The State Theatre Presents

American Aquarium

with special guest William Matheny

Date

Mon, Feb 10, 2025

Time

Doors: 7 PM
8:00 pm

Cost

GA Advanced - $35 (includes fee); GA Day of Show - $40 (includes fee)

Member Presale:

October 31, 2024 10:00 am

Public Sale:

November 1, 2024 10:00 am

Location

The Friedman Auditorium
130 W. College Ave. State College, PA
Category

For nearly two decades, American Aquarium have pushed toward that rare form of rock-and-roll that’s revelatory in every sense. “For us the sweet spot is when you’ve got a rock band that makes you scream along to every word, and it’s not until you’re coming down at three a.m. that you realize those words are saying something real about your life,” says frontman BJ Barham. “That’s what made us fall in love with music in the first place, and that’s the goal in everything we do.” On their new album The Fear of Standing Still, the North Carolina-bred band embody that dynamic with more intensity than ever before, endlessly matching their gritty breed of country-rock with Barham’s bravest and most incisive songwriting to date. As he reflects on matters both personal and sociocultural—e.g., the complexity of Southern identity, the intersection of generational trauma and the dismantling of reproductive rights—American Aquarium instill every moment of The Fear of Standing Still with equal parts unbridled spirit and illuminating empathy.

Recorded live at the legendary Sunset Sound in Los Angeles, The Fear of Standing Still marks American Aquarium’s second outing with producer Shooter Jennings—a three-time Grammy winner who also helmed production on 2020’s critically lauded Lamentations, as well as albums from the likes of Brandi Carlile and Tanya Tucker. In a departure from the stripped-down subtlety of 2022’s Chicamacomico (a largely acoustic rumination on grief), the band’s tenth studio LP piles on plenty of explosive riffs and hard-charging rhythms, bringing a visceral energy to the most nuanced and poetic of lyrics. “In our live show the band’s like a freight train that never lets up, and for this record I really wanted to showcase how big and anthemic we can be,” notes Barham, whose bandmates include guitarist Shane Boeker, pedal-steel guitarist Neil Jones, keyboardist Rhett Huffman, drummer Ryan Van Fleet, and bassist Alden Hedges.

Mixed by four-time Grammy winner Trina Shoemaker (Queens of the Stone Age, Emmylou Harris), The Fear of Standing Still shares its title with one of the first songs Barham wrote for the album—a soul-baring look at how raising a family has radically altered his priorities and perspective. In the process of creating what he refers to as “a record about growing up and growing older,” Barham also found his songwriting closely informed by his ten years of sobriety, as well as his ever-deepening connection with American Aquarium’s community of fans. “Whenever someone tells me that one of our songs helped them in some way, it encourages me to be more and more open—almost like peeling a layer off an onion,” he says. “This album is a writer 18 years into his career, peeling away the next layer and seeing just how human we can make this thing.”

Expanding on the raw vitality of previous albums like 2012’s Jason Isbell-produced Burn.Flicker.Die, The Fear of Standing Still kicks offs with “Crier”: a gloriously ferocious track that swiftly obliterates worn-out ideals of masculine behavior. “It’s a song about breaking down what many of us learned from our fathers growing up—this idea that boys don’t cry, or that crying is a form of weakness,” says Barham, who co-wrote “Crier” with singer/songwriter Stephen Wilson Jr. “I wanted to send the message that it’s not natural to bottle everything up inside, because all of us are meant to feel.” Fueled by a savage and soaring vocal performance from Barham, the result is a perfect encapsulation of American Aquarium’s multilayered artistry. “I don’t think anyone’s going to get through that first listen of ‘Crier’ and think, ‘Wow, what a great song about disrupting the cycle of toxic masculinity!’” Barham points out. “It seems more likely that it’ll make them want to dance and jump around, and then when they put the headphones on and listen a little closer to the lyrics, that’s when they’ll start to understand what we’re talking about.”

A resolutely outspoken artist who’s emerged as one of the most progressive voices in country music, Barham infuses an element of trenchant social commentary into a number of tracks on The Fear of Standing Still. On “Southern Roots,” for instance, Georgia-born singer/songwriter Katie Pruitt joins American Aquarium for a spellbinding meditation on pushing against the boundaries of traditional Southern identity. “People can complain all they want about how backwards the South is, but the only way we’ll see any change is to take it upon ourselves,” says Barham. “For me, that means raising my daughter so that she’ll never witness the closed-mindedness and blatant disrespect for certain people that I often saw at her age. Because if you really love something the way I love the South, then you want to see it grow.” Co-written by Barham and Pruitt, “Southern Roots” starts off as a beautifully understated folk song graced with heavenly harmonies, then builds to a reverb-drenched frenzy at the bridge—a shift that sharply intensifies the track’s galvanizing power.

Another song anchored in Barham’s ardent belief in breaking generational patterns, “Babies Having Babies” arrives as a finespun piece of storytelling that doubles as an emphatic pro-choice anthem. “It’s a mix of fiction and personal experience, and felt like an important story to tell at a time when a woman’s right to choose is being taken away,” says Barham. After opening on a nostalgic tale of a whirlwind summer romance, “Babies Having Babies” slowly takes on a powerful urgency as the narrative turns to questions of consequence and self-preservation (from the second verse: “We packed up a bag and drove to the city/Shouldered through the pickets and the hand-painted signs/They called her names while they called themselves Christians/That sort of hate’s got no place in any faith of mine”). “I grew up in a small and very conservative town where abortion was not an option, so I saw a lot of people trapped in that generational cycle of getting pregnant at a young age and ending up stuck in the same town forever instead of following whatever dreams they might have had,” says Barham. “I wanted to write about what could have happened if one of those girls had refused to give up her aspirations, and made that choice to live another way.”

While American Aquarium bring a lived-in intimacy to all of The Fear of Standing Still, songs like “Cherokee Purples” encompass a particularly tender emotionality. A wistful reminiscence of all the charmed and wild summers of Barham’s youth, the track unfolds in so many gorgeously detailed images (kudzu vines and fireflies, menthol cigarettes and Big League Chew), each rendered with a loving specificity that lingers in the listener’s heart. “‘Cherokee Purples’ came from me making a tomato sandwich in my kitchen, and immediately getting taken back to all the summer days when we’d get dropped off at my grandmother’s so my parents could go to work,” says Barham. “It’s crazy how something as simple as a tomato sandwich with Duke’s Mayonnaise can take me to a whole other world, but to me it’s almost like a talisman of where I’m from and how I was raised.” Meanwhile, on “The Curse of Growing Old,” American Aquarium look to the other end of the life spectrum, conjuring a life-affirming mood despite the song’s excruciating honesty. “I wrote that after talking with my grandmother at her 92nd birthday party and learning what it was like for her to grow older and watch so many people in her life pass away,” says Barham. “It’s true that getting older is a gift, but it’s a gift we pay for with an incredible amount of loss.”

For Barham, the sharing of hard truths is indelibly tied to his sense of devotion to American Aquarium’s audience—and to his belief in rock-and-roll as a singularly unifying force. “All I really want to do is put words to the emotions that most people have a difficult time expressing on their own,” he reveals. “No matter what that emotion is, when you put it into a song and then get to those moments when a whole bunch of people are singing that song all together, it makes you see that you’re part of something bigger than you ever realized. That’s when you can really affect people’s lives, and to me this record is another stepping stone to making that a reality.”

Many artists find inspiration on the road, but few do so with the keen eye and narrative talents of William Matheny. The West Virginia-based singer-songwriter finds inspiration for his brand of Appalachian Americana at truck stops and hotel lobbies, filtering his experiences through a perspective that’s equal parts curious and compassionate. On That Grand, Old Feeling, Matheny shares that perspective across nine new tracks.

That Grand, Old Feeling follows Matheny’s 2017 album Strange Constellations, which drew critical acclaim from outlets like NPR and PopMatters. Matheny wrote and completed That Grand, Old Feeling before the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic in 2020, recording the LP with producer Bud Carroll at Trackside Studio in Point Pleasant, WV. Carroll joins the proceedings on guitar, with Adam L. Meisterhans (guitar), Clint Sutton (drums), Jeremy Batten (piano, organ), John R. Miller (bass, vocals) and J. Tom Hnatow (pedal steel) rounding out the band. All of these fantastic players are fellow West Virginians and Matheny’s longtime friends.

Opener “Late Blooming Forever” is one of Matheny’s longest gestating songs, as he began writing the track, which grapples with moving on from youth and coming into one’s own, when he was 19. A gently driving beat and melodic hook give the song a propulsive feel, mimicking the sense of motion in Matheny’s image-rich lyrics. “I finished it 15 years later, after I’d stayed in some places a little longer than I’d intended to, both physically and emotionally,” he explains. “It’s sort of a hymn to hesitation.”

“Every Way to Lose” is a slick, moody rocker with shades of Drive-By Truckers and Magnolia Electric Co. Matheny wrote the song after a drive from Muscle Shoals to Nashville piqued his interest in Alabama’s Walls of Jericho trailhead, with that image anchoring the opening lyric. The almost fatalistic nature of that song leads fittingly into “Bird of Youth,” which Matheny wrote the night before recording it and whose roots trace back to Matheny’s days playing cover songs with his father at the local Elks Lodge and his time working in his family’s video store. The COVID-19 shutdown, and its subsequent shuttering of the live music industry, also led Matheny to ponder his own role in a profession that, at the time, felt suddenly obsolete, a feeling that creeps into the track’s meditation on the passage of time.

“If I could meet an elevator operator, I feel like I would know what their experience was like, you know,” he says, with a laugh. “They don’t have a gig. I don’t have a gig. In the same way, I wish there were some Vaudeville musicians still around who had to cancel all of their dates for the Spanish flu. Do you think any of them are still alive?”

“Grand Old Feeling” is the LP’s thesis statement of sorts, drawn from Matheny’s efforts to recapture the electric feeling of youthful passion, or “the singing sparrow in the marrow of [his] bones.” “They had written ‘good luck’ in blue party cups in the holes of the chain link fence,” Matheny sings at the track’s open, and with that hopeful image he explores the many thrills and heartaches of life as a touring musician. The song is also a showcase for Matheny’s complicated relationship with his home state, which permeates the rest of the LP.

“I feel like West Virginia is a main character in a lot of this music, too, the way that people talk about certain movies being a love letter to New York or whatever,” he says. “The lyrics about the Go-Mart cassettes, the unhappily married folks at the Elks Lodge or the Bernard Coffindaffer crosses you see all over the Southeast. He was a West Virginia guy and by all accounts a very prickly hang.”

“If You Could Only See Me Now” is Matheny trying his hand at writing a standard, or, as he describes it, writing a song “where you don’t see any fingerprints on the glass.” “Heartless People” inspires a simple but potent response from Matheny, who sums up the track thusly: “Don’t let the bastards get you down. It’s a cold world out there.”

If there’s a centerpiece to That Grand, Old Feeling, it’s “Down at the Hotel Canfield,” a track inspired by the Dubuque, IA, hotel infamous for a 1946 fire that killed dozens. Rebuilt in 2013, the hotel’s surroundings are as eerie as its backstory, as Matheny describes a visit to the town as being “super creepy.” The song itself is its own kind of ghost story, as Matheny admits, “I ain’t what I used to be.” Like “Bird of Youth,” “Hotel Canfield” came to Matheny the night before he and his band went into the studio to begin work on the LP.

“We stayed there after a gig and we had a horrible night’s sleep,” he says. “And we came back a few months later and played at the same club. And we were all really excited to get back there because we were really fascinated with the place. I was talking to the guy at the club and we were like, ‘Man, we had a horrible night’s sleep. What is the deal with that place? It feels really weird. Is it?’ ‘Oh, yeah. One of the worst hotel fires in America happened at that place.’”

Fans of Matheny’s will recognize the song “Christian Name,” a track he released, with the Centro-matic cover “Flashes and Cables” as its b-side, as a single in 2018. For That Grand, Old Feeling, Matheny revisited the track and gave it an updated studio treatment, with its road-weary message fitting well with the rest of the album.

“I wanted to give it more of a proper home on an actual record,” he says. “It’s very much a tour song, the kind of road music you write while you’re out there doing it. We released our first record in 2017 and then hit the road really, really hard on some spectacularly grueling, money-losing, soul-crushing tours. It’s the kind of thing you have to do when you’re getting a new venture off the ground. Most people don’t get a shortcut around that.”

That Grand, Old Feeling closes with “Stranger’s Voice,” a groovy rocker that name-checks Matheny’s like-minded contemporary John R. Miller and, thematically, picks up where “Christian Name” left off. “We were in a really, really hard spot, with barely any money for gasoline and no money for food,” he says. “We were on the ‘vegan chili circuit’ there for a while, playing in a lot of backrooms of backrooms of art galleries, that kind of thing. That one’s another road tune. And it’s mostly about how you can’t really go home again, either.”

While That Grand, Old Feeling is a document of Matheny’s own journey as a seeker, he hopes that the album can inspire anyone else out there searching for meaning in their own lives, whether they’re searching at a truck stop or in an album of old photographs. “I feel like I’ve just been trying to recapture that youthful excitement my entire life, trying to regain that clarity and that feeling of purpose,” he says. “And it comes and goes. I mostly seem to be looking for it at gas stations and rest areas and at gigs. But I think a lot of people are probably looking for it in a lot of places like that, too. Pilgrim to pilgrim, I hope you find it.”