Charles Kraus: 'I had an early lesson in manipulation'

They are a raw and raucous Nashville-based band who embrace the rock lifestyle, with a leader whose father was a preacher. Remind you of anyone? Chris Salmon meets Mona

It takes a certain kind of up-and-coming musician to sit in a west London hotel on a December afternoon wearing dark sunglasses, assuredly explaining how he plans to shake up the music world, winning Brits and Grammys along the way. Or, indeed, to walk on stage a few hours later in a packed east London venue holding aloft a bottle of Jack Daniel's, before taking a swig and launching into the first song. That kind of musician is usually described by their admirers as being "rock'n'roll".

Nick Brown is the frontman, songwriter and leader of Mona, a Nashville-based quartet who look well-placed in the annual new talent hoopla. Over the last few months, they've caused an almighty label bidding war (they eventually signed with Island); made the de rigueur heat-building appearance on Later ? with Jools Holland; and found themselves among the prime contenders on the influential tips-for-the-coming-year polls of the BBC and MTV. At a time when guitar bands are notably absent from the charts, Mona are very much rock'n'roll's great white hopes ? America's answer to bands such as Brother and the Vaccines, recently covered in these pages.

There's substance behind the hype, too. Mona match Brown's big talk with a clutch of barrelling rock songs that are as raw and raucous as they are catchy and anthemic. As they prove at the London show, they're also compelling live performers. That's why some excitable critics have been comparing Mona's arrival to that of the Strokes and their potential to that of their Nashville neighbours and sonic cousins, Kings of Leon (more of whom later). Such predictions might be over-egging the pudding, but Mona are a striking prospect.

Brown grew up in the sleepy, middle America town of Dayton, Ohio. As a kid, he listened to ? and took inspiration from ? Ben E King, Marvin Gaye and Otis Redding. Mona's music doesn't prompt instant comparisons with soul singers, but Brown does share a musical heritage with all three, having made his first performances in church.

He was a leading light in the Pentecostal church at which his father was the pastor, travelling the world as a teenager to lead worship for large congregations. "I was about as passionate and into it as you can get," he says. "I started going to the seminary and everything." But, like his father, he became disillusioned with organised religion. "Our family still have beliefs and faith," he says. "I think my dad just reached a point where he didn't want to be part of the monster. And the older I got, the more I saw the dangers of man-controlled religion."

Frustrated by the church's "ignorant, one-dimensional view of a midwestern God", Brown turned his considerable drive and self-confidence towards music. "I'm drawn to things which provoke human emotion," he says, always ready with a snappy soundbite. "No one trusts their governments any more. No one trusts their churches any more. Music's one of the last things that people look to."

So, Brown formed Mona, naming them after his late grandmother. That was actually rather longer ago than you might imagine, given they seem to be being launched to the world only now. Mona's original incarnation won Dayton's local bands contest way back in 2004, and a bit of Googling reveals that the band even released an album, Perfect Fit, in 2006. "I'm actually impressed that you found that," Brown smiles.

While they were still in Dayton, the band were frequently written about by a local journalist, Kris Neises. When I track him down online after my interview with Brown, it's clear Mona left a lasting impression. "They were always very talented, and I cannot say I am surprised they are gaining some recognition," he writes in an email. "A young, extremely cocky Nick Brown once told me that he was going to be 'bigger than Bono'. And yes he was serious. Nick is talented no doubt and can belt it out like not many I've seen, but his attitude turned me off a lot."

Much like Johnny Borrell before him, Brown's enormous belief in his own ability has undoubtedly helped propel him this far, but it's also likely to wind people up. "I think Nick Brown is a very arrogant person," as Neises bluntly puts it.

Brown has clearly learned the art of bombast from the preachers of his youth. "Some of those worship leaders were like rock stars," he says. "And I had an early lesson in manipulation, cos there's a lot of stuff that's bullshit, fake and worked up. That can be a good card to have in your back pocket."

Yet for all the big talk, Brown is not unlikable. Nor is he a man without self-doubt. "Sometimes I'm genuinely shocked that we're doing this," he admits. "And then other times I'm like, 'When do we go to the hall of fame?' It's like that pendulum swing of complete utter arrogance and scared-to?death humility, where you're constantly trying to figure out if you're the worst or the greatest ever." In cases of doubt, he clearly just plumps for the latter.

That belief has certainly carried Brown through, when many would have given up. He readily admits that the release of Perfect Fit only turned heads in "a very, very close circle", albeit a circle that did include Kings of Leon, whom Brown had met at a show in Dayton.

Their friendship became a firm one and, in May 2007, Neises reported that Mona were leaving Dayton to move to Nashville, with Brown saying they'd be "working" with Kings of Leon. That, insists Brown, was a misquote, with the real reason being simply that they'd hit a ceiling in Dayton.

Either way, by September 2007, the move appeared to be paying off. In the comments under another Neises piece, someone has posted that the band were flown to LA to perform a showcase gig for Rick Rubin, co-president of Columbia records (part of the same label group Kings of Leon are signed to). "You're the first person that's found that," says Brown.

The showcase actually went well. "We were really fucking close, man," Brown says. "We got flown everywhere and treated like kings. We got the whole: 'You're going to be the next big thing, tell your parents your lives are gonna change.'" But then, he says, the label suddenly responded to the music business downturn by going on a signing freeze and laying off hundreds of staff. "We weren't rejected, we got apologies. It was basically like: 'Dude, we don't even know if we have jobs next week.'"

It was, Brown says, "emotionally one of the most fucked-up experiences you can go through. We were all drinking heavily. I went through some really dark times and our guitar player is different now than it was then. Vince [Mona's drummer] was with me during it, but we barely made it through, man."

At times like that, a little preternatural self-belief clearly helps. "I think for 9.9 out of 10 people who want to be an actor, an artist or a musician, they look in the mirror one day and the eyes looking back say: 'Just fucking grow up. It's not gonna happen.' I've never seen that look in my eyes. I've wanted to. But there's times when I'd grab an acoustic guitar and come up with an idea and go: 'Somebody needs to hear this!' That's what got me through."

And, ultimately, it's what got Mona to where they are now, helped by Brown's switch from piano to guitar, the recruitment of a new guitar and bass player and an online introduction to their UK-based manager, Nude records' founder Saul Galpern. At no point, insists Brown, did he try to ride Kings of Leon's coat-tails to success. "I don't think that would have crossed either of our minds. They're a bunch of poor kids that made it themselves. We're a bunch of poor kids that want to make it ourselves. The working-class way is that even if someone can open a door for you, don't fucking touch it, I can open it myself."

It's unfortunate, then, that Mona's music is constantly compared to that of their more prominent friends, to the extent that the NME has fondly christened them "the princes of Leon".

When I mention this, Brown's prickly reaction is to put it down to "lazy journalism", based on their similar backgrounds. But, really, the two bands do sound similar. Realistically, I say, if you played a Mona song to 10 people and asked them to name a band it sounds a bit like, Kings of Leon would be in the top three. "Some of the songs I can definitely see that," agrees Brown. "But, who else are you gonna compare us to? How many other rock bands are doing anything today? They deserve the attention they're getting. They want to go down in history as one of the greats. But so do we. I think the comparisons are just an initial thing. We don't wanna be associated with anything." Clearly, Brown is too proud, too convinced of his own abilities, to ever exist in somebody else's shadow.

"The competitive part of me, I don't care if they're friends or not. They're in our sights and the gun is loaded," he says. "But I'd say that about everyone from U2 to Radiohead. If my mom was the lead singer of a rock band, I'd look at her and say, 'Fuck you, our songs are gonna be bigger.' If you're a band and you're alive and on this planet, it's a stampede and we're coming."

The single Teenager is released on Zion Noiz/Island on 28 February.

Chris Salmon

guardian.co.uk © Guardian News & Media Limited 2010 | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds