Lord Huron to perform at College Street Music Hall
Lord Huron w/ Maia Friedman (Dirty Projectors)
Wednesday August 24, 2022 at 8:00PM – Doors at 7:00PM
College Street Music Hall – 238 College Street, New Haven, CT 06510
$49.50 – $99.50
All Ages
On sale at 10AM this Friday 5/20 via www.collegestreetmusichall.com
Tune Prism Cover Artist Spotlight: Lord Huron and the Long Lost Sounds of Yore Words and Memories by Tubbs Tarbell
Friends,
I been thinkin’ a lot about the past again. I guess if you know me, that’s nothin’ new. Yeah, I smell what you’re sniffin’ at: “Oh boy, here goes ol’ Tubbs again, ramblin’ about those good ol’ bygone days of yore.” Well, sure, I’ll allow you that’n. Maybe I do tend to take a good hard glance into the rearview before I step my boot on the gas. But don’t we all? Or shouldn’t we, in any case?
It just seems to me that, these days, the past is everywhere you look. Hell, take another peek at that sentence again. The first time you read it is already in the past. Funny how time just keeps clickin’ along. These days, anyway.
So, sometime in what’s now the not-too distant past, I was sittin’ in my usual seat inside Whispering Pines, cozied up to a glass of something cozy, when, from outta nowhere, this particular tune crept into my ear. It was a funny thing, because it immediately felt familiar to me, as a song that creeps into your ear usually has to be — ‘specially for somebody like me who don’t write ’em…I just roll ’em. (You’ve heard me say that one more than a few times, no doubt.) But then the more I thought about it, and the more I listened to this little tune janglin’ around upstairs, I realized that I couldn’t place it as somethin’ I’d ever heard before. (And take my word for it: the ol’ upstairs is a titanium steel trap for tunes, even now.) It was a conundrum.
A week (or was it a month?) went by and the tune never went too far from my head. There’s a stranger in my eyes again… It almost got to where I was more used to the tune bein’ there under my hat than my own face. …I swear to God I don’t know him. But then it happened, somethin’ I’ll never forget for as long as I live: My little tune came to life before my very eyes.
Now, be patient. I’ll tell you how.
That day, one of my all-time favorite acts happened to be booked in Whispering Pines for a recordin’ spell, those good- time bootscooters and rhythm rascals known as the Lord Huron. As always, the boys showed up early — but not earlier than ol’ Tubbs here — and made haste toward the studio’s live room.
“Howdy, fellers,” says I. “Headed for the big room, I see.” (If Whispering Pines was a church — it ain’t, mind you, but iffin’ it were — the live room would be the holy pulpit, I reckon.)
Ben (he’s the singer) just looked at me, touched the brim of his hat, and nodded. “Thought we might try somethin’ different this time, good buddy,” says he.
So I just gave him my grandest grand welcome and stepped aside, happy to have them back. Those boys know what they’re doin,’ havin’ made quite a few of their records with us. But the live room, this was gonna be a first, and a real treat. I tried my best to keep my grin to a simmer, sat down at the board, and watched as Mark, Miguel, Tom, and Ben started tunin’ her up
If you’ve ever had the pleasure of recordin’ at the Pines, then you know that nothin’ in the place is off limits. Guitars, cymbals, pianos, pedal steel, mandolins, microphones, saxophones — what’s ours is ours, that’s my motto. And as the Huron boys are basically my own brothers by now — well, nephews, maybe, but who’s countin’ — I was glad to see their hands on all of it. I even heard ’em talk about recordin’ a gigantic string and woodwind orchestra in some dang place like Sweden or somewhat…those fellers really shoot the moon, I tell ya.
I’d barely had time to pour my coffee and hit the big red button when they settled into a dusky groove so quick I could hardly believe it. Must have been all that time playin’ out on the road together — even headlined that dang Bowl they got out in Hollywood since last I laid eyes. Hell, they’ve known each other since grade school so it don’t surprise…that’s the rumor, anyway.
Now, I’ve loved all their hits — “The Night We Met,” “Time to Run,” “When the Night is Over” — but this new stuff they started in on just sounded…well, it just sounded like somethin’ eerily familiar, as it were. Like somethin’ from a past life I’d heard before, but brand new, all at once. Like a note plucked long ago that had moseyed through time to finally belly up to my bar once and for all. It was a conundrum.
The next one, “Love Me Like You Used To,” brought to ear of one of those classic lovelorn country ballads, like one sung by Handsome Scott or even ol’ Roy Casey himself. “Long Lost” and “I Lied” both slowed the tempo down a notch or two, but sounded no less grand. The boys were really firin’ on all cylinders that day, I tell ya, fillin’ the air of that grand live room — and my own soul — with those tales of hard luck, heartbreak, and redemption. It was as if the boys had become conduits for the spirits of the room and were usin’ them to tap into that same cosmic eternal I’ve always felt — known — was hoverin’ around inside Whispering Pines.
I was feelin’ pretty fine. Our old pine clock on the wall had long stopped tickin’ and the boys surely didn’t need any help from little ol’ me, so I helped myself to a little somethin’ cozy and kicked my boots up on the board. And it was then, in that instant, that I heard it…my tune.
All messed up with nowhere to go, I stare at myself in the mirror alone… It’s hard to make friends when you’re half in the grave…
That drivin’ guitar jangle, the steady drum thump, those breezy, liltin’ voices…it was all unmistakable. My tune! It had somehow crept out from that titanium trap I keep under my hat and sneaked into the live room to serenade me from behind the glass studio wall. Time seemed to stand still, even more than it usually does around here. It was like some long, lost dream come to life, a forgotten classic from a parallel dimension, the echo of a memory that wasn’t mine. But the feelin’ was real.
“Say, boys, what’s that one called?” I hollered into the talkback, trying to seem casual.
They looked at one another, laughed. “Well, I’m not sure,” Ben replied. “What does it feel like it’s called to you?”
Ben (he’s the singer) just looked at me, touched the brim of his hat, and nodded. “Thought we might try somethin’ different this time, good buddy,” says he.
So I just gave him my grandest grand welcome and stepped aside, happy to have them back. Those boys know what they’re doin,’ havin’ made quite a few of their records with us. But the live room, this was gonna be a first, and a real treat. I tried my best to keep my grin to a simmer, sat down at the board, and watched as Mark, Miguel, Tom, and Ben started tunin’ her up
If you’ve ever had the pleasure of recordin’ at the Pines, then you know that nothin’ in the place is off limits. Guitars, cymbals, pianos, pedal steel, mandolins, microphones, saxophones — what’s ours is ours, that’s my motto. And as the Huron boys are basically my own brothers by now — well, nephews, maybe, but who’s countin’ — I was glad to see their hands on all of it. I even heard ’em talk about recordin’ a gigantic string and woodwind orchestra in some dang place like Sweden or somewhat…those fellers really shoot the moon, I tell ya.
I’d barely had time to pour my coffee and hit the big red button when they settled into a dusky groove so quick I could hardly believe it. Must have been all that time playin’ out on the road together — even headlined that dang Bowl they got out in Hollywood since last I laid eyes. Hell, they’ve known each other since grade school so it don’t surprise…that’s the rumor, anyway.
Now, I’ve loved all their hits — “The Night We Met,” “Time to Run,” “When the Night is Over” — but this new stuff they started in on just sounded…well, it just sounded like somethin’ eerily familiar, as it were. Like somethin’ from a past life I’d heard before, but brand new, all at once. Like a note plucked long ago that had moseyed through time to finally belly up to my bar once and for all. It was a conundrum.
The next one, “Love Me Like You Used To,” brought to ear of one of those classic lovelorn country ballads, like one sung by Handsome Scott or even ol’ Roy Casey himself. “Long Lost” and “I Lied” both slowed the tempo down a notch or two, but sounded no less grand. The boys were really firin’ on all cylinders that day, I tell ya, fillin’ the air of that grand live room — and my own soul — with those tales of hard luck, heartbreak, and redemption. It was as if the boys had become conduits for the spirits of the room and were usin’ them to tap into that same cosmic eternal I’ve always felt — known — was hoverin’ around inside Whispering Pines.
I was feelin’ pretty fine. Our old pine clock on the wall had long stopped tickin’ and the boys surely didn’t need any help from little ol’ me, so I helped myself to a little somethin’ cozy and kicked my boots up on the board. And it was then, in that instant, that I heard it…my tune.
All messed up with nowhere to go, I stare at myself in the mirror alone… It’s hard to make friends when you’re half in the grave…
That drivin’ guitar jangle, the steady drum thump, those breezy, liltin’ voices…it was all unmistakable. My tune! It had somehow crept out from that titanium trap I keep under my hat and sneaked into the live room to serenade me from behind the glass studio wall. Time seemed to stand still, even more than it usually does around here. It was like some long, lost dream come to life, a forgotten classic from a parallel dimension, the echo of a memory that wasn’t mine. But the feelin’ was real.
“Say, boys, what’s that one called?” I hollered into the talkback, trying to seem casual.
They looked at one another, laughed. “Well, I’m not sure,” Ben replied. “What does it feel like it’s called to you?”
As he spoke, I caught a glimpse of myself in the unpolished studio glass, and somethin’ hit me, somethin’ I’ve never been able to explain. “Well, I reckon it’s called ‘Not Dead Yet,'” I reckoned. And wouldn’t you know it? Turned out, it was.
The Huron kept at it for a little while longer that day, but I must have drifted off peaceful-like in somethin’ of a cosmic slumber, with my tune — all of the tunes, in fact, as all of them were now mine — janglin’ heavy and happy in my heart. When I woke, the light from the next day was just startin’ to ease into the Pines, and I was alone. I stood up, stretched my creaky back, scratched a little stubble. As I turned to grab my leavin’ hat off its peg, somethin’ caught my eye: A hand- scratched note bound to a faded vinyl record sleeve was layin’ on the floor.
I bent down to snatch it up. The record was called “Long Lost,” and it looked as if it had been layin’ there on the floor since before Whispering Pines was even a whisper itself. I brushed the dust off the cover and saw that the artist was none other than the boys themselves — Lord Huron.
“Say, Tubbs,” the note read. “Time washes aways what man creates, but ‘Long Lost’ might convince you that a note can live on. Be good now. The Boys.”
As ever, friends, may you live until you die, Tubbs
And just like that, they were gone.
Maia Friedman
“Pour me over, show me how to begin,” intones Maia Friedman on the first track of her lush, immaculate debut Under The New Light. Following a breadth of experience as a collaborator and multi-instrumentalist, Friedman’s densely- textured pop is wise and evokes what she wants it to: the sensuality of touch, feeling and image, a sonic form of empathy.
As an ode to the shifting landscape of our own lives, Friedman began Under the New Light four years ago, while teaching music and performing in multiple New York bands. “Collaborating gives me the juice,” she says, laughing. In 2018 Friedman was asked to join Dirty Projectors and a heavy schedule of touring followed. She sang and co-wrote the lyrics for the first of their 5 EPs, released last year, most notably for the soothing earworm “Overlord.” Meanwhile, Friedman also formed Coco, which began as a collaborative recording project with Oliver Hill (Dustrider, Pavo Pavo) and Dan Molad (Lucius, Chimney) and they released music anonymously until the announce of their 2021 self-titled debut.
Friedman’s voice lends a unique quality of warm comfort that permeates all her collaborations, but Under the New Light presents her full intention. Her role is that of the wounded healer, one who has gained wisdom through darkness and grief. In her empathetic role, rather than share the details of any struggling, Friedman instead sought to build a cloud of safety for those who might have pain of their own. It’s an antidote to suffering rather than its depiction. The closest she comes to stark personal detail is on standout “Sunny Room”: “To be in a place that knows your mold / The tighter your hand the less you hold / You’re looking for a way to ease your mind / So you won’t make a mess of your good time.”
It’s this translation of the image into sonic reality that Friedman shoots for and achieves wholly throughout Under the New Light. On “Elevate Us,” a sparse, succinct ballad, Friedman lifts a simple moment of observation into the weight of the world: “listen to the woman on the screen, promising everything / I am left more or less the same, with or without it / Oh how they elevate us, not that it’s for real / But ah, the elevation I feel / like a flock above the wires, carried by the current / In with the breeze, out with the front / We watch the rising flood.”
As with her other projects, Friedman collaborated closely on Under the New Light as a trio with Tom Deis (Pineapple Room Studio) and Peter Lalish, with Dan Molad in a production role. They worked on the album sporadically across the
country, in Omaha, New York, and Los Angeles. Friedman had melodies but left it open, with the trio co-writing the swirling harmonies together. The arrangements are less sparse than they feel and even when Friedman’s voice is accompanied by a single guitar, there are swirls of ambience and synthesized sound design building around her.
The album plays like a fulfilled journey, and though Friedman is still somewhere in the middle of her own, on Under the New Light her vision is fully formed. On the bright closer “A Sleep in the Garden,” she nods, for better or worse, toward the future: “I won’t look away / when you show me more.”
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