Lobby Art Records News

'Devotional music and its devotees all do a bit of "buying in"; that while one's on the ground reality may appear anything but celestial, through this music, one can reach ecstatic space, ecstatic peace. However, devotional music is not solely concerned with a skyward glance - what does it look like to raise up the rust, look upon fractured branches, gaze at the density of a low fog across a field? Instead of us looking up at the land, what if the land was looking back at us? Old Saw brings together a brigade of New England silt sifters to raise up the land not as excavators, but as preparators. Tending and caring for the simple mess that our world discards. Throughout Country Tropics four pieces, the crew stretches and bends chords to their resting place before setting forth towards a new one. Fiddle drone, wistful tape loops of pedal steel, pipe organ hums, and clattering bells call us to scenes of observation, a water tower, a mechanical bull rental agency, a back porch, a taxidermy shop, a local church choir, a garden with singing vines, voltage hum of the electric fence on Pulp mill bridge road.
'The funny thing about devotion is the absence of sight, of source. We place trust in the guide or guides to bring us to a place of seeing, feeling, and hearing. The music on Country Tropics calls out to those in search of such places, but also doesn't demand we conjure some fantastical, celestial vision of understanding. Rather, Old Saw points our gaze downward towards the terrafirma unconsidered, and guides our hands into the dirt.'

'Where the Smoke Goes captures the conscious and unconscious of Johnny Coley in duet between 2020-2024 AD. Alabama-born, Marseille-based artist Turner Williams Jr. wraps a selection of his dear friend Johnny’s penultimate compositions in arresting tone poems.
'The music buzzes and hums with distant trains, trembling strings, and lapping water, haloing our protagonist in a humid glow as he considers whether horses can live to 70 years old, cigarettes potent enough to knock you on your ass, and orchids facing the wrath of winter storms.
'This work began in the first Covid spring, as Johnny's advancing multiple sclerosis gave way to a permanent domestic confinement and a final period of prolific creativity. Johnny braved the toxic gales of social media to share his thriving poetry and visual art practice and to keep in touch with friends like Turner, who had recently moved abroad. For the first time, Johnny recorded himself, sending Turner fresh poems, day and night.
'Taking cues from late era Coil and the operas of Robert Ashley, Turner approached these recordings both as language and pure sound, arranging accompanying mosaics that emerge as much from Johnny’s unseen text as his mercurial drawl. Tracks draw from Turner’s solo practice as well as sessions including Henry Birdsey of Old Saw, members of the French underground (Manoir Molle, Loto Retina, Mona Assayag) and close Birmingham collaborators (Jasper Lee, Jimmy Griffin, Ladonna Smith). The voice is parsed and played as an instrument and each poem becomes a score.
'There is Johnny’s poetry and Johnny’s voice. These are two independent yet interwoven instruments. For Turner, Johnny's vocabulary, cadence, and timbre carry all of the contradictions that he writes about. His work is a dialogue of rich contradictions. "He plays with Southern American vernacular speech in his poetry while embodying it with his speech, creating a zone of emotional frisson. He loved combining opposites. Rough yet soft was one of his favourite descriptors", Turner recalls, "That was Johnny. ” Upon hearing the completed record, Johnny likened it to "a beautiful wood box, that when you open it there are fabrics shot through with silk threads and sharp fall woods smells - supporting and decorating the poems that fall out of them. ”
'This record captures something unconscious, atmospheric, and gives it unexpected materiality. Smoke that you can feel like grass under your feet. Stars that you can touch like a lover. Meeting for the final time in the summer or 2025, the time for words had passed so they just held hands and listened to the album opener Stargazer in silence as Johnny drifted off to sleep.'

'As I Slip Into the Sky reflects a particularly small sliver of time compared to Where the Smoke Goes, with recordings taking place in early 2025, while Johnny was bed-bound in an assisted living facility with multiple sclerosis. Alabama born, Portland based artist Joel Nelson helms the nearly entirely electronic backdrop, posing a new canvas for Johnny, with Buchla Music Easel bubbling up between Johnny’s lines. This album captures Johnny in a remarkably tender and emotive form. Love and all its permutations. The tangled, but caring nature of familial love, (“But you and me, we can talk on the phone every day. I would never leave you behind”), to the anguish and euphoria of romantic connection. Johnny has a remarkable ability to pose questions, ("What is real love like?), and provide answers that reflect the truest of realities, absent cliche ("I don't know. His curly hair, short on his head, his smile, his smile, his smile...that is what real love is like").
'Joel Nelson's nimble work across a small array of analog synthesizers creates a flowing backdrop to Johnny's stream of consciousness. At times, Broadcast's fuzzed out ballads come to mind, while at others, early Oneohtrix Point Never's gauzy, distant drones anchor beneath Johnny's slippery syntax.
'Johnny recorded his poems while confined to a hospital bed, through an iPhone laid gently on his chest. Assisted by the caring presence of friends John Albea and Lauren Jones, we can hear through these recordings Johnny immersed in his world of words, taking in the world of sounds Joel had provided for him. We hear his breath, at times we hear the harsh sibilance captured by the iPhone microphone, but more than anything, we hear the tenderness and poetic resolve of his caring soul. He was incredibly grateful for the past years of connecting with the small cohort of Birmingham-affiliated musicians and artists who upheld him as the unofficial poet laureate of "The Magic City", Birmingham, AL. Perhaps most appropriately, Johnny closes the album out in a state of gratitude:'

"My funeral was perfect
I was buried wearing a very charming jacket
A very charming jacket I just happened to have on when i died
He was always the lucky one, Mary-Ellen said
I've been looking for a nice casual jacket like that I could wear to casual little outdoor parties and to my funeral all my life
But Johnny just had one
Probably someone left it in his car
He was so lucky
It doesn't even make sense
But its true
He really was that lucky"

'Like the sharpshooting carnival contestant who knows that the winning practice isn’t to aim for the red star itself, but rather to shoot out a perimeter around the star and thus remove it, Old Saw have historically dealt with forms by tracing their boundaries rather than going for the target outright. If the first three records hinted at but never touched song-shaped forms, The Wringing Cloth makes at least glancing contact while retaining the layered haze and drawl that threads their sound together.
'Contrary to the often-used ambient tag, Old Saw shows up here in a markedly active and sculpted form — manipulating, unwinding, and pivoting with a strange and warped precision. What has always been uncanny about this music is that it arrives in a state at once familiar and obscured, like a memory weighed down with sensory information but no identifying details to place it.
'The Wringing Cloth walks off further into that geographical dream without time or language until it’s just a speck of light.'