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Lord Huron at Surly Festival Field 2022
Lord Huron at Surly Festival Field 2022First Avenue

Lord Huron

Friday, August 12
5:30 pm

Surly Brewing Festival Field

520 Malcolm Ave SE, Minneapolis, MN 55414

Doors open at 5:30PM | Show starts at 7PM | 18+ | Tickets start at $47.50

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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.

That little number stuck with me for more than a few days. I'd be doing something mindless -- scrubbin' my cup, combin' my hat -- when all of a sudden, here it came again: It's hard to make friends when you're half in the grave, but I ain't dead yet and I've got something to say. It was the loveliest thing, and dang me if it didn't keep sounding chummier and chummier. It was sublime -- that drivin' jangle of the guitar, the steady thump of the drums, those breezy, liltin' voices -- but I just couldn't place it. Could it have been that ol' Tubbs here had somehow tapped into that cosmic eternal and unwittingly written his first tune without even knowin' it?

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 first number they called "The Moon Doesn't Mind," and I say it reminded me of one of those cowboy pictures where the lone horseman is singin' his heart out to the audience from atop his brave steed. But somethin' about the pang in Ben's voice made it seem like that feelin' was more lonesome than just simply lone -- or maybe it was just my view from the sidestage, as it were. Maybe the light catches a singer a little different when you're not starin' at him head-on, or even through a lens. I always did wonder if those cowboys were really as rootin' and tootin' as they looked on TV. I gave the boys a good round of applause before they launched into a real sunset of a song they called "Mine Forever," a swingin,' full-on heart-renderer with a bubbly sound. All of a sudden I heard handclaps and female voices -- I swear those ladies must have risen up outta the floorboards! Never saw 'em come in, and didn't see 'em leave. That's just the magic of the Pines, I suppose. Door knockin's for strangers.

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."

And just like that, they were gone.

As ever, friends, may you live until you die, Tubbs


one hand on the steering wheel the other sewing a garden is the name of the second album by Canadian songwriter Alexandra Levy, publicly known by the moniker Ada Lea. On one hand, it’s a collection of walking-paced, cathartic pop/folk songs, on the other it’s a book of heart-twisting, rear-view stories of city life. Ada Lea has followed up the creative, indie-rock songcraft of her debut what we say in private with surprising arrangements and new perspectives. The album is set in Montreal and each song exists as a dot on a personal history map of the city where Levy grew up. Due on September 24 from Saddle Creek and Next Door Records in Canada, the physical record will be released alongside a map of song locations and a songbook with chords and lyrics, inspired by Levy’s love of real book standards.

Levy penned and demoed this batch of songs in an artist residency in Banff, Alberta. After sorting and editing she made her way to Los Angeles to record with producer/engineer Marshall Vore (Phoebe Bridgers) who had previously worked on 2020’s woman, here EP. After a long walk to the studio each morning, Levy spent her session days diving into the arrangements, playfully letting everything fall in place with complete trust for her collaborators. She notes “Marshall’s expertise and experience with drumming and songwriting was the perfect blend for what the songs needed. He was able to support me in a harmonic, lyrical, and rhythmic sense.” Other contributors that left a notable fingerprint on the soundscape include drummer Tasy Hudson, guitarist Harrison Whitford (of Phoebe Bridgers band), and mixing engineer Burke Reid (Courtney Barnett). Many songs came together with a blend of studio tracks and elements from the pre-recorded demos.

The resulting sounds range from classic, soft-rock beauty to intimate finger-picked folk passages and night-drive art-pop. And the textures are frequently surprising due to the collage of lo-fi and hi-fi sounds that tastefully decorate the album without ever clouding the heart-center of the song. Tracks like “damn” and “oranges” feel timeless with their AM gold groove and '70s studio sheen, while songs like "my love 4 u is real", “salt spring”, and “can’t stop me from dying” sound completely modern in their use of electronics, sound effects, and pitched vocals. In their subtle, sonic variety, all of the album’s songs flow together with ease into one big, romantic dream for Levy’s silken vocals to float above.

Inspired by personal experience, daydreams, and Elena Ferrante’s Neapolitan novels, the lyrics of one hand... center storytelling on a bigger scale. The experience and emotions of a year are communicated through Levy’s vignettes of city life. Her prose is centered in its setting of the St Denis area of Montreal as it draws up memories from local haunts like Fameux, La Rockette, and Quai des Brumes in rearview reverie. Levy creates a balance through the album’s year by splitting her songs evenly into four seasons. Opening track “damn”, as a song of winter, kicks off the narrative with the events of a cursed New Year’s Eve party.

Immediately this timeline becomes jumbled into a Proustian haziness. The listener is then led through the heat-stricken, brain fog of Summer song, “can’t stop me from dying” and then into the autumnal romanticism of “oranges” before returning back to New Year’s on “partner,” which Levy describes as “a woozy late-night taxi blues reflection on moments when timing can be so right, yet so wrong…”. These collected stories as a whole chart the unavoidable growth that comes with experience. “All is forgiven in time. All is forgotten in time. And when the music stopped, I heard an answer” (from “my love 4 u is real”).

Whether to consider these songs fiction or memoir remains unknown. On one hand, Levy says “Why would I try to write a story that’s not my own? What good would that do?” but on the other hand, she is quick to note the ways that language fails to describe reality, and how difficult this makes it to tell an actually true story. The poetic misuse of the word “sewing” in the album’s title serves as a nod to the limitations words provide. What does it mean to sew the garden? And how can we appreciate its carefully knit blooms when the rearview mirror is so full of car exhaust?