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Circuit Breakers

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"I felt like the band's caretaker for a number of years," says Robbie Skrocki. "Chris is their caretaker now, and he's going to help take them to the next level — whatever that level happens to be."

It's nearing eight on a Tuesday night in mid-April at the Highdive in Champaign, Illinois. The venue is a dark-hued, cavernous club, sandwiched between a public parking lot and a bustling biker bar off the college town's main drag.

Wasoba, Kay and Stovall are at the bar watching a replay of that afternoon's Cardinals game. The mood is subdued, perhaps due to tour weariness or sickness. (Wasoba's morning cocktail includes Emergen-C, DayQuil and mentholated cough drops.) The band is relieved to be in its home state ("Chillinois," as they affectionately call it), because it hasn't been home since late February.

Complicating things further, the Dynamos' pay from this night's gig depends solely on ticket sales at the door — and, as stage call nears, one can almost count the number of paying customers on two hands. Still, when the group takes the stage, Wasoba — ever the optimist — cheerfully says, "We're called So Many Dynamos. We're from St. Louis, Missouri."

The small audience allows them the freedom to let loose — as when Wasoba impishly asks the club to crank up the fog machines during "How High the Moon." Guitarist Kay all but disappears in the haze. Only Stovall remains visible. While similarly shrouded in the fog, he's backlit by purple lights, giving the stage an eerie, David Bowie-as-Ziggy Stardust vibe. This version of "Moon" is, accordingly, slower and much more prog-influenced.

This surreal environment extends to "When We Were Machines." The band normally goes dead still for 30 (or so) seconds during the song, their heads bowed, acting like robots rudely unplugged by their creators. But on this night, Wasoba looks up and grins. "We're just going to all drink beer. Chug it." The rest of the band murmurs its assent. And guzzle they do — but still finish the song perfectly.

"We were scared, we thought it was going to be uncomfortable — one of those shows where we play to nine people," Wasoba says at one point, visibly relieved. "It's not. So thanks." Even the bartenders are impressed. "I like these guys," one says to the other.

The band's familial bond and genuine affection for one another keeps it grounded and positive, especially on nights like this. It doesn't hurt that the group members share a similar sense of humor, one that's gently sarcastic, but quick-witted and whip-smart. (Stovall recently acquired a pet crab. Its name is Rangoon.)

"They're a band of brothers," Walla says. "They have this charisma that....when you're around them, you enjoy being around them. When you leave, or when they leave or whatever, you feel a little bit diminished. Like, 'Oh, I wish I was still hanging out with them.'" Sean Nelson, vocalist for the melodic literate-pop band Harvey Danger, had the same reaction when the two groups played together on Harvey Danger's fall 2006 reunion tour. "They made me want to be in a band again — which is funny, because I was in a band again," he says. "Seeing these guys, who were just so psyched to be there, was great for all of us. I know we all got inspired by that."

That's part of the secret to how the Dynamos are able to tour so much: It has made and stayed friends with the bands it meets on the road, leading to opportunities to trade and share out-of-town shows. For a band trying to advance its career beyond its hometown, having such a strong network is essential.

But it's not as though this constant touring is lucrative. After finishing the HORSE tour and before heading out to San Francisco to record, the band members picked up day jobs to pay the bills: from Blimpie employee (Kay) and barista (Stovall), to occasional guitar-lesson teacher (Wasoba) and wedding DJ (Kunstel, who goes by DJ Clayton). Wasoba and Kunstel also participate in medical-research studies for cash.

Plus, spending so much time on the road can be frustrating. They had gear stolen during a show in Seattle last fall — and two days later, their van died. To avoid canceling its whole fall tour, the band spent three weeks touring in Wasoba's dad's minivan. "When all that happened, it really brought out....how much supporters of us cared," Wasoba says. "I almost think that's a positive thing in a way — it really brought to the surface, 'Wow, these people really care about us.'"

These relationships proved especially valuable in late July, as the band was driving home from Portland, Oregon. Stovall was driving when one of the van's back tires exploded near Lincoln, Nebraska. "We were going 80 in a 75, totally with the flow of traffic, and at that speed Aaron had a hard time controlling the vehicle after the blow-out," Wasoba wrote on the band's recording blog (dynamosrecording.blogspot.com), which, until then, had been a lighthearted studio chronicle.

"We drove across the median towards oncoming traffic, and as soon as we hit the westbound part of the highway the van flipped over. We did a complete flip and luckily landed right back on our wheels and drove into the grass on the other side of the highway.... Our van is completely totaled." The band's gear and personal belongings survived intact. So did the band members themselves, save for some back pain Stovall and Kunstel experienced.

But a few days after arriving back in St. Louis, Wasoba grows uncharacteristically quiet when asked how he's feeling. "It's weird," he says. "There's so many different ways to think about it, that I'm just trying to not think about it. It hasn't totally sunk in, and I don't know if it will. It's just cheesy, 'We're lucky to be alive!' I feel so lame thinking it or saying it, but it's true, and I'm trying to kind of put it past, I guess."

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