49 minute read
How to Get a Fair Advance Deal
With all the legitimate criticism of record deals we’ve heard in recent years, advances have gotten a bad rap. They aren’t the kiss of death for an artist; when done right, they can benefit your career. “Advance” shouldn’t be a dirty word, though as a music professional, you owe it to yourself to learn what makes an advance helpful versus shady.
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Not all advances are created equal. Advances can be helpful tools when they’re the right fit for what you want to accomplish as an artist. But you often need a scalpel, not a chainsaw.
You can tell what tool you’re being handed by looking closely at your agreement. Whether from a music company or a finance company, advances generally come with all types of fine print. That’s not bad in and of itself; agreements are complicated because life is complicated. Fine print demands close reading, and you should never be afraid to negotiate.
I’ve worked as a producer and in finance, and I’ve seen a lot of contracts. I’m going to share some of the basics of how advances work and what you should look out for before you sign for one. Below are three crucial questions to focus on, as you look through that contract.
Who’s actually giving me the advance?
Sometimes you’ll look at your contract and see something interesting: The distributor/platform offers the advance under a separate financing company using their brand name, like “Distributor Capital, LLC.”
Why do you care? Now you have two contracts with two different companies, one for distribution and one for the advance. And what happens if the distribution company or platform tanks? That separate finance company, run by people you do not know, will continue to control your music and royalties. It may be nearly impossible to get them on the phone if you need help or have concerns.
You want to know who you’re dealing with. You’re offering them extensive access to your assets and your creative life. You may not want to go through with the deal if you can’t have that assurance.
Eli Ball, Lyric Financial MUSIC BUSINESS
Can the agreement holder sell the rights
granted them? An agreement may allow the company issuing your advance to sell the rights you granted them under the agreement but doesn’t give you the same rights. This means you, your music, or your future royalties may be sold off to someone you don’t know or don’t like without your consent or knowledge. In other words, you are trapped. Think Taylor Swift’s very public beef with her first label, Big Machine, over the sale of her masters to a manager she had a contentious history with. These struggles can feel devastating and can seriously throttle your career.
What’s this actually going to cost me?
Think of this from multiple angles, all of which should be considered before deciding if the deal makes sense for what you are trying to accomplish. There are a few factors you want to be clear about before signing on the dotted line.
Monetary: You need to understand clearly how much money the advance will actually cost you and how it will be recouped. This cost isn’t the same as the APR (annual percentage rate) you’d consider for car loans, credit cards and mortgages since a) advances are not structured as loans (debt) and b) they are generally nonrecourse, meaning you are not personally liable for repayment.
If the advance is from a music company (distributor/label/publisher), ask if it’s recoupable. If so, at what percentage rate and based on what measurement (gross sales vs. net sales after marketing costs, and so on). What other expenses can they charge you as recoupable?
If the advance is extra-contractual, meaning it’s in addition to any advances guaranteed in your agreement with them, does it extend the term of your agreement until you are recouped or increase the cost of their service? How much better of a royalty rate could you get or how much lower could you get them to go on their fees, if you simply took an advance from a financing company like Lyric Financial? Does that higher rate or fee you are paying for distribution to get an advance continue for the length of the contract (3-5 years) or just until you recoup?
If the advance is from a finance company: What is the breakdown of the costs you are paying (finance fees, processing fees, bank transfer fees, all the fees). If they won’t state these charges clearly (in plain English and in language you can understand) then run—don’t walk!—the other way.
Payment: Can you repay your advance more quickly than projected without penalty? Does that reduce the cost of the advance? (Hint: it should!)
Power: This is an important one and it’s easily forgotten as you try to evaluate a deal. Does taking the advance give the company leverage over you in terms of creative or marketing control of your brand or your music?
Security: Many finance companies take control of your artist account by asking you to give them Power of Attorney and/or control of your login and password to monitor your royalty revenues. The problem here is if they are bad actors, they can use that POA or those credentials to block you from monitoring your royalties. And that in turn means you have no way to tell if they are being straight with you or accounting to you accurately and fairly.
No matter what kind of advance you’re looking at, remember, the company making the advance is in it for one reason. They are in business to make money for themselves. They are not in business to make you money. The bigger the advance, the bigger the expectations and demands from the company.
The long-term effect on your life isn’t really their concern. But it should be yours, and if you approach an advance with clear eyes and enough knowledge, you can strike a deal that makes sense for your long-term goals. If you approach an advance practically, you can wield this business tool to your advantage.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Eli Ball is founder and CEO of Lyric Financial (lyricfinancial.com), the longest-running music financing company with 15 years and $100 million in financing to its credit.
Few musical artists from the last few decades have been as prolific as Lou Barlow. Ever since alt-rock luminaries Dinosaur Jr. burst onto the scene with their eclectic-sounding debut in 1985, the Massachusetts-based multiinstrumentalist has been featured in close to 25 full-length albums. These are primarily the result of stints in three different bands over a period of 30 years but have lately come to include a growing body of solo work beginning with 2005’s lo-fi folk record Emoh. Not only is Barlow
one of the most sedulous musicians currently working, his penchant for exploring a wide range of sounds and genres reflects a musical appetite that’s equally omnivorous. spent time moving around the Great Lakes before his parents finally settled in the Pioneer Valley region of western Massachusetts. It was there that from an early age, he began to develop an unnatural interest in his father’s tape recorders which he used to make sound collages. These early experimentations with analog recording devices had a profound impact on Barlow and informed his lifelong passion for home recordings as well as his appreciation for the DIY aesthetics that define his trademark lo-fi sound.
For Barlow, tape machines and home recorders are essential elements of what he considers an immediate and relatable approach
to art and storytelling. And this principle appears as the cornerstone of his latest album, Reason to Live. A collection of candid and quiet moments, the record finds Barlow at the tail-end of a period of inner growth and self-reconciliation. Without eschewing the caustic sincerity for which he’s known, he proves unafraid to commune with the specter of boredom and dissatisfaction that seemingly roams so freely across the current landscape. The result is a record that whispers quiet kernels of truth to the attentive and sensitive listener.
I had the chance to speak to Barlow and discuss his lifelong obsession with recording devices and the role that “messiness” plays in making a solid record. We also talked about a newly released Dinosaur Jr. album and his plans for the post-Covid future.
At what age would you say that you developed an interest in music?
Well, I loved music when I was a kid. When I heard punk rock in the very early ’80s, I started to see that there was this movement of kids about my age that were putting out records, and it seemed kind of exciting to me. So, I formed a band with a kid I ate lunch with in high school and we put up an ad at a local record store looking for a drummer, and that’s when we found J Mascis and we formed a hardcore band. I guess it just seemed like something to do and something to be a part of, but I wouldn’t have imagined that it would become my life’s work. Even in the early days of Dinosaur Jr. I would never have imagined that it was something that would sustain me. It certainly gradually took over my life until it became my life.
Did you grow up in a musical environment?
I have no professional musicians in my immediate or extended family. My parents come from families that had six or seven kids, so I’m the only musician in my family. But my parents did force me to take guitar lessons when I was seven. My mom forced me and it was kinda brutal. She wouldn’t let me quit, and I thank her for that because it taught me all the basic things. I learned all kinds of different ways of playing.
Were there any specific artists that influenced you growing up?
I loved pop radio. There was a friend that every week I’d go sleep over at his house when we were in fourth and fifth grade and we would just wake up on Saturday mornings and listen to the entire Top 40. At that time I also started buying singles. My parents would give me a dollar every time we’d go to the store so I could buy a seveninch record. I would just collect seven-inch singles and listen to them on my little turntable in my room.
I’ve read that you started making home recordings at an early age. Can you tell me a bit about that?
So, my parents had a portable tape recorder and at that time we lived in Michigan and our entire extended family lived in Ohio. This is around 1968 or so, and my dad would make cassette letters that he’d send back to his mother. We would record all kinds of stuff. We would do fake wrestling, and as I got older that evolved into me recording stuff around the house. One of my cousins who lived in Ohio also had a recorder and I remember being at his house and him making all these weird voice effects with it. So, when I got back home, I figured out how to run my portable into a console stereo that we had and just started making these collage pieces. Then when I was around 11, I learned how to layer the tapes and then started to make guitar recordings. I just loved the way it sounded!
Were there any bands that shaped you when you were coming of age, or that influenced how you perceived music?
Definitely, The Ramones. And I also saw the B-52s and DEVO on Saturday Night Live around 1978 or 1979. Those were really intense experiences because I was pretty young, and it all just seemed really radical and scary. And I got bit by this new wave and punk rock bug. And then when I moved to Massachusetts, I discovered all these college radio stations that were playing some of the most cuttingedge music. I listened to Joy Division, Gang of Four, Dead Kennedys, and the early Dischord Records bands like The Teen Idles. I also bought this record for one dollar that had everyone from The Residents to Renaldo and the Loaf, MX-80, and Snakefinger and it was just mind-blowing so strange and beautiful.
You once said that “messy” records are close to your heart. What do you mean by that?
Well, messy brings out honesty. What I loved so much about the music I was hearing growing up is that it felt impulsive. It just seemed incredibly honest. When you hear someone like Black Flag it just sounds like someone just got tantrums set on records and it’s just incredibly honest and exciting.
Your new record Reason to Live has been described as a statement of preference for ‘sincerity over anger or venom.’ Do you agree with that?
Yeah, I’m not really into anger so much. Anger is kind of a dead end. It’s something you can respect or draw upon and definitely address, but it’s not particularly constructive. I usually try to articulate my emotions to myself in order to calm myself down. One of the main functions of my music, at least for myself, has been just to talk myself down.
A theme that you seem to come back to in the record is the idea of embracing chaos and change. How important is that to you both as an artist and as a person?
I think that accepting change is pretty important. And not being overwhelmed by chaotic circumstances is also important. I’ve had mental health episodes in my life and addiction, chaos in other words, and so I’ve spent a lot of time trying to find a thread in what’s going on to sort of keep myself together.
Was the album recorded at home or in the studio? Is this your “quarantine record”?
I’ve always recorded at home. One of the last records I made back in 2014 or so was done in the studio, and so after that, I made up my mind long before the quarantine that whatever record I made next would be recorded at home because I like my home recordings better. I have more control and can be more extreme or impulsive. It’s also cheaper. So, I wouldn’t say that this is my “quarantine record.” With all that said, though, I usually gather all my home recordings and I take them to the studio to mix them there.
You just put out a new album with Dinosaur Jr. this past week, Sweep It Into Space. Were both albums recorded simultaneously?
Yeah. There are songs on my solo record that were potentially going to be Dinosaur Jr. songs. I think I brought five songs to Dinosaur Jr., but we only managed to record three before the quarantine. At that time, one was unfinished and two were done so that’s what we got. In fact, the title track from my solo record, “Reason to Live,” could have actually been a Dinosaur Jr. song.
How do you approach your songwriting in each band? Is the process different depending on the group?
Mmm…it depends. With these last two records, a few of the songs could have gone to either band. I’d say about seventy percent of my songs are written on four-string guitars. Usually, I separate the songs based on whether they were made on a four-string or not. If they were, then I usually bring them to Sebadoh or use them for a solo project.
Do you have a preference for any of these processes in particular?
To me all songs are created equal. I feel like every song has its own little life and potential or limitations and I see them as my little creatures each with their own life. I just wish the best for all of them.
Dinosaur Jr. is on the calendar and we have dates that are listed. So that’s definitely happening. But as far as what I’ll do with my own stuff, I’m not really sure yet.
Can your fans expect another Sebadoh record in the near future? What about a Folk Implosion reunion?
For Folk Implosion, John and I have actually reconnected during quarantine. He’s been sending me some music and I’ve been trying to make something out of that, so we’re in this cool back-and-forth thing right now. I could definitely see us putting a single together.
Any other plans for when the world goes back to normal?
I just got a hold of a couple of home tape recorders recently and I want to see if I can maybe make collages again. So, I’m thinking it might be really fun to start songs on tape and transfer them to my digital stuff and see what…I can come up with.
Follow on Instagram: @loubarlow
LOU BARLOW REASON TO LIVE STANDOUT TRACK: “REASON TO LIVE”
SPOTLIGHT Mouthful of Blood: An Interview with Juliana Hatfield
Vincent Scarpa
On May 14th, American Laundromat Records released Blood, the nineteenth studio album from the accomplished and fearless singer-songwriter Juliana Hatfield. It’s a rollicking, untamed set of songs — highly danceable until you catch yourself actually listening to the lyrics as opposed to just hearing them. Hatfield describes Blood as her most misanthropic record to date, and I had the chance to speak with her via phone to talk about the thematics of this record, her outlook on the present state of things, metaphorical violence, and more.
Vincent Scarpa: How has your pandemic been? I’m curious to hear how it’s shaped your creative practice. Blood is testament to the fact that you were, in fact, able to produce music, but I wonder if you could talk about how — if at all — these disorienting times came to affect that process.
Juliana Hatfield: It didn’t really affect the writing process too much. I guess it just slowed the recording process, because I had to figure out while I was doing it how to record into my laptop when the studio, I like to work in closed down. I wanted to keep working, so I had to record at home. That was a big learning curve for me. A lot of frustration figuring it out. But I was able to learn what I needed to know by doing it. Engineering kind of wiped me out. It depletes me; the non-musical part of recording saps my energy. Some days I would work for very short amounts of time on the actual recording. So, yeah, the process of recording the album was drawn out because of that.
But creatively, I feel like I’m impervious to anything, nothing stops me. I’m actually inspired by limitations and challenges. I feel more free when I have more boundaries. For me, if I have financial limitations, in terms of the amount of studio time I can book, I’m forced to make creative decisions quickly and sometimes that’s really great, because I can’t second-guess and overthink. I’m working in this space that’s halfconscious, half-unconscious, so my instincts are really guiding my choices, and that’s always a good thing.
VS: Were there surprising benefits to recording outside of a studio proper?
JH: Well, I have recorded at home in the past. I used to have a great eight-track machine that finally broke, but I made a couple of albums on it — the Wild Animals album and the Peace and Love album. But those were mostly acoustic stuff, and this was something different. I put off learning GarageBand for a long time, I just sort of scoffed at it. GarageBand, it’s gonna be so dumb, it’s not gonna be cool. And the built-in sounds, I’m sure they gonna be crap and nothing like the real thing. But when I was trying out the guitar sounds, there were a couple that I actually kind of liked, and I used them a lot. There’s one guitar sound — I think it’s called “world’s smallest amp.” It’s got this sort of cruddy-sounding, slightly muddied, distorted sound that I like. Being able to use the built-in sounds, just to plug my guitar right in, was convenient for me because I do feel selfconscious making loud noise in my apartment with my neighbors around me. But I couldn’t get all of the sounds I wanted inside of GarageBand, so I was glad when the studio opened back up and I was able to overdub some stuff there with loud amps and drums, real drums.
VS: And you play the drums on this record, right?
JH: I play a bunch of drums, but there are a few songs that also have some programmed drums that were done by my friend Jed Davis in Connecticut. He helped out with some of the recording, and he built up some pretty elaborate drum tracks on a few of the songs. The ones that I play on — when I record at home, I like to start with a really minimal drumbeat and then I start adding onto that; one that plays the same loop over and over again. And then I like to go into the studio and add real drums on top of that. So, when I’m playing drums, my playing is very
VS: One of the things that strikes me about Blood is the stark contrast between how the music sounds and how the lyrics land. It’s a rewarding record to listen to in that respect, in that we’re continually asked to examine the intersection between melody and mood — which creates which, and to what extent can one lull the other into abstraction. It seems purposeful on your part, the decision to have these fun, danceable melodies stand in opposition — or is it opposition? — to what you’ve called the “damaged lyrical content.” Can you speak to that dichotomy a bit?
JH: It’s really not so purposeful. I seem to have a knack for these buoyant melodies that come from some joyful, innocent, incorruptible place inside of me, and there’s a bottomless well of those melodies that come bubbling up. So, I just like to take advantage of them and use them, that’s what comes naturally to me. But, yeah, I guess there’s also a rebellious side to me that wants to defy expectations that a song with dark lyrical content has to have dark musical accompaniment. I just think that’s dumb, and it’s a cliche. They’ll teach you that in music school — they teach you about genre, about style. How to play in certain styles. This is how to play R&B, this is how to play jazz, this is how to play country, this is how to play rock. And I think that’s all just so dumb. I don’t like genre and classification. I like the idea that my songs end up sounding so bubbly and pretty while, you know, talking about sticking a knife in someone’s neck. I think the rebel in me likes that juxtaposition. There’s something boring about darkness and darkness together. And I’m also not 100% dark in my outlook, and the especially violent songs on this record are comical because they’re so over the top. And if
they sounded dark or dirge-like, that would just take all the comedy out of them.
JH: Well, some of the violence is old-timey, you know, quartering someone. It’s historical
punishment. What I really meant by “it was a very American dream” is that this is a really violent country. There’s more guns than people. And just look at the news lately: there’s a mass shooting every day. There’s violence all around us, everyone has a machine gun — that’s all I need to say really. That line is a reflection of how much violence there is out there, and how it’s just ladee-da. I mean, the number of guns — it blows my mind that there are so many people who are buying guns and are so la-dee-da about it. It’s a violence-filled country.
VS: I admire that you never treat that violence as banal, as it so often seems to be treated in this country. It takes a certain kind of perseverance to stay alive to the fresh horror of it, and you do.
rage. You seem to be looking at a precise kind of violence in your song “Had A Dream,” in which you chronicle a visceral and vicious dream — importantly not referred to as a nightmare, as in your song “Nightmary” — and remark that “it was a very American dream.” Can you unpack that song a bit for us?
JH: If you see violence in person, how can you be immune to it? Fortunately, I rarely encounter real violence in my life, but when I do it’s always so shocking and disturbing. I don’t even like it in movies; I have to close my eyes.
VS: Is there any sense of catharsis in channeling that disturbance in these songs?
JH: I guess there is, yeah. With the overthe-top violent imagery. And then I can sing it and think of whoever I’m most angry at. I can insert anyone into those violent fantasies, and it’s soothing in a way, I guess. But in real life I don’t want to do violence to anyone.
and Pussycat as bookends of the Trump era, though of course they’re so much more than that, and about more than that. (I’ve long argued for the political nature of all your music, whether it be front and center or a more covert kind of personal politics.) Were you still feeling some of the rage we talked about when we spoke together in promoting Pussycat? How had your outlook changed, if at all, as we approached the end of the Trump presidency and entered the present one, into which this album is being released? A song like “Nightmary,” in which you describe “hour after hour bombarded by lies / it’s a desecration of your mind,” seems to testify to some lingering — and certainly justified — rage.
JH: The album is definitely inspired by the last four years and all of the ugliness and all of the dirt that floated to the surface. Now it’s all out there, floating around. All the rocks that have been overturned, all the scum that floated to the top. And now we’re living with it, and we have to deal with it — or not. I’m really glad that there’s new leadership, but I don’t feel like that solves anything, really. Well, it solves one big problem, right? But most of the bad guys still need to be punished. And the songs “Chunks” and “Had a Dream” are about that; about wanting those guys to be punished. And that still has to happen. There’s a lot of unfinished business, and ongoing corruption and lies and murder and greed. It’s not ending because we have a new president.
I think this album is my most misanthropic album of all of them. I’m not kind to my own self on this record. I think I came out of the past four years with this feeling that it’s more clear to me than ever that people are not going to leave this world a better place. People can’t be trusted to do the right thing. People are selfish. Humanity, as a whole, is going to ruin this world. It’s happening. And we can try to do the right things, we can try to change, but ultimately you have to contend with the fact that people are selfish and we’re on kind of a downward spiral. We can make little fixes, elect different presidents, but it’s a Band-Aid on a deep wound.
VS: I love, love, love the single, “Mouthful of Blood.” I think it’s one of the best songs in your catalogue now. And what I love about it is that the song gets to have it both ways — yes, the chorus is “I bite my tongue, my mouth’s full of blood,” but you’re singing that very line, open-mouthed. I once wrote, of you, that your radical audacity was precisely this: that “even if her mouth is full of sutures, Juliana Hatfield finds some way to still and always be singing.” So, it was happy-making to encounter this song which seems to posit exactly that. There’s an expression of reticence, of fear, of withholding, but there is still expression. Does that resonate with you?
JH: I think with that song I was trying to defend myself preemptively from criticism of “Chunks” or “Had a Dream,” because those are the songs that I think are going to get me in trouble, if anything gets me in trouble. [“Blood”] is also talking about how there’s no room for nuance anymore. You have to be on one side or the other, and everyone just pounces on a side so they can defend their position. So, I guess I am trying to have it both ways, but I guess that’s what artists get to do. I’m in a lucky position because I don’t have so much scrutiny on me. Like, I’m not Taylor Swift. So, I can be a little more free with my expression because I don’t have the eyes of the masses and the mainstream media looking at me very closely, or at all. And that’s a unique position — one that allows for metaphorical knives in necks.
Follow on Instagram: @julianahatfield
JULIANA HATFIELD BLOOD STANDOUT TRACK: “MOUTHFUL OF BLOOD”
AJ Smith is jack of all trades, and well, a master of them all, too. Starting off his professional career on an engineering path, he found himself pursuing music and songwriting (and thank goodness, because we’d be missing out on one of this generation’s best talents).
We recently had an opportunity to work with AJ as part of our Elixir Strings ‘artist of the month’ program, and loved the videos he participated in so much that we just had to sit down and learn more about him. Presented here is a portion of that interview -- we hope you enjoy.
Let’s take it back – you were born in the shadows of the Rocky Mountains, right?
Yeah, right outside of Denver.
Did you have a musical upbringing?
My godmother taught lessons –it’s this whole story, I ran away from home, as they say. I snuck out while my mom was in the shower and took the family dog down to my godmother’s house. I would sit in the window well and listen to the piano lessons that she was teaching, like two houses down. And my parents would be freaking out, like ‘Where’s our kid?’ and that’s where I was [laughs]. A few 911 calls later…
How old were you?
Three [laughs]. They make better child-proof locks now.
So that’s your first exposure to music?
Yeah, and we had a family piano that was upright, in the house. I was fascinated by it…and my godmother started teaching me, which was awesome. And my parents took me to see a show – Yanni was performing at Red Rocks, it was the first concert they took me to. I was like five. So, I got to go see Yanni, and there was a violinist there and I was like, ‘Mom, can I please play the violin?’ you know…as a kid who has no concept of how much things cost. [laughs]
My mom was like, [quietly] ‘We’ll figure it out, I guess.’ And they did, which was awesome. I’m really lucky to have parents who were able to make it happen for me, in terms of getting me some instruction as a kid.
I went to summer camp a few years later and I had saved up all my lawnmowing money and brought it with me…It was like $150 but it felt like I was the world’s richest man, and I blew all my money on an acoustic guitar.
Well, it’s a good thing to spend money on when you’re a kid, I suppose.
Oh, yeah.
So, at this point, you’re already into piano, violin, and guitar. Nowadays, you’re up to almost a dozen instruments or so. Just you just keep accumulating talent over the years? [laughs]
[laughs] Yeah, especially with stringed instruments. Once you know one, it’s quite quick to learn another and get good at it. Violin is probably one of the harder ones, the bowedstinged instruments, so going from that to a fretted instrument like a mandolin…it’s the same tuning but it’s fretted, so it’s way more forgiving in terms of intonation. So, then it’s just a matter of figuring out picking technique and things like that.
At a certain point, you took a less musical path and entered the world of engineering. Can you walk us through that, as well? It’s interesting because I think they’d work different parts of the brain…
Music is very creative, engineering can be creative. Music can also be very analytical. U.S. Navy Research Lab, working there with infrared sensors. I had been doing computer programing on my calculator so I would program games on there for me and my friends. That way when I was in class we could be playing games instead of paying attention [laughs]. From there
I applied for the internship and simultaneously I was also a young associate to the National Symphony Orchestra, so it wasn’t like I forgot one path while pursuing the other -- they were both in D.C., so I could go from one to the other.
So, I worked at the research lab and wrote some algos that were used for years. Which was pretty cool.
I still do code and program my own Ableton rig set, but the choice [to do music] was kind of interesting. It was the West Side Story orchestral suites that were pivotal in the decision for me. I was playing at the Kennedy Center, and we were playing the suites and gets to the part musically
where it’s just beautiful, stunning, it’s one of my favorite pieces of music. And I’m thinking, ‘Do I go to NYU to study music, or do I got to Johns Hopkins in Baltimore to study engineering?’ I felt like I was getting pulled in two different directions.
Weirdly enough, I didn’t get into the Peabody Conservatory for composition, there were going to have me do it for violin performance. But that’s not really what I wanted to do. I wanted to write music. So, I was sitting up on that stage
while playing and pretty much started crying when we got to that part of the song, it was like a moment of clarity for me, like how could I ever give this up? I have songs in my head that I want to get out into the world that have been entrusted to me as a creative by whatever in the universe. I felt like I had to do it.
Up until that point, you were really a performer. So, when did the songwriting enter the picture?
If I’m being completely honest, I wrote a lot of songs but didn’t realize songwriting could be a path or career. And also, I was a little afraid to tell my parents that I wanted to become a songwriter or rock star…the classical direction felt safe. ‘Oh, I’m going to school to study film scoring.’ That felt like a direction. parents happy, while still fulfilling some sort of creative career. It wasn’t until my junior year at NYU when I was playing a song for one of my film scoring assignments, it was supposed to be a standard, not an orchestral piece. And my professor was like, ‘Maybe you should take the songwriting class next semester. I feel like this is more [for you.]’ I ended up taking his advice, and it completely changed my life.
A semester after that, Glenn Frey’s daughter went to NYU, and he stopped by the songwriting department, and he came and talked to one of my professors and he would come in to listen to students’ songs. He became sort of an adjunct professor for songwriting, which was the coolest experience to have. He heard a couple of us, and took us under his wing, worked with us in the studio, and invited me to open for The Eagles. He was just an awesome mentor and taught me a lot about songwriting.
That’s got to be a major validation for you…
When you get somebody who’s done a lot of awesome stuff, and they go, ‘Oh, that’s awesome.’ It means more than…you know, I struggle with ‘imposter syndrome’ as much as anybody. Having that and the mentorship to come out of it was more than just validation.
[editor’s note – it was at this point that I, as the interviewer, went on a long rant that was tangentially related to the conversation, buy wholly uninteresting to you, the reader. We’ll pick it up a few moments later…]
Where are you at today with AJ Smith, the musician/songwriter?
I spent the first part of the pandemic livestreaming every day or every week, so I got kinda streamed out pretty early. I kept
it up for a long time, and I felt like I was playing all these songs I was writing, but not releasing them because I wanted to wait until I could tour. But I ended up putting out a song anyways, called ‘Billy Joel,’ which caught the attention of the real Billy Joel. He liked it, and wrote to me and everything, and mentioned the possibility of opening for him when live music opens back up, which would be amazing.
Now that everyone’s getting vaccinated, it seems like it’s coming back, but until I’m on that stage, I’m gonna knock on wood [laughs].
OK, so you’ve got the Eagles and Billy Joel on board as cheerleaders. Are you gonna shoot for McCartney next, or what? [laughs]
Follow on Instagram: @ajsmithmusic
AJ SMITH “ROOMMATE” [SINGLE]
Sydney Ward isn’t your typical blues guitarist. Raised in a musical family between Nashville and Detroit’s music hubs, at an early age she developed a unique acoustic guitar style. Influenced by such diverse genres as bluegrass, punk, and Delta Blues, she has come to gain notoriety for her ability to fuse some of the more technically challenging aspects of bluegrass picking with the spiritual catharsis associated with acoustic blues.
An optimistic and free-spirited type who’s survived periods living and busking on the streets of Berkeley, and who’s spent most of the pandemic assisting the homeless population in her newlyadopted home of Los Angeles, Ward is the epitome of Millennial contradiction. At 30, she’s both socially conscious and politically active, as evidenced by her involvement with the Los Angeles chapter of Food Not Bombs. Yet, she remains ambivalent about allowing her activism to seep into her music. Nevertheless, throughout Covid, she’s stayed busy and committed to both endeavors.
Her fourth and latest LP, Simple Syrup, was released last March under the moniker of Sunny War. A collection of snappy and breezy blues-fueled numbers, the album is a testament to Ward’s ability to combine seemingly disparate musical elements that create a unique and distinctive sound while simultaneously invoking the emotive quality found throughout the Great American Songbook.
I caught up with Sunny War to discuss her musical influences, activism, love of Bob Dylan, and her views on finding success and fulfillment in today’s underground scene.
How old were you when you first discovered your love for music?
I started playing when I was seven, but I wasn’t really passionate about writing songs until the ninth grade. That’s when being a teenager was really overwhelming, and I had to lose myself in music to try to survive everything. That’s also around the time when I started paying attention to lyrics in music as opposed to before when I mostly listened to things that were melodic.
Do you come from a musical background? What type of music were you exposed to as a child?
I definitely had a musical background. My uncle is a classical bassist, and my stepdad was a singer for a rock band, and his friends would be around and play guitar. So as a small child, I grew up seeing people playing and writing music together. And then, my mom would also take me to shows when I was a kid in Tennessee.
At what age did you start playing the guitar?
I got a guitar when I was seven but didn’t really start learning until I was ten when I went to a kid’s lesson at a community center in Nashville. The guitar teacher, his name was James Dixon, and he was a blues guitarist. Electric blues guitarist, and he was amazing. He was like a BB King kind of guy. At that time, I was already playing fingerstyle, and he would tell me ways to improve it and really encouraged me to keep playing and taught me other styles too. That’s also around the time I learned to play “Blackbird,” and also started mimicking one of my stepdad’s friends who was a banjo player, especially the fingerpicking.
What’s up with your stage name? Is there a story or a meaning behind it?
I’ve had the nickname Sunny since middle school, and my last name is Ward, so I kinda thought that “War” sounded better than Sunny Ward. It had more of a band name to it.
You have a very peculiar story because you spent some time living on the streets in Los Angeles. Was it right before you began making music? Can you talk a bit about that experience?
sleeping on the streets. It was me and my one friend from high school. Also, a lot of the other bands out here in the punk scene on the West Coast were squatters. And at the time, my mom and stepdad had divorced, and she was getting sober, and the both of us were living in a sober-living home, and that’s when I started to drink a lot. I started feeling like I would possibly get her kicked out of our living situation, so I felt like it was best for me to leave. Especially because I was making good money busking and all my friends were ‘gutter punks,’ so I was into that counterculture too.
How has that experience influenced your songwriting or the way you approach your music?
I think it’s helped it because I had a lot more time to think about things I probably wouldn’t have thought about if I lived a more normal life. There was a lot of traveling and meeting many people like train hoppers, and their life philosophies really shaped me because it felt like they made sense. It was like a lot of what people like Woody Guthrie or Bob Dylan would sing about. At least that’s how it felt to me.
Your newest album, Simple Syrup, was primarily recorded before the pandemic. In it, you and your producer Harlan Steinberger chose to go for a minimal approach that used just the core of your live band. What drove that decision, and what was different about recording this album as opposed to your previous ones?
I wanted to play with the band that I had just started playing with and that I was hoping to go on tour with. I wanted a sound that reflected what we were like as a live group on the road, and that was a hybrid of how the three of us sounded together. As far as how the recording went, I’m not good really at telling people, “this is what I want you to play.” I just know what I’m going to play. So, we usually just played together a lot and waited till things just morphed together eventually.
The track “Its Name Is Fear” was the only one recorded during the pandemic. I’ve read that it has deep personal significance for you. Can you tell me a little bit about that?
It’s about Covid, and I wrote it in the first two months of lockdown. A lot of it has to do with all the paranoia that was going on around that time. How there was a lot of different and conflicting information about the virus and what was happening, and how there were people who thought it was some kind of conspiracy. There was a lot of information overload, and the song taps into that for sure.
of society in general. Would you consider yourself a socially conscious singersongwriter in the vein of Joan Baez, Tracy Chapman, or Dylan?
I don’t know. Not really. I feel like they made it a point to talk about certain, specific things. They were committed to discussing social change and all, whereas I’m not committed to anything. I like to just write about whatever is going through my head at that moment. It could be love songs, for instance, but there’s no true commitment to anything in particular.
I’ve read that you’ve often said that you feel a kinship towards artists like Elizabeth Cotten or Mississippi John Hurt. But as far as current artists and genres, who do you admire or draw influence from?
I don’t really listen to music that’s similar to what I play. I listen to a lot of ’90s crust punk and rap. Also, a lot of dancehall. I also like a lot of Brittany Howard’s solo music or Valerie June’s early albums, but for the most part, I listen to music that’s really loud and has a lot of yelling and blast beats.
We’ve mentioned Dylan a couple of times now, and the video for “Mama’s Milk” seems like an homage to the old black-and-white short he made for “Subterranean Homesick Blues.” Whose idea was that?
It was my idea. I’ve always loved Bob Dylan, and when I was a teenager, I became weirdly obsessed with him as a writer and just in general. Growing up, I was really into the younger Dylan, and I felt like there was a huge connection, and I wanted to write like him and as much as he did at that age.
How does it feel to know that you might finally be able to bring the new record to live audiences? Do you have any dates planned, or what’s the year looking like as Covid restrictions ease up and live music resumes?
I’m actually not going to play that many songs from Simple Syrup. Not unless I have gigs as a trio, and most of what I have right now are gigs as a duo. I honestly don’t want to play these songs without drums, so I’ll likely stick to other songs when my drummer isn’t there. As far as touring, a lot of stuff has popped up. We have a tour as a duo in July and then one as a trio in August.
I know that giving back to the community is something you’re big on, and for a while now, you’ve been working with the Los Angeles chapter of Food Not Bombs. Can you talk about that? Is there anything about that project that you’d like to share with your fans or audience?
volunteers, and people can go on our Instagram page, which is @LAFNB. We have all of our links there. Every Wednesday at noon, we go to Gladys Park in Skid Row, and I think it’s a good thing because people are now used to us being there, and we’ve created a sense of community. And it’s good because I used to see people in tents every day and I always wondered why there wasn’t any help for them. When I used to be homeless in Berkeley, I would get many of my meals at Food Not Bombs, and I felt like L.A. needed a chapter. Like there was a need for community outreach. Now, fortunately, we have two, and it’s a good thing.
Any advice you would give to any young or up-and-coming artists?
Always try things you haven’t tried and be open to new things. Definitely take advantage of the internet, whether it’s having a Patreon or a YouTube channel, because that goes a long way. And then, try to create a community, even if that means having monthly shows in someone’s backyard. Do whatever you can to reach people and do it independently and for yourself. People that love music love finding new bands, even if it is at a barbecue or backyard, and if they like you, they will follow you on social media or even support you by buying your music on Bandcamp. So just work on an underground community.
Follow on Instagram: @sunnywarmusic
SUNNY WAR SIMPLE SYRUP STANDOUT TRACK: “LUCID LUCY”
Thailand has thus far been lucky in avoiding the level of COVID fatalities that other countries have seen.
But this has been achieved by imposing curfews, lockdowns and travel bans.The economic impact has been catastrophic, particularly in a country which depends on tourism. Tourism receipts have plunged 72.8%.
As in many countries, some of the groups most badly affected are those which are not seen as ‘vital industries,’ and these include the arts.
The Siam Sinfonietta was established in 2010 by Thailand’s renowned composer Somtow Sucharitkul to provide intensive professional training for young musicians. Unlike other youth orchestras which are seen as an extension to the educational syllabus, the Siam Sinfonietta is a performing orchestra which aims to introduce its members to the discipline and dedication required by a musical career.
It has always remained fiercely independent, accepting members from all backgrounds, all educational qualifications, and all parts of the country. There is no lower age limit - the only requirement is talent. Each year auditions are held. Even incumbents must re-audition. And when members reach their 25th birthday, they must resign.
The results have been remarkable.
Two years after its launch, the orchestra won first place at the Summa Cum Laude International Youth Music Festival. In the years since, the orchestra has performed at Carnegie Hall, Berlin, Prague, Bayreuth and earned many honors.
But of course in 2020, that all stopped. The Sinfonietta’s celebration of Beethoven’s birthday, its plans to complete the full cycle of 10 Mahler Symphonies, and the latest installment of Somtow’s own operatic interpretation of the ten lives of Buddha - all had to be cancelled.
Somtow was worried for his musicians. With universities and schools offering only on-line studies, venues shut, and bans on groups of 20 people, group practice was almost impossible.
By December, the orchestra had not performed for more than six months. But it was not just the missed opportunity for practice that worried Somtow. He sensed a growing malaise, boredom and depression amongst the young musicians. Whereas he had initially been concerned at the effect of lockdown on their musical development, now he worried for their mental well-being.
He expressed these concerns with his friend Paul Spurrier one day. Paul, a British-born filmmaker who has lived in Thailand for almost twenty years had similar tales of woe to tell, of technicians who had not worked in months, of actors who could no longer find an audience, of equipment companies with millions of dollars of equipment sitting idle.
And then they realized that while it was actually illegal for groups of musicians of over 20 to gather, the government had recently permitted larger groups of performers to gather when in the production of a television program or film. (The government wisely realized that the public might tolerate lockdown and even unemployment, but they would not stand being deprived of their nightly soap operas).
The Siam Sinfonietta could rehearse, perform and record if it were in the production of a film. But what sort of film could combine the talents, skill and efforts of the young musicians of Thailand and the film community? to sing the Royal Anthem on the King’s Birthday, and Thailand’s most prolific opera composer, has an entirely different alter-ego as S.P. Somtow, the author of the classic rock-and-roll vampire series ‘Vampire Junction’, and the creator of the ‘Mallworld’ science-fiction series.
Paul pitched to Somtow the idea of ‘The Maestro’ - a B-movie homage - the tale of a frustrated composer whose career is in the doldrums and who cannot find an orchestra willing to perform his latest and greatest symphony. When COVID strikes, he lures the bored musicians to his country mansion, where he forms his own renegade orchestra. But as his genius crosses the line into madness, he becomes increasingly demanding, and it is all bound to end in tears.
Somtow found the idea intriguing. After all, what composer wouldn’t dream of a captive orchestra whose members could not escape, and who could be physically punished when playing less than perfectly?
But Paul had one condition; Somtow must play the role of the Maestro himself. He insisted that there was only one person in the world with the musical pedigree and who could portray a character walking the fine line between genius and madness.
Unfortunately, since the Sinfonietta’s concerts had dried up, so had funding and sponsorship. To make ‘The Maestro’, Somtow had to make many phone calls to his most dedicated supporters. He had always insisted that the Sinfonietta should operate as a professional orchestra, and he insisted that all participants in ‘The Maestro’ should receive a fee, however small.
The project was given a boost when Paul also made some calls to Thailand’s top actors. Vithaya Pansringarm starred with Ryan Gosling in ‘Only God Forgives’. Sahajak Boonthanakit will soon be seen as a main character in Ron Howard’s ‘Thirteen Lives’. David Asavanond took home the Thai Oscar for his chilling performance in ‘Countdown’. Michael Shoawanasai starred in cult film ‘Adventures of Iron Pussy’, co-directed by Apichatpong Weerasethakul.
All agreed to take an enormous pay cut to support the project. The Goethe Institute allowed the orchestra to record in their hall.
It was clear from the start that the music would be vitally important.
Somtow would have to write and record the movement of the Maestro’s Symphony that he eventually performs before those scenes could be shot. This led to an unusual decision - to record the entire musical soundtrack of the film - over an hour of music - before the film started production.
This required a level of collaboration between director and composer that Somtow thinks is unprecedented. Paul created charts with descriptions of the scenes that had not yet been filmed, and with timings of the actions in the film. Somtow had to effectively score the film to a timed edit - except that edit existed only on paper.
Musicians became actors. Soprano Jirut Khamlanghan played the young Maestro’s abused mother. The orchestra’s concertmaster Phongphairoj Lertsudwichai plays a pianist who suffers the fury of the Maestro after he is caught playing ‘Chopsticks.’ Takkamol Duangsawat is the harpist who has the gall to tell the Maestro that his harp parts are impossible to play.
And actors became musicians. David Asavanond had to learn how to conduct an orchestra, for his role as rival conductor Walter Paisley.
Actors were given intensive musical training and musicians attended acting workshops.
Paul says, “We’ve all heard the stories of how a musician stood behind Alan Rickman and put his arms through the actor’s sleeves, so he could convincingly play the cello in ‘Truly, Madly, Deeply’. But we had a whole orchestra. We had to do it for real. At first, we noticed that the ‘actors’ and the ‘musicians’ kept to their separate groups. But as they realized that they had to form a cohesive group, the barriers broke down. Musicians helped actors to actually feel the music, and actors helped musicians to expose their personalities to the camera. We soon found that actors who had never listened to classical music found a new appreciation, and that musicians learned to project a confidence that may even benefit their future performances.” concern was that a third COVID wave was forecast. If the number of cases rose any higher, the production would be shut down.
From an initial schedule of eighteen days, the number of shooting days was cut to fourteen. Filming was completed shortly before the third wave did indeed hit in April. ‘The Maestro’ will now have to wait till the third wave passes until it can be shown in Thai cinemas.
It will be the first Thai film to be released that was produced during the COVID period.
It is also the first Thai film ever to feature a full orchestral score performed by Thai musicians.
But to Somtow Sucharitkul and the Siam Sinfonietta, it will be best remembered as the project that enabled them to stretch their talents, exercise their musical muscles, and stay sane in the midst of COVID.
