Double-sibling band Common Deer is back as a deeper, more diverse, emotionally direct version of itself

Get a flicker in the memory banks at the mention of Common Deer?

No shame if you don’t because, hey, it’s been a while. But as of the release this month of its long-delayed debut album, “Maximalist,” Common Deer is officially back in action and ready for the proverbial close-up it deserves.

And, patience being a virtue and all that, the Guelph-born, Toronto-based, double-sibling quartet has actually developed into a deeper, more diverse, more emotionally and emotively direct musical proposition than when it first started pricking indie-scenester ears across Canada close to a decade ago with a burst of engagingly energetic live shows and a couple of promising 2017 EPs simply entitled “I” and “II” abruptly followed by … silence.

It took a rough road to get here, no question. Common Deer had to survive not just the growing pains of one-time co-frontperson Sheila Hart turning into the band’s proper lead singer and principal songwriter when founding member/singer Graham McLaughlin amicably opted out for marriage and a “straight” job, and its sonic transition from twee, string-bedecked indie-folk chorales to shimmery, ’80s-influenced synths, but also Hart’s grappling in 2017 with a diagnosis of borderline personality disorder. It hitherto had provided much heart-on-sleeve lyrical grist for the mill but had to be dealt with at a personal level if Common Deer was to continue.

Cue a certain COVID-19 pandemic and, well, you have endless reasons for a longer-than-anticipated hiatus. Ironically, at least, the past two years might have made Hart’s messed-up “Maximalist” confessionals more palatable than they would have been during Common Deer’s first “moment.”

“It’s a good time for it. People are pretty open about mental illness so I might as well capitalize on the one thing that I do right, y’know?” chuckled Hart over a gin Caesar. “If people are, like, ‘Oh, she’s writing about borderline personality disorder’ and connect to it and that’s gonna get it out there, I’ve gotta use that. If I have to deal with all the miserable s— I should get something out of it.

“I was 25 or 26 when I wrote a lot of those songs and, at the time, things were going really well and we were sort of on an upwards tilt so I definitely had an attitude of, like, ‘I can say whatever I want ’cause this is going to be my job and it’s never going to matter to a future employer.’ But now, with the pandemic, even more people are mentally ill … I don’t worry too much about being super open.”

Far from a self-pitying slog, “Maximalist” is a declaration of strength in the face of internal ups-and-downs (“I’m f–kin’ crazy and I like it” goes opener “Negative Thot”), compulsive behaviours, crap boyfriends and sleazy music industry wheeler-dealers brimming with barbed wit and anthemic melodies that put the electroshocked Common Deer 2.0 far more in league with Chvrches or modern-day Tegan and Sara than, say, the Lumineers.

None of the transformation was terribly calculated, said Hart — joined in the band by her brother Adam Hart on synths, guitar and cello, and siblings Liam and Connor Farrell on drums and bass, respectively — but she will admit to fretting that the band’s evolution into a bigger, shinier pop machine would alienate the small pool of fans it had already amassed. Especially after such a long lag between records.

“It was hard because we were sort of, like, ‘that band with the siblings and the strings,’” she said. “That was the whole thing: ‘Did you hear there’s two sets of siblings? Did you know they play cello and violin?’ It was the same thing for a while and there was, at least in my mind, a little bit of worry that if we didn’t have our ‘novelty’ anymore were the people still gonna be there? But so far, the reception has been great.

“We weren’t trying to do anything super on purpose. Except for one track: ‘Take Me Home.’ I fully wrote that after having a rough night just thinking about my career and everything and ‘Why the f–k can’t I get a song on Virgin Radio? I have to write a pop song. I have to do it now.’ And it’s fine. But it’s definitely a pop song.”

One fan who’s stuck with Common Deer for the duration and believes the band has the potential to go the distance is manager Jake Gold, somewhat famous himself for shepherding the Tragically Hip to Cancon superstardom back in the day.

His Management Trust has stuck with Hart and the boys through thick and thin, and the past five years of quietly, patiently waiting for them to find their shared voice, and not rushing any recorded product until the time was absolutely right.

“The people I work with are artists. And when you work with artists you have to let them be artists,” said Gold. “And in the famous words of Billy Idol, when he was recording ‘Rebel Yell,’ and he walked in and they said ‘You’re way behind schedule on this’: ‘Rock ’n’ roll makes headlines, not deadlines,’” said Gold. “And it’s true. It’s so true. When it’s done, it’s done.

“They’re a great band and they’re real artists. And when you work with real artists, you work with what you’re given and when it’s given to you. And if it happens fast, that’s great. And if it doesn’t, that’s great, too.”

Next up for Common Deer is working out the dynamics of its newly techno-reliant stage show, as well as Hart figuring out how to navigate stepping into the spotlight as frontwoman “after two years of being away from people entirely, with diminished social skills.”

For the moment, the band has one Toronto gig looming, an opening slot with where-are-they-now? Brits Jesus Jones at El Mocambo on May 15. If all goes as planned, however, summer will be time for everyone to quit their pandemic-era jobs and start living in a van for weeks again.

“It’s been really hard to sit on it and wonder ‘Does anyone care anymore?’” said Hart. “But writing makes me feel better. I know for a lot of people, whether they’re pursuing it as a career or not, putting their feelings and experiences into something creative can help you feel better.

“So it’s nice to see other people connect with it and that makes it feel really gratifying. And there were a lot of lyrics that didn’t make it onto the album because a lot of it was just writing stuff in the moment and it’s not very good, but it helped. It served its purpose for me and I just feel really lucky that I get to put some of that out there.

“Most people don’t get to do that for a job.”

Ben Rayner is a Toronto-based writer who covers the music scene.

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