As long as I can remember, I thought nothing could be cooler than being in a band. In high school, long before my friends and I could actually play our instruments (let alone play actual songs in front of actual people), we wanted to assume the identity of being in a band. Later, when going through those character-defining trials and tribulations, the moments of discovery and fear, the victories and failures, these were all made possible because we were doing it together instead of alone. If I’d somehow been charged with doing such a thing all by myself - sing a song I wrote in front of other people, say - it simply never could have happened.
Many years, songs, and bands later, there were a million reasons why it made sense for me to “go solo” in 2006. When you finally build an artistic identity and gain confidence and a sense of self, you start to have crystal-clear visions of what you want, and the only way to get what you’re after - what’s in your head - is a certain degree of control. I wanted to broaden my horizons and work with other people, and I got to do that with Danger Show, and for the first time ever, I conceived of a record and then went and made it and in the end, I’d actually managed to get on tape exactly what I’d heard in my head, all those months before. That was a new and exciting experience.
But then the craziest thing happened: the minute I’d made the record and released it in March of 2007...I formed a band. Just like that, I immediately had a small group of guys, B and Giulio and Frogs and Steve, that I wanted to be my band. After all that “striking out on my own” stuff - my whole lone wolf thing - I went right back to where I’d always been the most comfortable.
This record, my sixth now, is really a band record. There were elements of that present from the beginning. The guys – those same 2007 guys who were there helping me support my first record, and my same creative partner helping me produce it - they were all back. Some of them, like Frogs and J, I’ve been making music with for 20 years now. Even Steve, who I’ve technically been working with the shortest amount of time, has now played on six records and been on stage with me for over 12 years. There’s a shared history. There’s all the best things about being together for so long. You understand each other’s tendencies and know how to play to each other’s strengths.
That idea – a band record – comes into play in a number of ways, the biggest of which was the method in which we recorded it. I wrote songs, sent demos, and then gathered everyone in a studio in Downtown LA in July 2018 to rehearse. We spent those nights arranging the record on the fly, with everyone laboring together to figure out how to make the songs work. They were rehearsals primarily, but we rolled tape from a few mics, just so we could listen back to the process and the progress and make decisions. Then at the beach house in Oxnard five months later, we all got in one big room and made it live, something I’ve always wanted to do. It was in that same spirit that we decided to name the album more or less after the band, and call it Dead Messengers.
Like all my records, there are other elements than connect these songs and make them a group, at least for me. This time around, it’s the Southern settings, and the themes of suicide, death, and existential dread. Most of all though, this record is - for me - defined by the way it was made, and the guys who made it with me. I’m grateful for them, and for all of you. Thanks for listening.
-Marc M Cogman, Salt Lake City, 2019