There are musicians who treat tradition like a museum, and then there are musicians who treat it like a passport. Stéphane Wrembel belongs firmly in the second category.

You may know his work from the soundtracks to Midnight in Paris or Vicky Cristina Barcelona, those melodies that drift in from another time but somehow land right in your lap. His newest release, Django New Orleans II: Hors-Série, leans into that same sensation. It’s a record that threads Django Reinhardt’s Jazz Manouche through the brass-soaked spirit of New Orleans, recorded with a nine-piece ensemble of some of New York’s most serious improvisers, and shaped by Wrembel’s own restless sense of exploration. The album moves easily from classic repertoire to new original compositions, and along the way, Wrembel steps into new territory by singing for the first time on record, offering up two Serge Gainsbourg songs with a shared Parisian accent and an almost disarming sense of vulnerability.

“Hors-Série” means special edition, but this feels more like a field journal. It captures an artist testing new ground without abandoning the old maps. Today we talk with Stéphane about that journey, about what happens when Django meets New Orleans, about why Gainsbourg mattered enough to get him to finally step to the microphone, and about treating music not as something fixed and finished, but as something alive, breathing, and in motion.

Independence in music is usually described as freedom. In practice, it is a long sequence of decisions that can’t be outsourced. Writing the songs. Recording the tracks. Producing the record. Paying for the mistakes. Owning that outcome.

That path has shaped Tamar Berk’s career from the start. Working largely outside the industry’s infrastructure, she has built a body of work defined by personal control, emotional directness, and the pressure of doing it all yourself. Her new album ocd was released in late 2025 and it moves through looping thoughts, emotional unraveling, and the patterns that repeat whether we want them to or not. Fuzzed guitars, reverb-heavy textures, and melodies stay close; it is a record about the mind when it refuses to let go.

Raised on classical piano and early Disney soundtracks, later influenced by the Beatles, David Bowie, Liz Phair, and Elliott Smith, Tamar developed an instinct for melody and emotional clarity that has carried her through years of work in the Chicago, Portland, and San Diego scenes. Her previous releases include The Restless Dreams of Youth, Start at the End, Tiny Injuries, and Good Times for a Change. Along the way, her music has been recognized by KCRW, Fader, Creem, and Shindig, with multiple nominations from the San Diego Music Awards, while she has continued to write, record, and produce her work on her own terms.

What follows is a conversation about the lived reality of that independence. The creative control, the isolation if you will and maybe even a little bit of the financial strain. But, also the satisfaction of hearing something finished and knowing exactly how it got there. ocd is the current chapter in Tamar’s story.

For nearly three decades, Steve Stanley has been one of the quiet architects behind how we remember mid-century American pop. His work as a reissue producer and archivist has revived artists who slipped through the cracks of the industry machine, restoring not only their music but the cultural scaffolding around it. From Del-Fi to Rev-Ola to his own Now Sounds imprint, Stanley has built a body of work that treats forgotten pop not as nostalgia but as evidence: proof that the margins of the 1960s were sometimes more interesting than its center.

What distinguishes Stanley isn’t just the scholarship. It's intuition. He has an ear for artists who nearly made it, who should have made it, who made something exquisite - but briefly - and he approaches their histories with a precision that resists mythmaking even as it acknowledges the romance of lost possibilities. His design work reinforces that impulse. The packaging, sequencing, and annotation in his projects aren’t ornamental; they’re part of the narrative engine, a way of giving listeners the context they never got the first time around.

With the new vinyl reissue of Eternity’s Children on High Moon Records, Stanley returns to one of the great unsolved stories of sunshine pop. These albums have lived half their lives in rumor and scarcity, admired by collectors but underexamined by the larger world. Stanley’s work on this project gives the band’s complicated and fascinating legacy its first real chance to be understood on its own terms. Our conversation begins there, in the space between what history remembers and what it forgot to write down.