18 OctOber 31 - NOvember 6, 2024 dallasobserver.com DALLAS OBSERVER Classified | MusiC | dish | Culture | unfair Park | Contents Throwing in the Howl Former worship leader Dev Wulf channels skills from a past life to connect through music with bands The Midnight Howl and Texicana. BY SEAN STROUD T he sad truth is that some musi- cians just phone it in nowadays, especially when it comes to pro- duction. Dr. Luke was asleep at the wheel for Katy Perry’s latest album, but that’s what everyone expected. Even country music is full of bad 808s and copy-pasted choruses, often leaving the genre devoid of the passion and originality that once made it so special. Music with substance is quickly becom- ing a rare commodity in the age of TikTok, so Dallas is beyond lucky to have someone like Dev Wulf in our backyard keeping things interesting. Whether it’s his past material from Texi- cana or his latest musical endeavor, The Midnight Howl, Wulf’s music is a pristine blend of old-school authenticity and the crisp production available in today’s studio environment. The latest example is “Guid- ing Light,” The Howl’s new single that de- buted on Oct. 17 on 97.1 KXT. Wulf was born in Houston to a musically talented and religious family, and eventually made his way to Dallas to study at a Bible college. He was first captivated by the stage at the age of 4 when he saw a rerun of Willie Nelson’s 1984 Austin City Limits perfor- mance on TV, but Wulf’s biggest inspiration would turn out to be blood-related. “My cousin James Dildine was in a band called Atticus Finch back in Houston in the early ‘90s,” Wulf says. “It was a grunge band, and they were doing really well. They played on the Blockbuster Music Stage at Buzzfest, and had the largest turnout of any local band playing there — you would’ve thought they were a national touring act. The venue was streaming their show, and I got to see him do his thing. I became the biggest fucking fan of my cousin.” That was all Wulf needed to see. From there on out, he only had one goal in mind. “That’s when I was like, ‘I wanna be in a rock band. I wanna be a frontman,’” Wulf says. As much as his musical heritage had spurred him on, it also became one of his biggest hurdles. His cousin became his role model, but because of the examples set by other people in Wulf’s life, he never felt comfortable taking the plunge into being a full-time musician. “My dad was a grifter,” Wulf says. “He was a musician, but he could never do any- thing with it. My dad was very inconsistent with money and my mom had a 9 to 5. I learned the ethics of having a straight job and how it’s more reliable, so I was always afraid to take that step.” That all changed for Wulf after an eye- opening trip to Diablo Canyon in New Mexico with one of his best friends. They split a mushroom bar, took a dip in the Rio Grande and climbed up to the highest point of the mountain to meditate. Through this journey of self-exploration, Wulf had an epiphany. “I felt like I was rebaptized in the Rio Grande,” Wulf says. “I found my full pur- pose after that shroom trip. I felt myself go, ‘You can do this. Be a musician. If anything, I’ll just ride sofas for the rest of my life. That’s fine, I’ll figure it out.’” In a way similar to Sturgill Simpson or Austin’s Black Pumas, Wulf’s music feels like something that’s been pulled from the past and tastefully revamped to the modern age without being overdone or ruined in the process. Texicana’s “Bonnie Lee” is a warm, up- beat tune about harboring strong feelings for someone. “I thought love was just another song to sing / ‘till I met the real thing: Bonnie Lee,” Wulf sings as Chris J Norwood strums along underneath. Their use of harmonica adds an abundance of color and emotion to the track while also giving off a nostalgic, reminiscent feel. “That tune actually won us the KXT Tiny Cake contest when they celebrated their 10-year anniversary,” Wulf says. “That put Texicana on the map for sure, and then the pandemic hit. We released that EP, then everything shut down.” As it did for most, COVID drastically changed the trajectory of Wulf’s life. All of his musical projects were put on hold and his spiritual foundation was completely up- rooted. As someone born and raised knee- deep in Southern gospel, losing faith in his religion caused a major shift in Wulf’s worldview. “I was a worship leader for like 20 years,” Wulf says. “When I started deconstructing in 2020, deconstruction wasn’t even a term yet and no one was really talking about it. I felt isolated, like, ‘Does anybody even know what losing God feels like?’ I started listen- ing to a lot of Ram Dass, getting into tran- scendental meditation, yoga … I was just trying to find who I was spiritually outside of the church, because I’m a very spiritual person.” The Midnight Howl’s “Antoinette” re- flects this transition and follows Wulf’s journey as the child “Runnin’ from them church bells for a larger offering plate.” The song starts off with a slow-burn buildup on the keys from Ben Fisher and razor-sharp, pointed drumming from Kyle Garrison that builds with the tune. The band effortlessly jumps from a laid-back groove to a lowkey shuffle with lots of snappy hi-hat action and fat snare hits. Between the constant progression in the instruments and Wulf’s strong baritone vo- cal performance, there’s not a dull moment in the track. The lyrical message of self-dis- covery by way of drugs — or as Wulf puts it, “Reaching out in a fever dream / Finding my truth in the space between” — just adds an- other layer to chew on. “My church is in the bars now,” Wulf says. “My church is with my community. As much as part of me wished I could continue on this Christian journey, eventually the real desires of my heart, which [in the song] are the foxes, came in and took whatever pas- sion I had left for the church.” Funnily enough, both of Wulf’s bands were born out of drunken conversation in some old Dallas bar. For Texicana, it was a talk between two friends at Lakewood Landing. The Midnight Howl sprung up out of Adair’s Saloon and might’ve never existed if Wulf had played out his day any differently. “I was taking a break and went outside to grab a beer,” Wulf says. “I looked over at the Free Man [Cafe] and there’s my friend Chilly Willy. The last time I saw him was 15 years ago on stage for someone’s album release at a church. I think I was playing a banjo, so we just got to meet each other then and I never saw him again.” Chilly Willy (Will Netherland) had his guitar and gear in the car and asked to join Wulf on stage. Despite only having met once before, the pair had instant chemistry and ended up finishing out the last two sets of the night together. “After that, we just got drunk and talked about how we should start a band,” Wulf says. “It’s funny, because the time I met him 15 years ago was only one time, then I recog- nized him off the street, and yeah, we just started a band.” They initially ran into trouble being pi- geon-holed as a “bar band,” but now that The Howl has released a few singles with more on the way, they’re steadily breaking out of that mold. They’ve also gone through an insane period of lineup changes, growing from Wulf and Willy to a stage-sinking seven-member band, which has since been weathered down to a core trio consisting of Matthew Vasquez on organ, guitarist An- drew Supulski and Wulf on vocals (and sometimes tambourine.) ▼ Music Justin Schwartz Dev Wulf, a former worship leader, finds spirituality in music with bands Texicana and The Midnight Howl.
