Vinyl Tap Fall 2023

Vinyl tap gets outside

A PUBLICATION OF WCWM 90.9 FM

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF: VAN MONDAY COPY EDITORS: MARY BETH BAUERMANN AND NATALIE LOPEZ | DESIGN EDITOR: AMELIA GOETZ ART EDITOR: LIZ LINER | PHOTO EDITOR: CATHERINE HENRY | WEB EDITOR: SOPHIA KRESSE SOCIAL MEDIA EDITOR: EVELYN HALL

fall 2023

A Letter from the Desk of the Editor Dear Mom and Dad, Okay, well, not really. It would be more accurate to say, “Hello, Vinyl Tap Readers,” even though my mom and dad will both read this, they do not encompass the entire audience for this issue. So, why the gimmicky opening? Our theme for this issue was “Vinyl Tap Gets Outside,” an attempt to evoke the ambience of smoke from a fresh-crackling fire in the mid-summer heat, covered head-to-toe in bug bites (of which there are plenty in Williamsburg) and ready to make life-long friends. I was inspired by photos our staff shared of letters that they had written to home to their parents from summer camp. As such: hello, Mom and Dad, and anyone else who decided to pick up this issue.

Vinyl Tap has been growing. From the skeleton crew (literally! look at the photoshoot from Spring 2021!) of my freshmen year, our Slack channel has grown to hold 114 devoted staffers within its ranks. It does not do to try and use words to describe how happy it makes me to see this community grow, and how honored I am to be the captain of this ship. I am, however, nothing without my crew. In this issue, we’ve got stories about road trips, hiking in Bhutan, vulnerability in folk music, and a retrospective on the Big Sur Folk Festival of the 1960s. Alongside these incredible written pieces, our talented artists and photographers have given us a wealth of visual content to accompany the magazine. There are also, per usual, album reviews, haiku reviews, and, most exciting of all, a ton of collages!

Thank you to each and every person who helped this issue come together.

I truly could not do any of the things that I do for this magazine without the wonderful group of people, both past and present, that care about Vinyl Tap just as much as I do. This is my first issue as Editor-in-Chief, but it is also my second-to-last – I will be graduating in the spring and will, unfortunately, have to leave Vinyl Tap behind. But not yet! Not yet. In the meantime, venture forth into this issue and enjoy it, bug bites, skinned knees, sunburns, and all.

Until soon,

Van Monday Editor-in-Chief

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5 Album Reviews 10 My 6-Week , 23-State Road Trip 16 Over the Mountain: Folk Country in Bhutan 24 A Lesson in Vulnerability 32 Big Sur and the Ceders of Nancy Carlen 38 Haiku Reviews 40 Staff Playlist

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"Rescued," the lead single and opening track of But Here We Are, begs the question, "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" and we're all on the same page: "This [a new Foo Fighters album] is happening now?" In the aftermath of the tragic death of drummer Taylor Hawkins in 2022 and Virginia Grohl, Dave's mother,just a few months later, it was unclear as to whether Foo Fighters would continue to make music. But Here We Are, released in June, is a celebration of life. The pounding drums and catchy guitar riff of "Under You," despite its heavy discussion of memories and grief, could easily fit on Wasting Light or Echoes, Silence, Patience, & Grace, which speaks to the emotional depth that flows through the Foo Fighters' catalog. Rocking tracks like "Hearing Voices" and the title track are balanced with slower, contemplative songs, like "Show Me How," featuring Dave's daughter, Violet, on backing vocals. "Beyond Me" erupts like "But, Honestly" and offers advice: "Everything we love must grow old." "Rest" is the most vulnerable cut on the album, with Grohl rocking us to sleep, lullabying, "you can rest now, you will be safe now." But Here We Are is a testament to the fact that, for Grohl (who is no stranger to loss) and the Foo Fighters fan base, making music - and, of course, rocking out - rescues. The Foo Fighters are rescuing fans out on the road in 2024 - you know where I'll be.

-Mary Beth Bauermann '24

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- PJ Harvey's "I Inside The Old Year Dying" is indecisive. Where it is unrepentantly primitive, it is also at times palpable - nearly melodic. However, this is seemingly purposeful. On "Autumn Term," the repetition of one melodic structure does not necessarily tame the rawness of her words -- it only makes them a bit blithe. While the hushed whispers of Dorset dialect slashed throughout the album leave one wondering if the Epic Poem is a medium that truly can be seamlessly translated to song, at its best, Harvey's record is an audacious marvel. She dares to disturb - to question what lies between nature and the body, and the listener is then left to ponder sexuality, religion, and evermore. One could argue that the lyricism is grudgingly elusive, if not at times unwelcoming. However, Harvey is not, and has never looked to welcome - she seeks to submerge. And if this is her ultimate goal, she succeeds. We do not understand the world she inhabits; her words are not diaristic or flat. The album builds off her Epic Poem, "Orland." This can prove to be a tedious listening experience at times, but with tracks like "All Souls," this nearly meditative build in pressure makes you not only hear, but feel Harvey's groans, whispers on your skin. Longtime fans will rejoice upon hearing the brash, noisy guitars on "A Noiseless Noise." Harvey is not at her best when she's performing herself to appease; it comes when she does not seek to impress anyone at all.

Sprouting from the great state of Illinois, Slow Pulp's second LP, Yard, is lush with life. The Chicago-based via Wisconsin band fuses sounds of 90s shoegaze and acoustic ballads, planting intricacies of self-discovery within their feel-good melodies and introspective lyrics. Emily Massey, the quartet's frontman, explores a plethora of vulnerabilities, capturing feelings that are often difficult to put into words. Navigating the thin line between isolation and collaboration, Slow Pulp's harmonious sounds work to unpack the conflicting emotions of doubt and self-reflection.

Yards tracklist feels like a warm hug, embraced by the trance-like haze of "Gone 2;' and the quieter, more intimate vocals of "Fishes:' Massey's lyricism feels simultaneously familiar and fresh, radiating themes of nostalgia that exude a sense of coming-of­ age. The incorporation of twangy banjos and acoustic tones, specifically in the track "Broadview;' are rooted in the aches and pains of home. Yards lighthearted self-reflections suddenly blossom into thorn-covered realizations. Massey's expressions of unrest and self-turmoil solidify Slow Pulp's overarching ability to create deeply personal and affecting headbangers. I wholeheartedly give my stamp of approval and definitely recommend you give Yard a headbang or l\vo (or three).

-Rose Field '26

-Srinidhi Lakshminarayanan '27

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This Land Is Inhospitable and So Are We is Mitski's seventh studio album, created amid rumors of retirement. The album's producer Patrick Hyland comments on Mitski's creative process by saying she writes albums in mirrored pairs. With Be the Cowboy and Laurel Hell representing her existentialist synth­ pop duology, this release marks the beginnings of a more intimate era that reflects her overwhelming affection towards love.

Despite her fanbase limiting her to solely making "sad-girl music," Mitksi proves them wrong by serenading about how much love she has yet to give while tramping along the country with spurs on her boots. The songs "Heaven" and "Star" represent the celestial moment that you realize you have found love that is worth holding onto. These country ballads make walking along a wooded path an enlightening experience. Similarly, "My Love Mine All Mine" expands on this theme beautifully, with Mitski viewing her love as the one thing that she owns that she can share with others when she's gone. The darker aspects of the album explore themes of self-destruction and isolation with, "I Don't Like My Mind" and "The Frost," but coupled with old-fashioned country elements, you can't help but see the light in her introspection. With a combination of instrumentals and Mitski's warm voice, listeners are gracefully taken on a journey through a part of her mind that previous albums have hidden. This Land Is Inhospitable and So Are We is an album that will stand the test of time.

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Animal Collective is defined by their constant chase for new sound, and their latest album is no exception. Sonically, they borrow from the xylophone and keys-heavy "Time Skiffs," with a greater emphasis on synthesized sounds. What made the band so enthralling in previous projects was an unbridled spirit, giving their mellower tracks contrast to their radiance. On "Isn't It Now," tranquility takes center-stage. Lyrically, "Isn't It Now" has several tracks that leave much to be desired. Animal Collective can be oblique in one line and then be sentimentally outright in the next, but you won't find Panda Bear's straightforwardness on tracks like "Gem & I," which sounds like an honest attempt at elevator music. Granted, AnCo has never shied away from conventionally "bad" lyrics, but Avery Tare's melody on "All the Clubs are Broken," isn't catchy enough to justify his obscure musings like in earlier works. The melancholic "Defeat," a twenty-one-minute reflection on coming-of-age stands out as arguably the best thing they've done since "Merriweather." Their progressive approach on this album really paid off, with the longer tracks (even by AnCo standards) being my favorite, like "Magicians from Baltimore," a flourishing 3-parter that culminates with the most guitar-sounding guitar they've had in years, or the trippy "Genie's Open" with a coda takes off like a hang glider. Some fans may miss the more abrasive elements of their sound, but "Isn't It Now," doesn't need to be as experimental as their previous work to be a solid addition to Animal Collective's discography.

-Rheina Camacho '25

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If Helena Deland's debut album Someone New told shadowed stories of aimlessness and ennui, then her sophomore LP, Goodnight Summer/arzd, is a musical step into the sun. The title is a reference to her British Columbia hometown, but the album itself explores uncharted grounds for Deland, trading out her drum machines and synth melodies for a softer, acoustic sound, drawing more from alternative folk than indie rock. Despite this genre shift, Deland's signature layered vocals, atmospheric instrumentals, and unflinchingly honest lyrics continue to soar.

Throughout the album, Deland illustrates the ebb and flow of a novel relationship; she's immersed in the rush of an unfamiliar romance on "Spring Bug" ("When it starts getting fun/It's poison makes my blood rush/Past lives walk by and I blush"), but on "Strawberry Moon", she struggles to trust her new lover ("I have worked hard/Protecting my heart/And I am tired"). Despite her struggles, Deland is intoxicated by the beauty of it all, reveling in the eternity of the natural world on "Bright Green Vibrant Gray" ("Rocks you keep in your car door/Have traveled through far more than your life") and "Swimmer" ("You say 'Look at this, the world still spins and beauty will never go/It was there before and will be there more when there's no I to behold"'). As Deland intertwines nature's eternal beauty with her own finite stories of sorrow and romance into her melodies the listener is able to swim, to sink, to drown.

-Barrett Smith '23

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Dead Club City is the fourth album of the five-member English band, Nothing But Thieves. Nothing But Thieves is a dynamic rock band that crafts their music around their lead singer, Conor Mason's classically trained, operatic rock vocals. NBT spent their first album, Nothing But Thieves, learning to showcase Mason's vocals by playing a wide variety of music styles. Introducing a diverse sound on their first album allows the barid to continue experimenting without fans getting too tied to one style. On Dead Club City, they expanded their sound by creating a synth-based concept album that sounds straight out to the 80s. The album is ripe with instrumental breaks and killer bridges. Mason's voice hits all the marks with falsetto, belting, and softer singing as well.

On this album, Nothing But Thieves creates a conceptual "Dead City Club" which is intentionally vague. The album introduces you to this fictional space with their first song, "Welcome to the DCC," which promises a "perfect life." The rest of the album follows the protagonist through their experience in the DCC. The City turns out to be a place of empty promises with its exclusionary nature, hopeless romance, cancel culture, and loneliness. Trying to figure out the meaning of this album, along with awesome vocals and powerful instrumentation, will have you listening on repeat.

-Sophia Kresse '24

-Rose Anderson '27

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In typical Hozier fashion, much of his third studio album focuses on the devotion one can have towards their lover. "First Time" explores the thrill of first entering a relationship, while in "I, Carrion (Icarian)" our narrator tries to uplift their struggling partner. Passion then ensues in "Eat Your Young." However, by the end of the album, our narrator has come to realize that they were blinded by their all-consuming love. In "Anything But" they express a desire for freedom and for their voice to finally be heard. This theme of knowing versus unknowing is pervasive throughout, highlighted by songs such as "To Someone From A Warm Climate (Uiscefhuaraithe)" and "Unknown/Nth." Previous songs reflecting on the good old days- such as "Francesca," "Who We Are," and "Damage Gets Done"-- suggest that the relationship would eventually turn sour. Nevertheless, our protagonist still proclaims "Though I know my heart would break/I'd tell them, 'Put me back in it'." Simply, they were a flame that burned too bright too quickly. Hozier also takes time to explore his Irish identity. "First Time" references the river Liffey, which runs through Dublin. "Butchered Tongue" directly addresses the disconnect many Irish feel from their history, especially their language. The last minute of "De Selby (Part 1)" is sung in Gaelic, with the addition of other voices creating a tribal chant. The song then perfectly transitions into "De Selby (Part 2)," an upbeat, modern groove that links a current artist like Hozier to his ancestry.

It's all about doors for Alice Phoebe Lou on her new record, Shelter, doors, opening and closing, letting things in and out and in again. Doused in her signature dream-pop production, Shelter is Alice Phoebe Lou at her most pure. Her vocal stylings dominate the record, with a classic, smoke-filled oeuvre permeating every inch of the tracks. "Is it safe to go outside?" she asks, on the opening track, "Angel:' On title track "Shelter," she sings, "You showed me things I've only seen in dreams/ And there's something magic about this whole thing/ Open your door and let the air in:' But reflecting on this in "Open My Door;' she inverts the whole paradigm, the utility of her own openness, as she croons, "I used to open my door / To pretty much anyone who was tryna look for/ A place to feel safe/ But I made my whole world safer for everyone but me." By the end of the record, it's turned once again and she is closing the door. On the title track, she has a vision of her future, and pleads, "Take me to a new home, I'd like nothing more / Than to make it with you."

The pappier tracks are there - "Lose My Head" is an 80s synth­ pop banger, - as are the guitar-driven indie on "Halo:' However, even as the thematic through-line relishes in beauty and imagery, there are times where it feels disjointed, thrown­ together - but maybe that, too, is the unpredictable nature of life and love.

-Boowa Zarcone '24

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A warning to casual Blur fans - The ninth and most recent studio album, Ballad efDarren, Blur's the band's iconic jaunty tunes. Gone isarecomposed of anything but the glamour and pep of songs such as "Girls & Boys" and "For Tom 1990s. This album also evades the effortles orrow" of the early "Chinese Bombs" and "Beetlebum" from s edginess of songs like the decade's latter half.

Blur, however, conquers new territory with Darren, appropriately with reflective balla The Ballad ef dry. The album begins with "The Ballad" (obviously!), a defeated love heartedly celebrating the better days gone by. song half­ A suitable opener for an album released nearly 30 years after Britp op's "The Ballad" introduces the album's persistent exist heyday, ential fears.

While the bluesy "St. Charles Square" does touch upon fears, they are certainly best encapsulated in "Russian these where frontman Damon Albarn mournfully wails over Strings," a pop instrumental "there's nothing in the end, only dust lounge­ - so turn the music up." The album's triumph, however, is "The Narcis sist."

This song illustrates the surreal and transcendent highs of drug­ use, before depicting full-blown addiction. Considering Albarn past transparency with his drug-use, the song's concluding 's promise to not "fall this time'' and to "�eed the signs" rings especially poignant and personal. Although The Ballad ofDa"en lacks Blur's usual earworms, the album strikes out as the band's most lyrically precise yet, with a self-awareness desperately needed within today's current "rock" scene.

-Ellen Downard '25

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The latest LP from Spellling, released this August, contains a series of reimaginings of older songs from their discography.

These refreshed interpretations heighten the feelings found in the originals, serving up more dramatic yet never overblown instrumentation, while leaving the songs' core intact, seeking to portray the original tracks in a new light rather than erase them.

From the futuristic synths on "Phantom Farewell" to the emotionally charged strings and keys on "Boys at School,'' Spellling curates a spellbinding atmosphere and adds a sense of elegance and delicacy in the album's instrumentation. The sounds are thoughtfully tempered with the heavier tones of intricate guitar work to reinforce the sense of progression in these reinventions. On top of this, Spellling's distinct vocal stylings shape the character of songs like "Cherry" and "Sweet Talk," providing equally powerful layered harmonies and melody lines that range from hauntingly beautiful to delightfully airy. The brilliant vocal delivery bolsters the wistful, vulnerable self­ reflective nature of the lyricism, amplifying the impact of tracks like "Always" and "Revolution" despite the album's relative lyrical minimalism. In tandem, these musical elements elicit moods fro1n apprehension to hopefulness, making for a marvelous (re)listening experience.

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everything is alive is the fifth album of British shoegaze rock

band Slowdive. The band formed in 1989 and rose to prominence in the shoegaze scene before breaking up in 1995. They reunited in 2014, making everything is alive their second project since reforming. The album has 8 tracks spanning 42 minutes. The opening track, "shanty," pulls you in with a droning synth before kicking it in full gear with drums, distorted guitar, and most importantly, Neil Halstead's haunting vocals. All of these main pieces work together beautifully throughout the record, most notably on tracks like "alife," "kisses,'' and "skin in the game." The record gets pappier and catchier with "kisses," the record's lead single, and slows for "andalucia plays" before closing with "the slab," an instrumentaljam with non-lyrical vocals. The songs are all one of a kind and highlight how the band has progressed since their 90s pre-breakup work, while also fitting well into the band's discography and style. Almost thirty years after Souvlak4 which is considered to be one of the best shoegaze albums ever released, everything is alive manages to capture the same shimmering feel while also cultivating a new sound. Where Souvlaki encompasses the sunrise on a new day, everything is alive is set out to capture dusk, and what we do in the night. With everything is alive, it's quite clear that Slowdive is keeping with their roots while also being fully set on the future. 8.5/10 · -Ilias Papageorgiou '27

-Jones Davenport '27

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An album for those who have loved hard and lost harder,Julie

Bryne's The Greater Wings is compellingly haunting. The folk singer-songwriter's third studio album oddly comforts: its illustrious vocals are declarative yet soothing, and its contemplative instrumentals are as chilling as they are warm. The Greater Wings is not an album that dwells on grief, rather, it is one that celebrates our ability to feel for another so profoundly.

Completed after the death of Bryne's collaborator and romantic partner, Eric Littman, the album is a product of resilience, as well as evidence of griefs complex beauty. Grieving is the inevitable consequence of love, but, as Bryne demonstrates, it does not have to mean the absence of inspiration. Particularly memorable are the album's first and fifth tracks, "The Greater Wings" and "Summer Glass", though the entirety of the album is lyrically genius and deserves an attentive listen. Within its 38-minute run, Bryne's latest album will break your heart several times over, repair it, and dare it to love again.

-Catie Swansiger '26

Now THIS is real country. The mullet-wielding, banjo­ strumming, self-proclaimed "Ozark Songbird" Nick Shoulders put out his fourth album All Bad in September and it's nothing short of All Good. Shoulders pairs melodies and techniques familiar to fans of mid-century country/western with lyrics that might shock country skeptics. If you've ever wanted to hear a refreshing combo of warbly yodeling, mouth harp, slide guitar, and protest anthems condemning deforestation and confederate flags, look no further. Shoulders is unapologetically country, but disregards blind chauvinism, instead choosing to criticize systems of oppression and modern issues. Shoulders' old-time allusions aren't hard to catch; "Mama Tired," "Empty Yodel No 1," and Arkansaw Troubler" all pay direct titular homage to Merle Haggard, Jimmie Rodgers, and prominent folk/bluegrass influences in his musical style. The booming upright bass, tightly played steel pedal guitar, and driving six-string beat in "It's the Best?" and "Appreciate'cha" can make for a raucous evening of porch stompin' and general gaiety. The forlorn whistling, whooping, and ragtime piano of "Hoarse Whisperer" can seem especially profound during moments of rural reflection. "All Bad" �rul� has something for everyone, if everyone likes 1960smsp1red co�ntry punk. If that'� not you, give it a listen anyway. _ Maybe this 1s country that you H be proud to enjoy.

-Amelia Goetz '26

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talia snyder romero ‘26

My 6-Week, 23-State Road Trip W

hat do Dido, Beastie Boys, and Beyoncé all have in common? They’re vastly different musical artists, but they all kept me sane throughout my six weeks of cross-country road trip.

on long-distance phone calls, lived in the U.S. From January to June, we crashed in guest rooms or on couches with friends and family.

And as July approached, my parents sat me and my 13-year-old sister down to tell us what they had planned for the next month and a half. The purpose of the road trip was not to provide my sister and me with a fun tour de America. Rather, it was an alternative living situation for my family until we could move back into our house at the end of the summer due to a renting conflict.

I have never been much of an outdoors explorer nor a lover of crossing state boundaries. I don’t even know how to drive on the highway, but what I do know about spending days on the road, frenzied searches for campsites, and trekking across varied landscapes comes from my family’s six-week cross-country road trip.

Those who know me best know that living in three different countries on three different continents is what primarily shaped my childhood, so when my family first moved back to Virginia, I was filled to the brim with jittery excitement. America was the huge country that I’d heard so much about but had no concrete memories of. Singapore, which had been my home for five years, could fit into the United States 13,673 times. Almost all of my extended family, who I’d only known by different voices

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I had looked forward to moving back into our house that I had seen so many pictures of. I wanted to get to know the neighborhood where I would attend the next two years of elementary school, and my sister and I didn’t care to leave the only U.S. state that we were only just getting to know. My parents had illustrated deserts and mountains, long hikes, sleeping at stuffy hotels, and learning to camp, which didn’t seem particularly glamorous or compelling to me at 9 years old.

Despite a significant amount of whining and

crocodile tears, on a Tuesday morning at the beginning of July, my family set out from our pit stop in Bethesda, Maryland, to visit my Grandma.

We were headed to my very first American beach in Atlantic City, New Jersey. Naturally, spirits were high. My parents chatted excitedly as my sister and I stared out the window at the changing scenery, trying to spot the coolest looking state license plates, getting particularly excited when we saw the bright colors of New Mexico and Nevada. Once we drove further north, we lost our staple radio stations of 99.5 and 97.1 (Shoutout DMV kids). We couldn’t bop to “Get Lucky” or “Blurred Lines” anymore, so we switched to a small bubblegum blue iPod on which my parents had downloaded a couple of random MP3s. My dad put on “December, 1963,” as he discussed the history of the iconic New Jersey quartet, the Four Seasons. In the melodic chorus of, “oh, what a night”, I heard the sweet velvety voices that made up one of my new favorite genres: 1950’s doo-wop.

going on a cross-country road trip: don’t travel with two tweenagers who don’t see the appeal in sleeping outside in humid mosquito-ridden forests after long, boring days spent on the road.

But if you are planning on doing so, please teach said tweenagers how to pitch a tent beforehand.

Otherwise, they will be grumpy and obstinate like my sister and me, unhappily listening to our parents throw unintelligible instructions about how to construct our six-person Coleman tent to the left of the gold minivan.

From then on, my sister and I understood that if we wanted to get a good night’s sleep, we needed to listen to our parents and try to get that tent pitched as soon as possible. The couple of nights we spent in Canada became family races against the quick-to-set sun. However, all the pasta and PB&J meals, silly games of Uno in the tent that seemed just a bit too small to fit six people, and nighttime trips to tiny gas stations and grocery stores bonded our family closer than we had ever been before. Now look back on our time camping in Canada with an appreciation for types of forests and landscapes that I’d never seen before. While we, unfortunately, didn’t catch sight of a moose at Algonquin Provincial Park, I still marveled at the Painted Turtles and several species of toads and frogs.

Soon enough, we arrived at our first stop. I got to play on the warm sand of my first Atlantic Ocean beach, splash around in the chilly sea water, and stroll down the boardwalk ogling at all the different dollar stores, arcades, and, of course, pizza, candy, and ice cream shops. It was a great first stop, but I was eager to venture further north.

I think of Ontario as the destination where my family reached an understanding of what the rest of the trip would be like. We truly only had each other, and it wouldn’t help anyone to complain, especially on our five-hour trips from state to state. During those longer drives, we would sometimes play word games like 20 questions or the alphabet game, but for the most part, we just talked about what we were looking forward to or our favorite parts of the day. Hilarious inside jokes emerged from the miscommunications our family encountered with my sister sitting on the left and me on the right.

Our next destination was New York City. On the way, my parents couldn’t resist putting on Jay-Z and Alicia Keys’ “Empire State of Mind,” as well as my sister’s and my favorite tracks from Curious George (2006) and Enchanted (2007): “Upside Down” by Jack Johnson and “That’s How You Know” by Amy Adams. In the Big Apple, we pranced around on FAO Schwartz’s giant piano, saw Cinderella on Broadway, and marveled at the Smithsonian Natural History Museum.

The next day, we were all set to head up to the American-Canadian border to see one of the largest waterfalls in the United States.

Until that point, we had stayed in cities, staring at shopping centers and tall office buildings out the window. But as July 4th rolled around, we were preparing to cross into Canada and have our first night of camping.

We entered Ontario, headed to a campsite, picked out a camping spot, and got started.

This brings me to my first piece of advice for

Once re-entering the US, we headed towards National Park Central. Our next couple stops took me to states that I had never heard of– Michigan, South Dakota, Wyoming, and Utah.

My first ever national park was Pictured Rocks which was crowded and looked pretty similar to the view I’d had out my window at Lake Michigan for the past three hours—nine-year-old Talia was unimpressed. We spent about an hour

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beauty that the parks could hold. We then moved on to camp at Devil’s Tower, where we had an almost sleepless night due to the strong gales off of the 5,000-foot-high isolated rock formation, straight towards our campsite, only about a mile away. The wind was so powerful that it noisily blew over our tent, pushing down the top so far that it touched our faces as we lay awake. Looking back on the moment, it could have been incredibly annoying and tiring, but my whole family simply laid in our sleeping bags laughing about it all.

and a half there, slept in a motel, and left for Badlands National Park in SD the next morning.

It was stiflingly hot when we arrived at Badlands in the afternoon. The sun glared on the desolate landscape where trees couldn’t grow due to the dry, infertile land. With no glimpse of shade in sight, other than the standalone visitor’s center and bathrooms, my f irst impressions about national parks were not so good.

As we drove through the large western states to reach Wyoming’s three National Parks, music, once a uniting force, became an issue. The driving days began to extend past three, four, or five hour increments, and I began to grow tired of certain iPod music. My mom was the head commander of the minivan and had first choice in music. So we most often listened to Janet Jackson, Pat Benatar, and Madonna. While the iPod on aux had some tracks that my whole family enjoyed, like the Cranberries, Adele, and Nelly Furtado, we could only listen to the MP3s my parents downloaded so many times. Thus, we began to radio station surf endlessly, and the tune that we most frequently heard was ear-scraping static.

Following our time in Wyoming, we entered one of my favorite places on the trip: Yellowstone National Park. We entered the park through Wyoming and after crossing into the Utah quarter of the park, we prepared to set up camp. After we found a camping spot early enough in the afternoon and pitched our tent, we prepared to make our delicious dinner of campfire rice noodles and tomato sauce (rice noodles due to my father’s gluten allergy). We had set our camping pot over the stove with the noodles and water, and it was just beginning to boil when dark gray rain clouds covered the sky in a matter of seconds. We cautiously tried to continue making our dinner, and as soon as the noodles finished cooking and we strained them, the sky opened up. We ran with our precious noodles to the minivan. Without the space or energy to portion out the noodles onto four plates, we dumped the sauce into the pot that my mom held in the middle of the car, and all ate crouched over it. Thus, my fifth piece of advice: consistently check the weather to watch out for any strong wind or rain showers heading your way, and of course, ALWAYS put a tarp over your tent.

Here, I’d like to give my advice on another road trip must: the music. During a road trip, it is vital to set station-surfing parameters.

For example, our family rule was to only surf for three minutes to find a station the whole family agreed upon. Another aspect of auditory entertainment to consider is how you want to compose the selection—I think having a joint streaming service between you and your road tripping companions is a great way to start so that you can all contribute to one collaborative playlist. However, you could also consider a fun audiobook, or educational podcast episodes about a topic that everyone enjoys.

From Yellowstone, we drove through Nevada to reach the Grand Canyon. It was a truly monumental sight. Breathtakingly rust red, it expanded for miles and miles in front of me. I hadn’t felt so small in a very long time, even while peering out the car window, watching wide open fields time and time again.

We made a couple of stops in California to visit family and friends before we entered Arizona.

My family and I settled on rereading A Series of Unfortunate Events novels on our way to Grand Teton National Park. There I finally began to see more of the appeal of the magnificent

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We saw the campus where my mom and dad fell in love, ate at their favorite student-budget delis and diners, and even visited their very first apartment before they moved up north to Virginia.

In Arizona, we explored Tucson and explored Saguaro National Park. I had created my mental image of what the Sonoran Desert would be like from the portraits of the “Wild West” cartoons like Tom and Jerry had painted for me. But I would never have imagined that I only stood at half the height of a Saguaro cactus! The iconic symbol of the American desert swept out in front of me for miles and miles. I was frightened at the thought of accidentally entering the prickly nightmare of a maze and getting lost.

After Arizona, we drove through New Mexico to see some friends and the iconic Roswell area (they swear they’ve seen infamous UFO sightings). After sledding down the dunes of White Sands National Park, we had just about hit the center of the southwest. By then, my family had checked off several of our road trip to-do and we had almost visited all the friends and family we were set to visit. The next states on the agenda didn’t have many parks, monuments, or memorials we were very interested in stopping at. Thus, we continued our drive through the northern tip of Texas through Oklahoma and Arkansas. After the long cumulative 14hour drive, split into a few nights of camping and hotel stays, we had hit our home stretch.

It had then been a month, and my parents’ wedding anniversary was in just a few short days. We saw the campus where my mom and dad fell in love, ate at their favorite studentbudget delis and diners, and even visited their very first apartment before they moved up north to Virginia. While we stayed at our parents’ friend’s house, my sister and I schemed to make their anniversary day special. We walked to a grocery store, picked out simple freezer foods, and asked to use various uncomplicated ingredients from a friend’s pantry. We even found printer paper to illustrate two semiidentical menus for our special anniversary afternoon tea. We brought them little cucumber sandwiches, tiny teriyaki mushroom and shrimp skewers, and the mini chocolate Haagen Daz ice cream cups. My parents were shocked

and impressed by our innovative spirits, which for the most part came from my sister.

Our road trip was a truly incredible experience.

I learned to understand the sheer size of the country and visit remarkable sights that I’d heard so much about. We got to see Mount Rushmore, Venice Beach, and the world’s largest pistachio in New Mexico. In total, we traveled through 23 states, hit 9,292 miles, two great lakes, visited 13 national parks, and around 30 different family members and friends. It was my first time meeting two of my grandmothers, two great grandmothers, and various aunts, uncles, and cousins. My sister and I had always been glued to each other, but through the trip, we learned so much about my parents. We’d grown up hearing stories about where my mother and father grew up, and I was so happy to get to experience New York and North Carolina.

If you are thinking about taking a crosscountry road trip or just heading to a couple of different states for a week or two, then, my sixth and final piece of advice would be to simply go. Take the opportunity to visit different states, bond with your friends and family, visit other loved ones who live a little farther away, explore the nature the United States has to offer, and marvel at each of the stunning landscapes and sights you pass on the way.

If you’re interested in the music that I would bop to if I had to take another cross-country road trip, listen to my playlist inspired by this article.

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Folk-Country in Bhutan by jak roehrick ‘25

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hat is community? The term is a label, much like other adjectives, but it goes far beyond a descriptor. Unlike a word that merely defines a group, such as friend circle or family, community is also a noun. A place, whether physical or not, that exists only out of ideas and experiences that bond people together.

This shared place can be felt, communicated, seen, or heard by the individuals that will it into existence. In this sense, community is also a verb, a common place and label that only persists by the will of its own participants. Thus, community can be constructed by anything shared, whether that be physical proximity, a piece of media, a philosophy, or idea. Community also exists in any proximity, from the entire population of Earth down to just two individuals.

(especially rock, pop and hip hop), but Singye and I began to speak on just how much he enjoyed classic country. This had been the first time he had listened to artists like Townes Van Zandt and Blaze Foley, yet he commented on how the songs reminded him of the natural world around us.

That’s when it hit me. Here, in a deep forest high in the Himalayas, in one of the most culturally independent countries in the world, two completely different individuals could extract the same emotion and creative meaning out of the same artists. Though we came from completely different worlds and were brought up in polar opposite societies, my guide and I could form a sense of community around the sound of folk-country.

It was over a plate of ema datshi that we first began to share our interpretations of the music. Ema datshi is a plate native to Bhutan, composed of cooked rice, cheese sauce and chilis, all blended together into a soup-like dish. All of these ingredients were natural to the land and locally extracted, similar to the music that accompanied our meal. A blend of roughly mixed guitars, quiet vocals and raw production, the sound of folk aligned itself with nature even in the instrumentation. Unprocessed and localized, folk bears much symbolic resemblance to food: not only is it a blend of natural sounds, but it also provides a sense of community. The hearty meal not only served to feed us, but it acted as a vehicle for us travellers to express our thoughts. A common taste gave us the opportunity for a shared experience, one of the foremost pillars of sense of community. It was this communal feeling around the lunch table that sparked the discussion of music, opening the door for true cross-cultural connection.

Though I have been in many communities both on my own and at William & Mary, one of the most impactful community ties I made was between only one other person and myself.

Not only did this sense of shared experience occur in an unexpected place, but also between two seemingly distant people: Me, a 20 year old college student, and Singye, a 34 year old father from Bhutan, a tiny nation deep in the Himalayas.

My hands carried nothing except for the straps on my hiking backpack. Beneath my feet, my boots crunched through the woods, a warm sunshine slicing through the trees. Long shadows met a dashing green on the forest floor, cast by the behemoth Himalayan mountains. The weather was calm, but the trail was rough. Untouched and rugged, the loose dirt remained muddy from the previous day’s storm, but our small team still carried up the incline. Among our group of 10 college students was our professor chaperone, and our national guide, Singye. Around the halfway point we paused for lunch, where we turned fallen tree trunks and boulders into benches. As we ate, the 12 of us shared stories, discussed our experiences studying abroad and cracked jokes. However, more notable was what we listened to along with our break. Through a bluetooth speaker, we played a variety of songs from a folk-country playlist, mainly to give our tree-canopied meal the background of acoustic guitars and soft vocals. As classic as the sound already was, there was another byproduct of the folk tracks: Many Bhutanese people had heard plenty of Western music

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“Though we came from completely different worlds and were brought up in polar opposite societies, my guide and I could form a sense of community around the sound of folk-country.”

As we ate our meals and I spoke to our guide, one of the first songs he commented on was Blaze Foley’s “The Moonlight Song.” Composed of just Texan musician Foley and his guitar, the quick three-minute track is stripped back and simple, yet elegant in the delivery of its lyrical themes. While listening, Singye remarked that it reminded him of how he was raised in his home village. Bhutan is internationally recognized for its dedication to environmentalism, and this approach is notable in the country’s culture as well. For centuries, government officials and communities alike have reinforced the philosophy of coexistence with nature, dedicating thousands of acres of land to national parks, relying on hydroelectric power for energy and leaving swathes of forest untouched. Within this Himalayan nation, the environmentalist philosophy draws its roots to deriving happiness from inside oneself, a condition that can only be fulfilled when one respects the natural world surrounding them.

of the world. Considering the nature of the song’s lyrics, it is no surprise that he felt so passionately about it. Unpretentious and clear, Blaze Foley describes the small details of the woods he occupies, finding joy in the harmony of the trees. Lines such as, “Moonbeams dance on rain-drenched trees, sparkle for our eyes to see,” describe the woods as a visual symphony, with natural processes occurring together in synchronicity. Furthermore, Foley touches on the idea of nature bringing out appreciation for those around us. In the line, “Laying with the one I love, looking at the moon above, being where we really wanna be,” he gets to the point of true satisfaction. Not a focus on achieving some great accomplishment or materialistic gain, but merely being present in the current moment and around those close to us. Beyond the comforting guitar work, this was my first insight to the power of folk music as an instrument of community. Despite the separation of philosophy, geography, heritage and time period between Blaze and Singye, folk provided a means to disseminate the same beliefs amongst two very different people. Despite the clash on paper, the community between Singye, other folk fans and myself became apparent while merely listening to the music on the hike.

For the highly Buddhist nation, mindfulness leads to a respect for others and nature and thus, the world responds back with positive results. As such, the Bhutanese view of the western world (and the United States in particular) is a nuanced one. From my many conversations with locals, the common opinion of Americans specifically is that we are intelligent and highly developed, yet can be quite brash or materialistic. This image is only reinforced by our main exports to the country (like branded clothing and snacks) but in particular, the exports of American music. Though meticulously crafted and detailed, much of the pop, rock and hip hop we export around the world does focus on more material values than spiritual, especially when looked at through the lens of a nearly exclusively Buddhist country. However, for Singye, this is what set folk-country apart from many other American artists. While he had heard artists like Bruno Mars and Katy Perry plenty of times, he told me that listening to “The Moonlight Song” was the first time he felt like he could connect to a foreign interpretation

Following this first meal, we continued on our trek. The sun still hung high in the sky, blanketing us in a thick mountain warmth that crawled down the trees. As we ascended, the high pines that occupied a dense forest began shifting into a high plane, opening up wide valley views. Thousands of feet below us sat villages and rice paddies, all connected by a singular paved road. Our ultimate goal was the Kuenzang Drak Monastery, a remote cliffside sanctuary in the eastern section of the country. By the time we had reached the high plains, the monastery came into eyeshot. However, upon climbing the final stairs to the entrance, the words of “The Moonlight Song” once again came into my head.

Along the trek, we picked up a distinguished guest: a very, very friendly street dog. The kind animal began to walk along with us at the

“Laying with the one I love, looking at the moon above, being where we really wanna be.”

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Blaze Foley

beginning of the extended hike, and made it all the way to the top of the monastery with us.

The whole time, the dog never barked at us, acted aggressively or even attempted to snatch a bite of food. They merely enjoyed our presence, keeping us company for the day-long journey.

Despite their age and visibly graying nose, the dog miraculously kept pace with us. Because of their patience and kindness, we eventually nicknamed the dog Guru Padmasambhava (Padma for short) after the revered Buddhist figure, known for laying the building blocks of Bhutan’s formation. Once again, the aspect of folk’s community came back into my head. In a country where animals’ sense of space was regarded in the same way as a human, American folk-country would serve as a vehicle for community. Focus on harmony and enjoying the background aspects of life are conveyed in Blaze Foley’s “The Moonlight Song,” similar to how the driving philosophy of Bhutan does. Community can be realized through any common means, even transcending physical or language barriers.

“Plastic Jesus” that got Singye and I talking about music once more. In the song, Blake conveys how her faith supports her self confidence and actions, symbolized by a “plastic Jesus” sitting on her car’s dashboard. With lines such as, “I don’t care if it rains or freezes long as I got my plastic Jesus, sittin’ on the dashboard of my car,” Blake feels as though she can accomplish anything in the world with the backing of her faith. Similarly, many of the people in Bhutan share a similar mindset. As stated, Bhutan is a highly devout Buddhist country, with many living as monks/nuns or actively praying for hours a day. Though Buddhist philosophy often diverges strongly from traditional Christianity, the simple lyrics of “Plastic Jesus” convey a different outlook. Singye commented on the music by stating how it was one of the few examples of American music he had heard of describing the positivity in faith, rather than using it for discrimination. By giving credence to the world around us, we can enhance the confidence in our own actions and how we treat others. Respecting the jaw dropping magnitude of nature, no matter if it “rains or freezes” outside, allows us to channel positive energy towards ourselves and thus back at the world around us. In Bhutan, a core belief is viewing the natural world as an extension of oneself.

In order to live mindfully, the world must be treated as kindly as one’s own mind. Meditation often occurs in nature or in rooms flooded with

At the entrance to the monastery, we once again sat to eat food. Though peanut butter crackers and protein bars were a far less traditional snack in Bhutan, it fuelled us to make the plunge into the sanctuary. With our dear friend Padma in tow, we again conversed and discussed the day’s experiences backed by folk-country. With the same playlist on, it was Tia Blake’s cover of

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“From Greyhound stations to running back to Texas, the lyrics serve as the perfect representation of the optimism in the desire to live, to be able to stand back up and tackle the world.”

halfway across the world. Lines like, “Ride ‘til the sun comes up and down around me ‘bout two or three times, feed the pigeons some clay, turn the night into day,” exemplify the urge to explore and discover, to find something new to experience. As the gorgeous ridges and valleys passed by in the August twilight, I truly felt as though I was my own person, an individual with unique desires and events to witness. However, despite this feeling of independence, the emotion also placed me into a community along with Foley and Singye.

To experience new cultures, to see the world as an observer rather than a passerby was our mutual goal. For me, this was to experience the Himalayas in the most authentic way possible.

For Singye, it was to show us why he loved his country and college to the degree he did. For Blaze Foley, it was to escape away from the old life and discover new relationships. This is community, the mutual expression of ideas and philosophies on why we choose to push forward.

natural light, a reinforcement that the outside world, the “Plastic Jesus,’’ is one with the self.

Once again, within the stripped back lyrics and instrumentation of folk-country, similarities in philosophy could be shared between two seemingly opposing faiths. Across the world from the pen of the song’s writer, decades after its publication, the respect of nature can be understood. A Christian song conveyed this message to a man raised in a remote, Buddhist country atop the Himalayas, proving that the sense of community created through folk-country can transcend any boundary.

After visiting the monastery and praying with the local monks, we began our descent. With the setting sun, we travelled hard and fast to make it to the bottom before nightfall. Along the way, the sounds of the forest returned, a harmonious rhythm of falling water, swaying trees and chirping birds. By the time we reached our bus, the blue shield above us had given way to a gleaming sunset, orange and violet dancing along with the breeze. Settling back into our seats, we were all too exhausted to converse.

The hike and conversations had worn us down, and a relaxed yet silent atmosphere descended upon the bus. As such, I put my headphones in to pass the time, and the first song that played gave me one more insight into folk-country’s power of community. Blaze Foley’s “Clay Pigeons” started up instantly, once again greeting me with gentle guitars and vocals. The song feels like a narrative to Foley’s life, describing the bittersweet melancholy of finding one’s own path. From Greyhound stations to running back to Texas, the lyrics serve as the perfect representation of the optimism in the desire to live, to be able to stand back up and tackle the world. Though this experience was more private, “Clay Pigeons” demonstrated to me that I could still relate my travels to Foley’s experience, even

Folk-country can be a divisive genre. For some, the words and sounds can come off as “cheesy” or “too country” for their taste. However, for me, the genre resembles one of the most clear senses of community and respect for nature out of any form of media. Even in the high plains of Bhutan, a ruggedly independent, spiritually Buddhist and tiny nation, folk-country has the power to communicate its message across culture, time and space. Over the mountain may lay a very different world, but it is one where we can form a sense of community in the lyrics, instrumentation, and message of folk-country.

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van monday ‘24

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A Lesson in Vulnerability by rheina camacho ‘25

art by sarah valiante ‘25

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itting under the exposed night sky as the light from the campfire bounces from one face to another. It’s making everyone’s cheeks warm up, but the breeze comes in occasionally, to cool them off. Cicadas are buzzing in the background, trying their best to drown out the gathered voices but everyone averts their attention only when someone starts strumming a guitar. Centuries of music have brought people together, but the folk genre, predating modern documentation of music, acts as the backbone for many musicians to create their own version of togetherness.

Folk music differs from one culture to another, but each is tied together through the staple of acoustic instruments and being shared aurally in close communities. The genre has also proved itself to roll with the punches of time and adapt subgenres as musicians continue to experiment.

album title inspiration in an interview with Kyle Meredith for Louisville Public Media, Bridgers said it was a reference to an edited line from The Big Lebowski: “Do you see what happens when you find a stranger in the Alps?” She thought the line was “kind of poetic on accident,” which is all around the perfect summary of this album. Phoebe Bridgers has a raw approach to her writing in which she doesn’t shy away from bluntness but manages to naturally embed a poetic element to her lyrics. She teaches a sense of honesty when it comes to vulnerability.

The song, “Motion Sickness,” starts with the simple lyrics, “I hate you for what you did and I miss you like a little kid,” with Bridgers expressing her hatred towards someone, but admitting the innocence of wishing they were still around. In indie folk music, the expression of vulnerability usually comes in the form of admitting emotional truths no matter how heavy. It becomes a safe space to open yourself up because of the mood that exudes with the instrumentals of folk music.

The main premise of the song is struggling with an emotionally turbulent relationship, while musically, its modern sound stands out from the rest of the album, as it experiments with upbeat melodies. This differs from the rest of the album, which relies on one or two acoustic instruments that highlight Bridgers’ melancholy voice. The next song in the album, “Funeral,” dives deeper in admitting emotional truths through the lens of mental health.

The indie-folk subgenre is one that has managed to become incredibly popular with its introduction in the ‘90s. Blending the use of acoustic instrumentals and modern sounds, indie-folk music is an exploration in introspection. Laced with uncertainty and hope, the indie-folk genre has allowed not only the musician to communicate their wounds creatively, but also lets listeners learn from them. Expressing vulnerability is like peeling back your skin and revealing the sacred parts that define you. It’s meant for only a few who earned their place but even then, it still carries the terrifying weight of saying too much. This emotional expression is an overarching theme in the indie-folk genre, coming across as teaching a lesson in how to express it. Vulnerability is seen as an objective weakness in society, however, using music as a medium, it is a characteristic of emotional intelligence. Some defining artists in the genre today that teach an aspect of vulnerability in their work include - but are not limited to - Phoebe Bridgers and Leith Ross.

In 2017, Phoebe Bridgers debuted with her album, Stranger in the Alps, produced by Tony Berg and Ethan Gruska. It received an 82 on metacritic, accompanied with reviews from the AV Club’s Josh Modell, who said the album “alchemizes sorrow into redemptive beauty.” PitchFork’s Sam Sodomsky wrote that the album was “a collection of songs about intimacy, documenting how our relationships affect the way we view ourselves and interact with others” When asked about the

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Bridgers tells the story of how she is embarrassed of her depression. It opens with her thinking forward to the next day, where she will have to sing at a kid’s funeral who is a year older and realizing how much it is affecting her. She admits, “I’ve been talking to his dad, it makes me so sad. When I think too much about it, I can’t breathe.” Then, she goes over her recurrent feelings as someone who is exhausted with their depression, “Jesus Christ, I’m so blue all the time. And that’s just how I feel, always have and always will,” which continues to carry on the bluntness of her writing. You don’t connect the boy’s funeral imagery to her depression seamlessly until the line, “Last night I blacked out in my car and woke up in my childhood bed.

Wishin’ I was someone else, feeling sorry for myself when I remembered someone’s kid is dead.” Bridgers is being transparent about her experience with depression while at the same time punishing herself for not having a reason, like grief, that makes her feel this way. Her introspection serves a purpose of trying to relate to another struggling person when it comes to mental health. This song could be considered one of her most brutally honest songs but in truth, honesty threads through her whole discography.

style: “I feel like people think I write poetry, but I actually write literally exactly what’s happening in a way that sounds poetic.” She has stated how freeing it is to go through her writing process because, “the more honest I am, the world just keeps opening up for me,” she said in an interview with Annabel Gutterman for Time Magazine. This is a large reason fans have clung to her lyrics like bible verses since she debuted.

Being honest with oneself is a vulnerable task, which fans have admired her for and can learn from. Especially with teens making the majority of her fanbase, her songs have become the indiefolk anthem of the coming-of-age experience.

Looking at an up-and-coming artist in the indie-folk genre, Leith Ross released their debut album, To Learn,earlier this year. It was produced by Joey Landreth and Leith themself.

They already gained popularity for their song, “We’ll Never Have Sex,” through TikTok in August of 2021, which later became a single for this album. Ross describes their music as “gutwrenching,” containing, “extreme existentialism,” while still bringing a cheesy tone about queer love. The general idea of being vulnerable when it comes to love threads throughout To Learn, using intimate songwriting and simple instrumentation to create a dreamy atmosphere.

From an outside perspective of Phoebe Bridgers’ writing, she uses detailed imagery and isn’t afraid to share her thoughts about herself and her relationships. However, in an interview with Matt Berninger with The Creative Independent, she explains the misconception with her writing

The opening track, “5am,” feels like the opening to a coming-of-age movie with a light piano prelude. Ross starts off by listing specific places, “5am in a city I don’t know. Wet hair from swimming in normal clothes, Lying down in the middle of childhood streets. Not quite recalling falling asleep,” then seamlessly ties them together with the repetition of the line, “But you like how it feels. You like how it feels.” Leith Ross brings life into seemingly mundane ideas or things and describes them with admiring love that listeners can’t help but feel the same towards.

They manage to create a nostalgic atmosphere for the love you have yet to experience.

Leith Ross also focuses on the many facets of interpersonal relationships, both good and bad. Looking at the single for the album, “We’ll Never Have Sex,” it is a comforting song about appreciating the simple things in intimacy. Ross begins with, “Depollute be, pretty baby. Suck the rot right out of my bloodstream,” which paints the imagery of Ross seeing this person as a savior figure. They go on to say, “Oh, you kissed

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me just to kiss me not to make me cry. It was simple, you are sweetness, let’s just sit awhile.”

The comforting mood of the song is highlighted with the simple riff playing in the background.

Possibly through their previous experiences with romantic love, Ross is surprised that two people could still share deep intimacy with each other without having sex, disproving a popular cultural belief. Ross is sharing their experience with love and the many different intimacies that it holds, but in other songs, they admit the grayer side to being vulnerable in love. In their song, “Orlando,” Ross describes their internal struggle with a one-sided relationship. They begin the song with, “Your voice puts sickness into my gut, and I swallowed just a little too much. I don’t know what I did wrong. It’s not your fault, I just think I was in love.” In contrast to “We’ll Never Have Sex,” the grown love that Ross has developed for this person has no intimacy coming their way, which causes them pain every time they see or talk to this person. This duality of being vulnerable in love serves as a lesson to listeners to tread lightly on opening yourself to love.

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Leith Ross’s writing is intimate in its descriptions as seen with their song, “Orlando.” Part of this comes from the intimate atmosphere they are trying to create. Touching on their writing process in an interview with Dazed, Leith Ross says that they are inspired by predominantly romantic love but admits, “now I feel like it’s becoming even more intense as I get older and explore my queerness.” Specifically, they go on to say in an interview with Natty Kasambala, “It’s been just a huge well of inspiration for writing and trying to express what love is beginning to mean to me in a less romantic way and in a more personhood kind of way.” Ross’s questions about the world when it comes to types of love and putting their own interpretation on the concept, represent the main idea of To Learn. Similar to Phoebe Bridgers, Leith Ross utilizes their honesty in an intricate way to teach a lesson.

Vulnerability is not the only overarching theme running through the indie-folk subgenre. It’s extremely expansive in many aspects, but it never fails to explore how we interact with each other and ourselves through introspection. * * * * * * *

Boowa Zarcone ‘25

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evelyn hall ‘25

Vinyl Tap's 10 Essentials

1. Hiking Boots 2. First Aid Kit 3. Water Bottle 4. Matches 5. Band Tees 6. SanDisk 8GB Jam MP3 Player 7. Deco 79 Functional Gramophone with Record 8. Sony WH- 1000XM4 Headphones 9.

Fender Vintera II '60s Jazz Bass 10. Fender Rumble 30 Bass Amp

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evelyn hall ‘25

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Big Sur

and the Cedars of Nancy Carlen by natalie lopez ‘25 art by rose field ‘26

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don’t remember having an image of the “great outdoors” separate from Big Sur. Much of my conception of the world has been shaped by the geography of Monterey County, the coastal California region that is my hometown. However, there was something about Big Sur that set it apart from the rolling agricultural fields of the Salinas Valley and sandy beaches of the Monterey Bay. Literally, it is disconnected from neighboring cities and towns by the 1, a state route highway which runs north-south along the majority of the Pacific coast of California. Big Sur is only accessible to the outside world by this highway. To the west, it is flanked by the ocean, lending it some of the most gorgeous and famous coastal scenery I’ve ever seen.

To the east, the Santa Lucia Mountains meet the ocean in a seemingly abrupt collision, as sharp cliff faces slope down to meet seakissed sand. It’s a magnificent sight, but hard to appreciate while driving. The two lane highway is winding, often showing no more than one hundred feet in any direction before visibility is cut off by a bend in the mountain side or steep elevation change.

childhood mind’s eye, is a forest of redwoods and hiking trails. The sun filters through the trees in dancing beams of light that coalesce across rushing streams. I remember being small enough to be carried across, then squirming to be let down so I could splash around and get my feet wet. 1 Even in January, the green tops of the trees extend as far as the eye could see until they reach the brilliant blue of the sea. As a child, it felt like I was entering a new world each time we drove over the concrete arch bridges which are as ubiquitous as the redwood forests they intersect. The Big Sur segment of Highway 1 was built between 1919 and 1937. Before then, it was only accessible through horseback trails over the mountains. 2 This isolation was seen as a boon to many early transplants, who came to Big Sur seeking refuge from the hustle of the city. Icons of counterculture and the Beat generation of the 50s and 60s helped to contribute to the reputation of a bohemian paradise among the trees, where inspiration flowed freely and art could have room to breathe. Paramount among them, New York City native and novelist Henry Miller, who settled in Big Sur in 1944 and would stay for almost twenty years. 3 After almost a decade abroad and a series of

The arduous pilgrimage was one my family made often. Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park, in my

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critical failures, Miller’s time in Big Sur became immortalized in his 1957 memoir, entitled Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch.

Miller’s descriptions of the secluded paradise caused many readers to seek out this Eden on the coast. 4 San Francisco-based publisher and poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti owned a cabin that hosted Beat writer Jack Kerouc (and inspired his 1962 novel Big Sur). Photographers Edward Weston and Ansel Adams, as well as actors like Rita Hayworth and Orson Welles, made homes or extended visits in Big Sur. This reputation as a home for alternative and iconoclastic personalities made Big Sur a point of pilgrimage for many young would-be revolutionaries seeking to create spaces that supported the era’s new philosophies and pedagogies. The Esalen Institute of alternative learning was one such place. Established in 1962, the Institute was founded on the principles of the Human Potential movement, which posits that all people can achieve extraordinary things and create significant social change.

Esalen classes and workshops were developed to be a “laboratory for new thought,” with concepts of eastern spirituality like Zen Buddhism, yoga, and meditation meeting new psychological sciences. 5 Esalen workshops and initiatives were frequently run by guest instructors, drawing names like Susan Sontag, Abraham Maslow, and Deepak Chopra.

In 1961, Nancy Carlen drove across the United States from Boston to Big Sur to join the Esalen Institute. Carlen met folk singer Joan Baez while studying at Boston University. At Esalen, Carlen conceived of a new workshop to be held at the institute, and contacted Baez, who was living in nearby Carmel Valley, to host the “New Folk Music” seminar in 1964. 6 Together with Baez, Mimi, and Richard Farina, Carlen put on the first Big Sur Folk Festival on June 21, 1964. The event took place at Esalen, a beautiful property with grounds situated on a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. It was a quiet affair, with seven acts in one day, but no big names other than Baez. Admission costs were $3.50. Most of the festival’s life span was similarly low-key and intimate.

Friends of Baez would perform for little or no pay for an audience of about five thousand in 1968. It was designed as a performers’ festival, an opportunity for artists to have a reprieve together after a hectic summer on the festival circuits. The festival had no real advertising, no mass influx of out-of-towners, no paid performers, and all proceeds to Baez’s Institute for the Study of Nonviolence. It wasn’t supposed to be flashy or provocative. Carlen wasn’t trying to create a phenomenon; she was trying to educate people about music.

In 1969, the festival was filmed for the first time and became part of a documentary film called Celebration at Big Sur. That year, it took place in September, one month after the Woodstock festival in New York. Jerry Hopkins, writing for Rolling Stone, described it as “one of the season’s smallest (in attendance) and loveliest (in mood).” 7 Celebration featured performances from Baez, Joni Mitchell, Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, and other artists on a raised platform at the foot of a pool, with the ocean behind them. With few remaining artifacts to remind the public of its existence (a poster for the 1966 festival sold online in 2014 for $700), Celebration allows the modern folk fan or a nostalgic aficionado the chance to experience the event in a small way. For six years, the festival

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took place at the Esalen Institute, before moving to the Monterey County Fairgrounds in 1970, and back to Esalen for its eighth and final year in 1971.

The Big Sur Folk Festival was not like Woodstock in ‘69, 8 or the Monterey Pop Festival in ‘67, or any of its contemporaries, mainly because it wasn’t trying to change the world or influence the landscape of popular music.

To Nancy Carlen, the festival was supposed to be for the performers, not the audience. Founded as a workshop on the changing world of folk music, the festival was not intended to be big, with Carlen preferring crowds less than six thousand. The intimate nature of folk music was highlighted by the small crowd and anti-consumerist structure of the event. The ticket prices ranged from 3 to 5 dollars through its eight years, and there was virtually no advertisement to draw in the kinds of crowds that Woodstock or Newport saw. Big Sur isn’t the kind of town that was set up for those kinds of events. Esalen is located sixteen miles south of the town proper on a two-lane highway, on a cliffside without parking large enough to sustain a festival crowd. Logistically, it should not have been successful.

Yet, Big Sur worked because it wasn’t trying to be anything but what it was: people who loved music deeply sharing it with each other.

Even as an ostensible “grown up,” being in Big Sur feels like stepping into a fantasy world.

It’s one of the most famous destinations for nature lovers and outdoor enthusiasts, and yet it feels like a secret that only I can share with a chosen few. I feel the same way about my favorite folk artists. Sitting my friends down and putting on my favorite Joan Baez or Joni Mitchell record feels like cutting open my own chest and placing my still-beating heart in their hands to poke and prod and examine.

It’s a measure of immense vulnerability and trust to bring someone else into what has always been only my sanctuary. I think Nancy Carlen understood that: the unique magic of folk music and of Big Sur. She took a place that had been a famous refuge and allowed it to remain that way, despite the easier and more profitable alternative.

Hiking in Big Sur as a child and later as a young adult, past the waterfalls and rushing creeks and the redwood groves, I found fleeting, momentous peace in a turbulent world that I came to realize was not built for me.

In my own way, I found the truth which the bohemians of the 60s were

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searching for in the same mountains. Big Sur isn’t built for anyone; it just is. The winding roads and cliff sides have no love for money or prestige.

Big Sur’s popularity among tourists rivals that of Yosemite, attracting millions of visitors each year, but without comparable infrastructure to support that many people. Instead, visitors must adapt to it. Folk music is like that. It’s jagged, uncomfortable, the kind of hike you can’t do without the proper equipment. I have loved both Big Sur and folk music all my life, knowing that they could never return my devotion. I wouldn’t want them to. To love something is to be changed by it, and I like it just the way it is.

Endnotes 1. If what I’m describing feels impossibly idyllic, I implore you to look at pictures of redwood forests and see for yourself.

2. Nowadays, landslides caused by heavy rains close the roads multiple times a year, and residents are cut off from the rest of the world.

3. Miller’s most famous work, the semi-autobiographical novel Tropic of Cancer, was banned from importation to the U.S. and became the center of an obscenity trial after being illicitly smuggled into the country.

4. In 1981, a year after he died, a close friend dedicated the Henry Miller Memorial Library, now a community and event center located in an idyllic grove of Big Sur redwoods, in his honor.

5. If this sounds similar to ideas of the New Age milieu, that’s because one grew out of the other.

6. It was a big year for Baez, who also headlined the Newport Folk Festival and briefly toured the U.S. with the Beatles.

7. Jerry Hopkins, “Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young,” Rolling Stone, October 18th, 1969, No. 44.

8. Although modern journalists have been eager to point this out, the contemporary antithesis was usually cited as the Newport Folk Festival. ***

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evelyn hall ‘25

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evelyn hall ‘25

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outside’s never looked this cool.. camp vinyl tap.