Leave the Moon On: Ten Years of Waking Fable
WHEN YOU’RE WALKING DOWNTOWN at night and see the fluorescent owl eyes of the Frost Bank Tower peering down at you, what do you think of?
Or when you look out at the skyline reflected in the shimmering waters of Lady Bird Lake, what do you feel? Nostalgia? Wonder? Inspiration?
For me, any nocturnal stroll in this city inevitably brings to mind Waking Fable, a band that uniquely captured in their soulful, jazzy folk-funk sound the creative energies that reside here—energies that are perhaps strongest and most noticeable at night. I discovered them shortly after moving to Austin at a very formative time in my life, and immediately I was struck by a young, aspiring, romantic sensibility in their music, one that soundtracked my own development here: making new friends, forming new crushes and eventually relationships, mapping out dreams and ambitions over late-night beers and conversation, and trying and failing and trying again to achieve something meaningful.
But more important to the band’s legacy, there’s something undeniably Austin about their music. In the interplay of professional and bohemian, of mellow and energetic, of traditional and unconventional, one can feel the soul of this city coming through the speakers.
For the five years they were active in Austin, Waking Fable rose from a duo playing open mics to a five-piece band that rocked some of the biggest stages in town and recorded two records with accomplished producer Robert Sewell (who has worked with the likes of Taylor Swift, Lil Wayne, and Justin Bieber, to name a few). They rubbed shoulders with other notable local artists, left behind a stellar body of work, and by all objective measures, should be a household name.
The problem is, you’ve likely never heard of them.
In July, the ten-year anniversary of Waking Fable’s sublime debut album, Leave the Moon On, passed with no fanfare from this city whatsoever: no celebratory retrospectives from other publications, no parades or speeches, no photo op with the mayor awarding them a key to the city. At the very least, they could have gotten a street or a day named in their honor. But nothing happened.
As a superfan of the band, my expectations are admittedly high. Still, when I realized such a significant milestone had passed without accolades or acknowledgment of any kind, I was horrified. What does one do when such a crime occurs? I’ve plied my trade with a pen, but this is not a time to write a strongly worded letter. Clearly, I can’t rely on politicians to fix this. No, this calls for some vigilante justice: if no one is going to give a proper tribute to Waking Fable, I’ll do it myself.
And here in the Bat City, perhaps it’s fitting that I, like the caped crusader, should have a moment of being the hero this city deserves.
The Waking of the Fable
First, it’s important to emphasize how special and original I believe Waking Fable’s sound is. If I had ten years to come up with a suitable descriptive phrase, I’m not sure I could do it. “Acoustic rock soul” is how the band once described themselves, and that’s pretty damn close, but it still leaves a few borders undefined. My earlier attempt, “soulful, jazzy folk-funk,” isn’t bad, but it risks being a genre word salad, and I’m not even sure the adjectives are in the right order.
The only description that feels like it depicts them completely is somewhat corny but also reiterates why they’re so important: their music sounds exactly like Austin, like it was planted and cultivated in the fertile creative soil of this city.
This is impressive, considering the founding members are two Yankees from New York. Matt MacDonald and Dan Cohen are now mainstay performers in Austin, but back in 2011, both of them were scattered on opposite coasts, searching for a creative scene to settle in. Unsatisfied with their prospects in LA and New York, respectively, they reconvened and decided to take a gamble on a city they’d never even been to, one that regardless had an ineffable allure. Piling everything they could fit into Dan’s fire-truck-red 2003 Mitsubishi Lancer, they migrated to the Live Music Capital, hoping it would be the right springboard for their musical ambitions.
Over the next few years, Waking Fable would evolve from the hungry, energetic duo of Matt and Dan—instruments strapped to their backs, biking for miles across the city to open mics, scrounging up opportunities for gigs wherever they could at places like Ruta Maya that have long since gone—to a sophisticated five-piece band wearing button-downs and ties and playing big venues like Lamberts, The Belmont, and Stubbs. In 2014, after refining their sound and structure, Waking Fable released Leave the Moon On, a richly textured and superbly crafted offering that channeled the lively, communal spirit of this city and imprinted it so clearly and forcefully onto wax that I wouldn’t be surprised if a topographic map of Austin could be found in the grooves of the vinyl.
Phases of the Moon
As its cover would suggest, there’s a distinct nighttime feel to this album. Leave the Moon On opens with Matt MacDonald’s funky, jazzy acoustic riffing, placing you squarely on some grooving street corner. As the electric guitar and saxophone come in, it’s like a light changes, and it’s time to start moving. Maybe you’re downtown, making your way to the Driskill or the Elephant Room for a cocktail. Or maybe you’re slinking across Rainey or Red River, weaving through food trucks, passing bar after bar, where laughter and music hum in the air like an electrical current. Or maybe you’re headed to one of Austin’s many watering holes for artists, to sit on the patio at Opa or in the courtyard at House Wine and congregate with musicians and poets of every stripe. These places abound in the perpetually young city of Austin, but part of that reality is you may not always find the excitement you’re looking for.
Fire up a beacon, cause the dark is so damn cold—“Pack Animals” examines the burden of our occasional (but inevitable) experiences with loneliness, made all the more compelling by the fact that we’re social creatures. Some might come here and find paradise in the vibrant nightlife, but others might struggle. That might even turn to regret for some, especially those who have staked their creative ambitions on this place (Can I get my money back on a soul already sold?).
There’s an acknowledgment, though, that loneliness can be self-inflicted, or at least just a matter of perspective (All in all, the loneliness depends). To venture claiming a universal truth about Austin, I’d argue that no one can be lonely for too long here. Despite its rapid growth since Leave the Moon On was released, the city has not become impenetrable or overwhelming. Some of the small-town charm has been buried under skyscrapers, yes, but the core Austinite characteristics—being friendly and down-to-earth, with diverse interests and surprising talents—still remain. Hang around here long enough and you’re bound to make friends in unexpected places, with people who have a lot more to them than meets the eye.
Even with all the friendliness, though, there are still dangers in this city. “Urban Monsters” is a parable about an unspecified but seemingly prevalent threat, one that we’re warned is crawling somewhere in the literal and metaphorical shadows. Is it shady businessmen, with their “cufflinks and a tie,” looking to exploit us in some way? Or is it vapid commercialism, with “neon signs and happy ads,” threatening our way of life? We don’t know, perhaps because “mama never told [us],” but regardless, Austin isn’t immune to being corrupted, or to corrupting those who live here. It’s up to us to be vigilant and avoid the subtler dangers of a place described by many as the “velvet rut.” Like a Venus flytrap, Austin has the potential to silently ambush us, to make us victims of a lifestyle we didn’t even realize was harmful.
Noticeable in these first two tracks is a fundamental element of the record: the acoustic guitar is the tree root that keeps the band firmly in place, providing its essential funky earthiness. Often playing with his fingers instead of a pick for a more expressive tone, MacDonald uses satisfying chord inversions and well-placed harmonic pings to keep the acoustic feeling fresh and organic, not just a rote layer of sound in the mix. His distinctly soulful voice (which also has edgier, rougher qualities in all the right places) fits perfectly with the different musical styles that the band explores.
Complementing the rooted feeling of the music are the drums of Jeff Edwards, which are full, prominent, and at times, downright thunderous. Moses Elias on bass accentuates the bedrock-solid low end, but also stays flexible, providing groove and buoyancy when needed. Meanwhile, the electric guitar work of Vinnie Fallico adds some neon buzz, with plenty of jazzy scales and bluesy double-stops to keep the lights flashing.
The third and fourth tracks are the ballads of the album, and here’s where the band’s sound fully realizes its potential. “Marble Stars” is a collage of emotions, from nostalgia and regret to wonder and gratitude. From the melancholy saxophone lines that blow in like the first cool breeze of autumn, to the celestial keys and strings in the background, to the rippling echoes of Fallico’s guitar, to the little specks of starlight that are MacDonald’s harmonics, everything in this song proves that the nocturnal sound of Waking Fable isn’t limited to the glossy excitement of the streets. Here, their sensitivity shines. “Marble Stars” is the kind of music that should be playing when, consumed by a restless yearning, you walk down by the river where you and your former lover first kissed and stare at the shifting reflections of light and shadow, lamenting what went wrong, wondering what could have been, and contemplating what the future holds. The saxophone solo on this track brings these feelings to a crescendo: it’s a soaring, cathartic moment in an exquisitely crafted song.
“Marble Stars” and “Beautiful Scars” also showcase the lyrical prowess of principal songwriter Dan Cohen (who, as a prolific author of science fiction and fantasy, is no slouch when it comes to wordsmithing). We came to an old stone bridge beside the huckleberry ridge sounds like it could be the opening to a Romantic-era novel. But Cohen also allows earnestness and simplicity to take the lead, knowing those can be equally as powerful as a well-crafted metaphor. Nothing is overwrought: I can’t deny that troubles come and troubles go, we’ll get kissed by joy, emptied by woes doesn’t try too hard to be profound, and that’s precisely why it resonates.
To close out the record, we go back to a head-bopping jam with a reggae breakdown (“Rules to Be a Man”) and a mellow blues-funk bop reminiscent of Martin Sexton (“Forgotten [A Sorry Place to Be]”). Here is where Waking Fable’s approach is perhaps at its most fun and playful. “Rules to Be a Man” is a sly rumination on someone who’s just no good for you, whether you can or should resist their charms, and who’s even a reliable judge of what “good” is: The soldier taught me the value of a heart, the lovers told me to be careful what I start, but I know what I should have learned about you. Here, perhaps the term “velvet rut” takes on another meaning.
“Forgotten (A Sorry Place to Be)”—still a staple in MacDonald’s solo sets these days—addresses the messy aftermath of another romantic relationship, where wounded pride (And I wonder, what’s my number in your cabinet full of hearts?) and lingering intimacy hamper the efforts to move on (So I drove to rock bottom when you were shifting gears / You pretend you’re sitting shallow, you should be sincere). As a nice surprise, this is one of the few songs featuring prominent vocals from Cohen. It’s a fitting bookend to the record, with all of the laid-back, bluesy, soulful tones that are quintessential to the band’s sound.
Still Shining
Journalistically, I have to acknowledge that one reason I’m so adamant about singing the praises of Waking Fable is that both Matt MacDonald and Dan Cohen are mentors and friends of mine. I recently spoke with Cohen to get some of his reflections on the record and its themes, especially those that were influenced by Austin. A couple of moments in our conversation really jumped out. About the song “Beautiful Scars,” he said:
It was [about] my first big, big love in life . . . I was reconciling the sense of what happens a lot in Austin . . . I found this person. I love this person almost to death and they don't love me back and they just want to be free doing their own thing . . . That's what part of life she was in, and I get it, and that's very often pain.
And on “Marble Stars”:
Austin can also encourage this wistfulness and almost like a melancholy nostalgia because we moved down here and all these wonderful things [happened] and it kind of puts a lot in perspective.
I feel like the openness of Austin, what it really represents as far as freedom at both ends . . . [there’s] so much freedom here that it's hard to commit, and there's also so much freedom here that your whole experience of life changes and opens.
Personally, I’ve seen this in my own relationships here. Austin friends and lovers are, at times, like fairies: beautiful but fleeting creatures. But what has always reassured me is that they all feel real and special—Austin on the whole hasn’t attracted the transactional, competitive, self-centered kinds of people that might be found in other major music cities. In their place, though, we certainly have our fair share of Peter Pans, drifters and wanderers, hopeless dreamers, and serial commitophobes. The comforts of Austin can be, at times, its own undoing.
Unfortunately, Waking Fable wasn’t immune to these forces: they broke up in 2016. Before they split, they released another record, One Night Waltz, and spread the magic of their inimitable sound at venues around the city. In our conversation, Cohen was clearly proud of all the success the band had, but that never overshadowed his original, humble goal with Waking Fable: “to make one real fan.”
I’m far from their first real fan, and if I’ve done my job right here, far from the last. And although the band is no more, you can still find embers of the Waking Fable flame around town: Cohen and MacDonald currently host the Late at the Lake open mic on Tuesdays at Mozart’s, and MacDonald and Fallico are now part of The Weekday.
But if you really want to know what it’s like to experience Waking Fable, all you need to do is go explore this city at night. Everywhere around you, from the hills to the streets, from the skyline to the shoreline, you’ll find that the mystical energies that influenced their sound are still here, as inspiring, enchanting, and hopefully as enduring as the moon.
