Poppy: I’ve been improvising on the piano and writing things since I was about twelve, when I started doing music at school properly and learning saxophone. I obviously couldn’t sing, playing saxophone, but I got a little keyboard. I had a really inspirational music teacher who introduced me to the blues and soul, which, from a little town in Scotland that I’d grown up in, and then Yorkshire, wasn’t something I really knew. My mum — she was musical, but came from quite a poor background so didn’t have any musical instruments or anything — introduced me to Kate Bush and lots of really inspirational singer-songwriters.

I started doing gigs in pubs at blues festivals in Yorkshire when I was fourteen. Even though I couldn’t drink, I’d be there singing the blues about all this sadness that I’m not sure I really knew about; imitating my idols who were people like Sarah Vaughan and Nina Simone. I’ve got quite a deep voice, so I remember the people in the pub would be like, “You sound like a man!” I’m like, “Oh, thanks…” I’m this little fourteen-year-old girl.

But yeah, I just started writing from then on — probably not about anything too serious: boys or something; silly things.

What was it that actually made you start writing your own stuff?

Poppy: It was mainly because I had such a deep voice — I’ve got a contralto — so, I used to sing the tenor parts in the choir because there were never enough boys. There were never enough songs I could play in the right key. All the female songs were too high for my voice, so I started writing my own, which were much lower, and also transposing a lot of the normal pop songs lower. I just loved improvising; I loved sitting at the piano and noodling on it — figuring things out that way. I didn’t like playing something prescribed; I liked doing it by ear. I always found it quite dreamy and quite a nice meditation.

Do you still find inspiration from the same sources as you did back then?

Poppy: Yeah, I even find myself playing in the same improvising keys sometimes, just for fun. I’ll go back to the same things I wrote as a teenager: the same motifs and things, just for comfort. It will always be a bit different, but it just has this nice nostalgia to it.

Did you always envision you would make the kind of music you did for your EP?

Poppy: No, not at all. I guess my EP was a little weird and strange. I didn’t know what I was doing — I was writing music and playing in bands all the way through as a teenager and through my twenties, and then I did a music degree as a masters, and I completely changed in the sense that I learned technology. Before, I’d just been recording playing piano and singing quite basically. I did a degree, and learnt all the different software and stuff behind music, like Ableton and Logic. We were taught sound design, and I was suddenly like “Wow! This is a whole new world that I don’t know about at all.” It was completely alien. I guess I took what I already knew and just experimented.

I’m so rudimentary. I’m still someone who doesn’t have a Kindle, who likes to read books, who’s old-school — has the oldest computer in the world, or did. I’m a bit of a Luddite, so it’s kinda nice to be introduced to a new world of sound design and experimentation.

How easily did you pick all the new technology up?

Poppy: Pretty easily, I guess. I think, even though I’m feeling old, it was fine. [laughs] I work in film anyway, so you have to learn new technology and new cameras all the time. It wasn’t too hard, but I was around people who were like twenty one, and I’m a bit older. I felt like everyone just had it — they’re born knowing how to code — and I was just like, “I have no idea about Ableton.” But once you spend even like a week or so just looking at it everyday, you suddenly realise it’s not as hard as it looks.

Well, I’m old enough that the long-time redundant Mixman Studio Pro software was something I spent a lot of time tinkering with as a kid.

Poppy: I had an old Zoom recorder, and that’s all I recorded everything on — it was like recording something on your phone, and that was it. My school didn’t have anything. We had one broken piano and a cassette four-track — you could have four instruments and that was your song; that was it. [laughs] I wrote all the music out by hand on manuscript paper… I didn’t grow up with computers, because my school was quite poor. There were computers — I’m not that old — but we just didn’t have them. [laughs]

What’s your process now then?

Poppy: I don’t really know. That makes it sound a bit like magic, but I just know that I’ve got an emotion that I want to get out, and I’m not sure how — it just sort of comes out. I don’t know how to describe it. It’s not like I sit there and work out an entire song; I’m just feeling what I feel and then I either start on the piano, or I sing, and I start messing around with things.

I like the idea of a song being a rough canvas, and you’re experimenting with colours. A lot of the music that I write is stretching sounds and making things sound not quite like they are. I started playing the bass in the songs, and it made me write differently, because I don’t really play it. It made me play in different keys, different rhythms. I like to not just stick at something I know, like piano and voice. I also love disarming listeners, so I’ll detune my voice to sound not quite like a woman — kinda like a man, but a bit ambiguously. I just like playing around with it. Maybe that makes it unlistenable, but I just like the experiment of it. You’re looking at a canvas, and not everything has to be so obvious when you’re looking at art, so why does music have to be such an obvious state or emotion? It can be nuanced, weird, abstract, discoloured, strange and distorted.

So the mysterious ambience of your music is deliberate then?

Poppy: I suppose so. Maybe it’s just me. It’s not like I’m sitting there going. “Right, I’m gonna make this weird and unlistenable.” I suppose if something sounds a little too much like pop, I would probably try and mess around with it more. I’m not anti-pop either. I guess, because I do listen to quite weird stuff, I don’t actually know what’s weird. Something might sound weird to someone else, and to me it sounds like the perfect pop song. Listening to people like Fiona Apple, Björk, Jenny Hval and Aldous Harding, your weird-factor’s really off anyway. [laughs]

I think, having gone to Goldsmith’s, they make you listen to all-sorts, from musique concrète pieces and Schoenberg, to Stockhausen and the big producers like Trevor Horn and what’s happening at the moment in the music scene and in pop. I suppose I already had quite a weird listening palette anyway, but Goldsmith’s also introduced me to so many others, like people who would record their washing machine. I’d go around the house with my electric magnetic microphone recording weird static electricity from the microwave and trying to put it in my songs. They were like, “Go and experiment.”

What is music? Like, Christian Marclay, who recorded a guitar being dragged from the back of a car as a musical piece, but also a statement for the lynchings that went on in the American South. That’s obviously unlistenable in some ways, and listenable in others.

I suppose I’m influenced by a lot of things, but I do listen to the weirder end of music. But then, I’m likely to listen to Prince and Michael Jackson as well, if I’m in the right mood.

Has the reaction you’ve had to your music thus far been that it’s weird?

Poppy: I’ve had a lot of reaction to it, which has really been good for me in the sense that people have said, “Wow, this is really weird”, or “It’s like taking drugs.” I put out some very weird music videos with them too, because I think people consume music visually anyway, and I work in film so…

I think people’s reactions have been twofold, like, “The videos creep me out, and the music’s also weird and creepy”, but they tend to caveat it with, “I really like it.” But, I suppose if you cut up vocals like I do on NDN, for example, you can’t really hear what I’m singing about, and I think that’s quite disarming for people. That said, I’ve had a lot of people do things for free because they’ve really loved it: people got in touch to master it for free and mix it for free because they really like what I’m doing. I’ve had people be like, “It’s a weird mix between Aphex Twin, Björk and Fiona Apple, and that’s a good space to be in.” Those are people who I really respect a lot, so if I can even remotely be put in a category as some sort of strange hybrid-child of theirs, that’s great.

How long does it take for you to develop an idea then?

Poppy: Some are written in a day, and some are written over months. It just depends, and most of them I never feel are ever finished. You just have to get to a point where you’re like, “Okay, I’m giving this to the world, and it’s yours to take on wherever you feel you’d like it to be.” You’ll go crazy if you don’t. You always have to give yourself a deadline, or you’ll sit on it and tinker with it forever.

So is that something you find difficult? To say, “Right, that’s it. Finished.”

Poppy: Definitely. It’s never finished. It’s like any piece of art: you just have to draw a line under it. If you’ve just got to release your own music with no deadline, it’s very hard to work towards something and say, “That’s it.” You have to accept it, but are you ever happy with it? I don’t know. I don’t know any artist that’s ever that happy.

Tangential to that point, artists often seem keen to point out, such is the time it can take to release music, that their latest release is actually outdated, both emotionally and in terms of artistic proficiency; that it’s a snapshot of where they were, but doesn’t necessarily represent where they are now.

Poppy: For sure. I mean, Strange Jealously, which got really well received because the video went viral last summer — viral for me, anyways; it got over a 100,000 views — I wrote two or three years ago, in a space I was in that was quite sad. You have to relive it two or three years later when you don’t feel that sad anymore, and you’re like, “Oh, that song’s about that, but I don’t feel it now.” It’s a compliment, obviously, but it’s funny because you don’t really want to talk about it. You think: How can I ambiguously talk about this song without giving away what it’s about? [laughs]

So, when you listen back to older songs, it doesn’t stir things up again?

Poppy: I don’t think so. It’s like, I have diaries, and I actually find it quite entertaining to read about a breakup. At the time of writing it was so destroying, and then you read it a few years later and you feel absolutely nothing. You’re like, “I felt that much for that person? I was in that bad a state?” You don’t laugh, because obviously you feel the pain, but you think: Yeah, I’m so much better now. So, you listen to a song like that and you’re like, “I’m glad that something creative, positive came out of this terrible time.” It doesn’t bring me to sadness.

Do you think of your music as being sad?

Poppy: I’ve definitely had a lot of reviews where people have said it’s melancholic. I think that maybe does reflect who I am. I’ve had quite a lot of things happen to me in my life — it has been quite painful and sad, so maybe the music is melancholic. But, that said, the album Altered States is about me having epilepsy, and weird realities and strange stuff. One of the songs, Tarmac, has got a really upbeat beat, and it sounds really happy, although it’s about me lying in the road having had a seizure. I’ve written it in a kind of fun state because, actually, with seizures, you don’t always get this sadness — sometimes you get this euphoric, crazed feeling. You can have lots of different feelings in epilepsy.

The record, to me at least, does have quite a claustrophobic feel; it’s very close. Does that have any sort of connection to the seizures?

Poppy: Maybe. I did want the vocals to be mixed very close so that when you’re listening they’re almost whispering in your ear. I mean, there’s a certain sort of hibernation with epilepsy where, if you have seizures, you just feel like you can’t go out because you’ll end up falling in the road, scaring people, hitting your head, embarrassing yourself. So, there’s a certain sort of recluseness that can overcome you sometimes. It’s actually people’s fear of you and their stigmas against you, more than yourself. There’s certainly a kind of cloistering feel to having it. I’m kind of in it, so I can’t really tell you if I was thinking from a claustrophobic point of view, but if that’s what you get from it, it might be because that’s what I am projecting.

What kind of mood are you in when you do your best work?

Poppy: Oh, probably really dire, depressive states. [laughs] I hardly ever write when I’m happy. I have to be quite reclusive when I want to write, because you become all-obsessive — I know I do, anyway. I don’t go out. I write into the night, because it’s very quiet then and there are no distractions from work, or flatmates or whatever. I get quite obsessed, quite insular and don’t sleep. I think there’s bit of a crazed mindset you have to get into to write music. It’s certainly something that you don’t start casually with an hour to spare. For me, it’s like, “Okay, I’ve got to dedicate many hours if I’m gonna do it.” You kind of go under.

During those times, are you able to really press on with what you’re doing?

Poppy: Yeah, very much so. Especially if it’s something where I’m suddenly like, “Oh, this is interesting.” I get really into it, just playing around with sounds, thoughts, lyrics and ideas. I’ve got so many unfinished songs and bits of things. I really enjoy the process of creating, probably more so than releasing it. The idea of creation is definitely more exciting than even playing live. It’s a bit of a drug.

How do you keep yourself motivated when the high of creation wears off then?

Poppy: I think it’s about not doing it all the time. I think if I only did music, and I was just in my room creating all the time, I could certainly go crazy. I think, because I do a lot that’s creative in my life anyway — I’m a film director, I draw, and I write a lot — there are lots of different highs and lots of different mediums, and if music wasn’t going well, I’d just stop and go and do something else, like paint or work on my film ideas. I feel like if you’re only in one thing, you can go crazy, and it can make you really depressed.

Also, you end up putting all your eggs in one basket, and it’s very demoralising if you don’t get somewhere. For me, I have no deluded notions that I’ll be a pop star overnight, but I like what I do, and if people like it then great. I know I’m not gonna be the next Taylor Swift — I don’t write music like that — but, so long as I’m doing something for me… I think creativity does come and go, and you’re not meant to do it all the time. If you are expected to do it every day, it becomes a job, and it’s not creative — you become jaded and tired, and you don’t make your best work. You’re not gonna be creative every day and write things that are perfect every day. That’s okay. Give yourself space. Give yourself a break.

For you then, would it be fair to say that it doesn’t matter so much what the medium is — whether it’s music or film or art — just that you are creating?

Poppy: Creativity a hundred percent matters to me, but I’ve always known that music is the most creative thing for me. As a film-maker, I have to write ideas for channels and for people to give me money, so you are, to a certain point, ticking boxes. It’s very creative but, at the end of the day, you’re making something for a channel, and that channel worries about audiences, so you have to consider that. It’s not a hundred percent creative in the way that you might want — you’re structuring something for funding and for audiences — whereas, with my music, it can be exactly how I want it to be, knowing that I don’t have to make very much money from it if I don’t want to; knowing that I don’t have to have a number one; knowing that the music doesn’t have to fulfil a particular scene in a film. It’s a hundred percent mine, and that, for me, is the greatest freedom ever. I think if I did actually earn money from music, and I had to write for a living, it would be a very different experience.

Okay, so Is there an element of your craft that you would especially like to improve upon?

Poppy: I’m always wanting to improve on everything. Never good enough. At all. I’d love to be a better musician. I’d love to practice my saxophone more; I’d love to be a better bass player, pianist, singer. I never have enough time in the day, and I think you’re never gonna be the world’s greatest; someone like Keith Jarrett is probably one of the world’s greatest piano players, along with Thelonious Monk and all sorts of people, but I’m sure they even think they can be improved upon. I don’t think anyone in any creative industry, unless they’re incredibly non-aware and very vain, think that they don’t need to improve on anything. I love the process of learning — that’s why I loved going back to school. I always will want to learn and experiment and do things differently, because that’s part of the fun of it. I’m never gonna think I’ve made it — I don’t think anyone ever does.

Given how experimental your music is, how easy do you find it to get on shows and meet like-minded artists?

Poppy: That’s quite tough. I think a lot of promoters don’t bother to listen, and they’ll just see ‘Woman playing piano and singing. Got to 100,000 views on her video. We’ll put her on’, without even remotely listening to the music. You see who you’ve been put on the bill with: bands who sound absolutely nothing like you. You think: Right, I’m gonna be the one that really sticks out here, and I’m not sure the audience that are coming for the other bands are gonna like it.. I find that frustrating.

I’ve run nights for women who are doing experimental music, and that’s nominally a way to do it, because I know lots of people doing similar things, but I also don’t love always having to do that. I have been asked by other places — there are obviously weird events here that cater for us, which is good, but, it’s smaller, and I’m sure people would like me to just play piano and sing; do more normal songs. Having lived around the world quite a bit, London is one of the best cities — apart from New York and Berlin — to play music in and be experimental. So, I can’t fault it — it’s just that you need to know your audience, your scene, the venues that are going to accommodate it and the good promoters. Once you do, it’s alright.

What do you feel that you gain from being artistically, creatively, inclined?

Poppy: I think I’d go completely mad if I didn’t have an outlet to express myself. I’ve actually had quite a lot of conversations with friends about this — about having an outlet to express yourself — and I think a lot of people who don’t have that get quite depressed and don’t get to be heard. A lot of people’s woes can come from not being listened to; not realising what their creative potential might be — be it drawing, music, literature, dance. People just don’t have the time, or haven’t been nurtured in that way. I think it really gets people down. I know I would be really down if I didn’t have music as a way to express how I felt.

I see people in the drudgery of London, maybe not having any way to express themselves, and it’s really sad. It’s quite a freedom to have. I guess it makes me who I am. When I’m freelancing and not working in film, I’m doing a lot in music, and I suppose I would be more depressed if I didn’t have music to do outside of film. You need to have lots of facets to who you are — I’m not just a film-maker; I’m a person who enjoys lots of different things. Thank goodness TV is not my life completely. [laughs] I’d be very depressed, as much as it’s a privilege to work in film and TV… I do other things as well — I’m a nuanced person.

People should be able to do things for free — they might have a hidden talent. You might be able to sing, or draw or dance, but everyone always says, “Oh, no, I can’t.” People always look at someone who’s very successful and go, “I could never do that”, but those people weren’t successful overnight — they have this stage of being beginners and trying, seeing and perfecting.

Is there anything that you specifically hope to communicate to people through your work?

Poppy: Freedom. The thing I live by is freedom, and I hope people listen to the music and feel some sense of that. Hopefully my music just says you can be experimental, push boundaries and be weird, and it’s all okay.

When you’re playing your songs or listening to them, do you feel that freedom yourself?

Poppy: Yeah, I do. I feel a day-dreaming freedom to it, and I day-dream a lot — I think it’s necessary in London. But, to be honest with you, I’m not really listening to my own tracks unless I’m working on them. I find that ever so slightly painful and narcissistic. I’m listening to the next tracks I’m writing; listening to them to understand how to push them forwards. I’m not really listening to things that are out there already, because they were done, and they’re for other people now — they’re not for me anymore. It’s like sitting as a king on all your treasures and admiring it. [laughs]

There’s nothing wrong with a bit of self-admiration.

Poppy: No, I suppose so. I’m not very good at that.

Finally, to what extent would you like your creative output to define you as a person?

Poppy: I don’t know. It’s a hard question for me, because I feel like I do many things. Who I am as a person is definitely creatively driven. I know I’d be a terrible person to go to work in the same place in the same office doing the same job, like an accountant — I’d be terrible.

I’m in a privileged position that is creative, and all of the creative things that I do, do define me as a person. I had very hippy parents who were artists, and for me it was like everything was creation there. You were sick, and the orange of your sick was like a beautiful colour that you could have on a canvas. My mum used to make busts, and take animal skulls from the countryside and put them on perspex; the light shining through would create shadows on the wall. Everything was art. If you live like that, you end up maybe being a bit crazy yourself, and that defines you. I guess I’m maybe not the most normal person in the world.

The creative things that I do, I suppose they do define me as being Poppy, but I’m also just a normal woman living in London. I wouldn’t want to just feel like I live this artistic life that’s only driven by the art — that can also be a very lonely, sad life. The people who are really that doctrinal and dogged in their art and creativity, they never form very lasting relationships and happiness. I’m conscious of that. I’m not going to sabotage my life, my friendships, my loves, for music, although whoever does come into my life has to accept that I’m creative.

I’m not ruthlessly creative is what I’m trying to say. [laughs] It’s a hard question. I’m not about to cut my ear off or anything.

That’s good. Particularly at this precise moment.

Poppy: [laughs]

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Elsa: My process has changed a lot over time — it’s always changing — but generally, for my electronic stuff, I start by making a load of sounds then taking them apart. Or I take a recording of something else that I’ve already made — it’s often guitar or synth — and basically resample and turn it into something that sounds more warped and atmospheric.

For this particular album, I focused a lot on guitar loops, or just building up layers of loops that have cross-rhythms and building up the track from there. Do you know Quilt Jams, the EP I released last June?

You release so many things! How am I supposed to remember the names of all of them?

Elsa: [laughs] That’s supposed to be the other side of the coin of Citrus Paradisi. It’s mainly made up of guitar loops and vocal harmonies. A lot of the tracks that were going to be on that, I saved for this one, because I thought I’d keep that one really minimal and let loose on a load of the other ones.

Do you prefer when you keep things minimal, or when you let loose?

Elsa: I think I mostly enjoy letting loose, or not trying to find something specific, but just seeing what I end up with. In some ways, I like things coming out of nowhere — something unplanned, but awesome. It’s like a search — I keep making different sounds and playing with them until I find something that’s got a good catch.

You mentioned that you’d generally be using guitar or synths — which of those do you generally prefer to use?

Elsa: Probably guitar, because that’s my main instrument, and I find it quite easy to improvise stuff.

There’s a lot more stuff that I’m planning on trying out with synths, because it’s such a huge world of possibilities — there are so many different sounds you can make, and there are so many different things you can do to those sounds. It’s endless. With guitar, you’ve always got six strings, and it’s always made of the same material, but still it turns out there are a lot of different things you can create. And I think it’s because I just like making chords. I’ve always made up chords, ever since I started playing guitar — that’s just something I’ve always enjoyed doing. I can still have that very natural, organic way of playing, and then translate that into electronic music — it creates something quite interesting. The chords are a big part of the music creation for me.

When you started to learn guitar, did you envisage you’d be making the kind of music you are now?

Elsa: No. [laughs] Not at all, because when I started, I didn’t really listen to electronic music — as in, experimental or EDM type things. If anything, it was nineties pop, which was effectively electronic music, but I didn’t really see it as that at the time. I would never have envisaged being where I am today.

Is there any part of the music creation process that you’re not so keen on?

Elsa: I think when you’ve finished the track, and you keep going over it, fine-combing it like a million times until there are no problems or frequencies that are a bit too harsh. I’ve liked learning to mix and getting better at mixing, and since I started off mixing it myself, I just thought I’d keep going until I’m good at it. But that probably is the most arduous part of the process.

Do you find it easy to stop and just be like, “It’s finished”?

Elsa: Yeah, I think so. Although, this album has been the one where I’ve stopped about five times. [laughs]

Do you ever find the vast possibilities that are open to you as an electronic and experimental artist to be a little overwhelming?

Elsa: Yeah, it is sometimes quite overwhelming. That’s when you’re just thinking about it, or listening to music that inspires you to make something new. If you spend too long thinking about it, and not doing it, then it’s overwhelming, because it’s like, “Which idea should I pursue?” It’s less overwhelming if you just pick something up and make something.

How long do your ideas tend to take to develop then?

Elsa: Very fast, actually. It’s quite spontaneous at the start, usually, and then I just keep following my imagination. I have to do that quite quickly so that I don’t lose the vibe or momentum. I suppose that’s why they come out quickly: because the ideas come quickly, and I have to get the sounds and the track from one place to another to finish the session.

When you started work on the new album, was there anything specific that you wanted to implement?

Elsa: I did decide to keep in mind the ways I could play it live. And I slightly wanted to make it more mathy in the way I was using the guitar loops. Aside from that, it was literally just things that I discovered I could do really quickly, and I just kept doing them. Like the vocal harmonies: using them rhythmically.

You mention thinking about how you would play it live, which is something I was planning to ask about. You do actually take that into consideration when building a track then?

Elsa: Yeah, I do now. When I started making electronic music, I didn’t really think about how I was gonna play it live — when it came to having to do live sets, it was like, “How the hell am I gonna recreate this?” [laughs] Basically, it’s impossible, so I have to think about ways I can string it all together in a way that’s fun to do and also fun to watch.

Do you enjoy playing live?

Elsa: Yeah, I do. Obviously, it does depend on the venue and the audience – – they can really influence the experience — but, generally, I’ve always enjoyed it.

Okay, so returning to the album: How do you feel it compares to the mountain of stuff you’ve released over the last couple of years?

Elsa: I’d say it’s more polished, maybe, because I’m more aware of what I’m doing. Having done those first three — that was like getting my initial ideas out — I could look back on them and hear what I could improve. My ear has become more finely tuned. Also, I wanted to make something slightly faster and more high energy.

Is there a particular mood you tend to be in when you do your best work or are at your most creative?

Elsa: I don’t think there’s a particular mood — it’s just the mood of the day. [laughs] As long as you’re inside it, and you’re able to feel it, then it’s gonna have some sort of authentic outcome, I find.

And you are incredibly prolific… How do you manage that? Is it purely just a result of going with the feeling of the day?

Elsa: I would say so. I mean, I was literally thinking about this yesterday: Why doesn’t everyone else end up making the same amount of stuff that I do? And I think maybe people do make a lot of stuff, but they don’t release all of it. I do. [laughs] No, I don’t release all of it. I’m pretty sure I’ve been prolific from the start, and there’s no real reason that I know of for it. Maybe I just make things quickly. I feel like I have just as much time as everyone else does, so I don’t understand really.

I assume you must be good at just getting on with things as opposed to staring off into the distance for hours at a time.

Elsa: [laughs] Yeah, actually that’s true. I think a lot of it is to do with finishing things that you’ve started. I think a lot of people struggle with that, or don’t feel satisfied with something they’re making and never finish it — a lot of people talk about not finishing stuff. I have quite a strong sense of needing to finish something once I’ve started it. I’ve always got a lot of satisfaction out of finishing a song — since being a teenager, that’s one of my favourite feelings. It makes you feel slightly richer.

When you do need to look for inspiration, where do you tend to find it?

Elsa: I can’t really say for sure. I guess I just find inspiration in sounds and chords, and the emotions that they make me feel. It’s usually just by making a sound, but I guess everything in everyday life; everything that I see, it all fits into the subconscious, and I think as long as you can tap into that, you can find something to write about.

Do you feel like you perhaps see the world slightly differently from a lot of other people? Or are maybe just able to better process what you see and hear?

Elsa: It might be that: it might be to do with processing. Spending most of my growing-up years writing songs, partly because I needed to. Often, I was really unsociable — I didn’t talk very much, and I preferred to write songs. It was quite healing for me. I’ve sort of got used to having that output and needing that creative side. It’s just literally how I live now, I suppose — it’s an essential part of life for me.

So, how do you prepare yourself for a major release?

Elsa: That’s something I’m still learning. It’s quite hard, especially finding promotion and stuff. It can be quite soul-destroying trying to attack that on your own, since most people don’t reply when it comes to blogs and stuff. It always helps to have people working with you for that. Certain magazines and blogs have a really focused genre type, and my music doesn’t quite fit into any of them, which makes it particularly hard. But I’m proud of the fact that it doesn’t quite fit into a lot of categories.

I kinda just have to calm myself down and try to instil a sense of confidence. No matter what happens, I know it’s good, and I know that people will enjoy listening to it. My audience grows with every release, so there are always gonna be people who are happy to hear the new stuff. I think those are the main things. To just not get disheartened, and not care who does and doesn’t reply, or what I get and what I don’t.

Are you still able to see it primarily as a creative project, as opposed to work?

Elsa: It’s always evolving. I see it as both, now. The best part of it is when I’m just making something fresh and not thinking too much about what it’s gonna be or who it’s gonna be for. I have to have different hats. The business side always comes later, but also it feeds into the performing side — I always like to have something really current to perform when I play live sets.

Now we’ve got access to so many stats, especially if you self release, it really takes the fun out of releasing albums. Suddenly, it’s like, “Numbers!” Which may or may not mean something is going well or not. It’s sometimes too much.

Is there anything that irritates or frustrates you about the type of music that you make from a purely creative perspective?

Elsa: Maybe just the looping and the repetition. A lot of my music is built on loops, and I’m starting to feel like I’ve done the looping to death. It’ll probably become more experimental. I guess all music is based on something repeating, and then it changes to something else repeating. I’d kinda like to break from that a little bit, and do something wildly experimental. [laughs]

Anything in particular?

Elsa: Something that doesn’t repeat once in a song. But I can’t promise I’ll end up making that anytime soon.

What is the most important element of an Elsa Hewitt track? Currently. Before it all turns wildly experimental…

Elsa: [laughs] Usually it ends up being the chords, the rhythm and the structure of the track.

Is there an element of your craft that you’d like to improve upon?

Elsa: I think, mainly, making it somehow louder. [laughs] My music always comes out really quiet. I tried to improve on that in the last album. I think it’s a lot to do with the sounds that I use: sometimes they’re quite lo-fi. I do like the lo-fi recordings — they have a certain texture to them — but if I made everything digitally, it would all sound much louder and crisper, and it’s something I’m thinking about doing more.

Obviously, you utilise vocals in your work, but their presence seems somewhat restrained. Is this an intentional thing, or does it just depend entirely on what a track needs to feel complete?

Elsa: Yeah, I think it depends on the track, definitely. I did spend more time thinking about the actual music rather than the words. I’d already used my voice quite a lot to actually make the music. I could have spent longer making more words on the album, but I didn’t really feel inclined.

Do you enjoy that part of it?

Elsa: I do enjoy it, but I think it’s the part that takes the longest and the most concentration for me. I can make music and melodies in an instant, and it’s totally easy, whereas, when it comes to lyrics, I really want them to be just right. It’s really easy to write something and feel embarrassed about it. I have to spend quite a while just sitting there thinking about what the right words are, and whether I know what I want to say or not. It takes a while, and it takes a different part of my brain.

You’ve already released a couple of videos ahead of the album’s release, and the cover art for it looks wicked. How important is the visual element of what you do?

Elsa: It’s pretty important. I think it definitely needs to suit the music, and it’s ended up having a certain style because I’ve been making it myself, apart from doing photos with some photographers, and the DUM SPIRO SPERO cover, which was made by my friend Joy Simpson.

I guess it becomes increasingly important. The first time I tried to do the artwork, it was really bad. It’s always been a fun side of it — I like doing art — but when it came to releasing my albums professionally, the Future Bubblers were like, “I think you need something a bit slicker.” I just had these pink clouds with a picture of a cat on it. I had to learn that you need high-res stuff, but ultimately I’ve wanted to do it myself because then I have control over the colours — the colours have got to fit with the sounds, I think.

What do you feel that you gain from being artistically, creatively, inclined?

Elsa: A whole world of ambition and achievements. You can get a lot of really great feelings from making music that you really like. It’s quite addictive once you start making really interesting sounds and realise you can make whatever you want. It’s kind of freeing as well in that way, and comforting, because you’ve always got something you can return to: a creative practice that can take your mind off anything, heal you, and channel whatever you’re feeling into some sort of art-form. I feel pretty lucky to be able to do that.

So, to what extent would you like your creative output to define you as a person?

Elsa: … Fifty percent? [laughs] It’s always a challenge to make music as authentic as possible — to represent wherever you are in your life at that moment. I think it’s like a documentation of life.

That’s a really difficult question!

Yeah, I know… I’m sorry.

Elsa: [laughs] So, like, fifty to a hundred percent. [laughs] It is quite a big range, but it is kind of a duality: there’s your self, and then there’s your creative self, which is something else — it’s kind of like the world, through you.

Okay. so let’s finish back on the subject of the new record. Is there anything that you specifically hope to communicate to people through Citrus Paradisi?

Elsa: It’s not something I’ve thought about that much. I think the album is inspired a lot by synchronicity and faith — I’m not sure for what reason though. I guess it’s partly faith in the universe, and also in yourself — to be able to overcome things.

Has having faith in yourself — self-confidence — been an issue?

Elsa: Self-confidence has always been a slight battle, but it’s more self-esteem, I would say. I’ve always been confident in my music, but not so confident in myself, and unable to push it on people or rave about it. I can make it in complete confidence, and honestly believe that it’s good; I think I can see quite clearly how what I do is good, and how it can be improved; I have confidence in my judgement; but, sometimes, I lack confidence in the world I’m putting it into. That brings it back round to having faith: that what you’re doing is fine, and what you are is fine, and you should have confidence in it and faith that people will like it.

Which brings us nicely to my final question: Is there anything you’re especially excited for people to uncover on Citrus Paradisi?

Elsa: I think that every track on the album would probably be given a slightly different genre name — I don’t think any of them are the same genre — but they all fit together really well. There are similar sounds used in all of them, but different types of beat and that kind of thing. I think that should be interesting for people, and also the mix of propulsiveness and danceable with quite ethereal, twinkly, sleepy sounds. I think the mixture of those is kind of an interesting one.

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Christina: I’ve been writing songs for about a year-and-a-half, but I’ve always been a writer, since I was a kid. I’ve been inspired by my various favourite artists growing up, like Kurt Cobain, Lana Del Rey, Grimes. Sufjan Stevens is one of my favourite artists ever — I think he’s an amazing songwriter.

How similar is what you’re producing now to what you perhaps anticipated when you first started writing seriously?

Christina: Honestly, I didn’t expect to work on the things that I’ve been working on. I just came into it not expecting anything, and I think that’s the way it should be. I find myself putting a lot of pressure on myself in my writing and whenever I make new songs. It really should be simple — you just open up Logic or whatever, and you go. From there, that’s where I get my ideas. I open it up, start seeing what sounds good to me and then work on the lyrics from that.

How long do your ideas generally take to develop?

Christina: Not very long. I go with whatever I’m thinking about at that moment, or I can go back and think about my memories — it’s so vivid still in my mind, I can just write it down easily and create a story from that.

Are there any especially prominent creative obstacles you face?

Christina: Yeah, I doubt myself a lot, and I know I shouldn’t. Sometimes it gets hard dealing with anxiety, depression and stuff like that, but I just try to change my thinking. If I’m thinking negatively, like, “I can’t do this. I wish I could do this”, I’m like, “Well, I probably can do this. I can try, and see what comes from that.” So, I’m trying to think more positively in that aspect.

When you’re going through those times of depression, does it affect what you think of the work you’ve already produced?

Christina: Yeah, actually. I think of my first project that I put out, angelface, and of course I’m proud of it, but at the same time, I’m like, “Wow! I see this mistake, and I wouldn’t really do that now.” It’s kind of my past self, and I like that I’m moving forward. I’m currently working on a kind of eighties new wave direction, because I grew up on a lot of that too. I’m excited to work on that.

In what ways do you feel you’ve most improved since you released angelface?

Christina: I think, probably, with the self confidence aspect of it. When I was making angelface, I had a small idea, and I just went with it. I got with my friend and producer, Staten, and we just worked on it for a year or so, and we came out with it. I think now, I understand more about planning: that I need to plan more of my ideas, because I’m bad at that.

Is there a particular mood you tend to be in when you do your best writing?

Christina: I don’t want to say sad, but if I’m upset, it’s a lot of fuel to write my feelings and emotions. I’d prefer if it was quiet. Most of the time it’s me in my room, and I’m usually alone. I like to make it atmospheric with the lighting, and I just make sounds and start writing.

When you listen to your own songs, does the sadness and despondency within them affect your frame of mind?

Christina: I don’t think it does. I can look back, and I remember the feelings of when I wrote it, but I don’t really feel that way anymore. It doesn’t really affect me negatively in that way.

How do you keep yourself motivated when the high of finishing or releasing a new song wears off?

Christina: [laughs] That’s another problem: I kind of struggle with motivation. Sometimes, honestly, I think the answer for me personally is to isolate myself and just be alone and come back to those things that inspire me. I like to go on YouTube and watch my favourite artists do interviews; I like to watch things in the studio, and how they made certain songs.

What do you feel is the most important element of an orion lake song?

Christina: Love. Everything is about love. All my songs are love songs, for the most part, and I feel that they always will be.

Is there a particular element of your craft that you think you could improve upon?

Christina: Oh yeah, I always feel like I could be improving on so many things. I’m just trying to take criticism and advice, and I’m trying to put that into my work. Maybe work on my voice too — control it better. And learn more about my voice and how I want things to sound. I wanna just always be learning.

Do you see yourself primarily as a vocalist, writer, producer?

Christina: I mean, I produced most of my songs, but I wouldn’t really call myself a producer. I guess I would say I’m just an artist — a girl in her room. I’m a writer. I used to write poems all the time. I’d say I’m more of a writer than anything.

Is there anything that irritates or frustrates you about the style of music that you make?

Christina: The only thing that would irritate me is if I were to keep doing the same thing — the same sounding songs. Other than that, no, not really. I just want to experiment; I want to do more different things.

Is there another genre or artist that you’re slightly envious of?

Christina: I’ve been listening to a lot of Björk lately, and I’m obsessed with her. I’ve never really dived into that, never really listened to her stuff. I really want to start experimenting more with that. I love The Cure – so much. That’s kinda the new direction I’m going in — I want to do more stuff like that: new wave, dark, but also uplifting sometimes. I don’t know if I’m really envious, but I take a lot of inspiration from everywhere.

What do you feel that you gain from being artistically, creatively, inclined?

Christina: I think I gain a lot of perspective, not only on myself, but other people as well. After you release a song, and you get the feedback of people — whether this spoke to them or not, whether this helped them or not — I think that’s the real thing I wanna do. Does this affect people in any way? Hopefully, positively.

How easy or difficult have you found it to reach people with your music so far?

Christina: I don’t think it’s been that difficult. Whenever I release a song, I put it out pretty much everywhere. Most of the attention that I’ve gotten was started through the internet. I think playing more shows would increase that — I’ve only done one show so far, and I would love to do more.

What sort of setup did you have for that show?

Christina: It was a Boston show, and it was just me with the mic. I thought it was gonna be that I’d bring my own equipment, but they had their own DJ and amps and stuff. So, basically they were playing the tracks that I sent them, and I was just singing.

I get the impression you’d have preferred to have used your own equipment and been doing as much as possible yourself.

Christina: Yeah, I think it’d be a much better experience, because I’d be more comfortable. I’d love to bring live instruments too. I’ve love to do that someday.

Okay, so how important is is for you to have an emotional outlet?

Christina: Oh, it’s very important to me. If I didn’t have an emotional outlet, I think I would combust. I have many feelings, and I’m a writer. I like to talk about experiences so I can get them out in a song and leave it in the past and move on.

Is there anything that you specifically hope to communicate to people through your work?

Christina: At the end of the day, I just want people to get an understanding from my music. I want them to resonate with me, and if you’re feeling shitty, that’s alright, because I do too — that’s why I wrote this song. [laughs] As long as people like it, and it’s making people feel comforted, that’s all I need.

From the feedback you’ve had thus far, have people responded to it in the way you thought they would?

Christina: Yeah, and it’s very crazy to me because I’m such a shy girl, and I used to be even more shy and withdrawn — I still am, but it’s gotten better. To hear feedback like, “Your music has helped me so much”, and all this stuff, it really means the world to me. It’s crazy.

Do you think that being more shy and withdrawn has impacted your ability to connect with other artists?

Christina: It’s gotten easier for me throughout the years. Nowadays, I’d be more comfortable reaching out and talking to other artists, like I have before. I think it’s a great thing, and it’s just growth. I think in every artist’s life, there’s a huge turning point, and there’s growth that happens from that, and I think that’s what’s happening with me right now.

To what extent would you like your creative output to define you as a person?

Christina: I mean, I am orion lake. So, you could honestly think whatever you want of me, but at the end of the day, music is the most important thing, the most important outlet, the most important device to have with you. I think, as long as you listen to the music that you like, and you’re genuine about it, then everything’s good. Just be genuine with yourself and the music, and that’s what I hope that I’m coming off as.

And just to add to that: Have you found that the people you’ve dealt with so far have been genuine?

Christina: Yeah, I think so. One of the closest people to me is also an artist and a producer. I worked with him for angelface, and I’m working with him now. I think it’s amazing to find people like that who just vibe with you, have the same kind of mindset. It’s just ideas and communication. It’s a beautiful thing. That’s all I want: I just want to work with people, make music, and do shows. I just want the experience of it all — to have fun, meet people, and see how it affects them.

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Sára: I think when I was about sixteen or seventeen. I was studying music — singing as the main subject — and had piano lessons once a week. When I was rehearsing piano, I started to get easily bored with it and started developing my own harmonies and melody. It started coming to life. These were the first sketches of songs. I would say the most important moment was when I was about nineteen or twenty, and I decided, “Okay, I’m gonna finish a song and maybe play it to somebody one day.” But I was always really shy about playing my songs to people, so it took me a really long time to gain the confidence to play my songs somewhere other than home. In school, I was used to singing other people’s songs — songs by Norah Jones or Diana Krall — and at a certain point it started to feel very unnatural for me. I really love them, but I thought it would be nice to be able to sing my own stuff — that was the drive, the reason why I started.

Was there anything in particular that helped you to build your confidence in those early days?

Sára: Yes. There’s one café here in Prague — it’s called Café v Lese — and, back in the day, I was just jamming there with my best friend, Káča, who I’m also in a band with as a duo, playing our songs that we never played to anyone. This guy who runs the space approached us and said, “This is so good. Why don’t you have a concert here?” So we played a show there, and another, and another… From that moment, it started happening more frequently that people reacted positively to my songs, so that built some kind of confidence and good feeling.

So, what is your songwriting process, and how long does it take for you to fully develop an idea?

Sára: Well, I used to sit at my piano and just play and jam until something strikes me. Now I am going through the same process with synthesizers. That’s the reason why my new album is based only on the synth sounds. It replaced my traditional instrument, which was piano. I always come to the instrument, and I start to play and jam. I sometimes play chords that make sense; sometimes I play things that don’t make sense, and I just listen and try to get really lost and natural. Whatever makes me feel good I play again — it always leads me to the next step. Sometimes it’s happening so fast and the song grows from itself so fast, but sometimes it takes more. I’m just following my intuition in feeling the harmony and the melody. If I feel like it’s strong and it corresponds with my emotions, I continue and record it.

With the piano, I think it was easier to finish a song, because I didn’t need to do the whole arrangement with the synths and drums and everything. Now, it’s more about finding the right colours, the right sounds — it takes more time now because there are a lot of layers and structured things.

Have you found it easy to get to grips with all the technical stuff?

Sára: No. [laughs] It was not easy. It was actually a big challenge for me. When I start to feel that something comes easy for me, I wouldn’t say I get bored, but I want to go somewhere further and learn something I don’t know yet. It took me a long time — I was learning production, synthesis… and I still am. Learning is a never-ending process, which I love. So all these things became another ability I could get myself comfortable in and could use the language of to bring my feelings, emotion or fantasy to life. It’s really good to learn with different kinds of instruments. I would really like to learn properly to play the bass guitar, because I get fresh ideas of melody and harmony when playing it. I think it also cultivates and spreads your fantasy when you learn another instrument.

Does creativity come easy for you then? You seem like a very creative person.

Sára: Thank you. [laughs] Sometimes it’s so easy, but there are days when inspiration just doesn’t click. I get very easily lost in my head. All the time. I really like to find my own special places and atmosphere and transform them into sound. I like to write about my experiences, moods, feelings: things that had some special impact on me through the time. Or, sometimes, I love to look — in my studio and also in my room, I have photos and small pictures of my favourite paintings and they also kind of massage my fantasy and take me to different spaces. There are so many things that inspire me, it’s hard to put into one thing. [laughs] Nature. Nature inspires me a lot too. The sea, mountains, water, horizons.

Is there a particular mood you tend to be in when you do your best writing?

Sára: Melancholy is the creative mood for me. I really feel kind of happy — [laughs] — or satisfied in this setting. It’s beautiful when it’s raining outside. It can be outside in nature, or just being cosy at home and looking outside. I love the sun — I really do — but this misty, stormy weather, this atmosphere… it makes me feel like there is something special going around. I don’t know how to describe it. So, I would say in music it’s the same kind of feeling. When I feel it abstractly, in my mind — in my subconscious or conscious or whatever that is — that’s the time that I want to make music because that’s the time when I feel most connected to myself and most comfortable.

When you’ve just been through an intense period of writing, how does that affect your mood subsequently?

Sára: I think I get deeper in that feeling, but I wouldn’t say it changes its character —- it just spreads, probably. It’s about the amount of time, sometimes. When you want to do things properly, you need to spend time working on them, so as I’m spending time working on something or in this state of mind, I think it shows me more things that are there that I didn’t know about before. It’s like if you went into some cave, and you were going farther and farther — you start seeing more things, more paths.

Are there any obstacles you face, creatively?

Sára: I recorded this album in my studio, which is in a big attic at my friend’s house. It’s in Prague, but you feel like you’re somewhere else, because the house has a big garden, and when I was there for three days, I didn’t need to go anywhere. I easily forgot the city existed — that anything outside this house existed. It was a kind of isolation, but there were still friends living there and visiting, so people were still around. But I could go upstairs and be just by myself. This was really important, because sometimes when I hear something, my subconscious catches it and it has an impact on me, naturally. I didn’t want this to happen while recording this album, I wanted to find my own thing, which would be miles away from anything.

Which is not, of course, possible, because I have a very wide listening history in my head. But in the moment of composing this album, I wanted to cut my ears from these things, and I made a really cosy space in this studio — I put plants there and all these candles — which felt really good, and it was like my little room which was exactly the way I felt. It had the same energy as myself.

How do you maintain interest in your art when the initial joy of inspiration wears off or you’re struggling for ideas?

Sára: It’s hard. That’s a hard feeling, because sometimes you just hear that you’re making bad stuff, and maybe you’re making bad stuff for a week. Or you have a song, which is kind of good, and you know where you want to have it, but you cannot reach it. So, the only things I’m always trying — two totally opposite things. One, is what I start with: I try to work on it every day and just don’t care — don’t think of yesterday and that it was bad; let’s try one more time. Okay, it’s bad again; let’s try tomorrow. But, when this is going for too many days, or is getting really hard, I stop and I go and do something different. I don’t listen to the song for quite some time, and try to free my head — it can be going on walks in nature, or anything, but not music. That isn’t like ‘don’t do music for a month.’ That would be too much time for me — it’s always a few days. Sometimes it’s good to not let go, but it’s sometimes also important to do it, to really clean your mind and start from scratch.

Is there anything that bothers you about the genre of music that you’re a part of?

Sára: The thing I face sometimes and that makes me uncomfortable is when something’s too easy. Now, we have the programs, which are not so hard to learn, and there are software instruments which you can just use like this. There are many ways that can make your process so fast, and I think that’s great in one way, but I think at the same time, it’s really hard because you can get lost in it, and it’s much harder to find your place and your sound, and maybe even your calm space — it’s sometimes so fast and so easy to use. I think that’s maybe something that I struggle with, but it’s not positive or negative — it’s this ambivalent feeling.

In contrast, what do you really love about your style of music?

Sára: The freedom. [laughs] It’s maybe this love-hate relationship with the accessibility. It’s just you, and you need to know how to take care of things. This is so great, but sometimes it’s so scary. I love it — it’s the thing that can bring you so much happiness, so much peace and so much freedom — but at the same time, you have to take good care of it so it doesn’t eat you. [laughs]

What effect has singing in English had on your ability to connect with your potential audience in the Czech Republic?

Sára: This is actually a good question, because this is a question which is, for the past few years, really spoken in Czech Republic, and many people have a problem with: bands singing in English. I never know what to answer. I was thinking about it for a long time because I want to have an answer, but it always came natural to me, and I think this is because I was never listening to Czech music when I was little or a teenager. I started listening to the music that my parents were listening to. They’ve always had a good taste in music, which I hated when I was a child, but I think it had a big impact on me when looking back on it now: Bob Dylan, Nick Cave, Radiohead, Sade. Then I started to find my own favourite music through MTV. What was on the radio in Czech wasn’t good and wasn’t pleasing my ears — it was these commercial radios, and at that age I was too young to listen to underground stuff, which had for sure something interesting to say in that time. There were alternative radio stations but I, as a child, didn’t know about them, and I think even if I knew, at 7 or 8 you don’t tend to listen to punk or political folk or whichever alternative music.

To be honest, from when I was a child, I was building this idea of music that (Czech language in music) was something that I didn’t want to have anything in common with, because it was the language of commercial stuff for me. That’s because I didn’t know much interesting non commercial music. I started discovering them in my teenage years. There are two really extraordinary women: Hana Hegerová and Marta Kubišová — they sing chanson. They’re amazing. They were the starting point of listening to songs in my native language. But my ears by than were much more used to English in music, and probably that sticks with me until now.

With the audience, English is more like an off thing here; I keep hearing that I should sing in my native language, all the time. I really like some of the music that the Czech bands in the Czech language are making now. It’s amazing and I love to listen to them. The thing is that I never cared; I never had the idea in my mind: Should I choose Czech or English because of this or because of that? I just did it as it was natural, because I sang in English in school, and listened to music in English. So it was never a thing of deciding.

I found this girl, a really great musician from Kosovo, two days ago — she’s amazing. She’s singing in her language. It’s kind of folklore but electronic, and it’s really great music. There are so many beautiful songs and emotions in music from all over the world — in English, and not in English — I just never really realise there is some difference when I hear words. I don’t care. It’s all music — that’s my native language for expressing myself.

Do you think it would be difficult to make the transition to singing in Czech now, given that you do have an audience that extends beyond the Czech Republic? It wouldn’t cut you off from that audience, but maybe it would make it harder to connect?

Sára: Maybe. I don’t know. I never think this way, so if at some point singing in Czech — I don’t know what would need to happen, but it could happen — becomes an urge and is something natural for me in music, then I would probably not think about this and just go with the flow. Because, I really just follow the emotion that I feel from the song, so I would hope that the people still listen to the music and get some feeling of something that’s hidden outside of the words in the musical part.

It would also mean, if I did choose Czech, that I would have to write lyrics first, and that’s not my thing. For me, the harmony and melody and emotional meaning always come first.

Do you have any fears that being an artist brings into greater focus?

Sára: Yes. Music is such a sensitive thing. I’m writing about things that are inside me and are very complex, so I think there has to be these things as well as the positive things. To many people, my music seems dark. I don’t feel it like that as much, but I must say, I like music that sounds dark or more sad. But it doesn’t make me sad. That’s the the thing: this music makes me feel good and emotional — that’s what I like. [laughs]

Finally, to what extent would you like your creative output to define you as a person?

Sára: I have it on the same level. My music is the same as I am in person. I don’t want to play any roles. It’s the kind of thing you need to work on, but I think it’s a good path to choose: to try to be as natural and as much who you are that you can be.

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Kendra: I’ve been writing since I was just a little Kendra. [laughs] I think I actually started by writing prose — short stories and things — and it evolved into writing music. I think my mom just put me in singing lessons; we actually used to do singing lessons together, which was really cute. I’m turning twenty in August, so I’ll have been taking voice lessons for the majority of my life. It always felt natural to me to be writing music; I can’t point out a specific moment where I was like, “I must write music.” It’s always felt very organic for me.

As a young artist, how easy or difficult do you find it to navigate the music world?

Kendra: Obviously, with the internet, it’s so different now; literally anybody can release music at any time, and everyone has so much choice. The industry is so over-saturated with music, which is great, but that means you can get lost in the sea of music that is out there. I’m going to school for music, and I’ve found that, in my music programme, we’re very tight knit. I’ve created a lot of connections with other young artists, which is really exciting, and it’s really exciting to see what people are creating together. I’m in a Popular Music programme at Western University, and everybody’s in a band, and everybody’s really supportive of each other. It’s really cool to be in that kind of community.

Has the increasingly partisan political climate of the past 18 months made you more aware of your audience?

Kendra: I think it definitely has. I think it’s given me more of a purpose in writing my music, I guess. I’ve always been very feminist and political in my views, but definitely with everything that’s been happening… Even on the first song on my new EP, Heart on the Floor, I say that love calls for a revolution. I think I’m definitely beginning to listen to more artists who are more politically involved and that is inspiring me to speak out about my sexuality and feminism and all that stuff, whereas a couple of years ago maybe I wouldn’t have been as comfortable putting those kinds of opinions out there. It’s hard to say that artists have a responsibility to try to change the world, but that’s definitely what I’m trying to do.

And how about in terms of your potential audience? Because the political divide has become such a huge identifier for people — more so than at any other point in my lifetime — that I imagine it might feel as though there are perhaps only half as many people out there for you to reach.

Kendra: That’s a really good question. I think I’m of the viewpoint that, if people don’t agree with my views and my values, then I don’t really want them to be consuming my music. And I know that’s hard to say, because as an artist you need to be able to live off of your art, but I think it’s more important for me to be able to sleep at night; to not be shying away from those important topics.

I apologise for throwing political questions at you so early — that was really quite mean of me!

Kendra: No, no, no — it’s all good! [laughs]

Okay, so what is your process as a songwriter?

Kendra: I always think about this, and I don’t really think I have a process. I think it’s usually that I have something to say; I always start with the lyrics, because that’s what I think I’m best at. So, if there’s something that I’ve been thinking about a lot, that I’ve been obsessing about, I’m like, “I need to get this down”, so I just start writing. Lately, and with my last EP, it started with poetry. I know a lot of people write journal entries, and that’s always felt really contrived to me. I remember trying to write journals, when I was smaller, and reading them back and being like, “Oh, gross! Disgusting! This is horrible!” So, now I’ve just been writing poetry as journal entries and then picking through all of the words that I’ve written and putting them to music, adding more words and melodies and whatever. I find that that makes my songs more organic and real, rather than coming up with all these metaphors and weird analogies. So, that’s what I’ve been doing of late, and it’s really been working for me.

Does creativity come easy for you?

Kendra: I think that I’ve always been a very creative person, and I think that art is, for a lot of artists, definitely an outlet emotionally and mentally — that’s just how I kind of deal with my life: to make art. So, I think that it’s never felt contrived or forced. I think, in that way, it comes easily to me.

Are there any techniques you practice to encourage it?

Kendra: I think, for me, getting outside and just being alone. I think a lot of people, myself included, can get very caught up in… like, I’ll just spend hours scrolling on Instagram, and that’s such a waste of my life. [laughs] So, I try to disconnect from everything and be alone with my thoughts, which is a really scary thing: to just be alone with yourself. Also, when I haven’t written music for a while, I’ll just be like, “Kendra, you’re feeling unhappy, and it’s because you’re not writing music.” Sometimes I have to force myself to be like, “Okay. You’re just going to write three lines”, and then I always feel better.

Are there any especially prominent creative obstacles you face?

Kendra: Such as, like, self-doubt? [laughs] I think a lot of people face self-doubt in all areas of their lives, but it’s funny, because I was just thinking about how, when I was younger — like, twelve — I would just write songs all the time. Left, right and centre: just writing songs. Now, I put a lot more pressure on myself because I’m releasing music out into the world, and I’m performing music. I’m very much a perfectionist, and every word has to be right and has to sound right, every melody has to be perfect. I get stuck in ruts: being like, “Oh, there are so many people writing amazing music; what do I have to add to the conversation?” I just have to remind myself that everybody has something unique and important to say. I think self-doubt is a bigger thing than just in creativity; it’s a personal problem that a lot of people deal with.

How do you keep yourself interested in your art when the initial joy of inspiration wears off?

Kendra: That’s a great question. If you figure it out, let me know! [laughs] I think I have to remember that music really is, I feel, my purpose in life, as cheesy as that sounds. It’s what brings me the most fulfilment. So, when I start doubting myself, I do have to sometimes force myself to sit down and be like, “You’re gonna write a song today. It doesn’t matter if it’s really shitty, you’ve just gotta do it.”

Is there a particular mood you tend to be in when you do your best writing?

Kendra: I think I used to write a lot of sad music, but I don’t think I was sad when I was writing the music. I watched an interview with Banks who said that creativity and writing is delayed, so something will happen like six months ago and now you’re only just starting to write about it. I think that’s a really interesting idea. But I think, rather than a mood, I definitely get in a headspace of being creative and inspired, and when the inspiration strikes, I just have to write as much as I can and be as productive as I can, because it comes in cycles. When you lose it, it’s sometimes hard to get back into the groove of things.

When you’ve just been through an intense period of writing, how does that affect your mood subsequently?

Kendra: I think I always feel really pumped up, hyped, like, “Yeah! I can do this music thing, man. I’m the best!” [laughs] I’m always kind of riding a high after I’ve written for a long time and I feel like I’ve created something new — I always feel great.

So, you’ve recently released your second EP, Sea Witch? What prompted the change in style from Daughter of the Wolves?

Kendra: I think there are two parts to this answer. First of all, I released Daughter of the Wolves at the end of high school, and I think that I’ve definitely changed so much since then. I never would’ve released anything acoustic, because I always tell people that I’m not an acoustic artist — I don’t want to be a singer-songwriter girl; me and my guitar — that’s never what I wanted to be. A few months ago — in December, I think — I was lucky enough to be invited to Grant Avenue Studios in Hamilton, Ontario. I know you probably don’t know where that is. [laughs] Artists like Johnny Cash and U2 have recorded there, so it was kind of a big deal to me. I recorded two songs there — Seven Seas, and Golden Hour — and they were pretty rough, but they were just me and my acoustic guitar because that’s just what ended up happening. I had those two songs, and I was like, “Well, I want to release them; I’m not just gonna keep them to myself”, and so I decided to build a project around it. I already had a couple of songs that kind of fitted the concept I was going for, and so I was just like, “Alright, I guess I’m releasing an acoustic EP. Never thought I would do that.”

But I think it’s good to try new things and to grow up a little bit, like, “Kendra, you can release an acoustic EP — you don’t have to be stuck in one genre forever.” A lot of people that I’ve talked to don’t feel like it’s a super singer-songwriter-y EP, and I think that the lyrics really speak for themselves, so I feel like I’m not putting myself in that box, necessarily.

So what do you envisage yourself doing over the next songwriting cycle?

Kendra: I keep telling people that I’m going through this identity crisis where I don’t know what genre I want to make. I’ve been listening to this band called Muna — they’re a three-piece, all women, kind of pop-synthy sort of thing. They’re all queer and they’re really political in their music, and I think that I’ve really been inspired by them and inspired by the band sound. So, I think I want to try to get more into bigger, alternative-pop-band kind of music, start working and writing with other people, building my sound and growing as an artist that way.

What is your greatest motivation for creating art?

Kendra: I think it changes all the time. As I said before, art has become very political for me and a way of expressing my views and values, but also, mentally and emotionally, it’s a release; it’s very cathartic to write music and then let go and release it out into the world for other people to consume and interpret. I think when people listen to music, or consume any kind of art, they’re looking at ways in which it relates to them and their life. So, the political side of things, and then just for me, personally, as catharsis — mentally, I need to be creating and making art.

Do you have any fears that being an artist brings into greater focus?

Kendra: Definitely fear of failure. I’ve always been super-perfectionist; I hate making mistakes, and I hate being wrong. I think that’s really held me back as an artist in terms of not writing as freely as I could be or not taking opportunities to perform that I could be taking. It’s something that I obviously need to work on for myself, but being an artist, and calling myself an artist, is a very scary thing, I think.

Can you envisage a way to temper that perfectionism at all? Or do you like the fact that you’re so particular about everything that you do?

Kendra: I think there are two sides. I think it can hold me back because, for example, I’ll record a vocal take a hundred-million-bajillion times and still not be happy with it; that’s just not a realistic thing to be doing. [laughs] It’s a waste of time and money. But also, being able to know exactly what I want and how I want to execute a concept, or every single word in my song, makes me really proud that I’ve put so much time and effort and thought into everything that I do. But I think there’s definitely a line with perfectionism, because I think it comes with my anxiety with which I can be very obsessive and self-doubting. So, I think there’s pros and cons to the whole thing, but it can definitely be debilitating.

Do you play many live shows, and does anxiety affect those?

Kendra: I play on campus a lot, and I’ve been trying to take more opportunities. I don’t gig every night, which I should start doing. I think I’ve definitely gotten better and more confident. I don’t care what people think about my songs and my lyrics, because I have enough confidence in my writing ability to be like, “This is my music — take it or leave it”, but performance anxiety is definitely a big monster to tackle. I know when I get on stage that I’ll be fine; it’s just the leading up that is kind of horrible. I know that when I start singing, I always feel completely at home on stage and in front of an audience. My dad was saying that public speaking and death are almost on the same level of people’s worst fears, and it’s the same thing: you’re putting yourself out there and being like, “I am a musician. I am an artist. This is what I do”, and for people to be judging you all the time — scary thing! But, you gotta do what you gotta do. [laughs]

Despite the anxiety, do you enjoy the live element of being an artist?

Kendra: Yeah, I definitely do, and I’ve definitely grown to love it more than I used to. I used to really dread public performances of any kind. I recently performed at my school — the Women’s Study department hosted this thing called ‘Emergence’, which was a queer festival of the arts. I put together a little set-list of cover songs and originals, and the theme was the Pulse shooting in Orlando. I put together a set-list that revolved around the idea of love as resistance or revolution. I think things like that, where I really have a purpose — and everybody there was either an ally or queer themselves — are really fulfilling to me. But yeah, I’ve definitely grown to like performing more than I used to.

What makes you smile?

Kendra: Music, and I surround myself with a lot of incredible people: all my friends are really inspiring, amazing and supportive, and of course, my family. Those are my joys in life.

What are you most fascinated by?

Kendra: Right now, I’m very fascinated by the idea of love and relationships, because there’s this whole relationship culture, especially with me being in university, being young and [given that] my friends are dating. Just to see all the little obsessions that people get caught up in. For example, the whole ‘read receipt’ thing on iPhones — how you can see if people have read your messages — like, if someone you’re dating has read a message but hasn’t replied in three hours. And you talk to your friends about it and it’s this whole big deal; it’s very fascinating to me. It’s very interesting to see this whole culture of dating and the idea of being in a relationship with someone being the ultimate form of validation: somebody else finds you emotionally, physically, sexually attractive. So that’s the ultimate form of ‘I am valid and valued and worth something’ in the world. But that’s external validation… So, that’s something that I’ve been thinking about lately… That was a very long-winded answer! [laughs]

What do you feel that you gain from being artistically inclined?

Kendra: One of the things is definitely community: especially the music community, and also I think the queer community is very — I don’t want to generalise, but — artistic and creative. That sense of community and being with like-minded people who have the same values and think in similar ways to me is just really nice; to feel like you’re part of something bigger that’s changing the world for the better.

Is there anything that you specifically hope to communicate to people through your work?

Kendra: That’s an interesting question because I think that I mostly write for myself, not really taking into consideration what people might take from my music… But maybe I do? I think some of my music, definitely on this EP, has been centred around, for example, a lot of themes of guilt. The whole concept is around the ocean — whereas Daughter of the Wolves was the forest — and a lot of the lyrics are about washing the guilt away, washing the sin from my hands. To me, that was coming from internalised homophobia, but I don’t know necessarily if that would come across to people without me specifically saying it, because it’s not like I was using any gendered pronouns — there are no love songs really on the EP. A lot of the songs are about me not fully accepting myself as a queer person, so I think if anybody sees themselves in that, just knowing that other people are feeling that way… Because I think it’s a very isolating thing, sometimes: to be queer and feeling like you’re different from other people.

Do you feel that being a musician, which can be quite isolating in itself, has the potential to exacerbate the isolation felt because of perceived differences from other people?

Kendra: I think yes, just because I’ve recently been thinking a lot about starting a band or working with other people, like producers, and being like “Okay, is this something that I have to bring up?” I’m going to be using ‘she’ and ‘her’ pronouns if I’m writing some kind of cheesy, gross love song. I’m always torn between feeling like it’s a non-issue for me and that it shouldn’t be this whole big political deal, but also it could, potentially, have an impact on my career. If people aren’t accepting of that and don’t want to work with me, or want me to change what I write about or who I am — it’s just things that straight artists don’t really have to consider. It’s a very personal thing, and I don’t necessarily think that it’s everybody’s business — my own sexuality is my own business, right? — but I have to be aware of it when working with other people. So, in that way, yeah: I do think it’s a bit isolating and just something that I constantly have to be considering when working with other people in the industry.

It’s sad that we still live in a world where people are made to feel as though their choice of gender pronouns in a song is a potential point of division.

Kendra: I think, to quote Bob Dylan, “The times, they are a changing”, but, to put it plain and simple, there are people who still don’t accept people who are queer. So, it’s just something that we have to think about, which kinda sucks. Hopefully we will move forwards as a human species and get over it. [laughs]

Finally, to what extent would you like your creative output to define you as a person?

Kendra: That’s a great question. I watched a video on how, a lot of times, artists feel like their art or creativity is what defines them or makes them valuable as a person. But you have to be able to separate you, as a human being, and your art. How much art you’re making, how good it is — even though that’s subjective, obviously — how creative you’re being at a certain time; those things don’t define how good of a person you are. But, I do think that my identity as a human being is very tied to my creativity and my art, because it’s something that is very personal to me and is something that I hold so close to my heart. I think it’s very much a part of my core identity, but I don’t think it’s healthy to let it completely define my whole being because, if there are days where I don’t write — where I don’t feel like I have a song in me — that doesn’t mean that I’ve failed or that I’m no longer a valuable human. So, I think I’m somewhere in the middle.

The post Kendra Lea Miller appeared first on A Lonely Ghost Burning.

Alice: I always used to be in bands. I played bass at university, so I was always band-focused, but, always in the background, I was writing poetry and silly little songs, and I started on Cubase, back in the day. As I’ve got older, I’ve got a little bit more confident with my ability and better at production — I just decided it was time to go it alone. Bands are really hard. It’s really hard to keep a group of people that have jobs, lives and everything, together, and keep on the same page and create something beautiful. I was in a band called Jonah Serene for a while. I felt like it was working really well, and then it just fell apart — it was heartbreaking. There are pros and cons to working alone, but I’ve got full creative control and I can just come home from work and work on my music. I do that most nights: I’ll finish work, come home and just sit on my computer and write. I couldn’t do that in a band — you have to plan rehearsals and it’s very constricting — so I’m really enjoying working alone, actually.

How do you manage to juggle a very demanding day job with an extra-curricular music venture?

Alice: It’s a funny one. Because I’m a primary school teacher, I have to censor myself. My class are ten, eleven years old — they will find my social media, they will listen to my songs, and I do have to be a bit careful about what I’m writing about: making sure that it is child-friendly. Which can be frustrating, sometimes. Even down to my EP artwork for Moth and the Meteor; that had to go through my council to make sure it was okay and suitable. As an artist, it’s very frustrating, but I love my class and I love the children, so it’s just part of the job.

It’s also time-demanding as well, obviously, but when I’m having a tough day with the children, coming home and working on my music is lovely.

Your day job isn’t something that you’re eager to leave behind then?

Alice: I was thinking about this the other day, actually. Ideally, I would love the opportunity to take a sabbatical and to travel with my music: to do a short tour would be amazing. But that’s kind of a dream, and I don’t know if it would ever be a possibility for me. But, I enjoy my day job, so I’m quite happy just ticking along. Music’s always on my mind: I’m always thinking about the next project, trying to rehearse as much as I can, book gigs, keep social media ticking over. It’s a lot of work, but I love it.

I guess that’s a great thing about making music in 2017: there’s an opportunity for people to put their creative work out into the world, even if they do have other commitments that have to take precedence.

Alice: Exactly. Especially in London, it is so saturated; there’s so much talent. I play a lot of open mic nights, and the talent that you see is incredible — you just think: Why are these people not signed? They’re amazing! But there are just so many of us out there making music, and making interesting, experimental music.

Have you always been drawn to electronic, experimental music?

Alice: Well, growing up playing bass, I was really into bands like Tool, Nine Inch Nails — bass-heavy. But I always liked the electronic stuff like Aphex Twin and Four Tet as well. I like music that’s a bit sinister, that’s got a dark edginess but also an innocent naivety — like A Perfect Circle: that kind of sound. That’s what I try and do in my music, and my vocals can be quite cute and naive — I get that a lot — but I do try and balance that out with a bit of darkness. I like a bit of spookiness within the music.

What has the learning curve been like for the electronic side of things?

Alice: YouTube has changed my life as far as my production is concerned because I am basically a bedroom musician. Whenever I got stuck, I used to have to work through the manuals — that makes me sound so old! [laughs] They were like Bible-thick. But I use Ableton Live at the moment, and you can YouTube anything; I can usually figure something out through that. It’s an amazing tool for me. I don’t have to pay money for classes; you can just teach yourself. I really encourage my kids at school to do that as well. They can learn anything. It’s so cool, isn’t it? The internet is amazing. It can be really destructive, but it’s an amazing tool for artists.

The software and technology has progressed massively since I used to mess around with Mixman StudioPro as a kid.

Alice: It is complex. I’ve been working on electronic music for the last ten years; I started off with Cubase and worked my way through the programs. I flip between Logic Pro and Ableton now. They’re all fairly similar, in a way. But yeah, in many ways, anyone can just have a go at writing music, and that’s really cool.

So what is your songwriting process?

Alice: I do a lot of work with field recordings, so I have a little Zoom recorder that I use. My track Insects: that was probably the hardest to try and record. I was recording insects, so that meant waiting until the evening — I had to go out into the country — and lots of hours of trying to get the right sound. I was trying to get wing beats, and the hitting onto glass of moths — and wasps, as well. That was painstaking. I trimmed them down, and that became the drumbeat. I’m proud of that; I think it gives it a real depth and makes it really interesting. It makes it interesting for me, too; I like taking unusual sounds and turning them into drumbeats. Same with my track Home, which is about London and how obsessed I am with the city. That was recordings that I did on the Tubes — the underground network — and then I sliced them up and created the drumbeat out of the sound of the Tube trains. Which I know isn’t a particularly original idea, but it’s like photographs: little snippets of my life and what I can hear. I always have my Zoom recorder in my bag, so I’m always recording this and that.

So yeah, that becomes my base, and then I build on that just using synths and other sounds. I play the electric violin, so I put a lot of violin into my music, and then obviously the bass as well. Finally, it’s the vocals. I don’t really enjoy singing — it’s not something that comes naturally to me — but for the kind of music I want to make, it’s a necessity. I’m kind of getting used to it, but I do find it hard. Especially live. I get really bad stage fright, so my voice does falter quite a lot when I play live. But, “Whatcha gonna do?” [laughs] I just have to try and get through it. The more I play live, the more used to it I become.

It has been a daunting prospect for you to play live then?

Alice: Yeah, without a doubt. I mean, I chose the bass guitar because I love the fact that you’re in the background: you’re playing the music, but you’re not out front. So, for me to be on stage by myself is terrifying. But I’ve got faith in the sound that I create, so I feel like I really do want to do it, and I like hearing the instant feedback and the response from the crowd when they enjoy … [laughs] “The crowd.” It’s rarely a crowd, I’ll be honest. There are not many people usually, but that’s good for me because I’m just starting out; I’ve only been playing live for maybe a year. Leaving the bedroom was hard after being a bedroom musician for so long, but I’m enjoying it; I’m getting there.

What inspired your use of field samples?

Alice: I don’t know; I’ve just always done it. I like having a bit of that organic sound: a bit of reality in there. Electronic can be quite sterile and robotic, which I actually really like as well, but I think the contrast is quite nice. And my music is very definitely home-made; I quite like that charm. It’s not perfect at all. It’s not a polished production — it’s full of glitches, strange sounds and issues with recordings [laughs] — but I think that gives it its own little charm.

How easily do you feel creativity comes to you?

Alice: Oh, gosh. That’s a tricky one. I’d say I’m quite naturally a creative person. My parents are both artists, and my brothers and sisters are incredibly creative.

Do you have any obstacles that you tend to come up against in that process?

Alice: Not really. I mean, my life is so hectic with teaching that when I come home, it really just floods out of me. I think if music was all I did, and when music was all I did at uni, it was quite stifling, but I’m just so busy and preoccupied with teaching, that anytime I have a moment to myself, it just comes out. I’m quite lucky in that way.

Do you think that’s because your mind is elsewhere during the day? Or because you have a limited window in which to create?

Alice: A bit of both, I think. My job is really academic — obviously I try and make it creative, but at the end of the day, it can be quite… I don’t want to say dull, because that’s not true — [laughs] — but you’ve got a set curriculum you’ve got to teach to, so when I come home, it’s nice to just do what the hell I want.

What’s the most important element in any song that you write?

Alice: For me, it’s all about the feel of the sound: like I was saying before about getting that balance between the light and the dark.

What is your greatest motivation for creating?

Alice: It just gives me something different. I’ve got a very standard job, and I love it, but it just gives me a goal; it gives me something to dream about. What do I daydream about? It’s always about music; it’s always about what I’m going to do next: the next gig, the next song, the next drumbeat, the next field recording. It takes up so much of my time and thought process, and it makes me really happy to have that. If I didn’t have that, I don’t know what I’d think about. I think I’d feel like I wasn’t really going anywhere, because I do the same thing, day in, day out. It makes me feel like I’m moving somewhere, and it’s satisfying. I don’t really have many people that listen to my music, but when people do find me — like you did — and they hear something in my music, then that’s amazing. So, I would like to try and share my music with more people, but it definitely goes against the grain for me as a person. I’m not a particularly extroverted person at all; I don’t feel comfortable on stage, but I do enjoy it, in a way. I get so nervous putting music out. It’s very scary putting yourself out there, but what’s life about? You have to force yourself to do these things, and I do get a lot of joy from it when people enjoy what I do.

Your music stands out from the crowd, for sure.

Alice: It’s completely saturated, but you’ve just got to keep trying, really. And I think you’ve just got to keep trying to be true to yourself and not change your music to please the masses. I could make my music a lot more polished, and a lot more radio-friendly, but it’s not me. I’m not a very polished person; I like being a bit scruffy, and real, and honest. I think it’s important that my music is real and honest. I don’t try and polish it too much.

Are there any misconceptions that you feel people make about you based on your music?

Alice: I don’t really know what people think of when they think of my music, but generally it seems to be quite a true portrayal of me, because it is quite honest. People quite often say it’s got quite a magical, kind of ethereal vibe to it, and I really love that. I do love the whole sinister fairytale aspect of music, and I’m really glad that that comes through in my music.

When people see me, perhaps they think I’m more extroverted because of the pink hair. [laughs] I don’t know. I’m just Alice; I’ve always been like this. I’ve always been my own person, doing my thing, even if it meant I wasn’t always that popular: not the coolest kid on the block. Especially being interested in things like gaming, it didn’t always make you that popular. But that’s okay; I’m happy. [laughs]

Have video games been an influence on your music?

I think technology has always been quite a natural thing for me. Growing up, me and my brother played lots of computer games, so I always had consoles around the house. Even now, as an adult, I’ll always try and treat myself to the latest console, and I just got the new PlayStation Virtual Reality. Technology: I’ve always been fascinated by it, and gaming, and how it can be used. I really do see games as a kind of art form, and I definitely think that that’s influenced my music as well in as far as the sounds that I like. And I really like soundtracks to games. Especially being the age that I am. I’ve lived through the changes in technology, and seeing it go from the old SNES to PlayStation VR is just incredible. I think it’s the same with my music. Being part of technology changing has been such a cool thing, and we’re really lucky to come through this and witness this. As much as I can see the negatives though my class — my children being obsessed with computer games — I do think there’s a lot of positivity that can come out of gaming.

I sound really nerdy, but I definitely would say it’s influenced my sound and the way I work. It’s just a hobby of mine that’s got a similar level of escapism to me — I’ll either go home and work on my music or play a game.

Do you have any fears that being an artist brings out?

Alice: I think you put yourself in a very vulnerable position. Playing my songs is like reading my diary, but that’s just the way it is. You have to do that.

So… Home.

Alice: That’s really special. The first time I played that song, my parents and my family hadn’t heard it, and I’m really close to my family. They came to that gig, and it was quite emotional. I was quite tearful on stage, and it was really nice. I write about things that I love: London, our relationship with London and ours as a family… We’re all a funny bunch. We’re like most families: we’re all a bit odd and we’ve got our own quirks. But yeah, that song was just really about how important they are to me…

I really enjoy performing it. It doesn’t really matter if my voice falters because I think the meaning is really apparent in that song, and I put so much of my heart into it. It’s just a little love song for my family. [laughs] Which is really cheesy, but the older you get, the more you appreciate them, definitely, and the closer I think we’ve become. So yeah, I love that song, and all the sounds and everything. It’s got an instrumental in the middle, and that just reminds me of — you know when you’re sitting on the train and you’re just looking out the window? It’s that introspective, watching-the-world-go-by, kind of feeling. It’s nice.

What makes you smile?

Alice: [laughs] What makes me smile? A lot of things make me smile. You know what? I’m really lucky. I’m naturally a very happy person; I’m a very positive person. I smile a lot. I do suffer with anxiety, but generally I’m a really happy, positive person. I’m really fortunate, because I know that’s not the case for everyone. But yeah, I can find a lot of joy in anything. I seek it out. I seek out the happiness. If it’s not readily apparent, I’ll hunt it down.

Is there anything that you specifically hope to communicate through your work?

Alice: Not really. I don’t think my writing is particularly deep; I just write about things that make me happy. Like insects. And robots. That’s still one of my favourite songs that I wrote, actually. It’s not on the EP because I wrote it years ago, but it’s called R.O.B.O.T.S.G.O, and it’s totally inspired by playing computer games with my brother.

Finally, to what extent would you like your creative output to define you as a person?

Alice: [laughs] Oh, my gosh! I like to think when people hear my music, they get an idea of who I am, and it’s a nice one, hopefully. I don’t know. It’s hard. I’ve never listened to my music as a listener, and I don’t get a great deal of feedback, because I don’t really have a big fan base…

That sounds so sad!

Alice: [laughs] It does sound so sad. But I’m working on it!

The post I am Alice appeared first on A Lonely Ghost Burning.

Rania: I’ve been writing songs since high school — I’m twenty two now — but I’ve been into music since early on. My family used to sing in choir, and I just used to be around it.

Did you envisage that the music you made would one day be of this style?

Rania: I don’t think I ever had this vision of like, ‘this is the kind of music I want to go for’ — I think I just did it… I will say this: at one point, I was trying to make a specific type of music, but it just never came out that way. So, I was just like, “I’m going to stop trying to be something else, and just let it flow out.” The music that I recently released, I just let it happen. I never envisaged it to be what it is today, and it’s kind of weird because I still don’t know how it happened.

Did any of this coincide with you moving from Memphis to Jacksonville?

Rania: I moved from Memphis in late 2013. There’s a community here in Jacksonville called Murray Hill, and I don’t want to say that it’s dedicated to the arts, but it’s just where most of the artsy people live. When I moved here, I met Brian Squillace who helped produce the tracks that I released late last year. Working with him, I learned so much as far as production. So, the move from Memphis has definitely helped. I didn’t move here for music; I moved here with my mom. I have this thing: that it’s not where you live, but how; do what you can with what you have, where you are. We live in a time with internet, so you can be in your bedroom in Alaska with no-one around and setup a camera, sit in front, and sing with your guitar. If it’s true to you, and it’s true to people, then I think it’ll happen for you.

What is your process as a songwriter?

Rania: When I first started writing songs, I would just be in my bedroom with my guitar, and whatever came to me, I wrote. And it’s still kind of that way, but instead of just my guitar, I’ll take out my midi board, pull up Logic and mess around with some cool samples or beats and then write off of that. So, the process is a bit different now, but the essence of being a songwriter in my bedroom is still there.

What has the learning curve been like for the electronic side of things?

Rania: I bought Logic, and I just opened it up. I didn’t know what I was doing — I still don’t. I think it’s one of those things where you just have to dive into it. Brian’s taught me a lot as far as how to make things easier.

Does creativity come easy for you?

Rania: Some days it comes naturally, but other days it doesn’t come as easily. If you get a spark and you’re super inspired, you just keep going, keep going, keep going. But then you hit these moments of feeling so depressed.

Are there any particular roadblocks that tend to crop up during your creative process?

Rania: Yeah, I feel like that happens mostly when you try to force something. There’s definitely been times when I’ve tried to force a song and I’m just like, “Yeah, I can’t do this.” With the new project that we’re working on now, it hasn’t been hard, but I’ve definitely experienced that — just because this is all new to me. The process is a bit different, and I’m getting used to it.

Is it at all difficult to focus your attention on a new project whilst your previous one is still being promoted?

Rania: Yeah, I’m not even gonna lie: it’s definitely difficult to focus. It’s so easy to get caught up in what’s happening. You just have to get back into the present moment. I think that’s what the whole lesson is here: learning how to bring yourself back into what’s happening now, because that’s all that matters. But yeah, it’s definitely tough. What’s happening now is so weird; the response for the first EP has been insane. Wide Awake — people are loving that, and Still. I had no idea. I self released that, which is crazy. A lot of people have been contacting me, like, “Hey! What’s up with LANNDS?” And I’m just like, “Whoa! Get out of my space.” [laughs] It’s weird when you have all of these people interested in the next project you’re working on. It’s cool, because it’s like, “Wow! People are interested in what I’m doing”, but at the same time, it’s definitely distracting. You just want to get back to what’s important, and that’s the art. That’s what I’m learning right now: being in the present moment and focusing on what I want to share.

Is there a particular mood you tend to be in when you do your best writing?

Rania: Kinda sad, man. [laughs] I think those are the best stories though: when you’re in those moments. The first EP: Still was super sad, and then Wide Awake was like… yeah: sad. The new EP’s a lot darker too. [laughs] I’m sad, man. I’m a sad person, Jamie. [laughs] I’m really not, because I say that and I’m all smiles… I’m so weird; I’m sorry! [laughs]

It is a strange contrast — you always seem so positive!

Rania: Yeah, sad songs make me feel better. You put it into the music, and it’s a release. That’s why. [laughs]

What is your biggest motivation for creating?

Rania: My biggest motivation for creating has to be, which I know sounds a bit cliche, but life: everyday life. When I see something or hear something I think is inspiring, that really sparks some motivation. Once that happens, I just can’t stop. It’s like a high — almost comparable to a drug. One of the things I enjoy is the high you get when creating — I don’t think anything compares.

Are there any misconceptions that you feel people make about you based on your music?

Rania: I’ve never really thought about that… I was talking to someone recently, and they were like, “You must be this really amazing writer. How long have you been writing?” And I was just like, “You don’t even understand. This EP, to me, is so lame.” [laughs]

It does have a very professional sound.

Rania: Thank you. A lot of people ask all the time about who mixed it. Most of the songs were done on my laptop, and I took them to Brian, who has a studio in his home.

Do you have any fears that being an artist brings into greater focus?

Rania: Yeah: losing focus. That’s my fear. I don’t think I ever will, but its always something to think about. I would never want to lose focus on what’s true to me and who I am.

What makes you smile?

Rania: [laughs] … I’ve never really thought of that. Whoa, that’s insane; I don’t think I’ve ever had a question so hard to answer… I guess what makes me smile is when I work on something and it feels right — as far as being creative.

What are you most fascinated by?

Rania: I’m fascinated by how much art is being made and how great it is. Not just music; everything.

Looking through your social media, it seems like healthy living is important to you.

Rania: Yeah, I’m vegan, and I try to workout as much as I can — not too crazy, but cardio every day. I feel like we are what we eat, and we are what we do, so I think that it’s really important. If you put positivity inside of you, as far as what you eat and what you think, that affects the mood around you and the people around you. I could talk about that for hours.

What do you feel that you gain from being artistically inclined?

Rania: A different way of viewing life; seeing things so much differently. It’s kind of like, in a way, a super power, but I feel like we all have it, I really do. I feel like we’re all artists, that we’re all unique — we just have to tap into that. I think, at the end of the day, it’s society: we’ve been conditioned to live a certain way and think a certain way, and being an artist, we’re like, “Screw these rules.” So I think that’s a cool thing that artists have: to look at things in a different way; to look outside of the box.

Is is hard to continue looking at things that way given the way the world is headed?

Rania: I honestly think that things are gonna turn to — excuse my language — shit. I think it’s going to be crazy, and I think it’s going to get crazier, but I think it’s going to be great for artists. People are going to need to hear something during all the craziness to help them get through it. I think it’s going to make people become more connected… Maybe I’m wrong. We’ll see. [laughs]

Is there anything that you specifically hope to communicate to people through your work?

Rania: Just ‘love’, honestly. The stuff I sing about isn’t always going to be about love, but I think, at the end of the day, that’s what I’m trying to get back to. The source is love; that’s really all that matters, anyways. Everything else is such an illusion. That’s what I would want people to get out of what I do. I feel like everything that I do is done out of love and done out of truth, and I think that if I put that into what I’m doing, people will feel that and they’ll know.

Would you like your creative output to define you as a person?

Rania: You are an extension of what you create, so in a way, I’d say yes.

Finally, how would you like to see LANNDS develop as a project going forward?

Rania: I would like it to stay true to whatever — that’s all I would really want it to do. Like, if I were to ever do heavy metal or whatever, as long as it’s true.

Is that what’s next then: heavy metal?

Rania: Hey, you never know! [laughs] We’re always changing, Jamie, so… [laughs]

The post LANNDS appeared first on A Lonely Ghost Burning.

Thandanani: I’ve been writing songs since I was really young. Probably nineteen was the first time I recorded a song — nine years ago — but I’d been writing songs even before then. It’s just how I process what I’m feeling: through writing and stuff. Music took a while to take off because I didn’t know what I wanted to sing about — I didn’t know how to turn the words into melodies. Eventually, I was just messing around — it started with learning a bit of production on FL Studio and then collecting pieces of machinery: a laptop, then a condenser mic — you get a whole bunch of different things, and that’s when the proper songwriting starts. I think, before then, it was very fantasy-like: just writing about this abstract life. I actually started writing music that felt genuinely like writing when I was writing about myself, which has been within the past five years.

Did you always envisage that the music you made would one day be of the style that it is?

Thandanani: No. When I was growing up, I was fully obsessed with R&B. The only thing that’s played on South African radio is quite mainstream, and if it’s black music, it’s mainstream black music; if it’s from Europe, it’s pop. I’m from a pretty small town in South Africa, and I moved to Cape Town for varsity — that’s when the education really happened. I started listening to the weirdest music. Jazz was sort of the gateway drug to all the other music. So, the music that I make now is so far removed from anything I would have wanted to do. If you’d have asked me at eighteen, I would’ve said I wanted to be like Toni Braxton or Mariah Carey, and I’m not anywhere near there. [laughs] I’m so far from that, you know?

In those early stages, did you take any steps in a more mainstream direction?

Thandanani: I did. [laughs] I have a few songs that I’m really, really embarrassed about. Some are lurking somewhere online, and I can’t get rid of them. [laughs] So yeah, I did the whole thing. I met with a lot of different producers, and it was a shit-show — it really went nowhere. And I knew it was wrong; it felt wrong. So, it took some time to find the actual sound.

How accessible a pursuit do you feel music is in South Africa?

Thandanani: I think if you conform to whatever it is that’s already there, and you mix that with knowing the right people, then yeah: you can be successful. [laughs] But the type of music that I make is so obscure; I just feel like most people don’t even understand what the hell I’m doing. Which is okay, but if I was singing something like afropop, which is really big here — especially for female vocalists — then it would be better received, I think. And if I was doing R&B or hip-hop — if it was styled in the same vein as a lot of what’s happening in America — then it would be like, “My goodness, she’s amazing — she’s like Nicki Minaj!” You know what I mean? But to actually do something that’s so different… South African audiences haven’t been exposed enough to that type of sound. And it’s no-ones fault — well, it’s not their fault — because, even for me, it took a very radical education. I had to look for obscure bands and acts: just trawl the internet to find what was out there, because if you’re listening to radio or watching TV, you would never find anyone different.

When I search Bandcamp, which I do on as close to a daily basis as I can, South Africa, and Africa generally, continues to be conspicuous by it’s lack of representation. I’ve often wondered if I’m looking in the wrong places, wrong genres, or whether there simply isn’t the platform for alternative African artists to build from.

Thandanani: That’s exactly it. We have a lot of artists in South Africa; we have a thriving hip-hop community — hip-hop is massive here, and we are basically the hub for house music right now worldwide. In Africa, afrobeats, and just a lot of what’s coming out of west Africa is amazing. So there’s a huge community there and a lot of artists, but they wouldn’t upload on Bandcamp. [laughs] They’re on YouTube, or they just go immediately to MTV Base, which is like the African MTV channel. So, if you’re looking for alternative, different, indie artists — those are few and far between, and those that are there, they can’t really break through. You know, I went to a performing arts school for a year, and I quit, but while I was there I couldn’t believe it. I thought I knew what South Africa had music-wise, and then I met all these amazing vocalists and producers. It was just these kids that are so ridiculously talented, and I don’t know what happened to them. They have nowhere to go, nowhere to upload their music — they don’t have an audience. So, that’s the situation.

Do you find that this reflects in the live scene as well?

Thandanani: You know, that is probably one aspect that I don’t explore enough. When I was in Cape Town, you would go to different venues and you’d find these cool, obscure bands — if you want to find indie acts then Cape Town is the place; whether it’s hip-hop or any other genre, if you want to find the people that are really doing crazy, different, weird stuff, they’re there. They don’t always breakthrough into mainstream or what is happening in Johannesburg, which is the hub, but I think if you really try, you can find those people in live venues. But being able to perform at like a cute little café, it doesn’t really mean that you have an audience, unfortunately.

With the alternative, more experimental side of music not so represented in South Africa, do you feel isolated at all? Is it perhaps harder to develop the skills you would like to?

Thandanani: I find it hard to develop the skills and the relationships. And I’m not sure that that’s anybodies fault but my own; I just wouldn’t know how to engage that, I wouldn’t know how to have those conversations, and I wouldn’t know how not to be angry or annoyed by someone trying to get me to do something different. Because, for the longest time, music has been the only thing that makes me happy, so the thought that someone could tarnish it and turn it into something really ugly by saying, “Oh, no, just change it and do this” — that scares me, and I don’t know if I could do that right now. So it remains to be seen what’s going to happen with me. [laughs] I can’t see myself interacting with or working with anybody that’s in the mainstream space without sacrificing a bit of who I am, so I don’t know how that works out.

The reason I ask is because there are a seemingly increasing number of events and spaces for those who are making experimental music, but if those things don’t really exist where you are, I can imagine it being that much harder to move forwards.

Thandanani: No, it is. It’s one of the things that my engineer, Atlay — who is also a good friend of mine — and I have been talking about, and he was like, “What are we gonna do? Do we have to leave?” And I said to him: I don’t know how advisable it is to venture out somewhere without creating an audience in your home country. But when there’s all these barriers to entry… You know, it’s one of those things that I don’t have an answer for. A lot of what I listen to and a lot of what I love is coming out of your neck of the woods: a lot of British acts. I feel like there’s a really cool, alternative scene there, and also Amsterdam and Japan. All these countries where it’s easy to explore and to do something different. And it’s not yet, here. Not to sound morbid about it — I’m not morbid about it at all — it’s just I don’t know what will happen with me.

I think the worst mistake that I could ever make is to assume that I am this unique beast, this alternative anomaly that exists outside of the African or South African environment — there have to be other people like me. I haven’t found them yet, but they have to be there. I think it would be very arrogant of me to think I’m so different and so special. I know for a fact that not everyone is the same — Africans are not a monolith, nor are South Africans. It’s just about circumventing the mainstream channels to find the audience that is already looking for what I have to offer, and I’m very optimistic about that. It will probably take me a bit longer, but that’s fine — that just means that I have more time to hone the sound and get better.

So what is your process as a songwriter?

Thandanani: Oh, God. I don’t even know if I have a process yet. This is what’s happening: I haven’t quite learned how to compose yet. So everything that I’m doing now is: beat, then writing to a beat, then singing to a beat. I really feel like my sound will become a lot more refined when I figure out how to take what I’ve written, and the melodies that I already have, and turn them into music. Whether it’s working with other producers, or people that are just more knowledgeable music-wise. But right now, it’s very much me creating these sonic skeletons on a laptop, singing over them, and then finding a way to make that into a song. So I’m a bit limited right now, but I feel like what I’ve done is as close to who I am as I’ve ever gotten, so that’s cool.

The music you’ve released thus far has an exceptionally eerie vibe — how did that find its way into your creative mindset?

Thandanani: It’s so funny, because Young Wild was me trying to lessen the eerie — it was as mainstream as I could possibly get. Halfway through creating the project I was talking to my engineer, and he was just like, “I don’t know if people are going to understand what’s going on here. Can we try to lessen the weirdo?” [laughs] So my style and my taste is a lot weirder and eerier than that. I’m drawn to things that evoke discomfort and otherworldliness. I like choirs. I like synths that sounds like they come from outer space. I didn’t know that I liked this until two years ago when I started messing around with production. Everything that I would find as far as samples or presets that I was drawn to, or that I would hear and be like, “Oh my goodness, this is beautiful!”, would always be under some folder that said ‘Other’ or ‘Weird’ — it was never the main stuff. So, I just think that’s what I’m drawn to; I think it mirrors how I feel in general.

I read that you’re inspired a lot by movies.

Thandanani: I am. I don’t think that I’m ever happier than when I’m watching movies. I love horror — not so much anymore; I’m getting increasingly more scared. [laughs] I used to be able to watch horror movies all day by myself; I used to be that weird person who was up at night, while everyone was sleeping, watching horror movies. But the older you get, you realise how fucked up the world is, so it’s no longer this escape; it’s like, “This is actually happening somewhere, probably.” [laughs] I know too much now. But there was a time when horror movies and epics, or fantasy… I swear I’ve watched Lord of the Rings a million times, and I don’t even know why, because there’s nothing about that world that I relate to. There isn’t even a single black person in that movie. [laughs] But I love the idea of extreme odds, good versus evil, all these magical creatures, journey, adventure. I just love shit like that.

Does creativity come easy for you?

Thandanani: I don’t think it comes easy to me at all. I think, because it’s something I suppressed for such a long time… I come from a very academic family, and I’m smart, so I think the assumption was that I would also go into a very worthy profession. Every time I said I wanted to make music — from the youngest age, I knew what I wanted to do — it was just like, “Why? You’re smart.” You know, ‘stupid people, who have no other way of making money, become artists’ — it wasn’t said, but it was implied. So, I think for the longest time, there was shame about it, like, I can’t even vocalise that publicly. It was like saying I wanted to be a basketball star or an astronaut: something that’s so ridiculous.

So I had to relearn how to be creative, which is unfortunate because I think that human beings are inherently creative, and it’s just beaten out of us from when we’re little until we have to relearn what we are fundamentally. So now, I’m not perfect at it at all. When I’m recording or writing a song, I still have to stop and remind myself to stop thinking about it because, oftentimes, I’ll do like twenty takes, and the first one is the best one. Because the first one I was just trying to find the melody and feeling the song; nineteen of those takes I thought about really hard and was trying to get the perfect notes, and they sound shit. It’s not supposed to be something that you think about. It’s a relearning: relearning how to just be and create, you know?

Are there any prevalent creative obstacles you face?

Thandanani: I think it’s resources at this point, because it’s just me and my engineer, who’s in Malawi. He’s like twenty years old — really talented, but we’re figuring it out together. It’s not like we have these amazing studios and mentorship or whatever. As good as I think we’re doing, we could always do better, and it’s always nice to get advice or support. And also not being immersed in a community of artists, because I’ve been creating in a very solitary way, which serves me just fine, but I know that it’s not really healthy. I think collaboration is very good, and it’s just bouncing ideas off of other artists who genuinely want you to do good. And for people to be able to say, “Hmm, maybe not.” I don’t have that yet.

Is there a particular mood you tend to be in when you do your best writing?

Thandanani: It’s usually after midnight, when it’s quiet, because that’s when I think a lot about everything. You can go through the entire day thinking something hasn’t affected you, and then at night it’s like, “Whoa, I’m actually really pissed about that. That actually really hurts me.” It’s insane. The only way you can get back to sleep is to write about it; you have to get it out otherwise there’s no sleep for you.

I was reading through your Twitter and noticed mention of anxiety — what effect does being a creator have on that?

Thandanani: Anxiety, for me, is a constant companion and has been for very many years — it’s actually gotten increasingly worse as opposed to better. I think it’s just me putting so much pressure on myself. I’ve done things that I don’t love for a very long time as a career, where the stakes weren’t that high for me, so the anxiety wasn’t there whether I failed or did well. But when you genuinely care about something… I mean, it’s so ridiculous because it shouldn’t be about that; it should be about just creating and stepping away and having been part of having done something yourself. But when you genuinely want something to work out, it just becomes so scary and a lot more exhausting emotionally and psychologically, which adds to the anxiety.

What is the most important element in any song that you write?

Thandanani: … Silence. I like when I can share my voice and hear the production and then I hear nothing. Because I feel like the ‘nothing’ is really beautiful. What happens before and after is really important, but there should be space for the song to breathe and for the person to take in what’s just happened.

What is your greatest motivation for creating art?

Thandanani: I just want to understand myself. There’s really no other reason why I do this. I mean, when I was younger I probably wanted to be famous and for people to see my name in lights… It’s so crazy: the older you get, you become a mystery to yourself. Why do I do that? Why do I react like that? Why do I show up in this way to that person? Why do I show up in this way in a completely different circumstance? It’s like we’re each little mysteries, and art is such a great tool to open yourself and just look, explore, heal and see what’s happening with you, and I think that’s what I’m trying to do.

Do you feel you’ve made good progress in knowing yourself better?

Thandanani: No. [laughs] You know what I think I’ve done? I think I’ve figured out the universe I’m from. Whatever fantasy universe exists in everyone’s mind — the system; the planet — I’m there. Which is good. Now I just need to find what species I am, and then find the tribe, and then find my function. That’s what I think.

Are there any misconceptions that you feel people make about you based on your music?

Thandanani: That I’m really morbid and tragic. [laughs] I’m not; I’m actually such a mellow person and I’m generally happy. It’s just the things that make you sad that bother you the most: the things that make you uncomfortable. It’s the ugly parts that are most fascinating to me… I could sing about love, but that’s just not interesting for me. Maybe because I’ve never been in love so I don’t know what that feels like. When I see people who are in love, there’s nothing interesting about them other than the fact they are so happy. Which is great, but I can’t create from that space because I’ve never been there. So I create from the bad parts, the ugly parts, the strange parts. But I’m not morbid; I’m actually really happy. [laughs]

Do you have any fears that being an artist brings into greater focus?

Thandanani: Yeah, just the exposure and the visibility. I don’t know how one becomes a successful artist without the visibility part. I don’t know how people like Sade do it. I don’t know how she’s so big and so successful, and nobody cares what she does day-to-day. I don’t know how you balance that. I’m not there yet, but I don’t think I would like it very much; I don’t think I would like being famous — I think I would hate it actually. So, I’m trying to learn how to be very successful without being famous. If you find the recipe, let me know. [laughs]

What makes you smile?

Thandanani: YouTube videos of soldiers coming back from war. Kids with pets. And when somebody that I love does something really nice for me. My friends are so funny… And I make myself smile by email. I’m the best email writer; I’m so funny by email. Like, in real life I do okay, but by email I’m fucking hilarious and I make myself smile. [laughs]

I can definitely relate. At least, the person I am via email is not the same person I’m generally able to present in person. It’s frustrating.

Thandanani: It’s literally insane. It’s like two people living inside of you. Sometimes you’re sitting around a group of people, and you’re like, “If you knew how fucking interesting I am, you would be paying more attention to me.” [laughs] Like, you just don’t know, because I’m too anxious and really uncomfortable… “Let me email you! Let me email you, then you’ll know.” [laughs]

What are you most fascinated by?

Thandanani: People who are very courageous and can put themselves under the spotlight and be comfortable. There are some people that, when people are looking at them, they just come alive. And they like that. They like the gaze and they like attention, and then they become the best version of themselves. I don’t know what that’s like. That’s very fascinating to me.

What do you feel that you gain from being artistically inclined?

Thandanani: I think I have something to do with all this feeling. I just feel alight constantly — literally, all the fucking time — in ridiculous proportions. Nobody should feel as much as I feel at any given time — it’s just such a ridiculous way to be. But then, the only thing that you can be when you’re like that is an artist…. or maybe a murderer. One of the two. Because what else do you do with it then?

I definitely think you made the right choice…

Thandanani: [laughs] I thought about it really long and hard. [laughs]

Is there anything that you specifically hope to communicate to people through your work?

Thandanani: I don’t know if I personally think about other people when I create my work, because I just assume that other people will feel exactly the way I feel. If I’m honest, and if I’m so honest that it makes me uncomfortable, I assume that whoever’s listening will find something to latch onto that they can relate to, and if not: that’s fine — it’s not supposed to be for everyone.

To what extent would you like your creative output to define you as a person?

Thandanani: I don’t think it should define me at all. I think that what I say, and what I create, depends very much on how I’m viewing a situation at any given time. I can be six months removed from a situation and, at the beginning of it, I was the victim — six months later, I can see how fucked up I was in the situation: how bad I was and how I contributed. So, whatever you create as an artist should never be the whole scope of who you are, and it should never define you; it should just be a little snapshot of the moment where you were busy creating. I’m always evolving, I’m always changing, I’m always changing my mind — I hope I never stop changing my mind — so the music that I’m making five years from now is hopefully going to be very different, and I hope that’s okay.

Finally, how would you like to see SOLR develop as a project going forward?

Thandanani: I really just want to get better. I want to get more honest. I want to listen to my music and not find any part that’s contrived; I don’t want to find any part that I’ve thought out too much; I want to surprise myself. And also, I just want to feel like I understand myself and my place in the world better. That is literally the only thing that I’m trying to do, and if people come along for the journey, that’s really nice… And if I can pay my rent whilst doing it, that would be great. [laughs]

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Quinne: No, everything always takes longer than I hope or think it would take. I did release the mixtape and the music video in between, so those took a bit of time. I feel like I’m starting to get faster at writing songs, but I still get frustrated at how long it takes me sometimes.

Is there any particular reason why it does take so long?

Quinne: Probably a bit of a perfectionist problem; a couple of the songs were re-recorded in different ways, two or three times. Purity Control and Barnacles were both completely re-recorded in a completely different way: in completely different time signatures and stuff. I definitely fiddle with things for a really long time: fiddle with all the little details. I mix it all myself and I’m not very fast at that.

So what was your overriding emotion when you did finally release it?

Quinne: Leading up to releasing it, I was really impatient and just wanting to get it out there, so any kind of little thing that takes any amount of time was really aggravating. But, being able to put it out was really satisfying. I guess, because I am a bit of a perfectionist, once it’s actually out there, it’s exactly what I wanted to put out.

Are there no elements that you’re not so sure about then? No minute causes of irritation?

Quinne: [laughs] Maybe in a year or two, but I would not put it out if I felt that way. No, everything has to be perfect when I put it out. [laughs] There’s some subject matter that I’m sometimes like, “Should I have done that?” But it was more important for me to talk about stuff that I think needs to be talked about instead of making myself as comfortable as possible. So I made myself a bit uncomfortable, but I’m happy with my decision.

What are the particular aspects of Vile that you’re most proud of?

Quinne: I feel like it’s a lot more cohesive than Endling. I feel like I’m getting better at making what I want to make. I’m happy with the kind of themes that ended up coming together. When I was writing the songs, I didn’t have anything in mind for an overriding theme, but one ended up manifesting. I was really happy about that: I feel like the subject matter is cohesive and pointed.

What is the subject matter, and how did it come about?

Quinne: It ended up being quite political, but political in the sense of coming from a very personal place. There’s a lot of anger at institutions of power, imperialism and privilege that I was personally feeling. When you write that stuff down it kinda ends up becoming a bit of a political statement, I guess.

Have you previously imagined yourself making music which has that political edge to it?

Quinne: The band I was in before, MYTHS, was just political. It was not personal, not emotional — it was straight-up comments on politics: mostly feminism. So when I started my own project, I was like, “Personal stuff!” [laughs] It was definitely me diving into the other end of the pool and just being able to do something that I hadn’t been able to do before. So, I guess this is a bit more meeting in the middle…

I’m still angry. [laughs] There’s still so much happening in the world that personally affects me and I want to talk about, but I can kind of come at it from a personal place, which, to me at least, is more powerful. I’m coming at this from my own experience… People, a lot of the time, talk about politics like it’s disconnected from your life. People will tell actors or musicians, “Stay out of politics!” But that’s assuming that politics aren’t your life, and I think that’s a privileged position to be in: to keep politics at arms-length and say that only people who have a political science degree should be talking about that. Maybe you can say that when it doesn’t directly affect your life, but when it does, you need to be able to talk about it, and you need to say something and be involved.

To be fair, the people who shout down a musician’s right to an opinion only seem to do that when said musician takes a stance they disagree with.

Quinne: [laughs] I mean, I can understand somebody feeling weird if a musician is trying to influence other people, but we need to talk about this stuff. I’m glad that people are a bit more involved now: saying, “This affects me. This affects people. This is important.”

Okay, so the last time we spoke, you talked about being mired in constant self-doubt. Were you able to overcome that more easily when making this record, or did it prove just as big a barrier?

Quinne: I think it’s getting, maybe, a little bit better; I think I’m a little bit more confident… but, I still struggle with that. I still wonder if anybody’s going to like it. But, when I listen to it, I’m like, “No, no — this is good. I think this is good.” But anytime anyone says that they like it is a relief, because then I feel like maybe I’m not crazy.

What was the first song you wrote for the record, and to what degree did this track determine the direction you headed thereafter?

Quinne: Purity Control, I think, was actually the second song that I ever even wrote as Ivory Towers, and it was re-recorded, like, three times, maybe. There’s a bunch of different versions of it now, and I didn’t get one that felt right until this time.

I don’t know if it influenced the other songs, but it definitely contributes to the political aspect of the album. It’s probably the most outright political song on the record, and it’s also the one that I’m kinda like, “Ooohhh…” [laughs] It took a bit of back-and-forth waffling to put on there, but I did it.

Have you found that people have picked up on the political commentary?

Quinne: I know that people have read the bio about it, so that makes it obvious that it’s political. Gorilla vs. Bear did a really good write up about it; I think he really got where I’m coming from. But I haven’t heard feedback yet from listeners: if they felt like it was political or not. I know my lyrics can maybe be a little bit vague, so I don’t know how obvious it would be to a listener.

How did your process differ, if at all, this time around?

Quinne: I’m getting a bit better at putting songs together. I think the songwriting process was a little bit more straightforward. I definitely used a lot more electronics: I got a keyboard that has some nice sounds on it, so I was using that a lot. I went back and listened to music that I really liked, realised how much percussion was on it, and realised that I could definitely use some more percussion. So I made things a little bit more upbeat and electronic than the last one.

It seems to have given your songs a fuller sound than on Endling. Would you agree with that?

Quinne: I haven’t gone back and listened to Endling, actually, but I’m sure they do. [laughs] They probably have way more layers now. I’m a layer freak: I just layer things on top and on top and on top until it’s just an ocean of sound. [laughs]

What was the most important thing you learned during the process of this record?

Quinne: Every time I make a song, I learn something technical. I learned a lot from the music program I use: different techniques and stuff like that… I think it just made me more confident in my songwriting abilities, and feel like I can do more. With Endling, I was learning a lot, and would kind of let the song do what it would do. [laughs] I’d be like, “What’s happening here…? Okay, that’s happening. I’ll just let that happen because I don’t know what else to do.” Now, I feel like I’ve got a bit more of a system and an ability, and I can change things around more: mould things to my will a little bit more instead of just following where the song wants to go.

When we spoke before you mentioned a habit of putting out music thinking it’s normal, only to find out that others find it a bit weird… Same again?

Quinne: Probably. I haven’t read anything so far saying that it’s incredibly weird, like last time — someone said it was almost unlistenable because it was so experimental. [laughs] Not quite, but almost… This time, from what I’ve read, it seems like people are enjoying it, and it’s been called unusual, but no-one’s said that it’s completely from another planet or anything. So, it’s possible it’s just not as weird. It’s probably still a little bit weird. [laughs]

On a related note: When we spoke last, you said that you were interested in making music that was more accessible with poppier production, whilst also creating songs that are the exact opposite, only barely qualifying as music. Do you feel you were able to successfully achieve both of those things?

Quinne: I was thinking about that. I remembered that I told you that, and I was like, “Did I do that?” I think it is more accessible than Endling. Whether it’s, at the same time, weirder… I think maybe, but in other ways. I think No Devil Lived On is maybe not immediately super experimental, but that was something that I’ve attempted five different times, and I kept failing. I wanted to make an audio palindrome — so the song, if you listen to it backwards, would sound exactly the same — and I was like, “I have to do this!” I kept failing, but with No Devil Lived On I finally achieved my goal. It definitely controlled what I was able to do in the song, and how the song ended up sounding; there were so many parameters that the song had to line up for that to work. To me that was, in a way, more experimental.

Sounds difficult!

Quinne: Doing the drums was the hardest. [laughs] Drums are really dynamic: forwards it goes, “Doosh!” but then when you hear it backwards it’s a “Shoop!” It would sound totally different, so trying to find a drum sound that would still kind of sound like drums when it plays backwards was really hard. [laughs]

Did you have any reference points for how to go about doing it?

Quinne: No. I imagine someone else has done it, but I don’t know if they have. I think that’s why it took me so long: just figuring out how I would go about doing that.

Has the process of making Vile, or the finished work itself, changed your perception of Ivory Towers?

Quinne: Yeah. Originally I wanted Ivory Towers to be more quiet, very organic sounding and very personal. So this has definitely changed that; apparently I can’t resist talking about politics, and I can’t resist using synth sometimes. But it’s been enjoyable. It’s been enjoyable playing some of the faster, louder songs live. So… now I don’t know what I’m doing. [laughs]

This week, I’ve definitely removed myself completely from the outside world and the news cycle. I haven’t been looking at anything because I was just catatonic: I was so upset. I got some Sandman books out of the library, and I’ve just been like, “Maybe I’ll just write fantasy stuff for now.” I just want to live in a fantasy land, because it got too real. But I’m glad that I at least have, to me at least, some strong political statements out there right now.

Would you not say that the politics of Vile already exists within a fantasy shell, so to speak? I mean, ambience-wise, it doesn’t sound like the grim, hard reality of the world: there’s definitely a magic to it.

Quinne: Yeah, well it’s admittedly political stuff couched inside fantasy anyway: Hel’s Belle’s and No Devil Lived On are political statements that are completely living inside fantasy worlds. No Devil Lived On: I was watching these castle documentaries — I think you saw my tweets about this — and Edward I was invading a country in every episode. You’d be watching, and you’d be like, “Oh, we’re in Ireland now.” And then… Edward I would pop up! You’d be like, “Fuck off, Edward! Stop it!” [laughs] I was like, “Fuck that guy. That guy’s the worst! Fuck Edward I!” I was really angry about him, and for some reason — this tends to happen when I’m alone in the house and I’m working late at night: I get weird ideas — I was thinking about maenads, which are one of my favourite creatures, and they’ve been one of my favourite creatures for a long time; they’re the female followers of the Greek god, Dionysus. They look human, but they’re superhuman, and they’re wild women; they’re kind of a metaphor for drunkenness, in a way. They basically run in packs through forests, and anything that’s in their way they rip apart with their bare hands. So if there’s a bull, they’ll just rip it apart; if there’s a tree, they’ll rip it apart. Fire can’t hurt them, iron can’t hurt them: they’re a force. So I was like: What if Edward I ran into a bunch of maenads and they ripped him to pieces? [laughs] I was like, “That’s crazy.” And then I was like, “That would be hilarious if I wrote that into a song.” So I did. It was my political statement against imperialism, but couched in a very, very high fantasy setting. [laughs] I felt like I stuck it to Edward a little bit.

And returning to your comment about how you’re enjoying playing some of these songs live: I know you said before that, some of the songs you’d written, you couldn’t even play live because they were too delicate, so how has being able to have a more expansive live show affected your project?

Quinne: I still had to change these songs around a little bit to be played live, but it’s definitely allowed me to play shows that are a bit more high-energy. It’s definitely allowed it to be a bit more energetic. I mean, it’s still not a dance party. [laughs] It’ll never be a dance party, I’m sure, but it’s allowed the live show to take on different forms if it needs to.

Finally, what does Vile (the record) mean to you, both as a person and as a creative?

Quinne: … I guess, to me, it was just like an outlet for all of the anger and all of the hurt that I feel whenever there’s an attack on people who don’t have privilege and power. It’s my middle finger to people who use privilege and power to hurt others…

… And, I guess, I have this thing that I have a hard time resisting doing, which is being a little bratty, sometimes: just poking the bear, you know? Just going over the top in tiny little ways. Sometimes I think some people would get it, and then sometimes other people might get a little bit offended. [laughs] I was kind of jokingly saying that Hel’s Belles is a little bit about eating men. [laughs] Just a little bit; a tiny little bit. And that’s my taking something and just pushing it a little bit more. But it’s not entirely about that; it was just like a little joke inside the song. That song’s more about how, throughout history, every reign falls; every empire will eventually crumble and kings will eventually get beheaded. It’s about: if you’re privileged, you have power, and you’re treating the people who don’t have privilege and power badly, it’s only a matter of time until they eat you. So yeah: I’m being a little bit bratty.

The people that might be offended by something like that are highly likely the ones you want to offend anyway though, right?

Quinne: Maybe, yeah. I mean, I don’t know if a guy would read that and be like, “I don’t want anybody to eat me!” [laughs]

The post Ivory Towers appeared first on A Lonely Ghost Burning.

Natalia: I started writing poetry when I was a child; I’ve always been inspired by sad things. At first I wrote about the world that surrounds me, and then I began to write about the world inside of me. I really think that sadness can be a huge source of inspiration. It encourages you to explore and express yourself through creativity. These poems are always very personal and soulful.

What made you decide to combine your poetry with music?

Natalia: I thought that my poetry needed framing. Poetry is a thought, and music helps my thoughts to find the voice. Besides music, I often create a visual addition to my poems: photos, videos, drawings, etc. When inspiration finds me, I see the poem as a little movie in my mind and I want to transfer all of this to reality.

And what is the most important element in any poem that you write?

Natalia: The imagery and symbolism are important elements in my poems. Descriptions of nature always reflect my own feelings and moods.

Do you approach music in a similar way to your other artistic endeavours?

Natalia: All my works are united by common themes: I just do as I feel. I think that all of my creative work reflects my personality. Music and poetry and everything else — it’s just a different incarnation of my feelings.

What are those themes?

Natalia: Melancholy, loneliness, self-knowledge, aesthetics of sorrow, silence, nostalgia for the past.

What is your greatest motivation for creating art?

Natalia: Creativity is like the ability to breathe. And it helps me to understand myself. I want to make something beautiful, something that contains so many inner experiences. And it is a way to preserve any particular moment of my life: to remember it. Almost all of my music and poetry is the result of spontaneous inspiration. It falls on me like a tsunami, and I hear music or poems in my head. I need to record these sounds, move them into this reality. This is partly why my project is called Your Schizophrenia: it’s my inner voice.

Is it ever overwhelming — that inspiration comes to you in such a sudden, uncontrollable way?

Natalia: In the best sense of the term. I mean that inspiration is an amazing feeling: it’s like a catharsis, art therapy. But sometimes I feel depressed and disappointed at the moments of silence and creative crisis.

Do you have those moments of silence often? What do you do to reignite the flame of inspiration during those times?

Natalia: Yes, at this time I live an ordinary life. It is something of a respite, but this time doesn’t last long. If I don’t have poetic inspiration, I can make dolls, take pictures or knit something. And I’m very sensitive to beauty: I’m inspired by nature — especially trees — so long, solitary walks can really inspire me. I’m very inspired by the autumn. At this time, the melancholy ascends the throne. I was born in November, and I think that I’m a true child of autumn: nourished by the sadness of dying nature.

Is your passion for art set off by the same things it was when you started out, or has its appeal to you changed?

Natalia: I think it is the same things at the heart of it all.

How do you feel that you’ve developed as a poet and musician in that time? What aspects of your craft do you feel have improved?

Natalia: I think that over time I have learned to better express my thoughts and feelings through poetry and music. Initially it was a bit clumsy, but poetry became, for me, a language of sincerity. I don’t consider myself a professional poet or musician. My creative work isn’t perfect… But nevertheless, this is not just random sounds and words: this is part of my life, part of my personality, my vision of the world. I would like to hope that I create something beautiful.

Within the themes of your work, is there a particular message that you hope to communicate to people?

Natalia: I don’t know… I never planned to convey a message, although perhaps my work says that the gloomy emotions can be directed to the creation of something and that sadness could be beautiful: this is the path to self-expression, not to self-destruction.

To talk about communication in general… I also had a dialogue with my listeners. At first I didn’t think that someone could like my music or poems because they are sad and depressive. But, I had my listeners: people who feel inspired by my music. It is in tune with their moods. I even had a joint creative project with my listeners; this album was called Whispers of Ink Hearts. People sent me letters and I wrote music inspired by their poems, drawings and stories.

How has this kindred connection with other people affected you personally and creatively?

Natalia: I met with interesting, creative people — with some of them I continue to maintain correspondence. That is wonderful: to share ideas and create something new. I’m currently working on two new albums in collaboration with two of my friends. These will be two completely different albums. One of them is the interpretation of selected poems by my favourite poet, Federico Garcia Lorca. I compose music for them and read translations of his poems in Russian, and my friend Octavio Martinez reads the poems in Spanish.

Another project is a collaboration with Maria Petrova. It will include my music, her prose miniatures, and photographs for the compositions. In addition to these projects, I have a lot of actual ideas. I think that the coming winter will be dedicated to the implementation of these creative plans.

Are there any misconceptions that you feel people make about you based on your work?

Natalia: Yes, people often have a misconception about me because of my work. Many people think that I’m a misanthrope or a really weak and injured person, full of anger about the world and constantly crying in despair. That’s so strange. People tell me that I’m completely different: not as they thought. Yes, I am inspired by the sadness, but that doesn’t mean it is the only emotion that I feel.

What makes you smile?

Natalia: The most simple things make me smile. Like beautiful letters from friends, talks with my closest people, and my cute and funny cats.

Would it be fair to say that you prefer a less technological world? I ask because you’ve mentioned, for example, nature and letters, etc. And also your music is quite sparse.

Natalia: I think that technology is useful too, but it would be nice sometimes to hide from it. I would like to find some harmony.

What do you feel that you gain from being artistically inclined?

Natalia: I think that the artistic inclinations make life not so boring as it is without creativity. Maybe creative people are not so adapted to ‘normal life’, because they live in a world of imagination and inspiration… But I’m grateful that I can express myself in this way: through music, poetry, photography or something else. This is definitely a wonderful experience.

Okay, so my final question. To what extent would you like your creative output to define you as a person?

Natalia: I think that the creativity always reflects the person. Any artwork is a continuation of the author: a piece of his soul. But I don’t think that looking at creative work can accurately understand the author’s personality. It is something so complex and multifaceted that creativity only lifts the veil.

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