Nathan Wells once swore he'd never put out a record with his face on the cover. But over the last few years, he's collected an album's worth of songs that don't fit anywhere else. And so, on August 18, the lead singer and guitarist of Dallas-based punk-country band Ottoman Turks released his debut solo album, From a Dark Corner, complete with his cover photo.
"This is sort of a document — like any first record — of the last 10 years of my life," Wells says. "And so it became this concept album that represents that passage of time."
Over the last decade, Wells honed his songwriting chops and lively stage presence on Dallas, Texas' many stages at the helm of Ottoman Turks, with his childhood friend Joshua Ray Walker, (now a rising country star in his own right) and several other friends.
Named for the Ottoman Empire's lesser-known, inclusive early history, which Wells admired, the band enjoys a cult-like following in Dallas; its anthemic ode to friendship, "Glass Bottles," still inspires dewy-eyed singalongs from fans. (Years later, Wells was devastated to learn more about the empire's history and considered changing the band's name.)
Never content to sit still on a barstool and sing sad songs, Wells' crafted a country album with a twist — a concept record whose star character learns to navigate life's ups and downs through a series of misadventures, slowly aging into self-assurance as the album progresses. Pulling in twangy rhythm guitar, pedal-steel, mandolin, organ, bouzouki and the other-worldly theramin his country, blues and rock-tinged journey is an eclectic romp through sadness, anger, joy and redemption.
"I think that's what really excites me a lot of the time is telling sort of off-center tales but then making it real, relating it back to actual thoughts and feelings that I've had or have seen others have," Wells says.
Firmly believing that relationships are the lens through which we perceive the world, Wells writes often about friendship as well as romantic relationships. From a Dark Corner opens on the gnarled, brooding "Beulah Land," written about a friend breakup. Fed up with his old life, Wells' character runs off to "Juarez," Mexico to start anew. He chases the proverbially unfulfilled dream of greener grass through a twang-filled haze, before settling down to assess the situation with "In Years," leaning into pedal steel's inherent melancholy as he reflects.
Midway through the album, in "Rather Go to Hell" an angry growl of a song, inspired by Wells' time working construction, Wells' takes stock, realizing, "I don't even like what I'm doing for a living. It's taking everything I've got just to do this thing that I don't even want to do. And just taking a moment to be angry about it, which is therapeutic, right?"
After that breakthrough, he begins to heal, candidly evaluating relationships and his past, even his relationship with alcohol — "Why is it that two drinks are always better than one?" - in "Honest Drinking." The album concludes with a release: "First Day It's Warm," a giddy ditty whose calliope-like lilt elevates its sweet images of ice cream cones and kids playing in the yard. Wells' character has learned to appreciate the little things in life and he and Wells let the past go.
"'First Day It's Warm,' really is a song of redemption in a way, but in a very simple way. It's just looking at the ordinary things that are happening around you and finding contentment in that and knowing that even despite everything, there's always something good that's around the corner," Wells says.
Produced by Dallas music scene fixture John Pedigo and co-produced by Walker, together, the albums' 10 tracks are a testament to both Wells' songwriting range and the musical community he grew up in. Often overlooked in the shadow of better-known music cities - New York, Nashville, L.A. and Texas' own, Austin - Dallas' country and Americana music scene has been thriving quietly for years. It nurtures talent with a combination of independent spirit, a tight-knit music community and robust support system of venues and its own record label, State Fair Records.
Wells' started making music in high school. Not long after he discovering Green Day ("I thought they're the coolest thing I'd ever heard, which I still stand by") he asked for a Fender Stratocaster for Christmas. Together with his sister and a couple friends, he started a rock band called the Hot Tickets.
"We were basically a Strokes cover band," Wells says, wryly.
But whereas so many high school bands break up as their members disperse into adult life, guitars gathering dust in parents' basements, Wells dug in deeper. He listened to Hank Williams and Hayes Carll and fell in love with Tom Waits' penchant for odd characters and instruments - "Tom Waits was really my gateway drug [into roots music]."
At the end of high school, Wells formed Ottoman Turks in his parents' garage. Honing a chaotic, boisterous stage presence, and adopting for himself the moniker "Mongol," after a teenage obsession with the Mongol Rally auto race, and he took the band out of the garage and into Dallas venues.
"It started to go from being something that we enjoyed as a hobby, to being something that I really, really liked in a way that I want to pursue, or else I'm never gonna forgive myself fully," Wells says.
Fourteen years later, that urge is paying off. Writing music that illuminates some piece of the human experience and connecting with audiences is the best feeling in the world, he says; just don't expect him to be a singer-songwriter cliché as he steps into his new role.
"I'm never content to play sleepy tunes that you sit on the barstool and people cry and all that stuff. It's got to be dynamic," he says. "I struggle with going the typical songwriter route of just having all these sad songs that make you think. Hopefully, they'll make you think still, though."
