Jackson Wingate has been a fixture of the Albany music circuit since the mid-1980s. After playing in early projects such as Hunger Artists and Hunters of Gracchus he partnered with Dave Belemjian to launch ERL Records in 1988, a storefront that doubled as a label and a gathering spot for experimental musicians.
ERL quickly earned a reputation for stocking obscure releases from Forced Exposure, Ecstatic Yod, Corwood and other avant-garde labels. The shop’s most memorable moment arrived in November 1992, when the Sun City Girls dropped by and performed an impromptu in-store set the following day. The energy of that night cemented the idea that a record store could function as a community hub, not merely a retail space.
From storefront to bathroom studio: the Flipped Out era
Financial strains forced ERL to close in August 1994. Undeterred, Wingate opened Flipped Out a month later, using the space’s high-ceilinged bathroom as a makeshift studio. In 1996 he recorded the solo LP Ziamaluch on a $2 Fisher-Price boombox, layering frantic guitar lines over the echo of tiled walls. The record epitomized his lo-fi aesthetic: a blur of rapid strumming, distorted tones and a single cough audible midway through the tape, evidence of a recording session conducted while “fully baked.”
These DIY experiments laid the groundwork for what would become the most enduring chapter of his career: the birth of Burnt Hills.
Burnt Hills emerges from the Helderberg House basement
In October 2003, Wingate and his wife Lana opened the doors of their 1955 home—affectionately dubbed Helderberg House—to a rotating roster of friends every Monday night. The basement, built of cinderblock walls and sloping upward from the driveway, provided a bunker-like acoustic environment that amplified the group’s penchant for “jet-airplane” volume. A silver Tama drum kit sat near the washer, while a wall of guitar amps occupied the far side, creating a visual and sonic collage that defined the band’s sound.
Monday evenings became a ritual; the day’s rarity ensured most participants were free, and Wingate’s obsessive scheduling turned the gatherings into a weekly ritual of one-hour improvisations. He enforced a simple rule: “Don’t talk about the music—just play.” The result was a chaotic, high-decibel tapestry where drums laid a pulse for dozens of guitars, xylophones and electronics to orbit. Participants used molded earplugs, and some even brought decibel readers to quantify the sonic assault.
Between 2006 and 2017, Helderberg House hosted fifty house concerts, welcoming acts such as Jack Rose, Michael Chapman, Bill Nace, Sightings and the Jooklo Duo. The first show, on 19 June 2006, featured White People after a last-minute cancellation by Scarcity of Tanks. Subsequent nights attracted touring musicians who were offered homemade pizza, cases of beer, a bottle of liquor, and a “donations for touring bands” jar placed beside a bowl of earplugs. No police ever interrupted, no equipment was stolen, and the only “incidents” were spontaneous moments of collective joy.
Later chapters, health setbacks, and lasting influence
The COVID-19 lockdown paused the weekly jams in 2020. When restrictions eased, the band shifted to a monthly schedule, but Wingate’s advancing degenerative spondylolisthesis made descending the stairs increasingly painful. He adapted by routing a 30-foot guitar cable from his bedroom to the basement, allowing him to play while seated, though the arrangement lasted only a year before he returned to a more traditional, face-to-face setup.
Today, Wingout focuses on his cello, performing with Lana in a duo called Bone and Joint Center inside the tiled bathroom they dub the Helderberg Hideout. Their improvisations continue the spirit of the original basement sessions, underscoring the idea that “music is a healing ritual.” Recent releases on his label Ramshackle Party Brothers include archival Burnt Hills CDRs such as “Skull Flowers,” drawn from a December 2024 jam.
Despite physical limitations, Wingate believes the collective will endure: “Burnt Hills will exist forever. I could text everyone right now and summon a Monday night jam, and everyone would show up.” The legacy lives on in the countless tapes stored on shelves, the stories of friends who still call the house their second home, and the ethos that a basement can become a sanctuary for experimental sound.
