Whether it’s work fatigue, COVID-fatigue, or just feeling plain tired of being in situations, the experience of being stuck in a fog seems ubiquitous. Lindus has been roaming the shadows of the underground music scene for over a decade. Now based in Toronto, he’s freed himself from corporate shackles and produced a highly emotional 5-track EP called After the Haze, What? for Liquid Love Records’ third release. This psychedelic house record is the product of transcending the barriers of an unfulfilling lifestyle and stifled creativity, of growth, and of bravely asking the question, “What comes next?”

Check out our interview with Lindus - and don’t forget to listen and support - below:

Maya for Also Cool: How did you get into making music?

Lindus: I'm part of the internet generation - it's where my first connections came from. Sites like OiNK [Oink’s Pink Palace, now shut down], the first private torrent site, introduced me to some extremely nerdy internet stuff, which then expanded into music and music sharing.

I never really discovered much music through friends - most of it was through there - and the people on it listened to a lot of post-rock, like Godspeed [You! Black Emperor] and Explosions In The Sky - then everyone started getting into Burial’s end-of-the-world vibe. It was a time when the internet was a communication hub, but not as standardized as it is today. You had to crawl through lots of forums.

In 2010, MUTEK did a crazy showcase in Montreal. They featured Kode9, Spaceape, Flying Lotus, and Martyn - they were really on top of it that year. I started getting into dubstep and discovered clubbing through that - which in retrospect was a weird introduction to [the scene]. So my musical brain at the time looked like a mix of dubstep, psytrance, and all the Montreal post-rock bands like Godspeed You! Black Emperor, Silver Mt. Zion.

Also Cool: When did you start producing your own tracks?

Lindus: There's something about the world of dance music where there’s a high chance that someone who is consuming it is also participating in creating it. Especially back then, no one was buying gear - we were all making beats on the computer. There was a sense that anyone could try it. Lots of people downloaded the free version of Fruity Loops [FL Studio] and tried their hand at making music. That was when going to parties and making music started to overlap for me. I began making loops and sharing them online - before Soundcloud became so popular, people were using other platforms, like Myspace.

AC: Your write-up on the record describes a melancholy night at Stereo - do you have an emotional connection to that nightclub?

Lindus: Around 2011, there was a split in the scene - something broke at a local level, where what was originally supposed to be about music started having social consequences.

People started going into totally different scenes - some went from dubstep to bro-step, and some people realized they needed something new. A notable transition track was Joy Orbison's Hyph Mngo - it's deep, it's physical - like dubstep - but it sounded new. So a lot of dubstep heads transitioned to house and techno, myself included.

At one point people started hosting parties at this place called Velvet. One time I showed up with my roommate - we were like 18 or 19, just these awkward guys who went to these parties they found a link to online. When we showed up to Velvet, we got bounced - the bouncer actually pretended that we got the wrong address.

To me that was a sign that something in the scene had changed. The people putting on those parties were making a kind of shiny house music that was becoming really popular at the time - and all of a sudden these new venues would check you when you came in. That was totally unlike the [more relaxed] dubstep parties. At that point, it was a departure from the [underground] scene - it became more corporate. There was a car brand called Scion that put a bunch of money into these parties - I think that's when Red Bull also started getting involved - it felt really stale.

Maybe a year later, I went to Stereo for the first time, and it felt like a new community. It was like discovering a new part of dance music that I didn't know, because I didn't grow up with house or techno at all. When you're in there during the weird hours, like seven-thirty to nine [A.M.], you’d notice a special type of vibe - and the music made so much sense for the room.

That's also when I understood why people had to play house and techno in certain settings - you’re not going to play dubstep at seven in the morning when most people in the room are tripping. I tied the utility of the music with the scene and the space - and suddenly things made sense for me.

Then I just kept going. I definitely went to some weird nights. I saw Solomun there, which made me realize, “wow, they can really pack it with bros,” then I went to CLR Chris Liebing nights, where everyone was dressed in black and the music had really clean and crisp production and sounded super mechanical. I also went to see Danny Tenaglia and other house classics there - and those nights were great. It felt like I was entering into dance music history.

AC: How do you think SoundCloud affected the development of underground music culture - and the politics of it?

Lindus: Form became really important. I usually think of the Low End Theory stuff [the experimental club night responsible for Flying Lotus’ rise to fame, among others]. When that album came out, it was just at the beginning of the Internet. Everyone picked up on the formal characteristics of it - like the sidechaining, the pads, and the unquantified beats. Because of the Internet, like a week later, people from Sweden were copying those beats. Music felt really decentralized. You could also say democratized, because there were more people taking part in creating [these new genres].

With dubstep, there was this messianic thing. There was this vision of a scene in the UK - and with me being far away in Canada, experiencing this new genre from the UK felt full of promise. It didn't have anything to do with the formal characteristics of the music - it was more about the vibe, the projects, the communities. When people started getting good at Ableton and making really quick clones of beats, it made it hard to situate the music and sound within a scene. You no longer knew who to look to for leadership. Now it's easy to connect with a lot of people online and you can build community through the online medium.

AC: Why sad nights at Stereo?

Lindus: Dance music got so big, and happiness became such a key part of the messaging that was used to sell it. Suddenly everything was like a Zedd music video - starting with some lady working at her boring office job, then the beat drops, and all of a sudden she's dancing on a beach.

Transcendence and dissociation through dance music became a push for happiness. They lowered the booth and stereo at some point, and that was a big change because all of a sudden, the DJ was like right there, six feet away from you. You got sold so much on the idea that every night you went, you had to have [the time of your life] - so my anticipation would really build up. With time, I became more attuned to the fact that things didn’t really have to go that way.

There was this one night that I went to Stereo with Martin [Liquid Love Angel], and we saw Jeff Mills. Immediately after his set, Mills suddenly disappeared with a small group of people - there was just no community vibe in there. It was really the antithesis of the dance music "promise" that you're going to go in and find community and warmth.

It felt grim - Jeff Mills played for like three hours and one minute. That's probably what the contract said, but it wasn't just about how that specific night went, it was about the industry of expectations and selling you this dream. It became even more commercial with things like Boiler Room and hyper-produced videos of parties with messaging like, "This could be you..."

AC: So what is it about a club culture that isn't necessarily the foam parties and euphoria that get marketed to us?

Lindus: Like with any artform, you can experience different emotions through music - there are sad tracks, you can feel melancholia, dissonance. Sometimes you actually can't lose yourself in the music - and maybe that's a good lesson to have. Compare that to times when you feel like ravers are in disregard of the world that they're in, where raving seems to be all about consumption and taking drugs. Everything is focused on the self. Or when you see people throwing water bottles at Stereo - it's stupid - and you can really feel the disregard for the context and the space that these people have. They don't give a shit about your experience - they're only there to have a “great” night.

Another thing is that the sadness you might feel is not necessarily the minor-chord type. You feel it with the cliché of leaving a club in the morning and seeing people go to work. Why does it feel weird to be on the subway at 10:00 AM on a Sunday and seeing people way older than you going to their real jobs? How do you relate to that?

AC: Coming back to the album, and more specifically its title, did you transition from a corporate job into making music? What's the story behind that?

Lindus: I studied philosophy in grad school. When I graduated, I didn't really know what to do. I was in Toronto and there were just so many corporate jobs. So I got one, and it was soulless. It's a cliché that corporate work has no soul, but working for one of the big insurance companies, I was thrown into this completely regimented life - there was no originality. Everything was processed and repetitive. At one point I just couldn't do it anymore, so in August I quit, after over two years.

I found a space with some friends, and I was so over the structured lifestyle, that I decided to just smoke a lot of weed, sit in this basement, and make music. It was such a strong response to everything that I had experienced - a real loss of hope from being in that regimented world where you couldn't really want anything, where the barrier between what was true or not was really blurry. Corporate messaging was so often around keeping people motivated and engaged - that involves mountains of deception. I got out of there with such a deep feeling of nihilism - without even really realizing it - but [in the basement] there was nothing to do but smoke weed and make music.

AC: So what's after the Haze? What's the story behind the album title?

Lindus: It's in reference to that hazy time after leaving my corporate job. Standard stuff like going to therapy, starting to figure yourself out, building a healthier relationship with yourself in the second half of your twenties.

I really enjoyed the Haze - I found a lot of comfort in being stoned, going to parties, and things feeling kind of approximate. I also always liked music with tons of reverb. When I abandoned the corporate lifestyle, I still felt the haste of it. Wake up, get high, go to the studio - I was still totally drowning in those loops.

At one point, I faced the question: what do you do after that? The Haze is kind of atemporal - you're high, then you're tired from the high, then you sleep, and then you get high again. It's hard to make change from within that circularity. It's kind of like being in a relationship, when you're at a point where you want to know what comes next. You can't really put it into words, but there's a striving for [growth].

This project is me striving for something beyond the Haze.

After the Haze, What? is available on Bandcamp at the link below:

Written and produced by Lindus
Mixed by Lindus.
Additional arrangement by Martin Cadieux-Rouillard.
Mastered by Cristobal Urbina at See You Mastering.
Cover by Bénédicte Morin

Related Articles