Last Resort News

Circling guitar lines; the rise of fall of delicate bass; deep, breathy horns: sonic elements that exist in a state of slow, perpetual motion, like ideas sprouting from some kind of cognitive compost. With wonder and charm, G. S. Schray's new solo album, Whispered Something Good, evokes a realm of new growth while offering a fitting soundtrack for its exploration, as if tailor made for both the daydreamer and silly adventurer.


We start in the darkness of "Unlit Center" with elliptical phrases of jazz guitar. A conversation between double bass, synthesiser, and piano plays out on "In Tears Twice A Page" before we're ushered into the reflective zone of "Another Haunted Mirror." There is synth mist which trumpet cuts through decisively like a shaft of light from the sun: warm and clear. As the album proceeds, firmer rhythms coalesce. On "Prelude for Probably," clattering drums lock into a triumphant groove with horns. And then, to close, the instrumental art-pop of "Gone in Amber," probing not necessarily towards a final destination but another stop-off, one of distant birdsong and the faintest flicker of synth. Intimate and inviting, the act of listening to Whispered Something Good is akin to digging through an imagination. It's a place of subliminal melodies blooming into rhizomatic musical shapes, stray musings coalescing as bolts of inspiration — change fostering yet more change.

Memory is malleable. The day you met the person you love, what color shirt was she wearing? At precisely what angle did the sunlight strike his face? How exactly did they glow? These little details are precious, but the strange thing is, the more you cherish them, the more they change. Each recollection is another potential touch point where stories can shift—each replay degrades the truth. Reality's rough edges smooth, with time. Objectivity is a myth: cameras and recording devices all contort image and sound. There's no way to know exactly how things were. And yet we still tell the stories, to try to capture how things felt, even though the truth is always slipping through our fingers.

Lemon Quartet's second albumArts Festseems to unconsciously circle this thematic territory. Full of loose, yet lush repetition, it seems to function like memory—each dizzy melody recalling and rewriting what came before, subtly shaping each piece as time passes. Not that they seem especially concerned with the passage of time anyway. They space out, they work in the realm of feelings, scribbling melodious abstractions that feel familiar. Rich with compassion, harmony, and gestures toward ecstatic—if not objective—truth, it's full of the sort of pieces that demand you return to them, but sound a bit different each time, new details overtaking familiar comforts. Are you hearing them for the first time? Or just for the first time in a long time? Either way, drift away, and try to remember…

Piano, handmade electronics, tenor sax, couple strings.

I was after something tangible. Sounds you could roll around in your palm and consider different, complex, and flawed textures. Feel the weight, maybe even smell them.

This desire is probably a reaction to the dissociative nausea from the constant simulacra of these early 2020s. Like deliberately going barefoot to feel yourself grounded in a real place, as I read Andrea Needham did when facing charges for disarming a warplane.

Anyway, my methods to achieve these sound "objects" was to use a healthy amount of acoustic instrumentation with all its familiar sonic unevenness, to free sounds from rhythmic or thematic structure, and to give plenty of blank space around each note so the ear can reach in and pluck it out. A berry from a bush, an eyelash from a friend's cheek.

Really though, a lot of the time now I just want to listen to the birds. There are plenty on here. Mourning dove, titmouse, helicopter.

"Hunter on the Wing" is a reference to De'Andre Hunter, the Atlanta Hawks small forward.

KF, Dec. 2021

One of life's most difficult arts is learning to let go. You can try to cling to control in the face of a turbulent world, but the only constant we can count on is change—the tendrils of cleansing fire wiping away the old, new life springing forth from the dust and ash. So what's the point? Give yourself over to the depths. Surrender to the flow.

G.S. Schray's new solo album The Changing Account is an appropriate soundtrack for learning to cope with a world we can't count on. Each piece is full of elliptical melodies that swirl with the unstable logic of dreams. Flurries of piano, guitar lines, and other more alien instrumentation shimmer delicately, but before they coalesce into familiar shapes or rhythms they change, then change, then change again. Listening is a bit like falling asleep on a long road—with each passing song you're waking up somewhere new, trying to get your bearings in another strange world. How did I get here? Where are we going? It doesn't matter. Close your eyes, drift away again.

In the American midwest, the two weeks or so in mid-Spring that brings the year's most vibrant crop of edible mushrooms coincides with the busiest season for a few of it's most deceptively poisonous fungi: the false morels. Bearing a pale stalk and a halo of cerebral folds, they look like a lot of similar mushrooms, but if you can't identify them for what they are, and treat them the right way, consuming even small quantities can cause vertigo, vomiting, and organ failure.

Lemon Quartet probably weren't thinking about mushrooms when they made their debut album Crestless, but the false morels still provide a window into understanding their music. When you catch their intricately arranged instrumentals at a glance, you can see flashes of other airy artists — they trade in compositional ruffles that may feel familiar to followers of Gigi Masin or any number of releases on Valley of the Sun — but there's this deep, dark something hiding in the record's shadowy corners.

It's not poison though, just a mycelial complexity that begs that you take each piece and study its contours as you take and eat. The work that you put in makes it feel all the more nourishing.

"Hi again!

It's been a couple years, but I've put together a new record, this time with my neighbor Stu and a few other friends. Stu's been tuning the piano Linda and I were using for our Lejsovka & Freund and Trouble Books recordings, and I've always enjoyed the test scales and vignettes he would run through checking his work.

I floated the idea to collaborate on a sort of 70s/80s ECM kinda vibe, and soon started bringing my laptop and a couple microphones over to his house to collect his improvisations and have him add to pieces I had started. Other friends from the neighborhood dropped by to add parts here and there as well.

The recordings were made primarily in the summers of 2016 & 2017 (with a break in-between to mourn the triumph of neo-fascism as well as the passing of beloved pets). Ultimately I tried to follow the feel of those summer nights and the tranquility they offered. Open air or at least open windows, drifting along, you know"

-KF, Spring 2018.

Aqueduct Ensemble is a collaboration between Ohio based artist Keith Freund - who has previously released music as part of both Lejsovka & Freund and Trouble Books - and his neighbour Stu, who is a piano tuner and professional pianist. Their debut album together, "Improvisations On An Apricot" is the second release from label Last Resort, and follows G.S Schray's "Gabriel" (2017) - the sleeves for which were both designed by Keith, who does does all the art direction for the label. Beginning life in 2013 as an NTS radio show of the same name, Last Resort is run by Tom Cathcart from his home in London.