SEÁN BARNA

Firstly, congratulations on the new record An Evening at Macri Park. The album is an embarrassment of riches, both musically and lyrically. There is an exuberance, a rawness, and unbridled energy to this record. By stepping back for a moment, how did you expand upon your first EPs and singles musically and emotionally considering those early releases often encompass a lifetime of feelings and later works can be an extension of previous material or a radical break from the original?

What a cool question. My later works are not an extension of previous material, and certainly not just records composed of “unused” material. Cissy was written and recorded in 3.5 days. An Evening at Macri Park probably took three weeks total. I write the lyrics the night before I sing them or as I am recording the vocals. It is when I am at my most potent. It’s so “in the moment” that when I go to perform the songs I actually have to sit down and learn my own lyrics. Which, to be honest, I have not done very well.

I think it is important to note that I did not sing in public until 2011, when I was twenty-six. I did not release to the public any songs I wrote until 2014, when I was twenty-nine, and none of the songs on my first EP, Cutter Street (2014), existed in any form before 2012.

I never imagined singing and I did not start to write my own words down in any creative sense until I saw Counting Crows live in the summer of 2007. I had never seen male vulnerability displayed, and here was Adam Duritz — exuding vulnerability through his (still) unparalleled lyrics to connect with thousands of strangers.

But I had been playing music my entire life. Starting at age fourteen, I was a professional or semi-professional drummer playing every weekend at biker bars up and down the west coast of Florida. I went to Florida State University to study drums and percussion, and my first job out of college was nine months on the road as the drummer/percussionist for the final national Broadway tour of Mel Brooks’ musical, The Producers.

Cutter Street is my first EP as a singer/songwriter. The first lyrics on the first song of my first record are, “In the end, we go insane when we find our common ground.” The last lyrics on my upcoming LP, An Evening at Macri Park, are “You sparkle when you’re dancing next to me. Your sparkle when you speak.” And (spoiler!) Adam Duritz is the person singing them. He appears on six songs on this record as literally a part of my band. I have other “guests”, but nobody is on 6 songs but him.

I stand by every word I have recorded between the first lyric on Cutter Street and the last lyric on An Evening at Macri Park, and I believe they all stand alone as individual works. I have left and will continue to leave off incredible songs if they don’t work.

The tender opener (Overture Be A Man) with just yourself and the piano sounds almost like an end, post-record. It has the feel of hindsight and instead of it being a closing track, you chose to start the record with it. Was there a mood you wanted to achieve by doing so or was it simply something that felt like the right way to launch the album?

That is fucking insightful and spot on — it IS the end. But also the beginning… no hangover is complete without another night out to follow.

For sure, the “overture” of this record is the morning after the party. The hangover. I was cat sitting for Adam Duritz (spoiler: incredible guy and he shows up a lot in my life), had some people over his place to party one evening, and woke up alone the next day. Waiting for coffee to brew, I wrote “Be a Man” and “Benjamin Whishaw Smiled.” I have the voice memos to prove it.

The same song that starts the record (Overture/Be a Man) starts Side B as well… just a different feel. One is the hangover—reflective and maybe a “little” lonely. The other is the party. Queer spaces are historically safe spaces, but only from the outside world—your demons follow you in. Often that is where the trouble lies. For me, it is an onslaught of highs and lows.

This first track was meant to be a demo (to me, anyway), but my producer refused to let me do it again. Regardless, it is you and me alone in a room until it modulates from the key of C to the key of A, landing on Disco Nap. This song slams open the door to the party, welcoming you to Macri Park and all of its various, outrageous characters.

One of the most overt elements of the album is how full each track is. The instrumentation is absolutely busting at the seams as tracks such as 'Sleeping With Strangers' and 'Thinking' attest to. Was it a very conscious and pre-determined choice to have such a full accompaniment throughout the recording or was it a more incidental and organic process born out of spontaneity?

The songs dictate everything for me. And Dave Drago (1809 Studios) is with me on that journey.

Full disclosure: in 2022, the records I listened to the most, according to Spotify, were Bat Out of Hell by Meat Loaf, followed by Warren Zevon’s selftitled album and “Excitable Boy.” “Busting at the seams” — lyrically, emotionally, melodically — I believe, at this point, is inherent. It matches my personality and writing style, while also making the quieter moments more jarring and notable.

HOWEVER, everything I do with my producer, Dave Drago (I recorded this at his studio, 1809 Studios, in Macdeon, NY), happens very quickly and very organically. The first thing Dave and I did together was my EP, CISSY, which was written and recorded in 3.5 days, mostly by accident. Fast forward to An Evening at Macri Park… I wrote the lyrics to “Sleeping with Strangers,” for example, the night before tracking to vocals, editing here and there during the actual recording session. This same process happens with most of the other songs.

Our general process is: he tells me he likes (or does not like) whatever halfassed melody and mumbly made-up sounds I hummed into my phone, and then he goes to sleep and I write the lyrics. We usually do drums or scratch tracks the next day or same day. The instrumentation, I believe, tends to build organically around the intensity with which I sing and the rhythmic cadence with which I express the lyrics. We can really go all-out and not ever really take away from whatever I am doing lyrically or melodically. This is true live as well, when I have a full 6-piece band. A lot of that is that I have a weird voice that just sticks out. I think, however, that the quiet moments on the record are much more powerful because of the flamboyance of the rest. If you ever meet me in person you’ll see I’m exactly what you’d expect. The songs are an extension of me.

The phrase bending the golden hour often refers to the setting sun and extracting what you can from those fleeting moments. As a writer putting pen to paper in the wee hours of the morning which has its own very special quiet and lightness, can you elaborate on how and what you experience and how it is processed?

I no longer write on paper, as I once had all five of my lyric journals stolen from my car (the same month David Bowie died, I believe). Everything I had ever written, almost literally, was gone in an instant. So now, what I write starts as some note on my phone or barely comprehensible voice memo, usually recorded while walking or driving. Some little, shitty idea—left alone or even forgotten until it’s time to get to work.

Yet, I am constantly observing. I watch for the things that make a moment or a person unique. As an exercise, if you are so inclined, next time you are in a room with other people, watch how those people react when someone new walks into the room. Everyone will tell you a different story with their body language.

I used to try to write and finish songs at home. I don’t do that anymore — if I do finish a song at home I’ll rewrite the lyrics immediately before I sing them, weeks or months or years later. All the lyrics I’ve sang on my past three outputs I was likely reading in real time as I sang the recorded vocal, because I had just wrote them. It forces me to be in my natural place, which is in the rawness and spontaneity of the moment. Not great for real life, but great for songwriting. I recently went into a session in Nashville and wrote what we did that afternoon at lunch while sitting with the band. That space is just where I vibrate.

Aside from the likes of Dylan, what musical touchstones have there been in your career which has shaped the course of your own personal journey, and in what ways have those artists influenced your writing?

Buddy Rich: I was obsessed with him in high school. I’m a drummer, first and foremost. He was so naturally gifted and technically supreme, but was never boring. He never played with music in front of him, had a black belt, and was hilarious every time he was on the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson. I’ve visited his grave, which is in the same cemetery as Marilyn Monroe. His 1969 record, Mercy, Mercy, is one of my very, very favorite records and was recorded live at Caesar’s Palace in Vegas. You don’t have to be a drum freak to love it. The band is on fire.

Janis Joplin: When pure emotion and vicious talent combine. My favorite singer.

Bob Dylan: I want to be clear—I don’t think Bob Dylan’s writing has influenced me in obvious ways. Like Lucinda Williams has said, Bob Dylan gave me the freedom to not write a bridge or not write a chorus. But more than anything, he showed me what it looks and sounds like to absolutely never be kidding. He lies constantly in his music and certainly in interviews, but he is never fucking around.

Patti Smith: The rhythm in which Patti delivers lyrics is undeniable and fierce. She spits out the words. She is a words person. The rest is secondary. I feel that way.

Adam Duritz: I did not think about writing songs until I saw Counting Crows in 2007. It is then, and only then, that I considered the reality of male vulnerability, and that you could put that into words. Fast forward to 2021: the motherfucker takes me on tour as Counting Crows’ opening act. And now I’m releasing a record where he sings on six songs and co-wrote one of them. I will scream from the rooftops about this man and this band, but as a start: their massive hit album, August and Everything After, starts with 13 seconds of absolute silence. Have you ever stood on stage for 13 seconds without making a sound? No, you haven’t.

Adam Duritz: I did not think about writing songs until I saw Counting Crows in 2007. It is then, and only then, that I considered the reality of male vulnerability, and that you could put that into words. Fast forward to 2021: the motherfucker takes me on tour as Counting Crows’ opening act. And now I’m releasing a record where he sings on six songs and co-wrote one of them. I will scream from the rooftops about this man and this band, but as a start: their massive hit album, August and Everything After, starts with 13 seconds of absolute silence. Have you ever stood on stage for 13 seconds without making a sound? No, you haven’t.

The Hold Steady: Storytelling, while making it fun as hell.

Would you say there is an overarching message running throughout the record or an assortment of tracks, each with their very own message and meaning?

All I am trying to do is tell the truth about a time and a place, whether on a recording or live. Real life does not have a message. It just has highs and lows, happiness and sadness, beauty and hate, joy and pain. HOWEVER, the foundation of this record is a queer bar in Brooklyn, and the foundation of any queer space should be that it is a safe space. Honesty is my goal, but it’s not a message. The caveat might be that if you are someone who brings hate into the world then you can go fuck yourself. The other side of the coin is that if you wear makeup and get your ass kicked for it, you need to wear more makeup the next day (unless you are actually in danger).

You have mentioned how demanding the lifestyle is in Brooklyn and how hard it is to maintain. Keeping pace is a challenge and not always sustainable, how have you approached the rapid and unrelenting tempo both personally and artistically?

Nobody can handle it forever. It is never sustainable unless you are the guitar player of the Rolling Stones and your name is Keith. But for me, I know the hardest thing in my life has already happened. That being said, I am much more uncomfortable when I am bored. I move at a fast pace, regardless of the setting. Artistically, however, I am very unproductive in cities. As I mentioned earlier, I don’t really write unless I am recording. And recently I have only recorded at 1809 Studios, which is in a quiet, canal-side studio in Macedon, NY. When I am around quiet, my memory and heart come alive.

Having graduated with a degree in classical percussion, does that training still inform your choices when constructing music as an everpresent technical underpinning to the music you make?

While studying classical percussion, my professor’s name was Dr. John W. Parks IV. Aside from family, there is nobody I owe more to than that man. At the worst time of my life, when I did not know I could or that I would even be expected to, he nonchalantly insisted (required, in fact) that I keep going. I have had many important moments in my life, but I know he was involved in probably the most important one because it was the most important time. Music is a difficult, brutal pursuit. You either keep going or you do not. Period. Failure is a myth, unless you bring it to life.

That being said, even when studying classical percussion, I was moved by beauty, depth, history, and emotion, not technique. You improve technique only to get out of your own way and learn to relax. If you are trying to play Bach with shitty technique you will sound… bad.

On a more philosophical level, what does music give you that nothing else does?

Everything.