Son of the Preacher Man

And you will know them by the trail of... Well, you could hardly miss them, could you. Early Saturday; the Witnness Rising stage; the skull of a long-horned steer atop a monitor; the Texas flag draped over an amp. Feedback thrumming heavenward in great slow My Bloody Valentine waves, ear-shatteringly loud yet blissed-out and rapturous; earth-rattling drums, pounding, galloping, coming for you, like horsemen out of Revelations. And there – stepping forward out of his band’s own apocalypse-din, like a survivor emerging from the dust-cloud of a disaster – is a man: dog-skinny, tremendous mutton-chop sideburns, desert-straggly hair poking out of a crushed cowboy hat, and a T-shirt that reads, MY STATE IS BIGGER THAN YOUR COUNTRY. Meet Josh Pearson, guitarist out of Lift to Experience, writer of songs about the end of the world, feedback-wrangler, Texan, evangelist, singer.

Popular art taking cues and themes from issues of religion has not only been uncool for centuries, but is a practice considered to be the preserve of the lunatic, the god-botherer and the conservative. Lift to Experience, then, three preachers’ sons from Denton, Texas, have done a brave, ridiculously ambitious, hilarious, beautiful and deeply uncool thing. They’ve written a double concept-album about the end of the world, called The Texas-Jerusalem Crossroads, ‘featuring’ (in their own giggled description) ‘the state of Texas in the role of the Promised Land.’ Now, you haven’t heard mountain-straddling, sky-scudding, fire-in-the-belly passion like this since ‘Gloria’-era U2; haven’t heard maelstroms as heady in which to lose and find yourself since My Bloody Valentine; and Pearson’s voice, a gentle half-sung, half-spoken lilt-and-whisper, singing the role of the scared, unwilling messenger on Crossroads, conjures Jeff Buckley as a lowly muck-covered ranchhand, hearing angels and seeing horrific blood-visions despite himself.

Josh Pearson lapses back onto his seat, behind the Witnness Rising tent, with bassist Josh Browning and drummer Andy Young, and seems physically now a smaller, slighter man, as if his electricity has been shut off. In the flesh, as on the record, he is naturally given over to phrasing things in a quietly momentous manner – soft, measured phrases, with pauses between each. It’s part pulpit theatricality, part thoughtful hesitation from a man who wants to say things just right, and part deadpan, not to say wicked, sense of humour. He brings up the parallel to U2 before I have a chance to.

“I been playing guitar since I was thirteen,” he says. “Since I heard Sunday, Bloody Sunday. A buddy of mine had an electric guitar, and he just started playing the notes. And I was just awestruck. The fire started. So I got a guitar, and figured it out, and went around for around three days straight, playin those first four measures. Never really stopped playin’ em.

“U2, growin’ up…” He shakes his head. “Religion and rock’n’roll is obviously important to us, but nobody ever pulled it off before, with any dignity, or cleverness. I didn’t know what he was singin’ about really, I don’t know about Irish politics or whatever, but the passion… They were like a firestorm.”

The three grew up Pentecostal, sons of evangelists, in a town where record burning of an evening was slightly less common than going down the cinema.

“In the Pentecostal faith,” Josh explains, “the end of the world is right around every corner. And in the late ’80s, rock and roll was still ‘the devil’s music’. Then, you grow up, and you realise the truth is, all music is God’s.”

I tell them I can hear reverberations of other bands in their music – MBV, Buckley – who might be a little more secular, but who, in their own way, attempt to approach the divine. There are nods all round.

“Absolutely,” Josh agrees. “But all of rock and roll is about transcendence. Moments of greatness, that transcend the mediocre. It’s all the same kit and caboodle.”

Can you not also achieve transcendence, I venture somewhat naughtily, via fabulous pop songs about girls? Did you not ever think: You know what? Let’s write a great, great, great song about girls.

Josh: “Oh, absolutely.”

Really? Not too many songs like that on your record.

Browning and Andy bust a gut laughing. “Nooo,” Josh drawls over the laughter, in a gentle but firm parent-voice. “We’ve moved beyond that now.”

Did you used to write stuff like that?

“Well, you know. When you’re sixteen…”

Andy interjects: “There was, like, one song about a girl.”

Browning giggles. “Yeah, we moved beyond that real quick.”

“We don’t want songs,” Josh says definitively, “about women. We want songs about death and the apocalypse. Blood and thorns and sleepin’ in ditches.” Then he considers. “Not to discount the grace of women. That’s really something special. But – at this moment, this crossroads, we’re not at that place right now.’ He pauses. ‘There’s plenty of other people who can do it far better.”

Like who?

“Well…” Josh frowns. “I just got that Strokes EP. It’s great.” He shakes his head in wonderment, grins. “Drivin’ around… Can’t stop singin’ the damn thing.”