When I think about the Horseshoe Tavern, I think about so many things. I remember sitting in the back alley in booker Peter Graham's car, playing him my demo and talking over my mistakes. I really wanted a gig there. Harvelle'sa popular West Coast blues club with a long history, is where Kevin Roosevelt Moore started playing in before he was known as Keb' Mo' and before he had a record deal.
His first audition to play the historic venue failed. Later, he landed a gig at the club through a friend who needed a guitarist. After that, Moore played the venue regularly for years. Harvelle's is where I became 'Keb' Mo'. It's so important to make sure these local places that feed the community—socially, culturally, and artfully in a musical way—remain open.
When you take away the starting point for musicians, you take away the connection. It's the local pubs and the local dives that make us who we are. It's raw, it's honest and it's genuine. The place you have to be most genuine of any place is in a dive, because when you play a fancy theater, everyone comes to see you and is expecting something.
In a dive, no one gives a crap about you, so you have to go to them and figure out how to connect and reach them. In a way, playing a dive is way more difficult than playing a concert. Harvelle's and all the dives, coffee shops [and] restaurants of the world are very important to creating that connection and community within the music business.
That's the first club I remember my parents taking me to as a little kid, even when it was way past my bedtime. I remember the smell of the coffee brewing, the clinking of the glasses at the bar tucked into the back corner, the warmth of being surrounded by kindred spirits and music-lovers. Legends from John Coltrane to Miles Davis have played this historic club.
The first time Bunnett tried to sit in and play at Jazz Showcase in the late s, Joe refused to let her play. Flash ahead a decade. After her set, musician Ira Sullivan introduced her to Joe, who didn't recall the incident. Amends were made. I remember the first night I'm up on that stage, it was such a joyous moment. Joe sat right in front of my percussionist and just stared.
I looked around the room at all the paraphernalia and history and just soaked it in. There I was with a bunch of young Cuban kids in their early 20s who didn't have a clue of who many of the artists pictured on the walls were. Courtesy Photo: Sierra Hull. I've been deeply inspired by the concerts I've seen by both legends and peers there, and have played the stage myself countless times over the years. It's the type of venue that is perfectly small and intimate yet with a history that makes it feel larger than life.
I hope and pray they can survive this for the sake of our community and the need we all have to gather together in places with so much history and meaning. Opened: Ondara, previously known as J.
Ondara, grew up in Nairobi, Kenya, listening to a lot of rock music before moving to the U. In May, the singer-songwriter released his follow-up, Folk N' Roll, Vol 1: Tales Of Isolationan song collection written and recorded by Ondara, in less than a week, while in lockdown in Minneapolis.
The compositions speak to our times and collective quarantined experience. A direct response to the global pandemic, the album serves as therapy for Ondara. Before moving from Africa to America, Ondara had never been to a concert. His first show was at the Cedar Cultural Centera Twin Cities live music hot spot for the past 30 years. It changed his life. Halfway through my second semester, a friend invited me to a show to see Seattle singer-songwriter Noah Gundersen.
I had a completely spiritual experience at that concert. I dropped out of school the following day and went back to focusing on my music and making my debut record. It was life-changing. The novelty of [it] being my first concert, along with my internal turmoil of my desires to be a musician being stifled, all played a part in the experience.
It left a lasting impression. I honestly can't wait until I can be in a room full of people again and sing right in their faces. Back in the early-to-mid '00s, uploading your music to Myspace and slinging homemade CDs at local gigs were your best shots at getting homemade jams out to eager ears.
Through it all, Los Angeles-born-and-raised lo-fi stalwart Ariel Pink has always found a way to get his music noticed—and remain relevant—while staying true to his do D. Now, these projects and some of his other early LPs and lost tracks have made it to streaming and vinyl for the first time, thanks to the massive Ariel Archives reissue project released by Mexican Summer.
The first two cycles of reissues dropped earlier this year, along with Odditties Sodomies Vol. In celebration of the Ariel Archives, we caught up with the L. We're in the midst of the Ariel Archives releases. What does it mean to you to share this sort of treasure trove of your early music in this way, in this format? It's what the label wanted to do.
I guess it's appropriate that it's the 20th anniversary of my initial recording releases and this is my career milestone or something like that. But yeah, it's sort of like the midway point. I made these recordings more or less when I was in my early 20s. Now I'm in my early 40s, so it's sort of been a lifetime since I started. Hopefully, there won't be any need to review my backlog and my "legacy" in another 20 years, because I'll be 60 then.
I just don't want people to forget about me when I'm alive, that's all. After I'm dead, then they can forget about me LP) they want.
Obviously, the main way people consume music now is via streaming. So, if an album or a song isn't on Spotify and Apple Music, it doesn't exist to a large subset of music listeners. It's very dystopian of me to even speak of things in terms of an old mode, sort of historicizing things. I kind of think history is history. I've never really thought of myself as necessarily being worthy of being noticed or being singled out as being a special artist that has stood the test of time and has fought for every fan and their integrity every step of the way, blah, blah.
I don't really think in those terms. I think, really, it's always panic mode. You sink or swim. Wherever there's been interest, I've been showing up and then basically been like, "Oh, you rang? Okay, I'm right here. And in a sense, making music has never made me money.
So, it's obviously not about the money, but the stuff that happens on the periphery of that, like playing shows, syncs, branding and sales and royalties. All that stuff is what's made me be able to do what I want to do. In a sense, these are the things that are at stake in these trying times, these dwindling opportunities that rise up around the music, that have nothing to do with the actual making of the music.
Making music never made me a cent, never did anything good for me whatsoever, except make me feel better. But what am I trying to say with these archives? I mean, well, that they existed, that things existed more than two years ago, and just because I'm over 20 years old does not make me a Boomer. I'm very proud. I'm proud, and I'm like, "Wow, look at him go. I mean, I can't do it now, Grand Mexican Warlock - III (Vinyl, that's for sure. I don't work the same way that I worked back then.
I was firing off on all cylinders back then, I guess you could say. My brain was in peak fitness, and so I was basically able to tackle all LP) of Herculean tasks that I don't have the patience, skills, time or concentration for anymore. My workflow at the time was so infused with being single-mindedly determined, a me against the world kind of thing.
That kind of desperation has been sort of chiseled out of me slowly over the course of 20 years. I'm definitely not as confident as I once was, just by having nothing to show for it. So, I really do admire that year-old me who just basically believed in himself so much that he was able to weather all those setbacks and all the naysayers, and all the things that were pointing towards how futile it would be to even pursue that line of work.
I think it's really tough for people to really understand that nowadays, more than ever, because being different and marching to your own beat now is even more rare than it was back then. And despite the fact that I've been accepted, like I used to say, the world came to me and I didn't go to it. So, that's a really key point in all of this. And I think it would be equally Herculean for somebody to expect to get what I got from doing what I did nowadays.
So, it's just a totally different can of worms. But I definitely would say, don't listen to me or anybody else who tells you to do differently. We don't know anything. Well, I was going to ask if you could go back and offer your year-old self any advice or wisdom, what would it be? That's it. I would not listen to anything that anybody said, so I would do the exact opposite. It would be confirmation of the fact that I was right and they were wrong.
If somebody agreed with me, I would have been worried. It would have been cause for doubt. What I'm saying is, to do what I did, you need to actually really be at odds with the world. I'm not saying I'm a serial killer or a lowlife, but what I was doing was practically suicidal.
I blocked out the world in a very, very thorough fashion. I did not want to engage. I was extremely disaffected. If it was nowadays, I might not even have a phone or a computer. I would still be sending messages through the mail.
I wouldn't even be listening to anything that was online. If I could find it online, I wouldn't even be doing music, probably. All those things were part of my identity, that I felt like a freak for even thinking about when I was in it.
So, that was me basically embracing my own individuality in the face of everybody else, and paying the price for it too. I was ostracized. I never got any kind of high fives or "More power to you, man. You keep doing what you're doing. People shouldn't get support if they're doing something different. They should expect to get no support, and that should give them the fire that's necessary in order to overcome that. If you've done something for 10, hours, which roughly works out to four years of five-day work weeks, you're going to be a professional at it and pretty much know what you're talking about.
I've been doing my job now for about four times that amount. So, I definitely feel like I know what I'm talking about, even with regards to the industry. I could put a band on the road and tell them exactly at what point they're going to break up in the tour based on how much money they were getting and how much the overhead would be.
I have lots of practical skills I've acquired in my adult life that have really come in handy. But based on just pursuing this single-minded way of doing things, and never having had a manager. I'm open to one, but none of them could ever really explain to me how I wouldn't be basically shooting myself in the foot by having them.
It's been an uphill battle, but again, my ambition is actually pretty low on the totem pole. I've got low overhead, and I'm basically just myself here. I've been doing it pretty well. I mean, I don't really rely on my parents at all for anything, and I haven't for 20 years almost. No, I don't want your help.
When you first started recording music as Ariel Pink's Haunted Graffiti, was your goal the same then as it is now? Did you ever imagine then that you'd have the fan base that you do now?
No, I never did. I expected to fail. I expected that it was basically going to be me working at record stores for the rest of my life, and I was perfectly happy with that. I was secure in that. I thought that was job security for me. Nobody would need to know that I made music, it would just be my inside joke with myself, and I'd be perfectly happy sweeping floors and working in a dusty old little record shop somewhere.
That would be my revenge against my family, the powers that be, and all the haters. A very modest ambition, basically.
I surpassed my goal at about 27 years old. At that point, everything had to change. I was not as prolific anymore. I guess I was just looking for love. I didn't even realize it. And then I didn't write songs for five years. I basically just focused on getting my live presence back in shape, and make it feasible and take it seriously as a source of income, and to get signed, with the ultimate goal of getting signed to a real label.
And I did that. Once I was signed, then there was the sort of reality check that it's not really anything to get signed, you need to get paid for getting signed. And I sort of had to get sued a few times to learn what friendship is and what being a boss is, too, and what being responsible is and what it isn't. Those are all very, very good lessons, which I'm grateful to my enemies for. My ambition now is really to go back to being my year-old self and having not a care in the world, basically chilling out.
If I ever get there, you won't hear about it. But I'm halfway there. I'm not playing live anymore, so that's a good thing. I'm grateful I don't really have to do that. I can put myself in a place where basically I can roll out reissues and I can just do a few interviews and hopefully I won't have a dwindling audience. Hopefully, I'll still reach new listeners.
And I've got syncs, people want to use my stuff in TV shows. I've got respect, and I've got all the things, basically, that Paul McCartney has, except for the kids.
My new goal is to buy a house and to start a family. I'm single and I'm ready to mingle. In the period when you weren't making music, what did that feel like for you? Because it sounds like music is very much an outlet for you, as it is for many people. To be honest, it was a little bit concerning at the time. But I always told myself that I would never do it if I didn't feel inclined to. At the time, I wasn't inspired to. I'm not really inspired these days either.
That said, what I do feel is that it's a job for me. So, I'm grateful for every little bit I manage to squeeze out. The fact that it has any kind of audience whatsoever, however small, I'm just shocked and pleasantly surprised about, because I always feel like I'm yesterday's news pretty quickly. I'm super, super psyched. I'm out of retirement! That's how it always feels for me.
The demands I put on myself with regards to music are much more lax these days, and I don't have as much integrity, per se, or single-minded determination. I'm really more LP), kind of nervously, putting things together every once in a while, when I feel like I might be able to. And if people like the results, I'm like, "Yeah, I still got it. I'm not as confident as I used to be, but I'm happy with whatever it is that I can do, and grateful for that. I think that's such a hard balance that you find with creative work.
You want to do it when you feel inspired, but the world in not always the most inspiring place. If you get stuck in a rut, it's like, "How do I force myself out of here nicely? Well, I think that's been a problem with thinking about yourself as an artist from the get-go.
I think people put a lot of undue stress on themselves, and their work suffers from it because they have to find themselves as an artist. They have to be making work because that's the only thing that makes them an artist. God forbid, they shouldn't work—will they be called out as not being an artist?
Was it all basically a fraud? First of all, being creative and being an artist is the last goal that anybody should have, honestly. It's not an ambition. It's something that you had at three years old. You had all that stuff and more back in the day, and you don't need to have any kind of degree.
It just means that you do stuff. Who cares what anybody thinks, if you want to do it? I think of it as therapy. If it's working, it basically should bring you to a place where you don't need to do it anymore and you exorcize those demons, and that should be a cause for celebration, not for worry or concern. You should go do something else. Once you've purged that musical thing, go find another interest.
Go get into astronomy. There's catharsis in it, and you shouldn't be doing art for your whole life. That means that you're not getting anywhere. I think it's a stupid thing to want to do, especially as a career.
I'm able to make music and make it in a way that basically conforms to a certain level of quality that my label can basically get behind. If I had it my way, I would just be sending my voice memos to them.
Essentially, I don't care. I've already gotten all the props I can get from all of my releases. I don't really need any more acknowledgement. I really should get into gardening or something like that, some other hobby, at this point. A lot of D.
How does that make you feel, or does that matter to you that your sound and your approach influences others? Oh, yeah. It's the whole thing, man. Those are the people that have the careers. I mean, the kids are the ones who are getting record deals.
As long they get turned on to what I do, I seem to be somewhat successful in my ability to sort of influence tomorrow's record deals today. It seems like the people who were exposed to my stuff as teenagers went on to become artists themselves who got record deals, that had careers that far surpassed my own.
I'm happy that I get any kind of mention at the table, and it's really what makes it possible for me to do what I'm doing. I've never been invited to a red carpet event.
I'm like, "Yeah! Every day I'm not over the hill, I'm stoked to still be somewhat employed by my interests.
It's key that other people shine a light on me. That helps. I'm aware of the people doing that, and I'm not asking them and I never have. I find out about it after it's been circulated. So, I'm kind of like the last one to find out about that kind of stuff. All the same influences, all the things I listened to back in the day.
There're more artists out there that I like now. There's so much good music hitting the world, and it's always been that way. It's always been right next door to you, you just didn't know it. Grand Mexican Warlock - III (Vinyl don't really have the appetite and the time or the level of patience to listen to everything that comes my way.
I mean, I've got people sending links all day long, never-ending, like, "Could you listen to this and tell me what you think about what I do? I don't want anybody that likes what I do thinking I want to hear what they do.
I don't necessarily love what I do or think very highly of myself or even listen to my own music, per se. So it's a much different kind of dynamic and I try to be polite about it, but it doesn't stop me from rubbing people the wrong way, almost as a rule. I would love to get a glimpse back into your life of when you were recording House Arrest and Loverboy. Where were you living and hanging out? What kind of music were you listening to at that time?
Take us there for a moment. I shared a bathroom with LP) other people in this house in Crenshaw. I answered a classifieds ad in The Recycler magazine. I thought it just was a cheap room. I went, and I got to the house in the ghetto, on a very dangerous street. It's right by where Catch One disco is, where Das Bunker was. Back then, there was nothing going on there. It was practically condemned. But my house was the one that's overlooking the parking lot of Catch One.
It was a top floor. There was this older Cambodian guy. He was kind of a hoarder. He was in the room right next door to me. Then there was this guy who was fresh off the boat from Hungary, who was doing chiropracting down the hall. The downstairs was occupied by a bunch of monks. It was a meditation center, an ashram. They didn't deal with money or with material things in this world.
They have different homes, places around the country and around the world that are Ananda Marga centers. They welcomed these nomadic monks that go from one place to another, all of them coming and going. They'd stay for a week or two, or sometimes a couple months. And then there was also some South American refugees that were upstairs in the attic. They didn't speak a word of English. They weren't part of the meditation center, per se.
Then there was a guy downstairs who was a very handsome, tall, Black man from the Congo. His whole family had been murdered and he had just arrived in the United States. I think the monks did amnesty stuff, outreach around the world and good things like that.
Every Sunday, Ananda Marga would do a food drive, sort of like a market, on the front lawn of our house. They were devoted to doing good things for the community. Papa Universe I appreciate that rec neekafat DoofDoof I sure hope nothing bad is up with Papa though Trundle But yeah he's missed.
Submit Comment. On Hip-Hop. Actual User Appreciation Thread. Unknown Post-Punk 4. Papa's Wifey's List of Favs. Current Rock. Metal General. Dark Metal. Grind Core. Hard Core. Hard Rock. Hard Rock French. Neo Metal. Stoner Rock. Metal Fusion. Rock n Roll. Elvis Presley. The Beatles. The Rolling Stones. Pop general. Current Pop. Pop 90s. Pop 80s. French Pop. French Rock. Johnny Hallyday. Traditional Music. Pays Basque.
Others French. European Grooves. Other Countries. Soul 80s. Italo Disco. Acid jazz. Groove Revival. Jazz Classic.
Cool Jazz. Modern Jazz. Jazz fusion. Vocal jazz. Spiritual jazz. Free Jazz. Others Jazz. US Rap. Old School Rap. West coast Rap. East coast Rap. Others US Rap. French Rap. International Rap. Hip Hop Movies. Other Electro.
Red Eyes - Exit (32) - Someday (CD, Album), Snowflake - The Common Cold (3) - Bleep...Bleep...Bloop (CD, Album), Thunder And Rain - No Artist - 150 Spectacular Sound Effects (CD), Southern Rag - Blind Blake - Ragtime Guitars Foremost Fingerpicker (Vinyl, LP), Lifes Destroyer - Holy Moses (2) - Finished With The Dogs (CD, Album), The Return Of The Giant Hogweed - Genesis - Nursery Cryme (Vinyl, LP, Album), Craig Ruhnke - Baby, We Can Make It (Vinyl), Cuttin Class - Fortune & Maltese And The Phabulous Pallbearers - Konquer Kampus (CD, Album)