Editrix makes music that seems like Lightning Bolt deconstructing Black Sabbath-ian fuzz — heavy rock and roll for trouble-making honor roll college students in leather-based jackets. The songs on the Easthampton, Mass., band’s second album, Editrix II: Editrix Goes to Hell, are soiled, gnarled and even a bit demonic. But over video chat, the trio’s interpersonal dynamic is heat, extroverted and, at instances, even downright giggly.
“We all conceive of ourselves closer to Garth than Wayne,” singer and guitarist Wendy Eisenberg says, in reference to Dana Carvey’s shy, but weird SNL character featured within the 1992 Penelope Spheeris comedy Wayne’s World. “A lot of things are just us making, like, ‘haha this is funny’ kind of things,” they proceed, a goofy expression creeping throughout their face.
Editrix got here to life round 2018. Eisenberg had honed their expertise as a jazz guitarist, however was drawn to noise after rising annoyed by a restricted space of research. Inspired by the Northeast’s thriving DIY scene, they moved from the Washington, D.C. suburbs to Boston to attend the New England Conservatory of Music. There, Eisenberg began gigging in a genre-spanning smattering of teams, together with the scuzzy rock act Birthing Hips. It’s additionally the place they met Josh Daniel, then drumming in Hot Dirt — his monstrous chops reminded Eisenberg of Tool’s Danny Carey. Meanwhile, Eisenberg and Tortured Skull percussionist Steve Cameron had been going to underground reveals with one another for years. Although most of his prior on-stage expertise was behind the package, they requested him to affix the fold on bass. Early collaborations yielded two releases — 2019’s Talk To Me EP and 2021’s Tell Me I’m Bad — each angular and chugging slices of asymmetrical energy punk, united by a simultaneous sense of quirkiness and ferocity.
Eisenberg’s musical course of is notably considerate and meticulous. In addition to Editrix and Birthing Hips, they’ve crafted sparse, earthy bed room pop underneath their very own title. They ad-libbed alongside Trevor Dunn and Ches Smith on the John Zorn-produced album The Machinic Unconscious. They even made a La Monte Young-esque avant-folk report for the Los Angeles imprint VDSQ. And whereas these earlier endeavors have been everywhere in the stylistic map, they’re tied collectively by a borderline-academic intentionality.
Eisenberg’s knack for precision works in tandem with Editrix’s brutal, summary sound. To offset the depth that underlines their solo songwriting, Editrix embraces a spirit of compromise. The trio writes collectively and has in-depth discussions to determine an association that most closely fits every monitor. “I worry that I’m a control freak in my other universes,” says Eisenberg. “I think I bring that into our rehearsals, where I’m, like, ‘Am I being too controlling?’ when I have an idea.” This band’s communal ethos helps Eisenberg distance themself from a sense of private possession.
“Working together is a very egoless process,” Daniel explains, when requested how he and Cameron coexist round somebody as enigmatic as Eisenberg. “We want the music to flow when you listen to it, even if it’s jarring. When we’re getting together, we very much reach a consensus. Nothing ever gets very tense in the creative realm.” He likens completed Editrix tracks to an accretion of their psychological ooze.
On the duvet of Editrix II: Editrix Goes to Hell, there’s an unsettling picture of a terrier named Junebug peering over a tall picket fence. Found on the subreddit r/oddlyterrifying, the cursed picture is surrounded by pink textual content, written in a typeface that evokes a classic slasher flick. The title suggests a preoccupation with mortal struggling, however the band was really drawn to Hell as a spiritual idea. But a unique type of darkness programs by way of Editrix II: “I think I was, wittingly or unwittingly, trying to bridge the sense of abandonment that I felt in my personal life with the sense of abandonment that I felt later on, on a more structural level,” Eisenberg says. This new batch of songs pulls from themes of loneliness, systemic neglect, and a craving for empathy, which arose as a byproduct of writing music amidst a pandemic.
The music inside is fittingly gripping and chaotic. Most of the tracks had been written round Cameron’s sturdy bass riffs — he cites ’90s Finnish dying metallic teams like Demigod and Demilich as main touchstones — which Eisenberg and Daniel then improvised atop. They polished the technical particulars in whirlwind recording classes on the Easthampton area Sonelab. “I can bring the riff, but I can’t make it into music,” Cameron expands humbly.
“Rock music, especially in the ‘Spotify Universe,’ can become really formulaic, or the soundtrack to commerce,” says Eisenberg. “I want to meet more people who care about interesting music.” Editrix not too long ago bought again from a tour with its religious forebears Deerhoof; Editrix II dwells in the identical creative, actually singular vein as the perfect work by that legendary San Francisco experimental pop group. Only three releases deep, Editrix has already confirmed that the extra its restructures and warps the conventions of a time-tested style into one thing progressive and unrecognizable, the extra their output downright whips.