Van William Residency (Week 1 of 3)
Fruit Bats, KERA
901 E 1st St
Los Angeles, CA, 90012
This event is 21 and over
Watch & Listen
Van William has spent every summer of his life working on his father's commercial salmon fishing boat off Kodiak Island, Alaska - a job he loved and a job that influenced every part of his life. When he wasn't fishing, he was growing up in the small coastal California town of Cambria, learning to write songs and eventually touring the world by the age of 20 - leading a few different indie rock outfits including Port O'Brien and WATERS. He always knew he could fall back on fishing, until earlier this year when his father announced he would be retiring and selling the boat after 49 summers in Alaska. This coincided with the love of his life ending their 6 year long relationship. The two events sent Van reeling.
"I had always genuinely considered taking over the boat," explains William. "Music has always been my passion, but as a realist who also loves the physical labor and intensity of commercial fishing, I could never really know which career path would be more fulfilling or what I would be better at." The decision was made for him and his sudden and profound losses forced him to focus on what matters most, resulting in his remarkable solo debut Countries.
Anchored in Van William's love of melodic songcraft and infused with melancholy, Countries doesn't belong to any specific style. It's American Heartache, music that stirs up forgotten memories and feels eternal and fresh, as it pulls the past into the present as a way of navigating considerable loss.
Countries feels immediate, reflecting how Van William had no other option than letting his feelings spill on the page. "I was freaked out, but part of that freak-out was this renewed sense of drive and purpose. I had to take stock of where I was at musically. My previous projects no longer felt honest in their pursuit and style. This cataclysm of events shook me back into feeling present with what I want to do and who I want to be as an artist. I don't know if I would've got there without it."
Van William's tumultuous year can be heard on Countries, an album that also exudes warmth, mirroring the intimacy of its recording. After writing the record in seclusion in the Sierra Nevada, he decided to head to a studio in Stinson Beach, Marin County, California with a few close friends—including his co-producer Brian Phillips, Dawes drummer Griffin Goldsmith, POP ETC bassist Chris Chu and keyboardist Tam Visher— creating a homespun atmosphere whose coziness can be heard on the album. This was the only way this album could be recorded—confessional songs delivered with the support of confidants.
Van William was well aware that he created Countries during a period where his own country was roiled with tension, realizing that his own stories carried a wider sociological dimension. "I started to think of the idea of two people in a relationship acting as separate countries. Different countries that start as two separate entities but throughout history, their borders change and morph into each other. They're constantly trying to figure out how to get along, and that felt like so much to me like my experience with my last relationship."
Such parallels surface clearly on "Revolution," a song about a couple at odds on how to solve their problems that can also be read as a political rallying cry. Thanks to harmonies from the Swedish folk duo First Aid Kit, "Revolution" carries a delicate sense of heartbreak, a sentiment that also echoes on "The Middle"—a sensitively etched portrait of a relationship's second act—and the lush "Skyward," which floats upward on its sweet strings. But Countries doesn't strictly dwell on sadness. "Fourth of July" camouflages its yearning for emotional freedom in an effervescent melody, "Cosmic Sign" offers a ray of hope in its celebration of the wide vistas of America, while "Never Had Enough Of You" rumbles forth with a barnstorming majesty of reminiscent of early 70’s Neil Young & Crazy Horse.
Countries may also recall the burnished ache of acoustic Young but in its melancholic forgiveness, the album suggests such modern touchstones as Beck's Sea Change, and like those masters, Van William has the skill to turn his own heartbreak into something rich, resonant and true.
Eric D. Johnson was ready to drive the car off the cliff. He bristles at the memory and the metaphor. Instead, he recalls, he and his wife drove their Toyota Echo—so old it lacked power locks—through the Redwood forest the day they got the bad news. Their baby, due on his wife’s 40th birthday, didn’t make it past the first trimester.
“I was so grief-stricken,” recalls Johnson. “I wanted to blow up my life.”
And so he started over. He abandoned the Fruit Bats band name that carried him for 16 years and five successful studio albums. He ditched the moniker that connected him to stints playing with The Shins and Vetiver and Califone. Instead, Johnson continued pursuing other musical passions. He focused more on scoring films (having already contributed to works like Smashed and Our Idiot Brother). He produced Breathe Owl Breathe’s 2013 album Passage of Pegasus and grew his Huichica Music Festival in Sonoma, California.
Then, in 2014, Johnson released a solo album. That record, released under his own name and simply titled EDJ, “was the outpouring of grief” resulting from those experiences.
“The EDJ record was about how making something—like a person—is really easy for some people and really not for some people,” he says. “I was so sad about that, but also fearful to discuss it.”
In the process of grieving, reflecting, and resigning himself to his new realities, Johnson realized how much weight a name can carry and how much of his sense of self was contained in just two small words.
Eric D. Johnson is Fruit Bats. And Fruit Bats is back.
“I’m finding my identity again,” he begins, “which is somehow, weirdly this dumb fake punk rock name that I put on a four-track tape.”
Fruit Bats’ sixth album Absolute Loser represents a triumphant return to name, form, and self. Despite implications, its title refers to the furthest depths of loss itself, rather than the state of those who have lost something. It’s the most honest, most confessional album of Fruit Bats’ career.
Johnson draws from deeply those personal experiences, yet Absolute Loser encapsulates universal themes and emotions. While “My Sweet Midwest” could be taken completely literally, it addresses the holistic nature of finding your center during turmoil. “Baby Bluebird” stings in its portrayal of losing what you never really had. Album closer “Don’t You Know That” is about picking yourself up, even when no one seems to care how far you fell.
Musically, Absolute Loser retains the same structural pop elements that made Fruit Bats so beloved in the first place. Its simple sounding melodies belie such thick musical textures, as some tracks incorporate up to 10 guitar tracks layered on top of each other. Johnson also hearkens back to his days teaching banjo at Chicago’s Old Town School of Folk Music, and that instrumentation adds a folksy, Americana spirit to record.
Fruit Bats’ rebirth parallels Johnson’s resiliency, and Absolute Loser is his treaty on how to redefine oneself after tragedy. Although he maintains that he doesn’t have it all figured out quite yet, Johnson acknowledges that with that self-awareness comes some sort of acceptance.
“I am what I am,” he says. “And that’s freeing in a way.”
Once self-described as "bi-polar folk," LA-based musician and raconteur KERA has established themselves as both a gifted songwriter and a compelling performer. In an industry that relies so heavily on image and brand, their decision to cut against the current and reconnect to their music in it's most primordial forms has lead to the growth from Kera and the Lesbians to simply KERA.
This change is marked by a number of creative endeavors; their debut EP / film Fall. Apart., a new single with Devendra Barnhart, and an upcoming tour with Y La Bamba. With all of these, we are gifted a series of new projects that reflect something more honest, open, wounded and powerful. What emerges is KERA.