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“That’s what would hit me. I’ve seen a lot
of people down and out in a bar trying to drink their ex-wives out of their
mind or people who had just run their lives into the ground over
self-destruction. I think everybody’s got that side to them. I’ve definitely
gone through that and that’s pretty much where my writing came from.
“I’ve always had a need to be lonesome. I
never want the party to end, but I always kind of had a yearning to be
lonesome. I really do, and at the same time never really being able to be by
myself. It was kind of always a downward spiral whether you’re biding your
time with drinking or with women or whatever you’re doing, and still never
feeling anything from it. Always having that fight or flight instinct.”
Heartache and songwriting is about all
Jerome, 25, is familiar with these days and so it comes as no surprise that
his first major label debut is a collection of story songs about broken
dreams and unkempt promises. Even so there still seems to be a real sense of
redemption and, much like with Jerome there’s a willingness and a need to
rout for the lonesome disenfranchised drifter who embodies the ’70s outlaw
mystique in much the same way as Waylon and Willie did back in the day.
******************
Jerome grew up in Post Falls, Idaho, which
sits along the eastern Washington border, a mere 25 miles east of Spokane.
It’s a rather picturesque blue collar town of barely 17,000 nevertheless,
more than a century later it remains a sleepy little place where there still
isn’t a whole hell of a lot to do. “People up there say it’s a great place
to retire,” admits Jerome, “It’s small, real small. There was nothing to do
until you become a teenager and (you can) go out and raise a little hell,
and find somebody who’ll buy you a five dollar half rack of Lucky Lager.”
Well, luckily for Jerome his old man was something more than a farmer who
simply raised chickens and cows for a living. Instead, the elder McComb –
one of the region’s most accomplished musicians – still made it point to
play in a local country band six nights a week but, more importantly, Bob
McComb saw to it that he involved his two boys.
So, needless to say, it wasn’t much of surprise to anyone in the Inland
Northwest that by the time Jerome was eight years old he was spending more
time in the honky-tonks sleeping behind his dad’s amp then he was in the
classroom with kids his own age.
“I don’t know if I realized it at the time,” Jerome recalls, “but I always
knew exactly what I wanted to do. I never really wanted to be anything else.
I guess I was just never exposed to anything else.
“I always had this thing in my mind to get out and play and I always felt
everything else got in the way of that. By the time I was 14 years old I was
like, ‘well, if it doesn’t have strings on it then I’m not really interested
at this point.’
“I went to an alternative high school. Sort of a last chance place because
even when I was in class I wasn’t attentive or I wouldn’t show up because
I’d rather go practice,” he adds. “That was kind of the first time I was out
playing with the band and seeing the reactions of the people we were playing
in front of, who – for the most part – were dive bar drunks.”
Maybe so, but there must have been something about those formative years
spent growing up in honky tonks that resonated with him as a teenager
because before he even celebrated his 17th birthday Jerome dropped out of
New Vision High School the moment his older brother offered him a job
touring with the regionally successful Kelly Hughes Band.
The nearly four-year experience was a crash course not only in the music
business, but it was also a firsthand experience involving whiskey, women
and the late night carousing that seemed to be a right-of-passage for all
those who played on stage.
“It was kind of like when the outlaws were singing about not being accepted
or kind of being an outsider,” he explains. “I always felt that way because
most people were talking about going to college and I was dropping out of
school to play in a honky-tonk.”
Just as he began to find his own voice – it’s a raw and unpolished gravel
somewhere between Hank Williams Jr. and the Marshall Tucker Band – his time
with Kelly Hughes came to an abrupt end and he unceremoniously found himself
working at a country radio station, KIX FM 96.1, in Spokane. In any case,
one thing eventually led to another and he put together his own band, Trace
County, which quickly earned a reputation as, well, what else: a whiskey
drinkin’ and hell raisin’ group that came with no bullshit and no politics.
With the good times, also came frustration and depression as Jerome, once
again, found himself searching for more out of his music. Even though he and
his band mates steadily played 4 to 6 nights a week, Jerome’ felt that day
jobs and other obligations hindered the band from ever being more then just
a regionally successful group.
Nashville recording artists coming through the area were all telling him he
had “to be present to win,” but Jerome just didn’t think it was feasible for
him to up and move to Music City in search of the seemingly elusive record
deal. That is until a not-so-chance encounter with Larry the Cable Guy in
2002 ultimately led to a gig as a tour manager in February of 2004.
* * * * *
“It’s very, very backdoor,” that’s the simple explanation Jerome has for his
current situation. “If it wasn’t for Larry then I wouldn’t have a career.
I’d still be playing with my big band in a little pond trying to find my own
way.
“Everybody always told me you had to present to win. You had to be in
Nashville. You had to pay your dues. I felt I paid my dues. It still blows
me away that my first time ever in Nashville I came in on a tour bus and got
up and sang that night at Tootsie’s.”
A booking agent by the name of Bobby Cudd caught his performance and before
he knew it he was down in Spartanburg, South Carolina, recording a demo,
with Marshall Tucker co-founder Paul Riddle producing the project. Then
after writing the Blue Collar II theme song, Blue Collar Boys, he signed
with J.P. Williams, who in turn sent him back down to South Carolina to
record what would essentially become his debut album for Warner Bros.
“(He) told me to go make a record and he would fund it and that I had 100
percent creative control,” Jerome explains. “There wasn’t going to be
anybody telling me what songs to do, what songs not to do. He said, ‘just go
make it.’”
The record he inevitably made represents an amalgamation of the sound that
came out of Nashville back in the ’70s along with a modern day Texas vibe.
Jerome was able to capture in the studio the same desire and confidence he
has on a live stage to let it all hang out without worrying about the
consequences.
By the same token other songs on the record evoke the feelings and the
destitute lifestyle of various drifters and gypsies, all of whom Jerome
obviously feels an innate connection with. Even two of the songs on the
record that he relates to his own marriage reflecting the notion of the
insecurities he still has about his own inability to maintain a relationship
given his penchant for being lonesome.
“Finding my wife had a big part in finding peace with myself and being happy
and knowing it’s ok to be happy,” says Jerome, who moved to Austin shortly
after they were married, “but she understands there’s still that side of me
that needs to write and I refuse to lose sight of that.”
All in all, the album is best described as a series of three and four minute
stories that conjure up images, mini movies if you will, and first and
foremost as a songwriter Jerome is most concerned with storytelling. And, to
say the least, he undoubtedly has a fascinating story to share.
“My thing was I can’t sing anything that I haven’t lived, that I can’t
relate with, that I haven’t seen firsthand,” Jerome states. “In this world
if you can’t find a song in your own experiences then maybe you should go
jump on an AmTrak, cause it’ll open your eyes.”
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