Band of Brothers

But whatever you think about Faris Nourallah--genius or nut case--he is deeply devoted to his craft. "I want to make the best record you've never heard," he says, "because it proves that the system's fucked up."

About a year ago, Faris read Catcher in the Rye for the first time, and like many others, he found in its excoriation of phonies and rat-racers a kind of salvation. He claims the book has become a bigger influence on his work than the Beatles and that he will dedicate his next album to the protagonist, Holden Caulfield. "Because," he says, "he taught me that I'm not the only one."

I asked him what he knew about the book's author, J.D. Salinger.

"Nothing," he said. "And I don't care. It doesn't have any relevance to me."

"Ask him what he thinks about the fact that Mark David Chapman was carrying that book when he shot John Lennon," Salim says to me later. But at the time, I was thinking about something else entirely, something curious, almost eerie given Faris' identification with the book.

"Would it be interesting if I told you J.D. Salinger became a hermit?" I ask.

"It wouldn't be interesting," says Faris. "It would be disturbing."

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Last December, Western Vinyl re-released The Nourallah Brothers with a bonus CD of added tracks. Both brothers have solo albums coming out later in the year--Faris' King of Sweden, due in April, and Salim's Beautiful Noise, due this summer. Every once in a while, they play around with the idea of recording another Nourallah Brothers album, but the plans get procrastinated upon, groused about and eventually scrapped. Which is too bad, not only because it could be musically fruitful, but also because sibling artists are so much more compelling and marketable when they come in pairs. People want a Noel and Liam Gallagher, a Ray and Dave Davies--and if their stories are dark and twisted, full of bruises and spilled blood, then hey, all the better.

Even if they never record an album together again, their shadows float through each other's music. Faris' "I Can Run Faster Than You," off King of Sweden, is a classic tale of sibling rivalry, in which his brother joins in on vocals. Salim's "Model Brothers," from Polaroid, tells the story of how he and Faris came together and fell apart through music. "Now 34, and 32," it concludes, "can't remember when I last saw you."

In that song, Salim remembers the day music first set their hearts aflame, the day they bought The White Album. It's a day Salim has come to curse, because it took them down such a difficult path. He wonders if things would have been different had they not come to Denton. He wonders if things would have been different had they just played it safe.

There's no point in this train of thought, and Salim knows it. Music was the best thing they had together, and no matter how their relationship stumbles, it's the one thing they will still understand. When Salim plays live, he performs songs that Faris wrote.

When Salim had an opportunity to shoot a video in Los Angeles, Faris sold a bass on eBay to pay for the ticket.

"When I was a scared kid inventing music in my head, my brother was the only person who believed in me," Salim says. "And after that, he was the only person who believed in me...for ever."

Things between them may get better eventually. After all, Faris made a rare appearance at Christmas. He even agreed to sit for the photos in this article, despite adamantly (and repeatedly) refusing to do so. And on a chilly fall evening, the two of them can sit on Faris' porch, in the company of an interviewer, and talk about the years they spent worshiping music, studying music, loving it as deeply as each other. Of course, the discussion turns to disagreement and discord. And then they argue--like only brothers can.