This is a 21+ event w/ valid ID at Soda Bar - San Diego. Fust — the Durham, North Carolina-based band — announce their new album, Big Ugly, out March 7th via Dear Life Records. Big Ugly arrives after the release of 2024’s Songs of the Rail––“one of the best alt-country compilations…in a long, long time” (Paste) –– and 2023’s standout Genevieve, which unassumingly introduced new listeners to Fust’s unmistakable blend of “small-town poetry” (Mojo) with a familiar yet probing “country-tinged folk-rock” (KEXP) that made it “one of the most fun rock records of the year” (Pitchfork). Big Ugly finds Fust taking its “gutsy, blue-collar Americana” (New Commute) further than it has before. Songwriter Aaron Dowdy pushes his obsessions with country-storytelling to more mystifying places, telling stories of Southern life teeming with utopian possibility that arises uniquely from the contradictions for which the south is infamously known. In this way, it is a record that could easily be filed on the record shelf alongside lyric-forward indie or Southern rock, as well as on the bookshelf amongst the throngs of Southern literature hellbent on proving the elegance of grittiness. Big Ugly is also Fust––above all a group of close friends––uncovering a freedom within their sincere form of loose and fried guitar rock, emboldened to deliver both their most intimate songwriting and biggest sound to date. While perhaps “few voices can write a song quite like Aaron Dowdy” (Paste), it is clear upon listening that Big Ugly is an album of fully recognizable voices. One hears in the music the years of interplay between Avery Sullivan (Sluice) on Drums, Justin Morris (Sluice, Weirs) on guitar and vocals, Oliver Child-Lanning (Sluice, Weirs) on bass and vocals, Frank Meadows on piano, John Wallace (Colamo) on guitar and vocals, and Libby Rodenbough (Mipso) on fiddle and vocals. Big Ugly is also the second collaboration with the Asheville-based engineer Alex Farrar, recorded together throughout the summer of 2024 at Drop of Sun Studio. And with the help of many friends including Merce Lemon, Dave Hartley (The War on Drugs), and John James Tourville (The Deslondes), Big Ugly is exactly what one feels it to be: a huge group of people gathered together, stumbling upon songs amidst long days and even longer nights. ––– “I could not be alive alone,” a longtime family friend says with a smile. “None of us could be alive alone.” Within the quiet, cascading corners of Pittsburgh lies a community – nothing short of one large family – that spans zip codes, histories, occupations, and generations, always tumbling inwardly into itself, propped up by steadfast pillars of conviction toward spiritual and emotional mutual aid. The kind of earnest community scaffolding that gets bandied about, wielded as conjecture, particularly in an age of increasing fracture through digital sublimation, is alive and quite well within the universe surrounding Merce Lemon. When asked how the city has inspired her creative practice, she responds with a characteristic joke wrapped in an earthen warmth – “There are big hills, three rivers, and more bridges than anywhere in the whole world.” Growing up in a family of art and music in a city with a small, but vigorously supportive scene, Merce has been going to shows here her whole life, even playing them with the “grown up” friends of her parents – as recently as a few years ago, her band was comprised of her own father and his peers in the Pittsburgh music community. Merce took a step back in 2020, after releasing her last album Moonth, to reassess during an era of anxiety and lockdown – even the reliably nourishing exercise of releasing and playing music felt precarious. “I was grappling with what kind of relationship I wanted with music in my life. It was just something I’d always done, and I didn’t want to lose the magic of that – but I was just having less fun.” In this time of restless confusion, she turned her gaze inwardly, down to the roots – figuratively and literally. “I got dirty and slept outside most of the summer. I learned a lot about plants and farming, just writing for myself, and in that time I just slowly accumulated songs.” A never-ending creative hunger, supported by the community framework she’d always been able to depend on, had been newly fertilized by the wide-eyed inspiration that came from plunging her hands into both the earth’s soil and her own. Rooting around for an answer, finding and turning in her palms what had been buried there all along – from this rediscovery, imbued with the vitality of earth’s green magic, Watch Me Drive Them Dogs Wild sprouted forth. The album emerges, enveloped in propulsive guitars and saccharine-sweet songs of blackbirds and blueberries, from the dead-calm center of a pastoral frenzy in a manner that one could argue as erratic, reckless — a grave misunderstanding, as Merce is just as aware of where she’s being pulled from as she is curious about where to go next. Her sound is built from a reverence and gratitude for the natural world, how paying respect to it charts a clearer path through the choppy waters of the heart. “I can see your relentlessness / in the muddy puddles where retting is / shattering the splintered stalks / where golden braids pour into drops.” They are songs of belonging just as much as they are songs of longing – ”Say I was a lonely gust of wind / could I redirect them,” she muses in “Crow”, forgoing the voyeur in all of our hearts, hoping only to help direct the “murderous flock” as they help direct her. In this music, romantic and familial love rips into and out of itself, barely registering as disparate feelings in a flurry of reckoning. Do not make the mistake of ascribing a gentle nature to these songs, nor Merce herself. There is a fierceness, a persistence in this vulnerability, that is matched in droves by the wildness of her band. In “Backyard Lover,” the strength of reconciling the quiet conflict of a desire for closeness and solitude in equal parts – “I don’t get out much / is being swallowed by a room supposed to feel this way? / Maybe i’ll come out / babe” – is complemented with the gritted promise of “Foolish and Fast” to plow through mountain highways in search of a respite from heartache — “And my love just passing through you / foolish and fast.” For Merce, the only certainty is an endless questioning, roaring straight past a dogwood, never missing the opportunity to watch a petal fluttering to the ground in the rear view. There is an oaken warmth in Watch Me Drive Them Dogs Wild that makes it easy to love – once wild, still free, honest and familiar. Its genesis is timeless, its restlessness eternal – it is one cohesive yet unanswered question built around, and dependent upon, the life-giving force of nature that came before Merce. The album’s closing track also inspires its title – a lonely ballad of forlorn projection into an unknown future, forever protected by the comforting green of Pittsburgh’s hills, rivers, bridges, and homes: “Old man howling / laughing his teeth out / with the dogs down the hill. And a tree fell / I smell the wood / and the bark is coming off in sheets / I write my words down on it. And honestly / the thoughts of a husband / weighing on me.”
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