearingly whiny vocals.
It's an approach that takes hours of painstaking, solitary work, with Martsch patiently honing his ideas on eight-track home demos. More than a decade into an acclaimed -- if commercially indifferent -- career, Martsch is finding the creative process to be more of a struggle with each passing year.
"It's a matter of playing over and over again until I come up with something interesting," he says. "I think it just takes me longer to come up with something interesting as I get older. Or maybe my tastes are different, and what's interesting to me is different."
Speaking in the same fragile, Fred Rogers voice he's patented on seven albums with Built to Spill and two with his early '90s Seattle band, Treepeople, Martsch seems every bit as Zen-placid and well-adjusted as his squealing solos are feverish and tortured. He describes his life as quiet and uneventful. He says he rarely goes out, unless it's to shoot hoops at a neighborhood basketball court. And, much more than music, the focus of his life these days is his 7-year-old son, Benjamin Cleo (for whom he penned the 1994 BTS song "Cleo").
Either because of creative lethargy or a preoccupation with fatherhood, Martsch had a hard time focusing on music last year, when it came time to start on a new Built to Spill record. "I think I was distracted, and interested in doing other things," he says. "I just wasn't working as hard on it."
The resulting album, Ancient Melodies of the Future, may have been slow in the making, but it's brimming with the kind of thick, fuzzy guitar textures and sugary pop melodicism that Martsch has patented since forming the band in 1993.
Although it could be argued that BTS's approach has changed little over the years, Ancient Melodies offers proof that Martsch is still willing to tinker with the sonic palette of the band. The insistent "In Your Mind" melds marimba drones with Martsch's acoustic-guitar strumming and climaxes in a Middle Eastern orchestral flourish. The album-opening "Strange" features Cars-inspired synth gurgles beneath Martsch's spacy slide guitar and disorienting backward tracks.
Throughout the record, the band adopts an unusually orchestral approach, employing real and synthesized strings to create a cushion for Martsch's brooding fretwork. If the results aren't as consistently explosive as 1999's masterwork Keep It Like a Secret, they nonetheless indicate that Martsch is unwilling to allow his sound to settle into a musical formula.
A cryptic but frequently clever lyricist, Martsch is at his best when he cops to his pop-culture obsessions, as he did with "Distopian Dream Girl," from 1994's There's Nothing Wrong With Love: "I think Bowie's cool, I think Lodger rules, stepdad's a fool."
He took this approach to its logical conclusion on Secret's "You Were Right," saluting/mocking an endless parade of rock anthems in the space of less than five minutes: "You were right when you said all that glitters isn't gold/You were right when you said all we are is dust in the wind/You were right when you said we're all just bricks in the wall/And when you said manic depression's a frustrating mess."
On Ancient Melodies, Martsch doesn't rise to such playful heights, but his laconic wit emerges in subtle ways, such as on the chorus of "Strange," when he makes the determination that "life is strange, but, oh well."
This sense of mature acceptance is a considerable leap from Martsch's teeth-cutting days as an angry young punk adopted by the Seattle hard-core scene of the late '80s. In 1988, Martsch and the fellow members of a Boise band called State of Confusion relocated to Seattle ("That's just something you do if you live in Idaho") and changed their name to Treepeople.