Gather ’round, Silver Jews fans and detractors, and hear the tale of David Berman’s past four years. After intentionally overdosing almost two years ago—despite the well-received 1999 poetry book Actual Air and 2001 album Bright Flight—Berman is back. On Tanglewood Numbers (Drag City), he’s reunited with on-and-off again band members Stephen Malkmus and Bob Nastanovich (former Pavement drummer Steve West is also on this LP) and a host of others from his Nashville neighborhood and beyond. Berman’s descent into drugs and the requisite redemption hasn’t changed everything about the Silver Jews, but it’s changed a lot. The heartrending aspects (childlike wonder, grown-up wit) of Berman’s vocals and lyrics are intact. Malkmus’ guitar still perforates the most poignant, aching moments and one-liners (“How can I love you if you won’t lie down?”) like a bayonet to the gut. Cassie Berman features prominently on vocals (a twangy, clear foil to her husband’s deep growls), and the production is built to withstand the layers created by the 15 or so players. What’s missing most will probably not be missed at all: Berman’s tendency to sound slack, sluggish and a bit lackluster. He cares more now, and caring always hurts more but yields better results.

MAGNET contacted Berman at his Tanglewood Street home.

It’s been four years since your last record. What happened after the success of Bright Flight and your book Actual Air?
I probably regarded them as failures. I only seemed to pick up the animosity from other people. For a lot of reasons, I just sunk deeper into drugs and just waited around to die. Eventually, I decided to finish the whole thing off. The rest is somewhat predictable: detox, rehab, God, comeback, confetti, hush money, sexposé, prosecution, bartending school.

Were you working on Tanglewood Numbers before you overdosed?
No. I lost about three years of work, in the sense that I didn’t do any. I started writing these songs last July, after I’d been home about six months.

Your wife’s singing plays a larger role than ever on this record, and your voice is a little lower in the mix than usual. Does that reflect a permanent change in the Silver Jews approach/vocal lineup?
Things change and change back. I never liked when bands changed for good, letting you know they’d never be the same again. I want the band to be the same again when that’s what the song needs. For the people who love the Silver Jews, we will be their rock. We won’t go away. That’s a new guarantee.

You’ve always collaborated with others, but it seems more musicians than ever are on this album and as a result a lot more is going on. Were you purposefully looking for a different sound or approach?
I oversold everything, then pared back. In other words, I was recording the songs in the same way I write them. I liked that. Bobby Bare sings backing vocals on one song, Duane Denison plays the instrumental section guitar on “The Farmer’s Hotel.” Azita (Youseffi) and Will Oldham (piano and rhythm guitar) are on half the songs. Paz Lenchantin plays violin and banjo everywhere. Tony Crow’s keyboard parts are on every inch, Malkmus, Brian Kotzur (drums) and fellows are everywhere. Also, Bob Nastanovitch plays the drum solo on “How Can I Love You.”

What are the biggest departures on this record?
Taking 100 percent control of the process. Developing an aptitude for leadership and writing from the perspective of a lucky person.

Your records tend to inspire “love him or hate him” reactions. Do you hope this record is going to change any of that, or do you not care?
I hope it gets to those who have ignored the band or have been discouraged from listening to the albums. As for the haters, let them picket the awards dinner when I’m inducted into the Rock And Roll Hall Of Fame. I can just see it now. It’s January, in the future, and old (rock critic) Jim DeRogatis is all bundled up against a bitter wind coming off Lake Erie, steam coming out of his maw. He’s breathing hard, leaning against a frosted flagpole, with a rough-hewn picket sign fallen at his feet. It is only then that you notice he’s bleeding.

The emotion in your voice on “Sometimes A Pony Gets Depressed” evokes Lou Reed. There’s a sort of angry insistence, which is a lot different from the sad-sack persona some have pinned on you.
There’s a lot of rage, rising and converging.

You said in a recent interview that even though you’ve only performed live 12 or so times, you’re ready to tour now.
I was lying.

Is it true you’re about to begin your first novel?
No. I could never write a novel. And I only want to spend my time from here on out on things I know I can do. I feel a moral responsibility to do the work I’m best at.