[Transcript edited for clarity]

Benjamin Hackman: Hi, I’m Benjamin Hackman from The Holy Gasp. Hello, Radio World.

Absent Sounds: Along with—

Luke Sargent: Hi, I am Luke Sargent, director of The Love Songs of Oedipus Rex, the documentary.

Absent Sounds: The documentary, yes. That is crucial information because we are going to not only dive into the record itself, but talk about the making, the process, and everything behind the documentary that accompanies it. Before we get started, we usually like to give our listeners a little introduction into who you guys are. But today, I wanna start off maybe by diving into just the first conversation or the intersection of both of your lives. So where did you both begin, and do you remember the first conversation? What was the initial drawing point?

Benjamin Hackman: Well, the two of us met as co-founders of the Christie Pits Community Garden, and that would’ve been in 2008, something like that. Yeah, yeah. So we’ve been friends for a long time, and we always sort of wanted to work together. Luke’s—I’ll let him speak for himself—but he works in film editing predominantly, and has been moving into film directing as well. And in 2016, I moved to Toronto Island and Luke came to visit me. I was just about to begin pre-production on The Love Songs of Oedipus Rex, the album. (We’ll have to distinguish throughout this interview.) And I thought, you know, this would be a good documentary. And Luke—

Luke Sargent: Can I jump in here?

Benjamin Hackman: I know we disagree on our memories of this.

Luke Sargent: Well, you said, “I want you to shoot some behind-the-scenes footage.”

Benjamin Hackman: That’s probably true.

Luke Sargent: And I was like, I have zero interest in shooting behind-the-scenes.

Benjamin Hackman: Yeah, you weren’t that interested.

Luke Sargent: No.

Benjamin Hackman: But I remember sort of presenting it to you in a very ceremonial package. We were bobbing up and down in Lake Ontario and I said to you, “Listen, this is gonna be a great documentary. This album’s gonna change the world. Somebody’s gotta document it. And in exchange for your creativity, time, and labor, I can offer you—”

Luke Sargent: Exposure.

Benjamin Hackman: Exposure, yes.

Luke Sargent: Which is another word for absolutely nothing.

Benjamin Hackman: But you called me like the next day and you’re like, “I thought about it and I’ve got the summer off and yes, I want to do it.” And then you showered me with praise and haven’t stopped doing that since.

Luke Sargent: I think what kind of happened was, it started as like a BTS: “Hey, can you shoot some stuff, we’re making this album,” and then we started talking about, why are you making this album? And I thought, oh wow, this is a bigger story. You know, there’s a lot of grief going on, there’s a lot of loss. You were talking about how your dad had passed and you’d written songs about that, but you were also in the middle of a messy divorce. And then also, concurrently to all of these events, your therapist had died. And that was a big part of your life. Like psychology and therapy, talk therapy—it’s a huge part of your life. My mom’s a psychologist, so for me it was like, oh yeah, this isn’t just, “Hey, the band wants something for YouTube.” It was like, no, there’s something going on here that’s special and unique. So that’s what kind of got me. And then the other part of that was the exposure we had—no, we had a young baby at home, Sigmund. And I had to ask my wife, like, “Hey, is it okay if I buzz off to Toronto Island on a bike with a sleeping bag and some film gear for two or three weeks?” And she was kind of like, “Yeah, go for it,” you know, which was awesome. She’s always been really supportive.

Absent Sounds: That’s one of the questions that I was thinking about too. Even watching the documentary—’cause I know there are some conversations that come up where they felt a little heavy—and I was wondering if that’s something that was a typical part of your relationship beforehand, and I assume it must’ve at least had some sort of aspect.

Luke Sargent: In kind of discussing the big broad strokes of the project, we laid down some ground rules. And one that Benjamin offered up was, “You can ask me absolutely anything. You can record me anytime.” And that was something that, you know, was a real gift in terms of vulnerability and access, if you will—speaking in documentary terms. So that was really bold on your part. And something that certainly, going into it, I wanted—that permission—before diving deeper and deeper. But then, yes, like we recorded… it’s a 22-minute documentary. We recorded 85 hours of footage. So yes, we sat and talked and talked and talked and talked. And the transcripts are huge, you know.

Absent Sounds: Luke, did you see yourself more as a fly on the wall, or more as a very involved presence when they were recording?

Luke Sargent: Well, that’s a great question. I think every person who aspires to make a documentary wants to be just an observer, but there’s an impossible dynamic there where you’re pointing cameras in people’s faces. In some cases, you know, in the doc, I’m inside the recording booth with the bass player—his bass is huge. He’s a big, tall guy, James—and you’re a part of it. So I think the way that I sort of accepted that role was just to be as sort of chill and observational and friendly as I could with everybody. You know, I sat down with a bunch of people beyond Benjamin and asked for permission to interview them, and I would always start with just like getting-to-know-you, really easy questions—stuff that I knew wouldn’t kind of make the final cut, but just to build that rapport. And by the end of it, a lot of the people had said, like, “We don’t even know you’re there.” You know? So that was a real compliment. I felt like a part of the band at one point—you know, just sort of there all the time and just a fixture.

Benjamin Hackman: I felt like you were a part of the band during that process as well.

Luke Sargent: Yeah, yeah, yeah. I mean, I watched every recording—like I was there in the booth, kind of, or in the room watching every recording, trying to be quiet.

Benjamin Hackman: And that’s the thing also: when you’re making a record—well, there’s two things. When you’re making a record, it’s not like it’s a solo thing anyway; and not everybody there is a musician—there are crew members there. So it’s not that different to see a person with a camera than it is to see somebody setting up a mic. It all sort of feels like the same thing. And also, musicians are used to performing, so in some ways it’s actually easier to have someone there because it’s the difference between having a conversation and leaving a voicemail. Like, when you’re leaving a voicemail, you have no feedback. But—

Luke Sargent: Oh yeah, there were takes where you’re like, “How was that?” And I was the closest person. This is always the danger in a film situation—like, actors sometimes ask the gaffer, “How was my take?” you know? And then the director’s like, “Hey, I was behind the monitor, like, what the hell?” Um, yeah. But yeah, I just felt like there was a lot of camaraderie and—yeah.

Benjamin Hackman: But you also, like—you blended everything. You know, I never felt like I was—take this the right way, not the wrong way—I never felt like I was working with a, quote-unquote, “professional.” I felt like I was working with my friend and a fellow collaborator, you know what I mean? There wasn’t that clinical, stale “I’m coming to work” kind of feeling ever. Right? So when I asked you, “Was that good?” I wasn’t asking you as the subject of your documentary. I was asking you as my friend.

Absent Sounds: Yeah—

Luke Sargent: And a fan of the music.

Absent Sounds: Yeah. I think that’s also a really interesting thing you brought up about the performance aspect of it. Because even though I know lots of musicians spend time performing—or not every musician appreciates performing—I think there is a weird tension that goes on between filmmaking and music when it’s brought together, where there’s a sort of permanence of film: the footage will live on. And even though the music that is recorded does live on too, I think it carries a certain impermanence of the feelings or maybe the energy that people put in—it’s able to have more fluidity and change over time. Maybe that’s a similar perspective as someone in the audience who has, I don’t know, heard different interpretations of music change over time. And I’m just curious more how you see the change for yourself, and do you feel like that’s—I dunno—do you feel like there’s a misinterpretation along the way that’s happened, if that makes sense? If—what I’m trying to say—

Luke Sargent: Like a before-and-after kind of idea?

Absent Sounds: Yeah, yeah—like how was it then in the moment, and how is it looking back now? And do you feel like having it filmed also contributed to a difference over time for yourself?

Benjamin Hackman: Oh wow, okay. You know, when I look back on the documentary now, I really see how deeply sad I was and how painful that period of time was. But I also—like, I got divorced perfectly. You know, I surrounded myself with friends. I gave myself a creative outlet. I went somewhere kind of exotic that would foster artistry and creativity and respite. You know, I picked a very beautiful place on a very beautiful summer and simplified my life and filled it with nothing but art. So yes, I was dealing with really painful things, and—I mean, the documentary actually—’cause we get to the Freshman—so it’s like, it’s actually a span of a full year, isn’t it?

Luke Sargent: No, because we weren’t shooting in the summer. It was October to maybe the first week of November, but The Freshman—the following summer.

Benjamin Hackman: So yeah—

Luke Sargent: But then The Freshman was like three months later. It was like you were working—

Benjamin Hackman: Oh, was it that quick?

Luke Sargent: Yeah. You were working, I think, January–February on The Freshman. So I’d been kind of editing a little bit and getting that trailer together.

Benjamin Hackman: Yeah.

Luke Sargent: But writing—and then I came, recorded you guys on Freshman?

Benjamin Hackman: Yeah—sorry, timelines.

Luke Sargent: Yeah—six years ago.

Benjamin Hackman: So, I mean, the reason I’m bringing this up is because you see a big shift in my emotion in the documentary—from the process of writing and recording The Love Songs of Oedipus Rex to when I’m working on The Freshman. But all those memories are actually, surprisingly, so happy because it’s joyful to work with a large group of people. And Luke and I bonded so much in that process. Like, it was such a nice thing to do with a friend. And there were such funny, playful moments that happened off-screen. So when I look back on it, I just look back with a lot of joy, and I feel this sense of like, I’m the victor: I had a difficult time and I came out on the other end stronger and happier and with a better life and with a cool art project. So, yeah—it’s kind of nice to look back on it. It doesn’t sort of bum me out like other memories might.

Absent Sounds: That’s really interesting, because I was telling you a few days ago—or maybe a few weeks ago—about how sometimes I feel really sad when I’m reading or looking back on certain parts of my life, ’cause I’m like—I am able to see it or experience it from this side, but it’s like there’s this other person that I see that’s really hurting, and I can’t access them and I can’t help them in a certain way. So I guess in terms of yourself, like—

Luke Sargent: Missing that—being that old self a little bit?

Absent Sounds: Yeah, yeah. And it’s like, I don’t really know what to do to comfort that person, even if it’s like, I’m not hurting right now, but it’s just so far away, you know—even if it’s right there.

Benjamin Hackman: But I guess the difference is—’cause I can relate to what you’re saying: if I see a version of myself in the past that’s wounded and didn’t get the help it needed, then I have to process that and I have to retroactively mourn and heal. I can see myself, when I look back on The Love Songs of Oedipus Rex, giving myself exactly what I needed to get through it. So when I look back, there’s no part of me that’s like, “Oh, I want to help that younger version of myself.” That younger version of myself is being helped on screen. I can see it happening, you know.

Absent Sounds: In—not maybe inversely—but another parallel to what you were saying: just then, you reminded me of another video that I have been watching on… I guess one of the things that this guy on YouTube had said was—yes, but it was something that stuck with me because he had mentioned that the sad part about grieving people is that eventually people can just let go, and then they’ll be okay with it eventually, and you’ll be okay with it. Which—I don’t know if that softens or waters down the love that you feel in that moment or maybe in the future—but how has that transformed, or the process of the divorce that you were going through, changed your view on love and other ephemeral things now?

Benjamin Hackman: It didn’t change my view on love at all. You know, grief is the necessary byproduct of having loved. And when we love people, we open doors in our hearts. And when we open doors widely, we let in a lot of love, and we risk letting in all the dust and bugs and horrible things too. And if we open the door of love open a crack, we let in very little love and we protect ourselves. So everything is commensurate. And we live in a culture that very quickly determines that a successful marriage is one that doesn’t end. But—it’s like, I mean, this is perhaps a crude metaphor—but if you’re playing a video game and you beat the game, the game’s over; you can go and do something else. A relationship doesn’t have to last a lifetime for it to be successful and rewarding. And in fact, recognizing the end of something is a sign of success as well. You know? That’s just part of it. It’s just what it is. So no, it hasn’t changed my perspective on love. And even at the moment, I never felt embittered or jaded or felt like “marriage is a sham.” I’m engaged right now—I’m getting married again. Like, it has a happy ending, so to speak.

Absent Sounds: This is a question to you both. It kinda reminded me of the idea—’cause I know that I really struggle to let go of things, or when realizing when it’s time to just move on to something else. Is that something you notice in other aspects of your life that you do? Or are you pretty good at recognizing when it’s time to keep moving to the next thing?

Benjamin Hackman: I think everybody struggles with that. Maybe not you—you seem really—

Luke Sargent: Good at that, Luke? I’m trying—I’m kind of struggling, actually, to find a point where I have consciously let go. I suppose there’s a friendship that I had to make a conscious effort to kind of say, “Yeah, okay, that’s—it is what it is.” Which, you know, is a term that comes up in every project I work on all the time, which is always like the moment you accept defeat. You know, everyone’s like, “Well, I guess it just is what it is,” and you’re like, “No, it can’t just be—it— not this early. I’m not ready.” So yeah, it happens. I think—you know, I sound like an old man here—but it gets easier the older you get, the more instances of… yeah, maybe the intensity of emotions is different, or maybe it’s just you’ve got more experience letting things go or having things run their course. Like, I like to kind of look back on my own life in terms of decades, and so my twenties, I found—looking back—was a time when it was all expansion. You know, I was reading voraciously, I was listening to all kinds of lectures, I was really interested in people and kind of letting anyone in—anyone who’s willing to play: “Hey, let’s jam,” you know, that kind of thing. And then my thirties was learning that not all friends are equal, and sometimes friendships run their course or relationships run their course, and just accepting that is okay and not kind of putting the same value. And so there was a bit of a contraction then, you know, in my thirties. And now I’m into my forties, and I’m looking at things like—I don’t know what this decade’s gonna be, but it seems like it’s more about longevity. And so, yeah—I don’t know. It’s like different phases, and you can kind of give yourself permission to accept that about yourself.

Benjamin Hackman: Maybe it takes time to learn about endings. If I could just riff on what you said from a slightly more broad perspective—like, you tell a kid, “It’s bedtime, get into your pajamas,” and they freak out. They don’t want the day to be over.

Luke Sargent: Yeah, I know that feeling.

Benjamin Hackman: And I think that there’s a real built-in mortality aspect to it all, where we just fundamentally resist endings, because all things that move towards their end—including a day, a relationship, an ice cream cone—they’re gone forever. The day doesn’t come back. The ice cream doesn’t reform in the cone. I don’t think that’s an intuitive thing to accept. I think what is intuitive is to rage against the dying of the light and to resist things moving towards their end. And, yeah, we have to parent ourselves to accept and adjust to things ending, and it’s challenging. Necessary. We’re not gonna change it.

Absent Sounds: I think, to me, when I think about my resistance towards endings, it brings up something of a little fear of giving up—like you had said—or letting go, but also with the idea that I’m just releasing myself into maybe more of a depression or of a darker place of not… like, if I’m not actively fighting against it, I’m gonna sink into the deterioration that is inevitable—or it feels like it’s inevitable to me. And I know that’s another thing that you talk about a lot in your music, and I am always just curious to know: what’s that process been like for you, Benjamin, of, I guess, getting through periods of darkness?

Benjamin Hackman: That’s a huge question. I suppose the important thing to note is: we do get through darkness whether we try to or not. So whether we’re conscious of how we did it, in some respects, is irrelevant. We do do it and have done it. And perhaps it’s the simple fact that time heals all wounds, or perhaps we really are survivors and, just as a species, are incredibly endurable and know how to get through these things. You know, in the same way that there’s this pronounced death drive, there’s also a very strong evolutionary pull to keep living. And, like—I think about this quite a bit. Creation and destruction are not equal. It’s a really big problem. Like, if you give me a hammer and I build a house and shelter the homeless, they’re sheltered until a tornado comes and destroys the house, or termites come and eat it. But if I use the same hammer to bludgeon somebody’s head and kill them, they’re dead forever. They just never come back. So the things that we build and construct and create—they last as long as they last. There’s nothing humans can create that will last forever. I mean, there’s plastic in the oceans that’ll last a long time, but a long time is still not forever. And because of that, the things in this world that are precious to us—we feel wounded when they go away, because we know that they can never come back again. But it does nothing to alter the creative drive.

Luke Sargent: Oh, I disagree—I think it inspires us to create.

Benjamin Hackman: Well—

Luke Sargent: Sure, sure.

Benjamin Hackman: Yes, yes—

Luke Sargent: ’Cause we recognize that—

Benjamin Hackman: I meant it doesn’t hinder the—

Luke Sargent: Creative drive.

Benjamin Hackman: Yeah.

Luke Sargent: If anything, it’s the opposite. Yeah, it’s the motivation.

Benjamin Hackman: And I think that—it doesn’t appear to me that evolution really cares about our quality of life, only that we don’t die. So, in some respects, the more fearful we are—I’m not encouraging people to live their life with a dedication to fear—but the more afraid we are of bad things happening, the less likely we are to put ourselves in situations where bad things happen. You know, you eat a plant, it makes you throw up; you pat an animal, it bites you; you go, okay, I’m not gonna do that again. Well, at a certain point, we get really sick of being afraid, and we say, you know, I ate that plant and it made me puke, but I’m not gonna not eat other plants. And I can live with puking, and maybe it’s okay for me to take chances. And that’s just—I think we all know this, by the way. Like, I might be working to articulate this, but I do think intuitively we all know how to do this, and do do this.

Luke Sargent: This previous question reminded me of some character—have you guys read the book In the Skin of a Lion by Michael Ondaatje? This is a book that was given to me when I moved to Toronto from the West Coast, and they were like, “Read this—you’ll understand the city,” which I thought was charming, because it’s all about the building of the Bloor Viaduct and the foresight that city planners had. But it’s a novel—like, it’s a storybook—but it’s of course centered around this foresight that they had, putting in tunnels for the subway before the subway had been invented to travel through this tunnel. So it was really a testament to kind of planning ahead for a future city. But there was this character—I can’t remember his name—he was Macedonian and he was the bravest bridge-builder, and he would swing from ropes across—from A to B—to bring something from A to B, yeah. But he was terrified of going to sleep at night, and he would drink himself to sleep at this bar every night. And here’s this big, strong, tough kind of leader in the day who was sad, lonely at night because he was afraid of the unknown. And I think what we’re kind of circling around here is this idea of: you want to hold onto things because they’re tangible, and it’s terrifying to let go because you don’t know what will be next. What will I feel next? Who will the next person be in my life? Will there be a next—will I have to sit with my own thoughts in the dark? Right. And I can relate to that—I really can. But I think, yeah, there’s a certain kind of FOMO because it’s tangible, you know? And if you can’t know, you have to just be brave and kind of accept not knowing. Yeah. So—I don’t know.

Absent Sounds: I think along with that, this is another thing that ties in. There’s a certain sense of vulnerability of letting go, but also vulnerability of being seen—which I think a lot of us fear—and I think that’s so interesting compared to the idea that you are seen not only through the camera, but also within such a large arrangement of people being part of your records and even live performances; or having the grief and the intimacy of your performances is not just shared by yourself or internally, but it’s with the collective. How do you—is that a natural state for you as well? To be seen? To be open like that?

Benjamin Hackman: Yeah, I would say that that is something that’s just sort of natural to my temperament and demeanor. I want to be in dialogue with people, and I want to be in relationship. And art is one of many ways that we can cultivate a very curated type of communication. And, you know, I’m not singing to people; I’m responding to them with song.

Absent Sounds: What is their response to that? Do you hear responses?

Benjamin Hackman: They’re subtler, you know. But there are a lot of facial expressions that are made in a performance, and people verbalize their feelings to a performer afterwards. It tends to be that if you don’t like the performance, you keep it to yourself. So we get a skewed notion of who likes what. But that’s the risk: we put ourselves out there artistically, and we strive to connect with those with whom our art resonates.

Absent Sounds: I am also curious how that affects you, Luke, as a filmmaker, when you’re taking other people’s—I dunno if it’s their grief or their pain—whatever story that they are willing to share with you. Do you feel that—how does that work for you?

Luke Sargent: It’s a precious thing. Yeah. Handle with care—don’t drop it. I think—I’ve always, you know, I started making films as an editor, and some things to me will still always be magical. Like a performance—an actor can be in the middle of a set which is big and messy and chaotic with hundreds of people sometimes, and producers breathing down their neck about the time they’ve got, directors working on the shot, and all the people in makeup saying, “This is how you look right now and you need to look better,” or whatever—like, all this pressure—and then the actor stands there and goes, “I am a ninja. I am a cowboy.” What? How could you do that with all of this pressure and all of these people who are preparing for “What is this going to be?” and then all of the people after, “What have we got?” And they are zen. That to me is so precious. And so for editing, it took me a long time to cut performances—which is literally the job, right? You have to cut and paste, put things together, throw things away that will never be seen—and I was always really timid, to begin with, about doing that because, who am I to say “this is better than that”? And of course, you read books and you learn and mentorship and everything; you just learn from experience to do it, and so it becomes second nature—which thankfully it’s become. But I still have that sense of, “Don’t break it.” You know, we’re trying to elevate—like, filmmakers, I think, are always trying to elevate the performance: the actors show their best side, at least we’re supposed to. And that’s a responsibility that I really do take. I’m the first audience as the director or as the editor, and so I try to put aside “What is the audience gonna enjoy about this?” and try to change my perspective a little bit. But yeah—I think it’s a precious thing and something not to be tampered with too much. But then, on the flip side, you know, you’ve got 85 hours of footage—I could have made this into ten different stories, and you can really manipulate things. Watch any reality TV show and it’s all very deeply manipulative. But, you know, you just kind of hope that you’ve got the right thread and that you’re not trying to change things too much. Also, I should mention that CBC was involved with this, and they have very rigorous journalistic standards. And so early on—like, we shot it, and then it was kind of like shopping it around for some money to do the post—and CBC was like, “How close is this Benjamin guy to the filmmaking process? Because he, as a subject, can’t have a say in what happens.” So there was another rule farther down the line to constrain the creative process. But I think it was good. And there was a point where I said, “Okay, Benny—you can’t really be involved in the editing, but I will show you a cut once I’m happy with it and once CBC’s approved it, and you can just tell me if there’s anything you really don’t want in the film.” And you watched it and you were like—well, you said one thing, but I’m not gonna go there—you were like, “You could take that out; it would make someone happy, but don’t worry about it.” And it decidedly—

Benjamin Hackman: Made her not happy.

Luke Sargent: Yep. Anyway.

Absent Sounds: I think—yeah, I was gonna say—it kind of feels like that, at least when you have trust in the person, that both ways you trust the filmmaker and you trust Benjamin as a musician.

Luke Sargent: Yeah—huge trust. Huge trust. Trust fall going on there.

Absent Sounds: The question I wanted to come back to—when you’re mentioning the, oh, just the 80—like, 80 hours—how did you decide what story to follow? Or what were you chasing?

Luke Sargent: This is such a great example of why documentary, to me, is the best thing to learn as a filmmaker—and especially as an editor—because this is where I went back to those little graphs, those little story graphs. You need a roadmap, right? You’re swimming in the ocean and it’s like, “I need a chart of some kind.” And so, for me, I would build scenes around pace, and around the songs actually really helped, because, you know, it’s sort of about a record—so that was a bit of a roadmap. And then, with CBC getting involved in the post process, they also really helped in terms of—well, they decided, as the financiers, “This is how we make documentaries, and we need to focus on one character, not the rest of these people.” And so there were a few times where I’d present an edit and say, “Hey, I think this is kind of close,” and they’d be like, “We can’t get into all that other stuff—we gotta focus on the one and only sort of main character.” And so that was—again, it’s nice to have rules, it’s nice to have a map. And as constraining as it was, I think it also focused the story and made for a better story with the resources we had—which was to make a 22- (I asked them, “How long can this be?” I was wanting an hour.) They were like, “22 minutes is the top.” So I was like, “20 minutes—alrighty, that’s what you’ve got.” So, yeah—that’s, I think… It was interesting, though. I remember just looking at the naked footage and going, “Okay, I need Act Two rising-action montage kind of moment that would be in the trailer,” you know? And this is for the actual film. So it’s like, what can I take that is exciting—that is, like, that feeling of, “Okay, we’re climbing to the top of the climax moment,” right? And so you’ve got scenes of, like, beat-wave and the violin/cello guys trying to hit the notes. And so it’s kind of cool ’cause it’s deeply constructive and artistic out of just the moldable clay at that point. And some scenes I cut together and showed to people, and they were like, “I don’t want to see that.” “Okay, thanks for the perspective,” and it’s gone. So—I don’t know if that answered your question.

Absent Sounds: And I think, for the last question—’cause it’s been so many years since the actual filming took place and since the record was even put out, too—I think 2018 to 2025 is like seven years. Yeah. I guess this is like a message to anybody that watches it from now. Is there a resounding statement that you’d like to say? You know, like, this is how I feel about it now in this—or, you know, where it’s just like, “I leave it alone; it’s out in the world and I don’t touch it,” kind of thing? Or is there anything you’d like to say—like a final thought?

Luke Sargent: Um—

Absent Sounds: I have a part B to this question, too. What’s—like, if there’s a final conversation that stuck with you throughout all those years ago that sticks with you now, or something from the film—or even the record—like a line that sticks with you that you still think resonates even now.

Luke Sargent: There are so many aspects to the record that stick with me, but one—about the daily affirmation, and just how self-effacing you are in that song: “my tiny dick” and my—

Benjamin Hackman: Okay—

Luke Sargent: “Fat ass tits, fat ass tits,” and, you know, “cried and cried.” There’s just so many—I mean, that’s such a fun record to listen to. It’s so cool and dynamic and big, and it just kind of leaves nothing out. Like there’s the big, sort of victorious wedding march that descends into this chaotic kind of falling-apart beginning to a really funky, cool song. It’s just like nothing else. But—going back to sum it up—I think we were asked this question just recently as well, and I think this is a movie about grief and loss and depression. And it’s interesting that—and you touched on this earlier—it’s interesting how active Benjamin was in that process. There are no shots of him lying, wallowing in bed. The guy is running around Toronto Island making stuff and doing stuff the whole time, even though there’s so much pain in his heart and so much kind of “the sky falling down on his head” going on throughout. And I think that grief is really common, but he dealt with it in a really smart way. And if anything, that’s maybe the message of the movie: everyone’s gonna go through this at one point or another, but here is an example of someone who’s really taking it on—bull by the horns—and actively processing it, actively surrounding himself with people who are supporting him. We talk to a lot of other musicians throughout the process and they’re all like, “I don’t know how he’s doing it, man—this guy’s kind of crazy, but we’re here for him.” And that’s the byline: your community is really important throughout these times. And if you don’t have a community, you build one. Or that is one of the ways to process—by just surrounding yourself. Yeah. I don’t know—does that sum it up?

Benjamin Hackman: Yeah, it does sum it up. It’s really about art and community, and art is an exquisite way to build community. And strong communities will wish to be creative together.

Absent Sounds: So, last—my last note is that it reminds me of the quote: “Depression is not—you’re not struggling with depression; depression is struggling with you if you’re still here.” So I was like, yeah—there you go. Okay.

Luke Sargent: I need, like, two weeks to think about that in bed.

Absent Sounds: No—thank you. Yeah, thank you guys so much. It’s just been a pleasure to talk about the record and the documentary together.