Writing and music are fueled by some of the same muses, even if they inhabit separate chambers in the maze. And so they share some of the same rules, depending on the operator. One rule that has always worked for me is: “If you are going to write while fucked up, be sure to edit sober.” This is an old standard for anyone familiar with the pitfalls of a self-imposed crisis, and because musicians and writers often share that terrain like a common headwaters, this rule has become something of a truism for every creative type whose artistic brilliance has awarded them the flexibility to kick themselves in the face.
Presence started as a one-man project by Luke Aronie, an extremely creative musician and artist who has run Open Head Records for the better part of a decade. I have jammed with Luke and played at least one show with him way back in the day before my muse shifted more toward writing again, and I have seen him at work. He is animated by the same motion generator that inhabits every professional musician I have ever known. It’s something so simple yet rare, sitting right on the intersection where the indefinable meets the undeniable. It’s like a camel swimming in the bay: instantly obvious despite its unusual nature.
When Aronie was writing isolator, he was not sober and in a bad way. A trip through the album’s five tracks confirms this, with lyrics cursing his birth and lamenting that his only friend left is the amplifier currently pealing out tones of down-tuned pop hooks and riffs like the cathedral in a tiny village built in the valley of the vinyl grooves of your favorite heavy guitar album. Thankfully, he got sober and has remained so for some time. Even better, he leaned into the aphorism above and took these songs from a miserable and intoxicated state and recorded them with a better presence of mind. The result is something that a casual listener would think of as neo-grunge, but they’d be missing so much, and you would, too, if you cared to listen to that assessment rather than the music. Because the music is so much richer and if it has any lineage from the ’90s, it comes from the daydream fuzz of Midwestern alternative psychedelia. Bands like Hum or the Smashing Pumpkins before a supernova from Billy Corgan’s unstable ego turned everything around him into a massive black hole shaped like an anus — this music has none of that, and it’s not the ’90s anymore anyway, so the comparisons slide away with multiple listens.
Which is an activity I have engaged in since isolator debuted on bandcamp on April Fool’s Day. Aronie plays all the instruments on the album and does so very well, to maximum effect provided by the awesome mix achieved with Ava Smith, his only collaborator. The dynamic changes come and flow without betraying the viscosity of the music as a whole. This thing drips, even when it’s on fire, which is probably why I don’t have a favorite track. It opens strong with the title song and doesn’t have any fat to trim by the ending of “salt,” the last of the five and an evocation of an Old Testament punishment as a form of self-annihilating prayer. This speaks to the strength of keeping things so brief and favoring effect over distance, particularly in a time where music isn’t defined by the storage capabilities of commercial media like LPs and CDs. OK, if I had to pick one, track No. 4, “home,” is my favorite, but only because it really has a little of everything, including layered, guttural screams over a wash of electrocution picking. But don’t tell its siblings.
Presence is now a band full of excellent collaborators who have brought this beautiful shit to life in a way that all beautiful shit should be realized live: the fecund fertilizer of the studio has blossomed into a living fire of flowers, or perhaps improvised explosives, depending on the venue. Lately the place to be has been Moss Oak Commons, where Presence will be playing on Friday, July 31, at 8 p.m. Aronie has been growing the underground scene there to great effect with the shows and Open Head Records showcases he’s been curating for some time now. My advice to anyone interested in getting into the glory of the scene around here is this: Check out the Presence bandcamp, buy a tape or CD if physical media is your thing and supplies are available. Then go check out the show. Easy as.
Collin Yeo (he/him) is feral but up for adoption. He has most of his shots.
This article appears in Folk in the Fresh Air.