Bathed in an epileptic rainbow as the Ransom boys close out the tune, the basement venue rattles and rumbles with the force of a discotheque. At one point, a half-full 12-ouncer of Brooklyn Lager, urged only by the music, tumbles over a ledge, shattering on the floor and soaking my carefully placed coat and bag. Things were a bit calmer the day before when, having wandered into the slanted streets of Bushwick, the Ransomites welcomed me into their practice space, feeding me chicken jambalaya and hot tea. There was a focused poise as the four gents—dapperly appareled in patterned scarves, fur hats, v-necks, vests and jackets—explained how they came to the borough from the Midwest, candles illuminating a rectangular wooden table and marble fireplace.
“Nobody got their degrees,” explains Bills. “We all dropped out of school to move to New York.” It’s a shocking admission from such an articulate group, but the story checks out. Having met at a “conservative, Christian university” in small-town Indiana— “we could spot each other on campus a mile away,” they tell me—the college strongly opposed the existence of the band that would become Asa Ransom.
“They thought it was the devil’s music,” Bills elaborates, smiling. “The administration would have us meet with them because we said the word ‘cigarette’ in a song.They banned us from playing, and banned us from practicing.”
The band’s a lot more enthusiastic about success than the squares back home, with almost three months worth of shows booked; “dates from here to LA, up the West Coast, down to South by Southwest,” Bills tells me. “We’re getting rid of our rental apartment.” His bandmate Bobby Gray is comically optimistic about the band’s return to New York: “The market will go down even more drastically,” he deadpans. “When we come back we’ll buy.” Unlikely as that may be, maybe there’s an outside chance, as the boys will be selling copies of a self-released, self-titled, seven-track debut. The record was recorded upstate, before the guys had ever played a show, in a factory known as The Creamery.
“It’s this enormous building with different rooms,” says Bills. “It was about getting away from the city,” adds Boivine. “We didn’t want to record in a studio.We didn’t want to have constraints.”
“Jacob’s amp was in the boiler room,” says Gray. “Darryl’s in one of the bedrooms, the drums in the main room.” And the debut is consequently spacious sounding. Bills’ percussive guitar playing (muted strings often being scratched with a pick, urgently repeated high notes) and distinctive, mildly mad vocals are not treated claustrophobically.
“The Luck Of Stoney Bowes,” the album’s centerpiece, may sound, at times, like the listener is drowning in the recording, but the piano conjures a churning ocean, not a hostile river.
As our meeting comes to a close, the Ransomites express their gratitude that I dig their music. Gray, in particular, wants to me know he is flattered and understands what I see in his band. “I appreciate you saying you like [our album],” he tells me. “I do, too. I love it.”
> Asa Ransom Jan. 24, 92YTribeca, 200 Hudson St. (at Canal St.), 212-601-1000; 8:30, $10
