8Sided Blog

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

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.

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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.

The Comfort in Listening

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I haven’t quite settled into the writing rhythm, and putting this week’s newsletter together was a struggle. The working-at-home aspect isn’t a big deal as that’s where I’ve worked for most of my (sorta-)professional life. But the background hum of uncertainty, concern, and — let’s face it — fear throws new challenges into the mix.

I’m not alone in walking a tightrope between ‘now’s the time to get stuff done’ and ‘take it easy for your mental health.’ It’s an unusual juggling act, at least for me. I miss the days — they seem so long ago — when I would get lost entirely in creative tasks, the mind focused straight ahead for hours. It’s been like that for a while, but lately, the distraction dial goes to 11.

It’s about reclaiming space, throwing that bellowing inner voice off to the side. It’s a modern ploy to call this act ‘mindfulness,’ and I’ve regularly meditated for years, but that’s not helping right now. We need solace and beauty — something that whispers hope. We need art now more than ever.

In my review of Jogging House’s beautiful album Lure, I talk about music as an optimistic glimpse at what’s possible. I quote Brian Eno: “One of the reasons one makes music, or any kind of art, is to create the world that you’d like to be in or the world that you would like to try.” And, in the case of music, the listener experiences a taste of this world by losing herself in the sound.

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Pioneering experimental composer Pauline Oliveros called this ‘deep listening.’ Deep Listening originally was the title of an album Oliveros recorded with her ‘Deep Listening Band’ in an empty underground reservoir. The space featured a natural 45-second reverb tail, creating washes of sound out of the trombone, didjeridu, accordion, and other employed instruments. There’s no resisting this immersion in sound.

But ‘deep listening’ was soon synonymous of a “radical attention.” Oliveros explained this interpretation as “listening in every possible way to everything possible to hear no matter what one is doing.” It’s the opposite of how most people (myself included) stream music: in the background as a complement to our mood, office productivity, or housework. With deep listening, you LISTEN — no other activity is in the foreground.

Deep listening pops up in Jenny Odell’s How To Do Nothing, which I recommended a few newsletters ago. Odell poses the concept as a resistance to a constant inundation of information and newsfeeds. Oliveros and deep listening also appear in Kyle Chayka’s The Longing For Less, which I’m presently reading. Chayka writes, “Such intense listening is meant to inspire compassion and understanding, a kind of acceptance that goes beyond the noisy concerns of the current moment that usually crowd our consciousness.”

Chayka, citing Oliveros, refers to this listening as “meditating on the organic sounds of nature and experiencing the resonance of unique spaces like caves, cathedrals, or wells.” But our present crisis makes it difficult to go out in public to explore these places. In quarantine, we need to listen deeply at home.

In the Los Angeles Times, Randall Roberts proposes a different take on deep listening: we should do it with albums. Silence your phone and any other potential distractions, set the mood (“Light a candle or not.”), sit comfortably between two speakers or put some nice headphones on, and listen — really listen — to an album from beginning to end. Lose yourself in the sound. Examine the lyrics and the performances. Imagine where the music is taking place. Roberts says, “The point is to listen with your ears in the same way you read with your eyes.”

Though not emphasizing the ‘deep’ aspect, Amanda Petrusich wrote about the reassuring qualities of listening to a favorite album in The New Yorker. (Side note: that article has the coolest gif and I wish I could steal it.) She refers to one album as “a reliable and instantaneous balm, no matter what’s happening to me or the world.” Petrusich also offers this: “The best thing about records is that, even when you don’t have anything left to give, they keep showing up for you.”

I propose we regularly set time aside to lose ourselves in albums. Choose an album and listen without productivity or house chores on the agenda. What should you listen to? A new album is fun, but hearing something for the first time might be too much work. No playlists allowed — only an intentional album song sequence will do. A favorite album or one that’s attached to nostalgia is good. Maybe an album you like but haven’t listened to more than a few times. Or perhaps listen to an album you’ve enjoyed but have only heard in the background while working or cooking or all the other things. Give it the attention it deserves.

Listen. Sit in one place, close your eyes if that’s comfortable for you, and listen with purpose. Pick out all the instruments, hear the acoustics (natural or digital) they’re playing in, follow the lyrics, note how the sequence flows. It could be tricky — sitting still is for meditators, not music buffs. But don’t give up. There will be a moment that you forget what’s going on in this world, replacing it with a “world that you would like to try.” That moment’s why we’re doing this.

What albums come to mind? If you try this out, what albums will you play? Why? I’m so curious. Please let me know in the comments section for the newsletter. I’ll get the thread going with a couple that I’m starting with. These aren’t recommendations, just the albums that are helping us get through this thing. We’re listening together, rooting for each other. It’s what we do.

This post was adapted from Ringo Dreams of Lawn Care, a weekly newsletter loosely about music-making, music-listening, and how technology changes the culture around those things. Click here to check out the latest issue and subscribe.

Jogging House’s Lure: A Quiet Resistance

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A review of the album Lure, by hopeful ambient artist Jogging House.

There was this charming quality to a lot of ambient music in the ’90s — optimistic and melodic, far off from today’s dominating dark drones. It was a different era, and perhaps the sound reflected a rosy view of what awaited in the new millennium. But what we find in the 2010s are the hushed rushes of disconcerting noise and queasy clashing of synth lines, an ambiance of tension and uncertainty befitting our times. It makes sense — the world is an increasingly scary and debilitating place, and sometimes our music sounds like it. But optimism is resistance — it really is — and that’s what makes Jogging House’s latest album Lure so welcome, special, and quietly radical.

Jogging House — whose name is apparently a letter added to ‘jogging hose,’ AKA sweat pants — states the album is “about accepting the things we cannot change and finding comfort in uncertainty.” This philosophy is the pragmatism of the stoic, and it’s also not being paralyzed with helplessness when the world is out of control. Staying in motion and hopeful as an artist and creator rather than blocked and immobile in the face of hourly ‘breaking news’ and topical turmoil. That’s resistance.

I want to connect Jogging House to Brian Eno, but not to compare him to another composer working in the ‘ambient’ realm. Instead, I think Lure‘s songs closely reflect something Eno said in an interview: “One of the reasons one makes music or any kind of art is to create the world that you’d like to be in or the world that you would like to try. You would like to find out what that world is like.” That’s how I feel when I listen to “Tulip,” Lure‘s opening track. It’s transportive — light and playful, melodies as aspiration and reassurance that’s calm and kind. And it’s gorgeous, on the verge of sadness but not quite getting there. This is a world I’d like to try.

The album’s eight tracks share this gentle atmosphere, evoking a separate era. It’s the optimism of the past looking forward, like the mentioned-above ’90s electronic acts but also not too far from those pioneering the form in the ’70s. I’ll give in and sonically connect Eno anyway, as the beautiful “Weavings” wouldn’t be out of place on a Cluster album. Lure was recorded on 1/4″ tape, after all, using a variety of not-in-the-box gear.

But I emphasize this isn’t merely a throwback — it’s music fit for our times. These sounds are an encouragement to persevere rather than wallow; to foster hope and the imagination of something better for us all. You may ask, how can something so serene inspire action? It can, I respond. It really can.