CJ Archer Interview

A kid in the family made up the name. It stuck. That felt like the right place to start.

Where did CJ Archer come from?

It’s the most record-shop name I could have thought of, although I didn’t think of it. A kid in my family made it up. To him it was just initials plus a last name that sounded like it belonged on a spine. To me, CJ is plain and workable. Archer is the opposite: pointed, a little dramatic, almost aimed. Put them together and you get confusion. The name means something different to everyone who hears it. That’s why I like it.

When did electronic music get serious for you?

Late ’90s. House twelves, jungle white labels, and a lot of funk and soul at the same time. I didn’t realize it was a whole culture (DJing, raves, bedroom studios) until the early 2000s, right when electro and broken-beat were getting loud. Flash and Bambaataa still sat next to those piles. ‘Scorpio.’ ‘Planet Rock.’ Those bridges still don’t get the props they deserve.

By the mid-2000s I was buying dance music and breaks almost exclusively. Later I started buying records just to sample, and finally understood where the beats came from.

Influences?

You have to look at the inside of the crates for that one.

How does it feel watching the Pacific Northwest underground get louder?

The coast has always had ups and downs. Early on, not much from up here traveled. The records I remember sat in rooms and on burned CDs longer than they sat in shops. During the blog and SoundCloud years there were great files out of Vancouver and the Island: some obvious, a lot that never got their due.

I used to make mixes with one side house around 120 and the other side jungle a lot faster. Not to segregate the rooms. Just to keep the night moving. Then the bigger platforms showed up and putting out your own record started to feel like shouting into a feed.

In the 2010s there was a stigma around “regional” electronic music. That made the challenge more fun. We were getting more love from Europe and later Japan than from our own country. The last few years feel different. People are finally hearing it, including heads in bigger cities.

Who are you feeling right now?

L.T. Drifta, as far as the beats go. He’s on a level few people reach. Inlet Knight and Double-Edge are in that same room for me: different tempos, same honesty.

Enough support, or do more heads need to wake up?

Both. I’m grateful for the people who get the idea of the label. I also get upset that the records aren’t reaching further. Quality of listener always beats quantity. I’d rather have ten people really into the work than a hundred who are kind of into it. I don’t want these records in the dollar bin in a few years.

Producing or running the label?

Happy doing both. Hate the setup for both. Going through records for a session can take ten hours because the collection is so mixed: records for listening, records for sampling, records purely for remembering where a night went. Then it’s plugging and unplugging wires, temperamental gear that doesn’t always want to cooperate.

How do you define your style?

I don’t. I pride myself on variety. Some of these songs sound like I made them years ago. Others sound like 2030. Dated futuristic.

What’s next?

Finishing the label idea properly. I’ve been talking about Club Copy longer than I’ve been printing anything. Album cover arguing, since I’m more picky about artwork than the music itself. And recording with people who already trust the room. No interest in chasing whoever is loudest this week.

Who do you want to keep working with?

L.T. Drifta, Inlet Knight, Double-Edge. The quiet projects we’ve been talking about for years. Whoever else ends up in the Pacific Northwest with a hard drive and some patience.

If this ever got big, would it change you?

Someone asked me to remake a 1970s song for a bigger-label compilation. Decent money. A day’s work. A name people already know. I could have done it in my sleep. I couldn’t see my name on it, so I didn’t. Selling a lot of units is fine if it’s songs I feel good about. A gold record on the wall would mean nothing if it was a song I wouldn’t play as a fan.

Anyone slept on?

Me. And Drifta. And whoever is still finishing a track in a basement this week.

Last words?

L.T. Drifta eats carrots.