Going Into The Studio!

What does it mean?

Howdy y’all. You’ve reached Time & Temperature.

At the tone it will be time to make a new Old 97’s record.

This will be Old 97’s fourteenth studio album, a rate of one every 26 months or so. During that time I’ve dropped eight solo albums. Before the 97’s formed in 1993, I’d released an album while still in high school (produced by Murry Hammond!), and Murry and I had released an album with our power-pop trio Sleepy Heroes. That’s two dozen studio albums on which I’m the primary singer/songwriter. Sheesh.

Sleepy Heroes era, circa 1990 - photo by James Bland

In addition to the studio albums, the 97’s and I have released a Best Of (twenty years ago!), multiple EP’s, singles and split-singles (notably our recordings with Waylon Jennings), at least two live albums (and a live DVD!), a few odds and sods collections, and a number of multi-album reissues each featuring an entire album of otherwise unreleased demos and alternate takes. None of that is even counting the albums Murry has made solo or with his band Peyote Cowboys, or the “album” I recorded in 9th grade with my folk trio Scarlett’s Garden. Again, sheesh.

I’m old school so for me it’s the studio albums that define an artist’s career. And the Old 97’s stand on the brink of attempting to assemble another career-defining studio album. My understanding is that folks call it a “record” because it’s just that, a record of who and what the artist is at a certain moment in time. It’s that permanent-record quality that often creates tension for the artist. As our friend and forever A&R buddy Tom Desavia likes to say, “No pressure, just remember that everything depends on this.” Thanks, Tom.

The question arises, “Why do we keep making albums? Or, “When is it enough?” Does the universe yet contain enough songs written by little ol’ me? I’ve asked this question of veteran musicians, heroes and friends, and the resounding answer is always some version of this: If it’s still fun and you’ve still got songs in you, why in the world would you stop? I find myself answering a resounding yes to both, so off I go with my brothers of 33 & 1/3 years into the recording studio to do it all over again.

I’ve been writing songs. I’m always writing songs. There’s even a small backlog of quality songs from the last couple of cycles that won’t seem to go away. They haven’t found a home yet, and most of them won’t find a home on this newest album either, but they won’t stop tickling at my frontal lobe. It’s a high class problem, this too-many-songs thing, but it’s a problem nonetheless. In a way, it’d be so simple to have only ten songs to bring to my 97’s bandmates, ten undeniable, polished songs that I know are kickass and perfect for this moment in our band and our world. But then I’d run the risk of my oft-ornery bandmates only taking a liking to, say, six of them, which would leave me scrambling.

POV a songwriter’s office, aka my buddy’s place in the CA desert, February 2026

As usual, this time around I’ve brought the band thrice that number and I feel like I’m still scrambling. I love the songs I’ve uploaded to our shared folder of demos, but what if there’s another even better song waiting around the corner? I wake up every morning with ideas for brand-new songs and revisions for existing songs. When it’s time to put the record to bed, I’ll be able to walk away—I’ve never demanded a finished album be scrapped and re-recorded—but until the mixes are locked, I’ll be grinding towards the platonic ideal of the album, working to minimize any future regrets and maximize satisfaction for the listener, the band and myself. The secret? All that work is a fucking blast.

Old 97’s at Dreamland Studios outside Woodstock, NY in January 1997, during Too Far To Care sessions - photo by Danny Clich (I think)

I can’t tell you what this new Old 97’s album will sound like. I always think I know ahead of time, and I’m always shocked by how far off I am. It’s crazy how different each experience is from album to album. This time around, I’m a father of two young adults, a songwriting professor at a university in Greenwich Village, and an Americana Music Awards Lifetime Achievement Award recipient. I bring up that last not simply to brag, but to highlight the 97’s elder-statesman status, which, combined with the large amount of time I’m currently spending in the company of brilliant young people who are roughly the age I was when the 97’s formed, gives me a perspective that’s more layered and complicated than ever.

I’m smack dab in the middle of my fifties but I don’t feel like a relic. I think these days the world agrees that artists should be allowed to retain their relevance deep into their career. In 1988, then-55-year-old Leonard Cohen gave the world his seminal LP I’m Your Man. In 2001, at the same age, Dolly Parton unveiled Little Sparrow, the second installment in her critically-acclaimed Bluegrass Trilogy. On the other hand, Mick Jagger was 55 when the Rolling Stones released Bridges to Babylon to decidedly mixed reviews, though in the words of the great George Drakoulias, “You can’t argue with the sales.” My point is that the only person who can answer the question “When is it enough?” is Leonard or Dolly or Mick or… me and my brothers in the Old 97’s. We do it because we love it. We do it because we can. We do it because it’s what we do.

We can’t wait to do it again.

yrs,

Rhett

PS (In case you’re wondering, that’s not a cigarette on the headstock of my J200 in the first photo, it’s a Tunerette guitar tuner!)

PPS (The Sleepy Heroes photo was from the photo shoot I did for a feature in Seventeen Magazine. just FYI.)

PPPS (Interesting side note: Don Was had committed to producing Old 97’s Elektra debut but had to back out when the Stones hired him to produce Bridges…, resulting in our hiring of relative newcomer Wally Gagel who helmed the album that became Too Far To Care. And now you know… the rest of the story.)