Formed in the fog of the timeline around the fall of the Twin Towers, the death of Elliott Smith, the peak influence of Pitchfork and the dawn of the iPod, the members of Winterpills met and began making music in the old-fashioned winter of 2003 in the shambolic Northampton, MA music scene. At first 4 friends who all knew each other’s songs and talents and had all recently suffered a common adult loss of some kind or another (a dead parent, some breakups, a custody battle, etc), they gleefully stumbled upon their sound: Flora Reed and Philip Price’s harmonies and “heartrending” songwriting (so says No Depression), Dennis Crommett’s tender shoegaze guitar, Dave Hower’s unclassifiable drumming, and later on Max Germer’s moonlit bass feel. "Winterpills gradually builds elegant arrangements... While the gathered instruments offer some solace, the songs stay haunted,“ wrote Jon Pareles in the New York Times.

The cinematic pop songs came effortlessly and partly channelled the freshly mourned Smith, a bit of the dust of Big Star, Low, Innocence Mission – and something else all their own. “I don’t know why Winterpills aren’t one of the most cherished pop bands in the world,” wrote Jonathan Lethem in Rolling Stone: “Their songs are mournful, slow-exploding and lyrically dazzling, and their albums have a coherence that’s rare.”

Over the past 20 years, the band has released 7 albums and numerous singles and EPs, has spent weeks both on the road and in the woodshed, and won’t relent. Emerging from the forced hiatus of the pandemic has given them a new perspective on their art. The restless Price released 3 solo albums during the unhappy break, but is back with a trove of new music for the familiar alchemy to begin again, 20 years hence. Fuck Trump.

"An ice-filigreeing-the-bare-trees sound, cold and achingly beautiful -- is what sets this group apart... downright glorious when the harmonies start, as crisp and shining as crystal." - The Washington Post