Photo by Andrew Notsch
“Doom is just that; crushing, moving, and is meant to take you on a journey,” says Brian Barr, guitarist and vocalist of Aseethe. “It just so happens that humanity is at a rather crucial time in our existence. While the world, in some aspects, is getting better, we have the looming existential threat of climate change. If there is anything that could bring about the end of humanity, it’s that — and it’s right at our doorstep.”
Dark Souls is a decade-old video game franchise celebrated for both its gothic aesthetic and its unforgiving, punishing gameplay. Basically, it’s the most metal series ever—though the games’ soundtracks are much more classical and choral than hard rock. Dark Souls fans are legion, and they are committed: expanding upon the game’s fantasy-world story, recreating in-game clothing and jewelry, and of course, starting Souls-themed bands.
Floppy Mac Space is a mountain hermit who loves coffee, knitting, and talking to neighborhood animals. In his free time, he collects sounds from his environment—the sound of fires and chopping wood—which he then turns into woozy beats that he bakes into floppy discs and sells from a small cabin near his home. Like any young creative, he has a corporate nemesis: Supermonster, the CEO of big-box retailer Full Flop, who moved into Mac Space’s small town, intent on undercutting Mac Space’s business by selling cut-rate beats on flimsy floppies at radically reduced prices. The two have been locked in battle for two years now, a classic struggle between art and commerce.
One more thing about Floppy Mac Space, in case you haven’t figured it out yet: Floppy Mac Space isn’t real.
Continue readingIt’s hard to avoid the “Who do they sound like?” game when reviewing an album, and even harder when a band call themselves Simulation. The duo of Whitney Johnson and Laura Callier do evoke some precedents in their music, particularly the looping melodies of ’80s dance-pop. But their latest tape, Death’s Head Speaks, is more about synthesis than mimicry. The pair meld their influences into a distinct sensibility, bathing synth hooks and drum-machine beats in cosmic ambience.
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Born and raised in Liège, Belgium, Benjamin Lew came to Brussels at a time when the Belgian capital became an affordable haven for the counterculture, akin to mid-century Paris, 1970s New York, and Berlin in the early 2000s. A visual artist, writer, and music producer, Lew was the prototypical “enlightened amateur, in an almost Renaissance-like sense,” as Marc Hollander, of boundary-pushing label Crammed Discs, puts it.
“We never wanted to create a record company,” says Guy-Marc Hinant. “I came to Brussels in the 1980s to study cinema. I met Fred Walheer and we started doing things together: publications, collages, performances. Then we had the idea to make records to link to a wider public…”
40 years later, Hinant and Walheer are still making records. Their collaborative project, Sub Rosa, is one of the most respected and influential labels specializing in avant-garde recordings, electronic experimentation, and anthropological field recordings. “The real question is why to release and to publish something rather than not doing it? What is the urgency of putting this out? For me, Sub Rosa is a perpetual flow,” Hinant says. “It’s very organic.”
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Photos by Katrina Ohstrom
Multi-instrumentalists Sally Anne Morgan and Sarah Louise contend that folk music—often associated with a sense of traditionalism—has always been a more dynamic artform than we’ve been led to believe. With Across the Field, their second album as the duo House and Land, Morgan and Louise once again give us reason to view the folk stylings that emerged from Scotland, Ireland, England, Appalachia, and the Ozarks through a broader lens. Both heavily steeped in these forms, Morgan (Black Twig Pickers, Pelt) and Louise speak engagingly on the history and development of the music over a group phone call.
Certified is a series on Bandcamp where we spotlight artists whose work we think is worthy of additional attention.
When it comes to interviews, every musician has a few topics that are off-limits. For Harriette Pilbeam, it’s trashing local pizza places. “Can I go off the record?” the 26-year-old Brisbane singer-songwriter who records as Hatchie earnestly asks, leaning in to dish the dirt. “We always try to get a lot of pizza when we’re here [in New York]. We got a lot of recommendations from people before we leave [home]—then we asked a native New Yorker, and they said, ‘Oh no, don’t go there!'”
