REVIEW: Aaron Roche - HaHa HuHu

Laura Kerry

Aaron Roche has some impressive notches on his musical belt. He has played guitar alongside a varied group of musicians (R. Stevie Moore, Lower Dens, Sufjan Stevens and Anohni), consequently developing a talent for diversity and range in his multi-instrumental style. That range is spotlighted in Roche’s own music.

Though his foundation is in acoustic, folky guitar parts, the Brooklyn-based artist's new album, HaHa HuHu, sees him following his musical whims through ghostly harmonies, glitchy electronics, and beautiful melodies. The title holds clues to Roche’s conflicting yet functionally compatible impulses: Haha and Huhu are Hindu music deities, whom Roche seems to pay tribute to through non-Western musical touches (particularly in the female singer’s part on “Supreme Monument”), as well as the album’s overall sense of mysticism and spirituality (the vocals-driven “Like Why I” resembles an old Christian spiritual, while “K Is Manic” sounds like a church choir).

On the other hand, HaHa HuHu is the laugh of someone who might be slightly unhinged—a persona that's also reflected in the album. Starting with the strong opener, “Bang,” Roche imbues his music with a sense of anxiety and imbalance. The song begins with soft and melancholic folk, pairing a quick, picked pattern on acoustic guitar with a descending melody sung in an expressive voice; but soon, Roche enacts a kind of breakdown, repeating the same syllable over and over again as effects begin to manipulate it. Electronic voices then enter, droning, screeching, and ringing in dense, jittery patterns as the pretty vocals sing “I hear my head bang.” By marrying glitchy sounds with a gorgeous folk song, Roche plays with feelings of inner conflict to make something magnetically off-kilter.

This kind of conflict emerges throughout HaHa HuHu. It’s in the devastating panic of “The Terror,” a more straightforward folk composition in which Roche sings passionately about his own death improving the world (“If the cancer gets me in the end / I know it’s better for the world"), police violence (“[Eric Garner’s] fingers fluttered rolling papers”), and suicide (“I form a plan to kill myself”). When he obsessively repeats a line at the end—“I cannot bear to make something and destroy it”—it sounds like a glitch without the electronic intervention. “K is Manic” achieves a similar visceral gut-punch, this time through effects: Over the echoing angelic choir, Roche plays a looping, disrupting sample of what sounds like a man in extreme distress.

Besides the dual anguish and spirituality, one overarching takeaway from HaHa HuHu is the confidence and attentiveness with which Roche approaches his music. A thoughtful and deliberate artist in all of his many musical modes, he takes as much care with his heart wrenching folk guitar compositions as he does with rounded, complex electronic voices and evocative strings (“One Thing at a Time,” “Wooden Knife”). Only a few times—in the title track, for example—does the abundance of ideas outweigh clarity. For the most part, all of the conflicts between voices and styles only add to the album’s intrigue and strength. HaHa HuHu is as captivating as it is beautiful and strange.

REVIEW: Mood Tattooed - Hush Tarantula

Kelly Kirwan

Hagan Knauth's latest album is an ode to nature's grand design. A tapestry of acoustic-sounding guitar plucks, soft background coos, instrumental layering, and equal measures of psychedelia and woodsy, folk-inspired melodies. His songs have the feel of wide open spaces; there's an echoing quality that unassumingly slinks its way into so many of his tracks, a sense of resonance that fuels this notion of freedom in vast expanses. The lush acres of upstate New York that served as Knauth's childhood playground clearly left a strong imprint, a one-with-nature stance that's trickled into both his music and current lifestyle in Brooklyn.

Under the artistic pseudonym Mood Tattooed, Knauth's latest piece of work, Hush Tarantula, comes across as a freestyle Bildungsroman—a journey of growth, exploration, and self-discovery that comes with the peaceful introspection of basking in the near-perfect symmetry of the wild. Each track bustles with unconventional garnishes and sonic accents that have often been filtered through a synthesizer for a strikingly offbeat effect. It's a balance of intimacy and buzz that feels like a forest chorus feeding off an amiable chaos. And even in this free-for-all setting, there's still a sense that every detail is in its rightful place.

So often, psychedelia is tied to the decade of its burgeoning heyday. The 1960s were a politically-charged time, riddled with social strife and halting strides towards justice. Yet still, when we think of psych-rock and it's modern variations, there's that quick flit to Woodstock and it's mud-splattered acid trip. Which is not necessarily a bad thing, it just doesn't seem to be the path that Knauth has taken with the genre. The out-of-body, higher-plane experience that he alludes to is much more rooted in the spiritual than a synthetic tablet. His opening track, "Lamplight," is a quick (roughly one minute) taste of what lies ahead. In lieu of audible lyrics there are staccato breaths, with the reverberating ting of a metal guitar string acting as the prominent instrumental accompaniment. It's a song that gives an inkling of something new, somewhere between the tinkering chords and introductory gasps of life.

Then there's "Shelly Ripple," which is rich with sonic versatility. It's folk meets eclectic synth, opening with Knauth's layered vocals, "I'm warming up to you," before plunging into a smorgasbord of sound. There are cameos of fluttering falsettos and an electronically-manipulated baritone, which appears beside hollow hand percussion and a rattlesnake kind of shimmy. It’s a multifaceted track that envelops, a ritual that thrives off unexpected textures. It alternates between lyrics and a stuttering sort of language that we wouldn't immediately recognize. And yet, it still has the air of a welcome invitation.  

Knauth’s album is a force to be reckoned with. It pulses with unpredictability and a sense of wonder, and it'll leave you itching for a taste of life outside the city.

REVIEW: Moonheart - Blow

Laura Kerry

The more you listen to Moonheart, the more their sound eludes you. Zoom in on Kim Mayo’s melodies and guitar parts in isolation, and you’ll discover some Kate Bush tinged in a little Bjork, mixed with an occasional note of neo-soul. In combination with producer Michael Sachs, though, the second half of the duo, Mayo’s songwriting transforms into more ethereal shapes, her beautiful voice made even more haunting with added reverb and echoing synths. In the three songs on Moonheart’s new EP, Blow, the pair creates electronic folk that transfixes the listener, even while slipping through her fingers.

Beginning with “These Days,” Moonheart combines unlikely elements to weave a lush-seeming song that belies its simplicity. Comprised of vocals, a bright guitar, straightforward drum loops, and a couple synths, it flows forward smoothly, pulling you in with its melancholy vibe more than its meaning. The moments when its lyrics come into focus are powerful, though (“Too many times by accident / I’d expose my lovers to a bitter wind / They weren’t dressed for”). The second song, “Joï”—a sparser, slower track—crystallizes more immediately around Mayo’s voice and a deeper, buzzier guitar sound, but it is equally dreamy (“Tell me all about the stars again”). Last, “Blow” is the EP’s most sumptuous track, but also its most elusive. The vocals jump around, showing Mayo’s range, and while the first two songs feature recognizable beats, Sachs uses percussion more creatively in the final song, propelling it gently forward to the last, satisfying fadeout. Blow may not be the kind of album you can fully grasp, but it offers plenty in the attempt.