Making the new Good News For People Who Love Bad News nearly killed Modest Mouse—or at least made frontman Isaac Brock nearly kill everyone around him. But there's that whole thing about that which doesn't kill you, and it's proved true: It's the band's strongest record yet.

The city of Tallahassee is made entirely of red bricks. The spires and Gothic arches of Florida State University, the streets surrounding the capitol building, the postcard-perfect downtown shops. All crimson and mortar. Uniform. The girls here are fabulously good-looking. Tanned and blonde, shirts revealing midriffs. Every guy here could beat you up. And they all converge on bars with names like Snookers, Bullwinkle's and Potbelly's to burn through "$5 all-you-can-drink specials" and "free beer for the ladies." The bars boom with bass that rattles the windows out of their frames. Their parking lots overflow with Jeeps and pick-up trucks with roll bars.

And in the midst of all this brick and bacchanal banality, sitting on a park bench next to a fountain, is Isaac Brock—Modest Mouse mastermind, reported misanthrope, noted outsider, oft-quoted shit-talker. He is squat and slightly unkempt, sporting stubble and a checkered Western shirt rolled at the sleeves. His pants are too short. He wears a MedicAlert bracelet on his left wrist. He's ripping through cigarettes and talking about his band, their new album Good News For People Who Love Bad News, and the near-Herculean ordeal that went into its creation. And one would think, given the surroundings and subject matter, that he could not be more uncomfortable. "No, I love people. I'm actually terrible at not being around them," he says, arms stretched behind his head. "I like living in cities. When you're alone in the middle of a nowhere hick town, you drink a lot. And I don't really approve of that." And perhaps the magnitude of this statement— which basically flies in the face of everything you've ever read about him—is why Brock trails off, drags on his cigarette and scratches his head before continuing. "But, the grass is always greener. And I'm always standing on a brown patch."

This seems to be the way it always is with Isaac Brock. One step forward, two steps back. He'll tell you that he doesn't give a shit what people think about him, his eccentricities, or his drinking. But when asked about them, he becomes agitated, shakes his foot like a rattlesnake's tail, warning you not to get any closer. He is withdrawn, but really quite friendly, emoting like Quentin Tarantino at 33 rpm. Yet he carefully guards his private life— the source of so many rumors and whispers —deflecting every inquiry with a stern "I won't talk about that."

Over the past year-and-a-half, Brock has lost his longtime drummer, two producers and very nearly his mind. But somehow, he emerged from it all in control. At ease. One thing is certain: On this park bench, as old men in suits make their way to church and elaborately groomed poodles stroll by, Isaac Brock is happy... kind of.

"A lot of shit fell apart. And I had to regain my grip," he says. "That was the trick. I had to fix myself to make everything work. Did I fix myself completely? Oh, God no. Is that even possible?" Perhaps the most amazing thing about Good News For People Who Love Bad News is not its sprawling scope, its all-over-the-place musicianship or its grab bag of metaphors. It's not the subtle studio polishes, flagrantly bawdy jazzbo excursions or ragged Deep-South-via- Hades hoedowns. Nor is it the bipolar mood swings that populate the disc. Without a doubt, the most amazing thing is that the album was even made in the first place.

"When we first started trying to do this album, Isaac had the idea to rent a place in Portland," says bassist Eric Judy. "And everything went wrong. We were in the house for four months, and we got maybe two songs done. It was ridiculous." And for Judy, that's making a bold statement. He's been Modest Mouse's bassist since before anyone can remember, always playing the silent stalwart to Brock's mopey maniac. He's endlessly sweet, rocks a patchy beard and wears baggy jeans. He's exactly like every kid who's ever hit you up for change in Little Five Points or Washington Square Park, minus the puppy with a hemp necklace. But more importantly, he's been there since the band's inception—been privy to Brock's seismic mood swings—and from the day the band checked into the Portland house, he knew something wasn't right. "We had no reason to be starting to record," he says. "It was a bad idea. The whole thing was a bad idea."

Everyone admits that making a record in a house was just too laid back. Idle hands, too many friends. But, prepared or not, Brock had them booked in a Seattle studio to begin sessions on the new album. And he had a grand plan: take two producers, each familiar with the Mouse (Phil Ek, who had recorded the band on numerous occasions, and Brian Deck, who produced the band's last album, 2000's The Moon And Antarctica), and let, as he says, "two people who have good ideas bounce ideas off each other." But it didn't quite work out that way. "It was a bad idea, having two producers," Judy says. "The producer likes to be the dude in control, and having two guys trying to be that sounded like a nightmare." Adds new and über-tattooed guitarist Dann Gallucci (who's not really all that new, since he played on tracks from Modest Mouse's breakout LP The Lonesome Crowded West): "Phil and Brian both agreed to do it, but I think they both agreed to it hoping something would happen to the other and they'd be the only one left. I mean, they produce albums on their own— they're not the fucking Dust Brothers." Brock is mum about the whole thing: "It seemed like a good idea," he says. "It didn't work out. But I don't want to air other people's bullshit here."

There was a lot of "bullshit" in that Seattle studio. The band wasn't prepared. Two producers grew impatient with the situation and each other. They both left. Copious amounts of time and money were wasted. But then the real shit hit. Jeremy Green, Modest Mouse's original drummer and Brock's good friend since he was 13, left the group. It was the end result of a monthslong implosion finally brought outward. "There was this mounting tension [between Brock and Green]," Gallucci says. "They were butting heads. Jeremy was on medication. He was self-medicating and constantly zoned out. He was not interested in writing songs." "He was having a rough time. He really just lost it all," Judy adds. "He was going crazy and couldn't focus. He showed up four hours late for the first day of recording, and by the second day—in the middle of recording—he just quit." This is one of the times during the interview that Brock rattles his foot the hardest. He won't look up. He is guarding a fucking nest of baby rattlers. "It went wrong. And it was the wrong time for Jeremy to be playing with us," he says in paused, diplomatic blurts. "He had shit to sort out, and I think he has. And the whole debacle is not on Jeremy. The morale of everyone was really fucking low at this point."

(When reached for comment, Green admitted to having problems: "My medication was making me freak out," he said. "I was paranoid. I thought the end of the world was coming.") Right here is when most bands would give up. Green's bouncing-yetsnapping drums had propelled the group for years, had buoyed Judy's rolling basslines and inflated Brock's ragged, erratic guitars. And now he'd exited, stage left. And not on good terms. "I was pissed. Everyone was pissed," Gallucci says. "Jeremy started bringing out all this stuff from the past, stuff about Isaac and Eric. I just sat there going, ‘I cannot fucking believe this shit is happening.'" Without any songs, nor a drummer, Modest Mouse appeared to be finished. They limped out of the studio and went back to their apartments, bars and girlfriends. It'd been a good run, but it seemed time to call it a day. "The idea of Modest Mouse ending scared me," Brock admits. "Because I didn't think I'd accomplished what I was meant to yet. So after a few days Dann and Eric and I sat down, and talked about everything. We were like, ‘We're still into this. Let's do it.' And then I wasn't worried anymore." The group brought in Helio Sequence drummer Benjamin Weikel and closed ranks. Disappeared. Holed up in a rehearsal space, in one month, in six marathon sessions, they hammered out Good News For People Who Love Bad News. After months of false starts and meltdowns, the fire had been lit.

"I don't know how we did it. Probably luck and fate," Judy says. "It was just feeling really good all of a sudden. There was a renewed energy." "Our goal was ‘Fuck everyone,'" Brock says, his eyes narrowing. "Fuck everyone who bailed on this project, everyone who made it hard. This album got made by determination and vengeance." Sweet Tea Studio is a painted concrete house in Oxford, Mississippi. There's a shelf loaded with votive candles, rugs on the walls and about six million vintage amplifiers in the corner. It's owned by Dennis Herring, and is a favorite recording spot for ancient blues heroes like Buddy Guy. And as such, it seems to make absolutely no sense for Modest Mouse to record their album there. But they did anyway.

"It was the best bet to record it with someone we didn't know, like Dennis," Brock says. "And after everything, we had to get out of the Northwest. Had to go far away."

But no matter how far away they went, Brock and the boys couldn't avoid Sony. At this point, it had been close to three years since Modest Mouse had released any new material for the label. And they were letting Brock know about it. "We were in breach of contract, and I suppose someone had to put some pressure on us," he says. "And at that point, I didn't know anyone to call at the label. Didn't know anyone there besides the art director."

And so Brock entered the pressure cooker. He frequently worked until 5 a.m., tweaking vocals, dubbing guitars, and generally trying not to freak out. "There were times I had to leave the studio," he says. "Cause I was going to kill someone. Literally. I remember thinking, ‘I'm gonna kill Dennis Herring. I'm going to do it.' And I'm standing there with my guitar and my blood's boiling to the point where I can't even see straight and I was like, ‘I could just beat him over the head with this.'" Judy and Gallucci, who had both known Brock since their teens, began to worry about their fragile frontman. "He's not the most stable guy," Judy says. "I get worried about him. There had been [recent] periods where he was definitely drinking a lot."

"There was a huge amount of pressure on him," Gallucci adds. "A person like Isaac, the pressure drives you constantly. Or it scares the shit out of you and you clam up."

Even Brock will admit that he feels this pressure on a daily basis ("I'm going gray young, dude," he sighs. "And I'm only 28") but the thing that's changed about him now—partially because of age, partially because of the trial-by-fire process of making this album—is how he deals with it all.

"I used to drink my fair share," he says. "Like if I got a good roll going, it'd be three days. But after everything that's gone down, I've really been trying to keep it together.

"And the people I really look up to, whose lives I admire, don't drink," he says. "People like Eric. Or Dann, who's great at moderation."

The fact that he mentions Judy and Gallucci is telling. More than his bandmates, they're his confidants. His friends. And they're more important than anything. Because be it in a house in Portland, a studio in Seattle, or a concrete building in Oxford, they've been there for him, supported him. Through it all, they've made him feel in control. At ease. "I'm never comfortable, not often," Brock says. "But I feel comfortable when I'm with my friends, with my traveling crew on this tour. That's my family." And that feeling of happiness shows up on the new album. Sure, Brock's twin obsessions—death and the Devil—both get a lot of screen time, but there are also tracks like "Float On" and "Black Cadillacs," moments of unabashed optimism that cut through the fog. And these moments can probably be attributed to this newfound "family." It's like Brock sings on "One Chance," the penultimate track on Good News: "My friends, my habits, my family/ They mean so much to me." Tonight's show is at a club in the sprawling suburbia outside Tallahassee. It's small and smoky, painted black, and crappy artwork by a local artist is up for sale on the walls ("Kylie's Gore," $200). It's just like every indie rock venue in America.

Backstage, Isaac Brock is dancing. He thrusts his pelvis and shakes his arms, an impromptu boogie he dubs "the sprinkler." Judy and Gallucci sit on a couch, laughing uncontrollably. And in keeping with the family theme, Tom Peloso (a member of the hillbilly-inspired Hackensaw Boys who also plays on Modest Mouse's new album) has brought his parents to see the show. Their names are Pete and Maureen. They are super-sweet and speak at great lengths about the wonders of their RV. Later that night, Brock and Co. are ripping through a fierce, focused set. Kids here already know the words to some of Good News' more obscure tracks—the spooky "Bukowski," the claustrophobic "Satin In A Coffin"—and they sing along heartily. Brock flails around the stage, spitting into the microphone and nearly bending his guitar strings off the fretboard. And then the stagelights go out. The band soldiers on, playing in total darkness. Then the lights pop back on, and the old Isaac makes a rare appearance. He screams, "What the fuck was that?" at a helpless sound guy. He rips the plug from his guitar, slams it to the ground, and storms off. Judy and Gallucci just stand there. They've seen this before. But after a few tense minutes, the Isaac of new reemerges from backstage. He plugs back in and finishes the set.

After the show, after everyone has gone home, Brock sits alone backstage. He leans on a cooler and smokes a cigarette. He's over the whole lights-out debacle. Why dwell on the negative anymore? And he seems to notice that he's being watched, because suddenly he brightens. There's just one thing he's concerned with now.

"Hey, when this piece comes out, don't make me look like an asshole," he begs. "Because I'm tired of being the asshole."

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