Music at Your Own Pace (Kris Roe of The Ataris)
Kris Roe reflects on The Ataris' 17-year album gap, their new single and music video “Car Song,” and how rebuilding after COVID, personal loss, and burnout reignited his passion for music.
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Transcript:
Mike: You are listening to Creatives Prevail, unraveling the stories of creative professionals. Hello everyone and welcome to Creatives Prevail. I am your host, Mike Zimmerlich, and my next guest is Kris Roe from The Ataris. We talk about the band's early beginnings, their new single “Car Song” inspired by Kris’s late father, and its Breaking Bad–themed music video.
Plus, we dive into how releasing music today compares to when he first started, as The Ataris gear up for their next full-length album. Let's get into it. Hey Kris, how’s it going?
Kris Roe: Going well, yeah. Thanks for having me on. I really appreciate it. Looking forward to talking today.
Mike: Me too. No, thank you so much for being on the show. I really do appreciate it. And uh, yeah—my pleasure. I understand that you are at Flying Blanket Recording Studios right now, correct?
Kris Roe: I have been here recording on and off for several months, working on finishing The Ataris’ new album. So far, I've got about 30 songs recorded. There’ll probably be around 14 on the album. The others—well, some of them—will become part of another album at some point. But right now, just whittling it down to 14. Ten of those are completely recorded. The remaining four—drums and some guitars are recorded, and I just need to do vocals and finish up the guitars. I’m gonna try to knock a couple of those out in the next week, then come back again after our upcoming shows in the UK and mainland Europe to finish the rest.
As far as when the album will come out, it's really all about when we can get it mixed. At this point, even if we mixed it in August, it would barely meet the cutoff time to release in the fall. So realistically, we're looking at a release for March of next year—which I kind of like, because like, So Long, Astoria came out in March of 2003, Blue Skies came out in March of '99, I think. So I think it’s a good omen.
It’s also a very summer record. It feels kind of like a grown-up So Long, Astoria, but you know, 20 years later. So I think it's important that it doesn't become an album that comes out in the winter or fall. But on the good note, there will still be more new music all this year—a couple more singles and 7-inches. It's just a really good creative space right now. There’s a lot of amazing things happening in the Ataris camp.
Mike: That's awesome. I’ll say too, you’re definitely keeping yourself busy this entire year. But I also appreciate the patience in releasing this album. Like you mentioned, you understand the timing of it, as well as making sure all the ducks are in a row for the release. Because it’s been—what?—how many years since your last full-length album?
Kris Roe: Last actual full-length album—like, technically—was 2007. We did release a 7-inch of the song “All Souls’ Day” in 2013. And then after that, there was a release called Silver Turns to Rust, which is like six new songs from the early sessions of this album—when I first started recording around 2013 or 2012—and six or seven songs I wrote pre–first Ataris album that I recorded at Flying Blanket. My idea was like, “You know what? These are good songs. They fell to the wayside. I want to give them a home.”
Kind of like how the Descendents did Ninth and Walnut, which is songs they wrote before Milo went to college—an entire album that they shelved. So I took those old songs and new ideas, recorded them all at the same place, and made Silver Turns to Rust. But I don't really count that as an actual album. So this is the first new album since 2007, and the first new music since—well, I guess Silver came out, yeah.
Mike: Wow. Now talk about taking that long break. I feel like that’s something we don't discuss enough—taking breaks. Because obviously, life happens. We had a major global event in 2020. But there’s just—there were so many things going on. So can you talk more about taking that long of a break, why you decided to step away, and why you decided to come back and record new music?
Kris Roe: Yeah, of course. I mean, I'd like to say it was all preconceived, but it wasn’t. First and foremost, the first layer of that question would be that I used to tour so much. I was caught in this grind of just constantly going out, getting in the van. That’s what I grew up with—that whole Black Flag mentality of the DIY ethos: just go out, get in the van, bring the music to the people for three months at a time, go home for a month, and then do it again.
Kris Roe: In my last relationship—well, the previous one—I had two long-term relationships, around seven years each. In the last one, it was the first time in my life where I really started to learn balance. I thought, “You know what? Having a life at home and making sure this person’s feelings are considered… I don’t want to be away from them for that long.” And if I did have to be gone, maybe we’d hang out somewhere abroad or wherever I was.
At the same time, I do love playing music—but that grind really starts to wear you down. And not only that, it doesn’t give you enough time to create. When you’re driving—because I drive the van—six days a week you’re playing shows, and on your one day off, you're doing laundry and just decompressing. So that was part one.
Then in 2020, when everything happened in the world… I left California in March for a tour we had booked. I stopped in Indiana to visit my mom before the tour started in Nashville. The first show got canceled because a tornado destroyed the venue. Literally destroyed it. That was the first cancellation. While I was stuck at my mom’s, I got COVID really bad. Then the pandemic was officially announced, all tours got canceled, and I ended up in the hospital.
I had COVID for six weeks and almost died. Six weeks. And I don’t mean like tapering off—I mean every day was just as bad as the first. I had long COVID for about eight months afterward, and I still have issues—like a blurry spot in one of my eyes. It was really bad.
That was super traumatizing. It took me two years to get back out and play again. I went through a really dark time. While I was sick, I ended up in Truth or Consequences, New Mexico. It was a cheap place to stay and I couldn’t go home—my partner at the time worked in healthcare, and because I had a history of asthma and bronchitis, we thought it best to stay apart. We didn’t know how COVID worked back then. We thought, “Let’s wait it out a few weeks,” and that turned into a month… and we eventually separated.
That was a really heavy time. It was a complete reset of my life. But in a strange way, it was also positive, because it gave me a chance to rebuild.
I started meditating. I started therapy. I took this dark time and tried to use it to motivate positive change. I thought my life was good before, but I always want to keep evolving. And when I finally felt like I was back to where I wanted to be—or even better—I knew that would help me be an even better version of myself.
All through that time, I was still writing. That big gap? People don’t see that I was constantly creating music. In my iTunes library, I have like 300 different fragmented song ideas—some more complete than others.
But all those things compounded a bit of writer’s block. And I’m not the type of person who writes every day. Like Stephen King says—write a little every day—I never subscribed to that. I’m more the kind of person who writes when I’m inspired. I’m a stream-of-consciousness writer. When I drive cross-country, I’ll dictate lyrics into my phone, or use speech-to-text notes. But actually going into the studio and recording? That takes time. And money. This has all been self-funded.
After all that, around 2022, I started playing a few shows again. Tipped my toes back in.
The real catalyst? Bob from Flying Blanket—the guy who runs the studio and plays drums on all the new recordings—he had the opportunity to buy the Volvo from the final episode of Breaking Bad. The actual Volvo Walter White drives back from New Hampshire to take revenge on Jack’s gang. One of our mutual friends worked on the new Better Call Saul series and offered it to Bob.
Bob told me, “Man, I’d love to, but my wife would kill me.”
Mike: That’s probably true!
Kris Roe: Yeah. So instead, the guy offered it to me. And without hesitation, I said yes. It was only like seven grand—which, yeah, it’s a lot of money, but for that car? Totally worth it. One stipulation was I couldn’t flip it or sell it—he wanted a real fan to own it.
Literally a week later, my actual tour car died. I was crushed. The Breaking Bad Volvo wasn’t reliable enough to tour in, and if anyone recognized it, it’d get stolen.
So I came up with an idea: I asked Bob, “What if I trade you the Breaking Bad Volvo for a ton of studio time and access to your guest house to work on music?” And he was all in. He let me redecorate the space and make it a cozy creative zone. That was the start. “Car Song” was already complete, and that was the first song I decided to track for the new 7-inch. It became a tribute to my dad.
And from there? I never left. I just kept recording.
Even though 2020 was one of the worst years of my life—I wouldn't wish what I went through on my worst enemy—I’m grateful it happened. It broke the cycle of constant touring and helped me focus on what I really wanted to do with the band.
I reached out to the old band—the live band from the So Long, Astoria days—and asked them, “Do you want to play a few shows again?” I thought that if I was going to come back, I wanted to do something for the fans. Something nostalgic. They were totally cool with it. Everyone understands that I’m the guy who goes into the studio and records the songs. Our bass player calls me the station guy, and then John and Chris play guitar and drums. Sometimes we have Ben and Brian rotate in too.
It's a really communal thing. All those guys have families, so if someone can’t play a show, someone else fills in. We’re all still friends. I still get along with everyone I've ever played with. It’s a good place to be.
Mike: No, no, I’m really glad you mentioned that. First of all, I’m so sorry you went through everything you did in 2020—that’s a rough time.
Kris Roe: Thank you.
Mike: But I’m glad you took care of yourself. I love that you mentioned meditating, going to therapy, and realizing that you needed to take time for yourself to improve. That’s not an easy thing to do, so kudos to you for taking the reins.
Kris Roe: I chalk that up to my mom and dad. My dad battled addiction and alcoholism his whole life. I’ll talk more about that in relation to the 7-inch. But when my parents split up—when I was five—my mom left with me in the middle of the night while my dad was working at the factory.
We lived in Section 8 housing, we stayed in shelters, but I always felt love. My mom was doing whatever she could to provide. About five years later, my mom remarried my dad. He was still drinking, but eventually, he got sober. And from that point on, we were always in adjacent support groups. My dad went to AA, and we did group therapy. I credit both of them with being big supporters of mental health.
That made me a better writer, too. It made me unafraid to talk about feelings and be vulnerable. That openness really helped me become who I am as a person.
I’m definitely not flawless—there’s still stuff I’m working on daily—but I’m a big advocate for that kind of self-work. My mantra for 2020 was “focus on what you can control and let go of the rest.” That’s why I started meditating again. I used to brush it off as new-agey or hippy, but it’s not. It’s just about quieting your brain when it’s racing from anxiety.
I'd lie down, listen to someone tell me to focus on my breathing, and I'd finally be able to shut off my thoughts. I’d enter this really calm, peaceful state without needing any substances—because I don’t do drugs.
And even big punk rock dudes are into this stuff. Bill Stevenson from Descendents told me that Kira from Black Flag got him into yoga, and that’s what helped him through dark times and physical pain from arthritis. You’d be surprised how many gnarly-looking guys are big supporters of meditation and wellness.
Mike: The other thing you mentioned I wanted to touch on—you talked about how Stephen King's book says to write regularly, but that doesn’t work for you. You create when you're inspired. That really resonates with a lot of creatives, but there’s also this pressure—whether it’s internal or external—to constantly produce. Whether it’s content, social media posts, music videos, or just music.
Is that the same as it was when you released your first album or So Long, Astoria? Or has it changed? How are you feeling now about releasing music?
Kris Roe: Yeah, that’s the problem for me. I can only create when I feel it. Anything I do that wasn’t from a genuine place never felt like it held up. I mean, I think I’m batting about 75% of songs I still stand behind.
Some of the more novelty or silly songs—those didn’t come from the same place. I’ve written some that were like creative exercises or built around a fun bass line, but they didn’t come from the heart the same way. Maybe fans liked them because they were catchy, but they didn’t carry the same weight for me.
The songs I’m proudest of are the ones that have real personal meaning—whether it’s about love, loss, heartbreak… even if I’m not in that place anymore. I know that at one point, those feelings were real.
Bukowski said something like “contentment is the enemy of a writer.” And it’s true to a degree. You can be content and still be moved by things in your life. No one is immune to pain. Even guys like Springsteen or Dylan—they still go through loss and heartbreak in their 70s and 80s. That’s why you get artists like Bowie dropping an album near the end of his life that just crushes you.
But then there are artists where you’re like, “Come on, you live in a mansion in Beverly Hills. This isn’t hitting me the same way.” So I try to stay grounded. I want to stay true to the person I’ve always been—just with more growth, hopefully.
I can’t force myself to write. Unless I’m drawing from a backlog of older lyrics, the inspiration has to come naturally. And luckily, most of the new album has come from that place.
Like I said, I like experimenting—drafting wild ideas, pushing myself into new territory. But this record had no shortage of strong material. There are a few songs I love that aren’t quite done yet lyrically, so I’ve been setting those aside to focus on ones I know will make the album.
Sometimes you get what feels like an “ugly duckling” track—something you’re unsure about. Then, once the vocals are done and the full production is in place, it suddenly clicks. That’s happened to me before.
When we recorded So Long, Astoria with Lou Giordano, he had all these great Paul Westerberg and Goo Goo Dolls stories. He said their song “Name,” which became a huge hit, was originally considered a throwaway. John Rzeznik didn’t even like it at first.
I’ve heard stories like that on so many songwriter podcasts. A band was going to scrap a song that ended up being their biggest hit. That tells me the best song I’ll ever write still hasn’t been written. And if that kind of thing happens repeatedly for other artists, then I think I’m doing okay.
Mike: That’s a really healthy way to look at it—that your best song is still ahead of you. And you’re right, you never know what’s going to resonate with people. Sometimes a song that doesn’t feel strong to you ends up becoming “the one.”
Kris Roe: Exactly. You might write a song in 15 minutes, and it becomes the track everyone’s shouting for at shows. You’re like, “That one?” The one that felt like a throwaway?
But that’s cool. As long as it’s something that came from an authentic place—even if it wasn’t super deep—then it still has value.
I’ve never been swayed by trying to please critics or write for a specific audience. Bukowski also said something about how once a writer starts doing that, they’ve lost their way.
I think pop music has gotten smarter. There’s some incredible songwriting happening in pop, whether it’s Taylor Swift or whoever. People like to hate on it, but I think there’s a lot of great music out there, just like there is in jazz, punk, indie rock—you just have to look.
I watched all the Coachella sets this year. I didn’t recognize a lot of names, but instead of being a jaded “get off my lawn” guy—which I very much can be—I said, “Let me see why these artists are on these massive stages.” And I was blown away by a few of them.
So even though I write from a personal space and don’t craft songs with a commercial mindset, I still appreciate great songwriting in any genre. Some pop songs are crafted by songwriters who never perform—and that’s not my lane, but I still love the craft.
The older I get, the more I want to become a better player and a better writer. I want to learn how to structure songs, how to bring in new layers—how to add something different in the second verse, how to build peaks and valleys in the chorus.
But I also don’t want it to be formulaic. The last song on this record, like the last track on So Long, Astoria, has to be a ride. I still think in terms of albums, even though we live in a singles world.
To me, an album needs to have an arc. Like Jane’s Addiction’s Ritual de lo Habitual—the first half is a rock record, then side two starts with “Three Days,” this 13-minute journey, and the rest is dreamy and lush. That’s how I want my albums to feel. A ride.
So the first six or seven songs on this album are very much in the vein of “Car Song”—different vibes, but rooted in rock and roll. Then the back half starts taking different turns, pushing into more experimental territory.
I always knew when I got inspired again, I wanted to write rock and roll songs—but on my own terms. Not trying to fit a mold or sound like what people expect.
There are a lot of bands we get lumped in with that do nothing for me. For me, pop-punk was The Descendents. Not nasal vocals and auto-tuned, cut-and-paste stuff. That’s not my thing.
That said, there are great modern bands—Against Me!, The Menzingers, Gaslight Anthem—they’re all drawing from influences like Fugazi or Jawbreaker. You can feel that in their music.
But writing rock songs is harder for me now. Back when you first discover The Replacements or The Ramones, you’re inspired. You want to write a hundred songs that night. But now? I’ve done that. I’ve lived with those albums for decades. I’m not hearing them with fresh ears anymore.
So for me, writing in that style now—it has to come to me naturally. I can’t sit down and force it. I already did the “first time” thing. Now I have to dig deeper.
Sometimes that means going down YouTube rabbit holes—like Japanese indie folk from the ’60s that sounds like The Zombies or The Kinks. There’s great music everywhere if you’re willing to look for it.
Mike: So when did you start writing music? Were you like 14 or 15? What bands inspired you early on?
Kris Roe: I was into music from the time I was two. I had a record player in 1979. My dad was really into The Who, Zeppelin, The Stones. My mom was into Motown and early Beatles. So I had good music coming from both sides.
I lived and breathed music as a little kid. I always had melodies in my head. The first time I really sat down to write music, I was around 12. I got a four-track recorder and a drum machine so I could build songs in my bedroom.
Most kids were outside playing, but I was inside demoing what eventually became the first Ataris album. Starting at age 12 through about 18 or 19, I wrote all the songs that would appear on Anywhere But Here.
Before I even got into punk rock, I was into stuff like Dinosaur Jr., The Cure, The Smiths, Sonic Youth, My Bloody Valentine—alt-indie kind of stuff. I liked melodies, but I wasn’t a good enough player yet to write in that style.
Then I discovered the Ramones, The Descendents, Green Day’s Lookout Records stuff, Jawbreaker, Samiam—all that melodic punk. I eventually grew to love the more aggressive stuff like Black Flag, but I was never drawn to write that kind of music.
It was when I discovered melodic punk that I thought, “I can write this.” I can write a song about a girl who ripped my heart out. Or about some jock who bullied me at school. That stuff spoke to me. It made me feel like I had found my music.
That’s when I really felt like I became a songwriter. Around So Long, Astoria, I finally felt like I was getting good at it—like I was learning how to hone my craft. Working with Lou Giordano on that record helped a lot. He was the first person who said, “Your songs are great, but you need peaks and valleys. The chorus needs to jump.”
I’d never thought about songwriting like that before. San Dimas is a great song, but it’s chaotic—no real chorus. It’s a beautiful mess. When I tried to reteach it to my band later, I realized, “Man, I could never write this today because now I know how to write a ‘proper’ song.”
Fat Mike from NOFX said something similar about their song “Linoleum”—no chorus, no repeating lines, but people still think it does. That kind of accidental brilliance… you can’t force that.
Mike: That’s wild. I also read that the demo you made as a teenager got passed to a label and led to your first deal—before you even had a band. Is that true?
Kris Roe: Yeah. So what happened was, I had a want ad for a drummer in my demo tape. It was all me and a drum machine—there weren’t any drummers in Indiana. Parents didn’t want to buy a drum kit or have that noise in their house.
So I’d go to shows as a fan, give out tapes, and hope maybe someone would hear the songs and know a drummer. That was it. No ambitions of getting signed.
I went to a show with The Queers and Mr. T Experience at Bogart’s in Cincinnati in September 1996. Jason, who was in my early live lineup, said, “The Vandals are playing too. Let me give them a tape—they’re starting a label.” I wasn’t even a Vandals fan at the time, but I was like, “Sure.”
There was a phone number and address on the tape. A little while later, they called and said they wanted to put out my record. I thought it was a joke. I was like, “Who is this?” But it was really them. They said, “If we fly you out to California and find you a drummer, will you come record?”
I said yes.
They flew me to San Francisco, where I met Derek from Lagwagon, who was living in Santa Cruz. I rented a Ryder truck, drove down, we rehearsed a little, then drove overnight to Orange County. I got no sleep, crashed on their couch, and the next day, we were recording.
Derek had some issues—he was struggling with heroin addiction. It made the sessions tough. He kept disappearing or nodding off. Eventually, the Vandals just had him finish the drums and sent him home.
I recorded 20 songs in a handful of days—vocals, guitar, bass, everything. It was insane. I’d been playing those songs so much that I knew them inside and out. I even wrote a couple on the spot.
But when I heard the mixes, I was bummed. Some guitar channels didn’t get turned on. It was all done to tape, and parts were missing. The mix was rough.
The record came out, but it didn’t do much. They marketed it as “Derek from Lagwagon’s new band,” which he hated. He wanted the songs to speak for themselves.
Eventually, I moved to California, met our bassist Mike, and found our drummer Chris through a want ad. That became the classic Blue Skies lineup. We started touring nonstop.
I wrote all the songs for Blue Skies, Broken Hearts… Next 12 Exits and felt like, “This is it. This is the next level.”
So we had Blue Skies ready. The songs were there. The energy was there. The problem? Kung Fu had kind of given up on us after Anywhere But Here. That album didn’t sound great—the mix was rough—and they didn’t have a plan for us. But we believed in the Blue Skies material. We’d already been playing songs like “San Dimas” live, and the reactions were amazing.
We recorded the album with Joey Cape from Lagwagon producing. We played a show at Bottom of the Hill in San Francisco, and he came out to see us. He told us, “Yeah, I’ll produce your record.” So we did it.
Then Kung Fu said they couldn’t put it out until early 1999. We were like, “That’s months away! We’re out here grinding, playing nonstop, and we need something new out now.” But they were putting out other stuff and we weren’t a priority.
So I called Fat Mike. I’d met him early on when I first came to California, and he’d said, “If you ever want to put something out, reach out.”
I asked him, “Would you be down to do a 7-inch or something? We just need new music out.” He said, “Sure, but check with Joey first—I don’t want to step on his toes.” So I called Joey—he was in Australia at the time—and I asked him, “Hey, would it be cool if we put out a 7-inch on Fat?” And then I pretended like the call cut out. “Oh, I think he said it’s fine!”
Mike: (laughs)
Kris Roe: So I called Fat Mike back and said, “He’s cool with it!” We booked studio time at The Blasting Room—Descendents’ studio in Colorado. By the time Joey got back, it was already happening.
We recorded the Look Forward to Failure EP there. It included a rough mix of “San Dimas” from Blue Skies, one leftover track, and a few new ones like “My Hotel Year,” “Between You and Me,” “Bury the World,” and another.
That EP changed everything.
Fat Mike did us a huge favor. He put “San Dimas” on one of the Fat Music compilation CDs—the ones they gave out for free with mail orders. And at the time, Fat Wreck, Epitaph, and Lookout were the three biggest labels in that world. People assumed we were a Fat band, which helped tremendously.
So when Blue Skies finally came out, it blew up. You couldn’t find it anywhere—it kept selling out. Then we released End Is Forever and that did incredibly well too.
Between those two albums, we sold almost half a million copies on an indie label, with no traditional distribution. That’s insane when you think about it.
When the contract was up, majors started knocking. Some offered big money, but we said no at first. We wanted to keep building organically.
By the time End Is Forever came out, our records were showing up in big-box stores. We had a following. People knew us.
We knew we needed a partner who could help us reach more people—but still let us be us. Either a bigger indie, or a major that respected artists.
That’s when we met Glen Phillips from Toad the Wet Sprocket. He played guitar and sang backups on “The Saddest Song” from So Long, Astoria and even played it with us on Jay Leno. Sweetheart of a guy. He told me amazing things about Columbia Records—about how they gave him full artistic control.
And the same A&R guy he worked with reached out to us.
I was like, “Columbia? That’s Dylan. That’s Springsteen.” It felt right. They gave us total control. It was the right deal, with the right people.
Even when the major label system started crumbling—Napster, LimeWire, all of that—I still had a great experience at Columbia. I wasn’t mad at people for stealing music. I mean, yeah, I love Metallica, but I wasn’t a “Napster bad” guy. If people downloaded our stuff and it led them to our shows, I was fine with that.
We recorded Welcome the Night while still on Columbia. And yeah, I know that record probably confused some people. It was a dreamy, shoegaze, Radiohead-style album—not what people expected from us. But I didn’t care. That’s what I felt at the time. It was the kind of music I was trying to write back when I was 12 or 13, but I just didn’t have the chops yet. Now I did.
So in a way, it made sense. It was me going back to the kind of songwriting I’d always wanted to do. And yeah, for some people it was like, “What the hell is this?” But for others, it clicked—eventually. Kind of like Pinkerton for Weezer, you know?
I think those weird left-turn albums eventually find their place in people’s hearts. And now, with this new album, I think fans who’ve been waiting for something in the spirit of So Long, Astoria are going to be excited.
But it’s not just nostalgia—it’s still pushing things forward. Even the end of the record takes some cool turns.
Mike: I did want to mention one quick thing I read in some zine. It was about Welcome the Night—I heard somewhere it was about your love for horses?
Kris Roe: (laughs) No. That’s… that’s Bob’s doing. There are some YouTube channels out there where they debunk Wikipedia bios and fan theories. I love stuff like that—it’s usually innocent.
But yeah, that was Bob Hoag. He once joked in an interview that Welcome the Night was about my love of horses. And now I guess that stuck! No—I’ve ridden a horse maybe once in Hawaii. I think they’re beautiful creatures. But no… not about horses.
Mike: That’s good to clarify. For context, Bob asked me to ask you that. He said it had to be brought up.
Kris Roe: Of course he did. That guy. I love him.
Mike: He’s amazing. I’ve known Bob for years—he produced a number of records for artists I represented. I’ve been to Flying Blanket many times. It’s really cool to see you back in there for this album.
So let’s talk about “Car Song.” It’s the latest single—and I just want to say, it’s amazing. I absolutely love it. You mentioned earlier that it’s a tribute to your dad, and I also understand you’re doing something special for the 7-inch?
Kris Roe: Yeah. So “Car Song” kind of came about because I wanted to write a track that sounded like I was singing about a person—but it’s really about a car.
Specifically, the first new car I ever bought. It was a 2003 Dodge Neon. Nothing fancy. My parents had given me a grocery-getter kind of car before that, and I had a couple tour vans… but this was the first car I bought on my own. I wanted something cheap and reliable to drive across North America.
So in the song, I’m writing as if the car is a person. When you hear the lyrics, it’s full of memories—road trips, sunsets, desert highways.
It starts with the car resting in a junkyard, dandelions and rust overtaking it. It’s a love letter, in a way. And then, it shifts.
The second verse becomes a tribute to my dad. He worked at General Motors for 37 years in our hometown of Anderson, Indiana. The line “the factories lying in their graves like Cold War artifacts marching in some ghost parade”—that’s about the GM plant, which was the biggest factory outside of Detroit at one point.
Now it’s shuttered. Boarded-up buildings. An eerie dystopia. But to me, there’s still beauty and history there—stories left behind.
I wanted to honor that.
At one point, I was on a flight and saw something in the in-flight magazine about a service that could press a voice recording or song into a vinyl record with a loved one’s ashes.
I thought, “Wow, that would be perfect for my dad.” There was another version where they’d plant a tree with the ashes, but the record? That hit me hard. It just felt right.
He was always the biggest supporter of my music. He was on our old message boards and MySpace pages, sending out VHS tapes to fans, talking with them. People knew him. When he passed, the response from fans was overwhelming. He was like a virtual presence in the community.
So I had this idea: press his ashes into vinyl—literally have part of him live in the grooves of this song. Not just for me and my family, but to do something good with it.
I thought—what if I use this moment to also give back? What if I donate all the profits from the 7-inch to a charity that helps families affected by addiction, mental health struggles, or alcoholism? Because my dad battled those things, and it’s something that affects so many people.
That idea stuck with me for years. Then I met Jeff and Em from Double Helix Records. Jeff wanted to put something out with The Ataris, but we didn’t know what. So I pitched him the ashes-in-vinyl idea.
He said, “Let me see what I can do.”
He reached out to a ton of pressing plants, and I’m sure he got a bunch of no’s. Most places probably didn’t want to be associated with something like that.
But then this one plant, Hellbender Vinyl, got it. They understood the story, the intention, the art behind it. They were amazing to work with.
Last month, I held the record in my hands. That was everything. I kept some copies for my immediate family and friends. We only made around 200–300 for the public, and another 200 or so for personal distribution. So yeah, it’s probably the rarest and most unique thing The Ataris will ever release.
Mike: That’s incredible.
Kris Roe: It means everything to me. It’s part of my dad’s legacy. And I think he would’ve loved it.
I know there are going to be some people who think it’s weird. But when they read the story—see the dedication—we’ve already had some of them say, “At first I didn’t get it… but now I do.”
And that means the world to me.
We even did different color variants. There’s a silver and turquoise one that matches a ring my dad wore every day of his life—his wedding band. I still have that ring. Then there’s a rust red one, and a turquoise/smoke blend that Jeff picked out.
The whole thing came out beautifully. And “Car Song” felt like the perfect introduction to the new album. It represents the tone, the energy, and the emotional honesty that runs through the rest of the songs.
Mike: I also want to mention the music video for “Car Song.” It just came out yesterday and I loved it. It was so fun.
Kris Roe: Thank you! It was honestly the most fun I’ve ever had filming a video.
Usually, music videos involve some grimy warehouse where I’m sneezing my lungs out. Or standing in a dusty field. I’ve got asthma—I don’t need that!
But this one? Totally different.
It starts with me checking into an Airbnb run by Walter White and his family. I find a photo of them, a note saying, “Welcome to our Airbnb—make yourself at home. Whatever you do, don’t go in the garage.”
Naturally, I go into the garage. (laughs)
I find the Breaking Bad Volvo. And I’m like, “Yep, I’m taking this thing for a spin.” We reenact the scene from the final episode—pulling the screwdriver from the glove box, jamming it into the ignition, and driving off.
Then, about 45 seconds into the video, all the guys from the So Long, Astoria live band show up. We all go on a joyride together—just four friends, goofing off. It was important to me that the video didn’t show us performing. I just wanted to show the world that we’re still tight. We’re still friends. No drama. Just guys having fun.
Kris Roe: Like, to me, that was more important than any performance or choreographed shots. Just seeing us together again—laughing, riding around, being dorks—that says everything about what this band is and always has been.
And the response to the video has been beautiful. Fans immediately picked up on the Breaking Bad nods and the deeper meaning behind it. Some messaged me like, “Man, I wasn’t ready to cry today,” and others were just excited to see us all together again. That balance of fun and feeling—that’s what I was going for.
Mike: It really came through. It was so genuine, and I think that’s why people are resonating with it. You’re not forcing nostalgia—you’re living it in the most natural way.
Kris Roe: Exactly. That’s all I want. I want this record, and everything surrounding it, to feel real. No forced comebacks or hollow hype. Just something that means something—to me, to the fans, and hopefully to my dad’s memory.
And I’m so grateful to everyone involved—to Bob, to Jeff and Em, to the band, to the fans. Everyone who helped me make this happen.
Mike: Well, I just want to say, thank you so much, Kris. This was an incredible conversation. I really appreciate you opening up the way you did. And for being so thoughtful and honest about everything—from music and mental health to creativity and grief.
Kris Roe: Thank you, man. I really appreciate it. I think fans will be excited. There’s a little something from every era in there, but it’s also a step forward. And most importantly—it’s real.
Mike: Absolutely. That’s what makes it resonate. I can’t wait for the new record, and I know the fans are going to love it too. Thank you again for being on the show.
Kris Roe: Anytime. Thanks for having me.