Cities built of silver hives and chrome buildings. Foam-sprayed oceansides where sand swirls and love blooms upon a wet stone. Pitch-black coal mines brimming with bright yellow songbirds. The backseat of a moving car, heat-scorched, home to a boy lost to time. Acid rain igniting a restless seed. A gleaming mutt with lead paws spitting fire through the bars of its cage.

These elastic worlds, distorted by vivid imagery and lingering questions, encapsulate the mind-bending magic of Evolfo’s newest record, Of Love. A dazzling series of disorienting quests that ebb and flow through liminal spaces, limbos, memories, and in-betweens. Places where questions are more useful than answers, where diving deeper delivers an inner freedom, a state in which we can “draw ourselves anew.”

Since speaking with the Brooklyn psych-rock ensemble, I’ve seen their third album as a paradox.

To manifest the expansive worlds living within Of Love’s grooves, all seven members of Evolfo set out to transform and found a physical space — Sound Home — where they could make a record outside the confines of forced rehearsal, paying by the hour, and worrying about an attic roof collapsing in the midst of a fruitful session.

Of Love was created within the sound-proofed walls of a newfound home-base, an ideal environment for practicing, recording, and communing in the midst of a global pandemic.

Unbeknownst to the band, three years of free-wheeling meet-ups at Sound Home would eventually produce the nuts and bolts of not only their most expansive, genre-defying record to date, but also mark the exigence of their new independent label, Food Of Love Records.

From the blue-lit corner couch of their studio, facing a wall of keyboards, synthesizers, drums, amps, and bundles of brightly colored wires, I spoke with Evolfo’s Ben Adams (guitar, synth, vocals), Matt Gibbs (guitar, vocals), and Rafferty Swink (keyboards, vocals) about their new record and the embodiment of psychedelia in the 21st century, among other things.

Time to turn on, tune in, drop out, and enjoy.

Let me begin by asking about the studio space we are sitting in right now, Sound Home, where you made the new album. When did you start playing and recording here?

Rafferty: January 2020. That’s when we signed the lease and started building it out. By the time COVID shut everything down, we’d finishing sound proofing the space. During the pandemic we were doing all kinds of projects in here. Everyone felt comfortable enough to gather in small groups here, so we started recording and experimenting with what eventually became this new album.

Is this also the room where you guys recorded your first album, Last of the Acid Cowboys?

Rafferty: No, that was at The Black Lodge, a tiny studio on Broadway that was run by our friend Vishal. The second album, Site out of Mind, we recorded in Matt’s attic in Ditmas Park.

I was mind-blown by how different your first album sounds from the rest of your output. What were you aiming for on that first record, and how has your process changed?

Matt: Each record happens at a moment of transformation for the band. We started out in Boston, playing basement parties as a crazy funk band. But when we moved to New York, and we recorded Last of the Acid Cowboys, we didn’t go into the studio with the intention to make the garage-rock soul record it became. It was a natural progression from there to where we are now.

Rafferty: Joe Harrison, who produced that first record, had a big hand in shaping the sound, and after that, it became the band’s responsibility to keep developing our sound. Initially, when we recorded in Matt’s attic, we were aiming for good demos. But then we realized we could just do it outside of the studio, on our own.

And how did that realization translate to your newest record?

Rafferty: On Site out of Mind, we were trying to make a record at home that sounded like it was made in the studio, but for Of Love, we just wanted to capture the band in its pure form, which forgoes prioritizing that studio-level perfection. Having Sound Home, the space we’re in right now, made our evolution possible.

How so?

Rafferty: We just needed a home base. And now we produce all kinds of shit out of here, not just Evolfo, but all kinds of artists. It’s become a community hub.

So leaving an established studio setting was a freeing experience?

Matt: It wasn’t a bad studio experience that made us want to self produce in our own space, but being on the clock, thinking about the hourly rate racking up just perverted the process of making a record. I wanted space to stretch without worrying about set limitations. I always want space to stretch.

Do you enforce any limitations or boundaries when recording in your own space?

Matt: Yeah, we set our own creative limits now. It’s no longer about time or money or genre constraints, which dictates the kind of stuff you can record in a studio.

Rafferty: Paying for studio time means having to be prepared and rehearsed before recording. Whereas we were trying to use the studio to create the songs. You can’t do that if you’re paying two grand a day plus an engineer’s hourly.

Did establishing a home base have any influence over the content of your songs?

Rafferty: I don’t think we’ve ever consciously thought about this until now, but the answer is yes, for sure. The nature of the song structures radically changed, so overall the material as a whole became much more “us.”

Matt: We’ve developed an unconstrained attitude toward the music and this whole space has added to that mindset.

Ben: On Of Love, the instrumentals were so organically made up of everybody’s voice, and we developed lyrics to represent that unified voice.

I’m curious to know how you collaborate as a band. I have a copy of The Means of Production album — your instrumental side project — and I know that was mostly improvised. Was this a similar experience? Hitting “Record” and seeing what happens?

Rafferty: The Means of Production album actually led to what we did on the Evolfo album. In the spirit of CAN and the electric Miles Davis stuff, this new record is also built off of jams. But we took it a few steps further by recording jams over several years before thinking about editing and restructuring them into actual songs. The pandemic was still in full swing, so we were just playing around, improvising, and experimenting with various miking arrangements.

How did you shape those initial recordings?

Rafferty: Eventually, we started listening back to everything and picked out some stuff we thought sounded like the foundations of songs, sifting through and writing and building on those jams. Lyrically and melodically. Overdubbing and re-recording certain sections.

I saw you guys perform some of these songs at TV Eye recently, so it’s clear you can create some wild sounds on stage. But in the recording sessions, how much of those psychedelic sound modifications happened live versus in production?

Ben: More live than not.

Matt: If you hear a well-defined guitar part on the record that’s gonna be an overdub. But there’s this beautiful atmospheric chimey guitar sound overlaying the whole record that I’d liken to the natural sound of the room.

Rafferty: Those guitar parts usually exist in those spontaneous live recordings, but we wanted to bring out certain textures more, so it’s almost more of an experiment in layering and making use of the stereo space.

Compared to other bands playing psychedelic music today, how complex do you get with distorting sounds on stage?

Ben: Probably less than other psychedelic bands. None of us use crazy pedal boards or anything.

Rafferty: Other than Jared. As far as saxophone players go there’s only a few in the world who are doing what he does with pedals and live sampling.

The first psychedelic records dropped sixty years ago. How do you balance vintage psychedelic sounds with modern times?

Matt: One of my favorite soap boxes is about psychedelia in general. I love old psychedelic music but don’t believe that the sounds tied to the genre are the psychedelic part of it; I think it’s more about the opportunity to expand and explore lyrically, sonically, and in the work ethic. What unites psychedelic bands through the eras is that spirit of experimentation and the inner searching. It’s not just phasers and tom-toms, you’ve got to be doing some internal work to make psychedelic music. I understand that palette of sounds helps people identify psychedelic music, but we only draw on that to the extent that it suits our creative journeys.

What does having a “psychedelic work ethic” look like?

Matt: Raff describing the process of making this album sums it up. We’re not putting what we make together into boxes or an eight-hour chunk at a fancy studio. We’re making amorphous blobs of jam and hang time.

I wrote a note down last night, while I was stoned, that these new songs “are about the process of processing.” The record seems like it’s founded on highly attuned observations from perspectives dropped into the middle of an unresolved story.

Ben: Neat!

Rafferty: I’m stoked you picked up on that. As we’ve become more ourselves and developed a voice as a group, I’m way more interested in trying to represent the current moment in any way we can compared to using the established rubrics of a genre. I hope that comes across in the sonic palette and lyrics we’re presenting. We’re a band in 2026, so what does that mean? The bands from 60 years ago were just being themselves and presenting what was fresh and new to them. But loud distorted guitar music is not all we have to play with. The fuzz, the phaser — that’s psychedelic, but so is autotune. Or synthesizers, which can be so much more psychedelic than a guitar could ever be. I’m absolutely not interested in pretending to be from another time.

Matt: There’s a “Psych” section in the record store — we all know what that means sound-wise. I think our music totally fits into that section a lot of the time, but that’s not our guiding light.

What is your guiding light?

Ben: I think it’s about our relationships. Getting closer over the years and dealing with our personal shit. Something in my life might be preventing me from being creative and we’ll figure that kind of thing out together.

I find a lot of your lyrics on the new record to be visceral and hyper-focused on atmosphere and emotion. Do you think hyper-focusing is a technique you guys use to break through creative walls?

Ben: As far as the songs, I feel like they’re all their own little world with their own little needs. You can’t apply one song’s needs to another. Each song is a new thought, and you’re sitting with a new feeling that you need to open your heart up to — I feel like was the general practice. As far as hyper-focusing, though, I don’t think I can hyper-focus on anything.

Rafferty: I’m a firm believer that’s there are unlimited ways to express the same sentiment in a song. For us, it’s about trying to figure out how to say something through imagery or description or some kind of action that communicates what we feel the song is about without offering one singular meaning. We want the listener to connect through their own lens in a way that’s emotionally meaningful to them.

Ben: Yeah, the hyper-focused lyricism may just be a result of purposeful ambiguity.

Rafferty: I’m much more interested in hearing how people interpret our lyrics than telling them what the record means to us. I want our music to resonate with other people in different ways. A more universal way.

What do you guys think about “timeless” music?

Rafferty: That’s the goal. That’s why we all do it. The hope that we make something that can stand the test of time.

Matt: I think timeless songs stem from going deeper and getting closer to something we all share. Not everyone’s going to know what it feels like to experience grief the way you did, but if you can get to the root of that emotion inside yourself, that’s your best shot at making someone else connect.

Rafferty: And not trying to consciously make something timeless — it’s the dream, but that can’t be the North Star.

Ben: I think timeless songs come from artists who are most themselves. I don’t think that’s something you can actually control.

It sounds like setting up a personal space was an important step in the quest for making timeless music, or at least being your true selves while recording.

Ben: For us it was.

Matt: It’s us alchemizing our intentions into the world, taking the spirit of what we want to do and making a space for it.

Rafferty: Between 2015 and 2020, we were probably in five different rehearsal spaces. Grimy spots. Old barns etc. This space changed all that.

How important is song order for an Evolfo record?

Rafferty: Hugely important. We had more than 30 songs recorded for this record, so as a sociological experiment I wanted everyone in the band to sequence their own record out of all the songs. All seven of us met up and everyone presented their preferred sequence of the album and explained why they did it. From there, I noted the overlapping songs and placements and we went from there until the three of us made a final sequence.

Did you consider defining two sides of a vinyl record?

Rafferty: Definitely. On top of the overall puzzle, we needed to think about the timing limitations of pressing a record to vinyl and where the song flow breaks. Not to get too technical, but the songs that are closer to the center of a vinyl record have a different bass response. In the end, we really set our mastering engineer JJ up for a hard time.

Do you guys picture people listening to the record? And if so, what is the ideal setting?

Matt: It’s not background music. I think a focused listen is the way. You could paint while you listen, that’s what I like to do: watercoloring. Maybe occupy your hands and listen. I’m a known fidgeter.

Rafferty: I just imagine someone playing the record on vinyl, or a deep headphone listen like you did.

Ben: I haven’t thought about it at all.

Rafferty: Yeah, however someone listens — off the phone, whatever — that’s cool. I’d also recommend driving. We definitely did some road tests.

Psychedelic music is historically tied to drug culture, substance experimentation, mind expansion. Is that a part of the communal process for you guys?

Rafferty: We’ve definitely done that for sure, but not as much in relation to the creative aspects. It’s not like we’re all tripping while recording the record.

Ben: Yeah that sounds difficult. I think we’ve all just used our experiences as a basis for our creative mindsets in general.

Matt: The psychedelics have had a direct influence upon the writing, but only in as much as they’ve taught me about myself and caused me to go deep. I think what we have as a band that’s unique is that we’re open with each other. We do the downloads of our psychedelic trips, we discuss those experiences together.

Earlier, Ben mentioned confronting tough subject matter as a group. And there’s songs on here about grief. One lyric I can’t let go of asks, “How does grief release?” How do you guys move through difficult topics like these?

Rafferty: We’ve gone through a lot of stuff together. Sometimes we don’t even need to say it outright. It’s already felt.

Ben: We’ve had so many years of divulging our deepest darkest shit in a van. And, it’s funny, I feel like the theme of this interview is that this record is a reflection of our lives and how we’ve grown and changed together over the years.

And how you’ve created an atmosphere to create.

Ben: Just a bunch of smelly boys.

Matt: A gaggle of friends. And I feel proud of how we’ve stuck with it. Sometimes when I’m feeling self-deprecating, I’m embarrassed to have been playing TV Eye for ten years. But the wiser part of me is so grateful to have a group of friends that create together. It takes effort and intention. We’ve kept it going against all odds and it’s something to be proud of.

Rafferty: I’m conscious of how trying to deepen our connection as musicians and bandmates and humans is not always how it goes. Over the past ten years, we could have worked on refining a more efficient process in writing hit songs. We could have done that instead. So I think it’s cool that we’ve made a conscious effort to create a space like this where we created a record born out of wanting to deepen our connection as improvisers.

What would you say your most surprising musical influence would be for someone listening to Evolfo for the first time?

Matt: Can I claim Ween?

I’ve been Weening out pretty hard this year myself.

Matt: There was a pretty profound The Mollusk influence this year.

Ben: Just a scraggly conch shell on the beach, it kept coming up. But I have an influence: Aphex Twin. It’s really beautiful and then it gets really scary out of nowhere.

Rafferty: Oh dude, I’ve got so many surprises. I’ve been super into K-Pop lately, listening to the new BTS album.

What do you appreciate about K-Pop?

Rafferty: It’s just the best pop music money can buy. It’s like if someone took the fucking Backstreet Boys and made them into Powerpuff Girl superheroes. It’s like ear candy. When they hit the mark it’s the best pop music out right now.

If you Evolfo was invited be on a tribute compilation, like Day of the Dead, what band would it be and what cover would you contribute?

Rafferty: Maybe Velvet Underground?

What song?

Rafferty: “Venus in Furs” would be sick. It’d be a good one for us to do our own way. I was thinking about The Stooges, or CAN, but we’re almost too close to their sound. With the Velvets we could do a droney thing in our style. The Dead would also be sick for the same reason.

It’s a thinker.

Rafferty: I would also love to do a country thing. My favorite tribute album ever might actually be the Townes Van Zandt record. It’s fun to hear how people interpret his songs. Or Lucinda Williams.

Ben: Maybe like a George Jones situation.

When was the first time you were each taken by psychedelic music?

Matt: It had to be Pink Floyd. One of the first records I ever got into was Dark Side of the Moon but the one that made me want to make psychedelic music was The Piper at the Gates of Dawn, their first album.

Rafferty: Mine’s definitely Jimi. In 6th grade I discovered Jimi Hendrix and it changed my life entirely. I found my dad’s CDs and just remember putting Axis: Bold As Love in the CD player and the alien talking at the beginning of the record…I was like “What the hell is this?”

Just like your song, “The Committee.”

Rafferty: Yeah, and just how he used the studio: next level. To this day, there are sounds on that record I just don’t understand. There’s mystery in that record for me. Which is insane. For how seminal of an album it is, there’s still uncharted waters. This convergence of a man who is one with his guitar, becoming able to express that in this way that’s still unparalleled.

Ben: For me, it’s probably Close To The Edge by Yes. It’s so composed, and episodic yet feels free. Also a concept album, about Siddhartha.

Rafferty: I’m stoked I’m not the one who shouted out Yes.

Ben: As the organ man?

Rafferty: Yeah. I almost let it slip earlier in this interview, but I held back.

What about current psych bands playing today. Who would you love to share a bill with?

Rafferty: Anyone from Kikagaku Moyo. Any of the offshoot solo projects on the Guruguru Brain label. Like Minami Deutsch, a Japanese kraut-rock-style band. They’re making my favorite kind of contemporary shit happening right now.

Matt: I would love to play with Thee Oh Sees. Or White Fence. That’s where my heart is. Pretty straight-forward answer for someone in the psych corner. But of course there’s a lot of other bands.

Is there a festival you guys have your sights set on?

Matt: Desert Days is kind of the one. But also Levitation or Austin Psych Fest would be cool.

Ben: The Catalina Psych Mixer.

Rafferty: Been there done that! Catalina Island is a weird place.

I’ve only seen it in a film.

Rafferty: Step Brothers?

Yup.

Ben: I’d love to play with Deerhoof. They’re not really a psychedelic band but they’re like art-rock. They’re so organic. Their live show is crazy, the tempos are changing all over the songs, they’ll stop in the middle of a chorus and do a weird drum solo and go right back. It’s so funky.

Matt: Evolfo and Deerhoof would total make sense together. They’re so unconstrained, they don’t operate within a single genre.

Back to Guruguru Brain, are they an inspiration for your own record label, Food Of Love Records?

Rafferty: Absolutely. The way they run their label is a definite inspiration. It’s very art-forward and prioritizes physical media; it’s just clear that they’re trying to cultivate a community. Every artist they sign is either a member of Kikagaku Moyo or someone they know from Japan/East Asia. The limited releases they do are also very cool.

Matt: Yeah, the focus on physical media is huge. Like why phone in that part of the process? I’m learning it’s a whole fuck shitload of effort to put out something with that much quality and care, but I really do care about it. It’s so special to make something you actually want to hold in your hands. That’s our top priority.

All of the bands I’ve been gravitating to for Jam Jar features — Misha Panfilov, Nudie Records etc. — seem to appreciate physical media. Even with Sturgill Simpson’s recent Johnny Blue Skies release, I feel like physical media is widely valued right now.

Rafferty: I think as people become more disillusioned by how much our world is online, they appreciate records. And the record industry has become more decentralized, more localized, more regionalized. Small labels can represent a whole scene or community. For a while, people tried to emulate major labels, but you don’t need to do that anymore; it doesn’t really work in the age of streaming. We’re going back to a more hands-on approach. As an artist, everything you can control, you should control yourself. People really respond to that.

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If Star had been born within the expected confines of society, she probably would have visited an amusement park at least once.

Maybe with friends. Or on a school trip for soon-to-be-graduates. Or even with her parents during a down-and-back weekend road-trip. Regardless, she would have spotted the rollercoasters from the interstate and worshiped the giant metal structures as they grew larger, twisting high above their lowly surroundings.

Like all daring kids, she would have begged to ride the tallest, fastest ride first. Embracing the raw thrill churning in her gut. Waiting impatiently for her turn in an endless line, until the pimply teenager in a sweat-stained Thrillville employee uniform slammed the metal bar over her sunburnt thighs.

“Good luck, don’t die,” he’d spit, with unexpected Barry White bravado and an oversized Adam’s apple rising and falling in his throat, pleased to witness a bulb of excited terror bloom in the young girl’s eyes.

If Star had grown up in a normal family, she might connect the memory of her initial rollercoaster ride to the first time she ever heard a vinyl record. On the cusp of her 21st birthday, seated on the floor of a dingy motel room, somewhere off barren interstate, sharing space with a milk crate filled with vintage albums and a red portable turntable bequeathed to her by an estranged uncle named Roddy.

But Star isn’t good at making comparisons the rest of us would understand. Not to rollercoasters, or road-trips, or long lines, or pimply pubescent carnie boys. She’s never seen an amusement park, she’s never waited in a line, and she’s never met a boy (or a carnie). She’s never listened to an 8-track, a CD, or an MP3. And until spinning her first vinyl record, she’d never heard a song played by a human.

The only songs Star knows come from the wild inhabitants of Ghost Town, her family’s doomsday fringe-dwelling located in a remote corner of the California desert: the hollow buzz of a rattler; a kit fox’s throaty coo; coyotes howling in the dark; skittish ground squirrels chirping at dawn; a meadowlark bellowing its disjointed jingle from a sturdy fence post.

For most of her short life, these are the only songs that echoed through the skinny bones of Star Annabella Chaser.

But when Uncle Roddy posthumously inserted himself into the folds of his niece’s bizarre, isolated life, the world of recorded music became more than just a mystery to the lonesome desert girl. A vast void morphed into a sturdy rope of chain linking Star to a shared history of human expression. The unheard songs, the undiscovered records, all that sonic magic — it’s become one sharp slab of un-struck flint to the exquisite furnace of Star’s soul, a furnace desperate to burn.

So. Describing the mere milliseconds in which Star’s imaginary rollercoaster cart crests its apex, ticking forward under the spell of gravity’s weighty insistence, just before the hair-whipping plunge — this might actually be the simplest way to describe to you, someone who presumably grew up within the confines of society, a normal family etc. etc., what it was like for the lonesome desert girl to hear the static of the needle as it slid slowly from the far edge of Lee Oskar’s 1976 debut solo record like a figure skate on black ice until finally dropping effortlessly into the wide groove of Track One.

Stay tuned for Chapter 1, featuring Roddy’s will and testament, a Peregrin falcon, a musical baptism, a doomsday bunker, ash-filled joints, groovy t-shirt models and more!

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Here’s a task for you, dear readers.

Throw on Entrance Music at the end of a long day. Sit back. Exhale. Or stand up. Pace around your apartment with your headphones on. Pan fry some broccolini. Play with your cat. Climb the fire escape. Ride a bike around the reservoir. Massage your feet. Water the plants. Whatever you get up to, this collection of songs is bound to enhance the moment. I promise.

The music made by Steve Okonski (keys), Michael Montgomery (bass), and Aaron Frazer (drums) can be lived in. It’s arresting, raw, spontaneous. A soundtrack to your life.

Having played together in the neo-soul group Durand Jones & The Indications, these three artists understand one another’s style enough to rely on recording impromptu communication. A language derived directly from the jazz tradition — improvised sound, eye contact, emotion.

Yet, Okonski’s output sounds unified and unique. The trio’s albums — recorded by Colemine Records’ very own Terry Cole — are made to transport listeners back in time, about 60 years, when iconic jazz records were made to sound immediate and intimate, as if a group of cool cats picked the locks, came inside, and set up shop in your living room.

There’s a reason Okonski records continue to sell out. With a defined sound that’s accessible to any music lover — not only jazz heads — Entrance Music and Magnolia are ideal albums to own on vinyl.

These are atmosphere-enhancers, vibe-boosters, instrumental expressions designed to ride a passing breeze. Songs to wrap yourself up in, to let your mind naturally navigate its way out of whatever maze in which the world has it temporarily trapped.

After speaking with Steve (certified bandleader), I’m hopeful regarding the prevalence of ambition and artistry being poured into instrumental creations from Okonski and a wave of other current artists.

Together, we discuss why modern-day audiences are increasingly captivated by vocal-less music, as well as Okonski’s plan to play more live shows, the trio’s eclectic mix of music influences, the purpose of unpreparedness, upcoming releases, and more.

Enjoy.

Do you remember the show you played with Durand Jones and the Indications in Rhode Island? Right before Covid hit?

Wait, I do remember that. And we definitely all had Covid. We obviously didn’t realize it at the time, and it’s not like we can test it now, but in retrospect I think that was February of 2020, so it tracks.

I remember Durand mentioned that you all had the flu; I still can’t believe how good of a show it was, considering. What’s the touring schedule like with the Indications for 2026?

It’s a pretty light year, which is great because it’ll give me some space to branch out and play more Okonski shows.

The first Okonski record came out in 2023. How many shows has the trio played since then?

There have only been six proper Okonski shows. Our first gig was in L.A. in 2023 at Gold Diggers. Then last year we did two in L.A., and a couple more shows supporting Mae Powell. Our upcoming show at National Sawdust in Brooklyn will be our New York debut!

Over the past few years, I’ve talked to emerging artists — Moon Mullins, Dana & Alden, Misha Panfilov — who are as committed to playing and recording instrumental music as yourself, and people love it. Have you seen a rise in the desire and appreciation for instrumental records since you started Okonski?

That’s interesting. There’s definitely been an uptick in the popularity around instrumental music. I’m thinking of artists like Misha and Sven Wunder. I’d also say as the “chill beats to study to” vibe has grown, people have begun perceiving jazz outside of its traditional reputation.

The title of your last record — Entrance Music — actually reminded me of Dana & Alden’s Quiet Music For Young People, in the way that it sounds like an introduction to listeners who don’t feel entirely comfortable with “jazz.”

I love that interpretation, and I’ll fully stamp it. But the name Entrance Music was more personal to me. I was starting a new chapter of my life. Moving to Asheville, NC from New York City, and starting a family. It felt like a rebirth, or a renaissance, but those terms seemed a bit too corny for an album title. Eventually, I realized that for me, the music was an “entrance” into a new world.

What’s the band’s relationship with jazz music?

Mike, Aaron, and I all played in the Indications together, and have played on each other’s personal projects, so there’s a deep soul influence. But soul, classical and jazz have always swirled around me. And while I can talk on and on about jazz records, I grew up playing classical piano just outside of Detroit, where soul music was huge. For year, those were my two main influences. But as I got older, I got more into jazz.

Do you remember the first album you ever bought?

I bought a CD of Smash Mouth, the one with “All-Star” on it. But my parents both worked at record stores before they had me, so our house was full of music. I remember the first albums my dad gave me were Miles Davis’ Bitches Brew and Beastie Boys’ Licensed to Ill.

Wow, what a combo.

It was a pretty odd mix, but I remember listening to those all the time. I must have been 8 or 9 years old.

Those are crazy albums to give an 8 year old.

I know! I’m really proud of my parents, they were on some shit. My dad loves Tom Waits and Miles Davis, and my mom loves Bob Dylan. My parents were very influential to my music career, they encouraged me to stick to music when I didn’t want to.

Was piano your first instrument?

Yeah, I started taking lessons from the lady down the street when I was 5-ish, with various levels of enthusiasm.

Are there any records you found on your own that directly inspired your piano style?

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately because I was on a flight back from Europe and I didn’t have internet or TV, so I was really digging through my saved media. The first three The Bad Plus records blew my mind in high school. I’m not even sure I liked them outright at first, but I couldn’t stop listening.

I’m not familiar with The Bad Plus. Are they a trio?

The lineup has since changed, but they used to be a piano trio that put out some incredible records between 2003 and 2007. Their music sounded much different than the piano trios of the 60s. I remember people talking shit about them, saying they’re just playing covers of pop tunes, and I was like, Okay, but it sounds cool as hell. Every band member is writing. They all lead at different times. It took me a long time to realize how much they influenced what I’m doing now.

What is it like to listen back to those records?

Different aspects pop out at me. I have a better understanding of what I’ve always liked so much about their music. The Bad Plus embodies a real mesh of influences that I feel a real kinship to. They taught me that jazz music doesn’t always have to swing.

Is the concept of mutual leadership within a band essential to your process?

Yes. The Bill Evans Trio was also influential in the “everyone leads” ethos. That idea of inter-band communication is very important to me and I try to carry it through all my projects.

How does the “everyone leads” concept translate to Okonski recording sessions?

We book four or five days at Colemine Records in Loveland, OH, and we don’t rehearse, we just hit Record and see what happens. I try and come into the studio without concrete ideas. Sometimes I’ll be like, Let’s try doing something in B-flat, or 6/8, or we go off a little lick I thought up beforehand, but that’s it.

How does this tactic impact the output?

There’s something really special in the uncertainty of what’s coming next. It forces us to play with intention and caution, but also full abandon.

You’re allowing yourselves to bond musically, but also surprise each other.

For “October” on Entrance Music, what you hear is the full take just the second time we played it. This kind of result is always very exciting. It doesn’t happen every day, it doesn’t happen in every track, but after playing together for so many years, Aaron, Mike, and I know each other’s proclivities, we know how to listen. We’re all working together toward a common goal.

Are there certain records you wanted Entrance Music, or your first album Magnolia, to sound like?

Definitely, and that part is all Terry Cole’s doing. It’s his studio [deemed the “Portage Lounge”], his equipment. We were all very much in agreement about wanting the record to resemble the 1960s Blue Note Rudy Van Gelder recordings: the piano is raw, there’s no direct-out on the bass.

My records are basically all 80% room-miked, and I think that makes a big difference. The mixing is minimal and you hear everyone playing to each other. While listening, you should feel like you’re in the room with us.

Similar to a resurgence of instrumental music in the culture, I’ve found that more artists and fans are also craving warmer, less manipulated recordings.

I wonder if that’s a response to the ultimate control artists and engineers can have in the studio these days. There are plenty of super clean records that are super cool, but they’re not always especially fun to listen to or make.

The way you guys are going about it in the studio sounds like a fun alternative to over-rehearsing and nitpicking final details.

Yeah, absolutely. And the worst case scenario is we spend five days having fun and playing music together without getting a record out of it. That’s pretty cool. What else are we going to spend our money on?

How have you responded to the popularity and critical acclaim of both Okonski records?

I’m overjoyed. I had no expectations. Putting out an album is an inherently selfish act. The fact that anyone listened to it, the fact that it even existed in a physical format took me over the moon. And then the fact that some people bought it and listened to it and said it was one of their favorite records — it means so much.

Did you always dream of having your own personal project?

I’ve wanted to have a project that I was at the helm of since my early 20s. It’s been so cool to be part of records as a sideman with The Indications and other bands, but to put out music I have some ownership of has been a goal for some time.

How did Okonski officially begin?

The Indications were originally on Colemine, so anytime we went through Cincinnati we stopped by Terry’s spot and recorded. Sometime in 2019 or 2020 Terry asked me if I wanted to work on something a little more jazz-focused. So we did a session with Aaron, Mike and I, which resulted in the Trio Session Demos album we put out in 2024. That time was fruitful, with overdubs, Wurlitzer, electric bass, guitar, organ. But it was more instrumental soul than the meditative jazz we eventually found.

When did you find that sound?

On the last night of those session we had tape left over. Terry turned off the lights and recorded us. What we played became the last track on Magnolia. We realized then that we needed to come back and do a whole session like that.

You mentioned the word meditative, which reminds me of Phil Cook, another artist who records instrumental piano music. I got to see him play a show this year and he described the process of sitting at his piano and recording as a solo meditation. Would you say Okonski albums are born out of a similar urge — a “collaborative meditation”?

I think you hit the nail on the head. What we’re doing has similar through-lines as Phil. We’re trying to be in the moment when we play together. And instead of describing chords and changes in the studio, sometimes we just describe emotions and play from there.

To be able to do something calming and anxiety relieving with friends and collaborators is very special. I don’t take it for granted.

What have you discovered in the process?

I think we definitely discovered what the trio sounds like. And we all went outside of our comfort zones to find it.

In that first studio session were you surprised at all by the artistic choices Aaron and Mike were making?

It was cool to go back and admire small details I hadn’t heard while playing. Like Aaron doing triplets on a mason jar with a brush (I didn’t even know he had a mason jar with him). Or Mike playing every off-beat for two minutes straight and then switching to the on-beat. It was more exciting than surprising.

Because we’re talking trios, I gotta say the band that got me into jazz was the Ahmad Jamal Trio.

100%.

At first they were so accessible, but the more I listened I realized what they were doing was unique and complex.

It just gets deeper and deeper. I think Ahmad Jamal is the most accessible and deepest pianist there is. If you want to hear a crazy Ahmad Jamal record, check out Extensions.

I think of Ahmad Jamal’s early records as timeless, which is a word so many listeners have used to describe Okonski.

I think that’s one of the cool things about instrumental music. It’s universal. It can translate anywhere in the world.

I also think instrumental music has the ability to enhance an atmosphere by complimenting a room.

I agree with that. “Enhance.” Instead of being the main focus.

So what does Okonski have lined up for the future?

We’ve recorded a third album that will hopefully come out early next year, after a bunch of singles. Then we’ve got another studio session in the summer at Colemine to record another album. For now, we’re just trying to get some live shows under our belt.

What’s your approach to playing live?

It’s kind of the same as our studio approach; I don’t want to over-rehearse. I’d love each gig to feel like an experience. Have people with us along the way, be in the moment.

We’ll probably throw a couple covers in that we’ve never played before, just stuff that’s exciting to try and figure out.

I think that’s a pretty novel approach to performing live. Phil Cook’s show in NYC last year was very intimate, he even paused at one point to allow anyone in the audience to ask questions. It felt like an experience because it bonded everyone.

You can do the same thing every night, nail it, and have a perfect show. That’s an event, like going to see a movie. And that’s very cool — I love playing and seeing shows like that. But I’m most excited to have Okonski shows feel loose. Encourage everyone in the band to branch out, try new stuff, take comfort in the unknown and see what happens. That’s where the juice is.

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When throwing on an iconic concert record I can’t help but imagine myself in the crowd.

Smoking in the back of Nirvana’s Unplugged In New York show, as Kurt Cobain introduces his cover of a cover of a strange Christian tune. Or shooting a game of pool at Blaze Foley’s final Live at the Austin Outhouse set in 1989, days before his murder. Or gnawing on a turkey leg in the Winterland Ballroom while Martin Scorsese trails The Band and Aretha and Van and Joni and Muddy and Bob and both Neils on stage with a film camera.

Or I’m locked up, sentenced for a dime, singing along in a canvas jumper to the Man in Black, the Undertaker, Old Golden Throat as he bellows a song about shooting a man in Reno, just to watch him die.

Imagine walking out of Folsom State Prison at the end of a decade, sometime in ‘75 as a semi-changed man headed to the nearest record store, seeking out a professionally pressed sample of your past — At Folsom Prison — forever preserved on wax.

Thankfully, with the recent purchase of a new album — King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard’s Live At Forest Hills ‘25 — I’m no longer reliant on my imagination; that dreamy post-show listening experience has become a tangible reality.

The release from the prolific Australian psych-rock-jazz-electro-metal-prog band contains three multicolored LPs with custom fluorescent dye jobs and grooves cut with sounds I had the ecstatic pleasure of experiencing live last August under the stars on a perfect summer night in Queens.

Peeling back the plastic wrap and opening up the record cover unveiled a triptych of the stadium. The stage and the crowd are photographed from the stands. It’s still light out. King Gizz is frozen in time. Ripping through their heavy-metal opener “Gaia,” with Stu McKenzie strumming his flying V in a bright pink onesie.

If you look closely at the triptych, you can even make out another universe hiding in the background. Forest Hills’ West Side Tennis Club, tucked back behind the stage, where tiny figures in tennis whites rally neon green specks across dozens of pristine grass courts.

Seeing the image now brings back memories of basking in the juxtaposition of that view: a grassy blue-blood wonderland bumping uglies with a rock show — tennis whites and dark metal; spin serves and double bass drum; sprinklers and smoke.

My friends and I were in awe, looking out from the stands at converging diverging atmospheres. Banging our oversized cans of Budweiser together like cartoon bar flies as the sun neared the horizon. I remember my thumb pressing into the side of the aluminum, making a dent in the can, and the crowd buzzing with anticipation.

On vinyl, Stu calls the Forest Hills stadium the bands’ “spiritual home” and the crowd (us) explodes with a 12-inch swirl of color spinning round and round.

I love knowing that somewhere in the mix are me and my friends. Dan, Kevin, Shoshi, Pat. Our screams and applause. Our drowned-out chatter. Our hearts thumping against our chests. The soles of our shoes shuffling and pounding against the concrete.

Then the band starts in on “Superbug,” a deathy doomtastic headbanger of a song and we roar.

“I’m gonna make this banana cry,” Joey Walker says from the stage, cheekily, into the mic, pulling Stu’s famed bright yellow guitar — the flying microtonal banana — over his head, readying his stance.

I don’t remember the band members’ commentary at all. It’s cool to hear it now, their words beckon other memories from the night.

Like the sun eventually disappearing as the band made their way through an unexpected electronic mini-set, ushering in the darkness while surrounding a chaotic analog rave module. The vocals were auto-tuned. The light show stretched out over thousands of heads, everyone was bathed in a heavenly pale blue.

This record is a product of King Gizzard’s “Official Bootlegger” program that launched in the final hours of 2020, taking a “for the people” approach to licensing music by inviting “indie labels, bootleggers, fans, [and] weirdos” to press and sell masters of the band’s live recordings and demos for free.

“If anyone wants to release these albums, you’re free to do so,” the band wrote on their website at the time. “Below you’ll find links to audio master files and cover art. Feel free to get creative with it if you like — it’s yours.”

“Only deal is you’ve gotta send us some of them to sell on GIZZVERSE.COM — whatever you feel is a fair trade is cool with us,” they add.

“With the Bootlegger program, the idea is that you can download all the assets,” Mackenzie told SPIN. “You can change the artwork if you want to. You can mix and match songs from different shows. You can press tapes or vinyl or CDs. You just have to send us some to sell in our store. It’s amazing to see how creative people have been with it”

And the bootleg cover art is fantastic, in the most literal sense.

My friends who were there with me that night have had similar reactions to the process of revisiting the shows we’ve attended together on vinyl.

“As soon as ‘Gaia’ started playing I had the stupidest smile on my face,” my friend Kevin told me after he received his own copy of the Forest Hills ‘25 recording. “Transported me right back.”

“When I listen to bootlegs of shows I’ve attended, it does genuinely bring me back to that exact time and place,” another friend, Dan, told me.

“My most cherished live bootleg vinyl is King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard at Forest Hills ’24. I remember the amazing weather and immaculate vibes at the stadium. The pit was a site to be seen with incredible coordination — at times I thought I was witnessing Game of Thronesesque reenactments.”

Dan says re-listening to these records only enriches his initial concert experience and helps inform his memory, “which is a hell of a drug in and of itself.”

In other words, if you’ve had the chance to attend any of the shows uploaded to King Gizz’s website, listening to these albums is like experiencing a welcome acid flashback.

Which is all too fitting, as the band’s Bootlegger program embraces a listening culture born from Deadheads in the 1960s, who were famously allowed to bring their own recording equipment to shows and capture entire tours on tape.

Over their 16-year career, King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard have amassed more than 25 studio albums, over 40 bootleg records, and a die-hard following. Like the Dead or Phish, King Gizz never plays the same show twice, pulling from a catalog of original tunes that span a multitude of genres.

So it’s no surprise that the band’s most devoted fans follow them around the world, from show to show, eagerly awaiting some new magic. Slurping up more memories from a piping hot bowl of Gumboot Soup, memories they can always return to.

Here’s a full video recording of the Forest Hills concert we attended and the full album!

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The first time I heard Roy Buchanan was outside at the Grand Bazaar market in the Upper West Side. His Fender Telecaster (nicknamed “Nancy”) cried masterfully from a vintage stereo set up in a booth selling records.

It was sunny but near freezing. I watched the vendor — a hulking man with a slight hunchback and a thick wool blanket wrapped around his head like a cantankerous Sith Lord — blow smoke on a steaming cup of joe.

I was intimidated. But I was also desperately curious, so I moseyed over to the turntable and asked the big man what was playing. Without a word, he pulled out an empty record sleeve and flipped it onto a pile of worn jazz albums, like a burger on the griddle.

“I could do $20,” he grunted.

“$15?”

“Fine.”

Worried I’d regret my impulsive purchase, I put the record on as soon as I got home. I sat back on the couch and admired the blocky yellow font and the enchanting 70s aesthetic of Buchanan’s cover photo, turtlenecked and dialed into his instrument.

A fuzzy Zeppelinesque guitar tone kicks off the album but evolves into a bone-clean blues rock song, paving the way for a pristine and soulful cover of Jimi Hendrix’s classic “Hey Joe,” which starts moody but eventually soars into oblivion, another dimension, a colorless, soundless void overtaken only by Buchanan’s chaotic shredding.

“Please Don’t Turn Me Away” — another standout track — sounds less like a Buchanan original than an American Songbook classic. Lively and gentle piano arrangements, doo-wop backing vocals and fiery bursts of demented Hendrix-adjacent fretboard pulverization. It’s the type of tune that can lift the spirits and simultaneously plunge you deep into a well of heartbreak.

Roy Buchanan remains one of the most tragically overlooked guitarists of the blue rock movement. He inspired icons like Jeff Beck and Robbie Robertson, and was lauded by Eric Clapton, John Lennon, and Merle Haggard. And, as I learn more, his records seem to accumulate on my shelf. Like 1974’s In The Beginning, which features Buchanan’s powerful instrumental hit “Wayfaring Stranger.”

But while fusing into my couch on that cold day, allowing the music to introduce itself to my unknowing ears one track at a time, it became abundantly clear that I would never regret this purchase.

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The morning after the Super Bowl was a groggy affair.

After rolling out of bed with a belly full of wings and pizza and about 400 Modelos, I was desperate to escape my bloat and generate some sense of focus while writing articles about tech industry oligarchs and their Trump-era policies (my day job). So I picked out a record I knew wouldn’t disappoint: On by Altın Gün.

On was born from the truest form of vinyl appreciation, a nod to psychedelic music recorded in Turkey throughout the late 1960s and early 1970s. Based in Amsterdam, the founding members of Altın Gün (“Gold Day” in English) were digging through record stores while touring through Turkey when they unearthed artists who once embodied and led the country’s original psychedelic rock movement.

Some of the music that inspired Altın Gün was recorded by Anatolian rock masters Barış Manço, Erkin Koray, and Selda Bağcan (pictured below).

(^Been listening to this one a lot lately^)

On was written, recorded and pressed to King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard’s label ATO Records and released in 2018.

The instant the needle hits the edge of On, it’s clear how influential the psychedelic sounds of these Anatolian rock icons was for Altın Gün. The music of the past — intricate fuzzed out guitar licks, thick bass lines, even traditional Turkish folk percussion and instrumentals — surge into a new dimension with a range of powerful synthesizers and modern day production elements.

I can’t remember when I bought this record, but the cover art always brings me a pang of joy when I pull it from the shelf — its bright colors paint a trippy tropical vision belonging somewhere beyond the past, present or future. And the music itself centers me; the fast tempos and tight groove-oriented songs weave into one another, inciting a strong internal rhythm.

A perfect record for transcending the daily grind. Enjoy.

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One night a few years back, I was trying to finish an article on deadline and found myself lost in a magical sounding album with a magical sounding name: Days As Echoes by Misha Panfilov.

I fell into the record effortlessly, with the first note of the first song making me feel like I was airborne, gliding with a current, through the clouds, gazing down without fear at wherever the hell it was I’d come from.

Each subsequent song on the Estonian composer and multi-instrumentalist’s spellbinding record expanded my unexpected voyage, taking me into yet another space I didn’t know I desperately wanted to go.

As my deadline neared, I remained seated at the kitchen table, struggling to put sentences together. But Days As Echoes became an antidote to my ensuing brain fog. I put the album on repeat and the music continued to propel me forward, focusing my brain, helping suggest a rhythm for what I was trying to say on the page.

By the time I submitted my story, I must have played Days As Echoes at least 14 times. The next day, I bought it on vinyl.

Beyond Velly Joonas’ cover of Roberta Flack’s “Feel Like Making Love,” (titled “Käes On Aeg” ) — a wonderful cult record from the early 1980s — I’d never payed much attention to music from Estonia. Not until I discovered Panfilov, who has an impressive output for a fairly young fellow.

In less than ten years, the Tallinn-based artist has released 20 albums (while pressing the majority of them to vinyl).

Working my way through Panfilov’s discography — original instrumentals spanning a wide range of genres, collaborators, styles, and moods — I noticed something special: Panfilov’s records are disparate planets orbiting the same sun.

Original film scores, psychic synth records, orchestral dreamscapes, fuzzy, serrated surf-rock singles, smoky, loose jazz numbers — the breadth of Panfilov’s sonic archive is undoubtedly diverse, yet it possesses a unifying aesthetic, a distinctive vibe.

Each song is a roving musical vessel equipped with the ability to bring you somewhere else. Somewhere worth going. Panfilov’s songs invite you to ride shotgun and cruise the scenic route, wandering, drifting turns, pulling pranks, and returning to the curb, in a different frame of mind.

As a living human music lover, I find it utterly impossible not to mention when a band or artist “literally has no bad songs.” And, for me, Misha Panfilov fits this description.

So, please, for the love of all the music gods flapping their wings in harmony, giddy-up, let’s get going!

(Enjoy)

I’m blown away by your mixtape series, Funked Up East, in which you showcase sonic gems from behind the Iron Curtain. How has uploading these videos over the past 10 years impacted the way you think about music?

These records feel very close to me, both geographically and culturally. A lot of it I heard as a kid in films and cartoons, but most of it I discovered later in life.

And like any good music, the records I share on the channel — beyond the educational impact — have also helped shape my taste, as well as my overall musical and artistic aesthetic choices.

Is there anything you’ve learned about a band or record featured on the YouTube channel that has shocked or encouraged you?

I was quite surprised to learn that an album by Tõnu Naissoo, recorded in 1968, was made when he was only 17 years old. Just a year earlier, at 16, he had already played at the legendary Tallinn Jazz Festival, sharing the stage with American jazz phenoms like Charles Lloyd and Keith Jarrett.

The original pressing of Naissoo’s trio album is now considered one of the most sought after and expensive records ever recorded in Estonia.

I actually saw him perform just a few weeks ago and was amazed by how fantastic he still sounds.

I’m totally unfamiliar with the music scene from where you’re from. How would you describe it to those of us who have never been to Estonia or its capital?

Overall, the music scene in Estonia is not huge, but it’s quite diverse. You can find almost every genre you’d expect in any European country, just with a special local flavor.

What are some of your favorite record stores and music venues in Tallinn?

For such a small country, we have a good number of record stores per capita, and each one has its own vibe. Biit Me; Dogz Records; Psühhoteek; and Tallinn Old Town Records are just a few examples.

When it comes to live music venues, things feel a bit more modest, but I would definitely highlight Paavli Kultuurivabrik for the wide range of artists who have played there over the years.

Who are some current Estonian artists we should have on our radars in the West?

I’d love to shout out a few friends of mine. Composer and pianist Volodja Brodsky; DJ Bandit, who makes kraut-inspired trip-hop; Kantri Guidu with their lo-fi fuzzy country sound; garage punks The Satones; psychedelic doomers Zahir; and the one and only Ruslan Px, who represents the Russian-language underground scene in Estonia.

Ruslan Px was actually the first person who invited my teenage band to play live and told us we were making something exciting. That kind of encouragement really means a lot when you’re just starting out and I’ll never forget that.

I read online that the first record you ever bought for yourself was The Soft Parade by The Doors. Do you remember why you chose that record in particular? Are The Doors an influential band for you as an artist and composer?

I’ve loved The Doors since I was very young, and The Soft Parade is actually my favorite album by them, even though I don’t think they ever made a bad record.

It’s a unique mix of psychedelic rock and deep, lush pop sentimentality à la Sinatra. They never really did anything like it before or after. The album was heavily criticized at the time, which is why they moved away from those kinds of experiments later on. Which is a shame. So when I saw that record in a store, it felt like the perfect choice for the first album in what would become my collection.

And yes, their influence on me and my music is huge.

What was the most recent vinyl record you bought/found? What do you dig about it?

One of my recent finds was The Further Adventures of El Chico by Chico Hamilton. I collect Chico’s records without thinking, I’ve never heard a bad one from him, and this album is no exception. At times it feels playful, at times mysterious, and in places quite tense. Gábor Szabó’s guitar playing is just beautiful.

Is there an album, song, or artist fans of your music would be surprised you’re into?

It’s hard for me to say what might surprise people, since I’m not really sure how closely anyone follows my listening habits. But I guess albums like You’ve Come a Long Way, Baby and Halfway Between the Gutter and the Stars by Fatboy Slim.

I remember those records completely blew my mind at the time. They probably also shaped the way I hear and think about repetition in music. In a way, it became a kind of springboard that led me, years later, to Steve Reich and Terry Riley, strange as that may sound.

Are there any artists you consistently go back to for inspiration when you’re trying to record a new album?

I don’t really have specific artists who constantly inspire me when I’m making music. I get energized by listening to good music and sometimes it’s one thing, other times it’s something completely different.

As a listener, I’m constantly surprised by the direction your songs take me. Do you ever surprise yourself when you’re in the studio or jamming or writing new music?

Every composition feels like a surprise to me. I often leave a lot of room for chance, sometimes starting with whatever I happen to have around me that day.

If my music stops surprising me, it stops being fun. The final result almost never sounds the way I originally imagined it and that’s a great thing.

You’ve put out over 20 records in the past decade. Some of them are under your own name, but others are in collaboration with other musicians, film projects and bands. How important is the collaborative process to you when making, recording, and playing original music?

I really love collaborations, because another musician can bring in an unexpected idea, a new texture, and like I said earlier, surprise. And I love that.

But of course, it usually happens under my direction, because if there’s too much freedom, the music can easily drift into chaos and lose its sense of form and aesthetics. So everything has to be in balance. That said, I have to admit I’m very lucky to be surrounded by brilliant and talented musicians who truly know their instruments.

When we work as a true duo, like I did before with Shawn Lee or now with Toma Katsurada from Kikagaku Moyo, it becomes a fully shared process. We create the music together, with each of us taking on the roles of musician, composer, and arranger at the same time.

Your output reminds me of someone like Ty Segall who is always exploring new genres, styles and personas in his music. Do you value the trait of being “prolific” as an artist?

It’s important for me to stay active, but it happens very naturally. There’s something hard to explain that keeps pushing me forward. And the fact that some people actually listen to it feels like a real blessing. Ty is cool by the way.

I’m always amazed by the cover art on your original records. How collaborative is the design process? Do you work with visual artists directly?

I take album artwork very seriously. The cover is an essential part of the record. It’s something like a visual invitation to listen, an introduction, a kind of pictorial accompaniment to the music. Those two elements, music and artwork, are what make an album feel complete. I design certain covers myself, while others are done by different artists. I’ve been lucky to collaborate with many talented people around the world. Sometimes I come across an existing artwork and realize it already fits the album perfectly.

How does it feel to put out your own music on vinyl in this day and age? Is it something you’ve always dreamed of doing?

Releasing my own music on vinyl feels great. But beyond that, the whole process takes time, and there’s something beautiful about it.

You finish an album and then let it sit for a while, moving on to something else. Then, a few months later, it finally comes out into the world and in a way starts a new life. I find that very satisfying.

Have you ever played a show in the US? Do you plan on coming through anytime soon?

I haven’t played in the US yet, but I really hope to make it happen in the near future. I know there are people waiting for us in the States, and that’s very encouraging.

At the same time, visa issues and having many members in the band make it a bit tricky to pull off. But I’m sure we’ll make it soon!

A musical dream of yours used to be composing a film score. Now that you’ve done that multiple times, are there any other music-related dreams you wish to fulfill?

Of course, dreams are always there, and that’s a good thing. I just hope I’ll be able to keep making music for a while longer and create something interesting and meaningful, both for myself and for others. Hopefully that spark will stay with me for some time.

And like we mentioned earlier, of course it would be great to play in other parts of the world beyond Europe, places like the Americas or Asia.

Even though I definitely feel more at home in the studio, there’s so much magic in live performance that’s hard to find anywhere else.

Do you have any projects underway or planned for the near future we should know about?

Oh yes, this year is already a busy one. I’ve just finished an album with Tomo Katsurada, and there’s another collaboration coming later this year with Volodja Brodsky, moving somewhere between folk and ambient music.

There are also a few reissues of my earlier albums coming up, including Repetitive Music Vol. 1, as well as the collaborative album I recorded with Shawn Lee back in 2020. As usual, there will also be a new annual release from Penza Penza, which gives me a chance to try something completely different production-wise.

On top of that, I’m currently working on a jazz album where I want to combine repetitive music with jazz rhythms and elements of improvisation. I’ve also been composing a soundtrack for an American indie film and there’s a live album by my septet coming out, recorded in several cities across Germany last year.

Of course, all of this took many months to produce. It just happens that everything is finally coming out this year. But I’m sure people will still think I don’t sleep and release a new album every Friday. And Saturday too.

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You’re alone on the edge of the pool, where the shallow and deep ends meet. It’s golden hour. I watch you dive in. Plaid boxer shorts billow out from the waistband of your swim trunks. We don’t say much to each other. We just swim around until the pool closes, careless and curious, like nine year olds are. From then on, I begin cutting the netting out of my swimsuits so I can wear boxers too.

Twelve years later, my mom presses the home phone to her chest. Her eyes are wide. I’m in the courtyard of her new home, crunching on a piece of toast, home for spring break. The winter’s white-grey sheath has begun to glow green. Dozens of mirror-like droplets dot the plants in her garden. That’s where I’m looking when she tells me you died.

Even though you and I haven’t seen each other since high school, I think my mom’s worried that your death will break me — the proverbial straw. Over the past month, my girlfriend and I broke up, I was fired from my bartending job, and, soon, I’ll be graduating college with no job prospects. I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t anxious. Anxious and hungover.

But I continue to fixate on the flowers in the garden. Pinks and yellows lit like fire against the wet stone walls. Silent, I walk down into the grass, noticing how each green blade moves against the arches of my bare feet. I feel high, tuned in. It isn’t joy, but it feels oddly good. I’m present, a bud about to burst.

The sensation disturbs me.

A heap of band Ts and khaki pants, plastic nerf guns with orange foam ammunition, a bulky helmet for your dirt bike (that I never saw you ride), checkered button-downs, several mismatched sneakers, a large white cage for your guinea pig Foo, wooden drumsticks, a bunk bed with full-sized mattresses, two windows and a giant stack of CDs. This is your bedroom in fourth grade.

My eyes bulge, I can’t see the floorboards. It doesn’t match the rest of your parents’ house, which is tidy and bright, like a seaside cottage.

“We gotta clean this,” I say, standing still in the doorway. I surprise myself. My mom is always on me for not cleaning my room, but this isn’t a few misplaced shirts, it’s full-on disorder.

And, for whatever reason, you agree.

For two hours we hover over your personal belongings, sorting side-by-side. What do we talk about? Maybe the fact that you have a television in your room (so cool!). Also the season of South Park you own on DVD, which I pretend I’m allowed to watch. I’m sure Blink-182 comes up, too, since it’s the CD that catches my eye: The Mark, Tom, and Travis Show. A drive-in movie themed cover with cartoon versions of each band member, complete with tattoos, piercings and a blonde babe with a signature Sharpied across her boobs.

As you slide open your closet door, I hold the CD case up to the light like a crisp one-hundred-dollar-bill and admire the “Parental Advisory Explicit Content” sticker stuck to the bottom left corner.

“This is unedited?” I ask.

“Yeah, it’s pretty crazy,” you say, smiling. “They say ‘fuck’ a lot.” We both crack up. Then you snatch the CD from my hands. “You gotta hear this.”

The top of your boombox springs open and you place the disc inside. It’s a lavender color with the three band members’ chuckling cartoon heads displayed on top. Skip to Track 8. Airy cries from the crowd, a redundant guitar strum and Tom DeLong’s whiny vocals: It would be nice to have a blow job / It would be nice to have a blow job…

On and on as I sit on your bottom bunk, folding shirts, giddy with excitement. I’ve never heard anything like it.

The song ends and I can’t help but ask. “So…what exactly is a blow job?”

“I think it’s like when a girl...blows on your, well, you know.”

You point to your crotch and it’s clear that you’re not entirely sure, either.

“Like when something’s too hot?”

“Ya, probably.”

I nod and turn my attention to the last heap of clothes, where I find an item even more valuable. An airsoft gun. I’ve never held one before. It feels so real, a pistol, heavy, all black with a pointed orange tip, the only clue that this is a toy. I think you can tell I’m obsessed with it.

“We can go shoot it if you want,” you say, shrugging.

I look around the room: the clothes are folded and placed in drawers, the CDs all have their appropriate sleeves, the beds are made and the floor is visible.

“Sure,” I say, nodding, as casually as I can. “Sounds good to me.”

You grab a plastic jar filled with tiny neon-green balls and slip something else into your pocket. Before I can ask you what it is, we’re rushing downstairs and out the front door.

Like my neighborhood, about a mile away, your street backs up to a wooded area with a pond and a few walking trails. Suburban-woodsy. A ring of post-colonial houses and streets coated in pine needles. Safe spaces for children to get into trouble.

Facing the pond, you pull the pistol from your waistband and cock back the top. It makes a satisfying clicking noise and looks similar to what I’ve seen on Law & Order reruns after school. When you pull the trigger there’s a reverberating Ping! and a neon fleck flies out into the water. I can’t wait to get my hands on the gun. You shoot it again, this time at a squirrel running along the branch of a tree. The animal scampers away unscathed and we’re both relieved.

You hand me the pistol and I cock it like Axel Foley in Beverly Hills Cop, ducking behind a small bush as if it were a burned out car being fired on by assassins. Distracted, I don’t see you pull the firecracker out of your pocket, light it, wind up and chuck it in the air. It goes off above my head with an impossibly loud bang and we both scream then sprint back to your house. We hide in the darkness of your garage, like wanted felons.

Years after you die, Radiohead’s “Jigsaw Falling Into Place” plays through my headphones as I drift off in bed and dream about your funeral.

Everything’s preserved. The church we used to attend. The grassy hill. The red stone wall along the main street. The outdated gymnasium with yellow floors and brown trim. And the hulking youth group bus that would break down on long rides, puffing smoke into our eyes through overhead AC units. Even the ushers look the same, standing at the double doors our families walked through every Sunday for the late service. Our fathers look crisp in pressed ties, cheeks bright pink from a close shave. The steps where we were confirmed are covered in the same ugly green carpeting.

I’m looking at everything from above, pressed to the ceiling, tucked up behind the slow-spinning ceiling fans. There’s an open casket sitting on stage with your body wrapped tightly in its womb. I watch our youth minister, our friends and families, as they rapidly age.

Your mom, with greying hair, collapses on stage like a pierced gladiator, buckling and slashing underneath the overflowing congregation. I fall from my perch and wake up sweating, surprised you’re still on my mind.

In sixth grade, you sit down at the lunch table wearing a baggy black hoodie dotted in small circular pins, all red, black and grey. When I comment on how cool I think it is, you seem almost embarrassed, unsure of how the sweatshirt suits you.

“I saw Green Day last night,” you say, quietly. Maybe you know I’ll be jealous. I am, of course, but I also know that to see Green Day, my favorite band, is so far outside the realm of possibility that I barely let my envy register.

At 12 years old, my parents would never consider letting me go to a real concert, not for a band whose newest CD features a bleeding heart grenade on the cover.

Spiked hair, studs, thrashing guitar, and angsty anti-authority lyrics has been my M.O. ever since Good Charlotte came out with their career defining album, The Young and The Hopeless in 2002. But while I want so badly to imitate these tattooed pop-punk pioneers, I’m well aware that I can’t actually look like them. I’m not allowed.

The closest I get to self expression is a T-shirt my great aunt from Canada sends me of a skateboarding monkey sliding down a rail on his crotch with the phrase, “Don’t Forget Your Cup” written out across the chest. The other shirt she sends me — of Harry Potter smoking a skinny joint (“Harry Potter and the Sorcerer is Stoned”) — is kept captive somewhere in my parents’ closet.

The year I turn 30, I dream about you for the fifth or sixth time.

We’re in a dark room with red and blue spotlights hitting a small stage-slash-bandshell; the nightclub somehow resembles where we graduated high school.

The place is packed. You’re playing your own funeral, sitting on a chair and strumming a guitar, looping yourself with a pedalboard at your feet. I stand in the back trying to focus on the music but I can’t hear you well enough. I can’t feel your presence as much as I want to. You just sit there, hunched over the guitar, plucking chords until a soundscape emerges and engulfs you, all red and blue. You don’t speak between songs. You take on a holographic state.

When the concert is over you evaporate. I fling open the door to the street. It’s sunny and bright. We’re on a sidewalk, the two of us, talking but not really saying anything; you’re speaking a language I’ve never heard before. Your mom pulls up in her blue Dodge Durango, the same car she had when we were kids, and you climb in.

Before I wake up, I’m standing in the street watching the car drive away.

The bitter, minty smell of Listerine is pungent as we wriggle out of our shorts, revealing boxers spotted in hockey sticks or baseball mitts or little beagles playing cards.

There are glass spheres standing between each sink. They’re filled with black plastic combs wading in pints of Barbicide. When I was younger, I cupped the blue liquid into my blonde hair as if it were dye (an earnest attempt at appearing like my punk-rock idols) but it ran into my eyes and made me scream. My mom had to rush me home and wash my eyes out in the bathtub, fearing I’d go blind.

But now we are 13 and know better.

We know which peoples’ lockers are open, which ones have books of matches we can use to light stuff on fire in the woods, and, more importantly, which ones have the big bottles of Head & Shoulders hidden inside — a thicker, smoother alternative to the pink body wash loaded into the hanging shower dispensers.

The shower stalls don’t have doors but you don’t care. You ditch your boxers and plop down on the tile floor. Water runs down your legs toward the communal drain. You don’t warm up. You just start jerking off, no mercy.

“Here!” you say, sliding the bottle of shampoo across the slick turquoise floor. I snatch it up and face the wall, squeezing a healthy amount of gel into my right hand.

I’m embarrassed by your showmanship. I choose to stand under the shower head and slip my hand below my wet shorts, working in private. But I’m also desperately curious. I hear myself yell, “Is it working?” over the sound of running water. You let out a howl and I can’t help but spin around to see that grin of yours, you are beaming. I guess what they said in health class was true.

“Are you awake? Colin, wake up.”

My eyes force open. Sitting on the edge of my twin bed is my mom. She wears the same stone-cold expression as a TV detective interrogating a disgruntled suspect. I’m disoriented, having already fallen asleep. I cringe and turn slowly to my alarm clock. It glows red—2:22 AM.

“Colin, look at me.” My mom shakes my shoulder. “What is wrong with you?”

“Whaddya mean…?” My voice is a low rasp.

A pair of chunky Skullcandy headphones press tightly against my neck. I struggle to remove them, but eventually pry them loose and toss them to the floor. The lime-green cord descends like an escape ladder at a house fire.

“What do you mean?” I choke. “I’m fine.”

“You are not fine.” She glares down at her 14-year-old son, her spidey senses tingling. Although my mom pursued a career in interior design, she majored in criminal science at college and always dreamed of being a private eye. Tonight, I learn that she’s equipped for either profession.

“The second we got in the door, you threw open the cupboard and grabbed a box of Cheez-Its and a box of Pop Tarts and ran down to the basement. What was that?”

“I was just hungry,” I say, my eyes mere slivers. The headphones, which are still connected to my iPod, broadcast the ghostly din of Thom Yorke’s vocals from somewhere on my floor: Just as you dance, dance, dance…

“Colin, I’m serious. I smelled something in the car when I picked you guys up tonight. Don’t lie to me.”

She keeps questioning and I keep denying until there’s a long uncomfortable pause. A breaking point. I know I’ve got to give her something.

“Okay okay,” I say, inching my body upright against the wall behind me. “We may have smoked a littttle weed.” The words feel impossible in my mouth, like chewing glass. I can’t believe it’s come to this. “I’m sorry.”

“Colin,” she says, staring me down. “It smelled like booze.”

Fuck.

The next day, after school, you and I change into shorts and lace up our muddy sneakers in the parking lot, preparing for a few hours of hell: cross country practice — a team we’ll both be kicked off of senior year due to our tendency to skip races and smoke joints in the woods. Gravel crunches beneath our feet as we fall back behind the pack of skinny boys. I fill you in on my confession.

“Dude, you’re such an idiot! Why did you say that?!”

“She caught me off guard, man, what was I supposed to do? You’re lucky I convinced her not to call your mom.”

You shrug, panting. “I guess that’s true. I can’t even imagine what my mom would have said, not that it would have mattered.” For a moment, we run down the mile-long path in silence. “Hey, we had a good time, though. Amanda was so fucking cool, I think I’m gonna ask her out.”

“Well have fun at homecoming, cuz there’s no way my parents are going to let me go.”

“Ha! Sucks, bro. But at least both your eyebrows are still there.”

“Shut up. That pipe of yours is dangerous, dude. I thought I singed my face off when I took a hit.”

“Wait,” you say, suddenly serious. “Do you think your mom hates me?”

I laugh at how much you suddenly care.

“No. But you’re definitely not her favorite right now.”

You slow down. You look crushed.

Sophomore year of college.

I’m in the library past midnight deleting the same paragraph over and over, trying to write a short story for my intro to fiction class. About to give up and return to my cramped dorm room, I remember something: the deal you cooked up with one of the lifeguards at the country club pool. Your mom’s oxycodone for weed.

As I begin to type, I remember that lifeguard. He was in his early twenties and spoke like he didn’t give a fuck. Sure. Whatever. His chest was shaved, his swollen muscles a fitting canvas for the two rottweilers with bloodied fangs tattooed on his back, like Edward Norton in American History X. He was eventually fired for a DUI, his second in the span of a year.

The dog tats freaked me out, but I could tell you were impressed. You saw something in the lifeguard that mattered to you.

Perhaps the day you and he made your first trade, in the back of the men’s bathroom, where as kids we’d spent time before swim meets, swapping swim trunks for jammers, was also the day I could feel something begin to split.

I watched you follow the dog fangs into the bathroom and reemerge smelling of skunk, the older guard still shirtless, donning thick black shades and a whistle, which he twirled around his finger as he traipsed down the gauzy steps to the white plastic chair hanging high over the deep end.

“He crushed up the pills and snorted them right off the counter,” you said, in awe. I felt like I was trapped in a real-life D.A.R.E module. Not only were you pedaling opioids, but you had stolen them from your mom’s medicine cabinet.

As a kid, there are great forces at work. The inability to travel freely. A lack of funds. The deep-seated fear of disappointment. And parental guidance, in whatever form it takes. But as teenagers, the firewalls to adulthood begin to melt away.

In the story I am writing, the protagonist is part jacked lifeguard, part you, and part me. On a sunny day when the pool is packed with people, he climbs the slick ladder to the high-dive, walks to the end of the board and jumps, launching himself into a perfect swan dive. While airborne, the drugs hit, and there he goes, down into the depths of his trip.

Later that semester, my story is published in the college literary journal. At the journal release party I stand behind a boxy podium and read my words for a small crowd of professors and English majors. I don’t expect anyone to laugh; this is serious stuff. But people are in hysterics. I force myself to laugh along, happy to entertain. Happy to separate myself from the reality of that sketchy lifeguard, the alarms in my head, and you on that off-kilter day.

Not long after that strange day at the pool, I feel compelled to confide in an adult. So, like a dweeb, one day after school I go to see our youth minister, The Rev. We meet at a crowded coffee shop down the street from the church.

A year out from smoking weed for the first time (with you), I probably think the stuff’s more deviant than I should. But I’m staring down the barrel of a new era. High school starts in the fall and I’m doing what I can to convince myself that you and I won’t start to drift once the summer ends.

As The Rev tries to offer some advice, I try and listen. But there’s a song playing over the coffeehouse speakers with an eerie acoustic guitar strum. The vocals are haunting and the drums are metronomic, with quick, perfectly timed fills. I’m mesmerized. I pull my phone out under the table and open Shazam.

Later that day, I check the app and see “Jigsaw Falling Into Place,” by Radiohead. I listen to the song on repeat in my room.

After I graduate college, over a year since you’d passed, I come back to visit my mom and set up another meeting with The Rev. I haven’t attended church since high school and I no longer identify as a religious person, but it’s comforting to reconnect with someone who not only knew you but also led your funeral service.

From behind his cluttered desk The Rev, now with graying hair, shakes his head and says, “I keep thinking back to that chat we had when you guys were in middle school; it didn’t seem like a huge deal at the time, just a little weed and whatnot—adolescent experimentation. But I might have been wrong.”

I don’t know what to say. Aside from a couple of rumors I’d heard about a laced drug you’d bought online, there’s nothing definitive in your obit; I still don’t know exactly how you died.

I’m rummaging through the albums in my apartment, looking for something to play while lounging on the couch. In a pile on the floor, I stumble upon my roommate’s copy of In Rainbows and start with the B-side, placing the needle down gently in the groove of the fourth track: “Jigsaw Falling Into Place.”

It still sounds as good as it did during my meeting with The Rev. It sounds as ominous as it did during my mom’s interrogation, and as elucidating as it did in my bed as I drifted off into an imagining of your funeral, which, in real life, I never attended.

I slide out the liner notes and read the lyrics as the song plays out.

Just as they play your favourite song
As your bad day disappears
No longer wound up like a spring
Before you’ve had too much
Come back in focus again…

Before you comatose
Before you run away from me
Before you’re lost between the notes.

You got the light you can feel it on your back
Your jigsaw falling into place

Thinking of you, the words almost seem too on the nose. I wonder if you ever heard this song when you were alive. Did you even like Radiohead?

Moments after I finish reading my story in college, and step down from the podium, I decide to bury you forever, whether I know it or not. In fiction.

But, as it goes, when you die, I’m forced to dig you up.

That’s why I’m dialed in, blissing out in my mom’s yard. For the first time in months, I’m not stuck obsessing about my future as an unemployed English major, or contemplating my probable OCD, or running through endless versions of who I might become in “the real world.” For a drawn-out moment, I forget my own debilitating fictions and dive back into the past, with you:

I remember the first burn of liquor down the back of my throat. Raspberry Smirnoff. You pull the bottle casually from the back of the snack kart, a four-wheeled off-white machine stocked with booze, and I’m surprised to see it parked out here on the 7th tee, unmanned, its small black tires resting on a carpet of brilliant green.

And each row of bottles is stuck with silver pour spouts, shimmering pink and orange under a creamsicle sky.

“Let’s just take one swig each,” you say, using the tips of your fingers to pry off the spout.

And after a few seconds, there’s a pop as the spout’s black rubber base squeezes out of the bottle and falls to the ground. You raise the circle of glass to your lips and tilt the comically large vessel toward a row of swaying pines, their dark tips just blocking the setting sun.

And as the clear liquid hits your tongue, your eyes become slivers, your whole face a scrunched mess, like the cartoon guy on Warheads wrappers. But sucking sour candy looks different; this new act involves swallowing air through your teeth, like something’s burning or you just stubbed your toe. Eventually, you hand me the bottle, mustering enough of a breath to smile. “Not bad,” you choke.

And I’m at Camp Jewell with our fifth grade class, playing bystander to your first kiss. You and Meg on the rounded dock at dusk. I’m descending the wooden steps as another couple guides you two toward the water. The hierarchy has never been clearer; these preteen ushers have been dating longer and are to be trusted as experts. The excitement on your grinning face is tangible. I want it for myself. We want the same things.

And, it’s two years later, I’m listening to Brittany describe your “real” first kiss, which went down in the stairwell of a University of Tennessee dorm. She laughs and says you were awkward, that you bear-hugged her. The next day, I’ll wrap my arms around Kate in the middle of the massive university pool, noticing the goosebumps on her bare skin as you make us blush with ceaseless commentary — Dang, look at you two!

And it’s there, in Tennessee, on a summer church trip, in the sticky southern heat, where I witness someone so comfortable in their own skin. Each afternoon, you walk around our shared room butt-naked, eating Peach-O’s from the plastic bag, yammering on about Brittany and whether she actually likes you or not.

Because of this, we are late to every “God-Is-Great” activity. All week, we pace back and forth in front of elevator doors, arguing whether or not bashing the down arrow will make a steel box plummet faster.

The news of your death travels fast. My phone erupts with texts and voicemails from people we knew when we were kids. I’m not sure how to tell them about us. How time poured between us like wet cement. The thought makes me dizzy. Days later, I flake out on your funeral and head back to school.

It’s becoming clear to me now that your death gradually shifted the way I think about memory. Nowadays, I see the act of remembering as a natural resource. Like focusing on the breath during a panic attack. For me, in moments of severe change, you remain a beacon, something I can grasp for.

It’s simple, really; remembering you helps me remember myself.

It’s one year after your funeral when I decide I need to see your parents.

Your mom’s hair is just as straight and white-blonde as it always was. Your dad is just as comforting and kind.

Inside your house, I give them both big hugs and they lead me into the renovated kitchen. The new island is huge—white marble. It looks different and I’m relieved. We sit on three wooden stools and your dad hands me a Corona with a lime wedged in the top. I think about the bottles of cheap liquor you and I used to sneak into the basement and smile.

“He was so close to graduating,” your mom says, flipping through a photo album someone made of you. The pages are brightly colored. She’s grinning, your mom, looking down at a picture of you posing on a sand dune, a wall of spiky grasses behind you. “He was majoring in Environmental Science.”

“That’s so cool,” I say, jarred by how little I know about your final years. I’d heard you transferred schools at some point but I couldn’t say where. Regardless, it feels good to see your face again. Your slanted smile framed by plump dimples, your squinty eyes and that wave of shaggy brown hair. In later pictures, a thin hemp necklace with a singular bead hugs your skin.

As we chat about the past, I can’t shake what The Rev mentioned earlier in our meeting. That you were home for spring break as well and passed away upstairs. That your mom found you cold in your childhood bed.

You had a bad heart, she tells me now. I don’t ask her to elaborate. Instead, I think about your American Idiot hoodie for the first time since sixth grade. Specifically that heart-shaped grenade and the firecracker you once launched into the air above my head.

After I say goodbye, I decide to drive the long way around your block, spotting a bench in the same place we once fired that pistol years ago. It’s rooted on the edge of the pond, overlooking an island of water lilies. The metal bench reflects the afternoon sunlight in sharp unmoving bursts. I stop the car and get out. There’s an inscription dedicated to you, it’s carved into a sign hanging on a tree branch: “Buddy’s Bench. To all of those who find joy in nature.”

Days before we start high school, my family invites you to stay with us at a rental cottage on the Connecticut shore. The cottage is over a century old, a house of wooden beams, creaking floors, and countless ghost stories. You arrive at night.

As your mom backs out of the driveway, I motion for you to drop your bag and follow me down the hall.

In the screen porch on the back of the house I unhinge a painted clasp between two warped windows and push them open. A cool breeze hits our faces as smells of salt and beachgrass seize the room.

You look out. It’s all water, but you don’t see it yet. An endless black ocean. Your eyes are still adjusting. A glowing strip of foam rises and falls, a small wave breaks on the shore, and I watch the whites of your eyes expand. In a soft voice, you say, “Woah.”

I’m in my thirties now and I’m still dreaming of you. It happened again the other night.

This time, we’re at a community college in Santa Monica. It’s my first time in California. As I pass the campus on the way to the beach, I notice someone in a Quicksilver hoodie walking between classes. It looks just like you. I know you’ve been dead for a decade, but I spend the rest of my vacation following the student around. Tracking him like a private eye.

My suspicions are correct! It’s you. You’ve been out here this whole time. Alive.

Feeling deceived, I confront you. You explain that you had no other choice. A life-changing opportunity arose, your mom sent you to California and covered everything up back home after you left town. This was for the best.

You’re an adult now, but your eyes contain the same spirit of your old kid self. I believe you.

Boarding my flight back to New York I feel a genuine comfort in knowing that I can come back and see you whenever I want.

When I wake up, I know that much is true.

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While teaching creative writing classes for high school students, I would always begin the semester with an exercise based on Joe Brainard’s cult classic, I Remember…an 167-page collection of random single-sentence memories mined from his personal past.

Here’s what it looks like:

As you can see, Brainard developed a unique and wildly creative approach to the human act of remembering.

Fifty years since its publication, I Remember… demonstrates how recalling the viscera involved in our life-long observations — no matter how awesome or mundane — can highlight what we keep for ourselves.

Like someone shepherding you across a river at night, Brainard’s writing nudges us across the vastness of our minds until we eventually reach a space bright enough to get up and walk around. We suddenly become explorers of our own lives.

Here are some lines I found in Brainard’s book that center around sound:

I remember the organ music from “As The World Turns.”

I remember the sound of the ice cream man coming.

I remember “The Bop”

I remember the first time I saw Elvis Presley. It was on the Ed Sullivan Show.

I remember Judy Garland singing “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas (so sad) in Meet Me In St. Louis.

I remember how much rock and roll music can hurt. It can be so free and sexy when you are not.

I remember Leadbelly records smaller than most records.

It’s been a while since I taught a creative class. But for fun, I wanted to apply this same tactic to my personal timeworn relationship to music.

As you read through my memories, I’m sure you’ll remember things as well.

I remember telling my 2nd grade classmates that when I grow up I want to be a rockstar.

I remember my mom singing along to The Sound of Music.

I remember not being able to whistle.

I remember telling my mom to repeat the song from the backseat of her car as we idled in the driveway on a rainy afternoon. I do not remember the song.

I remember listening to Good Charlotte’s The Young & the Hopeless CD on repeat from inside a dark green clothes hamper on the floor of my parents bedroom until my dad got home from work.

I remember being impressed with my dad when he came home one night from work and surprised me with Backstreet Boys’ Black & Blue.

I remember how difficult it was to peel off the barcode tape on the edge of a new CD.

I remember balancing my portable CD player on the nearest “flat” surface so the music didn’t skip.

I remember my yellow and black walkman and a shoebox full of cassettes.

I remember Sum 41’s Half Hour Of Power. For years, I couldn’t guess what the album opener was called because it was edited: “Grab The Devil By The Horns And **** Him Up The ***.”

I remember looking up at my grandma, confused, as she asked the music store employee if the CD I wanted (Lil’ J’s All About J) had any “curses” on it.

I remember my dad’s stack of unopened country CDs in the back corner of the cabinet under the TV. “I went through a country phase,” he said.

I remember passing our local music store, Strawberries, and feeling desperate for my mom to turn the car around.

I remember a life-size cardboard cutout of Coldplay and my mom buying Rush Of Blood To The Head.

I remember American Idiot being the first unedited CD my mom agreed to buy me with a Parental Advisory label in the bottom left corner.

I remember errands. Listening to 99.1 PLR and 105.9 The River with my dad as we drove to the dry cleaner’s and the hardware store on Saturday afternoons in Spring. Windows down.

I remember picking out the music for family dinner.

I remember the Woodstock documentary blowing my mind.

I remember being jealous of the kid in Almost Famous.

I remember thinking John Cusack’s character in High Fidelity was cool, then years later realizing he was mostly just pathetic.

I remember listening to my headphones so loud at night my mom could hear the music down the hall in her bedroom.

I remember my over-the-ear Skullcandy headphones with the lime green spiral cord that bounced back and forth when I walked.

I remember being frightened of album covers in the Heavy Metal section. Especially Disturbed’s The Sickness.

I remember the giant Who poster above my dresser. The band draped in a British flag.

I remember going to Walmart with my dad to buy a blueberry-colored Sony boombox.

I remember “borrowing” Led Zeppelin and Jethro Tull and Guess Who CDs from giant filing cabinet in my dad’s office and never giving them back.

I remember wanting to be a rapper.

I remember wanting to be a shoeless hippie at Woodstock. (Still do.)

I remember the older I got, the more I liked songs my parents liked.

I remember Blalock’s Indie Rock Playlists (BIRP!). Two-hundred-and-fifty song mixes of “emerging” music you could download all at once.

I remember buying “Money” by Pink Floyd on iTunes.

I remember David helping convince my mom to buy me an iPod.

I remember playing Ben Folds’ “The Luckiest” for my adult neighbor Kelly, making her cry, then not knowing what to do.

I remember having a crush on Avril Lavigne.

I remember wanting to play the drums. (Still do.)

I remember the stereo overheating.

I remember dressing up as Ozzy Osbourne for Halloween and continuing to wear the studded leather bracelets to school without my parents knowing.

I remember wanting to look punk. I tried dyeing my hair blue with the Barbicide in a men’s locker room but I got some of the toxic blue liquid in my right eye and started scream-crying.

I remember getting the chills while listening to music in bed at night.

I remember the chills never getting old.

I remember scouring music blogs after school.

I remember Aries and Limewire and Pirate Bay.

I remember my dad having to take our home computer to Staples because of Aries and Limewire and Pirate Bay.

I remember the giant stack of blank CDs my dad bought me with “extreme” sports people on them. Eventually, I used them all.

I remember burning new mixes for the car even if it was just for a 15 minute ride across town.

I remember backing down the driveway with Scotty the first time he ever got stoned. I blasted “I’m God” by Clams Casino so loud the car shook.

I remember the last day I spent with my great uncle Glenn before he died. He brought me down to his storage unit and gave me a pile of thick-cut Victor records from the 1930s wrapped up in leather bound books.

I remember watching music videos with my babysitter.

I remember how turned on I got the first time I heard The Weeknd’s “Wicked Games.”

I remember waking up to birdsong.

I remember Chris wearing his Dispatch t-shirt on the playground in 6th grade. I thought he looked very cool in his all-blue outfit.

I remember blasting Three Days Grace’s “I Hate Everything About You” when my parents wouldn’t let me have a girl over.

I remember seeing Blink 182 in a summer rain storm. The muddy lawn became a graveyard for lost flip flops.

I remember working lights and sound at a fringe theater in London. The director told me to play Chet Baker between scenes in his gritty rendition of a Tennessee Williams play about a whorehouse.

I remember drinking too much red wine one night before one of the shows, playing Chet Baker, and fucking up the cues.

I remember my mom buying me two records for my 18th birthday. The White Album with the original white vinyl and Beatles portraits, and Steely Dan’s Can’t Buy A Thrill.

I remember it took me a couple more years to actually enjoy Steely Dan.

I remember Jeff Spicoli dancing to “Wooly Bully” at prom.

I remember Ferris Bueller lip syncing “Danke Schoen” and “Twist & Shout.”

I remember listening to “Dreams” while it thundered outside.

I remember listening to “Mother Nature’s Son” with Sean and Kevin in a car in a field during a lightning storm before the last day of high school.

I remember listening to Bob Marley’s “Kaya” on vinyl after cleaning the apartment.

I remember cleaning my apartment to Black Sabbath’s Paranoid.

I remember listening to Bob Dylan croon “It Ain’t Me, Babe” while it poured rain on a summer evening, windows open.

I remember lugging my speakers into the bathroom whenever I took a shower.

I remember making out with Leah while “Teenage Dirtbag” played in the background. Her sister walked in.

I remember seeing Wayne Coin crowd-surf inside a translucent plastic ball. Twice.

I remember Fredo puking in the parking lot after a Flaming Lips concert because the light show was too crazy.

I remember buying my first Sony turntable on Amazon and being amazed that it arrived so fast. It was silver with fake wood panelling and built-in speakers.

I remember finding The Who’s Tommy in the back of my grandmother’s attic.

I remember my neighbor Devin playing explicitly sexual R&B while his mom — a math teacher — drove us to high school.

I remember Ben Folds playing four encores with The Boston Symphony.

I remember my stepdad John with his eyes closed, dancing alone in the living room.

I remember drives to my grandma’s on Christmas Eve and turning up the radio every time “Dominick The Donkey” came on. My dad and I would “eee-ahhh” on cue.

I remember reading Blossom Dearie’s name on the menu at a Taiwanese tea house in Greenwich Village. “Sunday Afternoon” played in my head.

I remember rocking out to Cat Empire’s “Two Shoes” on Bushy Hill Road with Kevin in his beat-up Volvo.

I remember discovering Pink Floyd’s Animals at the Trading Post with Sean and Kevin. We spent the rest of the day driving down dirt roads in the forest, saying “Oh my god, this is so fucking good.”

I remember stuffing unnamed cassette tapes in the pockets of my pea coat on a London street corner.

I remember Ben becoming synonymous with the band Phoenix.

I remember Jeff insisting that I learn “Summer, Highland Falls” on the piano and I still haven’t.

I remember Ben being the first person I knew to show me Pandora.

I remember Dan’s parents telling him he listened to the devil’s music but it was just the Arctic Monkeys.

I remember Dan teaching himself to play bass.

I remember wanting to jam but not knowing how.

I remember Neil Young’s “Harvest” and blurry fields of cherry blossoms in upstate New York.

I remember the transformative aesthetic effect of a new record sleeve.

I remember John Lennon’s face on my wall.

I remember a group of girls at a diner asking me if I was Yung Gravy.

I remember needing to turn it up.

I remember being ordered to turn it down, please.

I remember waking up with a song in my head.

I remember air-drumming to “Seven Nation Army” for at least three years straight.

I remember playing “Re: Stacks” at an indoor track meet. While tying my sneakers, a teammate told me that Bon Iver wasn’t pump-up music.

I remember “The Last Waltz.” Neil Young’s cocaine booger and Van Morrison’s unflatteringly tight jumper.

I remember silent discos with big steins of beer.

I remember Dan falling and crushing a lamp while dancing to LCD Soundsystem’s “Dance Yrself Clean.”

I remember my piano teacher Julie’s blue and orange house.

I remember my mom going out after dinner to see Cher.

I remember Kidz Bop and Now (That’s What I Call Music).

I remember wearing a hand-me-down Shaq Laker’s Jersey and feeling like Aaron Carter (RIP).

I remember trying to dance with tall girls at bar mitzvahs.

I remember the Teen Center. A steamy room in a rundown shopping mall where horny tweens would grind in the dark.

I remember Akon and Young Jeezy.

I remember “Smack That.”

I remember Ms. Robinson, the 8th grade history teacher, grabbing a Lil’ Jon CD from her car when the DJ didn’t show up to the school dance.

I remember driving friends to parties just so I could pick the music.

I remember listening to Spoon in the tube.

I remember Snoop Dogg coming out 40 minutes late and lighting a blunt.

I remember a security guard reaching into my waistband and confiscating my weed at Terminal 5.

I remember a security guard smelling my Gatorade bottle and kicking us out of line.

I remember sneaking back into line and seeing The Kooks.

I remember fixing silence with a hum.

I remember Marilyn Manson removing a rib to blow himself.

I remember Ciara being trans.

I remember the 27 club.

I remember Val Kilmer as Jim Morrison even though I never saw the movie.

I remember hoping the next song would fit the vibe.

I remember my grandma’s favorite song was “Mack The Knife.”

I remember digging “Mack The Knife.”

I remember the James Taylor Christmas album.

I remember the Scooby Doo movie soundtrack. (“She’s a brick houuuuuse.”)

I remember when Scotty asked who’s Nirvana?

I remember the first time I heard Cindy Lee’s Diamond Jubilee.

I remember having a disposable camera that added images of NSYNC at the bottom of ever developed photo.

I remember Velvet Revolver and their song that went, “Somebody raped my tapeworm abortion…”

I remember identifying songs on a CD by their track number.

I remember my dad telling me he also liked Simple Plan and thinking woah.

I remember the way my ears would ring after shows at the Java Barn.

I remember getting up in the middle of sex to flip the record.

I remember seeing Robert Plant’s golden curls glow under a spotlight.

I remember being at the edge of a mosh pit.

I remember my first King Gizzard show. From the bleachers we watched hundreds of fans sit down and row the air in unison as if they were on a viking ship headed straight to hell.

I remember telling people “that was the best show I’ve ever seen” so many times.

I remember The McLovins filling a hot barn with screaming fans.

I remember being confused seeing “noise rock” in a garage at UCONN.

I remember making up lyrics to pop-country songs playing on my boss’s radio.

I remember not knowing the lyrics. (I never do.)

I remember thinking “Our Little Town” by Blaze Foley at the Austin Outhouse is the most intimate song that’s ever been recorded.

I remember hiding the fact that I played the piano from everyone at school.

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Our old stereo now lives in a 70s-style wet bar.

As I drag the chairs in from off the balcony and slam the screen door, my dad slides a remastered version of Led Zeppelin from its crisp new sleeve, placing it gently on the turntable.

I watch his hands as they remember the mechanics of the task, a past ritual.

It’s the summer of 2014 and Zeppelin’s septuagenarian guitar god Jimmy Page is in the process of remastering the band’s entire catalog from the original analog tapes.

Over the next few years, Page, who believed Zeppelin MP3s sounded “ridiculous,” will reissue new mixes on vinyl with original cover art and sleeve designs, as well as deluxe editions featuring live concert recordings from back in the day.

Like holographic Pokemon cards, these vinyl releases will all be marked with a small silver sticker depicting the mythological angel Icarus writhing in pain after he flew too close to the sun. It’s a symbol the band enacted in 1974 for their own record label, Swan Song Records.

By sending these refurbished recordings out into the world, Page is rehashing a vintage pastime. He’s stoking excitement in the aging hearts of OG fans (including his own), while also trying to bond with a new generation.

And, in a way, my dad’s doing the same.

In the 1970s, my grandfather donated my dad’s record collection to the Salvation Army when he was away at college. Sometimes I dream of those albums drifting around out there in record stores and on other people’s shelves, maybe even on mine.

But now, for the first time in over 30 years, my dad is rebuilding his collection. This decision draws a direct link between the two of us, and essentially becomes a lifeline during a dark time.

I’m already a few years into collecting records, Zeppelin’s Houses of the Holy being my first.

Throughout the second half of high school I’d amassed a short stack of vinyl — old and new — which I lugged up to college in a transparent purple IKEA cubby covered in skate stickers and played for curious homesick freshman like myself.

By the time I was done with finals and prepping to move back home for the summer, I noticed that my collection had magically expanded. Random stops at local flea markets and thrift stores resulted in a row of multicolored spines running along the top of my dresser, bookended by the foot of my bed and my roommate’s microwave.

But while I was away at school, accumulating records, my parents were seven hours south finalizing their divorce, dividing up their belongings, and shedding nonessential possessions for open-houses and an imminent move.

Being back in my hometown without my home is strange.

My mom rented a room for us in a hotel across town where I live out of a suitcase and sleep on a pull-out couch. You could say I have a newfound appreciation for my old house, but unlike the “Overview Effect” that orbiting astronauts experience when viewing Earth from thousands of miles away, my emotions manifest in a desperate nostalgia that will ebb and flow for years.

If my dad is trying to lure me to his one-bedroom apartment with the new turntable he picked up from Best Buy, it’s working. And thank god. The most grounded I’ll feel all summer may be in front of this stereo, the two of us sharing a pizza from Harry, spinning records.

When the needle drops on Led Zeppelin, the speakers let out a warm nostalgic fuzz. My dad and I sink into our seats.

The patio chairs, which for years lived in my family’s backyard, are a crisscross of plastic strips that imprint Xs on our backs and thighs. Our bare feet sweat into the new wall-to-wall carpeting.

“Why don’t you go grab us a coupla beers?” he says, looking over at me.

I can’t tell if I hear correctly.

“Beers?”

“Yeah, there’s a case of Sam Summer in the fridge.”

I try to act cool, but this is a first for us. I’m still a few years from 21 and we’ve yet to crack the cap off the formative-father-son-drinking-together-experience.

“Sure thing, dawg.” (Sometimes we call each other dawg.)

As I make my way toward the kitchen, two power chords ring out through the brightly lit apartment. John Bonham’s drums build as Robert Plant’s banshee vocals emerge, high-pitched and defiant, ricocheting off the bare walls.

My father sings along from his chair.

In the dayyyys of my youth
I was told what it was to be a man

His voice is soft, low, and in tune, just like it was when I was a child. He used to sit on the edge of my bed and croon “I’ve Been Working On the Railroad” until I fell asleep.

Now I’ve reached the age
I’ve tried to do all those things the best I cannnnn…

Good times, bad times
You know I had my share
When my woman left home with a brown-eyed man…

The apartment still smells like the last tenant, an octogenarian smoker whose death made way for oatmeal-colored carpeting, fresh paint and the lingering scent of a well-used ashtray. I wonder if the people who moved into our house can smell us too.

To get to the kitchen, I have to pass the long oak table my parents and I used to sit at every night for dinner. My dad also has the game chest Mom picked up on a family trip, and the two cream-colored club chairs with olive stripes that used to face the television.

A framed portrait of my grandfather as a younger man leans up against the wall.

I stare at it. His pale-pink face is clean-shaven, his dark hair combed neatly and parted down the side. Clear, focused eyes. A mirror image of my dad when I was young. Some mornings before school, before the sun was up, I’d catch a glimpse of him in the hallway, glistening and professional and ready for work.

Dad stops singing, yells over the music. “Yo! Ya get lost?”

“One sec!”

The kitchen is a large empty room wrapped in metallic gift-wrap wallpaper, as if duct tape has been pulled taught and applied in perfect diagonals. The fridge purrs. I open the door and the amber bottles inside shimmer in the empty white light.

Aside from a case of beer, there’s nothing but condiments. A tube of French’s yellow mustard, Heinz ketchup, and a little thing of Tabasco with a red crust lining the crease in the cap.

When I was a kid and something was lost, my dad would tell me the same thing: Think back to when you last had it. Retrace your steps.

We would do it together, marching up and down the house in search of sunglasses and keys, CDs and action figures. And after a while, there it’d be, the missing object flattened beneath couch cushions or wedged deep within a jacket pocket, somehow still intact and back in my palm.

But this practical act of search-and-rescue no longer seems to work. I’m not interested in finding a lost object. I’m searching for a moment in time. A whole era that has tragically disappeared.

Until I left for college, it was my job to set the sonic tone for dinner. I’d sift through our family’s CD collection, located in a cabinet underneath the TV, and load a spontaneous assortment into the disc changer: Rom-com soundtracks, classic rock anthems, Red Hot Chili Peppers’ Greatest Hits, Haddaway’s “What Is Love” — the mix would drift out while we ate and chatted about our days.

Now I can’t remember when we’d divided up the hundreds of CDs. Packing up the house was a dizzy gray-blue blur. My stack now lives in the backseat of my car, I know that, and my dad’s assortment is displayed above the turntable in a neat row, drawing, for the first time, a clear distinction between what has always been his and what hasn’t.

Unfortunately, in my quest to reclaim a life that is melting away, a time when our belongings — the CDs, the speakers, the furniture — are all together under one roof, I’d found something that only beckons more questions.

Cracking the cap off our first father-son brewski, I can’t tell if I should bring it up. My discovery: two wads of cash. Crisp pale-green paper asphyxiated by thin rubber bands, stuffed into my dad’s sock drawer.

A historically predictable engineer, my dad has grown mysterious, forfeiting his 9pm bedtime for a nightlife I’ve imagined from the mattress set up against his living-room wall. One night, when nothing convincing materialized, I became squirrely and started opening drawers.

The bills felt like lead weights, hundreds lining the outside of each roll. Theories multiplied. Dad’s double lives.

But I still can’t figure out how to ask about the money and won’t for years to come. At this point, it all feels too exhausting. I want to know the truth, but I’m not ready to try.

So the two of us raise our bottles and cheers. To a new ritual. A temporary way of life.

Seated in front of the record player, drinking slowly, we sing the final verse of “Good Times, Bad Times” in our heads (Sure do wish I was at home…) and fixate on the album cover — a doomed German blimp bursting into flames.

For the next 42 minutes, my dad and I enjoy ourselves, listening to the songs we already know.

Listen to “Good Times, Bad Times” here:)

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All Aboard

Decades before Ozzy Osbourne became the Prince of Darkness, my grandfather was drunk in a warm living room shouting Alllllll ABOARRRRD while his daughters, tucked into bed upstairs, tried to sleep.

“It was always a late night thing, the cocktails were big-time and he would get those train sounds going at full volume,” my mom tells me over the phone. “It sounded like the house was coming down.”

During the parties her parents would throw in the 1960s, this was my grandfather’s shtick. A devoted train enthusiast, Sturman (or “Sturm” to his friends) would drift toward the turntable with a gin martini and a vinyl record, ready to crank the volume for his unsuspecting guests.

“He’d pretend that you were really there, on the railroad,” my aunt says. “I think it drove Mom crazy.”

At the time, my aunt Robin thought it was bizarre that her father’s record collection was filled with chuggachuggas and choochoos, while her friends’ dads were spinning Dean Martin and Louis Armstrong.

Now, five years older than her father ever was, Robin finds herself searching YouTube for train sounds late at night. Videos that loop for hours so she can relax and finally get some sleep.

Introductions

I’ve never met my grandfather. He died in 1991, three years before I was born.

But I do remember wearing his pin-striped train cap around our house as a kid. The rigid canvas scratched my scalp, and a long floppy brim blocked my eye line as I slid down our basement stairs in clean white socks.

I remember the stark black-and-white-ness of that hat; I thought it looked punk-rock, loosely resembling the bleak color palette of posters pinned up to my bedroom wall — Green Day, Avril Lavigne, pages ripped from TransWorld skate mags.

Sturm wouldn’t know any of these references. However, he was up there, too, or at least his art was.

Even though they weren’t my style, two train cars he’d painted hung above my childhood bed for years. I think my mom wanted to introduce him to me somehow, sneaking in a sign that her father and I were linked despite the circumstances.

“He would have loved you,” she used to say. “He always treated me like the boy he never had.”

Now, living in an apartment in a different city, Sturm’s paintings are back up above my bed. Two idyllic midday landscapes marked by alternate versions of his signature, as if at the time of painting, he was still trying to hash out his identity.

Sharing the wall is another one of his.

A photograph we uncovered after my grandma died in 2020. A blown out black-and-white image of an unidentified hulking soot-coated steam engine beaming its headlight through a dark foggy night.

For the past five years, I’ve imagined my grandfather taking this photo. Standing on the wet cement platform, alone, the cool metal of his camera pressed to his cheek, the mechanized heartbeat of the resting metal beast humming through the soles of his shoes.

Legacy

Almost everything I grew up learning about my grandfather was shrouded in a similar darkness. His legacy was spotted by unfortunate facts passed down by the people who loved him most.

Failing the physical for the WWII draft; dreams of becoming an artist squandered by a life in corporate sales; money problems; driving around with a trunk full of empty gin bottles; jaundice and liver failure; and the unfiltered Camel cigarettes — four packs a day for 40 years — that eventually killed him at 65.

My grandmother, Lydia, who I could talk to about anything, was an expert at avoiding questions regarding her late husband. I never pushed it.

But all these years later, Sturm’s love of trains — by far the most enthusiastic sign of his existence — has expanded into something more.

Oddly enough, it began when I mentioned SNL-graduate Fred Armisen’s new record, 100 Sound Effects — a quirky nod to the rich history of broadcast sound-making — to my dad.

“You know your grandfather used to play train sounds on vinyl, right?”

The question prompted me to call my aunt and my mom. They’re not sure what specific records he had. Perhaps Rail Dynamics (1952), or Whistling Thru Dixie (1961), Steam On The Horseshoe Curve (1961), or even Interurban Memories (1961).

But the idea that he collected them and played them leads me to believe Sturm might have been happier as a train conductor than a salesman.

In The Field

These kinds of records were meant to immerse the listener not only in the sonic atmosphere of a rail yard or train car, but in an actual historic moment. While sound effects vinyls were born from 1930s radio via superficial sound design — like shooting blanks off by a microphone to signify a murder during a live story broadcast — others were true field recordings.

Each track on the Interurban Memories album, for example, contains sounds from an actual train trip, whether it’s January 4th, 1959, riding along California’s “Whistle Alley” with the “wild harmonics” of blimps flying up above; or the sound of “wigwag bells” and “auto horns” from a classic 1920s train car cruising down Hollywood Boulevard on November 1st, 1959 at 1:15PM.

Instead of creating fictional worlds, these records showcased the real world at a precise time. These moments would forever be lost without someone’s effort to preserve them on wax.

Daily Entries

This idea, that you could play back the sounds of an everyday moment on vinyl eventually pushed me to research my grandfather’s life by immersing myself in another kind of record.

Three of Sturm’s journals have been sitting on my shelf for years, but I’d never felt the need to go through them until now.

I started in 1976. When Robin was at Russell Sage College in Troy, NY and my mom was a senior in high school, driving around town in the family’s broken-down Ford LTD. I can picture the house from being there as a kid, but I’m forced to reassess it in a different era, through another man’s perspective: Returning from the office at noon for lunch, then again around 5:15pm for cocktails and supper, grateful to be in the warmth of his home with his family, already dreading the next day of work.

On the page, Sturm cried when the family cat, Archie, died. He called his sister’s husband Glenn for $1,000 so he could keep his daughter Robin in school. He drove down to the local train station for updated Amtrak timetables before a big trip.

Train Dreams

Reading my grandfather’s journals reminded me of Denis Johnson’s Train Dreams, a mesmerizing novella documenting the lonesome, tragic and curious life of a day laborer named Robert Grainier in the depths of early 20th century Idaho.

After a disturbing scene in which a gang of railroad workers attacks a Chinese immigrant on the Idaho panhandle, the book follows Grainier’s trip through time. Eventually, what’s real becomes blurred by what haunts him, with forgotten memories sparking up from the fire of his uncertain past.

“Now he slept soundly through the nights, and often he dreamed of trains, and often of one particular train: He was on it; he could smell the coal smoke; a world went by.

And then he was standing in that world as the sound of the train died away. A frail familiarity in these scenes hinted to him that they came from his childhood. Sometimes he woke to hear the Spokane International fading up the valley and realized he’d been hearing the locomotive as he dreamed.”

In the story, trains resemble Westward expansion and the settling of “Frontier America,” but more so, they embody the steady, unstoppable motion of time.

Following Grainier’s observations, his molasses grit and undying routine, felt like following my grandpa through the yellowing pages of his black leather-bound journals.

Daily entries give way to an atmosphere made up of palpable repetition: Breakfast, drive to work, drive home for lunch, drive back to work, drive home for cocktails, supper, Johnny Carson, writing, sleep. The image of a grown man in another time reflecting on his day-to-day grind. “What a day—Shit!”

Like Grainier, I think Sturman aimed to keep his labor and his identity separate. He cherished being home, describing every meal as delicious — “most delightful steak dinner”; “(Spaghetti extremely good)” — and naming the love he had for his family, as well as his sadness when they were gone — “I’m really going to miss Wendy this weekend.”

And like Grainier, who blamed himself for not saving his family from a forest fire, Sturm plainly states his blunders, his exhaustion, his fears, his leisure, his inability to manifest solutions to some of life’s worst challenges.

Through that daily exercise, though, his voice — a voice I’ve never actually heard — begins to shine.

No one in my family had ever mentioned Sturm’s urge to write everything down. This act alone presents a fresh lens through which to view him and his decision to record personal, mundane events.

Related

Well-recorded mundanity is what I’ve always strived for in my own journal.

For the past 10 years I’ve been recording what I see every day, as well. Without any knowledge that maybe Sturm passed this urge along.

I do wonder if our urge is the same. My entries have no real page limits like his, and I get into my feelings, insufferably at times — he did not. But I’d guess our urge to record the day is more about a means to slow the unstoppable motion of life for just long enough to feel grateful and move on. To be able to start the next day without the last one weighing us down. I guess one might call it a coping mechanism.

In Your Image

Another reason I was inclined to finally pick up Sturm’s journals was because of the photos my mom’s been sending me. See for yourself:

Her father as a boy in 1938.

Posing in 1942 on the day of his junior high graduation.

Or posing that same year, in a bush.

Or a few years later in the local newspaper, alongside fellow actor Barbara E. Morris for the high school play.

Or with my mom and Lydia (looking totally fed up) while holding Archie the cat and a cigarette.

Or Sturm and Lydia posing in middle age (and color) — my grandmother in a pink checkered dress, Sturm in a navy blazer, his thick eyebrows raised an inch from his smiling face, his sister’s painting of a waterfall above the model train set lined up on the fireplace mantel.

That painting also lives in my room now, resting on two little nails, unframed.

My favorite photo though is of my grandfather lying back on the beach, in pressed slacks, his shirt off, shades on, smiling, propping a to-go martini against his bare stomach.

When I showed my friends this photo they said they saw me in it. Which made me buzz, because I saw myself in it too. The same hairline, sure, but also a personal essence, a part of who I am.

That said, I’m plagued by a fear of following Sturm’s path. I have been since I was young. Failing to realize I’ve forfeited my essence before it’s too late, shadowed by shame, drinking too much, drowning.

But now I can see that his is a cautionary tale written in full. A warning, a screeching train whistle. And for that I’m thankful.

An End

So far, my favorite line in his journals ends an entry on Wednesday, January 21st, 1976:

“Had a drink and then a delightful ‘Roast Lamb’ dinner. The snow coming down hard as I write.”

It’s the only time I’m truly able to picture him alone, writing.

I wish I had found some of Sturm’s old railroad records in my grandmother’s attic. I would have played them at parties, too, in Ridgewood, Queens. Shouting Alllll ABOOARDDD to an unsuspecting crowd and the twenty-somethings who live downstairs.

Instead, I break out the records passed down from my aunt and mom, stuff from when they were still teens — Saturday Night Fever, Earth Wind & Fire (probably more party-appropriate).

I’m sure Sturm heard these albums through the floorboards, too, booming from his daughters’ shared bedroom while he sat on the living room couch, by the fireplace or picture window, legs crossed, sipping a drink, fanning through the Hartford Courant, listening and knowing he’ll write it all down later.

I can see it so clearly.

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For Luke and Elise Gasper, it started with memories. Rhinestone-studded suits and the freedom of being a child, uninhibited, running naked through the yard.

Like arroyo willow — small trees native to Half Moon Bay, where Luke and Elise dwell — Nudie Records provides sonic shelter and sustenance for a blooming bushel of emerging artists, vinyl records, cosmic cover art, creative collaborations, and intimate punchpack performances stretched out from sea to shining sea.

Over the past five years, this smalltime indie label has blossomed from a mixture of memory, urgency and passion into a living, breathing community. Honoring the vintage art of analog production, vinyl pressings, and recordings that sound alive, Nudie Records holds hallowed ground in the often-fruitless chaos of the modern day music industry.

I’m in awe of the Nudie artists I’ve seen play in New York. An epic live show at Desert 5 Spot with Old Lady and Patton Magee. Chris Lyons strumming at Jones Bar in Ridgewood, Queens. By the time I boarded the Nudie mothership via a trans-continental phone call, I was ready to speak to the creators and caretakers of the ever-evolving scene.

Mostly, I needed to see how the heck two married California folks with kids and full-time jobs stoked a thriving music scene across the country that somehow exists within a business overshadowed by streaming, AI, and major labels.

Please enjoy.

Where did the name, Nudie, come from?

Luke: As country music fans, we were thinking about “nudie suits” — the classic rhinestone studded suits designed by Nudie Cohn.

Elise: Also, when I was a kid we used to call being naked “nudie,” and we wanted the label to feel very California, very natural world, and a little bit naughty.

It really aligns well with the artists you’ve signed; so many of them have a cutting tongue-in-cheek humor in their lyricism.

Elise: That’s the magic of naming something. We love saying, “The Nudie family” — it’s kinda funny. Plus it nods to an understanding of the history of psychedelic country music.

I was with some friends at your label’s show in Queens a few weeks back, I wished I had said what’s up.

Elise: Were you sitting in the corner booth near the window?

Yeah, there was a very dubious burrito on our table for the whole night and no one knew whose it was.

Luke: Oh, I ate it. When it got nice and cold.

Mmm delish. There were some great artists playing that night. How many folks are currently on Nudie Records?

Elise: About 20. At this point, we’ve done a number of second and third records with some bands. And despite being based in California, a lot of our artists are based in New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania — it’s just how things spiderwebbed when we clicked into that scene.

Is there a specific “spider” at the center of this East Coast web?

Elise: We originally got plugged in with Sweet Pete, who lives in New Jersey. And he introduced us to Hunter Davidsohn, who plays with Old Lady and works with a bunch of East Coast bands. Hunter’s become our secret weapon.

Luke: Most of the records we’ve released this year came from Hunter’s studio in upstate New York. He’s running the factory.

That’s incredible. I remember Old Lady describing the magic of his studio.

Elise: We also had another kismet moment with an artist out of Chicago named Mike Novak. He was shopping for a label under his project Dark Canyon, and the whole package he sent us was so beautiful. It became clear that this was the quality of what we wanted to be producing. The grandness and cinematic nature of the record really helped us define who we were early on.

Luke: Mike had spent five years making this spaghetti western opus with a full orchestra and choir. At the time, we were running Nudie out of our basement, and the Dark Canyon album blew us away.

Had you already envisioned the label having its own specific sound — in the cosmic country vein — or did that happen naturally?

Elise: It unfolded very naturally.

Luke: The first two records we put out were Mad Max Elliot, a good friend who does a one-man rockabilly thing, then I did a solo record that was psychedelic with a lot of synths and guitar shredding. After those two records came out, that’s when Sweet Pete came out of the woodwork with this country scene from Jersey and a single called “Bad Banana.” I told him we were more focused on putting out full albums, and a month later he comes back with a finished record.

So it sounds like rockabilly, americana, and psychedelic rock sounds were there from the start.

Elise: Yeah, these first records and sounds were totally unexpected but they hit on what we personally love. Everyone that we met in those early days — Sweet Pete, Mad Max Elliot, Dark Canyon, Old Lady — are still on the label. We consider them close friends now.

The timing must have been pretty ideal with the widespread emergence of country music in pop culture.

Elise: The timing was totally incredible. Like Old Lady had already been putting music out and playing shows for years and their influences are our favorite artists, so it was all pretty genuine the way things played out.

I’ve been blown away by the energy behind New York’s country scene. It’s both insular and welcoming, and with the whole dance ingredient baked in, New York has become an unlikely honky tonk city.

Elise: Country music never goes away completely. The musicality is there, the storytelling is there, plus the collaboration between artists and the reimagining of traditional songs. I just feel like it endures and has become an authentic salve to the AI-music streaming culture.

I’m curious about Nudie’s overall aesthetic; there’s a vintage quality to it — sonically, visually, even in terms of some of your artists’ overall vibes and lifestyles.

Luke: I’d say making vinyl records in this day and age gives off a vintage vibe from the get-go. But the vintage sound stems from the analog recording process that Hunter and Mike bring to the table, which is still sought after by bands as the pinnacle of sound. If you’re making a record, you want it to feel alive. Not like some sort of canned thing where everybody recorded their parts at different times. We want our records to sound like everyone is in a room playing together at the same time.

Elise: Aesthetically, we’re just following what we think looks cool. To find a community that thinks similarly has been incredibly validating. When Nudie goes out into the world and does pop-ups, we get kinda lost at record fairs, but we do really well at vintage fairs. More people will drift in and make purchases.

You’ve definitely captured the country sound out here in New York. Does Nudie have a similar presence in California?

Elise: There’s another side of the label for sure, which is more West Coast psychedelic. Out here, we’ve channeled a more Californian influence — a little hazier and dreamier, which softens some of the hardcore country vintage vibe output.

Do you have another secret weapon helping manifest that sound in California?

Elise: We have an excellent artist out here — Travesura — but he does a lot of his recording in Nashville. We’re in the Bay Area, and it’s been hard to find someone like Hunter. We’d love to manifest a Nudie Studios West. Somewhere we could host these producers we’re working with from all over the country. There is some special energy out here, and it’d be cool to see them tap into that in a next phase of the label.

I’m always fascinated by how producers lend their unique sound to artists.

Luke: I think that’s why a lot of people seek Hunter out. Not only can he get a great sound for your band, but he gives a lot of creative input into your process as well.

One thing that impressed me when I was interviewing Nudie artists for the first time was how collaborative they are with each other — with gigging and recording.

Luke: That’s one of the things we set out to harness when the label began to grow. Trying to build a creative community of artists within the label. We’ll send artists out from California to record with Hunter. But we don’t usually need to foster the relationships. Dark Canyon, for example, did a Lee Hazlewood cover song and had Hunter and Kaylee from Old Lady sing on it. It speaks to the community being built here; it feels more like a family.

Elise: I hate that term, but it’s kind of true. Chris Lyons played the Nudie show at Jones Bar in Queens that you were at and he ended up meeting Colin from Old Lady and asking him to open for him at his record release show the following week. Going out to New York for us was so validating to see these artists love each other’s records. There is an inherent openness in this musical community. We want to give people space to do exactly this.

Is this level of collaboration happening in other labels operating right now?

Luke: Not necessarily. The ideas and principles we built the label on are based on my own personal past experiences of working with record labels. I tried to take all the best parts of my own time on labels and try to give other artists that experience.

Elise: We pretended to have a record label, then figured it out backwards. But now we’re starting to get artists coming to Nudie from other labels, which helps gain some perspective on what’s happening in the industry. There are so many ways to be a “label,” though. Nudie has a very simple, straightforward handshake deal we make with our artists; they’re in charge and we’re creative collaborators. Overall, we’re just trying to give them a physical manifestation of all this work that they’ve done.

What’s the most challenging part about running a record label?

Elise: The hardest part is that we can’t spend all of our days doing it. I feel like we could push things so much farther, but we have two kids and we both have jobs. In a way, the parameters of time are great, though, because we’re very picky about what we put our energy into.

Luke: I do all the design and social media typically, so that’s where most of my time is spent. We also have to do a lot of PR, and of course talking to artists, making sure everyone is in touch and that we’re fostering future projects.

How many records do you typically put out each year?

Elise: We’ve put out 15 records this year.

Luke: We also launched an imprint with Tunnel Records out of San Francisco and a collaboration with Rose Los Angeles, a weed edible company.

I’m also curious about what you’ve learned about the process of putting out physical vinyl records.

Elise: It takes a long time. There are a lot of pieces to the puzzle that we try to clear up from the start. Getting the record in the artist’s hands for the release show is also essential. Every part of the process is very personal, it’s a big operation with a lot of people involved.

Why do you feel it’s important for Nudie to put out vinyl?

Elise: I think it’s important for the artists to have something physical to show for their effort and vision.

Why didn’t you get into digital distribution as well?

Elise: Luke and I both think it’s a losing game. It’s chasing this steam beast; it’s not really there, and there’s no real returns for the artist.

Luke: Streaming is like a casino. A lot of people are dropping their coins in the slots and very few are coming up with a jackpot. And the jackpot is more focused on a single song, not the entire album the artist made.

But your artists’ albums are all available on streaming platforms too.

Elise: Yeah, it’s all out there for free, but we don’t deal with working the algorithm. What we’re focused on is connecting the feeling of the record in your hand with the cover art, the artist, the liner notes — all of it. That’s why the vinyl experience has never fully gone away. You can’t compare it to anything.

Luke: Streaming has become more of a tool than a revenue stream. When you talk to the people who work in streaming, they don’t talk about the music; they talk about statistics, algorithmic reach, engagement etc. The actual music is the last thing on their mind.

How you do publicize your artists’ records?

Elise: We focus on radio stations and record stores. When DJs play our music we’ll suddenly get an uptick in sales from a specific geographic location.

So even in the streaming world we live in, the age-old radio-to-vinyl purchasing model is still working for artists?

Elise: Surprisingly. Like Greg Vandy, who does “The Roadhouse” on KEXP out of Seattle, loves a number of our artists and plays them on his show. There’s a real an overlap of record-buyers and people who tune into radio shows.

Have you put out any live albums?

Luke: We’ve put out one live album by Hunter’s project Underground River, Live At KFJC. We brought him out to play solo acoustic at the Foothill College station and they did an amazing job capturing it. Hunter was on fire that day.

Elise: We have another live album coming out in 2026 from an East Coast band that was recorded by Hunter. Our live records are part of a new Nudie imprint called Skinny Dips — a spot for recording with lighter-weight production and far fewer pressings.

What do you think an indie label’s role in the music industry is right now? And has it changed since Nudie started five years ago?

Luke: I think the indie label role has always been about artist discovery. Taking a chance on unknown artists. You don’t see many major labels putting out someone’s debut album unless they already have acclaim. We love putting out debut albums and introducing people to new music. At some point, a Nudie artist will probably make that jump up to a major label and it would be very cool for everyone.

Elise: If it’s good for them, it’s good for us. But it’s fun to see artists gain more confidence when we approach them about putting their debut record out. It can light a fire in them.

Check out Nudie Records’ Five Year Anniversary sampler vinyl!

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Magdalena Abrego is known for her otherworldly guitar tones. Which shouldn’t surprise anyone. As a horror-loving punk-rocker steeped in the heady traditions of jazz performance, Magdalena naturally embraces a boundless, evocative and lethally curious approach to music-making.

For a taste of her sound, just pull up Greatest Hits, the debut album by Deerlady, a gritty, poignant rock outfit with Magdalena on electric guitar and Mali Obamsawin on lead vocals and bass. Together, both artists embrace their ancestral legacies under the complex and brutal history of colonialism, producing a stellar record, as well as an original score for the beautifully haunting Oscar-nominated documentary Sugarcane.

Which is what I couldn’t wait to speak with Magdalena about: film scores.

Specifically in the realm of horror — a genre I can just barely handle (depending on the movie). Thankfully for me, the two of us focused on the sound of horror, not the gore, the exorcisms, the distorted faces, the torture, the spooky spells or the bone-chilling jump-scares.

But what makes those jump-scares truly pop? What makes a stalker’s impending kill feel so unbearable to watch? What makes your heart race?

So many of our reactions to what’s playing out on screen depend on the application of sound, and music. No matter the genre.

Over cocktails and a pile of horror-specific vinyl, Magdalena and I settled into a cozy bar in Brooklyn to chat about groundbreaking horror scores; the composers — old and new — who define the sound of fear; an instrument deemed “The Nightmare Machine,” and so much more.

Please enjoy.

Or, as Alfred Hitchcock — the King of Horror — once said, “it’s mood music in a jugular vein, and I hope you like it.”

What do you look for in a fantastic film score?

I love hearing sounds and not being able to identify the source.

That’s interesting, because I’ve read that feedback about your band Deerlady and your live performance on KEXP. Some people couldn’t tell what sounds were coming from which instrument, despite you being a guitar, bass and drum trio.

That’s something that’s at the core of my own work as well. I’m working on my first solo release, which I’ll be recording early next year. In a nod to Día de los Muertos season, the EP is going to be called Xolo, which is the name of a dog indigenous to Mexico that, in folklore, is our guardian to the afterlife. They are benevolent figures that guide us to the next world.

Like Hades?

Yes, and on the EP 90% of the sounds are coming from me, but it’s not all guitar. Even if it started on the guitar, it all shouldn’t sound like guitar. It’s been processed through electronic equipment.

Perfect for this spooky season.

Yeah!

I know you are heavily inspired by horror films. When did that start?

When I was a kid. Movies were very important to me and my family. I grew up with modest means and VHS tapes were an accessible form of entertainment. I was partially raised by my Puerto Rican grandmother — she was always watching Spanish-language media on the TV, but she had this little stack of VHS tapes that were in English; it was my uncle’s horror stash. My sister and I would pop these tapes in. Like Bram Stoker’s Dracula or Wes Craven’s The People Under The Stairs.

And you were immediately drawn to these disturbing films?

100%. I was like, “This is so sick.”

Did you get nightmares?

Definitely.

I still have trouble thinking about some of the horror movies I watched as a kid, especially The Ring.

Totally. But I love feeling scared in a somewhat controlled way. I’m not sure I could do something like a haunted house at this point. That was actually one of the first jobs I had as a teen, being a spooky jack-in-the-box clown who yelled at kids. I immediately lost my voice and the oil-based makeup made me break out like crazy. Worst gig in my fucking life.

We had something similar in my hometown, but it was in the forest.

Oh my god.

So when did the music within horror movies begin to spark your attention?

I didn’t really start to appreciate the music until I began working back through film history. As a little kid, I was watching a lot of 70s horror, because that was what my parents loved. Once my sister and I showed a proclivity for horror, my parents showed us their favorites. But I soon became quite obsessed with the genre and went all the way back to Hitchcock and his maestro Bernard Herrmann. I realized then that the sound of fear was actually composed by someone.

That’s a cool way to put it.

I forced myself to only bring 8 albums today, but one of them is Bernard Herrmann conducting the London Philharmonic Orchestra. In the liner notes, he talks about Psycho being the first horror film score to exclusively use strings. That creative decision was his response to the film being in black and white. The picture is limited by not using color, so he wanted to limit himself sonically. Apparently Hitchcock was very against there being any music at all during the shower scene, but Herrmann convinced him otherwise.

Incredible.

Another fun record I brought is Alfred Hitchcock’s Music To Be Murdered By. It’s a lot of jazz standards, but Hitchcock will interject between songs and say something like, “This next song is good for strangling someone to.”

Did his interjections help you navigate which types of sounds you would want to apply to specific on-screen situations?

I’m consistently surprised by which sounds will illicit fear, or even a lack of sound. Which brings me to Mark Korven and his score for The Witch, which I also have here.

That is the horror movie that made me respect horror movies. It made me feel like I was immersed in a real historical experience.

I am a huge fan of Mark Korven. He’s done a lot of other horror films, like The First Omen, The Lighthouse, Black Phone, just to name a few. He’s this Canadian composer who started out as a guitar player and experimentalist and has since grown into a composer with a huge portfolio who creates his own instruments.

He builds them?

He commissions them. Including this one instrument he lovingly termed “The Nightmare Machine.”

The ultimate fear-inducer.

I feel like it’s just our perhaps-futile attempt at capturing fear in the form of sound, which I find to be a super fun thing to devote your life to. Which apparently is what Mark Korven has done.

When you think of creating fear-inducing music, what sounds come to mind?

On one hand, there’s the recorded history of horror scoring, like Bernard Herrmann’s high-anxiety, high-pitched orchestration. And then there’s the experimental use of non-instrumental sound. Like sampling a real heartbeat, which they do in the film Longlegs. I like when sound design and composition are blurred. Personally, that’s what I think makes a great horror score. Something that is both referential to this robust canon, but is also a reflection of the physiological experience of being afraid, which has its own sounds attached to it.

Music that becomes visceral in a way that mirrors the sounds your body is naturally producing.

Exactly.

How does timing play into a striking horror score?

Timing is everything. I always think of horror and comedy to be two sides of the same coin, because they’re both genres that rely on timing. It’s all about tension and release, just like music.

When you were a kid watching horror movies, you might not have been conscious of all of these sonic ingredients, but you were probably reacting and storing them away.

I think it informed young Magdalena. But like any movie score, it wasn’t the focus. That’s also key; you want to compliment the picture.

Do you believe that?

I think so, yeah.

I’m asking because I just interviewed another cult/horror film-obsessed live film scorer, Dave “Smoota” Smith, and he wants to see modern day film scores take more risks. He thinks people are being too safe these days.

That’s probably true for most forms of commercial art-making in general. Most horror films are an extension of Hollywood, which is a capitalist machine, so there’s that.

But what do you think about the give and take between a film’s score and its visuals.

I think that’s the perfect phrase: it’s a give and take. At the end of the day, it’s also still a job in service of a project and a person — a director, or in the case of a podcast, the creator or show-runner. So it’s a balance. And sometimes you end up with stuff you don’t love that gets published, and that’s just life.

I guess that’s true for any creative job when someone else is paying you. So what else do you have in your magical bag of records?

Probably one of my favorite scores is for Hereditary. This score is by Colin Stetson, who has since done a lot of scores for other films like The Menu and Texas Chainsaw Massacre. And this is an interesting one, because Ari Aster wrote the script for the film while listening to Colin Stetson’s previous music. He only ended up asking Colin to score his film when it was going into production.

Wow, I had no idea. So the movie was actually written around this artist’s sonic palette?

It’s crazy to me, I think it’s brilliant, and a musician’s dream.

Do you know anything else about the collaborative relationship between Aster and Korven?

I don’t, and I’d be super curious to know to what extent Ari Aster was asking for specifics, or letting Colin drive the collab.

When you pulled the Hereditary vinyl out of its sleeve, I was expecting the girl’s decapitated head to be on it…

I wish! I love a creative vinyl packaging.

I have a record with an image of John Lennon’s face pressed to both sides of the vinyl. I think it’s the last interview he did before he died.

It always feels really exciting when you put vinyl on and something that isn’t music plays. Which is actually a good segue for this record Seance! by Zabrecky. I was in Chicago and decided to buy vinyl I had never heard before and I was super drawn to this cover. It’s a love letter to old 1960s/70s occult records that would guide listeners through an experience. The A-side is a guided seance and the B-side is a piece of his original electronic music. Inside the record he also includes a list of folks who were related to spiritualism at the turn of the century.

That’s incredible. And on glow-in-the-dark vinyl? So you can see it during the seance? Unreal.

I know, it’s a really good listen. Another one of my all-time favorite scores is for Under The Skin, a sci-fi alien film starring Scarlett Johansson. The score is by Mica Levi, who has gone on to do scores for award-winning films like The Zone Of Interest.

I’m curious what your thoughts are on the audience impact of scores versus soundtracks. Specifically with horror.

Well, sometimes films can have the power to re-contextualize a song in a way that’s super powerful. I think a significant part of my personality is entirely based on the PlayStation 1 Tony Hawk Pro Skater soundtrack, which I just got on cassette by the way. It’s so nostalgic for me.

Those games always had the best soundtracks.

For sure. And here’s a score from the master himself, John Carpenter. He has this new series called Lost Themes, and this one is the noir chapter featuring his son, who plays guitar. These are all songs of Carpenter’s that never ended up in a film.

I just watched Assault On Precinct 13 for the first time and Carpenter’s music blew me away.

Totally, he’s a legend. I have one last record, and no conversation on scores would be complete without it. Twin Peaks. Angelo Badalamenti, who scored David Lynch’s show, is so hugely influential on me. I’m actually in a Twin Peaks cover band and we play the score at shows. We take over Crystal Ballroom in Somerville, Massachusetts once a year and throw this giant party.

I love the female vocalist on here.

Julee Cruise? Yeah, our band name is actually Julee Cruise Director. And check out this bright green marbled vinyl. This is the record they released when Twin Peaks came back for a third season on Starz.

If there was an existing horror film that you could re-score, what would it be?

One horror film that I love is Possession, and the score is not my favorite part of the film. It’s early 80s, directed by Andrzej Żuławski.

When you think of re-scoring Possession, what comes to mind?

The cinematography of the film. The camera is so unsettled. It’s always too close or too far, or it’s looking away at what feels like the wrong times. So how do you match that frenzied feeling? It would be a welcome challenge.

Here’s a list of the vinyl film scores Magdalena mentions above:

1. Music From The Great Movie Thrillers, Bernard Herrmann & The London Philharmonic Orchestra

2. Music To Be Murdered By, Alfred Hitchcock and Assorted Artists

3. The Witch, Mark Korven

4. Hereditary, Colin Stetson

5. Seance!, Zabrecky

6. Under The Skin, Mica Levi

7. Lost Themes Vol. 4 Noir, John Carpenter

8. Twin Peaks: The Return Score Soundtrack, Various Artists

Stay tuned Magdalena’s solo record, Xolo, and if you’re in Brooklyn on October 30th, check out the live score performance of Sugarcane at Roulette. Happy Halloween!

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Seasons, Pete Jolly (1970)

Like the change of seasons, this album embraces the demands of a new era.

Seasons is a living memento of musician Pete Jolly’s deviation from a career playing traditional jazz to lay down a kind of music you’ve never heard.

With Herb Alpert producing, Jolly and his band of sharp-shooting session guys use synthesizers, accordion, strange time signatures, and pulsating bass and drums to create a collection of compositions simulating the first deep inhale of summer’s end and fall’s beginning, the harshness of winter into the welcome bloom of spring into the heat of summer and on and on and on — it’s every angle of a changing natural atmosphere.

Pretend that the following records on this list exist within this world of Pete Jolly’s Seasons.

Albert’s House, Chet Baker (1969)

If anyone can set a mood, it’s Chet Baker. At his best, the man’s music is practically the pure essence of smooth. But at his worst, it’s also…incredible.

In the late 1960s, Baker was well into a personal downfall when his teeth were bashed in during a heroin deal gone wrong. Albert’s House is the product of his shaky return — the first songs Chet recorded after his assault. Despite his inability to play his trumpet as well as he always had, Baker takes Steve Allen’s compositions and, with the groove of an electric organ, he illicits a sound that’s melancholic, futuristic, and desperate in its beauty.

This record is flawed in the best ways; it slows the room down.

Tied To A Star, J Mascis (2014)

If you like Dinosaur Jr — a heavy grunge staple that effortlessly evolved into the 21st century — this record by the band’s main man J Mascis might shock you.

Tied To A Star forgoes a sludgy in-the-pit headbang for an assortment of impassioned lullabies. The album’s intricate web of acoustic riffs and unexpected structural twists make for a raw, heartfelt listen.

The fourth song, “Wide Awake,” is the standout — gentle and vehement, intensely intimate, and ideal in the dark.

Sylvie, Sylvie (2022)

The first time I heard “Falls on me” — the album opener — I was transported to a fuzz-warm analog world, a simpler sonic place gently buzzing with feedback, a floating cloud of yellow-gray smoke, and a crisp breeze to break it all up.

Reintroducing his father’s unreleased 1975 barn recordings to the world, Ben Schwab infused these vintage songs with an authentic, addictive 70s sound.

Sometimes I play this record while bartending, and like The Beta Band in High Fidelity, at least one customer always asks what’s on. The bar is full, the lights are low, and for the first time in a while, people are happy to be indoors.

Fleetwood Mac, Fleetwood Mac (1975)

This record will plunge you into a welcome pool of melancholy.

“Warm Ways,” “Rhiannon,” “Over My Head,” “Crystal,” “Landslide” — these songs all bring a fall chill to Fleetwood Mac’s prolific and diverse discography. And as a cherry on top, the record’s closer, “I’m So Afraid,” is an epic, heart-thumping nod to the season’s spooky side.

Welcome To Hell, Joseph Shabason (2023)

A bewitching concept album, Welcome To Hell encapsulates composer and saxophonist Joseph Shabason’s wild rescore to Toy Machine’s 1996 skate video of the same name and defies all expectations.

My roommate Fredo and I caught a live recreation of this album at Brooklyn’s Public Records last year and it became one of the most impressive shows I’ve seen to date. Shabason, an unfettered band leader, assembled a circle of expert players at the center of the wood-encased room, and we watched on, dazzled by the odd time stamps, in awe of the ghost-like vocals and the seamless transitions between songs.

Welcome To Hell is an ode to the art of skateboarding, but for me, it’s also become a portal into fall, a time when my mind naturally accepts the urge to settle into a darker, stranger version of reality.

Mangy Love, Cass McCombs (2016)

For an hour straight, Cass McCombs defines the autumn groove. These are expertly crafted anthems for spontaneous discovery, on a day when you're out on your own, following your inner compass, wandering willy-nilly.

Chulahoma: The Songs Of Junior Kimbrough, The Black Keys (2006)

The Black Keys’ reimagining of a slice of juke joint blues legend Junior Kimbrough’s iconic grit-sensual catalog is a low-key hot whiskey-cider slightly overcrowded midday party in a stuffy, sweat-fueled second story apartment. Jackets on the bed, friends and foes circling the turntable, gulping from mugs, leaning too close, laughing too hard, and heavy-headed, folding in half at the drop of “Meet Me In The City.”

I’m In Your Mind Fuzz, King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard (2014)

Originally released on Halloween, this record summons a psychedelic seance.

Plunge into a pile of dying leaves and melt through the earth like a bloody stag in quicksand, bellowing and hyena-laughing while the worms and creepy-crawlers gnaw at your flesh, leaving you naked and howling, sinking deeper and deeper, past caskets disintegrating in rich soil and decaying bodies dressed in starched suits from way back, their owners stretching strained faces in the pitch dark, the creases of their animal smiles flickering in the otherworldly glow of the planet’s molten core. Then, for just a second, you rise again.

Cherry Tree, The National (2004)

To this day, I’ve never heard a violin solo as devastating or unexpected as the one on Cherry Tree’s closing track, “A Reasonable Man.” Unlike other indie-folk/rock records I purchased as a teenager, this EP by The National has maintained its allure and ingenuity over the years.

Presenting at times an overwhelmingly bleak atmosphere, this collection of songs is visceral, gorgeous, haunting and complex — a transfixing feat in the early stages of a band’s sonic evolution.

The occasional crackle on the vinyl only adds to the LP’s charm. Absolutely perfect for the influx of fall.

Valley Hi, Ian Matthews (1973)

Take a brisk stroll, play Ian Matthews, and gently ponder your place in the world.

Summer In Abaddon, Pinback (2004)

One of the first records I bought as a teenager. I can still feel the cold leather seats in my mom’s car, on the way to piano practice, my school-tired brain fixated on the sunroof, spacing out on falling leaves and the early darkness of the evening sky.

Pinback was having a real moment on Sirius XM radio, and their sound always calmed me on drives. I’m grateful for that version of life, when most of my freedom was internal and magically expanded by songs like “Fortress” and “Non Photo-Blue,” with the moody gray sky, and its imminent promise of winter.

Moondance, Van Morrison (1970)

As a teenager, on my way home from work, I used to cut through the Powder Forest, a strange wooded office park in my suburban town. The trees would burn red and yellow, and in my dad’s hammy-down Saab, devoid of heat, I’d take turns too fast, blasting “Into The Mystic” until the doors rattled. Like a sparking electrical grid, chills would ricochet from my head down to my foot and the pedal pressed to the floor.

Later, in my first semester of college, the song “And It Stoned Me” became an anthem that bonded my new group of friends — a warm, bombastic tune that reminded us all of the comfort of our homes, scattered across the country.

Harvest Moon, Neil Young (1992)

Duh.

This Girl’s In Love With You, Aretha Franklin (1970)

This one’s for the cozy fireside festivities. Nothing soothes the soul quite like Aretha’s thundering voice. My favorite all-around Aretha record, This Girl’s In Love With You hits every vibe a person needs when cold weather descends. Like Aretha’s vocals, the musicianship on this record is unmatched, and the arrangements on every track swell in giant warm waves, filling any chilly space with an undeniable sense of bone-deep comfort.

All Things Must Pass, George Harrison (1970)

An album that quite literally embodies the inevitable beauty of death and change. Like foliage, we burn bright because we are consistently nearing our end. The first triple album ever released by a solo artist, All Things Must Pass showcases the innate genius of George Harrison; his spirit soars across the wax, over the fields and into the dirt.

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FEATURING…

“Sexy Dancer” — Prince, Prince (1979)

Prince’s discography can be a bit intimidating for anyone who didn’t grow up listening to his music, but this self-titled release from ‘79 keeps me coming back.

The vibes are jazzy, funky, pop-y, sexy; the cover is alluring in its unique blend of emotional and physical nakedness.

My favorite track on the record, “It’s Gonna Be Lonely,” is deeply tender, whereas “Sexy Dancer” kicks off with an Earth, Wind & Fire-esque falsetto and levels out into a breathy funk-forward instrumentally-genius hedonistic heaven:

Sexy dancer, you got my body screaming
Sexy dancer, you got me just-a-creaming

“I’m The Man That Will Find You” — Caramel, Conan Mockasin (2013)

In an early episode of stoner-drama High Maintenance, a hip Brooklyn writer spends his afternoons smoking weed from a small golden bowl and wearing his wife’s clothes, all the while listening to this unbelievably sexy song by New Zealander-weirdo Conan Mockasin.

I’d be lying if the show’s aesthetic didn’t enhance the track for me (or was it the other way around?), but this song has passed the test of time.

For a decade, “I’m The Man That Will Find You” — which, due to Mockasin’s vocal inflection, sounds more like “I’m The Man That Will Fuck You” — has remained a personally favored party starter. The strange tinny guitar drops, the highly distorted vocals and airy overdubbed harmonies all make for a truly sultry sonic experience.

Be my medal and I
Will wear you all night
Wear you all night long

“Inside My Love” — Adventures In Paradise, Minnie Riperton (1975)

This whole album is horny.

Whether it’s the standout opener, “Baby, This Love I Have,” or Minnie singing “It came all over me” on “Feelin’ That The Feeling’s Good,” Adventures In Paradise is a perfect record for seducing the one you love.

But in terms of pure horniness, the song “Inside My Love” takes the Boston Cream Pie. Minnie takes one step further into the depths of eroticism here, hitting her iconic high note and getting explicit about what goes down behind closed doors:

You can see inside me
Will you come inside me?
Do you wanna ride inside, my love?
You can see inside me
Will you come inside me?

“Gigantic” — Surfer Rosa, Pixies (1988)

This Pixies song is about an older white lady making love to a younger Black man day after day in the midst of a heated affair.

According to the interweb, Kim Deal, who co-wrote the track, didn’t intend any phallic imagery with the title. Although that’s hard to believe, the suggestive lyrics portray a vivid sex-fueled rendezvous.

Also, fun fact: Before he died, Kurt Cobain actually told music mag Melody Maker that this was his all-time favorite Pixies song.

Lovely legs there are

What a big black mass,
What a hunk of love

He’ll walk her every
day into a shady place

He’s like the dark but I want him

“Me and Mrs. Jones” — 360 Degrees Of Billy Paul, Billy Paul (1972)

Speaking of affairs, “Me and Mrs. Jones” — R&B legend Billy Paul’s seminal hit — is gleefully straightforward in its description of a man’s involvement with a married woman.

At times, the lyrics read as a clear-cut confessional: “We meet everyday / at the same cafe / Six-thirty.” As if Paul is desperate for someone to find out. That desperation in his vocals, in the lyrics, in the orchestration’s sharp rises and falls, is what gives this track its timeless power.

But it’s much too
strong to let it go now

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I’ve wanted to interview Dave “Smoota” Smith ever since I caught his erotic ensemble, Smootaphilia, at a club on the border of Brooklyn and Queens. The four-piece band performed a sultry live score to Tony Scott’s dusky 1983 directorial debut, The Hunger, starring David Bowie, Catherine Deneuve and Susan Sarandon.

As Bowie transformed from a chic cellist into a grotesque vampire, and Deneuve and Sarandon devoured each other in bed, Smootaphilia surrounded the movie screen, improvising an entirely new score with funky guitar solos, lusty vocal runs, tinkling keys, deep bass and a hard beat.

The rock club crowd watched in awe, gasping, giggling, slightly aroused.

Smith, who tours the world as a professional trombonist (currently gigging with indie icons TV On The Radio), has spent years creating and channeling the essence of Smoota, a flexibly singular persona that reps billowy half-buttoned leopard print shirts, leather boots, luscious locks and a trimmed salt-and-pepper beard.

“Smoota” has actually become a branded term for all of Smith’s personal projects, which include Smoota & The Smoopremes, The Smoota Tête-à-Tête, and, simply, Smoota, a years-long solo project featuring Smith as lead songwriter, musician, producer, music video director, and visionary behind two full-length albums — Fetishes (2013) and Pheromones (2018) — as well as a smattering of politically, culturally and sexually-charged singles.

At first glance, Smith and his work could appear inauthentic, ridiculous, or even creepy. But after a few minutes of investigation, it becomes clear that his approach to art-making embraces a genuine desire to reframe society’s often-flawed approach to eroticism. Smith’s music evokes key ingredients in human sensuality: beauty, love, strangeness, silliness, sweetness, and the taboo.

For two years, Smith’s newest project, Smootaphilia, has fused original music and erotic movie culture for sold-out rooms, inviting audiences to explore groundbreaking sensual art films and the seductive spark of a spontaneous sonic performance.

I spoke with Smith over coffee about his lifelong love of film, funk music, and erotica; as well as the importance of making art based in fun; Smootaphilia’s upcoming record; the problem with sex on the pop charts, and so much more.

I hope you find today’s conversation informative, pleasurable, and long lasting.

Enjoy.

How long have you been a film buff?

I studied film in college with some loose ambitions to go into the industry. I went to Harvard in the 16 millimeter days, so I got to shoot 16 millimeter for free, editing on the old Steenbeck editing bed. I mean, it didn't prepare me at all for the coming film revolution, but it was very cool.

What kind of films were you making back then?

Harvard was very documentary focused. But I was just making weird avant-garde movies starring my dad. I mean, the reason I even mentioned that it was Harvard…

Because you wanted to name drop?

Exactly. I hardly ever do it, but it’s an interesting place to have done film because they didn’t expect you to go to Hollywood, they treated film more as an art form, a study. And I think that’s suited me.

So which filmmakers were you studying back then?

During my senior year they had a guest professor named Dušan Makavejev, who was a crazy renegade filmmaker out of 1960s Yugoslavia. He’s not a household name, but he’s made some cult art films. A terrible teacher when it came to making movies, but he opened my eyes to what making weird art is about.

Very cool.

Also, my thesis advisor was the projectionist at the Harvard film archive. He was a gay guy who introduced me to Russ Meyer and the B-movie aesthetic.

Is that when you became interested in eroticism?

It was more that exploitation movies featured this freedom to explore dark, weird thoughts. No one was in control of what could go into these movies other than the filmmakers themselves. So I learned early on that’s where the truest film art is, when there’s no committee telling you what to do.

Did you enjoy the challenge of hunting down these niche movies?

I did. For me, it’s the same with records and music. It scratched that same itch. Feeling like you’re the only person in the world who knows about this one thing. That was always a feeling I loved, even if it was an illusion.

Were you playing any music at college?

Recreationally. I’ve studied trombone since I was a little kid, but I never thought I was going to do it for a living.

What did you envision yourself doing instead?

Directing.

I mean, you do that now as well, directing your own music videos.

Well I’ve learned that music videos provide a great opportunity to be a filmmaker; you can do whatever you want for next to no money. It’s very freeform. You don’t need to worry about audio, which is one of the hardest parts about making a good movie.

I was watching some of your music videos and was surprised they were allowed on YouTube. I especially loved “Ballbuster” — it was kinky, but surprisingly sweet and tender as well.

The concept of the Smoota project is that there’s a sweetness to eroticism that I don’t think gets portrayed very often.

Do you think there’s a line between “cool” erotic and “creepy” erotic?

It's a fine line that I've struggled with a little bit. If you look at the Smoota project really quickly, maybe you could think I'm a creepy person. But if you spend some time with my music and my videos, or you know me personally, you realize it's not that. Regardless, it’s been part of the challenge of this project.

Has anyone actually gotten the wrong idea?

I had a guy who wanted to manage me years ago and he was asking some of his female friends about what they thought of me. One of them saw my photo on my website and said, “This guy might be a creep.”

Brutal.

It’s also part of the fun of the project, to be honest. Like, how do you ride that line to make somebody have the surprised response you had when watching “Ballbuster.”

I assume “fun” must be a primary ingredient in accomplishing that; I found your albums extremely fun, as well as the whole vibe of Smootaphilia.

Fun is my guiding principle. A friend just gave me a vintage copy of Cahiers du Cinéma, the famous French film magazine from the 60s, and in it they interview Miloš Forman, who made Amadeus and all these cool Czech-language movies. They ask him some high-minded question about his creative process, and he says, “To be honest, I’m always trying to amuse myself.”

That’s refreshing.

I feel like it’s a super deep response. If you’re trying to amuse yourself, chances are other people will be amused, rather than try to educate them or weird them out. It’s such a great form of energy to put into the world, amusement.

I don’t think it’s as easy as it sounds.

It’s not, you have to trust your own taste.

And if you try and mess with your instincts, it will be flawed in some way, contradicting what you’re actually setting out to make.

There are moments when I see old stuff I’ve done and I cringe because I’m a different person now. But you have to avoid thinking about the future when you’re making something. Nothing beats having a good time right in that moment.

How did you create the Smoota persona?

My girlfriend’s a photographer, and we took a trip to Portugal a long time ago where there were these empty nude beaches. She took all of these photos of me just playing around. I had never been a frontman before, or even a singer, but I had the urge to put them on an album cover or something, which started spurring ideas tied to the edgy, weird, often sexual books I’ve always enjoyed.

What books?

At the time I was really into Philip Roth, who writes overtly sexual stuff. What’s interesting is that when you’re that overtly sexual in a book, you can attach it to a specific character, but in a song, people hold it against you because they equate the lyrics with the singer.

Do you think you’ve been able to flip that expectation in your music?

It's still a challenge; I think people still assume everything I sing is what I believe, which it’s not. These are just fantasy realms to explore themes.

You have multiple projects under the name Smoota. Is is a persona?

At this point, there's a blurred line between myself and the persona. Which I’m fine with; I like the response it gets from people, even in real life. It's just made my life a lot more fun, to be honest, and that's the main thing.

How does your persona play into Smootaphilia?

I've always liked sensual movie-music; it’s my go-to music. Whether it's avant-garde jazz or just straight funk music, there's a connection there for me. I feel like all my bands have that aesthetic in one way or another.

Do you think all genres of music have the potential to be sexy?

Probably not, no. Think about twee folk…

Which artists have influenced your music most?

Funkadelic is my number one and probably always will be. I discovered them in high school and I haven’t found another universe that’s as interesting as theirs. Their output is so broad but with a singular aim. It’s fun-focused, and sexy-focused too.

I saw them once in high school and I was stunned by how openly they were talking about sex on stage.

George Clinton is a super deep guy, and he connects sex with politics, race, and with the meaning of America — one sentence of his can contain these multitudes in a way people typically don’t. Like “Free your mind and your ass will follow.” It's a great pithy little line, but it's also super deep: being free and loose with music and your ideas of morality can lead toward personal freedom. In my mind, Funkadelic’s the best expression of freedom in music.

Is there a record of theirs that you love most?

With them, it’s hard for me to choose. Probably Maggot Brain. Rolling Stone put out an issue of the 100 Best Albums Of The 70s and I remember reading the caption and thinking, “That sounds insane. I have to hear that record.”

Has Funkadelic inspired you to create a universe in your own music?

For sure.

The Smootaverse.

I like the multi-levels of everything.

How did you start your Smootaphilia project?

I thought this was going to be a one-off. A friend was throwing a sexy-themed party and he wanted me to do a Smoota show, but I suggested a sexy instrumental performance and we had so much fun. Then, last minute, we introduced the film element.

Does your band share similar music tastes?

The bass player and guitarist and I do; the singer, Ann Courtney, does not. She and I have become very close over the past few years and we have very different tastes. We met in a YMCA swimming pool, and while talking every day for 20 minutes in the pool, I realized that this woman was wild and crazy like me, but in a completely different musical universe. Which totally enhances the band.

What about your other bandmates?

The bass player, Jeremy Kay, is one of the best soul-funk bass players in town. And then Jerome Jordan, the guitar player, who I've known forever, is in the Black rock world. It’s Eddie Hazel and Funkadelic first for him, but also metal and everything in between. So it never becomes cliched funk stuff, he’s incredible.

The project itself is so silly in a way, but the quality of the music is high. It must shock people.

It’s hard to know. I think people have really enjoyed the movie experiences. I don’t know what they even think the music element is.

Can we talk about that? At the Smootaphilia gig I attended — you showed The Hunger — your band’s sound reminded me of what I imagine would play in a 70s porno. But it also gave me chills.

A lot of it stems from electric Miles stuff, but we’re mostly improvising. I’m a big fan of just choosing one chord and playing on it. It’s fun to play complex compositions, but I’m also drawn to simple music where you can’t rely on a chord change to alter the emotion.

I haven’t heard of any other bands improvising a film score.

I’m changing the structure of the score based on the movie, but it’s not like we’re changing the aesthetic of the band at all. We’re not kowtowing to the movie, we’re using it as a launchpad for our own sound.

How do you make sure the music follows the film?

The score I make is just the rhythm track, so I put beats on the movie that are synced up to the scenes. With some AI capabilities I'm able to get rid of all the original music and keep the dialog. Then I write a cue sheet for what we're going to do, mood wise, and the key, and who'll take the lead for each scene. From there, we just follow along. When that downbeat comes in, we're there, and we know what key we're all playing, but we don't know what anyone's going to do.

So you all need to be tapped into the visuals and each other’s output.

That's the fun part. You really have to be listening. Sometimes these scenes are only 30 seconds, so there's not a lot of time to get into something. You have to commit to your approach, and we end up synced more often than not.

It sounds like a metaphor for sex.

It’s about trusting the other person, but also knowing what you want and being committed to what you like and what you believe.

Like some sexual experiences, does it ever not mesh?

With these three people it’s always been great.

Is there a film that you’ve enjoyed playing to most?

We’ve all thought Crash by David Cronenberg was our favorite.

Why?

One interesting thing about this project is that you realize how important the music in a movie is. Crash is from the mid 90s; Howard Shore did the music, and it's a cheesy synth score that's more creepy than sexy. But when you put more overtly sexual music on these creepy scenes, they become sexier. The movie has a lot of long sex scenes where there's no dialog, so we can just get lost in the music on stage. The visuals and actors also embrace a strong aesthetic; it’s a very bizarre world.

Explicitly sexual songs are somewhat normalized on the pop charts. What do you think about sexuality’s place in today’s popular music?

I’m not so into it. I hear a dark cynicism in so much pop music today. A lot of songs will use sex almost as a weapon of misogyny or power. I like to have one more layer of creativity on top of just being about sex.

What kind of layer?

A human layer. Usually, if you’re seducing someone, you’re not aggressively blatant. Instead, you’re beating around the bush a little bit. That’s what’s fun about it.

There’s often some humor in the process, since you’re revealing yourself and your beliefs to someone. Pursuing someone can be utterly embarrassing.

Totally embarrassing. Sometimes the funniest moments in life happen in bed with somebody. That’s what’s so great about it. But in movies you so rarely see a couple laughing in bed. It’s usually very very serious.

Gimme a scene where people are roleplaying and they just can’t fucking do it with a straight face.

Sometimes a comedy will portray sex in funny ways, but I want to see it in dramatic films. Like In The Realm Of The Senses, which we just did for the first time. The actors are actually having sex, but it feels authentic, unlike porn, and there’s a lot of humor in it. At some points during our show, the whole room was laughing.

What do you consider when selecting films for Smootaphilia?

It’s difficult to choose them. They can’t be too plot-heavy because I want the music to be a main focus, and they should be visually compelling, so the audience can get lost in the visuals. Vampyros Lesbos, which we’ve done a bunch of times, is a good example. The plot doesn’t really make sense, but there are so many beautiful scenes we can enhance sonically.

You’re in direct conversation with each other, but also with someone else’s work.

I've never felt more part of a band. We’ve really bonded with this project, and I think it’s partly because we’re not just playing for ourselves; we’re kind of honoring these movies.

Has you perspective on film scores changed since starting Smootaphilia?

It's made me realize how safe most movie scoring is. Music is usually so secondary to the movie. So it's interesting to approach the movie on an equal footing with the music.

Who are some of your favorite film composers?

I don’t listen to that many at home, but I have the music for Ganja & Hess — a Black 70s art horror movie — on vinyl. The music was done by Nina Simone’s brother, Sam Waymon. It’s not traditional movie music.

It’s more daring?

Way more daring. You notice the music. Most film composers would probably say the film is most successful when the music doesn’t take you out of the story. But in Ganja & Hess, the music adds so much intensity.

Soundtracks typically spark my attention more than film scores.

An album I listen to all the time is Trouble Man, which is Marvin Gaye's first-ever soundtrack album. There are so many great exploitation soundtracks, but this one stands out. There’s a looped drum track they use on “‘T’ Plays It Cool” and it’s supposedly the first recording of that ever happening.

Incredible.

There should be more famous musicians doing scores. In a weird way, the big artists who score films now — like the Nine Inch Nails guys or Jonny Greenwood from Radiohead — are doing traditional soundtracks instead of bringing who they are to a film.

Do you have any goals of recording an original score?

I would do it with Smootaphilia. It would be an interesting challenge, but it’s not a real goal of mine because at the end of the day you gotta do what the director says. Right now, we’d rather work on finishing an album.

How has recording an original album changed your approach to the music making experience?

We went into the studio and started by jamming to three movies that we've done live. We have three or four hours of music to pick through, but I have yet to listen back. I have to think about what it will sound like as an album.

What other records are in your sonic pantheon?

After Funkadelic, it’s Little Beaver’s Party Down.

That is the smoothest album of all time.

It really is.

Every time the first track starts I can feel my entire body relax.

In a lot of ways, that’s how I want the sound of Smootaphilia to be. Put it on and suddenly your whole reality is changed. Another big record for me is Newborn Light from this Polish singer Urszula Dudziak. It’s her doing wordless vocals with a keyboard player.

Like Ann’s singing in Smootaphilia?

Yeah, when we think of amazing singers, we usually think of amazing lyric singers. But in Smootaphilia, you just get to hear Ann’s wild, beautiful voice without thinking about the words.

Talk about musical freedom.

Keep your eyes out for upcoming Smootaphilia shows here. Also: some additional records that have inspired Smootaphilia.

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When it comes to my dad and Creedence Clearwater Revival, there’s an amazing irony at play. For a band that never once released a love song, Creedence’s fifth studio album, Cosmo’s Factory, provided the soundtrack to my father’s earliest romantic escapades.

Last week, I visited my dad at his condo and made a point of unveiling my own copy of the Creedence record, which was fairly beat up from years spent buried in a Brooklyn basement. But its condition didn’t stop my dad’s eyes from widening beneath his glasses as he admired the cover art — scruffy young men posing casually in their Bay Area rehearsal space.

“Throw it on,” he said, gesturing across the room to a turntable that hadn’t been played much since my parents’ divorce. Back then, after we’d sold the house, Dad rented an apartment across town and the two of us spent summer nights eating pizza and playing Zeppelin records in the living room.

As I asked him questions about Cosmo’s Factory, the record skipped in the background, and, for the first time, I was able to clearly picture this 67-year-old man as a teenager doing teenager things: hitchhiking to the record store in his small suburban town, crushing on classmates in steamy basements, dancing close, making out, getting his heart broken.

It reminded me of my own queasy attempts at romance. Asking a girl to date me in the 5th grade, hugging her behind a tree at recess, burning her a CD, inviting her over and watching my mother gaze suspiciously at the gold hoops dangling from her 11-year-old ears, as if to say, “This one’s trouble.”

Cosmo’s Factory by Creedence was the first album you ever bought?

Yes. I bought this record for my girlfriend in 8th grade. And I didn’t want my parents to know that I was buying a gift for a girl, so I hid it up in the attic over the garage. Which is not a good place to store a record.

I didn’t know there was an attic over Grandma and Grandpa’s garage, how did you get up there?

I had a little step ladder that I could pull from the back of the garage, and then I hoisted myself up onto the rafters and hid the record. I think her birthday was October 3rd, and it was September, so it baked up there for quite a while.

How did you land on Cosmo’s Factory?

I’d heard the songs on the radio, so I knew it’d be a good album.

Where’d you buy it?

We had one record store in town — Randolph Records, or something — right on Main Street. Pretty sure I hitchhiked there, everyone did that back then.

What was your girlfriend’s name?

Her name was Nancy Seifert. I did eventually get the record to her, and I had it all wrapped, in birthday wrap.

That’s romantic for a 14-year-old.

I thought so. We were a hot ticket.

How did you get the record to her?

I don’t remember, but I actually got to listen to it at her house. Her parents kinda liked me.

Sounds like they were more open-minded than Grandma and Grandpa.

Her older sister had already broken down all the barriers, whereas I was the oldest in my family; my parents weren’t welcoming of girlfriends in 8th grade.

Really?

Yeah, I hid my relationship. But we used to have dance parties at people’s houses, in their basements, a lot of making out, a lot of grinding going on.

Was grinding a thing back then?

We didn’t call it grinding, but it was definitely a thing.

Dry humping.

Hahaha…yeah.

Would you dance to Creedence?

Not really. We would listen to their music, but we used to dance to Motown. Elvis’s “Suspicious Minds” was a big one; also the Beatles’ “Come Together,” and “Something.”

Did you ever host one of these dance parties?

No, but at least my parents let me go. Nancy had one at her house, and I remember she and I were in the laundry room making out and her father came walking in…he wasn’t happy.

That tracks.

He was just glad we had our clothes on. He’d already come downstairs and was looking for his daughter, and somebody was like, “I think she went outside to get a breath of fresh air” and he was like, “Yeah, okay…” Then he burst into the back room. We weren’t alone in there, either; other people were on the floor.

Wow, an 8th grade orgy…

It was an 8th grade make-out party. Dancing and making out, you ate a little bit, and no alcohol, just good clean fun.

At that age you don’t really need any extra stimulants.

There were enough pheromones in the air. Now that I think of it, maybe we did dance to Creedence — maybe “Who’ll Stop The Rain.”

How long did you and Nancy date?

Oh boy. Three months? Six months?

Do remember who broke up with who?

I don’t. But I don’t remember it being dramatic. She ended up marrying one of my best friends from high school though, and they’re still married.

Who did you date after Nancy?

It was Karen McSweeney first, then Nancy, and they were best friends — that was awkward — and then in 9th grade I went to the high school and that’s when I met Ginger. Ginger Wells. We dated until I graduated.

Ginger Wells sounds like a leading lady’s name from old-school Hollywood. Was she a big deal at school?

No, she wasn’t a cheerleader or anything.

What did you like about her?

We just hit it off. Sunday nights, I used to go over to her house and we’d watch gangster movies on TV and make out. We would sit in the living room where the TV was, and her mom would be out in the family room chain-smoking Virginia Slims — she would smoke about half of them, put them out, and line them up in her ashtray, it was all very organized. Her dad didn’t smoke, and he’d sit there reading the newspaper, the whole room in a blue haze.

You were together all of high school?

She dumped me right before the senior prom.

Damn, that’s cold. So you went alone?

No, come on. I got a date. I went with my brother’s ex-girlfriend.

That’s nuts.

It was nuts. My mother was especially confused, because we came over to the house for corsages and pictures and all that, and she’s like, “Isn’t that the woman who was here last year with your brother?”

Was Uncle Scott pissed?

No, he wasn’t pissed. I didn’t ask him, but no. I met her at a party, and we got to talking about my broken heart and she said, “Well, I’ll go with ya!” And I was like, “Alright, sounds like fun.”

So it wasn’t serious.

No, no. I went to college a couple months later and was unattached, but I came home for Thanksgiving and hooked back up with Ginger. Second semester of freshman year I met Sheryl and I was with her all the rest of college, then we got married.

A long-term man.

I’m a monogamous man, I don’t like the playing-the-field thing, it just confuses my head.

I feel like I’ve always had a somewhat similar outlook on dating.

Yeah? But you’re 31 now, and you’re not married. So you missed the 23-year-old wedding.

Times have changed.

Thanks god, right? Yet marriage still ends up in divorce half the time. It’s just not how we’re hardwired.

Some people like to do it, though. Maybe it’s just folks with high pain tolerances.

Hahaha.

And patience.

Lots of patience.

You can check out more Firsts here, and reach out with your own album stories to be featured on The Jam Jar!

(Also: a shout out to Auntie Karen for supplying the vintage photos!)

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Widely known as “the hardest working band in construction,” Old Lady is a force best experienced live, preferably in a dank bar with sticky floors, a cheap-as-hell beer-shot combo, and the sweet-stale smell of cigarette smoke drifting in through the open door.

On their third studio record, Tears Around Last Call, these Jersey-bred outlaws — Collin and Kailey Rocker, Isaac Candelario, Joey Nestor, and Hunter Davidsohn — root vintage country themes in the wilds of the tri-state area.

With both grit and grace, Old Lady makes the most of late nights and early mornings, weaving concise and vibrant stories into songs jam-packed with big rigs, bible-thumping, raging rivers, sell-outs, stolen goods, back-booth heartbreak, and grandad’s hand-me-down concrete mixer.

In June, I was fortunate enough to trip past a mechanical bull and stumble up to a long stage featuring this unforgettable five-piece. They shredded under the glow of a cowboy-boot disco ball (spurs and all), as the Brooklyn crowd, decked out in pearl snaps and prairie dresses — bathroom-loosies tucked behind their ears — two-stepped and scuffed the dancefloor. (I headbanged behind a couch in the corner.)

It’s no accident that Old Lady’s songs incorporate sounds and images found throughout the history of country music. With a lifelong love of the genre, and over a decade writing, recording and gigging, this tight-knit crew is steeped in the music of those who came before them.

I had the pleasure of speaking with Isaac and Collin about the country records that most influence Old Lady’s output, as well as the new album, New York’s booming country scene, working construction, The Boss, incarcerated bassists and so much more.

Enjoy. (And yeehaw!)

Isaac, you made me look pretty cool in front of my friends a few weeks back.

Isaac: Oh yeah?

After playing your set in Brooklyn, you came up to me, grabbed my shoulders, and said, “Thanks for dancing.”

Isaac: My eyes are always open, my shades are always on.

Hell yeah. So tell me about Western Jersey.

Collin: We both live in Hunterdon County.

Isaac: Collin’s town isn’t even really a town, it just has a library. Mine has a Main Street. It’s a sleepy river town. I live on the outer edges.

Are there other country bands based in the garden state?

Collin: Not many. When I was a teenager, I would track down older artists my father really loved who were doing “Going Out” tours or playing small shows at libraries and Ukrainian halls. Artists like Bill Kirchen or The New Riders of the Purple Sage.

Isaac: Some of our friends still play country music out here in Jersey. Miss Laurie and the Saddle Tones, Cliff Westfall.

What is Old Lady’s origin story?

Isaac: Collin and I were introduced by a mutual friend. Back then [in the mid-2000s], if you played or even knew country music you pretty much knew everybody else in New York that did that — there was no official scene.

Collin: Definitely not a dance scene. No one was two-stepping or anything like that. There were just swing-dancers hanging around for the rockabilly shows.

It seems like that has changed; I’ve done some reporting on the country scene going on in New York, and it’s pretty expansive.

Isaac: It’s rad. We’ve been a band 13 years and psych-rock was the big thing for a while, so we got used to playing with metal bands, garage-rock bands, punk bands. But now we can actually play a gig with two other country bands.

When did you begin writing songs together?

Isaac: Soon after meeting, we went to a bluegrass festival together and wrote our first song there.

Collin: On the back of a pizza box.

What was the song called?

Isaac: Was it “Irish Goodbye”? I can’t remember off the top of my head, there was a lot of scotch flowing at the time.

Was it country music that solidified your bond?

Collin: Yeah. Our music was never traditional country, but it was steeped and rooted in traditional country music — we were raised on that.

Isaac: Our records play like mixtapes because we write a lot of different kinds of songs. Country and country-blues is the through-line to most of it, but we treat every song like its own little world.

I was excited by how many moods and sounds coexist on Tears Around Last Call. When you’re making a record, do you think of the whole thing as its own bigger world?

Collin: We record what we consider to be the best songs at our disposal when we’re in the studio. Later we figure out which ones work best together side by side. Usually, that process creates an overriding tone.

Isaac: We’re always writing, so it comes down to the question of who in the band has the really good song right now.

Does your time in the studio impact the songs?

Isaac: We definitely hit some weird magic in the studio. It’ll be late at night and somebody just starts playing a song we wrote 10 years ago and all of a sudden it strikes a chord.

How long after you wrote the pizza box song did you name the band Old Lady?

Isaac: We were sitting in Collin's room, drinking this gallon of moonshine we had from Tennessee, and doodling, as young freaks do. Collin drew this great picture of an elderly biker couple, and I said, “Hey, we're like the old lady.”

It’s a memorable name, especially to someone who’s just getting to know your tunes. The Desert Five Spot show with Patton Magee hooked me.

Isaac: We were his band when he was putting together that record. People are always asking us to be their band or sit in, and we’re usually just too busy to do it. But we love Patton, he’s such a creative artist.

Would you consider yourselves the OG country band in the tri-state area?

Collin: I think that we're one of the first bands that brought in a country dancing tradition to live shows, where people started feeling like they could get weird and dance and not stand there stonefaced. Dancing went hand-in-hand with the country bands we would see down in Tennessee and Texas.

Isaac: We’re very mindful of our live show. We play dance music and bar music. Our records allow us to write different stuff and develop a catalog and depth of experience with our music. But at the show, when you’re in a bar trying to drink and have fun and get laid, we’re not going to play slow song after slow song.

It’s cool to hear that your records are their own thing, it reminds me of how bands like The Dead had a different existence on stage compared to when they were in the studio.

Collin: Absolutely. I wouldn’t want anyone to come to our live show expecting to hear the record.

How often do you play gigs?

Isaac: We try to play once a week. Our bass player is a train engineer and he can guarantee one night a week when he can be where we need him to be.

Collin: We’ll do weekend runs around Pennsylvania, New York and New Jersey, and twice a year we’ll get on the road for two weeks or so.

What about country music hooked you at a young age?

Collin: I always noticed that country songwriting dealt with topics you don’t necessarily grow out of. In a way, it’s something you can hold forever. From a young age, I knew country music was something I would grow into, and for better or worse it’s definitely happened. It’s honest, and I’m obsessed with the idea of a two-minute movie in a song, when the fat’s trimmed out and it takes you on a journey in just a couple verses.

Isaac: The moment I really got into country was when I got my first car. My dad got me one of those Walkmans that you plug into the tape player to play CDs, and he threw in The Best of Tom Petty and The Best of Hank Williams — those two CDs did not get old. It became my soundtrack to really tasting freedom for the first time — it was a sexual revolution.

The car is still my favorite place to listen to music.

Isaac: We gotta figure out how to put a record player in there though.

One-hundred percent. Do you remember the first country vinyls you bought?

Collin: I used to go to a record store in Somerville, New Jersey when I was in high school. In the 1950s and 60s, country music was huge with the blue collar white listeners there, and when they started passing away their families dropped all of their records off at this store — it was the biggest and least popular section there, every country record was a dollar. So I would leave with stacks. But probably early Roger Miller or Wynn Stewart.

Isaac: The first record I ever bought was Tom Petty’s first album, first-pressing, un-opened. I still have it. But that same day, at Bleecker Street Records, I got a first-pressing of Neil Young’s Harvest Moon, which I’d say counts as a country record.

I was going to say Harvest was the cassette I never took out of my car.

Collin: Another record I have to mention, which gives me chills — a stone-cold country record — is “Walking the Streets” by Webb Pierce. It just blows my mind.

Isaac: When I met Collin, he had a much more substantial country record collection than I did. I had a lot of classic rock, like Grateful Dead. I would raid old hippies’ attics.

How would you come across these old hippies?

Isaac: My dad ran a drug and alcohol counseling agency. He wanted to learn how to play guitar, I wanted to play drums, and this other counselor played guitar. Word got out in the AA and NA communities that we were starting a band, so all through high school I had this band called Some More Than Others, which was comprised of me and all these drunks and hippies and people in recovery. People would come and go, people would relapse; we had three bass players in jail at the same time.

What kind of gigs would you play?

Isaac: Where I’m from, in central Pennsylvania, is super rural. The only place to play was in bars, but the whole reason for the band was to stay out of the bars, so we’d rent out the county fairgrounds a lot and throw these mini festivals. We played constantly and rehearsed maybe 12 hours a week, because everyone was just trying to stay clean, ya know?

And you were a teenager.

Isaac: At the time I was the only one who hadn’t been to prison. I changed that, years later.

So you really developed your chops with this crew?

Isaac: Yeah, it was a very motley crew.

Collin, when did you start performing?

Collin: In middle-school, around 2004. I was in a punk band that morphed into a post-hardcore band. And in central New Jersey at the time there was a huge music scene for screamo, emo, post-hardcore stuff. We won a big statewide battle of the bands and got to play Warped Tour, which was really cool.

What songwriters inspired you to start writing?

Collin: My cousin Caitlin, who lives in Virginia and was always a hero to me as a kid. But when I started driving, I would load the six-disc changer with my parents’ old CDs. So Tom Petty's Greatest Hits; Car Wheels On A Gravel Road by Lucinda Williams; and John Prine’s Souvenirs.

I was curious about John Prine’s influence, particularly because of Old Lady’s knack for tongue-in-cheek lyricism.

Collin: A lot of people in punk bands say The Ramones made them realize that they could do it and ripped a curtain down; that’s what John Prine did for me. I heard him and I said, “I think this guy speaks my language.” Honestly, losing him was devastating. I’ve been lucky enough to meet a lot of my heroes, but I felt like I still had some things to say to him.

Isaac, who has inspired your songwriting?

Isaac: Hank Williams is at the top of the pile. The Pixies are also some of my favorites; I like how strange and absurdist and abstract a lot of their songs are, but with a hidden story that resonates. I try to make my songs really sugary and so easy to eat, but there’s some secret meaning under the surface. I also gravitate to matter-of-fact doo-wop lyrics, like The Fleetwoods’ stuff. Also George Jones — lately, I’ve been obsessed with “Take Me.”

Back to your live shows, how has your approach to performing changed over the past 13 years, if at all?

Isaac: Every show is a different set depending on what we’ve written and what we feel like playing. We take into account the room, the bill, the sound, the stage. We could probably play for five hours straight, we have a lot to draw from.

Collin: Throughout our twenties, we played a lot of full nights at bars. So we have a deep catalogue of originals, but also country covers.

Are there any covers you don’t get sick of playing?

Collin: Personally, I always love playing Billy Joe Shaver’s material.

Isaac: I’m very proud that we can play a fun dancy night of country music without playing covers. But Kailey does a great cover of “Fruits of My Labor,” a very sultry Lucinda Williams tune — I enjoy playing that one a lot; I can slow down and get deep in the pocket.

How about other current bands or records you’re excited about?

Isaac: Nathan Xander is probably our favorite songwriter in the New York area. His record Three Waltzes. I put that on all the time. And then our friends Ma’aM from central Pennsylvania are so hardworking and always creating new stuff.

Collin: I would add our label mate Adam Amram to this list. He’s a great songwriter and a great spirit. Another close friend of ours who deserves mentioning is Sweet Pete, his recent record is amazing.

Sweet. And what’s Old Lady got cooking right now?

Isaac: I think we’ll be appearing on a covers album of Bruce Springsteen’s Nebraska.

Collin: Yeah, this record label [stay tuned] is getting New Jersey-based artists together to do electric versions of Springsteen’s acoustic record.

I wasn’t going to ask about Springsteen — it felt too on-the-nose — but now I have to.

Collin: I mean, he’s the best there ever was, as a performer, a writer, a singer. One thing I’ll say about Bruce is that I didn’t grow up with him being forced down my throat, which may be why I’ve grown to love him so much.

Isaac: Also, we work construction, and I think a lot of his music is tailored to a blue-collar audience. A lot of his lyricism hits home powerfully for me.

Collin: Likewise. You hear certain songs of his and you feel like it takes a giant weight off; it’s like, “Okay, I’m glad I don’t have to write that one…”

So you guys currently work construction?

Collin: Yeah, during the day.

Damn, you must have a lot of energy.

Isaac: You got to. It’s a soul sacrifice, the music. Late nights and early mornings.

Collin: I’m pretty tired. But for us, there’s no other way we would have done it.

Isaac: I have a hard time writing when I’m not working. I was three stories up a couple hours ago, on a ladder, for most of the morning.

How much of the construction job makes its way into your songwriting?

Collin: My entire working world — the commute, the characters I work with, the characters I work for, the setting itself — it all goes into the music.

Isaac: I would say a good amount. Most of my writing is more romantic; I write a lot of love and lust songs, but I have a song that’ll be on our next record called “Too Cute For Labor” that’s all about the grind.

When do you know it’s time to make another record?

Isaac: It’s constant; we already have a new record in the bag. We don’t go to the studio to “record a record”; we go every other month to work. So there’s constantly stuff in the can. We get creative in there. And in the mixing process, we’re always recording new stuff at the same time — it’s no fun to go in and just sit there and spin knobs.

So there’s a serious momentum to your output. Does that help you stay focused on the band?

Collin: We’re all pretty distracted with our lives, in a good way, and life yields the songs. We just keep making sure we make the time to get up and have fun recording them.

Tears Around Last Call was released on August 8, 2025 by Nudie Records. Support the band by picking up a copy of the record on some sweet sweet vinyl and check out their upcoming gig at Ruba Club in Philly on September 26!

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Featuring…

“These Drugs Aren’t Working Anymore” — The Freelancer’s Blues, Dougie Poole

With his tongue pressed hard against his cheek, Dougie Poole crafts heartfelt Millennial country tunes about the mundanity of modern American life — blowing vape clouds, dabbling in meditation, and driving U-Hauls through Jersey. A personal favorite for years, this record helped persuade me toward embracing country music and the genre’s vast possibilities.

“A Song For You” — GP, Gram Parsons

“So take me down to your dance floor / And I won’t mind the people when they stare.” A gentle, achingly intimate track on the most infamous Flying Burrito Bro’s legendary debut. Reminds me of sitting out on the back porch as the first chill of autumn rides a perfect evening breeze.

“It Wasn’t God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels” — Kitty Wells’ Country Hit Parade, Kitty Wells

“Too many times married men think they’re still single / That has caused many a good girl to go wrong” — the Nashville-native, and proclaimed Queen of Country Music, sang this one well before its time. Thanks to my bud Harry for showing me this brazen gem.

“Lonely Entertainer” — Wayfaring Strangers: Cosmic American Music (Compilation), Mike and Pam Martin

Numero Group has made an industry out of reintroducing songs lost to time. This compilation of small label releases dusts off forgotten ingots from the American West — the kind of soulful cosmic country defined by the work of Gram Parsons, his love of a steel guitar sound, and an unfiltered heartbreak embodied in his quaking voice.

“I Can’t Stop Loving You” — Modern Sounds In Country And Western Music, Ray Charles

One of many hit singles on Ray Charles’ landmark record, this track highlights how The Father of Soul brought gospel, jazz and R&B to country music, creating an entirely new and infectious American sound.

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Izzy Hagerup isn’t scared of the dark, and neither are you.

Following Prewn’s critically celebrated debut, Through The Window, Hagerup extends her sonic curiosities on the upcoming album, System, through dense layering, devastating string intros, pulsing synths, dreamscape drum machines, and distorted guitar parts that ring out with a violent edge.

The album’s sound breathes life into haunting lyrical images: sniffing flowers and snorting bugs; a dirty dog washed up on river rocks; heaven, hell; liquid falling from the ceiling, making rivers on the counter; boots in a bloody mess.

But despite the darkness, the 28-year-old singer-songwriter conjures a thoughtful balance of pain, wonder, and bliss throughout the record, reframing the dichotomous weight of disordered organization, and the structures and systems in which we all dwell.

The questions living within Hagerup’s new record — What does it take to survive reality? How do you decipher the lows without sinking? — can be answered by her own quest to write, record and assemble daring, heartfelt songs like these.

In this interview, Hagerup and I discuss what went into System, and so much more. Enjoy.

You were in Northampton for years. What prompted this recent move to Los Angeles?

I needed the intensity of going somewhere I wouldn’t have the comfort of knowing people. I always said I would never live in LA, and then one day I wondered, “But what if I did?”

That’s what I used to say about New York, but now I’m here. And it’s been good, and also really bad.

That’s part of why I did this, too. The bad is important!

I can feel that when I listen to your songs. They take on anxiety, misery, heartbreak, etc. How do these themes play into your definition of a “system”?

Well, the title track is probably the most vulnerable and straightforward song on the record, which hints at a capitalist, patriarchal, self-absorbed society. All of these songs represent different perspectives on the oppressive systems we live in.

I wanted to ask you about writing from different perspectives. On “But I Want More” off your debut record, you embody the POV of your dad struggling with Parkinson’s and it hits hard. Did you play around with this approach on System?

Writing from other people’s perspectives can help me practice getting into someone else's head. System feels more personal, and written from my own personal vantage point, but there are songs like “Dirty Dog” and “Cavity” that seem to emanate from someone else, or some freaky creatures.

I’ve noticed the recurrence of some horrific imagery throughout the record.

My music does tend to gravitate towards the freaky and the nasty. There’s a nastiness to life. I like to weave that in with the sweetness of it.

I love how visceral and corporeal your lyrics are — each song is a living, breathing thing.

When I write I’m usually unaware of what I’m doing, but I guess that’s true; swallowing, bleeding, and hunger come up a lot.

Do you feel like having less awareness while writing leads to better songs?

Definitely. That’s the ultimate key to writing anything that feels authentic and honest and a little beyond myself. I struggle with writer’s block pretty much constantly; I’m always chasing “the flow state” — when I’m outside my mind.

Are there any methods you use to channel that?

I don’t have much of a strategy, but I want to start approaching music-making with more tact. My current method is randomness surrounding a desire to play music and write and every once in a while I’ll experience that flow.

Were you able to access the flow state on this record?

I rarely write anything when I’m out in the world, but with “Easy,” the opening track, I came up with most of the lyrics on a hike in the mountains and kept singing them to myself so I wouldn’t forget. I was in a really good mood, which is rare.

It’s rare that you’re in a good mood?

While writing. I tend to make my favorite songs when I’m a little miserable.

I wrote the first part of “System” when I was in Japan, a place I’d always wanted to go. But I was a depressed at the time and couldn’t see past my own walls. I had this melody in my head and the lyrics just emerged while I was standing in a busy train station in Tokyo.

That’s cool to hear, especially because that song struck me as uplifting despite the lyrics about being plagued by fear and misery. There’s a real balance of beauty and darkness — is this a theme in your songwriting?

Yes, for sure. Sometimes I want to mask some of the darkness, but they’re just inherently intertwined, light and dark; you can’t have one without the other.

When I reposted the “System” music video on Facebook, my aunt commented something like, “You’ve had a hard couple years, maybe you should try something new.”

Like, is my music too dark for you, Ant Cindy?

That’s relatable.

It’s how I also approach life: I can get pretty dark, but I’m always looking for the silver lining in things. Sometimes I have the strength to live in that, and sometimes when shit’s really fucked, the lightness seems distant, but I’m still aware of it.

Do you ever find yourself writing “happy” songs?

I’d like to get to a point where I’m writing some songs that lean more to the lighter side, but it’s naturally easier to write about the harder, darker things because they demand my attention.

When I’m all happy and having a good time, I don’t have as much necessity to write.

Yeah, makes me think of Jeff Tweedy from Wilco, who always says you don’t need to be suffering to write great songs, but he wrote some of his best songs when he was all fucked up.

The crazy can help.

Compared to your first album, Through The Window, these songs sound even more complex, with more layers, and more instrumentation — like the haunting strings and wonky synthesizers. How has your recording process changed?

I get really attached to my demos, so now I try harder to imagine how those songs would go out and I record with a little more attention to detail.

I’ll usually find a way to incorporate whatever instruments are in the room I’m recording in, like the synth on this record. It’s the randomness that ends up defining the sound on System.

Would you call your recording process playful?

Yes. Like on “Dirty Dog” or “Commotion.” Or even “Cavity.” I was having fun with the synth and not taking it too seriously, which is probably why it sounds like a confusing trippy nightmare you can’t escape from.

The high-buzz of the synth and your distorted vocals on “Cavity” were awesome; they reminded me of my horrific wisdom tooth experience when I was a teenager.

Oh no!

Oh yeah. After the surgery, I was so high on whatever they gave me and I passed out on my kitchen floor, then puked all over my mom’s car, then had to get hooked up to an IV.

That honestly sounds fitting for the song; I wish we’d recorded that for the video.

If only. I guess that’s what I mean about your songs sounding “visceral” — they take a tangible toll on me when I listen. Are there any specific artists that have inspired your sound?

It’s been eclectic and spread out over the years, but I was listening to a lot of John Prine and Harry Nilsson while I was writing the songs on System.

Harry Nilsson is my doppelgänger.

No way!

How did you decide on the name “Prewn?”

I’m not sure. Naming things is one of my greatest weaknesses. When I was in high school, I convinced my family to get a pug and he had two names the whole time we had him.

If I have a baby one day, I don’t know what I’ll do…

Oh lord.

I just have a really hard time with infinite options and don't trust myself enough yet to feel capable of of knowing the best choice. After playing shows under a bunch of stupid names, I stumbled upon “Prune,” and my friends were all like, “Please don’t.”

But it felt right. The word is warm, weird, ugly, and kinda old. I wish it sounded cooler, but it’s the best I can do — just a feeling.

I think it’s perfect. I noticed that the final song on the record, “Don’t Be Scared” offers listeners some guidance for existing in oppressive systems: “You can push through the grass / Find a question to ask.”

I wrote that as an attempt to describe coping in the lonely, confusing space that probably exists within all of us, whether we’re aware of it or not.

I’ve found that asking simple questions and staying curious can help me cope with my own anxieties.

Same. As a society, we tend to approach dealing with shit with such oppression and violence, but maybe the antithesis of that is the purity of not knowing anything at all — go walk through the grass, and embrace the pain of it, and the beauty of it, too.

System was mixed by Prewn drummer Karl Helander and will be released on the Exploding In Sound label on October 23rd. Pre-order a copy on vinyl if you’re cool.

Prewn’s upcoming gigs include Otis Mountain Get Down (September 6), The New Colossus Festival (October 10-11), and Left of the Dial in Rotterdam, Netherlands (October 23-25).

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