Lee AdcockAnyone who takes up the quilted mantle of American folk music is bound to face the risk of reduction. Take the very term “Americana,” which assumes that the pastoral sounds of steel guitars and banjos must evoke some golden postcard snapshot of this nation’s past. Atlanta indie-folk darlings Book Club might always fly the familiar garlands of their indie-folk roots, but don’t be fooled: lead singer Robbie Horlick was touring contemporary Europe when he began to write the band’s next album, Dust of Morning. And while the singer-songwriter hasn’t shied from deep introspection before, his lyrics this time reveal an unsettled mind rattled by modern distractions, artistic self-doubt, and suicidal ideation.
With the new album and a corresponding release show coming up, we decided to corner Horlick to chat about Book Club’s subtly darker turn. We were aware, of course, that not every song correlates to an autobiography; we also postulated that the band’s latest shift in personnel may have impacted the process. Above all, though, we definitely knew that Europe informed Horlick far more than America’s scenic vistas on this go-round. You won’t catch us boiling Dust of Morning down to “Americana,” at least.
Talk about your European tour and how that shaped you personally as well as the music on this album?
In April 2016, I did a three-week tour across Europe, playing in bars, cafés, and living rooms all over. I’d always dreamed of playing shows over there, so I just bought a flight and then committed to filling in the dates. No booking agent, nothing. But it was a really positive experience, and taught me that it’s not so unachievable as I once thought. I really enjoyed traveling to each city by train, not just because I didn’t have to drive, but because it helped balance out the days and gave me time to think and read and write and stare out the window. I didn’t write many songs while I was over there, but when I got back and had a chance to decompress and distill my experiences, I wrote four or five songs that are on the new record. I think I needed to be out of it to actually look at it, and that kind of reflective attitude is all over the album.
Robbie Horlick performing in Tilburg, Netherlands in 2016.
Europe is generally regarded as more friendly and welcoming to performers and musicians. Is that the impression you received when you were touring?
I’ve heard that, and I did get that sense, though I really can’t be sure if it was just because I was so happy to be touring and performing over there that I was in good spirits all the time. I played a fair amount of living room gigs, too, and I think, no matter where you are in the world, if you attend one of those, you’re probably pretty friendly and welcoming to the artist. At least, that’s what I’ve found and felt—whether I’ve been the performer or a member of the audience. But people were very nice at the bars and cafes too, so maybe there is something to that.
How would you compare the audiences in Europe to those in Atlanta?
I don’t know if I’ve collected enough data to really draw a conclusion, but there were definitely some similarities and some differences. Audiences in Europe tended to really listen to the music, and concentrate on the performance, even if they didn’t understand all of the words. And they clap politely when the song ends. You definitely don’t hear as many “woo” sounds, even quiet ones, when a song ends as you do in the States. I remember one gig at a bar in Copenhagen on a Friday night—with kind of an Estoria vibe—where the patrons had no idea there’d be a singer-songwriter performing and were just there to drink and hang out. Yet still, when I started playing, they all shut up and started to watch my performance. Atlanta certainly never prepared me for attention like that, haha. But in the living rooms and cafés, I think it was pretty similar.
There are some familiar faces in the lineup for this album, as well as some new players. How have the dynamics of the band changed and how did they all come together to help you form this new record?
We joke that the lineup of this album was Book Club 3.0, and a year or so later, it’s more like Book Club 3.5. So, even from then to now, we’ve morphed a bit. Matt Jarrard (cello) and I are the only quote-unquote original members of Book Club on the record, but Jenna Mobley (violin) and Gus Fernandez (drums) have been with us for years—at least since version 2.0—so they’re considered old school members by now. Lauren Love sang and played piano on this record, and our friends Damon Moon (of Standard Electric Recorders Co) and Pat Rusert played bass and pedal steel, respectively. We recorded all the music, except for some small overdubs, live in the same room, and then Lauren and I recorded the vocals live afterwards. It was very organic. Looking back at the recording process, I think this record was the perfect combination of the comfort of the Book Club core and the freshness of new ideas and styles by friends that hadn’t played the songs for months like we had. They only had a few days to learn them, and that actually gave them a great new energy that we could feed off.
The album is a mix of autobiographical songwriting and narrative storytelling. Do you find that sense of distance in the latter to be helpful when you’re writing songs or does it make it more difficult to tap into emotionally?
What a great question. Honestly, I’d say it depends on the song and whatever mood I’m in when I’m writing. It’s difficult for me to write a song that’s 100% autobiographical, but then again, I’m not sure I’ve ever tried. I’ve always appreciated the freedom of storytelling, and poetic license, so even though I infuse a lot of the songs with pieces of biography, they usually start without intent. It’s more natural for me to just put a pen to the page and see what comes out. I don’t always know when I’m writing if I’m going to tap into anything emotionally, but that’s why I keep writing. And sometimes it kind of works backwards. A song that just spilled out ends up having more biographical resonance than one I tried to craft. But yes, to answer your question, i think the perspective I get from writing narrative storytelling can help shine a light on sentiments I wouldn’t have known to explore if I was writing strictly autobiographically.
Your songs have always tended towards the winsome, but I feel there is something especially lonely about Dust of Morning, especially in songs like “Can You Put Your Eyes on Mine” and “Space Between the Days.” It feels in many ways like someone searching for and clinging to human connections. Do you feel that assessment is accurate?
I’d say. I think we’re always looking for human connections. Especially real ones, in a time where so much is so fleeting. And “Can You Put Your Eyes On Mine” is a great example of what I was saying in the last question. That’s not so much something that happened to me once, as it’s something that’s happened to me a number of times, and I’m sure to everyone these days, all the time. So it’s not exactly autobiographical, but it can still feel personal. “Space Between the Days” is an interesting one, too, because even though it feels like a really complete thought, it also essentially came out of nowhere. I don’t know if it’s so much about loneliness, though, as it is about the tricks and magic of time. Like, technically, there’s no space between days, but somehow, the feeling that there is, or can be, makes sense. And thinking about all the time we spend in between—between places, between thoughts… on one hand it’s comforting, and on the other, terrifying. But this is the first time I’ve thought that deeply about it. I think it was just one of those songwriting moments you don’t want to examine too closely or it might all fall apart.
Dust of Morning as a title really seems to capture the aesthetics of this record, which at times is very hazy, stark, and stripped down. Is there a particular story behind the title or why you chose to go with it?
Thank you! When we’d finished the record and were trying to think of a title, nothing seemed to work. Nothing seemed to tie the songs together, even though we felt they had a real cohesion. So we were listening to the record one day, trying to “zoom out” and see the album as a whole, and this phrase popped out. “Dust of Morning” is actually a line from “Space Between the Days”: “If the dust of morning shakes / itself off you in great escapes / it will return to say its peace / re-arranged but thick as thieves.” Since it was from one of the songs, it already felt comfortable. And then it started to really feel like a natural umbrella for all of the moods and settings of the record. I also just like the idea of a morning shaking off the night’s dust. And dust that’s going to find its way back to you. Like, you may be done with the night, but the night may not be done with you. Ok, that was much more dramatic than necessary, but it sounded like a great way to end this answer. Thanks so much for listening and for the thoughtful questions, it was nice to be able to look at the tunes with a little distance and see if they revealed anything new to me.
Book Club will celebrate the release of Dust of Morning today at the Listening Room in Cabbagetown. Doors open at 8 p.m.
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