Q: Tell us about your start. What first got you into music?

A: Like most insufferably precocious and serious artists, I began writing songs at the piano at the age of four, shortly after mastering the kazoo and realizing it had emotional possibilities the world had not yet fully explored.

By five, I was performing for neighbors. By six, I had become difficult to work with. By seven, I was considering a stripped-down acoustic record about the burdens of early success.

So, really, the usual story.

Q: Was it difficult making this record? I ask because this was one of the questions handed to me by your publicist who is glaring at me over your shoulder.

A: Not at all. My producer and I developed a very efficient concept.

Most bands waste years on the traditional arc: hard work, thankless touring, artistic conflict, small successes, bitterness, poor van hygiene, the breakup just as something interesting seems about to happen, followed by decades of resentment and one lucrative reunion where everyone pretends to have grown.

We decided to skip directly to the reunion phase.

This saved a great deal of time. We simply asked everyone to behave as though we had survived a long and tumultuous past together, even though no one could quite remember what that past was or why we were still angry.

It held beautifully for the weekend we needed to record the tracks. After that, of course, the old tensions resurfaced, and now none of us can stand to be in the same room unless there is a reasonable guarantee of really high-quality snacks.

Q: You’ve caused some controversy with your live show by projecting the phrase “Hello [insert city name here]!!! Best crowd ever!” behind you when you take the stage. Was that intentional?

A: Very much so. Authenticity and groundedness are important to me.

The idea to write a cycle of songs in the voice of the “working class everyman” came to me during an ordinary moment of hardship: a routine helicopter transfer from Cortina d’Ampezzo to Kitzbühel.

Shortly after takeoff, I realized we would be in the air for several minutes with only plastic bottles of Evian to drink.

I don’t want to overstate it, but there was a period of real uncertainty.

Ironically, we had all the ingredients for Aperol spritzes in my luggage, but the luggage was traveling separately in a cargo van somewhere north on the B100. So there we were, passing over Prägraten am Großvenediger, knowing we might not see a civilized beverage again until reaching ground transportation from the helipad to the luxury yurt we had been comped by the Hotel Kaiserhof.

And the Kaiserhof courtesy SUV, while perfectly pleasant, can be inconsistent later in the day.

Fortunately, our pilot, Maximilian, had served with distinction in the Austrian Air Force and possessed that special military calm one hopes for in moments of deprivation. He reassured us that the helipad lounge usually kept emergency schnapps and Grüner Veltliner on hand in case our driver was delayed.

That helped. One can endure a great deal if one knows help will arrive within ten to fifteen minutes.

He even radioed ahead to confirm that the sled to the yurt had been stocked with warm Glühwein and a few hot appetizers sent over by Chef Piefke at Speisebesteck in Salzburg. If you have not had his Deconstructed-then-Reconstructed Single Origin Thai Purple Long Bean Consommé with Aggrieved Noodles, by the way, do try it. It speaks to the human condition.

So yes, those kinds of struggles stay with you. They shape a man. They make you ask, “What would it be like to return to my roots and imagine the lives of ordinary people who pay for my opulent lifestyle?”

And from that question, the songs came pouring out.

You’ll be relieved to know Maximilian was right. Though in the end, I found a Rebenhof Aubell 2014 Silt Morillon much more suitable than the Grüner Veltliner under the circumstances.

Q: Your music has been described as Americana, country-soul, power pop, chamber pop, and “whatever this is.” How would you describe it?

A: I try not to get bogged down in genre labels, mainly because they make it harder to pretend I invented everything.

But if pressed, I would say the record sits somewhere between hope, regret, melody, and the faint suspicion that Foxy John has been helpfully meddling again.

Q: Who is Foxy John?

A: You don’t know Foxy John?

Q: No.

A: Huh.

Q: Could you explain?

A: I could, but that feels like something he would strongly discourage.

Q: Fair enough. Is Golden Tempo a concept album?

A: Only in the sense that the concept is “songs I liked enough not to ruin.”

There are recurring themes: luck, timing, memory, hope, foolishness, second chances, and the strange fact that some things seem to arrive late but right on schedule.

So perhaps it is a concept album. But only accidentally, which is the safest way.

Q: The album was produced by Barry Thomas from Love Jones, mixed by Josh Rouse, and mastered by Geoff Pesche at Abbey Road. That sounds unusually serious for someone answering questions this irresponsibly.

A: I agree. It is one of the great mysteries of the project.

But for anyone who's read this far, the original idea was simple: make one good record with musicians I love and respect. Then the songs kept finding people who made them better.

At some point, you stop arguing with luck and try to behave well in its presence.

Q: What do you hope people take from the record?

A: Ideally, the record. Preferably without paying collector prices later.

But emotionally, I hope they feel like they found something that had been waiting quietly for them. A few songs with good shoes, a little mileage, and enough hope left to keep walking.

Q: In the 1970s, you achieved widespread fame on Sanford and Son. What was it like working with LaWanda Page?

A: Watch it, sucker. She was a saint.