Last of the Blacksmiths (left to right: Nigel Pavao, Nathan Wanta, Bert Garibay)
Last of the Blacksmiths began playing together as a band in San Francisco in 2003. By the time they recorded and released an eponymous album in 2005, they had garnered a dedicated local following. In 2006, the band joined Vanguard Squad with the release of a two-song single, And Then Some. Shortly after, they began recording their second full-length album, Young Family Song, which was released on May Day, 2008.
Since they've been together, the Blacksmiths have developed a catalog filled with veritable triumphs. Their songs will outlive the time in which they are written and, when considered as a whole, gather a lifetime worth of lived experiences. The Blacksmiths are my favorite kind of band. They are comfortable doing their own thing; they develop that "thing" together and then unabatedly set it alight on stage and on their recordings. They take their art seriously without taking themselves too seriously. Their songs are engaging in a unique way that makes me think about all sorts of things I would likely not have considered had I not heard the song.
This caliber of songs is the result of a band that started as a group of musicians but has become dear friends. To spend time with this band is to realize how much a part of each other's lives they are. This new album, Young Family Song, is evidence of that closeness. It is a beautiful and unique experience to explore their imaginations together and build songs from whispers, dreams and fleeting moments nearly lost to time. To do this--to really do this--means making oneself vulnerable. This kind of art requires letting go, being comfortable exploring your helplessness and your desires. In the case of the Blacksmiths, "band practice" means a lot more than figuring out what notes to play.
Being comfortable with oneself is a great virtue. It allows stillness; in this state, one can see the traumas and excitements that get caught in the fence of a lived experience. To develop this stillness of character as a band, democratically, is a tremendous feat. It takes great effort to accommodate the opinions and appreciations of one another. The payoff, of course, is rich, and anyone who listens will hear evidence of this in the songs. The music of the Blacksmiths offers more than just notes and melodies, verses and choruses. When you listen, you can hear through their music and into their lives and experiences; you can hear the influences, the rustlings of their helplessness and yearnings. As the result of this band being the way they are--vulnerable, sharing in their desires and fears, exploring the further reaches of their imaginations--their music offers so many things that stick with the listener after the song has ended. This, to me, is genuine music. Perfect music. Real life music.
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There are two endless directions. In and out.
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The Blacksmiths sing about things that are personal to them without doing so either in a tinselly singer-songwriter manner or in a way that ties the song to "issues," leaving no wiggle room. The songs are specific to the lives of these gentlemen without being limited only to them. The topics of everyday experiences, when divorced from their everyday surroundings, have spaciousness. There is allowance for the song to age, room for what Agnes Martin calls "endless directions." Without irony, the creative examination of daily life is fodder for their musical oeuvre.
So much of today's music is saddled with baggage that weighs it down (relying on form or formula, considering outside opinions, constructing an image, etc.) and, as a result, makes it far less interesting. When you think about records you love--and have loved for a very long time--those records share a certain quality. This lovable music makes a sincere attempt at expressing something--and not necessarily anything specific or discernable. Crazy people can make this lovable music. It can hold all sorts of untruths; it can be ridiculous or subtle or filled with perversion. Common to all these records is their expression of creative impulses that are unique to the artist making them. When you think about the records you dislike, those records also share certain qualities. They are filled with mendacity, gimmicks, faddishness; they offer artifice in place of art. What I admire most about the Blacksmiths, as with most of my favorite bands, is they are determinedly doing what they want. In other words, there is little distance between what Last of the Blacksmiths are doing and what they intend to do.
To put all of yourself into doing what you do, with no irony, detachment, or pageantry, is damn brave. I have a massive amount of respect for the Blacksmiths, who put it all on the line and pour themselves completely into the song. One thing that is unique to the Blacksmiths is Rufus Wanta, grandfather of singer Nathan Wanta. In his younger years, Rufus wrote poems, considering some of them lyrics for songs. Since he didn't write music, he submitted his lyrics to "song-poem" advertisements that offered to turn your lyrics into songs for you. Eventually, Nathan's grandfather supplemented his income by selling verses he penned relating to each astrological sign, as well as poetry, at local flea markets. When visiting his grandfather, Nathan would read the poems and eventually got the idea to turn them into songs. Nathan borrowed the folder to photocopy the poems and later had a synesthetic reaction to some of the words. That is, as Nathan read the poems, he heard melodies as if the words were singing off the page to him. These were the poems that he decided to work into song, the ones that he could hear as he read the words. If Nathan could make some assemblage of a song from the words, he would take the idea to the other band members. Turning Nathan's grandfather's poems to music has developed into a long-term project for the band. Rufus' poems have appeared as songs on every one of the Blacksmiths' recordings. Just as early folk music was a vehicle for handing down tales from elder to young, the Blacksmiths are preserving the stories of their forefathers--quite literally.
Since they set out in 2003, the Blacksmiths have invested time in one another's lives. Besides performing, writing and recording together, they have become dear friends and experienced all the joys and endured all the hardships that dear friends do: losing relatives, starting families, traveling, switching careers, and buying houses. And while 2008 is a milestone with the release of Young Family Song, it's also a difficult end of sorts; Jake Bunch, who played bass, harmonica, and sang is no longer in the band. How often do we look back on periods in a friendship and smile at something that was of little consequence at the time but proved to leave a lasting impression? For most of us, there is only the memory. The Blacksmiths have created something that will outlive them. The songs, the records, these things are theirs forever, and will forever be linked to their lives, long after they're all gone. Being in a band is a unique experience in and of itself. Besides the memories, the band has three incredible records--not to mention the friends they've made playing, touring, and recording--to act as reminders of their time shared.
The future looks fertile for the band. They are writing and recording new songs, planning shows, and continuing to explore the inexhaustible melodies that nest in their throats.
I grew up with part of the Blacksmiths, playing in bands with Nathan after high school and messing around with recording equipment with Nigel. I left San Francisco in 2002, before the Blacksmiths formed. A favorite pastime Nathan and I enjoyed was shopping for records. He and I would spend hours flipping through bins, debating what we thought of bands or albums and reconciling our opinions with one another. To say that sharing our thoughts on music was important to us would be a colossal understatement. While we didn't always agree (me: "The Beach Boys have absolutely no balls!") and we didn't always find the same inspiration (Nathan: "The Swans create a mood I don't often want to indulge in"), we have always come away wiser for the time. In fact, most of our visits these days are consumed with similar discussions, as if we've been saving up all these thoughts to share with each other and it doesn't matter that we're standing in a kitchen at 3 am jawing on about Dolly Parton while everyone else is in the house is trying to sleep. It's a beautiful feeling to find someone else with whom you can share such ideas. And, luckily for me, I now have this relationship with the rest of the Blacksmiths.
I am particularly proud that Vanguard Squad is releasing Young Family Song. In 2004, after I had moved, the band was recording songs and I got a demo of "The Records." For one reason or another, the song didn't end up on their first album, but it remained my favorite. It was the first song I heard by the Blacksmiths and one that made me homesick for friends and the music we shared. Nathan wrote the song for those times when even your favorite tunes can't cheer you up:
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And the records that I listen to
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It's an understated chorus, but one that, to me, is beautifully eloquent. In the song, he concedes, "Found the things I crown my favorite things are things." And it's true; without the rest of it (the intent, the expression of something unique), those records are just things. Just sound. Getting a chance to release this album, after being so influenced by the expression of creativity that is unique to the band, is like coming full circle.
I can't help but feel like I'm getting old when I talk with friends about how some of today's music is terrible. Although, I would argue that there's plenty of great bands who make the kind of music that will raise the hair on the back of your neck, or make you weep in public, or keep you humming their melodies long after you've stopped listening. Last of the Blacksmiths are that band, and for that, I am grateful.
Thank you for reading,
--Bambouche of the Vanguard Squad
