DUNUMS: I wasn’t that thought | Sleepy Cat Records; Oct. 4
The new album from Durham-based collective DUNUMS does not begin with the bombastic swelling of guitars, drums, or the chorus of voices often heard at the band’s live shows. Instead, I wasn’t that thought—released October 4 from Sleepy Cat—begins with a child’s voice: “All of the people are sad because their houses are broken.”
The statement is spoken within a clear-eyed and innocent monologue that questions white supremacy, police brutality, and colonization. As Tasneem, the four-year-old daughter of DUNUMS songwriter Sijal Nasralla, speaks, her father listens: “Tell me more, baby.”
Guitars and drums soon enter and the opening track, “binti,” begins. Sung in Arabic (binti translates to “daughter”), the rollicking rock song feels instantly anthemic, a shifting force that at once recalls classic emo and free improvisation. Thus begins an album that was written, conceived, and now exists as a dialogue between a Palestinian American father and his daughter.
When writing “binti,” Nasralla says he was inspired by four Palestinian children who survived a massacre by Israeli forces in 2009. The children—Amal, Kanaan, Mouna, and Mahmoud Samouni—later made an animated video to tell their story. Their art, Nasralla recalls, was a “practice of hope amidst overwhelming pain.”
It’s a sentiment that speaks to Nasralla’s own approach to writing and performing: While DUNUMS often addresses that which can be hard to face, the music of DUNUMS is hopeful, celebratory, cathartic, and anything but woeful.
“We’re family; our instruments seem secondary to our energy and relationships,” says musician Kym Register, who plays saxophone in the band. This feeling of “family” leads the chorus of voices heard throughout the album and on display at live shows.
In my own experience of seeing DUNUMS perform, I’ve witnessed the band as both a duo and a collective that seems to spill from the stage. What can feel improvised and chaotic one night can feel tender and quiet on another, each iteration of the band highlighting the depth of what the 12 songs on I wasn’t that thought can express.
“I really love to have witnessed the way it has moved and evolved,” contributing singer and visual artist Saba Taj says of DUNUMS. “Not every band has that kind of flexibility.”
“DUNUMS was a way that I processed grief alone,” says Nasralla, who began DUNUMS as a solo project in 2009. “These [albums] are just containers for different moments of my life, and it was Taylor [Holenbeck], our guitarist, this time, who was like, ‘Let’s do it, let’s play your songs.’” Fifteen years later, I wasn’t that thought, DUNUMS’s fourth album, is the project’s most band-centric release.
“Do I love you? Can you play?” Nasralla says when asked about the band’s ever-evolving approach. “I’ve always said it’s 80 percent feels, 20 percent desire to play, but it just so happens right now that it’s all people I love.”
At certain shows, Nasralla is the sole vocalist; at times, Taj or musician Catherine Edgerton may take the lead. Sometimes poet Katie Shlon reads poetry over the band’s instrumentals.
“The handful of times I’ve played with Sijal have each been very different, almost polar opposites to each other in their processes, yet there is a unifying thread of immense curiosity,” says drummer Joe Westerlund.
Nasralla has also played drums in the Durham-based punk band The Muslims.
“The Muslims came about right after Trump got elected, and we expressed our rage and joy in a very pointed and poetic way,” Nasralla says. “Being in that band really taught me what it could feel like to push through emotional barriers and be more courageous. The Muslims taught me to be a little bolder, a little brighter.’’
When I met with (a few) members of DUNUMS, I was struck by how each member could warrant their own INDY article—all are involved within the local arts community through a dynamic plethora of mediums including visual art and poetry. The collective discography of DUNUMS contributors would be staggering to compile, but most recently bassist Sinclair Palmer, guitarist Holenbeck, keyboardist Ali Alrabeah, and drummer David Barrett have all become band mainstays.
In spite of all of these voices and sonic shifts, I wasn’t that thought remains an intimate dialogue between Nasralla and Tasneem.
Nasralla has often referred to DUNUMS as “toddlercore.”
“In the mornings after Tasneem was born, I would play her these songs and work them out while she stared at me from her pillow,” he says. “I started writing the moment that my partner went into labor and that was like, ‘I want to send you [Tasneem] a message.’ It felt really profound. I’m very inspired that people really like this concept of toddlercore and are seeing the connection between this music and this deep love for our kids.”
This crossover of parental love and activism echoes the work of Mothers for Ceasefire, a local group of organizers who, like the members of DUNUMS, have “come together as mothers and caregivers who refuse to stay silent as we witness the brutal killing of Palestinian civilians.” Members of DUNUMS have regularly participated in their events.
Tasneem appears again later on the record, and the album ends with an acappella lullaby sung by her mother, Rakhee Devasthali, titled “habibi bear.”
Between the opening and closing of the album, which begins and ends with these lone voices, there are moments of anthemic emo (“I wasn’t that thought”), raucous cathartic punk (“holding the cake up to the sky”), blasts of improvisation (“usa ain’t shit”), and beautiful balladry (“there are dreamlands”).
Throughout each sonic variation, I wasn’t that thought remains an ode to family, friendship, community, and perseverance. Ultimately, it’s a celebration of Tasneem.
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