The original intention of the Builders and the Butchers was
to make funeral music, but on the way to the cemetery something
changed. Instead of heads hanging low and mournful elegies to the
deceased, this local ensemble turned the funeral plot into a graveside
party by way of the junkyard. Liberally grabbing from bluegrass,
country, and punk—armed with just about any instrument they came
across—this band has accidentally stumbled upon something
incredible:a very distinctive and interactive way to create and present
music.
The Builders and the Butchers are best thought of as our town’s
version of a New Orleans-style funeral band, with an upbeat take on the
farewell requiem. While their songs might hint of country porch
stompings or rural bluegrass jamborees, the band shakes free of any one
distinct sound. Instead they flourish by turning dirges into odes to
life and loss, the mysteries at the bottom of the lake, and the
creeping haunt of a Spanish influenza. The vivid songwriting and
pulsating junkyard orchestration bring to mind Rain Dogs-era Tom
Waits, another performer who picks and pulls from various genres at
will, without ever saddling up to any one.
Another unique element of the band is how the players raise the
volume on instruments that are traditionally played at a quiet level.
Mandolinist Harvey Tumbleson proudly abuses the instrument with the
fervor of a devoted heavy metal fan (which he is), who just so happens
to play a piece of equipment that begs to be plucked, not punished. The
pipes of frontman Ryan Sollee let loose a soulful moan that seems
curiously out of place, considering his Alaskan upbringing. And snare
drummer Ray Rude’s brush drumming, no matter how chaotic, is a far cry
from his digital assault days fronting the glitch-noise band Konami
Defense System.
The ramshackle assembly of mangled instruments that the Builders and
the Butchers tote around, ranging from bruised mandolins to a handheld
bullhorn, helps the band knock down the barrier between performer and
spectator. The group—who often prefers the floor to the
stage—lends various instruments to the surrounding crowd. In
turn, the band’s ever-growing fanbase engulfs the performers in a
circle of clapping bodies, and adds a sloppy chorus of vocals,
thunderous stomps, and clanging percussion to each and every song. Of
course, handing over your livelihood to the crowd comes with a few
drawbacks.
“One time someone in the audience got a hold of a floor tom at a
show. They were pretty wasted, and it wasn’t pretty. I was desperately
trying to hold the tempo together,” says Rude.
The act of knocking down the invisible wall and letting everyone
into the band is a sincere gesture, one that the band would hate to
come across as a gimmick. Says Rude, “There’s been a few shows where we
can’t always leave the stage. But we try to get everyone involved, and
it’s fun to be interactive with fans.” He adds, “I just don’t want it
to be our shtick, to be known as the band that always play
offstage.”
It won’t be, with the Builders and the Butchers’ recorded
output—their self-titled debut on the local Bladen Country
label—just as noteworthy as their live show. As long as the band
continues to bark out Gothic Americana tales of hard-luck living,
brushes with the law, and the fragile balance between life and death,
they’ll be just fine, onstage or off.