ifitbeyourwill Podcast

More than a decade into Common Holly, Brigitte Naggar still writes the way she did as a teenager — quietly, in her bedroom, not quite ready to let anyone hear. On this episode, Chris sits down with the Montreal songwriter to talk about Anything Glass (June 2025) and its companion EP They Will Draw Halos Around Our Heads (February), two records that feel like siblings. Brigitte talks about going back to the piano for the first time since she was a kid, letting poems turn into songs without forcing them, and her long run with producer Devon Bate (Jean-Michel Blais, Jeremy Dutcher) — a collaborator so unshowy you stay with him for ten years because he just gets it. She's warm on Montreal too: friendships that go back fifteen years, monthly jams with Ada Lea and Cedric Noel, and the quiet reset Common Holly and the rest of the city's scene went through after the pandemic. Also: why the slow songs landed hardest this time, a Left of the Dial date in Rotterdam, and some loose hints at what comes next — maybe an all-vocal record, maybe something built around cello. Nothing rushed. Whatever feels right. Send us Fan Mail Support the show linktr.ee/colleyc

The Leaf Library have spent two decades quietly building one of indie music's most singular worlds — and their fourth album, After the Rain, Strange Seeds, might be their finest yet. ifitbeyourwill sits down with Matt, the band's driving force, to trace a journey that began with a Stereolab ad in Reading and wound through DIY networks, John Peel plays, and six years of painstaking work on a record that finally feels like vindication. They talk craft, collaboration, and the particular delusion it takes to finish an album. Stay for the song. Send us Fan Mail Support the show linktr.ee/colleyc

Bristol's The New Cut have built their grungy, clunky, twangy world from the outside in — and frontman Henry Gerrard wouldn't have it any other way. On this episode, he sits down with ifitbeyourwill to trace the band's DNA: OCD, social anxiety, and the particular relief of finding your people in a room full of outsiders. They dig into the new EP, the strange paradox of performing your most vulnerable self to strangers, and why their live show hits hardest when there's nothing left to prove. Send us Fan Mail Support the show linktr.ee/colleyc

ifitbeyourwill Podcast sits down with Karina Gill of San Francisco indie band Cindy to discuss their forthcoming album Another Country, out May 2026. From stumbling upon an abandoned guitar in a basement to touring France, England, and an upcoming Japan trip, Karina reflects on the unlikely journey of five-plus records and a slow-burning, dreamy sound that keeps surprising even her. They dig into the organic, tape-recorded making of the new album — fresh takes, minimal rehearsal, and a subtle country spirit woven throughout. A warm conversation about music, nerves, and gratitude. Send us Fan Mail Support the show linktr.ee/colleyc

Episode 168 — Jay Hammond brings Trippers & Askers to the show from Durham, North Carolina, ahead of his May 2026 album Tried to Do's — a record about grief, healing, and what it means to put things back together. Drawing from indie folk, jazz, and experimental textures, Hammond's sound resists easy categorization. We talk growing up in Jackson, Tennessee, finding his songwriting footing in his early twenties, and why music remains his most honest outlet. East Coast tour dates and a handful of UK shows are on the way. Send us Fan Mail Support the show linktr.ee/colleyc

ifitbeyourwill Podcast sits down with Adam Morrow of Sister Ray Davies — a shoegaze duo based in the legendary music town of Muscle Shoals, Alabama. They dig into the making of their debut record Holy Island, the duo's deep love of ambient and post-punk sounds, and an upcoming remix EP dropping April 20, 2026. Plus, a track from Holy Island closes out the episode. Essential listening for fans of atmospheric, genre-defying music. Send a text Support the show linktr.ee/colleyc

The Flip Phones write songs like they're in no hurry to impress you—and that's exactly the point. On this episode, the married duo breaks down Spinning Adrift, an EP that trades algorithmic urgency for melodica hum and earned harmonies. They talk craft: how classical instincts and Britpop muscle share the same arrangement, why the best lyric sometimes waits years to finish itself, and what it means to close a record on its darkest, most necessary note. Send a text Support the show linktr.ee/colleyc

Link 3 recorded their slowcore debut with gaming mics and bathroom fans—now it's soundtracking weddings. James and Sunniva unpack the guitar-first writing, dual-vocal chemistry, and DIY grit behind On The Outline, a record that chose intimacy over polish and found an audience craving exactly that. Send us a text Support the show linktr.ee/colleyc

A packed car pointed west, and a travel-size instrument wedged between sleeping bags—this is how records get made when life is crowded and the need to create won’t wait. We sit down with Brian Russ of Hand Gestures to trace the long arc behind a self-titled album that sounds lived-in, melodic, and unforced. Russ maps a route from college shows in Philadelphia to AmeriCorps on Pine Ridge, then into Brooklyn’s warehouse-show ecosystem, where CMJ weekends blurred into community and bands kept each other afloat. Along the way, he built Campers Rule Records—a micro-label with pragmatic ideals: small cassette runs, break-even math, and hands-on help that gets music over the line. The mechanics matter. Voice memos from a cross-country drive became song kernels; late nights with an interface turned sketches into arrangements; a remote drummer locked in the pulse. Brian tracked guitars, bass, keys, and vocals himself, then sequenced the record for an arc that rewards close listening. There’s life in the margins, too—two teachers, two kids, and a creative practice built one quiet hour at a time. We talk rebuilding a live band post-COVID, why the album title became the band’s name, and how to stay sane about press and reach. For anyone invested in DIY recording, Brooklyn indie circuits, sustainable labels, or the alchemy of turning notes into songs, this conversation offers a clear, hopeful blueprint. Send us a text Support the show linktr.ee/colleyc

A small amp, a whispered “Beatrice,” and four players standing in a circle, daring the songs not to flinch. In this conversation with Neil Osborne of 54-40, Porto emerges as a document of risk—shadow work, live-wire performances, and the kind of imperfection that lets a song haunt you instead of explaining itself. Send us a text Support the show linktr.ee/colleyc

A name can work like a north star. Jason P. Woodbury and the Nightbird Singing Quartet points straight toward songs built for company—melody-first, ensemble-minded, rooted in the desert but restless for elsewhere. We sit with Woodbury to trace the long arc from church songleading and clarinet rehearsals to record-store immersion, music journalism, and a self-titled album that wears its influences lightly and its confidence quietly. He talks about the records that calibrated his ear at Zia Records—the open-sky ache of Big Star, the haunted intimacy of Chris Bell’s I Am the Cosmos, Neko Case’s nocturnal drama, Destroyer’s wry sprawl, and the cosmology of Lee Scratch Perry—and how those discoveries rewired his sense of arrangement and feel. We dig into the making of the record itself: some songs arriving whole, others pieced together from Dropbox shards and rehearsal-room patience. The quartet’s chemistry lifts the material into focus—power-pop hooks catching pedal-steel glow, soul-informed details settling into an alt-Americana, desert-rock atmosphere that feels lived-in rather than posed. Beyond the music, Woodbury explains why he launched Always Happening Records—to put this album out on his own terms and build a flexible home for future ideas, from tactile seven-inches to Bandcamp-first releases. It’s a conversation about time, trust, and the strange joy of hearing a band take a song somewhere you couldn’t have planned. If you’re drawn to independent music made in community—records that breathe, shimmer, and tell you where they came from—this one’s for you. Spin it loud, pass it along to a Big Star or Calexico devotee, and tell us the album that first flipped your lid. Send us a text Support the show linktr.ee/colleyc

A melody looping in a hospital hallway. A chorus that took six years to learn its own name. Sitting down with Brad Barr, we talk about writing when life insists on co-author credit—kindness traded for drum lessons, heartbreak turned into breath, and a city that lets a voice arrive on its own time. From Providence to Montreal, Brad and Andrew built a shared language—first as The Slip, then as The Barr Brothers—rooted in groove, generosity, and patience. The focus is Let It Hiss, their first record in eight years, and the clarity that came only after the songs could stand on their own. Jim James adds a spectral lift to “English Harbor.” Elizabeth Powell and Ariel Engle color the margins. Klô Pelgag reframes a verse in French, returning harmonies that feel like a second producer’s hand. There’s tactile joy—cassettes, handheld recorders, chord voicings shared online—and a clear ethic: measure success by honesty, not algorithms. Ahead: Let It Hiss outtakes, North American and European dates, Sleeping Operator finally stirring, and Brad’s first vocal solo record as he learns which songs belong to which home. Send us a text Support the show linktr.ee/colleyc

Snow hushes the streets; songs do the same to the head. We open on a coast-to-coast weather check and drift into a story that starts in Philly basements and only really clicks once Emily Yacina loosens her grip. Confidence, she says, was something the scene lent her early on—small rooms, big hearts. Most songs still arrive as a fragment: a phrase, a melodic flicker. Writing becomes a place to set feelings down when there’s nowhere else to put them. There’s a pivot here—from hardline DIY to letting collaborators leave fingerprints. Control gives way to trust. A pianist widens the frame, a violinist pulls a thread, a great engineer sharpens the picture. Emily talks about the awe of unfamiliar studios and the humbling realization that audio engineering is its own deep craft, not just a means to an end. Then comes release-day whiplash: years of work suddenly gone, the quiet after the drop, the itch to check a feed for proof of life. She’s honest about the pressure to “go viral,” and how she learned to measure success by connection instead of metrics. Touring again—after time away—reset the temperature. Nightly rooms, real conversations, and a sense of abundance replaced scarcity. Move your body, move your ideas. Momentum follows motion. She’s carrying that energy into 2026: more sessions, more collaborators, and a steady aim to make songs feel as alive as the feelings that sparked them. If you’re into indie folk with DIY roots, the mechanics of songwriting, and the quiet courage it takes to share something personal, this conversation sketches a practical map for sustainable creativity. If it hits home, follow the show, pass it to a friend who lives for singer-songwriters, and leave a review—so the right ears can find it. Send us a text Support the show linktr.ee/colleyc

What if the quickest way to sound like yourself is to stop chasing your heroes? That question sits at the centre of our conversation with Kevin Basko, the mind behind Rubber Band Gun—a project that slides easily between indie rock, psych, and playful concept albums, all shaped by a hands-on, hybrid analog setup where limits become part of the sound. Basko traces his path from backyard lyric notebooks to a sudden elevator text that landed him in Foxygen’s touring band, sharpening his instincts without dulling his DIY core. We dig into RBG25, the self-imposed challenge to release dozens of records in a year, and how working fast reshaped his sense of tempo, arrangement, and when a song is actually done. Along the way, he talks borrowing without imitating, turning tradition into raw material, and why momentum—and not perfection—is the real engine of creative work. Send us a text Support the show linktr.ee/colleyc

HighSchool formed during Melbourne’s lockdowns, making songs fast and with intention. In this episode, they talk about starting with images and mood before melody, recording wherever they could, and keeping tempos high so the songs stayed sharp and emotional. We get into how Lily’s shift from drums to synth helped shape the band’s sound, why restraint matters more than polish, and how Sony Ericsson came together in a single day after nearly being dropped. From writing in London to releasing a self-titled debut, this is a conversation about momentum, trust, and finding your sound by keeping things simple. Send us a text Support the show linktr.ee/colleyc

A granddad blasting Pink Floyd at school pick-up and a jealous six-year-old’s first guitar lesson—hardly the start of a band, but that’s where Eades began. Frontmen Harry Jordan and Tom O’Reilly trace how a bedroom project became a songwriting engine that produced 50-plus lockdown tracks and the refined Final Sirens Call. From four-mic drum kits and happy-accident compressors to Dylan, Lou Reed, and Wilco-inspired craft, the duo reveal how trust, vetoes, and risk shape their sound. We dig into sequencing headaches, translating dense studio layers to the stage, and chasing the live spark on their next record. For fans of post-punk energy, garage roots, and Wilco-era ambition—this episode dives inside Eades’ engine room. Send us a text Support the show linktr.ee/colleyc

From a shy kid singing Christina Aguilera behind a bedroom door to teaching voice at Concordia, Alexandra Levy the power behind Ada Lea has lived every side of finding your sound. In this episode, she talks tendonitis, creative do-overs, and the three-day songwriting challenge that sparked When I Paint My Masterpiece. We dig into mentorship, Montreal roots, and the art of building a music career you can actually live with. If you’ve ever felt late, stuck, or told you’re “not a singer,” this one’s for you. Send us a text Support the show linktr.ee/colleyc

A happy mistake at a concert. A guitar rediscovered in the back of a closet. Two students on totally different paths who somehow found the same sound. That’s the origin story of sundayclub, a rural Manitoba duo whose music feels like it was pulled from an ’80s Polaroid—warm, hazy, and quietly intentional. Their new EP, Bannatyne, captures that balance perfectly: pop instincts wrapped in dream-pop atmosphere, four tracks that melt into one continuous mood. When you talk to Courtney Carmichael and Nikki St. Pierre, you get the sense that their process is equal parts chaos and craft. Courtney writes with a diarist’s honesty, often chasing the feeling a moment left behind. Nick builds the sonic world around those words, leaning on production chops and an obsession with tone. A simple tuning shift to open C cracked something open—suddenly, new harmonies and melodies started falling out of the guitar. They work fast to capture the spark, then slow down for the final stretch, refusing to rush a lyric or sand off a rough edge just to be “done.” That patience shows. Banatine isn’t a playlist of singles—it’s a short film in sound, one that breathes and unfolds with intention. Their path to Paper Bag Records came with its own lucky breaks—a well-timed mastering grant, a few key community ties, and a lot of persistence. Listeners have already gravitated toward Nuclear Fallout, a track that wasn’t meant to be the standout but hit something unexpected. Courtney and Nick say that kind of connection means more than any genre label could. Looking ahead, they’re teasing a reimagined “Last Christmas”, a run of Canadian shows, and new singles that stretch their sound without losing its heart. If you’re into indie pop, dream pop, odd guitar tunings, and the craft behind a cohesive EP, this one’s for you. Stream the episode, spin Banatine front to back, and see which moment sticks. And if you love what you hear, share it with a friend—because that’s how good music travels. Send us a text Support the show linktr.ee/colleyc

Dream pop isn’t about turning everything down — it’s about tuning everything in. That’s the pulse of our talk with Mirrorball, the Los Angeles duo behind those lush, cinematic songs that somehow still feel like they’re whispering right to you. From the first late-night demo to a surprise label release, their story drifts through noisy beginnings, an obsession with sound, and the quiet confidence that comes with learning when not to play. We get into how they write: Scott starts with grooves, guitars, and synths in Logic. Alex listens, and melodies spill out — sometimes all at once, sometimes over time. Some songs bloom in a day; others sit for months, waiting for the right mood to arrive. Recording, for them, is a kind of home — layering overdubs until the room disappears and only the song remains. Playing live, though, demands something different: less control, more trust. The goal isn’t to be louder, it’s to make people feel. Small choices, big emotion. There’s honesty, too, about what it means to be an indie band now. Without a label, they’ve handled everything themselves — the videos, the press, the endless scroll — keeping things moving with a steady run of singles. Now they’re building toward a full LP, something that captures the whole arc of who they’ve become. With producer Chris Coady’s touch — tiny shifts in timing, arrangements that breathe — the songs pulse and shimmer instead of shout. At home, Alex tracks vocals dry, chasing raw takes; Scott trims the noise, staying closer to what feels real. If you’re drawn to guitars that glow, vocals that drift just out of reach, and rhythms that dance a little behind the beat, this one’s for you. Press play, sink into Red Hot Dust, and stay awhile. If it hits, tell a friend — the dream gets brighter when more people are in it. Send us a text Support the show linktr.ee/colleyc

A clarinet in fourth grade doesn’t usually lead to fuzz pedals, pedal steel, and a packed tour van, but that’s the path Brendan Wright of Tiberius traces on Troubadour. We start with the spark—how a quiet kid found a home in melody—and follow the trail to the moment those bedroom songs finally stepped into stage lights. Through it all runs one through-line: honesty. The kind that feels safe when you’re singing alone, and the kind that feels a little dangerous when a room goes silent to hear it. Brendan talks about walking that line between catharsis and the reality of sharing their work. They used to write like they were passing secret notes to themself. Now the notes have to breathe among strangers. They open up about shifting from super-specific diary lines to lyrics built around wider feelings—anxiety, persistence, the weird fog of transition—so more people can slip inside the songs. It doesn’t dull anything; it actually sharpens it. You can hear it in a line like “Why do I try to keep on trying?” and in the way the band lets silence hang before a chorus hits. We dig into the making of Troubadour, from the piece-by-piece construction of Fish in a Pond to focused sessions at The Record Co. in Boston. Drummer Ben Curell, bassist Kelven “KP” Polite , and guitarist Christian Pace helped pull the songs into their live shape, with Nate Scaringi behind the board helping the drums land just right. The result is a sound Brendan jokingly calls “farm emo”—folk bones, a little country dust, and an emo heart—wrapped in those loud-quiet-loud dynamics that feel as much Neil Young as they do modern indie. It’s tender one moment, towering the next, built for small rooms that don’t stay small for long. We close on motion. The northeast run—Burlington, Portland, Boston, Albany, Philly, New York—feels like both a celebration and a goodbye to a set they’ve lived inside for two years. New songs are forming. Brendan’s headspace is shifting again. That’s the promise here: a record that captures exactly where Tiberius is right now, and an artist already leaning toward whatever comes next. If this one hits you, tap follow, share it with a friend who needs a cathartic chorus, and leave a quick review—it helps more listeners discover Tiberius and stories like this. Send us a text Support the show linktr.ee/colleyc