Brain candy

Runaway Brain find the pop -- again

by John O'Neill

Since they debuted about five years ago, Runaway Brain have been the quintessential story of a band taking one step up and two steps back. After building a decent, local fanbase, putting out a good

first disc with 1996's Nothing That Doesn't Show, and opening plum gigs throughout the region (including Boston's hugely commercial "Mixfest," where they played alongside Stevie Nicks), the Brain went into a prolonged skid that started when bassist Bill Butkus left the group and didn't end until Lance Muhammad came on board. Add to that a year and a half of inactivity, and a group trying to play music in a city that embraces pop like the mumps, and you have a band starting right back at square one (make that three steps back). But Bret Talbert, the Brain's chief songwriter and frontman, has never felt better.

"We aren't a well-known band now that we've taken so much time off, but I'd rather have done that instead of just settle and get back out on the scene as soon as possible," he says. "[In Muhammad] we found someone who's influenced by what we are, and [he] wants to put the effort into it. I've made a lot of bad decisions, and these things have set us back. This time, I don't feel ashamed of any decision I've made over the past two years. This time around we're happier than we've ever been."

Talbert has been on a small crusade to bring pretty sounds to anyone who has a taste for that sweet addiction called pop, namely '90s Brit-pop. Having toured with the Wonder Stuff, Ned's Atomic Dustbin, and Carter the Unstoppable Sex Machine in the early part of the decade with his former band Public Works, Talbert has evolved, becoming a major disciple of the same emotionally charged, honest if somewhat abstract, toe-tapers as his acknowledged influences penned. And someone who'll cop to Ned as an influence has got to be honest.

"It's real stuff. It's universal themes, things that people can hopefully relate to," he says of his songs. "We're a poor-man's Buffalo Tom. The way they write songs, I'd like to get into. And the way they sing, I'm into that. It's emotional, but it's not phony emotion. A lot of bands you'll hear pain in their lyrics, but they don't have [feeling]. They try too hard.

"Lennon, Daltry, Jagger. You just don't have that suave type of singer anymore. Nobody has balls like that. I don't think we do, but there are times when we hit it."

With no where to go but up during the long, self-induced layoff, Talbert worked out a new batch of songs with Muhammad and drummer Matt Dubuque. They rehearsed like crazy and went into the studio to record their second full-length disc, Put It All Together. Engineered by Paul Provost at Muse Lodge, the disc is a departure from their first recorded effort, which had a more college-radio-friendly sheen to it. Glossy and atmospheric, Nothing That Doesn't Show was a conscious stab at the CMJ charts, while Put It All Together is a raw, unvarnished slab of straight-up rock music. Though barely a step beyond demo level, it's an even and well-thought-out excursion that introduces a new band with plenty of tricks up their sleeves. "All the Tea In China" uses a cheesy Casio keyboard drum loop. "Yesterdays You" rolls along with a basic '60s pop vibe à la Marshall Crenshaw. "Looking Glass" has three-part harmony and a quasi-Caribbean feel. "Without a Doubt" features a driving rhythm that turns inside-out halfway through for a piano solo. And "Always Be Mine" marries the Music Machine's "Talk Talk" to Elvis Costello and Del Shannon. All the songs are simple stuff containing deceiving complexities. The disc is smart and imperfect, which is a terrific combination. There's a certain feeling of spontaneity that comes with keeping takes and overdubs to a minimum, just as spending too much time and energy can flatten a project like a Wheat Thin. Talbert seems to understand that as long as the intent is properly captured, there's a certain vitality to the warts-and-all music theory.

"I'm happier with what we got now; the first CD was over-produced and a little too polished and not as well thought out as what we have now," he says. "The songs are more mature. I really was able to express, vocally, my emotions. We were holding back on the first album trying to conform to commercial [taste]. This time we only did two, three takes tops for every song. Everything just meshed better . . . if this weren't my band I'd want to buy the album!"

Having just started to re-establish themselves in the Worm City, the band face the dual problem of attracting a new audience while not quite fitting in with what's the flavor of the day. Still, Talbert is happy just to have the chance to go out and do it all again -- on his terms. Older, wiser, and no longer chasing the elusive dream of world domination, he does wonder "where we fit in? We don't play half-hour songs with 20-minute solos, and we don't yell and scream. I don't mind playing with bands like that; it's just that it doesn't build anything up for us. We're having a hard time finding people who appreciate melody-type stuff.

"But we do have a lot of heart with what we do," Talbert adds with a chuckle. "We hope the effort's not wasted."