8Sided Blog

the scene celebrates itself

San Mateo: A Layer of Hiss

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As San Mateo, Matthew Naquin makes the music of nostalgia, dreams, and expanding subterranean root networks. San Mateo’s latest album — Exspiravit Luminaria — features a digitalized tree in its cover art, eerily suspended with its roots hanging like tendrils. The image is a handy approximation of Matthew’s sound and modus operandi. Exspiravit Luminaria‘s music is steeped in earthiness but also exists outside the soil, floating calmly in an unnatural digitalness. 

I’ve wanted to have this conversation for a while. For the past few years, my fledgling imprint 8D Industries has helped to release San Mateo’s steady and always compelling output. In email exchanges with Matthew, he’s given hints about his process. There’s usually mention of self-imposed constraints, of limiting the music-making tools he has access to, and how each new album has an intentional difference from the previous one. Matthew was immediately on my mind as an interview candidate for this blog’s series of conversations about the artistic process. I’m glad to present our chat to you today.

Surprisingly (or maybe not), our exchange is full of laughs. Matthew shares my curiosity about the creative process and the philosophical question of how art works. Of course, it’s hard to talk about those things without a sense of humor. Other topics include dealing with past releases we no longer enjoy listening to, imagining sequenced music as played by ‘live’ musicians, why playlists suck (or not), the benefit of enforcing constraints, and, as excerpted below, the younger generation’s unexplained embrace of tape hiss.

You can listen to the entire conversation in the audio player. Enjoy! (Also, I apologize that my voice in the audio is a bit crunchy. Editing this inspired me to purchase a new, better microphone.)

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MD: So, some years ago, I found myself buying a sound set of various tape hisses.

MN: I’ve actually got a whole file folder of tape hiss that I’ve created. I bought stuff like that before I started making my own.

MD: Yeah, as I’m buying this thing, I’m thinking: the 18-year-old version of me is screaming right now. He has no idea what I’m doing, wanting to actually add tape hiss. Back then, I literally was losing sleep over tape hiss when I was recording, I could not figure out how to get a good sound without losing my high end, unintentionally adding tape hiss, and everything going crazy. 

MN: It’s amazing. Thirty years ago, everybody searched for sonic purity, and now it’s quite the opposite. Like you were saying, your 18-year-old self would be like, “You’ve got this perfect DAW that records at 24 or 48 bits. And now you’re adding hiss back in.” 

MD: I also have these plugins that add hiss. I mean, they’re great. They sound amazing, but it’s just hilarious to me. And I use them. I love ’em, and I use ’em. But it’s so funny how that thing has come around. Why is that attractive, do you think?

MN: I think there’s something about that, the organicness of it. I was actually pondering this the other day as I was feeding noise into my signal chain. In fact, I’m working on a track where I have an emulation plugin running in the background, adding hiss. There’s no sound actually being fed into it. I’ve just got the tape function turned on to feed a layer of hiss into the signal itself. And I was thinking about that while toggling it back and forth, on and off. And yes, it’s digital, it’s fake tape — whatever. But it opens up the mix in a way that it’s hard to define. It’s almost like a gut feeling or something instinctual, where it adds some of this organic layer to things. When it’s dry, you just can’t hear anything like that. Also, one of the things I like to do is stick a mic out my window and just record that. That’s it. I think I did this on Sonnet Ring and Deepstaria — there’s an underlying microphone feed running through the whole album on both of those. You might not be able to hear it or any street noise or anything like that, but it’s the same with adding tape hiss. It puts you there, somehow or another. It puts you in the room in a way that I think a sterile digital environment doesn’t allow. I don’t know; I’m just spitballing here. As I said, I was thinking about it just yesterday, how noise adds character that opens up the mix in a way that isn’t there when it’s turned off. It doesn’t feel as good, you know?

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MD: Do you think this effect is emotional, like an emotional reaction or a nostalgic reaction?

MN: It could be, but then it’s very popular with this current generation, and they wouldn’t have grown up on that. I mean, I understand with vaporwave or something like that. That genre taps into more guttural, nostalgic things. But tape noise — I can’t imagine that many people in the younger generation into lo-fi music heard tape noise growing up. Maybe they did?

MD: I don’t know. It’s like that phenomenon that was around for a minute of music that sounds like it’s in an empty mall.

MN: Oh, yeah! 

MD: There was a New Yorker article about the phenomenon and how a lot of the people creating these YouTube channels are too young to have actually experienced a mall in its heyday.

MN: I wonder if there’s something that gets ingrained generationally. If your parents experienced the empty mall, there’s something in your genes somehow, that nostalgia or that emotion that gets passed down. (pauses and laughs) Probably not. But, yeah, they’ve never experienced this. They’ve never experienced tape. So why is it popular right now? What are they nostalgic for?

MD: And even adding crackle and vinyl record noise to digital songs. There’s an instrumental hip-hop label I do some work with, and half of their catalog is like that. The artists, who are all very young, add vinyl noise to their digital productions. It’s funny to me, but it’s also cool. But I do feel there is a sort of emotional, nostalgic appeal to tape hiss. I do think that because tape hiss won’t work on everything. And if you remove it from certain songs, your emotional feeling from those songs will be different.

MN: I mean, Boards of Canada created a career on it, right?

MD: But that’s where it’s almost like it’s being passed down. Boards of Canada are a great example because they obviously grew up with tapes and weird educational films and things that had sonic deficiencies in them. They added these defects to their music, which may have been because of an emotional feeling it gave them. This feeling then attached itself to their listeners. And then suddenly, you have new listeners who may not have experienced the original sources but still catching on to the feeling that, say, Boards of Canada originally felt. It’s almost like this cycle of audio nostalgia.

MN: Well, I mean, look at Stranger Things. I’m sure the bulk of its audience is probably people that didn’t grow up in the eighties. Well, I’m not positive, but I would bet that’s the case. The show’s very popular with a younger generation. And then the sound of Stranger Things, the synth lines and production, and all that stuff. There are kids that have never heard that. But it’s the whole intent of Stranger Things; to hit a nostalgic bone, right? It’s supposed to have an eighties ‘feel.’ So, yeah, maybe it is generationally apparent to a child. This makes me curious about what sounds will get used 40 years from now. What’s that going to be? Will producers still use tape hiss and vinyl crackle? I mean, when we’re that far out, will it be something else?

MD: That’s interesting. But it’s interesting, too, when you think about how trends come around. Something that’s really scary to think about for anyone our age is Stranger Things is basically to now as Happy Days was to us in the eighties. 

MN: I haven’t thought of it that way, but yeah, that’s … (shudders)

MD: I mean, as far as the era that was being depicted and the music that was in it. But it seems like the eighties look and sounds have more perseverance then, say, beyond bands like the Stray Cats as an example of fifties music emulated in the eighties. So I don’t know; it almost feels like there’s something else going on …

MN: And then there was that weird swing revival in the nineties.

MD: Which we don’t need to talk about. (much nervous laughter)

→ Exspiravit Luminaria, San Mateo’s latest album, is available now on Bandcamp and all the streaming places.

3+1: Many Pretty Blooms

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Many Pretty Blooms is the name of an evocative guitar-focused project from Austin inhabitant John Wilkins, known previously for his role as one-half of the duo FIRES WERE SHOT. Many Pretty Blooms have just released a gorgeous new album on Whitelabrecs, Bow & Clatter, and it’s a worthy accompaniment to falling leaves, breezy, gray afternoons, and the approaching winter. 

John works through the constraints of the acoustic guitar to arrive at deceivingly simple melodic passages and layered moments of textural wonder. Laptop-assisted treatments and subtle looping are a part of John’s technique, but he also reveals unexpected flourishes in the resulting compositions. John’s formative days as a drummer translate to a percussive fingerpicking style and a penchant for beating on the poor guitar’s body for a rhythm track. And, as the album’s title eludes, a small bow, like one used for a viola or cello, elicits unfamiliar sounds from the guitar’s strings. 

I call your attention to “Strange Motif,” a fine, hypnotic example of John’s six-string experimentation. Bowed guitars ebb and swirl to produce tones that one could describe as ‘gentle scraping.’ The musical sound isn’t far from that of an orchestra warming up, but only if all the musicians are instructed to do so quietly, pensively, and with perfect restraint. Contrast this with the following song, “Unknown Delaware,” which combines the gritty bow strokes with percussive chord tapping and a waltzing specter. It recalls traditional music but from somewhere off the map. So many styles and textures collide that it’s easy to forget all we hear is an acoustic guitar.

Bow & Clatter is such a pleasant and inventive ride. I wanted to learn more, so I nabbed some time with John Wilkins in Many Pretty Blooms mode for a bit of 3+1. 

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1. How does your background as a drummer affect how you play guitar? Do you still find inspiration from rhythm, even when composing or recording beat-less music?

I use repetition a lot in my recordings, which I’m sure is informed by my experience as a drummer. I’m also more inclined to take a classical approach to music than an abstract or “ambient” one, so there’s an underlying rhythm in the tracks. I’ve gotten into banging out little rhythmic patterns on the guitar body or playing brushed patterns on my knee. I’m in an experimental stage with rhythm at the moment.

Drums are still my favorite instrument to listen to and what I’m most comfortable playing; or, in the case of listening, it’s just what jumps out at me and what I’m most aware of. Funnily enough, my favorite music to listen to is mostly drum-less. Of course, drum kits present a mobility/volume issue, and my current and ongoing situation prevents me from really laying into them for extended periods. I’ve always been less than enthused about using drum machines and drum plug-ins, so I may start exploring quieter sounds from my kit in the future, using brushes, padded heads, etc.

2. From your press-kit: “Fade-outs are unfairly maligned. They are beautiful ways to end songs…” Please elaborate!

I remember seeing some Reddit post a good bit ago, a reaction by intellectuals asserting that fade-outs are lazy and unimaginative. This made me take notice of endings and think about them more carefully. I do believe the effect of a fade-out is dependent on the music. Still, I’m sentimental and find them to be like a close friend waving goodbye in the rear-view mirror as they get smaller and smaller until they’re finally out of sight (or in the case of fade-ins, a slow reveal of the good friend and the anticipation of seeing them again).

There’s poignancy there; anyone who enjoys William Basinski would agree, though they may not understand why at first. But I find the fade-ins and fade-outs of The Disintegration Loops to be the most appealing parts of those songs. 

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3. Tell us about your earliest *significant* musical memory or recollection.

Growing up in Germany, the only music I listened to was Johnny Cash (his were the only records I owned) — my dad would bring home a used piece of vinyl every couple of months, it seemed. I was about 8 when my mom bought me a Johnny Cash guitar songbook (I still have that book!), and it inspired me to take a few guitar lessons from our neighbor. I would sit in our utility room with my music stand and that songbook, working out the chords and patterns for “Hey, Porter” and “I Walk the Line.” I remember it was not too long after starting the lessons I attempted to play and sing “Folsom Prison Blues” to my mom one morning while sitting on my bed. I don’t remember her exact reaction, but it wasn’t what I was hoping for. She was always very supportive, but her response that morning seemed to bother me for some reason. I still recall that early feeling of self-doubt and self-consciousness stemming from that event, and I didn’t play much after that until I was about 24. I’m glad I came back to it.

+1. What’s something you love that more people should know about?

There’s an album called Mend by Geotic — it’s a project by the same guy who does Baths; it’s one of my all-time favorite “ambient” guitar albums. Excellent use of the fade-out(!) and just beautiful, simple loops of nursery rhyme melodies and blown-out, moonlit atmospheres.

→ Bow & Clatter by Many Pretty Blooms is available now on Bandcamp and all the streaming places.

Elijah Knutsen: Inhabiting Faraway Places

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I’ve already spoken with Elijah Knutsen a few times, most memorably about his obsession with the Kankyō Ongaku sub-genre of Japanese instrumental music. I found his 2020 album Blue Sun Daydream refreshing and warm amidst an onslaught of darker ambient efforts and have followed his output since. There’s a simplicity to Elijah’s music, but his attention to space and defined spaces, as well as a narrative-like temporal motion, set his compositions apart. He mostly improvises his productions in the moment, but a longing for new surroundings inspires intentionality. Elijah’s need to inhabit distant locations is satisfied by approximating how visiting those places might make him feel, interpreted to you and me through music.

Elijah’s latest album is Maybe Someday, a pronounced step forward. Japan’s northernmost islands are the imagined destination, coupled with the background hum of loneliness. The guitar, which played a prominent role in Elijah’s pre-ambient music-making, returns to his production arsenal to add an audible Victorialand-like flavor to the album. Atmospheric recordings culled from Japan’s natural surroundings, rural towns, and everyday routines bubble in and out of the shimmering mist created by heavily processed synths and guitars. The effect is beguiling — playing Maybe Someday now takes the ‘home’ out of my home office. I feel like I’m writing this someplace else, someplace ideal.

In my last interview with Elijah, I primarily asked him about his influences and fascination with the artists of Kankyō Ongaku. Maybe Someday inspired a follow-up conversation focused on his music. So I get into it with Elijah about sonic world-building, the fun of imagining a mental space for music, how Google Maps comes into play, and even some guitar pedal talk. Below is a transcript of the first several minutes of our conversation, and you can hear the full 23 minutes via the handy audio player. 

(One quick note: at the end of my chat with Elijah, I enthusiastically recommend the writing, photography, and email newsletters of Craig Mod. You should check out Craig, too.)

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MD: I’m really into this concept of world-building through music — this idea that you can create spaces and imagine where it’s taking place, whether that place is a real place or it’s imaginary. It’s like the music has an environment around it or an implied environment around it. I’m fascinated with how you do something like that with field recordings. Do you think about that intentionally, about creating a transportive space?

EK: Yes, definitely. When I started my record label, it started with an art project. I took a bunch of field recordings, and I made this space with them, like a sound design project. I made this “room” where you’re in one part where in the recording, there’s like a fan to your right and a computer modem in front of you. I panned everything like that. I called it a Memory Room, and I would set its place and a date. The first one I did, I think, was set in Japan in the year 2003. I had a song from The Cure from their 2000 album playing on a little tinny boombox to the right. I was trying to build an environment where you could close your eyes and listen and imagine that you’re there. 

MD: Another thing that’s interesting is a lot of these places that you’re imagining — or at least recently on this album and in what you just mentioned — are in Japan. I think we talked about this, that you haven’t been to Japan.

EK: No. 

MD: So, it’s like a specific place you’re evoking, but you’re transporting yourself as well as the listener.

EK: I’ve just been fascinated with Japan for a while. The music that comes from there is different from what I’ve heard in terms of like ambient music or experimental music. The culture there is different, too. It seems more introspective compared to what we have in the U.S. And I think that’s something that inspires me.

MD: Your music is obviously very introspective. And the spaces that you create, your instrumentation’s sparse. But at the same time, it’s like there’s a lot going on with all the layers and the way the music flows. In your press release, you use the D-word — you say “drone” —but to me, it’s not really that at all. 

EK: No. I agree. 

MD: I’m not criticizing that you’re using that word, but your music seems to have movements. Rather, a lot of drone music is about staying still and suspending a moment. On this album, it feels like a moment is happening. It’s not suspended. Like it feels like there’s movement in the time that your songs are taking place in.

EK: On the album track “Lonely Aomori,” I started with field recordings. I wanted a day and night cycle like you’re in the town and walking through the streets. As you’re walking, the sun starts to rise. It starts at nighttime with the sound of crickets, and then it slowly starts to turn to day. You hear frogs or other daytime creatures.

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MD: I noticed that when I was listening, how the field recordings changed in the song. They faded away and then became something else. So, how important is it to you that the field recording you’re using is taking place in the environment that you imagine for the song? I don’t think you used any sounds on this album that weren’t sourced in Japan. Would you have substituted a different origin if it had fit, or is that really important to you that the sounds are from the actual place?

EK: It’s pretty important to me. But there’s a limited amount of sounds that you can get from a small town in Japan. I have to use ones that I feel would fit without the geographical context, but I do spend a lot of time researching the sounds. It’s important that they’re from the areas that I’m trying to evoke.

MD: You’re in Portland or thereabouts. There are obviously a lot of opportunities for field recording where you are. Are you just fascinated by these places you haven’t been to, or could you see yourself doing an Oregon-set album? Or does that just not interest you at all?

EK: Well, there’s a rose garden in Portland up near Forest Park. It’s a protected park with huge trees and hiking trails. I did an album based on the rose garden with a lot of field recordings from there. But I’ve lived here for about 16 years. I feel like maybe I’ve gotten everything that Portland has to offer, as far as field recordings go, in terms of the areas that I’m interested in. The faraway places really do interest me more.

MD: It’s almost like you’re free to fill in the blanks. It seems to me that if you know a place, if you’re familiar with a place, it may not be as inspiring as imagining what a place is like.

EK: Definitely. If I visited San Francisco, I would be inspired by everything there. But I’m sure someone who’s lived in San Francisco for a long time wouldn’t have the same feeling.

→ Elijah Knutsen’s album Maybe Someday is available on Bandcamp and the streaming spots. Since this interview, Elijah also released an excellent EP called Dry Flower on Osaka’s OMODARU label.

Radioactivities: The Life and Times of Mr. and Mrs. Kraftwerk

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I knew David and Jennifer long before they became Mr. and Mrs. Kraftwerk. Actually, David and I used to pal around in college, performing on-air hijinks on college radio stations and attending Butthole Surfers concerts. There was always a performance art aspect to David’s humor, probably spurred on by the mischievous subcultures you’d find sneaking around late ’80s campuses. As the Subgenius slogan went, “Fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke.“

The honorary title of Mr. and Mrs. Kraftwerk was unwittingly foisted upon David and Jennifer. As you’ll learn, David is the fabled Florida man who changed his name to ‘Kraftwerk.’ Or so they say.

As self-described ‘super fans’ of the German uber-group, David and Jennifer at first happily embraced getting tangled in the mythos of Kraftwerk. Now they unashamedly encourage and propagate it. If this were one of those movie ‘expanded universes,’ you’d have to now refer to their contributions to the Kraftwerk story as canon.

This post breaks down the timeline of David and Jennifer’s Kraftwerk-related activities, projects, and art pranks. A common theme is the automobile — what begins with a memorable driver’s license photo ends up with the five-figure purchase of the very Beetle spotted in 3D at Kraftwerk’s current shows.

You won’t be surprised to learn this list is incomplete. There are the gingerbread cookies, the BBC Radio interview, the Computer World computer project, the new concert-going outfits, the teletubbies, and so much more. Like musique, this project is non-stop. The tale of Mr. and Mrs. Kraftwerk is an ever-developing story.

The transcript below is taken from a much longer conversation — nearly 45 minutes, in fact. The full interview goes into many other Kraftwerk-related shenanigans and some nerdy details. You can listen to it all in the handy audio player below.

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FLORIDA MAN CHANGES HIS NAME TO KRAFTWERK

Mr. Kraftwerk's Driver's License
Mr. Kraftwerk's Driver's License

David: When we moved to Florida, we had to get new driver’s license photos.

Jennifer: And David went to the DMV as Man Machine. And specifically asked the photographer to make sure that his — I don’t know how you managed to pull this off — but get your shirt and tie in the photo because they always cut it off at the Adam’s apple. The fact that you were able to ask for that, without it raising any red flags or strangeness, and them doing it — kudos.

Michael: Was that the same day that you took all the other photos of Man Machine out and about?

Jennifer: Yes. Because since he was already in costume, why not continue taking photos, documenting this costume, and then doing things that are out of character for a Kraftwerk robot.

David: You mean like having humanity?

Jennifer: Yes. Like doing something other than standing motionless on a stage.

Mr. Kraftwerk feeds the ducks.
Mr. Kraftwerk feeds the ducks.

David: So we fed some ducks, put some gas in the Subaru, and enjoyed some delicious iced coffee. Then at the end of the day, I went to bed.

Michael: Then you posted the photos online.

Jennifer: Yes. It took about six or eight months, and then somebody found them and just made up a story. They didn’t reach out or contact anybody.

David: It was Dangerous Minds. And they made this whole story up based upon the photos. Florida Man Changes His Name to ‘Kraftwerk.’ I woke up that morning, had a cup of coffee, and took a quick look at my social media feed. At that point, I’d already had like 50 notifications, and I was puzzled.

Michael: And then it ballooned from there!

David: Nevermind that Vice Magazine interviewed me, and Road and Track got in contact because of the DMV end of it. Oh, and New Music Express wrote a story. Nevermind that. We were in Lakeland, Florida, of all places, at a record store, and somebody started whispering, “Hey, it’s that’s the guy. That’s the guy who changed his name to Kraftwerk.”

Jennifer: It was finally a bit of fun news about a Florida man. Nothing that involved an alligator or an arrest.

David: It was probably the first positive Florida man story to be written in a decade.1You can read David’s ‘inside story’ of this experience here.

THE KRAFTWERK WEDDING

Kraftwerk wedding-goers in 3D glasses.
Kraftwerk wedding-goers in 3D glasses.

David: We were planning on getting married, and I half-jokingly said to Jennifer, “What about Kraftwerk as a wedding theme?” And she wasn’t half-joking with her answer. She was full on.

Jennifer: So a red shirt and black tie were obvious attire for all of the wedding party, including me. Then we made two Kraftwerk podiums. They’re like lecterns but are actually the cases that they stand in front of when they perform. We found some traffic cones that didn’t have stripes and proceeded to mask them off and spray paint them, give them stripes. And when we went to see Kraftwerk in Atlanta, both of us had the foresight to collect as many discarded 3D glasses on the way out of the venue as possible.2There’s a lot more that went into this wedding — read this blog post.

Michael: And everyone dressed as Man Machine.

Jennifer: Yes. That was the only request.

Michael: And the wedding got written up in a bunch of places, including in Germany.

Jennifer: Yes, in the Rheinische Post in Düsseldorf.

KRAFTWERK’S NEW PRESS PHOTO

Kraftwerk (?) at the Dimensions Festival 2018, Croatia.
Kraftwerk (?) at the Dimensions Festival 2018, Croatia.

Jennifer: We reached out to a photographer friend named Jon Wolding. Sort of last minute, maybe a month before the wedding, and told him our idea.

Michael: This is the photo taken at the end of the night, replicating the Man Machine album cover.

Jennifer: He managed to pull it together in the back parking lot; that’s the exit staircase of the second level of Ella’s. He stuck some red photo paper to the outside of the building with gaff tape, and he and his, team managed to set up and light that amazing photo.3Editor’s note: Yes, I am one of the four participants in this photo.

Michael: Then, unexpectedly, the photo starts appearing in strange places.

David: It was at a music festival in Croatia. The Dimensions Festival 2018. And, on their website, they used our photo as the photo of Kraftwerk, the festival’s headliner. And if they printed flyers and posters like that, I would pay a King’s ransom for one.

Michael: I think what happened is somehow, through rampant sharing, the picture built enough SEO credibility that it somehow marched its way to the top of an image search result for ‘Kraftwerk.’

David: Yeah, apparently that’s what happened. And then there were other things as a result of that. Like bandanas and other apparel being sold on Amazon with our wedding photo on them.

KRAFTWERK SKY DANCER

Kraftwerk Sky Dancer

Michael: What was the next project?

Jennifer: We carved the pumpkins for Halloween. Then, soon after, around Christmas, the neighborhoods here are full of those inflatable Yodas and Santa Clauses and stuff. And I thought, “Wouldn’t it be fantastic to have a Kraftwerk sky dancer?” I mocked it out on packing material paper and got some ripstop nylon, and sewed it together.4Jennifer will show you exactly how she made the sky dancer in this blog post. And I found a guy on Craigslist that had a surplus of wind sock fans. I don’t know why. We did a test run out in the front yard, and it worked! But now we need to find someplace with a nice backdrop for a video. So we guerrilla-style drove up in the backside of the Tampa Museum of Art, put the hazards on, wheeled the fan and the sky dancer out, and plugged it into an outlet. That’s the video that you see of the sky dancer video on YouTube.5Be sure to read David’s blog post for more detail on building the sky dancer.

David: You should make it very clear: we tried to get them to sign off on it. They just looked at us like we were offering a lightly fried weasel in a bun. So, we had to take matters into our own hands and just go do it.

Jennifer: Since we had met Wolfgang Flür,6A meeting which you can read about in David’s excellent blog post. it seemed logical to put his face on the sky dancer. So it’s a Wolfgang Skydancer, which he thoroughly loved. And he’s used that video footage in his recent concert backdrop video.

KRAFTWERK PUPPETS

Kraftwerk Puppet Video

Jennifer: The puppets were also an idea that I’d had, but, again, how to get from an idea to making something three-dimensional — I didn’t know how to do it. And it occurred to me that maybe I should look on YouTube. And sure enough, Adam Kreutinger has a whole how-to one-on-one series on making puppets.

David: And Jennifer vanished down a puppet rabbit hole, like a wormhole in space and time, not to be seen for months.

Jennifer: So now we’re the proud custodians of four rather large Muppet-sized Kraftwerk puppets,7Jennifer documented the creation of the Kraftwerk puppets in this Flickr album. which we used to shoot a video set to the “Autobahn” cover by New David.

David: New David did a lovely cover of a number of Kraftwerk songs. I think that his cover of “Autobahn” is the most significant because he takes a song that is intrinsically very synth-laden and with no real-world instrumentation, and he turns it into an ode to a drive in the country. And it’s beautiful. We were listening to it and had the idea that this was something that we could do a video for. We began working on an homage to New David’s homage. Then I got in touch with him and said, “Hey, can we use your music for our video?” and he was all for it. It worked out well, and the rest is history.

FLORIAN SCHNEIDER’S BEETLE

Florian Schneider's Volkwagen Beetle.
Florian Schneider's Volkwagen Beetle.

David: And then the bad news came.

Michael: Which was Florian Schneider’s passing.

David: Yeah. It was a large loss. You could feel it. For us, it was like, and I guess, how the world felt about the loss of David Bowie except a little more poignant. I wrote a story about the 26 days of silence following Florian Schneider’s death on Medium, and I led that story off with a photo of his Volkswagen Beetle. But we didn’t know about the car going up for sale until Claudia8Claudia is Florian Schneider’s sister. You’ll have to listen to the full interview in the player at the top to learn how she figures into this tale. ‘at mentioned’ one of us on social media about it being for sale on the German equivalent of Autotrader.

Jennifer: The more we thought about the opportunity, it seemed that we should at least make, as they say, the college try. We should at least reach out to the dealer, give him a little backstory on who we are, why we’re interested in the vehicle, what we’re prepared to spend on it, and ask, was he willing at all? Is it possible for him to make any kind of compromise on the going price?

David: Obviously, you don’t have a good idea what sort of value to place on the 1949 Volkswagen Beetle owned by Florian Schneider. It’s hard to wrangle a price, especially when you’re doing it over a phone line regarding a car that you’ve never laid eyes on in person. So I laid out the case for the two odd-ball Americans, so very far away from the Beetle’s homeland in Germany. He felt certain synchronicity with us, and he was willing to do it.

Michael: So then the car had to get on a boat, but did you go there to see it first?

David: Yes. We really wanted to go see this car in its home, before it came over. And so we went, and that afforded great opportunities to meet journalists who suddenly found our purchase of the car to be very, very newsworthy.

Michael: So once again, the news cycle kicks into gear.

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David: I don’t remember the journalist’s name who wrote the story in the Süddeutsche Zeitung, but that newspaper is the German equivalent of the New York Times. It has national distribution across Germany, and Germans are fanatical readers of the newspaper. It was a really big deal. And the story was on page three of their A section. It didn’t go in the C section or the D section. It was page three and the entire page, top to bottom, in the A section. Because the Germans took a great interest in the idea that this piece of their cultural heritage was going to get loaded on a boat and go to Florida for two American Kraftwerk fanatics.

Jennifer: And then the car got on a boat for what we thought was going to take a month. It turned out to be closer to four and a half.

Michael: Well, the car finally arrives, and you’re ready for it. And you’re able to fully document the arrival.

David: (Laughter) There was a lot of emotion; it’s going to be here any day. Now we were thinking, with great confidence, they will definitely give us notice before it gets here. Except that there was zero notice. I happened to be up, and I heard a noise outside at 1:30 in the morning. I peek out of the blinds, and there’s this enormous automotive transportation trailer. They’re offloading cars, and I think, “Oh, that can’t possibly be for us. They must have had a flat or something.” I walk out there in my jimjams and my bed head with a flashlight, and sure enough, at the back of the trailer is our Beetle. And we were prepared to have a friend of ours do videography and document the joyful reunion of us with Florian Schneider’s Beetle. And instead, it’s me holding my telephone at arm’s length with bedhead and trying to pretend that I’m happy.

Michael: Would they have left it in the street if you hadn’t been there?

David: I can’t tell you. I regret walking outside as I’d like to know what they would have done.

Michael: So, then, what are the plans for the Beetle?

David: The plan is to bring it to Volkswagen events and show it not only as a fantastic, very close to the war post-war artifact but also as a piece of German cultural heritage. Perhaps with a cutout of Florian Schneider and some Kraftwerk playing.9and hopefully Wolfgang Skydancer dancing alongside!

Michael: Do you foresee driving around in it?

David: Well, we still need to finish its legalization in the state of Florida. But you know, a lot of terrible yet ironic things seem to happen in this world. And it would be just totally ironic and terrible if a distracted person sending a text were to t-bone this car while in Tampa traffic.

Michael: And driving a neon pink modern Volkswagen.

David: Yeah. So, while it will occasionally be driven, it’s only going to be under the auspices of a Sunday morning drive while all the particularly bad people are still in bed, recovering from hangovers. It will get taken to car shows, but we’re going to get a nice flatbed trailer to transport it. To that end, we purchased a tow vehicle: a big white GMC truck. And Jennifer is in the midst of making some amazing vinyl graphics that are going to be on the side.

Jennifer: I’ve already purchased little metal letters for the back tailgate. This truck is now the Kraftwerk Edition GMC truck.

David: It looks very official.

Kraftwerk Edition GMC Truck.
Kraftwerk Edition GMC Truck.

KRAFTWERK IS THE REASON

Michael: I’m curious — besides being big fans, what do you feel makes Kraftwerk ripe for this?

David: It’s the absurdity of having a sense of humor about a band that takes itself so seriously. Or, more accurately, whose fans take the band so seriously. I don’t know that Kraftwerk take themselves that seriously …

Jennifer: Their fans sure do.

David: But the fans do. Talk about a bunch of killjoys.

Jennifer: Kraftwerk has created such a simple and bold pallet to pull from: vivid colors, vivid shapes, iconography, symbols … like visual samples that can be reused and reconstituted and put together in completely new and different ways. And I like putting things together in ways that are incongruent with this severe hard visual aesthetic that’s been put out by the band.

Michael: I also think the mysteriousness of them allows people to fill in their own blanks. And, to me, you’re starting to take on sort of a Kraftwerk-ian version of The Yes Men.

David: Thank you for drawing that analogy. That’s good.

Michael: It’s this idea of these intentionally bizarre things putting a stop to people’s normal brain processes and making them think in ways they’ve never thought before in order to try to figure things out.

David: That was the tenant of the surrealists. And that’s kind of what we hope to achieve. There’s an absurdity that we want to poke at to the point that it makes people uncomfortable. I mean, we are super fans, but at the same time, we’re also kind of trolling the super fans.

More Ghost Than Man: A Spark in the Dark

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Terry Grant is a painter, a filmmaker, a guitarist, a tinkerer, a voice-over actor, and who knows what else. He’s also More Ghost Than Man, producing music on the knife’s edge of dystopia, meaning his songs seem like they were recorded a few minutes into the future. It’s the sound of NOW while paradoxically vibing out a step or two ahead of the present time. And the path foretold through Terry’s music — and nearly all his work, really — is a dark one, wrapped in inescapable surveillance, technological near-collapse, societal ennui, and lots of shiny, black wires. Yet, despite this potential downer, remember that the act of such creative ambition is inherently optimistic. After all, the artist must assume someone will be around to process and perhaps enjoy all the work. That’s part of the spark that keeps Terry rolling, even though it’s not necessarily a light at the end of the tunnel. 

The Worlds We Made There is the latest long-player from More Ghost Than Man, initially recorded just before COVID-times. The pandemic and its ensuing uncertainty, along with deadly tornados and a strange Christmas Day explosion in Terry’s home base of Nashville, forced the producer to rethink his album. Thus the final result may be darker, angrier, and dense with complaints — I’m sure Terry will tell you it is — but the songs are eerily euphoric. It’s not quite catharsis, but a sort of hesitant reassurance bubbles underneath. Terry’s vocals, especially on “Demons For The Void” and “A Penny Sitter,”can’t help their warm invitation. And the album begins with a ‘mission control’ countdown that initially accompanied a rocket launch. That’s obvious, but my interpretation is it’s counting us to the end of what came before and to the dividing line that sits just before the next age. For better or worse, right?

The newest More Ghost Than Man single reveals a colorful trip of a video for that countdown song and the unreleased b-side “Christianblood.” On the heels of that, I (virtually) sat down with Terry for a deep chat. We talked about our creative processes and how we philosophically approach making albums. Terry also describes how he grabs the spark I alluded to above and why images significantly influence his audio experiments. 

I’ve transcribed a highlight from our conversation, and you can listen to the whole 25-minute chat in the handy audio player. Enjoy.

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MD: Have you seen After Yang yet?

TG: No. I’m dying to, though.

MD: There’s some great world-building. One thing that’s done in the movie, which I love, is there’s a lot of stuff happening that’s not explained. For example, the cars. There are a lot of scenes inside cars. You don’t see the actual car, like in the movie Her where you don’t see any cars because they don’t want to imagine what a car will look like in the future and be wrong.

But inside the cars, there are plants and moss. It’s not very explicit — I missed it at first. It’s like, what is that doing there? And it’s never explained. And then you start noticing other things like there’s a lot of greenery everywhere,

This world they live in maybe had an ecological disaster and they’re trying to move back to this greener world. And it’s little things like that which are left unexplained. That’s one of my favorite things — when any form of art does that, where there’s context beyond the obvious.

So, sometimes when I’m working on songs, I like to come up with a concept in almost a pretentious way. Like it’s a concept album and this is what all these songs are about as a whole. But the difference between me and, say, Yes is I don’t tell anyone the concept. It’s for me only to know. The concept serves only as a thread that ties it all together. Do you do anything like that?

TG: If anything, I might have my own set of emotional goals at the outset if I know I’m going to sit down and make a record, as opposed to just making music. I don’t think I’ve ever made an album where I just record twelve songs and then I’m like, “Oops, I guess I have a record.”

I basically sit down and say, “Okay, I’m embarking on an album-oriented project.” It’s like the Hobbit trying to get back to the mountain and throw the ring in the fire. But for me, I think as complicated as it ever gets I have a set of emotional goals that I’m looking for.

For example, here’s how I’m feeling about the world around me. Right. I’m a little angrier than I was last time I did this. Everything is basically like a touchstone in relation to where I was the last time I put a pin on the map in that respect, compared to the last album. I’m a little angrier and frustrated, maybe a little colder about this, maybe a little warmer towards this. And so I think the music does reflect that in the end. And the album should reflect that if I have been honest with myself all the way through the process, But while making it, I try not to worry about it too much.

I think as long as you’re honest with yourself from the beginning to the end, all the shit in the middle works itself out. But in terms of an overall concept, I don’t know that I’ve done that yet. Although now that you mention that I might try it because I am a big fan of not spelling things out for people and letting them bring their own interpretation to the table.

I mean, not only does art not belong to the artists, but I don’t know that it even really counts as art until someone has looked at it and says, “This is what I think this is.” That’s the moment where it actually becomes art because that’s the moment where it becomes useful.

MD: There are two things that art needs: intention and reaction. I don’t think you can have art without either of those.

TG: And the process of creating is the only part that ever really belongs to us. I’ve been trying to learn to find the majority of my enjoyment of creating art in the process and not from the final result. And then be willing to accept whatever the reaction is because I can’t control that part.

So try to get your purpose and your happiness out of it from purely the creation of it. And then at some point, just let it off into the world where it becomes everybody’s.

More Ghost Than Man - All The Time In The World

MD: I guess the reason why got on a tangent about hidden threads is that your album [The Worlds We Made There], especially after sequencing it, does sound like world-building.

There’s something about it when listening to it as a full album from song to song. One can kind of imagine the world this album is taking place in rather than imagining different tiny worlds where each individual song is taking place.

TG: The whole thing, like when you’re making an album, when you’re in the process of it, it’s like this fever dream. Once you snap out of it, you have a hard time remembering what it was like to be inside the process.

That headspace while making it — you have to channel some other version of yourself or some other energy during the process of making an album. And so it’s hard to think back to what I was really going through emotionally, or analytically when I was making [The Worlds We Made There]. I suppose there is always an element of world-building — you’re trying to tell a cohesive story. Right. An album should be more than just a collection of songs.

MD: But I do think you can get bogged down if you have the mindset of, “I’m recording an album and the album has to be this.” I agree with a strategy of just recording songs and the songs that belong together will find each other. Keep recording until you have those songs. Choose the songs that come together as a concept.

Returning to what you were saying about your music reflecting how you’re feeling at the time or the goings-on in the world, I almost feel like that’s a thread that’s even invisible to you. And a lot of the time it does create something cohesive. This is why we have a Prince vault. He was obsessed with this.

TG: I don’t know about you, but every time I cut a record, if it ends up with 12 songs on the album, that means I had 30 ideas in the demo stage. And then I probably had 20 almost finished songs three-fourths of the way through. Eventually, I choose the 12 that are the most cohesive together when everything’s 75% or 80% done. It’s fully formed enough that you can say, okay, I’ve got an idea what this is going to be like when it’s finished, That’s how I get 12 finished songs. I started with 30 and whittled it down. And so I can absolutely see how someone is obsessive about that as Prince would have endless days’ worth of music hiding out somewhere because I would like to think he probably worked that way, too.

MD: I remember reading an interview with Prince’s engineer Susan Rogers where she said he’d record a song and she would just be like, “This is the best song you’ve ever written.” And then he’d be like, “Nope, not going on the album.” He knows it doesn’t fit. And that’s how these songs appear out of the vault that are amazing. Why did he never release this? It was just because he was obsessed with songs that went together, that fit together.

TG: It honestly has nothing to do with the quality of the idea or how well the production clicked. It’s just if, for whatever reason, you knew that the song was the odd man out, It’s just like when I went back and found “Christianblood” which came out on the single last month. I cut that song not because I didn’t like it, but because it was already too similar to a couple of the things that I knew I wanted to have on the album. Putting that on there, too, would have been like three shades of gray when I only needed the two that were already there. And so I had to set aside.

It’s not like I’m saying I’m going to cut the head off the chicken and it’s going to bleed out. I’m just setting it aside for a little while and maybe I’ll come back to it later and everything will be fine. And it may be even in a different context. And at that point, the only thing that’s really changed is me or what I’m feeling in my approach. So what I was doing when I made that song, you can see something in a whole different light, even though nothing literally has changed about that piece of work.

→ Be sure to explore More Ghost Than Man’s discography on Bandcamp.

3+1: danielfuzztone

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Today we’re celebrating my long-time friend Daniel Fuller who took the lockdown era’s lemons and made ambient drone music. Daniel’s someone I’ve known and respected as a talented writer over the years. But, since the latter half of the 2010s, he’s come into his own as an electronic music producer. 

I was fortunate to witness Daniel’s sonic progression. Emails started arriving with links to new posts on his SoundCloud page, along with requests for opinions. Daniel’s taste, ear, and sense of music history are top-notch, so, unsurprisingly, the music’s always been good. Then the emails and the music starting landing with an astonishing frequency. The songs were flowing, and I could hear the remarkable evolution of Daniel’s music. His soundscapes went from good to very good to regularly excellent. (Having a consistent creative practice has its rewards, folks.)

I’m sure I wasn’t the only one pushing Daniel to release an album. With so many songs to choose from, I had no doubt he could assemble a fantastic set of music. Then, finally: Thoughts & Abandonment is that album, released under Daniel’s danielfuzztone nom de plume (he’s used that one on various projects for a while). 

As an album, Thoughts & Abandonment stands out for its old-school approach. Daniel eschews DAWs and soft-synths for hardware noise-makers (Roland, Korg, and Casio are represented) and a modest but strategic collection of guitar pedals. And if it’s not coming from an onboard arpeggiator, then it’s probably played by hand right into the recorder. The result is a gritty atmosphere with more in common with Cluster, Suicide, and Klaus Schulze than contemporary signposts. But Thoughts & Abandonment isn’t a throw-back — danielfuzztone’s layered drones and gentle ambient melodies slide easily into any modern “Music To Space Out To” playlist. 

I grabbed Daniel by the email and had him answer some questions for a bit of the old 3+1. His responses are thoughtful and drive home the benefits of creative consistency.

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1. How does your past as a music writer affect your mindset now that you’re actively creating music? Do you think it makes you more self-critical or better equipped to bat those feelings away?

It’s a double-edged sword. And something I have been very conscious of. But instead of being self-critical, I decided just to be myself. I’m certainly not the first writer who pursued making their own music — Philip Sherburne comes to mind. And in fact, I consider this my third “era” of producing (previously during high school and then college). 

I didn’t want to fall into the trap of recording tunes simply reflecting my music library; a curation of personal taste which is all too easy to succumb to. Yes, you can play “spot the influences” with the album — Brian Eno, My Bloody Valentine, and Boards of Canada would all be easy reference points. And you would certainly be correct. I love those artists, and they continue to inspire me.

But what I explore is my life’s journey. Not in a selfish, self-absorbed way, but rather fully committed to making music that reflects how I feel and think about the world around us — good, bad, and ugly. I can’t help to be influenced by the wonderful artists I listen to, but I also believe folks are too afraid just to be themselves. For better or worse — this is who I am. This is what I can contribute.

2. It’s not unnoticed that your prolific music output coincided with the pandemic and lockdown. Do you think you’d have an album out now if there were no pandemic? Or, if so, would it be different in style or tone?

The pandemic — and my two-year sobriety — worked in tandem to push my creative productivity. To be honest, I don’t think I would have produced the album in the time frame I did without those two variables. 

I have about 90 minutes after my morning AA meeting and when I need to report online to my healthcare writing job at 9:00 am — we’re fully remote — and I have been using that window every day to create music without fail. On weekends, I probably squeeze in about two hours each morning.

Pre-COVID, I could produce a track in just a couple of days, but it would take months to follow up with the next one. One of the many benefits of my sobriety has been a more focused creative drive, which I credit with helping me stay clean.

As far as content, I didn’t want the album to be a musical time capsule about the COVID-era, so I steered clear of any obvious or overt references. A couple of tracks recorded during this time but not on the album include political and/or election angles. But in that context, the music has nothing to do with the pandemic but was certainly enabled because of it.

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3. What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever seen happen at a concert?

I do have my share of crazy rock-show stories like any long-time fan — for instance, go see Guided by Voices — but I’ll tell you about a non-musical act my friends are sick of hearing about. I was fortunate to see the late-comedian Bill Hicks perform in West Palm Beach during two nights in November 1993 — about three months before he passed. 

The first night, a really drunk woman started to heckle Bill just minutes into his set. He paused and then focused his attention (and considerable bile) on dismantling her lack of respect down to her bare bones. Never seen anything quite like it before or since. She was quickly escorted out. Probably the most punk-rock moment I’ve ever experienced.

On the second night, my then-girlfriend and I sat in the front row of tables traditionally reserved at comedy clubs of the era for non-smokers. However, my girlfriend smoked, and her pack of cigarettes was sitting on the table. Bill noticed the pack and politely asked if he could have one. He then mentioned he had quit smoking but recently started again. Bill Hicks would later die on February 26, 1994, due to pancreatic/liver cancer.

+1: Something you love that more people should know about.

Writer and model-misanthrope Ambrose Bierce. He was a Civil War soldier and journalist who went on to write fictional tales of the Reconstruction-era South, complete with roaming bands of renegade troops, violence, depravity, and plenty of ghosts. 

While I’ve in no way scratched the surface of his literary library — he mainly published compilations of short stories — his hallucinogenic prose fascinated me from an early age. Like many American students, I first discovered his short An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge in middle school (also via the 1962 French film The Owl River). 

And course, The Devil’s Dictionary has become the bible on satirical humor. I keep it close so I can read random entries when a laugh or dose of cynicism is required.

Visit danielfuzztone on Bandcamp and SoundCloud.

Michael Bratt’s Tour of the Darkroom

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Michael Bratt is a D.C.-based composer with an impressive CV, having studied music extensively, conducted orchestras, scored films, and co-founded ensembles like Cleveland’s FiveOne Experimental Orchestra. His is a life enveloped in modern music, both as an enthusiast and a practitioner. The approach is academic — a lot of thought goes into his music, as you’ll discover below — but doesn’t ignore the visceral pleasure of a beautiful, meaningful recording. 

Michael sent his new album The Darkroom, a set containing one solo song and four collaborations. It’s “a collection of ambient electroacoustic works,” he tells me. “Many of the tracks are extremely personal in nature, and some of these collaborations have been three or four years in development.” The solo track opening The Darkroom, “Visions,” planted the seed for the project six years ago. 

This patience is refreshing in an age when we’re told to release nonstop music. It also results in an attention to detail, as heard throughout The Darkroom. Take the title cut as an example, where strings and flutes play off each other elegantly while a more abrasive electronic section sneakily rises from silence to dominance. Or the plucked piano notes of “As the Earth Grew Still,” spaced together with implied distance before gradually coalescing in harmonic layers. In other words, nothing here sounds hashed out.

Each of the collaborative songs features a different artist or ensemble. There’s Azerbaijani-American flutist Jeiran Hasan, the harp-viola-flute ensemble The Lynx Trio, guitarist Bruce Middle, and the double-u duo. With explicit intention, Bratt considers these compositions true collaborations rather than ‘guest spots.’ “When I work with someone, there is a lot of back and forth,” Bratt explains. “I rarely write something, hand it off, and that’s the end of it.”

Based on the weight of talent and intellect on The Darkroom, you might expect an album that’s heavy and impenetrable. But it’s a soulful listen, very human and reflective, with many moments that are gently disarming. “You Belong Here” comes to mind, with processed guitars and subtly droning electronics conveying a comfortable loneliness.

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When Michael Bratt sent me The Darkroom, I asked for a few more details in my reply. He responded with a track-by-track tour of the album, outlining the methods and inspirations for each song. These notes are terrific and illuminate the thought that went into this project. It would be a shame to excerpt these explanations, so I’ll let Michael take it from here as I publish his comments in full:

“Visions” → “The inspiration for this piece came from the Bach cello suites (G Major Minuet 1). In that piece, Bach utilizes registers to create three independent lines of music to give the impression of polyphony. I wondered how I could accomplish the same idea utilizing technology. Instead of working with register, I chose to use the pan position. The majority of the piece is a simple square wave that’s panned fast enough to create a Gestalt effect in the brain, which gives the impression, or vision of polyphony.”

“Fire From Within” → “The title comes from Pablo Neruda‘s poem, “As if you were on fire from within, the moon lives in the lining of your skin.” Both Jeiran Hasan and I have known each other for years. We were part of the Cleveland new music ensemble, FiveOne Experimental Orchestra. The poem references this inner fire or desire in people, to the point where our skin glows and everyone can see it. That’s the imagery that I was after.”

“The Darkroom” → “Growing up, my father (an amateur photographer) had a darkroom in our basement. This work evokes those feelings of freedom through organic form. The piece gradually works on an idea that continually develops over and over. The music is minimalist and is monochromatic, much like the black and white photographs my father took as a child. While it’s compartmentalized, focusing on one idea, it doesn’t contain a form or separate sections. It’s meant to be taken as a whole idea.”

“You Belong Here” → “One of the teenagers at my church committed suicide two days before service. I ran the mixing board at the church that Sunday, and the pastor had everyone disperse into small prayer sessions around the church as the band serenaded. Everyone was devastated, trying to hold it together. I captured that recording of the band from the mixer and slowed it down 2000%. That became the basis for the guitar solo with Bruce Middle. The sermon from that day was titled ‘You Belong Here.'”

“As the Earth Grew Still” → “My original concept for ‘As the Earth Grew Still’ was a piece about intimacy (human connection). I knew that I would be collaborating with Robert and Melissa Wells and was looking forward to working with a couple who knew each other intimately. Unfortunately, much changed in our world during 2020, and it irrevocably disrupted my writing process. The piece grew to be a reflection of my isolation locked in social distancing with my family. It employs a visual cueing system I developed that allows me to synchronize pianos together in non-related meters and tempi. This is done through a computer application I wrote which creates a website that the performers visit on their mobile devices — replicating my experience in isolation when we were doing things separately — together.”

Michael Bratt’s The Darkroom is available now on Bandcamp and various streaming platforms.

3+1: Airships on the Water

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Airships on the Water - The Bridge

There’s this geographical prejudice that the interesting music — especially of the post-rock variant — only comes out of places like Chicago, or Brooklyn, or Austin, etc. So it’s always a thrill to find music that shatters the bubble, reminding us that creative folk trying new things are all around us. Airships on the Water are evidence, based out of Fayetteville, Arkansas, which you may have flown over without consideration on your way to somewhere like Austin (to reference the often mocking ‘fly-over state’ tag). But listen closely, and you might hear exceptional, flowing, and perhaps hidden music like “An Arm Within Reach,” the latest song from Airships on the Water. This effort is joyous and expressive, sparkling with bells, piano, ringing guitars, and nuanced but dynamic drums. It’s a grand and refreshing sound.

Airships on the Water is the project of Russel Hensley, who is also the drummer for the band Take Shapes — responsible for other cool sounds from ‘the natural state.’ AotW (if I may be so bold to abbreviate) have two albums — 2017’s Beneath a Thousand Branches and 2020’s Folded into Bells — and the third on the way. “An Arm Within Reach” is a teaser from this forthcoming album and is pure appetite whetter. 

I pulled Russel aside — while floating in his Airships on the Water guise — and asked him to deliver some 3+1. Check out the tune and his thoughtful responses below.

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1. I love the graphic of the branch growing out of the guitar pedal. What does that image mean to you, and how does it relate to Airships on the Water? Is the cord plugged into an amplifier or a guitar? Or something else?

My brother Brandon Hensley is an excellent graphic artist, and he’s always done the artwork for my albums. I usually have a concept that I feed to him, and he does a great job of producing an image that looks cool and captures what was in my head. When I look at this image now, it makes me think of the creative process and the transformative power of music. The signal goes in and comes out as this living, growing thing. You put a lot of love and hard work into crafting songs, and you hope in the process they become more than the pieces put into them. You hope the signal travels to the listener and blossoms into something that resonates with and affects them.

It’s not been intentional, but I’ve noticed that a similar theme has popped up in my concepts for artwork in the past. For example, the cover art for my last album, Folded into Bells, was of a bird making a nest out of a cassette tape. So there’s another example of imagery where music is being elevated beyond the medium and becoming more than its original form. But that’s just one interpretation! I tend to gravitate toward imagery that’s a little open-ended, so I’m always interested to hear what other people see in it. 

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2. What is your earliest *significant* musical memory or recollection? 

As soon as I read this question, a very clear memory sprang to my mind, so I feel like I have to go with it! The first song I ever remember loving, and I mean LOVING, was “Dizzy” by Tommy Roe. My mom would play oldies in the house all the time, and for some reason, this goofy bubblegum pop song from the late ’60s really stuck with me as a kid. I remember being about 5 or 6 and belting out that song at the top of my lungs in our kitchen. The song “Sweet Pea” was also on that same Tommy Roe CD, and it has a pretty famous drum break in it that’s been sampled a ton over the years. Is there a chance that song entered my subconscious and contributed to my desire to play the drums years later, thus making this Tommy Roe story actually relevant?? Well, probably not — but at least I still remember it!

3. How do you listen?

When it comes to music, I think I would describe myself as a curious listener. Even when I’m listening to music purely for enjoyment, I’m usually trying to identify little details that draw me to that song. Sometimes I’ll be listening for technical details that I just like the sound of, like specific instrumentation or certain rhythms, but I’ll be searching for the elements that make me feel a certain way more often. I’ll ask myself questions like, “How did they pull that off? Why do I like it? How could I create that same effect?” I get inspired to create music that makes me feel the way a song does, not necessarily sound the way a song does. This kind of curious listening is a nice way of gathering up more sonic colors to paint with later on.

+1: Something you love that more people should know about.

On a recent music deep dive on YouTube, I came across a song called “Light” by a group/project called FEM. As far as I can tell, FEM is the side project of the singer/multi-instrumentalist Cuushe, who makes catchy electronic dream-pop type songs. FEM has more of a full band sound, combining her vocals with guitars, bass, keys, and jazzy drums. So far, I’ve only found that one track by them, so I’m not sure if it was just a one-off thing or there are plans for more. It’s a beautiful song with a fascinating mix of sounds, so I’m hoping they keep it going. Maybe if more people check out “Light” by FEM, they’ll be motivated to release some more music!

Visit Airships on the Water on Bandcamp.

The Punk Rock Dream

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I’m watching this Minutemen concert video from 1985 (“And when reality appears digital,” Mike Watt soothsays at 18:57) and thinking about the punk rock dream. American independent music was at its height, disadvantaged, compared to its British counterpart, by the sheer size of the country. For the first time, bands like these were finding nationwide renown without a major label attached. (A quick pause to recommend Michael Azerrad’s essential book Our Band Could Be Your Life if you’d like to learn more about these scenes.) But the dream — yes, the punk rock dream — was autonomy. Self-releasing, self-distributing, self-promoting, self-administrating, self-booking. Some, like Ian MacKaye’s still inspirational Dischord outfit, came closer than anyone had before.

Fast forward a few years after that Minutemen concert. I was nineteen years old and wanted more than anything to start a record label. But those were ancient times, and I had no idea how to manufacture vinyl or find a distributor and doubted it was possible from my lonely North Louisiana dorm room anyway. So I dreamed — came up with names, imagined the types of bands I’d sign, scribbled fake logos, studied the discographies (and personalities) of labels like SST, Alternative Tentacles, and Factory.

What a time. Here I am (guitar) at nineteen, playing something resembling punk rock with my friends (photo by David):

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“Home Taping Is Killing Music” was a strange ’80s PR campaign by the British Phonographic Industry, a trade organization representing major labels and distributors. We read that slogan to mean “the music industry” as taping our friends’ records made more music, not less. The punks agreed. Alternative Tentacles released Dead Kennedys’ In God We Trust Inc. on a one-sided cassette — the b-side was blank. The cassette displayed the familiar tape-and-crossbones icon (now appropriated by The Pirate Bay) and the phrase, “Home taping is killing record industry profits!” Below that: “We left this side blank so you can help.”

The major labels were the target of our ire, but, in reality, our problem was with the corporate gatekeepers. Sure, we had our gatekeepers — the fanzines, the college radio DJs, the cool punk rock clubs. Not all gatekeepers are bad, but those corporate gatekeepers insisted on shoving their agenda-culture down our throats. 

Because of this attitude, some celebrated when Napster supposedly (but not really) brought down the music industry. That era offered a glimpse of the power of self-distribution, aided by the internet revolution. As bandwidth got faster and tools more sophisticated and egalitarian, predictions about ‘the end of the major label’ were common (guilty as charged). “No more gatekeepers!” was the rallying cry — that emerging teenage bands would soon have the same chances at an audience as an established superstar. 

The result: not only are the corporate labels flourishing, but new gatekeepers have covertly replaced the old ones. Sure, the power to self-everything is here, but most choose to sieve their independence through an algorithmic filter. We’re gaming the gatekeepers just like old times, but now it’s about massaging the algorithm to get us on the right playlists, to amplify strategically placed hashtags, and to get the targets just right in that boosted Facebook post. 

There’s so much frustration with this newfound reliance on social media and low-paying streaming services. But do things have to be this way? 

Back in my dorm room, I was frustrated that I couldn’t figure out how to do what all the punk-inspired DIY’ers wanted: to navigate this music thing without any interference (or interaction) from ‘the man.’ That was the punk rock dream. And now we can have it but only if we really want it. The dream’s not easy, and algorithms, and the promise of shortcuts, are seductive.

If I’ve personally advised you on label or recording artist stuff, you’ve heard me mention ‘the punk rock dream.’ I talk about it a lot. I’ve been thinking about the concept since that dorm room. So, when I decided I needed a new tag-line for my blog, I decided on “A zine about sound, culture, and the punk rock dream.” Because, really, that’s what the blog and newsletter are all about. (The ‘zine’ part is a nod to how I got started with all of this.)

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Revisiting my relationship with ‘the punk rock dream’ inspired me to start the process of moving my email newsletter off Substack. I’ve thought about this for several months and recent debates have strengthened a need for platform independence. The importance of self-publishing is probably best examined by talking through the changing definition of independent music.

The qualifications for ‘independent music’ once seemed cut-and-dry, apparent in Michael Azerrad’s book that I linked to above. Now things are fuzzier. How independent is the punkest of punk labels if they primarily promote through Zuckerberg’s platform, via a corporation so huge it would have given Jello Biafra an aneurysm back in the day? A band might self-release, but are they independent if Spotify and YouTube are the focus of their outreach? One could even go as far as to charge that a reliance on Apple products to make music is a dependence on the most giant of multi-national corporations. 

We can go all over the place with this until it’s just nitpicking and cutting hairs. But my definition of ‘independent,’ which I wrote about here, is summed up by a simple question: do you truly own the work you’re passionate about? 

That ownership includes all the decisions made about how an artist presents her work: how it’s distributed, how direct the access is to the audience, and the alignments that color the public perception of the work. The primary platform hosting this art — your preferred way for people to check out what you’ve made — plays a large part in determining ownership. The person who writes paragraphs of prose as a Facebook post doesn’t own that — Facebook can take it down at any time. It’s the same for a photographer using Instagram as her only portfolio. Or a video-maker hosting his achievements solely on YouTube. I don’t even think Bandcamp is immune, despite its reputation as a bastion of music independence. It’s all the same if you’re relying on it. How screwed would you be if it went away? Or if a corporation that doesn’t share your values acquired it?

I’m not saying you shouldn’t use these platforms. But position your art and the work you’re passionate about under the assumption that these platforms and — crucially — their policies are impermanent. These should be deployed as mere tools, not adopted as foundations. Let your work live somewhere you own, and make that place the primary destination for your audience. Everything else is a funnel. 

Sounds like the punk rock dream, right?

Self-publishing the newsletter is the way to go. I’ve done the research and am looking to apply something close to what Jared Newman is doing (without charging my readers, of course). There’s also some great advice from Ernie Smith of Tedium on self-publishing an email newsletter.

At the very beginning of Ringo Dreams of Lawn Care, I mentioned that the newsletter is an experiment until it isn’t. Changes are just another visit to the lab, mixing chemicals and seeing what happens. I’m constantly testing what independence means in the digital age and how the internet can facilitate — rather than stifle — that punk rock dream. Consider my newsletter and 8sided.blog a continuing report on my findings.

3+1: James A. Reeves

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About a year ago, as the pandemic’s elongated reality started setting in, I discovered the blog of James A. Reeves. James was writing a few paragraphs a day under the tag ‘Notes from the End of a World.’ These posts relayed James’s feelings and reactions to a world on fire, embossed by his memories and unshakable present circumstances. Reading these entries became part of my daily routine — in isolation, I connected to this distant person feeling a lot of the same things as me, even if through a different nostalgic lens.

Also: James has excellent taste in music and ended each blog entry with a song recommendation, often linked by title to the theme of the day’s writing. 

James A. Reeves is an artist as well as a writer and, according to his About page, is interested in “the role of ritual and faith in the digital age.” He’s published two books (one of which — The Road To Somewhere — I just purchased as I want to read more of his writing) and is presently working on a novel about “a loud god.” On the art front, he’s recently collaborated with Candy Chang on a public installation titled Light the Barricades. It’s on display at The Mint Museum in Charlotte, North Carolina, through July 25. And James and Candy will have a new installation on the subject of loss, opening in September in the chapel at Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn.

James also takes night photos of roadside service stations. Here’s one of them, below, followed by a bit of 3+1:

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1: You blogged every day in 2020 but had no idea about the pandemic when you started this endeavor. Besides the topics, how do you think your posts and blogging would have differed if there was no COVID monster?

For eight years, I’ve kept a nightly journal, and last year I decided to make it public because I wanted to kill the mean little perfectionist in my head, the part that writes ninety-percent of an essay or story then leaves it to languish in some folder in the cloud. The good thing about writing in public is that it forces you to complete a thought, or at least make it semi-coherent. Otherwise, my notebooks are filled with scribbles like Remember that shade of red + storm chasers + nefarious forces.

I initially expected to write about nostalgia because I worry about how my perception is warping as I grow older, which carries the hazard of pining for simpler times that never existed. I often think about the poet Ovid who mourned a vanished “golden age of harmony and invention.” He wrote that in the year 8. And yet: there’s the very real sense the wheels are coming off, that the weather and algorithms are steadily rewiring the world until one day it will be unrecognizable. So I wanted to have a record of these in-between days when familiar routines and moments of beauty are constantly colliding with breaking news, attention hijacking, and the two-minute hates of social media. 

But writing about nostalgia felt incredibly unhelpful in the light of a pandemic. Throughout 2020, I became increasingly anxious about writing anything that resembled opinion-mongering or soothsaying. I’m mystified by how many people claim to understand how the world works, how other people think, or what will happen next. The smartest thing I ever heard was from an old man in New Orleans who told me, “Opinions kill motherfuckers and experience saves lives.” So last year, I ended up writing quite a bit about my experiences with grief and my desire for some faith. 

2: You mentioned in your email newsletter that you’re now writing fiction instead of the daily public life-journalling you were doing in 2020. Why the change? Is the shift in your practice changing your mindset or the way you’re settling into 2021? Will we get to see any of these writings, or are they only for you?

I’ve been rewriting the same novel about a loud god for six years, and it’s time to finish the thing. And after a year spent monitoring headlines, fiction feels like an increasingly liberating possibility that can sidestep this humiliating age of thought leaders, pundits, and charlatans because it allows us to imagine our way into complex questions without demanding an opinion. For example: I’m fascinated by the future of faith. As the world gets weirder, this will create a vacuum for new gods, cults, and dogma. So what do I make of my own craving for some otherworldly ethic or mythology? If I were to expand these ideas into an essay, it’d probably be an insufferable piece of writing. Others can pull it off, but last year I discovered I couldn’t. But if it’s a novel about, say, people who begin to hear the voice of God in discount superstores, then it becomes a canvas for these ideas to play around without becoming didactic.1Footnote from James: I realize it’s odd to champion fiction while our relationship to truth feels increasingly tenuous as more and more of us are caught in fractured realities powered by the mechanics of bad storytelling: hyperbole, dot-connecting, the high drama of us versus them, etc. And reckoning with this growing hunger for conspiracy seems like one of the biggest tasks of our time.

I rewired some bits from the novel into short stories (two of which were published here and here), and I hope this book goes into the world someday. But the odds of getting a novel published are tremendously long, which is a good reminder for me to do the work for its own sake, for the pleasure (and pain) it brings.

3: What is it about dimly lit gas stations photographed in the middle of the night?

A lone gas station in the night feels like church. Maybe it’s the lighting, which has the chiaroscuro of a Caravaggio, or the optics of some sci-fi temple. There are probably symbolic and limbic reasons that I don’t fully grasp: a sanctuary or crossroads, the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. It’s also the only situation where fluorescent lights are worth a damn.

+1: Something you love that more people should know about.

Two answers came to mind at the same time, and they’re connected. The first is the music of Bohren and Der Club of Gore. Their music is essential to my writing life. Particularly Midnight Radio, which is slow-motion doom jazz with a light-night neon aesthetic that points to the second thing: staying up late with the radio when I was a teenager in metro Detroit, listening to the Electrifying Mojo at the top of the dial. This was the early 1990s, after Mojo had been on the air for ages, quietly influencing the shape of music by playing everything from Funkadelic to Kraftwerk to Devo to Model 500 to some thirty-minute version of “Planet Rock” or “Flashlight” that only he seemed to have. Some say he laid the foundation for techno. The man lived as a myth, a ghost in the ether who would tell everyone listening to flash their headlights, and I remember driving down Woodward Avenue flashing my lights while passing cars did the same. It was beautiful, all these strangers drawn together by a voice in the dark.

Visit James A. Reeves (and read his 2020 journal) at AtlasMinor.com.