Genre: alternative/folk Label: Exploding in Sound Records
Prewn, the new project of Izzy Hagerup, released her first full length album titled, Through The Window off of Exploding In Sound Records. Antagonized through a gritty soundscape, Hagerup takes on the role of writing, performing, recording and everything in between to make something remarkably eerie and genuine. Leaning into experience obtained from working with Kevin McMahon and his expansive psych-rock project, Pelican Movement, Hagerup is well crafted in pushing the boundaries of song structure and mood. Through the Window represents the conundrum of mortality, being both fragile and perverse, as Hagerup so poetically opens up the bottomless pit. Offering up some post-punk and folk tendencies, Through the Window is a haunted exposé in search to understand human instincts when face to face with death.
Ghosts are summoned on the opening track, “The Machine”, as Hagerup touches on the scene of her own death. Starting with a sonically sparse landscape, Hagerup’s vocals are trailed by delayed harmonies as she sings of her soul leaving her body. The chorus rings, “sometimes I forgot that nothing matters” as the harmonies grow into a disadant climax and fade into nothing. Existential, yes. But in a sense, that nihilistic thought can bring comfort when everything else feels too consequential.
The lead single, “But I Want More”, is somewhat of a plea for help. Told through the perspective of her father, diagnosed with Parkinson’s, who was isolated in a care home during the pandemic. Reminiscent of sludgy 90s folk stylings, the track extends itself into a sing-along brigade of hot-blooded phrases like “but I want more”. It is a song about utter seclusion and the effects that it can have on the human psyche and as the song grows and brittles out, Hagerup’s pure anger stands defiant and unwavering.
One of Prewn’s draws is the way that Hagerup expels her voice over the eight tracks. Layered and lenient, Hagerup uses her voice as a tension point. Songs like “Alive” and “Sheila” are filled with vocal layers that expose themselves with every listen. “I’m Going to Fry All the Fish in the Sea”, reminiscent of a toil-n-trouble-esque marveling, Hagerup sings a roundabout melody about greed with lines like “I got what I want, I’ve got what I need / I fried all the fish in the motherfucking sea”.
Gluttony is a very inadmissible humanistic instinct, and to which point will be the death of us all. On the song “Perfect World”, Hagerup sings of the evil that billionaires disperse onto our society. “It’s a perfect world and I’m murdering my children / It’s a perfect world and I just surpassed a billion”, she sings in the spirit of ignorance and corporate greed that contributes to the polluting of our earth and the exploitation of the lower class. Although “Perfect World” is one of the more lighter sounding songs on the album, with a finger-picked guitar and textures added through vocal arrangements, it doesn’t go without saying that there is a level of intensity that comes from Hagerup’s performance.
In a very bold debut album, Prewn has shown the extent to which Hagerup’s honesty comes to touch upon human instincts. With dissident textures anchored to her voice and colorful intensity to an acoustic guitar, Through The Window stands as a shocking and unique new album that pushes our own understanding of what humans are capable of.
Being a rock star seems much more attainable when you are enrolled in the third grade. Usually that ambition simmers out as you encounter dream crushers and 401Ks. But sometimes there is an exception to this, and in this particular case, it is Madison/Chicago band Slow Pulp and their most recent release, Yard. With two EPs (EP 1 and EP 2) and a full length album (Moveys) already under their belt, Yard finds Slow Pulp reigning in this homegrown and nostalgic persona that they so often have perfected before, but attribute a more raw and introspective quality this time around.
Becoming friends in a west side elementary school of Madison, Wisconsin, Henry Stoehr (guitar), Teddy Mathews (drums), and Alex Leeds (bass) grew up together, both personally and musically, and began to play in bands like Trophy Dad and Barbara Hans. It wasn’t until attending the University of Wisconsin-Madison, where they found the missing piece, that being Emily Massey, who grew up on the east side of town and played in other local bands such as Melkweeds and Modern Mod. With Stoehr taking more of the production responsibility, Massey quickly became the breathy and longing voice of the band.
Yard is as reflective as it is blunt, both offering something for Massey to discover in the writing process. A lot of this had to do with the isolation she endured during writing retreats in a Northern Wisconsin cabin. The album’s opener, “Goner 2”, is an introduction to a softer and more matured Slow Pulp sound. “I’m living in between feelings” Massey sings in her soft vocal style that flows with delicacy and ache. Her lyrics are strategically doubtful while approaching her past, showing to what extent she gets in her own way. That being said, “Goner 2”, the 2 because it was the second version recorded, isn’t stuck to its own terms of ambiguity, but as the opener, leaves room on the rest of the album for Massey to grow and reflect.
Some of the early singles that the band teased stand as a testament to the their various strengths in songwriting and producing. “Doubt” is Massey’s battle with insecurities told through a campy 2000s pop-rock song. Her gripping and raw lyricism only stands out more when juxtaposed to the band’s Malibu-style guitar work and the “do-do” chorus’. “Am I not enough or too much/Can you fix this I think I’m ready to commit” Massey sings in hopes of validating her own uncertainties. “Cramps”, borderline fully distorted, was a full collaborative song that was written on the spot. When the drums roll in and the guitar fuzzes out, Massey’s vocals relay between catchy melodist and souring garage rocker. With lyrics of self hatred in credit to pms, Massey and the band punch out one of the catchiest songs of the year. “Slugs” was first written and introduced by Stoehr in middle school. As most first songwriting adventures go, Stoehr found a muse in his crush at the time. Now bringing it back full circle to the band, “Slugs” is coincidentally still about a summer crush. It’s a laid back tune that lets the distorted guitars and bass take the background, leaving a butterfly effect in your tummy (one requisite to falling in love in the summer).
The title track “Yard” is a turning point on the album. As Massey’s parents put up her childhood home for sale, she fell into the sinkhole that is digging out family memories, especially when it came to her relationship with her little sister. With just a simple and dry piano instrumental, Massey sings, “They put the house for sale sign up/Didn’t know that I cared that much/I’m sorry I wasn’t there enough/It’s on me”. The piano is reminiscent of the old and worn heirloom instruments that usually occupy the living rooms of family households.
Taking shifts in Massey’s approach, there are two different types of love songs that arise in Yard. “MUD” is an undeniable rock song about a relationship coming apart. Standing for “miss u dear”, Massey sings about the delusional exceptions we make to stay in a relationship, often due to the fear of being alone. “I know I’m not where I said that I’ve been/Getting older but I still play pretend/I don’t want this to end” Massey sings as the band comes crashing in. On the other hand, the single “Broadview” is a twangy country inspired song about allowing yourself to fall in love again after a long time on break. “I’m just gonna give it a try/And hope that it’s enough”, sings Massey as piano and harmonica roll in. With Peter Briggs on pedal steel and Willie Christianson on harmonica and banjo, the band adds another texture to their arsenal.
As kids who grew up going to record shops, playing in battle of the bands and attending most of their academic experiences together, there is an indisputable and familiar bond within this group. As an in-house project, being produced and engineered by Stoehr himself, Yard is an album that finds the band at the top of their game. Slow Pulp, relying on their roots, still aren’t afraid to jump into the dark and it has worked time and time again. What Yard has shown is a band that is both effortless and strategically precise, warmhearted and sincere as well as meticulously poignant. Slow Pulp now stands as one of the most important bands in play.
DOMINO, the new record from Diners,has become a top contender on a lot of people’s end of the year list. It’s an album that hits the ground running into the adulation of power pop, retro tendencies and a love for life that never gets old. I had the honor of interviewing Blue Broderick of Diners as she was in the middle of a large national tour for the new album. Calling from her hotel room in Georgia, we discussed collaboration, being on wholesome status, and the possibility of starting at square one.
Growing up in Mesa, Arizona, Broderick developed a love for rock ‘n roll in a slightly prohibited way. Finding her dad’s guitar hidden away in the attic, Broderick waited until he was out of the house before she would begin to practice. Once her dad found out and accepted it, she played in several bands growing up and connected to the Mesa/Phoenix DIY scene. Broderick’s first release under the name Diners, Throw Me A Ten, was released in 2012, and since then she has released several records that expand over sounds of retro pop and eclectic ballads.
DOMINO has been issued through the press as a completely new Diners outfit. In a way, that is true. If meaning the first full record that leans into fuzzed precision and splintering snares, then yes. DOMINO, both sonically and personally is somewhat of a fresh start for Broderick, but it’s not that she hasn’t been experimenting with these power pop sounds before. With six albums already under her belt, Broderick has worked to manipulate the Diners’ sound time and time again, with each record taking on a new fashion. But with DOMINO, “I’ve been wanting to do a louder rock record for a while now,” says Broderick. “I kind of just didn’t know how to do it. Some of that is just not being able to collaborate” she tells me.
Photo by Rachel Lewis
Bringing in friend and contemporary, Mo Troper, to help record and produce the new album was what Broderick had been looking for. Having become really close “around the time the Abbey Road Box Set was released”, Broderick and Troper developed a relationship through a deep love of music. Troper is, in sorts, a power pop guru, with his own career of pop melodies eaten up by distortion. “He’s so much the real deal when it comes to music” says Broderick. “You want to work with somebody who has opinions and is gonna be firm”. Collaboration has become something of value to Broderick’s artistic processes. “I think I am so over doing things alone,” she expresses. “I just feel like my music always tends to be so much better when I collaborate with people”. With mixing by punk engineer Jack Shirley, giving DOMINO an extra edge to nail down, Broderick’s songs and performances are only brought more to their fullest potential. With the entirety of the album recorded at Trash Treasury in Portland, Broderick says “there was a lot of chaos in the studio while recording it, but I think it was all a part of the ride. And actually, that’s the way that it needed to happen in order for it to turn out good”.
You once tweeted, “All perfect albums have one skip”. Can you give me an example?
This is going to be controversial, because I really love The Beatles, but they have way more than one skip on every album. And I think that’s the beauty of them. Each album from beginning to end is like a roller coaster of, ‘this is the best’, ‘this is amazing’, ‘this is so great’, to like, ‘why would they do this?’. I actually think it’s very cool that one of the best bands of all time is not a perfect band.
Currently underway on a large national tour, Diners is lighting up audiences night after night with the new fuzzed up and heartwarming pop songs. Having written these songs by herself, there was no way to know how they might translate to a live, full-band setting. “I mean, with those songs, it’s not like we were a rehearsed band, and then we went into the studio. I made demos, sent them to Mo and our friend Brendan [Ramirez], who played guitar, and then the three of us got together three days before going into the studio and figured out what most of the parts were gonna be like” says Broderick. Catching a Diner’s show is something special, but this tour seems to offer a new sense of vulnerability and excitement to the live performances. “I do on some level feel like I am trying to recreate a record live, which I think is interesting because it’s never gonna sound like the record, especially this record”, Broderick expresses. “It makes me accept that it’s not gonna sound like the record, but in the moment that I am playing, it’s gonna be its own thing”.
Photo by Rachel Lewis
Diners, especially on DOMINO, has an undeniable nourishing exuberance to it that so easily refreshes the heart and bops the head. This album in particular touches upon dreams, promises, self-love and an implicit allure for the world around us. With an album that is being hailed as so joyous, Broderick opens up and says “I think that one of the issues that I’ve always had with playing for people is this feeling of, ‘Oh, Diners is so wholesome, and Diners is like Mr. Rogers’”, she laughs. Although it’s awesome that people can rely on Diners for comfort, Broderick says, “I think that it’s never that I was ever trying to be wholesome, and, in fact, I think I have a lot of songs about making fun of being wholesome, but nobody really accepts it, haha”. Although sometimes subtle behind a filter, Broderick’s writing is just as vulnerable to life’s harder times as anyone else’s. “I think that I want to be okay with talking about disappointment because that’s such a real thing in my life”
After coming out as trans in between her last two releases, Four Wheels and the Truth (2022) and DOMINO, Broderick was faced with the possibility of starting at square one. “I think that the reason why DOMINO sounds the way it does is because I was truly thinking it wasn’t gonna be a Diners record,” she expresses. Renaming the project would coincide with redefining herself, especially if the name Diners is attached to an identity that she no longer identifies with. “I was very concerned about what it would be like to publicly transition,” she conveys. Eventually, Broderick decided against changing the name Diners after all, and says “I just don’t think nearly as many people would have heard the record if I had changed the name. So I’m so grateful that so many people have heard it”. Despite a new direction in sound, DOMINO is still purely connected to who Broderick is, not just as a musician, but as a person as well. The slick lyrical wit, fetching pop melodies, and personable stories are only coincidental to Broderick’s heart, empathy, and contemplation of life. When asked about her feelings towards the name Diners, now on the other side of it all, Broderick just said “Oh, God! I’m so glad I did not change the name”.
Photo by Rachel Lewis
DOMINO is not necessarily about Broderick’s journey of coming out or her trans identity, but it definitely was animated with the joy that came with that experience. Having already begun transitioning by the time Four Wheels and the Truth was released, Broderick says, “I feel like those songs weren’t written when I was out”. But being able to articulate her newfound worldview and self-worth since then, she expresses, “I just don’t think I would have written [DOMINO] if I wasn’t on my path. My mind is just so much quieter. There’s just so much more harmony in my life”.
I met Carolina Chauffe after one of their shows at Chicago’s Sleeping Village. Since then we have kept in touch to put together this interview.
When Carolina and I began our Zoom call, I noticed a painting of a Baltimore Oriole centered on the wall right behind them. As a bird enthusiast, I had to give it a nod of fascination. “Thank you! Yeah, my grandmother painted it” they told me. “I took the painting when she passed, and I’m not an avid birder, so until a friend pointed it out to me I actually thought it was a robin haha!”.
Carolina Chauffe, known as their project hemlock, has become an important facet of not just the Chicago music scene, but a friendly contributor beyond. Being from Lafayette, Louisiana, Chauffe grew up in a pretty condensed scene. Looking to move out of their hometown, the first opportunity that presented itself was an internship at a record label in Seattle. But as the pandemic exhausted that plan, they spent some formative time in Astoria, Oregon before eventually moving to Chicago. “Since then I just kind of heed the signs when a friend, or someone that I care about offers me housing, I just kind of run with it if it feels right” Chauffe explains. “I’m trying not to be in the business of saying no to gifts that are offered.”
I know you grew up in church and chamber choirs. But when did you first start writing songs?
So my dad is a couponer and he got this coupon for guitar lessons at a local Baptist church for one month of free guitar lessons. So he bought a cheap Walmart guitar for me that was pretty much impossible to play, and I went, and I did this month of free guitar lessons. I learned to play a Taylor Swift song I think. And then the coupon ran out, and so we stopped doing the lessons. But even before that, there have always been little diddys that would come to me. I mean, I can remember writing songs about my crushes in middle school and high school. But the first song that I ever performed in full for an audience was at a high school music showcase and I remember some of the lyrics were, ‘I’ve been holding my breath over bridges that I should have burned so long ago.’ It was really teenage angsty, about some fresh heartbreak, and I remember my parents were concerned after which, also, is still a through line, like my parents are always asking, “are you okay? We listen to your music haha”.
With this opportunist mentality, Chauffe has been making lasting connections with people all over the country. As an artist, this is imperative to their work. As someone who claims to be a very solitary song writer, Chauffe pushes themselves into collaboration as a set goal. “Collaboration with different people always opens up these new windows, sonically and emotionally, of what each body of work can be” says Chauffe. It’s not that collaboration is unwanted, it’s more complicated than that. Art is personal and exposed and to place it in the hands of someone else can be uncomfortable. “If I’m being totally honest, I still like to yield a lot of control over the recording process”, Chauffe expresses, but “opening my heart to that deep trust that comes with letting someone into the very vulnerable world that [I’ve] built”, has worked to push personal boundaries.
hemlock’s career has been something different than the commonplace musician. With a catalog consisting mostly of demo-records, Chauffe has been adamant on redefining the idea of what a “finished” song is. Embarking on ambitious ‘song-a-day’ projects, Chauffe has worked sonically and socially to rewrite the limits of what a song can be. “I’ve just allowed myself to break more and more of the “rules”. Or the more time goes by, the less strict I am with myself. because I believe that music is play”, they say. With five ‘song-a-day’ albums representing entire months of time, the songs are purely explorative. They can represent short thoughts (even if not complete), a piece of characterful instrumentation, or field recordings of the world around them. Almost like postcards, these projects represent where they were, who they were with, and what they were going through in the generalist terms.
In a way, a song is never finished. “There’s a short term finish where it feels good in the moment to walk away from,” says Chauffe. “But then, long term speaking, I don’t know that a song is ever finished, cause I just think it’s malleable. It’ll keep shifting”. It’s something that is representative of the moment and the memory of the time it was written. But, over time it can grow and model with you. Even with hemlock’s established songs and professional recordings, Chauffe told me, “none of them are ever finished, because I believe that songs lead their lives, and they keep evolving. If you keep breathing life into them, if you keep playing them, they’re allowed to be whatever form they’ll take in that moment”.
You are headed off to New York tomorrow to do some recording. What do you have in mind going into the process?
I don’t really write a body of work with the idea of it being an album already. I kind of just write as they come, and then if they fit together, then cool. I’m going into it just with a body of work that I want to be captured. And then I trust Ryan [Albert] (of Babehoven) to be able to dream up something that feels really good for us to do together. But we’ll shape it together. I don’t really play my own music around the house very often. I’m bad at practicing which is something that I’m okay with being bad at now. But when I record it it gives me the sort of opportunity to get to know what my songs are a little bit better, and to expand what they can be.
hemlock released their first full-band LP titled, talk soon, in 2022. Written all over the country from 2018 to 2020, the thoughts behind talk soon traveled with Chauffe over those years. With soft exposés of folk tunes, the album is an intimate conversation of change, heartbreak and acceptance that Chauffe trusts in us to share with. When listening to this album, what stands out are the handful of voicemail recordings that Chauffe uses almost as narrators. Hearing the love and support from their pawpaw, a song sung by their mother or just friends calling to check in is, in sorts, representative of people we have in our own lives. Having never met any of these characters before, I still found my heart twisting with what they had to say. It’s this natural drive for intimacy and connection that draws on these voicemails and clings to what it needs to. “In some ways [the voicemails] are the string that ties everything together. Those songs were written in so many different years and so many different places that it helps to track this nonlinear web of memory”.
As humans go, though, I think we take memory for granted until it starts to slip. Memory is more than just remembering our postal code, what we had for breakfast or directions to the nearest convenience store and to buy the toothpaste we need once we get there. It’s also names, faces, laughs, morals, friends, moments of sadness and love and the ability to feel those moments again. What it comes down to, memory is a preservation of our own beings.
Memory, or more this preservation of memory, is not only important to what Chauffe is creating, but it has become something more personal. Memory is instinctive to human nature, but when it becomes fleeting, it easily becomes disposable. That’s fucking scary. As I watch my own grandmother currently lose herself in a world that doesn’t make sense to us, I have had time to watch what slipping memory has the dynamism to do. Finding solace in each other as we talked about our own personal grievances, Carolina opened up about their family history. “My whole family, we are prone to forgetfulness,” Carolina shares with me. “My granny on my dad’s side is a documentarian. She was the first person I saw who constantly had a camera taking family photos” they said with an enthusiasm in engaging with moments. “And then on my mom’s side is where this loss of memory is very prominent”. As they deliberate on what to say next, Carolina’s head couldn’t help but to turn back to that simple, yet incalculably beautiful painting of the Baltimore Oriole centered on the wall.
Song writing to Chauffe is very archival. To them it is “very much with the ethos of trying to capture a moment, capture a memory without smothering it, and being able to let it glow in a way that feels true”. Subconsciously, music, and art in general is a representation of our memories. The time it’s made, the personal state at which it is made, and who may have had a hand in it, all stick with that piece. The meaning can become malleable as time goes on, but the initial identity of the piece stays forever. Chauffe though, makes it a point to acknowledge the full story of their process and continuance. It can be seen in the endless collaborations with the people that they trust and love. It can be seen in the voicemails they furnish talk soon with. It can be seen in the ‘song-a-day’ projects that take the pressure off of honestly capturing a moment in time. It can be seen in the “unfinished” songs that shift and meld into the performative moments they are meant to be. It can even be seen in the simple act of hanging and preserving a painting of a Baltimore Oriole on the wall in the center of their living room. “And yeah, I’m terrified of forgetting and its inevitability” Chauffe confides in me, “but I want to be clear that it’s not that I’m fighting against the forgetting, but coping with it. That’s often what songwriting is for me”.
Through a career spanning almost a decade, Portland, Maine’s tender singer-songwriter, Liza Victoria, known as her project Lisa/Liza, illuminates her personal ghosts into a collection of albums filled with soft-spoken and honest self-regard. What feels at home on woodland walks or moments of solitude on a rainy day, Victoria’s work hangs from the branches of the patient and matured tree that her breathy folk songs are grown from. Utilizing her soft and afflicted voice, campfire guitar strumming and the combination of home and studio recordings, Victoria’s sound is not lost upon the feeling of loneliness and grief but is able to push a sense of warmth into the heart of it. People may derive different meanings to Lisa/Liza’s collection of work, and to an extent, this is the beauty that humanizes Victoria’s songwriting. There are no written instructions on how to deal with suffering, but Lisa/Liza’s songs are here in the meantime.
Recently, Liza Victoria took the time to answer a few of my questions. When I started posting for The Ugly Hug, Liza was one of my first supporters. As a college kid just trying to share his writing, this meant so much to me. It was an honor to work with her to put this piece out.
I know you used to live in Portland, Maine, but you recently moved out to Wayne, Maine. What has this change of scenery been like? What is the Maine music community like?
The Maine music community is very healthy and recently I’ve been reflecting on how much I feel held by it. I think there is a true communal nature to it. There are a lot of scenes within, that really just aim to support art and community, and it’s beautiful. At a lot of points I have felt really glad to have this space to make music and be part of this scene. There are a lot more places to play and communities opening up to DIY shows and scenes in rural parts of Maine now and I love that. Those are some of my favorite shows, out on farms or in unexpected spaces (ahem please invite me to your farm show). There is stuff going on right near me now, even though I’m far from Portland, I’m excited about that. I also still feel like Portland is my music-hometown, because it’s remained such a supportive and welcoming music community for me.
Your new album, Breaking and Mending is so full of transparency about your recovery from living with chronic illness and navigating mental health. When writing such beautiful songs about recovery, how do you approach the trauma? How do you approach the delicacy of your lyrics? Do the songs feel different now that they are released, as to say, when you were writing them?
Thanks for saying this, that is so kind! My approach is mostly that I don’t want to hide what I’m facing in my music and art, whatever it may be. There are a lot of spaces in society where it may not feel safe to delve into recovery or navigating mental health, but it feels like my music is my own, and I want it to be this little safe sanctuary for that, wherever I take it. That being said, it’s only reflective of those struggles because that’s what my life has entailed and it’s a very real lived experience that I was transmitting. I’m looking forward to a time when my music can reflect a softer place of joy and healing. But, I think life just holds what it holds, and art and music is a wonderful safe space to not shy away from the heavy things.
I approach lyrics sort of in mood, they kind of ebb and flow from the center of a mood or a feeling. The songs definitely change over time. They feel different after being released, and even different after years go by. It’s fun to see how their meaning shifts for me.
Your songs have such an interesting and beautiful structure to them. They are played in winding paths, that as a listener, we are not rushed to come to conclusions, but are given room to sit in your music and feel what we need to feel. How do you go about song structure when writing?
The song structure to me kind of comes naturally, but it’s also definitely something of my own making. I kind of think of it like a drawing or a painting, how sometimes when you keep working on a piece of art it can go too far. I tend to aim towards trying to let it resolve with some minimalism, or natural place. With my songs feeling sort of stream of consciousness, that is usually when the feeling of the song has come to some resolution.
Your lyrics are just as much about the present as they are about the past, and sometimes you are able to sit in this difference that makes your songs feel timeless. What tense do you feel is the most impactful for you to write in/about?
I love this question. I can’t say that either the past or the present is a more impactful place to write from. I know it’s helped me at times to reach back. I think at some point I need to write from the past or something. I think in some ways I’m trying to pull myself out of that. In this record I may be reflecting on that wish. I think there is always a use for nostalgia or memory, for the listener, and that’s impactful on its own. I think memory can draw from a happy place or a place of a lot of energy and excitement too, so it isn’t something that is always sad or holding grief. But in a lot of my songs it has been a way for me to process both those things. I’d love to sing more about the present. I think there will always be some of both.
You’ve released three albums off of Chicago Label Orindal Records, run by Owen Ashworth. As an artist, what do you find most appealing about this label?
Four actually! And several tapes haha. Owen is a great friend, so that is up there, I’m really grateful towards him. I am super in awe of his musicianship and the work he has done with this label. I was a fan before all this happened. I listened to Casiotone for the Painfully Alone first in my college dorm. It was on a mix cd from a friend and I used to play it on repeat so much that I created an enemy (not joking, haha). It’s been wonderful to be exposed to so much awesome and great music. The musicians on the label are all truly artists and interesting in a slightly outsider way that is so valuable and important. It’s hard to say what’s most appealing. I love all the music on it, I love that it’s small and stays focused on the artists. I love the friendships I have made with the other musicians on the label. I think the Midwest is really interesting and beautiful musically too, and I love having that connection to another music scene being all the way out here. I’m really grateful for the experience and support it has given me to be a part of it. And that’s an understatement. It’s just plainly had a great and beautiful impact on my life.
You are a big proponent for mental health care, accessible resources and being open to talking about your own struggles with it. As a community (music community), how do you think we should be there for others and keep the discussion around mental health open and destigmatized?
I totally think as a music community it should be a centered conversation. In my experience, musicians are very much at the forefront of the conversation, but you don’t hear a lot about it. I don’t know why that is. I think that has to do with stigma and with lack of resources, and with lack of discussion and information.
There is a lot that musicians are expected to push through and achieve with very little material gains, little profit for their careers, and a lot of expectation just to be content with very little, but to drive yourself to the edge of your ability. I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that it’s a recipe for trouble, for trauma, for exertion, for giving up healthy and important boundaries, and even giving up your health. I think it’s vital we are there as a community for each-other. But also, to be wary that it doesn’t become yet another expectation for musicians to hold on their shoulders, because it has a lot to do with capitalism, and with things just not being in place for so many.
What we can do, I believe, is to continue to work towards welcoming and supporting communities and spaces. To continue to believe in its impact and meaning. To include those who are stigmatized and marginalized most, is also extremely vital to this conversation. Having open conversations in your community or forums about mental health might be a way to start. Making sure people in your music community have basic resources for crisis and safety. It sounds like a lot of work, but at the same time, it can take, literally, very little. Sometimes it’s just checking in.
Again, I don’t think this should be only on the shoulders of musicians. We need grants and funds and support to help to push and keep a lot of these communities going. There are so many ways to improve things for each other. It can really just be very simple as going to shows and buying merch. I think Owen Ashworth once said something to me along the lines of “buying music is a political act”. And I think about that a lot.
A lot of your imagery in your lyrics resemble things larger than humans, i.e, the world around us in nature. Would you say you’re a spiritual person?
I am definitely a spiritual person. I don’t have much to say about it, or a way to define it. I just find spirituality really interesting and it’s a key part of who I am.
I know that you use nature a lot as a way to escape. What are the ideal conditions for the perfect hike?
I think just somewhere that inspires. It doesn’t have to be a long hike or a difficult or harrowing one. Just anything that kind of brings that spark that’s like “aha, the world is much bigger than I realized, and it’s beautiful”. That would be perfect. Maybe in the Fall or Spring too.
Under the name of Yours Are the Only Ears, Susannah Cutler released her first single “Fire In My Eyes” in 2014. It’s a warm folk song where Cutler’s caring and whispery vocals are edged out with a heavy and sodden synth. On the track, Cutler expresses some distrust in herself. “Am I a good person?”, she recites, until the question becomes a heavy handed measurement. Cutler, as an artist, is something special. Hailing from upstate New York, she has made a name for herself with her whimsical aesthetic and soft approach to trauma and rage. On her latest album, We Know the Sky, Cutler embarks on an uphill hike to answer that question she asked 9 years ago, opening up about uncharted inspiration, navigating musical barriers and learning to trust herself again.
Growing up in a musical household, Cutler was environmentally disciplined in a specific lane of musical thought. With both her brother and dad as full time session musicians, Cutler described their influence on her as imposter syndrome; watching them destined to musical technique where she didn’t see herself fit. “It just didn’t fully dawn on me that you could be a musician in a different way” Cutler admits, “so I didn’t really feel like I was one until I started writing songs” in a way that felt comfortable and personally impactful.
Where did the name Yours Are the Only Ears Come From? It’s a really intimate name when you think about it. It’s actually from an of Montreal song on this album called The Early Four Track Recordings. All of the songs are named after Dustin Hoffman doing various things. The Song is called, ‘‘Dustin Hoffman Scrubs Too Hard and Loses Soap’’. I was so obsessed with that album around the time when I decided to give my project a name, and I just liked that line a lot because it conveyed how I wanted my music to feel.
Before she was a musician, Cutler was an artist studying both visual art and textile design at New York’s FIT. Being a skilled visual artist, she developed a style of quaint and organic folkish art that you can find on her album covers. But between visual art and music, Cutler told me that her creative thought processes are completely different. While visual art is purely aesthetic and driven with precision from her thoughts, with song writing, she says, to an extent, there is trust in not knowing where her inner sentiments will take thematically. “I have to let my emotions lead and take hold of the song. It just becomes what it’s going to be”, Cutler conveys.
This unknown is where Cutler thrives as a songwriter. Allowing herself to sit in her conscious and let it speak for itself is the most honest an artist can allow themselves to be. But it is not an easy task. “It can feel really scary when you want to control how something sounds or is presented to the world,” Cutler tells me. “I guess it’s also kind of cool that you can’t always do that. You just have to trust that something valuable and aligned will surface”.
I feel like you and I share a similar respect for nihilism in the world. I definitely feel like nihilism helped me so much with playing shows in the beginning. I used to have really bad stage fright, but thinking to myself ‘well we are all just going to die, so does it even matter if I completely embarrass myself?’. I feel like there’s some aspect of nihilism that is really freeing.
Sitting on songs for years, Cutler released her first full length project Knock Hard in 2018 off of Team Love Records. “I feel like I was ready to release music before I ever did”, Cutler says as she discloses the discouraging logistics of making and releasing an album. On top of the financial barriers of producing music, Cutler also went through the tedious process of teaching herself how to record and produce herself from scratch while still in school. “In terms of recording and releasing music it can feel like there are so many barriers to entry, which can be frustrating,” Cutler says.
But her most recent release, We Know the Sky, sonically speaking, was an ambitious project. Focusing on the minute details to make her most extensive landscape yet, Cutler created an album littered with guitar fills, wind instruments, resonated harmonies, and subtle percussion that paints a fairytale-perfect natural world tampered with stories of abuse and distrust. Although proud with how it sounds, “it was a little too much to be so perfectionistic about everything and I dont think it’s always helpful for the creative process,” Cutler admits. “I think for the next record I will probably try to be somewhere in the middle”
A lot of your themes are driven through your connection with nature and animals. What are some personal connections to the natural world around you that have inspired you the most? I’ve gotten really into medicinal herbs. Right now I work at an herb farm/shop, and I’ve been learning about common plants that grow all around us. Some of them are considered weeds, but all plants have healing properties. I feel like this also helped ease my nihilism, because especially when I was younger, I felt like everything was chaotic and meaningless. But just knowing that there are all these plants growing everywhere in abundance that can heal us, it’s wild. I think just having that pillar of faith in something bigger than me, even if it is just a plant or the intelligence of plants, is helpful for me to stay grounded and have faith that there is meaning. I can often feel ungrounded, but just knowing that nature is all around us and we are a part of it is calming.
In a sense, We Know the Sky is a love letter to Cutler herself. Although there is no denying that there is hurt behind these songs, the hurt is used more to push Cutler’s own personal understanding. After removing herself from a painful relationship, Cutler was faced with the undeniable reality of starting over. Relearning to love yourself is an uphill battle, full of doubt and a brandishing identity eager to be whole again. “I think the songs are kind of about that, ” Cutler recounts. “You can have so many layers that make it hard to fully access how you actually feel” that can come out when you begin to piece yourself together again. Although she can’t admit she is fully there, she tells me the biggest thing is to “put in the time and effort to show up and be there for yourself”.
When structure is lost and life seems to forgo desire, it becomes easy to sit within observations. Like the simple pleasures from a smoke break in the middle of a brutal shift at a dead-end job, calamity slows down to personal silence. This personal silence can be just what you need to understand your place in the world. Told through whirling, soft folk songs, Allegra Krieger uses her winding words to do the heavy lifting on her new album, I Keep My Feet on the Fragile Plane, as she sits still in a superficial passage.
Hailing from New York, but having lived all over the country, Krieger has been a part of many people’s storylines. On her fourth full length release, and her debut from Brooklyn label Double Double Whammy, Krieger stays grounded in her own storyline, giving emphasis to the album’s title and the world in which she visualizes around her. There is no time wasted in getting to memorialization, and in ten tracks, Krieger muddies the concept of past and present that perpetuates the timeless struggles of young adulthood.
In a rhythm like waltz, Krieger opens the album with an apologetic line of, “I’m so sorry to say/I think you’re walking the wrong way”. “Making Sense Of”, the opening track, is a dance of sorts towards the unknown. With the simplicity of guitar strumming, Krieger’s vocal points are accented by orchestral string arrangements that create a whimsical atmosphere, yet remain receptive to the light thumping of stand up bass that steadies at the bottom of the sound. The uneasiness that comes hand-in-hand with unexplored territory is stagnant in Krieger’s songs, but in no way does it become overbearing.
Krieger’s strengths come from intersecting lines of grace and delicacy with grittiness and violence. These contradictions, so specific in their recollection, must come from personal observations that Krieger has deemed resourceful. “After work I have a drink/and walk to Matthew’s down the street/I love the way I don’t think/when he’s fucking me” Krieger sings as guitar distortion seeps in, fighting off the acoustic groove. Seeing things not just primarily good or bad, but complex to the human experience, Krieger allows many layers of consciousness to mature within her words.
There is an unconventional pull to Krieger’s song production that pushes I Keep My Feet on the Fragile Plane to stand out amongst standard folk works. With implements of French and English horns, there is a florid softness to a song of heartbreak like the track “A Place For It To Land” while the use of heavy static hums hold a layer of tension. “I Want To Be” frills out into a guitar battle of pounding strings and amp feedback, coming to an abrupt conclusion on a rather mellow track. “Terribly Free” utilizes a simple piano sound while Krieger’s vocal phrasings fizzle out into scrapes of static as she sings “fire and fog/sparkling stars/slow heavy sex/fast moving cars”. The contradictions in her lyrics reverberate within the sweet tones of the extended outro.
The stand out track, “Lingering”, is a cyclical story of doing everything and nothing at all. Beginning and ending in Krieger’s room described as having “pictures on the white walls/black mold on the ceiling”, she goes about her day as normal, but calling out the mundane that would normally go right past us. It’s a slow methodical groove that allows the listener to walk with her through Fifth and Avenue A that “smells like piss and garbage”, or sit and people watch through her bedroom window that separates her from the outside world.
Passive listening to Krieger’s words is, often, not possible. At heart she is a storyteller. And like any skilled storyteller, she warrants all ears. Her voice is both comforting, in delivery and in spirit to the subject matter. The atypical orchestration below her never feels abrasive, but more of an emphasis of priority to her soft and skillful vocal approach. There is no structured path for Krieger, instead she wonders on her own terms. This fragile plane wavers underneath her feet, cracking into noticeable gafs, as she dances around them. “I keep my feet on the ground/and my expectations low” she sings on the formidable track “Low”. Broken down into individual stories, Krieger can’t seem to stop writing. Each song on I Keep My Feet on the Fragile Plane, with its poetic and winding verses, establishes beauty in the context of observation and comfort in the context of learning.
Earlier this month, Rolling Stone Magazine published a shorthand list of artists that represent the future of music. The print, with a glamorous photo on the cover of Bad Bunny with a polished look and chains dangling from his neck, stands as a typical Rolling Stone write up. But once you get to page 73 (the meat and potatoes of the issue) in the midst of the “Rolling Stone Future 25” you will come across a warm toned photo of Annie Blackman. Wearing a butterfly patterned skirt, she looks at ease with her back resting on a subtle floral print wall. Within the first sentence of Blackman’s feature, Taylor Swift is name dropped. This can cast a giant shadow that covers anyone compared to Swift these days. It recalls the time in 2011 when Blackman, at the age of 13, got to meet the pop star and Swift empowered her to keep writing music. Whether or not that experience has helped Blackman reach this point (who’s to say?) her writing speaks for itself.
Annie Blackman is a Brooklyn-based singer/songwriter from Montclair, New Jersey. Her most recent release off of Father/Daughter Records, an EP titled Bug, traps words of friction, justifiable nerves and love butterflies that exude from the walls of her safe space. But in a rare case, Blackman is an artist who has been sharing personal music since a young age. With documentation of life stuck in time, anyone can see the lengths at which Blackman has grown both personally and musically, proving herself through the years to be an instinctive storyteller. “What are the things it feels like I am the only person in the world experiencing even though I’m obviously not” she says when discussing writing decisions. And to the relation of which specificity in her work holds, we as listeners are given the opportunity to hear our common and complex feelings broken down into digestible and natural stories through her personal accounts.
Learning guitar around the 5th grade, Annie Blackman began her public musical endeavors in 2016 when she released her first album titled, Blue Green, a collection of songs she wrote throughout her high school years. This was a fully acoustic venture representing the turmoil of young love that was recorded within the walls of her childhood bedroom . “I was in love with my best friend for quite a while and I never tried anything with him”, Blackman recalls when I asked about muses, in hindsight, she finds funny with age. Instead of telling him, she wrote songs and wouldn’t release them until it was all completely platonic. “Looking back on it, I honor and love the girl who had a crush on him, but it is funny to think of the gravity of the whole thing”, Blackman jokes.
As a songwriter who writes with the acute details in mind, I asked Blackman how she feels her storytelling has grown with her since the lovesick songs from high school. “I have become more observant, more attuned to my feelings and also I think more selective”, as she recalls the harshness of some of her earlier songs. “I feel like now I understand that in order to pack a punch or tell a story of woundedness I don’t need to bring anyone down in such an obvious way” as comes with maturity she hopes.
Blackman started receiving a lot of attention on TikTok from posting snippets of songs like “Seeds” and “Glitch” during the pandemic. Stranded in a time that was dedicated to stillness, Blackman’s words became something that sat comfortably with listeners. As videos started to see viral attention, Blackman tells me “it gave [her] the confidence boost to make a really proper demo and collaborate with some friends who know how to produce”. For the first time she saw that her songs could go beyond an intermediate circle of support.
I read a cool story in your Rolling Stone write up that when you were studying abroad in Paris, and some TikTok fans of yours from Berlin reached out to you?
So it was actually pre-TikTok. It was the winter of 2019, so TikTok hadn’t even blown up yet. But I had actually had a high school friend run an online zine who’d done a little interview with me when my first album [Blue Green] came out on bandcamp. Somehow this friend group of German teenagers had found me through this zine and I was sort of a favorite in their friend group which is totally crazy and random. We sort of became internet friends and then when I was in Paris, I was going to Berlin to visit a friend in another program, and I reached out to these girls and said I would love to meet you guys. And it’s funny because I was 20 and these girls were like 15, so it was definitely a sweet little age gap. A couple of my friends and I went to a party that these girls were having and it just turned into an impromptu house show, which was really cool. The first time that has ever happened to me, and the last.
Blackman soon sent professional demos all over, but landed on San Francisco indie label Father/Daughter Records. Blackman was familiar with this label because the bands Remember Sports and Forth Wanderers, Father/Daughter staples, came from her hometown. “These people seem cool and legit and down to earth so I emailed them and three weeks later I was in there”, Blackman recalls.
In 2022 you put out your first album off of Father/Daughter Records called All Of It, where you recorded in a makeshift tent studio inside of your childhood home in New Jersey. Can you tell me about that process?
I mean, it was hard. It was deep pandemic and I was living at home. My dad and I built this PVC pipe sound blanket little hut thing and I would just go in there for hours and hours and hours. And because we made the whole thing remotely it was definitely difficult. I’d never actually recorded myself before, so you know, I had a little interface, I had a little mic, but it was a lot of trial and error. But I was also out of college, unemployed, and you know, COVID, so you can’t really do anything, so I’m glad it happened when it did because it gave me a sense of purpose for sure.
Earlier this year, Blackman helped represent Father/Daughter records at SXSW in Austin, Texas. When I asked her the peaks and pits of a week-long festival life, Blackman had nothing bad to say about the festival itself. “Everything just feels so fun and wholesome. You get to see people that you only get to see there”. But Blackman then brought up a point that is often glossed over and that being the financial struggles of a life in music. “I think the pits are that you don’t make any money and if you don’t have a car, which I don’t, the transportation costs really add up. So I think that was definitely the most painful part”.
Right before Blackman jumped on my call, she was in the midst of a job search. “Everybody has a day job of varying time commitment, but it’s definitely important to strike that balance [with a career in music]. It’s a necessity”. Unless artists are reaching millions and millions of streams or constantly touring, there is no money in music and this is often a point that is not widely known by non-musicians. Blackman still considers it to be one of her two careers and “it is a job, but it’s really not”. Making music is expensive. Unless playing a solo show, Blackman tells me she just gives all the earnings to her bandmates because rehearsal rates can add up too.
As time came to chat about the attractive title given by Rolling Stone, there were mixed feelings of course.” On one hand, I’m like, ‘Oh that’s fake!’. And on the other hand, I’m like, ‘do I need to now be the future of music?’”. The future of music is quite the title. It can sit heavy on one’s shoulders. When asked if this label was burdensome at all, Blackman responded with “I don’t know if it’s too burdensome, but I also can’t just rest on my laurels. Everything just sort of needs to be better than the last thing”.
With print readers on the decline, there wasn’t much of a translation to a rise in listeners for Blackman. Considering it as street cred within her scene and hopes it will open the door for more opportunities in the industry, there is no denying that Blackman is still grateful for the honor. “Whether it’s sort of an accolade, or a duty I now need to carry out I’m not sure, but it mostly feels really cool and sort of surreal.”
Photo by Tonje Thilesen
As for her most recent work,Blackman sings on her EP, “Like a play within a play within a play within a scene” on the title track “Bug”, to decompartmentalize the rough goings in her life in palatable and frivolous chunks that she keeps in her pocket for keeping’s sake. This EP, and works prior, have shown that Blackman consistently makes concise pieces of work that have established her as a new voice worth listening to.
For the remainder of the summer, Annie Blackman has a show at the Knitting Factory on August 26 in Brooklyn, New York opening for Beau. She is excited for more things in the works for the Fall.
GENRE: folk/dream-pop LABLE: Father/Daughter Records
In a bedroom somewhere in Christchurch, New Zealand (the largest city in the South Island), sits multi-instrumentalist and producer, Lukas Mayo, known as their musical project Pickle Darling. New Zealand, a country that frequently pumps out alternative innovators, such as The Clean, Tall Dwarfs and Aldous Harding, also finds that Pickle Darling fits neatly into this estranged group. After years of formidable DIY sustenance, Mayo finds comfort again in making lo-fi bedroom pop songs from the comfort of their own home.
Finding success amongst EPs and two full length albums, Bigness (2019) and Cosmonaut (2021), Mayo felt the extension of pressure that comes from the public eye. Pickle Darling has been a bandcamp favorite for years now, having both full length releases being labeled as ‘Album of the Day’. Also having toured with acts such as The Beths, Fontaines DC and Lucy Dacus while gaining a lot of attention to their homemade pop songs, Mayo began to feel lost. The release of Cosmonaut in 2021 brought Pickle Darling to large production heights, fitting for the theme of the outer spaces, but with intricate composition and the expectation of perfection, Mayo no longer felt like they were making music for themselves anymore. Feeling worn down, Mayo retreated back to the bedroom to record their newest album, Laundromat.
Laundromat, Pickle Darling’s first release off the San Francisco label Father/Daughter Records, is Mayo’s journey back to finding comfort in art. Still creating lighthearted songs embellished with several finger-picked instruments, the dreaminess of synths and drum tracks and coyish autotune has shown that Mayo has perfected the clean and sweet bedroom pop tune. Graduating with a degree in audio production, there is no denying the quality that a Pickle Darling album sounds like. Writing, recording and producing each song on their own, these songs live in Mayo’s personal world, crafted and mastered within the walls of their home; sometimes reluctantly released out into the world. Laundromat finds Mayo in their first comfortable living situation; sans problematic roommates and peevish landlords, offering a place for Mayo to fully thrive in the writing process.
The first single for Laundromat that Pickle Darling let sit in the world was the brief “King of Joy”. Scraping over a minute long, “King of Joy” dangles in its simplicity; running low tones with driving percussion that resolves in the lightness of synthesizer melodies. There is undoubtedly a sweetness that it leaves behind; a smile on your face or a daydream to a more honeyed time. This single acts as a reminder to Mayo to not overcomplicate art. Pushing themselves to utilize ideas in the moment relieves the pressure of making something overworked in the name of perfection.
There is a large amount of Nostalgia that Mayo paints within their tunes. Considering the lengths that Mayo takes to ‘homemade’, I am taken back to the extent of childlike imagination. Laying on the floor with a box of broken crayons, no care as to what is produced, resting on the expected approval from adults and the confidence in what our little minds can make. Mayo litters Laundromat with songs that soundtrack this homemade and pressure free artistic exposure. With folk tunes built in dreamy atmospheres, Pickle Darling brings the listener back to the bedroom; our own space of solitude and comfort, decorated without the pressures of the outside world.
The music video for “Head Terrarium” is built within its own DIY world with paper mache hilly landscapes, cardboard trees, cotton ball clouds and dancing plastic creatures. Overlooking this dream world is Mayo, whose face rests amongst the clouds, taking pride in all the self-constructed beauty. As the song shifts into the chorus, the video takes a turn to the real outside world, much darker in its aesthetics, where a malformed mannequin is made out to be Mayo. The only resemblance to Mayo’s humanity is the lower half of their face on a screen attached to the body, singing along to the song. This shell of Mayo repeatedly sings “I’m not as brilliant as I like”, an acknowledgement to the feeling of despondence from the art they are creating.
Mayo’s electronica intuition has been a signifier through all the music they have released into the real world. The song “Invercargill Angel”, beginning with folky string instruments housing Mayo’s whispery autotune, is a beautiful reminder of the sonic instincts that prop up a Pickle Darling song. Two different sonic styles that gracefully blend together to create a unique and playful sound that is reminiscent of early Sufjan Stevens or a late career Wes Anderson soundtrack. “I hope he makes you feel at home” Mayo repeatedly insists before the song breaks off into an electronic setting of retro synthesizers and drums tracks that build upon each other until there is a harmonious chorus of arcade nostalgia and internal comfort.
Pickle Darling sings about finding art in the mundane; having an open mind to the beauty when you don’t over complicate things. It’s this simplification to the writing process that fills Laundromat with so much charm and affability. Caked in sunny major intonations and culminating melodies sets Pickle Darling light on the chest. It’s a meaningful listen that flows from track to track with the hope that it doesn’t end.
There is an aspect of growing up when love becomes a step-by-step process rather than starry-eyed, on-and-off episodic moments of life we see in movies. Bristol artist Fenne Lily allures her newly determined definition of love through charming and light-hearted folk songs on her new album, Big Picture.
Fenne Lily’s overall themes are no stranger to the overstimulated idea of love. Lily’s previous release, BREACH, a collection of songs entrapped by heartbreak, was released in 2020 during the pandemic, squashing her ability to tour and share what she worked so hard on. This induced severe writer’s block, that Lily discussed, took a long time to shake. What makes Big Picture different from other Fenne Lily releases is that all ten songs were written and cultivated within the bookends of a relationship. Lily goes through stories and phases of new love, branded ideals of giving yourself up to someone else, and then the final fall out to make an entire album something familiar and truly convoluted.
One thing that Lily wants to be clear on is that Big Picture is not a sad album. Lily has talked about the oversimplification that has branded so many artists into a new and now popular sub-genre; sad girl indie music. Although Lily has always been boxed into this corner with artists like Phoebe Bridgers, Mitski and Lucy Dacus, she wants to be clear that slow music does not equal sad music. It takes personal growth and emotional maturity to come to this conclusion not only as a listener, but as an artist too. The ability and confidence to blend songs of hopeful intuition with a soft and slow burned sound creates an active voice to relate to life’s more complex feelings honestly and candidly. That brings us to Lily’s overall point on her new album; emotionally honest music can be a muse for self-soothing and the reintegration of joy back into life.
How does Fenne Lily make a collection of songs entirely about a failed relationship into an album of reassurance and self-fulfillment? Lily states, “these songs express worry and doubt and letting go, but those themes are framed brightly”. What it comes down to was refusing to fixate on the overripe feelings’ leftover from an expired love and to take away what felt needed. That being either memories or lessons learned to carry on. “So it’s alright/if you don’t want a shoulder/If you don’t wanna get over it all”, Lily sings on the song “Dawncolored Horse”.
The album begins with a subtle pop bass line that molds into a soft and playful track titled “Map of Japan”. Lily sings about the hindsight’s of a relationship with an airy vocal approach and electric guitar that grounds the lightness of the tune into the reality of the tough situation. What follows track after track is a beautiful, warm expression of Lily’s understanding and self-acceptance of where her life was currently at and displays it within lighthearted folk songs with mature melodies and conscious instrumentations. “Lights Light Up” is sung as a hardening conversation between two lovers who are not on the same page, but surrounded by bright and static guitar work that embodies both restlessness and independence. The dilemma of wasting time and the time it takes to heal is calmly addressed on “In My Own Time” where Lily sings “In my own time/I’ll brighten up the corners/Temporarily”. A nod to the impatience of healing and the universal fear of a wasted life.
Big Picture is also a demonstration of Lily’s creative growth from her first two albums in that she took on a collaborative approach with people that she trusts and loves. As past projects go, Lily has been very adamant about doing everything herself. But in the case of these 10 songs, Lily wrote and demoed each track herself and then brought them to her live band to flesh out together. The entire album was recorded live in Brad Cook’s North Carolina studio with special help from artists like Katy Kirby, Melina Duterte (Jay Som), and Christian Lee Hutson. In the case of the track “Red Deer Day”, Lily wrote the song after the rest of the album was finished and her relationship was over. All-in-all, what Lily offers is the clearest analysis of a breakup that she has, yet it is the most confident and self-projecting song on the album. “I’m alright or I will be in time” sums up the cleverness behind Lily’s pre-determined ambition to a hope-filled album. It is such a perfect conclusion to Lily’s Big Picture, that friend and musical contemporary, Christian Lee Hutson, helped record the whole song in one day to assure its inclusion to the project.
Big Picture is flushed with love songs that are emblematic of what it really is; confusing, vulnerable, arduous, fragile, blissful, affectionate and desirable. There is no complete linear story starting at the initial crush to the inevitable breakup that Lily experienced in the process of writing the album, but more of a stream of consciousness that occurs when a relationship isn’t working. The back and forth between passion and doubt leads to more complex feelings of guilt and personal endowment that is truer to a love story than what is usually glossed over. “I tell you I don’t know but sometimes I can’t help but picture a whole different life” Lily sings on the album’s closing track “Half Finished”, barely wincing at this decree.
It’s refreshing to hear an artist rework the social constructs that surround the slow song. Even upon a passive first listen of Big Picture, there is no hiding the subtle expressions of joy and contentment that poke their head out often. No drama is white knuckled and no names are dropped, provoking an album of soft contemplation and euphonic understanding. The contrast between these beautiful and laid-back instrumentations and the cut-throat lyrical persuasion that Lily embodies aren’t there for contrast’s sake; but for a deeper and more mature way to accept a failed love.
the ugly hug 