![]() ![]() Williamson had a longtime relationship with another musician right before Covid, and while the ensuing breakup upended many of her hopes and plans, it opened a new path forward for her. ![]() Hiss Golden Messenger is leading the way.Jess Williamson’s last album was called Sorceress, but Time Ain’t Accidental casts a spell of its own–one of self-liberation. Summer is here and Skynet is a few years from taking over. Let your Google freak flags fly, boys and girls. But having “Saturday’s Song” makes 2014 feel a lot better than 1995. Having a hole in your underwear is a little different when you’re 32 instead of 14. I miss my BMX bike, but I don’t miss all the other shit that came with being young. Thank you, Taylor, and all your friends who made this song. After all, aren’t we all living in a world of analytics anyways? It’s everything somebody close to my age and, perhaps, socioeconomic background can relate to. Smoke a bowl, hang with your lover by a stream or something, then listen to this song again. Taylor’s voice lingers like a freshly cleaned bowl. OK, mandolin, acoustic strummy strum, but then I get my nerve tips tickled by a bassline from the gods. Then realize this dude’s got magic trying to seep out through shitty Dell speakers. I listen to “Saturday’s Song” once, without headphones. It’ll be on Lateness of Dancers, their first album for Merge, in September. I go a site and see that Hiss Golden Messenger have a new song premiered. Time passes, and now I’m back in Philly, sitting on my porch in my boxers with an unfortunate hole right around the crotch, and I’m just browsing the old World Wide Web. So we hang, make jokes, ride a train, talk biz, all that stuff that indie thirtysomethings do. We have a billion mutual friends and I’ve always been curious about this mofo. I met this sweet-talking dude for a bit in Utrecht, the Netherlands, a month or two ago. Hiss Golden Messenger (aka Michael Taylor) is my subject. Old enough for drugs, but not old enough for consequences. After a hard day’s work, we’d ride to Video Visions and rent Striptease and stare in wonder at Demi Moore’s manufactured body, then try and give Abby and Allison a call to see if they’d bring cigarettes. We were not professionals, but my god, we enjoyed working. I think one of my friends could actually do a trick. ![]() Every day, we got up early, rode to the woods and started digging. Me and my best friends decided to build an entire BMX dirt course illegally in the woods by the reservoir. Anyways, so here I was, summer break, couldn’t drive yet, and had nothing to do. It might have been the summer Dale Earnhardt died? No, he died in 2001. I’m deep into a 30-pack, so don’t ask me for specific dates ‘cause I won’t remember. This particular summer memory happened somewhere in the ‘90s. Whether it’s drinking beer on a lake or trying to get a girl from youth group to channel that Jesus love into an epic make-out, we know summer. When summer rolls in, us Hoosiers will take full advantage. We spend the entire goddamn winter being destroyed by lake effect snow and Arctic freeze-outs. We do it the best, especially northern Indiana. The Kennedys have got nothing on Indiana summers. All those rich fucks out there who have spent their summers wherever their blue blood families have spent the last 2,000 summers are stupid. That’s the nether zone where northern Indiana meets Michigan. People talk about Big Sur, Newport, the Hamptons… but nobody talks about Michiana. We lived somewhere between nowhere and somewhere else. I was in seventh grade, and I was a future burnout kid riding BMX bikes with my best friends. This week, Talkhouse writers talk their song of the summer of 2014. Every summer, there’s that song - the song that defines those sunny days and balmy nights, the one you’ll forever associate with a specific time and place. ![]()
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