Starly Lou Riggs
Bailey Bauer
Casper Orr
Chloe Oloren
Meg Streich
Michael Bednar
McKenna Gray
Melanie Zhgenti
Contributors
Agustopia
Alice Ruffo
Casper Orr
Hailey Green
KC
Lahnny Star
Laura Hopkins
Leo Fazio
Meg Streich
Starly Lou Riggs
Sometimes it’s hard to see how far we have come until we turn and face what’s behind us. I moved to Portland, Oregon in 2014 after graduating college, running away from a brutal relationship. I arrived bruised, yet bright-eyed, in awe of a new landscape. At the time, I couldn’t grasp the lasting effects of my tumultuous past and didn’t take well to healing. Escape was easier. I took that path without hesitation—partying every night, making poor and even life threatening decisions, eventually wondering who my real friends were. One day, I sat with a close friend in the kitchen of my blue duplex in SE Portland. We had met a few years earlier, both creatures of chaos, now looking for a future. In that moment, we recognized how important it is to sometimes let people go from our lives and to move on, for the sake of ourselves, to choose ourselves. And in choosing ourselves, we are also choosing to sit with grief.
Grief is in everything. It is movement, and it is light. It fertilizes the flowers sprouting from the cracks in the sidewalk. Grief is looking hurt right in the eye without blinking, staring with compassion, opening the floodgates. “Here come the waterworks.” I remember that moment with my friend so clearly; it was a life changing moment for us both. We turned back to look behind us—seeing our faults and human flaws, watching our younger, more destructive selves—and decided to reflect, to grieve, to heal.
Looking out into the broad horizon of 2025, it feels both like a new era and a terrifying unknown. With tumultuous political landscapes, Pluto entering Aquarius, and the death of David Lynch (RIP to one of my greatest artistic inspirations), this could be a storm before an even bigger storm. But it can also be a moment where, collectively, we rise together and face our pasts, both personal and communal as a chance to grow and change together.
It’s been a long time since I created art in this form. I’ve been volunteering at AMP, an artist mentorship program for homeless youth in downtown Portland, Oregon. I came in to volunteer and another volunteer had laid out two giant tables with tons of photos that they had picked up from SCRAP (a local used art supply shop in town.) I started by collecting the photographs that I liked from the table. One of the youth next to me was cutting out things he liked from the photos, and one was an old car. Once he was done cutting it out, I put the photo of flowers behind it and said, “Look at this, the absence of something replaced by something I think is beautiful!” Then, I cut out two photos of people and did the same thing. This art was a collaborative effort of humans spending time together with free art supplies and accidental creative mishaps. This art made me feel so connected to community because without it, I would have never stumbled onto this cool idea. I describe the pieces as what we do to fill our grief, a person or a thing shaped hole within our lives, filled with all of the beautiful memories they gave us. They are gone, but everything that they were still exists in our minds.
Laura Hopkins (they/she) is a musician and activist based in Portland, Oregon. They create music solo as Terrehaunt and in the band Death Parade.
“Look at this, the absence of something
replaced by something I think is beautiful!”
- Laura Hopkins
Maria Stocke and Coley Gilson are a force to be reckoned with.
Meeting serendipitously in the PNW—where dark tends to meet dreamy in the sonic landscape—the duo bonded over their mutual love of heavy bands like Wolves in the Throne Room and Mount Eerie. Aptly named Ragana (“witch” in Lithuanian), their songs hit deep in the heart of grief, floating ethereally in a space both raw and rooted.
Maria and Coley found music at a young age, both learning drums and guitar years before they met. Coley can rock a deep metallic guitar drone, screaming into a pit of their adoring Queer fans. Maria might smack cathartically on the drums–or they’ll switch and play the other way around. Staunchly anarchist and deeply rooted in community, this project is more than just a band: it is a document of growth and friendship, showcasing the impact of showing up for yourself and others.
Noise Made By got to catch a glimpse into the heavy heart of Ragana’s roots:
How did you start playing music together?
Maria: We met in Olympia. Coley was wearing a Wolves in the Throne Room shirt and they were in the beer aisle of grocery outlet. My eyes gazed upon them! And from that moment, I knew we were destined to make great music.
Coley: [We] were introduced by mutual friends and we just started jamming together. It’s pretty cool, because it’s kind of how we became friends too. The band is also our friendship.
you already play music before that?
Coley: I started playing drums when I was 11 or 12 and guitar when I was 13. I had been in little bands, but hadn’t really played. Ragana was the first actual band that I was in.
What do you mean by “actual”?
Coley: It’s been the main music project. I have a solo thing that’s not really a band.
Coley: It’s called Precious Bane. It’s a dark folk solo project with some black metal influences. I put out a tape two years ago. I still haven’t played a live show as Precious Bane, but I’m planning to.
Maria: I started playing drums when I was 12. I played in a rock cover band with other girls at the age of 15. It was four girls and we played Weezer, Guns & Roses, stuff like that.
It's really special that you both were able to play music at a young age! I grew up in a small town with a little punk scene, but I felt like gender was a barrier to learning instruments, particularly things like guitar and drums. Did it feel like were in a space that was accommodating to that?
Maria: No, I felt like a freak in my family! I tried to understand the strong rebellion it must have taken for me to be [as] confident as I was. I have no idea how that happened.
Metal has always been a male-dominated space, particularly white cis dudes. I was curious to hear what your community looks like in the metal scene and if that’s changed since you started the band?
Coley: I think it was really the fact that we lived in Olympia when we started the band that made it feel possible for me. My parents were supportive of me playing music, but it was a very male-dominated scary thing. I feel like being here, the scene was really welcoming. People were doing whatever they wanted, not really attached to genres. Over the years, it’s never really felt like we’ve been part of a metal scene. It feels like we’re doing our thing, connecting with people and other bands along the way. I think it’s changed a little bit since we signed to The Flenser. That’s the first time we felt like, “Oh, we’re part of this group of musicians.” That isn’t how it felt for me in the past.
I made note of a lyric of yours that I really love: “We live in the light of a burning world,” and to me, the light is community. I don’t know if that was your intention with that line, but I can tell in your music that it’s rooted in community. And you’re politically active. Can you speak to politics and how it aligns with your music?
Maria: You know what CrimethInc. is? They’re an anarchist collective that would produce free anarchist propaganda and books. I read that when I was really young and I’ve kind of been that person ever since. It really worked, it got into my head. I’m just an anarchist now.
Coley: I also discovered CrimethInc. literature and it changed the course of my life. I don’t think we’re setting out to create political music, it’s [just] the things we think are important or compelling to write about. It feels like a sort of reclaiming [of] anger, rage, and screaming for the people who actually make sense to be feeling that way.
I feel a lot of marginalized communities in particular hold this deep grief, and screaming is a very
expressive and raw way to express that. What is your relationship to grief?
Maria: Grief? I walk hand in hand with grief everyday. I think I’ve been feeling grief for a long time. It’s probably inspired every single song I’ve written, and it’ll certainly continue to inspire every song I write. I think I've been mourning since I was so little. I feel like I’m mourning many things right now. I love it. I love grief.
Coley: Especially [as I get] older, I become more and more aware of the impermanence of everything and really trying to be present in what’s happening. [I] know that the grief is always going to be there. It’s going to keep coming. [I’m] finding the beauty in the fact that everything is always going to change and there’s nothing you can do about it—except make art.
A lot of your lyrics are very repetitive, like a chant. I can associate that with protest, but also with ritual. What does ritual mean to you? Do you have any daily rituals that you perform?
Maria: Lately, I've just been really free flowing everyday. Rituals seem kind of stressful to me, other than the ritual of writing a song. I have a really hard time doing something over and over again.
Coley: I think that performing feels like a ritual for me. It does feel like a kind of invocation, the ritual of being present in that moment of emotion and seeing that transform over the years has been really cool. The whole journey of being in this band has felt [like] this
transformative experience. I was in my mid-20s when we started the band. It’s how I grew up. So, the performance of the songs feels like a ritual to me.
How do you write songs? Do you write them separately or together?
Coley: Usually, we’ll each write guitar and lyrics on our own, [then] bring them to the other person. They’ll add drums, and we just figure out the song that way. That’s the vast majority of how we’ve written music.
Maria: The first thing that happens is: a spirit embodies us individually and something—alchemy—happens. Sometimes I’m holding a guitar and then I awake and I just have a song. That’s how Moon Pix by Cat Power was written. She just had a fever dream for a week, had no idea what was happening, and had this whole album. It’s not that dramatic everytime I write a song, but it’s a lot more magic than not magic.
Coley: Yeah, and I feel like I can never just sit down and decide to work on music. It has to be present.
Who are some of your biggest influences? You just mentioned Cat Power.
Coley: I feel like our main shared influences are Cat Power, Mount Eerie, The Microphones and Grouper. Definitely Wolves in the Throne Room, the first metal band that I really loved, still love them so much. They’re not playing shows anymore, but this band called Correspondences— they have a cello. Queer people playing doom.
I’m hoping for more Queer and fem people in that space.
Coley: It’s becoming more common to see, and that’s really exciting! It’s still cool when you see a non-cis man in a metal band. It shouldn’t be so rare, but it still is. It’s cool that it’s gradually feeling like people are getting into it and being like, “I can do this too.”
I think that’s the heart of it. People didn’t feel like they had that space, and I’m hoping and thinking things are changing. Do you have any favorite bands to tour with or favorite places to play? A favorite show you’ve played?
Maria: Probably Eli’s Bar, Oakland, California, 2019 with the band Dawn Ry’d.
Very specific!
Maria: We had just signed with Flenser. Jonathan, who runs the record label, was there and it was a packed bar in Oakland. It was super hard for us, because we both lived there for a long time and Jonathon was just like, “You have such a fan base and they’re Gay.” All these Queer people packed the bar and I remember everyone’s just like, “Omg this is the Queer social event of the year!” Everywhere we play is really special and important. A lot of people tend to really take our music in, be really present with it and quite solemn, but Oakland, they're just raging!
Can we expect any releases soon? Any new music coming out?
Coley: Oh! I forgot to say, I think the coolest show we’ve ever played is Roadburn, the festival in the Netherlands. That was just an incredible experience. The community is really good and it feels like the people are there to experience heavy music. Ragana played a set and they commissioned us to create a new piece of music with our friend Kyle who’s project is called Drowse, also on The Flenser. We wrote this 30 minute piece of music and performed it for the first time at Roadburn. We just recorded it a few months ago up here, so that’s hopefully going to come out next year. Hopefully we’ll have a new Ragana album in 2026.
You have a West Coast tour coming up in February?
Coley: We are going to some places we’ve never played like Colorado, New Mexico, and Idaho. We’re also playing in Mount Eerie on this tour, which is really cool! It'll be exhausting to play two shows every night, but it’s also very special and amazing to be getting to do that too.
will you be playing in Mount Eerie?
Maria: I play kick pedal, snare, ride, and wood blocks.
Coley: And I’m just playing bass.
Maria: And singing!
Coley: Oh yeah, singing a little bit.
Also, not just! Bass is important!
Coley: It is important! Not just!
Do you have any advice that you would give to your younger self, or to young
Queer people who want to make
music right now?
Coley: They should do it! I think playing music has been the most healing, cathartic, and transformative experience for me as a Trans person. Everyone should get to do it if they want [to]. They should do it. It doesn’t matter if other people understand it or not. And if you just keep doing it long enough, they will understand it! That’s kind of what happened for us; we just kept doing it, and it’s been beautiful.
Maria: I would say this is a gift I am giving you right now: behold the beauty, the possibilities the future can have for you—[the] expression and all the ideas that get stuck in your head. You can put them out into different metaphors, even if they don’t make sense to the world. They make sense to you and that’s the only thing that’s important. Make art that makes sense to you and feels good to you. Then you get to show it to the world, and who cares what happens with it as long as you’re enjoying yourself. So this is a gift. Never take it for granted that you get to express yourself. And definitely play the drums.
Coley: Yeah! Play the drums!
Demisanté: the Birth of Psychedelic Horror & Whimsical Terror
Demi Yo’ko has come a long way from the start of their musical debut in 2018. Outside of their independent career as Demisanté, Demi is a member of punk duo Death Tour, known for its digitized hardcore and experimental hyperpop collisions. Death Tour is tonally marked by its rageful lyricism and biting commentary, many of their songs taking on pertinent political topics. However, as solo-artist Demisanté, we see a different side of Demi Yo’ko’s creative expression.
Beginning their solo career in November 2022, Demisanté released their first single, “fEELIN’ aNxioUs,” later rereleased in 2023 alongside “Woman With A Lasso” and “psychedelic lipstick.”
Demisanté’s “fEELIN’ aNxioUs” rebrands
Demi Yo’ko’s musical voice outside of their work with Death Tour and marks the change in tone of Demi Yo’ko’s new project. It’s a hyperpop ballad devoid of the experimental punk-rock elements that have been a staple to their work in Death Tour. Instead, “fEELIN’ aNxioUs” separates itself from Demi’s past discography through its use of boosted and distorted harmonic instrumentals,
successfully capturing the intended emotion of the song in a subtle and nearly imperceptible way.
Demisanté’s “fEELIN’ aNxioUs” unsettles and discomforts listeners despite its seemingly upbeat melody through clashing layers of instrumentals, an overstimulating fast-pace, and reverberating and distorted harmonies.
Demisanté’s second single, “psychedelic lipstick,” is a stylistic bridge to Demisanté’s drastic transition in musical genre; it isn’t as pop-oriented as “fEELIN’ aNxioUs,” nor does it have the same explicit neo-psychedelic and alternative inspiration as their third release, “Woman With A Lasso.” Building off the layering instrumental technique used in “fEELIN’ aNxioUs,” Demi creates an ominous, dangerous, and sexy atmosphere with their third single, really pinning down the concept of psychedelic horror in all of its glory.
“fEELIN’ aNxioUs” personalized Demi Yo’ko’s solo career through its electronic pop and neo-psychedelia influences, giving listeners a taste of what’s to come with Demisanté’s self-coined subgenres of psychedelic
In Demi’s recent debut album, SCREAMING FROM A ROOM THEY CAN’T SEE, they build upon the new techniques and soundscapes that they’ve produced in “fEELIN’ aNxioUs” with a darker, heavier, and cleaner sound. In songs like “A Room They Can’t See” and “WHAT CAN I SAY?” there’s an instrumental layering that has become an iconic staple to Demisanté’s discography, a technique that grows more precise with each new release. Rather than the cacophonous orchestra in “fEELIN’ aNxioUs” or “Woman With A Lasso,” Demi Yo’ko’s layering on their debut album is more purposeful and organized.
In Demisanté’s inception, their experimentation led to an incredible mutation in genre persona. Their solo career developed greatly through skills and ideas explored within Death Tour, via experimental electronic elements, lyricism and soundscapes, and an emotionally evocative style. With their first full album under their belt, Demi Yo’ko is planning on releasing their second album late this spring, barely a after the release of SCREAMING FROM A ROOM THEY CAN’T SEE. Demisanté’s second album, devil’s paradise, will include the fan favorites “fEELIN’ aNxioUs,” “psychedelic lipstick,” “Woman With A Lasso.” As Demisanté continues to experiment with their own personal sound, listeners are anxious to follow growth of this blooming, insidious subgenre.
experimentation and greatly Death elements, dark emotionally under releasing a year ROOM album, A favorites and continues personal follow the subgenre.
PHOTOS BY Lahnny Star
Kill Michael at Cyrstal Ballroom
Chainsaw Girl at Gloomhouse
Members of Common Girl, Kill Michael, Rhododendron, Mauve, DR:UNK and various audience members at Mission Theater
Words by Meg Streich
You don’t listen, you bathe. A cyclical yearning and a Rorschachian theme define
the work of Ethel Cain, the creation of Florida-born multidisciplinary artist Hayden Anhedönia. Her new album Perverts draws a pronounced throughline of sex, wanting, and understanding of the self. Attempting to attribute logical sense to Cain’s work this time around is a fruitless endeavor; there is not a narrative to follow. Preacher’s Daughter brought with it layers of logical and emotional sense that resonated to a broader sector of the cultural zeitgeist. This is not an album to put on in your car, this is an album to listen to the way you would take a sound bath. There are philosophies to soak in. So get naked.
Doing my due diligence to the album resulted in a rabbit hole of wikipedia articles and logging onto a tumblr account that hadn’t been activated since 2011. In the words of Cain herself, “Preacher’s Daughter follows a much more traditional fiction narrative while Perverts is built around a personal philosophy.” Cain’s work walks through themes of shame, selfunderstanding, longing, self-pleasure, brutalism, simulation, and forgoing compartmentalization of art into logical and immediately relatable boxes.
Following that more traditional narrative, Preacher’s Daughter contains a deep need for possession and obsession, where our speaker equates obsession and infatuation with love. In Perverts, there is yearning. It’s a kind of yearning that asks to be seen, but doesn’t want to know what you see.
If you want, you can bite me / And I won’t move / You won’t lose
Intimacy and isolation play together in harmony, all with an underlying theme hoping to surrender, but not really knowing how.
It is not a mutual yearning; there is a desire to be wanted, a desire to be seen and perceived by the world around you, but not quite understanding what it means to be seen in this reality, or what that reality is. Through Perverts, we watch the speaker become fully cognizant of that desire, and the consequences of an audience.
Beneath the depths of Anhedönia’s heady philosophical and religious overtones lies love. Each song in Perverts features a strong current of a pleading love through a desire to please, a need to find self-pleasure through the pleasure of others, and the shame that accompanies that pleasure. For an album that begins: “heaven has forsaken the masturbator,” we have to talk about shame that lives in your veins, pills in between your
fingers, settles in the divots in your skin.
Perverts questions how deep shame can run, how “unforgivable an act could be that [we] may still justify it in some bent way to make carrying it more bearable.” How do we reconcile with guilt, with shame, with our perceptions of ourselves? Cain asks: “Would I tell myself it’s not my fault and I couldn’t
/ for I no I am nothing
help myself? Would anyone truly believe that? Would I?” This thought traces a throughline of Perverts: how much of your perception of yourself is the perception of others? How much of your self-belief is the belief of others?
There is inherent shame created in the dissonance of what one sees themself to be, and what they are. Eventually, enough outside perspectives start stacking themselves in a way that they form a person-like structure. A performance for an audience. Much of Perverts, and the press leading up to its release, has alluded to Jean Baudrillard’s equally cryptic Simulacra and Simulation. Perverts’ ode to perception and being perceived, watching and being watched, finds its footing in Baudrillard’s theory of simulacra: a copy with no original, something designed to look like something that never existed. This text and Perverts hold hands on opposite planes, walking parallel. Baudrillard zooms out to focus on wider society, internet obsession, and consumerism, while Cain turns the theory inward, examining the self, what is real, what is performed, and what is perceived of the self solely because it is perceived by the audience.
Simulation refers to the inescapable blurring of reality and representation, with one of the best examples of simulacra and simulation being found in Anhedönia’s home state: disney world. Disney world is a perversion of reality where, when we enter, we believe our reality to be an unfaithful copy which masks and denatures reality as an “evil appearance–it is of the order of maleficence” where signs and images do not faithfully reveal reality to us, but can hint at the existence of an obscure reality which the sign itself is incapable of encapsulating. We see a subverted version of reality in the little shops and street signs, a simulated town replicating something that may have never existed.
Much like Perverts, a logical understanding of Baudrillard’s theories must lead with an emotional understanding. The main line of questioning they share is how much of our reality is built by
individual perceptions, with Cain asking: How much of your self-perception is based on your perception of an audience’s perception? Is it you that is the unfaithful copy of the original?
We watch Cain question understanding of herself and her reality, eventually surrendering into:
I am that I was / for I no longer am / for I am nothing
Cain gloriously reclaims the self in her preamble The Consequences of Audience: “I am, I am, I am!” A radical reclamation of the self that encompasses the unknowing, that encompasses the shame and longing and the messiness of a human existence and celebrates it through the glorious lens of being alive.
Maybe I am overdoing it. Maybe this isn’t anything. Maybe it is nothing, and I am nothing, and my perception of this album is only a poorly stacked jenga tower made up of books I attempted to finish and never did. In the words of Cain, “Maybe it’s not meant to be explained. Maybe it’s not meant to be marked down in words.”
Maybe Perverts is just meant to be a cultural Rorschach test, meant to be looked into with or without your own audience, and make emotional sense of the world around you. Maybe by being nothing you can be everything.
Perverts is cyclical, so it only makes sense to end on the introduction, an eponymous piece beginning with a tinny old fashioned choir of an Appalachian pub that speaks to a time remembered only by its patrons. A Ptolomea-adjacent voice comes over an equally tinny speaker: It’s happening to everybody.
I am that I longer am / for / for I am nothing
PHOTOSBY SydneyTate
WORDSBY CasperOrr
The year has just begun and it’s the perfect time to reminisce. How has music and its industry changed? How have they stayed the same? How has the landscape of Queer art evolved? What does it mean to be a Queer artist? What do we still have to improve to create a more equitable music scene?
Femme rock trio, Razor Braids, joined me to discuss how things have panned out for the band since its inception in 2018. Over zoom, I had the chance to experience just a fraction of the strong bond between Hollye Bynum (vocals/ bass), Jillian Karande (vocals/rhythm guitar), and Janie Peacock (lead guitar)—a bond so strong, you’d think they’d have known each other for a lifetime! Hollye and Janie called in over the phone mid-road trip and Jilly playfully teased whenever Hollye lost service or took a wrong turn while trying to answer a question.
Here, Hollye, Jilly, and Janie tell us what growth means to them, both personally and collectively.
Are you [all] originally from Brooklyn?
HB: We're all from different places. I'm from Nashville/Knoxville, Tennessee. Janie's from Memphis, Jill is from outside of Chicago. We all moved to the city to pursue different things. I moved to pursue dance. Janie [moved to pursue] illustration and design. Jilly, what did you move to the city for?
JK: Oh my god, to find a job? I was originally acting—or attempting to— when Hollye and I met and fell into different creative things.
you meet in college or was it a [public] acting class?
HB: A professional acting class. Actually, Janie was in college when we met her. I've lived in New York for 13 years. I'd run a dance company for six years, but then I was like, I'm shifting away from this. I'm gonna go take acting classes. I had a pretty significant head injury, unfortunately, [and] the universe was like, “Stop! Is this what you want to be doing?” The universe said, “Sit down, girl!” I couldn't do anything physical for like eight months. I [thought], is this really what's making me happy? I think I wanted to be playing music. I have maybe been afraid to do that up until this point.
How did the
way you grew up back in your hometown contribute to the way you create music today?
HB: I think our biggest strength is [in] the fact that we are different. We come from different backgrounds, and we're able to come together, lean on each other, and bring our own skill set
forward. We just really gel together and complement one another. I was in an alternative country band and loved singing country music, working with other people, and overseeing the entire vibe of a song, EP, or album. So, I come in with this overarching awareness of the sum of the parts and then I also bring in a little bit of a country flair.
JP: In Memphis, that's where I fell in love with music. I grew up pretty close to Beale Street. You can go see live music any night of the week down there and it's like a little pocket of the South that hasn’t really changed in a long time—for better or for worse. You could step back into these places and hear some classic blues music [and] classic rock and roll. I grew up being inspired by that. I started playing guitar in third grade and I carried that with me.
JK: My family is not necessarily a huge musical family, but there was all this stuff playing growing up. I feel like my dad was always playing The Smashing Pumpkins, The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, stuff like that. And you know what his favorite band is? Razor Braids. So yes! Thanks, Vish! I grew up–and I know Hollye did too–singing in choirs my whole life. Growing up, writing was a really solitary thing for me. As a kid, I had a lot of feelings. My siblings are older, so I didn't really have people to talk to about certain stuff. I feel like I used to journal a lot, and I still do. The way I grew up, music was something that was just for me. I've loved as an adult how I've figured out how to connect that to other people and interweave those things.
What you’re saying about writing being solitary, even lonely at a certain point, and the way
that you're talking about turning it into a communal practice is beautiful because it can be very lonely. Using it to create music as a collective, that is transformative. What did you want to see from music growing up? What music made you feel seen? Is there a specific song growing up that was like, “Oh, this is it?”
HB: I grew up in the time that Alanis Morissette dropped Jagged Little Pill and it was like, “Okay, women can tell the world to fuck off.” You also have Sheryl Crow—I'm seeing that women are much more than just sex symbols. Or, you have someone like Madonna, who's like, “Okay, I'm a sex symbol, but I'm going to do it my way.” Fiona Apple! This is poetry and it's gorgeous. How am I lucky enough to hear lyrics and instrumentation like this? It just gave me this sense of empowerment. I just wanted to feel that power. I love that music. I know we all do. We get a lot of inspiration from that time period.
These women have been transformative in music. I think what you're talking about is really telling of a society where women in music are not prioritized. You really have to fight to be seen. We're seeing more women within genres that are predominantly maleoriented. The fact that we're seeing more women is amazing. Women writing
music telling men to fuck off is a beautiful change. What changes have you seen within the music scene as a band? What changes do you still want to see? Because it isn't perfect still, but there has been progress.
HB: I saw this article the other day—I think it was MUNA.
JK: Kate Galvin.
HB: She was [talking] about how it's great being in a Queer band. This is who I am. I love doing this, but now… you know when something is good and pure, [then] capitalism or the [music] industry at large smells money and they take it and fuck with it? She was speaking to the fact that it feels like a lot of pressure now. What is Queerness? People tend to stereotype [you] or put you in a box. We used to [say] we're an all Queer band. And then we were like, “Are we getting stereotyped for this? Are we getting booked only because of this?” It just becomes a pressurized situation. It's great that we can all be our Queer selves and make music and these voices are getting the exposure that they deserve, but it's still the industry. There's really cool shit happening, but then there's still a bit of struggle with true acceptance, true equality, true support. Sometimes I feel like we're really supported and sometimes I don't feel like we are.
It's kind of like the music equivalent of raytheon showing up to Pride. We're seeing the real time negative side effects [of this corporatization of Queerness] with artists
like Chappell Roan. We're seeing her “fans” trying to take her down. As Queer people, we shouldn't be denying somebody's identity because we disagree.
JK: Oh god, yeah. I think Queer people are not a monolith. Queer music is not one type of music. The music that Queer people relate to is not all the same thing. I love that there is more room being made for different kinds of artists. I would love for there to be even more room for those artists to be messy and different, [to] try different things, and to not have to package everything up into the prettiest package.
I agree with what you said; Queer is so messy. All the Queer people I know, so fucking messy! I want more Queer artists to be messy. This bubblegum pink pop, it's cute, but I want more gross noise, experimental shit. I want more Queer people making things that kind of doesn't sound good, but I still like it for some reason.
HB: That's a good point to bring up, because there are those people that are out there. I keep [talking about] capitalism and the man, but the industry hasn't sunk their teeth in there and is not pushing it like it's a happy meal.
I definitely agree. I want to pivot and move on to your albums. There was a bit of time in between your
debut album and Big Wave. I was wondering if there were any changes within your creative processes between these albums, anything that changed, anything that stayed the same?
HB: At the beginning of Razor Braids, we went through a few different members. [We had] a few different guitar players, a bassist before me, a couple different drummers. So the first album is this hodgepodge of songs that were written by past members [as well as] songs that were written by the three of us during COVID. After that, it was the first time that we had the time and the space to really sit down, write together, and create an album that was just our voices. It took a little bit longer to get our footing, [to] figure out what our voice is. We know ourselves so much more than that first record. We didn't quite feel empowered or confident enough to be in the studio calling the shots and asking for what we needed. But with Big Wave, that was our shit. We really got in there, laid down exactly what we wanted to do. We were all hands on, every day, working on it. I really see the growth within our writing [and] our live performances.
JK: They were totally different experiences. I think the second album was written at such a different point. I feel like there's collective trauma from COVID. I think I've seen [it] in our songwriting, working with Hollye, and exploring different ways of approaching lyricism, being able to articulate feelings in a really different way. I love I Could Cry Right Now If I Wanted It. I don't feel this way about all of the songs, but a lot of them are
really clear, singular feelings of anger, sadness, or loneliness.
HB: It's really tough out here. I got really fixated on if we were doing the “right” things. Is this song hooky enough? Is this gonna get playlisted? Is this gonna be on tiktok? It's very easy to feed into that because that's the machine of the industry right now. It is capitalism. It's this machine, and it can at times feel like it's eating you alive. I feel like I'm at this point in my life where I want to
be like, “Everybody shut up!” I'm going to make the thing that I want to make in the most genuine, raw, real way that I can. I think throughout our career as a band, every time we do something that is pure and truly from our souls, it is never the wrong move. It is never the wrong decision. It invites positivity and good change.
JP: I feel like you really covered the ethos of [the] next chapter. I think [it’s] just [about] letting go of the industry bullshit, all the restrictions that they try to put on us, and just having fun with it. [It’s about] digging back in and reconnecting with why we started doing this in the first place. Get messy with it!
Lots and lots of photos. Some are good. Many are not. On occasion, a few of them are really great.
He keeps taking them because memories are important to him. Like his photos, some of his memories are good. Many are not. But on occasion, a few of them are really great. The pursuit of the really great ones is what keeps KC alive.
To find yourself at a Nonbinary Girlfriend show is to stumble upon a place you dreamt up as a kid playing fantasy—when everything felt a little more raw, a little less grim, and considerably more magical. It’s the type of place you especially might’ve imagined if you were lonely, maybe if you were trying to invent somewhere to belong. The audience has a borderless quality—not an assembly of separate, smaller groups so much as a unified, many-headed entity, swaying in tandem, anchored by the pulse of the drums. Around the fringes of the crowd, showgoers are twirling ribbons. The whole scene is bound together, shimmering, by Anaïs’ otherworldly voice, which carries a stark testimony to their own grief, catharsis, and—now more than ever—anger.
“I think my first album was really sad and really pretty and it was, like, my inner child… and now I’m [in touch with] my inner teenager. I’m really pissed, and I’m ready to fight—with myself, with my
demons, with that fucking guy. I think sadness is perceived as very feminine, and I feel like my anger is another step in my gender expression. Maybe I’m not here to be sad. Maybe I’m not here to be pretty or to make you feel good.”
Something about the immensity of these feelings, broadcast through the vivid portrayal of Anaïs’ songwriting, lies at the core of Nonbinary Girlfriend’s incredible power. It’s also part of the force that warranted such torrential praise from listeners, garnering them accolades like Willamette Week’s Best New Band 2023 and KEXP’s Top Albums of 2023, as well as a devoted gathering of fans both within Portland and elsewhere. Their songs offer the audience permission to be as they are—fragile, fallible, and furious— in an unrelenting world. The sheer sincerity of their lyrics (from the heart-wrenching retrospect of “it’s not realistic, is it? / that we would always stay the same?” to the unrelenting self-liberation of “from now on,”
Words by Kameko Lashlee Gaul Photos by KC
I’ll do what I want / and I’ll say what I want / and I’ll play what I want / and I’ll / FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!
sets off what can only be described as a domino reaction of profound feeling. Even the origins of their name radiate the same earnestness.
“Nonbinary Girlfriend just popped into my head one day, like that’s it, that’s me,” they recollect, “and it wasn’t really about the term girlfriend, not about being a partner, just expressing that nuance in my gender. I’m always a little taken aback when people laugh… it was never meant to be funny, or a joke, or an oxymoron. I feel like my gender has kind of evolved since. I feel like the “girlfriend” and the femme elements are something I put on and take off.”
These intricacies are often difficult to confront within one’s own person, let alone onstage under lights in a room full of strangers and loved ones alike. But Anaïs—with the long standing support of bandmates Sei Harris on guitar/bass and Eric Ambrosius on drums—performs this
emotional alchemy with incredible skill and care. “They’re like family to me,” Anaïs proclaims about their Sei and Eric. “They are like the safe and trusting foundation of this house, and they’ve been here since the beginning. It’s a mirror that they’re holding up not only to themselves, but to everyone else in the room. With exquisite tenderness, Anaïs raises the shrapnel of their heart to the light and effectively says: “Okay, here’s mine: I promise it’s safe for you to feel yours”.
“The people who listen to Nonbinary Girlfriend have been down for all of it,” says Anaïs, detailing how post-show, admirers have thanked them for their wholeheartedness and shared resonant experiences from their own lives. “They’re mutually vulnerable, even though I’m scared, too. Every time I play a new song
for a crowd,” they continue, “it feels like I’m jumping from really high into a big body of water and I don’t know exactly what it’s going to feel like when I hit it.”
And maybe this is what it’s like for those of us in the crowd, as well. To fall and be caught; to hold and be held. Each of us floating in the midst of a force larger than ourselves, submerged in the chaos, the agony, and the brilliance of it all, together.
Maria Beraldo is a force of nature and undeniably the best Brazilian songwriter of her generation. But to fully understand her brilliance, we need to start with some context:
São Paulo’s music scene underwent a transformative renaissance in the 2010s, buzzing with the energy of a true artistic revolution. It felt like a party that the whole city was a part of, with a variety of scenes merging and talking with one another, members of all socio-economic backgrounds— and there was little me, amazed by everything. I was desperate to be part of it. I jumped from one group to another, hoping to absorb whatever I could to learn to be an artist.
I first heard of Maria Beraldo just after the release of her first album Cavala in May of 2018 (what I consider the peak of that effervescent scene). Cavala is not just an album. It is a statement—practically a manifesto— encapsulating the true essence of the Brazilian-Queer liberation movement of the time. There were no chains of shame restricting what a person could sing about, or how the music should sound. In Cavala, Maria honored the legacy of the Brazilian greats, while looking forward—I was listening to the music of the future. Her songs have the power to make you feel contemplated, cared for, and help you embrace your inner power. The song “Da Menor Importancia” helped me
every time I felt shame for who I was. It was my companion during the hard discovering my place in the broad spectrum of gender expression. This track remains my personal Nonbinary anthem.
Six long years of waiting for this prophet to speak again, she returns, bearing music of a new future. With a cover that seems to directly reference Blonde by Frank Ocean, Colinho is fierce, empowered, and unabashed. It’s sexy and even angry. It channels a rage that resides in us, born from the madness of our times.
The album opens with “Colinho,” a jawdropping title song that’s not ashamed to talk explicitly about Queer love and intimacy: it’s horny and it doesn’t give a fuck. Not only is it about fucking, but it’s a big “fuck you” to conservatism by painting a full picture of Lesbian sex— no shame, no guilt, just dirty talk and wet bodies, as beautiful and simple as can be.
“I Can’t Stand My Father Anymore” spoke to me in manic laughs. Alternating between songs in Portuguese and English, Maria’s tracks are sure to reach a wide audience, with this one offering a cathartic exploration of a universal language: family trauma. Unfortunately, being Queer can complicate family dynamics. Not every family understands, and relationships can break when people choose to speak up for themselves and embrace who they really are.
As corporate fascism rises, brainwashing and pitting people against each other, it’s crucial for us to speak our truths and share our experiences. Only through our collective voices can we hope to make a difference in this battlefield of ideas. Now, more than ever, we need to scream—and Maria Beraldo does just that. She laughs like someone burning in hell, defying the devil, and showing that she can endure anything. Her performance speaks to all outsiders and outcasts—all of us who can’t stand our fathers anymore.
Now, go listen to Maria Beraldo’s Colinho and Cavala. Let’s hope her next album doesn’t take another six years to release—but even if it does, I’m sure it will illuminate us with new perspectives—and the future will need it.
fotógrafa y artista visual de Buenos Aires, Argentina. Desde Julio del 2024 empecé a sacar una foto por día como un juego para llevar un registro visual lo que siento y lo que tengo. Al final de cada mes, hago un fanzine con algunas de las fotos y con una página al azar de mi diario. Lo pensé para tener en formato físico cada mes de mi vida, pero rápidamente se volvió una tradición darle una copia a mis amigos o desconocidos que disfrutan de coleccionar recuerdos ajenos. ig: @agustopia.ph
a photographer and visual artist from Buenos Aires, Argentina. Since July 2024, I have been taking a photo a day as a game to keep a visual record of what I feel and what I have. At the end of each month, I make a zine with some of the photos and a random page from my journal. I thought I would have it in physical format for every month of my life, but it quickly became a tradition to give a copy to my friends or strangers who enjoy collecting other people’s memories. ig: @agustopia.ph
Mixed media photos and collage by Buenos Aires based photographer/artist Agustopia
Mixed media photos and collage by Buenos Aires based photographer/artist Agustopia
Words by Hailey Green
“I’ve been on a feckless quest towards actualization,” Adeem (they/them) tells me as they toss their hair into a bun, slip on a well-worn denim jacket, and make themselves comfortable in their Knoxville, Tennessee studio.
Adeem Maria—or Adeem the Artist— has been a musical obsession of mine since 2023. I wasn’t sure whether to focus our conversation on their relationship to Queerness, their music, or a beautiful offspring of the two. However, very early in our conversation, they made the decision for me:
“I feel like I don’t have a [full] grasp on [my Queerness] still,” Adeem says. “So I will talk about just my art instead. I had my first same-sex experience in 2011, and four months later I wrote in a journal [saying] decidedly ‘I am Bisexual.’ I spent the following four months thinking, ‘Did I like that?’
There is a lot compounded with reaction to rejection that is difficult to process. I still don’t think I have really had my Queer coming of age.”
Although they believe they truly came into themselves as an artist relatively recently, Adeem claims to have had many years of important work behind them. “I have recently been struck by how many years I spent making lyric books, songs, zines, records, concept albums, etc. This was just me honing my craft, pouring over the work, learning. I don’t think it would be the same if I didn’t spend 20 years doing that.”
With so many ideas rolling around in my head, I decided to take a rather unconventional approach to my time with Adeem. This proverbial musical road trip drives us through Adeem’s three most prominent albums, exploring the themes of two songs from each album and exploring the lyrics. This discography selection touches on everything from identity, spirituality, love, and the power of defining what is within us through years of change and self discovery. It’s a gift to the artist living in all of us.
Set against the trials and tribulations of discovering one’s identity in the pressure cooker of the American South, this debut album might sound like a typical Americana album, but I assure you, it is anything but. We are embarking on Adeem’s journey as they invite us to see the raw honesty of their identity publicly for the first time, a process they have been working through privately for years.
I know my daddy had some doubts / When I said I’m straight, with makeup on my face
“I was an emo kid. I was really into Dashboard Confessional as a teenager in the Northeast. There was a lot of gender fucking that happened, and it all happened in this safe space of ‘We are renegades!’ Adeem explains, describing the music scene they grew up in—part of Locust, North Carolina. “You’ve got hair down to your ass and a full face of makeup. Something is going on here that you aren’t willing to be honest about,” they continue with a laugh.
While Adeem was also donning eyeliner and painting their fingernails, they knew deep down that there was something more than a rebellious expression.
“I think every decade has had a ‘safe space’ movement to participate in. There weren’t words like ‘Nonbinary’ at that time, so I didn’t really know what was going on [with me].”
And they wouldn’t for many more years. In fact, they attribute the release of Cast Iron Pansexual as the first time they gave themselves permission to express their gender identity in a public setting.
And I can see God through a curtain when I am just barely asleep / And she is holding me in silence, and she looks like me / We are the same thing
“I wrote [“Fervent For The Hunger”] when I was an episcopal chaplain up in New Jersey.” This was a period Adeem describes as a ‘wild time’ in their life. Their main duty was boarding ships docked in the NJ harbor, making sure that the seafarers were being treated with dignity and respect by the U.S. As the lyrics describe, this was also a pivotal time of self discovery for Adeem themselves. “At the time [of writing this album], I was [already] a non-believer, but I was not out in an official capacity as Nonbinary.
When it was released, it felt like giving permission to myself to be honest about my gender and explore it. These lyrics were a part of that. The realization that I could be a ‘female’ god.”
While still touching on themes of gender and sexuality, Adeem’s sophomore album, White Trash Revelry, takes an additional stand. While Cast Iron Pansexual took a more direct take on their self-discovery, this album takes listeners on a journey into the history of America as a whole. Racism, oppression, and political strife are beautifully woven between banjo chords and striking drum beats cement Adeem’s status as a new kind of country musician.
But still I loved the feel of your lips / And I never wanted more than this / To kiss you in public / To openly say that I loved it
“There is something very universal about the story in this song,” Adeem explains.
“All I ever really wanted was to be able to feel the way [feel].
I just wanted to kiss a boy at a high school dance. I finally decided to kiss [him] on the cheek as a ‘joke,’ because it [was] what I could do.” This is a feeling that seems a universally known story for many Queer folks around the world. “If I was outside on a date with a guy and we were holding hands, I would be conscious of that. Not because I felt bad about it, but because of the environment it creates around me. For a straight couple, I wouldn’t think much about it.” This observation has continued into our current political climate.
He said, I give you only freedom / And I ask you use it well / Love ain’t just some feeling it’ s a god dang magic spell
“I wrote this [song] about a time when I was 21 or 22, and I was not treating this human [I was dating] very well.” Adeem admits. “I told a friend of mine that I loved [my girlfriend at the time], and he told me, ‘That isn’t love. You are having feelings, but you are mistreating someone. That isn’t love.’” This concept did not fully hit Adeem until much later. “That was an idea I wanted to immortalize.
It is so easy to confuse the excitement [of a relationship] with love. Love is caring for someone. Love is showing up and doing the dishes and practicing a routine of care for someone.”
Now, this is the relationship outline they strive to follow today, knowing that in the past they have fallen short with previous partners.
Anniversary centers largely around Adeem’s relationship with their wife, Hannah. The cover of this album, often mistaken for a painting, is actually a photo of Adeem in which their body and clothing was painted to look like a painting. This mixed media design, a stunning show of creativity, was done by Hannah herself, offering a collaboration between the two artists.
Adeem jumped at the opportunity to provide a glimpse behind the curtain. “My partner and I have been collaborating together for a decade now. We have
been married for 10 years. We have a kid together. But over the past few years, as my career changes have really taken off, new demands have been asked of her. She has put a lot of aspects of her life aside, and now I borrow that time from her [when I can]. It is hard to know how to do it well, how to strike a balance. There is this thing with marriage that is give and take. If you take too much, it corrodes the relationship and what you have become together. But as we have struggled with that, trying to find ways to create and process art together has been helpful.” The album cover was the perfect opportunity to “borrow some time” with each other again.
Came here with a strange and honest feeling / Chase all of your contradicting versions /Childhood perversions and dreams that never steered /Let them drive a little while/So that I can disappear
“A lot of growth comes from taking those hidden parts of yourself and giving them voice and agency to express themselves,” Adeem elaborates on these lines. They go on to admit that instigating change hasn’t always been the easiest for them. “I think a lot of therapy— whether it is with someone or selfguided—is about caring for yourself. The best thing you can do in the path to healing is to be gentler with the little versions of you that were dumb.” As Adeem expresses, learning to extend grace to your younger self can be one of the hardest parts of growth. And I for one, am glad that there is art being made to speak on it.
The muscles still remember what we saw when we were young / Honey, wherever we’re going, we’ll take where we come from
“I really like Gabor Maté and a lot of the ways he talks about remembering childhood.” Maté, a Canadian physician who specializes in the connection of addiction and childhood development, offers a lot of insights in his writing that Queer folk are primed to relate to. “You carry that [trauma] in your shoulders, your back, the way you hold your head up. Christianity is a lot like that for me. I was promised to god before I was even born. I am three decades into using that to assign meaning to my life, even if one of those decades was spent doing it in a subversive way.”
In service of parting thoughts at the end of our time together, Adeem offers one last nugget of wisdom to other Queer folks—although they admit that they themselves don’t have everything figured out: “You only get to steer the ship [of life] for a little bit. But that is over when you pass the baton.
Choosing your own eclipse. I only have this many years of life, this is what I am doing with it.”
Adeem Maria Bingham, known professionally as Adeem the Artist, is an American country music singer based in Knoxville, Tennessee. They have released nine studio albums and four EPs. You can follow them on instagram at @adeemtheartist & support their work at patreon.com/adeemtheartist.
U Should Not Be Doing That Amyl and The Sniffers
11. Cat and Canary Machine Country
12. wedding song Common Girl
13. Going to Hell Adeem the Artist
14. BLOOM Doechii
15. Imposter Terrehaunt
a zine with some of the photos and a random page from my journal. I thought I would have it in physical format for every month of my life, but it quickly became a tradition to give a copy to my friends or strangers who enjoy collecting other people’s memories.
ig: @agustopia.ph
Alice Ruffo (she/her) (b. 1991, Minas Gerais, Brazil) is committed to the relationship between art and fashion, engaging in both the development of fashion collections and creative direction across various industry expressions. ig: @aliceruffo
Casper Orr (he/him) is a trans disabled writer and artist radically accepting his residence in New Jersey. He’s a Senior Editor and Nonfiction Section Editor for Fruitslice while he studies literature and creative writing. He has previously contributed to Fruitslice, Gypsophila, Bitter Melon Review, Clementine Journal, and more. He has work forthcoming in The Bitchin’ Kitsch. ig: @androqurrr
Hailey Green (she/her) is a lesbian writer, photographer, theatre educator & arts advocate based in North Texas.
All my love always to E, G C & M. website: www.haileyagreen.com ig: @haileyagreencreative
Kameko Lashlee Gaul (any pronouns) is a prolific writer, musician, and lesbian, currently living in Portland, OR. She is happiest organizing shows with her friends, cooking with her partner, and performing in her band Femme Cell. She owes everything to the DIY scene. ig: @kamekomillion / @femmecellpdx
KC (he/him) likes taking photos. Lots and lots of photos. Some are good. Many are not. On occasion, a few of them are really great. He keeps taking them because memories are important to him. Like his photos, some of his memories are good. Many are not. But on occasion, a few of them are really great. The pursuit of the really great ones is what keeps KC alive. ig: @thelonius_punk
website: lahnnystar.format.com
ig: @lahnnystar
Laura Hopkins (they/she) is a musician and activist based in Portland, Oregon. They create music solo as Terrehaunt and in the band Death Parade.
ig: @terrehaunt / @death.parade.band
Leo Fazio (they/elu) is a musician from São Paulo, Brazil, currently residing in Juíz de Fora. They love jazz and Brazilian music and spend the late hours of the night writing their own noises, often wondering about the great vastness of sound. Their first book of poetry, Anomalocáries, will be released in São Paulo with Editora Primata in March 2025.
ig: @leossauro
Meg Streich (she/her) is a writer, educator, nonprofit director, and senior editor at Fruitslice. Based out of Philadelphia, PA, she can be found running The Big Gay Writing Project, a nonprofit organization focused on creating sober queer spaces, or getting lost in an IKEA. She can take a baked potato out of the oven with her bare hands.
ig: @meg.bert / @biggaywritingproject
Starly Lou Riggs (xe/they/elu) is a Queer Agender musician, visual artist, and little rat creature residing in Juíz de Fora, Brazil. They are a Senior Editor at Fruitslice Magazine, contributor for Montreal-based music publication Also Cool Mag, and former Managing Editor of Eleven PDX. They have been published in Moody Zine, Fotofilmic, and have work forthcoming in Ouch! Collective Vol. 4. Previous member of the Portland band Death Parade, you can catch xem as musical experimental performer Starly Kind or in various sound projects with their spouse: Rat Related or Reqiuem.
website: www.filthyart.space
ig: @get.filthy / @ratrelated
