TAGABOW

TAGABOW Presents: "Gestures Been", Played Again for One Night Only /  by William Green

In Greenpoint, TAGABOW opened the night with five songs from gestures been, a record Doug Dulgarian has not spent much time thinking about for years. Horse Jumper of Love were there celebrating ten years of their self-titled record, but before that anniversary set started, TAGABOW briefly brought their own past back into the room.

The set had only been practiced a few days earlier. Evan Moffitt, who played bass on the record, was back onstage, and for a little while TAGABOW looked less like the band as it exists now and more like a version of it that had been sitting untouched somewhere since 2018. “fake twenty,” “houseplant,” “jadakiss,” “yawner,” “daytime europa stuff.” Songs made when the project occupied a much smaller world, now being played inside Warsaw to people who may not have found TAGABOW until years after this wasreleased.

The night before the show, Doug told me they did not plan on playing the set again. So before any of it happened, the night already felt precious. gestures been came out eight years ago. The people around the record changed, the band changed, the rooms got bigger. Then, for a few days, they had to go back and figure out how those songs lived in their hands again, just to play them once and put them away.

Below is a conversation with Doug about what its like to perform gestures been after all these years.

You said you practiced these songs only a few days before the show. Did you approach it like relearning old TAGABOW songs, or did having Evan there make it feel more like temporarily stepping back into the band that actually made gestures been?

Good question. I think it was all pretty natural, Evan knew the roots and we could kind of fill out the rest from there. Definitely felt like the same band that recorded it all. 



When you only have a few days to relearn something you made eight years ago, how much do you actually try to figure out what you originally did versus just trusting whatever your hands want to do with it now?

A lot of it is kind of approximation. Music is weird man, it’s so specific to so many separate times. Life is like that. I could never be the same person I was in 2017 again. So in that way it’s like we’re just playing these old songs as modern versions of ourselves. In that way it’s an even totally different thing.

When you set out to play this set, were you trying to make the set sound like gestures been in 2018, or was it inevitably gestures been filtered through everything TAGABOW has become since then?

Very much the latter. I don’t think we really have a choice on that.

Of the five songs you brought back, was there one that surprised you by feeling much better or more natural to play now than you expected it to?

yeah yawner felt very very natural to play. It was utilizing a lot of mechanics I would continue to use for years. Funny to think these simple songs were the framework for the rest of my music making life but they definitely were.

When you relearned “fake twenty,” were there any choices in the writing or arrangement that immediately felt like early versions of things TAGABOW still does now, or did it mostly feel like a language you’d stopped using?


I keep answering your questions one before- a sure sign that you’re a great interviewer. But yes, definitely framework.




“houseplant” starts with these really specific physical details about another person, then moves into the plant in the bathtub and window, and by the end you’re calling yourself the houseplant and looking at the sun as something temporary. Coming back to the song all these years later, do you still remember the actual people, places, and circumstances those details came from, or have parts of it become detached from whatever originally happened?

Yes definitely. There was a house venue that kept a large houseplant in the bathtub all the time. And I was at this show just feeling really weird and alien to everybody else. That’s kind of the gist of it.

With “yawner,” do you still remember what “put on your jazz voice” was referring to? It feels so much like something somebody actually said or did that I’ve always wondered whether there’s a specific person or moment buried in that line.

Not at all. I think I was referring to myself code switching trying to make new friends.



When gestures been came out, those songs existed in a much smaller world. What did it feel like to play them all these years later in a room like that, with that many people there to actually receive them?

Dude very weird. At the end of the day, I think the special part was playing with Evan again, and with Ben on these old songs, and with PJ who is now a staple in making music for me. It was really cool to be honest. A full circle thing.

You said you don’t plan on ever playing this set again. Did knowing that from the start change the way you experienced the show, especially with Evan back onstage and that older version of TAGABOW only really existing again for that one night?

Yeah totally. A one and done was cool. It was like well, we just gotta represent the old shit once, and we’re done. And in that way, it was like a level of a video game. Playing new songs is so much scarier. Because it’s like yo this is who I am NOW. And it’s weirdly definitive. Even tho we all change. Even tho you won’t be that person in a few years. It’s weird to acknowledge the person you are right now. Because that’s the most important one. It’s relieving maybe to think that it’s also completely composed of all these former versions of ourselves. That’s cool

Thanks Will!! 

They Are Gutting A Body Of Water @ 40.7099920, -73.9262855 /  by William Green

Yesterday At 3:10PM.

Doug texts me a GPS pin. I grab my camera bag and run out the door. When I get there, there are about twenty people playing volleyball and absolutely no sign of a show. I text Doug to make sure I’m in the right place. He tells me they’re around the block scouting another spot.

A few minutes later another set of cords come through, a couple streets over and on the other side of the tracks. I find a hole in the fence, cut across that way, push through some bushes and suddenly pop out in front of a bunch of familiar faces.

Things are already starting to assemble themselves. Cables are being run to generators. Fif is doing sound out of the trunk of a car. People are carrying things back and forth trying to turn a dead-end street into a venue before anybody really has time to think about it.

At some point we realize Emily left her pedals and bass strap somewhere. I realized the strap had almost perfect little notches at each end. Good enough, My camera bag became a strap.

I asked Doug if he cared if I climbed onto the roof of the van once everything started to kick off so I could shoot a composite from up there.

He said he didn’t care, just don’t let anybody else up. Fair enough.

Eventually I abandoned the van. Next door there was a lot full of old garbage trucks, so I wandered over there and climbed on top of one of those instead. It was a great view from up there, A few hundred people packed into the end of a street, train tracks behind them, generators humming, everyone gathered around.

Maybe forty minutes later the music stopped.

Walking back from the parking lot next door, I found a kid’s school ID on the ground. I carried it back into the crowd, holding it up next to random faces until eventually I found him and handed it back to him. As people started disappearing, Olivia came over and gave me a hug. We talked for a little bit and I made her photo before everyone scattered.

Before leaving, I grabbed everyone to walk over to the tracks for a few group photos.

A show had appeared out of almost nothing and disappeared about as quickly. I hugged everyone and went on my way.

Watching the Room Change Shape With TAGABOW /  by William Green

There is something really special about a TAGABOW show, their stage presence resists the idea of performance as spectacle. By placing themselves in the middle of the room rather than elevated on a stage, they collapse the distance that usually separates band and audience. The effect is less about commanding attention and more about existing inside the same emotional and physical space as everyone else. The music feels shared rather than delivered, shaped by proximity, bodies, and the uncertainty of being surrounded. It turns the room into part of the instrument, and the audience into quiet participants rather than passive witnesses.

I spent the day with TAGABOW after arriving in what felt like the most aggressive Uber ride of my life, the kind where it seems like the driver thinks you are late to something. We pulled up to the venue around three in the afternoon just as the band was arriving and starting to load in. I grabbed what I could, trying not to slip on the ice out front while helping haul gear inside.

Once indoors, soundcheck kicked off. Cables everywhere, amps humming, the room still painfully cold. Doug spent the downtime trying to win Magic The Gathering matches on his phone while levels were being dialed in. After soundcheck, a handful of dice were tossed around the greenroom and money changed hands before it was time to take the stage.

By the time the show started, the space was completely different. The room that felt frozen and empty hours earlier was now hot and dense, every corner packed with people pressing toward the stage, waiting.

They Are Gutting a Body of Water Are Reeling In Degradation /  by William Green

There’s a particular restraint to the way TAGABOW work, a refusal to inflate feeling or posture above it, which gives the album its weight. Nothing is dressed up, nothing is framed as larger than life, and that choice feels deliberate. Spending time with Douglas and the band made it clear how closely that approach is tied to survival, humility, and the ongoing work of understanding oneself. The answers don’t resolve neatly, they wander, double back, contradict themselves in productive ways.

In conversation with Douglas Dulgarian of Tagabow,

When I spend time with LOTTO, not just as individual tracks but as a complete environment, it feels connected to a very particular chapter in your life. It has this sense of a moment when your thoughts, your routines, your physical state, and the way you moved through the world were all pressing in at the same time. 

I find myself wondering what it felt like for you to be inside that moment while making the record. Did the process of writing and recording bring you face to face with parts of yourself that you had not fully acknowledged before, and if that happened, how did it affect the choices you made from day to day in the studio. 

I am also curious about the version of yourself who walked away from the finished album. Did you feel transformed by the work, or did the act of creating LOTTO simply clarify the person you already were, almost like the album held up a mirror you had not looked into quite that closely until then.

Douglas: These are some fucking amazing questions. I guess the whole purpose of art in my life is to figure out who I am constantly, or maybe like, to create some idealized form of myself that supplements my core basic beliefs about myself. And then try it on. See if it fits. With LOTTO, it was kind of a weird time starting out, because in writing it I had just relapsed on opiates for the sixth major time in my life, and I guess the idea of the record was like; “how would it feel to strip back all of the idealized forms of myself I have built, and wear that one?” And in some way, I suppose, that is an idealized form of myself as well. When I walked away I can say that the main feeling that I had was that of being too naked. Sometimes it’s nice to hide behind some sort of mask, some persona. I think that’s like the “rock star” thing to do. I wanted to be anti rock star. I guess the weird part of that is there’s no coming back from that stance. Once you’ve shown your hand everybody knows. And I think that’s honestly healthier for me. I’m a person, with problems. Remaining humble in basically way is really the only way I will ever stay clean I think. My life is not some movie. It’s a mixture of a ton of real life moments. 

You once said you never want to "feel better or worse than anybody else" in life or in art. How does that belief shape the way you write songs, especially songs that focus on despair or isolation or the loneliness of daily routines, How did that shape Lotto?

Douglas: I think a better way of saying that is “I don’t want to position myself as better or worse than anybody else”, because at the end of the day I have literally lived in nearly every format of available lifrstyles for myself, and all of those formats are still available to me at any time. An even better way of framing that is: “I am still all of those things, constantly, and we all are.”Homeless and strung out, struggling but having a roof over my head, or doing very well financially; enough to just spend in stupid ways. I’m not entirely sure how that belief helps me write songs, but it does open the door for me to be like; “I too can be a musician as well”. Especially initially. I still struggle with imposter syndrome. And that’s something I talk about in the music too I think. It translates in a lot of ways- I really try and relate to people as opposed to compare to them.


When you perform live now, especially songs from LOTTO, does the energy from the crowd, the spaces you play, or the people you meet shift how those songs feel to you?

Douglas: I cannot tell as I am turned around. Hahaha

Do you think uncertainty and precarity are essential ingredients for writing songs like yours, or is there a way to carry the same emotional weight from stability?

Douglas: holy shit, what a question. I used to believe that all art came from pain. I now know that’s simply not true. A genuine sense of safety and security allows for you to explore, and that’s necessary for growth, for finding new pathways. It’s impossible to talk about places you’ve never been. It’s hard to put your finger on things while you’re in a moment. But it’s very easy to talk about places you’ve been when you’re no longer there. Everything in retrospect makes sense, usually. Hindsight is always 20/20. Have you ever been so mad that you just leave a conversation? Nothing helps more than some time to let it all sink in. That’s life. Emotions are bigger than reality. Experience is just the right size. 

We have talked before about a shared love for VHS. The way older formats seem to breathe in a way digital images never quite do. VHS and other older formats deteriorate over time, which means the images will eventually fade & degrade. Does that idea of impermanence feel important to you. When you choose a format that is already unstable, are you expressing a belief about how art should age, or are you exploring the idea that certain memories or moods are not meant to stay crisp

Douglas: I was thinking about this yesterday. I used to believe that everything was impermanent. But now I think that everything is kind of permanent, really. And let me explain myself: everything has some sort of effect, and that effect creates more effects, so on and so forth. Everything is important. And maybe that’s what makes the degradation of something like a video format so comforting. That the past fades away.

The name RL Stine carries a certain cultural weight, stories about fear, horror & mystery, things that feel familiar but also slightly unreal. Your song of the same name is grounded in a real person moving through the horrors of life. The title adds another layer that changes how the listener approaches it. What made that name feel right for this song, and once you chose it, did it shift the way you understood what the song was actually revealing to you or about you.

Douglas: So you nailed it with the meaning, haha. But also I love zeitgeists. I love things that are culturally significant. It’s fascinating to me. If there’s some massive blockbuster that everybody is talking about, I will go to the theater and watch it. And I try to reference those things, especially in song titles. Jadakiss was a whole ass cultural movement where I grew up. Diamond Dallas Page and WWE as well. I think that’s a thing too, I always try to draw from childhood.

So much of your work blends sound and image and fragments of daily life that might fade with time. If you could choose one feeling or one idea that you want listeners to hold long after the visuals have degraded and the songs have settled into memory, what would that be. And why that one above everything else

Douglas: You’re a teenager. You and two friends have biked though the woods to explore an abandoned psychiatric center. It’s the summer and the sun is starting to go down, and the very idea of the cool air is refreshing to think about. Your t shirt is stuck to your body, wet. As you walk around the back of the building, paint can in your hand, ready to try your best among the other profanities on the wall that faces the woods, you notice long snakes of some type of black substance across the broken asphalt, strands of grass interrupting the jagged purpleish bulbous ground here and there. Plastic cups and bodega bags are scattered here and there, but the snakes really grab your attention the most. Alien looking. Maybe these black things are long seeds of some kind? Maybe more pieces of plastic? You walk over to them and touch one, and it degrades in your hand. Long tentacles of ash from fireworks, you realize; those shitty cheap fireworks that leave more than they start with. And then you realize, they had to have been set off before the last rainfall, and was that only two days ago? Yeah. People have been here recently. Exploring this shitty place. Painting dicks on the wall