Unless you’re very lucky, being the next big thing one year can often mean that you’re struggling to find a job at McDonalds 12 months later. Last summer White Denim were hailed as one of the most exciting new bands in the world by everyone from Dazed and NME to the tabloid hacks at The Sun and The Mirror. Propelled along by Josh Block’s explosive drumming, Steve Terebecki’s frantic basswork and singer/ guitarist James Petralli’s feedback-drenched yelps, their debut album Workout Holiday captured a rare moment of critical and musical unity. Now, exactly a year later, the Texan power trio are hoping to do the same again with Fits, a record that addresses the paranoia, excitement and futility of trying to live up to such acclaim while also keeping their friendships and musical ambitions on track.

“What should I do? Should I get a brick?” Steve asks with a sardonic grin when a diehard fan muscles between him and his bandmates after their final show at this year’s SXSW festival. “I’m going to let it slide… for now. You know what? I’m kind of happy that was our last show because there’s been 2000 bands playing in my hometown and I’ve missed them all! I’ve just been playing shows and drinking beer.”

Josh breaks free from the fanboy bro-zone, lights a cigarette and takes a large sip from a supersized can of lager. James follows a few minutes later after obliging a video blogger with an impromptu acoustic performance in a dirty Austin alleyway.

“Man, I had a bunch of problems tonight with my kit,” he says in a chilled hippyish voice that’s a world away from the unhinged shrieks he lets loose on stage. “It wasn’t as tenacious as I would have liked. I’ve never heard my voice so loud on stage before, I actually had to ask them to turn it down. That’s the fi rst time I’ve had to do that since I’ve been in a band. It’s weird. I guess most singers ask to be turned up.”

“Yeah, I was so discombobulated at some of the tones that were coming out of my amp,” echoes the 24-year-old bassist, his glasses reflecting the glow from the streetlights. “Maybe that tent sucked out all the highs.”

The trio decide to unwind by watching UK thrash fusion group Rolo Tomassi incite a small but perfectly formed mosh pit out of the dregs of the vast White Denim crowd, who have largely disappeared into the heaving mass of dive bars on 6th Street.

At 11am the next day James opens the door to his house, still dressed in his pyjamas. “Oh, I thought we said 12?” he says, slightly groggily. “I’m still PJ’d up! It’s cool though, come in…”

He walks through the suburban timber bungalow he shares with his wife to a garden room where White Denim’s bearded manager is slowly waking up from a cramped night on the sofa. Smoking a cigarette and drinking coffee out of a Goofy mug, James jokes about wearing his pyjamas for the photo shoot.

“I once wore a dressing gown on stage but I got so hot that it ended up being too much work. We’re always thinking of gimmicks but we never really get round to it. I guess our name takes care of all the gimmicks really!”

A few minutes later, Steve turns up for a lift to Driftwood, a 45-minute drive out of Austin where Josh lives in a trailer that doubles up as White Denim’s recording studio. Dressed in a purple 80s muscle vest, white jeans, and his signature oversized glasses, Steve is undoubtedly the hipster of the group.

“No shit!” smirks James looking at his bassist’s wardrobe choice. “You actually wore white denim!”

“That’s how I roll,” Steve deadpans back in a laconic stoner drawl, rolling his eyes to emphasize the irony.

James quickly gets dressed, grabs a bottle of Bushmills, and we all hit the road. “You’re about to see the real Texas,” James announces. “Well, our Texas at least…”

Driving along the West 45 highway, the pair discuss everything from Seascape, Edward Albee’s whimsical lizard play, to their fears of going deaf (“I’ve started turning my amps away from people because it’s so loud. I’ve been feeling bad about people holding their ears”). As we pass a sign that says “Vote Brewster McCracken for Mayor”, James wonders if Josh actually made it home in one piece.

“He drives this big old rusty Ford truck that doesn’t have any power steering or power brakes… it just fl oats. On these type of roads it can be really dangerous.”

As the Texas Country Hill Trail cuts through vast swathes of dry farmland, people become noticeably absent. Plush new credit-crunched farmhouses lie uninhabited. Dead deers lie on the side of the road, their faces ravaged by crows and maggots.

Turning off onto a dusty gravel path, the pair talk about their love of tailgate parties – where a group of men grab their guns, fill a cool box with beer, jump in their trucks and go hunting for barbecue fodder. They pass a property where some fat old boys are sitting in the back of their pickups drinking in the sweltering midday sun. “You wouldn’t want to stop and talk to those people,” James states. “Folks move out here for a reason, mostly because they don’t want to be found or bothered... and if we’ve got guns, they’ve sure got guns.”

After driving through a nondescript opening in the woods and down an even bumpier path, they pull up next to Josh’s huge vintage Ford truck. It’s still in one piece. In front of it is a massive, and strangely beautiful, silver Airstream trailer. The drummer comes out to greet his mates. The day after the night before seems instantly more chilled. In comparison to the madness and intense media scrutiny of SXSW, White Denim’s country hideout is literally a breath of fresh air. All you can hear is the sound of birdsong and shotguns.

While Josh shows off his crib – which features a secret drum riser under the bed, a fully functioning recording studio and a tin bath that’s been shot to pieces with a bow and arrow – his friends admire a homemade fridge stalactite that has been formed between a water dispenser and a bottle of Bud. They then sit down on the porch and pour out a few glasses of whiskey.

“Steve and James are my only friends,” Josh says, with a heavy slice of sarcasm. “That’s why I was like, ‘If you want to do an interview, you have to come out here because they’re my only visitors.’ Seriously though, I love being out here. I can step out in my underwear and strip cedar posts in my boots if I want to. If I did that in town my neighbours would think I was weird, but if someone walked by and saw me doing that out here, it would be no big deal. This is just where I fit in. I like to make noise and weird out.”

The trio are obviously aware of the country boy stereotypes that some have thrown at them, but White Denim don’t choose to live and record in this environment to create an image or to build up their rock’n’roll mystique. They do it because, like their music, they don’t want to be chained to a scene or trend.

“This definitely started out as a friendship, rather than a labour of love,” James recalls. “We all wanted to make a record ourselves and we hoped people would hear it, but it wasn’t something we were thinking about while we were doing it. It was more like, ‘Let’s get together on Saturdays, drink beer and write some songs’.”

“And then we started drinking beer and throwing songs around from Monday to Friday as well,” continues Steve. “I just love the adrenaline we create. You can’t go on a jog and get that pumped up in such a short time. There’s just something about jamming that gets you going a lot harder, and that’s really cool, I really enjoy it. There are certain points when we’re playing that I feel like I’m holding on for dear life. And it feels awesome.”

White Denim are very comfortable with their individual roles. Each of them knows their craft inside out. When Steve plays the bass, he sometimes looks like he can’t believe how fast his fingers are moving. When Josh drums he lets out primordial screams because his limbs are trying to keep up with his brain. James jitters, shakes and twitches as if he’s undergoing an exorcism. When they talk, they actually listen to each other and respond rather than simply spouting a stream of hipster clichés. You can’t help but wonder if this tight musical and personal bond has come at a price.

“We’re closer than brothers usually are,” Josh admits. “But you normally have years to grow close to your family before you start resenting each other. We were thrown into that situation in one year, so we had to work through all the natural crap that happens. I think making this new record has been our therapy. I’m not going to make any references to bands and therapy but making this record has brought us closer together.”

“We were together 24 hours a day for something like 27 weeks,” James continues. “I think each of us threw a few fits last year and the new songs feel like that to us. A lot of the performances on the record feels like a pretty accurate reflection of the band life personally.”

Josh walks into the trailer and loads up “Radio Milk How Can You Stand It”, the first track from Fits. Out of the speakers comes 45 seconds of samples and feedback that suddenly give way to a demented drum beat and hyperactive bassline. When James’s guitar joins the party it shifts shape again, flipping into something completely different by the close. It’s brilliantly insane. And, like Workout Holiday, utterly unpredictable. The rest of the album continues to confound expectations, with no attempt to create a pop single to rival “Let’s Talk About It”. Instead the band throws in everything from Funkadelic vibes (“All Consolation”) to South American Santana-core (“Sex Prayer”), and country rock (“Paint Yourself”). It’s absorbing on every level.

As the album fades away, Josh loads a painting onto his desktop. It shows a dead girl slumped against a swamp tree with her legs hacked off and blood smeared on her face and torso. “This got rejected as the album cover,” he says with a naughty grin. “It’s pretty amazing, but I think in the back of our minds we were thinking no as well.”

After a bemused response from their press officer, he shuts down the computer and steps outside the trailer. As if on cue, a shotgun boom echoes through the woods. The guys talk about playing a game of horseshoes or petanque, but decide that eating barbecue and catching some new bands back in town is a better course of action.

“This time last year we were all really aware of the possibility of it all being a fl eeting thing,” James says before they all go on the hog run. “I think making it through the fi rst year has bolstered our confidence both individually and as a group. We were all weirded out by the whole hype thing but now we’re just chilling with it. After all, we get to make music six days a week now for a job instead of driving a truck for a living. That’s pretty cool.”