Flying Dog

Sure, Saturday night’s Summer Sessions concert series installment at Flying Dog Brewery is sold out. But hey: When that show features the always-energetic, ageless and fabulously pumped-up Matt and Kim, we feel it incumbent upon us to at least reach out for at least a few before such an experience comes to town. So, well, we did. Behold five questions with Kim Schifino, the drummer half of the duo, who told us a little about her ACL injury, being in a two-piece band and what kind of beer her and Matt like to drink these days.

I read that you had an ACL injury in the past couple years — how has it been touring again? Are there any issues you’re having with performing?

It feels great to be touring again. That year off was horrible. It felt like we were retired and we hated that feeling. We love playing so it was important to me to go hard in rehab so I was strong when we got back on the stage. I still have half a year till I am 100 percent but Matt thinks I go even harder on stage now.

Who are the three artists we can almost always expect to find on your current playlists and why?

Always TI and Meek Mill. I actually have a pre-show warmup I add to every week on Spotify called “Kim’s pre-show warm up.” It’s what I use to get hyped for a show or just going out!

Do you think it’s easier or harder to be in a two-piece band, and why?

I don’t know any other way. This is the only band I’ve ever been in. It works out really well for us so I would never want to change that.

That in mind, what were some of the biggest inspirations behind your band, putting it together style-wise and also the decision to keep it only between the two of you?

We accidentally started the band. I wanted to learn how to play the drums and Matt had this keyboard he was figuring out. A friend of ours forced us to play a show. We didn’t have a band name so they put us down as Matt and Kim. It all just kind of happened. Matt and I see eye to eye on almost everything, so when working on music, it just comes naturally. We like the same stuff which works when writing because we hardly hate what the other writes.

Finally, you guys are playing Flying Dog. If Flying Dog isn’t your favorite brand of beer, what is, and do you have a specific beer that you like the most?

I drink Budweiser. Matt is more flexible and will drink whatever, but right now he is on a tequila kick!

When it comes to work, Dan Deacon is as restless as the pulsating electronic beats on “Gliss Riffer,” his most recent solo album. The Baltimore-based producer is in the middle of finishing a new record (“Gliss Riffer” dropped in 2015) while simultaneously scoring a feature film. In the past year, he released “Rat Film” — the soundtrack to an indie documentary of the same name — produced an album for Ed Schrader’s Music Beat, and scored yet another documentary, “Time Trial,” a deep look at the decline of pro cycler David Millar.

Deacon’s bringing his experimental sound to Flying Dog Brewery on Saturday for the 2018 Summer Sessions concert series. He called before the show to chat about music, work, and “Rat Film,” a look at how institutional racism has shaped the way Baltimore looks today.

I wanted to start with “Gliss Riffer” because a lot of people said it was one of your most accessible albums yet. Then you turned around and made the soundtrack for “Rat Film,” which is a completely different sound. What was that like for you as a musician — did you have to switch to a completely different mindset?

Deacon: Well, with a soundtrack, it’s almost like a parallel career, kind of. The music has to fit the film more than it does my current trajectory. And I think that’s why I like working on them so much. I can experiment and try other things out. Like, if “Gliss Riffer” didn’t come out and “Rat Film” was the next record, and it wasn’t attached to a film, I think it would have bewildered people. You know what I mean? But in the context of the film, it helps complete the story.

How did you get involved with “Rat Film?”

Deacon: I’ve known Theo [Anthony], the director, for a few years around town in Baltimore. And we had talked about working together on a project, and then this film came up. It started out as a short, and then Theo started seeing all the places it could go and expanded it into a feature. And my role continued to expand into scoring it.

And why did it appeal to you?

Deacon: I liked how it progressed. Like, when we first started, he wanted to make a performance where somehow rats were controlling the environment, controlling the performance. So, he asked me if I could come up with a way where I could make music with rats. And we sort of built it from there.

How did you do that?

Deacon: We built this enclosure, like a large Plexiglass enclosure that had three theremins, one in each corner. A theremin is an electronic instrument that creates different sounds based upon proximity, how close you get to it. So, as the rats ran around this enclosure, they created different pitches and harmonies and textures.

Obviously, “Rat Film” addresses a lot of economic and social issues that Baltimore is still facing. And I was wondering, after 14 years in the city, are those issues something you’ve noticed and picked up on?

Deacon: Oh, 100 percent. I mean, it’s definitely still a very segregated city. There’s corruption, and the systematic, institutional racism is rampant. I feel like Baltimore is a microcosm of the United States in many ways, and you definitely feel it when you live here.

Well, you’ve done a whole album, “America,” that was inspired by your thoughts while traveling across the United States. Did some of those same social issues inspire that record?

Deacon: Well, with “America,” it was more about who I was as an American. Like, realizing that I am American and that I am part of a problem. This was, like, seven years ago now, and when I think about when I was in that mindset, I just kept thinking about how the goal of the political establishment is to make people feel powerless. That their problems are so large they can’t be fixed. And they want people to be apathetic to it.

But, I mean, culture has drastically changed. People are much more politically motivated and outspoken, and artists talk about it. Like, if you go back and read the reviews of America coming out in 2012, people were not into the idea of there being a pop record, an electronic record, that had political overtones and undertones to it. And that seems like 1,000 years ago when you look at today, where if artists aren’t political and don’t include their viewpoints, they’re almost called out for it. At the time, I think I was trying to look at a situation and not think of myself as external to it. Like, I exist in this system and I benefit from some things that I find to be repulsive. So, the only way I can make peace with that is if I try to actively change that system.

How has your current trajectory as an artist evolved since then?

Deacon: Well, that’s a good question. I’m very interested in scoring film. I’m in the middle of scoring another film now. Simultaneously, while finishing up my next record. And I worked with the New York City Ballet recently and that was really fun. I’d love to work on more stage productions and dance productions. It’s just fun to write a wide variety of music. For a few years, I was writing almost exclusively pop music, and then every once in a while, between albums, I would write some experimental music for a standalone performance, like with the Kronos Quartet. But none of that ever got recorded or documented. They’re just very ephemeral, momentary pieces, if that makes any sense. So, with these scores, it allows that [experimental] side of me to expand. And I think because of it, I can dive a little harder into the pop music aspect for my regular albums. Because I’m releasing more esoteric music on the side.

It’s interesting to me to hear you describe your albums as pop. Because I think if people pictured “pop music” and then heard one of your records, they would have visualized something entirely different. It wouldn’t be the same definition.

Deacon: Oh, sure. No, you’re 100 percent right. I mean, speaking in the broadest of terms, I just don’t know how else to describe my music. Some of [my records] have legitimate experiments involved. So, I guess they’d be experimental. But I would say that they would still be in the sphere of pop music. Like, if I were to go to a record store and I saw “Gliss Riffer” in the experimental section, I would think they had a limited experimental section, you know what I mean? There’s music being made that’s just, like, balloon sounds and different chemical reactions and transpositions of radio waves in space. My music is predominantly in a pulse you can dance to and has melodies you can sing along to. That’s the root of pop music. So, I think that’s why I would call “Gliss Riffer” a pop record and “Rat Film” more of a experimental-leaning record.

When you first set out to become a musician, did you envision yourself making some type of pop music? Is that what you set out to do?

Deacon: Kind of. I started making music like this in college, I guess. I toured mostly house shows, and house shows are basically parties where a band plays. And when I was in college, the noise scene was very popular, so there were a lot of just harsh noise acts. Like, no beat, no melody. I really liked being in juxtaposition to that — getting up there and playing songs on a Casio keyboard and trying to get people to dance. But what I actually went to school for was the more experimental composition. So, I did always have that inside of me. But it was much harder to tour that around the country because it takes, like, an orchestra or a string quartet. And I didn’t have any money.

But you have done some pretty high-profile collaborations, right? I read that one of your earlier scores was actually for Francis Ford Coppola.

Deacon: Oh, sure. That was back around 2010 and Francis heard me doing an interview on — I can’t remember which show. I think it was one of the national NPR shows. And I was talking about how music has the benefit of existing as a finalized document that’s set in stone. But then, you can also perform it night after night and the live version is so different from the recorded version. There’s not even a definitive comparison; they’re just completely different things. Or, like, with theatre, you have the written script, but it’s performed differently every single time. But with film, all it is, is the final edit. And once that’s set, it’s set, unless you George Lucas it to death or something.

I guess that created a spark in Francis and he wanted to get together and talk about breaking a breathing, editable, malleable cinema. He sort of picked my brain on that concept, and we started working together. It never really came to fruition with our initial concepts, but it was insane to work with him. He’s definitely one of the great artists of the 20th century and worked in film in what was — in my opinion — one of its heydays. Largely thanks to his vision. So, it was insane. When he emailed me and flew me out to his compound, I was like, ‘Is this an elaborate kidnapping scheme? Like, what the hell is this? Why am I going to meet Francis Ford Coppola?’

And you said the initial concept didn’t really come to fruition, but you did end up scoring his film “Twixt,” didn’t you?

Deacon: I did, yeah. But there was initially a whole live aspect to it. It was going to be a tour where he would edit the film live and I would edit the music live and we would change it from night to night, depending on the audience. That part we never did together.

Have you scored any other films recently?

Deacon: I did. I scored a feature called “Time Trial,” which is in theaters now in the UK and toured the whole festival circuit last year. It’s by a Scottish director, Finlay Pretsell. I guess the other thing I did, now that I’m remembering, is I produced a record by the band Ed Schrader’s Music Beat. I had never produced another band before, so that took an insane amount of time, just writing all the songs together from scratch and sending everything back and forth. But it was a really fun project. I definitely learned a lot and they’re two of my closest friends and I’m really happy with how the record came out.

You’ve had this kind of varied and esoteric career, so I was wondering if there’s ever pressure on you to produce music that’s more mass-market or broadly appealing?

Deacon: I luckily don’t feel any pressure like that. I exist in a weird little pocket and I like living there. I don’t feel any pressure to do anything but follow the river, you know what I mean? I really like where my musical trajectory has brought me and how accepting my fan base is to all the choices and experiments I make. To try to have more mass appeal — I feel like if I tried it, it would be a weird, forced thing. And if it came naturally, it would come naturally.

On the other hand, do you feel like your work is starting to reach a broader audience? Because at this point, you’ve toured with Arcade Fire on their Reflektor tour and Miley Cyrus asked you to join her Dead Petz tour.

Deacon: I don’t know. I kind of feel like that was Miley and the Flaming Lips being like, ‘Let’s see what’s the weirdest thing we could do.’ But yeah, after that tour and the Arcade Fire tour, there are certainly experiences that I didn’t think I’d ever have as a musician and I’m really grateful for both of them taking me on the road. But, I don’t know. I try not to think about it so much. I’m just happy anyone comes to see me. Like, I’m psyched.

Did touring with Miley Cyrus make you wish you had that kind of reach, where your albums are selling millions and millions of copies? Or did it make you grateful that you occupy the niche that you occupy?

Deacon: I don’t think it made me want either. Like I said, I’m happy just to be able to make music. That’s how I define myself and how I provide for myself and my family. I’m very grateful for that. I don’t know what it would be like to sell millions and millions of records. And I guess if I sold millions of records, something crazy would have to happen to the entire world. Like, it’s a pretty weird music for it to all of a sudden be on the radio on a mass level. There would have to be this massive cultural shift. So, I’d be more confused than anything else. But I would gladly welcome it (laughs).

When I call Langhorne Slim, he’s driving down a rural road in Iowa, trying to make it to his next gig. The 37-year-old singer-songwriter (real name: Sean Scolnick) has been touring the country to promote his latest album, “Lost at Last, Vol. 1,” a melodic paean to disconnecting from superficial pleasures and reconnecting with yourself.

Slim is bringing his particular brand of folksy Americana to Flying Dog on Sunday for the Summer Sessions outdoor concert series. Before the show, we discussed his stage name, hometown, and his experiences with sobriety and mental illness.

To start, tell me about the name Langhorne Slim. Where does that come from?

Slim: I’ve used Langhorne as sort of a nickname/stage name as long as I’ve been Sean. When I was starting to play music, I took that name as a nod to a lot of the old blues music guys I was listening to at the time. Where a guy or gal would often take the place they were from and tack it onto Slim, or something like that. And Langhorne is the name of the town I’m from in Pennsylvania.

Tell me about Langhorne. What was it like growing up there?

Slim: Well, it’s a small town outside Philadelphia. It was, for me, a place where I felt a bit like an outsider. I looked forward to getting out when I was a kid. I didn’t have music quite yet in my life, but I had a deep feeling that I wanted to get out.

Now my mother and my grandmother live there and I go back and I love the place. Growing up there, it had some cool things as far as being a small town with a bunch of kids on the same street. My best friend to this day, we grew up on the same street. But, as far as feeling completely at home — I felt like I didn’t find home until I started playing music and traveling with it.

That’s interesting to hear, because I was going to ask if growing up in such a small town inspired your music at all.

Slim: I would imagine that there’s a sense of boredom, perhaps a sense of alienation, that inspires one, as a kid, to seek out books or guitars or whatever it is that moves you. I know for sure that I asked my mother to fix up this old, broken guitar that sat in the corner for a few years, and it changed my life.

Who knows what it would have been like if I grew up in a big city. But maybe having time to myself and some of those feelings [of boredom] drove me to rock and roll. And using it to release some of what I was feeling, which at that time, was getting me into some trouble.

Do you remember how you got into trouble?

Slim: I remember in elementary school, I was kicked out of normal class and put into a class called ‘learning disabled.’ And to even think there’s a class called ‘learning disabled’ blows my mind and breaks my heart. And then, I had read somewhere that on a multiple-choice type test, if you circle a bunch of “Cs,” you can achieve a very high score. And I thought that sounded like some kind of B.S., but I did that, and through pure cosmic luck, I wound up scoring the best score in the county.

So, they took me out of learning disabled and put me into another class called ‘mentally gifted.’ Equally as troubling a title, in my opinion. And then later they took me out of that class and they said, ‘You don’t belong here, either.’ And I said to them, ‘I think that y’all are crazy. We’re all learning disabled and mentally gifted and you guys should get your s— together.’ And they didn’t find that to be wise or charming and I think called my mother and asked her to pick me up and take me home.

And you were even asked to leave school at one point, right? Why did that happen?

Slim: You’ll have to ask them. I think that they thought I was insubordinate. I learned that word because one of the disciplinarians called me that. My mother came and picked me up and she told them, ‘If you’re going to call my kid something, at least teach him the definition of the word first.’

I think I’ve always had a bit of a rebellious streak that I’m not ashamed of. I think that it was me speaking up to the authority figures, the teachers and principals, and telling them my thoughts on things that weren’t appreciated. I think that’s how a lot of artists are born and made. They don’t fit that mold exactly, and it creates some feelings at a young age of — not to be overly dramatic, but of despair or a little bit of alienation, a little bit of anger. And so, if you’re good at drawing pictures, you start drawing pictures. If you’re good at cooking, you start chopping an onion. If you love rock and roll, you learn Nirvana. And that’s what I did.

Is that how you got into music? Nirvana and a broken-down guitar?

Slim: I think music got into me before I ever learned how to strum a guitar or play a chord. My grandma, she used to listen to Barbra Streisand and she would just start bawling. She would turn to me and say, ‘I hope someday music can touch you in such a way that you feel emotional.’ And I look back on that as very significant, her telling that to a young boy. That’s a lesson in vulnerability, or sensitivity, being a strength as opposed to a weakness.

I think my response to my grandmother at the time was, ‘Music already does that to me but it’s not necessarily this kind of music.’ When Nirvana hit, I think for my generation, that must have been close to The Beatles or something. I learned those chords and started to dissect them with my cousin, who was in a punk rock band in New Jersey. I used to go out there and watch them rehearse and just — there are feelings that we do not have words for in the English language, and I would feel like I was dancing with the spirits or something. When I was taught those chords, it opened up a new dimension for me. A new land where I thought, ‘This is where I belong. This is where I want to stay.’ And I haven’t left since.

You mentioned Nirvana as an influence, but as far as your music now, how would you describe it to someone?

Slim: I would not. I don’t like to. But I can say that Nirvana is still an influence as much as Michael Hurley, as much as Neil Young, as much as Otis Redding. What I love is music. It’s not a particular kind of music or genre. I tend to gravitate towards the beginnings of each form of music, whether it’s jazz, hip-hop, blues. I like the early stuff because I feel that’s where it’s at its most wild and free.

So, when I’m at home and I’m putting on records, it’s early rock and roll, it’s early country music, it’s early folk music. That’s the kind of stuff that, to me, is the most raw. To my heart, it’s the most pure.

In ‘Lost at Last,’ you really focus on taking away distractions and focusing on human connections, and I was wondering why you wanted to make that the focus of the album.

Slim: I think the question should be, ‘Why wouldn’t you want to focus on that?’ There has always been a need for me, with my music, to achieve a connection with my audience. That’s truly what it’s all about. At this particular point, it’s never been as profoundly important for me to feel that connection.

And I think the more connectivity that we can achieve, the better. When you switch on your television or your radio on or whatever it is, there’s an awful lot of fear being spewed, and divisiveness and negativity. And I do not believe that that is a positive way forward for any of us.

You’ve also talked a lot about your decision to get sober a few years ago, and I was hoping you could tell me more about that.

Slim: Well, I don’t think anybody stops drinking or taking drugs because they necessarily want to. I felt like I was killing myself. I had gone about 16 years as hard as I could, and at some point, I felt as though I had reached the pinnacle. My body hurt. My brain hurt. My spirit hurt. It was on my 33rd birthday that I had my last glass of whiskey. And I decided I was done.

It got to a point where it was no longer doable. When you live that way, you pour so much energy into getting messed up and worrying where you’re going to get your next drink or next drug or whatever. So, it finally clicked for me — what a revelation it would be to dedicate a big chunk of time to seeing life with new eyes. Which you can do if you’re not f—ed up all the time.

How do you balance sobriety with the reality of your life, then, which is a lot of touring and performing in bars and clubs?

Slim: Well, I’m fortunate in the sense that I live in bars. I was essentially born in a bar. My father and my grandparents owned a bar. Most likely I’ll die playing in a bar somewhere. So, being around alcohol, or being around people who might be drinking, it doesn’t awaken the creature for me, per se. But there are times when I’m alone, when I’m feeling lonely, maybe I’m writing and I’m in my head but I want to feel more in my heart. Alcohol and drugs, there’s no doubt, have helped to soften and lubricate the heart and soul so you get out of your head. And those are dangerous times, there.

But I’ve opened up to the people who love me. I feel I know what’s at stake, and there’s too much at risk to go back. And you find other ways. I uncovered a form of meditation that helped. Music helps, yoga helps.

If I’ve figured anything out, it’s not how to feel happy all the time, by any means. It’s that happiness doesn’t come from without. It isn’t in a bottle, it isn’t in a bed, it isn’t anything exterior. It’s from within. It’s working on your own crazy ass. And that’s a day-to-day thing.

What was it like to record your first album after you had gotten clean?

Slim: It was terrifying and also very fulfilling and empowering. Most of the people I was hanging out with, I don’t think they realized the extent of what I was up to. But my band did. My girlfriends throughout the years did. My family did. And so, when I quit, I was embraced mightily by my band and my closest friends and family because they had been put through a lot, being around that. They sent me a lot of strength and a lot of love.

I ain’t going to lie. There’s a real fear for any creative person that maybe you won’t create without alcohol, or maybe you won’t be able to go out to a party and feel comfortable. But you just throw yourself into it. And I found that the shows were better. The connection that I felt with the audience was much stronger. The connection I felt with the band was much stronger. I stepped out of the shadow and became more open.

To be honest with you, it had gotten to the point, with me, where I wasn’t going to wake up alive. You can’t do what I was doing every day. Sure, there’s Keith Richards or some of these other people who we love and romanticize, but 99.9 percent of people — they don’t make it. It isn’t this beautiful story of how you’ve been able to live this rock-and-roll lifestyle.

Yeah, and the issue of addiction has become so dominant in the national conversation that maybe people are ready to stop romanticizing it or stop vilifying it.

Slim: I hope we are getting to the point where we stop vilifying it. That we get rid of the stigma and start to try to understand the connection with mental health and mental illness. Anxiety, depression, things that all of us deal with to some extent. Some more than others. And when you’re taking copious amounts of drugs and alcohol, it’s probably to mask something that is deep-rooted within yourself.

Are mental health issues something that you’ve struggled with?

Slim: It is something that I struggle with. I struggle with anxiety. I thought that I was more depressed than I am — we all know that alcohol is a depressant. I was depressed far more when I was drinking. But I still get low. We all get low.

Not to joke about it, but I’m a neurotic Jew from outside of Philly. I definitely deal with my version of anxiety, with my version of depression, which I think is probably very similar to a lot of other people’s. It’s not an unusual or unique battle, but if we keep it in the shadows, if we stigmatize it, if we consider it to be a weakness, it only gets harder. I think my drinking and my drug use was most certainly to cope with my uncomfortability — if that’s a word — with this world or dimension that we’re living in. After I put the drinking and drug use away, I found, to my surprise, that I feel far more comfortable in this world. And far more comfortable just being the freak that I am.

You’ve mentioned yoga and you’ve mentioned meditation, but is there anything else you do to unwind?

Slim: I do enjoy a steam room. I enjoy the company of my friends. I enjoy being out in nature. I enjoy the same things that you and probably everybody else does. I enjoy romantic connections. I enjoy a great song. I enjoy a great meal. I like when I feel where I’m at when I’m there, and that’s something I have trouble with in my life.