Since the fateful day in 1996 when Whibley’s high school band christened themselves “Sum 41,” it seems he hasn’t had a moment to catch his breath. From being restless teenagers taking on Toronto, the group were swiftly catapulted into the thick of the early aughts industry. It was an era teeming with MTV hopefuls, TRL stardom, and spawned a surge in the sonic landscape that fused hooky pop with fast-paced, snarky punk music. In the midst of it all, Sum 41 broke out fast and fiercely — with no dearth of hair gel, or nü-metal angst in tow. Fresh off their high school campus, the band checked each cultural box within a couple of years — inking a deal with Island Records in 1999, releasing a debut LP, All Killer No Filler, in 2001, and finding wild mainstream success with the latter’s first single, “Fat Lip.” In the wake of it all, they got to perform live with their heroes, Tommy Lee and Rob Halford, for MTV’s 20th anniversary show, and went platinum. 

Read more: Sum 41 still remember creating the magic and mayhem behind their 2002 hit “Still Waiting”

Since those initial milestone moments, it’s been a nonstop marathon of album cycles and global tours for Sum 41 and especially Whibley, a constant member for over 25 years. Through it all, the band have seen lineup and label changes, valleys and peaks in both their professional and personal lives. Whibley himself has gone through a fairly public divorce, remarried, and has two children. He’s hit bottoms and been on the brink of death (twice), struggled with his health and with a crippling substance abuse disorder — only to rise from each experience with admirable clarity and a newfound sense of self. Just last month, he announced a decade of sobriety. You can only imagine it’s all been an exhilarating ride for the artist — albeit an exhausting one.

In May of last year, Sum 41 announced their end. 2024 would see their last record, and their final tour. When asked why, Whibley tells me he got “burnt out.” It was time to take a break, to create and explore space for himself outside of the band he’d been in since age 16. He’s releasing a book, an autobiography. Though, drained as the artist may be, it certainly hasn’t translated in his last efforts with Sum 41, or taken him out of the zone. The band’s final project, Heaven :x: Hell, a whopping double album, spans the band’s full history, representing the full scope of sounds they’ve explored over 28 years — Heaven’s tracklist focuses on pop-punk leaning songs, while Hell is dedicated to heavier, metal-inspired pursuits. It’s an ode to their teenage selves, who were equally obsessed over Fat Records as they were with Pantera and Metallica — bands Whibley now plays for his son. “It’s the only thing that chills him out,” he says. It represents the music they made, and the growth in and around it that happened over years of dedication to Sum 41 and all they knew it could be.

The project is full of energy, evident passion, and its impact is massive — as much on audiences as the band themselves. The gusto is still there, as it was in All Killer No Filler — and it’s something they are carrying out onstage as well, during their global last hurrah, “Tour of the Setting Sum.” I know this, because I caught them on the New York stop at Brooklyn Paramount — and there was nothing eulogistic about the set. It was purely celebratory, a gut-punch of nostalgia with a lively introduction to their new songs, which the crowd embraced and shrieked along to. It brought me back to Warped Tour days — fans going full-throttle, energy and excitement high — though this time, most of the gauged ears in the room have been sewn up. But there was the same level of unbridled showmanship, engagement, and reaction when we all heard Whibley’s iconic croon, “The faster we’re falling, we’re stopping and stalling/We’re running in circles again…”

In conversation with Deryck Whibley, we spoke about the fear of change, how to say goodbye, and a life lived between Heaven and Hell. 

With everything that’s going on with you and Sum 41, I don’t know where to start — but the new album is definitely bold and impressive. It’s so interesting to have these sounds you’ve explored throughout Sum 41’s career really laid out as two different worlds. When you went into the studio to make such a massive, encapsulating album, did you know it was the band’s last?

DERYCK WHIBLEY: None of it. We didn’t know we were making a double record, or that it was going to be pop punk and heavier stuff. When the pandemic started and everyone went into lockdown, I didn’t want to think about Sum 41 at all. Because since we graduated high school, it’s just been going. We got signed about a year after we graduated, and so from that moment on, we’ve been on tour and making records. I was starting to burn out in 2019 — so a break felt really good. During that time, I started getting calls from managers and labels, saying, “Would you remotely work with some of these artists?” I thought, “I don’t mind doing that. I just don’t want to work on Sum 41.” 

So I started writing all these songs, which were really leaning pop punk. I was like, “Fuck, I didn’t even know I could write a pop-punk song” — it’s been 15 years, maybe more. But as I wrote, I started liking the songs, and in the end, I decided to keep them all — but I still didn’t think those pop-punk songs were for Sum 41. 

I had some other heavier songs that were unfinished from the last record, as well. As the pandemic dragged on, I just kept writing, long story long. When I had about 17 songs, I realized I should go listen to them all and see what I had. I put all the pop-punk ones on first and then all the heavy ones after so I could wrap my head around each sound. That’s when it dawned on me that this could be a Sum record. That all along I’d been making a Sum 41 record. 

The best things are made with no expectations. 

WHIBLEY: The decision to make it the final record didn’t come until it was finished. Like I said, previous to 2019, I was having thoughts of, “How long am I going to do this? I know I like music, but do I really want to just do this one band? I’ve been in this band since 10th grade. Will I ever do something else?” And listening back to the record, I realized this is a great record to be our final. It sums up the whole band sonically. It felt like the work was complete. 

Well, I feel like it’s very impressive to have that awareness and realize that. More often than not, it just keeps going. 

WHIBLEY: Change is scary for most people. It brings on fear. A lot of people stay in whatever they’re doing, whether it’s jobs or living in a city. It’s hard to change. But I’ve always been somebody who likes that fear. I do better when there’s something I have to fight against. I don’t do as well when things are predictable and easy. Maybe it’s just how my life is — I don’t want to call it a struggle — but I’m always pushing. 

You recently spoke publicly about your 10 years of sobriety. Congratulations. Lots of heaven and hell on that journey, at least from my own experience.

WHIBLEY: It’s funny because it was one of those things where I’m like, “Holy shit! 10?” These days, life is just going, and then something will come up that’ll remind me. But [drinking] is not something I think about on a daily basis anymore. 

For me, and this doesn’t apply to everybody — whether it’s, again, moving or a job or quitting smoking — in order to change, I had to let go. To realize that my identity had been wrapped up in it. Drinking and partying — I was that guy — but once I accepted that I wanted to be healthy and sober, and that could be my new identity, it became easy. A shift happened, and I don’t think about it much anymore. I don’t regret any of the past, but I don’t want to be that. 

What do you think made it easy for you to reach a point where you could let go of that identity?

WHIBLEY: It was a moment, and a message, that came from Iggy Pop. When I first was in the hospital, I was in such a panic. I didn’t know what to do. I was so freaked out. First of all, I was in the hospital for a long time, and it was touch and go, and they were unsure if I was actually going to make it out of the hospital at all. I reached out to a couple of people who I knew had been through it all — Tommy Lee and Iggy Pop. They really helped me through, when I was so worried, and didn’t know what to do. When I got out of the hospital, finally, I talked to both of ’em on the phone, and that’s when the biggest shift came. Iggy said, “The first thing you need to do is forget who the fuck you thought you were, and become the person who you really are.”

That’s heavy.

WHIBLEY: It all just clicked. I was playing this part of someone I thought I was supposed to be, this role that I had been in for so long. It wasn’t me — it was just an identity I’d created. And I had to let it go.

When you were in high school, before the MTV hit and the steep and swift incline afterward, did you have any idea that that’s how it would be one day? Did you see it coming at all?

WHIBLEY: I didn’t know how it would work. Before Sum 41 started in 10th grade, I’d been in a couple of different bands. And from day one, in those early bands, I always thought that was going to be the band that was going to make it.

What were the band names?

WHIBLEY: Eternal Death was my first one. The other one was Casper, and that turned into Sum 41. Then we just changed our name, changed the sound, and changed everything, but it was all still the same members. In those early bands, I just always thought that was going to be the band that was going to make it.

So it was never a hobby for you?

WHIBLEY: No, it was definitely a career path. Right from the beginning. When I go back as long as I can remember, probably about 6 years old I remember thinking, “I want to do this when I grow up.”

What was your exposure to music growing up?

WHIBLEY: Mostly stuff that my parents would be listening to. My mom is young. She had me when she just turned 17, so she was still listening to cool music like Stones, Aerosmith, Van Halen… And from what I can remember, I really got into the Monkees. It was a TV show that was heavily on reruns. That was actually my first concert in 1986. And that was the moment that I can remember saying, “This is what I want to do.” I was 6 years old. I saw a band I listened to and had all their cassette tapes, and then here they are playing. 

That’s so cool. When you started making the first album as Sum 41, what were you guys listening to? 

WHIBLEY: The heavy rotation was a lot of Fat Records, punk bands of the early and mid-’90s, NOFX, Lagwagon, Strung Out, Good Riddance, Bad Religion, Pennywise. But we also loved Pantera, Iron Maiden, and Metallica. On the other hand, I was really heavily into Elvis Costello and Frank Sinatra, which I listened to on a daily basis. 

Music is truly one of the best ways to describe yourself, especially your younger self, to others. It’s a great tie-in with the album, telling “the story of Sum 41” by retracing your high school steps. The daunting question, what’s next?

WHIBLEY: Even though it’s a final record, it’s still a long tour, and it’s a brand-new album. I’m really focusing on it. It needs all my energy and focus. So I don’t really know what I’m going to do next.

Just to be in this band and do what I do in my role is just all day every day, and there’s never a day off — which is part of the reason why I want to do something different. But for now, I am focusing on this, the way I always do, and seeing it through to the very end. Then, I’ll wake up the day after the last show and go, “Holy shit, the fuck do I do now?”

I can only imagine, having seen you perform, that it takes being very present and engaged to the fullest. Does anything feel different about touring, knowing it’s the last tour?

WHIBLEY: Only sometimes. Only at the end of the show when I have to remind myself not to say, “We’ll see you again.” And I go, “Oh, wait, this is the last time. Holy shit.” But throughout the show, you’re just in it. Then as it gets to the end, I’m like, “Oh man, I have to say goodbye to everybody.” I tend to forget when I’m up there.

That’s a testament to your ability to really be in the room — and a gift to the audience, a celebration rather than a eulogy. Anyway, it’s not necessarily an end because things went bad. It’s a triumphant close. 

WHIBLEY: I know. We’ve gone through bad periods, and I don’t think if we continued that it would get bad again. We’re much older, and we’ve dealt with all that kind of shit. Sum 41 is in a great place, every aspect of it. It does feel like when we’re up there — it’s a celebration for us. 

You also have an autobiography, Walking Disaster: My Life Through Heaven and Hell, coming out in October. How long have you been working on it?

WHIBLEY: It has been in the works for a long time, probably a couple years. The conversation has come up. I’ve been approached. I’ve had meetings and just never really felt it was the right time. Then about a year or two ago, I started taking it more seriously and started going down the process and started working with the publisher, working at a deal, all that kind of stuff. All the behind-the-scenes shit. I wasn’t writing anything yet, but just working out the whole logistics of it all. Then when I started writing, it was probably this past September. I think from page one to the last page, I counted the days. It was about exactly six weeks to write the whole book. But even this morning I was just adding another line in. It has to be done by Monday. 

And you’re still adding lines? I’m floored. Have you enjoyed the process?

WHIBLEY: Yeah. It’s weird because I didn’t do this intentionally, but I think because I’ve produced myself for so long that I have to look at my own music differently. So I go into my writer brain, and I write, and then I step back, and I become the producer, and I look at it and try to be objective, as if it’s not me who wrote it and say, “Is this good? Is that weird good? Or is that vocal?” Take good and be harsh on myself or praise myself, or whatever it is I have to do to just get the best of the music. So I did the same kind of thing.

In fifth grade, Jane Remover stayed up late the night of March 14, checking the iTunes Store over and over, holding her breath for Recess to drop. Had she not so diligently waited to dissect Skrillex’s debut album, had she not fallen down the rabbit hole of Taio Cruz and Katy Perry mashups on YouTube — perhaps, Jane would still be sitting in a dorm, halfway through her second semester of college. Instead, those inherently post-internet sounds led her here, blinking at me through cat eye glasses on a Zoom call. In the thick of her teenage years, Jane released unique projects under a slew of aliases, coined an entirely new genre, “Dariacore,” and before the age of 18 had written and released two acclaimed albums, Frailty and Census Designated — each inherently Jane, each astoundingly unique.

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Each work, Jane tells me, is a “time capsule.” The result is a sound both intimate, and indefinite; it’s a synthesis of digicore, indie rock, EDM, hyperpop, and shoegaze, regaling stories of where, and who, Jane Remover has been — her youth notwithstanding. “Sometimes, I have to remind myself how young I am in the grand scheme of things, you know?” Jane tells me. “I turned 20 four or five months ago. A lot of the people that I’ve been working with are quite older than me, but I don’t feel out of place, so it can be hard to remember my age. And that encourages me, and reminds me, that this is only the beginning, and I have a really long career ahead of me.”

As a listener, I don’t feel like your age is “heard” or obvious at all — however, given the reality of being 20, of both growing up and growing as an artist simultaneously — do you feel like there are ways youth gets into your sound? 

When an album comes out, it’s told from the voice of the age that I was making it. It’s kind of a time capsule of what I was making at 17, 18, and 19… The music is very much a slow burn — but it doesn’t age because it just captures what I wanted to do at that time. 

What would you say is the throughline across all of the work you’ve done? 

When I listen to my music, I can tell that I made it. Being an artist is distinguishing that sound and making it your own, even if it’s, for lack of better words, a cookie-cutter type of song or album or project. There could be a hundred musicians who all make an album with just their voice and the guitar, Pink Moon-type shit. But it’s going to sound different because everybody sings differently and writes differently. 

What was it that made you want to do it? Was there a moment where you thought you could do it, or heard something and set your goal on that track? Was it even a goal?

At a very young age, music had a deep emotional impact on me. It always evoked a strong emotion out of me, and I could catch onto a melody or song really quickly when I was little, which made me want to make something for myself. Also, on YouTube in the early 2010s, I got really into the mashup rabbit hole. I remember one of my favorite mashups when I was a kid was “California Girls” and “Dynamite” by Taio Cruz.

But I didn’t start writing music as a kid. I took piano lessons for a few years. I took drum lessons for one year, but after learning, after going through it enough, I found that following instructions was stressful in the world of music, and I would prefer to just do my own thing. So when I got my first iPod, I would download all the little free music apps on the App Store and just make a bunch of little demos and stuff, but I didn’t really post ’em anywhere. I was just practicing on my little iPod, discovering music through EDM and the internet, listening to the radio — and Spotify coming out was about the same time I started posting my own stuff.

I want to talk about the last two projects that you put out. I think that there’s a really interesting development from one to the other, and I am curious to hear about the process of that and also just the process that you have, whether it’s internally and externally, going into album mode — starting with Frailty, and how from there, you found your way to the next album. 

I started making Frailty halfway through my senior year of high school. I think with the stress of applying to colleges and stuff, and I guess senior year is supposed to be serious in a way — crossing the barrier from high school to college… Frailty is a love letter to childhood and crossing the bridge between becoming an adult from being a child to an adult. It’s really video game/music-based. There’s a lot of melodies from radio pop music from the 2010s. There’s a lot of EDM influence from it. I wanted to wear my childhood music on my sleeve for that album, and I had a really big emotional tie to it.

I remember not really having an emotional connection to my own music prior to making Frailty. I was 17 making these songs and tearing up a little bit, and I was like, “This is something really special.” After it came out, the funny part is I had a huge awakening — and I didn’t like it as much as when I was making it. I thought, “This is childish, too corny. I should be making adult music.” But I had just turned 18. So the next thought was, “Why am I in a rush to be an adult all of a sudden?” It was a whirlwind of emotions and self-evaluation. And that’s what led to making Census Designated, four or five months later, with the intent of making something different from Frailty, tapping into different parts of my brain and making some of the lyrics abstract. So nobody would really know the meaning except me. 

Did you have that same whirlwind feeling after Census Designated? 

I was really doubtful for maybe the first month or two after. “What if Frailty was just this little ball of magic that dried up?” But I think what brought me back down to Earth was that I had the same emotional connection to both while making each album. The emotions were there. If the faith in the music is there pre-rollout, and for as long as the music belongs to you, I think your opinion is probably the one that matters the most. Until it’s released to the public and ready to be dissected by everyone else… But I think Census Designated also set the scene for what’s to come five, 10, 15 years into my career — where no two albums sound the same. That’s a goal for me. Obviously, I’m still in the beginning stages. I’m still at ground zero for that.

It’s a big-picture thing. 

Right now the girls that get it, get it — but for the girls that don’t get it, just come back to it in two or five years.

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English Teacher

If you thought you knew what post-punk sounded, looked, or felt like, we dare you to check out English Teacher. The English band achieve what many have tried and failed at — boiling down and renovating the genre for a new generation, and doing so with thoughtfulness, true feeling, and style. And this month, they took it to new heights, in releasing their latest record. The satisfying 13-track LP, This Could Be Texas, guides the Leeds-based group into new arenas of sound, from nostalgic ’90s math rock with chugging melodic hooks to soaring, anthemic tracks that bring the listener right back to the present with an addictive jolt. In British post-punk fashion, they look out at the country’s landscape, digging into social issues and topics like Brexit, infused with more personal narratives around mental health, and vocalist Lily Fontaine’s experience as a mixed-race individual trying to understand life in a place “where many didn’t have understanding or even tolerance towards people who are different.” Standout tracks include one of the LP’s singles, “The World’s Biggest Paving Slab,” and “Albatross,” the opener, whose sparkling guitar part gives us a taste of the soft yet unbridled energy we’re in store for through the next dozen songs. And the band have pushed this out, all while gearing up to support IDLES on their North American fall tour and to play some of their biggest headlining shows to date in both the U.S. and U.K. —Anna Zanes

Doubt

There are a plethora of noteworthy acts coming out of the Baltimore hardcore scene right now. But there’s something that stands out about one of its newest characters, Doubt. Shrugging off the separation between East or West Coast style, the group have found an interesting and fresh overlap bouncing from mid-tempo to hyperspeed, while leaning into heavy, dense riffage that spans a slew of punk styles in itself. After recently signing to Get Better Records, Doubt delivered their very first single, “Delusion,” on April 11. While one might hear echoes of Trapped Under Ice, Outbreak, or Trash Talk — even a bit of Touche Amore, at times — the animalistic growl that we get from Doubt vocalist Claire Abila clearly sets them apart. And this is why a group like Doubt epitomize what’s happening in Baltimore, alongside a few other cities right now — hardcore is not only alive and well, but there’s a sense of new energy and openness that hasn’t always been so synonymous with any punk scene. Said best by Soul Glo frontman Pierce Jordan, “Doubt forces nothing and offers everything, a breath of fresh air from a region with only intriguing possibilities ahead.” Coming off last week’s tour with North Carolina’s Brass Tongue and with their brash new single in tow, we can all agree that whatever comes next from Doubt will be deviously good, and we’d encourage you to keep an eye out. —Anna Zanes

Halima

Halima has blurred theater with rich, forward-thinking alt R&B for the past six years, using her time in Lagos, London, and Brooklyn to build upon her own distinct world. The single “Awaken” is a brilliant entry point, for both Halima’s discography as a whole and her forthcoming EP, EXU, which arrives May 24 via drink sum water. Over soulful, buttery vocals, the song sinks deeply into the aftermath of a breakup and all the uncomfortable feelings that crawl to the surface — suddenly being alone, second-guessing your intentions, and fearing that pride ruined a good thing. Yet you can only really choose yourself. By the song’s end, she incorporates a Yoruba salutation — “omi-o mo” — that acts as a calling, a way to say that kind of closeness doesn’t just disappear. —Neville Hardman

Been Stellar

Been Stellar guitarist Skyler Knapp and vocalist Sam Slocum originally met freshman year in Michigan, then connected with the rest of the band — guitarist Nando Dale, bassist Nico Brunstein, and drummer Laila Wayans — at NYU, bonding over music and a shared sense of humor as they traipsed around the city. It’s fitting, then, that their new Dan Carey-produced album, Scream from New York, NY, cuts a fierce snapshot of their home, culling together a glowing, crackling set of songs that balances moments of frenzied melancholy (“Sweet”) with bits of chaos and urgency (“Can’t Look Away”). After opening for their Dirty Hit labelmates the 1975 earlier this year, plus past stints with Interpol, Shame, and Fontaines D.C., Been Stellar seem ready to lay down their own mark within the city’s rich scene. —Neville Hardman

The Ophelias

Earlier this month, bright and bold quartet the Ophelias delivered their latest project, a five-track EP titled Ribbon. Released on April 12, it stands as evidence of the group’s tangible chemistry, which has only grown and strengthened since their 2015 debut album, Creature Native. In the nine years since, they’ve not only forged ahead in sonic prowess, but have gone from identifying as an “all-girl” band to a proudly queer and trans group. It is a journey that Ribbon explores and unpacks beautifully over a landscape of wiley rhythm, carried by drummer Mic Adams, while grungier guitar parts play against Andrea Gutmann Fuentes’ folksy violin, all topped off with the incomparable, angst-ridden belt of vocalist/guitarist Spencer Peppet. Though they describe themselves as making “Midwestern moth music,” we’d call it a satisfying mix of sticky pop and joyful, singalong indie-folk, with a good bite, from the addition of Peppet’s rocker edge, distorted guitars, and the foundational, heavy bass part from Jo Shaffer. —Anna Zanes

Ekko Astral

Ekko Astral have been ripping up Washington, D.C.’s local scene for years, building upon a legacy left by a long list of punk forebears and cutting a path that speaks to marginalized communities. Pioneering their own “mascara moshpit music,” frontwoman Jael Holzman spits words as if she’s been holding them in for years, always keeping pace with the rest of the band — Liam Hughes, Sam Elmore, Guinevere Tully, and Miri Tyler — with biting pop-culture references and real-world observations. That’s brilliantly heard on Ekko Astral’s full-length debut, pink balloons, which brims with thunderous havoc, experimentalism, and sharp one-liners, pulling from Charli XCX as freely as Jeff Rosenstock and Arctic Monkeys. At its core, though, these songs examine how terror and anxiety — whether from intolerance, self-hate, violence — will always be universal. This raucous kind of solidarity is what sets them apart as they continue to redefine, and better, D.C. punk and beyond. —Neville Hardman

The showcase was stacked, with a headlining set by Dehd, the witty Chicago indie-rock-meets-post-punk outfit who’ve gained serious traction over the years, a late afternoon set by Glitterer, the synthy solo project of Title Fight’s Ned Russin, a brilliant performance by acclaimed NYC hip-hop duo Armand Hammer, and sets by ambient, jazzy rockers Cloud Nothings, alongside indie artists Corridor, Sunny War, and Wishy. However, there was a specific band that I’d trekked through Times Square to see — Nashville’s Snõõper. 

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I’ve caught the eclectic egg punk group’s sets before, on a few occasions — and was instantly, and easily, obsessed. Whether it was at a showcase, or they’d been opening for another band, Snõõper had always come out of left field and stolen the show. And one other thing they’d always done — whether it was for a 30-minute set or at a festival far from home base — was bring their puppets, life-sized paper mache props, and wear tracksuits. But that’s where consistency ends for Snõõper. This band, as they told me, aren’t about making plans, or following any preconceived path. In fact, according to Blair Trammel (vocalist) and Connor Cummins (guitar), they weren’t even supposed to be a band at all. And that level of inhibition, for the band and arguably even more so for the audience, is what makes their music fun. It’s loud, fast, and unserious, though it hits all the marks to qualify as pure, raucous punk — including a co-sign from Henry Rollins. 

Before their joyfully wild set — during which there was plenty of climbing on rafters, weight lifting, kicking, jumping, and choreographed stage movements that felt very DIY KISS — they graciously chatted with me, all while unloading a giant, four-feet tall paper mache 8-ball from their van. From the first LPs the group ever bought, their forthcoming tour, and playing the same festival as Doja Cat — here’s everything we got into.

So you guys drove down from Nashville today, you’re finishing up the U.S. leg of the tour, and you’ve got a summer one coming up. That’s a lot going on. Plus you’ve brought the props.

BLAIR TRAMEL: Well, we just did a small run over spring break. But I’m a full-time teacher, so it’s really tricky with touring. Right now we’re just waiting till summer break so we can go out again. We’re going to do a full two-month thing then, but today’s just more of a one-off!

The nonstop schedule, teaching, and touring must be exhausting for you, Blair!

TRAMEL: Yes, it is. But it’s cool. I feel like I need all of the external structure to keep me sane, so there’s the chaos of tour, and then I get to go back to some external structure with school. It’s nice. They balance out.

What are you most excited for about the summer tour? You’re going to be mostly in Europe.

TRAMEL: Ooh, going to new places! Looking at the tour schedule and realizing I don’t even know what most of the places are. I’ve never even heard of them. That’s really exciting.

CONNOR CUMMINS: The last show of the tour is at Roskilde Festival, and our day is with Doja Cat and Jungle. So we’re pretty excited.

That’s definitely a well-rounded day… I’m thinking about this balance of having a job and then going into this “chaos” of tour, alongside the theatrical nature of your shows. Do you think you become altar egos yourselves when you’re onstage as a band, or just an unleashed version of your day-to-day selves?

HAPPY HAUGEN: I’m definitely not the Trader Joe’s cashier when I’m onstage.

CUMMINS: It’s like Larry David on Curb Your Enthusiasm. We’re playing fictionalized versions of ourselves.

That’s a great answer. How do you feel about your project and album now, having been touring with it since last year? 

TRAMEL: It’s been pretty crazy. I don’t think we ever really expected, at least speaking for me, to play a live show in the first place. It started as a just recording project, so now to be touring around the record has been very surreal. It feels almost like at some point someone’s going to be like, “You’re an impostor. This is illegal. Stop it right now.” But it’s been really cool.

CUMMINS: I feel better than ever in a way, because the record was more mid-fi than we’d ever done before. So to play it out and match up the album and the live show was cool.

When you went from recording projects to live band, do you feel like the ethos of Snõõper changed? 

TRAMEL: Well, originally it was just me and Connor on the recordings, and then we recorded the record with the full band. Since, we’ve just really amped up the performance around it. I think I was really insecure about performing and playing live. I really wanted everyone to feel included in the live show. I’ve been to so many shows where I had listened to the record a million times, but felt bored seeing it live. So we just keep getting crazier and crazier with props and antics and stuff like that. It all has come together really naturally, but we get to really home in on what we want the live show to be like. So that’s been special.

CUMMINS: Having been in other bands in the past, there’s an expectation that it should be, “We’re going to write this kind of music. We’re a hardcore band, and we’re just going to play hardcore, and that’s it. It’s our whole ethos.” Not knowing that we were going to play a live show, or having any idea or direction with Snõõper, Blair was like, “We should do props.” I was like, That’s cool.” And then it was, “Well why don’t we wear tracksuits? OK, whatever. Cool. Why don’t we build a giant puppet?” It feels like in not having any direction, any idea is acceptable. Why not? It’s open-ended.

TRAMEL: We had no plans. 

I mean, one could argue that’s the best way to approach anything creative. And with Snõõper, as an audience member, you can feel that freedom and excitement you’re putting into it.

CUMMINS: When a band set up a business plan, it’s really fucking lame.

TRAMEL: Our thing is making it fun for everybody and making people want to come to the live show — because there’s just so many times where I’m like, “Why did I even pay money for this? I could have just stayed home and listened to this record.” So it’s cool when people react in a way where they’re moving with us.

It’s hard not to move at a Snõõper show, for sure.

TRAMEL: We play fast. 

Are you working on another record?

CUMMINS: We have a split seven-inch coming out with this band Prison Affair from Barcelona, at the start of our European tour. And then we have a couple other things in the works that’ll come out early next year, and then an LP will probably be out next summer.

And what do you feel like is going to be different? Or the same. 

HAUGEN: Connor and I talked about this for 15 hours yesterday.

All right. Give me the brief version.

CUMMINS: We’re experimenting with a lot of different directions. It’s still same band, but we’re trying not to box ourselves in and just write the same record twice.

TRAMEL: We’ve been listening to a lot of electronic music — more dancey, powerful sounds.

CUMMINS: A lot of house, drum and bass, and jungle.

What’s the most recent album that you got that you were really excited about?

CUMMINS: This Sextile record was pretty good.

HAUGEN: I picked up the feeble little horse album a couple weeks ago. I like that record a lot. 

CAM SARRETT: I haven’t got it yet, but the Die Owan record that General Speech put out. It’s a Japanese punk band from the ’70s, ’80s. I listened to it online first, then bought the record.

CONNER SULLIVAN: For some reason, the one that’s coming to mind right now is the Swans record that came out last year. I just saw them last week at Third Man, at The Blue Room. It was very intimate and very cool. Just very hot — he turned off the AC, so it was an intentional decision. He said he loses his voice if the AC is blowing on him, so that’s fair. It really adds to the whole experience, though.

HAUGEN: It’s always really nice to watch somebody get cussed out in a very intimate environment.

The reason we’re here is to celebrate Record Store Day. What would you say is your favorite record shop in Nashville? There are some good ones.

HAUGEN: RIP Viv & Dickey’s. That was a great one. My favorite one right now though is The Groove, out east on Calvin. It’s awesome, and then there’s Grimey’s — always. And the Third Man storefront, too, is pretty cool.

Last question: Do you guys remember the first albums you ever bought?

CUMMINS: Yeah, mine was Darby Crash Rides Again by Poison Idea at a shop in Johnson City. My dad bought it for me. The cover looked cool — and I thought it was the Germs, because it had the blue circle on it.

HAUGEN: When I was 10, I bought News of the World by Queen at The Great Escape for $20.

SULLIVAN: Mine was Demon Days by Gorillaz when I was 11.

TRAMEL: That’s solid. For me, it was Avril Lavigne’s Let Go.

SARRETT: Nelly, Country Grammar.

It’s Friday morning, and I’m asking myself — how, and why, did I end up on a three-way call with a firefighter and a post-hardcore musician? The answer, strange as it might sound, is in harrowing, beautiful shared experience. Call it a “spiritual sickness,” “dependency,” or “substance abuse problem,” but Theo Krzywicki, Anthony Green, and I have all known addiction. 

Though he has suffered at its hand himself, it was years into recovery, as a full-time member of the LAFD, that Krzywicki became acutely aware of the epidemic our world is in today. With 100,000 people dying from overdoses a year, as a trained paramedic, Krzywicki found himself alone responding to thousands. “I’ve been on so many calls where people stood there helpless watching their friends die. It doesn’t have to be that way,” he says, fervently. “We have the antidote and the training — it’s like CPR.” Thus began End Overdose, a 501(c)3 nonprofit, and Krzywicki’s endeavor to educate the public on how to respond to overdose emergencies.

Read more: 10 most criminally underrated Circa Survive songs

In pursuit of an audience who could help the most — those between ages 18-45, for whom drug-related overdoses are the No. 1 cause of death — End Overdose found their sweet spot in the music space. “I would argue the music scene is one of the single most important spaces to connect with if you are trying to reach people,” Krzywicki tells us. From the first event, a naloxone training seminar at the Echoplex following the death of Lil Peep, until now, the organization has gone on to partner with the Los Angeles Nightlife Alliance, AEG, Live Nation, Insomniac Events, collaborate directly with artists, and host demonstrations and trainings, setting up chapters in cities across the country. 

Whether it was at Emo Nite, or when I first saw their HEALTH-branded Narcan kits, it became evident that the crossover between music and addiction existed on the other side of the devastating epidemic as well. There was also an alt audience, harnessing the power of overdose prevention and response, making it relatable and relevant. And not only is music now a major throughline in End Overdose’s work on the ground, but it’s been one in the work Krzywicki has done on himself to arrive here. 

As the lead singer of Circa Survive, Saosin, the Sound of Animals Fighting, and L.S. Dunes — while maintaining a successful solo career — Green has a lot on his plate. Not to mention he’s been navigating recovery, and very openly at that — on his personal platform, where he often shares harm reduction resources and avenues of seeking help, as well as through his music. Through each project, Green has been unabashedly emotional — however, his latest solo album, Boom. Done., overflows with a brilliant catharsis that is unparalleled. Track by track, the guts-baring project navigates the tactile treachery of getting clean and losing loved ones to addiction. To the naked eye, the LAFD and the LP may seem light-years apart, but beneath the surface, Green, just like Krzywicki, is in the business of connection. Connection to his own story, to the audience who seeks it, and, ultimately, to something much greater than the sum. 

THEO KRZYWICKI: All right, so can I ask you a personal question? I don’t want to throw it out. 

ANTHONY GREEN: We’re here. 

KRZYWICKI: Fair enough. We’re here for that. So, I can’t listen to Circa Survive anymore — the album that always fucks me up is On Letting Go. It makes me want to cry. Honestly, don’t think that there’s anything more powerful than the way a song can just get you… What was going on there? 

GREEN: Trust me when I tell you that I understand the sentiment and that I know what that is. I know the feeling of being faded and having music just cut through you because you’re tender. Music that is emotionally charged can have a pretty huge impact when you’re in that type of state. [With On Letting Go], there was a lot going on. I was heavily addicted to Xanax. I had gotten a credit card for the first time in my adult life that nobody saw the bill for but me. And so I ordered bulk from different online pharmacies where you’d get a DVD with another language and some weird graphic on it, and open it up and there’d be a purple Xanax in the DVD case. 

KRZYWICKI: Yeah, that’s insane. I didn’t realize you could do that — I was not ordering. 

GREEN: Yeah, I was really heavily addicted to Xanax and painkillers, but mostly Xanax at that time. And I was all conspiracy theories, 9/11 stuff, everything, the Bilderberg Group, the Trilateral Commission conspiracy, the Federal Reserve… My brain was in a tailspin, and I was hiding so much from everyone… Xanax makes you black out, and I’d wake up a lot of times where I’d have a mess around me and not know what I’d said or what I did, and I’d have these lyrics written, and I couldn’t decipher them. You’re never more anxious than when you’re abusing an anxiety drug…

I was really lost during the making of that album, and I was sure there was an answer somewhere in music, but I didn’t have the right tools to go searching where I was looking. I was in the dark, and I was choosing to be in the dark, but addiction as a theme has been on everything I’ve ever done — and it started pissing me off the last two years. I’m doing these albums, and I’m writing these things, and then you put ’em out and inevitably people are like, “So what’s this about?” And you end up making all this autobiographical shit, and you start seeing the patterns in your life, and you’re like, “I don’t want to be in this state that I’ve been in for 20 years of being addicted to heroin and opiates.” When you really decide to change, you have to commit yourself to feeling the pain and going through whatever you need to go through to fix, and to write, your path. 

And it gets a little bit easier because then you’re dead set in the same way as when you were using. When you shift and you decide, “I’m going to give myself a chance. I’m going to see if this is worth it” — your experience, your life, is always so much better, your relationships are better, and feeling pain is better. Feeling conflict, being wrong, feeling embarrassed and constructive, shame, all those things are important. I crave the life experience now that teaches me those things. I still fuck up all the time, and it is a constant practice, but I never have to use again. Never have to do that. If I make that mistake, I know exactly where that leads me, and if I don’t do that, then the possibility of me making things good is still there. 

KRZYWICKI: I’ve been sober for 13 years. I started using heroin when I was 13. I failed that battle. I went to war, I lost, and now we’re here. Now we’re here talking to you. What is going on? 

GREEN: I pray a lot, and I talk to myself, and I talk to the universe, and I talk to the thing that I think is greater than us. I like to communicate with it, and I ask it to make me a vessel so that I can do what’s needed in this world to help or bring joy. And that takes me out of my default settings that keep me in the center of the universe. I ask it to make me the thing that is going to help other people today. Put me where I need to be so I can be of service to you. You don’t have to feel pressure. You don’t have to feel worried about what you’re doing because wherever the world takes you, you’re going to be of service.

But you can’t be aware and alert and available for that stuff when you’re in that ripping and running zone, self-medicating, and self-obsessed… Part of getting clean is realizing, “OK, how do I clean up how I think? How do I clean up how I live?” It’s not just about getting rid of the habitual drug use. It’s about all the habits. How do I talk to myself in a mode that keeps me in this state of mind? How am I living that keeps me in this state? 

KRZYWICKI: I can imagine, as an artist, your entire life is laid open, in all of your music, all of the time. Creatives always have an innate ability to communicate with people in a way that no one else can. That’s why it’s so powerful when you carry a message to somebody that’s going to hit deeper than one from me. No one knows who Theo is, but when you carry a message, whether you say it, you write it, or you sing it, where does it come from? It just feels so much more powerful. 

When I was listening to your music 13 years ago, I was probably in the worst time of my life, ever. I remember hearing one of your songs and just being like, “I don’t know what this is, but they get it.” And it felt like guidance, which is crazy. That’s as intense with music as I’ll get with you. I’ll never admit to shit, but that cut through something in me. And here we are all these years later, and I’m talking to you, and you’re sharing about how you found something greater than yourself and you developed a process of living while always having your heart out there, exposed. That’s a lot.

GREEN: The things that you hide and repress are the things that are going to end up killing you. For me, making my work autobiographical and living in a way where I talk openly about what is happening in my life has benefited me. But you said that me speaking about my feelings has a different impact than you, and I want to suggest that maybe that is a skewed perception of your view, not just of yourself, but of me and of this whole situation. When you hear an artist and what they’re saying resonates with you, it’s because they have made this connection with themselves, with their emotions, and that connection with themselves feels like a connection with you — because you are the same. We are the same power. 

KRZYWICKI: It’s heavy. Everyone’s just trying to find themselves at the end of the day — and especially these days, when it feels like there’s no help or everybody’s lost, seemingly cut off from one another. We’re all just trying to find connections with ourselves and with the work that we do. It comes down to one person helping another person that makes a bigger impact than anything in the world. Those little interactions are what really make the difference. 

With our organization, that’s what we’ve focused on — one person helping another. That’s why we’ve grown so much. Last year, we doubled the amount of people that we trained to respond to overdose by a hundred thousand people, and over 200,000 people decided that they wanted to learn how to respond to an overdose. And each one of those people wasn’t deciding to respond to their own overdose. They were deciding to respond to someone. I think people really do care about each other. We just forget everyone’s in their own little silo. And the moment that you do something, the moment you tap into that, that’s the unlock button.

There’s societal change that we want to see. Everyone just wants to have peace of mind. They want to have a good life. They want to have things. They want to be cared for. They want to be loved. But I think the most effective way is to put it out there. The moment that you put it out there, you forget all the other stuff, and there’s no better method of help. We see whole communities change right now. And for us, it’s a ton of effort on our part, but we want to do everything we can to make sure that they have that ability. At the end of the day, it seems insignificant. It’s like, “Why would I do this thing? Why would I just get educated? Or why would I just learn about this thing? Or why would I just be willing to help somebody else?” That changes everything. That’s what builds the world. That’s community. 

GREEN: We’re built with this self-preservation that tells us to connect to others through all sorts of things. And just having you and your organization go out and tell people and help make connection does so much for the world. And it would be fucked up to not mention right now that we’re highlighting this issue that is this epidemic that’s happening in the world right now. In a world where there is literal genocide happening in front of our eyes, and the military and industrial complex that sort of controls all levels of information is working overtime right now to try to cover its tracks for the inhumane way that they’re operating in this world. I think people are starting to wake up now and understand what needs to happen. And sometimes on a micro level, making a difference in the global community means taking on something that you can manage and that you can have a direct effect [on]. 

KRZYWICKI: I mean, the problem is everything’s happening at the same time… And whenever you stand up and decide that you’re going to help a cause, there are always going to be people on the other side that tell you that they say crazy stuff. It happens with us all the time. We’ll just say something very innocuous like, “Hey, people shouldn’t die from something that’s accidental.” And you’ll get people on there that think you’re trying to give everybody drugs. They’re like, “Fuck addicts.” It’s like, “Hey, we’re just talking about humans, and there’s a bunch of ’em dying. Can we just make that not happen? We have all the tools here. We work together to solve it. We’re on your team.” 

GREEN: Anytime I make a video and I’m like, “Hey, test your drugs,” I get a thousand people bailing on me being like, “Why would you tell people to do that?” Well, I would suggest testing your drugs if you’re trying to avoid fentanyl because it will kill you. And if you’re trying to do cocaine or ecstasy or some powder substance, you want to make sure fentanyl’s not in there. It can get in there really easily, not intentional, and no dealers like everybody dead. It’s being realistic. I love being able to go to a venue and talk to them about Narcan and bringing Narcan. People are going to use drugs. This world is so hard. I don’t necessarily subscribe to the idea that there are bad and good drugs. I think that drugs just are, and that our relationship with ourselves is bad, and I’m not going out and saying that if you have some great relationship with yourself that you can use heroin in a casual way. But I am saying that I do know people who use fentanyl for pain management and don’t abuse it. And it’s probably similar to people. It’s similar to anybody with a medical ailment that uses something in a medical way that has the proper info on it. 

KRZYWICKI: It’s definitely a complex issue. Because obviously the trope is that if you use anything, you’re automatically categorized as a bad person. But not everybody that uses it is even an addict. One of the things that End Overdose tries to do is change the way that people engage with information. And one of the things that we’ve tried to do is really take a lot of the things that you see all around us all the time that are constantly trying to take our attention, but shape it for good, just like these different messages, like audio feedback, haptics, all sorts of things.

Part of that is attracting people to a cause that’s really good. Obviously working with you, working with artists, working with others, draws people to something that they wouldn’t ordinarily be drawn to. But what ends up happening is they discover that they have what we’ve been talking about this whole time, this innate desire to help others. Go out there and create that connection. It’s been an interesting process for us because we’ve just really been able to form a lot of this community grassroots, and it’s been through little suggestions, little changes, little ideas that people have. What do people want to see, and what do they want to connect with? And for someone like you, what are things that you see that just attract you to connect with them? I think that’s always something that we can all benefit from. 

GREEN: You ever had to have that conversation with somebody where you explain to them why it’s better to save someone’s life than to let them OD? 

KRZYWICKI: For sure. I’ve had to have many conversations like that where they hit you with some abstinence. You see it online more. But in person, someone would be like, “Why does this apply to me? Why does this matter?” And it depends on where that person is at. If someone’s coming off to you aggressively, they’re not interested in anyway. Some people, they’re looking for a fight, but some people say a backhanded comment, but they don’t know if they mean it. And you just challenge it.

You may be the only chance somebody has. You’re walking by, you see something, you’re with a friend, you don’t expect it to happen, and you’re it. You’re going to be the hero today, and you get to decide how you want to show up for that. We did a survey. We had over 29,000 people take the survey, and over 60% of ’em said they knew someone, at least one to up to five people, that had overdosed. And it shows you that if you don’t know someone directly, somebody knows somebody. At least now it’s so prevalent because there was a time where people didn’t know CPR, and we’re asking the same questions. Now it’s like, “Hey, this is a really simple thing to do.” Even if you just call somebody, even if you get on the phone and get someone coming, you’re going to save someone’s life. 

GREEN: Narcan saved my life. Three times. Anybody that likes my music that feels like they’re on the fence about that stuff — just know that. 

KRZYWICKI: Did you use it on yourself? 

GREEN: No. 

KRZYWICKI: Someone else did, right? Who was it? 

GREEN: It was paramedic police, and another time it was a stranger. 

KRZYWICKI: There it is, man. You have to have all of it, and if you don’t have other people, none of us are going to pull through.  

GREEN: Angels. 

KRZYWICKI: Angels.

GREEN: Man, I love it. I love that we have the opportunity to do this, and I have so many good things in my life right now, and there’s a lot of things that I wish weren’t how they were, and I can’t change. But I owe everything I have today to being clean and sober to people like you, to Narcan, to people from AA and NA, to my friends and family. I hope that anyone that’s out there that’s on the fence and doesn’t think that they can do this hears us saying that they can and that there are people that will help them. I hope they start loving themselves enough to try to fix the thing that’s broken, and live a life of true joy. 

KRZYWICKI: Because we need them. Especially the people that don’t think this applies to them. We need them the most.

To set the scene, entering the Marshall Funhouse, there’s an immediate sense that the brand has not only built an environment fit for neon cotton candy and ring toss games, but at its core, they’re showcasing, supporting, and celebrating the creative community. Scattered through the circus-like space, organizations such as Women in Vinyl, Queer Vinyl Collective, and the SIMS Foundation offer information and resources for improving the industry — and on the stage itself, the lineup each day is stacked with superb global acts, emerging and otherwise. The diverse range spans icons Dinosaur Jr., rising acts like English alt-rockers King Nun (a Marshall Records signee), and local Austin outfits like Die Spitz.

Read more: 20 greatest punk-rock vocalists of all time

Over the last few years, Die Spitz have certainly received well-deserved attention for their unique, Siouxsie-esque star power — barely into their 20s, they’ve been openers for L7, OFF!, and Sunny Day Real Estate. From the moment the group stood in front of Marshall’s gleaming two-stacks, towering over the young artists while they took to the stage, to 35 minutes later when they joined me on the curb outside, it was clear that Die Spitz, too, understood the assignment, and is well versed in putting on their own punk circus of sorts. Between the four members, childhood friends Ellie Livingston, Ava Schrobilgen, Kate Halter, and Chloe Andrews, their show was wonderfully lawless, unruly, and punk as can be — though they were quick to tell me they’re “not just a punk band.” And they swiftly proved that. In just a half hour, they headbanged like KISS in their hair-metal phase, scrambled onto the rafters and slid down banisters, screamed, growled, and with a tangible sense of uninhibited freedom moved through metalcore, alt-rock, hard rock, and riot grrrl sounds, to name a few. 

In preparing for the interview, before I’d even seen them hit the stage, I got a sense of the band’s carefree, and endearingly quirky, attitude, which would carry on offstage as much as on. They were, according to an internet search, signed to the label “Poopbutt” — which I was later told, through giggles, originated from an inside joke that they hadn’t realized would relay across streaming platforms. Between discussing their forthcoming debut headlining tour, with co-headliners Teen Mortgage, the live sessions they’ve been releasing on AudioStream, and their new music, the Funhouse was in full force. At one point in the interview, Livingston opts for an impromptu “What’s In My Bag?” and spills her comically palm-sized purse, pulling out a tiny toy soldier, green tea mints, a yo-yo, a couple of rocks, a teddy bear-shaped bead, and a very real raccoon tooth. Halter, the band’s cheeky bassist, who wields an imposing Paul Stanley Silvertone, interjected at one point with a joking, “Can you include in the interview that we are sitting next to our van that has a broken window so that it doesn’t get towed, because we parked illegally?” Overall, Die Spitz are doing it all right. They’re nailing the apathetic shrug of rock stars, stage presence to match, and are truly making maniacally great music. Read below to get to know the foursome, hear more about the Marshall Funhouse, and unpack how the brand’s support of musical communities is impacting them, among many others. 

So you guys are really from Austin.

AVA SCHROBILGEN: Born and raised, baby. All of us.

How did you meet?

SCHROBILGEN: We met in preschool, me and Ellie, and then we met Kate in middle school, and then we met Chloe a week before our first show, because we needed a drummer really badly. 

CHLOE ANDREWS: And at that time, we were a country band. Kind of.

ELLIE LIVINGSTON: We’re still a country band. I got a slide guitar in the next single!

ANDREWS: Honestly, we did make a really good ballad at one point, “The Ballad of Bobby and Blue.” It’s funny, but back at those shows, people would be moshing. We’d just be like, “Why are you moshing?”

Well, after seeing you today at the Marshall Funhouse — I have to say, you put on a good show, and I’m sure that energy stands regardless of the sound. I don’t know if you know, but your set today was over capacity. People were lining up and couldn’t get in. That’s 2 p.m. on Wednesday. 

SCHROBILGEN: I’ll take it!

Given we are at the Funhouse, what’s been your relationship with Marshall as musicians? 

ANDREWS: Actually, I said it during the show, but I was kind of pissed when I got here, because they’re like, “You can’t play your Fender amp at a Marshall showcase.” And I’m like, “Oh.” Then I started playing the Marshall, and I was like, “Oh.” It sounded perfect.

LIVINGSTON: I’ve always wanted a huge two-stack! Half because I think it would look hilarious next to my tiny body, but also, maybe then people would take us seriously. 

Are there any artists on the Marshall bill that you’re excited to see, or be on a lineup with?

SCHROBILGEN: Dinosaur Jr.! And our friends, Farmer’s Wife.

ANDREWS: Dry Cleaning.

LIVINGSTON: Our friends Snõõper are in town! They’re just the kindest people. I’m not even lying just because it’s an interview — but honestly, every band that I want to see is playing at this showcase.

Digging more into your set and sound, what kind of music were you listening to that made you want to be in a band?

LIVINGSTON: Black Sabbath, Nirvana. They’re really basic answers, but they’re true. I saw Black Sabbath in 2013 when I was fucking 11 or something, and I was like, “This is the best shit I ever heard.”

SCHROBILGEN: The Freaky Friday band. The Hex Girls. [Laughs.] No, honestly, for me it was the Pixies. I just love all of their energy and the weird-ass noises that they make. We were trying to be like them when we first started, for sure.

And you’ve shifted since?

LIVINGSTON: Oh, we have a very wide array of influences. When people call us punk, it’s really funny because it’s like, “Well, some of it is definitely punk… but some of it is very not.”

That was another thing I wanted to bring up. Listening to you play, I was picking up on metalcore sounds, some glam rock… There’s a lot there.

LIVINGSTON: Exactly. One of our singles coming out soon is literally a metal ballad, but with an acoustic guitar, and I’m also playing slide guitar on it.

SCHROBILGEN: It also has some violin.

LIVINGSTON: Die Spitz is definitely not just a punk band. 

Speaking of punk, or not punk, I have a pressing question that’s more for myself than anything — and it’s about Keith Morris. I’m a massive Black Flag fan, and I would see him around LA, but you toured with him! What was that like?

ANDREWS: Actually, Parish was where we met him for the first time, because that’s the first place we played with OFF!. He was always just very supportive. We would finish a set and walk back, and he’d go, “Good job girls.”

SCHROBILGEN: He was so sweet. He became so proud of us by the end of it. He was going around bragging about us. And after shows, he always made sure we were fed. He’d give us the bread and cheese from their green room and then make our van stinky. It’s all just kind of crazy, that this legendary guy believes in us so much. That was the first time I was like, “Oh, if he thinks that we’re OK, then I guess we’re OK.”

Read more: 15 greatest supergroups across rock, punk, and metal

Winona Fighter 

When you listen to Winona Fighter, you can tell that Coco Luther cut her teeth in the Boston scene. It’s in the punchy, raw, and utterly anthemic punk music her now Nashville-based band play. Live, the group are stratospheric, as proven by their SXSW sets over the last week. Whether it’s in the lyricism or onstage, the slogan for Winona Fighter is always the battle cry “everyone is welcome, equal, and needs to get on their fucking feet.” There’s much on the horizon for the band, who recently signed to Rise Records, released three powerful singles, including the most recent track, “I’M IN THE MARKET TO PLEASE NO ONE,” and will be supporting Bayside, Finch, and Armor for Sleep this summer — alongside numerous festival dates. —Anna Zanes

King Isis

King Isis is clearly fascinated by the magic of rebirth. Co-produced with Hello Yello, their new EP, shed, purges the past and reaches toward a brighter, glass-half-full future instead. With that transformation comes a darker, grittier, and more spellbinding sound, in contrast to the vibrant alt-pop of their 2023 debut EP. “MONKI” is a clear standout, flexing their deep, soulful voice while the rest of the band back them up with a steady, sinewy crawl — a transition that makes the Oakland-born artist feel light-years away from their acoustic cover of “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” As they cast away their old skin, they become someone who isn’t afraid to take up space. —Neville Hardman

HiTech

This year in Austin, there were a few bands on the tip of everyone’s tongue — and HiTech were definitely one of them. The Detroit-bred trio, a collaboration between rapper-producer-DJs King Milo, Milf Melly, and 47Chops, took audiences by storm with their own intoxicating iteration of the Detroit ghettotech sound, infused with the city’s deep-rooted techno. The rap group’s gutturally industrial, synthy, melodic dance music has made a name for them over the years that extends well beyond the Midwest. And unlike so much club music, there’s nothing nostalgic about their sound. For HiTech, the goal is to turn a new page in the book of club music. And they seem to be on their way. After their memorable performances last week in Texas, and the acclaimed mayhem of 2023’s album DÉTWAT — we’re clamoring for their forthcoming album, due sometime this year. —Anna Zanes

YHWH Nailgun

There’s a Reddit thread titled, “YHWH Nailgun are wicked.” However trite, it’s a hard statement to discount, and might actually be the best way of describing the art-punk group. Last week, throughout SXSW’s surrounding festivities, the Brooklyn-based quartet stunned audience members with their amorphous, tactile set, a kinetic shock to the system through sound and delivery. Each member writhes onstage as if in a vacuum, responding in their own, lawless way to the clashing of drums and jazzy cymbal patterns, blistering synths, and vocalist Zack Borzone’s almost intelligible spewing of lyrics. There’s something seductive about the almost violently chaotic nature of their music and show, which Borzone dances through, convulsing, threatening to foam at the mouth with the unending energy of Iggy Pop, and an element of controlled focus that’s all his own. —Anna Zanes

LAIR

There’s not a bad album on Guruguru Brain, the independent music label out of Amsterdam that brings Asian music up from the underground, and that holds true with their latest signees, LAIR. The six-piece’s new album, Ng​é​lar — helmed by Kikagaku Moyo’s Go Kurosawa and released last month — is deeply groovy, made from instruments that are built from clay in a nod to their native Jatiwangi, Indonesia (the country’s largest manufacturer of clay roof tiles). “Tatalu,” in particular, is a heady number that balances hypnotic Eastern psych with muggy funk. The band recently made their U.S. debut with three shows at SXSW, an impressive series of performances that brought onlookers into their joyous world and promises bigger things to come. —Neville Hardman

Reyna Tropical

Fabi Reyna picked up a guitar when she was 9 and, having no one to look up to except white rock bands, became her own role model instead. That eventually yielded Reyna Tropical, a project between Reyna and her “musical soulmate” Nectali “Sumohair” Diaz, that paid tribute to the vast musical terrain of their native diaspora. However, when Sumo passed away in 2022, she pledged to keep the band alive to honor his legacy and continue their mission to uplift culture and identity. That celebration of life, love, and purpose runs through her long-awaited debut album, Malegr​í​a, which arrives later this month, to great effect. —Neville Hardman

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Inside Parish, across three stellar showcases, each opened by Austin’s School of Rock, we saw Dinosaur Jr. draw a line around the block, much talked-about Austin act Die Spitz embrace punk energy in its truest form, and U.K.-based Marshall Records’ acts like rowdy post-punks King Nun, self-described “Queercore Powerhouse” Dream Nails, and Corey Taylor-approved rap-metal artist Kid Bookie blow the crowds’ minds with raucous, unrivaled performances.

But the showcases were just the half of it — past the hot dog stand, strongman game, and DJ booth curated by the Queer Vinyl Collective, people screen-printed custom merchandise and artists picked at record bins, eager to enter the gifting suite full of Marshall product, alongside local organizations like the SIMS Foundation, who works to destigmatize and reduce mental health and substance abuse issues for music industry professionals, Women in Vinyl, who offers education and opportunities for women and BIPOC communities around the vinyl industry, and School of Rock, who received the entire backline of Marshall products following the event. Over three days, while the carnival carried on, the SIMS Foundation and WIV spread awareness, engaging with a music-loving audience apt to become allies and supporters.  

Completely caught off guard by the incredible work that Women In Vinyl has been doing, unbeknownst to me, I got the chance to chat with the founder (and Black Sabbath collector) Jenn D’Eugenio about how she went from designing children’s clothing to sending young women to Berklee, and pressing the records of her favorite artists.

What’s the story behind Women in Vinyl?

JENN D’EUGENIO: I started working in the vinyl industry at the very start of 2018. I had always loved music, but I was never a musician — so I was like, “What jobs are there for me?” Nobody in high school was like, “Oh, go work in a record label.” But I was also an artist, so I became a designer, designing children’s clothes until I got burned out on drawing bunnies. So I started in vinyl manufacturing, which combined my love for…

Wait, how did that happen? How did we go from bunnies to vinyl?

D’EUGENIO: I went back and started working as a career adviser at the art college I went to, helping students in the School of Design find jobs. It was the most fulfilling job I’d ever had. It was so great to help them find their spot. But Savannah is a very small place, where I went to school. So we moved to D.C., where I’m from, and where Furnace [Record Pressing] was based. It just made sense to find a way into this industry. After I started working there, I realized, there are so many women in this industry doing awesome things — had I known, maybe I would’ve had a completely different career path. So I wanted to find a way to provide those kinds of opportunities, role models, scholarships, and educational training to young people, especially women, nonbinary, and minority groups, because they so often get left out of those STEM programs. In combining education, design, and my love of vinyl, I was able to start Women in Vinyl in 2018, and in 2020, it officially is a 501(c)(3) nonprofit organization. We’ve developed a board and various resources for the community. Last year, thanks to funding from Marshall, we were able to create a scholarship program at Berklee College of Music. We also sent someone to Minneapolis for Making Vinyl, our industry convention. We had interns at Gold Rush Vinyl as the first-of-its-kind intern program, where you actually are hands-on pressing records — and one of the women that was part of that is actually now a full-time press operator at Gold Rush. So we’re truly seeing that mission come closer.

I have goosebumps. I love that. I really didn’t know there was such a lack of awareness about this. 

D’EUGENIO: People love records, but this new generation that’s getting into vinyl has no idea how many jobs and people are involved in getting that record to you. We say our slogan is “educate, demystify, and diversify” because while we may be focusing on these groups as far as jobs and educational opportunities for everybody, we are the women in vinyl who are also educating the community. And we have a podcast where we try to share some of that with everyone.

Do you feel like younger generations are really into vinyl? I feel like it’s getting more popular.

D’EUGENIO: It outsells all other physical media at this point, when people go to shows. And there’s been a lot of focus, too, on the “super fan.” It’s funny because it’s so off-brand for me, but one of the pop artists that I like, she put out two seven-inches, and I was like, “Is she going to bring back a seven-inch? Are the kids going to get into it now?” Honestly, I don’t think vinyl’s going to go anywhere. I’m of the age where my parents had vinyl, and that’s how I discovered it and started collecting it. Now my generation is having kids, so I think it’s going to be the same thing, right? It’ll continue. 

Totally. You can’t consume music in a better way. What was the first record you bought?

D’EUGENIO: I bought Led Zeppelin’s Houses of the Holy. We left school early, and we went to this dilapidated record store in my hometown called Dragon Song. It was literally in this old house with a stoner guy working behind the counter. He had a whole wall of moldy oldies, and he used to tour with bands and all that. From the moment you walked in, it was like Nag Champa and stories. That was the first record I purchased. I inherited some of my parents’ records, and then that was it.

I listen to music addictively. I’ll just listen to the A-side of an album for a week, until I can’t listen to it ever again. What was the first album that hit like that for you, if any?

D’EUGENIO: I’m ridiculously obsessed with Black Sabbath. I have 50 copies of Master of Reality alone. I bought one, and then my husband was working in a record store that got a German Vertigo version, which I realized sounded different. When I started working in record manufacturing, I’m like, “OK, if someone wants to do a repress, you need to authorize changes to art. You need to authorize changes to moving the metal parts around. How did all of these different variants get started and pressed?” And so I started down this rabbit hole now obsessively collecting Master. I love that.

The international pressings! There’s always something hidden in those. How did your relationship with Marshall come about?

D’EUGENIO: It’s funny, actually. So we were sending someone to the Making Vinyl conference a couple years ago, and I got a DM from Zound, (now a part of Marshall), saying they wanted to send “the recipient” to Making Vinyl, and I was like, “What the hell?” I ignored it, and then a few days later I was like, “You know what? I should respond.” I did, and the brand said, “We want to be involved — and after, we want to contribute more and be a part of helping you fulfill your mission.” Honestly, and I don’t say this because this is a Marshall event, but they are the most selfless and truly supportive organization, and I feel so lucky because not only do our brand aesthetics align, but the type of people that are there are really cool. They genuinely want to help. They’re never like, “We’re going to give you this, but you have to do all of these things.” They’ll say, “Does this help your mission?” And that’s amazing. 

Jenn D’Eugenio’s new book, Women in Vinyl: The Art of Making Vinyl, goes up for preorder on March 26.

“Nevermind is super personal to me. The brand is truly an homage to growing up as a punk kid in Kentucky,” he tells AltPress. “The dynamic of hanging alone in the woods one day to being in a chaotic pit at a house show the next really stuck with me. The graphics are all inspired by punk and hardcore, but I wanted to balance that look with the serenity of nature through earth tones and peaceful surroundings in my photo shoots.”

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And with that sentiment as its foundation, Nevermind has grown. We’ve seen Shockley’s vision come to life in the form of lush green knitwear emblazoned with the face of the Velvet Underground’s Nico. A deep brown T-shirt with “ecstasy” embroidered on the front. However, for his latest drop, the Spring ‘24 collection, Shockley is fully immersing us in the Mother Earth-meets-Minutemen aesthetic — with T-shirts, headwear, and totes peppered with punk-inspired graphics, in trademark rich, natural tones, camouflage, and textural mineral washed fabric. What’s more, the lookbook features a tongue-in-cheek flip on the traditional model, with a ghillie-suited figure.

“This season, I got to work with a close personal friend, Errick Easterday, to create a really dynamic video and editorial shoot using a ghillie suit,” Shockley says. “The idea of creating a character out of this ghillie suit-covered man was really interesting to me, taking something used for hunting and reinterpreting it as a fashion piece felt rebellious.” 

Check out the lookbook below, and shop Nevermind’s new collection here.