Okay, so I want to start today with a little
challenge for you. Oh, okay. I'm ready. I want
you to picture a band name. You know, they're
usually pretty straightforward. The Beatles.
Metallica. Right. The Rolling Stones. Exactly.
But here's the catch. To write the name of the
band we're deep diving into today correctly,
I mean, to be legally and aesthetically accurate.
You strictly, absolutely require punctuation.
You're starting us off with a grammar lesson.
I am starting us off with an attitude check.
Because the band we're talking about today is
named Awesome. Okay. But not just awesome. It's
awesome with quotation marks around it. Explicitly.
That's the legal name. It does set a very specific
tone right out of the gate, doesn't it? It really
does. I mean, it suggests a certain level of
irony or maybe a kind of defensive layer of self
-awareness. It's a bold move to name yourself
something that implies greatness, like the best,
but then you put it in scare quotes. To undermine
it. Exactly. To maybe undermine that very greatness.
It's like they're winking at you before they
even play a single note. Yes. It's like they're
daring you to judge them. It's saying, we are
awesome. Well, technically. Maybe. Yeah. You
decide. So welcome to today's deep dive. Let's
do it. We're heading to the Pacific Northwest,
specifically the rainy, coffee -fueled streets
of Seattle in the mid -2000s, to uncover the
story of this seven -member entity that refused
to be just a rock band. And that refusal, I think,
is the key to this entire investigation. This
group, awesome. They describe themselves as part
band, part art collective. And that distinction
between being a band that plays clubs and a collective
that stages happenings, that's the friction that
really drives their whole story. So what's our
mission today? We have a stack of notes here,
some great archives from the Stranger in Seattle
Weekly, notes on their albums. We are going to
unpack how a group of fringe theater actors accidentally
or maybe purposely created a musical project
that generated serious rock payoff. Oh, while
singing about some truly bizarre stuff. I mean,
we're not kidding when we say bizarre. We're
talking about songs about what? Technical difficulties
and cell death. And bees. Don't forget the bees.
Oh, I can't wait to get to the cell death ballad.
So let's start at the beginning. Usually when
we do a music deep dive, the origin story is
kind of the same, right? Yeah, a few kids in
a garage. Some disaffected kids in a garage.
They meet at a record store, bond over Led Zeppelin,
get a van. Awesome. They didn't start in a garage,
did they? No, they did not. And to understand
why they sound the way they do, you have to look
at where they came from. They weren't prowling
the dive bars of Seattle looking for a record
deal. They were inhabiting the black box theaters.
Awesome started as a cabaret act. These were
seven experienced fringe theater actors in Seattle.
So stage lights, not strobes. Now, for listeners
who might not frequent the theater scene, when
we say fringe theater, what are we actually talking
about? This isn't like Phantom of the Opera.
Oh, definitely not. Fringe theater is usually
experimental, low budget, often nonlinear and
incredibly intimate. It's all about breaking
the fourth wall. These were performers who were
used to inhabiting characters and engaging with
an audience in a way that's very different from
a lead singer just ignoring the crowd. And the
interesting thing here is that our notes say
that eventually their identity as a band totally
eclipsed their status as individual actors. But
that theatrical DNA. It was always the operating
system for the group. And there was a specific
event that kicked all this off, right? A catalyst.
They didn't just wake up one day and decide to
form a band. There was. It was around October
2003. Several of the Future members, they played
together in a tribute show. Now, usually, tribute
shows are for these huge acts. The Beatles, Queen.
Yeah, Zeppelin. But the band they were paying
tribute to is so telling for their future sound.
It was... They might be giants. Okay, let's unpack
that. Yeah. They might be giants. That is the
ultimate smart, slightly nerdy, alternative rock
touchstone. It is. It's music that's technically
proficient, musically complex, but the lyrics
are whimsical, literate, often really funny.
If you know they might be giants, you know they
sing about historical figures, particle physics,
nightlights. Right. So if you're a group of theater
actors looking to raise money, which is what
they were doing, for Seattle's Open Circle Theater,
They Might Be Giants is just the perfect aesthetic
fit. It really bridges that gap between performance
art and pop music, doesn't it? It absolutely
does. It's music for people who read a lot of
encyclopedias. Precisely. So they do this tribute
show, and I'm guessing it goes pretty well. It
must have triggered something, because that energy
just coalesced into something original. Their
very first performance under the name Awesome,
with the quotes, happened just a few months later,
February 6, 2004. And looking at the notes here,
that first gig wasn't the full seven member lineup
yet, right? It was just four of them at first.
John Ackerman, Evan Mosher, David Nixon and John
Osbold. And look at the venue. This is crucial.
They didn't debut at the Crocodile or Numos.
The famous Seattle rock clubs. Yeah, where Grunge
was born. Yeah. They debuted at the Annex Theater
at a monthly cabaret called Spin the Bottle.
Spin the Bottle. I mean, that just screams experimental
theater variety show, doesn't it? It does. It
places them firmly in that performance art world.
They weren't trying to get signed to Sub Pop.
They were trying to entertain a seated cabaret
crowd who might see a juggler one minute and
a monologuist the next. So they were just a bit
in a larger show. Pretty much. But the bit got
bigger. By June 30, 2004, we have the first full
seven -member performance. Okay, and where was
that? That was at the Jewel Box Theater in a
Belltown bar called The Rendezvous. Again, a
very specific kind of venue. The Jewel Box is
tiny, ornate, velvet curtains. It feels like
a 1920s speakeasy. So it's a space designed for
intimacy and storytelling, not for a mosh pit.
Exactly. So we've got the timeline, but I want
to talk about the vibe. Because you have these
theater people playing instruments, and when
you hear theater actors forming a band, I think
a lot of us instinctively cringe a little. Oh,
for sure. You imagine something overly dramatic,
maybe a bit cheesy, you know, musical theater,
trying to be rock. That is the bias they were
absolutely up against. But there's a great quote
here from Lane Suplinsky, who was the artistic
director of On the Board. He said something that
I think just perfectly captures the tension of
this group. I think I know the quote you're looking
at. He said, if they are not rock musicians,
there is rock payoff. Rock payoff. I love that
term. It's such a fascinating metric. What do
you think he means by that? It implies a visceral
reaction. It implies that even if they don't
look like a rock band or act like one or dress
like one, they hit you in the gut like one. It
means the energy transfer is real. It's not just
polite applause. It's actual excitement. Exactly.
Chaplinsky even compared them to the Polyphonic
Spree. Oh, that's a perfect comparison. For those
who don't know, the Polyphonic Spree was that
massive choral rock group from the early 2000s.
With the robes. Yeah, they wore those cult -like
robes, had about 20 members, and just sounded
like a euphoric explosion. It suggests a wall
of sound. When you have seven people on stage,
you aren't a power trio like Nirvana. You are
a choir. You're an orchestra. You can create
these sonic layers that a normal rock band just
can't. You can overwhelm the audience with harmony.
But the audience didn't know what to expect at
first, did they? I mean, imagine walking into
a cool Seattle cabaret. holding your drink and
seeing seven guys squeezing onto a small stage
who call themselves awesome. Well, there's a
fantastic description of this by Brendan Kiley
from The Stranger. He wrote a piece looking back
at that time, and he described the audience as
initially being. Privately skeptical, but here
to be supportive. I think we've all been part
of that audience. Totally. You're there to support
your friend's weird art project. You're holding
your drink, clapping politely, and just hoping
it's not embarrassing. It's a very specific social
contract. You're ready to forgive mediocrity
because you like the people. Right. But Tylee
says that skepticism transformed into a state
of shock. Because it was actually good. Not just
good. Keeley used these very specific, unusual
words to describe the music. He called the songs
sophisticatedly crisp and architectural while
staying warm and invitingly poppy. Okay, architectural.
That is not a word you usually hear for a local
band. You hear gritty, loud, fast, maybe lo -fi.
You do not hear architectural. No. What does
that say to you? Architectural implies design.
It implies a blueprint. It suggests that every
note, every harmony, every instrument was placed
there for a specific structural reason. It's
not just jamming. It fits perfectly with them
being theater veterans, right? In theater, you
don't just improvise a two -hour play. You build
a scene. You construct a narrative. It seems
like they approach songwriting the same way.
But then he contrasts architectural, which can
sound cold or academic, with warm and invitingly
poppy. So it's smart, but it's not cold. It's
not some academic exercise you can't dance to.
That's the rock payoff Chaplinsky was talking
about. If it was just architectural, it might
be impressive, but boring. Like a math rock band.
Right. And if it was just poppy, it might be
disposable. The magic, according to these reviews,
was in that combination. They used complex structures
to deliver really catchy hooks. So they have
the sound, they have the critical acclaim, but
they didn't just play concerts. Because of this
art collective background, they did productions.
And this is where the band really defies the
industry standard. Usually, a band writes 12
songs, records an album, and tours. Awesome.
They staged experiences. Their first big production
was called Delaware. Delaware. And that started
as a multimedia stage show before it was ever
an album. Right. And later in 2010, they did
a huge production called West at On the Boards.
But if you really want to understand how deep
the weirdness goes, we have to talk about No
Signal. Yes. No Signal. This was 2006. This production
really highlights their nonlinear storytelling.
The course material says their theatrical pieces
often had minimal or nonlinear narratives. It
wasn't boy meets girl. And the Seattle Times
reviewer, Brangine Davis, gave a list of topics
covered in No Signal that just, well, it kind
of broke my brain a little bit. It is quite the
list. Okay, let me read this. No Signal addressed
technical difficulties, recurring dreams, cell
death, regeneration, and bees. Bees. Bees. And
cell death. in a musical production it's fascinating
it brings us right back to that they might be
giants influence taking complex scientific or
just mundane topics and elevating them through
music but celda That's a little heavy for a Friday
night out. It's heavy, but it's also absurd.
And I think that's the comedy element coming
through. If you write a serious, earnest rock
ballad about regeneration and bees, you are walking
a very, very fine line between genius and madness.
Which leads us to the question, who are these
people? Who has the audacity to write a pop song
about cell death? We need to look at the roster.
There are seven of them. John Osbold, John Ackerman,
Kirk Anderson, Basil Harris, Evan Mosher, David
Nixon, and Rob Whitmer. It's a big crew. And
when you look at their day jobs or their professional
backgrounds, the whole architectural nature of
the music starts to make perfect sense. This
was not a group of slackers. This was a group
of intellectuals and craftsmen. Let's start with
David Nixon. David Nixon is a philosophy professor
at the University of Washington Bothell. A philosophy
professor in the band. Suddenly, lyrics about
existential dread or abstract concepts like technical
difficulties seem a lot more grounded in academic
inquiry, don't they? Absolutely. Having a philosophy
professor in your rock band just changes the
conversation. You aren't just singing about heartbreak.
You're singing about the ontology of heartbreak.
Or you're deconstructing the very concept of
the breakup song while you're singing it. Right.
It adds this meta commentary you just don't get
from your average garage band. And then there's
Rob Whitmer. Rob Whitmer is the sonic architect
here. He plays a ton of instruments, accordion,
clarinet, sax, bells, but his profession is the
key. He is a professional composer and sound
designer for theater. See, that explains the
crispness the critics talked about. If you have
a professional sound designer, someone who understands
how audio shapes an environment in a play, of
course the music is going to sound balanced.
Exactly. A sound designer knows that you don't
just turn everything up to 11. You create space.
You let the accordion breathe so the clarinet
can be heard. It's brain power applied to rock
music. You have a philosopher for the thematic
depth and a sound designer making sure the sonic
landscape is perfect. And we can't forget John
Osbold. No, he writes most of the songs. And
in 2011, he won a Stranger Genius Award. For
those outside Seattle, can you just contextualize
that? What is a Stranger Genius Award? The Stranger
is like the cultural arbiter of the city. The
Genius Award is a significant grant and recognition
given to artists who are really pushing boundaries.
It validates that this wasn't just a hobby. Right.
These were highly capable artists applying their
skills to a format, the rock band, that they
sort of halfway rejected. That's the irony, isn't
it? They reject the label. They name themselves
awesome in quotes. They bring in philosophy professors
and sound designers. They sing about bees. And
yet. They end up integrated into the actual music
ecosystem. They did. They didn't just stay in
the cabaret. They crossed over. I was surprised
to see the list of bands they shared bills with.
These are not theater troops. These are legitimate
heavy hitters in the indie scene. Absolutely.
They played with Harvey Danger. They played with
the Long Winters. They played with the Presidents
of the United States of America. The Presidents
of the United States of America. Now, that's
another band that walked the line between humor
and rock. Peaches, Lump. Those are silly songs
that rock hard. It is. And sharing a stage with
them places Awesome firmly in that lineage of
Seattle rock. Seattle is famous for Grunge Nirvana,
Soundgarden. Very serious, very dark. But there's
this parallel track of Seattle music that's alternative,
a bit humorous, quirky, but musically very competent.
Awesome fits right into that pocket. And the
ultimate seal of approval, they played Sasquatch.
Music festival. Which, for a Pacific Northwest
band in the 2000s, was the mountaintop. Sasquatch
was the Coachella of the North. It's at the Gorge
Amphitheater, the stunning outdoor venue. You
don't get booked at the Gorge for Sasquatch if
you're just a joke act. No. That puts you in
front of thousands of serious music fans. So
they really managed to have it both ways. They
got to be the art collective doing weird shows
about cell death on the boards, and they got
to be the rock band playing major festivals.
It's a rare feat. Usually, the industry wants
to pigeonhole you. If you're too art, the rock
clubs think you're pretentious. If you're too
rock, the art theaters think you're lowbrow.
Awesome. Managed to straddle that line probably
because the quality, that rock payoff was just
unadiable. It really circles back to that first
quote, doesn't it? If they are not rock musicians,
there is rock payoff. They forced the world to
accept them on their own terms. And those terms
included quotation marks in their name. I still
love that. It's such a power move. We are awesome,
but ironically. Or maybe we are awesome because
we are defining what that word means for us.
That's the philosophy professor talking again.
Perhaps. But looking at the trajectory, from
a fundraiser tribute band to a genius award -winning
collective, it's a testament to the idea that
you don't need to follow the standard playbook
to succeed. They didn't need the garage. They
didn't need the cool haircuts. They just needed
a cabaret, a philosophy degree, and some accordions.
And a willingness to sing about bees. Always
the bees. So as we wrap up this deep dive into
the world of awesome, it leaves us with something
to think about with how we consume music. It
does. We often rely on labels to tell us what
to like. This is a punk band. This is an indie
band. Awesome defied the label. They fought the
rock band tag, yet they delivered everything
Roxanne could work. It makes you wonder, does
knowing the background of the artist change how
you listen? When you know the bass player is
a philosophy professor, do you hear the song
differently? Do you give it more credit? Or should
the pop just stand on its own? It also raises
the question of where the line between performance
art and a concert actually lies. If the music
makes you dance, does it matter if the intent
was architectural? Does it matter if the band
is secretly making fun of the concept of a band?
That's the question we will leave you with today.
Go listen to some awesome Don't Forget the Quotes
and decide for yourself. Is it art? Is it rock?
Or is it just... Yeah. Awesome. Thanks for listening
to The Deep Dive. See you next time.