The prolific Philadelphia artist on Hour’s stirring Ghost Bridge, his latest solo EP, and co-managing one of indie music’s top labels
Michael Cormier-O’Leary has been tied to some of the music I’ve treasured this decade. The Philadelphia-based musician serves as the composer for Hour, the basement-DIY chamber-pop group whose hypnotic new album Ghost Bridge arrives this week. He also holds down the drum chair in Friendship and 2nd Grade, two of indie rock’s strongest outfits, and he co-operates Dear Life Records, a label whose catalog includes standout releases from MJ Lenderman, Wendy Eisenberg, Fust, Florry, Styrofoam Winos, Thomas Dollbaum, Armbruster, Little Mazarn, Nina Ryser, Shane Parish, and more. And yes, he issued a new solo EP earlier this year as well.
Ghost Bridge provided the framework for my recent conversation with Cormier-O’Leary. The record expands Hour to 13 players, supplying him with ample means to convey the melancholy and anticipatory grief that fueled much of the music. It’s a gorgeously aching collection, refined in a way you wouldn’t usually associate with basement-recorded projects rooted in the punk milieu. With each replay, I’m more impressed.
Last week, Cormier-O’Leary joined me for an hour to talk Hour, his new solo EP Proof Enough, the origins of Dear Life Records, the interwoven creative communities he participates in, and more. Hear Hour’s new single “Sky Is Blue” — the sole track on the album featuring vocals — and read our interview below.
You went six years without a new Hour album, and now you’ve put out two studio albums and a live album between 2024 and now. Was that just a matter of inspiration striking, or were there some more mundane logistical delays? Why is this band becoming a prolific force again?
MICHAEL CORMIER-O’LEARY: The pandemic certainly played a role, not an insignificant stretch of two years. I also relocated to Maine from 2021 to 2023, and that shift allowed the group to grow with collaborators from up there. The first shows after the shutdown showcased a Northeast-oriented lineup. And I was writing the whole time. I simply didn’t feel the urgency, partly because I was busy with Friendship for the better part of a decade. The first two Hour records came out in the same year—2018—so it takes time to assemble something substantial, especially with a large ensemble to organize. I think natural lulls help me regroup and generate more material, in truth.
This project has just become increasingly elegant and moved away from the improv side of things into the realm of compositional chamber pop. What’s your background as a composer? Is this something you studied? How did you get into it?
CORMIER-O’LEARY: I studied music in college. I attended Ohio Wesleyan University, quite nearby. I spent about a year and a half in the program, which wasn’t especially thrilling at the time. I was drawn to weaving composed passages with improvised sections, yet I didn’t have a robust support network within the department. Many peers pursued teaching or classical performance, and I felt out of place pursuing those directions, but I did learn. I picked up theory and built a solid foundation, at least.
After graduating, I moved to Philly and began surfacing in the DIY scene, where this kind of music wasn’t really a thing yet. Yet the West Philly scene proved wonderfully receptive to a broad range of impulses. A lot of my friends would say, “Oh, they’re trying this now.” After a few basement shows here, I began to think, “I can write this.” I’d written plenty on guitar, and I figured I could translate that into a basement setting.
Our first show happened in a basement, which marked the entry point for introducing a compositional approach while still jamming with some of my favorite people in West Philly. Only one member back then, Jason Calhoun, had any classical training. So, the music was simpler in its arrangements, with fairly fixed structures, though improvisation did creep in. Today, while the music is more formally composed, the improvisational moments have become more expansive and are more tightly integrated into the charts. It’s the fusion of the two approaches I’d always hoped for.
And the band keeps getting bigger. I think Ease The Work had nine musicians, and now this record has 13. Is that simply a function of being connected to so many players and feeling you can pull people in from wherever, or is the vision growing more expansive?
CORMIER-O’LEARY: It’s both. When I moved back to Philly in 2023, I’d already written much of this material and didn’t want to lose the contributions from the Northeast crew, yet I missed what the Philly cohort contributed. So I merged the two groups, and that’s essentially the band since. For this record, I could write for the exact lineup I knew would play it. I drew inspiration from film soundtracks and, in a way, from the era of pop orchestras backing vocalists—think Frank Sinatra-era arrangements where a full orchestra could be hired for pop settings. I love when orchestral textures are deployed in pop contexts. We aren’t a full orchestra yet, but we can evoke those gestures more readily than with a quartet.
In writing this record, I leaned into that impulse even more, though this one leans less romantic and swoony than Ease The Work. It’s more shadowed and intense, but the construction is more deliberate, with fewer on-the-fly arrangements.
What draws you to that orchestral-pop sound? What makes you want to compose in this mode?
CORMIER-O’LEARY: I’d call it color. When you add a full spectrum of instruments from a modest orchestra—often around 20 players in a film score—each instrument’s distinct timbre contributes a unique hue. Some rock bands manage that color, but it’s tough. Strings blending with winds create a lush, transporting effect that I’m utterly captivated by. It helps build a world within the music, a sense that the different timbres can carry you somewhere else, simply through careful arrangement. Thoughtfully orchestrated larger ensembles in pop contexts have a transporting quality I’ve always aimed to achieve in Hour’s work, letting the sounds carry you beyond the room you’re in.
You’re not making this in a high-end studio. It’s a basement project. Does that add any challenge, or does it suit you and your crew?
CORMIER-O’LEARY: It’s tough. It’s exactly the environment I know well, and I’d love a longer, easier process in a state-of-the-art facility. Yet there’s value in leveraging the constraints we have to create something that, in another universe, would never sound like an orchestra backing Sinatra. I like aiming for that edge, and when we miss the mark, it still makes us who we are.
This record’s creation was extremely demanding, and nearly all the credit goes to Lucas Knapp, who tracked everything and made it sound as though it weren’t recorded in a basement—except for the living room-piano that sits there. I wouldn’t have attempted it without Lucas’s ability to extract clarity from tight corners. The goal was to have the instruments breathe in a straightforward way, without excessive adornment.
I think we may have hit the practical limit of what any group this size should attempt. There’s a reason a lot of classical and film music is recorded in top-tier studios with ample rehearsal time. Here, I had charted the parts, but most players learned them while we were recording, which isn’t ideal. Everyone involved is incredibly talented, and many come from punk roots, so they’re not shy about the rough-and-tumble process of making these records. Still, it would be nice to approach this more formally at times. I’m not sure this scale is where we’ll stay for a while.
Relatedly, you just took Hour on a short tour. What was that like?
CORMIER-O’LEARY: It was wonderful. I had just written many new parts and felt a bit nervous about performing them in a smaller setting. We toured with six players, which is still substantial for a band, but not even half of the studio lineup. I was surprised how adaptable the music is: remove players, omit parts, and the piece still breathes. It accommodates changes, which is why the group can expand or shrink. Playing in that six-piece format felt liberating, and it brought a new clarity to the material. When a missing part reappears through a different musician, it still exists and keeps things exciting. That’s also why some of our oldest songs stay in rotation—their演ew can shift as the lineup does. It’s remarkable how malleable the music remains.
How does touring Hour compare to touring with Friendship or 2nd Grade?
CORMIER-O’LEARY: It’s bigger, which is fun interpersonally. But there’s a comfort with Friendship after more than a decade—the way we understand each other and what we need on the road. Hour wasn’t primarily a touring band until 2023. We’d play a few Philly shows or a sporadic New York date pre-pandemic, but touring with new players requires everyone to learn what others expect on the road. We’ve now toured enough that Hour feels settled in a similar way. Yet Hour’s music remains more dynamic; some nights we push a piece into a place we hadn’t explored before. There’s a sense of freshness in every show that’s less present in Friendship, where performances aren’t improvised and follow a more fixed arc, and in 2nd Grade, which is more song-centric. The improvisational thread in Hour continually makes each night feel alive. A standout moment was a Yellow Springs show last year—the set there had a distinct character compared to Cincinnati, which reminded me how much the live sound can differ from night to night. And then there’s the fun, logistical side of getting six people into a van on time.
We’ve talked about chamber music in a basement. Now we’re considering taking that chamber approach into smaller rock rooms, where venues may not be used to handling Hour’s setup. Do you see a learning curve for the rooms we might encounter?
CORMIER-O’LEARY: Some venues are genuinely surprised—despite us sending a stage plot, they still aren’t fully prepared. Others surprise me with how well they roll with it. It helps that much of the touring has Lucas along; he handles synth duties and is also a live sound operator, which makes a big difference. If a place lacks the right gear, we simply play to the strings’ volume and adapt. We’ve had to do that a lot. Lucas has even helped sound crews in pinch moments, which eases the load and keeps inputs functioning. It’s a very different animal from the plethora of rock bands with elaborate rigs, pedals, and pre-recorded tracks. Our setup is relatively bare-bones—no pedals, no pre-records—and we simply avoid feedback from clarinets, which is the worst thing that can happen in our mix.
You’ve described the new album Ghost Bridge as probing darker impulses. Can you unpack that a bit more? Was there a specific theme or inspiration behind it?
CORMIER-O’LEARY: In broad strokes, it’s a meditation on grief and mortality. Yet it’s not relentlessly bleak; there’s an imaginative element at play. The title track, Ghost Bridge, conjures an image of a bridge that vanishes as if it were a ghost, or perhaps a bridge a spirit crosses over. The idea works on both levels. The song’s sharp, angular harmonic shifts feel as unsettling as a bridge disappearing beneath you, while the piece also unfolds with a longer arc that suggests beginning a journey on one shore and arriving somewhere utterly different by the end.
The opening track, So Long Without A Word, was the grief song I pictured at the outset. It begins with a jolt of loss’s shock and then traverses a rollercoaster of moods; the record as a whole follows that pattern. I wrapped the album with a song I wrote just before recording, named for my child. I wanted an album that faced darkness head-on without getting swallowed by it, yet kept room for imagination. It isn’t a direct lament but a meandering study in how grief fluctuates. The record doesn’t end in a simple resolution; it closes with that newborn song, signaling a counterbalance to the darkness. The approach was to hold onto elements of experience rather than deny them, allowing the emotional and imaginative parts to coexist. It’s less about a single emotional punch and more about the zigzag nature of grieving.
Were there particular moments of loss you’re willing to discuss that steered you toward grief?
CORMIER-O’LEARY: I wouldn’t claim a direct through-line from a specific person I’ve lost to this music. I’ve lost people I’ve loved, sure, but more than that, the project reflects a skin-thickening that comes with approaching loss. There are plenty of people I love and still don’t feel ready to lose. So while there have been absences, I’d describe it as more a dress-rehearsal of future losses than a response to one particular event. It’s not a precise chain of causation but a throughline: loss is pervasive, and the music seeks to acknowledge it without surrendering to it. I’m fixated on loss as a motif, and this record presents it from a different angle within that larger arc.
With a band this large, even though it’s your material, it feels like a communal project. Is that a fair characterization?
CORMIER-O’LEARY: Absolutely.
It’s a microcosm of your wider creative world, with many contributing voices.
CORMIER-O’LEARY: Yes, it’s unmistakably a Venn diagram of creative communities. The players come from distinct circles I’ve admired or collaborated with, and the project now carries tendrils that connect to multiple communities I’ve found inspiring. My role centers on the composition and the logistics, but there’s always room for each musician to contribute their voice. Every performer brings a singular trait to the table that I can’t imagine losing—like Matt’s viola on the title track, whose haunted, distorted wail defines that moment; he consistently adds a haunting quality that’s unmistakably his. Abi Reimold, the other electric guitarist, has consistently been the one who records the final takes on most records and brings something I wouldn’t have imagined. Their contribution is essential to the songs. It’s genuinely a community project, and that’s an honest description.
Your solo EP released under your own name tackled biography and fiction blending. What was the story there?
CORMIER-O’LEARY: I’m drawn to songs with words. The impulse to craft a vocal piece is a distinct evolution from instrumental Hour material, though the two realms aren’t as far apart as they might seem. The EP sits at a crossroads of autobiographical and fictional storytelling, with tracks ranging from a portrait of a five-year-old named Marilyn (a character I invented, not a real child) to a piece written shortly after my wedding—an account of riding the wave of love at the ceremony and the spectrum of emotions that followed. The first, lighter track explores loneliness and how one might alleviate it, while the wedding song captures the vertigo and the eventual crash after such a day. The EP became a half-truth, half-fiction journey, with some pieces based on intimate detail and others built from narrative arcs. The track “Sky Is Blue” appears in two forms: the Hour version is the earlier piano-based rewrite, whereas the version on the solo EP uses fresh chords and a different approach to the harmony. I enjoy having two distinct but related interpretations of the same song, and I imagined it sung by Heeyoon Won in a style reminiscent of Astrud Gilberto, which reflects Heeyoon’s voice and sensibility.
A lot of what you release, including Ghost Bridge, lands on Dear Life Records, the label you co-run. How did that label begin?
CORMIER-O’LEARY: I started Dear Life in 2019. The premise was simple: I wanted a platform to release both Hour material and my own solo directions without needing to justify the juxtaposition. Then the pandemic hit in 2020, giving me time to rethink the venture. I’d been baking in a pizza shop, assembling dough, and the payoff of a better pay during lockdown allowed Dear Life to expand. Friendship had connected us with Kath Bloom, who was working on a new record, which led to Frank Meadows—who was softly managing Kath at the time—joining our circle. The first vinyl release on Dear Life was Kath Bloom’s record, and Frank became a crucial partner. It started as a tape label, and I quickly realized that I’d burn out trying to run it alone. Frank brought energy and momentum, which reinvigorated the project. Jon Samuels contributed to the visual side, handling early artwork, and soon the three of us began collaborating as equals. Over the years, we’ve released a wide spectrum—MJ Lenderman, Fust, the alt-country revival, and more—an assortment that at first glance may seem disparate, but it all comes back to one thing: strong writing. That sense of writing—whether lyrical or not—has become the throughline for Dear Life. It’s thrilling to see how varied the catalog has become, from a fully classical string-quartet record by Sammy Weissberg to other adventurous releases. I never set out to become a label person, but here we are, navigating this broader creative enterprise together.
Are you deliberately seeking out “good writing” now that you’ve defined that goal? How can you tell a Dear Life release when you hear one?
CORMIER-O’LEARY: We’ve grown more intuitive about what that means. We didn’t start with a strict criterion; the first non-Hour release I put out was an instrumental nylon-string guitar record because I love that sound. Now there’s a clearer, albeit still evolving, sense of what qualifies as good writing for the label. It’s something we’ve put into words only in the last year, but we’ve known it for longer. It’s partly a feeling and partly a standard we’re still shaping. We’re far from a fixed playbook; even the Sammy Weissberg project sits in a different register within our catalog. I’m excited to see that kind of variety become acceptable within the Dear Life family.
You had a major impact with MJ Lenderman’s Boat Songs. Did that push Dear Life toward a broader scope?
CORMIER-O’LEARY: Absolutely. The album’s success thrust us into new territory. We sold out before the street date, even though we’d pressed only 500 copies, which prompted us to scale up. It highlighted our capacity to handle more ambitious releases and to sustain a more substantial release schedule. It also broadened our horizons from a cassette-first approach toward more vinyl-focused releases, which, at the time, carried some logistical anxieties given longer turnarounds. That record marked a turning point for the label, helping us expand beyond our original scope and commit to bigger projects.
You’ve said you didn’t plan to become a label head, juggling many projects. How much of your time does Dear Life demand these days?
CORMIER-O’LEARY: It takes less time than it once did, though we’re releasing fewer titles now than in the past. The busiest year may have seen around 13 releases, mostly tapes, which is still more than ideal. We’re aiming for around five releases next year, albeit with significantly more effort and attention poured into each. The label’s core was inspired by colleagues and peers—Owen Ashworth’s Orindal, Ben Lovell’s Lily Tapes & Discs, Theo Krantz’s Cry Like Donna, and the West Philly-founded Sleeper Records run by Will Kennedy and Joey Degrado. They all helped shape my understanding that a label can function as an art project in itself, a meaningful way to connect with artists whose work you admire. Today, there are three of us running it, which differentiates us from some of those other labels.
From a day-to-day perspective, I actually enjoy the logistics—organizing, archiving, and keeping spreadsheets. I’ve met people whose entire career is working for a label, which is still new to me. Most of the people who inspired me were musicians first, not industry specialists, and I’ve learned a lot from that perspective.
You’ve teased five Dear Life releases for next year. Any hints you can share, or must you keep things under wraps?
CORMIER-O’LEARY: I’ll be a touch coy, but four of the five are repeat artists, and the fifth is in a mode that’s noticeably different from the rest. The remaining release is from an artist we haven’t yet featured, and I think people are going to be genuinely thrilled about it—something that feels overdue in a good way.
Ghost Bridge is out 10/9 on Dear Life Records.
