SBDC The Feeling of Winning Kingfisher Bluez Vancouver, BC RIYL: Best Coast; WUT; pre-Warning Green Day
Booze and regrets flow on SBDC’s rollicking new album, The Feeling of Winning. Multi-voice choruses slam you like waves, knocking you under surfing riffs and rolling rhythms, before bungee basslines pull you back up. Getting back on your feet is what The Feeling of Winning is all about.
“How did I make it through the night?” they ask on “Acid Brains,” after declaring “I don’t want to live this life anymore” on “Every Drunk in the World.” Small victories like shedding your vices and dropping the dead weight of underachievers and directionless, troublemaking boyfriends from your life fill the album’s 21-and-a-half minutes. But doing so comes with mixed emotions: SBDC want zero commitment on “Casual Friends,” yet they seek validation on “Date Me.”
Such conflicts make for a crashing emotional mess, but they also make The Feeling of Winning one of the year’s best garage pop gems, and that’s no small victory.
Sadé Awele Time Love Journey Self-Released Vancouver, BC RIYL: Jamila Woods; Aquakultre; Natalie Slade
Self-care takes time and love. For some people, it’s a journey. Nigerian-born singer Sadé Awele maps her path to self-preservation on her groovy, nocturnal EP, Time Love Journey. “You have to walk that road on your own / … / Are you even willing to try?” she asks on “Care.” Along with committing your own emotional labour, you have to be open to critical reflection: “How can you be so guarded? / I don’t understand it,” her interrogation continues.
Awele commands a breathless cool on the self-assured “No Love Lost.” Faint background horns mingle with pattering percussive brushes, creating a restrained energy on “Peak.” “These are my emotions,” she sings on this humid song, baring her vulnerability as she tries to conquer her anxiety and stay on top of her game.
“Take it easy, take it slow / We’ve got so far to go,” she repeats as thick bass, overhanging brass, and warm, smooth keys propel “Take It Easy” towards a crescendo. Sadé Awele proves self-care is worth the labour. She’s playing the long game, and I have a feeling she’s going to stick it out.
Nature Walk King of Wands Self-Released Victoria, BC RIYL: Magnetic Fields; Camera Obscura, tweed
The four tracks on Nature Walk’s King of Wands span fizzy dream pop and electronic folk as light as a pile of leaves. In her sole appearance on the EP, a singer identified only as Fox on Bandcamp lends her melancholy-tinged voice to “Real One.” Wandering finger-picked acoustic guitar lines weave together like twigs in a bird’s nest on the leisurely “Sun Bath.” The song appeals to the senses, with references to “sweet hummingbird mint,” “flowers breaking through cement,” “drinking from the moon midday,” and breezes that chill you out of your daydreams.
Distant bird calls and children’s shouts inhabit the dewy, lilting, and otherwise instrumental “Sun Shower,” evoking parting clouds after a heavy rainfall. “Tranquility” brings a more internal peace over misty keys. Here, Nature Walk sings of frozen, timeless contentedness with a special someone named Ricky Jane. “I’m never lost, and though I may wander / I pray that distance will make / The heart grow fonder.”
Don’t roll the dice on distance – queue up King of Wands for your next amble and find serenity with Nature Walk.
Hermitess Celestial Self-Released Calgary, AB RIYL: Weyes Blood; Wallgrin; staring at the night sky and feeling like something’s staring back
Jennifer Crighton wraps existential questions in viscous harp melodies on Celestial, her second EP as Hermitess. Like last year’s Tower, these four songs are loosely based on one of the Major Arcana, the trump cards in tarot. This time, she’s chosen the Star, a harbinger of despair and disappointment, but also inspiration, hope, and opportunity.
Celestial finds Crighton feeling small on Earth while contemplating the vastness of the universe. You can feel her anxiety rise on “Artificial Stars,” where Aria Janzen’s synthesizer effects blow like milk across the sky. Pedal steel is widely considered an earthy instrument, due to its prevalence in country music, but Wayne Garrett uses it to push the lonely, ponderous instrumental “Spacewalk I : Spooky Action At a Distance” farther up towards the infinite. “Celestial Bodies” offers tranquility, as Crighton’s harp melody pools around Melissa McWilliams’ percussive raps.
Like the Tower EP, Crighton has expanded her creative universe on Celestial – fed up with abusive treatment from male producers, she sought femme collaborators she’d never worked with before, specifically sound engineers. Although the big questions about life and existence still swirl in her head, she can find comfort among the new collaborators she’s pulled into her orbit; finding her footing in an unpredictable, mysterious world has become less lonely, more inspiring, and more opportune. This star is just beginning to shine.
blueberry lemon The Blue-Winged Warbler Self Released Halifax, NS RIYL: John Fahey; Vashti Bunyan; migration season
Gloom presides over the eight ambient, folky guitar instrumentals on blueberry lemon’s The Blue-Winged Warbler. “Northern Cardinal, Flightless” namechecks a species that nests in shrubs, but why is this one flightless? What ran through blueberry lemon’s head or heart while writing “Crow’s Tears?” Did blueberry lemon witness the literal “Death of an Osprey”?
“Blue Jay, Where Have You Gone?” and “Blue Jay and the Hawk” prompt less grim questions, about the colourful bird’s mysterious migration patterns and penchant for mimicking hawk calls.
Like birding, listening to instrumental music is an exercise in patience and a way to lose yourself in thought. Sightings aren’t guaranteed, and neither are revelations about your deepest questions; they might flicker past you, if they come to you at all. “I spend hours trying to spot tiny distant creatures that don’t give a shit if I see them or not,” musician Jack Breakfast told Kyo Maclear in her book,Birds Art Life. “I spend most of my time loving something that won’t ever love me back. Talk about a lesson in insignificance.”
Don’t get hung up on your smalless, though. Get lost in wonder about the world around you with The Blue-Winged Warbler.
Allyson Blush Disappearing Act Self Released Charlottetown, PEI RIYL: Chelsea Wolfe; Angel Olsen on solo guitar; Mount Eerie
Despite the title of Allyson Blush’s Disappearing Act EP, the stirring songwriter makes a lasting impression. Cocooned in nothing but an acoustic guitar and ambient hiss, her spellbinding, vibrating voice has plenty of space in which to thrive as she sings of abandonment.
A magician vanishes from the stage on the title track, leaving his audience and assistant bewildered and in tears. “Does it feel good to be out there with the debt and the noise? / With the tuition and the neighbors screaming back at your poise? / … / Are you happy to have an empty kitchen and no more me?” she asks whoever has left her for the city on “Heart Degree.” Like that song, “Trigger” feels urgent, as she fears she’s running out of time: “If there’s a reason that you’re not here, well, honey, I ain’t waiting, so there’s not much time to spare.”
With minimalistic, haunted folk arrangements that hang like cobwebs in her scenes of abandonment, listening to Disappearing Act is an arrestingly isolating experience.
MOSHE FISHER-ROZENBERG CREATES HEALING THROUGH MUSIC
HOW THE ABSOLUTELY FREE DRUMMER’S EVOLVING CREATIVITY LED HIM TO MUSIC THERAPY
By: Leslie Ken Chu | Photo by: Colin Medley
“In terms of the music industry, I definitely have had to rejig my relationship with that whole pursuit of success. I’ve kind of abandoned that.”
Whether drumming with experimental rock trio Absolutely Free, making ambient electronic music as Memory Pearl, DJing, remixing, or dabbling in criticism, Moshe Fisher-Rozenberg’s relationship with music is constantly evolving. “I go a little crazy if I feel that I’m not going forward in certain ways,” he tells me over Zoom. This curiosity and restlessness has led him to his current vocation, music therapy.
Fisher-Rozenberg is in the second and final year of his master’s degree in music therapy at Wilfrid Laurier University. “I’ve been touched by so many people who have had difficulties navigating their mental health,” he says, before adding that he has faced similar obstacles. “Music therapy is not just for addressing mental health,” he points out, “but that was the draw for me… I wanted to deepen that relationship [with music], and music therapy seemed to be a good direction.”
Music therapy can treat an array of cognitive, communicative, and motor symptoms related to dementia, schizophrenia, autism, depression, aphasia, Parkinson’s, and more. Exercises like clapping hands, tapping feet, and singing can improve breathing, heart rate, and blood flow. “It’s pretty all-encompassing,” Fisher-Rozenberg says. “The important thing is it’s not a one-size-fits-all. You have your patient, together you create goals, and then the music therapist will approach the music therapy sessions in a way that is specific for those goals.”
Prior to his studies, Fisher-Rozenberg volunteered for two years at Toronto’s Centre for Addiction and Mental Health. There, he worked with individuals with schizophrenia. “My intention was to help them feel a little bit of control. They’re so powerless in so many ways, so to create an atmosphere where they can feel empowered was really important, and then also to create that sense of community, because it’s a fine line between feeling you’re at a hospital and feeling that you’re maybe being held prisoner.” To achieve this, he led interactive group sessions that mostly involved group drumming, but also individual singing and poetry. “Depending on the approach, a lot of verbal processing can really help to digest some of the things that come up in the music.”
Although he used music therapy techniques in his volunteer work, Fisher-Rozenberg clarifies that his practice was informal. “I was kind of just feeling it out and experimenting, whereas now I’m reading a lot of literature and learning a lot of official approaches.” Without certification, one cannot call their practice music therapy. “They’re not going to get as deep,” he says, “but they can still use songwriting or music listening, for instance, with patients.”
To this point, he notes that we use music therapeutically every day. “Even just going dancing can manipulate your emotions, or it can give you energy.” But what’s the difference between casual conversation and psychotherapy, he asks? “Speaking with a psychotherapist is going to be very different, because it’s going to be guided; there’s going to be clinical goals associated with those conversations. And there’s a potential for things to really deepen and for unconscious material to come to the surface in a way that’s not going to happen necessarily if you’re chatting with a friend over a beer. It might not have that same safety.”
That lack of distinction between formal and informal practice isn’t the only misconception about music therapy. “The whole fuckin’ field is built upon misconceptions,” Fisher-Rozenberg replies without missing a beat when I ask for examples. “Some of the misconceptions that are bothersome would be that music therapy is showing up with a guitar and playing tunes, like entertaining. If you Google music therapy, probably the first thing that comes up is somebody with a big smile on their face playing acoustic guitar to a group of elderly people or a group of children,” he presumes accurately. But he states firmly: “It’s not about entertainment at all. It’s about collaborative and interactive experiences.”
“I do group sessions, and my biggest fear is that I will be expected to be an entertainer. But in those instances, you come up with group goals.” Referring back to his work with individuals with schizophrenia, who can feel particularly isolated in a long-term care facility, he explains his approach: “I’m gonna be trying to create engagement and relationships between them so they can feel a sense of home in an atmosphere where they do not feel that they’re at home… So me just standing in front of them and playing Elvis is not gonna do that. All that’s gonna do is entertain them for five minutes.”
Fisher-Rozenberg also takes exception to the conflation of music therapy and the wellness industry. “A lot of people claim that they can heal you with vibey music. I think maybe they call it sound therapy. But from what I know, that’s a little rogue, because so far in my studies, I haven’t read much about using drone music to heal a person.” He does acknowledge that every person responds differently to music. “The cliché, corny relaxation music is not gonna work for everybody. It may be relaxing for one person, but for another, it can be extremely aggravating,” he says, reiterating his point that one size does not fit all. “For music to actually help a person, it has to be their preferred music. For one person to relax, yeah, okay, maybe [it’s] the sounds of the rainforest and some harp, like you’d hear at a spa. For another person maybe it’s Black Sabbath, which is counter-intuitive.”
Misconceptions exist among music therapists, too. Although he’s relatively new to the field, he’s observed a spectrum of thought. “On the left side is expressive therapies, so that’s your catharsis, like getting out emotions and things like that. And then on the right side is brain stuff, like, what does music actually do to your brain? How do you use music to rehabilitate somebody’s speech? How do you use music to rehabilitate somebody’s fine motor skills? And those two sides don’t seem to get along very well.” Fisher-Rozenberg straddles the middle. “If you’re a therapist, you gotta be able to hold both [views]. That’s the whole beauty of therapy: it allows people to hold two totally disparate thoughts or feelings at the same time and then integrate them. So as therapists, we should be doing that.”
Music therapists work out of various settings. In private practice, patients go to the therapist. Contracted therapists move between facilities, like clinics, hospitals, and group homes. In-house therapists are stationed in one facility. Fisher-Rozenberg is currently limited to Zoom sessions from his home, but in a way, they’ve expanded the possibilities of his practice. “It’s actually good for me because I have a lot of electronic leanings. I like to use lots of electronic music technologies, and I can integrate all of those. I don’t know if you can see behind me” – he points to a collection of consoles in his background – “there’s some big, old synths. I can’t bring those with me, but now I’m able to use them.”
He’s also been using electronic technology to explore his possibilities as a musician. Over the last two years, Fisher-Rozenberg worked on his debut solo album as Memory Pearl,Music for 7 Paintings. Its seven electronic instrumentals cascade between calming, luminous ambience, with sweeping sonic immersions and cosmic journeys built upon percolating, comet-tailed synths. The compositions incite the sort of astral projection that might occur when gazing at the Abstract Expressionist paintings each track is named after. These references include Jackson Pollock (Number 28, 1950), Lee Krasner (Untitled, 1948), Helen Frankenthaler (Natural Answer, 1976; Red and Brown Scene, 1961), Joan Mitchell (Sunflower, 1969), Franz Kline (Cupola, 1958-1960), and Robert Ryman (Untitled #17, 1958).
“It was very personal,” Fisher-Rozenberg says of Music for 7 Paintings. “There’s some music therapy theory that would apply to my process.” He began by observing a painting, then journaling and translating that writing into compositions. “By going from one modality to another to another, a lot of unconscious material surfaced. And that’s one way that people use music therapy: they go from drawing to writing to singing to talking, and jumping between all those different modalities helps them to uncover this top secret unconscious information about themselves that helps them to be a more integrated individual.”
The album’s electronic aesthetic was straightforward, though, derived from music he enjoyed, like Laurie Spiegel, Tim Hecker, Wolfgang Voigt, and obvious minimalist touchstones Brian Eno and Steve Reich. “It’s so basic,” he laughs. “I cannot help but be influenced by the music I love, and especially as this is my first substantial work as a solo artist, I felt I needed to honour and represent this aesthetic that I’ve had brewing for so long… This was like a freedom where I was really trying to honour this vibe that is so important to me, but I’ve never had a project where I could express that aesthetic.”
Fisher-Rozenberg’s work as Memory Pearl echoes what he loves about abstract art. “It allows for interpretation, which is a beautiful thing, because the last thing you want is to listen to a piece of music and to be told exactly how to listen to it, exactly what it means. I think it’s much more important for a viewer or a listener to be able to insert themselves and insert their own history into a work.”
However music is experienced or applied, Fisher-Rozenberg marvels at its mystical power to evoke memories and emotions. “If you’re sad and you’re listening to sad music, that’s because the music is validating your feelings… But then on the flip side, we use music all the time to manipulate our feelings: maybe I’m feeling sad, but I don’t want to feel sad, so I’ll put on some kind of sunshine record.” Moreover, music can provide a safe distance from one’s own trauma, a baby step towards being able to confront that trauma. “If I have trauma in my life, maybe I’m not quite ready to confront that trauma. But if I hear something similar in a song, I can just talk about the song. I don’t have to talk about myself.”
Though we’ve all been using music in these ways our whole lives, “It’s a little chaotic, and we can’t quite put the words to it,” Fisher-Rozenberg says. “We don’t even think about this stuff. We just do it because intuitively, it feels safe, and it feels right.” Music therapy, he summarizes, is “making a science of it and then using those tools to help people reach [rehabilitation] goals in an organized way.”
If we all take a moment to think about how we use and experience music every day – how safe and right it makes us feel – then like Fisher-Rozenberg, our relationship with this mystical force will deepen, too.
Squidney the Dude Ben | Habits Independent Halifax, NS RIYL: The Microphones; Akron/Family; Grouper’s Dragging a Dead Deer up a Hill
Squidney the Dude appears bundled up in a heavy fall jacket on the cover of Ben | Habits. You might feel like reaching for yours when listening to the two eponymous singles. Their lingering, low-hanging chords dangle timelessly. “Ben” thrums with plinking guitar and robust bass before a toasted guitar solo breaks up the sense of hibernation, as does the chirping of birds. “Picked up a couple of habits along the way / temporary as coffee stains,” Squidney mutters on the next track. Habits tend to stick, but the song feels as faint as a fingerprint on a window that’s fogging back up. Here’s hoping Squidney the Dude makes a habit of releasing more songs soon.
HOW SHE FOUND COMFORT THROUGH MOZART ON REQUIEM AETERNAM
By Leslie Ken Chu | Photo by Taylor Geddes
If you’re a fan of experimental music in Vancouver, you’ve likely seen Anju Singh perform in one of her numerous musical projects or been to an event she’s organized. One of those projects, powerhouse death metal quartet AHNA, are self-proclaimed worshippers of death. In her solo work as the Nausea, she confronts mortality from a place of not only fascination but also fear.
As a teen in Toronto, Singh began organizing her own shows because no one would book her bands. She admits those bands were young and terrible, and thus opportunities were scarce. “Ever since I’ve been really young, I haven’t really waited for people to give me a chance. I just start doing things. I wanted to play a show, and I put on a show.”
She carried that determined spirit with her when she moved to Vancouver in the early 2000s. Since then, Singh has organized a lot more shows with a lot more success. In 2011, she resurrected Shitstorm Vancouver Noisefest as Vancouver Noise Fest, to facilitate experimentation that places a high focus on texture and volume. She’s given rise to A Night of Death and Doom, the banner under which she promotes death metal shows. And along with Bill Batt and Jeremy van Wyck, she curated Fake Jazz, a night of experimental music that occurred weekly, then later monthly, depending on which of the decade-and-a-half-old series’ various iterations was active at the time. (Due to other commitments, Singh has not been involved in Fake Jazz’s latest revival in 2018, though she gave her blessings for it to continue without her.)
There is no doubt that these shows shaped young minds, but Singh’s formative musical experiences came from sneaking downstairs after her bedtime as a teenager and seeing bands on TV. She remembers seeing Black Sabbath, GWAR, Venom, Kreator, Megadeth, and Corrosion of Conformity on Beavis and Butt-Head and MuchMusic’s hard rock and heavy metal show The Pepsi Power Hour, which was later shortened to The Power 30. She wasn’t a fan of GWAR’s music, but appreciated how outlandish their music and costumes were. And she was drawn to Ozzy Osbourne because he was like a cartoon character. “I’d look at his record covers, and I’d go, ‘Oh my god, it’s a monster! This is so cool!’”
GWAR and Ozzy in particular served as jumping-off points for her: she wanted to create something similarly far out but less cartoonish. “Even when I was younger, I wanted to play serious music. I’ve always loved classical music.” She worshipped B.B. King and jazz greats including Miles Davis and John Coltrane. And the thing she loved most about Ozzy, she clarifies, was his classically trained guitarist Randy Rhoads. Despite her gravitation towards the experimental, challenging, and loud, she describes her position in music firmly: “I always correct people whenever they decide they want to call me a metal musician or noise artist or this or that. I am a musician first. It doesn’t matter what I’m doing. I come from a musician perspective.”
Although trailblazers like B.B. King, Miles Davis, and John Coltrane set Singh on an exploratory path, she has set boundaries. “I realized what I didn’t like was being weird for weird’s sake, being good at guitar for the sake of being good at guitar, being experimental for the sake of experimentation […] I want to create things that are good experiences and/or musical.” Striking that balance has been a struggle throughout her artistic practice, but when in doubt, she always returns to the central question: “What is the goal?”
One of her goals is to strip classical instruments of their cultural cachet. She’s perhaps best known as a drummer, in AHNA and other death metal bands including Ceremonial Bloodbath, and Grave Infestation, but she began playing violin at least a decade before she picked up a pair of sticks. Unable to devote enough time to it, she plateaued. “Other than fiddling, like in the culture of bluegrass or Celtic music, the idea of having your own way of playing [any given instrument] is accepted,” she observes. “But the violin, typically, people expect you to have a certain level of skill in order to play it, whereas the guitar or drums, you can have very little skill and play and have fun.”
Frustrated by that double standard, she formed the band i/i in the late 2000s, to dismantle assumptions about what instruments musicians can engage with and how. The four-piece, which also featured drums, guitar, and bass, served as an outlet for her to explore the darker, rawer possibilities of the violin through pedal distortion and delay. “The reason that I really wanted to do that band was I wanted the violin to be able to have the life that a guitar would. It was beautiful sometimes, and other times it wasn’t.” Citing one of her favourite composers, she points out an approach that inspired her. “Mozart wanted to write for everybody, and when you write for everybody, you’re also telling everybody that they can write […] I didn’t want to have these particular instruments behind a piece of glass. I wanted to break that glass.”
Singh has done plenty of schooling. On top of a philosophy degree, her background includes art history – “I had to learn the Bible to understand paintings” – contemporary music, performance, music theory, and electroacoustic music. She’s also taken several Latin classes. “I went really far with it, and I was like, ‘Why the hell am I studying Latin?’” she says with a laugh. “It was so ridiculous. I just loved the class and so I kept going. And then one day I was like, ‘This makes no sense.’”
However, it ended up being more useful than she could have expected. Singh’s love of Latin was one of three key influences behind her album Requiem Aeternam, which she released as the Nausea via Montréal label Absurd Exposition in 2017. Across six tracks, she uses her violin to explore medieval Roman Catholic funeral music. The phrase “requiem aeternam” is a prayer used to hasten departed souls’ ascension to Heaven.
Another influence was Singh’s long standing fascination with death, specifically how we engage with it. “I’ve always been super interested in the concept of death. Ever since I was really, really young, I was afraid of death.” Her curiosity is partially rooted in her experiences at funerals as a child. “I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to cry. And I didn’t understand why I didn’t want to cry […] I was always really confused. And I think I still have that. I’m not entirely sure what is supposed to happen at a funeral.”
She was particularly concerned about laughing at funerals, even out of nervousness or awkwardness. “As a kid, I was really badly behaved. I was so afraid of laughing at a funeral.” As she says, they are a weird experience of being forced and trapped into ideas of how to celebrate someone’s life. “So what I really liked about requiems is they start to open up the subject […] [T]here are rules around requiems, and so I can start to work with death in that context.”
The most important influence was Singh’s grandmother. The two shared a very close, special bond: She grew up with her grandmother in the same house and was basically raised by her when Singh’s parents were at work. She wrote Requiem Aeternam while her grandmother was on her death bed with a lung infection. For two to three weeks, Singh spent every possible moment in the hospital until her grandmother died.
During that period, Singh was also listening to one of her favourite pieces of music, Mozart’s “Dies Irae.” The composition was based on a 13th century Latin hymn of the same name, originally sung as a Gregorian chant during requiems. Its title, “The Day of Wrath,” refers to the day Catholics believe God judges the living and the dead and decides whether they go to Heaven or Hell. Interpretations of the musical sequence have since appeared in an ever-expanding list of popular films including Star Wars, The Lion King, The Shining, Lord of the Rings, It’s a Wonderful Life, and even Groundhog Day. The titles of Requiem Aeternam’s songs “Nil Inultum Remanebit” (“Nothing Will Remain Unpunished”) and “Per Sepulchra” (“Through the Sepulchres”) are phrases from the hymn.
Singh’s spin on “Dies Irae” was purely based on mood, because her favourite aspect of Mozart’s composition was that he, too, played with the requiem’s mood; unlike standard interpretations, his was vivacious and playful. “I was really confused by that, but that was the confusion that felt familiar since I was a child, whenever it had to do with funerals or someone’s sick or someone’s dying.” She tried to bring some of Mozart’s playfulness into her interpretation, but she ended up in a wholly ashen, doom-laden place. Regardless of how her version ended up, though, listening to “Dies Irae” during her family’s difficult time brought her comfort. “I really felt like I could make sense of what was happening to her and what was happening everywhere.”
Requiem Aeternam is a bit of a cultural mash-up between Roman Catholicism and Sikhism, Singh explains. “In the Sikh temple, you say ‘God,’ ‘Lord,’ over and over again.” Her grandmother did so in praying for mercy. That’s why the album track “Elaison” (“Have Mercy”) has a reprise. “She would do this several times in a day, so I felt it was appropriate for it to come up twice, but to be different because she didn’t chant in the same way all the time.” The piece emphasizes repetition and drone, because religious music is often very droning. “In the temple, it all feels like a giant drone.”
Without knowing any Latin, one can likely guess “De Morte Transire” connotes transition, passage, crossing over. “The idea of being stuck in a state of death is really horrifying to me, not passing into something else, not going anywhere else, not being released from it. I’m a little bit claustrophobic, and the idea of being trapped in a state of death is really scary to me. So that piece was written to tell her to move from death, to whatever, I don’t know.”
A moment of passage comes two thirds of the way into the song, when a storm of static and pummeling distortion swallow her lamenting violin. “‘De Morte Transire’ is probably the most difficult piece for me to listen to because it was the main piece that I was speaking to my grandmother through.”
No one knows what comes after death, or even what happens the moment we pass. But like Anju Singh, maybe we can all learn to accept death or navigate its rituals with less fear and confusion.