Jlin is Boundless | Bklyn Sounds 5/9/2024—5/14/2024

The producer/composer talks about how rhythm and bass bridges disparate worlds, and stimulates her creative process + Shows: musclecars / Marc Ribot Quartet / Luke Stewart's Silt Trio / and more

I start almost every interview the same way, with basic-journalism questions — name, age, birthplace and residence — that allow me to check the recorder mic levels and the subject’s comfort with question-answering. Recently I’ve added two more queries: preferred pronouns, and how the subject regards themselves in their field. Common answers to the latter include “artist” or “musician” or “improvisor,” a general sense of self peeking from behind the curtain, especially when they take a minute to think about what they wanna say. 

When 36 year-old Jerrilynn Patton and I got on a Zoom in mid-March, the producer who goes by Jlin answered with no hesitation: “composition and production.” Which is not only technically correct, but also wonderfully detached to how she embraces the immense skill-set, rather than the world’s labeling of the person who possesses it. (Note: she did not say “composer and producer.”) 

Jlin also could have said “master rhythmalist,” because, ever since her 2014 debut album Dark Energy, a record that came out of the greater Chicago footwork scene (Patton was born and resides in Gary, Indiana), she’s been one of the best producers of drums and deep bass frequencies in the world. Footwork is a high-BPM music made specifically for a local style of street-movement, and Jlin’s version has been embraced by other global uptempo rhythm scenes and producers. (Famously, Aphex Twin began playing it in his DJ sets almost right away.) But it’s also been championed by contemporary choreographers — Wayne MacGregor, for whom Jlin wrote 2017’s Autobiography, and Kyle Abraham, for whose troupe, A.I.M., she re-imagined Mozart’s Requiem — and by world-famous new-music ensembles — Jlin’s done commissions for Kronos Quartet and Third Coast Percussion, the latter of which, “Perspective,” was short-listed for a Pulitzer. 

All this has placed Jlin’s “composition and production” in a rare position, bridging two completely different aesthetic worlds, both of which hear a glorious future in her rhythms, even as they apply separate meanings to their purpose. Jlin’s newest album, Akoma, embraces her cultural standing — its guests include not only Kronos, but also Bjork and Philip Glass — while its beats find space for both chaos and contemplation. She keeps sounding like no one but herself, yet keeps growing the idea of who that self may be.

Our conversation was edited for length and clarity.      

Jlin (photo: Lawrence Agyei)

Can you tell me a little bit about your early musical experiences? Where were your ears at when you were growing up? Did your parents play music in the house?

That's precisely what happened. My mom had a record collection, and my father is a jazz lover. The first record that I can remember is Luther Vandross, “Never Too Much,” at like three or four years old. I think Luther is my mother’s favorite. She would play Bootsy Collins, Isley Brothers, Earth, Wind and Fire, Phoebe Snow, different artists. And then my dad liked Loggins and Messina. Like I said, he loved jazz. Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Dizzy [Gillespie]. And then on Sundays we would go to church, and then we would come home, and dance to the records, and when we were cleaning, my mom would put her records on. Play records and cleaning — that's a typical thing to do in a Black household. 

Anything percussive or did that come along later? 

My father used to play the congas — this was before I was born — he would go to the beach, him and his friends would have a jam session or whatever. So I grew up listening to Tito Puente, Sheila E, Pete Escovedo (Sheila's father). I loved listening to Brazil 66, Carlos Santana.

Before he passed away, I was getting ready to take drum lessons from Johnny Jackson, Jo Jackson, who used to be in The Jackson 5, their drummer. He was my mom's neighbor at one point in time. He was in a band called White Dove. He had actually given us our German Shepherd puppy. I used to watch Johnny play every time I had a chance to, and I fell in love with the way he could stretch that drum set — that to me was just crazy. He would go from rhythm to rhythm to rhythm, transition to transition, with no break. And it was so smooth. My mom could see I was looking at him across the street, she knew I wanted to learn, so one day she said, “Why don't you go over there and go ask him?” I was shy, but I went over there and I asked him, he was like, “Yeah.” He actually gave me my first pair of sticks. I was probably 12 or 13. 

Johnny passed away before you had an opportunity to do that. Did you end up having lessons of any sort on drums or any other instruments?

He had a full list of how to do paradiddles, so I used to practice those. 

Did you end up playing in school at any point?

No, I never played. I'm not not trained, I don't know how to play an instrument. If I get a hold of something, I can always kind of play around until I can mimic it, until I figure it out. I've done it with percussion in songs before. And occasionally, if I can get my hands on a guitar, I'll try to play something and record it. I actually wanted to get a guitar recently to maybe play around with ideas in my head. 

When you first started playing around with making tracks, you’ve said the sound of footwork was something that you experienced very early in life, and that it stuck with you. Why do you think that percussive body sound was the thing that you gravitated towards?

I think what drew me in was probably the percussive portion of it. It's fast, it's very four-on-the-floor. You know, typically footwork is between 155-160 BPM. And, of course, there’s the dance — cause you can't have one without the other, in my opinion. You gotta have a dance with this music. (I hate when I see them separated. It kind of pisses me off.) 

One of the things for me when I listened to footwork, one of the things that drew me to it, was watching the dance. Listening. It's like, I could kind of slow down the rhythms in my head. And just kinda watching the evolution of it, especially over the years to where it is right now, it's a beautiful story. 

Were you a dancer yourself?

I was learning. Actually, we had a talent show when I was in high school. My friends and I were learning a footwork routine, and I was gonna do it. But I think we lost the music, and we ended up doing something else. I had learned a routine, but after that, I didn't do anything I was gonna need to learn again. 

What about just going to the club or to parties? Did you dance there?

I hate going to parties. I hate parties.

Are you an introvert?

I'm not, I just don't like parties. Like, if I have to go to one, I'll go. But I'm not a party person. Because I [produce dance-rhythm music] all day long, it reminds me of work. Also, I've never been a party person, even before I took this on full-time. I'd much rather be at home, like hanging with my parents, sitting around watching a documentary, while we eat pizza. 

So then about your inspirations. It's funny to juxtapose the kind of music that you make with what you are describing as your proclivity to, like chill at home. 

Oh, that's just balance. It's nothing deep. That's just a balance of life. It’s like when you date somebody who is the polar opposite of you.

But then what about the amount of energy that your creativity consumes? Where does that energy come from and go to? I always hear about producers who, as soon as they finish something hot, they take it to DJs and want them to play it in front of an audience, to see what the people's reactions are going to be.

I've never had that. That was never the goal. It's still not. I've never said, “I wanna play this out loud and see how people feel.”

So it really is strictly about your own creativity and you being happy with it?

Yeah. Because, I mean, there have been times… One night at Lincoln Center [in 2022], I got cheered for an encore with Kyle [Abraham — during a Jazz at Lincoln Center performance of Requiem: Fire in the Air of the Earth], and then got booed at AfroPunk [during a late-night Lincoln Center Outdoors Silent Disco event she DJ’d] all in the same night. But that was the best experience of my life, because nobody is cheering for you 100% of the time. And I love that they didn't cheer. I was so happy with the tracks that I was playing [in the DJ set], and how well I was playing, I didn't even notice them booing me and being upset until I actually looked up and saw that I had cleared the dance-floor. It was great. I really enjoyed myself. The same night, an hour apart from each other, went from being completely cheered on by an encore, and then people clearing the dance store, that was like the best. I love it. I wish I could go back.

What’s the thing that you focus on when you're creating? You're making dance music, but you don't care if people dance to it. Talk a little bit about that. 

It's not that. I will say this. If they dance, I love it. That's beautiful.But that's not my goal. My goal is to just create, because I'm digging from a particular space, tapping, pulling out the inner me. That's what's happening. But if it just happens to make people dance, that's a hidden pearl, you know? I'm very grateful for it, because people do not have to show up for you. And I never take that for granted. But when it comes to separating the audience and listeners, that's not my goal. My goal is to try to master myself through my craft. That is always my goal, has always been my goal, and will always be my goal. Trying to master myself. 

How has your vision changed over time? Your initial albums, Dark Energy and Black Origami, there was a lot of sonic darkness going on, and aspects of almost-horror film elements. More recently, there seems to have been more moments where the light comes in more clearly in the music — acoustic textures, hand drums and marimbas appear, a lightness begins to come in. Can you talk a little bit about your evolution? Is different influences? Your head space? Is it the things you are trying to get to, inside of yourself?

It's a combination of all of those. For lack of better words, it’s “everything everywhere all at once,” but within myself. From being in my past, to my present, to my future, to where I'm trying to get to. I'm in all of those spaces at the same time. I think that's what I'm coming into now, an omni-presence. I just have more maturity now, as far as, I guess, my technical skill level. But it's also a maturity that has nothing to do with my music. It's personal. I'm cognizant about how I do things now, versus just doing the thing. 

I was listening to Sheila E doing an interview, and she was talking about playing drums with, I think, Marvin Gaye. And she added an extra beat to, I think, “What's Going On.” He stopped the whole thing, and he was like, “What are you doing?” She said, “Hell, I thought it sounded good.” And he was like, “No, you know when to play and when not to.” And it wasn't even a case of you gotta know when to and when not to do a thing. He was saying, basically, just because you can play doesn't mean that you should. So I applied that to myself, that just because I can expand does not mean that I should always be expanding. There have to be times where I have to contract and then expand. I don't always just come out swinging. 

Another person I learned that from was [the designer] Rick Owens. He and William Basinski actually. They talked about having to create the buildup, that you don't have to come out swinging all the time, you know? I really learned that from Rick. And then when I wrote Autobiography [ed. Jlin’s 2018 music for choreographer Wayne McGregor’s piece Autobiography], I was really learning it from William; I sent the first track, “Spiritual Atom,” to Billy, to have him listen to it. He said, “It sounds beautiful, but let it open up. You'll know when it's open, and then you can come in and expand.” That's what I did. So that entire album, that whole score, was a learning process for me, but I needed to learn it.

I still tap into that space. I'll just write an ambient piece because I feel like it's necessary. It is there. Like my track “Summon” is not that percussive, but it's very abrasive. That's an “everywhere, everything, all at once” track. And it sounds like there's a lot happening — like, “Shit, we over here now, we over there, now we back here, now we upside down.” 

It's interesting listening to you talk about this stuff. Some of it sounds like learning to breathe in different ways.

I have a mantra: CPU, Clean, Precise, and Unpredictable. I always try to create my music around that. It's tough, but it forces me. The best creative place to be is a space that you're not comfortable in. So when you're not comfortable, that's where you should be at. I learned that from my mom. She said, if you are afraid to do it, that's exactly what you should be doing. (Of course, in wisdom, not in something that's gonna put you in harm's way.) Like: be a risk-taker. Just because somebody doesn't see your vision does not mean that it's not there. It just means that everybody else might have to catch up.

When I asked you to describe yourself at the beginning of our interview, you said, “composition and production.” Talk a little bit about composing for yourself versus composing for other folks. What's the difference? What’s the compare and contrast?

There is no compare and contrast. The goal is always the same: do the best I can. So there is no difference. The only difference would be if [the commission] gave me a concept of what they were doing. So like with Kyle Abraham, the Mozart Requiem was the concept. So, create around that, create with samples from that. If a concept is given, I create around that. If there's a build already, I create around that. Just like if I do a remix of somebody's work. I just roll around what they already have. But the goal is the same, to do the best that I can. I don't separate the two. Like, “Oh, this is a Jlin production, and then this is for someone else.” No. My signature is in everything, if I'm a part of it. 

What about the piece you wrote for Third Coast Percussion?  What was the concept for that?

<laughs> Actually, for that, there wasn't a concept. We just had a plan. They wanted me to write for them, cause I had written for Kronos Quartet. I had done their “Fifty for the future,” and I wrote “Little Black Book.” And then, Third Coast asked me to write for them, but my schedule was conflicting because I was doing Autobiography and Black Origami, touring them both at the same time, so I didn't have the time to do it. But then they came back once everything was over, and asked me to write for them. So I told 'em, “Yeah,” and went to their studio in Chicago, where they have so many instruments, and I recorded sound with Sean Connors, who's one of the members. I think we spent almost 12 hours over two days just recording various sounds through a sound recorder, which I was so happy we did that. Then I created around the sounds that I had recorded, finished each track, and sent it back to them.

With commissions for choreographers and dance troupes — Kyle Abraham and the Requiem, and MacGregor’s Autobiography — can you talk a little bit about the process of creating that music? Were you seeing the choreography as it was evolving, and then composing it?

All the time. Back to back. And I love that. I was so happy. Wayne and I worked hand in glove. I changed my entire sleep schedule so we could work. [ed. Jlin was in Indiana, and MacGregor in the UK.] I would wake up at 2am, work till 6pm, and then I would go to bed. I did that until the record was done. We just worked like that during the highest peak of rehearsal. He could listen to things, and try things. I changed my schedule so we could do that. And like I said before, Autobiography really pushed me into a direction I wanted to go. 

Then working with Kyle, every time he did a rehearsal, he sent me the rehearsal tape. I loved that because it kind of helped me shape the music. I was actually watching the rehearsal in silence, and then I’d write the music. I wanted to see how the dancers and choreographers interact with each other. Every part of that is important to me. Not just the choreography, but them talking to each other, trying to figure things out.

All of that goes into my music. Not just, “Ooh, here's the dance, and now write for it.” Like, when I wrote for Wayne, I studied him to a tee, as much as I could. And then I wrote for him. I studied Kyle too, watched and read everything that was online. I studied him before I even started writing. And then when he sent me the first video with the company, I studied that, and then I kept writing. I feel like that's important, because all of that has to be in the production. It can't just be, you know, Mozart and the rebirth. You have to embody everybody who's in here, trying to get that in a record and a piece. I always try to do that to the best of my ability. 

Typically, how I work with everyone, is I send a minute’s worth of music to a person. Like, once I have a demo, I send it, and if they “Yay” it, I finish it. If they “Nay” it, I'll go back, and start from scratch. That's why I only do a minute, so I'm not losing much if they're like, “Oh, No!” I haven't gotten a “Nay” yet. I've gotten “Can you add…” but I've never gotten a “No.” Not to say that I won't.

When the performances of your music for choreographers happen, is it a recording or are you playing it live?

I am playing it live. I wasn't there for [some Autobiography performances in 2018]. I was on Black Origami tour. But I am very much a person who, like, when I play live, I don't like a lot of people. When I perform now, I hate adding gimmicks to it. No disrespect to anyone, but for my performance, it does not work for me to add tricks and delays and fades. It just does not work. I like things to be played as I wrote. If I'm performing it, then I want it to be played as I wrote it. If someone else did it, yeah, do your thing. Especially with reinterpretation of what I've written —if you wanna take it and go spin around the moon with it, I'm cool with that. But when it comes to me performing it, I like things performed the way I wrote them.

So, is it fair to say that you are strict with how you present your music, and you don't improvise?

I don't improvise. It's one of those definitive things. <laughs> Say what you mean, mean what you say. I said it. I meant it. 

When you are composing, do the ideas start with sound, or do they start with feeling? 

They start with those two, feeling and sound. Because everything I create is a very blank canvas. I talk about that a lot. I don't know what I'm gonna do, until it is done, and the result is as much a surprise for me, as it is for you. And I love that because that means I'm not in control, I'm just the vessel [the music] passed through, and I'm cool with that <laugh>. I'm an intuitive creator.

You said that maybe what I'm hearing in the evolution of your sound is a kind of maturity. Is some of that the experience of playing in different kinds of places, and in front of different kinds of audiences? It's funny — you and William Basinski are actually great examples of musicians I've seen in many different types of spaces — museums and fancy old-school concert halls, but also warehouses and community performing arts organizations. Is there something about how you’ve already lived as Jlin that informs the music on Akoma? 

All of the things that I have ever been, and have ever happened to me up until this point in my life, make up me as a person, right? So all of those facets are in there. I have always felt my music was boundless. It is infinite. It is pure imagination and innovation for me, with the total humility and shield of me being completely vulnerable all the time, every time. That being said, I have to imagine, like we were saying earlier about being brave, that when I'm afraid, that's when I probably leap the hardest. Because the only guarantee in life is that there is no guarantee. So I would rather take the risk than say, “Damn! I should have took it.”

I spend a lot of time complaining about places like Carnegie Hall and Lincoln Center not being great to music that comes from soundsystem and club-rhythm culture. Yet I also have a lot of friends and colleagues who are improvisers and electronic composers who aspire to those spaces, and who think of you as a model of somebody making completely uncompromising music, expressing yourself fully, doing it on these stages, and not being influenced by the types of stages. 

Again, I think that comes from the fact that I never saw my music going just here and or just there. It goes on the runway as much as it does inside Carnegie Hall, as much as it does on a TV screen, as much as it does wherever. I got that from Bruce Lee, “Be water, my friend.” Whatever you touch, you can adapt. So I've never felt like my music would work over here but not over there. Never ever, ever.

Whereas I go back to the fact that your music is for the body, instead of just being reduced to the headphones of a Silent Disco. When you're in one of those spaces, do you never go, “Ahhhh, I wish the bass was louder”? 

Oh, I've had moments like that. But that's the beauty of balance. Everything has its place, even when you are like, “I wish I had more bass.” Even that has a balance, because that becomes a learning experience. Sometimes you have to have the mute button, the humility. I tell myself all the time, “J, sometimes you gotta shut up <laugh> and just allow.” 

Jlin’s playing as part of Björk’s set Under the K Bridge Park (Fri 5/10, 7p @ Under the K Bridge Park, Greenpoint - $75-$125)

This Week’s Shows:

L’Rain is the best experimental rock band in the city — not just because of their great songs, and level of national popularity, but because they are a musical powerhouse. Tonight, they play a storied independent venue where all great New York bands of a certain size should take stage regularly. The great openers — the long-running duo of improvising bass phenom Brandon Lopez and Fred Moten, a wordsmith giant who straddles poetry, spoken-word, and critical academia worlds — are more used to free-jazz joints than rock clubs. Which makes this a perfect double-bill. (Thurs 5/9, 8p @ Bowery Ballroom, Manhattan - $25)

What better week to check in with the city’s best improvising big band, Burnt Sugar The Arkestra Chamber, than the week that its founder, the late great Greg Tate, received a special posthumous Pulitzer Prize. The semi-regular Burnt Sugar Smoke House session is a night when the band’s individual players showcase their wares, next to the arkestral mothership: so not only will Vernon Reid lead the whole congregation through “Electric Slide Conduction #1,” but he’ll play with his rock quartet Shrine for the Black Madonna, saxophonist Avram Ferrer will present his Juba Lee 4tet, Ms. Olithea will sing, trombonist Dave ‘Smoota’ Smith will groove his Beast quintet, Honeychild Coleman will shred, and on and on. (Thurs 5/9, 8p @ Bowery Electric, Manhattan - $25) 

A shambling psyche-noise-ambient three-fer: The beloved, disintegrating-roots trio (sometimes more though) Sloppy Heads begin their summer-long Mama Tried residency, alongside tK, a Boston-based, applied-instrumental-weirdness trio led by the inimitable Thalia Zedek, and Little Black Egg, which is Georgia Hubley soft kosmische side-blast. (Thurs 5/9, 9p @ Mama Tried, Sunset Park - $20suggested)