To offer an alternative to the exploitative nature of streaming sites, In Relation primarily exists as a DIY zine featuring photography, essays, and lyrics from prairie contributors like Hungry Zine founder Kyla Pascal and CJSR co-host, ethnographer, and activist Rylan Kafara. 

Ahead of her album release show in Edmonton and appearance at Calgary’s Sled Island, we chatted with Hardy about the inspirations around In Relation.

There seems to be a huge theme of rebuilding or rejuvenation on this track, “Kinistino Ave.” Has that feeling been following you for quite some time?

That’s interesting, no one’s said that yet. I’m personally feeling rejuvenated with this album coming out! It’s been years of battling my brain to get these tracks off my hard drive and into the world. I’m grateful for the response so far. 

The Super 8 video really adds that punk rock flair. Was it shot in multiple days, with Laura basically following you around as you did outfit changes?

It was all shot on one perfect spring day in March, sunny and 10 degrees between weeks of snowfall. Matthew (Director, Editor) and Laura (DP) went to some trouble to plan all the shots and locations out, and Matthew had the idea for multiple outfit changes. Meanwhile, I had just gotten back the day before from travelling with another group called ASKO. I put all my favourite clothes into a bag, woke up half an hour before they picked me up, and hoped for the best. Matt and Laura are very solid and easy to work with; everyone should go hire them.

Kinistino Ave. is the Indigenous heritage name of what is now 96 St in McCauley in Edmonton. Was using this name a way to remember the past? 

Every street name in Amiskwacîy is a colonial name. I just happen to like the older one better; it felt right. Shout out to the Chinatown Stories Map prints at Ociciwan, which is where I learned that name and many more stories. Still hoping to one day learn why it was called Kinistino (anglicized version of Kinistinaw). If you know, hit me up.

Why did you decide to release In Relation as a solo album instead of under your other project, Wares?

Wares shifted and ended up as a decentralized group effort. That band was then, and this is me now, in all the ways I’ve changed since. I’d like to sincerely thank anyone who’s been following along since before this album, and maybe even before Wares was a fully-fledged democratic rock band. You should ask those people what the musical difference is. This whole time, I’ve just been trying to write the best music I can. 

This album feels, in part, like a love letter to all of the arts hubs that once made Edmonton’s small DIY music scene thrive: Empress, Chess House,  ARTery… Do you have hope for that same energy to be brought back to Edmonton, or has it returned already? 

Scenes are always about the people, not the rooms. Rooms become special because of the energy people are allowed to put into them, layered over the years. The Aviary has a good thing going; it’s not alone, but it’s got good people in and around it. It feels like home. People persevere, and people of all ages are making cool stuff. This city has had a solid punk and hardcore scene for decades now, but it’s much harder than it needs to be for various reasons. Inflation, cost of living, urban sprawl, you name it.

I gotta ask, the chaotic opener to the album, “Vic Spring,” it has a phone message that claims you stole springs from Victory Spring? 

I will not be confessing to any alleged crimes in the newspaper. What do I look like, a Republican?

Where did the idea for a zine to follow the In Relation album come from?  

I’ve loved lots of albums that came out in non-traditional form. An early one that made an impact on me was the book Gender Failure by Ivan Coyote and Rae Spoon. That wonderful book is a combination of memoir, lyrics, prose, and even chord charts, if my memory serves. Another one close to my heart is Audible Songs From Rockwood by Fiver, whom I mention by name in “Kinistino,” and specifically their song “Sick Gladiola” from yet another excellent album. The way those artists merge musical hooks, my first language, with more depthful companion writing, grabs my attention more than any plain vinyl record ever has. I also like the idea of reducing reliance on a chemical as gross and water-intensive as PVC.

Who are the zine contributors? How are they connected to the album?

Both are solid community connections, people doing good work and bypassing the stuffy corporate types that seek development in this city for development’s sake. Kyla Pascal and I made our way through the hospitality industry in the 2010s at a few of the same places. I knew that as a fellow worker and an Indigenous person, she would have lots of things to say about the loss of community spaces, how they hinder the work. I’d like to draw particular attention to this piece she wrote in Briarpatch, which only solidified in my mind what a potent contribution she could make to this project. 

Rylan Kafara was a shining radio personality to me before he became a friend. Every Monday morning starts with punk rock on CJSR, curated by him and Brittany Rudyk. In addition to his radio and podcast efforts, Rylan has studied the process of gentrification on the prairies for years. He has seen firsthand the two-faced colonial nature of prairie governments, even self-styled “progressive” ones. My hope for these essays was for people smarter than me to corroborate what my lyrics were speaking to emotionally with analysis. 

In your eyes, is it becoming harder or easier to create and find art in this country?

Our time for rest and relaxation and idle internet discovery is being siphoned from us by those who think our sole purpose in this life is to work 23 hours a day for the privilege of paying for food and shelter. That it’s difficult to live right now is not unique to artists, though it’s true that tech company algorithms are uniquely hostile to smaller artists and those who love them. 

There are still plenty of people who take the time to read books and magazines and listen to whole albums all the way through. They often hang out in live music rooms and record stores, and you can still make easy and lasting friendships with them. I know that’s true here in Amiskwacîy, and I suspect it’s still true on either coast. It’s harder than it was, but it’s not impossible, and there’s still nothing else I’d rather be doing.