Carlo dell’Aquila imbue the searing emotional intensity of multi-instrumentalists Dylan C. Beck (A Real Echoey Approach, Heidi Klum’s Bangs) and Danilo Uomo with the pummeling ferocity of black metal, post-metal, and stoner metal on their third studio album The Long Feral Scream. Confronting such sickening themes as crippling loneliness, lechery, and repetition compulsion, the duo blister through 70-plus minutes of their heaviest recorded material to date. Back in July, I enjoyed the privilege of conversation with Dylan C. Beck in his homespun, third-floor Kansas City studio.
We climb the two flights of stairs into the simmering attic studio where the air stagnates in the thick sweltering heat of early July. Chattering to their owner, two cats scurry to either room on the second floor landing as we pass. Beck removes a pair of smiley-face slides as we reach the summit; he steps into a pair of black slides with a panda logo and shows me to the interior of the three rooms on the third floor. Colorful strands of lights adorn the walls on all four sides, casting a rainbow glow on everything in sight, among which stand the decades-old hand-me-down drum kit; five Casio or Yamaha electronic keyboards; four electric guitars in sonic white, pastel yellow, seafoam green, mocha, and glossy black; two dreadnoughts in sunburst and natural wood finishes; stacks of Fender tube amplifiers. Once we are situated in the room, Beck overflows excitedly into an oral history of his collection. “Originally, I had the Indiana Scout [acoustic guitar] that was gifted to me in 2011 by the family of my high school girlfriend. I did not actually play the guitar at the time, so it was kind of a bizarre gift, but I guess her parents must have had a hunch. Or maybe they just believed erroneously that I did play.” Beck explains that he could not practice the drums after he moved to Springfield, MO, for college; instead, he found community on the second floor of the boys’ dormitory among musicians and other performance outcasts, learning basic chord progressions for cult classics from the Antlers, Death Cab for Cutie, and Neutral Milk Hotel on his own. “Gradually, I became a guitar player — whatever that means.” Beck’s interest in the guitar grew to shape the cosmic sound of his now-defunct two-piece psychedelic folk band Heidi Klum’s Bangs and birthed the noisy shape-shifting sounds of his solo shoegaze outfit A Real Echoey Approach: by 2018, he had acquired the seafoam green Fender Duo-Sonic and the sonic white Fender Mustang bass he performed on his early extended-play records.
Beck pulls over a spare piece from some gray modular sofa he purchased from the local Habitat for Humanity ReStore and points out the rest is on loan to his downstairs neighbor. “We couldn’t fit the damn thing up here, anyway, but ultimately, it didn’t matter because we were not able to get anything other than this through the door,” he confesses in self-aware laughter, gesturing with his arms to suggest the limited size of the space. On my left, he sits in a turquoise rolling armchair with the large white multipartite IKEA console splayed out in front of him: an altar on which rest two Kali Audio LP-6 studio monitors, a comically large Samsung LCD TV, an ancient Focusrite Scarlett 2i2 USB audio interface, a blanched and withered air plant, long-deceased, next to an origami crane and tiger. Beck briefly opens the lid of a Dell laptop and points the television remote at the glowing red dot in the center of the desk before the monitor leaps to life from a crease across the middle of the screen. “Let’s see what fucking atrocities we will be subject to this afternoon,” he says as he keys his password from the lock screen. I have to ask what he means. “Oh, it’s just that the default lock screen and desktop backgrounds on Windows devices are all so unhinged: like, intrusive pictures of nature that nobody asked for accompanied by some random fact of the day and a link that’s like, ‘Want to know more?’ Like, no. We don’t.” Beck admits to carrying a certain animosity like this in all of his recent interactions. “I have attended weekly psychological counseling sessions since the beginning of January 2023. I have found the experience immensely enlightening and helpful, but I have also developed a noticeable edge in social contexts. Like, I am certainly kind, but I wonder if most people consider me ‘nice.’ (air quotes) I suppose the defiance I have cultivated for myself is ecologically valid because I grew up with people who engendered a toxic sense of duty and loyalty to strangers to the extent that I would compulsively abandon myself as recently as a few months ago, but it is certainly not lost on me how this has deteriorated some of my relationships over the years.” But it is also about fostering a sense of indifference toward individuals who take these boundaries personally, Beck continues. “Cognitively, I have to put the emphasis on caring for myself: if someone has a problem with the way I carry myself in the world, it is either them or me [who has to get lost], and it is not me. I am confident that the people who are right for me will support and understand me in my needs and values, but it has been an utterly excruciating experience of ego death to arrive at this place in life, and I am not yet entirely where I want to be with myself.”
Certainly, I can appreciate how some people might feel put off by Beck’s blunt humor and earnest demeanor: it can be difficult at times to parse the seriousness of his blanket comments and decidedly inside jokes. “I fear the casual music listener erroneously believes that mixing a record is difficult,” Beck suggests plainly, ostensibly unaware of the optics of this statement. “But I consider it a rather simple economic proposition in two parts: first, one needs recorded audio in a digital audio workspace; the second and last step is to twist some digital knobs, taking care that each iteration sounds better than the last.” But in spite of this offhanded cockiness, Beck confesses a certain amount of anxiety and psychological dread when it comes to mixing and mastering. “Both on this record and in general, I drive myself to misery over the mix: it’s a combination of repeated exposure to the lyrical content and the ostensibly limitless potential to shape the sound of a recording in the digital age that contribute to this really palpable experience of retraumatization that I dread every time I sit down to finish a record.”
On Beck’s latest, themes of ego death and existential triumph are front-and-center. Cataloged within innumerable layers of folders, the third Carlo dell’Aquila long-play record The Long Feral Scream exists here as a collection of painstakingly-recorded, diligently-labeled WAV files. But as the deprecated recording software boots up with a nostalgic squelch, the speakers come to life with a familiar flickering fuzz glow.
“Queen of Wands + Five of Swords” is the black metal-worshipping lead single: released on November 28, the prelude precedes the proper nine tracks’ 65 minutes. “Conjuring the cosmic mysticism of the tarot by way of the gritty desperation of Pulp magazines, ‘Queen of Wands + Five of Swords’ was not so much born of necessity as it was exhumed tooth-and-nail from the cold dead Earth of unrequited longing,” Beck elaborates in press materials. “Ghosts of Conversations Past haunt the shimmering tremolo riffs that cascade in shivers down our spines as blistering blast beats hold the tempo taut and shaggy screams echo in confession of an earned resilience. ‘Going forward, I refuse to martyr myself in scorching solitude; I refuse to mutiny myself in exile of ephemera; I refuse to muffle myself in garish gentility; I refuse to apologize for living [consistently] with my most sincere impulse.’ Cue the horn fanfare, soaring electric guitars, and twinkling pianos as ‘Queen of Wands + Five of Swords’ arrives at an enlightened declaration of hard-earned confidence and radical self-love.” “Cosmic folk is a term I have used to describe our sound to friends,” Beck conveys to me as pianos fade. “I fear that is a pitifully vague descriptor, but at the same time, you know it when you hear it.” Bat for Lashes, the Microphones, and Mount Eerie are a few prevalent examples of the style, but The Long Feral Scream shares an unmistakable kinship with the blackgaze of Deafheaven in its extensive use of glimmering guitars and bludgeoned bellows.
Rex Talyetiwhoop: By now, you and [long-time Carlo dell’Aquila contributor] Danilo [Uomo] have collaborated on countless records over the span of nearly two decades, but The Long Feral Scream embodies an entirely different (yet at the same time familiar) style than your previous works. Coming toward the end of the album cycle and looking forward to the impending release in December 2025, how was the experience this time?
Dylan C. Beck: Getting a record out on the airwaves is always a huge relief for me: historically, it’s been the third and final step of processing these monumental, climactic cycles of life. I experience an album first as a sonic reaction to grief, disappointment, intense unrequited desire. I remember sitting at the edge of my bed at [my old studio apartment] in March 2023, really fumbling to manifest the acoustic guitar progression on “My Blood Hurts.” I suppose that was the moment of conception. Or at the least, it was the first time I recognized that a third Carlo dell’Aquila record was in the works. But there are melodies and snippets here that were written as early as May 2019 — maybe even before anything from [the debut Carlo dell’Aquila record] Laura materialized [in October 2020]. Once the songs were written, we mapped them in Fruity Loops Studio using MIDI presets to mimic the live textures that we later recorded. Listening to those early MIDI demos is kind of uncanny: it’s not as cartoonish or garish as 8-bit, but it’s still bizarre to hear the way a computer synthesizes guitar tones in zeros and ones.
RT: I can’t help but wonder how the process of writing and recording what is essentially an atmospheric black metal record — forgive me if that sounds reductive — differed in methodology from your previous works. What did that look like mechanically?
DCB: We very much took a foreign and unfamiliar approach to writing and recording this album. Even as recently as June 2024, many of the lyrics and vocal ideas and melodies were not yet revealed to me. We were still very much feeling our way through the record at that point: we had sketches of all ten songs that were still quite loose, but the general structure had taken shape by then; we had drum breaks, guitar riffs, and shades of synthesizer textures that ultimately appear on the record, but at the time, these were represented in avatar by MIDI caricatures of the corresponding analog instruments. I had invited Danilo to journey with me from that point onward, but he suggested some discomfort in squinting at the vague form of the album in its original manifestation. I will admit that the process was occasionally disheartening, but at the same time, I feel like it had to come together in the way that it did; I wanted to honor that aspiration. Until this record, the second step in our creation had typically been to track the live instrumentation and listen repeatedly to extract the lyrical narrative borne out of the sonics. I like to frame it this way: if the music is raw feeling in response to stimulus, then the words are the feelings about the feelings, the meta-feelings. (laughs) But on The Long Feral Scream, the poetry was born independently from the music.
RT: I respect your commitment to your vision in the face of adversity. Could you elaborate on what you perceived as the most inhibiting creative factors here?
DCB: Our process for recording this album was substantially different from previous efforts. I only ever shared the MIDI demos with Danilo as opposed to recording my instrumental contributions before turning things over for him to complete. I was super stoked to see how that restriction came to bear on his compositions and textures, but there were some notable growing pains associated with that. (laughs) On my part, I was challenged as a producer to establish a baseline of cleanliness for recording the drums, guitars, and pianos to ensure that every sound I captured could stand on its own in the mix without substantial digital alteration. On [the sophomore Carlo dell’Aquila record] So Common [from July 2023], I found myself cheating at each phase of recording by tinkering with the EQ on most of the sounds I captured quite soon after they were recorded. Ultimately, I found that this resulted in an “overproduced” (air quotes) and junky mix for some of the songs, and I became so unsatisfied that I had to entirely dismantle a few tracks and start over several times. We live in the age of what some music commentators call “The Loudness Wars.” One of the most immediate examples that comes to mind is [The Weeknd’s 2020 record] After Hours: I find that record impossibly loud, but I will admit that it sounds excellent. (laughs) Compression is a tool I discovered a few years ago that some might say I have used too much, but I cannot deny that it seems to make everything sound better — probably because the use of compression in contemporary music is so prevalent that some stuff just sounds flimsy without it. We are kind of trained as consumers to prefer things a certain way, I think, unfortunately. But that is part of the reason why I took such care to ensure that every sound I captured for this record could hold space in the mix without any need for digital beautification or manipulation — really anything anyone could consider artificial.
RT: Were there material differences in the recording process, then?
DCB: Originally, I had aspirations to record the album to tape. I taught myself to use our late friend Dr. Stephen Trobisch’s [Yamaha MT4000] four-track [cassette] recorder. I began to track drums with one microphone on each of the skins to tape and overhead microphones recorded digitally, but I failed to account for latency issues: I attempted one take using this approach, but when I played it back, the drums and cymbals were moving at different speeds, and there was no obvious fix since I couldn’t easily compare the two speeds. (laughs) So, I had to scrap that plan. But thinking of it now, there must have been a way to track the drums to tape at an unknown fixed speed and then digitally manipulate the tape to achieve the appropriate speed. Overall, though, I feel like this flies in the face of the central ethos of the record to achieve an honest sound with as little digital manipulation or post-production as possible. Back during the recording of the album, I was listening to Mount Eerie heavily — especially [black metal-influenced] Wind’s Poem, Ocean Roar, and Sauna — but in general, I cannot overstate how much of an influence Phil Elverum is for me. I am completely blown away by some of the material on those records — especially the way that everything sits in the mix, the stereo image, the textures of the drums, guitars, and organs; it is truly a feast for the ears.
RT: Checking the album credits here, the keen observer will notice brand new recording locations like F3 in Kansas City, MO; Clarice L. Osborne Memorial Chapel at Baker University in Baldwin City, KS; and Xavier Theatre at the University of Saint Mary in Leavenworth, KS. How did these physical spaces shape the sound of this record?
DCB: One thing I aspired to do from the outset of recording the album was to achieve more “room tone.” Currently, I live on the third floor of a house my ex-girlfriend’s sister owns with my ex-girlfriend, her two cats, her sister, and her one cat. But I identify quite strongly with this aspect of my current personhood, and I think that in large part, it has come to bear on the making of this record — lyrically and conceptually: I have been inspired by dreams I have had in my third-floor bedroom; I have been inspired by visions I have had on neighborhood walks; I have written poetry late into the night while enjoying the fireflies on the front porch; I have set up my drums in the middle carpeted room in a manner similar to how they were arranged in Cubist Castle, and I have played my drums routinely. I am very fond of the way the third floor sounds and how the drums resonate from the middle carpeted room into the expansive kitchen with its hardwood floors and single-paned windows. So, I aspired to honor this space by allowing its voice to be heard on this record. I think it has a beautiful voice, and I hope that I have done it justice. Conceptually, I aimed to achieve this by amping the electric guitars at exceeding volume and placing the microphones at a distance — one near the cabinet but not directly against it and one in the corner behind the drums — and by forgoing any use of direct-in techniques (e.g., lining the signal from the guitar pedal directly into the recording interface). Compare this sound to the closeness of the guitars on So Common that we recorded by placing the microphones directly in front of the speaker cabinet or by lining them directly into the computer. One of the benefits of having most everything in one place in my current housing arrangement is that I enjoyed the luxury of taking a very strategic approach to tracking: first, I placed the microphones on the drums; obtained the appropriate levels; and recorded all of the drum takes in the span of about three days. I tracked the acoustic and electric guitars next; and I ventured up to Leavenworth to track the [Steinway & Sons Model B Classic Grand] piano. Before, when I had the drums in the Theater of Dreams [the spare bedroom of my friends’ house] and later at Le Sous Sol [the basement of the very same friends’ house], I would maybe track one or two drum takes per session, but I could not leave my microphones or equipment over there, so each time I aimed to record, I would have to set up my gear all over again. I did my best to make sure this process was uniform across all takes, but of course, there were sonic discrepancies between all of the different sessions: there is a noticeable difference in room tone between the Theater of Dreams and Le Sous Sol. Even at the same location, there is the obvious matter of reconciling differences in microphone placement between distinct recording sessions. Compare the drums on “So Common” and “Dissolve Our Hollow Bones in Light.”
RT: I get what you mean, all though I would argue that the casual listener might not clock these differences. But at the same time, this new album enjoys a palpable air of cohesion and continuity: it really sounds like it was recorded in a room! Bearing in mind that this uniformity was important to you, how did it manifest in the journey?
DCB: One of my principal concerns at the outset of tracking this record was to avoid the kinds of pesky discrepancies I mentioned to present a more singular sound. I find that most reflective of my conception of the music: I like to build guitar tones that I can use across the entire record since I hear the tracks in my mind that way. But this is not to say the mixing process was by any means mechanical or routine: of course, each track is inherently different; the constituent parts and textures and shades of each track are different; and so, the best approach for each track must be tailored to the particular needs of that track. I abide by the mantra I first heard from Kevin Parker: “Give each track what it needs.” One thing that has always brought Danilo and me together is our mutual enjoyment of the often serendipitous nature of recording: a song may present a life of its own in one’s mind, but when it comes to bearing that idea out on the fretboard or at the piano bench in zeros and ones, the fruits of this labor may produce pleasant surprises. Generally, all of this is to say that the path toward materializing a collection of ideas housed within ones mind and later manifested in digital recordings is never as straightforward as we envision, and the results will never be what we imagine. But that is why I decided to share the MIDI demos: they function to keep me honest in relation to the original concept or intention of the record, but they also allow the listener to glimpse the winding complexities of the record by experiencing both the rawest and most nascent form and the most polished and belabored form of the tunes. One of the principal responsibilities of a songwriter is to act as both witness and vessel to a sound, but that can be difficult with the ostensibly limitless possibilities for how a sound or idea can be expressed — especially in the digital age when there are innumerable ways to tinker with a mix or EQ. But again, it comes back to the underlying objective of this record to avoid overthinking. I imagine that might sound trite or even meaningless to some, but it’s just a matter of trying not to dwell endlessly on the options and move more toward a stance of making decisions and believing in the listeners to plug in.
RT: Could I invite you into a more introspective headspace? Beneath its palpable yearning for romantic love, The Long Feral Scream deals extensively with themes common to everyone: grief, persistence, and self-abandon. Carlo dell’Aquila has always been, to my ears, an exercise in mining and reflecting on the most pressing existential motifs, but there is something even more harrowing in the gritty narrative here. Even still, the record ends with what feels for the first time like an exhale: “Relinquished from blistering heat, searing grief, and countless defeat, I will unleash the Long Feral Scream.” Could you reflect some on the nature of this “Long Feral Scream?”
DCB: Certainly. I will admit that my knee-jerk reaction is cautious self-defense: I anticipate this record might further insulate us from a general audience, but it is something I want very much to manifest for myself as an artifact of my experience and an implement of healing. Culturally, I fear there is a lot of undue stigma surrounding the act of raising one’s voice. Often, we identify screaming with abuse, pain, punishment, violence. On [the Carlo dell’Aquila single] “Echo Forth (2024),” I confess my own unease at the sound of neighborhood children playing in the context of my history of complex attachment trauma. But there is nothing inherently sinister about the expression: it bears the toll of exile, but it is not necessarily born out of darkness. Back in June 2024, I wrote, “I am not yet certain of many vocal melodies or lyrics. I have some poetry and prose written for three of the ten tracks that will have voice and words, but I am still very much feeling my way through the record. But as far as I can tell as of right now, I think the words are all going to be short stories that I will sing or scream melodically. Even if there are definitely tracks that are structured with recurring sonic motifs, I expect very few of the songs will have any kind of verse-chorus continuity or repetition like that in the lyrics. I am planning to simply ride the energy of each track to guide me to know when to start vocalizing.” I wrestled with feelings of uncertainty and apprehension when I returned to record my vocals. I practiced extensively to hone my screaming voice, but I am not yet super confident in my abilities. Ultimately, I chose to honor this original vision because there is a core memory from my childhood in which I tried desperately but could not scream. So, for me, the “Long Feral Scream” extends for nearly three decades, beyond the last sounds of the record, and onward into eternity. I manifest this as an artifact of and a testament to an earned resilience cultivated by engaging with the darkest memories of my existence and moving through them with determination and resolution. Besides, one of the many benefits of screaming is that it engages the parasympathetic nervous system: it requires an immense concentration of energy in the belly and chest, and the voice resonates the body in a really visceral way.
RT: I commend you for making the record you felt called to create. I am cautious myself about trying to manage others’ expectations. We have to live on our own terms.
DCB: Yeah, man. This is exactly the attitude I want to embody in my life. There is so much freedom in that. Like, “You are welcome to leave. I am good with myself.” Or, “If you are not meeting me in kindness and reciprocity, then you have got to go.” But I am still fearful at times about how others receive me. I ask a lot of questions, but I like to share my perspective and my experience a lot, as well. I struggle to understand the difference between reciprocal dialogue versus show-and-tell. Don’t get me wrong: I enjoy both, but sometimes, one is called for and not the other. I have put myself out there so much already this year. One question I return to in myself is, like, how much people believe that I tend to dominate our interactions. Conversation is one of my favorite things, so I tend to lock in rather quickly when I feel the vibe. Plus, I am generally quite open about my life. (laughs) But then, I think, “They are welcome to leave. They are welcome to ask for what they need. They are welcome to intervene to navigate the discourse.” I am very much in support of personal agency — especially as it pertains to social relationships. Like, please, by all means, tell me what you want from me. Best-case scenario, I can provide that. Otherwise, you can decide to move on. But what gets me is the modern spirit of social nicety. Over the years, this has caused me incalculable grief — most often as a result of unrequited love or expectations not met in the wake of a romantic breakup. I like to have faith that people mean well when they say, “I cannot continue to date you, but I would love to be your friend.” But then, most are never my friend afterward, so the expression feels empty and unkind. I feel it creates this alternate universe in which I feel one way toward the person and I understand their feelings toward me in one way (based on their invitation of friendship), but they act in a totally different way that is so hurtful and distressing. I am so afraid of that, and as a result, there is something pathological within me that scares the shit out of me to be involved with this scene to the extent that I am. I brace for absolute heartbreak; I brace for complete destruction; I brace for the worst to happen. But in the face of this feeling, I work tirelessly to cultivate a sense of constancy: “I will not perish. I will persist.”
RT: And I hope that you continue to enjoy the somatic effects of that cognitive override. On that note, I want to share that “Our Only Way Is Through” is, for me, one of the most compelling narratives on the record: the way it turns complex attachment trauma on its head (“Broad are the weary shoulders bearing the mantle.”) and reframes brutality as beauty (“Gracious are the eyes that have seen too much.”) is truly inspiring.
DCB: One of my dear friends put me onto that mantra: “Our only way is through.” I feel it so deeply. Going back to mix the record, that track was one that routinely reduced me to quaking full-body sobs. I wish it were easy; I wish there were another way; I wish we could wake in a place of emotional resolution and security, as Pete Silberman imagined. But I believe that can only be cultivated by doing the absolutely exhausting, disgusting, most formidable work. I am ecstatic to know the person I am becoming because that is something I have struggled with since childhood: playing the person I think people want me to be. I continue to feel this twinge of my hurt inner child screaming, “Please notice me! Pleeeeeeease notice me!” But I am becoming more familiar with this compulsion to the point that I can recognize it now and swiftly counter myself before I slip too far into it. I will never abandon myself to the delusion that I could ever be the person someone wants me to be (unless that person is who I am or who I am meant to be). One thing I want to move through in myself is this feeling that nothing I do will ever be good enough (for myself or for anyone). I harbor so much doubt and insecurity about my interactions with others and my efforts in my own life. I have been thinking about this a lot lately because I have been dating so much more this year than ever in my life. Going out with all of these beautiful women has me dogging on myself like, “How could she possibly be interested in me?” But if I look at my life from a material standpoint, I am like, “How could she not be interested in me?” (laughs) I struggle to manifest that belief for myself. I think it, but I cannot embody it. But at the same time, I appreciate how the smallest gestures from others toward me can positively influence my entire life. Even something as simple as receiving a birthday card can excite me and fill me with so much joy. I want to get better at doing life in the face of my own pathology. “Our only way is through.”
RT: We left the narrator at the end of “But Still, I Go to My Deepest Grave” [the closing track to the preceding Carlo dell’Aquila record So Common] in the throes of ostensibly agonizing and excruciating death. Could you provide an update on that character?
DCB: I feel like I am coming out of a two-year bender of manic emotional energies: I feel gross; I feel ashamed; I feel terrified; I feel like everyone knows way too much about me. And I want to parse if this is a person I am capable of being. Can I be a person who exists so openly and outwardly? Can I be a person who dreams obscenely and gushes the gayest poetry and maintains a catalog of deeply personal narratives on social media? Can I be a person who dates women bravely and confidently and securely? Can I be a person who brings people in, who enlightens, who provides, who supports? Can I be a person who comforts when comfort is called for and who questions what ought to be questioned? Part of me says no because it fears there is no room for grief, anxiety, fallibility, pettiness, ugliness, brutality, indifference, discomfort. I am afraid to exist so openly when it can be used against me. I want very much to shrink my influence; to retract; to have fewer friends; to be by myself. But I feel it as a pathological response: shame, anxiety, paranoia, hurt. Even more, I would feel so much relief to let myself off the hook for my art. I do not need to write poems to have value. I do not need to make music to have value. But these are things that provide meaning and reflect back to me my most sincere impulse. I could listen to music alone while cooking in the kitchen, or I could unabashedly sing karaoke with my friends. I could play my drums in solitude on the third floor, or I could invite friends into fleeting moments of communion. I could jam out in the car and sing other people’s songs and find contentment in that. I do these things already. But my music reflects back to me my reality and my experience. I hold it as an artifact of my existence, a testament to my person. I cherish my work deeply.
Everything in this house is asleep right now in the damp chill of an unexpected early Spring cold front. Everything in this house is asleep right now except for me. I stand guard against the peril of the ragged gust, the scalawag, as the mid-afternoon sunshine peaks through the windows for the first time. I toil on the third floor. I am alone: even the cat has sought the comfort of warm blankets bunched against the auburn couch on the first floor. I cultivate artifacts from my experience. I feel its coarse cracked ridges, its plush velveteen folds, its withering embers, as real as the match I strike against the wick now and the subsequent rush of ephemeral flames that lick my finger tips. I forge this effigy to bear witness to the melting face of torment, to give form to the shattered innocence, to manifest the worst of my existence and set my heart free ablaze.
“Rest, Pt. 2” by Dylan C. Beck (April 2025)
I want to make music for myself. I want to do it all for myself. I have spent the last thirty months cultivating a sense of fulfillment and security in myself. I do it all for myself. But I share in openhearted communion with anyone who feels like me. Come what may.
The Long Feral Scream is set for release on Friday, 19 December 2025, as a name-your-price download at carlodellaquila.bandcamp.com and streaming on Spotify, Apple Music, Tidal, and more. Until then, access the band’s LinkTree to enjoy the poetic prologue The Shortform Feral Scream, the sonic prelude “Palace” (a cover of the 2014 track by the Antlers), the lead single “Queen of Wands + Five of Swords,” or the duo’s preceding full-length albums Laura and So Common wherever you stream.
Band photography provided above is courtesy of Justin Kingery.
Rex Talyetiwhoop 