I revived an old music blog from the early 2000s?

Maybe it’s been a foolish endeavor, and maybe I’m the only one who misses the blog ol’ days, but I’ve been giving it a shot. I’ve been working on restoring some of the old content, though much of it was lost. I’ve slowly been rebuilding the old remix sunday archives, and even posting the occasional new edition. And I’ve been writing again.

You can find all the label’s releases here, on bandcamp, or most anywhere you listen to music these days. I’ve still got copies of some of the old vinyl releases, and I recently released the first in a set of charitable cassette compilations to raise awareness about the continued [mis]use of broken windows policing methods.

Plus, I put together a playlists section with a handful of spotify lists that hopefully start to capture a [slightly] updated version of the moods we used to peddle. Give those a listen and a ❤ if you would be so kind. If you want to get in touch, just give me a holler.

– Haldan/Boody

  • Macro/micro – Streets Loud with Echoes

    On the one hand, this is inspiring. But on the other hand, it’s scary. It might be for the best.

    How does one trace the line between jubilation and heartbreak? How can it be possible that opposite poles so often sit so close to one another? Maybe most spectrums are simply not linear; circularity is probably a better form on which to picture them. The furthest measurable distance on this kind of scale may not be between joy and misery, but rather between extreme and stable.

    Qoryqpa (Streets Loud with Echoes) is a film by Kazakhstani filmmaker Katerina Suvorova that follows members of grassroots activist organizations in Almaty for approximately five years. It takes place largely in the immediate aftermath of the death of Denis Ten, a national icon and figure skater who was killed by carjackers attempting to steal his side mirrors. It traces the political movement that arose following his death, leading to the resignation of the country’s first president—who ruled the country for 30 years, and whose tenure began before the fall of the Soviet Union—up until the violent unrest of January 2022 that led to the deaths of over 200 people. Despite the intensity and passion with which many of the activists tracked in the film hold their beliefs—and the brutality and violence with which some are met—possibly the film’s most striking quality is how elegantly it demonstrates Hannah Arendt’s concept of the banality of evil. Everyone in the film, including the activists, police, and judges, are all purely human; these are ordinary people on either side of the fight for constitutional reform, all victims of extreme oligarchy regardless of their political posture. Despite being similar in most respects, they sit at opposite political poles of a circular spectrum, their backs almost touching.

    A similar paradox exists for the protest movement itself. This doesn’t initially look like a radical movement; it’s one led by precocious innocents gently using their voices in an atmosphere so used to quiet that even a whisper in protest is viewed as disruptive. And the suppression is comparably benign at first, mostly enacted by visibly confused civil servants. The activists at numerous points in the film also seem to express caution with the whole endeavor. There’s a shared understanding that even if all this could lead to the sort of political upheaval they seek, for the right reasons and by righteous people, there’s the distinct danger of co-optation by darker political forces waiting in the wings. Revolution by the good against the bad can upset the familiar equilibrium enough to lead people to accept rule by the worse. Nonetheless, the film’s central message is that these are risks worth taking, that fear of speaking out is the ultimate enemy here and sacrificing the stability of poor governance is just a stop on the way toward liberation. It’s a hopeful film, but one that both begins and ends in a liminal space. Kazakhstan is still a country with very little space for opposition, minimal freedom of press, and only a semblance of opportunity for substantive political participation.

    Gently tracing the lines around the film’s cautious optimism is an exceptional score by Tommy Simpson, aka Macro/micro, whose work I’ve written about consistently over the past few years. I probably say this each time I write about him, but this is without doubt the best record he’s yet delivered. It reinforces the tone of the film: the dreary tension of “Balaclava” is built upon the rhythmic repetitions of a windshield wiper, and seems to reflect the precarity of the activists’ choices; the dissonant clatter of “Indiscriminate” elicits the fear and ferocity felt by protesters (and passersby) at the hands of the police’s violent repression. But most of all, the record feels like a love letter to Almaty and Kazakhstan more generally. This is fitting; Simpson shared with me that he traveled to Almaty in 2014 with a friend, fell in love with a woman who asked him to DJ the opening of her flower shop, got married and stayed there until late 2018, at which point he and his wife returned to Los Angeles together. Songs like “Oyan,” “Qazaqstan,” and “Tengri,” are beautifully tender and admiring—clearly the work of someone in love with this place and its people. The album’s closer, “Almaty,” is the most hopeful of all. It’s anchored by the sonogram of Suvorova’s unborn child’s heartbeat, who is revealed at the end of the film as the object of her narration, and in light of whom she reframes the liberation movement itself. It’s no wonder she can be hopeful in the face of continued repression and uncertainty. What wouldn’t we do to ensure our children don’t have anything to fear?

    Qoryqpa has not yet seen wide release, but is on the festival circuit and will hopefully be more broadly distributed soon. Simpson’s score is out now for streaming all over, and can be purchased on bandcamp.

    Macro/micro (Tommy Simpson) – Streets Loud with Echoes (Original Score)

  • Macro/micro – Clicks

    I’ve written about Los Angeles native Tommy Simpson a couple of times before. Most recently, I wrote about the excellent scores he did for the short film R.A.E.R BETA 0027 and the VoE collection for Lever Couture, respectively. And in 2022, I covered his brilliant album Things Will Never Be The Same Again, which was on heavy rotation for me last year.

    His latest is Clicks, an EP that is without doubt my favorite work from him thus far. As song titles like “Follow” and “Like and Subscribe” allude to, it’s a refreshingly direct tongue-in-cheek comment on what Simpson describes as the “hellscape of our social media dystopia.” Initially written as a single 9 min+ composition, Simpson chose to then break the song into four smaller movements—a reasonable choice given the subject matter, where short-form is king. He’s also included a compressed edit of the whole record, which he names the TLDR edit (though it might have been more fitting to say TLDL).

    On each of the movements of Clicks, Simpson repeats a set of incantations, voiced through a guttural vocoder:

    Just click on the screen, it’s so easy to be, someone else’s dream / just click on the screen, it’s so easy, no need for agency / just click on the screen, you can’t disagree, there is no resisting

    I’m someone who really wants to avoid social media, but nonetheless gets pulled into its dopamine loop. I’m also someone who prides myself on my willpower, having managed to set down most of my vices in mid-adulthood, but I find it agonizingly hard to keep myself off socials. It’s so easy as a creative person to justify succumbing to its continued pull in the name of self-promotion, but actually promoting myself and my work is the easiest part to avoid. It’s the consumption that’s so seductive. Anything from sex, to GAS, to DIY, to inspiration/tragedy porn and Mr. Beast-style charity porn, even to enjoying legitimately wonderful individual expressions of art that deserve a place in our collective consciousness—it all gets reduced and distilled, presented as if it’s all of equal value.

    None of my hip-fire thoughts here are novel or particularly original, but Simpson’s take on this subject is resonant. He seems to be framing the tragedy of web 2.0 less as a 1984-type dystopia where our data is harvested, and we lose our sense of (or actual) privacy in service of some behemothic Brother. Instead, the aesthetic tone of the record—which sounds like it was written inside a sewer tunnel by manipulating the natural resonances of cast iron pipes and rat footsteps—seems more of a comment on the diminution of our sense of self (or at least the extent to which our sense of self is actually self-generated). There’s no real enemy pointed to here, what’s important is illustrating the comic/tragedy of our individually sad, separate, and ultimately lonely experiences under the dull light of our devices.

    Support Simpson’s work by purchasing the record on bandcamp (after all, we must still monetize our “product” for maximum profit, we have little choice). You can also stream it on spotify or whatever, and help him earn a few fractions of a penny.

    Macro/micro – “Like and Subscribe” (sc)

    Macro/micro – “Clicks” (all four movements) (bc)

  • Macro/micro – Reassembling the Self

    New work from Tommy Simpson, also known as Macro/micro, whose last album I wrote about in 2022. This song is the ending credits music for R.A.E.R BETA 0027, a sci-fi short film about a novel confrontational therapy modality that cinematizes the subject’s psyche and draws them through a visual tour of their own memories and feelings. It’s a wild little film, and Simpson’s score is perfectly subdued and tense. His work lends itself to this sort of thing, so it’s no wonder the whole soundtrack works so well. Find it on bandcamp, or for streaming all over.

    Macro/micro – “Reassembling the Self” (bc)

    Simpson also recently released “VoE” or (Velocity of Emotions), a commission for Lever Couture to soundtrack their recent collection and runway event of the same name. This is an epic—clocking in at just over fifteen minutes, but wholly engaging throughout—intended to capture the internal contradictions of being human, and our collective struggle to find peace in our respective polarities. Listen below, or find it on bandcamp.

    Macro/micro – “VoE” (sc)

  • Mailbox: Macro/micro – Things Will Never Be The Same Again

    Sharp, clenched, grand electronica from LA-based Tommy Simpson, aka Macro/micro. Simpson recently stopped work as an engineer for Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross, where he assisted on the last two NIN albums and their recent film work, including that excellent score for Watchmen.

    Simpson’s own work as Macro/micro definitely exists in a similar space as does that of Reznor and Ross, particularly in his use of tightly controlled distortion (see e.g., “Awe” and “He’ll Be With You Shortly”). But there’s also an evident generational divide. Despite its general darkness, this is not dour music, there’s plenty of optimism to be found here too (see e.g., the closer, “Gratitude” which is probably my choice from the record). As a much younger artist, Simpson seems more willing to open the blinds more often and let in some light.

    Check out the whole album, released this past July. It’s out now on bandcamp, and streaming everywhere else.

    Macro/micro – Things Will Never Be The Same Again (bc)

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