#Michigan Synth Works

[drmlab]

It seems easier to make sounds that are dark or harsh with a synthesizer than to make pleasing or calming sounds. In the year or so I've been experimenting with Eurorack modular, I've gotten satisfaction out of taking a patch that sounds harsh and adjusting parameters until it sounds fun or chill.

Late last week, I thought the sound I was getting from modulating the wavefolder in my new Befaco Pony was cool, but kind of creepy. As I started to calm it, I realized that Halloween was a few days a way, and it was time to lean into the creepy, so I just added some drums and realized a field recording would fit well.

I finished this Monday night, but I had a bit of a scare on Halloween. My 2017 iMac has been having kernel panics and abruptly rebooting: I reckon it's time to get a new machine. But on Halloween, it was stuck with a white progress bar, and I didn't have the energy to fiddle with it more. That's why I'm posting this late.

[vizreef]

Michigan Synth Works MSW-810m // monosynth (US, 2022)

Roland CMU-810 clone

[crossstitchcodsworth]

Get to know my OC! #1: Grace McCarthy (Updated)

I put out a poll about whether to make these posts and received a positive response, so I'll be making a post like this for each of my OCs and a master post when they're all done.

I made a post for Grace a while ago and am revamping it with updated lore.

Art by @nyarlah

Name: Grace McCarthy

Age: 33 (2077), 233 (2277)

Gender: Cis Female

Physical Description: Light brown hair, brown eyes, average height.

Personality: Being a former lawyer, Grace has a sense of justice. She's serious, but also fun-loving (which makes her and Deacon particularly well matched). She is dependable and adaptable, which has helped her establish a foothold and influence in both the Railroad and with the Minutemen.

Grace is also quite clumsy, which leads to some interesting stories and annoying blunders. She is excitable, sensitive, and sometimes overly blunt with others.

Background: Grace grew up in the Upper Peninsula/Northern Michigan. Her parents had a farm where they raised animals and harvested maple syrup. After spending most of her life in rural Michigan, Grace moved to Boston to study law, where she met her first husband, Nate. Grace graduated from law school and worked at a practice specializing in divorce and family suits.

Grace and Nate had a son, Shaun, born in 2076. They had a basset hound, Betty, too. Well, you know the rest. For 200 years, Grace was in cryosleep. She helplessly witnessed the murder of her husband and the kidnapping of her son. She was the sole survivor of the Vault 11 experiment, etc, etc. She joins the Railroad and becomes the General of the Minutemen before finding Shaun. Other than her more selfish reasons for joining the Railroad (*cough* spending time with Deacon *cough*), she finds the synth cause as her new purpose. She sees it as a new chance to help those in need. The same logic applies when she joins the Minutemen.

She opposes her son's ideals and dislikes who he has become. Despite the hurt it causes her, she ends up destroying the Institute and her son's work and saves the Wasteland (as well as the Synths who inhabit it).

Post game, she has a child with Deacon named Serena (born ~ 2288-89). They also have many pets: Dogmeat, multiple cats, Fluffy the deathclaw (RIP), and a gecko (of Fallout variety). I'm currently writing a fic that chronicles their family's post-war pilgrimage back to Grace's former home.

S: 4

P: 4

E: 4

C: 5

I : 8

A: 3

L: 3

Likes/Dislikes: Grace likes animals, sweet treats, reading, and spending time in nature. She dislikes the heat/summer season, sad movies, and confined spaces (especially after Vault 111).

Quirks: She's a flashy dresser. She loves wearing bright colors and unique accessories. She also loves matching outfits: She and Deacon frequently match outfits (Deacon also really, really enjoys this). Her favorite accessory is her purple hat (pictured in the first image). I like to think she's neurodivergent like me/OP. She started as a self-insert character, so I think that makes sense, right?

She's very expressive, and this is reflected in her body language. She uses her arms a lot when speaking. Her facial expressions can also be dramatic at times. I feel like these traits aid her in persuasion: even if someone isn't listening to her (which was often the case during her time as a female lawyer), they could catch the emotion of her argument through her face.

Relationships: Her closest relationship is with Deacon. They start out as friends and end up married by the end of the in-game timeline. I've written vignettes about their relationship (included in the links below). She's close friends with Nick Valentine, Hancock, and Curie. I've written about those three characters as well, both in and out of their relationships with Grace.

TLDR:

Spouse/Love Interest: Deacon.

Children: Shaun (with Nate, deceased), Synth Shaun, & Serena (with Deacon).

Close Friends: Codsworth, Nick Valentine, John Hancock, & Curie.

Friendly: Piper Wright, Preston Garvey, MacCready, Ada, & Longfellow.

Complicated: Danse.

Dislikes: X-66 & Porter Gage.

Occupation/Role: Lawyer (formerly), Railroad Agent (current), General of the Minutemen (current).

Faceclaim: Anne Bancroft

Links:

Adventures of the Wasteland: Vignettes that include Grace, Deacon, and other Fallout 4 characters.

New Fire (People in Love): Deacon and Grace smut fic. Little plot, soft smut.

the sole survivor (and a compulsive liar): A Spotify playlist I made with songs that remind me of Grace and Deacon's relationship. I use this when playing Fo4.

[glowing-wasteland]

Summary:

Time had abandoned the pre-war synths, Sun and Moon. Lost in the dust of the ruins of their time. Everything was gone. The daycare, the park– all of it was gone.

Yet, they were still here. Centuries later, and they still lived. Civilization still survived.

The life they knew was gone, but the world was not.

   —

It was suppose to be a simple expedition into the old war ruins of the Fazbear Theme Park. A simple trip to show Gregory more of the world while scavenging. All Gregory had to do was just listen to Soleil’s warnings and instructions.

Except, he wasn’t the best at listening. And now she’s saddled with two synths who completely unaware of the new world.

Pairings:

Sun (Five Nights at Freddy’s)/Original Female Character(s)Moon (Five Nights at Freddy’s)/Original Female Character(s)Moon/Sun (Five Nights at Freddy’s)/ReaderMoon/Sun (Five Nights at Freddy’s)/Original Character(s)

Tags:

no beta we burn like the aftons, Canon-Typical Violence, Fallout AU, Moon is not Infected by the Glitchtrap Virus | Vanny Virus, Moon is Not Evil (Five Nights at Freddy’s), Slice of Life, trauma of parental abuse, Physical Disability, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, sorry if i’m using the reader tag incorrectly, does not take place in utau/ohio, my wife is from michigan and refuses to accept me writing about ohio lol, sun and moon are considered and referred to as synths, Slow Burn, hope you guys like florida, vault 53 is headcanoned to be in florida, Sun and Moon are Separate Animatronics (Five Nights at Freddy’s)

[dustedmagazine]

Winged Wheel — Big Hotel (12XU)

Big Hotel pours propellant over Winged Wheel’s already tightly wound sound and launches it into orbit. The band’s debut, 2022’s No Island, was a stellar album but represented four musicians working in isolation. Now we have evidence of the magic that happens when Cory Plump, Fred Thomas, Whitney Johnson, and Matthew Rolin come together and weld their minds into a collective consciousness. If their previous effort calls to mind the slow-moving outer radius of a maelstrom, this record is the rapidly spinning current at the center of the funnel. New Winged Wheel members Lonnie Slack (Water Damage) and Steve Shelley (Sonic Youth) dollop on additional accelerant, enhancing the richness of the band’s sound and the insistence of their rhythms.

The six-person strong Winged Wheel’s roiling, frothy sound is evident immediately as “Demonstrably False” comes into focus. Swirling guitars scythe about in luscious waves, conjuring shoegaze and Michigan space rock atmospheres. Johnson’s breathy coo comes on like a cross between Mary Hansen, Georgia Hubley, and Windy Weber. Feedback, melody, and drone combine in a kosmische haze, bolstered by Thomas and Shelley’s propulsive double drum attack.

Big Hotel’s songs bleed into each other, crossfading like the scenes in an anthology film about nebulae and other cosmic phenomena. It’s a journey, the energy ebbing and flowing as a variety of shapes and colors intercept our path. As “Sleeptraining” takes over, we’re treated to a torrent of interlocked bass, guitar, and synth, with a rock-solid rhythm section striding energetically beneath it. The drums and bass provide a sturdy skeleton on top of which the front line pours heaps of melted sound and Johnson dreamily sighs.

Not every track on Big Hotel is replete with bombast. “Clean Blue Shelf” conjures an early 1980s post-punk feeling as it churns with a sinister mid-tempo throb. Doppelgangers of Klaus Dinger and Michael Rother hover over the motorik “Smudged Textile,” as Winged Wheel fire up their roadsters for a long drive that continues with the groovy, Stereolab-evoking “Aren’t They All.” The blissful “Short Acting” drifts along a pastel-hued streamer of vapor, gently coalescing into a wistful hypnagogic groove. No matter which of the band’s influences rise to the foreground, they consistently manage to deliver a rich, full-blooded sound that is full of energy but never devolves into chaos. No Island hinted at Winged Wheel’s ability to craft such a sonic space, but that record was merely an appetizer for the hefty dose of momentum that Big Hotel provides.

Bryon Hayes

[newmusicradionetwork]

MAETA Releases EP Endless Night

Today, Indianapolis-born, LA-based singer Maeta delivers her Kaytranada produced EP Endless Night along with the music video for “Endless Night.” This song and every song, in fact, on this EP, is exclusively produced by KAYTRANADA and marks a multi-platform partnership with LG. She also gives fans an ethereal stunning music video along with this release. The video is directed by child. and produced by Tashi Bhutia, Carlos Lopes, & Galileo Mondol for BT Studios. This project is the culmination of her previous work with Kaytranada – The Canadian music producer and rapper produced “Teen Scene” on her previously released project Habits and “Questions” on her When I Hear Your Name. However, Endless Night is the first time Kaytranada and Maeta have joined together for an entire EP, as the producer exclusively delivered all seven songs on the project. Maeta says, “I’m so excited for this project to be out. I just want everyone to have fun, dance and be free this summer!” “Endless Night” arrives after the release of “DJ Got Me” last month that marked a tent-pole career intersection signaling an era of artistic freedom. Billboard Magazine exclaimed “On this new joint, the Roc Nation singer’s soulful vocals float over Kaytranada’s slinky synths, creating a sultry, infectious world in which she flips Indeep’s post-disco classic Last Night a DJ Saved My Life…Maeta is clearly ready to turn up the heat this summer.” This EP comes on the heels of her having recently peaked at #1 on the Billboard Adult R&B Airplay chart with her single “Through The Night.” She is officially in her experimentation era and plans for world domination with her Endless Night EP with Kaytranada. This ushers in a new chapter that will see Maeta’s career in a new direction for this cycle. Stream it HERE. Watch the music video HERE. Wonderland recently said of Maeta, “She’s the main character of a story she wrote herself, pocketing dreams as chapters and not aspirations; but there’s plenty of room for more.” With Maeta’s journey from performing in her living room to signing to Roc Nation and securing an exclusive publishing deal with the iconic Warner Chappell Music and touring around North America and Europe, to getting co-signs by Pharrell Williams, Thundercat and Chris Brown, she’s had quite the meteoric experience but with this release, she undoubtedly proves that she’s an artist who can seamlessly navigate any genre with raw and effortless talent. Maeta is currently on tour with Chris Brown on his 11:11 Tour which kicked off on June 5, 2024, in Detroit, Michigan. The tour also features special guests Arya Starr and Muni Long. CONNECT WITH MAETA Instagram Facebook Twitter Soundcloud TikTok Read the full article

[synthtv]

Michigan Synth Works SY0.5 Syncussion Clone in Eurorack

[nuadox]

Scientists develop efficient artificial photosynthesis system to convert CO2 into ethylene for sustainable fuels and plastics production

- By Nuadox Crew -

Researchers at the University of Michigan have developed an advanced artificial photosynthesis system capable of efficiently converting carbon dioxide (CO2) into ethylene, a hydrocarbon widely used in plastics production.

The system, which uses gallium nitride nanowires on a silicon base and copper clusters as catalysts, achieved field-leading performance in efficiency, yield, and longevity. It converts CO2 and water into ethylene by harnessing sunlight, reaching an electron conversion efficiency of 61%. Notably, the device operated for 116 hours without performance degradation, outperforming competing systems.

The long-term goal is to produce liquid fuels by chaining more carbon atoms together, which could help reduce reliance on fossil fuels. The research, supported by the U.S. Army Research Office, has potential applications in creating sustainable fuels and plastics while reducing CO2 emissions. The team has applied for a patent and is working on licensing the technology through a startup, NX Fuels.

Header image: In Zetian Mi’s lab, the experimental setup where his team developed an artificial photosynthesis device capable of converting carbon dioxide and water into ethylene marks a step toward creating solar fuels. Yuyang Pan illuminates the device. Credit: Sylvia Cardarelli and Jero Lopera, Electrical and Computer Engineering, University of Michigan.

Read more at University of Michigan

Scientific paper: Zhang, B., Zhou, P., Ye, Z. et al. Interfacially coupled Cu-cluster/GaN photocathode for efficient CO2 to ethylene conversion. Nat. Synth (2024). https://doi.org/10.1038/s44160-024-00648-9

--

Other recent news

Mars Simulation: Volunteers have completed a 45-day Mars simulation at Johnson Space Center, testing human responses to long-duration space missions.

Anti-Aging Drug: Korean scientists have discovered a drug called IU1 that shows promise in extending lifespan by alleviating age-related issues in protein degradation.

AI pareidolia: Are machines able to detect faces in inanimate objects?

[wet-toast-slime]

Summary:

Time had abandoned the pre-war synths, Sun and Moon. Lost in the dust of the ruins of their time. Everything was gone. The daycare, the park-- all of it was gone.

Yet, they were still here. Centuries later, and they still lived. Civilization still survived.

The life they knew was gone, but the world was not.

---

It was suppose to be a simple expedition into the old war ruins of the Fazbear Theme Park. A simple trip to show Gregory more of the world while scavenging. All Gregory had to do was just listen to Soleil's warnings and instructions.

Except, he wasn't the best at listening. And now she's saddled with two synths who completely unaware of the new world.

Pairings:

Sun (Five Nights at Freddy's)/Original Female Character(s)Moon (Five Nights at Freddy's)/Original Female Character(s)Moon/Sun (Five Nights at Freddy's)/ReaderMoon/Sun (Five Nights at Freddy's)/Original Character(s)

Tags:

no beta we burn like the aftons, Canon-Typical Violence, Fallout AU, Moon is not Infected by the Glitchtrap Virus | Vanny Virus, Moon is Not Evil (Five Nights at Freddy's), Slice of Life, trauma of parental abuse, Physical Disability, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, sorry if i'm using the reader tag incorrectly, does not take place in utau/ohio, my wife is from michigan and refuses to accept me writing about ohio lol, sun and moon are considered and referred to as synths, Slow Burn, hope you guys like florida, vault 53 is headcanoned to be in florida, Sun and Moon are Separate Animatronics (Five Nights at Freddy's)

[beginningspod]

It's time for Beginnings, the podcast where writer and performer Andy Beckerman talks to the comedians, writers, filmmakers and musicians he admires about their earliest creative experiences and the numerous ways in which a creative life can unfold.

On today's episode, I talk to musician John Grant. Originally from Buchanan, Michigan, John moved to Germany in 1988 to study German, but eventually moved back to the States, where he formed the band The Czars, who released seven albums in the 12 years they were together. After a four-year hiatus, John began making music again under his own name, and the five albums he's recorded since have garnered both critical praise and commercial success. In 2013, John moved to Iceland, where he works as a translator, and just last week Creep Show, John's collaboration with the synth group Wrangler, released their second album Yawning Abyss on Bella Union!

(Photo by Ari Magg)

I'm on Twitter here and you can get the show with:

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[mapalssyrup]

Here again but now with some BAT guys

Will is just 80s new wave idk

His theme song is AUDIT by Weevildoing

He would listen to popular new wave music of the time, the songs that are on the radio. I think he really liked David Bowie and Men At Work

E.X.E. is slasher coded 80s music like Psycho Killer by The Talking Heads and Don't Fear The Reaper by Blue Oyster Cult

His theme song is Mesmerizer by 32ki

He listens to anything that resembles 80s music, even modern songs like A Human's Touch by TWRP. He also really likes the soundtracks of 80s films, like Gremlins. We all know his favorite band is Oingo Boingo, though

Charlie is Mother Mother

Her theme song is Little Pistol by Mother Mother

Mother Mother. That's it. That's the post. Everyone go home. Also 80s punk like Dead Kennedy's and Alice In Chains. I think she's also a casual ICP fan. I think she would also like Penelope Scott and the Dresden Dolls in TBN Security Breach. She really likes music though so there's a bunch here I haven't thought about yet

I have no idea how to explain this but Henry is cryptidcore. Madelyn Mei, The Woods by San Fermin, Scavenger on the Wind by Mangy Bones and Cosmo Sheldrake

His theme song is Sharks by Imagine Dragons

Henry probably liked punk and alt music in the 80s and sort of introduced that to Charlie through his cassettes after he died. Juggalo Henry is a really funny thought to me

Will-O is Possibly in Michigan. Slasher coded, weird, 80s synth but still underground, distorted and also gay people music

Their theme song is Harpy Hare by Yaelokre

They would listen to analog horror oldies like Old Yazoo by The Boswell Sisters and Masquerade by Jack Hylton and his Orchestra; really any oldies that just sound creepy for no reason

Sam is just her music taste basically

I really need to develop her more uh. The Ballad of Hamantha by Jack Stauber? I haven't thought like at all about this

Followed in her father's music taste in most of everything, but also leans very modern. I have the strong feeling that she would love TV Girl. She super likes music but I haven't thought about it much yet. She would definitely see the amazing commentary and craft in Barbie Girl by Aqua and be super excited when it plays (me fr)

GUYS I THOUGHT OF A THING

WHAT GENRE OF MUSIC BEST FITS OUR OCS

I'm making a reblog chain cuz I feel like it >:)

Crecher: Vocaloid (specifically ghost and pals)

Faazar: Hyperpop/krushfunk

Revika: Breakcore (Probably?)

Marigold: Whatever genre of the music the song ''animal cannibal'' is I genuinely do not know

Nathaniel: Pop rock

sneezes on everyone here

@spacee-pop @plxtypusbearr73 @gravitywasneveranoption @void-primal-aspid @hyperfixozone @liliotl

[writefightandflightclub]

Trial by Fire (Part 1/3) Santiago “Pope” Garcia x GN reader

Summary: You’re finally introducing your new boyfriend to The Boys. It must be intimidating for your guy because, hello? Not only are they literally lethal, as well as infeasibly handsome, but they’re hella protective of you to boot. They want the best for you so, naturally, they make your guy run the gauntlet the whole evening. Santiago, though? Well. Given that he is secretly in love with you? Let’s just say he doesn’t handle the situation very well at all.

Genre / tropes: angst, friends to lovers, love confession.

Author’s note: I wasn’t planning on writing this (in fact I’m writing the opposite, where “Santi has a new girlfriend and you don’t take it well” as a series, loosely based around the 7 deadly sins); but, in the meatime, I wrote this to get back into the swing of things after a lil break. It’s just a quick one, but there will be a second and final part, if you want it! Let me know!

Word count: somehow, 4.4k.

Warnings: language, angst, best friends arguing, Santi being an asshole.

Rating: T

The boys aren’t being as awful as you had anticipated, at least. For the most part, they’re actually being pretty friendly, and although they’ve transitioned into grilling Dean about every aspect of his life, they are at least listening intently and smiling at his answers. All except for one fucker, of course; and, naturally, surprising no-one, the fucker misbehaving is one (1) Santiago “Pope” Garcia. 

The group - the boys, yourself, and Dean- are huddled comfortably around the blazing warmth of the fire pit in Frankie’s yard. The dancing, oranged flames cut through the dark and cold of the crisp night, as you sit upwind of the smoke on scattered, mis-matched camp chairs.

Whilst the others are evidently enjoying the evening -faces painted with smiles, body language open and leaning-in to chat to Dean- that fucker Santi is leaning back in his chair, his jaw twitching in seeming aggravation, his arms folded, and his intense eyes needling your beau. In this dim light, with the firelight licking over the sharp planes of his face, he looks every bit like a trained killer about to leap out of the shadows and garotte someone. Well… a very petulant trained killer. His call sign should have been Mr. Grumpy Pants, you think idly.

What’s up with him this time?! you wonder.

He gets these moods sometimes. And, when it strikes him, he can be a little bit hostile - despite the fact he’s a puppy underneath it all. You had hoped that for once, maybe he would suck it up, and yet, your hopes had been in vain, it seems.

Every time Dean speaks, or touches you, or even laughs at another of the guys’ stories, Santi’s expression sinks further and further through layers of distaste; and, by this point, he’s eyeing Dean as though he’s a war criminal the squad have been sent to take-out. You half expect him to leap up and take down Frankie any second for fraternizing with “the enemy”, if you’re honest.

Truth be told, you’ve had just about enough of this. Your friend had better buck his ideas up, sharpish, or he’d be reminded very swiftly that you were Delta Force too.  

For now, trying to ignore the bastard, you look back at Dean, and the sight of him in animated conversation with your buddies causes at least some of your aggravation to fall away. Things have been going well between you and Dean, even if you do say so yourself. Originally from Michigan, he now worked as a lecturer at a nearby music school. He was also a banjo musician in a bluegrass / synth power-pop mash-up of a band, which (sort of) explained his retro-inspired mop of brown hair and his thick dark moustache - majestic enough to rival Frankie’s. True, he wasn’t your usual type, but he was honest, and sweet and kind... Plus, he’d never killed anyone with his bare hands, which was rather refreshing too, if you were honest.

Safe to say, so far, things were working out. So well, in fact, that you’d recently met his parents for the first time while they were in town. So well, in fact, that -after keeping him purposefully away from the boys for as long as you feasibly could- you’d now brought him to meet your family. That’s what this squad was to you, after all. Your family.

Remembering sporadic moments from the past few months together, you smile gently as you listen to Dean talk. You watch him seamlessly integrate some tailored conversation starters you’d fed him ahead of time, and you gently squeeze his thigh in an act of reassurance and appreciation. He is feeling the pressure, you can tell, although he is handling it well. To be fair, you think, who wouldn’t feel the pressure? You’d been nervous enough to meet his parents, but this? A bunch of Delta Force guys and an MMA champion? This squad was lethal; literally -you’ve lost track of your combined kill count, though Will probably hasn’t, you are sure.

Aside from that though, most of all, they are your family. You need them to like Dean and vice versa, and you know that isn’t necessarily a given. You are a tight-knit group, with little hope of outsiders grasping the full extent of your decade’s old in-jokes, or the intense camaraderie instilled by facing a hail of bullets together. Plus, as the baby of the group, they were protective as all hell of you.

It came from a good place, you knew: they wanted what was best for you. But, there was a reason you’d delayed this meeting... It’s not as though they were threatening or anything. They didn’t do the whole “if you hurt our buddy, I’ll kill you” thing, for example (at least, not while you were present ��� you couldn’t vouch for what happened when you were out of earshot).  However, after introducing a succession of boyfriends to them over the years, the squad had developed a well-rehearsed system for sizing-up your new squeeze. In the past, not all of your squeezes had made it through the gauntlet. It was a trial by fire, to be sure, and you were pleased that Dean has not yet been burned.

Of course, whilst the boys’ approval didn’t mean everything to you, you couldn’t deny it was important; perhaps especially this time, with this guy. And, out of all of the group, Santi’s approval meant the most to you. Always had. Probably because Santi meant the most to you, full stop. You simply couldn’t imagine having someone in your life that didn’t get on with your best friend. And, so, you are not overly thrilled at the reception Santi is giving Dean right now. The reception he had been giving him all evening, in fact. And the more you dwell on it, the more an anger bubbles forth from you. Even though you try to push it down, and focus on Dean, that fucker in the corner of your eye sends you.

“What’s wrong with you tonight, Garcia?” you blurt out, a little louder than intended, causing the amiable chat and giggles to stall, all eyes turning to you - then, in turn, following the direction of your fiery gaze over to Santi, who shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

Now, he leans forward. Looks back at you with a rare venom in his eyes. With a smug curl of his mouth, he dips to pick up his beer from the floor and takes a swig - buying himself some time. Trying to brush you off. Still, your gaze does not relent as he rests his elbows on his thighs, bridging his fingers together in the space between, thumbs sticking in the air.

Now, he engages, and he looks directly at Dean, his eyes sweeping dismissively over the entirety of his form. Now, he speaks, his voice filled with far more bitterness than the situation merits. “Nothing at all. I’m fucking peachy. So, Dean. You play the motherfuckin’ banjo?” he offers, and yet, it sounds far more like an accusation than a question.

What the fuck is up with him?

Wilting a little beneath Santi’s stare, as the ex-operative squints his eyes in his direction, Dean casts a helpless, sideward glance at you from his place in the circle, and yet, you are so stupefied by anger that you can do little to help.

“I think what my dear friend means to say -” Frankie dips in valiantly, smacking Santi pointedly on the thigh, likely hoping to smack some sense into him too “- is why don’t you tell us more about your music, Dean?”

Frankie’s eyes and smile are soft when he looks at you, surreptitiously exchanging a pointed look -what’s up with that pendejo?- and you are grateful that at least some of the evident tension is diffused when he picks up the slack in the conversation.

Santi and his mood swings be damned, and, feeling bolstered, Dean continues on.  

“Actually, it’s going pretty frickin’ well with the band. It’s a side-gig to my lecturing job, but we’re planning a tour during summer vacation. The States -east coast- and Western Europe for now. Maybe headlining a couple of small festivals, if that pans out, who knows.” Dean relates, humbly.

“That’s great, man,” Will chips in, helping Frankie get things back on track. “We’ll have to come down to a gig soon, hear you play.”

“Actually, we have something to tell you about the tour, don’t we, babe?” Dean says bashfully, and he looks at you expectantly, waiting for you to pick-up the thread. You’d talked about it before coming today, and it had seemed like a great idea at the time, but suddenly, now that the announcement is imminent, your mouth is dry - as if filled with cotton. Still, you force a smile, and you’re not sure why, but you look anywhere else but at Santi as your lips form the words. “Yeah – kinda big news, fellas. I’m going to join Dean on the Europe leg of the tour. I’ll be leaving you losers behind for a few months.”

Dean’s face cracks into a smile and he reaches for your hand, looking made-up at the prospect. Still, while you will yourself to be fully present in the moment, you find yourself focussed on looking anywhere but at Santi, sure that his stare must be boring into the side of your head. You hadn’t told him yet. Unfortunately, at Santi is where just about everyone else ends up looking, as the fucker abruptly pushes his camp chair back and stands, storming indoors before anyone can hope to fathom it.

You exchange glances with Frankie, Will, and Benny, with Benny thankfully stepping-in this time to distract Dean from the obvious, and asking him which stops you two will be making, and which sights you plan to see.

“Look, man, don’t mind that tool. Got any sightseeing plans?”

What is Santi’s problem? Why can’t he give Dean a chance? Yes, you’ve made some mistakes in the past- been hurt, and Santi had helped you pick up the pieces -every time- but you had a good feeling about Dean. A really good feeling. Can’t he see that too?

Frankie throws a concerned glance back towards the house and motions as if to stand, but you beat him to it, wanting to get to the bottom of this. “I’ll go,” you insist, motioning for Frankie to stay put, and with a quick promise to Dean that you’ll be back soon (and a silent plea to your boys to take care of him in your absence), you do just that, walk-jogging across the grass.

When you step inside to the kitchen, you find Santi stood, hunched over the counter, his palms clasping the surface tight enough that his knuckles pale, and his head hung low, his shoulders rising and falling as he takes in exaggerated breaths.

“Well?” you ask pointedly, with zero tolerance for his bullshit. “What’s going on with you? Wanna explain why you’re being an ass to my boyfriend?” you challenge to the back of him, and he instantly whips around at the sound of your voice. 

“I’m being an ass?” he asks indignantly, his eyebrows shooting towards the top of his head. 

“Yes. In a nutshell. Yes,” you hiss, any other interpretation feeling impossible. You fold your arms and purse your lips, making it plainly evident that you are waiting for some explanation. And, oh boy, it had better be good.

Instead of explaining though, Santi simply huffs out breath, gesturing angrily out of the window. “That guy, really? That’s the guy you’re gonna go all in for? Go to fucking Europe for?”

That guy, you mouth silently, completely stupefied for a moment. You’re not sure exactly what your so-called friend is insinuating, but you are clear that you don’t like it one bit.

“What is your fucking problem?” you ask, punctuating your words with motions of your hands, as if you are trying to strangle the air in-between you in lieu of his neck. “Dean’s a catch. He’s hot, he’s sweet, he’s a nice guy. He’s there for me. He takes care of me.”

“Like I don’t take care of you?!” Santi exclaims, his voice rising and abrasive; and then, immediately after the words tumble forth from his lips, he steps back imperceptibly, as if startled by his own outburst, his hand rasping over the stubble on his chin.

“What in the...? This isn’t about you, you ass!” you bite back, face scrunching up in confusion. Your fingers come to your temples as you grow increasingly lost-off and perplexed, and seemingly, your riposte only makes Santi double down on whatever the hell he is complaining about.

“Who’s the one who’s always been there for you, hmm? Who picks up the pieces every time you make yet another dumb shitty choice with another shitty guy?” he rambles, gesturing his hand towards you dismissively.

You step back from him this time, just a little, tears spiking instantaneously in your eyes at such an unnecessarily cruel blow. He’s right, in a sense: you had always relied on Santi to heal you, not to hurt you - and yet here he was dealing these painful, incoherent blows out of nowhere.

“Shit, Garcia. If it’s that much trouble to be there for me don’t bother next time,” you snap, your voice breaking as the swell of anger and hurt and adrenalin sends tears spilling over your cheeks. “Don’t worry though, I don’t think I’ll need you again. In fact, I have a feeling this guy might stick. So, maybe? Maybe you should think about the fact that the only shitty guy around here is you.” 

“You really think he’s good enough for you, hmm? He’s really who you want to end up with?”

You listen, aghast, as his tirade keeps coming. However, as Santi’s voice breaks with emotion part-way through his second question, you can’t explain it, but you feel an intolerable sadness in the pit of you. Even though you’re not sure what’s causing all this, what you’re barrelling toward, you want to thrust this sadness away from you. Push him away from you.  You want to push away the knot in your stomach for fear that if you tug at that thread, you might arrive at an answer to his question.

Exasperated, overwhelmed, you roughly paw tears from your cheeks, not knowing where all of these feelings are coming from, in either direction. “Fuck, I... I don’t understand what this is. I don’t get it!” you say, waving your hands, palms-up, through the air. “Is this some macho bullshit? Have I pissed you off somehow?”

At that, the wave of Santi’s anger crests and breaks; as you wonder if you annoyed him. Then, as suddenly as his anger came it is waning, his eyes pooling with rare tears now. With a huff of breath he tears off his damn cap, tossing it aside to run a hand through his grizzled hair. 

“No. No,” he backtracks a little, palms up in surrender. “You haven’t... I.... I just...” He pinches his lips in-between his teeth and looks up at the ceiling as his words trail off, perhaps trying to steady his voice before continuing. Or, perhaps he has nothing else to say to you. Perhaps he’s said enough.

You examine him. Still pissed as all hell, but worried now too, and ultimately, your love for your best friend slightly edging-out the anger. It’s rare that anything affects him like this, and you can’t help the sudden rush of concern.

Cresting too, you exhale a tightly held breath into the now silent, taut space between you, and your body sags - just a little. You chew over your words a moment, but when your voice comes back the volume is lower, your tone softer - and, although it cannot be considered friendly, by any stretch, it’s the best you can do right now.

“You know what,” you offer, generously, wrapping your arms around your own middle, stroking your forearms with your own fingertips. “I’m giving you a pass. You don’t even want to give Dean a chance? Then just leave, Santi. Just go. I’ll give the guys some bullshit excuse that doesn’t leave you looking like a total ass, because I’m not a dick to my friends. So just go, okay?” You pump your eyebrow at him indignantly and await a response, your manner stiff and unyielding.

Santi closes his eyes and knits his brow together, something like regret finally passing over his face and he shuffles guiltily from foot-to-foot.

You puff out air through your teeth and shake your head, as you observe this Delta Force hero; the bravest man you know in many ways, but still too cowardly to tell it like it is. To admit that he’s in the wrong. You are afraid to say that even as his gaze comes back to you, misty-eyed, you have little sympathy for his plight. You are sure it is of his own doing. You are almost as sure that he won’t open-up.

“You know,” you begin, breaking from your position and gathering up a fresh cooler of beers from the fridge, turned away from him as you speak. “I brought Dean to meet my family. Do you understand that? I didn’t have parents and siblings for him to meet. I have you guys. You’re my family.”

Still nothing. Nothing but silence greets you. Nothing but a pained expression on his face, his brows drown together and the artificial light of the kitchen highlighting the harsh planes of his face as you look over your shoulder at him, waiting for some reaction. Some admission of guilt. None comes. He simply slots his hands into his jean pockets, looking sheepish.

“So,” you continue, greeted with a brick wall, “fuck knows why you don’t want me to be happy, but I am. I’m happy with him. Thanks a ton for shitting all over that.”

You don’t even bother to look towards him this time, instead placing the last of the clinking, condensation-adorned bottles into the carrier, resigned to head back out without him, and without any apology.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says, and your head whips towards him in surprise.

He looks it - sorry. He looks apologetic. Deeply so. He looks sorry for this, for every way he’s ever slighted you, for every time he’s hurt you, even in ways and moments you never knew about. He looks sorry down to the pit of him, and it catches you off-guard when you see it freely offered there in his eyes.

Even so, this is a stubborn man. There’s an apology, but there’s no explanation. Nothing to explain his behaviour. So, even though it seems genuine, it also doesn’t seem like enough.

It doesn’t appease you, and yet, all you can bring yourself to do is sigh deeply.

You know Santi better than anyone, but there’s always been a part of him that has seemed out of reach, even to you. You’re not sure -never have been- whether to be scared or excited by those unknown parts of him. Not sure whether the impasse hints at buried secrets too dark and deep to bear, or whether it hints of a possibility of something more. Something deeper or something better you could have together, if only he would let you in. You don’t know, and you never have, but all you are sure of is that you have constantly teetered on the edge of that abyss, too much left unknown to know all of him, however much you may have wished to. He’s entitled to his secrets, of course, but you hate how they hurt him. 

With a little sympathy now, you examine his watery eyes, and when your voice comes back this time, it is softer and slower than you intended. More tired than you expected.

“You know, Dean wants to be with me. And he tells me so.” You casually dip down to pick-up the cooler handle, eyes still fixed on your best friend. “He might not be Delta Force… he might be a banjo player from Michigan… but even he’s brave enough for that.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Santi says, bristling all over again, his hand rasping angrily over his stubbled jaw, and yet, you decline him an explanation. Instead, keeping your own secrets now, holding back, you head towards the door, beers in hand.

Still, you turn back to him. You might be angry, but you still care for him -more than you could say. 

“If you figure out what’s up with you, let me know, and I’ll be there for you. Whatever you’ve got going on, you know that, right? But this? This isn’t okay, Garcia. You might think that I make dumb choices -you ass, by the way- but I’ve watched you hit self-destruct so many times instead of dealing with your feelings. Maybe you should look at your own life, huh, instead of shitting all over me for trying to be happy? Shit, at least I fucking try.”

His eyes shift from side to side in the room, the muscles in his jaw twitching, chin jutting forward, and his thumbs locked in his belt loops. He can’t quite bring himself to meet your gaze; at least not until you are disappearing through the threshold; until it’s almost too late. Why can’t he ever manage anything unless it’s too late?

“Wait!” he pleads, but you cut him off, before he can speak. Even though, truth be told, you’re not sure he would muster anything to say at all, even if you gave him a chance. He’s so used to holding back.

“No,” you say firmly. “Forget it, I’m done. I still love you- you’re my best friend. But, fuck, just go home, and get out of my sight, Santiago. I’m so pissed with you right now.”

And so, you turn away, and when his words finally do come, they are spoken to the back of your head. They are spoken without you ever seeing his lips move, and you wonder if he ever said them at all, or if this might be some cruel trick of the night. Some witching hour spell. That is, until you turn towards him and you see the words painted clearly on his face too.

“Fuck it. I’m in love with you.”

I’m in love with you.

Why can’t he ever manage anything unless it’s too late?

You’re not sure what reaction he was expecting, but you almost choke on the sudden lump in your throat. You feel a taste of bile rising-up into your mouth. An intense, resurgent anger fills you, which near makes the room spin, and makes your hands and your legs tremble.

Even if a hidden, unconscious part of you has been waiting, hoping for these words all these years, when they finally come all you can feel is... royally pissed off.

“Oh. No. No. No,” you repeat, words gradually increasing in volume, looking at Santi as if he has mortally wounded you, rather than offered that confession. “You do not get to do this to me.”

You see a hard swallow bob down his throat, a near-instant regret on his face, and your heart pounds in your chest as you reel with the implications of his words.

The coward. The fucking asshole. He waited until now? All the times things had gone to shit, and he waited until you were happy?

“All the times...” you accuse, your tone as bitter as the taste in your mouth, the metallic tang of blood as you feel a rushing in your ears. “All the fucking times. All the chances, Santi, and you do this now?” you continue, your finger sawing through the air, wagging accusations at him, even as your voice wavers, as your hands notceably tremble. “No. Fuck you, Garcia. Fuck you.”

You want to cry, or scream, but you are too angry. So angry, that it eclipses anything else which might come to light. So angry that you almost come full circle again, beginning to stabilise out at eerily calm.

Santi looks down at the floor, and exhales air, chuckling disbelievingly to himself, then lightly nodding his head, lips pressed tightly together. His feet shift agitatedly below him as he brings his endlessly familiar eyes back up to meet yours. This time when he looks at you, it hurts. You remember bullet wounds, and you swear that was nothing compared to this.

“That’s it? That’s all you’ve got to say to me, hmm? Fuck you, Garcia?”

“What the fuck were you expecting?” you say, launching your words before you realise the implications of them. Yes, you know fine well that your boyfriend is sitting outside, likely wondering where you have got to. But, if you had the wherewithall to have thought about it, you would know exactly what Santi was expecting, despite all of that. You would know that a part of him must be expecting, hoping, that when he told you, you might reciprocate. That you might love him back.

And, would that be so outside of the realms of possibility? Would it be so hard to imagine that the deep, magnetic, and unshakeable friendship you shared could be something else? Something more? That you could tip over the edge you had long been teetering on? Maybe it could, or maybe it could have, but right now, you can’t see past the flashbang he has just dropped over your life, and it is clouding your vision.

You were happy. You are happy. Fuck him for doing this now.

Why would you fall into the unknown for him, if you never knew whether he would catch you? If you never knew whether ruin or safety awaited you if you let yourself tip? He always held back.

What the fuck were you expecting?

Your words linger in the space between you, and in lieu of any other lifeline, realisation dawns on Santi’s face. Realisation that, although he jumped, you are not intending to catch him either. But how could you catch him, with your arms already full?

And, so, he slowly nods his head once again, his eyes beading with glassy tears and his hand grazing over his chin in a self-soothing gesture. Wordlessly, he sets his jaw and he abruptly replaces his baseball cap on his head, padding a few steps forward to stand opposite you, sucking all of the breath from your lungs. This time, when he looks at you, you see all of your past, but you still can’t see beyond that. The abyss still scares you too much.

Like this, facing each other down, eye-to-eye, the silence in the room grows sharp as a knife, refined to a point. So, when Santi abruptly turns to leave in a sharp, determined trajectory, without so much as looking at you, it is as if he has dragged the blade across your skin in an equally swift motion. As if he has left you open and bleeding-out, having delivered a mortal wound with the act of his exit. You’ve felt like this on the battelfield before, and in life, yet he was always there for you. Always there to patch you. To pick up the pieces.

Instead of screaming open-mouthed for help, this time, you simply watch him go, and now you are the wordless one, mustering nothing but a gasped inhale of breath before your vision blurs with tears - as you watch his hazy form disappear along the hall and out of your sight.

“Santi,” you call pathetically, your voice small and weak and teary, barely making it past your throat, and he doesn’t hear you. He doesn’t hear you but even if he had, you’re not sure anymore if he would have stopped.

When Santi slams the front door behind him, you shudder with it in its frame, your hand coming to your chest as if to hold your heart inside your opened-up ribs, and you close your eyes against the jarring sound, tears spilling down your cheeks, your face screwing-up into a shined, contorted grimace.

Entirely lost, now alone, you bizarrely wish for the room to be filled with anger again, instead of the intolerable sadness - which all too suddenly takes hold of you as your emotions crest and break. It is all you can do to stumble forward a few paces and hunch over the countertop, finding yourself in the exact position you had discovered Santi in. You stand, bracing yourself with your arms, fingers clutching the edge of the worktop, and your head slumped forward, tears freely spilling out of you as your chest heaves.

You wonder whether he’d held himself in this same position because he had felt an intolerable sadness too. An intolerable sadness at seeing you happy.

Suddenly you could understand it.

That fucker. Santiago “Pope” Garcia.

I’m in love with you.

I’m in love with you.

The words echo in your mind, but this time, if you’re honest, you’re not wholly sure if they’re his, or yours.

PART TWO IS HERE

[springfedmagazine]

UNOFFICIAL HIATUS: Catching Up With Mas Ysa

Because the reasons for writing this story are so personal, the end result is as much about me as the subject himself. Conducting the interview, spending time with the music and constructing the profile was, in the end, a sort of catharsis (though admittedly a very delayed one). We writers should all be so lucky. 

[May 2021]

In the summer of 2015 a few of my friends drove the scant eight hours from Marquette, Michigan down to Detroit to see a band called Tanlines. They returned after their whirlwind weekend with plenty of stories. Tanlines was great, sure, but the opener — holy shit, the opener just about killed us. 

They’d gone all that way to see one of our favorite bands, and some solo act called Mas Ysa stole the show.

I dug in as quickly as I could, immediately enthralled. At the time (and, frankly, in any time since) I’d never heard anything quite like Mas Ysa. Interspersed with ambient avant-garde tracks and delicate instrumentals were heavy synth-driven anthems — vocals howled and whispered, lyrics pained and defiant. You could dance to it, you could run to it, you could play it in the car or while you showered or while you studied (well, tried to study). A few of the songs were on such heavy rotation at my place that summer, my roommate threatened to revoke hifi privileges if I didn’t start playing something else immediately. It took a bit, but he came around. 

Two years later I was living in Brooklyn when Mas Ysa played a show at Baby’s All Right, a legendary venue that’s hosted hundreds of the indie and alt-rock greats. I took the G train across town and walked in the front door on that rainy April night, ordered my first drink, and maneuvered my way backstage to post up between the green rooms and the bar space. Within five minutes I found myself face-to-face with Tom Arcenault, the singular artist and performer behind all that was Mas Ysa. 

I introduced myself and shook his hand. Even in his highly-focused pre-show state, he greeted me warmly. I explained that I was a music writer (lie); I told him how I’d just met with an editor at the Village Voice (truth) and hoped to interview him sometime, hoped to make a story happen (another truth — it’s easy to be honest about hopes, quite another to be honest about capabilities). 

That first story I planned to write, of course, never quite crystallized. I enjoyed the show, Tom’s downbeat ballad-like renderings of the powerful songs I’d been listening to for years, and stepped back out into the rain feeling ever-so-slightly changed. But through the ensuing years of working and living and moving around New England, Tom and I stayed loosely in touch and maintained loose plans to get together. 

As it happened, that rainy spring night in 2017 was the last time Mas Ysa stepped onto a stage. Later in 2017 Tom released an untitled Mas Ysa EP, four tracks that could be interpreted as a sort of encapsulation of his own arc both musically and lyrically — punchy, honest, defiant, and heartfelt. While he’s teased some samples and early stages of potential work to come on his Instagram, Tom has remained enigmatic about anything further from Mas Ysa. Nothing, as of now, is forthcoming.

In the summer of 2019, three years after I’d started life as a New Yorker, I moved out of the city and up to New Haven, Connecticut where I lived for two more years while my now-wife attended grad school. And in the spring of 2021, almost exactly four years after Tom and I first connected, I revived our dormant conversation to tell him all about my plans for Spring-Fed. He invited me back to his studio in New York to finally do the interview and write the story I’d hoped to write, and with some deliberation and care, we lined up our schedules. That story begins here. 

——————————————————————————————————

The second time I meet Tom Arcenault we greet one another outside his Palmetto Street studio, deep into Brooklyn and a long walk from the Q train station. His handshake is strong and lingering. His visage has gotten to be downright bear-like, shaggy with gray in his beard, and after we chat for a few minutes outside he leads me on a walk around the area. A boyishness still clings to him, even as the peppering of white hairs in his dark mane reveal the decade between us. 

In broad strokes I tell him what’s led me to writing this story. The years of listening to his music, of memorizing the rhythms and lyrics, years of identifying with his work, using its medicinal powers to sort out my own fear and loathing, coming to understandings and, eventually, moving on to form my own closures, my own paths to growth. His music, as I’m explaining to him in fits and starts, has been a through-thread for all of it. I’ve never been one for hero worship or parasocial obsessions; neither of those things apply to my love of Mas Ysa. I just knew that one day if I could spend enough time with the person behind the music, a strong story would present itself. 

When I finish telling him all this, he’s quiet for a long moment. Then he nods, and we begin to peel back the layers. 

As we move along the sidewalk toward a bodega where Tom hopes to find a blue carton of American Spirits (the full-bodied original flavor, or so I’ve read) he starts to fill me in on what’s happened since that final show, the first night we met and that strange juncture of his life. 

“I feel like I’m less relevant now than ever,” Tom says in smoke after lighting a fresh cigarette. His voice, in spite of many years in and around New York City, retains a musical Canadian lilt. “My last album was… what… six years ago?” 

Seraph was, in fact, released in 2015. His “Untitled” EP that came out in 2017 certainly showcased the same Mas Ysa I thought I knew, the same one I’d shown up to see on that rainy April night several years prior. But following that short 2017 release, he had been notably silent.

“I didn’t have an Instagram for my whole first two tours [as Mas Ysa],” he says, “and then when I did have one, I’d be so obscure and confusing. But part of that was because I’m confused!”

His Instagram is, to be fair, an eclectic gathering of images and video clips. There are musical overtones, but only when you look among the garage-restoration galleries, family scenes and weird apocryphal moments — the artist peeking out from within the man.

After we pace around in a two-block radius I snap a few photos of him and try to get over how tense he seems. 

“I don’t do interviews, you know,” he says. We’re walking past a basketball court where half a dozen boys play a pickup game. He’s looking at me very little, though he asks me about my life almost as much as I ask him about himself.

“What do you mean, you don’t do interviews?” I ask. “You mean, not lately?”

Most of what I thought I knew about Tom, as it happens, hasn’t applied in a long time. Not since that sort-of-farewell 2017 show in Brooklyn. Sobriety is perhaps the largest reason; after years of being a party animal, recording and touring and living among New York’s young artistic elites, he had to put down his vices. And with that change he stepped away from performing altogether. That 2017 show I’d attended, an intimate solo performance, had been a presentation of Tom at his most fragile.

“It was like I went to bed one night and I was nineteen,” he says. “And then I woke up and I was in my thirties. I was older but I don’t think I’d really grown up.” He recounts one story about waiting in some under-the-radar basement club to meet with some people from SPIN Magazine; a few guys showed up and offered him drugs. “Thanks, guys, but I’m not partying tonight — I’m waiting to meet SPIN.” One of them replied, “Oh, that’s us dude. We’re SPIN.”

Such was the scene of his early success, a backdrop of thriving New York City indie music. The same fervor for new music that had fueled the rise of LCD Soundsystem, The Strokes, The Yeah Yeah Yeahs and so on had crested into a powerful wave that carried Mas Ysa, too. But some voyages have more detours than others.

Clearly the environment we sit in now is a retreat as well as a working studio. Multiple guitars lean in one corner, a keyboard dominates one wall, spare cables hang from a pegboard. Effects pedals, daisy-chained together, sit in an arrangement box on the floor. 

“When I was in my first 90 days of sobriety I’d be in my studio here, writing something new, and it would go [mimes a beat] and I’d stand up and swig some water and hold my palo santo like a cigarette, and feel this posture that I used to get into,” Tom says, settling into storytelling mode. “And you didn’t see me like this, because I wasn’t like this at that show [in April of 2017], but the way I’d perform is I’d nurse this hostility and anger toward the audience somewhere in my psyche, and I’d have this scary predatory posture, ready to jump in the crowd and fight. I’d go on the stage as one person, and become a totally different person onstage.” He looks at me, then up at the ceiling, describing the anguish behind some of his music — something I sensed even in my first naive, bewildered listenings of it.  

“There would be a lot of this misplaced drama and, like… summoning up a tragedy that I don’t even really have. It was really kind of a blame-filled, hateful feeling, and I was steeping myself in all this shit. I thought I had to do it that way, or it would be hard to feel in-the-moment." He pauses to shape the air with his hands. "And then I’d get offstage a totally different person, psyched up and feeling like I was the man, but not with any authentically-sourced sense of esteem.” 

Tom also draws some comparisons between what he does and what other electronic artists and musicians do. One artist, who won’t be named here, waits for fans to create emulations of their own sound and then they buy it from the fan who made it. “I get that, you know?” Tom says, chuckling. “It’s like, thanks for making it so much easier to sound like me.” To him it’s not a question of authenticity. Using analog methods can really suck and, in practice, he admits they’re inferior; he enjoys the control and tactility of analog inputs but at the end of the day, you can produce the same thing (probably with more consistency and reliability) if you just go digital all the way. Of course, it’s harder for some people to get up in front of a crowd and perform when you drain all the physicality from the music. 

“I have some friends who make electronic music and they’re successful, and they produce… but they’re designers. You know, they design it. And I used to fucking hate them — not hate them, but I resented that practice.” He mentions Four-Tet, Caribou — artists who make a good living on their music alone. “At the end of the artist’s effort, I wanted the work to stand gleaming and polished, and I wanted them to be beaten and bloody on the floor beside it. And I thought that that’s what had to happen to generate the thing. But that was actually me hiding,” he says. “‘This is what I made, and I was so earnest, and it was made with such little thought and design that it’s indefensible.’ Like, I don’t need to defend it; I’m not scared of it being in the world, or of it representing me, because it couldn’t be anything other than… [what it is].”

Tom goes on to explain how deeply his work is rooted in techno and electronica, telling stories about early rave experiences and warehouse shows in Brazil where he grew up. His first experience with drugs, as one story goes, involved a dropper of MDMA administered into his open mouth while he knelt in some dark alley of the Sao Paolo favelas just before entering an illicit rave show. He’s drawing a web of influences that grows in scope to include Ennio Morricone, Daft Punk, early Bob Dylan and Massive Attack. 

His music has certainly spanned genres, even as a few connecting lines can be drawn to tie most of it together — neatly, even. “I write “Don’t Make” and “Margarita” and I don’t think they're really any different,” Tom says. “I don’t mean to make Margarita as a dance song. It’s just what I’m used to hearing. And for that reason, too, it’s confusing — is it fucking dance music? It’s got all the dance-music tropes, it’s got drops, it’s got sixteenth-note bass things… but it’s not functionally dance music. So I think it’s confusing to try and know what it is... but, then, I’m confused as to what I am.” 

On Mas Ysa’s Worth, his debut EP from 2014, the introductory track is “Vanya.” It’s an unstructured 51-second-long ambient track of synthesizer, woodwinds and horns; track two, “Why,” jumps immediately into some of his most accessible work with strong use of bass percussion, 80s-styled synthesizer, drum machine effects and layered, harmonic vocals. Hell, it even has a chorus. And with his third track on the album, another short one called “David Wessels,” we’re back into ambience but in a sort of blinking cosmic lead-in for “Life Way Up From,” the album’s fourth track and a more traditional composition we’d feel comfortable calling a “song.” Back and forth, in this way, the album proceeds from start to finish. 

“Yeah, ‘Why’ really was the banger from that album wasn’t it?” Tom says, his response to my admission: it’s the first precious thing that hooked me into his oeuvre. 

More than a banger, it was an anthem — when I first heard the song it wrapped me up in rhythms I could dance to, lyrics I could have gotten tattooed across my chest, and an autobiographical sensibility I still feel deep within me when I think back to that period of my life. We can’t ever really know how or when we’ll mark one another’s lives, but “Why” and the summer of 2015 stand out clearly in my chronology as something formative, a dividing point. It’s the kind of thing that keeps you digging deeper, wondering what’s behind a song or an album, wondering about the origin points of the things we love. 

In this way — the back-and-forth stylings of his tracks, the interspersion of singable harmonies with altered nature recordings and abstract compositions — Mas Ysa received some acclaim for Worth and went on to release Seraph a year later. With Seraph’s harder edges and decidedly more techno stylings, Tom explored his dance and rave influences further without straying too far from the anthemic folk-rock — tracks like “Margarita,” “Garden” and “I Have Some” blend electronica with analog and folk rhythms, treading ground he had mostly covered before. But with standout tracks “Suffer,” “Service” and “Running,” Tom leaned more into the intensity of dance and trance… as far as genre-labeling is even effective while you describe a Mas Ysa record. 

As much as I consider myself a music fan, even a sort of buff in the right genres and verticals, Tom clearly reaches deeper into these wells. He distills things into more clear finalities than I ever have. It’s his life, this music, and it has been for years. When you build an identity around your art, you’d better know what you’re doing. 

“I don’t come from, like, ‘oh, America gets techno music in 2010, and then there’s EDM, and everyone in Brooklyn throws out their guitars and gets a drum machine,’ or something. I come from hard techno in Sao Paolo. I didn’t have Neutral Milk Hotel in Sao Paolo; I had TREZR. I had electronic music.” 

But as for what he has always aimed for with Mas Ysa, he says: “I am trying to make folk music — that’s what it IS for me. And it just so happens that the K2000 and the 909… those are my acoustic guitar.”

The gaps of bright blue sky to be seen through Tom’s high studio windows are dimming quickly when our conversation begins to trail off. We’ve been talking — for the most part, Tom has been talking — steadily for over two hours. I reluctantly mention my dinner plans. I’ll have friends coming from different parts of town to meet us back at the Ace and I can’t keep them waiting too long. Tom nods.

As I stand and gather myself we start talking again, almost frenzied. Tom offers to walk me back to the train so we can squeeze in that much more conversation. What he’s recently been listening to comes up, somehow for the first time; Nathaniel Ratliffe and other stuff along the vein, folk rock. It strikes me as sort of funny, such an edgy electronics-first artist being really into wood-whittling music like that. I ask him what his own favorite song is from Mas Ysa’s output. He says he doesn’t know.

Then after we pause and I snap some more photos, playing with the red cast of the sunset above so many brownstones and brick facades, he changes his mind. “I think it’s ‘Shame.’ You’ve got to listen to ‘Shame’ again,” Tom says. “I know I would’ve played it when your friends saw me open for Tanlines. It was on the setlist.” He tells me to listen to the words, then listen again, listen and dance to it — it’s all in there.

I tell him I will. We shake hands, and I sense that he wishes I could stick around a bit longer; I do too, in spite of the friends I’m about to see, the dinner I’m about to enjoy, our one last night in the city before my fiancèe and I take off for the great gloomy southeast. In this moment of departure I’m reminded of a quote that I can’t place now: something about how so many of our greatest exchanges happen on the doorstep. He smiles wide, then turns and walks away, hands jammed back into his pockets. I turn away, too, toward the subway entrance, but I hesitate at the top of the steps to breathe a little more clean air that’s somehow breezing through the Brooklyn streets. It’s the most perfect New York evening I’ve felt in a long time.

Hearing a train on the approach, I leap down the station steps two at a time and swipe my MetroCard to pass through the gate. As I board the mostly-empty train car and sit down I feel a sheen of sweat evaporate from my face in the cool, conditioned air. From my bag I pull out headphones, and from the tracks already downloaded for offline listening I hunt out “Shame” and hit PLAY. I know what's coming; I know the song inside and out. Still, I brace myself.

[kuliak]

I picked up a clone of Mutable’s Marbles (mine specifically is Pachinko from Michigan Synth Works) and this thing is so fun! I’m very happy I decided to go with it over a Turing machine and associated expanders + grids - as fun as those modules are as well and as much as I’d like to get them eventually, this just does so much and it’s all linked. I definitely want to write more about the long module selection process at a future date. Something very odd with this patch is that the main voice is Strega - which I usually use more for textures. While patching, I hard the realization that I can use the LFO with gate input from Pachinko as an envelope for Strega itself. The gate length control on Pachinko made this very playable!  This is a very basic patch, but it really highlights the polymorphic nature of many modules, and it was very satisfying to figure out on my own. I’m looking forward for even more room for discovery as my system and ecosystem continue to grow!

[youregay]

upcoming sufjan stevens albums:

stevens announces the return of the 50 states project, with the first being California, only to release an album about 8 famous real life murders. musically the album is reminiscent of ‘A Beginner's Mind’ with more stylistic variation; including some heavy period-specific inspiration in the songs set in the 60s, 70s, and 80s. stevens incorporates some interesting synth riffs for the 80s, and some banjo and perfect harmonies for the 60s and early folk-revival 70s. the album ends with a 40s blues-style union ballad about a scab leader being killed. ultimately the album is musically cohesive despite the wide breadth of eras being explored and is well received

California does actually come out just 5 months later and audiences expect a peppier, hippy and folk inspired ‘Carrie and Lowell’ and are instead greeted with an almost nauseating electronic album that is 12 songs and 74 minutes long. it is initially panned by fans of his more popular albums, but after a while critics and audiences alike view it as a maturation of his more electronic-centered music and see the earlier half of the album as expanding upon ‘The Ascension’ in a similar way to how ‘Illinois’ expanded upon ‘Seven Swans.’ the first half of the album is the half with lyrics, the later half being largely instrumental with vocals being used mainly as another instrument and eventually devolving into ambient noise by the last song. a year later 2.5 seconds of a beat and half a line of lyrics are sampled in an Anderson .Paak x Kendrick Lamar song the next two albums are also state albums and the last (for now) in the project. Pennsylvania is released next and is somewhat of a ‘return to form’ for stevens. the album began development around the time of the original states project albums (’Illinois’ and ‘Michigan’) and certain themes can be seen as a through-line to those albums. structurally and lyrically it’s closest to Illinois, but musically it blends a lot of his acoustic styling in his earlier work with the enormous, overwhelming sound in ‘Age of Adz,’ and in fact ends with ‘Pittsburgh: Reprise,’ an 18 minute song that many liken to ‘Impossible Soul’ for it’s long, rambling quality but that personally most resembles his EP ‘America’ with the songs ‘America’ and ‘My Rajneesh,’ both of which have the same quality of decay and themes of institutional collapse (in Pittsburgh’s case, the collapse of the steel industry). the album follows the story of a man who doesn’t age, traveling the state through it’s founding to modern times and is lauded as ‘a great American fairy-tale.’ the album’s outtake companion album includes 5, sufjan-original folk songs and union songs and becomes a favorite among super fans.

afterwards he releases ‘New York,’ an album described as a ‘coming home’ for stevens, less so musically and more so thematically. the album is a return to autobiography and follows up on many of those aspects present in ‘Illinois,’ ‘Michigan,’ and even certain threads from ‘Carrie and Lowell.’ stevens dense lyrics allow for him to talk about his experiences making and preforming music without it feeling too on-the-nose, as well as about his personal life and relationships without people being able to overstep his privacy. a much loved, quieter song at the one third mark of the album is about stevens re-connection with his hobbies and a divisive (but great) song at the two thirds mark is a stealth christmas song. the most popular song on the album is ‘Catskill Mountains’ which tells the story of a 17y/o boy who runs away from home and lives in the the Catskill mountains and is mauled by an enormous white bear, barely surviving but having an impactful spiritual experience. the album is most palpably about coming home in the song ‘Home’ which acts as the climax of the album and explores his settling-down in Upstate New York and the healing from past trauma through his relationships with others.

lastly, to buck tradition, stevens releases a Halloween ep instead of a Christmas album. the album is released November first and is 9 songs long. several of the songs are about specific movies including fan-favorite from the album, ‘Carrie.’

[sinceileftyoublog]

Pitchfork Music Festival 2021 Preview: 15 Can’t-miss Acts

black midi; Photo by YIS KID

BY JORDAN MAINZER

While yours truly won’t be attending Pitchfork Music Festival this year, SILY contributor Daniel Palella will be covering the actual fest. If I was attending, though, these would be the acts I’d make sure to see. 5 from each day, no overlaps, so you could conceivably see everyone listed.

FRIDAY

Armand Hammer, 1:00 PM, Green Stage

Earlier this year, New York hip hop duo Armand Hammer released their 5th album Haram (BackwoodzStudioz) in collaboration with on-fire producer The Alchemist. It was the duo’s (ELUCID and Billy Woods) first time working with a singular producer on a record (though Earl Sweatshirt produced a track), and likewise, The Alchemist actually tailored his beats towards the two MCs. Haram is the exact kind of hip hop that succeeds early in the day at a festival, verbose and complex rhymes over languid, cloudy, sample-heavy beats, when attendees are more likely to want to sit and listen than dance. And you’re going to want to listen to Armand Hammer, whose MCs’ experiential words frame the eerie hues of the production. “Dreams is dangerous, linger like angel dust,” Woods raps on opener “Sir Benni Miles”, never looking back as he and Elucid’s stream-of-consciousness rhymes cover everything from colonization to Black bodily autonomy and the dangers of satisfaction disguised as optimism. (“We let BLM be the new FUBU,” raps Quelle Chris on “Chicharrones”; “Iridescent blackness / Is this performative or praxis?” ponders Woods on “Black Sunlight”.)  There are moments of levity on Haram, like KAYANA’s vocal turn on “Black Sunlight” and the “what the hell sound is this?” type sampling that dominates warped, looped tracks like “Peppertree” and “Indian Summer”, built around sounds of horns and twirling flute lines. For the most part, Haram is an album of empathetic realism. “Hurt people hurt people,” raps Elucid on “Falling Out of the Sky”, a stunning encapsulation of Armand Hammer’s world where humanism exists side-by-side with traumatic death and feelings of revenge.

You can also catch Armand Hammer doing a live set on the Vans Channel 66 livestream at 12 PM on Saturday.

Dogleg, 1:45 PM, Red Stage

It feels like we’ve been waiting years to see this set, and actually, we have! The four-piece punk band from Michigan was supposed to play last year’s cancelled fest in support of their searing debut Melee (Triple Crown), and a year-plus of pent up energy is sure to make songs like “Bueno”, “Fox”, and “Kawasaki Backflip” all the more raging. Remember: This is a band whose reputation was solidified live before they were signed to Triple Crown and released their breakout album. Seeing them is the closest thing to a no-brainer that this year’s lineup offers.

Revisit our interview with Dogleg from last year, and catch them at an aftershow on Saturday at Subterranean with fellow Pitchfork performer Oso Oso and Retirement Party.

Hop Along, 3:20 PM, Red Stage

Though lead singer Frances Quinlan released a very good solo album last year, it’s been three years since their incredible band Hop Along dropped an album and two years since they’ve toured. 2018′s Bark Your Head Off, Dog (Saddle Creek), one of our favorite albums of that year, should comprise the majority of their setlist, but maybe they have some new songs?

Catch them at an aftershow on Saturday at Metro with Varsity and Slow Mass.

black midi, 4:15 PM, Green Stage

The band who had the finest debut of 2019 and gave the best set of that year at Pitchfork is back. Cavalcade (Rough Trade) is black midi’s sophomore album, methodical in its approach in contrast with the improvisational absurdism of Schlagenheim. Stop-start, violin-laden lead single and album opener “John L”, a song about a cult leader whose members turn on him, is as good a summary as ever of the dark, funky eclecticism of black midi, who on Cavalcade saw band members leave and new ones enter, their ever shapeshifting sound the only consistent thing about them. A song like the jazzy “Diamond Stuff” is likely impossible to replicate live--its credits list everything from 19th century instruments to household kitchen items used for percussion--but is key to experiencing their instrumental adventurousness. On two-and-a-half-minute barn burner “Hogwash and Balderdash,” they for the first time fully lean into their fried Primus influences, telling a tale of two escaped prisoners, “two chickens from the pen.” At the same time, this band is still black midi, with moments that call back to Schlagenheim, the churning, metallic power chords via jittery, slapping funk of “Chondromalacia Patella” representative of their quintessential tempo changes. And as on songs like Schlagenheim’s “Western”, black midi find room for beauty here, too, empathizing with the pains of Marlene Dietrich on a bossa nova tune named after her, Geordie Greep’s unmistakable warble cooing sorrowful lines like, “Fills the hall tight / And pulls at our hearts / And puts in her place / The girl she once was.” Expect to hear plenty from Cavalcade but also some new songs; after all, this is a band that road tests and experiments with material before recording it.

Catch them doing a 2 PM DJ set on Vans Channel 66 on Saturday and at an aftershow on Monday at Sleeping Village.

Yaeji, 7:45 PM, Blue Stage

What We Drew (XL), the debut mixtape from Brooklyn-based DJ Yaeji, was one of many dance records that came out after lockdown that we all wished we could experience in a crowd as opposed to at home alone. Now's our chance to bask in all of its glory under a setting sun. Maybe she’ll spin her masterful remix of Dua Lipa’s “Don’t Start Now” from the Club Future Nostalgia remix album, or her 2021 single “PAC-TIVE”, her and DiAN’s collaboration with Pac-Man company Namco.

Angel Olsen; Photo by Dana Trippe

SATURDAY

Bartees Strange, 1:45 PM, Red Stage

One of our favorite albums of last year was Live Forever (Memory Music), the debut from singer-songwriter and The National fanatic Bartees Strange, one that contributor Lauren Lederman called “a declaration of an artist’s arrival.” He’s certainly past arrived when you take into account his busy 2021, releasing a new song with Lorenzo Wolff and offering his remix services to a number of artists, including illuminati hotties and fellow Pitchfork performer (and tour mate) Phoebe Bridgers. Expect to hear lots of Live Forever during his Pitchfork set, one of many sets at the fest featuring exciting young guitar-based (!) bands.

Catch him at a free (!!) aftershow on Monday at Empty Bottle with Ganser.

Faye Webster, 4:00 PM, Blue Stage

Since we previewed Faye Webster’s Noonchorus livestream in October, she’s released the long-awaited follow-up to Atlanta Millionaires Club, the cheekily titled I Know I’m Funny haha (Secretly Canadian). At that time, she had dropped “Better Distractions”, “In A Good Way”, and “Both All The Time”, and the rest of the album more than follows the promise of these three dreamy country, folk rock, and R&B-inspired tunes. Webster continues to be a master of tone and mood, lovelorn on “Sometimes”, sarcastic on the title track, and head-in-the-clouds on “A Dream with a Baseball Player”. All the while, she and her backing band provide stellar, languorous instrumentation, keys and slide guitar on the bossa nova “Kind Of”, her overdriven guitar sludge on “Cheers”, cinematic strings on the melancholic “A Stranger”, stark acoustic guitar on heartbreaking closer “Half of Me”. And the ultimate irony of Webster’s whip-smart lyricism is that a line like, “And today I get upset over this song that I heard / And I guess was just upset because why didn't I think of it first,” is that I can guarantee a million songwriters feel the same way about her music, timely in context and timeless in sound and feeling.

Catch her at an aftershow on Saturday at Sleeping Village with Danger Incorporated.

Georgia Anne Muldrow, 5:15 PM, Blue Stage

The queen of beats takes the stage during the hottest part of the day, perfect for some sweaty dancing. VWETO III (FORESEEN + Epistrophik Peach Sound), the third album in Muldrow’s beats record series, was put together with “calls to action” in mind, each single leading up to the album’s release to be paired with crowdsourced submissions via Instagram from singers, visual artists, dancers, and turntablists. Moreover, many of the album’s tracks are inspired by very specific eras of Black music, from Boom Bap and G-funk to free jazz, and through it all, Muldrow provides a platform for musical education just as much as funky earworms.

Revisit our interview with Muldrow from earlier this year.

Angel Olsen, 7:25 PM, Red Stage

It’s been a busy past two years for Angel Olsen. She revealed Whole New Mess (Jagjaguwar) in August 2020, stripped down arrangements of many of the songs on 2019′s amazing All Mirrors. In May, she came out with a box set called Song of the Lark and Other Far Memories (Jagjaguwar), which contained both All Mirrors and Whole New Mess and a bonus LP of remixes, covers, alternate takes, and bonus tracks. She shortly and out of nowhere dropped a song of the year candidate in old school country rock high and lonesome Sharon Van Etten duet “Like I Used To”. And just last month, she released Aisles, an 80′s covers EP out on her Jagjaguwar imprint somethingscosmic. She turns Laura Branigan’s disco jam “Gloria” and Men Without Hats’ “Safety Dance” into woozy, echoing, slowed-down beds of synth haze and echoing drum machine. On Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark’s “If You Leave”, her voice occupies different registers between the soft high notes of the bridge and autotuned solemnity of the chorus. Sure, other covers are more recognizable in their tempo and arrangement, like Billy Idol’s Rebel Yell ballad “Eyes Without a Face” and Alphaville’s “Forever Young”, but Aisles is exemplary of Olsen’s ability to not just reinvent herself but classics.

At Pitchfork, I’d bet on a set heavy on All Mirrors and Whole New Mess, but as with the unexpectedness of Aisles, you never know!

St. Vincent, 8:30 PM, Green Stage

Annie Clark again consciously shifts personas and eras with her new St. Vincent album Daddy’s Home (Loma Vista), inspired by 70′s funk rock and guitar-driven psychedelia. While much of the album’s rollout centered around its backstory--Clark’s father’s time in prison for white collar crimes--the album is a thoughtful treatise on honesty and identity, the first St. Vincent album to really stare Clark’s life in the face. 

Many of its songs saw their live debut during a Moment House stream, which we previewed last month.

The Weather Station; Photo by Jeff Bierk

SUNDAY

Tomberlin, 1:00 PM, Green Stage

While the LA-via-Louisville singer-songwriter hasn’t yet offered a proper follow-up LP to her 2018 debut At Weddings, she did last year release an EP called Projections (Saddle Creek), which expands upon At Weddings’ shadowy palate. Songs like “Hours” and “Wasted” are comparatively clattering and up-tempo. Yet, all four of the original tracks are increasingly self-reflexive, Tomberlin exploring and redefining herself on her terms, whether singing about love or queerness, all while maintaining her sense of humor. (“When you go you take the sun and all my flowers die / So I wait by the window and write some shit / And hope that you'll reply,” she shrugs over acoustic strums and wincing electric guitars.) The album ends with a stark grey cover of Casiotone for the Painfully Alone’s “Natural Light”; Tomberlin finds a kindred spirit in the maudlin musings of Owen Ashworth.

Get there early on Sunday to hear select tracks from At Weddings and Projections but also likely some new songs.

oso oso, 2:45 PM, Blue Stage

Basking in the Glow (Triple Crown), the third album from Long Beach singer-songwriter Jade Lilitri as Oso Oso, was one of our favorite records of 2019, and we’d relish the opportunity to see them performed to a crowd in the sun. Expect to hear lots of it; hopefully we’re treated to new oso oso material some time soon.

Catch them at an aftershow on Saturday at Subterranean with fellow Pitchfork performer Dogleg and Retirement Party.

The Weather Station, 4:00 PM, Blue Stage

The Toronto band led by singer-songwriter Tamara Lindeman released one of the best albums of the year back in February with Ignorance (Fat Possum), songs inspired by climate change-addled anxiety. While the record is filled with affecting, reflective lines about loss and trying to find happiness in the face of dread, in a live setting, I imagine the instrumentation will be a highlight, from the fluttering tension of “Robber” to the glistening disco of “Parking Lot”.

Revisit our preview of their Pitchfork Instagram performance from earlier this year. Catch them at an aftershow on Friday at Schubas with Ulna.

Danny Brown, 6:15 PM, Green Stage

The Detroit rapper’s last full-length record was the Q-Tip executive produced uknowhatimsayin¿ (Warp), though he’s popped up a few times since then, on remixes, a Brockhampton album, and TV62, a Bruiser Brigade Records compilation from earlier this year. (He’s also claimed in Twitch streams that his new album Quaranta is almost done.) His sets--especially Pitchfork sets--are always high-energy, as he’s got so many classic albums and tracks under his belt at this point, so expect to hear a mix of those.

Erykah Badu, 8:30 PM, Green Stage

What more can I say? This is the headliner Pitchfork has been trying to get for years, responsible for some of the greatest neo soul albums of all time. There’s not much else to say about Erykah Badu other than she’s the number one must-see at the festival.