Hippies No More (page 2)

Kevin McKinney is not very cosmic. That's straight from the monkey's mouth. He's not very bulky either. In fact, as Soulhat's other guitarist unloads an amp from his car in front of Steamboat, he definitely looks like he might pull something. So this is the mighty Bonecrusher, the big manly voice that howls, "I just got back from Hell where I crushed the devil and fucked his wife and all the little demons as well." Where's the big, bad, bonecrushing snake? The bulldogs he keeps high on crack?

"That song's supposed to be a joke, godammit!" he says with mock indignation and a big laugh. I like to be stupid. I'm not a brooder." To be fair, that outburst didn't happen until midway through dinner after incessant needling about how such an immediately likable, goofy-sweet guy could sing such dark, vile lyrics. As it turns out, the Bonecrusher is sort of his alter-ego, and his less gregarious drummer wrote the nastiest of the nasty lyrics. Still, try explaining that to his mother to whom he dedicates the song in a low gurgling voice.

For the most part, McKinney is a likeable bundle of insecurity, all shy grins and bemused laughter, and despite his definite distaste for all things analytical, he tries to give straight answers. For example, on the genesis of "Bonecrusher," the song that's nailing shut the coffin of Soulhat's hippie-dippie reputation with one swoop of its ball-peen hammer middle finger, he offers:

"We were doing that first record at Arlyn Studios, and I had what they call a riff," he says, giving "riff" the proper cartoonish, music critic inflection. "I suppose it might have been a sort of reaction to what we were doing at the time. I wanted to make a song that was completely loud and heavy. It was supposed to be a sort of joke song, just an excuse to turn it up.

"Now it's on the radio," says McKinney, rubbing the top of his ruddy, cropped Curious George haircut. "And it doesn't really make any sense." When asked about the huge chasm between the sound of Outdebox and Good to Be Gone, McKinney Spends less time trying to explain the band's organic musical progression, and more time dwelling on people's negative reactions.

"I get flak from a lot of people. They're like, 'Oh, so you're some kind of grunge band now," he says in his best dude voice. "Man, we just turned up the guitars - that's really about it." His tone isn't so much defensive as it is apologetic. "That makes me sad, but I can understand where they're coming from. They like the Dead; they like bluesy jams."

His Mom, it seems, levied the most pointed criticism, as mothers are wont to do. "My moms gripe is that she can't sing along with any of these songs," relates McKinney. "Bill's mom gave him that flak, too. She's like, 'This is nasty, this is dirty. This is gross.'

"Our first reaction was, "Well, we didn't record it with you in mind,'" he continues. "but then I started listening to the songs and realized that I don't even really sing on any of them. It's sort of this talk-sing-yelling thing. It's fun to yell, but it's also fun to sing. Sometimes when I am up there, I'm thinking [in a tiny, gentle voice] 'I should write something really pretty.'"

The band's promotional-only acoustic CD, Too Gone To Be Good, a collection of quite pretty songs, has a lyric on it that says, loosely, if they can't hear him, they can just turn it up on the mix. An angry dig at an overly aggressive producer, perhaps? Yet another theory is shot down when McKinney says he pays little attention to lyrics. On the subject of production, McKinney is quick to answer critics who think that producers Brendan O'Brien and NickDiDia (a pair who've worked with everyone from Aerosmith and Pearl Jam to the Red Hot Chili Peppers) were responsible for cultivating this harder Soulhat sound.

"That's not true at all, because we'd written all these songs a long time before we even did this record," explains McKinney., a scowl furrowing his brow. "None of them were any heavier sounding on the record than they should have been. So that whole thing makes me mad., because those guys were responsible for making it sound the way it does, but not for the style of music that we chose to put on it."

The producers were, in fact, the ones who wanted to include the more mellow songs like "Preacher Man," a song McKinney was hesitant about because he thought it was too old. As for the accusations that O'Brien got McKinney to turn it up and sing like a manly man, the singer says no. "The stuff called for it," he stresses. "I needed to do it that way. I never really sang very loud. the soundman always used to complain that they couldn't get my vocals. So I was like, alright, I'll yell." As for O'Brien's influence, McKinney reveals that the A-list producer's role in the production of Good To Be Gone was more as an objective ear than anything else - Soulhat's two guitarists agree about his most important contribution: the organ part on "Preacher Man."

"Brendan was not there, ever," reveals McKinney. "He's a great guy and really cool, but we were a little misguided in thinking he would be working on the record, when actually, he didn't." Were they disappointed? "Not really," he says, "Only that we paid him a lot. Nick was really good to work with." In fact, the band is actually given half the production credit on Good To Be Gone, and McKinney says they earned it. "No one ever really told us what to do. People say we signed with a record company, and they tell us what to do, but no one told us anything."

When questioned about whether he expected the inevitable Pearl Jam comparisons, either for the producer association or the spooky, faceless cover art, he answers "sort of" to the former and "no way" to the latter.

"Way back before they were even Pearl Jam, er, back before they were popular." fumbles McKinney, for some odd reason suddenly trying to be precise with his words. "You know, before they started getting airplay, a friend of ours said, 'I heard this band that sounds kind of like you guys'." He smirks and grumbles, "People sometimes try to tell me that I sing like Eddie Vedder. We seem to have like, a similar octave range. I never tried to sing like him or anything."

Any Pearl Jam marketing strategy by the label was purely coincidental or non existent as far as the cover art for Good To Be Gone is concerned. (hold it next to the Seattle band's Vs. album), since the band's freaky friend and fellow Austin musician Earthpig that takes all the photos for the albums. "He just takes these crazy photos and we say that one, that one," says McKinney, pointing at imaginary Earthpig photos in his half-eaten chicken pot pie. As for one of the band's publicity shots, where the much-elder drummer, Barry "Frosty" Smith, is cloaked in black with his back to the camera - no record company image swindle there. "We don't like to be smiley guys in photos, actin' cool and stuff. We liked that picture because it was goofy, and it didn't really have any of our faces in it.

"But the record company hates that," he continues. "They're like, 'Your likenesses are so likable. We want to see you guys. That's why we want to do a video.'" The idea of doing a video is not a popular one with the band, especially McKinney. He doesn't even want to be in it. Then again, McKinney concedes, "If I see a video and it doesn't have the band in it, I find myself wanting to see what the guys look like. So, I realize the importance of it.

"I find myself criticizing what other people are doing just like people are probably criticizing us for what we're doing," admits McKinney, leaking his characteristic insecurity. "I'm definitely unsure of what i am doing at this moment." Two years ago, things didn't quite seem to matter so much. "We were just having a good time. We played a how, it was over and we had a good time." He grabs his stomach and mimes a big belly laugh. "It was like, Ah, ha, ha...."

Since his comedic bits are usually a diversionary technique used to avoid a subject that makes him uneasy, I persist. Why does it suddenly matter? "Because there are records being promoted, and people with opinions writing things about them," he concludes. And opinions affect him because he writes most of the songs. (The bulk of Good To Be Gone came from diddling about on his beloved four-track.)

The surest conclusion to be drawn from McKinney is that Soulhat has few, if pressing, aspirations for fame and fortune. "Hope," he says, shaking his head. "Is that sad?" Without waiting for an answer, he continues: "That's why it's weird to be in this position, because we're with a record company that probably would like ot see us there." Should the band, perhaps, have stayed with indie labels? "I don't know" is his genuinely puzzled response. "I don't know."

On a midnight drive to Baton Rouge...
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