About Quicksand:
It’s impossible to overstate the influence that Quicksand have on the hardcore scene. Formed in New York City in 1990 out of the ashes of Gorilla Biscuits, Youth of Today, Burn and Bold, the band took the aggression of hardcore and added a more groove-driven crunch to it, unintentionally inventing the genre known today as a post-hardcore.
After releasing two major-label masterpieces in the nineties—1993’s Slip and 1995’s Manic Compression—the band split up at the peak of their powers, only to reunite in 2012 and release Interiors and Distant Populations. In that spirit, Bring On The Psychics marks a new chapter for Quicksand—guitarist/vocalist Walter Schreifels, drummer Alan Cage and bassist Sergio Vega—by creating a sonic bridge for these two eras of the band. The album is just as heavy as the band’s influential nineties sound while retaining the ambitious sense of experimentation from their more recent era. “This was seriously the easiest record we’ve ever recorded… nothing compares to it,” Schreifels says of Bring On The Psychics, which was recorded by Jon Markson (Drug Church, Drain). “We got the entire thing done in about ten days and then just tightened it up.”
About Bane:
Formed in Massachusetts, Bane began as a side project between Aaron Dalbec and members of Converge. After contacting Aaron Bedard, a former drummer in local hardcore punk bands, the group entered the studio in December 1995. After recording a demo, Bane made their live debut in February 1996. The lineup saw the addition of bass player Pete Chilton and released a debut 7″ single. In May 1997 Bane released Free to Think, Free to Be, another 7″ single. Another guitarist, Zachary Jordan, was added to the group as a member of Converge returned to his top priority. In May 1998 another 7″ single, Holding This Moment, was released and was followed by a tour with Saves the Day. In 1999, Bane signed to Equal Vision Records and released the band’s debut full-length album, It All Comes Down to This. A national and international tour with Death by Stereo ensued. The group also toured with Good Riddance and Strike Anywhere. In 2001, Bane released Give Blood. They have toured throughout Europe as well as performing at various festivals, including Furnace Fest. The band returned in the spring of 2005 with The Note. A few EPs followed during the rest of the decade, although the project didn’t release another album until 2014’s Don’t Wait Up on Equal Vision.
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
Somewhere in the ether/net of our collective social cosmos soup floats the magical, masterful pop music of Magdalena Bay, the duo from Los Angeles composed of Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin. While the pair may claim California as its terra firma, its true home is in the clouds, from where the two emit and output the unique yet familiar frequencies of synthesized nostalgia, kitschy catchiness, and bombastically warped neo-hooks for which the group has become celebrated. Transmitting in both the audio and video realms, Magdalena Bay is an entity adroitly suited for these times, caught in a haze of the known and felt while pushing sonic landscapes woven with the now into the next.
Having met as teenagers in a high school music program in their hometown of Miami (Tenebaum having moved to Florida at age 1 from Buenos Aires), each quickly recognized a kismet and kindred spirit in the other, resulting in the formation of a band, the prog outfit Tabula Rasa, as well as a romance. Lewin was a self-styled guitar shredder armed with his dad’s prog and concept rock records — The Wall, The Bends, Genesis, Fiona Apple — while Tenenbaum was a pianist and singer dipping toes in indie (Modest Mouse) and emo (My Chemical Romance) rock as well as pop made by princesses (Shakira, Britney). Both could read music and Lewin had even studied music theory, also teaching himself how to produce, record, and mix while making two Tabula Rasa records. The pair took a brief break from dating and headed to different colleges but kept the band together, often trading eight-hour bus rides from Penn to Northeastern and vice versa to rehearse, before eventually realizing two things: one, their relationship was too real to be denied, and two, no one young likes prog.
“It was like, ‘No one’s listening to our prog music, what a shame,’” Tenebaum says with a laugh. “We were excited to try something different. So we got into the mechanics of ‘what does it mean to write a pop song?’ and ‘what is this craft?’ and that was the beginning of Magdalena Bay.”
“I remember thinking, ‘Pop music is simple, so we should be able to make it,’” Lewin says. “And then, of course, there’s way more to it, lots of complexities in the writing and production that I wasn’t aware of. We had no artistic perspective at that point because we were still figuring out the genre and how to make something that resembled pop music before we could think about how we could make it interesting. So that was our early process.”
Holding tight to that all-encompassing genre descriptor (“We make pop, but what really is pop anyway?” Tenenbaum asks, while Lewin counters, “We’re a pop group making pop music; all the rest is implied…I think it’s fun to imply that pop music is a wide range of things”), the duo released a grip of EPs and singles before launching its debut album Mercurial World in the fall of 2021. Many outlets, while uniformly praising its melodic hooks, sing-song vocals, and meticulously-crafted production, called it “synth-pop,” which is probably the most specific subgenre Lewin and Tenenbaum will allow. Regardless, the mark had been made, and Magdalena Bay soon began to gather respect, adulation, and fans in the true currency of the day: streaming numbers, social media followers, support slots, festival appearances, and creative collabs. All the while, aided by its highly stylized online aesthetic and internet presence, the band was inching closer to realizing something of an artistic perspective after all.
“We love extending the world of our music past sound into videos or a website or graphics or whatever it might be,” Tenenbaum says.
“We like to think of them as one and the same, but I think it has to start with the music,” Lewin says. “We’re trying to create an atmosphere or an emotional quality with it.”
“It’s the jumping off point that inspires the rest,” Tenenbaum agrees. “But as the years have gone by, as we’ve made more and more videos and such, the process has become more integrated. We were having visual ideas, which was never the case before. I guess people call it ‘world-building.’”
