It’s not unusual for struggling musicians to seek out members of established bands for advice. For Miles Benjamin Anthony Robinson, though, things never seem to happen in the usual way.
Sitting at Dumont Burger in Williamsburg, Robinson sipped Brooklyn Lager and considered his situation. “We’re getting to do what a lot people around here struggle to do,” said the 25-year-old singer. “Six months ago I started feeling really lucky, now I’ve sort of settled back into the mode of working and playing. You know, you get to the top of the hill and look up and there’s still a mountain up there to climb.”
And just when you’re ready to peg him as some wise-beyond-his-years mystic, the Brooklyn rocker within peeks out: “It is pretty awesome to not be working my shitty day job all the time.”
Robinson first picked up a guitar when he was a kid, inspired by his guitar-playing father, also named Miles, who was a comedian and disc jockey in Los Angeles. At 17, Robinson arrived at NYU as a film major, but he found himself logging more time in the school’s antiquated recording studio than dissecting the French New Wave. Before long, he was enjoying the NYC zeitgeist, making acquaintances at loft parties and shows around the Lower East Side and WiIlliamsburg.
One night in 2004, en route to a release party for Horn of Plenty, the debut from Brooklyn gloomsters Grizzly Bear, Robinson made an impressive new pal: Kyp Malone, guitarist in TV on the Radio. And while Robinson never set out to befriend local rock royalty, he admitted that making the friends he did was an unexpected stroke of luck.
“When all those people invite you along, are working on your stuff simultaneously and treating you like a peer, it makes you feel like you’re gaining confidence.”
While his new pals helped Robinson out, his self-titled debut album was recorded in 2006 (it was finally released early last month after struggling to find a label).
Having already quit his day job at the Strand, Robinson packed up and visited Portland, Ore., the town where he spent his teenage years. Upon his return he worked a series of odd jobs to keep himself afloat, culminating in a three-year- long gig creating displays for Urban Outfitters.
These days, Robinson is teetering between a day-job routine and rock ’n’ roll nightlife, not quite ready to sever all ties with a steady paycheck—he’s still freelancing on occasion—until his next tour starts.
“I was just back [at Urban Outfitters] a couple weeks ago, and it was actually pretty funny because Spin came out with a nice little blurb about me, and one of the facts was ‘He used to do such and such work at Urban Outfitters.’”
Though Robinson’s stage presence can fill a room—and it has, with shows at Bowery Ballroom and Cake Shop under his belt—his awkwardness makes for easily relatable subject matter. “I mumble a lot,” he said, making it clear he had a soul older than his face might suggest.
It could be that some of that world-weary ennui comes with the name. Robinson shares his first and middle names with his father, and both were named out of spite. Indeed, Robinson’s grandmother named her son for a distant relative who, according to family legend, “got drunk at his brother’s wedding, was ejected from the wedding, came back right at the dinner and shot the bride and the groom.”
Knowing that, one might be tempted to read into the brooding melodies on Robinson’s eponymous debut. On one song, “Buriedfed,” Robinson crows “trying to patch it up with tape and twine/ maybe I’ll just break/ everything that’s mine.” Over “charmingly derivative” melodies (his words), his lyrics plea for a sense of stability, rocking back and forth between chaos and control.
It’s a balance that Robinson is learning to keep. While buzz around him has been steadily building, he knows it doesn’t necessarily pay his bills. Even though his record has been out for just over a month—and he’s been compared to Bob Dylan and the two aforementioned indie bands that mentored him—he has no illusions of stardom. Rather, after weathering eight years of life lessons that have included homelessness, drug addiction and heartache, Robinson is prime to put what he’s learned to use. In fact, he’s already completed a second album and thinking about release dates for a third.
“It frustrates me playing older stuff because I feel like it’s not our best material, and I’m really looking forward to, in 18 months, when we can be playing a set that’s mature, with all that good stuff,” he said.
“I see myself as a somewhat commercial artist, it’s not like I’m making punk music,” Robinson said, noting record-label interest. “I’d like to have the budget for a full band and I’d like to have a couple of extra musicians to supplement that. It’s a luxury, it’s weird.”
Aug. 23, Zebulon, 258 Wythe Ave. (betw. N. 3rd St. & Metropolitan Ave.), 718-218-6934; 11:45, free. (Also, Aug. 26 at Music Hall of Williamsburg)
Sitting at Dumont Burger in Williamsburg, Robinson sipped Brooklyn Lager and considered his situation. “We’re getting to do what a lot people around here struggle to do,” said the 25-year-old singer. “Six months ago I started feeling really lucky, now I’ve sort of settled back into the mode of working and playing. You know, you get to the top of the hill and look up and there’s still a mountain up there to climb.”
And just when you’re ready to peg him as some wise-beyond-his-years mystic, the Brooklyn rocker within peeks out: “It is pretty awesome to not be working my shitty day job all the time.”
Robinson first picked up a guitar when he was a kid, inspired by his guitar-playing father, also named Miles, who was a comedian and disc jockey in Los Angeles. At 17, Robinson arrived at NYU as a film major, but he found himself logging more time in the school’s antiquated recording studio than dissecting the French New Wave. Before long, he was enjoying the NYC zeitgeist, making acquaintances at loft parties and shows around the Lower East Side and WiIlliamsburg.
One night in 2004, en route to a release party for Horn of Plenty, the debut from Brooklyn gloomsters Grizzly Bear, Robinson made an impressive new pal: Kyp Malone, guitarist in TV on the Radio. And while Robinson never set out to befriend local rock royalty, he admitted that making the friends he did was an unexpected stroke of luck.
“When all those people invite you along, are working on your stuff simultaneously and treating you like a peer, it makes you feel like you’re gaining confidence.”
While his new pals helped Robinson out, his self-titled debut album was recorded in 2006 (it was finally released early last month after struggling to find a label).
Having already quit his day job at the Strand, Robinson packed up and visited Portland, Ore., the town where he spent his teenage years. Upon his return he worked a series of odd jobs to keep himself afloat, culminating in a three-year- long gig creating displays for Urban Outfitters.
These days, Robinson is teetering between a day-job routine and rock ’n’ roll nightlife, not quite ready to sever all ties with a steady paycheck—he’s still freelancing on occasion—until his next tour starts.
“I was just back [at Urban Outfitters] a couple weeks ago, and it was actually pretty funny because Spin came out with a nice little blurb about me, and one of the facts was ‘He used to do such and such work at Urban Outfitters.’”
Though Robinson’s stage presence can fill a room—and it has, with shows at Bowery Ballroom and Cake Shop under his belt—his awkwardness makes for easily relatable subject matter. “I mumble a lot,” he said, making it clear he had a soul older than his face might suggest.
It could be that some of that world-weary ennui comes with the name. Robinson shares his first and middle names with his father, and both were named out of spite. Indeed, Robinson’s grandmother named her son for a distant relative who, according to family legend, “got drunk at his brother’s wedding, was ejected from the wedding, came back right at the dinner and shot the bride and the groom.”
Knowing that, one might be tempted to read into the brooding melodies on Robinson’s eponymous debut. On one song, “Buriedfed,” Robinson crows “trying to patch it up with tape and twine/ maybe I’ll just break/ everything that’s mine.” Over “charmingly derivative” melodies (his words), his lyrics plea for a sense of stability, rocking back and forth between chaos and control.
It’s a balance that Robinson is learning to keep. While buzz around him has been steadily building, he knows it doesn’t necessarily pay his bills. Even though his record has been out for just over a month—and he’s been compared to Bob Dylan and the two aforementioned indie bands that mentored him—he has no illusions of stardom. Rather, after weathering eight years of life lessons that have included homelessness, drug addiction and heartache, Robinson is prime to put what he’s learned to use. In fact, he’s already completed a second album and thinking about release dates for a third.
“It frustrates me playing older stuff because I feel like it’s not our best material, and I’m really looking forward to, in 18 months, when we can be playing a set that’s mature, with all that good stuff,” he said.
“I see myself as a somewhat commercial artist, it’s not like I’m making punk music,” Robinson said, noting record-label interest. “I’d like to have the budget for a full band and I’d like to have a couple of extra musicians to supplement that. It’s a luxury, it’s weird.”
Aug. 23, Zebulon, 258 Wythe Ave. (betw. N. 3rd St. & Metropolitan Ave.), 718-218-6934; 11:45, free. (Also, Aug. 26 at Music Hall of Williamsburg)
