Sewn to Our Sides

Even if you don’t know the music of San Diego’s Three Mile
Pilot, you probably know the band. When Three Mile Pilot entered
hibernation at the tail end of the ’90s, the band was sliced in two.
The rhythm section, composed of Armistead Burwell Smith IV and Tom
Zinser, formed the bubbly eschewed pop of Pinback, while
multi-instrumentalist Tobias Nathaniel and frontman Pall Jenkins hung
their heads in the scorched emotional wasteland of the Black Heart
Procession. As time progressed, these side projects evolved into
fulltime affairs, and their dual success snuffed out any hope that
Three Mile Pilot would ever wake from nearly a decade of indefinite
hiatus.

Yet they did. At first, with a one-off performance in Chicago for
the Touch and Go 25th Anniversary in 2006 (ironically, this was their
sole contribution to the seminal label, which signed the band while
they lay dormant, only to have suspended operations by the time of
their return), then a trio of sold-out hometown shows earlier this
year, and now a full-blown tour and the promise of a new recording.

A glacial pace like this is hard to decipher, but Jenkins attempts
to make his case: “I mean, you are dealing with Three Mile Pilot, we’re
a bit spaced out sometimes.” He continues, “Our friends tease us about
how long it has taken, but we really do work, and we have 30-35 songs.
We’re just getting the right ones that we feel good about. [The album]
is for sure coming out next year.”

Three Mile Pilot’s initial induction as icons of the San Diego music
scene was due to the success of Pinback and the Black Heart
Procession—fine bands forgotten about by those not privy to their
early years. But during their original run in the ’90s—producing
three full-length albums, a dual disc B-side compilation, one
incredibly unlikely major label deal with Geffen, and countless tours
the world over—few bands wielded the influence of Three Mile
Pilot. An improbable product of the sun-soaked conservative sprawl of
San Diego—and the polar opposite of the frosted-tipped,
bro-hemian rockers that lay claim to America’s Finest City—the
original trio (Jenkins, Smith, Zinser) sank their heels into an
artistic position that enabled the band to experiment with post-punk
structure and skillfully dissect the very framework of indie rock.

Their debut, Nà Vuccà Dò Lupù,
had no guitar, just the nimble bass work of Smith, the spacious
drumming of Zinser, and the sorrowful bellows of Jenkins, who
oftentimes was aided by a crackling bullhorn. Their unbridled
creativity peaked with Chief Assassin to the Sinister, their
finest recording, which featured numerous songs clocking in at over
eight minutes in length, the ghostly horns of Jim French, a dizzying
multimedia live show, and an LP originally packaged in thick swaths of
hand-sewn burlap. Their commitment to an all-encompassing artistic
expression—from sound to stage to packaging—was a work of
masterful creativity, or… well, something else. “It was a creative
time, but I think back then I was on more drugs than I am now,”
explains Jenkins.

No matter the substances that coursed through Jenkins’ body, Three
Mile Pilot were as seminal, and just plain important, as any band of
that era. Their meticulously assembled sound could never be tied to a
single outside influence, and as they cindered out—swallowed
whole by the attention given to their other musical endeavors—it
seemed that people would never again get to experience the sheer wonder
of seeing this band. That is, until now. Please do yourself a favor and
do not miss this show.