The plan changed a couple times before the thing actually happened, which wasn’t necessarily a surprise. With fewer than 100 hours left in the country, I was to meet up with the crew — or some of the crew, anyhow — from Psychedelic Source Records, who had a plan to make an album this past Saturday that seemed as much like a get together as a recording session.

One could not ask for a more perfect day to do such a thing. Sunny, 25C, comfortable breeze. I got picked up at the apartment where I’ve been staying by Ákos Karancz from Pilot Voyager, and we picked up Robi Kránitz of Satorinaut and various others, who plays bass, and they, their partners and I stopped off at a Spar to pick up some food on the way out of the city through a part of Budapest I’d not yet seen: namely where it keeps the trees and rich-people houses. I don’t know at what point Budapest-proper gave way to not, but the car soon enough was rolling down a wooded hillside and we were headed to a farm in Páty where the recording would happen and where Bence Ambrus, who seems to be the organizing principal behind a lot of what the “label” Psychedelic Source Records does, and a few others had been setting up gear since earlier in the morning.

Up and down hills with light dappled in roadside forest, there were some houses and roads but he we were clearly out of the city. I could’ve asked, but I’m insecure. A big field of corn that I assume would soon end up in all kinds of salads in ways that continue to seem strange to me, but whatever, and then pavement giving way to dirt. Still warehouses in the distance — it wasn’t like doing the trail ride in Moab or wherever the hell that was, but it was more open space than I’d seen in a few weeks, at least, and the smell coming in the car window was cedar-spiced dirt. Also there was construction equipment.

This was the farm in question: not just a place out in the country but an actual, working farm. The original plan had been a studio session — i.e., in a building — in the city. I was not about to complain about the opposite. I was given a spot in the shade and some coffee, which is pretty much what you need to do what I do, and met Krisztina Benus, Barna Bartos and various others, drummers Krisztián Megyeri, Sándor Nagy and Kundi, all of whom have contributed to various PSR projects and who spoke better in English than I can ever reasonably hope to do in Hungarian. A little girl — maybe two but not three years old, and that’s still a point where months matter — gave me one of the tiny crunchy pretzels she was eating, which was very generous, and there was a younger baby crawling around here and there and being passed around. Family atmosphere. I was a bit the sore thumb, but that’s hardly a new experience for me.

The music started after a few minutes and the sound filled part of the open air but left room for the breeze through the trees over by where a white van — somebody’s van, with a homemade couch — was parked. Goats on the hill behind, a jam taking a doomier turn then twisting back around to psych with tambourine to add to the movement, sunshine, chlorophyll pumping out green like it was getting paid per pigment, and an easy vibe. Beers casually consumed, funk in the wah. Stuff of life. I was both sorry to have not brought my actual-camera and happy to not have to deal with it.

That jam lasted about 20 minutes, maybe, and went where it was going to go, then wrapped up easily, a fleeting thing. In the various groupings, projects and bands around Psychedelic Source Records, I feel like some of this idyllic atmosphere has carried into the music, but exploration is part of it too. Where the recording gear — mics, a board, laptop, etc. — was set up, they were in the sun while they played. Short breaks were decided upon as the solution, which seemed fair enough.

More people came so there were maybe 20 total, including a bassist in his 60s named Wes Brinson, who was from — wait for it — Middlesex County, New Jersey. The NJ diaspora is incredible. He was local enough to me at home that we went back and forth naming highways; 287, Rt. 10 & 202, the numbers of home. Dude was on Motown, met a Hungarian woman and settled here, had stories to tell about being in Junior Walker and the All-Stars, knowing the Parliament cats, the alligators in Florida, and so on. History in a lawnchair. The next jam started, this one with two guitars and a blanket in front for folks to sit and watch, which was about right in terms of the general vibe.

Wind in the tall grass pushed the floating guitar into a kind of spread and all was resonance for a bit, but the underlying groove stayed grounded, Bence on bass doing cycles along with the drums, a nod with nuance for the guitars to work around; a familiar dynamic for a jam but cool to see and hear the moment being felt out as it was happening. The heavy in that low end was greeted by a wash of noise from Ákos’ guitar, and there were a couple times where it seemed like it was coming apart, but a bluesy solo met up with the bassline and allowed the moment’s four-piece to realign. It occurs to me I don’t know if this is a ‘band’ or not, if it has a name. I don’t know how they got this space on the farm. I don’t know how or when I’m getting back to the apartment. On a certain level, it matters less than being here.

It was after 4PM when that jam wrapped. As good a time as any. A quicker changeover this time, with a swapout of drummers, a switch from bass to guitar, a couple more beers and the kids getting ready to take off on a bike that someone wisely brought along. All of a sudden, quiet guitar started up in a dreamier tone, sticks were clicked, and they were off again to do the thing. A little more active this time around, a little louder and more immediate. Builds that felt a more out of the Earthless school, but were more even in their ebbs and flows and about more than just the guitar, with synth going at the same time, fluid bass and sharp pops in the snare. Sounded good over in the shade, not 15 feet away, loud enough that the kids had ear protection on but not so much that I felt compelled. The jam worked itself up and came back down, easy, casual, and was chill however loud it was. When it was done, I sat for a stretch and chatted with Wes, who was talking about knowing God Forbid and a bunch of others from Jersey; small world stuff. There was a longer break and so we talked for a while. I hope someday if I make it to 70 and I break my back someone will be interested to hear my stories about music. This might be one of them.

The afternoon was getting on, and the air was decidedly cooler by 6PM or so, but they set up a P.A. so Krisztina could sing. There were a few pops and cracks early in the speaker, but with two guitars, bass, drums, hand percussion and keys, the circa-18.00 jam was the fullest and most elaborate yet, with a little tension in the guitar strum that was soon redirected into a mellow-out by the drums as Bence dropped guitar to fix some technical issue. Tambourine and hand percussion and drums, it was inevitable that it would start to move and the bass player, who Wes introduced as Joe, would be having a good time. The remaining guitar went jangly and it stopped but they weren’t ready to let it go for real yet, and they were right to pick it back up, as what came next was pretty special in a pastoral-prog kind of way, with the second guitar back and a roll in the low end, a little louder and still right on on the way to a more natural stop.

The next break was also short, but when they came back there was lap steel in addition to everything else, then Marci Havlik’s flute, some more defined vocals, percussion and such and sundry, thick with vibe in the early evening shadow. Both of the day’s drummers were going — just one kit, but sticks on hand drums — and as both guitars tripped off into the watery unknown, Joe’s bass hit a stride. Flowing groove. The tambourine came out again between vocal parts and it got more intense, more cosmic, but nestled quickly into a swing with that flute in back ethereal in its purpose cutting through the wash of distortion and synth. They brought it back to ground for another few lines of vocals, lyrics read off the phone, and I don’t know if a signal was given or what, but they were soon under way at full-volume for a bridge. Another car-load of people showed up, some others were dancing.

Total personnel swap after that last jam with Krisztina’s vocals — and I had to work hard not to nerd out about River Flows Reverse when we were introduced, but I managed — and the lap steel. The new band was a five-piece with a different drummer and two additional percussionists, Ákos out front on effects guitar and some contemplative notes accompanying from a seven-string. Every jam has been different somehow, or found some way to do its own thing, and this did too. I stood in front (I’d been off to the side) and it was a bit fuller immersion for a while, which suited where my head was at. The flute was gone and the drift of the guitar gave a kind of spaced backdrop while bass, drums and percussion pushed deeper. They never actually stopped, but it was drone for a bit before the bass, drums and other guitar rejoined, the latter still more terrestrial in tone in a way that grounded without really being on the ground, where longer shadows were being cast.

It was 7:30 by then — time doesn’t matter, but my understanding that was sundown was a kind of natural time limit — and the flute was soon to come back in amid a more lysergic meditation, the effect of reachout in the sharper notes folkish and jazzy in kind with the bass, liquid guitar and riff. They took it to space rock for a while and let it down smoothly in a way that was particularly satisfying, guitar again holding the residual noise until Bence stepped in for Ákos and the bassists did a swap for another stretch that started off super-fluid and got a bit more active before an organic finish. The bass player started playing a riff that the rest picked right up and rolled with, a little more classic blues rock, met with a vibrancy of effects-laced strum. It built up quickly, as that kind of thing will, and the seven-string was ready for it, as people started donning hoodies that they thought better than I did to bring. In my defense, I had earplugs, which I didn’t really need until that last group got going.

When they were done, Ákos picked up the guitar again, grabbed a drummer and went on a subdued post-space trip. Bence joined in on bass, the other guitar came back, along with the flute, and once more they dug in. It was like it just happened. And then there was another jam, and it was 8:30, and it was getting dark, and colder — something of a novelty on this trip, as The Patient Mrs. pointed out — and there was some talk of calling a cab to get back. The Bolt app I’ve been using here didn’t work, but I think the same driver was on Über and that went through, so fair enough. I said a few goodbyes. The sun was down, and it was closer to nine than not as the taxi came down the dirt road. I ended up going with Joe and Wes in the car, which took my old man ass a while to figure out since I’ve used Uber like twice in my life. I think what was probably the last jam of the day was done by then — man, Ákos can go; I guess that’s how you wind up with a prolific one-man outfit — and everybody was kind of hunkered down in a wrapping-up mode, putting instruments away and such. My didn’t turn out to be terrible on departure, and by then it was legitimately chilly.

I’ve been lucky in my life to see some things that, if it was a different life or if I spent my time in some other way, I wouldn’t see. Days like today feel special to me because they are special. Not everybody gets to do this — go to an open field in Páty, Hungary, and watch a live-recorded jam session for like six hours; if more people did, it would’ve been crowded — and I realize how fortunate I am. I put my work in, but a lot of people work really hard at an lot of shit and don’t end up down on the farm with Psychedelic Source Records, and I am grateful and humbled to have had the chance to spend the day as I did. I still don’t know if it’ll be an album or what, or if so, when, but even if that’s never, I’m thankful to have been there while the music was made and cast into the hills surrounding.

Thanks for reading.

Psychedelic Source Records on Bandcamp

Psychedelic Source Records on Spotify

Tags: Hungary, Páty, Pilot Voyager, Psychedelic Source Records

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