Alli's Articles
INTERVIEWS, REVIEWS, CULTURE PIECES, MUSICAL RAMBLINGS.
It was a total accident. Truth be told, I never meant to be this involved in the New Paltz music community. The 17-year-old newborn college freshman, with her skinny jeans and American Eagle flannel, had just barely gotten her “house show legs” when she decided it could be cool to write an article about the Skatehouse venue, one she really enjoyed going to. She reached out to the head honcho, wrote a Q&A style piece (that could have been so much better now that I look back) and put it on her socials. Bam. Done. That was fun. When she woke up, hitting her head on the Gage Hall ceiling from her bunk to check her phone, she saw at least fifty likes and an insane amount of reposts from so-called “superiors” in the community. The comment section was popping, too. “Great article!” “Love this place and these bands!” “That’s my photo that you used, can I have creds?” (I did not learn the beautiful skill of including a photo courtesy yet) Suddenly, she had all of these followers, most of them being other musicians, praising her writing, eager for more. I guess I should do more interviews then. Knowing barely anything about journalism, she began scheduling meetups on campus with freshman artists, recording files on her voice memo app, asking questions about dorm room demos and how New Paltz differs from being home and so on and so forth. Soon, it became her thing, and bands were asking for articles. Little seventeen year old just-liked-to-listen-and-write-about-music had people asking for her to talk to them, holding the responsibility of doing their music justice in the form of words. Okay, I’m getting tired of writing in third person. She is me. And that’s how Twilight Collective evolved. Thanks to my brand-spankin’-new BA in Journalism, I now know a bit more about writing and interviewing, as you can probably see through my progression of articles if you were to scroll back. I’m back in Staten Island, and in just a few days, I'm starting my journey to get my Master’s at NYU. It’s painful to leave this town and it's beautiful music scene. Therefore, I decided to write a little ode to it — observations throughout the years and all of the amazing aspects of creating art around others in a small yet like minded community in the Hudson Valley region of New York. If you’re considerably new to the scene and are digging it so far, you are right to do so. Here’s why. One thing I’ve learned about the modern New Paltz DIY scene is that it’s easily impressionable. I feel like for the most part that word is used in a negative way, like to describe a naive child, but I mean it in the way that if you bring one new band to a show you’re hosting or play one new song during your set, everyone automatically gets attached to them. It’s beautiful. I think about my pals in Plattsburgh-based band Lagrogg. Brought here to play in the second Snug’s Battle of the Bands solely through their non-musical friendship with my co-host Ari, they formed a partnership with The 3 Skins, inviting them on future bills at Snug’s, and even playing with them in their hometown further upstate. I checked their Instagram followers recently, and there’s so many New Paltz accounts, just having stumped upon them that fateful April night at the bar. That was all it took. I learned that’s what it took for bands I got through Music Collective too. My goal with booking this year was to sprinkle in some away-bands, to encourage variety and discovery. In my early days as a college student, I loved seeing a band and immediately going to follow them on Instagram and check out what they had on streaming. I still follow so many bands I haven’t seen since 2019, getting insight on what they’re up to now. We got Purchase heads Bird Week one of their first New Paltz gigs, and they’ve played so many other times since. A domino effect. People still talk to me about how they couldn’t believe they heard waveform* for the first time at an MC show, and how they’re still on their Spotify playlists. One show. One gig. A forever partnership between listener and creator. Between band and town. Another thing about the NP scene is that everyone is just. So. Eager. I came into this town during a period of limbo, where the bands that already ruled the scene were continuing to rock it, but then COVID knocked everything into the ground shortly after I came, inviting a new generation of students to pick up the pieces and build a new empire. Everything. Changed. House show venues were gone. People moved away. Post-COVID New Paltzers truly Did It Themselves, with limited guidance from the few legends of before that remained. And it’s been beautiful to see. New venues — including fancy, COVID-friendly “backyard only” ones, houses specializing in elevating unheard voices and genres and the utilization of preexisting town spaces for music have risen and turned the already-popping scene in New Paltz into a brand-new monster. For me, it’s just been nice to see different types of people rise to the trials and tribulations of being a venue, for the sake of keeping the scene thriving in several pockets of town. A lot of the times before COVID, a lot of the bands and venues I saw and visited were just white dudes making punk music — nothing else. Is there anything wrong with these punk guys? No. But does this town have more of a variety of sounds and artists that should be headlining too? Absolutely. And seeing more of that shift has made my entire college experience. I would love to see more queer and female-fronted groups on bills, because I know they’re here. They’ve been here, in a basement, creating super cool sounds, along with all of the photographers and journalists and artists and agents that work behind the scenes in this town as well. These types of folks are pumping fresh blood into the scene, and deserve to have their voices elevated, because as far as I’m concerned, men still are dominating. I’ve seen the power that voice holds in this town, when it comes to promoting an event or talking about new music or getting an abuser’s band kicked off of a bill, and I think that we need to keep on using this collective mind until the DIY community of New Paltz is a certified safe space for all. Promoting what you love. Helping where you can. Speaking up when you hear about sketchy behavior. Yes, it still goes on. That’s what a healthy, functioning scene is here for. In DIY New Paltz, everything is intertwined. One of the reasons that I’ve gotten so many opportunities was by just simply knowing someone. Being involved in a couple of music-related clubs and having some articles under my belt propelled my resume out there. Some dear friends in a band by the name of What? needed extra help with booking gigs and asked me to hop on. Learning how to be a booking agent has been the highlight of my last semester here, and has expanded my career goals. I am now considering artist management as a possible route — and it wouldn’t have turned out that way if that initial conversation never happened. Being What’s? “manager” has had other perks as well: free admission to gigs, being on “the list,” free drinks at venues, festival passes, the cool sound guy at the Colony in Woodstock entrusting me with the responsibility of wristbands, a free dinner at Mohonk Mountain House and the best one of all, getting to evolve an amazing friendship with this amazing band. My point is not to brag — entirely — but to put into perspective many opportunities truly were hidden in the grass for me in this seemingly tiny town. Talk, explore, get to know, befriend both the people and the scene. That’s always the first step. As I wrap up my undergrad years, many people have asked me what my favorite memory of college was. On the topic of the music scene, I have to say…the first Snug’s Battle of the Bands. Five bands giving full sets in just a few hours on a Tuesday, it was an experiment. The promise of a future date if it all went well loomed over our heads, so Ari and I promoted the hell out of it, got shirts made (thanks Greta!) and crossed our fingers as the masses strolled in. It was a blowout success. That night alone made me realize how far the New Paltz DIY scene has come since COVID, and the new life that we have successfully blown into it. It didn’t truly hit until I had people that have been in the scene since before I ever was in high school saying that they haven’t seen a feat like this ever. New bands made their bar debut and met new fans; beloved acts made the usual crowd roar in a newfound tongue. I will never forget the collective excitement, the general enthusiasm everyone had for the event — placing bets on who will win, coming in adorned with their favorite band’s merch, learning about new artists and songs that were covered — just expressing their love and passion for the scene that I too share. There’s a certain magic I felt that night that I’m not sure anything else could ever give me. It was a melancholy realization that I will never experience something like this again — the tight-knit musical connection of a small college town in the middle of New York State. From then on, I treasured every show. Every band I met. Every Snug’s trip. Every Music Collective event. My last one specifically made my heart swell in a way it hadn’t before; I got my favorite band I’ve ever seen in New Paltz — Art Thief — to come. And I. Worked. Hard. I pulled strings, signed paperwork, busted all the stops that one must bust to host an event on the SUNY New Paltz campus. Seeing it go well was not only a semi-self-fulfilling pat on the back to all of the work I individually put in, but an ode to all of the work the club did to promote it — and just the fact that enough people cared enough to see it happen. I love seeing the light shine in an underclassmen’s eyes when they discover a band they really like. I love friends of bands spreading the word about gigs. I love it because I lived it too, and it makes me feel satisfied that the scene will continue on past this generation, and hopefully for generations to come. I know that when I stepped into the scene, things were different. There are so many legendary people, bands and venues that came before me, just pattering out by the time I started making my rounds. I saw the work they were putting in and was inspired so greatly by it, that I sought to keep the blood pumping. I hope I lived up to these inspirations. It’s weird to think people consider me one now. I just was following in footsteps, carving out new lore in the process. If you are reading this and still in the scene, that’s really all the advice I have to give. Keep. It. Going. Pay it forward. Don’t let it fizzle out, because there is always room for more. There always needs to be a stage, a platform, for the freshmen practicing in some triple in Capen. For the freshmen in someone’s smoky basement. For the musicians that will still be here, waiting for the next open mic or gig opportunity. They are waiting for the trailblazers, the people who are willing to stand up and say, “New Paltz should have this, and I’m actually going to do something about it.” My involvement in the NP scene might have been an accident, but it was a beautiful one. I truly believe there will be nowhere else like it. My four years here have academically and personally been a rollercoaster, but the music has been an anchor, and getting to unapologetically throw myself into this work has given me a purpose throughout the hardships. There are too many people to thank. If you have shown up, participated, made or supported any music event in this town, thank you. And that thank you isn’t just from me, it’s from every single member of the scene. We are a community. A unit. A family. Treasure it forever, because I know I will for the rest of my life — or, until the day Snug’s finally runs dry of Downeasts. Peace. Alli Dempsey New Paltz Music Collective President, WFNP FM DJ, A&E Page Editor for The Oracle, Co-Founder and Current Owner of Twilight Collective, Occasional Event Coordinator at Snug’s, Agent for What? Interviewer of Countless New Paltz Bands, Mistaken “Groupie,” Retired Mosher, One-Time Student Association Open Mic Organizer, W-9 Expert, Non-Musician, Non-Photographer, NP DIY Lover. 2019-2023.
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The four members of Purchase-based indie rock group Bird Week came to me in four separate Zoom blocks — the members dispersed in different locations across New York State during the time we had blocked off to chat. “It's very rare that all four of us are in the same place,” vocalist and guitarist Justin Hatch reflects. Calling themselves a “soldier without a nation,” the band doesn’t have a real, concrete hometown — rarely feeling like locals anywhere, with the situational exception of the college they came together in.
Using their fluidity as a strength, the band has become bill-favorites in multiple DIY scenes including in New Paltz — hitting bars, birthday parties and basement shows in the recent months of 2023. With other upstate towns such as Binghamton, Ithaca, Albany and Clifton Park on their radar, the fading summer remains bustling for Bird Week, following the release of their second LP, “To Live Without” in July. Having started as Hatch’s personal quarantine songwriting project, he was eager to form a full band upon returning to school. He enlisted Zach Vogel — the resident scene bassist at the time — and later, Maura Vander Putten on electric guitar and drummer John Porcelli. The band’s live show life started in the music buildings on the SUNY Purchase campus, later trickling off to places like Long Island and Connecticut to support their first album, “Bird Week.” With the band all living in different cities, shows were sometimes a mish mosh of members based on who was able to make it or not. “If you see Bird Week on a bill, there's kind of no promise of what you're gonna get,” Hatch says. “I think that's kind of what I like about it; It's like every show is kind of like a surprise.” Watching a Bird Week show is exactly that — energetic, engaging and interactive; you might catch Vander Putten dropping her guitar and doing somersaults if you’re lucky. “I feel like for a while I've kind of been known as ‘the wild card,’” she says. “My biggest inspiration is probably Jeff Rosenstock. Seeing him live and his absurd energy just for the sake of it is really inspirational to me. The crowd wants to dance, but they want you to do it first. You tend to make a total fool of yourself so that other people can make a fool of themselves on purpose, and have fun with it.” “I really feed off of that sort of awkward nervous energy, and I think that's really present in our music as well,” Hatch added. For the band’s recorded music, he draws inspiration from DIY, lofi projects like Car Seat Headrest — who taught him that it’s not hard to make your own music — Pavement, Alex G and Deerhunter. After a grueling recording process — a stolen laptop, drum tracking issues and endless takes — “To Live Without” was finally released on July 28. In an Instagram post on the @bird.week account following the release, Hatch calls it a “reflection of the people that we were when we made it and I think in that sense it is perfect.” “i do not think i will ever be able to put so much of myself into a project like i did this one again but i don’t think i need to now.” “When people ask me what this album is about, I usually say it's about going to college and not having fun,” he explains. “ So few people in college are good. Like, you just meet a bunch of people that you don't like.” “Everyone sucks when they’re twenty,” Vogel laughs. This cross between self-analysis and the criticisms of peers are apparent in tracks such as the first on the album, “Philadelphia,” where Hatch sings solemnly but sternly about mean kids at the Dave and Buster’s and ex-friends leaving him out of hotel rooms. He wrestles with the feelings that these events, and how continuously being mistreated by people he thought cared for him, have left inside of him in the chorus: “And I still don't forgive them / And I still don't forgive them now / And I still don't forgive them till I die / And I won't forgive myself.” “Everything is a crossroads,” Hatch continues. “Everything feels like such a significant event and a turning point. It forces you to reflect, and be very self critical and self analytical on seeing who you were and who you are now, and not being happy with either.” “To Live Without” plays like a chronological recount of the hardships of college — the ugly corners that appear amongst the partying, drug-taking and newfound independence no one likes to touch on. It’s an honest and relatable on the post-quarantine collegiate experience, from exposing shallow friends you only really speak to at the bars (“They always offer you a cigarette / And now they’re laughing at a joke you wouldn’t get / But if you’re ugly then you’re outta luck / They’re only friends with people that they wanna fuck”) to grapples with forgiveness, awareness and attachment (“Know that I'm wrong / But I can't admit that it's my fault / Oh, now I see that I need you more than you need me”). “I think this record was a real product of some seriously awful shit that's happened to all four of us,” says Porcelli. “I would hope that in some regards, people will understand it from that perspective, but also get a sense of emotional attachment. If people dislike it, that's actually more motivation for me. Regardless of whether it's positive or negative, I just want people to see it and go ‘What the fuck.’” Bird Week expresses uncomfortable and buried emotions with an unrelenting passion, and the members treat the project in itself with the same love and affection. “I've joked about it before, but there's nobody in the world who likes this album more than the four of us,” says Hatch. “Like, I think the Bird Week album is probably my favorite album that I've heard this year.” Bird Week may feel like occasional drifters, but they establish a cozy home through their own work, for both the members themselves and the audience, always a presence when they need something to return to. “We're trying to make art,” said Hatch. “We're trying to make stuff that matters to people, because it matters to us.” Listen to “To Live Without” on your favorite streaming service today. Follow @bird.week on Instagram to stay posted on future shows. I’m going to start off by saying that I’ve been trying to write this piece for a very long time. It’s been many moon phases of writing Notes app fragments on tearful drunk walks home or class periods spent staring blankly into the distance, unable to think about anything else than the subject matter I was typing away about. Then deleting, deleting, deleting. No, that doesn’t sound right. That’s too dramatic. Not poetic enough. I need to return to this when I’m less angry. How do you express the strangest and most emotional half-year of your life into shallow, cliche words when you know you’re feeling something so much deeper?
Yet now, here I sit typing this on a rainy, unsuspecting Sunday afternoon — or maybe it’s evening now. It’s hard to tell on cloudy days. I’m nearing the six-month anniversary of my first ever breakup, and when I started my current journal. I ran to Walgreens the night after it happened and snagged one, along with a facemask and some chocolate, somehow knowing I had to document what was going to be a whirlwind of a time, where I’d soon be hopping galaxies and universes beyond what I have ever experienced in my young life. I look back on the first page and read the barely-legible, hurt words of a 20 year-old who didn’t know what was good for her, whose Cancer-rising pinged with empathy and longing for better. She was lost in the world, and didn’t realize how deep the tricky jungle of not knowing her worth was, and how thick those vines were that she had to learn how to cut. Even though I was definitely more lost then, I can’t say that I understand the world and all of the decisions it has made for me now. But at the same time, I fucking love it. It’s so twisted how after a breakup, you have to live through the next day. I felt motionless, but was at the booth on Election Day, staring at the silly Ulster County “I voted” sticker — its lightheartedness seeming to mock me. I disappeared from the New Paltz eye for a while. Went home, went out in the city, spent time with loved ones. Kept on moving. I learned that that’s my coping mechanism; continuing to get things done. The thought of letting what should be below me stop me from accomplishing all I set out to do sickened me, so I worked with a corporate, stamped-on smile on my face and tears in my eyes on some days — and it saved me. Time does really make it better, but not in a bullshit “heals all wounds” sort of way. Of course, I had my moments where I couldn’t move away from my bed. I had my 9-hour screen time days, consuming content that I shouldn’t have been, feeling jealousy and self-loathing seep into my skin. We all need those to get the feminine rage out, gasping for air and feeling like you’re at the end of the line in your early 20s. Then, you get your ass up, move to your desk and write it all out. You realize that the last time you were single was when you were 18. You realize that this is a time of potential, to seek out what you actually deserve and learn more about your wants, needs and desires in a way your teenaged self never got the chance to. You realize that you should be excited after all of the grief wears away. I think about when I told someone at the Music Collective show that followed that I was going through a breakup. “Congratulations,” was all he said. I was confused at the time, but I realize what he meant now. This was a graduation, an amazing opportunity to dance with myself, looking at the details of my being and realizing that there is so much more I could be investing in her. I learned to make my beautiful peace with being a single woman, but unfortunately, in this Different Age, it doesn’t come without its fair share of uphill battles and punches in the gut. The first blow landed after the end of my first ever “situationship,” something that I thought I knew the Urban Dictionary definition of, but didn’t fully understand until that dark, snowy morning at my kitchen table where I was staring at the “I don’t want to hang out anymore, but we can still talk at the bar” text. It didn’t really hit until later that night, while I was watching TV, and I felt my eyes widen and my body convolute while sitting on the couch. He was older, and I realized that he might have only seen me as an option — and definitely didn’t see what we had as deeply as I did. It was a gross, empty feeling I had never felt before in my life. It felt like I finally understood every other woman in my generation going through these types of things. I wanted to cry and hug all of them at once. It was rough. I took it hard. Really hard. My young, loving heart hadn’t learned the cruel game of detachment yet, and I was nowhere close to being “over” my initial breakup, so I still was feeling so strongly so long after he had moved on to someone else. The night I found out, I sobbed on the Snug’s patio, freezing and watching the stars consume the sliver of the moon that was left. I felt rejected. Like I wasn’t enough. Embarrassed. My friend, trying his best to console me, said “What are you gonna do?” I took that phrase in my head and made it deeper. What was I going to do? I had to be the one to grow and learn from this situation because I was still so young, with such little life experience to expand on. This was a new lesson, something that I could use as inspiration and fuel. It stung because I knew he wouldn’t take it the same way, but I had no choice but to accept that and blossom from it. I went home, cried some more, and blasted “Farewell Transmission” by Songs: Ohia — an amazing song about staring near-death half in the eyes and persisting, which is what this all felt like. “There ain’t no end to the desert I’ll cross,” it says. The sands sprawled out in front of me, and I had no choice but to hold the sniffles back and take a step. One night in the midst of all of this, another friend drove me home from his house and we talked for 30 minutes about the fleeting relationships we all have experienced. “It’s like Star Wars,” he said. “These people are going to join whatever ‘dark side,’ and you just have to sit there and let them. You’re moving on. They’re moving on. And that’s just how it is.” He was right, and I needed to hear that so matter-of-factly. I went inside, slightly wine-drunk, and blasted the band STRFKR on my couch. They have a song where they sample some philosopher talking about how this world has a “great wiggly effect.” “People try to straighten things out; they’re always trying to put things in boxes,” he says, but at the end of the day, the world is going to squiggle you and your surrounding environment around. In my sentimental, drunken state, it felt like I got it. I had to just let things flow, feeling my emotions about them, but overall accepting the fact that there is little in this life I can control. The month that followed was still filled with pain, but again, like what I was doing initially, I had no choice but to grit my teeth and fight through it. I turned 21. I applied to grad school, something I don’t think I would have done right away if I wasn’t extremely heartbroken. I got straight As, which shocked me, since this was probably the most tumultuous semester of my college career. I applied to internships and wrote articles and did things that I could have never fathomed doing before my world was shaken upside down. I went home for winter break and journaled every single day, listening to appropriately-titled podcasts, including zingers such as “he ghosted you…now what?” and “how to REALLY detach and move on.” I wanted to fully prepare my mind to process all of the fucked-up shit I went through so I could power onto my final semester of college. I can proudly say I did just that. I got into all three of my grad schools and developed a consistent workout routine. I finished my Senior Capstone, created some amazing radio shows, hosted two super-successful Battle of the Band events and three Music Collective campus shows, took on a booking role and made an infinite amount of memories with my loved ones. I’m now leaving college with a vast range of achievements, the majority of them accomplished in this sixth-month window. Still, the world, as it does, keeps on throwing me curveballs through it all. I went through another emotional situationship breakup around two months ago, grieving all over. I’ve been navigating the weirdness of dating apps, developing a strictly on-again-off-again relationship with Tinder. I’ve learned to forgive and make peace with my past partners. I’ve been developing crushes, going on dates, daydreaming about possibilities like the schoolgirl I was before college. At the same time, also like me before college, I’ve been stressing the wording of texts again, wondering “does he ACTUALLY like me?” Watching everyone seem to be moving forward in their relationships with significant others makes me feel like I’m the only one on a downwards escalator, sarcastically waving at all who are going up. I feel as young as I am old. But honestly, I wouldn’t want it any other way. I’m bouncing back more quickly from all of my struggles, each one teaching me more and more than I knew before. I’ve realized that I only should accept the very best, in all aspects of my life, because anything short of that is unfair to the amazing character that I possess. After everything, I feel so wise, like I’m one of the 30-year-old townies on the Snug’s patio that tells college students their entire life stories. Despite this feeling, I never want to know everything; that’s why I’m going back to school. Even though these past six months have thrown me into the ocean like a parent playing a little too roughly with their child, I’ve forced my head up again and again, waving a long and slender middle finger to all of the factors that put me in this sorry predicament in the first place. Right now, I’m very happy. I feel hopeful. Things that tugged me down six months ago are just simple sensations now. It feels like I just reached Atlantis after spending months and months excavating the deep sea. I still have so much to discover, and I couldn’t be more excited. Now, it’s my time to wiggle over and see what’s next. To an outsider, it might seem like the difference between SUNY Purchase and SUNY New Paltz is rather small. After all, they’re both somewhere in relatively-upstate New York, with the letter “p” in the name, with artsy and musically involved student bodies. One Purchase-based band has set out to challenge that notion by bringing their modern-folk rock sound to the Snug Harbor stage for the second time in three months, standing out amongst the recent jam-band, metal and classic rock motifs that have hit the stage as of recent. Me and My Grandma is a five-piece consisting of acoustic guitarists and vocalists Nick Paul and Neil Stiskin, bassist Ben Roffman, guitarist Elijah Parella and drummer Michael Schwartz. Paul and Stiskin, the primary songwriters, started writing music together during the fall semester of 2021. From there, they gathered the other three musicians from other known bands in town and started rehearsing as a group. Even though the project first officially started in 2021, the members have been familiar with one another through campus pass-bys since the start of their Purchase education. “We haven’t always been very close but we’ve always been friendly,” said Schwartz. “I feel like we all mesh really well.” “The band has definitely brought us all closer together,” added Parella. “Me and Neil were always the two guys on campus actually doing folk-style music, so it was kind of inevitable,” Paul said. “I always kind of looked up to him in a way.” Besides Me and My Grandma, the musicians are involved in numerous side and solo projects — with Paul making some music on his own, Schwartz touring with musician Jay Rosie, Parella and Roffman playing in another project called The Mids and Stiskin making music under the name Little Cliff — where he originally started playing with Roffman. “Neil decided that he liked my playing, and how I interacted with him during other practices, so I was added to the roster,” he said.
The members collectively draw inspiration from shared influences of legendary folk artists Bob Dylan, The Band and Neil Young, fusing them with present-day names like Big Thief and Phoebe Bridgers. They also bring individual favorites to the table; Paul and Parella’s love for Grateful Dead and Schwartz’s affinity for R&B artists like Smino help to mold each aspect of the group to hit their audiences from all sorts of unique angles. Since their first show at Snug’s in November, the band has played a handful of gigs on the Purchase campus and in its house show scene. Compared to New Paltz’s scene, the group, along with other musicians, struggle with show shutdowns by campus police and complaints from the nearby townspeople, and lack a nearby bar to play at regularly. They long for gigs at places like Snug’s — a break from the anxiety that comes with the uncertainty of stoppages. “It's definitely a very different environment,” Stiskin says of Purchase. “Not a lot of people live off campus. There's nothing around and nowhere to go. It all has to kind of be on campus, and you have to make your own spaces. Sometimes people will play in random places that you're not really supposed to play at.” After their first show at Snug’s, the anticipation to play the venue again didn’t leave the band for the months they were away. “In my experience, playing live like the first time around tends to feel really good, but maybe doesn't actually sound the best,” said Parella. “It feels the best because we're just so excited. I think this one is going to go really well.” The band’s return to the Harbor on Jan. 27 included a blend of crowd-pleasing covers and powerful originals, becoming instant classics as soon as they hit the airwaves. One of their newer songs, “Wayback,” talks of loneliness on the road, the “unique emotional state” driving can put one in, and panic attacks on the side of a highway. The song reflects the themes of Modest Mouse’s “This Is a Long Drive for Someone with Nothing to Think About,” with added sprinkles of love and heartbreak in the mix. The soothing sounds of Parella’s slide guitar and the ending explosion of Schwartz’s drums make for a powerful release after a slow burn — perfect for keeping the audience on their toes. Another original feature, “The Way it Goes,” is a more upbeat, yet still mellow take on the hardships of love. The harmonious vocal blend of the Paul-Stiskin duo stands out among gentle guitar strums in this short, but impactful groove. The air in the bar stood still as the band played this one on, acting as a gentle lullaby of sorts that was able to woo the crowded, slightly-rowdy Friday night crowd. Following their billmates — Purchase-based rockers Wiring — after their own Alex G cover, the Grandmas delivered an amazing rendition of his single “Runner” from new album “God Save the Animals.” They continued to throw in some Elvis, — “That’s All Right” — a Tom Petty “Last Dance With Mary Jane” moment and a familiar rendering of Neil Young’s “Harvest Moon” — returning from their first Snug’s setlist. When you look at the grand scheme of bands coming out of the Hudson Valley, you don’t see a lot of groups riding the folk-fusion wave that Me and My Grandma is. “When we're playing a show, usually the other person isn't really in the same genre,” Paul says. “It’s lonely, but it’s fun.” Up next for the band is their first EP release, produced by New Paltz/Purchase favorite Joe Ippolito, who was previously mentioned on Twilight for his work on Kablamo’s self-titled album. The project will feature both “Wayback” and “The Way it Goes,” along with a collection of unreleased songs, some that may have snuck onto their Snug’s set. Me and My Grandma’s sound reflects on their old souls, but preserves their youth and new-age take on music, and being a band. Living in an environment that constantly tries to morph to fit trends, Me and My Grandma is remaining true to themselves and already are working hard to bring a refreshed, classic folk sound to a level that anyone can fall in love with. Follow the band on Instagram to stay in the loop about future releases and shows. Standing in the middle of a deli, Jack Salzman was eyeing down a kale salad on one of the prepackaged food shelves. He and his fellow bandmate, Brendan Bartow, decided to stop in this nondescript bodega for some pre-gig food as they were struggling to come up with a quirky name for their new musical project. “Shark,” “Bagel,” “Sandwich” … nothing was sticking. But as he was staring at the leafy greens, inspiration hit: New Paltz’s newest jam-band sensation, Kale, was soon to be born, as fresh as the produce that spawned it. Rising from the ashes of two local jam bands — Man’s Mother and Dephcat — Kale has made their mark locally in their mere six months of existence. With Salzman on bass, Bartow on vocals and keys and Sam Kirschner on drums — the band is scoring gigs from outside of its hometown, hitting legacy bars in Manhattan, Long Island and Vermont and opening for bands they’ve looked up to for years. In New Paltz, they help to break capacity records at the places where they got their start — such as their ol’ reliable, Snug’s. “I wanted to do drums, bass, guitar and keys to have that really big sound,” Salzman said, regarding the band's formation. “I realized after a couple of days of playing that that was definitely what I wanted my main focus to be.” After Depchat's last show in February of 2022 and a few months of jamming, Kale performed their first live show in May at New Paltz’s Blueberry Fields. The moment they got on the platform and played to their first audience, they knew it was fate. “It was like a flower blooming,” Kirschner reflected. Spring was starting, and a new hope for a blossoming band was coming into fruition. Kale slowly started to develop original songs through jams and onstage improvisations. In their earliest shows at the Blueberry and Snug’s, they focused on spinning songs from the Grateful Dead, Phish and other classic rock and jam-band acts into versions of their own. With Salzman’s powerful, driving bass, along with Bartow’s passionate vocals and key melodies — that made them stick out amongst other jam-bands — they were already establishing a unique sound to the new crowds rolling in to hear them. As the band progressed, they acquired gigs at The Bitter End — New York City’s oldest rock club — as well as Garcia’s, an iconic hotspot for deadheads, in Port Chester. Opening up for fellow jam-band up-and-comers Eggy and Baked Shrimp, Kale was starting to acquire fanbases in other pockets of the Northeast. Using the previous experience he had with booking Dephcat shows, Bartow took the reins on marketing and advertising — turning Kale from a band into a brand. Using programs such as Illustrator and Photoshop, he designed colorful and descriptive show posters and graphics for each gig. The band is also big on merch — stickers and shirts with their logo — “kale” in bright, green bubbly letters — were a must and developed as quickly as their career took off. After facilitating the rise of two of his own musical projects, Bartow has learned that the process of “growing” a band is far more than just playing an instrument onstage. Attending jam-band concerts has always been a hobby of his, and later became his design inspiration — enticed by the collectability of gig items such as posters that are custom-made for each date. “People go on to buy them and then put them on their wall,” he said. “You can always relive that memory just by looking at the poster.” In jam-band culture, every show is a memory — which is something Kale values through each set: making sure the crowd remembers the date. “There's more to the show than just going and seeing music. There's outfits they have on; there's a whole show they put on and you can go buy merch. You can listen to their stuff after; you can look up interviews and feel personal connections with the musicians. It’s a lot more.” This year’s Halloweekend was monumental for the band — on Oct. 29, along with fellow New Paltz bands What? and Kablamo, the band forced the already-packed bar to deny entry to anyone else trying to get in. A line stayed stagnant at the door all night while the three acts rocked the house until the early hours of Sunday morning. Coming off of their 2022 fall tour, the band feels confident and flexible, drawing new inspirations from covering electronic noughties and 2010s hits — Aviici’s “Levels” and even Drake’s “One Dance.” They are looking to experiment past their jam origins and take an indietronica approach to their sets, taking notes from synth-pop group Cut Copy — whom they’ve recently discovered — and Daft Punk. “We have no boundaries at this point,” said Bartow. “We can make our own space; we don’t have to follow a jam-band circuit.” Kale’s next gig is a dance-party postgame for Vermont-based rockers Twiddle at Paramount Theatre’s Spotlight Bar in Huntington, NY on Jan. 20. After that, they plan to retreat into the remaining frigid Winter months to record — with the hopes of finally putting out songs on streaming platforms. Months of hard work, thoughtful branding and eating their leafy greens has gotten the trio this far — and it continues to be an easy ride to reach their firmly-rooted goals. If you don’t already have Kale in your musical diet, make sure you get them on your plate before they swim to the Phishes at the top. Follow Kale on Instagram to stay updated on future shows and releases! Sam Smith is strumming his bass as he adjusts his phone’s camera. He’s laughing and apologizing, cracking jokes about how he’s never used Zoom on anything but his laptop before. He’s in his Bed-Stuy apartment and I’m in New Paltz, but the distance between us and choppiness of the video call didn’t matter to me. After I saw his band Art Thief at Snug’s that past weekend, I knew I had to speak to the mastermind of the madness no matter what it took. Unlike his celebrity name-twin, Smith isn’t one to sing slow-paced pop ballads. Instead, his style of music blends the funk-tinged soulful sounds of acts like Hiatus Kaiyote and Melt, hints of psychedelica and jam-band sentiments with clever and creative songwriting. Art Thief’s newest project, “Tough Crowd,” debuted in March 2021. Its catchy hooks, ambitious synth breakdowns, jutting basslines and, at times, silly subject matter (see “Weed is Tight”) made it an instant standout from the other types of music that has found itself on the beloved dive bar’s stage prior. Smith’s experiences as a musician go back further than the beginnings of Art Thief — he’s been creating tiny raps and songs ever since he was a child and learned how to play bass at 13. Even though he has been performing for over 19 years, he has been a full-time musician for around eight. “I don't know if I've ever started thinking of it as a career, rather than just something I love to do,” he said. “I've always kind of thought of myself more as an enthused hobbyist than professional musician, just because it's more fun to think of it that way.” Attending SUNY New Paltz in the early 2010s allowed Smith to cross paths with guitarist Andrew Jordan, with whom he started Cheap Date — the beginning blueprint of what will later be called Art Thief. Originally just a cover band, the band played shows at Snug’s, as well as other past local spots, switching performers around until they hit a steady lineup. Cheap Date eventually progressed into Tyrannosaurus Sex, but collided with a North Jersey artist under the same name. “A consistent problem with cool band names is usually somebody else already beat you to it,” he reflects. They eventually found a home for the project under its current title — inspired by a family member of keyboardist Bryan Ponton who supposedly stole a painting years ago. After seeing that it was available, the band finally made its transition from cover-oriented to a full-fledged creative outlet. All of Art Thief's streamable recorded music was done in Smith’s bedroom. When he sits down and begins the recording process, he tries to think about Nirvana. “I just really love them,” he says. “I love Kurt Cobain's writing sense and his idea of energy, like for him, things had to be kind of raw.” He also draws inspiration from 70s bassist Jaco Pastorius, whose style of music is somewhat opposite — trying to make things perfect and spending years on demos. “They both share a similar thing where the song matters first and then fitting in everything else comes second. That is supposed to serve the song, and you're supposed to walk away with it being stuck in your head. Those are the things that are on the forefront of my mind when I try to record something: Is it raw but intentional? Will it hopefully get stuck in somebody's head? Was it the best tape you could get? If you can get it better, you should try and do it again.” Smith being a frontman as well as a bassist changes the structure of Art Thief songs, building them up from a bassline and shaping all other sounds around it. Backing guitar riffs and soothing key breaks curve in all of the right places around the deep, driving power of the instrument. Listening to Art Thief’s music will scratch something deeply buried in your brain, and this is most likely one of the reasons why. Throughout “Tough Crowd,” despite the upbeat, funky and jovial spirit that flies through the instrumentals, there remains a sense of loneliness and isolation in the lyrics. On some tracks, such as the aptly-named “Quarantine,” the source of those feelings are clear — the pandemic. The 13th track “Stuck In Space” was also one I assumed was COVID-related, but Smith actually wrote the lyrics years ago while on a tour from hell. “I was with an artist that I really didn't want to be on tour with. I was like ‘I can't wait to get home.’ You can’t just go home; you’re stuck in another country dealing with this. It was a great experience that seemed really cool on paper, but I hated it. The pandemic gave me the time and mental freedom I needed to reflect on that and put it on paper and then be like, ‘okay, I'm gonna sing it into the microphone.’” Ever since the release of the album, Art Thief, as a unit, has been blazing through stages across the United States. With Jordan, Ponton, drummer Graham Dolby, saxophonist Steve Frieder and singer AM Berretta all accompanying Smith onstage during live performances, a fresh energy is brought to already lively tracks. Berretta’s powerful stage presence and vocals breathes a new passion into the songs, commands the audience to pay attention and proves that the entire band just wants to have fun with it. They also tend to throw in a couple of fun covers; a favorite of mine is their vibrant spin on Nine Inch Nails’ “Closer,” taking the opposite route of Trent Reznor’s near-whispering, mysterious tone and transforming it into a high-powered sing-along, thanks to Berretta’s beautifully-delivered and held high notes. Whether you catch them live or sit down and listen to their work, Art Thief will entrance and fascinate you and keep you humming along all day to that do-do-do-do-do-do bassline in “Catch and Release.” To put things simply, you’ll have plain ol’ fun; after all, that is their mission. Art Thief will play in NYC come December, but Smith hints at a possible New Paltz return in early 2023. Until then, enjoy the smooth sounds of “Tough Crowd” on your favorite streaming service — sitting back and letting the soundscapes of these talented musicians crash over you like awesome waves. It’s rather easy to find solace in any corner of the town of New Paltz. To some people, it might be whatever patch of grass they choose to nestle in beside the Wallkill, or their favorite graffitied picnic table around the perimeter of Peace Park. For musicians and grad students Julia Bellontine and Santi Coto Segnini, their special spot was in a tiny red shed in the backyard of a shady single-story house, where their band Kablamo’s first full length self-titled debut was born. Formed in 2019 as a loosely-structured jam band, the group’s lineup has welcomed a variety of contributors. Performing primarily at live house show venues throughout New Paltz, both Bellontine, drums and vocals, and Segnini, guitar and vocals, wished to bring their energy to the studio to write their own music, a venture they started to pursue amid the rise of the pandemic. “We wrote the songs, recorded them and then performed them live,” said Bellontine. “We were able to get context: ‘Okay, how do people react to this song? Sometimes people get bored during that time. Maybe we can make that arrangement more exciting when we go into the studio.’” As performances started to pick back up in the spring of 2021, Kablamo released their first official single, “Cruisin,’” that April. Featuring once-New Paltz-based On Pink’s Joe Ippolito on bass, the song was an immediate cornerstone on the band’s live sets, and a personal milestone to the musicians themselves, thrilled to finally have a recorded piece to send to people who asked about their music. The duo spent the next year revising and perfecting each song, inviting New Paltz artists in their circle and going tweaking each version to perfection before the final cut. Musician Charlie Peterson and On Pink bassist Tom Giuzio learned basslines to help the band play live. Their setup still stood in the Red Shed the day after the album release, microphones attached to the drumset, and stands propped in the same place where they recorded and performed down to the last touches. On Sep. 9, 2022, “Kablamo” was finally out on all streaming services. The band even sold Sharpie scribble-ridden CDs of the EP next to colorful branded t-shirts at a release party in the Red Shed the day after. They played the album in full, the crowd already knowing the words and singing along, followed by a series of fun cover songs that kept the energy up, the audience bouncing and the windows fogging from the heated intensity.
The debut features seven solid tracks, tackling the real-life ups and downs that the members have faced in their college careers and beyond. With three songwriters contributing to the lyrics — Bellontine, Segnini and fellow collaborator and musician Aiden Ludlam — the songs have a healthy stylistic range: some sweetly simple and straightforward while others delve into more abstract and fluid themes that anyone can interpret using their own personal compass. This broad range of styles caused slight clashes in the songwriting process, however. “That's the thing about making music with someone; it correlates to your own demons,” said Bellontine. “Making music means you have to argue, like a little bit, because it's like, “I like this part. You like this part.” None of them is objectively better than the other, so you have to compromise. We just learned how to compromise a lot.” Bellontine, who also drums for New Paltz-based all-female group Yes Ma'am, maintains a powerful vocal delivery as she sings behind the set. Paired with Segnini’s equally ethereal vocals, the two have a smooth and melodious harmonic balance that takes the listener on a sonic ride through their guitar riffs and beats. The band takes pride in wearing their inspirations on their sleeve, their hazy-pop sound comparing to the likes of their favorite modern shoegaze group DIIV, and even the 00s chart queens such as Britney Spears and Kesha whose songs occasionally appear in their setlist as covers. While other artists shy away from claiming the bands they love have strong influences in how they sound, Kablamo proudly admits that “Face to Face” was once labeled “The DIIV Song.” “It’s very genuine,” said Segnini, regarding the album. “It’s very unpretentious in the way we went about it. I think a lot of ego and tension has dissipated to the point where we are on the same page. We just want this to be as good as it can be, and we’ll do our part.” The disassociation from ego shines throughout the album but comes to a head in the final track, “Face to Face.” A song about owning up to your mistakes and taking that difficult, grueling look at yourself in the mirror, it’s a love letter to the listener, telling you that it’s ok to make a change. Meanwhile, angst runs high in the album’s fourth track, “Autumn of Breakups,” a song that tackles the longing of a love lost during the pleasant season of the year, and life. “I think one of the main things of this album, at least from my perspective, is that there's a lot of optimistic songs. It's not a really emo album and also, we don't really care about sounding cool. We're kind of just being authentic. I want people to feel good when they listen to our music. I mean, someone said to me that they were really crying to “Autumn of Breakups” the other day. I was very, very happy. [laughs] But yeah, the thing is it's a wide range of emotions. That's kind of what we're getting at. It's positive, but also it's kind of dark and it's just real.” Currently on the Kablamo agenda include a collection of hometown gigs in New Paltz, and some Yes Ma'am shows for Bellontine. A potential string of shows in New York City could be in the works as well. The band has been producing a “Making Of” Instagram video series, where each week they highlight a song from the album and provide exclusive in-depth details about the processes. At the end of the day, the band’s main goal is to get back in their sacred Red Shed, and ambitiously tackle their next project as soon as possible. Follow @kablamo.ny on Instagram and listen to “Kablamo” on your favorite streaming service. When the summer first started, I told myself I needed to start writing about music more often. There are multitudes of possible reasons for this; maybe it’s to build up my resume since college is coming to a close for me in a year. To save myself from boredom. To rant about the music I love to a platform that might actually read it. To remind people that this blog exists.
After the commencement of the solstice, I’ve found myself going on a lot more drives with the sun peeking through the trees, sprinkling itself all over my face, allowing the cool air that smells like rainfall to seep into the car. During these late June endeavors, I’ve had the strongest urge to listen to one artist in particular to truly feel these vibrations: Atlas Sound. For those unfamiliar readers, allow me to give you a brief overview of this project, since it fascinates me to no end. Atlas Sound is the warm, ethereal and shoegaze-y solo moniker for Deerhunter lead singer Bradford Cox that he’s been using to categorize the music that he creates since his childhood. The first song I heard from Atlas was “Walkabout,” from the 2009 album Logos, since Noah Lennox (Panda Bear to most) from Animal Collective was featured as a vocalist in it. Also being an established fan of the indie legends that Deerhunter are at this point, it took me a while to dive deeper into Cox’s solo efforts, but when I finally did, it was like I unlocked the key to fully understanding this artist and the other work he has put out prior, while also discovering pieces of myself in the process. Let’s talk Logos. The album cover artwork is one that I glanced over at first, thinking it was a typical dream pop “out-of-body” statement to capture the sound of the music. With his face blurred out by a beam of light, Cox stands over, shirtless, and slightly hunched over in front of a red backdrop. Cox was diagnosed with Marfan Syndrome at a young age, an inherited disorder which can drastically affect physical appearance, making one very tall and thin, and comes with a promise of an array of heart, blood vessels and eye problems. Cox has been very vocal throughout his career about how his childhood illnesses contributed to his feelings of isolation and loneliness, and how he spent most of his time trying to express these feelings into music. The cover allows the viewer to embrace his body for what it is, a part of the art. After learning his background, I re-listened to the Atlas song “Quarantined.” Though not on Logos, I find that that song and its lyrical content is the most appropriate source to draw on while focusing on the solo-ness of this project. The opening lines, which are the only lines, themselves pack a punch, thinking of a young Cox: “Quarantined and kept so far away from my friends / I am waiting to be changed.” I can definitely see a lot of people turning to this song to relate to the COVID quarantine, like I first did, but now trying to do so feels like an understatement to Cox’s original ideas while composing it, a solitude that delves past what we felt in those months. The lyrical content of Logos takes these simple stanzas and draws on all the dimensions of these concepts, of feeling an otherworldly isolation from others. Cox’s hushed, echoey yet dragging vocals expresses a longing behind each and every word. Sometimes you can’t understand all that he is saying, but wouldn’t you also say the same thing about what he has gone through? As I’ve read articles and interviews about this artist, I’ve found that he is very much misinterpreted a lot of the time. In early 00s press, many critics commented on his thinness (completely disregarding his condition and making gross, body shaming jokes), crossdressing on stage (mostly in a transphobic, heteronormative manner), outlandish beef with Billy Corgan and basically everything but the stark sadness that was oozing out of the Deerhunter lyrics at the time. I’ve been affected by a lot of his well-executed interviews; he’s talked a lot about his thoughts on sexuality and how its grip on our culture is tightened by capitalism, an idea that I find myself thinking about often now. He has also come out as asexual, which adds dimensions to some of his lyrics, but unfortunately, the press only seems to strangely and judgingly focus on the fact that he’s admitted to be a virgin. Not only is Cox extremely well spoken, he channels these unconventional ideas in his work as well, but only if you listen intentionally. Logos is a whimsical journey, featuring blips, bits and pieces of noises that are like playtime for your brain. “The Light That Failed” acts as a noisy introduction to Cox’s world, a relaxed series of waves that slowly draw you in with each acoustic strum. He blends these guitar melodies with sheets of sound as the album progresses; Cox brings in two dream pop experts, the aforementioned Panda Bear and Stereolab singer Lætitia Sadier, solidifying the album as a shoegaze powerhouse. He talks of lights, traveling, death, religion (my favorite lyric ever, from “Quick Canal,” ‘I thought saints were born saints’), struggles with identity and being alone. It’s the perfect peek into his psyche, one that you catch glimpses of throughout Deerhunter’s discography but won’t fully grasp until you listen to a solo effort. It’s both nostalgic and futuristic, like you’re levitating above the space-time continuum looking at what’s normally on your level at a new angle. I feel at peace when I listen to this album. It reminds me of when the sun reaches the top of my window, about an hour before it sets. Its repetitive jingles are like a blanket for my ears, and I feel warm while listening to it. I don’t want to give too much away about Atlas Sound, because I feel like its discography is an auditory experience that you have to listen and decipher in your own way to define. I hope that my words inspire you to check Bradford Cox’s music out, whether it be under AS or Deerhunter, and read some of his interviews as well. I’ve learned a lot from his words, both spoken and sung, and I believe the rest of the breathing world can, as well. My heart pounds as I take a shaky sip of my water, proceeding to grab the microphone on the floor to address the dozens of students that await the New Paltz Music Collective Open Mic night that happened last November. There aren't nearly enough chairs for the amount of people who showed up; most guests are sitting on the floor, but when I ask, no one has a problem with it. They’re just excited to see their friends and the many other musicians that haven’t gotten a chance to perform in front of people in over two years. I go up to greet the crowd, my first “presidential speech” of sorts since accepting the offer in August of 2021. I have no idea what to say — but I feel like it doesn’t matter. I just want to let the music do the talking. After all, it hasn’t been able to speak for itself since the beginning of my second semester of freshman year. I vocalize some sort of a greeting to the crowd and then yell the name of the first act — two guys that I’ve seen around campus; I believe it was their first public performance as a duo. For this next paragraph, detailing the night and all of its great acts, I wish I could take all of the talent and squeeze a healthy amount of feasible words out of it to describe how amazing it was to be a bystander, witnessing this renaissance happen. Actually — I don’t know if I even want to label it as such. A lot of people have come up to me throughout these painful two years and have confidently declared, “The New Paltz music scene is dead.” I wrestled with the sentiment. I don’t know if it was my painfully persistent optimism or all of the musical friends I had that were jamming under the covers of this pandemic-riddled town, but I could not bring myself to agree. The scene wasn’t dead, but by God, I’ll admit that it was struggling on life support. Being resuscitated once in a while by a couple of outdoor concerts and blue-moon house shows, the stages that are meant to foster the talent of this place were fleeting. But it never was dead. The passion never left, it was just stifled. There were bands still practicing, holding tiny, pop-up concerts at friends’ homes and storefront venues. There were still musicians posting flyers on campus — guitarist and bassist in search of a drummer, etc. — advertising their releases on social media. New genres were being introduced, yet people were already designing the epitaph on the New Paltz Music Tombstone — “dead, gone for good, all of the bands are the same, there are no accessible gigs.” It’s been a rough semester — for me and for everyone — but I tried my best to keep my tabs on everything going on. Listening to all of the new albums, following new artists on Instagram, wishing I could go to Snug’s Open-Mic Night but it was on the only night that I had work. I kept on searching for stories for my beloved Arts & Entertainment section of the New Paltz Oracle, and managed to write a couple of cute articles about my current favorite bands and shows, and so did my amazing A&E copy editors. My semester at the Oracle was a struggle enough; the events that happened around it made me feel anxious and extra-cautious about my output and impact as a journalist, an extra layer of self-consciousness that didn’t help all of the stress that was already there. With planning for the first proper Music Collective show in two years, my anxiety made it feel like all eyes were on me; I couldn’t have everything go wrong and have people rip apart another club I loved. At the beginning of the semester, I held the first Music Collective meeting of the new year, hoping that the Open Mic from November inspired some new people to join. From the get-go, it appeared that we had a solid squad to get things moving. I sent out a poll filled with the long list of local and tri-state bands that the club members wanted to play here, and they all voted on two — local breakout stars Meow Meow and Man’s Mother. With my amazing Vice President Birgitta by my side, constantly being there to answer my 2am manic texts about ideas for the show, we successfully coordinated three committees — booking, advertising and zines — made up of the most passionate kids ever to help plan the NPMC Resurrection Show, set to happen on March 25. Set to happen. After a botched event application, thousands of Email chains and a huge miscommunication later, we had everything set up in the Student Union Building’s 100 North room — equipment that our Zine Manager Denise brought in using their connection to the Music Department — and it was all shut down, taken away in minutes. And It. Felt. Like. It. Was. All. My. Fault. It was, in a way, I realized as I was scolded by a staff member. I should have read the Emails better. I should have somehow understood that it takes three weeks to process an event request. I should have known all of the forms I needed before they brought it on me three days prior to the show. I sulked outside of Hissho Sushi, feeling dehydrated, humiliated and like I needed to hide in a corner and pray for rain to come bounding down from the already-gray sky and crash upon me — and then I saw it. All of the club members sitting outside with me, whipping their phones out and typing away, trying to find a venue, any venue, to make sure that this show happened that night. Members of Meow Meow were on the phone for what seemed like hours, seeing who they could contact for a last-minute gig. Our social media manager kept our followers posted on the status of the show. At this moment I realized — all of the doom-talk about the scene being dead was absolutely bullshit. There are still people willing to make this happen. No one was angry — they were just determined, fueled by the love for live music that has been pulsing through my veins ever since my first show at Skatehouse freshman year. These people — almost all of them coming to this school after COVID, not having a chance to see the true potential of this town — were going to make this happen. Of course, even though we all love live music, no one was willing to have a house show within a few hours’ notice. After all, I wanted this to be on campus for free, so that everyone would have an equal opportunity to see the bands, and no homeowners will have to have all of that stress put on them. A quote from 2014 Music Collective president Matt Sherman from an old Oracle article reads, “It’s very hard to enjoy live bands in New Paltz, since the only place in town they really have to play at are the bars, which can often provide less than ideal playing situations for the musicians, and listening situations for the fans. We want to have performances happen on campus so that the music can be the main focus.” This is the mission statement of the org, and even though it’s a little bit easier nowadays to see music here, I still wish to fully embody it. Over the next month, a slew of house shows happened, hosted by my classmates and even by some of my close friends. It was amazing to see people I am close to being inspired in the same way that I did, and having my freshman friends gush to me about how amazing it was to be in a sweaty basement, hearing great acts such as Kablamo! And The Field Service. All of this fueled me to work on rescheduling this show and making sure that it all went on flawlessly, which called for countless online forms, learning tax jargon and standing outside of the school’s Finance office for hours, ensuring the bands were getting paid. My anxious perfectionism concerned my friends. “Don’t drive yourself crazy with all of this,” Jack, the Man’s Mother bassist, texted me one day while I was updating him with the latest information the school asked me to obtain from the band. “I already went crazy, so they can’t push me further than I already am,” I responded. That same day I emailed with Meow Meow and taught them how to fill out a W-9, even though I had just learned to do so a day prior. There’s a reason why house shows are easier to plan than school events — you don’t need to beg multiple people to use a room and present why you want to have said event in front of a council. Anything for this to happen, was my philosophy at this point. April 29, a date I both looked forward to and dreaded through gritted teeth. The zines — with a theme of house show “firsts” and favorite parts of the scene — received dozens of submissions and were displayed on the front tables. Everyone who was there for the pre-pandemic years had something to say. I talked about my first show, how I was so intimidated but quickly realized that in this heated sauna of a student housing rental basement, bands producing sounds I’ve never heard before, was where I belonged. The kids of the new generation of SUNY New Paltz were also slowly learning this; I’m seeing it with my own eyes. I saw it when my freshman Oracle copy editors got lost in the mosh pit during Kablamo’s cover of “As It Was,” smiles still visible in the sea of many others. I saw it when their eyes lit up later when I told them that Man’s Mother would be playing at my show, immediately enthusiastically asking me to request songs for them. I saw it when the audience filed in as soon as the “doors” of SUB 100N opened at 6:30 that night, how it looked like a mass of fans magically appeared at the snap of a finger. The thing is, calling the New Paltz music scene “dead” and solely referring to the lack of bands is only a part of the community as a whole. Would you say the multiple photographers, running around the show, snapping amazing pictures of the performance to post later, are dead? Would you say the kids running up to me after the show, begging me to host another open-mic because they’re thinking of starting a band, are dead? Would you say that my friends who made an “I Heart Man’s Mother” poster, and the friends of Meow Meow that cheered with sheer wonder when vocalist Kathryn performed on the floor during their cover of “Be Quiet and Drive (Far Away)” are dead? The music scene of a town is only as great as the non-musicians that foster it, and in New Paltz, it’s strong, ever-growing and rooted in an undying love for the live show. Now, looking back at the show, the only emotion I can successfully verbalize is simply feeling inspired. By my wonderful musician friends, the ones I knew before and the ones that I’ve met this year, for constantly appreciating my existence and for continuing to amaze me with all of their skills. By my wonderful Music Collective team, for not abandoning the cause like I assumed everyone would when the first show went down, and for instilling a hope in the new post-COVID generation of NP music-lovers. And by everyone who showed up, cheered, had a good time, by the glimmer in all of my friends' eyes who had their first real New Paltz show that night. We, as a town, lost a lot after the pandemic music-wise. Artists graduated, people moved away and many gave up on looking through the rubble of the remains of the scene. I hope that the takeaway from reading my long, winding anecdote of this semester is that the scene is alive and well, and we must be the ones to add fuel to the fire again to make sure it stays lit long after we’re gone. By holding shows. By giving voices to new bands to artists. By fostering creativity and a community of love. All of these things I can only hope I do. These roads will be crossed again, but only if we have the drive to keep on playing. HAGS, Alli In our town’s recent efforts to revive our music scene, New Paltz has seen a lot of genre-fluid acts pop up. We’ve seen breakcore artists, folk singer-songwriters, classic rock revivalists and so many more that are impossible to tie down with certain keywords. This movement into experimentation was solidified for me when I received the demo for Upstate NY-native post-rock band Salutations’ new song, “Bliss.”
The band, started in 2019, is made up of Ryan Guidry on vocals and guitar, John Porcelli on drums and Zach Vogel on bass and synth — as well as being the producer of this track. The song is an exceptionally-crafted 5-minute commentary on the dangers of the alt-right pipeline that opens up through our modern-day hostile social media environment. Drawing inspiration from current post-punk giants — Squid, Black Midi and Black Country New Road — Guidry also takes from the likes of old classics through his vocal performances; his agitated high-pitched vocals that match the hectic story he tells of falling down the “rabbit hole” of conspiracies give David Byrne of Talking Heads. The band has faced a number of struggles since their formation — lineup changes, quarantine and the subsequent rut of the New Paltz music scene that followed it have created hardships for the group, but Guidry feels like they are ready to bounce back. “The biggest difference between old Salutations and the new stuff is that I'm making music for myself now,” he said. “I'm not trying to make something accessible. I'm trying to make something that I can be proud of. I think that's the biggest thing.” Guidry was a part of a previous project called Summer Reads, where he focused on a more 2010s-emo revival sound. Over quarantine, he discovered the post-punk genre and all of the bands encompassed in it, and was heavily inspired regarding his own work. The past year has seen Salutations traveling quite a bit gig-wise, with a handful of their shows happening at New Paltz outdoor house venue “Tall Grass,” as well as pit-stops to Bar Freda in Queens and a couple of Manhattan venues — such as Pianos and The Delancey. The inspiration for “Bliss” comes from Guidry’s anger towards “#StopTheSteal” — a movement named for the claim that Donald Trump fairly won the 2020 election, and his supporters' votes were thrown out. He also based lyrics off of his own personal experiences of seeing people in his life fall victim to these movements. One of the several characters referenced in this cautionary tale is a boy who gave into the QAnon-like propaganda — and “isn’t looking for his way back up.” “I just think that's so common nowadays,” he said. “I just felt like I needed to write a song about how I felt about propaganda and conspiracy theories. I don't want people to take this song and just be like, ‘Oh, this is funny. Ryan's just making fun of the far right.’ I'd want them to take it and look at people in their lives and see these things actually happening, because it's not funny. It’s dangerous.” Guidry, a history major currently finishing out his college career at SUNY New Paltz, has been greatly affected by learning about United States conflicts and international issues. Previously majoring in Latin American Studies, he was upset by the many U.S. interferences that occurred throughout the region’s history. A factor that he feels is important to making a change regarding these harmful pipelines that many fall down is the truth. "Sometimes the truth hurts, but it’s what you need to hear,” he bellows towards the end of the track. The repetition of the phrase as the song comes to a close is impactful and drives Guidry and the rest of the band’s message home. Listen to “Bliss” on streaming services now, and follow the band on Instagram, @salutationsny, to keep track of future releases and performances. |