It’s been a handful of years — again — and that’s just how it goes with Buffalo Tom. “Each few years is a different point in our lives,” says frontman Bill Janovitz, who’s now juggling songwriting, biography-writing, and trying to explain Al Stewart to poker buddies. “We’ve got adult kids now, tinnitus, and the existential hangover of the pandemic, but hey — new record.”
Jump Rope is the latest from the band that defined a generation of autumn-core college radio melancholia. This time, it’s acoustic, introspective, and yes, haunted by global dread. “We were writing during lockdown, trading song ideas over email,” Janovitz says. “There’s a melancholy tone that just… stuck. It felt like we were making a campfire record. But it probably still just sounds like a Buffalo Tom record.”
It does, and it doesn’t. The harmonies land softer. There’s a hint of Fables of the Reconstruction in the DNA, some Laurel Canyon dust on the sleeve, and a 60s influence that surprised even Janovitz. “We took a kind of Brian Jones-era Stones approach,” he says. “Especially on Chris’s songs. Aftermath-era vibes. Very folky. But still that big open-chord sound we’ve always leaned on.”
That big sound was born of necessity. “We’re a trio, and one guitar has to do a lot,” he explains. “Pete Townshend taught us you can just slam a G chord and let it ring. Neil Young too. Although Neil usually has someone else on stage. I don’t.”
Lyrically, Jump Rope splits the difference between cryptic poetry and dead-ahead commentary. The album opens with “Helmets,” which carries the not-so-subtle line: “There’s a damaged captain at the wheel / We’re gonna need a mutiny.” When pressed, Janovitz smiles. “You’re the first to draw that line,” he says. “But yeah. That’s what I was thinking about. You try to ride the metaphor. I didn’t want it to be dated — but I also didn’t want to not say it.”
Still, he’s no fan of blunt-force topicality. “How do you write about the insanity of… that guy? You want to scream it, but also cloak it. Like Dylan did with Masters of War. Like Neil did with Ohio. Specific enough to sting. Vague enough to stay timeless.”
Other tracks, like “Our Poverty,” drift into more subconscious waters. “That was more automatic writing,” he shrugs. “I’m not dealing with poverty personally, but I had the phrase written down. Songs come like that sometimes. The views of the singer are not necessarily those of the songwriter.”
In fact, one track made him think of someone else entirely. “You mentioned John Hiatt? Funny — we used to get that a lot early on. And I do hear it. Him, Warren Zevon, Springsteen when he’s not being bombastic. The Nebraska Springsteen. That guy alone in a room. That’s my Springsteen.”
When he’s not in the studio, Janovitz is writing music biographies, most recently on Leon Russell. “Did it influence the songs? I’m not sure,” he says. “I knew his music already, but writing is just my way of getting deep into something. The bonus is, during the pandemic, I could Zoom with everyone. Clapton, Willie, Springsteen, Elton. I don’t think that happens in normal times.”
His next book is about The Cars. And this time he’s getting the story directly from the surviving members. “Greg Hawkes lives a town over. We get lunch. That’s surreal.”
As for the pandemic’s quieter revelations, Janovitz found himself rethinking songs he’d mocked in his youth. “We were talking about Al Stewart the other night during poker. I started singing Time Passages. In college we thought it was ridiculous — this Elfin guy writing about mysterious women. Now I listen to Year of the Cat unironically and love it.”
But even Bill has limits. “I still can’t do Horse With No Name. My kid loves it, but no. Just no.”
Still, watching his kids fall in love with music — even the corny stuff — has taught him a thing or two about letting go. “Comedy ages weird. Music, though? It all comes back around.”
Watch the interview above and then check out the video below.
