Cass McCombs’ Personal Best
Interior Live Oak is a keystone chapter in Cass McCombs’ story as a songwriter. He talks Kayla Sandiford through his pivotal songs that brought him there.
Cass McCombs has never been comfortable with choices. “I don’t like making choices,” he admits. “It fills me with dread and anxiety to be forced into an arbitrary choice.”
This admission comes as something of a relief when discussing the parameters of his Personal Best feature, because McCombs has characteristically subverted the format. Rather than selecting five favourite songs from across his extensive catalogue, he’s chosen the opening tracks from his last five albums - a decision that sidesteps the pressure of ranking while revealing something deeper about his artistic process.
Since his 2003 debut A, McCombs has built one of indie rock’s most consistently compelling discographies, weaving together elements of folk, psychedelia, and Americana.
His songs are populated by outlaws and revolutionaries, ancient spirits and modern vagrants, all filtered through a literary sensibility that draws as much from García Lorca and Marcus Aurelius as it does from Hank Williams and Bob Dylan. Each album feels like a world unto itself, and the opening tracks he’s selected, spanning from 2013’s Big Wheel and Others to his latest, Interior Live Oak, function as doorways into these carefully curated universes.
The choice to focus on openers makes perfect sense for an artist who thinks deeply about sequence and narrative flow. “Before this song, I’d never to my knowledge opened a record with a narrative,” he explains of “I Followed The River South To What” from 2019’s Tip of the Sphere. It’s this kind of deliberate consideration that marks McCombs as a craftsman; someone who still believes in the album as a cohesive statement.
His latest record, Interior Live Oak, represents what he calls an attempt to make “sensitive” music, “maybe a little sad, maybe a little depressing”, that explores a more vulnerable side of his artistic persona. The title, he explains, came from seeing trail signs about tree species, but took on deeper meaning as he reflected on how “we’re all just a product of our environment.” The album is populated by “personalities, characters that are real and unreal, that are alive and deceased, that inhabit a location. Spirits, ancient people, they’re around.”
This sense of place and history permeates McCombs’ work, informed by extensive research that might see him reading everything from California history books to Pancho Villa’s memoirs in service of a single song. “Sometimes an entire book might just turn into one rhyme,” he notes. It’s this dedication to craft that allows him to create what he calls “private music”; collections of deeply personal and informed work that paradoxically become public art.
“I don’t make music for other people,” he tells me. “It’s private music. And no one can ever really get it, because there’s nothing really to get.” Yet in discussing these five album openers, McCombs reveals more about his creative process and personal philosophy than he typically allows. From the subversive gender play of “Big Wheel” to the devastating personal tribute of “Priestess,” these songs trace an arc of an artist gradually becoming more comfortable with vulnerability while never abandoning his essential mystery.
The conversation that follows finds McCombs in a reflective mood, discussing his relationship with music as the muse, his research methods, and the fine line between outlaws and revolutionaries. These songs also reveal his willingness to tackle difficult subject matter. “Bum Bum Bum,” for instance, addresses police violence and state brutality beneath its deceptively catchy groove, representing the kind of challenging material that required a carefully understood approach to address appropriately.
For an artist who describes himself as simply, “a mess”, the insights are remarkably clear-eyed about the devotion required to make honest work within an ever-changing musical atmosphere.
“Sean I / Big Wheel” (2013)
CASS MCCOMBS: Sean was a film that I saw in a short film class that played a lot of classic experimental films from the ‘50s and ‘60s, like Kenneth Anger and D.A. Pennebaker. But Sean was in a Ralph Arlyck film. I looked him up and watched all of his other films, which are all fantastic.
At the same time, one of my closest friends that I grew up with went to Vasser College in Poughkeepsie. My friend, Malcolm, was really interested in film. So I told him that he should find Ralph Arlyck because he was still in Poughkeepsie. And he did. Malcolm became Ralph Arlyck’s assistant and editor, then I became friends with Ralph Arlyck, and I asked him if I could use that clip to start the record.
It really captures the psycho spirit of youth in the Bay Area, being in proximity of the counter-culture and history there, but also wanting to push the boundaries of the mythology like Sean does. He’s saying pretty outrageous things about drugs, chopping the heads off of cops, and it’s great.
“Big Wheel” I chose as it’s the title of the album, Big Wheel and Others, and it’s this song and a bunch of other songs. There’s no organisation to it, a totally random selection. It felt like the right song to kick off that collection.
BEST FIT: Looking back, do you feel like choosing “Big Wheel” as an opener contextualised the album as a whole?
I think so. We play that song almost every show and it’s really fun to play. But I mean, I still don’t know how to make records. There’s a mythology to that in itself.
Would you say that “Sean I” and “Big Wheel” work together?
Yes. With “Sean I”, I thought that when you put the needle on and there’s a child speaking to you, that was so cool to me as an idea. But it’s only a short little clip. And “Big Wheel” is subversive in its own way of trying to subvert gender ideals and make fun of them. I quote Iggy Pop all over the place.
“Bum Bum Bum” (2016)
That’s another one we play often in the show. It was actually a really hard song for me to write because of the subject matter, and I took it really seriously. I read a bunch of books to prepare myself for that, because I wasn’t sure how to do it. It took me months to find the voice to do it.
When it all came together, it was another subversive thing. The music is just a basic groove and a guitar riff, with a sort of funky bass. I was thinking of The Brothers Johnson or something like that. But the listener, I don’t think, is completely aware of the subject matter. At first listen, it’s an infectious groove. I’ve been trying to do that with a song for a while, where you can go back, listen to it over and over again, and you find more texture and dimension with each pass.
You mentioned that “Bum Bum Bum” was quite hard to write, and you had to spend some time preparing for it. Do you feel that you’ve had to apply that process to any other songs that you’ve written since?
On the new record, the song “Lola Montez Danced The Spider Dance”, I read a bunch of books for that. California history books, books about Joaquin Murrieta, Lola Montez’s own very charming book about love. I read stories of love back to the ancient Greeks, learning about how kingdoms fall into enterprising women who vantage desire.
Sometimes an entire book might just turn into one rhyme. A lot of my songs are about juxtaposition, looking at something from many different angles to give the ability for people to find dimensions with each listen.
Since writing “Bum Bum Bum”, do you feel it’s gotten easier to talk about hard subjects over time?
No, never. It just gets harder. Every once in a while, I’ll get stuck. My good friend Mike, he plays guitar in the band right now, and he’s a great songwriter. We were talking recently, and I was like, ‘Ah, I’m kind of stuck.’ Then he said, ‘Just write a boneheaded song!’ Don’t think about it, you know?
And he’s right. The songs don’t all have to be like “Bum Bum Bum”. I think the songs should reflect all the different parts of life. From the sad parts to the stupid parts.
“I Followed The River South To What” (2019)
Before this song, I’d never to my knowledge opened a record with a narrative. I wanted a story. A setting, two characters, a scene. I wanted to open the record with a scene and a dialogue. I kind of copied the form of it from García Lorca. Lorca is being interrogated by the National Guard, but in my song, he’s just some kind of vagrant on the street in San Francisco, just being bothered by a cop.
How did implementing that new practice of translating the Lorca poem into your own dialogue on “I Followed The River South To What” frame the whole of Tip Of The Sphere?
There were a few story songs on Tip of the Sphere, like “The Great Pixley Train Robbery”. I was really interested in writing stories. It’s kind of a lost art, story songs. Really plain story songs. I wanted to give that a shot, so I opened with it to see where that theme might come out in other parts of the record.
What moment made you realise that you wanted to write more story-based songs? Or was this something you’d been building upon for a while?
I’ve always loved story songs, and I’ve been trying it since I was a kid.
Do you have any particular favourites that have stuck with you throughout your life?
At that time, when I was doing research on my favourite story songs, I was probably listening to a lot of Luke the Drifter by Hank Williams. He did an alter ego and made a series of albums called Luke the Drifter. He’s like the spirit of the road. Luke the Drifter Jr., Hank Williams Jr. did one. It’s great.
John Wesley Harding by Bob Dylan is another great group of story songs. I also love the old British and Celtic ballads. Sometimes I’ll just read the books rather than listen to the music.
“Music Is Blue” (2022)
I chose this one because on a music theory level, it’s very discombobulating. The structure of it is very herky-jerky, and I wanted to kick off Heartmind with something that pixelated the listener and made them go, ‘What is happening?’
You present a really interesting relationship with music on “Music is Blue”. There’s one line where you say “Once upon a time, I told myself music was all there was”. You also describe music as your “mistress”. Can you unpack this a little bit?
Well, Music is my Mistress is Duke Ellington’s autobiography for one. I’ve got to give credit for that line. But I wanted to write a very devotional song to the muse, the divine muse. Music comes from the muse. So it’s like a letter of appreciation.
That’s beautiful. And at the same time, “Music is Blue” comes across as quite melancholic. Is that what you wanted to portray?
I think everything is melancholy. Everything crumbles, and we have to love it while it’s here.
Does that apply to your connection with music, or does that feel more sustained?
I think of it as of how in the song, I say music is “a jealous maid”. You feel that. I was talking the other day, thinking, ‘Where is she?’ I’m just waiting at the depot for her to arrive. That’s scary.
How do you reassure yourself that the muse will return?
I think it’s just by honouring the deity inside of yourself. Your personal ethics, your sense of dignity and honour, that’s the reason that you do it in the first place. And what is the muse? Is it something outside of you or is it something within you? I don’t know exactly. But I’ve been re-reading Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations, and a lot of it makes a lot of sense. When I read it, it really encapsulates the ethics and devotion required to make honest work.
You wrote that song just a few years ago. the grounding that you’ve found in your understanding of music, do you feel that your relationship with it has changed over time?
No, I don’t think it’s changed. I mean, I’m a mess. I don’t know what I’m doing. But every morning I try to take out the guitar and think about what’s going on. But I don’t call it writing; it’s not writing every day. It’s maybe thinking and being open and receptive to the possibility of something happening. You’ve got to show up.
Does being so open to learning and educating yourself assist that process?
My process is just to show up and wait for something to happen. But you have to read. Everyone has to read. I can’t believe people don’t read. What are you doing? It’s required. Before I came out the other day, I was reading Memoirs of Pancho Villa, which was incredible. I was also reading Double Indemnity; I’ve never read that before. In Pancho Villa’s memoirs, it’s interesting to hear his firsthand perspective on pre-revolutionary life. His transition from being a servant, to an outlaw, to a revolutionary.
It seems like that interest in outlaws and revolutionaries is threaded through quite a bit of your work.
Hopefully. There’s a fine line between the outlaw and the revolutionary. It’s always one and the same. Even that Lorca poem, that’s what he’s talking about.
“Priestess” (2025)
This was an easy choice because it’s a very personal song to me. A very close friend of mine passed away, and I wanted to make a very personal record.
Do you feel that honouring your friend and reflecting on that loss at the very start allowed you to insert yourself into the work more, and feel more comfortable with getting personal on Interior Live Oak?
I’m not very comfortable with being personal. I have a really difficult time sharing myself. I want to entertain people, but I still want to have some privacy in my life, my consciousness.
I don’t want to divulge too much. But fortunately, with “Priestess” I found a way to do it, because my life and my friend’s life were so intertwined. We lived together, she was very instrumental in helping me develop - or to have the time to develop - my early songwriting efforts. All of our friends were helping each other in a way. Our lives were intertwined. Her narrative is my narrative; my narrative is her narrative.
So “Priestess” serves as a continuation of that narrative?
Yes, I do think so. And some friends who were tight with us back in the ‘90s heard the song on the record, and it moves them deeply. I’ve got some really lovely notes from old friends about the song encapsulating the spirit of that time.
When you say ‘Take it easy, Priestess’ on the song, who are you speaking to? Your friend, yourself?
It’s a way to say goodbye. Like, you’re gone, but I’ll see you. A melancholy, bittersweet way of saying goodbye, but I hope to see you.
Interior Live Oak is out now via Domino
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