1: A Backyard Ritual
I am sitting in a pale April backyard, watching alongside fifty-some young punks as a squirrel clings fiercely to its final moments of life. We have congregated here for a ritual, organized in patchwork to celebrate new beginnings, and now at the start of the first act we all turn our attention towards this creature, this tiny treebound thing which wants life so horribly, gripping to the boughs with the nails of its front legs as its back half dangles uselessly. We fear it is going to fall. The music peters out for a minute and during that minute all of our collective hope leaves ourselves and intertwines with the tree, filling the stark gaps between its naked branches.
It is the night of my first performance. Earlier in the evening we stuffed our gear and our bodies into the back of my bandmate’s van, wishing for clarity in the rain-ripe sky with the windows rolled down as we prepared to set up under a cellophane tent. The Backyard Ritual, as we titled the event, was staged in the backyard of a longtime family friend and matriarch of Minneapolis punk. Her yard had served as the childhood setting for many late nights of coexisting with bleary-eyed adults, perched in the amber light of her makeshift saloon constructed on the back porch. My father, among many vocations, is a carpenter; my name, in the handwriting of a five-year-old, is scrawled somewhere on one of the beams. There is a definite sense of earthly magic here.
The night is a testament to the ubiquitous ethos of DIY, the glowing engine driving the Minneapolis music scene as I came to enter it, with explosive and vigorous joy, on that evening. After pulling together a bill of college friends and associates of my bandmates’ other performing acts, I had created and distributed a poster a mere few weeks prior. Amidst the event details, two drawings of gnarled figures whisper to each other, staged in a Photoshopped microcosm of jungle foliage and winding stone paths leading into a glowing slime-green portal. Of course, these things all happen digitally now, but nevertheless a sizable party’s worth of people had seen that image on their phones and chosen to spend their evening here.
The squirrel clings to its branch for now, shielded by the dark. I gaze out over the wavering brass of the cymbals into an anticipatory clot of faces, metal-studded shoulders, jackets for a cold that is still slightly too insistent for an outdoor event. I play. The night crystallizes, forever encased in a gleaming sonic eruption.
flyer for Backyard Ritual, 2023
Interview 1: Raymond / Magick Flavour Station – 4/18/24
Raymond (they/she) performs under the name Magick Flavour Station and was one of the four acts who christened the Backyard Ritual. Her music hovers somewhere within the realm between vaporwave and indie folk. They strum over raw, self-produced beats with a face caked in corpse paint and unclipped guitar strings that fray wildly into the pallid light as they croon depressive lullabies. Raymond spoke to her involvement with music and the “scene” in the following interview. Listen in full below:
Q: How did you originally get into playing music, and what was the first show you played?
A: “The first show I played, I’ll just fast forward to there, was Walker [Lounge Lovers, Galaxy’s Bachelor, Psychic Sports, Makin’ Out] hit me up and asked if I wanted to do a DJ set at Caffetto… That would’ve been 2022. I’ve been releasing music since middle school. I started doing the whole vaporwave, slow shit down in Audacity, add field recordings… that’s how I got into music and eventually I started buying synthesizers and I was like, well, what if I tried to record the synthesizers into Audacity?”
Q: What was your first introduction to the Twin Cities scene?
A: “I went to a house show with Ginger [Cannabis Kiss], cause she finally convinced me to do it… We went to this house show, it was a crazy lineup. It was Niiice, it was Origami Angel, it was whoever was opening for Origami Angel, I think Short Fictions, Harper’s Jar, it was like Vial too… That show was kinda the seed that planted Magick Flavour Station, cause I was like, damn, I gotta do shit I can play live.”
Q: Any memorable shows you’ve been to?
A: “Backyard Ritual was a notable one. That whole night was like, perfect to me.”
Q: How would you describe your own persona as an artist and musician, and what are your biggest inspirations?
A: “I’ll start with the influences. Daniel Johnston, big one, he’s my favorite artist ever… Field Medic’s a big one too. Vaporwave in general, because that’s just kind of how I learned to make music… I purposefully record stuff super lo-fi, and I mix in ways that you wouldn’t usually mix… Magick Flavour Station is an exercise in sauce and mistakes.”
Q: How would you describe DIY, and what does it mean to you?
A: “I feel like the local music scene in general is just very inviting, if you have music you wanna perform. I mean, it could be total garbage, but you could still find a house show people will play, and people will still be really nice to you… Most of the people have been really nice, and I’ve met a lot of really amazing people from it, but I’ve also had other weird experiences. I have very complicated feelings about the DIY scene, but overall I love it.
Q: Any local bands/venues/people in the scene you want to shout out?
A: “Lulu and the Shoe, Larry Wish… I’m obligated to say Cannabis Kiss because my twin sister’s in it, but also they’re pretty chill in general, and Amber Dregs… and Walker. Walker’s a big one… Walker lives for music more than anyone I’ve ever met.”
Magick Flavour Station at Seward Cafe, 4/26/24
2. prelude; becoming
sometimes i still feel frozen in time
in the room above the quiet street, dampened with April rain
and soft breath, everything’s hushed now,
the thoroughfare of 38th will soon explode like a fuse but right now
the only sound is the electronic saccharine pounding
jumpstarting my brain, attempting to fill it with a feeling that is missing.
it’s hard to think that just months ago
the basement was a stage for our creative eruption,
our after-school convergence, a grotto of slouches,
fingers on strings, trading ideas in the form of bursts of sound,
a name, a shared identity forming in the miasma.
right now our creation is conceptual
and later still it will sit in the dark and pressurize,
spreading through basements and life stages
and then, suddenly,
light
[Our band formed in senior year of high school. I began learning drums in the fall of 2019, inspired in equal parts by my dad, who is an excellent drummer, and a surreal YouTube animation about the Grinch which features a really catchy drum sample that I wanted to learn. The majority of my crew were musicians, so naturally group practices at my place after school quickly began occupying a viable niche of hangout options (second only to loudly playing video games and gobbling capsaicin and Red 40 on my living room couch). My parents have had a “Speed Limit 5” road sign hung in the basement for as long as I can remember; it always struck me as odd why anyone would need a speed limit to be that low, or why they had the sign in the first place. I suspect it has something to do with 5 being my mom’s favorite number. During the eventual deliberations over what to call our group that had coagulated, we reached consensus over the road sign. Something about the process reminds me of the serendipity of how Dada was named when Richard Huelsenbeck thrust his knife into a dictionary and landed randomly on a word. Nonetheless, it stuck. Our practices continued into February 2020, despite the growing stockpile of canned foods that my mom’s emergency preparedness streak encouraged her to accumulate.
Suddenly, the cord was cut. It would be until 2023 that the project would again gain any meaningful traction.
Hot Bagels at Cloudland, 4/4/24
3. Enter Summer
A second show quickly takes shape, hosted within the space of a brand-new backyard venue. Due to the ridiculous amount of bricks heaped and arranged in the yard, it is entitled the Brickyard. It’s the passion project of a DJ ten years my senior, a friend of an old coworker we shared a bill with just a month prior. Our performance here is an awkward leap into unearned confidence; I begin the set with a crooning happy-birthday dirge squeaked into a microphone through a kazoo before our band launches into a meandering set of long boneless jams. During the other performances a man dances barefoot in the crowd, slapping me on the shoulder, disregarding the plumes of dust kicked up that threaten to settle on his pristine white shirt. I smile at him, and am careful not to tread on his toes.
At some non-definitive point between my first and second show, I begin to consider myself part of the “scene.” The scene is an ambiguous thing long predating my awareness and often alluded to by the tobacco mouthed burnout dudes and the invigoratingly caring queer punks alike. What it was like prior to Covid, I’ll never know. I attended my first house show in the fall of 2021, on a botched date with someone occupying a wildly different social strata from myself. No sooner than I peeled myself out of the sweat-drenched subterranean grotto to get some air, the cops immediately showed up, putting an end to that venue and sending its attendants scattering off into the night.
/
the cops and the scene are not known to get along.
in fact, the vast majority of anybody you’ll find at a show worth going to fucking hates the cops.
rarely do they show themselves at gigs (and most folks have gotten wise to the tactic of keeping the address private – “dm for address” or “ask a punk” are common phrases you’ll find on flyers.
this is true everywhere, but especially in minneapolis, cops are known primarily for their legacy of brutalization, profiling, and harassment, leading to the 2020 murder of george floyd. the nature of any counterculture scene in minneapolis (punks, hippies, ravers, anarchists) tends to position itself fundamentally against policing and aims to uphold values of communal care.
/
As far as I can tell, it’s about connection. Every gig I’ve managed to organize has started as a conversation between fellow artists. Often, this takes the form of a direct message (I suspect the relative anonymity of messages sent from one band account to another helps embolden me to make the first move) and morphs as we tap our respective connections and brainstorm venues to stage our budding event at. I’ve become particularly drawn to designing show flyers– it’s unbelievably gratifying to see proof that your art has reached people in the form of attendees trickling into a show space.
Spring morphs and waxes, bringing with it new gig opportunities. The summer that follows is ripe with excitement. I exist in various states of griminess, shuttled between cross-town bus rides and lifts offered in good faith, to fling myself through backyards and basements.
We play our first show underneath an actual roof in mid-June. It’s a three-band bill, and our set is flanked on one side by a sprawling psychedelic orchestra that has remained one of our most continuous allies in the scene, and on the other side by a trans anarcho-communist punk outfit that has risen into the ranks of scene legends like a comet, leaving attendees squirming on the floor in a pile of vindicated queer rage/joy.
The venue that has chosen to platform this ragtag bill is none other than the eternal Seward Cafe. It is the oldest collectively-run restaurant in the United States and has been an intergenerational staple for the counterculture’s constituents to consolidate against the ruling class over vegetarian breakfast. In simpler terms, it’s a cool place. For this gig I wear my double-oversized “Happy Halloween” tee in neon orange, covered in gaudy illustrations of pumpkins and bats, paired with a rainbow frog tie borrowed from my partner’s dad. The three other members wear a tie-dye gas mask, a V for Vendetta mask, and a rainbow propellor beanie. We still kind of suck, but we have a fun time.
various scenes of exuberance at The Mousetrap and Como Crib
Interview 2: Nen G. Ramirez – 4/25/24
Nen G. Ramirez (they/them) is a poet, keyboardist, and published author who performs in the emo band Virginia’s Basement. Their ability to strafe so fluidly between creative scenes is something I can only hope to emulate. I performed with them in January of this year at Como Backdoor– a spacious basement covered in chalk tags amidst the den of house venues that are littered throughout Como –and I was immediately a convert. I traded one of my last Speed Limit 5 t-shirts that I had made for their poetry book. It’s the only piece of writing that has made me bawl within recent history. Nen spoke to their involvement and experiences within the scene in the following interview. Listen in full below:
Q: What was your first introduction to DIY music in the Twin Cities?
A: “The first local show I went to was at Amsterdam [Bar and Hall.] I was taking my younger sister for her birthday, cause she just turned 18, so I wanted to take her to a show, and it was actually Virginia’s Basement… We went for that, and then I followed Virginia’s Basement, and then through that heard about the Rose Club, and that summer just spent every weekend at the Rose Club… I think that would’ve been the spring of 2022.”
Q: How did you originally become involved with Virginia’s Basement?
A: “I got involved with Virginia’s Basement from being at the Rose Club all the time. I got to know the guys in the band. My last year at the U[niversity of Minnesota], they were looking for a keyboard player… Santi also really wanted to do Battle of the Bands at the U. He was looking for someone that was at the U to join the band, so they could get in. We were friends, and I didn’t play keyboard before that, he just asked me if I’d be willing to learn and join the band.”
Q: What are some of the most valuable experiences you’ve had or things you’ve learned from playing live music?
A: “Don’t stop playing… when something happens or when I mess up, or when my table with all of my gear on it collapses. That happened at Can Can Wonderland, and I did keep playing that time as everything slid and slowly went on the ground. …In order for the crowd to have fun, I have to be having fun. …The importance of speaking up and making my voice heard, and trusting myself and my instincts. …Even when it’s hard, or I’m afraid of making a mountain out of a molehill, or being seen as dramatic, or like, emotional, speaking out about when something’s not right, or when harm is being done, as a way to keep the space safe for everyone.”
Q: How would you describe DIY? What does DIY mean to you?
A: “I think of DIY as music and art, and spaces for music and art, that are run by and for the people in the area and in the community. I see it as pretty place- and area-specific. Art that supports the community that it exists in and contributes to the community that it benefits from. That’s why it’s so important to me, because when art is made in that context, there’s more control over the ethics of that art and the space that it’s being delivered in, and who is included and centered.”
Q: How would you say your experience working across so many different mediums has informed your views on the scene and on yourself?
A: “I don’t really think of myself that much as a musician… More of the contributions that I have, like what I bring to the table for Virginia’s Basement, is poetry and visual art. I’ll do the merch and the flyers and stuff like that. Also more social justice-y types of things, like giving my two cents, or voicing what other organizations, other work that’s going on, that I think we can shoutout or partner with or work with. …A lot of the people that I’ve met going to concerts and stuff, a lot of them are also poets, or write fiction and memoir, or make film. …I think that so many people in the scene being very multimedia and multigenre artists, I think because the people in the scene are so supportive, it’s just like other avenues of ways to connect with people, and to support and hype up each others’ projects.”
Q: Any local bands/venues/people in the scene you want to shout out?
A: “Definitely Anita Velveeta. Anita Velveeta has been a huge inspiration for me, artistically and also just personally, she’s so fucking sweet and kind. Basketball Divorce Court and Slut Intent, but Katie, who’s in both of those projects, she is one of those people who has been really supportive of me, with my art and with my writing and with music. …I also really admire RiGBY and Surly Grrly. I think those two bands are huge models to me, of how to be conscious of what I can do, what material change and work can be done at shows, and the way that we can use our stage time. 12th House Sun is really good.”
Nen G. Ramirez performing with Virginia’s Basement at Cadenza, 4/26/24
4. CitySound
I am sitting on a cardboard raft
in a sea of asphalt. the sun beats down, smearing
the rusted-out iron door and the billowing bushes in the same forgiving light.
we gather here today
to hold cans from vending machines to our lips,
washing away the sticky warmth of the practice space in cool fizz
while the anonymous, aging musicians behind us trade cigs and kick rocks.
something immortal festers in this moment, the ordinary,
the arrangement of gravel sifted through my fingers,
the rush of cars from adjacent streets, the luxury apartment’s silent facade
juxtaposed against the den of amateurs in the parking lot,
the gleam from the car windows, the circle of smiles
[CitySound is a company in the Twin Cities offering rental rehearsal spaces across a number of locations. Over the summer, I organized a scheme alongside a sizable chunk of friends to rent a practice room together, bringing the price down to about two takeout meals per person. The location we chose, along Glenwood Avenue at the lip of North Minneapolis, is ostensibly repurposed from an old auto parts factory. It is divided into dozens of numbered rooms accessible along a corridor illuminated by tired fluorescent lights. Over time we discovered that several other local artists who we had heard of or respected in some capacity also had a space here. The inside is an auditory collage of drum grooves and sludgy guitar riffs. Sound bleeds flagrantly through the walls, so we’re left with no option but to drown it out with our own wall of noise.]
Sometime in the middle of the summer, I came here for a different purpose. Anita Velveeta, a local artist whose impact on my creative ethos couldn’t be described as anything less than transformative, put out an open call on her social media pages for anybody available to come record gang vocals for a few tracks. At least 20 people showed up (and packed inside the tiny room we recorded in, it felt more like 50). It was a sea of crop tops, flowing mermaid hair, patchwork jackets and vests, big skull-stomping boots, and familiarity. The last song we recorded felt like it took seven takes and each take concluded in a giant collective scream that gave me a splitting headache immediately after we finished, but now I can scream all the words at her shows and know that my voice is part of the song. We were affectionately dubbed “the Twin Cities transgender Satanic choir” by Anita after the fact– a group I am honored to be a member of.
The World in Broken Glass at Cadenza, 3/22/2024
5. Release / Continuance
It is early December. My involvement across bands has naturally expanded, as it tends to go. My friend Sofia has written and packaged a series of songs into an album, and packaged that album into a night of sublime joy celebrating its release. We find ourselves back at the Seward Cafe. The album cover, an embroidered tapestry made of floral tablecloth and colored thread, hangs on the wall behind me alongside various works on display by local artists. My memories of this night are painted in the palette of vibrant red and gold lights, scintillating across the cymbals and the walls of the cafe. The crowd bubbles and froths through two hardcore acts, the first of which sends a pair of hooligans in camo bodysuits and ski masks spinning through the crowd, throwing fists in every direction and sending my best friend careening into the speaker system. (I later learn that this person is my coworker). I lurch and thrash in the mosh pit, outfitted in a long blue floral skirt and an oversized, bright yellow Anita Velveeta shirt mimicking the actual Velveeta logo. I make new friends outside in the smoke circle. The energy of the night is a fuse leading into my stomach that explodes into a burst of radiant golden light once we get up on stage and blast the first few notes of the set. Anita is in the crowd, pinballing between thrashing dancers. It is easily the best we have ever sounded. I leave baptized in sweat, my body and soul gleaming, the December night a soft canopy hanging over this moment of small transformation.
Life goes on. A new volley of wild seasons throws itself across the city again. I find myself boiling in the conclusory months of undergrad, steeping in an elixir of coinciding deadlines and terrible time management. My next year is uncertain, but the calendar already begins to bloom with Expo flora denoting show dates. There are undoubtedly a myriad of basements I have yet to explore, bodies I have yet to collide with, deep-hued and trembling veins of feeling I have yet to experience. There is something utterly necessary about it all. It’s a life-giving water, and I have brought myself to the shore, knelt, cupped my hands, and have finally given myself permission to drink from it.
