Interview: Adam Levy of The Honeydogs
The leader of the long-running local band is re-energized and ready to rock.
Over 15 years on the Twin Cities music scene, Honeydogs leader Adam Levy’s been through nearly every stage of the rock life cycle. He’s been the next big thing, with his music all over local radio in the late ’90s, and survived a stay in limbo when the band ground to a halt for four years as a result of major-label mergers. Now, he’s re-emerged as an elder statesman. The Honeydogs’ new EP, Sunshine Committee, is the band’s most boisterous batch of brainy pop in years, boosted by a busy horn section comprising new members Matt Darling and Steven Kung. When he’s not Honeydogging, Levy teaches at the Institute Of Production And Recording in downtown Minneapolis and fronts always-active covers band Hookers And Blow and a new children’s music project, Bunny Clogs. Decider talked with him in advance of Sunshine Committee’s CD-release show March 13 at First Avenue.
Decider: The previous two Honeydogs records, 10,000 Years and Amygdala, were heavy concept albums. Sunshine Committee feels like a different beast entirely.
Adam Levy: I was definitely trying to put together something lighter, more upbeat. Partially because I had worked on this kids’ record [Bunny Clogs’ More! More! More!] and was feeling the need to get some air from all of the heaviness of the previous records. Sunshine Committee served as an opportunity to put a batch of songs together that were more hopeful.
D: Sunshine Committee was recorded under markedly different conditions than previous records, with the band self-producing and working with recording students at IPR. What did you learn from this approach?
AL: It was a bit of a mind game, really, hollering directions from the tracking space while we were recording instead of having someone like John Fields punching all of the controls. I have a lot of songs written currently and could have tried to do some crazy double-record thing, but in the end we wanted to focus on a smaller batch of songs that felt cohesive. We only had access to the studio at IPR for one Friday afternoon per month. We had to get the songs done with the class in something like three hours per session. It’s a very live record; there wasn’t time for much overdubbing. Week to week, we didn’t really know what we were going to work on, which lent a certain looseness and spontaneity to the process—which was really cool.
D: Over the last few years you’ve expanded your musical identity quite a bit with Bunny Clogs and Hookers And Blow. How has the creation of these other musical outlets affected your feelings about being a Honeydog?
AL: There was a period where the band really was struggling, because our identities were so wrapped up in being in the Honeydogs. You mourn the record labels not getting it, you mourn not reaching as many people as you’d like to. Starting up these other projects helped me escape that mentality. It freed me up to enjoy the Honeydogs more, to take more chances with the music. Maybe the next record doesn’t reach as many people, but that’s okay. I feel like my songwriting is getting better the more I write, and I’m still pushing myself really hard to write my best song.
D: What led you to write “Fiber Optic Paramour”? Although the Internet has been around for nearly two decades and has greatly affected human interaction, it’s still an area most songwriters don’t feel comfortable exploring.
AL: Anytime you’re talking about contemporary technology or cultural phenomenon in a song, you have to be careful because it can end up sounding dated really quickly. That being said, I was just fascinated by the hyper-connectedness of people today. Between text messaging and everything else, people are literally communicating novels’ worth of words constantly. But how much of that is just people getting high off the act of communicating? How meaningless is most of it? We’re instantly connected but at what cost? What are the actual benefits? In some ways I love living in this era of constant communication, but in others I find it ridiculous.
D: The Honeydogs endured some dark days in the early part of this decade—numerous band member defections, record-label limbo that stretched on for years. How did you get through that?
AL: I was talking to a drummer friend of mine the other day, and he said the best musicians are Buddhists. Not in the religious sense so much as having a sense of balance in their lives. Being in music is kind of riding that roller coaster. You’re on the road, playing in front of a lot of people, getting great press… and then all of a sudden there’s nothing and you’re mopping your floors and taking your kids to day care. The mundane things eclipse all the highs pretty quickly. It’s good, though, because having those moments makes you check in with yourself about why you’re pursuing music in the first place. I certainly don’t do it for the money—it’s just impossible for me to stop. I used to joke that I wished an anvil would strike me in the head and take away my creative urges. It’s a mixed blessing. It makes me manic at times and takes me away from my family, but I also love it. It’s a long journey, and I guess I’m finally starting to get to the point where I feel comfortable. If anything, the low points have been more meaningful, the ones that challenged me and forced me to look in the mirror.
Decider: The previous two Honeydogs records, 10,000 Years and Amygdala, were heavy concept albums. Sunshine Committee feels like a different beast entirely.
Adam Levy: I was definitely trying to put together something lighter, more upbeat. Partially because I had worked on this kids’ record [Bunny Clogs’ More! More! More!] and was feeling the need to get some air from all of the heaviness of the previous records. Sunshine Committee served as an opportunity to put a batch of songs together that were more hopeful.
D: Sunshine Committee was recorded under markedly different conditions than previous records, with the band self-producing and working with recording students at IPR. What did you learn from this approach?
AL: It was a bit of a mind game, really, hollering directions from the tracking space while we were recording instead of having someone like John Fields punching all of the controls. I have a lot of songs written currently and could have tried to do some crazy double-record thing, but in the end we wanted to focus on a smaller batch of songs that felt cohesive. We only had access to the studio at IPR for one Friday afternoon per month. We had to get the songs done with the class in something like three hours per session. It’s a very live record; there wasn’t time for much overdubbing. Week to week, we didn’t really know what we were going to work on, which lent a certain looseness and spontaneity to the process—which was really cool.
D: Over the last few years you’ve expanded your musical identity quite a bit with Bunny Clogs and Hookers And Blow. How has the creation of these other musical outlets affected your feelings about being a Honeydog?
AL: There was a period where the band really was struggling, because our identities were so wrapped up in being in the Honeydogs. You mourn the record labels not getting it, you mourn not reaching as many people as you’d like to. Starting up these other projects helped me escape that mentality. It freed me up to enjoy the Honeydogs more, to take more chances with the music. Maybe the next record doesn’t reach as many people, but that’s okay. I feel like my songwriting is getting better the more I write, and I’m still pushing myself really hard to write my best song.
D: What led you to write “Fiber Optic Paramour”? Although the Internet has been around for nearly two decades and has greatly affected human interaction, it’s still an area most songwriters don’t feel comfortable exploring.
AL: Anytime you’re talking about contemporary technology or cultural phenomenon in a song, you have to be careful because it can end up sounding dated really quickly. That being said, I was just fascinated by the hyper-connectedness of people today. Between text messaging and everything else, people are literally communicating novels’ worth of words constantly. But how much of that is just people getting high off the act of communicating? How meaningless is most of it? We’re instantly connected but at what cost? What are the actual benefits? In some ways I love living in this era of constant communication, but in others I find it ridiculous.
D: The Honeydogs endured some dark days in the early part of this decade—numerous band member defections, record-label limbo that stretched on for years. How did you get through that?
AL: I was talking to a drummer friend of mine the other day, and he said the best musicians are Buddhists. Not in the religious sense so much as having a sense of balance in their lives. Being in music is kind of riding that roller coaster. You’re on the road, playing in front of a lot of people, getting great press… and then all of a sudden there’s nothing and you’re mopping your floors and taking your kids to day care. The mundane things eclipse all the highs pretty quickly. It’s good, though, because having those moments makes you check in with yourself about why you’re pursuing music in the first place. I certainly don’t do it for the money—it’s just impossible for me to stop. I used to joke that I wished an anvil would strike me in the head and take away my creative urges. It’s a mixed blessing. It makes me manic at times and takes me away from my family, but I also love it. It’s a long journey, and I guess I’m finally starting to get to the point where I feel comfortable. If anything, the low points have been more meaningful, the ones that challenged me and forced me to look in the mirror.
