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: Every once in a while, there’s a musician who’s unbelievable talent and nearly slips through the cracks and none of us can really put our fingers on why. It just sort of happens, and we’re usually left scratching our heads going, “So what the hell happened? He’s too good. Someone slap some sense into this fickle and indecisive world.”
I remember meeting Nic years ago on a boat. Yes, a boat. It was one of those party barges that frequently cruise around Austin, especially in the summertime when it’s hot as death and nearly everyone is thinking of moving or blowing their brains out. That day it was undeniably hot, air thick as smoke and well over 100 degrees. Everyone was drinking bad cocktails and mauling bad Mexican food. We were all practically naked.
“Who’s that?” I asked my friend Sara.
“Oh, that’s Nic. He’s English,” she said.
“Why the hell is he wearing a suit?”
“I don’t know. He’s English.”
I want to say we only said a few words to each other. Part of me was slightly annoyed that he was wearing a suit, but I gave him a pass because I knew deep down inside I wanted the guts to do that.
A week or so later I caught his name in the current issue of Rolling Stone. Why I had a Rolling Stone I had no idea, but I did. “Blues-obsessed early-60s rocker opening for Oasis on tour … ”
“Holy shit, is that guy from the boat?” I asked my girlfriend.
She grabbed it and looked.
“Yeah, that’s Nic,” she said.
And for the next year, Austin was the town of Nic Armstrong, the British-born rocker who could save rock ‘n’ roll from the slippery masses. And just like that, the same world that held him up, turned around, and moved on. Shit, it happens to all of us. If I could count how many times this has happened to me, my head would probably snap off.
Eventually Nic and I became friends. It started out as more of mutual respect for each other, and then we just kinda through up our arms and said, “Fuck it, let’s be friends.” And the more and more I listened to his songs, the more and more I fell victim to the brilliance that is Nic Armstrong. His songs are smart, crafty sculptures of dreamy lullabies, encased in the bigger rock mountains that dominate his recordings. His voice reminds me of what an angel would sound like, a well-oiled angel, all bruised and beautiful, singing everything for the right reasons—for the sake of the art.
So when I needed a guitar player for a few records that I was working on last year, it was a no brainer. Gotta get Nic. Let him do his thing. And do it he did, and then some.
So here I am, in a van driving through the southern part of Louisiana, and if I could look you in the eyes right now, I’d tell you with every ounce of honest truth that I believe Nic Armstrong is among the best around. He’s got guts. And guts are hard to find, especially nowadays.
