Marah

There’s a type of rock ’n’ roll found only in the ruptured forests of the urban night, gnarled brick caverns tucked deep in the concrete jungles of poured-steel flowers, barbed-wire sentinels and corrugated towers. Swirling amidst the throngs of dime-store bards and bumper-car drunks, skinny-tie yuppies and cellophane punks, guitar slingers with tattered suits blow smoke rings and pull their hats low over eyes glowing with the intensity of Blake’s tigers, coiled to unleash shards of sonic electricity on the hearts of star-crossed listeners. A certain type of moonlit soul emerges in these shadowy temples, where bashed-up Telecasters and amp casings soak up the stench of stale beer and denim-clad expectation.

It’s in places like these where rock ’n’ roll still burns desperate and bright, a fireball of pent-up love and hope in decibel form, ready to wake the soul of the yearning and, as yet, unjaded. It’s rare, man. The stories we tell ourselves about these musicians—our visions of the soaring-eagle morality and unflinching loyalty of a guy like Bruce, the bruised-guitar wrists and aching, drunken heart of a Keith Richards reverie, the cagey and caustic iconoclasm of a war-warbling Dylan—that stuff is hard to come by in the real world, where passion is difficult to maintain, much less admit to with confidence. Like so much in life, the reality of music is that the mundane is typical, with true moments of myth and magic occurring fleetingly and often with little fanfare. So sometimes you have to dig—and dig deep—in these, the stinking basement clubs and unheralded garages, if you want your dose of magic. And this is where you find bands like Marah.

For those of us held most deeply by rock ’n’ roll’s thrall—particularly in its most romantic, melodramatic and thrilling incarnations—it’s almost too damn easy to fall in love with a band like Marah. Built around Serge and Dave Bielanko, two brothers growing up on the rough and tumble streets of Philadelphia, the band itself is a story that’s nearly irresistible. A self-produced jam session in 1998 turns into Let’s Cut the Crap and Hook Up Later Tonight, a jagged, glistening barnburner of a debut that gets picked up by Cary Hudson’s Black Dog label and pulls them into the music world, ultimately paving the way for the 2000 masterwork Kids in Philly. With its kinetic tug, poetic lyrics and revivalist reverence for all things good, old and musical, KIP’s whirlwind tour of hometown, dirty-brick, pizza ’n’ beer Philly prompts a frenzy of critical adulation and breathless comparisons to The Replacements, the Stones, Steve Earle and Springsteen, and garners the band such notable fans as Nick Hornby and hizzown Bossness, Springsteen himself.

Feeling aesthetically limited by critics (and by the self-conscious alt.country community the band increasingly found itself identified with) and seeking brighter lights and bigger venues, Marah splits Philly. They roam through the U.K., parlaying their new relative celebrity into Float Away with the Friday Night Gods, produced by Oasis protégé Owen Morris and even featuring a Springsteen cameo (albeit oddly buried in the mix). With its slicker production and unabashed hooks, Float Away’s big boom spurs a vicious backlash from dyed-in-the-wool scenesters and traditionalist fans. As the band’s lineup fluctuates and momentum dissipates, the wheels seem to come off, and suddenly they are overlooked garage heroes again, supposed has-beens the very moment they were poised to take the music world by storm. Proverbial taillights fade, roll credits Dear John is all she wrote? Naw, man, there’s one left to win for the Gipper, the Big Bopper, or whoever’s currently the patron saint of great art that deserves better than a premature death.

So now the brothers Bielanko are basically back at square one with a new label (Yep Roc), a sympathetic new rhythm section (multi-instrumentalist Kirk Henderson, former Superchunk drummer Jon Wurster) and lap-steel player (virtuoso Mike “Slo-Mo” Brenner), and the still-smoldering drive to set the globe ablaze in the flames of hungry-heart rock ’n’ roll as they release their new, self-produced album 20,000 Streets Under the Sky.