Penny: The Inaugural Issue

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Sweeping Promises l Tiberius l Trash Rabbit l Simon Reynolds

The Inaugural Issue (Vol 1 No 1) i

ABOUT Penny began as my Multimedia Journalism Capstone project, created as a means to discuss how different areas of the music industry have been affected and changed in lieu of the coronavirus pandemic.

Considering my background in music journalism and my passion for telling people’s stories, this project evolved into its own entity: I wanted to create not only a zine — through which I could spotlight this growing story, and the people affected by this issue — but, also, a holistic website, including blog and social media content, so as to share this narrative in the widest manner possible. Now, both pieces of the project have come to life. ​ The name ‘Penny’ comes from the Cameron Crowe film Almost Famous, as that movie essentially inspired my interest in music journalism and my eventual love for this line of work. I thought it would be fitting to pay homage to the story that led me down this path through my own work.

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LETTER FROM THE EDITOR Welcome to the first issue of Penny the zine!

Since I began my music journalism “career” (if you can call it that), I’ve wanted to start my own publication and be able to have total freedom regarding what I wrote, what I created, and how that was expressed. That said, Penny is a sort of dream come to life.

Everything included in this issue (unless otherwise noted) was conceptualized, written, photographed, edited, and formatted by me. This zine was also designed by me, and learning how to use InDesign was definitely rewarding with the final reslt considered!

Since this is a project helmed solely by me, I feel really proud to be able to finally put it out and have everything fully finished.

Additionally, all of the content included in this issue can be found on the online version of Penny (www. penny-mag.com) and has been accumulated over the past few months. Feel free to take a read over there (and view more of the audio + video elements that way, too!).

Thanks so much for taking the time to read - it means so so much to me!

Erin Christie

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TABLE OF CONTENTS EDITORIAL Boston’s Pandemic-Ravaged Venue Landscape (2-13) Great Scott Lives + Yearbook (14-20) Adapting to a Concert-Free Atmosphere (48-51) Overcoming Quarantine Qualms: Creating Amidst A Pandemic (52-57) INTERVIEWS Sweeping Promises: Hunger for a Way Back In (22-31) Liily: On Pandemic Woes and their Upcoming Debut Album (32-41) In Conversation with Music Journalist Simon Reynolds (42-47) Omari Spears Pictures the Future of Music Photography (58-62) EXTRAS Donate to Save Boston’s Venues (21) Editor’s Picks: AOTY (63)

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SPECIAL THANKS TO....

Sweeping Promises Charlie Anastasis Brendan Wright Javie Reyes Gianni Aiello Trash Rabbit Thetamancer Clay Fernald Charis Huling Richard Bouchard Everyone who contributed to the Great Scott Yearbook Simon Reynolds Omari Spears Gino Canella Sebastian Jones

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Boston’s Pandemic Ravaged Venue Landscape

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Since the Coronavirus pandemic swept the globe beginning as early as late last year, the music industry has faced a great deal of stressors, namely due to the fact that touring is at a standstill for the time being. That said, without artists to pack their rooms, live music venues have been completely empty for the past few months, and with the loss of revenue such has resulted in, many independent venues are in danger of closing. In Boston, this reality is all-too real, given that one of the city’s hallmark musical staples, Great Scott, was forced to close in May (not without community outcry).

On the next few pages, you can find a gallery depicting how Boston’s venues have been faring since the pandemic began, in contrast to images from shows they’d hosted pre-pandemic.

(Photos by Erin Christie)

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Great Scott The words “Allston is Dead” have decorated a powerbox outside the former legendary Boston rock institution, Great Scott, for the past few months, having been spray-painted there shortly after the announcement of the venue’s permanent closing earlier this year.

Currrently, you can’t find a pack of cigarette smokers, huddled on the front porch in between sets, chatting away amidst the sound of the T screeching to a halt at the Harvard Ave Green Line stop. The venue’s historic awning, weathered from years of sitting overhead, has been removed. You can no longer hear the sound of a pulsing kickdrum, or a roaring crowd, sloshing around on the beersoaked floor.

When you look at 1222 Commonwealth Ave today, something automatically feels off, something feels missing, and that’s because something certainly is.

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GIRL BAND

@ Great Scott (10/04/2019)

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Elsewhere, Cambridge’s The Sinclair housed Chicago band Twin Peaks for two sets in one evening on December 8, 2019.

Months later, the venue sits, frozen in time.

Since the pandemic, the excessively long staircase reaching toward the door of the venue hasn’t been lined with concert-goers, or anyone for that matter.

The front room inside, usually littered with groups, partaking in bevs at the bar, buying merch, or gulping down water between moshing sessions at the stage, is completely empty. The stage hasn’t seen a visiting artist talking about their trip to the prestigious Harvard University down the street in months. It’s a devastating sight to behold.

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The Sinclair

P E A K S

@ The Sinclair (12/8/2019)

T W I N

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The Royale From time to time, The Royale, what is described as a “spacious multilevel club,” was privy to hosting live concerts, where, under the ballroom’s crystal chandeliers and marble crownings, sweaty crowds could engage in general roughhousing. One of such outings was a sold out gig for Bristol, UK’s post-punk group, IDLES, last October.

That night, however, is a memory long gone. Currently, the venue hasn’t seen a rave, nor a hardcore concert, in months. The wing of Tufts Medical Center across the street, however, has seen enough action for both buildings combined since the pandemic’s reign began.

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IDLES @ The Royale (10/19/2019)

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Paradise Rock Club For most Boston concertgoers, Paradise Rock Club is easily regarded as one of the more visually-challenging venues to visit: if you’re not positioned in a strategic location, so as to avoid the huge visual blockades presented by the support beams in the middle of the standing-room floor, you might just spend the entire gig attempting to see the stage clearly for just a moment. Despite the hassle, since the pandemic has taken the opportunity to attend any live shows in general hostage, spending an evening doing just that — like many fans did when COIN visited last February — sounds like the most appealing thing in the world.

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C O I N @ Paradise (2/10/2019)

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Brighton Music Hall Nestled in between an independent market and a local restaurant on the corner of Harvard and Brighton Ave, Brighton Music Hall sits, dormant, like the rest of Boston’s live music venues. The standing-room-only space—previously home to evenings spent listening to ambient, acoustic serenades (like those Chastity Belt provided last October) or getting pinned against the barricade and kicked in the head by crowd surfers— has laid barren for months. Sadly, it might stay that way for the foreseeable future. l

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CHASTITY BELT @ BMH (11/12/19)

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GREAT SCOTT

LIVES

In 2016, Consequence of Sound ranked the 100 greatest music venues in America. Allston’s grittiest rock club, Great Scott, managed to break the top 10 (settling at no.

8), and for good reason.

Following its debut in 1979, the 240-capacity dive-barslash-venue served the Greater Boston community with intimate, sweaty, and beer-soaked escapades night after night. It quickly became a pillar of the city’s venue hierarchy, becoming a place where growing musicians could find their start, touring bands could find their audience, and music lovers could unite.

Despite its vital role in Boston’s music scene, however, Great Scott’s reign tragically ended this May, due to leasing disputes and COVID-related difficulties. Losing such a legendary spot hit the Boston music community like a blow to the chest, leading attendees and artists alike to reminisce on the times they had had there throughout the years (view on pages 18-20).

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After weeks of mourning and with the great amount of love for Great Scott considered, however, the venue’s former booking manager Carl Lavin took it upon himself to begin crowdfunding to save the beloved venue. His efforts began with a Mainvest campaign, which asked donors to become investors of a minimum of $100; currently, the campaign is on its second round of funding, having made over $250,000

by August. Additionally, Richard Bouchard — a close friend of Lavin, and an independent booking/promotions manager and member of the Zumix nonprofit Executive Board — started his own GoFundMe, to create an opportunity for individuals who couldn’t invest large amounts to still participate in the efforts to revive the venue.

Thankfully, these various efforts, in addition to continued public outcry, have recently borne fruit. As Lavin confirmed, Great Scott’s team is currently in negotiations with the landlord of the recently-abandoned Regina Pizza in Lower Allston, with hopes that they might be able to take over the lease. The timing was nearly perfect, as Regina’s ended their lease in July.

The building, a 7,000 square-foot space, would surely be an upgrade for Great Scott, and Lavin has a plan for that, too: to utilize part of the venue as a rock club, and the other as a restaurant. Updates regarding the status of the relocation are currently under wraps, but hopes are high among former patrons, musicians, and the Boston music community at large. Still, regardless if the relocation will work out, it’s clear that Great Scott’s legacy will continue far past its stay at 1222 Commonwealth Ave. l VIEW THE VIDEO VERSION OF THIS STORY ON PENNY-MAG.COM 15

SCENES FROM

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Amy Taylor of Amyl + The Sniffers 16

C O M M O N W E A L T H

Sports Team

(Photos by Erin Christie)

Fontaines D.C.

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Great Scott: Class of 2020

Former attendees, artists who played there, and more write their own tributes to the iconic venue and reflect on the possible move.

It sounds cliche to talk about a place like this, right? But it was my first real entry into the Boston music scene at large. So, walking [into] Great Scott immediately felt like, “this is my place, these are my people” and I immediately made, like, lifelong friends there.

There is something to be said about having a completely independent venue in Great Scott. And we really need it. And, you know, a lot of times, some of these venues that sort of go under, there’s like this pie-in-the-sky idea like, well, we can save it, like, the kids can save the Rec Center, right, if we do enough, and it’s really not ever going to happen. This is one where it’s going to happen.

Richard Bouchard I have so many memories. Most memorably, though, I [went] there for shows directly following two separate breakups. I don’t even remember what the first show was but I do remember smoking a cigarette outside and crying and some person coming up to me and talking to me when I was alone. And the second one was Grapetooth and I just wish I could relive that feeling of oneness and community. [It] ade me feel so good to dance with a group of people I felt so comfortable in.

Avery Kelly

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I’d describe Great Scott as the first level out of the four tiers of show intimacy, first being you’ll most likely be able to talk to the artist and enjoy the show most, and fourth being at a stadium show in the nosebleeds where you’d pay $400 dollars just to be at the pit. It was a special place in my heart for the fact that it gave a jumping platform for smaller artists that soon become bigger artists. The narrow space and the lack of proper checking when it came to fake IDs, alongside always being able to meet the artist after, was the best part. One specific show that sticks with me is Jack Harlow, considering how big he is now. I went to the show in 2018 without even doing the typical waiting for 4 hours to get a good spot and it was barely even filled up. I got to talk to him after about how Ithought he was gonna blow up, and now he is on Genius. Similar w Mac Ayers or even The Garden... Geat Scott always had good ass acts for no mf reason.

Mari Cardenas I went to Boston for 24 hours [to see Grapetooth at Great Scott]. It was such a cool venue. [I] lost my crowd surfing virginity there, so it holds a very special place in my heart. It was so small and it just felt very intimate ... it was, like, everything I wanted out of a venue.

Charis Huling

The Great Scott thing, was, like, really good. [It was] sort of motivating; something cool that feels good to rally behind. And also, y’know, those guys are all our friends and everything, but also, it’s like, power of getting everybody to try to invest.

You can actually be a part of bringing a venue back, like, how cool is that? So, don’t give up complete hope, like, be part of the change.

You might not have a thousand dollars to invest, but maybe you have a hundred dollars… it’s pretty powerful stuff. The plan is so perfect.

Clay Fernald My favorite show that I saw at the Great Scott venue was The Garden in 2018. A lot of artists that I enjoy, before they get really big, they typically play at the Great Scott.

After that show, the next year, they played at The Sinclair so, it’s kind of like the Great Scott is this special, one-time experience that’s irreversible with these big bands.

There’s also a sense of community at Great Scott. You start to see a lot of reoccurring people based on the type of bands that they’d book, so it’s really easy to fall into this music community and make friends. I feel like, without Great Scott, that puts a dent in the amount of intimate venues in Boston. Overall, I’ve just had very positive memories there and I think relocating Great Scott in Allston is really important — so many people cherish that venue, not just in Allston, but in the Greater Boston community.

Mica Kendall

My house is like 4 blocks from Great Scott and it’s always been 18+ so I could never go there when I was in high school. So, when bands like Soccer Mommy and Snail Mail would play there, I would really want to go but I knew I couldn’t get in so, around 4 PM the night of the show, I would take my dog for a walk and make sure to walk past Great Scott. And I had this fantasy that I would run into the band while they were loading in and I would tell them that I wanted to go to their show but I was 17 and they would be like, “Fuck that, we’ll sneak you in the back!” It never happened [laughs].

Playing there was insanely fun. I played on a Sunday night in the middle of July, right after I graduated high school. I felt like such an uber punk, ‘cuz it was, like, my first time playing “a bar” or whatever. It was grunge, but, like, that was the best part. It felt like I was the main character in a CBGB shitty movie or something like that.

The fact that it was shut down, or that that location was shut down and is being turned into a convenience store or whatever, is criminal. You know, the Citgo sign qualifies as a Boston landmark, why doesn’t Great Scott? I guarantee you a lot more people would have fun going to Great Scott than looking at a Citgo sign.

It’s horrible that it’s not protected because, for me, it was a pipe dream, but for a lot of people, it’s a living.

Alec Goldman

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Definitely my most vivid Great Scott memory is from the Fontaines show last September. My friend Mateo and I were definitely some of the youngest ppl there and there were hella dudes in their 30s being freaky, obv. This one guy looked over at me and was like, “Yo, anyone ever tell you you look like Jay Reatard?,” and I was like, “Yeah, ofc,” and he was like, “You guys do coke?” and we were like, “Not rly, nah,” and he was like, “Good, don’t, but, like, I have some,” and we were like, “Cool,” and then Fontaines blew the roof off the place. And then after the show, this guy who was a little older who had probably seen me moshing went up to me and went, “Great job out there.”

Oh also, I talked w Grian a little bit before the show, ‘cause I showed up rly early, and was sitting on the patio outside when like 3 or 4 of the members came out and just sat all around me like I was just some dude and Grian was singing and playing a guitar and we talked a bit about how all the liquor stores close at 11 here but yeah.

It was his first time in Boston; it was rly cool to talk to him.

James Ammirato Great Scott served as a home base and safe haven for my friends and I throughout college, helping me navigate a social life and make new friends along the way. I am forever grateful for the tiny venue that gave me Erin Christie, when I asked

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if the spot on barricade next to her was open at the Wolf Alice gig.

Many mistakes were made, many drinks had, many drunken Ubers home, and I would do anything to do it again.

Some of the best shows I’ve ever seen there were Wolf Alice, Kyle Craft, and Fontaines D.C. I will miss their deathly orange vodka drinks, going to shows for bands I didn’t even like, and the outdoor smoke zone where many a (however embarrassing) connection was made Brittany Moura Great scott was not only my favorite Boston venue, it was my favorite venue period. I spent a lot of my time there while attending college in Boston and I’ve met some of my best friends by going to shows there. I’ve also made some of my fondest memories since the first time I attended a show there in 2017. One of the most memorable shows for me was Amyl and the Sniffers in July 2019. It totally encapsulated what it was to attend a show at the Great Scott, and it physically hurts to think my friends and I won’t be able to go back to that, post-pandemic. Not only is the closure of the Great Scott a massive blow to the Boston/Allston music scene, but it’s also a loss to the music community around the world. Boston doesn’t have many small venues for local bands and new bands breaking into America to play, so I am really counting on their new location to open up hopefully next year!

Julia Austin

We’ll always remember you!

HELP SAVE BOSTON’S VENUES GREAT SCOTT - Carl Lavin’s MainVest: https://mainvest.com/b/ great-scott-allston - Richard Bouchard’s Great Scott & Zumix Two-fer GoFundMe: https://gofundme.com/f/great-scottamp-zumix-twofer-fundraising-campaign ONCE BALLROOM - Patreon: https://patreon.com/ONCEVV - PayPal: ONCELLC, Venmo: oncesomerville COOLIDGE CORNER THEATER, BROOKLINE - WEBSITE: http://coolidge.org/donate

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Sweeping Promises: Hunger for a Way Back In While in a creative rut after years of moving at sonic speed, Boston-bred musical duo, Lira Mondal and Caufield Schnug, stumbled upon an empty warehouse, which later became the birthplace of their debut record as Sweeping Promises, Hunger for a Way Out (released August 14 on Feel It Records).

Described as “a debut album custom-built for

jangly lo-fi apologists with angular discord and indie-pop fizz” by NME, Hunger for a Way Out combines harsh, head-bobbing melodies with retro, fuzzedout bass lines and cacophonous instrumentation, crossing between post-punk-adjacent and alt-pop excellence in the same breath. It darts back and forth from genre to genre, never showing hesitance in regard to experimentation while still retaining a general DIY ethos. For that reason, it’s a mixed bag, and a pleasing one at that.

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Photo (courtesy of the band): (lr) Caufield Schnug and Lira Mondal

Shortly after the record’s release, the pair promptly moved to Austin, TX, where they have been holed up since, creating when they can, and otherwise attempting to stay level-headed during such a hectic time. Despite the chaos they’ve endured recently, I had the chance to speak with Lira and Caufield over Zoom to learn more about Sweeping Promises as a project, their creative influences, how it felt to release a debut during a pandemic, and much more. lllll So, I guess to start, if anybody doesn’t know who you guys are, how would you describe Sweeping Promises, and just you guys in general?

Lira: Well, yeah, so Sweeping Promises is Caufield and Lira; that’s us. We have played in a bunch of bands in 23

Boston, including Mini Dresses, Dee-Parts, Splitting Image, Blau Blau, and a bunch of others. And we lived in Boston for eight years, and then we’re, you know, displaced because of the pandemic.

But, um, Sweeping Promises kind of emerged somewhat out of the blue. We were just playing in this kind of concrete laboratory that Caufield kind of miraculously had access [to] through his graduate school. And we had set up, you know, our drum kit and some amps and stuff, and nobody was there; it was abandoned. And so, we were just kind of playing around one night, and we wrote what turned out to be “Hunger for a Way Out” the song. And it didn’t really fit into any of our existing projects at the time [but] we really liked it so, we thought, let’s kind of, like, pull this string and see what comes. And so it just, like, kept, I don’t know, we’ll pull some strings, you know, see what it brings us.

Anyway, and so we just kind of, like, wrote the first half of the album in a matter of like- I don’t know, an hour or so. And that’s kind of how it began —very modest, and unthought out; very instinctual, and primitive. So, we’ve been playing music together for about 12 years, since we met in college, and I feel like this project is kind of all of our influences and experience, like, coalesce into something that is, I guess, our most direct artist’s statement to date. I don’t know, I think it’s just like- it’s a coherent statement, I think, of all of our experience together, writing music over the past decade plus.

Well, that’s pretty cool. At the time, were you guys still working on Mini Dresses stuff? Because that’s how I came across your music—I saw you guys play at this Record Store Day thing at Run For Cover.

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Lira: Yeah! We played with Alexander! I remember. There was, like, really good food. Not [from] life alive, [but] there was some other place that catered…. it was Whole Heart – they catered it and it was very good.

Caufield: Yeah, we had signed to Joy Void, which is a subsidiary of Run For Cover. That’s why we were there. It was fun.

Lira: Yeah. But no, we had been, I guess, more invested in Dee-Parts [at that time]. And we were also kind of in the throes of, like, figuring out what we wanted to do with our kind of Splitting Image tendencies – which was kind of a more punk-facing project. But Travis and Carrie — who are also stalwarts of the music scene — had just recently moved to New York. So, I guess we kind of had some ideas for music that we were kicking around, but just didn’t have an outlet.

Caufield: And we were working with Travis, which is probably pertinent.

Lira: Yeah, we actually kind of demoed “Cross Me Out” with them. I remember we were trying to collaborate.

Caufield: A good summation of this is, like, we kind of felt like we were falling off a cliff, music-wise, at that time….not to sound melodramatic. And, in a good way, we have played a million shows with Mini Dresses — it’s been like six years, just too long.

Lira: It’s also pertinent to say that, like, in March of last year — which seems like a million years ago — we had released our second album as Mini Dresses and we’d also put out a Dee-Parts thing. So, yeah, we were writing songs; we just didn’t really know what to do with them. But we had never 25

stopped writing, is the thing. It’s like, I feel like we write music at least once a week. It’s just practice. And if it’s honest, even if it doesn’t, like, bear fruit in the form of a song, it’s at least, you know, ideas or just jamming. But we’re always working on something.

Caufield: But I will say that it was, like, a period of overwork combined with, like, everyone was moving venues are closing down and our bands were kind of not as well known….

Every three years in Boston, the population turns over and forgets who you are, in our experience.

Like, with the college turnaround?

Caufield: Yeah, exactly. Which can be wonderful, but also crazy. And, so, I think we were fighting that, and then COVID happened and it was like, “Okay, what are we doing here?”

Lira: But even before COVID, we wrote most of these songs in, like, I think October [or] November of last year and we were on a roll. And we were really excited. We recruited our friend Spenser, who is in that band Creaturos, which is a huge psych band in Boston — they’re, like, really great guys and Spenser’s one of our really close friends who also records and produces, too. And it kind of got a little band together! We were really excited to play shows, and we played one show, and then lockdown happened. So, that is the story of Sweeping Promises.

Was that show the Cowboy Initiative one?

Both: Yeah!

Yeah, ‘cause I know those guys and I was supposed to go!

Lira: Love Veronica and Joey!

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And, on another note, I know you said a lot of the record was finished before the pandemic, but how much else was there left to do once you had to move and everything?

Lira: Yeah, so I feel like the bulk of it was written and finished by around February. But then, we were still kind of writing for the album through April and I think that’s when we had finished completely recording and mixing and mastering. And that’s when we sent it off to Feel It. But, yeah, we were pretty much pushing it right up until we didn’t have access to that space anymore.

Caufield: They locked it down with our gear in there.

Lira: They did. Yeah, we had to like go back in….It was rough.

Yeah, I remember, [we got] an Uber XL to get everything out.

Caufield: Well, it was nice to have an external institution tell you your album’s finished because [they’d] locked your gear away.

Lira: It’s a good way to wrap it up [laughs], like, being banished from the premises.

Oh, gosh. Well, I’m glad you did.

Lira: I’m glad we did, too! But they were just following the proper safety procedures. But there was just an evil part of me that was thinking, you know, nobody’s in here. We could just stay here and nobody would know.

And you guys probably also moved shortly thereafter, right?

Lira: Yeah, so I think we picked all of our gear up in the beginning of July and then we headed out of Boston for good at the very, very end of July.

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Lira: Well, we definitely didn’t want to think of Sweeping Promises as related to the other projects of ours; every time we start a new project, it is its own concrete entity and, so, there are, of course, overlaps and kind of influence.

And that’s just because it’s the two of us, it’s the same people, so that’s inevitable. But, I guess I would like to think that, with each project that we start, there is somewhat of a through line, and that connects but also allows each feeling or genre or whatever we’re trying to communicate to exist in its own space and sphere.

And so, with Sweeping Promises, we weren’t really necessarily concerned with reintroducing ourselves as people who already exist. We wanted it to be a whole new project with its own attitude and its own message and its own sound. And I guess that’s one of the reasons why we appreciate the kind of cyclical nature of the Boston underground music community. For that one show that we played, we definitely got to take advantage of that being a very new thing. We didn’t want to tie it to stuff that we had done before.

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Caufield: I think it was nice to be in the punk matrix, too. We made punk music, like, explicitly 10 years ago and I think that we relate, I mean, we identify this way; we make music in a very handmade way. I think it was nice to exit the indie pop rotation, which I think has a lot of generic codifications and, I don’t know, institutional expectations? I sound, like, super abstract here, but it’s not it! It was nice to enter into a different type of discourse. I think that’s what was happening a little bit.

That felt amazing.

Lira: Yeah. And, I guess, just for me, personally, as someone who very much is like- I sing, and so, it’s a very physical embodiment of like, what I’m trying to do is singing and so, being able to be a little bit louder just felt good and natural, and like, I didn’t have to suppress or try to over-stylize my delivery, or I could just just let it flow. Which sounds really silly, but especially with Sweeping Promises, what we were so excited about with writing these songs is that it just felt like it was really fluid, and it just happened almost automatically.

And that was something that we really tried to capture in the recordings and with the recording process, which is why we used one mic to record every like that — well, not everything, but the drums and the bass — to like, hang on to that just kind of bubbly, energetic, spontaneous feeling. And because, with a lot of the stuff that we’ve worked on before, we just spent a lot of time writing and producing it, so, it feels gratifying to be able to be a little more direct in our process.

Gotcha. That makes total sense. And were you guys completely done with the recording part, too, when you got literally kicked out? Or did you have to kind of scramble to get it all together?

Lira: I think at that point, we were finished. Yeah, we had wrapped up completely in April, I think. And then we picked our gear up in July.

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Okay, because regarding the recording and even writing and producing processes, a lot of artists faced setbacks, especially with people being separated and everything. I know it’s mostly just the two of you, but did anyone else contribute to this at all, aside from who you’ve mentioned?

Lira: Yeah, Spenser played drums on one of the songs, on “Hunger for a Way Out.” And then, before we moved, we actually were able to get into his practice space in Somerville, which nobody was using at the time, and we wrote a couple of songs with him there and were able to record the bones of those, which is like five, six [songs].

Caufield: Yeah, album 2, 2.5…something like that. We’re not sure what it’s gonna be.

Lira: So, we have those songs and then we have, like, the 11 that we recorded here. So, we’re basically sitting on a lot of songs right now.

Caufield: We deleted quite a few from the initial album.

Lira: Yeah, we did. There were something like five songs that didn’t make it onto Hunger for a Way Out. Caufield: It’s been the machinic period, huh? l

READ THE FULL INTERVIEW ON PENNY-MAG.COM

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What Has Sweeping Promises Been Listening to Recently?

Cindy (“a slow core band”) Latest release: I’m Cindy (World of Paint, 2020) Gong Gong Gong (Wharf Cat; great minimal sound) Latest Release: Phantom Rhythm 幽靈節奏 (幽霊リズ ム) (Wharf Cat, 2019) Lync (reminded of via Bandcamp, great K Records band) Last Release: These Are Not Fall Colors (K Records, 1994) Susan Latest Release: Complete Susan (2005) Lira: “Susan was this kind of Japanese pop persona cultivated by Hiromi Hosono of Yellow Magic Orchestra. And, yeah, it’s just, like, I don’t know, in your face.

You know, synth pop from the mid ‘80s, Japan. It’s really great.”

Mark Renner Latest Release: Seaworthy Vessels Are In Short Supply (2020) Caufield: “Wonderful ambient album that has some pop hits”

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LIILY On Pandemic Woes And Their Upcoming Debut Album

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Los Angeles-based heavy-hitting five-piece Liily is on the cusp of a breakthrough, despite the fact that the pandemic briefly left them stalled, still in their tracks, in the midst of the creation of their much-anticipated debut record.

With their upcoming release in the wings, the band — composed of members Dylan Nash (vocals), Sam De La Torre (guitar, visuals), Charlie Anastasis (bass), and Maxx Morando (drums), with the unofficial addition of Desi Scaglione (guitar)— have persisted throughout the past few months, attempting to navigate writing and recording while pondering, simply, how to survive under the looming threat of a worldwide catastrophe. All the while, they’ve kept much to themselves, limiting their online presence to basketball commentary from Dylan, the occasional post of a piece-in-progress from Sam, and some vague in-studio posting on their main band account from time-to-time.

Aside from this though, it’s almost impossible to know just what they’ve got under their sleeves, leaving an air of mystery in their wake.

Currently, the band have just a few tracks under their belt, but each is indicative of their strong backbone and razor-sharp musical inclinations. From Maxx’s effortlessly entrancing drumming capabilities (which serve as the glue for each track) to Sam’s masterful, quick-paced riffing, every track they’ve released thus far — including those on their excellent debut EP, I Can Fool Anybody In This Town — packs a vicious punch. Their most recent single, “Wash,” a percussion-led, wildly gritty headbanger, practically begs you to get in the ring and try your hand at punching back.

Photo: Liily (Summer 2019) - (l-r) Sam De La Torre, Dylan Nash, Maxx Morando, Charlie Anastasis (photo by Erin Christie)

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Over email, I chatted with Charlie to learn about how he and the band have been coping since the pandemic, and how the current climate has affected the creation of their first (and even second) LP. lll Since March, how have you guys been adapting to being in a band and, overall, just existing as musicians in a world that looks like this?

The past six months in our world have definitely varied in different types of extremities, as I’m sure it has been for most collaborative artists. The first three months came with a sudden halt to all physical interaction with the five of us and moved solely to isolated work from home, which, at first, was pretty world-shattering for the same reasons as everyone else in the country, given the uncertainty and the unparalleled modern examples of something like this happening.

The other main concern was we were half way through making a record which, ultimately, came to a full stop.

However, it turned out to be a very lucrative period of creativity for all of us and we ended up writing most of what is now on the record. As soon as June came around, we all got tested and began to rehearse in a locked out rehearsal space and began to put the record together in the same room. Since then, we have finished the first record and are beginning to work on record number 2.

Generally speaking, how has working in a pandemic affected your mindset in regard to music-creation? Do you feel motivated? Discouraged?

What I believe this has ultimately done for us is force some 34

very important introspection on our part as to where our values lay. Without the prospect of touring, and focusing on the physical aspect of performing was all we needed to understand what kind of value we have for creativity, just for the sake of it. It’s turned out to be a very important kind of motivation.

How, then, did you guys approach the writing/recording process?

As far as recording is concerned, we couldn’t have been more lucky to find ourselves in the right place and right time to find people to work with and places to record. We managed to finish making our first record by the end of September.

Can you give any details regarding the kind of material you guys have under your belts? How would you say Liily’s sound/thematic material has shifted, if at all?

(photo by Erin Christie)

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I think, really, with all of the time we have had recently, our work has definitely taken a chameleon kind of form.

We have been all over the place in terms of trying different sounds but the overall effect has paradoxically focused our overall ideas about what we can actually try to accomplish with this band. I know that is pretty vague in terms of the question, the simplest answer would be that the material is constantly shifting in hopefully a very forward way.

On the surface, the difference between the music that is currently available and the music that will be out soon might seem like a pretty dramatic departure in sound and overall ethos, but the reality of the change in sound has been a very gradual and natural evolution. The ideas on the record definitely gravitate towards a more abrasive and harsher sound, but there are also moments that are far more digestible. This is hugely due to the amount of time spent writing and rewriting songs over the course of a year and the evolving tastes that naturally occurred over such a big chunk of time. The overall effect is pretty eclectic (or it might come off as all over the place) but I think it’s a pretty honest representation of a band trying to grow together and trying to set the least amount of creative barriers possible.

Did you guys have any set intentions when going about your official debut (as in, was there anything you specially wanted to say or get across sonically)?

As far as intentions go, I think they were far more subconscious than conscious. We absolutely wanted to experiment and get away from the kind of music that we can very comfortably make. But I think it was also very important to us to make a record that still felt inclusive, which meant having to really find a pretty strong sense of 36

self awareness about the music we’re making and how we genuinely felt about what we were doing.

Are there any tracks you’re particularly proud of/amped to have audiences hear?

Speaking for myself, I know there are three or four songs that I couldn’t be more proud of. Unfortunately, they still don’t have names, so it’s hard to elaborate more on that right now.

Well, that’s exciting! With the prospect of finally releasing your debut in general, how are you guys feeling? Nervous at all? Just excited to get it out there, even with the strange circumstances?

That’s been the most defeating part of this whole process due to the circumstances. It’s already brutally anxiety-inducing to release anything you have worked on in an environment where you can freely promote it and earn a sense of “conclusion;” the situation we’re in now arguably just makes that process ten times worse.

There is this new fear, now, that whatever you make and release, no matter how good or bad it is, will still wind up falling into the void.

So, my answer to that question is, yes, we are very excited to put out this album, but also terrified.

Noting that you guys also have a second release in the works (which is super commendable), is that material 37

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simply roll-off from the abundance of material you guys have had time to work on recently? Or is it totally different?

So, that is something we still haven’t totally decided on.

There are quite a few songs we have that didn’t make it on to record number 1 that I think we all believe is worth continuing to look at, but most of the stuff we are currently working on is brand new. How that translates to the second album, I’m not sure yet.

With the release roll-out process definitely facing some changes recently, do you guys have a rough timeline sketched out yet, or is it still all up in the air?

At this point, I think it is safe to say that music will begin to be released at the beginning of next year with the album out sometime half way through next year, and then a scenario that a lot of bands are probably looking at right now is then touring on 2 albums.

With releases in mind, too, the social element of being a musician has definitely changed, with an even further emphasis on the importance of social media. Do you feel an added sense of pressure to be present online?

Our social media presence has always been pretty sparse just because we use it as a tool to promote real life things, and with the absence of real life things, there’s not much to use it for at the moment.

Very fair. And in addition, many artists began using socials to host livestream sets during quarantine. Since you guys haven’t personally done that, is there a specific reason not? Is it mostly the lack of need for social media in general? (photos by Erin Christie)

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Since we’ve been on the recording side of things during this time, there’s been no reason for us to throw together any virtual performance. That’s not to say we won’t do something, possibly in the future, [but] there just hasn’t been any time or need for it yet.

In line with the popularization of livestreaming, there has also been a lot of discussion regarding streaming platforms skimping out on artist payout (especially since artist income is so tight right now). How are you guys feeling about this, considering its personal impact?

Streaming revenue has been an issue for a lot longer than COVID has been, but it has absolutely floated to the top of issues facing the musical ecosystem in the wake of the pandemic. Without touring — which, even since the fall of the record-buying industry, has been more than half of how artists generate income — it has shined a light on all the giant holes in the streaming world. We, as a band, have never relied on streaming as income since the band’s inception.

However, I don’t really think there is much that can be done about this.

People ultimately decide the value of a product, and since people have millions of songs at their fingertips, there isn’t any reason to expect them to decide to restructure their value system for music since they are already getting it for free.

If supporting artists through music streaming services is going to come from anywhere, it is going to have to come from the streaming services themselves cutting a bigger check to the bands and artists on their platforms. But, I don’t see that happening.

Definitely agree. And, on another note, how are you generally feeling about the future with everything considered, especially in regard to the survival of live music?

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There is no certainty with anything anymore. I’d like to think that people have been attending live performances for thousands of years and that COVID-19 being the catalyst for that to come to a grinding halt is pretty hard to believe but I think keeping expectations low is a lot healthier than not.

Is there anything you guys particularly miss most about life, pre-quarantine?

There isn’t anything we miss more than the next person regarding pre-quarantine life, but there’s a pretty big danger in the amount of thought one can put into focusing on the old normality of things because I believe it inevitably slows down forward momentum. lll With Charlie’s wise words in mind, make sure to keep up to date with Liily via their socials and stay tuned to learn more about what they’ve got brewing. l

(photo by Erin Christie)

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In Conversation with Music Journalist

Simon Reynolds

English music writer/journalist Simon Reynolds first crossed my path in 2019, while I was doing research for a long-form piece about the genesis of the post-punk genre. His book, Rip It Up and Start Again: Postpunk 1978-1984 (2005) — which examines the lifespan of the genre in its infancy, including sections about the careers of greats such as Joy Division, Talking Heads, The Fall, and Human League — became a sort of historical backbone for my piece, and, additionally, proved to be a worthwhile read, noting Reynolds’ unique narrative style, his inclusion of contextual background, and his pure knowledge of how to capture the quality of good music on a page.

Reynolds’ career spans far past the realm of post-punk and this particular book, however, and dates back to the mid1980s. When we chatted, he described his journalistic beginnings as partly stemming from his upbringing, as both of his parents had experience in the field: “I grew up with the idea that nothing could be finer than seeing your byline in print,” he explained. Eventually, he found his personal journalistic niche and became inspired to delve into music criticism after reading a collection of British weekly music magazines, such as NME. “It seemed like a very intellectually glamorous way of life — and in fact, it proved to be just as exciting as I had hoped,” he continued. “I realized it was a field in which you could be creative with language and explore ideas – political, philosophical, etc – through the prism of music. So, from about 16 onwards, it was all I wanted to do: be a music critic.”

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As his first official music journalism gig (aside from Motor, the fanzine he kickstarted with a handful of friends), he joined the staff of Melody Maker, which saw him covering newer, edgier bands in particular, from shoegaze greats such as A.R. Kane and My Bloody Valentine to hip hop gods such as Public Enemy. Reynolds noted that writing for music publications at that time was “pitifully paid,” but it offered him the opportunity to write about the content he cared about and to feel truly happy with what he was doing; he even met his wife, Joy Press, while on staff at Melody Maker. “I was so happy in my work that I never took the four weeks paid vacation per year I was entitled to,” he laughed, reflecting on those early years.

Later on, Reynolds moved on to focus “I grew up with the idea more on freelance work that nothing could be and began to expand his repertoire, going on finer than seeing your to contribute to publications such as Rolling byline in print.”

Stone, Spin, Pitchfork, 43

The Guardian, The New York Times, and a handful of others, covering anything from Kate Bush to Drake. Needless to say, he has his fair share of bylines, even during those early years [some of which he compiled in a book called Blissed Out: The Raptures of Rock (1990)]. As his career progressed, he continued his publishing spree with a collection of books on various topics, as well, many of which being the first long-form studies of their kind. The first, Generation Ecstasy: Into the World of Techno and Culture, came out in 1998, around the time when he was invested in the growing UK rave scene.

With his books in mind, Reynolds meshes music journalism with cultural criticism, an impactful trend that can also be seen throughout multiple aspects of his career and part of what makes him such a master in the field.

That said, alongside writing standard journalistic pieces such as reviews and interviews, he tends to also circle back to write critically on topics such as gender, class, race, and sexuality in relation to music and popular culture, which is shown in these published works.

A great example of this can be seen with one of his most recognized books, Retromania: Pop Culture’s Addiction to Its Own Past (2011), which is an investigative piece regarding what Reynolds defined as the “chronic retrogression of pop music,” focusing of the effects of 44

the Internet and online culture on music consumption and creativity. Another great example is a book he and his wife co-authored in 1995, a critical analysis of gender in rock entitled The Sex Revolts: Gender, Rebellion, and Rock ‘n’ Roll. With just these two pieces in mind, it’s clear that Reynolds is not a one-trick pony regarding his writing: not only does he know how to masterfully write on music in general, but he understands the ins and outs of human culture, the context in which music is made, and the effects the world’s social scene has on what art comes out of it.

Additionally, part of what makes Reynolds’ career so interesting is his anti-uniformity — the fact that his repertoire decorates multiple genres, scenes, and topics — which gives way to his ability to permeate multiple fields and thrive. Take one of the works that Reynolds says he is most fond/proud of for example: the essays he had written for The Wire between 1992 and 2005, which he later called ‘The Hardcore Continuum.’ Said collection of essays was, as he explained, “a series of genres/scenes like hardcore, rave, jungle, 2step, garage, and grime, that are all successful stages of the same larger subculture, based around pirate radio in London.” “That was when I was tracking the cutting edge of music and very involved a both a fan and observer on the frontlines of this rapidly mutating, ever-evolving culture,” 45

he continued.

This very series gives way to Reynolds’ willingness to delve into new territories via his craft and even his ability to anticipate the “next big thing.” His purpose in writing what he does, with that in mind, seems not to involve resting on his laurels, but to have relation to both his personal interest in learning more about what he isn’t familiar with, but also his interest in bestowing knowledge on the general public.

They also create a great example of Reynolds’ distinctive writing style, which finds him typically adhering to the style of an essayist and maintaining a straight-forward, but professional tone throughout (even if he’s speaking about rave culture and LSD). That air of professionalism is pushed forward by his authoritative essence, which is made evident by his body of knowledge on the subjects that he writes about, a sign of his ability as a researcher. lll Currently, Reynolds is continuing his freelance work, has made several appearances and lectures via Zoom, and is in the midst of figuring out what his next book project might be. As of late, he has an upcoming title, Neon Screams: How Drill, Trap, and Bashment Made Music New Again (2021), on the way.

He says he’s not “insanely hopeful” regarding the future of the music journalism industry, and reflects on the plights of young music writers attempting to infiltrate the industry, noting that its much more difficult to enter the industry to take up music writing as one’s sole profession in this day and age: “There are plenty of opportunities to write, but more and more of them are either unremunerated or poorly paid, compared to what the word rates were back in the Nineties. So you either have to hustle incredibly hard and 46

churn out work, which will then burn you out quickly (and lead to inferior work). Or, you have to accept that the music writing will only ever be a sideline to your main occupation that earns you your livelihood.”

As he continues, though, he has some hope, despite the various blockades he listed: “But people are still passionate about music, about pushing it forward, about attaching music to larger cultural currents, progressive politics, etc… so it continues to be a field of action, both for music makers and music commentators.”

Regarding his own journey in the music journalism field, Reynolds still has a few cards up his sleeve. l

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ADAPTING

To A Concert - Free Atmosphere

Months into the COVID-19 pandemic, multiple levels

of the music industry, from artists to promoters to fans, continue to grow restless, and, in some cases, vulnerable without live events. For artists, roughly 80% of their revenue comes from performing, and even additional means of income, such as streaming — which grants a fraction of a cent per play — aren’t enough to guarantee financial stability.

That said, the prospect of being a full-time musician is less appealing, and less sustainable than ever. Additionally, a lack of concerts has led many musicians to feel loss on an emotional 48

level, too — it’s as if a vital part of their careers, and their identities, has died.

For Boston band Trash Rabbit, playing house shows was a weekly ritual pre-pandemic, and a huge contributor to their passion for music. Vocalist/guitarist Mena Lemos and vocalist/ bassist Nick Adams reflect on playing shows with fondness.

Mena: Playing shows for me — for all of us, not just me — was- not a relief… it wasNick: An outlet.

Mena: Yeah, it was really an outlet and it was just a great way to feel like this is worth it; like this is what I like to do. It’s a big

emphasis for me, on having great shows, and like, moshin’ and all that emo weenie shit...and not doing that was likeit’s just been hard.

Despite positive COVID cases continuing to rise globally, acts such as London’s Black Midi, have hosted socially-distanced shows recently. In places such as Boston — which saw an additional 2,000 positive cases in the last two weeks — shows of any kind are still on hold.

Trash Rabbit drummer/ vocalist Gibran Mobarak wonders if he and his band will ever be able to return to their normal routine.

be like now, if we were just like, “Yeah, let’s just stand shoulder-to-shoulder with a bunch of randos that we don’t know.”

Concert promoters are also questioning how their careers can continue as cases spike. Clay Fernald is a content manager for Do617, a Boston event marketing and promotions entity. When the pandemic hit, his team was at a loss.

Clay: At the beginning, there was a lot of panic, I would say. Like, “What are we going to do?,” since all we do is tell people what to go do at night Gibran: I think about [...] Everybody’s hoping basement shows that we play and I’m just like, that we can get through this, and then, we’ll start “Yo, are we ever gonna having shows and things be able to fit that many kids, all together, again?” will be more like they Because we were literal- were before, when they were like- even if you ly just playing in a fuckdidn’t like the ing basement...imagine what our situation would 49

Trash Rabbit (photos by Erin Christie)

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bands, you could still potentially go out and see five different shows on any given night.

that, you don’t get and it’s just- it’s not fun. I don’t really think it’s enjoyable.

As time progressed, Do617 adapted and Clay, who now helms the business alone, shifted his focus to events he could promote, such as livestreams or drive-in concerts.

Some fans, such as Charis Huling, have had difficulty adapting to these virtual concert substitutes.

For fans, musicians, and staffers who depend on concerts, it is hoped that with time and an eventual vaccine, that concerts can come back and thrive like never before. With this goal in mind, a German research team recently tested how COVID might spread in a concert atmosphere through a simulation with roughly 1,500 volunteer audience members.

While results for this study are accumulated, all we can do is keep our fingers crossed, follow COVID guidelines, and stay tuned. l

Charis: I hate it [laughs]. It’s like, if I can’t experience it in real life, I just don’t feel like it’s something that interests me. But shows are really something that bring everyone together, so not being able to dance with your friends or cutting through to get closer to the stage… just, like, little things like

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Gallery: Trash Rabbit - (tl-r) Gibran Mobarak, Mena Lemos, Nick Adams 51

Overcoming Quarantine Qualms: Creating Amidst a Pandemic

“I feel like having a project to work on during the pandemic saved my life, or at least kept me from becoming truly dead inside,� said Allston musician Brendan Wright, who publishes content under the name Tiberius.

Before turning toward creating, though, he and many musicians sat, twiddling their thumbs as COVID-19 pulled their livelihood from underneath them; packing up tour busses and studio spaces to shelter-in-place meant settling into isolation, both from their loved ones and from their artistry.

With the industry then facing an unsteady future (in addition to a drop in audio streaming and album sales as the pandemic hit), the spring saw a rise in release postponements as big-name artists such as Lady Gaga and Alicia Keys weighed their commercial risks at hand. As a

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result, the collective musical landscape was faced with a difficult question: to create or not create?

Despite the odds, smaller musicians, outside of huge labels and without big stakes, have been creating at a rate like never before, as proof of their ability to adapt, and, for some, as a method of retaining normalcy. For Wright, working on his upcoming LP, Lull, was what kept him going as the days began to blend together: “When the overwhelming sense of existential dread began to kick in, I would listen to the drafts of [those] tracks as reminders that I had some sort of purpose in my life,” he said. “I couldn’t let myself slip away without having [them] completed.”

While he typically works alone, Wright also enlisted the help of some friends, who contributed to Lull remotely. “Even though we’re not in the same room, I can’t help but smirk a bit, listening back to what they recorded,” he laughed.

Tiberius (photo by Erin Christie)

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Tiberius (photos by Erin Christie)

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Like Wright, many musicians have been collaborating using online methods since the pandemic’s start, which has allowed content creation to flourish. For multi-membered bands such as Chicago psychedelic rock group Post Animal, remote collaboration was necessary, as their typical process of fleshing out ideas, together, was an impossibility. Though adapting to this mode of production was initially complicated, they felt motivated nonetheless, resulting in their new three-song EP, Worried About You. The release, riddled with existential dread, saw each of the five members recording independently, with mixing done later by bassist Dalton Allison.

“It definitely takes some extra concentration, locking up with everyone when all you have is an MP3 to vibe with,” guitarist Javi Reyes explained. “But once you put the work in and get it right, it’s very satisfying to know we can still do it under limiting circumstances. [It] feels like we’re cheating when it turns out real well.” One of the EP’s tracks, “Caving In,” hones in on feeling “like everything is falling apart, but still trying to do everything in your power to fix it,” he continued, which speaks on the mindset of much of the industry right now.

In addition to making way for new production methods, the pandemic has also pushed artists toward sonic experimentation, namely because their material won’t be heard live for the foreseeable future. Seattle garage rock band Naked Giants, for example, has shifted gears in the last few months, moving from their typically high-energy affiliations to experimenting with “mellow” sounds that “translate well to recordings and videos,” as explained by vocalist and bassist Gianni Aiello. “These days, we’re writing with the knowledge that we won’t be playing live for quite a while,” 55

he continued. They’ve also taken up livestreaming recently, as has become customary, to test out their new material and share songs from their August release, The Shadow.

Most notably, alongside encouraging artists to adopt new methods of writing, producing, and sharing content, the pandemic has also inspired some budding musicians to write for the very first time, which was the case for a Boston University student who creates under the moniker Thetamancer. “March was actually the first time I really cracked down on making music,” he explained. “I had so much time on my hands and couldn’t go outside, so I started getting really productive with recording.”

In recent months, he has released a handful of tracks at a steady rate, many of which he drops online during what he calls “Theta Thursday.” Since branching out, he’s also taken advantage of online collaboration, having been able to work with LA-based musician Slater. “I probably wouldn’t have had the opportunity to collaborate with one of my favorite artists if it wasn’t for lockdown,” he continued.

With even first-time musicians, the pandemic has become an ideal scenario for encouraging content creation. Though the future of the industry remains uncertain, it definitely isn’t as quiet as it was a couple of months ago, a sign of the resilience of musicianship even in the toughest circumstances. l

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Tiberius’ Picks Artists On Repeat During 2020 **(in no particular order)

Field Medic - Floral Prince Phoebe Bridgers - Punisher Car Seat Headrest - Making a Door Less Open Liana La Havas - Liana La Havas Camp Blood - “21 Shots,” “Trap” Pink Navel - Giraffe Track King Krule - Man Alive Optic Bloom - Space Garden Gabbo - Gabbo EP Care Package - Hey Can I Talk to You for a Sec? Celsius - If I Forget, It’s Only Because I Forgot Sorry - 925 The Garden - Kiss My Super Bowl Ring Katie Dey - Mydata Samia - The Baby 57

Omari Spears Pictures the Future of Music Photography In the absence of live music as of late, fans who frequent concerts, staff at live entertainment venues, and musicians globally have faced struggles as they’ve learned to adapt.

Their routines, and in many cases, careers have been massively changed, and may not return to their normal state for the foreseeable future. Additionally, live music photographers — who essentially make their living and strengthen their portfolios at the will of gigging — have faced just as much hardship with their livelihoods on standstill.

For example, Boston photographer and creative Omari Spears (@o.shoots on Instagram) spent many of his evenings camera bag in-hand, moshing around in basements and at stages all over the city for publications such as Allston Pudding for the past few years. Historically, he has been able to photograph anyone from local favorites such as Anjimile, DUMP HIM, Night Moth, Raavi & the Houseplants, Camp Blood, and countless others; touring bands such as Show Me the Body, Frankie Cosmos, and FKA Twigs; and even Boston Calling. Currently, however, his world (like many music photgraphrs have experienced) has been very much changed since gathering at and covering shows became a thing of the past. With that in mind, I recently caught up with him to learn about how his career has shifted since the beginning of the pandemic and how he is feeling regarding the future of the industry moving forward. lll 58

Godcaster (photo by Omari Spears) Hey! To begin, can you give a little background on yourself and your career thus far?

My name is Omari Spears. I’ve been photographing live music in Boston since around the end of 2017. I go to a lot of different types of shows but I’m a huge fan of local bands and smaller, more intimate shows.

How would you say things have changed since the pandemic began?

Since things have been shut down due to the pandemic, I haven’t been doing too much interesting stuff. The first few months of being on lockdown, I focused more on playing music and practicing instruments, but lately, I’ve been spending more time just kind of on the computer. I’ve been listening to music, but I’ve been sort of behind or out of the loop when it comes to new releases or new artists to check out. I’m not a huge social media person so a lot of discovering new music for me happened at shows.

How have you been keeping yourself occupied since live 59

shows are on hold at the moment?

Photography-wise, since live music was the main thing I shot, I haven’t been shooting too, too much. I have been able to do a few promo photos for bands and I’ve also been part of a group of folks working on a project called Bring Music Home that focuses on venues that have been closed due to COVID-19.

That project has let me get to go to a handful of venues around Boston and photograph them, which is a surreal feeling since, other than me and a few other people, the buildings are empty. The whole thing has been cool to work on, but a definite highlight, though, was going to ONCE in Somerville and photographing one of their soundstage recordings. I felt pretty lucky to be one of a handful of folks that got to see live music being performed in a venue that day. Seeing how they COVID-proofed their space was also pretty cool.

Additionally, how are you feeling about the future?

The current predicament with live shows being on hold is a pretty huge bummer. Pre-pandemic, I was at shows maybe like 3-5 times a week, and time that I wasn’t spending at shows or my day job went towards working on photos, so not having that to do was a pretty jarring shift that took a lot of getting used to. Something that I’ve heard from a lot of folks who work at venues is that live entertainment was the “first to close and will be the last to re-open” and we’ve got a while until we’ll have live music inside of venues back. Hearing about places closing down in Boston and across the country has been sad, and knowing that we’ve still got a lot more waiting to do makes the whole thing feel like it’s in a pretty shitty state of limbo. I think, because of that, I’ve tried not to think of it too hard.

It’s tough to think about how things will look in the local music scene in 2021 or whenever things are able to 60

(photos by Omari Spears)

Clairo

JPEGMAFIA

Sidney Gish

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re-open. In the meantime, it seems like a lot of artists and venues have turned to different digital ways to perform like livestreaming sets, which is cool, and it’s great having different avenues to support artists, but I’m pretty eager to get back into venues. lll While we wait for live music to return, it’s important to also support creatives such as Omari whenever possible.

If you’re in the Boston area and interested in setting up a photo session/ interested in learning more about his rates, make sure to send him a message on his website (www. oshoots.com) or via IG. Additionally, check out his work with Allston Pudding. l Vundabar (photo by Omari Spears)

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EDITOR’S PICKS: AOTY Sorry - 925 Dehd - Flower of Devotion Fiona Apple - Fetch the Bolt Cutters Phoebe Bridgers - Punisher Momma - Two of Me Fontaines D.C. - A Hero’s Death The Garden - Kiss My Super Bowl Ring Naked Giants - The Shadow Deeper - Auto-Pain King Krule - Man Alive

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