Fronting Philadelphia’s indie rock outfit The Chairman Dances, Eric Krewson writes some of the most interesting and thoughtful songs we’ve had the pleasure of reviewing. In 2016, we wrote about Time Without Measure, which explored various historical campaigners and religious figures and formed “a reminder that belief and faith can save us.” In a follow-up interview, Krewson explained how “progressive religious history has been forgotten,” meaning that “even the most well meaning journalists, artists, etc., fail to adequately represent religion.” Time Without Measure could be viewed as a rectification of this, an attempt to re-balance the picture by remembering the moral good that has and does exist within religious movements.
Last year saw the release of a new album, Child of My Sorrow, which saw a continuation of Eric Krewson’s distinctively detailed style. Positioning itself in the present day, the record presents “a clash between the human and inhuman, individual spirit butting up against insidious forces that seem determined to break it.” The result is a collection of songs with an emptiness at its core, something missing from the experience of life that cannot be shaken.
Longing could be said to be the presiding sensation of the record, though it’s one far removed from the material-orientated kind that drives our age. Instead, this is longing for something more, meaning garnered through connection, be it with another person or higher power, a value whose absence is marked by a kind of mortal pain.
We took the time to speak with Krewson again in an attempt to dig a little deeper into the album’s themes.
Child of My Sorrow has been out in the world for a number of months now. How do you view the record with that degree of hindsight?
It’s an interesting thing. The band performs the material regularly, which keeps it in the foreground – the songs continue to unfold or elaborate themselves. As a result, I continue to get thoughtful responses from people about the album’s characters/narrators. This is a good thing, though it prevents me from seeing the album in hindsight and giving a definitive answer. I will say, I’m proud of what my bandmates and I made in the recorded album of Child of My Sorrow. I think it’s our most compelling work.
The recording process had something of an international flavour, with time spent in Clarksboro, Chattanooga and Galicia, Spain. What’s the story behind this?
The majority of Child of My Sorrow was tracked live in Clarksboro, NJ. My friends Luke Pigott and Ashley Hartman, who recorded with us in Clarksboro on previous records, now live elsewhere, Luke in Chattanooga and Ashley in Spain. After recording with my bandmates in Philadelphia, I took the nascent album to Luke and he and I added to it. Ashley recorded her parts on her own and emailed them to me. Both of these situations afforded us a bit more creative space.
The twin themes of protest and faith form a major part of your writing, and indeed in a previous conversation we touched upon the idea of a progressive religious history being lost to consensus. In many ways, Child of My Sorrow doubles as a mourning of this loss and a dedication to its spirit, as though suffering the mischaracterisation or misappropriation of religion is itself a test of faith, and the effort to tell a different narrative its own form of protest. Could you delve a little deeper into your view of the record in this light?
I find it alarming that everywhere I look, an otherwise intelligent person is rashly denouncing something: a particular person or a group of people or – more often, given the circles in which I find myself – large swaths of history rich in religious, artistic, and scholastic thought, which they deem not progressive enough or conservative enough – ultimately, not enough like themselves. Incredible to think, it’s common for me to read someone’s definitive judgment on everyone who lived and died in a particular era, for example, the Enlightenment.
Closing oneself off to that which is not familiar limits understanding of God, it diminishes faith and, subsequently, art and knowledge. “God isn’t powerful enough to do a good thing byway of x.” When you reframe an offhanded judgment in that way, it’s clear where the problem lies. Another reframing could be “I have set defined limits for myself, my understanding, my art – I go no further.” One thing that John Calvin (in his Institutes) and Teresa of Ávila (in her The Interior Castle) both write about, both quite beautifully, is the idea that, in searching for yourself, you find God, and in searching for God, you find yourself. When you arbitrarily circumscribe your range of vision, you lose sight of both paths.
An appreciation or reverence for all things – especially what you do not know intimately – is something you find in great writing, which is always a kind of protest.
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I read piece on the record that spoke of the ‘prophets’ and ‘poets’ in life—those that tell us what is happening and those that merely give voice to the sensations of life—positioning you in the latter camp against the likes of Jordan Peterson and Harold Bloom. Prophet might not be the word I’d use for those figures, but it does open up an interesting point in the current culture. Is there room for the nuanced and indirect in a world of reductive opinions and binary positions?
Yes, I believe there’s space for nuance in art and scholarship and day-to-day conversation. In some ways, there is a great chasm waiting to be filled. It does require a particular posture, though, and a willingness to live and create without assumption. I suppose this necessitates a sense of peace that doesn’t seem possible for most of us, myself included, most days.
If I may argue against the poet/prophet divide: in religious thought (and it feels a little weird to remove “prophet” from that sphere) the defining characteristic of a prophet is their ability to lead people to right worship, which has much to do with turning away from greed and self-advancement, taking up the cause of the poor, etc. Historically, fiction has done this work (I’ll mention just Charles Dickens’ Bleak House as an example – it helped advance judicial reforms). On the other hand, many prophets engaged and continue to engage in performance art.
Do you have any idea of what the future holds for The Chairman Dances?
For me, in writing an album, you need to clear an acre of land in order to build a modest home. I’m clearing brush at the moment.
Finally, could you name four or five acts you think we should know about right now?
I’m listing, for the most part, artists who are friends of mine. Often, they started as musicians and writers with whom I felt an affinity.
Magic Video: Luke Pigott and Ashley Hartman, mentioned earlier, run this project. (I contributed just the slightest bit to a self-titled album that’s on its way).
Brother Martin: Maria Mirenzi, who sometimes plays baritone sax with The Chairman Dances, and Dan Espie are the permanent members of this musically sophisticated group (named for a beloved canine).
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Michele Ward, based in Baltimore, Maryland, is an excellent poet.
Lambert, Hendricks & Ross was a vocalese jazz group active in the late fifties and early sixties. Their recordings are incredible.
Child of My Sorrow is out now and you can get it from The Chairman Dances Bandcamp page.
Photo by Bob Sweeney