Aspartame

Apr 17, 2023

Hello dear readers, silver and gold,

The last couple of weeks have been a bit of a whirlwind. I say couple of weeks, but then I think about it and I mean just a few days. I say just a few days, but then I think about it more, and what I mean is couple of months. However long it’s been, it’s been a bit of a whirlwind. Yes, so much has happened that it’s difficult to pull anything from my memory at all. Should I keep saying nothing or try and pin something down?

Last Wednesday I announced my upcoming album French Bath by putting out a single called “Aspartame.” It feels like an important song for me; it’s strange and cool when your own song makes you cry. Feels like I wrote it so long ago, but I guess it wasn’t all that long. It was one of those songs that flew out in a single sitting (why can’t all songs be like that?).

A few days after laying down a quick demo I was visiting my mom in New Orleans, where she was posted up for work. During her workday, I was alone and would spend my time zigzagging aimlessly around the city. When I think of Aspartame I think about this mini trip, listening to my new demo on repeat, moving my legs as fast as I could (but still slow) under the lobotomizing heat.

My friend Ben Townsend had heard me play “Aspartame” at a show, approached me about making the video for it. Ben looks like he was raised on a pig farm in Indiana, and he was. What I mean to say is, Ben gives off bro. I’d never seen his work before, I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it was a cool surprise to get a sneak peek at his documentary project and be blown away by the artistry of it. I thought Ben must be secretly sensitive, and I was down.

We spent a handful of days doing test shoots around the city before Ben had the idea of moving it to a love motel in the Poconos. The song is about a relationship of sorts coming to an end—at one’s own will. And it’s hard to think of a situation that feels more alone than being solo at a remote lover’s hotel. Or alternatively, a decision that feels more independent than choosing to be there alone. Basically, Ben’s idea felt like “it.” Also, I’d been wanting to check out this place for years.

Pocono Palace was grimy as hell. Different suites had been erected ;) throughout different decades, and maybe in the 50s they hadn’t yet figured out not to install a heated pool in a carpeted room with no ventilation. On opening the door to the suite you were hit with a wall of hot and wet air. The “logs” for the fireplaces were not made of wood, and whatever the material was made them look like giant tootsie rolls you were lighting on fire. If it sounds like I’m shit-talking, I’m not. I loved every square foot of its soiled glamour.

Our compact crew (made up of Sophie and Roya) packed cards and a bottle of fancy bubbly red wine to celebrate for when we wrapped, but we ended up not wrapping until check-out the next morning. Sophie and I got a two-hour nap in. Roya got one. Ben didn’t sleep at all.

Watch “Aspartame” ↓ ↓ ↓