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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.

Welcome to The Sharp Notes Podcast. I’m Evan Toth, and this episode was recorded live in front of an audience at The Sharp Notes record store inside the Garden State Plaza in Paramus, New Jersey. My guest is author, journalist, and vinyl-world lifer Larry Jaffee, a guy whose career has basically been one long field recording of the music business, from punk chaos to pressing plant logistics. Larry wrote Record Store Day: The Most Improbable Comeback of the 21st Century, the inside story of how a scrappy idea turned into the biggest annual holiday on the record collector calendar, and why independent shops went from “endangered species” to cultural town squares again. But Larry’s not just chronicling the vinyl revival. He’s trying to rewire it. This interview was recorded just days before he moved to Iceland to co-found Thermal Beets Records, a geothermal-powered pressing plant concept aiming at making plant-based records from sugar beets instead of traditional PVC.  So yes, we go from limited edition RSD lore to the question lurking behind every new release: what does it cost, environmentally, and otherwise, to keep this format alive and thriving?

We welcome back a familiar and always thoughtful voice in music criticism and biography, Jude Warne. With the recent paperback release of her acclaimed authorized biography America: The Band, and the arrival of her deep-dive study Lowdown: The Music of Boz Scaggs, Jude joins us at a moment when her work continues to expand its reach and sharpen its focus. We have spoken together a few times now, but the road never seems to double back. Each visit opens a new corridor into the music. She also happens to be the author of one of the most perceptive pieces written about my own record, The Show. Warne has built a reputation for listening carefully and writing even closer, tracing the emotional and sonic contours of artists with the kind of patience that modern music coverage rarely affords. Whether she is unpacking the layered harmonies of America or the cool, shifting grooves of Boz Scaggs, her work reminds us that great music writing is not just about facts and timelines. It is about translating sound into story and helping us hear familiar records with fresh ears. This conversation was recorded live in front of an audience at The Sharp Notes record store in the Garden State Plaza in Paramus, New Jersey. As you will hear, when thoughtful music writing meets a room full of serious listeners, the result is exactly what you hope for: curiosity, discovery, and a few moments that might send you back to your turntable.

This episode is a little different, because what you’re about to hear was recorded live, in front of an audience, right here inside The Sharp Notes record store at the Garden State Plaza in Paramus, New Jersey. You might catch the room in it: few laughs, knowing nods, and shoppers walking past our front window.  My guest is author and music journalist Alan Light. Over the years he’s written as a rock critic for Rolling Stone, served as editor-in-chief at Vibe and Spin and he’s a regular contributor to The New York Times. He’s also the author of books that take pop culture seriously without draining it of feeling, including The Holy or the Broken, his deep dive into the long, strange ascent of Leonard Cohen's, “Hallelujah.” His newest book is Don’t Stop: a kaleidoscopic look at Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours. The tome is not just the well-worn legend of who was breaking up with whom, but how that record became a kind of emotional public square, the way it keeps pulling in young listeners nearly fifty years later, and why it still shows up everywhere, from TV and comedy sketches to the streaming era and TikTok. Alan’s reporting brings in artists and fans across generations, asking a simple question that turns out to be hard to answer: what is it about Rumours that refuses let go? In this conversation, we dig into the album’s mythology, its musical intelligence, and its afterlife.  So, here's our live chat. Maybe - next time - you'll join us.

This episode’s guest is one of those rare studio minds who makes the control room feel less like a workplace and more like a laboratory with excellent taste. Sylvia Massy is a producer, mixer, and engineer whose credits stretch from punk grit to arena-scale rock and beyond. Her name is often spoken as she produced Tool’s Undertow, but her story doesn’t start with platinum plaques. It starts in the mid-’80s trenches, making compilations, working with punk bands, engineering metal records, and learning the kind of hard-won lessons you only get when the tape is rolling and the stakes are real. From there, she becomes a crucial behind-the-boards force in Los Angeles, intersects with the Sound City recording studio mythology, and winds up in the orbit of Rick Rubin’s American Recordings era, touching projects that helped define what “big” sounded like in the ’90s. But the reason I wanted Sylvia on the show isn’t just the résumé. It’s the method. Sylvia is obsessed, in the best way, with recording technology and the physical stuff of sound. Consoles, mics, outboard gear, oddball techniques, and the kind of creative decisions that make an outsider sit up and pay attention. Her approach is curious, practical, fearless, and frequently hilarious. We also talk about Studio Confidential, a new live, in-person onstage conversation series launching in New York City. It’s designed to pull back the curtain on legendary sessions and the people who actually built those records from the inside out. The official residency runs February 3 through March 1, 2026 at NYC’s Sheen Center for Thought & Culture, with multiple shows each week. If Studio Confidential is about pulling back the curtain, Sylvia’s the person you want holding the flashlight. 

Some conversations begin with music. This one begins with language. A little French. A little English. When this interview takes place, it's a late night in Brussels, where the streets are quiet, the restaurants are closing down, and Lucien Fraipont (fray-pon), who records and performs under the names Robbing Millions and DUID, is generous enough to stay awake a bit longer and talk about his multifaced career in music. What follows is less an interview and more a map of how a musician becomes himself. How jazz training folds into electronic textures. How a teenage obsession with Nirvana morphs into a lifelong interest in improvisation. And how a home studio project grows into something restless and alive. Here, alter egos are less about costume changes and more about giving different parts of the same creative mind room to breathe. We talk about playing alone onstage with samplers and pedals, the strange discipline of improvising inside machines, the Brussels underground, working with Mark Hollander on Aksak Maboul records, and the beautiful problem of wanting to do everything at once: produce, perform, collaborate, wander. If you care about how music evolves, how scenes survive, and how curiosity keeps artists young, this conversation is for you.

There are musicians who treat tradition like a museum, and then there are musicians who treat it like a passport. Stéphane Wrembel belongs firmly in the second category. You may know his work from the soundtracks to Midnight in Paris or Vicky Cristina Barcelona, those melodies that drift in from another time but somehow land right in your lap. His newest release, Django New Orleans II: Hors-Série, leans into that same sensation. It’s a record that threads Django Reinhardt’s Jazz Manouche through the brass-soaked spirit of New Orleans, recorded with a nine-piece ensemble of some of New York’s most serious improvisers, and shaped by Wrembel’s own restless sense of exploration. The album moves easily from classic repertoire to new original compositions, and along the way, Wrembel steps into new territory by singing for the first time on record, offering up two Serge Gainsbourg songs with a shared Parisian accent and an almost disarming sense of vulnerability. “Hors-Série” means special edition, but this feels more like a field journal. It captures an artist testing new ground without abandoning the old maps. Today we talk with Stéphane about that journey, about what happens when Django meets New Orleans, about why Gainsbourg mattered enough to get him to finally step to the microphone, and about treating music not as something fixed and finished, but as something alive, breathing, and in motion.

Independence in music is usually described as freedom. In practice, it is a long sequence of decisions that can’t be outsourced. Writing the songs. Recording the tracks. Producing the record. Paying for the mistakes. Owning that outcome. That path has shaped Tamar Berk’s career from the start. Working largely outside the industry’s infrastructure, she has built a body of work defined by personal control, emotional directness, and the pressure of doing it all yourself. Her new album ocd was released in late 2025 and it moves through looping thoughts, emotional unraveling, and the patterns that repeat whether we want them to or not. Fuzzed guitars, reverb-heavy textures, and melodies stay close; it is a record about the mind when it refuses to let go. Raised on classical piano and early Disney soundtracks, later influenced by the Beatles, David Bowie, Liz Phair, and Elliott Smith, Tamar developed an instinct for melody and emotional clarity that has carried her through years of work in the Chicago, Portland, and San Diego scenes. Her previous releases include The Restless Dreams of Youth, Start at the End, Tiny Injuries, and Good Times for a Change. Along the way, her music has been recognized by KCRW, Fader, Creem, and Shindig, with multiple nominations from the San Diego Music Awards, while she has continued to write, record, and produce her work on her own terms. What follows is a conversation about the lived reality of that independence. The creative control, the isolation if you will and maybe even a little bit of the financial strain. But, also the satisfaction of hearing something finished and knowing exactly how it got there. ocd is the current chapter in Tamar’s story.

For nearly three decades, Steve Stanley has been one of the quiet architects behind how we remember mid-century American pop. His work as a reissue producer and archivist has revived artists who slipped through the cracks of the industry machine, restoring not only their music but the cultural scaffolding around it. From Del-Fi to Rev-Ola to his own Now Sounds imprint, Stanley has built a body of work that treats forgotten pop not as nostalgia but as evidence: proof that the margins of the 1960s were sometimes more interesting than its center. What distinguishes Stanley isn’t just the scholarship. It's intuition. He has an ear for artists who nearly made it, who should have made it, who made something exquisite - but briefly - and he approaches their histories with a precision that resists mythmaking even as it acknowledges the romance of lost possibilities. His design work reinforces that impulse. The packaging, sequencing, and annotation in his projects aren’t ornamental; they’re part of the narrative engine, a way of giving listeners the context they never got the first time around. With the new vinyl reissue of Eternity’s Children on High Moon Records, Stanley returns to one of the great unsolved stories of sunshine pop. These albums have lived half their lives in rumor and scarcity, admired by collectors but underexamined by the larger world. Stanley’s work on this project gives the band’s complicated and fascinating legacy its first real chance to be understood on its own terms. Our conversation begins there, in the space between what history remembers and what it forgot to write down.

It’s a remarkable moment to be a record collector. Music lovers have never had more ways to hear their favorite albums in whatever format feels right: hi-res files, streaming on the move, the whole buffet. And yet, there’s a meaningful difference between a solid pressing and a pressing built to be the definitive document of an album. Audiophile labels have chased that ideal for decades: each working to deliver versions that honor the intent and the sound. Plenty of listeners have caught on. If spending a little more means skipping the long hunt through used bins and getting a pristine, purpose-built edition, the choice starts to feel pretty rational. That’s where the Definitive Sound Series steps in. Interscope Records aims to create what they consider the best possible versions of key albums from their catalog. Numbered, limited editions. Gatefold tip-on jackets. A dedicated DSS slipcase. And a “one-step” process that moves straight from lacquer to stamper for maximal clarity. Their latest release is shepherded by Tom “Grover” Biery, who produced the new edition of Nat King Cole’s The Christmas Song. You’ve lived with these recordings for years, but Grover’s betting this edition will shift what you think you know. It includes two tracks not on the original album - “O Come All Ye Faithful” and “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” - and was assembled from three separate three-track analog tapes. Grover’s path through the music industry has been long and impactful. He helped cultivate careers for Metallica, The Flaming Lips, The Black Keys, and others. He led operations as General Manager of Warner Bros. Records and later served as Executive Vice President of BMG’s Recorded Music US division. On top of all that, he co-founded Slow Down Sounds, a vinyl-only reissue label dedicated to thoughtfully curated releases. Their recent project brings newly issued Chet Baker recordings from Bruce Weber’s Let’s Get Lost documentary, mastered by Levi Seitz at Black Belt Mastering from fresh 48/24 transfers and pressed on 180-gram Neotech vinyl by RTI. So dig into Nat King Cole, revisit Chet Baker, and explore how Grover tests the upper limits of how good a record can truly sound.

There are people who make great sound feel less like a secret society and more like an open door. Bob Hazelwood is one of them. He is the Director of Engineering and Product Development at Andover Audio, and his career runs through many major players in the industry. He grew up in South Jersey, built his first amplifier at fifteen, and has been chasing better sound ever since. He loves working with his hands, he loves creating things that actually make life feel richer, and he has a deep belief that music shouldn’t require a technical translation guide. That outlook is woven into Andover’s mission. The company was built on the idea that audiophile quality should not feel intimidating. Good sound can get technical fast, but most listeners simply want music in their homes that feels natural, full, and easy to live with. Andover approaches that goal by pairing thoughtful engineering with designs that stay out of your way. Their IsoGroove technology is a perfect example. It keeps a turntable steady even when it sits directly on its own speaker, a simple but transformative insight that shapes the Andover-One, the SpinBase, and the rest of the company’s approachable hi-fi line. Their newest chapter is SpinPlay, announced only recently. It takes the philosophy behind the Andover-One and brings it to an even more accessible place. A semi-automatic turntable. A preinstalled cartridge. A factory-set counterweight. A wide, room-filling sound field powered by independent amplification. It is a system that drops easily into the flow of a home and delivers a genuine audiophile experience without the hassle or the learning curve. For many listeners, it may be the first and last record player they need. Bob is central to all of this. He understands the engineering, but he also understands the psychology of listening: that moment when music fills a room and reminds you why you wanted better sound in the first place. He is passionate about his family, about fixing bad audio where he finds it, about slot car racing and motorcycles and Frank Zappa, and about building products that make it simple for people to love music more deeply. So please welcome Bob Hazelwood of Andover Audio, a company proving that great sound can feel like an invitation rather than an initiation.

Everyone agrees that music and the arts are essential — they make us smarter, more empathetic, more human. You’ll hear it in every school mission statement, every campaign speech, every conversation about what “really matters” for kids. And yet, walk into most public schools and the first thing on the chopping block is still the music program. It’s as if we all nodded our heads in agreement and then quietly decided to spend the money somewhere else. Our guest today, Anthony Mazzocchi, has built a career trying to change that equation. He’s a GRAMMY®-nominated music educator, trombonist, and now the Executive Director of Kaufman Music Center in New York City which is home to the nation’s only K–12 public school with a full music-focused curriculum. Anthony’s story is one of those rare intersections where the orchestra pit meets the classroom. From leading 100 middle schoolers in a cramped Brooklyn band room to shaping one of the most respected music education programs in the country, his life’s work is a masterclass in how music transforms learning, and how learning transforms lives. We talk about what it means to teach through sound, why access to these skills still feels like a luxury, and how to build institutions that teach lessons that transcend music itself. So pull up a chair, maybe dust off your old band instrument, and join us for a conversation about the future of education; one built on rhythm, resonance, and maybe a little bit of rebellion.

There’s a question that’s been circling the music world for a while now — and it’s only getting louder: how does a new artist actually get heard today? Because if you look around, the industry that once thrived on risk and discovery now seems to cling to nostalgia like a life raft. Major labels and festival lineups read like a roll call of the same veterans — the safe bets, the proven draws — while entire generations of emerging voices wait at the edges, wondering where exactly the door went. But out there, between the boardrooms and the barrooms, something else is happening. A quiet recalibration. Small venues, artist collectives, and independent promoters are starting to rebuild the ecosystem from the ground up: one room, one night, one new artist at a time. That’s where today’s guests come in. Cat Henry is the Executive Director of the Live Music Society, a nonprofit working to keep small venues alive, the kinds of places where artists first find their voice and communities gather to listen. Her organization has been putting real financial and logistical muscle behind those stages, including their support for the tour we’re talking about today. Tom DeGeorge, COO of D-Tour, helps connect a network of independent venues and promoters across the country, giving artists and local scenes a fighting chance to operate outside the corporate machine. He’s one of the key architects behind this tour’s routing and strategy. And at the center of it all is Jenna Fournier, known to fans as Kid Tigrrr - the headlining artist whose creative fingerprints are all over this project, from the music itself to the visual identity and storytelling that tie it all together. She represents that very question we started with: how does an independent artist break through today — not by chasing the algorithm, but by maybe by building something that feels real? Together, we’re talking about the D-Tour and Live Music Society collaboration - One Night Live - what it says about where live music is heading, the economics of trying to make it sustainable, and whether the next generation of artists can still carve out their space in a world dominated by the past. Because if there’s still a way forward for new live music, this might just be what it looks like.