Buscar:next door

Rebecka Tarnqvist's new album Memo - The album is, as is often the
case with Rebecka Tarnqvist's albums, a shimmering collection of songs
that moves between the acoustic and the electronic, between the art
musical and classic pop
Like its predecessor Home Secretary, Memo was created in close collaboration
with Johan Lindstr m and several of the musicians also return here. Memo are
notes from life in a city and the music was created in an unusually complicated
time for our part of the world. Already October 7 My Neighbour is released, where
Tarnqvist and M. Ward wonder what happened in the house next door

The Belgian minimal synth band's three releases – a cassette and two vinyl EPs – were all titled »Against The Dark Trees Beyond«. This compilation collects the songs from these records.

"They were interesting times, the early eighties. Against a backdrop of cold war and economic crises, the DIY attitude of the earlier punk movement had spawned near countless new genres where artists and bands broke the three-chord guitar mould and experimented with new content matter, singular song structures and – in many cases – new instruments. Synthesizers became affordable and were no longer the sole privilege of rock millionaires. All around the globe, musical creativity boomed as never before, and Belgium was no exception: Digital Dance, Snowy Red, The Names, Pseudocode, Marine, 1000 Ohm, De Kommeniste, M.Bryo & D.M.T., De Brassers, Struggler, Siglo XX are but a few legendary names of bands and artists who started making a name for themselves.

In Leuven, things were happening as well. Until then, the music scene in this rather provincial town had been dominated by straightforward rock and blues acts. Not for much longer, though: in places like Arno'z and (later) The Gladhouse, where young budding artists met with kindred spirits, bands were often formed on the spot and, more importantly, started to make ripples.

Ludo Camberlin and Karel 'Bam' Saelemaekers already had a certain track record in Leuven's burgeoning music microcosm. But what they shared would become the cornerstone of A Blaze Colour (Against The Dark Trees Beyond): a fascination for new forms and instruments, a penchant for sonic adventure and a profound love for gripping songs. The full band name, by the way, was inspired by a phrase from the Irish-American novelist J.P. Donleavy, a writer who belongs in the definitely-worth-checking-out section.

After appearing on the first No Big Business LP (1981) with the instrumental 'Fisk', A Blaze Colour's first proper release, as was so often the case in those days, was a self-produced cassette. The music – which would later be dubbed 'minimal' – was characterized by the use of basic rhythm machines (Boss Dr. 55, mainly) and analog synthesizers (for the synth geeks: Korg Delta and MS20, Roland SH-2 and Jupiter IV, and the infamous Casio VL-1). Camberlin’s vocals, meanwhile, displayed an aloofness totally in sync with the zeitgeist. Equally important, though: all five tracks on this cassette were bona fide songs with a clear sense of structure, aided by a sonic mastery that demonstrated a high level of experience: 'Means To An End' started out as a proto-industrial track before bursting out into a moroderesque finale. The remix of 'Fisk' was as sprightly as the next river salmon, while 'Or Lie Again' proved the perfect soundtrack to a nightly walk through wet deserted streets. On the other hand, 'Through With Life', rife with disturbing sound effects countered by a slow portamento, could have been a prize track on a post punk 'Lamb Lies Down On Broadway'. And in true dramatic fashion, 'Follow The Signs' was the perfect ending of this five-song cycle: a driving sequencer and gripping chord progression coupled with a simple but powerful vocal line. Considering the limited technical means the duo was working with, this was no less than a triumph.

A few months later, the band released a seven-inch single on its own ABLACO label. 'Dark Trees Beyond', a quirky pop song, was coupled with 'Addict Of Time', a dark and brooding spoken word piece. Not the kind of single to storm hit parades, but it didn't go unnoticed. The Minny Pops' Wally van Middendorp, who had founded the Plurex label in 1978, invited A Blaze Colour to his studio in the Netherlands, to record an EP. It would prove to be a massive step forward: recording in a semi-professional studio offered great possibilities, the recently acquired TR-808 drum machine allowed for a broader rhythm palette, and the three new tracks (next to the re-recording of 'Through With Life') showed a band on the top of their game: 'The New Ones' was a wry and haunting song built around a live drum loop and an ominous bass pattern, while 'Nowhere Else' was a near-pop track with very un-minimal vocal harmonies. And it's a mystery why 'Altitude' – another instrumental – was never used in a stylized, high-profile detective soundtrack.

Another song from these sessions, the revved-up 'Cold As Ever' turned up on the high-profile Plurex "Hours" compilation, where it shone brightly, next to songs of a.o. X-Mal Deutschland, Nasmak, Minny Pops and Section XXV.

Meanwhile, Camberlin had already carved out a bit of a reputation for himself as a producer, while Saelemaekers was a respected graphic designer. It remains uncertain if this played a big part in the end of A Blaze Colour, but the fact remains: as studio recordings go, 'The Ultimate Fight' on the "No Big Business 2" compilation, was to be their swan song. What a way to go, though: maybe their best song ever, this was a synthetic bastard funk groove, complete with shout-out chorus and punch-drunk middle-eight. It shut a door, for sure, but it did so with a resounding bang.

So there it is and there it was. Short, sweet, visionary, pioneering and highly influential. And as anybody listening to this first ever compilation will be able to assess probably one of the most colourful electronic acts of its time.

On a more a personal note, A Blaze Colour proved to be instrumental in my own coming of age as a lyric writer, when Ludo and Bam graciously adopted some of my earlier writings, warts and all. To hear them translated into songs was no less than magic, and it certainly gave me the confidence to start our own band a bit later. And the magic continued when Ludo became our producer and Bam designed our record sleeves. But that’s another story, obviously. Because this is the place and the time to dive back into the wondrous world of A Blaze Colour!"

Bart Azijn (Aimless Device)

"THE BEASTS OF BOURBON were scabby-knuckled, Australian blues-punk motherf*ckers, severely haunted, whiskey-twisted, savage, doomed, old hard-asses, ruined, fat, mean guys in filthy t-shirts... NOT yer local tattoo-shop fonzies singin' 'bout "Sin" and "Hell". These dudes weren't greasy kids, even back then. They were venomous and aching, former members of THE SCIENTISTS and HOODOO GURUS, and the talent pool of this revolving door operation remains astonishing. - Sleazegrinder Magazine Little Animals, the last album in the official canon of the Beasts of Bourbon, was originally released unexpectedly, after 9 years of total silence from the band, in 2007. What could have been a new century renaissance for the group was cut short, however, during the next decade with the death of founding member Spencer B. Jones. Over the Beasts’ decades-long career the Beasts put out six albums and managed to carve their name into the annals of Australian rock’n’roll. Little Animals is a fitting epitaph to a legend, ten tracks of vicious and dirty crash-and-burn rock’n’roll. Svart Records is proud to present an official reissue of this hard-to-find record on vinyl, the original format for rock’n’roll. Wrapped in a gatefold jacket and limited to 500 on black and 500 on red vinyl, this shines in striking hues of blood and gold.Little Animals, the last album in the official canon of the Beasts of Bourbon, was originally released unexpectedly, after 9 years of total silence from the band, in 2007. What could have been a new century renaissance for the group was cut short, however, during the next decade with the death of founding member Spencer B. Jones. Over the Beasts’ decades-long career the Beasts put out six albums and managed to carve their name into the annals of Australian rock’n’roll. Little Animals is a fitting epitaph to a legend, ten tracks of vicious and dirty crash-and-burn rock’n’roll. Svart Records is proud to present an official reissue of this hard-to-find record on vinyl, the original format for rock’n’roll. Wrapped in a gatefold jacket and limited to 500 on black and 500 on red vinyl, this piece of wax shines in striking hues of blood and gold.

"THE BEASTS OF BOURBON were scabby-knuckled, Australian blues-punk motherf*ckers, severely haunted, whiskey-twisted, savage, doomed, old hard-asses, ruined, fat, mean guys in filthy t-shirts... NOT yer local tattoo-shop fonzies singin' 'bout "Sin" and "Hell". These dudes weren't greasy kids, even back then. They were venomous and aching, former members of THE SCIENTISTS and HOODOO GURUS, and the talent pool of this revolving door operation remains astonishing. - Sleazegrinder Magazine Little Animals, the last album in the official canon of the Beasts of Bourbon, was originally released unexpectedly, after 9 years of total silence from the band, in 2007. What could have been a new century renaissance for the group was cut short, however, during the next decade with the death of founding member Spencer B. Jones. Over the Beasts’ decades-long career the Beasts put out six albums and managed to carve their name into the annals of Australian rock’n’roll. Little Animals is a fitting epitaph to a legend, ten tracks of vicious and dirty crash-and-burn rock’n’roll. Svart Records is proud to present an official reissue of this hard-to-find record on vinyl, the original format for rock’n’roll. Wrapped in a gatefold jacket and limited to 500 on black and 500 on red vinyl, this shines in striking hues of blood and gold.Little Animals, the last album in the official canon of the Beasts of Bourbon, was originally released unexpectedly, after 9 years of total silence from the band, in 2007. What could have been a new century renaissance for the group was cut short, however, during the next decade with the death of founding member Spencer B. Jones. Over the Beasts’ decades-long career the Beasts put out six albums and managed to carve their name into the annals of Australian rock’n’roll. Little Animals is a fitting epitaph to a legend, ten tracks of vicious and dirty crash-and-burn rock’n’roll. Svart Records is proud to present an official reissue of this hard-to-find record on vinyl, the original format for rock’n’roll. Wrapped in a gatefold jacket and limited to 500 on black and 500 on red vinyl, this piece of wax shines in striking hues of blood and gold.

With I was born by the sea, Richie Culver brings to a close a period of intense introspection and emotional reckoning with a debut album that serves as both an optimistic statement of intent and a final glance back at the painful places it explores. Following recent work with Blackhaine and Pavel Milyakov, I was born by the sea picks up where Culver’s EP for Italian label Superpang, Post Traumatic Fantasy, leaves off, painting an unabashed portrait of contemporary malaise, detailing a life lived behind closed doors, pinned under the crushing weight of austerity, sapped of the strength to do anything other than gaze out to sea and all the grey possibilities it represents. Where Post Traumatic Fantasy saw Culver returning to his hometown of Hull after a period spent entangled in London’s relentless sprawl, his first full length project reaches further back to his formative years working in a caravan factory and going to raves in and among Hull’s outskirts. Unspooling like a fever dream, I was born by the sea is the anxious clutter of a racing mind spoken clearly, a stark reflection on how it feels to have too many ideas and too much time to act on them.

Though unquestionably a snapshot of a time of significant difficulty, Culver reflects on this period with tender empathy and pitch-black humour, stitching together unflinching observations from England’s neglected corners, ‘there’s more mobility scooter repair shops and bookies than there are bookshops,’ and devastating vignettes of everyday struggle, ‘tears on the tin foil’, with surreal depictions of industrial grit, ‘skimming stones in a small pond by the slaughterhouse’. His DIY approach to production stretches the rough sinew that connects these fragments of memory, a process he describes as using a paired back collection of synths and drum machines to the best of his ability, ‘but to the least of their capabilities,’ wringing out visceral sound with self-taught urgency. During the album’s most impressionistic passages it’s as though Culver has transposed past internal turmoil into powerfully resonant noise, the Sisyphean sonics of ‘Create A Lifestyle Around Your Problems’, which evokes in its concrète clatter and MRI machine barrage the sound of making the same mistake again and again, or the stuttered jumble of ‘Its Hard To Get To Know You,’ its garbled vocal modulation and frayed edges of distortion channeling the paranoia of somebody listening to muffled voices through thin plaster, climbing the walls of their bedroom with the curtains closed, a nervous breakdown in stereo.

In counterpoint to this glides the ever-present spirit of the dance floor, which haunts the record from the moment it is invoked in its first few seconds. Opening onto a sea wall of bright synthesis, the stuttering vocals and bass tone chops of ‘Nervous Energy’ dump us directly into post rave ecstasy, the echoing cry of a voice amplified by loudspeaker carrying the loose energy and surge of crowds moving in darkness. The incessant, dead phone line beep of ‘Pigeon Flesh’ builds to a pulse that suddenly swells into an anxious technoid surge, shapeshifting at lysergic speed into head shrinking audio hallucinations, a descent into the void of the present via machine music hypnosis. Even ‘Its Hard To Get To Know You’ summons the ego death drive of hardcore techno within its scorched textures, flickering indiscernibly between attritional noise and frazzled hardware stomp. Paying homage to both the parties of his youth and a countless succession of Sundays spent offering himself up within Berghain’s hallowed architecture, Culver’s experiments in addressing his formative relationship with rave provide an energetic glimpse at where he might take his sound next.

Between spikes of propulsive energy and grim mood pieces Culver returns to suspended passages of aching, glacial drift, the cold swell of the North Sea, accompanied by some of his heaviest testimonials. The gauzy ebb of ‘Daytime TV,’ its tumbling loops reminiscent of boats bobbing off a distant shore, sees the artist at his most checked out, slumped in front of his television, seven days a week. ‘I used to dream of doing something,’ he admits, ‘anything to get out of this town.’ ‘Love Like An Abscess’ pairs swirling currents of ambient shimmer with violent images of baseball bats lying next to beds and blood-stained mattresses, next to which Culver pleads in a desperate mumble, ‘let our love grow, like a broken abscess.’ Yet it’s with the album’s final word and title track that Culver reveals a glimmer of cautious optimism, a parting gesture of exposition and closure. ‘I knew I had to get away,’ he asserts, ‘so I did and I never looked back.’ What follows builds from a low throb, the flutter of a tiny heartbeat, to a resonant glow, embellished with unfurling synthetic burbles, oil rigs sparkling in the distance, golden light spilling across the sea. In reckoning with the place he had to escape, Richie Culver is now free to look towards the promise of something new, something hopeful.

Dressed in a powder blue suit with the frilly shirt to match, DJ Yoda invites you to be his +1 for ‘Prom Nite’, his new album promising retro Americana full of daydreaming reverie, international megastar guests, trip hop acknowledging the likes of Morcheeba and Nightmares on Wax, and the turntable extraordinaire’s bread and butter of cuts, beats and rhymes.

Certainly no stranger to retro sounds having famously peppered his DJ and AV sets with the unexpected the world over, and his ‘How to Cut n Paste’ mix series going all the way back to the 30s, Yoda’s harp-laden puppy love vibe spreads from the sweet and mellow sound of 2019’s ‘Home Cooking’, an album described as ‘boundary-breaking’ by Mojo upon slotting nicely into the UK’s blooming jazz canon. Think deliciously harmonised doo-wop murmuring ‘Goodnight Sweetheart’ with an eye for dreamboats en route to Makeout Point – on ‘My Energy’, Eva Lazarus takes the form of an earth angel, with Yoda on jukebox cut-ups, taking it back to starry-eyed, clean cut days of wonder (or more recently, Little Mix’s ‘Love Me Like You’).

Beginning enigmatically with the assistance of Hollywood A-lister (and former next-door neighbour) Lily James, ‘Breathe’ demonstrate Yoda’s continued evolution as a musician (not to mention shrewd decision maker), with James’ vocal confidence - a little Lana del Rey to her breathiness - returning on the velvet-smooth ‘Airplane Mode’. It’s a smartly executed soundclash accentuated by LA rapper Choosey, the star of the album’s straightest hip-hop shooter ‘Harder I Rock’. Homeboy Sandman adds some kick to the prom punch with typical wordplay sent down ‘Coconut Grove’, and Liam Bailey is perfectly cast for the darkly cinematic sway of ‘Don’t Even Try It’.

On an album of many talking points, the LP’s crowning glory is opening single ‘Feel Like Home’: featuring the vocal comforts of the House Gospel Choir, it’s your go–to pick-me-up when the chips are down, targeting the hairs on the backs of necks like a softer focus version of Jamie xx’s ‘Loud Places’. Extended into an alternative, equally uplifting form by Beardyman’s ‘Don’t Mean Thing’, summer festival season already has its homecoming anthem.

With tongues wagging, the twists and turns step away from Heartbreak Ridge when O Love tucks into the mouthwatering shopping list funk of ‘Way Home’; and ‘Lesson 1956’, featuring Jamie Cullum and DJ Woody, jauntily pays homage to classic Cut Chemist alchemy, Yoda’s celebrated turntable tomfoolery back in full effect and extending the flavours found in ‘Home Cooking’.

Again maximising the experience and enjoyment gained from recording live instruments and prioritising songs over beats, Yoda continues to progress with a mixture of risk-taking, elite musicianship, nostalgia brought bang up to date, and ultimately, good clean fun capable of stirring your soul, making ‘Prom Nite’ a date to remember.

Magpie artwork supplied by London’s ENDLESS, whose signature style has tagged Liberty and Lagerfeld as but two high profile clients, Yoda again maximises the experience and enjoyment gained from recording live instruments and prioritising songs over beats. His continued progress mixes risk-taking, elite musicianship, nostalgia brought bang up to date, and ultimately, good clean fun capable of stirring your soul, making ‘Prom Nite’ a date to remember.

Featured 7” Vinyl singles:
Feel Like Home (feat. The House Gospel Choir)/ Don’t Mean A Thing (feat. Beardyman)
My Energy (feat. Eva Lazarus)/Lesson 1956 (feat. Jamie Cullum & DJ Woody)

Es sind die wohl bedeutendsten Alben ihrer Karriere: 1991 veröffentlichten Guns N‘ Roses ihr drittes und
viertes Studioalbum “Use Your Illusion I & II“ - beide am selben Tag, dem 17. September. Beide Alben,
die in ihrer ersten Verkaufswoche mit 685 Tsd. und 770 Tsd. Alben in den USA einen Verkaufsrekord aufstellten und selbstverständlich Platz #1 und #2 der Billboard Charts belegten, warfen legendäre Hits, wie
”November Rain”, ”Don’t Cry”, ”Knocking On Heaven’s Door”, ”You Could Be Mine” oder ”Civil War” ab.
Zum ersten Mal erfuhren nun alle Tracks eine musikalische Aufbereitung und kommen in zeitgemäßer
Tonqualität daher. Neben allen bekannten Albumtracks gibt es auf den Deluxe Versionen Aufnahmen von
zwei Live-Konzerten in Audio- und BluRay-Qualität, sowie eine neue Version von “November Rain“ mit
einem 50-köpfigen Orchester.
Die größte Deluxe Version der neuen Editionen bringt es auf 97 Tracks – 63 davon bisher unveröffentlichte
Audio und Video-Tracks - sowie ein 100-seitiges Hardcover-Buch, Backstage-Pässe und vieles mehr.

"Jazz'n'Beats" is a new mini-compilation selected by Oonops and it's named as the eponymous "Oonops Drops"-series on Brooklyn Radio.

In the mix are renowned beatproducer DJ Mitsu The Beats from Japan who joined forces with 1Co.INR for a laid back instrumental tune with a well known core melody. Next up label-graphic design head honcho is back with a new'n'sweet mini beat called "Parakeets" before we get to the flipside. This gets started with German underground rap & producer duo 4Trackboy & Echomann a.k.a. Retrogott & Twit One who drop a sharp and jazzy dope tune for this release which gets rounded down with a beautiful jazzy hip-hop instrumental by Japanese jazz musician and composer Kazumi Kaneda.

Get your hands on these limited pieces of recycled vinyl.

Since the late sixties Lee Fields has amassed a prolific catalog and has played and toured with such legends as Kool and the Gang, Sammy Gordon and the Hip-Huggers, O.V Wright, and many more. With a career spanning 43 years, it s mind-blowing that the music he s making today with Brooklyn s Truth & Soul Records is the best of his career. While drawing comparisons to The Moments, The Delfonics, The Stylistics, and of course James Brown, Faithful Man is able to create a space of it s own due to the group s desire to interpret and further the formulas of good soul music rather then imitate them. Chalk that up to Truth & Soul producers and co-owners Jeff Silverman and Leon Michels. These are the same individuals that co-wrote, produced, and played on Aloe Blacc s global smash I Need A Dollar, and have provided the back drop for records by Adele, Ghostface Killah, and Jay-Z to name a few. The older Fields becomes, the closer he gets to perfecting the sound of soul said DJ Oliver Wang about Fields in an NPR feature. Faithful Man is the next step towards perfection. A step that will find Lee Fields & The Expressions finally being bestowed the contemporary soul music crown.

As the sun sets on a quaint East Nashville house, a young man bares a piece of his soul. Facing the camera, sporting a silky suit jacket/shirt/slacks/fingerless gloves ensemble that announces "singer" before he's even opened his mouth, Lee Tracy Johnson settles onto his stage, the front yard. He sways to the dirge-like drum machine pulse of a synth-soaked slow jam, extends his arms as if gaining his balance, and croons in affecting, fragile earnest, "I need your love… oh baby…"

Dogs in the yard next door begin barking. A mysterious cardboard robot figure, beamed in from galaxies unknown and affixed to a tree, is less vocal. Lee doesn't acknowledge either's presence. He's busy feeling it, arms and hands gesticulating. His voice rises in falsetto over the now-quiet dogs, over the ambient noise from the street that seeps into the handheld camcorder's microphone, over the recording of his own voice played back from a boombox off-camera. After six minutes the single, continuous shot ends. In this intimate creative universe there are no re-takes. There are many more music videos to shoot, and as Lee later puts it, "The first time you do it is actually the best. Because you can never get that again. You expressing yourself from within."

"I Need Your Love" dates from a lost heyday. From some time in the '80s or early '90s, when Lee Tracy (as he was known in performance) and his music partner/producer/manager Isaac Manning committed hours upon hours of their sonic and visual ideas to tape. Embracing drum machines and synthesizers – electronics that made their personal futurism palpable – they recorded exclusively at home, live in a room into a simple cassette deck. Soul, funk, electro and new wave informed their songs, yet Lee and Isaac eschewed the confinement of conventional categories and genres, preferring to let experimentation guide them.

"Anytime somebody put out a new record they had the same instruments or the same sound," explains Isaac. "So I basically wanted to find something that's really gonna stand out away from all of the rest of 'em." Their ethos meant that every idea they came up with was at least worth trying: echoed out half-rapped exhortations over frantic techno-style beats, gospel synth soul, modal electro-funk, oddball pop reinterpretations, emo AOR balladry, nods to Prince and the Fat Boys, or arrangements that might collapse mid-song into a mess of arcade game-ish blips before rallying to reach the finish line. All of it conjoined by consistent tape hiss, and most vitally, Lee's chameleonic voice, which managed to wildly shape shift and still evoke something sincere – whether toggling between falsetto and tenor exalting Jesus's return, or punctuating a melismatic romantic adlib with a succinct, "We all know how it feels to be alone."

"People think we went to a studio," says Isaac derisively. "We never went to no studio. We didn't have the money to go to no studio! We did this stuff at home. I shot videos in my front yard with whatever we could to get things together." Sometimes Isaac would just put on an instrumental record, be it "Planet Rock" or "Don't Cry For Me Argentina" (from Evita), press "record," and let Lee improvise over it, yielding peculiar love songs, would-be patriotic anthems, or Elvis Presley or Marilyn Monroe tributes. Technical limitations and a lack of professional polish never dissuaded them. They believed they were onto something.

"That struggle," Isaac says, "made that sound sound good to me."

In the parlance of modern music criticism Lee and Isaac's dizzying DIY efforts would inevitably be described as "outsider." But "outsider" carries the burden of untold additional layers of meaning if you're Black and from the South, creating on a budget, and trying to get someone, anyone within the country music capital of the world to take your vision seriously. "What category should we put it in?" Isaac asks rhetorically. "I don't know. All I know is feeling. I ain't gonna name it nothing. It's music. If it grabs your soul and touch your heart that's what it basically is supposed to do."

=

Born in 1963, the baby boy of nine siblings, Lee Tracy spent his earliest years living amidst the shotgun houses on Nashville's south side. "We was poor, man!" he says, recalling the outhouse his family used for a bathroom and the blocks of ice they kept in the kitchen to chill perishables. "But I actually don't think I really realized I was in poverty until I got grown and started thinking about it." Lee's mom worked at the Holiday Inn; his dad did whatever he had to do, from selling fruit from a horse drawn cart to bootlegging. "We didn't have much," Lee continues, "but my mother and my father got us the things we needed, the clothes on our back." By the end of the decade with the city's urban renewal programs razing entire neighborhoods to accommodate construction of the Interstate, the family moved to Edgehill Projects. Lee remembers music and art as a constant source of inspiration for he and his brothers and sisters – especially after seeing the Jackson 5 perform on Ed Sullivan. "As a small child I just knew that was what I wanted to do."

His older brother Don began musically mentoring him, introducing Lee to a variety of instruments and sounds. "He would never play one particular type of music, like R&B," says Lee. "I was surrounded by jazz, hard rock and roll, easy listening, gospel, reggae, country music; I mean I was a sponge absorbing all of that." Lee taught himself to play drums by beating on cardboard boxes, gaining a rep around the way for his timekeeping, and his singing voice. Emulating his favorites, Earth Wind & Fire and Cameo, he formed groups with other kids with era-evocative band names like Concept and TNT Connection, and emerged as the leader of disciplined rehearsals. "I made them practice," says Lee. "We practiced and practiced and practiced. Because I wanted that perfection." By high school the most accomplished of these bands would take top prize in a prominent local talent show. It was a big moment for Lee, and he felt ready to take things to the next level. But his band-mates had other ideas.

"I don't know what happened," he says, still miffed at the memory. "It must have blew they mind after we won and people started showing notice, because it's like everybody quit! I was like, where the hell did everybody go?" Lee had always made a point of interrogating prospective musicians about their intentions before joining his groups: were they really serious or just looking for a way to pick up girls? Now he understood even more the importance of finding a collaborator just as committed to the music as he was.

=

Isaac Manning had spent much of his life immersed in music and the arts – singing in the church choir with his family on Nashville's north side, writing, painting, dancing, and working various gigs within the entertainment industry. After serving in the armed forces, in the early '70s he ran The Teenage Place, a music and performance venue that catered to the local youth. But he was forced out of town when word of one of his recreational routines created a stir beyond the safe haven of his bohemian circles.

"I was growing marijuana," Isaac explains. "It wasn't no business, I was smoking it myself… I would put marijuana in scrambled eggs, cornbread and stuff." His weed use originated as a form of self-medication to combat severe tooth pain. But when he began sharing it with some of the other young people he hung out with, some of who just so happened to be the kids of Nashville politicians, the cops came calling. "When I got busted," he remembers, "they were talking about how they were gonna get rid of me because they didn't want me saying nothing about they children because of the politics and stuff. So I got my family, took two raggedy cars, and left Nashville and went to Vegas."

Out in the desert, Isaac happened to meet Chubby Checker of "The Twist" fame while the singer was gigging at The Flamingo. Impressed by Isaac's zeal, Checker invited him to go on the road with him as his tour manager/roadie/valet. The experience gave Isaac a window into a part of the entertainment world he'd never encountered – a glimpse of what a true pop act's audience looked like. "Chubby Checker, none of his shows were played for Black folks," he remembers. "All his gigs were done at high-class white people areas." Returning home after a few years with Chubby, Isaac was properly motivated to make it in Music City. He began writing songs and scouting around Nashville for local talent anywhere he could find it with an expressed goal: "Find someone who can deliver your songs the way you want 'em delivered and make people feel what you want them to feel."

One day while walking through Edgehill Projects Isaac heard someone playing the drums in a way that made him stop and take notice. "The music was so tight, just the drums made me feel like, oh I'm-a find this person," he recalls. "So I circled through the projects until I found who it was.

"That's how I met him – Lee Tracy. When I found him and he started singing and stuff, I said, ohhh, this is somebody different."

=

Theirs was a true complementary partnership: young Lee possessed the raw talent, the older Isaac the belief. "He's really the only one besides my brother and my family that really seen the potential in me," says Lee. "He made me see that I could do it."

Isaac long being a night owl, his house also made for a fertile collaborative environment – a space where there always seemed to be a new piece of his visual art on display: paintings, illustrations, and dolls and figures (including an enigmatic cardboard robot). Lee and Issac would hang out together and talk, listen to music, conjure ideas, and smoke the herb Isaac had resumed growing in his yard. "It got to where I could trust him, he could trust me," Isaac says of their bond. They also worked together for hours on drawings, spreading larges rolls of paper on the walls and sketching faces with abstract patterns and imagery: alien-like beings, tri-horned horse heads, inverted Janus-like characters where one visage blurred into the other.

Soon it became apparent that they didn't need other collaborators; self-sufficiency was the natural way forward. At Isaac's behest Lee, already fed up with dealing with band musicians, began playing around with a poly-sonic Yamaha keyboard at the local music store. "It had everything on it – trumpet, bass, drums, organ," remembers Lee. "And that's when I started recording my own stuff."

The technology afforded Lee the flexibility and independence he craved, setting him on a path other bedroom musicians and producers around the world were simultaneously following through the '80s into the early '90s. Saving up money from day jobs, he eventually supplemented the Yamaha Isaac had gotten him with Roland and Casio drum machines and a Moog. Lee was living in an apartment in Hillside at that point caring for his dad, who'd been partially paralyzed since early in life. In the evenings up in his second floor room, the music put him in a zone where he could tune out everything and lose himself in his ideas.

"Oh I loved it," he recalls. "I would really experiment with the instruments and use a lot of different sound effects. I was looking for something nobody else had. I wanted something totally different. And once I found the sound I was looking for, I would just smoke me a good joint and just let it go, hit the record button." More potent a creative stimulant than even Isaac's weed was the holistic flow and spontaneity of recording. Between sessions at Isaac's place and Lee's apartment, their volume of output quickly ballooned.

"We was always recording," says Lee. "That's why we have so much music. Even when I went to Isaac's and we start creating, I get home, my mind is racing, I gotta start creating, creating, creating. I remember there were times when I took a 90-minute tape from front to back and just filled it up."

"We never practiced," says Isaac. "See, that was just so odd about the whole thing. I could relate to him, and tell him about the songs I had ideas for and everything and stuff. And then he would bring it back or whatever, and we'd get together and put it down." Once the taskmaster hell bent on rehearsing, Lee had flipped a full 180. Perfection was no longer an aspiration, but the enemy of inspiration.

"I seen where practicing and practicing got me," says Lee. "A lot of musicians you get to playing and they gotta stop, they have to analyze the music. But while you analyzing you losing a lot of the greatness of what you creating. Stop analyzing what you play, just play! And it'll all take shape."

=

"I hope you understood the beginning of the record because this was invented from a dream I had today… (You tell me, I'll tell you, we'll figure it out together)" – Lee Tracy and Isaac Manning, "Hope You Understand"

Lee lets loose a maniacal cackle when he acknowledges that the material that he and Isaac recorded was by anyone's estimation pretty out there. It's the same laugh that commences "Hope You Understand" – a chaotic transmission that encapsulates the duality at the heart of their music: a stated desire to reach people and a compulsion to go as leftfield as they saw fit.

"We just did it," says Lee. "We cut the music on and cut loose. I don't sit around and write. I do it by listening, get a feeling, play the music, and the lyrics and stuff just come out of me."

The approach proved adaptable to interpreting other artists' material. While recording a cover of Whitney Houston's pop ballad "Saving All My Love For You," Lee played Whitney's version in his headphones as he laid down his own vocals – partially following the lyrics, partially using them as a departure point. The end result is barely recognizable compared with the original, Lee and Isaac having switched up the time signature and reinvented the melody along the way towards morphing a slick mainstream radio standard into something that sounds solely their own.

"I really used that song to get me started," says Lee. "Then I said, well I need something else, something is missing. Something just came over me. That's when I came up with 'Is It What You Want.'"

The song would become the centerpiece of Lee and Isaac's repertoire. Pushed along by a percolating metronomic Rhythm King style beat somewhere between a military march and a samba, "Is It What You Want" finds Lee pleading the sincerity of his commitment to a potential love interest embellished by vocal tics and hiccups subtlely reminiscent of his childhood hero MJ. Absent chord changes, only synth riffs gliding in and out like apparitions, the song achieves a lingering lo-fi power that leaves you feeling like it's still playing, somewhere, even after the fade out.

"I don't know, it's like a real spiritual song," Lee reflects. "But it's not just spiritual. To me the more I listen to it it's like about everything that you do in your everyday life, period. Is it what you want? Do you want a car or you don't want a car? Do you want Jesus or do you want the Devil? It's basically asking you the question. Can't nobody answer the question but you yourself."

In 1989 Lee won a lawsuit stemming from injuries sustained from a fight he'd gotten into. He took part of the settlement money and with Isaac pressed up "Saving All My Love For You" b/w "Is It What You Want" as a 45 single. Isaac christened the label One Chance Records. "Because that's all we wanted," he says with a laugh, "one chance."

Isaac sent the record out to radio stations and major labels, hoping for it to make enough noise to get picked up nationally. But the response he and Lee were hoping for never materialized. According to Isaac the closest the single got to getting played on the radio is when a disk jock from a local station made a highly unusual announcement on air: "The dude said on the radio, 107.5 – 'We are not gonna play 'Is It What You Want.' We cracked up! Wow, that's deep.

"It was a whole racist thing that was going on," he reflects. "So we just looked over and kept on going. That was it. That was about the way it goes… If you were Black and you were living in Nashville and stuff, that's the way you got treated." Isaac already knew as much from all the times he'd brought he and Lee's tapes (even their cache of country music tunes) over to Music Row to try to drum up interest to no avail.

"Isaac, he really worked his ass off," says Lee. "He probably been to every record place down on Music Row." Nashville's famed recording and music business corridor wasn't but a few blocks from where Lee grew up. Close enough, he remembers, for him to ride his bike along its back alleys and stumble upon the occasional random treasure, like a discarded box of harmonicas. Getting in through the front door, however, still felt a world away.

"I just don't think at the time our music fell into a category for them," he concedes. "It was before its time."

=

Lee stopped making music some time in the latter part of the '90s, around the time his mom passed away and life became increasingly tough to manage. "When my mother died I had a nervous breakdown," he says, "So I shut down for a long time. I was in such a sadness frame of mind. That's why nobody seen me. I had just disappeared off the map." He fell out of touch with Isaac, and in an indication of just how bad things had gotten for him, lost track of all the recordings they'd made together. Music became a distant memory.

Fortunately, Isaac kept the faith. In a self-published collection of his poetry – paeans to some of his favorite entertainment and public figures entitled Friends and Dick Clark – he'd written that he believed "music has a life of its own." But his prescience and presence of mind were truly manifested in the fact that he kept an archive of he and Lee's work. As perfectly imperfect as "Is It What You Want" now sounds in a post-Personal Space world, Lee and Isaac's lone official release was in fact just a taste. The bulk of the Is It What You Want album is culled from the pair's essentially unheard home recordings – complete songs, half-realized experiments, Isaac's blue monologues and pronouncements et al – compiled, mixed and programmed in the loose and impulsive creative spirit of their regular get-togethers from decades ago. The rest of us, it seems, may have finally caught up to them.

On the prospect of at long last reaching a wider audience, Isaac says simply, "I been trying for a long time, it feels good." Ever the survivor, he adds, "The only way I know how to make it to the top is to keep climbing. If one leg break on the ladder, hey, you gotta fix it and keep on going… That's where I be at. I'll kill death to make it out there."

For Lee it all feels akin to a personal resurrection: "It's like I was in a tomb and the tomb was opened and I'm back… Man, it feels so great. I feel like I'm gonna jump out of my skin." Success at this stage of his life, he realizes, probably means something different than what it did back when he was singing and dancing in Isaac's front yard. "What I really mean by 'making it,'" he explains isn't just the music being heard but, "the story being told."

Occasionally Lee will pull up "Is It What You Want" on YouTube on his phone, put on his headphones, and listen. He remembers the first time he heard his recorded voice. How surreal it was, how he thought to himself, "Is that really me?" What would he say to that younger version of himself now?

"I would probably tell myself, hang in there, don't give up. Keep striving for the goal. And everything will work out."

Despite what's printed on the record label, sometimes you do get more than one chance.

The Brattleboro, Vermont trio THUS LOVE stand together, a bond cemented by their experience as outsiders looking in. For THUS LOVE, DIY is an ethos that reflects not only their musical vision but their very existence as three self-identifying trans artists. From the band’s inception, Echo Mars (she/her), Lu Racine (he/him) and Nathaniel van Osdol (they/them) have lived together under the same roof, designed and produced their own merch, and created their own recording studio from scratch. “I realize that most artists don’t live this way,” says Mars. “But for us, it was never really a choice. The art we make is so tied to who we are and the community we’re a part of, that this is the only way we can possibly do it.”

The band was just starting to regularly headline renowned local venue The Stone Church when everything came to a screeching halt. Rather than idly wait, the band decided to take their future in their own hands. Armed with nothing but YouTube videos and her

innate curiosity, Mars constructed a makeshift studio in their apartment, recording during odd hours when their next-door neighbors were out and about.

As the sun sets on a quaint East Nashville house, a young man bares a piece of his soul. Facing the camera, sporting a silky suit jacket/shirt/slacks/fingerless gloves ensemble that announces "singer" before he's even opened his mouth, Lee Tracy Johnson settles onto his stage, the front yard. He sways to the dirge-like drum machine pulse of a synth-soaked slow jam, extends his arms as if gaining his balance, and croons in affecting, fragile earnest, "I need your love… oh baby…"

Dogs in the yard next door begin barking. A mysterious cardboard robot figure, beamed in from galaxies unknown and affixed to a tree, is less vocal. Lee doesn't acknowledge either's presence. He's busy feeling it, arms and hands gesticulating. His voice rises in falsetto over the now-quiet dogs, over the ambient noise from the street that seeps into the handheld camcorder's microphone, over the recording of his own voice played back from a boombox off-camera. After six minutes the single, continuous shot ends. In this intimate creative universe there are no re-takes. There are many more music videos to shoot, and as Lee later puts it, "The first time you do it is actually the best. Because you can never get that again. You expressing yourself from within."

"I Need Your Love" dates from a lost heyday. From some time in the '80s or early '90s, when Lee Tracy (as he was known in performance) and his music partner/producer/manager Isaac Manning committed hours upon hours of their sonic and visual ideas to tape. Embracing drum machines and synthesizers – electronics that made their personal futurism palpable – they recorded exclusively at home, live in a room into a simple cassette deck. Soul, funk, electro and new wave informed their songs, yet Lee and Isaac eschewed the confinement of conventional categories and genres, preferring to let experimentation guide them.

"Anytime somebody put out a new record they had the same instruments or the same sound," explains Isaac. "So I basically wanted to find something that's really gonna stand out away from all of the rest of 'em." Their ethos meant that every idea they came up with was at least worth trying: echoed out half-rapped exhortations over frantic techno-style beats, gospel synth soul, modal electro-funk, oddball pop reinterpretations, emo AOR balladry, nods to Prince and the Fat Boys, or arrangements that might collapse mid-song into a mess of arcade game-ish blips before rallying to reach the finish line. All of it conjoined by consistent tape hiss, and most vitally, Lee's chameleonic voice, which managed to wildly shape shift and still evoke something sincere – whether toggling between falsetto and tenor exalting Jesus's return, or punctuating a melismatic romantic adlib with a succinct, "We all know how it feels to be alone."

"People think we went to a studio," says Isaac derisively. "We never went to no studio. We didn't have the money to go to no studio! We did this stuff at home. I shot videos in my front yard with whatever we could to get things together." Sometimes Isaac would just put on an instrumental record, be it "Planet Rock" or "Don't Cry For Me Argentina" (from Evita), press "record," and let Lee improvise over it, yielding peculiar love songs, would-be patriotic anthems, or Elvis Presley or Marilyn Monroe tributes. Technical limitations and a lack of professional polish never dissuaded them. They believed they were onto something.

"That struggle," Isaac says, "made that sound sound good to me."

In the parlance of modern music criticism Lee and Isaac's dizzying DIY efforts would inevitably be described as "outsider." But "outsider" carries the burden of untold additional layers of meaning if you're Black and from the South, creating on a budget, and trying to get someone, anyone within the country music capital of the world to take your vision seriously. "What category should we put it in?" Isaac asks rhetorically. "I don't know. All I know is feeling. I ain't gonna name it nothing. It's music. If it grabs your soul and touch your heart that's what it basically is supposed to do."

=

Born in 1963, the baby boy of nine siblings, Lee Tracy spent his earliest years living amidst the shotgun houses on Nashville's south side. "We was poor, man!" he says, recalling the outhouse his family used for a bathroom and the blocks of ice they kept in the kitchen to chill perishables. "But I actually don't think I really realized I was in poverty until I got grown and started thinking about it." Lee's mom worked at the Holiday Inn; his dad did whatever he had to do, from selling fruit from a horse drawn cart to bootlegging. "We didn't have much," Lee continues, "but my mother and my father got us the things we needed, the clothes on our back." By the end of the decade with the city's urban renewal programs razing entire neighborhoods to accommodate construction of the Interstate, the family moved to Edgehill Projects. Lee remembers music and art as a constant source of inspiration for he and his brothers and sisters – especially after seeing the Jackson 5 perform on Ed Sullivan. "As a small child I just knew that was what I wanted to do."

His older brother Don began musically mentoring him, introducing Lee to a variety of instruments and sounds. "He would never play one particular type of music, like R&B," says Lee. "I was surrounded by jazz, hard rock and roll, easy listening, gospel, reggae, country music; I mean I was a sponge absorbing all of that." Lee taught himself to play drums by beating on cardboard boxes, gaining a rep around the way for his timekeeping, and his singing voice. Emulating his favorites, Earth Wind & Fire and Cameo, he formed groups with other kids with era-evocative band names like Concept and TNT Connection, and emerged as the leader of disciplined rehearsals. "I made them practice," says Lee. "We practiced and practiced and practiced. Because I wanted that perfection." By high school the most accomplished of these bands would take top prize in a prominent local talent show. It was a big moment for Lee, and he felt ready to take things to the next level. But his band-mates had other ideas.

"I don't know what happened," he says, still miffed at the memory. "It must have blew they mind after we won and people started showing notice, because it's like everybody quit! I was like, where the hell did everybody go?" Lee had always made a point of interrogating prospective musicians about their intentions before joining his groups: were they really serious or just looking for a way to pick up girls? Now he understood even more the importance of finding a collaborator just as committed to the music as he was.

=

Isaac Manning had spent much of his life immersed in music and the arts – singing in the church choir with his family on Nashville's north side, writing, painting, dancing, and working various gigs within the entertainment industry. After serving in the armed forces, in the early '70s he ran The Teenage Place, a music and performance venue that catered to the local youth. But he was forced out of town when word of one of his recreational routines created a stir beyond the safe haven of his bohemian circles.

"I was growing marijuana," Isaac explains. "It wasn't no business, I was smoking it myself… I would put marijuana in scrambled eggs, cornbread and stuff." His weed use originated as a form of self-medication to combat severe tooth pain. But when he began sharing it with some of the other young people he hung out with, some of who just so happened to be the kids of Nashville politicians, the cops came calling. "When I got busted," he remembers, "they were talking about how they were gonna get rid of me because they didn't want me saying nothing about they children because of the politics and stuff. So I got my family, took two raggedy cars, and left Nashville and went to Vegas."

Out in the desert, Isaac happened to meet Chubby Checker of "The Twist" fame while the singer was gigging at The Flamingo. Impressed by Isaac's zeal, Checker invited him to go on the road with him as his tour manager/roadie/valet. The experience gave Isaac a window into a part of the entertainment world he'd never encountered – a glimpse of what a true pop act's audience looked like. "Chubby Checker, none of his shows were played for Black folks," he remembers. "All his gigs were done at high-class white people areas." Returning home after a few years with Chubby, Isaac was properly motivated to make it in Music City. He began writing songs and scouting around Nashville for local talent anywhere he could find it with an expressed goal: "Find someone who can deliver your songs the way you want 'em delivered and make people feel what you want them to feel."

One day while walking through Edgehill Projects Isaac heard someone playing the drums in a way that made him stop and take notice. "The music was so tight, just the drums made me feel like, oh I'm-a find this person," he recalls. "So I circled through the projects until I found who it was.

"That's how I met him – Lee Tracy. When I found him and he started singing and stuff, I said, ohhh, this is somebody different."

=

Theirs was a true complementary partnership: young Lee possessed the raw talent, the older Isaac the belief. "He's really the only one besides my brother and my family that really seen the potential in me," says Lee. "He made me see that I could do it."

Isaac long being a night owl, his house also made for a fertile collaborative environment – a space where there always seemed to be a new piece of his visual art on display: paintings, illustrations, and dolls and figures (including an enigmatic cardboard robot). Lee and Issac would hang out together and talk, listen to music, conjure ideas, and smoke the herb Isaac had resumed growing in his yard. "It got to where I could trust him, he could trust me," Isaac says of their bond. They also worked together for hours on drawings, spreading larges rolls of paper on the walls and sketching faces with abstract patterns and imagery: alien-like beings, tri-horned horse heads, inverted Janus-like characters where one visage blurred into the other.

Soon it became apparent that they didn't need other collaborators; self-sufficiency was the natural way forward. At Isaac's behest Lee, already fed up with dealing with band musicians, began playing around with a poly-sonic Yamaha keyboard at the local music store. "It had everything on it – trumpet, bass, drums, organ," remembers Lee. "And that's when I started recording my own stuff."

The technology afforded Lee the flexibility and independence he craved, setting him on a path other bedroom musicians and producers around the world were simultaneously following through the '80s into the early '90s. Saving up money from day jobs, he eventually supplemented the Yamaha Isaac had gotten him with Roland and Casio drum machines and a Moog. Lee was living in an apartment in Hillside at that point caring for his dad, who'd been partially paralyzed since early in life. In the evenings up in his second floor room, the music put him in a zone where he could tune out everything and lose himself in his ideas.

"Oh I loved it," he recalls. "I would really experiment with the instruments and use a lot of different sound effects. I was looking for something nobody else had. I wanted something totally different. And once I found the sound I was looking for, I would just smoke me a good joint and just let it go, hit the record button." More potent a creative stimulant than even Isaac's weed was the holistic flow and spontaneity of recording. Between sessions at Isaac's place and Lee's apartment, their volume of output quickly ballooned.

"We was always recording," says Lee. "That's why we have so much music. Even when I went to Isaac's and we start creating, I get home, my mind is racing, I gotta start creating, creating, creating. I remember there were times when I took a 90-minute tape from front to back and just filled it up."

"We never practiced," says Isaac. "See, that was just so odd about the whole thing. I could relate to him, and tell him about the songs I had ideas for and everything and stuff. And then he would bring it back or whatever, and we'd get together and put it down." Once the taskmaster hell bent on rehearsing, Lee had flipped a full 180. Perfection was no longer an aspiration, but the enemy of inspiration.

"I seen where practicing and practicing got me," says Lee. "A lot of musicians you get to playing and they gotta stop, they have to analyze the music. But while you analyzing you losing a lot of the greatness of what you creating. Stop analyzing what you play, just play! And it'll all take shape."

=

"I hope you understood the beginning of the record because this was invented from a dream I had today… (You tell me, I'll tell you, we'll figure it out together)" – Lee Tracy and Isaac Manning, "Hope You Understand"

Lee lets loose a maniacal cackle when he acknowledges that the material that he and Isaac recorded was by anyone's estimation pretty out there. It's the same laugh that commences "Hope You Understand" – a chaotic transmission that encapsulates the duality at the heart of their music: a stated desire to reach people and a compulsion to go as leftfield as they saw fit.

"We just did it," says Lee. "We cut the music on and cut loose. I don't sit around and write. I do it by listening, get a feeling, play the music, and the lyrics and stuff just come out of me."

The approach proved adaptable to interpreting other artists' material. While recording a cover of Whitney Houston's pop ballad "Saving All My Love For You," Lee played Whitney's version in his headphones as he laid down his own vocals – partially following the lyrics, partially using them as a departure point. The end result is barely recognizable compared with the original, Lee and Isaac having switched up the time signature and reinvented the melody along the way towards morphing a slick mainstream radio standard into something that sounds solely their own.

"I really used that song to get me started," says Lee. "Then I said, well I need something else, something is missing. Something just came over me. That's when I came up with 'Is It What You Want.'"

The song would become the centerpiece of Lee and Isaac's repertoire. Pushed along by a percolating metronomic Rhythm King style beat somewhere between a military march and a samba, "Is It What You Want" finds Lee pleading the sincerity of his commitment to a potential love interest embellished by vocal tics and hiccups subtlely reminiscent of his childhood hero MJ. Absent chord changes, only synth riffs gliding in and out like apparitions, the song achieves a lingering lo-fi power that leaves you feeling like it's still playing, somewhere, even after the fade out.

"I don't know, it's like a real spiritual song," Lee reflects. "But it's not just spiritual. To me the more I listen to it it's like about everything that you do in your everyday life, period. Is it what you want? Do you want a car or you don't want a car? Do you want Jesus or do you want the Devil? It's basically asking you the question. Can't nobody answer the question but you yourself."

In 1989 Lee won a lawsuit stemming from injuries sustained from a fight he'd gotten into. He took part of the settlement money and with Isaac pressed up "Saving All My Love For You" b/w "Is It What You Want" as a 45 single. Isaac christened the label One Chance Records. "Because that's all we wanted," he says with a laugh, "one chance."

Isaac sent the record out to radio stations and major labels, hoping for it to make enough noise to get picked up nationally. But the response he and Lee were hoping for never materialized. According to Isaac the closest the single got to getting played on the radio is when a disk jock from a local station made a highly unusual announcement on air: "The dude said on the radio, 107.5 – 'We are not gonna play 'Is It What You Want.' We cracked up! Wow, that's deep.

"It was a whole racist thing that was going on," he reflects. "So we just looked over and kept on going. That was it. That was about the way it goes… If you were Black and you were living in Nashville and stuff, that's the way you got treated." Isaac already knew as much from all the times he'd brought he and Lee's tapes (even their cache of country music tunes) over to Music Row to try to drum up interest to no avail.

"Isaac, he really worked his ass off," says Lee. "He probably been to every record place down on Music Row." Nashville's famed recording and music business corridor wasn't but a few blocks from where Lee grew up. Close enough, he remembers, for him to ride his bike along its back alleys and stumble upon the occasional random treasure, like a discarded box of harmonicas. Getting in through the front door, however, still felt a world away.

"I just don't think at the time our music fell into a category for them," he concedes. "It was before its time."

=

Lee stopped making music some time in the latter part of the '90s, around the time his mom passed away and life became increasingly tough to manage. "When my mother died I had a nervous breakdown," he says, "So I shut down for a long time. I was in such a sadness frame of mind. That's why nobody seen me. I had just disappeared off the map." He fell out of touch with Isaac, and in an indication of just how bad things had gotten for him, lost track of all the recordings they'd made together. Music became a distant memory.

Fortunately, Isaac kept the faith. In a self-published collection of his poetry – paeans to some of his favorite entertainment and public figures entitled Friends and Dick Clark – he'd written that he believed "music has a life of its own." But his prescience and presence of mind were truly manifested in the fact that he kept an archive of he and Lee's work. As perfectly imperfect as "Is It What You Want" now sounds in a post-Personal Space world, Lee and Isaac's lone official release was in fact just a taste. The bulk of the Is It What You Want album is culled from the pair's essentially unheard home recordings – complete songs, half-realized experiments, Isaac's blue monologues and pronouncements et al – compiled, mixed and programmed in the loose and impulsive creative spirit of their regular get-togethers from decades ago. The rest of us, it seems, may have finally caught up to them.

On the prospect of at long last reaching a wider audience, Isaac says simply, "I been trying for a long time, it feels good." Ever the survivor, he adds, "The only way I know how to make it to the top is to keep climbing. If one leg break on the ladder, hey, you gotta fix it and keep on going… That's where I be at. I'll kill death to make it out there."

For Lee it all feels akin to a personal resurrection: "It's like I was in a tomb and the tomb was opened and I'm back… Man, it feels so great. I feel like I'm gonna jump out of my skin." Success at this stage of his life, he realizes, probably means something different than what it did back when he was singing and dancing in Isaac's front yard. "What I really mean by 'making it,'" he explains isn't just the music being heard but, "the story being told."

Occasionally Lee will pull up "Is It What You Want" on YouTube on his phone, put on his headphones, and listen. He remembers the first time he heard his recorded voice. How surreal it was, how he thought to himself, "Is that really me?" What would he say to that younger version of himself now?

"I would probably tell myself, hang in there, don't give up. Keep striving for the goal. And everything will work out."

Despite what's printed on the record label, sometimes you do get more than one chance.

Sharon Jones & the Dap-Kings have developed an international reputation as the #1 group on today’s soul scene. Soul Time! is an exploration of the full range of their dynamic sound through twelve songs handpicked by the Daptone Records gang, each one a precious exclusive.

The needle drops on Genuine Pts. 1 & 2, a supercharged funk arrangement that evokes the late Godfather not only with the spirited syncopation of the Dap-Kings rhythms, but also with the raw power of Jones’ voice. It is performances such as these that have earned her the moniker “the Female James Brown.” Though it has long been one of their best-selling singles, it makes it’s album debut here. Longer and Stronger, written for her 50th birthday, is a deep mid-tempo soul celebration of the strength and determination with which Sharon Jones has earned her long overdue success. It is heard here for the first time, but will undoubtedly join other Sharon Jones & the Dap-Kings songs in the canon of great soul music. The theme of empowerment pushes on through “He Said I Can”, an energetic stomper belted over an arrangement reminiscent of the Isley Brothers early-seventies heyday, and “I’m Not Gonna Cry” brings us back to the raw funk intensity of Genuine with a squealing tenor solo and a fiery vocal. Side one wraps with a scorching studio performance of “When I Come Home”, long a highlight of the band’s live show but rearing its head on album here for the first time as well.

“What If We All Stopped Paying Taxes?” kicks the second side off with a bang. A strong anti-war message pours over a revolutionary mid-tempo groove, accentuated by the conga work of the legendary Johnny Griggs of JB’s fame, while Settling In is a greasy rhythm and blues grinder. And who says Christmas can’t be soulful? Jones et al. make it so over their sought after holiday exclusive, “Ain’t No Chimneys in the Projects.” Next is an energetic romp into Motown intensity with “New Shoes”, a walking-out-the door belter that picks up where These Boots Were Made For Walking left off. Without A Trace shows yet another dimension of the band, stretching a dreamy mid-tempo groove down the road to Memphis and back. The record winds up with a deep laid back cover of Shuggie Otis’ psychedelic soul jam “Inspiration Information.” From the first note to the last, Soul Time! confirms this band’s place at the head of the table as the world’s greatest funk and soul showband. Whether you’re a lifetime fan, or just getting turned on, Sharon Jones & the Dap-Kings’ have yet again made a record that will blow your mind. Get ready world, because It’s Soul Time!

Living In Clip (25th Anniversary Edition) Newly remastered for vinyl + cd in deluxe packaging. This landmark double album by Ani DiFranco, features her trio from 1995-1996 with Andy Stochansky (drums) and Sara Lee (bass). Twenty-five years later the album is recognized as a point of entry that radically expanded DiFranco’s audience, and a historically important testament to the relationship between Ani as a live performer and the devoted community she created with her fans. If there was ever a record to help you pull through until the next time the Folksinger makes her way to your town, Living In Clip is the one. Affectionately named after the state of stage amps about to blow out, the record is constructed like a show complete with the onstage humor and antics we love. The culmination of years of studio work and constant touring, Living In Clip is a tour in itself: nearly two-dozen venues provide the atmosphere for over two hours of music complete with intermission and encore. Recorded straight from the soundboard on an 8 track ADAT, digital videotape and mixed by Ani and Andrew Gilchrist – Living In Clip is conceptually designed to preserve the authenticity and pulse of a live show. There are jazzy folkalicious renditions of "Letter to A John," "Fire Door," "Diner" and "Anticipate." Amusing and sweet snippets are interwoven throughout the songs and sometimes during them - "Out of Habit" harbors a little cinematic glimpse into Ani's first days in New York City. This dynamic collection also offers The Buffalo Philharmonic Orchestra playing on "Both Hands" and "Amazing Grace" at a hockey arena as well as a phenomenal version of "Shy," that was nominated for a Grammy for Best Rock Vocal Performance – Female (or whatever). Living In Clip is also considered one of Rolling Stone Magazine's essential albums of the 90's. Living In Clip includes a beautiful photo gallery that contains pictures of the sparkling faces, questionable attire and unique persons behind the road show.

We all make mistakes. We all have regrets. We all look back on the loves and losses life brings and lament on how things might have been different. In these deeply personal moments of reflection our emotions can run wild as we contemplate our choices and come to terms with what’s next. Hindsight is a powerful and complex thing, and a phenomenon whose intricacies are explored in captivating fashion on The Greatest Mistake Of My Life, the second album from Cardiff’s Holding Absence.

Building on the excellent foundations laid down by the band’s eponymous debut record, released in 2019, and following standalone singles ‘Gravity’ and ‘Birdcage’, the four-piece have returned with a group of songs that, in the view of vocalist Lucas Woodland, are the truest representation of Holding Absence to date.

Inspired by a song of the same name that was recorded in the 1930s by actor and singer Dame Gracie Fields, The Greatest Mistake Of My Life is rooted in a time long before Holding Absence even existed. Lucas’ great uncle covered the song during the 1950s – something the frontman repeats on this album – and after finding this out from his grandmother, the singer decided the poignancy of its words were worthy of titling Holding Absence’s next record.

Holding Absence – the band completed by bassist James Joseph and drummer Ashley Green – carry the The Greatest Mistake Of My Life’s contemplative and thoughtful spirit throughout their second album. Whereas their debut was a concept record about the subject of love, The Greatest Mistake Of My Life’s inspirations are more complex, as Holding Absence stare down love in the face of death, all the while musing on the vast array of emotions we as humans experience throughout our lives.

Lead single ‘Beyond Belief’ is a soaring epic about the risk of loving someone forever, when their definition of ‘Forever’ might be different to yours, and a song that, Lucas says, argues how “love is something worth taking a risk on.” Holding Absence’s unique approach to romance is also present on atmospheric tracks like ‘Curse Me With Your Kiss’ and ‘Afterlife’, but for every display of affection, The Greatest Mistake Of My Life counters with despondency. ‘Die Alone (In Your Lover’s Arms)’ tells of the loneliness two people feel within a relationship long-turned sour, while ‘In Circles’ speaks to the monotony of everyday life and the crushing of dreams.

The Greatest Mistake Of My Life soundtracks the journey of our lives via all of its despair, elation, joy and pain, but never once tells the listener how they should be feeling.


Shedding their skins and emerging into a bright new phase for their band, with The Greatest Mistake Of My Life, Holding Absence are embracing change whilst holding onto the things that make them special. Aesthetic, for instance, remains important to Lucas and his bandmates, but as seen in the video for ‘Beyond Belief’, no longer do they exist in a world of purely black and white colour. Ushering in a colourful new era for Holding Absence, Lucas speaks of a desire “to bring warmth to people’s lives.”

Armed with a stellar new album and an unflinching belief in their craft, this new incarnation of Holding Absence promises to excite and impress like never before. An enthralling collection of songs and stories that tell of love, life, death and everything in between, The Greatest Mistake Of My Life is a thrilling record, and one its creators were born to make.

As Holding Absence have proved, the greatest mistakes can sometimes open the door to even greater triumphs.

Évariste is one of the rare specimens of artist-cum-scientists. Among his kind stand others like Pierre Schaeffer, a Polytechnique graduate (an engineer but also the father of musique concrète) and the eccentric Boby Lapointe (graduate of the École centrale and inventor of the Bibi-binaire system, patented in 1968). Évariste's songwriting, joyful and full of energy (albeit extremely critical), shrouds an original tragedy: born in 1943 among résistants, Joël Sternheimer (aka Évariste) grew up without a father, lost to Auschwitz. Although he makes little reference to Jewish culture in his music, his origins leave their mark: in 1974, he sings a Hebrew song on television. In 1966, the young Joël sports Princeton's colourful paraphernalia - that's because he's freshly returning from the US, where he was sent to pursue his research on "particle mass and the interpretation of observed regularities, such as the effects of a wave" (will understand who may). When he gets there the country's in the midst of the Vietnam War. With McNamara keen to find an alternative to the nuclear weapon and calling upon the country's biggest brains to undertake the task, there's a "fund shift" within the university - a diplomatic way to give notice to whoever may not be disposed to follow the government's scheme. Joël, who's under the supervision of a rebellious physician, is dismissed. He regardless keeps following the prestigious seminaries of the Institute for Advanced Study, chaired by Oppenheimer, inventor of the atomic bomb. Likely inspired by the hippie movement and music, Joël buys a guitar and starts playing in Washington Square - after all, Bob Dylan himself started there. He blithely skips Oppenheimer and receives a warm (though surprised) welcome from a crowd thoroughly unfamiliar with French. When the ageing physicist questions him about his decreasing attendance, Joël explains how drawn he is to music, and how he thinks it could help him in self-financing his research. Évariste recalls seeing the sickened man, his face torn by remorse, lighten up to his words and say: "What's keeping you - go for it! If I was still young that's exactly what I'd do." The student takes these words as a testimony from his professor - and it's enough to convince him . And so he takes the leap during the Christmas vacations he spends in Paris. A journalist friend he often sees around the Sorbonne introduces him to the artistic director of Disques AZ. The latter passes the tapes on to the label's boss, Lucien Morisse, also program manager on Europe N°1. Morisse is blown away - and signs him onto the label right away. Michel Colombier, arranger for Serge Gainsbourg and co-author of "Psyché Rock", with Pierre Henry, contributes some of his original ideas to the 7 inch "E=mc2": Évariste's preoccupation with the percussion sound on the track "Le calcul intégral" is that it goes "poom poom" and not "tock tock" - Colombier is aware of the issue and records Évariste's guitar like a percussion in an isolated booth. The organist Eddy Louis, who is to participate, in 1969, to the success of Claude Nougaro's "Paris mai", also appears on the record. It's 1966 and the Antoine phenomenon (signed on Vogue) storms through France. The two singers share similarities: Antoine is an engineer of the École centrale, gifted with a great originality in his song-writing. A godsend for the two labels who turn this resemblance into a commercial strategy, setting them out as rivals. To this day though, Évariste still denies what was little more than slushy tabloïd gossip. Success comes around swiftly and in 1967 Évariste launches into a second 7 inch, "Wo I nee", again arranged by Michel Colombier. Quantum mechanics fans finally get their anthem with "La Chasse Au Boson Intermédiaire" (or the "Intermediary Boson Pursuit"). To sum up what's a boson, say he's a close pal of the meson, photon and other gluons. A few months later, it's May 68 and everything's turned upside down. Évariste writes a series of songs inspired by the events, which he immediately submits to Lucien Morisse. When the man behind "Salut les copains", once married to Dalida, hears the song "La révolution" - a father and son dialogue - he can't take any more: AZ simply cannot release this. But there and then Lucien Morisse makes a gesture which will remain engraved in French music's history: sorry to be unable to officially stand by the singer, he encourages him to self-produce the record, but with his tacit support. He calls the pressing factory and asks they apply the same rate for Évariste as they would for AZ. The singer and his musicians use the same studio as for the previous record, all of them playing for free awaiting a return on investment. Évariste keeps singing at the Sorbonne with "Jussieu's gang" and "the young Renaud" he nicknames "le p'tit gavroche" (or "street urchin"). Renaud volunteers to type the lyrics of the song "La révolution" so that the chorus can be sung and recorded. A boy in the group is related to Wolinski and introduces them. The two get along so well that Wolinski ends up drawing the cover for the record "La révolution", for free. The self-released 7 inch "La révolution / La faute à Nanterre" is sold under the table and door-to-door for half the price of a standard record, on and around the boulevard Saint-Michel; and it runs out fast. In the end, there will be 6 releases of the record, and 25000 copies sold. When the theatre director Claude Confortès decides to adapt Wolinski's drawing series titled "Je ne veux pas mourir idiot" ("I don't want to die a fool"), he asks Évariste to write the original soundtrack. His friend, now cartoonist for Hara-Kiri Hebdo, often promotes him in accordance with a principle dear to him by virtue of which he gives a special place to his friends. Dominique Grange (writer of the song "Nous sommes les nouveaux partisans") soon joins the team. After 150 performances, Évariste leaves his place to Dominique Maurin (brother of Patrick Dewaere). Évariste composes the songs for Claude Confortès' next play, "Je ne pense qu'à ça" ("That's all I think about"), co-wrote with Wolinski in 1969. The comedians of the play record the songs on a 7 inch, with a cover signed, again, by Wolinski. In 1971, French television produces the documentary "Évariste et les 7 dimensions", but doesn't air it. Indeed, the scientific sub-comity of the programming comity (sic) censors the show. The given justification is that "Évariste dangerously mixed science with science-fiction, numerology and other non-scientific disciplines". The underlying motive might have been a will to censor the singer-mathematician's political discourse. In the documentary and among other things, Évariste discusses hierarchy, alienation and revolution. Half a century later the documentary remains invisible, though some excerpts resurfaced in 1992 in the cult show "L'oeil du cyclone", on Canal +. Though flourishing, Évariste's career is nearing its end. 1970 is the beginning of a decade in the course of which he is to make a decisive discovery in the musical and scientific domains. Following this breakthrough, he moves away from self-produced music and gaucho magazines to focus on science. He keeps Oppenheimer's encouraging words in mind, now freely pursuing his research thanks to the sales of his records. Joël realises that when decoding protein sequences, one finds musical sequences recognisable to humans. He names them "proteodies". If, when listening to a proteody, one responds by being so sensitive as to finding it beautiful, then it reveals a deficiency of the related protein - and this peculiar music may be the cure. We could trace back the music history in light of proteins lacking in a given artist, or within a public's majority. You always thought these hysterical groupies who'd throw their underwear with passion and faint in the pit had miraculously appeared because they had never heard anything as wonderful as the Beatles? Make no mistake! For Évariste, it all boils down to an intro's protein content. Indeed, the beginning of their first hit "Love Me Do" corresponds to dopamine, the neurotransmitter linked to compulsive buying. An intro like this could only unleash the fervour of groupies, victims of fashion and biology. Évariste's success is such that the income from his sales gives him the autonomy to which he had aspired when confiding to Oppenheimer. It made it possible for him to pursue his research without any institutional constraints. He now devotes himself to his proteodies, sat in the offices of the European University for Research, just around the corner from the Sorbonne he knew so well. Évariste is no more. Joël regained control of this strange and comical beast.

Introducing Cutcross, created to champion the melting pot of bass-centric sounds teetering around 140 bpm. Heading up the concept is Sicaria Sound, a DJ duo who since their inception set out to explore and expand on the possibilities of these sounds whilst spotlighting underground artists. Cutcross is therefore their next step in supporting the forward-thinking music that they've drawn for when curating sets.

For CXT005 we've curated another compilation EP - "With The Sonant" - stitching together a collectively hazy set of tracks yet each with their own vocal deviations. Epoch's long coveted "2-Door Subaru" is the explosive opener, followed by two distinct approaches to trappier terrains via Woven Thorn's "Loveless" and "Try Me" by zns before descending into the dub-diving murky waters of Soukah's "Don't Care".

Rome’s own disco wizard L.U.C.A. aka Francesco De Bellis is back for his second LP Terra, hot on the heels of his Venus 12” EP earlier this year. In this far-reaching album, the Edizioni Mondo founder explores the deteriorating relationship between Man and Nature, and the dire consequences. The album is split into two themes - part one is Consacrazione (Consecration) and side two is Coscienza (Conscience) - as L.U.C.A. charts a trip through mankind’s psychic universe, and imagines worlds beyond our physical dimension.

The opening composition Cities is an uptempo number that slowly comes into focus, as dreamy drum machines emerge from the urban bustle, before settling into a soulful groove as keyboard, upright bass and guitar figures dance across bright percussion. As it builds up a head of steam, the piece gives way to an ambient, tribal breakdown, which is also echoed in the following song, Drum Talk. This second tune sets up in a fourth world dreamscape of drums, synths, and abstracted echo effects, and is peppered with word fragments from the bush of ghosts. By the time we’ve reached the third track, Congiunzione sounds like travelling at singularity speed, beaming in from a future where human consciousness and gaia can finally dance on a cosmic plain.

Part two of Terra details how revelation of the spirit can guide the mind, as Time Spirals rises out of a drum motif with a nod to classic ragas, as a disembodied voice asks questions on the nature of corporeality. The sound design is just as front and centre as the sitar and fretless bass, and the song gives way to a richly-layered soup that sounds like the vast space between atoms. It’s this shift from composition to ambience that is the dynamic core of Terra, giving L.U.C.A. plenty of space to showcase his next-level audio and arranging skills. Midway through part two, Giallo Assoluto begins with reverb tails and choral voices before expanding in brightness and texture until the audio field is practically levitating your hi-fi speakers, vibrating them with drones, twinkling keys and shards of digital noise. The closing composition Ritorno al Domani is a perfect balance of optimism and mystery. Tension and release collapse in on themselves as waves of ambient pads crescendo and then break over stretched-out sonic turbulence, before reversed synths bring the listener to a closing door, and the end of the journey.

It’s a mind-expanding musical exploration of other worlds and parallel universes which are surely all around us, and in many ways serve to remind us of the marvel that is our own planet.

The legendary reggae powerhouse is back with a brand new studio album, "New Day," the follow up to their 2018 Grammy nominated effort, "As the World Turns." The album release is the focal point of celebrating "50 Years of Black Uhuru" as 2022 marks 50 years since the band's formation in 1972 in Kingston, Jamaica. Flash forward 50 years from 1972, millions of albums have been sold, 8 Grammy nominations and 1 Grammy Award, and the band finds themselves looking back on the accomplishments and forwards to a "New Day" dawning. Marketing Highlights: - Nationwide headlining tour supporting the album in major markets in May - Summer European tour anchored around a Festival play at Reggae Land Festival in Milton Keynes, UK with Shaggy, Julian Marley, Inner Circle and more - Full Press Campaign supporting the album release - Extensive multi-phase online digital marketing campaign

The legendary reggae powerhouse is back with a brand new studio album, "New Day," the follow up to their 2018 Grammy nominated effort, "As the World Turns." The album release is the focal point of celebrating "50 Years of Black Uhuru" as 2022 marks 50 years since the band's formation in 1972 in Kingston, Jamaica. Flash forward 50 years from 1972, millions of albums have been sold, 8 Grammy nominations and 1 Grammy Award, and the band finds themselves looking back on the accomplishments and forwards to a "New Day" dawning. Marketing Highlights: - Nationwide headlining tour supporting the album in major markets in May - Summer European tour anchored around a Festival play at Reggae Land Festival in Milton Keynes, UK with Shaggy, Julian Marley, Inner Circle and more - Full Press Campaign supporting the album release - Extensive multi-phase online digital marketing campaign