Jeff the Brotherhood {Interview}

             If you were anything like me in high school, you spent a lot of time daydreaming about being somewhere (read: anywhere) else. If you weren’t popular and didn’t play sports, it’s pretty much the only thing you could do in high school— and my daydream was always the same. I fell into a grand tradition of dreamers just like me, a legacy filled with all the other band-tee wearing, crappy guitar playing, long haired, pent-up, smoking-in-the-boys-room, drumsticks in your backpack, pseudo rebellious types that have littered high schools everywhere since Elvis Presley first shook his ass on stage. I dreamed of starting a rock band. 

            When you’re a teenager, it sounds fucking awesome. What could be better than hanging out with your friends, drinking too much beer, and slamming your instruments together in your Uncle’s garage? Nothing. But then something happens. You start to value things like money and showers and relationships and you realize that sometimes it feels good to wake up without a hang over. You start to change. Playing your songs in filthy clubs to drunken buffoons suddenly seems soul crushing and a pretty lousy way to make a very small (if any) amount of money. So, most reasonable people give up the dream.

            But Jeff the Brotherhood are not reasonable people. They’re the ones that stayed in that garage, the ones that bought a van with the money they made from crappy shows, booked tours, dropped out of college, played every filthy club they could, had a few more beers when everyone else was going to bed, hit the open road in search of the next fix, next club, next buck, and never looked back. They make their living embodying that high school fantasy, the one the rest of us gave up.

            This is why I think garage rock and bands like Jeff the Brotherhood resonate with us. They make us think we could do what they do. You listen to the simplistic chord progressions and lyrics like, “I want a place where I can smoke meats,” and think, “I could do that.”

            But actually, we can’t. Most of us couldn’t do what Jeff the Brotherhood does. Because it’s not about writing the song— it’s about committing to the lifestyle.

            I had the chance to talk with Jamin Orrall, drummer of Jeff the Brotherhood, as they drove up the coast on their fall tour. The band consists of two brother Jamin and Jeff Orrall, and their songs pack a pretty substantial punch— especially considering they have all of two members. It’s your basic garage rock, with a brash tendency to break off into pop punk territory whenever they find themselves in the mood. They sing about beer and having a good time and effortless convey their own simplistic, yet full throttled, interpretation of no-frills rock n’ roll.

            When I finally get Jamin on the phone, he sounds the way most band members I interview sound— tired. He explains how they’re heading up the coast in their van (they used to tour in a converted school bus, but had to sell it due to the fact that it got eight— that’s right, eight— miles to the gallon) and his voice holds just enough fatigue and agitation to let me know he’s not stoked about this, that an interview is the last thing he wants to do. I tell him I completely understand, but that I’m gonna ask him a bunch of questions anyway.

            “Shoot,” he says without a hint of vocal inflection. This guy is not in a good mood.

            First, I ask him about Dan Auerbach from the Black Keys. Dan produced their recent album, Hypnotic Nights, at his Easy Eye Sound Studio in the guys hometown of Nashville. It was their first album for Warner Bothers and the first album they had a producer work with them on.

            “Honestly, Dan just hung out,” he says. “We always have our songs totally done before we go into the studio… so he’s really just there to put in his opinion.”

            We go on to talk about how the whole album was recorded in just one week, a feat most bands don’t even attempt.

            “It’s just not that hard for us,” he says. “Me and Jeff usually have it figured out before we go in.” 

            I ask what it’s like to be in a band with his brother, if they’ve ever had any Oasis-type feuds. His answer is exactly how someone who’s been asked this question a hundred times would answer it.

            “We treat each other as equals. We are respectful and truthful with each other.”

            His voice sounds like how a classroom full of students sound when they’re forced to say good morning to someone, like the whole spiel is one long, stretched out word without pitch or rhythm.

            In my mind, this interview is falling to pieces. Plus, my phone reception keeps cutting out, prompting a lot of, can you here me now‘s. No one like’s that. But through the static, I ask him about how they started out.

            “You and your brother have been playing music since high school, when did the possibility of doing this for a living come into mind?”

            “Well….” he starts in slow. “I’ve been playing music since I was thirteen, so middle school actually, and we only started making money a few years ago. It was a slow build to get to that point.”

            Not really an answer, but I move on.

            “So what’s most surprising about actually living out your dream? Is this what you imagined it looking like?”

            “Honestly,” he says, becoming ever-so-slightly more engaged. “The biggest surprise is just that we are making it. I can’t remember a time or place where I first thought about making it— I just always did. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t. Once I started [playing music], I just never stopped. My first tour was when I was sixteen, this is just my life now.”

            I ask him if there’s a downside to all of this, if being on the road for a living eventually takes its toll. He reply’s with some few go-to lines about how it’s such a “great opportunity” and how he gets to “see the whole country.” But then he down shifts.

            “You just can’t commit to anything,” he says, the whir of tires on asphalt audible from across the phone line, another coast line passing him by. “You can’t really have a home.”

            I wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t— so ask another question.

            “Your brother once said that sometimes your fans take you guys too seriously,” I say. “Music is now your full-time job, how seriously do you take that?”

            “I don’t take anything seriously,” he says without a moments pause.

            “Anything?”

            “Yeah, I try not to take anything seriously at all.”

            Crazy.

            “What do you hope for the future of Jeff the Brotherhood?”

            “We’re just going with the flow,” he says. I picture him looking out the window as he says this, watching the ocean tides drift back and forth— but that’s probably just my own poetic embellishment. “As long as people like our stuff we’ll be doing it.”

            “What would you do if people didn’t like your stuff?”

            “I got a lot of things I want to do,” he says.

            “Like what?”

            “Oh a lot of things, I have a whole list somewhere?”

            “You have a list? What’s on this list?”

            He blows past the question. “Yeah I’d like to learn a trade,” he says, interested for the first time in what he’s saying. “I’d just like stability.”

            ….which strikes me as fascinating.

            In high school, I would have done anything to be Jamin. I would have committed some very questionable deeds to have the life he’s living now. But he just wants what I had— stability. When I was young, the thought of stability made me cringe. I never wanted such a thing— to know the in’s and out’s of your day before it began. But that was before I ever knew what it was like to truly live recklessly, to live at the mercy of an audience and never be able to commit yourself to any one thing. It’s a maddening lifestyle, but one that is sought out as if it were golden.

            Jeff the Brotherhood is living the dream. They’re touring around the world making a name for themselves, collaborating with esteemed artists such as Best Coast, Black Keys, Jack White, and Ty Segall, and they’re doing their best not to take any of it seriously. But somehow, through all that travel and excitement, they can’t help but dream of the life you yourself probably have. The dream is not quiet what we all hoped it would be.

            Now, would they trade their lives with yours? Fuck no. Your life is probably a lot more boring than theirs. But it’s worth noting that even when you have it all, you really don’t. You’ll never have it all. Jeff the Brotherhood is living the high school, rock n roll fantasy for many— but for everything we get, we give up something else.

            “So you guys sing about beer a lot,” I say. “You guys got a favorite.”

            He pauses for a moment. “Budweiser,” he says. “It’s the king of beers, man.”

            That about ends it. Before getting off the phone, I thank him for his time and he thanks me in return. I take my notes upstairs to my room where I write this all down and pick up my old guitar, the one I played in high school in front of the mirror— just dreaming of the day I could leave everything behind and tour up the coast line. Now, I interview people who actually live that fantasy. And through our talks and all the standard interview questions and answers, I learn again and again the harsh truths of getting it all— that it’s never enough.

            You’d think we would learn this lesson, figure out that the grass isn’t always greener, that we should always be grateful and strive to do the best with what we have. But as I jam on my guitar, playing all the old songs I once hoped would get me somewhere, I can’t help but think— maybe I should start a band.

            Once rock n’ roll grabs hold, it doesn’t let go. Some habits die hard. Some don’t die at all.  Jeff the Brotherhood— we salute you.