A melody looping in a hospital hallway. A chorus that took six years to learn its own name. Sitting down with Brad Barr, we talk about writing when life insists on co-author credit—kindness traded for drum lessons, heartbreak turned into breath, and a city that lets a voice arrive on its own time. From Providence to Montreal, Brad and Andrew built a shared language—first as The Slip, then as The Barr Brothers—rooted in groove, generosity, and patience.

The focus is Let It Hiss, their first record in eight years, and the clarity that came only after the songs could stand on their own. Jim James adds a spectral lift to “English Harbor.” Elizabeth Powell and Ariel Engle color the margins. Klô Pelgag reframes a verse in French, returning harmonies that feel like a second producer’s hand.

There’s tactile joy—cassettes, handheld recorders, chord voicings shared online—and a clear ethic: measure success by honesty, not algorithms. Ahead: Let It Hiss outtakes, North American and European dates, Sleeping Operator finally stirring, and Brad’s first vocal solo record as he learns which songs belong to which home.

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Snow hushes the streets; songs do the same to the head. We open on a coast-to-coast weather check and drift into a story that starts in Philly basements and only really clicks once Emily Yacina loosens her grip. Confidence, she says, was something the scene lent her early on—small rooms, big hearts. Most songs still arrive as a fragment: a phrase, a melodic flicker. Writing becomes a place to set feelings down when there’s nowhere else to put them.

There’s a pivot here—from hardline DIY to letting collaborators leave fingerprints. Control gives way to trust. A pianist widens the frame, a violinist pulls a thread, a great engineer sharpens the picture. Emily talks about the awe of unfamiliar studios and the humbling realization that audio engineering is its own deep craft, not just a means to an end. Then comes release-day whiplash: years of work suddenly gone, the quiet after the drop, the itch to check a feed for proof of life. She’s honest about the pressure to “go viral,” and how she learned to measure success by connection instead of metrics.

Touring again—after time away—reset the temperature. Nightly rooms, real conversations, and a sense of abundance replaced scarcity. Move your body, move your ideas. Momentum follows motion. She’s carrying that energy into 2026: more sessions, more collaborators, and a steady aim to make songs feel as alive as the feelings that sparked them.

If you’re into indie folk with DIY roots, the mechanics of songwriting, and the quiet courage it takes to share something personal, this conversation sketches a practical map for sustainable creativity.

If it hits home, follow the show, pass it to a friend who lives for singer-songwriters, and leave a review—so the right ears can find it.

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What if the quickest way to sound like yourself is to stop chasing your heroes? That question sits at the centre of our conversation with Kevin Basko, the mind behind Rubber Band Gun—a project that slides easily between indie rock, psych, and playful concept albums, all shaped by a hands-on, hybrid analog setup where limits become part of the sound.

Basko traces his path from backyard lyric notebooks to a sudden elevator text that landed him in Foxygen’s touring band, sharpening his instincts without dulling his DIY core. We dig into RBG25, the self-imposed challenge to release dozens of records in a year, and how working fast reshaped his sense of tempo, arrangement, and when a song is actually done. Along the way, he talks borrowing without imitating, turning tradition into raw material, and why momentum—and not perfection—is the real engine of creative work.

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HighSchool formed during Melbourne’s lockdowns, making songs fast and with intention. In this episode, they talk about starting with images and mood before melody, recording wherever they could, and keeping tempos high so the songs stayed sharp and emotional. We get into how Lily’s shift from drums to synth helped shape the band’s sound, why restraint matters more than polish, and how Sony Ericsson came together in a single day after nearly being dropped. From writing in London to releasing a self-titled debut, this is a conversation about momentum, trust, and finding your sound by keeping things simple.

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A granddad blasting Pink Floyd at school pick-up and a jealous six-year-old’s first guitar lesson—hardly the start of a band, but that’s where Eades began. Frontmen Harry Jordan and Tom O’Reilly trace how a bedroom project became a songwriting engine that produced 50-plus lockdown tracks and the refined Final Sirens Call. From four-mic drum kits and happy-accident compressors to Dylan, Lou Reed, and Wilco-inspired craft, the duo reveal how trust, vetoes, and risk shape their sound. We dig into sequencing headaches, translating dense studio layers to the stage, and chasing the live spark on their next record.

For fans of post-punk energy, garage roots, and Wilco-era ambition—this episode dives inside Eades’ engine room.

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From a shy kid singing Christina Aguilera behind a bedroom door to teaching voice at Concordia, Alexandra Levy the power behind Ada Lea has lived every side of finding your sound. In this episode, she talks tendonitis, creative do-overs, and the three-day songwriting challenge that sparked When I Paint My Masterpiece. We dig into mentorship, Montreal roots, and the art of building a music career you can actually live with.

If you’ve ever felt late, stuck, or told you’re “not a singer,” this one’s for you.

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A happy mistake at a concert.
A guitar rediscovered in the back of a closet.
Two students on totally different paths who somehow found the same sound.

That’s the origin story of sundayclub, a rural Manitoba duo whose music feels like it was pulled from an ’80s Polaroid—warm, hazy, and quietly intentional. Their new EP, Bannatyne, captures that balance perfectly: pop instincts wrapped in dream-pop atmosphere, four tracks that melt into one continuous mood.

When you talk to Courtney Carmichael and Nikki St. Pierre, you get the sense that their process is equal parts chaos and craft. Courtney writes with a diarist’s honesty, often chasing the feeling a moment left behind. Nikki builds the sonic world around those words, leaning on production chops and an obsession with tone. A simple tuning shift to open C cracked something open—suddenly, new harmonies and melodies started falling out of the guitar.

They work fast to capture the spark, then slow down for the final stretch, refusing to rush a lyric or sand off a rough edge just to be “done.” That patience shows. Bannatyne isn’t a playlist of singles—it’s a short film in sound, one that breathes and unfolds with intention.

Their path to Paper Bag Records came with its own lucky breaks—a well-timed mastering grant, a few key community ties, and a lot of persistence. Listeners have already gravitated toward Nuclear Fallout, a track that wasn’t meant to be the standout but hit something unexpected. Courtney and Nikki say that kind of connection means more than any genre label could.

Looking ahead, they’re teasing a reimagined “Last Christmas”, a run of Canadian shows, and new singles that stretch their sound without losing its heart.

If you’re into indie pop, dream pop, odd guitar tunings, and the craft behind a cohesive EP, this one’s for you. Stream the episode, spin Bannatyne front to back, and see which moment sticks. And if you love what you hear, share it with a friend—because that’s how good music travels.

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Dream pop isn’t about turning everything down — it’s about tuning everything in. That’s the pulse of our talk with Mirrorball, the Los Angeles duo behind those lush, cinematic songs that somehow still feel like they’re whispering right to you. From the first late-night demo to a surprise label release, their story drifts through noisy beginnings, an obsession with sound, and the quiet confidence that comes with learning when not to play.

We get into how they write: Scott starts with grooves, guitars, and synths in Logic. Alex listens, and melodies spill out — sometimes all at once, sometimes over time. Some songs bloom in a day; others sit for months, waiting for the right mood to arrive. Recording, for them, is a kind of home — layering overdubs until the room disappears and only the song remains. Playing live, though, demands something different: less control, more trust. The goal isn’t to be louder, it’s to make people feel. Small choices, big emotion.

There’s honesty, too, about what it means to be an indie band now. Without a label, they’ve handled everything themselves — the videos, the press, the endless scroll — keeping things moving with a steady run of singles. Now they’re building toward a full LP, something that captures the whole arc of who they’ve become. With producer Chris Coady’s touch — tiny shifts in timing, arrangements that breathe — the songs pulse and shimmer instead of shout. At home, Alex tracks vocals dry, chasing raw takes; Scott trims the noise, staying closer to what feels real.

If you’re drawn to guitars that glow, vocals that drift just out of reach, and rhythms that dance a little behind the beat, this one’s for you. Press play, sink into Red Hot Dust, and stay awhile. If it hits, tell a friend — the dream gets brighter when more people are in it.

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A clarinet in fourth grade doesn’t usually lead to fuzz pedals, pedal steel, and a packed tour van, but that’s the path Brendan Wright of Tiberius traces on Troubadour. We start with the spark—how a quiet kid found a home in melody—and follow the trail to the moment those bedroom songs finally stepped into stage lights. Through it all runs one through-line: honesty. The kind that feels safe when you’re singing alone, and the kind that feels a little dangerous when a room goes silent to hear it.

Brendan talks about walking that line between catharsis and the reality of sharing their work. They used to write like they were passing secret notes to themself. Now the notes have to breathe among strangers. They open up about shifting from super-specific diary lines to lyrics built around wider feelings—anxiety, persistence, the weird fog of transition—so more people can slip inside the songs. It doesn’t dull anything; it actually sharpens it. You can hear it in a line like “Why do I try to keep on trying?” and in the way the band lets silence hang before a chorus hits.

We dig into the making of Troubadour, from the piece-by-piece construction of Fish in a Pond to focused sessions at The Record Co. in Boston. Drummer Ben Curell, bassist Kelven “KP” Polite , and guitarist Christian Pace helped pull the songs into their live shape, with Nate Scaringi behind the board helping the drums land just right. The result is a sound Brendan jokingly calls “farm emo”—folk bones, a little country dust, and an emo heart—wrapped in those loud-quiet-loud dynamics that feel as much Neil Young as they do modern indie. It’s tender one moment, towering the next, built for small rooms that don’t stay small for long.

We close on motion. The northeast run—Burlington, Portland, Boston, Albany, Philly, New York—feels like both a celebration and a goodbye to a set they’ve lived inside for two years. New songs are forming. Brendan’s headspace is shifting again. That’s the promise here: a record that captures exactly where Tiberius is right now, and an artist already leaning toward whatever comes next.

If this one hits you, tap follow, share it with a friend who needs a cathartic chorus, and leave a quick review—it helps more listeners discover Tiberius and stories like this.

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A deluxe release hits different when the songs feel like they’ve been kicking around in the dirt for years. On release day for Tear Your Heart Out (Deluxe), we sat down with villagerrr to walk the long, crooked road behind it—a story that starts in a small town, rattles through a red Pontiac Sunfire, and settles into the stubborn, hand-built joy of figuring out recording alone. Mark Scott talks about how long runs in cold air, odd hours cutting concrete, and a phone overloaded with gritty voice memos shaped a 16-track world that blends indie twang, folk warmth, and slowcore quiet. It’s the kind of record that asks to be played in sequence, the way you’d leaf through an old photo album—front to back, smudges and all.

We get into the slow shift from solitude to letting other people into the room, and why he only opens the door when the feel is right. The Merce Lemon feature arrived the old-fashioned way: see a set, feel something, and send a message that isn’t coated in industry varnish. Drummer Zane Dway adds heartbeat without sanding the rough edges, while Boone Patrello shows how a single late-night vibe call can lead to parts that sound like they were dug up rather than written. Most of the songs were nearly done before the guests stepped in, which is why the whole thing still sounds unmistakably Villager—one voice, one hand on the wheel, just more colours in the dust.

Real life hums in the background too: fans quietly singing the deep cuts, someone shyly handing over a record to sign after an opener slot, the strange feeling of seeing slow growth in places that aren’t algorithms or charts. We map out the Ohio college dates and a December run with Teethe, then lift the tarp on what’s coming next: another album already mastered, still self-recorded in the margins of real jobs and real days, sharper but cut from the same honest cloth.

If you care about albums built to be lived with, about DIY recordings that prize feel over polish, and about indie music that smells like cold air, old cars, and real life, this one is for you.

Spin the conversation, let the deluxe play straight through, and if it hits you right, follow the show, pass it on, and leave a quick note. It keeps the whole thing moving.

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There’s something beautiful about a guitar line that smiles while the lyric aches — that’s the trick Autocamper pulls off again and again. The Manchester band’s debut What Do You Do All Day? shimmers with that mix of brightness and bruising honesty.

Their story feels fittingly accidental: friends of friends, a project that almost happened, and finally a pub meeting that did. Out of that came a lineup stitched from deep-house childhoods, folk-festival summers, and an indie-pop instinct that just feels right. The result is a sound that breathes — light, melodic, a little dreamy, and grounded in real feeling.

When we talk about writing without irony, Jack laughs — it’s harder than it sounds. He writes from feeling first, letting words find their place once the music starts to move. Songs might begin as rough acoustic sketches or on a laptop at 2 a.m., but they only really live once the band’s in a room together. Everyone adds something different: the drummer’s electronic sensibility, the little melodic turns, the patience to leave space. It’s what makes the album flow the way it does — shifting vocals, thoughtful pacing, and hooks that sneak up on you later.

The reactions have been wild — singalongs in Glasgow, thoughtful notes from fans, and the odd review that missed the point entirely. That last one kicked off a bigger chat about how we listen, how we care, and why honest fanzines still matter.

At the heart of it all is sincerity. Autocamper’s not chasing cleverness or cool detachment — they’re after connection. And as they look ahead, they’re set on moving forward, not repeating themselves. The goal: keep it real, keep it human, keep it melodic.

If you like your indie rock with heart and a hint of ache, start here.
Spin the record, find your moment, and if it hits — tell someone. That’s how good music travels.

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A Canadian indie original walks into a Berlin studio and comes out with a record that swaps pews for pulse without losing its soul. We sit down with Joel Gibb of The Hidden Cameras to explore Bronto—how it was written across years and cities, why new instruments still spark his best songs, and what it takes to reinvent a beloved project without erasing its DNA. From the first gallery shows and that infamous “tones and drones of gay folk church music” tag to a slow-build electropop finale that took nearly two decades to land, Joel opens the notebook and lets us in.

We talk about the nine-year gap between albums and the quiet labour hidden inside it: tours that consumed seasons, pandemic delays, and long days auditioning sounds in Logic while folding in analogue synths for grit. Joel explains why he recorded vocals alone in Berlin, worked with Nicholas in Munich, and called on Owen Pallett in Toronto for strings—an international thread that gives Bronto its depth. Genre becomes a lens rather than a fence; he’s chased “goth,” “country,” and now “dance,” while staying true to the melodic bite and lyrical candour that defined The Hidden Cameras.

On the road, Joel is keeping it taut and human: train rides, a guitar, a kick drum, and tracks for the bangers. He shares why solo shows feel lighter and more focused, how he chooses setlists that bridge old hymns and new hedonism, and why some ideas need time to find the right frame. If you’re curious about creative process, gear as muse, or how a scene shift can change your sound without breaking your heart, this conversation delivers a rare, grounded look behind the curtain.

If you enjoyed this, follow the show, share it with a friend who loves indie lifers and sonic reinvention, and leave a rating or review so more listeners can discover our conversations.

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What happens when you book four days in a studio with no songs written and trust your gut anyway? We sat down with Alexei Shishkin to unpack the making of Good Times, a record born from instinct, loops, and a shared “don’t overthink it” pact with producer Bradford Krieger at Big Nice in Rhode Island. Alexei walks us through the thrill of showing up empty-handed, improvising with friends, chopping bass lines into new shapes, and committing to sounds fast so inspiration never goes cold.

We dig into the long arc that got him there: early experiments with Sound Recorder and GarageBand, the way loops taught him arrangement and structure, and how his voice drifted from hidden texture to focal point as space, gear, and confidence shifted. Alexei explains why direct-in guitars, stock tools, and minimal mixing rounds weren’t shortcuts but creative choices that kept the project fluid. He also shares an unfiltered take on modern music careers—why he loves recording but refuses to tour, how he handled radio sessions with covers instead of acoustic stand-ins, and what it means to keep music in the passion lane while video work pays the bills.

This is a conversation for anyone fascinated by process over perfection, indie production that favours momentum, and the quiet discipline of knowing what you want from your art. Along the way, you’ll hear about influences like Microdisney, High Llamas, and Pavement, and the layered catalogue Alexei is building for deep-diving listeners. Press play, then tell us: do you value a flawless performance, or the spark of creation captured in real time? If you enjoy the show, follow, rate, and share with a friend who loves indie music stories shaped by instinct.

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A fall day, a fresh cup, and a songwriter ready to open the door. We sit down with Octoberman’s Marc Morrissette to trace the line from teenaged mixtapes and first guitars to packed vans, TV placements, and the decision to build Octoberman as a fluid, long-haul project. Marc shares how four songwriters in Kids These Days created abundance and how the quieter, folk-leaning material found a real home once he stepped into a looser, more personal frame.

The heart of this conversation lives in process and in the pivot points life hands you. Marc walks us through his writing ritual—constant note-taking, big demo batches, and letting the best ideas rise—then shows how trust shapes arrangements when bandmates write their own parts. We dig into Shoots and why he abandoned the click track for the warmth of two-inch tape, capturing performances live in the room. The result is a record that breathes: wood, wire, and the human timing you can feel in your chest.

There’s a deeper current here too. After stepping back for family and losing his mother suddenly, Marc found proof of her quiet belief—Octoberman CDs in her car, a scrapbook of clippings—and channelled that grief into a creative surge. Half of Shoots sprang from that renewed momentum; the other half came from forgotten demos on old hard drives, bringing vivid character songs and narrative vignettes that expand the album’s voice. We talk Canadiana roots, Harry Nilsson nods, and why names like Roger and Marla can pull a listener closer.

If you love indie folk, live-to-tape warmth, and honest talk about how records actually get made, you’ll feel at home. Press play, meet Marc’s world, and then tell us what you heard—your favourite track, a line that stuck, or your own story of stepping back and starting again. Subscribe, share with a friend who loves analog recordings, and leave a review to help more ears find the show.

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A sunlit hook can feel like a hand on your shoulder. That’s the energy we chase with Zane Ruttenberg of Thanks Light, as we unpack how Good Timing blends tropical psych shimmer, country ease, and harmony-rich craftsmanship into a record that invites you to stay for the whole side. Zane takes us from his backseat education with The Byrds and the Beach Boys to a lifelong obsession with layered vocals and melodies that last, sharing the human moments that seed lyrics—like a rough morning that turned into a song-worthy phrase.

We get inside the engine room of collaboration. Zane’s ear-trained, punk-spirited songwriting meets the classical rigour of longtime partner Michael Frels, creating friction that sharpens ideas without killing their spark. That push and pull shows up in arrangements that know what to protect—a defining riff, a hooky bassline—and what to open up for play. Along the way, we talk rotating lineups, shared fingerprints on records, and the quiet, unglamorous truth of trusting people after long van rides and late nights. It’s a portrait of a project that feels more like an art collective than a fixed band, yet still manages to sound unmistakably like Thanks Light.

Then we zoom in on Good Timing itself: the faux radio stinger that frames the album’s world, the exotica nods on the nine-minute closer, and the sequencing that makes each song feel necessary. Zane name-checks influences from Martin Denny and Jimmy Buffett to Granddaddy and Texas country pillars, weaving them into a sound that’s escapist without being empty. Finally, he teases what’s next—two albums tracked in parallel, one bright and breezy, the other tender and blue—both shaped to feel cohesive from first note to last.

If you love harmony-rich indie, tropical psych colours, and songs built to last, hit play, follow the show, and leave a review to tell us which moment stuck with you most. Your notes guide future conversations and help more listeners find the music.

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The first spark was private: long walks, headphones on, and albums that asked for total attention. From there, Living Hour grew into a band that treats dynamics like storytelling—opening with noise that dissolves into hush, letting melodies carry both weight and warmth, and trusting listeners to lean in. We sit down with Sam and Gil to trace the arc from university jams in Winnipeg’s DIY rooms to a studio session that captured the bold confidence of Internal Drone Infinity, their new record dropping October 17.

We unpack how ambient influences—Godspeed You! Black Emperor, Explosions in the Sky, and the Social Network score—shaped a patient, spacious approach to songwriting. Sam explains how ideas begin as fragments and vowel sounds, how a riff earns its place by refusing to fade, and how lyrics stepped forward across albums until the new songs felt fully owned. Gil maps the shift from guitar‑forward interplay to arrangements built around Sam’s melodies, and what happens when a new drummer changes the band’s gait in the best way. Touring comes to life here too: the van routines, modular setlists that fit quiet rooms and rock clubs, and the small onstage transitions that make the show breathe.

You’ll hear why release season feels like nesting and training, how social media becomes part amplifier, part chore, and why November’s run is designed like a marathon. We also look ahead: February dates on the West Coast, hopes for Europe and Australia, and a folder of demos that might become an EP. Sam’s ambient side project, Pure Pulp, threads back to the beginning—proof that the private room where songs start remains the core of the band’s voice. If you love indie rock steeped in ambient textures, slow‑core dynamics, and heartfelt vocals, this conversation will lock you in. Subscribe, share with a friend who needs new music, and leave a review to help more listeners find the show.

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A candle lit in a tiny kitchen. A book of poems opened before the phone wakes the world. That’s where this story begins—at the border of dream and day—where Sara Mae Henke (The Noisy) learned to trust the spark that eventually leapt from the page to a microphone. We dig into how a poet’s routine became a musician’s backbone, and how community—slam circles, UT Knoxville’s scene, and a tight-knit queer network in the South—turned a good voice into a living catalogue of songs.

We talk about building an album like a neighbourhood: each track its own house with different colours, but all on the same street. Chappell Roan’s world-per-song approach hovers in the blueprint, while touchpoints span Mannequin Pussy’s snarl, Lucy Dacus’s glow, shoegaze haze, and the country DNA of a Maryland childhood soundtracked by Shania Twain and Carrie Underwood. The deluxe release, The Secret Ingredient Is Even More Meat, isn’t a victory lap—it’s a field report. Nightshade finally arrives from the original writing burst. Tony Soprano grows from an inward whisper to a communal hymn for grief. Morricone exists twice, riding from spaghetti-western swagger to true indie rock. Live tracks capture the Philly lineup breathing new life into the set.

Then we go stranger and truer: clown as a craft lens. Not costume, but consent—to be fully seen, to be in on the joke with the audience, to carry the thought you’d normally take back and turn it into a chorus. We unpack how embarrassment can become voltage, how idiosyncratic structures and non-traditional recording make room for surprise, and why intimacy with listeners beats suspicion. Along the way, we honour the collaborators who opened doors, lent gear, taught etiquette, and showed that independent musicians are some of the most generous people on earth.

If you’re curious about how poetry informs melody, how queer community shapes art, and how a deluxe record can map the life of songs onstage and off, you’ll feel at home here. Join us, subscribe to the show, and tell a friend who needs a spark. And if the music moved you, leave a review—what track hit first, and why?

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What if the truest parts of a record live beneath the surface, shaping what you hear without ever announcing themselves? We sit down with Carson McHone to trace the layers behind Pentimento—from Austin’s all-ages venues to a late-summer desert in West Texas and a snow-dusted session by the Bay of Fundy, tracked to 8-track tape. Along the way, Carson shares the moment she said goodbye to restaurant shifts from the White Horse stage, the journal her mother kept during her first year of life, and how words, melody, and memory braid into songs that feel at once intimate and wide open.

We explore creativity as both posture and practice: the ear training of Suzuki lessons, the freedom of a gifted mandolin, and the patience to catch a song’s thread whether it arrives as a fully formed line or a slow, methodical build. The title Pentimento—borrowed from visual art—becomes a map for the album’s design: the underpainting that persists through time, the overlapping faces of influence, the way a project can hold multiple truths at once. Carson talks about recording to tape, embracing texture over tidy edges, and respecting albums as one living piece rather than a handful of singles. Listeners have responded by pressing play again the moment the last track ends, sensing a narrative that’s felt more than spelled out.

If you’re drawn to songwriting craft, analog recording, Austin music history, or the elemental pull of place—desert heat and ocean tide—you’ll find a lot to love here. We hold space for the practical and the poetic: paying the bills, protecting the creative spark, and building work that would be worth making even if no one heard it. Hit play, share it with a friend who still listens front to back, and leave a review to tell us what layer you heard first.

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A quiet room. Three players. More air than distortion—and somehow it feels heavier. We invited Blake Skipper from Shallowater to pull back the curtain on a second album that trades pedal stacks for patience, lets the drummer steer dynamics, and turns the bass into a melodic foil that fills the trio without clogging the mix. If you’ve ever wondered how slow/fast shifts can feel cinematic, or how minimal gear can still shake a room, this one lands right in your wheelhouse.

We trace the band’s path from Lubbock House shows to an independent release that knows what it wants: space, restraint, and intent. Blake breaks down how songs form in the room, why lyrics usually arrive last, and how a well-timed TikTok plus an Ethel Kane playlist slot helped the music find its people. There’s candour about the DIY grind—distribution, merch, schedules—alongside the pure joy of first tours, late-night drives, and fans who cross state lines for 45 minutes of slowcore catharsis. Expect talk of odd-time grooves, drummer-led accelerations, and the subtle choices that make quiet passages tense and loud moments bloom.

We also explore how reviews reflect the band’s bet: some call it sparse, others call it necessary. That’s the point. When you remove the extra, the melody has to carry, the timing has to mean something, and each player has to leave room for the others. Blake shares what’s ahead—new writing, deeper interplay, and dates with The Raveonettes across Chicago, New Jersey, New York, Philadelphia, and DC—plus a hope to bring their “dirtgaze” north to Canada. If you care about slowcore, alt-gaze, Texas indie, or simply how a small band can sound big through intention, queue it up, lean in, and let the space do the talking.

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Guitars loud, heart louder. Bec Lauder joins us to open the hood on her latest The Vessel—an anthemic, grunge‑meets‑classic‑rock debut built on three‑piece chemistry, fearless writing, and a visual world that turns sidewalks into stage lights. From the first sketchbooks and living‑room dances to songs written in five‑minute bursts, she maps how creativity followed her long before the band was born, and why levity matters as much as catharsis when you’re carrying heavy stories on a hook.

We dig into the city as muse and foil, where Tease Me pokes fun at the gallery of urban swagger, while tracks like Without You let the guard drop. Bec explains how fashion and choreography don’t decorate the music—they extend it. Give It starts in unwashed street clothes and explodes into a fantasy of costume changes and strut, proving rock can stay raw and still dream big. She shares the long road to the record: early sessions at Clive, shifting lineups, rebuilding with an all‑woman trio, and the gutsy call to turn down a life‑changing deal to keep control. That choice shaped the sound and spirit you hear now: tight, urgent, and fully owned.

There’s momentum humming under every moment—release‑party afterglow, a new booking agent, and dates with Cage the Elephant, including a hometown Philly hit. Bec also teases what’s next: daily writing, new rock fire, an experimental hip‑hop/R&B collaboration with Chris Murphy, a pulled‑back feel‑good set, and a Paris shoot with a dancer from the Paris Opera. If you love independent rock, performance‑driven visuals, and artists who build their own worlds, this one’s for you.

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From scribbled journal entries to a critically acclaimed debut album on Merge Records, Casey Gomez Walker's artistic evolution is a testament to creative fluidity and unexpected paths. The frontwoman of Casey Oats opens up about how her background in creative writing led to songwriting only after college, when a gifted guitar from a friend revealed music's accessibility.

"I was having a really bad time when I was like 22, 23. I was sick, sad. My best friend found this cheap electric guitar and picked it up for me when I was sick... it made me realize playing guitar was much easier than I thought." This pivotal moment sparked a musical journey that would eventually culminate in "The Last Missouri Exit," an album Casey describes as "accidentally" capturing the coming-of-age novel she'd been trying to write.

Casey's approach to creativity defies conventional boundaries—she doesn't separate songwriting from other forms of expression, instead collecting phrases, images, and character ideas that eventually find their perfect medium. Her partnership with Spencer Tweedy proved transformative, both personally and artistically. "When I met Spencer, it opened up this... he has lived his whole life knowing that you can make art and it can mean something to a lot of people," she reflects, crediting him with helping her embrace her identity as a musician.

The album's creation was unhurried and organic, with basic tracks recorded in a friend's basement and overdubs added as time allowed. After nearly a year of cold-emailing labels, Merge Records recognized the finished album's brilliance. Now touring with notable acts like Lucius and Superchunk while developing their second record, Casey finds particular joy in hearing how listeners connect with her music: "Having it released and everyone else experiencing it and then holding it back up to you is so cool... that they can relate to it and have the same emotional experience is really special."

Ready to discover your next favorite album? Listen to Casey Oats' "The Last Missouri Exit" and experience the distinctive voice and storytelling that's captivating audiences everywhere.

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Kevin Patrick Sullivan, the creative force behind Field Medic, invites us into the intimate world of his songwriting process in this revealing conversation about musical authenticity, vulnerability, and the realities of life as a touring musician. From his early days performing solo with just a boombox playing cassette drum beats to his current evolution as an artist, Sullivan offers a refreshingly honest look at his creative journey.

"Touring is a 24-hour job where you only work for one hour," Sullivan reflects, capturing the strange dichotomy of performing life – moments of intense connection with audiences followed by the disorienting reality of being "somewhere random" immediately after. This vulnerability extends throughout his music, where he's discovered that the lyrics making him most uncomfortable often resonate most deeply with listeners.

What makes Sullivan's approach particularly fascinating is his disciplined creative routine combined with moments of pure inspiration. He practices what he calls "full-time freestyle," sometimes capturing songs in single, inspired moments, while other times meticulously crafting them over time. "I work on music or songwriting for at least an hour every day, even when I don't want to," he shares, explaining his prolific output with a new album nearly every year.

His latest record, "Surrender Instead," continues his tradition of heart-on-sleeve songwriting while navigating the tension between artistic authenticity and desire for recognition. As Sullivan prepares for his upcoming tour and already begins writing his next project, his philosophy remains steadfast: focus on the feeling rather than technical perfection, stay true to yourself, and don't get too caught up in the small stuff. For anyone who values authentic creative expression or simply enjoys thoughtful, vulnerable songwriting, Field Medic's music offers a welcome reminder that sometimes the most powerful art comes from sharing our most uncomfortable truths.

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Ever wonder what keeps a songwriter creating fresh music after four decades? Robert Forster, the legendary co-founder of The Go-Betweens, takes us on a fascinating journey through his musical evolution—from meeting Grant McLennan at Queensland University to recording his latest solo album "Strawberries" with Swedish musicians.

The conversation unfolds like a masterclass in creative persistence. Forster reveals how The Ramones' debut album gave him the confidence to write his first songs, declaring "if they could do it, I could do it"—while artists like Bowie felt too intimidating with their virtuosic musicians. He candidly shares his struggle with the fundamental songwriter's dilemma: how to create something new when there are only so many chords. His solution involves constant experimentation—inverting chords, using capos, exploring different positions on the fretboard—and the patience to play for months until something genuinely fresh emerges.

Most surprisingly, Forster opens up about nearly abandoning music twice when faced with two-year creative droughts. What kept him going? Simply the joy of creation and, later in life, diversifying his creative outlets through music journalism and writing. This multifaceted approach actually revitalized his songwriting, removing the pressure and allowing new perspectives to emerge. The result is what he considers his most consistent body of solo work over the past decade.

"Strawberries," his latest album recorded with members of Peter Bjorn and John, represents this artistic renaissance. Forster speaks about it with rare satisfaction, suggesting he'd be content not to record for several years because "I don't know how I'm going to top that." Beyond music, he shares exciting news about completing his first novel, set for publication in Australia next year.

Want to witness the magic that happens when an Australian indie legend joins forces with Swedish pop sensibilities? Catch Robert Forster on his European tour this September-October, where he'll be performing with the same musicians who brought "Strawberries" to life.

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Olivia Rose of Oh, Rose opens Season 6 with a candid conversation about musical origins, creative evolution, and embracing life's next chapters. From her early days in Asheville, North Carolina, where her friend's mother taught her guitar at age twelve, to becoming the frontwoman of a respected indie band, Olivia's journey reveals the deep connections between personal experience and artistic expression.

Music flows naturally for Olivia, who recalls waking up as a child with songs already formed in her mind. "I will just start, a song will just come to my head, I can sing about anything that I'm doing at any given moment," she explains. This instinctive approach to songwriting has matured over time, as she translates personal moments into universal themes that resonate with listeners. Her process often begins with a thought or phrase that strikes her as particularly true, developing into fully-formed compositions that sometimes reveal their deeper meanings long after they're written.

The conversation takes a meaningful turn as Olivia, expecting her first child in September, reflects on how motherhood will influence her creative path. Rather than viewing this transition with trepidation, she approaches it with curiosity and openness. Drawing fascinating parallels between the chaos of touring life and the unpredictability of parenthood, she shares advice from a bandmate who recently became a father: "I think you're going to be surprised at how equipped you are for this and how much being in a band and this strange form of chaos that we have chosen over the years is actually going to come in handy."

Olivia's recently released EP "For Art" stands as both a creative milestone and a musical gift for her unborn child, who has been present for the creation of these songs. Though she plans to take a well-deserved break from performing, she assures us that her musical journey continues: "As long as I am writing and playing and recording music, O Rose will continue to exist and evolve." Her story reminds us that art, like life, thrives through transformation and growth.

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Matt Gallaway’s creative journey unfolds like a carefully crafted album—each chapter a different sound or mood, yet all tied together by a thread of honest self-expression. From basement jam sessions in Brooklyn to publishing acclaimed novels, Matt’s story is a powerful reminder of how art can shape, and be shaped by, personal transformation.

In our conversation, Matt shares how Saturnine came together almost by accident. He had moved to New York, supposedly for law school, but really to chase the city’s music scene. He lucked into a Brooklyn apartment with a basement perfect for band rehearsals, and soon after, Saturnine was born. They’d go on to record a handful of under-the-radar but beloved indie albums. Matt still lights up when talking about their first show at Brownies, booked by the legendary Karen Edlitz, and an unforgettable rooftop gig on a sweltering July 4th in Chinatown.

What really sets Matt’s story apart is how deeply intertwined his art is with his personal life. Listening back to Saturnine’s albums—especially Mid the Green Fields—he can now hear the hidden struggle he was going through. “I listen to that record and I’m just like, ‘this is about wanting to kill myself,’” he says, half-laughing, half-sighing. It’s raw, but honest—and a reflection of what it meant to grow up gay in a time when role models were few and far between.

Matt didn’t leave music behind; he just found a new way to tell his story. Writing novels like The Metropolis Case and #Gods let him explore identity and emotion in a more direct way. “A song takes me a few weeks,” he says. “A novel takes years.” But both are cut from the same creative cloth.

Now, with his latest project Death Culture at Sea, Matt is circling back to songwriting—this time with a broader view and a deeper well to draw from. Last summer, he teamed up with former bandmate Mike D’Onofrio and Matt Kadane of Bedhead/The New Year for recording sessions in Vermont, and there’s more music to come.

Want to hear what this journey sounds like? Head to Matt's blog for a playlist of his latest work with Death Culture at Sea.

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