The name might suggest some kind of internal struggle, but Battleme tries to keep things intuitive, says bandleader Matt Drenik. “Other people have these interpretations of the name: ‘Are you trying to battle yourself with your pop songs and your loud songs?’“ Drenik jokes from his home in Portland, Ore. “I’m like, ‘Not really. I don’t know what I’m doing.’” When listening to Battleme’s latest, Future Runs Magnetic (El Camino Media), the idea that Drenik doesn’t know what he’s doing sounds far-fetched, with his bedroom-pop sensibilities somehow finding common ground with the record’s brasher rock songs. But the first Battleme tracks were very different. While still a member of Austin stoner-rock band Lions, Drenik recorded some country/folk songs under the Battleme moniker for Sons Of Anarchy. Drenik will be guest editing magnetmagazine.com all week. Read our brand-new feature on him.
Drenik: When I was 16 I liked to think I was the most fucked up kid on the block. “I’m pretty fucked up,” I thought. And it was right around that time that I found pot and love and somehow managed to get my heart torn to pieces by a girl who lived down the street. I was convinced that the only answer was to jump off a building. My parents were less convinced. And when I told them about Outward Bound and how maybe that would cure this sad state of torture I’d somehow managed it get myself in, they were skeptical.
Finally my mom came around. “Well if you can go where I can drive you, fine. But I’m not flying you anywhere,” she said.
A few months later I was watching her drive away and there I was, in the foot of the Pisgah National Forest just outside of Asheville, NC. I was scared shitless. Pretty soon some other kids started showing up, all of whom seemed pretty fucked up in their own special ways. Well, at least a hell of a lot more than me. Our group leader, Stax, gave us the rundown.
“Everyone! Listen up! No bug spray. No deodorant. No tents. No fires. We pack light. Hike at sun up, sleep at sundown. And if I catch any of you fuckers with any drugs, I’ll ship you out on the next Greyhound and I don’t give a shit where they leave you.”
A few of us started worrying, me being the most paranoid of the bunch, but eventually we just got on and started hiking.
“I’m Kevin,” a scrawny kid said to me “And don’t worry, I’ll find us some pot.”
Kevin was my new best friend.
Then for the next 10 days it rained, and I mean rained. Buckets of water were drowning us in our own stripped-down existence, and one by one we started to fall. The tarps were practically useless because of age and holes, and pretty soon we looked like a pack of lonely, wet dogs. It wasn’t long before Kevin and I took off and found the only road out of the mountains. It was our one lane stab at freedom.
“Right there!” He pointed. He stuck out his thumb. “I’ll get us back to Ohio. My feet are soaked. This is like hell, but worse,” he said.
“Hey!” Someone yelled. We turned around. It was Stax.
“Don’t quit,” he said, “you’ll hate yourself for it. Take it from a guy who hates himself. Don’t quit.”
There was something about what he said that made me feel less alone. I shrugged.
“All right. But I need some dry socks.” I said.
The next day, the sun came bursting through the sky like a golden chariot, and the world looked big and dreamy again. We hiked on, living off nuts and iodine soaked water. I remember writing my very first poem. It was pretty shitty, but I patted myself on the back for the effort.
“Can I ask you something serious?” Kevin asked. We were siting under a tree smoking a joint with Phoebe. She was the only girl with us that would give us the time of day. I think we were both falling in love with her.
“Sure,” I said.
“You think I’m as fucked up as my parents think I am?”
I thought about that for a second. “No.”
“So you think they’re crazy?”
“Probably. You just don’t move like everyone else.”
“Fair enough.”
By the time those 28 days were up and we were back at base camp, I didn’t even remember what home felt like. And on top of that, I hadn’t heard a lick of music for a month, which was making me feel pretty uneasy. Think I’m kidding? You try not listening to anything for a month and see how it feels.
“Now this is a record.” The camp cook said. He pulled out a scrappy little thing and put it on some dumpy Panasonic thing. It reminded me of my parents.
“Communiqué,” he said.
And Dire Straits, a band I’d never given two shits about before, came tumbling out of the speakers in all their might and glory.
“That’s what I wanna do.” I said to Kevin, pointing up at the speakers. And off in the distance I could see my old man waiting patiently in the car.
