MIKE - 'weight of the world'

By Phillipe Roberts

Lockdown has been good to me and my damaged hearing. Miss me with the cranked sound systems, the clumsy stumbling through the crowd, the anxious routine of smoke breaks between sets. Catch me on the couch with a mug of tea, speakers loud enough to carry a little bit of bass across the room. Find me jamming over a hot stove, cooking dinner in headphones as the fireworks start to heat up the street outside. Away from the noise, away from the crowds, my ears are thriving.

Leave it to a livestream to kill the dream. A virtual concert of all things.

MIKE, the dazzling emcee whose rhymes caught my ear in my frantic first year in New York, was set to perform at 9:50pm, but I settled in early. The Twitch stream was goofy at first; glitching in and out consistently, hemmed in by a scrolling text chat of dozens of excited fans. But the lineup, an ensemble cast of producers, DJs, and rappers curated by Satellite Syndicate, hit heavy and refused to let up. Escee, AKAI SOLO, maassai, JWords, KeiyaA, Nappy Nina, Stas THEE Boss–each swerving the conversation in exciting directions, leaving the fans alternatively begging for more and praying that the stream would stay up. I was glued to the screen.

Day turned to night. A single floodlight, held up by one of the organizers, was brought in to keep the cozy backyard at least partially illuminated. By the time MIKE rolled in, right around 11:30, the couch-locked digital crowd had ballooned to well over 150. Heavy on the gratitude, with shout outs to the acts that had hypnotized us all day, he beamed, danced, and slid gracefully through a short set, leaving just enough time before midnight for an adorable group picture with the other acts. And leaving me, sitting on the couch, warm and fuzzy in disbelief, wishing for the first time in a long time that I could be there, in the yard, basking in the absurdity of live music.

Weight of the World might be best heard live–with a slight yet hilarious audio delay–at the tail end of a stunning lineup of Black musicians on a perfect summer night. But MIKE’s latest and absolutely greatest project to date is a towering achievement in intimate storytelling, with the muscle to lift you into his world from wherever you might be. Still haunted by inescapable grief, he rains his sorrows down on this cruel world with a fierce allegiance to the love that has carried him for so long.

MIKE’s pen is near-legendary at this point. After all, it’s not many who can go bar-for-bar with, and influence, Earl Sweatshirt at the same time. But on Weight of the World, MIKE’s production work as dj blackpower shines almost as bright as his lyrical chops. The atmosphere is as slippery as his spiraling moods, and loaded with clever details. The lethargic drag of “alert*” summons up those lurking demons with somber keys and melting bass, before gradually spilling into the torrential downpour of “coat of many colors", where harsh R&B chops and a brief but thrilling moment of total silence collide in a mournful soundscape that threatens to collapse at any moment. “Weight of the Word*” might be his masterpiece, a convoluted but fruitful journey through downbeat horns and pitchy soul, and a cartoonish funk interlude on the way to a deep and hungry final groove. He’s always worked well in tangling miniatures together, but here MIKE becomes a master of the sprawl, commanding it with authority and grace.

Don’t think that last year’s tears of joy was the beginning and end of MIKE’s struggle to process his mother’s death. Like all grieving, MIKE’s comes in stages, and Weight of the World still grapples–constructively, destructively, and exhaustively–with a pain that knows no bounds and the turmoil that has only tightened its grip. This is a document of pain, even at its lightest.

Some of the hardest moments come when MIKE hands off the beats to a friend. KeiyaA sets up a perfect double whammy on “get rich quick scheme” and “trail of tears”, putting MIKE face to face with a legacy of self-neglect (“the only thing I inherited was blockin’ help”) and setting up a heartbreaking send-off for his mother (“Keep swimming my beloved spirit, you know your son is near”). Throughout the record, he’s digging through fragments and memories, deflecting them with self-effacing humor: “Scribble off the sad shit, cause it’s all the same shit,” he sputters on “what’s home ½”. Seconds later, he ages himself up into cold maturity, taking stock of failed escapism: “When I rolled, I was feelin' for something that heal / But I know every bit of it harsh.” MIKE, still only 21 years old, raps like he’s lived a lifetime between records.

Those lost years constantly reflect back to the loss of his mother, unearthing an unease with himself that he remembers as a constant (“Remember cringin' at the mirror, I was not myself,” he reflects gravely on “trail of tears”). Nursing those wounds, he slowly pushes for acceptance and begins to relieve himself of that pain. “Weight of the Word*” finds MIKE achieving stark clarity, seeing that his mother prepared him for her absence: “I know my mama sing that song so I'll never forget,” he rhymes in the album’s catchiest chorus, lonely but warm to know that his memory–his pain and his patience–honors her too.

Watching MIKE shuffle and dance his way through Weight of the World’s harsh and beautiful revelations through the grainy webcam darkness of a livestream, you couldn’t help but latch on to the joy radiating through that backyard, the shared happiness of being as present as possible to witness the release of sorrow. Maybe our damaged ears needed this break, this opportunity to reflect with longing on how urgent and decisive our presence with each other can and should be. Winding back and forth through this divinely miserable miracle of a lockdown album, I’m only grateful to have briefly glimpsed that better world, even from a distance.

Space Captain - "Secret Garden" / "Back of My Mind"

By Phillipe Roberts

Bursting the intergalactic bubble of Space Captain’s most outwardly futuristic dispatch yet, bandleader Maralisa Simmons-Cook keeps a loving eye on the past as she boldly steers the beloved Brooklyn outfit through a pair of stunning new singles. “I’m always living for nostalgia / reliving yesterday” she sings on the upbeat second track, “Back of My Mind,” weaving her stacked vocals through hazy fields of reverb, seasick whirls of synth-bass, and–playing a greater role than ever before–meticulously programmed drums. An unwinding of memories in reassurance to a former flame, it pairs beautifully with the disarming and lush introspection of “Secret Garden,” where synthesized flutes, bright beds of organ, and finger-picked guitar jostle for attention on a honey-sweet ballad that welcomes new love into an intimate hideaway within. Their newest release since 2017’s heavenly All Flowers in Time, “Secret Garden”/“Back of My Mind” dials down the dreaminess for a more focused, grounded, and ear-catching Space Captain than ever before.

Releasing a pair of love songs–or any music, for that matter–during a pandemic is a frightening emotional prospect for any artist. But as the weeks wore on, Maralisa began to accept that the songs, reflections on “being emotional, being vulnerable, and finding vulnerability,” might have a place in the “new normal” rising up around them.

“Finding and building sanctuaries was huge for me the last couple of years,” she explains, citing the emotional burnout of the last election and the exhaustion that came after releasing their first full length album in articulating the band’s slow songwriting progress. Dearly departed Williamsburg coffee shop Caprices by Sophie, was one such oasis with its hidden backyard; a space for her to breathe, think, and songwrite that became the inspiration for “Secret Garden.” A San Francisco native who’s nevertheless put down roots so deep that she hasn’t moved from her very first Brooklyn apartment in over 8 years, Maralisa opens this quiet place, bursting with “treasures and lovers inside,” to be explored and shared with a new love.

Accompanied in a special performance by organ virtuoso Jake Sherman and featuring guitar from Gray Hall, backing vocals from Joy Morales, and *very* live drums from Donnie Spackman (Great Time), the song erupts midway into a soaring bridge that Maralisa had considered the chorus until producer/bassist Alex Pyle suggested otherwise far into the writing process; “Sometimes we care about song structure, but usually...we don’t,” she notes with a laugh.

“Secret Garden”’s companion piece, the swirling “Back of My Mind,” emerged slowly, working its way up from the bottom of Maralisa’s list as its vocal melody burrowed into her ear and spurred her nostalgic mind to action. “This is about a person I dated a long time ago who left a really positive impact on me,” she explains, “It’s about honoring that kind of relationship.” Far from a breakup song, the lyrics muse sweetly on how their love has evolved past fumbling romance into something deeper and more treasured, “a rare, rare find” that grounds her; a foundation to move forward from. The warped, spacey production is weighty and energizing. There’s a heaviness to the memories, but between the knock of the drums and Maralisa’s commanding double and triple-tracked vocals echoing wildly, you’ll be weightless by the second chorus.

With the band’s members–a tremendously accomplished group of musicians who frequently tour the world supporting artists ranging from Moses Sumney to Beyoncé–temporarily locked down due to COVID-19, new songs are on the horizon for Space Captain. Writing more than ever before, the band are due for a second, late summer release this year (also on Tru Thoughts Records), and a music video to accompany these fantastic tracks. Keep Space Captain on your radar–your attention is mandatory.

Nicomo - "Other Line"

By Charley Ruddell

There’s a sweet sadness beholden to relationships that slowly dissolve and meander apart. Like clinging to a severed piece of driftwood at sea, the last legs of the most deteriorated partnerships often arrive after having already drifted so far from happiness, the only real sense of comfort found is in the connection of not being alone. This is “Other Line,” off Nicomo’s 2019 EP Views.

When Nico Osborne sings “I saw you look away like, ‘What’s that over there?’”, the magnitude of distance behind that observation feels overwhelming. It’s a subtlety marked by a David Longsteth-ian vocal chorale that brings a taciturn action to the forefront of a greater issue. On a macro scale, “Other Line” does this with a range of despondence; an aching set of three chords and a cascading guitar line move under sedation, feet dragging, while Osborne’s weighty voice hums with a soft regret. The song’s cathartic chorus—drums anchoring the downbeat, soaring falsetto harmonies, a devastating minor chord at the turn—crashes in strong waves, like grief, or clarity. It’s a song that feels entirely born from an emotional experience, like it formed in one stoic stream of tears, ambivalent, but willing enough to embrace the coldness of singularity.

Will Roane’s accompanying video punctuates the theme with a precious vision. Loosely inspired by the stories of his grandparents’ inextricably woven lives, the concept of doubt shifting to hope (and vice versa) plays out in a narrative of two adults who, despite their aged and profound connection, are still searching for something. Through walks in the woods and the tranquility of a waterside cabin (beautifully shot by Bucky Illingworth), there’s an underlying sense of distance, portrayed both delicately and playfully by Cynthia Babak and Sid Ross. It manifests microscopically, almost telepathically, through passing glances and furrowed brows. And while ultimately the pair are united by a photograph, the lingering emotion of “Other Line” recalls Roane’s theme that hope and doubt are always vacillating. Interchangeable, in a sense—complex, but necessary for change. 

Brother Moses - What Does It Take?

By Charley Ruddell

Living in New York requires a touch of masochism. At the end of the day, sometimes a daily commute feels as cumbersome and irritating as boarding a rush hour F train strapped with a sousaphone.

“Thousand bucks a month to keep your pillow off the pavement / When’s it gonna work? When’s it gonna break?” frontman James Lockhart asks with exasperation on “What Does It Take?,” the newest single from NYC-via-Arkansas indie rock quartet Brother Moses (off their forthcoming sophomore effort Desperation Pop). The song’s accompanying video—created by Jake Ruth and band member John Lewis-Anderson—uses a NYC resident encumbered by a sousaphone to highlight how difficult the little things, like riding the subway or catching a car, can be in a city like New York.

“What does it take to be wanted?” Lockhart’s poses with fervor. For being a band with barely two years of NYC experience under their belts, Brother Moses seems to understand the city’s imposing tonnage on daily life. Amidst the angular guitar grooves of “What Does It Take?,” Lockhart delves into the loneliness of being one amongst millions. But while his perspective guides the narration, the song’s industrial sounds suggest another main character: New York City itself. Disguised as a gentle harmony are the sampled sounds of a subway car screeching to a halt; a girthy saxophone solo in the song’s midriff reverberates like it’s reflecting from the tile halls of Union Square station. There’s detachment in Lockhart’s voice when he sings the most New York lines known to mankind: “Let the water in the shower turn to freezing / Listening to Ira just to help you fall asleep.”

All of this isn’t to say “What Does It Take?” is completely joyless—in fact, its peppy guitar riffs and chipper demeanor imply a sense of fun. There’s an off-kilter pop-ness within the arrangement that feels akin to the guitar-driven indie pop of a band like Local Natives in their early days—Lockhart also sports a similar vocal huskiness to that of Big Red Machine. With every fluttering guitar riff and every gang vocal, Brother Moses is a band that knows the best way to reach people using raw emotion is with a saucy hook and a tempo over 110.

The song’s accompanying music video is as innocent as it is on the nose, cheekily capturing a struggle in mundanity using a metaphor with whimsy. It’s a video full of familiarities—a subway saxophonist, construction on Bushwick Ave, vibrant street art—that brings the zany energy of wide-eyed transplants to the forefront. As the final moments come to a close, the sousaphonist smashes a racket in a siege of frustration while the band members, clad in red acolyte robes, wail the song’s refrain in the background: “What does it take?”

No one ever said it would be easy living in New York. No one ever said it wouldn’t be fun, either. 

Ian Davis: Rock Band - Who You Say You Are

By Charley Ruddell

In times dominated by technological oppression, it’s often easy to forget how even the most mundane aspects of robotic automation can feel intrusive. 

“What’s your login and passcode / If you are who you say you are,” sings Ian Davis on “Who You Say You Are,” the first single from Ian Davis: Rock Band’s debut album Passing Phase. He follows: “And what’s your own mother’s maiden name / If you are who you say you are.” On paper, these questions feel innocuous when asked by a bot on an online checkout page, but there’s a sort of soft touch paranoia within them that reveals itself when quivered from a fragile human voice. 

This realization is where Davis chooses to sound an alarm, or in the case of the lush breeze of “Who You Say You Are,” offer a gentle wake up call. The counterpoint of cascading synthesizers and warbly guitar lines act as Davis’ anxious alertness to Big Brother's watchful eye, but the sweet saunter of the rhythm section feels like a nice walk in the park. It’s a juxtaposition that modestly represents the burden of invasive technology we feel in our pockets all day long. 

Moments like these bring to mind the great power of Deerhunter or Dirty Projectors—sharp, ambitious arranging with an air of troubled indifference, both delicate and unwavering in spirit.

In the Sean Pecknold-esque accompanying video by Renata Zeiguer, a string of planet-like orbs guide the loose narrative through a psychedelic, stop motion collage of vintage landscape photographs and arbitrary objects. As the world passes by in a sequence of morphing vignettes, we look through the lenses of abstraction and absurdity that play into the song’s overarching voyeuristic theme. It’s a statement that reads like a manifesto; while technology may observe us in a data-driven, fact-of-life kind of way, we are able to do something that a machine can never do: fantasize. 

Catch Ian Davis: Rock Band at their release show on January 17 at Littlefield