Jerilyn Jordan – Page 4

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.

PLAYING DETROIT: Wolf Eyes “I Am A Problem: Mind In Pieces”

Wolf Eyes reemerges with their Third Man Records debut (the label created by Detroit’s own prodigal son, Jack White) with I Am A Problem: Mind In Pieces. After an aggressive and perplexing takeover of Third Man’s Instagram account last week (they lost over a thousand followers as a result, which warranted a regretful apology from the label), Wolf Eyes is doing what they do best: making noise that is as jarringly tragic as it is sonically eruptive. Considered the “kings of U.S noise” and pioneers of trip-metal, Nate Young, John Olson, and Jim Baljo have not departed from their signature nuance of dismal, distempered dystopia on I Am A Problem as explored previously on their exhaustive, extensive catalogue. But don’t assume that Wolf Eyes are wading in stagnant waters. In fact, this time around they’ve managed to turn their chaos into discernible, tortured transcendence. Although celestially despondent, I Am A Problem never runs away from itself; each track cascades into a cosmic rawness that warps, wraps, and entangles you. From start to finish (and back again) it’s difficult to put a finger on what makes this album seem like it’s on the precipice of undiscovered territory, yet remaining familiar simultaneously. Perhaps it’s the vocally palpable despair paired with the bombastic layering of intergalactic pulsations reminiscent of both heartbeat and heartbreak. Wolf Eyes finds a way to make abstraction relatable and intoxication desirable.

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PLAYING DETROIT: DJ Duo Haute to Death

It was the day of my grandmother’s funeral. Having spent the better portion of my day mourning the loss with my father and chain smoking while driving familiar streets of my hometown where the old bars had new signs, I was unnerved with realizing not everything was as I left it when I moved out and to Detroit two years ago. By the end of the day, I was disheveled and still dressed sullenly in black. My face was puffy from crying and both my body and mind were fevered with exhaustion. David Bowie’s “Changes” came on the radio as my boyfriend at the time asked what I wanted to do. It was late. It was Saturday. I was tired. But without hesitation I stared out of the passenger side window at a sky that threatened snow and said, “I have to go to Temple.” This was not some prolific religious sentiment, although looking back maybe in some ways it was. Temple is “Temple Bar,” one of Detroit’s most unassuming vestiges and my salvation was (and still is) Haute to Death; a monthly dance party thrown by Ash Nowak and Jon Dones.

Creators, curators, and collaborators in life, love, and the dance floor, Nowak and Dones are more than DJ’s, they are partners and hosts to what will undoubtedly be your favorite night (if you’re lucky enough to remember it). Emotional electricians, they are instigators of catharsis with a killer record collection and an undeniably thoughtful approach to weaving a tapestry of people, environment, and sound. What started as a search to throw the best dance party for friends is now celebrating it’s eight year residency this month. “We’ve developed a family of people here,” says Dones. “Ash and I don’t have a lot of family. We feel so connected to the people that show up that I don’t necessarily have to know where they came from, or what they do for a living because we’re all here together. What we do isn’t about us, it’s about you.”

For eight years, Haute to Death has called Temple Bar its home base and in some ways its birth place. A pock marked parking lot surrounds an institution colored building with the name painted crudely above the door, Temple Bar is the last place you would expect to find the city’s most welcoming and unapologetic dance party. The DJ booth sits high above the dance floor where Nowak and Dones are glassed in and silhouetted by neon genitalia (one of many idiosyncratic details of Temple Bar’s landscape). The aforementioned dance floor is contained by a half wall and is no bigger than a few handicap accessible bathroom stalls side by side. The intimacy is the most intimidating quality of a Haute to Death event and paradoxically is what invites you in to stay. Since it falls on the third Saturday of each month, the T.V. sets are tuned to SNL (which seems meta in context) and the awkward pool table wedged between the bathrooms is always strangely occupied as people aim their pool sticks into the air because rarely is there room to make a real shot (hell, you’re lucky if can stand with your feet apart). Sometimes a dog shows up, and no one has ever seen anyone actually play the Sopranos pinball machine near the entrance. Skin will touch skin, sweat will converge with other spilled fluids, and your hair will refuse to hold whatever product or styling you came in with. The air is promised to be thick and salty and each party is not without its share of playful dance offs, fits of cinematic twirling and even the occasional new wave twerk-a-thon. Without fail there will be at least one tangible moment where the music finds temporary shelter within you and shakes something loose (or perhaps pieces something back together). You can be yourself, someone else, or no one at all.

“Jon and I like a lot of the same things. We ultimately have the same end goal but have extraordinarily different ways of getting there,” explains Nowak on their ability to collaborate. “You can’t play candy all night long. It’s fun and tempting, but it’s not sustainable.” Even under the shimmering lights and the waves of glistening skin, there are periodic points in the set where things go from moody, to dark all the way back to desert-like electro pop. “We focus on thoughtful sets with emotional arches,” Dones adds.

Over a bottle of wine, I tell Nowak and Dones (now considered my friends and creative cohorts) what I love most about their monthly sweaty soiree. “What is the more interesting story is your experience,” Dones says. “We’ve never been to Haute to Death. We don’t know what it’s like.” I walk them through the first time I showed up. I felt like a squad-less orphan until they spun a New Order mix that I would have never heard anywhere near my hometown suburb and how when I stand under the disco ball and Kraftwerk’s “Telephone Call” bleeds into Azealia Banks “212” (one of Nowak’s staple mixes) I feel like I’m being transported to another planet (yet feel completely grounded). I remind them of the time the speakers blew during their annual “Bosses and Secretaries Edition” and a resident babe and H2D’er dressed in an all white suit, booted up the jukebox to save the party with Madonna’s “Like a Prayer” and how everyone felt this shared emotional rush of relief, gratitude and well, praise to this unworldly little slice of party heaven that we all feel has been gifted to us. These magical moments are exclusive to what Nowak and Dones do which is far more than spin records or craft playlists. They provide a setting, a mood, and a warmth that encourages each person in attendance (whether they are actively participating or not) to formulate their own memory and to use the floor as their own therapy. (Nowak even adds that they’ve only had ‘one fight in eight years’, which is pretty impressive.) I recollect all the times I danced with a broken heart, physical injury, and creative malaise and how by the end of the night, even though I end up with my lipstick kissed off, my eye makeup running down my cheeks and my clothes adhered to my skin, Haute to Death never fails to stir me back to life. A confectionary and visceral collision, Nowak and Dones are artists of experience and Haute to Death is their torrid and glittered canvas. “It’s a mess,” Nowak says, “and it’s really fantastic.”

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PLAYING DETROIT: Protomartyr “The Agent Intellect”

Rolling Stone gave Protomartyr‘s third album The Agent Intellect four out of five stars. Pitchfork gave it a 8.2 rating, and Consequence of Sound thought it worthy of an A-. And somehow, I feel like I just walked into a movie theater during the credits and everyone is clapping. I feel like I missed something. I’ll admit, it took an annoying amount of Facebook shares and reposted reviews to spark my interest in Protomartyr, who on paper seemed like they would fit my taste profile. The term “post punk indie” was tossed around and some comparisons to Ian Curtis of Joy Division, too. At first glance, it seemed moody enough for me to say yes to, but at second and third glance I’m left shrugging my shoulders.

An ambitious four piece, The Agent Intellect is Protomartyr’s third album in three years. An impressive feat, yes. However, after an appropriately chosen three listens, I spent half the time waiting for something to happen and the other half wondering if Rolling Stone and I were listening to the same album. To be fair, I like the album. It’s fine. But that’s exactly what’s wrong with it. What sounds like a collection of early 2000’s indie B-Sides reflective of, say, Louis XIV (remember them? Yeah, no one else does, either). Intellect rides a steady trajectory, rarely seizing the moment and instead primes for the aforementioned moment without resolve, release or that thing. Perhaps it’s the lack of explosive, emotive moments that makes this album unique. Maybe we’re saturated in riding the roller coaster to the point where albums like Intellect seem refreshing. The songs run together like a high school watercolor but maintain a respectable cohesion. The drums on “Cowards Starve” sound like the drums in “Boyce or Boice” and “Why Does it Shake?” The vocals are somehow consistently flashy in their flatness. After riding the stagnant wave, a track like “Clandestine Times” wakes you up not by being particularly loud or outrageous but for being the song. Yes, it sounds like something ripped right off of The National’s Trouble Will Find Me, but it’s unexpected in context and is the bloodiest, messiest on the album, making it for me the most sincere moment on The Agent Intellect. It is after this track that the album adopts a slightly more unmerciful tone and at some point sounds as if Protomartyr are actually feeling something instead of just making sounds about feeling something.

The truth is, when it comes to music I much rather feel passionate about hating or loving something than be unmoved. I wanted to inhale Agent Intellect and wanted to crave more of it. But really it comes down to being challenged and surprised. If I were at a house party, I could hear this fading into the background over beer bottles and conversation; a non-intrusive soundtrack to a night you probably won’t remember, because the party was only okay.

PLAYING DETROIT PLAYLIST: Detroit On The Road

Sitting on an over-packed suitcase that refuses to shut (yes, I really did need five pairs of shoes) as I compile neurotic checklists, compulsively looking at ten day forecasts and somehow I am already missing Detroit: my beloved mother-ship. I’m hitting the road and heading west to camp in the Grand Canyon and some 27-year-old debauchery in Vegas as some ill planned rite of passage in honor of my birthday. I’m going it solo, but not without bringing a little bit of Detroit along for the ride to keep me company.

Iggy Pop and The Stooges – “The Passenger”

My mom likes to boast that my first concert was Iggy Pop. She was seven months pregnant and claims that Iggy waved to her belly (that’s me, you guys)! This, to me, is the pivotal road trip song to end all road trip songs. As a Detroit legend and my personal savior of all things badass, it only seems appropriate to bring a little bit of Iggy with me to Sin City.

Danny Brown – “Grown Up”

Okay. So I’m already imagining me rolling out of the Hertz car rental in my 2015 Ford Focus with this song blasting. If you’re from Detroit, Danny Brown is a household name and using his lyrics as punctuation is the norm. “Growing Up” is (quite literally) fitting for this birthday adventure.

Human Eye – “I Feel Mean”

Since moving to Detroit, nothing compares to the ferocity of seeing Detroit punk band Human Eye live. This song is ruthless, raw and unrelenting. “I Feel Mean” is unpredictable and messy in the way punk is messy, but with enough control to make it insanely catchy. Frontman Timmy Vulgar is an icon and is undoubtedly doing it right. I’m eager to let this song bounce against some desert rocks (as I think about smashing an ex boyfriend’s window…or something).

The Silent Years – “Someone to Keep Us Warm”

I was a ripe 18-19 when I was introduced to the Silent Years. I still lived with my parents but I latched onto seeing every Silent Years show I could. They were sincere and the songs had beautifully designed rising and falling, which suited my love of cathartic build ups and bands with lots of members. They were Detroit’s answer to Arcade Fire. This song was the first I heard of theirs and it still ignites something, which seems perfectly suited for my cold canyon nights ahead.

800beloved – “Go”

Okay. So I really love 800beloved. As a friend and fan, I couldn’t think of a better song to chain smoke in my rental car to as the desert landscape bursts through my windows while talking to myself as both passenger and driver. While adding this to my playlist I am reminded of my long history with this song and the album “Bouquet.” Seven years ago, I was still living at home and just had my heart broken. I was never one to do spontaneous things at that age and always favored the safe route. But then this album came along and challenged all of that. The song implies a listlessness and a burning desire to leave shit behind and that’s exactly what I’m doing.[/fusion_builder_column][/fusion_builder_row][/fusion_builder_container]

PLAYING DETROIT: Moonwalks “Lunar Phases”

Few bands are as aptly named as psychedelic Detroit four piece, Moonwalks, whose upcoming release Lunar Phases could act as a wild, yet tailored, road map to uninhabited galaxies and black holes, alike. The band’s first LP, scheduled to release via cassette tape and digital download later this month (MANIMAL Vinyl) is as warm as it is cooly intergalactic and is as 1960’s retro as it is refreshingly modern. Collectively, Jake Dean (guitars/vocals) Kate Gutwald (bass), Kerrigan Pearce (drums) and Tyler Grates (guitar) admit to being moved by the production of old Lee Hazlewood records, which makes sense, considering Lunar Phases has an undeniably sultry, Western-shootout vibe. (If the shootout was between aliens and cowboys, directed by a 90’s Tarantino respectfully.) “We’re becoming more collaborative as a four piece,” says Grates. “When making music, it’s important for me not to consider any influences I have at the time. Anything can sound like everything. However, it’s a little different in the recording process. We all have similar taste but different ideas, so we’re constantly coming up with different landscapes of sound.” More than Brian Jonestown Massacre-esque jam rock moments or sedated Jeffry Lee Pierce vocals, Moonwalks’ sound is the figurative dusting off of something once lost. Like water on Mars, Lunar Phases taps into what you thought you knew, but with an exploratory freshness best suited for lovers of reverb, distortion, and unexpectedly emotive cosmic collisions of past and present.

What is most surprising of their debut LP is the seamless cohesion not only between tracks, but in Moonwalks’ shared cadence, notably in their confidence in letting each instrument/effect have space to swell, breathe, and explode. This is glaringly apparent on vocal-less track “Cream Cheese Ashtray,” a demanding instrumental that gives the aural illusion of bending time; warped but never “off,” askew but never elementary nor hesitant. Delay heavy track, “Painted Lady” (one of two songs named after beloved Detroit bar/venues) is reminiscent of early Black Rebel Motorcycle Club minus the cliche hook/verse progression, artfully distorting your notion of what comes next; another example of Moonwalks’ ability to give new life to the already familiar.

Lunar Phases is, for the lack of a better word, mature. The album, a richly dynamic and attentive mosaic just under thirty minutes long, manages to achieve the robust fluidity that most bands don’t find until their second or third release (if at all). With extensive touring planned for the coming year and by the sounds of it, more studio time, too, Moonwalks exudes a completeness but with ample room to morph, grow, and reimagine. “I think were becoming tighter as a band,” Grates explains. “We’re getting more comfortable with playing shows and touring around the country. I think if the four of us weren’t in a band together, we’d still be hanging out all the time.”

While we await the release of Lunar Phases, satisfy your hunger by checking out Moonwalks’ 2014 EP:

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PLAYING DETROIT: Jamaican Queens “Wormfood”

I’m in denial and am disruptively nostalgic at 3am on a Tuesday. While I struggle to retire my sundresses to the back of the closet, this seasonal transition has me hungry for that time a few months ago when I had tan lines and bite marks and could keep my windows open without complaint. My time machine of choice is Jamaican Queens‘ 2013 release, Wormfood. I’ve always considered Jamaican Queens as the “cool” band from Detroit (and what makes them cooler is the fact that I think they would hate that I said that). Ryan Spencer, Adam Pressley, and Ryan Clancy are Jamaican Queens: the band you wish you were in.

Wormfood captures, though paradoxically, a recklessly hazy lethargy that is exclusive to summer. There is an element of irresponsibility lyrically and in the squeezed and strained arrangements, like taking someone else’s prescription pills or having indiscreet public sex that makes the listener squirm with reflection. Honest and almost self deprecating, Wormfood is pleasantly shameless in its ability to wrestle with love, intimacy, and confessionary party fouls. Reminiscent of MGMT or sometimes Animal Collective, Jamaican Queens take the popular, palatable fuzzy, synth pop/rock aesthetic and knocks it over in slow motion, leaving a sweetly apologetic yet selfish collection of messy songs/feelings in its wake. In the opening track “Water,” Spencer admits: “I don’t want to spend time with her friends/I don’t wanna do things for her/I don’t wanna go down on her/I don’t wanna tell you it’s the end/ain’t love a trap/aren’t you a mess/you wear it well.”

There is something achingly personal about Wormfood. It’s that conversation you don’t want to have (but have had). It’s driving drunk, wishing you were straight. There is a hidden sadness that speaks to the strange social pool that Detroit kids find themselves flailing in (and maybe it has nothing to do with geography). It’s like pretending you’re drowning to get attention, even though you can stand comfortably flat footed on the lake floor, head above water. Wormfood represents a bleeding dichotomy between wanting to change and knowing you can’t (or knowing you can but will wait a few years until you get your shit together). Wormfood is a party, start to finish. But not like a ‘90s teen movie house party, rather a party where that girl you sort of know sort of almost died, and where you give yourself a pep talk in a toothpaste splattered bathroom mirror convincing yourself out loud that you’re okay, as demonstrated by the chorus of the closing track “Caitlyn.” “I’m sorry about the earth around you caving in/I’m sorry about the earth around you caving in/I’m sorry.” This sincere phrasing comes after the line “I’ve begun to think of love as an impossibility/do you agree?” A perfectly apt pairing of sympathy and complacency, which is what makes this particular collection strangely suited for feeling pieced together carelessly with chewing gum and being unabashedly intoxicated on summer, or in my case, autumnal dreams of the latter.

PLAYING DETROIT: Flint Eastwood’s “Find What You’re Looking For”

Even without knowing the emotionally turbulent backstory behind Flint Eastwood’s latest EP Small Victories, the first single “Find What You’re Looking For” paints a cathartic landscape that evokes the sensation of conserving breath and energy before climbing a mountain. The song resonates as whispered, yet resilient, triumph. Jax Anderson is no stranger to small victories, nor large ones, respectively. A statement released with the single informs that the song is an interpretation of the last words spoken to Anderson by her mother before she passed: “Don’t let this break you.” As the listener or compassionate voyeur we may not know what the “this” is and we may not know what we’re looking for, but it is with this haunting ambiguity that makes the track accessible and effective in its ability to sound both confident and cautious. In the wake of such loss, Anderson sounds as if she’s begging the sky, crooning, “I don’t want to lose you/this moment next to you/you tell me what to do.” What is most strangely refreshing about “Find What You’re Looking For” is that it shines as a great contrast to the gritty, danceable electro-indie-rock vibe of Eastwood’s 2013 release, Late Nights in Bolo Ties. If this track is any indication to the journey ahead both for Anderson and the audience, Small Victories (to release on October 9th, 2015) will likely encourage the defiant act of letting the light into the dark places.

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PLAYING DETROIT: Odd Hours

The first half of my conversation with Natasha Beste of moody electro-pop duo Odd Hours is instantly dedicated to playing six degrees of separation between the two of us until we are able to piece our social puzzle together, realizing that we run in the same circles and are friends with the same people and both conclude that Detroit is a lot like high school.

“In Detroit, it’s really easy to make things happen if you are really motivated and dedicated. If you are snotty or mean or not serious about what you’re doing, it will get around fast,” Beste says. “I’m lucky to have met and become friends with people that make doing this fun, it never feels like work.”

This non-work-work Beste is referring to is Odd Hours latest EP noreprinphrine + dopamine, an assertive and pouty collection of songs that are as glittery as they are confrontational. Beste’s attention to duality, both in her personal life and in her Odd Hours world (she is also a teacher and video artist) resonates as a playful game of tug-of-war sonically. Beste describes the toggling of themes as a “constant up and down.” From asking for what you want and ending up bored by the instant gratification to feeling left out or misunderstood yet worthy enough to exert power, Odd Hours challenges themselves by provoking a polarizing experience. As it turns out, this very balancing act of various selves and influences resulted in what Beste considers to be the truest version of what they’ve been trying to accomplish since they formed. “I think with artists there are things that come out of you naturally. And for me things were coming out of me that weren’t matching what I was listening to, or what we were making,” Beste explains. “We’ve been morphing and changing our sound and we finally feel comfortable in our skin. We want to keep going with how we sound now.”

Odd Hours have been making noise around the city for five years. Beste and her collaborator and Hours guitarist, Timothy Jagielo, assembled after exhausting previous projects, wanting to expand beyond their old work and Detroit city limits. “I was in a lot of different bands before I met Tim but after a while I really wanted to do something that would allow me to be loud and raunchy,” Beste says “We were both in a place where we wanted to start something new.” With additions bassist, Clint Stuart, and drummer Randy Hanley Jr, each track on noreprinphrine + dopamine is a banger in its own right, successfully and collectively fulfilling Beste’s aforementioned desires of sounding loud and raunchy while remaining a compelling and polished production. When asked about the possibility of a full length release, Beste is uncertain, but unwavering in her convictions towards quality vs. quantity. “It’s the way that my brain works. My whole life of music I’ve really stuck with EPs. I’m not saying we would never release an LP. Everything that needed to be said was said within these songs.” she explains. “It could be the next thing we do, but it has to feel right.”

The accompanying video for their first single “SWTS” is a true testament to Odd Hours theatrics; a great introduction to their provocative landscape, their lust filled, odd world. Full of if-David Lynch-cast-Lindsey Lohan-in-a-music-video vibes (Beste laughs excitedly at this comparison) aligns with the estranged bossiness of the song where Beste howls: “I thought someone told me / Like Christmas / I would get to make a wish list,” a vulnerable plea paralleled with warbled rock vocals, a sensibility carried throughout the EP.

By the end of our chat we realize we share a friend in noreprinphrine + dopamine producer Jon Zott and that we were both on set for Tunde Olaniran’s video earlier this year and it is with this strange connectivity that we are able to commiserate over the special brand of small world-ness Detroit offers. I finish by apologizing for referring to her music as bratty, though meant as a compliment as it’s a trait I regard as honest and unapologetic, to which she assures me is a perfectly apt description. “It’s funny because my boyfriend Kevin (and partner in Gold House Media) as well as my guitarist Tim and Tunde all call me a brat because I get what I want. But I have a vision,” Beste explains. “I am always three steps ahead.”

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PLAYING DETROIT: Killer Queens Playlist

Detroit is a perplexing musical playground. From the greats of Motown all the way down to (like, rock bottom level down) king of the trailer park Kid Rock and his pasty, ornery 8 Mile loving opposition, Eminem to minimalistic power duo, The White Stripes and that guy selling a surprisingly fire rap demo in the gas station parking lot, the fabric of Detroit’s musical reputation is eclectic and strange; a fitting categorization. But what often gets overlooked is Detroit’s unbreakable continuing history of women in music. While compiling this list of friends, virtual unknowns, and local legends, I found I was overcoming my own poorly formed belief that Detroit was deficient in powerful female influence. Detroit is ferociously defined by the voice, talent, and unwavering sense of “Yeah, I got this” best demonstrated by these babes. The collection of women below share in their uncompromisingly daring expressions of self which in turn is a reflection of Detroit’s maverick spirit.

1. FLINT EASTWOOD “SECRETARY”

Jax Anderson, lead queen, is a powerhouse. Unsigned rockers, Flint Eastwood are on to something. Slinking rock-revivalist vibes tinged with Sleater-Kinney moments and vocal ferociousness that could give Alison Mosshart a run for her money, Flint Eastwood makes The Black Keys sound like watered down elementary school karaoke.

2. ADULT. “INCLINED TO VOMIT”

Married electro punk duo ADULT. fronted by Nicola Kuperus and Adam Lee Miller, is Detroit’s answer to Devo, Romeo Void, and Wall of Voodoo without ever feeling like an imitation. First assembled in 1998, ADULT. is an obscure and active staple and in many ways a pioneer in the formation of Detroit’s current synth punk scene.

2. THE GORE GORE GIRLS “YOU LIED TO ME BEFORE”

Formed in 1997 by Amy Gore, The Gore Gore Girls are one of the cities most influential psych-punk bands. Fittingly named after a 70’s splatter flick, The Gore Gore Girls have toured as support to The Cramps and have played festivals with The Stooges, The Strokes, and The Zombies. Over the course of ten years and three albums, they’ve managed to maintain their psychedelic, raised-from-the-dead sound that continue to set the stage for some of the other ladies on this list.

4. SUZI QUATRO “IF YOU CAN’T GIVE ME LOVE”

https://youtu.be/L0uWVw4aBxY

Detroit’s under credited queen of rock is as much of an influence today as she was when she hit the scene back in 1972. Although not the first of her kind, Quatro paved the way for girls who could hang with the boys by crafting a subdued androgynous persona on stage and a roaring rock sound behind the mic. Considered one of the first female bassists to break through in the boys game of rock n’ roll, Quatro remains one of Detroit’s baddest women of rock.

5. LITTLE ANIMAL “TRYST”

Singer Rachelle Baker and producer Nick Marrow make up Little Animal, a dreamy duo responsible for the sexiest music in town. Smoothly assembled, celestial textured electronic beats that could be easily be the love child of Erykah Badu and Bjork.

6. MEXICAN KNIVES “KILLER SNAKE”

Ruth Synowiec fronts Mexican Knives, a buzzy, lo-fi blues rock band with biting bass lines and pulsing surf punk undertones. Alongside guitarist Zach Weedon and drummer Blair Wills, Synowiec vocals are a perfect counterpart to their Brian Jonestown Massacre tendencies. She may have told The Detroit Metro Times last year that she “has no idea what she’s doing” although endearing, it’s clear that she’s wrong.

7. PRETTY GHOULS “KILLER SLUG”

Asia Mock, Sarah Stawski, and T.J Grech are Pretty Ghouls, an angsty, raw nerve punk trio that is undoubtedly one of the hardest, fuzziest newcomers to come out of Detroit in recent years. Unapologetic, Pretty Ghouls channel Detroit god Iggy Pop through their own “fuck you” filter, which makes sense considering Mock told Detroit’s Metro Times in 2012 that she wants to be the first, black female Iggy Pop. “I just want to scream in people’s faces and maybe get to rub my vagina on something in public.”

8. JESSICA HERNANDEZ & THE DELTAS “CRY, CRY, CRY”

Jessica Hernandez is a Detroit darling to the max. One of our cities most beloved female acts, Hernandez (and The Deltas, respectively) have birthed their own breed of soul/pop that is as sugary as it sexy. Colorfully confident arrangements paired with Hernandez’s signature saccharine vulnerability makes for some of Detroit’s grooviest pop.

9. CHEERLEADER “QUENCHED”

Flint-based Cheerleader, comprised of Nisa, Polly, and Ashley, is a muddy, gritty Nirvana-demo sounding trio who unabashedly thrash lyrics like “Little boys with big dicks/we need a cure for it” over messily effective compositions. Although Cheerleader doesn’t have a large collection of songs, they are a defiant presence in the Michigan underground.

10. EL DEE “HEAVEN HELP ME”

Lauren Deming, or El Dee, leads a group of friends/musicians into a jazzy throwback dreamscape all her own. Rich and pure, Deming’s vocals are breathy, yet challenging. Without a rigid commitment to an era niche, El Dee manages to fuse Gershwin-esque standards with contemporary arrangement not unlike Amy Winehouse or Jon Brion, with avoiding sounding like a “fusion” artist.

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PLAYING DETROIT: 800beloved

Introducing a new column that takes us inside the Detroit music scene – AF

A lot can happen in five years. Sean Lynch of Milford-based dream pop, post-punk trio, 800beloved, agrees with me. Five years ago I met Lynch, per my request as both a fan and as a writer, to chat about Everything Purple, the band’s dreamy follow-up to 2009’s Jesus and Mary Chain-esque debut Bouquet just before dissolving their relationship with their label, which lead to a three year hiatus. At the time, Lynch was still posing as a funeral director with a focus on restorative cosmetology, a profession that occupied over a decade of his life, and one that infiltrated 800beloved’s subject matter and undoubtedly crafted their signature staticky-concrete-macabre aesthetic.

Fast forward to today. I find myself at Bronx Bar in Detroit sitting across from Lynch, considered now to be one of my best friends and most faithful musical allies, to discuss a different type of undertaking, the release of 800beloved’s long awaited third record, Some Kind of Distortion. “We Beyonce’d that shit,” Lynch says in reference to the unannounced, overnight drop of the album on August 3rd. “I guess this is us going back to true left of the dial punk rock D.I.Y. We didn’t promote this record even though it was finished a year ago. It just felt like the season perfectly lined up and there was a storm that night.” This speaks true to Lynch’s creative sensibility, to trust intuition as means of honing in on emotive moments rather than popular opportunity, which explains 800’s quiet notoriety. “800beloved has become very niche-y, which is good,” Lynch explains. “We are truly comfortable narrowing the scope and not being a solicitation or a buzz band.”

For a three piece (currently composed of Anastasiya Metesheva on bass, Ben Collins on drums, and Lynch on vocals, guitar and production, respectively) 800beloved’s sound achieves a shimmering fullness that is as methodical as it is nostalgic. Some Kind of Distortion abandons traditional verse, chorus, verse, and is almost entirely devoid of hooks, a distortion in its own right. Distortion is a record with a pulse of throbbing warped sounds, and although difficult to identify, it still manages convulse with familiarity – from the warbled, zombie surf rock tones in “Die Slow,” to the droning, buzzy vocals on “Cicadas” that lends itself to sounding like an aural illusion to the soft and swelling opening instrumental track “0930131103.” “This is our attempt at psychedelic dream pop. We are playing back to our roots while exploring things we’ve never introduced to our audience through our particular filter,” says Lynch. “It’s a record that is sort of introverted and juvenile. It’s almost concept-less, in a way.”

I tell Lynch that the latest record is much less “death-y” than his previous, a statement he agrees with. “Enduring Black” (appropriately inspired by a CoverGirl cosmetic name found in the embalming room at his last funeral gig) is the shortest song on the album, clocking in just under three minutes. Even so, Lynch manages to write what feels like an obituary to his direct involvement with death work by means of his simplistic and clever lyrical prowess: ‘When I lose this black suit/I hope I forget/ what this all looks like in the end/I’d rather get distracted/by the liner ’round your eyes/Enduring Black/after all this time.’ “The song is sort of my sign off as a funeral director, an admission that I wanted more. It was my attempt to part with it, intellectually,” Lynch says. The album’s title track opens with a haunted crooning, “Time why are you so cruel/when I had all these ideas for you” and paints the glimmering sense of teenage suburbia while the song plays out like an invitation to a dystopian after party. “It’s addressing modern day distractions, but the jam seems like it’s out of a John Hughes film,” Lynch details. He is reminded, excitedly, of his inspiration behind tracking the song in post. “When you and our friends threw my birthday party at the roller rink, I just kept thinking of the stoner-y Dazed and Confused vibe of rollerskating. End of summer, stale burnt grass. That’s what I’ve tried to capture with this record.”

800beloved (which, if you haven’t figured it out by now is in fact a phone number) are not strangers to strong visual imageries that require, for those curious enough, further explanation though never deviating from disarming the audience. “The cover art is a lift from our friend’s Instagram. When I saw the photo I immediately sensed the vibe of the album which leaves this stained cafeteria feeling.” Lynch is wistful when he says this, and it is with this very passion in which he describes the synchronistic way in which the photo encapsulates the album and the band’s willingness to artfully displace themselves by releasing Distortion completely independently, that I am reminded of his affinity for detail both visually and sonically (and the palpable electricity he exudes when the two are perfectly wed). “When you work with a label and they tell you one thing and it doesn’t happen, it feels like a hula dance. A hula hoop doesn’t belong in a tree. I love the connotation of displacement of an object.”

So, yes. We were right. A lot can change in five years. Although 800beloved has remained uncompromising in vision, they continue to evolve. They’re still the band you have to seek to find or will possibly trip over. We conclude our interview (during which I’m not sure I ever even posed a question, a stark contrast to my pages of meticulous, shaky fangirl notes from five years ago) and venture out for a late night dinner where we take turns laughing, commiserating, and stealing french fries and onion rings off of each other’s respective plates. We eventually part ways at the gig van, aptly named “the space station” where Sean lends me an Alesis processor and the road worn, black electric Epiphone used on Bouquet, their first album and my summer soundtrack for heartbreak the year of its release. It’s a poetic transfer between friends; words for words, music for music, fried food for fried food. It isn’t until after I’m nestled into my apartment later that night with these symbolic musical tools far too advanced for my two- month- old fascination that Sean texts me, “I can’t wait to hear your distortions.” A perfectly apropos end to the night. I put my phone down and make some ugly, screechy guitar sounds and am suddenly warmed and buzzed by my own contortions as I dreamt of roller skates, longing for a summer that may or may not have happened yet.

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Album Review: Tunde Olaniran “Transgressor”

Named as one of Rolling Stone Magazine’s “Artists to Watch” this month just a week after his wildly anticipated sophomore album Transgressor (Quite Scientific Records) dropped to an outpour of local and national praise, Flint, Michigan native Tunde Olaniran is making seismic waves with no end in sight.

Much like Olaniran himself, Transgressor is ambitious. The album treads on territory once explored by pop/hip hop/rock greats, but through his own vocal ferocity and audaciously layered beats. Olaniran manages to pave a path all his own (and in doing so, has reset the bar for breakout artists and seasoned vets, alike.) Transgressor achieves a rare feat: each track stands confidently on it’s own. Although the album is bound by a consistent textural experimentation, this allows each track to resonate with a unique reference point. Freddie Mercury vocals here. Early Missy Elliott vibes there. With Antony and the Johnsons meets Yeezus with a kiss of Squarepusher scattered throughout.

Trangressor is theatrical and strange, but never boring. The track “KYBM” incorporates pulsating tribal drum rhythms and chanting, yet there are moments that feel like a Baz Luhrmann film as heard on “Don’t Cry,” and others transport you to church like the standout breakup track, “Let Me Go.” These influences make Transgressor hard to categorize but help keep the album consistently curious. “Experimental pop/hip hop is the simplest way to categorize my sound,” Olaniran explained to me on the set of his music video for “KYBM” this past February. “I’m always trying new sounds, new ways to use my voice. But I like how it’s a little crude at the same time. With Transgressor I try to limit myself because I don’t want it to sound super polished.”

My favorite example of this methodology is the album’s alternative-broke-baller anthem “Diamonds” featuring iRAWniQ and Passalacqua. With lines like “I’m a fiend for a discount/ while I dream of a penthouse” and “Ima keep it real/nothing in my pocket but a $5 bill/guess I’ll go to Taco Bell and get a combo meal” (even including a line referencing the mass water shutoff controversy in Detroit) Olaniran makes even the downtrodden and relevant, funny. “At my core, I’m a ridiculous person.” He explained. “I don’t want to denigrate other artists or music but it can seem a little heavy handed when you’re trying to get a message across. I don’t want there to be a barrier. I want you to have music you can enjoy.”

Tag: Jerilyn Jordan