From the Archive: 389 prophecy

Vulfpeck, Madison Cunningham, and Kate Bollinger

I mentioned Vulfpeck last week in reference to a phenomenon I’ve noticed wherein people with vastly different taste can agree that some music is just good. There are more classic examples, like Joni Mitchell or John Coltrane, but the interesting ones are those that are both contemporary and universal. For example, I’ve never met someone that didn’t like Lake Street Dive, even if they listen exclusively to hip hop or math rock otherwise.

Vulfpeck similarly unites people across wide gaps in listening preferences. My Jenny Hval-Cocteau Twins-Talking Heads friend and my Tom Misch-Still Woozy-Dua Lipa friend and my Beatles-Neil Young-Mac Demarco friend all like Vulfpeck. I’m not sure if it’s the sheer musical talent of its members or the infectious, animal pleasure induced by their grooves, but something they’ve got works on everyone. They are simply undeniable. If someone reading this newsletter isn’t a fan, please do not disprove my delightful theory and simply accept Vulfpeck into your heart.

Vulfpeck originally formed over a decade ago, at University of Michigan’s music school. There are four original members, but nine to ten other musicians frequently appear in the lineup. When I saw them at the Greek in 2019, there were six to seven people onstage at all times. They kept switching instruments, like the most impressive and high stakes game of musical chairs ever. They can all sing, extremely well. During “Back Pocket,” they asked the audience to split into sections so they could conduct harmonies over the chorus. It went remarkably smoothly; asking a crowd to do anything at a show is a real toss up, and sometimes they fail to perform simple tasks like say “haw” when you say “yee.” But in this case, the audience performed beautifully, coming in on time and with gusto unmatched by any Greek crowd I’ve seen before or since. It was truly remarkable, and cemented my position as a fan of the band.

And they have fans. Every one of their YouTube videos is littered with comments about their incredible talent. Vulfpeck was the first band to sell out Madison Square Garden without a manager or a label. Their live album from that show is one of the most impressive live albums ever made, a true testament to their unparalleled musicianship. Years before MSG, they released ten tracks of silence as an album called Sleepify (2014). Fans streamed it constantly and it generated over twenty thousand dollars of revenue before Spotify pulled it, citing a violation of their terms of service. After much international press (Jack Stratton’s deadpan appearance on CNBC is comedy gold, everyone is confused, Jack is being Jack) for their scheming, they used that money to fund an admission-free tour.

It’s incredible how much restraint they practice in some of their best moments. The ability to recognize when you should play less is a very difficult skill to learn; the natural tendency is to overstate, stretch and knead the song to death. Vulfpeck avoids this pitfall brilliantly:

Jack Stratton is playing the drums so delicately, so gently, so daintily:

Madison Cunningham has the same quality, that understated, effortless feel to her music that implies so much going on just underneath the surface. When I saw her live last fall, she played perfect licks while singing difficult melodies while smiling serenely out over the heads of the audience. I’ve written about that show before, how genuinely nice she was on top of all that talent. Over the pandemic, she started putting out tutorial videos on how to play the songs on her latest record, and she reads as patient, encouraging. Not that I trust the judgement of or care about the recording Academy at all, but at twenty five she is already twice Grammy nominated.

“Pin It Down” was the first song of hers I ever heard, lying on the couch of my apartment in the first week or so of the pandemic. I sent it to a friend that also immediately loved it and it became an obsession, a perfect distraction amidst all the chaos. The opening lick captures the mind; it’s played in a slightly lowered tuning, so it feels almost between the bass and guitar. Her verse comes in strong, high up in her range, a satisfying contrast to all the funky low end that starts the song. The complexity of both these lines weaving around each other and somehow not rendering the song convoluted is proof of her ingenuity as a songwriter.

When the timing changes in the chorus, it feels propulsive. It happens so briefly the first time that if you’re not expecting the shift, you almost miss it. When I heard this song live, it felt so good to know when the changes were coming and to feel them in real time. This live version highlights the singularity of her style, inspired by so many greats but standing apart from anything else being written today.

I first discovered Kate Bollinger through her Tiny Desk Contest entry. She exists in the Men I Trust-early Faye Webster-early Sylvan Esso space of jazz influence, electronic elements, brushed drums, understated funk bass lines. Her song “A Couple Things” on this playlist is the eye of the storm, both sonically and lyrically:

If I mess up a couple things, if I mess up a lot of things
If I fuck up a couple things, well
What if I fuck up everything?

She asks some important questions, but doesn’t seem too pressed about the answers. The “what if” feels hypothetical, experimental. Her songs never grow past maybe a six in terms of energy, but I don’t mind it. She makes music for sunny drives in your hometown, for lying on the beach. Kate Bollinger is what I put on when I want to remember that it all feels okay, no—it all feels good.