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I’m guilty of contributing to the biggest roadblock impeding the success of up-and-coming band, If Bears Were Bees; I made the tragic mistake of using the dreaded “emo” word to describe them. To be clear, and to ensure that this article gets read to the end, they are not.

I suppose the test of a great artist is that there isn’t an archetype already in place to adjust them to, or one specific slot for them to fit neatly into. But to describe them on paper, they have all the qualities that might lead associative thinking to conjure up many a “Plain-White-Cutie”. However, like Kevin Smith said in that one Canadian show no self-respecting 20-something would admit to watching, the difference separating real emotion only found in a broken teenage heart from “Wheezer approximating high school” is the authenticity. And every word out of lead singer T.J. Grant’s voice is dripping with so much raw emotion that even the cynics linger around the outskirts of their shows, and bicycle-cops dying for an opportunity to bust up an unsanctioned and impromptu concert are melted into submissive idolatry. Because even though he professes to have never had faith in God, Grant is the acting deity for the staggeringly loyal fans that follow If Bears Were Bees with the dedication of Dead-Heads. And like Jesus, T.J. loves every single one of them, and he even knows most of them by name.

Even the shyest ones are on their feet within moments of his command. There’s a cohesion between the neohippies mouthing out every word or simulating Mat Bainton’s drums and the quirky mannerisms of the barefoot Bear-Bees, and it’s voyeuristic and nearly spiritual to be a part of. Instead of a painful reminder that your music may have been just as awful when you were attempting to survive the “best years of your life”, watching the audience of transcending ages experience one of their shows only provokes feelings of honest reminiscence and affinity. Perhaps because everything being said is honestly from T.J.’s heart, soul, and life.

While producing their most recent effort, Take Care of Me, Grant was in the middle of a quarter-life crisis -- with all of his friends leaving for college and the devastation of having his long-time love breaking off their years-long relationship (they’re back on now), T.J. found himself alone without even his band-mates to process the tumult. As anyone would do when found in a depression left by the death of an marked era in their life, Grant surrounded himself with more death. “Six Feet Under” to be exact. The Alan Ball produced HBO drama comforted and inspired him in a way that any art form-turned-outlet aids an artist, though in a way most who have never appreciated an HBO series from start-to-finish probably wont understand. “It's as good, or better, of a medium for art as writing, music, or movies are” he explains. In fact, the show leaves its mark on the album in the popular track “Clare’s not real”, inspired by the absorbing character from the tragic show. As to be expected from the effervescent If Bears Were Bees, the album isn’t the predictable compilation of break-up ballads and heartbreak-anthems you would expect from the circumstances surrounding its production. It’s more of a reflection on T.J.’s own life-philosophy, "‘The things I feel are as meaningless as yesterday’ is a pretty good summation” he relates. And the wisdom he’s gained, and discloses, is valuable. After an experience that left one person wounded and led T.J. to greater awareness he recounts, “I learned a lot, but people are not lessons.”

The songs relate even the most heart-wrenching caveats in a way that excuses the music from living strictly on anyone’s “depressed mood” play-list. Even with Natalie Murphy’s gentle piano offering a peaceful gesture to their indie-folk infusions, it doesn’t dominate the potpourri of sounds and instruments that accompany each song. Perhaps that’s the irony of attempting to write about their sound, as neither The Stranger nor The Seattle Times could nail down a descriptive genre for this anomalous outfit. Even with the inclusion of a French horn, T.J.’s rock-roots have may have been limbed, but the influence is still very present. There’s a constant and impassioned angst in the Bear’s songs that prevents the more gentle instruments from ever letting their vibe get sweet or sleepy. And to that end, Matt keeps a pack of cigarettes on his drum-set for added effect; the fact that he beats the hell out of them presents the issue of cigarettes wandering around as much as his eyes, but it only adds to the spontaneity of the Bears’ performances.

In fact, when Matt’s “girlfriend” shows up they might as well post an add on Craigslist for a new drummer considering how many offers for a temporary fill-in they get; some capable, some not. It doesn’t matter much, as their reckless charm engenders even enjoyable stumbles. And no one in the crowd even bats an eyelash, as most are too busy daydreaming about being that flat-chested-freckle-faced 5th grader of Grant’s boyhood dreams. She’s sitting by me, and though she no longer qualifies for any of the above descriptors -- save for the freckles, nobody has a chance. She watches him warmly, but after eleven years she’s no fan-girl. She’s a muse, and T.J.’s acting lifeline.

Cigarette smoke wafts over Jeff’s leather-print bass strap as Grant casually calls him to, “‘Oh’ with me Jeff…” They “Oh” together along with the rest of the crowd and their congruity is magnetic seduction; its effect palpable. As Grant cantillates, “Honey, I’m selfish. I will tear you apart…,” it’s clear that If Bears Were Bees have no idea just how much they give to their adherent assemblage of on-lookers, admirers, and addicts. They’ll get their next hit soon enough; Grant is in the process of recording their next album and it promises to be as unpredictable and ingenious as always.

Main photo courtesy of Nick Foster. Other photos courtesy of Randi Stumpp.