Outside of your bandmates, is there anyone who’s had a big impact on your artistic identity?

I toured with a couple people early on that left a big impression on me. Someone that comes to mind is this guy Paul Metzger, who’s a relatively unknown person, he’s sort of an avant-noise, improv person. He was an elder statesman to me, probably mid-50s at the time, from Minneapolis. He kind of taught me how to be a grown up in live music—how to own your space and how to deal with an audience and deal with promoters and deal with touring. He had a great amount of poise to him, and he was a very special guy. So yeah, Paul Metzger was probably my first influence—kind of a peer, if you will, who was a big influence on me.

Who was the first person who helped you get your break as an artist?

There’s two people. There was a record store in New York called Other Music, and one of the main buyers there was this woman Amanda Colbenson. She had a PR company, but she was just a head, you know? And she heard the first Amen Dunes record, and that was in the fall of 2006. There was a CD-R that I burned and she totally loved it—she got it. I didn’t plan to share that with anyone, but she was, like, “You should talk to this label in Chicago.” It was a label called Locust Music—this guy Dawson Prayter, it was a one person operation. He really changed my life. He legitimized me and he took me seriously as an artist. This was back in the day when labels really cared about the music they put out. It wasn’t just a product trying to get attention or to make themselves look cool. It was this curation of this community, and Dawson really helped kind of create the Amen Dunes mythology. He was a very special guy. The label’s now defunct, sadly, but he kind of changed my life.

Do you feel like you’re part of a music community right now?

Hell no! I’ve never felt like part of a music community. I mean, that’s not totally true. When I was on Sacred Bones, I felt like I was part of their community—like, relatively regional, outsider song, synth, guitar-oriented music. Kind of, like, dark music or whatever. That was the only community I’ve ever felt a part of, but I’ve never felt musically similar to anyone, really; no one that I knew. So no, I think part of what’s made Amen Dunes challenging and rewarding is that I’ve never felt real kinship with any other musicians. I’ve never felt similarity. I’ve of course enjoyed friendships, but I’ve never felt similar to anyone.

Are there any artists you consider your musical peers?

No. I can’t think of a single artist that feels similar to me. I mean, I have all of these people who are my contemporaries, who would kind of get lumped into the songwriter category. I’m a folk songwriter, that’s what I am. But musically and culturally, I’ve changed so much that I don’t feel kindred or part of any culture, really.

Fair enough. Fuck a community.

Not fuck community. I love the community in the town I live in, local mom-and-pop shops—that kind of community. Friendship. But musically, I’ve never really felt a part of any community. I was always too straight for the real out people, and I’ve always been too weird for the straight people, you know?

Yeah, that makes sense. I was just joking around.

No, no. I hear you. In a way, too, like, fuck musical community. The Fall is one of my favorite bands of all time. Mark E. Smith … I relate to his approach, because he’s not a traditional musician. He used to always say, “I don’t like playing with the mus-os,” he called them—people who are just more students of a trade rather than artists. I like people who approach music artistically rather than scientifically.

Web Of Influences - Amen Dunes

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