Okay, he’s not that hidden away. But pretty close. Upon my arrival, I'm led through the house whilst multiple family members are consulted on my interviewee's whereabouts. While someone fetches him from the garage, I wait next to the pool in the backyard and exchange confused and curious stares with several lovely ladies in swimsuits.
When I finally come face-to-face with Kristoff, he looks slightly flustered but greets me with a hug.
Let’s get this out the way right now: Kristoff Krane is really fucking sexy. There isn’t an ounce of fat on his toned, tan body, which is sheathed in a weathered Charlie Brown’s Christmas t-shirt. His generous smile sparkles. He’s a thunderbolt of energy; a jumping bean of enthusiasm despite having spaced on our appointment.
And that’s where my waxing erotic on the man stops, because he’s also married...to a woman who belongs on the “Top 3 Most Beautiful People I’ve Ever Met in my Life” list. Next to the Mrs., I may as well be a troll. Sharri is not only a knockout, she’s photographically gifted. Just a glance at the snapshots of the couple staggered throughout the house proves these two are soul mates meant to last a lifetime.
Though Kristoff is a little unmoored by the scheduling snafu, he jumps right in.
“This is gonna be the bomb!” he says, then adds, “I hope.”
He leads me to his basement abode and apologizes for the dishes in the sink—the only part of the mess he claims responsibility for.
“I used to get upset about all this,” Kristoff says, motioning to the random piles of someone else’s stuff. “Because that’s not how I like to set up my living space. Then I realized that what really bothered me wasn’t the clutter, but my intolerance for chaos. Knowing that, I made peace with it. It is what it is.”
He shrugs and unpacks the bag of Pad Thai ingredients I’ve brought with me and starts to slice and dice. When the tofu has been cubed, he leans around the wall and calls for his wife.
“Is this cheating?” he asks me.
“Asking for help? No,” I say.
Kristoff asks Sharri if he has to flour the tofu before frying it in canola oil. When she says yes, he unearths a bag of flour, rips it open and dips the tofu in it. Then he grabs a dirty pan and audibly debates whether or not he needs to wash it.
“I don’t want you to dock me in your write up,” Kristoff says, deciding that a little grease in the pan won't harm his recipe. “But I’m not super clean when I cook.”
As though on cue, a fly buzzes through the room. “Get out of here, dick!” Kristoff says.
He looks anew at the groceries--the most exotic and complicated of my interviews thus far.
“This doesn’t look like kale,” he says, eyeing the bag of greens. “I think it’s endive. And where’s the coconut milk?”
Fuck. Nice way to make an impression, Erica! I can’t tell my lettuces apart and somewhere between my grocery cart and my car, the coconut milk went MIA. Kristoff says it's all good; he opens the fridge, prepared to improvise.
“Sharri, can I use aloe vera juice in Pad Thai?” he calls around the wall.
The verdict comes back “no.”
“Soy milk?” Kristoff asks himself. “Yeah, we can use this.”
“Who taught you to cook?” I ask.
“Um…I don’t know. I don’t really cook. I only have five or six decent recipes…but I like the idea of foods affecting how you feel. Whenever I want to feel better in my body, I eat green stuff, like kale. And ginger is my trademark food. I eat it raw.”
“You’re kidding.”
“It rips the mucus from your vocal chords,” Kristoff says. “And it removes bad bacteria from your mouth and your stomach.”
Cued by my cringe, Kristoff changes the subject to tastier topics, like how to make the best grilled cheese eva.
“You have to use ancient spelt grain bread. And Muenster cheese. Add a little smoked turkey or tuna, some avocado, onions, tomatoes…”
His voice drifts off for a moment as he mentally relishes the fantasy sandwich.
“I don’t eat dark meat, but I love chicken. And salmon…hmm…maple glazed salmon is the shit!” he says. “But Pad Thai is my jam.”
Speaking of jams, the story of how Christopher M. Keller became Kristoff Krane began with a childhood that was “the epitome of middle class. You know, we went to DQ once a week.” He initially found his voice in a boys’ choir; in his teen years, Kristoff used writing as a therapeutic tool. But it wasn’t until a four-and-a-half-month stint in the clink that ruined any prospects his psychology degree might offer that he got serious about rhyming.
“I had an identity crisis,” he says. “It wasn’t severe, but I was trying too hard to be cool.”
That’s when he started stalking…err…um…following fellow Twin Cities wordsmith Eyedea.
“I kept asking for his number. I kept saying, ‘Let me freestyle with you. Let me freestyle with you.’” (Hmm…sounds like Man Eater’s technique to landing interviews!)
“Then one night, Carnage--” Kristoff stops stuffing the rice noodles in a pot of boiling water, assuming I’m not hip to the hip hop scene. “Carnage is another underground hip hop artist.”
“I know Carnage,” I say with a naughty smile.
“You do?”
“Oh, yeah…”
(See, readers? Betcha didn’t know that Man Eater can keep a secret! Hint: it helps if you bribe me with good food.)
Alas, Kristoff doesn’t pause long enough for me to get a “heh heh heh” in.
“Carnage invited me over to Eyedea’s house. So I went.” Naturally, Kristoff knocked Eyedea’s tube socks off. Or something like that. Since then, the rappers have been BFFs. (Could this be where Kristoff’s song “As Good As You” came from?)
I ask Kristoff who he most wants to emulate in his music. His answer? Kimya Dawson.
I'm shocked. Most of you probably don’t recognize the name, but Dawson provided about half of the soundtrack to the movie Juno. Don’t get me wrong; I luv little miss Kimya, but isn't her music for tree-hugging granola people? Can you imagine a rapper like Eminem whistling in his rhymes? I didn’t think so. But Kristoff can, ‘cause he’s phat like that.
“I call my style ‘left-field, message-based, folk-fusion hip-hop’,” Kristoff explains.
“That makes sense,” I say. And it sounds so much better than my “Minnesota Nice white boy rap” description.
“Bob Dylan’s music could be hip hop,” Kristoff muses, giving the veggies in the skillet a stir. “If you took out the guitars and sped it up. That’s what I’m going for.”
The title of Kristoff’s latest release, Hunting for Father, refers to both the drive to seek something bigger and the pressure to be a slave to society’s ideals of getting an education, finding a spouse, and buying a house.
Can Kristoff afford to question the American Dream? Yes, because he’s been there, done that. It’s almost as if the man lives a double life. On the one hand, there’s Kristoff the musician who dines at White Castle and then there’s Chris, the dutiful husband who shops at Mississippi Market.
“I know it’s puffy fluff to say that I do yoga and meditate,” Kristoff says. “Our society has exploited these sacred and beautiful things, but they really do help me feel like I’m part of everyone else. They bring me reassurance and clarity. Meditation detoxes my brain.”
“Are you religious?” I ask.
In response, Kristoff turns around and lifts up his shirt to show me a huge cross tattoo between his shoulder blades.
Hail Mary full of grace. The man is chiseled. Talk about bringing sexy back!
“It’s gorgeous,” I say. (The tat is awesome, too.)
“Thanks,” he replies, dropping his shirt. (Insert me whimpering here.) “I used to be super into Jesus.”
“You make him sound like a rockstar,” I say.
“I grew up in a Christian family. And when I do something, I do it balls out. There was a point in my life when I would’ve tried to talk you into Jesus. And I would have. Then Eyedea made me question whether or not people go to hell. I started using the front of my brain, questioning everything. At that time, I would have tried to talk you out of Jesus. Now I just say, ‘Whatever floats your boat.’”
For a 26-year-old, Kristoff is uncharacteristically self-aware and contemplative.
“For sure, something’s happening out there,” he says, swirling his hand at some distant cosmos. “There are…patterns. But those aren’t in control any more than we are.”
Kristoff surveys the stove and extinguishes all the burners. From the looks of it, the meal prep was a success.
“I think there are things bumping into us all the time,” he says. “We just have to be attentive.”
Kristoff is definitely “bumping into” me. To say that this conversation is a spiritual experience is going to sound cheesy, but it couldn’t have come at a better time, considering that my faith in long term relationships is fading.
I’m almost afraid to ask the next question, but I have to know.
“Is Sharri the only woman you’ve ever dated?”
“Out of thirteen years that we’ve known each other, two-and-a-half of those were spent apart,” he says, retrieving a couple of plates. “I didn’t really date then, though…”
I’m trying to contain my OMG expression (as a divorcee who married the first man she slept with, I don’t recommend it) when Kristoff turns swiftly on his heel.
“But I like I said, when I do something, I do it balls out.”
"Literally."
“Yes," he says with a bashful chuckle.
In other words, the wild oats have been sown.
“So…as the man who’s had the longest relationship of all my interviewees, do you have any advice?”
Kristoff doesn’t miss a beat. It’s like he’s been waiting to play Dr. Phil.
“Never walk away from an argument,” he says. “But make sure you have space to process stuff. Listen. Genuinely listen. Be sensitive to your partner’s love language. I know that sounds corny, but people feel love differently. I like positive affirmations. Sharri likes to be touched.”
Kristoff pauses as though waiting for the wisdom to trickle down from his brain to his mouth.
“Be alone together, but know when you’re depending on that person as your main source of happiness. You’re part of a couple, but you need to be independent people, too. And you have to accept your partner as is. Sharri accepts that I’m a busy body and I work too much; I accept that when she’s sad, she just needs to lay in bed.”
Kristoff points to the spiral tattoo on his inner arm, his finger circling the inky coil.
“That’s sort of what this represents; a journey. There are periods when one partner is more clear…like the guide. You’re not always going to be in love, but if you confront the issues and sit with them, the love will just get deeper and more intense…”
Kristoff’s finger hits the center of the spiral.
“And when that happens…hmm…that’s really good.”
But is it better than Pad Thai? I wonder as Kristoff presents the skillet filled to the brim with rice noodles, tofu, and veggies. After an initial nibble, he tweaks our plates with salt, cayenne pepper and...maple syrup. The surprising collisions of sweet and savory, salty and spicy, really hit the spot. And the tofu is superb, fried to a golden brown and slightly rough on the outside, slippery soft on the inside. Yes, Kristoff Krane’s Pad Thai is definitely restaurant worthy…and he is an exceptional host, serving me a big glass of chocolate Almond Breeze to complement my meal.
“This is a sweet deal for you,” he says as I fill my plate for the second time. “Artists making you dinner all the time…”
I explain that I don’t do the interviews for the food. Kristoff seems unsure what other motivation I might have.
“Most artists don’t take time to reflect on why they do what they do. They forget why they suffer so much for their art. I’m your reminder. And you’re mine.”
Today, Kristoff and I are reminding each other that it’s not lame to move back in with your family to support your artistic endeavors. We also validate each other’s insistence that just because you’re not making money doesn’t mean you’re not working your ass off.
“I work eight to ten hours a day, easily,” Kristoff says. “People don’t realize how much goes into this. It’s not just the beats. I book the shows. I schedule the flights. I order the merch. I produce the CDs. It’s all me.”
Kristoff’s only just coming out of the black. His income goal for this year is probably what a fast food worker makes.
“I took a financial bang to get the equipment I needed to make my music,” he says. “And I took six months to learn ProTools and to play guitar. Someone with a full-time job might take three years to learn those things. I went into debt, but I’m starting to pay it off.”
I confess that I’m still in the hole.
“What’s the worst thing that could happen?” Kristoff says. “You go bankrupt. But even if the worst thing happens, it’s never as bad as you think. It would suck not to be able to buy a house for seven years, but really, is anyone going to be able to buy a house in seven years anyway? Probably not.”
“I admire that you dedicate yourself one-hundred-percent to you music,” I say. “You seem really happy.”
Kristoff doesn’t agree immediately. “I’m happy…but I get sad. And I have a temper. I feel everything,” he says. “But I deal with that shit right away. When I’m sad, I get on the floor and I cry. I ask myself, ‘What are you sad about? Are you really upset about money? Or is it something else? Maybe I’m not measuring up as a husband? And is that just a thought or is it true? And if it’s true, what can I do to change it?’ ”
Kristoff’s emotional catharsis is evident in his songs, with tunes like “Rocking Chair”, “I’m Angry”, and “Brighter Side”:
I know it feels like something’s wrong/when everything is going right/and if it isn’t/then the worst is yet to come/Nothing ever lasts forever/I could blame a raindrop or adapt to the weather/but either way at the end of the day I’m gone
“Would you freestyle for me?” I ask when we’ve both had our fill of Pad Thai.
Kristoff hesitates. One of his side projects, Face Candy, has rehearsal. But of course he can’t refuse sweet little Man Eater. We pile the dishes in the sink and he leads me to his studio in the garage.
"You don't drink or smoke, do you?" he says.
“I have enough addictions, thank you,” I say. “Like peanut butter.”
Kristoff is one of the few people who believe me when I confess my drug of choice.
“And chocolate?” he asks.
“Of course.”
“Dark chocolate has lots of antioxidants,” he reassures me. “It’s good for you. Like going for a run.”
I don’t know if I’d go that far, but…
Kristoff settles into his workspace, smiling as he fires up the laptop. He seems much more comfortable here than he did in the kitchen.
"I think I have ADHD sometimes. Talking to you while cooking was really challenging for me,” he confesses.
Ah-ha. Kristoff pulls up a list of beats on the screen, preparing to compose his rap.
“How do you say your name?” he asks.
I tell him, too slow to catch on to why he wants to know.
“Wait—are you going to rap about me?” I ask.
Kristoff nods with a mischievous smile. I barely refrain from hopping up and down in glee. He’s probably never seen a girl get so excited over an impromptu rhyme before. The beat begins and what comes out of his mouth is completely unexpected—and totally phat. (See video below.)
“That was incredible!” I say afterwards. “Thank you!”
Kristoff gathers his journals and a hoodie and we head outside.
“What? Where’s my van?” he exclaims. After a moment of utter befuddlement, he remembers that it’s getting an oil change. Of course I offer to give the hottie a lift…but that’s before I remember that there’s an empty tub of peanut butter on the passenger seat. (It’s been a rough week.)
“Oh my God, I’m so embarrassed!” I say as I gather two armfuls of crap and toss it into the backseat to clear a space for Kristoff. “I kind of live in my car.”
Kristoff understands. As I pop a U-turn toward the main street (which was once in the Guinness Book of World Records for the highest number of fast food restaurants per square mile, or so I'm told), Kristoff says, “Put the pedal to the metal and don’t stop until we get to Iowa!!!”
“Don’t tempt me,” I say.
A couple minutes later, Kristoff doubles over and starts sniffing something.
“Try this,” Kristoff says, handing me a Chapstick-esque container.
I take a cautious whiff of whatever it is. Vapor Rub?
"Hmm," I say and hand it back. (Man Eater does not inhale.)
“No,” Kristoff says. “Try it.”
“You want me to stick this in my nose?!” I ask.
“Yeah.”
Readers, I’ve had lovers who wouldn’t share utensils with me because of fear of cooties. Here’s a man I’ve only just met and he’s offering me his hippie allergy inhaler. I dig it. So I sniff. Wow. A breath of fresh air. Just like the guy riding shotgun. Confession: I kind of wish the ride would never end. Kristoff is beyond cool. He is my "Eyedea" of what a BFF should be.
Kristoff directs me to the gas station where his van awaits. He hops out of my car and tries to hug me through the window, but I end up sort of drooling on his shoulder. Literally. I’m sad to see him go, but whaddaya know? Ten minutes later, we’re back in touch…because he forgot his journals and hoodie in my car and I forgot to grab my freebie CD from his. When Kristoff stops by my house later for the exchange of stuff, I get a decent hug after all...and hopefully it's not the last...
***
See Kristoff do his thang this Saturday night at The Turf Club or catch him on tour this fall. Visit his MySpace page for a complete schedule.
View the photo album of our interview on Man Eater's Facebook page.
Following is the first ever musical ode to Man Eater, followed by Kristoff’s kick-ass Pad Thai recipe. Coconut milk and maple syrup optional. :)
KRISTOFF KRANE’S PHAT FREESTYLIN' PAD THAI
Ingredients
1 package rice noodles
1 package extra firm tofu
½ cup flour
1 bunch kale, chopped
2 carrots, chopped
½ onion, chopped
1 can coconut milk (or 1 cup soy milk)
½ jar (2 ounces) red curry paste
½ teaspoon cayenne pepper
Maple syrup, to taste
Canola oil for frying
Method
• Boil 4 cups water in saucepan. Add rice noodles and cook for 3 to 5 minutes. Drain and rinse noodles under cold water. Set aside.
• In large skillet, heat generous amount of canola oil. Coat tofu in flour and drop in oil. Fry until lightly golden, then flip using spatula and fry second side.
• Transfer tofu to plate lined with paper towels to drain. Set aside.
• In separate skillet, heat 1 tablespoon oil; add vegetables and onion; sauté 2-3 minutes. Add coconut milk, noodles, tofu, and cayenne pepper to skillet. Simmer until thickened and fragrant.
• Transfer Pad Thai to serving plate and drizzle with maple syrup, if desired.
• Go rhyme something wicked.
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