https://www.kevinkrein.com/essays daily 0.75 2025-12-15 https://www.kevinkrein.com/essays/from-the-archives-i-was-an-extra-in-a-hallmark-holiday-film monthly 0.5 2025-12-18 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/68687ec2d0c6a17e9a0dfa3a/445269ed-9f3a-40a1-9c3b-9badd15601d6/IMG_9440.png Essays - From The Archives: I Was An Extra In A Hallmark Holiday Film From the end of 2013, until the autumn of 2018, I regularly wrote short personal, observational pieces that were published in am monthly arts and culture paper—the SouthernMinn Scene, and then, online for a similarly minded site—The Next Ten Words. Save for the original documents on my laptop from this time period, and the physical copies of the SouthernMinn Scene I held onto, little if any trace of this era of my output still exists today. Part of the appeal of having a website was the idea of republishing certain pieces—not rewriting or revising. It is extremely humbling to revisit my work from a number of years ago. But. It is a reminder of how far I have come, on the page, in the interim, but also where I was hoping to go, or the voice I was working towards adopting at the time it was written. I wrote two pieces about Love Always, Santa—both of which were published in the SouthernMinn Scene. The first, “Quiet on The Set,” was written outside of my role as the “back page columnist” for the publication—it was a standalone piece that I had been asked to contribute once it was confirmed that production of the film would be taking place in Northfield. The second, “Extra, Extra,” was written for the column I had been given, “The Bearded Life.” It is extremely humbling to revisit my work from a number of years ago. These are both, of course, products of their time—written in a contrarian, snarky voice that, a decade ago, I believed to be charming. If anything, I am grateful I no longer believe that to be true. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/68687ec2d0c6a17e9a0dfa3a/7e08c982-2abd-49d7-bc48-65a5293bd8d8/MV5BZmRkOWUzN2UtNDFiYy00NzZkLThiZWEtMzc3MTA1MDU2MGFmXkEyXkFqcGc%40._V1_.jpg Essays - From The Archives: I Was An Extra In A Hallmark Holiday Film If you are familiar with holiday movies that air on these networks, then you’ll understand that the plot sounds very familiar—like the combination of a couple of movies that you may have already watched—A young widower owns a bookstore/coffee shop called “The Bun Also Rises.” Her daughter writes a letter to Santa, asking for her mother’s happiness (in the form of a new boyfriend) for Christmas. The letter is intercepted by Santa Ink, a company that specializes in responding to children’s letters to Santa. The task of responding falls onto a children’s book writer suffering from writer’s block. He’s moved by the child’s letter, apparently, and writes a long letter back that this young widower reads, who then writes back to him. The two strike up some kind of letter-writing relationship (hence the title), and he travels a great distance to find her, because they are in love, or something. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/68687ec2d0c6a17e9a0dfa3a/28edbeba-b394-46aa-b6ab-1278edc501fe/IMG_9441.png Essays - From The Archives: I Was An Extra In A Hallmark Holiday Film Not ten minutes after I sent my completed article, “Quiet on The Set,” to my editor for his perusal, I received a telephone call from the woman who had been tasked with corralling extras for the movie. On the phone, she tells me that the producers of the movie like both me, as well as “my look,” and she asks me if I would like to be an extra in the movie. Walking down Division Street, listening to her ask the question, my mind immediately goes to the place where I keep all of the excuses I would use to get out of something like this—“I don’t know if I can spare the time away from work” being the first one I use; following that, “I don’t know what my schedule is like for the week.” https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/68687ec2d0c6a17e9a0dfa3a/927be984-9d48-4b5b-94c2-0c4dff419ede/MV5BZWM3NTdiOTEtYmJkNS00NDQ5LTg2NjEtNTM3YmM0YTJkMTFmXkEyXkFqcGc%40._V1_.jpg Essays - From The Archives: I Was An Extra In A Hallmark Holiday Film This is where I make my second mistake in this entire comedy of errors—as the director sidles up to me and we make small pleasantries, I mention to him that, outside of my work with the paper, I also work at the bookstore. As these words leave my mouth, I see the gears beginning to turn in his head—he decides he’s going to use me as a featured extra—where I am to place a sign in the window of the bookstore, advertising an in-store author event, that then attracts the attention of a child actress. This means that I am not needed until 11:30, which means I sit around for four hours with nothing to do—save for wallowing in my anxieties about the situation. I didn’t think to bring something to do, like a book to read, or my laptop. Instead, I think about how I should be working. I wonder about if my boss will even approve the vacation time I put in a request to use so I could be here. I hope that I’ll be done before 12:30 p.m. so I can go home and check in my rabbit—something that I do, like clockwork, every weekday. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/68687ec2d0c6a17e9a0dfa3a/57d71209-4490-4907-8846-1df461944a06/IMG_0157.jpg Essays - From The Archives: I Was An Extra In A Hallmark Holiday Film - You reset the shot. You place the sign in the window again. Eventually, my anxiety subsides, and I’m left with a feeling of irritation—I’m frustrated that I am still on the set of a movie, having spent upwards of six hours total in a holding pattern of waiting for this moment—the moment where I place a sign in a window and wave to a child I’ve never met, and don’t even talk to. After enough times through, it’s determined that they got the shots they need. “That’s a wrap on Kevin,” I am told by one of the dozens of production assistants, scrambling around the set with various lighting rigs, camera mounts, and walkie-talkies. Once I am dismissed from the set, I wander back to my office, only to be greeted with jokes from my co-workers: “Will you remember all of us little people when you are big and famous,” one of them deadpans. Still frustrated from my morning, I laugh, because that’s all you can do. As I sit down to begin my day—mid-afternoon—I think about the supposedly fun thing that I just experienced, and I wonder what, if anything, I got out of the experience and why I let myself get talked into it. https://www.kevinkrein.com/essays/from-the-archives-fathering-or-theres-a-monster-at-the-end-of-this-essay monthly 0.5 2025-12-07 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/68687ec2d0c6a17e9a0dfa3a/6ca95752-a898-41dd-a748-c64d06affc51/denim+jacket.jpg Essays - From The Archives: Fathering (or, There’s A Monster at The End of This Essay) I remember the overpowering scent of his Speed Stick deodorant when he’d come into my room to say goodbye before he left for work in the morning, and I can recall the thick, revolting smell of the ‘tropical mist’ scented Glade Plug-In air fresheners he used in his extraordinarily small, dumpy apartment—the one he hastily moved into during the divorce. The scent was so strong that it would linger on my clothing and in my hair once I returned to my mother’s apartment following weekend visitation. I remember short games of baseball and football in the backyard, and basketball in the driveway. I remember his long Sunday morning walks out of the neighborhood, down to the nearest gas station to buy the Sunday Chicago Tribune, and how in the arts section, he read about Liz Phair, Urge Overkill, Veruca Salt, Red Red Meat, and Smashing Pumpkins. I remember his dirty beige station wagon with its shit brown interior, and how one cold winter morning, when he was driving me to school, smoke started to billow out from somewhere in the dashboard. I remember the sparkling waters he always drank, and how, when I had a La Croix for the first time as an ‘adult’ in college, before I took a sip of it, I thought, “I can’t believe I’m drinking this.” I remember that, when I was around 10, he was tasked with giving me ‘the talk.’ But we had cable when I was a kid, and I had friends who had older brothers, so there wasn’t much of it that was new information to me. https://www.kevinkrein.com/essays/an-irresponsible-journalist monthly 0.5 2025-11-05 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/68687ec2d0c6a17e9a0dfa3a/89f243f7-4304-40f2-9cc3-29b1c000b8d1/500739415_10100283690479566_2889676273679732496_n.jpg Essays - An Irresponsible Journalist - I can still hear him. Jerry. His southern Illinois drawl, shouting, somewhat in jest, but also somewhat in earnest, at me, across the rows of cubicles in the newsroom, exclaiming that from just a single instance of the Oxford comma in a news story, he was going to have a problem with me, and trying to break my habit of using it. I had no background in journalism. But I could write. And, at that point, I had been a resident of Northfield, Minnesota, for around eight years, and had already worked myriad different jobs, so I was connected, or at least somewhat known, within the community, which is something that others in the newsroom, who were much younger and fresh out of “J School,” as it was often called, and had relocated to Northfield, for the job, could not offer. https://www.kevinkrein.com/essays/from-the-archives-we-used-to-vacation monthly 0.5 2025-10-16 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/68687ec2d0c6a17e9a0dfa3a/ecb4bdbb-b548-41c2-8dfc-c45e26c54e2b/IMAG2316+%281%29.jpg Essays - From The Archives: We Used To Vacation - Traveling by train is, at its core, an antiquated and practically dying way to get somewhere. The train to Seattle is full of passengers, sure, but overall, there are few people who do have this kind of time—or who want to make the time—to get somewhere at a slower pace. We arrive at the train station in St. Paul in the early evening and it’s practically empty—this part of the city, too, is nearly deserted at 7:30 p.m. on a Sunday. We walk around near the station in an attempt to find a place to have dinner; the empty streets and quiet air make me realize just how sad and lonely large cities are capable of being. The train station itself is a gigantic, gorgeous old building, renovated within the last five years—an homage to a time long since gone. Other passengers waiting for the train to Seattle situate themselves on large wooden benches that are evenly spaced out throughout the station—young men sit working on laptops or fidget nervously while watching videos on their mobile phones. Since we have splurged for the sleeping car, we have access to a secure lounge as we wait to board; there, we’re joined by an older man wearing overalls watching Sunday Night Football, an intense looking man in carpenter jeans who speaks with a thick North Dakota accent, a middle-age couple, possibly drunk, who are very handsy with one another in the corner of the lounge, and an eccentric older couple who sprawl across couches to sleep. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/68687ec2d0c6a17e9a0dfa3a/1a89edc1-343a-47bb-93b6-a20d5614fb51/IMAG2444.jpg Essays - From The Archives: We Used To Vacation - Somehow I convince Wendy to get a tattoo; I think it comes as a surprise to both of us, though it’s not like it was an impulsive decision and she chose a flash design, like a naked woman riding a flaming boner. She had sketched out an idea of an elephant and a rabbit, and emailed it to Nora, the artist who did work on both of us. I get a quote from The Book of Disquiet—“How much I’ve live without having lived!” Later, as the sun sets, we find ourselves in a neighborhood where there’s a record store. I go in and look for the two records I was unable to find in Seattle¹², and I leave empty handed. We find a Powell’s Bookstore. Not the Powell’s, but a smaller one, which is still way too big. I look around for a few minutes but become overwhelmed. I find myself in the ‘W’ section in fiction and see old, sunbleached paperback copies of Infinite Jest, and expensive, rare editions of The Broom of The System. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/68687ec2d0c6a17e9a0dfa3a/cb017ac4-f0f2-4be2-acfb-2ddb8eab1198/IMAG2397.jpg Essays - From The Archives: We Used To Vacation - The Twin Peaks Sheriff Station is a real building, but it actually houses the ‘DirtFish Rally Racing School.’ The Double R Diner is a real diner, but it’s called Twede’s, and the staff behind the counter are probably happy for the business but are also maybe weary of tourists filtering through, continually asking for damn good cups of coffee and cherry pie. We’re not allowed to get out for a number of the stops—they are just things we drive past, and so many of the locations are different from how they were presented on television that the tour is kind of anticlimactic. The tour lasts longer than it is supposed to because David, our guide, implies he wants to take the group to lunch at The Roadhouse—it’s not the real Roadhouse, or ‘Bang Bang Bar’ as depicted on the show. No. That bar doesn’t really exist. The Roadhouse, as it stands now, is a restaurant with shitty service on a corner in Fall City; only the exterior of the restaurant was used in the show. There’s nothing on the menu we can eat, so while the rest of the group shovels enormous burgers into their mouths, Wendy and I pick at a plate of french fries and I continually look at my watch. We are all running away from something. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/68687ec2d0c6a17e9a0dfa3a/12b6344c-656a-4b1d-9875-fd6f20fab4fe/IMAG2427.jpg Essays - From The Archives: We Used To Vacation - 15- As sketchy as this whole thing sounds, it’s not like it was just the two of us in a big white van with no windows being driven around by a stranger. We were joined by a family (also from Minnesota, coincidentally) and a guy from Switzerland (who had a Macklemore haircut). 16- I follow a fair number of internet animals (many of them rabbits) on social media. One of them, Darwin, becomes ill while his family is away in Europe. It happens, like, right before we leave for Seattle. He’s fine now; I mean, as fine as he can be. He’s prone to health issues because he is a dwarf rabbit. But this doesn’t sit well with me at all, and I stop short of taking it as a bad omen. https://www.kevinkrein.com/essays/from-the-archives-starship-2000 monthly 0.5 2025-09-04 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/68687ec2d0c6a17e9a0dfa3a/c0794a58-18ff-44a6-88b6-60a33d3bd295/Clowns+in+the+rain%2C+2006.jpg Essays - From The Archives: Starship 2000 - When I revisit this story now, so many years later, people ask why we sat in the rain the whole time. Like, why didn’t we get up and leave, or go inside, or something? I don’t have a great answer—it wasn’t really raining that hard (more like a persistent drizzle) and we were dressed accordingly for the weather from what I can recall. Also, we had no clue the parade was going to be that long. So when people ask why we sat in the rain and watched a three-hour parade, the only thing I can respond with is, “We didn’t know any better? I mean, we were young then.” https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/68687ec2d0c6a17e9a0dfa3a/f30a910b-a8a7-4928-84e1-9bf302b96c60/Doing+it+for+the+culture.png Essays - From The Archives: Starship 2000 - The entire time we’re out in the thick of it, I keep saying that we’re ‘doing it for the culture¹⁰,’ though I am 100% confident that nobody understands what I actually mean by that. The first place we stop is one of the local, small breweries in town—one in particular¹¹ is playing host to what I begin referring to as the ‘bougie beer tent.’ I look at the menu of drinks offered at the outdoors portion of this event, and realize I may have made a huge mistake—there’s nothing I really want to drink being served on tap. “What—if it’s not a peanut butter porter, you’re too good for it?,” my wife chides me as she orders something lighter in color, taste, and texture—“No,” I respond immediately, but I also know that she’s right. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/68687ec2d0c6a17e9a0dfa3a/a470492b-0974-4d6d-8fe5-5aa4b49572e8/Good+morning%2C+losers.png Essays - From The Archives: Starship 2000 - I look up from the Yukon Gold potatoes I am stuffing into a basket—he’s taller than me, maybe in his 50s, wearing jean shorts and flip flops, but also a lot of long chains around his neck, and a heavy leather jacket. As he complains about the size of the garlic heads, I’m taken aback by his accent—a thick, near-satirical New York dialect comes out of his mouth. Like, this is the kind of exaggerated accent you hear in movies. I explain to him that the heads of local garlic are all very small, and he takes a few steps closer to me and tells me that he usually buys two head of garlic, and then, he brings his head down ever so slightly, brings up his palm to his mouth, like he’s about to tell me a secret, and in a lower voice, says, “But I’m, ah….going out of town.” A few moments later, he inquires as to whether we have any arugula. I tell him that we do, showing him where the plastic five-ounce containers of salads are. He grabs a package of arugula, and while placing it in his shopping basket, tells me that his mother used to grow arugula; then, again, lowering his voice and bringing up his palm, says that she grew it, “around the side of the house.” https://www.kevinkrein.com/music-writing daily 0.75 2026-03-29 https://www.kevinkrein.com/music-writing/enough-of-this-body monthly 0.5 2026-03-05 https://www.kevinkrein.com/music-writing/like-i-see-you monthly 0.5 2026-02-22 https://www.kevinkrein.com/music-writing/this-bleak-forever monthly 0.5 2026-01-22 https://www.kevinkrein.com/music-writing/lately-im-not-sure-if-it-really-matters-if-i-make-a-sound-or-on-brinkmanship monthly 0.5 2025-12-31 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/68687ec2d0c6a17e9a0dfa3a/91ad7db1-65eb-417f-b6ca-a5c41788c0c5/FSR85+-+Wrong+Side+Of+Heaven.jpg Music Writing - Lately, I’m Not Sure If It Really Matters If I Make A Sound (or, On Brinkmanship) - And there is a knowing wink. Or smirk. A theatricality. I hesitate to use the word “camp,” but throughout Wrong Side of Heaven, there is this subtle self-awareness. Like the band is playing into certain musically aggressive tropes. And, I mean, it is, from start to finish, an incredibly antagonist listen—but the more you listen, and the more you note these details. These winks. Smirks. This undercurrent of humor. It is an exhilarating album, certainly. But it is also, without question, wildly fun in a way that is surprising. End It are having fun, even as the first few notes of the titular, introductory track, come crashing down—“Awww shit,” Godsey sneers, playfully, and confrontationally, as the noise swells behind him. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/68687ec2d0c6a17e9a0dfa3a/bf7fc3b9-2e15-43d0-915e-8b1871a0add4/%D9%84%D9%8A%D8%B4+%D8%A7%D9%84%D8%AC%D9%86%D8%A9+%D8%A8%D9%8A%D8%AA%D8%A8%D9%84%D8%B4+%D9%81%D9%8A+%D8%A7%D9%84%D8%AC%D9%87%D9%86%D9%85%D8%9F+Why+Does+Paradise+Begin+in+Hell.jpg Music Writing - Lately, I’m Not Sure If It Really Matters If I Make A Sound (or, On Brinkmanship) - Punk music, or hardcore, or their adjacencies, can often be angry. Volatile. It is, I think, and maybe this is a generalization, that the lyrics do not take a backseat exactly, but are also not always the focal point. It is, I think, about a feeling. A vibe. Something to be conjured and sustained until the final, visceral gasp. And there are political, or socioeconomic undercurrents in punk. It can be music that both has a message, and sends a message. Why Does Paradise Begin In Hell does exactly that. There is an antagonism and unrest through every track, and the provocation that occurs here is done so with deliberate intention. Haram’s lead vocalist, Nader Habibi, sings entirely in Arabic—a facet of the band that makes their music all the more uncompromising, and has made it slightly more intimidating to give it analytical consideration with thought and care—the thought and care it deserves. The word “care” maybe seems out of place when talking about something as cacophonic as Why Does Paradise, but tucked in underneath the torrential chugs of the electric guitar and the crashing hits of the snare drum and cymbals, are sharp, observational, and reactive lyrics that don’t just ask to be heard, and understood, but truly demand you take note. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/68687ec2d0c6a17e9a0dfa3a/fb82eb9e-dc63-4b17-a729-2cc12d6f3c49/a3914404539_10.jpg Music Writing - Lately, I’m Not Sure If It Really Matters If I Make A Sound (or, On Brinkmanship) - I think the reason that Tether, well, one of the reasons it works as well as it does, and is as captivating as it is, is because of how it is both “folk/country” and “pop/R&B.” And I think that kind of interest, or desire, to find the space where two genres can co-exist, and overlap, and what happens within the center of that convergence, wouldn’t work in the way that it does here if it were to be attempted by a less capable, or thoughtful, songwriter and singer. You can wear your inspiration, or your influences on your sleeve, but it does require both care, and intelligence, to pull off what Enuke seemingly does with great ease on this collection of songs—sometimes favoring one aesthetic slightly more than the other, but it is utterly remarkable to hear the results when she is operates from a center created by both—a slinky, or seductive environment that leaves room for introspection. The other reason, or the one that should be most apparent from the first second you listen, is Enuke’s voice. The depth, and resonance it has. It is gorgeous. It is haunting. She uses it in such a way, throughout, that simply describing it as “soulful” is not enough. Or does not really convey the power it holds, and how she wields it. Is it all like this. I am often, as a listener, fascinated with the idea of a specific run of songs within the context of an album. Often three songs, sequenced in a row, it is when an album, regardless of what it has been doing prior to this, hits an unquestionable stride. And the thing about Tether, in how it is practically flawless, is that it finds a stride, and maintains it, through seven songs. Across the entire first side, and into the second. And in that stride it hits, the album is structured in such a way that it balances itself on this astounding and fragile tension and release. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/68687ec2d0c6a17e9a0dfa3a/a9488979-b538-47a6-adb6-fc31f273761c/These+Days.jpg Music Writing - Lately, I’m Not Sure If It Really Matters If I Make A Sound (or, On Brinkmanship) - Hines describes herself as a “chronically-sincere farm girl,” growing up where the Midwest meets the south, and this kind of built-in twang, or country and western inspired sound, ripples throughout These Days—often slowly dancing between a kind of warm, soulful groove, and surprisingly stark, or spectral moments of introspection. And it is all like this. The environment that has been created, with thought and care. The world built that we are invited into. These Days, sonically, is a truly lo-fi affair, with the base of every song recorded to cassette—an unforgiving format, simply in terms of the imperfections, but that is part of the album’s charm. And I think part of Hines’ charm as well. Country, but in the city. An album that sounds like it is being brought to us from a different era. A collection of songs smooth, beautiful, and at times devastating in the sorrow they depict. An aloofness that comes with youth—someone already sure of themselves, but understands that there is, of course, more to know in time. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/68687ec2d0c6a17e9a0dfa3a/972b57b6-0667-404b-a93e-d9f19174e7fa/It+Is+Cyclical%2C+Missing+You.png Music Writing - Lately, I’m Not Sure If It Really Matters If I Make A Sound (or, On Brinkmanship) - There is a soaring nature to It’s Cyclical, Missing You. It’s often fragile, gorgeous, and incredibly human in the ways it does ascend, and there is this remarkable thoughtfulness to Talmers’ lyricism. There is such a poeticism to her writing—in some places, it ripples up with an urgency, and there’s a breathlessness to how the song is quickly unfolding, like she simply cannot get all the thoughts out fast enough. “To every sunset, I whisper I love you,” she explains on “Beautiful Place.” “You are the last one of your kind that I will ever see. In this dream, you’re a leaf, and my dear, I’m the scientist studying cycles and trees. And since I want to give you all I never had I will toughen you up, and I’ll watch as you fall to your death. And I’ll visit as you decompose, and you’ll teach me new life, and new breath,” she continues, rushing from this verse, into the song’s chorus. “And knowing that most days I wanna be small as an apple, see, wide as a memory, drawing nearer to thee—where you lead, I will follow you.” https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/68687ec2d0c6a17e9a0dfa3a/0e3906b5-1393-44b9-bebe-53ee3525774c/a3767766266_10.jpg Music Writing - Lately, I’m Not Sure If It Really Matters If I Make A Sound (or, On Brinkmanship) - A song that is “about love,” can be about those things, yes. Sure. But there are other facets to love, and loving someone. Falling out of love. The difficulties of maintaining a connection. The disconnection. Late Great is a collection of songs that are “about love” because it is an album, primarily, about Stevenson’s divorce, which she depicts in an absolutely unflinching way—the moments of disbelief and regret, then the moments of anger and immobilizing sorrow. And there is this line from Stevenson’s song, “Blue Sky, Bad News,” that I’ve carried with me for over four years. This moment, where the music swells just enough. A little rush towards something. She’s good at doing this, in the way her songs are arranged. They walk this line of slight tension, waiting for the moments of release. “Maybe I’ll be better in a year,” she howls as the instruments crash down around her. “Maybe I’ll deserve it then.” This happens throughout Late Great—an album not entirely constructed around the sound of something building until it bursts. But there are these moments, and lines, yes. These instances throughout that do thrill. And that are evocatively written, and the feeling Stevenson conveys seemingly with ease. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/68687ec2d0c6a17e9a0dfa3a/09cdddc7-b09e-4b47-86ff-2106a1be8575/Two+Birds.jpg Music Writing - Lately, I’m Not Sure If It Really Matters If I Make A Sound (or, On Brinkmanship) - I hesitate to say that “Blood,” in its lyricism specifically, is, like the thesis statement for the rest of the album, but there is a boldness to it, in how Sturman and Pruzinsky are willing to depict the frustrations and moments of tension that certainly come from simply knowing someone so well, and working with them so closely in this capacity, writing in these shadowy vignettes that are evocative—“We share the water, I wash your hair,” Pruzinsky quietly sings in the song’s opening line. “When you’re impatient your skin burns red. You grabbed the wrong hand—we were just friends. I overthought it. I dropped your wrist,” which reveals just as much, or as little, as the duo wishes to. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/68687ec2d0c6a17e9a0dfa3a/462ac206-cbd4-485a-b09e-50ab1f0cd5ba/Forever+Is+a+Feeling.jpg Music Writing - Lately, I’m Not Sure If It Really Matters If I Make A Sound (or, On Brinkmanship) - “So bite me on the shoulder,” she commands, in the simmering build-up to the dazzling textures of the infectious chorus. “Pull my hair. And let me touch you where I want to—there, there, there, there.” Writing about sex in contemporary popular music is nothing new. I suppose, though, it is not something that Dacus writes about often, and in the past, when it has found its way into her lyricism, it has been as a little bit of an aside, or done partially in jest. But here, she approaches it not with a seriousness, but it is meant to be taken seriously. Or understood. That desire is something we feel, and we surrender to. “Pull me by the ankles to the edge of the bed and take me like you do in your dreams,” she exclaims, sharing this personal detail with a tactful kind of sensuality that manages to walk a line between coyness and eroticism. “I’m not gonna stop you. I’m not gonna stop you this time, baby.” https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/68687ec2d0c6a17e9a0dfa3a/bde1dbe4-34dc-4079-b2dc-e02fdb12a6e1/Screenshot+2025-12-24+at+10.18.32+AM.png Music Writing - Lately, I’m Not Sure If It Really Matters If I Make A Sound (or, On Brinkmanship) - And this is, perhaps, a bit of a crass description, and I do wish that there were a better or more articulate word to use—throughout Princess of Power, Diamandis works from a convergence of feeling both extremely lonely, and extraordinarily horny. “I wanna swim topless in the ocean,” she exclaims on the jubilant, rollicking “Rollercoaster. “Have sex on the sand, on the grass, in the garden,” she continues, before refusing to mince her words. “Spread me like a picnic on the floor in the forest.” Later, on the moody, lusty “Metallic Stallion,” she coos, “My metallic stallion races off but I chase him fast ‘till I get on top—‘till his reins come off.” Diamandis wants to fuck. Perhaps as a means of escaping her loneliness even briefly. Or, perhaps it is a way to take ownership of her sexuality, and her identity. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/68687ec2d0c6a17e9a0dfa3a/0ae54cca-b784-4b1c-8b61-1d4e32177358/a3114023315_10.jpg Music Writing - Lately, I’m Not Sure If It Really Matters If I Make A Sound (or, On Brinkmanship) - The word “cinematic” is used twice in the short biography about Vega Trails, and about Sierra Tracks, on the project’s website. And, I mean. Yes. That is the nature of a bulk of this album and how it sounds. And yes, there are only so many words that convey a specific enormity of sound. And it is not that I am less concerned with that. Because the size of Sierra Tracks, or its ambition, I guess, as a whole, does play a large role in how it sounds, and how it feels to listen to or sit with. I think what compels me is to take note of the places, or of the ways, that Fitzpatrick and Smart have shifted away from the restraint they worked from within on their debut, Tremors in The Static. There was this haunted, cavernous feeling to Tremors. Even in how dexterous the compositions were, there was a claustrophobia to it. And in this sense, the quiet or the tension that simmered within, it operated within this space that bridged jazz, or “chamber jazz,” or “modern classical,” with ambient music. https://www.kevinkrein.com/music-writing/youre-so-sickim-so-sick-of-me-too monthly 0.5 2025-12-24 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/68687ec2d0c6a17e9a0dfa3a/fd91b61d-41f6-4833-918d-a2f5f0ed5611/Nobody_s+Baby+-+Single.jpg Music Writing - You’re So Sick—I’m So Sick of Me Too And it isn’t really a part of the internet’s colloquial lexicon anymore. Not as it was a number of years ago. And, I mean, I suppose then that I do not really think about it as often as I once did, a number of years ago. But there was a time, and maybe you remember this, but people would respond to something by saying they felt “seen and attacked” by it. It’s supposed to be funny. A self-effacing kind of reaction. I don’t know if there’s any humor left to be found in it, now. Maybe there never was, in the first place. What I am getting at though is there was a point when, in writing about music—I think, definitely, the point where I had been doing it for around six years, and was slowly moving away from being more casual, or conversational, and growing, or inching towards, being more thoughtful and articulate. Or literate. There was this point, though, in writing about contemporary popular music, in writing myself into my analysis as a character, I found I was regularly stating I had felt seen and attacked by specific songs. And what I meant by that was it was a song that, in its lyricism, it showed me an unflattering reflection of myself, and asked me to confront something ugly, or unsavory, that I often did not wish to. It was a song that hurt my feelings. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/68687ec2d0c6a17e9a0dfa3a/16af9c78-2a6f-4590-8131-2fd95a5ccbc3/a0610284893_10.jpg Music Writing - You’re So Sick—I’m So Sick of Me Too “Big Deal,” in a sense, operates from a place of tension. Or uncertainty. A kind of nervousness. Not exactly the instance of realization—just a little beyond that. A moment when something difficult, but something beautiful, and full of potential, is understood and acknowledged with a the delicacy it demands. Musically, “Big Deal” moves not slowly, but with intentionality, like a dream. Or through a haze. I suppose that’s fitting, given the kind of dreamlike way Dacus’ narrative unfolds in her writing here. It is a gentle song. And, I mean, a large portion of Forever is A Feeling is gentle, or soft. But “Big Deal” is amongst its softest. There isn’t a tension, really. Just a little drama in the uncertainty as Dacus wanders through all of her feelings, within this specific moment. And there are places where it could ascend, or soar, and it does. In a subtle way. Just the slightest lift, as a means of emphasis. There is soothing, atmospheric undercurrent that ripples quietly underneath “Big Deal,” and the song is pushed forward, primarily, through the casual strums of the acoustic guitar, and the brushed, shuffling percussion, with the tone itself only shifting, really, with the addition of a rumbling bass line and keyboard noodling in the moments leading up to the chorus, and then the chorus itself—the repeating of the titular phrase, like a mantra, or a prayer for salvation—creating a space for the emotions to swoon, and swell. Just enough of a swirling buildup of texture, and never really getting away from Dacus, who quickly pulls it back in. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/68687ec2d0c6a17e9a0dfa3a/17695f17-21b0-493b-841d-8b2034dd09c3/207509-lady-gaga-mayhem.jpg Music Writing - You’re So Sick—I’m So Sick of Me Too The more I sit down with pop music, and the more conversations I have, in passing, about pop music, and analytical writing, with my best friend, the more I am asked to remember that not everything—not every song, is one that is intended for a kind of in-depth dissection. Not every song is written with lyrics that are meant to be combed through for a larger, or more personal meaning. There are songs that are “vibe-based,” or really hinge themselves almost entirely on a feeling. This is not to say that pop music cannot be listened to analytically. It is just something that, more often than not, wishes to have fun. As the listener, we are encouraged to have fun along with it. Something that I perhaps do too often in writing about music is reference the idea of “The Kingdom of Desire.” A narrative device in which songs can exist. A means of telling a story, but only bringing us, as listeners, up to a certain point. The moment just before something happens. Want, leading to more want. I tell you all of that to tell you this. “How Bad Do U Want Me” exists firmly within the confines of the Kingdom of Desire—enormous, dazzling, and honestly unsettling in the kind of visceral desperation it depicts in its lyrics, it is a song that, the further we are pulled, it is clear that it is on the cusp of breaking out of the confines, in the effort to get exactly what it wants, at really any cost. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/68687ec2d0c6a17e9a0dfa3a/9fa7de96-7f0d-43a6-85ed-a25864ff4b42/Official_single_cover_of__Back_to_Friends__by_Sombr.jpg Music Writing - You’re So Sick—I’m So Sick of Me Too And there is a lot, musically, that happens, within the first few moments of the song—the song itself is rather surprising in just how unrelenting and efficient, or lean, it is, with Boose arriving at the first chorus less than 45 seconds into its three-minute-and-change running time. And I think, more than anything, “Back to Friends,” despite just how inherently toxic its lyrics are—a kind of “woe is me” masculinity that is nearly impossible for me to be tolerant of, and despite how polarizing or obnoxious of a figure, or persona, Boose might be, the thing about this song is that I can understand, and appreciate, how well assembled of a piece of pop music it is. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/68687ec2d0c6a17e9a0dfa3a/723862d0-7575-4d4f-a893-96b7a33f4504/artworks-PVhSYq7MfLiu-0-t500x500.jpg Music Writing - You’re So Sick—I’m So Sick of Me Too I think about the way silence is, and can be, used as an instrument. You don’t play the silence. But, you play with it. You find the ways to weave it into the fabric of the song. I think about the kind of thoughtfulness, and the intelligence that is necessary to not only work with it, but to work with it in a way that creates the lasting, or resonant effect that you wish for it to have. The first thing that you hear Annahstasia Enuke say on “Be Kind,” the absolutely jaw-dropping opening track to her debut full-length, Tether, is “There’s a pile of CDs in the corner over there.” And that line, alone, and the simple but suggestive imagery it holds, is of course quite vivid. But it is how she says it. The way she controls her voice, showing a kind of restraint within the first few seconds of the song that is undeniably impressive. The way she can hold a note—extending it out, at least in this instance, much further than you think it may need to go. And the way she can play with silence. Or the idea of space. The way it hangs, midair, between two points, or notes. And then what forms within that distance. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/68687ec2d0c6a17e9a0dfa3a/b10a1286-e006-451a-acb0-6e53eb4d50a8/0.jpg Music Writing - You’re So Sick—I’m So Sick of Me Too One thing about me is I genuinely adore a charming and wholesome origin story, or beginning of something—like a creative partnership. Founded as a friendship project between college roommates and best friends Ceci Sturman and Hannah Pruzinsky, Sister. has organically evolved into a trio, now including multi-instrumentalist James Chrisman. Though even with the involvement of additional personnel in the group, Pruzinsky and Sturman, who share both songwriting and vocal duties, continue to explore the dynamic they have as closely connected individuals within their writing. And in that exploration, there is, of course, that balance. Or that intersection. How close is too close. Is it ever close enough. As it unfolds with intention across nearly six minutes, another songwriting technique, or device, that I find genuinely interesting or compelling that occurs within “Blood in The Vines” is the way the group continues to find, with ease, the tonal shifts in the song as it propels itself forward. It seems a little out of place, or perhaps simply just not the right descriptor, to refer to the song as being “seductive,” but there is a kind of unsettling seduction that we experience as listeners. The song itself, as it opens, and gathers itself, is a little playful in how it bounces along—there it isn’t jubilant by any means, but it slinks along in a way that does not only ask you to move your body in time with it, but actually demands you surrender yourself without question to the pulsating beckons of the rhythm—the shuffling percussive elements that never overpower, and the wet sounding reverberating plunks of the electric guitar strings. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/68687ec2d0c6a17e9a0dfa3a/35fe47ce-b56e-49bc-9893-e29a1a5d7c48/Screenshot+2025-12-06+at+9.44.01+PM.png Music Writing - You’re So Sick—I’m So Sick of Me Too Because of that homage, and this feeling, there is a kind of familiarity to “Crybaby,” as it begins, and collects itself. Familiar, and also very solemn, or mournful—opening with a thick, rumbling bass line, as the quivering tones of an electric piano shift, serving as an underscore for the bass, as well as the melancholic notes plucked out on the strings of an electric guitar. And musically, as a few more elements are introduced, including the crisp taps of the hi-hat cymbal and pinging of the snare drum, and some more flourishes on a higher pitched, funk adjacent keyboard, the song remains relatively steady, or at least Rowe never really allows it to get away from her, even as it swells as a means of punctuating her vocal performance in the chorus—it is a song that, in continuing to slow churn and shuffle away, creates a robust and complimentary atmosphere for Rowe to walk through her laments, and reflections, in real time. “Maybe, if that attitude took a backseat, Miss Know-It All, you’d find a man,” Rowe begins, chastising herself, before adding a few lines later, “Maybe, if I stopped blaming the world for my faults, I could evolve. Maybe the pressure just made me too soft.” Something that I am still finding a way to appreciate, and acknowledge, is that there is a difference between a song that asks for its lyrics to be dissected or analyzed, and a song that is, as a whole, working towards creating a vibe, where specific elements are not more important than others. “Crybaby,” then, seemingly walks a very thin line between those two—there is thought to Rowe’s lyricism. It is honest, and as she often is, unflinching in how she addresses herself. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/68687ec2d0c6a17e9a0dfa3a/df3c70d7-6a10-4736-a491-7b181e364654/a3114023315_10.jpg Music Writing - You’re So Sick—I’m So Sick of Me Too In writing about music, and in thinking about music analytically, and personally, I spend a lot of time giving consideration to a song’s lyrics, or what kind of writer the artist in question is—how those words are delivered within the song, yes, but what they could mean, or how we could take them of ourselves into the world that exists outside of the song. I tell you all of that to tell you this—I spend a lot of time writing about things within contemporary popular music that are “evocative.” It’s a word I am aware that, for well over six years, I have used more than I should. And in writing about something that is entirely instrumental, as a means of description, going into detail about the feeling, the mood that the song creates—what it evokes—is by no means all you have to work with, but a lot is hinging on the kind of experience or atmosphere that is conjured. I hesitate to describe the project Vega Trails as experimental in its nature, because depending on how experimental something is, it can keep a listener at an arm’s length. If anything, I would say Vega Trails is rather daring in how it ultimately is the result of what occurs in the center of a convergence between music that is ambient in nature and sensibility, and contemporary or modern jazz. Originally founded as a duo with double-bassist Milo Fitzpatrick and saxophonist Jordan Smart, the project has expanded since its 2022 debut, Tremors In The Static, to now include much more additional and often lush instrumentation in the form of sweeping swing arraignments, bursts of percussion, piano and vibraphone, all of which play roles in the stunning opening track, “Largo,” from the group’s second full-length, Sierra Tracks. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/68687ec2d0c6a17e9a0dfa3a/dc7fc85c-c771-469a-af0f-86bb6874c13a/91h3sGiibzL._UF1000%2C1000_QL80_.jpg Music Writing - You’re So Sick—I’m So Sick of Me Too Their collaborative full-length, Revelation, is not the first time the electronic production duo James Patterson and Ben Ruttner have worked with vocalist Martina Sorbara—the three of them had collaborated in 2019, on the track “Slow Song,” and long before that, Ruttner and Patterson, as The Knocks, had provided tour support to the group Sorbara fronted at the time, Dragonette—the name she still performs under now as a solo endeavor. The album, when taken as a whole, is intended to exist within a larger, more immersive and higher concept world including 1980s-inspired visuals—which, while admirable in how they complement the shimmering textures and homage to very era-specific pop music, they are not entirely necessary to enjoying songs from it on their own, out of this more insular context. “Love Me Alive” is not a breakup song, exactly—or maybe it isn’t a breakup song in the way you think of one, when you hear that description. Set against a slick, glistening, post-disco aesthetic with what is quite a rather relentless nature to how its pacing and rhythm are structured, the song becomes an anthem of sorts—one that is held back slightly by restraint, as Sorbara, as the protagonist, explores the exhalation of relief that comes in a moment of freedom, while still wishing to run towards something, or rather, someone else. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/68687ec2d0c6a17e9a0dfa3a/b42e0d53-351c-4b30-85bc-7183750623c6/Screenshot+2025-12-06+at+9.48.49+PM.png Music Writing - You’re So Sick—I’m So Sick of Me Too In intentionally taking her time with a follow-up to Midwest Princess, Amstutz released two new singles in 2025—the first, arriving in the spring, was the campy and lusty country and western tinged “The Giver,” which she had performed during her appearance on Saturday Night Live. The second, released during the summer, was the dreamy, yearning mid-tempo ballad, “The Subway,” which had found its way into her live set last year. There are a number of things that as Chappell Roan—the character, or persona, that Amstutz does well. She can be funny, and campy—you can hear that throughout Midwest Princess, and those aesthetics often intersect with a lustiness, which is sometimes very playful, and other times, very frank. She can create songs that are high-energy or extremely enthusiastic. But she knows how to smolder—and even within that kind of an aesthetic, there are so many different ways the song can be taken. The slow burn of a true, tender, ballad like “Coffee,” is not the same as the confused, sexually charged yearning, simmering of “Casual.” And neither of those are the same as the visceral heartbreak strung across the tension and ultimate catharsis of “Good Luck, Babe.” Leaning into a dreamier, swooning arrangement, which, whether it was intentional or not, is extremely reminiscent of the Cocteau Twins’ classic “Heaven of Las Vegas,” “The Subway” never ceases in how it swirls like a snow globe, glistening in slow motion as Amstutz tries to outrun the perpetual reminders of a former lover. Co-written and produced with her regular collaborator Dan Nigro, who is credited with contributing bass, guitar, and synthesizers to the track, he and Amstutz know exactly what they are doing in terms of structuring a song around the tension and release that comes from pulling things back for the verses, but letting the song ascend as it needs to for the chorus—then soaring even higher, and with much more intensity, within its second half. https://www.kevinkrein.com/music-writing/a-warning-sign-when-you-see-it monthly 0.5 2025-12-11 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/68687ec2d0c6a17e9a0dfa3a/6f445844-98b0-4a71-b47c-cdf57a6dff4e/IMG_9450.jpg Music Writing - A Warning Sign, When You See It - I, again, tell you all of that to tell you this. Following the release of No Glory, in the spring of 2024, Hannah Pruzinksy has remained both extremely busy and creative. Outside of recording and releasing Two Birds with their band Sister., founded with their best friend and longtime roommate Ceci Sturman, Pruzinsky has put together a wildly ambitious follow-up to No Glory—Red Sky at Morning. Released alongside an imaginative and interactive companion piece—an originally conceived role-playing game that also serves as a lyric book for the album, Red Sky finds Pruzinsky continuing to grow, and easing into an impressive and very noticeable kind of musical confidence. There was a looseness, or a ramshackle kind of nature to how much of No Glory sounded, or was arranged. And Red Sky at Morning is not, like, slick, or overworked by any means. It is still a very organic and often intimate affair in how it sounds. But, there is a tightness, and a trust, you can hear woven into this collection of songs. This is, I think, because of the collective Pruzinsky worked with to record the album—primarily collaborating with their partner, multi-instrumentalist Felix Walworth, who is a member of the beloved indie folk outfit Florist. His Florist bandmates, Jonnie Baker and Emily Sprague, are also credited with myriad contributions, as are the members of Sister.—Sturman provides vocals on one track, and the third member of the group, James Chrisman, provides piano and electric guitar throughout. Both Red Sky at Morning, and No Glory, are albums that have a through line, or a larger idea, or notion, that runs throughout. No Glory was written as a response to a number of big life changes Pruzinsky was experiencing—there is a kind of sorrow, and a palpable kind of want, or desire, that ripples within those songs. A kind of fumbling, and grasping for something larger within the hush, and the quiet. And even in the ambiguity of the songwriting or the kind of shadowy nature of how the songs themselves ultimately unfolded, Pruzinsky was not, and is not, one to shy away from being reflective or personal in their writing. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/68687ec2d0c6a17e9a0dfa3a/037cc3f2-508c-49d2-b563-3d12f7d319bc/IMG_9451.jpg Music Writing - A Warning Sign, When You See It - The story itself is deliberate in how it unfolds, and throughout, there are prompts, or moments where you must answer questions, or make decisions, to keep the story moving. “What is easiest for you to let slip away,” Pruzinsky asks of us, early in the game’s narrative. “Were you always aching? What is missing?” There is a kind of “Choose Your Own Adventure” adjacent element to A Sailor’s Warning the further along into the story you get—and it is a fascinating, and unabashedly honest exercise. And I think in mirroring the album it is intended to accompany, there is a boldness and a fearlessness that is found in A Sailor’s Warning. It does require a specific kind of confidence, or belief, or bravery, to open yourself up, and to share yourself creatively. And I think it does continue to require that confidence or belief to, in wishing to share yourself creatively, to continue pushing—to make the ask, of yourself, to try; and to make the ask, of your audience, to come with you, and believe that they will understand. What A Sailor’s Warning asks of you, or wishes you to give consideration to, can be surprising in places—“The wound of loss is an unseen mark, one we cannot see, but that is always felt,” it states within its final pages. “What is in the half that is lost?” “Can a person be home?,” it asks just a few pages later. https://www.kevinkrein.com/music-writing/2doyabyahyhlwl91jp42djczsxle67 monthly 0.5 2025-11-27 https://www.kevinkrein.com/music-writing/a-darkness-right-before monthly 0.5 2025-10-05 https://www.kevinkrein.com/music-writing/hold-me-as-i monthly 0.5 2025-09-21 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/68687ec2d0c6a17e9a0dfa3a/b01061e5-52f1-444a-acb8-04e90b84ffbc/IMG_5329.jpg Music Writing - Hold Me As I - We continue to grow, hopefully, as listeners. In how we think. In what we believe. Sometimes the music from our lives. Other times, it does not. And we cannot take it with us. This is something that I am always thinking about. I’m pretty sure I had put this together a while ago, even before I really sat down to think about Twilight, As Played By The Twilight Singers, analytically, but on the back cover of the CD’s liner notes, there are two photos—one features Greg Dulli, Harold Chichester, and Shawn Smith. The word “Genesis” is written underneath it. The other is Dulli sitting between Steve Cobby and David McSherry. It is labeled “Exodus.” I am, of course, probably reading entirely too much into this, but the photos, both of them, presented this way, seem representative of someone torn between two different things, or ideas. Perhaps uncertain what to do with either of them. But also gripping tightly to both, hoping it works. https://www.kevinkrein.com/music-writing/fireworks-on-tv monthly 0.5 2025-08-21 https://www.kevinkrein.com/music-writing/blog-post-title-one-s4emg monthly 0.5 2025-08-03 https://www.kevinkrein.com/home daily 1.0 2026-03-30 https://www.kevinkrein.com/about daily 0.75 2025-07-19 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/68687ec2d0c6a17e9a0dfa3a/ba3bc52d-3aca-4c5d-a41e-e1f25162768c/20250427_175811.jpg https://www.kevinkrein.com/contact daily 0.75 2025-07-19 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/68687ec2d0c6a17e9a0dfa3a/b5bbfc5c-2270-4e3b-82ab-3e8fe5c7773e/IMG_7306.JPG https://www.kevinkrein.com/podcasts daily 0.75 2025-07-22 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/68687ec2d0c6a17e9a0dfa3a/e72471e3-b02a-43a8-b06b-1502d9b111b4/20231001_133111.jpg https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/68687ec2d0c6a17e9a0dfa3a/848dd184-a797-4a9b-8a33-55f7bfaf12c9/IMG_0473+2.jpg