Bill Mallonee: Heart Made for Heaven, Skin Made of Earth

Photos courtesy of Muraih Rose (unless noted)

When Matt and I started Down The Line I had two interviews in mind that really facilitated the drive to crank up this fun little ‘zine. One was Michael Knott who we featured in our first issue, and the other was Bill Mallonee. I have been a fan of Bill’s since back in the early days of his band, the Vigilantes Of Love. You, the reader, will have to forgive me if I gush and sound like a silly ‘fan,’ but the reality is that I am a HUGE fan of Bill’s work whether it is solo or with a band. Bill writes what many have called ‘thinking man’s music,’ and his out put is the most consistent body of work out of anyone that I can think of. He has been toiling and plowing the music landscape for 25+ years, and he does it better than most.

To classify the genre of Mallonee’s work we would first have to nail down what time period we are discussing. His work has ranged from singer/songwriter to stripped down folk/Americana to alt-country magic that sounds like The Clash beating up on Neil Young. Bill has also thrown his hat into the ring with trippy psychedelic folk tunes and then traveled around with his wife and musical partner Muriah Rose. Whatever the style of music is at the time, Bill’s lyrical work is the absolute strongest that I have ever come across. I think Bill is a poet with a knack for great music. He tells tales and weaves poetry and prose into dusty parcels of American life that reflect his love of family, his faith and his questioning and seeking on the journey of this life. Bill’s lyrics are a work of art in and of themselves. When it comes to folksy, heartland Americana music, typically Neil Young and Bob Dylan come to mind with the older guard… with this generation of artists it would probably be Wilco, Son Volt and the like. Bill Mallonee trumps them all, and I say that in all sincerity. I mean no disrespect to any of the other bands that I mentioned, but I think Bill Mallonee has a gift that few can mimic and most can only hope to attain. The music speaks for itself. The biggest question of Bill’s career would be why he has always been the ‘critics darling,’ but any semblance of commercial success has been very elusive. His body of work is vast, generally putting out an album every year or two, but even with that many records they have seldom translated into the kind of numbers that Bill needed to just provide a modest living for himself and his family.

I remember the first time I heard the Vigilantes of Love. I was driving my car and listening to a college radio station here in Atlanta. WRAS, Album 88, is the indie station for Georgia State University. They played the tune ‘Anybody’s Guess’ off the Killing Floor album. My first thought was, ‘Man this music is great’… my second thought was that we probably shared a similar faith due to the lyrical content, and my other thought was that VoL was going to get big, probably even huge. My friend JJ and I bought the first two albums prior to Killing Floor, and VoL became a staple in what we listened to. Well, enough of me rambling on and reliving my fond memories… here is the interview that took far too long for me to get together. This was a great question/answer session with Bill. He talks about his new work at the beginning, then we get into history, and then back again into the newer WPA material. This was a pleasure to do! Make sure you check out the links at the end of the article. Check out Bill’s work and support his art. This is truly independent music.

You have a song called “Warm Up Act,” on the new WPA 5 EP, “Cabin Songs,” that suggests the Apostles lacked something to put their message across, so let me open with a one of your lyric quotes:

You say:

“They needed trains and train stations, ports of entry and love songs and power pop;
“They needed fiddle tunes and reels, high and lonesome and lots of pedal steel ….to put it all across
And doesn’t every age need its own words…to grieve all that it lost?”

“To grieve all that it lost.” Let me ask you: in some ways doesn’t that last line define the core of what your writing has been about through out 25 albums?

A: I’d say so, yes. That line did jump out as a sort of definition behind why I do what I do as a songwriter. It’s a pretty obsessive quest at this point. We struggle with finding the courage and the words to name and describe our deeper yearnings; For me, songs that give voice to that deep, almost intangible yearning in all of us, are the one’s I try to write. Maybe it’s a powerful line because it suggests that there’s something lacking in our hearts in every age.

What do you make of the term “Christian artist” that’s sometimes used to describe you?

I tell people that’s my faith, Steve. I’m a lousy example of it on most days. I’m a work in progress. If there’s anything good, I can’t take any credit for it. It’s all is the Lord’s grace or nothing is. Yes, I believe that tomb was empty on the first Easter morning. I’ve staked my life on it. That makes things like faith and hope and love mean something. All of life is loaded with meaning, but suffering, too.

Follow me here: It may be my faith, but that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s my “agenda,” at least not in the way the Church views the use of such vocations. When it comes to my songs, my art, I think you can only tell YOUR story and experience. For me that’s been having to find the light in very dark corners. I think it’s a very fractured, incongruous universe we live out our days in, and we are very much “made of clay.”

Our hearts and even our faith seem to be fickle at best. That’s the perspective I write from. It’s what I write about.

“Christian” is a noun, NOT an adjective. Music is either good or it’s bad. It might even be “propaganda.”

I don’t see any separation between the two worlds that Christians often label as “secular” and “spiritual.”

It’s either ALL His and being redeemed… or none of it is. Look, I can only do what works for me. I like the heart on sleeve approach. I’ve spent 20 years now “sensing life” with a guitar in my hand. I’m 25 albums in to it and have written probably 1,500 songs. There isn’t a fall back plan at this point. Songs have been way to keep the darkness within myself in check and a way to affirm what I wanted to be true about the universe. I can’t see doing it any other way.

From 1991-2001 you wrote and released some 16 albums with Vigilantes of Love, an incredible amount of work. It seemed like a band that critics couldn’t say enough great things about. Great albums, great songs, great “live” band. People still talk about some of those memorable shows. Fans kept waiting for VoL to break huge, to eclipse the indie-college niche, but commercial success always seemed elusive. You ended VOL in 2001. What happened?

The decision to “end the band” was the result of a lot of complex variables, Steve. Basically, there were just no more resources to keep it going; each record from Killing Floor (1992) onward had received glowing reviews, I was writing about 60 songs a year, sometimes a whole album in a week. The creative river was just flooding, so to speak. We were very young and very hungry and the whole Americana music experience of being a “band-in-a-van” lay open to us. Back in the early 90’s folks have to remember that that was how you sold yourself… just being on the road.

We played SXSW (South by Southwest) in 1992 and hooked up with Capricorn records. I did 3 albums for them – Welcome to Struggleville, Blister Soul, and Slow Dark Train. Through the early mid-90’s those records were breaking all over a newly emerging radio format called adult Alternative Album. We were in good company there with bands like the Wallflowers, Counting Crows, Gin Blossoms, and Cracker. The problem was that those bands were also cross formatting on modern rock format stations… and sadly we were not. That was how those other bands “broke” to larger audiences. We weren’t so lucky. Our label just could not seem to profile us in the right way. Nor could they actually get records into stores. Capricorn’s distribution was a constant issue. We sold way more stuff outta the van than they ever did in stores. Our Soundscan sales numbers were ok… but not great. They just didn’t get the alt-country/Americana thing despite all the great ink and radio we got. When their version of the bottom line didn’t pan out, it was time to call it quits. So we went back to an “indie” status.

Why not call it quits then?

We decided we’d try one more swing. I had about 21 songs written for a record called Roof of the Sky. We’d built up such a grass-roots fan base from all the hard touring that the decision to go it alone, as an indie band again, was easy. We released Roof of the Sky, and with no resources other than folk’s goodwill and good word, sold about 12,000 records. Then United Kingdom tours started to happen and we found a new a fresh audience there… along with substantial radio support. Between band tours and solo shows in the UK, we probably played 45-60 shows a year there from 1997-2001. I grew up on first invasion Brit-pop, so it was like a dream come true to being playing our version of Americana music for such audiences. There’s always been a trippy, neo-psychedelic tone in much of my work.

So this was about 1998? You released Audible Sigh in 1999, with Buddy Miler (Steve Earle, Emmylou Harris) producing. What was that like?

Audible Sigh was the follow-up. Buddy was and is fabulous. He is, in my opinion, Nashville’s brightest star. Audible Sigh was the culmination of about 2 years of hard tours; I probably went through at least 4 sizable journals of lyrics and prose writing, all the variables went into those songs. It was the band’s very life: The van, the road, the highs and lows of the “biz” itself, folks we’d meet, the geography, hotels, sound checks, the clubs… that way of life became the raw material of how I saw myself as an Americana songwriter. I tried to act as the lyrical “spokesperson” for the band. We did see ourselves as taking huge risks. We saw ourselves as banded together collectively experiencing this whole new way of living. It all went back into the songs and performances, night after night, wherever we found ourselves. I felt like, given the limited resources we had, VoL was pretty heroic.

You were constantly writing then?

Oh yes, there were about 125 songs from that 3 year era that I wrote then. Just raw data I worked with, it all went back into the songs. It was a template for the life I was leading. No safety nets beneath us. It tests your faith, especially when people let you down repeatedly. Seeing this great country of vast incongruities and beauty as a songwriter from the window of a van was a huge “defining moment” for me. Songs like Solar System and Resplendent “showed up” at sound checks and we’d hammer them into shape right there and play them the next night. Buddy was incredibly affirming. He played a few parts on the album and Julie Miller (Buddy’s wife) sang harmonies on many tracks.

Why did you release the record 3 different times?

Pretty much forced to. The original label folded but gave us the masters, a stroke of luck. So we shopped it around. In 1999 the industry was playing everything real safe. We were told by 3 major labels that we’d have to sell 250,000 records to be signed up. So we ended up releasing it 3 times: once for a festival, again on a small Christian label, and finally on Compass. It was odd beyond measure that such a record should have come out on a Christian label, but there ya’ have it. We were desperate to get it released to wider audience because it had such a “buzz” on it and it had been finished for 9 months at that point. Our fans pretty much demanded it. They have always been generous and kind.

With the national release of Audible Sigh in 1999, VoL seemed poised to break open again. Some reviewers have placed the record in their “Top 10 of the ’90’s.” With the grass-roots “buzz” being strong and the UK happening, why didn’t it break?

Well, a lot of stuff had already transpired before it got a national release, Steve. Ken (Hutson), our lead guitarist was very discouraged and quit before the record came out. It felt a bit like a betrayal, but friends let friends do what they have to do. From my perspective, we’d worked so long to have that record nationally profiled and here he was leaving on the eve of its release. The truth is that we were all pretty discouraged at it coming out on a small label (Compass Records) and probably felt intuitively that it wasn’t a good home for such a record. In fact, all that proved painfully true. As to why it didn’t break “big”? I chalk most of it up to management. Our management couldn’t lock us into good opening slots. That’s how you break a band. You put them in front of other bands who are drawing 300-500 folks a night, but none of that was happening. So VoL, in spite of all he great reviews and critics darling status, seemed destined to play in front of its 40-75 rabid fans each night. That’s a formula for demoralization after 10 years. Still, we soldiered on. It’s what cha’ do.

You followed up with the ambitious psychedelic-pop album Summershine in 2001. That record was quite a departure from Audible Sigh. What explained the stylistic move?

Well, remember that we released an EP called Cross the Big Pond, and a live in the UK record (Audibly Live) well before Summershine. So two reasons: One, I felt I’d exhausted the Country-alt thing, at least for the moment, and two, I wanted to write a record that showed all these Brit influences that had informed my heart when I was growing up. I had about 15 songs that felt very Beatl-esque and trippy. All of that was becoming resurrected by touring the UK so much. Basically, Summershine was a record that could have put VoL back on the radio. The radio guys at Compass told us it was full of singles. The record was already getting 5 star reviews from indie online sites like NotLame.

(Photo courtesy of Daniel Peiken)

Then 9/11 happened?

Yes… the devastating effects of that loss were vast and far reaching. Pretty much for a year the whole industry shut down and all projects scrapped. Our record was two weeks old and not even in stores yet. So, Compass did nothing to promote the record. I don’t think they really knew what to do with it. I mean come on? Summershine was a trippy rock record coming out on a bluegrass label? What was I thinking?

We suggested to the label president a re-release in a few months. We’d worked over a month making the album. Many labels were doing that with records that came out on or around 9-11-2001. But, they refused. So, a whole year of work was gone for nothing. I had long, intense talks with the label about it. They were arrogant and unapologetic. Then they outright lied to us about all the supposed preparation work they’d done for our upcoming UK tour. It was all a wash. They had done nothing. We soldiered though a one month tour of the UK during a dark October 2001, but I think we all knew it was over. It was really time to call it quits. There was no reason to get back in the truck and do 180 shows when the label didn’t care about the record.

It was pretty heart-breaking to me, an absolute crisis of faith. How can a band get so much great press and not find some stability? That was a great band of players and we all got on well. Jake Bradley, Ken Hutson and Kevin Heuer were all good band mates who sincerely dug the music. We enjoyed each others company. We all played our hearts night after night, frequently, under the most humiliating conditions. Often our days were 20 hours long. It was sad to see that go and it felt like 10 years of hard work completely made null and void.

What did you all do after that?

Well, you know, you get angry, walk around the block, curse it all, pray. It was also time to grieve. That’s a good and proper response. Personally, I was a wreck. On every level I was spiritually and emotionally a wreck… almost numb. I don’t think I was aware of just how deep the disappointment was. Business-wise I felt betrayed by everyone I’d given VoL to. I could not see how a band that had so much great ink spilled on it, and so much to deliver “live” under the most dismal conditions, could fail to find some wider audience. I never wanted fame or fortune, just having the resources and basic tools to keep going would have been sufficient, but it felt like we were being either ignored or kept out, even in our home town of Athens, Ga.

Ok, tough question: Was it the perception that VoL was a “Christian” band?

Maybe so… I think you mean there was a backlash, like it was an Americana band with a Christian agenda? I honestly don’t see how that could have been gleaned out of any of the records over the previous 5 years at that point Steve and certainly not in the same category as evangelical/altar call bands. At some point you just say, “Oh well, luck of the draw.” You get tired of being misunderstood and ignored. You have to grieve what you lost, lament what wasn’t appreciated or recognized and then the hard part is to put it to rest the best you can…and move on.

Were you able to do that?

Somewhat. In stages. The bigger the risk, the more time it takes to get over the disappointment. Like I said, I think most folks have no idea what it took to write those 1000 songs, assemble a good band and then cut and tour behind 16 albums over 10 years straight at 180 shows a year. There’s a cost for that. To come up so empty handed and in poverty to boot. It’s emotionally staggering, really. I was determined not to be bitter. I saw my own father struggle with similar rejection and watched him become sad and despairing. There was no one really there for him. I think it made his faith stronger, but that was after much self-destructive behavior. It was all born out of sadness and depression, though.

How did you turn the corner on your own grief?

My responsibilities as an artist were one thing. But way above that in priorities were trying to be a good husband and father to two boys. I was very active in my local Church. Add my genuine desire to see my band mates “make it” as musicians, and I felt an overwhelming amount of responsibility to do my best by everyone. I was their spokesperson. It was shared experiences “out there” on the road. I wanted the songs to reflect the authenticity of our experiences across all these areas of my life. But getting over the grief? You don’t, really. You pray like crazy, you try to learn to listen, quiet your heart. You learn lessons like, “I should never have entrusted VoL to folks who couldn’t make better things happen for the music.” Then ultimately, you just learn that life doesn’t owe you anything. You learn to “walk it off” and affirm God’s love for you. Enjoy the past for the brilliant moments that were there. But don’t stay there in that house! You learn to grieve it, to “let go” and bury it. Resurrection shows up almost immediately. In the end I just moved on by writing about 50 new songs worth of solo songs over a two year period. It was what they called “going solo.”

Was that Fetal Position, Locket Full of Moonlight and Perfumed Letter?

Yes. Those were the first 3. The first two were internet only releases by Paste Music. The 3rd, Perfumed Letter, was scheduled to be a national release. It was to be the first “official” solo record. The label’s distribution was a wreck and most of the product was locked up in a warehouse in NYC. The record was a very trippy, radio friendly, folk-rock album, but once again it was just very unlucky circumstances that surrounded it’s “birthday.” The sad footnote on that is that its low soundscans due to it’s lack of availability pretty much killed the possibility that I could now ever court a label deal. Remember, we’re still in the early 2000’s. Labels were still a way to have some resources behind your album. So at that point it became pretty scary. Suddenly, it became an issue of not being able to survive at all, even as a solo artist.

What kept you in the game?

Well, I’d written all these acoustic rooted songs. I wanted to see what kind of response they’d get. The plus side is you learn to write a different kind of song. They become deeper, more transparent, more simple, more honest in a different way. Here’s the bottom line:

You risk more as a solo artist/troubadour. And I love that risk factor. What I found out was that when those new tunes connected with people, they REALLY connected, really resonated! I was now able to write more of that. I became a better lyricist post-VoL. I asked Jake Bradley, VoL bassist who is also a great guitarist, if he was up for doing a couple records of songs and touring behind them. We knocked out the 22 songs that comprise Dear Life and Friendly Fire in two weeks and hit the road. It all went down very well. It gave me a huge boost in confidence as a solo player. Just the two of us with a couple guitars, harmonica and a lot of songs. Very much the troubadour. Since that was how I started out, it was sort of the case of the circle coming full around!

And that’s the work ethic you still have, right?

Pretty much, Steve. At least for the last 8 years, anyway!

Oh, I’d love to add more instruments on the road, like we do on the records, but we don’t have the resources to carry a full band around at the moment.

Ok, Paste Music Magazine, in a non-partisan writers poll of the Top 100 Living Songwriters, listed you in at #65. That had to be flattering.

Oh, absolutely. That poll was an honor… and humbling. There are so many songwriters out there these days. The #65 slot in the poll came at a good time. I was feeling pretty low. I think there were about 50 writers and artists on the panel that did the selections. I was glad they noticed me. I’m pretty unconventional about the way I write. Sure, I can write 3 and 1/2 minute Americana pop songs when I need to, but if the words move me, I’ll put 8 verses and no chorus in a tune… whatever it takes to shake me a bit.

You ask if that’s flattering, or how does that feel? Feels good… I worked hard at it. I love the places a good song can take a person to. So much of life comes bubbling up through our spirits and it rarely has words to describe it. It’s mysterious, and hallowed. It’s joyful, sad, and all of the above. I think that’s where good art comes in. It gives substance, even if for a fleeting moment, to the deeper truths that live inside of us and that are all around us. Before I give, “live” or commit a song to record, it has to take ME personally somewhere. I’ve put out about 25 albums now and probably written 1500 songs. I can say that if they didn’t significantly move me on some level, then they never got finished

Your lyrics have always had that very “private point of view” approach. Where does that come from?

Upbringing. My mom was a poet and valued language. Dad was a drummer, loved the spirit of songs.

Ultimately I think songs became my way of making sense out of all the incongruities of my life. There were some really loud self-destructive tapes playing in my head by the time I was 12 years old. When a guitar showed up in my hands later in life it was as if a dam had burst. Songs became a way of tapping into this deep yearning and grieving I’d felt for as long as I could remember. It was a feeling that the universe was sad and broken and that I was part of that brokenness and that I couldn’t offer anything to fix it. Songs also were a way to believe that it wasn’t all just meaningless. It was a way of wrestling with everything, from my lack of self-worth, to faith in God.

What was Billtunes and how does that figure into your solo work?

Billtunes was a really good idea that Tim White, my old manager, had. It was a download shop that basically made available to fans, previously unreleased VoL and solo material. It was a way to keep my work moving around the circles. There was a 2 year period where I wrote 5 new songs every month for 24 months straight, I think.

Was that just after your divorce and did that factor into the songs?

Yes, right after the divorce. Those songs were some of my darkest. All full of guilt, grieving and trying to readjust. We (Muriah and I) lived well below the poverty line for about 3 years in a row. I sold a few cherished guitars just to have something to eat. Kept trying to play shows as much as possible. But even that was sparse. I lost lots of people who I thought were friends. I was suicidal off and on for a year. Confused and emotionally wrecked. I don’t want to go into my “side” of it. I just learned, in my darkest hour, that after 10 years on the road I had made hundreds of “acquaintances,” but very few friends. I was as broke as I’d ever been. It’s still pretty frightening actually. I think most folks thought the whole VoL thing was much more lucrative than it was.

But, those 120 songs Billtunes songs I wrote and recorded over that two year period after the divorce are probably what kept me emotionally alive. They’re real raw confessionals and testimonials all at the same time.

And those were recorded in fairly “primitive” fashion weren’t they?

Yep, just voice, guitar and harmonica. One track to an old DAT player. No punch-ins, no over dubs. I had no real recording gear. Still, the sound was good, raw and immediate. I think it served the song and the emotions I was dealing with. For me, at the end of the day, it’s always about trying to capture and preserve a mood. The “takes” had to be as perfect as I could make them. It was a song and the performance rendered in that moment. I think it made for some good moments. I’m thinking about re-releasing all of that period in a book set with some liner notes and reflections.

Let’s talk about WPA (Works Progress Administration). You’ve released 4 EPs under that moniker, with the 5^th due out any day.

Well, I finally figured out how to use a small multi-track device and began recording more expanded demos. The songs just opened up, at least to my ears. Still an emphasis on transparency and immediacy in the tunes. I’ve been getting into a more neo-folk and folk/rock stuff, with these very melodic guitar harmony lines. Sort of a return to form I guess. The guitar lines strike me as very beautiful, very plaintive. I dragged out my drum kit and played bass on a lot of them, too.

So, how often should we expect WPA installments?

Right now I’m trying to release a new EP every 3-4 months. They usually have 5 to 6 songs on them and maybe an alternative mix.

And how have the responses been?

The response has been really good. It’s given Muriah and I a lot of new material to integrate into tour sets. She’s a very song sensitive keyboard player with a fantastic voice, so I really enjoy her work on the songs. The WPA EPs have become the next chapter as far as my recording career goes.

And what about the new installment, WPA 5?

Well, it’s being called Cabin Songs. I just left Athens, GA after 30 years and moved to a small cabin in the mountains of North Carolina. A big change but really inspiring! I wrote the 7 songs for this one shortly after we moved there. It rained for weeks it seemed, all of this early Fall, which lent to the feel of the record. I’d stay up all night recording guitar harmonies, really fragile, lush kinda stuff.

And thematically, where do these songs fall?

Well, honestly, it’s been a year of loss. My father died in March and of course we lost Jon Guthrie in a car accident. Jon was an incredible musician and one of the kindest young men I’ve ever known. (Jon was the reformed VoL’s bass player.) I think all of that mortality, including my own just seemed to surface on every song. “Did I Tell You The Bullet’s Still There?” is probably one of the best songs I’ve ever written. Autumn is a melancholy, reflective time of year. Seems I’m always taking life’s deeper inventory them. (Ed. note: We’ve included the lyrics to “Did I Tell You The Bullet’s Still There?” and “Warm Up Act” both from WPA 5 Cabin Songs.)

WPA: What does that stand for?

The name obviously derives from the works program Franklin Roosevelt created in the 1930’s to put America back to work during the Great Depression. Thousands of men and women were out of work with little hope of making ends meet. Roosevelt recognized that the loss of hope and confidence was really the crucial thing. His Works Progress Administration enlisted men and women to build roads, open interstate highways, clear forests, work in national parks, etc. They worked to build dams and reservoirs. It transformed the face of the nation and in doing so, gave people back some dignity. Those works are still with us today. So, I kinda like to think my own WPA will have some of that dignity and longevity. I love what I’ve been allowed to do, and sure, I pray it finds a larger audience. Me? I’m lucky in so many ways and I still find this deepening experience of this mystery called Life, I still have something to say about the grace inside it and I continue to find new ways to musically put that across.