It doesn't snow in Dallas. It doesn't snow in Los Angeles, either. So when flurries of whiteness fly around between the midtown buildings where Old 97's frontman Rhett Miller is conducting a series of interviews, he assumes it's New York City dirt.| It's only thirty minutes or so into the conversation that the erudite Texan-come-Angeleno realizes what's going on outside. "That's snow," he exclaims, wide-eyed with awe.

It's this sort of boyish charm and ability to see the mundane as new and interesting that have endeared Miller to so many loyal listeners, most especially to his bandmate and collaborator, bassist Murry Hammond. "He got me my first gig, when I was sixteen," explains Miller, who has shrugged off his gangly-geek-with-glasses look for an early Beatlesque mop top. "I was a folk singer in coffee shops, back when nobody was doing it. So I guess I was responsible for a mini folk revival, though I doubt the people of Dallas were grateful for it." He rolls his eyes.

That was in 1989, and even though the songs echoing between requests for more cappuccino were a far cry from the cowpunk that would be Miller's future signpost, Hammond saw the potential. "I had a bunch of songs, and he liked them and produced a record I did in high school," Miller recalls with a slight cringe as he remembers his era of Marc Bolan-affected vocals. With the encouragement of Hammond, and a following on the Dallas circuit that practically qualified Miller as the next Leif Garrett, he dropped everything to attend Sarah Lawrence College in New York on a creative writing scholarship.

But after one semester, he put his mystery novel aspirations aside (though he's currently in the midst of penning a tome) and rekindled his relationship with Hammond. "I didn't see any reason to give myself a safety net in case I didn't make it," Miller recounts of his decision to chuck his $100,000 scholarship, much to his mother's chagrin.

A series of failed attempts at fame ensued, including one as a British-invasion reproduction, but when Miller returned to the music he was raised on as a seventh-generation Texan, everything clicked into place. "[Country music] wasn't force-fed to me, it was more like osmosis. And it's only in retrospect that you're able to appreciate it, because when you're a kid, you don't want to like what your parents like."

When Hammond heard the country-tinged acoustic songs that Miller had recorded onto a low-budget tape player, the two abandoned faux British accents and folk forever. They fleshed out the group, recorded a couple of well-received indie albums, and then found themselves batting for the majors. By 1997, Old 97's (with a line-up including current guitarist Ken Bethea and drummer Philip Peeples) were "at the forefront of the insurgent country movement," according to Billboard magazine, their major label debut Too Far to Care was receiving accolades across the nation, and their frenzied live shows were the stuff of legend.

And it's just like Rhett Miller to change directions right at the time he finds his footing. With their latest album, Old 97's have released their white-knuckled clench from that country twang, and are instead travelling down a more shimmering, poppier path. "I knew that they were different," says Miller of the dozen songs that make up Fight Songs. "I knew that it was a stretch for us, that there was more pop and it was quieter. I mean, it's a studio album, and we'd always tried to make a live album." But after former Pixie Frank Black gave the record a nod, Miller's fears were assuaged. "I gave him a copy of the record when we finished it and I said, 'Are we ok?' Because I mean, if anybody's got integrity, it's him. And he loved it."

What's not to love? The optimistic boy-meets-girl song "Oppenheimer," the youthful regret tune "19" and the infectious single "Murder (or a Heart Attack)" (which Rhett insists is about a lost cat), are as likeable as a crisp summer day, and just as sunny. Other songs touch on the loneliness and sadness of being on the road, but without the maudlin tendencies that often plague such sentiments. Miller can sum up the album in one word: hopeful.

Now all Miller hopes for is a platinum album, a stellar career and packed houses full of screaming girls and adoring fans. Not really. Now that he's surpassed his expectations, his priorities -- and his vision of success -- have changed. "Now it's more like, I hope my girlfriend still likes me when I get home." And that he can still retain that childlike amazement he gets when he catches a glimpse of snow.

HEIDI SHERMAN(April 30, 1999)