Chris DeMay
Driving Drunk Down Memory Lane
by Allen Cote
Linneman's Riverwest Inn, Milwaukee: November, 2008 – the basement is a cocoon of cigarette smoke, empty bottles, overflowing ashtrays, open guitar cases, rumbling thunder of feet stomping time upstairs – Chris and I trade jokes and toss back plastic cups of Riverwest Stein (“everyone gets drunk before we go on!”); Quinn is slumped on a wooden bench, hiding under a thick wool scarf and Russian fur cap, running through scales; Joe is wandering around, quietly snapping pictures and occasionally tossing a crooked grin; Ryan is … where the hell is Ryan? ... a slow simmering sinks into the pit of our collective stomach, until Jim Linneman calls out “Chris DeMay … and The Whores!” and we shuffle out to somewhat confused applause – Joe clicks the beat – Chris whirls around – and the room Erupts.
The next fifteen minutes pass by in what feels like a single heartbeat – lights flash, cameras flash, cymbals flash, strings flash – Chris leaning, one foot forward, defiantly into the mic, lips curled tight against his teeth, mouth open wider than Jonah's whale – and Holy God is it Loud. When everyone finally exhales, the audience reaction is instantaneous, cathartic – Chris mumbles a quick “thanks” and we descend, stunned, into the relative silence - “We should do this again. Soon.” Within a month we would be rattling the rafters of a recording studio.
But wait – how did we get here? Where are we? We need to pull over – step out of the car – yes, sir, I do know my alphabet … z-y-x-w-t-v-u … wait a minute …
Few people have vomited in the late Jay Bennett's bathroom – well, that's probably not true, but if they have, they won't admit to it; and I'm sure Chris won't appreciate me sharing this fact, either. Chris is a quiet man; but when you pry his lips apart, he has some incredible stories, all of them true. Pulling from his past life as a journalist, Chris' deceptively simple songwriting sparingly describes poignant, instantly identifiable situations; drawing the listener in like a secret shared between friends.
… s-r-q-p …
Working for a newspaper in Chicago in the late 90s, Chris and Marc Alberts built upon their common love of “bands that stressed the song,” forming the alt-country powerhouse West of Rome. After releasing their first full-length record in 2001, the band played a Milwaukee show at Cactus Club with Jay Bennett, who expressed an interest in their writing – shortly thereafter, Bennett parted ways with Wilco, and began producing independent artists from his home studio in suburban Chicago. West of Rome jumped at the opportunity to work with the producer who had contributed so much to the aura of classic albums Summerteeth and Mermaid Avenue.
… o-l-m-n …
During the recording of what would become West of Rome's second record, Drunk Tank Decoy, Chris began toying with the idea of a solo project; encouraged by Bennett, who recorded demos of his newly-written “Cowboys and Indians” and “Open Up Like Flowers” (later covered by Susan Howe, a respected songwriter in her own right). I Won't Be Me, Chris' solo debut, was released in 2007 – concurrent with West of Rome's final release, School and Books and Trains and Leaving – both recorded to tape with Wendy Schneider in Madison. Chris also spent time performing in Michelle Anthony's band; and became involved with Slothtrop Records, Jason Mohr, Blaine Schultz and the More Barn project, a Neil Young tribute album and concert benefitting the Bridge School in California.
… k-j-i …
Kneel to Neil became an annual event at Linneman's Riverwest Inn; and in 2008, Chris assembled a group of friends and musicians for a brief rehearsal, leading up to what Amy Elliott of Fan-Belt.com would later name “some of the most scorching live music I saw all year.” Recognizing the immediate chemistry of the group, Chris quickly booked a weekend at Shane Hochstetler's Howl Street Studios; and with another five hours of practice, four days of recording, and three bottles of whiskey, Bigger Than Small was born. The result is just as electrifying as the live set, with an immediacy and intimacy normally reserved for fly-on-the-wall footage – tempered by crisp fidelity – and a tenuous balance between the punk aesthetic of Chris' youth, and the folk wisdom of his experiences.
… f-h-g-e ...
Over the past few years, Chris has quietly become an elder statesman for the Milwaukee music scene; maybe a bit more modest than many of his peers, but no less revered by the people lucky enough to call him a friend. Between his position at WMSE radio, wrangling volunteers and booking local bands in studio; his tasteful yet frenetic keyboard playing with the criminally under-appreciated Juniper Tar; and his seemingly haphazard assembly of backing bands (he's actually more aware of his actions than he admits), Chris has a knack for building bridges ... and bringing the rock to knock them back down.
… d-c-b ...
I once asked Chris' young son, Enzo, if he knew his dad was a rock star – he just grinned sheepishly and hid his face behind his father's legs. We were side-stage at the WMSE Backyard BBQ, and he may have been overwhelmed by all the tall, lanky, overdressed artsy-types wandering around with glossy guitars and glassy eyes ... or maybe he just knew better. Chris is not a rock star – not in the typical sense, anyway. Far from it, he is a warm, genuine human being – one of those rare people who say what they mean, and mean what they say – and while so many musicians fight and scrape for table scraps, stepping on each other's faces for the opportunity to write a shallow, meaningless piece of pop drivel that might land them in the limelight for fifteen minutes or so, Chris has slightly different aspirations: “I try not to be a dick.”
- a.