I tend to judge a lot of things by whether or not they scare the shit out of me. FEAR, BABY. A tough order among such an obdurate race, but nevertheless the easiest emotion to effectively manipulate. It’s the most primal sense; it brought us screaming into this world, and may well usher us out in the same way. The most common element that runs through fear is the UNKNOWN: the most fertile frontier of the imagination. Only there do all of the possibilities truly emerge both sweetly divine and utterly horrible. It is the universal solution out of which we all crystallize, if but for a moment, only to melt back away as a final acceptance, all consciousness nothing more than erratic, disruptive signals to be smoothed back into mute harmony.
    But when these tones assert themselves from above the discordant breath of nothing, let them sing in recalcitrant celebration. One such voice rising from above the vacua of what you’re being told to listen to is that of local duo Kid Dakota. Comprised of Darren Jackson on vocals, guitar and keys and drummer/percussionist Christopher McGuire, this twosome’s apparent lack of numbers does nothing to hamper the hugeness of their sound. In fact, being so small is what makes them so big. Dig? You will.
    To call Kid Dakota minimalists might seem like an easy way to throw a net around them, but they’ll just utilize their escape from that snare with the same thing they utilize so well in their music—the exploitation of space. I first saw Kid Dakota within the cozy confines of St. Paul’s Turf Club on a Tuesday in late February. Upon donning my coat to leave that night, a stranger implored me not to, so that I might stick around for “just for a song or two.” I ended up staying for the entire set.
    The bold overstatement of the music’s meter tugged at my flesh. Even when my attention wandered, and while I conversed with my neighbors, the band still held me, my skin as acute a receptacle to interpret it as my ears. It was that deadly time of the year, and the exquisite sickness that accompanies it was afoot. From between the musical spaces that Kid Dakota open up so well seeps the ravenous un-sound of the non-elemental. The music hovers above the ground, a sub-violet blanket of electrically charged gases—the smoldering and buzzing exhaust of a shivering combustion.
    There is a low-end drone that’s equal parts dread despair and radiant tenacity of life. In an almost processional and mock grandiosity, these waltzes sweep and swell to fill both vast, arched chambers, but also the tight crawl-spaces between the stations of the mind. Reminiscent of Pink Floyd and later Nirvana, these rock dirges are like a northern take on the New Orleans funeral dirge twisted by geographical influence. The downbeat flattens everything as it hits. A shower of sparks leaps out and quickly cools to death as lightning on the Plains at night.
    Darren Jackson is a product of the South Dakota plains and their huge skies, as we are all products of our environments. The more resistant we are to them, the more susceptible we become to their influence (and thus are shaped by them, regardless). Rebellion, however, is quite natural, and for the most part healthy.
    Jackson first came to Minnesota to attend St. Olaf College in Northfield. He returned later to engage in noble combat against a few pesky demons and straighten out the old wagon a bit. The five-song EP So Pretty is a chronicle of this homecoming. Produced by Alex Oana, an old St. Olaf chum, at his CityCabin studio, the record is hypnotically tempoed, with gallantly executed accents that thrust defiantly and erectly into the void. Melodies are pressed up from the earth’s depths straight through the rock to emerge skinned and bleeding, the sun and air licking like salt at the exposed tissue. Oana’s production talent takes the seemingly dry and brittle minimalism and moistens it with the mixing board faucet so that as the towel snaps, the end is sufficiently wet to deliver its wicked kiss.
    Being somewhat of a high plains drifter myself, I got together with the Kid over some sarsaparillas at a rootin’ tootin’ little café that I’m sure won’t go out of business if I don’t plug ’em. We talked about the gunfights, the many long and dusty trails, and how he’s aimin’ to clean up this here Podunk. So for any a’ you consarn pussywillows out there afraid of a little pistol fire: This could get gritty.
Pulse: So where’d the songs come from? Umm, I mean, I read something in the bio about your move from South Dakota . . . is that your point of origin?
Jackson: I grew up there, yeah. And for a long time, you know, I like . . . rebelled against being from there. I lived in Providence and Boston and Chicago. I lived here in Minneapolis a few times, and it’s only since sort of recently that I’ve really started embracing being from there and writing songs about what it’s like to be from there. You know, a lot of the stuff we play is about . . . is influenced by the fact that I used to be a, you know, a heroin addict.
Pulse: Yeah, I got that so, you know . . .
Jackson: So . . . I still write songs about that even though I’m not using right now or anything.
Pulse: That’s definitely relevant, and comes through not only in the text of the lyrics, but I think you try to elucidate that with the entire method of how you want this set of songs to sound.
Jackson: Right. Except for “So Pretty,” which is pretty explicit, I try to make all those references pretty opaque. You know, so there’s a lot of interplay with the listener and us, because lyrics that just spill everything out and make it easy . . . just aren’t that interesting.
Pulse: Well, the people who are gonna get it are gonna get it, you know. It’ll strike all the right sensitivity points. And those who don’t, well something like “cottons” will be lost on somebody who just doesn’t know.
Jackson: . . . or belts, like tying off, you know. Those references are gonna be lost, which is kinda nice.
Pulse: And having been down those dark alleys, it’s nice to realize that there’s light at the end of the tunnel, you know. And that’s what I get from So Pretty. It has that crackling back to life quality to it. I mean, is that accurate?
Jackson: Yeah, I think that’s accurate. I mean, those songs were all kind of written when I was sober and excited about being sober.
    Kid Dakota’s So Pretty is a record about rediscovery and reconnection. To myself and perhaps many others, some of the existing notions of “recovery” just rub me as being a bit manipulative. Good people make bad choices. That’s life—so get over it, get better and enjoy the rest of it.
    Suffering is a ragged carriage with its own sense of joy—a countenance both dignified and pathetic. As the noxious gas of emerging from a netherworld dissipates, the sun’s light slowly loses its animosity and the elation of living wrestles itself from its stubborn and stupid oppressor. Jackson survived his own Wounded Knee and he’s come to the city to tell the tale. As he does this, he strums and sings, all the while backed up by professional gunman, Christopher McGuire, former longtime 12 Rods drummer.
Jackson: When we recorded that . . . I didn’t even know [McGuire]. A friend of mine from college (Alex Oana) was like, “These are really cool tunes, we need a drummer that can do a really cool job.” So he talked to McGuire and we practiced for a couple days and then we recorded them. So they’re really fresh-sounding, but we had to do ’em twice. In April ’99 I took them back to South Dakota and I was like, “Uhh, the drums are just way too busy.” So then I came back three months later before I went to grad school in Chicago and we recorded them again and they turned out really cool because he had more time with them. So it was really weird how it came together. Do you like how the drums are done?
Pulse: Yeah, I do. They’re perfect within the context of your songs. I’m kind of a spazzy drummer. But anyhow, do you have any new ideas that you’re working on in the studio right now?   
Jackson: Well, we have a whole album that’s ready to record. We’ve been playing all the songs on it for like 10 months. It’ll be different from this EP because there’s a lot more interplay between the guitars and drums. When people listen to [this EP], they’re like, “Oh, the drums are really tasteful and appropriate.” But I think when people listen to this next record it’ll be like, “Those drums are amazing! Those parts are awesome.”
Pulse: So are you writing busier stuff?
Jackson: I think it’s busier, but I think it’s just more McGuire. A lot more of his personality is coming through, you know.
    It’s funny how we assume that it is we who move about through space at our whim, when in truth we are simply the full extension of its movement. It is the presence, the remaining frontier in front of which we all cower, having chosen to construct ideologies that make its apparent emptiness seem so frightening. It’s all about fear.
    It has been said that 99 percent of fear is not knowing. And this has plenty of merit, but the remaining 1 percent of fear is knowing. Why do you think most folks wrap themselves comfortably in the aforementioned 99 percent? And although we may not know where we’re going, we do know where we’ve been.
    Having been there and back again, Kid Dakota has, for the most part, just opened its mouth. And I have a feeling that as times grinds onward into the insatiable appetite of the unknown, this voice will continue to grow brighter and stronger in an attempt to satisfy its own appetite to rise above the nameless roar of malign ignorance.

Kid Dakota plays with Mark Mallmann and the Heat and Danny Commando on Friday, April 20, at the Turf Club. 9 p.m. $4. 1601 University Ave. W., St. Paul. 651-647-0486