Buscar:billy zach

The songs of Jules de Corte are condensed, folky gems with an almost effortless charm. Poised between the intimate and the universal, between lightness and darkness, they touch on religion, love, loss, and the small dramas of everyday life. Yet they resist easy translation. Packed with wordplay, de Corte’s signature alliterations, humor, and local cultural references, the songs inevitably lose something in another language. Still, when a Belgian quartet of improvisers takes them on, joined by American songwriter Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy, the songs are reborn rather than merely transposed: literal fidelity gives way to interpretation, and what is lost in words is often gained in spirit.

Even without tracing every change, their overall effect is fascinating. Songs are slowed down, often doubled in length, and filled with unexpected musical intrusions. They gain fuller arrangements and are placed in an entirely new context. Replacing de Corte’s piano with guitar can create a radically different vibe, as in “Mariska.” An added solo can heighten the contrast between childlike perspective and the almost matter- of-fact brutality of “Little Anita.” In “The Stranger,” another use of contrast unsettles the everyday harmony, transforming it with a subtle, disorienting twist.

Ultimately, these performances show that interpretation is not successful simply because it is literal. With the groundwork laid by Linus, Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy further liberated the songs from their original versions. Lyrics and melodies become malleable, shaped by his recognizable cadences, timbre, and personal quirks. Like his collaborators, he allows himself the freedom to bend the material to his own approach. There is no radical break between this performance and his other records. Listeners familiar with the originals may be puzzled at first; for those new to de Corte, it is a wholly different experience.

Does it really matter that the original “Little Jesus, Mighty God” is a 100-second nugget combining playful naivete with biblical fervor? In the hands of these five explorers, the song becomes an intriguing contemplation, with subtle musical shades and a recitation in which every syllable carries a maturity that offers a new perspective. Then there is “The Outsider,” which feels as genuine as any original American folk song. The musicians’ process is more than reinterpretation—it is reimagination, bringing new musical compatibility and emotional depth. Whether that depth was there from the start, waiting to be uncovered, or created in the process is beside the point. What matters is that Linus and Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy have made the essence of these songs their own, paying homage yet dancing to their own tune.

Linus is the Belgian duo of guitarist and banjo player Ruben Machtelinckx and reedist and synthesiser player Thomas Jillings. Across five previous albums — Onland (2014), Linus + Skarbø / Leroux (2015), Felt Like Old language at the crossroads of folk, jazz, minimalism, chamber music and free improvisation. Their music is adventurous, shaped by a particular sensitivity to texture, timbre and the subtle interaction between musicians.

What began as a duo gradually grew into a flexible musical world, bringing Linus together with musicians such as Nils Økland, Ingar Zach, Niels Van Heertum, Øyvind Skarbø and Frederik Leroux. Yet each new constellation has remained recognisably Linus: music in which carefully considered forms leave space for intuition, interaction and the unexpected.

For their sixth album, Linus takes a new step by moving into the world of song and text. Inspired by a shared love for the late Dutch songwriter Jules De Corte, the album is a reimagining of De Corte’s unique repertoire. More than simply interpreting De Corte’s songs, they absorb and reshape them, bringing them into dialogue with their own musical language. In keeping with this open approach, they are joined by celebrated vocalist Bonnie “Prince” Billy. With albums such as 1999’s I See a Darkness appearing on several greatest album lists, Bonnie “Prince” Billy is a cult figure in the alternative folk scene, and his highly intuitive way of singing seamlessly matches the subtle interplay Linus has developed over more than a decade.

Crack Cloud has always been something beyond a rock band: both profound and grand, vaporous and elusive. The first iteration of Crack Cloud was formed nearly a decade ago as a proxy-rehab outlet on the fringes of Calgary. Over time, two EPs and accompanying visual pieces were produced out of the residence known as Red Mile. By 2017, several members had relocated to Vancouver, working out of harm reduction centers and low-barrier shelters. Sobriety, self-reformation and the idealism of their work further formed an ethos for Crack Cloud. It was during these years that the band produced their astounding 2020 album Pain Olympics. At once, their vision became expansive, cinematic. Now, Red Mile is a bit of a homecoming. Members have returned to Calgary. But Calgary/home has become a liminal space, a place of flux. After a decade of personal and collective growth, what does home even mean? Red Mile is, for them, something like samsara: a return and a rebirth. Red Mile's sound breathes expansive energy into the circuitous, street bound sonics of Crack Cloud's prior material. Fizzling synths intertwine with chiming pianos. Songs layer like Russian nesting dolls; one may find a Ramones chorus set within a desolate Western prog soundtrack only to watch it erupt into a joyous anthem. Real-ass guitars _ alternately lilting, scuzzy and soaring _ ring out across wide sun-bleached spaces. In 2024, the cumulative effect is (in rock instrumentation terms) naturalistic. Any whiff of embalmed nostalgia is absent. Even the close of the album - a winding, almost Jerry Garcia guitar noodle that leads us out of Red Mile - is delivered without sentimentality. Principal songwriter Zach Choy's lyrics are cutting but merciful, with a sharp self-awareness that never slides into self-satisfaction. Crack Cloud as artists are critical _ and ultimately as forgiving _ of themselves as they are the melting world around them. The songs balance an easy charm and cathartic power: affirming life without denying death. Recorded predominantly between the outskirts of Joshua Tree California, and Calgary, Alberta, this record is informed by a bittersweet mélange of old and new. The sprawling, novelistic structures of their previous albums are condensed and sharpened, while maintaining their refusal to delve into superficiality. Through playful melodies and elliptical guitar soliloquy, they deliver a final product of exceptional depth and distinctly unprecious warmth. Crack Cloud have produced a mature, vital work that interrogates the platitudes of the rock-n-roll lifestyle, but ultimately exalts its sacredness. Red Mile's de facto thesis statement "The Medium" is itself a rock song meditation: an ode to the form and its practitioners. This genre that _ typical, repeatable, corporatized as it can be _ somehow still has the power to help us live through life. We see the dusty sentiment of "I love rock and roll" exhumed, taken apart, and stitched back together. It's a song guided by faith _ if the medium helps us proclaim our love today, it's worth protecting from derision tomorrow. We live in an era where music seems to love hitting its head against the wall. Crack Cloud's Red Mile is the sound _ the feeling! _ of the bricks giving way.

Crack Cloud has always been something beyond a rock band: both profound and grand, vaporous and elusive. The first iteration of Crack Cloud was formed nearly a decade ago as a proxy-rehab outlet on the fringes of Calgary. Over time, two EPs and accompanying visual pieces were produced out of the residence known as Red Mile. By 2017, several members had relocated to Vancouver, working out of harm reduction centers and low-barrier shelters. Sobriety, self-reformation and the idealism of their work further formed an ethos for Crack Cloud. It was during these years that the band produced their astounding 2020 album Pain Olympics. At once, their vision became expansive, cinematic. Now, Red Mile is a bit of a homecoming. Members have returned to Calgary. But Calgary/home has become a liminal space, a place of flux. After a decade of personal and collective growth, what does home even mean? Red Mile is, for them, something like samsara: a return and a rebirth. Red Mile's sound breathes expansive energy into the circuitous, street bound sonics of Crack Cloud's prior material. Fizzling synths intertwine with chiming pianos. Songs layer like Russian nesting dolls; one may find a Ramones chorus set within a desolate Western prog soundtrack only to watch it erupt into a joyous anthem. Real-ass guitars _ alternately lilting, scuzzy and soaring _ ring out across wide sun-bleached spaces. In 2024, the cumulative effect is (in rock instrumentation terms) naturalistic. Any whiff of embalmed nostalgia is absent. Even the close of the album - a winding, almost Jerry Garcia guitar noodle that leads us out of Red Mile - is delivered without sentimentality. Principal songwriter Zach Choy's lyrics are cutting but merciful, with a sharp self-awareness that never slides into self-satisfaction. Crack Cloud as artists are critical _ and ultimately as forgiving _ of themselves as they are the melting world around them. The songs balance an easy charm and cathartic power: affirming life without denying death. Recorded predominantly between the outskirts of Joshua Tree California, and Calgary, Alberta, this record is informed by a bittersweet mélange of old and new. The sprawling, novelistic structures of their previous albums are condensed and sharpened, while maintaining their refusal to delve into superficiality. Through playful melodies and elliptical guitar soliloquy, they deliver a final product of exceptional depth and distinctly unprecious warmth. Crack Cloud have produced a mature, vital work that interrogates the platitudes of the rock-n-roll lifestyle, but ultimately exalts its sacredness. Red Mile's de facto thesis statement "The Medium" is itself a rock song meditation: an ode to the form and its practitioners. This genre that _ typical, repeatable, corporatized as it can be _ somehow still has the power to help us live through life. We see the dusty sentiment of "I love rock and roll" exhumed, taken apart, and stitched back together. It's a song guided by faith _ if the medium helps us proclaim our love today, it's worth protecting from derision tomorrow. We live in an era where music seems to love hitting its head against the wall. Crack Cloud's Red Mile is the sound _ the feeling! _ of the bricks giving way.