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January 15, 2006

Response to Carl Davenport, Sharon Rexsmith, and Hardchord Magazine

Written by Girth McDürchstein on January 15, 2006 11:45 PM
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(This post will refer extensively to an article in Hardchord Magazine that we posted on our website. Click here to read it.)

Well, it’s been a few weeks, and I’ve finally gotten around to reading Carl’s interview with Hardchord Magazine. I’ll tell you right now—I was not pleased.

First, I’ll start with the stuff that doesn’t even involve me: the Blue Lantern Café. I spent such a ridiculous amount of time there in my late teens and early 20s, playing, drinking, and having a great time. I was astounded and horrified when I returned to Cedar Rapids in November to discover it had become a coffee shop. I’m glad for Carl’s success as a businessman, but at what cost? Destroying the last remnant of our shared youth? I don’t endorse or approve of the Blue Lantern, and I didn’t appreciate Ms. Rexsmith devoting so much of the article to it.

And my mother, Rosalind Phillips, dating him? Discovering their secret initially made me angry beyond rational thought. He glosses over that, and the fact that I beat him within an inch of his life when I found out about it. But I softened and gave my blessing when I discovered that the two of them were truly in love. Not many people can find that, and when they do, they don’t know what to do with it. I’m glad for their mutual happiness, but don’t think it was all sunshine and daisies from the outset.

Carl says, “Although he says on the website that Abysmal formed in 1992—which is true in the sense that we started calling ourselves that then—we actually played all through high school in various styles and under a different name about every month.” This is true. We went through dozens, maybe even hundreds of names before we settled on Abysmal Crucifix.

Carl goes on and on about the influence of Robin Kelley on my songwriting. The things he did not know about our relationship could fill the Pacific Ocean (were we to remove the water and aquatic life), so his conjecture about the reasoning for my shifts in songwriting are about as ignorant as his views on politics (which is to say, he voted for Ralph Nader twice).

“With her out of the band, it’s interesting, because he knows how to make a decent rock song, but every once in awhile he just goes off. I mean, look at the last album, this ‘Love Song of Gregor Samsa.’ Fuckin’—that song could be five minutes, easily. It’s twice that.” Yet another thing Carl never understood and probably never will: the emotional core of the instrumental passages in my music. Truth be told, Margo and I enlisted his help to perform a stripped-down version of “Love Song” at Robin Kelley’s rehearsal dinner (with Margo taking up the bass for the occasion—and may I say, she did a much better job than Mikey did on the album version). He almost left the project until Margo observed, “You understand that the lyrics only tell half the story, right? When Girth plays, it’s like his soul is talking directly to us.” I can’t put it better than that.

“…I pretty much felt like this band thing was something fun I did in high school and what should have been my college years, but there comes a time when you just gotta face facts. We weren’t going anywhere. I mean, yeah, Girth’s cut these records and supposedly he’s all famous and underground and shit, but he’s really not much more successful than we were back in the day. He just has a reputation now.” Fuck you, Carl! I wasn’t selling bronze records “back in the day!” I wasn’t a wealthy man “back in the day!” And no, I didn’t have a reputation “back in the day!” But I worked my ass off to get that reputation, recognition, and the ensuing wealth. I didn’t “take the easy way out,” as he himself puts it, and I’ve been justly rewarded.

His detailed recollection of mine and Robin’s love affair is ill-informed at best. As I said, the Pacific Ocean is jammed full of what he will never know.

I may have returned to speaking with my mother, but that doesn’t mean we’ve healed. I do still blame her for the death of my father. He had a heart-attack caused primarily by cholesterol and obesity. Who was the one who cooked for him? Yes, you could argue that he didn’t have to eat three portions at each meal, but that’s just how things are done in the Midwest. If those three portions had been a bit healthier and she had stopped buttering his steaks, he would still be alive today.

He loves Backseat Delightlah! but calls The Hedge “too much excess”? This is an unfair assessment. “Too much self-indulgence”? I wrote what I felt after reading that poor Mexican kid’s journal and being in prison, for God’s sake. Again, Carl has always been a wonderful friend, but he’s never truly understood what it means to have human emotions. He’s a huge, evil robot who mocks everyone and everything around him to make up for his own insecurities.

I do respect what he says about Backseat Delightlah!, though. His analysis was courteous and accurate. I also agree with his perspective on the You Can Touch It for a Quarter sessions. I find it surprising such dignified and respectful statements came from Carl. Unless correct, I’ll assume Ms. Rexsmith embellished this section when she realized her real interview material was a tad thin.

When asked whether or not he would consider returning to the band, Carl replies, “Not once. I was never asked, and while it might have been fun for awhile, it’s just not something I’m interested in doing at this stage.” This is an outright lie. He wrote several letters—all of which I have in my possession, all of them signed by Carl himself—and made dozens of phone calls attempting to get into my good graces for another shot at drumming for Abysmal. I had to turn him down because, he’s a sweet kid, but he hasn’t drummed in years. His chops have faded; even he will admit that.

His final thought regarding us doing everything “piecemeal” is a crock if I’ve ever heard one. Again, his ignorance will be his downfall.

—Girth

Edit to add: the journal author was a Chilean kid, not Mexican. I apologize for this error, and I assure you it was in no way a product of the racist idea that all Latinos are “Mexicans.”