Fucktoys (2025)—At RogerEbert.com, Matt Zoller Seitz writes: “Annapurna Sriram’s feature debut Fucktoys, about a sex worker earning a living while undoing a curse, is farce, psychodrama, theological inquiry, softcore, satire, and tragedy, all at the same time. And in an era when nearly everyone has gone digital, it’s been shot on 16mm color film by Cory Fraiman-Lott (another name film buffs should write down), cropped to CinemaScope dimensions, then seemingly pushed in developing so the colors seem to explode. For viewers tired of the metallic beige-ness of streaming series, this movie will hit like dopamine. And, as the title suggests, it is also, in an increasingly neutered cinema landscape, proudly and often graphically sexual, to the point where it could be described as ‘sticky.’ ”
Winner of a special jury award at SXSW 2025 praising Sriram’s multihyphenation (director, writer and star), Audience Award winner at the Boston Underground Film Festival for Best Debut Film, and winner of a special jury mention at the Oak Cliff Film Festival, Fucktoys—as Fantasia puts it—is “a glitter-coated, piss-soaked fairytale for the forgotten.”
It Ends (2025)—Siddhant Adlakha’s review at Variety for Alex Ullom’s It Ends extols this “brilliant, existential road thriller” as “a gateway for younger viewers into new forms of thought and self-reflection. The whole thing could be seen as rooted in the anxieties of close-knit friends being forced to separate after college, but also in its terrifying antonym: never being allowed to grow up and face the world.”
Billing It Ends as a “major genre breakout”, Fantasia synopsizes that “writer/director Alex Ullom and his gifted cast work miracles and offer a compelling, constantly intriguing, and often terrifying road trip into adulthood.”
Touch Me (2025)—Admittedly, they had me at tentacle sex. Oh yeah!! At Bloody Disgusting, Meagan Navarro characterizes Touch Me as “a psychosexual sci-fi horror movie that draws from retro Japanese horror, exploitation cinema, and perhaps even hentai” while at the same time infusing “its depiction of a toxic friendship curdled by trauma, codependency, and addiction with vibrant style and campy fun.”
For his sophomore feature, Addison Heinmann (Hypocondriac) provides—as Fantasia puts it—"a singular work that breakdances seamlessly from tentacle sex and practical exploding heads to beautifully touching monologues and heartbreaking reflections on trauma and toxic relationships. Two codependent best friends become addicted to the heroin-like touch of an alien narcissist who may or may not be trying to take over the world.”
“The aesthetic language of Heimann’s film is a visual and auditory fantasia of Japanese influences, bold neon lighting, deep, vibrating beats and triptychs and diptychs,” Robert Daniels writes at RogerEbert.com. “Heimann’s sense of the corporeal, the pleasure the body enacts, is so perceptive you nearly wish the entire movie was one continuous orgy. The film is also intermittently hilarious….”
Queens of the Dead (2025)—Zombies have become a family tradition, at least among the Romeros. Daughter Tina directs a queered take of the ghoul genre invented by her father. Drag queens and club kids battle zombies craving brains during a zombie outbreak at their drag show in Brooklyn, putting personal conflicts aside to utilize their distinct abilities against the undead threat.” I can only imagine what those “distinct abilities” might be.
“What sets Queens of the Dead apart from most other zombie flicks,” Carla Hay explains at Culturemix “is how the characters react to the zombies. In true diva fashion, someone in Queens of the Dead is likely to make cutting remarks about a zombie’s decrepit appearance and shout out some makeover advice in the midst of a zombie attack.”
Whereas George Romero’s Dawn of the Dead “satirized brain-dead mall culture”, Jeffrey Berg recalls at Film-Forward, “Queens skewers social media and phone addiction, with zombies stalking about with their faces stuck in smartphone screens.”
Queens of the Dead won the Audience Award for Best Narrative Feature when it premiered at the Tribeca Film Festival 2025.
Redux Redux (2025)—On the basis of previous Fantasia entries Funeral Kings (2012) and The Block Island Sound (2020), I’m all in for Redux Redux, the latest creation by Kevin and Matthew McManus. Desperate to avenge her daughter’s murder, Irene Kelly (Michaela McManus) journeys through parallel dimensions to repeatedly track down and annihilate her daughter’s killer (Jeremy Holm). As she becomes consumed by vengeance, her humanity hangs in the balance, which harkens back to the Confucian adage: "If you seek revenge you should dig two graves.”
Redux Redux, Brian Tallerico writes at RogerEbert.com, is “a film that takes elements of the serial killer genre, aspects of grief drama, and a splash of multiverse storytelling and mixes them into something that feels fresh and new.”
Eddington (2025)—In their second wave of announcements, Fantasia International Film Festival (“Fantasia”) situated Ari Aster’s Eddington (2025) as the festival’s official opening night film. This special screening is mere days before the film’s theatrical release so I’m not expecting it to be on the screener list, but—if I were at Fantasia—I’d be in that auditorium because it’s always fun to be the first to have a look at such an anticipated and critically contested film.
In May of 2020, during the height of the COVID pandemic, a standoff between a small-town sheriff (Joaquin Phoenix) and mayor (Pedro Pascal) sparks a powder keg as neighbor is pitted against neighbor in the fictional city of Eddington, New Mexico. With an impressive supporting cast (Austin Butler, Emma Stone, Luke Grimes, Deirdre O'Connell, Michael Ward, and Clifton Collins Jr.), Eddington incorporates the genres of neo-Western and political films with darkly comic elements to depict how the pandemic creates social and political turmoil.
Eddington premiered at mid-May’s Cannes Film Festival, played in Australia at the Sydney Film Festival mid-June, and at Revelation Perth International Film Festival less than a week ago. Reviews have been mixed with Peter Bradshaw of The Guardian called Eddington a “disappointing dud” that tediously masks drama and mutes its stars, whereas Damon Wise of Deadline finds it “explosive” in “its approach to American politics; from Bitcoin to Pizzagate, TikTok to vaccine denial, Eddington takes aim at all the quirks and absurdities of President Trump’s administration and how its compliant MAGA zealots have radicalized whole generations of a country once known for its compassion.”
At Slant, Rocco T. Thompson writes: “Eddington is especially pointed in the way that it views our online connectedness as a social cancer rather than an engine for progress. Aster asserts that, even in spite of increasing awareness of social media as a form of self-surveillance, people are behaving worse than ever before, and, in the director’s version of 2020, there are no good faith actors. Everything across the spectrum of politics and rationality, from support for the Black Lives Matter protests to the need to speak out against satanic cabals of child-traffickers, is exposed as coming from a mercenary desire or unresolved trauma rather than stated principles or genuine conviction. Those seeking a political screed that toes the Democratic party line or crusades against the supposed sins of woke culture should look elsewhere.”
Fantasia audiences get to decide yay or nay for themselves at this opening night special screening.
Juliet & The King (2025)—The first Iranian animated feature to qualify for an Oscar was Ashkan Ragozar’s The Last Fiction (2018), a bloody, mythic fantasy that Ragozar and his team at Hoorakhsh Studio have since set aside to pursue their second feature, a Disney-inspired animated musical comedy, Juliet & The King, with 11 original songs by Iranian songwriter Meysam Yousefi and composer Behnam Jalilian.
While the film was in production, Ragozar was interviewed by Alex Dudok De Wit of Cartoon Brew, wherein he stated: “Unfortunately, international people are looking at Iran from a political point of view; all the news is bad and toxic. Yes, we have lots of political, social, and economic problems. But Iran is a great and beautiful country with great history and amazing people who have a great culture. I want to note that there are lots of beautiful things that people around the world can learn from and remind each other about.”
Juliet & The King fancifully fictionalizes Naser-al-Din Shah Qajar’s 1873 visit to Europe (the first Iranian ruler to do so). Reigning for close to 50 years in the second half of the 19th century, Naser-al-Din Shah Qajar was an accomplished painter, poet, and photographer and his passion for the arts and patronage of European culture provides the thematic thrust of a cultural contact between East and West. As synopsized by Fantasia: “The frisky spirit of Shakespeare’s complicated ensemble comedies is ever-present, as are the exquisite delights of classical Persian aesthetics, as Juliet & The King counters the Orientalism in Western animated visions of West Asia and celebrates cross-cultural curiosity with love, laughter, and catchy tunes!”
El Llanto / The Wailing (2024)—Pedro Martín-Calero’s debut feature won him the Silver Shell for Best Director at the 72nd San Sebastián International Film Festival, where The Wailing boasted its world premiere. It accrued festival cred at the 57th Sitges Film Festival, the 68th BFI London Film Festival, the 69th Valladolid International Film Festival, and Hong Kong International Film Festival 2025. Billing it as “one of the scariest films of the last year,” Fantasia is giving The Wailing its Canadian premiere.
Noijeu / Noise (2024)—Noise had its world premiere at the 2024 Toronto International Film Festival (“TIFF”) so it seems a bit awkward to say it’s having its Canadian premiere at Fantasia, but chalk that up to a tale of two cities. Regardless, it has been nominated for Fantasia’s New Flesh Competition for Best First Feature. From TIFF, Noise continued its festival run at Sitges, the Kosmorama Trondheim International Film Festival and the Florence Korea Film Festival in—not South Korea—but Florence, Italy. Chalk that one up to the tale of two countries.
As synopsized by Fantasia: “After the disappearance of her younger sister, a woman with a hearing impediment experiences bizarre happenings and frightening encounters when mysterious noises echo throughout the building. With brilliant sound design and perfectly-dosed jump scares, first time director Kim Soo-jin blends real-life anxieties with stark, supernatural elements to create genuine tension that never lets go.”
I was happy to read Panos Kotzathanasis’ assertion at Asian Movie Pulse that Noise “delivers a thriller/horror that frequently ventures into J-horror territory.” Kotzathanasis continues: “Kim Soo-jin places heavy emphasis on sound design to create an atmosphere of disorientation and fear, with sound functioning as a character in its own right. Rhythmic, jarring, often mundane noises are employed to startle and disturb, and although jump scares are present, they are relatively restrained. At the same time, sound becomes a metaphor for trauma, grief, and unresolved tension, with its lurking presence beneath the floors and behind the walls contributing to both the atmosphere and the narrative’s emotional subtext.”
Lurker (2025)—Alex Russell’s Lurker premiered at the 2025 Sundance Film Festival, continued its festival run at the Berlin International and New Directors / New Films, and is scheduled to be released in the U.S. by MUBI in late August. Before then, however, Lurker gets its Canadian premiere at Fantasia.
Benjamin Lee of The Guardian calls Lurker “a darkly compelling breakout from Alex Russell, writer for Beef and The Bear”, asserts it is “deviously entertaining”, and describes the film’s plot as “a contemporary pop-culture riff on an obsessive psycho-thriller, the kind we were flooded with in the 90s in which an outlier enters the life of someone who has something they want, recalling Single White Female and The Talented Mr. Ripley as well as something more recent and comedic like Ingrid Goes West. Russell takes this formula and extracts most, if not all, of the heightened genre elements to give us something a little more grounded, dialogue more rooted in reality and a canny realization that murder isn’t always needed to create menace.”
At Slant, Marshall Shaffer writes: “The democratization of celebrity in the 21st century has accelerated the process of audience capture: Tell fans what they want to hear and reap the rewards. Lurker portrays an even more contemporary permutation of this feedback loop by dismantling the presumed hierarchy of its participants. The artist and audience member are coequal—and codependent—in this perceptive drama about a parasocial relationship that enters the realm of reality.”
Fantasia synopsizes: “When a twenty-something retail clerk (Théodore Pellerin, Nino) encounters a rising pop star (Archie Madekwe, Saltburn), he takes the opportunity to edge his way into the in-crowd. But as the line between friend and fan blurs beyond recognition, access and proximity become a matter of life and death. A stunning feature debut, at once unsettling and entertaining, tense and captivating, Lurker is a brilliant deconstruction of fame and need in Instagram-driven times.”
The Fantasia International Film Festival (“Fantasia”) will celebrate its upcoming 29th edition with an electrifying program of screenings, workshops, and launch events running from July 16 through August 3, 2025, returning to the Concordia Hall and J.A. de Sève cinemas, with additional screenings and events at Montreal’s Cinéma du Musée.
Fantasia’s film line-up has been announced in three waves and—as a curtain raiser—I’m focusing on five films from each wave. Although I’m not able to attend the festival this year, I’m grateful to have been granted remote press privileges.
Remote coverage of an exciting film festival like Fantasia is tempered completely by whatever is offered on screeners, which doesn’t always comport with what I hope to see from the roster of films available at the festival proper. But on the basis of sheer desire, here are five picks from each of the waves that I hope will be made available for my remote coverage.
FIRST WAVE
Soy Frankelda / I Am Frankelda (2025)—As stated in Fantasia’s program note: “The task of crafting Mexico’s very first stop-motion animated feature film could not have fallen to four more worthy hands than those of Rodolfo and Arturo Ambriz.” Los Hermanos Ambriz, proteges of Guillermo del Toro, first gained widespread recognition with the short film Revoltoso (Fantasia 2016), available for streaming on YouTube.
Mexico’s zoomorphic alebrijes achieved voice and characterization in Revoltoso (which translates as “rebellious”) “demonstrating daring ideas and a bedeviled attention to detail” (again, Fantasia). The band Altermutz who scored the short received a Certificate of Outstanding Achievement for Best Original Score at the Brooklyn Film Festival. That score is available on Spotify. Rebellion abounds in Revoltoso, which features a “revolting” three-eyed boar named Jabalito who is on the scene of one of the first filmed wars in history: the Mexican Revolution.
Los Hermanos Ambriz followed up with Frankelda’s Book of Spooks (2021), a five-episode miniseries on Cartoon Network Latin America and HBO Max, introducing the phantom “ghostwriter” Frankelda and her companion Herneval, a grumpy enchanted book, both trapped in a sentient haunted house. Eager to tell her handful of spooky stories, Frankelda addresses stories of children not wanting to be themselves and the danger that wishes come true, not free. The series ended on a disappointing cliffhanger and so I Am Frankelda remedies that by fleshing out Frankelda’s origin story. “It turns out that the most astonishing tale the two have to tell is their own!” Fantasia asserts. “The dazzling I Am Frankelda explores the challenging childhood of Francisca Imelda, and how she came to befriend Herneval, prince of the realm that lies on the other side of our dreams.”
I am Frankelda, a North American premiere in Fantasia’s Animation Plus section, would be a “must see” if I were attending the festival proper and I can only mantengo mis dedos cruzados that it will show up on the screener list.
Ot / Burning (2024)—Another North American premiere at Fantasia, Burning adopts a Rashomon approach to the cause of a fire that has engulfed a family home, already suffering the recent loss of a firstborn child. “Was it black magic, a woman’s madness, or a man crushed by life?” Fantasia asks. “Listen closely,” they advise, “sift through the lies, and decide for yourself: Who really started the fire?” Three conflicting narratives cast wife, husband and mother-in-law in alternating roles of victim and perpetrator.
Reviewing Burning for Asian Movie Pulse when it screened at the Bishkek International Film Festival, Panos Kotzathanasis comments: “This triptych structure is especially compelling due to the commentary embedded within each narrative. The overarching theme, tying all three together, concerns how small communities function, driven by superstition, gossip, and a general lack of reliable information. Notably, the three accounts are attributed to the family’s neighbors, each claiming firsthand knowledge and contradicting one another. This cleverly critiques the formation of public opinion and the instability of memory and rumor.”
Director Radik Eshimov, an emerging Kyrgyz talent known for blending sharp social commentary with humor in hits like the television series El Emne Deit (2016-2019), leans towards suspense and horror with Burning, yet retains his skill for social commentary. As reviewed by Basil Baradaran for The Asian Cinema Critic: “What Eshimov creates, other than a pretty decent horror film, is a strong feminist message about grief, abuse, and taking a stand when the men are making up stories about how the women in town are either demon-possessed or straight up monsters. It’s a film about women being silenced, about being told what to do, and being painted in unflattering, horrible lights. And, more than jinns or witches or curses, is the real horror here.”
My remaining three wishes out of Fantasia’s First Wave are all world premieres so, at best, I can only emphasize anticipation and quote the program capsules directly, with a reason why the films have caught my attention.
The Bearded Girl (2025)—"Jody Wilson captures the charm of a fairy tale with a Western sensibility in The Bearded Girl. Cleo is ready to spread her wings and, tired of tradition and feeling like an oddball, she leaves her sheltered carnival life to find love and adventure. Starring Anwen O’Driscoll of Bet and You Can Live Forever as the next generation of sword-swallowing bearded women and Mad Men’s Jessica Paré as her overbearing mother, Wilson takes her personal experience growing up in western Canada as a nonconformist to create a confident first feature that highlights queer themes with dry humor and sensitivity.”
The Bearded Girl, screening in Fantasia’s Septentrion Shadows section, plays into my fascination with dark carnivals, the horrors of normality in contrast to what is considered freakish, and the longstanding meld between the horror genre and queer themes.
The Well (2025)—"For his narrative feature debut, the Oscar-nominated documentarian Hubert Davis (Hardwood, Black Ice) looks to the future with a bleak prediction of environmental collapse. As the world’s resources dwindle and a deadly virus keeps people apart, a family protects their fresh water source from outsiders. When a young, injured man disrupts their solitude, and their daughter’s defiance threatens to reveal their precious well to another camp led by a charismatic but steely matriarch, danger brings the two factions together in a thrilling ride. The Well sets up a chilling scenario of what could happen in our very near future and is executive-produced by Clement Virgo (Brother) and Damon D’Oliveira (Wildhood); and stars Arnold Pinnock (The Porter), Shailyn Pierre-Dixon (The Book of Negros), Idrissa Sanogo (Robin Hood), and Canadian screen and stage royalty Sheila McCarthy (Women Talking) as the matriarch Gabriel.”
“As a father,” Davis told Zac Ntim of Deadline, “my own fear and anxieties for my kids’ futures inspired The Well. I want to shelter them from chaos, but watching their journey to pursue full lives opened my eyes to what our continued existence hinges on community. The Well challenges us to expand our imagination on what and who we need to let in to rebuild after the end of the world.”
Also screening in Fantasia’s Septentrion Shadows section, The Well intrigues me because the worst dystopian nightmare I can think of is not mutants or radioactivity or any of that; it’s what ordinary people will resort to in an effort to survive in a near-future world of diminishing resources. This is a theme that has been strong in my mind ever since 1961 when I watched “The Shelter” episode from The Twilight Zone. “The Shelter” directly addressed distrust and a breakdown of civility in the immediate aftermath of a potential nuclear bomb. Having skirted the threat of nuclear war, humankind now threatens itself with environmental collapse.
The Woman (2025)—"An innocent exchange of strawberries and a secondhand appliance takes a very dark turn for Sun-kyung when it precedes her classmate’s suspicious suicide, and puts her on the trail of a mysterious, sinister stranger. Hwang Wook, the director of the hysterical, award-winning neo-Western black comedy Mash Ville, an acclaimed World Premiere at last year’s Fantasia, returns to the festival with a new film in a completely different genre. The Woman is a riveting, character-driven psychological thriller, filled with non-stop tension and suspense, thanks to its eerie musical score and stunning cinematography, and boasting an outstanding lead performance by Han Hye-ji. The Woman is yet another excellent slice of independent Korean filmmaking, by a director who needs to be on your radar.”
As national cinemas go, Korean cinema ranks high on my list ever since Memories of Murder (2003) dazzled me with its nuanced characterizations and exceptional cinematography. I’ve watched many Korean films since then and they have maintained a visual excellence that always keeps me coming back for more.
As extolled in the program capsule for Frameline 49’s presentation of Lisa Immordinio Vreeland’s documentary portrait of Jean Cocteau: “Gay poet, novelist, filmmaker, and artist Jean Cocteau was a visionary whose influence shaped the 20th century and continues to resonate today. Through rare archival footage, personal interviews, and clips from his groundbreaking work, Jean Cocteau offers a vivid portrait of an artist who defied convention at every turn.
“Narrated by Josh O’Connor and directed by Lisa Immordino Vreeland, this compelling documentary traces Cocteau’s fearless creativity across cinema, literature, and the visual arts. A gay icon who lived through two world wars, the Great Depression, and shifting cultural tides, Cocteau authored enduring works like The Human Voice (La voix humaine) and redefined what it meant to be an artist in the modern era. Complicated and unapologetically himself, his art—steeped in beauty, myth, and desire—remains strikingly relevant. This rich and intimate portrait captures the spirit of an avant-garde master whose legacy continues to challenge boundaries and inspire new generations.”
Documentary portraits by author and film director Lisa Immordino Vreeland are always welcome events. Her filmography launched in 2011 with a portrait of her grandmother-in-law Harpers Bazaar fashion editor Diana Vreeland, and continued on through informed and intimate films on such creatives as “art addict” Peggy Guggenheim, photographer, artist and set designer, Cecil Beaton, the relationship between authors Truman Capote and Tennessee Williams, photographer and make-up artist François Nars, and—most recently—with the Frameline entry Jean Cocteau (2024), which had its European premiere at the Venice Film Festival, its North American premiere at the Telluride Film Festival, and its California premiere at the Palm Springs International Film Festival. Vreeland had earlier worked with the Cocteau material in a segment for her televised series “Art of Style” (season 3, episode 4), narrated by Timothée Chalame.
One might trace a running theme in Vreeland’s documentaries: an attention and appreciation, if not sheer nostalgic interest, in artistic practices of the past and their practitioners, how artists have survived the upheavals of their time, serving to underscore how much of those collaborative aesthetics are woefully absent or out-of-fashion in current practices, or more relevantly how artists must find collaborative strategies to survive their current moment. Jean Cocteau is true to that form.
While conducting research for Jean Cocteau, Vreeland uncovered televised footage from 1962 in the National Film Archive in Paris wherein Cocteau addressed the young people of the future (which he imagined to be the year 2000). Seated before a tapestry of his own creation in the Villa Santo Sospir in the South of France, Cocteau praised the humanity he presumed present in the youth of the future and encouraged them to be serious, to work, and not to grow cynical.
“Don’t give in to pessimism. To conversations that drag you down further,” he cautioned. “Work, believe, and pretend the future does not present a frightening enigma. A mysterious force that expresses itself through us demands such courage from us. I have never done anything other than serve it and be under its order. The crime of not paying attention—of which no one considers themselves guilty—is the worst of the crimes against the mind.”
Using this televised address to frame her documentary, Vreeland braids it with Cocteau’s commentary on his own life narrated by Josh O’Connor and constructed from nearly one thousand letters to his widowed mother Eugénie over the course of four decades, and Vreeland’s own impressionistic overview of Cocteau’s polymathic oeuvre, which she presents in a desultory, oneiric and abstract way, drifting from one project to the other, simulating a dream-like atmosphere, and creating a textured approach to Cocteau’s life through the events and interactions in his life that defined him.
"I always try to entertain people," Vreeland acknowledged in an onstage conversation with Chris Auer after the film screened at the SCAD Savannah Film Festival. "But in this film you don’t laugh, because I felt there was a really important message to tell the youth of today, and I’m following Cocteau’s prompt here, which is to be awake, be alert, and to plant a new seed."
Indeed, there is something generative and propagative in Cocteau transmitting the story of his own creative life to future youth that speaks resoundly to me as I begin wandering in the foothills of my own life towards the horizon. Vreeland captures that forcefully in her portrait of Cocteau.
“Mirrors are the doors through which death comes and goes,” Cocteau professes in his 1950 film Orphée (Orpheus). “In mirrors, and especially in photographs,” he adds in the Villa Santo Sospir footage, “I see that I have become old; but, it’s what’s young in me that matters, isn’t it? It’s a young person seeing an old man. As a result, I have the look of either of a young man blundering into old age or of an old man blundering into an age which is no longer his. I find myself in circumstances worse than death. My body wakes after I do. I awaken long before my legs. When I stand up, I have to be careful not to fall.” Further, he states: “The uglier we get with age, the more our work must become beautiful and reflect a child-like version of ourselves.”
For all the joyful abandon that Cocteau wishes for the youth of the future, his own life was riddled with sad pressures and restraints. Cocteau described himself as being the most invisible of artists, but the most visible of men, with the man drawing fire. This was nowhere more evident than how he was treated by Andre Breton and the Surrealists who delivered death threats and homophobic insults. “But the artist,” Cocteau maintained, “is never hit.”
Breton and the Surrealists were jealous of Cocteau’s success and “radiated” hostility towards him at his poetry readings, despite Cocteau offering them friendship with both hands. They felt he was “insufficiently serious”; a euphemism—if ever I’ve heard one—of homophobia. Breton, in turn—as described by surrealist co-founder Philippe Soupault—had a psychological complex where he loved whatever he had destroyed and a compulsion to destroy whatever he loved. His hatred towards Cocteau was violent. He and the Surrealists phoned Cocteau’s mother and read obscene poetry to her. They told Picasso and other friends that he had committed suicide. Breton banned Cocteau’s poetry from a journal he edited while all the time inviting Cocteau’s friends to contribute. Their malice was unbridled.
One such instance was in how Breton elevated then fourteen-year-old Raymond Radiguet above the others in their circle. He fashioned himself to be Radiguet’s protector, though Radiguet soon tired of him and turned, instead, to Cocteau for inspiration and guidance. This, of course, infuriated Breton.
Radiguet influenced Cocteau to allow the subconscious to direct his poetry. Radiguet’s premature death at 20 from typhoid fever devastated Cocteau who described the experience as “an operation without chloroform.” In his grief, Cocteau turned to opium which simulated an oblivious experience that had no concern for life or death. “Addiction,” he later wrote, “is a revolt.” Cocteau wrestled with addiction for the rest of his life.
As if to provide context to this struggle, Cocteau said: “One always has the craving to believe that one is passing through a crisis. What crisis? That’s all there is. Without a crisis there would be nothing.” Elsewhere, he opined: “Control is very dangerous, and mistakes are the true expression of the individual.”
In his later years when he was lavishly fêted with honors and awards, Cocteau summarized: “It is the originality of an existence which—in the long run—arouses the attention of the judges who award these honors. But the originality of an existence is always made up of what the official world condemns.”
Skirting condemnations of his lifestyle and creative tenor, no less from the aimed attacks of Breton and the Surrealists, Cocteau courted and found many beloved friends. “The journey we make between life and death would be insufferable to me without the warmth of friendship,” he said, even as he qualified, “I have a feeling of friendship for too many people. I am sure that my inclination to please, to bend to the whims of those around me, makes me invisible and takes away from my originality in the eyes of others.”
Criticized for some of his political stances during World War II, Cocteau defended himself by stating, “My only politics have been friendships. It is a form of love without possessiveness. The happiness of a friend delights us. It adds to us. Certain people—I should say, the vibrations certain people throw out—stimulate us. In conversations, if I am in good form, I forget myself, so greatly do words intoxicate me.”
His friendship and admiration of Pablo Picasso was well-known, even if it was notoriously asymmetric. Cocteau described Picasso as “a bullfighter with an eye that pierces through you” and added that, “He became this storm capable of twisting iron and shaping the void.” Their collaboration on the ballet “Parade” (1917) made cultural history.
Ever in command of his wit, Cocteau invited Coco Chanel to design the costumes for his 1922 production of “Antigone” because he “didn’t imagine the daughter of Oedipus badly dressed.”
Against the backdrop of Cocteau’s illustrations and stagecraft, Vreeland achieves an appreciation of Cocteau’s many talents, even as it circumambulates around the ageold criticism aimed at every polymath for a lack of committed focus to any one medium and a puer’s addiction to diversity.
“lncapable of following a trail,” Cocteau explained, “I proceed by impulses. All my life I’ve hunted in this manner.” Advocating his calling, he also stated: “People separate mystery from reality; but, reality is mystery. Those who know this are poets.” In that poetic vein, he offered, “In the end, everything is resolved. Except for the difficulty of being, which is never resolved.”
It is wonderful to see how the Treefort Music Fest has expanded over the years, but I will always have a fondness for its early years and the young musicians and artists who embraced me when I first relocated to Idaho from the Bay Area. Key among them was Tispur (née Samwise Carlson) and I am delighted that they have returned to the festival; a welcome alumnus. With their sole performance at the District Coffee House Thursday, March 27, 2025, 8:30PM, I look forward to hearing where their musical journey has wandered. What better time to revisit my conversation with them of editions past. I apologize if the pronouns are a bit off but a lot has happened since back then. Regardless, everyone is welcome here in Boise and at Treefort Music Fest.
Here’s Tispur’s current bio, offered by the Treefort Music Fest: "Tispur is a folk project led by Samwise Carlson in Portland, OR. They’re known for their angelic voice, unique finger-style guitar technique and gently hypnotic, moving performances akin to the spirits of Nick Drake, Vashti Bunyan, and Joanna Newsom. Originally hailing from rural Southeastern Idaho, Samwise moved to Boise in 2012 and spent the next seven years performing, writing music, touring, and hosting house shows before relocating to Portland, OR where they currently live. They have been accompanied by string sections, harpists, accordionists, pedal steel players, and percussionists, but often perform solo, and have opened for the likes of Aldous Harding, Neal Morgan, Mariee Sioux, Laura Veirs, Ora Cogan, Circuit Des Yeux, Marisa Anderson, Stelth Ulvang, Coco Rosie, The Secret Beach, and many other artists acclaimed in their genres. Tispur has released two records; “Sleepy Creature” in 2017 and the self-titled album “Tispur” in 2022, and is currently recording their third album.
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With the sweetest of smiles and the strongest of embraces, Tispur (née Samwise Carlson) has distinguished themself in Boise's musical scene as an elven incarnation of fantasy folk, incanting melodies that dream and lure listeners into meditative states. Often when I spot them walking out and about it's as if one of the young subjects of a Botticelli painting has stepped down from the canvas to visit the street. Gentle and brave, their talent knows no bounds.
As noted by Treefort Music Fest: "Tispur's debut album, ‘Sleepy Creature’, is an honest and lulling, testament to Carlson's childhood obsession with fantasy, and conversely, morose and oftentimes disconnected disposition toward the stark realities experienced as a millennial in America. Recorded to tape in a half-flooded concrete basement, ‘Sleepy Creature’ features accompaniment by Jake Saunders on cello and Riley Johnson on keys and vocals."
It was a genuine pleasure to sit down with Samwise to discuss Tispur.
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Michael Guillén: I'm aware that you showed up in Boise's music scene about the same time that I arrived here. Can you tell me a little bit about your background? Why and when you came to Boise? Where did you come from?
Tispur: I moved from Rigby, which is near Idaho Falls. I was planning on going to school. I first came to audition for the music program at BSU, got accepted as a major in music composition, but didn't get accepted into the school itself because I'm super bad at math. I failed the Compass exam.
Guillén: Why did I have the impression you were from southern California?
Tispur: I am from California. I moved to Rigby from San Diego, California, when I was about 10-11.
Guillén: So most of your adolescence and young adulthood has been in Rigby? Was it a tiny town?
Tispur: Tiny town. It maybe has a population of 6,000.
Guillén: Growing up in such a small town, when did you know you wanted to be an artist and musician? Did you have any influences there?
Tispur: I started playing guitar when I was 10 or so and really loved it. I had some friends that also played music and we would just jam out all the time. I had one friend in particular who really pushed me to start singing, because I would not sing in front of anyone. I'd write all these songs by myself in my basement room. He helped me in that way by pushing me to start singing in front of people.
Guillén: Did you have musical influences? It sounds like you found a community of like-minded people playing music, but were you listening to anyone who you wanted to be like?
Tispur: If we really want to go far back, I was really into the Googoo Dolls. Kind of silly, right? They got me into tuning my guitar to alternate tunings. A lot of what I'm doing now was influenced by that. I listened to The Beatles a lot. I really loved The Beatles. When I was 14 or 15, I discovered more indie stuff, like Feist's "1234" and I was like, "What is this?" It was a really cute indie pop jam.
Guillén: So you've always liked a melodic pop sound?
Tispur: Yeah, but I didn't discover it until I was 15. After that, I fell deep into the Internet and found a lot of cool artists that I liked.
Guillén: So you are a self-taught musician?
Tispur: Yeah. I took a few lessons when I was young, as far as my instrument goes.
Guillén: So you came to Boise and started playing at open mics. Did you ever busk on the streets?
Tispur: I went straight into open mics. I did do some busking in the Summer of 2014, but by that point I had already had some shows and played out of town and stuff.
Guillén: Did you know anyone when you moved to Boise? Did you already have a built-in community?
Tispur: No, I didn't know anyone.
Guillén: How did you find your people, then? Because now you are definitely a part of a community.
Tispur: I want to credit it to The Crux. That venue was my spot for a while. It was my favorite place to go. I was there every day. Every night I would go to every show. It was a great gathering place where I could hang out and meet people. That's where I met Brett Hawkins, who's my best friend and band mate. I met him there doing open mic night. The Crux was definitely a huge deal. I met most of my friends there.
Guillén: Where does your stage name "Tispur" come from?
Tispur: This is really silly but I have a background of playing a lot of RPGs and, if I had an Elf character, I would always name it Tispur because it sounded Elven. Musically, I was originally going by Woodwind but realized it would be really hard to find Woodwind online anywhere because you would type in "Woodwind music" and get a million hits on woodwind players or woodwind instruments. So I decided to switch to Tispur.
Guillén: Is Tispur configured as a solo act? Because the first time I saw you, you were playing with Judah Claffey, and the next time I saw you at last year's Treefort you had an ensemble of cello, harp, violin and viola (with that lovely guest appearance by Bronwyn Leslie).
Tispur: That was a good time and super fun.
Guillén: Is your conception of Tispur to advance to a fuller sound? Or are you remaining solo?
Tispur: It keeps changing. I'm going to do it solo for a while. I feel it's healthy for me to do that now and it's fun.
Guillén: Have you written new music for this year's Treefort?
Tispur: I have three new songs that I'll be playing.
Guillén: How do you situate Tispur within Boise's music scene? Do you feel that you're part of a scene? Is it a scene that's allowing you to grow as a musical artist?
Tispur: To an extent I feel that. There's a lot of really good music and supportive musicians and non-musicians here. We're not at a competitive stage yet.
Guillén: How would you describe your music?
Tispur: Jake Saunders, the cellist who played with me last year at Treefort, he described Tispur as "fairy pillow talk", which I loved. My music has fantasy vibes. It's really pretty.
Guillén: It is very pretty music and you have a beautiful voice.
Tispur: Thank you.
Guillén: And, as you've just told me, elven. There is a bardic minstrel quality to your songs. Your music tells stories. Where do those stories come from?
Tispur: Most of the time when I write I'll have a vague concept of a story in my mind. I don't really try to write stories.
Guillén: So you get an image first that guides the narrative?
Tispur: Yeah. I utilize imagery a lot. Lately, having turned 22, I'm feeling an existential weight. I don't know why.
Guillén: Looking back, I'd have to say my twenties were the hardest years of my life for being so heavy. Collaboration helps with shouldering that burden. Can you speak to Boise's collaborative ethos? When you arrived from Rigby, did you find that unusual?
Tispur: Yeah, it was all unusual. What I knew about any of this from the scene in Rigby, which is nothing, or even Idaho Falls, which is pretty much nothing, was all I'd ever known. I don't really know anything else besides this scene in Boise.
Guillén: What are your hopes then? Do you have a sense of where you want to go with your music? I know you've played in Southern California. Do you want to tour? To record?
Tispur: I'm finishing up a record right now that will be 11 tracks long and I'm planning a tour for June. Touring, for sure, is my main goal.
Guillén: How do you negotiate that? Do you have a manager? Do you do that all yourself?
Tispur: I will be, I think, working with Duck Club. They're booking me in West Coast gigs. But I've booked about seven dates by myself. This is my first time doing that so I'm learning as I go.
Guillén: What are you learning? Have you played these venues and feel comfortable approaching them again? Have friends recommended venues? How have you figured out this network of venues?
Tispur: Pretty much all of that. If I've played a venue, I'll contact them. I've been going to shows long enough and have met enough musicians from out-of-town and that's helpful because I can approach them and say, "Hey, remember me? Can you help me get a gig here in Albuquerque, New Mexico?"
Guillén: Are some of the gigs you've lined up out of state?
Tispur: Yeah. Idaho Falls will be my first stop. Then I'm doing Camp Daze in Montana. Salt Lake City, Utah. Logan, Utah. Laramie, Wyoming. Fort Collins, Colorado. Hopefully Denver, Colorado. Albuquerque, New Mexico. Phoenix, Arizona. It's a long process. Most people try to book six months to a year in advance, which is such a long time in my opinion. I'm still booking this right now and it's hard to think four or five months away.
Guillén: So my final question is a bit of a sticky one, but it's something I'm fascinated in. You and Brett and Judah, your tribe, your clan, you're characterized by a lovely gender fluidity. As a man who grew up as a gay kid in Twin Falls, Idaho, I have nothing but respect for this gender fluid approach towards persona. I couldn't have dreamed of doing something like that in '70s Twin Falls. I'm heartened that the times have changed and that young straight men like you and Brett feel comfortable challenging these gender conceptions by wearing make-up, jewelry, women's clothing. But perhaps I'm presuming too much? Do you feel comfortable? Can you speak at all to what gender fluidity means for you? And what you're trying to express by it? Is it an important element to your creative process?
Tispur: I feel gender fluid. I don't think I've always felt that way, but when I was a teenager I noticed I was not a "manly" guy. I don't feel that I fit in that role. I also don't feel I fit in the role of a woman. These categories and the traits associated with them are weird. I don't really get it so I just do what I feel like doing. If I want to wear a dress, I'll do that.
Guillén: I admire that you've joined a lineage of gender resistance that has been going on for generations. At last year's Treefort, I remember running into you and Brett as you were shopping for old clothes at a vintage outlet and I thought, "How lovely. They're acting like the young artists in 1920s Manhattan who were raiding thrift shops and cross-dressing." Everything old is new again, in a way. But so is judgment and discrimination. Do you get any blowback for your brave gender fluidity?
Tispur: It depends on where I am. In downtown Boise no one ever says anything to me. Boise's a progressive bubble. But I live in Garden City where I've had a few ... experiences. There's a bar called The Ranch Club that's about two minutes walking distance from my place. It's a silly Idaho bar. You can smoke in there. But almost every time I go there someone comes up to me to say, "All right, I just gotta ask ya: are you a boy or a girl?" I'm like, "Why? Why do you care?" Sometimes I get that reaction. But most of the interactions I've had have turned out to be positive.
Guillén: How do you answer when you're asked if you're a boy or a girl?
Tispur: I just say, "I don't know. Both?" Then I gauge their reaction. Usually they'll just say, "All right. That's weird" and walk away. I just try to be charming about it and smile.
Guillén: Has there been any blowback within the music community?
Tispur: I don't think so. I've had nothing but positive feedback. People seem to be into the androgyny, which is cool. I work at the Heatherwood Retirement Community on the Bench and sometimes get comments from the older folks, especially the new ones who come in and don't know me, but I feel they've resigned themselves to not understanding me. "Kids these days."
Guillén: Well, I'm very proud of your bravery, Sam, and encourage you to keep resisting. You're an inspiration to me as an older guy and I look forward to hearing you play at Treefort.
Any city is composed of surfaces: walls, streets, sidewalks, fences and traffic boxes. A citizenry negotiates these spaces, maneuvering through the rhythms of their working lives, craving diversion to offset quotidian complacency. There is a deep impulse in urban individuals to see and be seen by the architectural rectangles that surround, contain and guide them to their destinations—sometimes woefully perceived as their destinies—and when those blank walls shout out “the words of the prophets”, when they are painted with murals that provide aesthetic and cultural and political purpose, the city becomes a living answer to the daily question of living. You can agree or disagree with what you see. You can favor one style over another. You can question the civic investment or the tag-and-run guerilla intrusions. “You can walk together by the postered walls and the crude remarks”; but, by that point the city has transformed into a reflection of its citizenry, of its multiplicity, and there is a very good chance that you can look at the buildings around you and find your face, identify yourself, and gain assurance in claiming an identity.
Boise was as glaringly white as it was clean when I relocated from the Bay Area in 2011, and I use neither of those adjectives in any approbative way. It was unnerving. There was a dearth of street art which—as far as I was concerned—was a euphemism for cultural death. Where were the murals? Where was the sidewalk art? Where was the decalismo of inventive and subversive stickers stuck purposely where the sun did shine? As someone who has monitored street art for decades, I would flee back to San Francisco for the colorful multi-ethnicity of BART and MUNI—which felt like a breath of fresh air—and the ubiquitous street art with its many faces, its many races, staring back at me, sometimes with raised fists to stress a relevant politic, sometimes just to be beautiful, some fleeting, some eventual landmarks.
In recent years, Boise has become a true city (and not just because we finally got a Trader Joes). The advent of Treefort Music Fest and an admirable civic commitment to public art have paved the way for generations of local artists to create music and to paint the rectangular screens of downtown Boise so its citizenry can see itself reflected and magnified. One such muralist who has gained prominence in recent years is Bobby Gaytan.
As profiled at Treefort’s website:
“Bobby Gaytan is an artist and community advocate based in Meridian, Idaho. With a deep passion for street art and graffiti, Bobby blends urban aesthetics with professional creativity. After earning a BFA in Graphic Design from Boise State University in 2001, he transitioned into a professional career as an illustrator, bringing bold, graphic imagery to life through both digital and traditional mediums.
“As the owner of Blakbook Pages, Bobby creates a wide range of art, specializing in murals and illustrations that capture the vibrancy of local culture and the energy of the streets. His work is a reflection of a life devoted to both artistic expression and community engagement. Beyond the canvas, Bobby is a passionate community activist, working to inspire and support young people through creativity, hard work, and dedication.”
It was with great respect that I approached Bobby Gaytan for interview.
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Michael Guillén: Bobby, thank you for being willing to answer a few questions for my Treefort coverage. I know you are under pressure from our current administration’s treatment of federal workers, but I deeply admire your continuing gratitude towards life and how—even as so much is being taken away—you continue to give through your artistry to the Treasure Valley community.
Can you lay out for me whatever training you had to become an artist and why it is you have chosen to practice public art? How does public art further your personal vision? Are there any muralists who have influenced you?
Bobby Gaytan: I have a bachelor's degree in Graphic Design from Boise State University (2001). Since the early 90s, I've admired graffiti and street art. As a teenager growing up in South Texas, I started to draw and experiment with spray paint. Just like Keith Haring, I too love the idea that public art is for all to enjoy and experience. Over the years, I've witnessed graffiti and street art become more accepted globally.
I admire muralists like El Mac, Mr. Aryz, OS Gemeos, Belin, Nychos, David Flores, Smugone, and others who are shaping contemporary street art. Creating in public spaces has allowed me to express my cultural identity, share my creative vision, and connect with the community.
Guillén: Few Chicano/a/x and Latino/a/x artists have gained access to express themselves and their communities in public spaces here in the Treasure Valley and you have been more successful than most. But let me backtrack a bit. I’m from California so I identify as Chicano; but, you’re from Texas, so do you identify as Tejano? Is it important to situate our identities geographically? And, if not, what would be a good term to identify us all as a single community?
Gaytan: I was born here in Idaho but yes, my family is from Texas. I grew up immersed in Tejano culture and Chicanismo. As a former migrant farmworker I learned about the farmworker movement of the 60s and 70s through my mother, Maria, a community activist who helped migrant families. Being Chicano means embracing Indigenous roots and standing up for my people. As an artist, I draw inspiration from my experiences to create, and I value authenticity over labels. While I identify as Chicano and see Raza as my community, I believe that people should embrace whichever identity resonates most with them.
"Groovin' / Guitar Bob" (2013).
Guillén: When I relocated from the Bay Area to Boise in 2011, there was not much public art as there is now. San Francisco, of course, has a longstanding tradition of ubiquitous public art. I spotted “Groovin” right off when I was first exploring downtown Boise and was happy for it. It actually helped me make the transition from the huge urbanity of San Francisco to the more relaxed atmosphere of Boise. Was “Groovin” the first mural you painted in Boise? Can you tell me the story behind it?
Gaytan: The Boise public art scene has greatly evolved over the past 20 years, with strong support from the city. In 2013, I applied for an art grant to create public art for the Treefort festival and was selected. I chose to paint a mural in downtown Boise, specifically "Groovin" or "Guitar Bob," which became my first large-scale mural in Boise. At that time, Freak Alley was still developing, and prominent murals were scarce in the city. The mural has since become a staple of downtown Boise, receiving positive feedback from both locals and visitors for over 10 years.
Guillén: Since “Groovin”, which two mural projects have been the most representative of what you are trying to do with public art? I know that’s something of an unfair Sophie’s Choice kind of question; but, I’m intrigued by how an artist evaluates themselves. I know for myself it’s always my most recent art that I like the best. Is that true for you? Would your recent commission honoring J.J. Saldaña be among your two favorites?
Gaytan: "Groovin" is definitely a mural that represents my style. "Flowers for J.J." was a very personal experience to honor my friend and a community leader. It has been my favorite so far for sure. I recently completed a project at Calle 75 Tacos in downtown Boise. That project gave me a different creative experience along the lines of an interior designer. They will reopen just in time for Treefort.
Guillén: I know you have strong ties to the Chicano/a/x and Latino/a/x communities here in the Treasure Valley. Like myself, you come from a farmworker background and gracefully retain great respect for farmworkers even as you have moved out of the fields and onto walls. How did you negotiate that transition? Will you be participating with the upcoming Farmworker Awareness Week as you have in the past and—if so—what will be your contribution? Does any of that dovetail with Treefort?
Gaytan: I never imagined as a young migrant farmworker kid I would be where I am now. I learned to work hard and always chase my dreams. I've always been proud of my farmworker history and continue to use art to bring awareness and a different perspective to that kind of life.
Guillén: Both of your Treefort engagements—the “Coatl: Ten Perspectives”Artfort initiative, as well as the Main Stage live mural painting—are inherently collaborative. Can you speak to how working collaboratively differs from your independent projects? How were these collaborations organized for Artfort? And can you speak more generally how interacting with Treefort has been for you?
Gaytan: I've always felt comfortable collaborating with other artists or organizations that are doing positive work in our community. What I love most about collaborating is getting the opportunity to mentor or share my knowledge with other artists as well as exchange ideas.
For the past 5 years I've been part of the Tropico FM Art Showcase originally organized by Kyle Schef. Each year we try to make it a better experience by presenting the art more professionally and introducing local artists from our community. This year's theme "Coatl: Ten Perspectives" was introduced by Marianna Jimenez Edwards. Miguel Almeida has been the lead artist coordinator for the show and Maria Ayala has helped organize the space and how the art is presented. Being part of Treefort has been a good experience because I get to network and meet new artists in our community.
Guillén: I’m aware that you have founded Blakbook Pages, but I couldn’t find much information about that project. Could you outline its objectives and future project goals? I’m also keenly interested, as you’ve already mentioned, in your commitment to furthering the artistic vision of young people. Can you speak to why that is important to you and how you have gone about to achieve it? Are there any up-and-coming Chicano/a/x and Latino/a/x artists you have an eye on and feel Boiseans should pay attention to?
Gaytan: Blakbook Pages was a passion project I started in 2004. My goal was to build an artist community by showcasing local artists through a zine that included art, poetry, fashion, music, and other creative scenes at the time. I distributed the zines at local shows and various shops around Boise. Ultimately, I published 10 issues.
I continue to use the name Blakbook Pages as a creative business. I still feel it is important to help mentor young artists whenever possible.
Guillén: I would like to address your personal style. How would you describe it? I see an impressive range from realistic figuration—as in the mural you painted for the Boise Co-Op in Meridian and your beautiful Mothers Day portraits (including “La Mariposa”, which you painted for the Wassmuth Center for Human Rights)—to almost caricaturical images that come across as very “street” with a touch of the graffiti spraycan aesthetic.
Gaytan: My personal style is always evolving. I like to push myself as an artist by exploring new mediums, techniques and ideas. When I was younger, I remember it took me a long time to call myself an artist. Eventually I found my creative voice. Caricatures and graffiti were my first introduction to art so it's probably why it's more natural to me to create in that style. As time went on I started using more traditional mediums and techniques.
Guillén: Many of your creations are admirably subcultural. I love your paintings of the family making tamales and the little girl being given a paleta; they remind me of the work of Carmen Lomas Garza. And—as eating is my spiritual path—I was enticed by your offering your fideo con carne recipe on television; but you didn’t actually provide the recipe!! Don’t you think now would be the perfect opportunity?
Gaytan: As an artist, I like to capture moments that remind me of my family growing up. Especially my Mother's kitchen. I think art is a good way to create dialogue and to take the audience to a certain place and time.
When I think of Sopa de Fideo con Carne y Papas, I think of my childhood. I remember coming home from school and my mother having a big pot of this wonderful dish on the stove waiting for us. She prepared this dish anytime of the year. Not only is it delicious and easy but it’s very affordable and it goes a long way. We always had it with a bowl of beans on the side and freshly made flour tortillas. Here is my mother’s recipe.
First, cook your ground beef in a large pot until it loses its pink color. While the ground beef is cooking, grind your spices (cumin, peppercorn, garlic and a little salt) in a molcajete. Add water and set the molcajete aside.
Add your onions first to your ground beef while it's cooking. Then add your serrano peppers (optional). Next add your green bell peppers as well as the spices from the molcajete. After cooking for a couple of minutes, add the tomatoes, cilantro and your chicken tomato flavor Bouillon (Knorr). Finally, add water and a little salt then let it simmer for 15 minutes.
While the carne is simmering, cut your Vermicelli fideo in small sizes and toast them in a pan with vegetable oil until they are golden. Add potatoes to the carne for 5 minutes. Then finally add the golden fideo and let simmer on a low boil for a few minutes.
Enjoy your Sopa De Fideo Con Carne!!
Guillén: Several of your images are rich with humor, levity and vitality, such as the little boy going to work in the fields with a hoe over his shoulder. It strikes me that you borrow imagery more from the contemporary life of farmworkers than Precolumbian influences. Would that be fair to say?
Gaytan: I borrow a lot of imagery in my art from my experience living in the barrio of Alamo, Texas and the farmlands of Idaho and Michigan. I think that makes my art unique in that sense.
Guillén: Flowers—which do have a strong Precolumbian antecedent—seem to be an important iconographic element for you (notably in “Flowers for JJ”); can you say why?
Gaytan: Flowers have always been important to me because they remind me of my Mother. When my Mother was alive, it was a tradition of mine to give her flowers throughout the year. As a kid I picked wild flowers and made bouquets for her. I incorporate flowers and butterflies in my art in honor of her.
Guillén: Thank you, Bobby, for taking the time to talk with me. I’m so proud to have your piece “Tecalmas O Te Calmo” in my art collection and remember laughing when you admitted that, yes, indeed, your mamacita had smacked you with a chancla now and again. I apologize for laughing because, of course, being smacked with a chancla is no joking matter.
Since first seeing Smokey Brights at the 9th edition of Treefort Music Fest, I have caught them in performance several times. They continue to be one of my favorite bands and I’m delighted they are returning for this year’s Treefort, playing at the Boise Brewing stage on Thursday, March 27, at 9:00PM.
As outlined at the Treefort website: “Smokey Brights have been steadily growing out of the mossy Pacific Northwest city of Seattle for over a decade. The band, formed by friends working together at a pizza restaurant, has roots in Seattle’s DIY punk, songwriter, and psych scenes. Through the group’s four LP and three EP releases, you can hear Smokey Brights’ sonic branches stretching through 70’s prog, synthy new wave bops, fuzzy 90’s anthems, and intimate indie storytelling. You can also trace the lives and romance of songwriters Ryan Devlin and Kim West who married a few years after the formation of the band. The couple’s entangled approach to songwriting and melody has yielded a remarkable amount of original, genre bending music. Nick Krivchenia’s steady, stylish drumming is the backbone of the Smokeys’ sound, while bassist Luke Rägnar adds low end bounce as well as a third harmony to Ryan and Kim’s melodies. The band’s music has been featured in film, television, video games, and podcasts. They’ve toured throughout the US as well as the UK and mainland Europe. Their most recent releases, 2023’s ‘Broken Too’ EP and ‘Levitator’ LP, both landed on iconic radio station KEXP’s top 90.3 records of the year."
I reiterate my gratitude to Dana Robinson Slote, tour manager for Smokey Brights at Treefort 2021, who first invited me to come listen to the band at Treefort, and then arranged a Zoom interview the week after.
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Guillén: I want to congratulate you on your presence at Treefort. I caught your “hot” show at The Hideout, where you were literally dripping with sweat. It looked like you were melting on stage!
I’d like to start off with the name of the band—Smokey Brights—because I haven’t read anything anywhere regarding what that name signifies. How did you go about choosing Smokey Brights as the name for your band?
Ryan Devlin: Originally, before we were Smokey Brights, we were called Colossal Brights. We had a little recording project going—Nick, myself, our original bassist Jim, and Mikey our original lead guitarist. We were making some demos and were thinking, “How are we going to get a name for this?”
I had the radio down real low when I was driving home one night listening to KEXP and this song where I thought I heard someone say in this song “colossal brights”. I thought that was such a cool phrase. I came back to the band and told them, “I’ve got the band name: Colossal Brights!” Jim looked at me and he goes, “Spell Colossal.” And I couldn’t. So I said to him, “Well, it’s back to the drawing board, I guess.”
A day later, Jim was like, “Y’know, ‘Brights’ is a cool name. I’ve never heard that attached to a band. It’s kind of cool.” We’ve always straddled some darker, moodier, gloomier elements—being Northwest folks suffering through the cold—but we also love pop, and are trying to find the light of things. So, it felt like ‘Smokey’ Brights embodied the dichotomy that sounded like what we were already doing.
Guillén: I understand you’ve been to a few of the Treefort festivals, but I’m curious what your experience of this particular edition of Treefort was like? For our community this edition was painfully meaningful. It took such a struggle and effort on the part of the Treefort team to get the festival going that, for myself, it felt triumphant that Treefort actually got back out there for the community. There had been worried concerns that they might have to cancel again when the Delta Variant began spreading in Idaho, which I honestly believed might have spelled the death of this festival. So it was great that the festival got to go, albeit masked and vaxxed and waxed (whatever people had to do). [The band laughs.]
So I want to know if each of you can give me a feeling you had about what your experience of the festival was? I know you got to play three different stages—the Record Exchange, the El Korah Shrine, and the Hideout—which is lucky. I don’t know many musicians that have had that luck. So, perhaps, in describing your experience, can you comment as well on the variance of the stages? Perhaps on the sound systems? If you felt your music was being presented differently on the different stages?
Kim West: I’ll go first. You described it perfectly. The experience was triumphant. It was triumphant and surreal to get to play our favorite festival. We played Treefort a couple of times before and the first time we played we came in 20 minutes before our set and had to leave at 7:00AM the next day because we were on tour. All of our friends were like, “What are you doing? You have to be here the whole time!” We were walking around the streets of Boise, freaking out, saying, “What are we doing? We’re messing up! We have to be here the whole time!” Ever since then, we come Wednesday through Sunday and just try to experience so much of it because it’s more music than we get to see in four days.
Guillén: Who can? It’s a discovery festival! You’ve been here three or four times, as you’ve said, and yet this is the first time I’ve seen you, or even heard of you, because there’s always over 300 bands and it’s tough trying to graph out who to listen to. A person can only do so much. I feel lucky that I got to see you guys this time. A lot of that is due to Dana, who has been doing a remarkable job for you. She reached out and invited me to come hear you.
I feel your band is on the cusp of something—I sense it, I feel it—and I’m excited for you guys. I’ve been listening to as much of your music as I could get my hands on and have been bopping around the house. I really love the music. But back to the festival, other band and stage experiences?
Ryan Devlin: I’ll try to be brief but I can speak to that feeling that it might not have happened was really palpable. There was a lot of conflict even within our own immediate community of other musicians and friends, people who come to every Smokey Brights show in Boise, who weren’t so convinced that Treefort should be happening. I was following along. I read Eric Gilbert’s interview in the Idaho NPR affiliate where he said, “We need to prove that this can work. That if we get vaccination cards in hand, and we mask up, we can go ahead and have a really good time together.”
One of the most surreal moments to me was when I had a hangout with a friend, a resident of Boise, usually vocal on Twitter about how Treefort shouldn’t happen because Idaho’s health care systems were overloaded, and it was too irresponsible. We went to our first set, we hung out, we had a really long conversation, and then that night he drove home and he passed what he described as a country bar. He looked at it and a lightbulb went off in his head. He thought, “I’ve driven by this bar every night during this pandemic and it’s been packed. These people aren’t wearing masks. And these people aren’t being vaccinated (some might be, who knows?). Treefort’s not the problem.”
Kim West: Of course not.
Ryan Devlin: Treefort has been working collectively to create a safe experience. If they don’t do that, as a music community, as promoters, as bands, people are going to find something else to do but it might not be as safe. So that feeling of being right on the edge, everyone was feeling that, but it wasn’t until we got there that we thought, “This has to happen.”
Kim West: It has to happen, yeah. And I couldn’t have thought of a cooler way to start our experience than to play The Record Exchange for their first in-store appearance in 18 months. The sound was amazing. I wasn’t expecting a stage. I wasn’t expecting a full PA. It was like the whole nine yards. The sound guy was probably one of the more experienced sound guys in Boise. He had worked for everybody and knew that whole system backwards and forwards. We could hear everything. It was a really nice way to ease back into this festival experience.
Guillén: I was just watching the videos from your performance at the Record Exchange today. They’ve just gone up.
Kim West: Oh, cool….
Guillén: And they do sound good.
Kim West: We’ve played in stores before and it doesn’t usually sound like that.
Guillén: How about the El Korah Shrine?
Nick Krivchenia: I think my audio is gone again. Oh, here I am!!
Guillén: [Laughs.] Okay, that’s enough feedback out of you! [Band laughs.]
Luke Logan: The El Korah was massive. We felt really humbled to play it and thankful that we were able to get that slot and that Eric trusted us with that. One of the things that we didn’t have during the pandemic was audiences. They’re a pretty important half of what we do; the people who come to give it back in our faces. We played some shows throughout the summer. We had a couple of ones where it felt like we were getting some energy and pulsing but they were smaller scale. Our El Korah experience was big scale. Talking to what Ryan was saying, knowing that everyone had gone through so much to get to that point too, that it was a very intentional crowd, even moreso than it usually is, made it even more meaningful as they were moving along with the rhythms that Nick was putting out. It made it one of the more special performing experiences I’ve ever had.
Guillén: Which leads me to the question of what it was like for you guys to be onstage looking out at a masked audience? Normally, you’d be registering smiles, you’d be registering facial reactions to your music; but, suddenly, you’re watching a sea of masked faces. Did that affect you? Other musicians who have answered that question for me have said that it didn’t make a difference, that they still felt the energy of the crowd. But did you miss the facial connection?
Ryan Devlin: I can speak to that. We had a few practice runs of playing to masked audiences and I have to say that, at first, it was a little disorienting because we are so much depending on the energy put forth from our audience and, yeah, that is usually displayed in cheering, in smiling, in singing along, all those things that we don’t really get to have with a masked audience. But by the time we got to the El Korah Shrine, we had several different performing experiences and I was pretty used to the masked audience. Feeling the energy of those people in that room far transcended any sort of loss of seeing the smiles or anything like that. One thing that the mask does not cover are tears. When we played “I Love You, but Damn”, I looked out and saw at least three friends, dude friends, just crying.
Guillén: Dudes aren’t the same anymore, are they? [Laughs]. Nick, reaction to the Hideout. How did you like the Hideout?
Nick Krivchenia: Loved it.
Guillén: It wasn’t too hot for you?
Nick Krivchenia: It was super hot. The sound was great. We got everything we needed. Great crowd.
Guillén: You guys might not have noticed this, but across the street from the Hideout was a big parking lot, which was where I was parked whenever I came down to the festival, and in the parking lot your music got amplified. It was a huge sound. I couldn’t believe it! There were people actually sitting on the higher levels of the parking lot to watch your set from there.
Kim West: That would have been a good spot to watch!
Guillén: I came in to cover Treefort this edition primarily because of my interest in the COVID Interruption—those 18 months of artistic interruption—which almost devasted film and film festival culture because film culture is based so much on production and exhibition, both of which couldn’t be done. Whereas, music differs in that—though you couldn’t have exhibition and concerts—musicians could still make music. Can you speak to how your band kept its musicality together? I’m actually proposing that the COVID Interruption helped many artists focus and get more creative. What happened with you folks?
Kim West: For us, it was three phases of COVID. We had a record on deck, “I Love You, but Damn”, that was going to come out. We had four tours, national and international, booked. We had a whole year ready to go. We were like, “Here we go!” We were getting ready and then COVID hit. We actually personally weren’t very creative the first couple of months. We were sad. All of a sudden we were free-floating and trying to figure it out. I consider us very lucky in that we were all able to prioritize our time in getting together and practicing and making that something that was important to us. Ryan and I saw these two men [Nick and Luke] and our two other friends and that was it. Those were the only people we saw during the whole pandemic in person without the masks. We made it work. We got through the sadness. We wrote a record that we kind of liked. Then we kind of scrapped that. Then we wrote another record that we really liked and we went and recorded it about a month and a half ago. In two days all the amazing tracks were done. In a week everything was recorded. Then we came into being able to play live shows again. There wasn’t a moment of, “Oh no. Do we know how to do this still?” It was: “Oh yeah, we can!!”
Guillén: One thing that has always fascinated me about music is the cover song. There were two songs that caught me in your work immediately: “I Love You, but Damn”, of course, but then you had a cover of Gerry Rafferty’s “Right Down the Line”, which was just a beautiful cover. And then when Dana sent me the press notes, I discovered there was this wonderful love story behind all of this with the covers and the poor Christmas and the CD that went out with the covers on it as Christmas gifts. I’m interested in knowing what some of those covers were on that CD, because it’s not available is it?
Kim West: I actually have a picture of it on my phone from a friend’s aunt who just found a copy of that.
Ryan Devlin: It was just a burnt CD.
Guillén: That’s what I figured, but I thought it was interesting because I have been arguing with musicians I’ve met in the Boise scene about the importance of covers. I’m an older guy so I’m familiar with music from the ‘60s and the ‘70s, and going even further back. I had a complaint with the Boise music scene when I first arrived because it was so thoroughly saturated with neo-psychedelia. It was like every band I heard was neo-psychedelia and they were copying each other. I could only take so much of that, y’know? I would say, “Can’t you guys learn a traditional? Like even just one traditional? Can’t you go back and sing a song written by a songwriter from the 1970s? Would that be so wrong?”
For me, the value of a song is that it can be interpreted. If you write a good song, it can be sung in different tempos, different languages, you can do so much with the structure of the song. So you started out with a burnt CD of covers and I’d like to know what some of the titles were on that burnt CD. As I was going through your body of work noting which covers you’d done, there was “Right Down the Line”, there was Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams”, and Sinead O’Connor’s “Nothing Compares to You.” Are there any others that you’ve actually recorded?
Ryan Devlin: That first EP was wintery, holiday-feeling songs for us, but they were not traditional holiday songs. We had Joni Mitchell’s “River”, Kim sang it, and it was really beautiful.
Guillén: I would love to hear that. You know, of course, that Joni Mitchell’s “River” has since become an official holiday song?
Ryan Devlin: We did a cover from one of my most formative bands, Idaho’s own Built to Spill. We did “Twin Falls, Idaho.” We did “St. Augustine” by Bob Dylan, again feeling vaguely religious, vaguely holiday. It’s one of my favorite Dylan tunes.
Guillén: How autobiographical are your songs? My roommate was listening to “I Love You, but Damn” and he was taken with the lyrics from where you talked about “being taken home to dinner to meet the parents and how are you going to explain me”. Was that about you two?
Kim West: “You’re back home getting your degree / explain me to your family.”
Guillén: With the COVID Interruption having tripped up the release of “I Love You, But Damn”, don’t you think it should somehow be re-released?
Ryan Devlin: We would need to get a bigger label.
Kim West: We have two singles coming out soon. And we’re going to release a deluxe version of “I Love You, but Damn” on CD with those two. We’ve gotten quite a number of requests for CDs, generally from people not in the U.S., usually people in Asia; but, CD technology is still alive and well in certain parts of the world and in people’s cars.
Guillén: Tell me the story of “I Love You, but Damn.”
Ryan: In the briefest sense possible, not all of Smokey Brights’ songs are autobiographical, but the speaker in that song is probably Ryan Devlin, me. When Kim and I first started dating about twelve years ago, I was playing in a couple of punk bands and touring a lot. For the first six months of us dating I was gone easily three months of it. We had an up and down cycle, y’know? We’d get together, we’d break up, we’d get together, we’d break up. That song is literally about love and distance, trying to grow up and figure it out, while being very far away from this person that might be falling in love. If we might be falling in love, we might have to change ourselves, I might have to change how I think about myself.
Guillén: I’m sure you recognize that in the corpus of your work, it is an important song. As I was reviewing your work, it was the first song that, POW, I was grabbed. “What is this song?!!” And I’ve noticed you’ve chosen to use it to close your sets, so obviously you are aware of its power? So I’m glad it’s getting a CD re-release with your two new singles.
I’m going to let you go, because you got to go, you have other people to talk to, but thank you so much for your time and I really hope you guys enjoy your ascent. I really think you’re on a cresting wave.
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