Staring Into the Abyss (S.I.T.A.) is an American indie rock band that was formed in Oak Falls, Indiana, in 1999. The band’s lyrics, which have been described as “poetic, esoteric, and melancholy,” are written and sung by Julian Oliver, the band’s lead singer. Oliver also reportedly composes the vast majority of the band’s music, though according to an interview with Pitchfork in 2011, Oliver is occasionally lent a hand, which most people took to be a nod to band member Marty St. Clair. The band has recorded four studio albums, the most popular of which is Blind Windows, which was released in July 2002, and includes the hit single “That Night.” The band hasn’t put out a new album since 2011 and there is much speculation about when or if a new record will be released.
BAND MEMBERS
Julian Oliver—lead vocals, guitar
Marty St. Clair—keyboard, bass, backup vocals Chris Stevens—bass, backup vocals
Brett Bannister—drums, percussion
MUSICAL STYLE
The band has been compared to several other indie and alternative rock bands and musical acts, such as the National, the White Stripes, Neutral Milk Hotel, the Cure, and Wolf Parade. Oliver has cited Leonard Cohen and Elliott Smith as major influences on his lyrical writing, as well as Isaac Brock. He has also mentioned drawing inspiration from William Blake, Anne Sexton, and William Faulkner. Given that the band’s name is a direct reference to Friedrich Nietzsche, it is likely Oliver is also inspired by Nietzsche and other nineteenth-century philosophers. Because of Oliver’s poetic, wistful, and obscure lyrics, he has developed an almost cult-like following of worship among his fans.
Due to some of the band’s more hard-edged songs, they have also drawn comparisons to the Clash; one music review outlet once even went as far as to call Staring Into the Abyss a “doe-eyed version of a British punk grunge band. Sure, they have prettier, more esoteric lyrics, but at the end of the day, fans turn out for the same reason—to jump around to the jagged bass lines and thundering percussion.”
DISCOGRAPHY
Winter in Indiana (2000)
Blind Windows (2002)
Fireproof (2007)
You’ll Never See Me Again (2011)
III.
He looked slightly different from the numerous photos I’d seen of him online. But it was definitely him. Same shaggy pale blond hair that somehow managed to be long and short at the same time. (In the sunlight, I noticed a few gray streaks that never showed up in press photos.) Same globe-shaped, icy blue eyes—my eyes. Same freckled nose that hooked a little to the right. Same willowy frame with slightly hunched posture.
“Taliah?” he said. Looking back, I think he should’ve come up with a better line. After all, he was the one showing up on my doorstep.
I didn’t say anything because I was, well, wholly unprepared.
“I’m Harlow,” Harlow said, and opened the door wider. “And this is Taliah.”
Julian kept his eyes trained on my face. “Wow. Holy shit. You look so much like your mother.” He ran his hands through his hair. “Shit. Wait. I probably shouldn’t curse in front of you, should I?” He smiled tentatively.
“I’m sixteen, not four,” I managed to say. My voice was sharper than I’d intended it to be.
“Right.” He nodded, clearly startled by my tone. “Is your mother home?”
The answer to his question was an easy no. Mom was across the Atlantic Ocean. She was speaking at the opening of some fancy new gallery in Paris, giving a talk on contemporary woven arts. So I should’ve been able to plainly tell him no, but I didn’t. Because normally, you see, if a stranger asked me if my mother was home, I would’ve quickly said yes, even if she wasn’t. I would’ve told the stranger that not only was my mother home, but so were ten other people, all armed with machetes and machine guns, thank you very much.
And the man standing before me was a stranger.
But he also wasn’t.
This was all very freaking confusing.
The silence stretched between us, and finally Harlow answered, “No. She’s actually not home right now.”
Julian rubbed the bottom of his chin and grimaced a little.
“You’re both relieved and disappointed?” I said without thinking.
“Yes.” He gave me the same tentative smile from earlier. “Exactly.”
I shook my head and squinted past him into the sunlight. “Why are you here now?”
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his skinny black jeans. The pants were probably an inappropriate choice for most men of his age, but I guessed that the rules of fashion applied differently to rock stars, even aging ones. “Because, well … I don’t really know how to say this.”
“Just say it,” I said.
“Your grandfather is dying.”
“Um. That already happened. He died before I was born.” Jedde had passed before my mother even immigrated to the United States. I only knew about him from photographs and stories my mother told. He had her same soft brown eyes. He had liked mint tea and the way the light looked in the late afternoon—the golden hour.
Julian swayed from side to side, switching the weight of his body from his left to right foot and back again. He frequently rocked like that when he was onstage. It was very freaking weird to watch him do that on my doorstep. “Not that grandfather. My father.”
“Your father.”
“Yes.”
I widened my eyes. “Oh.”
“Oh,” Harlow echoed, the moment dawning on her too.
“So when you say my grandfather …”
“Yes,” Julian Oliver said with a nod. “I believe your theory is right.”
“My theory.”
“Jeez,” he said with a bit of a laugh. “You don’t make things easy for a guy.”
I watched him fidget on my doorstep. I didn’t think he deserved easy after sixteen years of silence. He deserved hard. Trench warfare hard. Siberian winter hard. Capital-H effing Hard. “Why would I?”
He bit his lip. I recognized the nervous gesture. It was one of mine. “Touché.”
After a few more beats of silence, he said, “But damn, kid, it is hot as hell out here. Can I at least come in and try to explain myself?”
“I guess,” I said, despite the warning bells ringing in my head. I motioned toward the living room. “Come on in.”
IV.
It was hard to reconcile all the conflicting emotions that were brewing inside of me. On one hand, I was pretty shocked and giddy that he had finally shown up. And even more giddy that all the suspicions I’d been harboring since I was thirteen years old seemed to be true and not just flights of adolescent fantasy.