VMP Magazine

Marissa Paternoster, singer and guitarist for New Jersey punk trio Screaming Females, says that when she was in high school, listening to sad songs made her feel better. One might suspect the same would be true for nearly everyone in high school. It’s a peculiar paradox: Why would listening to mopey, minor key tunes comfort us? For many, the endorphin rush of emotion is purifying. We’re socialized to grin and conceal our defeats, so since we can’t express our sadness, indulging it with sad music is a healing practice. But the practice has more purpose than self-pity. These songs quietly corroborate and substantiate our pain.

When news broke in early July that a massive tract of the Larsen B ice shelf had finally cracked and dropped into the waters of the Weddell Sea, people were freaked out. For many, the break of the Delaware-sized slab of ice is another in a string of events indicating the earth is undeniably and irreversibly fucked, and us along with it. It’s been hailed as a harbinger of destruction, another nail in the coffin of a civilization careening toward self-annihilation. And yet, all I can picture when I think of that vast doomsday iceberg floating near Antarctica is Dent May, tap dancing and jiving on top of it to the sounds of his new record, crooning triumphantly, “I’m gonna live forever until I’m dead!”

Laena Geronimo, guitarist and vocalist for Los Angeles punk band FEELS, is stoked for her mom. Her mom is a teacher with the Los Angeles Unified School District, and along with her coworkers in the Los Angeles teachers union, she celebrated last month when the union went on strike, and again six days later when they won salary raises and lowered classroom sizes. “My mom was out there with a bullhorn coming up with chants,” Geronimo says proudly, days after the strike ended. “She went back to school yesterday and she’s so happy. It was really amazing to see all the support for the teachers. Everywhere you were in L.A., there were people on strike.

In a tone that’s equally gentle and imperative, Joe Talbot declares, “It’s not my album anymore, it’s your album.” Talbot’s band IDLES are just days away from releasing their new record, Joy as an Act of Resistance, but Talbot’s not thinking about the album much anymore. “It’s completely out of my control,” he says. “All you can do is be concerned with the things that you have control over.”

A few years ago, Hanni El Khatib decided to quit music. Then he made a new record.

Holy Hive, the band with singer/guitarist Paul Spring and drummer Homer Steinweiss together at its helm, is an unlikely joining of two very different worlds. In one is Steinweiss, a veteran New York City shaker who plays drums on records by Lady Gaga, Amy Winehouse, and Bruno Mars, and tours with Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings. In the other is Spring, a Minnesota-raised folk singer-songwriter with an affinity for Greek history. Thanks to mutual friends who were cousins who grew up on a farm together, Steinweiss and Spring met in Minnesota while Spring was still in high school.

There is a sweet, quiet vulnerability in claiming to be a fan of Frightened Rabbit. An admission of affection for a band or artist is in many cases an admission of shared values and experiences. It can act as a veiled confession, a loaded statement—it can be us saying that we hear ourselves in the music. Saying we’re a fan might be easier than saying what we feel. This has overwhelmingly proven to be the case with those who love Frightened Rabbit, and the words and music written by the Scottish indie rock band’s late, loved frontman Scott Hutchison.

On a Monday back in February, Nigel Chapman celebrated his 30th birthday. Chapman, who fronts Halifax rock outfit Nap Eyes, was reading a first-year university psychology textbook. “It’s been pretty enjoyable just to go through it,” he says brightly.

Thumbing through scholarly texts is the sort of birthday festivity one might expect of Chapman. And it was a festivity: Chapman discusses the book not as a dry, high-minded task, but as an exciting endeavor. He’s desirous of knowledge and information not as something to wield, but as something to figure into his world view, a new piece of code to plug into a never-ending algorithm.

At the top of Amen Dunes’ new record, Freedom, are two fragments of audio that bookend the album’s opener, which is simply called, “Intro.” The first is a clip, sourced by Italian producer Panoram, of a young boy rambunctiously quoting Kurt Russell’s pre-game speech from 2004’s Miracle: “This is your time. Their time is done. It’s over!” the boy half-shouts. Ambient tones separate this and the second quote, a line once spoken by celebrated abstract artist Agnes Martin: “I don’t have any ideas myself. I have a vacant mind.”

One of the most damaging fabrications that’s peddled across North American culture is that optimism and positivity have a static manifestation. The notion that these states exist only in sunny weather or major chords forwards a tricky, idealized aesthetic that leaves little room to explore alternative ways of expressing an appreciation for brightness. Admissions of disappointment and darkness are more giving than their imagery suggests; most often, they’re striving for something better via a process of exorcism. It’s healthy and productive to cast out darkness, but if it’s shunned as darkness for darkness’ sake, it extinguishes the redemption hiding beneath.

The cover art for Daddy Issues’ new record, Deep Dream, is a photo of Jenna Moynihan at a show. She’s the Nashville band’s singer and guitarist, and, flanked by navy-blue gig-dudes, she stands out in a shock-of-white jean jacket, adorned with a taxi-yellow smiley face. The image was a communal effort. The photo was taken by their friend, CJ Harvey. The iconic snow-white jacket? It’s Tony Esposito’s, from White Reaper. Moynihan grins recalling the impromptu shoot. “We were at a concert and I was like, ‘Tony, you have a cool jacket on! Can I wear it?’”

Then there’s the most important detail. The two hands reaching around, clutching the back of Moynihan’s jacket? They’re her own. It’s that trick you used to do in grade school to make your friends giggle: wrapping your arms around yourself, giving the appearance of making out with someone. “We had the idea of doing the ‘making out’ thing ‘cause I guess it’s like, self-love,” Moynihan says simply.

Daniel Romano’s new album, Modern Pressure is cool. Like, old-school cool. The singles betray as much. “Roya,” the first track released, is a meandering, evergreen haze of classic rock tones and the kind of harmonies that are inextricable from the lead melody; it sounds more like one voice, one organism, capable of harmonizing with itself. “When I Learned Your Name” ramps things up with its’ Rod Stewart chorus: “Oh, Maggie, Maggie, La, La, La!” It’s hard not to hear a mashup of “Ooh La La” and “Maggie May,” but it’s not derivative or contrived; it’s genuine and present and fucking cool. When I talk to him on the phone, I tell Romano I think as much, and I ask what he was listening to while making the record. He asks what I think he was listening to. So I say the obvious. Moondance-era Van Morrison, Bob Dylan, The Band; basically the cast of The Last Waltz. He ponders for a moment before responding, “I was listening to a lot of The Incredible String Band.”

“Everyone you just mentioned was a fan of the Incredible String Band, and probably stole things from them,” he says. “And I’m sure I did too.”

“Parks in New York are few and far between,” Tamsin Wilson says, sitting on a sunny, street-side cafe patio in Brooklyn. “Where it shows a green square, it’s not often green. It’s just a concrete pit.” She qualifies the observation with a bitter chuckle. “Not quite the same.”