Non-Believers—Mac McCaughan’s first album under his own name—brims with lyrical and musical references to his childhood memories. McCaughan was raised in Durham and came of age in the Triangle’s rock clubs. So it seemed appropriate to sit with him in his basement and have him narrate the album’s area roots.
“Your Hologram”
The synthesizer that starts “Your Hologram” dictated this song, but it also dictated where the rest of the record was going to go. You can’t totally tell what it is: It could be a guitar, or it could be a synthesizer. The guitar that’s on here sounds like it could be a keyboard, too. I like that combination. Lyrically, it sets the tone for the rest of the record, because it’s about music and a certain time period of your life and the idea of someone who’s making music. The first song and the last song on Non-Believers are from the point of view of someone who is in their room, recording stuff on a four-track. Sometimes, that’s me. Sometimes, it’s not. I didn’t have a four-track when I was 15. I didn’t know how to play guitar even. INDY: To what extent are these lines autobiographical? Did you have your tapes stolen from your ’82 Honda? I did have all my tapes stolen more than once. I didn’t have a Honda, but multiple friends of mine did. You’d come out of a party, and someone had broken into someone’s car. What makes it so devastating is it’s not tapes you went and bought. It’s tapes where you had to record an album on a side. It’s all very specific. That detail is true to life and also just about the fact that this is what you’re worried about. It’s not like it’s an autobiographical record, but I was thinking about the idea of people going through this time together. The thing that’s binding them is the music that they’re into.
“Lost Again”
It’s one of the simpler songs on the record in the sense that it’s drum machine, bass, guitar, vocals and just a little keyboard. But there’s a lot of temptation to add another guitar, add another keyboard. That’s one thing that, since the first Superchunk record, I’ve had to learn—restraint, not adding a ton of shit on every song. If you can stop yourself, the space sounds really good, too. Again, it’s a similar idea: driving around when you have the ability to drive and you don’t have anywhere particular to go, except your friend’s neighborhood. Someone says, “I think there’s a party over here.” I’m trying to think of this neighborhood in Durham that’s near Pickett Road and Cornwallis. I had friends who lived in that neighborhood. It’s one of those neighborhoods where, if you don’t know where you’re going, everywhere does look the same. You have vague information about a party or some house, but you don’t know exactly how to find it.
“Come Upstairs”
It’s almost like it’s the one song that’s set in the present day. In some ways, it’s like the first song, “Your Hologram,” but now they’re gown up and their kids are like, “Dad, what are you doing down there?” I’ve been listening to some German records from the early ’80s and late ’70s, and so I just programmed the drum machine to play that beat. I saw Michael Rother at ATP when Superchunk played. This is my version of that type of song, with a lot more singing than those songs usually have. This prompted me to get out this Farfisa that we used to bring on tour with Portastatic, but that I can barely lift. I almost put this song early in the record, but I felt like it was a good way to end it. That beat is supposed to feel like it could just go on for an hour—a good way to end a record, with that beat.
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