In a year without dance clubs or music festivals, New York-based DJ and producer Julia Govor wanted to do something to bring together her colleagues. Indefinite Uncertainty, which dropped November 27, is the result of that mission. A 10-track compilation from Govor’s own label, Jujuka, Indefinite Uncertainty is a broadly techno collection with a diverse roster of producers, from Detroit-based experimental collective Pure Rave to Paraguayan dance music pioneer Victoria Mussi.
Some of the artists are people Govor has known for quite a while through DJ circles. Others, she found through avenues like Bandcamp. They all have something in common. “I trust what they do,” Govor says on a recent video call from her home. Plus, she adds, “They are extremely good people with a big heart and care about others.”
For a touring DJ, being on the road is also an opportunity to hear new music, to meet people who may become collaborators and to get feedback on their own work. “When everything is shut down the part of connecting with each other through music basically disappeared, because there’s no shows,” she says. “I decided I have to do something to stay in touch with all of these brilliant musicians.”
In any other year, all these artists might have met up with each other at a gig somewhere in the world, but, without those, Govor is fostering a different kind of connection, one that’s driven by her own love of curation. “I could be connected with them through their music because music is extremely personal expression,” she says.
Govor herself was set to play Los Angeles the night before the city shutdown due to the COVID-19 pandemic, but the gig was canceled. It was a disappointment, but, she says, it also showed that the promoters cared about the safety of others. She adds, “It’s very important for me to work with people like this.”
Originally from Russia, Govor moved to New York six years ago. She’s played clubs from Germany to Brazil and festivals like EDC in Las Vegas. During this time at home, she’s worked on music that had been sitting around unfinished – and that’s led to a big breakthrough. “Quarantine actually helped me to clear my vision on the music that I wanted to do,” she says. She adds that while others in the dance music world may have focused on tracks for at-home listening, that wasn’t what she wanted to make. “I decided I am going to just clear my vision of how dance music could be,” she says. That led to some ideas for what will be her fist proper album; while Govor has been making music for a decade and released plenty of tracks and EPs, she’s yet to put out a full-length. “It was good to understand how can I be who I was before, to learn and understand how can I place myself to the new normals,” she says. “I was just looking and listening and trying to find myself.”
The year also brought a few other breakthroughs for Govor. She recently earned a residency for New York’s online radio station The Lot. Her show, called Cosmonaut, debuted late last summer. It’s an opportunity to play unreleased tracks and promos and to give people some of the background on artists making techno.
In October, her track “Shelter 909” appeared on the compilation Hot Steel: Round 2 from Trip Recordings, the label helmed by DJ Nina Kraviz. Govor had produced “Shelter 909” back in 2016 and the track was previously set for release on another label, but, that deal fell through. “I was very upset and frustrated,” she says about the situation. On a run, though, she stumbled upon a solution. Govor noticed a key on the asphalt, then looked at her phone and saw that Kraviz had sent her a message on Instagram. That’s when she realized that there was a metaphorical key to her dilemma. She asked Kraviz, who Govor knew from back when both were living in Moscow, if she’d be interested in the track. The lesson, Govor says, “If one door is closed another will open for sure.”
As for her own label, that’s been undergoing an evolution, too. Govor launched Jujuka back in 2018 to release her own music. Initially, she worked with artists to include comics within the releases, but she’s since shifted away from that model. “It’s hard to do it the proper way,” she says of fusing together the two media; Govor wanted to focus on the music. Additionally, she has expanded to release music made by other producers as well.
Curation for the label is imperative. She likes to find artists on her own and understand who they are beyond a single track. “I have to see this full vision of their artistic direction,” she says. She also wants get a feel for how they might develop as artists and if she can see herself and the artists growing alongside each other.
“It’s just so amazing to be in touch with the producers and talk about how we can make the track, or how it can be promoted,” she says. “It’s my favorite part and also the most difficult part.”
Back in 2015, when New York-based duo Tempers (Jasmine Golestaneh and Eddie Cooper) originally released their debut album, Services, the vinyl was limited to 500 copies and released through the German label Aufnahme + Wiedergabe. For the fan base that they were building in the U.S., vinyl copies were difficult, if not impossible, to find.
“I get emails every day from people wanting to buy the album,” says Golestaneh by phone. “It seemed like people really wanted to have it on vinyl.”
On December 11, Dais Records will reissue Services – and, yes, that includes a vinyl release for the Stateside crowd – alongside an acoustic version of album track “Bright Over Me.” At the time that they recorded Services, Golestaneh explains, the duo was working experimentally and recorded acoustic versions of some songs that would go onto appear on the debut.
Bringing together threads of musical styles like cold wave, minimal synth and techno, Tempers has forged a sound that is raw and emotional. Over the years, their process to making that music has evolved considerably. “In the beginning, there was this idea that if you labor or suffer over a song, it’s going to be better. If you haven’t suffered over it, somehow, it’s not good enough,” she says. “Over time, we discovered that the songs that take less time, the songs that, really, are the most intuitive and simple to write, are the ones that are the most powerful and immediate and effective.”
Tempers’ most recent single, “The Use of My Belonging,” came together fairly easily, Golestaneh says. She and Cooper worked on the song remotely while staying at home. The bandmates have developed a songwriting partnership that Golestaneh describes as “telepathic.”
At the beginning of the COVID-19 pandemic, the two were in the midst of a European tour. They had to fly back from Paris and reschedule the rest of the dates. Back in New York, Golestaneh’s apartment had been infested by water bugs, so she moved into the apartment of a friend who was out of town.
“She had a very interesting and unusual bathroom – it looks like the set of a Fassbinder movie. I recorded all the vocals in this very surreal bathroom,” Golestaneh recalls. “I feel like there’s something about being displaced during the pandemic and then finding myself in this very beautiful apartment and that really added to the vulnerability of the song.”
Golestaneh, who is also a collage artist, spent a lot of the stay-at-home period watching movies, going through the works of directors like Eric Rohmer and Wim Wenders. Certainly, she says, that’s influenced her current work. “There’s always a strange mix when you’re creating something,” she says. “It’s always this unlikely alchemy of elements that suddenly turn into something that feels meaningful and it’s pulled from so many different sources.”
She had been particularly moved by a re-watch of Wim Wenders’ film Wings of Desire. “There was something about the enchanted and melancholic spirit of the movie… I wanted to do a song that feels like this movie,” she says. That night, Cooper sent her the music for what would become “The Use of My Belonging” and it was precisely what Golestaneh had in mind. She was able to get the lyrics and vocals together quickly. The result is a delicately pensive song that captures the mood of a time where so little seems certain.
“Lyrically, it was very much about the feeling of being in a pandemic, but also the mass manipulation and power dynamics, really destructive power dynamics and police brutality and the rise of protests and feeling really overwhelmed and really scared,” she says, “but also really hoping that the loving aspect of our human nature will prevail through all of this.”
Learning how to make music without forcing the song to manifest is something that Golestaneh says took time to learn. “It’s trust. Trusting and letting it happen,” she says. “There’s something really powerful about just letting go in that way.”
But, getting to that point of trust meant moving beyond the common belief that creativity should be hard. “I think that it’s probably that way with a lot of artists, where you think that you should be suffering for some reason. There’s a nobility to suffering,” she says. “Life is already so hard – this is something that is really just quite freeing and quite a relief.”
New York-based singer-songwriter/guitarist R O N I was visiting Tel Aviv when a friend introduced her to producer FortyForty. It was a serendipitous encounter resulting in an impromptu recording that forms the basis of her new single “Stop Motion” and forthcoming EP, Crown.
At the time, R O N I was emerging from relationship. “My mind was all in there,” she says by phone from her home in Brooklyn. “I think that I would have never been able to let it out in that way if it wasn’t for that specific situation.” She estimates that about 85% of the improvised song remains in the version that would eventually be released. They even kept a lot of the original vocal takes. “There were just moments there that we knew were gold because there were no boundaries.”
The result is a reflection on a particular moment in the past relationship, related through powerful, melancholy vocals and set against a slow groove. “Even though we knew it was just not going to work, we would still walk down the street holding hands,” she says. She remembers wondering if onlookers would see the couple and not realize that things just weren’t good. “Even now, I see couples in the street sometimes and I stop and think to myself, I wonder if they’re dealing with a similar thing that I was dealing with,” she says.
“Stop Motion” is one of four songs to appear on Crown. A second single will be released on August 30, with the full EP set to drop on September 9 via Tel Aviv imprint InchPerSecond Records. On various dates in August, R O N I plans to release four music videos that, when played together, can be viewed like a short film. She worked with a friend to use astrology to select the release dates. “No release on any day is random for this record,” she says. “It’s all very intentional. All with the intention of helping the planet and helping humanity.”
Born and raised in Jerusalem, R O N I moved to New York a decade ago, after spending some time in Tel Aviv and London. “It’s probably the most mind-opening, mind-challenging place to be in the world,” she says of New York. Both her hometown and her adopted hometown have made an impact on her work.
“I think being born in Jerusalem and being raised in that city as well… my main agenda is to truly help bring peace into that area and at the end of the day,” she says. “There are different tools that we as humans can use to help those around us. I found that music to me is a really great tool that I want to bring people together.”
Meanwhile, she credits New York with opening her mind in many ways. “That is the place where I could meet and talk and befriend people that I never had the chance to do that with where I’m from, for many reasons that are beyond my control,” she says.
R O N I began playing guitar at the age of eight. A few years later, a teacher got her into playing jazz professionally and introduced her to classic bands like Pink Floyd (specifically, she says, David Gilmour) and Led Zeppelin. R O N I recognized that she didn’t have many guitar heroes who were women and says that was likely a big motivation for her to keep going. She spent six years in music school, focusing on guitar and, by her late teens, began studying voice on the sly. “I was just very proud of the guitar part and I didn’t want anyone to hear me sing at that point,” she says.
Photo Credit: Pritam Siri
Later on, she would find inspiration in a new crop of artists, like James Blake, FKA Twigs and St. Vincent. She says that their songs “were simple and beautiful and could have been recorded with just a piano or a guitar, but this production around it was just bringing it to a whole other level for me.”
On that trip to Tel Aviv, where R O N I recorded the first draft of “Stop Motion,” she also began work on the rest of the Crown EP. Overall, though, the four-song release took about two years to complete, since she and FortyForty were collaborating remotely. R O N I recorded some of the vocals and guitars at her home in Brooklyn. She also recorded some parts in Los Angeles, when she was in town for a two-month stay and had brought her gear with her. Ultimately, she says, the “core” of that work done in Tel Aviv is still there on the EP. “Nothing went completely 180 degrees,” she says.
Conceptually, R O N I builds an arc on handling the end of a relationship, from the moments of missing someone, to self-destructive experiences, to finding a new beginning that lead to a sense of understanding and closure.
With “Stop Motion,” R O N I saw how important it was to incorporate these experiences into music. In the end, they are universal feelings. “It brings it to a point of unity, that you’re not alone and that a lot of people experience it in the same way,” she says. “In a way, it’s you’re-not-special, but, it’s okay to be where you need to be at the moment.”
When talking to musician Hollis Wong-Wear, it feels as though she has all the time in the world for you. This is indicative of the enjoyment she gains from meeting people and creating connections. “I am a very passionate host and I love bringing people together and cultivating a cool vibe,” she says as we chat over the phone. “My sense of self as an artist is inseparable from the community.”
Beginning her music career as one third of the band The Flavr Blue, writing music for other musicians and her band, it wasn’t until recently that she felt ready to create her own collection of work. “I had become this master facilitator. When I work with other people I can take on the responsibility of doing something as a joint venture to motivate me,” the singer-songwriter explains, adding that when it came to creating with her own voice and story it felt akin to an uphill battle. ”It goes back to that insecurity of ‘Why does my voice matter?’”
Her anxiety is more than relatable; in a social media-saturated world, anyone and everyone is clambering to have that big break in their career, whether they’re an artist, musician or writer. Knowing she was more comfortable collaborating and building community, Hollis used those skills to her advantage. She created her unique Hollis Does Brunch series, which takes place in a number of cities across the U.S., and acted as a Trojan Horse to get her used to performing her own music and telling her story. She released her debut solo EP half-life last February. A deluxe version of the EP arrives May 22nd, with two music videos to celebrate – live recordings of her singles “Sedative” and “Back To Me.”
Organizing food-related events was an organic step – growing up in her mom’s Chinese restaurant in the suburbs of San Francisco made Hollis a moth to a flame when it comes to good meals and community spirit. “I think food is kind of like the first art form that I really, truly understood… the idea of gathering people around music and food was a concept that, for me, was a natural connection,” she says. “My end of goal of why I create anything is to bring people together in a meaningful way and forge connections. When we did the [last in-person] Hollis Does Brunch session in Seattle, people brought their kids, their parents and their friends. It was fun and inclusive – people were drinking cocktails and feeding their kids! I want these sessions to feel good and welcome for all.”
When the current pandemic hit the States, it became clear that our lives would change drastically, and that necessary social distancing measures would protect lives. With this in mind, Hollis decided to move her brunch sessions online, creating weekly live-streams and raising money (and perhaps most importantly, awareness) for those most severely affected by the situation. She admits she had some personal motivations, too. “I love hosting and the worst thing for somebody who loves to host is not being able to have any people over to their house! So I thought: how I could scratch my ‘self-care’ itch? How can I extend that in a digital space?” she says. “If I can be a resource to others, that’s a privilege. I’m happy to get into the weeds with live-streaming because it provides that. I wanted the sessions to be about community – less ‘oh they watch me perform!’ and more about bringing in the insights of other folks. My heart hurts so deeply for all of the restaurants that have closed and laid off employees.” By organizing these sessions, Hollis hopes to provide a degree of nourishment both mentally and physically. It’s a symbiotic relationship as it brings Hollis herself a degree of commitment and structure.
Bars, restaurants, diners and cafes all played vital roles in how we lived before the pandemic. They were places of refuge and relaxation; after a busy day we flocked to them with friends, eager to shed our everyday stresses. For students and freelancers, cafes were the perfect hideaway when unable to focus at home. They housed our small ensembles to large gatherings; we shared birthdays, holidays and celebrations there, and in some cultures, wakes to remember lost loved ones. Yet they’ve endured some of the worst effects of the pandemic, the results of which has left many owners wondering if their small businesses will survive, and how they’ll pay workers who relied on tips.
These online brunch sessions raise funds for those groups especially in need during this time, such as Feeding America and the NYC UndocuWorkers Fund. Each organization is close to the heart of one of her guests joining that week; Hollis allows them to explain how they’re affected and why it’s important to extend a hand, as it were, and help lift up their chosen cause.
“One of the live-streams I did was fundraising for undocumented workers in New York City who were laid off, and then it was also fundraising for the restaurant of the chefs that I had on that day,” Hollis says. “After that I used the next session to raise money for two artist organizations in Seattle that are doing a Seattle artist relief fund, and they’ve actually already raised $200,000 and are trying to raise another $700,000 more because of the demonstrated need.”
In fact, many of the people Hollis invites have already begun their own fundraising, and the series helps garner even greater attention. “One of the chefs [Erik Bruner-Yang] that came on is doing The Power of 10 initiative, trying to raise $10,000 to hire 10 employees who will make 1,000 meals for people in the DC area. They’re trying to make that a pilot program,” Hollis says.
Like many who are working to support their local community, Hollis volunteers her time and it’s a testament to her hard work that many groups have received much-needed support in a time where it feels as though there is none. Her live-stream series “is really about giving – I’m not taking in money. The only thing I’m doing is starting a Patreon page, which I did feel conflicted about. But after looking at my expenses I realized I might need to!”
When asked how people can get involved, she stressed that there is no prescribed way to do so, and that simply being present for the brunch is enough. “I just hope that what I’m creating provides solace and support to this moment,” she says.
Life is a balancing act – sometimes, it feels like we’re living in the moment, and other times, it feels like we’re looking at our lives from outside in. This is the feeling Jessica Hottman wanted to capture on her debut EP as Sun Cycles, Imaginary, out later this month via Kansas City, MO-based label French Exit Records. The past few years have been a whirlwind for Hottman – last time we caught up with her, she was writing and recording with her sister Heather in aptly-named indie rock outfit The Hottman Sisters, but in the process of releasing their first and only EP Louder in 2018, Hottman began traveling between Omaha and Los Angeles, where her solo project Sun Cycles began to take hold.
Releasing a string of singles last year – “Rodeo,” “Bang Bang,” and “Kids” – Hottman says it was time to get serious and make a cohesive release. “When I feel like I’m transitioning [in life], I always feel like it’s time for a musical transition as well,” she says, explaining that the singles were a way for her to test the limits of what she could do, and the experience of working on them helped her feel more confident. “The music that I’d been listening to and life experiences all play into that – it just seemed like the right time to put something out that was a little more coherent, like a little body of work that goes together.”
Recorded in Philadelphia, with friends from Kansas, it’s obvious that Hottman’s fast-paced lifestyle contributed to some of the EP’s existential themes. Eventually, Hottman’s path led her to settle on the East Coast, and that’s where, riding the trains bleary-eyed at all hours of the morning, equally awed and exhausted by the grind of New York City, Hottman found her biggest inspiration for the four tracks that would comprise Imaginary. “The grittiness of New York City [gave] the music a dark, charged up, really synthy sort of feel,” Hottman says. “[NYC is] beautiful and life-giving and motivating, but there’s also a hustle to it, so I think that it morphed things in a different direction. [When] I decided to relocate out here, it just weirdly kind of made sense – it feels like I fully immersed myself into [Sun Cycles]. It went from just dabbling at it to being all in.”
The first single from the project, “Into Confusion,” features rapid-fire synths that sweep listeners up immediately, while Hottman hangs in lyrical limbo. “Got my foot on the pedal/Cruising the middle/What side am I on?/Where do I belong?” she asks. “‘Into Confusion’ is definitely about that grey area, the middle ground of wondering how much of life is in my control and out of my control and blowing that concept up even bigger,” Hottman says. “There are things that just feel at the mercy of the road ahead of us. I think it’s speaking to that, and wondering how to live the day to day is the confusion part.”
The single sets the stage for the rest of the EP, which Hottman says centers around the feeling of being caught between a make-believe world and the real one. “I’ve always been sort of a daydreamer, and I think many artists can relate to that – you’re living your life out, but you’re also sort of watching your life being played out, analyzing it, and creating art that speaks to that sort of outside-yourself feeling,” she explains. “That was the inspiration for this EP, particularly the two perspectives being together.”
“Untouchable” and “Make Believe” both center around the ecstatic fantasies born on the dance floor, while “Laugh Until We Die” again revisits the idea of drifting in those liminal spaces (“It’s 8 in the morning/I lay here mourning who they said I’d be/It’s 6 in the evening/I’m not sure I’m breathing/Suffocating in my dream”), comparing her disorientation to being whipped around on rickety carnival rides. The neon-lit production throughout adds both polish and a measured amount of nostalgia to get lost in; along the way, Hottman channels quirky pop divas like Imogen Heap and Caroline Polacheck with emotive vocals and dark, theatrical twists.
These songs differ from the Sun Cycles singles Hottman released in the project’s infancy, when she was spending more time in LA – thematically, the earlier cuts deal with dusty roads, plotting escape, shotgun romance, and other distinctly Californian motifs, but even sonically, Imaginary is loftier and looser, less concerned with looking put together than it is with taking listeners for the ride of their lives. “I was kind of coming into my own and testing the waters a little bit with those singles,” Hottman says; from that assured place, she jumps into the unknown and embraces the unexpected, the East Coast relocation dovetailing nicely with what felt like “time for like a new turn within the project.”
And Imaginary is also a departure from The Hottman Sisters’ EP Louder, which relies mote heavily on hook-laden indie rock swagger. Though part of it was logistical, Hottman says focusing on Sun Cycles just made more sense for her creatively. “I was writing all the stuff for the Hottman Sisters, so really it was more about taking my brain power from being in two projects and moving it to one project to focus on it,” she explains, though she also drops a few hints that her previous project is “not officially over and done” – the sisters have been chatting about working on new material together.
But most of all, Hottman says Sun Cycles has allowed her to come alive as an artist in her own right. “As a female coming up in this industry, I just think back to like five years ago when I was first starting and I felt like I had to lean in to like, a male character that was going to correct [me] – but I always felt like I had these other ideas,” she remembers. “I’ve found my voice more and more and I’ve been able to really come into my own and validate my own decisions. Feeling empowered as my own self and as a female to say, I can make these decisions, I can do this, has actually been really much more exciting than nerve-wracking.”
Now, she finds comfort in the unknown as much as she appreciates when everything goes according to plan. “The way that I accept that into my life is just knowing that two truths can exist,” Hottman says. There’s a line of resolve in “Into Confusion” that goes, “In the grey, I know I can carry my own.” Hottman keeps that mantra close to her heart, a reminder “to plan things out but also to just let things happen, too,” that no matter what, she’ll be just fine. That, she says, has given her the freedom to let Sun Cycles be exactly what it needs to be.
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When Johanna Warren was twelve or thirteen, she recalls thinking that if she wanted to be a true artist, she would have to fuck up her life. Her musical idols – Elliott Smith, Kurt Cobain, Nick Drake – all died as tortured young poets. Warren hadn’t sung in front of anyone since she was a child, writing songs with her little brother as their alter egos, Horsey & Joe. Over the next several years, she’d throw herself first into musical theater, combating crippling shyness to play the parts she’d immediately regretted auditioning for, before preforming jokey songs at open mic nights about surviving apocalyptic floods by taking refuge in the Loch Ness monster’s vagina. It wasn’t until years later, in a grimy punk house basement, that someone took her seriously; even then, she felt a dark pull toward misery and misfortune. “I wanted to be a great artist, so I had to open a chaotic portal to invite in a lot of suffering because that’s where great art comes from,” Warren says. “I think it’s a really grave miscalculation that we’re encouraged to make. I can’t help but feel that there’s some kind of intentionality there, on behalf of some dark, oppressive forces that want us to dim our light and die young and never thrive.”
Fast forward about a decade, and Johanna Warren found herself recording her fourth solo album, Chaotic Good, at Elliott Smith’s New Monkey Studio. It wasn’t the only place she recorded – what started out as angry acoustic demos in her Portland garage transformed over the course of touring behind her 2018 self-released double album, Gemini, as folks she met on the road offered her free studio time from coast to coast. But New Monkey was a significant space for Warren. “Right when I was starting to look for places to record, the owner invited me to have a free day there. It’s all functional as a recording studio, but they have done a really respectful job of preserving things more or less as they were when he was there – it felt like a shrine as much as a studio,” Warren says. “That was so meaningful and that was really the beginning of feeling like alright, I’m making a record. And it felt like it had kind of [Smith’s] blessing. He’s sort of my patron saint of songwriting. I feel like he gave me permission to make a record like this, where it doesn’t have to fit into one neat little genre box, it can just be an expression of my feelings and my own inner hypocrisies and self contradictions.”
Also of particular relevance was the time she spent at the Relic Room in Manhattan, recording with her old bandmates in Sticklips, Chris St. Hilaire and Jim Bertini. Their band had fallen apart in 2012, following the death of Sticklips’ leader, Jonathan “JP” Nocera. JP was the one who, all those years ago, had sat Warren down and made her play every song she’d ever written, recognizing in her something she couldn’t yet see in herself. “He wanted us to keep going with it, but honestly he was the glue that held it all together,” Warren recalls. “I was not capable of keeping it together after he was gone because I didn’t know myself enough musically or emotionally. I wasn’t confident enough in my own ideas because the only music I had really recorded or produced was with them, and they were all slightly older men. At the time I was all too happy to let them take the reins. I was angry about it but didn’t even know that there was another way. My frustrations with that were building but I didn’t have the emotional interpersonal skills to communicate any of that so it just exploded.”
Despite the buzz around the band’s two LPs, 2009’s It Is Like a Horse. It Is Not Like Two Foxes. and 2012’s more minimally-named Zemi, Warren had decided to go it alone, and moved to the West Coast, touring with the likes of Iron & Wine and Julie Byrne. “It was definitely kind of traumatic because I felt like I’d always wanted to be in a great band – I was obsessed with The Beatles and Radiohead. Right as things started to really gel, it all fell apart. And I was so young at the time, it was really formative. I’m just now starting to open the door to collaborating with other people again, cause I’ve been licking that wound for the last decade.” Her first solo album, Fates, arrived in 2013, followed by numun (pronounced “new moon”) in 2015. After recording both Gemini records, but unable to find a label that would release them, Warren formed Spirit House Records from the ashes of a label that JP had gifted her upon his passing. Over time, it has evolved into a collective of experimental folk artists, mostly in and around the Portland scene. Later, Sadie Dupuis of Sad13 and Speedy Ortiz would re-release the Gemini records on her Carpark imprint Wax Nine, as well as put out Chaotic Good.
In the process of recording Chaotic Good, Warren says she looked to that younger version of herself for gems of wisdom and truth that had gotten buried and forgotten over time. “That’s sort of a theme of the album – burying the dream that never came true, and the presence of death and the spirits of the dead, but then the rebirth and new life that springs from the ruins of whatever you’ve buried and grieved,” Warren explains. “This last couple years have been all about a kind of return. It has led to me stepping into my own power, and then also remembering: I have a band – I left them in New York ten years ago. I just need to hit them up and make some amends.” Warren did just that, reuniting with St. Hilaire and Bertini to add drums, synth, and bass to her demos. “It was so healing for everybody to play together again in a completely different context, and for me to be able to assert myself and hold my own. It felt so satisfying to pick up that loose thread and weave it back into the tapestry.”
It was validating, too, to be in control of that process – the band added their parts over the vocals she’d recorded in Portland, as opposed to Warren adding her parts over Sticklips tracks. Back then, Warren says, “I was like the icing on the cake – even though it had been my song that was the foundation around which all of the other instrumentation had been built, I always felt like my stuff was just an afterthought. I didn’t even have the vocabulary to say I can’t hear myself, it doesn’t sound like me, it doesn’t sound like my song anymore. So to work this way with the same people, but have my parts actually be the backbone of the whole recorded construction was really cool. It was such an amazing testament to the collective work we’ve all been doing in the last ten years around gender and power and breaking down these oppressive hierarchical structures.”
The metaphor of excavating her old selves pops up in two videos for the album’s early singles, the graceful stop-motion of “Bed of Nails” and “Only The Truth,” which posits Warren as a Druid resurrected in present-day Los Angeles, still able to find magic in a neon-lit roller rink. “It was so fun to play that character for a couple days, cause I realized, I didn’t really even have to act – this is how I’ve always felt moving through the world, especially places like LA. So much of her world has been lost and destroyed, but magic still exists in everything, and that’s kind of what the song is about too,” she says, before quoting a lyric from the song: “I see light everywhere I go, I see the love in all of you.”
Warren, for what it’s worth, has long identified as a witch “as kind of an eco-feminist fuck you to the patriarchy,” though she doesn’t rely on ritual these days as much as she once did. She practices plant medicine and reiki, and her spiritual beliefs are subtly integrated throughout the album. “What you call God, I call the mysteries of the universe/What difference does it really make after all?” she asks on “Rose Potion,” a song that hints at her experience weaning herself off of pharmaceuticals prescribed for chronic illnesses that only worsened until she was able to find natural remedies and process past trauma. Piano-driven, woodwind-embellished album closer “Bones of Abandoned Futures” describes, in essence, a binding ceremony, in which Warren releases herself from the spells of the past: “Expell from my body the putrid mess inside me and call back my magic to me,” she sings, describing the process as “killing” and “slaughtering” the darkness before she comes to the final, poignant lines, “The time has come for stillness and mindful cultivation of light/Removing the sting and the sorrows of losing by singing with all of my might.” In that way, Chaotic Good is medicine all on its own – the album sees Warren confronting abusers past and present, personal and political, and stepping into her own power and anger as a woman.
“A big part of it [was] just recognizing that I have always had anger in me, inviting that energy into the room, learning how to scream, and giving myself space to do that vocally for the first time,” says Warren, who is at her most brazen on “Twisted,” a seething send-off that sees the singer posit herself as a warrior broken by loving someone incapable of empathy or understanding. “In my previous work I tried to repress it, because I thought it was ugly and scary and bad. I’d been limiting myself to this really pretty, clean, crystalline quality that gets praised a lot. But [for] this record and this time in my life, I’ve given up on prettiness and just gotten more interested in being whole, embracing all parts of myself and not trying to cut things out cause I don’t think they’re pretty.”
Parts of Chaotic Good still rely on the haunting beauty of Warren’s voice – like hushed ballad “Hole in the Wall,” rambling confessional “Every Death,” or wistful, warm acoustic number “Thru Yr Teeth” – but juxtapose them with with the same bitter emotions. As Warren lived her nomadic lifestyle, touring behind Gemini and snatching up time to experiment with newer songs in whatever studio spaces she could, the instrumentation on Chaotic Good grew more robust than any of her previous work, drawing that bitterness out sonically on songs like “Faking Amnesia” and “Part of It,” on which she sings “This is a time for me, everything else can wait/Whatever is meant to be will be and everything else can fall away.”
Indeed, Warren herself is the centerpiece of Chaotic Good, even as springy bass and shuffling drums give the tracks more punk rock energy than the pristine folk she’d cultivated in the past. “I was the only consistent player throughout – it was just me and my guitar and my traveling hard drive flitting around the whole country and working with different people in different places,” Warren says, noting that such an usual way of working was incredibly freeing in that it allowed her to explore different elements and ideas. “It was re-enlivening to get so many pairs of fresh ears on it, a day at a time. It was such a unique way of working. I’m not in any rush to go back to doing it the other way because it gave me so much time and space to reflect and change things up with low stakes.”
“That’s part of the namesake – the chaotic nature of recording it,” she continues. “I was like some little pollinating insect flying around flower to flower and getting the nectar of each moment in time in space,” she says. “I’ve never worked like that before… I feel like it translates to me synaestehtically; when I listen to the record all my senses are flooded with this feeling of variety. I feel like I see rainbows when I listen to it because there are so many moments in time, so many places, so many people, it feels like a travelogue of the last couple years that have been so beautiful really. So chaotic, but so good.”
More than any other song on the album, “Only The Truth” encapsulates Warren’s tumultuous journey, not only as a singer- songwriter, but as human being drawn into a series of co-dependent relationships. As the track builds, she calls out her past reliance on creating songs out of personal tragedy, describing “the sacred well of pain that I’ve returned to time and time again to fill my vessels with the nectar torture poison that my thirsty muse took a liking to.”
“That is to me, an encapsulation of a big over-arching process that I’ve been really invested in personally,” Warren admits. “I’ve taken a real stance against that in myself and in the world around me. It is possible to be happy and make great art and thrive and be healthy and live to a hundred twenty. And I want to do it. I want to prove to myself that that’s possible.”
Warren is currently holed up Wales, following the postponement of a European tour in support of Chaotic Good; she’s planting a garden, foraging wild foods and setting up a recording studio in a spare room, realizing that she needs this time to heal the body she’s put through years of touring. “I feel really happy right now, and honestly, I haven’t had that burning desire to create that I did when I was a tortured 20-something, when that was my only outlet,” she says. “Now, I feel really peaceful when I just wake up and walk outside and plant my beans. I don’t feel the urgency that I did, but I feel that I am making good work that I stand behind that is serving a purpose. And I feel very invested in dismantling that programming that has been running itself out in my mind for a long time and creating and alternative.”
Follow Johanna Warren on Facebook for ongoing updates.
“I’m not ready for the big time, baby,” sings indie-folk artist Lesley Barth on “Lower East Side,” the opening track of her forthcoming sophomore album, Big Time Baby. Having co-produced the album with Joe Michelini from the band American Trappist, the follow-up to Barth’s 2017 debut LP Green Hearts may prove otherwise when it arrives May 15th. The album explores themes of vulnerability and isolation, and details different paths for rebuilding your life and unmasking your true self along the way. We are excited to premiere her second single off the album, “Nashville,” exclusively on Audiofemme.
“It was empowering to find out what the songs require, and have much more of a hand in the vision of the songs this time around,” Barth says, when I ask what it was like to help produce the album. As we talked, her husband and fellow musician Chuck Ramsey is playing music on the other side of their New York apartment, where they’ve lived for the past nine years. They met when they both lived in Philadelphia and were teaching music lessons, which Lesley still does, although virtually these days. “There’s an energy and hustle to New York that we love – it’s easy to be a creative person here. People take you seriously.”
Her first seven years in New York were spent at a corporate job, relying on its predictability and stability while also trying to fit writing and playing music into her schedule. Struggling to balance full-time work and creative side projects led her to reconsider if she was “in a place where I needed to be.” Barth had a weighty decision she needed to make, and didn’t really “have a plan at all” other than wanting to move toward music as her full-time career path. She was facing the great fear that tries to prevent anyone from changing, and yet she was able to boldly follow a sink-or-swim mentality: “If you build yourself a boat, you’re going to go back to the mainland. But if you don’t build the boat, you’ll figure it out on the island.” Trading an office for a stage has paid off for her, as she’s built up her audience in an incremental fashion. Her connection with her listeners has grown in many ways in the past few years, including through her Patreon community, where she has shared original songs and offered monthly virtual concerts since 2017.
One of the unique ways she challenged herself during this transitional time in her career was to write thirty songs in thirty days to celebrate her thirtieth birthday. “Nashville” was one of the songs that survived the experiment, and became one of her favorites to play live. The narrative is based on a guy her husband had played music with in New York, who was “playing cover guitar at this late night bar/with his drawl and his cowboy hat” – longing to play country songs, but not quite bold enough to express his true self in a noisy East-coast bar. “He bought a leather jacket to try and blend in/but his steel-toed boots and sadness gave him up,” Barth continues, as the song complements this tension by moving from finger-picked acoustic guitar into a more full-band sound with synthy drums and strings. As Barth spent more time with this song, she realized that its narrative also applied to herself, and how out of place she felt in the corporate world. It helped her to make that final leap into the unknown experience of being her own boss.
Barth released her first single from Big Time Baby, “Woman Looking Back at Me,” a few weeks ago, which also delves into the search for an authentic self-image, but through a lulling, jangly disco beat. She wrote this after “trying to detach a bit from my inner critic and figure out who is living rent-free in my head.” Especially during this strange time, with the external world quieted down, many of us have been compelled to examine the internal, less pretty parts of ourselves. It can be disorienting to deal with all of our fractured selves while also just trying to exist. Barth encourages us to approach this task through a mode of curiosity rather than judgment: “And I’ve looked at this square so long/just thinking it’s a triangle/And I’ve looked at my face so long/craning my neck for the right angle/But who is the woman looking back/at the woman looking back at me?”
The album as a whole explores what it means to be vulnerable, to take emotional and vocational risks, and to trust yourself to be able to deal with the uncertainty and hurt that comes from living in an imperfect world. Barth’s strong, clear voice shines through, mostly showcased by sparse, jazzy instrumentation. “If love doesn’t change you/then loneliness will” she sings midway through the album, before moving on in “Making Decisions” to propose that loving someone is the ultimate proof that free will exists, that you have to choose it every day. And that having the stability of being partnered with someone who also makes that choice can help sustain you when the rest of your choices seem scary or painful.
These songs are mostly monologues, but transition into a duet with Ramsey in the energetic pop song “Preacher,” which Barth says was the last song they recorded in the studio. It definitely has a celebratory feel, which may seem strange for a break-up song, where both sides of the story examine their infatuation with each other, then merge their nostalgic thoughts in the chorus to see if they match up. “Thought I saw you yesterday/but it was just some guy preaching on the train/interrupting the peace of weary commuters” vividly describes the way you can see a glint of something in any stranger’s face that reminds you of a person you’ve lost, even if it’s a version of that person that only exists in your mind.
Like most musicians right now, Barth has had to re-calibrate the way she operates, most likely having to cancel the summer tour for this album, as well as an album release show she’d planned. When I asked how she’s coping with this new altered reality, she says, “It’s like watching a natural disaster in slow motion. And there’s no time or space to grieve, because people normally grieve by coming together. But I’ve been listening to a lot of my friends’ music, it helps me feel close to them.” She said this transition to solely playing music online “has been super strange, and will probably only get stranger” in the days ahead, but that she’s been brainstorming creative solutions in looking for ways to celebrate her accomplishments anyway.
This positive mindset ties in to the album closer, “Something Good,” which she says “empowers us to allow ourselves to feel good and to make good choices even within a tough situation.” It challenges us to take a chance and, instead of wallowing in our flaws, to choose to focus on happiness instead. It can be a lot easier to give others advice to be patient with themselves than to follow that advice in your own life, but the song encourages us not to lose hope and to honor each milestone crossed along the way.
“It feels weird releasing music right now, but it would feel weird doing anything. So it also feels nice to have something to offer up to people,” Barth says. As she began to share singles from album, Barth says she realized that “perfectionism is irrelevant. It’s also impossible right now – there’s no rulebook anymore. We’re all creating our own rules.” All the characters and versions of self in the album seem to agree, and they give us directions about how we might navigate the unknown days ahead in a gentler headspace.
Follow Lesley Barth on Facebook for ongoing updates.
Nashville and New York City have established a deeper connection by honoring the history of vinyl with a new pop-up store, Spin On: Nashville’s Vinyl Collection.
Spin On finds Nashville’s beloved independent record shop Grimey’s New and Preloved Music partnering with the Nashville Convention & Visitors Crop and Showfields to bring vinyl records made by artists who live in Nashville or were recorded in Music City to NYC. Grimey’s has been an important part of the fabric of Nashville’s music scene since opening its doors in 1999, offering an expansive archive of vinyl new and old, along with used books, magazines, cassettes, CDs, turntables and more. It also provides support for local talent, hosting performances and album release parties for the likes of Jason Isbell and The Black Keys. Metallica also recorded their 2008 live album, Live at Grimey’s, at The Basement, a popular nightclub housed below the shop’s previous location that’s run by Grimey’s co-owner Mike Grimes.
Meanwhile, Showfields is a modern, multi-purpose retail space that opened in Noho in December 2018. It’s easy to see why it’s branded as “the most interesting store in the world” with four innovative floors dedicated to multi-media products and a vast array of rotating clients ranging from holistic wellness company Almeda Labs to candy artist by robynblair and smart mattress manufacturer Eight Sleep, in addition to serving as a gallery and community space.
Spin On: Nashville’s Vinyl Collection is open at Showfields in New York through Jan. 15. Photo by Garrett Hargis
The idea for Spin On came after the Nashville Visitors Corp participated in a panel in Manhattan alongside a member of the Showfields team. Inspired by Showfields chic and slick business model that shines a spotlight on creativity and artistry, the Visitors Corp wanted to partner with the eclectic NYC store to create a retail shop that reflects a vital aspect of Nashville’s music culture – vinyl. “There’s something about vinyl that lends itself to a simpler, more authentic time. Couple that with the fact that the music sounds so much better on vinyl that it makes it important for cities that produce music to deliver the best possible product available,” Butch Spyridon, president and CEO of Nashville Convention & Visitors Corp, shares with Audiofemme.
More than 800 vinyl records have made the voyage from Nashville to New York for the collection curated by Grimey’s, featuring music icons like Jimi Hendrix and Elvis Presley to country legends Dolly Parton and Roy Orbison. Living alongside them are albums by Kings of Leon, The Milk Carton Kids and Jessy Wilson, the latter a Brooklyn native formerly of Nashville-based rock duo Muddy Magnolias who dropped her solo album Phase earlier this year.
The pop-up also features performances and signings by Nashville-based singer-songwriters Andrew Combs on November 5, Trent Dabbs of duo Sugar & The Hi Lows on November 10, The Cadillac Three on November 19 and Caitlyn Smith on December 4. Hootie & the Blowfish are scheduled to sign copies of their new album, Imperfect Circle, on November 1. Every Thursday, Spin On is serving up $2 beers from Tennessee Brew Works.
“Nashville’s music brand is as diverse as the day is long, but 90% of the time people want to gravitate to country only. This town is built on diverse music and it is well represented in the store. That’s the message we want to send through the pop up,” Spyridon says. “Nashville is a diverse, welcoming, creative community.”
Spin On: Nashville’s Vinyl Collection is open until January 15, 2020 at Showfields (11 Bond Street, NYC). Hours are Sunday and Monday from 11 a.m. – 7 p.m. and 8 a.m. – 11 p.m. Tuesday through Saturday.
ONLY NOISE explores music fandom with poignant personal essays that examine the ways we’re shaped by our chosen soundtrack. This week, Jennavieve McClelland tours Patti Smith’s New York City in a post-graduate stupor, looking for tangible inspiration from punk’s poet laureate.
All photos by Jennavieve McClelland
I sought my kind & found none. How you rescued me, your peasant hands reaching through time,
wrapping my young heart, your poems found in the stall by the greyhound station. Patti Smith, “Une Saison en Enfer”
In Dream of Life, the 2013 documentary that took Patti Smith and Steven Sebring 10 years to shoot, she notes: “I like to feel the skin of a canvas. I know it’s not right to touch paintings. You know, when you go to museums, first time I got yelled at I was a teenager, touching Modigliani. I just had to feel the texture, just the way the paint [trails off, touching her own painting]… It’s like, I almost have to put mittens on.”
Smith moves beyond sight into that which can be felt, feeling for the granular effect of the paints used by Modigliani and De Kooning – and in doing so, the auras and energies of the subject that is bridged in moving closer. Seeing is not believing: Smith lies with her muses as she moves into the Chelsea Hotel, “next door to the room where Dylan Thomas had written his last words;” as she “comb[s] the city [of Paris] in search of where Piaf had sung, Gerard de Nerval had slept, and Baudelaire was buried;” as she studies photos of Keith Richards in rock magazines to style her own hair, managing to “machete [her] way out of the folk era.” Smith leaves minimal room between her and her beloveds.
I dogged, dreaming of escape, words I could not comprehend & yet deciphered by blood illuminated adolescence.
I wrote with the image of you above my work table, vowing one day to trace your steps,
dressed in the watch cap & coat of my present self.
I discovered Patti Smith on a family trip to a furniture warehouse called The Brick when I was thirteen. My father was in search of a couch he could install in his new bachelor pad, in the basement apartment of his friend’s townhouse. I sat on the first pleather couch I saw, fixed in front of a huge plasma screen TV. It was playing muted concert footage of a tall, lanky woman with spidery black hair, screaming into the microphone. My dad interrupted the sales associate he was chatting with, tapped my shoulder and leaned down: That’s the godmother of punk, he whispered.
This was appealing to me at exactly this moment in time because a) my parents had just shared the news that they would be filing for divorce, which meant b) I wanted to scare any potential new romantic partners of theirs from penetrating our now vulnerable circle. Punk was going to give me the escapism I needed, a treehouse in the backyard of my distended domestic space. Punk would also clothe me in the armour I needed to stay on land when escapism wasn’t possible. Punk was abrasive, and punk was healing. I had received Mojo Magazine’s Punk: The Whole Story for Christmas a few days before our furnishing excursion, a Bible of a book and my new holy scripture for a philosophy that I did not have access to in my own sleepy suburb. My parents continued their tour of the warehouse while I sat and stared at my new heroine.
This morning pulling into your town, I walked the streets that you despised.
The streets I love for you having despised them. I will go to the train station in Rouche.
I will touch the remains of the walls of the farmhouse where you wept.
You’re not an artist until you are published, an acquaintance once told me. I had met him at a local Smiths DJ night. It turned out that he worked for a visual arts professor I had in university, the one who urged me to leave the arts behind. The class was called “Time-Based Arts,” and for our first assignment I created an audio piece to emulate the sound and feeling of waves through the use of an electric tambura, guitar loops, accordion and my wailing voice. I was asked to redo my piece after my professor found out that I often worked in the audio/sound medium. Every week after class, I would wait to talk to the professor and make a new argument for my piece, refusing to write another one on the basis of my musical history. Finally, agreeing to disagree, my professor let me off with a 60% – and a warning that the arts were probably not for me. I thanked him for his opinion – but in my l’esprit de l’escalier I gave him all kinds of hell. I made my way silently through the rest of the visual arts program, unparticipatory and mouse-like.
I graduated from my bachelor’s as winter arrived. This was my first time out of school since junior kindergarten. I remember being in shock, leaving my 8:30 A.M. alarm wakeups from my library days scheduled on my clock out of pure confusion. I gave myself readings even after I no longer had an official syllabus, unsure if I was ready to bargain with the art world outside of my bedroom walls without more Rainer Maria Rilke, more Anaïs Nin. I continued to study the selfportraits of Frida Kahlo, trying to orient myself within her painful mandala. Carsick: John Waters Hitchhikes America had just been published, and I tagged along in the backseat of his cross-country journey. Waters had predicted the best and worst outcomes he could anticipate of his travels, ending with the true story, what really happened, which was less eventful than his visions and required him to spend mild hours waiting on the side of the road for friendly passersby for the majority of his trip. My Apollonian trajectory, investigating the artists who gave me my only motivation, brought me to my office – a café called Loveless across the street – by 9am every day.
Just Kids – Smith’s first memoir – was on my personal syllabus through my post-graduation haze, and I spent my mornings with her and Robert Mapplethorpe until noon released me back into my abyss (AM to PM signaled a necessary change of pace for me). Smith’s was a story of conscious living, of connecting to another plane of being, entirely her own, and channeling it into a hot, magnetic flash of raw sound and poetry. Smith recognized at a young age that she needed more than what traditional 9-5 work could offer, and a burning obsession with freedom drove her to find fulfillment through writing and, eventually, the visceral performance of her writing through music. After my furniture warehouse introduction, I had “Land” on repeat for almost a decade until I read her memoir and delved a little deeper into her personal geography.
Smith begins her memoir in rural South Jersey, finding solace in a copy of Rimbaud’s Illuminations that would deliver her from the isolation of factory life, later crossing the ocean to explore the Charleville that Rimbaud was born and buried in between his own border crossings. Rimbaud’s “d’encre de Chine” – Chinese ink – illustrates the blackest of all inks, a blackness which is proof of the beginning of the experiment, a time of melancholy and dissolution, but of hope as well. Only when the blackness appears can the first stage of the alchemic practice begin, and the possibility of gold be discovered. Submerged in my own shades of black from a lack of cohesion in my familial and artistic life, my need to retrace Smith’s steps (just as she’d done with Rimbaud) fostered in me an incredible desperation. My escapist fantasies became my only thoughts. It was time to act, to erase the cage I had drawn myself. Two days later, I got on an eleven hour bus ride to New York City.
I will be there at the train station. I will piss in the urinal you pissed in.
A young man cursing existence & then a dying man.
I will squat & rise. I will stand. I will give you my limbs, no longer young but sturdy all the same.
I traveled to New York with the guise of a literary tourist, using Just Kids as my guide through the spaces that had fostered Smith through her formative years: my Patti Smith Pilgrimage. Smith’s was the first voice to rebuild what had been unsettled by my external world, a screaming reminder of my youth, my fire, and my “gradations of gold” (to use the language of Rimbaud). I wanted to connect with more than the pages of the books I had been clinging to; I wanted to touch the paint. I went to New York City to experience Patti Smith’s youthful impulses in lieu of my own.
I walked Patti’s map of the city, gliding through Tompkins Square Park (where Smith’s friend Robert Mapplethorp saved Patti from an awkward date), buying an egg cream at the Gem Spa (where he took her after), then moved further away, taking a Sunday trip to Coney Island and buying hot dogs from Nathan’s (which has either suffered from inflation or was always crazy expensive), walking down the boardwalk and catching Coney Island folk mid-fashion shoot.
Patti’s previous workplaces, where she spent her minimum wage days: the Strand bookstore, and the art deco beauty that is the old Charles Scribner’s Sons bookstore which has since transformed into a Sephora but still boasts the watermark on the side of the building as well as the gorgeous black and gold engravings. I visited the Metropolitan Museum of Art – finding more solace behind the building, where I took a nap on the grass and the fallen pale pink petals of the magnolia trees, than I did inside with the hustle of students and teachers – though frequent trips to the bathroom, located through the collection of ancient Egyptian mummies, had a way of reminding me of life. I visited the Museum of Modern Art where I felt something for Duchamp’s alter ego Rrose Sélavy. I visited the NYC Public Library and spent the rest of my American money on a beer in Bryant Park where I read Rimbaud’s letters and wrote some of my own. I visited Electric Lady Studio, where Patti first met Jimi Hendrix when she was still an unknown poetess, both feeling socially awkward at its opening celebration. I visited the Chelsea Hotel, walking inside to see the foyer that Patti sat, wrote, and drew in, where Salvador Dalí christened her his gothic crow. The concierge eyed me hard, probably knowing my business would not end in any financial transaction.
Ay Rimbaud, the rat poet laureate. A rat is all I have been, scurrying through the streets of the city of brotherly love.
I am where you were & I feel as if I could find you waiting.
Shadowing Patti’s ascent, I am where you were, is that first light of creation; culture is no longer a shield when one finds the doorways to communion. The deficit I encountered in my post-collegiate days now appears to me as a necessary gaze inward. This gaze, in its present moment, appeared in hues of escapism, a thin skin distant from something much more insidious: that of nihilism. The abrasion of punk is twofold – it is destruction, and it is creation. It is the blank generation, it is the void sublimated; it is absolute freedom, it is that nutrient which offers illumination, it is filling (fill me! fill me!).
Patti Smith offered an entrance, opening a world that I wanted to live in, reflecting light, colour, and sound that welcomed me into its foreign arms. I stayed in New York City a week, waking early enough on my seventh day to see the sun rise and with it, the last licks of night life, still with whiskey in hand. To touch heightened myth – with our fingertips! – is a brush with the artist’s divinity.
On the bus home I returned to playing “Horses” on repeat, the beginning and the end: Jesus died for somebody’s sins, but not mine.
Four-piece ensemble DeVotchKa returned to a packed house topremiere a handful of new songs at their album release show at Rough Trade. I found myself surrounded by fans of all ages in the dimly lit venue, though not too dark to notice a few people around me clad in the band’s tees. Chatter of the new record was alive as we anticipated DeVotchKa, who took the stage twenty minutes late.
“We are gathered here today to celebrate the release of our new album,” preaches lead singer Nick Urata, met with cheers from his congregation. “It was a long and difficult birth, but we’ve arrived.”
DeVotchKa are perhaps best known for their work in film scoring, most notably the Grammy-nominated soundtrack for 2006’s Little Miss Sunshine. Seven years since their last studio release is a long and difficult birth indeed, but new record The Night Falls Forever does not disappoint, at least not live.
Tom Hagerman on violin.
The band kept to a high energy setlist. Setting off a string of new tracks was “Straight Shot,” the lead single from the new record. Charmingly cozy while still anthemic, I had fallen in love with the lyric video for this track prior to the show but it doesn’t compare to hearing it live. Urata’s vocals carry over an animated, optimistic beat that had a couple salsa dancing right next to me in the limited space there was, others even taking a step back to give them more room. It’s a small sentiment that characterizes this room of DeVotchKa fans: cheerful, untroubled, and ready to welcome you with open arms.
It’s fun to hear a new record live prior to its release, given that I wasn’t familiar with any new singles other than “Straight Shot.” A track called “Break Up Song” slowed things down, but not at the loss of their momentum. Another stand out is “Empty Vessels” an uplifting anthem that exhibits what DeVotchKa do best.
Nick Urata and Jeanie Schroder.
During his opening set, solo singer-songwriter IRO stated, “There are so many instruments on this stage right now, I feel lonely.” There was no doubt that DeVotchKa would make use of them all, but watching them in action was really something else. “Let’s bring out another horn!” shouted Urata, before welcoming trumpeter Kenny Warren, who has also performed with the likes of Spoon and The Walkmen, on stage.
Jazz saxophonist and flautist Jessica Lurie also joined the band for a handful of songs. Jeanie Schroder had blue lights drawing eyes to her sousaphone, but portrayed her skills on upright and electric bass, as well as the flute (“How many shows do you get to see two flautists?” asks Urata, and I realize this is probably the only time I’ll ever experience that.) Tom Hagerman exercised his talents on accordion, violin, and piano. Urata, too, swapped instruments during the set, from guitar to theremin, even bringing out a bouzouki for the latter half. None of this outshone Shawn King’s resonant polka-like percussion. They chose to play with isolation of sound on both sides of the room, making the audience feel enveloped by sound.
Older tracks like “100 Other Lovers” still had the same life years later. After that song, I overheard the guy behind me tell his friends, “You know what? Holy shit! I knew this song, a couple of songs, whatever, but holy shit, they’re really fucking good.”
Of course, the night was not complete without an encore: a solemn, yet rhapsodic rendition of their famed track “How It Ends.” Most of the crowd didn’t miss a single word, and seeing the immaculate joy on the bands’ faces show that they’re happier than ever to be back doing what they love.
I internally scream about 20 times coming off the Q train, badgered left and right about handbags, handbags, handbags. Truthfully, last time I was in Chinatown I was below the legal drinking age. But Veda Rays vocalist James Stark made a very emphatic pitch for Bodhi Kosher Vegetarian Restaurant. So I’m here. I don’t want any handbags, but I’ll deal to dine with Veda Rays, and I’m down for any sake brunch that’s steeped in a sense of Eastern Mysticism.
If I’m not mistaken (I’m not) I have met drummer Jason Gates at Aviv. We’ve had bonafide conversations, his visage lives on one of my records, and he has a fun, eccentric energy that could power the Christmas lights on my street. As for Veda Rays as a whole, well, they’re the real deal, with a cerulean-soaked sound that could’ve been adjacent to the Batcave but has also been long cultivated in the Brooklyn scene. And their live performances pair it with captivating visuals; flickering television snow or twitchy orange monkeys set an ominous mood throughout.
Yup, these are the professionals, guys.
Hm. I feel good. In the past I usually show up with some sort melodramatic ennui. But I had my cards read Tuesday and things might be turning around.
Or they won’t, but let’s just get through brunch first.
The Scene: So yeah, this place.Recommended by a friend of synth player Maria Joanna Bohemia, the band have become obsessed with its kosher Thai offerings. Like they did a whole incidental vegan food tour of LA and this place is still top tier. And since they were long overdue for a visit and have been talking it up to bass player Renzo Vous (who still hadn’t been), it felt like the right move. They also love the Chinatown location, the appeal of old school New York; in his email James mentioned that their friend Ben Hozie of Bodega Bay said Veda Rays seemed “hatched out of the aughts NYC scene” (James only superficially agrees).
Sold. Although guitarist Gonzalo Tomé isn’t here today, Renzo and I are going to try out this food, and Jason arrives just as we’re about to get our sake. Let’s do this.
2:05 pm We’re talking about mutual friends (you already know where this is going, right?) and James says,“There was an old Veda Rays video where I killed Tarra.”
I respond as expected. “That’s the best!”
“Well, we pulled it down because it was…not being well received because of the violence-toward-women factor.”
Huh. “I get that, I get it being mis-perceived like that.”
“And when we made it it wasn’t such a Thing, but then there was a bit of rumbling, and as a couple of years went by we took it down,” James says. “But the premise had nothing to do with that – it could’ve easily been a man. It just happened to be a woman in the chair.”
So what was the premise, then? The band was riffing on maniacal, cultish figures to illustrate their song “Wait for Teeth to Show.”
“So the letter shein means tooth, right?” James starts. “There’s a tarot card that corresponds with that which is this fire card. The video would show flashes of the card, and the idea of a tooth in this context is like…in simplest terms it’s like, ‘The big fish eats the little ones,’ and you can’t understand the nature of reality in black and white, really. Things that seem horrible could actually be releasing energy so it can reform.”
Anyway, Tarra’s very much alive and well – they saw her earlier this week reading tarot cards at Muchmore’s.
“She just gave me a reading recently and it was pretty positive,” I mention. At the end of Brooklyn Year One, I pulled the Ten of Swords from the deck, a mermaid stabbed several times over.
“So that’s you with the swords in your back. That’s the worst one!” Tarra said cheerfully.
2:17 We’re talking about Anthony Michael Hall because of reasons and Maria mentions Siouxsie and the Banshees is in a bad ’80s Anthony Michael Hall movie. Like, look at this, guys.
“We were talking to our Lyft driver in LA who seemed to know Siouxsie and Budgie, and apparently she was quite the marketer,” James says. “She would put her insignia on like, everything.”
Jason perks up at this. “What are you talking about? What are you saying about Budgie?”
“The driver had a really weird resume – he lived with Angie Bowie for a few years. But his biggest stint as a bass player was like…” James turns to Maria. “Do you remember?”
She does not. “It was like, Anita Baker, Rick Springfield…” she lists, though the memory seems fuzzy.
“WAS HE HANGING OUT WITH BUDGIE A LOT???!!!” Jason interjects again, to which it needs to be clarified that you know, that was just a name in passing.
“He just thought we were just like these rock and roll people and that we were in love – we weren’t offering him any information,” James explains, and I can’t argue with Lyft guy’s evaluation because the pair are wearing sunglasses and machete earrings, respectively. “And he was saying we’re like Siouxsie and Budgie.”
“She would wear her own shirts. Some people frown upon that. I always kind of liked it,” Jason says.
“Where do we all stand on that?” I ask in a sad attempt to be a journalist.
James answers first. “I like it, and I do think about it a lot.”
Jason goes next. “I like it, I’m for it.”
“We’re pro,” I deduce.
“We’re generally pro,” Maria says more tentatively.
Renzo’s a bit more upfront. “I’m on the fence with that one.”
2:32 This is approximately when our food gets here and I just want want to assert that it was totally delicious. Moving on.
2:50 The band questions me about my day job which is basically to reenact episodes of Riverdale on Snapchat (among other things). Then I ask if they have any day jobs.
“I work at a pizzeria,” Renzo offers.
“That’s cool, I love pizzerias more than anything,” I respond. Facts.
“I work at Sizzle Pie. It’s like a punk, heavy metal pizzeria.”
“That’s amazing,” I say, dead fucking serious.
“King Krule came in,” Jason mentions.
“Yeah, King Krule came in,” Renzo says. “Actually I met Dylan Sprouse there the other day.”
“WHAT!” I shriek before explaining.”D-Dylan lives around there, my friend Lisa sees him constantly, I read this interview and it was like, ‘Dylan Sprouse and I are hanging and he takes a mouthful of beer and we’re at Tørst in Greenpoint.’ And I was like, ‘THE FUCK, Dylan’s at Tørst in Greenpoint.'”
Like he’s never there when I’m there. Rude.
“He actually left the pizzeria after his slice because we didn’t have beer,” says Renzo. “He was great. Different path from his brother for sure.”
In Brooklyn Year Two I pulled the Knight of Pentacles, a stabilizing, some would say “boring” card. And I preciously projected that onto all the wrong people. The cards are never wrong, but sometimes I am.
So silly! Like mixing up two Sprouse twins. Like, that was forgivable in 2010, it wasn’t in 2016.
3:30 We’re splitting up leftovers when Jason asks what band I’m into, and I say something to the effect of, “Def. Grls made me fucking french toast, so them.” But no, he says beyond the scene. “Oh, just in general, my favorite band is Hole.”
“Hole! I love them,” Renzo says.
“OH really?” I ask. “Yeah, Courtney Love is my favorite ever and I’ve loved her since I was like 13.”
“Yeah, I saw her a few years ago with Lana Del Rey.”
There’s a lot of excited bubbling at the table because this obviously sounds like a perfect tour marriage and I only saw Courtney with fake Hole in 2010. Tl;dr Maria and I were both her for Halloween at different points in our lives.
“I was her when I was 16,” Maria says. She checks her phone to find a picture.
“I’ve never dressed up as her,” Renzo deadpans.
“I had three costume changes,” I explain. “I cried. I threw a wine bottle down the street. I was very in character.” (But blah blah blah you guys already know this). Anyway, Maria quickly finds the picture and passes it around the table.
“It doesn’t quite work because I didn’t have my hair,” she says.
“But I get it, because you have the pose spot on, and the slip is really good,” I add.
Incidentally, I didn’t do the Courtney Love costume for 13 years because Tarra did it first, and I wanted to have respect for her costumes.
“You should start a web series with her,” Jason says. “Tea and Tarot with Tarra.”
Maybe.
4:43 “None of that blue light is translating right now, right?” James asks.
I look into the viewfinder. “No, it’s purple at best.” We’re at 169 Bar, one of the last dives in the LES, lounge-y and bathed in cool tones. After another drink, we take pictures while Jason lets loose on his feelings about Beyoncé (off the record, not sending the Beyhive out for him). But the band’s liking how my coat matches with the pool table, so they force a group of people away to take glamour shots.
Aha.
Even though we can’t get the perfect shot I can’t deny that Veda Rays live their life (and create their art) strictly in cool tones. But they also have a rawness that feels very old school New York, the scene that I dream of but was Before My Time.
I get off the L, fighting the light ennui coming on. Ugh, stop! The future looks good! I have the Queen of Swords in my future and a container of noodles in my handbag.
You can listen to Veda Ray’s new EP “Shadow Side” on Bandcamp, follow them on Facebook, and catch them at the Mercury Lounge January 6th.[/fusion_builder_column][/fusion_builder_row][/fusion_builder_container]
This past year (for me, anyway) was full of attending various anniversary shows of bands I obsessed over in high school. It was nostalgic and exciting to see the bands I used to listen to nonstop perform my old favorites, songs I still listen to somedays when I’m riding my bike or underground on the subway. I’m a sucker for music that I have memories attached to, so it only makes sense that I sought out so many of these shows.
Here’s a look back at some of the anniversary shows that really touched my soul in the past year, as well as some 2017 shows that I’ve got on my radar.
The Spill Canvas at Webster Hall, August 2015
Okay, I’m cheating here because this a 2015 show, but it was just so fun and full of happy good vibes. There’s a certain magic to reliving your emo days while watching one of your old favorites croon sweet, heartbreaking lyrics onstage. Also, you may notice a trend in this list involving Webster Hall and anniversary/reunion shows.
As Tall As Lions at Webster Hall, December 2015
Easily the best show I went to in the last year. This was a reunion show as well as an anniversary show for their self-titled album. And although this show wasn’t in 2016, it practically was. Plus, it was amazing enough to resonate for years to come. I unfortunately missed out on seeing As Tall As Lions when they were still together, but this show made up for that.
The Hush Sound at Webster Hall, August 2016
Another show that went down in my personal history book was The Hush Sound’s Like Vines anniversary show, mostly because The Hush Sound was my favorite band in high school. I probably saw them play seven or so times, and I pretty much idolized (slash kind of still idolize) Greta Salpeter. Bob and Greta had so much fun chemistry that night, and overall, it was just a fun experience to relive that band’s live show again.
Simple Plan & Hit the Lights at Irving Plaza, October 2016
One of my biggest show regrets in 2016 is that I missed this show. Since I wasn’t there, I can only speculate about its glory, but I imagine it was incredibly fun. Hit the Lights was another band I used to groove out to like crazy, and what’s not to love about Simple Plan’s goofy music?
Taking Back Sunday & The Starting Line at Starland Ballroom, December 2016
Taking Back Sunday has been touring for their latest album Tidal Wave this year (I saw them at Irving Plaza, and it was…okay), and I also saw The Starting Line at Irving for their 10-year anniversary show of Say It Like You Mean It (which was one of the best shows I’ve ever been to). I was supposed to go to this show, and at the last minute had to cancel my plan, which is heartbreaking. This is going to be a show for many to write home about.
Jimmy Eat World at Webster Hall, December 2016
So this isn’t so much an anniversary or reunion show, since they’re touring for their latest album Integrity Blues, but I was still a bit surprised to see a show from Jimmy Eat World. I guess this sort of counts as a reunion show since they’re coming together again to make music to tour since 2013’s Damage, right?
New Found Glory at Irving Plaza, April 2017
A peak of anniversary shows to come, perhaps? New Found Glory will be touring in 2017, and can’t you just perfectly envision singing “My Friends Over You” alongside their live performance in the coming year?
Dashboard Confessional at Irving Plaza, January 2017
So I have a [fusion_builder_container hundred_percent=”yes” overflow=”visible”][fusion_builder_row][fusion_builder_column type=”1_1″ background_position=”left top” background_color=”” border_size=”” border_color=”” border_style=”solid” spacing=”yes” background_image=”” background_repeat=”no-repeat” padding=”” margin_top=”0px” margin_bottom=”0px” class=”” id=”” animation_type=”” animation_speed=”0.3″ animation_direction=”left” hide_on_mobile=”no” center_content=”no” min_height=”none”][dashboard] confession: While I definitely liked DC in high school, I can’t say that I was totally the biggest fan. I was definitely an emo girl, but sometimes Chris Carrabba took it a bit too far and sad for me. So while this show is definitely one to look forward to in many ways, I’m not totally sure if I’ll be in attendance, swooning alongside others.[/fusion_builder_column][/fusion_builder_row][/fusion_builder_container]
Set the scene in your mind: An intimate setting at Rockwood Music Hall complete with dimmed lights, a hazy atmosphere, and a collection of swooning, folky, country-esque music courtesy of Blue Healer. Can you feel the relaxation and good vibes? Great. Then you now understand exactly what it was like seeing them perform last Wednesday.
It was a mixture of synths and keys as well as heavy basslines and distorted upright bass. At times, the music had an older glam rock feel, surreal and ethereal, reverberating throughout your mind. Then it would transform to a folk, country-esque show complete with energetic synths — pop folk, if you will. A lot of their songs called to mind tracks of Melee and The Black Keys.
The trio hailing from Austin recently released their debut self-titled album and played an array of tracks from it (and also tracks not on it). They played their popular single “30,000 Feet,” which was full of airy vocals from frontman and bassist David Beck and otherworldly synths from keyboardist Bryan Mammel. They also slowed things down when they played “Only the Rain,” with synths that perfectly emphasized its gentle nature. When they played “Empty Bottles” is when I really felt The Black Keys vibes from them (never a bad thing).
Their last song, “Bad Weather,” was an empowering, anthemic note to end on. But fortunately, it also wasn’t quite the end, as the crowd pretty much begged for an encore, and Blue Healer happily obliged. So their real last track, “Like Diamonds,” ended up being a way more fun way to go out. It was energetic and upbeat, complemented by crashing cymbals and a big finale drumline as well as contagious energy from the band who genuinely looked like they were having the time of their life.
As a show I went into hardly knowing the band, I was pleasantly surprised and had a great time. It also helps when the band is skilled at their instruments and loves what they’re doing, too.
Mother Nature rained heavily down on this year’s Governor’s Ball, which took place on Randall’s Mud Pit Island. It was a test, and us New Yorkers proved that we sure have some spunk, staying true to the festival’s slogan: “You’re doing great!”
I earned personal emblems of a successful music festival: purple bruises made to look like sunsets on my skin, irreparably damaged white Air Force Ones, and an inevitable cold from being wet for the duration of Saturday. The last one, I deserved. That morning, the weatherman and I were adamant that I wouldn’t need a jacket.
Then, there was Sunday’s disappointing full-day cancellation that left legions of fans angry because they traveled x amount of miles to see Kanye or Death Cab for Cutie. When I got the news, I remained motionless on the couch, silently crying the tears I’d have shed at Death Cab’s closing set.
And the biggest curse of a festival, as always, is not being able to be in two places at once. I was sad to have missed Big Grams or another fun show from Matt and Kim because I parked myself at the main stage all of Friday. And even on Sunday while I was camping out for a last-minute Two Door Cinema Club ticket, I was also committed to missing two surely phenomenal performances by Courtney Barnett and Prophets of Rage, both just a walk away.
But I digress. Let’s end this one with some highs, shall we?
The Strokes covered “Clampdown” for the first time since 2004 To be fair, I could peg the whole set as my favorite part of the festival. When I was 11, I used to blast this Clash cover on my iPod, fantasizing that I might one day hear it live. That, and “Red Light,” which they performed for the first time since 2010. Everyone and their mothers know that The Strokes are my favorite band, but even I can objectively say that lately, they haven’t been at their best. However, on the heels of a new EP whose songs fit seamlessly into their set, New York’s finest garage rockers showed that they’ve been revived with a new positive energy. The best feeling was watching the expressions as all five of them performed with unrivaled mastery, looking truly happy to be together.
Getting intimate with Two Door Cinema Club Though it’s been a minute since their last album (almost four years, but who’s counting), 15-year-old me would’ve never forgiven present-day me for skipping Two Door Cinema Club’s make-up show at Music Hall of Williamsburg. Adrenaline distracted me from the cold air and the rain drenching me through my flimsy windbreaker during the four hours I waited out (tip: phone a friend who’d be willing to bring you a lox bagel while you wait. You’ll need it). It proved to be worth it; there surely is no better venue to see a favorite band than one where from every angle, you feel like you’re in the front row. Plus, even through moshing with grown men and crowd surfing during the encore, my glasses survived the night.
Beck being Beck A live Beck experience was yet another realized fantasy from my fleeting youth, ignoring the fact that his breakout hit “Loser” is a couple of years older than me, and “Where It’s At” is less than a year younger; in any case, they all fit seamlessly into one animated set. And during “Hell Yes” I couldn’t help but laugh, overhearing the guy next to me ask, “Is he rapping?” And it’s only been two years since “Blue Moon” reduced me to tears, and only a little more than a month since Prince’s tragic passing. Beck recalled accepting his Album of the Year award and a hug from The Artist himself, which he described as one of the “strangest, most amazing moments.” His cover of “Raspberry Beret” was easily the best of myriad Prince tributes this weekend.
Este Haim getting wet with the crowd Midway through Haim’s set, rain came down yet again. Gratefully, the Gov Ball NYC stage was on cement rather than grass, so mud was the least of our concerns, but that didn’t stop some people in the crowd from seeking shelter in lieu of enjoying the music. Este, the oldest of the Haim sisters, stepped out in between songs to pour a full bottle of water on herself in solidarity before continuing a stellar set that culminated in another fantastic tribute of Prince’s “I Would Die 4 U” and a wild drum finale.
Easy afternoon with Catfish & the Bottlemen Being the perpetually late person that I am, I had to sprint not only across the bridge, but to the complete opposite end of the island to make sure I didn’t miss a minute of Catfish & the Bottlemen on the main stage. They drew a much larger crowd, with more than enough energy to wildly dance along, than one would expect for a 3 pm set. Their set encapsulated exactly what it would’ve felt like to see Blur at a hole-in-the-wall venue in the early ’90s.
A rainy rave with Miike Snow Just after receiving a notification from the official Gov Ball app that the worst was behind us, rain came down yet again for Miike Snow, weeding out the weak and prompting we, the thick-skinned, to go all out. Everything I owned was drenched. The cash in my wallet is still damp as we speak. With feel-good music, a brilliant lights show before us, and nothing to lose, we embraced the feeling of wet skin on wet skin as limbs flailed in the muddy flood. Missed connection: the guy in the tropical print shirt who came back into the crowd with a slice of pizza and let everyone within three feet have a bite.
The best moves from Christine and the Queens I caught Christine and the Queens completely by accident as I made my lap around the island on Friday and saw that someone happened to be getting set up on stage. I’d never heard of her before, but “WOW” wouldn’t even begin to cover my reaction when Christine (real name Heloise Letissier) and her Queens (four male backup dancers) took the stage in trousers and tees, performing synchronized dance routines and tossing flowers into the crowd. Now that’s what a festival performance should be.
[/fusion_builder_column][fusion_builder_column type=”1_1″ background_position=”left top” background_color=”” border_size=”” border_color=”” border_style=”solid” spacing=”yes” background_image=”” background_repeat=”no-repeat” padding=”” margin_top=”0px” margin_bottom=”0px” class=”” id=”” animation_type=”” animation_speed=”0.3″ animation_direction=”left” hide_on_mobile=”no” center_content=”no” min_height=”none”]Christine and the Queens, via governorsballmusicfestival.com
Nostalgia with The Killers Wrapped in a wet blanket as my only protection from the cold, I was about to head home midway through M83 as I could feel a sore throat coming on. But, as I made my way out, I could faintly hear The Killers from across the park, and I knew I had to catch a little bit, even if I wasn’t going to immerse myself in the crowd. I was more than happy to dance in the middle of the field with several hundred strangers, singing along to “Jenny Was a Friend of Mine” off of 2004’s Hot Fuss and admiring the fireworks behind the stage to round it all up.
[/fusion_builder_column][fusion_builder_column type=”1_1″ background_position=”left top” background_color=”” border_size=”” border_color=”” border_style=”solid” spacing=”yes” background_image=”” background_repeat=”no-repeat” padding=”” margin_top=”0px” margin_bottom=”0px” class=”” id=”” animation_type=”” animation_speed=”0.3″ animation_direction=”left” hide_on_mobile=”no” center_content=”no” min_height=”none”]Fireworks and “When You Were Young” by The Killers. Photo by Ysabella Monton for AudioFemme.[/fusion_builder_column][/fusion_builder_row][/fusion_builder_container]
Ryan Egan’s new video for his single “Finest Hour” showcases some groovy dance moves, hypnotizing falsetto vocals, and an overall air of mystery.
The video sees Egan decked out in a white turtleneck showing off simple yet perfected dance moves. Once the chorus hits, some shadowy background figures shimmy out from behind him and bust into their own more fluid moves. It’s the perfect contrast between black vs. white, light vs. shadow, simplistic vs. ornate. And Egan’s airy falsetto only reinforces the video as a mysterious yet enticing piece.
The New York songwriter will be playing a show at Rough Trade on June 16 with Coast Modern. Make sure you check out the video below before catching him in person!
Celebrate Friday with a track premiere from Atlas Engine, “Everest,” from his upcoming EP “After the End.”
Atlas Engine is the solo venture of Nick LaFalce, formerly of BRAEVES. With this new project, LaFalce undertakes the task of writing, singing, performing each instrument, and producing to conceive a skillfully crafted effort that is truly all his own.
With LaFalce belting out lyrics such as, “Something in the air I’m breathing must be forever changed/So tell me what I have to fear now,” over a stunning melody, the track emanates a sense of freedom, and an exciting anticipation for what’s to come.
The full EP is set for release on June 3. New Yorkers, you can catch Atlas Engine’s live debut (for free!) at Rockwood Music Hall Stage 2 on May 19.
[fusion_builder_container hundred_percent=”yes” overflow=”visible”][fusion_builder_row][fusion_builder_column type=”1_1″ background_position=”left top” background_color=”” border_size=”” border_color=”” border_style=”solid” spacing=”yes” background_image=”” background_repeat=”no-repeat” padding=”” margin_top=”0px” margin_bottom=”0px” class=”” id=”” animation_type=”” animation_speed=”0.3″ animation_direction=”left” hide_on_mobile=”no” center_content=”no” min_height=”none”]Tim John of The Griswolds
When Australian indie-pop quartet The Griswolds took the stage to Shania Twain’s “Man, I Feel Like A Woman,” I knew we’d be in for a fun night.
Opening with high-energy tracks like “Down and Out” and “If You Wanna Stay,” they set the stage for a high-energy performance.
“You better fucking sing along!” shouts lead singer Chris Whitehall, with flaming red hair and a slub knit sweater hanging freely off his shoulder. The dazzled crowd has no choice but to oblige.
Alongside their better known songs like “Right On Track” and “Beware the Dog,” the band played a couple of new ones from the sophomore album currently in progress. The first new song, “Get Into My Heart,” produced imperative screaming with lines like, “Get into my arms and into my home/Get out of your clothes and into my bed.”
Before premiering their second new track, “Role Models,” he first taught the audience how to sing along to the hook. “We’ve got nothing to lose,” sang Whitehall. “Oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah,” we followed. Both tracks have a new dimension to them; the latter especially stood out compared to their more familiar songs, with a funk-inspired flavor.
And as a fun treat, we all got to sing “Happy Birthday” to drummer Lucky West before they closed with the classic “Heart of a Lion,” from their first EP.
Brooklyn’s Warsaw has a nice cinematic quality to it, and The Griswolds easily filled the air with bright energy. On this Hotline Spring tour, the boys have undoubtedly gotten listeners pumped for a new record to come.
An entrancing voice and charismatic presence are the perfect ways to define singer/songwriter Shira and her recent show at Rockwood Music Hall on January 26. Shira captivated the audience by playing tracks from her upcoming album, Subtle Creature, as well as chatting with the crowd in between each song.
Sitting on the stage basked in dark red and purple lights, she crooned and jammed out on guitar, breaking from her normal routine of sampling and electronic influences. She played singles like “Heartbeat is a Prisoner,” “Dark Snow,” and “Tiptoe,” making sure to provide a background on the process behind the songs and what they meant to her. It was a more intimate setting for what felt like a personalized show—watching her perform and engage with fans, you recognize immediately she isn’t holding back; she has an honest connection with music, and delivers it as such.
After seeing Shira perform, I pretty much knew I had to talk to her, even if just for a little bit. Luckily I got the chance to have a brief email interview with her, which can be seen below.
Nicole Ortiz for AudioFemme: I remember at your show you mentioned that you have an album coming up. Can you tell me about the album and the work that went into it? What’s your favorite song on the album?
Shira: I’m releasing “Subtle Creature” this August 2016! I’m so excited about it. It’s been two years in the making. I wrote primarily on the Roland-404 Sampler, then added a ton of textures: drums, electric guitars, synth, cello, horns. It’s turned out to be a really undefinable, genre-switching album. I got to work with some of my favorite artists: the sister-trio Joseph, Shannon F. of Light Asylum, Neon Music of Youthquake, Jamila Woods, Mal Devisa, and cellist Emily Dix Thomas. My favorite song is the title track. It’s eight minutes long—the longest song I’ve ever written and produced. It really got away from me and started doing it’s own thing. It’s got like four verses and two choruses and tons of swimmy instrumental sections! I tried to reign it in and hold it down, but it refused. I like work that guides the way and demands you to stretch. Now when I listen to it, I hear an epic. I trusted where it was going (eventually!), and it lead me somewhere far vaster, cooler, stranger.
NO: I know you’ve been considering making another music video as well with a director whose work really spoke to you. What do you hope to show through this collaboration?
S: I recently saw the video for the song “Relief” by Wilder Maker directed by Evan Cohen. It’s an incredibly patient, inventive video. We live and work in such a fast-paced culture that, to see a video that sort of asks the viewer to lean in, that doesn’t beg or hit over the head, really stayed with me. I immediately got in touch with Evan. We’re both excited to get lost in the creative process together, to make something tender and unexpected.
NO: During your show, you mentioned a song about your grandmother and also spoke openly about being diagnosed with bipolar disorder, which resonated with me as I’ve suffered from anxiety for most of my life. Do you think this awareness and openness come into play in your creating process? How do you think it affects your music?
S: If we’re lucky, our art makes us more honest. It demands us to look closer at ourselves and the world. There’s a realness, a rawness it desires. It acts like a friend who would never let us fool ourselves. I know that it’s a choice I make to reveal parts of my personal life, including my health, but in some ways I don’t feel I have a choice. To be quiet, or stealthy, about vital parts of my being feels like choking myself, my truth. It’s just a part of my nature—I feel compelled to be honest. I know that when we risk honesty, we reap intimacy. I have no shame about my mental illness, and I want to welcome others into the conversation. That’s why I speak about it. As for my music, it’s a literal record of my life—how amazing is that? To have a lifelong sonic diary. When I look back on my life, I’m excited to have literal “records” of 2002, 2006, 2010, and so on and so on. When I look back, I want to see/hear where I was at truthfully, not a costume of where I was at. This requires a certain willingness to be transparent and take risks.
NO: I see on your site that you also create poetry, art, offer classes, and have a zine—you’re kind of an artistic jack-of-all trades! Do you ever showcase these pieces as well? Which outlet do you feel the strongest connection with?
S: Each outlet fulfills a need. Sometimes I don’t want to talk or think or make a sound, so I draw. There’s a quiet, a privacy, that my whole being desires. That’s why I endeavored on my SQUARES project, a year-long visual diary built of 1 x 1 inch squares. To daily enter that quiet [fusion_builder_container hundred_percent=”yes” overflow=”visible”][fusion_builder_row][fusion_builder_column type=”1_1″ background_position=”left top” background_color=”” border_size=”” border_color=”” border_style=”solid” spacing=”yes” background_image=”” background_repeat=”no-repeat” padding=”” margin_top=”0px” margin_bottom=”0px” class=”” id=”” animation_type=”” animation_speed=”0.3″ animation_direction=”left” hide_on_mobile=”no” center_content=”no” min_height=”none”][and] just be with myself. Sometimes I need to untangle a moment that got stuck—often that’s where poetry comes in. I’m working on a poetry manuscript, “Odes to Lithium,” which is entirely composed of praise-poems to the medication I take. Nearly every poem in that collection is me running my hands along a moment of stigma, mistreatment, or misunderstanding and breathing new understanding into it, or at least acknowledgement. Then there’s music—that’s like getting set loose in a candy store. I just lose myself. I never had a sister, so maybe it’s a bit like that, having a sister—I make a sound, [and] it becomes separate from me, almost like another’s voice. There she is—I listen to her, I hear what she has to say, I feel less alone. Ultimately it’s all about connection. Connection to myself. Connection to others. The Zine, the classes I teach, the work—it all fosters that, just from different angles.
NO: Do you have any other upcoming shows planned, or are you going to tour anywhere?
S: Yes! I constantly play in New York. You can always check my site for updates. I just got back from a month-long Writing Residency at Vermont Studio Center after touring the Midwest with Andrea Gibson. I’m cooking up plans for spring and summer shows as I get closer to the album release.
The dimly-lit green room at Music Hall of Williamsburg smells of cigarettes, but in an unassuming way, perhaps because Chris Chu of POP ETC kindly apologizes to my plus one, Caroline, and I in advance. I hardly noticed what he meant once we got up there, and no one else seemed to mind either.
Before we sit down, Chu offers us a drink.
“Water? Beer? How old are you guys?”
I feel nervous that if I say yes, I’m imposing, though I notice the array of drinks in the mini fridge: Tecate beer cans, water bottles, and a Snapple that Chu brings out to sip occasionally, post-interview.
—
Ysabella Monton for AudioFemme: Between The Morning Benders and becoming POP ETC, and even between the POP ETC album and Souvenir, I’ve noticed changes in the sound and your evolution as a group. You guys have had this awesome, loyal fan base, and you’ve done a great job of doing something new while maintaining that. What do you want your old fans to take from Souvenir?
Chris Chu: Well, love our fans and we do a lot to show them that. We respond to everything, we get people into shows all the time and give away all our guest list spots. We’re thinking about our fans a lot, but when we’re making music, the idea of trying to cater to any kind of specific listener or demographic is just dangerous. So, for Souvenir, we took our time, wrote tons of songs, and waited until a family of songs or a sound just emerged from that. And we’re happy with it. I just think, if you’re catering to your fans or trying to do something with your previous sound or anything like that, at least for us, it feels really stale. It’s hard for me to honestly sing songs like that or go on tour to play songs if we’re not excited about them. I think people notice that, so it would be a disservice to our fans to do the same thing over and over.
YM: No, I know what you mean. [laughs] Well, if you’re constantly having these new ideas, especially over the past three years — it doesn’t seem like it hasn’t been that long since the last record, but I think the change shows. What are you guys drawing inspiration from these days?
CC: It’s all over the place. For this last album, because we made the decision to take our time and approach it really patiently, we traveled a lot. For the last couple of years, I spent probably half my time in Tokyo, where I was working on other projects. So that was a huge difference, just working with people in Japan and being introduced to all this Japanese music. That was amazing, because there’s bands that are equivalent to The Beatles here that no one knows outside of Japan. Like, the number one albums in Rolling Stone Japan. I felt like a kid in a candy shop discovering that.
—
Something about inspiration leads us onto a tangent, reminiscing about 80’s music. I use “reminiscing” lightly, since neither of us were actually spinning those records through the decade. As Chu explains, “It’s similar to some of the ways we became interested in Japanese culture with rediscovering that music from the 80’s. We’re too young to have grown up with it, but our parents listened to it and we knew about it.”
I tell Chu a story about being in the car a week ago with my mom, listening to the likes of Tears for Fears, Spandau Ballet, Culture Club. Just for fun, I threw in “Running in Circles” from Souvenir.
“A seamless transition,” Chu laughs.
My mom thought so too. I tell Chu her review of the song: “I’ve never heard it, but I bet it probably played in the disco.”
—
Mid-interview, photo by Caroline Sugg for AudioFemme.
CC: That’s amazing. Similar to how I was describing the stuff in Japan, the cool thing about the 80’s is that it didn’t happen long enough ago that it’s been canonized in the same way. I grew up listening to The Beatles, The Beach Boys, Neil Young and all that stuff, Dylan. It’s so long ago that there are so many lists, so much critical discourse about music from the 60’s and you can still go and explore it yourself, but in general, it’s like history’s been written whereas with the 80s, there’s hit songs here and there but there’s a lot of records that people just haven’t given fair due because not enough time’s passed. Tears for Fears, for instance, I feel like people only know the four or five singles…
YM: Tracks like “Everybody Wants to Rule the World.”
CC: Yeah, and that’s one of my favorite songs, ever. Not knocking those songs, but I think that got us excited, like we could go back into the 80’s and write our own history and find things that spoke to us. It makes sense because we’re always listening to pop music. It’s like going into Cyndi Lauper records and Madonna records — again, people know the singles, but there are so many good album tracks.
YM: Definitely. Along with the 80’s influence I noticed some R&B as well in a few songs. I listened to “I Wanted To Change The World But The World Changed Me” and immediately the guitar at the beginning reminded me of “No Scrubs” by TLC.
CC: Yeah. [laughs] Actually, somebody else told me that, and we didn’t think about it, but it totally makes sense. It probably subconsciously made its way in.
YM: Was R&B something you were also listening to growing up?
CC: Yeah, I mean, growing up in the 90’s, you kind of couldn’t escape it. But with every song, especially from a production or sonic standpoint, we never wanna make anything that feels too dated. We’re happy to wear our influences on our sleeves, and it’s only better if people use our music as a gateway to all these 80’s bands that we love. We’re covering Tears for Fears in these shows and I’m sure especially younger kids don’t know that band, and we’d love for them to check it out. With “Running in Circles,” for instance, in the beginning it feels really 80’s, but then in the chorus, the way the guitars kind of sit in the mix, the sound of that feels almost more 90’s rock to me. Then in “I Wanted To Change The World But The World Changed Me,” we were using kind of deeper, subby, 808 kinds of sounds that have that hip hop and R&B influence for sure.
—
As he describes that process of putting together different sounds from different eras, there’s a bit of a twinkle in his eye. It becomes clear very quickly that he’s rightfully proud of what POP ETC has accomplished in this regard.
“We love music,” Chu says, “so we’re just listening to stuff all the time and putting it all together.
I ask if that’s where the “et cetera” comes from, since the music they make transcends the meaning of the word “pop” on its own.
“Yeah, we were very intentional about choosing that name,” says Chu. “When we chose ‘The Morning Benders,’ we didn’t even think it would be a real band. But with ‘POP ETC,’ we like the idea of it. Not only does it kind of feel like a genre, so we can say we play “pop et cetera,” but we like it as something bigger than a band, like a kind of concept.”
Especially seeing as “pop” tends to have a negative connotation nowadays, the way that POP ETC have branded themselves is an effective, cohesive labor of love.
“We’re making shirts and stuff, we love it from a design perspective,” explains Chu. “Now, we’re putting things out through our own imprint called ‘POP ETC Records.’ I like how it fits into all these different arms. It all serves the music. And we do play ‘pop et cetera,’ that’s our genre.”
Photo by Bee Vivian.
—
YM: Since you mix genres so effectively and all these different aspects go into it, when you have an idea for a song, how does that become a collaborative effort?
CC: Well, it actually changed substantially for this record. Especially with The Morning Benders, probably because I was younger and scared of letting go of total control, I wanted to wear all the hats and try to engineer it, mix it, produce it, and direct everyone exactly how to play things. With this record, and with my brother in the band, and Julian, who I’ve known for half my life, I really trust them. I’ll still write the core of a song by myself, and they give me very honest and merciless feedback. They’ll often be like, “We don’t like this,” and I’ll trash it, or, “The chorus is working, but the rhythm in the verse isn’t,” something like that. They help curate the songwriting even though they’re not writing lyrics or melodies that much. Then from a production standpoint, everyone plays. Julian is just a natural drummer, and as he’s playing drums, he starts guiding a song in a certain way from his style and his idea of what he likes. So yeah, I think this is the most collaborative record we’ve ever made.
YM: Does that have to do with it being recorded in the apartment?
CC: Yeah, that’s a huge factor. I get kinda stressed out being in a studio. I mean, you can find a great studio and make it warm and cool and if you can kind of bunker down for a month or something and you can feel comfortable there, but it’s just harder and harder to do that these days…I just always felt, especially with vocals and things that I wanna do in a really heartfelt, personal way, it’s kind of odd to do it in a studio where you don’t know the space or you don’t know anyone. There’s assistants standing around, staring at you or whatever. We just liked kind of being at home and having the freedom to really be patient. If I wanted to geek out over a certain way I sung a line or something for a couple hours, I could do that, whereas in a studio, you feel bad because you’re having an engineer do this thing over and over, and you just wanna get on with it.
YM: So did you not bring too many other outside people into it?
CC: No, no. We ended up having a couple of people mix it, so we sent it off for that phase just because we thought it would be nice to get some clarity. We ended up spending so much time on this record that we all felt like we were too close to have clarity on organizing sound. But we produced everything and played everything ourselves.
YM: So in the last three years, it wasn’t like a, “We spent most of this time writing, most of this time recording…”
CC: That’s the thing with being able to record at home now, it’s all much more ambiguous and those lines don’t really exist. When we did our first record, it was all the tape and we knew that we’d be going into the studio with not much time so we’d learn all the songs really well, went in and banged it out, and made a record. But with this it’s just everything is a moving part. You’re not committing something to tape where you can’t change it…The songwriting, and the recording and production are all intermingled. And some songs, we’d be fully recorded and go back and rewrite the chorus or a lyric or something. There’s substantial changes to every facet of a song.
YM: So how does that process reflect in the title of the album being Souvenir?
CC: We named it Souvenir for a lot of reasons, but in regards to that, because we took so much time and spent these years making this record, and it really felt stretched out across those years, it wasn’t like we did a couple of months and then vacationed for six, we were really tinkering with it. So I think it feels like a snapshot of what we were going through during those times. We liked the idea of having a souvenir that we could hold onto and keep with us going forward.
—
At this point, Jon, Chu’s brother and bandmate, pops in, waiting for a lull in the conversation. I turn to ask if he wants to add anything.
“Oh no, sorry to interrupt,” he says, “We just didn’t submit a guest list.”
Soon, drummer Julian Harmon comes in too, reaching for the beers and taking a seat on the couch with a few other people. There’s an air of ease in the room, no tension despite there being an interview going on and show time in around fifteen minutes.
“I thought Christine would’ve done that, but I will send it to you,” says Chris
“I’ll send that to you now,” says Chris, and Jon thanks him and apologizes again. “Okay, I sent it to both of you guys.”
“Are you guys doing an interview?” Harmon asks.
“Yeah, and we’re recording,” says Chris, jokingly adding, “So get the beers, and go.”
They leave the room and I get nervous, as it seems like I’m intruding on their time to hang out before the show.
“I mean, the only other thing I was wondering was…” I begin.
“It’s fine! Take your time,” he reassures me. “Don’t worry about them, there’s always something going wrong.”
—
YM: What kinds of things do you want new people who are discovering your music to draw from?
CC: That’s a good question. I don’t know.
YM: Not that you have to peg it for anything specific.
CC: I mean, obviously we put so much time into this record, I hope that people connect with it. In the same way that it’s a souvenir for us and we have it for these times, I like the idea of people having it — and for me, this is how music works in my life — as I’m living and listening to a record, my life experiences get kind of wrapped up in that, so ideally, that was what would happen. It could be a souvenir for other people.
YM: Yeah, definitely.
CC: To bring it full circle with what we were talking about early on, I really want fans to know how much we appreciate them caring about what we’re doing. I would like them to connect with us, especially with all the social media ways you connect with fans directly. I really think that it’s a blessing that we get to make music all the time for a living. We really do believe in that exchange and we’re feeding off the energy of our fans. Their support really does affect us and our music.
The energy in Webster Hall for As Tall As Lions’ final reunion show on Wednesday, December 30, was palpable. Fans buzzed with excitement, squished together in the venue waiting to get a first glimpse of the boys they haven’t seen play together in five years. In the last couple of years, bands like The Starting Line, The Used, Motion City Soundtrack, and many others from my high school heydays are making their reunion rounds across New York. Nothing had me as excited as this one, though.
I had a few opportunities to see As Tall As Lions in the past, but they all fell through for various reasons. Then they split up, and I was left listening to their enticing falsetto and lulling rifts through my headphones during my morning commute, hoping for a chance to see them live. As soon as I saw their Facebook post announcing reunion shows in California and New York, I bought tickets immediately. It was probably the best way I could have ended 2015.
The second they took the stage, people erupted into smiles and cheers, and the positive vibes didn’t end until well after they took a bow and walked off. Performing for almost two hours straight, the show was a blur of reminiscence from a band that didn’t appear to change much after five years of not playing together. Frontman Dan Nigro and bassist Julio Tavarez complimented one another’s musical styles as well as their senses of humor—watching them perform alongside one another was akin to watching good friends just doing what they loved.
As Tall As Lions played through their entire self-titled album, touching on favorites like “Stab City,” “Milk and Honey,”and, “Maybe I’m Just Tired.” When Dan took out his acoustic guitar to play “I’m Kicking Myself,” the only sound other than his entrancing vocals and his fingers dancing over the chords was the echo of everyone in Webster Hall singing along. And when they played their wildly popular single “Love, Love, Love,” a sea of smiling faces met you in every direction you looked.
After playing through their 2006 full-length, they made sure to touch on a few of their other popular singles, including “Break Blossoms,” which is the point where I officially lost my voice. They also played “Acrobat” from album Lafcadio as well as the opening track from their last album, You Can’t Take it With You, “Circles.”
The night was a whirlwind of nostalgia, Dan’s sweet falsetto vocals, a spunky brass section, and more than a few goofy faces from Julio as he jammed out on bass. The Long Island boys posted earlier this week on their Facebook page about the shows and brought up the questions on everyone’s minds: What exactly does the future hold for ATAL? Right now it seems like it is relatively uncertain, but I’ve got my fingers (and toes) crossed for new releases and more performances.
POP ETC got the night started right at Terminal 5, opening for The Wombats.
The band, formerly known as The Morning Benders, consists of brothers Chris (vocals, guitar), Jon Chu (synth), and Julian Harmon (drums).
After playing a new track called “Vice” off their upcoming album, Chris thanked New Yorkers for having a bit more fun with the music. The band just toured in Japan, where, he said, “it was so silent that you could hear a pin drop in between songs.”
Still, while I was having a good time, I felt like I was getting dirty looks for dancing. I am a huge fan of The Wombats, but in my experience at their shows, it doesn’t seem like anyone comes to dance around.
The band’s charm certainly helped get the energy up a little, with Chris complimenting the “attractive audience” on our hair, calling us “well-groomed.” They seem like such a sweet group of guys.
I have to admit that prior to seeing them live, I was hardly impressed by their self-titled first album. As a whole, the sound was almost overwhelmingly electronic for an indie band, crossing the line of being overproduced. It was great to see songs from POP ETC like “Keep It For Your Own” translate better into a live performance.
Judging by tracks like “Bad Break” and “Vice,” whatever changes the band has gone through in the last few years has taken them in a new direction, and they’re sounding more like early Depeche Mode, which works much better.
Their follow-up album, entitled Souvenir, will be released on January 29, 2016.
Any show at Terminal 5 is always a big one, so when I came to see the four-artist, co-headlined Wilderness Politics tour, I knew I was in for one hell of a party.
First up was LOLO, a young Brooklyn native with a lot of soul. Getting on her knees with passion, it was clear she was having the time of her life, commanding the stage with her ability to belt and hold some strong high notes.
The Griswolds have the look of your favorite early 2000’s pop-punk groups with a nice danceable flavor. They put out happy vibes with their upbeat songs. The energy during the quick set was irresistible — “If You Wanna Stay” was especially fun for dancing along.
Here’s what’s curious about The Griswolds — in spite of their incredibly fun tempos, giving the crowd all kinds of excuses to scream and dance, in songs like “16 Years,” lyrics like “I’m half the man I used to be/Tequila, lust and gambling/Oh, mama, I need rescuing” aren’t exactly the happiest upon closer listen.
In any case, there’s no need for anything flashy to enjoy a Griswolds show — they’re simply a group of charming Aussie guys wowing the crowd by having the time of their lives.
Journeys, the show’s sponsor, is holding a contest to win a pair of shoes hand-decorated by the band themselves. Enter here!
I was almost caught off guard when David Boyd burst out waving a bright red New Politics flag, displaying their tally mark logo.
Boyd (vocals) and Søren Hansen (guitar) originally hail from Copenhagen, but Boyd called Terminal 5 a hometown show, trying to get the New Yorkers to be the loudest crowd yet. They’ve been living in Williamsburg since ’09, and met current drummer “Long Island Louis” Vecchio here in the city.
Boyd, a breakdancer, made the most of the beats center stage to showcase his skills, even if it doesn’t quite match up with the pop punk sound.
For the crowd favorite “Fall Into these Arms,” Boyd came out to the audience’s hands to dance and surf the crowd right back to the stage, leading into the multitalented Hansen performing a powerful solo on the piano. “Girl Crush” brought the energy back up with Andrew McMahon joining the band on stage.
The former lead singer for Something Corporate and Jack’s Mannequin, Andrew McMahon now performs solo under the moniker of Andrew McMahon in the Wilderness. The set design, consisting of grass platforms for the keyboard and drums, and some turf to top the piano, was a rare display of greenery in the city, though it felt a little more like a suburban backyard, minus the picket fence.
McMahon performed a diverse set of songs from his previous bands and solo work. Fans responded well to songs like Something Corporate’s “I Woke Up In A Car” and “Punk Rock Princess,” evident as everyone seemed to know all the words. It felt as if you could hear the echo of the audience for the duration of the set.
When I first walked into the venue, I was approached to have my cheek swabbed by volunteers of the Love Hope Strength foundation to register for bone marrow donation. McMahon took time out of the show to talk about his own experience with cancer, having been diagnosed with acute lymphoblastic leukemia in 2005. He announced that this marks ten years of being cancer-free, before performing the Jack’s Mannequin song “Swim” for “anybody who’s going through something.”
There certainly were crazier moments during the show, like McMahon crowd surfing his way down to the bar to get a shot of Jäger. The highlight, however, was the childlike joy that fell across the room during the performance of “Cecilia and the Satellite,” penned for his daughter. He brought everyone back to elementary school with a giant parachute, making for the perfect encore.
All photos shot by Ysabella Monton for AudioFemme.
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.
In the basement of The Delancey in the heart of LES, The Harpoons quickly got the groove going late on a Saturday night. Music export initiative Sounds Australia put together an edition of their Aussie BBQ, a showcase of Australian bands, right here in New York City.
Funk and R&B vibes with a techy-modernized twist is the best way to describe the way they warmed up the dingy little room. Clad in a relaxed white power suit, gorgeous lead singer Bec Rigby swooned and crooned while the energy from brothers Henry and Jack Madin and Marty King’s harmonies get the crowd to melt right into the beats.
The Aussie BBQ showcase put each band on a pretty tight schedule, as all day, they had each of the twenty-one acts coming out one after another since 2 pm. Still, by midnight, the crowd had plenty of energy up until the last song of the set, where we begged for one more, and The Harpoons were happy to oblige. It was a quick set, but the band were around to chat and enjoy the other Aussie bands up next, like Pearls and friendships, both of whom I really came to enjoy.
The Harpoons are headed back home to Melbourne soon for Melbourne Music Week, and will be playing a few shows around Australia to close out the month. Check out their latest music video for the single “Ready For Your Love,” made to accompany the video diary for their Japanese tour:
