While New York’s Lily Konigsberg (of Palberta) and Matt Norman, a.k.a. Horn Horse, have often operated in different respective sonic modes, Lily’s synth tracks and streamlined vocals and Horn Horse's more fragmented jazz in conjunction generate a shared language. Their new duo Lily and Horn Horse presents a pop-oriented, danceable mesh of synths and vocals from both parties, with rousing baritone horn outbursts. For their tour together last August, they compiled a 28-track album of solo and collaborative tracks which comprise the forthcoming tape release Lily On Horn Horse. In the songs shared below, they showcase their range: Horn Horse opens "Year Book" with a minute-long improvisation filled with pounding drums and horns and keys, then glides into “PVC Pipes,” which features sparse waves of horns and frenetic pipe sounds under haunting vocals from both Lily and Horn Horse. Both parties' words contain a strain of dissociative longing—for a life outside whatever’s inscribed, for a dream world. The closing song "I Only Lose Because I'm Lame" is Lily's long sigh for that world, a stark contrast to the held breath of the previous tracks, just the piano and her voice in the high register calling out, “I can be there, in a dream / I can see it, but it’s nothing / I can see it.” It's an ode to pathetic feeling—and even when she puts on the almost tongue-in-cheek "Oh ... so sad..." there's something deeply resonant in the surrender.
A Cameroon native with a past working as a full-time software engineer, singer-songer Lætitia Tamko, aka Vagabon, has spent the past few years developing her songs through live performance, experimenting with solo and full-band versions of her sets, which are invariably intense. February 24 marks the release of the Brooklyn-based artist’s first full-length, Infinite Worlds, on Father/ Daughter Records, and Vagabon is set to tour in March alongside Allison Crutchfield. On Infinite Worlds, Tamko blends the frank lyrical stylings and swelling guitar rock that marked her 2014 debut EP, Persian Garden, with lush electronic flourishes. In late January, she spoke to us over the phone about her music’s evolution, and offered some thoughts on how DIY and the “real world” aren’t always so different after all—at least when it comes to questions of inclusivity.
AdHoc: The title of your record comes from a book of poems by Dana Ward called The Crisis of Infinite Worlds. What did you like about that collection?
Lætitia Tamko: It was a really challenging read for me. His writing style is so particular. There are a lot of run-on sentences; I had to really comb over his poems to grasp even an idea of what he meant.
I detect a similar affinity for strange repetitions and movements in your lyrics.
It’s funny—these songs were written before I read the book, but I was reading it as I was recording. It’s one of those things that sticks with you, though.
The past three years have seen a prolific and uncannily conscious pop output from Zach Phillips and Christina Schneider—longtime overseers of beloved and recently-shuttered OSR Tapes—as CE Schneider Topical. Recently, they've brought in Derek Baron of Causings and Mega Bog on drums and Quentin Moore of Big French on guitar for a new fuller-band incarnation, Jepeto Solutions. While the arrangements on Jepeto’s self-titled “semi-debut” 7" are as supple and the lyrics as alarmingly clever as in the duo’s last full-length, Antifree, these new songs push an even bigger, clearer sound (with some help from Tom Csatari's slide, wah, and whammy). After Schneider’s opening call to action for women—“You can write the books!”—Jepeto shuttles us into a wobbling, wah-infused side-eye at the “anti-truth exercise” being imposed on us all. Then it’s into the manic pound of “Buzzard On The Cover,” where lunatic voices weave between the squeal and crush of guitars and electronics to deliver reminders like, “You wouldn’t tell your mother how to eat flesh." Even with the tempo wound down for a sweetly sung "Silver Bells" (which first appeared on Schneider’s solo debut), we're gifted all too real and sobering intimations of a Christmas hellscape. This record in particular seems to be a response to the storm of bad news we’ve seen in the past few months, and it's fighting fire with fire effectively.
You can stream Jepeto Solutions in full below. The 7" is out today on Nicey Music, a new LA-based not-for-profit label "believing in the power of music to create actual joy and positive change."
Upstate NY resident Cal Fish has done a good deal of traveling—both literal and sonic—over the past few years, as a member of the dreamy psych-pop act Turnip King and in live sessions with Jerry Paper's jazz band. Now the guitar and flute ace is preparing to release a debut record that's just as melodically oriented as his collaborative projects but which foregrounds his knack for intricate, woozy sonic layering. The video for "Autobiography #4," the second single from Cassette Traveler, is an amalgam of home videos, found footage, and clips from American politics that maps Fish's emotionally charged lyrics onto a broad and dark landscape. This is his fourth version of the same piece, made alongside video installations and two-channel video performances, and it's apparent that the music and visuals were conceptualized in a process of mutual feedback. Broken guitar riffs and pitch-shifting synths osmose into the VHS static, bestowing a sense of unrest, of helplessness against a shifting climate. Still, the whole piece retains the familiarity of a home movie, and there's comfort in "a belief in return."
This article appears in AdHoc Issue 14. You can pick up a copy at AdHoc shows around NYC. If you'd like to order a copy, you can do so here for a physical edition; you can download the PDF here. You can also find physical copies at the following locations in New York City:
Academy Records, Greenpoint
Artbook @ MoMA PS1, Long Island City
Cafe Grumpy, Greenpoint
Commend, Lower East Side
Coop 87, Greenpoint
LIC Corner Cafe, Long Island City
Little Skips, Bushwick
Printed Matter, Chelsea
Spoonbill & Sugartown, Williamsburg
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Long before they broke out with their own projects, back in their Alabama hometown, Philadelphia-based twins Allison and Katie Crutchfield played in a fourpiece band called P.S. Eliot. The sisters—now known for their work with Swearin’ and Waxahatchee, respectively—had been making music together since middle school. In early 2008, just before P.S. Eliot went on tour to support their self-released debut EP, Katie wrote a blog post that seemed to sum up the band’s ethos: “We have the time and we have this sort of super-zealous, enthusiastic outlook on doing a lot with what we have right now, so why not?”
That excitement extended to the music they were making, which was raw, emotionally charged, and recorded in intense spurts. Newly formed and fresh on their instruments, the 19-year-old siblings embedded a message of strength and resistance in their music—one that would later expand to encompass their efforts for inclusion in, and reform of, spaces dominated by men. Conceived at a time when bands of their size rarely benefitted from the help of publicists, P.S. Eliot prioritized connecting with listeners through their shows and writing smart, aggressive lyrics that would resonate with audiences who valued respect and openness just as much as they did.
In the group’s four-year run from 2007 to 2011, they released two EPs, a powerful, wide-open pop album called Introverted Romance in Our Troubled Minds (2009), and an equally revered full-length called Sadie (2011). Today, those records show the seeds of the mature yet equally adventurous output the twins would go on to produce in their solo careers. Speaking on the phone in advance of P.S. Eliot’s reunion tour this fall—their first shows together in five years, with former guitarist Will Granger and bassist Katherine Simonetti—Allison and Katie couldn’t help pointing out how much the landscape of DIY has changed in the nine years since the band’s formation. In the following history of the group, they talk about the Birmingham, Alabama DIY scene where they got their start, building a grassroots following, and how P.S. Eliot was a feminist band at its core, even before they knew how urgently their efforts were needed.
“Place pop” is a fitting tag for Tim Woulfe’s music, which swaddles comforting melodies in evocative atmospheres pieced through field recording. While the Apollonian Sound and Mt. Home collaborator's last full-length The Sleep Cycles was a (mostly) gentle and lulling chronicle of a passing night of sleep and dreams, his newest EP takes a concrete turn into the waking world, which turns out to be just as transient. “There is no right way to preserve the world around you / you’ll just start to hate it,” Woulfe sings over a light strum and quiet machinery in the wake of a loud recorded downpour. No World, All Thunder looks us in the eye with lines like these as it grapples narratively with feelings of vulnerability and an acute sense of impermanence. Even as it strives for groundedness, there is no staying in one place—the clop-clop of makeshift percussion in one moment makes way for transient clicks of electronics in the next, and the EP lands at its wooziest in the final track, with an echoic buzz and some kind of wave shuddering beneath Woulfe’s vocals.
A soft whisper of “You’re so stupid” opens the first song on the debut full-length from Pariuh (stylized as Pari∀h), and a segment from a tape on the process of dying closes it out. It’s this pairing of irreverence with a close, actual attendance to existential matters that makes Chris Dougnac and company’s music so pleasantly confused. Living in Boston, Dougnac produced cool, grainy synth experiments with harshed pop vocal melodies and spiraling arrangements that elicit videogame flashbacks. “Humiliated and Insulted” from Pariuh’s first LP Passed Lives' Excessive Future is an explosion of the sound Dougnac has developed over the years—it sees the now-Miami-based trio of Dougnac, Krystle Lee Bruise, and Jayan Bertrand warming up to something more fleshed-out and frenetic than before. Initially hedging on dream pop with its combo of bright guitar and unrelenting basslines, the song is immediately catchy—but rather than ride the melody out Pariuh cut into wormhole after psychedelic wormhole. All of the remaining turns are sudden and crushing, simultaneously hyper-fun and hyper-serious in their intensity; it's apt that the record should loosely center on the story of a runner hurtling breathlessly into a future where death is inevitable.
Together, LODRO have grown into somewhat of a persona. Having released a mere handful of songs since their inception in Bushwick's Market Hotel in 2013, they’ve nonetheless achieved a distinctive sound, the personal embodiment of a very particular dark, Tarantino-esque atmosphere. The trio, which includes former members of Friends and Royal Baths, bring scalding guitar riffs and pounding drums up against cold, foreboding vocal melodies from Lesley Hann and Jeremy Cox to sinister effect. On their debut full-length—titled LORD O, in an aptly wicked-sounding joke—the heat swells, and the noise they’ve made is markedly more intense. It’s sultry and sprawling, immediately evocative of a drive out west and suitably wide in range.
The opener, “TXS H8RS”, is LODRO’s best display of psychedelia, picking up speed with the delayed vocals impatient against the rippling guitar and rolling drums. Alongside rousing tracks like this are slower burners like “Song For Brian Wilson”, which still can’t resist a gripping descending guitar solo at its apex. Throughout, Tyler Thacker's percussion is high in the mix, anchoring Hann’s and Cox’s voices into a steady groove. The vocals are saccharine until they’re not—“Sewn Up” brings the record into its most menacing territory, lines like the not-quite-erotic “Trying to keep you long enough to sew you up” muffled and strange against the swing of the warped guitar. The record teems with feedback and grit; LODRO tracked the bass, guitar, and drums simultaneously to an analog reel-to-reel in their Brooklyn living room, overdubbing only vocals and some percussion. A fitting debut full-length for a band who've made their name playing shows, LORD O captures the sense of a live set beautifully—there’s enough mess to make it feel raw without subtracting any clarity.
In the half-year or so that they’ve been releasing music, Whitney have mastered the art of conveying their version of Americana bliss. Following the tempered and sweet “No Woman”, members Max Kakacek and Julian Ehrlich have given word they'll be releasing their first full-length, Light Upon The Lake, just in time for summer. They're now sharing a more orchestral facet to their sound with “Golden Days,” which Ehrlich half-jokingly described in a live set as “our ‘Trap Queen,’ if we have one." It's certainly funkier than their prior releases and unabashedly a love song, albeit more entrenched in the past than in any idyllic present. In the video, Whitney give us warm glimpses of autumnal romance interspersed with shots of sunny grasslands and footage from a house show, all via a charming reel-to-reel setup. Ehrlich’s falsetto rolls smoothly over the slide guitar and thick bassline, and even as he sings the wrenching “It’s a shame I can’t get it together now / it’s a shame we can’t get it together now,” an undiminished brightness lingers in the melody.
Dreamboat is the highly apropos name for an unlikely collaboration between folk guitarist and vocalist Ilyas Ahmed and synth-clarinet duo Golden Retriever. Giving rein to improvisation, they’ve made a record that merges Ahmed’s deeply colored, emotionally charged playing with the strange and structurally intricate sounds of Jonathan Sielaff’s processed bass clarinet and Matt Carlson’s analog synth. The A-side of Dreamboat’s forthcoming self-titled is intensely moving, with lunar synth sounds blooming out of a heartrending melody on 12-string guitar and Ahmed’s affected vocals melding with the clarinet. “Aftershock” moves through nervous synths to arrive at the more unsettled “Face to Face,” which at its climax erupts into a chorus of spacey reverberations underlaid by a grounding bassline. Each new gesture feels strikingly organic, grown from the last, embedding a deep sense of a lived-in atmosphere over the course of fifteen minutes.