Out in the Storm, Katie Crutchfield’s fourth album as Waxahatchee and her second release with Merge, is the blazing result of a woman reawakened. Her most autobiographical and honest album to date, Out in the Storm is a self-reflective anchor in the story of both her songwriting and her life. As Crutchfield prepared for the release of her Merge debut Ivy Tripp, she found herself depleted emotionally and professionally amidst the dissolution of a noxious relationship. “Ivy Tripp doesn’t really have any resolution. It’s a lot of beating around the bush, and superficially trying to see my life clearly, but just barely scratching the surface. Out in the Storm digs into what I was going through without blinking. It’s a very honest record about a time in which I was not honest with myself.” The album was tracked at Miner Street Recordings in Philadelphia with John Agnello, a producer, recording engineer, and mixer known for working with some of the most iconic musicians of the last 25 years, including Dinosaur Jr. and Sonic Youth. Agnello and Crutchfield worked together for most of December 2016, along with the band: sister Allison Crutchfield on keyboards and percussion, Katherine Simonetti on bass, and Ashley Arnwine on drums; Katie Harkin, touring guitarist with Sleater-Kinney, also contributed lead guitar. At Agnello’s suggestion, the group recorded most of the music live to enhance their unity in a way that gives the album a fuller sound compared to past releases, resulting in one of Waxahatchee’s most guitar-driven releases to date.

One of the reasons you started listening to music in the first place might have been in the hope of finding the kind of  conviction and fierce rawness evident in Hurray for the Riff Raff’s, aka Alynda Segarra’s, “nature punk” manifesto about  survival, LIFE ON EARTH. A visionary musician, Segarra (they/she) is an outsider in whose voice you might find echoes of  your own. On her eighth full-length album, Segarra is creating music of honesty and portent.  If there hadn’t been a pandemic, Segarra might have made a very different sort of album from Life on Earth, which became  the record she’s waited a lifetime to make. Like the rest of us, Segarra had the disconcerting experience of putting the  brakes on life as they knew it in March 2020. “I need to keep moving all the time,” says Segarra on a Zoom call from their light-filled studio in the shotgun house they call home in New Orleans’ Seventh Ward.  Segarra had been a human embodiment of Newton’s First Law of Motion even before they ran away from their home in  the Bronx at age seventeen, illegally hopping freight trains or hitchhiking across the country in the company of a band of  street urchins, sleeping rough under dense underbrush at night and hiding in trees for shelter. Coming from a fractured  family, they weren’t quite sure what they were looking for, but they had the feeling they would know it when they found  it. And they did when they pulled into New Orleans in 2007. There Segarra formed two bands: Dead Man’s Street Orchestra  and Hurray for the Riff Raff, releasing an EP and seven albums with the latter.  In 2015, Segarra temporarily decamped, first to Nashville, then home to New York. Her 2016 Hurray for the Riff Raff album,  The Navigator, was a quest to reclaim her Puerto Rican identity. Each song segued into the next in a tight narrative arc,  uncovering important hints through the lens of her ancestors.  “I feel like I’m always leaving clues in my song, hoping my listeners will follow the breadcrumbs,” says Segarra with a short  laugh. On Life on Earth, they just might. This time, she’s chosen a topic that affects us all: our relationship to the natural  world. “You could call Life on Earth survival music for the end times,” says Segarra. “But not just surviving—learning how  to thrive. The importance of adapting and learning from nature—those were the themes that kept coming to me.”  They continue, “Not being able to travel and get out whenever I felt nervous energy inside me, it really did a lot to bring  back memories. It was a very reflective time, and it taught me a lot about trauma and memories being stored in the body,”  says the musician. “I started running because that was the best way I could work out all of these weird feelings that were  bubbling up and swirling around inside me.”  While running, Segarra saw a New Orleans that they had never noticed before, coming face-to-face with the unruly plant  life. “I felt the nature in New Orleans has this really rebellious energy, because it’s like nothing can get it down,” explains  Segarra. “I was thinking of this loneliness, then all of a sudden I was looking at this plant life around me and feeling, ‘Why  did I feel so lonely when you’re here?’”  Segarra also decided to deal with the trauma by seeing a therapist who specialized in EMDR (Eye Movement  Desensitization and Reprocessing), a kind of psychotherapy that helps people resolve unprocessed traumatic memories  in the brain. “So much of what we’re going through right now is about really claiming this moment that we’re in and  admitting that this is the world that we’ve inherited,” they say solemnly. “It’s not the world that we hoped to inherit or  that we thought we were going to, but it’s the one we got, and we have to take the reins and decide what we’re going to  do with it. This album is a lot about that.”  “For me, every album is almost a film or a novel or a world I create that I want to live in. I want it to have themes and  language, a cosmology or a lexicon, so the listener can live in it, because that’s what I loved about punk and the music that  I was drawn to. It wasn’t just about the music, it was about joining a crew,” says Segarra.   As is their habit when making an album, Segarra was relentless in their research, thumbing through books on flowers and  plants and watching documentaries, such as Blank City and Jupiter's Dance, about the music scene in Kinshasa. Another  touchstone was Beverly Glenn-Copeland’s Keyboard Fantasies, released in 1986. “It is very nature-meets-early electronic  music. It had this total rejuvenation during the pandemic.”  Segarra also drew inspiration from reading the poetry of Joy Harjo, the United States Poet Laureate (the first Native  American to hold that honor) and Ocean Vuong, the award-winning Vietnamese American poet and author of On Earth  We’re Briefly Gorgeous. Vuong’s voice in on the album’s “nightqueen,” in an excerpt from an interview he did with On  Being’s Krista Tippett. Another source that sparked Segarra was adrienne maree brown’s book Emergent Strategy. “It’s  like a toolkit or a map for activists and people in organizing movements of how to learn from nature, how we can flock  together, how we can learn to be adaptive and resist and grow and thrive, and trust each other,” they explain.   Segarra’s work with Freedom for Immigrants also impacted their writing. “I felt like the world was going to shit and I  needed to be useful. Then I found Freedom for Immigrants, an organization that creates little contingency groups across  the country of people who volunteer to visit people in detention who need help from the outside.   This also changed the music they wanted to make. “It was time to get a little bit messier and scare myself,” Segarra says.  After speaking to several producers who were wonderful but did not feel like the right fit, Segarra decided to call Brad  Cook, because she had fallen in love with his work on Waxahatchee’s Saint Cloud, Kevin Morby’s Sundowner, and Hand  Habit’s Placeholder.  “When I talked to Brad on the phone, I instantly felt, ‘I don’t have to be afraid around him.’” In the middle of the worst of the pandemic, she decided to drive from New Orleans to Cook’s studio in Durham, North Carolina, to see if her instincts  about working with him were right. “When I met him I was just like, ‘This is my brother. This is who can help me.’ He  opened a door to his studio and was like, ‘Go crazy. Play around with my toys.’ So that was really one of the biggest  changes in my sound.  “I don’t want to say all that stuff made me change my sound,” assures Segarra. “I already wanted to. So much of my  twenties was spent being very nostalgic and feeling I was born in the wrong time. I didn’t want to do that anymore, because finally there’s resistance happening, a young-people movement wanting to change the world. Popular music has  also been opened up more toward women and people of color, queer people. I was more excited about being in the  present moment, and I wanted to use the tools of now.  Segarra also pushed themselves further than they ever had before. “There was a moment during a demo of ‘Pointed at  the Sun’ that was just me and guitar. At the end [of the song] I started crying during the ‘crucify myself’ part. I’ve never  fucking cried during a recording! I’m always way more in charge! Things are not in charge of me!” says Segarra, still a little  incredulous. “When I was done and I apologized to Brad, I saw he had tears in his eyes too.”  On her most emotionally intense album yet, Segarra constructs an alternative reality—or, in their words after their recent  temporary escape from New Orleans because of Hurricane Ida, “a soundtrack to evacuation.” It kicks off with the insistent  call to action of “Wolves,” which recalls their teenage odyssey from New York, a song about disaster, survival, and running  for your life. “Pierced Arrows” is a claustrophobic tunnel vision of heartbreak that they attempt to outrun. “You can’t  outrun it. The past is always right there,” they say.   “Pointed at the Sun” is autobiographical and fiery, a high-soaring declaration song in which life force is activated, decisions  are made, and autonomy is reclaimed. “Rhododendron” is about being faced with your own toxic behaviors and patterns  and actively choosing a new path. “Jupiter’s Dance” was inspired by the documentary Segarra watched about musician  Jupiter Bokondji, but it is also a prayer for the children in ICE facilities, trying to make their way to safety.   “Life on Earth,” written before the pandemic, is as much a hopeful plea as a funeral lament: Sad and fatalistic with its  prescient lyrics about a man in a mask, it is like a hushed continuation of “Pa’lante,” the beautiful, elegiac piano ballad  from The Navigator. “nightqueen” is dark, personal, and thrilling, like a cold finger traced along your spine, even more so  when a wobbly tenor sax floats in from some disembodied underworld. After “Precious Cargo”—the masterful combination of politics, poetry, and off-rhythm spoken (and sobbed) word—comes “Rosemary Tears,” another jagged piece of Segarra’s biography in song form, about a childhood abandonment they suffered and the realization that some things cannot be fixed between people; life ends, and there are no do-overs.   “Saga” brings this journey to a close, showing exactly how aligned the musician is to their heroes. The beats and thumps  seem to have been transported from New York’s abrasive streets. Inspired by Dr. Christine Blasey Ford’s testimony during  the Brett Kavanaugh confirmation hearings, which triggered a personal memory of Segarra’s, it is about the importance  of looking at oneself as not only a survivor, but as a joyful, powerful person who is not defined by the trauma they’ve  experienced.   “I was going through all these album sequences, going by the rules: put the singles up front. And ‘Saga’ was really up there,  of course, and then Brad called me one day and he’s like, ‘I walked around with the album and “Saga” has to end the story.  It’s so triumphant and strong, like: I’m not living in the past anymore, I’m going forward and you can’t stop me.’”  An instrumental coda wraps up Life on Earth: the crystalline, peaceful Zen soundscape of “KiN,” for which Segarra recorded  bird sounds and the Singing Oak, an art installation, by Jim Hart, in a century-old New Orleans tree. “Hart put all these  giant wind chimes in this tree in City Park and painted them black to hide them from view. I would run to it every day, and  one day I thought, ‘This tree’s always performing. It’s like a constant ambient show at this park.’ So I recorded it on my  iPhone because I felt so indebted to it, put it on the album, and gave it a songwriting credit. It’s my favorite living musician,”  Segarra laughs.   —Jaan Uhelszki  

Like her name implies, Bedouine's music has a nomadic heart. Sweeping, hypnotic. Esoteric yet familiar. It is untethered to place because its home is everywhere. Bedouine's sound is for the modern cyber gypsy, dipping a curious toe in the swaying Mediterranean before caravaning for weeks across the deserts of the Middle East, and finally catching a redeye back to L.A. for a pre-dawn Southern California stroll. "It's in my roots," Bedouine says over a tenuous Skype connection from Saudi Arabia. "I love exploring different places and sounds. My childhood was this amalgamation of different cultures, so I've never really belonged to a particular place. But being nomadic can be a beautiful thing if you're accepting of it -- not knowing exactly what you're doing or where you're going, but with conviction. Being experimental, even with your intentions." An outsider and an introvert, Bedouine prefers anonymity but loves making music enough to share hers with anyone willing to listen -- even if it means confronting her fears. An aversion to the spotlight led her away from the stage for several years, where she worked from the shadows, composing music for independent films and art installations until something unexpected happened -- she wound up in Los Angeles and experienced the opposite of the cliché. "The joy I get from making music has nothing to do with any kind of recognition," Bedouine says, "so when I moved to L.A., I had no intention of pursuing music as a career. But then I started meeting so many inspiring people -- talented musicians who were living these double lives, going out on the road with successful bands and playing stadiums, and then coming home to this amazing scene and playing all these great little clubs and bars. It made the idea of starting over with my music less intimidating, and it made me more comfortable with the idea of performing. L.A. actually made me less jaded." She soon fell in with the tight-knit community of performers in her Echo Park neighborhood, spending nights trading songs and listening to records with some of L.A.'s best underground artists. "One of my favorite ways to hang out with people," Bedouine says, "is to take turns listening to each other's music, bouncing ideas back and forth." It was on just such a night that she met collaborator Jake Blanton (The Killers, Father John Misty, Jenny O.), with whom she would record the songs for her new self-titled EP. The two co-wrote "The City," and put together a short yet memorable set of songs propelled by insistent, mesmerizing beats, and anchored by chiming guitar, daydreamy piano and above all, Bedouine's unforgettable voice. Impressionistic, her languid vocals swirl into the ether, another color in the palette, another instrument in the band. Her words roll soft off the tongue, careful brushstrokes, oil paint swept across a canvas. The music is beautiful and striking, always revelling quietly in its search for some enigmatic unknown just out of reach. There is no ego here, no filter between Bedouine's heart and her songs.