Bios
Michael Shepard – vocals, guitar, piano
Jeremy Michael Gifford – guitar, synthesizer, piano
Thomas Bragg – bass
James Childress – drums & percussion
Albums:
“Pretend You’re Alive” (2004) The Militia Group / (2005) Columbia Records
“Everything Starts Where It Ends” (2007) The Militia Group
“The Sucker Punch Show” (2008) The Militia Group / (2009) Make My Day (Germany)
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Cheer Up Sunshine Dancer, the Rain Sheep are in the Goats Den.
The Odd Biography of Lovedrug
(in no particular order)
Whether from the birth canal of some sempiternal, chthonic creature OR from some tatterdemalion’s back-alley bar filled with furmen, Lovedrug the band has never been, and possibly will never be, a smashing success. But they seek it, oddly. Putting oneself out there, not unlike being in this particular bar, is a risky venture. And sometimes the proverbial shit does hit the fan. But why not let it happen? Who knows where this road will lead. Besides, to take back a song is to redress a devil and to redress a devil takes skill that is beyond the common key. And the key these days is to bask in disaster and pet its woolen hand; to build a diamond ring for your lover from the ashes of the pavement that wind up to her house.
The music that floats around inside the belly of this town speaks low with a mutter and tapping into it requires a skewed eye for twisted beauty. The homeless, half-naked, dirty widow at the end of the bar, for instance, knows more about this life than most scholarly folk, I guarantee it. And I tell you this for damn sure, we need to be singing HER song. Take that as you may; the real point is avoid the knell. Let it ring, hear the sound, bow your head and take a moment for the weary soul that just got let down. But please, do not let it stare you down; especially at three in the morning outside a rehearsal space whilst a train blares by at top speed crushing its horn and whipping the cigarette out of your hand.
Back inside staring at three dry erase boards filled with chicken scratch and thirty or forty song titles, the lights seem to dim. I begin to haze off in the glassy castle of this coffee mug half-full of bad scotch, the ice cubes long since melted away, and the thought occurs to me… at what point did all this happen? Ten years of playing music now. How did I get here? What’s the score? Why does it look and feel the way it does? And lastly, for God’s sake, why after so many records sold and almost a thousand shows later am I still sitting in this dirty little room with no windows, dreading the morning light and the day job which awaits me that I must keep holding down to continue feeding this blood-sucking, soul-wrenching habit of being in a goddamned rock and roll band?
After we finished the almost 3-year stint of touring for Pretend You’re Alive, I thought that either (A) we were going to be huge, OR (B) we were going to be huge. After we finished touring for Everything Starts Where It Ends I figured that one of three things was going to happen: (1) We were going to be huge, (2) I was going to need to leave the country, or (3) I was going to end up in jail. Consequently, and rather unfortunately, the latter two came to fruition.
Watching the sun set in the Himalayas is a lot like falling in love with someone for the first time. Ergo it’s the most indescribable, breath-taking feeling one can imagine. And then when it’s gone, you’re freezing and you kind of want to die. Being put in jail is a lot like having that person you fell in love with break up with you. It sucks and you kind of want to die.
Regardless, both experiences bring about extreme emotions and odd thoughts, and it probably explains why our third album was so pissy and psychotic. Again, to take back a song is to redress a devil, and who wants to deal with that?
Bad luck is a spirit woman and she is ubiquitous. But you can’t help but love her just a little. Her sense of humor is jacked up, but you have to admit, funny. The crazy part is, a lot of times she actually steers you in the right direction! When I was twelve she dropped a guitar in my lap and dialed the radio in to what would become a particularly familiar raspy voice belonging to a blonde boy from Seattle. A song and a piece of wood with strings on it that makes noise changed my life forever. It moved me in ways that nothing else could. So I figured, maybe I could do that for somebody else. The spirit woman smiled and left me be for awhile. How euphonious is the silence between chords coming from a bedroom filled with distortion on a school night? Priceless. MasterCard, don’t start a band without it.
“Eat more carrots and stop chain smoking those stinking cigarettes!” Michael Beinhorn says from the control room at Red Bull studios in Santa Monica, California. “I don’t even understand how you can sing, considering what you eat and how many cigarettes you smoke!” I turn a little red but barrel onward. Ironically, recording the Sucker Punch Show was the most fun we’d ever had recording an album. It was kinda dreamlike really. Record during the day and walk on the beach at night. Nice accommodations, pretty girls everywhere, booze on every corner, paradise really. It was like we were old soldiers documenting a life in tragedy and war while now sitting in the lap of luxury, even if it wasn’t really ours for but a moment. How odd was that. I don’t think I saw the spirit woman once during that whole stint.
Europe was particularly gracious to us. Can’t wait to get back there. A battle for certain, but a fun one. Performing at a festival at noon doesn’t quite hold the sexy appeal that one might imagine when you say the words “we just got back from Europe”. Still we have to start somewhere over there and anyways, we made some good friends, played with some phenomenal bands and hopefully made some fans that never would have heard of us otherwise. The club gigs were more fun. The idea of being in a completely different country and having a roomful of strangers singing along to every word of a song you wrote is simply a spine tingling thought and honestly, every time we think of it we can’t help but be grateful that we are able to do what we do. And as Jesse Hughes from Eagles of Death Metal removes a sweaty Lovedrug t-shirt and throws it into the crowd, we all crack a smile side stage, sigh and return to our shitty van and drunken Polish driver.
And now the homeless, half naked, dirty widow at the end of the bar is back again. She goes silently into the night, occasionally whispering to herself of a life past. Her song is in our hearts, slowly making its way, like molasses, to our fingertips. I look up and Jeremy is staring at me with his familiar glazed woodland creature-like stare. James is chewing his bubble gum, contemplating whether or not to smoke yet another cigarette, Thomas stands scholarly, awaiting the right moment. How long have we been like this, silently standing here with a guitar in my hand, the low buzz from the amp behind me humming in tune with a fleeting thought? Inspiration is floating around the room in a tangible manor, like a ghost wanting to be captured. The next step is crucial.
Six months later… the scotch is gone. The day has come. The songs are there, waiting to be heard. Driving slowly to the day job I think to myself, what happens now?
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www.lovedrugmusic.com
