Boston – Audiofemme

Alisa Amador Stays Afloat by Taking Time to “Slow Down”

Boston-based singer-songwriter Alisa Amador refers to her forthcoming EP Narratives – out September 17th – as a “six-song survival kit,” offering her buoyant spirit up as a life raft. Her songcraft is deeply personal, examining her intersecting identities, but there’s something universally relevant about the way she approaches these themes, her warm and wise voice skipping from genre to genre like stones across a glassy lake. And the video for her latest single, “Slow Down,” premiering today via Audiofemme, sees her actually performing the song in the middle of one.

Even surrounded by water, Amador plays with the confidence of a seasoned performer – and that’s because she’s been on stage since the age of five, singing with her parents Rosi and Brian Amador, better known as acclaimed Pan-Latin ensemble Sol y Canto. Her natural talent is evident in every expertly constructed track on Narratives, but just beneath the surface lurks pesky, all-too-relatable uncertainties: there’s fear of commitment, workaday worry, and a vigilant search for justice in a world that seems broken. But through it all, Amador’s soulful sound acts as a salve, preaching self-love and seeking connection again and again.

Check out the video for “Slow Down” below and read on for an interview with Amador, where she talks about growing up in a musical family, recording her EP, searching for life-work balance, and centering love in all things.

AF: You were surrounded by music at an early age as the child of professional musicians. Did you ever consider taking a different path career-wise?

AA: The short answer is, no. By the time I was 15, I knew it would be wrong for me not to be a musician. I do care about a lot of other things, but music feels like my most purposeful contribution. I study dance, and I majored in gender and sexuality studies, which not only affects how I move through the word but also how I put words to what I see around me in songs, like in “Burnt and Broken” or “Together.” I really love being in nature with friends, and I’m also (mostly) privately a visual artist. All of my interests end up flowing into my work as a musician, especially now in this pandemic and virtual era: my illustrations became just as important as my songwriting, and dancing in my room became essential to choreographing my outdoor music video.

AF: What were those early moments on stage and recording with your parents like and how did those experiences inform what you do today?

AA: I remember the interior of the 1995 Honda Odyssey minivan we toured in, and will never forget it. I remember making puppets out of coffee cups and stirrers with my twin brother in the green room. I remember how we loved to wrap ourselves in the velvet stage curtains and hide inside of them. I also remember the way that people would hold their breath to hear the quietest part of a song, and how they would laugh and tear up as I watched from the wings, looking out at the audience.

I think in many ways I am still that child. I have this sense of wonder about live performance that still hasn’t left me.

AF: As you began writing your own songs, how did you go about finding your own voice and style?

AA: My dad calls me una esponja musical – a musical sponge. He says that every time he shows me a new album, he can hear it come out in the next song that I write. I guess finding my own voice has to do with listening. And I’ve noticed that honesty in songwriting and authenticity and rawness is what moves me the most, so I’m always exploring and listening and open to inspiration wherever it comes from.

I think as soon as I started writing songs I knew I was distinct from my parents because with them, I was always playing their songs. This was my own personal, private coping mechanism for a very difficult moment in my life when I was fifteen years old. My closest friend became very sick with mental illness due to their being closeted. And I started writing songs as a way to cope with that feeling of helplessness – I couldn’t help them no matter how much I tried. They were so sick and distant, and songwriting became the way that I could speak to them. And from then on, the coping mechanism stuck. It was always very personal. So inherently the voice that came out was my own.

AF: How did the robust Boston folk scene play into finding your sound?

AA: I’m surrounded by such brilliance in Boston, that it would be impossible not to be inspired. Maybe it’s something about the hard winters, but there’s this grit and resilience and honesty and bravery in songwriting here that I’m just so inspired by. Boston is a place full of transplants – people moving here or away or coming from another country or coming for school. Everybody has a story of immigration or feeling like they don’t quite fit. And even though I grew up here, I still feel that. And sharing that with fellow artists in Boston makes the whole experience of writing about placelessness or identity confusion so much less lonely.

Hayley Sabella, Kaiti Jones, and Liv Greene are three local songwriters I’d love to uplift.

AF: What is the songwriting process normally like for you?

AA: I always struggle with this question because I don’t remember what it’s like to write songs! I think I go into a dream state where I shut off my conscious brain somehow and just focus on feelings and imagery. I have noticed that I often pull from the natural world right outside my window, and somehow let that be a jumping-off point for internal struggles or realizations that I’m grappling with.

AF: Narratives follows some singles released in 2020, but it’s essentially a debut collection. How are you feeling about it? What do you hope it says about you as a musician?

AA: This album has been a long time coming. In order to write these songs and share these songs, I had to accept myself in my mixed identity. Narratives means not hiding anymore. I think it will help a lot of people feel less alone.

AF: What was recording the EP like?

AA: Imagine getting together in an old factory building-turned-zany recording studio, and just playing through the songs, live in the same room. That’s what it was like! Super fun! I would do it every day if I could.

AF: The lyrics for “Slow Down” describe being pulled in many directions and spread too thin, something I think we can all relate to! What’s been your experience with finding balance in a busy world? How has the last year, in which many of us were forced to slow down, changed your perspective on the constant hustle of daily life?

AA: Honestly, I am still searching for that balance, and I’m more determined than ever to strive for a more balanced life. Before the pandemic, I was on autopilot-workaholic mode, and now I can’t seem to get back to it. Looking back, I’ve realized that I was living a life where work was at the center and I was squeezing love into the cracks. And now, even though it’s challenging, I am determined to live a life with love at the center. Sometimes living in this new way feels like trying to walk up a rushing river. There are so many American cultural narratives, and narratives within the music industry, that are telling me that I should be working all the time. But musicians are nothing if not creative. And I just know that after spending so much time alone and reflecting this year, the only way I am going to make music a lifetime career is if I put love at the center. So I am learning and listening and struggling and fighting my own instinct to forget about my own humanity. I am working on being kinder to myself, to make sure that I don’t burn out by age 30. I know that I want to be a musician for my entire life. So with that in mind, it feels like the right choice to learn to live in this way.

AF: The video we’re premiering is essentially a live performance – what can you tell me about the setting, the shoot, and what it was like to perform this song in the middle of a lake?

AA: I performed this song in the unceded land of the Wabanaki people that is now part of the grounds of a social justice retreat center called World Fellowship Center. I have spent a weekend every summer there since I was born, because my parents were booked to play and give workshops there since the ’80s. This lake is very familiar to me and always feels like a sacred place. It’s been stewarded for so long that it’s actually never had a motorboat on it. I had this crazy idea of bringing my equipment and rowing out to a floating dock and playing the song there. My family and the directors of the center are dear friends, and they all sprung into action. They were the village that made it possible. Andy Davis was the boat captain. Fiona, his daughter, and my dear friend was the cinematographer. My dad helped carry all the equipment. And our mothers rowed out to be our audience, with the family dogs. You have to imagine: the pond is so alive. There are fish, turtles, loons, geese, finches, woodpeckers, squirrels, and heaven knows what other larger animals were probably close by. And, of course, the water is moving and making sounds. There’s so much natural sound in the space. But, when I finished playing “Slow Down,” right as I finished, it went completely silent. I don’t know what else to say – it was a crazy experience.

AF: I feel like a lot of folks associate natural settings like that with relaxation and slowing down – are you an outdoorsy person?

AA: I am not a hardcore backpacker or through-hiker or ice climber or any of that stuff. I am, however, very connected to nature, and I need time outside to remember that I’m a human being.

AF: Other than the middle of a lake, have you returned to playing live shows? What’s the vibe been like, or what are you looking forward to about returning to the stage?

AA: Yes! Words I’d use to describe returning to in-person concerts are: cautious, creative, and connected. It’s been so moving to be around other people again and to witness my music being witnessed. It’s also a tenuous time – there is a lot of caution and care put into doing concerts in a safe way. But also a lot of creativity! Just this last week, I played for a series that has changed their venue to being in a bird sanctuary, and it was one of the most spiritually beautiful experiences I’ve ever had as a musician. And I’m looking forward to a whole tour of these creative and connected shows – I have a lot of shows coming up.

AF: The EP is pretty raw and handles some weighty topics – but overall has a hopeful feel. How did you achieve that and why is it important to you to communicate that hope?

AA: Thank you for asking a question about hope! I’m trying to get my thoughts in a row about this. First, by naming the injustice and pain that I name in my songs, the listener feels heard. Because they share those experiences. And in the process of feeling heard, or identifying with a song, they feel less alone and more hopeful. It is so important to me that my music instills hope. Hope is a crucial tool for fighting injustice. Hope gives you the strength to keep believing in a better way to treat people. Hope is imagination and heart uniting to create a more loving world.

AF: What’s your personal favorite song on the EP and why?

AA: I can’t choose! And you can’t make me, haha. But honestly, I’m so proud of each of these songs and the way they are in conversation with each other. The flow of the album, from feminist funk to jazz to introspective Latin folk and anti-love songs to an anthem to friendship – each song is meant to be listened to and turned to for comfort, or catharsis, or a dance party, and I just can’t wait for people to press play.

Follow Alisa Amador on Instagram and Facebook for ongoing updates.

PREMIERE: Oompa Celebrates “Feeling Like a Bad Bitch” With “Lebron”

Boston-based rapper Oompa makes music as empowering as it is energizing and sonically unique, and her latest single “Lebron” is no exception. In the beat-driven track, her powerful voice raps about independence, confidence, and trusting yourself. “I’m the judge/And the jury/And I call it how I see it,” she declares in the first verse, going on to interweave biblical and basketball references alike into an upbeat self-esteem anthem.

Oompa came up with the idea to sing about pro basketball player Lebron James when she was contemplating who embodied “that feeling of feeling like a bad bitch,” she explains. “I was like, who must feel like a bad bitch all the time? It’s between Drake and Lebron — it’s got to be Lebron. It doesn’t matter what conversation Lebron is in — he just seems so unaffected by people’s opinions, and he outperforms himself. It seems like he’s always in competition with himself.”

She aimed to give a sound to this stance of being who you are and not worrying about anybody else through punchy drum patterns and a strong bass track. “I was like, when I’m in the club, I want to feel this tickle my sternum,” she says. She also incorporated sparse, sometimes nonsensical lyrics that flowed naturally without much thought — a style she’s applied to the whole of her forthcoming album Unbothered, which comes out October 1 and includes “Lebron.”

“I just wanted this whole project to be about fun for me,” she says. “It’s about removing this pressure to be a better lyricist or songwriter or have a better production team — all the things that suck the life out of making music. I never give myself that space; I’m super precise. [But here] I give myself permission to say things, and I think that comes through in the record. It feels fun and like summertime vibes.”

That would just as accurately describe the video for “Lebron,” which features Oompa shooting hoops and dancing on the basketball court with friends. “It’s really about seeing the city come together and having a great time on the court,” she says. However, it also alludes to the story of how the rapper got her stage name. “I used to play basketball at Washington Park, and all the older kids would call me ‘Oompa Loompa baby’ because I was short and chubby,” she recalls. This, for her, was a Lebron moment — not just because she was playing basketball, but also because she put herself out there and didn’t worry about what other people thought.

In a broader sense, her upcoming album revolves around the concept of joy. “Joy as aliveness, joy as a commitment to being on Earth, and also this idea that joy is not a constant; it is not a thing that once achieved, you get it forever, but it is about the commitment to the pursuit of it and finding joy in the pursuit,” she explains.

Her latest single, “Go,” for instance, captures the kind of sound you might hear by the pool on a tropical vacation, with dreamy synths, warped vocals, and a catchy R&B-inspired tune as she sings about the bliss of a new relationship that nevertheless seems doomed from the outset. Paying homage to funk and soul, the song was inspired by a moment Oompa shared with a partner. “We were in a convertible with the top down, and I was like, where are we going? And at the time, I was just completely avoiding all the red flags with a particular relationship and was like, we’re just gonna have a good time. It’s the summer, the top is down, we’re just gonna go ’til we can’t go no more,” she remembers.

Oompa recorded her latest music in a home studio she set up during the pandemic, where she honed her improvisational style. “I free-styled it four bars and free-styled it another four bars and wrote another five bars, and this was a process of letting go and not being so meticulous and feeling what it means to embody this place I’m in,” she says. “The process was a lot of freestyle, a lot of carelessness in the way that I needed.”

She’s currently working on several music videos as well as a short film to accompany her album. Outside of her music, she’s an activist for LGBTQ+ rights and currently serves on the leadership council for The Record Co, which provides affordable workspaces for emerging musicians in Boston, particularly queer artists and artists of color. The organization is “trying to understand the barriers between music makers and their music,” she says. “One of the biggest things we’d talked about was how hard it is to make music in the first place.”

In her own musical journey, Oompa has surmounted obstacles by being true to herself and following her passions. She began by rewriting Eve and Left Eye lyrics in her journal and rapping them, then joined rap battles in middle school, got into spoken word poetry in high school, and started performing on stage in college. “I was so afraid to perform, but I was like, I’ve got such a burning passion for it,” she remembers. She met some friends who help her put out her first mixtape and has continued to chase whatever she feels excited about – in true Lebron form.

Follow Oompa on Instagram for ongoing updates.

Sadie Gustafson-Zook Meditates on Queerness, Catcalling & More on ‘Vol.1’ EP

Folk artist Sadie Gustafson-Zook’s EP Vol. 1 is a paradox: it’s the specificity of the lyrics that make them relatable. Gustafson-Zook sings with precision about moments in her life, from riding the train in Boston to mistaking a bird’s song for a street harasser, but her reflections on these experiences relate them to broader challenges nearly all of us contend with.

Gustafson-Zook moved from her Indiana hometown to Boston for grad school in 2017, pursuing jazz studies at Longy School of Music. In the time period between then and now, she came out as gay. She consequently describes the EP as one about “uncertainty and gay stuff.” The first track and first single off the EP, the cheery “Lean in More,” for instance, is Gustafson-Zook’s “first gay song,” she says. In a classic, candid singer-songwriter style, it describes her first lesbian relationship and the feeling of having “found something that felt really true and honest,” she explains. “I felt kind of late to the game in terms of not thinking about dating people who weren’t cis men until I was 24 or so, so this song was kind of like coming home.”

The next track, “Birdsong,” is deceptively whimsical, with dreamy harp and scatting, as Gustafson-Zook sings about hearing birds chirping while waiting for the bus and thinking she’s being cat-called: “Bird song makes me squirm/because I’ve learned to assume it’s from a man/standing by the road/cig in tow/making all kinds of demands.” She goes on to reflect on the hyper-vigilance that stems from constantly being subjected to sexual harassment and the male gaze.

<a href="https://sadiegustafsonzook.bandcamp.com/album/vol-1">Vol. 1 by Sadie Gustafson-Zook</a>

On “Two,” she sings about dating someone who seems to have two different personalities, the repetitive tonal structure evoking the madness such a predicament can lead to. In contrast, comforting piano chords take center stage in “Alewife,” giving off a friendly vibe as Gustafson-Zook describes everyday snapshots from Boston’s public transportation system.

“Everyone,” a meditation on the pervasive sensation of being judged, closes out the EP, with a haunting melody in minor keys to emphasize that very discomfort. Gustafson-Zook wrote it during a visit to her parents’ house as she worried what people in her small town would think about her sexuality. Like “Birdsong,” it shows how we can feel others’ eyes on us even when they’re not looking.

“It wasn’t even that anyone was reaching out with bad things to say or criticisms,” she recalls. “But I definitely was feeling that there would be pressures, people would be trying to tell me what’s best for me or who I’m supposed to be, and really, it’s kind of just a declaration of me trying to own my evolution and trying to figure out who I am on my own before taking in other people’s perspectives on the matter.”

This is the first collection of Gustafson-Zook’s that was made in collaboration with a producer — namely, Brooklyn-based musician Alec Spiegelman. “I had a lot of ideas, but wanted somebody to help me make the musical decisions,” she says. They worked out of his home studio, and he added unexpected flourishes, like layering in flutes and clarinets.

“I wanted to do more with tracking one part at a time so that we could have lots of really interesting textures that wouldn’t be really possible in a live recording setting, but I also wanted to retain some of that live energy,” she says. She and the harpist Mairi Chaimbeul, for instance, recorded harp, guitar, and vocals at the same time, then tracked everything else on top of it.

Vol. I is Gustafson-Zook’s first EP, but she’s already got a full-length album under her belt, 2017’s I’m Not Here. In addition to making music, she holds a remote day job as a communications manager for an LGBTQ health clinic and teaches voice lessons.

The EP is the first half of a full-length album, Sin of Certainty, slotted for release later in 2021. She’s currently setting up a home studio to record the second half of the album, which she describes as more upbeat and varied in its instrumentation than the first. “We ended up recording all the mellow songs in the beginning so we could get the harp on them,” she says.

Gustafson-Zook raised over $15,000 on Kickstarter to create Sin of Certainty, a title that may resonate with many right now, as it reflects the album’s overall theme of accepting an uncertain future. “I’ve been thinking a lot recently about change and how to deal with it,” she writes in the Kickstarter description. “As I get older, it’s become apparent that the only constant is change.”

Follow Sadie Gustafson-Zook on Instagram and Facebook for ongoing updates.

Kaiti Jones Premieres Video for Procrastination Anthem “Gettin Around To It”

Car ran out of gas. Bicycle got a flat tire. We’ve heard all the excuses – and some of us have even made them. In her first-ever music video, Kaiti Jones investigates the reasons we keep putting things off: “I’m always searching for seeds that I can sow/Am I a gardener if I can’t make things grow?/And these weeds keep coming for all I own/And I should pull ’em but I know I ain’t gettin’ around to it,” she sings, as she goes through her morning routine in the clip. The camera follows her beleaguered journey to the diving board of a swimming pool – she imagines jumping in, but doesn’t, shuffling away with a poignant metaphor for her inability to follow through.

Of course, for the scene where Jones imagines herself making the jump, she had to actually do it – on a crisp New England October day, no less. “I called my friend’s dad, and I was like, ‘Can you just keep your pool open a couple extra weeks?’ He was so sweet; he cranked the heat for a few days before,” Jones says. “But it was stressful – you can only do one shot of the cannonball. We probably have twenty minutes of takes of me almost jumping in and then being like aaah!” Her Blundstone boots came out of the water a few shades lighter, but frame-for-frame, the video was exactly what she and her director, Jones’ close friend Paula Champagne, had imagined – right down to timing the splash to the song’s final, full-band reprise.

“Gettin Around To It” is Jones’ upbeat tongue-in-cheek ode to being a lifelong, chronic procrastinator, examining the ways a lack of urgency can erode personal relationships without adding so much as a hint of heaviness to the song’s buoyant indie rock sound. “I was reflecting on the consequences of that inability to even do the things that we want to do, and that are important to us… in some circumstances, that can be fine, but when there’s another person on the end of it, they’re not necessarily on that time table,” Jones says.

She often writes songs over time, coming up with a few lines and letting it marinate until the rest of the story comes to her. She wrote the chorus about a failed relationship – one that she almost rekindled, but ultimately didn’t pursue until she’d missed the opportunity to do so. “By the time I put the rest of the song together, I had moved past that and didn’t really feel like that story deserved the whole song,” she says. “And this area of procrastination and shame around failing to follow through, it shows up in all these other ways, so I was more interested in fleshing out the song in a more holistic manifestation of this thing rather than doubling down on this one particular instance.”

Jones says her procrastination is usually born out of indecision, of always wanting to do the right thing and getting in her own way in situations where she feels uncertain. “This year, particularly being stuck at home, having a lack of consistent rhythm and structure, kind of exacerbated it and made me have a little bit more urgency about figuring [it] out,” Jones says. “It’s often rooted in fear of rejection, fear of making the wrong choice, fear of letting people down. I’m trying to understand myself more, and understand that making the wrong choice is okay.”

Luckily, fear didn’t stop her from putting the finishing touches on her forthcoming album, Tossed, out March 5th. She excavates relationship insecurities in “Light On” and “Desert Rose,” laments missing loved ones on “I Was Wondering” and “Big Yellow Moon,” and investigates her spirituality on piano-driven ballad “Mystic.” On the album’s title track, she brings rich, heart-rending detail to finding catharsis in the ocean waves on the day her mom began chemo treatments across the country; though intensely personal, her candidness is so piercing it’s as though these events might’ve happened to you. Though seven minutes long, “Tossed” goes by in a flash, a lone fiddle flitting above the sonic sea. “Daydreaming” and the album’s first single, “Weak Days,” meanwhile, reinforce some of the same themes in “Gettin Around to It” (“I’ll never say the wrong thing twice/But I’ll never say the right thing right,” she promises on “Weak Days,” while “Daydreaming” catalogues the scattered thoughts she’s gotten lost in). It’s hard to imagine a more honest body of work – and though it comes mainly from Jones’ perspective, it’s a beautiful reminder of the complexity within every person.

Part of the ease with which she was able to complete the record came down to working so fluently with her producer Daniel Radin of Boston “bummer pop” band Future Teens. Jones was a fan of his previous band, the Novel Ideas, and she was impressed with projects he’d produced for some of their mutual friends in the scene, like Hayley Sabella. “I haven’t always brought the most agency [to other projects] and some of that is just being a woman in recording spaces. Usually you’re with all dudes who probably know more about types of microphones and effects and all those things,” Jones admits. When she was recording her first EP some 13 years ago, she said it was hard for her to speak up, and sometimes that was because she didn’t really know what she wanted out the recording process. But, she says, “My experience with Daniel has been the best experience of real partnership, of feeling like the producer knows what I want and isn’t afraid to push me into new spaces, but is always going to respect [my choices]. Because I trusted him so much and because I just really love his vision, I was also more willing to try [his suggestions].”

That openness resulted in some of her favorite moments on the album – including the suggestion of adding the first stanza to the chorus of “Gettin Around to It.” She also had the opportunity to work with Austin musician David Ramirez, who helped with some of the writing and production on the single.

While her country-inflected 2017 debut full-length Vows was recorded in one week-long session in Iowa, Jones was able to meet up with Radin, who lives about ten minutes from her home in Cambridge, to work on songs for Tossed sporadically. “We recorded all the drums in December of 2019 in one day, in a studio out in Western Mass called Sonelab, because he was like, ‘This is the best room to record drums,'” Jones says. “Everything after that we just chipped away at Daniel’s house. And then the world shut down, so all of the vocals and fiddle on the record were recorded in my apartment – he just gave me the equipment I needed and I recorded it all, and my roommate is my fiddle player, so it was very convenient.”

Though it retains Jones’ folksy, confessional vibe, there’s a noticeable shift toward grittier guitar and a toning down of the pedal steel and banjo than the gave Vows a particular rustic twang, her rich vocals and genuine, tender delivery reminiscent of Phoebe Bridgers or Julia Jacklin. “I’ve really been wanting to get out of defined genres,” she admits. Though she’s found “a lot of support and development” in Boston’s folk scene, she listens to all types of music. “This record in particular [is] a little bit more indie-leaning, even though it’s like, what does ‘indie’ mean?” she jokes. “Sometimes labels around genre can be helpful to put words to things, and sometimes they can be kind of like limiting and put people in boxes that don’t need to be there.”

What’s been consistent throughout Jones’ career is her natural talent as a songwriter – she’s been writing short stories since childhood, growing up near Portland, Maine. She approached the instruments she learned as a kid (violin, viola, piano French horn, cello, and drums) from a classical, technical standpoint, but when she picked up a guitar in middle school after joining her church’s youth group band, everything changed. “With guitar, it was, how do I figure out a way to have this be a vehicle to tell my stories, and to start writing in more musical form,” Jones remembers. “It was an extreme privilege to be able to study all of those instruments and it’s laid this groundwork that then allowed me to be more creative.”

Jones attended college at Nashville’s esteemed Belmont University; though her focus was writing and philosophy, she relished the proximity to its music business program and state-of-the-art recording studios. When she moved to Cambridge, it was as an AmeriCorps volunteer, and for a while, her career in community development and youth outreach took precedence over music. “After a few years of just focusing on my community work, I was like, I wanna start exploring the music scene, and it was kind of slow going at first,” she explains. “There’s a great community of folk and indie singer-songwriters in Boston – I got really plugged in at Club Passim, an institution right down the street in Cambridge that has a historic folk scene. A little bit before my last album release [they] really embraced me and have supported me a lot. Really, it’s been the last three or four years that I’ve become more rooted and connected to the music scene and have tried to always keep expanding and growing, just saying yes to opportunities and building relationships and walking through doors that are open.”

A tumultuous 2020 – and the recent loss of her day job – have realigned some of Jones’ priorities, and she says listening back to “Gettin Around To It” reminds her of the things she’s no longer okay with putting off, like working toward social justice. She says there are some interesting parallels between procrastination and society’s collective failure to reckon with racism. “I also have been doing more work around racial identity and understanding the characteristics of white supremacy culture, and one of those is perfectionism – this [idea that] I have to get it right, or else – what if someone is upset with me if I get it wrong?” she says. “I think that gets in the way of action toward justice and toward progress. We see that all the time, whether you call it white fragility or just silence. I’ve been trying to interrogate that in myself in all these areas, whether it’s just like, me getting up and cleaning my room, or calling someone back, or if it’s having hard conversations around race and politics and justice.”

“I really can’t say, ‘Oh well, I’ll speak out on that later,'” she adds. “There’s a part of the song, the bridge, where I say, ‘Show me a single town, where my eyelids close when the sun goes down’ – that part is riffing on the adage of wherever you go, there you are. You can go to a new place, but you’re still gonna be dealing with yourself – until you deal with yourself.”

Like so many of the songs on Tossed, “Gettin Around To It,” has taken on new meaning to Jones in light of the chaos 2020 wrought on humanity. She addresses her insecurities and anxieties with gorgeous, sometimes gut-wrenching stories, but her approach to songwriting hasn’t changed. “The music that I have found freedom and delight in creating isn’t super musically complicated. It’s more about the story I’m trying to tell and how can I build something around that,” she says. “With every album, I want to expand who I’m able to share my stories with. My hope is always that, in writing about my own life, I can say things that are true and will mean something to other people, and help them.”

Along with the rest of world, Kaiti Jones is uncertain about what the future holds, but there’s one thing about which she has no doubt. “I’m definitely a believer in vocation, and feeling called to certain types of work,” she says. “And I feel very called both to community work and also to storytelling and songwriting, so I know I will continue to do both of them. I think they compliment each other – they are both true parts of me.”

Follow Kaiti Jones on Facebook and Instagram for ongoing updates.

PREMIERE: Slow Dress Triumphs Over Trauma with “Back Into My Body”

Most art depicting trauma focuses on the uncomfortable parts of it: the painful feelings, the distressing memories, the dissociation. Katie Solomon, lead vocalist for Boston-based indie rock band Slow Dress, is familiar with these aspects — but her group’s latest single “Back Into My Body” instead focuses on what there is to celebrate: the freedom and growth found on the other side of trauma.

Solomon’s voice is rich and comforting as she sings against hopeful piano chords in a warm folk-pop style reminiscent of Laura Marling: “The winter is coming again/Like last year but everything’s changed/I’m laughing at least a couple times a day/We’re holding each other/In the way we did before the last few years.” Then, the tempo picks up with an atmospheric beat as she continues, describing her journey of leaving her body due to trauma and slowly coming back in and “dancing again.”

This song was meaningful to Solomon, who is currently in graduate school for mental health counseling, due to trauma she experienced over several years. But while the band was recording it, it took on new meaning in light of guitarist Bredon Jones’ recent cancer diagnosis. As he works through a different type of physical trauma, he says he’s come to relate to the lyrics in an empowering way.

“Where you can think of fighting cancer as a battle or something like that, you can also think about it as realigning your body with your true nature,” he explains. “The core thought is that you’re not fighting something that’s in your body. Instead, you’re taking your body and realigning it with your diet and physical activity and mental outlook, reducing stresses and anxieties.”

Slow Dress · Back Into My Body

“Back Into My Body” was meant to be simplistic to provide an intimate feel, as if the listener were right there with the band. They ended up using no guitars at all, which helped create a lighter, softer feel than their previous singles, all of which were recorded in the Nashville with Collin Pastore (Lucy Dacus, boygenius) studio in Nashville. Slow Dress hopes to release the six songs as their debut EP, eventually.

Solomon — who cites Julia Jacklin, Father John Misty, and PJ Harvey as her biggest influences — was playing in Boston indie band Jakals when Jones met her at one of their shows and asked to play with the band. In November of last year, Jakals dissolved, and Solomon and Jones split off to form Slow Dress.

In contrast to their previous work with Jakals, where they provided all the instrumentals themselves, they put a lot of the music in the production team’s hands for Slow Dress, including not just Pastore but also engineers Scottie Prudhoe and Preston Cochran. “We were nervous about it going in, but we were happy with how it came out,” says Jones. The duo reunited with Jakals bassist Zach Wulderk to record the session.

They’ve released three singles so far: the dark, earthy “Everyday Affair,” a piece of commentary on the homogeny and mind control imbricated in the modern world; the mystical, fairy-tale-like “Butterfly,” which expresses frustration with humans’ indifference toward the planet and one another; and the impassioned “Stew,” where Solomon imagines the afterlife and sings about wanting to live life fully. Overall, Solomon says their music aims to navigate the “contradictory nature of being human.”

“I think I struggle in normal language to feel like I’m actually expressing my experience, in that I almost feel like I want to be able to say multiple sentences at the same time… in a good amount of the songs, I’ll try to express different things that I’m feeling, even if they contradict,” she explains. “Creating songs feels like it’s giving voice to all these things happening at once, all these contradictory feelings we’re experiencing at any given time, and kind of validating all those different experiences.”

All the proceeds from “Back Into My Body” will be split between Brookline Mutual Aid (which Solomon says she has personal connections to) and National Bail Out. “We believe that redistributing as much money as we can is one important way to support people who are oppressed by the current system and people fighting against that oppression,” says Solomon.

Solomon hopes listeners take a sense of hope from the unexpectedly joyful turn the song takes, especially during a time when many people’s mental health challenges are being triggered. “I was in a place for a bunch of years where I was just feeling really trapped and really hopeless and sort of had no sort of concept of the future or how to feel good in my life and in myself,” she says. “I think it’s a constant practice — I’ve been doing a lot of meditation and self-reflection — but I think it’s possible to come back into a sense of connection to yourself.”

Follow Slow Dress on Facebook and Instagram for ongoing updates.

PLAYING DETROIT: On the Road With JR JR

It all started when I was a kid. My dad taught me that if I want to meet the band, I should wait by the tour bus after the show. I never abused this knowledge and I never became a groupie (even though the thought of becoming one was a strangely enchanting dream of mine; I was too sheepish to ever make it happen). My hours of waiting at backdoors and waving my hands at tour bus windows were completely innocent out of admiration for the artist. I drove around various parts of the midwest as a teenager, with my best friend, to follow Phantom Planet and Black Rebel Motorcycle Club with the only intention of snapping a photo or snagging a setlist. But never once did we make onto a bus. Fast forward to today. I am typing this in the back lounge of a matte black tour bus while the drummer and bassist sleep in their respective bunks, while the rest of the remaining members tackle a radio interview somewhere outside of Columbus, Ohio. I’m living out multiple fantasies via multiple realities and all I can think of is how this is not at all what I expected.

JR JR (Yes, once called Dale Earnhardt Jr Jr and no, we don’t want to talk about it) hails from Detroit but has gained impressive momentum across the country with their single “Gone” off their latest self-titled release on Warner Bros. The album is truly reflective of the band’s new trajectory into new territory, and an infectious collection of pop anthems that is relatable to anyone who has ever shed a previous self. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve had to answer the question, “What band are you with?” and when I respond, more people know who I’m talking about. Comprised of Josh Epstein, Daniel Zott, Bryan Pope and Michael Higgins (my ticket onto the bus and the key to my heart….awwwww), JR JR is not just a flash in the pan, forever-on-the-verge band. They’ve affected people. I’ve been lucky enough to see proof of this. And I think even the band would agree that this is the most coveted goal of being a band.

I first stepped aboard the bus when I kissed the drummer good bye, wishing them a safe and happy tour. This was at the end of September. Not five minutes after watching the bus disappear into my rear view, I remember pulling into a McDonalds parking lot to cry into my steering wheel. I was going to miss him. Everything I had ever known to be true about touring musicians (the girls, the parties, the general debauchary, the girls) fed into the fits of sadness that followed their departure. Despite knowing that these boys never once fit the description, I was haunted by films like Almost Famous. There was jealousy, too, that I did not anticipate. He would get to travel the country while I was forced to work my shitty 9 to 5 and live in my shitty apartment with my shitty cats (just kidding, I love them). This was shaping up to be the most challenging two months of my life. We talked every day, though I would often shut down and not answer texts or calls because I was too scared to know if he was having the time of his life without me. I can be selfish, sometimes. After a few weeks we decided in time and in tune that I would join the last leg of the tour. This solved several curiosities and satisfied my deprivation since his departure. I told my boss (never did I ask permission) that this was something I needed to do, and that he had no choice other than to be okay with it because I already bought the plane ticket to New York City and had already arranged for someone to care for my cats (see, I told you I loved them). I was warned of a few things while packing and frantically rearranging my life for this temporary escape. Packing was impossible as I realized I was at the mercy of the tour bus, the tour schedule, and that I had absolutely no control over anything that would likely happen. I had to let go and say yes, advice I have spent years giving other people would forcibly become my wayward mantra.

I landed in New York City last week. JR JR was gearing up to play Webster Hall and all I cared about was being reunited with my person. I had no idea that my life would forever be changed. My path was being unknowingly rerouted and my goals were silently one-uping each other. I was no longer a voyeur to a life I once dreamed of, but an active participant. This was more than tour. This was more than music. This was an adventure.

Things you might not know about tour:

1. There is no pooping on the bus.

This might not seem like a big deal (and it isn’t) until you have to actually go. Pissing is fine, as long as your aim and balance are in check. You are at the mercy of whatever city you’re headed to next and the speed of the driver. Sometimes it’s best to sleep through the discomfort and pray you can hold it another 5, 6, sometimes 8 hours. Once we’re parked, we usually collectively spend the first part of our morning/afternoon looking for Starbucks bathrooms (for which I would like to publicly apologize for the havoc we have wreaked in aforementioned restrooms).

2. Sleep. Is. Everything.

Before I joined the crew, I would get so pissed at Michael for sleeping until two or three in the afternoon, as I had already been awake, at work and productive for hours before him. Now that I am a bus rat, I find it easy to sleep undisturbed until early afternoon because I know that load in (the literal loading of equipment into the venue) is going to be brutal, and the day is non-stop from the moment the tour manager shakes us awake. This leads me to point number three.

3. Bunks are NOT comfortable.

The size of a coffin, perhaps with a bit more leg room, the bunks are not ideal for anyone. Period. Even though I have my own bunk (I use it for storage mostly) I have chosen to cram into Michaels and it took three days to find our Tetris-like synchronicity during sleep. I’ve bumped my head, kneed him in the ribs, rolled out and off and on night one I had a panic attack induced by claustrophobia. I thought I was dead and had been buried. This is a common feeling while on tour. On the rare occasion that a real bed is available to us, we take it. We nap in it. We spread our limbs and jump on it. Beds are a luxury. Despite the stiff necks and sore limbs, the bus is our home and our bunks, most nights, are heaven. The curtains provide pitch blackness so that sleep at any hour is possible. Waking up disoriented is normal and actually grounding, if you can believe that.

4. You will get fat on tour.

I had a plan going in. I’m going to eat healthy and light and find ways to exercise along the way. This made no sense considering I don’t even do those things in my normal life. Well, it’s day seven and my clothes are fitting tighter, my face is noticeably a bit puffier and we even Uber’d from our hotel to a Taco Bell because, well, dinner wasn’t enough. It’s not that tour makes you fat, more so tour makes you hungry. You’re forced to think ahead every single day. If we woke up at 3pm, load in is at 3:30, soundcheck is at 5, that means we won’t have an opportunity to eat again until we load OUT sometime after 11. And of course there are bus snacks and green room hospitalities (booze, pizza, and cupcakes to name a few) all of which are contributors to this few extra pounds. A huge part of it, for me, is wanting to eat food in every city we go to. We ask the locals where the best tacos are or where their favorite pizza joint is. We indulge and are thankful for our generous per diem that allow us to be fat, happy, and well, fat.

5. There’s no time to party.

I think it’s a universal image. The band. The bus. The parties. Girls waiting to fuck you. We have been fed this story time and time again and in a lot of instances it’s true (if you’re Motley Crue and it’s 1987). Not only do I know the JR JR boys personally enough to know they do not fit this description, I have learned that there just isn’t time to be bad. Half the band is married and the other half are in relationships, and as a whole the shared goal is always the music. Between promo and press visits with radio stations, gigs and meetings with managers, and long bus hauls, we are lucky if we get enough time to wash ourselves in venue sinks (because showers are just as rare as beds and pooping opportunities). With rigid tour schedules, most of the time sleep is valued over night life exploration. Playing Xbox in the back lounge is preferred over drinking with fans. And visiting local museums and zoos is more appealing than Tinder’ing and scoring drugs. I can’t speak for every band, but I can speak for JR JR. We like burritos and nature walks, when time permits.

As I said earlier, I am somewhere in Columbus, Ohio. The bus has finally stopped near our venue for the night, and the boys are in search of breakfast. In just a few days my life will return to its normal speed and I will be forced to apply what I’ve seen and what I’ve learned to making my life back home more exciting. I will undoubtedly miss the lulling sway of the tour bus and the excitement of waking up somewhere other than where I fell asleep. I’ve walked the steps of Harvard and played drums during soundcheck at 9:30 Club in D.C. I’ve felt the vibrations of the roaring fans from the green room and I’ve watched hundreds of people sing along to every word. Beyond everything I’ve learned I’ve fallen even more in love with Michael, music, and this strange country than I ever thought possible. Tour is not what you think, not for a minute. But it’s that shift in perception and these sweeping realizations that have brought me closer to myself in ways that are still unfolding, still indescribable. The tour wraps in a few days in Chicago. We are all excited to go home and to sleep in real beds and shower for as long as the hot water allows. Collectively I know we will miss this strange, ever moving adventure…until the next time the bus pulls up.

ALBUM REVIEW: Fortunaut “Press Up Off the Earth”

Fortunaut is the moniker of Brooklyn-based musician Ryan Kershaw – joined with an ensemble of his best friends and finest music makers: Robin Buyer, Erik Caldarone, Zack Trahan, and Nick Pope. They recently released their debut LP Press Up Off the Earth July 11, 2015.

Once upon a time Fortunaut was just Kershaw in his Boston bedroom, but now the band spend their time between Brooklyn and Boston. Press Up Off the Earth was composed in four weeks and recorded live in one day at Virtue and Vice Studios in Brooklyn.

My intital listening to Press Up Off the Earth took place alone, sitting cross-legged on my bed with a cup of sleepy tea in one hand and additional herbal relaxation in the other. The opening title track sets the atmosphere, warming you up to what is a thoughtful and cohesive listening experience. Initially I was taken back five years in my memory to sitting on my bed in a similar fashion hearing Band of Horses Infinite Arms for the first time during a final week of college. The comparison’s beyond the shared serenity of proper indie rock; for the record, Fortunaut is far more experimental and less folk. What was responsible for my memory jolt is that you don’t remember the first time you hear each album, but for me Infinite Arms was one of them – and now Press Up Off the Earth is too.

Favorite tracks include the nostalgic “Young” and the heart-acheningly beautiful “Vow.” Press Up Off the Earth feels like a debut album, but not in the sense that they need worry about a sophomore slump. That’s not a backhanded compliment, but simply you can hear them finding their sound, and while the scruff is sexy, I have a feeling in a few years they’ll look even better clean-shaved.

Stream Press Up Off the Earth below.

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Tag: Boston