Jesse Malin is just a fan, except he's not.
He's played on stage with Bruce Springsteen, worked with Joey Ramone, opened for Kiss and had a small role in Bringing Out the Dead, which he proudly proclaims is "the worst [Martin] Scorsese movie, except it has a great soundtrack."
But none of those feats compares to the pressure of releasing a sophomore album. Still, Jesse Malin looks at peace as he scoots over to a little table in the back of a crowded restaurant on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, running on rockstar time and 20 minutes late.
He wears his moppy hair and black wardrobe like it's a requirement - black t-shirt, black pants, black leather jacket and black boots - but he smiles like a little boy trapped in a man's body. He excitedly tells his publicist that the critic from UNCUT, a British music magazine, says he likes his new record. She's happy, but not as happy as Malin is to get some sort of approval. Then he orders Echinacea Rosehips tea. He's feeling sick, and he doesn't want to take any risks for his upcoming tour - so he's preventing.
As the release of his second record approaches, singer-songwriter Malin is feeling the proverbial heat, but that's not the reason for the album's title -- The Heat.
"The heat can be a lot of things. It could be the cops, it could be packing heat (having a gun), passion, motion, intensity," Malin says, appropriately at a point in which the future of his career depends on a lot of things.
It's an awkward place for a musician to be in, and even though his debut solo album -- The Fine Art of Self-Destruction -- was well received, he doesn't seem confident about his next project.
"I don't mind the record," he says. "I like it actually. It took a little time to actually distance myself enough."
But the uncertainty surrounding The Heat has nothing to do with Malin's confidence in his art or ability. His doubts are those of a man about to expose himself again, completely soaked in the presence of his debut and the three things that have been surrounding him since The Fine Art was released -- his musical transformation, his city and his close friend Ryan Adams.
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From looking at his thin frame, his shy stance and his sweet, honest glare as he speaks, it's clear that Malin could never have been a football player. Though he has that I've-broken-my-nose-a-few-times-in-a-bar-fight look, he says he was always a sensitive musician.
"I wasn't into sports, and I wasn't into the regiment of school. Music just connected to me and spoke to me," he says.
Over time, his place in music has morphed into something completely different from his original plans.
In the mid-1990s, Malin fronted the cult punk band DGeneration. The band was a regular at venues like CBGB's -- where Malin had been hanging out since he was a kid. As a punk band, the members partook in all the typical behaviors -- stripping at shows, trashing hotel rooms and donning the glamorous, leatherlicious outfits.
But deep down, something else was looming. He was getting tired of being known for his clothes and "selling a lot of Jack & Coke and t-shirts." Deep down, Malin says he just wanted to sing love songs.
"I was on the bus with DGeneration, and I'd be listening to everything from Neil Young and Tom Waits, to Counting Crows and Wilco," he explains. "I just wanted something that hit further than how fast you could play, or how many times I can hit myself with a microphone."
So, he took the leap of faith and made his way into the world of singer-songwriters, but first made one last band effort -- Bellvue.
"Bellvue was the in-between place, where I wasn't sure," he says.
But it didn't take too long for Malin to gain that confidence. Soon the control-freak took over, and he never looked back. He says, "I miss that relationship of being in a band, but then there is also the freedom of being a solo artist -- that you can be an old-fashioned dictator and not have anybody be too upset about it."
With his punk rock days behind him, and the $20,000 he was given to vacate his apartment, Malin recorded his solo debut, The Fine Art of Self-Destruction, in a week.
Critics drooled. The album was intensely personal, every song sounding like it came directly from Malin's diary, with a live feel that gave it an irrevocable rawness. His leap had been successful.
Then the dreaded second effort. Malin says he desperately wanted The Heat to be something different, but at the same time, to maintain his sound. He recorded the songs on The Heat over a longer period of time, in between tours and with only himself at the helm.
The songwriting wasn't a problem. Malin says he never worries about writer's block because he has a remedy -- "ass in chair."
He claims he needs to be alone to write.
"Not to be graphic or whatever," he explains, "but writing a song is very personal; it's like masturbating. You don't want someone to hear you singing the melody with bullshit lyrics." But, Malin is his own harshest critic. There are no excuses for him. He finds time.
He easily penned songs like "About You" for an ex-love that he's never mentioned before, but explains that "it's based on a lot of experiences that happened to me on my first couple of tours. So, it's somebody that has a lot of the same dreams and values, but you can't really go there fully. You find yourself surviving and getting over the wall in a certain way knowing that there's that person out there that has an insight."
And within these more thoughtful sounds, a more mature Malin has emerged with the new album. The unnecessary screaming on the debut -- a possible throw back to his punk days -- and that recorded-in-a-hurry sound are gone. The Heat is not as jarring.
"It's a band record, it's a rock record," he says. "It's more written with the live show in mind."
But most importantly, the voice is still there. That distinct Jesse Malin voice. That pained sound. That slight accent that embarrasses him.
"I don't know. Don't tell me. I'm trying to sound like Marilyn Manson, but it starts to hurt after a while. I do more of a White Zombie thing," he jokes, but really, it's that voice that makes him distinct -- the thick Queens accent, the fast-talking, fast-living New York City rocker persona that oozes off of the CD player and into your ears. A quick once over reveals it's a solid record. But Malin isn't sure. The new sound and how it will be received is just one more thing sitting in the back of his mind as he prepares for this new career phase.
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E.B. White described New York with, "It can destroy an individual, or it can fulfill him, depending a good deal on luck," and despite his turbulent upbringing in Queens, Malin feels lucky to have grown up there.
Malin's father left the family when he was young. For a long time, he shared a one-bedroom apartment with his mother and sister, and his mother spent a lot of time working to support them. He, of course, spent a lot of time getting into trouble and roaming the streets of Manhattan hoping for something better.
Of his hometown he says, "Growing up in Queens, the whole point was to try and get out of there."
But at the same time, leaving at only 15 had lots of other consequences.
"At a young age I was exposed to a lot of great music, decadence and negative things," Malin explains, "but also things that made me not want to get all fucked up. I watched a lot of people do a lot of drugs and die when I was 14 or 15. I've never even tried coke. The drink I've tried ... but not ... you know," he laughs.
Despite his childhood, or perhaps because of it, Malin adores the city the way a bright-eyed child loves a toy store. The majority of his first album is an ode to New York, with songs like "Riding on the Subway," and "Brooklyn."
"New York has an attitude," he says. "It's good."
At the restaurant, no one recognizes him as a musician, but the staff knows him by name because he's a regular that lives nearby. The waitress comes over and kisses him on the cheek. She hasn't seen him in a long time, because he's been on tour. His publicist remarks that he's "the mayor." He smirks. He's had a long love affair with the city.
But then, New York also has become another hurdle to cross. Though tied to Manhattan by most critics, and with the New York City music boom still in full force, The Heat isn't all about the Big Apple. Malin says that it's "more of a view of looking back at America, being an outsider. I think, not to use the word, but the degeneration of a certain culture that we have and that I have looked up to as far as the American dream, or values."
Though the song "Mona Lisa" is about "the decline of the post-9/11 entertainment New York world, and what people do to survive," Malin says that about 70 percent of this new album was written on the road, mentioning places from London to Amsterdam, and only going back to New York on occasion.
Yet no matter his ties and his love for the city of New York, Malin has plans to leave and move out west somewhere when he has enough money.
"It seems like a place where it would be nice to have some money. Like to live poor in LA, I did that, and it wasn't very fun," he says as he sips his pink rosehip tea.
The time isn't right just yet, but the mood for change has fast-approached.
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Still, Malin's biggest hurdle is the most complicated -- overcoming his ties to alt-country darling, Jesse Malin friend and all around media frenzy Ryan Adams. Adams and Malin have been friends for years, but it was their work together on The Fine Art of Self-Destruction -- with Adams as a first time producer -- and Adams' continuous discussion of his friend's genius that would tie them together in the eyes of the media.
Now, you would be hard-pressed to find anything written about Malin that doesn't include a reference to Adams. The two have even been grouped into the same musical category, though Malin disagrees.
"I think we're pretty different," he says. "Some people don't."
But, their similarities really don't go much further than their taste in music and their friendship with each other. Adams is a southerner with an often southern sound who made his name with alt-country band Whiskeytown. His very presence seems chaotic, and his live shows leave the audience and even his band wondering what he will do next. Malin is the polar opposite. He's a New Yorker, who made his name in a punk band. His live shows are carefully orchestrated with a slight "element of chaos in there." Still, the comparisons abound, and Malin hopes to stand on his own without references to Adams.
That's not to say he isn't thankful for what his friend has done for him. "I'm proud of our friendship. I think he did a great job producing the record. I love the guy," Malin says, "but I think you get to a point when you're like 'Oh god.' You hope to stand different."
As circumstance would have it, Adams was unable to produce The Heat, though he had intended to, and Malin had to go at it alone.
"That can only work, that trick, for a little while," he explains. "Soon people are going to take me for who I am, or it's just going to be a fad for minute that I was Ryan Adams' little guy. I think that the first thing I said is what is going to happen. So, I trust myself, but you see as you make more records."
The result is the different sound for which he was looking, the sound that still keeps to his Fine Art roots.
Producing his own album is at least one step in the right direction, but Malin and Adams will always remain close. Adams' recent accident on a London stage where he fell off and broke his arm was pretty scary for Malin. His face shows concern as he recalls the evening, and having to cut the tour short, even if it gave him more time to work on the record. "I wanted to make sure he was okay, and he is, and that's the main thing," Malin recalls. "It was scary. You don't know what's going to happen."
Still, the music industry is tough, and Malin must be able to stand out on his own, despite affection for his friend, if he wants to continue. One more hurdle.
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In a couple of weeks, Malin will depart on a European tour. He's not nervous. He loves to tour, but right now he pauses for a moment to think about his new record. He looks shy, though being a performer and great talker, he clearly is not. "I'm still a little nervous, you know? I don't know. I'm proud of it. I like it, and I'm ready to go out and play it live. I'm still waiting to see what the feedback will be," he says.
Somehow, the man that has been in the business so long is still a fresh-faced musician, terrified of that sophomore slump. He still needs that approval, but he's not torn up about it. He just smiles. It's just one more on thing on his mind as he jumps into the next chapter -- and he's not about to fall on his face.
