Two Formidable Local Songwriters Team Up To Form The Pennys

Photo Credit: Alex Young

When Ray Seraphin and Mike Ramos announced earlier this year that they would be teaming up to form a new band called The Pennys, one could have been forgiven for thinking the story was old news.

As two of the more enduring figures in the local scene—Seraphin is prolific solo artist who manages the label Take a Turn records and Ramos is a ubiquitous figure, recording under the moniker Tony Jay while playing in outfits like Flowertown and Sad-Eyed Beatniks—it would have made total sense if the duo combined efforts long ago. 

Add in the fact that their sounds are so compatible—Seraphin’s fuzzy power-pop leanings nestle in perfectly with Ramos’ penchant for lo-fi, humid production techniques—and it’s actually pretty shocking to discover that, yes, The Pennys project is the first time these two have recorded together.

Although both Ramos and Seraphin (who records solo as R.E. Seraphin) have been playing in Bay Area bands for decades, it wasn’t until a 2022 tour together that they considered collaborating musically together.

“I had the idea of working with Mike for a while, because I really enjoy his music and the recording ambiance that he gets,” said Seraphin. “I asked him if we could be interested in recording an album of mine, but at the time, I didn’t really have any material. He was interested in that and he kind of kept asking me for a progress update, but I was putting it off because I didn’t have any songs. Finally, I cobbled together a couple of tunes, but I really wanted to make this a collaborative thing, so I proposed that we make an album together.”

That album—the band’s self-titled EP, which came out on May 1—is a testament to the duo’s undeniable chemistry, begging the question why they hadn’t teamed up earlier. Recorded in two days in Ramos’ old apartment in Bernal Heights last year, the album is a heartworn collection of frayed, poignant love songs. 

Incorporating elements of gentle psychedelic rock, wayward Americana, lo-fi bedroom pop and 80s British twee sensibilities, the release feels completely fully-formed, the product of two songwriters whose talents blend seamlessly. The EP comes out swinging with the beautiful, Girls-indebted “Say Something,” a desperate tale of longing punctuated with Ramos’ pleading chorus line, as he asks his lover to “please, please, please/Say something.”

“I’m a crybaby and I’ve had my heart broken many times,” said Ramos, who credited Christopher Owens of Girls with being a songwriting influence. “That stuff tends to come out in my songs.”

The six-track EP has absolutely no filler, with highlights being the jaunty and jammy “One Million Things,” the no-wave ballad “Long in the Tooth,” and the Beachwood Sparks-inflected “Trilobites.” Seraphin said the latter tune (which takes its name from a long-extinct marine arthropod) was inspired by a short story from the writer Breece D'J Pancake and a harrowing experience living in Texas.

“That song [“Trilobites”] was about my time living in Austin, which I found to be pretty stagnating,” said Seraphin. “There are certain references to living in the South and just dealing with a pretty awful time. At that part of my life, I was really struggling with alcoholism, and I’m proud to say I’m eight years sober now. I was not in a good frame of mind then, and I think that  song reflects that sentiment.”

The album closes out with “No More Tears, Pt.2” a song title that would perhaps suggest the futility of relationships—the inevitably that tears will flow, despite some solemn vows to the contrary. In reality, Ramos said the name of the song came more out of necessity.

“Well, I found out that Ozzy Osbourne has a song called ‘No More Tears,’” said Ramos. “I had this song idea that never came into fruition until we started recording. And it wasn’t until we were doing the album art that I realized Ozzy had the same song title. So, I just added on that Pt. 2 to make it a little more different.”

That track features Ramos’ signature tape-hiss recording style—an approach that imbues his songs with an endearing level of intimacy. It’s a fitting end to an album filled with contemplative songs that draw strength upon their tenderness—a tenderness that is strengthened by Ramos and Seraphin’s clear mutual respect for each other.

“Working with Ray is so easy,” said Ramos. “There was never any point of us rejecting song ideas or anything. We have this aesthetic that overlaps in so many ways. It’s important to appreciate that kind of thing when it happens.

Seraphin and Ramos said they weren’t sure if their project would leave to live performances—at the moment they have no gigs scheduled and aren’t actively seeking out shows—or further albums, but they both emphasized how rewarding the process has been to date.

“If there is one thing I’d like people to take away from this album,” said Seraphin. “Is that friendship is everlasting.”

To purchase a copy of the Penny’s self-titled debut EP, visit the Mt. St. Mtn. website here.

Bartees Strange Bringing His ‘Neighborhood’ of Music to The Independent

Photo Credit: Elizabeth De La Piedra

Listening to Bartees Strange is like being lost in the ultimate mixtape. 

Sounds, tones and genres shift effortlessly—with the experience taking the listener on the long journey from lonely, austere indie rock to brash, murky hip-hop beats, oftentimes within the span of one single song.

That virtuosic range might seem daunting for most artists, but for Strange (born Bartees Cox, Jr.) that omnivorous appetite for sound comes easily—almost too easily.

“I’ve realized that the things that I do that are easy for me, are hard for other people, but the things that a lot of other people do are so hard for me,” said Strange. “I hear artists like Andy Shauf and Cass McCombs and The Weather Station and how they create this singular space—like a band in a bedroom in a house, whereas my music is like the whole neighborhood. I admire that focus so much—I’d really like to try that. I was talking to my manager the other day about making an album that’s just guitar—and honestly, that would be such a challenge for me.”

Strange’s latest album, this year’s “Horror,” is another example of his neighborhood approach to record-making, with an astonishing blend of styles represented. On Sunday, Strange will bring that daringly eclectic mix to San Francisco, for a headlining performance at the Independent.

While his latest album might have a menacing title (Strange is admittedly a big fan of the horror movie genre), the record is more notable for his ability to convey pathos, vulnerability and endearing self-reflection.

The lead single, “Sober,” is a perfect example of that craftsmanship. A wrecking ball power pop number, the track catalogs Strange’s struggles to maintain stable relationships, an affliction of connection that leads him to screaming the cathartic chorus line, “That's why it's hard to be sober!”

“That song is about this feeling where you just can’t get it right—it could be about a relationship with anyone,” said Strange. “No matter how you try to make things different or change the circumstances, you can’t do it, and you have to deal with the consequences on your own, which is scary.”

While Strange has always been an emotional open book, “Horror” showcases him at his most honest and brave, detailing his uneven and uncomfortable experiences being a Black, queer artist in today’s society.  

In “17,” a flitting, slow-building coming-of-age ballad, Strange sings about “The first time that I felt impending doom/Was realizing I’m too Black for the room,” and on “Baltimore,” a mournful, Americana number, he laments the alternative futures that were either denied or unavailable to him.

Strange’s father was in the military, and his family moved around—a lot—when he was a child, relocating from areas in Germany, England and even Greenland, before settling in Mustang, Oklahoma. Strange said that “Baltimore” in particular is a reaction to that nomadic lifestyle, although the song plays out more as a wistful fantasy than as a defiant declaration.

“The cool thing about growing up in so many places is that I’m really good at adjusting,” said Strange. “But at this point, I’m probably rebelling against my upbringing. I really want to just live in one place and build a community, but now it’s like—where can I do that. That song is mostly about me sorting out the lives I don’t have or can’t have, for whatever reasons.”

Those kinds of earnest lamentations are found throughout “Horror” and they’re made all the more poignant by Strange’s impassioned vocal delivery, which can range from howling to hushed in a manner of moments. But what truly makes “Horror” special is the dazzling array of sounds scattered throughout the record—reflective of Strange’s “neighborhood” approach to album making.

“Hit it Quit It,” is a slinky funk number that explodes into a noise-rock hurricane, “Too Much” is a neo-soul statement, “Lovers” is an IDM banger and “Norf Gun” is a skittering, staccato hip-pop tune.

A residual sonic cloudiness clings to most of the songs on the album, providing an apt feeling of unease that mirrors Strange’s expressions of self-doubt and self-explorations. That ruddiness evaporates, however, for the triumphant final track, “Backseat Banton,” an Earth, Wind & Fire-indebted exhortation that finds Strange in a place of acceptance and relative peace.

“Over the course of the record, I was singling out these things that would help me get over the finish line, which is basically the realization of ‘Backseat Banton,’” said Strange. “Before, I was the backseat lover and now I want to drive—I understood that I wanted more control. In ‘17’ I might have been that inner child who was scared, but by the end of the album, I’m the person I want to be.”

Strange said he’s excited to share his new batch of songs with San Francisco, a city that he said has always embraced him and his band.

“My last show in San Francisco was one of my favorites from my last tour,” said Strange. “I love the city—I love that part of California. There is so much history, so much great music—I can’t wait to come back.” 

 Show Details:
Bartees Strange with Trè Burt, Zelma Stone
Where: The Independent
When: 8 p.m., Sunday, May 11
Tickets: $32, available here.

Peter, Bjorn and John Returning to SF to Play Classic Album

Photo Credit: Johan Bergmark

Music is the most amazingly connective art form because a listener can fall absolutely in love with a song without truly knowing what they’re hearing. 

All it takes is one experience with the atmospheric brilliance of My Bloody Valentine’s “To Here Knows When” to be lost in a sense of euphoric, dreamy bliss—even if there is no way to tell what’s a guitar and what is some distorted synth programming.

Yes–there is a joy in the mystery, but there is also something immensely attractive about hearing a song with an instantly recognizable and identifiable sound. Something that anyone can do, regardless of their musical talent. Something like a whistle.

Case in point for the wonders of that simplest musical output: Peter, Bjorn and John’s 2006 masterpiece, “Writer’s Block.” While the Swedish trio were elevated into the stratosphere due in large part to the album’s whistle-heavy smash hit, “Young Folks,” the album is filled to the brim with other pursed-lip productions—whistles abound on numerous tracks, making for an unbelievably catchy collection of songs.

“There's something about the whistling that just connects to the listeners—maybe it’s because it’s something they all can do,” said Peter Morén, guitarist and vocalist for Peter, Bjorn and John. “It’s easy—it’s like snapping your fingers, I guess. It makes for a very personable song.”

On Friday night at the Great American Music Hall, there will be whistles aplenty, as the group will play “Writer’s Block” in its entirety as part of their first San Francisco performance in seven years.

Although “Writer’s Block” was a breakthrough effort powered in large part by “Young Folks,” the album is absolutely loaded with great indie pop songs. “Amsterdam” is a stomping and forceful anthem (whistling? of course) and “Objects of My Affection” is a desperate, propulsive jam to open the album (you bet there is a whistling sound.) 

Even the songs where the whistling is absent (gasp!) are classics—“Start to Melt” is a lo-fi tour-de-force—something that wouldn’t feel out of place on Guided By Voices’ “Bee Thousand,” and the lonely, austere album closer “Poor Cow,” is a gorgeously forlorn piece of acoustic discontent. 

In short, there is a reason why people are still talking in such revered tones about “Writer’s Block.” Written after the relatively modest reaction to their first two albums, “Writer’s Block” represented a sea change for Peter, Bjorn and John. At the time, Morén didn’t quite know they were penning a legendary album, although he did have some inkling that they had found a winning formula.

“It felt different and it felt good when we were writing it, but I don’t think any of us had any sense it would take on this kind of life,” said Morén. “I think the first indication we had was that the DJs were playing “Young Folks” in the club in Stockholm before the album came out. When that started happening, we realized that we might be onto something with this album.”

Powered by the ubiquitous “Young Folks,” “Writer’s Block” ended up as one of the most acclaimed albums of 2006, ending up on numerous year-end lists from publications such as Under the Radar, Rolling Stone and Pitchfork. 

As tends to be the case with landmark albums, “Writer’s Block” has perhaps unfairly overshadowed the other works produced by Peter, Bjorn and John, who followed up their breakthrough release with the incredibly solid “Seaside Rock” in 2008, before taking a more daring, adventurous and darker turn with 2009’s “Living Thing.” 

The band has continued to churn out great records, although it’s been more than five years since their last release, 2020’s “Endless Dream,” a record—like countless others from that time period—that was disrupted by the global pandemic.

“I think we all love ‘Writer’s Block,’ but there are always two sides to albums like that,” said Morén. “We’ve put out nine albums, and sometimes I think it’s a shame that people didn’t pay more attention to those other releases. But that’s just how things go sometimes.”

Despite the lengthy break between Peter, Bjorn and John albums, Morén has remained busy. His later endeavor is SunYears, a solo project with a recognizable indie-pop bent. SunYears will be releasing an album later this year, and Morén also produced a new Robert Forster record, which is coming out in May. 

Peter, Bjorn and John has played live only sparingly in recent years, but when the music festival Just Like Heaven—a gathering of indie rock grandees to be held in Pasadena on May 10—asked them to play “Writer’s Block” in full, the band opted to take up the offer and build a tour around that appearance. There are also plans to extend their tour into 2026 for a proper 20-year anniversary of the release.

Morén said the band has been experimenting with the structure of the album, and currently they’re planning on playing the album in reverse, starting with “Poor Cow” and ending with the instrumental title track. They’ll also play selections from their other albums.

With big touring plans on the horizon, Morén said he didn’t know when Peter, Bjorn and John would release their next album, but the group is committed to putting more music out into the public.“We always said when we started this thing that we wanted to put out 10 albums,” said Morén. “And we are at nine right now. So, there is obviously some unfinished business for us.”

Show Details: 
Peter, Bjorn and John play “Writer’s Block”
Where: Great American Music Hall 
When: 8 p.m., Friday, May 9 
Tickets: $32.50 plus fees, available here.

Club Night Embrace Friendship on Inspiring and Improbable New Album

Photo Credit: Marisa Bazan

“Oh, how I love my friends!”

Those are the endearing words achingly delivered from Club Night frontman Joshua Bertram roughly halfway the band’s long-anticipated and improbably great new album, “Joy Coming Down.”

That paean to companionship is one of the many stirring lyrics found in “Dream,” a zigging explosion of coiled tension, dramatic release and restless energy that serves as a thesis statement of sorts for the album. 

Because, while “Joy Coming Down” is about many heavy things—anger, sadness, regret and confusion—it is ultimately an album about friendship. The kind of friendship that survives real disappointment, upheaval and uncertainty. In short, the friendship that defines the collective bond that powers the members of Club Night.

“This record obviously took a long time to make, so when we started writing it, we weren’t the same people that we are now,” said bassist Devin Trainer. “I can only speak personally, but from my experience, the importance and the meaningfulness of our friendship has only multiplied over the years. It’s kind of all we have.”

That circle-the-wagons unity has been borne out of a seemingly endless series of professional setbacks and personal changes, which, when viewed as a whole, lead one to believe that the release of “Joy Coming Down”—out today—as something of a minor miracle.

Shortly after Club Night released their fiendishly exciting and visceral full length debut album “What Life,” their label and champion, Tiny Engines, imploded amidst a series of financial malfeasance accusations. (The label has since re-formed under the guidance of owner Will Miller, who was not involved in the fiscal shenanigans. Miller has been a long time supporter of  Club Night and fittingly “Joy Coming Down” is being issued on the reborn Tiny Engines.) 

The band had written plenty of material prior to the label troubles, but when the pandemic hit, the group essentially shut down operations for an entire year, feeling creatively stifled and uneasy making art during a time of global suffering. Following the pandemic, both Bertram and Trainer relocated, to Detroit and Portland respectively, leaving the band with only two members—guitarist Ian Tatum and drummer/programmer Nicholas Cowman—left in Oakland, where Club Night was formed.

Despite those litany of travails, the band remained disarmingly upbeat about the prospects of one day completing “Joy Coming Down.”

“I don’t ever remember thinking at any time that we weren’t going to finish this album,” said Cowman. “It took a long time, yes, but I never really doubted the final product.”

That final product is a deeply ambitious, wildly inventive epic, with “Joy Coming Down” definitively delivering on six years of promise. It may sound hyperbolic, but there is no band around that sounds quite like Club Night. 

While they might borrow intricate instrumentation techniques from Midwest emo legends Cap’n Jazz and Bertram’s dynamic delivery at times recalls UK indie rockers Los Campesinos!, there isn’t a group capable of shoehorning as many sounds, tempos, feelings and genres into a single finished product. 

Every track feels like an operatic suite, but where lesser bands might create that atmosphere through indulgent bombast, Club Night’s variegated approach is driven by pure, desperate emotion. There has never been a false note or a single point of artifice in Club Night’s catalog and “Joy Coming Down” is no exception.

The key to Club Night is a musical formula that can only be described as generous. Egalitarian to the core, Club Night songs are composed like a puzzle, with each member nestling their contribution within the bigger picture—all making their individual mark known without distracting from the end goal. Tatum’s guitar licks range from delicate, gossamer ribbons to thick, chunky riffs, Trainer and Cowman’s rhythmic concision forms the foundation of the sound and an array of samples and eerie voice manipulations add to the world-building feel of the music.

“I think our sound is kind of a product of necessity,” said Tatum. “It’s almost that DIY approach—as in, this is what we each bring to the table, so let’s see what we can do. A lot of times, Josh will bring us an idea and then we all take our turns kind of taking it apart and then putting it back together. That’s just how we work.”

That locked-in, utterly unique sonic output—call it math rock, art-rock, indie rock, whatever—would make “Joy Coming Down” an imminently listenable album even if it was filled with purely instrumental tracks. But that universe is amplified and expanded by Bertram’s unmistakable and endlessly rangy vocal contributions. Known in the past for his whimsical, waifish falsetto, Betram builds upon that high register for “Joy Coming Down” by adding dramatic baritone shouts and violent interjections, creating the impression of an ongoing conversation throughout the album.

“I take this job really seriously—it stresses me out to sing, because all these songs are so epic,” said Bertram. “All our instrumentation and composition is so beautiful and I don’t want to step over it with some bullshit. I’m so in awe of how talented these guys are and sometimes I get so excited singing over their music that I end up just blaring stuff out. For this album, I wanted to create something a little more dynamic—to almost have two vocalists with two different identities.”

Underpinning those energetic, tetchy vocal arrangements are Bertram’s most personal, moving and poetic lyrics to date. In the past, Bertram’s words were opaque and interpretative—beautiful fever dreams and streams of consciousness that felt like fragments of a reverie. On “Joy Coming Down,” his lyrics are more direct, focusing on both the universal and personal. There are screeds bemoaning the cyclical and cynical recklessness of political leaders (“Palace”) sitting alongside mournful elegies of familial loss (“Judah.”)

Towering over all the tracks is “Rabbit,” a glorious coda written in honor of Bertram’s musical mentor, Scott Hutchinson of Scottish band Frightened Rabbit, who tragically took his own life in 2018. For that song, Betram’s heart, aorta and ventricles are all laid bare, returning to the motif of thankfulness for friendship first explored in “Dream.” On “Rabbit,” he sings that he’s “found hope in the memories,” a moving ode for anyone who’s lost a loved one–something that’s achingly familiar for me personally.

As I have touched upon for this website, my good friend Nick recently passed away. I wrote about how music has helped keep his memory alive, so when I hear Bertram deliver those words it fills me with a rush of emotions—chief among them gratitude for having someone describe my feelings so deftly and delicately. 

It feels all the more meaningful coming from Betram—someone I’ve been friends with for several years now. Over that time, I’ve grown to know the other members of Club Night, and I can’t think of a more earnest, kind and authentic group of individuals.

That’s why it’s no surprise that “Joy Coming Down” is an homage to their friendship—a brimming, nontoxic and supportive fraternization. The album is bolstered by its two poles—“Rabbit” being an invocation and eulogy for those gone, and “Dream” being a reminder and celebration of those still here. That depth and significance is not lost upon the members of Club Night, like when they hear Betram sing “the kindness that you have shown/I am so grateful for” on “Dream.”

“It means everything to hear that,” said Trainer.  “That’s the main DNA of the band—our friendship is the central thing. It’s absolutely fucking enormous to hear those words from Josh.”

With their roster scattered across three states, it’s unclear what the path forward is for Club Night, but all the members of the band expressed interest in touring and supporting the album if it made sense logistically and financially. Regardless, the individuals of Club Night will remain connected, in one form or another.

“I hope these guys are aware of how desperate I am for their approval, because I respect them so much,” said Bertram. “They are my family. It’s not like we grew up with each other—we found each other through the music. This band has been a pretty amazing bonding agent.”

Lauren Matsui Embraces New, Softer Sound as Rhymies

Photo Credit: Jess Lynn Goss

Wherever Lauren Matsui plays music, loud noises tend to follow.

As the guitarist and vocalist for her shoegaze outfit Seablite, Matsui performs amidst a cacophony of swirling, dissonant feedback, a quaking wall of sound that is both viscerally violent and disarmingly beautiful. While helming bass duties for post-punk outfit Neutrals, her steady rhythmic output meshes within the waves of the band’s jagged, explosive guitar moments.

Her latest musical project, however, shies away from the raw instrumentation and outsized clamor that are defining elements of Neutrals and Seablite. Embracing soft, billowing keyboard sounds and sweet, electronica flourishes, Matsui is showing a decidedly different side of herself with Rhymies, her one-woman synth-pop outfit, which is debuting a four-song EP, “I Dream Watching,” today.

“I’ve noodled around with synths in the past, so this project is something I’ve been interested in exploring for a while now,” said Matsui. “I've always included a little bit more noise and my songs were kind of built out of jam sessions. This was an opportunity for me to make music in a more self-contained way.”

Matsui, who previously dabbled in synth-pop with her briefly lived duo, Plastic Pulse, said she was inspired to explore the form once again after being asked to contribute a Cleaners From Venus cover song for a compilation album being organized by Dandy Boy Records founder Bobby Martinez (Dandy Boy is releasing “I Dream Watching” as well.)

“I really wanted to contribute a song, not only since I’m a Cleaners fan, but also as an exercise—to challenge myself,” said Matsui. “I asked Bobby if there was one song on the compilation that he wished he heard, and he responded with ‘Gamma Ray Blue.’ So, I went ahead and recorded a cover of the song—it was something completely different, but it showed I could make a structured pop song out of my synth noodling ”

Armed with an array of analog synths and keyboards collected over her prolific music career, Matsui set about recording a series of pop songs that emulated 80s new wave icons such as Orchestral Maneuvers in the Dark and Depeche Mode while also capturing the radio-friendly classicism of megastars like Madonna.

She immersed herself in the programming intricacies of the vintage machinery, teaching herself new tricks with sequencing, arpeggiators and drum machines. The result is a layered, voluminous sonic landscape, drenched in waves of ebullient, buoyant synth moments that feel big and bright.

EP opener “Bal Masque” opens with a dramatic, world-building synth crescendo, evoking classic 80s movie soundtracks (Vangelis’ Blade Runner score for one), before hastening into a propulsive pop piece. “Crashing Lead” is a skittering, puckish snapshot of electropop bliss, while the title track is awash in atmospherics, containing multitudes of moving parts that make it feel sweeping and vast. It all feels surprisingly vast—belying the homemade creative roots of the EP.

“One of the appeals of this project was that I could do it anytime,” said Matsui. “I would literally just wander from the kitchen to the bedroom, plug in and play.”

The enveloping, soothing vibe of the album is emotionally enhanced by Matsui’s cooing, expressive vocals. Unlike her work with Seablite, when her delivery is typically caught in a whirlpool of guitar pedals and white noise, Matsui’s vocals are elevated and clear, adding depth and profundity to the mix.

“It was a little scary to have the vocals be more centered,” said Matsui. “It’s always a weird thing—you’d think I’d be used to hearing the sound of my own voice after all these years, but I still get caught off-guard sometimes. I do shy away from my voice at times, but I really pushed myself to kind of embrace what I sound like.”

While the “I Dream Watching” EP is arriving today, Matsui will formally celebrate the birth of the Rhymies with a record release show at the Make Out Room on April 26. Despite the intricate nature of the songs—they all feature overdubs and layers and layers of parts—Matsui will play the tracks solo. She said game planning how to perform the songs in a live setting has been one of the challenges she embraced with the material.

“Figuring out ways to play these songs live has been almost equally as fun as making them,” said Matsui. “They’re basically being reinvented. I’m using more samples  and gridding things out. I’ll be running everything via MIDI, including a vocal looper. . It’s been daunting, but super fun.”

And despite being in two other bands, Matsui said she’s eager to keep making music under her Rhymies moniker. She has plans to put out more music and continue to play live shows.

“I don’t think I can ever stop now,” said Matsui. “This project has been incredibly rewarding. Plus, after spending I-don’t-even-know how many hours programming these synths, I can’t just quit on this project. I’ve invested way too much time to turn back now.”

Show Details:
Rhymies record release party with Still Ruins and Loner Statue Release
Where: Makeout Room
When: Saturday, April 26, 6:30 p.m.
Tickets: $15, available at the door.

Album Preview: Hectorine’s Ethereal and Ambitious “Arrow of Love”

Photo credit: Emily Dulla

At first blush, Hectorine’s latest album, “Arrow of Love,” is an epic tale of adventure. 

Dreamed up by Oakland songwriter Sarah Gagnon, the sole creative force behind Hectorine, the record recounts the heroic saga of Inanna, a warrior goddess from Sumerian myth who travels through hell, is betrayed by her sister, suffers demons and is ultimately redeemed. 

It is the stuff of legends, but peer a little closer, and this fantastical fable feels eerily familiar. The story catalogs dramatic lows and soaring highs—victories and defeats, tears of joy and tears of sadness. In short, it sounds an awful lot like modern love.

“This is clearly a breakup album,” said Gagnon. “I don’t know if I was conscious of it at the time, but that’s just how my brain works. I’m not a mathematician—one of the ways I connect with the world is through myth. Those ancient archetypes and stories are how I’m able to relay my emotions. There is a lot of death in this tale. But not to be incredibly dramatic, but every relationship ending is a kind of death. This album is about finding strength and agency in your life while mourning what’s gone.”

On May 23, Gagnon will release “Arrow of Love” through Take a Turn Records, an imprint run by local musicians Ray Seraphin and Luke Robbins. The second single from that album, “Everybody Says,” is out today.

Expressing loss through allegories and metaphors is nothing new for songwriters, but Gagnon conveys yearning and heartbreak on an ambitious scale rarely attempted by artists. It’s a bold move and one that pays obvious dividends, as the listener feels transported to another world entirely—an evocative, folkloric place, where everyday emotions take on heightened, larger-than-life meanings.

The narrative sketched out by Gagnon provides the roadmap for this powerful excursion, but what makes “Arrow of Love” seem truly fantastical is the ebullient sonic touchstones that power the album. 

Borrowing from the dreamy airiness of Fleetwood Mac’s later discography, the dramatic flourishes of Kate Bush, and the symphonic movie soundtracks of classic 80s movies, the album feels both medieval and alien—the score from a distant, foreign world. Tinkling synths and billowing waves of sound provide a warm, lush ambiance to the album, with ornate instrumentation—glockenspiels and marimbas are featured prominently—imbuing “Arrow of Love” with an apocryphal, mythical atmosphere. 

“’Labyrinth’ was definitely an influence—we were going for that kind of sentiment,” said Gagnon. “We recorded this album at [Producer] Geoff Saba’s studio, and he had this Korg Wavestation that just added some dreaminess to everything. Whenever we were stumped, we would sprinkle in a little bit of the Wavestation. It created this new age kind of vibe to the album, which is what we were going for.”

Like the undulating intonations of the Wavestation, the album is pitted and pocked with high and lows, with Gagnon using Innana’s perilous flight as an avatar for her own relationship challenges.

The album starts off with “Is Love An Illusion,” a glittering disco number that sets the terms for the conflict, punctuated by Gagnon’s heartbreaking query—“tell me baby/how did we lose our love.”

From there, the emotional rollercoaster picks up velocity, plummeting to a nadir with “No Hallelujah,” a puckish reimagining of Leonard Cohen’s classic hymnal, where Gagnon and her ex compare themselves to redeemed martyrs like Joan of Arc.

“It’s not like I sat down and set out to write a homage to Leonard Cohen, even though he’s one of my favorite songwriters of all time—this kind of just happened,” said Gagnon. “I love that he’s written about Joan of Arc before, and I know you can’t have a song title with ‘Hallelujah’ in it that doesn’t make people think of him. But fundamentally, this song was about a suffering competition between lovers. Like—who has endured the most. With that song, the descent really starts on the album.”

From the depths of that noble penance, Gagnon slowly leads the listener on a journey back to the surface, cataloging moments of fearlessness, bravery and self-love, a trek that reaches its peak in the album’s penultimate track, “Take a Chance With Me.” A beautiful cacophony of strumming acoustic guitars, whirring synths and plinking glockenspiel notes, “Take a Chance With Me,” is the Beach Boys reconfigured for an 80s child—a Wall of Sound for Millennials. 

Hopelessly optimistic, the track is a reminder of what truly makes “Arrow of Love” special: Gagnon’s emotive, powerful and striking voice. While the lyrics detail an unforgettable story and the sound carries us to a wholly unknown world, Gagnon’s delivery is what provides the emotional foundation and anchor of the album.

It would be a glorious sendoff to the project—a happy ending that chronicles the rebirth of self-ownership with Inanna’s Phoenix-like emergence from the ashes. But, as we all know, love is not that simple, and the album closes with “Slip Through My Fingers,” a sorrowful lamentation of lost opportunities.

“I wanted it to be true to life,” said Gagnon. “That song is about fear in a lot of ways, and whether that fear is serving you or not. I don’t think it’s necessarily a pessimistic ending. It’s more ambiguous, like life.”

It’s a fittingly amorphous conclusion to a universal creed—existence is a hard, difficult slog, but each journey’s end represents the beginning of something new. That holds true, whether you’re a warrior goddess or an Oakland songwriter. 

Processing Grief Through Music

With Nick, circa 2016, at a show at the Greek Theatre in Berkeley

Other than it essentially being an unpaid labor of love (literally unpaid for me, at this point), music writing is the best job in the world.

I get to interview artists who I’ve long admired. I’m able to ask them questions that have been brimming in my brain for years. And then I get to synthesize those thoughts in a way that ideally convinces readers of the power and profundity of the artform.

And another unspoken rule about being a music writer is the free tickets. It’s generally understood that if you write a feature on a band (one that alerts readers of an upcoming performance), their publicist will provide you with a couple of comped passes to the gig. 

Yeah, it smells a little of quid-pro-quo, but it’s not like I’m writing for the Washington Post and shadily covering  up some abusive corruption. I get to write glowing articles about musicians I love, and as a way of showing their appreciation, they toss me a couple of tickets, gratis.

For years, that extra free ticket of mine was a hot commodity among my friend group. Before everyone got a little long in the tooth and started having kids, seeing a free performance of some band we all loved was a top rate experience. From about 2013 to 2019, I had to judiciously choose among a wide roster of candidates about who to ask to join me for a show.

One of my first choices was always my pal Nick. I met Nick in 2009 through my other friend Jeff, and we immediately hit it off. We enjoyed hanging out and having fun with our friends, and we had the same rascally sense of humor (rascally meaning we were unafraid to pummel a joke into the ground, and said “joke” was often only funny to an audience of two—me and him.)

We also shared a deep and abiding appreciation for music. The roster of bands we both adored was endless (Pavement, the Walkmen, the National, Built to Spill, Cut Copy, Beirut, New Order, LCD Soundsystem, Free Energy, the list could go on and on.)  Nick also loved himself some jam bands like My Morning Jacket and Phish (hey, agree to disagree) in addition to classic acts such as Pearl Jam and the Rolling Stones. But his favorite group of all was Sigur Rós, the dreamy, ambient collective from Iceland.

I had so many classic nights going to local shows with Nick, courtesy of my cherished free tickets. Vince Staples. My Bloody Valentine. M83. Dean Wareham. Beirut. (Confession time: we tended to chatter a bit during those live sets. I think we hold the Bay Area record for most time being shushed. Not exactly a coveted award. Sorry everyone! I know that’s annoying!)

One year, I scored us some passes to the Huichica Music Festival in Sonoma. Nick tried to convince us all that he saw My Morning Jacket frontman Jim James casually hanging out among the fans, clad in a poncho (Nick was a sucker for a good poncho.) We all expressed deep skepticism of the claim, considering his prodigious intake of mushrooms that day, but social media reports later confirmed his hunch. Sorry Nick, we should have believed you.

In 2023, Nick and I travelled together to Utah for the Kilby Block Party, a sort of heaven on earth for aging indie heads like ourselves. It was just the two of us going to the festival, but our company was all we needed to have a great time. 

One of the highlights of the multi-day fest was seeing the Walkmen, freshly reunited and sounding as glorious and clangorous as ever. The band’s lead singer Hamilton Leithauser punctuated their show by chucking loafs of French bread out into the crowd. Nick and I, feeling uplifted by that bit of surrealism, started hoisting up our vinyl copies of the band’s seminal album, “Bow and Arrows,” which we recently bought from the merch tent. Leithauser, apparently endowed with eagle eyes, called us out in front of the huge crowd for having purchased bootleg copies of the LP (I guess the fest was selling unsanctioned Walkmen records?) For the rest of the festival, random people would come up to us, and laugh about the dressing-down we received.

By far, the most unforgettable night that Nick and I had together was a Black Lips show at the Great American Music Hall. In a rare bit of unfettered access, I was awarded two backstage passes for the gig, courtesy of a story I had written for the SF Weekly. 

We showed up to the band’s green room prior to the show, and even though I had interviewed the Lips’ Jared Swilley just a few days earlier, he clearly did not remember me. We hovered awkwardly in the background, until Nick, emboldened solely by his own personal fortitude, grabbed a bottle of Jameson from a nearby table and started swigging away. The band, perhaps impressed by his utter brazenness, immediately loosened up afterwards. 

We spent the next two hours gloriously partying with the Lips and their assorted hangers-on. I ended up stage diving that night. Following the show, I was separated from Nick and I had assumed he had called it a night. After a few minutes, I was able to track him down—he was at the entrance to the backstage door, ready to keep hanging out, which is what we did, until the wee hours of the morning.

On Friday, March 14, Nick passed away, just over a year after being diagnosed with cancer. Toward the end, his condition worsened precipitously, but a large collection of his friends were able to say a last goodbye to him at the hospital that Thursday.

There were a lot of tears. And some laughs. And of course, music.

In that cramped hospital room, we played Sigur Ros and Pearl Jam and Pavement and Phish and Beirut. Despite being frail, Nick would bust out his trademark air guitar while the songs drifted out from someone’s iPhone. He could barely speak, but that didn’t stop him from mouthing the words to the Stones’ “Beast of Burden,” a longtime favorite of his.

In his final moments, Nick had his wife Silvia and their young daughter Rory by his side. His beloved Sigur Rós played as he entered into his next adventure. 

It’s impossible to type those words without tearing up. But it also reminds me of the power of music. 

No form of art has a relationship with ownership that is as permeable and malleable as music. And I’m not talking about possessing physical media or paying for streaming services. I’m referring to that magical moment of transference, when a song is released out into the ether, and the listener is able to impart their own feelings, emotions and associations onto that tune. 

The minute that Brian King and David Prowse put out “The House That Heaven Built,” that track no longer belonged solely to the Japandroids. It also belonged to me, Nick and all our other friends who spent endless late nights screaming along to that anthem. The same goes for songs by the Black Lips, the National, M83 and every other band Nick and I saw together.

After being diagnosed, Nick was often too weak to make it out to live shows. He rallied for a few, though. The last performance we saw together was the Walkmen at Bimbo’s, which meant the return of our old frenemy, Hamilton. The band played as if they personally knew Nick’s time was limited. They were absolutely glorious—loud, raucous and unhinged. Nick was having a blast, and I was hugging him throughout the show. It felt like old times.

So now, every time I play one of our favorite songs, those bands will actually be singing about Nick to me. Whenever I hear the “Rat” or “In the New Year,” my mind will go to Bimbo’s, and that image of Nick, happy and restored, will come rushing back. 

I’ll think of the epic last show. And I’ll smile. 

Oakland’s Kathryn Mohr Stuns With Stirring Debut Album, “Waiting Room”

Photo Credit: Senny Mau

The myth of the origin story has a long and uncomfortable history of overshadowing the works it's credited with inspiring.

For years, Justin Vernon had to answer questions about his solitary sojourn in the woods when explaining the making of Bon Iver’s 2008 masterpiece, “For Emma, Forever Ago.” The members of Pink Floyd couldn’t discuss their epic prog-rock adventure, “Wish You Were Here,” without recalling the time they were visited by their tragically unrecognizable former bandmate, Syd Barrett. For generations, historians linked “Wheatfield With Crows” with the apocryphal tale that Van Gogh immediately shot himself after completing the painting.

But at the risk of continuing a legacy that’s uneven at best, it would be impossible to talk about Kathryn Mohr’s hauntingly gorgeous new album, “Waiting Room,” without providing some context about how the record was crafted.

To create her eerie post-rock tour-de-force, the Oakland-based musician decamped to Stöðvarfjörður, a tiny fishing village in Iceland. Mohr spent most of her 30-day stay at the coastal hamlet ensconced inside a crumbling warehouse, which had only recently been repurposed from a fish factory into a studio space for local artists.

The result of that month-long trial-by-ice is a spectral 11-track album marked by negative space, absent melodies and cavernous atmospherics. “Waiting Room” is a ghostly, oddly thrilling experience and the warehouse is its omnipresent co-creator.

“I’ve always been really drawn to abandoned buildings,” said Mohr, who will perform at Indexical in Santa Cruz on Saturday, March 22. “I have a real affinity with the energy that’s left there. I wanted to capture what I felt like was a really unique and beautiful situation. It was an opportunity to document a place, while also writing songs that were inside of me, because I felt like I had a lot of songs to get out.”

A native of the South Bay, Mohr has been creating atonal, challenging no-wave music for the past half decade, pulling from disparate sources like Sovietwave and Yoko Ono’s primal scream endeavors. 

Eventually, a demo of hers made its way to Jonathan Tuttle, the owner of the venerable San Francisco music label The Flenser. Home to an array of virtuosic black metal, darkwave and other left-of-the-dial outfits, there could not be a label in America more suited for Mohr’s talents.

Through The Flenser, Mohr connected with ambient drone specialist Madeline Johnston of Midwife. In 2022, the two decamped to Johnston’s isolated farmhouse in New Mexico to record Mohr’s stirring EP, “Holly,” setting a precedent of sorts for the secluded creative process that powers “Waiting Room.”

Because, make no mistake about it, it’s difficult to imagine this record being made anywhere else. After hearing about the fish factory from a friend who is a visual recording artist, Mohr arrived in Iceland with a rough sketch of songs she wanted to record. However, she abandoned those ideas early on in the process, instead opening herself up to the inspirations of her Iceland environs.

“I scrapped everything I had and really just had no expectations of myself,” said Mohr. “I flipped a switch in my brain and said, ‘I don’t have to do anything, I don’t have to make music.’ And once I did that, I sat down and started writing. There was this sort of emptiness in my mental space—I was very alone and isolated. There was nobody. I just embraced that feeling.”

Empty noise brims throughout the record—every missing note hums with tape hiss or pulsing feedback. That ghostly apparition is a character that recurs throughout “Waiting Room,” a lurking specter hiding in the recesses of the vast, cavernous industrial plant. You can practically see the wintry breath that accompanies each song.

Mohr recorded nearly the entire record in a large windowless room, and that harshness bleeds into the songs. “Diver,” the album opener, is an austere acoustic number, with Mohr’s simple guitar strumming rising barely above her voice, which mordantly repeats, “This comfort/Discomfort is bad for your health /but what can we do / when it comes to you?” 

“Driven” follows much of the same pace, a brooding elegy where Mohr’s voice sounds like it’s carried off in the wind and “Petrified” is an ambling anti-folk number—a Julien Baker-inflected piece that has been plunged into cold, dark waters. 

For “Waiting Room,” Mohr mostly eschews the analog synth and electronica-infused pieces of her earlier work, instead relying on quiet acoustic guitars and strange sonic manipulations. On “Take It” and “Elevator” the guitars are louder and noisier, but the album is mostly marked by its somberness and discomfiting placidity. The most notable contributions are the field recordings of the warehouse and the Icelandic countryside captured by Mohr. 

“It was really magical to be able to record all those sounds,” said Mohr. “There’s the wind and the water, but also this buzzing fluorescent light. I always listen to shortwave radio whenever I’m recording, and I was able to incorporate that as well.”

Elements of Grouper, Slint and a host of bands from The Flenser can be heard in “Waiting Room,” but the vibe is unmistakably Mohr’s. While she acknowledges the profundity and brilliance of those artists, Mohr said she typically avoids listening to those musicians when making albums.

“I love those bands. I love Grouper—I love her [Liz Harris] methodology and the beauty of her music,” said Mohr. “But I can’t really listen to it too much, because it makes me so emotional and sad. I need music that takes me away from my emotions.”

While she might not take direct inspiration from those acts, she manages to attain the same elusive goal of those outfits—to create beauty from darkness. 

“Waiting Room” is a sad, unnerving record, but there are countless moments of unmistakable reverie contained within its unforgiving settings. Like witnessing the gnarled, glazed branches of a tree after an ice storm or appreciating the crumbling grandeur of post-industrial landscapes, “Waiting Room” is a pursuit to find grace in the unconventional. 

That dichotomy has been recognized by numerous music critics and publications. Pitchfork, music’s most venerable tastemaker, awarded the album its coveted Best New Music label.

“I think music criticism is flawed, but it’s still very flattering,” said Mohr. “I discovered so much amazing music from Pitchfork as a teenager. To receive that kind of attention—and to read something that captured my intent so articulately—was pretty surreal.”

Surreal is an apt way to sum up the entire “Waiting Room” experience. It is an album of vast, oceanic landscapes and cloistered rooms—is it both claustrophobic and boundless. 

To find that balance, Mohr needed to travel to the far reaches of the globe. As a result, we are all able to steal a fortunate glimpse into that wholly unique world.

Show Details:
Kathryn Mohr with Still House Plants
Where: Indexical
When: 8:30 p.m., Saturday, March 22
Tickets: $20, available here.

Al Harper Highlights Standout Collection of Local Artists At This Year’s Noise Pop Fest

Photo Credit: Kari Orvik

The early musical memories of San Francisco-based musician Al Harper sound cribbed straight from the pages of the great American songbook—a sort of portrait of an artist as a young woman. 

Growing up in Bakersfield, Harper spent the days of her youth travelling with her dad in his 1969 convertible, blasting tunes from the old Sounds of the Seventies tape compilations, which featured classic acts such as Fleetwood Mac, Linda Ronstadt and The Carpenters.

However, it wasn’t until years later, after seeing those artists without the lens of rose-colored glasses, that Harper was able to truly appreciate those bands—to hear the musicianship above the memories.

“That was always my dad’s kind of music—something that I would sing just with him,” said Harper. “But then when I was in my 20s, I started listening to those artists again and realized that they’re amazing. Not just the hits of bands like Fleetwood Mac, but their whole albums—they were all so technically gifted. I began to understand that my love for that music wasn’t just based on nostalgia.” 

Now, Harper deftly captures those vintage sounds, reimagining the light textures and soft passages of Laurel Canyon songwriters, 70s studio acts like Todd Rundgren and the country Americana of her native Bakersfield to create music that feels revivalist but also contemporary. 

Her latest release, 2024’s “The Analemma Observation League,” is full of buoyant, jaunty and joyful pop nuggets—a collection of sun-dappled tunes that feel perfect for the open road or a day at the park. 

On Sunday, Harper will play selections from that album at the Kilowatt as part of the annual Noise Pop Festival. A multi-day musical extravaganza taking place at dozens of venues in San Francisco and Oakland, the festival recently announced a sterling addition of local artists, highlighted by acts like Harper. 

The depth and breadth of the bands affirm San Francisco’s always-solid standing as an incubator of creativity, and Harper stands out as a unique element of that scene. After being inspired by a couple of childhood visits to the city, Harper enrolled in San Francisco State University upon her graduation from high school. Once enrolled, she immediately fell in with a group of scrappy, like-minded musicians (included in that cohort was Mike Ramos, the purveyor of the opaque, exploratory outfit Tony Jay, a frequent collaborator with Harper.)

As the case with most DIY-inspired artists, Harper embraced lo-fi, punk leanings, focusing on the power of performance and immediacy over technical prowess. It was only after a long musical voyage—one that included a sojourn to New York City for a few years (that was briefly delayed after a frightening car accident)—that Harper began to feel comfortable sounding fresh and fuzz-free.

“I felt really shy at first about having this crisp, clean sound, because in my heart, I’m a lo-fi kind of person,” said Harper. “But that kind of approach just didn’t feel true to what I was writing. Logistically, I really just want to sing—that’s my main instrument. And it’s pretty hard to sing well in that lo-fi, noisy environment. It was definitely scary to have everything be so clear and straightforward, especially because I grew up in this scene that wasn’t really doing that thing.”

While those initial fears might have delayed Harper’s embrace of a more polished sound, her instincts are more than validated on “The Analemma Observation League.” The second full-length release under her own name, following 2021’s “Promises I Kept,” the album showcases Harper’s powerful, clarion-clear vocals. Evoking luminaries such as Stevie Nicks, Kate Bush and Jenny Lewis, Harper’s warm and rich deliveries add a degree of hushed approachability to the songs.

Standout tracks on the album include opener “Day One of the Sunflower,” a lush, brimming statement filled with lilting harmonies, and an inspired cover of Melanie’s 1971 release, “Some Day I’ll Be A Farmer.” At the centerpiece of the record is “Let Me Be,” a magnum opus of sorts, combining jaunty melodies, vibrant keys and beautiful group vocals.

“’Let Me Be’ was a long time in the making—something I pieced together over like a decade,” said Harper. “I had this verse I was messing around with for years, and then I saw that Beatles documentary that everyone was watching during the pandemic and was kind of inspired to finish that song. I was never really a major Beatles fan growing up—I just didn’t listen to them for whatever reason—but seeing the production efforts in that documentary really motivated me to finish that song.”

Appropriating Beatles-like production efforts is a far cry from her halcyon days as a punk rocker, but Harper pulls it off seamlessly on “The Analemma Observation League” (an analemma is a diagram of the sun when photographed from the same time and place over a year). Working alongside prolific local producer Jason Kick, Harper played most of the instruments on the album, wielding everything from guitar to percussion to Wurlitzer organs to her own field recordings.

Although her sound sets her apart from the gloriously ramshackle janglepop of Slumberland bands like Chime School and the Umbrellas, and the eerie tape-hiss beauty of outfits like Tony Jay, April Magazine and Cindy, Harper is not completely alone in her adoption of the shimmering and sunny. Other local groups like Silverware and Yea-Ming and the Rumors harness a similar kind of aesthetic.

“At first, I was like, ‘oh my gosh,’ who am I going to play with now,’” said Harper. “But this scene here is special. Honestly, I feel like that’s what keeps me going, to keep pushing through on this level. We’re not doing this for the money—we’re doing this for pure love. We have a very healthy little ecosystem going on here.”

Harper closes out her album with “This Time Take Time.” A hymnal that sounds like a Christmas Noel for people who celebrate the holidays in the desert, the song is a self-help mantra that serves as a NorthStar for her winding, wending journey. 

“I actually thought of the last song after walking my baby around in a stroller,” said Harper. “I just had this epiphany to let things happen and not worry too much about them. When you’re putting out an album, you don’t know what’s going to happen—you don’t know if anyone will actually ever hear it. So, I just set my mind to put this out into the world and let it go. I wanted to appreciate things as they come, and not take this too seriously.”

Show Details:
Al Harper with Marika Christine and Uncle Chris
Where: Kilowatt
When, 8 p.m., Sunday, February 23
Tickets: $20, available here.