8Sided Blog

the scene celebrates itself

Shimmering & Shining with The Black Watch

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It’s easy to get distracted by the number 23. Not only are we told it’s everywhere by thinkers as prestigious as Robert Anton Wilson and Jim Carrey, but those two digits look and feel special. How about a 23rd album? Perhaps that’s magical in some way (especially if the KLF ever got there), but to most, it just sounds like a lot of albums. Twenty-two is a lot, too, not to mention twenty-four. But I don’t want to get hung up on the 23rd album because it doesn’t matter to John Andrew Fredrick of The Black Watch. Weird Rooms is the band’s album number twenty-three, but John isn’t counting or accumulating. He’s persisting.

John may be aware of the potential baggage in musical prolificness. Quantity sometimes counterintuitively means stagnation: running in circles, repeating the comforts of an established sound or workflow, or releasing the same record ad infinitum. I can testify that this is not the case with The Black Watch. Not only does John profess an incapability of stopping rather than an effort at ‘building content,’ but also of directly reacting, in a sort of dialogue, with his preceding albums. Changing line-ups, songwriting styles, producers, and, as is the case with Weird Rooms, city locations (Austin, this time) enforce a variety of textures and execution. There’s no sameness here—The Black Watch’s twenty-third record probably sounds as fresh as 1988’s debut.

John and I planned an interview session for a long while, with my delays a glaring (to me) contrast to his musical productivity. Weird Rooms was finally the excuse to get our screens together. John is a delightful conversationalist, an obvious fan of wordplay and language (he’s also an author), and inspiringly enthusiastic about his creative work. We discussed so many things: creating music for personal satisfaction, writing from the subconscious, the unexpected perks of a Lutheran upbringing, what focusing on singles says about your band, and so much more. I tried talking to him about the number 23, but he wasn’t having it.

I mentioned how The Black Watch, and especially Weird Rooms, wears its influences on its sleeve. I likened this to a recipe in that the album’s sound takes things from different, identifiable artists without sounding directly like any of them. I suggested that that recipe includes a heaping tablespoon each of My Bloody Valentine, The Cure, and The Beatles. John agreed, adding Syd Barrett, who is probably floating around like a bay leaf. It’s a great mix of ingredients, making songs like “Gobbledegook,” “Swallowed,” and “Miles & Miles” achieve Michelin-star tastiness.1My metaphors aren’t getting any better.

And though Weird Rooms was the inspiration for our conversation, John was especially excited about The Black Watch’s next record, (tentatively?) titled Bye. “With a pun on saying goodbye and a bye in a tournament,” John explained. While John was understandably bubbling over with thoughts on this 24th effort—to him, it’s the fresh new thing, of course—I’m trying to hide my astonishment that we’re on the heels of Weird Rooms‘ release and the next album is already in the hands of a mastering engineer. At least John admitted it wasn’t a good idea to release it immediately.

But I can’t get over the as-yet-unreleased album’s title, Bye. Does John give it a double meaning because it’s a fork in the road? Is it a goodbye, as Pop Matters recently wondered? Or, as in a tournament, will it mean The Black Watch is ready to advance to the next in a long, long series of rounds? John told me he couldn’t stop, even if he wanted to, so I’m optimistically embracing the sporting option. I doubt 24 is The Black Watch’s idea of a final score.

Here’s the extended audio of my conversation with The Black Watch’s John Andrew Fredrick, with an excerpted text version below the fold. At the bottom, John answers my “What’s something you love?” inquiry with the aplomb worthy of someone with a PhD in the art of words. Dig it!

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The Children…’s Blues is a Primal Yowl

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The three members of The Children… sitting around

The Children…, as you have already noticed, follow their band name with three dots, periods, or stops. I detect the implication of something sneakily approaching. Whatever it is, it’s not necessarily coming for the children, but maybe it’s the children themselves, Village of the Damned-style. I say this in hindsight after listening to A Sudden Craving, the second album from The Children… The music evokes multitudes. It’s a layered and cinematic affair with intricate instrumentation, spacious sonic production, and beguiling stranger-lurking-around-the-corner vocals. The songs on A Sudden Craving are also delightfully ominous, spurring a complexity in their deep darkness—a reflection, rather than a warning, of what comes after those three dots. It might be those spooky movie kids with glowing eyes, or it could just be something chasing childhood’s innocence down a night’s cityscape.

The core of The Children… is Michael Wiener, Jim Coleman, and Phil Puleo. Others float in and out, but this trio provides the bulk of the instrumentation and songwriting credits, with Michael also deploying the vocals. Jim and Phil are veterans of Cop Shoot Cop, and Phil has done time in Swans and Swans offshoot Angels of Light. Michael’s artistic journeys have taken him into the avant-garde, as well as writing essays, criticism, and screenplays. Bonus points: Michael is a memorable figure in the fantastic documentary Hail Satan!, described as the film’s ‘performative inspiration.’

The band’s collective curriculum vitae (which I’ve largely truncated—there’s much more to these three) informs A Sudden Craving toward the ambitious, the unrepentantly artistic, and a product of the grimier parts (are there any others?) of New York City. The noisier, perhaps industrial-inflected, side of late ’80s NYC rock echoes throughout, but the imagined spaces frequently found in these songs add a quiet contemplation to the set. Most importantly, it’s a dynamic reading, especially when the album is listened to from head to toe. Whatever malevolent Children… are coming upon us, I’m guessing they’ll be won over by candlelight.

Months ago, I sent a handful of questions to The Children… and received prompt and generous responses from Michael and Jim. However, the interview’s appearance on this site was not as prompt as I suddenly needed a cornea transplant1It went well! I may write more about this soon, or I may not., which put all eye-related goals on the back burner. My apologies to everyone involved, of course, accompanied by gratitude for these illuminating answers from The Children… In this exchange, the two touch on the darkness of an NYC music scene, how improvisation is everywhere, how they embrace a certain definition of ‘gothic,’ and tales from the recording of A Sudden Craving. Enjoy, kiddos.

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A Degree of Randomness: A Conversation With Joseph Branciforte

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Joseph Branciforte pops up on my computer monitor as we begin our chat. He’s in an austere studio chamber, pristine and wooden, with racks of audio gear and a familiar Juno-60 behind him, all by its lonesome. Are those a pair of Grammy awards I see on the shelf? It’s not the typical studio I encounter when chatting with a musician making electronic or experimental music. Besides the Juno, it doesn’t look like any studio I’ve recorded in. Mine are always a mess.

Have you ever noticed that graphic artists, especially those with a refined aesthetic, have the nicest workspaces? The idea must extend to mastering and mixing engineers of Jospeph’s caliber and scrupulous dedication. Glance over his client list, and you’ll see names that I’m sure have requirements: the ECM label, known for its consistently polished palette, figures in as a patron of services. This makes Joseph’s Greyfade imprint, established in 2019, an exciting development. We expect a bending of sonic expectations, a lack of preference for electronic and organic, music redefining its terms, all immaculately recorded and presented.

I’ve got Joseph and his studio on my monitor as we’re discussing LP2, a collaborative album with storied vocalist Theo Bleckmann. Joseph is warm, engaged, and obviously proud of his work on this record. He should be—featuring Theo’s wordless melodies and Joseph’s electronics, the album bends all expectations, blurs the electronic and the organic, and redefines plenty. As for how it’s recorded and presented, the sound of it is as stunning as the record’s stark design and packaging is remarkable. Released at the tail end of 2023, on the eighth of December, LP2 made it just in time to become my album of the year.

I should briefly explain Theo Bleckmann. He’s a vocalist and composer of incredible range (“both his pitch and emotional range,” says Joseph in our conversation) and an epically diverse repertoire. He’s a human instrument, as you’ll hear on LP2. and has worked with the likes of Laurie Anderson, John Zorn, Meredith Monk, Philip Glass, so many others. Curiously, and possibly impressively, Theo is credited with an alien language in Men In Black.

As an electronic manipulator himself—Theo submits his instrument to his own rack of effects—the voice is game for dipping in and out of familiarity. Joseph enhances and de-hances, both within live improvisation and in a post-production setting, and the results are magical. I almost wish I didn’t know anything about the who and why of LP2, as that would make its songs so immediately mysterious. What’s the voice? What’s synthesized? Are we outside? What’s electronically rejiggered? Is that a vibraphone?

The instruments on LP2 insist on being listened to as a whole rather than picked apart. This makes discernment fuzzy, especially if experiencing with mystery, but satisfying for those of us seeking something secure yet impressionistic. What Theo and Joseph have created floats around—a warm mist that’s neither comforting nor ominous but holds gentle touches of both.

My conversation with Joseph was heady and sometimes technical. We delve into his process and dig into the creation of specific tracks on LP2. In contrast to my vague, descriptive flowers above, Joseph delivered a pleasantly straightforward overview of what makes the album something special. We also chatted more than I’m letting on here, and I’m saving our short discussion about a much-anticipated future album until its release. Joseph also teased me at the end by saying, “We could talk about Master Of Puppets for an hour.” Bring it on.

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3+1: Ordos Mk.0

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The 3+1 paradigm is simple: the subject receives over a dozen questions. These queries are mostly ‘stock,’ but I specifically target a few at the artist’s work. And then, the subject is asked to name something loved but has yet to be widely known. That’s the ‘+1.’ I expect a paragraph or two, three at most, with the 3+1 pieces serving as a quick look into an artist and their worldview. 

Ordos Mk.0 has other ideas, and I’m thankful for that. Avoiding the stock questions, Ordos Mk.0 honed in on the ones that directly addressed his craft and intentions. The resulting responses are lengthy and thoughtful. I could post each answer as a stand-alone post if I wanted to. I admit surprise, but I should have known Ordos Mk.0 would deliver with such depth. That’s because the launching point for this piece is the ambitious and sprawling three-part album(s), Sisyphean Audio Therapy. 

Ordos Mk.0 (I only know the artist by the alias) leans into the therapy aspect, presenting the three installments as a healing process for both the musician and the listener. ‘Music as therapy’ is a familiar trope, but in answering these questions, Ordos Mk.0 brings a unique and interesting take. In the press write-up, the artist explains:

[The albums] are intended to serve as tools for relief from stress and anxiety as well as being inspired by and about the music and other media we turn to escape from it. It was due to this cyclical nature of being music to relax and escape while also being about media to relax and escape to, combined with the unending need to do so, which feels impossible to fulfill, that it is described as “Sisyphean.” 

And the music approaches the idea distinctively, too. The albums’ tracks — admittedly and audibly influenced by the likes of Biosphere, Alessandro Cortini, Suzanne Ciani, and Trent Reznor’s work with Atticus Ross — favor song-like lengths as opposed to extended ambient drone exercises. There are nods across the electronic music spectrum and references to its history. Field recordings flutter in and out, triggering imagined possibilities and sonic contextualizing. Melody is also an essential element; there are plenty of compelling synth lines and motifs to grab us. These tracks are like snatches from misremembered dreams.

Ordos Mk.0 states that he intended his latest album, Sisyphean Audio Therapy 3, to have balanced doses of hope and despair. I hear an unequal division — there’s a bit more hope when I listen, but I tend to be a glass-half-full kind of guy. Perhaps part of the therapy for the listener is how Ordos Mk. 0’s music is open to emotional interpretation, a sort of Bandcampian Rorschach test. These cuts slice through hard times and take us — creator and listener — along with them. And it’s important when listening to remember that Camus considered Sisyphus a happy but absurd hero, “one who does not have false hope but also does not sink into despair.“

Enjoy this extended bit of 3+1 with Ordos Mk.0 — there’s a lot to sink your teeth into. Also — the artist provided the original photography on which this post’s graphics are based.

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Felix Laband: Sine Waves in Heaven

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I’ve always held a fascination for musical artists that started as painters — Brian Eno and Captain Beefheart come to mind — but it’s often impossible to find a key to their music through their visual expressions. Not so with Felix Laband. The South African recording artist’s sonic output stands side-by-side with his collage art, with his pieces adorning the covers of his albums from the very first, 2001’s Thin Shoes In June. The subjects of Felix’s collages are fractured, spare, and dramatically chopped. You might find animal life, anguished faces, African imagery, drab buildings, vague slogans, and pervy goings-on. And the collages, intentionally or not, accompany and unlock Felix’s music, especially his latest album, The Soft White Hand. 

Supported by a canvas of bright pigments in tone and melody, the citizens of Felix’s collages reside in his songs. Field recordings, animated dialogues, newsreel announcements, and undefinable intonations twist and bend in context — the mundane becoming bizarre, the bitter becoming joyous, the pleasant turning ominous. Felix’s label, Compost Records, delves into this aspect in the album’s press release:

“My music is always about collage, as is my art,” [Felix] affirms. “Everything I do is collage. It is a medium I find very interesting because you are taking history and distorting it and changing its meaning and turning it upside down and back to front.” In her book Recollections of My Non-Existence, Rebecca Solnit calls collage “literally a border art”; it is “an art of what happens when two things confront each other or spill onto each other.”

The music on The Soft White Hand can exist and satisfy without the insertion of collage. But the collage and the nature of its sample-play transform the album into personal reflection. With some attention, one can grasp Felix’s reservations and struggles — as a South African in a powder keg, as a sufferer of substance abuse, and of feeling abandoned and rejected in a world that’s lost control of itself. But despite the turmoil, the construction of The Soft White Hand has a deliberateness and a lightness. The album is sonically crisp — the melodies tend to sparkle, the rhythms can’t help but gyrate, and the low end is tough and resolute. Felix is an electronic music producer’s producer (like someone deemed “a DJ’s DJ or a writer’s writer”). The stereo spread is full and cosmic, open for study and ready to yield surprises on repeated listens. The Soft White Hand can’t be easily defined but feels close to something we already know.

Some months back, I interviewed David Sanborn (alongside his crafty wife, Jennifer Huber) for an expose on the extreme mischief of their Kraftwerk fandom. I was also aware that David is a devoted fan of Felix Laband’s art and music. In 2017, David bought one of Felix’s collage works and had it shipped from South Africa at a not-insignificant expense. The piece is fantastic, and I’ve admired it on David and Jennifer’s wall many times. This purchase inspired a correspondence between David and Felix, and they became regular internet acquaintances. So, when Felix appeared on my radar as an 8sided interview subject, I immediately thought of David. Who better to talk to this enigmatic artist? 

My instinct paid off. As you’ll hear in the interview audio below, these two had a mutually generous and strikingly personal conversation about life, Felix’s music, the state of the world, South Africa, and much more — along with many humorous asides. Here’s what David wants you to know about this interview: 

My pal Michael asked me if I was interested in interviewing Felix Laband, a South African composer of sublime electronic music I’ve long admired, to which I replied with a hard YES and an emphatic affirmative. I spent days relistening to Felix’s back catalog, making notes, and hoping to create a dialog complementary to his aspirations. In short, I was dedicated and thrilled about the opportunity. In retrospect, I may have over-delivered as Felix was a charming and fascinating man who shared some unique interests and opinions with me, so the sprawling recording I handed Michael to prune down to something manageable exceeded two hours. Michael: I’m sorry. Had I not asked every question and lifted every rug, I wouldn’t have stumbled on our shared loathing of dubstep, a shared loving of the film Withnail & I, and the dirt on Die Antwoord. I hope this interview shines a spotlight on an artist who deserves so much more than he’s received. 

I managed to edit this fascinating chat down to one tight hour, and I threw in a few interludes using music from The Soft White Hand. In addition to what David mentions in his paragraph, the two discuss the perils of addiction, why you shouldn’t ask your elders to translate Einstürzende Neubauten lyrics, the meanings behind some of the album’s samples, finding lewd photos for salacious collage art, and why David would rather interview Felix than Ralf Hütter of Kraftwerk. 

A big thanks to David Sanborn for conducting this interview (here’s his blog, which he should update more often, nudge nudge). What follows is a transcripted excerpt from the conversation, which begins with Felix wondering if he should leave South Africa as he and David explore a frequent artistic malady: self-doubt. If all this piques your interest, please enjoy the entire conversation in the handy audio player. It’s a good one.

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FL: Obviously [I could emigrate] to Europe because my record label, [Compost Records], is there. Probably Berlin to start with, just because it’s central and I have a lot of friends there. But this war is making everything quite difficult. I’m quite nervous.

DS: Yeah, the whole world feels destabilized, and a lot depends on the outcome. But that brings us to a catch-22. What is Felix Laband without South Africa? I think for a lot of artists, the struggles they experience make their music possible. I want to see you live somewhere where you’re safe, and you’re happy. But does that mean the music will continue, or will you give a big sigh of relief and just try to live your life happily? 

FL: I think the music will continue. But perhaps, and this might sound a bit odd, what I think about a lot is studying music [abroad] now that I’m a bit older and more mature. Perhaps I would take it seriously, like maybe classical music or, in particular, chamber music, which is what I’m really into. I don’t have any formal training. I feel like I’ve reached the point where my ideas are getting boring, and I’m not capable of thinking in terms of big chords and stuff like that. I feel like that might open a whole new chapter in my experience with music.

DS: I don’t want to come across as pandering, but you know I’m a big fan. I think The Soft White Hand is brilliant. It’s a cracking album. My wife and I went to the UK for the last three weeks and rented a car. We drove from Scotland all the way down to the Isle of Wight, and we listened to your album like half the time. 

FL: Beautiful. 

DS: And you talk about expanding your musical palette with some formal training. But I’ve got to say that this album is as close as electronic music gets to chamber music. There are elements to that album that remind me of the French composer Johann Pachelbel, for example. There are melodic elements that remind me of Philip Glass. And yet here you are saying you don’t feel that you’re as good as you could be. And I’m sure that there’s probably some truth to that in your mind, but I think you might also be a little, um … what’s the word I’m looking for? A lack of ego, perhaps.

FL: I appreciate you saying that. It means so much to me because I do feel like this album is a lot closer to where I want to be. I’ve been banging away trying to make this album for about six or seven years. And it only came together in terms of a concept, of something I was feeling confident about, maybe in the last year. That was after I was in a weird relationship with somebody a lot younger than me. It was quite a traumatic relationship, with a lot of fighting and stuff, but she helped me have a proper look at what I’m doing. She was right about a lot of stuff, and it pushed me a bit. That led to a bit more confidence in what it is that I actually want to do.

DS: Would you like to attend a university, or is there somebody you would like to work with who could impart knowledge? 

FL: I’m told that, because of my experience [as a recording artist], if I had to apply to a university, I might have some way in even though I don’t have any training. But I don’t even know what’s out there. I just think it might be quite interesting and push me to embrace that style of thinking.

DS: A common element of this album — and in most of your music — is a purity of sound. You use bells and other things that have a pure tone. There’s no distortion. When I listen to how hard you work on your music to make it perfect, it’s telling that you feel you could be a better musician. I know this isn’t news to you, but you don’t ever use the same drum break twice. You’re never just cutting and pasting four-bar loops. What causes that need for perfection? What makes you go for this particular sound?

FL: That’s such an interesting question. You know, if I were going to heaven, I would be on a sine wave. (laughs) I’ve always loved that tone. It speaks to me, that sort of sine wave tone. And I do love bell sounds and things like that. It’s interesting because distortion was something that I was super into at a certain point in my life. But I do find it quite difficult these days, especially in electronic music.

DS: There’s such purity in your music. There’s no distortion at all. It’s some of the clearest, cleanest stuff I’ve heard.

FL: I suppose it feels right to me. I mean, some tracks evolve over a long time. They might have started as something completely the opposite. I tend to work with things that I’ve done previously when I realize that it fits with something I’m working on now. I’ll merge them together. But when I feel it’s perfectly married and finished, it’s often clean in tone. Although, that’s not a conscious idea. It’s interesting that you brought that up, as I haven’t thought about it. You’re right.

→ Felix Laband’s The Soft White Hand is out now on Compost Records. You can find the album on Bandcamp, as well as all the streaming spots. To check out some of Felix’s collage art, visit his Instagram page.

Ströme: Back in the Future

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In Japanese folklore, you’ll find the Shinto idea of the tsukumogami, an inanimate object occupied by a spirit. The spirit becomes present in a thing over use and time — after one hundred years in the case of the tsukumogami. And the object-as-spirit remembers its treatment by a prior owner. If the object was previously abused, then the tsukumogami wrecks vengeance, even if it’s now in the hands of a different owner. I assume this works the other way around if the item was held in reverence.

I approached my conversation with the German duo Ströme with this concept in mind. The two members — Mario Schönhofer and Tobias Weber — are loud and proud gearheads who create an eclectic flavor of modern-sounding but vintage-charged electronic music on an impressive variety of classic circuit-based instruments. As you’ll hear in the interview, Ströme are not only passionate and knowledgable but also respectful and pious toward their gear. As a result, Ströme’s instruments will undoubtedly spawn good-natured tsukumogami.

But the conversation yields another twist to the possibility of historical essence within an object. For the duo’s debut full-length album, Nr. 2, Ströme managed to get ahold of the first Moog synthesizer to cross the German border. Purchased by Eberhard Schöner, founder of the first laboratory for electronic music in 1968 at Bavaria Studios, this particular Moog IIIp made appearances on recordings you might know. The Beatles’ “Here Comes The Sun?” Check. Giorgio Moroder’s “I Feel Love?” Check! And so it was that Ströme ended up with the keys to the car, so to speak, and unrestricted access to a synthesizer that assuredly has a contented tsukumogami flowing through its circuitry.

As for Ströme, the duo formed in 2015, bonded by this love of electronic music and the quirky technology that makes it. The three-song Nr. 1 was released by fabled imprint Compost Records and dutifully announced the pair’s distinctive mixture of Krautrock textures and nightclub rhythms. The third track on the EP is a recording of a live session in Leipzig, showcasing the importance of live performance to the execution of Ströme. Mario and Tobias bravely lug their phalanx of analog, modular, and often vintage music machines on tour, leading to uncompromising and sometimes unpredictable performances. 

This energy pops and fizzes throughout Nr. 2‘s 14 tracks. There are plenty of club-focused moments, but these hang alongside contemplative synth wanderings and motorik rhythm sections. Ströme ties their thread thickly to the reigning historical champions of German ‘kosmische’ music, whether we’re obviously talking about Kraftwerk and Tangerine Dream or, more esoterically, in the realm of Cluster, Neu!, and Popol Vuh. As you’ll hear in the conversation, Mario and Tobias are acutely aware of their place in the lineage. And the addition of fellow vintage synth fiend Nick McCarthy (formerly of the Glaswegian band Franz Ferdinand) on a few songs emboldens rather than obscures the connection, especially on the transcendent indie-shimmer of “Stadlberg.” 

I had the pleasure of firing up Zoom with Mario and Tobias some weeks ago to speak about a variety of topics. Those subjects include previous owners of the machines we use, the challenges of analog synthesis on the road, if live bands or DJs are better at ‘feeling the crowd,’ and lots of gear talk. I mean, lots of gear talk. If you’re into vintage synthesizers then this interview is your jam. For a taste, I’ve transcribed an excerpt below where Mario and Tobias explain how Ströme got ahold of the infamous Moog IIIp in the first place. Please enjoy our entire 35-minute conversation in the handy audio player. 

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MD: The album uses all this vintage gear, but it doesn’t have a nostalgic sound. I’d say it sounds quite modern. Is that intentional? Is it difficult not to fall into a trap of making things sound vintage when using this historical gear?

MS: Well, when Eberhard Schöner first gave access to the old [Moog IIIp] from 1969, we were very impressed [with its capabilities].

MD: So this was the original Moog that was used by the Beatles and has a ton of history behind it. 

MS: Yeah. We met Eberhard at a garden party. 

TW: At first, he was like, “ah, these young guys, huh?” 

MS: I asked him before we left the party, “can we just see the Moog synthesizer?” We never saw Moog that old. It’s number ‘7’ or something. He said, “yes, come on by.” In about two or three weeks, we saw the system. Eberhard switched it on, we played for a bit, and then we had a coffee. After a couple of hours, Eberhard and his wife said, “we are leaving for about a week. You can stay here. You can use the fridge; it’s full. And you can do as much with the Moog synthesizer as you want.” 

TW: That was really crazy! (laughs)

MS: Yeah, that was! We were driving home, and I was crying. It was a lifelong dream to be with this machine. I knew the sound of it since I was a kid. From Georgio Moroder’s “I Feel Love” to these kids’ TV series that Eberhard created music for. I knew this synthesizer, the sound. 

TW: This was really special. They live in an old farmhouse on a mountain with a studio that was active in the eighties …

MD: That sounds like a Conny Plank kind of situation!

MS: Yeah, it was! And, of course, we knew who Eberhard was. I knew that he bought the first Moog synthesizer in Germany. It was such an honor just to meet this guy. And when we got there, it turned out to be the greatest experience.

TW: And what’s crazy is next door to the studio was the house where Popol Vuh was living. And they bought the second Moog in Germany because they saw Eberhard’s. And he told us the guys from Tangerine Dream were coming around and checking out the Moog, and they bought it because of him. Then Eberhard was lending it to Georgio Moroder to produce all this stuff. And now the synthesizer’s in a museum.

MD: I saw that! 

MS: It was amazing. When we were recording with the old Moog, we could feel that a lot of music was made on this instrument.

TW: I’m not as keen on Moog synthesis like Mario, but when I started making sounds from it, I was thinking, “This sounds like it could be played right now in Berghain.” It’s not vintage at all. 

MS: We set up the Moog on the floor intending to do a real Krautrock week, you know. And so Tobias was wiggling knobs on the Moog, and I came into the studio, and it sounded like the most modern drum loop ever. We really thought the people in the sixties and seventies just weren’t ready for these sounds. It was like back in the future.

TW: When you play a JX-8P or something, you always have this vintage sound. But with a Moog from 1969, you just make your music. It’s so modern sounding.

MS: Since that time, I’m working nearly exclusively with the [reissued] Moog IIIp because I found out what Bob Moog intended this instrument to be. It’s a machine able to produce any kind of sound on a timestamp. It’s like you have currents saved on magnetic tape, and this machine should be able to emulate all kinds of waveforms occurring on the tape. So there are many tricks Bob Moog incorporated into this instrument. Tricks from old sound engineers. It’s unbelievable what Bob Moog invented.

MD: Does the Moog appear on most of the new album? 

MS: There are some overdubs made with the new Moog IIIp we got in 2019. But it took some time to get it to sound really good. It needs some time to burn in its circuits, you know. It’s like a new violin — it needs to be played.

MD: That’s fantastic. You definitely don’t have that feeling with the JX-8P and gear like that, 

MS: It took nearly half a year before I made its first serious recording. The machine was running 24-7 to get it in shape; to get the capacitors and everything to work properly together. And you really can hear it. But now the old Moog is in a museum and that’s a big honor for Eberhard, that his synthesizer will be shown for 200 years in the German museum and his heritage will carry on. And I’m happy with my new Moog. There’s no need for us to change.

→ Ströme’s Nr. 2 is out now on Compost Records. It’s available on Bandcamp and all the streaming places.

Greg Davis: Fourteen Tones

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Greg Davis strikes me as a reluctant scientist. He toils in the wilds of Vermont, surrounded daily by the history of recorded music in his Autumn Records shop. Greg’s sonic tinkering goes back more than a couple of decades with an impressive series of releases for the likes of Kranky, Room40, Home Normal, and his imprint, which shares the name of his record store. Over the years, Greg experimented with processed ‘organic instruments’ like guitar (traditionally his main instrument), percussion, voice, field recordings, and esoteric devices. An online acquaintance told me about seeing Greg play nothing but an Asian gong, a performance he called “dope.” More recently, Greg has devoted himself to electronic composition, utilizing his custom software systems in the Max/MSP environment.

That brings us to New Primes. Prompted by Joseph Branciforte, who recently launched the Greyfade label, Greg revisited his 2009 release, Primes, and the software used to create it. Like a good scientist, Greg tweaked his Primes formula based on experimentation and past results, ending up with the refined generative gears that power New Primes. He based his formula on prime number sets that subtly trigger changes and intervals in the music’s intertwining tones. But the reluctance in Greg’s science comes from his concern for what the audience finally hears. Though mathematical in construction, the pieces are edited and arranged to, above all, provide a warm and pleasurable gateway for the listener. In our interview, Greg refers to this as his ‘dichotomy.’ I’d argue this word informs his work even more than Greg’s acumen with programming his software.

Bear with me, for this is a little silly, but I can connect experiencing New Primes to a recent viewing of Chantal Akerman’s Jeanne Dielman, 23 Quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles. Jeanne Dielman (as we’ll shorten it from now forward) just topped the 2022 Sight and Sound Greatest Films of All Time poll, determined by a pool of critics and others who haunt the movie industry. After putting off this film for a while, the award inspired me to take the plunge. 

The 3+ hour Jeanne Dielman is infamous for long, static scenes of a housewife doing everyday chores. There’s a familiar repetition to Jeanne’s tasks, and the mundanity becomes fascinating after a while. The viewer falls into Jeanne’s rhythm. And when something breaks the cycle — even as small as the accidental drop of a fork on the floor — it’s a dramatic occurrence. Little differences become paramount.

New Primes features an arrangement of sine tones that hum and modulate, following generative paths prompted by prime number calculations. Like Jeanne’s routine, on the surface, that sounds clinical, orderly, and methodical. But the beauty lies in small changes. As the listener settles into Greg’s humming waves of sound, things that would typically go unnoticed become sections and movements. A slight bend in the stereo field or a tone suddenly vibrating a pinch slower in tandem with another — these minuscule moments are noticeable and even emotive shifts on New Primes. 

My strained comparison to Jeanne Dielman is indeed silly as, unlike the film, nothing shocking happens in New Primes. The music lulls and placates while remaining thoughtful. And there’s no need to understand math (I don’t!) or even know what a prime number is. One can listen to New Primes simply as a recent addition to the drone pantheon. However, Greg’s obvious intention and meticulous attention help the album rise above the usual ambient release. Yes, this is science, but it’s the kind that’s experienced firsthand — like an everyday routine that wouldn’t be possible without the numbers and sequences that secretly bind things together. 

I had the pleasure of speaking with Greg Davis about his process and the effort to bring New Primes to life. There’s an excerpt from that part of the conversation in the transcript below. But we started by talking about record stores — I once owned a shop, too, and I wondered if that influenced how Greg approached music. My store sure had an effect on me. Please enjoy the whole conversation via the handy audio player.

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MD: How much preparation went into New Primes before you actually hit ‘record?’ Let’s include thinking about it and developing the concept.

GD: What happened was I developed the software and the system when I made [my 2009 precursor] Primes, and then it sat dormant until probably like 2018. So, ten years, basically. Joe [Branciforte of Greyfade] contacted me a little before that and asked if I wanted to revisit Primes. I then dove back into my software and started tweaking it. I worked on it for probably about a year leading up to a performance in 2019 in New York City. I did a multichannel audio performance of it at The Fridman Gallery there. I reworked the whole software for that performance. Around that time or shortly after, I felt like the software was in a nice new place. And that’s when I started to record all the different pieces from the software, which was the first part of the process. I just made long recordings. These pieces are all generative, so they could last for hours or days or however long — each different prime number set. I would make 15-minute to 20-minute recordings of a piece doing its thing; then, we spent some time choosing which pieces we wanted to use. I went to Joe’s studio and did a proper mixing session to come up with the pieces that you hear on the album.

MD: If you used identical parameters to record again, would New Primes be exactly the same?

GD: No, it’d be different. The software that created it is generative. Everything exists on these prime number cycles and systems — things never repeat, or it takes a really, really long time for anything to repeat. The pieces are going to have the same sound or characteristics, but the micro-details will be different every time. The way things fade in and out, the interaction between different tones or different clusters of sounds will be different. That’s the nature of the software.

MD: Besides the final editing, you’re not necessarily doing anything in the recording process. There are subtle stereo shifts and things like that — are those part of the generative output?

GD: Yeah, all the stereo imaging stuff is part of the software as well. That’s built into it. So, the only thing I’m doing with the final recordings is mixing and setting volume levels. Every piece has 14 tones — 14 sine tones — and they’re related to these prime number sets. The final part of the piece was mixing it, getting a really nice balance between all the different tones and frequencies, and then making some edits. We would take a larger piece to edit; I basically decided I wanted to have six pieces or three pieces per side. I wanted to keep it at a comfortable length for a vinyl LP. That came to six or seven minutes per piece, and so we zeroed in on a section that felt like a chunk of time.

MD: This goes back to you talking about the end result being more important to you than the actual process. I understand this because when I first listened to New Primes, I didn’t know the concept. But, at the same time, I really got a lot out of it. I quite enjoyed the listen on its own terms. So, do you want people to know all the work you put into it ahead of time?

GD: No, not really. I just want people to listen and spend some time with it. If people want to know the process or what goes into it, that’s fine. And they can probably find that out by looking online for reviews or interviews, as I’m always happy to talk about that stuff. But I’ve never been interested in putting too much programmatic info into my music or a ‘how the sausage is made’ kind of thing in liner notes. Mainly I want people to listen, come to their own conclusions, and have their own feelings about it. I don’t want to color people’s experiences with music because that’s important to me as a listener of music that I like. I want to come to it with an open mind and an open heart and just try to be present in the music. To have an experience with it that’s mine, which can evoke all sorts of things when I listen to music.

MD: This very intentional process you put into it — does it create a background hum of sorts for the listener? Like something hidden that’s tying it all together? I’m talking about a shadow intention that can be picked up on when listening without knowing what’s really below the surface.

GD: I like that idea, and I think that’s very true for New Primes. This whole system I created creates a very distinct and unique harmonic space. It’s a kind of drone space, for lack of a better word. I’ve made lots of different, drone-style albums in my career, and some of them are more process-based, and some are just intuitive. But this particular record has a distinct sonic signature. And that’s due to the programming and process that went into it. I really like the result of it because it’s different. The process helped me arrive at a different space that I find interesting. And, you know, if I were doing this intuitively, I probably would make an album that’s not as dissonant. New Primes almost has this darkness to it, you know? I don’t tend to make too much music that’s dark in nature or dissonant. These qualities or characteristics revealed themselves to me as I was making the music, and I really liked that. It helped me access some different stuff — some different zones or feelings.

→ Greg Davis’s New Primes is out now on Greyfade. It’s available on Bandcamp and on vinyl. You won’t find it on the streaming places.

Innerwoud: Comfortable Obstructions

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My conversation with Belgian musician Pieter-Jan Van Assche began with a correction. I misidentified his main instrument as a cello when the truth is it’s a symphonic double bass. That’s an important distinction. As performed solo in Pieter-Jan’s Innerwoud project, the double bass is the largest and deepest-toned string instrument in an orchestra. Outside of an orchestral context, you’ll also find the double bass in the hands of bassists in jazz, retro country, and rockabilly genres, commonly referred to as ‘stand-up bass.’ As Innerwoud, Pieter-Jan’s approach draws more from the symphonic side, reflecting his lengthy background with the instrument in that context. But he also takes it into unexplored territories through a minimal but striking application of effects pedals, production techniques, and an avant-gardist mindset. 

Innerwoud’s latest and second album, Furie, shows the possibilities of an instrument considered limited at first glance. Predictably, the lower-end frequencies dominate. But there are also unexpected layers that resonate in the upper range, as well as percussion from the body of the double bass and an affecting variety of dynamics. There’s a danger that all these bass notes would result in sonic muddiness, but the attentive direction of Pieter-Jan and the engineering skills of Tim De Gieter (from the band Amenra) make Furie sound spacious and detailed. 

“Raseri,” Furie‘s first track, is a 14-minute showcase for what Pieter-Jan sets out to accomplish with Innerwoud. Many of the double bass’s tonal possibilities are present, from gentle plucks to forceful scrapes and from mournful bowing to some of the higher notes available to the instrument. It’s tempting, especially when dealing with the low end of the aural spectrum, to focus on an inherent feeling of melancholy. But Pieter-Jan notes that even though “Raseri” and the album as a whole reflect fears inspired by the modern age, the listener can also hear the hope inspired by his newborn daughter. The album’s title, Furie, directly references this daughter and Pieter-Jan’s wish that she grows up to become a ‘furious woman’ in the face of the world’s obstacles. 

Despite the awkward start (no disrespect to the double bass!), Pieter-Jan and I had a fantastic conversation. We spoke about the creative importance of framing one’s surroundings, the challenges of making art at home, how Pieter-Jan’s process is like Lars von Trier’s Dogme 95 games, and, in the transcribed excerpt below, why choosing to limit himself to the double bass was liberating. Listen to the full interview in the handy audio player and enjoy. (Quick note: the prolific author whose name I couldn’t recall in the interview audio is Terry Pratchett. And he’s not Scottish, so I made another mistake.)

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MD: I was reading your press release, and it explains that you decided to only use the cello for this latest release because of its ‘endless possibilities.’ And I thought that was interesting because most people would see it the other way around, that you’d be limiting yourself.

PJ: First of all, it’s a double bass. 

MD: I’m sorry. (slumps a bit) Yes.

PJ: No problem. But, in my opinion, it’s an important difference. The strings are even longer on double bass. And, of course, the piece itself, the wooden frame … your soundbox is way bigger. It’s like four cellos. You have more textures to experiment with. But it is more challenging to start with a limit, like an obstruction in my case, to use only one instrument. It is tempting to add more because I can play other instruments. Sometimes I’m like, “Hmm, this could work. I have this sound in my head that could really work to fill the hole.” But instead of grabbing a guitar or a synthesizer, I look for [a similar] sound on the double bass. You have such low tones, and you can have these high-vibrating melodies, as well. It’s really satisfying when the sounds that I had in mind come out of it. You have these layers, and it works like I hoped it would … then it’s satisfying for me that it was just a double bass.

MD: To me, it’s a constraint. You set rules for yourself in the recording of the album, But it’s counterintuitive. It turns out there’s a lot of freedom in constraints. Too many choices are actually restraining.

PJ: Exactly, Having this obstruction, this restraint for myself, makes me feel comfortable. I don’t have to worry about other possible sounds. When I go to the studio, I’m recording with Tim De Gieter from Amenra, and he has all this gear — really nice guitars, modular synths, and the craziest effect pedals. So it’ll be tempting to grab one of those and add a little layer, a little pinch of salt to the double bass. But for me, it’s the closing down of options that makes me work comfortably. It’s a rational thing, but you could almost compare it with Lars von Trier, who made this series of obstructions he invented for his students. 

MD: I’m familiar with that, yeah.

PJ: Exactly. And it resulted in the Dogme movement. Only free-hand camera. And then only one take or whatever. There were a lot of obstructions. I don’t know them by heart anymore. 

MD: I always like “no guns.” I thought that was a really good one.1The actual rule is “The film must not contain superficial action (Murders, weapons, etc. must not occur).”

PJ: Yeah, indeed. It had to be real. And there were some weird rules among them. But with me, it’s less weird, and I’m not wanting to make it hard for myself. I don’t really need the challenge, but it’s good to limit myself. To get the maximum out of what I had planned. For example, I can only record in a studio. Most solo artists have a little home studio, and they can do a lot themselves. I have one, as well, but I almost never use it. I need the framing of a studio to work. And a lot of the music I’ve written happened during a soundcheck for another performance or otherwise on a stage because there was this vibrance, this lightning. And in my small room here in our house, I only do the bare necessities. I just do some technical preparations. I write some extra layers. But I usually also go into the studio the night before recording. I need these frames to work in. The studio and the stage are frames, but so is choosing only the double bass.

MD: That’s interesting because I know a lot of musicians who, during the lockdown and working from home, have that problem. They lose a frame that they can’t replicate at home. 

PJ: Exactly. I didn’t make a COVID record. Furie was recorded afterward. 

MD: Well, this would be the opposite because you are going into a studio rather than doing it at home.

PJ: Yes, and when I’m at home, I’m not very productive. I’m not creative at home because it’s where I live, sleep, cook, and take care of my wife and child. Music is a part of our lives, and there’s always music playing here. But it’s quite rare that I say to my wife, “I’m off for a couple of hours. I’m going to my music room.”

MD: I think finding creativity at home is a really common problem, and not just during the lockdown. I have that problem, definitely. I have a room, the room I’m in now, and I try to only do work here with the idea that I come in this room to hopefully get in a ‘work’ frame of mind. But it rarely works that way. I mean, I know that I can grab a snack anytime from the refrigerator just several steps in that direction.

PJ: Exactly. I use the music room as an office as well for my other job. But now I’m doing laundry, and I can hear the machine. I read this interview with a young writer in Belgium, and she rented an apartment in the city of Brussels while she also lived in Brussels. She rented it for one year to write a novel which turned out to be quite a fine one. She traveled each day, like 20 minutes by bicycle, to the apartment. And I was so into that. I could completely understand why that worked for her. 

MD: But people are totally different. I also know of those who have no problem. A friend of mine was on a plane flight going from Bogota, Colombia, to Buenos Aires, which is a very long flight. By chance, he happened to be sitting next to the music producer BT. My friend said as soon as BT sat down in the window seat next to him, he pulled out his laptop and his headphones and was working on music from the moment the plane took off to landing. 

PJ: Impossible! I would be staring through the window for 16 hours. 

→ Innerwoud’s latest album Furie is now available from Bandcamp and all the streaming places.

Jogging House: Feels Like a Good Revenge

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I’ve covered Jogging House on the blog before. My introduction to Boris Potschubay’s strangely beautiful music was through his 2019 album Lure. Then, I called his music “a quiet resistance,” not far from a couple of phrases Boris uses in the interview transcript below. His music evokes the feeling of an earlier time — the warmth of childhood, perhaps — while projecting that feeling into the future. Thus, Jogging House’s music is both nostalgic and hopeful. It doesn’t just look back and say, “life felt better then.” These songs also tell us, “it can feel nice like that again.”

I love Boris’s sonic aspirations of a “peaceful revolt.” The idea steeps resistance in a bath of optimism and supports my belief that there’s no role for nihilism in the esthetic exchange. Why fight if there’s no peace in our future? Why create art if there’s no utopian vision? What’s the artist’s role if it’s not to imagine possibilities? Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but these questions hum inside my head after I listen to Jogging House’s recent album, Fiber. 

Boris’s output as Jogging House is prolific (he’s released at least one more album since this conversation), but it’s never samey. The songs may seem to blur together if you listen to them separately, such as compiled randomly in a ‘chill out’ playlist or when the shuffle switch is on. But Jogging House makes albums, and these are meant for top-to-bottom listening in a single sitting. Fiber is especially effective as it ebbs and flows like the ocean tide photographed for its cover. The warmth of Boris’s chosen tones and his loose, hardware-based method is a tight thread that ties his sound together, but each track has its own story.

At long last, I spoke with Boris of Jogging House about his creative process and inspirations. We talked a lot about names — how he sees his artistic ‘job title’ and, as in the transcript excerpt below, what he wants his song titles to evoke in a listener. But we also talk about making music with loops, the marketing necessity of process videos, the learned restraint in his music and life, and how hip hop is still Boris’s favorite music. You can listen to our entire conversation in the embedded audio player. Please enjoy.

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JH: There is something reflected in the titles of my tracks. Sometimes it’s like the ocean. It’s just what the sounds make me think of at that very moment as I make the music, and then I often have some weird picture in my head. It’s like a memory that I never had. The sounds remind me of something, but not a specific thing. It’s not a real memory —just something that pops into my head when I listen. It could be anything, really.

MD: That’s interesting to hear that the titles do relate to memories evoked by the songs.

JH: Yeah, or feelings. 

MD: “Okay” is a funny song title. And “Revenge.”

JH: “Revenge” is my favorite title. Definitely. It’s one of my favorites in a while. I’m actually surprised that I didn’t pick it earlier.

MD: So the song made you think of revenge,

JH: Yeah, kind of, because the song is … I mean, it’s not a revenge. It doesn’t have anything ‘revenge’ about it. It’s very peaceful, I guess. I don’t remember the exact day, but I was probably annoyed by something. And, of course, making that song didn’t change anything, but it still felt like a good revenge. Maybe it was a sucky day, but still, I got that track out of it. It’s like the peaceful revolt idea of revenge, the quiet revolt. But it’s such a strong word. I need some contrast. I like to have these strong, almost visceral track names matched with something peaceful. I really like that combination. I find it interesting.

MD: The titles remind me of the Talking Heads’ Fear of Music album. “Air” and “Animals.” And “Paper” is a song title. But with David Byrne, the reason the song is called “Animals” is because he’s singing about how cool animals are.

JH: I like basic, minimal ideas based around these one-word titles. I like to be vague. I think if you give half a sentence as a title or “I Love You” or something like that, it becomes deeply embedded. The title steers the perception of the track in a specific direction. If it’s vague, the title can be a strong word but without any context, like “Revenge,” for example. But I think it’s impossible not to have any connotation when you read it without the music. If you read the word on a piece of paper somewhere on the street, it evokes some sort of feeling for you. It’s a very human thing.

MD: Right.

JH: But it could still mean anything. A million or a trillion stories could have revenge in them, and they would be all very different. So it’s something that is strong but without any sense of direction. Revenge against whom? I don’t know. It’s completely up to you what you think of this. It’s the same if I call something “Fire.” You have a million images. You could imagine lighting a candle or burning your house down. It can go from simple and charming to absolutely horrible and destructive. It’s completely open. The word itself is very strong, but it’s without context.

MD: But then the music adds a hint of context.

JH: Yes, maybe. Maybe.

MD: It’s like you see this title “Revenge,” and, as you said, your first thought is, “This is a harsh word.” A person comes up with their own ideas of what revenge is to them. And then they listen to the song; it colors their interpretation of how you may be using this word. It’s still their own interpretation because there’s no way the listener is going to know your story about feeling angry on the day you wrote it. So it’s almost like the idea of the ‘third mind,’ if you know about that concept.

JH: No, I don’t. 

MD: This artist and writer, Brion Gysin, came up with this with William Burroughs. It’s the idea that when two people collaborate, they create a ‘third mind.’ But you can take it further in that you don’t need another person. In their case, it was cutting up words and text and rearranging them, and finding inspiration from random things. You create a ‘third mind’ through that. So, basically, the ‘third mind’ generates ideas that would not have appeared without the juxtaposition of two elements. It’s almost like you’re summoning that concept a little bit if people listen to it that way. But, obviously, some people aren’t going to pay attention to the titles.

JH: That’s also totally fine. I’m horrible with titles. I never know what a track is called. I have a hard time remembering track titles. So that’s completely fine with me. But I also like to give these tiny images, sprinkle them over the album. You might pick up on them, or maybe not. Maybe they will catch you off guard and make you think of something. Or maybe you think it’s just random words. That’s also completely fine with me. The only thing I don’t want is to give is a specific direction of what you should feel or think. That’s the only thing that I don’t want to do.

→ Jogging House’s Fiber and many other albums are available on Bandcamp and the streaming places. You can also watch illuminating videos of Jogging House making his music on his website.

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?

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.