By Emily Eveland
By Sarah Stanley-Ayre
By CP Staff
By Zach McCormick
By Jack Spencer
By Sarah Stanley-Ayre
By Rob van Alstyne
By Zach McCormick
Listening to the gravelly purr of Smattering singer Matt Olson, you'd never guess he's the owner of a mile-running maw in casual conversation. Fifteen minutes into our two-hour chat, he's yammering at the speed of French about the old days in his once hyped, now defunct Minneapolis band Balloon Guy. He remembers a certain hefty $30 espresso bill paid for by a label flunky, and the time he hollered at Capitol Records CEO Gary Gersh on top of the record company's building in Los Angeles--and as his pace quickens, his barrages become wittier, making it harder to get a word in edgewise. It's as if he's challenging me to interrupt him.
Lounging in the Loring Park apartment where Smattering recorded their glacially paced new slab of indie pop, the eight-song Rajah Pink and Wading Pool Blue, Olson launches volley after fascinating volley of verbiage. He looks almost suave in his navy blazer and puffy, kelly-green vest, like a shaggier Peter Lorre. Our host is bassist-keyboardist Scott Tretter, also of Balloon Guy, who twiddles with some recording equipment nearby. Drummer John Seitz reclines on a futon, silent. Soon keyboardist-drummer Bill McGuire shows up. None of Olson's easygoing bandmates does much to interrupt their chief songwriter, but Tretter does try to rattle him: Claiming to audition the band's finished next record, a full-length this time, the bassist swaps it for Canned Heat's "Goin' Up the Country" and Led Zeppelin's "Immigrant Song." Olson, a longtime AC/DC fan, pauses and chuckles.
The Smattering now assembled around Olson is the fully realized version of a solo project-cum-group he began in the early Nineties--mostly as a diversion from his more ambitious and noisy Balloon Guy. The quieter band was always a wider and arguably more interesting channel for his maniacal approach to lo-fi, experimental pop. Professing an ability to construct songs from works of art and newspaper headlines, Olson would write six or more tunes every day for his two bands during marathon four- and five-day sessions. "I like to become so exhausted that I can't really think anymore," he told City Pages in 1996. Eventually he would crash and sleep for several days. Smattering--then Olson, McGuire, and Polara frontman Ed Ackerson--debuted as a proper band in 1995, with the then barely known Duluth act Low, at Northern Lights Music on Hennepin Avenue.
Meanwhile, the Pavement-like Balloon Guy was going pop without blowing up, scaling dizzying heights of optimism and local goodwill until they eventually snagged a deal with Warner Bros. Olson and Tretter ruefully recall postgrunge 1995 as the year of Balloon Guy and Veruca Salt (remember "Seether"?). Yet success proved a lesson in self-disillusionment. The gilt-edged decadence of major-label life, they remember, bred such smarmy misbehavior as requesting Ice Cube and Los Lobos' David Hidalgo as producers for the band's record. This while the band was enduring tongue-lashings for "selling out," from their peers and messing with their freewheeling record execs' minds.
"I convinced [one] I was on parole and we couldn't tour because I wasn't allowed to leave the state for a year and a half," Olson remembers, reddening as he relives his self-indulgence. "I invited him to go window-peeking, and he freaked. Through the industry, we heard the story of him going back to the Whitney Hotel and calling some woman, saying, 'I'm going to have to spend thousands in medical rehabilitation just for that guy's mind.'"
Olson bailed on Balloon Guy after a sobering gig opening for the Goo Goo Dolls in Iowa City. "In the paper was a picture of us and it didn't even mention how we sounded," Olson chuckles. "It talked about how we kind of dressed like Weezer."
He retreated to his parents' basement in Faribault, grew a mammoth beard à la Unabomber Ted Kaczynski, and obsessively fiddled with weird beats off equipment he'd scored on the Warners' dime. He still employed electric drums and synthesizers but says he gave up electronica after hearing a loop-laden Sprite commercial. "I declared the genre dead," he says. "Anything that's so easy to exploit and winds up in a commercial that's cooler than a lot of the [music] that comes out--that's not a worthy art form. Because it's not based in emotion, it's based in science."
He returned to the Twin Cities in 1997 and was encouraged by then-girlfriend Reba Fritz to perform in a Bryant-Lake Bowl "Noiseless" showcase. The music Olson had been working on post-seclusion suddenly felt serious. "I did that show and it lit me on fire," he says. He reconnected with McGuire, and the duo's first gig (along with Fritz, who sang backup) caught the attention of record geek Seitz, who was enlisted to play drums. Tretter joined the band after sitting in at a Chicago show supporting His Name Is Alive. At that concert, Olson met Tim Rutili, guitarist of Chicago roots luminaries Red Red Meat, and the pair formed a mutual admiration society.
When Rutili asked him why he wasn't attending to music full time, Olson responded, "I'm eating a lot of nachos." Rutili suggested Olson rethink his priorities, and the songwriter heeded the advice. Where a kind of sonic bombast colors Smattering's early offerings (1995's Sissy Bar and a pair of 1993 tapes, Tone Bored and Sound Spectrogram of a Casual Utterance, all on the local Generator label) 1998's Bom seems a softer and more focused work, highlighting Fritz's dusky backing vocals.