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Even in the middle of a tour and media buzz predicated on the success of his first record, Winston Yellen — the creative force behind Night Beds — says he’s over both the sound and the story of Country Sleep.

“For me at this point, it’s a nostalgic kind of memory,” Yellen says. “That just doesn’t interest me anymore. I’m just not in that headspace. It was a time period. I just kind of have left the whole folk thing behind for now.”

The story of 23-year-old singer/songwriter’s rise seems both appropriate and familiar. After leaving college in Nashville, Yellen traversed the United States alone in his car, laying the groundwork for the songs of solitude, struggle and heartbreak on his first album. He gathered a band and then recorded the tracks at a guesthouse on a Nashville property once owned by Johnny Cash.

Despite Yellen’s claim that he set out to write “a simple country record,” the narrative of his transcontinental writing quest and the subsequent recording sessions has made explaining the inspiration and execution of Country Sleep anything but simple.

“I never had any preconceived idea or notion of how people would perceive what I was doing,” Yellen says of his days alone, living out of his car. “I’d rather just have the music be the only thing that exists, but in this day and age this isn’t possible.”

Musically, Yellen’s voice distinctly focuses the record. The soulful tenor vocals are often supported simply by Yellen’s guitar and a keyboard, but at times even that’s too much orchestration for the band leader, who then goes a capella.                              

Night Beds will perform Sunday at Slowdown in Omaha. Tickets for the front room show are available here.

On the road to Evanston, Ill., Yellen spoke to Hear Nebraska about his difficulties continually embracing the attention paid to Country Sleep and his current lack of interest in the singer-songwriter sound and mystique.

Listen to the uncut interview with Night Beds' Winston Yellen here:

Hear Nebraska: Now that you’ve done Europe and you’ve done the late night shows, what’s it like to be back touring the middle of the country? Do you like the space and the drives or no?

Winston Yellen: Yeah, I prefer it.

HN: Why is that?

WY: I don’t know. There’s something rewarding and romantic, I guess. Maybe it’s sentimental. Being in Middle America and the kind of removed culture that’s very private, (you get) to be a fly on the wall and get to drive around and be in weird parts of cities and bars with interesting people.

You soundcheck in a bar and there’s people who probably come there every day: It’s like their watering hole. Stuff like that. I like the motels. The weirder things are and the more desolate, I get excited. It’s cool having six people show up to your show, it’s a humbling experience.

HN: You prefer the desolation and solitude. Do you harken that back to your roots in Colorado Springs and the wide open spaces in and around there?

WY: I come from a very quiet community, kind of cut-off from the world. It is very isolated, so maybe I feed off that. There’s probably just a part of me that kind of digs that space, that space of not knowing your surroundings and kind of living in a bubble. It’s fun.

HN: So even though in the cycle of interviews and tours Country Sleep is a huge point of discussion, I understand you’ve taken some real steps toward writing in a different direction. How does what you’re working on now diverge from the Country Sleep record?

WY: I think ultimately (with Country Sleep) I really wanted to be this guy playing the guitar … old bar music, very honky tonk and be kind of Merle Haggard or something. But that just doesn’t interest me anymore. I’m just not in that headspace. It was a time period. It was great for what it was … there’s jazz and soul music … I just kind of have left the whole folk thing behind for now.

HN: You say it doesn’t interest you. Just because you’ve done it? Or people have their musical “kicks,” I guess…

WY: Yeah, I just did it. It kind of came and went and I kind of grabbed it while it was there and now it’s gone. What’s left is the record, and that’s kind of it, but I have to kind of keep myself interested and keep making music like that or else I’d end up in a ditch or something.

HN: Well, what’s left over, too, is a whole ton of touring dates that mandate that you play those songs all night, every night. So what’s your relationship now to the actual tunes on the record?

WY: For me at this point, it’s a nostalgic kind of memory. But the other side of the coin is you want to connect with people who’ve enjoyed the record and have liked it at our show. You want to present the work really well. It’s different. You almost feel responsible.

That’s ultimately the word I would use. You feel a responsibility to the tunes. I feel like we’re on a basketball team and we’re in the middle of the season or at the end of the season. We’re just trying to finish well and do a good job.

HN: Is it an odd thing do you think that with debut records — from a journalistic standpoint — there’s maybe an assumption that these ten songs are the past, present and future of the artist until they release something new? But that’s not necessarily the case for the person who’s writing every day. Is the idea of the debut record a little weird in that way?

WY: Yeah, I get it. I get the purpose of it. It’s the first time I’ve put out a full-length record. But I’ve very much strayed away from that. I don’t feel like a singer-songwriter. Night Beds has always been something that’s very free-flowing, always changing and evolving.

I just don’t have too much interest in being pigeon-holed into a genre. I don’t put any expectations on it — this could be over tomorrow. I just enjoy it for what it is and whatever ways it kind of manifests itself is cool with me.

HN: OK, so the narrative surrounding the writing of Country Sleep is that one of the man and his guitar sojourning around the country. And it’s interesting because from an outside perspective, that feels very America or mythological, like Jack Kerouac or something. But at the same time, when it was you in the hatchback, Winston, did you ever think to yourself how classical or American it was?

WY: No, I never had any preconceived idea or notion of how people would perceive what I was doing. I didn’t get outside of myself. There was something very healing and American about it, being in the heart of America and feeling like there was no one within 300 miles of you in the middle of Utah, listening to Notes From Underground on tape.

There was something very romantic about that. I never once thought about how other people would perceive how my experience was. I was selfish, I was looking inward. But now it’s kind of funny because it’s become kind of this thing that I never intended it to be or for people to know about.

HN: And it’s a very personal story, too. In the interviews I’ve seen, you’ve been very candid about the experience as being healing and confronting some demons. Why have you been OK explaining that this was a personal record for you?

WY: I just feel like it is what it is. It’s there. It’s just music. I’m just beating a dead horse, talking about what’s there. I guess that’s kind of the conundrum of journalism. But I don’t necessarily think I have anything to say or add to the record. (Laughs) I’m just voicing what’s in the fine print.

I have a hard time talking about it in general. But If I’m going to, I’m just going to speak about it point blank or off the cuff. There’s nothing to disguise. At first, I was very wary of talking about it, but it’s already there, so might as well go about it and try to be as normal as possible. Which now it has become something where I don’t have any filter or buffer. Maybe I should care more about what people think or know, but it’s just tough.

HN: Why do you say that at first that you cared more? What were you thinking about protecting then that you stopped?

WY: I don’t know. I’m really obsessed with records. I like having to kind of think for myself … but maybe I thought I just didn’t want to lay it all out there, which there is still a lot that isn’t out there … it’s my own story, which is very boring to me.

But, also, I’m kind of a private person and I don’t really care about putting myself out there. I’d rather just have the music be the only thing that exists, but in this day and age this isn’t possible.

HN: In the writing of Country Sleep, you say you wanted to go man and a guitar, but when you put on the record, it’s a Night Beds record, not just you. What do you remember about the building process and adding on to your voice and guitar, but still trying to keep things simple?

WY: I think it was an approach (to) kind of peel back any kind of fluff or trim the fat. I think the way we went about it was complete freedom to kind of tack on whatever we wanted. Instrumentally or melodically, we’d kind of go nuts. But at the end of the day, it was kind of me sitting for hours kind of trying different combinations of tracks to figure out what would best service the song.

That was ultimately what dictated what made it on the record. There was more that didn’t make it on and than was on there and that was very intentional. It was a different kind of practice, but it served it’s purpose. Sometimes you want to cringe, but it’s the right thing.

HN: Were there songs where you guys had layered on a bunch of things and you had to stop and say, “No, we have to go back to basics”?

WY: Oh, I mean, every song was like that. Every song is less than what it started with. Even from the opening track, there were claps, and even something like that we stripped. Everything was always going backward. All the songs had more embellishments at first and it was a circus trying to get from 100 tracks down to, like, 17.

HN: And on a track — of which there are some on the record — where you go a capella, there’s not even a second embellishment. What do you like about the utter kind of simplicity?

WY: For me, there’s a lot of fear in thinking about something like that. There’s no veil. I got really into that idea of how far you could overexpose yourself. That, for me, was very exciting at the time, just seeing how much destruction and disaster you could hear in someone’s voice and how little it needed to accompany it. I got really obsessed with the voice and how it sounds and how it could portray a message.

HN: How did the fear of exposure become exciting to you?

WY: It just kind of told me that it was the right thing to do. If you're afraid of something, you should probably be doing it, so that’s just kind of how I went about it.

HN: You know, a lot is made of you being this young artist at 23, especially with your late start in music, but touring notoriously ages and matures people. Do you feel like this young artist you’re made out to be?

WY: No. (Laughs) I feel old and tired. I don’t know who made that up. I guess it’s easy when someone is in their twenties in a van, that’s very stereotypical. But it’s hard work. Everyone involved is young and we’re all still very tired.

HN: Well, how do you think that touring to the extent you guys have done and probably will still do in 2013, how has that matured you?

WY: I think it’s made me more patient probably. Patience is a huge one. Just going with the punches, because (on tour) it’s pretty much rock bottom all the time.

HN: All right, I’ll wrap up here. I was watching the music video for “Even If We Try” and it’s really fascinating. From shot one, the viewer kind of stumbles into something and they’re not sure what’s going on and it’s very evocative and kind of disturbing at times. Do you have a philosophy on what you think a music video should do for a song?

WY: I think tell a story. Like any piece of film or any song. I just like stories and characters. And I just wanted to show images that would draw a reaction out of me. I think that’s what people connect with are stories.

HN: Are the images that we see, were those attached to the song from the beginning or is that something you associated after the fact?

WY: That’s where it gets ambiguous for me. They definitely correlate, there is a connection, but to try and spell it out is very tricky. But there is a visual accompaniment to the songs. It’s not like it has nothing to do with the songs. It definitely represents a lot of things that go on in the song.

Chance Solem-Pfeifer is a Hear Nebraska intern. Even if Winston hasn’t listened to “Ramona” in months, Chance has been playing it all week. Reach him at chancesp@hearnebraska.org.