Est. 1997

Halou, a name that hums like a half-remembered whisper from the fog-drenched streets of San Francisco, emerged in the late '90s as a curious alchemical brew—part trip-hop shadow, part dreampop shimmer, all restless invention. Conjured by the husband-and-wife duo of Ryan and Rebecca Coseboom, with the spectral presence of engineer Count lurking in the mix like a sonic poltergeist, they were less a band than a mood given form, a reverie stitched from beats and breath. Born from the ashes of Anomie—a Santa Cruz outfit that once flirted with shoegaze’s hazy edges—they traded riot grrrl snarl and techno-pop sheen for something softer, stranger, more elusive. Their debut, We Only Love You (1998), was a love letter to the liminal, a record that felt like stumbling into a midnight diner where the jukebox plays only the echoes of 4AD’s golden age.

What followed was a decade of restless evolution, albums like Wiser (2001) and Wholeness & Separation (2006) threading electronica’s cool pulse with indie rock’s tender ache. They were architects of atmosphere, building songs that hovered like mist over a cityscape—crushing yet delicate, organic yet machined. And then, in 2008, they invited Robin Guthrie, the Cocteau Twins’ maestro of ethereal swirl, into their orbit. On their self-titled fourth album, Halou, Guthrie’s guitar drifted through tracks like “Professional” and “Evensong,” lending a gossamer glow that felt like a nod to his own band’s celestial past—a collaboration that was less a guest spot than a communion of kindred spirits. A dream within a dream, San Francisco kissing Grangemouth across the decades.

And then there’s Zoe Keating, the cellist whose avant-garde bow-work graced tracks like “Clipped” on Halou and its Sawtooth EP. Her strings didn’t just accompany—they haunted, threading a mournful elegance through the band’s electronic pulse, as if summoning the ghost of some lost chamber piece. With Keating, as with Guthrie, Halou found collaborators who didn’t so much join the party as expand its dimensions—turning songs into worlds, intimate yet infinite.

But Halou were never content to linger in one skin. By 2008, Halou-as-Halou dissolved, a quiet vanishing act after a tour with indie titan Bob Mould. They shed their name like a chrysalis and emerged as Stripmall Architecture, a project that was both continuation and reinvention. Where Halou sighed, Stripmall Architecture strutted—still hypnotic, still hook-laden, but with a bolder, more experimental swagger. Their 2009 debut, We Were Flying Kites, was a kaleidoscope of sound: typewriters clacking in rhythm, crystal glasses chiming, xylophones dancing atop Rebecca’s vocals, now freed to soar or seduce as the mood demanded. It was as if they’d taken Halou’s blueprint and run it through a funhouse mirror—dreamy pop twisted into something gloriously askew. Live, they pushed further, syncing short films to their songs, weaving strings (sometimes literally, with a cello-violin-viola trio) into their sonic tapestry, proving they could be as theatrical as they were introspective.

The Halou name flickered back to life in 2019 with Brutalism For Lovers. A hiatus from 2004 to 2017 had only sharpened their enigma—were they gone, or merely waiting? Today, they exist in a state of perpetual reinvention, a band that refuses to be pinned down, flitting between shadows and spotlights. Halou, and their Stripmall offshoot, are not so much a story as a sensation—a riddle wrapped in reverb, forever teasing the edge of what music might mean if you let it drift just out of reach.

HALOU:
Rebecca Coseboom - Vocals
Ryan Coseboom - Guitar
Andrei Pasternak - Bass
Erica Mulkey - Rhodes and Backing Vocals
Sergey Ledovsky - Drums

To book Halou, contct us at info (at) halou.com.