Silver Halide Film is named after a sign I saw on one of Adam Adler’s restored photobooths at Flinders St Station, referencing a kind of photographic material found in traditional photography mediums. Similar to the way film turns light into lasting piece of art, each song on the album distills a distinct feeling, where memory and imagination coalesce. Thematically, Silver Halide Film begins with detachment and disillusionment. Like a Joachim Triar film, both art and human connection disrupt apathy, reminding us we are alive. However, the album is not a clear-cut journey towards connection and meaning, instead exploring at a subtler interplay between these two states. Recorded alongside friend/collaborator Dean Tuza, the album’s sonic palette is organic and unvarnished, featuring folk guitars, double bass, piano, stratocaster riffs, and trumpet flourishes. It embraces imperfections: a whispered harmony from a passerby captured in a park recording, the scratchy warmth of tape echo. Tilly’s approach is intuitive and antichorus in favor of something sketchier, more tactile, and profoundly human.