Search:eliza niemi

Kneading dough is tricky – you should know how it’s supposed to feel. If you try too hard you could make it worse. It’s a beautiful practice – creation with a gentle touch, to work at something so it can be left alone. “If it’s too drawn out it’s awful. It’s easy to give too much.” Dance in the mirror. Contemplate your veiny hands. Who do they remind you of?

You begin by mixing flour and water. “What happens when your people die? Why’d they move the rock to the other side of Ulster Park?” Eliza Niemi asks two seemingly unrelated questions in a rising melody with guitar accompaniment, like fingers playing spider up to the nape of your neck. Gentle pressure. Strands of gluten form to bind the mix. A new question lingers in the binding. When she admits “but I don’t know how to tell if I’m feeling it or not,” that question surfaces through the text. It is reiterated throughout the album. When I’m working with dough I think the same thing to myself.

On Progress Bakery, her second album as a solo artist, Eliza knows to leave some questions alone – to let juxtaposition and tension be the proof. It doesn’t have to be hard. The feelings and revelations they provoke rise in the heat. The smell is sweet. Crispy on the outside and soft all the way through. She playfully slip-slides through words and sounds and images, delighting in surprise, skimming ideas like stones cast across clear water, touching down briefly with uncommon grace.

The question provoked between those opening lines resurfaces in the strands between songs – “Do U FM” is fully formed and beautifully layered, while “Novelist Sad Face” is a short, acapella rendering of gentle curiosity. What is holding these ideas together? Some songs demand more, seem to carry a whole load – eventually the skipping stone will halt to sink and resume its idle duty – while others drift in and out of focus, the way thoughts and dreams become interwoven before the mind is sunk into true sleep.

Music and words don’t always have to interact. Where she decides to keep them apart gives a new contour to where and how she puts them together. The kind of thing you’re supposed to take for granted with songs and their singers comes alive in Eliza’s hands – the little miracle of mixing, kneading, stretching, and stopping.

So often on Progress Bakery, Eliza teases out truth and meaning by asking questions. “Do I wanna be crying?” “Do you want me good or do you want me bad?” “Do I need an eye test?” “I’m writing songs in my head while you’re going over stuff with me — is that cruel??” In “Pocky” Eliza ends with a question that feels to me like the actual biography, succinct and revealing:

I don’t wanna be made to see
I just wanna ask “what’s that?”

Grace that ought to be rare, but in its care and precision is offered humbly, with great generosity, and without announcing itself. Eliza’s simple, miraculous music is given further form and shape by a group of collaborators – invaluable guest musicians Jeremy Ray, Evan Cartwright, Steven McPhail, Kenny Boothby, Ed Squires, Carolina Chauffe, Dorothea Paas, Louie Short, and Avalon Tassonyi. Together with Louie Short, who recorded, mixed, and produced the album along with Jeremy Ray and Lukas Cheung, Eliza has cultivated a richness in sound and texture that prods and provokes the ticklish ear. Barely audible guitar tinkering, a brief lo-fi field recording of trumpets, the harmonic clicking of a looped synthesizer, a flourish of reeds, a child’s conversation, each uncanny sound perfectly placed, rippling out under a soft breeze.

Lay in bed alone at night and ask aloud to the stillness,

“What were you doing at the Albuquerque Airport?
What were you doing there??”

And hear your question answered by a dream of swelling, undulating cellos. Try to grasp at the melody and structure. It’s not an answer (if there could be one), but it moves deeper, closer to the weird layer of fleeting moments and disconnected images, barely perceptible at its core. Wait for the dream reel to click into place.

Eliza took me for a ride in Nicole (her beloved Dodge Grand Caravan) and told me she’d been thinking of the album as an embodiment of transition – and I think every transition, known or unknown, carries the weight of new meaning, skittering off the surface tension of life as you know it, creating ripples, sometimes bouncing off and sometimes breaking through. There is a trick you can use to tell if a dough is glutinous enough. You’re supposed to stretch it out as thin as you can without breaking it and hold it up to the light. If you can see through, even if it renders the world murky and uncertain, you should leave it alone. I love this trick. It’s one that Eliza seems to know intuitively: work gently and ask questions and don’t always expect answers, and when you can, take a glimpse at something new, and then leave.

Kneading dough is tricky – you should know how it’s supposed to feel. If you try too hard you could make it worse. It’s a beautiful practice – creation with a gentle touch, to work at something so it can be left alone. “If it’s too drawn out it’s awful. It’s easy to give too much.” Dance in the mirror. Contemplate your veiny hands. Who do they remind you of?

You begin by mixing flour and water. “What happens when your people die? Why’d they move the rock to the other side of Ulster Park?” Eliza Niemi asks two seemingly unrelated questions in a rising melody with guitar accompaniment, like fingers playing spider up to the nape of your neck. Gentle pressure. Strands of gluten form to bind the mix. A new question lingers in the binding. When she admits “but I don’t know how to tell if I’m feeling it or not,” that question surfaces through the text. It is reiterated throughout the album. When I’m working with dough I think the same thing to myself.

On Progress Bakery, her second album as a solo artist, Eliza knows to leave some questions alone – to let juxtaposition and tension be the proof. It doesn’t have to be hard. The feelings and revelations they provoke rise in the heat. The smell is sweet. Crispy on the outside and soft all the way through. She playfully slip-slides through words and sounds and images, delighting in surprise, skimming ideas like stones cast across clear water, touching down briefly with uncommon grace.

The question provoked between those opening lines resurfaces in the strands between songs – “Do U FM” is fully formed and beautifully layered, while “Novelist Sad Face” is a short, acapella rendering of gentle curiosity. What is holding these ideas together? Some songs demand more, seem to carry a whole load – eventually the skipping stone will halt to sink and resume its idle duty – while others drift in and out of focus, the way thoughts and dreams become interwoven before the mind is sunk into true sleep.

Music and words don’t always have to interact. Where she decides to keep them apart gives a new contour to where and how she puts them together. The kind of thing you’re supposed to take for granted with songs and their singers comes alive in Eliza’s hands – the little miracle of mixing, kneading, stretching, and stopping.

So often on Progress Bakery, Eliza teases out truth and meaning by asking questions. “Do I wanna be crying?” “Do you want me good or do you want me bad?” “Do I need an eye test?” “I’m writing songs in my head while you’re going over stuff with me — is that cruel??” In “Pocky” Eliza ends with a question that feels to me like the actual biography, succinct and revealing:

I don’t wanna be made to see
I just wanna ask “what’s that?”

Grace that ought to be rare, but in its care and precision is offered humbly, with great generosity, and without announcing itself. Eliza’s simple, miraculous music is given further form and shape by a group of collaborators – invaluable guest musicians Jeremy Ray, Evan Cartwright, Steven McPhail, Kenny Boothby, Ed Squires, Carolina Chauffe, Dorothea Paas, Louie Short, and Avalon Tassonyi. Together with Louie Short, who recorded, mixed, and produced the album along with Jeremy Ray and Lukas Cheung, Eliza has cultivated a richness in sound and texture that prods and provokes the ticklish ear. Barely audible guitar tinkering, a brief lo-fi field recording of trumpets, the harmonic clicking of a looped synthesizer, a flourish of reeds, a child’s conversation, each uncanny sound perfectly placed, rippling out under a soft breeze.

Lay in bed alone at night and ask aloud to the stillness,

“What were you doing at the Albuquerque Airport?
What were you doing there??”

And hear your question answered by a dream of swelling, undulating cellos. Try to grasp at the melody and structure. It’s not an answer (if there could be one), but it moves deeper, closer to the weird layer of fleeting moments and disconnected images, barely perceptible at its core. Wait for the dream reel to click into place.

Eliza took me for a ride in Nicole (her beloved Dodge Grand Caravan) and told me she’d been thinking of the album as an embodiment of transition – and I think every transition, known or unknown, carries the weight of new meaning, skittering off the surface tension of life as you know it, creating ripples, sometimes bouncing off and sometimes breaking through. There is a trick you can use to tell if a dough is glutinous enough. You’re supposed to stretch it out as thin as you can without breaking it and hold it up to the light. If you can see through, even if it renders the world murky and uncertain, you should leave it alone. I love this trick. It’s one that Eliza seems to know intuitively: work gently and ask questions and don’t always expect answers, and when you can, take a glimpse at something new, and then leave.

Kneading dough is tricky – you should know how it’s supposed to feel. If you try too hard you could make it worse. It’s a beautiful practice – creation with a gentle touch, to work at something so it can be left alone. “If it’s too drawn out it’s awful. It’s easy to give too much.” Dance in the mirror. Contemplate your veiny hands. Who do they remind you of?

You begin by mixing flour and water. “What happens when your people die? Why’d they move the rock to the other side of Ulster Park?” Eliza Niemi asks two seemingly unrelated questions in a rising melody with guitar accompaniment, like fingers playing spider up to the nape of your neck. Gentle pressure. Strands of gluten form to bind the mix. A new question lingers in the binding. When she admits “but I don’t know how to tell if I’m feeling it or not,” that question surfaces through the text. It is reiterated throughout the album. When I’m working with dough I think the same thing to myself.

On Progress Bakery, her second album as a solo artist, Eliza knows to leave some questions alone – to let juxtaposition and tension be the proof. It doesn’t have to be hard. The feelings and revelations they provoke rise in the heat. The smell is sweet. Crispy on the outside and soft all the way through. She playfully slip-slides through words and sounds and images, delighting in surprise, skimming ideas like stones cast across clear water, touching down briefly with uncommon grace.

The question provoked between those opening lines resurfaces in the strands between songs – “Do U FM” is fully formed and beautifully layered, while “Novelist Sad Face” is a short, acapella rendering of gentle curiosity. What is holding these ideas together? Some songs demand more, seem to carry a whole load – eventually the skipping stone will halt to sink and resume its idle duty – while others drift in and out of focus, the way thoughts and dreams become interwoven before the mind is sunk into true sleep.

Music and words don’t always have to interact. Where she decides to keep them apart gives a new contour to where and how she puts them together. The kind of thing you’re supposed to take for granted with songs and their singers comes alive in Eliza’s hands – the little miracle of mixing, kneading, stretching, and stopping.

So often on Progress Bakery, Eliza teases out truth and meaning by asking questions. “Do I wanna be crying?” “Do you want me good or do you want me bad?” “Do I need an eye test?” “I’m writing songs in my head while you’re going over stuff with me — is that cruel??” In “Pocky” Eliza ends with a question that feels to me like the actual biography, succinct and revealing:

I don’t wanna be made to see
I just wanna ask “what’s that?”

Grace that ought to be rare, but in its care and precision is offered humbly, with great generosity, and without announcing itself. Eliza’s simple, miraculous music is given further form and shape by a group of collaborators – invaluable guest musicians Jeremy Ray, Evan Cartwright, Steven McPhail, Kenny Boothby, Ed Squires, Carolina Chauffe, Dorothea Paas, Louie Short, and Avalon Tassonyi. Together with Louie Short, who recorded, mixed, and produced the album along with Jeremy Ray and Lukas Cheung, Eliza has cultivated a richness in sound and texture that prods and provokes the ticklish ear. Barely audible guitar tinkering, a brief lo-fi field recording of trumpets, the harmonic clicking of a looped synthesizer, a flourish of reeds, a child’s conversation, each uncanny sound perfectly placed, rippling out under a soft breeze.

Lay in bed alone at night and ask aloud to the stillness,

“What were you doing at the Albuquerque Airport?
What were you doing there??”

And hear your question answered by a dream of swelling, undulating cellos. Try to grasp at the melody and structure. It’s not an answer (if there could be one), but it moves deeper, closer to the weird layer of fleeting moments and disconnected images, barely perceptible at its core. Wait for the dream reel to click into place.

Eliza took me for a ride in Nicole (her beloved Dodge Grand Caravan) and told me she’d been thinking of the album as an embodiment of transition – and I think every transition, known or unknown, carries the weight of new meaning, skittering off the surface tension of life as you know it, creating ripples, sometimes bouncing off and sometimes breaking through. There is a trick you can use to tell if a dough is glutinous enough. You’re supposed to stretch it out as thin as you can without breaking it and hold it up to the light. If you can see through, even if it renders the world murky and uncertain, you should leave it alone. I love this trick. It’s one that Eliza seems to know intuitively: work gently and ask questions and don’t always expect answers, and when you can, take a glimpse at something new, and then leave.

Our earliest exposures to music can often be the most formative
For Toronto- based songwriter and multi- instrumentalist Eliza Niemi, that
influence came from her Dad who taught her the basics of bass and guitar at
home. These childhood experiences of playing music together by ear fostered the
sense of playfulness that she's approached her craft with ever since. They also
instilled an ethic in her creative work that prioritizes making music with friends
and loved ones.Those honed guitar — and later piano, cello and vocal — skills
make Eliza an ideal collaborator: starting in Halifax's rich music scene with the
mid-2010s experimental pop groups New Love Underground and Mauno, and
later in her role supporting artists Le Ren, Quaker Parents and Evan J. Cartwright.
Through the rhythms of touring and the brilliant spark that's shared in musical
exchange, Eliza found and developed connections across Canada's DIY music
communities. These collaborative moments fuel her creative practice, whether
playing solo, in an ensemble or releasing others' music as the founder of her own
label, Vain Mina Records.Connection and collaboration lives in the intimacy of her
albums, starting with 2019's Vinegar, an understated set of songs for cello,
keyboard and voice that wander with a comforting grace. 2020's Glass furthered
Eliza's reputation for writing songs that are boundless and experimental without
ever being alienating. There's an open, inviting quality throughout the record,
apparent from the close-miked instruments, to her softly sung and affable lyrics
that unfold like a conversation with a good friend.Her latest album, Staying
Mellow Blows, furthers these ideas and aesthetics to a staggering degree,
retaining the candor, humor and emotional humility she's known for, while letting
the vast number of supporting musicians shape each song with their own
emotionally resonant performances. The result feels whimsical and inspired, and
is the sound of an artist flourishing
180g 12" Deluxe Lavender Vinyl

Gloam is the highly anticipated sophomore album from alternative folk band MAYBEL. Similar characteristics from their debut, Gathering, are carried forward: elegant harmonies, soft instrumentals and a shared optimism coupled with a wide open vulnerability. The songs still echo the intimacy, warmth and closeness of their relationships, yet the band has matured. MAYBEL's evolution shines through with ambitious compositions, thoughtful songwriting, and a deeper understanding of themselves as the album’s themes pierce with growing pains, anxieties and hopes for change. It’s a record about movement and stopping; the ongoing act of coming apart and coming together. Gloam is for listening in your bedroom or in transit, missing friends, on your way to see them. It holds an optimism that rings clear yet nestles and dwells in a brooding, muddy darkness - placing it firmly in the illustrious Canadian folk canon. This is the first album for which all four members (Fez Gielen, Ali Hendra, Loris Kecaj and Lauren Spear) wrote songs. For the most part, they were written during the pandemic separately and then shared in the upstairs living room where Lauren, Ali and Loris used to live together. The result is a shared diary on love, grief and moving on. The band's ability to effortlessly blend traditional folk elements with modern production techniques is reminiscent of the collaborations between Emmylou Harris and Daniel Lanois. Just as Harris and Lanois brought a fresh perspective to country music, MAYBEL embraces experimentation in their sound without compromising the warmth and intimacy inherent to folk music. As with their debut Gathering, MAYBEL recorded Gloam with producer/engineer Jonas Bonnetta at Port William Sound in Mountain Grove, Ontario. Resonating with a sound borne of the studio’s deeply intimate rural environs it is no wonder the band chose to return. Here they were joined by Eliza Niemi on bass/cello, Caylie Runciman on bass/drums with Jonas adding synths and percussion. Gloam is an old Scottish word for twilight. It appears like a fantasy between the day and night, a time seemingly frozen, drifting, or ignored all together. Gloam is the mood and time within which the album takes place. MAYBEL describes it as being: “In transition, between sleeping and waking—a quiet underworld where one is alone with their thoughts, in true presence with the in-between.” The final track on the album, “For Nothing”, captures something of the album’s twilight hope. It begins with lilting solos and gracefully builds in energy and color. MAYBEL sings to its listeners, “All that work for nothing” with a buoyancy and radiance that chimes against the lyrics. They repeat: “All that work for nothing”. For all of the band, the last few years have resulted in significant change and stress. Yet they continue to try, through their music, to will themselves towards optimism. They ask for you to marvel with them at the charming and terrifying possibility of life. They harmonize again, not despairingly, but almost ecstatically “All that work for nothing!”

Unter der Regie des Produzenten Chris Cohen und mit Gast-Beiträgen unter anderem von Buck Meek und Tenci, weben die organischen und doch akribischen Folk-Klanglandschaften und tief empfundenen Texte auf dem Debütalbum von Le Ren aus Montreal einen reichen musikalischen Wandteppich. Mit der Veröffentlichung ihrer Secretly Canadian EP "Morning & Melancholia" im Jahr 2020 hat sich Le Ren den Vergleich mit der Musikalität und den kargen, eloquenten Texten von John Prine und Neil Young verdient. Auf "Leftovers" zeigt sie uns die lebendige Tiefe ihres klanglichen und thematischen Spektrums und schreibt mit einer kühnen Klarheit, die sie zwischen klassischen Ikonen wie Joni Mitchell, Vashti Bunyan und Karen Dalton sowie einer neuen Klasse von Folk-Ausnahmekönnern wie Adrianne Lenker, Jessica Pratt und Laura Marling beheimatet. "Leftovers" präsentiert zu gleichen Teilen Melancholie, tiefe Liebe und Heiterkeit, um die Trauernden aufzumuntern, während es ein Patchwork aus persönlichen Liedern über verschiedene Beziehungen zusammennäht: die, die wir mit Müttern, Liebhabern und Freunden teilen. Auf "Leftovers" destilliert Le Ren jahrelanges Material zu zehn straff ausgeführten Tracks, die durch das schwelgerische Zupfen ihrer Gitarre und das kristallklare Timbre ihrer Stimme vereint werden. Im April 2021 traf sie sich mit Chris Cohen in einem gemieteten Haus in Portland, Oregon, wo sie warten mussten, bis ein Nachbarsjunge aufhörte, draußen Lärm zu machen, bevor sie aufnehmen konnten. Die musikalischen Gastbeiträge wurden anschließend hinzugefügt: Kori Miyanishi, Cedric Noel, Saltwater Hank (Jeremy Pahl), Eliza Niemi, Kaïa Kater, Aaron Goldstein, Buck Meek und Tenci (Jess Showman) nahmen ihre Parts separat in ganz Nordamerika auf.

Unter der Regie des Produzenten Chris Cohen und mit Gast-Beiträgen unter anderem von Buck Meek und Tenci, weben die organischen und doch akribischen Folk-Klanglandschaften und tief empfundenen Texte auf dem Debütalbum von Le Ren aus Montreal einen reichen musikalischen Wandteppich. Mit der Veröffentlichung ihrer Secretly Canadian EP "Morning & Melancholia" im Jahr 2020 hat sich Le Ren den Vergleich mit der Musikalität und den kargen, eloquenten Texten von John Prine und Neil Young verdient. Auf "Leftovers" zeigt sie uns die lebendige Tiefe ihres klanglichen und thematischen Spektrums und schreibt mit einer kühnen Klarheit, die sie zwischen klassischen Ikonen wie Joni Mitchell, Vashti Bunyan und Karen Dalton sowie einer neuen Klasse von Folk-Ausnahmekönnern wie Adrianne Lenker, Jessica Pratt und Laura Marling beheimatet. "Leftovers" präsentiert zu gleichen Teilen Melancholie, tiefe Liebe und Heiterkeit, um die Trauernden aufzumuntern, während es ein Patchwork aus persönlichen Liedern über verschiedene Beziehungen zusammennäht: die, die wir mit Müttern, Liebhabern und Freunden teilen. Auf "Leftovers" destilliert Le Ren jahrelanges Material zu zehn straff ausgeführten Tracks, die durch das schwelgerische Zupfen ihrer Gitarre und das kristallklare Timbre ihrer Stimme vereint werden. Im April 2021 traf sie sich mit Chris Cohen in einem gemieteten Haus in Portland, Oregon, wo sie warten mussten, bis ein Nachbarsjunge aufhörte, draußen Lärm zu machen, bevor sie aufnehmen konnten. Die musikalischen Gastbeiträge wurden anschließend hinzugefügt: Kori Miyanishi, Cedric Noel, Saltwater Hank (Jeremy Pahl), Eliza Niemi, Kaïa Kater, Aaron Goldstein, Buck Meek und Tenci (Jess Showman) nahmen ihre Parts separat in ganz Nordamerika auf.

MILKY CLEAR VINYL.

''The lightness of the C86 Sarah Records guitars come with the significant counterweight of more ominous Factory Records basslines.The lyrics and vocals are stark, sandpapery and sardonic, akin to Jonathan Richman, Kiwi Jr and, Bodega.'' Ducks Ltd. - EP Review - God Is In The TV
Toronto’s Ducks Ltd. (formerly Ducks Unlimited), the bright jangle-pop duo of Tom McGreevy (lead vocal, guitar, bass, keyboards) and Evan Lewis (guitar, bass, drum programming), accomplish the impossible. The pair craft songs that play to very specific inspirations without drowning underneath them—immediately evidenced on their critically acclaimed EP, Get Bleak, and sharpened on Modern Fiction, their debut LP. “The Servants, The Clean, The Chills, The Bats, Television Personalities, Felt,” Evan rattles off. “Look Blue Go Purple is one I reference a lot with our production.” Echoes of ‘80s indiepop abound, but they never overwhelm. This is not a nostalgic record, after all, nor is it a derivative one. Instead, across 10 cheery-sounding songs, Ducks Ltd. explore contemporary society in decline, examining large scale human disaster through personal turmoil (hence the title, taken from a university course called Gnosticism and Nihilism in Modern Fiction, influenced by Graham Greene novels. Bookish indie fans, look no further.)

Writing the album was intimate. Tom drafted the nucleus of a song on an unplugged electric guitar and brought it over to Evan’s apartment, where the pair sat in his bedroom, placing percussive beats from a drum machine under nascent melodies, passing a bass back and forth, adding organs and bridges where necessary. “It’s computer music trying extremely hard not to sound like computer music,” Tom jokes. Fearful that limited and expensive studio time would kneecap the project creatively, eroding their charming naivete, the pair re-recorded the album in a storage space owned by Evan’s boss. Ornamentation through collaboration followed: there’s Aaron Goldstein on Pedal Steel in the Go-Betweens’ “Cattle and Cane”-channeling interlude “Patience Wearing Thin,” Eliza Niemi on cello (“18 Cigarettes,” a song loosely inspired by a 1997 Oasis performance of “Don’t Go Away”), and backing harmonies from Carpark labelmates The Beths (on an ode to friendship at a distance, “How Lonely Are You?,” “Always There,” and on the sped-up Syd Barrett stylings of “Under The Rolling Moon.”) While in his native Australia due to covid-19, Evan worked closely with producer James Cecil (The Goon Sax, Architecture in Helsinki) on Modern Fiction’s finishing touches—at one point, in the mountains of the Macedon Ranges in Victoria, recorded a string quartet (featured on “Fit to Burst,” “Always There,” “Sullen Leering Hope,” “Twere Ever Thus,” “Grand Final Day.”)

It’s danceable, depressive fun, with some relief: in “Always There” and “Sullen Leering Hope,” Modern Fiction’s faithful heart. “There’s a tendency in my writing, because of my world view, to be very bleak.” Tom explains. “A quality I don’t always see in myself and really appreciate in others is the courage to go on.” And yet, the record manages resiliency—enough for pop fans to fall in love with.