Every young kid who dreams of becoming a rock star starts off thinking that complete obscurity and worldwide adulation are separated by little more than an opportune moment. Jon Bon Jovi, of all people, said it best when he remarked that, as a budding musician cleaning floors in a New York recording studio, he assumed that landing a recording contract meant "sign here, you're rich."
These days, due to the Internet's easy access to information and the fact that every third person under 30 thinks there's a place in the entertainment industry for them, even the most novice band-guy knows that's not the case. And the Bay area might not exactly be the Sunset Strip South, but most of us know somebody local who's endured a frustrating brush with nearly (or briefly) realized ambition: The ones whose relationship with that one tenuous industry contact boils down to years of "yeah, it's great, keep sending me stuff"; the ones who've actually been signed, and endured lengthy "artist development," only to fall victim to employee turnover or corporate buyouts.
So we think we know the drill, but we really have no idea what that experience can be like.
"I could start from the beginning of this process," says Hankshaw singer Harold Hasselback, "and by the end, you'd have an 800-page book."
Longtime all-ages scenesters, both locally and nationwide, know the Tampa quartet as one of the area's earliest and most original posthardcore outfits. For most of the second half of the '90s, the band was a lauded staple at D.I.Y. venues like Skatepark of Tampa and the legendary Blue Chair, putting out records on indie labels and occasionally touring with groups (Hot Water Music, Elliott) that were well on their way to becoming underground touchstones.
At the end of the decade, however, Hankshaw's desire to evolve musically, and disassociate themselves from the burgeoning emo trend, inspired a major stylistic shift. In a matter of bizarre timing, the change came as elements of the industry at large began paying lots of attention to emo. And Hankshaw.
That was four years ago. In the time since, the band has quietly, stunningly redefined itself against a backdrop of managerial expectation, waiting games, breakup rumors, and the mainstream breakthrough of a genre-bandwagon Hankshaw has absolutely no intention of riding.
"We made a conscious decision to just bail out, work on songs, work on a record with the sound that we liked," says Hasselback. "We just didn't know it was going to take this long."
Hankshaw had garnered industry interest within their first six months of activity back in '95, when Jonathan Bunch, singer for pop-core heroes Sense Field, relayed their demo to a friend at Capitol Records; Hasselback kept the lines of communication open as more and more melodic posthardcore acts were snapped up by major labels. Ironically, Hankshaw's first big step in that direction — a contract with Los Angeles producer Loren Israel (The Hippos, Plain White T's, Fearless Records' Punk Goes Pop cover-compilation series) — came at a time when their sound was undergoing a radical evolution. In 1999, the band composed the ambient, mood- and beat-driven soundtrack to friend and filmmaker Bruce Muller's Stillness, a project that cemented the desire to completely abandon their previous sonic signature.
"[The soundtrack] allowed us to be more experimental, allowed us to use instruments we'd never used before," says drummer John Gatto.
It's probably not stretching things too far to assume that Israel was more interested in the trendy commercial potential in Hankshaw's established sound than in their dedication to leaving that sound behind. The band is still under contract to Israel, and isn't given to much outright bitching about the relationship, but its frustration comes through clearly as the guys relate the endless process of writing, critique and rewriting that followed the hookup.
"I think probably every year since '99 we've had at least a record's worth of shit," Hasselback says. "The only song that made it from the original batch is 'I can't believe.' Everything else on the record is from the last year and a half."
All four members talk of exhaustive efforts at compromise on certain songs, of postponed trips to L.A. for recording sessions, of long lapses in communication. Rumors occasionally flew around the Tampa indie scene about what was happening with Hankshaw's deal, but many just assumed the band had called it quits. They deny having any real urge to set the record straight with local shows once they'd become immersed in writing.
"There wasn't any point," Chapman says dismissively.
Eventually, a couple of new compositions locked in the band's direction, and an album began to take shape, to which Beck session bassist Jason Meldal-Johnsen contributed some bottom end. The band credits a couple of new friends — studio veteran Doug Messenger and engineer/former Hippos principal Ariel Rechtshaid — with reinvigorating their motivations and helping them see the light at the end of the tunnel, though their own instincts held final sway.
"You had to fight for certain songs," says bassist Frank Provost, "but it was also choosing what songs not to fight for, knowing what to let go so you could get something else in."
The questionably titled King Candy & The Time Travelin' Train is now some percussion tracks and mastering away from completion. Hasselback's clean, expressive vocals aside, it bears exactly zero resemblance to Hankshaw's back catalog, or anything else one might designate emo for lack of a clearer term, for that matter. Rather, it's an upbeat amalgam of pop anthemics, electronic textures, Beatle-esque harmonies and warm liquid disco, a sophisticated and charmingly affected dance-rock album that splits the difference between an organic '70s vibe and a contemporary dance-punk lack of inhibition. Sometimes it's weird, and sometimes it verges on a guilty-pleasure sort of glee, but it's unquestionably the work of a band that knows what it wants to hear.
"This is the first thing we will have released that I think all of us would listen to," confirms Gatto.
From a career-status standpoint, the last four years may not appear to have inched Hankshaw much closer to world domination. They still don't have big-time distribution for the forthcoming record, and they get the sense that their management may not know what to do with it. They still hear from industry corners that they're too old, or that their look isn't right.
But they believably claim that the lessons learned, the insight gleaned, and the resulting material were more than worth it.
"When you're first starting out, you're kind of playing for reinforcement. The gratification comes from other people rather than satisfying yourself," says Chapman. "But you realize — it depends on who you are, obviously — but when you satisfy yourself, you're going to end up connecting with people … not satisfying yourself in a pure ego sense, but more in a sense of 'this is my favorite song right now.'"
Hasselback weighs in: "None of it's really happened, except for the fact that we have a finished record. The rest is all up in the air. The industry's sick about image and your age and stuff. Being 30 and just OK-looking doesn't cut it sometimes, that's what we're being told, but that's not what we want to believe. For the time being, we're just going to be Hankshaw, and see how that works out."
Contact Scott Harrell at 813-248-8888, ext. 109, or by e-mail at scott.harrell@weeklyplanet.com.
This article appears in Dec 18-24, 2003.