Cass McCombs on Early Days, Funny Songs, and Not Reflecting
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To me—and to others, surely—Cass McCombs is one of the most fascinating songwriters of the last 20 years or so; he's remained uncompromising throughout his career, and he's always diving into murky waters that few others are ever truly exploring. He dropped an unearthed early-works collection, Seed Cake on Leap Year, earlier in 2024, and I've honestly been chasing an interview with him for a few years now (I previously talked to Cass twice for Vulture as well), so it was excellent to get him on the phone last week and catch up with one of indie rock's enigmatic greats. Check it out:
Where am I talking to you from? The last time we talked, you were house-sitting in San Francisco for a bit.
I'm in New York.
How long have you lived in New York at this point?
Off and on for 20-something years, but this [time], three or four years. I move around a lot though. Living is always in quotation marks for me.
We also talked right before the pandemic, more or less. What was your lockdown period like?
I also moved a lot during that time, so it actually wasn't that different. I'm a pretty solitary guy already.
Did you find you were more or less creative during that time?
I don't think it was any different, better, or worse. I mean, some days are worse than others. But I don't really remember it being too different, besides that all the bars are closed.
Any new hobbies?
No, no. I read a lot of books, I guess.
Anything you read that stuck out to you?
Five years ago? I don't remember what I was reading five years ago.
What about anything recently that you enjoyed?
I just finished William T. Vollmann's Riding Toward Everywhere. It was fantastic. I usually read his books, but this one I missed years ago and it's really great.
Let's talk about Seed Cake on Leap Year. Tell me about your memories of recording that music with Jason Quever.
I mean, this whole question of what I remember is dubious, because my memory is decimated. I only have flickers of pictures in my mind of what happened. I don't really totally remember. More comes back to me when I'm talking with Jason about what we did. I remember we did it at his apartment, and I was crashing there a lot. What else? I don't know. We had just met and he invited me to record just for fun, really. That's what it was. We were so young, and we didn't really know what we were doing. We were both just learning together.
Jason has a very distinct style to my ears, sonically. When I hear his music as well as what he's recorded for others, I know it's him.
Absolutely. He's really exceptional with having a vision for recording and songwriting. He also has a very refined sound. Even back then, the equipment that we used, even though it was in shambles, it was always chosen for very purposeful reasons. We recorded on a Tascam 388, I remember. He didn't have much. We mixed the songs to a CD burner, and I don't remember having heard of anyone else ever doing that at the time. I'm sure there probably was someone, but it was just a strange moment in time, where computers just obviously didn't exist for us when recording. Everyone else was using 8-tracks and stuff like that, but Jason had this amazing broken-ass quarter-inch 8-track, and you can hear it activate on the recordings, because the transport was a little off. So when you hit play to start the mix down, you can hear it you can hear the transport activate because it goes "clunk-clunk." And if you know what it is, you know why it's that way—because it's just a broken-ass fucking tape machine. [Laughs] People used to just give those things away.
Was recording with Jason in that way one of your earliest experiences in terms of home recording?
I had a half-inch 8-track that we ended up using for A—that was my machine. I had 4-tracks and stuff, but recording was never really my thing. Playing guitar was my thing. But other friends in high school got into recording, it was a really impressionable time. A lot of 4-track music was being released in the mid-'90s. Obviously, Daniel Johnston was a big influence. It just opened many doorways to possibilities with home recording.
When you're trying to capture an idea for a song, do you have a tried and true demo process these days?
I don't like making demos. I seldom do it, I just don't enjoy it. Maybe this is something that I learned from home recording, but what you do is what you do, and that's what it is. It doesn't need to be quote-unquote professional—who gives a shit? Sorry, I don't mean to curse. [Laughs] But who cares? What does that even mean? What are we searching for, anyway? Let's just do what feels good.
It's funny though, because you do seem to have a sense of knowledge about how to record things—and you worked with some pretty pro people on your latest record, too. But it sounds like the actual technical aspects aren't really important to you—it's just about capturing the song.
I'd say the latter, personally. But I obviously respect people's passions and interests, and Jason is one of the best musical minds that I've ever worked with—not just as an engineer or producer, but as a musician and songwriter. I'm always looking to have some kind of personal connection. The technical aspect is less important to me than a personal connection that we share. There's a vision that we're working towards. We may not be able to totally articulate what that is, but there's some kind of feeling that we're enjoying.
What about who you play live with?
It's similar—and when it's not working, it's really obvious. You're on stage and you're like, "This stinks." It should work, and when it doesn't, it's all out in the open.
Any specific instances where you recall it not working particularly well?
When it does, I'll probably block those out of my memory. But it happens. It definitely happens.
We've talked a bit about memory here, and your relationship—or lack thereof—to it. You seem inherently anti-nostalgic, to me. Talk to me about your relationship with nostalgia.
What do you mean by nostalgia? Nostalgia for my own life?
Well, when people feel nostalgia, I think they're reaching out to something that they believe is familiar—and it's often rooted in personal experience.
Yeah, I think I'd agree with that. Nostalgia it's a terrifying word to me. I don't really want to try to explain it, because I don't think it's that productive. I don't think it really helps the artist move forward and continue the creative process. It's a way of turning one's experiences to stone, and that's why it scares me. It's kind of like the Medusa effect, you know?
Speaking more generally to societal concerns, how have you been feeling this week after the election?
Oh, God, I'd rather not speak to that. To be honest, I'm kind of checked out. I'm sorry to say.
I think that's understandable. It's also possible to be checked out in a certain way these days that doesn't have to suggest a lack of compassion for other people.
Yeah, I mean, to go back to nostalgia, I don't really perceive a society—I don't really know what that means, "society." Whose society? I'm pretty caught up with my own music, my friends, my family, and their personal interior dimensions. I don't really want to get into the hall of mirrors that is what other people define
as society. I don't really know how to navigate that.
It sounds like you're speaking to the notion of community that one forms around how they want to live their lives. Would you say that's essential to you as a person?
I'm also a little skeptical of community, because where does it end? To me, it's a one-on-one thing—me and my friend, me and my loved ones, or even the artist and the audience. I just don't really want to think beyond the most simple line of communication. It's point A to point Z. Everything else, I don't know what it is.
The last time we talked in conversation like this, I'd mentioned to you that there was more of anti-capitalist sentiment emerging in society. You said to me at the time—and I think this was dead-on—that you felt like it was being sold as a lifestyle to people and that it came across as corny as a result. Obviously, things have shifted in the six years since. I'm curious to have you reflect on that opinion. Do you still feel the same way?
I don't really remember saying that, or what I was really talking about. If anything, it's less urgent for me to talk about my perceptions of society and come up with any
theories of what it is and why it is. I'm just in a different place in my life. I don't think the theories benefit me, and I don't care about theories. I don't really want to live in a theoretical landscape.
In terms of shifts of perspective like the one that you're describing—are you conscious of when they're taking place, or is it something you look back on and realize that you've changed from one point to where you currently stand?
That's an interesting question. I'm trying to figure out how—if—I can answer that. Some shifts happen as transmissions from the other side. An idea just pops in your head, and you don't know where it came from and. Others are, like, you're reading a book or talking with people, and an observation is revealed. It does come down to reflection and time—letting it take its time and spread to other observations.
I mean, I don't really think about myself as as like a deeply contemplative or philosophical person. But I've also learned to resist the easy answer, and that definitely helps when writing lyrics, because lyrics are always funnier when they're open-ended. I'm trying to entertain people with, like, with humor and stuff—and I just think I'm funnier when I'm more open-ended. Some people are funnier when they're closed. But, for at least right now, I'm thinking it's the other way around.
As far as other songwriters, who's particularly funny to you?
There's just so many. A lot of songwriting in country music is geared towards lyrical plays on words—Tom T. Hall, Roger Miller, or even Hank Williams. Lyrics are always at the forefront of country music. Merle Haggard, obviously. Rock and roll also has a lot of humor. I always thought Leonard Cohen was pretty funny, but it's a weird form of humor—but he cracks me up. It's a cosmic kind of humor. Lou Reed can also really crack me up at times.
When it comes to what you're listening to these days, what do you find yourself drawn to? How much new music are you hearing in general these days?
Very little. I pretty much only have time for my friends' music—and I have a lot
of brilliant friends. I want to know what they're doing, what the perspective is, or how it changes. I don't really have time for the other stuff. I also just find myself going back over the music that I've always listened to. Once in a while, new stuff gets in. But mostly, I mean, it's just like how I re-read Joyce. I go over the same stuff, and that's just how I do it.
You also gave a few quotes for me a while back about a big survey of independent musicians talking about how they make a living. What's that been like for you these days?
Touring is is a mess, and not just for me. I talk with my friends and I know what's going on, and it's rough out there—less people coming out, I guess. I just know what what's going on with my friends bands, and venues closing. SF, I know a bunch of places have shut. New York, obviously, a lot of places have shut. So it does seem less valuable to people, currently. Maybe that'll change. In terms of making a living from making music, I mean, it's a miracle that anyone can make a living at it, and I do, so I'm blessed. I count my blessings. I have no gripes or anything.
I really get to divulge my most vile and secret thoughts, and I can sing, and you pay me for it. That's a weird exchange, you know? I don't get it. Nothing makes sense. It's an adventure of some sort. But many of my favorite musicians have jobs—bartenders, or gardeners. They don't tour, they just write songs, or they play an instrument very well, and they don't look to music for financial compensation. In some cases, it seems like it preserves the purity of their vision, and I really respect that.