| Z. |
:: |
Not only are you a musician but you are a visual artist as well. Is there a common thread that ties your different approaches of art all together? Even within your music you explore styles that are sonically very different from one another. How do all these different aesthetics, fit you, as one artist? |
| L. |
:: |
I’m a very young artist. I don’t mean “I’m only 26, and that’s younger than the majority of the population.” No. I mean that I’m still discovering what subjects and mediums interest me. It’s all still fresh. Art, and I include music in that, has always been a process of discovery for me. When I moved to the Yukon over a year ago, I didn’t bring any instruments with me, only a hand-held tape recorder. I remained open to whatever came into my life. Surprisingly, the first thing that transpired was working with the land. I spent five months on a Yukon homestead, digging potatoes, raising animals, horseback riding, eating. Afterward, I took care of a friend’s house and they owned an upright piano. I had rarely played the piano, but that’s what was there. I began playing, figuring sounds. New Broken Deer songs like “White Woman” came from that experience. I strongly feel that playing that instrument was a similar process to interacting with the land. It was a means of grounding — connecting to the unspoken stories in that particular place. So, in short, I think the aesthetic tie in my art is the process, less than a subject matter or medium. And the process is me interacting with a particular place, and all the materials it offers – whether they be a kazoo, crayons, wool or soil – with the intention of finding some truth. I really hope I have that fresh approach my whole life, and not get stuck in a routine. I think an artist can always discover different worlds, transform as a person but create work that is consistent with who they are, even if it be superficially different. |
| Z. |
:: |
Your music has a sense of timelessness. You have the ability to create a sound outside genres and trends while remaining very idiosyncratic. Your voice, instrumentation, and aesthetic point to a day gone by, while your recordings and compositional techniques sometimes point ahead. Do you think of Broken Deer as ancient or modern? |
| L. |
:: |
I don’t think of Broken Deer being exclusively ancient or modern. Like you say, the music or sound is not really associated with any particular movement. And I feel that Broken Deer is not entirely music. There are songs, of course, but I place more emphasis on the process of recording. Recording is this private way for me to not only document what I’m doing, but to find sounds that speak from my dreams, different parts of my body, the landscape. Consequently, I don’t think these sounds do well blasting through laptop speakers, on the go or during the day. I think the sounds are best represented as close as you can get them, in a dark space – but these things seem to be lacking in our mass modern culture. That is, the spiritual practice of listening and spending time in dark spaces. I really think sensory overload through sounds, visuals and artificial light is directly connected to our loss of wonderment. |
| Z. |
:: |
You seemed to be very influenced by nature. You came from a small town, before moving to a small city, and then further embarked into the isolation of the Yukon where you worked with sled dogs and homesteaded. How does nature emanate itself inside your art? |
L. |
:: |
The emanation of nature is obvious, sure, because I often incorporate field recordings into my compositions. But the influence runs deeper than mimicking or representing. I’ve always felt strongly impacted by the natural world in a very visceral way. Yes, there are beautiful splendors to witness, but for me it’s more about a sense of always being able to take my place in the landscape. Now I could be talking about the surrounding environment, or my own inner territory. The two don’t seem separate to me. Like sound, nature is felt in its movements. Things grow. Decay. Die. But, as the Black Eyed-Peas say, “The energy never dies” (although I’m sure they got that from somewhere). I feel very connected to these things, and my sound work is a means for me to play and engage in the slow, sustained process of pulling storied threads from the land and weaving something beautiful. |
| Z. |
:: |
Tell us a little about the music/art scene in Whitehorse. |
| L. |
:: |
There’s a strong music and arts scene here in Whitehorse. It’s small, and teetering more on the traditional side, but there is space for more “alternative” ventures. I’ve found that people are really supportive of others as individuals, and are really open to whatever you have to contribute. I think that’s really important. The amount of territorial arts funding helps, too, and makes it possible for artists to focus on their practice full-time. |
| Z. |
:: |
How do you get the sounds that you do? Some of the music sounds as if it’s recorded through a cell phone, with blips and glitches of a lo-grade digital mic. But instead of sounding cold and thin it comes across as warm and deep. The lo-fi grain of your music is very characteristic, why do you prefer the lo-fi sound? |
| L. |
:: |
I play! Around! Also, I mostly record analogue, using a little hand-held tape recorder. Instead of interacting with the recorder solely as an input device, I employ its shape and physicality. For example, I recorded the drum beat for a new song, “Ivory Tower”, by hitting the recorder. The same goes for the tape itself. I’ve often recorded on tapes with material already present, which leads to unexpected blips, drones. I feel like I’m sculpting rather than recording, and sound is the material. I prefer the lo-fi recording process because of the interaction and element of surprise it provides. I prefer the sound itself because it’s the sound of my analogue and earthbound childhood. |
| Z. |
:: |
It is the year 2010, how do you see things and how do you hear the future of Broken Deer? |
| L. |
:: |
To celebrate this month’s new moon, three friends and I went out into the middle of a huge, snow-covered horse pasture. It was dark-dark. We decided that we’d play a game where we’d walk away from each other in the four directions. After many, many paces, we’d close our eyes, turn around, and walk our way back to the center, with no visual aids. We found each other. Then we lit a sparkler. This is how I see 2010 |
