The house is tucked at the end of an unpaved alley where
grass sprouts between the gravel. A big blue van looms over the cars,
bikes, and cats wandering in the roundabout. Everything is knitted
together by green shrubs that creep up around the shacks, houses, and
pathways. In North Portland I feel miles away—like I’m on a
commune.
Through an open door, Church are in the kitchen brewing kombucha and
beer that tastes like pot. They’re preparing for the final stage of
fermentation but it already tastes good. Golden beams of sun slice
through the serene, airy living room. Things here are peaceful and
easy.
This solace is in part because, having recently returned from their
first cross-country tour, Church realized something astounding: During
the worst economic climate in decades, they had created jobs. “I think
we didn’t become jaded because we actually made an okay amount of money
on tour,” says guitarist and vocalist Brandon Laws. “I was surprised
because nobody really knew who we were.”
Even a trickling cash flow does a great deal these days, and
ingenuity, like home brewing—and in beautifully lilting, dynamic
song arrangements—goes a long way. And prior sacrifices are
proving worthwhile: For the past year co-vocalist and percussionist
Richard Laws (Brandon’s brother) has lived in the big blue van, and the
others have scrimped to make do. “None of us had a home, really, for a
while,” says Brandon. Turning Church into a livelihood may have
provided the most respite to the band’s virtuosic drummer, Lane
Barrington—it enabled him to quit a job at Olive Garden he’s had
for seven years.
The tour’s success without support of a label or booking agent
stands as testament to Church’s fully realized aesthetic: a ghostly,
vocal-weaving, existential stir through lush, barren, but always pretty
worlds. They are like tides—placid and strong, inching back then
crashing against a jagged cliff. Church can be frail; a plucky bird
tiptoeing awkwardly in the sand, later opening its wings to float with
confident grace and ease.
The higher heights—the heavy cliffs and crashing
waves—are a later addition to Church, who became whole with the
addition of Barrington after a year as a trio. But having formed under
the auspices of vocal-heavy minimalism (keyboardist Cristof Hendrickson
unassumingly carries the vast mid-range), a trap-kit drummer wasn’t an
easy sell.
“I was always really fighting against the idea of having a drummer
in the band,” says Richard Laws, who handles auxiliary percussion like
tambourines and shakers. “But it’s awesome right now, we know that.”
Indeed, Barrington and Laws’ occasional double-drumming enables
Church’s effervescent swoops to finally blow the cork from the bottle
and drink the foam.
Their newly released record, Song Force Crystal, is more
austere than the title would suggest. Recorded last November, it’s a
good primer, but only hints at the stunningly dynamic arrangements the
foursome now command. At times Church’s songs feel more like suites,
blending together through beautiful sets. But if Church is indeed
realized as a full-time alternative to the Olive Garden slog, it won’t
be long until the studio meets or exceeds the band’s live prowess. Like
the beer that’s already good but still fermenting, Church have the
promise and potential to become Portland’s most stunning new band.