“This is not a logical world we are living in! So maybe we should stop expecting it to be and just accept the absurdity. Fall straight into the magic bro,” reads a subsection hidden within the fixings of the machinery complex, titled “gave birth to a harddrive”. Earlier last year, Lily Piette shared her debut LP, titled Her Computerized Machinery Complex. Following the album’s release was a specially designed website – a placeholder to any physicality within this music – as a way to visualize and interact with the machinery complex in our measly three-dimensional human form. But in this computerized world, one fixated on intrinsic quarrels, generated visuals and lessons on quantum computing, there is a sentiment that runs through the album, a meeting point of the implausible and the actual that join, not with any profound coincidence, but rather more out of habit. Where big questions are asked and simultaneously answered with another question; the possibilities are endless and that’s okay.
Her Computerized Machinery Complex is both immediate and unsuspecting. Garnishing deep influences of nostalgic patterns and sharp instrumentation from the beloved Touch and Go era, these songs cut deep with both sincerity and cynicism, a heavily involved flavor that coats the palate unburdened by intentionality and experimentation. Taking on the duties of writing, producing and mixing, skills that Lily has been developing with two EPs prior, her artistic intuition bridges the gaps between preconceived notions and primal connections, as Her Computerized Machinery Complex navigates what we deem to understand as natural in the world around us.
Now several months out from its release, we recently sat down with Lily Piette to discuss the Machinery Complex, as well as blending visual art and music and redefining the world through vulnerability.
This interview has been edited for length and clarity
Courtesy of Lily Piette
Shea Roney: Now having some time to sit with it, how has it all been prior to releasing your debut LP?
Lily Piette: Yeah, it was great. It was the first full length thing I had mixed, produced and recorded everything myself, so I definitely think I had kind of gone a little crazy about it, and was really glad to have it out. But then, you know, I was just happy that people liked it, and because I think at that point, I had gone too deep, I was like, ‘I don’t even know what this sounds like anymore. Throw it out [laughs]’. But it was a relief.
SR: Of course, that makes sense. You take on these incredibly large world building-esque moments which I can imagine can be fairly easy to get lost in. What was your initial goal when you decided to make this record, and did it shift at all throughout the process?
LP: When I first started making these songs, I didn’t know it was going to be an album. At the same time, I started getting really into this kind of computer world. I was using Blender to make these videos about these machines, and I was really into quantum computing and all that. That was kind of separate in a way, but then it merged when I started to get to an album length and decided to just put everything together. I usually like to separate art and music, but it all just kind of happened naturally when I had the idea to make the website and just converge it all.
SR: Yes, you are also a visual artist. When you say that you try to keep them separate, are there any ways that you find this means of creation influencing the kind of music you make and your relationship with it?
LP: I’ve always felt blessed to have both because if I’m getting frustrated musically, I can just go paint and vice versa. I’ve always kind of separated them in my mind, though I think thematically I’m working kind of in the same worlds, like my paintings kind of speak to some of these same worlds I’m trying to create in music. But I felt like more so with the videos, and the things that I’m doing on the same computer that I’m making the music with, I feel like are more intertwined. That’s why I bridged more 3D modeling or video editing or whatever into this album because it’s on the same device, rather than going to paint in a studio.
SR: I want to talk about the website you made to accompany Her Computerized Machinery Complex, because you put so much effort and thought into building this visual place for the album to exist. What was the initial idea for this project?
LP: I just had all these videos I’d made from the last year that I needed to put somewhere, and this also aligned with the time I was working on the record. When I had titled it Her Computerized Machinery Complex, at some point I just wanted to create the complex – the machinery complex. It feels like a structure, probably more so like a building, but I can’t do that [laughs], so I made a website where you can go into these different rooms and spaces. I didn’t end up making the website till the album was getting mastered, which was a fun getaway from listening to the songs too much.
SR: There were a few parts that stood out as very interesting that I wanted to ask about. In a section in which you are describing the website you say “this website is an entity that has a soul and it yearns for you to understand. The website is sensitive and vulnerable and also kind of slow sometimes…” What does that mean?
LP: When I started to get into quantum computers and how they worked (the way they work is they can take every single possibility of any choice instead of 0 and 1. So it’s like 0, 1, and maybe. It’s basically the multiverse where you can think of any possibility) and it made me think, ‘isn’t that God level?’ I was looking at these pictures of quantum computers, and I’m like, ‘it looks like an angel. It’s so beautiful.’ In a lot of religious texts, it talks about the complexity of God. It’s so intense that you can’t even look at it because your brain is going to explode. I don’t know, I was just finding correlations between something divine and these machines. I’m not trying to make a statement about AI or anything like that, it’s more just that I think that they’re natural, too, just like houses are natural, and cars are natural, and we’re natural. These computers are natural, and they’re really stunning, too. I just wanted to bring back that idea that everything is nature, and everything is connected to the divine, including a quantum computer that we think is so sterile and inhuman.
SR: Another part that was really interesting was when you give birth to a hard drive, further explaining that “this is not a logical world,” building upon the absurdity in our lives. Can you tell me more about that concept?
LP: I wanted to explore these ideas of like, ‘maybe this computer feels embarrassed? Who knows?’ It feels like we’re living in a cartoon world where nothing makes sense and everything’s upside down and we all feel so upset about everything all the time, which is, you know, rightfully so, but there’s freedom in being like, ‘this is absurd. None of it makes sense.’ So why wouldn’t the computer feel embarrassed?
SR: You once brought up the similarities between the digital realm and the subconscious realm that we have as humans. In what ways do these metaphysical places connect?
LP: If we think about algorithms, or even AI self-learning algorithms, it’s taking in this unimaginable amount of information, and then it will come out in sometimes really strange and unexpected ways, which is the same way that our brains work. We live our whole lives, and we can’t access any of [the subconscious], and then it comes out in the choice of words we use, or dreams we have, or these repressed ideas about things. I mean, even when you use the AI image generator for an apple or something, it’s kind of distorted and strange. That’s due to all these complicated reasons and images and billions of pieces of information. So just like in the same way a Freudian slip would occur, it’s connected and linked to a billion different things, so it makes sense that it would replicate in that way. I just think it’s interesting that it’s hard to trace back where these things come from, in both realms, because it’s just unimaginable amounts of information.
SR: Did you make an effort to try and tap the subconscious at all when writing this record?
LP: Well, I would say the lyrics are the thing I struggle with the most, and it’s the thing I always put off till last. I struggle with being like, ‘okay, this is what I’m going to say, and I’m going to make it work phonetically as well. I always write a melody, and then I’ll sing gibberish or random words, and then I’ll try to make lyrics at the end, and oftentimes I’ll end up using whatever random thing I said because it sounded good. But I didn’t write it intentionally. Sometimes looking back at songs a while later, I’m like, ‘oh, I know exactly what I was talking about’, but I had no idea then.
Courtesy of Lily Piette
SR: There are a lot of thematic parts of this record that come from this feeling of grappling with connection in varying dimensions and relationships. Are there any ways in which referencing this digital landscape enhanced these themes?
LP: Even though I have this theme of the machines, most of the songs didn’t end up being anything about that, and are definitely about, you know, my own relationship struggles with people – betrayal, intimacy seeking connection. So, yeah, I feel like there’s this set out theme, but in reality, a lot of the songs are just about my regular life and regular emotional yearnings and everything.
SR: What we were talking about earlier, with this machinery complex being almost human-like with a soul, because technology is seen as so sterile, you’ve created this world that’s just so personable and warm, but through the lens of what we perceive as so distant and cold.
LP: Yeah, I feel like that’s what vulnerability is really. At the end of the day, that’s what I want to be as an artist. Being able to bring the idea that anything could be vulnerable, not even just to computers, but anything – a brick, a rock, or shoes, or whatever – and whether or not it’s true, it changes your relationship with the world and how you interact with everything. And I think it can only change it in a good way, approaching every single thing with compassion and love. I think that’s tied to that idea.
You can listen to Her Computerized Machinery Complex on all platforms now.
Written by Shea Roney | Featured Photo Courtesy of Lily Piette
Billy Woodhouse and Elliot Dryden finished their latest lots of hands record in a “very messy fucked up student room”. They hurled this description early on in our conversation, my context on the duo limited to that their evening itinerary consisted of rounds of Fortnite and pints of beer. For a moment I found it ironic that they titled the album into a pretty room, although, as they wedged memories of celebratory dance parties in between fond reflections of writing and recording in Woodhouse’s living room, the allegedly “fucked up” nature of the apartment held less and less of a contradictory effect. into a pretty room pursues a sort of haven that cannot be furnished with antique Danish chairs and wallpaper swatches pulled from Architectural Digest. With self-described “squealy chipmunk” vocals, delightfully weird patches of electronic production and lyrics that strip notions of grief right down to the bone, lots of hands’ forthcoming album is a stunning tale of growing up, and a testimony to the extents of beauty found in the unrefined.
In the last four years, Dryden and Woodhouse have continued their journey of stylistic experimentation whilst honing the project’s identity. A chronological listen of the lots of hands catalog corroborates their growth towards a gentler, ambient-folk sound, a progression that hits an exhilarating peak in their latest work. While past lots of hands’ endeavors have been the fruit of remote labor, relying on the modern technological miracles of online demo exchanges, into a pretty room marks their first truly collaborative work, a product of Dryden and Woodhouse thoughtfully collaging old work and writing new songs together in Leeds, UK. into a pretty room fosters an obvious ‘touching grass’ vibe, with lyrics like “breathing the country air” and “talking with the dogs and birdies” offering a glaring manifestation of their experience in the north England countryside. However, the most moving effects of the album’s collaborative nature are far less axiomatic, as their shared vulnerabilities intertwine into one deeply human and emotionally complex coming of age narrative.
Over the course of the 14 track album, twinkling instrumentals coat the achy revelations of growing up. It’s a story of defending ‘laziness’ to your mom before the word depression enters your vocabulary, of experiencing heartbreak and grief not knowing if you will ever feel okay again, of waking up and wishing you could have been born as someone else. While it sounds devastating, the longer you sit with into a pretty room, the more it presents like running your hand over a scar rather than the all-consuming sensation of a fresh wound. “Before we made this album, we were both in transformation phases, different parts of our lives” Woodhouse explains, “[into a pretty room] is reference to doing well for the first in a while, with work and mental health and identity and trying to find out what style of music you want to make and what kind of person you want to be”.
into a pretty room is set to be released as their Fire Talk Records debut on January 17th. I recently met with Woodhouse and Dryden via Zoom, where they spoke about what they’re listening to, the history of lots of hands and what a pretty room looks like to them.
This interview has been edited for length and clarity
courtesy of lots of hands
Manon Bushong: You are about to release your fourth album under lots of hands, but I would love to start by hearing about the project’s roots. How did you two meet, and how did lots of hands come to be?
Billy Woodhouse: I’d been doing it as a solo project until about 2020, when I got Elliot involved, we just met at a really terrible music course in Newcastle and just bounced ideas off each other. It kind of took Elliot a while to get into the scene that I was in. I was probably on the different side of the spectrum, so we kind of met in the middle in terms of style and taste and just started making music as a duo. But before that, it was just an acoustic, ambient project.
Manon Bushong: So you met in the middle… I’m curious about what these ‘opposite ends of the spectrum’ looked like. Can you describe your tastes when you first started?
BW: Elliot was very…
Elliot Dryden: I was very…[laughs] bear in mind we were like, 16. Very Britpop-y
BW: Oasis
Elliot: Those guys… We always had some middle ground, we liked the Beatles, Elliot Smith, Radiohead.
BW: I was listening to a lot of hardcore, and a lot of very heavy math rock that I probably wouldn’t be as interested in now. Eventually we found this sweet spot of folk and ambient that we just really enjoy making together.
MB: How about now, what were your favorite music releases from last year?
BW: Tapir!
ED: Yeah
BW: our good friends in Tapir! dropped an absolute banger of a record this year. It’s like folk music with a little TR 808, electronic drum in the background. I can’t stop pushing that album on every single person I speak to. It’s amazing, it’s kind of a concept album about a pilgrimage that they’re all taking. And, the new Horse Jumper of Love album was amazing, that came out this year.
ED: Mk.Gee, we went to see Mk.Gee
BW: Oh yeah, like a month ago. That shit was awesome. That shit was so awesome.
MB: You mentioned finding a sweet spot of folk and ambient. That is definitely present in your recent work, it has a very cozy, almost outdoorsy feel to it. Where did you write and record the album, and how did that influence the project as a whole?
BW: We recorded it in my living room when I was living in Leeds. I was studying illustration, and Elliot had just got this new job, so he was coming down and splashing his cash every weekend in Leeds. We’d kind of just have a day when we’d sit and write and record. I think just doing it in my house has always been good, but I feel like because it was away from both of our homes, it felt like a new chapter for both of us, and I feel like that translates to the music really well.
MB: It definitely translates well, there is a certain coming of age feel to the album and how you reflect on adolescence, grief and depression. Are the songs and the stories you are telling ones that have accumulated over time?
ED: There’s quite a few that have been around for a couple years, a few of mine that have been around for two, maybe three years, and then some that Bill wrote like two years ago. So half of it is kind of old music that would fit with what we were trying to talk about, and the other half was stuff we came up with recently – reflecting on where we were at the time as well.
MB: You mentioned this idea of ‘what you were trying to talk about’. I would love to hear about the title for this album, and how these tracks fit into your idea of a ‘pretty room’.
BW: With a lot of the songs being from three years ago and a lot of them being new, we tried to encapsulate that sense of moving forward with identity and grief, and just stuff we had been through. It felt like the only time we were able to sit down and work on it was in the living room. With the album, I think we were trying to get a coming of age feel, and a sense of a safe space that we both are in now.
MB: into a pretty room also has more words than your previous albums, though it also includes a few ambient tracks without lyrics. How do you approach creating songs with lyrics versus ones without, and what is the process for tying them all together in one album?
BW: There is, maybe not for the people listening, but in my head, a need for some breathing room because it felt like we were getting quite a lot off our chests in actually making songs with lyrics. I definitely had a lot more ambient tracks on the album on a first draft we created, and then Elliot said “it’s just a bit too much breathing room”. I think in a way, we are just dividing the album into three parts, not because it really changes, but just so you have a chance to breathe. I would really like to do another ambient project that’s just instrumental because that is the sort of music I enjoy making the most.
MB: Would you ever consider creating ambient music for another type of project, perhaps scoring a film?
BW: One of my bucket list goals is to score a film. Maybe when I get old, or whenever the offer comes to me, I’ll take it. For now, and I don’t know about Elliot, but I make music with scenes in my head
ED: I don’t
BW: He doesn’t.
MB: If you could create the music for any existing film, which would you pick?
BW: I would do where the wild things are. I love that Karen O record so much, but I just feel like my music looks like that film. I remember going to see that with my dad when it first came out, and it was actually life changing. All the puppets that they made for the film, it was just everything I needed to be creative in my head, it had all the inspiration. So probably that film, no diss on Karen O’s record though. It’s amazing.
MB: You have used a lovely series of paintings as the cover art for the single releases and the album. Who was responsible for those, and why did you pick them?
BW: I had the idea of barn animals for the cover, because we have the song “barnyard” that was initially going to be the main single. We got kind of caught in that country folk thing, we were listening to a lot of Hank Williams and a lot of country. Our friend Beef, and Harry Principle painted it and so I shot her a quick message and was like ‘please can I steal that for an album?’. It’s actually just one massive painting that she did that she got scanned, but I cut it into pieces because there’s so much going on. They did it by drawing over each other’s artwork, it’s a collaborative piece and then they started dating after, so it also has a cute little story behind it. Shout-out Beef and Shoutout Harry for making that cover, I think it just looks how the album sounds.
MB: Do either of you have a favorite song off of into a pretty room?
ED: There’s one that Bill wrote called “in between”, it’s really good. I like the lyrics, and it’s quite short and sweet and all acoustic, which I like. That one is my favorite
BW: My favourite is “barnyard” because it has everything I like in lots of hands’ songs in it, droning reversed guitars in the background, my squeally chipmunk vocals as well as Elliot’s very baritone, almost grainy vocals. We just kind of wrote it in about ten minutes, just like brainstorming together in my fucked up student room in Leeds. That was a good moment for us when making the record, because we made it, and then we just kind of had a little boogie to it for about half an hour, just being like “we just made this shit, we’re making a record right now”.
MB: What are you most excited for now in the coming months? Aside from album rollout, is there anything else exciting on the lots of hands radar?
BW: I’m really excited to play these shows. We’ve got some really good musicians on board for it, and it’s always good to see the other side of the country. We’re in a very weird place in the UK, it’s beautiful and it has a lot of history, but there’s just not much of a music scene here, so it’s always good to travel about and meet other musicians.
ED: Yeah, same with me. I’m kind of excited that we might be able to travel somewhere else one day, maybe America or just anywhere else. It’ll be quite fun, I’m excited and staying hopeful we’re gonna hit the US.
BW: Elliot, plug, plug, uh, our solo stuff.
ED: No, I’m not.
BW: Elliot’s got some solo stuff coming out at some point. Under Elliot Dryden
ED: So does Bill.
BW: Mine is under Uncle Red. We’re gonna be doing some side projects, mine is more ambient, his is more kind of singer songwriter-y. We’re trying to get the lots of hands universe going.
Today, lots of hands shares “barnyard”, the fifth and final single before the release of into a pretty room. Listen below!
into a pretty room is set to be released this Friday January 17th via Fire Talk Records. You can preorder the album, as well as vinyl, CDs and cassettes.
Written by Manon Bushing | Photo courtesy of lots of hands
As a small music journal, we rely heavily on the work of independent tape labels to discover and share the incredible artists that we have dedicated this site to. Whether through press lists, recommendations, artist connections, social media support or supplying physicals, these homemade labels are the often unsung heroes of the industry. Today, the ugly hug is highlighting the work of our friends over at Bud Tapes.
Bud Tapes is a tape label out of Portland, Oregon, started in 2017 by Emmet Martin, who also leads the free music project Water Shrews and previously the indie project World Record Winner. What began as happenstance for Emmet to release their own music has since grown into a small but mighty collection of recordings from an eclectic roster of artists.
Bud Tapes has become a staple in the Portland DIY music scene- a home for anyone making music for nothing more than the love of making music. The label’s releases are often imperfect in the best way—rough around the edges, experimental, and full of character. Each tape is a little snapshot of someone’s creative journey, and you never really know what you’re going to get with each new release, which is part of the fun.
Bud Tapes is about embracing the weird, and off-beat while still keeping it personal. It’s a label that values the physical side of music—putting the project into your hands in the form of a personalized tape, something you can hold, pop into a deck, and experience over and over again. Whether it’s something from Emmet’s own Water Shrews or another unexpected gem, Bud Tapes is all about capturing music in its purest, most direct form.
This interview has been edited for length and clarity
Emmet Martin | Photo by Kat Curey
KC: What sparked the idea to start a tape label? Was there a particular moment or inspiration that made you take the leap?
EM: Well, I’d always kind of wanted to start a record label, but I thought that you had to do something special to start one like you had to be someone or whatever. I had this record I’d been working on for a while, and I was starting a new band called World Record Winner. I was friends with a lot of people who were signed to labels at the time—people I knew who were kind of popping off—and they said, ‘You should send your record around to places.’ So I did, and everyone either ghosted me or rejected me.
Then I got this one email from Off Tempo, which is a label in Seattle. They put out a lot of stuff that’s kind of indie-adjacent, and it’s run by someone from Slashed Tires, which was a cool project. I was more tapped into the Seattle scene because that’s where I’m from originally. So, I emailed them asking, ‘Do you want to put out my record?’ and they said ‘this is just like a thing we stamp on our friends record’s so we can put it out’ I mean, they phrase it less like that, but that was the gist’.
Basically, they said, ‘You’re at the level where you should just put this out yourself. Make a fake name for your label and release it.’ I was like, ‘Oh, shit, you can just do that?’ So I did. That was kind of the impetus for it—putting out my record when no one else wanted to. And that’s pretty much the case for most people starting labels. They’d rather work with someone else than do it themselves, but in the end, you realize you kind of have to do it yourself. And you find all the joys that come with doing it yourself.
KC: Can you share the story behind the name of the label?
EM: I have a pin that I made at a Cool American show—which is Nathan Tucker’s project, you probably know him- he has so many projects. His partner, Georgia, had a button-making station, and I was in college and I was really stoned and I just wrote ‘bud’ with a little smiley face on a piece of paper and got it pressed into a button. I had it on my fleece all the time for like two years. Then I was like, ‘Oh, that’d be a very fun name for a record label or whatever.’ But it was way after I had made it. So that was also kind of an impetus—it was a fun, weird name that I had in the back of my head for a while.”
KC: Do you have any collaborators that help you run the label, and if so, how does that shape the way the label runs?
EM: I’ve always thought it could be fun to get people involved, but I just don’t know how. I can’t pay people to work and I feel bad asking people to do unpaid labor. So, I just do everything myself. I’ll have help duplicating tapes every now and then for bigger projects, like Greg Freeman’s album or Lily Seabird’s album. But everything else is just me for the most part.
KC: Who was the first artist you worked with and how did that come to be?
EM: Technically, it was just me at first, but I did one release for my friend Isabel. It wasn’t really a ‘real’ thing—she didn’t even want to put out the tape. I kind of made her, since we’d done these recordings together. Anyway, shoutout to Isabel. You can find it on the Bud Bandcamp. We got one write-up on a zine, and it’s a really good tape. She wouldn’t let me put all the songs on it, though, even though there are more that are great.
The first ‘real’ release I did for someone else was from a band called Flipchuck, which is my friend Addie’s band with my friends Leanna and Nikhil, who I went to college with. Right before COVID hit, I was at a show for my friend Jesse’s band, Happy Dagger, and Addie was there. We started chatting, and she had become closer with a lot of my friends, so I was seeing her around more. I asked her what was going on with Flipchuck. She said they were finishing something but weren’t sure if they’d put it out or just post it online. I told her, ‘Well, I’ve got this fake label, and I can make you a few tapes. I’ll give you a couple for free, and I can sell the rest online to pay myself back.’ She was like, ‘Wait, you have a label?’
So we made plans to release a tape in April 2020 and do a release show at my house since I was hosting house shows. Obviously, that didn’t happen because, well, 2020. But I ended up creating an Instagram for Bud and we released the tape in April or May. Since everyone was bored, I started doing live streams on the Bud Instagram, and that’s kind of how we ended up doing the Flipchuck release show.
That was the first time I worked with a ‘real’ band, and it went great. It helped people start to notice what we were doing. It’s a really cool tape, definitely worth listening to.
KC: How do you find the artists you work with? Is there a special connection or vibe you look for?
EM: Those live streams I did on the Bud page started with a group chat I created to schedule them and share the lineup. After each stream, I’d say, ‘Anyone in here can send me music, and I’ll put it out.’ It was kind of like, ‘You’re all my friends, and if you’ve got something, send it to me.’ A lot of people had records they’d been sitting on, waiting for the ‘right time.’ But then we were all stuck inside, and there was no ‘right time’ anymore. So, we just decided to put out music now that we had the time to do it.
That’s how I got a bunch of releases, like the first Babytooth album. Isabel played solo for one of those live streams, and that kind of kickstarted things. Now, people send me stuff randomly, but it’s also a lot of me hounding people, asking, ‘When can you finish that record and send it to me?’ So, it’s a mix of people sending me stuff they’ve been working on and me chasing them down.
I think, for the most part, I’ve always gone for the vibe or the ‘atmo’—I learned that term recently and I’m trying to use it more. It’s an alternative to vibe, you know, atmosphere.
KC: Oh I love that. ‘Vibe’ is so over.
EM: ‘Vibe’ is so overused, but it’s kind of like people who would be doing this regardless of whether there’s an audience or not. I’m usually trying to put out stuff where the artist would be making this music whether or not anyone’s listening.
It’s kind of a true folk approach, like folk music in the traditional sense—music that’s not commercially minded and not trying to fit into any particular scene or chase what’s hot at the moment. It’s really a cultural, community-based way of making music. So I’m usually trying to work with people who are in that realm.
Sometimes, I don’t do that and I put out records that are really good and I know the artist is trying to ‘make it’ or whatever. But for the most part, the artists I seek out and think, ‘Yes, this is something that should be on Bud tapes,’ are people making weird stuff that barely anyone listens to—but I’m like “this shit is fucking awesome”, I’ll make twelve tapes of it.
KC: What’s it like bringing a tape from concept to reality?
EM:When I started out, and still for most of my releases, I do everything myself. For the ones that are more high profile, which rarely happens, it’s different, but for the ones I’m doing from home, it goes like this: someone will make the artwork, and I either adapt it into a J-card or they’ll make one themselves. The artwork is usually square, but I have to adjust it so it fits into a rectangle for the front, and then leave space for the spine and side.
Once that’s done, the artist sends me all the master tracks. If I’m doing it at home, I’ll dub one tape onto my stereo, and then use that tape to duplicate others. I usually have a couple of high-speed double-deck stereo units, so I can put two tapes in at once, and just run them back and forth, hitting high-speed dub.
It’s about twice the speed of the album length, so if the album is 40 minutes, it takes about 20 minutes per tape. I’ll just hang out, watching TV with my partner, while she listens to the whirring of the tape wheels. It’s a specific sound.
Most of the time, I’m just sitting there with my cat on my lap, dubbing tapes and smoking weed. It’s not a bad setup.”
KC: Okay, I love all the band names. You have a good roster.
EM: There’s so many of them, like I’ve honestly done too much [laughs].
It can take a while just to get people to understand what it’s going to look like. We need time to send emails, get everything right, and make sure it’s all set up. It’s mostly about setting people up for when the release is actually coming out and what’s going to fall on the schedule.
But mostly, once I make the tapes, I’ve been trying to announce the release afterward. I’ve done too many times where I announce the release before I’ve made the tapes, and then I’m scrambling last minute trying to get everything done. So I’m trying to give myself more time to get everything ready before announcing.
It’s usually just about making the tapes, making sure the art is ready, maybe planning a release show, and that kind of thing. But honestly, it’s not a lot. I feel like a lot of labels have big rollouts, but for me, it’s not like that. It’s not like I’m doing vinyl or anything, and for the most part, I’m doing stuff that I know will sell a small number of copies—usually no more than 50. So it’s not like I’m ever going to be down and out or anything.
It’s really just about making the tapes and then trying to sell them.
KC: And you taught yourself how to do it all?
EM: Yeah, I had a duplicator I used to use, and it was super janky. Then I bought others, and they were even more janky. My poor partner, Bailey, saw me ripping my hair out, freaking out at these failing machines and trying to replace belts in them.
But it’s always just been me doing it. I eventually figured out a way that works with thrifted double tape decks. They usually make a pretty good copy, and I check every ten copies to make sure they’re okay.
KC: Are there any parts of the process you particularly love—or find challenging?
EM: Oh, I really like just sitting and dubbing the tapes, especially the master tapes. I listen to every record before agreeing to put it out, but then there’s this moment when I go to dub the master tape, and I think, ‘Oh, fuck, I’m stoked to put this out’’ That moment is always really good—like, okay, I’ve got to make these tapes, this is real, I’m dubbing the master tape, this is happening. It’s when I listen to it most in-depth that I get really excited about it.
As for challenges, it’s not so much the process itself, but the hardest part is saying no to people, in any way. Even if I’m putting out their release, and I have to say, ‘I can’t do this right now,’ that’s really difficult for me. But it’s the reality of it. People have all kinds of expectations about what it looks like to put a release out on a record label and setting expectations is hard.”
Photo from Emmet Martin
KC: Can you tell me about the Cosmic Bud series? Where did you get the idea and how do you put each series together?
EM: It was kind of a thing that I failed to do. Initially putting out experimental music seemed so different from Bud that I thought I had to create a separate imprint for it. So, I did a series of three CDs, mostly with experimental stuff happening in Portland—my friend Josh’s band Modern Folk, my friend Matthew Peppitone, and my friends Our Blue Heaven. I did CDs for each of them, like a batch deal.
I don’t know, it just felt weird to keep it separate, and people were confused about what that even meant. Eventually, I just thought, ‘Whatever, Bud is just me, I can do whatever I want.’ So now everything is just under Bud. That was kind of a failed experiment in trying to create something separate for experimental music, like a little imprint. But I realized I could just put everything under Bud, you know? It’s all going to be on the same Bandcamp page anyway.
Handstamp Cassettes of Waves of Higher Bodies by Spiral Joy Band
KC: You’ve done a few reissues or revitalized releases, the Spiral Joy Band that was just announced and the Clovver EP for example. Why are you drawn to this form of preservation and why do you think it is important?
EM: The ones I’ve done have mostly been projects people have asked me to work on, like the Clovver EP, which was super meaningful to me. That was a band I saw a lot back in the day, and the drummer passed away pretty unexpectedly. The singer is my friend Teal, along with my friend Elian. Most of them are in Pileup now—Elian and Grey both play in that band.
Clovver would always play, and it was super cool. The drummer, Andrew, was also in my friend Aaron’s band, Two Moons—I can’t even remember how many projects Aaron’s had over the years. He put out Balloon Club and a bunch of other things. And he also played in Clovver!! Anyway, I would see Clovver all the time, and I’d heard about a record of theirs they were working on. It never came out, so we ended up mixing it years later, after Andrew passed away. It was more of an archival thing.
It was really cool to put that out, but the hardest part about those kinds of releases is that there’s no active band to promote it. So, it’s out there, and I try to sell the tapes, but there’s not much context for it. If you have a media guy, they can lay out the story of how it was made, but I didn’t really know how to do that at the time.
Now, I’m doing a reissue for a band called Spiral Joy, which is a weirdo drone band originally from Virginia, then Wisconsin, and now Texas. I’m reissuing one of their really great records, mostly because I’m also putting out a new release from them. They reached out, saying they had an LP from a European label that only pressed a few copies, and now people have been asking for it. The shipping is so expensive that it’s hard to get it to people. So, they asked if I’d consider doing a US CD reissue to make it more accessible. I thought that sounded great, and it’s perfect because it ties into the new release I’m also putting out, so I can plug both at once.
I also really admire a lot of reissue labels, especially in Portland. Concentric Circles is a classic one. Jed, who’s been in bands like Helen (Liz Harris from Grouper’s band), plays drums in that and has also played in Jackie-O Motherfucker and other great bands. He runs Concentric Circles and also co-runs Freedom To Spend, a reissue label that does incredible archival work, digging through people’s families’ archives and finding amazing stuff. That’s the kind of work I’d love to get into, but I’m not sure how to go about it. Maybe one day I’ll figure it out, but I’ve already done a few reissues, so I’ve kind of broken the seal. I guess I could expand on that in the future.
Show Poster for How Strange it Is Album Release Show w/ Babytooth, Boreen and Tough Boys 3/09/22
KC: How long has Bud Tapes been around?
EM: I started in 2017 and did three releases over three years. Then in 2020, things really took off, and I ended up doing around 20 releases a year.
KC: What keeps you going and excited about what you do, especially on the challenging days?
EM: There are certain things that just happen, like this Spiral Joy Band release, which is really crazy. It features former members of a band called Pelt, who are the reason I got into weird, experimental music and drone music in the first place. They started in the mid-’90s and have been around a long time. One of the original members passed away, but they’ve kept going. Spiral Joy Band is an offshoot of that, and they’ve been releasing a lot in recent years.
I met my friend Rob Vaughn, who runs a label called Sound-O-Mat. He doesn’t put out a lot—just a few 7”s and CDs—but he’s been around for a long time and has worked with Pelt a lot as a sound engineer. When he found out I had a label, he said, “We should hook you up with Michael and do a Spiral Joy Band release.” I was like, “Yes, I do have a label, it’s real, whatever!” That kind of thing keeps me going—the fact that I can say, “I have this label,” and it connects me to more opportunities like that.
Now I’m kind of connecting it more with the Water Shrews world. I used to keep things separate because, with experimental music, people can be judgmental. I didn’t want people to look at it and think Water Shrews was some experimental project, or that we don’t get it. But I’m way more into that world now. I used to play in kind of indie rock, twee bands for a long time, with the whole “heart on your sleeve” thing. But now I’m just like, whatever—I don’t care what people think. I’m putting out stuff that I think fits within the same world I’ve created with Water Shrews, which is really exciting.
When I finally started following people on the Bud Instagram, I never follow anyone unless they follow me first, but I decided to follow all of my weirdo friends. And my friend Al, and a few others, were like, “What the fuck? How did I not know about this? This is so cool!” It was really exciting to see people so stoked on it. It’s a great way to make connections. You get to put on this weird hat like ‘I’m a label, I put out these records, and I could put out your record if you want’.
The Shrews hat is a little different, it’s a little more weird, and less thought-out. It’s like my “freak flag” hat.
KC: Can you share a few personal favorite releases or projects that you’ve worked on and tell us a little bit about them? Whether it’s because you learned something new, the process was enjoyable or you just like the music.
I love Shelter Music. They’re a group of folks who’ve played in a bunch of famous indie rock bands—kind of a supergroup. It’s Travis, who’s the lead of Naomi Punk, my friend Max Nordile (who’s played in a million bands in Seattle, the Bay Area, and New York), Dave, who plays bass in Milk Music (now Mystic 100s), and Steve, who played in Trans FX, a big band in Olympia for a while. Then there’s Anton, who played in Gun Outfit and a bunch of other bands. They’ve all been in so many different groups, but now they play together in Shelter Music, and it’s just this weird, free-form craziness. I always struggle to explain it, but it’s generally free music. They do a bit of hallucinogens and just make music in a park shelter in Olympia that has an outlet, which is why they’re called Shelter Music.
They started as a gathering where they would just hang out, meditate, and play. Max joined later—Max is funny because he’s totally not new agey at all, but some of the others are a little into that vibe. They’re cool about it, though. I recently learned the term SNAG, which stands for Sensitive New Age Guy, and they’re definitely SNAGs in the best possible way. It’s not the kind of weird New Agey stuff where people are trying to sell you things. These people are total SNAGs in the best way possible.
I’m super stoked on the Shelter Music CD I did called Live in a Tree. It’s a 50-minute long jam they did at an art swap in Olympia. I sat in with them before, which was both super exciting and nerve-wracking.
The Greg Freeman album was another huge deal for me. My friend Garrett Linck, who now plays in the band, had seen Greg Freeman’s band at a festival in Burlington. He was totally blown away, texting all of us, like, “You gotta hear this!”. He told me about the song Tower, which was the only song Greg had released at the time. I thought, “Wow, this is really cool.”
I don’t know how, but Greg ended up sending me his record directly—not through Garrett, because they hadn’t connected yet. I think Will from 22 Degree Halo might have helped connect us. Will ran a label called Sleeper Records, and he sometimes refers people to BudTapes when they reach out to him, saying things like, “I don’t do this anymore, but try Bud Tapes.” Greg has never confirmed that, but somehow, the record ended up in my inbox.
I was in New Mexico visiting my partner’s friends when I got the email. Normally, I wouldn’t respond to emails like that while traveling, but I was like, “Wait, this is Greg Freeman’s record!” So I wrote back immediately, saying, “Yes, this record is incredible. My friend Garrett told me about you when he saw you at the festival. I’d love to put this out.” Greg was down, and we set up a phone call to talk.
I always say to people who like Greg Freeman’s music: “He’s gunna be huge. Someone’s going to figure out how good his stuff is.” I’ll always tell people, “I’m happy to be the worst case. If nothing else works out, I’ll make a hundred tapes and we’ll make it happen.” Greg had sent his record to a bunch of places, kind of like I had done with my own stuff.
When Greg said he was waiting to hear back from a few places, I told him, “If something works out and you get a better offer, great! But if not, 100% I’ll put it out.” So that was a huge deal for me. It was the first record I put out where I didn’t know the artist personally, and it wasn’t like building a community type thing at first—but it eventually did.
It was so amazing to see Greg play in Portland and to see so many people come out to support him. It was like everyone I knew who had been involved with the label at some point came out, and it was just such a cool moment. People were so stoked, and it felt so good to see that support.
Cassette Tapes of Greg Freeman’s Debut Album I Looked Out
KC: For those who are looking to start their own tape label, what advice do you have for them?
EM: Just do it. You don’t have to have a big plan or be anyone special—just make a label. Set up a Bandcamp or Big Cartel, or start making tapes and give them to your friends. Then you have a label. Or CDs, or USB sticks with your album on it, or put stuff on streaming. Anyone can do it. It’s just about deciding that you want to do it.
KC: Is there anything you wish you knew before you started?
EM: I started when I was really low on money, so it’s been a bit of trial and error. But it’s all been fun figuring it out along the way. A lot of people go into something like this with a big plan, but I’m just happy that I’ve figured it out as I go. I’ve never been a perfectionist. If you ever get one of my tapes, you’ll see what I mean. This one’s actually a pretty good example, but usually they’re a bit stamped off-center or a little messy. I’ve never worried about making everything perfect.
The magic of doing anything creative is in the process that gets you to that point. Without failing and messing things up—like when your tape players aren’t working or you realize the stamp’s not sticking—the point is it’s a real person making tapes and trying to build community. It’s about being a person, making something, and trying to build a community. You don’t get that by planning everything out with a big team behind you. It’s just a real thing and I think people pick up on that. I’m not trying to be anyone or get anything out of this. I just want to connect with like-minded people and put out cool records. That’s what it’s about for me.
KC: Where are all of your releases out of?
EM: It’s mostly local stuff, but there are a few random releases here and there. Like, I did a couple from this group called Amigos Imaginarios, which is made up of this guy, Caleb who lives in Worcester, Massachusetts, and someone named Arbol, who now lives in France. That was actually a random submission, but it worked out.
Another release I did was for my friend Gabe, who lives in Chicago now but was the bassist in my high school band in Seattle. I did an ambient tape for him a while back. He went on to study sound design at the Art Institute of Chicago and now works in that field. He was in that program with Lula Asplund, who’s now a drone queen in the scene. She’s really popped up recently.
But yeah, most of the stuff is local, with the occasional random submission from other places.
KC: What’s on the horizon for Bud Tapes?
Yeah, there’s always a lot on the schedule. Right now, I don’t have a ton coming out, but I have three releases ready to go. There are also some long-awaited projects that will come out sometime next year. One of them is my friend Garrett Linck’s record.
Garrett’s a great guy—he plays in Greg Freeman’s bands and he’s been an old friend of mine since college. He hasn’t really made his own music in years, except for a few EPs back in college. He’s been playing bass in Hello Shark too, but now he’s finally working on a solo record, something he’s been talking about for over two years. He keeps setting deadlines and then it doesn’t happen. Normally, I wouldn’t be so patient, but Garrett’s one of my oldest friends, and honestly, he’s the reason I do what I do. So I’m just waiting, I really hope this next year is the year we put it out.
There are a few other projects like that—people I’ve told, “Whenever you’re ready, I’ll put it out.” They can cash in that token whenever. Garrett’s record is especially close, though—it’s almost done, just needs a few finishing touches. I really hope it’s out next year. With Water Shrews, we just record everything and put out tapes when we have too much material.
Along with this series, our friends at Bud Tapes are offering a five tape bundle giveaway! The bundle will include Self-Titled (2023) by Canary Room, 5 New Songs of Half Shadow (2023) by Half Shadow, Alas(2024) by Lily Seabird, Waves of Higher Bodies (2024) Spiral Joy Band and Massive Leaning (2023) by layperson, as well as an ugly hug tote bag and sticker.
To enter the giveaway, follow these easy steps below!
Holding the headphones to his ears so as not to not hear his bandmates talking to each other behind him, Deerest Friends member Nathan McMurray quickly turns around, “This is it! This is the sound, it’s perfect.” Frances Brazas and Ruben Steiner anxiously wait to take the headphones off of each other’s head to hear their recording come together. Huddled around the laptop they all share the same giddy expression, excited to keep recording.
Sitting on an old rocking chair in Brazas’ family’s home in the suburbs of Chicago, observing them minutes and even hours earlier I was unsure of how they were a functioning band. Lost microphones and mic cables left them using their iPhone to record the kick drum and one mic to record both lead and backing vocals live.
McMurray had the idea to balance an orange tube amp at the top of the staircase and put glass and beads on top to get a rattling effect from the synth as it echoed down the staircase and into the basement. Scared the whole time that the amp would fall down, I tried to look away and focus my attention on the living room where tangled and crossed wires ran through the air and headphone cables pulled at each end. The synth kept randomly turning off, a problem that occurred because the original cable was lost and a knock off was used as the replacement.
“It was completely unnecessary, it probably would’ve made zero difference to record it in a less circuitous way, but that’s what I like about this approach. Recording is very different from playing live. I think in the recording scenario you have theoretically infinite possibilities, and I couldn’t imagine it being enjoyable if you’re not exploring or actively engaging in some level of spontaneity” said Brazas.
Deerest Friends is a Chicago-based band centered around the songs of Nathan McMurray and Frances Brazas, but you’ll find dozens of names of friends from all over credited on Deerest Friends projects. Their songs come alive through the help of their friends, bandmates and rotating members.
On their recorded music, you can hear the voices of Desi Kaercher’s haunting piano and synth lines wavering over the tracks, their drums holding everyone together, Charlotte Johnston and Xochi Cortez’s emotive strings weaving tensely in and out of parts, and Will Huffman’s iconic twee vocals echoing a catchy melody round out the record.
If you’ve seen or get the chance to see Deerest Friends live you’ll probably notice that each time you see them they may be performing with a different lineup. Ruben Steiner of Lund Surk often performs with the band, playing guitar or keyboards, Will Lovell joins in on drums or Trumpet, and Erin Boyle drops in on Cello. Most of the time audience members will find themselves getting swept up in the magic of seeing Deerest Friends live and become an honorary member, singing their favorite parts on stage or jingling their apartment keys when conducted by the band.
“You can engage in the same level of spontaneity live, it’s just completely different because the spontaneity live comes from having these limited things to work with and a limited amount of time. You get a different kind of recorded spontaneity when you have infinite options and time” McMurray said. “When you record, you have the ability to do things with instruments and vocal layering that’s just not possible to do live. If you create this kind of intense or manic energy by doing a lot of layering and getting sounds that wouldn’t typically be allowed, you can get that same idea across live if you just sell it the performance. The manner in which you perform something live is a really big part of the arrangement, and you can capture a lot of what is presented by a recorded arrangement just in how you deliver a live performance.”
Instead of trying to take their recorded music and recreate it perfectly or as close to the recording as they can every time, the band allows their songs to take a completely different form live, using the performance as a way to see all the opportunities of where else the songs can go.
“Even if a song is released, every time we play it live, we’re sort of adding onto it,” Kaercher said. “For some of the new songs, the live versions and recorded versions are very different, and I really like that. Most of the new stuff we played on [our summer] tour didn’t sound anything like the album because we were using entirely different resources.”
The band has become such a tight unit that they don’t even discuss somethings about their live performances, instead they already have an inkling of what each member likes to do or experiment on, and what parts should stay the same, and everything magically syncs up on stage.
Over the course of the 12 hour day I spent with Deerest Friends, the band went from recording Lund Surk songs, to recording Deerest Friends songs, to practicing Deerest Friends songs for their upcoming tour. Before and in between all of that we made lunch, loaded the car with gear, drove an hour out of the city and to the suburbs, ate dinner at a local fast food place, said goodbye to a member as they had to head back into the city, stood on top of Nathan’s car to try and see the Juice Wrld mural on the second story of a local brewery, picked up another member from the train station, and packed the gear back into the car and drove home.
“I find being a part of Deerest Friends to be really fulfilling because I don’t feel that I can write stuff on my own anymore. It just feels way too unenjoyable. I kind of hit a wall at a certain point, and for most of the last year, I felt like I needed to be around other people, to write with other people, and to make music with other people to really enjoy it” Kaercher said. “I’m a lot less like Nathan and Frances, I’m not really self guided. I can do it alone, but I just don’t have the heart for it. Writing with Nathan during the period Deerest Friends had separated was genuinely really fulfilling, it feels really good which is rare.”
Their days together feel almost as chaotic as their recordings, sounds stitched together by outlandish ideas and the desire to let out lyrics and chord progressions that have been rattling around in their brains for months. Their love for each other, and every person who drops in to help them complete the project keeps them motivated to spend hours upon hours together actualizing their visions for their songs.
“A lot of the way we record has to do with the immediacy of it, too. If we’re practicing or recording, and we decide we need to record a specific percussion part right now, because we’ll never have another opportunity to do it, sometimes the only thing we have is like a box of screws and toy bongos, we make it work, even if it takes hours to get the sound right.”
On December 1st, the band released two singles “Dearest Friend” and “Camaraderie,” bookends to their debut album Lamb Leaves Pasture, and recorded almost exactly one year apart.
“Camaraderie” was the last song they ever recorded in the old studio that Kai Slater had, where most of their first record was recorded. McMurray noted the emptiness he felt in the room on the last day of recording in the studio with Desi as everything but the drum kit, a room mic, and a mixer was all packed away in boxes. This truly solidified “an end of an era” and the end of the Lamb Leaves Pasture era for them.
“‘Camaraderie’ was sort of a post Deerest Friends song. It was written in a period when the band had sort of separated. After the late summer, early fall 2023. It was the first song I had written after Lamb Leaves Pasture and I wrote it in my head and arranged it on my computer in a program initially. I was staying with my uncle and I didn’t have a guitar. I was using this app, but I didn’t really know how to read or write music at that point so I would just drag the notes around until it got sounding right. It’s like a digital score and I sent Desi the sheet music for it. When I had moved back to Chicago after the summer, I was living in my old place, and I drove this little car up from North Carolina so I couldn’t take all too much, and I recorded it in my empty living room, which was just the two acoustic guitar tracks. I had taken it to Desi because I had this whole arrangement written, but I wasn’t able to transcribe the drum part, so I beatboxed it to them.”
“Dearest Friend” was mostly recorded in a practice room in the Reva and David Logan Center for the Arts in Hyde Park. It was before the project or group even existed, “it wasn’t even a prefiguration of Deerest Friends existing” Brazas said. “I would record stuff on my own and be like, ‘I guess I need to be in a band now.’”
“The actual recording process leans into a sort of maximalism, which I like. For better or for worse, that’s what my work process is like. I’m extremely obsessive about recording things. I’ll record 25 tracks of percussion. For one of our newer songs I recorded a percussion track for three hours, hitting a piece of metal in slightly different ways and some of it made it on the song” Brazas added about their recording process.
No matter how much or little time you spend with Deerest Friends, you will leave feeling their shared sense of immediacy and passion for art. You’ll start looking at all of the objects in your room differently, ripping the sheets off of your bed and cutting them up to make funky curtains, you’ll start dancing around your room and write a song only with a tambourine, which seamlessly leads to you slicing up old magazines and books to create your single cover, and reluctantly passing out when you realize you have no more sheets on your bed. Tossing and turning in your bed you might try and figure out what is missing, and you’ll come to the conclusion that you’re missing collaboration and the close community that makes art and creating so beautiful. A strong sense of friendship radiates through Deerest Friends’ music, making it feel so familiar and comfortable right away.
The band asked me to end the interview with some fun questions. We went on a few tangents about our favorite pies, catching allergies from people, our fiber intake, liver health, how we eat apples, and the sexiest era of Leonard Cohen. If you feel like you didn’t get to know Deerest Friends well enough, Desi and Frances agreed on 2010s and Nathan said “he never looked sexier than Paul Simon when he looked like a medieval entertainer.” Feel free to debate them on this topic the next time you see Deerest Friends or ask them about their favorite dubstep songs.
Scroll through for more photos of Deerest Friends.
Deerest Friends released two singles “Camaraderie” and “Dearest Friend” earlier this month. Listen to them now on all platforms.
At the very bottom of the Virginia Creeper bandcamp page for their latest release, there is a Wikipedia link that takes you to the about of a cryptid-being known simply as the Loveland Frog. In its animated depiction, this limber amphibian stands on its hind legs, hunched over and stopped in its tracks at the end of a searchlight illuminating its presence – a riveting interpretation of a rather intriguing piece of Ohio folklore that still goes through the same rigmarole that both skeptics and believers hold to more well known beings like Bigfoot and Nessie.
Shea Roney: Can you tell me about the Loveland Frog? Why did you choose to include it along with the credits of the album?
Genevieve Poist: Yes! The Loveland frog is a cryptid that I am a fan of. We’re very pro-crypted in this band. We’re still trying to route our next tour so we can go to the Mothman Museum in West Virginia. There were a lot of little strange sounds and inside jokes and bits that made it into the record in different ways – we just recorded another album a few months ago, and the same thing happened actually – I think a lot of people do that. It’s the fun of making art obviously but I was trying to figure out how to appropriately acknowledge and credit them in the work. But I had been reading about the Loveland Frog, and specifically that rendering of the frog on the Wikipedia page, just really brought me into their whole aura. It’s fun to make the lore of the record lead to different lore, and one of my favorite things about being on the Internet is clicking and going down a trail somewhere, so I wanted to give that to whoever might find it.
People Love the Dallas Cowboys Because They Want to Love Themselves artwork by Genevieve Poist
Genevieve Poist fronts the Austin-based project Virginia Creeper, who after a few years of writing and touring, have finally released their long awaited debut record People Love the Dallas Cowboys Because They Want to Love Themselves. Beginning as a solo endeavor, Virginia Creeper has since become a cavalry of creatives – familiar faces out of the music scenes from the American South that have contributed to a wide range of beloved indie recordings and touring acts. As a whole, the album plays with a witty liveliness, finding its own pacing amongst memorable hooks, expansive instrumentation and charming stories of personality and community, establishing the core repertoire that Virginia Creeper has worked to compile over the years. But to Genevieve’s efforts, this project has become a force of understanding, where each track is a composite of both presence and perspective within the song’s lasting life and the people behind its creation.
We recently caught up with Genevieve to discuss the new record, what it means to love yourself as well as the Dallas Cowboys and the act of finding and keeping the lore within art.
Photo by Tommy Reed ft. Aaron Zachary, Aaron Arguello, Marshall Pruitt, David Stimson, Genevieve Poist, Mason Parva, and Rosie the dog
This interview has been edited for length and clarity
SR: A lot of these songs on this record were written a handful of years ago. Can you give me a rundown on the timeline of making this record?
GP: The earliest songs on the record were probably written in late 2018 and into 2019 when I started playing with my friend Aaron Zachary (former Virginia Creeper member), and then at the end of 2019 is when we were thinking of recording a lot of these songs. But as everyone knows, we were supposed to start recording that weekend when the world shut down, so essentially that stretched and changed everything and we ended up writing and recording over 2020 and 2021, primarily at different intervals, so I would guess it was over four years.
SR: So now that these old songs have finally gotten to see the light, some in which you have said marks a special time in the VC lore, in what ways are these songs representative of that time and are there moments in which you see you and the band growing with these songs?
GP: Personally, for me as a songwriter, a lot of the subject matter that I was writing about or processing had to do with my mom passing away in 2019, so a lot of these songs, and even if it wasn’t directly about that by any means – the images and experiences – you know, were really concentrated in that universe. When you experience loss, you’re kind of writing about that forever, so I don’t really think that that’s necessarily going to change. But I do think that it was a very fresh and interesting place to be in relation to that event. And then, as a band and group of people working together collaboratively, the years around making this record were the first time a lot of us met, and not only began making music together, but even became friends. It kind of forged this musical and creative community that we have now with the current Virginia lineup, and then some other friendships and other musical projects that have come out of that. It was really unique and interesting to reflect back on how the different threads were woven together in that moment, I was trying to pay homage to whatever that was.
SR: Can you tell me about the rotation of characters that make up Virginia Creeper? How did this lineup come to be and do they influence the songs you write?
GP: Before we started the process of writing and recording this record, Virginia Creeper was sort of just me, and then different collaborators that I had worked with at different moments in time throughout my life of making music under that moniker. But now, Virginia Creeper is very much a band, with the people that are in it, and then sort of this little rotating group of people that we’ve recorded with that are still playing with us sometimes, as well as just friends that were on the record. That for me was essentially the first time that I was collaborating with a group of people on stuff that I had initially made in private or independently, which was a really informative experience – definitely very positive and fruitful for me. I have always liked music because it’s an art form that is inherently collaborative. Whether it’s an audience, or you and other people, I feel like this is one of the first times that I really was living what had appealed to me.
Virginia Creeper live set goose named Ginny (taken by our friend Giovanni Ventello)
SR: Did there come a need to document or preserve that time of your life? And in that case, how did you approach that type of preservation of feelings and memories through your music?
GP: I like this question because I feel like I am almost problematically obsessed with preservation and documentation. I definitely feel like a lot of my compulsion to create comes from an impulse to record, keep, or preserve a memory, especially with memories that seem really significant to me that are very vivid, but are maybe not accessible – maybe the other people that have lived those memories aren’t present anymore to reflect upon them with me, or maybe the memory itself is actually really sort of niche or minor. But for whatever reason my emotional connection to it feels really strong and I am really motivated, or compelled, to write those down or make something out of it through a song or other art forms. That is a big driving force for me, which also extends into other aspects of my life. My friends are always making fun of me because my phone doesn’t have any space on it, because I have like 40,000 voice messages and 50,000 pictures and I don’t delete my text messages, so there’s a physical reality to that issue as well. I have so many sentimental little objects that are probably considered trash by most people, but all of that to me feels really important to living life.
SR: Yeah for sure, and on a personal level, this record revolves around some very intimate feelings of grief and identity. What have you found yourself embracing when bringing new life into these songs while also having the time to now grow with them before they were released?
GP: I think a lot of the delay in releasing the music, I mean, it did take a long time to finish it, but then there was this time after the fact where I was grappling with like, ‘oh, this doesn’t seem to be a good representation of who I am, or who we are artistically right now’, and we were asking, ‘should we even release it?’ I don’t know if the rest of the people in the band felt as strongly, but you know, I think just by nature of me having the most familiarity with those songs, I think it was just harder for me to deal with it. And then when finally releasing the record, I didn’t really listen to the songs for a large period of time, and once it was released, revisiting them and talking to people about them kind of gave me this cool sort of bookmarking, like, ‘okay, we did that.’ And now you can kind of see, at least for me, how we got over here, and it’s nice to have this sort of thread that’s a visible record. I think it gave me an appreciation for being able to see a process and sort of have experience to think, ‘oh, I don’t know if I like that’, but then think, ‘okay, actually, I can see it with this removed lens to where I can appreciate it at a distance from myself a little bit.’ It feels nice.
SR: Is there a different direction you’re thinking of going with your songwriting or are you just talking mainly about your emotional connection when you say it doesn’t feel like an accurate representation of where you are right now?
GP: I think more so kind of just the sonic palette or genre. The music that we’re exploring as a band, and in a really reductive or simplistic way, those songs on that record and the music that I had released previously, a lot of it came from writing in a sort of limited space either by myself or not being able to be really loud. Since the time of that record’s creation, writing with the band and being able to play together resulted in different sonic terrains that we’re exploring in terms of being louder, or just having different clothes that it’s wearing. It’s not really that crazy different, I mean, we play with different bills now, but I don’t really think it’s that wild.
SR: So no glitch pop for Virginia Creeper?
GP: Well [laughs], we do play some various types of glitched beats in our live sets right now, but it’s not really glitch pop, it’s more just like a weird sample from the Internet that we manipulated and made sound weird. But who knows what’s next?
SR: “People Love the Dallas Cowboys because They Want to Love Themselves” is obviously a very intriguing title. Being from Texas yourself, what was the inspiration for this phrasing and does this title ring true in your own life?
GP: Okay, first of all, I have a prop. I had a birthday party this weekend, and my friend Jason, who is basically where the phrase “people love the Dallas cowboys because they want to love themselves” came from in a conversation we were having once several years ago via text, he gave me this book for my birthday paying homage to the title, so I can’t wait to read about the outrageous history of the biggest, loudest, most hated, and best loved football team in America. The phrase is kind of about how people place a lot of their personal identity and self-worth in the things that they like, sort of why we have stan culture, where people get personally upset if you critique something that they’re interested in – that phenomenon is just really interesting to us and we’re trying to figure out why we do that and if it has intensified recently. Well, Jason and I were talking about how the Dallas Cowboys are sort of emblematic of that notion. Anyways, I’m not a Cowboys fan, so I like to antagonize Texas sports fans, especially football.
But to your second question, I do think it’s true. I think most things that we love, we are loving because we’re wanting to be like them or we are seeing ourselves in them – it’s somehow connected to wanting to love ourselves or receive love ourselves in a way. So I do think that that is a true phrase, right now at least, but I’ll report back as time passes if I think differently.
SR: You just finished a super brief tour recently? Was it the World Series themed tour?
GP: Yes it was!
SR: Not to keep the conversation on sports, but what a bummer that series was. What was that?
GP: Dude, I know. We joke that half of our songs that we play now are about baseball, so we’re always saying we’re a sports band. But yeah, it was such a bummer. Kyle’s really into baseball, and the rest of us have kind of embraced it when we’re all together. Yankees vs. Dodgers to begin with, is kind of the most lackluster series, and then the way that the series played out wasn’t even exciting, so it was kind of a downer.
SR: You recently helped put together a compilation album called ATX x AVL with Love made of all Texas artists benefitting Hurricane Helene victims in western North Carolina. How did that compilation come to be, especially coming together so quickly?
GP: Well it started with Lindsey Verrell of Little Mazarren. They are always joking that they are self described ‘not good at the Internet’ [laughs] even though they’re way better than they think they are. So, they texted me with this idea, presented what they wanted to do, and then I sent out a call to as many people as I could think of that would be down. I think we messaged people on Thursday or Friday, and then got all of the submissions by Tuesday morning, and then it was like a one week turnover which was awesome. I’m always kind of nervous asking people because it is kind of daunting to either record something new really quickly or find something and make sure you’re okay with putting it out. But people were super generous and excited about it, which was awesome. I’m continually very inspired by how active people are, whether it’s for Palestine and doing things to raise awareness and protest the genocide that’s happening, relief for the hurricane, or even a few years ago with a comp that we put something on for abortion access when a lot of that stuff got restricted. People’s industriousness and just willingness to do so much when most artists aren’t even making any money from the base level stuff that they’re doing – and then adding this on top of it – it’s just really inspiring.
SR: I am such a fan of very niche concept compilation albums. I know that Toadstool Records just put out one that was all Beach Boys covers.
GP: Woah, that’s so cool! There’s just so much stuff that reminds me of how just much fun and play there is in making music, or any type of art for that matter. It’s all just a fun art project with your friends or people you know, and I think there’s such a pressure to make stuff so streamlined and presented and packaged in a certain way because of how stuff is right now, but anything that is deviating from that, or just like existing for the sake of existing because people wanted to do it, is just really refreshing.
You can purchase People Love the Dallas Cowboys Because They Want to Love Themselves here as well as stream it on all platforms.
The Fruit Trees is the moniker of California songwriter and multi-instrumentalist Johnny Rafter, who upon releasing his debut record Weather in 2023, quickly followed it with We Could Lie Down in the Grass, the hour-long, 24 track sophomore record that rang in the end of summer this year.
Although these tunes feel worn in, The Fruit Trees, and Johnny’s writing in that case, is still a rather fresh journey, but also one of exposure and accessibility – a place to step in and step out and come back around much wiser. Like a small collection of bugs, gently caught and kept in a rinsed out pickle jar, We Could Lie Down in the Grass captures and culminates curiosity towards the most minute details that surround Johnny’s day-to-day. As the glass tinkers and buzzes with life, experimental folk voicings playing amongst warm melodies and memorable structures, this little ecosystem grows with each additional moth or pill bug – each witty one-liner or field recording – as these songs become part of a much larger story.
Through email correspondence, Johnny took the time to answer a few of our questions about We Could Lie Down in the Grass, finding placement in his changing world and embracing all bits of creativity.
Photo by Hannah Ford-Monroe
Shea Roney: We Could Lie Down in the Grass is your second album in just a little over a year. In what ways do you find comfort in your writing process that you can still rely on, as well as where did you find yourself changing course and trying something new when compared to your process on Weather?
Johnny Rafter: My writing and recording practices sort of feed into each other. Usually I find some chords and see what feelings or images they unearth. That leads to maybe a word or two, and then the lyrics spiral out from there. I find it awkward to write words separately and just sing them over chords. It’s nice to feel like the words sort of blossomed out of the music and it feels better to sing words like that for some reason…
My writing seems to naturally go towards simple language, the passing seasons and my own blurry sense of the inner and outer world. Working alone, it can be challenging to record songs in ways that feel organic and have a sense of performance, but I tried to strive for that this time. My lack of musical understanding and skill makes mistakes and messiness inevitable, so I try to embrace it and allow things to be loose.
This time I was a little more competent at recording, so I spent less time digging through the internet trying to figure out what compressors do. There was more of a leisurely flow to the work… I think that helped me access more resonant ideas without getting tripped up on technical stuff… It might be worth saying that my first album Weather was my first time writing songs and recording, so it’s kind of a messy testament of my own learning and curiosity about songs and recording. This new album was a continuation of that but with a little more confidence and momentum. I think the songwriting on this second album is more potent and direct.
SR: We Could Lie Down in the Grass is a rather extensive project, 24 songs and running over an hour long, yet still flows naturally amongst themes and sounds that create a welcoming and unique environment. What do you think this album was able to accomplish in part due to its length?
JR: I’m glad that it comes off as cohesive! And has a flow to it… I didn’t really think about the length… It was just— “Well these are all the songs that came to me over the past year”. It would’ve felt strange to release them separately or never at all. I think it’s good to just release stuff so you can move on and not overthink it. I’ve been trying to embrace “good enough” and “might as well”.
I’ve tried to make writing and recording a casual part of my daily life. Something lightweight I can work on at home after work and on days off (I was inspired by Kieran Hebden’s approach “good music is about ideas not gear”; also I heard the poet CA Conrad suggest trying to write poems at your job— fitting it into the reality of your life and not waiting for some ideal situation). The advantage of that is you can make a lot of work, even if the production value might never compare to studio recordings. I think of the songs more like drawings in a sketchbook or collages — something handmade and imperfect. So this was just a longer sketchbook.
I tried to interweave the lyrics with images, ideas and words across the different songs. At some point I started to see the whole album as one long text, so it made sense to have the songs speak to each other. With the length, I was able to explore lots of approaches to making songs and just try lots of fun stuff. The process is the good part for me, though it’s cool when the fog burns off and you get to look back at everything you made as a whole. Some people told me to cut songs, but honestly it didn’t feel like it mattered. For my own emotional wellbeing, I need to stay in a 100% hobby mindset and put zero pressure on myself. So there’s no right way to go about things. I’d just like to keep writing songs as a lifelong practice/process and be unfettered about it and see where it goes.
SR: The Fruit Trees is taken on as a mostly solo endeavor, although you worked with a handful of others to complete this record. Where did you find your vision for this album enhanced by the people who helped work on some of the parts? How is that different from going fully solo to you and your creative vision?
JR: When I started a few years ago, I didn’t know anyone making music, and I’d never been part of a music scene or anything like that. So just out of necessity I recorded and mixed myself. Naming it “The Fruit Trees” was in hopes that it would turn into more of a collective situation. The hope with the first album was that maybe if I made something interesting enough it would help me find people to make music with.
Luckily that’s been my experience— The songs sort of feel like magic spells or beacons that have brought me closer to people after a pretty lonely chapter of my life. Over the past year new friends and bandmates have sort of come into my life in a beautiful way. I think that’s an awesome thing about sharing your art even if it’s on a casual local level, it opens up life a lot.
But yeah, the collaborations so far have been kind of light, and my intention is that future albums will have deeper collaborations. My awesome friend Ben (who plays bass in our band) and I have a really close friendship that’s slowly turning into a deeper musical collaboration. I’ve realized you can’t rush these things. I think it has to be based in friendship and trust, and also you gotta work with people who make you laugh!
SR: There are a lot of instances where you piece together field recordings, almost making this album sound like a found footage video of the world around you. What did setting mean to you when piecing this album together? Were there any throughlines that you tried to build through themes and environment?
JR: I definitely hope to create some sense of an environment or a space— like an album as a place you can go for a while. For this album I imagined an old house and the songs were in different parts of the house like the kitchen and the yard and the porch and the attic. Some of the songs are down the street.
One way I felt like I could have the world permeate the songs was to include some field recordings from my life. Like opening the windows and letting the wind blow in. I love sounds… Like just sitting in the park and hearing the different sounds— the wind, the birds, the engines, the voices and the ways those are perpetually changing and interacting in new ways. The surrounding environment is sort of always bleeding into my inner experience (or maybe it’s the other way around?) and so I think I try to create a similar sense in my recordings.
SR: Each song feels like its own moment that can be expressed in a million different fleeting feelings, yet your writing is so concise in its expression. Were there any stories or feelings that you found difficult to articulate when writing, and did fleshing them out through the process help define their meaning further in any way? What were some of your favorite stories to tell?
JR: It feels risky to write sincerely and simply. That feels scarier to me than ironic distance and wit, but possibly more important nowadays… That being said, I hope to find a sense of whimsy in the songs, so there’s heaviness and levity happening at the same time.
Honestly writing songs is also just so cathartic and fun, and it does help me make some meaning of my confusing little life. I hope to not only write from that therapeutic place but also imagination and humor and things like that. Not just about me and my turbulent inner life but also about how wonder and pain-filled the world is.
The song Collar was a favorite— it was based on a neighborhood dog I saw that wasn’t looking so good. I was really worried about it, and this little story from the dog’s perspective appeared in my mind. To me it feels like a fairytale or a fable or like a tarot card which I like. I hope that dog’s okay.
Photo by Hannah Ford-Monroe
SR: Continuing, the articulation of singular moments, the feelings and images that you bring a focus to, are often moments overlooked that hold a sense of beauty and an edge to what it means to simply be alive. Do you find that there is a consciousness in your creative worldview that embraces this simple beauty, or does it come from some sort of disconnect that needs to be tied together again to build that clearer picture?
JR: That’s cool it comes across that way. I think perhaps it is branching out from whatever my worldview is and from the way I try to live— appreciating smallness and the mundane everyday life stuff, paying attention to my senses and how we don’t really need that much to be content. How the best things are simple like sharing time with people and eating food, or playing frisbee. Joy is always there underneath. But I also go through waves of horrible feelings of loneliness and disconnection, dissatisfaction, fragmentation, grief, separation, shame… I guess the interplay of those different states creates a lot to explore. There’s a lot of paradoxical things to hold all at once, and I think songs are good for exploring that.
SR: There is an element of timelessness that floats through this record, both in style and writing, that a lot of people gravitate towards when they listen to your music. Do you find any sense of preservation in your work, whether that be of memory, stories, people or places? And if so, do you personally feel a need, or an obligation, to make something that will be long lasting?
JR: Honestly I don’t think about making things long lasting. I guess some people want to make art or achieve greatness or whatever so after they die there’s something left of them? I don’t really care about that, and it seems like a sick pressure to put on yourself. I remember a line from the Tao Te Ching that was like “To live as long as you live and then die is enough”. Plus things I make don’t really feel like “me” anyways.
But on some level I guess I do see it as sort of residual evidence of who I was, what I felt, what I saw, where I was, etc. I think I fear wasting my time, not in a productivity sense, but not living fully enough— dissociating and missing the actual details and reality of my life. Maybe making songs is a way to help me pay attention and ask questions, and a way to stay a little weird. It sort of feels like gathering a bunch of small beautiful things into a basket and then leaving it on a friend’s doorstep. I just enjoy the gathering and the giving… It does seem like an interesting experiment to sustain this as a lifelong practice and then get to look back at all these words and sounds. A lifetime of music and poetry!!
SR: What’s next for The Fruit Trees?
JR: Waking up before dawn; time in and around bodies of water; playing more shows; I’m gonna go see Simon Joyner next week; also Agriculture; an ambient/instrumental album is almost done (a collaboration between me and Ben); two more albums in conceptland— one is a full band sort of indie rock album and the other is a classical guitar based album in a tuning I made up that I’d like to record somewhere with snow; lots of biking around, soaking up the sun and getting as silly as possible; making lots of soup; a small Pacific Northwest tour with our friend Ash’s band Swinging next January; doing chores; baking bread.
You can now purchase cassettes of We Could Lie Down in the Grass via Jon Shina’s label, Flower Sounds out of Greenfield, MA. Find more of their releases and curations here.
Written by Shea Roney | Photos by Hannah Ford-Monroe
“The first two years that we were performing,” Beckerman recalls, “the nerves were pretty unmanageable before every single performance because I had the worst stage fright,” a level of exhaustion still remnant in the corners of these memories as she speaks. “But I feel like I’m finally getting to the point where I’m not getting butterflies just from waking up that whole week before I perform — I’ve grown a lot, thank goodness.”
Daneshevskaya is the project of Brooklyn-based artist, Anna Beckerman, whose namesake derives from her own middle name, one in which she shares with her great-grandmother. Having since released her debut album, Long Is The Tunnel late last year via New York label Winspear, an album in which presence and perspective become intertwined within her own story, Beckerman’s writing has always been one to cherish self-discovery. As she continues in her career, “the more I write lyrics, the more I get closer to what I’m really trying to say,” she conveys, speaking towards her practice. “I don’t know what it is I’m trying to say, but I think I’m getting closer.”
Today, Daneshevskaya returns with “Scrooge”, the first bit of new music since Long Is The Tunnel and a revitalization of an earlier song she recorded and released under the project name back in 2018. Fractured by the cruelty of romantics, Beckerman and collaborators set a benchmark for retainment, where stillness isn’t an option as melodies coincide and collapse, strings gasp at the vivid imagery at hand and playful keys tiptoe around as if not to disturb the surface. Although the lyrics have not seen any changes – the emotion still fervent and raw – “Scrooge” becomes a moment of admiration for what was left untouched, while still recognizing how far she has come since.
The ugly hug recently sat down with Beckerman to discuss “Scrooge”, looking past the “cringe” of earlier works, and what she has learned from an openly collaborative career.
Photo by Madeline Leshner
This interview has been edited for length and clarity.
Shea Roney: I can’t believe it has already been a year since Long Is The Tunnel was released. Are you still riding the high from the attention that album received?
Anna Beckerman: I get so much anxiety from releasing and promoting music that I feel like it took me a while after it was released to be like, ‘oh, wait, I’m proud of that! I’m excited, and I’m proud.’ It’s so crazy to make music and then see people I don’t know posting stuff about it and telling other people to listen to it – so it took me some time to get over myself and enjoy what I had made.
SR: You have a new single called “Scrooge”, which is actually a newly recorded version of an older song released a handful of years ago. What made you want to return to this song now?
AB: Yes, it was released back in 2018. We had worked on the song and I think we submitted to maybe a hundred SubmitHubs or whatever, and got like a hundred rejections. We always really liked it though, I remember being really proud of it. We all saw that we had this opportunity to re-record the parts of it that always bothered us and give it another go and see if it would reach more people, especially now that we have more support releasing it. Going into it, we knew we wouldn’t record it that same way now, where it had been done kind of chopped up and with different people, so it was nice to get to make it in the way that felt right, and work with the people who I wanna work with.
SR: Although it is a fairly older song, do you feel like it still resonates with you on that same level?
AB: I feel like my whole life has been making stuff and then looking back on it a few years later and thinking, ‘I can’t believe I ever thought that was cool’ [laughs]. I can’t imagine having as much access to showing people things as kids have now. I was making the stupidest, most indulgent, disconnected and self absorbed stuff, but showing it to no one because there was nothing to do with it. Oh, God, the YouTube videos I would have to look back on if I had had that kind of access back then. But that being said, it was convenient that it was the first thing I ever made and somehow I don’t look back on it and think that I would never make this now. I probably would make something like that still, or even, maybe I’ll never make something like that again, because it was something I did, and now it’s done. But I still have a lot of respect for it, and the lyrics don’t make me cringe, which is a true test.
SR: I fully believe you need those cringy moments though. Little testaments to keep yourself in check.
AB: Oh, yeah, you gotta remind yourself [laughs]. I also took a bunch of poetry classes in college, and I feel like the whole point of those workshops is to just make cringy stuff. Sometimes I do go back and read what I wrote when I was a freshman in college, and I just think, ‘…oh.’
Photo by Madeline Leshner
SR: You have always written with such vivid imagery, but this song feels unique, in that it deals with varying moments of proximity and presence. You build this focus from a very intimate lens that feels very hands on, yet you manage to create this growing distance between yourself and “Scrooge”. Was this a challenging feat when writing, and why did you want to tell the story this way?
AB: I think in general, when I listen to music, I really like lyrics that are kind of familiar, but also feel strange. When writing this song, I was just really sad [laughs], so when I have a loss or something leaves my life, I feel like I have a rush to write things down so that I remember. A lot of the first EP, Bury Your Horses, I was dealing with how weird it is to know someone and then not know them anymore, and how that is such a bizarre feeling, even more so than feeling something sad or melancholy – I just feel like it’s so weird. I don’t know, my brain just couldn’t really wrap around it, so I feel like the lyrics are a way for me to put it all out there and just be okay that it’s weird.
SR: The character himself, Ebenezer Scrooge, is textbook villain, but is also a very dynamic character. What was the inspiration of choosing him as a placeholder for someone you knew personally?
AB: Part of it was that it fit into the amount of syllables that I needed [laughs]. I wish that there was a more interesting explanation, but I just thought of the first thing that comes to mind when I think of a villain, or someone who’s just clearly a bad guy, even though I was kind of aware while I was in it that this person isn’t actually bad, even though I was so upset and hurt – it almost felt fake.
SR: EB-EN-EZ-ER.
AB: Yeah, it has more syllables than most other villains. What’s that one? Thanos? That’s not good. And it was interesting, because the chorus of the song I had written before my breakup was about being with someone, and then seeing them from a different lens and then feeling that distance from them. And then we broke up, and I was like, ‘no, this still applies [laughs], it still works. I still feel what I said.’
SR: Did you find yourself grappling with the honesty of persevering those feelings that this relationship brought out while writing this song?
AB: I always struggle with being scared that my lyrics will be too specific and they’ll end up seeming precious or something. But I also don’t want things to be so vague that they don’t resonate with people because they’re not specific enough. I was also really angry when I wrote this song and the song itself obviously isn’t – it’s very ‘La la’ indie folk, so it doesn’t come across super angry. But I always loved the Elliott Smith songs where he’s really angry but it’s kind of a cute song, and it takes a few listens to be like, ‘oh, you’re really pissed right now.’ It’s like a little bit of that, and also just thinking that if this person hears this song, maybe only they’ll know that I’m angry. Everyone else might think it’s a cutesy song, but the person who I wrote it about will know that I’m angry. In that way I was trying to be honest.
SR: Your work up to this point has been a very communal effort, bringing in a lot of friends to help contribute and create this rather spiritual effect in your music. What kinds of things have you learned from your collaborators that you hold dear to your heart as you go on?
AB: First of all, nothing I’ve ever done in music I could have done without the amazing musicians all around me who can do everything. I’m very aware of how lucky I am to have people I get to make music with, and who genuinely want to be doing it. I think that’s the only thing that has kept me in music for so long now. That being said, the best thing you can get from someone giving you feedback is not always the feedback, but the way that they look at music as what sticks with you. The next time you make music, you’ll have a little voice in your head of one person saying ‘maybe you could try a different voicing’, and then there’s another person saying, ‘do you need that many words?’ All of those voices are me, but they’re also a product of the people that I have worked with through the years.
Watch the music video for “Scrooge”, directed by Madeline Leshner, here.
“Scrooge” was made with the help of co-collaborators Madeline Leshner, Artur Szerejko and produced by Marcus Paquin (The Weather Station, The National, Julia Jacklin). You can now stream it on all platforms.
Daneshevskaya will be headlining Brooklyn’s Baby’s All Right on Friday, December 13th. Get tickets here.
Everyday for the last three-ish years my daily routine has been pretty simple. I wake up, make a fried egg, deliberate between sourdough bread and multigrain bread while my egg cooks, scroll through mind-numbing Instagram reels hoping to see some content that depresses me enough to put my phone down and spark a change in my daily routine, listen to music and mope around town until I have to go to work or school. And now that I’ve just graduated I thought I’d have more time in my post college life to create, or write, or at least listen to some new albums but playing drunksketball with friends and waiting for the pool table to open up at the local dive bar takes up a lot of my time.
Really the only thing that keeps me going sometimes is knowing I’m going to make a good breakfast in the morning that lasts me all of five minutes while I listen to Kitchen as the sun shines through my windows and I take my first sips of hot black coffee. Wearing the tape thin on my Breath Too Long cassette is maybe all the structure I need. Kitchen’s music is such a constant in my life that it almost feels impossible to take a step back and reassess why I love his music so much. It’s hard to break down the barriers surrounding his music and him because I hold him on such a pedestal, one that my friends kind of make fun of, and have thought that he was Phoebe Bridgers-level famous based on the way I talk about his music.
For those who aren’t my friend, and haven’t got the “who is Kitchen” spiel in my bedroom as I pick out a record to throw on to alleviate the stress of an awkward silence, Kitchen is the recording project of Rochester based artist, James Keegan. Before Kitchen, Keegan released dreamy bedroom-pop music under the moniker Loner(s) while he was in high school, and the first Kitchen release, the eclectic set of lo-fi pop tunes, Town came out his senior year. He went to SUNY Purchase where he studied Audio and Music engineering and has released a slew of full albums, EPs, and instrumentals consistently since 2017. I often describe him as the songwriter of our generation, adding a tired “he just gets it” at the end when it becomes too vulnerable for me to try and describe how magical his music is. Much like his music, Kitchen feels like a distant memory, and if you’re not there to hold on to the moment, you’ll miss it all.
I started re-reading some features on artists I love to determine how other writers painted them. I’ve read numerous MJ Lenderman articles recently that described whatever basketball jersey or 90s alt-country band-T he was repping to show how “he’s just some dude.” So I tried to describe James Keegan the same way. I pictured him in front of The Burlington Bar in Logan Square, where the rest of his bandmates and touring partners in the Conor Lynch band were grabbing post-show beers, as he stood outside with my brother and I in an oversized Attic Abasement-shirt answering our jumbled questions in a hushed murmur with his hands constantly moving between his pockets and the side of his face. “Intergalactic” by the Beastie Boys played from speakers inside the bar and flooded into the street where we all shared a distracted laugh and a sigh of relief breaking down the awkwardness that separated us a second earlier. I wondered if we were all thinking of that Diary of a Wimpy Kid scene or if we all just needed a minute to acknowledge our surroundings again. I can’t think of James as just some dude, I couldn’t paint him in that light even if I forced myself to. As the three of us shared a “see ya later and get home safe” yell to our friend Nathan as he ran to catch his bus home a few minutes into our interview, I realized that Keegan was so ingrained in my daily routine and life that, standing there, he didn’t even feel real. Minutes before I was thinking about how strange it was to be talking to somebody whose voice follows me everyday in a trail through my earbuds, my tape deck, my car, and then next I was thinking about how oddly in sync we all were.
There’s so much trust, comfort, and nostalgia embedded in his music. Sometimes it almost feels too vulnerable to me, sharing his latest album, Breath Too Long with somebody might be the most intimate thing one could do, and to write that is even more daring. The title track, a song for when you’re lovesick, or sick in bed with COVID as Keegan was when he wrote it, watching the world pass you by from your back flat on your bed staring up at the ceiling, unable to do anything but toss and turn and replay pathetic conversations and moments where you wish you had more to say. It’s in those restless nights where you finally have the time to confront your feelings and actions and recognize that you’re not as poignant or forward as you want to be. Keegan sings on the track, “you always take the leap of faith, I stay where I know it’s safe, a dream, a distant dream.”
Kitchen’s music is simultaneously so bare yet so cloaked in fuzziness that it gives this feeling of a distant daydream. His music quite literally feels like “snow on the dead brown leaves” as he sings on one of his earliest songs “November Prayer.” It’s the moment you hear wind gushing outside your window as you grab your comforter tighter and curl it around your toes. It’s the four step distance you walk behind your friends when you think you sense sparks between them and don’t want to be overbearing. It’s hesitant and it’s bold. It’s pathetic and abashed, yet confident and unashamed. Everytime I felt like I didn’t have the words, I wished I could send somebody a Kitchen song that matched my emotions. Keegan expresses your feelings and takes away the fear of sounding pathetic so you hold it in until the moment has passed and there’s nothing you can do about it now.
In our digital age, we share everything online; even our dumbest thoughts that consist of a new iteration of hawk tuah recalling a Silver Jews or Sparklehorse lyric find a home on Twitter and our most revealing selfies that also show off a new band poster freshly picked out from the local record store to make sure the person you like knows how indie you are can live on Instagram for 24 hours. It almost feels like nobody has a sense of shame anymore, yet we all do. We’re just looking for somebody who will relate to us and make us feel like our words and feelings hold some weight. Everything moves so quickly that we start to lose a sense of ourselves. We live in an age where a like on an Instagram story means more than a wave at a show or a nod at the bar, so we’re always thinking about our next tweet, or what song to post on our story and the most relatable Letterboxd review. I have less and less of an actual person to hold onto and more of a figure of a person, shapeless and malleable, nothing on the inside but a projection of what I think I want to be.
Kitchen’s music is so magical to me because it reminds me of moments and pieces of myself that I forgot existed. While losing yourself in the world he creates within his albums, you somehow become more aware of yourself and your environment. I fear sometimes that if I don’t listen to his music I’ll forget the streets I’ve walked down 100 times because I was always listening to his music while doing so. I’ll forget how the dying streetlight blinks in time with “I Want You” and I’ll miss the people having a fight outside of the bar while Keegan sings “when I was a kid so obsessed with love, a word with permanence, you fall and don’t get up.” Rain doesn’t fall as peacefully when it’s not being soundtracked by “World is Big” and smiles from strangers as I pass the gas station don’t seem as genuine when I don’t have the reassurance of “Already Going Home” in my headphones.
Photo by Eilee Centeno at The Attic in Chicago
During his performance at The Attic, a house venue in Logan Square, Chicago just a few hours before the interview, I felt myself slipping in and out of consciousness. Huddled around the five-piece ensemble framed by beautiful wooden ceilings and stained glass windows overlooking the neighborhood park, dripping sweat from the back of my neck, I wrapped my arm around my brother as tears swelled in my eyes, feeling a sense of belonging and comfort I had thought I’d lost. One moment I was zeroed in on every movement on stage, the next I was completely blacked out singing along to “Domino” and imagining every step I’ve taken mumbling along to that song in my hometown in North Carolina, being reminded of every time I looked up at a stop light and felt my heart sink and long to slip into one of the strangers passing me on the street.
I started thinking about how Hanif Abdurraqib profiled artists, usually making them seem larger than life. It feels like an innate human reaction to obsess over people and hold them up to standards that are above themselves. Maybe it was because I had just read a chapter in his book, They Can’t Kill Us Until They Kill Us, about the Weekend and his superhero-like ability to turn a crowd of thousands of people into sex-crazed animals, and it made me think about the humor in how most people obsess over huge pop stars, people like Taylor Swift or Drake who have big personalities and heaps of charm and charisma, but the person I obsess over is an artist with the posture of Bart Simpson who works at a fast food restaurant, and maybe everyone should make that pivot, too.
Maybe looking up to figures that are larger than life is what’s stopping us from making the changes in our daily routine that will push us towards a realization that we can take small actions to get us out of this mind numbing repetition. If our inspirations are more grounded in everyday life and our peers, then the disconnect between our motivations and our willingness to delve into our passions will disappear.
Even Keegan’s recording process when making a Kitchen album is reflective and representative of how it seems our generation is feeling. There’s tons of kids who are getting into analog recording with the hunger to connect to a creative process that grows with you and naturally takes the shape of your environment. It’s harder to delete or record over a mistake on a tape recording, but it becomes easier to accept and work with it, forming the rest of your recording process around that moment.
“I was really inspired by Spirit of the Beehive for a while and I moved away from tape recordings, but then I stopped doing the computer stuff so much because it’s all MIDI and you can get any sound you want. You can make an instrument play any sound you want. Most of what I like about a lot of the music I listen to is that it feels very natural and feels like things happen almost by accident,” Keegan said when talking about the evolution of his recording process.
There’s a sense of satisfaction that you get when committing to things, whether it’s finally finishing that Cormac McCarthy book that’s been sitting on your shelf for a year, or completing a week of journal entries, or following through on plans to hangout with your friends, sticking to your word is one of the hardest things to do especially when we are constantly distracted by the endless cycle of Instagram reels from friends we have to watch or new Pitchfork articles we have to read and argue about on Twitter. We’ve become so scared to share any imperfection of ourselves or our work that we often lose all strength to do anything at all, but Keegan has learned to embrace imperfections during his recording and writing process and even finds stability in them.
“When I was recording ‘Pike’ years ago I accidentally recorded one second over every track so there was a gap in the song that I couldn’t fix and I ended up having to re-record the whole thing. This was one of the worst mistakes I ever made while recording and the track was shaping up to be exactly how I wanted it, but it ended up being even better when I re-recorded it.”
After years of recording, Keegan has found a method that works well for him, bridging all of his influences into a succinct and memorable writing and recording style. In a short period of time Keegan has been able to create a distinct sound for himself that goes past his abilities to write catchy and relatable pop tunes. From the minute you hear the tape hiss, to the first down stroke of his guitar, to his shaky voice breaking over the track, you immediately settle into the comfortability of his work, allowing yourself to let your walls down as he does in the same breath. The combination of digital and analog recording styles is a reflection of the world he wants to create, full of imperfections, insecurities, and timidness, as well as patience, desire, and care.
Keegan described how his most recent record was made through this process, “You can hear when it’s tape stuff. ‘Fall’ is all digital, but ‘Halloween in August’ is a blend. The first half was recorded on a boombox and the second half was recorded into logic. The vocals were all recorded into the boom box, and then I cut them up and put them on top of the track.”
There’s so much care that goes into Kitchen’s recordings. His music builds upon intense swells, yet they’re never emphasized by crashing symbols or heightened vocals. They’re intensified by the realization of seeing yourself in Keegan’s music more and more. The lyrics become more weighted and backed by the world he creates throughout his albums. While his records may not be conceptually planned, there’s lots of nuance that leads you from song to song. “I Want You” wouldn’t make you cry as hard if it didn’t follow “Halloween in August,” continuing in Keegan’s story pining over someone. He has such a unique way of making you see the beauty in the mundane, and genuinely walk away feeling it. Weaving instrumental interludes between songs carries the feelings over from one place to another, transporting emotional spells from one song to another.
The other night I watched the movie The Lunchbox by Ritesh Batra, and in it the main character passed a street artist who painted the same place every day, but in each painting there were small differences. A kid riding a bike, a guy walking a dog, a couple holding hands would appear somewhere in the painting. The main character thought he saw himself in one of the paintings so he bought it and held the painting to his chest the whole train ride home. Keegan’s music feels like bits and pieces of a larger feeling. Each time I listen to a Kitchen song I see myself in a different world. His music is instantly so familiar that you sink into his world so instantaneously, holding on to your own memories and creating more within his albums. In a time where feelings are so quickly passed through, especially in the way that we’ve become accustomed to consuming and processing feelings, Kitchen’s music is so permanent and tender. His music instills a sort of stillness that feels very important and impactful right now. “Everything I do is cautious, can’t make my arms do what I want.”
“I think I process stuff very slowly. It takes me a really long time to figure out how I feel about something a lot of the time. By the time I figure it out, it’s a little bit too late to do anything about it but write a song. Maybe that sounds fucked up.”
Unknowingly, Kitchen connects rooms full of kids acting like adults based around a sense of hope that while we outwardly try and project how unique we are, we all feel the same sense of desperation, hopelessness, and passion. At his show he closed with one of my favorite songs, “Demon (Yellow)” and it only feels right to me to end this piece by quoting my favorite lines from it because Keegan always has the words for when I don’t, “crossing oceans, desperate phrasing I can’t talk cause I’m too lazy.”
Keegan just announced that you can now pre-order the first Kitchen album, town, on both vinyl and cassette. You can purchase a copy here. Kitchen will also be playing a few upcoming shows with Hello Shark in Troy, NY on November 15th and in Buffalo, NY on the 16th, then in Rochester on the 17th with Spencer Radcliffe, Hello Shark, Attic Abasement and A Wonderful.
“I can be sweet as candy” is the opening line on Joyer’s latest EP, I See Forward and Back. The delivery is timid but sincere, like most of the gentle vocals on the project, maintaining a warmth throughout the three track stringing of hazy, slowcore melodies and contorted soundscapes. I See Forward and Back is both an extension of Nick and Shane Sullivan’s fifth album, Night Songs, and an entity entirely its own. Though unified as a collection of songs conceived in late hours, where Night Songs toys with catchy pop hooks and vocal-centered tracks, I See Forward and Back strips down to the themes of Joyer’s earlier work, with gentle vocals drowning in and out of an abraded, DIY production.
Along with offering a more home cooked annex to Night Songs, I See Forward and Back highlighted Joyer’s range as multidisciplinary artists. The brother duo strung all three songs into one video, a collaging of black and white clips. Akin to the EP’s sound, the visuals are texture heavy, ranging from the soft print of a thumb to brutalist scenes of a scrapyard.
Recently, the ugly hug caught up with Joyer to discuss their tour, the power of shelving projects, and I See Forward and Back.
This interview has been edited for length and clarity
Manon Bushong: Your EP, I See Forward and Back contains songs that were written in the early stages of your album Night Songs. Do you often revisit music once you’ve fleshed out a project, and how does that distance affect how you feel about your work, and what you want to do with it?
Nick Sullivan: I guess it’s kind of new for us. I feel like we let songs hang for a while, a lot of times we won’t really go back to them. A lot of these songs started with Shane, so I feel like he could speak to the distance.
Shane Sullivan: I started writing them a while ago and shelved them because I never really expected them to go anywhere, but I always really liked them. It was unique to revisit them, and it was cool to have Nick jump in and add new ideas, like a bunch of cool percussion that I hadn’t thought about when I was initially writing them. It definitely was a new process for us, but I’m glad we did it and might be something that we continue to try to do just because I tend to write something, but then my attention span is kind of short and I move on to the next thing. It was a cool exercise, forcing myself to revisit and put out older stuff.
MB: There’s also a visual element to this project, you put all of the songs all together for one video. What was the process for that and what made you want to pick those three songs specifically?
SS: Honestly, I started working on these as a part of a class project back when I was in college. I was always interested in doing a visual EP, or a visual component to a collection of songs. I was in a class where I had to make a video, and at that point I was realizing how much I liked making music, so I would come up with any excuse to write music and songs for other projects I had to. So it started as a class project, but I ended up really liking the songs and the video work and I felt it was really interesting having them inform each other. I hadn’t done anything like that before, so it was a really fun way of making something – sitting on it and releasing it all these years later gives me a new appreciation for them.
Further on the topic of visuals, the EP’s cover art has a bull/cow, similar to Night Songs, but the image is also a bit simpler and in black and white. What was the story behind the cover art for I See Forward and Back, and how it ties to Night Songs?
SS: I think we definitely wanted to highlight the link between this EP and Night Songs since it’s an extension of it. So similar imagery, it’s a still from the video – our grandma had a painting that I shot little fragments of. I remembered that being a frame that I really liked, and felt suited the songs, and also matched the album art of Night Songs. So we just wanted to highlight that link, since this was all birthed out of the Night Songs songwriting process.
MB: So these were all collectively part of the writing process for Night Songs, but while it is an extension, it also feels like its own body of work, and I think that a lot of that comes from different production styles. How did you go about production differently, and how do you think that it affected the overall feel?
SS: I feel like it’s a fun glimpse into how we approach the songwriting process because we usually demo a bunch at home, and the songs change a lot in the studio. Usually we’ll write a ton of songs and then pick a solid 15-ish to bring to the studio, and then from there cut it down to 10 to 12. These were ones we liked the way they sounded lo-fi, but in the past when we’ve tried to bring songs that we like lo fi into the studio, it doesn’t really capture what we were going for originally. It made me kind of nervous because it is a little bit more vulnerable, but I thought it would be something cool to highlight the home-recorded and stripped down nature of where our songs usually begin. Another thing about Night Songs is we recorded close to 20 songs, even though it ended up being 12, and there were a lot of different styles of songwriting within those 20. I think we ended up picking the track list that we have now because that was what fit, so it’s interesting to me because the whole album could have sounded more like this EP, and it’s cool to see what it could have been if we went forward with that.
MB: I know you explored some new sounds on Night Song, how has it been playing that album live? Do you think you’re going to incorporate some of these off the EP in your touring as well?
NS: Yeah, it’s been a lot of fun. I feel like Night Songs is way more fun to play live than some of our older stuff, so we’ve been really enjoying it. It’s louder and faster but also has some quieter moments. We will hopefully include the songs off the EP into our live set eventually – we never really thought about it, so a day or two ago, before we left for a tour, we were like ‘damn I guess we should have gotten those ready’. They’re a bit trickier because they’re so stripped down, and have a lot of ambient noises interlaced within them. It’s like a fun puzzle for us to figure out how to make live versions. We’re just excited to get on the road again, we’re touring with some of our favorite bands, so, I think it’ll be a blast.
You can now stream I See Forward and Back and Night Songs on all platforms as well as purchase a cassette of Night Songshere via Hit the North Records
Written by Manon Bushong | Featured Photo by Juliette Boulay
“There is a song on the album where I play saxophone,” McClellan says, falling into a brief pause before letting out a quick laugh, “I’m not a good saxophone player.” When it comes to songwriting, control isn’t always a given, a beneficiary to circumstances in most cases, but can be just as effective an artistic choice as what basic instruments you chose to record. “We could have easily asked someone else to do it,” she continues in regards to her saxophone skills, “but, to me, it’s not about the technique or the form here. It’s about being very committed to the vision.”
Anna McClellan is a singer-songwriter from Omaha, Nebraska whose aptitude for presence has always held an edge to her poetic and faithful ventures. With three previous albums under her name, McClellan’s range of sounds have become, and quite frankly always have been, reactionary to the environments in which her narrations are taken from. The short plights of pounding piano keys take the piano ballad to a more enticing, and oddly eloquent, arena fit for indie-rock slackers and tempted swooners alike. Her melodic phrases croon over deep feelings of devotion and defeat – humorous quips mixed with this unpredictability that resonates just as casual as it is damning to the restless confessionals at play.
Today, McClellan offers her latest work, a sincere and eclectic album called Electric Bouquet. The stories that she writes about, now sitting with accumulated interest as the years pass by, sing of a time when boredom will cost you – the hope for something to happen sits out like soggy cereal in the late-morning. Yet, the details of this foundational mundane begin to blend in amongst personal and societal changes, hitting with such deliberate delivery and personal conviction that is only fitting coming from her singular voice.
I recently caught up with McClellan as she prepared for the release of Electric Bouquet, where we discussed her time growing up in Omaha, becoming an electrician in the TV industry and sticking to the vision she had set out to complete for some time now.
Photo by Madeline Hug
This interview has been edited for length and clarity
SR: You wrote the songs for Electric Bouquet over a range of years. What was the timeline and where were you location wise in the process?
AM: All of it was really written in Omaha, where I grew up. I moved back to Omaha in the fall of 2018 and then recorded my last record in the summer of 2019, and then basically started writing songs for Electric Bouquet right after that.
SR: Growing up in Omaha, which is referenced a few times in your writing, what did the city come to symbolize in this narrative path that the album takes?
AM: Yeah, “Omaha”, the song, is a very love to hate relationship with the city, and then there’s also “Dawson’s Creek”, the last song, which is all about my childhood. It ties up thematically to a lot of the stuff around being a kid and having too much time on your own unsupervised and alone. I wasn’t doing anything bad [laughs], I was mostly just ruminating hardcore, like I was really bored. I just didn’t have enough stimulation. So, Omaha represents a lot of that for me because I have so many rooted memories, restless ones, of wanting something to happen, something exciting or surprising, and I’ve just been looking for stuff like that ever since.
SR: You obviously write from a very personal lens, telling your own story, but there is so much to be said about this larger scope that you utilize, especially on the song “Jam the Phones”, which catches you going through all of these big changes in your life as you also think more critically of how the world changes around you too. Did you find that the identity at which you write from change throughout the album’s process the more you focused on these larger themes?
AM: I’ve been thinking about social justice issues and trying to figure out how to write about them for a long time. Before shit started, like really popping off, at least for our generation, there’s a collective whole that I’ve noticed, where we’re all starting to tap into more and more of what’s going on. So it felt really organic with everyone wanting to talk about this stuff more, but the framework for talking about it is tricky because everyone has such different ideas. I feel like talking about it from the ‘I’ is always the best, because people can’t argue with your feelings. That song specifically [“Jam the Phones”] was written in 2020 around the George Floyd uprisings, when I feel like everyone was, for the first time asking, ‘what do we do?’
SR: There are many songs that reflect on different kinds of relationships throughout the record. Were there any relationships that you struggled with articulating and did you find a way to solidify their meaning on this album?
AM: Of course, most of the ones that I’m thinking of are romantic. When I wrote the first song back in 2019 called “I’m Lyin”, I was with a person, he plays music too, and we played music together. I played the song for him, and he was like, ‘do you not want to be with me anymore?’ I hadn’t thought about it like that, but then after he said that, I was like, ‘wait, maybe that is what this means, shit’ [laughs]. Then we broke up not long after that. Sometimes songs will explain things before my mind catches up to them. I think “Dawson’s Creek” is very much about familial relationships and it was a long time coming. I’ve been trying to figure out how to write about my struggle with my family and our dynamic, because so much of it is about not saying things, and like this sort of repression. So I feel like we’ve had lots of conversations over the past five plus years about this stuff, and through those conversations enabled me to voice these things more and have the courage to do it.
SR: I’ve never actually seen Dawson’s Creek, but I am familiar with the lore. Was there any significance of using that show as the title of the song?
AM: It’s not really about the show at all, but more about watching the show. I used to watch it in the summer, it was on TBS at 9am and 10am every morning. So I’d wake up and watch Dawson’s Creek with my cereal, and that’s sort of how I’d start the day in the summer. It embodies this sort of lost, wistful feeling of just waking up and immediately being swept up in someone else’s narrative, like a fake narrative instead of feeling like I had my own narrative.
SR: Television and film is pretty consistent throughout the record, like on the song “Co-Stars” which plays out like this very Hollywood-esque progression of love and expectations.
AM: Yeah, it’s funny, when I wrote that song I knew I’d wanted to get into TV at that point, but fully was not working in this world at all. It’s funny, a lot of things about this record have grown in their meaning since, not like a manifestation, but there’s been through lines that have carried past the songs. Even the cover is me with a bunch of lamps, and now that is what I do on the show, I get all the lamps to work for the sets. It’s just kind of crazy.
SR: Yeah, I wanted to ask, now working as an electrician on television sets, where did you get the concept of the ‘electric bouquet’ and what does it mean to you?
AM: I was going to electrician school at the time, so I think that the word was just really prevalent. I was also sitting and thinking about live shows and imagining me bringing lamps, like so many lamps to every show and setting them up and that being a part of the load in and out at night – it’s like an electric bouquet. You create the bouquet around you as part of your set design, and that’s what the poem at the end of the album is about. ‘I have lamps – 20 lamps at night, I bring inside, set them up all around me, like an electric bouquet.’ But I think realistically I could only do like three, maybe four lamps a night [laughs]. It’s a small operation.
SR: When I picture a bouquet, obviously it’s like a bouquet of flowers. But thinking further on this word, a bouquet is never naturally occurring. Someone has to put it together.
AM: Totally. Calling an album a bouquet is a cool idea. That’s another way of thinking of it.
SR: Bouquet is a great word for an album. It makes sense.
AM: Yeah, I was really happy when I came up with the title. It’s the first time I’ve ever had the album name before I recorded the album.
SR: That’s gotta feel so good, right? Did that guide the outcome of the writing or recording for you at all?
AM: I just felt very empowered, like I knew what I wanted it to sound like and how I wanted to feel through the whole thing. Through the experience of doing this before, obviously writing the songs, but not necessarily being as assertive production wise, I knew this time that I really wanted that control and to be more uncompromising in my decisions. I was really excited about that because there’s not a lot of places that you get to do that in life, but when it’s your songs and your name, you can just be like, ‘no’ [laughs]. In that case, maybe this thing isn’t going to sound the best or be the most convenient, but I like it when things are impractical. To be honest, I think that it makes for something more interesting.
Photo by Madeline Hug
You can stream Electric Bouquet on all platforms today, as well as order a vinyl or cassette copy of the album via Father/Daughter Records.
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