Gus Weinkauf and Jeremy Strachan are comfortable with the in-between. It’s in the liminal spaces that the men behind Feuermusik thrive — the perpetual almost-there of the graduate student (Strachan is completing a master’s in ethnomusicology; Weinkauf about to begin a PhD in philosophy) and in their alternate lives as an unexpectedly successful bucket-percussion and saxophone duo. In music, as in their studies, there’s no easy way to describe what they do. Slip their new CD, No Contest, into your iTunes and under genre, the program deems it “Unclassifiable.” And Feuermusik itself arose from the dissolution of their previous post-hardcore band Rockets Red Glare and lingers in the shadows of Toronto’s indie scene, with a toehold in the jazz and improv communities — shifting affiliations but never settling in.

Weinkauf and Strachan are shifting in their unyielding wooden chairs when I meet them in the grubby downstairs of the Imperial Pub near Ryerson. Though both are barely in their thirties I have a sudden vision of them in this place 40 years on, still answering questions on each other’s behalf and ruminating on what to do about their practice space. The subject makes Strachan recede into his sweater slightly. “It’s a bit of a loogan factory,” he sighs. “The place where loogan-hood is actually forged,” quips Weinkauf, grinning.

Given their easygoing demeanour and egghead absorption, it might surprise some that their music is so visceral. To wit, the standout track from No Contest, “Full of Grace,” is propelled by the bass clarinet’s upper and lower registers, making it a call-and-response that resonates in the heart and loins even as you marvel at its cleverness. Weinkauf chalks this up to the fact that their new album was written the year Strachan was studying at Memorial University in Newfoundland: they went into the recording studio with more coarsely sketched-out songs than those on their first record, the critical favourite Goodbye Lucille. “‘Full of Grace’ was one of the first more openly structured songs Jer and I wrote,” Weinkauf says. “It has a loose feel that led to a somewhat irregular composition in the studio.”

Subtler, but just as rewarding, is “Nearness/Distance,” an eight-minute work in a pentatonic scale that unwinds in a leisurely fashion. “I had more of an Ethiopiques vibe in mind,” says Strachan, referring to an influential series compiling Ethiopian and Eritrean pop singles. Weinkauf adds that the idea that propelled the percussion in the song was time. “That is, making time show itself, by gradually changing the tempo of the buckets against the tempo of the horns. The difference uncovers the underlying phenomenon — time.”

Time is something both men could use more of, as they balance full-time study with their musical pursuits. But they approach this band with considerably less urgency than the five years they spent in Rockets Red Glare. Feuermusik have been together for less than four years, but they’ve played music since they were teenagers: something to which they attribute their uncanny musical communication. “The impetus to practice on a weekly basis has completely disintegrated, for me,” declares Strachan.

They pressed only 500 copies of Goodbye Lucille and despite being on a tiny label with no profile, no distribution and no touring to support it, word of mouth steadily grew. While their fans worried about Strachan’s absence, Weinkauf says it actually enabled more creative collaboration. “On this latest album, some of the songs were charted by Jeremy entirely without my input,” he says. “It was an interesting way to write, having him put something down and hear it needing percussion, because it would be too barren without.”

There are no plans to ratchet up the pressure, nor any qualms about Weinkauf’s imminent move to Montreal. “I feel we are in a relationship,” says Strachan. “And if anything, the time away has strengthened us. I’m actually excited for you to go,” he adds, turning towards Weinkauf.
“Everyone thinks that they can only do this when they’re at the height of their youth, that they need to be sexy, and need to work at this apex of a moment to be popular,” says Weinkauf. “When you think about it, that’s the lamest thing.”