A clarinet in fourth grade doesn’t usually lead to fuzz pedals, pedal steel, and a packed tour van, but that’s the path Brendan Wright of Tiberius traces on Troubadour. We start with the spark—how a quiet kid found a home in melody—and follow the trail to the moment those bedroom songs finally stepped into stage lights. Through it all runs one through-line: honesty. The kind that feels safe when you’re singing alone, and the kind that feels a little dangerous when a room goes silent to hear it.

Brendan talks about walking that line between catharsis and the reality of sharing their work. They used to write like they were passing secret notes to themself. Now the notes have to breathe among strangers. They open up about shifting from super-specific diary lines to lyrics built around wider feelings—anxiety, persistence, the weird fog of transition—so more people can slip inside the songs. It doesn’t dull anything; it actually sharpens it. You can hear it in a line like “Why do I try to keep on trying?” and in the way the band lets silence hang before a chorus hits.

We dig into the making of Troubadour, from the piece-by-piece construction of Fish in a Pond to focused sessions at The Record Co. in Boston. Drummer Ben Curell, bassist Kelven “KP” Polite , and guitarist Christian Pace helped pull the songs into their live shape, with Nate Scaringi behind the board helping the drums land just right. The result is a sound Brendan jokingly calls “farm emo”—folk bones, a little country dust, and an emo heart—wrapped in those loud-quiet-loud dynamics that feel as much Neil Young as they do modern indie. It’s tender one moment, towering the next, built for small rooms that don’t stay small for long.

We close on motion. The northeast run—Burlington, Portland, Boston, Albany, Philly, New York—feels like both a celebration and a goodbye to a set they’ve lived inside for two years. New songs are forming. Brendan’s headspace is shifting again. That’s the promise here: a record that captures exactly where Tiberius is right now, and an artist already leaning toward whatever comes next.

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A deluxe release hits different when the songs feel like they’ve been kicking around in the dirt for years. On release day for Tear Your Heart Out (Deluxe), we sat down with villagerrr to walk the long, crooked road behind it—a story that starts in a small town, rattles through a red Pontiac Sunfire, and settles into the stubborn, hand-built joy of figuring out recording alone. Mark Scott talks about how long runs in cold air, odd hours cutting concrete, and a phone overloaded with gritty voice memos shaped a 16-track world that blends indie twang, folk warmth, and slowcore quiet. It’s the kind of record that asks to be played in sequence, the way you’d leaf through an old photo album—front to back, smudges and all.

We get into the slow shift from solitude to letting other people into the room, and why he only opens the door when the feel is right. The Merce Lemon feature arrived the old-fashioned way: see a set, feel something, and send a message that isn’t coated in industry varnish. Drummer Zane Dway adds heartbeat without sanding the rough edges, while Boone Patrello shows how a single late-night vibe call can lead to parts that sound like they were dug up rather than written. Most of the songs were nearly done before the guests stepped in, which is why the whole thing still sounds unmistakably Villager—one voice, one hand on the wheel, just more colours in the dust.

Real life hums in the background too: fans quietly singing the deep cuts, someone shyly handing over a record to sign after an opener slot, the strange feeling of seeing slow growth in places that aren’t algorithms or charts. We map out the Ohio college dates and a December run with Teethe, then lift the tarp on what’s coming next: another album already mastered, still self-recorded in the margins of real jobs and real days, sharper but cut from the same honest cloth.

If you care about albums built to be lived with, about DIY recordings that prize feel over polish, and about indie music that smells like cold air, old cars, and real life, this one is for you.

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There’s something beautiful about a guitar line that smiles while the lyric aches — that’s the trick Autocamper pulls off again and again. The Manchester band’s debut What Do You Do All Day? shimmers with that mix of brightness and bruising honesty.

Their story feels fittingly accidental: friends of friends, a project that almost happened, and finally a pub meeting that did. Out of that came a lineup stitched from deep-house childhoods, folk-festival summers, and an indie-pop instinct that just feels right. The result is a sound that breathes — light, melodic, a little dreamy, and grounded in real feeling.

When we talk about writing without irony, Jack laughs — it’s harder than it sounds. He writes from feeling first, letting words find their place once the music starts to move. Songs might begin as rough acoustic sketches or on a laptop at 2 a.m., but they only really live once the band’s in a room together. Everyone adds something different: the drummer’s electronic sensibility, the little melodic turns, the patience to leave space. It’s what makes the album flow the way it does — shifting vocals, thoughtful pacing, and hooks that sneak up on you later.

The reactions have been wild — singalongs in Glasgow, thoughtful notes from fans, and the odd review that missed the point entirely. That last one kicked off a bigger chat about how we listen, how we care, and why honest fanzines still matter.

At the heart of it all is sincerity. Autocamper’s not chasing cleverness or cool detachment — they’re after connection. And as they look ahead, they’re set on moving forward, not repeating themselves. The goal: keep it real, keep it human, keep it melodic.

If you like your indie rock with heart and a hint of ache, start here.
Spin the record, find your moment, and if it hits — tell someone. That’s how good music travels.

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A Canadian indie original walks into a Berlin studio and comes out with a record that swaps pews for pulse without losing its soul. We sit down with Joel Gibb of The Hidden Cameras to explore Bronto—how it was written across years and cities, why new instruments still spark his best songs, and what it takes to reinvent a beloved project without erasing its DNA. From the first gallery shows and that infamous “tones and drones of gay folk church music” tag to a slow-build electropop finale that took nearly two decades to land, Joel opens the notebook and lets us in.

We talk about the nine-year gap between albums and the quiet labour hidden inside it: tours that consumed seasons, pandemic delays, and long days auditioning sounds in Logic while folding in analogue synths for grit. Joel explains why he recorded vocals alone in Berlin, worked with Nicholas in Munich, and called on Owen Pallett in Toronto for strings—an international thread that gives Bronto its depth. Genre becomes a lens rather than a fence; he’s chased “goth,” “country,” and now “dance,” while staying true to the melodic bite and lyrical candour that defined The Hidden Cameras.

On the road, Joel is keeping it taut and human: train rides, a guitar, a kick drum, and tracks for the bangers. He shares why solo shows feel lighter and more focused, how he chooses setlists that bridge old hymns and new hedonism, and why some ideas need time to find the right frame. If you’re curious about creative process, gear as muse, or how a scene shift can change your sound without breaking your heart, this conversation delivers a rare, grounded look behind the curtain.

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What happens when you book four days in a studio with no songs written and trust your gut anyway? We sat down with Alexei Shishkin to unpack the making of Good Times, a record born from instinct, loops, and a shared “don’t overthink it” pact with producer Bradford Krieger at Big Nice in Rhode Island. Alexei walks us through the thrill of showing up empty-handed, improvising with friends, chopping bass lines into new shapes, and committing to sounds fast so inspiration never goes cold.

We dig into the long arc that got him there: early experiments with Sound Recorder and GarageBand, the way loops taught him arrangement and structure, and how his voice drifted from hidden texture to focal point as space, gear, and confidence shifted. Alexei explains why direct-in guitars, stock tools, and minimal mixing rounds weren’t shortcuts but creative choices that kept the project fluid. He also shares an unfiltered take on modern music careers—why he loves recording but refuses to tour, how he handled radio sessions with covers instead of acoustic stand-ins, and what it means to keep music in the passion lane while video work pays the bills.

This is a conversation for anyone fascinated by process over perfection, indie production that favours momentum, and the quiet discipline of knowing what you want from your art. Along the way, you’ll hear about influences like Microdisney, High Llamas, and Pavement, and the layered catalogue Alexei is building for deep-diving listeners. Press play, then tell us: do you value a flawless performance, or the spark of creation captured in real time? If you enjoy the show, follow, rate, and share with a friend who loves indie music stories shaped by instinct.

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A fall day, a fresh cup, and a songwriter ready to open the door. We sit down with Octoberman’s Marc Morrissette to trace the line from teenaged mixtapes and first guitars to packed vans, TV placements, and the decision to build Octoberman as a fluid, long-haul project. Marc shares how four songwriters in Kids These Days created abundance and how the quieter, folk-leaning material found a real home once he stepped into a looser, more personal frame.

The heart of this conversation lives in process and in the pivot points life hands you. Marc walks us through his writing ritual—constant note-taking, big demo batches, and letting the best ideas rise—then shows how trust shapes arrangements when bandmates write their own parts. We dig into Shoots and why he abandoned the click track for the warmth of two-inch tape, capturing performances live in the room. The result is a record that breathes: wood, wire, and the human timing you can feel in your chest.

There’s a deeper current here too. After stepping back for family and losing his mother suddenly, Marc found proof of her quiet belief—Octoberman CDs in her car, a scrapbook of clippings—and channelled that grief into a creative surge. Half of Shoots sprang from that renewed momentum; the other half came from forgotten demos on old hard drives, bringing vivid character songs and narrative vignettes that expand the album’s voice. We talk Canadiana roots, Harry Nilsson nods, and why names like Roger and Marla can pull a listener closer.

If you love indie folk, live-to-tape warmth, and honest talk about how records actually get made, you’ll feel at home. Press play, meet Marc’s world, and then tell us what you heard—your favourite track, a line that stuck, or your own story of stepping back and starting again. Subscribe, share with a friend who loves analog recordings, and leave a review to help more ears find the show.

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A sunlit hook can feel like a hand on your shoulder. That’s the energy we chase with Zane Ruttenberg of Thanks Light, as we unpack how Good Timing blends tropical psych shimmer, country ease, and harmony-rich craftsmanship into a record that invites you to stay for the whole side. Zane takes us from his backseat education with The Byrds and the Beach Boys to a lifelong obsession with layered vocals and melodies that last, sharing the human moments that seed lyrics—like a rough morning that turned into a song-worthy phrase.

We get inside the engine room of collaboration. Zane’s ear-trained, punk-spirited songwriting meets the classical rigour of longtime partner Michael Frels, creating friction that sharpens ideas without killing their spark. That push and pull shows up in arrangements that know what to protect—a defining riff, a hooky bassline—and what to open up for play. Along the way, we talk rotating lineups, shared fingerprints on records, and the quiet, unglamorous truth of trusting people after long van rides and late nights. It’s a portrait of a project that feels more like an art collective than a fixed band, yet still manages to sound unmistakably like Thanks Light.

Then we zoom in on Good Timing itself: the faux radio stinger that frames the album’s world, the exotica nods on the nine-minute closer, and the sequencing that makes each song feel necessary. Zane name-checks influences from Martin Denny and Jimmy Buffett to Granddaddy and Texas country pillars, weaving them into a sound that’s escapist without being empty. Finally, he teases what’s next—two albums tracked in parallel, one bright and breezy, the other tender and blue—both shaped to feel cohesive from first note to last.

If you love harmony-rich indie, tropical psych colours, and songs built to last, hit play, follow the show, and leave a review to tell us which moment stuck with you most. Your notes guide future conversations and help more listeners find the music.

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The first spark was private: long walks, headphones on, and albums that asked for total attention. From there, Living Hour grew into a band that treats dynamics like storytelling—opening with noise that dissolves into hush, letting melodies carry both weight and warmth, and trusting listeners to lean in. We sit down with Sam and Gil to trace the arc from university jams in Winnipeg’s DIY rooms to a studio session that captured the bold confidence of Internal Drone Infinity, their new record dropping October 17.

We unpack how ambient influences—Godspeed You! Black Emperor, Explosions in the Sky, and the Social Network score—shaped a patient, spacious approach to songwriting. Sam explains how ideas begin as fragments and vowel sounds, how a riff earns its place by refusing to fade, and how lyrics stepped forward across albums until the new songs felt fully owned. Gil maps the shift from guitar‑forward interplay to arrangements built around Sam’s melodies, and what happens when a new drummer changes the band’s gait in the best way. Touring comes to life here too: the van routines, modular setlists that fit quiet rooms and rock clubs, and the small onstage transitions that make the show breathe.

You’ll hear why release season feels like nesting and training, how social media becomes part amplifier, part chore, and why November’s run is designed like a marathon. We also look ahead: February dates on the West Coast, hopes for Europe and Australia, and a folder of demos that might become an EP. Sam’s ambient side project, Pure Pulp, threads back to the beginning—proof that the private room where songs start remains the core of the band’s voice. If you love indie rock steeped in ambient textures, slow‑core dynamics, and heartfelt vocals, this conversation will lock you in. Subscribe, share with a friend who needs new music, and leave a review to help more listeners find the show.

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A candle lit in a tiny kitchen. A book of poems opened before the phone wakes the world. That’s where this story begins—at the border of dream and day—where Sara Mae Henke (The Noisy) learned to trust the spark that eventually leapt from the page to a microphone. We dig into how a poet’s routine became a musician’s backbone, and how community—slam circles, UT Knoxville’s scene, and a tight-knit queer network in the South—turned a good voice into a living catalogue of songs.

We talk about building an album like a neighbourhood: each track its own house with different colours, but all on the same street. Chappell Roan’s world-per-song approach hovers in the blueprint, while touchpoints span Mannequin Pussy’s snarl, Lucy Dacus’s glow, shoegaze haze, and the country DNA of a Maryland childhood soundtracked by Shania Twain and Carrie Underwood. The deluxe release, The Secret Ingredient Is Even More Meat, isn’t a victory lap—it’s a field report. Nightshade finally arrives from the original writing burst. Tony Soprano grows from an inward whisper to a communal hymn for grief. Morricone exists twice, riding from spaghetti-western swagger to true indie rock. Live tracks capture the Philly lineup breathing new life into the set.

Then we go stranger and truer: clown as a craft lens. Not costume, but consent—to be fully seen, to be in on the joke with the audience, to carry the thought you’d normally take back and turn it into a chorus. We unpack how embarrassment can become voltage, how idiosyncratic structures and non-traditional recording make room for surprise, and why intimacy with listeners beats suspicion. Along the way, we honour the collaborators who opened doors, lent gear, taught etiquette, and showed that independent musicians are some of the most generous people on earth.

If you’re curious about how poetry informs melody, how queer community shapes art, and how a deluxe record can map the life of songs onstage and off, you’ll feel at home here. Join us, subscribe to the show, and tell a friend who needs a spark. And if the music moved you, leave a review—what track hit first, and why?

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What if the truest parts of a record live beneath the surface, shaping what you hear without ever announcing themselves? We sit down with Carson McHone to trace the layers behind Pentimento—from Austin’s all-ages venues to a late-summer desert in West Texas and a snow-dusted session by the Bay of Fundy, tracked to 8-track tape. Along the way, Carson shares the moment she said goodbye to restaurant shifts from the White Horse stage, the journal her mother kept during her first year of life, and how words, melody, and memory braid into songs that feel at once intimate and wide open.

We explore creativity as both posture and practice: the ear training of Suzuki lessons, the freedom of a gifted mandolin, and the patience to catch a song’s thread whether it arrives as a fully formed line or a slow, methodical build. The title Pentimento—borrowed from visual art—becomes a map for the album’s design: the underpainting that persists through time, the overlapping faces of influence, the way a project can hold multiple truths at once. Carson talks about recording to tape, embracing texture over tidy edges, and respecting albums as one living piece rather than a handful of singles. Listeners have responded by pressing play again the moment the last track ends, sensing a narrative that’s felt more than spelled out.

If you’re drawn to songwriting craft, analog recording, Austin music history, or the elemental pull of place—desert heat and ocean tide—you’ll find a lot to love here. We hold space for the practical and the poetic: paying the bills, protecting the creative spark, and building work that would be worth making even if no one heard it. Hit play, share it with a friend who still listens front to back, and leave a review to tell us what layer you heard first.

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