Say Baby

"I think it's great the public can burn CDs, but I also think there's nothing like watching Bob Pollard swigging beers, and swinging his microphone. You can't get that online." (Photo By Todd V. Wolfson)

Even here, on the opposite side of the tracks, Davíd Garza looks like a rock star: disheveled. Pulling up to Cafe Mundi in Austin's Eastside on a hot August morning, Rolling Stone's recent fashion plate is skinny and rumpled. As is common among that breed of entertainer brought to life by the spotlight onstage, offstage and in broad daylight, Garza looks out of place. Maybe it's simply that he recently came off the club circuit, touring first with Mark Eitzel, then solo, and soon, with Matchbox Twenty. This Saturday finds the charismatic rock & roll marionette playing his first local, non-SXSW show in more than two years at the Mercury on Sixth Street.

Brandishing his sophomore effort for Atlantic, Overdub, a buoyant pop platter punched up by Living Colour's glamour boys Doug Wimbish and Will Calhoun, Garza is the same Texan he's always been: feisty, outspoken, guarded. But friendly. And very polite. Addressing queries about why Overdub was recalled for more work when advances had already gone out, what artistic compromises are made on major labels, and the future of music in regards to the Internet, the 30-year-old musical dynamo minced no words. After all, for Garza, who self-released eight recordings prior to signing with Atlantic in 1996 and built a rabid fan base through extensive local and regional play, talking music is secondary only to making it.

Austin Chronicle: What's being on Atlantic like?

Davíd Garza: It's been an education, a slow education. I never stop writing, I never stop recording. And now, I have somebody looking over my shoulder going, "Save that one, save that one, you can have that one." Kind of like I have this big crop and they know this field is very fertile and productive -- they want that one. The other one that they don't think is unique, I can keep that. So I still have my land, I still have my music, but it's kind of earmarked, because I made an agreement to work with these people. That's something I've realized, is that you can think, "Oh, I work for them, I'm an employee of AOL," but that's kinda depressing. I'd rather think I work with them.

AC: Has the collaborative nature of being on a major label been a help or a hindrance to your creative process?

DG: Anytime you respect someone else's opinion, it's beneficial. I'm lucky that my A&R guy really knows music, knows music history -- is a musician. He knows the difference between this chord and that one, knows the difference between a 22-inch kick drum and a 24-inch kick drum, knows the difference between [the Rolling Stones'] Emotional Rescue and Undercover. He knows a lot about music. He's been very, very patient with me. And in terms of business, he signed Kid Rock. He's seen what happens when everything works. He sees there are things you have to compromise to get to the next place.

AC: Your 1998 Atlantic debut, This Euphoria,was reportedly delayed and re-sequenced a number of times before it came out.

DG: Every album goes through different incarnations and resequencing. I don't know any album that's not toyed with. I recorded so many songs for that record. I recorded so many songs for both records that neither [album] made sense until it finally came out.

AC: Is it an endless dinking process?

DG: The nature of "the album" has changed because of technology. People say, "Oh, well, the classic album ... If you go back and listen to Candy O by the Cars, there's 10 songs on there and it all works because side two this and that ..." Those things don't exist on CD.

A 32-minute pop album is, in a lot of ways, a rip-off to the consumer. If someone's paying $17.99 at Wal-Mart and they know 80 minutes fits on that piece of plastic because they burn their own CDs, when they put that new CD in and there's only 32 minutes on it, they're like, "Where's the beef?" That's what I would do. That's what I do.

I was aware of that at the time of This Euphoria, and if I'd had it my way, I would've put out 74 minutes' worth of music. With my background, selling cassettes and CDs out of the back of a van, people want more bang for their buck. If I'm a fan of Stick People back in 1989, and I have the choice to get an eight-song cassette or a 16-song cassette, what am I gonna do? "Oh I like the eight-song cassette because it's a more cohesive album," Who cares? I just want more Stick People. That's my thinking.

That's what I was thinking with Overdub, where I did so many songs. I did 15-16 songs with Doug and Will, I did four or five songs with Chris Searles and Gemma [Cochrane], I did 11 songs completely by myself. I did three songs with Juliana Hatfield. I had all these songs, and I was thinking, "Well, you know what? Let's just fill up this thing with a bunch of music."

That's me the artist. That's not necessarily me the producer, because I know the producer's job is to work with the label, and the label happened to think that if they were going to establish me as a classic rock act -- not classic rock, but a "classic" rock artist -- that I have to deliver in the vernacular of the rock album, which is Born to Run, Born in the USA, American Fool -- whatever, the classic 32-38 minutes of rock.

But there's a new standard I think. If Zeppelin were able to put more music [on an LP], they would have made more music.

AC: You made more music for Overdub when Atlantic sent you back for new songs after the advances had already gone out.

DG: The first [version] was a drummer, a bass player, and a guitar player, in a circle, playing rock & roll without loops, without click tracks, without samples, without tambourine overdubs. It was a rock band playing loud rock & roll throughout, which was my idea for the album. Atlantic felt that was a little too dark. They felt it was too much clouds and not enough sun. They said, "We love that beautiful acoustic thing -- that little thing you do, where you play the acoustic guitar and strum and smile. We need more of that. Give us some love songs, some piano." So, I wrote "baby, baby, baby."

AC: "Say Baby" was a message to the label?

DG: Of course, yeah. Of course it's that. But they've known me for years. They knew I was gonna do something like that.

AC: You don't want to bite the hand that feeds.

DG: I bit the hand years ago. That hand's been digested.

AC: How much of your audience is Hispanic?

DG: There are certain cities I love to play and I keep going back to, where it's a Tejano dance party: San Antonio, Corpus, El Paso. Pretty much those three. Especially El Paso.

AC: Would you ever do an all-Spanish album?

DG: Oh, hell yeah. But it's not just the language. The vocal is just one instrument in the music. Not putting your kick drum on beat one, that's a step in the right direction. When I hear Manu Chao singing in English, if I'd never seen him and heard "King of the Bongo," one of his songs in English, I wouldn't think, "Oh, this is a Latin artist." But I would get that feeling he was tuned in. Talking Heads achieved that on Fear of Music, when they got in touch with their inner Eno. Remain in Light, the mojo was on. Eno was tuned in. I think Zeppelin hit it when they did Houses of the Holy. They figured something out. Sabbath hit it with "Fairies Wear Boots."

For me, I'm a musician first. I wasn't Luis Miguel, singing from age 5. I wasn't a musician until I was 17-18, when I moved to Austin. I was just a guitar player. I was really into the art and craft of music. For me, there's singing in Spanish, and playing in Spanish. I can sing in Spanish if I need to. I sing in Spanish for my mom all the time. Here and there, I sing in Spanish. But I don't feel like I have a command over the language to do it justice at this point. It's just not something I'm interested in. It's something I'd like to do, but not now. Maybe November or December, not September.

AC: Why the "rock" album now?

DG: It's the one thing I haven't done. I've done the play-along-to-the-loop thing. I've done the lonely guy with the four-track thing. I've done the bongo/upright bass/acoustic guitar thing. I've done the solo acoustic thing. The one thing I hadn't done was that big, bold thing, where it's just big beats driving. I'm really proud of a lot of what made it onto Overdub.

AC: What about making music on the Internet?

DG: I'm the wrong person to ask. I don't know how to turn on a computer, I don't use computers. They're not a part of my life in any way. If an MP3 came up and whacked me in the face, I couldn't tell you what it was. I don't care. To me, that's like asking a director about some projection equipment: "Should we be using this projector or this one to show your movie on?" Who cares? That's not my job.

AC: But isn't the Internet the ultimate DIY musical path? Your career has been all DIY.

DG: To me, "Do-It-Yourself" means monitors and P.A., people, and a stage and some microphones. That's do-it-yourself. I learned it from Ani DiFranco, touring with her. Sure, she sold a bunch of her catalog every night, but you should see when Ani walks onstage -- nothing else matters. I don't think that can be achieved by staring at a screen, period. I don't care if it's a live chat with Ani or some via satellite downloading crap. There's nothing like that.

For me, it's the same. I never sold a bunch of records in stores. That's maybe why; I sold 'em at gigs. I think it's great there's all these people downloading music. I think it's great the public can burn CDs, but I also think there's nothing like watching Bob Pollard swigging beers, and swinging his microphone. You can't get that online. There's nothing like watching Laetitia from Stereolab just standing there. That's do-it-yourself -- getting in the van and going.