This article originally appeared in AdHoc Issue 17. Download a PDF of the zine at this link, and look out for physical copies both at our shows and at record stores, bookstores, coffee shops, and community centers throughout the city. (Those of you outside New York City can order a copy here as well.)
Hi! My name is Stef Chura. I live in Detroit and play in a group under my own name. I was in NYC recently for a New York minute (heh... I couldn't help myself), and I got to sit down and talk with Priests, with whom we’re going on tour in February. They’re a punk band from D.C. who have been self-releasing on their own label, Sister Polygon, since 2012. Talking to the group’s four members—vocalist Katie Alice Greer, drummer Daniele Daniele, guitarist G. L. Jaguar, and bassist Taylor Mulitz—for AdHoc, I learned a little more about the ins and outs of their label and what is was like for them to record their first full-length album, Nothing Feels Natural. They also shed some light on life in D.C. during “Pizzagate” and the armed invasion of beloved local venue Comet Ping Pong, where Taylor and Daniele work.
Stef Chura: When did you guys start Sister Polygon Records?
Katie Alice Greer: We started Sister Polygon to put out the first Priests seven-inch, in 2012. We wanted to own the means of production for putting out our music as much as we could. We all bond over music together, so the idea was to also put other stuff we really love out in the world.
Did Sister Polygon immediately grow into this bigger thing?
Daniele Daniele: It’s grown in spurts. First, it was just our stuff, then Downtown Boys, Shady Hawkins... And then around the time Pinkwash’s Your Cure Your Soil came out, in 2014, we were like, “We’re gonna be a label that does lots of stuff.” So we figured out how to distribute music, do press for releases, and things like that.
Katie: Before we would be like, “We made a cassette!”
Taylor Mulitz: “Go team!”
Daniele: We had 300 cassettes in our closet, and we were like, “We’re a record label!”
Lee Ranaldo was seven or eight years old when he got his first guitar—“That is, one that wasn’t a tennis racket,” he says. It was a pink plastic ukulele silk-screened with pictures of the Beatles, acquired after Ranaldo saw them play on Ed Sullivan in 1964. Later, during his high school years, he graduated to a larger-body, Japanese Martin D-18 copy, on which he would learn Beatles covers and folk songs. And although he would eventually come to be known for his work with Fender Jazzmasters and Gibson Les Pauls, Ranaldo has been collecting acoustic guitars ever since.
In recent years, the Sonic Youth guitarist has been revisiting his beginnings, eschewing the noise- riddled sounds of that band and early solo efforts like 1987’s From Here To Infinity in favor of acoustic-driven, Americana-inspired songwriting. Calling from his Manhattan home, he says he’s especially interested in the stories of the people who make them. Here’s one he told us about legendary luthier Michael Gurian.
Lee Ranaldo: A friend of mine recently started bugging me about this early ’70s guitar-maker named Michael Gurian. As it turns out, some of the best guitar-makers trained in Gurian’s shop. The shop was on Carmine Street in the West Village, and as far as I know, he began building guitars there. When he started to get a little more serious, he had a shop on Bedford Street, also in the West Village, and built guitars there for a while. He later moved to New Hampshire and built guitars there. But all in all, he built guitars for about 10 years, and then quit.
AdHoc Issue 16 is here! Download a PDF of the zine at this link, and look out for physical copies both at our shows and at record stores, bookstores, coffee shops, and community centers throughout the city. (Those of you outside New York City can order a copy here as well.)
The American underground broke into mainstream awareness as 2016 drew to a close, but not for the reasons we would have hoped. On December 4, a gunman walked into Comet Ping Pong, a D.C. pizza restaurant and vital art and music venue, searching for child sex slaves. Comet and its employees had already been the target of online and phone-based harassment for weeks as a result of the Pizzagate conspiracy, in which Reddit and Voat users alleged that John Podesta and Hillary Clinton were involved in a sex-trafficking ring based out of the restaurant, among others. Though the gunman didn’t harm anyone, his actions demonstrated the perils of post-truthist rumor-mongering in a very real, very frightening way. In this issue, Comet regulars and D.C.-based punk band Priests discuss—in addition to their label, Sister Polygon, and their debut LP, Nothing Feels Natural—their real-life brush with Pizzagate, and the threats progressive artistic communities are facing from the far-right.
Just the day before the Comet incident, those of us on the East Coast had awoken to news of a horrifying fire at Oakland DIY venue the Ghost Ship. Cash Askew, who played guitar in the dreamy sounding rock duo Them Are Us Too, was among the fire’s 36 victims; here, her bandmate and friend Kennedy Ashlyn remembers Askew’s inimitable strength and spirit. A month after her death, it’s still impossible to reckon with what happened, not to mention the chilling feeling that this could have happened to us. One of the numerous after-effects of the fire has been an unfair critique of electronic music and DIY practices in the mainstream media, and an ensuing nationwide crackdown on DIY spaces, eliminating safe spaces for people who often don’t have anywhere else to go. Even when displaced, artists in these communities will keep going—but paying tribute to the creative spirit of people like Cash Askew and of artist-run venues all over the country feels more urgent than ever.
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AdHoc Issue 17's contributors:
Stef Chura is a singer, songwriter, and guitarist from Detroit whose debut album, Messes, is being released on January 27 via Urinal Cake Records. She interviewed the band Priests for this issue.
Kennedy Ashlyn sings and plays keys for the band Them Are Us Too. In this issue, she remembers her beloved bandmate and friend Cash Askew, who passed away in the Oakland warehouse fire of December 2016.
Jordan Reyes is a nomadic writer who currently pays rent in Minnesota; he plays industrial music as Taphophile and runs Moniker Records alongside Robert Manis. In this issue, Lee Ranaldo told Jordan about his favorite acoustic guitar.
Lee Ranaldo is a musician, composer, visual artist, writer, producer, and a founding member of the band Sonic Youth. He spoke about his experience with Gurian guitars in this issue.
Samuel Nigrosh is a Chicago-based illustrator who publishes books and comix under the name Trash City. He made the illustrations for this issue.
Daniele Daniele is a real renaissance woman. She lives in Washington, D.C. and performs with Priests and Gauche. She designed and hand-painted the cover of this month’s zine.
Below are our 21 favorite albums of 2016, presented in alphabetical order. Many thanks to all who read our words and attended our shows this year. If you're interested in keeping up with what we do, sign up for our mailing list on the right side of this webpage, and follow us on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.
A Tribe Called Quest: We Got It From Here… Thank You 4 Your Service [Epic]
I come from the generation when rap started to break into well-to-do suburban neighborhoods. Just before it became a major commercial force in the second part of the ’90s, hip-hop was effectively my generation’s punk rock. Especially growing up in a trailer park, hip-hop made a major impact by voicing a multi-faceted language of disadvantage. The rhythms, content, and aspirations of hip-hop seemed to offer many—especially the confused and apathetic youth—means of expression and engagement. So it’s affirming that all these years later, A Tribe Called Quest, one of the most important groups of that time period, still carry such cache and still speak to and for the confused and enraged—that they’re prescient but also in-step within a new era of hip-hop fan caught up in social media scenes and The Breakfast Club blasts. I can’t dare argue how We Got It From Here… Thank You 4 Your Service speaks to and for specific people of different races, genders, or socioeconomic groups, but as a still-struggling adult with children, every beat, idea, and expectation crammed into this great hip-hop group’s last effort (jam-packed with star performances by peers and protégés alike) speaks volumes for those of us who have lost the words to explain where things have gone awry. [Justin Spicer]
Angel Olsen: My Woman [Jagjaguwar]
Angel Olsen’s 2014 LP Burn Your Fire For No Witness ends on an exhale. On “Window,” the record’s slow-burning closer, Olsen asks, “Won’t you open the window sometime? What’s so wrong with the light?” On “Not Gonna Kill You,” the final track on the A-side of her latest full-length, My Woman, a decidedly more upbeat Olsen answers her own question: “I’ll let the light shine in,” she says. Like much of My Woman, the song has a tone both self-possessed and wise, reflecting a palpable shift from the erstwhile delicate, lo-fi Americana on Olsen’s previous releases. In 2016, her vocals feel more lived in, more emboldened by the warmth of experience.
The brilliance of My Woman, then, is Olsen’s ability to balance her newly wizened demeanor with coy fatalism. Following the assertion that she’ll let the light shine in, Olsen drawls the titular coda: “It’s not gonna kill you.” One can’t help but picture the requisite wink upon delivery. Sure enough, My Woman has a sardonic sheen—perhaps best exemplified by “Intern,” the intentionally synth-laden red herring. But once you look behind the candelabra—or, more accurately, under the silver wig Olsen dons in that song’s video—there’s tenderness lurking underneath. It shows up even stronger elsewhere: “Show me the future,” Olsen sings on “Sister.” “Tell me you’ll be there.” It’s as much an earnest plea as a coy provocation. [Julia Selinger]
ANOHNI: Hopelessness [Secretly Canadian]
As I reflect on all the momentous issues covered in Hopelessness—state-sanctioned executions, extrajudicial killings, surveillance, climate change, the rise and fall of the Obama generation’s optimism—I think back to an interview where ANOHNI describes our generation’s ability to forget the collective trauma inflicted by capitalism: “The trauma is so quickly erased,” she told The Creative Independent, “and the new terms for engagement are accepted as an inevitability.” 2016 has been nothing but a continuous cycle of outrage, emotional outpour, and despondency. It has left too many without the energy or tools for meaningful political and social action. What ANOHNI achieves here is a method of bypassing the anxieties of the political situation and concretizing the danger they present and fear they inspire. Our instinct is to feel embarrassed as she repeats the president’s name on “Obama,” addressing him so directly for his faults. In doing so, she opens up a line of dialogue, one that pokes and prods throughout the entirety of Hopelessness. Through it, ANOHNI demonstrates the necessity for directness in our conversations, for opening up to vulnerability and honesty in today’s increasingly inhospitable world. [Ivan Krasnov]
Babyfather: “BBF” Hosted by DJ Escrow [Hyperdub]
Never giving a damn about a coherent or consistent narrative to back up his various projects, Dean Blunt—a.k.a. Babyfather, neither of which is his real name of course—in many ways anticipated the emergent post-truth age. Still, at the end of this strange year, after all the Brexits and “Make America Great Agains,” the overbearing presence of “BBF” Hosted by DJ Escrow’s leitmotif—the sinister iteration of the catchphrase “This Makes Me Proud to Be British”—has left a lingering, bitter aftertaste that its creator couldn’t possibly have foreseen. Yet it’s been with us for almost all of 2016, repeating in much the same tone. To call Blunt a prankster is a misunderstanding. The opposite is true: Blunt’s work has become so overly sincere that it inevitably verges on the absurd. Ever since his earliest works as one half of Hype Williams, his music has never been meant for us to be entertained. He’s laughing at all of us, but despite the state of the world, not because of it. What kind of art are you supposed to create if reality and satire have become congruent? This is what makes “BBF” deeply, inherently political: an album unlistenable in the same way that 2016 was unlivable. [Henning Lahmann]
The Body: No One Deserves Happiness [Thrill Jockey]
Little did anyone know that 2016 would see the release of the greatest pop music-influenced noise-metal record of all time, yet no one should be surprised that it came from the Portland-based duo of heavy experimenters The Body. Despite having a sui generis and inimitable take on the doom-sludge sound, they have remained astonishingly flexible with their choice of collaborations, which has led them ever further away from the realm of metal purism. While fans of extreme brutality have still much in store for them on the No One Deserves Happiness (e.g., the malevolent “For You”), much of the LP triumphs in sounding like “the grossest pop album of all time,” with hints of Beyoncé’s “Jealous” and Kanye West’s “Lost In The World” mixing in with distorted trap beats, a Björkian use of choir, and a Wagnerian use of trombones. Members of Assembly of Light Choir Chrissy Wolpert and Maralie Armstrong take solos on the album and one must say that Armstrong’s presence on “Adamah” could be 2016’s “Great Gig In The Sky” performance of the year. The Body doesn’t get carried away, however: “The Fall and the Guilt” could have easily fit on their 2013 masterpiece Christs, Redeemers, and shows they’re still the most nuanced songwriters in metal. [Isaiah David]
A knowledge of Dedekind Cut, a.k.a. Fred Warmsley's diverse career arc helps to place some of the more serrated alien textures that lurk under the surface of $uccessor’s lush new age experimentalism. What sets the album apart is its ability to intertwine the calming synth washes, choral effects, and pan flutes with pummeling rhythmic interludes and mangled samples, suggestive of drum ’n’ bass. This inclination makes historical sense from an artist who spent the last decade bouncing back and forth between producing mutant jungle under his Lee Bannon moniker and a long string hip-hop instrumentals for rappers ranging from Joey Bada$$ to Inspectah Deck. $uccessor reflects the output of the burgeoning community of artists associated with the NON Worldwide umbrella like N-prolenta and Chino Amobi, both of whom released cacophonous, ambient meditations on identity over the past year. Accompanied by its Deana Lawson cover photo depicting black horse riders, $uccessor infuses a cross-legged, meditative headspace with notions of black identity and street grit in a work that is as elegant as it is mysterious. [Max Parrott]
Elysia Crampton: Demon City [Break World]
Critics have been bending over backwards all year trying to make sense out of the wicked collaborations and artistry that spill across Elysia Crampton's Demon City. If they're not trying to string together as many superlatives into one sentence about how it sounds, then it’s micro-thesis papers on what it means or whether it has to do with Crampton's gender or globe-hopping. Is it the club as science fiction or is it setting a new precedent? What does it mean?
The trick of Demon City isn't that it's about anything that will come after it or before, but that it's a record very much of the now, a conversational piece between like-minded musicians meeting halfway between their unique voices today (NON's Lexxi on “Red Eyez,” the title track with Halcyon Veil boss Rabit, “Dummy Track” between Chino Amobi and Why Be), and Crampton's own blockbuster refinement of the paranormal sound she first put forward proper on the big screen with last year’s American Drift. Demon City feels like a record made among friends, a private conversation about what they'd like to hear and express in the club, before going out and doing just that. Its production is familiar and hollowed out at the same time, playing hide and seek with texture and often swerving away from a Big Moment only to save it for later. That all these voices behind her are coming into their own while Crampton's music gets better and better is humbling and astonishing today. Tomorrow can come later. [Brad Stabler]
Frank Ocean: Blonde [Boys Don’t Cry]
Throughout Blonde, Frank Ocean’s second full-length project of 2016, the artist performs a type of restless cruising. In L.A., you inevitably spend a lot of time on the highway, an endless loop of numbers that takes you from the foothills to the ocean and back. Exit signs, relics of old apartments, past lives float by. Shrouded in delicate arrangements that hang like weed smoke (or nuts, per “Futura Free”), Ocean sings to old lovers and old cars. He goes to Colorado. He yearns for people who are barely there. He crashes the galaxy. He sees the future first, and then lands back on Earth, bones dense as fuck. Blonde is beautiful in its roving plurality—its helium ballads and ghostly cameos whipped into frothy, prismatic choruses. It gently refuses to stay in a lane. As the critic Aria Dean theorizes—citing the Middle Passage, viral images of Black death, memes, and the fugitive nature of Black survival—historically and ontologically, Blackness circulates, troubles boundaries, makes them “a little bent.” Frank Ocean knows insofar as a Black man ever “makes it,” the world will try to own him. Blonde lives in the drift away from this capture, the detours. [Joseph Ocón]
Horse Lords: Interventions [Northern Spy]
Interventions is a classic breakthrough record, refining and broadening Horse Lords' sonic repertoire while also marking the best-sounding release by the group yet. The record offers a mind-expanding tour through the current preoccupations of the underground: foregrounding harsh guitar figures on "Interventions III," judiciously deploying loops and samples (the shorter sketches that serve as interludes highlight another key of the breakthrough record: thoughtful sequencing), and continually grounded in the band's ongoing relationship with hypnotic, syncopated polyrhythms. Like fellow travelers 75 Dollar Bill or Rangda, Horse Lords are the fruit borne of an increasingly interconnected and genre-blind subterranean scene, hovering at the midpoint of jazz, noise rock, and that knotty genre "world music." Arriving at a moment of renewed introspection and criticism across the independent music community, the aptly titled Interventions sings out with a vital urgency, a clarion call to renew one's engagement with the scenes that nurture these sounds. Interventions is certainly protest music, but it's also liberation music, and we need a lot more of both now more than ever. [Max Burke]
Jenny Hval: Blood Bitch [Sacred Bones]
Jenny Hval’s somewhat-vampire-themed LP Blood Bitch resonates with the past year in several intervals. The songwriting embodies the ever-flatter borders between genres in independent music: icy black metal, synth-driven dream pop, and the spoken-word librettos of Robert Ashley’s operas get equal time here in terms of reference, all rendered under a cool sonic patina by Hval and her co-producer, the Norwegian noise master Lasse Marhaug. Lyrically, Hval’s totemic references to technological anxiety (“I clutch my phone in my sweaty palm”) and the interplay between desire and violence (“I have big dreams,” she declares, “and blood powers”) speak to the ongoing concerns of 2016 in a poetic, reflexive tone exemplified in the self-deprecating dialogue in “The Great Undressing,” in which Hval and a friend laugh about making an album about bloodsuckers. One of Blood Bitch’s primary preoccupations is the exercise and evasion of power, a concern Hval attributes to two very different filmmakers. That she samples an Adam Curtis documentary to underscore cultural confusion as a political weapon is understandable. That she cites the films of grindhouse hack Jess Franco as an inspiration is less obviously clear, until you understand that, in an era where reality can vault you to the most vaunted position in the world, there’s a revolutionary strategy to staying on the margins. [Lance Higdon]
JJ Doll: JJ Doll [Katorga Works]
They've unfortunately already played their last show, but JJ Doll's self-titled 7" documents a band buoyed by the more classic (for lack of a better term) roots of contemporary New York City hardcore, and who embrace these roots in a way more particular and nuanced than most. Borne from the ashes of former local favorites Ivy—who, after their break up, now share members with Kaleidoscope as well—JJ Doll were an important cultural force, welcoming touring punk bands from the Midwest, down South, and internationally as a gateway to the character of NYC punk indicative of the last near-decade's scene. That description could lend to the idea of JJ Doll as a “band's band” or a local capsule, and although those aren't inherently wrong or bad things, they would be misleading about what’s ultimately one of the best punk releases of the year. [Matt Sullivan]
LVL UP: Return to Love [Domino]
Following 2014's critically acclaimed Hoodwink'd, Brooklyn outfit LVL UP took two years to build their third full-length, Return to Love. The quartet's latest is a massive stride forward in terms of creative ambition, scope, and unabashed feeling. 2016's difficulties sent a lot of people searching for their own discovery of spirituality and reasons to find, or keep, faith. Over 10 tracks of barbed, ’90s-leaning magic, LVL UP not only grapple with questions concerning those themes but provide a new source of inspiration.
On "Hidden Driver," Dave Benton—one of the band's three core songwriters—fuels a surging insistence that never wanes over the course of the record. Bassist and vocalist Nick Corbo's four contributions provide Return to Love with its beating heart and mark an exhilarating new chapter for an already promising talent. Michael Caridi's "Pain" serves as the record's most towering moment, even while returning the narrative to slightly smaller (and far more personal) stakes. Return to Love poses bigger questions in its narrative than the band’s past efforts do, yet they've never sounded more in control. [Steven Spoerl]
Mal Devisa: Kiid [self-released]
In a year when the public has come to rethink the media’s role in personal and political taste-making, Mal Devisa’s Kiid stands out as an uncompromising reflection on our times in its tone and, also, simply, in that its fans have come to love it so organically. Self-released in March, the record comprises ten tracks that range from tender ballads like "Sea Of Limbs" to stomping electronic recitations like “In My Neighborhood.” Kiid brilliantly draws from jazz, hip-hop, folk, and electronic music to create a dynamic batch of musical textures over which the glorious voice of Mal Devisa (real name: Deja Carr) soars. As independent music seems to beg to be contextualized in a scene or movement, Mal Devisa has consciously avoided the social trappings of the music industry, building a following by playing heartfelt shows, making art on her own terms, and being damn good at it. [Mike Kolb]
Mitski: Puberty 2 [Dead Oceans]
The bitter yearning and frustrated rebellion of 2016 has been well documented. Mitski's fourth effort, Puberty 2, deftly catalogues many such moments of bleak desperation and rarely offers relief. She recounts hard decisions, lost love, and dreams crushed by the need to pay rent each month. In a year when the summer seemed it would never end—bitter political quarreling and all—Mitski, too, cries during summertime fireworks. Along the way, her voice shape shifts, representing the contortions needed to reconcile her bitter nostalgia with the disappointing present. At times, she sounds like she is shouting through a phone, at others, as if as if she's in an empty lounge at the end of the world.
But Puberty 2 also serves a hard-nosed, equivocal optimism that fits the restless uncertainty of the past few months. Mitski’s anthemic defiance brims with passion but is short on resolution: “Your mother wouldn’t approve of how my mother raised me / But I do. I think I do.” Gravelly textures of chopped electronic drum beats, abusive strumming of acoustic guitars, and full-throated saxophone add to the album’s feeling that even in principled resistance, everything still turns out a mess. [Robert Szypko]
Pinegrove: Cardinal [Run for Cover]
Pinegrove's second LP Cardinal strikes a nerve, even if it’s impact is hard to articulate. The album is threaded deeply with the rich personal details and wry musings that frontman Evan Stephens Hall shares in his lyrics—and in his emotive and expressive country drawl, and in the intricately woven banjo and slide guitar arrangements. Most of all, it's in the extremely relatable feelings and worries that make up the backbone of the album. When Hall sings, "I should call my parents when I think of them / I should tell my friends when I love them," it's all but impossible not to reflect and realize you should do the same yourself. Cardinal is lovingly crafted and deeply resonant. It's a comfort to experience something so genuinely pure in its intentions in 2016, with much of the world in chaos and our country's future seeming bleak and uncertain. There will always be a place for earnest indie rock records like this one, and Cardinal is a reminder of just how important they can be. [Connor Rush]
Princess Nokia: 1992 [self-released]
A firm believer in DIY, Destiny Frasqueri, a.k.a. Princess Nokia, really did do it herself. Head spinning from the pressure of major label battles, the Bronx rapper revisited her birth year and self-release her first mixtape, 1992. Enlisting an all-star lineup of producers—A-Trak and Lex Luger to name a couple—Princess Nokia lets us glimpse into her difficult childhood and displays the unafraid, calculated recklessness that emerged henceforth. One of her lead singles, “Kitana” is a battle cry against her self-doubts, where she bitingly spits, “I just wanna have fun / And to live without fear.”
Living without fear for Princess Nokia is living without shame, a sentiment that rings clearly through the love of both her physical self and her bloodline. Bursting with pride for her Afro-Puerto Rican and Native Arawak heritage in “Bruja,” she proclaims herself a “black-a-rican” witch, warding off her haters. In “Mine” and “Excellent,” she highlights her hair and skin, which aren’t so readily accepted by others. “Is that your real hair?” she asks, mimicking the questions of strangers. “It’s mine, I bought it,” she retorts. With “melanin heaven sent,” Princess Nokia’s 1992 is knowing your worth and exuding a confidence in spite of all odds. [Meilyn Huq]
serpentwithfeet: Blisters [Tri Angle]
It’s hard to write words these days, knowing full well that no amount of hyperbole or Pynchon-esque similes will come close to encapsulating the bizarre, multi-layered irony of 2016. In the United States, less than half of the voting population achieved a scrappy victory, rejecting the perceived threat of “PC culture” for their own form of “correctness.” Those people most likely would not approve of serpentwithfeet, but it is necessary and life-affirming that challenging artists like serpentwithfeet’s Josiah Wise, who identifies with minority groups increasingly facing marginalization and normalized bigotry, are channeling their stories into unique, exciting music. Wise is a classically trained vocalist, and seconds into his debut release, Blisters, his unadulterated voice stands out as naked and bold in year of heavily-processed musical voices. The complex naturalness on Blisters is like a mountain stream replenishing brutalist desolation. Wise’s interest in the occult, in the ethers, in the sensuality of chastity is a beautiful queerification of what some might otherwise consider “gospel” music. Collaborating with Tri Angle labelmate Haxan Cloak, Wise swims in baroque instrumentation throughout. Harps cascade. Huge swells of strings bolster his velvety vibrato. serpentwithfeet upends some of pop’s tired cliches, and although his songs concern personal relationships and conflicts, they will inevitably stand for much more. [Ross Devlin]
Sheer Mag: III [Static Shock / Wilsuns RC]
2016 has been a year defined by tumult and uncertainty. As the world perilously shifts in unfathomable ways, it’s crucial to find solace in the reaffirming consistencies of life. Thankfully, one small thing that we can always seem to count on is Sheer Mag annually releasing a mind-blowingly phenomenal EP. On their third release in as many years, the Philly punk crew continues their steady climb to the top of the rock world. At this point in their career, they’re comfortable with continuing to refine the formula that’s treated them so well. The blown-out, Thin Lizzy-worshipping guitar work remains front and center. Tina Halladay’s vocals are just as invigorating. However, there’s a newfound sense of urgency in Halladay’s lyrical message that makes this EP an absolutely necessary listen. “All my life I’ve felt the eye of the catcall / We’re striking back baby, and you can find me in the vanguard” she grittily howls on opening cut “Can’t Stop Fighting.” With III, it’s obvious what Sheer Mag came to the party to do: viciously dismantle the patriarchy through the uniting power of a strong voice and an infectiously catchy riff. [Dylan Farrell]
Solange: A Seat at the Table [Saint / Columbia]
A Seat at the Table is an understated affair, full of relaxed, considered grooves which sound intimate and feel so good. Magic abounds in unexpected moments and places—the cascading entrance of Sampha’s vocals after the main hook of “Don’t Touch My Hair” or the bassline of “Cranes in the Sky,” which traces Solange’s vocal acrobatics like spotters carrying a trampoline. The austere palm-muted guitars that open “Don’t You Wait” are the most foreboding musical moment on a record that confronts anti-blackness and her experiences as a black woman with miraculous levity. Here, she addresses the hubris of white cultural gatekeepers who embraced her last record, True, and accused her of “biting the hand that feeds” for expressing her racial politics and exposing the condescending critical assumption that R&B “just got interesting and experimental.” In truth, it has always been. A Seat at the Table undeniably deserves its spot amid this year’s best of lists, AdHoc’s included. But our inclusion of A Seat at the Table—and its embrace by a wider critical tradition that has done both Solange and black music wrong—isn't an appropriate measure of success; look to “F.U.B.U” to see where Solange takes hers. [Miguel Gallego]
Weyes Blood: Front Row Seat to Earth [Mexican Summer]
Though modern American life is frequently a far cry from a battle for survival, it’s not easy. I don’t know if any year can be objectively worse than another, but 2016 saw tragedy heaped upon tragedy, culminating in a cruel twist of fate in early November when, for the first time in as long as I can remember, people “viewed each other strangely, and as strangers,” to quote Truman Capote. Hadn’t we learned from Bush… or, you know, Andrew Jackson? And yet, out of this wretched, ugly year, Natalie Mering birthed something pure and unafraid. I don’t know what place art has in the face of an aggressive government or an army of ignorance, but I know the act of creation is an act of hope and necessity, one with the capacity to salve the sporadic pain of being alive. In all its resplendent orchestration and beauty, Front Row Seat To Earth has been a trusted companion against the darkness, the kind of companion we’ll need in the years to come. [Jordan Reyes]
Yves Tumor: Serpent Music [PAN]
Yves Tumor is distinct in his clear desire not to imitate anyone, instead developing his own stylistic language to express an inner world. On Serpent Music, the result of this process is a work that feels very personal and expressive, and dynamic in its contrasts. At times very beautiful, at others very ugly, at times free-flowing, at others highly constructed: Tumor’s compositional approach and sonic palette are wide-ranging. Beautiful soft loops meet acoustic and electronic sound sources, and the real world is invited in through the use of technical feats and field recordings: a diverse array of screeching feedback, cop sirens, and broken beats. But silence also plays a large role. He communicates much without words and uses complete aural silence to build anticipation and to accentuate a recurring feeling of fragmentation. Listening to everything existing in simultaneity, a larger picture emerges. Yet no matter how abstract the album, the sequencing is so even that if you get lost, upon repeat listens you get the feeling like you’re gently being pulled through a specific sonic environment—a feeling not unlike dreaming. Often the fact that our ears don’t immediately understand what they’re hearing makes us focus and pay closer attention. [Tobias Rochman]
It is possible that listening to music consists less in distracting the mind from “acoustic suffering” than in struggling to reestablish animal alert. What characterizes harmony is that it resuscitates the acoustic curiosity that is lost as soon as articulated and semantic language spreads within us. — Pascal Quignard, from Hatred of Music
Since 2014’s A Wilderness of Mirrors, Brisbane-based artist and Room40 label head Lawrence English has been investigating the role of music in terror and warfare through harmonic density and extreme dynamics. His latest album, Cruel Optimism, also focuses on fragility and power (or lack thereof) in the face of human greed, malice, and intolerance. Despite the album’s foreboding bent, it is a work built upon affirmation—encouraging resilience, solidarity, and defiance despite recent global calamities. “This record is one of protest against the immediate threat of abhorrent possible futures”, Lawrence writes in the album’s liner notes. With Cruel Optimism, we are kindly invited to engage in endless dialogues just like this one. For, if anyone’s qualified to talk about the primordial, often unacknowledged link between sound and violence, it’s English. We talked enthusiastically about an array of subjects, such as the politics of perception and colonialism, the (mis)uses of technology, the unfortunate depoliticization of music, and the video for Cruel Optimism’s “Negative Drone,” premiering below. Our conversation is after the jump.
This interview with Palisades' Leeor Waisbrod and Ariel Bitran appears in AdHoc Issue 16.
As anyone who has been hanging out on the Brooklyn underground scene for long enough will attest, New York is the kind of place where anything can happen, until it can’t. From April 2014 to June 2016, a one-time used furniture storefront and former beef smokehouse at the corner of Broadway and Stockton in Bushwick became home to one of our city’s most beloved DIY venues, known equally for its no-frills interior, welcoming atmosphere, and wholehearted embrace of the city as a melting pot of perspectives and sounds. Palisades was the kind of place where you show up at 8 to see Xiu Xiu, come back at midnight for RP Boo and Traxman, then return a month later to see Skepta, and probably see a lot of the same faces in the crowd. AdHoc booked a lot of shows there, and when the venue suddenly shuttered its doors earlier this summer, we felt like we’d lost a home away from home.
In the following oral history, founder Leeor Waisbrod and booker Ariel Bitran open up about how Palisades came to be, the creative community it nurtured, and the difficulty of staying afloat in a city where the odds are stacked against independent venue owners, financially and legally—even the ones who try to do everything by the book.
This interview with Parquet Courts' Andrew Savage appears in AdHoc Issue 16.
Parquet Courts organized and play at Knock! Knock! Down! Down!at Knockdown Center on December 10 with Lee Ranaldo, Guerilla Toss, X___X, Vanity, and Flasher.
New York rock stalwarts Parquet Courts have a knack for playing in unconventional places, like their 2014 AdHoc-co-hosted event at the Sugarhill Supper Club. This year, the band has set its sights on the Knockdown Center, a revamped factory space in Maspeth, Queens that regularly plays host to forward-looking dance, music, art, and theater happenings. On December 10, AdHoc and Parquet Courts will present Knock! Knock! Down! Down!, an evening of musical performances and art installations by the band, its contemporaries,and its inspirations. While soaking in sounds from Sonic Youth guitarist Lee Ranaldo, legendary Ohio proto-punk band X___X , New York punk torchbearers Vanity, and DC post-punk trio Flasher [Ed.: Guerilla Toss has since been added to the bill], visitors wandering through the space will encounter films by Joey Pizza Slice, an audio-video installation by Eaters, and paintings by Parquet Courts vocalist, guitarist, and design mastermind Andrew Savage. We met up with Savage at his apartment in Brooklyn to talk about the genesis of Knock! Knock! Down! Down!, and using art and music to engage with your moment in history.
AdHoc: How did Knock! Knock! Down! Down! come about?
Andrew Savage: Parquet Courts has a tradition of playing a show in December, at the end of the year. Our first band practice was in December2010, so it’s like an anniversary. I think it’s really interesting to take advantage of all these weird and cool spaces for art that we have. Even before I lived here, I noticed that all the DIY venues in New York were a bit different. They each have their own kind of site-specific quality. I’m grateful for the chance to have played places like Palisades and Market Hotel and to be able to make something unique. It’s sad that places like Monster Island Basement and Death By Audio have gone under, but their legacy is also inspiring, because they had this really amazing life. It’s at Death By Audio where we essentially learned how to be a band and play on stage. I never wanna not have an engagement with that world. Knock! Knock! Down! Down! will be a bunch of bands that don’t sound similar but go together in an interesting way. Eaters are an electronic band on my label Dull Tools. We have important contemporaries to us, like Flasher, which is Taylor [Mulitz] from Priests’ new band. And then people who are obviously influential on Parquet Courts, like X___X, a legendary band from my favorite time in American rock music: the ’70s underground proto-punk, post-Velvets thing. Craig [Bell] from X___X was also in Mirrors, Rocket from the Tombs, and Dead Boys. He’s become a good friend and ally. Lee Ranaldo [is] obviously someone who’s been influential on Parquet Courts, and has becomea friend. Vanity [are] a great representation of how awesome the New York punk and hardcore scene is at the moment. I think it’s important for bands to have something that makes them them—some benchmark of success other than the ones that have all been tropes for a long time. In my opinion, it’s asserting who you are and where you come from, and doing it alongside people that you respect, and making a fun night for people.
AdHoc Issue 16 is here! Grab a PDF of the zine here, and look out for physical copies both at our shows and at record stores, bookstores, coffee shops, and community centers throughout the city. (Those of you outside New York City can order a copy here as well.)
Many Americans are glad that 2016 is almost over; some rightfully fear that 2017 will be even worse. It’s tough to know what to cling to in a world governed by xenophobic politicians and a clickbait-reliant media, and some think that making and writing about music can feel pretty frivolous at a time like this. Here at AdHoc, we believe that our first order of business is to consider the ways we can make a positive difference in our communities—not just as artists and writers and music enthusiasts, but as citizens and fellow human beings. Still, we also can’t imagine powering through these dark times without music as a source of spiritual strength, and a channel for opposition.
For this issue, we spoke to some of the people in this city who have worked long and hard to keep the city's counterculture alive—a counterculture that, for many of us, feels more urgently necessary than it did just a month ago. The founder and curator of beloved Bushwick music venue Palisades—which shuttered in October after an extended bureaucratic struggle with authorities—speak out for the first time about the venue’s closure, sharing the history of the space and lessons they’ve learned about nurturing live music in a city that seems increasingly hostile to it. We also spoke to Parquet Courts frontman and visual artist Andrew Savage about the band’s forthcoming multi-media event, Knock! Knock! Down! Down!, and the importance of using music and art to engage with the cultural and political realities of our time. Sometimes we lose the battles we fight, but these members of our community incarnate the value of staying focused, moving forward with open mind, and finding new ways to connect and create.
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AdHoc Issue 16's contributors:
Miguel Gallego is a writer, musician, and lay-about living in the big city and feebly pursuing his dreams. For this issue, he interviewed Andrew Savage of Parquet Courts.
Ariel Bitran and Leeor Waisbrod ran Palisades; in this issue, they talk about the origins and end of the venue, as told to AdHoc's Emilie Friedlander.
Preston Spurlock made the Palisades posters that appear on the cover of this issue, as well as the illustrations included to the right, on the back cover, and in our oral history of the venue.
This article appears in AdHoc Issue 15, a collaboration with The Talkhouse. 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.
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Rhys Chatham had already made a mark on New York’s avant-garde music scene by the age of 20. The precocious composer and instrumentalist had studied with Morton Subotnick, played alongside La Monte Young and Tony Conrad, tuned harpsichords for Glenn Gould, and become the first music director of iconic experimental performance space The Kitchen. But in 1977, at the age of 25, Chatham was inspired by New York’s burgeoning punk scene to compose Guitar Trio, a minimal piece scored for electric guitars and drums. Guitar Trio represented an important bridge between downtown New York’s fertile avant-garde and punk rock environments; per Chatham himself, it was the moment that he found his voice as a composer.
Chatham has spent the ensuing decades expanding the boundaries of rock and art music, culminating most recently in two very different-sounding LPs: the meditative Pythagorean Dream and a collaboration with free-rock band Oneida called What’s Your Sign?. For this issue of AdHoc, Simon Hanes—the leader of Boston-based experimental lounge outfit Tredici Bacci—grilled Chatham on the role of composition and improvisation in his work, and the sometimes very gossamer line between them. Tredici Bacci opens for Chatham, who will be collaborating with Oneida on November 12 at the Park Church Co-op in Brooklyn.
Simon Hanes: I read an interview of yours where you talk about the relationship between composition and improvisation—about how you see them as existing on a kind of continuum.
Rhys Chatham: I don’t make any difference between them; they’re just two different approaches to composition. That said, there’s some music that you absolutely have to notate, and there’s some music that would be crazy to notate. “Giant Steps” by John Coltrane could be notated—and it has been transcribed—but it’s much more fun playing over Coltrane changes, and it’s much more interesting for people to do so. Using my own work as an example, Guitar Trio, which is played by up to 10 musicians—it would lose something if I notated it. It was a piece that was meant to be played by rock musicians in a rock context. And the whole approach was that I play a rhythm, and people are asked to make a counterpoint to that rhythm that works with the backbeat the drummer is doing.
One time we did a piece for 100 guitars—back in maybe 2005. We did it in Paris at the Sacré-Cœur. (It was for ostensibly 400 guitars, but we didn’t have that many.) The idea was to just be able to surround the audience with electric guitars. I did it the way I normally did: the guitarists all knew the piece, and I said, “Here, I’m playing this, and you make up your thing.” What happened is, the first time we did it, the sound was really confused. It didn’t sound that good. Later on, I played a concert in Montreal with Godspeed You! Black Emperor. We had a total of 12 guitars on stage, and I noticed that, after 10 guitars, the sound got a little confused.
So I realized that in terms of improvising, my limit is no more than 10 guitars. I made a new piece called A Secret Rose recently, which is for 100 electric guitars, plus bass and drums. One of the movements is a version of Guitar Trio, but I notated a series of riffs. There were three section leaders, and I had each of them improvise in the sense that each of the section leaders would point to a riff, and then their section of 33 guitars would play it. It was a case where it had to be notated, or else the sound would’ve been confused. A lot of my compositions use elements of improvisation. It’s rare that I play free, although I like free a lot.
Shirley Collins, English folk luminary, has been amassing a repertoire of traditional songs since her childhood in 1940s Sussex, England, a period she associates with being sung to by her grandparents during frequent stints in air raid shelters. As she matured, her interest in folk eventually led her to the American Deep South, a trip which resulted in the much celebrated collection Sounds of the South. As moving and inspiring as that trip proved to be, Collins’s heart was in her motherland, England, where she returned, continuing to collect songs in the English tradition, and creating such seminal works as 1959's Sweet England and 1969's Anthems in Eden, a collaborative record with her sister Dolly. Shirley’s career took a decidedly negative turn, however, in 1978, when she began developing dysphonia. She lost her ability to sing, and retreated from both the stage and the studio. That is, until one David Michael Bunting, known to many as Current 93’s David Tibet, phoned her up, asking to meet for what, in hindsight, was a surely fortuitous exchange.
Fast-forward through the '90s and early 2000s: after a few contributions to Current 93 records and a number of foregone invitations to perform, Collins appeared on stage for the first time in 2014 at Union Chapel, opening for Current 93. But why stop at one performance? Following the concert, and bolstered by the positive reactions, Shirley “wanted to give it one more go” and record a new album. She picked an assortment of personally important songs that would eventually become that album, Lodestar, out last week on Domino. Across the record’s ten evocative tracks, Collins reveals herself as enraptured by traditional music as ever, showing off a resplendent selection of penitent songs, murder ballads, may carols, and more, a nod to her excellent power of curation. It’s a powerful, profound release—a much-needed reminder of the power of personal contact and lineage in the digital age, and a much-needed reminder of how the oldest and most authentic songs are sung out of pride and necessity, in addition to enjoyment. We spoke to Collins about collecting and interpolating folk songs, and getting back into the studio.
AdHoc: You’ve been hearing or collecting folk songs since you were very young. How did you decide which songs to sing on Lodestar? Were they new songs for you?
Shirley Collins: Oh! They just presented themselves, really. I’ve got so many songs in my head, but there are some that really stick with you, ones I’ve regretted not recording before. There were a couple of new ones that came in as well that wanted to be sung, so I sang them. The most likable one for me was the Cajun song “Sur le Borde de l’Eau.” I love Cajun music’s rhythms and its independence—it stayed itself. Once I heard this early 1920s recording of Blind Uncle Gaspard, a Louisiana singer, I fell in love with the song. We went ahead and did it, but that’s very unusual for me, because I mostly sing songs from the English tradition. It’s been my life’s work listening to as much as I can. Working with Alan Lomax in America was incredible, but back in England there were collectors too who were working throughout the country, noting down songs. That tradition had gone back as far as the mid nineteenth century when collectors just wrote down songs. Once the tape machine was created, the BBC sent out people in the 1950s to record and collect what were left in the countryside. Things changed so much with the proliferation of record players, radio, television, and pop music. It swamped a lot of the tradition. I understand why, but I never quite saw why you’d give up your beautiful tradition for something with built-in obsolescence, if you judge pop music that way [laughs].