Link 3 recorded their slowcore debut with gaming mics and bathroom fans—now it's soundtracking weddings. James and Sunniva unpack the guitar-first writing, dual-vocal chemistry, and DIY grit behind On The Outline, a record that chose intimacy over polish and found an audience craving exactly that.

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A packed car pointed west, and a travel-size instrument wedged between sleeping bags—this is how records get made when life is crowded and the need to create won’t wait. We sit down with Brian Russ of Hand Gestures to trace the long arc behind a self-titled album that sounds lived-in, melodic, and unforced.

Russ maps a route from college shows in Philadelphia to AmeriCorps on Pine Ridge, then into Brooklyn’s warehouse-show ecosystem, where CMJ weekends blurred into community and bands kept each other afloat. Along the way, he built Campers Rule Records—a micro-label with pragmatic ideals: small cassette runs, break-even math, and hands-on help that gets music over the line.

The mechanics matter. Voice memos from a cross-country drive became song kernels; late nights with an interface turned sketches into arrangements; a remote drummer locked in the pulse. Brian tracked guitars, bass, keys, and vocals himself, then sequenced the record for an arc that rewards close listening.

There’s life in the margins, too—two teachers, two kids, and a creative practice built one quiet hour at a time. We talk rebuilding a live band post-COVID, why the album title became the band’s name, and how to stay sane about press and reach. For anyone invested in DIY recording, Brooklyn indie circuits, sustainable labels, or the alchemy of turning notes into songs, this conversation offers a clear, hopeful blueprint.

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A small amp, a whispered “Beatrice,” and four players standing in a circle, daring the songs not to flinch.
In this conversation with Neil Osborne of 54-40, Porto emerges as a document of risk—shadow work, live-wire performances, and the kind of imperfection that lets a song haunt you instead of explaining itself.

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A name can work like a north star. Jason P. Woodbury and the Nightbird Singing Quartet points straight toward songs built for company—melody-first, ensemble-minded, rooted in the desert but restless for elsewhere. We sit with Woodbury to trace the long arc from church songleading and clarinet rehearsals to record-store immersion, music journalism, and a self-titled album that wears its influences lightly and its confidence quietly.

He talks about the records that calibrated his ear at Zia Records—the open-sky ache of Big Star, the haunted intimacy of Chris Bell’s I Am the Cosmos, Neko Case’s nocturnal drama, Destroyer’s wry sprawl, and the cosmology of Lee Scratch Perry—and how those discoveries rewired his sense of arrangement and feel.

We dig into the making of the record itself: some songs arriving whole, others pieced together from Dropbox shards and rehearsal-room patience. The quartet’s chemistry lifts the material into focus—power-pop hooks catching pedal-steel glow, soul-informed details settling into an alt-Americana, desert-rock atmosphere that feels lived-in rather than posed.

Beyond the music, Woodbury explains why he launched Always Happening Records—to put this album out on his own terms and build a flexible home for future ideas, from tactile seven-inches to Bandcamp-first releases. It’s a conversation about time, trust, and the strange joy of hearing a band take a song somewhere you couldn’t have planned.

If you’re drawn to independent music made in community—records that breathe, shimmer, and tell you where they came from—this one’s for you. Spin it loud, pass it along to a Big Star or Calexico devotee, and tell us the album that first flipped your lid.

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A melody looping in a hospital hallway. A chorus that took six years to learn its own name. Sitting down with Brad Barr, we talk about writing when life insists on co-author credit—kindness traded for drum lessons, heartbreak turned into breath, and a city that lets a voice arrive on its own time. From Providence to Montreal, Brad and Andrew built a shared language—first as The Slip, then as The Barr Brothers—rooted in groove, generosity, and patience.

The focus is Let It Hiss, their first record in eight years, and the clarity that came only after the songs could stand on their own. Jim James adds a spectral lift to “English Harbor.” Elizabeth Powell and Ariel Engle color the margins. Klô Pelgag reframes a verse in French, returning harmonies that feel like a second producer’s hand.

There’s tactile joy—cassettes, handheld recorders, chord voicings shared online—and a clear ethic: measure success by honesty, not algorithms. Ahead: Let It Hiss outtakes, North American and European dates, Sleeping Operator finally stirring, and Brad’s first vocal solo record as he learns which songs belong to which home.

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Snow hushes the streets; songs do the same to the head. We open on a coast-to-coast weather check and drift into a story that starts in Philly basements and only really clicks once Emily Yacina loosens her grip. Confidence, she says, was something the scene lent her early on—small rooms, big hearts. Most songs still arrive as a fragment: a phrase, a melodic flicker. Writing becomes a place to set feelings down when there’s nowhere else to put them.

There’s a pivot here—from hardline DIY to letting collaborators leave fingerprints. Control gives way to trust. A pianist widens the frame, a violinist pulls a thread, a great engineer sharpens the picture. Emily talks about the awe of unfamiliar studios and the humbling realization that audio engineering is its own deep craft, not just a means to an end. Then comes release-day whiplash: years of work suddenly gone, the quiet after the drop, the itch to check a feed for proof of life. She’s honest about the pressure to “go viral,” and how she learned to measure success by connection instead of metrics.

Touring again—after time away—reset the temperature. Nightly rooms, real conversations, and a sense of abundance replaced scarcity. Move your body, move your ideas. Momentum follows motion. She’s carrying that energy into 2026: more sessions, more collaborators, and a steady aim to make songs feel as alive as the feelings that sparked them.

If you’re into indie folk with DIY roots, the mechanics of songwriting, and the quiet courage it takes to share something personal, this conversation sketches a practical map for sustainable creativity.

If it hits home, follow the show, pass it to a friend who lives for singer-songwriters, and leave a review—so the right ears can find it.

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What if the quickest way to sound like yourself is to stop chasing your heroes? That question sits at the centre of our conversation with Kevin Basko, the mind behind Rubber Band Gun—a project that slides easily between indie rock, psych, and playful concept albums, all shaped by a hands-on, hybrid analog setup where limits become part of the sound.

Basko traces his path from backyard lyric notebooks to a sudden elevator text that landed him in Foxygen’s touring band, sharpening his instincts without dulling his DIY core. We dig into RBG25, the self-imposed challenge to release dozens of records in a year, and how working fast reshaped his sense of tempo, arrangement, and when a song is actually done. Along the way, he talks borrowing without imitating, turning tradition into raw material, and why momentum—and not perfection—is the real engine of creative work.

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HighSchool formed during Melbourne’s lockdowns, making songs fast and with intention. In this episode, they talk about starting with images and mood before melody, recording wherever they could, and keeping tempos high so the songs stayed sharp and emotional. We get into how Lily’s shift from drums to synth helped shape the band’s sound, why restraint matters more than polish, and how Sony Ericsson came together in a single day after nearly being dropped. From writing in London to releasing a self-titled debut, this is a conversation about momentum, trust, and finding your sound by keeping things simple.

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