Summa Cum Laude: The Graduation of Dr. Dog

When they first learned to play music, Toby Leaman and Scott McMicken played it together. Swapping songs, trading licks and serving as de facto third and fourth ears for each other’s tuneful experiments since the 8th grade, the dual-frontmen of Dr. Dog - the lovable, high-spirited quintet founded in Philly but firmly rooted in ’60s pop—have shepherded their craft from just an underground hobby to a national affair. Steadfast touring and a special devotion to mid-century rock has carried the band from basement recordings to big-city production, and with their new release, Shame, Shame, Leaman and McMicken hope to continue the upward rise—and higher education—of Dr. Dog.

Shame, Shame, the group’s sixth LP and the first recorded (at least partly) in a professional studio, also signals a change in higher personnel. Parting ways with longtime label Park the Van (Pepi Ginsberg, The Capitol Years, The Teeth), Dr. Dog has now linked arms with the much larger and more visible Anti- Records—home to acts like Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds, Tom Waits and Neko Case. Both Leaman and McMicken describe the switch as a necessary spurt in the growth of a healthy band, and though the long-term result is yet to be seen, the increased resources afforded by a bigger label has already rendered an album that is well produced yet still faithful to Dr. Dog’s lo-fi, DIY aesthetic. Like 2008’s Fate, the new record contains its fair share of addictive pop-rock singles but also points back to the days of 2005’s Easy Beat, when the band’s highly-prized live sound was somehow captured, reverted and translated accurately to tape. Thus, Shame, Shame reveals a band at the borderlands of then and now, comfortable in its own skin and not afraid to refine the things that work—and ditch those that never quite succeeded as planned.

Though singer-songwriters are sometimes known to be insulated and overly self-aware, Leaman and McMicken are nothing of the sort, and when Filter talked to them in tandem, they mirrored each other like a set of twin brothers. Jovial and forthcoming, Leaman and McMicken talked about their new record, new label and new injuries sustained from relinquishing their hearts and bodies to Dr. Dog.

A conversation with Dr. Dog’s 
Toby Leaman and Scott McMicken

For Shame, Shame, you chose to leave indie label Park the Van and sign with the much bigger Anti- Records. How did you come to that decision?
Toby Leaman: When we started making Fate with Park the Van, they sort of said, “This is probably the last record we can handle.” We grew together. We were their first release and they were our first label. Before that, there was really nothing else. It was sort of a gradual thing. They got bigger and better as we got bigger and better, but we just outgrew them. I mean, they wanted to keep going and we wanted to as well, but you just have to look at it from a rational standpoint. You know, there’s just more things a bigger label can offer you—it was less an issue of money and more a matter of resources.

Was there a vetting process in finding a new label, or was it Anti- from the very beginning?
Leaman: We first thought of Anti- because they have such a strong roster. We started talking to other labels and for a while, it didn’t seem like the Anti- thing was going to work but it came through in the end. We’re all real happy about it. It’s exciting. The stuff they put out is high quality, but we did meet with at least five different labels and it just went back and forth. It ended well, but it made us pull our hair out. We did so much talking last year—we met with labels, producers; there were meetings and more meetings and we were flying everywhere just meeting people.

With a new label and bigger budgets came the opportunity to work with producer Rob Schnapf (Beck, Elliott Smith). You have always produced your own records in your own studio. How did it feel to hand over the reigns?
Scott McMicken: We liked the idea of having another person’s perspective and to just focus more as musicians. And in a way, Shame, Shame brings it back to Easy Beat because with that record there wasn’t that much thought that went into the production. Even though it was just us and no producer, we only had an 8-track and two microphones—there weren’t any tricks we could pull. That’s what we were trying to recreate but in a more dressed-up way. I mean, Shame, Shame is definitely our most-produced record and there’s a producer’s credit on there, but that’s why I like listening to it and realizing that so much of it is stripped-down and bare. A lot of it is just drums, bass and guitars.
Leaman: Exactly, but when we started this record, we thought we were going to learn these songs as a band—but we’re not that band. We did learn the songs and play them, but as soon as you start playing stuff to record, your mode of thinking while being creative is totally different from listening to a playback. You’re concentrating so much when you’re playing that you don’t hear all the other nuances. I don’t know if we’re ever going to be that band that writes a batch of songs and goes and records them. I think we’re always going to be that band that writes, plays and records all at the same time—it’s a sort of patchwork.

Speaking of patchwork, not long ago you had to do some last minute changes on tour as a result of a serious throat injury, right?
Leaman: Yeah, I bruised my trachea; I almost cracked it. It was really bad. I feel like I’m still not even quite back to normal and that was like, a year-and-a-half ago. It took me a long time to feel comfortable again.

Are you still holding back, vocally?
Leaman: There are just weird changes. I have to think about my voice more. I have to concentrate about what I’m about to do as opposed to before, when I could just be mischievous and do whatever I wanted. For three months I couldn’t sing at all, and then it slowly came back. But it was different. I can’t really sing falsetto anymore. It was never like I was walking around singing falsetto all the time, but it’s not even an option anymore.
McMicken: Yeah...he was totally mute for a couple weeks. That whole tour had me singing like 90 percent of the set. That was really tiring but it showed me a lot. Not that I have ever, for a moment, taken for granted the duality of our band—Toby and I being the two songwriters—but it wasn’t until being thrown into a situation where it was literally becoming more a show of my songs that I realized how important his songs are to me and how much I love being in a band with two songwriters. As soon as I started playing music, it was with Toby. I’ve never played in a band without him. It’s certainly not uncommon [for a band] to have two songwriters, but that experience was eye-opening. I just can’t imagine what it’s like to go out and be the only singer in the band, night after night. 

So, you didn’t try to sing each other’s songs?
McMicken: No, no, no. We’ve tried that and to tell you the truth, it’s immediately embarrassing. Anytime we have a song of Toby’s with the intent of me singing it, I start it and people start cracking up. He can sing my songs and it will probably work, but when I sing his songs it makes me sound more like a little nerd.

Do you ever get injuries while you're playing?
McMicken: Yeah. They show up in all kinds of weird little ways. I come home from tours and my fingers look like I’ve dipped them in concrete—they’re just rigid, solid, callous matter. And then, of course, there’s the tiredness of your voice. When you’re not singing every night and then you go back on tour, you sing the first night and feel alright about it. The second night, it’s a little bit rougher. The third night, you’re like, “I might be losing my voice.” But then, after four days, it toughens back up again. There are little wounds, too—I always get pain in my heel because I’m always hitting it into the ground or stomping on it. I also always get my hands cut-up from aggressive right-hand playing; you know, banging my arm into the little strings holder.

You're known for your live show. Are there any songs on Shame, Shame that you are particularly looking forward to playing on tour?
Leaman: I love them all. Anytime you get to add new material to the set it’s great. “Stranger” has been sounding awesome, but they are all a lot of fun. It doesn’t matter how complicated or simple it is, it’s just really nice playing new material all the time—that’s something we never do; we never practice unless we have an album. We just practice to learn the songs so we can tour, then we tour— then we wait, then we write new songs and do it all over again.

When it does come time to write new material, how do you go about doing it? What’s your process?
Leaman: I used to write only at night for years and years, but I’ve started writing during the day now. I just have the guitar in the room and I pick it up. Maybe something happens but if it doesn’t, I just put it back down. I also sometimes write on piano—I usually go back and forth because the instruments are so different.
McMicken: I write mostly on piano. The process is the goal—to be a part of the process and to study the process itself. The results can vary wildly; I know that much. I have no expectations upon myself about what I should be coming up with. The process will always define the product more than any of my deliberate notions. I really want to write by feeling, by need.

Is there any part of the creative process—from writing, to making the melody, to recording, to the live performances—that makes you truly happiest?
McMicken: Right away, I know the answer—but I’m also uncomfortable with it. The answer, for me, is the writing process, hands-down. I’m uncomfortable with that because I realize the great joy that being in this band offers me. Playing live is awesome and it’s one whole thing unto itself. The recording process is so exciting because you get to hear your music come back out of those speakers and you’re able to feel what you’re making. But really, I can live without ever playing a show again; I can live without ever recording a song again; but I don’t think I would ever be able to live without writing. The thing is—and I hope you take this the right way—once songs get written, that’s essentially the end of their purpose. Our songs are meant to be complete statements in and of themselves—free from what we will do to them on the stage or in the studio. All of that stuff is fun, but when you sit down to write a song and you’re confident and you get that feeling of happiness inside you—there’s nothing like it. If you have that, everything else is icing on the cake.  Nothing else matters. F