Not many would-be rock stars survived that brief period in the early 90s when major labels swooped down on Chicago–and as a bit player in two of the era’s more troubled acts, Triple Fast Action and latter-day Veruca Salt, Kevin Tihista seemed a less likely candidate than most. But in September he released his first solo album, Don’t Breathe a Word, on Atlantic Records’ Division One imprint, and not only is it good–it’s entirely different from anything he’s played in public before.
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His friends and peers, among them Blake Smith of Caviar, the Webb Brothers, Triple Fast Action front man Wes Kidd, and Cheap Trick manager Dave Frey, loved what they heard and made an effort to spread the word to their contacts. Kidd moved to New York to work for Frey’s Silent Partner artist management company, and Tihista became a client. “I don’t get involved with anything on the business side,” says Tihista. “I didn’t even talk to any of those Atlantic people. I met my A and R people once at a show at the Double Door and I never talked to them again. Wes pretty much calls me up and says this is what’s going on. I trust them.”
Not surprisingly, given the tragedy that transpired a week earlier, the release didn’t capture the public’s attention. Less than two months later, Atlantic shut down the Division One imprint, firing most of its staff, including Tihista’s main supporters. Kidd and Frey were relieved that Tihista was cut loose from his contract with the parent company a few weeks later. At press time Kidd was still unsure of Tihista’s status with Blanco y Negro. “I don’t really care,” Tihista says convincingly. “This stuff happens, especially for someone like me. My music is never going to get played on the radio.”
Tihista’s melodies are subtle and he sings in a near whisper, shaping his hooks with a deliberate grace. Though the influence of John Lennon, Big Star, and contemporary pop sophisticates like Elliott Smith and Eric Matthews are readily apparent, Tihista’s got his own style–and his own weak points. “Some people have taken jabs about my lyrics,” he admits. “They’re all pretty much the same song–crappy love, love gone bad, love gone good. So now I’m kind of fucked-up–I gotta start singing songs about cars or my dog, but I’ve been trying and I just can’t do it, so you get what you get. I’m the happiest guy in the world, but for some reason I love tragic love songs.”
Art accompanying story in printed newspaper (not available in this archive): photo/Nathan Mandell.
