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Much like the duo’s music, the story of Rural France is both mundane and magical. Tom Brown (also of transatlantic janglepunks Teenage Tom Petties) and Rob Fawkes moved to London in their mid-twenties. Despite living under the same roof, they never picked up a guitar – except for one drunken, failed attempt at writing a Spoon song (“Big Chops” …don’t ask). It was only after both separately relocating to Wiltshire and starting families that they began assembling songs as a way of meeting up. Tom had amassed a pile of sprightly slacker jams that were calling out for Fawkes’ messily melodic guitar lines. Rural France was born.

After a debut album on their hero, ex-Lemonhead Nic Dalton’s Half-a-Cow Records, they retreated to a garage to record their next two albums: RF (2021) and Exacamondo! (2024), both released on much-respected jangle label Meritorio Records. Despite being lo-fi in the truest GbV sense, both records were warmly received by the DIY indie blogosphere, with their short, scrappy, but supremely melodic songs landing on numerous AOTY lists. RF even won Album of the Year at Janglepop Hub.

Raven Sings The Blues probably summed up the sound best: “With drunken visions of Beach Boys harmonies playing in the back of their heads and hooks that consume Teenage Fanclub cheeriness with the same beautiful brevity that drives Tony Molina, the pair have knocked out eleven rumpled classics.” Album four, SLOTHS, arrives via Meritorio Records and Safe Suburban Home Records on 08/05, and is a slightly different beast. For one, it’s been mixed by a professional – Rob Slater (Westside Cowboy, Yard Act, Thank) – giving the guitars and drums room to breathe. It’s easily their most high-fidelity record to date. It’s also their jangliest, most baroque and thoughtful album yet. But alongside added organ, horns and mellotron – and drums from Tom’s Teenage Tom Petties bandmate Jeff Hamm – it still retains the buzzes, hums and little freak-outs that stick to the duo’s original “Pavement playing Teenage Fanclub” mission statement. “Rob and I both wanted to do something a little slower and a little more melancholy,” says Tom. “We resisted our usual urge to hit the distortion pedal and made something that fitted where we are now and celebrates how we still listen to Meatloaf when we get drunk.”

SLOTHS is also the most thematically consistent Rural France record to date. While it wouldn’t be right to call it grown-up, it definitely has homeowners’ insurance. From the Silver Jews-esque Americana of “Slab” and mid-life rallying cry of “Thirty Seven Forever”, to the horn-embossed loser anthem “Lonely Heart Pyramid Scheme,” the songs celebrate (and rail against) the absurdities of getting older, forming a band in your thirties, and the strange phenomenon of time passing. Because no matter how slow you move, everything else goes fast. SLOTHS.

Theme: collaboration. Or how to remain creative in the modern world. Nanocluster started as a bespoke one off pop up gig that turned into an album series. Built around Colin Newman from acclaimed UK post-punk band Wire and his partner in life and sound Malka Spigel from Minimal Compact with various guests, they define collaboration. Colin met Malka when he produced her band in 1985.The collaboration started there. They became a couple and created their own projects like the instrumental electronic duo Immersion in 1994 and Githead in 2004 - spaces where they both 'feel really comfortable.' Growing out of Immersion, Nanocluster was birthed as a series of one-off gigs at the Rosehill in their new hometown of Brighton in 2017 with an added cast of influential and cutting edge musicians. These were not ad hoc jams. The songs had been written and rehearsed prior to each performance. This adventure led to a debut album, Nanocluster Vol 1, released in 2021 with Stereolab singer/guitarist Laetitia Sadier, German post-rock duo Tarwater, electronic musician Ulrich Schnauss and experimental artist Robin Rimbaud (Scanner). Released again as double 10 inch with each collaboration taking up each disc, the new album Nanocluster Vol 2 has further developed this idea with a stark beauty that sounds like a future pop with sleek lines and unexpected great melodies. Disc one is built around Thor Harris, the charismatic percussion player from Swans and many other projects, who they met and performed with at South By South West in Austin, Texas in 2023. Thor adds ideas, his tuned percussion instruments, clarinet and trumpet to the sessions. Disc two is built around Cubzoa (Jack Wolter from the band Penelope Isles) who brings his musical craft, beguiling voice, guitar and much more. Meanwhile Matt Schulz from Holy Fuck plays drums across both combinations helping the resulting music become a third entity. What results is a true collaboration that, enhanced via Immersion's production, merges its elements to develop a new harmony. Key to the process is Colin and Malka's radio show for Slack City radio, 'Swimming In Sound' with its entertainingly diverse playlist that has widened their horizons. It's also helped build relationships not only with these collaborators but also musicians like ambient country masters SUSS, with whom they plan an extended Nanocluster tour in the USA with in 2025 and Brighton via Falmouth's "jangly pop punk" Holiday Ghosts with whom they will perform the next Nanocluster event in their hometown, as well as many more in the pipeline. Malka: 'Nanocluster is collaboration but in a very specific form. We don't have rules. It's a series of creative snapshots. We start as the gig with our collaborators with tracks that we rehearse because this is not a jam and where it stops is an album.' Colin: 'It's chemistry & music. Malka & I operate as a team and now we've taken it to another level. Malka comes from a band where they would stand in a room together and work out the material. In Wire, I would present the songs, so when Malka and I first started working together, we had to find a third path, and that was the concept behind our collaboration.' Nanocluster Volume 2 is a 21st century collusion of shared ideas, creating a momentary extended musical family. It's about musical and personal relationships and the meeting place in the middle. A temporary band of house guests. The place where Immersion happens.

Five years on from their iconic debut album, the Red Robin posse return with another epic full length LP - this time featuring the ruffneck deejay styling of their longtime friend Tippa Lee.

With ten hardcore riddims from Naram stretching the full spectrum of 80s roots, rub-a-dub, and digi - and uncompromising street level lyrics from the LA-based Jamaican veteran Tippa Lee - Musically Bad is an absolute must-have for any discerning reggae collector.

The culmination of nearly a decade of collaboration, with multiple trips to LA where they improvised studio set ups at a range of cheap motels. Tippa takes listeners on a journey through his history in reggae, lamenting the rise of slackness and gun culture, firing shots at politicians and oligarchs, and shining a spotlight on the struggles of people of all colours and creeds suffering in the ghetto.

Despite the serious messages conveyed, and the heavyweight militant riddims, the album contains plenty of moments of humour and levity thanks to Tippa's lyrical nous.

With all riddims recorded and mixed to half inch tape in Naram's analogue Whanganui studio, and crisp mastering from Downbeat Studios, the LP is fine tuned to mash up any dancehall or living room.

Graham Hunt hat die intuitive Fähigkeit, sich seinen eigenen Platz in der langen, verwirrenden Geschichte der amerikanischen Popmusik zu schaffen. Der Songwriter aus Wisconsin hat in den letzten vier Jahren hart an Platten gearbeitet, die zeitlosen Gitarren-Pop mit einem vielschichtigen Produktionsansatz und einem schlauen lyrischen Auge verbindet. Seine Musik verbindet das Surreale mit dem Alltäglichen, das Melodische mit dem Rhythmischen, das Kryptische mit dem Triumphalen - und beweist oft, dass Slacker Verspieltheit und Heartland-Ehrlichkeit sich nicht gegenseitig ausschließen. "Timeless World Forever" - die erste Veröffentlichung von Hunt für Run For Cover - bildet den Abschluss einer beeindruckenden Reihe von Songs und öffnet die Tore für eine neue Phase in der langen, produktiven Karriere des Künstlers. Seit Jahren ist Hunt eine feste Größe in der Indie-Rock-Welt des Mittleren Westens, seit seiner Zeit als Kopf von Midnight Reruns und Auftritten mit Künstlern wie Mike Krol und Disq. 2019 veröffentlichte er sein erstes Soloalbum "Leaving Silver City", aber es war 2022 das Album "If You Knew Would You Believe It?", mit dem er seinen Durchbruch hatte. Das 2023er Album "Try Not To Laugh" folgte schnell, und jetzt nimmt "Timeless World Forever" diese Fäden wieder auf. Die drei Platten sind aus einem Guss: alle entstanden im selben Keller in Madison mit einer Beat-getriebenen Dichte und einer klanglichen Fantasie, die Rap und Rave ebenso zu verdanken ist wie dem Power Pop. Es ist schwer, gleichzeitig nach hinten und nach vorne zu schauen, ohne mit den Rädern in einem schlammigen, zeitlosen Schlamm stecken zu bleiben. "Timeless World Forever" ist der Sound eines eines Lebenskünstlers, der einen höheren Gang einlegt, den Fuß auf das Pedal drückt und den Highway in Angriff nimmt.

7A Records is proud to present our deluxe reissue of Robert Gordon's Rock Billy Boogie album. It has been remastered and expanded with four bonus tracks, features extensive liner notes and is pressed on 180g Pink Vinyl. Robert Gordon entered New York City's Plaza Sound Studio in April 1977 to record his first album. Four months later, Elvis Presley was found dead in his Memphis mansion, Graceland, at the age of 42. The media was anxious to anoint a successor to the late King of Rock and Roll, and Gordon-twelve years Presley's junior-was high atop many lists. Gordon's vocal resemblance to Elvis Presley was hard to ignore, although the singer never crossed the line into impersonation. He retained his originality and an attitude honed in New York's vibrant punk scene. In late 1978, Gordon was signed to Presley's longtime home of RCA Records. He inaugurated his label tenure with the early 1979 release of his third and perhaps finest album, Rock Billy Boogie. The power-packed LP would become a cornerstone of the so-called rockabilly revival. Four additional recordings round out this deluxe, expanded edition of Rock Billy Boogie: Gordon's 1980 cover of John Beveridge and Peter Oakman's "A Picture of You," a # 1 U.K. hit for entertainer Joe Brown in 1962; and three tracks looking back to his seminal partnership with Link Wray from the Private Stock years: "Lonesome Train (On a Lonesome Track)," "Summertime Blues," and "Red Cadillac and a Black Moustache."

Robert Gordon entered New York City’s Plaza Sound Studio in April 1977 to record his first album. Four months later, Elvis Presley was found dead in his Memphis mansion, Graceland, at the age of 42. The media was anxious to anoint a successor to the late King of Rock and Roll, and Gordon–twelve years Presley’s junior–was high atop many lists. Gordon’s vocal resemblance to Elvis Presley was hard to ignore, although the singer never crossed the line into impersonation. He retained his originality and an attitude honed in New York’s vibrant punk scene. In late 1978, Gordon was signed to Presley’s longtime home of RCA Records. He inaugurated his label tenure with the early 1979 release of his third and perhaps finest album, Rock Billy Boogie. The power-packed LP would become a cornerstone of the so-called rockabilly revival. Four additional recordings round out this deluxe, expanded edition of Rock Billy Boogie: Gordon’s 1980 cover of John Beveridge and Peter Oakman’s “A Picture of You,” a # 1 U.K. hit for entertainer Joe Brown in 1962; and three tracks looking back to his seminal partnership with Link Wray from the Private Stock years: “Lonesome Train (On a Lonesome Track),” “Summertime Blues,” and “Red Cadillac and a Black Moustache.

The sophomore effort from Gray/Smith refines their petroleum-based, hard-lullaby sound with a decidedly dusty precision. To call this pair's brand of country-rock détournement "cosmic" would be too breezy: L. Gray and Rob Smith prefer to stare into sunken depths, channeling their recondite affections for lay-by mauve zones and red-dirt guitar wanderings. Formed in the outer-edges of Kings and Richmond counties circa 2020, Gray/Smith is something of an East-Coast involution. L. Gray (guitar and vocals) and Rob Smith (drums, guitar and vocals) are both trusty veterans of "band's bands" like Pigeons (Soft Abuse), No-Neck Blues Band (Revenant, Locust), Rhyton (Thrill Jockey), and The Suntanama (Drag City), freewheeling groups known for mining from polyglot sources: rough-hewn folk and the spiritual avant-garde, bargain-bin hard rock and and collector's-choice psychedelia alike. On their first, self-released LP Gray/Smith, serendipitously recorded at Gary's Electric at the top of 2021, the pair trained their assured chops onto the great American song-form, honing a murky but tight approach that variously cribs "urban cowboy" and finger-picked primitivism. A string of cryptic appearances soon followed, including a short-lived residency at a now-shuttered vodka dive; a micro-tour with Coloradan songstress Josephine Foster; and a series of backyard and barroom gigs sharing stages with compatriots like Stella Kola, Blues Ambush, Samara Lubelski, and Wednesday Knudsen. Heels in the Aisle is the slipshod, burnt-out, mid-'70s unter-prog comedown to their debut's backwoods, bushy-tailed, early-'70s, country-rock meanderings_expect more unrestrained riffs, artful studio wizardry, and worn-down introspection. Joining the ranks of bloodshot-eyed, blues-rock medleys à la Canned Heat's "Parthenogenesis" and Grand Funk's "Into The Sun," "The SDSPS" is the nearly side-length opening cut, an expanded song-cycle condensing and riffing on the themes of their debut. "Help Me" ventriloquizes Pomona College outlaw Kris Kristofferson's slow-roaring ballad of libidinal woe. On the flip side, "Verrazano Tile" and the title track pay heed to lower bays of Staten Island, while their arrangement of the traditional Zimbabwean tune "Guabi Guabi" is a bright Dead/Feat-like jaunt with blissed-out wah-wah pay-off. "Gaslight Boulevard" is lean, mean, and eight-beers-in space rock, and the closing track "Kekule's Ring" is a slack-jawed, wistful crash back down to earth. All this, packaged in a luxe, expertly-printed sleeve photographed by downtown artist Lary 7 and designed by Eric Wrenn (Sophie's Oil of Every Pearl's Un-Insides).

A new album by Medway's premier alt-folk outfit The Singing Loins! Yes indeed. We caught up with Rob Shepherd to find out more about their brilliant new LP Twelve_ Q: "The new album is called Twelve. Could you settle an office debate - is it your 12th album or have you called it that because it has twelve songs on it? (We thought Here On Earth was your 12th but not according to Discogs. Also, our ability to count accurately has diminished over the years!)" A: "A bit of both. Course, there's the 12 songs, but then, depending on how you count, it's also our 12th album (from 91-98, there's the 1st 4 LPs that Damaged Goods collected together on The Complete & Utter - that's a comp though, so we can't count that eh - then there's At The Bridge with Billy, so that's 5_..we can skip Alive In Dunkerque as well cos it's a live album....then there was 2004-13 where we made four more with you, then in 2019 we got back together and made 13 Moon Songs From Merry Hell, released on the Vacilando 68 label...so that's 10_and then we did another record with Billy, The Fighting Temeraire_ so yeah, that makes this one number 12)." Q: "The album has features newly recorded versions of several Loins classics. Was it a difficult decision deciding which back catalogue songs to record?" A: "No, pretty easy - it's basically the 12 songs we enjoy playing the most with the current lineup. Saying that, it's been a bit of a meandering road getting to this point. Since Brod passed away, Arf & me have done few nights of Loins songs - and it's felt good - celebrating the songs we all wrote together - so that started the selection process. Oli, Arf's lad, joined us on percussion and then Rich, who Billy had introduced to us, joined on violin - then Chris came along to play the drums, so Oli switched to guitar - and through all that we were refining the set of songs, and we got a point where we felt that, yeah, we've sort of worked out how to do this (you know, respecting and celebrating our past, without coming on like a tribute band to ourselves), so it made sense to make the album - just to reflect where we'd arrived at....so we went into Jim's Ranscombe Studios and bashed them all out live in a couple of hours....no overdubs, no fussing over mistakes....just sing and play the songs as if it was a gig." Q: "It's been 33 years since the debut Loins' LP - How does it feel to be the elder statemen of Kent's alt-folk scene?" A: "Ha ha, are we? We don't know any other folk bands, alt or not, so it doesn't feel as though we're qualified to be the statesmen of anything! Elder, certainly, but statesmen? Nope." Q: "There's been plenty of gigs recently with more to come around the album's release, including some European dates. For people who've not seen you before what can they expect from a Loins gig?" A: "Yeah, as I said, now that we've worked out how to do this, and as we're having so much fun with it, we thought we'd get out & about. We're off to Serbia immediately after the album's release, so that'll be an adventure - Serbia was always special for us (Aleks, the promotor, took us out there to play seven or eight times in all) and we've stayed in touch over the years, so it'll be lovely to see everyone out there again. As for what can anyone expect when they see us? "Riotous fun filled joy" I've just been told, but best let everyone else be the judge of that!" Q: "The Singing Loins wouldn't have existed of course if it wasn't for Chris Broderick. Chris sadly passed in 2022. What would he have thought about the fact you're carrying on with the band and recording new music?" A: "Yeah_ he'd be happy. In the week before he passed away, he asked Arf & me over, basically to say goodbye and tie up any loose ends. And he told Arf that we should carry the Loins on. So yeah, I think he'd be pleased and proud that we're keeping the songs, and his words, alive."

Pirates Press Records is proud to re-release Close My Eyes, the 2002 album by NYC ska-reggae legends The Slackers - a complex and nuanced album that shows the band's versatility and capacity for both commentary and introspection. It is often said - to the point of cliche - that New York City is a "character" in the work of the city's most noted filmmakers. A similar statement could be made about the artistic symbiosis between the city and The Slackers. From the Bronx-born accent of lead vocalist Vic Ruggiero to the band's embrace of cosmopolitan musical traditions from a melting pot of cultural origins, New York defines The Slackers at least as much as the band have contributed to defining the sound of New York for well over 30 years.Therefore, it bears mentioning that - aside from a 2002 collaborative album by "The Slackersand Friends" - Close My Eyesis the band's first proper studio LP released after the traumatic terrorist attacks on their home city in 2001, and the band took enough time to reckon with the global fallout of this tragedy. "So feel free go steal and rob, revolution ain't my job," sings Ruggiero on the title track. "And if I sing your happy song, please don't tell me I am wrong." It is the statement of an artist searching for a way to still sing about joy and life in uncertain times of great upheaval. And ultimately the band must reckon with these times. On "Real War," toaster Marq Lyn takes lead vocals as the band addresses the march to war that was omnipresent in those early days of the 21st century, stating in no uncertain terms that it was "Time to fight the real war_ Against hunger and poverty_ For racial equality." The Slackers make it clear that while the machinations of hawkish politicians grind on, the real needs of people all over the world are left behind. This tension between a dangerous world and the struggles of one's personal life are present throughout the record, and the band weaves stories from the whole spectrum of human emotion, war, heartbreak, joy, and everything in between. Bookended by instrumental tracks, opening with the energetic "Shankbon" and ending with moody dub reggae, these veteran virtuoso players ultimately take listeners on a masterful journey through the human experience.

With his latest release, Swingin’ Live at the Church in Tulsa, Taj adds to his legendary legacy with an extraordinary set recorded at the Tulsa studio best known as the home base of the late, great Leon Russell. The ten songs reach across multiple genres that he has explored in his incomparable career, and feature his long-time quartet—bassist Bill Rich, drummer Kester Smith, and guitarist/Hawaiian lap steel player Bobby Ingano—augmented by dobro player Rob Ickes and guitarist and vocalist Trey Hensley. In a career spanning seven decades and almost 50 albums, Taj Mahal has not only helped popularize and reshape the scope of the blues, but he has also personified the concept of “World Music” since years before the phrase even existed. From a base of traditional country blues, Taj has explored and incorporated reggae, Latin, R&B, Cajun, Caribbean, gospel, West African, jazz, calypso, Hawaiian slack-key, and countless other musical styles into his astonishing body of work.

Swingin’ Live at the Church in Tulsa by The Taj Mahal Sextet, released 22 March 2024.

This version of Swingin’ Live at the Church in Tulsa comes as a 2xLP in a(n) Gatefold Sleeve packaging.

The vinyl is pressed as a splatter, white & gold disc. Another vinyl is pressed as a splatter, white & gold disc.

Singer-Songwriter Kurt Vile - auch bekannt als ”Phillys Constant Hitmaker” - veröffentlicht seine neue
EP ”Back To Moon Beach”, die am 17.11. über Verve Records erscheint. Hierauf mitgewirkt haben
unter Anderem neben Le Bon sein langjähriger und leider kürzlich verstorbener Freund und Produzent Rob
Laakso, Stella Mozgawa (Warpaint, Courtney Barnett) und Chris Cohen. Mit stolzen neun Songs, die
innerhalb der letzten vier Jahre in verschiedenen Sessions entstanden sind, setzt der Slacker-Star seine ganz
eigenen EP-Maßstäbe. Das fast einstündige ”Back To Moon Beach” repräsentiert für ihn einen Querschnitt
durch die vielen inspirierenden Begegnungen und Kreationen innerhalb seiner Musik-Community. Es zeigt
aber auch wie groß Kurt Viles Repertoire tatsächlich ist, wenn man bedenkt, dass diese neun Songs genauso
gut ein komplettes Album hätten füllen könnten.

Singer-Songwriter Kurt Vile - auch bekannt als ”Phillys Constant Hitmaker” - veröffentlicht seine neue
EP ”Back To Moon Beach”, die am 17.11. über Verve Records erscheint. Hierauf mitgewirkt haben
unter Anderem neben Le Bon sein langjähriger und leider kürzlich verstorbener Freund und Produzent Rob
Laakso, Stella Mozgawa (Warpaint, Courtney Barnett) und Chris Cohen. Mit stolzen neun Songs, die
innerhalb der letzten vier Jahre in verschiedenen Sessions entstanden sind, setzt der Slacker-Star seine ganz
eigenen EP-Maßstäbe. Das fast einstündige ”Back To Moon Beach” repräsentiert für ihn einen Querschnitt
durch die vielen inspirierenden Begegnungen und Kreationen innerhalb seiner Musik-Community. Es zeigt
aber auch wie groß Kurt Viles Repertoire tatsächlich ist, wenn man bedenkt, dass diese neun Songs genauso
gut ein komplettes Album hätten füllen könnten.

As the sun sets on a quaint East Nashville house, a young man bares a piece of his soul. Facing the camera, sporting a silky suit jacket/shirt/slacks/fingerless gloves ensemble that announces "singer" before he's even opened his mouth, Lee Tracy Johnson settles onto his stage, the front yard. He sways to the dirge-like drum machine pulse of a synth-soaked slow jam, extends his arms as if gaining his balance, and croons in affecting, fragile earnest, "I need your love… oh baby…"

Dogs in the yard next door begin barking. A mysterious cardboard robot figure, beamed in from galaxies unknown and affixed to a tree, is less vocal. Lee doesn't acknowledge either's presence. He's busy feeling it, arms and hands gesticulating. His voice rises in falsetto over the now-quiet dogs, over the ambient noise from the street that seeps into the handheld camcorder's microphone, over the recording of his own voice played back from a boombox off-camera. After six minutes the single, continuous shot ends. In this intimate creative universe there are no re-takes. There are many more music videos to shoot, and as Lee later puts it, "The first time you do it is actually the best. Because you can never get that again. You expressing yourself from within."

"I Need Your Love" dates from a lost heyday. From some time in the '80s or early '90s, when Lee Tracy (as he was known in performance) and his music partner/producer/manager Isaac Manning committed hours upon hours of their sonic and visual ideas to tape. Embracing drum machines and synthesizers – electronics that made their personal futurism palpable – they recorded exclusively at home, live in a room into a simple cassette deck. Soul, funk, electro and new wave informed their songs, yet Lee and Isaac eschewed the confinement of conventional categories and genres, preferring to let experimentation guide them.

"Anytime somebody put out a new record they had the same instruments or the same sound," explains Isaac. "So I basically wanted to find something that's really gonna stand out away from all of the rest of 'em." Their ethos meant that every idea they came up with was at least worth trying: echoed out half-rapped exhortations over frantic techno-style beats, gospel synth soul, modal electro-funk, oddball pop reinterpretations, emo AOR balladry, nods to Prince and the Fat Boys, or arrangements that might collapse mid-song into a mess of arcade game-ish blips before rallying to reach the finish line. All of it conjoined by consistent tape hiss, and most vitally, Lee's chameleonic voice, which managed to wildly shape shift and still evoke something sincere – whether toggling between falsetto and tenor exalting Jesus's return, or punctuating a melismatic romantic adlib with a succinct, "We all know how it feels to be alone."

"People think we went to a studio," says Isaac derisively. "We never went to no studio. We didn't have the money to go to no studio! We did this stuff at home. I shot videos in my front yard with whatever we could to get things together." Sometimes Isaac would just put on an instrumental record, be it "Planet Rock" or "Don't Cry For Me Argentina" (from Evita), press "record," and let Lee improvise over it, yielding peculiar love songs, would-be patriotic anthems, or Elvis Presley or Marilyn Monroe tributes. Technical limitations and a lack of professional polish never dissuaded them. They believed they were onto something.

"That struggle," Isaac says, "made that sound sound good to me."

In the parlance of modern music criticism Lee and Isaac's dizzying DIY efforts would inevitably be described as "outsider." But "outsider" carries the burden of untold additional layers of meaning if you're Black and from the South, creating on a budget, and trying to get someone, anyone within the country music capital of the world to take your vision seriously. "What category should we put it in?" Isaac asks rhetorically. "I don't know. All I know is feeling. I ain't gonna name it nothing. It's music. If it grabs your soul and touch your heart that's what it basically is supposed to do."

=

Born in 1963, the baby boy of nine siblings, Lee Tracy spent his earliest years living amidst the shotgun houses on Nashville's south side. "We was poor, man!" he says, recalling the outhouse his family used for a bathroom and the blocks of ice they kept in the kitchen to chill perishables. "But I actually don't think I really realized I was in poverty until I got grown and started thinking about it." Lee's mom worked at the Holiday Inn; his dad did whatever he had to do, from selling fruit from a horse drawn cart to bootlegging. "We didn't have much," Lee continues, "but my mother and my father got us the things we needed, the clothes on our back." By the end of the decade with the city's urban renewal programs razing entire neighborhoods to accommodate construction of the Interstate, the family moved to Edgehill Projects. Lee remembers music and art as a constant source of inspiration for he and his brothers and sisters – especially after seeing the Jackson 5 perform on Ed Sullivan. "As a small child I just knew that was what I wanted to do."

His older brother Don began musically mentoring him, introducing Lee to a variety of instruments and sounds. "He would never play one particular type of music, like R&B," says Lee. "I was surrounded by jazz, hard rock and roll, easy listening, gospel, reggae, country music; I mean I was a sponge absorbing all of that." Lee taught himself to play drums by beating on cardboard boxes, gaining a rep around the way for his timekeeping, and his singing voice. Emulating his favorites, Earth Wind & Fire and Cameo, he formed groups with other kids with era-evocative band names like Concept and TNT Connection, and emerged as the leader of disciplined rehearsals. "I made them practice," says Lee. "We practiced and practiced and practiced. Because I wanted that perfection." By high school the most accomplished of these bands would take top prize in a prominent local talent show. It was a big moment for Lee, and he felt ready to take things to the next level. But his band-mates had other ideas.

"I don't know what happened," he says, still miffed at the memory. "It must have blew they mind after we won and people started showing notice, because it's like everybody quit! I was like, where the hell did everybody go?" Lee had always made a point of interrogating prospective musicians about their intentions before joining his groups: were they really serious or just looking for a way to pick up girls? Now he understood even more the importance of finding a collaborator just as committed to the music as he was.

=

Isaac Manning had spent much of his life immersed in music and the arts – singing in the church choir with his family on Nashville's north side, writing, painting, dancing, and working various gigs within the entertainment industry. After serving in the armed forces, in the early '70s he ran The Teenage Place, a music and performance venue that catered to the local youth. But he was forced out of town when word of one of his recreational routines created a stir beyond the safe haven of his bohemian circles.

"I was growing marijuana," Isaac explains. "It wasn't no business, I was smoking it myself… I would put marijuana in scrambled eggs, cornbread and stuff." His weed use originated as a form of self-medication to combat severe tooth pain. But when he began sharing it with some of the other young people he hung out with, some of who just so happened to be the kids of Nashville politicians, the cops came calling. "When I got busted," he remembers, "they were talking about how they were gonna get rid of me because they didn't want me saying nothing about they children because of the politics and stuff. So I got my family, took two raggedy cars, and left Nashville and went to Vegas."

Out in the desert, Isaac happened to meet Chubby Checker of "The Twist" fame while the singer was gigging at The Flamingo. Impressed by Isaac's zeal, Checker invited him to go on the road with him as his tour manager/roadie/valet. The experience gave Isaac a window into a part of the entertainment world he'd never encountered – a glimpse of what a true pop act's audience looked like. "Chubby Checker, none of his shows were played for Black folks," he remembers. "All his gigs were done at high-class white people areas." Returning home after a few years with Chubby, Isaac was properly motivated to make it in Music City. He began writing songs and scouting around Nashville for local talent anywhere he could find it with an expressed goal: "Find someone who can deliver your songs the way you want 'em delivered and make people feel what you want them to feel."

One day while walking through Edgehill Projects Isaac heard someone playing the drums in a way that made him stop and take notice. "The music was so tight, just the drums made me feel like, oh I'm-a find this person," he recalls. "So I circled through the projects until I found who it was.

"That's how I met him – Lee Tracy. When I found him and he started singing and stuff, I said, ohhh, this is somebody different."

=

Theirs was a true complementary partnership: young Lee possessed the raw talent, the older Isaac the belief. "He's really the only one besides my brother and my family that really seen the potential in me," says Lee. "He made me see that I could do it."

Isaac long being a night owl, his house also made for a fertile collaborative environment – a space where there always seemed to be a new piece of his visual art on display: paintings, illustrations, and dolls and figures (including an enigmatic cardboard robot). Lee and Issac would hang out together and talk, listen to music, conjure ideas, and smoke the herb Isaac had resumed growing in his yard. "It got to where I could trust him, he could trust me," Isaac says of their bond. They also worked together for hours on drawings, spreading larges rolls of paper on the walls and sketching faces with abstract patterns and imagery: alien-like beings, tri-horned horse heads, inverted Janus-like characters where one visage blurred into the other.

Soon it became apparent that they didn't need other collaborators; self-sufficiency was the natural way forward. At Isaac's behest Lee, already fed up with dealing with band musicians, began playing around with a poly-sonic Yamaha keyboard at the local music store. "It had everything on it – trumpet, bass, drums, organ," remembers Lee. "And that's when I started recording my own stuff."

The technology afforded Lee the flexibility and independence he craved, setting him on a path other bedroom musicians and producers around the world were simultaneously following through the '80s into the early '90s. Saving up money from day jobs, he eventually supplemented the Yamaha Isaac had gotten him with Roland and Casio drum machines and a Moog. Lee was living in an apartment in Hillside at that point caring for his dad, who'd been partially paralyzed since early in life. In the evenings up in his second floor room, the music put him in a zone where he could tune out everything and lose himself in his ideas.

"Oh I loved it," he recalls. "I would really experiment with the instruments and use a lot of different sound effects. I was looking for something nobody else had. I wanted something totally different. And once I found the sound I was looking for, I would just smoke me a good joint and just let it go, hit the record button." More potent a creative stimulant than even Isaac's weed was the holistic flow and spontaneity of recording. Between sessions at Isaac's place and Lee's apartment, their volume of output quickly ballooned.

"We was always recording," says Lee. "That's why we have so much music. Even when I went to Isaac's and we start creating, I get home, my mind is racing, I gotta start creating, creating, creating. I remember there were times when I took a 90-minute tape from front to back and just filled it up."

"We never practiced," says Isaac. "See, that was just so odd about the whole thing. I could relate to him, and tell him about the songs I had ideas for and everything and stuff. And then he would bring it back or whatever, and we'd get together and put it down." Once the taskmaster hell bent on rehearsing, Lee had flipped a full 180. Perfection was no longer an aspiration, but the enemy of inspiration.

"I seen where practicing and practicing got me," says Lee. "A lot of musicians you get to playing and they gotta stop, they have to analyze the music. But while you analyzing you losing a lot of the greatness of what you creating. Stop analyzing what you play, just play! And it'll all take shape."

=

"I hope you understood the beginning of the record because this was invented from a dream I had today… (You tell me, I'll tell you, we'll figure it out together)" – Lee Tracy and Isaac Manning, "Hope You Understand"

Lee lets loose a maniacal cackle when he acknowledges that the material that he and Isaac recorded was by anyone's estimation pretty out there. It's the same laugh that commences "Hope You Understand" – a chaotic transmission that encapsulates the duality at the heart of their music: a stated desire to reach people and a compulsion to go as leftfield as they saw fit.

"We just did it," says Lee. "We cut the music on and cut loose. I don't sit around and write. I do it by listening, get a feeling, play the music, and the lyrics and stuff just come out of me."

The approach proved adaptable to interpreting other artists' material. While recording a cover of Whitney Houston's pop ballad "Saving All My Love For You," Lee played Whitney's version in his headphones as he laid down his own vocals – partially following the lyrics, partially using them as a departure point. The end result is barely recognizable compared with the original, Lee and Isaac having switched up the time signature and reinvented the melody along the way towards morphing a slick mainstream radio standard into something that sounds solely their own.

"I really used that song to get me started," says Lee. "Then I said, well I need something else, something is missing. Something just came over me. That's when I came up with 'Is It What You Want.'"

The song would become the centerpiece of Lee and Isaac's repertoire. Pushed along by a percolating metronomic Rhythm King style beat somewhere between a military march and a samba, "Is It What You Want" finds Lee pleading the sincerity of his commitment to a potential love interest embellished by vocal tics and hiccups subtlely reminiscent of his childhood hero MJ. Absent chord changes, only synth riffs gliding in and out like apparitions, the song achieves a lingering lo-fi power that leaves you feeling like it's still playing, somewhere, even after the fade out.

"I don't know, it's like a real spiritual song," Lee reflects. "But it's not just spiritual. To me the more I listen to it it's like about everything that you do in your everyday life, period. Is it what you want? Do you want a car or you don't want a car? Do you want Jesus or do you want the Devil? It's basically asking you the question. Can't nobody answer the question but you yourself."

In 1989 Lee won a lawsuit stemming from injuries sustained from a fight he'd gotten into. He took part of the settlement money and with Isaac pressed up "Saving All My Love For You" b/w "Is It What You Want" as a 45 single. Isaac christened the label One Chance Records. "Because that's all we wanted," he says with a laugh, "one chance."

Isaac sent the record out to radio stations and major labels, hoping for it to make enough noise to get picked up nationally. But the response he and Lee were hoping for never materialized. According to Isaac the closest the single got to getting played on the radio is when a disk jock from a local station made a highly unusual announcement on air: "The dude said on the radio, 107.5 – 'We are not gonna play 'Is It What You Want.' We cracked up! Wow, that's deep.

"It was a whole racist thing that was going on," he reflects. "So we just looked over and kept on going. That was it. That was about the way it goes… If you were Black and you were living in Nashville and stuff, that's the way you got treated." Isaac already knew as much from all the times he'd brought he and Lee's tapes (even their cache of country music tunes) over to Music Row to try to drum up interest to no avail.

"Isaac, he really worked his ass off," says Lee. "He probably been to every record place down on Music Row." Nashville's famed recording and music business corridor wasn't but a few blocks from where Lee grew up. Close enough, he remembers, for him to ride his bike along its back alleys and stumble upon the occasional random treasure, like a discarded box of harmonicas. Getting in through the front door, however, still felt a world away.

"I just don't think at the time our music fell into a category for them," he concedes. "It was before its time."

=

Lee stopped making music some time in the latter part of the '90s, around the time his mom passed away and life became increasingly tough to manage. "When my mother died I had a nervous breakdown," he says, "So I shut down for a long time. I was in such a sadness frame of mind. That's why nobody seen me. I had just disappeared off the map." He fell out of touch with Isaac, and in an indication of just how bad things had gotten for him, lost track of all the recordings they'd made together. Music became a distant memory.

Fortunately, Isaac kept the faith. In a self-published collection of his poetry – paeans to some of his favorite entertainment and public figures entitled Friends and Dick Clark – he'd written that he believed "music has a life of its own." But his prescience and presence of mind were truly manifested in the fact that he kept an archive of he and Lee's work. As perfectly imperfect as "Is It What You Want" now sounds in a post-Personal Space world, Lee and Isaac's lone official release was in fact just a taste. The bulk of the Is It What You Want album is culled from the pair's essentially unheard home recordings – complete songs, half-realized experiments, Isaac's blue monologues and pronouncements et al – compiled, mixed and programmed in the loose and impulsive creative spirit of their regular get-togethers from decades ago. The rest of us, it seems, may have finally caught up to them.

On the prospect of at long last reaching a wider audience, Isaac says simply, "I been trying for a long time, it feels good." Ever the survivor, he adds, "The only way I know how to make it to the top is to keep climbing. If one leg break on the ladder, hey, you gotta fix it and keep on going… That's where I be at. I'll kill death to make it out there."

For Lee it all feels akin to a personal resurrection: "It's like I was in a tomb and the tomb was opened and I'm back… Man, it feels so great. I feel like I'm gonna jump out of my skin." Success at this stage of his life, he realizes, probably means something different than what it did back when he was singing and dancing in Isaac's front yard. "What I really mean by 'making it,'" he explains isn't just the music being heard but, "the story being told."

Occasionally Lee will pull up "Is It What You Want" on YouTube on his phone, put on his headphones, and listen. He remembers the first time he heard his recorded voice. How surreal it was, how he thought to himself, "Is that really me?" What would he say to that younger version of himself now?

"I would probably tell myself, hang in there, don't give up. Keep striving for the goal. And everything will work out."

Despite what's printed on the record label, sometimes you do get more than one chance.

As the sun sets on a quaint East Nashville house, a young man bares a piece of his soul. Facing the camera, sporting a silky suit jacket/shirt/slacks/fingerless gloves ensemble that announces "singer" before he's even opened his mouth, Lee Tracy Johnson settles onto his stage, the front yard. He sways to the dirge-like drum machine pulse of a synth-soaked slow jam, extends his arms as if gaining his balance, and croons in affecting, fragile earnest, "I need your love… oh baby…"

Dogs in the yard next door begin barking. A mysterious cardboard robot figure, beamed in from galaxies unknown and affixed to a tree, is less vocal. Lee doesn't acknowledge either's presence. He's busy feeling it, arms and hands gesticulating. His voice rises in falsetto over the now-quiet dogs, over the ambient noise from the street that seeps into the handheld camcorder's microphone, over the recording of his own voice played back from a boombox off-camera. After six minutes the single, continuous shot ends. In this intimate creative universe there are no re-takes. There are many more music videos to shoot, and as Lee later puts it, "The first time you do it is actually the best. Because you can never get that again. You expressing yourself from within."

"I Need Your Love" dates from a lost heyday. From some time in the '80s or early '90s, when Lee Tracy (as he was known in performance) and his music partner/producer/manager Isaac Manning committed hours upon hours of their sonic and visual ideas to tape. Embracing drum machines and synthesizers – electronics that made their personal futurism palpable – they recorded exclusively at home, live in a room into a simple cassette deck. Soul, funk, electro and new wave informed their songs, yet Lee and Isaac eschewed the confinement of conventional categories and genres, preferring to let experimentation guide them.

"Anytime somebody put out a new record they had the same instruments or the same sound," explains Isaac. "So I basically wanted to find something that's really gonna stand out away from all of the rest of 'em." Their ethos meant that every idea they came up with was at least worth trying: echoed out half-rapped exhortations over frantic techno-style beats, gospel synth soul, modal electro-funk, oddball pop reinterpretations, emo AOR balladry, nods to Prince and the Fat Boys, or arrangements that might collapse mid-song into a mess of arcade game-ish blips before rallying to reach the finish line. All of it conjoined by consistent tape hiss, and most vitally, Lee's chameleonic voice, which managed to wildly shape shift and still evoke something sincere – whether toggling between falsetto and tenor exalting Jesus's return, or punctuating a melismatic romantic adlib with a succinct, "We all know how it feels to be alone."

"People think we went to a studio," says Isaac derisively. "We never went to no studio. We didn't have the money to go to no studio! We did this stuff at home. I shot videos in my front yard with whatever we could to get things together." Sometimes Isaac would just put on an instrumental record, be it "Planet Rock" or "Don't Cry For Me Argentina" (from Evita), press "record," and let Lee improvise over it, yielding peculiar love songs, would-be patriotic anthems, or Elvis Presley or Marilyn Monroe tributes. Technical limitations and a lack of professional polish never dissuaded them. They believed they were onto something.

"That struggle," Isaac says, "made that sound sound good to me."

In the parlance of modern music criticism Lee and Isaac's dizzying DIY efforts would inevitably be described as "outsider." But "outsider" carries the burden of untold additional layers of meaning if you're Black and from the South, creating on a budget, and trying to get someone, anyone within the country music capital of the world to take your vision seriously. "What category should we put it in?" Isaac asks rhetorically. "I don't know. All I know is feeling. I ain't gonna name it nothing. It's music. If it grabs your soul and touch your heart that's what it basically is supposed to do."

=

Born in 1963, the baby boy of nine siblings, Lee Tracy spent his earliest years living amidst the shotgun houses on Nashville's south side. "We was poor, man!" he says, recalling the outhouse his family used for a bathroom and the blocks of ice they kept in the kitchen to chill perishables. "But I actually don't think I really realized I was in poverty until I got grown and started thinking about it." Lee's mom worked at the Holiday Inn; his dad did whatever he had to do, from selling fruit from a horse drawn cart to bootlegging. "We didn't have much," Lee continues, "but my mother and my father got us the things we needed, the clothes on our back." By the end of the decade with the city's urban renewal programs razing entire neighborhoods to accommodate construction of the Interstate, the family moved to Edgehill Projects. Lee remembers music and art as a constant source of inspiration for he and his brothers and sisters – especially after seeing the Jackson 5 perform on Ed Sullivan. "As a small child I just knew that was what I wanted to do."

His older brother Don began musically mentoring him, introducing Lee to a variety of instruments and sounds. "He would never play one particular type of music, like R&B," says Lee. "I was surrounded by jazz, hard rock and roll, easy listening, gospel, reggae, country music; I mean I was a sponge absorbing all of that." Lee taught himself to play drums by beating on cardboard boxes, gaining a rep around the way for his timekeeping, and his singing voice. Emulating his favorites, Earth Wind & Fire and Cameo, he formed groups with other kids with era-evocative band names like Concept and TNT Connection, and emerged as the leader of disciplined rehearsals. "I made them practice," says Lee. "We practiced and practiced and practiced. Because I wanted that perfection." By high school the most accomplished of these bands would take top prize in a prominent local talent show. It was a big moment for Lee, and he felt ready to take things to the next level. But his band-mates had other ideas.

"I don't know what happened," he says, still miffed at the memory. "It must have blew they mind after we won and people started showing notice, because it's like everybody quit! I was like, where the hell did everybody go?" Lee had always made a point of interrogating prospective musicians about their intentions before joining his groups: were they really serious or just looking for a way to pick up girls? Now he understood even more the importance of finding a collaborator just as committed to the music as he was.

=

Isaac Manning had spent much of his life immersed in music and the arts – singing in the church choir with his family on Nashville's north side, writing, painting, dancing, and working various gigs within the entertainment industry. After serving in the armed forces, in the early '70s he ran The Teenage Place, a music and performance venue that catered to the local youth. But he was forced out of town when word of one of his recreational routines created a stir beyond the safe haven of his bohemian circles.

"I was growing marijuana," Isaac explains. "It wasn't no business, I was smoking it myself… I would put marijuana in scrambled eggs, cornbread and stuff." His weed use originated as a form of self-medication to combat severe tooth pain. But when he began sharing it with some of the other young people he hung out with, some of who just so happened to be the kids of Nashville politicians, the cops came calling. "When I got busted," he remembers, "they were talking about how they were gonna get rid of me because they didn't want me saying nothing about they children because of the politics and stuff. So I got my family, took two raggedy cars, and left Nashville and went to Vegas."

Out in the desert, Isaac happened to meet Chubby Checker of "The Twist" fame while the singer was gigging at The Flamingo. Impressed by Isaac's zeal, Checker invited him to go on the road with him as his tour manager/roadie/valet. The experience gave Isaac a window into a part of the entertainment world he'd never encountered – a glimpse of what a true pop act's audience looked like. "Chubby Checker, none of his shows were played for Black folks," he remembers. "All his gigs were done at high-class white people areas." Returning home after a few years with Chubby, Isaac was properly motivated to make it in Music City. He began writing songs and scouting around Nashville for local talent anywhere he could find it with an expressed goal: "Find someone who can deliver your songs the way you want 'em delivered and make people feel what you want them to feel."

One day while walking through Edgehill Projects Isaac heard someone playing the drums in a way that made him stop and take notice. "The music was so tight, just the drums made me feel like, oh I'm-a find this person," he recalls. "So I circled through the projects until I found who it was.

"That's how I met him – Lee Tracy. When I found him and he started singing and stuff, I said, ohhh, this is somebody different."

=

Theirs was a true complementary partnership: young Lee possessed the raw talent, the older Isaac the belief. "He's really the only one besides my brother and my family that really seen the potential in me," says Lee. "He made me see that I could do it."

Isaac long being a night owl, his house also made for a fertile collaborative environment – a space where there always seemed to be a new piece of his visual art on display: paintings, illustrations, and dolls and figures (including an enigmatic cardboard robot). Lee and Issac would hang out together and talk, listen to music, conjure ideas, and smoke the herb Isaac had resumed growing in his yard. "It got to where I could trust him, he could trust me," Isaac says of their bond. They also worked together for hours on drawings, spreading larges rolls of paper on the walls and sketching faces with abstract patterns and imagery: alien-like beings, tri-horned horse heads, inverted Janus-like characters where one visage blurred into the other.

Soon it became apparent that they didn't need other collaborators; self-sufficiency was the natural way forward. At Isaac's behest Lee, already fed up with dealing with band musicians, began playing around with a poly-sonic Yamaha keyboard at the local music store. "It had everything on it – trumpet, bass, drums, organ," remembers Lee. "And that's when I started recording my own stuff."

The technology afforded Lee the flexibility and independence he craved, setting him on a path other bedroom musicians and producers around the world were simultaneously following through the '80s into the early '90s. Saving up money from day jobs, he eventually supplemented the Yamaha Isaac had gotten him with Roland and Casio drum machines and a Moog. Lee was living in an apartment in Hillside at that point caring for his dad, who'd been partially paralyzed since early in life. In the evenings up in his second floor room, the music put him in a zone where he could tune out everything and lose himself in his ideas.

"Oh I loved it," he recalls. "I would really experiment with the instruments and use a lot of different sound effects. I was looking for something nobody else had. I wanted something totally different. And once I found the sound I was looking for, I would just smoke me a good joint and just let it go, hit the record button." More potent a creative stimulant than even Isaac's weed was the holistic flow and spontaneity of recording. Between sessions at Isaac's place and Lee's apartment, their volume of output quickly ballooned.

"We was always recording," says Lee. "That's why we have so much music. Even when I went to Isaac's and we start creating, I get home, my mind is racing, I gotta start creating, creating, creating. I remember there were times when I took a 90-minute tape from front to back and just filled it up."

"We never practiced," says Isaac. "See, that was just so odd about the whole thing. I could relate to him, and tell him about the songs I had ideas for and everything and stuff. And then he would bring it back or whatever, and we'd get together and put it down." Once the taskmaster hell bent on rehearsing, Lee had flipped a full 180. Perfection was no longer an aspiration, but the enemy of inspiration.

"I seen where practicing and practicing got me," says Lee. "A lot of musicians you get to playing and they gotta stop, they have to analyze the music. But while you analyzing you losing a lot of the greatness of what you creating. Stop analyzing what you play, just play! And it'll all take shape."

=

"I hope you understood the beginning of the record because this was invented from a dream I had today… (You tell me, I'll tell you, we'll figure it out together)" – Lee Tracy and Isaac Manning, "Hope You Understand"

Lee lets loose a maniacal cackle when he acknowledges that the material that he and Isaac recorded was by anyone's estimation pretty out there. It's the same laugh that commences "Hope You Understand" – a chaotic transmission that encapsulates the duality at the heart of their music: a stated desire to reach people and a compulsion to go as leftfield as they saw fit.

"We just did it," says Lee. "We cut the music on and cut loose. I don't sit around and write. I do it by listening, get a feeling, play the music, and the lyrics and stuff just come out of me."

The approach proved adaptable to interpreting other artists' material. While recording a cover of Whitney Houston's pop ballad "Saving All My Love For You," Lee played Whitney's version in his headphones as he laid down his own vocals – partially following the lyrics, partially using them as a departure point. The end result is barely recognizable compared with the original, Lee and Isaac having switched up the time signature and reinvented the melody along the way towards morphing a slick mainstream radio standard into something that sounds solely their own.

"I really used that song to get me started," says Lee. "Then I said, well I need something else, something is missing. Something just came over me. That's when I came up with 'Is It What You Want.'"

The song would become the centerpiece of Lee and Isaac's repertoire. Pushed along by a percolating metronomic Rhythm King style beat somewhere between a military march and a samba, "Is It What You Want" finds Lee pleading the sincerity of his commitment to a potential love interest embellished by vocal tics and hiccups subtlely reminiscent of his childhood hero MJ. Absent chord changes, only synth riffs gliding in and out like apparitions, the song achieves a lingering lo-fi power that leaves you feeling like it's still playing, somewhere, even after the fade out.

"I don't know, it's like a real spiritual song," Lee reflects. "But it's not just spiritual. To me the more I listen to it it's like about everything that you do in your everyday life, period. Is it what you want? Do you want a car or you don't want a car? Do you want Jesus or do you want the Devil? It's basically asking you the question. Can't nobody answer the question but you yourself."

In 1989 Lee won a lawsuit stemming from injuries sustained from a fight he'd gotten into. He took part of the settlement money and with Isaac pressed up "Saving All My Love For You" b/w "Is It What You Want" as a 45 single. Isaac christened the label One Chance Records. "Because that's all we wanted," he says with a laugh, "one chance."

Isaac sent the record out to radio stations and major labels, hoping for it to make enough noise to get picked up nationally. But the response he and Lee were hoping for never materialized. According to Isaac the closest the single got to getting played on the radio is when a disk jock from a local station made a highly unusual announcement on air: "The dude said on the radio, 107.5 – 'We are not gonna play 'Is It What You Want.' We cracked up! Wow, that's deep.

"It was a whole racist thing that was going on," he reflects. "So we just looked over and kept on going. That was it. That was about the way it goes… If you were Black and you were living in Nashville and stuff, that's the way you got treated." Isaac already knew as much from all the times he'd brought he and Lee's tapes (even their cache of country music tunes) over to Music Row to try to drum up interest to no avail.

"Isaac, he really worked his ass off," says Lee. "He probably been to every record place down on Music Row." Nashville's famed recording and music business corridor wasn't but a few blocks from where Lee grew up. Close enough, he remembers, for him to ride his bike along its back alleys and stumble upon the occasional random treasure, like a discarded box of harmonicas. Getting in through the front door, however, still felt a world away.

"I just don't think at the time our music fell into a category for them," he concedes. "It was before its time."

=

Lee stopped making music some time in the latter part of the '90s, around the time his mom passed away and life became increasingly tough to manage. "When my mother died I had a nervous breakdown," he says, "So I shut down for a long time. I was in such a sadness frame of mind. That's why nobody seen me. I had just disappeared off the map." He fell out of touch with Isaac, and in an indication of just how bad things had gotten for him, lost track of all the recordings they'd made together. Music became a distant memory.

Fortunately, Isaac kept the faith. In a self-published collection of his poetry – paeans to some of his favorite entertainment and public figures entitled Friends and Dick Clark – he'd written that he believed "music has a life of its own." But his prescience and presence of mind were truly manifested in the fact that he kept an archive of he and Lee's work. As perfectly imperfect as "Is It What You Want" now sounds in a post-Personal Space world, Lee and Isaac's lone official release was in fact just a taste. The bulk of the Is It What You Want album is culled from the pair's essentially unheard home recordings – complete songs, half-realized experiments, Isaac's blue monologues and pronouncements et al – compiled, mixed and programmed in the loose and impulsive creative spirit of their regular get-togethers from decades ago. The rest of us, it seems, may have finally caught up to them.

On the prospect of at long last reaching a wider audience, Isaac says simply, "I been trying for a long time, it feels good." Ever the survivor, he adds, "The only way I know how to make it to the top is to keep climbing. If one leg break on the ladder, hey, you gotta fix it and keep on going… That's where I be at. I'll kill death to make it out there."

For Lee it all feels akin to a personal resurrection: "It's like I was in a tomb and the tomb was opened and I'm back… Man, it feels so great. I feel like I'm gonna jump out of my skin." Success at this stage of his life, he realizes, probably means something different than what it did back when he was singing and dancing in Isaac's front yard. "What I really mean by 'making it,'" he explains isn't just the music being heard but, "the story being told."

Occasionally Lee will pull up "Is It What You Want" on YouTube on his phone, put on his headphones, and listen. He remembers the first time he heard his recorded voice. How surreal it was, how he thought to himself, "Is that really me?" What would he say to that younger version of himself now?

"I would probably tell myself, hang in there, don't give up. Keep striving for the goal. And everything will work out."

Despite what's printed on the record label, sometimes you do get more than one chance.

Album - 3 singles - vinyl “Make all the uncertainty and adventure of growing up sound like the best days of your life” - UPSET “A ripper that channels sounds from all throughout punk history” - Brooklyn Vegan "On a take-no-prisoners assault" - Tom Robinson, BBC 6music “California compacted into three rowdy minutes” - The Rodeo “Scorching slacker pop” - CLASH Reminders approach punk rock from where they know it best: a forgotten seaside town. Formed on the Isle of Wight in 2017, the band cut their teeth writing songs about teenage lust and suburban boredom, gaining attention after they independently released Water Sports and Major Cities. Fresh-faced and excited, the then-teenagers coined their sound 'beach punk'; a tongue-in-cheek ode to their hometown that they stand by today. 
 Firmly solidifying their identity as breakneck but bubblegum, a pop-tinged punk band, Reminders work to introduce themselves to anybody willing to listen. After an unexpected hiatus during COVID which delayed the release of their album, the band are now raring and ready to go with their new label home at Venn and forthcoming tour dates. 
 Already championed at radio by BBC Radio 1, BBC 6Music and BBC Introducing, as well as landing placements on esteemed Spotify and Apple Music editorial playlists alike, they were labelled 'scorching slacker pop' by the influential CLASH Magazine, dubbed 'About to Break' by UPSET Magazine, and have already shared stages with rock legends and pop stars Liam Gallagher, The Killers, and Camila Cabello. Debut album Best Of Beach Punk released 1st April 2022