Debut album, I’m Green from Nashville based singer/songwriter, Mali Velasquez welcomes you into her inner world of grief, heartache, and shame. You’ll find your own sorrows conjured up alongside Velasquez’s, uncover some of the wisdom that lay beneath suffering, and leave with a sense of solidarity that is rare to find in a world that often feels so disconnected.
I first listened to this album last fall when I had just moved to Portland, Oregon, greeted by skies draped in a perpetual grey. As winter’s chill settled in, the poignant motifs woven through I’m Green became a comforting presence amidst the city’s collective sense of gloom. Now as spring emerges, and the city teems with blossoming trees and flowers, I resonate more with the transformative nature of this album, turning anguish into wisdom, and shame into acceptance.
Opening track “Bobby” invites us into Velasquez’s world of loss and contemplation and ends with instrumentals that bleed seamlessly into the second track, “Shove”, as she delves into interpersonal turmoil driven by fuzzy guitar tones and a droning drumline. Velasquez’s swaying vocals capture the depth of feeling that she offers throughout the entirety of I’m Green.
This album never fails to engage and evoke with palpable pain throughout each song and Velasquez’s knack for creating vivid imagery inviting the listener into a fully fleshed out and deeply aware world. “Medicine”, is one of many stand out tracks that opens with subtle instrumentals, allowing the listener to connect to the demanding emotion expressed in Velasquez’s warbling voice. You’ll feel this depth in lyrical moment’s like “your mom seems so proud of you, well mine’s in the ground” on “Medicine” and “Did I bite a hole in your neck and then drain you dry?” on “Shove”.
I’m Green has a knack for evoking emotions that sometimes lay dormant in a way that fosters productive introspection. I was fortunate to catch her and her band live, opening for A. Savage at Mississippi Studios in Portland, OR earlier this month. They opened with Decider, a moving ode to living in the depths of hopelessness and despair, setting the tone for a particularly impactful live show. The band shared three new songs that surely won’t disappoint when released.
Discovering an artist who courageously invites you into the intricacies of their experience is a privilege – one of many qualities that have left me completely smitten with Velasquez’s work. With finely crafted indie folk compositions seamlessly harmonizing with Velasquez’s narrative, the album offers profound solace found in the shared experience of suffering and creative expression.
For me, I’m Green turned out to be more than just an album; it became an affecting exploration of life’s trials and uncovering one’s capacity for acceptance and compassion – building on reflections that are all at once brutal, tender, and empathic. It’s a rare gift to leave an album with a deeper sense of connection and greater understanding of the human experience and I’m Green gives the gift of deliverance and catharsis you won’t want to miss out on.
Grief is a needle and thread that weaves its way through the seven tracks of Chicago-based singer-songwriter Hannah Frances’ third full length album, Keeper of the Shepherd. Soft and contemplative moments burn as solitary candles in the dark, while rising tides of emotion reverberate to carve out a lasting impression.
This is a record that buries itself into the subconscious mind. It’s like recalling a dream, only to discover deeper meaning upon closer examination. Keeper of the Shepherd reveals its truths slowly with patience and insight. Simply put — it contains multitudes.
Frances — a vocalist, guitarist, composer, poet and movement artist — draws upon a mélange of influences ranging from avant-folk to progressive rock and jazz. This is evident on the album’s opening track, “Bronwyn,” a song with a vocal melody that wraps around itself — an ouroboros with teeth of angular guitars and haunting strings.
There’s a Whitman-esque quality to Frances’ lyrics on “Bronwyn” with its sing-song sense of rhythm and cadence. It evokes longing and loss as a timeless element of the human experience:
“Bronwyn, I lost the way home where I knew/ the ground smokes as it burns to hell/ release me from this sweltered land I stand/ holding to the shepherd’s hand/ the man praised and punished me too/ bronwyn I lost the song/ gone when I sang/ bronwyn, I lost the way home where I knew how to love you and/ be loved too.”
The album’s title track is where Frances’ vocals shine – soaring to magnificent heights on the chorus, while a driving and folksy waltzy guitar rhythm is paired with unearthly pedal steel. The song takes a hard left turn towards the end with an avant-garde breakdown that sounds like Syd Barrett era Pink Floyd meets John Coltrane.
“Woolgathering” is a song that’s like a paper origami boat gently meandering across deep dark and mysterious waters. There’s stark grief hidden behind Frances’ heartachingly beautiful vocals.
“Meet me where the heart beats/ where the shadows shade the heat/ love me wounded/ hold me where my edges soften/ give me time to free my lungs/ the ribs are loosening/ the life breathes in/ the life breathes in.”
She evokes the best of folk singer-songwriters such as Nick Drake or Connie Converse, with a subtlety and nuances in her vocals that grabs hold, bringing a bevy of emotions to the surface.
Meanwhile, “Floodplain” blends folk melodies with avant-garde string arrangements for a pairing that’s like Joan Baez with Radiohead’s Jonny Greenwood as composer.
There’s a subtle dark humor at play here that draws on morbid imagery to exhume the corpse of a relationship. “The birch tree bark stripped bare/ the bones and the bodies decay there/ naked as the moss grows over in time/ as the loss goes through the dam to loosen you in my heart.”
“Husk” is a stark place — a meditation on death with only an acoustic guitar and Frances’ bittersweet melody on display at first. Vocal harmonies swirl around this once bare soundscape, growing the song into an apex complete with lush strings. It’s one of the highlights of Keeper of the Shepherd, and it’s easily one of Frances’ most soul stirring songs.
An example of perfect contrast is found with “Vacant Intimacies,” an anthemic folk song that transforms grief into emotional release. It’s almost a shame that this wasn’t the closing track, as it feels like a final chapter of the album’s emotional trajectory.
But with “Haunted Landscape, Echoing Cave,” Frances takes all of the musical elements that preceded it to close with a song that digs up the ruins and unflinchingly re-assembles the bones. “I laid down as the field burned/ quarry of origin stories born before me/ i listen for voices vanishing/ life in petrified wood.”
On Keeper of the Shepherd, Frances is an artist at her peak. This is an album of evocative imagery, themes with emotional depth, and musicality that’s unique and wondrous to behold. It’s a supernova — finding the pain and the beauty in death; with the hope to begin anew.
Last Friday, Brooklyn based labelHATETOQUITand the band Hiding Places teamed up to release a compilation titled Merciless Accelerating Rhythms: Artists United for a Free Palestine. All proceeds made from sales on Bandcamp and streaming royalties will be donated directly to Palestine Children’s Relief Fund (PCRF) and Palestine Legal.
The compilation features 55 contributions from artists across the U.S. and U.K., spanning genres from ambient electronic to jazz. Artists featured on the compilation include Mount Eerie, Little Wings, John Andrews & The Yawns, Magnolia Electric Company’s Jason Evans Groth, Mipso’ Libby Rodenbaugh, and more.
Cover art for the release was created by Rebecca Pempek, who has organized a print sale of the cover art and other pieces for release the same day on their site.
Based on anti-apartheid artist, leader and poet, June Jordan’s poem, “I Must Become A Menace to My Enemies,” dedicated by Jordan to Agostinho Neto, former President of The People’s Republic of Angola, the album’s title “Merciless Accelerating Rhythms” encapsulates a form of political organizing beyond “walking politely on the pavements,” and emphasizes “becom[ing] the action of [our] fate,” acting in a form of “retaliation.”
“I plan to blossom bloody on an afternoon
surrounded by my comrades singing
terrible revenge in merciless
accelerating
rhythms”
We as Artists United for a Free Palestine see retaliation as a diversity of tactics; as mutual aid; as solidarity with the people of Palestine; as direct action, if necessary; as an immediate end to the Israeli Occupation Force and a Free Palestine, forever; as a liberated world. Our duty as artists has – and always will be – radical acts of care; the least we can do is send aid to those facing/fighting genocide in Palestine, and those organizing access to lawyers and legal support for those who need it.
Linnea Siggelkow, who performs under the dream-pop project Ellis, independently released her sophomore record no place that feels like last week. The Hamilton, Ontario based artist is no stranger to movement, having shifted and reallocated all over Canada as she was growing up. Ellis, as a creative project, has become a way for Siggelkow to work in configuration with her innermost thoughts of existence and belonging, something that has become overbearing the past few years. Within this new collection of songs, told through booming alternative displays, lasting pop hooks and deliberate patience, Siggelkow gives the floor to her most intrusive thoughts as she tries to answer what it means to belong.
Whether the songs are rooted in their patience and subtlety or strung out by souring melodies and brooding distortion, no place that feels like takes despondency in hand, finding beauty in the sanctuary that Siggelkow has built herself. Songs like “obliterate me” and “it’ll be alright” feel more in place on a sunny car ride to nowhere rather than in a place of desolate wallowing, regardless of how sobering her lyrics may be. The leading single, “forever” feels free of any debt that the word’s very real meaning can carry. “Now forever is passing me by”, she sings, relishing in the release of permeance through heavy guitars and an airy reprieve of spirit. Songs like “taurine” flow within a liberating shoegaze-esque style while “what i know now” is a bouncy folk lament, as the chorus loosens up, singing “and it was too good to be true”.
The beauty of no place that feels like is most notable when answers are not rushed, rather endured through a patient and cathartic dive into what it is that is holding Siggelkow down. In that sense, some of the most moving and impactful moments on the LP come from a delivery that understands why this waiting room exists. The opener, “blizzard” is a story split into several different scenes, holding onto cinematic subtlety in its pauses as she walks from verse to verse with deliberate contemplation. “Emptied out on the balcony/A distant hum in the quiet street”, opens “balcony hymn”, a growing song of second guessing, marking space in time and story where Siggelkow has room to listen to her own worries. The standout track, “home” perfectly sums up the theme of belonging, most notably when Siggelkow sings “no place that feels like”, purposely withholding the title word, replacing its absence with an outro that erupts into a warm and cathartic release.
For an album that relies on tension, confusion and doubt to drive the theme, there is an unmistakable sense of relief that we walk away with after listening to no place that feels like. Ellis has always been able to make oblivion feel approachable – where it begins to feel less like a burden, but rather an opportunity for repurpose, growth and understanding. Although frank in her delivery, giving a voice to dark personal struggles, Siggelkow’s soaring melodies, blooming walls of sound and new explorations fill the album with compassion and patience, until no place that feels like is a home in and of itself.
“For such a long time I think we’ve been defined by our proximity to being teenagers,” Peppet admits. This is clearly a thought that has been on her mind for some time now, bearing visible weight with its built in expectations. Spencer Peppet is the singer and songwriter for the Cincinnati band, The Ophelias, who released their first LP, Creature Native back in 2015, now almost 9 years ago. “We were 18 when we started. Mic was only 16”; all of them still attending high school. “We were very young and that was part of our thing.”
Today, The Ophelias have released their self produced EP, Ribbon; a five song collection that marks a big turning point for the band. It’s their first bit of new material since 2021’s full length album, Crocus, one that followed a narrative path encircled within a toxic relationship. Now on Ribbon, Peppet takes back autonomy, not only redefining the expectations of a band trapped in youth, but one that puts the responsibility of redefining themselves into their own hands.
As a four piece, Peppet (guitar/vox), Mic Adams (drums), Andrea Gutmann Fuentes (violin), and Jo Shaffer (bass), The Ophelias have referred to themselves as an “all girl band” upon the their formation, but over the years, they now call themselves a joyfully queer and trans band. Being spread out across the country, it feels like they are the broken mold for collaboration, regardless of the distance between them. With three albums amongst their nine years, with fairly large gaps of time in between, there have always been identifiable points of transition when it come to their sound. But in their foundational spirit, the four members have found a way to reinterpret dynamism, each playing to their own stamina, colorfully animating a blend of sounds; yarn-tied folk tunes, glittery bedroom pop ballads and peeled cinematic clementines that feel rich in flavor, often picking out the bitter pith from between their teeth.
But when it came time to track Ribbon, “I think we realized the music we have recorded and released doesn’t sound like what we sound like live,” Peppet describes, which takes on a much heavier, much more sodden sound than what’s perceived of the band. “It’s funny, Jo always jokes, ‘call me chill one more time,’” she says, wagging her fist in the air with cartoonish irritation. “But I think when played live it translates differently and we’ve really leaned into that recently. The new music that we have on both this EP and other stuff that we’re working on kind of solidifies that and we now can say, ‘okay, this feels accurate.”
Alas, earlier this year The Ophelias released “Black Ribbon”, the first single dedicated to this cycle and the most sonically contrasting song in their catalog as of yet. Starting off in their classic melancholy meander, the song settles into a moony night drive, picking up speed and tension as it hits the straightaways, only prompted by the line, “What do I do now / Will you kiss me again / Am I doing well?” to be blanketed by the plumage of static distortion and pounding drums. This ravenous climax is head turning to say the least, but it doesn’t compare to its final release – leaving a pounding heart to catch up with the stillness upon the songs closure.
Comfortable in its mere three minute run time, “Black Ribbon” marks a huge step forward for Peppet, not just in redirecting the band’s sound, but it freely explores topics of identity and intimacy as the song is a relic to her journey of coming into her queerness; a time that simultaneously occurred with her partner [Jo] Shaffer’s transition. “I honestly didn’t know if I was ever gonna put that song out,” she shares. “I had to check with Jo, of course, before I did, because I was like, ‘this is not only personal about me, it’s also personal about you. Are you cool with that?’”
With two thumbs up from Shaffer, “Black Ribbon” was a chance for Peppet to present her authentic self as she navigated not only a new relationship, but a healthy one as well. “I’ve been with the same person for 7 years now so break ups aren’t really the topic anymore,” she says with reflection. “Of course you’re going through teenage heartbreak and teenage angst, but as I’ve gotten older, you know, in this long term relationship, I’ve been very excited to see that [my songwriting] has not just stopped and that wasn’t the only thing I could write about.”
“I have a tendency to think of things as very black and white. That’s something that I need to work on, because it turns out everything lives in the middle,” Peppet says, stepping back and taking into consideration a much more full picture of her life. “Everything is in the gray area.” As a thematic through line, she defines this “gray area” as the in-between places; “the moments that feel like they don’t fit into good or bad, friend or foe,” as she explains them. “The stuff where it’s like, ‘okay, why does that feel weird?’”
Peppet currently resides in Brooklyn, having propagated herself since moving away for school. “This is where I have my full adult life,” she explains; a nice little community with her partner, her work, and a sustained life of neighborly interest. But in regards to her Middle America roots, she will easily admit, “I also still feel deeply connected to Cincinnati” – best put as a slogan you can slap on a t-shirt; “you can take the girl out of the Midwest, but you can’t take the Midwest out of the girl.”
The percussive and externally gratifying track, “Soft and Tame”, feels like a lump in your throat, casually inept to go down with each persistent swallow of Peppet’s lyrics as she narrates a time she took a post-grad visit to Cincinnati after a significant absence. The song organically and exceptionally shifts between anger, apprehension, and clarity, while its poignancy is clearly towards one individual; “there are people I don’t want to see,” obviously, “but I’m not gonna scream ‘get the fuck away from me’ at them in person, you know. That’s why the song exists.” But in the end, those emotions begin to feel like a sincere level of displacement that bleeds into Peppet’s own life as she juggles this shifting idea of home. “I don’t belong / I’ll make my own / Giving up love in the south of Ohio,” she sings, sifting through the breadcrumbs and pebbles left behind in hopes they go the right way.
There is a certain infatuation that comes with homesickness that holds both time and place on a pedestal – a habit to use memories that feel true to its only existence. But as she grows up, changing into who she needs to be, Peppet has found that Cincinnati has come to represent a piece of her that no longer exists. “I remember in either late 2021 or early 2022,” she begins, “I went back to Cincinnati and realized that I didn’t know any of the bands playing. There were restaurants that were gone, and new things that I hadn’t gone to. You know, the little things, but also they’re the things that I felt were reflective of my larger experience of still considering this home.”
In no way, though, has the city become a point of contempt for the songwriter, but a unique impression to understand the functionality of her adulthood. “There’s a lot of history in that city for me, and sometimes I’m there and I get to experience it with everybody. And then sometimes I’m watching from afar and being like, ‘okay, why does this feel weird? Especially in the couple years right after college, I had this feeling of like, ‘okay, life is happening in Cincinnati and I’m not there for it, because I don’t live there anymore.” But as she grows and builds upon her life in New York, Peppet still travels back to Cinncinatti every so often. “I’m still in the same place, but it’s me now, right? It’s not high school me. I don’t have to be her anymore and I’m thankful for that. That’s the comforting part.”
Ribbon is less about rebranding The Ophelias as a teenage band that has become an adult band, but rather an opportunity to redefine themselves on their own terms, both as an undeniably strong and creative group as well as maturing individuals. Although they are in the midst of completing their next LP, these songs on Ribbon had to enter the world first. “I mean, Nick transitioned, Jo transitioned. We all graduated, and there was a lot of stuff that’s happened since our last release. This just felt like a good time to reintroduce ourselves.”
Through it all, Peppet wants to be clear that not all of these “in-betweens” are inherently bad, but a spectrum to consider when the time comes. “These songs are me kind of wiggling around in there,” she says while mimicking a very determined worm of sorts – one either destined to seize its opportunity and make it to the other side of the stretch of wet sidewalk or be left to dry up in the sun, imprinting the concrete in the name of effort and betterment. “I think just by the nature of time I guess it has to be in hindsight,” Peppet describes this bit of sincere wiggling. “I’m not as chaotic as I was as a teenager. I feel much more settled in myself, and now I just look at the world and think, ‘okay, what’s going on here?’” she laughs. “I highly recommend it.”
Late last year, the ugly hug had the honor of featuring a new single called “Crown of Tin” by the Asheville/Brooklyn group Hiding Places. The first time I listened to that song, linked to its protected SoundCloud file, I was pressed up to the window of the express train from Chicago headed to my hometown of Aurora, IL. As the train pulled in, exhausted from its own journey, I immediately called my best friend of seventeen years – not necessarily to discuss the song, but to shoot the shit as we haven’t done for a while. He brought up this game that we made up when we were ten called “Bob” – a tag style game that included a museum and a tour guide who was in cahoots with a monster named, predictably, Bob. The tour guide, creating a cohesive exhibition of our woody backyards, would give us a tour that inevitably led the unsuspecting gallery goers to Bob’s hiding spot. Then all hell would break loose. Caught up in the movement, a combination of the loose direction my life was headed, the staunch unpredictability of the locomotive’s lurches and the eerie familiarity I absorbed from “Crown of Tin”, hearing my friend’s voice again was the liable push towards contentment that I didn’t know I needed.
Today, Hiding Places have released their third EP, titled Lesson, off of the independent Brooklyn-based label HATE TO QUIT. Since forming, the band has cultivated and perfected a unique blend of hushed folk melodies along with the crushing subtlety of Elephant 6 style production across two EPs and a handful of one off singles; taking a cult classic poise amongst the most taught folk knots and rock n’ roll softies alike. As they have come to release these new songs, most of which were recorded in London at Angel Studios, Lesson reflects on the teetering compromises of adulthood, showing a young band embracing their imaginative and collaborative spirit to confront the duality of getting older, both through immense individuality and as a excitingly new and creative group.
As a three piece, made of Audrey Keelin Walsh (guitar/vox), Henry Cutting (drums) and Nicholas Byrne (guitar/vox/synths), Hiding Places’ initial lore comes from UNC Chapel Hill’s student-run radio, WXYC. Their story, to be told through the style of on-air lingo; DJ Arts + Crafts (Byrne) and DJ Silicon Based Life Form (Cutting) needed a photographer for a party they were throwing, to which they found DJ Tidy (Walsh) in the radio listserv. Quickly building a professional relationship – strict artistic business – they inevitably became good friends, and, soon enough, Byrne was offering to record some of the demos that Walsh had been piecing together. With the addition of Cutting on drums, the three recorded and eventually released Homework and Heartbreak Skatepark as the first Hiding Places singles in 2021.
Since leaving Chapel Hill in recent years, the members of Hiding Places have never lived in the same place at one time. While Byrne and Cutting moved to Brooklyn, Walsh stayed in North Carolina before heading to London to study abroad. “It definitely is an adjustment,” Cutting was the first to admit. “You get used to a lifestyle where you’re hanging with these people all the time and then they leave.” Going long distance, a struggle enough for young lovers migrating to different colleges, it is a profound geographic feat of sorts for a young band honor-bound to create something genuine and collaborative. Though they make the most of it; planning to write and record in quick trips to predetermined destinations, something in which Walsh considers to have only enhanced their creative relation; “there’s the intentionality, and the comfort, and this element of trust that happens that is just so rare,” they articulate sincerely. Managing that kind of creative relationship, though any relationship for that matter, distance – as Walsh continues, “just reflects a commitment to each other. A commitment to knowing what we are hearing, what we have to say, and being curious about what we each have to say.”
That sentiment rings true as Hiding Places has only ever functioned as a fully collaborative group, dividing amongst them royalties, recording say and especially writing responsibilities – utilizing three different perspectives for each and every project. While living separately offers a unique and sequential opportunity for individuality, the band has come to embrace the perspectives of localization into a cohesive synthesis of style and story. “I feel like for the entire existence of Hiding Places we’ve had geographical influences from multiple places at the same time,” Byrne says, continuing, “I think that has allowed us to really explore different kinds of sounds as far as how they relate to our daily lives.” While Wash was in London, recalling, “I got to see a lot of local artists who made music that sounded much more grim than the local music of the South that I had grown up going to see,” at the same time, Byrne and Cutting were experiencing their first harsh New York winter – northern environmental standards when vitamin D deficiency feels like seasonal betrayal; “I just wasn’t used to feeling sad in that way;” Byrne admits.
Lesson, as a whole, does have a much darker, much more contemplative deliverance than past projects, leaning into more serious topics of fate, grief and the the new responsibilities that come with aging. Though, the band’s approach has not changed. What sticks out in a Hiding Places song is the ability to comprehensively build upon a perception, pinpointing the exact feelings that sprout in our gut rather than force it’s hand to be present. For instance, “after image” was written by Byrne during that first winter in New York. In its nature, the track plays with the idea of stillness as the guitars flurry down in uncoordinated patterns like snowfall on a windless night whilst Byrne and Walsh’s harmonies grow and deplete like a series of deep breaths – a clear play of dynamism built with trust and accents built from pure addiction. The title track “Lesson” blooms from an outburst of love and genuine benevolence, as an overt sense of warmth ebbs and flows where it sees fit (reminiscent of songs like “Sun Was” and “Skatepark Heartbreak”). The track soon revolts into a second act; grim, dynamic and hopeless as Walsh witnesses joy, so distant through the lens of grief and vice versa. The band doesn’t see it as a depressing matter, but rather an opening to new opportunities of expression, as Walsh responds, “feeling allowed to make sad music, or to make music that is honest and runs the whole landscape of emotions is very cool,” they say, before finishing, “I feel like we are kind of low key going in an Evanescence direction in some sort of way;” said only half jokingly.
At the time of our call, Walsh was currently diving into the novel, Lapvona, the most recent work of author Ottessa Moshfegh – notorious for the light reading material of My Year of Rest and Relaxation. Taking place in a corrupt medieval fiefdom, Walsh explains, “in the book, humans use imagination to lie, steal, murder and do really hurtful things.” But to their point, they share, “imagination is a gift that as a human I have the privilege to access, one that my dog does not have in the same way, so I might as well use it for something good.” With everything that Walsh finds creatively moldable, whether that be songs, stories, photographs, the arts and the crafts, even their doodled car has become synonymous with the band’s image. With this rich and lovely DIY aesthetic blended with hints of fantasy and natural exploration, there is a pure wonderment that the band omits. On the track “Elephant Key”, the story explores the capacities of different animals’ self agency while also referring to Walsh’s own accountability as a human. There is no thought of what is realistic or probable, playing with references to a “fish king” and a clairvoyant elephant, but Walsh’s approach to songwriting isn’t based in the grips of reality, but how far can we utilize imagination to push the novel feelings and experiences, those singular to being human, into a more comfortable place of understanding?
“Crown of Tin” was written in 2019 during Walsh’s first year at Chapel Hill. The song spent years being recorded and scrapped, just never feeling to have been done justice. Until Cutting suggested using the original vocal and guitar demos that Walsh had made underneath their lofted dorm bed, it may still have never been completed. But in its finalized form, it’s a simple track, a meandering verse to verse style, as Walsh narrates their experience with homesickness. It’s not a song that grapples with being physically alone, but more of drifting through a changed environment; new people, places, and things that haven’t been defined yet. But that simplicity of production allows the demo tracks to excel in their significance, as Walsh expresses, “I think that the sentimentality behind it is very much rooted in honoring the exploration and the wonder that comes from just realizing that you can make something.”
On its own, “Crown of Tin” is a lullaby of Walsh’s own vocation; setting boundaries between real expectations unmet and those that we create – made to be resourceful to our wellbeing. “I have been thinking a lot recently about how most of my emotions either fall under joy or grief in some form, and usually at the same time,” Walsh explains. “Often if I am angry, I am grieving an expectation I imagined.” It’s not out of convenience or habit that these feelings arise, but an effort to revert back to a sense of self that feels in control. The opening verse of the song sets the scene; “Counting down the seasons till I see you again/Winter is me singing in my room it never ends/Taking a short dance under the sun when I can/Going on some picnics with all of my new friends”, a relic of a blushed and lonely reality of a first year student. As the song comes to an end though, the last verse takes a turn; “I wanna live inside a cabin or a tent/Animals will smile at me, will make conversation/I’ll climb trees and look around and wear my crown of tin”.
As I sat with this song for a few days, overwhelmed with this stunning sense of nostalgia it left me with, I was reminded of my childhood bedroom that I shared with my two younger brothers; three parallel twin beds – every night in the fashion of a structured summer camp (or juvie) – as my mom read us the book, Where the Wild Things; not intimidated to use the grumbly voices, but rather encouraged by her three baby boys. Maurice Sendak, the author and illustrator of that book once described, “children do live in fantasy and reality; they move back and forth very easily in a way we no longer remember how to do.” To get older, when imagination isn’t just for kids, but extended to those who have to live by the rules of capitalism, heartbreak, apartment leases, catalytic converters, sell-by dates and homesickness, why not make the reality of it all just a little bit easier? “[Crown of Tin] was a very momentous song for me,” Walsh conveys with sincere recognition. “It was the first song that I recorded on my own and it’s a reminder to myself that the reason I like to make music is because I like to explode my imagination everywhere.” As simple as that.
At the time that this piece is published and Lesson is pushed out into the wild, Walsh will have moved and settled down in Brooklyn, joining Byrne and Cutting; all together for the first time in a handful of years. “We’re excited about increasing the pace in which we’re writing and recording and releasing songs,” Byrne says. “I think we’re in a really good position to do that because we’ve already figured out how to collaborate when it was much more difficult.” With more songs already recorded, full band shows in the works and the excitement of just being together again, it could be safe to assume that Hiding Places is just getting started, yet it feels like they are already so timeless.
Lesson also features Anthony Cozzarelli (bass/guitar/vox), Malik Jabati (saxophone on “Lesson”), Lucas F Jordan (flute on “Elephant Key”) and Frankie Distani (clarinet on “Elephant Key”).
hemlock is the swamp-raised and untethered (Chicago / LA / Texas) project of Carolina Chauffe who, as of today, is celebrating the two year anniversary of their album, talk soon. To commemorate the anniversary, hemlock, alongside Ghost Mountain Records, is announcing the release of a limited pressing of talk soon for the first time ever on vinyl as well as a new music video for the song “garbage truck”.
With a brush of gradual guitar, Chauffe begins, “I’ve always been so afraid of the things I can’t control / Like accepting that you couldn’t stay, and the sound of the garbage truck.” This line, opening the song “garbage truck” with a gentle admission, sets both tone and desire in the wake of a relationship while also putting weight on the things that feel inevitable. As the track goes on, with a steady heartbeat behind flourishing instrumentation, the music begins to drive with purpose – Chauffe admitting with sincerity, “I wanna be a better person to you.”
Two years after its original release, “garbage truck” only feels stronger in its deliverance, both towards its confessional imperfections and the confident strides of growth that hemlock has so genuinely crafted in their career. “I’ve always been so afraid of the things I can’t control,” Chauffe repeats one last time, before affirming, “But I am not bound to make the mistakes I did before.” With accountability, reassigning the things that we can control, soon, the conditioned racket of the garbage truck outside begins to feel less harsh in its composition – our unfavorable habits are no more foundational to who we are as is the stuff that is hauled away every week by that same darn truck.
To celebrate the two year anniversary today, hemlock has shared a DIY made music video for “garbage truck” compiled of footage shot back in 2021. With a bike basket full of flowers, Chauffe rides around the city of Chicago in hopes to hand out the beautiful bundles to the people at the helm of these dynamic machines. You can watch the full video for “garbage truck” premiering here on the ugly hug today.
The limited double LP pressing of talk soon is pressed on coke bottle clear vinyl. It also contains the bonus track, “Monarch” added in its original intended position on the track list. Side D has an etch designed by Carolina Chauffe. You can preorder the vinyl on hemlock’s bandcamp or at Ghost Mountain Records.
“Got home safe / Puttin on tea / Thanks for working on this with me,” Awh sings, almost instinctively; a clear marking – an endcap – no matter how fleeting this moment of calm may seem, there is a sort of closure at hand. This line, as simple as it is, opens the song, “Heart Container”, provoking a story to be told, while simultaneously closing out the album Good Game Baby. The song is an emotionally fostered and well rounded meander through a precarious heart; not necessarily in the right – nor the wrong for that matter. But as the song is escorted to its end, it becomes embedded within a collage of handpicked sounds and field recordings, some familiar, some unknown to us listeners. But the familiarity, although derived from the ethos of nostalgia, adds depth to where we stand; revisiting with a new perspective matured through time and experience to understand the full story.
Jess Awh is the gentle and vivid voice behind the band Bats, who, as of today, has just self-released her third LP, Good Game Baby. Following 2022’s Blue Cabinet, Bats has built a reliable reputation as a sincere lens into Awh’s own growing pains and intimate reflections. Good Game Baby is no different, with her tongue and cheek lyricism, hyper specific anecdotes and country music roots, the album weaves through pop facets and responsive traditions of storytelling to piece together a cohesive and sincere profile of the writer at hand. But as Awh reflects on the past, taking stock of genealogical traits, destructive patterns and influential circumstances, there is deliverance in her fractured timeline, blending nostalgia with confessionals as she looks back on how far she has come.
When it comes to recording, skills she has been sprouting since high school, Awh admits, “when I am outside of my own space I feel pressure to act a different way, and then it just never ends up coming out right.” So instead, with help from some friends, Awh turned her Nashville home into a live-in studio, taking advantage of the whole space being of her own. Weaving mics through the entire house – each room dedicated to a specific function; “the drums were in the living room. We had guitar amps in closets and in the bathroom, and we even recorded some of the record outside on the front porch.” As the time came to capture the valuable structure of Good Game Baby, “the whole band took a week off of work to have a little staycation and coop up in my house,” Awh recalls with giddy likeness – familiar with the importance of slumber parties as a kid. “We made breakfast together every morning, and then we would just get to work. It was very non-traditional and very relaxed and communal. That’s how I like to run the band.”
In turn to the accessible environment, Good Game Baby is a collection of songs that don’t sacrifice development due to comfortability, but rather find Bats taking on new sonic risks, while still propping up what makes Awh’s writing so special to begin with. Songs like “Going For Oysters”, “Are you like me?” and “Finger on the Tear” are dedicated to slinging guitar solos and more brash compositions than before, adding a dynamic intensity to Awh’s cunning melodies and cutthroat lyrics. Songs like “Sand Time Machine” and “Oh My God”, melodically fragile and willfully poignant, blend steel guitar, synthesizers and lo-fi drum tracks – a smooth blend of nostalgic rust and indie charm that has become the beating heart of the Bats sound. In all, Good Game Baby finds Awh taking the project from the early bedroom bandcamp days to a full band operation. “I’ve always wanted to make rock music ever since I started writing songs,” she recalls. “I could always hear full arrangements for them, but I just didn’t really have the resources, so this record really feels like a full realization of what I have always wanted Bats to sound like.”
Most of what Good Game Baby is based around thematically is Awh’s experience of growing up in the fast paced and self destructive city of Nashville, Tennessee. Besides leaving for school in New York, Awh has spent her whole life calling the “Athens of the South” her home. As a kid, “I grew up listening to 90s and 2000s mainstream country radio,” she shares; a notion that comes with the territory. “Being surrounded by that really potent pop and melody forward music taught me how to write the stuff that I like to write.” Too big for its own good, though, Nashville has become one of the fastest growing cities in the US. In search of sharing the authentic country music experience, it has fallen into years of demolition and rebuilding, as Awh watched the place that she grew to love become unrecognizable in virtue. Favorite businesses boarded up, parks left to their own efforts, restaurants’ Proust effect too overbooked to even experience; “Bats songs often have an undertone of being about the gentrification that I observe in Nashville,” she says with notable discomfort. “I feel that it runs parallel to my own experience of getting older and changing and grieving what used to be.”
“I think a lot of the turmoil of my early and mid twenties is represented by this desire to be able to identify myself,” she adds, “which is something that becomes harder when you don’t feel like you’re really situated in a place that is constant.” Touching upon stories of death, ambiguous love, losing friends, starting drugs, stopping drugs and terms of sincere guilt and ego, as a narrator, Awh’s defiance in change becomes crucial in experiencing Good Game Baby as a whole. “For some reason I’ve always tried to invite situations that are a little bit on the fringes of society,” she suggests – “a little bit unsafe.” Whether to do with dating an older man, cyclical substance abuse, breaking clarified distance or just simply profiteering self destruction, there is weight in reference that Awh releases in every song. Although it’s not easy to do, when done sincerely, “writing helps me confirm that I’m still me,” she expresses with an appreciative smile. “I’m still here trying my own experiences, putting them on paper and recording them. It helps me to contextualize myself.”
The track “Queen song we will rock you”, a cheeky name Awh will admit, begins to initiate an end to the record – bringing the heart of reflection into the forefront. “Grandpa died standing upright on two feet / Listening to Queen’s song we will rock you on repeat,” she sings with a soft yet forward delivery. “I would say it’s the most important song to me on the record, just because it provides a framework for understanding the rest of the lyrics on the album.” As is used, “We Will Rock You”, the bold and anthemic battle song, becomes self protruded when facing death, as Awh admits, “my family as a whole has this quality of taking the hard way through life and never really being able to give up or compromise their efforts,” leading to, “this realization that it’s in my blood to get up and try again no matter how many times I get fucked.”
Going back to the final track on the album, “Heart Container”, although it is not the beginning of Awh’s story per se, in the process she shares, “I have a desire to contextualize my life narrative as a thread that I can follow from beginning to end, even though in reality it’s not always so linear.” It can be found when blending together a story of a momentary relationship with the wistful sound effects from the cherished game, Legend of Zelda; as parting as a song about death introduced with voice memos from inside a favorite childhood restaurant; as defining as crippling self agency in a fleeting home like Nashville, Tennessee. Starting at the end of a story can give an artist some leverage; with expectations set, the rest of the time is spent filling in the holes that piece together a cohesive and resonating character. “I think juxtaposing my own history with my own present to tell a story of myself is a way to make it all make sense,” she says with a matured confidence. When dealing with a fractured timeline, jumping back and forth in its construction, there is an emotional emphasis brought on by hindsight and inevitable growth that resonates in this depth. But through her deliverance, blending these two narrative paths, there is closure that Awh demonstrates so affably of how things have been and an understanding of where they may go from here.
“Good game”, a form of etiquette passed around at the end of competitions, is meant to acknowledge the effort put in by an opponent. “Good game, baby”, a more personalized message, has a similar effect, yet less diluted by expectational manners. As the album enters the world, a physical project to face, Awh admits, “I think I’m actually a really well adjusted person in real life. Pretty happy and pretty peaceful in the day to day now,” before letting out a laugh, “I know this isn’t really what you’re supposed to say as an artist, so it sounds a little funny.” Through the turmoil and change, familiarity and rooted pleasures, Awh’s demeanor not only rounds out such an intimate and stylistically absorbing record, but marks impressive personal strides and victories as well; deserving of a pat on the back; a rewarding cup of tea; a good game well played.
Bats will be playing an Album Release show at Third Mans Record’s Blue Room March 1st, 2024. They will also be joining Bendigo Fletcher for a few supportive shows April 12 – 18. Listen to Good Game Baby now on all streaming platforms.
“You’re an expectation, I’m another night wasted on the outline,” a phrase lured in by a steady electric guitar and opening “Smokescreen” with no objection. As a whole, Nisa’s latest single is relentless; blending lush tenacity and the epitome of a catchy pop hook – making for a playful song of hesitation and emotional contusions. “I was stuck in a loop of repetitive behavior and somehow also expecting to feel different,” Nisa says about the song. “After a while, it started to weigh on me. In order to get out of one, I had to admit that I was prone to harmful patterns.” Along with the previously released pair of singles, “Vertigo” and “Currents”, Nisa says, “a lot of what these songs are about is a struggle to form a coherent sense of identity with all of the intersecting pieces of me.” These songs are abrasive and at times overwhelming, but from the heart, it comes together as Nisa’s melody matures into something to long for; an anticipation to break all expectations.
Nisa is the budding solo project of Nisa Lumaj, who, as of today, has just shared her new single, “Smokescreen”. With three singles released in this cycle, Nisa has also just announced her first full length album, Shapeshifting, due April 26 via Portland’s Tender Loving Empire Records. Nisa has crafted a career out of skies-the-limit songs, such as the cold-blooded rocker “Cold” (2021) and the glittery gaze of “Exaggerate” (2022), performing with such contagious angst that is leveled out by self reflection. Now coming up to her most cohesive project to date, Shapeshifting carries its name sake in both sonic explorations and narrative feats, as Nisa writes from the freights of a moving identity; one that is no longer fitting – while in line – the next is not yet attainable.
Born to Albanian immigrants, Nisa is a native New Yorker, preoccupying the boroughs of Manhattan, the Bronx, and currently residing in Brooklyn. Growing up and blending a bilingual household with the love of culture, both inherited and found, “I really felt like I had a foot in each continent,” Nisa conveys with recognition. With traditional folk music as the backdrop of her childhood, there was a drawn-out introduction to English-speaking pop music as she began to explore New York and the many artistic facets that hide in every corner. “When I started to play guitar I decided I was not going to focus on this [cultural] part of my musical identity,” admitting, “I hadn’t heard pop music yet, or anything of that beyond the radio.” Stimulated by this new music, and the wide definition thereof, “I was gonna explore what’s new,” Nisa recalls with excitement.
But with everything she has experienced, Nisa mentions, “the older I get, the more I appreciate my parent’s background.” Even in times spent dancing around despondency, there is an acknowledgement that her familial roots will always be a part of her; inevitably offering an angle when piecing herself together. “I do feel really attached to that part of my identity,” she reassures. Even in her musical world, Nisa admits, “the woes of being an indie musician, like the stress of financial security, doesn’t even begin to cover their hardships and experiences. I am very grateful to have that perspective.”
Nisa is still a fairly new player to the Brooklyn scene, having released her first EP, Guilt Trip, in 2021. But in that short amount of time, with memorable live shows and a few more releases in the mix, Nisa has found a comfortable environment to cultivate her own. With each EP falling in love with a fresh sonic build up, discovering and defining new styles has become an exciting challenge for Nisa to venture into her songwriting. “I think working on a project-to-project basis has helped me keep a through line – that is, sounding like me without labeling me garage pop or something like that.” With much delight, embracing fuzzed out power chords, glittery sedation, theatrical art leaps, glitchy electronica – all with the subtlety of folk construction underneath, there ought to be celebration for remaining consistent in ever shifting environments.
The paired singles, “Vertigo” and “Currents”, released at the end of 2023, take a leap of faith together, not only into a tender subject, but into structural truancy as well. “The songs don’t really sound like something specific that I wanted to reference,” Nisa admits. “It’s just kind of what happened that day we were recording.” With production help from Ronnie DiSimone (Ritual Talk, Annika Bennett), Nisa shares, “we were kind of trying to convince ourselves that once we made it and it was out, we no longer had control over it.” As an incentive, control (or the contrary) can be a life support for a songwriter; especially one who so trustingly wears their heart on their sleeve. “I think understanding that you relinquish control in making something,” Nisa ponders, when a song is out, “there’s nothing you can do to change it. You’ve already said what you have to say and that can be really empowering.” As brutal as releasing a piece of yourself can be, acknowledging that there will always be anxieties; a standard rotation of expectations and critiques – “I think just reframing it for yourself has been the best way for me,” Nisa expresses with appreciable confidence.
In all, the amount of stylings Nisa embodies in no way feels like a chore – more rejuvenated by the movement – flowing naturally with the through line of her interior sentiments and emotional reverence. The new group of singles are sonically contrasting, thorough in their own ways, but aren’t necessarily that different as accomplices in Nisa’s overall narrative. “They were definitely written during a period of transition,” she shares, continuing, “the intersecting pieces of me didn’t feel composite.” Fractured in time with the basic experience of getting older, there is no clear answer to Nisa’s turmoil, but there is a blunt and habitual flow to these songs that rely on their combative differences and sincere nature to define an honest spectrum of mending; a balance that is always worth the wait.
With “Smokescreen” now out and Shapeshifting announced to a growing crowd, Nisa’s natural movements continue to push past expectations, both of the audience and of her own. For a project brought to life through hesitations and tender impressions, Nisa’s music grows out of this natural hunch and appealing confidence that she has spent years forming for herself. As identity goes, there is no saying when you have accomplished such an accountable idea of self, but with all the facets that Nisa has emboldened in her world, it is undeniable who she is as an artist. “I have always made what I want to make,” she says, clearly in direction towards our conversation, but the reflection in her voice lets it hang out in the open – to stay there. “I think if you keep doing that full steam ahead, you’re never gonna question yourself.”
Gentle in voice and strong in character, Montreal, Canada’s singer/songwriter, Pompey, has had an expansive career as a musician and songwriter. With a heartfelt and soft demonstration of candor, Pompey returns with the release of his latest full-length album, ionlyfitinyourarms. In the works for 2 to 3 years of exchanging the patience of writing for a therapeutic outlet, every bit of denial, pity, loathing, honesty, hope, and contemplation is laid out in its bareness. Through songwriting that is both confessional and outspoken, Pompey is there, giving voice to the dualistic devil/angel on each shoulder, to share his most genuine self in the midst of beautiful anti-folk songs.
Beginning the album hauntingly sparse and breathtakingly gentle, “please don’t forget about me” renders the tone for a complex and vivid album to follow. With additional vocal features from Shaina Hayes and partner and bandmate Thanya Iyer creates a tender collection of voices that battle the convolutions of loneliness. “And what if you have my voice in your ear? / If you can hear me and you can see me / Am I there,” Pompey sings in a sense of dissociation from what is present and whole.
This need to escape, to which is present throughout most of the record, is a concept that feels often exploited in art; straightforward to the most saturated angst. But where Pompey stands apart from other direct desires is their need for back and forth confessionals; a therapeutic give and take. Songs like “snug tug” and “body/belly” flips back and forth between wanting to run away from his body to moments where he sings “I wonder where I’d be without my body”. Filed down to self-forgiveness, these sparse sonic embodiments are dutiful to affliction, but enshrined in the understanding from our own relatable personal insecurities.
Most of the time, Pompey’s sense of self is unsteady. Without misconception, things such as a pair of pants, sewing projects, and losing your keys have developed into objects of defeat for him. The songs are simple, tactfully pulling apart the things that Pompey has spent years thinking define who he is. With the ability to be impactful and touching without hiding behind metaphors and colorful language, Pompey’s writing stands a testament to sincere internal dialogue, through criticism, doubt, vindication and all. “Do you stretch your shirt out / Before you put it on? / ‘Cause i do / I learned it from my mom,” is an uncluttered portrait on the song “snug tug”. Honest songs like “tall wall” and “i’m feeling see-through” that follow are striking with their bare bones expression and reluctant empathy towards himself.
Where Pompey’s writing thrives though is when he gives the insecurities a glimpse into comfortability. “i only fit in your arms”, the earnest title track, is a song dedicated to remembering what matters most. When fixated on internal blemishes, Pompey finds refuge in his partner’s arms; a place built around trust, warmth, affability, and most importantly, a perfect fit. With a melodic shift towards composure, “i only fit in your arms” stands in as infinite gratitude for those that love us the most. “mother’s day”, a shift in topic but emotionally fervent as any, is a love letter to the subtle teachings that mother’s leave behind. With respect to character, “Thanks to you / I’ve got thanks for you,” Pompey sings with the most gentle care.
ionlyfitinyourarms is one of the most raw pieces of art that you will hear this year. Going beyond the home recordings and demos, the rawness comes from the gentle approach to internal infatuations, whether glamorous or not. Heartfelt, somber, and blunt; yes. But ionlyfitinyourarms has an underlying sense of comfort that becomes most apparent after a full listen-through. What remains as the album comes to its end is a collection of songs that represent progress; something that is so vital to this type of writing for both the author and the listener. Separating our inner insecurities or dilemmas into physical representations not only solidifies distance, but offers a face to our own foe. Pompey’s therapeutic endeavors to separate rather than fester makes ionlyfitinyourarms a beautiful, sincere, and inspiriting self portrait to be hung up for years to come.