Transmitter is Max Clarke’s fourth full length record as Cut Worms. Produced by Jeff Tweedy at Wilco’s Loft studio, Transmitter marks a deepening of Clarke’s abilities and the convergence of two artists whose work searches for grace amid dislocation. These are places shaped by the myth of self-reliance, where people sold the idea of connection through technology have been reduced to quiet transmitters—data points bought and sold, manipulated and measured, their lives distorted through the very networks meant to unite them.
The first signs of Transmitter came when Cut Worms were on the road supporting Wilco in the summer of 2024. At the end of the tour, Tweedy invited the band to record at the storied Loft in Chicago, and plans were soon made to commence that fall. In the Loft’s warm clutter of guitars, amplifiers, and books, Clarke and Tweedy quickly found common musical ground and a shared instinct for songs that hold complexity. While Clarke’s voice and writing formed the framework, Tweedy’s guitar and bass lines sketched the rooms the songs inhabit. Tweedy’s presence as a producer revealed itself not in heavy-handed choices but in how he colored spaces and continually offered new textures. Between them, their like-minded sensibilities bridged a generational gap to create something more nuanced than either might have made alone.
If previous Cut Worms releases were steeped in Brill Building decadence and madcap Americana, the sound on Transmitter feels darker, richer, more saturated with the anxiety of contemporary living. “Long Weekend” accelerates time itself, carrying the melodic urgency of Big Star or Dwight Twilley. “Evil Twin” wrestles with bitter disappointment, its talky guitars recalling the jangling heartache of The Replacements and The Go-Betweens, and “Windows on the World” leans toward the sun of the future with a melancholy that drifts somewhere between Elliott Smith and Miracle Legion. Closing track “Dream” brings us back to a familiar plane: Clarke alone at the piano, tender and unresolved, pondering the fate of dreams and the risk of falling short or getting lost en route.
Transmitter finds Clarke in full stride, writing with the conviction of someone who’s made peace with uncertainty. These songs reckon with the cost of comfort and return to the idea that beauty, connection, and love are not luxuries but necessities for survival. Clarke is drawn to paradox—the friction between intimacy and escape, faith and doubt, shadow and light. His forgiveness, like the cut worm’s, comes through transference: the act of releasing something fragile into the noise and trusting it might still be felt.
John Andrews has spent the past few years tucked away in Red Hook, Brooklyn - a neighborhood that sits just beyond the natural drift of the city. Once shaped by maritime industry and later a haven for artists in search of vast warehouse space, its history and isolation give it a quiet magnetism. Streetsweeper, the fifth album by John Andrews & The Yawns, reflects that vantage point-tranquil, self-contained, and curious about the movements most people overlook.
Just a few cobblestone blocks from the freight-ship-lined harbor, Andrews wrote dozens of new songs at his electric piano. Nine of them found their way to Los Angeles to be recorded with Luke Temple, who played guitar and some bass. Drummer Noah Bond and bassist Kevin Louis Lareau, both longtime members of The Yawns and Cut Worms, form the rhythm section. Will Henriksen of Florry played fiddle on “Something To Be Said,” while Emily Moales of Star Moles sang harmonies recorded remotely by Kevin Basko at Historic New Jersey.
Andrews finished his overdubs back home, letting the record settle again into the landscape that first inspired it. Around the same time, he took a seasonal job in his neighbourhood with the NYC Parks, maintaining the soccer fields beside the hulking, abandoned grain terminal at the river’s edge. He’d ride his bike home at lunch to record vocals, weaving the workday into the songs themselves. No matter the task, he brings a steady devotion.
On Streetsweeper, Andrews leans into guitar like he hasn’t in years, still letting his relaxed, unhurried touch guide the music. “Goodbye Dirty Snow” is delicate & full of heart, yet comfortably sits next to “Friends in Misery” with trashy, jangly guitars and a driving rhythm section. On Santo & Johnny inspired tune “Through & Through” he sings in an intimate lo-fi voice: “If I were to question your greatest vice, I’d be like Bambi out on ice.” Each lyrical vignette is filled with Andrews’ gentle empathy-he sings like someone who might’ve seen you playing fetch, kissing on a park bench, or crying on a lunch break.
Andrews remains active on the DIY circuit he’s traveled for almost 20 years now, taking his solo shows on the road to backyards and unconventional spaces, projecting his signature handmade animations, which dance behind him. He sells his artwork for cheap, guided by the Bread & Puppet Theater manifesto that art should belong to everyone who wants it, and those paintings funded his album. He’d long admired Little Wings, an artist cut from the same well-worn cloth. After flipping through Kyle Field’s work at a Baby’s All Right show, he asked him to paint the cover; two hockey players clad in 1980’s New Jersey Devils red and green.
Red Hook may not be the easiest neighborhood to reach, but that distance gives it a singular glow-one Andrews sneaks into every note of Streetsweeper. The Super 8 video for “Something To Be Said,” shot by Hilla Eden, wanders through its streets like a hazy love letter. The album offers a similar invitation: step off the main road, linger a little, and notice the small, overlooked moments that make a place-and a life-rich. Andrews has swept those margins with care, leaving songs that listen, observe, and stay with you.