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Mustang Island, the third album from Austin-based band
Little Mazarn, is a gentle force. Waves
of grief crest like surf on the Texas coast. Wild horses break through long-shuttered gates, only
to come back around. Lead songwriter, vocalist, and multi-instrumentalist
Lindsey Verrill
(she/her) joins bandmates
Jeff Johnston (he/him) and
Carolina Chauffe (they/them). The
ten-song collection continues work with
Dear Life Records. A full-throated romp through the
capabilities of community-minded songcraft,
Mustang Island is both naturalistic and futuristic,
completely recasting Little Mazarn’s origins in primitive folk. Instead, the band reaches towards
sonic experimentation and spacious expansion.
Lindsey’s heart-opening vocals and Jeff’s singing saw, both trademarks of the project, mix with
unexpected bombastic drums, dissonant synthesizers, and a chorus of orchestral oddities. This
mid-career ode dances confidently in the creative liberties granted by decades in the game
– more dazzlingly lively, and honestly somber, than ever before.
The band’s crossroads branch across prominent Southern outsider music: On cello, Lindsey has
recorded with
Patty Griffin and
Dana Falconberry. The longtime side player wouldn’t write her
first song until age 34. Jeff has played in
Bill Callahan’s band, as well as with
Li’l Cap'n Travis
and
Orange Mothers. Carolina is known for prolific solo project
hemlock. Little Mazarn has also
collaborated with
Lomelda to release their last EP,
Honey Island General Store (2023), following
past LPs
Texas River Song (2022) and
Io (2019).
Alongside silliness and reverence, including covers from
Kate Wolf and
Bob Wills & His Texas
Playboys, grief directs much of
Mustang Island. Lindsey left her job of seventeen years teaching
cello at a local school. Recording also aligned with the passing of Jeff’s father, a career educator
in Jeff and Lindsey’s hometown of Dallas.
“Grief, and the avoidance of grief, is a big part of being human,” says Lindsey. “You make a
choice, and then you grieve for the other choice. Or you finish a meal and literally grieve that it
was so good. If you really befriend grief, you’re like, ‘Oh, it’s here, in this pancake, which I loved
so much that I ate the whole thing, and now it’s gone.’”