XL Music

Faceless Werewolves steadily scaring up attention

By Joe Gross
Wednesday, October 11, 2006

"What could be more horrifying than a werewolf without a face?"
— Chuck Klosterman, writing in Spin magazine about (duh) the Faceless Werewolves at South by Southwest 2004

You would think everyone would know the Faceless Werewolves after getting such a shout-out, that fame and album contracts and an opening slot for the Rolling Stones at Zilker Park would be within their grasp.

OK, maybe not.

Here the band is still sharing a practice space over at Music Lab on St. Elmo Road. A crowded one, at that. The Werewolves share it with another band and, boy howdy, does that other band have a lot of stuff. Large amps, a couple of large keyboards and a whole mess of pedals.

"I think that group is kind of a space rock band," Werewolves drummer Erica Barton says, fiddling with her drumsticks.

The Werewolves are not a space rock band. They do not have a lot of stuff.

The trio is Barton and guitarists Baldomero Valdez and Kelsey Wickliffe. Guitar, guitar, drums and everybody sings — that's the deal. Simple, compact, to the point.

Barton and Valdez are the band's spokesmodels, picking over the band's history and elbowing each other's sentences out of the way while Wickliffe hangs in the background.

It's a perfect lineup for the Faceless Werewolves' brand of Red River rock. The band's debut album, "Medium Freaky" (Super Secret), beautifully captured by producer Chris "Frenchie" Smith at his Bubble studio, is full of garage-pop nuggets exploding into crunchy noise. "Elevation" (not the U2 song) checks out the boys and girls in the scene over crashing guitars kissed with wah-wah. Valdez takes the lead on "What Are You Waiting For?" while "Pegasus Versus the Unicorn" posits a battle between mythological creatures as a war between lovers. (I think.)

It's pretty much exactly what you might expect from a band with influences from Heart to Motley Crue's "Girls, Girls, Girls" (one of Valdez's favorites as a kid) to the grunge explosion and whatever music their folks dug. Valdez's dad played in casual Tejano bands, while Barton's mom taught her how to play drums.

While many outside of Texas (and inside of Austin, perhaps) will think of them as a fairly new band, the trio of 29-year-olds have been playing together around Texas since 2001, hailing from Dallas, San Antonio and College Station. The band fell together in Denton, as many bands do, and futzed around for years, playing now and then, opening for bigger bands, that sort of thing.

A friend suggested the band name ("But now there are all these bands with wolf in the name," Barton says. "Wolf Parade, Wolfmother, Wolf Eyes . . .") and they were off, at least within Denton.

Valdez swears the dual-guitar, bass-free lineup — which was almost a hipster signifier in the '90s — wasn't anything intentional. "I don't think it would sound quite right any other way," Valdez says. "It wouldn't be as gritty."

The band finally moved here in 2005 after a couple of South by Southwest showcases and endless opening slots for bands such as the White Stripes. It seemed natural after exhausting Denton's possibilities, but actual touring is tough because everyone is still wedded to a day job.

Valdez is a teacher and Wickliffe works at Waterloo Records. Barton, with her

sister Donna, co-owns the East North Loop Boulevard vintage store Slinky Whistle Bait, which also moved here from Denton. (According to Barton, the store's name came from the gals' grandfather's slang term for pretty girls.)

The Werewolves haven't done much touring except for a stint with indie rockers Weird War and are looking forward to heading out, at least on the weekends.

Of course, the shout-out in Spin was just that: a shout-out. Not even a review, really. "We didn't get calls from anyone because of that comment," Wickliffe says. "We've had different interest from different places, but we didn't expect anything. We never expect anything."

"I wanted to be in a band that was fun, loud and noisy," Barton says. "We just started to take it a little more seriously over time."

jgross@statesman.com; 912-5926