Built to Spill in L.A.

Despite my indie rock pedigree (eight years of zine editing, a fondness for vintage corduroys and a vinyl Drive Like Jehu collection), at times the scope of my musical experience seems pathetically incomplete. For instance: I have never fully accepted Steve Malkmus as a great American poet (I prefer Whitman, though Steve does have his moments). I have never been to Seattle (I have been to Louisville and Chapel Hill however, which I think gives me bonus points) and I've never listened to Built to Spill.

Oh, I've heard them, at parties, at friends' houses, in beautiful boys' bedrooms in moments of bliss, and I'm well versed on Doug Martsch's extensive musical history (paying his dues with Treepeople and the Halo Benders, then grinding away with Built until they snagged their Warner Bros. deal). I've had plenty of friends who were diehard fans. But I managed to go an entire decade without ever truly listening to a Built to Spill album until one arrived (courtesy of Warner) on my doorstep just a few short weeks ago.

I realize I'm the last to know, but these guys rule.

Ancient Melodies of the Future, which will be hitting the stores in July, is one hell of an album. Beautiful, heartfelt indie rock from the vast potato fields of Idaho. The same muse as Modest Mouse and Grandaddy only Doug Martsch was kissed while those boys were still in their short pants. Built to Spill is indie rock evolved, indie rock grown up, and after the recent great wave of slick Euro-pop it sure does feel good to hear that American twang, that wheat-between-the-teeth grit again.

When I heard that Built was heading to L.A. to try out new songs prior to the album's release, I rushed to the theater and waited under the marquee with a sold-out crowd, feeling good to be part of something, even if I was 10 years too late. I had been listening to the promo nearly incessantly, smoking copious amounts of weed and gazing at the ceiling in a blissed-out reverie. There's something happening here, folks, some sort of Neil Young-revamped fantasy of cornfield rhythms and farmyard rock 'n' roll that just hits me right, just makes me want to ride a horse or jump in the hay or shout into the big blue sky, you know what I mean?

I realize I'm the last to know, but Built to Spill live really rules. It didn't matter at all that they only played two songs from the new album and that nothing else was recognizable. It was all so damn good; the sound was perfect, the band was playing with their hearts on their sleeves. It didn't matter that Doug Martsch looks as much like a rock star as Phil Collins does, or that his stage persona is reminiscent of a wet blanket or that there were long uncomfortable silences between songs. With indie rock sincerity comes the regrettable lack of pyrotechnics or frontman catch-phrases like "Do you want to rock 'n' roll tonight?"

Still, it might have been nice if Doug had said something other than, "Hey, thanks," all evening. But what do I know about the band anyway? I had to ask my friend (a Built to Spill fanatic who was drunkenly shouting lyrics at the top of his lungs) the names of songs I particularly liked ("Randy Described Eternity," "Kicked it in the Sun," "Made-Up Dreams," "Car"), so I guess I have no right to go making remarks about Dave's stage persona. He is decidedly not a showman. But I forgive him. I forgive him because he's making music that makes my guts ache with a weird sort of longing. I forgive him because he's made me nostalgic for a time that never existed in the first place, a time when the kids went swimming down at the gorge and drove up to the cabin on cool summer nights and the girls wore gingham faded by the sun.

Built to Spill captures something in their music that Hank Williams and Bob Dylan and Neil all felt before him, something American (yes, I know Neil's Canadian) and woodsy and full of guitar wail. I know I'm the last to know, I'll say it anyway: Built to Spill is the band that will save rock 'n' roll.