Tin Angel News

OOOOH! by Alex Bad Baby Lukashevsky with Cocoa Corner (2025)

Celebrated veteran of Toronto’s music scene, known for his boundary-pushing approach to folk and avant-garde music, twists rock music into strange and brilliant new shapes with the help of young jazz players, U.S. Girls, and his own immensely talented son.



OOOOH! is hard on the outside and soft on the inside. Made in the spirit of unity,
humanity, and poetry — disobediently renouncing the glory of personal triumph for the
generosity of an honest experiment. On the last track of the album you’ll hear “Or do you only ever never want to make a single enemy? / That’s not freedom or humility / It’s nothing, honestly.” Oooh, that's a bad baby!

A celebrated Toronto songwriter and performer, Alex Lukashevsky has always been disobedient. Which simply means, nothing is off the table when he’s looking for his
poetic voice; when trying to find the realest I of the teller. As he sings on the lead track “that musician that’s dead” The musician is radical/ it’s the world that’s demented/ listening with their eyes, the music looks dented/ they’re over-represented.
OOOOH! was recorded in January 2024 at Sound Department in Toronto, engineered by Patrick Lefler (ROY), mixed by Grammy-nominated producer Matt Smith. All the songs were tracked live off the floor in two days, with one extra day for recording vocals, to keep the recording fully alive and breathing. As leader of Deep Dark United, as a solo performer, and a sideman in Brodie Wests’ Eucalyptus and Luka Kuplowsky’s Ryokan Band, Alex has been an outsized influence on the Toronto music scene that spawned acts like Broken Social Scene and Owen Pallett. (Pallett, who has toured with Lukashevsky, went so far as to record an entire album’s worth of Alex’s songs, backed
by a full orchestra.)

Lukashevsky has approached each of his albums and projects as something completely new, using only the musical boundaries he creates with each song. Even when he
has recorded songs with nothing but his voice and his own acoustic guitar accompaniment, the results are never “stripped down” or “back to basics,”
Gong! How do you get to heaven / have fun! have fun!
It’s cool to approach music as a game of “spot the influence”; Burt Bacharach-meets-Black Flag; Lana Del Rey-meets-LCD Soundsystem etc. Glorified mash-ups are promising because of their conversational nature. But they can turn us into hyperboreans; blowing cold air beyond ourselves while doing what we can to remain warm. To devise a game or a narrative is to have a winner and a loser, but we all know that just as you win/ so you lose. And does anything really change? Alex Lukashevsky and Cocoa Corner are more at ease drawing blind contours or playing an old game like consequences. They let things add up without knowing particularly how. Cognition is recognition.

Lukashevsky, in addition to writing all the songs, plays guitar and sings on OOOOH!, doing both in ways that are soulful and spikey at the same time. Joining him on guitar and vocals is his oldest child, Charlie Lukashevsky, who, at 23, is already a talented performer and songwriter in his own right. Cocoa Corner also includes Aidan McConnell, an in-demand drummer and composer, Jack Johnston, a jazz bassist and Barry Harris acolyte, and percussionist Evan Cartwright (The Weather Station, U.S. Girls, Cola, Tasseomancy), who plays steel pan and marching drum.

Working with his son and with other younger musicians is central to the album’s
unpredictable aesthetic. It reinvigorated the sound in unexpected ways. Lukashevsky says, “I had to reconsider my own instincts. I had to deal with being 99 years old.”
In addition to these performers, the album includes a tasty contribution from Meg
Remy, the visionary musician and producer who is the leader of the critically acclaimed
project U.S. Girls. Remy duets with Lukashevsky on the imagistic and sprawling album
closer “things keep happening.”
About that album title: OOOOH! is taken straight from “that musician that’s dead” an
arch and unhinged comment on the exertion required to navigate a lifetime of music making.
Lukashevsky’s delivery of that one emotive word is a kind of cultural posture, but also a
hundred percent primitive expression. The impact is never less than visceral. His vocal
delivery ranges through rich baritone blues to keening falsettos to a kind of sprechstimme that periodically steps out from the music to grab the listener’s shirt. He
doesn’t sound too nice, but he is sincere. When life gives you lemons lament.
For OOOOH! his first official full-length album since 2012’s Too Late Blues, (a collection of knotty-yet-effervescent tunes built upon the enchantingly serpentine harmonies of Lukashevsky and his vocal collaborators, Felicity Williams (Bahamas, Bernice) and Daniela Gesundheit (Snowblink, HYDRA)), Alex has once again broken apart and rebuilt his own approach to music. Or rather (because that sounds too over-determined), he
has allowed his music to build itself into strange new shapes that only fleetingly and
coincidentally, but happily, resemble anything that might be called rock and roll. There is some editorializing within the song’s lyrics— Lukashevsky even cheekily contributes to the “spot the influence” game with the line “Muddy Waters, Rite of Spring!” a funny preemptive strike against anyone already reaching for some variation of avant-blues to describe what the song is up to here. In fact there are many names checked on this record (literally and in spirit); they are the lily pads that trace the path of this expression! Palestrina, Peter Pears and Benjamin Brittain, Andrés Segovia, Stravinsky, Lotte Lenya, Alice Coltrane, Skip James, Chuck Berry, D’Gary, Betty Carter, Mukhtiyar Ali, Chuck D, Yoko Ono, Hailu Mergia, David Bowie, Jane Siberry. rhythm is a skeleton mansion / haunted by melody / feckless prodigy / the world is under a spell / cast by some demon angel / Practice day and night / Try as hard as hell / no one can sing that well Musicians are often worried by the way in which they are prepared to fail rather
than how they would like to succeed; it’s such a deep concern that it tempers their creativity and shackles their process. Current cultural proclivities, tend to comfort a certain kind of artistic failure and abnegate another kind. How many testimonials, full of heartfelt care and investment, have you heard for Taylor Swift, and yet a craftsman like Chris Weisman is often dismissed easily as though he’s doing something anti-social. what’s throwing itself in my ears and my eyes / arrogant devil ad hominem christ.
The music you will hear on this recording veers off in multiple directions at once,
and features a rock and roll spirit with a divergent heart. This is no sclerotic clomp of the Average Rock Song, but in fact a flood of humanity in all its darkness and moodiness and unpredictability. If most performers make songs that are like sports cars or pickup trucks to drive around, Lukashevsky has built something more akin to a rowboat in a tree: it’s weird and beautiful.

The record tells the story of the Jesus De La Cruz Conde, who embarks on an epic journey of self-discovery after witnessing his hometown get burned to the ground. The tracks that make up this record are the very repertoire of songs sung by De La Cruz to Mezcal-soaked patrons in haunted cantinas, as he drifts from pueblo to pueblo across a desolate landscape bristling with tumbleweed. Throughout La Muerte en Realidad no Existe, Clothing conjures De la Cruz through this vampire-cowboy alter-ego creating as much a Mexican Gothic as a Latin American Giallo - a phantasmagoric fever dream of love, loss and violence - painted in neon Technicolor.

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.

The Titillators became a band in 2018 and emerge from a bold
compulsion: to sound completely unlike any other musical group in
existence
On their third album to date, That's The Night , it's clearer than ever that they've
been successful in this endeavour.
It's a tuneful, mainly instrumental batch of bent exotica played by a group of
some of Toronto's most inventive and highly regarded musicians. And while
listeners will catch aural whiffs of jazz, pop, soul, electronica, and free
improvisation there's something irrefutably singular about their output.
They're led by Ryan Driver, whom you may know from his solo recordings on Tin
Angel, from groups such as Eucalyptus, and from his frequent collaborations with
Eric Chenaux. Driver provides the compositions and plays street sweeper bristle
bass, an instrument of his own devising consisting of a small tine of metal
plucked on top of an amplifed cigar box.
The ubiquitous and multitalented Thom Gill's whistling often plays a
disconcerting lead role, while both he and acclaimed jazz pianist Tania Gill play
synths. Meanwhile the trifecta of percussionists Phil Melanson, D. Alex Meeks,
and Nick Fraser offer rhythmic interplay with one crucial caveat: none of them are
permitted to play any component of a standard drum kit.
PR will be dealt with in-house at Tin Angel.
Limited edition of 300 copies on 180gram Atlantic Pearl Blue Vinyl + OBI strip

With When You're This, This In Love, Southworth put all his signature
sounds together, mostly folk songs, sometimes dressed up as loungeballads, rock nocturnes, classical-chansons, time-traveling, lucid, jazzy feeling pop songs too.

His songs are pleas. Laments. There's an olive branch behind his back.
In 2014 Rolling Stone named his album #1 album of the year.

This album in feel is similar to that record.

Mexico city based, Guatemalan cellist Mabe Fratti releases second album (translated Can We Understand Each Other Now) on new experimental label Unheard of Hope (Peter Zummo, Military Genius). Reconciling Mabe's steps throughout her musical past, the LP features pop and experimentation that reflects her time working amongst the improvisation scene in Mexico City. Mabe Fratti's sensibility is the triumph of experimentation over technical do-minion of an instrument. The experimentation of sound with feelings, with ex-istence itself, with an open heart, letting herself to be transformed by what she lives and hears. This is what has led Mabe Fratti from Guatemala to Mexico City. From the crea-tion of pop songs to free improvisation, from the academy to noise, from col-laborations in ensembles and duos to the profound personal journey that is reflected in her solo works. This album was created during May 2020 in an old juice factory in a place in Veracruz called La Orduna. We were quarantining with many musician friends who had moved into the place some months before everyone went into lock down. The general lyri-cal idea of the album was inspired by a conversation about how we are some kind of funnel and how we need to simplificate in order to communicate. Even when we want to communicate things to ourselves. The idea of understanding becomes complicated but based in this fact of omission and clumsiness.

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

CLAMM's music was already concerned with the woes of the world, but
the last two years have added extra urgency to their blown out, dystopian
punk power
New album Care is bigger, louder and darker than its predecessor. CLAMM
dodged lockdowns to record at Rolling Stock and Sound Park Studios with Nao
Anzai (NO ZU, Cash Savage, Rolling Blackouts). Nao also plays fearsome synth
on the album and has joined the band on- stage at recent shows. Saxophonist
Anna Gordon (Mangelwurzel) contributes wild free jazz skronk to a number of
tracks.
180g "Chick" Yellow Vinyl

On “Love Corrupted”, their debut LP, Dime Lifters swagger their way through classic pop structures, nocturnal
cruisers, and atmospheric ballads.

It seems now that Ian Daniel Kehoe has been hiding in plain sight
A classic songwriter pulling from a seemingly endless supply of hooks, dancing
through his debut video in silver face paint and an assortment of wide shouldered
sports jackets, Kehoe appears somewhat like an apparition, an emissary from a
better world. Yes Very, Kehoe’s latest under his own name, is an entirely self
assured record, confident, immaculate pop songs, drenched in analog synth and
punchily articulate in their pursuit of love, beauty and rhythm. Recorded and
performed entirely by Kehoe himself.

Learning about what Deliluh has been through these past two years
brought the commands on a cassette player to mind: press rewind,
forward, play and eject The band, now a duo of Kyle Knapp and Julius Pedersen, relocated to Europe from their Toronto base with the ambition to plug into a continent that felt more cohesive in terms of a gig circuit and to map new spaces, both terrestrial and spiritual. This bold move came with several adjustments.

Fault Lines is also a European record in its making. It first took shape at a session in Copenhagen in January 2019 where the band, still a four piece, recorded the beds before heading out on tour. The plan was to take a post-tour break and track some ideas that could be worked on remotely until everyone got back together in the early summer. Then everything "kind of went sideways". Fault Lines stayed in an embryonic state for more than half a year, during which Deliluh reconfigured as a two piece. The lockdowns did, however, provide the time to rework material, or reposition ideas in line with the circumstances the pair found themselves in.

Julius Pedersen: "We did a lot of heavy lifting at home together in Berlin and Marseille, taking turns training back and forth, throwing shit at the wall and experimenting."

After all this upheaval, does Deliluh still dream of going to another place? Are places different and do they really have a bearing on the creative path? "There's always another place calling from beyond. Without it we would be stuck and hopeless

A few years back I had this dream: I was walking through vast grasslands
towards a solitary hill
On top of the hill was a movie house. On the marquee: History of Jazz.I kept
thinking about it. What was in the movie house? What happened before? What
followed? Why was I going there? Why "History of Jazz"? To reach some kind of
insight, I began a film script, extending the dream tenfold. The script morphed
into a novella-sized book, a series of songs, and finally, a "mind-movie" podcast,
forming this labyrinthine, multi- medium story – equal parts dream, film and
waking life. Figuring out how to transcend the traditional parameters of the album
to create a more panoramic story- vision is something I've been unconsciously
trying to do for some time. I've been pushing against the edges – toying with
narrative, characters and visuals with Easterween and Niagara, a weird children's
book Daydreams for Night – but the scope of life behind Rialto felt too
irrepressible and expansive to be boxed in an album. The book and podcast have
kicked open the doors – allowing the album to lead or serve where it should.In
Rialto's extended narrative, Klaus (loner, insomniac) is working a stint as a driver
for a small town writer's festival. Following a series of unsettling paranormal
events, he finds himself agreeing to a strange request - to deliver a film reel in
time for its premiere at a secluded movie house - the Rialto. The journey leads
him through a circuit of strangely located, oracular movie houses, screening a mix
of dreams, fantasies, memories and prophecies - numinous films of personal
revelation. Inhabiting the movie houses are underworld characters and spirits
with ambiguous motivations, some helping and some hindering Klaus's quest. It's
a Dantesque, deep cleanse pilgrimage to untangle bitterness and trauma,
rediscover a lost clairvoyance, ancestry, and ultimately, the medicinal source of
eternal youth. A metaphysical noir. A hyperstition.Rialto's album stars seven
singer-artists playing characters alongside mine: Tamara Lindeman (The Weather
Station), Daniel Knox, Thom Gill (Owen Pallet, Beverly Glenn- Copeland), Ryan
Driver (Jennifer Castle), Felicity Williams (Bahamas), Robin Dann (Bernice) and
Martin Tielli (Rheostatics). All Toronto- based like me except Daniel (Chicago).
Performed by the Venuti String Quartet with arrangements by Andrew Downing.
Produced by Jean Martin (Tanya Tagaq). It's my 13th album and fourth on Tin
Angel - previous releases on Tin Angel: Miracle In The Night (2019), Small Town
Water Tower (2016), and Niagara (2014). Each of Rialto's eight podcast episodes
features a chapter from the book performed by a cast of twenty five - made up
almost entirely of musicians – including the speaking voices of the
aforementioned singers, as well as Meg Remy (U.S. Girls), Claudia Dey, Veda Hille,
Devon Sproule, Luka Kuplowsky and others. Rialto is available as a 101-page eBook (illustrations by David Ouimet) on Sud de Valeur Press. Premiere
performances begin fourth quarter 2021. Happy Rialto listening, reading,
watching, dreaming...

In September of 2019, Deliluh took flight with sights set on new horizons.
A long plotted scheme to uproot the group from their Toronto home and
airlift them into the touring bastion of Europe seemed like a pot worth
gambling their stack on.
Their future in the old world was read with wide-eyed optimism, emboldened
by two albums newly waxed and tour dates rolling in. Greener pastures with
foreign allure, a promised land chalk full of experimental art and sound, and a
plethora of unconventional venues ripe for the picking... it’s open season, what
could possibly go wrong?
Well, the best laid plans... ‘Amulet’ is the first release since Deliluh’s departure
from Toronto, an opening document of the group’s transition to Europe. Mirrored images of the same composition occupy each side; ‘A’ performed by their
previous four-piece lineup (Kyle Knapp, Julius Pederson, Erika Wharton, Erik
Jude) and ‘B’ by the current active two-piece (Knapp and Pederson). ‘Amulet’
is set to be released July 30th on 10” via Tin Angel Records.
The lyrics depict a jewel thief committing crimes with the conviction of a merciless zealot, and justifying them with a spite for the status quo. The protagonist
amuses with the threat of being “caught”, a fate seemingly imminent and yet
laughable in the crooked context of societal greed. Knapp delivers sharp criticisms with a swagger liberated of fear, imploring us all to root for the anti-hero
in a time when danger is craved en masse.
The tonal contrasts between both versions testify to the group’s versatility.
The A side pulls tension by way of minimalism, leaning into a sinister synth
sequence that navigates a pitch dark sonic terrain. Swooning guitar, plucking
violin, whispering synths and darting tape effects peek in and out of the periphery, circling with unsettled starkness around Jude’s gloomy bass drone, through
until Wharton-Shukster’s string soaring climax.
Flip to the B side, and the immediate motorik groove turns the sequence on its
head, snapping to a gritty dance track for nights long yearned for. Pedersen’s
modular synth takes on a fresh persona of dusted drums and otherworldly high
hats, cracking on the beat while guitar scratches, processed sax, and string
synths build with harmonic euphoria, all until the tape slips and pulls the rug
from under the DIY dance floor.
‘Amulet’ demonstrates Deliluh’s potential growing fearlessly in the face of a
tight game. They promise a plentiful stash of recordings soon to be unearthed,
giving the sense that their recently tested process of creation has been far from
hindered. What comes next is anyone’s guess, though Amulet at the very least
reassures that we’re still, as always, in trusted hands.
Knapp: “It’s ‘adapt or parish’ these days.. We’re fortunate to be safe and
healthy, and thankfully, we’re not afraid of taking risks or evolving.”
Pedersen: “It isn’t the end goal that matters, but what you learn while exploring the paths that lead into unexplored terrain.”

Peace Chord is the new project from Daniel Robertson, a Canadian musician and core member of Vancouver-based Crack Cloud. His eponymous debut album is a deeply personal, ethereal collection of songs in which he reflects on the worlds he has been immersed in. From minimalist explorations of gentle voice, upright piano, and vintage syn-thesizers, vulnerable meditations emerge. Through these spacious composi-tions, Robertson makes room for ideas to take hold and evolve gradually, drawing the listener into his world.

CLAMM could not have come from anywhere other than Melbourne, Australia. Theirs is a city that bleeds music. Iconic bands such as Eddy Current Suppression Ring and Total Control have built on the city's history of open-hearted, fist-in-throat, fiercely independent music. Scenes centring around labels like Antifade, Flightless and Cool Death have held the torch for countless groups as good as any in the world. However, CLAMM arrived completely apart from any established scene or sound. They began playing shows in 2019, sharing bills with virtually anyone who would have them. Jack Summers (vocals/guitar) and Miles Harding (drums) had been friends and musical collaborators since early childhood. Under various banners, they performed for years with friends and siblings across Melbourne's underground landscape. It wasn't until they found Maisie Everett (vocals/bass) that the CLAMM picture was complete. Debut album Beseech Me was recorded with Nao Anzai (Rolling Blackouts, Floodlights, NO ZU) and mixed and mastered by Total Control's Mikey Young.