Feminism often focuses on the pressures placed on women in society, but men face their own set of pressures as well, and these are very much connected to the oppression women face. Would we have such high rates of domestic abuse if men weren’t taught to express themselves through violence? Would the sexual assault epidemic be what it is if straight men were not taught to view women as conquests? And if men could be free from these constraints, how would the world look different?
Stockholm-based pop artist Elin Blom, known by her stage name FELIN, explores questions like these in her latest single “Dear Boys,” an open letter to men who commit violence and mistreat women. “Dear guys/did your parents treat you right?/or did they teach you not to cry?” she sings against deceptively upbeat drums and bass. The song is intentionally poppy with an edge and roughness to it. Written at an all female writing camp in Stockholm, it utilizes an all-female writing and production team.
With the single, Blom wanted to send her listeners the message that “it isn’t manly to be an asshole and not care about how you treat your children or care about how you treat women,” she says. “It isn’t manly to crack sexist jokes; that’s just rude behavior. It’s way more manly and brave to wear a dress no matter what your friends think, or to speak up against abuse or abusive and sexist language.”
In the video, premiering today via Audiofemme, she looks at the more positive side of the equation, celebrating people who don’t confirm to their gender roles with shots of actors exhibiting a variety of gender expressions and styles. In the beginning, she speaks out loud: “My heroes are those who dare to express who they are, fully, with no holding back. This is about those heroes; this is their moment.”
“It was important for us to find a mix of men in different ages, with different sexualities and backgrounds, to show that it’s okay to wear [whatever] and be whoever you want no matter what you do for work, where you come from, or where you live,” she tells Audiofemme.
Blom, who identifies as sexually fluid, was inspired in part to write the song after dozens of Polish towns declared themselves to be “LGBT-free zones” last year. She hopes she can help work toward a world where “vulnerability will be natural and something beautiful for both men and women” and “everyone’s uniqueness will be celebrated instead of being questioned.”
Her own upbringing, during which her dad stayed at home and her mom worked, also spawned her interest in this topic. “A lot of the women in my friend circle are scared of having kids because it changes the way society looks at you,” she says. “In society, there is an underlying pressure on women where they are somehow expected to be the main caregiver and are often asked questions like ‘how do you balance your career and having a family?’ When do men ever get asked that question?”
“Dear Boys” will appear on FELIN’s upcoming album Heroes & Villains (out this summer), which deals in different ways with various problems society faces and their potential solutions. The previously-released title track is a snappy rock-influenced jam dealing with gender roles, violence, and materialism, while the first single, “C19,” is a slow, dramatic ballad about the loneliness of quarantine life written and produced solely by Blom. The LP also includes “Vultures,” which speaks out against domestic abuse, “Wohoo,” which she describes as a “disguised doomsday song” about climate change, and “No More Sweet Home Alabama,” an anthem for bodily autonomy.
FELIN typically writes her songs on piano or guitar with the help of her writing partner John Strömberg, then gets the melody and lyrics down before producing them. Her album includes live drums, strings, guitar, and bass, along with synths and samples.
Blom started her first band at age 11 with three of her friends, and they went on to play shows around Finland and Russia, including some at rowdy bars where they couldn’t even legally drink. At age 16, she moved to Stockholm to pursue a career in music and ended up landing in the top six on Swedish Idol. After that, she wrote songs for other artists, including Adam Lambert, as her own musical project began to take form.
In addition to making her own music, Blom DJs at clubs, though COVID has prohibited her from doing that in recent times. Instead, she’s spent quarantine learning bass and doing TV and livestream shows as a bass player for other artists, as well as engaging in other creative projects like painting and writing short novels.
As songs like “Dear Boys” illustrate, she takes an activist approach to her work. “I know that my voice alone won’t change anything, but I feel like I need to do whatever I can to speak up and to take part in creating change,” she says. “I think people learn by example, and I think when you educate yourself and challenge prejudices you might have yourself, that’s when you can educate others.”
Some people view spirituality and sexuality as two conflicting forces — which is precisely why indie soul-pop artist Megan Mortensen (known by her stage name Valeree) decided to wed them in her latest single, “Deity,” an ode to the consciousness-elevating power of sex.
“I’ll be your deity, fall to your knees/Oh, honey, pray to me, between the sheets/Get down and start to confess/Come into the church between my legs,” her powerful voice soars in the chorus, against soulful piano. Blatantly sensual, with R&B influences that showcase Valeree’s impressive vocal range, the song borrows undeniable lyrical inspiration from Hozier’s “Take Me to Church.”
“I always thought that the concept of sex and religion in a song was interesting — it feels dangerous,” Mortensen says. She was raised without a religion but grew up among religious people, and became interested in how religious dogma affects believers’ sexuality, since she didn’t feel those same pressures.
“I’ve noticed that a lot of stuff is taboo, like sex before marriage,” she explains. “And having not grown up with that, I don’t get it at all. I don’t really understand why that would be the case, why it’s supposed to be this thing that’s just for procreating.”
The song unabashedly celebrates sex as a way to commune with a higher force rather than an affront to the divine — as does the video, premiering today, where Valeree dances sensually in lingerie and boots and stands under a waterfall in a white gown while belting “hallelujah.”
In order to make sure the video came from a woman’s perspective, Mortensen co-directed it. “It was really important to me that this wasn’t a video that was just showing me for the male gaze or some guy behind the camera,” she says. “I wanted it to feel like I am in power, so you’ll notice quite a few angles [where the camera is] looking up, which shows a power dynamic. I wanted it to be sexy because it’s supposed to be about me feeling sexy and feeling empowered and whoever’s hearing it being a part of it, but for my own eyes — not the eyes of somebody else.”
Mortensen also aimed to convey her own sense of femininity in the video. “For me, something that makes me feel in touch with my feminine side is sex,” she says. “The part of me that feels powerful also feels feminine to me. I equate those two things, but I feel like it’s up to each individual what makes them feel feminine.”
Mortensen wrote “Deity” two years ago; last year, she and her producer did pre-production over Zoom before a socially distanced recording, where she instructed her band to play in the style of Fiona Apple’s “Slow Like Honey.” The song is included on her second EP, it’s fine, I’m fine, which comes out March 19 and includes her previous single “Broke,” a mix of Motown and modern production, and something of an ode to Etta James that also manages to address themes of feminism and capitalism.
The LA-based singer, who works as a server at two restaurants when she’s not making music, has been playing piano since she was little and began performing at bars around LA at age 17. She put out her first single, “Masochist,” in 2019 and released a debut EP by the same name in 2020. With another single on the way, she plans to keep releasing songs until she’s ready to record a proper full-length debut, which she has already written.
Several of her previous songs, perhaps most obviously “Any Other Way” on Masochist, have sensual vibes similar to “Deity,” and she hopes her music can help people – especially women and non-binary folks, view their sexuality as something that exists for themselves, rather than for others. “Women have been sexually abused and viewed as objects and viewed as property of men for so long that I think it’s a huge deal to take that back,” she says.
“There’s all these double standards — men come out with these songs all the time about fucking women and it’s celebrated, and you look at the backlash of Cardi B and it’s a completely different story,” she adds. “I want to change that narrative. I feel like I’ve been treated as an object, and I’ve seen so many other women and non-men deal with that, and I think a huge part of changing that is representation and showing things like women saying ‘I’m in charge of my body and I’m proud of it and if I want to have sex I’m gonna have sex; it’s not up to you.'”
Getting rejected isn’t fun for anyone. Being the rejecter, though, isn’t exactly pleasant either. Most of us have been in that awkward situation where someone liked us and we didn’t like them back. On her latest single “Empty Calls,” London-based pop artist Zelha reflects on the difficult process of having to reject somebody.
“It’s a really awkward situation where you don’t really know what to do with it,” she says. “When I was writing this song, I was kind of going through that, and I think it helped me approach the situation and hopefully can help other people as well. It’s quite a common thing to go through.”
“I can’t keep it up, I can’t keep it in/I’ve been avoiding, just keep avoiding you/I can’t let you in/let you under my skin/I’ll just keep running,” her clear, hypnotizing voice sings in the catchy pre-chorus against energetic percussion that evokes this very sense of running away from drama only to have it bite you in the back.
The video features Zelha dancing in the street, on the beach, and in a parking lot as she takes the viewer through her emotional process. “The idea was to recreate that feeling of wanting to escape, so the scenes at the beach were by myself; it was really a way to show the reflection that happens in that situation and wanting to be away with your thoughts,” she says.
In her case, she ended up telling the other person everything she was feeling (and wasn’t). “Honesty is always the best policy; if you don’t know where you stand, then it’s just worse,” she says. “I hope that people can relate to it and that it shows them that some things have to be said even if it’s awkward and it’s not easy. In the long run, it’ll be better.”
She wanted the single to sound like a pop song but to also incorporate indie elements; she and producer Jack Gourlay used lots of tom samples to create an organic sound and incorporated multiple layers of synths to evoke an ethereal, nostalgic feel.
The single appears on Zelha’s upcoming debut EP, which she says deals in various ways with self-discovery, dysfunctional relationships, and mental health. One song, “Stage Lights,” for instance, is about the self-consciousness that comes from thinking other people are watching you when they’re really more focused on themselves.
The EP also includes her first single, “Player 1,” a chill, harmony-filled, Lana Del Rey-like track about “someone who wants to control everyone and everything,” she says. “I think especially women tend to have those experiences quite a lot, having someone gaslight you or manipulate you without realizing it.”
She and Gourlay started producing the EP two years ago and plan to release it later this year. All the instrumentation was done digitally, with the exception of some guitar parts.
Zelha, whose real name is Caroline Marcela Zandona, is half-Mexican and half-Belgian and was raised in Belgium. “I grew up with both types of music: French on one side and Mexican on the other,” she says. “I don’t know if it can be directly heard in my music, but the way I write lyrics may be a bit different because English isn’t my first language.” She chose her stage name because she wanted something that worked phonetically in French, Spanish, and English, incorporating elements of her middle and last name.
As a student at the Institute of Contemporary Music Performance in London, Zelha is currently writing a dissertation on fourth-wave feminism, female artists, and how they’re represented in their lyrics. She’s already started making music for her second EP, which explores the feminist themes she’s studying, and hopes to produce it using an all-female and nonbinary team. “There’s a lot of barriers to women [in the music industry], and I think we should all be helping each other out. By talking about it, it’s just going to become a more common subject, not as taboo,” she says. “Pushing female producers and female co-writers is what we should be doing.”
With a bright red jacket and vibrant orange eyeshadow, Greya stands out against the desolate, vacant backdrops in a new music video for latest single, “Thrive,” about a one-sided relationship and the unrequited passion that comes along with it. “The song itself is pretty literal, so we wanted to accentuate the feelings that come with a toxic relationship and emulate them through various settings and emotions,” Greya explains. “You see me alone outside a gas station, going through a kind of mourning, contrasted with an ideal relationship, which we personified at the beach.”
Director and videographer Hannah Gray Hall shot Greya opposite Tony Woodland, who plays her love interest, at Percy Priest Lake and an abandoned storefront in East Nashville. Greya’s bold red jacket symbolizes dauntless energy; red is a color of love, anger, and in some cultures, death. Greya blooms like a flower in the grey landscape—one that, with some courage, will bloom again despite being beaten and bruised.
Extraordinarily, the entire process of making the video came together in the span of three days, including post-production. Greya met her director on set while shooting a video for her previous single “He,” where they instantly connected. “When the ‘Thrive’ video situation became a time crunch, my roommate suggested giving her a call and within minutes we had a shoot date and concept down,” Greya says. With help on set from Greya’s roommates (and a bottle of whiskey they shared to keep warm), the group had the shoot down in one day.
A Philly native, Greya is no stranger to the music scene, having picked up a guitar at age 10 only to start writing songs a year later. She has learned to express herself fearlessly in writing sessions with the likes of Shannon Sanders, Sacha Skarbek, Flo Reuter, and her “Thrive” co-writers Jasper Leak and Chris Keup, resulting in the arresting debut singles she released last year, “He” and “All Hell Breaks Loose.” But self-expression wasn’t always second nature to Greya.
“Developing confidence really evolved all aspects of my music,” she says. “I spent a lot of time questioning myself, which of course pretty much affected everything I did. Getting past the self-doubt is both my biggest accomplishment and my biggest evolution in music.”
With her latest release, we see that the confidence extends to Greya’s personal life as she describes leaving a destructive relationship, finally realizing that her emotions came second to her partner’s selfishness and deciding to let go, while holding space for the heartache she’s suffered. She sings, “Why do I always do this?/Want the guy that always puts me through it.” It’s easy to say in these moments of self-awareness that you’ve learned your lesson, but it’s a lifelong learning process according to Greya. “On paper, I now know how important it is to be up front when getting into any new relationship, which I’ve never done in the past,” she says. “I was always so concerned with being the ‘chill girl’ who didn’t ask too many questions, but that becomes a really difficult hole to climb out of. Going forward, I’d like to be straight up, but that’s easier said than done.”
Despite how many times our hearts are broken, we’re only human. For Greya, facing the sadness in one relationship doesn’t provide immunity for others to come – and that’s okay. “The short answer is yes, I’ve become aware of some things that could improve relationships in the future,” she says. “But the long answer is no, because I usually mess that kind of thing up one way or another.”
Adulthood doesn’t mean that an acquaintance can’t manage to make you feel like shit. Anya Marina is an accomplished singer-songwriter, known for an expansive catalogue, including “Satellite Heart” (from the platinum-selling soundtrack to Twilight: New Moon) and her bomb-ass cover of T.I.’s “Whatever You Like” (6 million YouTube views and counting). Her latest single, “Pretty Vacant,” off 2020’s Queen of the Night album, strips away the resume and showcases the raw pain of adult friendships.
“I wrote that song in Nashville and I was really hurt, at the time, by this famous girl,” Marina remembers. “I thought we were friends and I heard through the grapevine that she didn’t like me – it was like junior high school all over again. She showed an email that I wrote to a group of other people who I respected and I was just like: I am too old for this bullshit. It was so wild to me that adult women could act this way. Of course they can – we can all get that way. She had her reasons for being threatened by me or not liking me, but it really took me by surprise.”
The resulting song is a gel-penned hate note for the modern era, its pleasant guitar strumming and gentle vocals mocking the reader: “Darling, I don’t want your money or fame/Darling, I don’t want the keys to your place/Don’t you see I’m happier, too?/So happy without you.” From Marina’s point of view, the unnamed celebrity was only interested in an entourage, not a real friendship (with real sparring and emotions). And while she could understand not being liked, it was this woman’s approach that turned her stomach. “I was really shocked by the gossiping. I can’t believe that a 35-year-old woman who’s so strong and powerful and revered would say this stuff about little old me,” Marina says with a shrug. “I’m nobody to her.”
The video for the single, premiering today via Audiofemme, strays from the original plot of the song and focuses on Marina’s real-life move from her longtime hometown, New York City. In a series of cutaways, Marina cleans her apartment, carefully sweeping dust bunnies from the corner of her living room; the city looms outside the window, as static and ever-permanent as it could be. The move was a difficult, but necessary turning point for her. “I know the Buddhists say you suffer when you resist things, but it was hard,” Marina confesses. “I did not want to move. I loved my apartment. It was my little Shangri-La. But you know, when I started to move I was ready to do it.”
The album Queen of the Night was written as an ode to her time in NYC. “I had a really fruitful time in the city – going through heartache and living with a comedian, Nikki Glaser, who I love,” Marina says with a smile. “We were talking about our respective heartbreaks a lot as roommates. We’d come home for the night and discuss: ‘Who did you talk to?’ ‘Who did you see?’ ‘What’s the status of your love life?’ She would write jokes and I would write songs.” During this time, Marina and Glaser began co-producing a podcast called We Know Nothing (which she continued with comedians Phil Hanley and Sam Morril after Glaser’s other projects took precedence), chronicling their wild adventures in Chelsea and beyond.
With the whirl of daily life, Marina hit a creative wall, and put off writing for months despite her prolific run of albums spanning from 2005 debut Miss Halfway to 2019 EP Over You. “I was getting angry at myself for being such a bad singer-songwriter and being so undisciplined,” she remembers. “And then I was like: Just play one note. You always tell yourself just take baby steps with everything and then you’re not doing it with your music.” She grabbed her guitar and hummed what became the opening lyric for the album’s title track: “Maybe I’m a fool in love/But I don’t care/I won’t play their games.”
Anya Marina loves pulling vignettes from her life to use in her music. Like an expert in collage, her albums tend to capture and reinterpret a moment. She was raised on the drama and improvisation of jazz; her father was an amateur jazz musician and her grandmother a jazz pianist. “She was in bands up until the day she died [at the age of] 99,” Marina says. “Her last week of her life, she had three gigs with her big band and the other big band in her convalescent home. I come from some good genes I guess.”
While she’s now living in upstate New York with boyfriend and fellow musician Matt Pond (of Matt Pond PA), she is grateful for every moment spent in NYC. She’s incredibly thankful for her final performance there, which will be released as a career-spanning compilation, Live and Alone in New York. Her good friend, collaborator, and tour mate Eric Hutchinson convinced her to do the live album, not knowing it would be her final performance in the city for the foreseeable future. “I don’t think I would have done it if it were not for him pushing me to do it, which is how most of my projects get done – somebody pushing me to do it,” she remarks. The album was recorded over two nights at Rockwood Music Hall on the Lower East Side in December 2019, then Marina and Hutchinson handpicked each intro and song. “It’s a good snapshot of the time,” Marina says of the experience.
Anya Marina isn’t resting on her laurels. She recently started her own Patreon and is busy sharing demos, unreleased songs, blog entries and private live stream shows with subscribers. As she looks forward to a new jazz ensemble project and ongoing collaborations with Matt Pond PA, New York City – and the failed friendship that inspired “Pretty Vacant” – are now in her rear view mirror.
Follow Anya Marina on Facebook for ongoing updates.
On their debut full-length LP Linchpin, experimental duo Vákoum offer up an expansive array of rhythmic, textural, and tonal complexity, utilizing unexpected transitions between effected guitars, a blend of acoustic and electronic drum beats, and ethereal Bulgarian-inspired vocals to create a sound that mirrors the many mood swings of an anxious human mind. Though certainly relevant in these unprecedented times, these are themes Vákoum has been unpacking since their very inception.
Multi-instrumentalists, composers, and producers Kelli Rudick and Natalia Rudick-Padilla formed Vákoum in 2014, upon meeting at a guitar clinic at now-defunct creative hub The End in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. Since then, they’ve released an EP (2017’s Home for Home), toured with The Album Leaf, and refined a sound inspired by the likes of Björk, Blonde Redhead, and Holly Herndon. They’re due to drop Linchpin February 19th, and they premiere the video for the album’s second single “Airotic” on Audiofemme today.
“Airotic” was written pre-COVID, though it translates well to our present moment. The track guides the listener through the stages of an anxiety attack, using sonic transitions to mark the initial moment of panic leaden with fear and dread, through the disconnect we feel from our body and breath until the moment we finally let go. The song is about grounding through breath, a skill Kelli explains she only honed in recent years. ‘“Airotic’ came from this visualization of the breath,” she says. “There’s so much power in conscious breathing, and most people don’t know how to breathe. I feel like I didn’t know how to breathe until a couple years ago, and so to me it’s the only thing that’s left when things become really hard, and dark, and you lose control. It’s the only thing to anchor you to the ground.”
Directed by Adrian Landeros and featuring dancer Yansi Mendez, the video’s choreography was entirely improvised. They had been filming all day; Mendez was cold and exhausted. They stopped production but the cameras were still rolling when something came upon her and she started moving, capturing the song’s meaning through movement entirely led by intuition, herself becoming grounded, becoming one with her body.
The video is edited to further articulate the feeling of a violent mood swing by rushing through clipped, saturated images of the natural world: crinkling leaves, sparks of flame. But around the 45-second mark these wildly flashing images stop, transitioning to the dancer’s organic movements just as the song bursts wide open into the Vákoum’s haunting vocals. Mendez flails wildly and the manic images return, until the mood shifts again and her movements become more gentle, the imagery cuts in less violently, the beat slows and the vocals become more drawn-out, almost akin to chanting.
At times Mendez pauses completely; we can see the breath rise and fall in her exposed ribcage. In the final minute of the video her movement picks up again but she is now covered in blood, perhaps signifying a rebirth from her own dread to a new space of letting go. The blood is “something human beings are so ashamed of, and scared of, and disgusted by. It’s like a part of us. It’s everywhere in our body, and yet we’re so scared of it,” Kelli explains. “At the end, when she starts dancing with it, it just felt like a baby coming out of the womb.” Blood also figures heavily in the video for Vákoum’s previous single “Spark,” also directed by Landeros, establishing an intense visual language particular to the duo.
While the track articulates the mechanization of an anxious mind, Linchpin as a whole also serves to illustrate the way anxiety can affect a relationship between two people. Married in real life, Kelli describes herself as the more neurotic of the pair, leaning on Natalia for support in these difficult emotions. Natalia explains that it’s no less dreadful to witness these moments of panic in a loved one from the outside. “There is a sense of solitude, and helplessness, from not being able to reach in,” she says. “I think when you see or feel that main shift of the song, you hear the lyrics say, ‘It’s you in it, untrue isn’t it, enough enough.’ And I think it’s really beautiful to be able to hold that space for the other person, and speak almost kind of softer, and change the filters in which life is being viewed.”
The pair describes music as their marriage counselor. Their musical collaboration has helped them to learn more about each other and resolve triggers and other issues, which is where the album’s title comes in, a linchpin being the tool that connects a wheel to an axel. “Things that remain unspoken that you sometimes, for some reason, are afraid to say, you’re able to put out there in music. Or even a feeling, which is maybe this transition or this chord or whatever,” Natalia explains. “It’s a beautiful thing about our relationship that we have a way of feeling music that is extremely similar, and sometimes it can be spoken that way, so you’re not hurting anybody, you’re not saying the wrong thing, you’re just putting it out there with music and the other one picks up on it in a way nothing else does.” In other words, it provides a vehicle for deeper connection, for more difficult conversations.
Despite the limitations and frustrations inherent to releasing an album at the height of a pandemic, both Kelli and Natalia warn against the overwhelming sense of pessimism so many feel. They continue to practice every other day, and have used this time to become more disciplined in learning new technologies to help them share their album with a wider audience, focusing on streaming in place of live performance. Kelli laments the pent-up energy that comes with releasing a new record without a live vehicle for sharing and experiencing it with others, but ultimately says, “What it comes down to is that we have to just keep doing what we love, and no matter what happens, that’s the most important thing, just to keep creating.” Natalia agrees, once again emphasizing the linchpin that holds their creative and personal relationships together: “We’re not as affected in that regard, because we always make music for ourselves. It’s kind of a newer thing to want to share it. And so it’s a little bit like home anyway, with an industry or not. I feel complete.”
Car ran out of gas. Bicycle got a flat tire. We’ve heard all the excuses – and some of us have even made them. In her first-ever music video, Kaiti Jones investigates the reasons we keep putting things off: “I’m always searching for seeds that I can sow/Am I a gardener if I can’t make things grow?/And these weeds keep coming for all I own/And I should pull ’em but I know I ain’t gettin’ around to it,” she sings, as she goes through her morning routine in the clip. The camera follows her beleaguered journey to the diving board of a swimming pool – she imagines jumping in, but doesn’t, shuffling away with a poignant metaphor for her inability to follow through.
Of course, for the scene where Jones imagines herself making the jump, she had to actually do it – on a crisp New England October day, no less. “I called my friend’s dad, and I was like, ‘Can you just keep your pool open a couple extra weeks?’ He was so sweet; he cranked the heat for a few days before,” Jones says. “But it was stressful – you can only do one shot of the cannonball. We probably have twenty minutes of takes of me almost jumping in and then being like aaah!” Her Blundstone boots came out of the water a few shades lighter, but frame-for-frame, the video was exactly what she and her director, Jones’ close friend Paula Champagne, had imagined – right down to timing the splash to the song’s final, full-band reprise.
“Gettin Around To It” is Jones’ upbeat tongue-in-cheek ode to being a lifelong, chronic procrastinator, examining the ways a lack of urgency can erode personal relationships without adding so much as a hint of heaviness to the song’s buoyant indie rock sound. “I was reflecting on the consequences of that inability to even do the things that we want to do, and that are important to us… in some circumstances, that can be fine, but when there’s another person on the end of it, they’re not necessarily on that time table,” Jones says.
She often writes songs over time, coming up with a few lines and letting it marinate until the rest of the story comes to her. She wrote the chorus about a failed relationship – one that she almost rekindled, but ultimately didn’t pursue until she’d missed the opportunity to do so. “By the time I put the rest of the song together, I had moved past that and didn’t really feel like that story deserved the whole song,” she says. “And this area of procrastination and shame around failing to follow through, it shows up in all these other ways, so I was more interested in fleshing out the song in a more holistic manifestation of this thing rather than doubling down on this one particular instance.”
Jones says her procrastination is usually born out of indecision, of always wanting to do the right thing and getting in her own way in situations where she feels uncertain. “This year, particularly being stuck at home, having a lack of consistent rhythm and structure, kind of exacerbated it and made me have a little bit more urgency about figuring [it] out,” Jones says. “It’s often rooted in fear of rejection, fear of making the wrong choice, fear of letting people down. I’m trying to understand myself more, and understand that making the wrong choice is okay.”
Luckily, fear didn’t stop her from putting the finishing touches on her forthcoming album, Tossed, out March 5th. She excavates relationship insecurities in “Light On” and “Desert Rose,” laments missing loved ones on “I Was Wondering” and “Big Yellow Moon,” and investigates her spirituality on piano-driven ballad “Mystic.” On the album’s title track, she brings rich, heart-rending detail to finding catharsis in the ocean waves on the day her mom began chemo treatments across the country; though intensely personal, her candidness is so piercing it’s as though these events might’ve happened to you. Though seven minutes long, “Tossed” goes by in a flash, a lone fiddle flitting above the sonic sea. “Daydreaming” and the album’s first single, “Weak Days,” meanwhile, reinforce some of the same themes in “Gettin Around to It” (“I’ll never say the wrong thing twice/But I’ll never say the right thing right,” she promises on “Weak Days,” while “Daydreaming” catalogues the scattered thoughts she’s gotten lost in). It’s hard to imagine a more honest body of work – and though it comes mainly from Jones’ perspective, it’s a beautiful reminder of the complexity within every person.
Part of the ease with which she was able to complete the record came down to working so fluently with her producer Daniel Radin of Boston “bummer pop” band Future Teens. Jones was a fan of his previous band, the Novel Ideas, and she was impressed with projects he’d produced for some of their mutual friends in the scene, like Hayley Sabella. “I haven’t always brought the most agency [to other projects] and some of that is just being a woman in recording spaces. Usually you’re with all dudes who probably know more about types of microphones and effects and all those things,” Jones admits. When she was recording her first EP some 13 years ago, she said it was hard for her to speak up, and sometimes that was because she didn’t really know what she wanted out the recording process. But, she says, “My experience with Daniel has been the best experience of real partnership, of feeling like the producer knows what I want and isn’t afraid to push me into new spaces, but is always going to respect [my choices]. Because I trusted him so much and because I just really love his vision, I was also more willing to try [his suggestions].”
That openness resulted in some of her favorite moments on the album – including the suggestion of adding the first stanza to the chorus of “Gettin Around to It.” She also had the opportunity to work with Austin musician David Ramirez, who helped with some of the writing and production on the single.
While her country-inflected 2017 debut full-length Vows was recorded in one week-long session in Iowa, Jones was able to meet up with Radin, who lives about ten minutes from her home in Cambridge, to work on songs for Tossed sporadically. “We recorded all the drums in December of 2019 in one day, in a studio out in Western Mass called Sonelab, because he was like, ‘This is the best room to record drums,'” Jones says. “Everything after that we just chipped away at Daniel’s house. And then the world shut down, so all of the vocals and fiddle on the record were recorded in my apartment – he just gave me the equipment I needed and I recorded it all, and my roommate is my fiddle player, so it was very convenient.”
Though it retains Jones’ folksy, confessional vibe, there’s a noticeable shift toward grittier guitar and a toning down of the pedal steel and banjo than the gave Vows a particular rustic twang, her rich vocals and genuine, tender delivery reminiscent of Phoebe Bridgers or Julia Jacklin. “I’ve really been wanting to get out of defined genres,” she admits. Though she’s found “a lot of support and development” in Boston’s folk scene, she listens to all types of music. “This record in particular [is] a little bit more indie-leaning, even though it’s like, what does ‘indie’ mean?” she jokes. “Sometimes labels around genre can be helpful to put words to things, and sometimes they can be kind of like limiting and put people in boxes that don’t need to be there.”
What’s been consistent throughout Jones’ career is her natural talent as a songwriter – she’s been writing short stories since childhood, growing up near Portland, Maine. She approached the instruments she learned as a kid (violin, viola, piano French horn, cello, and drums) from a classical, technical standpoint, but when she picked up a guitar in middle school after joining her church’s youth group band, everything changed. “With guitar, it was, how do I figure out a way to have this be a vehicle to tell my stories, and to start writing in more musical form,” Jones remembers. “It was an extreme privilege to be able to study all of those instruments and it’s laid this groundwork that then allowed me to be more creative.”
Jones attended college at Nashville’s esteemed Belmont University; though her focus was writing and philosophy, she relished the proximity to its music business program and state-of-the-art recording studios. When she moved to Cambridge, it was as an AmeriCorps volunteer, and for a while, her career in community development and youth outreach took precedence over music. “After a few years of just focusing on my community work, I was like, I wanna start exploring the music scene, and it was kind of slow going at first,” she explains. “There’s a great community of folk and indie singer-songwriters in Boston – I got really plugged in at Club Passim, an institution right down the street in Cambridge that has a historic folk scene. A little bit before my last album release [they] really embraced me and have supported me a lot. Really, it’s been the last three or four years that I’ve become more rooted and connected to the music scene and have tried to always keep expanding and growing, just saying yes to opportunities and building relationships and walking through doors that are open.”
A tumultuous 2020 – and the recent loss of her day job – have realigned some of Jones’ priorities, and she says listening back to “Gettin Around To It” reminds her of the things she’s no longer okay with putting off, like working toward social justice. She says there are some interesting parallels between procrastination and society’s collective failure to reckon with racism. “I also have been doing more work around racial identity and understanding the characteristics of white supremacy culture, and one of those is perfectionism – this [idea that] I have to get it right, or else – what if someone is upset with me if I get it wrong?” she says. “I think that gets in the way of action toward justice and toward progress. We see that all the time, whether you call it white fragility or just silence. I’ve been trying to interrogate that in myself in all these areas, whether it’s just like, me getting up and cleaning my room, or calling someone back, or if it’s having hard conversations around race and politics and justice.”
“I really can’t say, ‘Oh well, I’ll speak out on that later,'” she adds. “There’s a part of the song, the bridge, where I say, ‘Show me a single town, where my eyelids close when the sun goes down’ – that part is riffing on the adage of wherever you go, there you are. You can go to a new place, but you’re still gonna be dealing with yourself – until you deal with yourself.”
Like so many of the songs on Tossed, “Gettin Around To It,” has taken on new meaning to Jones in light of the chaos 2020 wrought on humanity. She addresses her insecurities and anxieties with gorgeous, sometimes gut-wrenching stories, but her approach to songwriting hasn’t changed. “The music that I have found freedom and delight in creating isn’t super musically complicated. It’s more about the story I’m trying to tell and how can I build something around that,” she says. “With every album, I want to expand who I’m able to share my stories with. My hope is always that, in writing about my own life, I can say things that are true and will mean something to other people, and help them.”
Along with the rest of world, Kaiti Jones is uncertain about what the future holds, but there’s one thing about which she has no doubt. “I’m definitely a believer in vocation, and feeling called to certain types of work,” she says. “And I feel very called both to community work and also to storytelling and songwriting, so I know I will continue to do both of them. I think they compliment each other – they are both true parts of me.”
Lots of important moments take place on couches. They’re where we enjoy (or tolerate) our families’ company when we’re growing up, where we bring back dates to get to know them better, where we disclose intimate details of our lives to therapists, and now more than ever, where we spend much of our alone time. This multifold significance of couches inspired Vancouver-based singer-songwriter Jenny Banai’s latest album, couchwalker, as well as the accompanying 22-minute video, couchwalker on film.
The phrase “couchwalker” came to Banai as she was reflecting on how many of our experiences on couches involve emotional tightrope-walking. “It seems like ‘oh, couch, that’s a comfortable place to be — you should feel comfortable being close to this person on the couch because it’s casual and cozy,'” she says. “But what I’ve experienced and what I imagine a lot of people experience in the beginnings of relationships, when you’re trying to understand one another, is this sense of imbalance inside, this sense of risk, more like you’re walking a tightrope, like you’re gonna fall off.”
The album was released in September, featuring unconventional sounds such as shells for percussion and key changes to accentuate Banai’s crisp, clear voice. Collaborating with co-producer Scott Currie and engineer John Raham, she took on a bigger role in production than in her previous work, intentionally stretching the bounds of convention with tracks ranging from the sweet-sounding “Intermittent Heart” to “Couch Walker” (a title track that’s not quite a title track), which is infused with hints of alt-rock and jazz.
The decision to make a short film rather than typical music videos was something of a contrarian act. “I am one to kind of want to push the boundary of conventions. I had never made a music video thus far, and I kind of am very thoughtful of ‘why do I do this?'” she says. “I guess all musicians make music videos, and it’s usually assumed because you want to get your music out there, but I wanted to have a deeper creative meaning or purpose behind why I’m making this.”
She was also thinking about how to bring her fans close to her in the absence of live performances during the COVID pandemic. What better way to bring people close, she thought, than through that trusty piece of furniture we so often rely on to do so?
The star of the video is not so much Banai as her couch, which she occupies alongside several dancers throughout the film. They sit on it, lie on it, and eventually move to the floor with expressive hand motions, giving off the impression of a slumber party as they roll around with pillows. Toward the end, you only see their silhouettes dancing to Banai’s soaring voice.
“Using a couch as the centerpiece, it’s almost like I’m interacting with the couch,” she says. “I want the film to convey the complexity of being human and how we have to move through all these emotions and, whatever decisions we make, it’s ultimately your decision. You have the freedom of choice when it comes to loving, when it comes to figuring out how people fit in your heart. Nobody is controlling that, and the aim is to be able to love well. So it conveys the wrestling match within ourselves, but also that desire to love well, and that there’s grief over that.”
She edited the album down to 20 minutes to capture the most poignant moments of each song, adding voice memos to provide context. It opens with a memo of her singing a prayer, and at the beginning of “Couch Walker,” she includes a memo she recorded when she first wrote the song. For two of the songs, she sang live to bring that missing magic of live performances to viewers. Spoken words give the video a candid feeling: at one point, the music pauses and you hear one of her band members ask, “Do you want me to play?”
Collaborating with director Mataj Balaz and choreographers and dancers Joanna Anderson and Kezia Rosen, Banai brought the idea to life over the course of several meetings and rehearsals despite her initial apprehension. “It was this whole idea, this thing in my brain,” she remembers. “It felt fun to imagine, but I felt like, is this really gonna become something or is it just gonna be a flop?”
The costumes, which she says were intended to give off a “’90s kid” vibe and represent different parts of herself, helped her to envision the flow of the film, and when her collaborators signed on, it felt more real. “There was just a profound satisfaction in seeing something coming to fruition,” she says.
Banai was first discovered by a producer while she was in a community Christmas production and released her first album, Flowering Head, in 2015. couchwalker on film isn’t actually her first foray into visual mediums; she released a three-minute film accompanying her single “Intermittent Heart” in May. It centers on her songwriting process – she hums a melody out in the trees and by the water, jots down lyrics at a table, and plays guitar and violin from a bedroom.
“We wanted to film something that showed the creation of a song — less about the final product, more about the process,” she says. “With everything I do, I want it to be so reflective of who I am. With that comes a sense of awareness of how vulnerable I’m being, which can be hard, especially when you invite strangers into seeing that. It’s something I’m trying to figure out still, but being an artist, my goal is to give something to people that makes them feel known and makes them feel heard and makes them feel human, and that it’s okay to be human — not so much about ‘I’m a star, here, watch me be a star.’ I just want it to be as connectable for people as possible.”
Nainnoh (pronounced nine-oh) knows what it means to run. Originally from Georgia, formerly a USSR-held territory, she came to America nearly 20 years ago ─ to not only escape a restrictive government but to fulfill her childhood dream. Her song “Run” celebrates severing toxicity from your life, in whatever form it may take, with rhythmic production and sweeping strings. “Remember how I was treated, feeling so low,” she sings. “Even though you have thrilled me, I’m letting you go.”
The accompanying visual stars champion dancers and choreographers Kristine Bendul and Abdiel Jacobsen, known for helping break gender boundaries as a gender-neutral couple in ballroom dancing. They’re also known as frequent collaborators with Twyla Tharp and former principals in the Martha Graham Dance Company. In the video, Bendul and Jacobsen sculpt an evocative dance piece that fully embodies the song’s fluid and ethereal motions.
“I didn’t know it would be a dance piece [at first],” Nainnoh tells Audiofemme, but when she started thinking about doing a video, she turned her eyes to the fledgling artist community of New York City. A close friend originally suggested she star in the video herself, but that didn’t feel right. “Why should I showcase myself when I can actually support and give life to other people?” she offers.
Nainnoh met Jacobsen and Bendul last year at Stepping Out Studios, a central Manhattan space, home to dance, Zumba, and bootcamp. “I was so impressed by them. They’re such beautiful people. I read about their story, and it was so heartbreaking and symbolic,” she says. “I’ve always been passionate about supporting minorities, Black Lives Matter, and LGBTQ+ rights.”
“I gave them creative freedom because they’re both choreographers and they’re very good at what they do. I trusted them,” she adds. “They did an amazing job. It’s an emotional song, and they just crafted it beautifully.”
“Run” is the second single from Nainnoh’s forthcoming self-titled debut record, which took nearly a decade to complete. One thing after another, from personal tragedies to a hectic schedule, kept putting the music on the backburner. Appropriately, the collection cultivates personal turbulence with spiritual awakening and results in a true testament to her growth as a human being. “[The album shows] how we all are connected and should cherish each other,” she notes.
Looking back, she sees herself as quite “sincere and kind. I didn’t know how to face darkness. I didn’t see other people. But I started to and started to feel what they were feeling. That was a major discovery for me.” Many of the songs were written around the time she had these revelations, so the record really is a celebration of her evolution. Musically, there’s an air of transformation, as she veered away from pure pop in those early days to folk, rock, and psychedelia. “People can feel how I’ve grown as a musician, too. I feel like songwriting is some kind of stream and I have to download it,” she muses with a laugh.
Album opener “Cambium Rings,” for example, harkens back to her airplane ride from Georgia to the United States. “I actually wrote it on the airplane,” she says. “I was like ‘Oh my god, I don’t even have an instrument here. What am I going to do?’” She kept pen to paper, however, and the song sprang from her soul.
Nainnoh’s debut record is very much her liberation movement. Her childhood in Georgia – a country known for its suppression of individuality – instilled within her strength and endurance in the face of adversity. “Growing up there, it was so hard for me to express myself, artistically,” she says. It was even difficult to obtain any vinyl records from America. “Somehow, my parents secretly obtained these records, and I was listening to so many artists like Nina Simone and Ray Charles. These extraordinary sounds really inspired me,” she remembers. “I think it’s very important at the early stages of a child’s development to develop a musical taste ─ to introduce them to these great artists and musicians. I was lucky.”
With restrictions around who she could even hang out with, she longed to immigrate to America, where “you could do whatever you wanted to do. Right now, the country has changed and is completely different, thankfully.”
Nainnoh also loved and studied the work of such novelists as Fyodor Dostoevsky and poets like Shota Rustaveli, a Georgian writer from the 12th Century “who was in love with Tamar, the female king of Georgia, at that time. He was a Shakespeare before Shakespeare or before Hafez or Rumi.”
Her curiosity led her deep into songwriting when she was only 11. “My grandmother gave me the biggest gift of my life when she purchased a piano,” Nainnoh remembers. “After a couple weeks, I started writing music. I didn’t want to sing what other people were singing from TV like all my friends in my circle. I wanted to write songs myself and what I felt.”
Her album, expected in 2021, pieces together themes of strength and power, while also imparting the listener with their own understanding about the world. “I hope the listener takes away the knowledge of existing in the darkness and still finding love and kindness,” she says. “We can survive, and we’re going to be okay.”
A few years ago, Israeli-born, LA-based pop artist Yarin Glam was battling an eating disorder. Now, she’s singing about her experience to help others who are in the same dark place she once was.
Glam’s latest single, “Free,” is a catchy, upbeat, motivational song about battling your demons and making peace with yourself. “I used to change my shape so that I could feel some power/I thought I killed that voice, but it’s trying to come back louder,” she sings powerfully in the poppy chorus against playful guitar and snappy percussion.
“I suffered from anorexia for years, and I was in denial for a long time; I didn’t get the right help for my whole life, basically,” she remembers. “And last year, I went into recovery at the same time that I started working on this project, so both have been extremely therapeutic for me.”
She was afraid to talk about this with her writers and producers when she went into the studio, but she wanted to be as real and vulnerable as she could be. “A lot of the time, people go into recovery, and it’s not a smooth and straight path. There’s a lot of ups and downs, and people relapse and go back into their disorder. You reminisce about the stuff you used to have and think, ‘Oh, it wasn’t that bad,’ and you go back to the old, dark patterns,” she says. “I told them how my whole life, I wanted to be free of the disorder and free in my own head of the self-doubt and the bully in my head.”
Visually representing the inner freedom she describes, the video shows her singing from mountaintops, destroying a pillow, and dancing as feathers fall around her.
Despite the heavy subject matter, the sound is intentionally fun. “I was like, how do I talk about the struggle I have and have deep and meaningful lyrics but, at the same time, if you don’t look at the lyrics, you’re just having fun with the song and jamming to it?” she explains. “Sometimes, people can steer away from songs that are too dark-sounding.”
Glam met her first producer at age 17 and released her first three singles in 2017: “Mr. Calvin Klein,” a flirty ode to a budding love interest; “Before I Go,” a song mourning the end of a relationship; and most recently “Alright” featuring Kodie Shane, a sassy breakup song incorporating EDM and hip-hop elements. After that, she took a step back and rethought how she wanted to present herself as an artist, realizing she wanted to put out deeper, more meaningful music.
“Free” is the first single off an upcoming four-song EP out early next year, whose tracks all deal in different ways with embracing who you are and shutting down self-criticism. The project functioned almost like a diary for Glam. “I was in a dark place still when I was writing those songs and was struggling, and I felt like it was very therapeutic for me to open up about stuff I’d never talked about before to my own family,” she says. Some of the songs make use of Middle Eastern instruments, drawing from her Israeli roots.
Through the openness and vulnerability in her new music, she wants to show people they’re not alone and inspire them to share their stories as well. Eating disorders in particular can be very isolating experiences, since survivors face a lot of judgment and misunderstanding, so she hopes “Free” can provide a compassionate voice for these people. “I talked about that in hopes to get more people talking about it and have more people going through it feel less alone,” she says. “I wanted to be that voice for others who may be suffering and feel scared to talk about it and feel misunderstood.”
She also wants to show others that recovering from an eating disorder is possible. For her, the key was recognizing that the part of her that engaged in disordered eating patterns was not really her. “When you get your team behind you to remind you you’re more than a number on a scale, you get to get out of your head and be like, it’s not me. What am I doing this for? It’s not worth it. It’s not the life I want to live. It’s not the life I would want for my loved ones,” she explains.
Having music to focus on gave her another, healthier identity – and she aims to inspire others through her career, as well. After moving to the U.S. at age 14 from a small town in Israel where people doubted she could make it big, she’s now realized what once felt like an unrealistic childhood dream. “I always tell people to dream big,” she says. “I don’t feel like any dream is too big. And if I came from such a small town in Israel to LA to make music, I feel like I can give hope to others who may be doubting themselves to chase their dreams.”
For pop-Americana singer-songwriter Cf Watkins, 2020 has been a catalyst for big changes. She left New York, where she’d lived for nine years, to ride out the pandemic in her North Carolina hometown with her parents. Six months into the ordeal, her relationship began to unravel – but Watkins quickly met someone else: her dog, Clara. “The day after he left North Carolina, Clara just kind of showed up,” she says with a smile. “I was sitting on the porch, you know, post-breakup crying. [My parents] live in the middle of nowhere and she just appeared out of the woods and sat next to me and, long story short, never left.” Clara was the perfect sign – it was time to move forward. She headed to Nashville, where she’s currently holed up with her pup and a guitar, contemplating her next moves.
In the midst of it all, Cf Watkins released her latest album, Babygirl, in October. She worked with producer and multi-instrumentalist Max Hart (The War On Drugs, Katy Perry, Melissa Etheridge) on the record for three years, over many trips back and forth from New York to LA, where Hart lives. They met through friends in Brooklyn; Max wanted to record some country covers and was looking for a singer. Watkins jokes that she wasn’t the brash, brassy Southern voice he’d originally envisioned, but during recording, her more subtle approach grew on him.
“That kind of connection with someone, it is almost as mystical as a romantic connection,” she says. “It’s just as rare to have a creative partnership where it just feels like you get each other. You get how to challenge each other and you get how to bring out the best in each other. We are so different in the way we think and create but it just works.”
Babygirl is all about personal connections, particularly those outside of romantic relationships, which are rarely examined in song. But there’s one outlier – “Come Around.” The song digs into feelings of inadequacy, something Watkins hesitated to bring to this album. “I felt really conflicted about putting it on the record, only because it didn’t feel like it fit with my vision for what I wanted the record to be; which was empowered,” she confesses. “That song was coming from not feeling in my power.”
The video, shot in a warehouse in North Carolina, echoes the sentiment of powerlessness. Watkins drops, seemingly from a dark sky, into nothingness. She roams quietly through empty white voids, which echo her words back at her. Griffin Hart Davis produced the music video, pulling Watkins into his world of ethereal spaces, where lighting grabs focus, allowing the audience to meditate almost solely on the focal point: Watkins herself.
“How do you feel about trampolines?” Griffin asked her before the shoot; the video was planned as a production “extra,” created in between snapping Babygirl press photos. Watkins says the challenge was to “make something beautiful with a short amount of time and a short amount of funds,” and they didn’t waste time on set. “Come Around” reveals a feeling of tenderness, a soreness to the touch; the delicate, complicated nature that anchors Cf Watkins’ music.
“I write songs when I am longing for something, for better or for worse,” she says of her work. While those themes remain pretty subtle on Babygirl, “Come Around” is more overt in its examination of love gone awry. “Come around, come around/I been to all my friends and I think things could be different if you come around, come around,” Watkins croons. “Tell me baby, what can I do?”
Her music is seemingly autobiographical, but she doesn’t agree with the label. “What is autobiographical?” Watkins muses. “It is coming through me, it’s my perspective of it. It is how it made me feel. When are you playing a character and when are you not playing a character? Sometimes I feel like in my day-to-day life I’m playing more of a character than when I’m performing. I definitely play certain roles in my friend group, at my day job. It’s almost harder to divorce yourself from the characters we play in our daily life so that you can actually be more honest in the music.”
Watkins grew up running around back woods in North Carolina, humming music to herself as she whizzed past pine trees. The landscape, wild and rural, shaped her personality, and allowed her to explore identities beyond any one defined character. “A name is given to you and you put on your personality. You create a personality throughout your life to find your place in the world and in a conversation and in a friend group and in school. I’ve never really loved my name: Caitlin. I’ve never fully connected with it. I don’t feel like it reflects how I feel about myself,” Watkins says candidly. “I think, for me, Cf Watkins got be who I am when I’m, as cheesy as it sounds, my more pure self, who I am when I’m alone.”
Watkins says there’s a hidden benefit to using her initials, too. “I did appreciate the androgyny of it. I appreciated that if someone heard, ‘Have you listened to Cf Watkins?’ they wouldn’t immediately know what my gender was,” she explains. “[It] takes away that unconscious bias – which may be a reflection of my own insecurities – but I think it was also helpful to separate who I am in my day-to-day life from who I am as an artist and as a performer. It does allow me to let go of some of my insecurities and to think of it as who I am to be, rather than just who I am every day. I don’t know why names make a difference, but it does feel different.”
Watkins has been performing since her mid-teens, finally releasing her debut album, I Am New, in 2016. Though New York’s city streets inspired her, she was surprised at how much her writing bent back toward home, particularly songs on Babygirl like “Changeable,” “Dogwood,” and “Westville.” “A lot of the album came from a place of homesickness,” Watkins said. “I love New York so much – I’m so grateful for it, and it’s magical – but I do feel like a visitor in it in a lot of ways. And I think that is what makes it so beautiful. It doesn’t matter how long you’ve been there – it doesn’t belong to you. It’s something that’s constantly changing and there is a comfort in that as well, but I think that moving to New York made me feel more connected to North Carolina in a way. You don’t realize that connection stays with you.”
Watkins’ songs almost never start with words. “It’s too cerebral for me then – I get too in my head and it becomes a puzzle,” she says. “Most of my songs start with a feeling.” She plays guitar until she finds something that naturally matches that feeling; she hums, recording variations of sound on the voice memos app on her phone. “Come Around” is the oldest song on the record, something Watkins feels is a reminder of progress. “It is this piece of my past. Maybe it’s helpful to see the growth – going from a person who wrote ‘Come Around’ to writing ‘Baby Girl’, the last song on the record,” she says.
She and Hart are already discussing a new record, but it’s hard to pinpoint when they’ll be able to get to work on one. For now, Watkins is trying to write without an end goal in mind; she’s returned to writing for herself, like she did when she was a young girl humming to herself in the backwoods of Carolina. Back then, the songs were just a part of intuitive therapy, a way of working through emotions. They didn’t have a finish line. She feels much the same about her current home, set in a strange city where she knows no one.
“I am here because everything else sort of just fell apart and [Nashville] is where I landed,” Watkins says. “I don’t know how long I’ll be here. I think the beautiful thing about the pandemic is, you have to be in the present moment. I feel a little anxious that [I’m] completely unable to plan for my future or to know what I want… if I want to live in Nashville or if I want to go back to New York or if I want to go to LA… I don’t know. But for now I feel grateful to have a backyard.”
People underestimate the value of women’s voices, and young women in particular are all too often looked down upon and spoken down to. 14-year-old singer-songwriter/producer Neska Rose both challenges and disproves these gender and age hierarchies with her latest single “The Repel of a Young Girl.”
The song chronicles Rose’s own journey growing into a young woman as she learns from her past mistakes and strives to make her mark on the world. “I’ve really grown confident in myself and my voice and what I have to offer to this world,” she says. “Sometimes, when you’re really young, people think you don’t really have that much to offer, but that’s not really true because that young mind has so much power. You already have a significant point of view for the world, and you have so many profound thoughts and intense feelings.”
Reflecting this theme of acknowledging and celebrating Rose’s own accomplishments, this was the first song she produced herself. She felt the best way to achieve the exact sound she wanted was to do it herself.
“It really opened a new chapter in my life, and I feel like I learned so much when I started producing, and it really expanded my confidence,” she says. “At the beginning, I never thought that I would produce and write my own songs. ‘Repel of a Young Girl’ will always be in my heart as the first-ever song that I really made by myself.”
The single spotlights Rose’s unique voice as well as her production skills, beginning with a catchy xylophone beat and energetic verses that sound almost like spoken word poetry, then escalates into an infectiously rhythmic chorus: “I want to be afraid of your radical innocence/Fever blisters on my face happened from great incidents/You get me, endlessly/Secrets of shame hide under the sea/I cannot be portrayed as your radical innocence.” She added a strong bass track to the chorus to give the single a powerful sound, and her twin sister Libby sang harmonies with her, giving off a feeling of female solidarity.
The video appears like an intimate glimpse into Rose’s life and thought process, showing her sitting up in bed looking contemplative and dancing in natural scenes, from a farm to a trail by the water. She and her mom went on a road trip around California filming it on an iPhone. “We just wanted to show me as a girl in front of the whole world, so it represents the power that I can have,” she says. “We drove for eight hours and tried to find the most beautiful locations, and we really did — it was extremely hot and dry, but it was totally worth it.”
This is Rose’s second official single, following “Done,” a song about breaking ties with a manager who was trying to get her to act like somebody she wasn’t. “It came to a point where it was like, ‘I can’t let another person decide who I want to be,'” she says. “I’m just done with those types of people. So I remember the day after I stopped working with the manager, I just sat on the couch. I was a little angry, and I just started playing, and that’s what came out.”
She recorded “Done” with her sister, who’s shown singing with her in the video. “It was actually also her manager, too, so she definitely agreed with that song and the lyrics,” she says. “She was like, ‘Yes, that’s an awesome song, and we should totally sing it together.’ And every time we sing a song, no matter if it’s a sad song or a happy song or an angry song, she gets so passionate, and that’s something I really adore about her.”
Both songs are part of an EP coming out January 22, which also includes several other songs Rose has written over the past few months. Thematically, the EP explores relationship dynamics; one song is about dealing with manipulation and gaslighting, while another is about resisting the temptation to try to fix people. “The whole EP is basically about me and the years of my life, me being 14 years old and how I see the world,” she says.
Rose was born in Israel, where she learned to play the piano at age five and the guitar at eight, then moved to LA when she was 10 and began writing songs in English. She’s currently splitting her time between music, online school, and acting; she’s been in a few commercials. Right now, she’s not only writing songs but also refining her production skills as she produces them.
“Being at the studio is the most fun thing ever,” she says. “Just getting to play around with the vocals and the guitars, too, and the whole process of it is so awesome. Seeing how I can create it from my bedroom to a fully produced song, that’s an incredible feeling.”
Follow Neska Rose on Instagram for ongoing updates.
On her debut single “Starry Eyed,” ZZZAHARA (a.k.a. Zahara Jaime of The Simps and Eyedress) proclaims, almost proudly, “I’m already on my way/One foot out, and one foot in the grave.” This morbid hokey pokey isn’t mere ambivalence; it’s a vehicle for Zahara’s existentialist approach to life and making music, one in which she controls her own decisions and finds her own meaning in an often irrational world, moment to moment.
Zahara’s nonchalant carpe diem philosophy was influenced by unthinkable tragedy – the “close calls” she’s had with death since the age of twelve, when her younger brother passed away from Leigh Syndrome after a long and agonizing hospitalization. Zahara mentions her late brother in “Starry Eyed” only briefly, but the impact of his death is something she only recently came to terms with. “It just really boinked what I thought about life. All my friends lived a normal life, but I couldn’t wrap my head around what I was going through. I guess it kinda hit me in my early adult years, like what the hell did I see?” Zahara says. “It was confusing, that’s how I would describe it. I was sad but… I never processed it really, I just was worried about my parents. But then as I got older I was like, you know what, actually I have to process it myself.” Zahara says that therapy, philosophy, and music have all played a role in making sense of what happened. “Ultimately, my philosophy, it’s not too dark. It’s just like, I have to deal with making the world a comfortable place for me to live in, but I also want it to be comfortable for everybody that I let in.”
“Starry Eyed” finds Zahara taking comfort in sleeping all day, drinking all night, and sometimes just closing her eyes and pretending she doesn’t exist. The video was shot by first-time director (and Zahara’s roommate) J.J. Lammers; black and white scenes give it a noir feel. Zahara pours whiskey in her coffee, explores a graveyard. Suddenly she’s lying in the bottom of a hole in the ground, covered in a fine layer of dirt. In the next scene, she’s also the one shoveling – a literal interpretation of line that repeats in an otherwise minimal chorus: “I’m d-d-d-d-igging my grave.”
https://youtu.be/pUNiKdiGh-o
Zahara says the line is reflective of her cavalier approach to mortality, and also how she feels about living in general. “I do struggle with depression sometimes. There are times where I’ll sleep for a week and I’ll feel okay the rest of the month,” Zahara admits. “I live life on the edge a little bit… I like to have fun and sometimes that fun is a little risky. A lot of people fear death – people that look to life as something to be super optimistic about. I’m kind of in this purgatory, like in the middle where it’s not so good but it’s not so bad.”
Like it has for so many others, the pandemic threatened Zahara’s characteristic stoicism when she lost her day job. But she took it in stride, using the combination of unemployment funds and spare time to get serious about home recording. Zahara had played in bands for years in and around the Highland Park neighborhood where she grew up, and recently joined forces with Idris Vicuña, playing guitar in his project Eyedress. The two are also planning to release music from their collaborative project, The Simps, by the end of this year.
Zahara says Vicuña’s encouragement and guidance sparked her interest in producing her own music, and was further buoyed by support from her friend Collin Cairo, a mixing engineer at Stones Throw. Cairo pointed her toward YouTube and Sound on Sound Magazine; eventually, Zahara invested in a thirteen-hour online engineering course with Alan Parsons, as well as new mics, a laptop, software plug-ins, a synth and a bass guitar. Every other day, Zahara would record a new song based on what she’d learned from Parsons’ videos, and those songs comprise ZZZAHARA’s debut EP, out October 23.
“Everything that I learned from those classes I really put into what I made on this EP,” explains Zahara. “It’s kind of like giving yourself homework. [My] music from the start of quarantine to the end [shows that] progress: watch some things, learn things, take from it, and then do whatever you like. That’s what I was doing all of quarantine.”
The EP deals mostly with being young, queer, and looking for love. “Spam Masubi Cigarette” is a heart-pounding tribute to her current partner, who she says she was grateful to get to know better when the pandemic drew them closer. “Up On Fig” and “Straight Crushes” describe more confusing situations – an affair with a neighbor, unrequited teenage fantasies about girls with boyfriends – and though “Starry Eyed” is somewhat of an outlier thematically, all four tracks are tied together with dreamy, shimmering production and Zahara’s wistful reverb-heavy vocals. Cairo helped mix the EP, but the production was all Zahara. The vocal effects were recorded on a performance mic and edited with Ableton plug-ins – another trick she learned from Parsons’ videos, particularly one that featured Lauryn Hill.
Though it may never have existed if not for the pandemic, the EP is much more than a holdover linking Zahara’s musical past and her future. “I’m just really proud of being able to produce an entire EP by myself during quarantine,” Zahara says. “This is basically me saying hey – I learned something and here’s a little piece of me. If I seem mysterious, it’s kind of an introduction to who I am.”
Jazz fusion duo OKAN (Elizabeth Rodriguez and Magdelys Savigne) are at the forefront of Canadian-Cuban musicians bringing kaleidoscopic island sounds to international music lovers.
OKAN (meaning heart in the Afro-Cuban religion of Santeria) formed when Savigne and Rodriguez—both new Canadians living in Toronto—met after joining the Grammy-winning ensemble Jane Bunnett and Maqueque, and the musical connection was undeniable. Since joining forces, they’ve earned a JUNO-nomination for their debut, Sombras, and the 2018 EP, Laberinto, won two Independent Music Awards. Their follow-up Espiral—out later this month— may be thier strongest thus far.
Combining “history, heritage, storytelling and spirituality,” Espiral relates stories around immigration, womanhood, and sacrifice. From the stunning “Aguila” to breathtaking cover of Consuelo Velázquez’ classic track, “Besame Mucho,” Espiral is full of pride and sparkling musicianship, taking its name from the swirl of genres at play.
“We wanted to let people know that there is more to Cuba than meets the eye or that is commonly known,” explains Savigne. “We are a product of the musical evolution that happened in Cuba when we were a more isolated island. We speak from our own experiences and reflect them through our music.” Rodriguez agrees, “This album is more vibrant and bolder in terms of arrangements,” she says. “But the idea behind it is the same as with Sombras: to present an OKAN that changes every time, with every song.”
To celebrate the exclusive premiere of the official video for the LP’s title track, the pair talked with Audiofemme about working with an all-women-identifying team, African fashion, and the dynamic sounds of Cuba.
AF: You made a wonderful choice to embrace the nearly extinct sound, Pilón on lead single “Mercedes” – why was that important?
MS: Pilón is a genre of Cuban music that started in my hometown (Santiago de Cuba). It was very popular in the ’60s and ’70s, especially the compositions by the renowned Cuban composer Pacho Alonso. Pretty much every genre in Cuba is directly connected to a dance. The dance steps of Pilón mimic the movement of grinding coffee. It has a really cool rhythm and the lyrics have many double entendres. That’s exactly what “Mercedes” is. We use the humour of the double meanings to address the struggles of the Cuban people. This strategy of making jokes to deal with difficulties has always been a part of Cuban culture.
ER: It is important to share with the world that Cuban music goes beyond Salsa and Reggaeton.
AF: Talk about working with video director Kathleen Ryan.
ER: She was an angel that fell from the sky for us. Kathleen put together an amazing team of extremely talented people and created this beautiful video for us. She also donated the space where we filmed it and the result is incredible. Some people have said that it’s hard to believe that we actually made it in Canada.
AF: How was it working on a video with an all women-based team?
MS: Well, this was our first video. I have to say that I thought it would be scary. Kathleen and her extremely professional team made us feel comfortable at all times. We had no idea there would be so many women involved — all talented. As a female artist, I feel deeply grateful for this opportunity. There were also some incredible men involved, so what I really liked was the balance and chemistry I saw with the team; it’s exactly what we look for when we work.
AF: Talk about how your style is becoming an OKAN signature.
ER: Nowadays, being a good musician is not enough. People expect a show, lights, images, dancing. We are not Beyoncé, but we believe style can be a way of making a statement as well. Honouring our ancestors from Africa is a way of feeling more connected to them, and to show people we are proud of our heritage. We have teamed up with Tracy Ekubor, an amazing stylist and seamstress from Nigeria and we love her work.
AF: How was it working in Jane Bunnett and Maqueque?
MS: Maqueque brought me to Canada and for that I’m deeply grateful and always will be. I had the chance to share the stage with amazing talented women despite their young age. It gave me the tools to survive and to learn to understand this new world – Canada. I got to share my compositions and have them nominated for a GRAMMY, and to win a JUNO. The opportunity opened a few doors in Toronto for me. I got many life lessons out of it, for sure.
ER: Working there was an experience that changed our lives in many ways. I was pushed to practice and learn more about improvisation. Traveling the world was fun and a great experience. Being able to perform at very prestigious festivals was a great opportunity to grow as a musician. We also learned how to drive all over the U.S., how to organize a tour, how to apply for travel visas and work permits, and many things that as a band member you don’t usually get to experience, but that we were responsible for.
We learned different ways one can lead a band, to support and respect the musicians that work with us and their independent projects. The biggest lesson of being in Maqueque was to understand that our freedom is more important to us than anything else.
We find that many music fans in the U.S. and Canada were first exposed to Cuban music by white North American musicians who incorporated Cuban or other Latin traditions and compositions into their own works. We’re really proud and excited that there are now many successful, Afro-Cuban-led jazz projects being embraced by those same listeners – and programmers – and that the Cuban musicians are taking charge of their own careers and freely expressing their own musical vision.
When soul-pop singer-songwriter Autumn Nicholas witnessed #BlackLivesMatter protests out on the street near her home in Raleigh, NC, she didn’t feel comfortable jumping into the fray. “I had fear because of what the TV and news blasted – they lacked the good, it was all focused on the bad,” Nicholas says. “But I wanted to make a difference and raise my voice.” She asked herself what she could do to further the movement and how she might inspire others who are hesitant to protest. The answer to that question was her latest single, “Side by Side.”
“I chose to write about it and learn more about the injustices and the facts behind the news,” Nicholas says. “I took away my own fear by connecting with the community and the artwork posted to display everyone’s voices through images.”
The song spotlights her powerful, rich vocals with minimal instrumentation, primarily acoustic guitar and piano. You can hear the passion in her voice, not just for social justice but also for her music, as she sings, “I can’t understand why we all just keep taking sides/Why can’t we sympathize?/If we really care about each other’s lives/Then let’s go and make it right/Standing side by side for equal rights.”
On September 14, Nicholas released “Version A” of the song, which is intentionally minimalistic; she wanted to release it as soon as possible just to get the message out. But she also plans to record a “Version B” featuring more production and other artists of all different races from different parts of the world, representing the unity she sings about.
When the queer, biracial artist plays the song live, she introduces it by talking about #BlackLivesMatter. “It grabs the attention and captures the importance of those words,” she explains. However, she adds, “it is deeper than that — it’s about equal rights and LGBT, but it ties in as a whole to unity, something during these times we do not have a lot of, especially since we are feeling like we’re trapped in our homes, like we are divided, whether it’s by sickness or by color. I hope this song can bring some unity to our time period.”
In the video, she performs the song in Raleigh in front of different pieces of street art related to #BlackLivesMatter and other social justice movements, her way of giving her community a platform and a voice. For “Version B,” she plans to make another video that spotlights even more street art. “I want it to focus less on me and more on the words and the art and the community,” she says. “It was a little bit rushed because we were getting it out before any of the artwork was actually taken down.”
“Side by Side” will appear on Nicholas’s second EP Shades of Beige, a followup to 2016’s Chapter 1. The other songs on the EP are consistent with the message of “Side by Side” – unity and equality – and Nicholas cites Pink as an influence on it. “She has very strong beliefs, and she also is more of an anthem singer; she sings about things that are really passionate to her,” she explains. One of the songs she’s working on, for instance, “On Sunday,” is about the internal conflict of belonging to a religion and being LGBT and “trying not to be placed in a box just because you are gay,” she says.
She’s still hard at work on the EP, as the process of recording music during COVID-19 has been a challenge. “It’s been hard because of the times we’re going through, the lack of spaces to go and produce it,” she explains. “That’s been a struggle, but we are working tirelessly, hand in hand with where we are and where the world is and whatever phase we’re in, trying to adjust and make this EP work and release singles as fast as we can with the times.”
In the meantime, Nicholas has also been developing a clothing line called Unbrand.d, which features items designed to be worn by anyone of any gender. “Ever since I was younger, I have had issues with finding clothes I liked to wear that weren’t super girly but weren’t boy-y either,” she explains. “Some people call it tomboy, but I’d rather not call it a gender, and my goal as I gain success is to create a brand where people can feel comfortable in the middle.” She’s currently working on rolling out the first item from the brand, a t-shirt whose proceeds will go to a food bank.
Growing up with a father who played drums and a brother who played guitar, Nicholas took up the guitar herself at age 13. “I just wanted to show off — that was my main goal. I didn’t think I would actually make a career of it,” she laughs. When she’s not creating music or clothing, she spends time with her family, her partner, and her “25 pound child” — that is, her dog. “Making sure I stay balanced in being a human and an artist at the same time has been a journey,” she says.
Follow Autumn Nicholas on Facebook for ongoing updates.
The landscape of the music industry has always been precarious, particularly for emerging artists, in large part because so much of the promotional legwork falls on the musicians themselves, from touring, to selling merch, to shooting music videos. The pandemic has made all of the above that much harder; live performances are sidelined around the globe and dreaming up a concept for a visual that can be shot safely on a shoestring budget requires a good deal of ingenuity. Luckily, British singer-songwriter Jodie Nicholson has plenty, and with a little support from the PRS Foundation’s Women Make Music, and a Help Musicians UK “Do It Differently” Award, she’s created an eye-popping clip for her latest single “Move,” the track itself inadvertently awakening nostalgia for spontaneously getting lost in the music, out on a dance floor.
“Move” is an ode to impulsivity, of going with the flow and riding the metaphorical wave. “This is now a symbol for taking a feeling and running with it and embracing being in the moment with it as well as seeing what happens,” Nicholson explains. “I think that’s why it’s such an uplifting and carefree track.”
It’s fitting that a song rooted in physical and mental freedom was created in a similar state of mind. “‘Move’ is one of those songs where the base of it happened really quickly and I just went with a feeling and ran with it,” Nicholson says. “I started playing a few chords, recorded it as a very, very rough demo and then I just gradually built it up. The lyrics came quite quickly.”
With its minimalist electronic backdrop, “Move” is a marked departure from Nicholson’s tender, folksy 2019 debut Golden Hour. Its trance-like lyrics, slick production, and slow atmospheric build demonstrate Nicholson’s surprising confidence as she pushes her creative boundaries. Over a softly droning synth, the urgent repetition of the lyrics “Feel the rhythm/Move with the rhythm” ushers in a euphoric recollection of what it’s like to be swept away by an irresistible urge: “And I feel the sound of the drums kicking in and I breathe in…”
In the video, Nicholson builds on this sensation by incorporating animations that she and her sister Sally created, utilising bold geometric shapes, a variety of transitions, and lyrics that alter in color, pattern and movement. “I’ve never animated before so it was quite ambitious. Sally showed me the ropes, and I don’t know what I would have done without YoubTube – it’s helped me a lot!” Nicholson admits, although her background in print and textile studies is apparent from the design and color choices she makes. “I just wanted to really play on how colourful and playful the track was and ultimately do something completely different that represented the sounds,” she says. Projected onto Nicholson and the empty wall behind her, the visual elements respond in sync with the track; Nicholson herself moves as though in slow-motion, or sometimes not at all, letting the colors and shapes wash over her.
Hailing from the outskirts of Darlington in Northeast England, a career in music always remained a deep-rooted notion in the back Nicholson’s mind. Her father began taking her round to open mic nights at their local pub, which helped grow Nicholson’s confidence in performing. “It was genuinely terrifying and the pub wasn’t that big!” she recalls. “But that became my home almost – we went often and I started playing in other pubs and restaurants.” Golden Hour compiled songs she’d written at various points in her life – it received rave reviews from the likes of veteran UK radio DJ Jo Whiley, and was featured on national radio stations such as BBC Radio 2 and BBC Radio 6 Music (the latter of which is regarded as the go-to radio station for the discerning listener).
But the funding Nicholson received from Help Musicians UK allowed her to take her work in a totally new direction. Assessed by a panel of experts and longstanding figures within the UK music industry, each recipient receives funding and training in everything from producing to advertising. Discussing how the programme works, Nicholson mentions that validation from music industry professionals had a huge impact. “It gave me the confidence in this track,” she says. “For a complete panel of strangers, all well-established in the industry, to turn around and say ‘Yes, we believe in you as an artist and we believe in this track’… it was a real game changer.”
The opportunity also allowed her to create “Move” with some of the industry’s finest, such as Tim Bran, a regular collaborator with the likes of London Grammar, Birdy and Halsey. “It was phenomenal working with him. I’d never worked with a producer before and it just elevates [the project] when you have somebody on board who just really understands the vision and knows how to execute it,” says Nicholson.
Support received from outside organisations has become even more crucial to help protect an industry that the British Isles thrives on more than it realises. “It’s so important that we keep it alive, including all the grassroots venues that are crucial to people’s careers starting up,” Nicholson urges. “I don’t know what our country would do without live music and artists in general. It’s such an integral part of our culture.”
There’s no denying that “Move” is an intoxicating plea for the continued existence of music in our lives – what it makes us feel, the freedom it gives us. With Golden Hour, Nicholson was looking at how her expression took form; now she uses “Move” to test the limits of her ability, expanding into a completely different soundscape and excelling at it. Though she’s only begun to dabble in electronic production, Nicholson demonstrates her capacity to totally transport the listener, though clubs remain empty and darkened. Instead, her words resonate from within as she intones, “Welcome Home.”
Follow Jodie Nicholson on Facebook for ongoing updates.
We all have that moment of clarity when we realize our habits or intentions are nothing short of toxic. One such moment inspired indie singer-songwriter Emerson Vernon, who releases music as wolfi, to write his latest song, “Ugly.” “I really wish I wasn’t such a liar,” he screams, grappling with the harsh realization that his ego may have been his biggest downfall. The video, shot by Herb Maximo, soaks the lyrics in beautiful and serene countryside vistas, certainly a startling contrast to wolfi’s brutal confessions.
The stand-alone single was initially inspired by “an artist I really respected [who] spoke on my craft to be corny,” Vernon tells Audiofemme. “I really admired this artist and when I heard he didn’t respect what I was trying to do it made me really question my ego.”
Vernon took some time to reflect and consider his many relationships, particularly as a role model for his younger siblings. It soon became clear he was leading “a rather unhealthy lifestyle with all the pressure I put on myself,” he admits. “I can be very selfish at times – like anyone in their 20s I guess. I was keeping things from [others] because I thought lying was a form of protection, but that’s not the example I want to present for my little brother.”
Among these many scenarios, he began to feel immensely ugly for what he’d done, even if well-intentioned. “I haven’t changed a bit/I’m still a narcissist/Confessing all the things I couldn’t ever admit,” he sings. He layers his smoke-charred vocal over his words, somehow giving them even more gravitas. “No one would bat an eye/Watching me fail to try/But no one watches me hurt in private.”
Months later, he still isn’t quite sure what he has learned, exactly, but he knows he is a work in progress. “I just gotta do better and sort out my priorities, and I think I’m getting closer to that every day,” he says. “I just really have to remind myself that I’m not shit sometimes. It’s important for me to check myself when I’m feeling up because if I let my ego consume me things always go bad. I don’t think I’m a bad person. I’m just growing up like anyone else, but especially with the career path I’ve chosen, I’ve learned I need to stay self-aware and mentally, physically, and spiritually healthy.”
Originally from Indianapolis, Vernon grew up in the church, and lines like “I know that God will still tell me He loves me” call to his upbringing and ongoing faith. “I don’t consider myself to be overly religious, but I do keep a very personal relationship with my angels,” he explains. “They’re always there for me when I need them. Whenever I’m at a low point, I just meditate and ask questions until I’m presented with some kind of answer. I guess you could call that prayer. I don’t truly know if God is real or not, but I choose to believe in a God so I don’t feel so alone.”
With the help of Maximo, a long-time friend since his Full Sail University studies, the video for “Ugly” evokes the heft of Green Day’s “Wake Me Up When September Ends,” a crucial musical touchstone in Vernon’s childhood. “I really just wanted to be outdoors for the video,” he says, noting it was filmed at The Compound in Palm Bay. “It was such a great day; it was just me and my best friends doing what we loved while waiting for the sun to set for the perfect shot. I think Herb executed [this] perfectly.”
Earlier this year, Vernon released two full-length albums, White and Black, dual collections handling contrasting emotional beats. What is most evident through his catalog so far is the growing strength and force of his songwriting. In many ways, he owes it all to real-world experiences and observations. “I’m living on my own now, so a lot of the things I’m writing about are real world problems. I started writing songs because I was always heartbroken over girls,” he explains, “but now I’m writing about things that are bigger than me. I really don’t have a personal life with how much I work these days, and the things that really shake me are the situations the world and my loved ones are put in. Writing about anything else just feels… inauthentic, I guess.”
“Ugly” arrives as a forward-looking marker in his life. wolfi is still very much in the thick of personal transformation, but it can only go up from here.
Nashville-based rock band The Love-In turn despair into empowerment in the video for their new song, “As It Lays.” It’s the title track of the band’s forthcoming EP, slated for release on September 4, which centers on the concept of freedom, particularly from social norms and gender roles that trap individuals into “a painful conformity” that’s ultimately “destructive, dangerous, and ridiculous.”
Written by lead singer Laurel Sorenson, “As It Lays” is inspired by Joan Didion’s 1970 novel Play it As it Lays, which tells the fictional story of an actress named Maria Wyeth as she goes through a series of personal hardships that lead to a mental breakdown. Sorenson read the book while dealing with a breakup among the original iteration of The Love-In, in addition to the tragic death of the band’s bass player, John Lattimer. “I was in a really dark spot in my life. I was caught up on ‘why did this happen?’’ Sorenson recalls of her headspace following the series of tragedies, adding that she related “deeply” to the book’s subject matter. “When I read the book, it lined up with the philosophy that I was starting to come up with for myself where it was like, that’s just how it is, it’s not really worth my energy or time to try and ask why all of this stuff is happening. Those are unanswerable questions for me.”
Sorenson penned the rock-leaning track, with its hint of electro-funk, over the course of a year, the verses coming to her before the chorus that finds her wailing, “The sun won’t rise ’til I get mine/Now the old rules don’t apply, so I just drive.” The idea of taking to the open road to unleash one’s fury is a commonality between Sorenson and Wyeth – the character in the book states that she drives down California’s famed 405 highway to gain clarity, a feeling that Sorenson knows all too well. “I drive to make sense of the world sometimes,” the Southern California native confesses. “The feelings described were trying to figure out what to do with despair and working through that, and that’s something that I was doing in my own life. The book posed a question and the song was my answer.”
Sorenson put as much intention into the video for the song as she did the lyrics. Shot in director Chuck Dave’s backyard, the video captures Sorenson and her bandmates (guitarist Emma Holden, drummer Michael Rasile and bassist Max Zikakis) performing the track in front of a towering banana tree. “I really wanted to capture a sense of rapid movement and stillness because that’s what the song feels like to me – I’m going as fast as I can, but I’m stuck,” Sorenson explains of the concept. She adds a pop of color to the visual by wearing red, a hue the band has been intentional about incorporating into its branding due to its ability to cover the emotional spectrum. “[Red] goes with our whole philosophy; you can be aggressive and angry and soft and loving all in the same person and the same body,” she expresses.
While The Love-In has a distinct way of capturing vast emotions, they also keep community at their core. The band’s name has another literary tie-in; it’s lifted from the book The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, published in 1968, which defines The Love-In as a group of people uniting in love and friendship, an ideology the eclectic foursome has wholly embraced. “The Love-In was described as a bunch of people coming together and loving each other and having that bond of fun and friendship also be a political act,” Sorenson shares.“It’s come to mean everybody that’s part of the community surrounding our band. We’re always saying to one another ‘Welcome to The Love-In, you’re in the party now.’”
There’s a distinct energy to the video for Louise Goffin’s “Every Love Song” that makes space for self-expression. Featured on Goffin’s 10th studio album Two Different Movies, the video for “Every Love Song,” directed by Scot Sax, resulted from a virtual playback party Goffin hosted for her fans (who unanimously alerted the singer that the track was single-worthy) in honor of the album’s release in June. Goffin not only took their request to heart, but brought them into the project by incorporating fan-submitted clips, each of which highlights unique aspects of their personalities.
Interpretations range from shadows dancing on the wall to a pair of young sisters sharing a loving embrace, interspersed with shots of Goffin perched on a spinning vinyl record, the vibrant colors exuding a psychedelic effect like that of looking through a kaleidoscope. “[Being part of the video] gave people a lot of joy,” Goffin tells Audiofemme, adding that she hopes it offers them a “feeling of community and friendship.” “I really wanted it to be everyone’s video and everybody’s song.”
Celebrating those little quirks in her fanbase was a natural extension of the song’s theme, which sees the singer sharing honest emotions with those she cherishes most. “I see you wake up just to make it through the day/Like you don’t matter at all/I want you to know you matter to me/In more ways than I can ever recall,” she sings on the track, its conversational tone elevated with gospel-referencing organ. Co-written with Nashville-based songwriter Billy Harvey, “Every Love Song” lends an intimate vibe to that shout-it-from-the-rooftops feeling of truly being in love. But Goffin, the daughter of iconic singer-songwriters Carole King and Gerry Goffin, wisely recognizes that even when we’re overcome with emotion, we don’t always share that with those closest to us – even when they’re the inspiration for those warm fuzzies.
“I grew up with a lot of people withholding affirmations from me because they felt I didn’t need it. But inside I was desperately insecure,” Goffin confesses. “So many of the times, we want to tell people things we don’t tell them. ‘Every Love Song’ is all the things I’ve never said before – and I’m telling you now. It’s coming out with vulnerability and truth, and recognizing that it makes a difference.”
Another key element to the song is owning one’s power and voice when it comes to expressing desires. “That’s moment of vulnerability could also not just be about ‘I’ve never told you how great you are,’ but it could also be ‘Here’s what I want for myself,’” she says. “It’s really stepping into that voice of speaking up for your love of others, for your dreams and love of self and what you want for the world. We have to somehow find the courage to speak, and that will change our destiny.”
The video heartwarmingly illuminates the symbiotic relationship between fans and artists, but Goffin also felt a deep appreciation for the relationships her fans displayed toward one another, and what that revealed to her about human nature. “I think there is a theme in this song and in the video of this masculine and feminine really uniting to make a mutually loving, mutually inclusive wholeness,” she says. Goffin points to a specific example of unity in the couple who’s waving to the camera against a vibrant blue backdrop, a sweet moment she captured during a trip in Cuba in 2018, revealing that the insight she’s gained through her vast travels also played a role in the video. “The thing about being a musician is that culturally… it’s all stories and people and songs and heartbreak and heart healing. That’s in me and in my life and I wanted the video to be reflective of all of that.”
Recently, Grace Cooper officially became a children’s book author – by accident. For the physical release of her fifth solo album (and first recorded in a studio) as Grace Sings Sludge, Cooper illustrated a 32-page booklet, which, she explains, wasn’t deemed long enough to be registered with the Library of Congress unless classified as a children’s book. It is, perhaps, one of the most cryptically-titled children’s tomes in history: Christ Mocked & The End of a Relationship. Its illustrations are both grotesque and delicate: drippy demons and sinister saints; nude figures twisted in ecstasy, or misery, or both – it’s hard to tell which. Cooper’s lyrics are printed out, too, and they’re also a mishmash of the tender, the surreal, the horrific, and the humorous. “I’m either horror or comedy,” Cooper says. “I’m kind of a goofy person, but when I’m making anything, there’s no question it’s going to be creepy.”
Cooper grew up just outside Oakland in the East Bay Area. Her father is a guitarist, singer, and songwriter, but she says she was “too shy” to perform around the house and didn’t start making music until her twenties, after getting a job at Amoeba Records. There, she met Tim Cohen, who asked her to sing backup in the early days of The Fresh & Onlys, which got her used to performing in front of others; Cohen introduced her to Heidi Alexander, and eventually, the two formed whimsical garage-pop band The Sandwitches with Roxanne Young, playing their first gig in a bookstore. But all the while, Cooper recorded solo songs in secret. “After the Sandwitches, I just kind of went back to what’s a little more natural for me – recording at home by myself,” she says. That changed when The Sandwitches’ label, San Francisco imprint Empty Cellar Records, offered to put out her next record, and suggested she record it with Phil Manley at El Studio. Manley is well-known in the Bay Area for playing in bands like Trans Am, Feral Ohms, and The Fucking Champs, and Cooper says, “Something just felt right when his name was brought up.”
Though she’s more comfortable recording at home, she took studio prep seriously. “When I record myself, [the songs are] just skeletal sketches, they’re kind of a template and I find it as I go,” she says. “But this time I tried to map out some idea of what instruments I heard in my head, and I had the songs arranged in the order that I thought they should be in. We recorded them from start to finish in that order. We recorded pretty quickly, but somehow the record ended up being something that, in the time that’s gone by since recording it, I’m still completely happy with and I don’t have any regrets.”
Cooper has reason to be proud – she played every instrument on Christ Mocked, save for drums handled by Nic Russo, who also played piano on “Horror For People That Don’t Like Horror,” a nonchalant tale about the devastating embarrassment that comes along with first forays into physical intimacy. Though Cooper says she’s in her “comfort zone with buzzy, shitty sounding stuff,” this album brings out the peculiar beauty of her voice in ways previous DIY affairs didn’t quite capture; threaded with sparse guitar, meandering basslines, or dissonant piano, Christ Mocked is a bit reminiscent of early Cat Power, if Chan Marshall had somehow been more awkward (and obsessed with horror movies, religious iconography, and sketches of nude women). It’s set for release July 17th.
Whatever the professional process brought out in the music, it did nothing to temper Cooper’s weirdo aesthetic. Two of her favorite tracks are spoken-word recollections of vivid dreams she had, describing the travails of an undercover woman and and undercover man who are slowly disappearing (“Borderlands”) and “a condemned Disneyland/a perverted Swiss Family dream” (“The Hackers”). The latter ends with the veiled origins of Cooper’s early appreciation for horror films – she says she remembers watching Texas Chain Saw Massacre with her dad, also a horror buff, when she was just six.
That obsession surfaces again in the video for the album’s second single, “Friend To All,” Cooper’s “hokey noir take on disillusionment and disassociation.” She enlisted old friend Wesley Smith to direct and Jeff Williams to assist; though she hadn’t seen them in nearly fifteen years, it was a natural extension of their old delinquent ways, making gross, darkly funny short films as “Bad Habit Productions.”
“We were all very gothed out,” Cooper remembers. “We would skip school and go steal alcohol from Safeway and hang out on Monument Boulevard in Concord but we would always be doing something creative together. We might have been doing drugs and loitering but at least we were making really bizarre little movies.”
For “Friend To All,” the trio filmed in an garishly orange Motel 6 room and an abandoned incinerator building in Sacramento; Cooper looks put together with pin-up curls, red lipstick and vintage monochromatic suit sets, but in the ominous details, things begin to unravel. She smokes a cigarette, sprawled on a hideous bedspread, barely acknowledging the body wrapped in a sheet in the corner. And then suddenly, she’s naked in a bathtub smearing what looks like shit all over her face, dancing and weaving drunkenly in the street, and wearing a rather nightmarish mask as she tiptoes over trash in stilettos.
“Yeah, I don’t know what inspired that,” Cooper says of the mask. “I needed a last minute Halloween costume one year, and I just cut my pantyhose up and kept it in my underwear drawer. I still have it.” It made for a fitting prop – the song itself is about the disguises we put up in interacting with others, a riff on the old saying “A friend to all is a friend to none.”
If the mask represents someone pretending to be something they aren’t, the derelict buildings where the video was filmed are an astute parallel to the deterioration of those false relationships, crumbling into forgotten ruins. But the layers of symbolism may as well have been incidental – Cooper says she routinely puts on YouTube videos of urban explorers searching through abandoned structures to watch as she falls asleep. “I was very charmed by Sacramento and I really hope it keeps that old school sort of dilapidated feeling,” Cooper recalls. “I was happy as a clam being in this place, just trying to not step on needles and diapers, and there was nobody around. It was right next to apartment buildings too, that’s why there was so much garbage spillover. But it didn’t seem like anybody was really squatting there. The light was beautiful.”
Cooper usually works on her own videos, mostly alone in her apartment, like she did with the video for “Falling in love with him again was the most exciting time of my life,” because “It’s very low budget and I have complete creative control,” she says. Still, she manages to evoke something heartfelt and haunting, always remaining within her own eccentric aesthetic.
“I’m an odd duck – it’s just a culmination of who I am, how I grew up,” Cooper says. While she admits that forging her own path can be isolating at times – especially when it comes to booking shows in Oakland – she’s fine with defying comparisons. “I can’t do anything else,” she says. “I’m gonna keep keeping to myself because I’m happier doing it that way. But I want to be there for the weird outsider ladies.”
Who knows… maybe her odd children’s book will find its way to the right type of kids – ones that film darkly funny movies in abandoned spaces, write strange little songs, and go all-in on their most outlandish tendencies.
Photo Credit: Faith Cooper
Follow Grace Sings Sludge on Instagram for ongoing updates.
“In chess, the opening moves are the most important,” Lydia Ainsworth tells me, but won’t go into further detail lest future opponents learn to anticipate her strategy. The Toronto-based experimental pop composer took up playing online simulators and later moved to competing with friends and fans who challenged her on Instagram when mysterious bouts of vertigo made it difficult for her to focus on little else. Though the unexplained vertigo faded, playing chess made a fitting theme for a video set to “Diamonds Cutting Diamonds,” the first track on her Phantom Forest LP, released last year. Not only does the song open her album, it was the first one she completed for the collection – an opening move that determined the rest of her shrewd compositional decisions and ultimately led to a victorious marriage of her classical training with modern sounds and ideas.
“I had been working and working on [a new album] for ages, and I couldn’t crack the code,” she remembers. “I called [the song] ‘Diamonds Cutting Diamonds’ because it went through many stages and I was just hacking away at it.” Lyrically inspired by a reading of landmark 1992 tome Women Who Run With the Wolves by Jungian analyst Clarissa Pinkola Estés, the song encourages the same reawakening of the wild inner self – a source of creativity, passion, intuition, and strength – and celebrates the “wild woman” archetype as a means of empowerment. “Baby hides her claws again/She’s twitching but won’t let it show/Masking inner wildlife/Be what you are and let it go,” Ainsworth trills over her slinky synth bassline. She took her own advice to heart, self-releasing Phantom Forest as a means of retaining ownership over her creative work, and embracing what has become her trademark sound – a unique mélange of of ethereal voicework, futuristic textures, orchestral arrangements, and biting observation delivered in a disarmingly dance-worthy package.
At every turn, the video for “Diamonds Cutting Diamonds” reflects both internal pressure and the positive results that can arise from it (as Ainsworth promises, “Failure draws a crystal out from underneath a curse”). Graceful choreography (courtesy of Kalie Hunter, who runs a dance studio called Metro Movement near Ainsworth’s home) depicts a bull and a matador in an endless, teasing standoff; Ainsworth kicks useless pawns out of her path; characters hold signs that boldly spell “HAVE NO FEAR.” Directed by Ainsworth’s younger sister Abby (who also directed a clip for Phantom Forest cut “Can You Find Her Place“), the video has a dream-like feel, owed in no small part to the fact that it was shot mostly in slow motion, with the dancers performing in double-time to accommodate. Ainsworth twirls around the life-sized chess board in a truly stunning costume composed of white feathers (designed by Emily Kowalik), a reference to the “bird of prey” motif in the song, which hearkens back to the wild woman archetype. All of it works together to create an intriguing blueprint of the ideas at play within the song itself, and cements Ainsworth herself as a true artistic visionary.
“The song is about breaking free to your authentic self, not caring what anyone thinks, unlocking your inner wildness and just being you, so I used the chess board as a metaphor for that,” Ainsworth says. “I don’t really listen to trends in music. I try to actually steer away from trends. When I’m writing, first and foremost, I want to write something that I want to hear. It’s not because it’s gonna be popular, which is maybe to my detriment.” Often compared to Kate Bush, Ainsworth leans proudly into that likeness without being derivative. On Phantom Forest, she sings from the point of view of Mother Nature, critiques facial recognition technology, and covers Pink Floyd’s “Green Is The Colour.” Though she’s already mixing new material that she hopes will be ready for release by spring of this year, she’s also remixed four Phantom Forest tracks for string quartet.
“I grew up playing cello, so I’ve always loved string instruments and wanted to reimagine these songs in that way,” she explains. Though Phantom Forest has some subtle string elements, most of it was electronically produced with little to no live instrumentation other than Ainsworth’s voice. “It’s like taking an oil painting and then making it into a black and white sketch,” she says.
This process of constant reinvention, joyful experimentation, and – though Ainsworth jokes that she’s “a terrible procrastinator ruled by fear” – prolific work ethic buoyed by seemingly dauntless confidence can be easily boiled down to one of the most salient mantras offered up in “Diamonds Cutting Diamonds:” “Double dare the old world away.” Ainsworth may have struggled through the process of writing, producing, and self-releasing Phantom Forest, but she makes slaying self doubt look both effortless and fun. With “Diamonds Cutting Diamonds,” Ainsworth provides a surefire anthem of validation for anyone who feels a little at odds with those around them.
Follow Lydia Ainsworth on Facebook for ongoing updates.
San Francisco’s The Y Axes latest album No Waves addresses anxiety – both personal and existential – with humor, nostalgic synths, and the kind of emo spirit any ’90s kid can respect. The band has a strong a visual component to its live performances, and we get to see some of that in a surreal new video for one of the album’s standout tracks, the wistful but energetic “Moon.”
In the video, bandmates Alexi Belchere (vocals), Devin Nelson (guitar / vocals), Jack Sundquist (bass), and Paul Conroy (drums) dream of leaving earth and watching it from afar, though they spend most of the time in bed, with subtle projections lighting up their faces. Belchere’s voice penetrates the darkness, her lyrics “I wish I was born a planet / Or a comet / Just me alone with the moon and space” matching time with the driving beat. She’s searching for absolution in obliteration, a shift in perspective that makes the drama on earth seem small and insignificant. Though she grapples with angsty feelings, the video – and the music – stay pretty light-hearted, breaking the fourth wall by its end to pan out on an epic pillow fight, the perfect release of all that internal struggle.
Watch our exclusive stream of “Moon” and read our interview with the band below.
AF: Alexi, you and Devin met at San Francisco State University over a decade ago. The Y Axes still live and work out of San Francisco. How has the city changed over the years?
ALEXI: The city’s changed completely into a San Francisco-style theme park. Superfically, it’s all there, with the Castro, Upper Haight, and Mission districts still standing, but behind every door you’ll find a pour-over cafe with neatly sanded reclaimed wood counters, and in front of that door is a homeless person in a sleeping bag curled up in a ball who can’t go inside for a glass of water.
Musically, we can always count on new bands forming every year. I can go to an awesome show every night, and I feel like the sense of community in the SF music scene is stronger than ever. Maybe it’s because the cost to live here is so high that if you’re making music you either put your whole self into it or you quit, so the musicians that are here are fiercely connected through that shared experience.
AF: How has the band’s music changed during that time?
DEVIN: Though the production quality has increased dramatically from album to album I think the core thesis of the music has remained the same. We have always strived to make fun cool pop music with a little bit of a hidden progressive edge but I think we’ve managed to refine the presentation.
AF: Y’all carry yourselves as a band with a sense of humor. How does that translate to your onstage personas? What can a fan expect from a live performance?
DEVIN: We are a band of awkward weirdos and our stage persona is a band of awkward weirdos powered up by music. We try very hard to simulate the quality of our recordings in a live setting while still bringing the energy. We love playing and I think that translates pretty well to what we do on stage. Also we have cool projections that add a visual component!
ALEXI: I feel like individually we can be silly but as a band we don’t have much of a sense of humor, but because of that we’re like all each other’s straight man. I tend to tell some quick stories in between songs if I need to stall for time, and life is so ridiculous that they can feel like jokes. “This song is about feeling so crushed by the weight of the world you can’t get off the floor” usually gets a laugh. Maybe it’s because there’s something knee-jerk funny about talking about that kind of stuff.
AF: Can you tell us a bit about the themes on your recent album No Waves?
ALEXI: A lot of No Waves focuses on looking inward in response to outward struggles. Songs like “The Gap in Between,” “Another Timeline,” and “Empty Space” are about anxiety and self-doubt. Songs like “How We Begin,” “One of Us,” and “Nevertheless” are about coming to terms with the horrors of the world around us – honestly, they’re contemplations about coming to terms with my own privilege, how on an individual level I must use it to amplify and lift others up.
AF: What is your favorite part about performing as a band?
ALEXI: I feel truly honored to play with such talented and passionate musicians. On stage, I can’t help but get absorbed in what everyone else is doing – watching Devin do a solo or thrashing around, watching Jack simultaneously grooving and headbanging, and watching Paul nail a particular fill, it always gets me pumped. My favorite thing about performing personally is connecting with people as they sing the lyrics back- that’s a dream come true for me.
AF: How do you see The Y Axes evolving in five years? Are there any goals you have as a band or projects you’re dying to work on someday?
DEVIN: I think the main goal at the moment is to expand our touring. We would love to play in places besides the west coast but haven’t reached the point where we can afford to just yet. Maybe we will blow up or maybe the economy will shift to better support art so we can quit our day jobs. Regardless we are committed to making stuff happen on this front!
Y AXES TOUR DATES
7/31 – San Francisco, CA @ Rickshaw Shop
8/02 – Seattle, WA @ Barboza
8/03 – Portland, OR @ Kelly’s Olympian
The every day tedium of adulthood is wrought with expectations. Health, wealth, career, marriage, home ownership, children: these are the mile markers of the crumbling American Dream. It’s up to the newest generations to question, break down, and reorganize these pillars into something that looks like a bearable future.
Home Body’s new music video for “DNA” explores so-called traditional values and gender bias through the lens of the stereotypical heteronormative relationship. The backbeat feels like a date night groove, with Haley Morgan’s voice treading softly overhead. Morgan and Eric Hnatow have been making music together in and around Western Massachusetts for over 13 years, and the cohesion is easy to hear; “DNA” doesn’t take a while to wind up, it moves confidently, with the maturity of shared experience. The track appears on their forthcoming LP (and first in five years) Spiritus, out April 26.
Watch “DNA” and read our full interview with the band below:
AF: Home Body formed in 2011. Tell us about that initial beginning. Were you already a couple?
ERIC HNATOW: Yes, we had met and fallen in love at Hampshire College five years prior to Home Body, way back in 2006. We each had our own creative outlets. Haley had been doing lots of site-specific, community-engaged installation work, and I was working on my own music and visual art. Until then, I was mostly working on instrumental music, and had a deep desire to integrate vocals. I had tried doing it myself, but it always fell somewhere between terrible and dangerous with me usually writhing on the ground in a pile cables and power supplies.
HALEY MORGAN: Yeah, I remember being nervous you were going to electrocute yourself or something! I think we both sort of expected we would eventually have a band together, since it seemed like such a great way to live a creative life, connect with people, and travel. I had never been in a band before but had done like, musical theatre growing up and have always loved singing. Eric and I had collaborated in different projects before Home Body though, like both singing in our friend Shira E’s rag shag choir and participating in friends’ dance projects. It took us a while to figure out how to communicate about music though because neither of us are like, trained musicians.
AF: Let’s talk writing process. Your music has such beautiful layering to it. Do you normally start with a beat or lyrics?
HM: The writing process is always different but usually it comes from a place of playfulness and improvisation. We have utilized many different strategies and equations for making songs over the years, but usually jam and find grooves or texture combinations we like, and sculpt from there. Sometimes the song literally just drools out of us and sometimes we work for years on a song and then throw it away, only to rediscover it years later and become re-enchanted with it.
EH: Some of the machines I play in Home Body I’ve used for so long that they seem to have their own life, their own story. There is often little to no memory left on them, so some of the patterns have been kicking around for over a decade, some even closer to 20 years now. In some weird way, it feels as if our machines should have partial songwriting credit, not because they are “doing all the work,” but since it often feels as if they have contributed in a strange and intangible way, having been with me all those years.
AF: How do you approach sound design? Do you go looking for a specific sound (a la Eurorack)? Or do you have a set up you just keep and tweak?
EH: More like a keep and tweak situation. Like I said, I have been using the same variation of machines for a long time now. I use a few Korg Electribes and a Korg MS2000 that I’ve used since the year 2000. The machines and I have been together so long now that they’re like an extension of myself – I almost can hear them talking as if it’s a language. I can often get the machines to sound exactly like I want without having to think too much about it.
HM: Vocally we’ve evolved a bunch though. In the beginning I wanted to sound raw and “real,” but over time we’ve learned how to finesse my vocals so they fit in the overall mix better. And on this new album we’ve really filled out the sound with multiple layers of backing vocals. They sound so lush now!
AF: Do you oscillate back and forth in terms of taking the lead on a song? Or is it organically even?
HM: Though some parts do come together organically, our process also involves a lot of emotional work. It’s important that we both feel heard in our music. We love playing with dynamics and exploring that shadowy space between us, where we’re both extended, where we’re both holding each other up, reaching out towards some shared goal. I think we’ve learned a lot from improvisational dance practices like Authentic Movement about focus, taking up space, and the roles of witness/performer. In the end we are most concerned with serving the composition.
AF: You describe this release as “a departure from our previous releases, in terms of content and production… we followed our delight to its core, slowing down the process, inviting spaciousness and reflection, isolating all the drum parts, and sculpting sonic depth with background vocals and supportive synths…” What delights inspired this new record? Certain books, music, art?
EH: Since we made these eight songs over such a long period of time, it seems a little difficult to pinpoint exactly what music inspired Spiritus. Some artists or albums that immediately come to mind include Talk Talk, Jenny Hval, Sarah McLachlan’s Fumbling Towards Ecstasy, Bonnie Raitt, Enigma, The Eurythmics’ In The Garden, Peter Gabriel, and Mort Garson’s Plantasia. And visual artists like Nick Cave, Alex Da Corte, and Mary Corse, and the choreography of Sonya Tayeh. We are also just really inspired by the things our friends do and make, and by the natural world and our immediate surroundings. Western Massachusetts has many natural swim spots, rock formations, and dense forests that feed our spirits in a big way.
HM: Yeah, I guess the delight we’re referring to there is our own! For this album we wanted to make a real record of our emotional realities, something that was the clearest reflection of our spirits as possible. We’ve been to some dark places in the five years since our last release – dealing with death, heartache, deceit, and the general shit show that is American politics. In that tangled, heavy darkness we experienced a real yearning for light, movement, and resolution. We were both able to heal and move on from these challenges through working together on these songs, through all the little negotiations and agreements, each scratching our own auditory itches, and following our shadowy curiosity until we both felt totally satisfied.
Our process for this album looked very different from our other albums in the way that we really took our time and let the songs breathe so that we could gain perspective on them, recharge our emotional batteries, then go back in and sculpt more. It’s like with a relationship – you need patience, and you need space to process change and growth. You must love and accept yourself in order to be a good partner to someone else. We wanted to really love what we were making – not consider what anyone else wanted to hear but satisfy ourselves, first and foremost. On past albums we’ve rushed the recording process and then found ourselves making concessions and just like, settling – trying to convince ourselves we liked something because it was emotionally easier or financially cheaper that way. With Spiritus we challenged ourselves to prioritize our joy – a task easier said than done for me. Vocals are such a personal thing, and in the past I’ve always sort of cringed at how my voice sounded on recordings. But through the past few years of slowing down to focus on my heart and spirit, learning to take more space, and standing in my own power I find my voice has grown stronger and more nimble, and I love it now.
AF: Are you both yourselves on stage? Or do you have a personae of sorts?
EH: We definitely have a ritual before we go on stage where we transition from Haley and Eric into Home Body. On stage we try to embody the energy of the song and take on the vibe of the room, maintaining focus. Being witnessed and having the privilege of people’s attention is something we do not take lightly. We believe in the magic that is created through being together and sharing a moment. We see ourselves as facilitators, channels, or conductors of that experience. It’s a heady responsibility for sure! We feel we have a job to do when we are on stage, and we want to do it as best as we can.
AF: Tell us about the music video for “DNA.” What’s the concept here?
HM: Writing this song, we had been thinking a lot about inherited and chosen identities, and how ritual can initiate personal evolution and generational healing. We had wanted to work with Patty Gone after seeing their video series, “Painted Dreams,” which playfully explored the cliches and contradictions of gender as told through soap operas and the soft language of cultural objects. Incorporating actual meaningful objects from our personal lives into this sort of absurd display of luxuriant domesticity was a way for us to subvert our own shifting heteronormative narrative.
AF: You’ve done some fundraising as a band. What advice do you have for a young band whose planning their first tour?
HM: Capitalism isn’t structured to value music or music makers. Yet embodied creativity is essential in building an empathetic, resilient, and vibrant society. So it’s up to each of us, as artists, to continuously advocate for our vision and craft. Perspective is priceless. Find little ways to keep pushing to expand and share yours. We’ve learned a lot from self-booking over 400 shows over the years… a lot of it comes down to the art of the follow-up email, the importance of stretching and eating real food on the road, having a solid merch set up, and being conscious of what drains and refills your energetic reserves.
EH: Go where you don’t know anybody. Yes, play with bands you know, have your friends at shows, but also embrace the mystery of an unknown scene.
AF: Y’all have a tour coming up and it is packed! What can folks expect from a Home Body show? I read fake blood may be on the menu…
EH: Ha, no fake blood this tour! Haley operates a light show while she sings and dances, so you can expect to see what it might look like should lightning become human form. We’ll be playing songs off the new album as well as our other material. If you are lucky, you might even catch a glimpse of me squirming on the filthy ground, hopefully not from food poisoning.
Spiritus is out April 26 via via Feeding Tube Records and Peace & Rhythm (preorder here). Dying to see Home Body LIVE? Check out their tour dates below!
Brooklyn punk quartet Shybaby add a personal touch to everything they do – and their raw, DIY aesthetic makes their live shows a must-see. That’s why we’ve invited them to play our AudioFemme Holiday Party alongside Grim Streaker and PC Worship. It happens tonight at Alphaville in Bushwick, but to get the festivities started early, we’re pleased to premiere the video for Shybaby’s newest track, “When You Were Here.”
The song and its accompanying video are both scrappy affairs, with a hint of glam thrown in for good measure. Dueling vocalsists Grace Eire and Tess Moreland howl back and forth over the raucous drumming of Charlie McGrath and the roiling bass of Ben Hansen. The clip itself takes on YouTube makeup tutorials, envisioned by writer/producer/videographer and friend of the band Molly Mary O’Brien. “[She] reached out with this idea and I was like, yeah! She wanted to mess with the whole beauty blogger thing, just with no mirrors and no plan,” explains Eire. Of course, it’s no simple feat to apply glitter and lipstick without the aid of a reflective surface, so the results are a mixed bag. “It was super fun!” Eire says. “The best part is how pretty Ben and Charlie are.”
No idea what look they’ll cop for the show tonight, but our party is a don’t miss! Check out Shybaby’s video below, and we’ll see you at Alphaville!
Ticket Giveaways
Each week Audiofemme gives away a set of tickets to our featured shows in NYC! Scroll down to enter for the following shindigs.
