Nine Morbid Songs About Dying: An Interview With New Zealand Soul Singer Marlon Williams

Marlon Williams, the New Zealand born soul crooner whose self-titled breakout album drops today, isn’t just a throw back. Sure, his slicked back hair, tight fitting Brando style tees and general ruggedness may suggest a yearning for 1950s Americana, but this vocal prodigy from the Southern Hemisphere is merely singing from the heart, which can transcend time and space and musical genres. In his voice and vocal style, there are also strains of religious spirituals that can be tied to his family’s Maori upbringing (his father was a Maori punk singer) and singing in church choirs. Already selling out concerts and becoming a household name in his native New Zealand, Marlon Williams’ self-titled album will surely see the young musical artist gain international recognition, especially in the United States with multiple tour dates sets, including a spot at SXSW with his backing band The Yarra Benders, in March. We got a chance to speak with Williams about his Maori roots, soul music and his new album. 

Autre: Can you talk a little bit about your upbringing in New Zealand...I read somewhere that your roots go far back to a native Maori tribe, is that right?


Marlon Williams: That's right. My dad's half Maori, my mum's quarter so I'm some ratio too. I was brought up in a port town outside of Christchurch in the South Island. It was a classic small town upbringing, a lot of freedom to kick around the streets as a kid

Autre: And your dad was a Maori punk singer...that is very different than the music you make - do you have memories of seeing him play - what was the name of his band?

Williams: He kinda stopped playing by the time I was around but he played in a band called the Boneshakers. New wave punk from the rural North Island. 


Autre: What was your earliest exposure to music - how did you gain access to music that influenced and inspired you?


Williams: My dad always introduced me to new stuff, pretty steadily throughout my childhood and into my teenage years. It started off with Elvis and the Beatles and eventually lead into The Band and Gram Parsons.

Autre: Who are some of your folk and blues heroes?


Williams: Dave Van Ronk, Peggy Seeger, Vashti Bunyan, Robbie Basho, Blind Willie McTell, Lightnin Hopkins, Bob Carpenter. This list won't ever end.

Autre: Does New Zealand have a strong folk scene?

Williams: It really does. A lot of really great underground stuff and some more well known. Aldous Harding, Delaney Davidson, Nadia Reid, Eb and Sparrow. All good friends, all great musicians.

Autre: You have accomplished a lot in a short amount of time, and you've won a lot of awards, were you surprised at your success as a musician or is this something you've always wanted?

Williams: It's all I've ever really known so it's hard considering alternative paths, but it's certainly a nice feeling to be appreciated. As long as I can do it how I want I'm happy.

Autre: You are being hailed as "the new Elvis" is this something you balk at or embrace?

Williams: Neither. It'd be a dick move to react too strongly to that one either way

Autre: What is your ideally suited environment to write music...do you have a ritual or does it come to you at all times?

Williams: I have no ritual. It just happens when it does. It's a very frustrating way to write music, especially when it doesn't hit you for a while. I need to get disciplined

Autre: Your music video for the track Hello Miss Lonesome is very intense – where did the idea for the music video come about?

Williams: That came from the director, Damien Shatford, who's a good old pal of mine. He's made a couple of videos for me and they both feature me getting smashed up.  You'd have to ask him why. Maybe I did something to him I don't know about

Autre: Your new album is self-titled and it almost seems like a “break out” album – whatever that means – do you feel like you want to reach a much wider, global audience with the record? 

Williams: Who doesn't? The more people I can get to hear my music the better. It means the Kiwis and Australians get a break from me for a while

Autre: You are planning to tour in some major cities in the US – is this your first time touring in states and do you have any apprehensions? 

Williams: This is my first headline tour in the states, yeah. Not particularly. I only ever worry about survival and love 

Autre: What can people expect from the new album? 

Williams: 9 morbid songs about dying

Autre: What do your parents think of your success as a musician...have they supported you all along? 

Williams: My mothers a painter and dad the singer so they'd be hypocritical to condemn me. They've always been behind me 100%. 

Autre: Where do you want to go with your music after this album…any grand, surprising plans? 

Williams: I'm not completely sure yet but it'll be really, really good

Marlon Williams' self-titled album on Dead Oceans records is available here. Watch the music video for highlight single Strange Things below. Text and interview by Oliver Maxwell Kupper. Photograph by Justyn Strother. Follow Autre on Instagram: @AUTREMAGAZINE

Transcending the Blues: An Interview With Legendary Record Producer Daniel Lanois

Daniel Lanois lives and breathes music in a very literal sense. As a true audiophile, he seems to be marinating in centuries of sound waves, honing in on some of history’s most visceral musical compositions. It’s as though he pulls rhythms directly from the ground and resonant frequencies from the stratosphere. This description may seem over the top, and while it comes from a place of genuine reverence, I can say that over the 3 hours that we spent together, I witnessed this phenomenon with my very own eyes and ears. When he tells a story, it doesn’t suffice to tell it in words. His life story wouldn’t make sense unless he sang it to you, played it for you, and punctuated it with his signature, “yea, man.” Which is why I had to compile all of these bits in an audio file to give you a real feel for who he is and how he communicates. It’s really quite elevating.

Growing up in Hamilton, Ontario, the steel capital of Canada, he was raised in a community that was directed by the shifting of the harsh seasons. A community that gathered to play traditional French Canadian folk music; the true salt of the Earth. The melodies he heard as a child stuck with him and he felt that he needed to capture them, so he made himself a recording studio in the basement. Pretty soon he was recording music with the likes of Rick James and was determined to find the roots of the American soul. He gravitated south to the Mississippi delta where he found the guttural rhythms that live in your hips and the pain and the suffering that gave birth to the blues. But when the Mississippi River spills into the Gulf of Mexico most people stay put, singing their woeful stories of yore. Nevertheless, Lanois took those symphonic lessons and synthesized them with his Northern roots to produce music with some of the 20th century’s most groundbreaking artists: Bob Dylan, Neil Young, Willie Nelson, Peter Gabriel, U2, Brian Eno, Sinead O’Connor, and the list goes on. He’s been nominated for 7 Grammys, 4 of which he was awarded, and yet, his humble beginnings are invariably evident in his unpresuming temperament. 

These days, he’s making music with the free wheeling musical outlaw, Rocco Deluca. They have a friendship that is bonded by their two major loves, music and motorcycles. Together they create a sound that is at once arresting in a way that makes one feel buoyant and unencumbered. When you spend time with the two of them, you get a sense that their lives are filled with nothing but positive, creative vibes, and it seems impossible to abate the longing to just tag along and pretend this is a normal day for you too. We met them at a café, followed them back home, and continued the night with several friends who tagged along and indulged in the privilege of a private listening party. Here’s what we took away.

AUTRE: You were just singing a gospel song, and I’m not familiar with it specifically, but it seems like it comes straight from the slave trade.

LANOIS: Yeah, “Once I’m taken away, I will not fold” is the message.

AUTRE: I think that is the roots of this country. Everything that this country has been built off of has been the elbow grease, the blood, sweat and tears of the black community. So for that to be the source of our strength is no surprise.

LANOIS: For that church music to reach the top of the charts in the early ‘60s. Sam Cooke was not a pop singer, Sam Cooke came from the soulsters and from church. It was that beautiful church harmony that made its way into popular music. We were just talking about James Cleveland who is from the LA area, he’s not from Chicago.

AUTRE: And Bo Diddley, I mean he invented rock & roll. And Big Mama Thornton.

LANOIS: All that. Well, the Bo Diddley beat is an old African beat. But I’m Canadian. So for a Canadian kid to come south of the border—I went to New Orleans and made a great record with the Neville Brothers—for me to actually work with the Neville Brothers? As a white French-Canadian kid? That was the cherry on the cake of my PhD.

(laughs)

AUTRE: It seems like you’ve had an autodidactic approach to music. Or have you?

LANOIS: Without any doubt, every day I learn something new. And I hope it keeps coming my way. I never went to school for any of it, I’m self taught. But when I was a kid I got to work with Rick James in my mom’s basement. I didn’t have to come up with any tuition money. For Rick, he came in by himself, and in 20 minutes there was a fully flourishing piece of music coming out of the speakers, and I was practically in tears. Oh my goodness, I could not believe this was happening. I was in the presence of a Beethoven.

I was talented, I knew what I was doing, but I had never before been exposed to anyone like Rick. He came in, and I recorded him some demos—mindblowing. I realized that I needed to go somewhere where the bass was good, so I went to New Orleans. I got to work with the Neville Brothers and George Porter from the Meters. Leo Nocentelli, perhaps the funkiest guitar player out of America. To be in that place, to hear the parade bands, where so much music had come from, that was amazing. The music of the North was so stiff. The music of the South had funk.

AUTRE: Going back to the beginning, what was your initial experience with making music?

LANOIS: As a kid I played slide guitar and I played woodwinds as well. I started a little recording studio at home, so that was the basis of the whole thing. I was in and out of bands up in Canada. I got to be a good player as a teenager. But I always had my recording studio and that was the mecca, the crossroads for so much. I was connected with a gospel music association in Canada, and they brought acapella groups in from across the world to tour Canada. One of the touring stops was my studio. So I made acapella quartet records - dozens of them.

AUTRE: Oh, that’s amazing.

LANOIS: They had great singers too. So imagine this white French-Canadian kid sitting there and hearing the four-part harmony. Tell me that’s not an education to hear all that, and then that related to all other four parts of any other genre. Funk music has four parts, you know. The intertwining of these four parts provided me with a really great understanding of how music communicates. How significant the harmonic interplay is. That was kind of it. Plus on top of that, the Pop music on the radio was the best stuff.

 AUTRE: Back then, yeah.

LANOIS: You heard Sam Cooke on the radio, you heard James Cotton, The Jackson’s. Psychedelic stuff. It was kind of amazing. We didn’t hear any fluff, you know we had to listen to some of that British music, but I didn’t mind that. (laughs)

AUTRE: Yeah, that was before they had found the algorithm for selling commercial products with pop music.

LANOIS: The force was certainly different, it just belonged to that time. It was a cultural revolution on the rise. The Poet’s Society, rebellious rock & roll, psychedelic. It all came to a head. How special is that? Plus, also the front end of a medium, not everybody had a camera so if you shot pictures it meant that you were involved with something special. You know, you look at photographs from the late ‘50s and ‘60s, and they all look significant, because people were discovering something. Not to criticize modern times or anything but there are so many pictures now. Now we’re not at the front end of the medium—but when you are at the front end of a medium, things are more special.

AUTRE: I think that’s a good point you make though about the fact that we didn’t have an image associated with the music. There wasn’t a music video for every track. So when you listened to an album, you had a listening experience; just listening. Now musicians have to sell themselves as more than just a sound. They’re a sound and an image. Plus, their social lives are on blast through their social media. So, you have their personalities to judge as well. There is so much less focus on creating amazing music and leaving it at that.

LANOIS: The other concern is including merch. You know, “how’s your merch going?” Merch?!

AUTRE: Exactly. You have to boost your T-shirt game.

(laughs)

AUTRE: You’ve worked on some incredible records. And it seems like you’ve always been innovating your sound. This music you make with Rocco—you sit there and if feels like you’re floating in sound.

LANOIS: We try and break new ground on every project. I didn’t come up through a referential time, so coming up as a kid everything was new. We didn’t think, Geez, let’s try to make it sound like a 1948 tune, that would be a cool sound. No, everything was new. So, I’ve never bought into the referential aspect of music making. Even in these modern times where it’s easy to say, the grunge and the punk thing in the ‘90s, that was cool, let’s adapt that look and that sound. Well no, I’m not interested. I’m glad that it happened and I respect that it did, but in regards to anything we’re going to do from here on I want it to be original.

AUTRE: Who are some of your rock & roll heroes?

LANOIS: I’ll always appreciate pure forms, sometimes I go to the Thirsty Crow on a Monday night and there’s a guy there who plays a lot of old records. We always appreciate hearing Electric Mud from Muddy Waters. They play a lot of 70s R&B on that night, a lot of stuff from San Francisco. That era of the ‘70s where things were getting funky but experimental.

And you know we have modern day heroes as well. I listen to some of the hip hop out of the Long Beach area. And the D’Angelo record that came out a couple years ago, I enjoyed that a lot. Any pure form. Anything strong that qualifies as soul music ultimately. And we’re not talking a genre of R&B particularly, but something that seems to exist for the right reasons.

AUTRE: There seems to be this reemergence of soul music, of traditional ‘60s soul music coming in through a lot of newer pop music these days. It’s being revisited, which is really interesting. I talked to a young woman who I really respect and she said “you know, in some ways I feel like maybe hip hop is coming to a close.”

LANOIS: Maybe a certain aspect of it.

AUTRE: A certain aspect of it, yeah. But in the same way that soul music had its own era through the late ‘50s, the ‘60s, and a little bit into the ‘70s, but then it kind of veered into Funk. Which, then veered into hip hop. I feel like it is kind of coming back, and there’s this veritable urge to find its roots; to get back a little bit of that heart that was really pulsing through it originally.

"Miley Cyrus naked with her bare cunt on a cannonball – is that all you got, baby? You know go up the flagpole and back down, bare cunt. I’ll throw some confetti. So, I kinda like that whole thing that’s happening in America right now where the girls are just in charge of fucking pop. I say, take more clothes off, have more hits, own the fucking country, get to the top of the charts and I’ll be eating popcorn."

LANOIS: You hear it a little bit with Alabama Shakes, their recent record is pretty adventurous. I hear some shades of ‘70s experimental soul, but I wouldn’t offer a lot to support the theory. But I’m ready to be educated.

AUTRE: Where did your love of motorcycles come from?

LANOIS: Since I was a kid I just loved everything that went with it—freedom, and to feel that wind on your face. When I was a kid I got my first Harley and me and my brother rode from Canada all the way down to Florida.

AUTRE: That’s a long trip! How long did it take you guys?

LANOIS: Oh, it took a long time. We could only ride so long because it was freezing, but by the time we got to Kentucky and Tennessee it started getting warm. I love wintertime riding.

AUTRE: You grew up in Ontario right?

LANOIS: I’m French-Canadian but I came up as a teenager in a place called Hamilton about an hour from Buffalo on the Canadian side. It was a steel town and a real working place.

AUTRE: Do you go back much?

LANOIS: Yeah! I still keep a place there; my mom is there still. I have a soft spot for what I call the Great Lakes of Culture.

That part of the world is very harsh in the winter. The harvest comes in and the root vegetables will keep all winter. And I love that—you wouldn’t dilly dally through the fall. You cut your wood in the summer, make sure you can and jar in the fall. That way you can have some fruits through the winter. That’s sort of long gone now because of the coming of Whole Foods. You can get a tangerine in Toronto in the winter, that wasn’t the case at one time.

AUTRE: So, how long have you been living in this house?

LANOIS: Fourteen years. Nobody wanted this place fourteen years ago. At the time, I was working with Melanie Ciccone, Madonna’s sister. Madonna looked at this place, and Melanie knew about it and she said “well my sister doesn’t want it, but you should get it,” and I came here on a rainy day and I loved it.

AUTRE: It’s beautiful.

LANOIS: I came up with a mix today I’m very excited about. The performances for this record were all done here, and I took them back to Toronto and I manipulated them and added some new ways of looking at the works. Some of it is very pure form hand played, and some things are more built. It’s not a point of bragging but I’m a sonic specialist so I get in there and I build things. One of the things you’re going to hear that was built is one called “Low Sudden” and it’s more of a trance. It visits some of what I was doing in the early ‘80s and touches on some of those sounds you’ll hear in a minute.

AUTRE: We’re excited to hear it.

LANOIS: Some elements are a little crazier and symphonically driven —I’ve gone into harmonic places that I’ve never known before. Now this is significant because you might think “well we’ve done it all, and same old chords” but there are a few turning points in this music that provided me with a glimpse into the future.

AUTRE: So where do you think that inspiration came from?

LANOIS: Perhaps, I might have gotten disillusioned with the usual chords. It’s not a rhythmic record; you’ll hear the strangeness of the chords and the textures. It will conjure up feelings you’ve never had before. One has a very Italian melody—things that I would never come up with, because I see myself as a rocker. To bump into this whole way of looking at harmonics has really opened up a new side of my imagination. Crazy ass shit.

AUTRE: The devotion you have to music is astounding. Your collection here is amazing.

LANOIS: I have a couple of comic friends. Jim Carrey is one of them. He is so smart; he could do a routine at the drop of a hat. He walks in here and says, “This is how to live! Close to your passion! What are you passionate about? You can’t take that to the grave! You could take this to the grave!” He gave a whole sermon to justify the mess I made in the front room.

AUTRE: Well, it seems this is your living room, and this is how you want to live.

LANOIS: It’s better than buying yachts and going to St. Barth’s.

AUTRE: How did you get a hold of this piano?

LANOIS: If you’re lucky enough to have an acoustic instrument that sounds beautiful, you can always restore it back to its former glory. Even if it gets funky or messed up, you can always return it to the sound. It will maintain the sound. When we found this barrelhouse of a piano, it needed refurbishing, but we could tell it had heart. We resurrected it.

AUTRE: There’s kind of a similarity to motorcycles in that.

LANOIS: Yeah, a little bit. It’s nice to respect a tool, to imagine what it was like in 1915.

AUTRE: Going back again to your beginnings, how did you get into music?

LANOIS: In the beginning, my father and my grandfather were violin players. They played some of the traditional music of their French Canadian culture. There were no nightclubs back then, so people would gather around their houses. They would whip out their violins. There were piano players. All my uncles sang. I was exposed to that as a kid. The melodies really got in my brain. There was nothing popular about them; they were just old songs.

AUTRE: What was your first introduction to rock & roll music? 

LANOIS: [Sings.] “You’re so young, and I’m so old. This, my darling, I’ve been told. You and I will be as free as the birds up in the trees. Please, please stay and be mine, Diana.” That’s the guy who wrote the theme song for the Tonight Show. A guy named Paul Anka.

Where we lived was between Detroit and Buffalo. We got great broadcasts out of those cities. I got to hear all the great Motown stuff on the radio. We had some cool DJs in Toronto. They were stoned out of their brains. This was a time when they let disc jockeys do whatever they wanted, late nights especially. And they were beat poets, spinning some yarn, playing an entire side of an album. Back in the day, there were no pictures of anything. I would sit in my mother’s basement, listening to the crazy music on the radio, imagining what it would be like out in the world.

AUTRE: Was there anyone in particular who really influenced you?

LANOIS: Rick James.

AUTRE: Were you invited down to New Orleans, or did you go there to seek out music?

LANOIS: I saw a piece in Life about the architectural significance of New Orleans. So I thought, I think I’m going to go down there to finish my record. I took a train from New York down, going through all the backwaters of the cities. I got to see industry in America. I got to see its decay, the decline of manufacturing and the steel industry. I was practically in tears—there is so much poverty. We grew up in North America thinking everything is great, but I saw the opposite when I went down there. It was a real eye-opener for me. It was a musical journey to go down there, but I was just as interested in everything else that was happening culturally.  

AUTRE: What was it like being a Canadian kid down South?

LANOIS: Amazing. You would hear stories about this crazy river, the bloodline of creativity. It’s called the delta, where different influences come in from different parts—blues, bluegrass, Texas swing. All these different forces. What did it add up to? Rock & roll. I got to work with the greats. I got Rockin’ Dopsie to play on a Bob Dylan record. Are you kidding me? I’m a dumb French Canadian.

AUTRE: How do you feel about music now?

LANOIS: It’s fine. You’ve got Maroon 5, force-fed rock. I kinda like the thing that’s happening in America where girls are just fucking in charge of pop music. So, Miley Cyrus naked with her bare cunt on a cannon ball – is that all you got, baby? You know go up the flagpole and back down, bare cunt. I’ll throw some confetti. So, I kinda like that whole thing that’s happening in America right now where the girls are just in charge of fucking pop. I say, take more clothes off, have more hits, own the fucking country, get to the top of the charts and I’ll be eating popcorn. I won’t make records like that, but I’m kinda glad somebody else is.

AUTRE: You keep coming back to real, pure form, for the experience of music rather than whatever movement you might be a part of.

LANOIS: We have a responsibility in these referential times. It’s easy to be spot-on with style. I don’t want to make a referential record. There’s nothing stopping me from sampling a song, but will that fill us? I don’t think so. I don’t want to do referential. I don’t care if I’m penniless. I want to do new things. I want to see the future of music. I may not get there, but I’m going to damn well try. 

Autre will be releasing Daniel Lanois and Rocco DeLuca's track The Resonant Frequency of Love with an accompanying short film on Valentines Day, 2016. Text and interview by Oliver Maxwell Kupper and Summer Bowie. photographs by Oliver Maxwell Kupper. Follow Autre on Instagram: @AUTREMAGAZINE

Touch The Leather: An Interview With Fat White Family Lead Singer Lias Saoudi

text by ADAM LEHRER

Full disclosure: there is nothing objective about this article. I love Fat White Family. The band, to me, represents everything I’ve ever held dear about rock n’ roll: chaos, rebellion, sleaze, art, drugs, poetry, and politics. The first time I saw the band play live, about a year and a half ago, I was more excited than that time I saw Martin Scorsese walking down the Bowery (re: very excited). After housing beers and watching various members of the band run around the venue with their most famous fan and cheerleader, Sean Lennon, I elbowed my way to the front of the hall and got ready to let loose. 15 minutes went by when the band’s six members, gangly, unkempt, and skinny, took to the stage, launching into a particularly cacophonic rendition of the opening chords of the band’s lead single off debut album Champagne Holocaust, Auto Neutron. Lead singer Lias Saoudi, already half naked and sweating like Usain Bolt at the finish line, jittered to the front of the stage like a character in a Chris Cunningham music video and the band belted in unison, “AH AH AHHHH AHHH AHHHHHHH!” Instantly, bodies began colliding in joyous punishment. In various levels of intoxication, the crowd bowed to the revolution of the Fat White Family. It hurt so good. By the end of the song, Lias had his cock out. The scene erupted like a Wolfgang Tillmans exhibition come to life.

The band; Lias, as well as Saul Adamczewski (guitar), Adam J. Harmer (guitar), Joseph Pancucci, (brother of Lias) Nathan Saoudi (keyboard), Severin Black (drums), and Taishi Nagasaka (bass); formed in 2011 while they were squatting and enduring various levels of impoverished horror in Peckham, forming an alliance and an agenda in the process. From the time that the band released their electrifying debut record, opinions of them were divisive but absolute. Hero worship and skepticism were thrown around equally, but nigh any journalist could argue against the fact that this band was relevant to our sick, scared, and poor era. Noisey called the band, “A reminder that rock n’ roll can mean something.” The Quietus called Champagne Holocaust one of the best records of 2014. Pitchfork, in a more lukewarm review, nevertheless described the debut record as the “shambolic beginnings of something.” Case in point, Fat White Family wants rock music to have substance again. Charged up by leftist politics and rally cries against the agonies of capitalism, Fat White Family is both aware of the culture while totally antithetical to the culture. The music, while certainly energizing, has its touchstones: the anarcho punk ethos of Crass, the shambolic poetry of Mark E. Smith and The Fall (they even released a single called I Am Mark E. Smith), the nihilist poetry of Country Teasers, and the early garage psych of The 13th Floor Elevators. But the music is only half the story with the band. I often say that the most effective (and my favorite) politicians (Obama, Churchill, etc..) do what they must to achieve power, and once the power is achieved use it to shake the culture and make change. It seems every article out there in one way or another finds different adjectives to describe the pestilence and grit and grime that define the entity that is Fat White Family. Though those descriptions aren’t false, they fail to mention the intelligence behind the art. Fat White Family is intimately aware of the power of performance and media. With a militaristic look, an aura of degenerate mystery, and ratchet stage antics full of blood and nudity, the band commands attention. Now that the attention has been achieved, the band can have their ideas known and their message spread.

Fat White Family’s new album, Songs for Our Mothers, is out today on Fat Possum. It continues the band’s political nihilism while incorporating a more subdued if not at all toned down sound. The melodies are more pronounced, and the incorporation of synths and horns brings to mind the more ambitious records of British pop music history. From opening track The Whitest Boy On the Beach, there is something off-kilter and more thought-provoking than the band’s earlier onslaughts, bringing to mind bands like Devo. It seems the album’s central conceit is an exploration of the volatile conditions that often create the best art, as the band has cited the work of Ike and Tina turner as a central influence on the band.

In anticipation of Songs for Our Mothers, I spoke to Lias on a Viber call. He is nothing like his stage persona. Expecting a bamboozled alkie, I found myself speaking to a fiercely intelligent young guy deeply worried about the state of the economy, highly aware of contemporary art, and fiercely committed to original art. Topics that came up were housing, the band’s unhealthy obsession with Irish actor Sam Neill, the divide between human being and performer, and of course lots about the new record. I also snuck in a question about Lias and Fat White brother in arms (as well as brother from same mother) Nathan’s collaborative band with electronic act Electronic Research Council and Sean Lennon, The Moonlandingz, whose record Expanded is out now.

Autre: Perhaps I’m off base here, but from the moment I first got into the band I detected at least an awareness of a performance art aesthetic, is that at all accurate?

LIAS SAOUDI: Yeah definitely. I went to college for four years, at Slade School of Art in North London, so it’s something I’ve been a part of for a while.

AUTRE: What about politically? Did you develop your own sort of ethos on your own? Or did you pick up certain ideas from family members or friends growing up?

LIAS SAOUDI: Well my mum is sort of like a Yorkshire coal miner who was there during the strikes. My dad’s an Algerian immigrant. It’s not like I grew up on an estate, but I wouldn’t jump to say that I was, myself, working class. I was afforded opportunities both my parents never had, because they worked really hard. But both of them, yeah completely. But myself I guess I would say I was more lower-middle class. We would go on a holiday abroad every now and then. . I think it was the kind of environment, which set me up to take it where I am now. It was probably always going to turn out this way.

AUTRE: I find it interesting how some adults think that people our age, millennials or whatever, are apolitical or don’t care. But I just don’t find that to be true these days, certainly with bands like yours, and with what’s going on in the States right now with everything rallying around Bernie Sanders and things like that. Do you feel generally hopeful that at least people seem to be more aware than they were in the last few years?

LIAS SAOUDI: I think a certain amount of apathy has lifted, but I fail to see any real, genuine hope in the situation being altered. I think there is something to rally around and I think that’s really positive. I think it’s the lowest kind of cynicism to just not even bother. My issue with bands and music and the people here in London while I was kind of squatting around and studying is that people were just concerned with climbing up a ladder socially. There’s no way you’re getting anywhere.

AUTRE: Yeah, absolutely.

LIAS SAOUDI: I mean I’ve been in London for 12 years and we worked pretty hard at this project. From an outsider’s perspective it must seem like we’ve had some success. But my living standards have never increased, if anything they’ve diminished. And London, the city that I’ve kind of grown to love and consider home, is kind of out of my reach. That brings anger.

AUTRE: Yeah it’s the same situation over here in New York. What’s insane to me is that one of the main reasons people want to move to cities like New York or London is because they want to eat at great restaurants with really talented chefs, or see great bands or artists. But if they don’t start regulating the rent, these people aren’t going to exist and these cities are going to suck.

LIAS SAOUDI: It’s just become a little bit like Paris. The restaurants will remain, but all the other good stuff will fuck off. It’s prohibitively expensive to live here while you’re trying to do something creative. It’s always been tough, you know you have to work a shitty job while you’re doing your painting or your band. The city is for tourists and millionaires and for people to invest in property while you’re pushed further and further out of the housing market and the red market. It’s boring. There’s nobody standing up for you, there’s no rules, there’s no law anymore.

AUTRE: It’s pretty insane. Living in New York, I’ve been here almost four yeas years but I’ve already had to bounce around from three neighborhoods. It happens too fast. Blame it on hipsters moving to your hood all you want, but people are going to live where they can afford. No one is at fault other than greedy landowners and a government that doesn’t protect its citizens from encroaching poverty.

LIAS SAOUDI: It’s alarming that the government, our government, doesn’t want regulation when it comes to things like the housing market. But they are perfectly comfortable with regulating the Middle East. It’s like you won’t put a fucking cap on the rent in South London but you’ll happily bomb Libya. I’m confused now by what they mean by regulation. It’s just such fucking dog shit. Bands don’t traditionally come from London- they come to London to make their way. And I think we’ll see an end to that.

AUTRE: So I wanted to ask you some stuff about the new record, which I’ve listened to and I love. The first thing I noticed is that right from the first record, right from Auto Neutron, it kind of had this groovy but nevertheless full on oral onslaught. The new one seems a little bit more textured, maybe are there some synths in there?

LIAS SAOUDI: Yeah there was a little bit of a disco element. Everybody was kinda getting into Donna Summer at that point.

AUTRE: Yeah, that’s interesting. I thought of the first Devo record honestly when I heard that second track.

LIAS SAOUDI: Yeah it is that kind of vibe. I think it was just a lot more thought going into it. Not that we didn’t take it seriously the first time. It takes a long time to make a record. That’s always the case, it’s a refection of what everybody’s been into. It’s is a little less schlocky, a little bit I dare say understated. I’ll be held to that no doubt, but it’s about drawing a juxtaposition between that understatement and what actually goes on in the songs, the events and fleshing them out. If there’s a shock value that’s where it is.

AUTRE: I’ve always thought you guys even at your most cacophonic had some serious grooves going on. I feel like it comes in even stronger when you’re quieting down a little.

LIAS SAOUDI: It’s kind of like dance music I suppose essentially.

AUTRE: Yeah you can dance to it for sure. I know Joe Strummer had a quote that was like “the best rock and roll music just makes you want to stop thinking and dance and not give a fuck what anyone thinks.”

LIAS SAOUDI: I think so, and I think if you can do both at the same time that’s kind of the goal. If you can have both angles, and you can realize what you’re dancing to. The story behind it, the narrative.

AUTRE: Substance.

LIAS SAOUDI: Yeah you’ve got two layers going on there. There’s an ever so slight intellectual side to it.

AUTRE: I caught some psychedelic vibes too, are you guys into Psychedelia at all?

LIAS SAOUDI: Yea of course I mean we’re steeped in that. I think especially on the first record. There was kind of all that dodgy psych that was all pouring out during the last five years. A lot of it was just an interesting sound, but it didn’t seem to have any essential purpose. It was kind of like vintage shop psych for metropolitan dudes to pose around to and get laid. There was no essential struggle or crisis. Which given the times we’re living in, like we were talking about earlier, I find a little apathetic and irresponsible to an extent.

AUTRE: Definitely. I thought it was interesting, when I saw you guys at the Bowery Ballroom last year I saw you running around with Sean Lennon. He actually co-produced this new record, and you guys are doing a side project with him? The Moonlandingz?

LIAS SAOUDI: Yeah the Moonlandingz man!

AUTRE: I love that video.

LIAS SAOUDI: Yeah it’s good, it’s fun. Kind of tongue in cheek, the whole thing. It’s all really well written stuff. We were playing this fictional band within a concept record, we just decided to take it to the next level. And then Sean got involved. I got something from Sean the other day actually, Yoko Ono is on one of the tracks now.

AUTRE: Oh sweet!

LIAS SAOUDI: Yeah, we’re having a scream off on one of them I think. It’s nice, we’re in a position now where you can kind of cross-pollinate with other artists much more easily. Maybe the financial rewards are not as great these days for musicians, but if you get a little bit of a break you can start working with all kinds of people. It’s kind of exiting.

AUTRE: Definitely, and I feel like Sean is almost a perfect mentor for you guys because he for one thing is massively famous just because of who he is, but he also has an ear to the underground always.

LIAS SAOUDI: Yeah and he’s a really great musician man. It’s great to have him in the studio. He’s just always been really lovely with us and always supported us since the first day we met him. He’s been a great ally to have, whenever we’re stateside we always hit him up.

AUTRE: Most people associate you guys with influences like The Fall and the Birthday party ad Crass, all that stuff, but I hear soul on your records, I hear funk. And he’s a good producer for that because he knows a little bit about everything.

LIAS SAOUDI: He’s kind more into the sensual side of it all than the harsh, politically charged kind of punk side of it. And that works well for us.

AUTRE: I feel like Fat White Family has a lot of hero worship attached to it. Rock n’ Roll lovers have a lot of faith in you guys. I mean Noisey described you as “the band making Rock n’ Roll mean something again.” Do you welcome this? Or are there times when you want to just play rock music without people attaching so much to it?

LIAS SAOUDI: I try and remain as ignorant as possible. I kind of gravitate towards things that I don’t really understand. I don’t really think about it that much, I just try and get on with my job. I find it extremely difficult to write and I’m quite precious about it, so I’m just getting on with it and I hope it works out. It’s not the most stable profession, all those people saying that is great, you know, wonderful, but it’s kind of just a lucky byproduct of what we’re doing.

AUTRE: You do get a lot of positive reception in blogs, but I can’t imagine it actually compares to the reactions you guys get at your shows when kids go fucking nuts.

LIAS SAOUDI: That’s great, that’s my favorite part of it. I was doing a little bit of performance art at the end of college, and I was kind of at a loose end- didn’t really know where to place myself. I’ve really become quite jaded and disdainful with the whole contemporary art scene. But being in a band you could kind of just do that at your own street level instead of having to curtail to some type of elite the whole time. So that was important to me, and the performance thing remains priority #1 for me. 

AUTRE: That is the benefit of Rock n’ Roll over art, because art is still contingent on you being able to sell your stuff to some rich guy, where as Rock n’ Roll is just contingent upon kids losing it over your music.

LIAS SAOUDI: Yeah. You know when you’re shit because people just don’t stick around. It’s a lot more difficult to lie to yourself.

AUTRE: When I saw you at the Bowery Ballroom you had your cock out within the first three minutes of the show.

LIAS SAOUDI: (laughs) I don’t know where that comes from really. As a person I’m usually quite reserved, quite shy, quite insecure essentially, so it’s like an outlet I suppose. It’s not really like a pre-meditated thing. It just feels nice. Theoretically, again if you’re doing that in contemporary art it raises all sorts of questions. Difficult questions. But I think if you’re doing that in Rock n’ Roll it’s just a bit of spice.

AUTRE: Yeah! So you once wrote “Hell hath no fury like a failed artist” in Is It Raining in Your Mouth. The band has if not become overwhelmingly financially successful has gained a certain level of notoriety. Is it as easy for you to write those same sort of vibes with the success that you have now?

LIAS SAOUDI: Well a lot of the time when I’m writing there will be some sort of historical context, some sort of totem culturally that other people can gather around and hang their hat on essentially. When I wrote that I was actually talking about Adolf Hitler.

AUTRE: Oh shit that makes sense!

LIAS SAOUDI: (Laughs) Yeah! But it worked for me as well so I just put that in there. So that’s usually the angle I come in at when I’m writing sometime. So it’s kind of personal but it’s also got a different context usually.

AUTRE: Do you consider the rock star version of you to be you and a part of you? Or like a character that you have to get into to become what you are on stage?

LIAS SAOUDI: When I go on stage it’s a peculiar experience, I don’t feel like that person at all really. That’s just the way it happens when I perform. It’s strange when you get up on a stage in front of a big crowd of people, there’s all kinds of things that happen in your brain. Some of them healthy, some of them not so healthy, I think naturally I must be a real attention seeker. Because I do love it. It’s a weird one.

AUTRE: I was looking at the press release for the new record and at the end there it says something about this record being about love, death, sex, the actor Sam Neill. What’s with the obsession with Sam Neill?

LIAS SAOUDI: I don’t know where that comes from exactly. It’s a real thing in the group.

AUTRE: He’s good man.

LIAS SAOUDI: (Laughs) I think maybe it’s the film Event Horizon, which is arguably one of the shittiest films ever made.

AUTRE: He was in Possession, have you ever seen that movie?  Sam plays a spy that comes home to his wife who acts increasingly unstable wife who ass him for a divorce, that description doesn’t at all sum up the head fuckery that follows.

LIAS SAOUDI: I’ll have to check that out man.

AUTRE: That’s a good horror movie.

LIAS SAOUDI: He’s in one of the songs. In Satisfied, there’s a lyric in there about Sam Neill working outside or something. It’s fun when you bring things back down to the juvenile level sometimes.

AUTRE: Do you find it difficult to stay out of the bullshit side of the music business?

LIAS SAOUDI: It is weird and it’s slightly disturbing when what you do as a bunch of friends; living together in a shitty house; suddenly becomes your bread and butter. It’s something you just kind of have to get a grip on so you don’t have to go back to making pizzas or whatever. There’s an element of anxiety there. You’ve been struggling and then you get a little bit of a break, and then you have to grapple with how making art is an economic act whether you like it or not. You have to accept that.

I try to get at a part of that on the record, by talking about the relationship between Ike and Tina Turner. Just how in a way everybody kind of endorsed the violence that took part as a fan and a listener of the music. It’s in there.

AUTRE: It is interesting with Ike and Tina though because those songs are so beautiful but you can hear the tension between them. Or you go listen to old Phil Spector productions or something and they sound so perfect and pretty but then you realize that the guy who’s making them is quite psychotic really. It gives everything an interesting spin.

LIAS SAOUDI: It’s a brutal dichotomy and it’s something which you kind of find yourself in all of a sudden. As far as it being a business, and you have all these people around you, and you have to decide which you trust and which you don’t. There’s things that go wrong and it’s difficult but that’s the reality of the situation.

AUTRE: It must be even more frightening because Fat White Family does have potential to become quite a big rock band.

LIAS SAOUDI: I mean maybe, I don’t know. I’ll take what I can get. The more people that listen to it the better

AUTRE: Are there any other bands these days that you find to be adequate if not pretty great?

LIAS SAOUDI: There’s a couple of really great bands kicking around. There’s a band called Meat Raffle who are a new band just putting out their first release, but they’re worth checking out. I’m a fan of the Sleaford Mods I think they’re really good.

AUTRE: Oh yeah I like their new record a lot.

LIAS SAOUDI: It’s funny and it’s brutal and it’s full of the right kind of spite. It revels in its own authentic misery, and I think that puts the fear into all the right people. That’s the ultimate kind of process. You can just kind of dance to the pain, and that’s what it sounds like to me.

AUTRE: So are you guys going to be touring the states on this new record?

LIAS SAOUDI: Yeah we’ll be over there. Our management is based in LA now so they’ll be really key in getting us over there. I imagine quite a bit in the next year. I think March, and then maybe later on in the year. I like to spend time over there, although touring is a bit tough. It’s a lot of fucking driving and a lot of shitty food. It’s that whole middle bit, which is quite a big bit, it’s pretty tough to get in the van and drive around and do shows. But once you get to the big cities its always fantastic you know?

AUTRE: Yeah. Alright man, I can’t wait to see you guys next time you come to New York, it was a pleasure speaking with you. Good luck and congratulations!

LIAS SAOUDI: Cheers man! 

Fat White Family's new album 'Songs For Our Mothers' is out today via Without Consent/Fat Possum Records, purchase here. Watch the music video for Whitest Boy On The Beach here. Text and interview by Adam Lehrer. Photographs by Flo Kohl, shot on location in London. Follow Autre on Instagram: @AUTREMAGAZINE

Leading The Hip-Hop Renaissance: A Conversation With Viper Magazine Publisher Lily Mercer On The New Golden Age of Hip-Hop

I’m one of those weirdoes who actually gets excited for the weeks when new magazines drop. I get my art fix with Juxtapoz and ArtForum. Politics get imbibed with the New Yorker and the Atlantic. The need for weed is expressed through Heads. Fashion frenzies with Purple and Arena Homme+. Rock n’ rolling with Mojo. Freaking out in experimental music with the Wire. But it wasn’t until this past summer when I discovered a thick UK-based magazine called Viper that I’d get to read about hip-hop in an intelligent and creative manner (the Source isn’t really doing the trick anymore).

That issue, the Spring/Summer 2015, immediately spoke to me. A fantastic block letter logo emblazoned upon a cover depicting two of the best MCs on the planet, Earl Sweatshirt and Vince Staples. On the inside, I found a magazine that was creatively akin to much missed culture and fashion magazines like Index and the Face. It isn’t just about the music; it examines hip-hop as a culture and a lifestyle. There was an ode to the late A$AP Yams. There was an examination of the cultural and fashion impact of FILA. A photo series documented the migrant crisis of Greece. Not to mention, articles on some of hip-hop’s most under-praised and creatively fertile artists: Milkaveli, Earth Gang, and the aforementioned Earl and Vince. Here was a magazine that gave life to the love that hip-hop inspires. This magazine, revolutionary in its impact to the culture it targets, is the brainchild of the young North London-hailing music journalist Lily Mercer.

Mercer was studying fashion journalism before growing disenchanted with the industry, generating a knack for interviewing rappers. Quickly she found herself generating bylines with respected music rags like Noisey and Clash. Noted for her taste making talents, she was given her own radio show through Rinse FM, The Lily Mercer Show, that airs Monday morning from 1 to 3 am where she breaks grime artists and Chicago MCs on a regular basis. Viper Mag was unleashed upon the world as a 50-page zine in 2013. It was born out of frustration. Mercer wanted to read the magazine that the hip-hop community deserved. So, in a naively punk manner, she did it her fucking self. “I was trying to find a magazine that I enjoyed reading, and there were none,” says Mercer. “So, I made my own. And we are all the luckier for it.”

The magazine is now 150 pages deep and holds an accompanying website that is updated daily. Mercer also keeps a personal blog where she espouses on all manner of her ideas and beliefs. It is no small feat becoming a personal brand in the world of journalism (I should fucking know, believe me), so it’s all the more impressive that Mercer has become something of a celebrity in her own right. She has done so through buckets of knowledge, insane enthusiasm, and an unbridled work ethic that flips millennial stereotypes on their heads.

Holding my Earl/Staples issue of Viper, I gave Mercer a ring on Skype. We had a wonderful conversation spanning her career in hip-hop, fashion and hip-hop, hip-hop culture, hip-hop politics, and lots of other things hip-hop. Enjoy.

Adam Lehrer: We always talk about Golden Ages of hip-hop—, late ‘80s, mid-90s. But people never seem to realize that they’re living in a Golden Age. Do you think we’re living in a Golden Age of hip-hop right now?

Lily Mercer: I do. For me, it started in 2010. Now, I look at the artists I listen to. The only thing I would wonder about is the longevity. I don’t know if they are lyrically better artists, but for me, there are way more interesting artists now.

AL: There are your Kendricks and your Earls, but hip-hop has gotten more adventurous sonically. I like shit from the bottom up—from Dr. Yen Lo on the underground, to the stuff that Future put out this year in the mainstream. The pop artists and the underground artists are all good.

LM: I agree. When an artist like Kendrick gets to the level where he is now, that’s when you realize how many new artists are out there.

AL: Do you remember the moment you fell in love with hip-hop?

LM: Yeah. There were two songs. One was “Wishing on a Star” by Jay-Z. Weirdly, that’s the Jay-Z [track] that no one thinks of. My mum had grown up playing Motown, so there was a soul connection. It was hearing a song that was accessible but also quite deep. To me, those songs were quite profound at eight years old. After, when [rap] became an obsession, was when Eminem came out. That was a gateway drug. He’s a white rapper with middle class parents. I was a middle class kid, so it was the kind of hip-hop that was acceptable.

AL: There was an interview the other day with Vince Staples and Mac Miller, talking about the difference between white rappers and white guys who rap. White rappers come with all the stereotypes. White guys who rap are the guys who do it and respect the culture and the history.

LM: I’ve always said I’m quite racist because I never liked white rappers much. I didn’t actually listen to Mac Miller until recently. I do like his music now. I don’t know why I don’t listen to white rappers as much. This might sound weird, but white people in the industry don’t like other white people in the industry. There’s only one person around in this clique. You sit outside; I’m in this crew. They get cold towards you. I never understood that, but maybe that’s why.

AL: How did you realize you wanted to be on the editorial side of the industry, as opposed to making music or working in publicity?

LM: I’m musically disabled. I can’t read music. I can’t count beats. You would be surprised how little I know about the technical side of music. The business side can be shady, so I didn’t want to get into the business side of the industry.

As a five-year-old child, I was collecting magazines. Then, I ended up at fashion school doing fashion journalism. As soon as I finished, I thought about how much you could spend on a handbag, and I fell out of love with fashion. I graduated, then, literally a month later, I started interviewing rappers. I could create the images and the writing with authority.

AL: That’s interesting that you fell out of love with fashion. What was your relationship to fashion before?

LM: I always loved fashion. At age 5, I was dressing myself. My mum taught me how to sew. I always wanted to be a fashion designer. I met Alexander McQueen when I was about 14. I was out drinking one night (the drinking is 18, but we used to get away with it much younger).  I just went over to him and said, “You’re my favorite. I love you.” It sounds weird, but if I had become a fashion designer, I would want to be better than Alexander McQueen. And that’s impossible. There was nothing I had to offer the fashion world.

AL: Fashion is weird for me. I come at it from more of a music angle. I didn’t know about it brand-wise until Kanye West lyrics, to be honest.

LM: It’s funny, I used to dress like A$AP Rocky before A$AP Rocky. I thought, “These rappers are getting into fashion.” I think it’s a good thing for the fashion industry. The fashion industry benefits more than the music industry does.

AL: It’s crazy. You see men wearing Rick Owens’ dresses because A$AP Rocky said they look cool in a song.

LM: Especially with the whole skinny jeans thing. it was so skinny, then it went to baggy, then it was back to skinny. More than fashion, I’m really into street fashion and street culture. In London, we have a very large Caribbean community. Growing up in East London, the best-dressed men were Jamaican. If you asked me my fashion icon when I was growing up, it would have been Ghostface, with the gold, the Wonder Woman bracelet.

AL: Ghostface is my favorite MC of all time.

LM: Me too. He might as well be number one, because he’s all around—lyrics, interests. His imagination is cool. The way he speaks to people is amazing.

AL: It’s interesting, he’s hyper-literate with his lyrics, but in interviews, I can’t always understand him.

LM: One of my worst/best interviews was with him. It was in a caravan before he went on stage. He basically said I had two minutes. And I thought, “What am I going to do in two minutes?” He looks at me and says, “Are you going to start?” As soon as he said that, I snapped at him and said, “No, you’ve given me two minutes, what the fuck am I supposed to do?” He started smiling, and went from being in a really bad mood to being happy. Two days later, my friend saw him in the airport, and he said, “Oh, your friend was that cool blonde girl.” I can die happy now.

AL: You clearly are internet-savvy. How did you start to learn the power of the Internet? When did you realize how powerful it could be?

LM: It was all in building my own website. I’m not totally [internet] literate, I’m still figuring things out. It took me years to figure out how to use the Twitter handle properly. I’ve never tried to get followers out of anything. I’ve always been quite natural about it. Being a broke journalist, the Internet has made my career in London. If I were into rappers ten years ago, I wouldn’t have anywhere to go. The blog and Twitter have given me a bit of a following.

AL: How did the Lily Mercer Show, your radio show, come into fruition?

LM: It’s funny, I never thought I would do radio. But I was living in Queens. I got a DM on Twitter from this girl asking, “Did you ever think about having your own radio show?” She really knew about the artists I was playing, when no one else knew about them. These weren’t big people yet; they were really just my friends. She thought that would translate well into a radio show. I thought about staying in New York, because that’s where a lot of new things were happening. But when I got back to the UK and started working with Rinse, they asked me to do the show by myself. That was the summer of 2012. The show has been weekly since February 2013, which is crazy.

Nobody knows how big Rinse is in the UK: dubstep, grime, jungle, garage—all these really significant movements that were happening in the UK were broadcasted by Rinse when it was illegal. It was an illegal pirate radio station. They were literally climbing up random rooftops to get it broadcasted. That’s the most rebellious thing in the world. I love being on a stage with that history.

AL: Do you find that it was just really good timing, and that the show came into being just as Skepta and Novelist and all these guys were taking off?

LM: It was. You could hear people like Wiley and Skepta all over when it was still illegal. A lot of [grime artists] are managed by the station, actually. I was playing people Chance the Rapper and Tinashe two or three years ago. I started playing Kali Uchis on Rinse in the beginning of 2014, and she was on the Viper cover. Now, she’s got an album deal.

AL: I am a huge fan of Viper Magazine. What were the magazine’s origins?

LM: Basically, the first issue of Viper was a 50-page zine. That was our way of showing the world what we were going to do. Then, the next issue came about six months later. It was a full print magazine with 150 pages. It took me about nine months to plan it all out. I spent a lot of time figuring out 1. how to market it, 2. who I would want to put in the magazine, and 3. the actual logistics of it. It was ridiculous. When I did it, I was quite naïve. I didn’t realize how much work it is.

AL: You kind of have to be, right?

LM: Oh, yeah. I never would have done it otherwise. I made the magazine out of frustration.

AL: It reminds me of what The Face was for the fashion world, but for hip-hop. It’s writing about something that people might not take seriously, but in the culture that it exists in, it’s taken very seriously. But it’s still fun and enjoyable to read.

LM: The dream was to have it like that. I was buying Face in the last few years of it. That magazine killed itself well; it ended as one of those legendary magazines. Unfortunately, we’ve fallen into a bad state of journalism. Viper is as much about lifestyle as it is about music.

I remember reading about the crack epidemic and homelessness in hip-hop magazines. For the very first issue of Viper, the zine, I wrote a piece called “The Sound of Chiraq.” This was the end of 2013. It was basically asking, “Why are we so focused on the violence and not the incredible music that’s coming out of that city?” There were really poor documentaries that came out about Chiraq after that. Yesterday, I interview Saba, who is from Chicago. He was saying, “I don’t know why people don’t pay more attention to the music.” It’s still such a relevant topic now.

AL: Vince Staples was asked if people take hip-hop too seriously. He was like, “are you kidding me? Hip-hop isn’t taken seriously enough.” He said it’s the most important popular art form in the world right now. I totally agree. It reaches the most people and still says the most things.

LM: I agree. Vince is one of the best. He does something that’s really difficult—managing really difficult things in between things that are quite funny. You might not understand what he’s saying, but you’re aware of it. Earl does it really well. In “Hive,” he says something like, “It’s lead in that baby food,” and I thought, he’s talking about that thing in India. I recently watched a documentary on Tupac, and he says some things that are so explosive. He’s the last revolutionary musician we’ve had. He’s the last Bob Marley. He was the last guy to say something against the government. Kanye tried to do it. Somebody is going to stand up. Maybe it’s Vince, someone with the balls to say the things he does.

AL: It seems like the better fashion, art, and music journalism is coming out of London. There’s Viper for hip-hop. You have i-D and Dazed. In the US, everything is just a print version of Buzzfeed. Why do you think you guys are still able to maintain business models while writing about things that are interesting?

LM: I will say one thing: Rupert Murdoch bought Vice, and then he bought i-D. It’s genius. He can control the next generation. Young people go to Vice to feel intelligent, but they have no idea it’s owned by Murdoch. That’s not to say it’s going to become totally right wing. Besides that, London doesn’t have conglomerates. It’s easier to be independent.

On the other side, the English mentality has always been quite revolutionary and anarchist. I feel we have so much revolutionary history in our country. And a huge part of that is immigration. That’s what made the country. London is one of the most multi-cultural cities in the world. I’ve spent time in New York and LA, and they are still quite segregated cities. London is not like that.

The music scene is really exciting in England. Marvin Gaye, Bob Marley, Jimi Hendrix—they all lived in London for certain parts of their life.

AL: Hendrix became Hendrix in England.

LM: There’s something about this tiny island that’s in the middle of everything, but at the same time, is entirely its own. As close as we are to European cities, we don’t have the same lifestyle. I do feel that growing up in London, we have a real chip on our shoulder. You get these people who are really tough and moody, but who also have a sense of humor. There’s something about British culture that’s quite rebellious.

AL: Is there a single article you’re most proud of at this point?

LM: Oh, that’s hard, because I also wrote a really great article on the sexualization of men. It wasn’t a huge feminist statement, but I just wanted to write a piece that balances out the double standard. It started when a friend of mine didn’t believe that women watched porn. Like, women can be really sexual people, but at the same time it’s like, “You can’t touch me. You can’t say sexual things to me.” My friends and I will be like, “Oh, look at that guy,” but if a guy did that to us, we’d be offended.

But the Mick Jenkins article, I asked him, “What’s the biggest conflict in your life?” He said, “White people saying the N word at my shows.” Immediately, that opened the floodgates. We talked about really crazy things. He actually went in on Vice, about the Chiraq thing, and the way the mainstream media focusing on the (Chicago] violence. I don’t know why it’s my favorite. He made me feel like I could contribute a lot of my personal opinion on things.

Outside of that, I think probably my Nas cover interview for Clash. One, it was my first ever cover story. Two, there was so much room for me to say what I wanted to. I told his entire backstory.

AL: Rappers can be rather prickly. Do you have any interviewing tricks that you use to disarm a subject?

LM: Method Man and Ghostface were probably the hardest. I interviewed Method Man and Masta Killa at the same time, and then U-God and GZA that same day. I previously interviewed Rae and RZA, so I had done almost the whole Clan. That was sick. The first was Method Man. The people who had come in before me had given him books, so the entire time he was reading through a book. It was the worst thing in the world. I found him to be really defensive. I said something about the origins of the gangs in Staten Island, and he was saying, “We weren’t a gang.” Finally, at the end, we talked about his film How High and how everyone thought they were high and not actually acting. Finally, he looks me in the eye and says, “Yeah.” That was it—I got on his side.

I also think eye contact is the most important thing in the world. If I can’t make eye contact with someone, I’m not engaging.

I also find that a good question to ask anyone is, “What’s your favorite animal?” I never open with it. But when you ask disarming questions that aren’t about music, people open up a little bit. They become more human.

AL: Top 5 rappers?

LM: I would say in terms of legend figures, Ghostface is number one. Nas has to be in there, because he’s Nas. I really like Sticky Fingaz, which is a rare one. MF Doom. I’m not even going to say B.I.G. and Tupac, because that’s a given. The fifth one is really fucking hard. I might say Big L. He was so slick.

Learn more about Lily Mercer at www.lilymercer.co.uk and read Viper at www.vipermag.com. Text and interview by Adam Lehrer. Photographs by Flo Kohl. Follow Autre on Instagram: @AUTREMAGAZINE

A Bromance In Vinyl: An Interview With Elijah Wood and Zach Cowie of The DJ Duo Wooden Wisdom

photograph by Kenneth Bachor

text and interview by Scout MacEachron

 

At first nobody noticed when Elijah Wood and Zach Cowie began playing music. In those moments the duo had everything they wanted; anonymity, influence and unmediated feeling. Wooden Wisdom, the Wood Cowie DJ duo, was playing the Art Basel party Illuminate the Night at the unfinished Brickell City Center in Miami.

Then people did notice; women in ball gowns, 20-somethings in dresses a mother wouldn’t approve of, Miami types, men in whatever men wear to these things. The DJ booth was surrounded. The crowd gathered it does on a major subway line during rush hour: relentlessly, unpleasantly and pathetically.

It didn’t seem to matter that they were interrupted every minute so some partygoer could take a picture with Elijah Wood. It didn’t matter that the police put up a metal barricade half way through the set because people wouldn’t stop taking goddam selfies with Elijah Wood. It didn’t matter that most weren’t there to listen to music. What mattered to the two men was what they were playing music. And they were good, artfully leaping between disco, rock, house, jazz, funk and more. Wooden Wisdom’s style isn’t assault (like the DJs at MDMA fueled festivals) so much as warm suggestion. Wood and Cowie play what they want to play and it’s up to the listener to take it from there.

The duo met at a party in 2011. Wood spontaneously joined Cowie for a set and they’ve been spinning side by side almost ever since. Their first official tour was in January of 2015. Wood began mixing during long stretches on set in New Zealand; he was bored and had a lot of CDs. Cowie has been in the music business since anyone can remember, first as a record label guy then as a DJ. They share an obsession with the hunt for new music, old music, really any music they haven’t heard and Vinyl. They get each other and when on stage communicate without saying anything (a gift only the strongest artistic partnerships possess). They know that they get attention because of Wood’s fame but they don’t really think about that. For them it’s about the flow and selection that is DJ’ing, not image. Their passion is intrinsic. So much so that in a room of 400 flash-hungry Basel attendees if you listened closely, really closely, all you could hear is the music. In the following interview, Autre chats with the duo about their musical obsessions.

AUTRE: We’ll start with a boring question. How did you guys end up here, at Basel?

ELIJAH WOOD: We played a gig almost a year ago here at Bardot and I believe it was through that promoter. He kind of put us up for this. Is that right?

ZACH COWIE: I think that’s right.

AUTRE: So music and DJ’ing are clearly both art forms. For you two, as a team, what do you see as the specific artistry in DJ’ing? In mixing songs, in being up there, in selecting songs, in interacting with the crowd…

WOOD: It’s selection I think and mixing. But really it’s selection. I think that’s what sets any DJ apart from anyone else at its core.

AUTRE: The songs that you select?

WOOD & COWIE simultaneously: Yep, yeah.

AUTRE: So how do you two select?

WOOD: Prior to any gig, or if we’re going on the road for a small portion of time we’ll often just have a conversation about what we want to put in our bag. What we’re kind of feeling and that will sort of set the tone. Then we’ll pull based on those ideas. Then we’ve got kind of a basic very broad statement that we can kind of work within.

COWIE: Read the crowd, work around with it.

AUTRE: So do you plan out what you’re going to play?

COWIE: Nooo.

WOOD: No. We bring enough records that we don’t have to. We can kind of play it very organically.

COWIE: Yeah, and I think the beginning of the record pull is just the stuff we really want to hear today. Personally that’s how I pull all my bags and records. I start with the empty bag and I put in like 3 things that I really want to hear right now and I try and compliment those things with other stuff in our collection. And our tastes are so similar that they usually come pretty close. In fact we generally will be bringing a lot of the same records accidentally. [Both laugh]

AUTRE: When you say bag, do you mean an actual bag?

WOOD: Yep.

COWIE: Yeah, yeah we just play records so we don’t use the…

AUTRE: Right you guys just play records?

WOOD: Yeah, yeah. So they’re just like these travel bags…

COWIE: Flight cases.

AUTRE: So I know you’ve been asked this before but why just vinyl?

WOOD: [Zach] started with vinyl. I didn’t actually. I started with CDs and then ultimately iPod for a long time. So for me the difference is it’s active. It’s tactile, it’s physical.

COWIE: And a lot can go wrong.

WOOD: Yeah. And there are so many variables that can get fucked up over the course of an evening playing with records that it causes, it causes you to be fully active at all times and that’s something… you’re engaged, you’re constantly engaged. It’s a far more enjoyable experience from a technical standpoint. And it also sounds really good. It’s real, it’s physical.

AUTRE: So how do you deal with those mess-ups or accidents or whatever goes wrong?

WOOD: Pull another record.

COWIE: Pull another record. It’s stuff like that that makes everybody know they’re alive which, I think that’s… that’s where it’s at for me.

WOOD: The imperfections.

COWIE: The imperfections are the important part. If you’re listening to somebody on CDJs or something it’s like somebody is just tapping you on the shoulder at a steady beat for an entire night.

WOOD: And I also think that for me coming from having played with CDJs for a long time just for fun…. My problem with digital and the reason I moved away from it is that there are too many choices. I like having a finite amount of choices. When we pull records for a gig or for a two-week thing we’re pulling a finite amount of music that’s really specific. It’s broad but it’s specific.

"At a certain point when there’s a sweet spot. I feel like I’m in the music. I’m not really in the crowd I’m in the music. When it’s going really well that’s the universe I’m in and that is a really incredible feeling."

AUTRE: Finite in sense of the time?

WOOD: No, finite in terms of the physical space of the bag. So with a laptop or USB stick you have an infinite amount of choice and I think that that’s not necessarily a good thing. I love having parameters and working within those parameters. See what I mean?

AUTRE: Absolutely.

COWIE: There’s a DJ that I, that we both, love named Theo Parrish. I watched a documentary where he said that he’s never been comfortable trading artistry for convenience. That’s my favorite quote about that. We love records. That’s why we do all of this is to go out and find records, play records. It’s like, if it’s not in my hands I don’t feel like it’s a real thing.

AUTRE: Do you spend a lot of time… do you go to record shops and dig?

COWIE: All the time. All day, every day.

WOOD: Between record shops and Discogs and…

COWIE: I was buying stuff online on the ride over here. [Both laugh]

AUTRE: How do you feel physically and emotionally when you’re on stage and holding a crowd in your hands?

WOOD: Some of the greatest moments…

COWIE: It’s super fun but I also don’t really think about it.

AUTRE: Really? You just get in to it and don’t…

WOOD: Yeah, I think when you’re actually in the zone you’re not thinking about the audience. You’re kind of thinking about… for us, I don’t know maybe I’m speaking for myself. At a certain point when there’s a sweet spot. I feel like I’m in the music. I’m not really in the crowd I’m in the music. When it’s going really well that’s the universe I’m in and that is a really incredible feeling.

AUTRE: Kind of like Malcom Gladwell’s concept of flow.

COWIE: It is a flow state. It’s 100% flow. I know the day that I hit 10,000, it’s weird. It’s a real thing.

AUTRE: You just had a sense or you actually counted?

COWIE: No I just… there was a day when I stopped having to think about all the technicalities and only think about music. Like a guitar player doesn’t have to look at the neck of his guitar anymore. It was a cool moment. [Laughs]

AUTRE: How does feeling out the crowd and feeling their mood change what you play? Do you just feel it? Is there a zone?

WOOD: Yeah.

COWIE: Yeah. You can tell when something’s bombing. There’s just a vibe. And on the other hand you can tell when something’s really working. We try and act fast to compliment the stuff that’s working.

AUTRE: How do you guys work together or communicate when you’re on stage?

COWIE: Well we’re standing right next to each other so…

AUTRE: But I mean do you both control what’s playing? Do you look at each other before switching songs?

WOOD: No, there’s not a lot of conversation.

COWIE: We’ll we can’t hear each other because it’s so loud.

AUTRE: Do you wear headphones?

WOOD: We do wear headphones, yeah.

COWIE: We’ll just be like holding stuff up at each other and being like…

WOOD: Well if he’s got a good idea yeah he’ll throw something out and be like, “Do you wanna do this next.” But oftentimes we’re not even sharing what we’re going to do next except for the occasional glance over. It’s happening as it’s happening and there’s not a whole lot of conversation except for ‘that was awesome.’ [Both laugh]

COWIE: [Laughing] ‘That one’s really good, where did you buy that?’

WOOD: Or ‘can I take a photo of your record.’

COWIE: [Laughing] Exactly.

AUTRE: Last question. What do you want people to feel or experience while listening to you DJ and watching you on stage?

COWIE: I just want everybody to love music and to be inspired to go out and find records that they love. That’s all you know? It’s all music. I don’t want them to pay attention to us.

WOOD: Not at all.

COWIE: I just want them to love the music.

WOOD: I think we’d be really happy if we were in a box.

COWIE: Behind a brick wall.

WOOD: Honestly we don’t really like… sometimes we get put on stage and there’s lights focused on us and we don’t really love that because it becomes about something else. We’d be way happier tucked away and if it’s just about the notion of people focusing on the music. But I mean for people the takeaway… if people hear something that we’ve played and it inspires them to seek it out and they’ve heard something they’ve never heard before, that’s a really wonderful thing to try and impart on people.

You can follow Elijah Wood on Facebook and Zach Cowie on Twitter. Text and interview by Scout MacEachron. Follow Autre on Instagram: @AUTREMAGAZINE

Aarhus Is On Fire: An Interview With Danish Band On The Rise, Liss

Put a ‘B’ in front of Danish band Liss’ name and you have the perfect description of their unique, blissed out sound. Comprised of four teenagers from Aarhus (which is a little bit like the New Orleans of Denmark), Liss sounds like an amalgam of Arthur Russell angst and 90s R&B.  Currently, Liss – who are on the Escho label (known for introducing Iceage and KLoAK to the world) – is making waves on the international music scene, and it is only a matter of time before they blow up in the States. In the following interview, Søren Holm, Vilhelm Strange, Villads Tyrrestrup, and Tobias Hansen chat with Autre about musical upbringing, their unique sound and their new single, which will be released at the end of this month. Also, listen to their incredible track, Always, at the end of the interview. 

Autre: How did all of you guys meet each other and did you know right away that you wanted to make music together?

Tobias: Villads and I met each other at a music school we went to. Since that we've been playing a lot together. I knew Vilhelm a bit and had heard some music he had made with Søren which I really liked and we agreed to meet in me and Villads' rehearsal space to try something out. So I guess so. 

Autre: Growing up in Denmark, how did you gain access to music and what music were you listening to that inspired you the most?

Søren: By my older siblings, who introduced me to, for example Björk, Massive Attack and Prince - All the classics… And I guess that those are the ones who still inspire me the most musically today, but there is a lot of new music that also inspires me… I like all sorts of music. 

Tobias: My dad is a music teacher and he always played me a lot of music, so I think mostly through him. Also when I was little one of my dad’s good friends who lived in our neighborhood used to burn CDs for me with all kinds of music I should hear. It was music like Beastie Boys, Sex Pistols and Daft Punk - I remember listening a lot to that stuff. 

Vilhelm: My father was a big jazz fan back in the day, but he kind of gave up on listening to records when he got kids I think. I learned to play guitar through my brothers, and when I was around 13 I bought my brother's Stratocaster. I think the biggest musical influence I've had was when I discovered Radiohead and Portishead years ago. It kind of introduced me to pop music in some way...

Villads: Pretty similar for me. My dad is a music teacher and he played me a lot of his records. 

Autre: Do any of you have musical backgrounds….I know that in some countries, musical training is required in the curriculum?

Villads: I had quite a lot to do with music in school.

Søren: No, I started playing piano a few months before I met the other guys. 

Autre: Your sound has been described as “Nordic soul” – what is Nordic soul in your own words and would you use any other descriptions to define your sound?

Tobias: I don't really think we are Nordic soul. It's difficult to put a stamp on your own music but I guess we make pop in a way. 

Vilhelm: I think it’s always pretty hard to define your own music, it’s always easier for the observers of course. I usually tell other people we play pop music if they ask. Pop is such a broad concept - in my opinion it has no limits.

Autre: Are your parents supportive of what you are doing – it seems like they would be with all the attention you have been getting?

Søren: Yes, they are very proud, and they have been supportive from the start.  

Villads: My parents have always been supporting me musically

Autre: Most of your lyrics are in English…was their a conscious decision to sing in English versus Danish?

Søren: I've mostly been listening to music with English lyrics, so it just felt natural. 

Autre: What are some of your favorite things to do in Aarhus?

Søren: Aarhus is great because when I’m in town I get to visit my friends and girlfriend. 

Villads: I like to cycle.

Vilhelm: Hanging around the parks in the summer. Aarhus has some really great parks.

Autre: What do you want American fans to know most about your band?

Villads: That we really want to play for you all, and we hope it’s gonna happen sometime. I guess for all musicians in Denmark playing in America is a really big thing.

Autre: Where do you see yourselves in ten years?

Villads: I see myself in a bigger city but I don’t know if it’s Copenhagen or somewhere else. And I hope and think Liss will still exist at that point. 

Søren: Hopefully still evolving musically.

Autre: What’s next? 

Tobias: We are working on an EP right now, which will be out soon, hopefully. And then continue to write songs and do concerts.

Vilhelm: We’ve been using a lot of time finishing songs for the last few weeks, so I can’t wait to get back to writing new stuff.

You can preorder Liss' limited 7" single here with tracks Always and Try. You can also purchase digitally here. Keep up with tour dates here. Text and interview by Oliver Maxwell Kupper. Follow Autre on Instagram: @AUTREMAGAZINE

The New Funkadelic Revival: An Interview With Boulevards' Jamil Rashad On Bringing Funk Back To The People

“Funk is the DNA for hip hop,” George Clinton once said in a television interview, when asked why his music had such staying power. It’s true, funk music is the double helix of sorts for the hip hop that rose from the streets to the top of the record label chain and to a sort of a blanketed commerciality that makes the rap music of today seem very watered down. This is where Boulevards comes in – not only are they bringing back the downhome funkiness of hip hop, they are also making funk music for the 21st century, which is amazing. The best part is that it’s being made from scratch. Today, Boulevards is releasing a self titled EP with four beautifully produced tracks that are awash with tectonic plate shifting beats and a driving, panther-like sexuality. It’s the kind of music that elicits the kind of dancing that might get you arrested. Boulevards is essentially a one man band – North Carolina native Jamil Rashad – son of a jazz radio DJ who grew up listening to the kind of music that would shape his future musical endeavors: jazz, blues, R&B and, of course, funk. Rashad also went to art school and has an affinity for punk and hardcore music. Autre got a chance to ask Rashad a few questions, about his upbringing, his musical taste and about bringing funk back to the people.  

OLIVER KUPPER: I know your father was a jazz radio DJ, do you remember any specific musical artists that you were really inspired by growing up?

JAMIL RASHAD: When I was younger, a lot of the artists were Earth Wind and Fire, Kool and the Gang, Prince, Rick James, Miles Davis, James Brown and Con Funk Shun – a lot of Philly soul as well since my father grew up in Philly.

OK: When did you realize that you wanted to make music…was there a specific moment or did everything lead up to it?

JR: I mean I was 16, maybe 12, I used to write poetry. Those poetry lines turned into raps. I used to freestyle with kids in the bathroom and back of class. So in that moment I knew I wanted to do something with music, I just didn't know how.

OK: You gravitate a lot towards funk music…what is it about funk that moves you so much?

JR: Funk music is special. I love the complexity but simpleness about it. The style, the songwriting and how it crosses over to mainstream. I enjoy the syncopation of the instrumentation, the bass lines and some slap bass. But when It comes down to it, it's the grooves that I love so much and the way it makes me feel personally when I'm on the dance floor. My parents, your parents had funk music when they were growing up for their generation. Now I'm going to bring that feeling back for this generation. People want the funk.

OK: It seems sort of incongruous that you got into punk and hardcore…was that a phase or do you still have a little bit of that punk ethos?

JR: It wasn't a phase, I still listen to some hardcore bands and punk bands. I guess I always enjoyed the energy of their live shows and their instrumentation of music as well. It has always interested me and still does.

OK: What was the scene like in North Carolina….was it a strong hipster scene or cool kid scene?

JR: Raleigh is my home. Its not about being hip or cool. We are just us. We enjoy music, we enjoy live music, we enjoy new things, we enjoy being us and that's what makes Raleigh a special place. So much talent there. So many great things happening.

"My parents, your parents had funk music when they were growing up for their generation. Now Im going to bring that feeling back for this generation. People want the funk."

OK: Let’s talk about your personal fashion sense for a moment, because it's amazing…how would you describe your style?

JR: My style is simple. I'm about just being comfortable. That's really it. My father growing up was a big influence.

OK: Jumping back to your music…your new album is coming out, how would you describe this record?

JR: The EP is cool. I released the songs on my own label, Dontfunkwithme Records. Just have some jams I worked on with some of my favorite producers, Taste Nasa, Isaac Galvez and Rollergirl. They understand the funk. But it's a taste for what's to come in 2016 and beyond. I just want to create infectious jams for the dance floor.

OK: Listening to the track Honesty, it seems like you add a little fade out at the end that encourages DJs to mix it into their rotation, do you see people dancing the night away to your music?

JR: Thank you for that!! I've always wanted people to dance and feel good when they listen to my music. That's all I want. That's why I create the jams, so you can dance the night away with your friends, family and significant other.

OK: What’s next? 

JR: What's next? Just working on new music!! Creating the best music I can create to my ability.

Click here to download the digital edition of Boulevards' self-titled EP here - and the physical version here. Boulevards will also be making a few exciting live appearances in New York in November - more here. Text and interview by Oliver Maxwell Kupper

An Interview With Surf Noir Quartet La Luz's Frontwoman Shana Cleveland

It seems like something dark and catastrophic always happens right before surf-noir quartet La Luz records an album. Before the first album, it was a mass shooting in Seattle. Before the second album, it was a catastrophic car accident on a highway whilst the band was on tour. All of this misfortune, perhaps melded with the dark overcastness of the Pacific Northwest, gives the band a murderous and deliciously baleful sound. Just take the track Oranges off their newly released album entitled Weirdo Shrine, which was produced by the lo-fi, garage funk master, Ty Segall, in a surf shop in San Dimas. The song, which was inspired by a deeply haunting poem by the suicided beat poet Richard Brautigan, starts off with a fuzzy guitar riff that sends a dagger through your spleen and then, as the blood seeps out, becomes an instrumental ballad that is the perfect soundtrack for a homicide in the coolest spy film you’ve never seen. All in all, though, the entire record reminds you of some of the greatest from Spector, but remains contemporary in its beauty – the band’s harmonies and lead vocalist Shana Cleveland’s voice is near angelic. Autre got a chance to ask Shana a few questions about the band, the accident, and their collaboration with Ty Segall.   

Oliver Kupper: How would you describe the sound of La Luz? A lot of press releases have described it as surf noir. Is this accurate?

Shana Cleveland: I like the surf noir description. It’s a description that a friend who used to work at Hardly Art came up with. When a lot of people hear the term “surf rock,” they think of the Beach Boys—something light, or party music. It seems nicely clarifying to add “noir.” It hints at the fact that there’s something darker at play than simply cars and girls. I don’t know how to describe it—that’s the best description.

OK: Did you naturally arrive at the sound?

SC: It’s just what came out. When we started the band, the idea was to have a lot of vocal harmonies. I wanted to see more rock bands that had soul-influenced vocal harmonies. We also wanted to incorporate the surf-guitar sound. That was intentional. The “noir” part is just what came when writing the music.

OK: Did you grow up in Seattle? It seems like a far stretch from the world of those classic surf-guitar riffs.

SC: I actually grew up in Michigan, which is even farther away from any sort of coast. I started listening to surf rock when I moved to Seattle. I saw this band that could more aptly be described as “surf noir.” They were a super dark, experimental, instrumental surf band. They were playing at a house party, and everyone was dancing. It was one of the first times I had ever been to a show where people were having so much fun. It made a big impression on me. I started listening to more surf rock. I learned to play songs by The Ventures.

OK: What’s unique about Seattle is that you can do that—go into an abandoned building or someone’s grandma’s house and play music. Have you noticed that?

SC: Those places are always appearing and disappearing. I’ve lived in Seattle for ten years now. I don’t think any of the same DIY spots that were open when I moved here are still around. But there are always new ones cropping up. Where I live, in the University district, there’s a lot of that. There are so many kids; there are so many new bands. It’s inevitable that people are going to find crazy new places to have shows.

OK: Did you grow up in a musical environment? Did you know that you wanted to play music?

SC: Yeah. My parents are both musicians, and all of their friends are musicians. Plus, I’m an only child. I was always surrounded by musicians and hanging out at shows. At the time, I found it super boring. But when I was old enough, I gravitated towards it.

"If the accident made any influence on the feeling of the album, it was from how close we’ve become as a band."

OK: The accident seemed to have a major shift in the band, especially in the sound. Can you talk about how that changed the direction of the band?

SC: It’s hard for me to see. It’s definitely in there, but not obviously or literally. There is a heavy mood that is hovering over things. But I also think that in the first album there is a lot of that as well, so it’s hard for me to tell how much the accident had direct influence. I was dealing with some pretty heavy stuff when the first record came out. There was a mass shooting in Seattle, in a place where a lot of my friends hung out. Ultimately, it’s hard to say. If we made another album, and we had a great year leading up to it, we would still probably come up with something dark. If anything, it made us closer. In the last year, we’ve spent so much time together. We’ve been touring constantly. We recorded Weirdo Shrine at Ty Segall’s house in LA, and we left immediately from there on another month-long tour. If the accident made any influence on the feeling of the album, it was from how close we’ve become as a band.

OK: You recorded at a surf shop in San Dimas?

SC: Yeah. That was a happy accident. We were supposed to be recording at Ty’s new studio, but we couldn’t. At the last minute, we had to find a new place. His friend, Tyler, owns a surfboard company called Year One Boards. He offered his space, and a bunch of people from Ty’s band came to help move all this big, analog equipment into the surf shop. It was actually a great place to record. It was a big room with a lot of possibilities for mic placement and manipulation of the sound.

OK: There is a serious rawness to the album.

SC: Yeah, that’s definitely Ty’s influence. His idea was to make it feel alive, to capture the energy of live shows.

OK: How did you meet Ty Segall? 

SC: We opened for him in Portland. We really wanted to play with him. Afterwards, he approached us with a lot of excitement for the band. Even after that show, he said, “Yeah, let’s go on tour together.” I was like “Yeah, sure, buddy.” About a year after that, sure enough, we went on tour with him. In the meantime, I wrote to him and asked if he had any suggestions of whom we should record with. I really liked the way all of his recordings sound. And he said, “You should just record with me.” It worked out really well. On the tour, he got to hear a lot of the songs we had been working on. He was really familiar with them by the time we got to the studio.

OK: So, what’s next for La Luz?

SC: There’s a big change coming, but we haven’t talked about it publicly yet. We have a lot of stuff in mind. For the next month and a half or so, we’ll be on tour in Europe. I’m going to stay and travel around with Shannon and the Clams doing merch. I’m hoping to find some time to write more music. We’re working all the time. I’d like to get the next album out as soon as possible, but I have to start writing it first.

You purchase/download La Luz's new album Weirdo Shrine here. Keep up to date with current shows here. Text and interview by Oliver Maxwell Kupper. Follow Autre on Instagram: @autremagazine

Seattle's La Luz play their hit song "You Disappear" for the Ethnic Cultural Hour. Things get weird.

Sound and Vision: An Interview With Eskmo

Brendan Angelides, better known by his stage name Eskmo, is one of those rare musical artists and composers that can combine the natural sounds of the earth and digital elements with a romantic, alchemical simplicity that is orchestrally abstract, but also extremely beautiful - like a soundtrack for a flying dream. Eskmo has used samples of field recordings from Icelandic glaciers, the rain falling in Berlin, tour bus fan noises while passing through the American Midwest, and parking garage construction in San Francisco. Indeed, Eskmo is a constant diarist of sound and vision. His latest album, SOL – which was released back in March – takes a slight departure from his previous albums, but still holds true to the lineage of using samples and drum beats – it is also rife with Eskmo’s discernible aural brush strokes that are cinematic and otherworldly. The only difference is the grandiosity of scale and concept behind the album – combining traumatic life effects (which is delves into details in the following interview) and the entire celestial body of the sun as conceptual inspiration. With SOL, Eskmo may have conceived one his most personal, but also one of his best albums – an album that sees him poking out of the drum and bass pigeon hole that music journalists and critics have tried to put him into over the last decade. It is also proof that Eskmo has many sonic avenues to travel. With SOL, you can hear the power of the album after the first note – like a magnetic flare bursting through the darkness of space. In the following interview, Eskmo talks about his artistic journey as a composer, the inspirations behind SOL, his entrance into the Echo Society (a collective of Los Angeles based composers), and the music he likes to listen to at home.

Joe McKee: First of all, why so long in between records? Four years might not be that long to some, but it’s a significant time to develop ideas and to work on new material. What was the reason for the gap?

Eskmo: Logistically, I actually wrote a bunch of stuff in 2011 and 2012, but it was so far from what my other album was that Ninja Tune wasn’t even into it. I sat back with that, and I decided to release that material as two EPs—quietly, digitally on my own label. Just to hold onto the stuff in case anything were to happen.

JM: What was the gist of those EPs? Can you give me an idea of why it was such a big departure from the previous album?

Eskmo: For me, it wasn’t that big of a departure. I think [the record label was] at a particular place in which I had a certain buzz around me at a certain time. I was working with Amon Tobin. I had done a couple of things where I think they had a very particular idea of what I would do. They put out the first one just to see how it would go from there. I think they had a particular idea of the aesthetic that I would keep going in, which wasn’t my idea of myself.  My new stuff sounded more like Peter Garbriel. I was like, “That’s awesome! Isn’t that cool?” But that’s not what they wanted. They’re focused on a particular aesthetic. For me, so many different things were happening in my life in 2011 and 2012—the songs reflected that. There were things that were way over there and some things that were way over here. Proper heartbreak, proper crazy travel.

JM: Being pulled in different directions, and the music follows that.

Eskmo: It was all genuine and very authentic. It was still melodic, still sound-design-y, but it was pulled in different directions.

JM: When you talk about sound-design-y, could you elaborate on what you mean by that? Are you talking field recordings involved?

Eskmo: Not even necessarily field recordings involved, but more so the idea of creating the craziest type of sound possible doesn’t inspire me that much at that point. I didn’t relate writing that material. I did a little bit before that. The Eskmo album, the one with “Cloudlight” and stuff, was very methodical, very clinical-sounding, very precise. After, it didn’t make sense to ask, what kind of crazy new type of sound can I create out of this? I was genuinely feeling more inspired by more simple melodies and song structure. I was like, “Oh, that’s engaging to me,” instead of trying to make some crazy-sounding thing.

JM: When, you’re creating a record, when you’re sculpting that world, what are your parameters?

Eskmo: I think I have a sound palette, to a degree. Over the years, I’ve refined my ability. Specifically drum and bass taught me this years ago. Here’s a tiny little box—what can you do with that box and be creative? Taking that as a formula and applying it, I have been able to do that in different ways. With this [current] album, contextually, I started out just wanting to write an album that sounded like the sun. I wanted this big sound. My biological dad passed. I had record label stuff. Big things in my life were shifting. So the first, initial impulse—the sun thing—happened. A couple of tracks came out of that—“Sol” and later “A Thousand Furnaces.” Then, as the year went by, as I working on more of it, stuff would come up. Oh, wow, this is clearly a heartbreak song. Here’s another one, this is a very human, heart-on-sleeve song. Another song, “Blue & Grey,” I’m literally singing about a blue heron—fucking get more hippie than that. It felt right to me. Looking back at it, that’s why I started to associate it with yes, the sun, but there’s also really human stuff in here. The idea of the moon coming in was in relationship to a female-personified figure.  It had to do with authenticity, too. At one point during that writing process, I was trying to force writing an album about the sun. Why am I writing these tender things? But I decided I needed to just do that and see where it goes.

JM: What does authenticity mean to you, musically?

Eskmo: My personal relationship to it is a sense of vulnerability, a sense of being honest with that process. My version of authenticity would be not controlling that pre-ordained narrative of needing a particular type of song, a particular type of aesthetic. For example, the show at MAMA Gallery—I wouldn’t have done that a year and a half ago, man. I’ve had a hard time, in the past, even inviting friends over for dinner, nevermind inviting 70 people come to the gallery and watch me sweat and struggle in these very vulnerable positions. For me, that’s the authenticity in my understanding of it. I’m pushing myself while being very honest. Participating in that dynamic actually fueled the record, too. The same type of thing that I was experiencing emotionally and psychologically during the photo shoot was part of the album-writing process.

JM: Exposing yourself, breaking down the walls that you build. Letting people in, letting people understand the process. It’s more of a naked process that way.

Eskmo: A band that’s inspired me for a few years now—it’s rad to watch them progress—is Future Islands. Samuel Herring—I view him as a very authentic, vulnerable human. He’s just wearing his heart out there. Combined with his charisma, that’s why I seem him excelling right now. You have this guy saying, “This is me.”

JM: Beautiful thing to witness. On that note of inviting people in and taking down those boundaries that you may have previously built, with whom have you been collaborating? Who is instigating those collaborations?

Eskmo: Particularly on the album, the album artwork—

JM: I love that artwork; it’s beautiful. What is it looking down at?

Eskmo: A feather sculpture. Check out her stuff—Kate MccGwire. Her stuff is rad. Some of her art installations have feathers coming out of a pipe, and going out to walls. Amazing, alien-looking stuff. Also, the back cover is a wooden sculpture by my friend Aleph Geddis. That’s become a huge, integral part of the album theme. We worked with it in the music video too—we projected the geometric lines of the shape onto it. I can’t say this yet, because we’re just talking about it, but we’re working on making hollow versions of his geometric sculptures—50 to 100 of them—to sell along with the vinyl as a bundle-package. Also, my friend Dean Grenier is working on the art direction. That collaborative process—allowing people to do what they’re good at—I thrive in it. I think, in the past, I wanted more control. Particularly around the album and how the tour is going to go, I’m being more open to other people’s ideas instead of being more controlling.  

"Looking back at it, that’s why I started to associate it with yes, the sun, but there’s also really human stuff in here. The idea of the moon coming in was in relationship to a female-personified figure.  It had to do with authenticity, too. At one point during that writing process, I was trying to force writing an album about the sun. Why am I writing these tender things? But I decided I needed to just do that and see where it goes."

JM: At what stage did the visual artists on the record come on board?

Eskmo: The album art was after. Aleph—I’ve been friends with him for years, and I’ve always loved his sculptures. I wanted to work with him. The other artists—I didn’t know how to make that happen, until I decided I wanted to work with Kate. That feather sculpture, she already made that. The aesthetic—the feather thing was organic, alien, clean, minimal—what would work in tandem with that? Some of Aleph’s photos one morning, holding a wood block over his head—I was like, “This is it. This makes so much sense for me.” That process has been step-by-step, seeing it progress.  It turned into a thing where I was literally using his shapes during the music video, too. I was integrating feathers into the music video, too, which hadn’t been a part of it at all. Also, working with Dylan, the actual animator that was doing—that process was letting him do what he’s really good at.

JM: There’s a performative element to it.

Eskmo: 100%, man. Coming out of a place where I hadn’t really done any collabs—I had turned into this lone wolf thing—right now, I’ve been breaking out of that. The collaborative process is still new for me. It’s only been a year and a half of breaking out of that shell. I’m step-by-step. When new things come in, I allow it to flourish instead of trying to control it into a very specific kind of direction. In some ways, I’m taking baby steps, to be honest.

JM: Okay, what is the Echo Society, what is it, and how did it come about?

Eskmo: The Echo Society is a collective of composers, musicians, and artists in LA. We’ve put on two events so far with a chamber orchestra. We had a couple of guests for each show. Everyone, essentially, writes one piece for the whole ensemble that’s put together. It’s all LA-based musicians. We had seen a couple shows in LA before we did the first one, before we started talking about it. Other musicians were brought in from New York and stuff. There was one particular show that inspired us to do something more LA-based. We were inspired to do something better, to be honest. So we started talking about it. This came organically out of hanging out with a bunch of music nerd bros. We were just going to Disney Hall, to the Greek, and we decided—what would happen if we just threw our first one? It organically happened. Most of the other guys are doing film stuff—aside from David, who is doing electronic stuff, too. It just happened.

JM: Sweet. Do you have any other artists that you consider your peers creatively? Particularly in LA, but elsewhere too. Are there people you’re in communication with regularly that you might feel in competition with? Or feel inspired by, creatively? It doesn’t have to be musically, necessarily.

Eskmo: I’m definitely inspired by Rob Simonsen, one of the guys in Echo. He’s become really, such a solid hope for me. I’m inspired by his work ethic, how he’s built the work he has. Watching him work on different films.

JM: What’s he been working on?

Eskmo: The last thing he did was Foxcatcher. He scored that whole thing.

JM: How did he get into that world?

Eskmo: Oftentimes, in film, you’re an understudy for another composer. You do a whole bunch of work for them. He was with Mychael Danna—he did Moneyball and Life of Pi. He was doing his own score, but working with him. Then, it gradually got to the point where he was offered his own role. He did The Way Way Back. He’s in a handful of things right now. He’s working on something for the guy that did Independence Day. I’m actually getting to work on my first film score now, too.

JM: What are you doing? I know you’ve done some scoring for short films. “Memory 2.0” is one that I saw. What else have you done, scoring wise?

Eskmo: I’m brand new. Just this one that I’m working on right now. That was the goal of this album—to move past the idea of being a hyper-sound pointing artist. I wanted to write some pieces that were thematic, ethereal, and cinematic in general. And I wanted to present that alongside the Echo Society to put myself out there, so that I can do that work here in LA. That’s the direction, at least. I don’t know what’s going to happen.

JM: Let’s talk about rituals. I noticed, before you started eating, you bowed your head and took a minute before you ate. What other kind of rituals do you have creatively? Is there anything you need to do before you enter this creative process?

Eskmo: I try my best to meditate every morning. I pray every morning. I give thanks for being able to breathe. Ritual-wise for music, there’s no specific thing I do other than grounding myself.  But I don’t even do that all the time. If anything, I try to tap into what’s happening in my life, which I think any other artist does. What’s occurring for me? How can I express this honestly? I just let that carry me. That 90% of the time what happens. The other 10% is methodical. What’s happening out in the world? How can I, potentially, do my own expression of that? But usually it’s, what am I genuinely feeling? How can I get this out? Later, I go back and contextualize it.

JM: Tell me about the deaf music program you’ve been putting together.

Eskmo: We haven’t actually started it yet, so I don’t know if I should speak on it. I did an AV show last April in a movie theatre with some guys. My friend David Strangeloop. We were standing in front of the movie screen, doing the visuals that were synced up to the music. I’ve been working with this company called Subpac, which makes these vibrating bass packs. We brought thirty of them into the theater, and had people sitting with them—watching the visuals, hearing the music, and then feeling the vibrating bass pack. it’s very specific too. The lower frequencies hit down and goes all the way up your back as it rises. From that, I got inspired to do a show like this, but for deaf kids, for kids that can’t experience music in the traditional way.

JM: That’s a really exciting project.

Eskmo: I’m stoked about it. For me, working with kids, using technology—the biggest thing for me is the conversation. There’s something in that that’s moving me forward.

JM: There seems to be a swing back—in the past couple years it feels to me—towards ambient, electronic sounds. Why do you think it is that particularly ethereal music is finding its place again?

Eskmo: I know my own personal reasoning behind it. It’s a response to the environment. It’s a response to the United States electronic scene. Not in a sense that I’m trying to change anything. When I sit down to write something, there’s a part of me that wants to sit in that space. The amount of noise with the Internet, the amount of noise at any festival. There’s not good music or bad music—sonically, there’s a lot. For me, on the album, I want to convey different sides of that. There are tranquil, piano pieces, but at the same time, “Light of One Thousand Furnaces” is literally trying to evoke a solar flare on the sun. They’re both a genuine response to the state out there.

JM: Are you trying to locate something organic in an otherwise seemingly industrial landscape? What I’m noticing in a lot of this music is that marriage or things that are organic and things that are synthetic. It’s a cyborg middle-ground, which is really interesting. I’m curious about that marriage and where it sits anthropologically-speaking.

Eskmo: Some of the stuff I go back to the most, when I’m at home—I always put on gentle, ethereal stuff, for the most part. I listen to a lot of folk, too. It depends on the timing. If it’s a sunny Sunday, I’ll probably throw on some folk. It’s a genuine expression to my relationship to my life at this point. I try to be very mindful of it. That’s something I think about a lot. When you start to create art that is a reaction to this other thing, you end up being owned by it. As an example, if I were to make music that was a counter to DDM, everything I’m doing is a reaction. I’m still owned by that thing, instead of it being a genuine expression of how I’m feeling. I don’t want to battle this other thing. It’s this rage against the machine thing.  

Eskmo's SOL is out now on Apollo Records. Click here to purchase in multiple formats. See below music video for the track "Mind of War" directed by Eskmo with stop-motion animation by Dillon Markey, filmed live at MAMA Gallery. Photographs by Trevor Traynor. Interview by Joe Mckee. Intro text by Oliver Maxwell Kupper. Follow Autre magazine on Instagram: @AUTREMAGAZINE

Designing Exit Strategies: An Interview with Composer and Musician Holly Herndon

photograph by Maria Louceiro

Many people are quick to label San Francisco based musician and composer Holly Herndon a “futuristic” artist, but the truth of the matter is that she may actually be more present than many other artists that are working in electronic music genre. Present in the sense of her intentions and her use of the tools of our time. It is the music of the future imagined ten or fifteen years ago when composers were still primitively discovering and harnessing the power that computers can offer in terms of the construction of music. Moreover, Herndon is coming to the electronic music genre with a scholarly background and a deep understanding about the processes of music – after leaving Tennessee for the Berlin club scene where she immersed herself in the sounds of that culture, she received her degree from Mills College in Oakland. She studied under the likes of John Bischoff, James Fei, Maggi Payne, and Fred Frith. This year, Herndon saw the release of Platorm on the 4AD label. It is her second official album and it is being lauded by critics across the board. Autre was lucky enough to catch up with Herndon for a convo – she discusses the state of club music, her early experiences as a choir girl growing up in the South, and her blurring of the line between academia and pop music. 

Joe McKee: Tell me about the new record. I’d like to get an idea of what’s evolved, what’s changed, what direction it’s gone—musically, thematically, lyrically.

Holly Herndon: It’s always weird to summarize your own music. But I would say that it makes sense on this trajectory that went from Movement to “Chorus” to where it is now. If you follow that trajectory, you’ll end up somewhere that makes sense for this new record. I think one of the biggest aesthetic changes is that it’s involved other people. Movement was me being a weirdo in a room with no windows. It was a very isolated exercise. Whereas this has been very collaborative, which has been really good and healthy.

JM: What brought you to that point? Was it purely that getting too insular was starting to drive you a little bit mad? Or was it that you were feeling you needed to shake things up creatively?

HH: There’s some of that. But there’s also some of the navel gazing-ness that comes with working insularly. That was bothering me, in general, about music—specifically dance music. I felt like there was a lot of inward-reflection, where right now in our world we need more outward-reflection. There’s been a lot of escapism in the club in the last several years. I think escapism has a place, but right now, what we need is people designing exit strategies instead of partaking in escapist hedonism.

JM: And finding solutions?

HH: Yes, but it’s not “solutions” as in “solutionism.” In the Bay Area, that’s a problem with tech. People are very solution-oriented. With tech, you can solve any problem. I think it’s great when people are problem-solving, don’t get me wrong. But there’s also a problem with solutionism as a whole, when you think that you can solve any problem. This leads me to [an] interesting thinker, Benedict Singleton. He talks about building a platform of new ways for people to communicate with each other. He’s a designer by practice, so a lot of that comes out of the fact that you can never design the perfect future. You can never foresee all of the ways in which the world is going to change. You’ll design for the perfect future, but then something will be invented that changes the game entirely. You have to start over. You have to think in an entirely different way. So instead of trying to design this perfect solution, it’s more important to design platforms to communicate in interesting, new ways. Then, it’s like a petri dish. People can come up with their own solutions to new problems as they arise.

JM: Can you give any examples?

HH: One example for that would be Twitter. It’s kind of a cheesy example, but Twitter was originally designed to be an internal communication messaging board for quick messages inside of a company. Now, it’s become a platform for all kinds of different things. It’s a platform for people to talk about race issues, anything. Twitter has become its own beast—there’s no longer that little, internal communication. It was never designed to be a platform for these specific things. But it was designed in a way for people to communicate. 

JM: Let me reign you in and ask, where does that come into play in the record and the collaborative element?

HH: I started thinking about how I felt that a lot of club world was navel-gazing, insular, and escapist. I started to ask, How can music be an agency? How can music be important, and invited to the table to talk about important things, not just escapism or entertainment? I started looking to people who are thinking about these same things, but maybe in a different discipline. That’s how I started working with Metahaven.

JM: Tell me a little bit about Metahaven. Have you collaborated with them again on this record?

HH: I’ve been working with them a lot throughout the past year. Mostly just epic, long email exchanges. We did the video, and we’re working on some other stuff. They designed the cover for the record. I was interested in them as a design collective because this is exactly how they’ve approached their practices over the past couple of years: They said, “We’re really good designers. We have a great aesthetic eye. But we also care about all these other things. How can we use design as a force for good, or a force to talk about other things that we care a lot about?” If you look into some of their work, you’ll see really good examples of what I’m talking about. Some of the books that they’ve published and some of the projects that they’ve done are very much aligned with what I’m talking about. That’s why I was so drawn to working with them.

JM:  I’m curious as to how you got to this point creatively. Your upbringing—everything that I’ve read, it seems to begin in Berlin. Forgive me for not digging that deep; I like to keep a little mystery. But prior to Berlin, how did you find yourself composing music, particularly on a laptop? Did it begin at a young age? Did you come from a music family? What instigated this long, complex, in-depth journey that you’ve had with composition?

HH: My earliest musical experiences were in the church. I was in the church choir. I was also in the school choir and the state choir. That’s where I learned how to read music. I also took guitar lessons at the church. I grew up in the South, so a lot of life outside of school is church-involved. But I also started making weird, cut-up radio shows—not a real radio show, but a recording on a cassette. I started doing that when I was really young with my best friend—fifth grade. Ten or eleven.  Really young—we were playing with dolls. We had this radio show, which was so insane—I don’t know why we came up with it. But now that I’m thinking back on it, it was probably a weird response to the neo-con radio stuff that we were exposed to. But we had this radio show called “Women’s Radio.” I did not grow up in a feminist situation. We would do fake interviews with Madeleine Albright and Hillary Clinton.

JM: That sounds quite advanced for a ten or eleven year old, I must say.

HH: We didn’t know what we were saying. Madeleine Albright was a serious thinker—we were not bringing her to light at all.

JM: I was climbing trees and bumping into things at that age, so its very impressive that you were doing those things.

HH: I seriously think if you listened to it now, you wouldn’t be impressed, [but] I started messing around with recording over stuff—in a super-simplified way. That’s my earliest memory of sampling.

JM: Bridging the gap between then and now, can you give me a little dot-point form of how you found yourself in Berlin in that club scene world? And then coming to a point of exploring the academic angle?

HH: When I was in East Tennessee, I knew that the local German teacher arranged exchange programs if you learned German. I really wanted to get out of East Tennessee and go to Berlin. This is before I knew what “Berlin” meant, naturally. I didn’t know it as an electronic music site or anything like that. I just knew that it was far, far away.

"I loved Tennessee, obviously. But at that age, it’s like, 'Get me the fuck out!' I learned German and did this exchange. Through that, I met a German guy, and I fell in love with him. He was a club kid, so I was initiated into that world. We broke up." 

JM: You wanted to get the hell out of Tennessee?

HH: I loved Tennessee, obviously. But at that age, it’s like, “Get me the fuck out!” I learned German and did this exchange. Through that, I met a German guy, and I fell in love with him. He was a club kid, so I was initiated into that world. We broke up.

JM: Do you feel like you got stuck in the club scene?

HH: It’s like anyone who explores music. I feel like people get really stuck on the club part, and that’s probably because it was the first thing that I did. But I was also involved in other scenes in Berlin. I was always going to new music concerts. I was never fully satisfied with one thing. I was always trying to check other things out.

JM: Then what did you do?

HH: Then, I wanted to formally study. I was always trying to make stuff myself, and it never really sounded the way I wanted it to sound. I applied to a program in Berlin and to Mills. I got into both programs, but I decided to go to Mills because it seemed like a better fit. Fortunately it was a really good fit. That’s when I got exposed to the more academic side. But Mills is a very unusual place for the academy. It’s super hippie, super laid-back. I wouldn’t have been able to go to a more traditional program. Mills is a pretty special place for that. And I had never considered doing a doctoral program. I had never even thought about it. But then, when I was at Mills, that was something people were talking about. I didn’t even realize it was an option. Then, I started to learn more about the DIY computer music history in the Bay Area. I learned about CCRMA [Center for Computer Research in Music and Acoustics] which is here in Palo Alto. It’s like a rabbit hole—you uncover one thing, then you uncover the next thing.

JM: It seems that the more you dig into the music composition, sound art world, everything seems to be under the cover of darkness. The more you dig, it’s incredible what’s revealed. I’ve been having chats with a few people of late, and I find it incredible. The support group, the size of this scene—it is really not exposed in a big way. It’s a massive undercurrent, internationally, which I’ve only learned about in the last few months.

HH: As part of my program, we teach. I was able to introduce new curriculum, which is awesome. So I’m able to teach my own class—the Aesthetics of Experimental Electronic Music Post-1980. A lot of programs stop their pedagogy, the repertoire they cover in the 70s. The 60s and 70s was the heyday of electronic music, and no one wants to talk about the digital 80s. This musicologist PhD student and I designed this program together. Even though it doesn’t sound like a lot of time--1980-2015—it’s so hard to cover everything we care about. It was this huge timespan; we keep running out of time in all of our lectures. That’s the wonderful thing about music—you can always be learning about something new.   

JM: Now, maybe, more so than ever. It’s endless, the amount of music that’s being created and released. It’s impossible to keep up.

HH: It is impossible. But that’s one of the purposes of the class. It’s not about learning the history, necessarily. The history is important, but it’s not about having a photographic memory. It’s more about having the skills to be able to make an aesthetic judgment on something—why you like something, or why you don’t like something.

JM: That’s a very good point.

HH: When something is released after the students have come out of the class, I want them to be able to listen to it and make up their own minds. I want them to be able to argue why they think it is or is not good, to know its history.

JM: On a completely different note, can you tell me about your time learning with Fred Frith? I’m a fan of his work.

HH: Oh, that seems like ages ago! Fred is an awesome composition teacher. Stylistically, we’re very different. There are some composition professors who impose their sound on you. And then there are those really great ones who don’t impose their sound or even their aesthetic on you. Instead, they try to give you the tools to be able to better shape your own work, or think about your work in different ways. He was one of those in the latter category.

JM: I dare say there are some parallels between your work and his. Despite his being more acoustic-based, I can see parallels.

HH: Just the whole improv thing—that’s a huge deal at Mills. They have a program for improvisation. I wasn’t in that program, but it’s so small that people from different programs are all together. People were improvising all over the place. I was in his improvisation ensemble when I was there. I don’t improvise in the same way—I don’t do free improv now. But having that experience definitely has impacted my studio and performance practices.

JM: I’m curious how that affects your composition, too. Being from an academic background, your job is to dissect and intellectualize your work. Where do you draw the line between the cerebral and the visceral? Is there an element of chance in your compositions? I was speaking with Jonathan Bepler about this; improvisation is a huge part of his composition. How does that come into play when you’re dealing with things like computers and software?

HH: I think it depends on for whom I’m writing. If I’m writing for myself, a lot of it comes out of studio improvisation, setting up the system and then improvising with it. If I’m writing for someone else, I make a conscious decision on how much freedom I want the player to have within the composition. I wrote a soprano solo last year, and I gave her, basically, chords and rhythms to play with. But I gave her great flexibility as to how she wanted to order the. It totally depends on for whom I’m writing, what the point of the piece is, what the performer/composer dynamic is.

JM: But did you find—in the case of writing this record—that there were moments of chance and improvisation? 

HH: Of course! That’s what noodling around in the studio is, eventually. Its not always, and then I’m going to do this. It’s like, this part works, I’m going to try out this thing and see what it sounds like next to it or on top of it. That’s improvising, too. A lot of it is setting up a vocal or percussion system, letting it run, playing within it, and then picking out the good parts. A lot of the percussion parts are written that way.

JM: When you’re creating these on the laptop, in a fairly academic realm, you’re really blurring the lines between the worlds of academia, club music, electronic music, and pop music. What is the pull-push relationship there? Is there much thought that goes into it? Or is it a natural inclination to tie all of these worlds together?

HH: I think it’s something that I have been wanting to do for a long time but didn’t know how. I felt like that was a burden that I was placing on myself—and maybe the academy was, lightly, but not overtly. You can hear that in Movement. It’s almost like each track is in a different genre. It’s contained—this track is like this, this track is like that. That was still my brain separating things. I don’t want to feel like I want to do something for one context and something different for another context. But I feel like that’s imposed on me sometimes, too, because I can work in different scenarios. I’ve had festival organizers ask me to play their festival but not play any beats. That was really strange—why is there this divide? Especially when it’s considered a divide between a low-brow and high-brow thing. The album definitely has tracks that clearly belong somewhere. If you needed to categorize the tracks, they would clearly be in a different category than other tracks. But I think I’m getting better at blending all of my interests more seamlessly.

Click here to download Platform in multiple formats. Holly Herndon will also be making a number of appearances, including Mississippi Studios in Portland, Oregon on July 30 (buy tickets here). Visit her website for more tour dates.  Interview by Joe McKee. Intro text by Oliver Maxwell Kupper. Follow Autre on Instagram for updates: @AUTREMAGAZINE 


Momentary Masters: An Interview With Strokes Guitarist Albert Hammond Jr.

Most people know Albert Hammond Jr. as the nicer dressed guitarist of The Strokes – with his signature curly-cue mop and cigarette cocked askew. After a little more than a decade of being in the band that defined a generation and kicked off a garage-rock revival, Hammond started exploring his own artistic journey, which has resulted in two solo albums – his third, Momentary Masters, is set to drop at the end of this month. This latest album is much more personal for Hammond – who is an artist realizing his place in the universe outside of himself. After emerging from the cocaine-dust-choked atmosphere of his youth, Hammond is learning about home, family and security. He has survived the shipwreck of his own self and is now clinging to newfound shoreline. In fact, his new album, which he calls “a love letter to my past self,” was recorded at his home studio in upstate New York, which has perhaps allowed Hammond the unique opportunity to open up like never before – with each song you can really feel it. The name of the record borrows from astronomer Carl Sagan’s Pale Blue Dot: A Vision of the Human Future in Space, which proposes that in the grand scheme of the things, we are all only “momentary masters” during the little time we have on earth, so you may as well enjoy the ride. In the following interview Hammond talks about moving forward, the process of making music at home and the importance of realizing the impermanence of everything. 

I want to talk about the Strokes, just because that’s such a big part of you as an artist. I remember vividly when that first music video came out for “Last Night” on MTV. It was the last hurrah of MTV premiering music videos. But everything was girl bands, boy bands, pop music. It was terrible, all the candy pop music. Then, your music video came on, and I didn’t know what to think. What do you think about when you look back on those days?

It was fun… Are there words to describe such a moment in one’s life? I said “fun,” and thought, “Wow, what a terrible word.” Yes, it was fun. It’s life-changing. I felt it beforehand and during and after, but I never really think about it. Maybe when I’m sixty I’ll lie down. I feel still like I’m reaching for the new. It was all new and exciting at the time.

So you’re chugging forward. You haven’t really processed, you’re just moving forward.

I love it. It always sounds negative. It always sounds like I don’t care about it, but that’s not the case. It’s amazing, but it’s more fun for people who weren’t in it to reminisce about it. If not, you get stuck in that. Sometimes, as a band, we’ll reminisce. It’s fun. You have old jokes.

I’m more thinking in the sense of how that music was breaking through what was going on at the time. It was pretty amazing.

I remember believing in what we made. The same way I am now—just so happy with what was there to promote. I felt like we had succeeded already. Everything else was out of your control anyway. All you could do was do the things you do.

What were some of your musical influences? What kind of music did you listen to when you were younger? I know your father was a musician. Was he a big influence?

I fell in love with music through Buddy Holly, Roy Orbison, The Beatles, The Doors, a little bit of underground, David Bowie, The Stones, The Talking Heads, Jonathan Richman, The Cure, The Cars, Guided by Voices. That’s just the first round in my head. I got into classical music with Beethoven.

What is your favorite thing about making music? What is your favorite thing about music in general?

There are always points in music. You start with nothing. You create something that you want to share with people. Parts get better, maybe parts get worse. Then, you reach a new high point like you did when you first discovered it. You keep getting these new highs and lows. It’s a constant up-and-down feel. That challenge, and the overall outcome from accepting that challenge—I love that. I love when you get to the end of a song and say, “Wow, I can’t believe we made that.”

What’s my favorite thing about music? Music and movies broke me free, when I was a teenager, from thinking and living in a box. I was moving like a robot, and then it opened a new door into how to think about things. It affected me very deeply. It completely changed my life. It’s like that cheesy Jesus thing—he’s “always by your side.” Music has always been by my side. It’s my meditation, my reason, my understanding. It’s led me to many different outlooks in my life.

You grew up in LA, right?

I did, yeah. I grew up in the San Fernando Valley. I enjoyed it as a kid because I lived in the suburbs, and you could ride your bike. LA has that city, but you can still be in the suburbs. But growing up, I didn’t like it. For me, it was strange.

"The record, if you listen to it, has layers. That’s how life feels to me. It has its strange moments. You end up thinking about stuff happening, and you realize that we’re all in the same boat."

Do you think New York is your home?

Yeah, I came here, things clicked. I live upstate now. Well, I tour and travel a lot, so “home” is a place where I go to regain energy. It’s easier to have a house and a yard. I can come to the city and use its purposes, but just as much, I don’t need to be there everyday.

You recorded your new album at your house?

If you have a studio, you’re going to use it.

Do you think it’s easier to record at home versus a studio that maybe you’re more unfamiliar with?

It’s definitely more fun to record at home. For me, to be able to say, “Take a break,” and not worry about it is great. I don’t think I could have done it the way I did it. The way you do it for a week and then come back a month later, moving all the gear into another studio, would be a nightmare. By the time you set up, you almost have to go again. I think that’s why people build studios—to have that quality, but also to have the time.  

I’m thinking about The Band—there were a lot of great albums that were recorded close to home. You can feel it in the music.

For me, recording, we’d wake up in the morning, we’d go for a run, and we’d eat meals together. We’d play music and then go back to the house. We always watched TV at night. Those are enjoyable things in life, whether you play music or not. Doing that made the overall experience more fun. And when it got to where we couldn’t break through, we’d walk out, take a second, and breathe for a minute. In a studio, you’re paying a bunch of money to play twelve hours straight. You try as much as you can, but you always walk in a little more broken.

In terms of influences for this record, I know sobriety has been a big part of your transformation.

It’s less of an influence and more what enabled the record. That’s the first step. There are so many things I did after that that led to the record. But without that first step, you can’t do those other ones. That’s why it always seems like the biggest one. It’s constant though. I fuck up left and right. You find new demons to exist. You find new ways to destroy things. But you confront it and fix it again. It’s not like, Yay! Happy! Done!

And you have to keep working through that. It’s a lifelong thing.

Yeah, exactly. [Singing] We’ve only just begun.  

A lot of people have these patron saints that come into their lives in many different ways. You talk about this girl Sarah, in terms of being able to open up your creative process. Can you talk a little about that?

At a time that I was figuring stuff out, she gave me new musical influences, new influences with writers. She had work ethic with writing—the idea of words. When I was playing with this band, I knew I wanted to try new things to see if it would work. It started to work, which gave me more time to work on melody and lyrics. In the two weeks spent with her I reemerged. At the time, I didn’t realize it was going to do that. I didn’t know. Those are things that happen in life, and you just try to be aware of them.

I’m looking at the cover right now. There’s a Bauhaus theme to the aesthetic. Can you talk a little bit about that?

I like the idea of light and dark, black and white. The idea that there are two sides to yourself. Everyone has projections of them, and that comes out in the record. Obviously, I wish I could have thought of that Day One, but it happened slowly. It took a while to evolve. Then this photo came out—it was perfect to explain that. The profile, the shadow of it, the way the lines work, and it looked good. It felt great. We had different album titles. Then when “Momentary Masters” came in, it seemed to help tie in the shadow theme. It offered a cool perspective to the record. Just two words—I kept repeating those words. I thought they were great.

And it’s based on one of Carl Sagan’s philosophies, right?

Yeah. The blue dot. You can YouTube the clip. He talks about Earth and everything we’ve ever known and done is in this one space. As he pulls away from the planet, you see how tiny and meaningless everything is. We create meaning. To me, that allows for change, allows for the human element, for mistake. It lets us learn. He says, “Momentary Masters” talking about how funny it is that people are fighting for a fraction of a dot to become momentary masters. Nothing is permanent. Even when it feels so permanent, it isn’t.

That’s why we need to keep making art, music.

You create your meaning around that. I still have things to say… You have to listen to it. It really relaxes me.

It’s comforting. A lot of people seem to do things for the sake of permanence. It seems a little bit desperate.

Yes.

What do you want people to know about you as an artist that they don’t know already?

I don’t know if it has anything to do with words. What I want them to know is in this album and how I perform my live show. I’m at the stage where I feel like I don’t even know. If anything, that’s kind of what I’m saying and doing. The record, if you listen to it, has layers. That’s how life feels to me. It has its strange moments. You end up thinking about stuff happening, and you realize that we’re all in the same boat. The record means a lot to me. I made it with the idea of trying on my own two feet. I don’t know if I can move people, or entertain people, or both. That’s what I mean by “It’s in the music.” I don’t know what to say, other than, “Hear it.” Your perception, your writing isn’t as important as the music.  

"Momentary Masters" will be available July 31st, 2015 in the US/EU, July 29 in Japan. Pre-Order now and Get "Born Slippy" & "Losing Touch" instantly. Text and interview by Oliver Maxwell Kupper for Autre Magazine. Follow Autre Magazine on instagram: @autremagazine

The Cairo Gang Goes Missing: An Interview With Emmett Kelly

                                                          Photograph by Jim Newberry 

Emmett Kelly exists in many shapes and musical forms.  His immense talent and abilities have brought him into the studio to add licks to some of the last decade’s most interesting indie albums.  One of his main collaborators is Will Oldham, otherwise known as Bonnie “Prince” Billy – the great Americana balladeer with a Satyr’s cheeks and an Irish lumberjack’s facial hair. Some highlights from their collaboration, which has resulted in multiple full-length albums and singles, include a track created for a homage soundtrack album for the 1971 surf film Morning of the Earth and Billy’s 2006 album, The Letting Go, which was recorded in Reykjavik, Iceland by Bjork producer Valgeir Sigurðsson. However, Kelley has also been steadily putting out records under his own moniker, The Cairo Gang, which is a band he started back in high school and that still continues to take form and propulsion with each album that is released. The latest Cairo release, Goes Missing, seems much more full than previous records and much more well rounded, but Kelley’s voice is right there to punch you straight in the heart with brass knuckles and the lyrics are more biting than ever. It is truly one of this year’s best albums and it makes you want to listen to Cairo’s entire discography over and over again. Autre got a chance to speak with Kelly and our conversation ranged from talking about his stint living in Chicago and experiencing the experimental music scene there, his collaborations will Bonnie “Prince” Billy, his current album and where he hopes to take his music next.  

Did you have musical background? Did you come from a musical family?

Yeah, I came from a musical family. Both my parents were musical.

When did you know you wanted to become a musician?

I didn’t really know, ever. That was just how life was. I grew up in this kind of environment. Music always had a presence. I just sucked at school.

You’re known as a session guy, like a hired gun in the studio. When did that start? Did you have any early aspirations to be in a band?

I’ve always been in bands, since I was a teenager. I grew up in LA—I never thought of being a hired gun. I didn’t even realize that was a thing you could do, ever, as a job. Until I moved to Chicago and started getting gigs just being in a bar band, or whoever’s band. I was never really thinking about being a hired guy.

I grew up in Los Angeles, as well.

Where are you from?

I grew up on the West Side, a little bit of Hollywood. Everywhere. Where did you grow up, specifically?

In the valley… LA seems like a boomtown right now.

It does seem that way.

It’s definitely creatively booming.

It’s funny, there are a lot of artists and musicians moving there from different parts of the country, especially New York. A lot of these musicians and artists don’t like talking about it. They don’t like being part of this migration.

They don’t want to be part of the LA migration?

Yeah, they don’t want to be part of the trend or something. They’re too cool. But it’s a definitive migration.

Yeah, it’s so ridiculous because they don’t want to admit to having a good life, living in a beautiful place.

Exactly.

New York is chaos. I always forget about the chaos in New York. You’re surrounded by people in this giant, concrete prison. LA is beautiful.

You lived in Chicago for a spell, what prompted the move to Chicago?

It wasn’t a conscious thing. I was travelling. I spent the ages of 17 to 25 travelling. I was passing through Chicago just because my sister was living there. I heard some music and stayed another week, then heard some more music and got an apartment. It’s easy to live there because the cost of living is very low. And, at the time, there was really great experimental music. There’s still a lot of experimental music. But it seemed really exotic to me at the time.

What kind of experimental music?

The main one was this bar—a really crappy bar—in Chicago called Rodan. It’s a totally shabby-but-trying-to-be-fancy kind of market scene that serves fucked up champagne drinks. I was at this bar; there was this band that used to play there every Tuesday. They just played free, experimental music. It was insane. Just to see it infiltrate into a meat market. This incidental thing was blowing my mind. You would never see that in Los Angeles or New York. I stayed for another week and I learned that there was this bookstore down the street that had experimental music every week. That kind of shit—that’s absolutely where my head was. Instead of someone who wants to go to shows, more experimental things are way more exciting for me. LA and New York—everything tried to be really marketable in some way, even to a niche audience. But the experimental scene in Chicago was aggressively anti-having an audience, even. I think that’s really a cool way to be.

"It’s sort of why I ended up back in LA. I felt like the scene was starting to cave in on itself. It wasn’t as exciting anymore. But I feel like a lot of people in the city felt the same way. It’s hard for me to tell. Every place you go, when you start to get anxious to leave, you start seeing all this negative shit."

Going against the grain. There’s such a scene in LA, a scene in New York. “Scene” is such an overplayed word.

But it’s true. But there’s a scene in Chicago. The free, experimental community in Chicago is totally a scene. It’s sort of why I ended up back in LA. I felt like the scene was starting to cave in on itself. It wasn’t as exciting anymore. But I feel like a lot of people in the city felt the same way. It’s hard for me to tell. Every place you go, when you start to get anxious to leave, you start seeing all this negative shit. But who knows. People think of it as negative. They probably don’t if they live there. Chicago seems like a tormented kind of place.

I want to ask you, what have been some of your most fulfilling music collaborations?

Obviously, I spent a long time working with Bonnie “Prince” Billy. That was definitely the most comprehensive for me. He’s an excellent composer of songs, lyrical and melodic. His awareness of how he wants to practice in a band setting, in a collaborative setting is really in line with my philosophy on that as well. Improvising is very important to me. Whenever you play songs or make records—I never feel like there’s a definitive version of anything. If you play it live, it should always be changing. You should always discover something new about it. With Bonnie “Prince” Billy, it was amazing to realize that you could improvise a song. If you think about it, the song is really the lyric and the melody. You could always change it. There’s a million ways to do a song.

I read somewhere—I don’t know if this is true or not—but Van Morrison’s “Astral Weeks,” a lot of those songs are improvised.

Yeah, that’s an improvised record. There was probably some preparation on his end, as far as what chords he was playing. But that record was done in the middle of the night with some of the best musicians in New York at the time.

It’s incredible. It just goes to show how far you can take that and still be so complex.  

Absolutely. I feel like it’s so stale, when bands go on the road a lot of the time they’re worried about re-creating the record, making something that when people see it, they see what they want. It’s assuming that an audience doesn’t ever want situational life in their music. It’s fucking weird. Obviously, it’s impressive. I just recently saw Magma play, and they were totally phenomenal. Of course, that music is so deeply composed that it’s impressive to see it happen live. But rock and roll’s about situational energy. So it’s ridiculous to think that you would come up with a sound and then stick with it.

Is there anything really exciting about the music industry right now?

Yeah, I think there’s something really exciting going on. No one can understand what’s going on in it. And that’s really interesting, I think. Everyone’s freaked out because their record business is failing. Or they’re freaked out because it’s killing. Everyone’s feeling this apocalyptic thing. I guess the thing that’s always in apocalyptic thinking is the idea that the end of something implies the beginning of something else. I’ve always had trouble with the music business, so I can’t say I’d be very sad if it died a miserable death. But at the same time, I’ve had a decent relationship with it. Hopefully, it’s not some rapture. One thing that was really great about my experience in Chicago was that people had fun playing music. I feel like you forget some of the fun stuff when you’re surrounded in industry. Being in LA… When I was a teenager, LA was the best place ever for a band. There were so many amazing bands. Every band that you’d hear, there was some horrible thing about them trying to get something going… I really don’t know. I like that there’s so much working outside of the record business. Hopefully, people stick with it.

And the Cairo Gang—is that a band or a solo project? Reading about it, every band seems to have the same cast of musicians. How would you describe the Cairo Gang?

The Cairo Gang, originally, was a band in LA back in high school. It’s kind of grown—anytime I wrote a song, I wrote it as part of that name, for some reason. And the name has grown in importance to me over the years. It’s been different bands. All the records are my doing. There have been a few people that have played some stuff on records, but I haven’t made a proper band album.

How is your current album, “Goes Missing,” different from other Cairo albums?

It was recorded in different locations. That’s a big thing. It happened at a different time. There’s a lot of things that I assumed I would never really use, like sound machine, for examples. I thought I would never use a sound machine on a record, and I did.

Last question—what is next? What do you want to explore next?

I want to play a lot of shows. I want to have a band develop and immediately make another record with them. I’m working on a lot of new songs, but they’re open for progressions. It would be amazing to have a band that was playing a lot. The band would be amorphous, sort of an interpretive group. We could go and make new music that is situational. I’ve been listening to this band, Gong, lately. I really love the spirit of that music. I wouldn’t want to make a record that sounds like Gong at all. But I like the fact that it comes out of a lot of playing.  

Buy The Cairo Gang "Goes Missing" here. Follow them on Facebook to stay up to date with new releases and concert dates. Interview and text by Oliver Maxwell Kupper 

photograph by Rachael Cassells

Nature Slut: An Interview With Sexual Mystic and Artist Bunny Michael

                                                                                     photograph by Katherine Finkelstein

Back in 2007, she was Bunny Rabbit – it was the era of scenesters, top eight, Internet party photos, seemingly blind vapidness and a generation of millennials desperately seeking a discernible identity. She sang about taking cocaine anally and smoking marijuana vaginally – with backing beats from trans MC and Coco Rosie beat boxer Black Cracker. Her album “Lovers and Crypts” garnered a lot of attention – Sasha Frere-Jones in a New Yorker article dubbed her “the original art rapper.” Today, she is Bunny Michael – after four years of self-realization and a recent sexual revolution she has found a deeper, more meaningful side to herself as an artist and a person. Her recent series of photographs, which are on view now at Alt Space in Brooklyn, are a testament to her evolution and elevation. The exhibition – entitled “The Etheric Double – is the artist’s first solo show and features portraits of the artist and her “spiritual twin” who is manifest as a higher consciousness and a conduit for “kindness, love and acceptance.”  In the following interview, Bunny talks about coming out, sexual revolution and the importance of finding your own spiritual twin.

You describe yourself as a “Nature Slut,” and as a “Telepathic Goddess of the Future.” Can you introduce your identity as an artist and explain what those terms mean?

I call myself a Nature Slut because it’s an identity I created. A few years ago, I was writing an erotic poem about having sex with a woman in nature. I realized that what I was trying to get at was the other woman being myself, a higher version of myself, a natural being. I realized that I had lost touch—or I had never been in touch—with the part of me that is Nature. Human beings, we often think of Nature. The sexual part of it is just wanting to be in touch with nature as a sexual being, being a creator. I don’t really see any difference; I think that sexual expression is the ultimate form of creation. We can’t take for granted—as females—the power to create another human being. I feel that there is power in the forgotten past of sexual energy, sex magic… There are multiple layers.

Doesn’t the word slut have a negative connotation?

It’s a reclaiming of the word, “slut.” It’s natural to have sexual desire. It’s not shameful. The shaming of it is what creates a lot of the pain around it. The history of shaming our sexual nature is, in my opinion, the reason why we have so much sex crime, sex violence. It’s because we have repress this energy. And we repress it because we don’t feel free to express it.  So, the word, “slut”—I was called a slut a lot when I was young, just being who I was. I didn’t even have a lot of partners, but kids at school still called me a slut. So I’ve always identified with that word, in a way. I want to reclaim it and say, “Okay, fine, I’m proud to be sexual.”

There seems to be a lot of repression in society, especially with women.

Of course with women. The sexual nature of women is an untapped, forgotten power that we have over men—great men, who are attracted to women. I think that’s why a lot of men feel the need to holler at a woman on the street or sexually degrade her. They feel overwhelmed by the power this woman has over them, and she doesn’t even notice them. We can just be walking down the street, minding our own business, but we exude a power that they don’t understand. It’s their way of reclaiming their power.

Where do you think this fear of power comes from?

I think it’s thousands of years of degrading women, ever since the Inquisition. Centuries of the genocide of females. There are villages in Europe that didn’t have any women at all because they had killed them off. There was this whole campaign against women so that religion could have more control. There’s a power that women are more sensitive to, that comes within their natural abilities. I think that’s very threatening to the establishment. We’re living in a time now where we have to bring back the feminine. It exists in both males and females, but I think the energy is feminine, especially with our connection to the earth. We’re living in a time where we’re remembering our power. The old ways aren’t working anymore. We’re getting that, we’re becoming more aware of that, we’re getting more in touch. The feminine is becoming more and more powerful.

What are some ways that we can level the playing field? How do we bring progress? Through art?

I think it’s raising your voice. Whether it’s through your art, through your discussions with your friends. To be honest, I think the number one thing is raising your own consciousness. There are a lot of activists out there who identify as being an activist. But I think it takes looking at yourself first, before you can claim that somebody else is wrong. Part of that feminine energy has a lot to do with compassion and understanding.

It doesn’t seem like it should just be women exploring that. Men should be taking these topics to light as well.

Men and women have suffered from the imbalance. This goes back to the racial thing too. Privilege isn’t always a blessing. I don’t want that to be interpreted the wrong way… It’s our struggles that make us stronger people. It’s the experiences that we’ve had, the worldly ideas that we’ve encountered. I’ve said this about growing up gay. The experiences I went through were hard, but they made me more important. And they made me more in touch with my sexual nature. If you’re living in a world of illusions—you grew up in a rich family, you went to school, you did what your dad did, maybe you have a lot of money… Is that what life is about? Life is about having joyous, fulfilling experiences. I don’t resent people who haven’t been put in situations that test their strength, because those situations help you grow.

Speaking of coming out and your family, did you have a lot of support from your family on your initial journey as an artist, as a person?

Initially, I didn’t really. My mom wasn’t born in this country, and my dad grew up with a lot of cultural influences, so they didn’t quite understand what they should do. They wanted to do right. In their mind, they thought it would be a hard life, so they didn’t want that for me. The crazy thing was that when I was young and coming out, I had a lot of friends’ parents who were really supportive. But on some other level, they were kind of spoiled kids. They got a lot of money, they partied all the time. Even though my parents, since they came from a different culture, didn’t understand that aspect, they understood something else that was very, very important. That was loyalty to family, which was a very valuable lesson. I don’t think that was a part of American culture. That lasted, and we’ve grown together from that. So I don’t regret any of those experiences with my parents. Now, they’re very supportive. We’ve all grown together. But the lessons they did instill in me were invaluable.

You do have to appreciate the positive aspects of what they appreciate. When did you know that you first wanted to make music? Was it music or art? When did you first start exploring your artistic side?

I started exploring my artistic side when I was in high school. I started doing a lot of LSD, and something just clicked in my head. Something literally opened up in my brain, some portal. I started doing a lot of drugs, my friends were all doing them. I was an actress then, too. I came to New York and realized, oh shit, you could do whatever you wanted. I still hadn’t done music, but I was dating somebody who was really good friends with the band Coco Rosie. We started playing around and making music. I started freestyling about a Bunny. They were like, let’s make a record. And the put out my record in 2005. It was called “Bunny Rabbit.” I did all the lyrics, but it was really a collaboration between us and another artist called Black Cracker. We toured a lot, we had a lot of success. But at the time I was very ego. I wasn’t able to really enjoy what was happening, and that’s why it fell apart. So in the past few years since then, I’ve been teaching myself how to make music and learning a lot of life lessons. This is my first solo project.

This is your first solo art show?

This is my first solo art show. The necessity for art came with the music. We made our own flyers, our own music videos. We did everything ourselves. That was a big part of the aesthetic of sound then. Now, I use that as the same mold, the same message. The visual art, the music, everything is connected to the same message.

You’ve been doing a lot of videos on YouTube in which you’re talking directly to artists, but you’ve also been talking about this sexual revolution after experimenting with plant-based medicines. Can you describe this revolution? How has this changed you as an artist?

I used to not be very open about it. I used to want to keep things private. But I’ve been practicing with ayahuasca. I know a lot of people practice with it now. The reason why I bring it up is because I don’t think anyone is talking about it. I had a sexual revolution from it that was totally unexpected. I expected to learn to love myself and all the things I had heard about it. But for me, it channeled all this sexual energy. I looked at my body for the first time and saw that I was this sexual form of nature. I started to really love that, for the first time. And I felt really comfortable in that. I saw that I was this animal, beautiful being. Then, I got really into sex magic. I started to feel very spiritual about my sexual practices. I started having visions during them. I think there’s a whole untapped world in that realm. And it goes back to ancient eastern sex practices. I am, by far, not the first person to experience this. There’s lots of books about it. We have this power within ourselves. It’s the power of creation. It’s not just about being able to create a child. We can manifest anything we want. Also, there’s the issue of the female orgasm and how unexplored that is.

Especially to American society, it feels like a complete mystery. It seems like our viewpoints since the Victorian era have not been that different.

There are still scientists who claim that it doesn’t exist. It’s really crazy to me. So I’m praying and hoping that my work inspires others to feel unashamed about their desires. I want them to feel comfortable in their expression.

I think we need that more than ever right now. Your group show—“The Etheric Double”—is a fascinating concept. Can you describe the idea of the Etheric Double?

On this journey that I’ve been on—which I feel a lot of people are on right now—is a journey of self-realization, awakenings, and awareness of self. Actually, I started going to hypnotherapy. I started visualizing myself doing things in those sessions, and that was very healing for me. So I started to develop seeing my spirit in meditations. She was myself, the form that I see in the mirror. It was very healing for me to know that this higher being, my spirit self, was looking after me. I felt her comfort. She was who I was outside of the form of this body. The way I saw her was as my twin. So then, I made one photo where there was two of me, and something just clicked. It was her. So I kept making these photographs of me and her with a dialogue. Some of the photos are kind of uncomfortable. There’s a push and pull between the two of us. Some days, I wake up and I’m not there; I can’t be the present person that I want to be. And then some days I’m right with her. I think we’re all going through that right now. We’re at this time of really big change, really big awakening. We can feel it about to happen, but we’re not quite there yet. We still have to do more work. So I was trying to illustrate that with the Etheric Double, that story, the domestic story of our relationship to the everyday. Everyday, just trying to do your best. 

That’s really interesting. You have a performance coming up in Sweden, in July. Can you talk a little about that?

It’s their pride festival. They asked to play, and I said yes, because a lot of friends of mine have played. Juliana Huxtable is a good friend, and she played there last year. I’m excited. I want to put myself out to the world, do a lot of traveling. I want to connect with people who have different experiences. I’m usually in a bubble, especially in Brooklyn. I’m really looking forward to going overseas.

Especially with last week’s ruling, that’s amazing. That’s a big, big step. My last question is, what do you want people to know about you as an artist that they don’t already know?

I want people to know that I am not about exclusivity. I’m about inclusiveness. The time of exclusiveness is over. It’s time for us to come together and realize what we have in common. We have to work together. It’s not going to be one person doing this alone. If anyone came in contact with me, I would want them to feel totally comfortable connecting with me. If they wanted to send me a message on Facebook, send me an email, whatever, they could. I don’t people to look at my art and see this untouchable thing. I want to be an artist of the people. I know they may not like the particular technique that I use, but I want the energy to be that of inclusiveness. That’s what I strive for.

Bunny Michael's first solo exhibition, entitled "Etheric Double," is on view now until July 12 at Alt Space, 41 Montrose Avenue, Brooklyn. See her music video for Gasolina below. Click here to purchase her 2014 EP Rainbow Licker. Text and interview by Oliver Maxwell Kupper. Follow Autre on Instagram: @AUTREMAGAZINE

Danger and Desire: An Interview with Elizabeth Harper, AKA Class Actress

Elizabeth Harper is petite, with cheekbones that could cut glass. As she sets up for her November show at Tammany Hall, on New York’s Lower East Side, her oversized trench coat nearly swallows her slight frame. After a meticulous sound-check, she asks demurely if the lighting can be changed and finally settles on a deep red—much like that in her music video for “Journal of Ardency,” a song about desire and desperation—to achieve a seductive, albeit tasteful, bordello-esque ambiance. The music begins, the trench coat slowly makes its way into a crumpled heap on the stage, and Harper’s unassuming daintiness takes flight, leaving only a slight trace—her stage presence is undeniably commanding. She exudes a confidence that is deliciously incongruous with her lyrics about longing, yearning, seeking and insecurity. She oscillates between girlish uncertainty and bold audacity—and this is just one of the qualities that makes her so interesting as a performer. Harper, who originally hails from Los Angeles, where she was a self- described “isolated teen in an army of cold social climbers looking over my shoulder at parties,” now lives in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, a quickly-burgeoning artists’ hub just a few subway stops away from the fast-paced daily grind of Manhattan. Having taught herself to play the guitar and keyboards, she began her career as a slightly more traditional solo singer-songwriter, but as her sound gradually evolved, she incorporated Scott Richardson and Mark Rosenthal into what would become Class Actress. With Rosenthal and Richardson, Harper generates that rare breed of soulful, moving electronica characteristic of late-80’s Depeche Mode and Madonna (and she relishes such comparisons, saying, “I’m just glad my idolatry paid off…”), with the kind of swooning, lovelorn, self-indulgent lyrics that one might expect from someone who has of late earned the moniker “female Morrissey”— complete with titles like “Journal of Ardency” and “Adolescent Heart.” Harper’s delicate, heartsick croon overlays bass-heavy synth rhythms, delivering a sound that is both mellow and poignant—despite its classification as electro-pop, a genre which is generally characterized by neither of those adjectives. In short, it’s the anomalous kind of electric, energetic feel-good dance pop that one might also weep, write or paint to in solitude.

Can you talk a bit about the transition from your first musical project, to Class Actress, and from a more traditional folk-guitar sound to electro-pop? How did that come about, and what made the change? How has your musical sensibility changed over the years, and how would you define it now? 

It was a bit of a labyrinth but I found my way through the wilderness, some how I made it through… I would like to end this myth, I was never a “folk” artist.  If you listen to my first record yes there is one acoustic solo song on it, but the rest is electric.  I had just started writing songs, had a bunch of demos.  A friend of mine started a label, wanted to put them out, and so I said OK, why not. Back then I was into Elliott Smith and The Smiths, but as I grew up I wanted to dance, move, express myself.  People change; they find themselves, not everyone wakes up and says I am only this now and forever.   When I was a teen I loved techno, dance music and hip-hop, Then I had a short Elliott Smith/ The Smiths phase—which I am happy for because at that point my main goal was songwriting, not arranging, it was how to turn a phrase, say things in lyrical form....  then I got back to the synths. I am happy for the vast range of musical influences I’ve had over the years because they all culminated in Class Actress. Which is Pop music. Which by far is my favorite.

You taught yourself to play guitar and keyboards—how soon after that did you realize that you wanted to make a career out of music?

Right away.

What is your favorite aspect of living in Greenpoint? Artistically, how does it compare to Los Angeles, where you grew up? 

I like my friends nearby. I like not having to drive and having everything right there. In LA I was an isolated teen in an army of cold social climbers looking over my shoulder at parties. But sometimes I miss the beach, the mountains, the sunset, Mulholland drive, Malibu…

What’s the dynamic of the band? Who does what in terms of writing songs and composing music?

I write the songs.  Mark produced and recorded the record, Scott plays live and produces and does additional engineering as well.  Working with Mark is very hard to explain we have a very fluid way of working I bring him a song and we discuss the texture / rhythm / and then go from there.

Your sound and stage presence has been likened to that of early Madonna, “the girl version of Morrissey,” and Depeche Mode. What’s your reaction to such comparisons? 

I’m utterly flattered, these people are my idols. I love them. I’m just glad my idolatry paid off.  

What inspires you (in terms of musical style, lyrics, and your general aesthetic)?

Danger, weather, desire, acting motivations, Object Relation theory, my imagination...  

What’s next for Class Actress?

I would like to start making more involved videos that are more like short films. I want to take the cinematic quality of the music as far as I can.

This interview was originally published in Autre Issue 002 with text by Annabel Graham and  photographs by Amanda Zackem. Elizabeth Harper, AKA Class Actress, has just released her third EP, entitled "Movies," in collaboration with Giorgio Moroder on the Casablanca Record Label. Follow Autre on Instagram: @AUTREMAGAZINE. Additional credits: styled by by Shea Daspin, hair by Gabriela Langone, make-up by Alejandro Calvani. 

Out Calls Only: A Conversation With Virgins Founder and Singer Donald Cumming On Growing Up and Going Solo

Nearly ten years ago, Donald Cumming, the snarled-lip founder and front man of The Virgins, sang about stuck-up rich girls and other superficial fancies of youth and abandon. But that was a different time; downtown New York was grittier, cheaper, and less gentrified. Cumming grew up listening to old records above his father’s liquor store in Tribeca. Now, however, Cumming finds his inspiration a little farther uptown, where a piece of Old New York still exists. This shift of interests is not only indicative of a changing city, but is also symbolic of Cumming’s maturation as an artist. This evolution is also evident in Cumming’s astonishing debut solo album entitled Out Calls Only, released this month on the Washington Square Music label. Tinged with the same poetic, literary textures and existential questions of past musical efforts, the singer’s distinctive drawling voice harkens Jonathan Richman or Richard Hell on klonopin, Out Calls Only is heartbreaking, introspective, and incredibly raw. It is also boozy and beautiful, seemingly bathed in a warm, romantic red glow. From start to finish, the intimate album alludes to the self-assuredness of an artist who has learned from past mistakes and has a found a stage that is all his own. Autre had a chance to speak with Cummings over the phone from his apartment in New York – I could hear him dragging on a cigarette between questions with the sound of the city in the background, like a sweet symphony of chaos. In the following interview, Cumming talks about his time in The Virgins, an ever-evolving New York City, and his new solo musical journey.

Oliver Kupper: When did you first discover music? Was there a revelatory moment, or anything specific that you can describe?

Donald Cumming: I remember listening to the records my mother used to play when I was a kid. She played Springsteen and Linda Ronstadt. I was always aware of it and listening to the lyrics. I would misinterpret or put the words together in nonsense ways. But music was always playing. And I was always singing songs—the different songs you sing in school with the whole class. I was always really engaged with music.

OK: Your music has a literary edge to it, a literary layer. Are there influences of this nature in your work?

DC: I don’t know about direct influences, but I do read a lot. It depends on the material. I like a lot of American literature—particularly poetry, but also novels. I like Dos Passos. I like Mailer. As far as poetry, I love Franz Wright. I love Robert Lowell. There’s pretty much a wide spectrum.

OK: You grew up in downtown New York. How do you think New York has affected your work? Do you think there’s a major influence?

DC: Being from here and growing up here, obviously, most of my life experience happens here. So that has a big effect on things that I end up making. But as I get older, I think the influence is less. I’m not really engaged with the city the way I was as a teenager. I’m not really out running around like I used to be. I don’t really have the same kind of social life that I had when I was young. The city has also changed a lot. As far as being downtown, it’s unrecognizable. It doesn’t feel like a place that I have any emotional connection to beyond walking around and thinking about the past, or remembering people that aren’t here. It’s not an optimistic place for me. But when I go uptown—particularly on the Upper West Side or Central Park, that kind of area—still feels like New York. It hasn’t been demolished and rebuilt fifteen times in the last twenty years. That feels like a new place for me. I mean, obviously, I would go up there as a kid and as a teenager, but it didn’t interest me in the same way. Now, I feel like that might be the area that I find inspiring.

OK: Do you think that comes from age, too?

DC: It’s probably a combination of age and the way the city has changed. I feel more comfortable up there because it reminds me of the New York that I was around growing up. It hasn’t really changed that much, so it feels like it’s still this place that’s familiar. On the other hand, getting older, I have a different lifestyle. There are museums up there; you can go see Swan Lake on the weekend. That’s something that I enjoy a lot more as an adult.

OK: Do you think that change in New York also contributed to the disbandment of your band, The Virgins?

DC: It’s not something that I was ever thinking about when we were doing it. But yeah, definitely. The Virgins, when I started, I was at a very different place in my life. It was that mid-period—the city was half the way I remembered it and half this thing that was changing radically. Still, my peers were all around. We were making our way in the world, so maybe it felt like we were participating in the changes. Whereas, now, all my friends have scattered. The ones who are around are working. The city that I see when I open my window is like a college dormitory that I have no relationship to. For me, the second line-up of the Virgins comprised of all my friends. It was just them and me. We were working in the East Village, and we did hang out and go around. But at that point, they were younger. They were engaged with the downtown more than me. I was married, and that was not in that zone as much. So I think it changed the way we worked—at least the way I worked.

"....For me, it’s having freedom to do whatever I want. Obviously, I enjoy that. There’s also the fact that the songs have the freedom they didn’t have when I was in a band. There was always the pressure to have everybody be able to participate and have as much fun as possible."

OK: Your new record, which I’ve been listening to a lot lately, it’s really good— it has a sort of loungey, introspective vibe. How would you describe the new record?

DC: Out of anything I’ve made, this is probably the most personal album. Every song is something that came out of an experience. Not a remote experience that was then filtered through an additive or semi-informing a perspective, but directly. While I was making the record, I was going through some things that came out in the songs and were very much a part of the record. So it’s about this period in my life that is already over. But it felt, while I was doing it, really visceral. It was completely linked to what was happening. I’ve never done that before, not consciously. For me, I think it’s the best thing I’ve made. I don’t know if that’s because it’s so connected to me personally, or if it’s just because I have a better idea of what I’m doing. We’re not fighting now [laughs]. But I think it’s the best thing I’ve made, and I’m happy about it.

OK: It does seem really tinged with heartbreak and personal experiences. What is your lyric-writing process? Do you have a specific practice?

DC: Basically, I write a song, and I keep it. I had some experiences early on in which I would make these demos, and I would really put everything into them. And then, I would come to find out that, for whatever reason, the label would want me to re-record it. It could sound more high fidelity—whatever the reason. You end up chasing that demo and never quite nailing it the way you did. Something I learned from that experience was just to not work hard on demos. I write a full song—I write the lyrics and the melodies, and I either play it on a piano or a guitar. But as far as recording, I’m not making multi-tracking or making revisions. I record the song with one take.

OK: Is that different than what you did in the past? 

DC: In the past, in the second versions, I would take that tape to the band. We would practice it or play it live a few times, whatever. But for this album, there was no band. What I had instead was different friends who were booked to record with me, and I would bring the tape into the studio. Everyone would hear the song that day, we’d play it, and we’d start tracking almost immediately—as soon as everybody was confident with the changes. That spontaneous energy made it onto this record. It’s something I’ve wanted to capture for a long time, and I think it’s the direction I want to go in. That’s what I’m aiming to do—record these experiences that can’t be repeated. Find moments that are special, and preserve them. That was the process for this record. And even this record, at times, things started to flow maybe too much. I’d like to catch some more off-the-cuff stuff in the future.

OK: So there’s more? You’re going to continue on the solo trajectory?

DC: Oh, of course. I’m definitely not going back to being in a band. For me, it’s having freedom to do whatever I want. Obviously, I enjoy that. There’s also the fact that the songs have the freedom they didn’t have when I was in a band. There was always the pressure to have everybody be able to participate and have as much fun as possible. When you’re in a band, you want to play a loud fucking show, you want to have an upbeat song with a lot of energy. You’re thinking about all these other things when you’re writing. As a solo artist, the song can be whatever it wants to be. If I write a song, and the song makes sense as a piano song with me singing quietly, I can put that right on the record. I don’t have to worry about if it’s going to work with a guitar solo, or if it needs to have a faster pace or something. That gives the songs more freedom to be what they’re supposed to be. It makes them stronger.

Listen to our favorite track from Out Calls Only below. You can find Donald Cumming's "Out Calls Only" in multiple formats here.  Text and interview by Oliver Maxwell Kupper. FOLLOW AUTRE ON INSTAGRAM: @AUTREMAGAZINE

A Q&A With Heather Boo and Emma Rose of the Band Beaû

Native New Yorkers Heather Boo and Emma Rose grew up in a creative environment, so it makes sense that they started a band. Calling themselves Beaû, a masculine term for beautiful, which loosely translates to handsome in French, the name sums up their tomboyish Lower Manhattan spirit. This week saw the release of the band’s self-titled EP, which is distinctly pop inspired, but with an Americana tinge and lyrics that would surprise anyone that didn’t know Boo and Rose are both in their early twenties.  Then there is their look, with their French New Wave style and urban, street smart savoir-faire, they have modeled for Opening Ceremony, run wild and nude for photographer Ryan McGinley, and caught the attention of the venerable French record label Kitsuné, who has released their music first on a compilation and now on an extended play album. Today marks the release of their music video for One Wing, a song about love, loss and friendship. Autre got a chance to ask Boo and Rose a few questions about their music, their new album and how they got their big break in Paris. 

Autre: How did you two meet? 

Beaû: We had known of each other’s existence since infant hood – passing each other in the same parks, neighborhoods and schools. Our mothers were best friends, and eventually we too followed in their footsteps.  

Autre: A lot of people like to put labels on things, how would you describe your music?

Beaû: Music for the soul

Autre: What music most inspires you? 

Beaû: Music that is honest and true, without being too perfect…Particularly blues and soul from the South, and popular bands from the 60's. Generally anything that we find riveting inspires us...From the way a stranger smiles at you, to the wallpaper in an old dusty bookstore. Everything that moves us is inspiring. 

Autre: You once travelled with Ryan McGinley on one of his epic adventures, what was that like?

Beaû: It was like stripping yourself of anything fake or unnatural. I learned so much on that trip about how to be secure in the nude when you have a naked forest surrounding you. It was one of the most exciting adventures I had ever been on and who knew it was just an introduction to many more. 

"...The strength of a good relationship can help you get through anything. We all make mistakes and it's important to forgive each other and it's even more important to stick together through thick and thin."

Autre: How did you team up with Kitsuné? 

Beaû: It was all about being in the right place at the right time and knowing good people. We ventured to Paris on our own a few summers ago with little money and few places to stay. We ended up meeting great people there who hooked up a show for us at a club, where we were introduced to Kitsunè. Later that week Kitsunè invited us to record a demo track somewhere in Paris. They liked it so we hopped on board. It has been an incredible experience since! Kitsunè has been so supportive! We've really become a family. 

Autre: What is your favorite thing about New York?

Beaû: The diversity of people, food, culture and the boundless opportunities are our favorite part of New York. 

Autre: The song One Wing is really powerful…do those lyrics come from personal experiences or a specific experience? 

Beaû: We wrote the song guided by a sentimental melody that touched us both. The lyrics represent friendship to us and how the strength of a good relationship can help you get through anything. We all make mistakes and it's important to forgive each other and it's even more important to stick together through thick and thin.

Autre: What is the ideal setting for song writing?

Beaû: Anywhere. 

Autre: What is your background…I read somewhere that your parents are painters?

Beaû: Yes it is true our parents are painters. We grew up in a world full of color and creativity, along with an 'anything goes' kind of attitude from our ex-hippie parents. 

Autre: What can we expect from your new album?

Beaû: Colors and dreams. 

Autre: What’s next? 

Beaû: How should we know? 

You can order Beaû's self-titled EP here. Watch below video for the track One Wing directed by Nautico. text and interview by Oliver Maxwell Kupper. Be sure to follow Autre on Instagram: @AUTREMAGAZINE

Folk You: An Interview with Imri Vasale

Imri Vasale follows in the same familiar tradition of other American folksingers, like Guthrie, Seeger, or even Buckley - Tim Buckley that it is. With his banjo, his songs remind you of the familiar burden of a soul that is blowing in the wind like a white sheet let loose from a clothesline. His Americana spirituals of love and loss will require gentle reflection. It is true, though, that Imri's debut, self titled album, produced by Decadent Wreckords' Ethan DeLorenzo (who Imri met while working on goat farm in Sonoma County), shows considerable promise from an artist that is still in the process of cutting his teeth. We got a chance to catch up with Imri to ask a few questions about his songs and his first album. 

When did you first start making music? 

The memory has become a little fuzzy. I have always sung to myself, usually when I was alone. My dad would sing me traditional songs from the British Isles, as well as 1960’s folk revival tunes when I was younger, he also played and still does play guitar; I think I might have given it a go literally a handful of times. It was the latter part of High School-maybe 2008-2009, when I started picking up the guitar lightly, learning several chords and a rudimentary strumming style to keep the neighbors awake with. Two of my closest friends and I created a little punkish folk band, where I aimed at playing washboard and then eventually washtub bass and musical saw. I bought the banjo I have now-my first and only-at some time around senior year of high school, shortly after having picked up an accordion. I just let the dust collect on the damn thing, up until a year and a half ago when I realized I should use it. Without a doubt, the banjo has just quickly become my instrument, it’s here to stay.

Who were some musical artists that really inspired you – is there one artist that really blew your mind? 

I’m going to put it plainly, two people directly in my lives: my father and my good friend Kalei Yamanoha. I could go off and start listing the musical artists and groups that I listen to now, but I have to mention these people. As I said, my dad sang me tons of folk songs and the like as I was growing up-he has a library of music, a lot of the materials that I’ve come to enjoy are field recordings in the Smithsonian folkways compilations, as well as more ‘contemporary’ portrayals. With my father, I was exposed to the mastery of folks like Doc Watson, Mike Seeger, Dock Boggs, Frank Profitt, Bruce Molsky, and Dirk Powell. Oh, and Adam Hurt is worth noting, prodigal clawhammer work right there. Kalei was one of the guys in my jugband, and he can play anything he picks up. He was the sole reason I bought both an accordion and a banjo, and when I see him play today, I still get ear-loads of inspiration. And fuck, there are few things more special in music than finding motivation in the folks closest to you.

Where did you grow up and how did that environment influence your music? 

I was born in San Francisco and raised in the North Bay area. Santa Rosa my whole life. It’s a big town, definitely, but there’s near visually pristine countryside surrounding it on all sides, so I have been given the means to escape the suburban expanses. this is one of the greatest motifs in my music, or that’s what I’m aiming at, the natural world. Or, everything other than humans, as we have clearly learned to ignore everything other than ourselves. I have been blessed to have grown up in proximity to undeveloped land, some of which still has functioning ecosystems. It is even in our language where we try and delineate between ‘human’ and ‘nature’. Any promise to longevity and stability is to no longer ignore our whole selves, this is a massive part of my music.

How would you describe your sound?

Unrefined, but I’m working on that aspect, as well as my timing. But that can be ignored to an extent for now. I’d call it just old-time music with modern chord progressions and tonality, and minimalist. I’m big on the lyrics, I pour everything into those words until there’s nothing left in me sometimes. It’s a good way to exude self-destructive and overall negative thoughts. Yeah, neo-old-time-post-folk [chuckling]. Music is just the sound of organized emotion, and I want to capture that.

You are currently working on an album - can you talk a little bit about your debut album and what we can expect from it? 

Initially it was going to be a four or five track demo, but we have ended up recording 10 or more songs, many of which now need to be re-recorded. Now we are stripping it back down to a 4 song demo. I’ve never worked with someone before on anything like this, but even with that said, Ethan [DeLorenzo] has been the most patient and encouraging person I could ever have come across. We’ve slowly been recording everything that I spat out in the last 2 years, but having not done that before, now I can listen back on my progression and refine my emotions and the way I share them.

You met Ethan - who produced your record - on a goat farm in Sonoma, can you describe that meeting? 

No, well I was working on a particular farm while he came on up with my sister from LA. She became his housemate the year before and had shared some goofy garageband recordings of my banjo with him, and I guess he liked them. We met at my parents’ house, and he told me he’d be interested in recording. Nonchalant and homely. That’s the best meetings can get.

What's next? 

I want to keep playing music, practice more, write more material, keep sharing it with folks. My one great ‘ambition’ with music would be to have some folks cry with joy or pain and then remember that song, and with that memory fuel actual positive change in their lives. Even if it’s one other person, even if it just ends up being me, I don’t care too much any more about what’s next because I do have faith that nothing goes as planned.

You can purchase Imri's self titled album here. You can also stream the album on Spotify. text and interview by Oliver Maxwell Kupper

Ghost Rider Motorcycle Hero: An Interview With Alan Vega

interview by Oliver Kupper

When Alan Vega first heard Bruce Springsteen’s album Nebraska, he was convinced that the song "State Trooper" was a long lost Suicide song that he had forgotten about. The song was not a lost Suicide track – it was one of Springsteen’s own, but an obvious homage nonetheless.

That’s how powerful Suicide’s influence was and still is – a band created by two nice Jewish boys from Brooklyn. Black clad and with a lethally high-voltage sound, Suicide has had a profound influence on bands like Joy Division and The Jesus and Mary Chain – amongst countless others. But what many people don’t know is that Suicide provided a strange and pulsating soundtrack for a major change in American culture: art was being stripped to a bare minimalism of shapes and primary colors, and music was being peeled away to reveal simple digitized rhythms, computerized static and monotone vocals. Alan Vega – the front man of Suicide – was one of the first people to use the word ‘punk’ to describe their music. Today, Vega, and his band Suicide, is considered the missing link in the lineage between rock n’ roll and what would become known as punk, electro-punk, no wave, new wave and early industrial music. Before listening to Nine Inch Nails, start with Suicide.

Many people also don’t know that Alan Vega is also an established visual artist - art is actually his first passion. In fact, he studied under abstract expressionist turned minimalist artist Ad Reinhardt – an artist who was famous for his black on black painting that he deemed would be the last paintings anyone could ever paint. Vega would seemingly become a physical and creative manifestation of those “last paintings.” Experimenting with bare materials and items found in the barren and depressed landscape that was New York in the 1970s, Vega would create unique light sculptures that resembled Christmas ornamented crucifixes; a pastiche of a dystopian consumerist American culture.

In a new solo show at Invisible Exports – the first show devoted entirely to new work since 1983 – Vega presents a few of his iconic light sculptures and a series of semi-autobiographical portraits that are much more personal than his three-dimensional work. We were fortunate enough to speak with Alan Vega on the eve of the opening of this exhibition – entitled Welcome to Wyoming. In the following interview, Vega talks about Suicide, his current show at Invisible-Exports and how age brings wisdom and the general notion of not giving a fuck anymore what people think. 

What was your earliest introduction to art – when was your introduction?

It must have been in the late sixties – I started making art and that soon turned into music. But I was always into music, anyhow. I was always doing music while I was making art. But I wasn’t doing it as a career or anything. Not even when I started Suicide. To me, we were doing art.

"Everything. Everything was changing.
And it was great. At times, it was impossible
to know what the hell was going on."

Who were some of your earliest artistic influences?

I was influenced by Ad Reinhardt, and also some of the early surrealists. And Picasso – I used to hear all these stories about Picasso that were really wild. But Ad [Ad Reinhardt] was my generation, and as far as I’m concerned [his work] was the end of painting. It was black on black and almost no color.

And that was sort of the birth of minimalism, right – at the end of the ‘50s?

Yeah, it was. It was the beginning of the end. I didn’t know where to go from there at the time. It was like, ‘Oh shit, what do we do now?’

But that stripped down minimalism must have had a huge effect on your band, Suicide?

Yeah, it did. It was a time of minimalism – in art, in music. And Ad really started that beginning – to the end.

Well, that whole era was a time of change – the end of the fifties and early sixties – everything seemed to be changing at that point in history.  

Everything. Everything was changing. And it was great. At times, it was impossible to know what the hell was going on. But seeing Ad [Reinhardt] was enough – I remember seeing his paintings for the first time and I was like, ‘Holy shit.’ I knew Ad very well – he was a very shy guy, but he was also really funny. But just to see his paintings was really a treat itself.

I want to talk about Iggy Pop for a second, because he has also had a major influence on you as well – mainly as a musician and performer, right?

Yeah, well, Iggy was a major influence. The first time I saw Iggy was in 1969 at the World’s Fair in New York City and MC5 was the headliner. And they [MC5] tried very hard to outdo Iggy, but they could not outdo Iggy – no one could outdo Iggy. And it was twenty minutes of Hell. All his jumping on stage. He was all bloodied. I remember bringing two or three people with me and all their mouths were dropped.

So, how did you come up with the name Suicide? 

[laughs] We all laughed at first when we first thought of it. We would try to come up with names for days and each time we thought of Suicide, we would laugh. And then one day Marty [Martin Rev] decided let’s just keep the name, because that was really the band: SUICIDE – and it was. Suicide sort of summed up the world we lived in: Nixon, the bombings, and the war, and what the hell! People thought we were describing our own suicide, but it was the only appropriate name.

"It greeted hell for me, because
everyone that saw it was, like ‘Holy shit.’
They tried to kill me."

Well, it’s one of the greatest band names, probably ever…

It probably is one of the greatest names of all time. Everyday, you read the newspaper and you feel like you are getting closer and closer to suicide [laughs].

And you used to walk around with a jacket that read Suicide, right?

Yeah, it said Suicide on the back. It greeted hell for me, because everyone that saw it was, like ‘Holy shit.’ They tried to kill me. They threw things at me. It was just a jacket! I took hell. In fact, I took hell for the first ten to fifteen years of Suicide.

Yeah, I mean people probably hadn’t seen anything like that before. Can you describe one of your craziest experiences?

Oh god, there are so many of them. It’s hard, because we were younger. We also went out with a different energy than we do now. We were insane. Or we were acting insane. Or maybe we were insane! Every night was different. Really, because we never knew what to do – we never knew how to start. Sometimes it started right off the bat and sometimes there was silence. Waiting for a sound. For something….

So, when do you think that people started really appreciating the sound?

Well, we started getting appreciation in the United Kingdom in the early 80s. I remember there was a show in Edinburgh at the Glass Door and we expected all kinds of hell – I remember they had a big disco ball, but it was completely dark while we played four numbers or so. Then I told Marty to watch out – “expect it from all angles.” But then the lights came on and people were dancing! So it started then – then people were against the walls and they started following us. They really loved Suicide.

What about some of your peers – I mean there were other bands in New York making very avant-garde music, like Television and a number of other bands. How did they perceive your music?

I liked the guys from Televsion, but they were more rock n’ roll. But I liked the guys. I knew the drummer – he was very friendly with me. The lead singer was a very quiet guy and he didn’t really talk to anybody. But compared to Suicide, they were more commercial.

Speaking of commercial, Bruce Springsteen has said that you guys have been a major, major influence, right?

Bruce – I became very friendly with him.  He was in the same studio we were in – in about 1981 or 1982. We had a lot of laughs together, me and Bruce. But when I first heard that album [Nebraska] I thought: Did I write a song that I don’t remember now? There was a song on there that I thought was a Suicide song, but no, it was Bruce Springsteen. But I like Bruce and I always liked his music.

So, I wanted to talk about your upcoming show at Invisible-Exports. Can you tell us a little bit about Welcome to Wyoming?

I’ve always wanted to go to Wyoming all my life and I want to go before I die, and see the horses. So I was working on these drawings and the show came up, so I decided to call it Welcome to Wyoming.

And this is your first show devoted to new work in multiple years – what prompted you to show your work again?

Well, I love the gallery and the two people that run the gallery, they really know me.

And a majority of the work in this show is portraits – are they self-portraits?

They are portraits, but they are not really self-portraits. I’ve been doing these drawings since I was a kid. I would do them on the Bowery – these portraits of old people. But in a way they are self-portraits. And I don’t use any models or anything like that – I just draw. I’ve been doing it all my life. I did it before Suicide stuff. In this show, there are a bunch of drawings of these guys.

And I heard that you like to draw while under the influence?

I did, but….

Not anymore?  

Yeah, I did, but now the doctors have got me staying away. But I’ve been focused – I’ve been doing shows. Suicide has been better than ever. And I have new music that I’ve been working on. It’s the blues, which is something that I’ve always wanted to do.

"Age is a hell of a thing.
Maybe it’s the idea of running out of time –
knowing that I could go at any day."

You’ve always wanted to make blues music or play the blues?

Yeah, I was only going to do one song…maybe two…but it turned into a volume of ten songs…and everything is live from the top of my head. I just heard a few tracks and it sounds really good. As I get older, everything is better. Drawing is better. Singing is better. So, I don’t know…I don’t know what’s happened. After forty years, maybe I finally know what the hell I’m doing. And the album is going to come out soon.

Do you think wisdom comes from age?

Yeah, I do. Yeah, there is a lot of shit that comes with youth. Horrendous fuck-ups. Which is great – I really love fuck-ups. But working through that is a good thing. But after forty years – forty-five years – of busting my hump…now I don’t give a shit. I just do what I want to do. Age is a hell of a thing. Maybe it’s the idea of running out of time – knowing that I could go at any day.

Well, I hope for more albums and music and more of everything…

I hope so too! But I’m going through a re-birth. I’m already thinking of the next show and I am hoping for good things for it. I have a lot of ideas for it and now I don’t want to die. Whereas before, I was like, ‘The hell with it.’ Now I feel like I could live a little longer. Now, I can keep making my art, but all my friends are starting to reach that age…

But you can’t really retire from art, right?

You never retire from it. I get calls all the time – people asking why don’t I quit or retire. But why the hell would I want to quit? How do you stop art or music? You don’t…you do it forever and that’s what I want to do and I love it. 

Alan Vega 'Welcome to Wyoming' is on view now until March 29, 2015 at Invisible-Exports in New York. Click here to see photos from the opening.

Striking a Chord: An Interview with Jessica Pratt

photograph by Dola Baroni

The first thing that you notice when you listen to Jessica Pratt’s music is her extremely unique voice. It is instantly recognizable. It has a light spiritual hauntedness that makes her lyrics dance, flicker and fade like the last few seconds of an 8mm home movie. In her melodies and guitar picking, you can hear the ghost of Nick Drake and the lyrical heartbrokenness of a country ballad – all with a slight hint or twang of Marty Robbins Americana. Today marks the release of Pratt’s second album – entitled On Your Own Love Again (Drag City). The album is slightly more ebullient, albeit with a streak of melancholy, and perhaps more kaleidoscopic than her self-titled debut album, which was recorded by Tim Presley – of the band White Fence  ­– on a label that he created solely to release Pratt’s music. In the following interview, Pratt talks about how Ariel Pink changed the way she approaches music and how Los Angeles has affected her recording process.   

AUTRE: A lot of musical artists have very specific inspirational references that shaped the sound of their music – can you name one artist that you discovered that blew your mind; an artist that really floored you?

JESSICA PRATT: Though I feel I’ve been influenced by a fairly wide array of artists, there are some that make a special imprint on you. Paul Williams is a guy who’s song structures and approach to pop melodies have always struck a chord with me. Even though his sound is pretty smooth, he’s got a kinda weird voice and I like that blend of conventionality and off-kilter. Marianne Faithfull’s 1971 Rich Kid Blues is a major vocal influence I couldn’t deny. But, in 2011 I went to a small Ariel Pink show. He played mostly stuff off of Before Today and seeing the way he performed those songs forever changed the way I thought about and approached making music, pure and simple.

AUTRE: Living in San Francisco and then Los Angeles – how have those two places shaped your music or have they had any influence at all?

PRATT: I think it’s impossible for your environment to not in some way affect the things you create, although in what ways specifically I may not have an accurate read on yet. Coming to Los Angeles was, in the beginning, a bit like relocating to a minimally-inhabited island somewhere. I spent most of my time alone in the first few months writing and recording what is the bulk of the new record.

AUTRE: I saw on your Instagram that you met Van Dyke Parks – I think the caption was “Van Dyke God Dang Parks” – what is it like meeting your heroes; does it make you feel like you are becoming more established?

PRATT: Well, I haven’t met a ton of them, but, I think maybe it says more about the magic and usefulness of the internet as a tool, if used correctly. But yes, it’s also just quite remarkable living in LA; the odds of these occurrences are just are greatly increased as there’s so many creative people living and working here. Meeting Van Dyke was more just happenstance, actually, BUT, yeah, I think the fact that he’d heard my music via an NY Times post and liked it is what granted me momentary entrance into that world.

Van Dyke Parks and Jessica Pratt

AUTRE: Naturally, people like to pigeonhole musicians that come out with a guitar and just the purity of their voice – what do you say to those people?

PRATT: It really doesn’t bother me. Pigeonholing, comparisons and labeling is an inherent part of music journalism and people’s processing of music. It’s like matching shapes. Where’s that red one gunna go? I like hearing the range of things people pick out of it. Sometimes it’s a revelation and sometimes it’s just fun.

AUTRE: What’s next – any plans for a “Play it fucking loud…” moment and a full electric band?

PRATT: I’d love to have a Band-grade backing band, but so far I’ve been rehearsing with a guitarist for my upcoming tours. Together hopefully we’ll be rendering the songs live in a sonically smooth, mildly psychedelic sort of fashion. Collaborating and playing music with others is very new to me, so I’m just testing the waters.

You can purchase On Your Own Love Again in multiple formats here. Interview and text by Oliver Maxwell Kupper

The Ecstatic Body: An Interview with Julius Smack

Under the stage persona Julius Smack, Peter Hernandez is part of a new wave of emerging artists that are trying to define their identity in a century that is trying to do just the same. Often wearing white jeans, his signature white face paint, a white shirt, and a tuft of blond curls hanging out of a white baseball hat worn backwards, Julius Smack combines the slow mortal pangs of Butoh with a sense of definitive post-internet Millennial angst. His performances cross boundaries between music and performance art and he will often sing his own songs, which are produced and released by his own record label – called Practical Records. Most of Smack’s recent songs were produced in his former home in San Francisco (he is now based in Los Angeles) and they have distinct political overtones. In the following interview, Julius Smack (Peter Hernandez) talks political performative art, his recent move to Los Angeles and why he uses Starbucks cups and yoga mats in some of his performances.

AUTRE: Who is Julius Smack?

JULIUS SMACK:Julius Smack is an awoken statue from antiquity that pontificates social and political messages through dance and song. In the past I used make-up to conflate an impression of a Grecian statue and Butoh dancer. I’d paint my face white and wear some white hair under a white hat. I explored vogue and butoh dance mostly at a historic drag bar in San Francisco called Aunt Charlie’s Lounge, where every Tuesday I presented a new track and a new choreography.

AUTRE: How would you define your genre of music – is it art or music?

SMACK: Maybe it’s Los Angeles, but I am beginning to see the two modes as one. I’m interested in music as art and vice-versa. I don’t think of the individual recordings of my music as art, but I think of the physical package of music as cassette or CD-R as being artful. That’s when it can be packaged and asserted as art with the accompanying liner notes and design. When I can convey a narrative arc, I think of the music as art. When I perform, I feel like I’m displaying artistic gestures. When I can give a whole Julius Smack performance, I think it’s art.

AUTRE: You recently moved from the Bay Area to Los Angeles – what prompted the move?

SMACK: I’ve long wanted to live here since I was a teenager because I listen to a lot of music from here. There's a wealth of possibility and invention here and that’s partly why I'm here. I’m witnessing exciting and new modes of performance all the time, where there’s little delineation between music or dance or theater. I’m also dating a performance artist and writer named Brian Getnick, who I met when I lived in San Francisco. Being here with him has really shaped my performance practice because we discuss ideas and possibilities and he equips me with rehearsal and studio space. He also has a great performance art journal called Native Strategies that I recommend to anyone curious about Los Angeles’ emergent performance art.

AUTRE:What can you expect from a Julius Smack performance – I read something about yoga mats and Starbucks cups?

SMACK: That performance was at Aunt Charlie’s Lounge in San Francisco. There’s a great party on Tuesday nights called High Fantasy. It’s an incubator for new performance coming out of the Bay Area. The night I used a yoga mat and Starbucks cups I performed a version of the song “Choices” from my new album. I arranged three members of the audience in poses that resembled Julius Smack. One person was in the pose of the Statue of Liberty, one was in a Thinking Man pose. Then I placed in their hands a Starbucks cup of varying sizes and directed the lyrics to them --"There's no time to make up your mind, you're not sure of it anyway." I was thinking of ways to delegate the performance to the audience. I’m interested in transforming a place into a performance space through movement and voice. There’s something really exciting about seeing someone step into a performance in their usual garb. What are the possibilities of the spontaneous and unchoreographed present?

AUTRE: What are your performances like lately?

SMACK: Lately my performances involve a deal of surprise and emergence, field recordings and live recordings. I want to affect space as clearly as possible and not to rely on pre-recorded music, which has begun to feel like a crutch for performance. There is so much possibility in witnessing a body in space! Am I going to pose against a wall? Am I going to hold an audience member? In what order will I jump, sing, and dance? To allow that kind of response to space, I have been doing more acapella performances that use field recordings and live instrumentation. At Human Resources last month I used a night vision camera that was operated and projected live as a reflection of the audience. Human Resources used to be a film cinema, but all the chairs have been stripped out and it’s just a big white cube with concrete floors and perfect reverb. So I did an acapella song and then used a keyboard live for my first time. It was so liberating - I don't intend on relying heavily on backing tracks.

AUTRE:Can you describe your new album Everyday Ballet?

SMACK: Most of those songs were crafted in my big bedroom in San Francisco, and then I had a lot of room and space and time for recording. I could focus on audio effects and to adjust synthesizer tracks in a dance music form. I was really inspired by the house dance music that pervades San Francisco's music scene - it was there that I discovered some of my greatest house influences, primarily Terre Thaemlitz. And I was also looking at themes of social justice, progressivism, and gentrification, which are so fundamental to San Francisco's depleting culture. There's a song titled "Living Social," and I illustrate an image of house flippers speculating on the value of the Victorian I was living in. The lyrics empathize with the house and its history and feeling. Or "I Say What I Want," which basically calls out those who claim to oppose climate change with rhetoric instead of action.

Text and interview by Oliver Maxwell Kupper. Photograph and video by Perry Shimon. You can learn more about Julius Smack by visiting his website. You can also purchase music – including his new album Everyday Ballet - here. If you are in Los Angeles, you can see Julius Smack perform on November 29, at the Handbag Factory, 1336 S Grand Ave Los Angeles, California