By Jeremy Hallock
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By Observer Staff
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What's implied is that the band is still a Dallas band, for better or for worse. That might not be a burden for fresh-faced kids who've been playing for a few months or a couple years. But surely after decades of local gigs and grinding tours with dozens of different bands and side projects, the guys in Sorta must be getting anxious. In the past couple years they've had a song handpicked by Liz Phair for a nationally distributed compilation and others featured in commercials and trend-setting teen TV shows; those tastes of potential stardom can't help.
Now with a new album finally released and the recent addition of 2006 DOMA Musician of the Year winner Chris Holt on guitar, they're so close to the promised land the six guys must feel desperate to make the leap beyond respected locals. And with the mean age of a Sorta member at 35.5 years old, surely they're starting to feel like it's now or never. Right?
"No, there's no sense of urgency," lead singer Trey Johnson says. "I've got 30 years left, hopefully. I've never even thought about it."
Holt has obviously given it some consideration, listing all the reasons that experience, age and years outside the spotlight improve Sorta's condition. A minute later, keyboard player Carter Albrecht puts it more simply: "If we were 10 years younger, we'd be 10 years worse."
He dismisses the discussion as absurd and is so eager to swat away the question that it's hard not to wonder if he's a little sensitive about the matter.
"We're not an athletic band," he says. "It doesn't matter. We're not trying to fit into tight pants."
But they all agree that age--and the accumulation of obligations that comes with it--complicates the music.
"Having kids definitely does change it," says Johnson, the father of a 2-year-old. "You have to get up a lot earlier."
"It's harder to tour now unless there is money coming in that can pay the bills," bassist Danny Balis says later via e-mail. "We're not in the same boat that we were when we were 20 and can jump in a van at a moment's notice and deliver pizzas or bartend when we get home. Everyone has full-time jobs, kids, mortgages, etc., that demand priority."
Johnson's lyrics on Strange and Sad but True, as in previous releases, address the dilemmas of adulthood, comforting nostalgia and love. Often he writes in the oblique way you'd expect from a fanatical Bob Dylan admirer: "I have been turning to stone/So I go back to where I started from," Johnson sings in "Lazybones."
That seems to be the band's curse: They keep coming home again. Their audience has gradually expanded with each tour, write-up and song placement, but they haven't yet snapped those tethers holding them to the Big D. They're certainly not living the high life yet; drummer Trey Carmichael missed the group interview after the doughnut tire on his car blew out. Big-time rock stars don't usually drive on spares.
"I'm happy to be a local band and work with musicians I love," Carmichael later says by phone. "We can continue to be a Texas band forever if that's what is intended."
But they'll do it on their terms. Sortaweb.com instructs you to "File Under Rock, Pop, Roots," an obvious attempt to shed the "alt-country" label that has dogged the band. Johnson knows that comparisons to Wilco early in the band's career led to the tag, which fit Sorta just as poorly as it did Wilco. They are also open about their desire for a better-heeled record label than Summer Break Records to put out their next album.
The year-long delay of Strange (reported May 26 on Unfair Park) was due to financial difficulties at Summer Break, which still owns the rights to the album, but the guys claim to have self-released it. Johnson says he still believes Summer Break owner Robert Jenkins will help the band out however he can, considering his stake in it. (Jenkins did not respond to an interview request.)
So there were label woes, and during the delay Strange was made available for free download on MySpace. Wilco similarities don't end there: As on previous releases, Johnson's singing voice on Strange is sometimes remarkably similar to Jeff Tweedy's, despite the deep speaking voice so suited to the radio commercial voice work he recently quit. And the band's layered roots-rock with Albrecht's distinctive somber/spacey electric piano sometimes approximates Being There- and Summerteeth-era Wilco.
But Strange proves the band's might beyond such comparisons. The interplay between Albrecht's keys and pedal-steel player Ward Williams' subtle flourishes is essential on songs such as "Goodnight"; the players' efforts turn a potential acoustic-guitar yawn into a palpable document of Johnson's anxiety. Opener "Buttercup" builds from clean vibrato guitar and soft, regretful reflection to pounding drums and a soaring guitar solo that is both angry and achingly melodic. And the production on "Lazybones" dips the trapkit in deep reverb, making Carmichael's drum rolls sound like something off The Soft Bulletin.