"I could not be alive alone," a longtime family friend says with a smile. "None of us could be alive alone."
Within the quiet, cascading corners of Pittsburgh lies a community – nothing short of one large family – that spans zip codes, histories, occupations, and generations, always tumbling inwardly into itself, propped up by steadfast pillars of conviction toward spiritual and emotional mutual aid. The kind of earnest community scaffolding that gets bandied about, wielded as conjecture, particularly in an age of increasing fracture through digital sublimation, is alive and quite well within the universe surrounding Merce Lemon.
When asked how the city has inspired her creative practice, she responds with a characteristic joke wrapped in an earthen warmth – "There are big hills, three rivers, and more bridges than anywhere in the whole world." Growing up in a family of art and music in a city with a small, but vigorously supportive scene, Merce has been going to shows here her whole life, even playing them with the "grown up" friends of her parents – as recently as a few years ago, her band was comprised of her own father and his peers in the Pittsburgh music community.
Merce took a step back in 2020, after releasing her last album Moonth, to reassess during an era of anxiety and lockdown – even the reliably nourishing exercise of releasing and playing music felt precarious. "I was grappling with what kind of relationship I wanted with music in my life. It was just something I'd always done, and I didn't want to lose the magic of that – but I was just having less fun." In this time of restless confusion, she turned her gaze inwardly, down to the roots – figuratively and literally.
"I got dirty and slept outside most of the summer. I learned a lot about plants and farming, just writing for myself, and in that time I just slowly accumulated songs." A never-ending creative hunger, supported by the community framework she'd always been able to depend on, had been newly fertilized by the wide-eyed inspiration that came from plunging her hands into both the earth's soil and her own. Rooting around for an answer, finding and turning in her palms what had been buried there all along – from this rediscovery, imbued with the vitality of earth's green magic, Watch Me Drive Them Dogs Wild sprouted forth.
The album emerges, enveloped in propulsive guitars and saccharine-sweet songs of blackbirds and blueberries, from the dead-calm center of a pastoral frenzy in a manner that one could argue as erratic, reckless — a grave misunderstanding, as Merce is just as aware of where she's being pulled from as she is curious about where to go next. Her sound is built from a reverence and gratitude for the natural world, how paying respect to it charts a clearer path through the choppy waters of the heart. "I can see your relentlessness / in the muddy puddles where retting is / shattering the splintered stalks / where golden braids pour into drops."