10. The Hamburger Boys
“Yummy French fries, yummy French fries, oh I love yummy French fries!” So goes the introduction to Hamburger Boys’s debut record, Best Songs, released when the musicians—identified only as Marcus! John! and Tom!—were sixth graders in Austin, Texas. The three boys had picked up their instruments for the first time only days prior to recording; in fact, a week earlier, John, the bass player, had never even heard of music. Before long, they were indie darlings. The music press gushed over the Hamburger Boys, praising them for their “inchoate snap,” “punkish je ne sais quoi,” and “simple grooves about greasy eats.”
The next year, the band released a follow-up LP, Better Songs, featuring such compositions as “Eat’n a Hot Dog” and the melancholic ballad “I Lost My Hamburger.” Although the album was warmly embraced, the zeal that greeted the debut had dimmed. It was determined that the boys had been pushed onto a big stage prematurely; practice was prescribed. The Hamburger Boys retreated to the garage, honing their craft daily after school. By the time they released their third album, the musicians were high-school students, with years of playing under their belts and peach fuzz across their lips. But alas, this time out, the response was even more tepid.
Yet the Hamburger Boys remained young, their experience in music limited. A lifetime of learning was ahead of them! When the time came to apply for college, all three shunned traditional universities, choosing instead music conservatory (Marcus), apprenticeship with a master drummer (Tom), and a self-imposed 14-hour-per-day practice routine (John). The three immersed themselves in the great poets, pouring their newfound knowledge into lyrics that once spoke only of food. Weekly, they would regroup to hone their craft collectively, eschewing more pedestrian aspects of life, such as sleeping, that might distract them from music. By the time they recorded their next album, they were musical black belts. They spared no expense, renting the most lavish studio available. The Los Angeles Philharmonic was retained, en masse, just in case the trio decided to add strings at the last minute. Marcus sang into a microphone plated in gold while a master otolaryngologists massaged his vocal chords and a brain surgeon caressed his cankles. Nevertheless, the album flopped, loathed by the handful of people who unhappily heard it.
By the time of their next album, the Hamburger Boys boasted Juilliard Degrees, comprehensive musicianship, and instrumental mastery. Yet they were tired of failure. The more the Hamburger Boys knew about music, the worse they were at playing it; the greater their skills, the weaker the returns; the harder they tried, the worse they sounded. And so, the musicians retreated to their garage. Inside were three young boys, all lured there with the promise of free candy, then tied to a chair. The kids were untied, handed instruments and given brief tutorials. In a few hours, they would be allowed to leave—in exchange for their freedom, first they were to write a handful of songs and perform them into a battered, handheld recorder. The Hamburger Boys were back.
Mike Reddy and Jay Ruttenberg doing what they do best.
