It took me three weeks of chasing shadows and dodging publicists to finally corner the brains behind iDKHOW. There is a certain irony in hunting down a band whose name—I Don’t Know How But They Found Me—is essentially a taunt to the press. But I found them. And what followed was a sharp, unfiltered look into the mechanics of a project that is currently colonizing alternative radio.
We sat down to talk music, the cultural weight of being a Mormon in the arts and the claustrophobia of recording while the world was under lock and key. Dallon Weekes and Ryan Seaman are not your typical rock star archetypes. They are craftsmen, and right now, they are busy.
"We’re good. We’re just getting together to do a little bit of business," Dallon says, leaning into the conversation with the casual air of someone who has spent two decades in the industry trenches. "Ryan’s in town from Nashville for little bit and we’re gonna rehearse and write and do all kinds of stuff that bands normally do."
The band recently surfaced on national screens with a performance on *Jimmy Kimmel Live!* It was a moment of arrival for a project that had been simmering in the underground for years. For Weekes, who has stood on those stages before as a member of Panic! At The Disco, this felt different. It was his name on the lease this time.
"Yeah, it was. I’ve had the chance to play a few late night shows before but never with this project," Dallon says. "I was a little bit nervous to be up front and center with this thing. But luckily, I had my guy Ryan having a great time next to me the whole time. So it ended up being really fun."
Seaman, usually the stoic backbone behind the kit, felt the weight of the milestone too. "It was fantastic. That was the first time I ever got to do anything like that. I felt like all this hard work we did finally paid off," he says.
But the glamour of late-night television in the COVID era is a bit of a mirage. There were no green rooms in Hollywood or handshakes with Kimmel. Instead, the performance was a localized affair, filmed in the stark, mountainous backdrop of Salt Lake City. It lacked the traditional party atmosphere that usually defines the Kimmel experience.
"Well, we kept it COVID safe, for sure," Dallon explains. "Normally, for something like this you’d fly into his studio and especially with the Jimmy Kimmel show, it’s more like a party than anything else. But I feel bad that Ryan didn’t get to experience that. Instead, we kept COVID compliant and we filmed it beforehand in Salt Lake City. We did three passes of the song and handed in the one that we felt was the best."
Performing to a lens rather than a sweating, screaming crowd changes the chemistry of a song. Without the immediate feedback of a mosh pit, the ego starts to eat itself. You start hearing the ghost notes and the imperfections that a live audience usually drowns out with sheer enthusiasm.
"It definitely is for me, I kind of need it," Dallon says of the missing crowd. "Because without an audience, I feel like I get too locked inside my head and that’s why I was a little bit nervous while we were filming because that’s all I was thinking about."
Ryan adds, "You’re focusing on all the little minor details."
"I think I was focusing on Holy crap, this is going to be on national television," Dallon says. "If there were people around, I could focus on them instead, which is what I usually do when we perform. But yeah, it’s still fun to play regardless if anyone’s there."
They padded the stage with extra touring musicians to fill the sonic space, a move that gave the performance a more orchestral, full-bodied texture than their usual two-piece attack. It was a smart play for a television debut.
"Yeah, I think it was cooler because this was like one of the first times we were able to have backing singers and an extra guitar/keyboard guy on stage," Ryan says. "It took some of the pressure off of us. But other than that, I had a great time."
Dallon nods in agreement. "I had a great time too, like you said, it was just a matter of getting out of your head and I think having a live audience really helps me to do that."
The song of choice was "Leave Me Alone," the lead single from their debut full-length, *Razzmatazz*. It is a biting piece of indie-pop that has managed to claw its way to the top of the charts. In a world where labels usually manufacture hits in a laboratory, this one felt like a genuine anomaly.
"Well, it’s the single that’s on the radio right now," Dallon says. "It’s the only one that we had that’s on the radio and the song went to number one on all charts. It seemed like the obvious choice. But if we have more opportunities to play on TV, I imagine we’ll play that one again. But sooner or later, we’ll be switching it up to two more songs from the record."
They also released a "re-imagined" version of the track, stripping the glitzy synthesizers and driving bass in favour of a lonely piano ballad. It is a vulnerable take on a song that usually hides behind a wall of cool. If I have one critique, it is that the piano version almost feels *too* clean, lacking some of the grit that makes the original recording so infectious.
"We’ve had other versions that I’ve had to play by myself stripped down with a little guitar because of COVID," Dallon says. "Most of the promotion for the song has just been via Zoom interviews and Instagram lines and since Ryan’s usually in Nashville, it’s usually just me with a guitar."
The transition from a high-energy anthem to a sombre piano piece was less of a strategic marketing move and more of a symptom of the times. When you are stuck in a house for months, you start pulling your own work apart just to see how the gears turn.
"But as far as a re-imagined version, the piano one is the first re-imagining of that song and that was born out of doing all those live Instagram things and playing the stripped down version and having a lot of time on my hands too, because touring isn’t a thing," Dallon says. "I sat down and just thought up a different version of it more out of boredom than anything else, I think, but it was really fun."
There is a depth to "Leave Me Alone" that resonates beyond the catchy hooks. It deals with the suffocating nature of toxic relationships and the need for space—a theme that felt accidentally prophetic during a global lockdown.
"The message behind it was very personal and very cathartic for me to get out of my head," Dallon says. "But the fact that the response that it’s had has been pretty special and people are reacting to it, and then it has had success on alternative radio. That makes me feel like there’s something special about it and I feel like we knew that when we were recording it too. But you never really know when you have a hit song on your hands and I don’t think it’s smart to try and manufacture one or try to chase one down and force it to happen. I think either lightning strikes or it doesn’t. We were lucky enough to have a little bit of lightning strike with that song and fortunate that it’s not just some frivolous message about partying or whatever, it’s a song that means something to me."
The band is already looking at the archives for the next release. Specifically, a demo of "From The Gallows" that leans into a completely different era of musical history. Weekes has always been an old soul, obsessed with the aesthetics of the mid-20th century.
"There’s one in particular that I know people will see the original demo for—'From The Gallows', which is a left hand turn on the record," Dallon says. "The best way that I’ve been able to describe it, is as Lawrence Welk meets acid. But the original demos for it was a lot more like this old jazz group from the 1930s called The Ink Spots that I really love and they were sort of the inspiration behind the song. So the original demo for that is a lot more like barbershop quartet and jazz piano ballad sort of vibe. So I think we’re gonna release that one eventually, too."
The reason that you start doing this is because it’s fun and if it stops being fun, then you need to change something. So that was another big reason why we started this band too. We needed to remember why we started doing it in the first place.
The pandemic has forced the duo into a digital long-distance relationship. While they aren't logging hours in a traditional studio together, the creative output hasn't slowed down. They are trading files across state lines, building a reservoir of material that will likely form the backbone of their next era.
"Yeah, Ryan and I have been passing ideas back and forth, not in the studio, per say, mostly just in our homes," Dallon says.
Ryan adds, "Just been using Logic files to communicate."
"Collecting ideas, sharing them via email and stuff and we’ve got more than enough," Dallon says.
The sheer volume of work they have amassed is staggering. We aren't talking about a few loose sketches. They have a vault that most bands would kill for.
"Just about trying to dissect and try to figure out what’s going to work with more material later on," Ryan says. "But, we just released this record."
Dallon elaborates on the stockpile. "We’re trying to pick through our favorite ideas and decide what’s going to come next and it’s more than two dozen songs, beginnings of ideas and little pieces and parts. So we’re slowly starting to collect those things and see if we can form an album out of them."
Despite the productivity, the lack of a tour schedule looms large. For a band that built its reputation on secret shows and high-energy performances, being tethered to a desk is a grind.
"It’s cool that we’re not in a rush right now, ever since we did have this record come out," Ryan says. "But it’d be nice to tour this year. I just don’t know if it’s gonna happen or not."
"So we’re trying to spend our time as productively as possible," Dallon says.
Musically, the new material is veering away from the polished synth-pop of *Razzmatazz*. They are looking toward the 1990s, specifically the raw, unwashed sound of Weezer’s *Pinkerton* and the blue-eyed soul of early Hall & Oates.
"It’s hard to say because it is so early on in the process," Dallon says. "I think evolution in songwriting happens pretty naturally, but it’s not something that we’re necessarily focused on. It’s more like write a song and if you’re stoked on it, then we keep going on it, no matter what it sounds like. For example, now, we have some songs that sound like early Hall & Oats records or Weezer, 90s Pinkerton. There’s a lot of feedback and noise and dirty sounding stuff, so it’s kind of hard to say what the finished product will sound like."
Ryan is adamant about one thing: stagnation is the enemy. "Yeah, I just know. We probably don’t want to do the same thing twice, ever."
"That’s for sure," Dallon agrees. "I heavily doubt that we’re going to make the same record that we just made. Those changes and evolutions find their way in naturally. But it is on our radar to try and not do the same thing twice consciously."
For Weekes and Seaman, the stage isn't just a place to work. It is a psychological necessity. The absence of live performance has left a void that Logic files and Zoom calls can't fill.
"Oh, man, psychologically kind of tough, because playing shows, at least for me, is a form of therapy," Dallon says.
"Yeah, same here," Ryan adds.
"It’s a not only the sense of release that you that you get from being onstage and letting go of any sort of emotions that you might have or revisiting them in a healthy way and then saying goodbye to them after you’re offstage," Dallon says. "But the sense of community that comes with playing shows is something that’s always really comforting to know that you’re not alone in the things that you’re writing about, the things that you’re singing about."
Ryan notes the sheer strangeness of being stationary. "I think this is probably the longest he and I both have been home collectively, so that takes a toll on the old mental health."
But there is a silver lining. For two musicians who have spent the better part of a decade living out of suitcases, the forced hiatus has allowed for a rare moment of domestic stability.
"The good side of it for me is that my family is here with me and this is the most time I’ve been able to be at home with them the last 10 years," Dallon says. "So that’s the silver lining in it all for me. We try to find opportunities where we can get together and write and still pretend to be musicians."
The origin of iDKHOW is rooted in this kind of humility. It wasn't launched with a massive marketing budget or a "supergroup" label. It started as a secret. Weekes and Seaman, both veterans of the scene, wanted to see if the music could stand on its own without the baggage of their previous employers.
"I had some songs in my head that I wanted to get out and as we recorded them, Ryan and I were hanging out more and just decided to start playing them live for ourselves in secret, you know," Dallon says. "We had this phrase, this ridiculously long band name that I had wanted to use for something for years and years, whether it was a song lyric or something, but we decided to start playing shows in secret just so we could play and have fun. We decided to use this band name as an Easter egg for people if they happen to come across us, but we didn’t want to exploit the fans or the bands that we were employed with at the time. It was more about finding ourselves again."
The chemistry between the two is decades deep. They were bandmates in The Brobecks long before the world knew their names.
"Dallon and I were both in The Brobecks together, so we’ve always been in each other’s lives," Ryan says.
"Even when we were both employed by other bands, anytime I had a song idea, Ryan was always the guy that I would call to come lay down drums, and he would drop everything he was doing and come and kill it," Dallon says. "So I don’t know, everything that we’ve done has really been organic and we’ve tried really hard to keep it that way and to keep it as honest as we could and that’s where I think playing secret shows came from at least for that first year. Trying to just do it for ourselves and grow it as honestly as we could."
At its core, this project is an attempt to reclaim the joy of creation. In an industry that often feels like a meat grinder, iDKHOW is a return to form.
"Oh yeah, it’s the reason why we got into music in the first place," Dallon says. "I think that’s true for just about anyone who picks up a guitar or pair of drumsticks or whatever it is. The reason that you start doing this is because it’s fun and if it stops being fun, then you need to change something. So that was another big reason why we started this band too. We needed to remember why we started doing it in the first place."
The conversation shifts to their roots. Salt Lake City isn't exactly known as a rock and roll mecca, and the influence of the LDS church is impossible to ignore when discussing the Utah music scene.
"Yes, Ryan lives in Nashville now, but he’s a Utah boy," Dallon says.
"Yeah, I grew up here," Ryan says. "That’s where I got my musical start."
Dallon, who remains a member of the church, is candid about his relationship with his faith. "We’re going to talk him into moving back. But I am Mormon and I’m probably not the best example of what that means because I’m not the best member of the church. It is a very misunderstood religion and I try to do my best, but I fall short, like we all do, here and there. But it is something that’s still important to me."
The Salt Lake City scene, Dallon argues, is one of the most underrated creative hubs in North America. It is a community built on mutual support rather than cutthroat competition.
"Oh, man. Well, there’s this really great music scene that exists in Salt Lake City and Provo, in particular, that the vast majority of the country doesn’t know about and it’s helped us, I think, to cultivate our music with a certain set of morals—that is probably the wrong word," Dallon says.
Ryan jumps in. "People care about music here. People love going to live music and they love to make a community out here. Yeah, that’s what’s brought up a lot of musicians."
"The music scene here isn’t about partying or perpetuating some kind of lifestyle or trying to chase down being rich and famous—not the people that make music here," Dallon says.
"They genuine love the art," Ryan says.
"Yeah, they have to. It’s in them and the music scene here is very communal and it’s one where, even though there might be friendly competitions, among bands here, everyone wants everybody else to make it to be successful in the art that they’re making, and everyone lifts each other up and supports each other. It’s a scene unlike anything else that I’ve seen anywhere," Dallon says.
Ryan adds, "I think it’s probably one of the last places that celebrate this kind of culture, I guess you could say."
The national radio charts are currently littered with Utah exports, from Imagine Dragons to The Used, proving that there is something in the water in the Beehive State.
"But it is a state and it is a city that a lot of people tend to underestimate when it comes to the arts," Dallon says. "But there’s a lot of really great art and music that comes out of our home state and interestingly enough, it’s easy to see if you look at the radio right now—there’s a good handful of bands that have come from here that are having moments on the radio right now. There’s a lot of really great talent that gets cultivated in the art and music scene that exists here."
Looking toward the immediate future, the band is prepping an EP that will feature some of those "re-imagined" tracks and a few deep-cut covers.
"I don’t remember (Laughter) I think it might just be what we talked about before, some unreleased demos and alternate versions of songs that didn’t make the album," Dallon says. "But that jazz demo that I talked about, 'From The Gallows', might be on there. There might be a cover of Beck’s 'Deborah' on there, which is a song of his from his album Midnight Vultures that I fell in love with when I was 17/18 years old and it was a song that we covered for a good while the last time that touring was a thing. It’s been a favorite of mine for a while. So we recorded that on there too."
As for the rest of 2021, the outlook remains as hazy for iDKHOW as it does for the rest of the planet. There is a desire to get back on the road, but only if the safety of the fans can be guaranteed.
"That’s the question. Nobody really knows," Dallon says. "I mean, we’re keeping our fingers crossed that there’s vaccines and at least a couple shows. Safe shows of course, we don’t want to play if it comes at the expense of anybody’s health. But hopefully, at least a show or two if we can get a couple of those in. I’d call it a win."
In the meantime, we have *Razzmatazz*—a record that proves that even in the middle of a global collapse, you can still find a way to dance.
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