“You guys are impossible to tie down!” I exclaim when Pete appears alongside me at the café counter.
Weeks have passed since my initial plea for the founders of Rogue Valley to be Man Eater-ized. After extensive email tag, followed by appointment making and breaking, I messaged Pete with: “If you find yourself twiddling your thumbs one afternoon…don't hesitate to shoot me a text. I just might have an opening I could squeeze you into."
Pun very much intended…and dare I say that sealed the deal?
Today, at their beck-and-call, I sped into the city after solidifying plans only an hour earlier.
“Getting caffeinated?” Pete asks, pointing at my glass of coffee.
“Um...yeah,” I say. (Isn’t that what people do when they meet up in coffee houses for a Q & A?) “Where’s Chris?”
“At my house,” Pete says.
Guh-reat, I think. It’s a miracle musicians ever get gigs, much less show up onstage, if this is how they handle appointments!
Pete brushes a few cinnamon hued hairs off his face and points out the window at the adjacent house.
“I live right there,” he says.
Well, then. One minute later, my hand is on Pete’s back door (heh heh).
“Chris!” Pete calls. “The Man Eater is here!”
And with that, any bitterness about scheduling snafus evaporates. This is going to be fun with a capital “F”.
I lean up again Pete's fridge, notepad and pen in hand, and drink in this fantastically spacious kitchen. The prep for our meal is already underway on the countertop, and even in its unmade state, I can tell it's going to be amazing. The Current blasts from the stereo in the living room. I feel right at home.
…until Chris comes in, utterly intimidating with his tall frame and sturdy build. His pecs are so defined my eyes can trace the musculature through his Shins t-shirt. To top it all off, he’s wearing the accessory every starving artist must have in his wardrobe: a bowler hat. My knees go a little weak as Chris shakes my hand, sans smile.
“So whose idea was this project?” I ask, referring to the insanity that is releasing four albums in the span of one year. Their sophomore CD, The Booksellers’ House, marks “the 13-mile mark in a music marathon”, as David Campbell of The Current said in a recent interview with the band.
“It’s all Chris,” Pete says.
“That’s awfully ambitious of you,” I compliment the band’s front man.
"I compare it to climbing a ladder that keeps getting taller and taller," Chris replies.
Might Chris be on the fast track to burn out? I wonder as he hovers near the back door, sucking on a cig. Or is this a brilliant way to channel his creativity? From our conversation, it sounds like using the four seasons as parameters for the albums actually motivated his muse. What resulted was some unprecedented hybrid of a multi-layered song and a modern day Indie rock opera.
“And as if that wasn’t enough, you just got married, too!” I say.
Chris shrugs as though planning a wedding was the least demanding of his obligations. He does not offer up any extra details about the nuptials, except that walleye was served at the reception. I can’t tell if Chris is a private person, a pompous one, or a combination of both. From here on out, I'm walking on eggshells.
With his best friend of over a decade, however, I'm walking on sunshine. Pete is approximately 100 pounds of pure charisma. He and I bond over the creepiness of TV studios as he scurries from one side of the stovetop to the other. I watch in awe as he cracks a pair of eggs into the skillet, waits a couple of minutes for them to set, and then, with one swift flick of his wrist, flips them in the air like a pancake. The eggs land back in the skillet with the grace and precision of an Olympic gymnast.
“I’ve never seen anyone do that to eggs before!” I exclaim when I pick my jaw up off the floor.
“I wouldn’t even attempt that move,” Chris says.
Peter eyes the skillet unhappily and shakes his head.
“The eggs aren't cooking like they usually do,” he laments. “They must be nervous.”
“Does anyone else in the band cook?” I ask.
“Luke makes a great kitchen sink stew,” Chris says. “He’s very talented at throwing shit together and making it taste good.”
“And Chris makes breakfast when we do shows out-of-town,” Pete adds.
“That's just food runner think,” Chris says. “Why pay fifty dollars to eat in a restaurant? It's easy to make scrambled eggs and bacon for everyone.”
“Chris is the dad of the band,” Pete says as he nabs a pair of bread slices from the toaster.
“And Pete’s the mom,” Chris replies. “He makes sure our faces are clean.”
Within minutes, Pete presents me with identical plates of open-faced egg sandwiches. Chris does not partake in the taste test, but he joins us on the patio while Pete and I eat.
“See?” Pete says, snickering as I slice through the center of the sandwich. “The yolks were supposed to explode and saturate the bread. These are overcooked.”
“It doesn’t have to be perfect,” I say.
Or rather: it already is perfect. If there’s such thing as an artistic orgasm, I’m totally having one now. The sunshine, my sexxxy meal companions, the incredible edible sandwich that I’m taking as much time as possible to savor. I’m in eggstasy.
Per my request, Pete recites the ingredients of his go-to breakfast. It's a short list.
“I like super clean flavors," he says.
And that's exactly what each bite feels like as it slides down my throat; clean, natural, hearty, wholesome. Home cookin' at it's best...something Pete rarely has time for lately with all the Rogue Valley engagements.
“My schedule has made me appreciate impromptu get togethers more than the meticulous dinner parties I used to plan,” Pete says.
“We’ve done a lot of grilling this summer,” Chris remarks, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands behind his head. “Baby back ribs…chicken wings…I love eating stuff off bones. It’s so manly.”
(Did I just cream my panties? Yes, yes I did.)
“We do a lot of frozen pizza, too,” Pete says.
I bury my face in my hands. “Please don’t tell me you guys eat frozen pizza!”
“It’s not like we plan to eat it,” Chris says. “If you invite people over a week ahead of time and tell them you’ll be serving frozen pizza, no one will show. But if you’re hanging out, it’s 2 a.m. and you pop a frozen pizza in the oven…hmm…nothing’s better.”
“Tombstone has saved my life more than once,” Pete proclaims.
These guys are serious about defending their favorite junk food. The two joke that at their release party, they’ll set up a table of the favorite snacks from their bachelorhood: Chex mix, cheese balls, and PB & Js with the crusts cut off. Another guilty pleasure? The cinnamon rolls from the coffee shop where Chris works.
“How do you guys stay in shape?” I ask. “Do you lift?”
"Yeah, can't you tell?" Pete says, eyeing his twiggy figure up and down with a chuckle.
“I go through cycles,” Chris says. “I might do it for a while, but then I get to the point where I don’t want to go to the weight room and lift some dumb bell.”
Chris is the epitome of the strong, silent type. Even when joking, he doesn’t let loose completely.
Pete, on the other hand, plays pun-pong with me enthusiastically. Is there a spark? It doesn't matter…but we’re definitely flirting, if only for sport. The innuendo ricochets from one side of the table to the other with whiplash force. (Okay, not that hard, but let’s pretend because it makes me really *egg*cited.)
Perhaps the fact that all three of us are committed (when was the last time I had that in common with my peers?!) gives us permission to be bold. And because we’re all in (gasp!) happy relationships, there’s no risk of anything inappropriate occurring. Besides, Chris is so stiff (at least, the parts of him that I can see above the table), almost to the point of being chaperone-esque, that it’d be hard to pull a fast one (i.e. a quickie with Pete) on him.
But back to the business of songwriting, which sounds like a sweat-inducing exercise in itself.
“In music, you always want to do more than what’s comfortable,” Chris says. “No pain, no gain.”
Writing, for Chris, is “less mystery; more assignment.” In the past, food has proved inspirational, including references to milk, cheese, VooDoo Doughnuts, and 24 hour hotcake houses in his tunes.
"So where do you go from here?" I ask.
"We'll have a lot of fucking albums by the time this project's done in February, so we'd like to go on tour next summer," Chris says. "The value of recorded music is almost nonexistent. Even hearing an album is a paper thin experience. The artist is invisible. But if you’re playing live, it’s a real, raucous, compelling experience. Recording means leaving the artistry in other people's hands. Going on tour makes it feel like we're in control of whether we succeed or fail. It’s all up to us.”
“Are the significant others going on the road, too?” I ask.
Both guys shake their heads with terrified smiles and baritone “Noooooo”s.
"They understand," Chris reassures me. "And our families are our biggest promoters. Whenever I see my dad, I bring him new shirts because he’s always wearing a band shirt. Usually one with my face on it.”
Chris shakes his head in embarrassment; even his ego has its limit.
“Was that part of the motivation to form Rogue Valley?” I ask.
"We're the same group of musicians (which includes Luke Anderson, Linnea Mohn, and Joey Kantor) but I wanted to take the attention off of me,” Chris says. “And it sounds much cooler to say 'I’m in a band called Rogue Valley' than 'I’m Chris Koza. I’m in a band. It’s called…Chris Koza.' ”
“And how does having Linnea in the group change the dynamic among the guys?” I ask.
“It helps to have a woman,” Chris replies without a second thought. “We need her for balance.”
“Yeah,” Pete agrees. “No one wants to look onstage and see a sausage fest!”
“Speak for yourself!” I exclaim.
(Pause for the delicious visual…)
“Having Linnea adds a sexy element to the songs, too," Pete says. "It lets us explore the more emotional side of the lyrics. She’s like our Olivia Newton John. On tracks like Rope Swing Over Rogue Valley, there's just no substitute for a man and woman singing together.”
I have to agree there. That is an incredible song, and if a little estrogen is essential to make it work, I couldn’t imagine a better contributor than Linnea. She’s no wallflower. She plays a mean bass…and she makes her own jalapeno ice cream!
“Linnea likes the spicy sweet combinations,” Pete says. “It fits her personality.”
Pete smiles slyly. There's more to that story, I'm sure, but he's not spilling it today.
"We’re not a juicy band,” Pete says, reading my dirty mind. “No backstabbing, no wife swapping—”
“Never say never!” I chime in. My companions do not indulge my orgy insinuations. What is the sound of one woman laughing?
“Seriously,” I say, egging Pete on. “You’ve never taken advantage of your musician status?”
“I’ve never experienced that mythical scenario where naked ladies are writhing around me after a show," Pete says. "I’ve dreamed about it, but it hasn’t happened. Our music doesn’t lend itself to that kind of behavior. We play sensitive man music.”
Still, the guys know how to live it up when the occasion calls for it, per the hints about Chris's recent bachelor party, which included bare-chested tree climbing, sprinting to the lake in the middle of the night, and plenty of alcohol. The next opportunity to party hardy is only days away when Pete turns 30.
“I’m going to stick six funnels in your body and jam bottles of Absolut in them,” Chris says with a satisfied nod of his head.
“Why six?” Pete asks. “Wait…are you counting all of my holes?!”
When I catch myself silently enumerating my interviewee’s orifices, I know the afternoon's naughtiness has reached its peak. If, in a parallel universe, my promiscuous alter ego encountered Pete’s “promiscuous gigolo twin from Edina” (Chris's words, not mine), this would be the point where I’d try to ditch Chris and make Pete show me his, ahem, namesake.
“Would you play a song for me before I go?” I say.
“You want us to perform?” Chris asks.
In my dreams? Hellz yeah. It wouldn't take much imagination for me to turn these two good eggs into a very scrumptious Man Eater sandwich. But music will do for now.
“I'd like to hear a song, yes,” I say.
Chris and Pete glance at one another as though I'd just verbalized my threesome fantasy.
“I suppose we can do that,” Chris finally says. “All of our equipment is here. This is sort of our rehearsal space anyway.”
Pete takes the plates inside; Chris and I follow. When I look back, I realize my sweat has soaked through my mini skirt and left stains on the folding chair. Can you blame me? No. And you can't blame the weather, either. The Minnesotan mugginess is nowhere near as hot as the pheromone fest I find myself in.
Before they play, Pete shows me Rogue Valley's press kits. They’re cigar boxes packed with CDs and Matchbox cars. They’re cute. And a very clever marketing technique.
“You really have to reinvent the wheel every time you do a show, don’t you?” I say.
“We try to stay in the ‘What else can I do?’ mentality," Chris replies.
(Me, for starters?)
And with that, the guys whip out their instruments and start to play.
Rogue Valley's music is as close as I can get to ecstasy while remaining fully clothed and faithful to my S.O. The song Chris and Pete preview for me is from Rogue Valley's fall album, a selection I'm grateful for because earlier material is painfully nostalgic. (Crater Lake was the CD that got me through the Slump Buster break up.)
Still, my ears remember Rogue Valley's sound and memories come flooding back to me of midnight walks beneath starry skies, my little man (read: poodle) Tito trotting alongside me, Chris and Pete cooing cool and soothing melodies in my headphones. I miss those moments of seemingly expansive bliss. And yet, this moment is so much better. In fact, add this to the "Top 10 Moments of my Life" list.
The musicians' voices meld and the tunes echo through the room as the song reaches its climax. When it's all sung and done, I feel as clean and as satisfied as I did after consuming Pete’s cooking. The experience is so succulent, so refreshing, it's as if my spirit just went skinny dipping.
“I can’t wait to see what you come up with for the post,” Pete says as I depart.
The feeling is mutual. I can only hope what I come up with is as eggcellent as everything Rogue Valley shared with me today.
***
Visit Rogue Valley’s website for tunes and merch and if you like what you hear, “like” them on Facebook, too!
See the photos from my eggcellent afternoon with Chris and Pete on Man Eater's Facebook page.
Below you’ll find a Rogue Valley video from a previous performance at First Avenue and Pete’s Eggstasy Sandwich recipe.
ROGUE VALLEY’S EGGSTASY SANDWICH
Ingredients
2 slices sturdy white bread, toasted
4 romaine leaves
Splash of lemon juice
4 eggs
1 ripe tomato, sliced
Salt and pepper to taste
Method
• Grease griddle and heat over low heat.
• Sprinkle romaine leaves with lemon juice and cook on griddle until slightly softened. Set aside.
• In skillet, heat 1 tablespoon olive oil over medium heat.
• Crack 2 eggs into skillet; salt and pepper as desired. Cook just until the whites are set.
• If you have Pete Sieve's dexterity, flip eggs sans spatula. If you're like me, and have a spatula fetish, use one to gently turn eggs over. Either way, you've gotta cook the second side.
• Remove skillet from heat.
• Top slice of toasted bread with thick slice of tomato, romaine leaves, and eggs. Repeat above steps with remaining ingredients.
• Enjoy whilst listening to Rogue Valley’s The Bookseller’s House release. Welcome to eggstasy!
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