Interview by Dan Fox
Photos by Chris George
It was a bittersweet day in 2004 when Chris George and Daniel Majorie powered down their Milton St. home studio in old Gretna for the last time. For years, the aptly-titled Living Room had earned a reputation for being the place for up and coming bands of all genres to record. Some of our most beloved performers, from Blair Gimma, Big Blue Marble and Community to Hawg Jaw and Outlaw Order cut some of their first recordings at the Living Room. It wasn’t just the rock bottom costs, which were always per project (never hourly) that kept it booked solid through the year, but the whole experience of tracking in an intimate environment (the control room doubled as George’s bedroom) with people who brought a fiery, passionate and personal approach to engineering. Majorie’s engineering skills, which he had honed at school and in Nashville, coupled with George’s creative abilities that ranged from mic placement and drum tuning to barbecue and photography made for an unforgettable experience for musicians otherwise feeling the stress of a recording session. Their success eventually exhausted the possibilities of that little house and it became increasingly evident that a new venue would be needed, one that would not only broaden the possibilities but suggest a full-time occupation instead of recording only after a day’s work in an outside world hardly sympathetic to the hours music keeps. For over two years now, the buzz has been growing over the work that Majorie and George have put into the church/machine shop sitting directly under the Crescent City Connection, which was little more than a shell and a prayer when they wrangled it away from the city’s coffers. The Living Room Studio, version two is about ready to open its doors again and the wait will have been well worth it. From the colorful paint choices to the crisp echo of the live room, it’s clear that the past couple of years have been a labor of love for Majorie and George. ANTIGRAVITY caught up with the duo as they worked in the control room, one of the last spaces of the studio to be completed, and talked about reviving old gear, keeping bands happy and, of course, the good ole’ days of four-track cassette recording. (more…)

Interview By
Since it’s anniversary month here at AG, here’s another June blast from the past: our Keith Knight interview from June 2006. As I said in the post about this month’s cover, I felt like that issue was really worth celebrating since it was our first anniversary after Katrina and we asked Keith Knight to draw me and editors Noah Bonaparte and Patrick Strange into the mix, which he did brilliantly. Keith happened to be in New Orleans that month to promote The Beginner’s Guide To Community-Based Arts to the librarian’s conference, so we put together a slideshow for him at Handsome Willy’s.
After a year and a few months at it, nine-piece local band Antenna Inn’s sleek, smart and superbly constructed suites of jazzy prog rock are starting to draw a large crowd. They’ve been headlining shows more frequently and are about to release their solid new album, Do/Work, with a party at Tipitina’s. Their’s is the sound of a band working through ideas together for the first time, as they realize their talent and range. As good as Do/Work is, you get the feeling that their next album is going be the one—it’s going to be crazy. For now, though, Do/Work and its highlights: the angelic and Beach Boys-ish back-up vocals and the jazz dirge breakdown at the end of “Ernest Borgnine,” the high frequency bass and bright keyboard on “Ink,” the disorienting horns on “Stockholm Syndrome,” and the swingin’ verses in “Nobody Expects The Spanish Inquisition.” Though the choruses are pretty catchy, there’s something sublime about each song’s instrumental stretches. The lyrics are dark, anxious, and purging, sometimes malevolent and sometimes self-help-like: “If you’re looking for love, stop, because you will never be happy, even when you are. You will always be lonely…c’mon, people, fall back out of love. Call your mother. Mothers, call your sons.” There’s also a rolling confidence throughout the band—one that could easily be perceived as arrogant, except that confidence is tempered with a clear love of not only New Orleans and its rock scene but the city’s traditional music, as well as a want, almost a need, to create a unifying force that makes it all more successful.
“You do you, I’m a do me—and don’t come between this here.” With this simple yet profound declaration, Lil’ Doogie introduced himself to the world a little over a year ago on his website, lildoogie.com. He has since become an internet sensation, posting videos of the adventures that take him from the deepest recesses of West Bank garage hang-outs to the heart of New Orleans, even showing up during Mardi Gras on local TV network WGNO’s report from the Endymion parade. If you’ve been following him then you’re familiar with his spicy-tongued rants on all things related to the thug life. You may even be sporting his face on a Dirty Coast t-shirt that asks quite simply, “Brah, I’m real?” Well, long-time fans, you might be in for a surprise. ANTIGRAVITY was recently contacted by Lil’ Doogie because he had something “to tell them people.” We met up at the park on a nice Sunday afternoon to find out what he had to say and, as you’ll shortly find out, it was quite the eye-opener.
What is it about playing a record that feels so natural, so sensual? Is it the warm sizzle that shivers up through the needle, the soft punch of the bass, the steady, hypnotic spin of the turntable or album covers the size of a children’s book? It’s a lost art, really, the manipulation of grooved vinyl, pouring songs back and forth into one another so they wash over the dance floor as one never-ending wave—or cutting sound into a thousand patterned pieces, amplifying the ecstatic flicker of fingertips for all to hear. Music nowadays seems like it happens in a digital fog; the gears of our listening devices are atomized and hidden behind an opaque plastic shell, the “search” for music no more engaging than email, entire collections measured in weeks and months existing only as fragments on a magnet. That a select few still burden themselves with crate after crate of LPs and 45s, boxes of cables, mixers and, of course, the heavy motors of two direct-drive turntables, all for the sake of bringing a good time to anyone who shows up, a chance to connect spiritually to something that drives the entire universe—is nothing short of a miracle. 

