Western Vinyl

On his new album Sun Glories, Oakland-based musician, composer, and producer Chuck Johnson explores themes of time, memory, and illusion through his unique blend of pedal steel, synths, organs, strings, and drums. Opening track "Teleos" explores the linear and cyclical qualities of time itself through episodic sections and motifs, which evoke the bittersweet relief and nostalgia that flood the senses with the arrival of the first warm and sunny day after a long, dark, and rainy stretch of winter. According to Johnson, the piece "took a surprising turn when I started adding guitar textures that recall the music I played and listened to when I was much younger." Evocative fields of guitars and pedal steel conspire to spark an intoxicating palimpsest of memories, before being ushered forward by an improvisatory and propulsive drum performance from Ryan Jewell. The guitar-based "Sylvanshine" captures a moment between improvisation and nascent composition, elevated by a radiant glissandi performance by electro-acoustic saxophonist Cole Pulice. "This track is an appreciative nod to Rachika Nayar, whose recent works have re-opened the electric guitar for me and inspired me to play that instrument again after a hiatus of several years," explains Johnson. On "Ground Wave" Johnson revisits the composition technique of weaving a small string ensemble into clouds of pedal steel, similar to his approach on "Red Branch Bell' from his 2021 LP The Cinder Grove. "When the pedal steel solo comes in at about 3:30, I wanted to make it feel like the ground suddenly disappearing from under the listener’s feet." To achieve his vision for this piece, Johnson work with cellist Clarice Jensen (who Johnson has worked with on film scores and in live performances), and violinist Emily Packard (who Johnson knew from his time at Mills College), both of whom layered multiple parts to create a virtual chamber ensemble. The album concludes with "Broken Spectre," a play on a term describing a ghostly optical illusion caused by sunlight bending over a mountain covered in mist or clouds. Once again Johnson's gorgeous pedal steel melodies build into a hypnotic swirl, which develops an epic sense of grandeur with the addition of Ryan Jewell's anthemic drumming. As the mist clears and the sun breaks through, this final track leaves the listener with a feeling of hope and resolution.

Even after years of living in the same area, there can be mind-bending moments of revelation about its layout. An attempt to avoid traffic, or a time-killing meander on a weekend morning gives way to a mix of novelty and confusion as a new pocket of the district materializes like a dream about hidden rooms in a childhood home. Suddenly a recognizable cross street appears, and for a few seconds it’s hard to reconcile with all the new ground that was just covered. Just around the corner the old landmarks take shape, and logic returns. Despite spending the last several minutes in a seemingly unfamiliar place, perhaps you barely left your own neighborhood, if at all.
This kind of pathfinding lies behind the name Way Through, a collaborative album between Toronto musicians Chris Cummings, Joseph Shabason, and Thom Gill under the moniker Cici Arthur. Seeking to create large-scale setpieces to showcase Cummings’ vocals and writing, producer-instrumentalists Shabason and Gill have parked their brand of smartly subverted adult contemporary aesthetics near the mid-century slink of Antonio Carlos Jobim, or the romantic opulence of Frank Sinatra. Way Through takes the communal spirit of Shabason’s previous ventures to panoramic heights, featuring everyone from drummer Phil Melanson (Sam Gendel, Sam Amidon, Andy Shauff) and frequent collaborator Nicholas Krgovich, to famed arranger and violinist Owen Pallet who helms an honest-to-God thirty-piece orchestra for the affair. Perhaps most importantly, vocalist Dorothea Pass winds glassy harmonies through all the moving parts, emulsifying the core trio’s take on a heyday Capitol Records session. The result is akin to so much music in Joseph Shabason’s orbit in that it spins around a centerpoint of humanness and vulnerability, placing even its most colossal elements comfortingly within arm’s reach.
The seeds of the album were sowed in 2020 when Chris Cummings lost his job of twenty years amid the COVID shockwaves. In his early fifties with his Plan A having lapsed, Chris found himself diving into full-time music creation for the first time in his life. The leap of faith inspired his collaborators, galvanizing them to thoughtfully tailor arrangements just for him. “I wanted to make a really big sounding record for Chris, to really figure out a way to call in favors and make this album as grand as I possibly could,” Shabason recalls of Way Through’s Creed Taylor ethos. “I really wanted Chris to sing to fully mixed songs so that it was in the spirit of playing with a full band with all the energy of hearing an orchestra swell behind him with horns blaring,” he continues, “and I think this is the grandest approach to making a record that I have ever embarked on.”
The resulting outsize backdrop sits in poetic contrast to Cummings’ comparatively discreet delivery and intimate lyricism. Steering the Shabason-Gill cruise liner with delicate intonation and quiet introspection, Cummings paints a picture of city lights gleaming in rain puddles, mapping subtle emotional territories within the urban gloom while resigning in a kind of joyous ennui. “If I could be all that once looked so great and grand, I would have died for an occasion to rise to,” he sings through the horn section of ‘Cartwheels for Coins’, “but it’s a gray sky, nothing to say, mixed emotions always get in the way”. Lines like these epitomize Way Through; when the bandstand empties out and the singer finds himself alone on a darkened soundstage, the emotional complexities of life still lie waiting to be confronted. Cummings lends a literary counterweight to Shabason and Gill’s sonic splendor, and in doing so spotlights the inherent tension between pragmatism and ambition. As a film major who was raised by community theater actors before taking up music as his main creative outlet, it’s evident that Cummings has grappled with this polarity in his own life (not to mention the perfect sense this makes out of Way Through’s filmic overtones).
Punctuating the cinematic heft, the decidedly uptempo midpoint ‘Damaged Goods’ bounces and strolls around Dorothea Pass’s doo-wop harmonies giving affirmation to anyone coming out of a troubled relationship, while the successive piece ‘Prior Times’ addresses those very relationships head-on. “Honestly, I was-- and am still-- very affected by romantic relationships I had before I met my wife,” Chris admits, explaining that the track “tells about a time when I was caught in an unhappy situation, looking back on happier times, and being hit with the painful realization that time doesn't go backwards.” With its understated Samba lilt, the song lands Cici Arthur closest to their aforementioned Jobim/Gilberto target and serves as the stylistic centerpiece. The pensive and movielike ‘No Fight Or Flight (So Much Tenderness)’ brings the album to its finale over one of Owen Pallet’s verdant string arrangements, marking one of the fullest realizations of Joseph Shabason and Thom Gill’s production aspirations-- and likely reaching far beyond what Cummings ever imagined when his life completely changed a few long years ago.
Back in 2020, newly careerless and grasping at an uncertain future in a world of uncertain futures, Chris found himself taking exploratory bike trips through nearby suburban areas he’d never been to before. His attempts to avoid the bustle of major roads would lead either to dead ends or completely new ways of seeing the geography of a city he’d lived in for decades, mirroring the joy and heartbreak of life’s circuitous path. “What good are dead ends when I’m looking through a way through,” he repeats on the album’s title track over the crest of a weary and sweet brass section. “When the miracle you’d hoped for never comes it’s hard to take, but it’s your fault for hoping.” For all of Way Through’s orchestral technicolor wonder, Cummings delivers refreshingly honest doses of realism about how dreams unfold across a lifetime.<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/86pMq1IpjAc?si=4ewpJcmKv3MgzHNL" title="YouTube video player" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" referrerpolicy="strict-origin-when-cross-origin" allowfullscreen></iframe>

Having crested the west coast modular-ambient wave in just a few releases- including 2018's Sharing Waves on the influential LA experimental imprint Leaving Records- Sean Hellfritsch has swapped the mossy analog synth improvisations of his prior output for refined melodic arrangements dressed in sprightly dawn-of-digital textures. Big Earth Energy plumbs the depths of Hellfritsch's multimedia mind and naturalist heart, spinning an impressionistic narrative world off of cultural touchstones like the PC game MYST, and the work of Studio Ghibli composer Joe Hisaishi. Inspired by the aforementioned, and guided by Hellfritsch's experience as an animator and filmmaker, Big Earth Energy is the soundtrack to a hypothetical video game with a pointedly ecological premise, and a twist of psychedelic charm. In Hellfritsch's imagined virtual journey, the player assumes the perspective of a treefrog sixty-five-million years ago, hopping epochs with each new level, forming a comprehensive picture of the massive hanges the planet has gone through over the eons. The ultimate goal of the game is not to amass resources, defeat enemies, or gain power, but to fully witness the unfolding of one of the biggest systems of energy imaginable- or as the album's creator puts it- "to explore the incomprehensibly vast energetic expression and mystery that is Earth." Big Earth Energy is steeped in exploratory RPG intrigue, possibility, and contemplation, lovingly overlaid with Miyazaki-an sentiments and aesthetics. The through-composed, organic, meandering synthesis heard on previous Cool Maritime albums has been fully replaced by meticulous polygonal arrangements that recall the computerized sheen of late 80s work by composers like Hiroshi Yoshimura, and Yoichiro Yoshikawa- using true-to-period gear no less. Even given it's referentiality, Big Earth Energy comes off as forward-facing where so much reminiscent music remains fixed to a bygone moment in pop culture. Hellfritsch has created a musical world where the endless verdancy of the biosphere finds it's parallel in the golden age of early 1990s video games, and late 80s Japanese environmental music, all while pointing to a hopeful planetary and artistic future that vindicates the motives of all of these muses.

Drifts and Surfaces is a three-piece set, with each work originating from commissions, and unified by shared themes: the flux between ephemeral movement and everyday stasis, the paradox of extraordinary and mundane beauty, and the ambition and idleness, that defines living in the 21st century. Saxl continues to utilize chamber-music ensemble alongside analog synth and digital experimentation, deeply tuning into textural emotion and the vivid details of small actions. While her 2021 breakthrough LP, The Blue of Distance, processed recordings from the Adirondacks and Lake Superior, Saxl’s source material here comes primarily from live percussion and other instrumentation. The project started in 2018 in Brooklyn’s Red Hook neighborhood at the practice space that Saxl’s band shares with the percussion trio Tigue. Later that year, they performed a residency together and captured the piece before the pandemic set in. In 2021, she began a new commission with Chicago’s Third Coast Percussion.Drifts shares its title with Kate Zambreno’s 2020 novel, where the protagonist becomes entranced by the work of Chantal Ackerman, which presents the typically female invisible forms of domestic labor as equally valuable to activities more commonly seen as productive. Saxl posits Drifts in the spirit of that feminist thesis: “It feels like there’s a little lineage here of women exploring this idea and celebrating small action that I hope I am continuing the work of.”The final piece, “Surfaces,” was commissioned by the Guggenheim Museum in conjunction with the Alex Katz retrospective in 2022. The group — comprised of Henry Solomon on baritone saxophone, Robby Bowen on glass marimba, and Saxl — leans into light, ruminative tones inspired by the pioneering painter’s present-minded approach. Katz's work deals with the optical perception of “quick things passing,” like the liminality of dusk when an object's outlines start to become unclear. “The ways in which our perception of things change not because they change but because we change,” explains Saxl. “I wanted to have these really minor changes feel dramatic, to mirror the imagined movement in his paintings.”Stepping back to view “Surfaces” within the set, Saxl finds the stream that runs throughout, the concept of the self as part of something greater. “Katz’s depiction of multiple generations of New York City artists inspired me to think about how there is no individual ‘me’ as an artist without both the artists who came before me and the community of artists I’ve grown alongside. The delineation between us blurs, and I feel as though I am carried on an interwoven surface formed by the community around me. At the same time, I know that eventually, I have to turn inwards and swim out alone.”

A re-interpretation so often comes from an impulse, even if subliminal, of one-upmanship – let me do better, wait ‘til you hear it my way. Sometimes though, and it happens too rarely, the cover is an act of devotion in which a musician’s humility produces something more beautiful than bravura could. When Erik Hall undertook his painstaking reconstruction of Steve Reich’s 1976 masterpiece of minimalism, “Music for Eighteen Musicians”, it was as much an exercise in modesty as ambition. With its repetitions and complex constructions, the piece makes great demands on stamina and concentration, and Reich himself advised that these challenges meant it should probably be performed with more than eighteen musicians. Hall, however, recorded every part himself in his small home studio, playing instruments he had on hand, in live, single takes. Here, then is the ambition. But here too is the modesty: by doing one section a day, one instrument at a time, he made his way through this monumental piece, building a faithful and loving re-creation, one sonic brick at a time. Xylophone becomes muted piano, violin becomes electric guitar and so it is that music for eighteen becomes music for one. “I didn’t want it to be distracting, or a gimmick,” says Hall, who’s loved the piece for as long as he can remember. “I wanted it to be true to the timbre and spirit of the original recording,” and he thought a great deal about, “how I would shape the tone of each instrument, to come across with the same impact that we know the piece to have.” His methodology, as with Reich’s piece itself, is workmanlike, and it’s from this humble and steadfast undertaking that something honest and radiant emerges. – Hermione Hoby

Anne, the second album By Toronto saxophonist and composer Joseph Shabason, is a tonal essay on degenerative illness. Delicately and compassionately woven with interviews of Shabason’s mother from whom the album takes its name, Anne finds its creator navigating a labyrinth of subtle and tragic emotions arising from his mother's struggle with Parkinson’s disease. Across the nine vivid postcards of jazz-laden ambience that comprise the album, Shabason unwraps these difficult themes with great care and focus revealing the unseen aspects of degenerative diseases that force us to re-examine common notions of self, identity, and mortality.

Shabason’s uncanny ability to manoeuvre through such microscopic feelings is mirrored by his capacity to execute a similar tightrope-walk through musical genres. His music occupies a specific space that is as palpable as it is difficult to pin labels to. On Anne’s second track “Deep Dark Divide” rays of effected saxophone shine behind clouds of digital synthesizer that echoes the sound of jazz in the late 80s, but with a Jon Hassell-esque depth of sensibility that consciously subverts the stylistic inoffensiveness of that era. There is detail and idiosyncrasy beneath Shabason’s dawn-of-the-CD-era sheen that elevates the album far beyond a mere aesthetic exercise.

Still, the sounds on Anne are not so experimentally opaque as to stand in the way of the album’s through-line of sincerity and emotionality. When dissonance is employed it is punctual and meaningful, like on album-middler “Fred and Lil” where a six-minute cascade of breathy textures builds suddenly to an agitated growl, only to abruptly give way to Anne Shabason speaking intimately about her relationship to her own parents. Snippets of such conversations see her taking on something like a narrator role across Anne while the sound of her voice itself is sometimes effected to become a musical texture entwined into the fabric of the songs without always being present or audible. The subsequent piece “Toh Koh” then drifts into playful disorientation as a lone female voice echoes the two syllables of the title, recalling the vocal techniques of composer Joan La Barbara, or even the light-hearted mantras of Lucky Dragons. From here the album veers back onto its aesthetic thoroughfare with “November” where Shabason lays muted brass textures atop a wavepool of electric chords provided by none other than the ambient cult-hero Gigi Masin, one of Anne’s many integral collaborators.

The serene tragedy of the album distils itself gracefully into the ironically titled album closer “Treat it Like a Wine Bar” wherein flutters of piano and mournfully whispered woodwinds seem to evaporate particle by delicate particle, leaving the listener with a faint emotional afterglow like a dream upon waking. There is a corollary to be drawn here with what it must be like to feel one’s own mind and body drift away slowly until nothing remains, while the collection of memories and abilities that we use to denote the “self” softens into eternity. On Anne, it is precisely this fragile exchange of tranquillity and anguish that Joseph Shabason has proven his singular ability to articulate. 

What does hell look like? The introduction of Toy Machine skateboard's seminal 1996 video Welcome to Hell with its pulsing overlay of the Stars and Stripes on top footage of police officers, businessmen, and fast food service workers, would appear to paint hell as the mirage of American exceptionalism. A thick, centuries-spanning unreality that may not outwardly trade in fire and brimstone, but if you turn your nose to the wind, you'll smell sulphur.What comes after that scene, born of — or despite — those apparent depictions of damnation, would become a cultural touchstone: skateboarding performed at the highest level, composed and displayed in a fashion that would influence and endear audiences for decades to come. Welcome to Hell features a unique and progressive patchwork of skateboarders, most of which would become icons in their world, and helped redefine what the modern skateboarding video could be.A young Joseph Shabason felt that impact. The acclaimed musician hit rewind on his VHS copy of Welcome to Hell hundreds of times in his youth, each watch as thrilling as the last. That invigorating, improvisational, full-body experience of skateboarding is one that Shabason likens to jazz, where a shared language exists between the wheels and woodwinds. The way the skateboarder and musician command that language is what distinguishes them, adding definition to the mercurial concept of "style." This connection becomes most apparent in collaboration; ensembles of skaters and musicians are a noisy, creative bunch. Reflecting on this relationship and the Toy Machine classic would ultimately lead Shabason to wonder: what does hell sound like?The answer was a concept album that, like his previous records, lives in the personal. One that, much like skateboarding itself, would push him to try something new: rescoring Welcome to Hell. The video's original soundtrack served as a musical awakening for many — an active, aggressive mix of songs from bands like The Misfits, Black Sabbath, and Sonic Youth. Here, you'll find that recontextualized, softened, yet no less energizing. Over the album's ten songs, Shabason plays with the angular and ambient, exploring large group melodies that move forward with the on-screen action, shifting the mood in subtle and substantial ways that reframe our understanding of this culture-defining skate video and the skateboarders in it.In Shabason's "Hell," quintessential "East Coast powerhouse," Mike Maldonado is backed by a sharp, driving modal composition that calls back to 1970s Miles Davis, the melodic sensibilities of Azimuth, and stands as a fascinating complement to Maldonado's hard-charging on-board approach. The debut of Elissa Steamer, a pioneer decades ahead of her time, is given fresh spirit with an off-kilter funk. Brian Anderson, whose virtuosic section was originally guided by a dour Pink Floyd track, now flies across the screen in jazzy fits and starts, punctuated by the joyous wail of Shabason's saxophone. Nowhere does the fluid and improvisational intersection of skateboarding and jazz meet and swell than with Donny Barley. His easy, instinctual cool flecked with tinkling synths and bass lines that echo the natural power of Barley’s abilities.Shabason then creates what could be rightly considered an audio portrait of Ed Templeton. The celebrated visual artist, photographer, and founder of Toy Machine cuts a distinct profile, which Shabason distills with a throbbing, slanted rhythm and an eerie layering of feedback and pressuring keys. The "curtains" section in Welcome to Hell belongs to Jamie Thomas, whose career-defining performance here would set the stage for a decades-spanning career and a level of influence in skateboarding that is still felt today. Shabason meets Thomas' epic with a commanding, angular rhythm that builds and flows with the momentum of his skateboarding. Airy group melodies mingle with a wonked-out vibraphone and tight percussion that lets loose in florid bursts before devolving into a finishing sequence of muscular improvisation — a fittingly bold interpretation of the work of one of skateboarding's most daring practitioners.Finally, as if ending with his thesis statement, the last song of Shabason's Welcome to Hell is a calming vocal harmony that lies atop the video's infamous "bail section." A horrific collection of skateboarders falling and twisting themselves into agonizing, unnatural shapes — a Hieronymous Bosch captured on VHS. It's the culmination of the unexpected made whole. Shabason's album a provocative reimagining that instills a new sense of awe in the 27-year-old classic, prompting the question first posed by the original: what if hell was a place you wanted to return to again and again?

Across eight tracks that mesh jazz-laced, emotive, and spacious composition with fourth-world and adult-contemporary tonality, Toronto saxophonist Joseph Shabason sketches an auditory map of the transcendence, unity, conditioning, and eventual renunciation of his upbringing in an Islamic and Jewish dual-faith household. The resulting album The Fellowship bears the name of the insular Islamic community Shabason’s traditionally Jewish parents belonged to from a time before he was even born; a mental and spiritual push-pull which continued shaping, even controlling, his outlook well into his adulthood. As a listening experience The Fellowship follows a chronological arc that spans three generations covering his parents’ early lives, his own spiritual and physical adolescence, and his subsequent struggle to eschew the problematic habituations of such a conflicted past.

“Life With My Grandparents” commences The Fellowship in overcast hues. A cassette recording of a child’s voice pops in and out of a murmuring brass tone as both elements drift like memories receding forever into the past. “My parents grew up in really difficult households. Both of my father’s parents had just survived the Holocaust only six years before he was born.” Shabason explains, cutting right to the root of what might have led his parents to diverge from their inherited spiritual conventions. "My grandparents were deeply traumatized from having lost so many friends and family members, and even if the war hadn’t happened I don’t think they would have been particularly emotionally available.” Exchanging the gloom for tension, the anxiously experimental “Escape From North York” jolts the cadence forwards and backwards by way of skittering jazz percussion as a nauseated synth melody balloons into full-on terror, all while the melodic elements are ambushed from below by a flash flood of air-rending texture. The title (a play on John Carpenter’s Escape From New York) refers to the area of Toronto where Shabason’s parents were raised, and rebelliously fled in their twenties against their own parents’ wishes. The title track of The Fellowship swings toward relief and reflection, and buoys the mood up to something childlike. It is suffused with saxophone, upright bass, chorus-drenched guitar, and digitized pan flute; the kinds of 90’s jazz timbres that mark a time in Shabason’s adolescence when the dilemmas of his family’s faith were still obscured by comfort, community, and a dash of the forgivable naivete of early youth. At the same time, the piece shows Shabason at his most melodically athletic, darting around chord changes with fervor for the subject at hand.

From here the perspective moves from third to first person as Shabason unpacks his teenage years across a three song suite, the titles of which mark the exact years they are meant to sonically illustrate. Where the previous track floated ever upward on innocence and clarity, “0-13” dispenses with both by its final third at which point things have unraveled into aleatoric unease representing “the first chink in the armour,” as Joseph admits, “and the first time I really started to question everything I’d been taught.” By “13-15” the pendulum is fully back on the side of apprehension as galloping percussion, an unrelenting synthetic marimba, an off-key wood flute, and jittering electric guitar tell a story of doubt and anger, dressed in fourth-world atonality. “By that time,” says Shabason, referring to the age denoted in the track name, “I was smoking weed and really getting into my head. According to my religion, smoking weed was gonna land me in hell, and all my friends who drank were also on the path to hell. The whole thing seemed totally absurd. The idea of a God that was that petty and vengeful made no sense. Those thoughts just swirled and created this background dissonance that existed all throughout my early teens. Middle school was fucked.”

“15-19” is the sadness that follows outrage, when the dust settles and the pieces need putting back together, yet they simply won’t fit in light of a new found perspective. As such, this final movement is bathed in tragic, futile optimism. Under a bed of half-tempo RnB, muted trumpets glow like dying embers catching the wind. Shabason elucidates, “at that point, I’d discovered punk and hardcore and decided to be straight edge. It provided me with a community and a great cover for why I didn’t drink or do drugs. It felt like this really cool disguise. It kept me from questioning why I was doing it in the first place, but underlying it all was sadness. Why were my gay friends going to hell? Why did women have to be modest and not men? Why did God want to punish me for so many things? Was I going to hell because I had sex with my girlfriend? None of it made sense, but I was so completely brainwashed that I never thought to seriously question it. Instead, I just slipped up more and more, did drugs, fooled around, and tried to put the divine ramifications of my actions out of my head.”

“Comparative World Religions” is a caffeinated gamelan named for the college course that caused Joseph-- and so many other young people engrossed in inherited repressive ideologies-- to see the irreconcilable nature of his beliefs from the outside in. Like the class itself, it stands apart from the backdrop of The Fellowship by replacing the seesaw of religious ecstasy and uncertainty with the type of transcendence that can only be arrived at through factual illumination. Using mournful brass and glassy keys, the aptly titled “So Long” represents the slow walking away that Shabason had to do mentally and emotionally, even long after the illusion had been cracked open. “It took me at least another twelve to fifteen years to fully deprogram myself from all the guilt and shame that was bred into me by religion, but I think that I’m finally free from it,” says Shabason of his present-day outlook. “This song is a final goodbye to that life… an exhale and deep inhale before I start a new chapter.” On The Fellowship, as on prior albums that bear his name, Joseph Shabason does what only the best instrumental music makers can: tell a story with emotional clarity that conveys even the subtlest of feelings, all without singing a single word. As wordless as ever-- with as complex a theme as ever-- this album may be his most emotionally articulate yet. Most importantly, those lost in the woods of repression and self-doubt that organized religion can be at its worst now have The Fellowship to help guide them into a softer light.

Lauded for his contributions to Here We Go Magic and Art Feynman, Luke Temple brings his signature off-kilter grooves and melodies to his new project's debut album Certain Limitations. The trio's sound takes influence from the likes of Dire Straits and The Velvet Underground, weaving together intricate guitar work, and a propulsive rhythm section, with a touch of jazz sensibility that recalls the ECM catalog. A product of serendipity, The Cascading Moms were formed when in need of a band for an upcoming show, Temple brought together Kosta Galanopolous, a collaborator from his Art Feynman project, and Stuart, a musician he already knew in LA. When these three came together to rehearse, a spark ignited, revealing a creative connection that transcended that first show that brought them together.

Amid massive global paradigm shifts Dave Hartley (aka Nightlands) became a father twice over and left his native Philadelphia for Asheville, where the pace of daily life is slower and it's easier to maintain a zoomed-out perspective on modern life. From the newfound refuge of a studio he built using the bones of a barn attached to his hundred-something-year-old house in the mountains, Hartley has tailored a collection of well-crafted pop rock, pointedly titled Moonshine. Guided by some of the harmonic sensibilities that have helped make The War on Drugs a force in modern music, Moonshine combines immaculate-yet-dense vocal stacks and billowy clouds of effected keyboards with classic songcraft, revealing previously unseen acreage in the unfurling dreamscape that is Nightlands. The surrealistic album art by Austin-based illustrator Jaime Zuverza depicts an archway opening to the stars over the surface of an idyllic sea flanked by both moon and sun. Similarly, Moonshine reveals portals within portals leading to ever deeper places in Hartley's vocal-centered labyrinth. Hartley lays out the narrative of Moonshine on its masterfully sparse opener, "Looking Up." "Take your family to the mountains," he sings, "Hide them safely; pray for mercy, and easy fictions..." Throughout the album, there are plenty of buoyant high moods where the pitter-patter of drum machine and humming digital organ hints at Hartley's low-key tropicalia streak, but lyrics such as these anchor the dreaminess in real-world sorrow and resignation. Nowhere are these sentiments more apparent than on the title track, a nearly acapella recitation of "America the Beautiful" that poignantly hovers over a mirage of soft keyboards before dovetailing into Hartley's own words about the hypocrisy of the American dream. "This was never intended to be an overtly political record" he admits. "I have so many friends who are able to process the frustration of current events gracefully or with wisdom or in a nuanced way, but I often find myself just consumed with anger about it all. I decided to just let that come out, and it manifested itself lyrically." Moonshine's wide-eyed, utopian instrumental backdrops provide sharp contrast to Hartley's lyrics, which sting even harder within the sweetness. "With You" follows with full-on pop romanticism, as a rolling synth bass line and a decelerated drum machine ground the breezy arrangement. The track departs after an accumulation of warbling keyboard textures give way to "Blue Wave," an angelic instrumental vignette that deepens the mood while allowing the listener to reflect on Moonshine's earlier chapters. The slowly anthemic "No Kiss for the Lonely" takes poetic aim at xenophobia beneath a canopy of chiming bells, kalimba-like textures, glassy vocoded passages, and a massive chorus derived almost entirely from Hartley's own voice, exemplifying the nucleus of his creative process. "I spend ninety percent of my studio time building these vocal stacks with sort of endless vocal layering and lots of speeding up and slowing down of the track, overdubbing at different speeds and with different microphones," Hartley details, "and I really perfected that, I think, on this record." In terms of instrumentation, Hartley pared things down as much as possible, choosing to allocate all of Moonshine's density to his vocal harmonies, the layers of which number in the hundreds on some songs. "People sometimes ask me what's in my vocal effects chain, gear wise" he muses, "but honestly it's just a matter of having put in thousands of hours obsessing over the blend of these stacks, honing the craft." Even in light of the album's vocal emphasis, Hartley's history as a bassist brilliantly beams through Moonshine, giving effortless and sprightly movement to songs like "Down Here," which also features an extended section of saxophone lent by his Western Vinyl labelmate, Joseph Shabason. In addition to Shabason, the album hosts a short list of remote collaborators including four of Hartley's bandmates from The War on Drugs, Robbie Bennet, Anthony Lamarca, Eliza Hardy Jones, and Charlie Hall, as well as exotica virtuoso Frank Locrasto (Cass McCombs, Fruit Bats), and producer Adam McDaniel (Avey Tare, Angel Olsen). Hartley was forced to keep the guest list small out of the necessity of pandemic isolation, coupled with his move to a smaller city, all of which challenged him to do most of the album's heavy lifting right down to the mixing duties, resulting in the most independent effort of his career. By that measure, Moonshine is also the clearest image yet of Dave Hartley as a person and creator.