The Marcus King Band is profiled in the latest issue of Relix, where Matt Nestor writes:
There’s a certain humbleness in Marcus King’s Southern drawl. He doesn’t sound like you might imagine a 20-year-old would after learning he will be playing at Austin’s SXSW conference and festival for the first time. Shocked as he is, King remains calm, but honored—like he’s been doing this for years. And he has. He’s a third-generation bluesman from Greenville, S.C., who’s already been playing live shows for half his life. His long, curly hair, wailing Gibson SG and eponymous band name evoke links to Derek Trucks or Warren Haynes. But King is more of a mixture of these influences—and their influences—plus a welcomed dose of jazz-fusion. King admits that his band isn’t the first to blend blues, rock and jazz, but there’s a renewed energy here (with all due respect). “I feel like, since we’re all young and we’re really hungry for it, it’s just got this intensity behind it,” King says from Carriage House Studios in Stamford, Conn., where he’s working alongside Haynes on his band’s second LP. If you pick up The Marcus King Band’s first album, last year’s Soul Insight, or catch them on tour, then you’ll discover King’s not-so-secret weapon: his voice. Equal parts soulful and powerful, King says that he finds his identity in his singing and songwriting. “I’m pretty much screaming everything that I feel to as many people who will listen,” King explains. “It’s my form of therapy.”
Now that you’re familiar with Marcus, here’s a recent conversation with William Hastings…
***
Musicians and farmers keep different hours.
“I was catching up on a bit of sleep,” Marcus King said. “I’ve been up since five. Bit of a break now. That’s when I went to bed.”
We both laughed.
“Where are you now?”
“On a run of northeast dates,” Marcus said. “Just played New York and we’re going back in the studio in a bit. Finish up this new record.”
“How’s it going?”
“Put down twenty tracks in two weeks. Some of the songs I’d written as soon as I got home from cutting the last record. Others are very fresh. Some worked out on the road. But it feels good, feels great to be recording them, ready to get them out there. You’re a farmer, you’ll like this one song on the new record, ‘Devil’s Land.’ It’s about a farmer taking a stand.”
“Ever read Ed Abbey’s Fire on the Mountain ?”
“No,” Marcus said.
“Shit. You need to read that book if that’s what you are writing about.”
He was silent. I heard a pen scratch paper.
“It’s one of those books, you know? For the people in there, it’s do or die. Everything’s on the line. When I heard your record it was one of the few albums I’d listened to in a long time that felt like it had to be made, you know? There’re writers out there who write because they want to write, or there’re musicians out there who want to make music, but they don’t have to. There’s a huge difference between having to and wanting to. You guys have to. You sound hungry.”
Marcus laughed.
“We are. Working musicians.”
“I grow tree fruit. Peaches, apples, nectarines, berries. Come through and we’ll pile that van full.”
“You aren’t careful out here you could put on fifteen pounds in a week eating what we have to,” Marcus said.
“What’s there to eat at four a.m.?”
“Waffle House.”
“I couldn’t move fast enough for awhile,” I said. “Ten years. One place to the next.”
“I know it.”
“I know. That’s what caught me with ‘Keep Moving.’ That song. It’s in there. But I’ll tell you what.”
“What?”
“I hear people, my brother, talk about grabbing their passport and taking off if November goes the wrong way. And I get it. I mean I did it.”
“Right.”
“But now? I’m thinking it’s time to dig in. I mean, I’m farming. You plant an apple tree, you’re thinking about the next fifteen years.”
“A whole different mindset now,” Marcus said.
“Still getting used to it. But liking it, especially after all the velocity.”
“But there’s never enough time is there?”
“I guess not,” I said.
“There’s so much music to listen to. Couldn’t listen to it all in a lifetime. It’s a wild concept.”
“Every paycheck for books and music. Can’t get enough fast enough.”
“That can be right, too,” Marcus said.
“Yeah but too often I hear about people who couldn’t get it fast enough burning out too soon. That’s a devouring. Or is it running?”
“In a way,” Marcus said. “But done right? That’s improvisation.”
“Keep moving.”
“Yes. But you’re going inside, looking for that thing and then letting it out.”
“So that’s the hunger?”
“I’m glad you heard that on the album,” Marcus said. “I’m glad. We are hungry. This is who we are. What we have to do and it’s all we can do. It’s all we want to do. Just play. And look, it’s tough. Vans catching fire, flat tires, long miles. But you take these things with laughter, you see the joy in it. I never had a brother growing up. This is the closest thing I’ve got to that. And for the first time I think we’re really discovering the meaning of the word band. Banding together, you know. I’ve got my name on it, but it doesn’t mean anything. A name for a record cover. We are a band, depending on each other day in and day out. And depending on each other to make this music, to stay hungry and push. To laugh. To explore all this.”
“Is that what it is? Exploration?”
“Definitely. When I was younger music was my escape from reality. It was where I went to. Later on, when I was singing and writing more, it became clear to me. Well, see, it was like this.”
“How?”
“I heard this interview Duane Allman gave and he was talking about channeling the music, taking it to that other place. He said it. And that’s what I realized. That I was channeling the music into a different energy. Meditation and therapy.”
“Same in writing. It’s like you’re some weird antennae. Those are the lucky days. Just comes right through you.”
“You go in there and see what you have and then let it out. Explore and push it. I’m a big advocate for bringing music to schools programs. To speak to kids and tell them whatever channel you need to do, do it. Cooking, music, art, writing, whatever, but you have to have a way for it to get out or else it gets buried and it gets dark.”
“Especially now, with what’s happening.”
“That’s right,” Marcus said.
“There’s a dark and nasty, brutal thing bubbling up right now. You see it everywhere and it’s scary,” I said.
“It is,” Marcus said. “But that’s why you have to have that way to channel yourself. That way to look into yourself. I don’t know what I’d do without writing, my guitar and singing. I’m lucky to be able to play music.”
“You guys are playing it in your own way, too. That’s what grabbed me about your album. It’s take it or leave it. I mean, you could be trying out for The Voice but you’re not,” I said.
Marcus laughed.
“No. That’s not even in the realm of things to do. Look,” he said, “everyone wants to be immortal. But, truly, some of my favorite musicians, pedal steel players or bluegrass guys or what, do their workaday thing and then go out and play all night. Most of the time they’re just playing for family, or small groups or something. But they are playing because they love to play. They have to. And they don’t want to be manipulated into doing something that isn’t them. Maybe that happened to some of them already and they won’t do it again. Music is a dear friend of theirs, of ours, and that’s what we’re trying to do. We’re trying to keep something alive , you know, while trying to bring something new to it. One of the benefits of just getting out there and doing your own thing, of being yourself, is that people will pick up on it. Warren [Haynes] and [manager] Stef heard us and I think they heard what you’re talking about and then welcomed us into this big beautiful family. Call it what you want, the jamband community or what, but there’s something there that is happening and remarkable. It reminds me of what you hear about when people talk about the counterculture of the sixties. The issues are different now, but there’s this same underground push. Politically active students, people just coping with today’s society.”
“The road’s changed your writing?”
“More we travel, more I see that everyone’s the same. It’s just different cultures, you know?”
“I do.”
“Best part of traveling. You see we all have the same wants. You get to see how people react, how they get through everything. How they tell their own stories. Music is a part of this. Sometimes I need to listen to Ali Akbar Khan, sometimes I need a band like Hiatus Kaiyote. If I am bogged down, stuff’s going on, I need me some old Albert King. Happiness is a state of mind. It’s great to be a part of that on stage, or to write it if you can write a happy song.”
“It’s tough though. I think it is actually easier to write tragedy than it is to write a happy ending that doesn’t come off Hallmark card trite,” I said.
“It’s a horrible part about society that it’s easier to write a sad story than a happy one,” Marcus said.
“There’s some sad Southern stories,” I added.
“There are. Southern heritage is definitely a thing. But it can be beautiful. Those Sunday mornings I had.”
He paused.
“You can be proud of your heritage, I am of mine, but you don’t have to be proud of the bad things. Why be part of the problem? Growing up in the South I saw that the South was this hotbed of chaos that was trying to cover itself up with tradition, white picket fences and all that. But underneath that facade was this underbelly. This chaotic underbelly that came to light. Nina Simone said it best in ‘Mississippi Goddamn.’ That sums it up. We’ll cover Les McCann’s ‘Compared to What’ and throw bits of ‘Mississippi Goddamn’ in there. Both those songs are as relevant to today as they were then. When all that went down in South Carolina, where I’m from, we were playing right down the street. Right down the street. Our neighbors. That’s a tough reality to swallow. To see and hear that hatred, that repression. It’s wound into the air right now. But, like we were talking about, you give people the right channel, you give them something to look forward to, to come out to a show and sing and dance, have a little smoke and a beer and let go with us or another band, and you’ve giving them something to keep a positive outlook toward. How lucky to be a part of that?”
“That’s it?”
Marcus was silent.
Then he said, “That is it. Doesn’t matter if there’s four people listening or a full room. It’s doing as much for me as it is for you. As long as I am able to release this energy through my guitar, my writing and singing, I’m good.”
