Joe Hartzler

State Bird’s hodge-podge collection of members, post-angst hobbyists and caricatures turned musicians and artisans, are not unfamiliar with the leisurely poverty that blesses and curses the life of the artist. In this, they are not unique. What distinguishes State Bird and illuminates “Marching Through the Wilderness,” a (some odd) minute debut album full of hallucinogenic folk meanderings laced with halleluiah interludes and sparkling mantras, is the fervor with which the members have embraced the stereotype. Reciting the collective vision of Coby Hartzler and Jarod Riblet, State Bird has managed to invoke a sound of reckless sincerity and manic frivolity, echoing their simple ideals with a fidelity I may not have believed had I not seen it for myself. This is the State Bird universe; the ether from which “Marching” was pulled.

In the ribs of Ohio a customer enters a gas station on the banks of the Tuscarawas River, just off interstate 77, across from the local adult video store. (When the crude neon sign went up a few years back, the good Christian folks in town were outraged, so they marched around scowling for a week in protest, as if that sign had made people evil. In the end it was the steady flow of seedy black-baggers coming and going that sent them back to the church pews. Nothing will deter Christians like sinners.) Back in the gas station, the customer is about to listen to State Bird for the first time, and either the State or the Bird, depending on who’s telling the story, will ring up his purchase.

Just over the interstate and across the river, adjacent to both the Harley shop and the mobile home dealership, a group of shaggy headed kids sit outside on mildewed couches around a suitcase-picnic table, barefoot, beads of sweat pooling at their temples in the sweltering heat of Ohio’s July. From the garage pours music, guitars jangling and drums that echo wildly through the walls. Two kids in white t-shirts lean over an old Trans-am on blocks in the driveway, and one lets the hood drop. Inside the small house a slight boy, part Italian, part Amish, cooks organic meals with eggs he’d gathered earlier from the chickens next to the garage. In the living room a large Mexican kid watches two grown boys play Mario Cart intently, almost earnestly. At 27, the onlooker could pass for 17. He wanted to be a puppeteer in London’s Creature Shop, but would be happy if he could just build a monster. Then, growing noiselessly in the basement, a tangle of chords and computers, speakers and amps, a trumpet, an air organ, samplers and pedals, drums, tambourines, and all shapes of noise-makers, all still and lifeless from wall to wall. But, in the hands of these oddballs, the zealots and idealists, moralists and nihilists–the kool-Aid drinkers, the protesters, the prayerfully humble–the Marchers, the strummers, and spinners of yarn–the preachers, and sinners, and… well, the pots and pans make beautiful sounds.

This is State Bird and the State Bird Galaxy, the same that bore “Marching Through the Wilderness,” with all its neurotic joy and religiosity, its tinkling whispers and wailing hope. Musicians who live like musicians, the people we all wanted to be before we found music difficult, ourselves impatient, and resigned comfortably into our unoriginal lives.

Back in the gas station, an early mix of State Bird’s, “Wilderness,” yelps and whistles from a grease spattered cd player behind the counter, as a moppy-haired kid greets the man shyly, keenly aware of the fanciful melody playing unabashedly behind him.

“What the hell are ya listenin’ to,” asks the man, “Sesame Street?” The boy behind the counter grins sheepishly and manages a mumbled “no,” then hands the man his change.

True story.

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