Fall 2018 by Vinyl Tap Magazine

Fall 2018

WCWM Fest 6 Take a look back to just a few short months ago

Ruth F***s 19 This band f***s so much itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s crazy

Art Spread 26

Alijah Webb interviews two student artists about their work

Do It Ourselves 40

Stacia Phalen takes a critical look at #MeToo in music communities

Ornette Coleman 72 Plastic sax; no problem

Album Reviews 74 Our staff sifts through some choice releases since August

Iron and Wine 76

The Licks 80

Modern Space 77

Clarence Clarity 81

Active Bird Community 78

Adrianne Lenker 82

Brockhampton 79

Greta Van Fleet 83

High Price

Selling Out

An investigation into how we interact with the music industry

For Only $9.99 a Month 50 Your Taxpayer Money 54 20 Bucks a Pop 58 Royalty-Free 60 Student Industry Interview 62

students@lists.wm.edu eastephenson@email.wm.edu, vtroitski@email.wm.edu Vinyl Tap Fall 2018

Hey, A little over a year ago, I asked to be Vinyl Tap Director at WCWM. I asked because I heard no one else really wanted to do it. And, what can I say, I hate to see a good publication go to waste. But old Vinyl Tap never really amounted to much. Past directors put a lot of work into it, and they truly did a good job. But it was always tiny and circulated solely within WCWM and Meridian. The main difference between the old approach and the new approach is that we have a vision being shared among many people rather than the vision of just one Vinyl Tap Director. Luckily, we as a group continue to find creative, interested people who share our passions in music, culture, and art. As an organization, we’ve gone from roughly 7 members last year to almost 20. That’s not to say we don’t have growing pains. Our group isn’t the most diverse—it’s mostly white folks. We sometimes fail to give people the voice they deserve in our production process. Sometimes the men still talk over everyone else at our meetings. As a group, we can be intimidating. These are all shortcomings that we want to improve—both for the sake of making our organization more inclusive and also for the sake of making our wider society more inclusive. In the future, we will work together to approve a constitution, which I hope will ensure that we retain our commitment to getting better as well as help anyone feel more comfortable joining and taking part in our publication. In this issue, you will find the work of people from a wide variety of places, spaces, and backgrounds. The articles were written by people who care about music, art, and culture enough to do extra work outside of class in order to share their thoughts. The pictures were taken by people who care deeply about the visual experience you have while flipping through. The art was made by an illustrator who probably prioritizes Vinyl Tap over class. We offer you the fruits of our labor, or whatever. Thanks, Eric Asplund Director of Vinyl Tap Magazine

Fall 2018

WCWM Fest collage Mia Mifsud 6

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Oct. 6th, 2018 intro Stacia Phalen article Leonor Grave photos Kayla Temple and Stacia Phalen

At 9:00 am in the lingering summer heat, a crew of WCWM DJs gathered to start a 14 hour day at the Martha Wren Briggs Amphitheater, unloading a truck filled with the makings of WCWM Fest 2018. As boaters on lake Matoaka looked on, the amphitheater was transformed into a lakeside venue, complete with risers, lights, and a wholly unnecessary barricade. As the sun began set behind the stage and the audience filtered onto the lawn, station managers Elizabeth Stephenson and Varvara Troitski took the stage welcoming everyone to Fest and announcing a certain “fire ant situation” situation that had been brought to their attention. But with no further ado, the music began. Campus acts Ruth and Talk to Plants opened the show with an explosion of energy. Ruth, a three, sometimes four piece, hard edged slacker indie band kicked off Fest with a vivacious mix of instrumentalism, energy, and punk athleisure. Campus classic Talk to Plants, the five piece herbwave jam band followed, playing a joyful mix of new and old material in their final WCWM Fest as W&M students. As the lights came up on the electro-dream pop solo act Shormey, the crowd couldn’t help but dance along. Though quiet off stage, her beats and vocals are filled with infectious energy that brought the crowd to their feet to bop along with the incredibly talented Chesapeake, VA native. Fest this fall was co-headlined by a solo set from

Brooklyn-based Laetitia Tamko’s Vagabon and Lucy Dacus of Richmond, Virginia. Vagabon played first, with an intimate solo set. She looked small on the huge amphitheater stage, with stark, but beautiful white lighting--but her sound is anything but small. She mixes electric guitar and a drum machine to create intricate backing tracks for her powerful vocals. Vagabon is coming off huge success with her early 2017 album Infinite Worlds, and has new music in the works. Lucy Dacus closed out the show, playing Fest on a break from touring on her 2018 release Historian, which is rightfully finding its way on “Best of the Year” lists across the board. And her new project with Julien Baker and Phoebe Bridgers, boygenius, has a self-titled EP out now. The crowd gathered along the barricade, singing along to Fleetwood Mac’s “The Chain” as Lucy took the stage, worried about interrupting the impassioned sing along going on. She played a song solo before being joined by her band. They played a loud, impassioned set, as the crowd danced and sang along, hanging on every word. The night came to a close with an encore and a roar of applause. As the crowd dispersed and the bands loaded up and headed off, the same crew from 9:00 am began to strike the stage, loading everything back into the truck, and heading home--already excited for next time.

Previous spread: Ruth This Page: Talk To Plants

Vagabon

Shormey

In Lucy Dacus and her band’s dressing room on the afternoon of WCWM Fest, there is a copy of Carmen Maria Machado’s feminist horror short story collection, “Her Body and Other Parties,” which they have all been taking turns readings over the course of the past year. There is a story in Machado’s collection called “The Husband Stitch” that reimagines the tale of the girl with a green ribbon around her neck — the one which must never be untied lest her head fall off and roll on the ground. It’s a story about the stories we tell about women, and about loneliness, and about trust, stories that go from generation to generation where the details vary, but the fundamental qualities stay the same. Dacus’ stories, even when told for the first time, somehow have that quality of having been told before. The night before this fall’s Fest, where Dacus headlined, my three housemates and I were excited. We gathered in our living room, played Lucy Dacus on the speakers, and sat in an almost reverent silence. That is, until “Night Shift,” when we all simultaneously released what can only be described as primal wail during its iconic chorus. With laughter bordering on the manic, we looked at each other and nothing else needed to be said. It was at the end of very emotional week, and the three intelligent and endlessly compassionate women I live with and I had been listening to the Brett Kavanaugh Supreme Court nomination hearings all over the news. Women’s voices, even when resonant, seemed to be unceremoniously ignored. When added to the generally overwhelming sensation of midterm exams and being a human alive in this world, Dacus’ work seemed uniquely plugged into our emotional catharsis, and apt to tell its story. Around noon on October 6th, Dacus and her band arrived in Williamsburg, did their sound check — which included a cover of Edith Piaf’s “La Vie en Rose” that had no right to be as beautiful as it did — and killed some time walking around Colonial Williamsburg. Vinyl Tap caught up with Dacus and her band as they waited backstage later in the day for their time to perform. “I write a song once, and so that means something to me in that time, but every time we play it after that, I really care more about what it means to other people. It does matter what it means to me in the in the moment of writing it, but it really only carries meaning for it to be shared,” Dacus said. “And so seeing other people

sing along to certain lyrics or seeing people in the crowds relate to certain things helps to remember that I’ve been on the other side of that and felt so much solace as a viewer. So I’m happy to be on this side of it, just because that definitely made me who I am, seeing bands. Especially the songs that were more difficult to write, I associate a lot more joy and happiness to those songs now that I’ve seen other people get something out of them and they’re not just, you know, tomes of my discontent.” Backstage, the final steps in Dacus’ ritual of preparation unfold. She sits in front of the dressing room mirror and carefully applies a bright, poppy-red lipstick. Then, she clips a small red bow in her hair. “Sometimes I’ll get nervous, 30 seconds before walking on stage and just wait a couple songs and feel better,” she said. “But right now everyone’s been so nice — I don’t really feel stressed at all.” Before Dacus took to the stage at the end of the night, campus bands Talk to Plants and Ruth performed sets, as did Newport News-based Shormey, and finally, Vagabon. Laetitia Tamko, the Cameroon-born performer, took to the stage with no backing band, allowing for her intimate, searingly beautiful set to demand attention from the crowd. If a note dropped from the sky in that moment and read that Lake Matoaka Amphitheater had been created specifically to allow this night to happen, it would be hard even for the cold-hearted to call it a lie. For Dacus, bands like Big Thief, Wilco, Yo La Tengo, Shakey Graves, and LCD Soundsystem are among those that allow for the kind of viewer solace that comes along with the right act. Happiness is letting go at a gig and dancing with abandon. “I’ve never been more — what’s the word? It’s not ebullient. Not ecstatic. I’ve never been more happy than dancing at an LCD Soundsystem show,” she said. “It’s just the best. It’s like full-body happiness.” This fall’s performance was Dacus’ second time playing WCWM Fest — she played Fest in spring 2016, opening for headliner Car Seat Headrest. Dacus was just beginning to establish herself in music, and was debating whether signing on to Matador Records would be the best course of action for her. She remembers talking to frontman Will Toledo about his experiences with the label that day. Since then, Dacus has signed to Matador, played almost every big-name festival you can think of, and released her second album, “Historian.” Since Nov. 4, Dacus has been on tour with Julien Baker and Phoebe Bridgers, with whom she has formed a supergroup: boygenius. It’s not often that one hears about a rock supergroup made up entirely of women making headlines, and the three women play with the

idea that a lack of masculine ego is important (it’s in the group’s very name) and refuse to take themselves too seriously. However, Dacus did mention one inspiration, a triad of country icons whose musical talent is only matched by their charisma: Dolly Parton, Linda Ronstadt, and Emmylou Harris, who partnered in 1987 to release their 11-track record, “Trio.” “We decided that I’m Linda Ronstadt,” Dacus said. “Phoebe’s definitely Dolly. And Julien’s Emmylou.” Dacus, Bridgers, and Baker, though each distinctly comfortable in their own musical styles, elevate each other’s energy. Past the November tour, none of them are sure where this project will take them, but Dacus is along for the ride any way it goes. The three had booked the tour before they decided to get in the studio and record anything, but Dacus said that she is thankful for the way their paths crossed. “Having the attention split in threes it just makes me feel really comfortable and I think they might feel the same way. I think we’re all kind of emboldened by each other’s presence,” Dacus said. “Just being near each other is validating and having work that we’ve all said, ‘yes, we like this and we want to share this.’” True to her historian alter-ego, Dacus will periodically update her Instagram account with the books she is reading, which in the last few months have included works by James Baldwin, Isabel Allende, Jenny Hval, Carson McCullers, and Jorge Luis Borges. When she answers questions, she pauses, appears to reckon with the history of the entire world and all those who have written about it, then speaks with a disarming sense

“Nostalgia is a reverence for history or a reverence for the past, and I appreciated that today.”

of earnestness. Even the story of Dacus and her band walking through Colonial Williamsburg between sound checks adopts an air of meditative grace. “I’m a pretty nostalgic person,” she said. “You could say that in a more dignified way — [nostalgia] is like a reverence for history or a reverence for the past, and I appreciated that today. We saw the marching band, the fife and drum. I just love that people still commit to that. … I think that the longer people can maintain nostalgia for something like that, the more impressed I am. The older the history that people reenact, I innately care about it, because so many years and generations of people have put something into it to make it better.” Dacus isn’t too far from home playing in Williamsburg, having grown up in Richmond. Though she has now established herself as a musician and has played big festivals, playing close to home has its own distinctive feeling, because so many people she knows and loves might be watching. “It is more pressure for sure — like my parents are coming today, and come to any show that’s in Virginia, basically,” she said. “I get more self conscious before Virginia shows just because people show up who I know have a version of me in their head from whatever era we were close. People that I grew up with or people from school, people that I was distantly aware of that are now in the front row of the show. ... It’s also maybe more special than most shows for the same reasons.” For the crowd gathered in Lake Matoaka Amphitheater to listen to her, it would be hard to disagree with the declaration that this show was, in fact, remarkable. As Dacus waved to her parents, it felt special. As she sang, it felt special. And at the end of the night, walking through the woods back to campus, a stubborn nostalgia hung low in the air and remained there. - Leonor Grave

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Lucy Dacus

We like to cover, I guess, themes of either great biblical achievements or the devastating mundaneness of college life.

Ruth F***s words photos

Caroline Gates Collin Ginsburg

I sat down with Ruth - Beau Rowland, Roarke Fernandez, and Jordan Wyner about halfway through the semester to chat about their process, their plans and hopes, and their take on creativity.

Jordan: Should we start by saying what we do?

Why?

Sure, that would be helpful.

J: When I was a freshman, I joined the jazz band and that’s when I played bass for the first time. And a lot of the kids there were active in the music world or whatever. They all graduated and then I didn’t really like the teacher who came. Also the kids were crazy good. Being older now, I definitely regret not playing with that group more. I feel like I would have improved a lot as a musician, so Ruth is almost like my chance to really get into music. And it’s our own thing, so we’re all figuring this thing out together and seeing where it takes us.

Jordan: I play bass and guitar and I joined last year. Beau: I play bass, guitar, and sing for the group. Roarke: I play the drums and sing. Let’s start from the start: how did you guys get together and how did you meet? B: Freshman year, Roarke and I were both playing in separate groups. I had seen Roarke play a few times, and I was looking for someone to drum. Our sophomore years, we were both living in Dupont and just after interacting in the hall I said we should play music together some time. R: Yeah, I didn’t know Beau very much, other than seeing him in the hall and knowing that he was a performer, and that I was a performer. So, we met outside on a bench, and Beau -- I thought he was fun. I looked at some of his notes and they were absolutely mad. He had a lot of art to show me too, and I was very compelled to get into the Beau Culture. And then we met Jordan, uh, during…Well, Jordan, you can tell. J: Beau and I actually had a Modern European Jewish History class together, and didn’t interact. Even once. Yeah, maybe we like, answered a question? Consecutively? But that was it. And then I was playing in, um, Malignant Amygdala at the Meridian. And one night after our performance, Beau came up to me, and said that, uh, me and our drummer Samir [Tawalare] sounded, uh, really tight. “Would you ever play bass?” And I was like, yeah, sure! R: For Ruth? J: Yeah, for Ruth. [Everyone laughs] Would you ever play bass in your life? Again? No, tonight’s the last night! Yeah, and I liked a lot of the music; I thought it was eccentric; it was weird; and it kind of [...] had a playfulness to it that was pretty freeing and what I think I’ve grown to admire more in playing is I think we all [...] care about how we sound. R: If we don’t sound great, then we’re gonna make sure that each of us— J: —we get it up to our standards. R: ‘Cause we’re a three-legged animal at the moment [laughs] and —and if one leg doesn’t work right, then it’s no good. J: You can’t hide behind the sixth leg, that’s it, it’s just the two other legs. B: To finish off, I would say with all of our goals of playing well, I’d say we do try to keep that playfulness and enjoyment in everything. It’s not entirely an obligation. It’s more something we can enjoy doing. It hasn’t gotten to a point that its strictly a job, it’s something that— R: It’s never stressful to do Ruth. Ruth is what I consider to be my career long term. Just performative drumming at all. And so, when I do this kinda thing, I have to enjoy it. J: Yeah for me, it’s my last year here. So it’s my last chance to do anything quasi-real with a band. And I stopped playing music for a really long time. 20

Want to talk about making your music? B: So the way our first songs came to be was —I was, as most of our stories begin, out in the woods. I just happened to have a guitar with me and a piece of paper and, in a single instance, I wrote out the set of lyrics for a song I entitled “Big Old Mansion,” and then I pretty much immediately after wrote out the first thing I thought of on guitar. Then I turned over the page and wrote out all the lyrics for a song we called “Everyone’s Out to Hunt” and then thought up the first thing I could on guitar and wrote that on the page. At that point in the afternoon, Roarke had just arrived, and I said, “Hey, let’s check out these songs.” Very quickly he put drums to them, and we had, I would guess, our first two tracks. That came mostly just out of […] putting our first impression down. R: Just stream of consciousness. And I think stream of consciousness has kind of been a keystone for the way that we write songs nowadays, but the ability to do so has gained a bit more prowess as time as gone on. B: We will usually do stream of conscious[ness] to get something on the paper, and once its there it will go through many different stages. We like to cover, I guess, themes of either great biblical achievements, the devastating mundaneness of college life [all laugh]— J: —these are all gonna be future song titles— B: —and the excitement of interpersonal sociability [all laugh] in the college space. Do you think that creativity is a primarily internal process? J: Creativity is very odd, because it all comes from inside you. It all comes from something that you make. But sometimes it’s more like...you’re discovering something that’s out there, but you don’t quite have it yet. Like, sometimes when we’re working towards a completed song, you have enough that you know there’s a song there, you know there’s a full body waiting to be found out. And it’s more like you’re letting it rise. Letting all parts become visible; well, in our case, hearable. How do you guys feel about performing? What is performing like from the perspective of the performers? B: It’s always analogous to when I would run a track meet in high school. There’s an element of physical and mental preparation. And after the performance, you definitely feel the physical effect of what you just did. R: There is a bit of a disconnect between mind and body when you play —I guess I should use I-statements;

whenever I perform. J: I think it’s really common. I’ve probably experienced it. I mean, it’s different. When we played at [WCWM] Fest, I thought we had played our entire set in like ten minutes. B: I probably dissociated a bit during it. Like, I have certain songs which I’ve been playing for maybe five years, that when I go through it’s so second nature I’ll black out and come to at different points. I’ll remember I’m at this part of the song because it’s so ingrained in me. So in some ways, there is this sort of other mental state that I enter that doesn’t happen at any other point in my life. J: Performing for me, I definitely enjoy it and I definitely look forward to doing it. But, so many hours and so much time and thought go into making a very small window of time in which you play —it’s all live. So it’s the same songs that you’ve always done and you’ve rehearsed, but it’s a different mental state; it’s a different experience. It’s a combination of communication through musical means and also some eye-flashing,

some non-verbal communication and reacting to things kinda spontaneously. And every once in a while if I get too tense, I have to remind myself, “Dude, loosen up— it’s Ruth. You’re supposed to dance to it.” And when there’s a crowd there that’s really responsive and at least intrigued, then that adds something. B: I think that the performative exchange with the audience is probably one of the biggest determining factors in how a show will turn out. Because we can put in so many hours, and however your day goes will invariably impact the way that you perform, but the in-the-moment experience of sharing something you’ve created with people and that act of receiving that, is very interesting and it can be intimate. R: Some people get embarrassed if they mess up live in front of a lot of people. And it might make a difference if the crowd is small, but to me as long as I’m doing my best, then it doesn’t matter how big the crowd is. Because I’ll walk away with the same sense of satisfaction with myself, that it was a performance that was good by my own standards.

J: I think that’s very important. R: The crowd might be ten people or a million people, but if I mess it up then I’m gonna be upset. J: It’s funny though, because that happens. And we’ll do a show, I know distinctly three occasions, and I’ll talk to people about it and I’ll be like, “did you hear that?” B: That is so true. J: And they’re like, “No?” Because you know what you’re supposed to do; you know the vision, but they don’t. So when you deviate from the path, it’s a lot more clear. B: Whenever I have a solo during a set we do, and I’m at the after party, the only thing I can talk about is: “Did you hear me during the solo? I missed 50% of it!” [all laugh] But there’s this, almost, honesty with that. We’re not trying to create this polished, final music. Lots of the songs that we’ll play have gone under several stages of development, so nothing is ever quite set in stone and therefore ever meant to be perfect. And I think the edges that come out when we perform is what makes it meaningful for us.

You all are working on recording music. How do those “edges” translate to recording? J: I wish we knew. [all laugh] B: I think that the challenge when capturing a single instance of a song when you’re not in front of an audience is it’s harder to tell what’s special. Or what will be special. I can have in my mind what I think will make a song tick, but that’s so different for everyone else. When you’re just a group of three people around a microphone, you’re getting a very limited perspective on how something sounds. ‘Cause if you are playing something, and you see 20 faces squint at a certain point in the song, you can say, ok, maybe this isn’t effective. J: Also, the process of making music is completely different because everything becomes fragmented and very split up. And in the recording studio you have an opportunity to really work on your sound and you know this is gonna be your product; it’s not a show that happens once and then it kind of falls back to the distortion of memory, this is kind of a lasting document.

Now I know I make it sound kind of biblical, but it’s important, and there’s a lot of different stuff you have to think about technically speaking as well, and it’s really a whole field tour. I’ve done the Studio 2 training at Swem. Definitely provided the basics. I think it’s something we’ll learn more as we experiment with. How would the experience be different, better or worse, if you had someone in a managerial position? B: I would love that! I honestly think that there’s a lot of excitement to managing all of these working parts through one hub. And as far as managing has gone with our group it hasn’t been too difficult, but I could see where having a person to press record for us, or a person to— R: Be our lawyer! B: —be our lawyer, or someone to say someone wants you to play here at this point—having an extra person is always helpful. R: But it is nice to be that person! We have been our own managers and it gives us social bearings around William & Mary and otherwise around Virginia. B: It’s a pretty social experience to manage a band, because we deal so much with the individuals behind organisations that support artists. Want to talk about Fest? B: Playing at Fest was spectacular. R: There’s been no better opportunity than Fest, because we got to play on the same setlist as Lucy Dacus, which is really— J: —on the same equipment! B: We were able to have a great time talking to the people who were putting it on, taking a bit of a back seat, for once. That was definitely a lot like having people manage the group because you have all these people working hard for the common goal. We were lucky that we were part of that. R: Everyone was there all day to make sure that these three or four hours went off without a hitch. And we were there too, showed up as early as we could. J: Oh yeah, I was exhausted when we played. I would say, when we were done I was really glad we were done, because there was a lot of waiting and preparing, but like 30 minutes later after I’d shuffled out I was like, man, can I just go back up for like ten more minutes? B: Once I came to after the performance, I felt this tremendous amount of excitement, almost as if I hadn’t performed and was about to. Because the experience I got to have entirely in first person, it was just so vivid, and seeing everyone who played while it was still light out—it was very special. R: There was no better motivation to give a good show than being provided a good show. What do you feel you’ve gotten from being in this band, like lessons, but not necessarily lessons. What do you get out of it on a personal level? B: Where I get a lot from on a personal level is seeing how I can equally balance my input with other people 24

who have just as driven of a creative mission and finding ways to syncretize what we are all thinking in ways that are productive and creative as opposed to destructive. At the end of the day, I don’t want anything crumpled up on the floor. Everything has something of value, whether it’s in the present session or later. R: I don’t believe in bad music. I think any song that we’ve done we can put energy behind it and make it really fun. J: If there’s something that we don’t buy, if we don’t believe in it, if we’re not into it, then it’s not gonna happen. Sorry song! But definitely reaching that, for everyone to acknowledge that you have to be able to communicate with each other—I think we do a decent job, a pretty good job at that. R: We’re gettin’ there. J: Yeah, we’ve only done this for so long, but it’s a lot of fun. I am really glad that I get to be a part of this project and that we all get to work together on it. What are your post-graduation plans? Do you see Ruth continuing after graduation? J: Oh, that would be awesome! If we recorded everything that we wanted to record—which is a lot to ask for but I think is a good goal and will make us do all that we want to do—if we do that and if I manage to get a job in Richmond… B: It depends on geography, because a lot of our functionality is dependent on being physically with one another for the creative process because there’s a lot of nuance to the exchange- and creation-process within a group that requires immediate reactions. J: Maybe we should all just move to Eugene. Now that I’m getting closer to graduating, I’ve come up with alternate-alternate-alternate-alternate-alternate plans, and one of them could be that I’ll just stake a claim somewhere, and you guys will join me, and we’ll be ready to go. B: Yeah, I think setting up shop somewhere on the west coast would be the place where Ruth would flourish. [To Roarke] Are you on the same wavelength they are? R: Yes, we’ve all been on the same wavelength for so long, and I’ve never considered myself someone who could be in a band with someone who I didn’t also trust in a long-term friendship, and that goes beyond graduation, beyond wherever, I don’t like the idea of putting my name on a record with someone I know I could despise, or would despise me. So I think I have very good friends in Ruth. J: Yeah, trust is important in playing music together. It does really make you trust each other, and you all learn how to communicate with each other and figure things out. R: When a band’s members don’t like each other, you can tell when you’re listening to their stuff. J: [laughs] Yeah! So—sad—but let’s say Ruth is not a thing post-graduation. Where do you guys see yourselves?

B: Well, I have to adapt The Sun Also Rises into a film by the time I’m 25 or 26, so hopefully doing that at some point. Working on various books, records of nonRuth varieties. Maybe some large drawings. R: I wanna be tired of having enough money by the age 27. By the time I’m 27, I’d like to say: I’m satisfied by my financial being at the time. So if Ruth isn’t the thing, then it’s gonna have to be some kind of performance, drumming somewhere else. I don’t know how I’m gonna do it with the reinvestment, but, um, it’s gotta be done. There’s no point throwing away so much practice to pursue anything other than drumming. J: Yeah, I don’t know, I just wanna be in a place where I’m financially content, where I can do the things I wanna do on the side. If I have other people to play music with, I’ll probably be in a band. I just don’t want to have a job that I hate. That is kind of soul-splitting. B: I just wanna keep doing creative things in as many mediums as I can. And hopefully continue sharing that process with other people. I’ve considered Ruth to be an art collective, in some ways, more than just a band. Because we do a lot of different kinds of art when we come together. Why the name Ruth? B: Ruth is this 91 year-old lady that I know who told me an anecdote about her age. Most people assume 91 is prime, but it’s actually divisible by seven and 13, so although she is seven times unlucky 13, she is 13 times lucky number seven. R: Ruth is a version of ourselves who has seen it all and understands life wisely enough that she doesn’t make a fuss about everything. She is 91 and has been witness to everything, she has said every word in the dictionary. She is basically, kind of like this bodhisattva-like figure in terms of being a well of knowledge and advice. She is the knowledge everybody wishes they had when they were young; they don’t really want it, but—there it is in Ruth.

Ruth is this 91 year-old lady that I know who told me an anecdote about her age. 25

Ellie

GRACE

My work centers around capturing whimsy in domestic life. I use vibrant and glittery motifs to overpower the familiarity of the objects and people I explore. By applying bold colors and textures, the subjects of my work become detached from their original associations and begin to function as self-portraits. I aim to portray intimate life as a physical extension of an individual’s self. I began creating this work as a response to living with a chronic illness. In order to compensate for fatigue, I express myself externally. I use photography to construct eccentric spaces for my subjects to interact with. New uses are assigned to mundane objects by collaging digital images. Texture, pattern, and color counteract more serious subject matters. My work becomes an honest representation of my household, my relationship, and of myself.

Right: Two Kinds Of People, digital collage, 18” x 14”

Left: Queen of Hearts, digital collage, 19” x 25” Right: Self Care, digital photography, 12” x 18” Next page: Flora, digital collage, 12” x 18”

If your body of work could be described by any musical genre, what would it be? My artwork would be best represented by the Riot Grrrl movement. I consider my work to be super feminine but also kind of punky with graphic colors and shapes. Feminine perspectives are undervalued in the art world and I want to fight back against that. What is the driving force behind your work? The driving force behind my work is definitely my fiancĂŠ Flora. Our relationship has become central to my body of work throughout the past two semesters. Being able to explore our domestic life through photography has been a pleasure and itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s really fun to shoot images with her! What is your favorite part about your creative process? My favorite part about my personal artistic process is succeeding after failing. There are SO many times I fail while I am trying to come up with a piece. I end up having to rework or re-shoot so many images. It is really hard having to spend time on pieces that end up being failures. However it is all worth it when those failures go towards a piece that ends up working!

Rebecca

SHKEYROV I am a junior at William & Mary, double majoring in Psychology and Studio Art and Art History. I focus on painting, printmaking, and drawing. I have recently developed an interest in photography, and I plan on making use of our school’s 3-D printers soon. My collection of work is quite eclectic. I haven’t found that one style, one medium, or one issue that I wish to focus on. And I am still figuring out how necessary having that type of signature is, at least on a level beyond personal satisfaction. However, I can identify a few elements that unite my body of work. The first is an interest in people. The majority of my work contains or makes reference to the human form. The second is an interest in color. I do not enjoy painting with a totally neutral palette, much to the lament of visiting artist Ann Gale who, upon viewing my work during a critique this semester, diagnosed me with “rainbow disease.” When painting, I observe colors that I feel more than colors I see. I do indulge in monochromacy for drawing and printmaking, though. The last element I will mention: I am constantly thinking about the realism-abstraction spectrum. One way I experiment is by creating pieces with different locations on this spectrum in mind.

Right: Not Your Doll / oil on canvas Next spread: Emmanuel Napping / charcoal

If your body of work could be described by any musical genre, what would it be? Jazz is a broad genre that could apply to my work. It’s improvisational. Sometimes clean and smooth. Sometimes gritty and discordant. Anger, sadness, mania, tenderness...it’s all there. What is the driving force behind your work? I feel like my “driving force” is best summarized by three goals or intentions: 1. To become a better artist in terms of technique and understanding of artistic elements 2. To translate my imagination and emotions into a viewable product 3. To create works that combine artistic mastery with creative ideas In high school, I mainly focused on goal number two. When I started taking classes at William & Mary that focused on observation and learning concrete skills through painting, drawing, and printmaking, my focus became the first. This year, I have started to double down on goal number three. This doesn’t mean that I’ve abandoned the first two; I’ve simply added another one to work on in tandem. I haven’t seen too much progress with number three. For example, I tried to create a huge painting - I’m talking multiple feet by multiple feet - entirely from my imagination and it failed. I sanded it down, painted it white, and am trying again. However, my failures motivate me to work harder. It also helps that I simply enjoy creating, and have that “itch” to make art that people always talk about. What is your favorite part about your process? With painting, my favorite part is probably the beginning where I have a blank canvas that I paint with very diluted oils and wipe them back constantly, creating an open-ended mirage that slowly develops into something. With printmaking, my favorite part is having the final image beautifully printed on some woefully expensive paper. Printmaking is a lot of planning and preparation. No instant gratification. When the work you put into a piece is proportional to its success, it feels great. In terms of drawing – from observation, specifically – I like the constant search for the correct proportions, shadows, etc. It feels like putting together a puzzle, except the pieces are slightly malleable, giving you the liberty to define what fitting together just right looks like. Right: Double blind /multi-block woodcut printing on paper

Left: Hell Smells / oil on canvas

interviews and curation

Alijah Webb

words

I cut my teeth in the DIY scene in Allston basements my freshman year of college. I never realized people were putting on shows in their basements and living rooms. I was completely enamored with the ceremony of it all. I walked into houses in front of which Google Maps had dumped me. With only an address messaged to me by a stranger over Facebook, I spent hours in these basements listening to music. I saw some bands that are still playing the house show circuit and others that are now signed to labels. Some of them are even dropping albums that get put on “Best of the Year” lists. This followed years of shows at grungy DC venues with my dad, seeing punk and indie bands from the time I was twelve. I grew up with the artists, who he idolized in college, blasting from the basement stereo. I never once thought about who they were—just about their music. What I didn’t realize with my early love affair with punk and the do-it-yourself ethic is the dark underside the scene can—and tends to—have. There is a deep hypocrisy in DIY with regard to accountability for perpetrators of gender-based violence and safety for audiences and survivors. This is a deep-rooted issue that needs to be vocalized if there is ever going to be change in the DIY community. I have grown from a starry-eyed 18 year-old at the Grandma’s House venue in Allston into the co-General 40

Stacia Phalen

Manager of the campus DIY venue at William & Mary: the Meridian Coffeehouse. It is now my job to prevent the bad shit that is rampant in DIY from happening, and, let me tell you, it is really fucking hard. Bad shit here being a stand-in for gender-based violence (GBV), which, for the purposes of this article, is defined as: any action that prevents someone from feeling comfortable with their gender expression, most violently taking the form of sexual assault or intimate partner violence. It also takes the form of sexism, homophobia, transphobia, or the act of harboring perpetrators. This definition is broad, but it accounts for physical, emotional, and symbolic violence—all of which are deeply harmful to individuals and communities as a whole. As a woman—like many other women and non-men, queer people, and people of color—I have a very complicated, often love-hate relationship, with the DIY music and art scene, including the parts of it that exist on this campus. It should be noted though, I am white and cisgendered. I cannot speak to the experience of trans- and non-binary people or people of color who face deeper and more complex layers of oppression, needs for safety, and barriers to reporting. I am speaking to my own experience in this article but also drawing on the reports, observations, and writing of others who have addressed this topic. The Meridian, along with WCWM, is in the process

of writing GBV prevention protocol for staff, shows, and the community surrounding us it order to have the safest space possible. I say “safest possible” or “safer” in reference to what many call “safe spaces” because the reality of safety is that it is an ideal to be worked towards, needing constant maintenance. It is never something that is or can be guaranteed. The process of developing this protocol has made me reflect about the state of safety, or lack thereof, in the DIY music scene as a whole and in direct relation to our campus community. I am faced with the thing every new survivor advocate or safe space steward comes to realize: you cannot keep everyone safe no matter how hard you try. The social factors that protect perpetrators of violence can be seen in nearly every corner of our society, and they must be recognized and called out to make progress toward inclusive, safer spaces for all. I think the biggest thing that I have learned in the workshops that I have attended and conversations that I have had is this: vocalizing these problems and injustices—in ways both large and small—to those who would rather ignore them and forcing them to confront the reality of GBV is the small step that will instigate this cultural change we wish to see. DIY is home to a paradox similar to what we see in the larger culture of the United States when it comes to accountability for perpetrators of GBV, socially and politically. In the US today, there is an unprecedented movement against perpetrators, who are now facing highly-visible, concrete consequences for their actions as a direct result of the #MeToo movement. Simultaneously, the movement pushes into view the systemic fact that the abusive actions of perpetrators with a certain level of prestige are actively being ignored. The prominent examples of the protection that prestige offers are in the political sphere, but this same trend is reflected both in music and as well as on college campuses. Brett Kavanaugh’s appointment to the US Supreme Court and the ongoing scandals within the Trump White House are exceptionally high-profile examples of this lack of accountability. The exposure of Harvey Weinstein, Bill Cosby, and Louis CK are also significant and indicative of a trend toward greater safety in the entertainment industry as powerful men are held accountable by the public—though it should be pointed out that Louis CK is still being booked to perform at some comedy clubs. This trend of public accountability can also be seen within the music industry for artists like R. Kelly and Jesse Lacey of Brand New, but it becomes much more difficult as the scale shifts from well-known performers to bands selling out small venues or playing house shows. When big-name stars are outed as abusers, their names are widely published, and the public draws together to hold them accountable for their actions. But, the same cannot be said within the music scene. Bands’ names are not so widely apparent, and members’ names tend to be even less apparent. There is an anonymity there, especially within DIY music, paired with increased danger due to the amount of physical access musicians have to their audiences, many of whom, especially in the pop and emo scene, tend to be underage. The hypocrisy in the DIY music scene is specifically that DIY spaces—even some claiming to be safe—

will still allow perpetrators to attend, play, or book shows without any kind of accountability. Bands and musicians that claim to be “woke” knowingly play with perpetrators. And the right amount of social clout will let a perpetrators actions go unnoticed, forgiven, or forgotten by many. A tweet I saw a few weeks ago I think captures the rift between what many performers, spaces, and community members try to uphold and want for DIY and the reality of what is happening:

This tweet is an apt indictment of the scene as a whole. There are players within it—artists, booking people, and venue managers—who are legitimately trying to stop, change, and recover from actions of violence against them, their friends, or within the community as a whole. They are trying to keep people safe, but this is clouded by who is in the know, how people are being protected, and the social ramifications of levying accusations for the survivor based upon the social clout of the accused. Band members have been seen taking advantage of their positions of power time and time again—both in society as predominantly cis men, and in the scene as artists with social clout. This clout acts as a protective layer in an industry based largely on who you know and how much power and sway they have based on their social status. Fan bases make addressing artists’ behavior even more difficult because of the undying moral and financial support some offer regardless of the situation. This is paired with the problematic way in which many artistic communities see themselves: They think they are outside of the rules of society because they belong to “radical” or “underground” scenes with discrete moral codes. These subcultural norms do not prevent violence and occasionally even protect perpetrators and their reputations. Even if a survivor goes outside of regulated social channels to out a well-known musician as a perpetrator on Twitter or Facebook, an army of fans will come to the artist’s defense—sometimes going as far as to threaten the survivor who has disclosed. Perpetrators are still being booked by promoters, playing with other bands, and getting invited to the afterparty—even if their status is known. These people are continually placed in positions of power, and that power is part of what allows them to commit acts of GBV, whether it is one time or repeated offenses. This trend of status-based protection is all too often reflected on our college campuses as well. On campuses, there is a complex dynamic between students’ strong desire for safety and accountability and the stark reality of perpetrator protection and punitive consequences for survivors. Campus accountability procedures are often set up in a way that protects abusers, and it appears that those protections are even now being bolstered. In mid-November of this year, Betsy Devos proposed changes to Title IX rules that would narrow the definition of sexual harassment, 41

increase the burden of proof for survivors, and require cross examination of the survivor, which was highly discouraged under previous guidelines for fear it would be re-traumatizing. These new rules, which schools will be required to follow should they pass, are likely to result in already incredibly low numbers of reports of sexual assault and misconduct dropping further, silencing more survivors. This does not account for any harm done to survivors, but instead places the blame on them for bringing a case to the school which already, rarely results in any kind of serious consequence for the perpetrator. In a status quo system that hardly holds perpetrators accountable for their actions, it seems that strengthening the protection of perpetrators would be unnecessary; however, according to our political leaders, the idea that young men are, in theory, more vulnerable to false accusations because of Title IX is somehow more unbearable to imagine than the personal, crushing experience of GBV. These new proposed regulations appear to be a result of this pervasive idea that false accusations are “ruining the lives” of huge numbers of young men. “We must protect our boys,” became a sentiment expressed by many conservative politicians and parents in the wake of the testimony of Dr. Christine Blasey Ford against Brett Kavanaugh accusing him of attempting to sexually assault her in high school. While, if, false reports of sexual assault were prevalent, this might be understandable, but time has shown over and over that false accusations rarely occur and are hardly the norm. There is a tendency in our society to excuse instances of sexual harassment and other significant violations of the bodily autonomy of survivors with “boys will be boys,” and to talk about men who misbehave or mistreat others with infantilizing language. Their behavior is excused because they are reduced to adolescents, and while adolescents may not know any better, these are grown men and they do. The realization we need to come to as a society is that there are good men, but at the same time: Brett Kavanaugh is a man, R. Kelly is a man, Jesse Lacey is a man, and Brock Turner is a man. These are not boys or adolescents. Though they once were, puerile lack of accountability is a privilege best left in childhood. Being a man is not a reflection of behavior but fundamentally of age. By creating more protections for those accused of sexual assault on campus, the consequences for survivors increase, raising the barrier to reporting, and ultimately making it more difficult to exist in a space where they may run into their assaulter. In survivorcentered advocacy and accountability procedures, the burden to create safer spaces for the survivor falls on the perpetrator to disclose their status before entering spaces and the community to define and maintain safer spaces. Social clout is a significant factor both in music and on campuses affecting reporting and accountability. Clout deeply impacts who is truly held accountable, who is forgiven, and who is willfully forgotten for their violence. Survivors must struggle with both the fear and reality of not being taken seriously based on what ultimately amounts to the social status of the perpetrator. With the #MeToo movement both on and offline, it has become obvious that people are becoming less likely 42

to be content sitting idle while situations of abuse play out behind closed doors—in some cases, regardless of the social status of the perpetrator. As survivors come forward, years and years of abuse is gradually being revealed. However, a question that remains is how or if fan bases will be able to grapple with the consequences of someone they loved, admired, or to whom they deeply related having their head on the chopping block. In music, these are artists who took advantage of their fans, especially underage girls. In the case of Jesse Lacey, the former frontman of Brand New, he used his position of power in the band to solicit sexually explicit photos, sexual favors, and other violations of personal autonomy from underaged girls who felt coerced and powerless. They were teenagers, and he was in his late 20’s. This happens on scales both large and small— with bands selling out stadiums, Pitchfork darlings, and basement bands playing shows to their friends. The question of how best to hold band members accountable is a complex one. When band members are outed on social media, this mediation between survivor and perpetrator is happening before an audience which it was never intended to have. A complicated example of this is Pinegrove. Pinegrove is an indie-country band that came up in the DIY scene outside NYC fronted by Evan Stephens Hall, who was, last November, in his own words, “accused of sexual coercion.” This was stated on the band’s Facebook page along with Hall’s explanation of the situation in somewhat vague and defensive language that—while admitting to wrongdoing—simultaneously acted as damage control on a situation that was only beginning to unfold. By making this post before any news of his accusation broke, he was able to control the narrative, and to some fans be forgiven immediately because he had confessed and apologized. In taking control of the situation by breaking the story himself, he directed the narrative of the incident and contributed to the silencing of the survivor and their side of the story. Whether or not this was the intention of his post, this sequence of events is repeated over and over again in situations of abuse in communities like the DIY scene. This prevents survivor-centered responses to allegations, often because of the position of power the accused holds socially, professionally, or politically over the survivor. Part of what was revealed with Pinegrove is that even the most well-intentioned attempts by bands or media outlets to address situations of abuse are impossible to get right, often because of the publicity they give to perpetrators. Jenn Pelly, a Contributing Editor at Pitchfork, wrote “Reckoning with Pinegrove,” which was published online this September, just two days before the release of Skylight, which signified Pinegrove and its freshly controversial frontman’s return to the scene. The article was intended to address the situation and show how Hall had taken accountability for his actions in the band’s year-long hiatus requested by the survivor. This article blew up on Twitter, with bands, fans, and everyone else weighing in on how exactly they felt after reading it. It seemed that no one really knew what to do with this article, or what it had to say. It was both criticized as being entirely a promo piece and celebrated for tackling a difficult situation with

grace. Neither criticism captures the complexity of The Pinegrove Situation—like any instance of gender based violence—was exacerbated by its introduction into the public discourse by Evan Stephens Hall himself, a move that placed him squarely in the middle of a scandal which it seems was never meant to be made public in the first place. This centering of the narrative around the perpetrator does often work to their advantage, but almost always in situations where that perpetrator has a significant amount of privilege based on their race, gender, and sexuality. If queer people and people of color (Q/POC) in DIY or the music scene are perpetrators, the backlash toward them is a much more complete “cancellation” of that person or band. While serious consequences are often warranted, Q(POC) artists are held to a different standard than straight white male ones, causing any kind of accountability process offered by the public for redemption to be reserved for those who have the privilege to be protected. This situation has been seen time, and time again, last year with the queercore punk band PWR BTTM, following allegations of “unwanted advances on minors” and other abuse by the the singer and guitarist Ben Hopkins (who uses they/ them pronouns). The band, like Pinegrove, released a statement online to address allegations and address their fanbase within days of the allegations coming out, cancelled the rest of their tour, quietly released the album they had been promoting, and then all but disappeared after the online rage quieted and music mags stopped releasing op-ed’s about their rapid rise and fall. What PWR BTTM showed is that there can be concrete consequences for bands; the power dynamic can be shifted to hold shitty musicians accountable. Equally as important, it showed who is going to be held accountable for their actions and have their power and platform taken away. Bands who do not fit into the model of four white dudes wallowing in the end of the singer’s most recent, generally okay, relationship while shredding at least two guitars are booked less often, taken less seriously, and held much more severely accountable for their actions than bands who do fit that model. But this is a formula that can be countered by fame. When the names of artists with great prestige are pulled into conversations about sexual misconduct we see this trend of passively forgiving or merely forgetting men like David Bowie, Michael Jackson, or Tupac Shakur. Unlike Bowie and Jackson, Shakur was convicted and served time for rape, likely due to the white establishment’s criminalization of

blackness and his unapologetic embrace of the label “thug,” which is still given to black men, who racists perceive to be dangerous. He also was faced with the rightful persistence of the survivor Ayanna Jackson, who continues to speak out about her side of the story, which was largely silenced outside of the courtroom. Yet, despite these legal consequences, he was granted social pardon. Nearly no one knows, remembers, or cares he is an abuser, and this goes for Bowie and Jackson as well. None of this is to say we should entirely discount the importance of these men’s contributions to popular music today, but we need to recognize that they are perpetrators of sexual violence and that personal history is one that needs to be talked about— especially as they are all now pieces of music history, allegations against them included. After Bowie’s death a flood of articles were released that tried to grapple with his history of statutory rape and sexual assault allegations, and but they have not changed the history. Prestige has wiped the records of these men clean. It is a reality that this long history of gender-based violence is part of the music scene, but change and healing too must become part of the history. In DIY spaces that are open to the public and have safer space policy, it often feels like not enough is being done to truly be safer. Venues are often run with only able-bodied people in mind. The staff at venues and the bands that they book rarely reflect the racial and gender diversity of the scene that exists locally and nationally. If non-men or people of color are booked, they are all too often opening for all white, all male bills. More needs to be done to address safety, openness, and shows reflecting the reality of the scene and the artists in it—they are not all while, all male, all cis, or all able bodied. Survivors and perpetrators are part of the scene, but there needs to be a change in who feels comfortable coming into DIY spaces, playing shows, taking up space, and having an audience. Survivors deserve to take up space without having to constantly disclose their trauma to keep themselves safe. The DIY scene needs to recognize that, the College needs to recognize that, and the current culture as a whole needs to recognize that, so we can all make changes for the better and make more spaces safer. Lastly, if you want to see something in the music scene at W&M change, say so. I promise I will listen and I will help. If you want to be involved in community accountability protocol and procedure development, email themeridiancoffeehouse@email.wm.edu. 43

Selling Out

High Price

The the

high price of...

high price

of...

vinyl tap

Selling Out. photos Collin

Ginsburg, Edward Millman, and Katie Kasperson

direction Collin

Ginsburg

models Jeremy Raphael, Eric Asplund, Collin Ginsburg, Corey Bridges, Stacia Phalen, Caroline Gates, Tori McCaffrey, David Lefkowitz, and Edward Millman

For Only $9.99 a Month words

Nostalgia has become the heart of radio. There’s a sense of familiarity in the voices we hear coming over the air that remind us of the drive to school or work every day, listening to the low volume of the morning news. Nostalgia lives in the soft buzz of static when you’re driving late at night, far from home; in flipping through stations to find one that feels just right as you turn from classical to R&B to oldies to classical again, like driving from place to place until you finally pull in the driveway of your childhood home. When we listen to music on the radio, we’re part of a community of listeners, tuning in to the secret knowledge of local highway exits and radio hosts on afternoon traffic updates. There’s an intimacy that brought us to love it, but an antiquity that brings us to leave it. In an age where we are rapidly leaving the past behind for exponentially growing technology, we find ourselves favoring our custom Spotify playlists over the Top 40 or throwbacks from our middle school years curated for us by stations, dotted at intervals with ads for local car dealerships and restaurants. Smart-speakers have become more convenient for in-home listening, and smartphone capabilities are making digital music more accessible no matter where we are. Car companies are tuning into this change, and AM/FM radio is becoming less prominent on the dashboard to make room for Bluetooth and aux-listening. Corporations understand that all in all, nostalgia doesn’t pay. Even though the popularity of record players and film cameras are rising again, it’s not sustainable for the majority of the population. People prefer efficiency and immediacy when it comes down to it, and artists are looking for ways to widen their listening population and use the opportunities of new media to their advantage. Free listening has made music readily available for anyone who can access Spotify’s app on a phone or computer. It has pulled us out of the age of radio, even out of iTunes listening and CD purchases. The sort of ease and convenience that radio pro50

Margaret Mitchell

vides is mirrored in Spotify, freeing us from the overflowing stacks of CD albums in the glovebox of our cars, or the iTunes album purchases that slowly added up as we widened our music library. Unlike radio, music streaming can engage our personal choices and preferences with CD listening, but we are still promised some degree of limitations in exploration when we our search for new music is limited to 30-second samples or low-quality YouTube recordings when we want to listen to a full-length song. There has steadily been a limited pool of artists on most forms of digitalized media, but Spotify has been in the process of setting a precedent for inclusion and promotion of independent, international, and unlabeled artists, a change which other media providers like Apple Music have readily taken on in order to actively compete. The focus of the digital music industry is rapidly shifting from the performer to the listener, thanks to platforms like Spotify. Music available through the Swedish streaming-giant is catered towards an audience through algorithm-based playlists, a “Fans First” platform which more intimately connects artists with their listeners, and globalization of listening. Cecilia Qvist, Spotify’s Global Head of Markets, works towards building an international music-streaming following by seeking to understand the culture and technology surrounding music in individual countries. She examines things like the “size and health of the music industry and creator ecosystem, licensing landscape, smartphone penetration, quality of smartphones, consumer segments, and more” in order to better cater to worldwide audiences and maximize the “joy of music discovery.” This internationality of music streaming has allowed artists like the Romanian-born and –based INNA to find their fans globally distributed in places like Mexico, Turkey, and Spain, and Spotify-curated playlists give exposure to upcoming artists, who can potentially receive a royalty profit of around $1,000 or more each day on a Global Top Hits playlist at Spotify’s current royalty rate.

Not only is Spotify is changing the way audiences listen to music, but it’s changing how independent artists choose to distribute their music. The site recently opened up a beta-version of a new plan for new artists to upload music directly to listeners. Although it’s currently only open to a few hundred U.S.-based artists, more artists, labels, and teams will soon be able to use this uploading plan, says Spotify. It’s free, and it pays. Artists earn royalties based on streams, which is good news for many, considering the plan set in motion in January of this year by the Copyright Loyalty Board of the U.S. Library of Congress to increase royalties over the next five years. By 2023, songwriters and publishers will be earning 15.1% of revenues, instead of the current 10.5%. David Israelite, CEO of the National Music Publishers Association, called it the “most favorable balance in the history of the industry,” allowing songwriters to gain a more advantageous standing in the daunting world of powerful record labels. Change is not done simply at the benevolent whims

of the CRB, but as an answer to the outrage of many independent artists who feel themselves excluded from the fruits of their hard labor, culminating in Wixen Music Publishing’s $1.6 billion lawsuit last year for copyright infringement and failure to pay royalties. At the moment, each stream on Spotify pays around $0.006 to $0.0084 to the holder of the rights for that song, and these rights can be split between the artist and other contributors, such as songwriters, labels, and producers. Even with Spotify’s rise in popularity, these numbers have changed very little. A sort of inflation plays a role in royalties with the decreasing ratio of Premium to free users. The royalty rate for streams can only remain the same if this ratio stays the same, otherwise artists run the risk of their profits becoming diluted by mass numbers of free listeners. Currently, about 83 million of Spotify’s 180 million listeners pay for Premium listening, according to CFO Barry McCarthy, and on average one of every two unpaying “engaged” listeners will switch

to Premium, though it’s not quite clear what is considered “engaged.” Still, this presents a hopeful future for artists, as the growth of the company to its current scale will allow the benefits of streaming to materialize for artists, according to founder and CEO Daniel Eck. However, this rise in listeners and increase in royalties upon the decision of the CRB could mean rising prices of subscription for users in order to balance the annual losses in royalties, making Spotify less viable for investors and could hurt artists using Spotify as a means of reaching out to their audiences. The future of labels and artists as we know them is rapidly changing as music streaming grows into a giant force in the music industry. Corporations like Spotify, Apple, and Amazon are constantly competing for listeners and also for the most innovative technology. Annual losses are mounting as these companies push to increase royalties while maintaining competitive subscription rates, while both listeners and artists remain loyal to their pockets. It’s a fast-paced game, and it’s

unclear who will come out on top. As the history of radio has shown us, it won’t be long until the game itself completely changes and even the current “winner” will fade into the past. Our infatuation with nostalgia, even nostalgia for something as dead as radio, might be able to tell us something important here: We are seeking some sort of personal connection with the artists we listen to and the people who distribute their music -- whether it’s through playlists, algorithms, or stations. We are searching for the most efficient, most convenient source to give us access to our music, and for billion-dollar-corporations, that has become an almost simple task. However, there is something so redemptive when, at the end of our search, we can feel ourselves settling into a cozy niche with a view of the world, not settling into a subscription plan with a view of the ruinous battles between one music streaming site and another – when we can feel less like consumers and more like humans.

Your

Taxpayer Money words 54

Jack Stewart

On October 11th, the President signed the Music Modernization Act (MMA) into law, taking a step towards updating laws in the music industry to better suit the streaming era. The legislation had broad bipartisan support, as well as backing from both artists and streaming sites like Spotify and iTunes. The MMA does three main things. First, it ensures that those who released music before 1972 receive royalties for their work, closing a loophole that allowed streaming sites to withhold those royalties. Second, it improves the allocation of royalties to music producers. Finally, it sets a market rate standard that requires digital platforms to pay fair market price for music. With the support of both artists and streamers, this law does a lot to help songwriters, engineers, and producers in the music industry. It also helps streaming

platforms by making royalty payments and creator databases more efficient. However, there is still work to be done to improve equity in the music industry. The one main problem with the bill is the free pass it gives to DSPs like Spotify for their past bad behavior, taking advantage of artists and mechanical licensing loopholes. The bill prevents any litigation against Spotify for prior infractions, essentially providing them with a clean slate, however dirty their hands may be. But most seem to agree that the MMA is a net positive. As said by music lawyer Jordan Bromley, â&#x20AC;&#x153;This bill was borne from good intentions and a genuine desire by songwriters, publishers and DSPs to solve a problem. Letâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s let them.â&#x20AC;? This is a rare moment of consensus in the music industry, so there is much to celebrate, but there are plenty of problems that still need to be solved. 55

20 Bucks a Pop words

Can you remember when the Radio Station at William & Mary had vinyl? Can you remember why the Radio Station had vinyl? For nearly the entirety of the 20th century, vinyl records served as the dominant form of media for sharing recorded sound; however, by the turn of the 1990s, our beloved black frisbees got traded in for cheaper, shinier compact disks. With the rise of Apple and the digital market for music in the 21st Century, vinyl, whose use peaked before CDs and Tapes, has quickly become many degrees of separation from the technological cutting edge of musical consumption. Just when we thought the final nail had been struck in the coffin of vinyl, it quickly crawled its way back out of its shallow grave to remain just as popular as ever reaching peaks rivaling its final years before CDs. Why are we still talking about vinyl if after a century of its dominance we finally received our “better” alternatives,

Sam Iden

ones which are more accessible or that bear a lower cost to consumers? As soon as humans found a way to record sound, they found a way to profit off of it. Profit and recorded sound are inherently linked in a world where the commodification of the human experience is favored. Vinyl itself was bred out of a marketable necessity for cheaper bottom lines and larger profit margins from the old days of Edison’s Wax Cylinders. While this may seem like a cynic’s approach to tackling this question, it is impossible to look at the rise in vinyl’s sale without looking at the marketable aspect of its growth. The less cynical reason for this substantial growth could be lossless analog quality of vinyl as a format -- maybe your local coffee shop’s audiophiles could be behind this market’s grand success in the past 10 years. While

there is a certain hi-definition quality to vinyl, this cannot be the only driver of growth when digital formats such as FLAC or MP4 achieve little to no difference in audio quality on the average, layman’s setup at a fraction of the cost of purchasing a vinyl album proper. The quality of the musical output is not the spectre haunting our perceived favored formats. Instead, looking at what topped the charts for top LP sales for each year sheds some light on what could be causing this trend. It is the profitability of old releases which have pushed the market up. 2017’s top selling album on the vinyl format was The Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band closely followed by -- once again -- The Beatles’ Abbey Road, according to the Nielsen Music sales tracker, a metric that began collecting data in 1991 on physical music sales. Other albums which have topped in recent years include favorites such as Michael Jackson’s Thriller or Pink Floyd’s The Dark Side of the Moon. The kinds of albums that constitute this increased need for vinyl are re-releases of the modern classic cannon, not new releases. Companies such as Capitol or Sony have found that re-releasing their back catalogues of greatest hits yields enough of a profit to keep producing them. Nostalgia, either lived out or desired, is the construction of this vinyl growth. Older generations who divested their collections on the advent of CDs find themselves reaching back into their wallets to regain old collections while younger generations seek to live out a past they never got to experience through albums that only represent a fraction of the

musical output of the period. The profitability of the nostalgia market has created a burgeoning bubble for the consumption of vinyl. Are the implications of this bull vinyl market all bad? No -- while the motives behind its growth are rooted in profits, the ubiquity of vinyl lends itself to helping smaller, indie labels tap into consumers who have already been exposed to vinyl as a format. While the bulk of this growth is taken up by the Nostalgia market, small scale releases have also risen in this 10-year growth period. People born in the height of vinyl decline have been brought back to the format by nostalgia and have, in turn, taken a liking to the format. If someone bought a record player so they could listen to Sgt. Pepper’s every day, then they are more likely to buy more records so as not to neglect their new investment. This pattern has allowed figures such as Jack White of Third Man Records to capitalize and help reverse trends of decline and, for example, open up the first new record plant in the United States in upwards of 30 years. An increased interest in vinyl overall has made its production cheaper, and therefore more affordable for your favorite Bandcamp artist to sustainably produce a vinyl record. People can actually do small-scale vinyl releases without losing their life-savings. It is safe to say vinyl is back, and it is being used and produced in ways never thought of before; new formats will come and go, but vinyl will be with us for a long time. The new question is: will our record players in the WCWM Station ever be operational long enough to finish an album?

Royalty Free words

It’s no secret that the way we consume music has fundamentally changed since Spotify launched in 2008. The Swedish company has streamlined access and consumption of music in an unprecedented way, taking us from a world of iPods and CDs to an app. Isn’t it anticlimactic that thousands of years of musical progression and consumption have culminated in a download from the App Store? Think about it. You don’t actually own any of the music you listen to; rather, you pay to borrow as much of it as you want, but when the service drops dead, the battery is drained, or you drop your phone in the urinal, you’re shit outta luck. In event of a major phone-account-internet malfunction, that music isn’t yours to listen to anymore. When prompted with this concern, your tech savvy friends suggest you download music from the internet, but you don’t even know where to begin —the YouTube-to-MP3 site you last checked in middle school redirects to an unclaimed domain page chock full of porn links. You find the album you want on Pirate Bay, but you don’t have a proxy server and definitely don’t want the Feds knocking at your dorm room door. Finally, you ask Sam, the WCWM music manager, but he just goes on about SoulSeek and bootlegs and vinyl. Let’s face it: college students have gotten lazy. We are not the experts on piracy that we once were back in the day of Limewire and Napster. But it’s not just college students. Spotify was drafted from the ground up to be the übermensch of music accessibility. It’s the service that single-handedly resolves artist, label, and consumer disputes over how money travels through the industry. According to a 2015 study by the EU, 137 Spotify streams reduce track sales by 1 unit. Based on the royalty rate of most Spotify tracks ($0.007) as compared 60

Eric Asplund

to the average royalty rate of purchased music ($0.82), the study indicates that streamed music is revenue neutral compared to purchased music. The two mediums pay roughly the same to artists; piracy pays nothing past the original sale. But what about consumers? As paradoxical as it may seem, consumers are not paying for music when they subscribe to Spotify. Once the subscription is gone, the music is behind a wall of shuffles and restrictions. Instead, consumers are paying for an experience —a fleeting ultra-mega-super-primo-library full of any song you could possibly desire. And, like moths to the bulb, we’re hooked. Spotify entertains us with an experience of possibility: that means no commitment —like a onenight stand with your Pitchfork darling. But don’t we want commitment? That leap of faith you could take when finding new music by buying the album with the coolest cover art in the store? Gone. We don’t even get to burn a CD of an iTunes album anymore. My point is simply that Spotify is not the answer to all of our problems. When the library-in-the-sky dissipates, what connection do we have to our music? We can’t remember the song names, the playlists, or even the perfect album for the perfect time. And reconstructing that library of possibility at $0.99 a track is impossible for even the most dedicated preservationists, let alone a college student. For that, there’s only Soulseek and an external hard drive.

ec.europa.eu/jrc/en/publication/eur-scientific-and-technical-research-reports/ streaming-reaches-flood-stage-does-spotify-stimulate-or-depress-music-sales?search

Students in the

Industry

Lizzie Fulham

Stephanie Gaber

Benjamin Chase

On a mid-November night, Vinyl Tap sat down with two William & Mary alumni and one current student to chat about student experiences in the music industry amidst the modern, streaming-induced turbulence. They all had been part of campus music organizations like Radio (Lizzie was a Station Manager!), Meridian, and Front Porch. But they were each unique in regional experiences, guiding philosophy, and ultimate goals. Through a mix of Facebook messenger and faceto-face conversation in the Media Center movie theater, we collectively tried to make sense of the realities of buying and selling music. Moreover, we may have gotten to bottom of lifeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s most pressing question: Is Radio still relevant? Lizzie: Hi, my name is Lizzie, and I currently work in the radio and video promotion department at Interscope Records in NYC. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m an administrative assistant and help our national and regional staff with expenses, booking travel, and other office tasks. I also manage streaming, sales, and Shazam reports for each of our markets, compile tour schedules, and help advance promotions with our radio partners. I submit music videos to MTV and BET and help coordinate artist appearances on network TV. At night, I work part time in the box office at Irving Plaza and Gramercy Theatre, which are two Live Nation venues here in NYC. 62

Steph: My name is Steph Gaber, and I currently live in LA. I work at Q Prime, a music management company. At Q Prime, I work in the radio promotion department as kind of the department assistant/coordinator. Throughout the week, I pull all sorts of data reports, from spins at radio to research to digital sales/streaming. I also do all of the admin work whenever we roll out a record: encoding into our databases, ordering product, organizing and fulfilling all of our content grab needs with the artist. More recently, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve dealt with all of our promotion surrounding touring including, but not limited to: budgeting, planning, and executing fan experiences

and giveaways. Chen: I’m Ben and I’m a Senior here at the college. I started playing music when I was pretty young, hopping around between instruments, and by the end of high school had started a band that ended up playing a good bit of shows before I began here at W&M. Early on, I became involved with Meridian, Front Porch, and Radio doing things like booking and running sound for shows. Currently, I stay busy with running an annual DIY music festival, working on my solo project, and playing guitar and singing with my band Talk to Plants. Is music your primary occupation? Do you hope to make a living from the Industry? Lizzie: I hope to one day make a living in the music industry. [laughs] I was an anthropology major at WM and was also in the Business School. And basically the winter break of my sophomore year, I interned at the 9:30 Club. And I was like “I hate school and don’t wanna have a job in an office that sucks.” And from there, I went on to intern at most of the venues in DC. And after graduation I came up to NYC, thinking “well the one thing I’m looking for is music?” What was your motivation to join the music industry, as a non-musician? And to try to make a living from it? Lizzie: I hope to one day make a living in the music industry. [laughs] I was an anthropology major at W&M and was also in the business school. Basically, winter break of my sophomore year, I interned at 9:30 Club, loved it, and starting thinking about working in music. From there, I went on to intern at a few other venues in DC. I got more involved in WCWM as the events director and then eventually became the station manager. By graduation, I knew I wanted to work in music and knew that I had to move to NYC or LA. I moved to Brooklyn the summer after graduation, walked dogs for awhile, and eventually ended up at my current position at Interscope. What about y’all? What got you into the industry-side of music? Chen: I’ve always freaking loved music, and I go to college and tried to get involved with as many music things as possible. I’ve always gotten the push-back that I should go into finance and major in business. But I’ve gotten to the point where I’m just going to do it and see what happens. Steph: I’ve played music since I was four. I played four instruments, and was classically trained in three. For my whole life, it’s been a huge element. Playing music but also being in WCWM and Front Porch. I tried to convince myself in freshman year of college to not do music professionally. I did International Relations all four years. But I minored in marketing and interned every summer at some music organization. I now work at a company called Qprime, at which I interned the two summers before I graduated. The nice thing about radio is that it kinda touches every part of the industry, and the nice part about radio at a small company like mine is that I get a well-rounded view of everything in the industry. To echo what Lizzie said, you quickly realize that music is not as glitz and glam as you think it is. A lot of it is business. I feel like whenever I meet someone

who’s an aspiring artist and they say “fuck labels,” I’m like “no, you’re not going to get anywhere.” Anyone who has gotten on the radio without a label and without some sort of backing, got really lucky and that’s the honest fact. So I think sometimes music can be a little jading because your connections are everything. As a follow up, Lizzie, have you had similar chances to see a wide part of the industry through your company? Lizzie: Yes because, on the label side as well, radio and video have to keep up with what’s going on in all the other departments to eventually deliver a song to stations or broadcast. I work primarily with the label’s marking, creative, and publicity departments. It’s been a really cool way to check out how different teams work to put a song or an album together. I also help coordinate with management and venues. Before this job, I really only had experience with venues, so it’s been exciting and pretty eye-opening to see all that goes into delivering the final product. It’s also pretty weird to switch into the mindset that songs and albums are products? It’s been an adjustment, but I’m learning a lot. Steph: To talk more about radio, radio is not reflective of what’s Lizzie: Popular… Steph: Yeah...One of radio’s primary functions is to sell tours, which is why we do things like flyaways or get guitars signed, whatever promos. Lizzie: “Go to Las Vegas!” Steph: But on the flip side, radio wants to stay relevant. And the way they do that is they look at research and streaming data. Stations might add a record because of a good relationship, but will drop it if it’s not doing well [datawise]. Radio looks at a few things: streaming in their markets, ranks, ect. The acts we [QPrime] work with don’t stream well because we work with a lot of alternative rock—well it’s complicated. Rock is actually the number three most-streamed genre, behind pop and hip-hop. But rock streams better in “Catalogs,” as opposed to “Currents.” New rock doesn’t stream well, but old rock streams really, really well. So stations look at that. Playlisting is also important, which is now functions similar to how radio functions. Spotify, for example, hires people as content managers and they curate playlists on Spotify. The “Rap Caviar” playlist basically determines if you go viral. Rock has an equivalent playlist called “Rock This,” and if we get added, we’ll put it into our marketing sheets to radio every week. That’s a motivating factor. But radio also does its own research. They do something called “call-out” and will literally call you and ask for your reaction to a record. They do something called “M-Score.” Pretty much like monitoring, within major markets, how people react to certain songs on the radio. Like whether they change the channel or stay on for more than thirty seconds. Streaming is important for radio, but research tends to win out because it’s tailored to their specific format. So these personal relationships really do make or break musicians. Lizzie: Yeah, I’ve just come to expect that. It’s the reality of the world we work in. Everyone knows everyone it’s so weird -- even on my extremely low level. It also makes 65

it hard to figure out if you can be real with people sometimes. Sometimes, I step away for a second and am like “what the f***,” but you just kind of learn to deal with it . You have to operate in that world in order to keep up with everyone else. Steph: I think radio is slowly coming to terms to the reality of music. Some stations are starting to look at streaming to add a record, over research. Things like podcasting and streaming are changing the Industry and radio folk do wanna stay relevant. I do agree with Lizzie that a lot of it is relationship-based, but I do think that is changing as the new generation comes in and as technology changes. Chen: Everything you guys have said one hundred percent lines up with my experiences. Obviously you’ve seen much more in depth because I’ve only interned at these places. Last place I was at was in Nashville, and it was super small, and I got to see some of that stuff you guys were talking about. But two summers ago, I got to intern at WME and that was a really crazy awakening because all of the other interns were so deeply entrenched in the EDM and hip-hop worlds. And I’m not super in those worlds and I would occasionally ask them a question about math rock and they’d be like “what the f*** are you talking about,” which was a bit disenchanting and I realized it wasn’t exactly how I thought it was, which sort of reinforced this innate feeling of wanting to stay on a community level with the people I know as much as I can. But I do think the reality of it is getting a job like yours but in a city where I have friends who play music. Yeah, it’s just not realistic to make money purely as a indie musician. For me, it’s so different working in an office in the music industry versus making music. I think it very well will be both in some capacity. The dream is to do something with friends and have a diverse portfolio of projects and collaborations. To bring this back to the discussion of radio and streaming: is Spotify different in terms of accessibility? Does it not have the same entrenched aristocracy? Steph: No, it’s not that different. Streaming works about the same as radio. For a lot of playlists, you pitch to a content manager or to their global head of pop, rock, or EDM etc. And that really determines if you go viral. When you playlist, it affects you heavily. Streaming is how everyone consumes music. No one buys records. You have instant gratification, which is a new phenomenon. But it’s still mainly relationshipbased. And a lot of content managers come from label/ management backgrounds so again, your connections are everything. You’re more likely to talk to your friend Joe that you worked with way back in the day than the new guy Dave who you don’t know and you don’t trust. If they have good relationship with that person, it’ll increase your chances of getting playlisted. And, like radio, they will look at data to determine if you should stay on the playlist. So there’s still a channel of music from the label to the distributor, aka Spotify? Steph: I would say so. The music industry is pretty small at the end of the day. Do you think the idea of music being bought and sold has affected its meaning? Has streaming affected your personal connection to music? 68

Lizzie: I think streaming has changed the way that I interact with music -- and I think that’s true for a lot of people. Yesterday, I was talking to one of my bosses who’s been the industry since the 80s, and he asked if I read album reviews anymore. And I said yes, after I listen to album, to see how it compares to my reaction to an album. And he said that back in the day, he would religiously go buy music magazines and read album reviews and then, based on that, he would decide which records to buy. Because records were expensive, you would have to painstakingly choose which ones to buy. And those records would then become part of your identity because you spent your hard-earned money on them and eventually you would have this carefully curated collection of music that you loved. Talking to him made me think about how I starting really getting into music. In the 5th grade, in like 2005, I got an iPod Nano, right around the beginning of iTunes. I was obsessed and everyone got me those fifteen-dollar iTunes cards. My shopping cart in iTunes was so full that I literally couldn’t add any more songs because there was a size limit. So I would listen to the thirty second previews again and again and again to try to decide which fifteen songs I would buy. And then I would read reviews of the songs before I bought them. I had these playlists that were so meticulously thought out. But now somebody says a name and I type it in, spelling it wrong, into Google, and listen to an artist’s entire discography in a second. And it’s just changed the way I listen to stuff. The artists I listened to used to be a big part of my identity, how I viewed myself, but I think that was more of a thing when I was younger because I was spending so much more time and money and energy trying to create and craft this collection. Even my playlists from 11th and 12th grade were so curated. But now my playlists are just dumps of songs. My friend just said this thing, or Pitchfork said this thing: add it, add it, add it. Obviously, there is still music that I connect with, but the discovery and the ownership aspect has changed. And I think because of that people are having a tough time connecting with music. You just hear stuff all the time, and then you can hear again whenever. It’s not like, “OMG, this song came out, I can’t wait to go buy it and then listen to it. And I’m going to listen to the radio to try to hear it again.” So I think the instant nature of music now has diminished its value, diminished the way consumers give value to music because it doesn’t have a cost anymore, which is something that will probably shake out in a few years. I don’t know. Things have supplemented this loss though, like touring and merch and Instagram personas. But I agree there’s definitely less immersion and fandom. So it always blows my mind to see little kids who are really into Justin Bieber or whatever and really get into it. Like how do they do that? Lizzie: Yeah, that’s the thing. In some ways, I’m so jealous of that. I did do that for the artists I loved in, like, the 8th grade. LOL, I thought I was so cool because I bought the (500) Days of Summer soundtrack. I don’t know, it would be interesting to talk to someone who is 13 now and into music. It would be cool to hear about how they find and interact with music and assign it meaning. I’m not sure how I would bridge the gap someone so young and myself. Just thinking about the gap that existed between my boss and me, we just

couldn’t fully understand each other. Chen: For awhile, my main way of listening to music was Youtube and the way to make it work for me was to put on a full album so I didn’t have to worry about it changing to a weird song or something. It’s only been in the past year that I’ve transitioned to streaming apps. And I feel so much less committed. I’ve been using Apple Music recently and when you are in the home screen of the app, it puts all the recently-added music in a folder. But after a while, you can’t scroll down anymore. That just completely captures the way it is right now. If I’m adding a bunch of music at once, it makes everything before it disappear. The very end of my recently-added playlist is only two week old music. For me, it makes this craving to find artists who are doing things that are super intentional or if there’s a really clear process. It also gets me really interested in music with a story behind it. As a counterpoint, I see this dynamic as a music consumer’s reaction to the ephemeral nature of music. But how have y’all seen music itself changing? For example, there’s always been the trend of songs getting shorter and albums becoming irrelevant. Steph: Honestly technology in that respect is amazing for music. Conventionally how things were done in the past is not how they are done now. You have Top 40 artists like Frank Ocean and Beyonce putting out visuals with their albums. That didn’t happen in the past. We had an artist, instead of an album, put out a thing called “Infinite Singles.” In the past, you would put out a few singles to promote an album, but now you can sell singles as individual, digital tracks. The downfall is that, when you do put out an album, people only really know your singles. If you wanted, you could put out two albums at a time instead of just one. That couldn’t have happened in the past, because it wasn’t how people consumed music. In terms of creativity, now the industry is a bit more open; there is so much room for creativity. And that’s the artist’s main job: to be creative and to get people excited. Technology is changing music in general, what we consume, how it’s produced. Chen: The means of music production is now so different from what it was. In high school, I got a Mac with Garageband and could open it up and make a song. Compared to not long ago with studios of just analog gear. And it just keeps developing. The shear number of individuals who can make music at a high quality level without a huge invest of resources has put us in a really unique spot in all of music history. And it creates so many micro-genres which are an inevitable component of that. And, yeah, as a consumer, it makes a lot of noise, but it also allows you to find a niche for yourself.

was a sold out show; people were dancing full-out ballet routines and singing every word -- it made me like the band way more, because they were making so many people happy and validated. That, for me, is the reason I do it. At the end of the day, some of the industry stuff can be weird, but the final product is music, which brings people together and enriches the lives of, like, everyone. Steph: What gives me hope is the accessibility that streaming created. It’s a lot more crowdsourced now, despite how corporate we said it was. At the end of the day, we can work at promoting our big-name artists but go home and listen to whatever we want because of accessibility. I don’t need to invest much money to develop a relationship with an artist. I went to go see Mitski and she was sold out to the brim. Just like with boygenius, Mitski is not an artist I would imagine to sell out at the venue. I know of bigger artists that can’t sell out that same venue. It speaks to accessibility, and even more than that, people are singing about really interesting things right now. And doing really cool things with music and technology. The innovation that’s happening right now is really exciting. People have gotten really creative with visuals. Top 40 artists, like Kendrick Lamar, are rapping about police brutality. Obviously he’s not the first person to do that, but he’s a Top 40 artist. Chen: On a slightly different note, some of my most fulfilling moments with music have involved community. In Brooklyn, there was the Silent Barn, which unfortunately just shut down. But when I was there, I’d go a couple times a week and there’d be all types of touring artists who’d just randomly show up. And the communities I’ve been involved with in Maryland and at W&M. Things like Meridian where there’s a space conducive to people sharing their passions, and for them to come and be a part of a community. So for me, what I imagine in a dream situation is where things like the Silent Barn can survive financially. To keep things thriving on a community and small, local level. Living old in a place with people you’ve known for a long time and music coming in and out is a dream for me. To be involved as a musician, audience member or facilitator of a space like that would be awesome.

Steph: Yeah! And there’s a lot of crossover genres. Like Phantogram and Big Boi, or Timbaland producing a song on the new Muse album. Or Prophets of Rage. Finally, what gives you hope for the industry? Lizze: I love going to shows and seeing fans have the time of their lives. Teenage elation, Dads singing along to their favorite songs from high school. I went to a show recently for one of the bands on the label that is cool, but not really my thing. And at the show, I saw so many people scream-singing with their best friends. It 69

Ornette Coleman words Edward Millman illustrations Stacia Phalen

“When the boy first discovers the primary sexual structure of the female, he tries at first to deny the evidence of his senses, for he cannot conceive a human being who lacks the part of his body that is of such importance to him. Later he is terrified at the possibility revealed to him and he feels the influence of all the former threats, occasioned by his intensive preoccupation with his little organ. He becomes subject to the domination of the castration complex, the formation of which plays an important part in the development of his character, provided he remains healthy; of his neurosis, if he becomes diseased; of his resistance, if he is treated analytically.” -Sigmund Freud (1856–1939) A General Introduction to Psychoanalysis. Part Three: General Theory of the Neuroses XX. The Sexual Life of Man, 1920.

“We are deeply impressed with how closely the development of fear is interwoven with the fate of the libido and the unconscious system. There is only one disconnected point, one inconsistency in our hypothesis: the indisputable fact that real fear must be considered an expression of the ego’s instincts of self-preservation.” -Sigmund Freud (1856–1939) A General Introduction to Psychoanalysis. Part Three: General Theory of the Neuroses XXV: Fear and Anxiety ,1920.

Free Jazz, as understood by Ornette Coleman, is subliminity expressed in music, a transcendence of the limitations of categories of race and gender in order to reach a more fundamental core of being. The fundamental core of being could, as Ornette saw it, be expressed through a radically different type of music: A music which dismantles all hierarchies and creates a pure musical democracy. This music would have no licks, no hard order, and would consist of spontaneous relations and signification. If any known melodies were played, it was to re-interpret them decontextualized, or to re-contextualize all music as pure expression in the moment. Music, in this view, is inseparable from both its source (i.e. the musician, the recording-playback), from time, from the site of reception, and from the contextual understanding of a listener. No impartial observer exists; all modes of receiving music create its meaning and here music is inseparable from time because it’s being is time: no music can exist without time and without listeners. In listening, one is always imagining the parts as a whole despite each part of sound being momentary and ever-fleeting. Imagine a music in which a whole isn’t conceivable because the whole is represented in the spontaneous moment itself. That, to Ornette, was the heart of Free Jazz. Ornette said, despite how “The notes are the same” that “your brain is constantly defining what these notes are recalling to you.” 1 Music is an evergiving, infinite source of aesthetic interest if judgement is continually questioned and Free Jazz could (in theory) cleanse the doors of perception.2 Is musical transcendence possible given bodily limitations? If a man’s tied to his three-piece dickand-balls, could removing the balls (and possibly, the dick) make room for post-libidinal transcendence and

understanding? Ornette hoped so. While his doctor refused to castrate him, he offered a circumcision as consolation. The tie of libido and transcendence is, and has been, an issue since humans developed the language to discuss it. While Nietzsche might see Ornette’s desire for castration as life-denying, Schopenhauer might have had some sympathy for it; Freud would certainly have a field-day with Ornette’s eunuch-urge. Ornette saw two categories limiting expression and societal thought: Gender and Race. The former makes manliness paramount, the latter, as he saw it, was something often imposed onto him by society. Race is a social construction, and one that, in the eyes of the dominant white culture, is used to oppress and subjugate. On this, Ornette said “I would rather think [I’m] human first than think of being defeated because I’m black.” 3 However, to say Ornette Coleman saw these categories as being the only limiting categories downplays his skepticism and disdain for all categories and hierarchies: these two being a reflection of the vast intersectional limitations in society. To be hope, to act as an agent of hope through music and to be what John Coltrane called “a forceful good,” is to recognize these gendered and racial hierarchies in order to critique them, and tear them down. Transcendence comes from doing, from acting, and from creating— not from anywhere else. One’s being is never unengaged as long as he’s alive and conscious. 1. https://www.laweekly.com/music/ornette-coleman-interview-1996-2139050 2. Cf William Blake, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell “If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is: Infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro’ narrow chinks of his cavern.” Aldous Huxley cites this for his book on his peyote-tripping experiences. 3. (Taylor 40-41)

August Iron & Wine, Weed Garden

September Modern Space, Flip for It Active Bird Community, Amends Brockhampton, Iridescence The Licks, How Much More

October Clarence Clarity, Think: Peace Adrianne Lenker, abysskiss Greta Van Fleet, Anthem of the Peaceful Army 75

Iron & Wine Weed Garden Subpop/August 31 Iron & Wine’s Weed Garden brings the rich story of human emotion written in Beast Epic to its full dénouement. Released just over a year prior to the Grammy Award nominated album, Sam Beam’s sixsong EP follows after a modern epic, but does not fall in its shadow. Weed Garden’s tracks proceed from the extended work of Beam, careful and intentional in his composition and perfection of these pieces over the past year, yet fearlessly vulnerable in his expressions of joy, love, nostalgia, and sorrow. The album is not so much a mass of songs that missed the mark for Beast Epic, as the EP’s title might suggest, but the due exaltation of the tracks which needed an extra year of cultivation – it is Beam’s effort of “getting into the weeds,” confronting the beautiful and the harrowing, the dandelions among the wildflowers. Weed Garden is characterized by dreams of golden summer mornings and autumn rain, songbirds and soft grass, and weeds and graveyards and pizza parlors. It is a place where the romantic meets the realistic to form a soft home for the human heart. Iron & Wine’s beloved “Waves of Galveston” has been winning the attention of live audiences for years, but Beam has held off until now for its official release. This ode to Galveston, Texas, finds its place comfortably among the other tracks of Weed Garden as a ballad to all things familiar yet foreign, treasured yet outgrown. “What Hurts Worse” introduces the heart of the EP with a rich duet of vocals and instrumentals that invites us to “forget whatever we know.” There is a lightheartedness found here, but also a heaviness in the plucking of guitar strings and the call to “become the lovers we need,” a vocation that seeks to fulfill the unending needs of both oneself and another. In the album’s concluding track, “Talking To Fog,” Sam Beam confronts our human neediness in this delicate and intimate ballad with an honest confession 76

of sadness and desperation. It is the expression of an all-too-human tendency to build our homes in the branches of sorrow and find our comfort there when we find ourselves locked outside of “a room that’s made of moonlight” with “walls as warm as skin,” so close yet just out of reach. The final verse of the song speeds up as Beam cries out in a flow of comforts and desires for love, for warmth, for growth from the soil of hardship – to rise up again among rocks and concrete with the renewed patience and persistence of a weed. - Margaret Mitchell

Modern Space Flip for It Warner Music/September 14 Sincerity and a lack of pretension are the two qualities that I appreciate most when it comes to rock music. It takes a good band to write technically-dazzling riffs and tempo changes, sure, but it takes a truly great one to write music that’s genuinely engaging and entertaining for an album’s entire length. No amount of technicality or instrumental prowess can compensate for subpar or tiresome songwriting—and, frankly, a project with lackluster songwriting isn’t going to be much fun to listen to. This is especially problematic when considering that humans are, by nature, a fun-loving bunch of hairy apes. We all like to have fun. It’s a universal desire that unites all of humanity, an innate itching to let loose and get jiggy with it that guides many of our most significant decisions. We all want success and power and renown, of course, but there’s not a man on God’s green Earth who doesn’t value his leisure time like a firstborn son.

There’s an almost supernatural sense of groove that permeates through Flip for It, demanding that feet tap, hands clap, and mouths curve in an upward trajectory. Modern Space are well aware of this fundamental truth and waste no time in delivering their delightful aural confections to the most fun-starved crevices of the human mind. There’s an almost supernatural sense of groove that permeates through Flip for It, demanding that feet tap, hands clap, and mouths curve in an upward trajectory. The opening one-two punch of “Do or Dare” and the title track is a direct hit to the soul, a mind-bending shot of fuzzy guitar licks and tight

falsetto hooks that could inject some color into even the blackest of hearts. This feel-good energy simply rolls on like a runaway train, with the absurdly catchy “A Small Pocket” and “Just Quit” keeping the party going strong. Perhaps the most impressive aspect of this initial four-song run is the sheer number of ways that Modern Space knock it out of the park. They pull off guitar riffs from fuzzy to jangly and vocals from frantic rock’n’roll yelps to tight, modern falsetto croons, resulting in a surprisingly interesting and diverse listening experience from such a young band. Most importantly, Flip for It never slips into the homogeneity that plagues much of the modern rock scene. Every track has a distinct sense of identity and purpose, resulting in a true collection of individually memorable songs rather than a 38-minute mush of guitar riffs and vocal lines. Sure, nothing diverts significantly from the alternative or pop rock sphere, but Modern Space do their best to explore its every nook and cranny. However, despite the various styles touched upon throughout Flip for It, the final product remains remarkably consistent. It’s largely smooth sailing from that start to finish, as Modern Space continually serve up a monsoon of hooks stickier than a horse on its way home from the factory. If I had to pick a lull, though, I’d point to “Ship is Sinking” and “Goodbye Elora,” two mid-to-slow tempo tracks that, while solid enough, probably shouldn’t have been placed consecutively in the track listing. Nonetheless, this slight unevenness is easily forgiven when you’re having this much damn fun, which you almost surely will be. Flip for It is a shot of pure dopamine to the ear canals. Modern Space’s debut full-length album is a fun album for a fun world, and I simply haven’t been able to put it down since its release. In fact, I’m listening to it right now, and likely will do so at least three or four more times before the night’s end. I suggest you do the same. - Trevor Schneider

Active Bird Community Amends Barsuk/September 14 Active Bird Community is growing up. Members Tom D’Agustino, Zach Slater, Andrew Wolfson and Quinn McGovern released two full-length DIY albums in 2015 and 2017. Now the Brooklyn-based rock band is signed with Seattle indie-label Barsuk Records for their third full-length album, Amends. Their sound has shifted, though not seismically, from garage rock with punk and emo influences to a more mature alt-rock sound. Sonically, the heart of Active Bird Community is still intact. Melodic guitar, at times both heavy and fuzzy, is the centerpiece of almost all of the songs on Amends. D’Agustino’s smooth but vulnerable vocals are still everpresent, and on this record, guitarist Andrew Wolfson’s whispered, close to the chest vocals are thrust into the lead for several songs. The title track and the first song on the album, “Amends”, serves as a solid introduction to the sound and themes of the album. Like many other songs on the record, the track starts quietly and slowly builds to a catchy chorus with melodic guitars. The second track, “Holier”, is sung by Wolfson. Seemingly about a lost love, the most impressive thing about the song are the contemplative lyrics. Though the line might be a little trite, when Wolfson sings “No one ever said it would

The album’s most consistent idea is one of a newfound perspective that comes with age. make any sense,” you can clearly understand the aim of the album. Much of the record is a reconsideration of what has gotten Active Bird Community this far. All the breakups, moves, and shifts in life are reconsidered. The band’s distinguishable self-awareness and reflectiveness 78

are still present, but the album’s most consistent idea is one of a newfound perspective that comes with age. Although all of the songs are coherent lyrically, at times the album can be sonically jarring. The third song, “Sweaty Lake”, sounds like vintage Active Bird Communtiy. Catchy and charming, the song tells a relatively innocent love story. The song features a quick and consistent guitar melody, which has become a staple of Active Bird Community’s sound. D’Augustino’s vocals are smooth but passionate, sometimes bordering on screamy. The next song, “Unwind With Me” is a standout on the album, but its emo style, lyrically and sonically, feels out of place in between “Sweaty Lake” and “Baby It’s You”, which is easily the most popinfluenced song on the album. The album’s final two songs, “Silver Screen” and “Lighthouse”, both almost perfectly capture the awkward tension between adolescence and adulthood. The lead vocalist on “Silver Screen,” Wolfson, finally lets loose after almost solely whispered, strained vocals on his other tracks. When he finally belts out “Can you tell me where the hell I’m at?” it feels like a cathartic release for both Wolfson and the listener. “Lighthouse” is just D’Agustino and an acoustic guitar, with some backing atmospherics later in the song. D’Augustino is looking back at a scene of innocent romance from his earlier days, and then shifts to what appears to be a postcollege move. “I sit with Dan who wants to move to Chicago/He says it’s basically the same plus a couple feet of snow”. The inclusion of this detail subtly and beautifully implies a very real fear of change, which is present throughout the album. Active Bird Community is growing up, but a part of them doesn’t want to. Amends is nostalgic and self-aware, a rare mix and a difficult line to toe. But in the end, Active Bird Community has matured enough to pull it off. - Jack Stewart

Brockhampton Iridescence RCA/September 21 Brockhampton’s Iridescence shines a new hopeful light for the world’s hardest working boyband. Brockhampton had a powerful 2017 and 2018 looked like it was to be another strong year for the band. However, the independent band signed with RCA an ambiguous label. This move is not inherently bad but when prominently self-made bands sign to a label some anxiety forms about the creative integrity and quality of upcoming projects. Then Brockhampton faced even more harsher and more serious controversy when allegations of abuse caused Brockhampton to kick out prominent member Ameer Van. Ameer Van was one of the main figureheads for the band and the literal face of the band on all of their Saturation projects. This led to the abandonment of Brockhampton’s tour and anticipated next project puppy. Needless to say there was a little bit going against Brockhampton on this project. For a band that seems to constantly evolve there was a very possible chance of stagnation or even degeneration. However, Iridescence shows that Brockhampton is here to stay. The album starts with the hard hitting NEW ORLEANS and the sweet THUG LIFE which on first listens sounds like they are both one song with its incredibly seamless transition. Both songs bringing a lot of the same for Brockhampton but they are also different enough to keep it interesting. Each member shows something progression as individual artists on each song. Even Bearface shows up on more songs and keeps his energy on the same level with the other members when before he seemed to only be able to be the melodic break on some songs or melodic relief of the albums. The album has its energetic, and chaotic songs in addition to some more emotional cuts, but the album is missing the more pop-rap-esque songs that were on the Saturation projects(specifically Saturation III). The album as a whole feels generally more energetic, aggressive, and intense with a few soft songs sprinkled around for relief. This change in pace

provides for an enjoyable album experience. The album as a whole seems to prove Brockhampton is at least still able to progress and make music that seems fresh, seemingly solidifying their place in the music industry. - Parker Bunting

The Licks How Much More Sad Boy/September 24 There comes a time every now and then as a music fan, where you just want to let everything go and simply have fun listening to music. It seems so simple, but so many young artists seem so lifeless and void of any joy. The Licks, however, bring this and so much more on their debut EP, How Much More. In a little less than fifteen minutes, the California band manages to show off exactly why they are such a promising young group. How Much More plays like the listener’s own personal house show and is opened by the surf-inspired track “Monday,” which is a song likely to be a crowd favorite and encourages would-be audience members to sing along by employing the classic ‘na na na’ pop archetype towards the end. This normally lazy device actually fits really well with the rest of the song sonically and does a great job of hyping listeners for the rest of what the band has in store for the EP. Some of the strongest attributes of the EP are Chad Zappia’s vocals and the melodic guitar riffs spread throughout the album. Chad Zappia initially made a name for himself for a few popular tracks he had released on SoundCloud in 2017. His voice is known for its impressive versatility where he can go from having a somewhat soulful and emotional tone, to one that’s rougher and more aggressive. The uniqueness of his vocal timbre is also an asset—there’s no way of confusing his voice for any other. The guitar playing also stands out as a strength for the band in the two very different tracks “You Too” and “Birdhouse.” “You Too” is your prototypical rock song driven by its hypnotizing distorted riff that intensifies as the song progresses. Meanwhile on “Birdhouse,” clean tone guitar is used as the sole compliment to Chad’s voice on the band’s take on the traditional love ballad. This, along with the personal lyricism, makes “Birdhouse” a standout track and by far the prettiest-sounding song on the album. The most complete song on How Much More, however, is “Bailee.” It utilizes all the elements mentioned 80

previously while adding a kinetic bassline that makes the track extremely danceable. It was the band’s only single from the EP before its official release and it’s not difficult to figure out why. From the syncopated guitar rhythm to the incredibly catchy vocal lines, “Bailee” on its own could break the band out of relative obscurity in due time.

How Much More plays like the listener’s own personal houseshow. The Licks are still a very young band with a whole lot of room to grow as they mature together. How Much More is one of the most refreshing, yet still familiar, debuts I’ve heard in awhile. It’s an absolute must listen for just about anyone, regardless of the kind of music you enjoy. Overall, this EP is Vinyl Tap approved and we’re looking forward to the Licks’ full-length LP (subject to change based on how we’re scoring albums.) - Corey Bridges

Clarence Clarity Think: Peace Deluxe Pain/October 4 In 2015, Clarence Clarity released his experimental pop masterpiece No Now. This debut project introduced us to Clarence Clarity’s fresh and brash brand of pop music. One of the major characteristics of this album was its intense, harsh array of synths and samples. The appeal of No Now was rooted in Clarence Clarity’s strangely addicting and vile production, complemented by his off-kilter delivery of brooding lyrics touching on similar topics of sex, porn, addiction, death, and religious corruption. Think: Peace provides a different, more negotiable perspective on the oddity that is Clarence Clarity. The album starts off with an annoying synth that soon builds into a melody and leads into the first track. “Adam & the Evil*” is a boring song. It sounds like an overly-straightforward song and doesn’t feel like it amounts to much. It’s a weak start to the album. However, the end of the track brings a clean, precise transition into “WE ChangE” which completely changes the energy of the rest of the album. “WE ChangE” is one of my favorite tracks on the album purely because of how exciting and addicting the track is. It brings much-needed energy to the beginning of the album, while remaining easy on the ears and true to Clarence Clarity’s style. This is one of the best tracks from this album and shows Clarence Clarity doesn’t have to make difficult music to be great and intoxicating. No Now’s difficulty adds a level of depth, but Think: Peace has that same level of musical depth and complexity

with a more appealing sound, allowing for an easier listen. This more appealing sound does not compromise what makes Clarence Clarity so unique. The arrhythmic beats, synths, and contradicting-but-cohesive melodies all still create intoxicatingly good music. Prior to the release of this album Clarence Clarity released “Naysayer Godslayer” a year before as a single. The song is included on the album in the form of “Naysayer, Magick Obeyer.” The album version of the song is a transformed, warped version of the original, extended with different instrumental sections, a new verse, and additional production not previously included. At first the changes seemed odd; however, the album version of the song is more enjoyable than its more raw predecessor. Another connection to other previous releases is the song “SAME?”, which is a reworked version of the single “SAME.” This album version, however, seems to be the original song reworked and reproduced with the inclusion of a reprise of “Naysayer Godslayer.” This changed version of the song feels musically all over the place. This version is still enjoyable and still adds to the album; the original just seems better whereas this version seems simplified to be a simple reprise instead of its own song. The musical experience this album provides is probably different from anything people have been listening to this year. - Parker Bunting

Adrianne Lenker abysskiss Saddle Creek/October 5 Birth and death, humanity and nature – these are to Big Thief singer Adrianne Lenker the subjects of awe and agonizing wonder. Her newest solo record abysskiss transcends the tangible and transfixes the listener in some unknown, universal memory of perhaps our own births, perhaps our own deaths, or whatever it is that she may simply name “the mystery of everything.” Her voice traces over the faint outlines of a life among trees and fields, like a private memory or old family video. She lets us in on this intimacy, with her words reminding us of our own secrets and pointing out our faces in the fuzzy background of a VHS recording. The delicate tenderness of “terminal paradise” begins the record with her recalling the warmth and whirlwind of beginning, “screaming in the field as I was born,” and within a matter of words experiencing her own death. This terminus becomes a “trail,” directing our thoughts to an unspeakable beauty of existence as her voice climbs to a silence that leaves us holding onto the all-at-once understood beauty of “every dreamed and waking hour” that life gives. It is immediately clear that the “mystery of everything” is not something to be solved, but to be exalted. Lenker’s lyrics show us what that exaltation means. “Please reveal the question to me, let the answer leave,” she sings in “womb.” Tracks like “cradle” and “symbol” teem with obscured memories, like words spoken in a half-awake, half-dreaming state. “cradle” blurs the lines between nature and humanity, as two people crash against each other like tempestuous waves. There’s a danger hidden deep somewhere in this storm, yet it is unclear whether the danger is in this collision or if it is in coming into contact with another that we find safety. In the arms of another, Lenker finds her human companion “bleeding as I bleed.” We might suppose that it is both. We create our own tragedies – we bleed, we die in each others arms, we bury each other. And there is something – love, perhaps – amidst it all which makes 82

living bearable, if not beautiful. Love’s entanglement with the earth is painted in the album’s title track “abyss kiss.” It is a thing as solid as the ground or a boulder, or as heavenly and distant as the sky, blessing and bending over everything. Memories and dreams of love are resurrected by the wilderness, tinged with hope and longing. As Lenker wonders, “will we every kiss?” the joyful finger-plucking of the guitar turns momentarily anxious and pained, then returns again to the bliss of innocent love and childlike repose. “what can you say” follows with the more matured, painful passion of adulthood. It rings with melancholy like standing bare in a field, stripped by the elements, recalling the memories of once lying silently in its summer warmth. The song exists as an aching memory of a wilderness illuminated by nights of red moons with stars in our eyes, revealing the “equal knowing inside us,” of what we might not quite be able to put into words. The album concludes with the quietude of waking beside a lover at 6 a.m. in “10 miles.” “Nothing is real,” sings Lenker, as she rises early in the morning. Her hushed words bleed over memories of children grown, bedrooms empty, and the realization that the we are guaranteed nothing but birth and death. When she kisses her love “very hard and wild,” she is clutching to everything human and beloved that is beginning to fade to the horizon, taking comfort in the warmth of another’s arms. We are left with a shared, dreamlike taste of what it is that inspires Lenker’s voice – the incomprehensible, yet instinctively known. There are no words we can speak that may capture what it means to be alive. We may only share anguish and curiosity over this mystery, delve into the abyss of the unknowable, and embrace it with a fragile, human kiss. - Margaret Mitchell

Greta Van Fleet Anthem of the Peaceful Army Republic/October 19 Greta & I have a bit of a rocky history together. Some would call it ‘on-again/off-again,’ and others might question whether or not we were ever ‘on’ to begin with. Like (I would hazard to guess) so many others, I was first exposed to the Michigan 4-piece in a friend’s basement. He didn’t tell me what it was, simply telling me he “wanted me to hear it.” As the Kiszka brothers wailed through the stereo, my friend looked at me and grinned. I nodded back at him, listening intently to what I presumed to be a newly-released Led Zeppelin rarity. Is this an outtake? A demo? Whatever it was, I saw why it had been left off the album. As the song faded away, I looked to my friend. “What was that?” “Greta Van Fleet. They’re new. They’re, like, our age.” He was sold. I was not. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for looking back for inspiration, and you’d be hard pressed to find someone more excited about a reemergence of Blues-Rock, but I think it’s pretty uncontroversial to say that you can draw too heavily on your influences. Example #1? Greta Van Fleet’s 2017 double EP From the Fires, a motley collection of 8 bluesy screamers ripped straight from 1975. I thought it was too close for comfort, and on March 7, 2018, it all came to a head. The night before, I had composed an admittedly snarky Tweet that may or may not have referred to lead singer Josh Kiszka as “GreatValue Robert Plant”. In my defense: I tagged nobody, hashtagged nothing, and intended for this to reach only those unlucky few who’ve chosen to follow me. Still, my burst of self-importance did not go unpunished. When I awoke the next morning, I saw that my tweet had been quoted by a young woman from Miami named Kasey who appeared to be dating one of the members of the band. She declared Kiszka’s voice to be “incredibly” superior to Plant’s before mentioning

that “it’s not like anything else you said was at all accurate.” Touché, Kasey. I won’t bore you with the details of the ensuing Twitter feud (though I think it’s fair to say I got licked), but I think my point has been made. My history with Greta has been anything but smooth. I was determined, however, not to let this effect my objectivity on the band’s output. If anything, I was hopeful that this new album would prove me wrong, and when the album finally came out I thought it had done just that. On first listen, I was on board. Is it heavy? Certainly. Is it psychedelic? Mildly. Is it cliché? Yes, but that’s fine so long as we dress it up nice and call it “nostalgia” instead. Yes, on the surface this feels like a classic record, a long-awaited return to form. After repeated listens, however, it quickly begins to feel like anything but. Sure, it sounds like it was ripped straight from the 70s, but does 2018 really need another record from the 70s? We’ve got plenty already —a great deal of which are significantly better than this one. “Age of Man” opens the album with a slow build of synth strings & vocals before launching into a (perhaps predictably) Zeppelin-esque riff. Add a mildly explosive chorus, a few bluesy guitar licks, and a healthy dose of vocal acrobatics, and you’ve got yourself a Greta Van Fleet song. Repeat the above formula, this time sprinkling in some Black Crowes guitar work, and you have track 2, “The Cold Wind”. After such an anemic kick-off, “When the Curtain Falls” provides the album with a much-needed jumpstart. Despite the unabashed uninventiveness of its sound, it has an energy to it that is simply undeniable. From the opening count-in to the final notes, the song grabs you 83

and drags you along, leaving you panting on the side of the road. One of the two standouts of the album, the band accomplishes on this track what it falls short of elsewhere: theft done right. The remaining seven songs come and go rather unremarkably – mostly in the same vein as the first two – with the exception of track #6, “You’re the One”. A slower, acoustic-based number, it manages to captivate me every time despite (or, perhaps, due to) it being an uncanny facsimile of the Zeppelin classic “Your Time is Gonna Come”. I hesitate to even brooch the topic of lyrical content, but I’ll say this: I had no expectations of finding Dylan reborn, hiding somewhere in the liner notes of this album, nor in most music of this type, but this album still found a way to dissapoint. The genius of great, heavy Blues-Rock songs often lies far less in their lyrics than in their energy, and I hold Greta Van Fleet to the same standards as I do the rest of their genre (hell, Robert Plant was no Cohen either). What makes these lyrics so unbearable, however, is just the painful self-seriousness

of it all. You get the sense, both in listening and in reading about the album, that the band really believes they’re saying something quite profound in these lyrics. They have, in fact, stated that this is a “concept album” – though the only through-lines I could discern were an abundance of fantasy clichés and my own secondhand embarrassment. Take, for example, the refrain from the almost impressively unremarkable album closer “Anthem”. One can only listen to such gloriously fauxdeep clunkers as “The world is only made of what the world is made of” so many times before they start praying for silence. When I listen to this album, I hear a set of underwritten, overhyped songs that drags on for exactly 8 tracks too long. This album isn’t good, but it isn’t terrible either. It just is, and we are the ones who have to reckon with that. Greta Van Fleet have been heralded as the longawaited return to Platonic-form ‘Classic Rock,’ but this album feels more like a middle child than a prodigal son. Hopefully, this album will take yet another cue from the era it so enthusiastically borrows from and go the way of so many other mediocre ‘Classic Rock’ records: to disappear, swiftly, and without a trace. - David Lefkowitz

Staff Picks Eric “Holy Thursday” - David Axelrod Collin “Simoon” - Yellow Magic Orchestra Stacia “The Opener” - Camp Cope Tori “Daddy Says No” - Haschak Sisters Caroline “Love in the Time of Socialism” - Yellow House Katie “Radio Gaga” - Queen Parker “New earlsweatshirt - Interlude” - Vince Staples David “GotItBad” - St. Paul & the Broken Bones Jack “Salt in the Wound” - boygenius Margaret “Supergiant” - Valley Queen