The first time I saw Buttercup, the group played in a church that had been converted into some sort of artist’s commune. The pews remained, but communion was BYOB along with a few stray couches probably kicked curbside by the owners and adorned with hand scrawled “FREE� signs. The room was lit somewhere between candle and firefly. As I made my way to the bathroom through the kitchen, I bumped into one of the people who lived in this free-for-all space scraping out a nearly empty jar of peanut butter as I said to myself, “there’s absolutely no way I’d let this many people pee in my toilet.�
But that was the first of many live Buttercup shows that I would be compelled to describe as experiences rather than mere concerts, since the band pays wombing attention to the details: picking odd-off venues, developing themes, creating mixed media performances and with some uncanny knack, tailoring each appearance to the physical ambience of the room. I’ve seen them klieg light raw rock energy from the stage; I’ve seen them in boxy coffee houses drawing everyone into ghost story silence. Most beautifully I’ve seen Joe Reyes, Jamie Roadman, Erik Sanden and Odie Cole surprise themselves on the fly, coaxing stunning chaos and synchronous awe from their instruments in a way that left behind a wake of goose bumps and breathlessness.
Shadowing them with the dog-eared favorites in their record crates doesn’t really do justice to how they actually sound. Sure, they love the harmonies of 60s greats like the Kinks, The Beatles and The Zombies as much as they love those same bands’ serious sense of play. On their latest album, Hot Love, I find it easier to describe in my favorite moments than I do with any anchoring genres or quick-fix adjectives. On the burst of summer single, “Hot Love,� they use a take where Erik enters the chorus in mid-laugh, capturing the better essence of the song by allowing what someone else might consider a mistake to become the song’s eruption of perfection. Their sound has grandiosity and still water quiet, layer upon layer of built-and-demolished pop structures. Songs suddenly tighten into mug-lifting rock choruses after emerging from gorgeous unravel. Like the Flaming Lips and Polyphonic Spree, they have a musical inclination toward something huger, an intimation of something bigger than themselves and, most importantly, a desire to have a kissing point with the audience. It’s romance.
Lead singer Erik Sanden is a crushing tease. He dances like a trampolining child or Morrissey as a Toreador (the only missing detail, a rose in his teeth). He tucks his hair puckishly behind his ear and knows you’re watching. He’s a natural-born raconteur, a sprawling personality who manages to make his stage gestures feel like passionate mash notes written to each audience member individually. I have no doubt that a schizophrenic in some future crowd will hear wedding bells and the subliminal code of his stage persona: I do love you all . . . from the stage. Unlike any other band who might be inclined to take the magic of creation personally, Buttercup off-the-stage couldn’t be more approachable, a group of socially b-gamed misfits whose humility makes their gifts all that much easier to love. I caught up with Erik to get the scoop on their rising following, a chance encounter with Ray Davies and to regretfully decline the marriage proposals he’s been sneaking into coded on-stage banter.
AMPLIFIER: How did you guys get together as a band? Did it the chemistry kick in immediately or was there a period of getting sea legs with your sound?
ERIK SANDEN: I'm going to answer this question twice. 1) Buttercup has two eras: B.J. and A.J. Before Joe and After Joe. When we talk of the true beginning of Buttercup we speak of BJ. Jamie and I and Odie started Buttercup in the fall of 2000, which was a scary time for me. I had decided to go out and fully front a band for the first time since high school, and though I acted like it was no big deal, I was secretly crapping my pants. I had written a lot of songs for my dial a song in 1999 and 2000 so I felt ready with my songs, but I didn't know how to string it all together. But, Jamie and I had immediate chemistry. He had recently gone thru a divorce and had lived on my couch for a couple of months. And those months were some of the best musical moments in my life. We recorded like crazy, and tried all kinds of new musical territory. I remember that he was pretty much blotto the whole time and totally open to anything. I remember him using a tambourine, a floor tom, and an empty beer can and making it sound like an orchestra. It was a really fertile time for all of us, and we were like a chemistry set in terms of getting along in the practice space. Playing in front of an audience was more difficult, because the songs, a function of being written in weekly installments for the telephone, were so heterogeneous. They were so all over the place that it was hard to make a set flow. Plus I kept forgetting to play my guitar, I wanted to dance.
I guess to underscore how much playing this first show as Buttercup was a sort of coming out for me, I should note that I dismissed the original bass player (for not being into the band enough) two days before our first show, and Odie learned all the songs in two days, and then proceeded to rock in an unprecedented fashion. I wouldn't have made such a drastic move if I wasn't taking that show so seriously.
2) When Joe entered our band in 2003 Buttercup entered a whole new era. Originally he joined as a replacement for our keyboard player. I remember worrying on so many levels about Joe. He had recently won a Grammy for his flamenco guitar work but I thought that his musical perfection might sully Buttercup's loose spirit. So I thought that putting him on keyboard, the instrument he has the least proficiency on, might counter balance his musical gifts. Also I worried about his potential commitment level. I worried that as a guitar/rock star that he would be high maintenance and that I'd have to bring hors d'oeuvres and fresh socks for him (which I now do, to every practice) every time we rehearsed. But my fears we soon relieved. I knew that I didn't need to worry when I looked over at Joe, standing in our foul, foul rehearsal space, sweating profusely with a giant mosquito digging into his cheek as he panted for air in the 110 degree San Antonio summer heat, and he smiled like a child and told me that he loved this band. Oh, and by the end of the rehearsal he was playing guitar on everything, and it was exactly what we had been missing, and the keyboard has sat with dust on it ever since.
You all seem to conscientiously allow room for all of your respective talents to share the spotlight. Is that how you work? What's the creative psychology of the band like? You always strike me as a musical collective and a bunch of kids in the sandbox at the same time?
We're a polite band, gentlemen really. I would say that everyone in the band is unusually giving in a musical way, oh hell, in most ways, at least everybody except me. They're quick to step back and let another jump forward. I really like the way you describe us as kids in a sandbox. Certainly there are times when we play like that, like kids, and it's these times when we are fully engaged and flirting with each other that I'm happiest. I think the greatest strength of Buttercup is the strength of all the member's voices, and how we all bow down to whoever is speaking and try to give him a big, phallic podium, as best as we can.
Where does your love for space and mixed media come from? Many of the performances I've seen have involved an almost obsessive attention to atmospheric detail? Does that just come from believing that the record and the performance are two different dance moves? I also remember a show where you took people in the back and played them songs as sort of an intimate subset of the crowd? Why do it? More importantly, could you be Buttercup opening for Pink Floyd or do you believe you need a certain level of intimacy to do what you do?
This is a really good question, especially about the recorded performance and live performance. I suppose they are different dance moves, but with the same intention. Like a love dance, the performance. And a love letter, the recording. All about how you want to get closer. I saw Neil Young in his new movie, saying that he just wanted to just go on stage and really give, and I was struck by the power of that statement. I want to give, but I definitely still want to receive. It's a trade off of energy.
I always say that we want to make our performance intimate. Intimate, with limits. The one-on-one show gave unexpected benefits: a song chosen for the individual, and an overwhelming sense of power to the band: we outnumbered the audience 4 to 1. I still fantasize of Buttercup touring and playing to America one person at a time. That wouldn't work opening for Pink Floyd, unless Syd Barrett were to reincarnate immediately.
What's the strangest place that a lyric has occurred to you?
It's still strange to me that it ever occurs at all. Honestly, most of them come to me in my house, pen in hand, when I'm ready to write. But "Anti-Antarctica" came to me as I struggled with my broken air conditioner, and thought the words "anti-Antarctica, who the fuck would be anti-Antarctica?"
Your record has been one of my summer backdrops. What's been in heavy rotation at Erik's crib, iPod, or car stereo? Where do you listen to most of your music?
I mostly listen in my house, I leave on my iTunes for a few minutes, and then I soon start shifting the songs to Elliott Smith. I then listen and listen and stare into outerspace. I start drinking wine and shuffle around the house, freaking out on how good he was. This is totally unhealthy behavior.
I heard Neko Case on the radio and downloaded her song, "That Teenage Feeling." I made a mix CD of it repeated over and over. I used to do that with cassette tapes: the same beautiful song just recorded over and over so I wouldn't have to rewind. I fall in love with songs like that. Her song is just incredible, it is totally linear, and beautiful, and I'm in love.
I've also been listening a lot to Roy Orbison. He just freaks me out, how creepy and dramatic he could get. It feels almost punk to me, him belting about crying like that. I even like his Laminar Flow, one of the most panned albums in history.
I heard you got to meet Ray Davies. True?
Yes I did. I hung out behind the club waiting for him with several other fans. He was so energetic and youthful on stage, flirting his ass off and doing semi-high kicks. But after the show he was burned out, like a withered vampire, or Dean Martin on Quaaludes. Very, very tired. But sweet. I handed him my CD and he tried to sign it. I told him no, no it was a gift, and that the guys in the band would get a huge kick out of the idea of him listening to one of our songs. And I told him that, in fact, the band was that very moment performing without me, and that I was sent as an envoy to bring that CD to him. He said, "Oh my, for the lads in the band, then!"
Ever make a mix tape full of message-laden songs for someone who broke your heart?
No. But I definitely made mix tapes for someone so I could win their affections. It was a good tape.
What's next for Buttercup? You're already amassed a huge Austin following. What will you have us do, great musical leader?
Waco is next. On our march northward, north to Duluth!
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Interview by Terry Sawyer
Buttercup's Hot Love is available now on Bedlamb Records.
http://www.buttercult.com
