Underlined Passages Talks Landfill Indie and Why Tube Amps Matter

Photo Credit: Underlined Passages

Underlined Passages' Landfill Indie confronts the digital fragmentation of modern indie rock with deliberately analog intentions. Sequenced like a late-90s emo mixtape and produced by Frank Marchand (Bob Mould, The War on Drugs), the album draws from Baltimore's influential early-2000s DIY scene while refusing easy categorization in today's algorithm-driven landscape. We caught up with the project's mastermind to discuss the making of standout track "erydy," the art of authentic connection in live performance, and why he's still hauling tube amps to every show.

1. You've said the "erydy" video brings "a sense of clarity and warmth to a song about finding meaning in a digitally disconnected world." What was it like working with Rick Barnwell to capture that feeling visually? Did you give him specific direction, or were you surprised by how he interpreted that contrast?

Working with Rick Barnwell was all (and still is) about trust. I gave him a few ideas about the feeling I was trying to capture, but I didn’t want to overexplain it. I believe in letting people bring their own perspective to the Underlined Passages project, especially when it comes to visual work. What he created really nailed that tension between being emotionally open and digitally distant. You can see that in the constant looking into the distance that he asked me to do while in the back of that pickup truck. It felt handmade and honest, which is exactly what I was after.  

2. Landfill Indie is intentionally crafted like a late-90s/early 2000s emo mixtape. How did "erydy" end up landing in the middle of the album? Was that always the plan, or did it find its place naturally during sequencing?

Before Spotify and playlists took over, we used to feel our way through records as a whole movement. You’d put on an album or a mixtape and let it take you somewhere, not just skip to the hook. That’s still how I think about sequencing. erydy wasn’t placed in the middle because of any formula. It just felt like the natural moment to flip the tape to side B. It’s the song that shifts the energy. The first half is more internal, more reflective, and erydy opens the door to the more external and experimental second half while ending on something very concrete. It gives the record a new breath without resetting it. That kind of movement matters to me. I still build records that way, but who knows, maybe it's time to feed the algorithm more old man! 

3. Baltimore's indie scene from that early era produced some incredible bands that are now having their "revival moment." As someone who was an influencer in that original DIY scene, how does it feel to watch Beach House, Future Islands, and Wye Oak get rediscovered while you're creating new music that both honors and critiques that era?

Baltimore had this deep sense of connection, and in some spaces it still does. Just look at the current metal and screamo scene. That recent Turnstile pop-up show felt like a flashback to what we had in the late ’90s and early 2000s. Back then, everyone knew who was recording, who was touring, who just put out a 7-inch. You’d read about Celebration, Dan Deacon, Wye Oak, The Seldon Plan (shameless plug) in The City Paper, then see them that same night at the Ottobar, Talking Head, or Floristree, or 10 other small venues scattered across the city. There were so many places to play and so much natural overlap. Sam Sessa at WTMD and writers at The Baltimore Sun gave local bands the same space as national acts, with no asterisk and no irony. Looking back is complicated. I’m proud of where I came from, but I’m not chasing nostalgia. I still carry that mindset. Make what you can, where you are, with who’s around. Keep it real and build it yourself. What mattered most back then wasn’t the sound or the scene. It was the belief that what we were making had value before anyone else said it did. That’s still the place I create from.  

4. Frank Marchand has worked with everyone from Bob Mould to The War on Drugs. What does he bring to your "technicolor recordings" that helps balance those "hopeful-yet-skeptical perspectives" you're exploring on this album?

Frank knows how to let a song breathe without losing its edge, which is essential when you’re trying to hold both hope and skepticism in the same space. We’ve worked together for over 25 years across three of my bands, and that kind of history creates a real symbiosis. He’s produced everything from punk to power pop to metal, and he brings that wide lens into the room without ever making it feel forced. That metal mindset, combined with my drive to create thoughtful indie rock and pop, adds a weight and tension that fits this record perfectly. His work with bands like The Obsessed actually helps us make better shoegaze records, because he hears dynamics and distortion in a different way. I think we’d both admit the closest we came to perfect synergy was on The Ten Houses and the Falling Leaves, the Lowell record that’s still my favorite and probably the best band I’ve ever been in that never got off the launchpad. There's still some of that spirit in this record too.

5. The album is described as "a reaction to the fickle dismissiveness of modern indie rock critics and the relegation of contemporary alternative music to a million subcategories." When you're out there sharing stages with bands like Explosions in the Sky and Grandaddy, do you find audiences are hungry for music that refuses to be pigeonholed?

There is a disconnection right now that’s hard to ignore. Music feels like it's constantly fighting to break through the noise of social media, with influencers telling you how to get your music heard as if there's a clear formula. But we all know it's just as much randomness and luck as anything else, and still we keep selling each other on hype. This record is a reaction to that. I’m not chasing a trend or trying to fit into a category. I’m self-aware enough to know that attitude might sound like forced contrarianism, but it’s not. It’s an honest response to the existential weight we all carry when we look into the information abyss and try to make sense of our place in it.

Playing shows in the past with bands like Explosions in the Sky and Grandaddy, what always impressed me was how their music created a space where none of that noise mattered. The connection felt real and unfiltered. Lately, I’ve been feeling that again in the conversations I have after shows. People aren’t looking for perfection. They’re looking for something that feels grounded, something that cuts through all the static. I can see their search for meaning and connection, and for that brief time, in that small space, we have that.

6. With this album, you "continue to carve out space for authentic connection with fans who are drawn to songs that feel real, not perfect." In those live moments - whether it's with Karate or Joan as Police Woman - what have you learned about creating that authentic connection that transcends all the online fragmentation?

What I’ve come to understand on stage is that live music isn’t about delivering a perfect performance. It’s about creating a space where people can see themselves in the songs. And what I’ve learned is that music, especially live, works in direct opposition to what a therapist might tell you. In therapy, you’re often told “you’re projecting” as a way to pull you back into yourself. But in a live show, projection is the point. The audience brings their own meaning, their own weight, and places it on the songs. That shared projection becomes a common language. It creates a temporary sense of belonging that cuts through the isolation of the digital world. For a moment, we’re not just people in a room. We’re part of something honest that helps us hold back the existential dread we’re all trying to shake.

Live shows have also taught me that all of us, whether we’re on stage or in the crowd, are really just trying to test the promise of immortality through experience. We want to feel something that lasts, something that proves we were here and that it mattered. Music gives us that chance to reach for it together. And I can’t get enough of that feeling, even if my back and hips are starting to tell a different story. Still, I’ll keep lugging my tube amp to every show. You “class D amps are the best,” guys, haven’t convinced me yet!