Druid City Stokes That Warm Slow Burn

originally published March 21, 2007

For such a low-volume and somnambulistic-seeming chap, Julien Derocher is one seriously pyromaniacal motherfucker. I mention this right off because, as a sentiment, it’s been swimming around in my head since I saw his band Druid City play at Flicker a good while ago, when first I realized the vital key to his deeply enduring music: warmth. His is the music of cozied-up, evergreen-in-the-oxygen, your-toboggan-smells-of-pine-smoke warmth.

Anyway, back to that fire singing in Julien’s skull; it was a Sunday in late November, and Athens was in a rare cold snap. I was out at the Orange Twin land, building a large pyramidical fire-pit out of felled trees and yanked-up rootballs. What might need to happen was becoming imminently clear: a tribal wingding replete with roasting food, some bluelaw-foraged beer, and a nice raggedy night-spanning sing-along. We got on the horn to get it going.

Inevitably, because this kind of thing is so thoroughly his trip, Julien showed up with the rising moon, just as frigid darkness fell. The fire got to be about five feet tall and some acoustic guitars came around, but by then Julien had become so mesmerized with the flames and the cinders and the spiraling ash that he sat in a lawnchair with a Baby Taylor in his lap, slack-jawed with the heat and the light for a good 20–

30 minutes. It took my wrong-chorded half-drunk version of Neil Young’s “Pocahontas” to rile him into singing a couple tunes, and we all played along as he commenced with some rock chestnuts like “Who Loves the Sun” and “Don’t Pass Me By,” transmogrifying them from harmless goodnatured oldies to weird, phantom Ireland-via-Appalachia lamentations with his ornate banjo-influenced picking style and his Alabama honeybee-buzz drone of a voice.

Druid City hinges on these two highly personal aspects of his musical identity; augmenting his impressive playing and rarified voice are some atypical instruments, all of which are arrow-pointed in one direction: the forever-radiant flame.

He’s got this guy, Larry Tucker, blowing nightclub tenor sax; every once in a while, his horn interacts with a tune as a sitar might, but mostly it’s straight, melodic, R&B riffage. This is a highly emblematic aesthetic choice, for nothing could be warmer and less cynical than the sound of a man, usually in a red sportcoat, chipping in some bright and jovial saxophone over Julien’s sometimes-pensive songs to remind you how much light lives alongside all darkness. And we all know that Aaron Wegelin is a sick-ass drummer who lends the band versatility; he usually lays back and lopes a little with his brushes, however, this one time, live, he slammed and stomped and commanded them through a cover of Ornette Coleman’s “Friends and Neighbors,” which is a smart and strange jazz song for a folkish band to mess with. Jacob Morris covers the low-end with his cello and bass, and his contributions evince his rich harmonic understanding with characteristic austerity.

Julien’s songwriting, when it’s working best, feels elemental as peat. “The Old Man Song” begins with the line “I’m gonna slit the old man’s throat today / I’m gonna take his boat on out,” which sounds positively ancient, like it could live alongside “Greensleeves” and “Little Matty Groves” in the repertoire of some long-dead British Bogman come back to haunt the hearth of his former home. He’s a great guitarist, too, whose rolling finger-picking recalls Jackson C. Frank’s style. Actually, JCF provides a good place to start when you’re thinking about comparing Julien’s music, and so do Roky Erickson and Bascom Lamar Lunsford, and Van Morrison’s mid-'70s output, too.

Julien’s voice is the rightful centerpiece of Druid City’s arrangements, as it gives the band its inviting lilt of tenor bereft of any trace whatsoever of affected cornpone histrionics. His singing is simple and heartfelt and friendly; the tone he communicates is one of gentleness and intimacy completely uncooled by the irony-pose so commonplace in rock music these days.

The band has studio plans to team with golden-eared Jason Robira of the Ginger Envelope-Dark Meat family - in the interest of full disclosure, a fine group in which I count myself - producing, and, doubtless, several members of both those outfits, plus some other ringers from around town, pitching in instrumental color.

With only four local shows under their belts, it may seem that they're jumping the gun by entering the studio before a solid period of performing live can hone their ensemble playing. Julien, though, has been writing and recording songs for more than a decade now; Druid City - named after Derocher's Tuscaloosa birthplace Druid City Hospital - is merely his first attempt to present them to an audience, a fact that illuminates the purity extant in his music: he’s been doing it for its own sake for so long that he doesn’t know how to do it in a way that’s artificial. It may be true that Druid City is a relatively new band, but, in essence, Julien’s been woodshedding for a good while now, which explains why his fire seems to burn so high and so hot as he goes.

Jim McHugh

Liner Notes is Flagpole's music opinion column. Interested in contributing? Contact music editor Chris Hassiotis with ideas at music@flagpole.com.