River Guides

Aaron Blount, lyricist and guitarist for Austin-based Knife in the Water, is but two degrees of separation from president-elect George Dubya, kind of.

"He used to be my dad's next-door neighbor, years back," Blount laughs. "It's really weird to see him on TV now. My dad spoke to him a while ago, before he was running for president. Apparently he was nice to him, but...it just burns my dad up. It burns me up too; I voted for Nader. A lot of people out here [in Austin] voted for Nader. We just heard this rumor about Bush, that he's only been putting in like one day of work as governor per week, and that's been the standard for a long time. The only thing about it that's kind of cool is, you know, there's a Texan in the White House.

"Of course, it might not be all that cool. Remember LBJ."

Listening to Blount and organist Laura Krause speak, you begin to wonder whether people so evidently open and laid-back are capable of making music that stumps anyone who tries to talk sensibly about it. For if you dig around the press clippings long enough, you begin to notice something distinctive about the articles and reviews concerning Knife in the Water's two full-length albums, 1998's Plays One Sound and Others and 2000's Red River: Music journalists simply cannot describe this band in a helpful way. Knife in the Water is almost invariably pegged as a "cross" between some band and another; dogged research yields comparisons to Bedhead (Seattle Weekly), the Birthday Party meets Echo and the Bunnymen (Spin), The Velvet Underground meets Spiritualized (Texas Monthly), Nick Cave (Melbourne Tribe), Kingsbury Manx (All Music Guide), and others too numerous to list. (The Spin review of Red River takes the Millennial Prize for Most Unintelligible Comparison in a Work of Music Criticism, however, describing the band's sound as "the aural equivalent of that opening scene in Gilligan's Island" where the ship's wheel spins out of control first one way, and then another. I know. Me neither.)

Aaron Blount doesn't have any theories on why this might be so, particularly when Knife in the Water's sound is so consistent unto itself. "But I've done the same thing, picked up new stuff on the basis of a comparison like that. Maybe it's because they're trying to help people who might not check it out otherwise. I don't mind it much. But sometimes I don't get it. I like Gram Parsons, for example--I like him a lot--but that's one of the comparisons that I don't get; I don't hear it, anyway, though our music is a little country. People who have those other records already, it gets a lot of the feel across. I guess you can't just say, 'Well, this music is really quiet and subtle and pretty.'" He thinks for a moment. "One day I'd like for people to say, 'That band sounds a lot like Knife in the Water,'" he finishes, and laughs again.

But Knife in the Water's music really is quiet and subtle and pretty. It's also menacing and dolorous and very, very melodic, and Blount's lyrics run the gamut from low murder tales to introspective meditations on travel and escape in a way that won't be encapsulated by alt-country or No Depression or slow-fi. (If anyone really thinks we need another one of those half-assed descriptive terms, I'd like to suggest melanchountry; should you spot this adjective used without permission in Rolling Stone or Spin in the upcoming months, please advise.) So without resorting to superficial comparison, how does one describe the music found on the lovely Red River?

You know how it is when you're on a road trip, and you're driving solo along an unfamiliar stretch of interstate, late at night or early in the morning? And you've either got a lot of miles ahead of you or a lot of miles behind you, but either way, it seems like your operative modes of perception have to do solely with distance and time? And your head starts moving in directions it doesn't normally, and you become suddenly aware of the fleeting presence of the world passing you by outside the car, and you look out of the driver's-side window at the lights of the small towns you're passing, situated past the oil derricks or the farmhouses or the wheat fields, and you think, I wonder what all those people are doing right now. I wonder who's falling in love, and who's having a fight, and who's having to count to 10 before they scream at someone, and who's lonely and who's sad and who's knocked-out drunk, and who got married and who passed away, and who's getting ready to leave town for good, and whom they're leaving behind.