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On this episode of The Sharp Notes, we’re doing something a little different. We recently welcomed Eddie Brigati of the Rascals to The Sharp Notes at Garden State Plaza in Paramus, New Jersey for a live conversation in front of an audience of about 50 people. It was a wonderful night—part interview, part celebration, and a chance to hear some remarkable stories about New Jersey, the Rascals, songwriting, recording, family, and a lifetime in music. What you’re about to hear is that conversation, recorded live in the shop. And if you enjoy this one, we’d love to have you join us in person sometime. We’ll be hosting more live interviews and events at The Sharp Notes, and there’s really nothing quite like hearing these conversations unfold in the room. So, with that, here’s my introduction from that evening—and my conversation with Eddie Brigati.

There are certain film scores that become so closely associated with the movies they accompany that it’s hard to imagine one without the other. Elmer Bernstein’s music for Ghostbusters is one of those scores: playful, eerie, sophisticated, and somehow able to take the supernatural seriously without ever forgetting that the film is a comedy. My guest on this episode has a particularly unique connection to that music. Peter M. Bernstein is a composer, orchestrator, arranger, and the son of legendary film composer, Elmer Bernstein. He worked alongside his father on the original Ghostbusters score and has built a substantial career of his own in film and television music. Today, he is also helping bring that score back to life for Ghostbusters in Concert, where the original film is performed with a live orchestra. We’re going to talk about Ghostbusters, of course, but also about composing, orchestration, musical inheritance, and what it means to revisit work you helped create more than four decades ago. Peter M. Bernstein, welcome to The Sharp Notes.

Record collectors have never exactly demanded convenience. We like shelves, sleeves, turntables, careful handling, and we have the occasional mild panic over a fingerprint. So perhaps Tiny Vinyl makes perfect sense. At just four inches across, these playable records shrink the familiar vinyl experience into something portable, collectible, and undeniably fun and maybe even adorable. The catalog already stretches from BTS and Olivia Rodrigo to Bob Marley, the Rolling Stones, and beyond. Founders Neil Kohler and Jesse Mann see Tiny Vinyl not as a replacement for the records we already love, but as another way into physical music, especially for listeners who may have grown up with streaming first and playing records second. And once you see one spinning on a turntable, it is difficult not to be a little charmed by the whole thing. So how did a record small enough to fit in a Funko Pop box become its own format, and where might it go from here? Welcome Neil Kohler and Jesse Mann to The Sharp Notes.

There are records that disappear because nobody wanted them, and then there are records that somehow manage to wait nearly 50 years for the right moment to arrive. Gravest Gravy belongs firmly in the second category. In October of 1977, the Cramps entered Ardent Studios in Memphis with Alex Chilton and recorded a body of material that would help define the earliest version of the band. Some of those recordings became the group’s first Vengeance Records singles and later appeared on Gravest Hits. Others remained unheard. Lux Interior and Poison Ivy returned to the tapes in 1989, mixed material for a proposed album called Gravest Gravy, chose artwork, and then, for reasons that seem to have disappeared into history, the record was shelved. Now, in 2026, that record is finally coming out. Helping bring it across the finish line are none other than Henry Rollins and Ian MacKaye, working together as RAM Prod. on behalf of The Cramps Inc., which has revived Vengeance Records and begun digging into the band’s archive. Rollins and MacKaye went through the surviving quarter-inch tapes, compared multiple mixes, worked with engineers at Inner Ear Studios and Infrasonic Sound, and helped shape the material into the record that Lux and Ivy had once envisioned. For Rollins, there is also a much more personal thread running through all of this. He and MacKaye first saw the Cramps together in Washington, D.C. in 1979. Nearly half a century later, they are helping ensure that another piece of the band’s history finds its way into the hands of listeners. So this conversation is about Gravest Gravy, but it is also about something larger: what it means to preserve music without embalming it, what survives when analog tape is properly cared for, what gets lost when music becomes just another file on a screen, and why records, record stores, labels, liner notes and all of the strange little clues surrounding recorded music still matter. Henry Rollins has spent most of his life listening closely, collecting obsessively, tracing music backward and forward through history, and thinking seriously about the physical culture that surrounds it. That makes Gravest Gravy a very good place to begin a listeners journey into The Cramps’ history and into the musical lineage that preceded it.

There are interviewers who ask questions, and then there are interviewers who understand that the question is only a doorway to something bigger. Anthony Mason has spent decades walking through those doorways for CBS News, sitting across from presidents, artists, musicians, actors, writers, and people who have lived right up next to history’s major events. But for many of us, Mason’s work has been especially meaningful in the world of music. His conversations with artists like Bruce Springsteen, Aretha Franklin, Dolly Parton, Paul Simon and so many others have never felt like celebrity check-ins. They come across as attempts to understand something a little deeper. That same spirit is at the center of his new series, Alchemy with Anthony Mason, a long-form interview program filmed in his New York living room. The fact that we find ourselves in Mason’s apartment is meaningful. This is not a desk, not a studio, not the usual promotional network machine. It is a room built for deeper conversation. It’s an opportunity for an artist to think out loud and maybe find some unexpected answers. The real subject of Alchemy isn’t fame; it’s transformation: how artists keep working when the world has already decided what they are supposed to represent. In this conversation, I wanted to talk with Anthony Mason not only about the people he has interviewed, but about the act of interviewing itself. How do you create trust? How do you move past the polished answer? How do you ask a question that gives someone room to discover what they really think? From one interviewer to another, this was a treasured chance to speak with someone who has practiced the craft at the highest level and who still seems deeply curious about the magic that can happen when two people sit down and really listen to one another.

There’s a particular kind of band that doesn’t just make records; they build a whole working language around the survival of their career including community, self-reliance, all betwixt the strange weather of modern life. Soft Palms — the Long Beach duo of Julia Kugel and Scott Montoya — are just that. The duo’s new album, IN ECHO, is not background music and it is not nostalgia. It is a tense, analog-warm, dream-pop-adjacent transmission from the last five years of overload: media panic, emotional burnout, fractured relationships, and that low, constant hum of modern fight-or-flight living. The band has described this new sound as “low-key punk,” which feels about right — not punk as posture, but punk as pressure, restraint, abrasion, and some refusal. But Soft Palms are also doing something else with this moment. Alongside the album, Kugel and Montoya have written How To Be Self-Reliant In The Music Business, a plainspoken guide - a book - drawn from more than two decades of writing, recording, touring, booking, producing, organizing, and figuring out how to keep going when the music industry keeps asking artists to do more with less. And for physical media folks, IN ECHO is arriving in a fittingly tactile edition: black glitter vinyl with a band-exclusive Gold Rainbow foil jacket, a hand-screened and autographed insert, a 3-inch glitter sticker, and a 2-inch rainbow glimmer button — those versions are limited to just 75 copies worldwide. So today’s conversation is about IN ECHO, but it is also about the ecosystem that made it possible: independence, royalties, community, burnout, discipline, survival, and the stubborn belief that artists can still build something meaningful on their own terms.

Tonight we’re very pleased to welcome Nabil Ayers: a writer, podcaster, record store co-founder, label executive, musician and someone whose life and work sit directly at the crossroads of music, identity, memory, and family. Nabil is the president of Beggars Group, one of the most important independent label groups in the world, with a roster and history that includes artists such as The National, Big Thief, The Breeders, TV on the Radio, FKA twigs, and many others. Before that, he co-founded Sonic Boom Records store in Seattle, helping build the kind of independent record store culture that places like The Sharp Notes still believe in: human discovery, conversation, curation, and the strange magic of finding something you did not know you needed. He is also the author of My Life in the Sunshine, a memoir that explores his life as the son of legendary musician Roy Ayers, not through a conventional father-son relationship, but through absence, imagination, inheritance, and the complicated ways music can connect us to people we may not really know. His writing has appeared in The New York Times, The Guardian, Rolling Stone, and GQ, and his podcast Identified continues that search into family, identity, and the stories we build around where we come from. So tonight’s conversation is not only about records, labels, or the music business. It is about the lives behind the music, the communities that keep it moving, and the questions that follow us when sound becomes memory. Please join me in welcoming Nabil Ayers to The Sharp Notes.

Rhino Records began the way so many great record stories begin: with a little bit of money, a lot of taste, and a store full of people who believe that - above it all - it’s the music that matters. In this episode we speak with Richard Foos, co-founder of Rhino Records, about the independent shop that became one of the most important reissue labels in music history. Before Rhino was a catalog powerhouse, it was a record store built on humor, deep knowledge, and the stubborn belief that great records should not disappear because the industry had moved on to the next thing. This is also a conversation between two record store owners from different eras. Foos opened Rhino in the 1970s, when independent shops were everywhere and the major labels were letting huge pieces of musical history fall out of print. I’m building The Sharp Notes now, in a very different world, where vinyl has returned, physical media has become meaningful again, and curation may matter more than ever. So what has changed forever? The prices, the technology, the business model, and the way people discover music. What has stayed the same? The need for taste, the value of a good recommendation, the thrill of putting the right record in someone’s hands, and the belief that a record store can still be more than a place to buy things. It can be a classroom, a clubhouse, and sometimes, if the timing is right, the beginning of lifelong love of music.

Arturo Sandoval has lived several musical lives: Cuban-born trumpet virtuoso, Afro-Cuban jazz pioneer, Dizzy Gillespie protégé, composer, bandleader, and one of the most decorated musicians of his generation. He is a multiple Grammy winner, a Grammy Lifetime Achievement Award recipient, a Presidential Medal of Freedom recipient, and a Kennedy Center Honoree. And still, after all of that, he remains a restless student of sound. His new album, Sangú, is his 49th, a number that happens to match the year of his birth, 1949. It began during the pandemic with hundreds of iPhone recordings: fragments, grooves, chord changes, and ideas captured at home. His son Arturo “Tury” Sandoval III and his daughter-in-law and manager Melody Lisman helped shape those sketches into one of the most personal records of his career. Even the title came by accident. You’ll soon find out how a slip of language became a statement of purpose. The album is rooted in Afro-Cuban rhythm, but it is not nostalgic. It is Sandoval still moving forward, still practicing every day, still chasing freedom through discipline. In our conversation, he talks about forbidden jazz in Cuba, the Voice of America on the radio, Dizzy, Clint Eastwood, vinyl, yes even Rachmaninoff. This is a conversation about Sangú, but also about never stopping the creative process. About carrying Cuba inside you. About finding freedom in music, and then earning that freedom again every day. At 77, Arturo Sandoval does not sound like an artist looking back. He sounds like one who is still beginning.

Today, we return to one of the most discussed albums in pop history: The Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds. Nearly 60 years after Brian Wilson assembled its world of harmonies, longing, bass lines, sound effects, and impossible emotional detail, Interscope-Capitol’s Definitive Sound Series is preparing a new mono One Step edition sourced from analog tapes connected to the revered 1972 Brother/Reprise pressing. For collectors and audiophile listeners, that pressing has long held a special place because of its clarity, balance, and unusually vivid presentation of the album’s dense production. My guest is reissue producer Tom “Grover” Biery, who helped trace, verify, and bring these tapes back into the conversation with the help of Chris Bellman and the archive teams. We talk about why this source matters, what “three-dimensional mono” means, how a single-channel recording can still feel layered and spacious, and why the 1972 pressing may reveal something important about how Pet Sounds came to be understood after its original 1966 release. We also get into the practical side of making a record like this: tape boxes, archive clues, test pressings, quality control at RTI, the cost of producing a limited One Step edition, and the challenge of honoring a masterpiece without flattening it into mythology. Here is my conversation with Tom “Grover” Biery on Pet Sounds, the 1972 Brother/Reprise source, and the continuing search for the clearest way to hear one of Brian Wilson’s greatest achievements.

What does it mean for a musician to be free? Not free as a slogan, or a genre label, but truly free: free to search, free to return, free to follow a sound across a lifetime. Alan Braufman has been asking that question, in one form or another, for decades. Born in Brooklyn in 1951, Braufman became part of the New York free music community in the 1970s, connected to the downtown loft jazz scene, where music was not only performed, but lived. In 1975, he released Valley of Search, a debut whose title seemed to name something larger than a record: the artist as seeker, moving toward a sound, a feeling, a kind of musical truth. Now, with Anthem for Peace, Braufman returns with a new studio album produced by his nephew Nabil Ayers and recorded in a single day with Patricia Brennan, Chad Taylor, and Luke Stewart. The music is direct but open, melodic but untamed, rooted in free jazz while still reaching for song, spirit, and forward motion. His work has often been called optimistic free jazz, and maybe that phrase gets close to the center of it. Freedom can be beautiful, but it is not always easy. Searching can last a lifetime. So today, we ask Alan Braufman what he has been searching for, what he has found, and whether Anthem for Peace brings him closer to the freedom his music has been reaching toward all along.

Jarrod Lawson returns at an interesting moment in his career. With Just Let It, his third studio album, he’s not simply refining the sound that first brought him attention, he’s reshaping it. Long associated with a polished blend of soul, jazz, and R&B, Lawson leans into something more expansive here, pulling in hip-hop textures, contemporary production, and a wide circle of collaborators. The result is a record that resists easy categorization, less concerned with genre than with feel, instinct, and forward motion. There’s also a personal dimension running underneath the music. Now based in Nashville, and navigating life as a new father while maintaining an international touring schedule, Lawson is working through questions of balance, identity, and creative evolution in real time. That push and pull shows up in the music, but so does a sense of release. The album’s title is not accidental. It reflects a shift toward trusting the process, letting songs reveal themselves rather than forcing them into place, and allowing a broader set of influence - from ’90s R&B to classic soul - to coexist without overthinking it. What makes this conversation compelling is that Lawson is not looking backward, even as he carries those traditions with him. He’s building something that feels lived-in but not nostalgic, technical but not clinical. This is an artist who understands the lineage, but is more interested in what happens when you loosen your grip and let the music take you where it wants to go.

Mikaela Davis makes music that feels grounded, but never predictable. She has built a singular voice around the harp, and she uses it as a real expressive force, not as an ornament. On her new album Graceland Way, that voice carries the listener into a world shaped by atmosphere, instinct, and reflection. Made with close collaborators Dan Horne and John Lee Shannon in a hillside home studio in Los Angeles County, the record holds a strong sense of place. But Graceland Way is after more than mood alone. These songs move through heartbreak, longing, beauty, uncertainty, and the uneasy balance between light and shadow. There is warmth in the music, but also tension, and that tension gives the record much of its power. The album features a number of special guests, though its real center remains Davis herself and the emotional language she builds through the harp, the songs, and the world that surrounds them. What makes this record compelling is not only its sound, but the larger set of questions inside it: how environment shapes creation, how collaboration changes a song, how memory and myth blur together, and how music can alter the way we feel and see. Today, we’re talking with Mikaela Davis about Graceland Way, about songwriting, duality, and creative partnership, and about making a record that feels both intimate and transportive.

There’s a version of Spin Magazine that most people remember. The 1990s disruptor. Irreverent, artist-driven, willing to challenge the norms of mainstream music coverage while helping define the alternative music conversation in real time. For me, it was essential reading. At a moment when many magazines felt increasingly commercial, Spin made space for something weirder, without losing its grip on the broader culture. But that version doesn’t quite explain what Spin is now. Under CEO Jimmy Hutcheson, the brand has been rebuilt with a dual mandate. Honor the legacy, but don’t get trapped in it. That means a quarterly print magazine that leans into curation and permanence, alongside a daily digital operation pushing out a steady stream of coverage. It also means thinking beyond publishing: record labels, film and TV partnerships, live events, even a foothold in music tech. What does editorial authority look like in an era where artists can bypass media entirely, where algorithms shape discovery? Jimmy Hutcheson joins me to talk about rebuilding Spin, the value of holding some paper in your hand, reaching a new generation without losing the old one, and the ways in which a legacy music publication fits in a landscape that barely resembles the one it came from.

There’s a version of Frank Hannon most listeners think they know. As co-founder and lead guitarist of Tesla, his playing helped define a more grounded, blues-informed alternative to the excess of late ’80s hard rock. Melody over flash. Feel over spectacle. But my entry point wasn’t the studio records. It was Five Man Acoustical Jam. I wore that CD out as a kid. It reshaped what a rock band could sound like. I never owned it on vinyl, but always have my eyes peeled for a copy. That tension, between structure and looseness, runs through Hannon’s career. Alongside the arena legacy is a deeper Bay Area lineage. Improvisation, atmosphere, and the influence of players like Dickey Betts. It comes into focus on his new album, Reflections, and especially on “San Francisco,” an open-ended, first-take piece that leans into that psychedelic tradition, visually and musically, tracing back to the Summer of Love. So what happens when a player known for precision follows instinct instead? Frank Hannon joins me to talk about that side of his work, the road to Reflections, and of course, Tesla.