They came up the highway from Bloomington, that forever-blue dot in a red-state map, and slipped into Louisville with a record that asked you to dance while you worried about the rent. Durand Jones & The Indications had already built a reputation around here before the debut found a label; by the time American Love Call landed, the group sounded like it had inhaled a decade of 70s soul in one breath and exhaled strings, harmonies, and heavy drums in the next.
“We started listening to a lot more ’70s soul,” Aaron Frazer told me, matter-of-fact, like he’d just rearranged the living room and found more space. “The hallmarks are more orchestration and vocal harmony… but the drums are still heavy. That was the balance we loved and tried to strike on American Love Call.” The sonic upgrade wasn’t pretend; it nudged the writing without time-warping it. “We weren’t trying to be period-perfect with the lyrics,” he said. “We keep things contemporary. Soul music is a great vehicle for delivering a message—love or political—in any era.”
“Morning in America” made that point without blinking. Yes, the title carried a Reagan-era ghost, and yes, they knew it. “I was aware of the slogan,” Frazer admitted, “but we weren’t making a comment on the Reagan era.” The band was tracking the split-screen reality of tour life: meet young organizers and new community leaders by day, doomscroll the national headlines by night. “It’s a weird time of both hope and despair,” he said. The song tried to hold both in one hand without dropping either.
That mood fed into the record’s best trick: the emotional shell game. Is this a love song, or is it a political song in disguise? “It could be either. It could be both,” Frazer shrugged, leaning into the melodrama doo-wop was built for. On “The Court of Love,” the breakup becomes a trial, friends deputized as judge and jury, every accusation another exhibit. If that sounds like social media’s favorite pastime bleeding into your text thread, join the club.
The personal bled outward on “Long Way Home,” too—hard times, heavier truths. “It came from a time in my life where it was really tough,” Durand Jones said, quietly. The subtext wasn’t subtle: the Poor People’s Campaign, paycheck-to-paycheck America, and the idea that race is both inseparable from the story and not the entire story. “There’s a lot we share regardless of background,” Frazer said. “For most people, it’s a common economic struggle.” You could hear the country refracted through their routes: blue towns in red states, community centers and small venues, the after-show conversations that never make the tour poster.
Not that they tried to dodge the road cliché entirely. “How Can I Be Sure” is the touring diary they couldn’t resist writing—less truck-stop poetry, more choice fatigue. “Anytime you’re chasing a dream with everything you have,” Frazer said, “you’re probably sacrificing other parts of your life.” Friends in grad school, artists in vans—same economy, different cafeteria.
The orchestra pit didn’t swallow the rhythm section, either. Those drums stayed mean, the bass remained unbothered, and the strings did their best to keep a straight face. That’s the sleight of hand: make the music feel good enough to hum while the words do their jobs. “The puzzle is how you speak to frustrations in a way that still lets you celebrate in the moment,” Frazer said, citing Stevie and Marvin like compass points rather than idols. You get to sing along with “mother, mother, mother” while absorbing the ecology lesson—it’s sugar on the vegetables without pretending it’s dessert.
Durand, who grew up with bass bins rattling down the block, doesn’t pretend he came to soul through a museum tour. “I grew up with hip-hop in the streets,” he said, remembering trunks that turned corners into subwoofer demos. Sampling was the bridge. “I want to pay homage to the great soul songs that hip-hop artists sampled,” he said. The ultimate thank you? is “Hearing an MC sample our stuff and make a track out of it.” Consider American Love Call both a love letter and a field recording waiting to be flipped.
If there’s a map for what comes next, the band wasn’t passing it around. “I just want to write what hits the heart,” Durand said. If the first album was the spark and American Love Call was the slow-burn statement, they sounded comfortable letting the next phase find them rather than the other way around. They didn’t need to pick a decade; they needed to keep the drums heavy and the message un-corny.
Between the studio gloss and the nightly headlines, this band learned to tune for clarity, not comfort. You might hear a string line first and a gut punch second, or the other way around. Either way, it stuck. When I asked if the love-song-vs-politics confusion was by design, Frazer grinned. The answer was the most Indications thing possible—clean, unfussy, and sharp enough to draw a little blood.
“Either,” he said. “Both.”
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