Mute Math: Burning at Both Ends to Find a Light
By Chris Zakorchemny

It's 2 p.m. when Paul Meany walks into the dimly lit Theater of Living Arts in Philadelphia, yet he finds a reason to keep his sunglasses on. Having just woken up and without breakfast, the wiry lead singer of Mute Math is remarkably functional. He’s one morning removed from an exhausting Baltimore show, the second night of a 37-city U.S. tour.

Today, he’s dressed in a weathered military jacket, faded blue slacks, slip-on Vans with holes, and a freshly styled faux-hawk. He smiles and nods in approval while the stage crew assembles a metal and white arch that spans the back of the stage.

Taking a seat backstage, he complains of sores like a Monday morning quarterback, but his New Orleans accent gives him a cool relaxed tone, even while speaking of his darkest journey yet: Armistice.

Over a year ago, Mute Math spent their summer in a house in New Orleans with the intent to record a second album. They cooped themselves up to further explore and record songs they’d written while touring the past three years. As each member settled into their new digs and began revisiting the confines of old ideas, an underlying discontent began to stunt progress. Creative ideas clashed, members had become defensive and frustrated, and the four road warriors were beginning to see who Mute Math was as a studio band. This wasn’t the band that wrote the first record. The much anticipated follow-up to a successful debut was going nowhere fast.

“We had just gotten into this routine of arguing,” Meany says between sips of tea, almost laughing about their frustrations now. “Whether we were talking about the headlines in the newspaper or God forbid if someone brings up what they think we should be doing for this song that was bothering us…whatever it was, we just got in this perpetual state of, ‘We’re going to spend the rest of the day arguing’.”

The previous months had amounted to the equivalent of first record b-sides, and they needed outside help to get moving creatively, so they sought advice from producers. Dennis Herring (Modest Mouse, Jars of Clay) had a new angle that was the best idea they’d heard so far: forget everything you’ve written and write a new record. This was something they hadn’t considered. If they were going to re-write a second record from the ground up, they’d have to miss deadlines, deal with added pressure from their label, and somehow resolve their personal differences. One night, at the height of another mindless argument, drummer Darren King stood up and laid their options on the table.

“I think Darren had the courage to say what all of us were flirting with but afraid to admit,” Meany recalls. “Which was, ‘If we’re going to do this all day and argue, lets just throw in the towel. This isn’t worth it. We really only have two choices right now – we either throw in the towel or shut up and we go write the best music we ever have.”

The four went inside and played, but nothing came of it. Meany returned to the house the next day, still unsure of where to begin. He walked into the production room and saw that two new tracks had been recorded on a computer. He played it back, and realized that guitarist Greg Hill and bassist Roy Mitchell-Cardenas had been jamming earlier in the day. The recording contained the opening guitar hook that would become “Spotlight.”

“Immediately, it was like the lights got turned on,” Meany says. “I went looking for everybody to try to figure out what had happened and Roy and Greg said ‘It was just an idea we threw down,’ and I was like, ‘This is great,’ and called Darren in. We immediately began to follow that simple guitar riff, which was by far the best thing we’d recorded to that point and by the end of the day we had a track we were excited about for the first time.”

They began to write every other day and laid down nonsensical vocals instead of lyrics. But the lyrical content was right before Meany’s eyes. Armistice was quickly becoming an exploration of what had made it so hard for “Spotlight” to happen. Meany’s penchant for brutally honest admissions gave light to songs like “Backfire” (“Please tell me, why are we trying so hard? / Why worry, it’s over / we always fall right back to where we start”) and “Pins and Needles” (“Facades are a fire on the skin / and I’m growing fond of broken people / as I see that I am one of them”).

“One of the biggest resounding themes that echo through all these songs is the very thin line between persistency and giving up,” Meany says. “We’re all programmed to think persistency is good and noble. Giving up – that idea is quitting and you should never do that. The reality is that there is nobility in both of those things. I’ve made my worst mistakes by being persistent. I made some of my best decisions by quitting.”

Whether Armistice derived from persistency or quitting, it marks a band in transition, finding humility in a gray area. It was compromise, understanding and musical inspiration that gave Armistice its light. It’s what kept Meany from wondering what he’d do if Mute Math was no more. “It scares the hell out of me,” Meany says. “But it’s really all I know.”