American Aquarium Cyclist: A Day with Kevin McClain

by Jason Earle • July 22, 2016

BJ Barham holds the guitar waist-high in his signature southern-outlaw-gangster-style. His head angled in a cocksure position betraying the self-aware, almost self-loathing, nature of American Aquarium’s songs. In his sights stands a throng of rabid fans screaming every lyric back, more powerful than any monitor, as they are wont to do. Looking at his backside sits drummer Kevin McClain: photographer, published author, touring cyclist, musician, all around wonderful human being.

To the majority of passionate fans losing their minds at Jack Rabbits on a Saturday night, there is only this moment. Our modern day outlaw singer slaying the room with heartbreak songs. For this author, the moment is drenched with knowing. Knowledge of a late start getting out of Savannah. Of BJ’s stunning wife and the man himself setting up the merch table. Of McClain’s seat for the two hours prior to a thrilling set.

At the end of American Aquarium’s last tour, the band dropped McClain off in Houston and he cycled home to Raleigh, NC. We did not have time to make it to Raleigh, but Kevin McClain invited me to tag along during American Aquarium’s soundcheck, and then I had the pleasure of showing him around Duval, from historic Springfield, through Riverside, Lackawanna, Avondale, and Ortega. The path we chose shows off much of Jacksonville’s beauty, while also acknowledging its warts. The setting, and McClain’s all around openness and thoughtfulness, led to twenty-three miles of conversation about art, music, creativity, and life.

“I like that idea better. Rail trails suck,” McClain offered when I gave him an alternative to our original plan. His point was that you do not really get to see a town by driving out to an old railroad bed and riding along a greenway. Kevin McClain’s public view of himself is not in line with a man who biked from Texas to North Carolina, is the drummer of a beloved, successful band, and who published a coffee table book of his gorgeous cycling photos. His self-narrative comes across more like a BJ Barham-penned song about not being the “man (he’s) supposed to be.” What I discover on our biking tour of Jacksonville’s coolest neighborhoods is a fascinating person with varied passions and a commitment to bettering himself. The kind of man we can aspire to be.

PICK UP A COPY OF KEVIN’S WONDERFUL CYCLING COFFEE TABLE BOOK

We roll out the back alley of Jack Rabbits and begin what may very well be the world’s first rock n’ roll cycling interview. McClain establishes his charming authenticity almost immediately. Our texts and phone conversations leading up to this moment suggested as much, and he wastes no time affirming that feeling.

Kevin McClain is in a creative rut. His wonderful blog chronicling a life of cycling has not been graced with a post since well before the most recent long American Aquarium tour. There is a lot to say, and plenty of pictures to be displayed, but the dude is in a funk. It happens to us all in one way or another. Sometimes you are not clicking. The idea spigot starts to drip and every drop seems a futile uninteresting waste.

In no need of small talk, Kevin and I start with the subject of creativity as we pilot our rocket ships toward the St. Johns River. His blog is a delightful stream of consciousness effort chronicling Kevin’s cycling tours. It seems natural he would pour himself into a piece about ending a rock n’ roll tour in Houston and biking to North Carolina.

What comes out of him on this ride would be perfect for a post. The common theme emerging is his deep appreciation for other people. Not in a romantic way — always expecting the best in people and celebrating some sanitized version of their existence — but in a way that acknowledges we are all a mess trying to do the best we can every day.

As we pull into Springfield, Jacksonville’s oldest and most diverse neighborhood, the appeal of American Aquarium begins to come into focus — complicated, smart people making creative music that is digestible by a broad range of personalities and social strata. An hour ago I was watching soundcheck — the band walking through mundane checks of vocals, guys taking a moment to lie on the couch, or scrolling through their phones, then wandering on stage when needed to check a monitor or microphone. Now Kevin and I are discussing the Michael Brown-like shooting that occurred just a week earlier in Springfield.

We did not set out to talk about race or gender, or any other hard-hitting topics. The bikes seemed to take us there as they are so often inclined to do. Bicycles are a great equalizer. Sure, you can buy a fancy one that does more work for you than your kid’s Huffy, but the motor is what really matters. We are all vulnerable on a bike. It forces us to let go of mortal fear and accept that we only have control over our reactions to things. Life on two wheels allows us to believe in the difficult, even the impossible. As Kevin puts it, “I want people to see me cycling and know that even a schlub like me can bike hundreds of miles.”

There is nothing schlubby about Kevin McClain, but his humble nature rears its head often enough you start to forget his accomplishments. Successes like biking home from the end of his bad ass band’s tour. Kevin insists anyone can do this. He is right, but not everyone does so.

Sturgill Simpson, appearing on Marc Marron’s WTF podcast, lit up recently when Jason Isbell’s name entered the conversation. He surprisingly confessed Isbell’s two most recent masterpieces are somewhat foreign to him. Why would a guy who is rightfully credited with being a co-leader in the outlaw country revolution not listen to his friend and sometime tourmate’s brilliant works?

Simpson has yet to make it through either album for fear of falling into an obsession with each and subconsciously copying Isbell’s sound on the regular. Kevin McClain has avoided David Byrne’s book Bicycle Diaries for the same reason.

Byrne, legendary frontman for The Talking Heads, is an avid cyclist who takes his folding bike on tour whether for art or music or whatever business the manic expressive has in a town. McClain’s concern is that he shares Byrne’s sensibilities too closely. An artist of Kevin’s caliber wants a push, not some regurgitation of his ideas.

As we pass the dividing line between Jacksonville’s Riverside and the less served Lackawanna, the subject of American Aquarium’s Isbell-produced Burn.Flicker.Die. naturally pops its molehead through the whacking hole.

The bathroom-line-version of the story reads like a tumultuous breakup. The band was gonna call it quits, but Burn.Flicker.Die. turned out to be a brilliant, angsty effort that catapulted American Aquarium into the greater consciousness of Americana critics and fans. A party band forsaking the hangovers and drinking contests in favor of making a career out of it.

Kevin underplays the now legendary story when asked whether he felt that “Let it Be” moment.

“People and events are not that interesting. So we play them up to create interest or drama.” I can’t help but push back. After all, I’m riding bikes through one of the more complicated and fascinating cities on the planet with the drummer of one of my favorite bands. His gaze shifts like a viewfinder stuck between frames to a place of inspired focus.

As we turn onto Edison Street, just beyond the CORK Arts building and Intuition and Bold City Breweries, I tell the story of my girlfriend’s upbringing. The biggest badass I’ve ever met began working to support her family at the age of fifteen. Her story could fill twice as much space as this bike ride, but the point is not lost on him. Kevin says very little other than in brief affirmation of my point.

My neighborhood unfolds through the eyes of an artist I greatly respect. It occurs to me he is reciprocally appreciative of the opportunity to ride, and the company — a humbling and revealing experience.

Kevin McClain asserted his authenticity from the first email and text. Still, you don’t appreciate someone until you have sweated a bit with them. The literal happened on a novel level; the figurative would emerge in a few.

Our current route is my work commute of three years. Two wheels afford a perspective the automobile masks, and I often know the quirks of the neighborhood better than my four-wheeling friends. Kevin catches me off guard as he patiently waits for my gushing to end before asking whether we can return to photograph a mural I’ve passed hundreds of times without noticing until today. It’s a Transformer holding hair clippers, an ad for Lackawanna’s Transformerz barber shop just down the road on McDuff Avenue. McClain apologizes and I assure him the obvious — I’m a guy lucky enough to ride my favorite city with you, stop as often as you like.

The sky is a child’s fingerpainting of light blues and grays — the magic hour cruelly sabotaged by Florida in the summer. Kevin eyes his subject with a hint of frustration. A few days later this photo will charm hundreds of followers on Instagram. For now, it has slipped through his brain fingers. We turn right at DJ’s Record Store, a spot selling vinyl, ear piercings, and tickets to gospel shows since the mid-1960s. A mural of Mahalia Jackson watches over us.

The sight of a passing train on the horizon greets us as we pass the aforementioned barbershop. We double back. American Aquarium goes on at 10:00ish. It is approaching 8:00. Kevin wants to ride as long as possible before going to work. Work for him is behind a drum kit. It is work he loves but work nonetheless. We hit the snooze button and angle back toward Riverside.

Lackawanna is not a diverse place. Jacksonville’s warts, its racial divide and lack of consistent infrastructure, are on full display. McDuff Avenue features a well-marked bike lane. The rest of the neighborhood is packed with clapboard houses and blight. A woman stumbles into the street perpendicular to the one we are traversing.

She screams into the fading light. “Why don’t you come down this way so these n***** can beat yo ass?!” Kevin pedals steadily as we both begin to realize what just happened. Race can’t, and shouldn’t be ignored today. Black folks are rightfully feeling frustration boil into anger. Their righteous fire stoked by police murders and “leaders” like Donald Trump. Kevin would have been fully justified in surprise had he displayed such an emotion. Instead, he barely batted an eye.

Kevin’s reaction was to acknowledge the plight of people of color in this country. No wonder she feels anger toward white strangers riding through her neighborhood with a camera affixed to their fancy bicycles.

Volumes have been penned about similar feelings across the country. Things are not tenser than the 1960s. The people of Selma, Alabama would have a lot to say about that subject. Still, we live in a curious time when two white guys riding through a black neighborhood would receive such an aggressive display of frustration with minimal surprise. This was the first time in four years of riding daily through the same place that I have received such treatment.

We make our way back down Edison, the road with the Transformer. We take a left toward Stockton Street and get stuck by a train by which I decide to pontificate about the ridiculousness of biking under the influence laws. Kevin again reveals his level-headed, reasonable nature. He sees why the laws exist. Some plastered fool could wander into the road and cause an accident. We each confess to biking after a couple of drinks, but also to knowing ourselves and understanding when to leave the bike at home.

Knowing yourself is a huge part of these conversations. We are both in our thirties, done trying to look cool, finally at ease with ourselves. In our twenties, men seem to spend a lot of time trying to look cool to other people. After thirty we begin to work more on ourselves. The end game of such focus is a much cooler and more interesting person.

A similar thing seems true of American Aquarium. They have grown into something much greater than a party band. Records like Burn.Flicker.Die and Wolves are works of art only a seasoned team could create. Folks in their thirties — drinking less, thinking more.

Kevin and I get to talking about relationships. Much of our conversation feels too personal to write about now. This is ostensibly an interview; it feels much more like a couple buddies sharing the mutual interests of cycling and music. I confess my slow evolution, how I thought I was a gentleman until I truly fell in love, at which point I realized the truth. Most of what I once thought was charming is actually chauvinistic and old fashioned.

We finish where we started after a twenty-three-mile tour of Jacksonville. Kevin and American Aquarium are due on stage in just about an hour. He needs to change clothes and so do I.

The show is exactly what we have come to expect from American Aquarium in recent years. The musicianship is tight, BJ Barham is a consummate frontman, and the crowd is equal parts rowdy and enthralled.

American Aquarium has an incredible fan base. Their fans have funded the last two records and BJ’s forthcoming solo effort, which promises to be stellar based on the sampling he gave us this night.

My day would be the envy of each person in Jack Rabbits right now. I cannot help but chuckle at my good fortune and the insider knowledge I have of Kevin McClain’s day. Performers often feel larger than life. They take the stage seemingly out of nowhere to move us physically, intellectually, and emotionally. I know such a perception is equal parts accurate and off-base.

Performers of American Aquarium’s caliber are mesmerizing. They are also very real human beings who make jokes about themselves and deal with self-doubt and spend the day pursuing other hobbies. Kevin McClain exemplifies that reality — a true professional and an inspiring creative force.

PICK UP A COPY OF KEVIN’S WONDERFUL CYCLING COFFEE TABLE BOOK

American Aquarium Cyclist: A Day with Kevin McClain by Jason Earle, edited by Matthew Weller.