Grandaddy was a critical darling and a fan favorite. At one point, it seemed that the band was close to the proverbial brass ring. Why did you guys fall short? Well, we were on the opposite end of the spectrum, aesthetically speaking, from a band like Maroon 5, and that didn’t help matters. [Laughs] We had a weird, warped, and wonderful time doing the Grandaddy thing. We ended up embarking on a lot of adventures that people like us wouldn’t have [otherwise] had the opportunity to do. There are moments where you’re backstage at David Letterman or playing in front of tens of thousands of people at some festival in France and thinking, “This is just ridiculous; I feel like we’ve snuck in the back door.”

What made you decide to end the band? After a while, it just became like riding this wave and seeing how far you could take it. We were on the verge of greatness for a little while there, and I kind of saw it come and go. I always told myself I would bring it to an end when the time was right.

Soon after the band split, you moved from California to Montana. Why the change of scenery? Things had gotten too cluttered and broken in Modesto for me personally. I was at a point where I needed fixing and healing. I knew that the restorative process that needed to take place required someplace where I could go and wrap my head around things again -- just to try and make sense of where I’d been, all the stuff I’d done with Granddaddy, and why I started making music in the first place.

The new album feels less like a break and more like a continuation of your past work, specifically in the melding of disparate sonic elements. I’ve always been intent on there being some kind of balance to the recordings. I love the idea of the push and the pull. That started when I discovered the Cars as a little kid and realized you could blend electronics and acoustic instruments in a pretty exciting way. That was a pretty big epiphany I had when I was real young. In a way, I’ve been chasing that idea ever since.