The Last Whole Earth Catalog is one of those prolific projects that redefines our expectations of what an individual can accomplish. With over twenty albums on bandcamp and an ongoing YouTube project of playing each song he has ever written live in chronological order, UK artist Dan Parr has returned with his latest album, We’re All Down The Rabbit Hole, self-released earlier this year. Venturing into the unknown and confusion of our innate obsessions, Parr explains that this album was written about someone who falls in and out of a cult, illustrating the characters’ struggling world view and deteriorating self-preservation as you tries to find his way back out again.
Although vast, the seismic catalog that Parr has built is not one of intimidation, but offers a safe point to jump in and experience his craft at any point in time. This is in part due to the timeless feel that these songs are molded from, where inspirations are voiced and personal visions are seen through with such intuition and commitment. Same goes for this collection, as “All Grass Seems So Green” kicks off the album with a whimsical and progressive folk groove as movement builds from a conversation with an ecstatic guitar, pushing the instrumentals to grow into a meticulous freak out. “Have You Ever” jumps out with choreographed guitar strings that lead with constant motion, never tripping over each other as they try to get to an unknown destination outside of our line of vision. “Until I’m Clear” simmers in a range of guitar tones, textures and dynamic moods as Parr’s musicianship excels in his transition from each new pacing. The album’s closer, “32”, is a light little love ditty – a break in layered stylings to a more conventional song structure that finds closure in its bashful lyrics and warm embrace.
Although the cult concept is not crucial to the overall experience of the album, Parr animates a classic archetype where obsession becomes both procurements of energy and devastation and our character has to take a fall in order to learn their crucial lesson. “With every headline I know the culprit / It’s society’s sickness and we all know / We’re stuck in the grind and don’t seem to mind enough,” sets us at our initial crossroads – where questions need answers but the tension reaches a breaking point as “If Only” erupts into a distorted drive of hopeful wondering. “I Don’t Want To Be Left Out” struggles with individuality held down by one’s own expectations, yet is dragged out by twinkling piano fills and a precarious mouth trumpet that dance around in freeform glee. The character reaches an awakening on “Reread My Life”, as Parr reflects, “Now that I know I can be fooled / Now that I know where I am weak / I’ll be careful when I have an option / When the intentions are not that easy to see”. It is one of the more sobering and grounded tracks in the bunch – a moment to stop and understand just how confusing and meaningful it is to be alive.
“In my mind there is not order / Only chance and what’s made for us / But in lasting memories I have to try and make a sense of peace”, settles in the heart of the story on “Every Single Little Piece” as a melodic guitar begins to swell with excitement as Parr’s demeanor grows in love and confidence. Although sometimes harsh, touching upon some of humanity’s most brash qualities and scapegoat tactics, We’re All Down The Rabbit Hole isn’t a project to relish in the flare-ups of despair, but one made to rejoice individuality, self-care, communication and unifying community, and in the whimsy of The Last Whole Earth Catalog, the rabbit hole is a welcoming place to fall down if you give it the chance.
We’re All Down The Rabbit Hole is available on all streaming platforms now. You can order CDs and tapes here. You can watch Parr’s All Songs Ever series here.
iji (ee-hee) is one of those groups that can be described as “your favorite artist’s favorite artist” (Sasha Colby), and through fifteen years of sophisticated pop tunes and pure indie bliss, they have proven time and time again that making music can and should always be fun. Fronted by Zach Burba, iji returns with their latest record Automatically, the groups first release since their relocation to LA in 2020 and a revitalization of the creative spirit within. Having time to sit and wonder, bubble in the troubles of the pandemic and its shadowy afterglow, Burba took the time to reflect on what is worth saying in a world like this, where stripped back pop tunes and witty musings can be just as effective when radiating moments of essential joy, communal care, existential dread, childhood dreams and souring friendships become harder to define.
On the surface, Automatically revels in organic and articulated instrumentals that feel lighter than past albums by the rather adventurous group, yet at its heart, sing the praises of such charm and character that iji has defined throughout their rich history. With an array of collaborators of indie spearheads and hometown heroes such as Erin Birgy (Mega Bog), Adrianne Lenker (Big Thief), Nicholas Krgovich (Nicholas Krgovich) and many more, Automatically is the communal event that it was always meant to be. “First Lickers of the Rock” simmers on top of electric tinkerings, while songs like “Recycle Symbol” and “Worlding Way” bounce with melodic energy, where 70’s folk-pop renegades would feel seen, and then honored when provisioned in the charming little world that iji so notably crafts. “Confusing Questions” and “Fear of What” are deliberate mysteries, unsettling at times, mark their own territory on the rather wide-ranging and inclusive collection of stylings and sounds.
“I want to take it all back / Every line ever spoken”, opens the album with “Onomatopoeia”, a song that blooms from the stem of a folk groove, choreographed to Burba’s melodic intuitions and clever vocal harmonies that would trigger anyone’s own participation in the comradery. It may come down to the phonetics that feel the most fitting, “Only one expression remains / the onomatopoeia” becomes an expletive, a simplification of all the shit around us that feels impossible to describe. And to his credit, Burba’s often textured and far out lyrical comprehension grasps this need of purposeful communication. “Walk a little more around the block to see the Deadhead sticker on a Tesla truck,” he sings, highlighting the moral and political hypocrisy in late stage capitalism. “Holy Spirit, tie my show,” sets “Dominus Vobiscum” into a whistling whimsy – “around and over, under, up and through” as religion becomes normalized in selfish ways more and more.
Intuition meets introspection as Burba rears an ending to the journey of Automatically. “Professional Anything” floats to its own lighthearted pace, as expectations are broken and passion and creativity come out on top. “She Sees” weighs heavy as it lumbers through a sparse soundscape. Featuring Adrianne Lenker on backing harmonies, she hits a steady and ghostly bongo like a heartbeat, as Barbus and co. come to the finish line. Reaching this collective release that has been kept inside for too long, Automatically doesn’t revel in the disastrous and estranged for long – even when heavy moments arise, Burba feels the most comfort in letting it breath, making for a rejoiceful moment of creativity and community to fill in the grand scheme of it all.
You can listen to Automatically on all platforms now as well as purchase a vinyl via We Be Friends Records.
Today, Wandering Years return with You Are Covered in Brooklyn Amber, a new EP via Candlepin Records and Better Days Will Haunt You; a short, yet mighty collection that finds the New York group, fronted by Gene Stroman, embarking on a lo-fi endeavor and an expression of influence and melodic progression. “Creeks overflow / Flowers Grow / Valleys mold and boulders roll and roll”, opens the title track as a clear marking of new beginnings – the EP grows with articulated distortion roaming in the head space as the title track poses with harmonious voicings and indie-rock elegance – where Wandering Years soon proves that they are a band on a mission.
Compiled of songs written between 2022-2024, You Are Covered in Brooklyn Amber is an album layered by a multitude of melodic guitars and methodical instrumental drives that pair together with such sincerity and intention to progress. Following their 2023 debut, Mountain Laughed, this new collection repurposes two tracks from that recording session as well as three new recordings made on a tascam recorder. Songs like “Summer Dress”, one of the band’s oldest songs, takes advantage of the space with large guitar solos and pounding percussion as the EP’s heaviest rocker, while “Geologic” explodes with tenacity and tension, protruding the very confines of a lo-fi recording, as Stroman’s hushed vocals are brought out further by delicate, yet purposefully spirited harmonies that manage to stop you in your tracks.
Through the noise, though, comes a level of sincerity that is oftentimes overlooked in the world of shoegaze and gaze-adjacent groups. “You’re the Chrysler Building” bleeds within its patience, where the hiss of the tascam’s bandwidth is a simmer of reflection and a journey of finding your way back home – “Campfire sparks and Springsteen’s Nebraska / Free as can be and headed back east” – building upon personal moments of introspection as a natural open playing field to explore. “You Are Covered (Acoustic)” is a return to their Virginia roots, a display of tender folk twang and alluring repetition of melodies as Wandering Years revisits the opening track as if its an entirely knew song, yet leaving its holistic impression of fresh starts even more tender and accessible. “Progress is slow / But the seeds are sewn / Believers know / Lovers glow and glow” – told within the frame of a simple guitar song, plays a triumphant expression with heart filled gratification at its core, because Stroman and co. know it’s best to keep your feet planted – in the case of You Are Covered in Brooklyn Amber, and let the pedal steel play you out.
Through Columbus, Ohio’s Better Days Will Haunt You, there will be a limited run of vinyl of You Are Covered in Brooklyn Amber. Wandering Years will be playing an album release show Friday Sept 13 at Heaven Can Wait in NYC.
The “flow state”, only reached when a racecar driver hits 180+ mph, feels like a momentary lapse in time, where all movement becomes one and control over the situation begins to feel effortless. Today, the ugly hug is premiering Violet Speedway, the debut record from Sacramento artist, Levi Minson, which is set to be released this Friday via Anything Bagel. Although not reaching the speed at which the engines rev and the heart is left in synchronous palpitations, Violet Speedway is a flash of grace, as Minson smoothly transitions in and out of stories of love, loss, fear and most of all, hope.
Oftentimes minimal, Violet Speedway confronts the open spaces with soft, yet hearty soundscapes. Recorded fully in a bedroom on a tascam four-track, these deceptively sparse, lo-fi songs live in this subtle density of Minson’s instrumental expressions of looping guitars, light synths and heavy drums that spackle in the cracks. Songs like ‘The Shadow’ and ‘I Can’t Say It At All’ play with persistence, as Minson’s somber melodies sit on top of the chunking of heavy guitars – attuned to that of the early catalog of Elliott Smith as he transitioned from the rock roots of Heatmiser. ‘The Gleam Is All I See’ is a rambunctious indie rock stinger that plays passenger to the melancholic feel of the lo-fi recordings at hand, yet the distorted undertones are still muddily layered and excitingly harsh at its core. The harmonies on ‘Colin Is’, featuring Taylor Vick, build and flow with such tender vigor that any hints of pain begin to blend with bits of satisfactory release.
This type of writing – reminiscing on momentary feelings and the duality at which they are experienced and then later remembered – so creatively opens up little worlds within each one of Minson’s songs. As the third generation of a dust bowl family, Minson’s writing articulates a rural life; the stories of time, place and being that stick out while fine details help hammer them down with sincerity and charm. ‘Anyone can do it/Sidekick’ begins with one of the most subtle moments on the record, letting each word hang in the air as staggered guitar strums reverb around them in a bare mini two-part epic. “My old man was a psychic / When he said I won’t need him / Cuz I’m your sidekick”, he sings with a stirring string of harmonies. ‘Did You Try’ plays through a stumble, falling into minor intonations as the guitar picks along, fixated on its pacing as it tries to grasp on to anything other then solitude. ‘I’ll go, you stay here’ marks Minson’s presence as he toys with distance. With the beautiful subtlety of synthetic strings – a restrained form of cinematic trust within the track – the song turns into a doomed romance as Violet Speedway reaches its most inflicting emotional height.
Minson sings of shortcomings as if he is one step ahead, reflecting while simultaneously looking at the path forward. “Do they look both ways yet? / I know all about regret”, he utters out, with no hesitancy, bringing the album to a close with the song, ‘Memory’. It’s not really a love song, and yet, it’s not really about heartbreak either, but a sincere glimpse at Minson’s heart and mind beginning to flow together.
Listen to Violet Speedway early below.
You can now pre-order a limited screen-printed tape of Violet Speedway from Anything Bagel at their bandcamp. Make sure to check out the rest of their excellent catalog!
Last week, Lindsay Reamer shared with us her debut LP, Natural Science via Dear Life Records; a new body of work that introduces the Philly-based artist to the forefront of conversations within the indie-folk world. “There’s a strange smell in the air / Something like spring, something rare / I’ve walked this way many times before / The houses look the same but I know my door”, she sings with vivid recognition over lightly plucked strings on the album opener, “Today”. Soon falling into a tender folk groove of sticky piano notes and driving drum fills, a collage of textured strings paint the backdrop of not just this song, but setting the scene for an entire album animated by presence, pushed by artistry and driven by sincere intention.
In the scope of traditional folk stylings, Natural Science is rooted in the day to day – what comes around goes around in the name of genuine storytelling. As a former field scientist, traveling through the cinematic landscapes of the American National Parks and the often forgotten in betweens, Reamer’s writing revels in her emotional calculations, visual observations, and understanding of the small things that make life so unique. With constant movement, the lead single “Figs and Peaches”, featuring Eliza Niemi on cello, plays to the summer romantics and pop-hook lamenters that thrive in the thick sunny air. “Gardens on the land / Castles on the beaches / I trust my hand and / Pluck my figs and peaches,” she sings with such gratification; an ode to carving your own path, picking your own fruit, defining your own beauty.
With recording help from Lucas Knapp, Reamer has come into her own sound with such open confidence; where deliverances feel rooted to her heart and the sonic branches are given space to grow where they need to go. The dilapidated lo-fi ballad of “John’s Song” or the constructed wavelengths of distorted guitars and trickling strings on “Mushroom House” progress and blend with ease when sandwiched between alt-country pop hooks and riveting folk grooves of songs like “Necessary” and “Lucky”. Even with a nod to the classics, Reamer closes the album with “Heavenly Houseboat Blues”, a cover originally written by Townes Van Zandt and Susanna Clark. Reamer’s rendition though, featuring Peter Gill (2nd Grade, Friendship) on guitar and Jon Samuels (Friendship, MJ Lenderman) on vocals, plays to the most biting elements of those traditional compositions, yet inspirited by her own stylings, before being washed into the sea with harsh natural field recordings, a body of water, and a meandering fiddle that manages to remain afloat till the very end.
Some of the most emotionally fervent moments on the album are displayed within the dualities of reflection; where Reamer simmers in the sweet spot between moments of triumph and setbacks. “Spring Song” is driven by the light and breezy chorus that is meant to be consumed on repeated listens, yet isn’t wrinkled by the defined expectations and disappointments that the song represents. “I’m standing still, I only live to fill the space between / The coming and the going,” she sings on the chorus, where the following “do do’s” hold as much weight as the looming undertones at hand. “Red Flowers” is drowned in passiveness, as Reamer’s poppy reverbed vocals feel to have their own layer of consciousness, watching and listening as life moves quickly past her. “Can you handle the bitterness / Of something real? / Or are you just running from / The scary things you feel,” she sings on the delicate track, “Sugar” – cautious, beautiful and one of the more sobering moments on the album.
Natural Science is a collection that moves at its own pace, and to its credit, the album’s greatest strengths come from those little individual blossoms of patient voicings and unconventional instrumentals that feel enticingly fresh for the genre. Playing God over model trains, eavesdropping of Days Inn gossip, waking up next to day-old take out, overly large prized vegetables, creeping on an ex – Reamer’s dedication to the mundane, brought to life within her broad depth of emotions, is richly beautiful, warmly inviting, super catchy and deeply human; a remarkable debut for an artist that is just getting started.
Brooklyn-based multi-disciplinary artist and queer flutist Cal Fish’s music is, perhaps predictably, eclectic. Aptly coined “flutegaze” on their Instagram, it calls to mind more organic strains of house like Call Super or Octa Octa, while at others it presents itself as a minimal art-pop sound most closely a la Bullion’s more recent works. Shades of Fifth Wave Emo’s experimentation also lend themselves to the project, with acts akin to Glass Beach and nouns seeming to share some DNA albeit with more angst and edge than Fish’s serene, self-assured delivery. Don’t let these cognates fool you, though: Fish’s music is wholly their own. They infuse this amalgamation of influences with a paradoxically shy take on maximalism– I probably shouldn’t add one more layer, but a flute solo mixed as if heard from two high school band practice rooms away would go stupid hard here, they seem to say – and the result is Cal Fish’s most recent album, Indecision Songs, a project that defies any presumptions of pretension by being tasteful, expressive, and just plain fun.
On the album’sopener “Twirling,” their voice is disarmingly plain in that enchanting sort of way some of the best indie singer-songwriters are. Snug as a bug, the vocals nestle between modular synth squelches, flights of flute, and warm subtonal bass that warps under the weight of the jam-packed mixes’ incidental side-chaining. I’d be remiss not to note the various Pokémon cries sampled that, somewhat unbelievably, subvert kitschiness altogether. The reedy, echoey Zubat call in particular sounds super dope, even in spite of the flashbacks it evokes of being perpetually confused in caves (because wild Zubats are the worst and also big stupid meanies). This Pokémon motif is pleasantly augmented by a heartfelt interpolation of the original TV show’s theme song. Rather than Pocket Monsters, Fish is concerned with “love and tenderness,” sweetly singing, “to forget them is my real test / to gain them is my cause” – a line that would strike the listener as cloying if Fish didn’t seem so dang genuine, or the surrounding sound wasn’t as phenomenal as it is. In all, the opening track is a cartoon maelstrom of raw creative expression, neatly tempered by a skillful sense for aesthetic and composition alike.
In a purely technical regard, Fish’s vocals are admittedly somewhat raw – but the distant, softened mix on them often suits their limited range well, and I found Fish’s delivery to be a perfect match for the tender lyrics and their instrumental nests beside. “2 Way Path (the dream is within u)” stands out in this regard, alliterative lines like “Heavy hearts, hurting hands / hungry for holding” a natural fit for Fish’s earnest delivery. “Patience flows / like muscle memory” is enveloped in a bashfully funkadelic house beat just before featured vocalist hi im home’s delightful hook, the title of the song’s parenthetical making for a perfect mantra. It’s all humbly wonderful, the way a recipe for brownies your family has made for about two-and-a-half generations comes out simply divine every time. So too does “When a Thought (feat. Alice Does Computer Music)” engage with this curated sense of sentimentality, aided by candid pop refrains generously layered in parking garage echo. A whimsical backing track highlights digital bells’ enchanting cerulean, paying homage to Super Mario 64’s “Dire Dire Docks. The tranquility is further enhanced by Becca Rodriguez’s vocals and their mixing. They’re lovingly tuned so as to not quite be swallowed by the surrounding colors, though only barely lucid and only at times. I’m reminded of grasping at diaphanous wisps of dialogue, remembered or confabulated, desperately trying to recall some fast-escaping dreamscape in the earliest moments of a morning.
Another highlight is the charmingly named “Big Bad Blanket of Protection.” As a noted weighted blanket enjoyed myself (sleep paralysis shmeep shmaralysis amiright), I was entranced by the track’s weighty, Cologne dance floor kick worthy of my blanket’s 8-pound heft, around which dance chiptune-adjacent synths and anon slaught of percussive stabs and hats. Caught in the song’s swirl are bit-crushed snippets of conversation, the pitch of which lends nicely to the sonic canvas, creating a lackadaisical sort of balance between the highs and the lows. The timbre and inflection of these vocals remind me of claire rousay’s introspective musings – an analog only strengthened by the following track “Longest Night of the Year” and its use of text-to-speech, notably used in a similar fashion on rousay’s excellent it was always worth it EP. But whatever sentiment present in the vocals here resting beneath the song’s sediment as they are, is ultimately indiscernible. The decadent leads and indulgent kits obfuscate the words’ edges, rendering them unintelligible – that is, until the last minute and a half or so of the song. The tempo suddenly dips, submerging the cacophony under distant David Wise-esque harps and the white noise of waves and thus allowing the delicate vocals to just barely rise to comprehension’s surface. Those too eventually fade out of sight, until all that’s left is the mundane found sound of a children’s toy that leaves me feeling forlorn, somewhat unsettled, and yet utterly satisfied. The song’s six-odd minutes fly by, time itself bending to the frame of a song with a title that sounds more like a homebrew DnD item than anything. It is, in a word, superdupercool.
Fish makes an impression with more than just their music. Their website greets visitors with impact font menus adorned with technicolor drop-shadows that coalesce Fish’s various creative endeavors. These include (but are certainly not limited to) clothing and sculptures for sale or commission and public sound installations. I thought their “Dynamic Listening Instrument” was particularly cool: It consists of a jury-rigged 8-track recording device mounted on what appears to be a car battery, all of which is in turn linked to several lengths of copper wire decorated with various pastel patterns. In the embedded video, Fish explains that a magnetic field generated around the lengths of wire allows for a white plastic bucket with a speaker mounted to the underside to play recordings as it swings through their area of effect. It’s a lot to take in, to be sure, and the slapdash appearance didn’t exactly inspire confidence–– but the device worked like a charm, reminding me of a room-sized, modular theremin, only controlled by the bucket rather than hands. The potential to program unique sounds or samples to each coil elevates the instrument far past mere gimmickry, in my opinion, and I found myself thrilled by the tech’s possible uses in larger scale sound installations such as those by Swiss artist Zimoun, or Aphex Twin’s swinging piano. If any of these ancillary projects were undertaken with even slightly less energy, creativity, or competency, it’d read as twee or eccentric; instead, Fish’s oeuvre is profoundly endearing and impressive to boot.
It’s these novel approaches to familiar realms of sound that seem to inform Indecision Songs as a whole. No better illustration of this exists than the penultimate (and my personal favorite) track “Rise Again (i knw u c what dreams are made of).” With an intro that wouldn’t be out of place on any of the late great Mille Plateaux’s “Clicks & Cuts” glitch compilations, it’s no wonder that an ethereal interpolation of the theme song from Nickelodeon’s iCarly is somewhat unexpected. But Fish doubles down: amidst fragments of bashful laughter, the track transitions into a ghostly rendition of Hillary Duff/Lizzie McGuire’s anthem “This Is What Dreams Are Made Of” and back again, the sitcoms’ melodies perfectly harmonizing with the inner child. It’d all be ridiculous, juvenile, or simple nostalgia-bait – if it weren’t for both Fish being so obviously and awesomely sincere. It’s a microcosm of Indecision Songs’ strengths, exemplifying Fish and their music’s remarkable ability to duck past saccharinity and successfully tap into those feelings of wistfulness, while still being upbeat, sweet, and forward-thinking.
Jeremy Mock has been a secret weapon to many bands up and down the East Coast (Bloodsports, Wesley Wolffe, Antibroth) for some time now. As a classically trained guitarist, Mock has offered performances ranging from clicky math rock riffs and rippers, acoustic runs and arpeggiated folk pickings to brash punk-loving, muscle-spazzing noise rock that adds texture and context to each band he plays in. But on his debut self-titled album, performed under the moniker of his Brooklyn-based solo project, face of ancient gallery, Mock plays to the somber intricacies that relish in our stillness, as his musicianship and storytelling filter through the bliss and anguish of day to days.
Although sparse in complexion, Mock pulls every emotion out of the simple atmospheric backdrops he conjures. With loose and alluring melodies and incredibly articulated guitar parts, Mock embodies the cerebral functions that shiver when left unattended. The steady guitar runs of “peregrine” and “laundromat” are haunting, but ground themselves in the physical foundation of the song – finding a balance between both the heavy intervals of loss and the honest reflection of healing. “Holding” is lighter, as distant synths build a natural, almost minstrel-esque affair of feeling stuck. “untitled” germinates with a steady eeriness, enticed by a lucid cello played by Chaepter Negro. The song soon blooms into a beautiful decree of self-prescribed patience, a recounting of one’s ability to be grounded within their changing surroundings.
“He took a face from the ancient gallery” always felt like a remarkably potent line written by Jim Morrison, muttered at the midpoint of The Doors’ epic album closer “The End”. Told to be following Oedipus Rex, a story foundationally flawed and greatly recounted, face of ancient gallery becomes a retelling, recounting that fine line between a fated fall and the path of free will that got you there. “infinity speak” toys with the word forever, when left to its own accord, can lose the weight of its very meaning. Even the album closer, “i’m going to go back there someday”, originally made famous by The Muppets, finds Mock’s presence immovable – the simple chord progression and shaky melody feels to slip away with each breath, but the gasps soon mark an individual effort to make it back.
Face of ancient galley is a perception – moments where constructed time doesn’t matter much anymore, but rather the shifting souls that live within these songs are the markings of presence. The opening track “Fever Blue” was written back in 2020 when Mock was only 19. Years later, the song is no longer attuned to his current worldview, yet keeping the original lyrics is a plea for honesty, a portrait that this project will learn to represent for years to come. In a gentle and earnest melody, “fever blue” is sobering – love in the face of an inevitable end, and in the wisp of Mock’s musicianship, it is a very welcoming place to be.
face of ancient gallery will be celebrating the release of the debut record with a show on 7/28 with Paint Horse and Alice Does Computer Music at Kaleidoscope in Brooklyn, NY.
It’s difficult to find your footing after times of grieving – though condensing time like an accordion, capturing both the past and present into a full journey of cathartic healing feels so effortless at the hands of Noa Jamir. Last week, the New Orleans/Lafayette-based singer-songwriter shared a beautiful exploration of self worth on her debut full length album Cicada. Taking a two year hiatus, Jamir dropped out of her last semester of college as she went through a “dormant hell” of loneliness and depression. To reemerge from those dark moments as a beautiful new spirit, Cicada lets breezy tunes take the reigns as Jamir documents her personal experience of healing and the importance of holding onto every step.
Cicada plays to the soft-rock headbangers and pop song lamenters that live for the intimacy of heavy summer air. The album opener “These Walls” plays to the momentum of a slow burning anthem – swelling in a compressed state of confusion and frustration as Jamir tries to break down her self-constructed walls of what it is to love and to be loved. The country-adjacent “Want to Love” scratches that yallternative itch that is spreading around these days, with its atmospheric lap steel (Alan Howard) annunciating the tenderness of the track and the longing in Jamir’s lush vocal performance. The stand out, “Indebted” is a steady indie-rock burner, culminating Jamir’s rage and fortitude into a patient demeanor of confidence, singing, “He proved to me that I can survive anyone and anything” – joyous and defiant all in one.
Some of the most impactful moments on Cicada are also the most sonically exposed – sitting still as the words drip like warm honey over the sparse soundscapes. “Oh I know it’s comin / The rain, the sun, the flood of all the memories,” Jamir sings with a quiet whisper on “Nights”, as the chorus blooms with layered harmonies over a folky guitar. The song lingers with an intense beauty, giving space to those unwanted thoughts – not allowing Jamir to deny their existence. With the inclusion of two voice memos from close friends, we are given a rare glimpse into Jamir’s support system during those rough moments – personal, endearing and beautiful, a culmination of the project at hand. “Mariah’s Interlude” is a brief spoken piece, tending to the patience of self care. “Aidan’s Interlude” speaks, “it can be tempting to numb ourselves […] it’s just helpful for me to remind myself that when I’m feeling a lot, that is my superpower and that makes it possible for me to truly live” – and to Aidan’s credit, Cicada feels to embody that statement.
Cicada moves at its own accord, and that’s okay. As a compositional album alone, the dynamic shifts, deliberate pacing and endearing hooks create a charming and enticing listen that runs no longer than 25 minutes. But what makes Jamir’s writing so special are the dualities that often are overlooked in times of struggle are now given a their own voice. “I realized what this was for me / A way out of my own company,” she sings on the aforementioned “Want to Love.” What feels like a harsh drive down memory lane isn’t taken as regret or mourning, but rather the importance of recognition and growth that got Jamir to where she is now.
When Baltimore/Philadelphia-based duo @ (pronounced “At”) released their debut album “Mind Palace Music” in 2023, they launched with a unique “hyperfolk” sound. Taking inspiration from modern folk-pop and 70s outsider folk songwriters, @ created a sound all their own — melding intricate studio production with lush vocal harmonies, acoustic instruments, and a penchant for the unexpected.
Earlier this year, @ released their sophomore effort — a five-song EP titled Are You There God? It’s Me, @. It’s a dramatic shift in their overall sound that serves as their breakout into electronic music production.
@ is the music project of Philadelphia, PA musician Victoria Rose and producer/ musician Stone Filipczak of Baltimore, MD. They formed during lockdown, sharing musical ideas and sketches back and forth via email and iMessage. This is their second release on D.C./ NY-based indie label Carpark Records.
Are You There God? It’s Me, @ is a record with a science-fiction aesthetic written into the code of @’s songs, taking listeners through a mirror darkly to an alternate reality that reflects our own.
The EP opens with “Processional,” a song that’s part psychedelic trance and part synth-pop jig. With its ethereal vocals and harp-like synth lines, it ascends to an apex that feels like it’s taking listeners up and out of the atmosphere.
The lyrics are cryptic and impressionistic — like subconscious thoughts taking shape in the form of dream dialog. “Inside the old mind, it’s hard to be kind/ I’m swimming/ I’m singing/ Go to, where you want to/ But don’t stray too far (to the ends of the Earth.”
On “Webcrawler,” @ makes full use of its intricate production process — blending electric guitar with a heavy industrial-sounding bass synth, shimmering keys, layered vocals, and even a guitar solo that sounds like it’s from a Van Halen record.
With all its many parts moving together like clockwork, it digs into a melodic groove that serves to underpin a cyberpunk theme that @ weaves into its song’s poignant lyrics about Internet culture and isolation.
“Database my remains/ Open up for a phase/ I’ve been dying to see you/ When you go you should stay/ I’ll be on your domain one day/ I’ve been dying to see you/ When you go you should stay/ But you’re going away.”
There’s existential musings at play on this EP. That’s self-evident with its title — a tongue in cheek reference to Judy Blume’s 1970 coming-of-age story “Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret?” @ uses that pop culture touchstone as a launchpad for songs that search for purpose and meaning beyond the daily humdrum.
No song better encapsulates that idea than the title track. It starts off with @ slowly building a choir made from their two voices repeating the mantra: “I can’t feel you anymore/ As long as you hide away, I can’t see you in my dreams anymore.” The vocal harmonies are angelic and tender, evoking The Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds era.
But then the song is disrupted by electronic glitches, which cuts the mics on this studio choir. The track shifts into a sunshine twee pop section reminiscent of bands like Belle & Sebastian or The Vaselines.
“Odor in the Court” leans into a spellbinding electro-pop groove, while natural human voices meld with robotic auto-tuned vocals. The lyrics reinforce themes of digital age isolation, adding to that foundation by asking existential questions about the nature of reality.
From there, “Soul Hole” closes out the EP with a hyperpop song that cements its cyberpunk narrative. @ merges with the ghost in the machine for a bop that shifts back and forth between EDM rhythms and folk-pop melodies; a parallel to @’s own musical evolution.
Taking elements of hyper-pop and pairing it with experimental indie rock has resulted in a record that’s wildly inventive. With avant-pop hooks, left of field engineering, and earworm melodies, Are You There God? It’s Me, @ is made for repeated listens.
On “a boy called ear,” Demi Spriggs (Athens, Greece/ London, UK), takes traditional British folk melodies and pairs them with freak-folk influences and shoegaze improv. The result is a four-song EP that walks between past and present — evoking feelings of melancholy, world-weariness, and brief moments of joy set across its tales of love and loss.
Spriggs, who is also a visual artist, ethnographer, and doctoral candidate, isn’t the first to marry old English folk songs with modern songwriting sensibilities. There’s a long list, ranging from 1960s/70s folk-rock bands Fairport Convention and Pentangle; the 1990s/ 2000s freak folk scenes; as well as contemporary folk artists such as Anaïs Mitchell and Laura Marling.
But what Demi Spriggs does well on a boy called ear is present a unique take to time-honored folk ballads; tying together feminist themes in these story-song narratives.
In doing so, she’s created new tales of her own that align with the role of the bard. She’s the storyteller who weaves a yarn of history, myths, and ritual into verse; transfiguring the past to speak about the here and now.
Demi Spriggs’ high and mellifluous voice is coupled with her intricate nylon-stringed guitar fingerpicking, which produces an intimate and emotionally-present record. These stripped-down arrangements lend themselves to these songs, which are nestled between desire, sadness, and hope.
Released on Jan 12, this is Spriggs’ first project with New Paltz, New York-based record label Team Love Records. The label was founded in 2003 by indie folk artist Conor Oberst (Bright Eyes) and musician and owner Nate Krenkel.
The EP’s opener, “holding fair,” begins with an a cappella quote of Scarborough Fair: “Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.” From there, Spriggs builds a scene of a relationship slowly falling apart.
Musically, there’s a mix of emotions; effervescent and bittersweet that captures the euphoria of the early stages of love and the sting of rejection. “My love/ You can’t chase time/ And you can’t hold the fairest ones down.”
And on “a tale of love and sadness,” Spriggs’ winding fretwork with her pure and honeyed voice contrasts with themes of unrequited love. The song left me feeling as though a part of me had been hollowed out. It summoned a rising tide of old memories — haunting and beautiful.
The highlight of the record is “if you don’t say it, the wheat will,” which sees Spriggs as a sayer steeped in ancient melodies with a portent message. It’s part folk ballad and part Greek epicedium with a foreboding sense of loss.
There’s an eerie calmness to Spriggs’ vocal delivery, which adds tension to the plaintive narrative. “And I see them in the fields/ Shadows of the ones who flew/ Of the men who didn’t know/ That they were dying before they grow.”
A boy called ear closes with the electric guitar-driven shoegaze instrumental “escalator jazz.” This drone-focused piece is a departure from the rest of the EP stylistically, but still emotionally fits with its wistful experimental improv.
Spriggs’ wrote on her Bandcamp page that “escalator jazz” acts as a bridge for a future release titled “Night Folkways” — an experimental folk project with looped textures, vocals, and FX pedals. Although it serves as a connective thread between the releases, “escalator jazz” doesn’t seem like a memorable way to close out the EP. The beating heart of this record lies with Spriggs’ abilities to bring new ideas to traditional folk storytelling. Despite the lack of cohesion at its end, Demi Spriggs’ a boy called ear is a heartfelt collection of songs that takes inspiration from the past, while moving forward with inventiveness and a willingness to experiment with the folk genre.
the ugly hug 