MILDRED - Fenceline

Four friends and an old house in Berkeley: sometimes stories begin just like that, from a simple twist in everyday life. Jack Schrott is a physics PhD student, Henry Easton Koehler works in public housing, Matt Palmquist is an architect, Will Fortna is an environmental lawyer. Jack and Henry rented a Victorian house on Ward Street, their housemate Matt set himself up in the attic, and Will got into the habit of stopping by whenever he passed through town. In the evenings, after doing the dishes, they started playing songs together, improvising a bit between the kitchen and the living room: Jack and Henry on guitar, Matt on bass, Will on drums. Everyone bringing their own ideas, everyone building on everyone else's. By the end of the night, their gathering spot had become the rooftop terrace, watching the Berkeley skyline together with the cat. To keep talking about music, about the weather, about life.

There they are, on the cover of "Fenceline": four thirty-somethings bathed in sunset colors, the university tower's silhouette in the distance, the dark shapes of sequoias all around. Mildred: a name like an elegant, slightly old-fashioned lady, because the most important thing for them is to never, in any way, try to seem cool. Take David Berman and Bill Callahan and drop them into the sun-drenched melancholy of California, have them listen to a stack of Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young and Grateful Dead records: "Fenceline" is something like that, and for anyone who loves that blend of suggestions called Americana, it's one of the debuts of the year.
There are no hierarchies in Mildred, no leaders. Everyone takes turns writing songs, everyone (except Will) takes turns singing: an "organic cooperative," as they describe themselves. "If you ask a member of Mildred what their favorite part of 'Fenceline' is, it will never be something they wrote themselves. But if you ask them what their favorite part of a song they wrote is, it will always be something someone else added."

The embroidery of electric guitar and the muffled tread of drums accompany "UPS Brown" through cloudy skies and daydreams, in an autumn where the colors take on the brown of UPS vans and even friendship seems to inexorably wilt. There are echoes of Wilco in the folds of "Fish Sticks," there's the sarcasm of Silver Jews in the rustic gait of "Fleet Week." There are vocal harmonies scented with West Coast sun ("Charlie"), there are jagged edges wrapped around choruses that only seem carefree ("Mumblecore Melody").
The eviction notice came for the house on Ward Street, and Mildred moved to Oakland. They're no longer just housemates now, but something more: a real band. To record "Fenceline" they took a week off and went to Echo Park, to Luke Temple's studio. All in one room, live, like in the old days.

The songs on "Fenceline" are reflective and conversational, philosophical discussions over a can of beer. You open your eyes and fear seems to smother everything, as the desolate tones of "Aquinas" throb; you cling to a page of Thomas Aquinas, and that's where you find your breath again: "I was reading Aquinas/ Learned it's not the actions, but the mind that defines us/ The thinking not the thought/ The faith, and the feeling/ And this gives me solace". Because if it's intention that everything hinges on, then it's not the weight of yesterday's actions that defines who you are.
The rhythm ripples slightly on "Cobwebs," then slows back to a crawl on the title track. Until we reach the synthetic pulse of the closer, "Hardcore Of Beauty," which sounds like it could have come from one of early Damien Jurado's records. Beauty is a tension – an intention, once again – aimed straight at the essence of things: "Remain close to the thing itself, a concentrated substance/ Vague and heavy duty, at the hardcore of beauty". The kernel of reality. The universe in a nutshell.

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24/08/2026