Brooklyn band White Rabbits is composed of six guys, and their live shows sometimes feature as many as three drummers at a time. Each member contributes lyrics and riffs, and—since many of them come from music school backgrounds—they sometimes switch off on instruments. So perhaps it’s not surprising that the group can sometimes get out of control. “On our first album, it was like, ‘How much noise can we create?’” remembers drummer Jamie Levinson of their 2007 debut, Fort Nightly.

“It’s a little exhausting to always be going on all cylinders,” adds singer/guitarist Greg Roberts.

I spoke with the pair at a Williamsburg bar one sunny afternoon a few months back, and they were joined by the act’s singer/pianist Stephen Patterson. Drinking a Bloody Mary and smoking a cigarette with his Ray-Ban sunglasses propped atop his mussed blond hair, Patterson plays the part of the rock star, while Levinson is more casual in a hooded sweatshirt. Roberts, meanwhile, looks preppy in his blue sweater, white collar, and slicked-back hair, and offers up intellectual tidbits every now and then. “We have graduated from the ‘anxiety of influence’,” he says at one point, quoting Harold Bloom.

All three delight in recalling their time with Spoon frontman Britt Daniel, whom they brought on board as producer to help reign in their sound. His nuanced touch is evident throughout their excellent sophomore album, It’s Frightening, which came out in May and cracked the Billboard 200. “I think we’re all happier with this record,” says Patterson. “It seems to be more representative of us and how the six of us play. It better represents the music we’re interested in.” Levinson adds, “We were so much more relaxed this time around. There was so much we didn’t know before. Now it’s on our own terms.”

It’s a pretty sensible pairing when you think about it. After all, Spoon and White Rabbits have toured together, share a hook-laden, textured indie sensibility, and specialize in smart lyrics and geeky charm. But it might not have happened at all if not for a text message that Levinson accidentally sent to Daniel. “What do you think about having Britt Daniel produce the record?” Levinson typed, intending to discuss the possibility with a friend in his phone’s rolodex whose name also started with “B.”

But the message went to Daniel instead, and he agreed to take on the job on one condition—that the album be recorded on tape, rather than digitally like Fort Nightly. The Rabbits jumped at the idea, although initially they weren’t exactly sure why. “At first, it seemed like more of a political statement, but now we’ve learned about [tape’s] positive effects,” says Levinson. “When it’s on tape, you can’t adjust it in Pro Tools, so you have to make it count.”

“On our first album, we just layered everything on top of each other for a big sound,” adds Patterson, “but with tape you’re limited, and that helped us focus. Now, it’s like each instrument has its own specific role.”

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Though they’re fast becoming indie darlings and count among their fans folks like Twilight author Stephenie Meyer, the Rabbits’ rise certainly wasn’t fueled by insider connections. They’re as organic of a rock ‘n’ roll success story as you’ll find, their success driven almost entirely by passion for their music and a tremendous amount of youthful energy. Well, that and a little bit of luck.

The act formed in university town Columbia, Missouri in 2004, with the guys bonding over their love of ska and punk rock. Roberts and Patterson met while students at the University of Missouri, and bassist Adam Russell—who had dropped out of his high school in the even smaller nearby town of Jefferson City—later moved into Roberts’ house’s boiler room. The two of them, along with Russell’s childhood buddy Alex Even (now a guitarist for the Rabbits), first played in a punk rock band called Texas Chainsaw Mass Choir—a moniker that nowadays makes them cringe.

The guys worked gigs at Columbia haunts like Streetside Records, Tiger Tales Bookstore, and Shakespeare’s Pizza, and eventually decided to forsake punk in favor of a broader rock sound, joining forces with Patterson and drummer Matt Clark to form the Rabbits. (Levinson, who also studied at Mizzou, joined the band upon their arrival to New York.) Initially playing a series of small local venues, they began winning spots as openers for popular national acts like Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings when they came through town, often at beloved concert hall the Blue Note. The Rabbits quickly developed a devoted fan base on the basis of their wild, sweaty, partly improvised performances, which featured bits of honky-tonk, calypso, and even reggae.

Before long, the group determined that it had outgrown Columbia, and so in early 2005, shortly after some of their members’ graduations, they set out for Brooklyn. As groups like the National and TV on the Radio had done before them, they hoped the Big Apple would be their launching pad, but things were a bit dicey at first. They took odd jobs and settled into an unglamorous, railroad-style loft apartment in Bushwick. Owing to their lack of heat or gas, not a lot of cooking got done, and their decorating scheme had bachelor flair as well. The walls were piled with books and decorated with Christmas lights, a poster of Hank Williams and an American flag, and the premises boasted both a swing and an indoor basketball hoop. Though its main advantage was that it was big enough for them to practice in, the space was too small for anyone to have much privacy; each member slept in a small twin bed adjacent to the others. “The only space we have between each other,” Levinson told VBS.tv at the time, “is that foot and a half between the beds.”