Counting Crows’ first album, August and Everything After, was one of the most significant debuts of the previous decade. It arrived in 1993, more or less during the pinnacle of grunge, but didn’t have much in common musically with bands like Nirvana and Soundgarden. August instead saw the San Francisco-based band reworking classic rock elements into something truly fresh. The sentiments expressed on the disc were very personal and often sad, yet it became a big seller. Naturally, the Crows’ affiliation with Geffen Records, and their having fans in high places --Robbie Robertson to name one -- didn’t hurt. But that aside, they were clearly a talented band, and frontman Adam Duritz was a writer to be reckoned with. “Mr. Jones” was the first single, a big hit and one of the more upbeat songs on the album (at least melodically). But other tracks like “Round Here,” “Sullivan Street” and “Anna Begins” dug even deeper, with liquid grooves and poetic lyrics that often addressed failed relationships.

Counting Crows’ sophomore album, Recovering the Satellites, arrived in 1996. It was a solid effort with several outstanding songs but still seemed destined to disappoint when compared with August, as second efforts often do. The band returned three years later with This Desert Life and three years after that (late 2002) with the slightly more polished Hard Candy. Since then, however, Counting Crows have largely been MIA. The greatest-hits collection Films About Ghosts appeared toward the end of 2003, and the live disc New Amsterdam: Live at Heineken Music Hall came out in 2006. But the Crows hadn’t released a new studio album in over five years – until last month’s Saturday Nights & Sunday Mornings.

Nowadays, the band is a septet. Longtime guitarists Dave Bryson and Dan Vickrey and keyboardist Charlie Gillingham were joined several years ago by stringed instrument virtuoso David Immergluck. In addition, the Crows have a different rhythm section than they had on Hard Candy, bassist Millard Powers (who Duritz calls the best musician in the band) and drummer Jim Bogios. Counting Crows have always been, and still are, a true band. Yet it is clearly Duritz’s vision that guides their work.

In the interviews to support Saturday Nights & Sunday Mornings, Duritz has discussed what he’s been up in the time since the band’s last album – and a lot of it hasn’t been pretty. He has battled mental illness and not long ago was specifically diagnosed with dissociative disorder, which can make the world seem unreal to those who experience it. In addition, he grew increasingly sedentary, at one point ballooning up to 250 pounds. While he was in the eye of the hurricane, Duritz didn’t talk much about what he was going through. But these days, he’s talking openly and at length about the demons he’s been battling. He’s still not feeling great; but he’s at least on the path to wellness.

The new album is largely a chronicle of the last five years and change, and interestingly, it is divided into two distinct halves. Saturday Nights was produced by Gil Norton, who also helmed Recovering the Satellites. It is angrier and more rock-oriented, dealing with the descent into everything from sex and drugs to mental illness. By comparison, Sunday Mornings, produced by Brian Deck, is Saturday Nights’ aftermath. It is downbeat and soaked in sadness, played largely (though not entirely) on acoustic instruments. When heard together, the result is probably the best Counting Crows album since their debut.

It’s a very interesting idea to have two producers for the two different halves of the album, and the two halves are very distinct. What did you get from Gil [Norton] and Brian [Deck] for the two different halves? What made you turn to these two guys for the album?

Well, there was only the first half at first. There was just “1492,” and I wanted to make a record descending from there to where I felt I was. I had some pieces of music, and I could tell that with the pieces I had, it was Gil. I’ve worked with him before. He’s one of my best friends. He’s one guy that I always send music to before and after and during making records -- I send it to Gil to get his opinion. We’ve never gone back to a producer [we’ve already worked with] before because I like doing new things. But I knew that what we wanted with this record, he would understand. We were trying to move forward in a way that we hadn’t done before, and he would get it. And with Brian, there was no album there really. As we were doing the second half of what turned out to be Saturday Nights, I started writing some stuff, and started seeing a kind of companion album to the first. It started to form itself in my mind as I began working on it, and I realized I wanted it to sound very different. It’s not so much either totally electric or acoustic, but they’re thematically different. There’s electric stuff and drums on Sunday Mornings, and there’s acoustic-y stuff on Saturday Nights, like on the song “Sundays.” But thematically they’re so different, and I wanted to approach them differently, so that you’d feel a change -- let there be a bit of an air, open up a window. The second half is a much sadder album because madness is numb, whereas trying to get better and feeling the human being can be very painful because mostly you’re not any good at doing it.

The best producers don’t come with a sound. They come with an understanding of how music works and how to bring out what a band is trying to do. These guys are truly great producers.

In a recent interview, you talked about a lot of the stuff that happened between Hard Candy and the present, specifically how you hadn’t gotten out of bed in a long time. Tell me about what led up to that, and how you were able to break out of that, and get back to living your life.

It was a mental illness that was so severe and had been declining for about twenty-five years, and it finally came to [a head]. I’ve had it since I was a kid, it’s had its little ups and downs, things are better here and there, and things would get worse. The tours really exacerbated it because it’s a dissociative disorder, which means, for me -- and I’m not doctor and this isn’t an exact science, they call it what they call it and there are other prior things that accompany it -- [but] the thing with a dissociative disorder is that it makes the world seem like it’s not real, like it’s a hallucination, like you’re on acid but constantly, forever. I’ll never stop being on it, but you learn to live with it, and you learn to cope with it. The biggest thing is just because it doesn’t seem real doesn’t mean you have to disconnect with it. I had become so disconnected that I just stopped being alive.

Psychological problems are varied in the different ways you have to deal with them. You have to work a long time on medical regimens, and that’s a nightmare because the side effects are horrible, and you have to find the right stuff. You don’t just get to go into a doctor’s office and pop a couple of pills [and everything’s fine]. The real thing takes fifty pills, and then you cut them down to three pills. There’s just so much work that goes into getting the medications right. It takes years of work on that, and then therapy, which you don’t even pay attention to. You just really have to decide to be responsible for it and to it. I just realized that there was nowhere else I could go. I had some consultations with some people, found a better regimen, and found a force of will. “It’s this or die. There’s nowhere else to go. I’m about to be completely nonfunctional.” At that point in bed, at 250 pounds, I wasn’t that far from completely nonfunctional. Then I just sort of dug my way out of it. I don’t know what else to say about it. There was no moment that got to me. You just dig your way out. Sunday Mornings is about the digging.

A lot of time when you talk to an artist, their latest album is their favorite album. I’m just wondering if you have a favorite Counting Crows album.

It’s always the one I’m working on. Even so, after a little while, I won’t have any favorites. I’ve always been really proud of Recovering the Satellites because of the leap we made with it. We were such a limited band, and the leap forward we made with Recovering the Satellites, I’m really proud of that in a lot of ways. I love the others, too. [But] right now, this is like the best thing we’ve ever done. It was certainly a real reach to do something like this especially when no one wants you to make an album of any challenging nature at all.

You have a different rhythm section on this disc than you did on Hard Candy. I think Ben Mize was the drummer on the last album?

Yeah, Ben retired about halfway through the tour. After a decade [with the band], he had gotten married and wanted to have a family, and he felt like he didn’t know how to do it and be in the band. That was a painful decision for him and for the entire band. We loved Ben. He was a magnificent drummer. He and I were telepathic. He heard everything I did. The problem was, as well as us being on the road as much as we are, Ben lived in Georgia. When we were “home” making records in LA, he wasn’t home. He just spent too much time away from his wife and kid, or the kid he wanted to have, who he’s just had. And he’s a great kid.

There’s a quote from you in the press release that says, “I’m still catching shit from people who think all my problems should be solved as a result of being famous, rich, or whatever.” How do you respond to people who say, “Okay, this guy is successful and talented and rich. He’s dated Courteney Cox, whatever. What does he have to complain about?” I’m not saying that, but what would your response be to people who do say that?

Well, if they truly think fame is a solution to your problems, then [they’re] an idiot. (Laughs) I knew that in the very beginning. “Mr. Jones”: it’s a dream about wanting to be a rock and roll star, but every chorus ends with “When everybody knows me, I’ll never be lonely,” and you’re supposed to know the guy’s wrong, to see through that. That’s the fallacy of his dream. The dream’s a good dream, but it does not solve your problems. I had a mental illness. It was not going to be solved by me winning a popularity contest. It’s very simplistic thinking to think it will. Just because we look at people on TV and think that they’re our dream come true doesn’t mean that they are. Lest we forget, they’re pretending, and they’ve decided to spend a life pretending. That takes a certain kind of person to do. The truth is, I think they should all fuck off. Judge my songs: if you like ‘em, like ‘em. If you don’t like ‘em, don’t like ‘em. But don’t judge my life.

Part of the whole problem was, you wanna know why it’s been hard on me with all of these things, it’s because I had a severe mental illness, and I didn’t want to talk about. So, no matter what was going on in my life that was positive, I was going insane, and I didn’t want to talk about, especially when I was going downhill, you make yourself into a public spectacle. At the time, I thought I was never going to get better. So part of it was my own cowardice, my own fault, for not coming clean, but I don’t feel like I owe the world to come clean on my whole life. They don’t own me. They own my songs and my heart on stage every night. I decided on this album that I’m not going make the band pay for my cowardice or whatever you want to call it. I’m going to end up paying for this, too. Talking about this will cost me dearly, but it won’t cost my band. I feel like I owed it to them after these years. We’re not going to have one more album misunderstood or dragged down because of people’s misconceptions of me. Let them get the truth for what it is.

I do want to talk about one older song if I may, and that is “Anna Begins,” which is one of my favorites -- just whatever thoughts or associations you have about that song.

It’s just about two people who are falling in love and finding out that it’s overwhelming, and neither of them wants to admit to the fact that it’s that important to them. They just keep saying, “Oh, Lord, I’m not ready for this sort of thing.” They swirl around each other, not admitting to it until the end, and then she’s gone. That’s a shame.

I wrote it about someone a long, long, long time ago. She’s now married with three kids, I think, and she’s wonderful. She’s the same now as she was then. I hadn’t seen her in about fifteen years, and I saw her a couple of years ago. I could remember exactly why I was crazy about her when I was 23, 24, 25, whatever. She’s fantastic, and as far as I can tell she hasn’t changed a bit. She’s got a really nice husband. I haven’t met the kids, but I can’t imagine they’re not fantastic. They’re mother, she’s a peach. The funny thing about that whole song is that you’ll repeat that your whole life. When I sing it now, I don’t always think of Anna, because whoever you’re with right now, feeling it, struggling with, not wanting to admit your feelings. It’s a circular problem. It’s two people spinning circles around each other, not wanting to admit how important it is because it’s so important. And then, it’s just too late. Now, she’s gone back, in her case, to Australia. Like I said, Anna’s had a great life, and she’s wonderful. I’m glad I’m friends with her. Hopefully, I won’t do that in my next relationship, like I did in the thirty between then and now.

I really appreciate your openness.

Thank you.

by Dave Steinfeld