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In a city like Austin, it's easy to get lost in the shuffle. There are hundreds of clubs, twice as many bands, and every week it seems like a new act is the darling of the scene. So it's no surprise that Cotton Mather, led by singer/guitarist Robert Harrison, hasn't gained more notoriety in its hometown. Nothing about the band -- from its unfortunate name to its appearance -- stands out. Except its songs.
Harrison, parked on the spacious back porch of the south Austin home he shares with his wife, Jennifer, hardly fits the typical rock-musician mold. Perched attentively on the edge of his seat, he could pass for one of the young professionals the area's burgeoning computer industry has been attracting.
Harrison's house -- actually, his garage -- was the birthplace of Kontiki, one of the smartest indie-pop efforts of last year. A 14-song slab of '60s rock revivalism and contemporary songcraft, the CD is a patchwork of sources -- Rubber Soul-era Beatles riffs, Byrdsian harmonies, Dylanesque phrasing -- sewn tightly together by Harrison's knack for finding just the right hook to hold it all in place. A self-professed "longtime rock and roll fan," he proudly wears his influences on his sleeve -- though he's careful to distinguish the sleeve from the rest of the shirt.
"[Writer] Harold Bloom says, 'Plagiarism is a legal term, not an artistic one.' We don't plagiarize; we try to process stuff and make it our own," says Harrison. "I certainly feel that [Kontiki] does that. The only thing that disappoints me in the assessment of our record is that people frequently get caught up comparing it to a dozen bands."
Indeed, Kontiki is the kind of outing that should have even the most experienced rock scribe reaching for his copy of the Trouser Press Record Guide. Though the disc's lead-off track, "Camp Hill Rail Operator," contains, as Harrison says, "an almost uncomfortable tribute to McGuinn and Crosby (of the Byrds)," much of Kontiki's anachronistic vibe came from the actual recording process, not borrowed notes and allusions to other bands. With its dated recording techniques -- due mostly to Harrison's inexperience as an engineer -- Kontiki has a rich, crackling AM-radio sound, ragged around the edges but infinitely more polished than most homemade projects.
"We did it on four-track cassette and ADAT eight-track, and I did all sorts of submixing, which is the way people used to make records in the '60s. They just had a few tracks, so they would record a bunch of tracks and then submix it onto two channels."
Another big factor in the sound of Kontiki was Harrison's near-encouragement of mistakes.
"We didn't sit around and worry about sounds or performances," Harrison admits. "If you have some decent songs, you've got some decent players, and you have something strong to say, the last thing you need to do is try and make it perfect. You're going to call more attention to the strengths by making it human. We made an effort to create chaos on every track, usually by having somebody play something they were absolutely ill-equipped to play. And usually that person was me."
Recording Kontiki in a garage wasn't Harrison's initial plan. It came about as a result of a couple of years of hard luck and missed opportunities. After Cotton Mather released its critically acclaimed debut CD, Cotton Is King, on the Los Angeles independent Elm Records in 1994, the label folded, setting off a predictable chain of events. Drummer Greg Thibeaux and bassist Matt Hovis quit the group, and the band's management flaked as well, leaving Harrison and guitarist Whit Williams pondering the group's future. Then came a moment of serendipity straight out of Spinal Tap.
"We didn't do anything for a while; then we found out our first record was doing stuff in Japan," Harrison remembers. "A university offered to bring us over to Japan and set up a tour. We got the band together with a couple of other players and toured Japan. We came back and started working on our new record."
After a few false starts, the band nixed working in the confines of a small, windowless studio in favor of Harrison's small, windowless garage. Pressing forward with borrowed gear and novice producer Harrison at the controls, the band began recording again -- for themselves at first.
"I think we had some inkling that what we were doing was disarming and interesting, and it would have some kind of power," Harrison says. "[The demos] began to sneak out to a couple of my buddies, and they encouraged me to forsake working in the various studios and just do the garage thing because it seemed to have a raw kind of power to it that captured -- for lack of a better word -- the ethos of the music and of the band."
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