Two years ago, Baltimore trio Future Islands had a huge breakthrough with poignant single “Seasons (Waiting on You),” finding the success they’d been seeking since 2006. Hoping to continue that momentum, they released a teaser single from their forthcoming record The Far Field just last week. Titled “Ran,” their latest track does not reinvent the wheel; rather, it redirects the aforementioned wheel toward, well, the future. A subtle evolution of contemporary catharsis, “Ran” falls into line with Future Islands’ racing movie-trailer-esque encapsulation, magnifying the many warped intricacies of a single feeling with bellowing tenacity.
“What’s a song without you/when every song I write is about you?” concedes singer Samuel T. Herring, returning with his signature tenderized, chest-pounding vocal exorcism. He’s theatrical, vulnerable and filled to the brim with guttural fight or flight, and his notoriously unique inflection resonates with a sense of well-rounded heartache on “Ran”, each breath an emotionally acrobatic moment. Islands’ ability to unite emotional strain with synth-drenched melody and steadfast percussion reveals a masterful conviction and commitment to navigating the contemporary. For a song that seems determined to revive a love affair that is D.O.A/D.N.R, Future Islands do what they do best: illuminating various, winding paths from the darkness. (Oh, and growling. Lots of growling.)
It’s strange to think of ex-lovers in terms of how they rank compared to one another, but perhaps there’s some truth and treasure in having a “best ex.” It could be a former partner who will jump your car when your battery dies, or one who has no ill intent when comforting your hurting heart with your favorite bottle of rosé and an LCD Soundsystem record, or simply the one that shines brightest in your memory, even if the timing wasn’t right. Ann Arbor/Ypsilanti/Detroit minimalist DIY rock quartet Best Exes tap into the estranged sincerity of having loved, moved on and lingered in a city that bursts at the seams with former flames and new sparks on their new cassette releaseCactus.
Short and sweet, Cactus is cozy equivalent of saddle shoes, a borrowed sweater and organic cigarettes. Best Exes encapsulate that nuanced innocence by means of lo-fi guitar twang, endearingly uncertain vocal harmonies and retro bass lines that nuzzle fuzzy percussion. The playfully combative “Weird Kind of Nice” could read as a texting conversation, politely begging to feel anything other than alone. Vocalist Jim Cherewick channels early Caleb Followill; when paired with Linda Jordan’s pacifying, nasally charm Best Exes feels like a less literal She & Him – thoughtfully cluttered and platonically tepid.
This observation is particularly true for the last half of the record. The track “Friends” repeats Exes’ pleasant theme of colloquial cadence with 50’s sock-hop flare. “Oh Well” is a bit more verbose and emotively physical, reading like a lengthy letter about the wrongs of the other (Jordan sings of infidelity and throwing a lamp across the room) and is possibly the most openly conflicted track from these real-life characters. The final track, “Blessing” is undoubtedly the most well-rounded and fearless example of the pop-infused, passive torment of Cactus. Though embedded throughout, Cactus‘ disguised nostalgia is not always pleasant and its foreseeing of the future is not always easy to swallow. However, Best Exes’ collective ability to compose lovingly languid tales of self-searching through exploration of previous exploits make the big picture feel less small.
Don’t text your ex! Instead, take a listen to Cactus via Best Exes’ bandcamp:
Matthew Milia and his gaggle of lovelorn folkies – otherwise known as Frontier Ruckus – return with a sardonic make-out party prelude to their forthcoming record Enter the Kingdom. The sad, sensual clip for latest single “Our Flowers Are Still Burning” offers a camcorder view of social loneliness ahead of the album’s February 17th release. A slow-dance, folk-ified, Big Star-esque confessional with a touch of reversed male gaze, “Flowers” instills hopeful resonance with listlessness revery, something the Frontier gang has championed and expanded upon.
Singer and guitarist Anna Burch documents the party through a vintage handheld, a perfect companion to Ruckus’ boxes-in-your-parents-attic aesthetic. The low-key gathering is standard Detroit, containing a quiet cast of characters who find temporary love, lust and casual catharsis in one another. Burch wanders upstairs to discover Milia alone, singing and soaking fully clothed in a running shower as spit swapping commences downstairs. Whether Milia is struck by social anxiety, heartache or an overwhelming sense of not knowing his role in the grand (and not-so-grand) scheme of things, Burch lovingly coerces him from his bath time meltdown with the promise of a cake decorated with sugary, saccharine letters spelling out the song’s title.
The band leaves the house party in the dead of winter, Milia still wet and without a jacket or a lover, but surrounded by his Frontier Ruckus bandmates, resigned to keep on trucking even in the harsh light of the morning after.
Grab a tissue or a kiss and take a sad soak with Frontier Ruckus below:
When the sandy shores of a zombie beach party meet the salty lawlessness of a vintage wild west shoot-out, you would likely find yourself galloping within the Tarantino-lite dreamworld crafted by the latest tracks from garage pop threesome Prude Boys.
The Outlaw, though only two tracks long, make for a grungy Lee Hazelwood x Nancy Sinatra reboot while garnering imagery of seduction and escape with their uniquely refined and playful nostalgia. The opening riff from the titled track is reminiscent of The Dandy Warhols lick from “You Were the Last High” but in Prude Boys uptempo context feels urgent and authentic surrounded by vocalist Caroline Myrick’s haunted warble. Wildly expressive without much deviation, “The Outlaw” is genre-less and toggles between what feels like fantasy cinema and curious reality like a chase through the Hollywood backlots and sound stages, dipping in and out of backdrops of ghost towns and real life coffee shops.
“You Plague My Dreams” follows “The Outlaw” with a jutting rock tale of a lingering lover. Tormented by wanting to stay but the unfair crimes of still hanging around even while deep into the R.E.M cycle, our antagonists find ways to make resentment soft and make guitars sound as though they are slamming doors. Though a little less obvious in its cinematic tonality than the EP’s opener, “You Plague My Dreams” finds itself in the closing credits territory which is apropos for a band with a knack for seeing the bigger picture.
Saddle up and get rowdy with the latest from Prude Boys below:
What do you get when you mix emoji-filled birthday texts from mom, a drunken journey through liquor store shelves and conflicted selves, plastic cup inebriation, and happy-to-be-alive appreciation? Well, you might just find yourself wrapped up in the warm and quiet crisis of “I See You” the latest from Bonny Doon and the first taste from their upcoming self-titled record due out in March.
As far as first tastes go, “I See You” presents a homesick perspective on getting older and the relatable desperate need to piece together mundane imagery in hopes of finding some grand meaning to the grand scheme. Though the song is melancholically fixed with little swell or progression the across the board vulnerability is dutiful and unassuming in its observational self-cruelty. Following a similar cadence of the Smog track “Hit The Ground Running” lyricist and vocalist Bill Lennox achingly croons “I saw my reflection in a bottle of wine/like a neon sign/flickering my name like a drunken call to an old flame.” Troubled and honest “I See You” is a shrugging of the shoulders at the thought of the future and flat beer sipping of the past.
In wake of what most consider one of the most turbulent years in recent memory, 2016 carried a heavy weight. From the death of idols, poets and American democracy, this year challenged our collective patience and sanity leaving no stone unturned. That being said, 2016 reared its resilient head by means of music, the ultimate rebellion. And Detroit? Well, my sweet little city on the rise broke new ground with a slew of releases that eased our troubles, cooled our fevers and incited a burning fire that not even 2016 could extinguish. Below are a few notable moments in Detroit’s music year and perhaps a telescopic view of the year to come.
Best album to cry, drive and reflect to: Anna Ash: Floodlights
Anna Ash’s sophomore record Floodlights is, without much deliberation, my favorite album of 2016. Having spent the better part of the year collapsing and mending Ash’s innate ability to give power and strength to her raw and exposed vulnerabilities paired with the sincere Midwestern, orchestral dashboard dust makes Floodlights a strikingly honest portrayal of (my) hearts fragile design.
Best album to start a new life on Mars to:
Zoos of Berlin: Instant Evening
Okay, so I lied. Zoos of Berlin’s masterfully produced and cosmic journey Instant Evening is in constant contention for my favorite release this year. What Instant Evening offers is a poignant and tireless orbit that explores the depths above and below without ignoring our enslavement to gravity. A dizzying leap into perceptions of time, Zoos of Berlin delivered this years soundtrack for your existential eclipse.
Best record to drop acid and make-out with a stranger to: Mountains and Rainbows: Particles
There is something pleasantly debaucherous about Mountains and Rainbows LP Particles. A loosely woven parade of psych-pop jams and zombie-beach-party rock that is intended for the night you’ll forget to remember. Unwashed, untamed and yet, politely tethered to a structure all their own, Mountains and Rainbows delivered a much needed dose of revelry.
Song most likely to be playing when you’re arrested for getting busy in a public restroom: Stef Chura: “Slow Motion”
Undoubtedly one of the most anticipated releases of 2017, Stef Chura’s specialized brand of tortured kitsch kept 2016 afloat. Chura’s first single “Slow Motion” from her upcoming record Messes, is a hazily languid, hickey-necked crisis that begs to get caught (and to be kept awake by thoughts of the “what the fuck am I doing? variety.)
Artist most likely to score a foreign sci-fi film: Humons
Eclectic and texturized dream house artist Humons busted through a few atmospheres with his debut EP Spectra. A multi-dimensional, electro-pop collision course of cosmos and other worldly feels, Humons arrangements channel the extraterrestrial and the extraordinary complete with danceable, sensuous beats that any human or alien could get down to.
Song most suited for a girl-gang rebellion/club takeover: Bevlove: “Do What I say”
A word of warning and a call to arms, “Do What I Say” from badass hip-pop game changer Bevlove, was the girl gang anthem we all needed in 2016. Laced with tenderness but swollen with commanding and demanding pussy power, “DWIS” was the most radio-ready song out of Detroit this year, channeling the likes of RiRi and Queen Bey, our Lady Love delivered one hell of a punch (and maybe even a groin stomp or two.)
Video most likely to feature yours truly: Gosh Pith: “Scoop”
Our beloved Josh x Josh trip-hop duo Gosh Pith were busy boys this year. They toured, recored, released and churned out several videos for their EP Gold Chain all of which embody their sexy poetry and big heart lifestyle. And yeah. Okay. This is a shameless plug of sorts but being a love interest in a music video has been a life long goal of mine (well, I think it started with Mariah Carey’s “Heartbreaker” but whatever.) So when GP (I get to call them that now that I’m on the inside) asked me to star in the video for “Scoop”, a catchy, love lorn groove about the girl that got away (and then slept with someone else at her heartbroken ex’s house party. SAVAGE!) I immediately said yes and actually brushed my hair for the occasion. Full of cameo’s by Detroit’s many intermingled squads, this video is a fun look back on the year that was as brutal as, well, a breakup but as hopeful as a new spark.
Quickly rising as Detroit’s DIY pensive pop priestess, Stef Chura and her captivatingly peculiar lo-fi sensibilities shine and burn playfully in her latest video for “Spotted Gold,” the third single from her debut album Messes due out January 27. Chura’s candy-colored, battery acid coated disharmonious world beckons late 90’s MTV feels complete with pop-star commercialization and her signature voice, which teeters between collapse and eruption, finds its visual counterpart in “Spotted Gold.” The colors change quickly like the tuning of an old television set as does the wardrobes of Chura and her bandmates as if to But the most strikingly unsettling element is the montage of
The colors change quickly like the tuning of an old television set as does the wardrobes of Chura and her bandmates. But the most striking element is the montage of rapid-fire imagery depicting activities that are considered taboo (smashing a mirror) and bad judgment calls (pouring milk on a laptop) to completely self-destructive behaviors (drinking poison and playing finger/knife roulette) all of which end as badly as one might imagine. The aesthetic is clean, perhaps even sterile, but in Chura’s sugary torment, is messily sincere. It’s easy to interpret “Spotted Gold” as a mischievous night out or miscalculated reckless relationship but the lyrics: “Spotted gold turned black and blue” reveal that perhaps Chura’s sand-in-the-eyes, hand-on-the-stove universe is less of a lark than it is a tale of emotional masochism and that when a good thing goes bad, well, maybe we are more in control than we think.
No, your toaster doesn’t need a bath. Keep tinfoil out of your microwave and check out Stef Chura’s series of unfortunate events in “Spotted Gold” below:
A firecracker personified, Jessica Hernandez (and her Deltas, respectively) embodies the grit, the groove, and the gloriously kaleidoscopic rock nuances that Detroit is best known for. Their notable Gogol Bordello-esque flamboyance and unapologetically cool gypsy-punk vibe has shaped the radius of the Detroit rock radar for the past few years both growing and refining along the way. Returning with their first single since 2014, “Hot Damn” is spicy, seductive and demanding. Aggressive fuzz-filled guitar and drums that err on the punk side of the spectrum pair well with the passionately temperate rabbit hole free fall that is “Hot Damn.” Hernandez’s vibrant vibrato seems inhuman, like a bird putting a fork in an electrical outlet. It shakes, rattles and yet pulls back effectively to remind the listener that Hernandez’s specialty is her range as much as it is her ability to control the vocal chaos. “I can be your baby / I know that I seem crazy” Hernandez howls, summoning what can only be imagined as a lover on all fours, Hernandez tugging the leash upward. Even if the single isn’t intended to be as in-your-face and commanding as it sounds, it elicits a volcanic disturbance that is as much of a choose-your-own-adventure as it is an unhinged anthem for the thick skinned and love craving masses.
Fred Thomas has a lot of feelings (and he really wants to talk about them). He may fear transformation in the same way he might fear another perturbed thought of how he could have prevented a previous love affair from going to pieces. He may relish in the scratching of the many surfaces that camouflage and protect his tender, gooey existential crisis-inflamed interiors. But what is made clear by Fred Thomas’ latest beautifully neurotic mind-mapping narration “Voiceover” (the first taste from his forthcoming record Changer due out later next month) is that he doesn’t quite have it all figured out and if he did, well, he might not know what to do.
“Voiceover” is a sleepless, chorus-deprived and worrisome dashboard “check engine” light. Self-deprecatingly confrontational, this pared back rock jam feels like a tightly woven string of doubts that overcame by means of emotional overload. The video is a life on loop. Repetitive thoughts are mirrored with commonly overlooked/performed imagery. From lipstick application (and lipstick removal) to uncorking wine, and to book to bookshelf placement to the subtle beauty of gently falling hemlines against the back of kneecaps, what is captured visually here is the same crisp mundanity expressed in Thomas’ artfully composed run-on sentences.
View Fred Thomas’ latest GIF-like emotional exploit below:
It’s been three years since Detroit’s sonically poignant pioneers of quietly turbulent indie rock, Zoos of Berlin, last full-length release. Earlier this month, Collin Dupuis, Will Yates, Matthew Howard, Daniel I. Clark and Trevor Naud returned with an open door and a detour. An oceanic space dive, bridging the waters and atmospheric distances between way up and deep down, Instant Evening is a mystifying abstraction and a perilously purifying journey that renounces gravity in the same breath from which it praises it. The band is asking us to pretend that this is their first record which would displace 2013’s pleasantly unstable Lucifer in the Rain and their airily sedated debut record Taxis from 2009. But maybe they’re right to ask this of us. After all, what Zoos of Berlin has masterfully achieved with Instant Evening is the aural embodiment of time lapsed and time stopped and in several cases time reversed. A transcendental escapist mirror of the self and the whole, Zoos latest, first record is a new language in a native voice.
Their emblematic cadence is more well-rounded here, more complete as assisted by their collective patient tonality and fluid melodic velocity. There are comparable moments to the likes of Belle and Sebastian, LCD Soundsystem and most notably the late David Bowie’s final opus Black Star, but the comparisons aren’t a distraction as they usually tend to be. In fact, what makes Instant Evening an instant “yes” is its commitment to not only sound but to its deeply personal and uniquely porous temperament and languish whimsy. The opening track “Rush at the Bend” is an upbeat whirling dervish that uncorks the intent of the record, a gentle tug and ripping of the seams. The delicate balancing of layers within layers never feels thick or overthought. Case and point, “Spring from the Cell” an echoey and deliberate lamination of vocal harmonies, twinkling prom-night synths and dreamy acoustics. As the album progresses, the sensationalized belief that night is approaching grows apparent. “A Clock Would Never Tell” is a parade processional love song that begs to come in from the dark and the cold and leads shortly into “Always Fine with Orphan” a glittering and robust longing-for-summer anthem that manages to braid melancholy with pleasant memories of making love under the sun. We are left with the orbit-less “North Star on the Hill” which poetically stands alone on the record. Like hands missing each other in the night, gracing only fingertips before the invisible tethers pull and draw them apart, the albums closer is unassuming in its heartbreak. A swallowing of stars and a ghost caress, Instant Evening ends with an ellipsis.
If you were like me, you likely stayed in bed this morning a little too long wanting nothing more than to wake up but without ever having to open your eyes. The future we collectively rallied behind, hoped for, and deserved became a hungover breach in clarity. “Did this happen? How did this happen?” Where am I?”
This morning, however, was remarkably similar to many of my mornings. Cats pawing at my chest and the sound of children’s laughter, squeals, and declarations of play invited itself to wake me, through closed doors and windows. The Ellen Thompson preparatory academy located in the backyard of my apartment building holds recess sometime around 11am. The school is at least 95% African American and at least 5% of the children have hollered at me through the chain link fence “Are you Taylor Swift?” while I take my trash out. Playing along, I say yes but promise them to secrecy. This drives them wild and they frantically disperse in fits of excitement, laughter and the belief that maybe I am telling the truth. Today I stood with my face against the fence, trash in hand, watching the recently emptied tire swing sway like an uneasy and haunted pendulum. I watched it slow to a stop as the last of the tiny jackets disappeared behind the school doors. In the deafening silence, I hummed to myself a familiar song about dancing and the need for sweet, sweet music.
“Dancing in the Street” by Martha and The Vandellas was innocently inspired by Detroit residents who resorted to fire hydrant water to cool themselves from scorching the Summer heat. Released during the summer of 1964 in the thick of the Civil Rights crisis and in the midst of the Vietnam War, the upbeat chart-topper became an unexpected anthem of freedom for the disenfranchised and a nightmare feared by those who trembled in the shadows of social progress. Banned from radio stations for allegedly eliciting riot behavior and rebellious violence from the African-American community across the country and most notably in Detroit, the pop song about a party urgently ushered a call for change, unity and yes, even 52 years later, the power of sweet, sweet music.
This morning was remarkably similar to many of my mornings. Except today was different. I have more hope than I did yesterday. Not because of what has happened but because of what will happen. Recess will resume tomorrow and so will the future; the daily sea of toothless grins and bouncing pigtail braids promise this.
What better way to express an impassioned, tumultuous romantic entanglement than through a tropical, pop whirlwind that is as torn and collaborative in its conception as the aforementioned relationship? “El Segundo” is the latest sonic story from Assemble Sound resident producer and synth-pop artist Nydge who is as masterful as a collaborator as he is a solo entity. With an impeccable flair for sophisticated and positively infectious hooks and shoulder-shimmying beats, here Nydge finds an accessibility without conceding his innately distinct auditory architecture. “I try and be as intentional as I can with making music and with the Nydge project, specifically. I want to make pop music as interesting as possible while still being consumable,” explains producer/artist Nigel Van Hemmye. “Often times I find myself trashing musical sketches early on, sometimes less than an hour in. I now find my way to be more akin to mining for ideas. Sometimes I go deep into the cave of creativity to come out with nothing. My job, then, isn’t to make something amazing every day, it’s to be ready, patient, open and excited to strike gold; pickaxe in hand.”
Featuring multi-instrumentalist/vocalist Kim Vi whose contribution aided the tracks rolling momentum and solidified Nydge’s commitment to concise layers, “El Segundo” is refined yet grinds with a untamed attitude. “I’ve never been to El Segundo. I didn’t even know it existed until Kim Vi spouted it out for the first line of the first verse. Kim is a welcome asset to any writing session.” Nigel says. “Throughout the song I used his arsenal of abilities, ranging from guitar, bass, singing, clapping and chordal changes.” The result? A textural playscape that is tender and frustrating with an intoxicatingly pop-purist bounce that could just as easily be a dance-floor groove or a fiery backseat rendezvous.
Listen to the latest from Nydge (ft. Kim Vi) below:
It’s time to retire our summer soundtracks and dust off our pumpkin spiced selection of tunes that illicit all of the external change in season imagery and gives love to the internal shifts, too. Whether you’re tuning a new leaf or simply shedding an old one, here are a few Detroit tracks that celebrate sweater weather and the witching hour.
Midwestern maven of Rocky Mountain sadness, Anna Ash delivered this brooding performance back in 2013. A little Cat Power, a touch Lucinda Williams and some wispy instrumentals and “Haunt” is pleasantly unsettling but all around totally beautiful.
The White Stripes: “Dead Leaves on the Dirty Ground”
It feels equal parts wrong and right to include The White Stripes. Sure, everyone knows this song but does everyone remember it? Quite literally about the autumnal dance vs. a lover leaving (leafing? sorry.) is a subdued-rock heartbreak anthem but leaves enough space to not take itself so seriously.
Every time I get to compile a playlist I find some way to squeeze in one of my favorite, now defunct, indie bands from yesteryear (okay, so only like eight years ago but STILL). Sonically, “Black Hole” feels more Fall than Summer, and more transitional than stationary. A swirling existential crisis that grounds itself in its attempt to “escape inevitability” makes it a reflective prelude to winter.
Storyteller folkies Frontier Ruckus are beautifully seasoned in exploiting singer/songwriter Matthew Milia’s broken poetry. Sufjan Stevens-esque, this soul-trip, magic hour road trip track encompasses the urgency to fulfill needs before winter, like a squirrel hiding seeds and nuts or like a bear making sure his Casper gets delivered in time for hibernation and chill. It’s sad, yes, but because its Frontier Ruckus it is filtered through hopeful resolve.
Jessica Hernandez & The Deltas: “Dead Brains”
This saccharine zombie-fied acoustic version of “Dead Brains” flirts with the hard to swallow but easy to celebrate moving onward and upward. It’s sorrowful but is without regrets. This version especially yanks on some Fall-time feels with its DIY sincerity and it’s unapologetic trekking forward, Jess and Co. make dead brains sound appealing.
It’s been a while since we’ve checked in with our favorite cosmic trip-hop duo Gosh Pith, who have spent the past few months touring sporadically while teasing tracks from their forthcoming record. Most recently, Josh Freed and Josh Smith dropped “True Blue,” a love song at its core inspired by getting pulled over by a state trooper after a gig. What Gosh Pith is getting a stronger grip on these days is the power of duality. Clashing bass serves as both an opportunity for an impassioned bump and grind and also viscerally alludes to wavesrelentlessly beating the shoreline. The lyrics are relatable in their indecisiveness; running to and from, pulling away and in. Relating the fear of the law with romantic entanglements, it’s easy to picture yourself escaping the swirl of red and blue lights on foot, dipping through highway brush and hopping fence lines with the same endangered fire you might escape to/from the arms of the one who’s got you feeling all types of crazy.
The lyrics are relatable in their indecisiveness; running to and from, pulling away and in. Relating the fear of the law with romantic entanglements, it’s easy to picture yourself escaping the swirl of red and blue lights on foot, dipping through highway brush and hopping fence lines with the same endangered fire you might escape to/from the arms of the one who’s got you feeling all types of crazy. There is a, dare I say, Bieber-esque moment with the harmony surrounding the chorus that is pleasantly poppy and roots the track to the duo’s hidden, soft-spoken accessibility. If “True Blue” is any indication of what we can expect from their next album, it’s apparent that Gosh Pith is still pulling us into their beautiful world where the waters run deep and being trapped means another chance to break free.
Jazz guitarist, producer, and ambient electronica explorer Dan Gruszka released his enchanting and contemplative solo EP 1121 earlier this month under his creative moniker Daniel Monk. The single “Kite View” quivers with fragility but not weakness. For a debut release, Monk finds a seasoned balance of self-control and self-assurance that is unexpectedly meditative and mature.
“Kite View” features up and coming female artist ISLA whose angel breath cadence swirls within the delicate framework of Monks sensitive production and arrangement. Sans vocals, the track would still sing in a voice tinged with melancholic flight. The addition of ISLA takes “Kite View” into a patient pre-dystopian lullaby. A hint of acoustic guitar rolls in as ISLA’s voice escapes the atmosphere, leaving us abruptly to wade through the stillness left behind by the sensuous synths. In this case, minimalism isn’t boring or safe rather a lesson in space, spacing and the art of dipping your foot into waters before jumping.
Michigan native and L.A resident, Anna Ash is holding on, not back. A sincere sorceress of internal voyeurism, Ash’s fragile confidence stands firm ground and shines brightly on her sophomore record Floodlights released earlier this week. Slide guitar and dusty, feathered percussion dip and sway against Ash’s strikingly pure and piercing songbird soprano. Floodlights is a poignant display of a love run dry and/or a love gone awry that rolls with the patience of an impending storm on the horizon; lightening without the thunder.
Is Floodlights a country record? Maybe. It tangos with rock n roll attitude on occasion and yanks on some folky heartstrings, too. But beyond genre displacement, the record is a grand achievement in story telling, quietly exposing the deepest layers of epidermis with a tender honesty that doesn’t require categorization, only reflection.
Recorded in Minnesota, mastered on the West Coast and the reprisal of Ash’s Michigan band (Joe Dart, Julian Allen, and James Cornelison) Floodlights creation is as well traveled as the pictorial pastures and valleys the album dares to explore. “Player” is finger waving, audacious dose of told-you-so whereas Ash’s Lucinda Williams cover “Fruits of my Labor” is a sensual peach bite coated in sultry regret and the track “Hold On” is a bouncy series of what-if’s and hypothetical missteps. No ground is left uncovered on Floodlights but it isn’t until the title/closing track that we are forced to our knees after a perilously raw journey through Ash’s beautifully tormented history. Barely exceeding a whisper, Ash compares the shake of an old car to the way her voice warbles when she lies, professing that “It ain’t gonna kill you to sleep alone once and a while.” A heart wrenching, steering wheel clenching kiss goodbye to us, to them, to who she is or was, “Floodlights” as a singular track and as a collection rattles with a tender brutality that is relatable and malleable, melted and frozen.
Mostly Midwest premiered the album this week and is streaming it in it’s entirety now. Check out the playful track “Player” below:
A summer fantasy written in the thick of a Michigan winter, Detroit’s favorite folky foursome Frontier Ruckus delivers a new track “27 Dollars” from their forthcoming LP, just in time to instill premature longing for a summer that still has a few hours on the clock.
Singer-songwriter Matthew Millia is no stranger to volunteering his vulnerabilities by means of his pleasantly troubled troubadour dance with intimacy to the rich, extensive Americana fabric of the Frontier Ruckus catalogue. Joined by David Jones, Zachary Nichols and Anna Burch, Milia and company have tapped into a beloved era of mid-2000’s indie with a modern emotional intelligence that is fit for timelessness. A little Belle & Sebastian, a tad Okkervil River with a dash of seasonal repression and hopeful ennui, “27 Dollars” is an upbeat anthem for restless hearts and empty pockets; a true midwestern cocktail. The track bounces with banjo twang and swaying synths, eliciting a backseat tour through pot hole, pock marked streets with a cracked phone screen that you check incessantly despite finger tip splinters.
Grand Rapids-based dream pop duo, Dear Tracks, excites with their politely warped and shimmery new track “Aligning with the Sun” which debuted earlier this week. Matt Messore and Victoria Ovenden found a way to give a soundtrack to dust particles colliding within a shaft of mid-afternoon light.
The arrangement, which is synth heavy, glitters without much deviation or elevation and manages to avoid sounding monotonous. A refreshingly melodic warble, “Aligning with the Sun” could easily be inspired by the tilt-a-whirl motion of a cassette tape being tangled within the cassette player, dancing with distortion.
The firecracker percussions and the twinkling, distant guitar paired with Ovenden’s misty vocals keeps Dear Tracks in good musical company, such as Real Estate and My Bloody Valentine. The opposite of anxious, the duo’s first track off of their anticipated debut LP (due out on The Native Sound records) is a bitter sweet (though, mostly sweet) end-of-summer breeze.
Emcee, poet, educator, and Detroit visionary, Chace “Mic Write” Morris is unstoppable. Mic Write’s reputation as a renaissance man pales in comparison to the weight of his message and unconstrained fervor. As a slam poetry champion, Kresge literary arts recipient and a main player in the progressive hip-hop collaboration Cold Man Young, Write has tapped into the collective social conscious, delivering striking commentary on race, community, and injustice with an impervious directness by means of jaw-dropping scholarly rhyme schemes paired with beats suitable for both grinding or marching, respectively.
Even when shining a light on systematic oppression and gentrification, Write never waivers in making it a point to remind of us of joy, hope, and gratitude. “It’s been a hell of a year/but if you hear this then you still hear us,” Write proclaims in his latest track, “blak/joi,” a song balanced with care, but not with caution. “Blak/joi” is as much of a story as it is a rap and just as much of a call to arms as it is a love-lorn sonnet to the past and future. One of the most impactful aspects of Write’s performance is that it doesn’t feel like a performance. It isn’t a callused memorization of lyrics or idle notations on cadence or emphasis, rather an in-the-moment, impassioned retelling of a dream/nightmare turned reality where words are both spilling and fighting their way through clenched teeth.
“Oh can you feel it?/ocean couldn’t drown it/chains couldn’t slave it/bullets couldn’t kill it/cops couldn’t beat it/death couldn’t tame it/government couldn’t steal it,” Write professes in what is one of the most hard hitting rhymes on the track, again, dancing the line between hope lost and hope found. The most unassumingly heartbreaking line, though, is the disjointed chorus. The song trails off to Write admitting “Sometimes I trip on how happy we could be/sometimes I trip on how happy we could be” as if he reached for the clouds knowing he would only bring down dust.
Feel the power with Mic Write’s latest, “blak/joi” below:
Forged from the weightiness of post-war blues and the primally riotous audacity of 60’s garage punk, Detroit‘s scuzz rockers the Gories return to their hometown his Friday. Mick Collins, Danny Kroha and Peggy O’Neill formed the Gories (sans bass) back in 1986 and released three records between 1989 and their tumultuous break-up in ’92. During their undisclosed reign as underground groove-punk royalty, their influence was more wide reaching than their dismal record sales or crusty notoriety. Like true punks, the Gories’ reputation was marred with scowls and “wtf is this shit” variety, mostly due to their raunchy, primitive approach to rock. It’s an attitude that would later have Detroit’s prodigal son and father of Third Man Records, Jack White, exclaiming that the Gories “made people with Les Pauls and Marshall amps look like idiots.”
After a 17 year hiatus (during which punk died, was reincarnated into radio-friendly sewage, died again and is only now beginning to wear its old skin) the Gories reunited in 2009 for a European tour and again in 2010 to hustle their grime across North America. Since then they have played a handful of shows, though sparingly, but enough to remind us that true punk never really dies and what the Gories have given us is more than half-assed nostalgia on life support; it’s a tantrum.
Oozing with sexual deviance, masked by the hip-shaking, beer-bottle smashing juxtaposition of aggravated shimmy and shake, “Nitroglycerine,” from the band’s sophomore record, I Know You Fine, But How You Doin’ manages to box the un-boxable sticky, sweaty, no-fucks-given tale of Detroit’s premier garage punk pioneers. A perplexing mix of John Lee Hooker and the Cramps, the Gories hoot and howl while channeling some Velvet Underground-level chaos as the guitars suffer battling seizures, and the drums find home in a constituent heartbeat-beat reminding us that the band’s homeostasis, although compromised, is far from expired. The lyrics “She’s volatile/she’s my baby” are delivered with some 1950’s innocence or doo-wop cadence but is quickly dismantled by a rapid-fire sex-beat that keeps us guessing even 26 years later.
Get weird with the Gories 1990 video for “Nitroglycerine” below and catch the Gories with Pretty Ghouls, Mexican Knives and Trash DJ’s at El Club Friday August 5th, 2016 | Tickets $20
Most things begin, but all things must end. No one knows this better than Milford-based sonic artist and former undertaker, Sean Lynch: founding dreamer of the eternally unearthed post-punk, Macabre rock formation, 800beloved. Lynch has spent the last decade conjuring romantic hauntings taken from real life, sleep life, and the afterlife, turning them into a body of music that is unabashedly nuanced with a rawness that would perturb anyone less than willing to face living ghosts the way he has. A cryptic career that produced three full-length records, all of which speak to a perpetually kinetic dance between atmospheres following a trajectory that was as driven by numerology as it was by words and sounds, comes full circle next month when 800beloved silences themselves by means of a self-induced funeral. Eight years after their debut release, Bouquet, Lynch is ready to move on. This isn’t a throwing in of the metaphorical towel or a waving of a white flag, rather a perfect and poetically suited demise for a band that was, in a lot of ways, born to die. Here lies 800beloved; the band you missed (and the band I will miss.)
“I’m not interested in entertaining some immortal non-aging version of ourselves,” Lynch says. “I don’t want to be talking about the bipolarities of life and death anymore, not in that context. I’m done with that. I feel that if there were ever a way to take a Teen Vogue magazine and burn it and bury it…we were that and we did it; that strange combination of two things that should never meet.”
This timely death is almost a year to the day that 800beloved surprise released their third and final album, Some Kind of Distortion; a shimmering display of nostalgia and present tense veiled by their signature allusions of dreamscapes and tortured surrealism. “I’m not going to spell it out to a disinterested audience.” Lynch says. “We’ve never been as elusive as we’ve been made to feel. In any camp, we have always felt like a black sheep.” Lynch, of course, is referring to the bands umbrellaed reputation and whispered notoriety both in the local scene and the dream-pop/shoe gaze/post-punk formula at large. You can’t find the band on Spotify and you will never see them solicit for gig slots or editorial recognition. Hell, you’d probably mistaken their name in conversation for a phone number because, well, yeah, it is.
Torn between wanting to be heard and trying not to be found, 800 dug a grave all their own, filling it with symbolic talismans and deeply personal confessionary relics that speak to only those who are listening. From the eery reincarnation of the coffin featured on their debut album art work featured, now open and empty, as the promotional/emotional imagery for their farewell to the symbiotic marriage of numbers and private timelines all the way to poster fonts, live-performance projections and the names of colors used; none of which feel like a contrived stretch for meaning, more so a peephole into the inner workings of someone who is as intricately woven as these artfully shrouded pieces of postscript. “To our credit, everything we have done has been with the utmost thoughtfulness and we want our funeral to be done the same way. If we wanted a Hot Topic funeral we would have just gone to the mall.”
Having spent most of his life painting the faces of the dearly departed, consoling the families of transcending loved ones and writing the words that would immortalize the legacies of the expired, I ask Lynch if he anticipates going through the strangely unique motions of a real live death this time as the corpse, the coroner and the afflicted surviver. “I was restringing my guitar when we opened up for Modern English a couple months ago and I was thinking that this is the last set of strings I’m going to play with this band. I know that sounds minimal but to me the strings, the guitars, the amps, the pedals…I have such a relationship to everything.” Lynch explains.”I have to remind myself that at the end of the day this is going to matter the most to me even though I am comfortably numb to it now. But there have been countless things tapping at my window telling me that this is it. And I know it is.”
The final line-up includes Anastasiya Metesheva on bass, Ben Collins on drums and Lynch on vocals, guitar and production. Metesheva, an artist and radiant expressionist, has been an integral part of 800 since 2007. Collins, though having only joined in ’13, is no stranger to collaboration and brought life to Lynch’s compositions. There has been a revolving door of talent throughout the years, but this particular assembly is colorful and vibrant in all the ways 800 has come to embody. “If someone is looking for tabloid surrounding 800beloved they won’t find it. We don’t do that. The band members live three virtually very separate lives outside of this project. Stacy is painting and working to help support her family, Ben is in three other bands and has a career and I’m barely scraping by,” Lynch admits. “I just want to try to get one last hurrah while surmising any bit of sacredness that I can indulge in.”
The funeral, as Lynch described, is not a play on kitsch or satirical irony, as he of all people understands the weight of tagging something as a funeral. The remaining trio will bid farewell by performing Some Kind of Distortion in it’s entirety along with some undisclosed surprises.
So, yes. We are invited to celebrate life, art and a body of work that surpasses both rather than reading a half-hearted Facebook post about why a band has decided to “break-up.” The spectacle of theatrics surrounding a band throwing the first handful of dirt on their own grave is grandiose but not without substance. 800beloved will tread on territory they have spent a decade mapping out and although infrequently traveled, has left a passageway in their wake. “Something I wanted to bring out in this experience is that there are very fine lines between sex and death. And that fragility is not a new revelation but there is a certain liveliness that comes from experiencing a close proximity to death and a sexual experience being close to recreating or feeling as good as being reborn.” Lynch explains. “But what I really hope people take away from our funeral is the shock that a band can depart elegantly. Oh and that it’s also going to be fucking loud.”
800beloved goes silent on August 13th, 2016 at Detroit’s Marble Bar, admission is $8. Read 800beloved’s obituary here.
Leave it to my favorite electro-pop duo to release a dance track contemplating the turmoil of running the rat race that challenges the suffocation of creative freedom by means of societal survival. Valley Hush debuted “Iced Cream” earlier this week, a mesmeric track that encapsulates Alex Kaye and Lianna Vanicelli’s fluid aesthetic of dancing the line between struggle and release with an undeniable melancholic pop magnetism. Although there is no mention of the beloved confectionery treat, the songs message is the equivalent to the sticky sweetness of a melted cone between your fingers; a life that is satisfying but not without the perpetual stickiness to make you wish you had a napkin, or rather, make you wish you didn’t care about the mess. Following the same sensational trajectory of their last single “Iris”, “Iced Cream” picks up with the similar jutting, well-traveled mash-up of worldly tones and beats but this time delves deeper into self-induced sadness.
The most marveling element of “Iced Cream” is the marriage between lyrics and Vanicelli’s vocals. Opening with the line “I’m a human being/not a machine/I will eventually tire/of this silly maze” we are lead through a poetic display of personal disappointments and misappropriated life goals: how it feels vs. how it should feel. Vanicelli insinuates traditional accomplishments (“a college degree/a job with a salary”) act as life altering barriers between exploring the truer parts of self and feeling successful; an internal melting and re-freezing, only to melt again. These vulnerable truths through airy and choppy vocals feel like a privately shared secret discovery, though not confessional or dangerous. Valley Hush invites us to share a spoon and indulge in their existential crisis sundae that wakes our inner demons with a sensual tenderness that is usually reserved for licking our fingers clean, as not to leave a trail of sweet cream behind.
Once hailed “The Best Band That Doesn’t Have an Album” pysch-rockers Mountains and Rainbows can finally re-categorize themselves. After bouncing around for almost a decade with nothing but a cassette tape and some scattered demos, Mountains and Rainbows caught the ears of Thee Oh Sees frontman John Dwyer after sharing a bill with the head rattling 70s art punk revivalist foursome last year. Dwyer signed them to Castle Face Records and released their double debut LP Particles last month. Particles is more than an album, though. It’s a transient, transcendent head trip that sweats and absorbs in equal measure. There is a boldness to the album as an adventure through time and memory, trailing across stateliness and atmospheric boundaries, that convinces you to overturn yourself as if you were some government implemented barrier between happiness and obligation. Particles is salty and dry, thirst inducing and never quenching. It is that very thirst that makes Mountains and Rainbows’ long awaited exploration of chaos so surprisingly satisfying. It’s a high without the hangover.
It’s hard to consider the album as individual tracks. The songs blend together, not monotonously or statically, but with a meticulously reckless smashing. Each song strikes one another forcing tinier and finer divides like an astral phenomena we read about but never actually see. Sludgy, strung out Velvet Underground-esque track “Fancies” breaks the album up and clocks in at just over ten minutes. It’s anxious and uneasy and feels more like a band warmup where the instruments sound like vocals and the vocals are a series of warbled announcements. This is a complete departure from the bouncy beach party track “How You Spend Your Time,” which is tightly composed and fulfills the albums strained pop tendency. Mountains and Rainbows play with distance and warped dissonance, which invites a cosmic spacial awareness that lends itself to feeling like fabric ripped at the seams. Drums seem to interrupt, the guitars are manic and distressed and the bass is spastically metallic. These elements crowd the vocals in such a way that it often feels like attempts to suffocate, but also is aurally victorious at regaining breath. Considering it is their first “proper” release, Particles is a fully formed thought that is not for the faint of heart, rather for those whose heart beat persistently askew.
Beverly Johnson is Bevlove, Detroit‘s premier pop goddess. She writes. She sings. She’s changing the game. Produced by SYBLYNG and Assemble Sound and directed by Detroit visual wonder-kids The Right Brothers, “Do What I Say” dropped last night at midnight. Relevant both conceptually and sonically, the track proves that Bevlove is more than a breakthrough, she’s a wrecking ball.
“DWIS” acts as a seductive instructional and a warning for future lovers, victims and anyone who dare take on Bevlove on the streets or in the sheets. “DWIS” could easily be the sequel to Rihanna’s “Bitch Better Have my Money” and the video could be the more sinister, less PG sister to rival girl-gang in Taylor Swift’s “Bad Blood.” The video features some of Detroit’s favorite bad girls following behind leading lady Love with torches and man eating scowls, ready to attack. Flashing to smokey dance scenes and the ultimate pink confetti girl party. Where “DWIS” bares its visual duality is when we see Bevlove in bed with white feathers floating around her lingerie clad angel self, making us believe she is to be trusted. But we know better. Bevlove uses her vocals as a Trojan horse, delivering the lyrics “Such a fucking lady/tonight I’m going to take control.” Her voice breaks into another stratosphere, departing from her hardened hip-hop cadence to reveal ethereal tones and a richness that Beyoncé herself would envy. The song is perfectly crafted with everything that makes a song raunchy yet radio ready and impossible to shake from your head. The catchy hook, the bass beat and choppy hip-hop delivery is current enough to blend in and original enough to set its own precedent for badass-ery. The video celebrates women and flips the script on sex, desire and not taking shit. Bevlove is a great reminder of why you should get you a girl that can do both.
It’s been a while since we’ve checked in with our favorite cosmic trip-hop duo 
