8Sided Blog

a zine about sound, culture, and the punk rock dream

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.

Too Drummy for Ambient

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Grooving to Amapiano → Prodded by Awesome Tapes From Africa, today I’m immersing myself in the South African genre of amapiano, defined as “a township-developed style that fuses elements from a number of different club-ready genres from across the decades.” This DJ mix by Teno Afrika is an overview of what amapiano is all about:

But Uwami, a fantastic new album by DJ Black Low, is really connecting me to this sound. Some of the production flourishes — especially the in-your-face percussive electronics — are especially provocative and attention-grabbing. I haven’t listened to a tune and remarked, “oh, shit!” to myself in a while. I did that a couple of times within the first few songs.

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ZZT Records in 1982 → This eight-minute ‘documentary’ on Zang Tumb Tuum (more commonly known as ZTT Records) is a fascinating time capsule. What a find! I’ve written about my ‘80s obsession with producer Trevor Horn, and ZTT is commonly known as his label. But, as the video shows, co-runners Jill Sinclair (also Horn’s wife) and music writer Paul Morley played a part, too. I love when professional units (labels, bands, companies) consist of distinctive personalities, each taking on a unique role. In ZTT’s case, Sinclair is the grounded business mind, Horn is the producer and resident nerd, and Morley is the prankster and creative spirit. Morley seems relegated to the background in this video, but he was crucial to the look and feel of ZTT. The Dada and futurist-influenced aesthetic and winking pseudo-corporate speak filling liner notes, label press releases, and manifestos were all Morley’s doing, no doubt. All of this conflicting but complementary energy created a classic record label that’s worthy of study and admiration. 

Also: I wonder if Rod Stewart was aware of what Horn said about him here when Horn was hired to produce a Rod Stewart album.

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Ausklang – Chronos → Soaring spaciousness abounds on Chronos, an album from the Berlin-based trio Ausklang. The band’s not quite moody enough for post-rock, a bit too drummy for ambient, and way too heady for indie-rock. They’re somewhere in the middle of all of that, probably closer to what I hesitate to call “soundtrack rock.” Ausklang are like a Popol Vuh for the drone-footage age, replacing the ecstatic mysticism with shoegazey optimism. 

The pieces are primarily improvised, the best bits edited together, and then overdubs added — a songwriting process pioneered by fellow German space cadets CAN. But while CAN gloriously sprawled and looped, Ausklang build and erupt. The title track, for instance, is a subdued slow-end jam that blasts itself into reverb-drenched guitar lines and cymbal crashes near the five-minute mark. And then there’s the gorgeous “Future Memories,” lulling the listener with a beatific guitar-then-piano melody before a Slowdive-like upward swell washes everything away.

The band performs a two-hour improvised ambient set every week at The Zionskirche, a 19th-century neo-romantic church. This aspect of Ausklang closes out Chronos via two beatless tracks that combine light drones, guitar atmospherics, and hopeful piano. Thus the album’s sequence mirrors the band’s dynamic sense — the tracklist progressively glides and thickens before floating down to a gentle landing. The album is so satisfying upon reaching the end, it’s tempting to replay Chronos from track one and fly again.

NFTs for the Rest of Us

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Since my last swipe at NFTs, the hype and debate have skyrocketed. Thankfully, some are looking into the ecological concerns (beyond the band-aid of buying offsets) where solutions would ultimately benefit all blockchain technology applications. And others are exploring how to use the malleable format of NFTs to create or enhance a new kind of art.  

Unfortunately, many see eight-figure sales of a digital collage, and their eyes become dollar signs out of a Looney Tunes cartoon. The overwhelming conversation around NFTs is driven by monster-sized auction results and incredulous “she got how much for what?” takes. This chatter drives the motivation of many artists getting into NFTs: it’s all about making loads of easy money.

Of course, I believe that deserving artists and musicians should be paid handsomely for their art. Duh. But if you’re looking at Beeple getting $69 million for his NFT (and a lot more is going on there) and thinking, “I need to get in on that,” you might want to examine why you’re creating art in the first place.

I’m an idealist, and I think that using the hope of an NFT payday to guide your artistic process is no different than letting a soft drink company change your song lyrics for an ad. That’s cool if you’re cool with it, but don’t fool yourself into thinking that your money-making scheme is anything else just because it’s attached to hip technology.

Seth Godin and Bob Lefsetz have written wise words on NFTs with varying levels of criticism (or realism). But I think that MusicREDEF’s Matty Karas has written the most useful critique so far on what NFTs mean for the music industry. I’m going to quote it almost in full because more people should read it:

Show me this works and I’ll believe NFTs really, truly work: Put an album up for sale as an NFT, straight up, with no bonus content, no scarcity, no exclusivity. A simple $9.99 token available anytime to anyone who wants it. Why would anyone do that?, you ask. For the same reason anyone would sell an MP3s on BANDCAMP or ITUNES, I’ll answer, with the bonus that everyone, from the artist to the songwriters to anyone else who needs to get paid, can get paid instantaneously, no waiting weeks or months, no need to ever wonder if the numbers are being reported accurately, no need to worry about someone pirating the music, and if someone wants to resell it at a discount (because that’s the only way you can resell something that’s readily available) or at a markup (because maybe one day you’ll put it out of print), the artist can get a cut of the resale either way. I get the fun of auctions and the allure of exclusivity and the dream of seven-figure transactions, and there’s a place for all of that of course … But if you’re telling me NFTs are important because they’re a way to authenticate ownership and control distribution and streamline payments, then show me they can do that without raising the price of an album from $9.99 to $9,999.99 and without creating one more experience your average fan can never have.

That’s the rub. There’s a ton of promise in NFTs and blockchain for artists and labels. The technology adds personalization and ownership to digital music and might be a path for fans to move away from the mess streaming’s gotten us into. But before that can happen, we’re going to have to stop looking at NFTs as a high-dollar fad, a get-rich-quick shortcut, or patronage from the crypto-affluent. It’s time to get into the bones of what the technology means for everyday fans, artists, and recording artists and steer the conversation toward the future.

Update → Via a recent post on David Gerard’s Attack of the 50 Foot Blockchain blog:

Put a large price tag on your NFT by buying it from yourself — then write a press release talking about your $100,000 sale, and you’re only out the transaction fee. Journalists who can’t be bothered checking things will write this up without verifying that the buyer is a separate person who exists. Just like the high-end art world!

Rachel Kerry’s “Cute” Hyperpop Experiment

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The late century’s run of prominent genre/culture movements (examples: hip-hop, techno, maybe even grunge) ended some time ago. But it was replaced by something more subtle and complex. The internet eliminates most cultural isolation, resulting in a wealth of music — both niche and mainstream — freely available to artists in their formative years. This abundance has affected how we listen. There’s no longer only one type of genre we’re into, and, in our art, disparate influences openly collide. That’s always been the case with music on the edges, and past pioneering artists often reached their notoriety through a novel ‘it sounds like X-meets-Y’ recipe. But what’s different is how this approach has finally infiltrated pop music. 

In the past twenty years, exciting and wild sounds increasingly come out of pop music, and sometimes even near the top of the charts. It’s not rare to run across a song that we’d categorize as ‘pop’ featuring elements not out of place on a previously obscure Warp Records release. I believe it was Simon Reynolds who said that one should look toward a genre’s extremes to glimpse where music is headed. That holds, but the rate at which something considered unique and experimental leaves its fingerprints on pop music is getting quicker and quicker.

I thought about this when I heard the Intern remix of Rachel Kerry‘s single, “ur so cute.” The original is a lot of fun, a catchy electronic pop song with a vocal hook that wouldn’t be out of place on a ’50s bubblegum chart-topper. There are subtle synthesized flourishes and voice tweaks that add to its charm and reveal its hyperpop leanings. But then I was given the remix by Intern. This treatment is frenzied and over-the-top, setting the tone in its first seconds with radical vocal manipulations and rhythmic tomfoolery. The adorable vocal hook is still here, but it’s partly serving as an anchor for all sorts of sonic craziness. And then there’s the ragtime piano WUT. This remix is more like a genre detonation than a collision.

Intrigued, I reached out to Rachel Kerry at her London home base to ask about this remix, what it feels like to have her song sonically mangled, and her views on the rise of experimentalism in pop music. 

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8sided: How did the remix come about? Were you specifically looking for this style of remix, or was the final result a total surprise?

Rachel Kerry: My favorite thing about this remix is that I wasn’t looking for it at all. I knew Murphy and Nick from music college and saw them post about their new project, Intern. The first single from their debut EP, “Helium Foil Giant Balloon,” was released around the same time as the original “ur so cute.” I remember listening to their track and thinking, “Hang on, I thought these guys studied classical saxophone; this is so cool!” It wasn’t long after that Murph sent a message saying they’d love to remix “ur so cute.” I immediately said yes. 

Though our sounds are different, Intern and I take our influences from similar places. We all love hyperpop, glitchy bubblegum pop, and strange dance music. I’ve taken that influence and gone in one direction sonically, and they’ve gone the opposite with their project. This means that the sound of the remix pretty much meets back in the middle at our original influences. 

8S: What was it like hearing the Intern remix of “ur so cute” for the first time? 

RK: My first reaction was to laugh, honestly. And I promise that’s a compliment. In this more experimental, hyperpop world, such a big part of it is being tongue-in-cheek, using humor, and accentuating novelty sounds. Just listen to that ragtime piano break; you can’t not smile at that.

What’s great about Intern’s interpretation is how they used everything that was already in the song to warp, stretch, distort, etc. Honestly, I couldn’t even begin to pick apart or understand everything they did, but what I can hear is that pretty much all of those crazy sounds in their version have been made by manipulating something from the original. 

8S: The remix is so different than your original. I wonder if you had any reservations when you heard it?

RK: The first time I heard their remix, no part of me had any reservations about the sound. The only thing that could be a little worrying is what my audience might think. This remix has definitely taken the song from 0 to 100 pretty quickly in terms of introducing more experimental sounds to my music. But the reception has been really positive. I think people are after something a little out there and exciting right now. 

8S: Was your original song ripe for this kind of remix?

RK: I purposefully wrote the song to be as simple as possible. It only has two chords and just a couple of different instrument sounds. I wanted it to sound innocent, you know? It’s cute, and it’s about loving your friend, and I thought a minimalist approach would tell that story best — the simplicity of the original leaves so much scope for a remix to go wherever it wants. 

8S: How does technology influence your own songwriting? 

RK: Technology influences my songwriting process a lot. While I have sat with a piano or guitar to write in the past, lately, I haven’t had access to those, so I write straight into Logic Pro. I start every song by sitting in front of an empty screen and going from there. So, technology is the front and center of my creative process at the moment, though I won’t say it’s how I’ll always write in the future. And I don’t think I’ll start manipulating my lead vocal any time soon. I want to write songs that people can sing from beginning to end, so it’s important to me for my lead lines to be accessible in that way. 

8S: If technology plays a significant role in songwriting, how does that change the idea of a ‘song?’ Songs become much more than notes on a page of sheet music then, right?

RK: I think songs are much more than notes on a page of sheet music anyway! Sure, you can play other people’s songs by reading the chords and the lyrics, but songs have always felt more than that to me. It’s the record that makes the song what it is: the voice, the arrangement, the production. 

There is this purist way to look at songwriting, where you consider something a good song if it can be stripped back to just a voice and a piano or guitar and still sound amazing. I think there is some truth in this way of defining what a good song is. But then you couldn’t play “Ponyboy” by SOPHIE on a piano, could you? And that’s an amazing song. 

The computer is an instrument, and it’s much more versatile than the piano and the guitar. SOPHIE even said (I’m paraphrasing), why would you limit yourself to playing an instrument when you could make anything on a computer? Though I wouldn’t go so far as never to try and write a song that can be considered outstanding in the classical sense, stripped to its bones, and still sounding like a hit. But, really, the songs that don’t do this are and always have been as much a song as those that do. A good song is a feeling, and you definitely can’t write that on sheet music. 

8S: I’m fascinated by the experimental production techniques sneaking into pop through hyperpop and PC music. Do you like the idea of experimental music and pop music coming together? Does it create something new, and do you think a more experimental pop sound has a place on the charts?

RK: I love pop music. Hearing a great pop song is so powerful. And adding experimental elements definitely elevates the music. I think the combination makes experimental sounds more accessible and adds an interesting nuance to the pop genre. There’s an excitement in the melding of these two styles that makes me want to explore it further. Whether that has a place in the charts or not, I don’t know. 

There’s an over-the-topness about PC Music and hyperpop, which might make it ‘a bit much’ for a commercial audience. I also think there’s already proof of its lack of place in the charts. If you look at Charli XCX, she was a charts artist at the start of her career, but when she began collaborating with more underground producers and started experimenting, she pretty much disappeared from the mainstream. But I think it would be cool if this type of music were getting played in the charts. I’d love to turn on the radio and hear 100 gecs. It would also mean I’d know where to find an audience for the music I make, which is one of the hardest things to do as a new artist. They’d just be right there — I’d be making mainstream music! 

8S: A lot of hyperpop — and “ur so cute” — has a sense of humor to it. Does that help make the music accessible?

RK: When I first heard hyperpop and PC Music, I remember thinking it sounded like ’90s Euro-pop times 1000. We all used to listen to “Barbie Girl,” right? But it feels like it’s not cool anymore. I think “Barbie Girl” still sounds really cool. A lot of the glitterbomb, bubblegum, and hyperpop sound uses these older songs as influences in a tongue-in-cheek way, and that’s brilliant. But I wonder whether the world has the sense of humor to push that into the mainstream.

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Rachel Kerry‘s “ur so cute,” its remix, and her other groovy releases are available on Bandcamp.

Whistling Away in the Background

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Steve Cobby – I’ve Loved You All My Life → Maybe there’s a lockdown stimulus to Steve Cobby‘s prolificness — he’s released two previous albums since the pandemic’s start, as well as a single and a murmur or two from his old outfit, Fila Brazillia. But Steve has always brimmed with musical output, a career-long series of textured and melodic songs with intricacies that belie their frequency. 

If there is a stuck-at-home influence on his latest album, the warmly titled I’ve Loved You All My Life, it’s in the sense of longing for sightseeing. The cover depicts a green, lush, but enclosed location — the starry sky is our escape hatch. And the music seems to travel, not explicitly quoting worldly influences but hinting at them as if remembering what it was like to be a tourist. “Kintsugi” comes closest, resembling a sort of Polynesian jazz fusion with tuned percussion, soaring flute-like lines, and thick four-fingered chords. Someone’s whistling away in the background, like an overzealous member of Martin Denny’s band. There are many other sonic vacations on the agenda — “Plutus Maximus” feels like a night-time stroll through a pleasantly unfamiliar town, and “Keeping Ourselves Together” could soundtrack a tranquil cabana session, fruity drink in hand. And the album closes with “Mise En Abyme,” a wistful duet of harmonica and piano that might signal the recognition of memory, that the things we miss the most live on inside our heads. 

I’ve Loved You All My Life is a joy to listen to and, yes, reassuring. This album might be my favorite of Steve’s work out of all of his recent (all worthy) options. And, if you’re into vinyl, act fast — the Bandcamp campaign to get the album on vinyl ends in a week (Steve’s already met his goal, but this is still the only way you’ll get to nab the wax). 

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Tomaga – Intimate Intensity → It’s never too late to discover a great band. Sad circumstances may make it seem otherwise, as in the case of Tomaga. Somehow this London duo was off my radar despite first appearing in 2013. I happened across their 2019 album Extended Play 1 a few months ago, and from the first track, “Bluest,” I was immediately roped in. Tomaga’s sound is textured and intricate, with jazzy post-punk drums, flashes of discordance, and in-studio arrangements hinting at a modernized This Heat. That’s when I learned the bittersweet moment of my discovery — looking up Tomaga online, I saw that 1/2 of the band, Tom Relleen, had just died of stomach cancer.

Tomaga’s other half, drummer and percussionist Valentina Magaletti, announced last month that the band completed a new album before Relleen’s passing. Intimate Intensity is due on March 26 and, judging from the four advance tracks streaming on Bandcamp, this is an early contender for ‘album of 2021.’ The title track is especially potent, carrying forward all the elements that drew me into “Bluest.” The drums, accompanied by pingy percussion, play at a meter just out of grasp; a muted bass carries a wisp of melody; warm, melancholic strings embrace this sonic space. This is the final sound of Tomaga (as it’s the last song on the album), and it’s weighty and intensely moving.

Floating Points collaborated with Marta Salogni on a gorgeous, plaintive ‘reinterpretation’ of “Intimate Intensity,” released last week. It’s a benefit for The Free Youth Orchestra, a charity set up in Tom Relleen’s name. Amazing stuff. 

Side note: I recently wrote about my love for an EP by Holy Tongue, and I now see that Valentina Magaletti is also a member of that project. 

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Abel Ray – “Last Exit To Transkei” → I don’t listen to much house music anymore (which I suppose is funny from someone once kinda known as a house DJ). At one time, the genre sounded like the future but now, to me, a lot of it sounds stuck in the past. So it’s exciting when I run across something house-adjacent that’s nudging the genre forward an inch or two. 

Abel Ray is an electronic music-maker hailing from Morocco, and “Last Exit To Transkei” is a track from his forthcoming Labyrinth EP. The cut draws upon the same pool as My Life in a Bush of Ghosts and similar fourth world experiments — a stew of cultural music and references stirred and poured over a rhythmic backbone. At times dubby and spacious, “Last Exit To Transkei” reveals its layers over ten engrossing minutes. Flutes, chants, hand percussion, and restrained synthesizers may sound like nothing new, but seamlessly meshed, they signal where things will go. This is music that blurs genre and location, the four-on-the-floor beat as a map guiding the listener through the territory. 

The Hidden Value(s) of Digital Art

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Bitcoin Mining

My Twitter feed (among the type of accounts I follow) is filled with chatter about NFTs, those “non-fungible tokens” that are all the rage among music’s early adopter set. NFTs, as defined here, are digital representations of art (visual, audio, etc.). Though the art itself isn’t exclusive, ownership of the NFT can be. Ownership is tracked and verified on the blockchain. 

We can look at this as similar to buying a skin or virtual item in a video game — a digital totem that broadcasts status within the game. Likewise, an NFT would elevate an owner’s status among an artist’s community of fans. The buyer of an NFT might also simply want to support the artist as a patron as NFTs, often auctioned, can have large pay-outs. Or, an owner could hope to turn a profit — one can resell an NFT at a higher price, adding a speculative aspect.

That’s probably a naïve explanation of what’s going on here. I’m hardly an expert or crypto-savvy. But what I do know doesn’t leave me bullish on the mass adoption of NFTs. It’s not the digital-ness that throws me off. I’m fascinated by the potential of intangibility and decentralization. However, I see NFTs, in their present execution, amplifying some age-old problems within the music industry.

News of NFTs reaping multi-thousand dollar sales makes them enticing to artists. This model seems a solution for those struggling under the streaming economy, as a single NFT sale could pay more than millions of streams. And plenty of unknown-to-me musicians have recently done well with NFTs, boosting the platform’s independent-friendly appeal. However, as many hopeful emerging artists learned through failed Kickstarter campaigns, the success of an artist’s NFT will depend on the size (and intensity) of a pre-existing fanbase. And as soon as known and established artists catch on, it’s likely music’s 1% will dominate, just as they do on Spotify. 

There’s also the inherent class-separation of fans able to participate. It will get easier to create and bid on NFTs (right now, you’ve got to be technically in-the-know), but those strapped for cash will continue to be left out. I realize patronage has always existed in the arts — the rich funding culture — but we should examine how this tradition’s preservation is not exactly a radical move forward.

I’m also alarmed by the environmental impact of NFTs (and crypto-tech in general). Just before COVID-times, we started to see a reevaluation of a touring musician’s carbon footprint, notably by bands like Massive Attack and Coldplay. That was encouraging, as was the quick acceptance of live-streamed concerts early on in the pandemic, pointing to an alternative to exhaustive tours. But NFTs, if widely adopted, could regularly expend the same amount of energy as hundreds of ongoing tours. Duncan Geere published an informative blog post that explains this in detail: 

A single cryptoart NFT involves potentially dozens of transactions. [Computational artist Memo] Akten analysed 18,000 of these tokens, finding that the average NFT has a footprint of around 211 kg of CO2 equivalent. That’s the same as an EU resident’s electric power consumption for more than a month, driving for 1000km, or a return flight from London to Rome. And that’s just for keeping track of who owns it — it doesn’t include the energy consumption used in the creation of the work, its storage, or the website it’s hosted on.

If you’re wondering how this amount of energy is possible from a digital token, check out this video from The Guardian about crypto’s effects on the environment:

Also linked in Duncan Geere’s piece is this blog post from digital artist Joanie Lemercier — she explains why she canceled a planned NFT sale and proposes some solutions to make the technology more sustainable. And Memo Akten, mentioned in the above quote, has created cryptoart.wtf, a tool to help us “get a sense of how much carbon is being emitted by the buying and selling of different digital artworks.” 

I do think there are possibilities in the NFT model. The attraction is that there are few rules, and the medium is ripe for creative tweaking and innovation. That’s exciting. It’s young (as is crypto), and we’re all still learning. But we shouldn’t let the glow of promise blind us when there are lingering systemic problems to solve. The application of new technologies should help us find our way out rather than digging us in further. 

Digging In Our Heels

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Though universally revered, Martin Scorsese is sometimes viewed as an old-fashioned relic as he digs in his heels against changes in contemporary media. Previously, he got lots of nerdy flack for referring to superhero franchise films as “theme parks” rather than “cinema.” And, recently, in an essay on Federico Fellini, Scorsese went off on algorithms and the overuse of the word “content” to describe artistic output. He’s mainly referring to visual media, of course, and how “the art of cinema is being systematically devalued, sidelined, demeaned, and reduced to its lowest common denominator” when we refer to it all as “content.” Here’s Scorsese:

“Content” was used more and more by the people who took over media companies, most of whom knew nothing about the history of the art form, or even cared enough to think that they should. “Content” became a business term for all moving images: a David Lean movie, a cat video, a Super Bowl commercial, a superhero sequel, a series episode. […] … it has created a situation in which everything is presented to the viewer on a level playing field, which sounds democratic but isn’t.

A platform’s reliance on algorithms that can’t separate artistic intention from specious cash grabs exacerbates this perception. There’s so much talk about freeing ourselves from the gatekeepers, but perhaps ‘old-fashioned’ human curation is a gatekeeping we need. Scorsese again:

Curating isn’t undemocratic or “elitist,” a term that is now used so often that it’s become meaningless. It’s an act of generosity—you’re sharing what you love and what has inspired you. Algorithms, by definition, are based on calculations that treat the viewer as a consumer and nothing else.

“Scorsese is right,” tweeted music critic Ted Gioia. “Anyone who refers to film, music, or writing as ‘content’ is simply not a trustworthy custodian of anything of cultural value. Unfortunately, these are the key decision makers in media right now.”

I don’t have too much of a problem with media companies calling the music or movies they stream “content.” It’s like a politician using blatant dog whistle language — at least you know who’s in this for the right reasons and deserving of trust. What’s insidious is when we, as artists, are convinced to start using the word “content” instead of “art” or even “our work.” A musician creates a beautiful song, puts sweat into editing an accompanying video, and then thinks, “here’s some content for YouTube” — that’s distressing. 

Language is powerful, and the words we use in our heads change our behaviors. If we start replacing words like “art” with “content” — even just internally — our intentions shift. We start feeding the companies hungry for content. Instead of making music and films for the fans or the human curators, we’re producing content for the algorithms. 

Seth Godin must have read Scorsese’s rant. Soon after the essay’s publication, Seth wrote his own rant on his daily blog: 

Publishing to an algorithm is not the same as publishing to an audience. And living in a culture that’s driven by profit-seeking algorithm owners is different as well. Because without curation, who is responsible? Who is guiding the culture? Who pushes the boundaries or raises the standards? […] …we benefit when we realize that the algorithm isn’t rooting for us and quite probably is working against us. The only winning approach is to earn permission and a direct connection with our fans and then act as curators for ideas (and as our own publishers).

Getting back to the power of language, I touched on this topic on the blog a few years ago when I commented on Cherie Hu’s idea that “The word ‘creator’ does more harm than good.” (Cherie’s original essay is offline, but I wholeheartedly recommend her Water & Music platform, where you can find many of her enlightening pieces.) I wrote this in my blog post: 

It may seem like semantics, but the way we adopt and use language rewires our thinking. Hu’s point— which I never considered — is that the more we refer to ourselves as ‘creators,’ the easier it is to submit to the notion that our creations are in fealty to others. Notice how the services almost all use ‘creator’ — a sampling of examples Hu points out include YouTube Creators, Facebook for Creators, Spotify’s “Creator Marketing.’ So when a platform sneakily claims ownership of our work we’re desensitized against protest.

“Content” is the same. The language implicates employment, that we’re delivering goods in a fiefdom. Responsibility, leverage, and agency shift to the “content provider.”

Buckle down, folks. Dig in your heels like Martin. You’re artists making art. Don’t let anyone tell you anything else. 

3+1: Johan Kull

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I’m launching a new series here on 8sided.blog called 3+1. As I run across interesting people doing interesting things, I’ll get them to answer three questions, and then, as a +1, they’ll tell us about something they love. 

First up in Johan Kull, an expressive musician and vocalist based in Stockholm. He’s self-releasing a personal brand of lush, mellow music, featuring washes of ambient-influenced instrumentation accompanied by his consolatory voice. It’s a lovely combination. “Dreams,” Johan’s first single, was an auspicious debut, rewarded with national radio play on Britain’s BBC and Sweden’s P4. Now Johan has followed up with “Home,” a song about “things falling into place.” You can listen to the tune here, followed by a bit of 3+1 with Johan.

1: The new song is called “Home.” You say it’s about “finding home in a person,” and it’s especially calming and warm. Am I wrong to think this year of lockdown and isolation influenced this song?

It’s funny because many have assumed that it is about the past year. While that isn’t necessarily wrong, I think it’s nice that people can have their own interpretations. I’m glad that these feelings seem to be more present during these times and that “Home” can put those feelings into words for listeners.

2: What role does technology play in your songwriting? How about the influence of ambient music?

Digital instruments are an essential part of making my soundscapes but not a requirement. Bon Iver is probably my biggest influence, and he makes ambient textures with both acoustic and digital instruments. I have also built my sound around the contrasting relationship between the organic and the digital. 

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

I saw Dave Grohl falling off the stage and breaking his leg in Gothenburg in 2015. He walked back on crutches to the middle of the stage and thanked everyone with a cracking voice for staying at the show. He then dedicated “My Hero” to the crowd while waving a whiskey bottle he blamed on the doctor. A memorable moment! 

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

I just discovered the show Schitt’s Creek a couple of weeks ago and binge-watched the whole thing. I believe everyone could get something out of watching this TV series … and everyone should.

Transported by Ambience

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Status: 2021-02-22 16.28.45

Recorded audio can have a transportive intention, from the ‘it’s like you’re there’ feel of a great live album to the third LP in the Environments series plopping the listener in the middle of a hippie be-in. 

Environments! That series was launched in 1969 when sound recordist Irv Teibel realized listening to the ocean waves he captured for a Tony Conrad film improved his concentration. Teibel eventually released eleven installments, with a few of the Environments records displaying this bold motto on the cover: “The music of the future isn’t music.”

Hippie be-ins aside, many used the Environments LPs like how we have ‘mood’ playlists on Spotify or ‘music for studying’ YouTube channels. The sounds were played in the background, non-intrusive for the most part, aiding the listener in achieving a flow state.1There’s a fabulous email newsletter called Flow State that gives music recommendations to listen to during your workday. You can lessen the anxiety of paper-shuffling and deadlines by making the brain think you’re working amid gentle rain in a pine forest.2I’m not a Star Trek fan, but for a few years, this was my constant deep work soundtrack. I think this sound hits my pleasure zone because it reminds me of a quiet overnight airplane flight.

These ‘environments’ take on an extra layer after months of lockdown and working from home. Concentration and flow state are still goals, but the transportive aspect has prominence. We want to feel like we’re somewhere else, to break up the Groundhog Day-ness of repetitive tasks in the same room. Every. Single. Day. 

One recent example is I Miss My Bar. Set up by an actual bar in Monterrey, the site provides a series of looped audio feeds of sounds you might hear in your favorite drinking establishment. Sliders allow you to adjust the volumes of the various loops, or you can mute sounds entirely. You can also tailor the sounds to resemble a coffeehouse if that’s your flavor. 

This isn’t the Environments record that transports us into a pine forest or a deserted beach. I Miss My Bar and sites like it imagine city life — the busy, crowded pub and the cheerful night out. Telling the brain that we’re in a forest is relaxing, but hanging out in a forest isn’t normal for most of us. Recapturing normalcy in these times is oddly regenerative, and for many of us, that’s the social sounds of a bar or coffeehouse.

As usual, YouTube takes things a step further. In The New York Times, Eliza Brooke writes about YouTube’s version of urbanized environments that features imaginary spaces and pop culture references. Of course, there’s the Rainy Day Coffee Shop, but there’s also the Twin Peaks diner and lots of Harry Potter. There’s an additional visual aspect with YouTube, often a static shot or animation looped alongside the audio, and sometimes subtly creative as in this subway ambience stream. 

Writer Kyle Chayka refers to these videos as “an imagination aid” to help you “pretend you’re somewhere else, or someone else, far from your current worries.” While transportive, the Environments records were primarily for concentration, the cover text often noting their meditative qualities. 2021’s ‘environments’ deliver transportation first and foremost. The soothing, flow states are a byproduct of aurally planting ourselves outside of our overly familiar settings. These streams promise distant travels from a small room. 

You Could Be a Rapscallion

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Can’t Get You Out Of My Head → I’m looking forward to seeing Can’t Get You Out Of My Head, the latest documentary epic from Adam Curtis. He’s expanding on his favorite topic: how those in power unscrupulously maintain their positions in a world that’s increasingly outside of their control. The ideas in Curtis’s docs are heavy and frightening, but his style is endearing. That style includes a dizzying montage of images usually sourced from discarded video newsfeeds, big text in an Arial font, his hypnotic “as I slowly count to ten …”-like narration, and a slew of impeccable music selections.  

Most likely, that music is why Can’t Get You Out Of My Head is presently geo-locked and only accessible to UK viewers via BBC iPlayer. Without getting too deep in the music rights weeds, the United Kingdom has a unique set-up where much of the music registered through its collective management organizations (CMOs) is pre-cleared for synchronization on national television. In other words, if a song is available through the UK CMOs, then a BBC television program can use the music without negotiating a license — the fee is already set. This means songs can get placed in British television programs quickly and without fuss. And if you believe what Adam Curtis says in this interview, he was still choosing final songs as recently as two weeks ago. But the downside of this type of license is it’s only valid for the UK — these rights don’t extend to other countries, and that’s why you can’t see this (and most other BBC shows) on iPlayer if you’re not in Ol’ Blighty.1If that’s the case, your new friend’s initials might be VPN. 

I’m sure the producers and music supervisors are presently working on the appropriate licenses for international audiences. Clearing music for global viewing isn’t quick and easy and could take months. But my money is on Can’t Get You Out Of My Head appearing on Amazon Prime eventually, as that’s where a number of Curtis’s previous documentaries are sitting. Or, you could be a rapscallion and keep an eye on YouTube. 

In the meantime, check out this New Yorker profile on Adam Curtis. Sections of the piece describe his process, which is perplexing and fascinating. Curtis regularly watches hours of random footage on fast forward until: 

When something catches Curtis’s eye, he slows the film down and makes a note. “VVVVVVVVG shots—beam plays over sleeping children,” Curtis wrote, of a BBC documentary about psychiatric therapies from 1970, in a viewing note that he shared with me. The number of “V” s indicates how good Curtis thinks the footage is. (I counted twenty-three “V” s before one “G.”) He then organizes his impressions into broad categories: whether something helps tell the story, or illustrates an idea, or reflects broader themes about the history of the world. “It’s messy,” Curtis said. “But I have a very good memory.”

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Cop Rock → Speaking of music rights and takedowns and whatnot, check out this bizarre story about a cop in Beverly Hills attempting to use Instagram’s copyright protections to stop a livestreamed recording. As an activist was filming an interaction, the officer inexplicably pulls out his phone and starts loudly playing Sublime’s “Santeria.” 

Based on what’s visible in the video, [the officer] seems to be banking on Instagram’s copyright algorithm detecting the music, and either ending the live stream outright or muting it. Or, even if the algorithm does not detect the song immediately, someone — for example, a disgruntled police officer—could simply wait until a user posts an archive of the live video on their page, then file a complaint with Instagram that it contains copyrighted material.

Though Instagram has strict music policies, the rules have loosened. Most music labels and publishers have deals in place with Facebook/Instagram to allow music. And clips with this music is generally okay when the “recorded audio [is not] the primary purpose of the video” (quoting Instagram).

But some songs still pose potential problems and takedowns, such as those recorded by The Beatles. And that’s not lost on the Beverly Hills police force. In a separate incident, the same activist questioned an officer who pulled out his phone and treated live viewers to “In My Life.”

So far, the videos are still online despite the policemen’s efforts. But these strange tactics are another reminder that we’ve already fallen into some bizarro-tech Black Mirror timeline.

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Shea Betts – Enna → NYC musician/librarian Shea Betts visits us again with a dose of aural contemplation on his tranquil new album, Enna. I recently reviewed Sea / Sky, his debut release, and its overdriven, ‘natural-wonder’ ambient music style. While that album conveyed a windy skyline meeting rough seas, Enna captures an extended episode of pleasance and stillness. And with the cover art foliage and titles like “First Light,” “Bloom,” and “Sunday,” one gets the feeling that spring is in the air. 

The album’s method resembles languid chords played on organ or harmonium, realized through warm, synthesized textures that sit somewhere between the two. Shifting movements in the mid-range are often accented with sparkling overtones (most prominently on “First Light” and “August“), barely hinting at melody but still feeling familiar and song-like. 

These days I’m drawn to music that I best describe as “reassuring,” something that I can put on as I sit back and clear the attic. Enna fits the bill. And the songs are relatively short — we usually expect a single track in this drone-ish style to take up a side of an LP — but the spaces left in-between songs suggest a moment to breathe and reflect. I’m not sure if this was Betts’ intention and that he meant Enna as a sort of sonic balm, but its tones indeed do wonders for a restless psyche.