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Angie McMahon

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And She Is A Woman: Angie McMahon On 'Salt' & Arguing With Men About Gender

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Ahead of her set in L.A., McMahon sat down with the Recording Academy to talk about her debut LP, processing her experiences through writing and attempting to argue about gender with men
Rachel Brodsky
GRAMMYs
Jul 26, 2019 - 9:11 am

Folk-pop performer Angie McMahon has a remarkable voice. Yes, she sings for a living, but the Australian singer/songwriter's trill is immediately captivating, deep and husky and reminiscent of everyone from Danielle Haim to Fiona Apple to Florence Welch. It's also quite unexpected coming from someone with such a slight frame and unassuming presence.

To American audiences, the 25-year-old may appear to have come out of nowhere, but McMahon, who releases her debut LP, Salt, today via Dualtone, has been in the game for the last six years or so, playing around Melbourne with a local soul project called The Fabric. She's also no stranger to playing to massive audiences: In 2013 she won a local songwriting competition to open for Bon Jovi on the Australian leg of their Because We Can tour, and as of now, in addition to playing the festival circuit (she's heading to Newport Folk Festival this weekend), she's currently prepping to go on tour with GRAMMY nominee Hozier. Her music, meanwhile, covers tried and true topics like relationships, but also looks at major themes of the day: On recent single "And I Am A Woman," she tries to communicate the nuance of a woman's experience to the opposite sex.

Ahead of her set in L.A., McMahon sat down with the Recording Academy to talk about her debut LP, processing her experiences through writing and attempting to argue about gender with men. 

I imagine the first thing most people think when they hear you is, “Wow, what a voice!” Is that something you get a lot?

I do. Sometimes if people haven't heard me sing and they hear me speak first, because my voice is kind of nasal. I think I speak like a kid sometimes, and then my singing voice is different. But yeah, I think I just shaped that around singers that I really loved, and I didn't even really notice that I was doing it when I was younger. k.d. lang is a really big one for me, the deep vocal work that she [does], and the deep emotion that she can bring up. I think when I started listening to her, I was just like, "I want to be able to do that." 

Did you grow up singing?

Yeah, sort of. I grew up playing piano when I was quite young, and then that turned into really loving covering pop songs and singing to myself. I didn't really learn singing, [or have] singing lessons, until I was maybe 18. 

I was always singing along in the car when we were going on family drives and stuff. We'd go out into the bush for a bit and listen to CDs. I was just constantly singing along, and constantly making my mom replay [songs, saying] “It's my favorite song.” I was like, "Again!" Even driving up and singing. I was probably pretty annoying as a sibling.

Did you start playing guitar around the same time? 

Yeah, I started playing guitar. It comes back to covering pop songs, and wanting to have the option of performing, picturing myself as a performer and starting to think about talent shows and stuff, maybe like 14, and not wanting to take a keyboard everywhere.

So I started learning guitar based off of my piano skills, and YouTube and stuff. I can't remember exactly why, what it was that triggered it, but I think it was probably the music that I was listening to, Bob Dylan and Bruce Springsteen my dad was playing in the car. It made me want to be able to do that instrument. I still listen to those records, and want to be able to play the way that they play. I want to learn harmonica so I can play, just reach that sound space. But yeah, that's where the guitar came into it. I haven't had guitar lessons ever, and I'm really not very good. I'm not saying that out of humility. I know that my skill level is at a certain level, and I really would like to excel.

How many years were you playing around Melbourne before you started touring internationally?

I was always doing solo gigs here and there, but not very seriously, just whenever they would come up. That was probably from when I was about 17, 16 or 17. I'm 25 now, so maybe there was five years before I was looking to start the band. I was also in another band [The Fabric], which was a really good way for me to build experience and to keep singing, and to learn how to interact with boys in a band, and be in a band space. That was a soul group, so there were nine of us. There were eight boys and then me singing, and that went for three years from when I was 18 to 21.

Did you go to school for music?

No, I didn't. The uni that I was at had a music school that I didn't get into. I was doing English there and literature, [but] my extra subjects were music stuff, which is kind of the best way to go about it because I got to do the fun songwriting [classes] without having to do the assessments and intensive jazz training. It basically was a jazz course, and I can't sing jazz. I'm just not adept at that technique. I mean I had really good teachers at school, really good. I had a trumpet teacher who was a really big mentor for me in high school, and I had my piano teacher who was always really patient and lovely. All the teachers that I had mentored me in such a lovely way, but I didn't have a specific music course that I completed or anything.

Do you intend for music to be a living?

Yeah. I'd never really thought of it financially, but as a pursuit, just the way that I want to spend my time. It's always been what I was thinking about. It was kind of a source of an existential crisis, because my work ethic for a lot of my life, a lot of my teen years, was just not very good. It was this thing of always picturing myself on stage, and wanting to perform for my life and write songs, but not having done enough of the work for that to materialize.                                  

When I was finishing my degree and stuff, I'd gone through my whole English degree, sitting in every lecture theater, just picturing myself doing music and writing song lyrics in my notepad and stuff. It was just this fairy land, and then I finished my degree. I was faced with nothing that I wanted to do except music. I had to give myself a pep talk, several pep talks over the years, and some from my parents as well. But basically switched into the mode where I was like, okay. I have to look at the business side of the industry, and I have to understand what I'm willing to work at, and what I want to achieve. 

I know that you're about to put out your debut, Salt. It features a lot of tracks that were on your EP, A Couple Of Songs. What was the thinking in including most of the EP songs on the LP? 

Well, we were ready to put [an LP] out, and then we met Dualtone and wanted to have a chance to release it probably in America. It's such a big country and such a big industry over here, so we really wanted to work with Dualtone. They were so great, but we had to figure out a way to promote the singles that have already been released across the world. That's where the Couple Of Songs EP came in.

It's interesting for me, because these songs on the record, they are on the album, so it's almost like, at this point, a lot of the album has been released. I guess that was for the sake of having a way to kind of push it into this market, and we just kind of came out with a couple of songs EP on the fly. I was like, "Well, why don't we do a little EP?" That's where that kind of came from, but I'm glad we did it that way, because I feel like the songs have their own individual life.

I remember there was an artist who I loved when I was younger, who put out an EP that I was just obsessed with, and I couldn't wait for his album to come out. When his album came out, it wasn't nearly as exciting to me as the songs on the EP were. I just wished that those songs had been on the record. It was just one of those things where I watched that happen as a fan, and as an artist, I just want to put out an album. I just want that to be the first collection of songs.

What's the thought behind the name Salt?

I don't have one answer for that, but I always knew that that was what I wanted to call it. I tried to come up with other names that made a bit more sense where they were from the album or something, but nothing else quite fit. I went with that word because to me, it represents a feeling of balance. Looking back on the songs, which are this collection of experiences that I had, romance and friendship and growing up, up until I was 22... To me, it looks like what is left after all of those experiences. It's the remainder of what I went through growing up.

It's similar to the way that salt is what's left over when water evaporates. Then it's like salt is in your tears. It's like salty tears, and salted wounds. It can sting, and it can bring out taste, and it can cleanse things. I think a lot about the ocean, and the way that it's terrifying and also so liberating to swim in. It's just all of these kind of metaphors that circle for me around salt as a mineral.

I'd also love to get your perspective on your most recent song, "And I Am a Woman." What was the thought behind that title?

There's no single thought for me behind this song either as well. It's such a big concept to tackle. It's just something that I'm being more and more interested in as I grow up as a songwriter, and as a person. It's maybe the moment you are content.

That was the most recent song that I wrote for the record, even though it was two years ago. The whole song came from this heated conversation about women's bodies in public spaces, and a real disagreement with this person about what we're entitled to with equality, and all that kind of stuff. I was so frustrated, and the lyric about being in my home is very much about being in my personal space, and in my body, or in my safety, or whatever. Then I guess the second half of the lyric, "and I am a woman," it almost felt like the most obvious thing.

How am I going to word this? You know when you're having an argument with someone? Arguing with men about gender, or discussing the misunderstanding of something that to you is so obvious. It's so frustrating, and you're just like, "To me this is the most obvious thing. Based on my experience and my life, you should focus on the standards," and they just don't. "And I Am A Woman" just feels like this really obvious thing to say, that carries so much weight, but is also really simple.

It's interesting. So much of the music industry and live industry, it's just male-dominated. I love the boys that I work with, but sometimes things just happen where you just need someone who shares this experience to understand why this affects me, and why it's a manifestation of how many times this has happened to me over my life. Things are just becoming louder now, and we're understanding what we are entitled to more and more, what we shouldn't lay down for. So it's the frustration at that same time is building, because the change is so small. I want to be more fluent in that discourse, and I want everyone to be more fluent in it so we can talk about it more and more.

I did also want to ask you a bit about the song "Pasta." I have to admit that the name reminded me of Courtney Barnett's song about ramen.

Yeah. I love her. She's an inspiration for my songwriting, for sure. She captures this humor and kind of relaxed personality type that I really relate to. Maybe it's a Melbourne thing, or maybe it's an age thing, but basically her music is awesome. I also think the tone of her songwriting has inspired me. There's a realness to it that is so exciting.

When you're writing, are you interested in projecting a tone of honesty?

I think it's more satisfying for me to write something to complete a lyric or whatever that is really honest, and with rhymes, and says what I am feeling or going through without realizing that's what I was feeling or going through until I wrote it down, so the satisfaction that comes from that. Then if I'm able to lace in humor or a double-sided metaphor or whatever, those kinds of things, it's just so satisfying. For me, [songwriting is] very much a way that I process my own experiences. Until this point, and it might change, but all the songs basically have been autobiographical. I think that that will keep developing. I have a long way to go in my songwriting, which is exciting for me. 

What's next for you? Are you working on future recordings? 

I find it hard to [write] well touring, and it's been a lot of touring in the last year, so I haven't completed a whole bunch of new songs. I would really like to be able to take the time to do that. It's basically the next year, I guess, is going to be balancing how much touring we can do, and how much time I can take off to write, so that's just something that I'm figuring out. It's also you can't force it. Just because you take the time off doesn't mean that's when you're inspired. The rest of the year we're touring the album in Australia, and then I'm coming back here to tour with Hozier, and then that basically brings us to the end of the year. So hopefully after that I can take some months. I'm really feeling like writing again. I think it's got to do with putting out the first record. It feels like a clean slate. I'm ready for the next thing.

CHAI On Redefining "Cute," Subverting Uniformity & Tasting American Ramen

The Futureheads

The Futureheads

Photo by Paul Alexander Knox

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The Futureheads' Barry Hyde On The Band's Reunion, 'Powers' & Facing Down Mental Health Taboos

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Back together for their sixth studio album—their first since 2012's 'Rant'—the U.K. post-punk revivalists are in fighting form
Rachel Brodsky
GRAMMYs
Aug 27, 2019 - 12:20 pm

When The Futureheads disbanded in 2013, one year after their fifth studio album, Rant, came out, they didn't make a big deal out of it. There was no announcement, no reunion tours. They, as some meme-loving folks would say, "Homer Simpson'd into the bush." 

According to singer Barry Hyde, who initiated the split, the rest of the U.K. post-punk quartet were very understanding. They had to be: Hyde had just finished his third stint in a psychiatric hospital. He physically could not contend with being in a band anymore. "I just simply couldn't do it," he tells the Recording Academy over the phone. "I wasn't capable of creating for The Futureheads, with The Futureheads, and doing the gigs and stuff like that. It became very taxing for me."

In the six years since their split, Hyde made it his first priority to get healthy and figure out what his professional life could look like outside of music. He trained as a chef, then became a music teacher. He got his MA and released a solo record called Malody. He does public speaking engagements where he talks about mental health awareness. The rest of the band, who had been playing together since they were teenagers, also found new lives outside of The Futureheads, which blew up in the early '00s with their landmark self-titled debut featuring a series of twitchy, "paranoid-rock" anthems like "Decent Days And Nights," "Meantime" and a now-classic cover of Kate Bush's "Hounds Of Love." Bassist Jaff Craig also went into teaching. Brother Dave Hyde (drums) went on to release two albums as one half of Hyde & Beast and trained as a tiler. Guitarist/vocalist Ross Millard joined the band Frankie & the Heartstrings. Now, the crew has joyfully reunited for their sixth album, Powers, which arrives on Aug. 30 via Nul Records. 

Futureheads fans will be pleased to hear that the group has barely deviated from their trademark layered harmonies and fidgety guitar-work. Powers is a propulsive look at the personal and political. Songs like "Electric Shock" and "Headcase" plainly deal with Hyde's psychiatric history ("When I got my electric shock, it tasted bittersweet," he chants). Other tracks, like "Across The Border" and "Listen, Little Man!" consider the xenophobic rhetoric, regressive thinking and power imbalences in the U.K. 

Prior to unleashing Powers, Hyde called up the Recording Academy to discuss The Futureheads' reunion, his new role as a teacher and public speaker, the subtle cultural differences in how Americans and British cope with mental-health issues and more. 

Before we talk about the new record, I'd like to talk about the day you decided to discontinue the band. Would you say that it came as a surprise to the rest of the members? Or would you say that this was something that was kind of roiling openly for a little while?

Well, I think the fact that I was in a psychiatric hospital for the third time, having been in and out a couple of times, it wasn't so much a surprise. I think that Jaff [Craig], our bass player, was probably pleased that he didn't have to think about the band anymore. And I think it was a bit harder for Dave [Hyde] and Ross [Millard], because I think they always felt like there was a chance that the band could continue. But I just simply couldn't do it. I wasn't capable of creating for The Futureheads, with The Futureheads, and doing the gigs and stuff like that. It became very taxing for me. And it seems almost absurd that it got that way. Because, ultimately, it's just a band, at the end of the day.

After a certain point, I realized I had to clear that part of my life in order to stand a chance of not having to come back in the hospital in six months. So they were very supportive of that decision. And it was a hard decision to make. But it was an instant thing. As soon as we had this discussion, there appeared for me a space, a gap in my life which I could grow in, if you know what I'm saying. And it was a kind of unfortunate release, you might say.

Yeah, from a fan perspective it never seemed clear why The Futureheads weren’t around anymore. There was no announcement or news around the split.

Yeah, we didn't do like a farewell tour. We never announced that we'd split up or even that we're having a break. Yeah, the candle just kind of died. And we had no idea, actually, for quite a lot of that time, that six or seven years, that it was ever going to [reemerge]. It wasn't like we stopped working together for like 10 or 15, 20 years. We have made very different proposals to kind of get back together. But it did happen in an organic way. And as much as I was able to regain my creativity back, make my solo album. And then, yeah, called Malody. Which was almost like a chronicle of some of the things I'd been going through.

Because really what matters is that you want to pick up your instrument. You want to play the guitar. You actually want to enjoy the simple act of practicing your skills. And I went into the world of piano, and teaching, and orchestration, and all of that stuff in the meantime between stopping the band and getting it back together. And that was enough of an escape for me to be able to start to fondly remember this band that we created very innocently at the very beginning of the 21st century.

Given your backstory, to what extent are you comfortable talking about what you’ve gone through, mental-health-wise?

Yeah, I would say I'm comfortable enough to have spent time traveling around the United Kingdom giving talks on it. I've become somewhat of a, well, I would say minor, spokesperson for mental health and creativity. And I was able to use that experience as a way of sorting my own head out and I think, in some cases, opening up the discussion for other people as well. Because it is still a major taboo. And I think that's one of the differences, actually, between your country and my country. Is that in America, I think, people are a lot more open, perhaps, to talk about their emotions. Whereas the Britishness is kind of like get on with it. It's a cliché. But the kind of stiff upper lip. We beat the Nazis, so why do we need to talk about you? It still lingers on, especially in men. And I know there's lots of macho men who are incapable of expressing their emotions in America, as well, and all over the world I guess.

Yeah, so I'd say I was fairly unique. And also, in releasing Malody, that was the context of the album. So it'd given me the opportunity to perform in those songs. It's my opportunity to kind of relive those emotions. And I wanted to sound trite, leave them on the stage. And it's kind of like a publicly funded CBT session.

I’ve spoken to musicians for this site before about how the negative stigma around seeking mental healthcare is changing, thanks in part to the Internet and social media. To what extent have you seen positive change around this, even in Britain?

Yeah, we are kind of getting better at it. I feel like few extremely high-profile people, much higher profile than I am, for example, Prince Harry, talking about how he felt after his mother died, Princess Diana. And there was definitely a moment, or a period in time, when it became a lot more accessible to discuss these things.

But the truth is, when you're that way, you really don't want to talk about it. It's usually after the fact. And that's the hardest thing. Because you don't want to become that person who, when someone says, "How are you doing?," then you give them a massive diatribe on your inner psyche. Because, ultimately, it is inner. And sometimes, you can end up exacerbating the problem by focusing on it. So it's kind of a bit of a risk to then be seen as this person who has these problems. Because it does affect how people see you and treat you. And I certainly experienced that when I had kind of been in and out of hospital. And news got around town, because it's a small town. And certain people were very keen to try to help me. Or some people would stay well away, as if it was some kind of contagious thing. And I don't blame them. Because they, obviously, are not able to discuss their own inner world. And I respect that.

What made you want to actually go and speak publicly about your experience?

Well, I like to talk. I'm a teacher. I'm a peacock. I was a very shy child, actually. And through being a performer, I learned how to communicate on the front line in front of increasingly large crowds. And that's going to have an effect on you, and not all those effects are positive. But one of them is knowing how to get your point across. And knowing how to choose your words. So you're not just a rambler. You can be selective about what you say. And, perhaps, say the right thing at the right time. And that's a very powerful thing.

It sounds like there's a sort of a connective tissue between Barry the speaker and Barry the performer. Someone who knows how to conduct himself in front of a lot of people.

One of the dangers of becoming a performer is that it's very easy to stop practicing the generation of self-esteem. Self-esteem is so important. That's what allows you to walk down the street confidently and know what you're doing. And when you're getting rounds of applause, you can become intoxicated by it. And you lose those functional skills of how to actually define yourself without that crowd, without those reviews, without the interviews, without the privilege. And then, if you find yourself on a downturn in the music industry, which happens to everyone. People think about the Rolling Stones. The Rolling Stones haven't made any true contribution to music since probably the early ‘70s, but they're still carrying on, doing their thing. Right? But people say, "Well, they should stop." It's like how dare anyone tell a performer that they should not perform. It becomes part of your DNA. It becomes why you exist.

So when you guys actually decided to head back into the studio and record again, had much changed in terms of the band's chemistry?

It was a case of remembering than discovery. It was remembering how to be in the creative unit with these people that you've made lots of records with.

The hardest challenge, actually, was scheduling enough time. And we realized this when we started to rehearse. It was like, okay, we've been able to rehearse once a week, and then, maybe, the next week we couldn't. So we just thought, you know what? We just best start going whenever we can get together. We should be in the studio rather than a rehearsal room. Because at least, then, we'll have some kind of artifact, hopefully, at the end of the day to build upon. So it was very drawn out. Because we're used to hiring a studio for two, three weeks and making an album. This took maybe 30 sessions over the course of about six months. So the challenge was getting together into a room and whipping up that creative spirit on the dot. Like whisking an egg. Because you don't want to waste a day in the studio.

Yeah, it sounded like you guys started the process like a year ago, almost.

We did. I spoke to Ross on the phone two winters ago. We said, we're going to get together and do some stuff. And Jaff was like, "I'll only do it if we make a new album." And then, actually, we realized we couldn't really start it for another seven months. And that gave us time to get material together. Well, the writers in the band, predominantly myself and Ross. We're able to kind of scratch away at- Well, it's rock music. So, basically, riffs. Guitar riffs. And loving that. I've got three children now. And I work as a lecturer, and do commissioned work in private tuition. It was a juggling act for all of us in different ways.

Well, we got there. I'm really proud, actually, of this album. Because I know what it took to make it in terms of commitment and beliefs. Because, you know what, your album doesn't sound very good until it's mixed. And that happens at the end. And you've got to hold onto that confidence and regenerate it every time you go in. To know, actually, you're going in some kind of correct or authentic direction.

Moving into Powers’ track list, you guys also delve into the very relevant issue of changing British politics. Which tracks do you feel best illustrate that conversation?

I can only speak to my own songs, really. When I say my own songs, I mean the songs that I've brought. Obviously, these are our songs. I was the principal writer on this song called "Listen, Little Man!," which is about the kind of imbalance of power in society whereby the general population are placated into being and doing by the pressures of the world. And, meanwhile, there are a group of people who are just watching it all and manipulating it. Without wanting to sound like a paranoid conspiracy theorist or whatever. But it's true. We have the political class who are, in my opinion, absolutely embarrassing, right now, in this country. Self-obsessed careerist people with no social wisdom at all who've, generally, come from immense privilege and wouldn't know what it's like to make toast. And never mind balance a household. Then, come with no inheritance. Then, come with no privilege. Everyone else. You're talking about a very small amount of people with that privilege. They are kind of playing the tune.

And I don't want to sound cynical, because I think our duty as people is to find meaning in our lives regardless of the political situation or regardless of when we're born into history. That's always been the same. And we find meaning, often, to making things happen despite the odds. And that's where we gain our power. The album is called Powers also because this is an example of us using all of our powers. All of our musical power. All of our powers of friendship. Powers of commitment. Powers of schedule. And carrying it through to the end. When the album's out, then, we'll be able to be truly proud.

Palehound's Ellen Kempner Is Learning To Love Herself

GRAMMYs

PJ Harvey and John Parish perform at Primavera Sound Festival in 2016

Photo by Jordi Vidal/Redferns

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PJ Harvey's Lost Album: John Parish Discusses 1996 Gem 'Dance Hall At Louse Point'

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On the occasion of its recent reissue, we tracked down John Parish to talk about 'Dance Hall At Louse Point' and his earliest memories of meeting PJ Harvey as an ambitious teenager
Zach Schonfeld
GRAMMYs
Nov 10, 2020 - 10:19 am

PJ Harvey rarely looks back. The songwriter’s career has been defined by a restless sense of reinvention, each album cycle accompanied by a fresh persona—the blues roar of To Bring You My Love, or the glossy alt-rock romance of Stories From The City, Stories From The Sea—ready to be discarded at the next creative whim.

But 2020 has been an exception. Harvey has spent much of the year rolling out a vinyl reissue series of her back catalog, along with some accompanying demo albums. The latest vinyl reissue is something of an outlier: Dance Hall At Louse Point, Harvey’s abrasive 1996 collaboration with ex-bandmate John Parish. Harvey and Parish had first met in the late 1980s, when she joined his band Automatic Dlamini. In 1996, they combined Parish’s musical demos and Harvey’s lyrics on an album that would plunge the singer-songwriter into an avant-garde realm of disturbing monologues and banshee-wail vocals.

Credited to John Parish & Polly Jean Harvey, Dance Hall was largely overshadowed at the time by the immense success of To Bring You My Love. In retrospect, it’s an underrated gem and something of a lost album in Harvey’s catalog; as Harvey herself later acknowledged, "People don't even count that, yet that's the record I'm really proud of."

On the occasion of the album’s recent reissue, I tracked down John Parish to talk about the album’s unusual backstory and his earliest memories of meeting Harvey as an ambitious teenager. Since then, Parish has co-produced most of the singer’s solo albums, and in 2009, the pair reunited for a second collaborative record. This interview has been lightly edited and condensed.

At the time you made Dance Hall At Louse Point, you had already known Polly for a number of years. What was your first impression when you first met her in the '80s?

She was like 17 when I first met her. She was coming to see my band, Automatic Dlamini, whenever we played in her local area. We all got to chatting after a gig. A mutual friend introduced us, and then she gave me a couple of cassettes of some of her early songs she’d been writing. They were kind of like folk songs at that time, really. But her voice—it was already there. It was fully formed at that age.

I just thought, "That girl’s got a really good voice, I’m gonna see if she wants to join the band." So I just asked her. When she finished school, she came and joined the band and she played with us for the next three years, before she formed the first PJ Harvey trio.

Was there a moment when you first realized, "This person is extraordinarily talented, oh my God."

I mean, I obviously saw something that was really good there; otherwise I wouldn’t have asked her to join the band. You can’t possibly predict how somebody’s going to develop as an artist. I could see that she had the potential to be great. If I said, "Oh, I knew she was going to be a star"—obviously nobody can know those kinds of things.

Do you have any favorite memories of working with Polly in Automatic Dlamini?

She came in at a point when the original lineup was kind of falling apart. I was rebuilding a lineup, and she was an absolutely fundamental part of that. She’s always had an old head on young shoulders. She was somebody that you could talk to and discuss pretty serious issues. As a teenager, she was very serious. And was quite capable of being able to offer good advice. We started relying on each other.

Was she nervous performing onstage with the band when she first joined?

The first couple of shows, yeah, really nervous. As you would be. But no, she got used to it pretty fast.

Tell me about the origin story for Dance Hall At Louse Point. My understanding is that you wrote those songs while on tour with Polly for To Bring You My Love?

That’s semi-right. It was Polly’s idea. It was after Rid Of Me, before she had started To Bring You My Love. I was teaching a performing arts course at a local college. I’d written some music for a theater production, and Polly came along to see it. She absolutely loved the music, and said afterwards, "Would you write me some music in that kind of vein? That I could try writing words to?" I said, "OK, that would be great."

That’s how we had the idea for the album. I was writing the music for Dance Hall At Louse Point at the same time she was writing the music for To Bring You My Love. I then became involved with [To Bring You My Love], which was obviously a big record. And it involved a big tour as well. Took 18 months of our time. While we were on tour for To Bring You My Love, that’s when Polly wrote all the words. She already had a cassette of the music for the Dance Hall record, which she carried around with her on the tour and then wrote lyrics in different cities. Which is why those cities are referenced on the album sleeve.

Were you hearing her lyrics while she was writing them? Or were you both working in your own separate worlds?

She would sort of drop a cassette into my hotel room and say, "I've got some lyrics for this song." I'd hear them as they were coming in. It was always kind of, "Here you go, here's the lyrics." And it would always be completely done. It was very exciting.

I was reading some old interviews with Polly. There’s one where she describes that record as being a huge turning point for her. What do you think she meant by that?

It’s always difficult to talk about how that is for somebody else. My take on that is—and I know this from myself when I’m writing in collaboration with somebody else—it’s a certain freedom you have that you don’t give yourself if you're writing entirely individually, because you have the weight of the whole thing. When you can share the weight, it eases you up to do things you might be nervous about doing yourself, because you’re not sure whether you’ve gone off a stupid tangent and you’re not seeing it.

You can try those things that might seem kind of wayward. And you have another person that you rely on say, "Oh yeah, that’s great. Push it a bit further." Like I said before, she approaches most things very seriously. Writing particularly so. So I think it probably enabled her to be a bit more wayward than she might have been. When I first heard her vocal idea for "Taut," I mean—the entire delivery of the song was kind of extreme.

Which song are you referring to?

I’m referring to "Taut." Which is quite an extreme performance. A lot of the songs, I would give her a title. So I gave her the title "Taut." She didn’t have to use it if she didn’t want to. Some of the titles she used; some she didn’t. But I think it was also quite freeing to suddenly have a word or a line and say, "What are you gonna come up with for that?"

I’m assuming Polly thinks the same. She might have a totally different reason for saying that was a turning point. It could also be that, up until that point, the lyrics she had been writing—you know, Rid Of Me and Dry—were very personal lyrics. Or they could be read in a personal way, couldn’t they? Louse Point was very much stories and scenarios. You weren’t imagining that Polly was talking about herself in the bulk of those songs.

The vocal performance on "City Of No Sun" is also quite extreme and very jarring. Were you taken aback by her approach to singing this material?

I was a bit surprised. In a good way. I thought it was really exciting. I remember the performance of "City Of No Sun" when we were in the studio. She said, "OK, I’ll record the quiet bits first, then I’ll do the loud bits." So she had the engineer set the levels, doing the quiet bits. It’s quite strange timing in that song, to get everything to line up. She hit the chorus; she had two or three go’s and she kept getting it wrong.

At one point, she got it wrong again and she was so annoyed that she just went straight into the loud bit anyway. We had the mic set to be recording this really quiet vocal, so all the needles shot way into the red. It was on tape, which can really compress those kinds of things.

Is that the performance that is actually on the record? You can hear how it sounds a bit distorted.

Yeah. Because it’s absolutely pushing everything. She didn't mean to record it like that, but it just sounded so great. Of course we kept it.

Whose idea was it to cover "Is That All There Is?" by Peggy Lee?

It was initially done because they needed it for this film [Basquiat]. We really liked the way it came out, so we thought, "Oh, it kind of fits on the record." The recording that’s on the album is actually the first time we’d ever played that song. There were no rehearsals. We didn’t really know what we were going to do. Mick Harvey played the organ, I played drums, and Polly sang.

Obviously, most of her albums are credited to PJ Harvey. On this album, she's Polly Jean Harvey. What do you think is the significance of her changing her billing?

That was absolutely her call. I think she was quite protective of me. She very much said, "I want it to be called John Parish and Polly Jean Harvey, not the other way around." It’s difficult, isn’t it, if you’re an established artist and you suddenly work with someone who’s unknown, or de facto unknown. It’s like, "Oh, PJ Harvey and some bloke" kind of thing. I think she was trying to find the best way of making people realize that it wasn’t another PJ Harvey album. I know that later on, when we did the second collaboration, it was PJ Harvey and John Parish. It in some ways made more sense, but you’re never quite sure how you should go about those things when you’re doing them.

Some articles I’ve read state that the record label, Island, was uncomfortable with the album and believed it to be "commercial suicide." Is there any truth to that?

I’m sure there were people at Island who were a little bit unnerved by it. And by the fact that it was coming out not as a PJ Harvey record, but under a different name, when To Bring You My Love had just been such a relatively commercial success for PJ Harvey. Probably somebody said it was commercial suicide. If they really thought that, I doubt they would have put it out. I think they didn’t really know what it was.

I have to give quite a lot of credit to Polly’s manager, Paul McGuinness. I think if he hadn’t been behind it, perhaps Island Records wouldn’t have gone for it. But Paul heard it and he was like, "This is a really good record." Obviously he had a lot of clout and a lot of credibility with Island.

During this period, Polly was also becoming successful very quickly. Perhaps she was overwhelmed by the expectations from the record label or the degree of media scrutiny. Do you think those factors contributed to her desire to separate herself from the PJ Harvey that people knew?

You’d probably have to ask her. My take would be that it’s not quite as thought-through as that. She doesn’t like to repeat herself. The last thing she would have wanted to do at that time would have been To Bring You My Love 2. Her gut reaction is to try and do something different each time. Which is why I think she’s had such a long, successful career. I think there was a lot of pressure after the first album, Dry—the record company didn’t like Rid Of Me. They didn’t want to have this Steve Albini-recorded, very hard-hitting album. They were hoping for something more commercial, like I would have said Dry was.

If you are able to reinvent yourself each time—which, obviously a lot of artists just don’t have that facility—if you can, it sets you up for a much longer, more interesting career.

The album title refers to a painting. How did the title present itself to you or to Polly?

I was, and I still am, a very big fan of the painting Rosy-Fingered Dawn At Louse Point by [William] de Kooning. I told you I was giving Polly some of the songs I gave her with titles. One of them, which she ended up not writing any lyrics to—the title track from the album—is an instrumental. That was just a title I gave it. There was something about a place called "Louse Point" that sounded sort of desolate and rather unappealing, and I just thought a dance hall—I just liked the atmosphere that the title [suggested].

How would you describe this album’s long-term legacy in Polly’s career? Do you think it’s overdue for more attention?

I mean, I know it’s seemed like there’s a hardcore group of fans that like it very much. In the U.K. and Europe, there were a lot of people [who] liked it pretty much straight away. Perhaps in America it took a little bit longer to find its home. Obviously we never came over, played any shows, did anything in the U.S. at the time of its release. A lot of people talk to me about it 23, 24 years after its release and say they love it very much. I guess it has its fans for sure.

Once this reissue campaign is over, do you think we can expect a new album from Polly next year?

Umm… I don’t know. I can’t really answer that.

Are there any more previously unreleased demos, like the Dry demos, that fans can look forward to as part of this reissue campaign?

Nearly all the albums will come with accompanying demos. Probably the only ones that won’t are our two collaborative albums—the demos would all be instrumental versions of the album, because that’s how we went about it.

What can you tell me about the demos for Is This Desire?

Well, there’s a demo version of "The Garden," which I really, really love. Had it been down to me, I would have said "Put the demo version on the album" when the record came out. Because I just think it’s one of Polly’s greatest demos. Generally, I like the demos for Is This Desire? a lot.

And the b-sides from that record as well—"Sweeter Than Anything," "Nina in Ecstasy." I think there are some really extraordinary songs that didn’t make it onto the proper album.

You and me both. I think "Nina In Ecstasy" should have been on the record. That was my favorite track of the whole set of demos. So I was very disappointed that that didn't make it onto the album.

I’m glad I’m not the only one who thought that track should have been on there. Will those b-sides be included with the reissue package?

Not the initial reissue package, because it’s literally the album plus demos of the album. I might be wrong, but I think there might be some kind of b-sides and rarities thing to come out as another package at some point down the line.

Will you also be reissuing the more recent albums, like Let England Shake and The Hope Six Demolition Project?

I think Hope Six is still available anyway. So I don’t think there’s any point in reissuing that. But I think everything that was unavailable is being made available.

Has Polly herself been very involved in preparing these reissues and overseeing everything?

No, I think she’s delegated to people like me or Head. And she’s delegated the artwork; it’s all the people that did it originally who are working on it again. She’s very good at [delegating].

I’ve always gotten the sense she doesn’t like to dwell on her past work. She’s more interested in doing something new.

As all creative artists should be, I think.

Ruth Bader Ginsburg, The Honorable Music Lover

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Slow Pulp Find Serenity

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The Madison-born, Chicago-based shoegazey quartet open up about the trying events that led up to recording their tranquil debut album, 'Moveys'
Danielle Chelosky
GRAMMYs
Oct 7, 2020 - 11:31 am

Slow Pulp aren’t sure how to sonically categorize themselves, so they jokingly offer: "cow rock," "slowcore" and "not emo, but emotional." They’ve been labeled as shoegaze before, but they think the reason for that is: "We’ve put out such a little amount of music that people don’t know what to call it yet."

The group is based in Chicago, but the four of them are from Wisconsin. Three of the members—Alexander Leeds (bass), Theodore Mathews (drums) and Henry Stoehr (guitar)—have been playing together since sixth grade, and Emily Massey (vocals/guitar) joined in 2017. Moveys is their debut album, arriving via Winspear on Oct. 9.

Moveys follows a crazy series of events involving a depressive episode, a diagnosis and a car crash, but the record glows with an aura of serenity and weightlessness. It’s different from their past material; it’s more focused and cohesive. It’s naturally packed with inside jokes, eccentric sound effects, infectious indie rock riffs and sprawling folk ballads. Read our chat with the band about the making of Moveys.

While all of you were working on this album, Emily, you got diagnosed with Lyme Disease and Chronic Mono and then your parents were involved in a crash. Could you take me through this timeline?

Massey: Where do we begin?! Last year we all lived together and we were touring a lot and trying to write music. I was experiencing a lot of fatigue. I was sleeping most days and feeling really depressed and confused about my health. My motivation level was really low and my [self-esteem] was really low. I was in a big time period of questioning whether or not I was capable of being in a band and writing. When we started writing a lot of the songs on this record, I started feeling a little bit better in terms of my mental health and desire to get better. I went to the doctor in the fall of 2019 right before we were going on some other tours. I got my diagnosis. It was really validating in a lot of ways because it was another piece of my health that was causing my fatigue and my anxiety and getting sick a lot. That’s kind of when we really started writing the record—after that diagnosis.

I started getting a lot of tools to take care of myself and then my parents got into a car accident on March 1 of 2020. My mom broke her neck and my dad fractured his neck, so they both had pretty serious injuries and were in the hospital for a while. I came back to Madison, Wisconsin, to take care of them. Then, a couple weeks later, COVID hit. I remember I came back to visit Chicago for a day and that’s when it really dawned on me how serious it was. I asked the boys—Henry, Teddy and Alex—if they wanted to hang out and they were all like, Um… I don’t think we should do that. That’s a bad idea because of coronavirus. And I was like, Oh, yeah, that’s a real thing. The next day my mom was in the rehab hospital terminal and I couldn’t even see her for three weeks because they wouldn’t let anybody in. That was really crazy and I ended up getting stuck in Madison partly because of COVID and my parents needed a full-time care taker. There was no one else to do it, except for me and my sister. Because of coronavirus, we couldn’t have family friends coming over or anything like that. It was a really strange time to be dealing with all of these things in what felt like an isolated and lonely way. There’s just a lot going on—drama with family friends. It was a very difficult time. We finished a lot of the record during that time [laughs]. It was kind of a whirlwind.

But my dad is a musician and he engineered my vocals on the album. In a way, working on the record was a nice reprieve from being a care taker and dealing with grief. Weird juxtaposition finishing a record and writing about being emotional and sad and dealing with a lot of difficult things but also using it as a thing to help me through it.

Was it nostalgic to be back in Madison, Wisconsin?

Massey: It was a nice time to be there, I think. I hadn’t been there in a while, and I think after this time I have a new appreciation for it—for the city. I grew up there and before I moved to Chicago I lived there my whole life. My parents actually are moving away from there this fall, so it was my last time being in Madison as a home base. My mom put it in an interesting way—since my sister and I moved out of the house, it’s was the last time that we would really spend time as a family like this, unless the pandemic gets worse and everything fails and I don’t have any money and I have to go back [laughs]. Which is highly likely, but it is an interesting time to reflect. I’ve been in Madison during tough times and I’ve found it to be a very healing place. There’s a lot of lakes and it’s really beautiful to walk around. That helped me a lot.

How does mental health tie into the record?

Massey: When we started writing this record, I was at a low point within my own mental health. I was having a really difficult time explaining it or communicating about it especially to my bandmates. I was—for a while—unable to write. I was really self-conscious about writing and was very self-deprecating all of the time. That’s difficult when you’re a musician because you have to believe in what you’re making, and I wasn’t in a space to do that.

Mental health isn’t something where you wake up and you’re like, "I’m better and good!" It’s something that comes and goes, at least from my own experience. Throughout this record, I was learning a lot about myself, about my body with my diagnosis, about myself as an artist, about myself as a human who was growing. It was at the forefront of my mind, and lyrically it came out. For me, it was a way to understand it. I was having trouble understanding how it manifested in myself. It’s a weird position to be in when you’re a performing or touring musician and you feel so against yourself. I felt like I hated myself and was being [disingenuous] to people watching me, like I was pretending and putting on a facade of being confident and like I knew what I was doing. I needed to step back, and I’m still figuring it out. I don’t have the answers at all. I feel lucky to have gotten out of the place that I was in, but the pandemic and all of the other stuff doesn’t make it easy to continue on the right track [laughs]. It’s a process of figuring out how to care for yourself in the best way. I think this record helped me do that, or at least move forward in doing that.

The press release says the title Moveys is an inside joke. What’s it about?

Massey: [Laughs.] It’s kind of funny that they called it an inside joke. Henry had written the last song on the record, "Movey," and I thought it was funny. I liked the word a lot. A lot of the songs also started with names that were related to movie titles. Like, "Whispers (In The Outfield)"—Henry, correct me if I’m wrong—but that’s related to Field of Dreams.

Stoehr: It was actually Rookie of the Year. [Laughs.]

Massey: And we had another song that started out with the title "Evan Almighty." Just random things. For "Track," at one point, we had talked about The Wild Thornberrys Movie as an inspiration. And the way that we communicate about music is very visual. Sometimes Henry will try to be talking about a song and he’ll set up an entire scene to describe it rather than I want it to sound like this. So, I think in that way it’s an interesting tie-in to the title. I also have a history with dance; I used to be a ballet dancer, and I’m a ballet teacher outside of being a musician. That plays into it. We’re just connected to the word in many ways. Movement in terms of health and mental health. I think Alex said something earlier about motion and movement within yourself and your growth being transient and that changing.

There’s a bunch of weird noises and bits throughout the record. Where did these come from?

Stoehr: The sound in "Idaho" is from Teddy and I recording at the same time. I had done this delay effect with guitar pedals, and it was just in the scratch take and I left it in there. For most of the other sounds, we branched out and did some different textures and song environments. I found this keyboard in an alley when we started recording it and it has a lot of cool sounds on it.

Where did the piano instrumental on "Whispers (In The Outfield)" come from?

Stoehr: I had just been playing more piano in between working on the other songs and recording. I had this chord progression going and I’d been fine-tuning it over the course of writing and recording the album. It was one of the last ones that we figured out. I was thinking about this one song that I recently found from this baseball movie used to watch when I was a kid, and I didn’t realize I was thinking about it necessarily at the time. I think I was trying to capture this big baseball energy but in a nice piano song. [Laughs.] I couldn’t play it exactly how I was imagining it, because I don’t play all that much piano. And Emily’s dad is a professional piano player so I sent him a video of me just playing the chords and then we talked and he sent back a couple versions of him playing it. He shredded it.

Massey: He knocked it out of the ballpark.

Shamir Talks New Self-Titled Album, DMing With Mandy Moore & Being The Change He Wants To See

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Shamir Talks New Self-Titled Album, DMing With Mandy Moore & Being The Change He Wants To See

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The Las Vegas-born, Philly-based D.I.Y. luminary speaks to GRAMMY.com about managing his own music career and "reintroducing myself in an accessible way"
Rachel Brodsky
GRAMMYs
Oct 6, 2020 - 11:39 am

When Shamir Bailey first showed up in music circles, he was barely out of his teens. The year was 2015, he was living in New York and interning at the "indie-major" label XL Recordings, where he'd even been signed. "I was on a fast track of being a major mainstream pop star," he tells GRAMMY.com in a phone call from his home in Philadelphia. That year, Shamir released the critically beloved debut, Ratchet—a bouncy-ball collection of electro-pop cuts, all topped off with Shamir's cheeky, countertenor vocals. 

Five years later, Shamir is in a markedly different place—musically, spiritually, emotionally. Splitting from XL in 2017, citing creative differences, Shamir self-released a handful of genre-jumping records: 2017's Hope and Revelations, 2018's Resolution, 2019's Be The Yee, Here Comes The Haw, 2020's Cataclysm. Last year, he launched his own label, Accidental Popstar, which incubates and develops burgeoning talent and is home to D.I.Y. performers Southwick, Grant Pavol and Poolblood. 

Now, Shamir has released his latest work, a just-released self-titled album, which serves as a re-entry of sorts into the mainstream music zeitgeist and is, as he said in his publicity materials, "the record that's most me."

Borrowing influences from a range of genres—punk, country, dance and, of course, pop—the self-released Shamir brings the 25-year-old's career full circle with its instantly catchy arrangements, authentic artistry and candid indifference for whatever the music industry thought he should be. 

GRAMMY.com called Shamir up to chat about his latest release, what going independent has taught him as an artist and the best advice he received from one of his heroes: Mandy Moore.

I love the new album, and I'm excited to talk to you about it. You had gone back to Vegas, but now you're in Philly. Is that correct?

I went back to Vegas for... I want to say four months after New York, because I didn't like it. But other than that, I've been in Philly since 2015. I was just basically homeless most of 2015 because I was touring Ratchet nonstop and didn't have a break until the end of 2015. But most of 2015, I knew that I was going to be in Philly. I just loved Philly. I've been here ever since.

I've the always gotten the sense that Philly is a little bit more of a rewarding community for artists and musicians, where New York can be… Well, it's its own kind of stress. Did you found that to be the case?

Yeah. When I came to New York, I was definitely welcome for the music scene. I was living and working at Silent Barn, but I just like how casual the Philly scene was, and how no one was trying to be famous. Everyone was just trying to have fun [and] share music, and it there was no pretension behind it at all whatsoever. And I'm like, "This is me. This is where I'm meant to be."

In many of the interviews I’ve read with you this year, you’ve spoken about being introverted and how that factors into quarantine life. When you look ahead into spending the coming months in quarantine, as a musician, how does that sit with you?

I don't know. I really want to tour. I often like to give myself hiatuses between touring, just to preserve my mental health. I was really ready to go back on the road this year. This is the longest I've ever gone without touring at all. It definitely just the longest I've ever gone just a show, because I still did one-offs last year. But other than that, I'm chilling, like I said. It's really not too different from my normal life, especially since all of my closest friends live in different cities and states, maybe countries. I’m still staying up in their life, digitally.

I’d love to spend some time talking about your transition from working with a major indie label to releasing music independently. What has been the most profound thing that you’ve learned from that journey?

I don't know. I think it's harder for me to say, because I've always felt it was deeply important to be as savvy on the industry and business side of music, as that's the most important for me. From the beginning, I worked on things behind the scenes. A lot of people don't know, during the Ratchet era, I was managing a band and interning at XL as well.

I think if anything, because of that, it made the transition fairly easy for me. I think, for me, it was just better once I started to do things independently in a way, because it's not playing a game of telephone. I think working with a label was like playing a game of telephone, and it's constantly having to explain yourself and set the truth and try to get everyone else on the same mindset that you're on. Which I'm better at now because of the years of experience. But I think, at the beginning, that was just very hard for me. And also, I was just very young and not confident. So, if I wasn't heard, I would just stand down.

Other than that, I think I've had a bit more freedom, and it's been easier. But it's obviously a lot more work, because you're doing everything yourself. You're doing the marketing. I have a publicist, thank God, but you're finding the right publicist for you. But, like I said, I was lucky to have a lot of those connections and understand a lot of that, but I made sure I could.

If you didn't go into artistry itself, what side of the business was interesting to you?

I think A&R and artist development.

That’s really interesting. Starting out as young as you did—that can be an age where you can envision yourself doing multiple things in an industry. You’re just trying to figure out what works for you.

Yeah. I realized artist development worked best. At first, I thought maybe managing, but I was managing up-and-coming artists, and I realized that I was mostly developing them, and the managing side of things, I actually hated. So yeah, even just less than A&R-ing, even though A&R-ers typically are supposed to help develop an artist.

I think because the industry wants fully formed artists these days, A&R is just maybe fewer artists, it's a producer or two, and help with the funding of the record and making sure all of that is intact. But I also like just working with raw material and just helping the artists build off of what's already within them, but just put it in a pretty bottle.

So, when you're developing artists via Accidental Popstar, what do you look for when you bring someone into that network?

First, I'd have a relationship with them, realistically. Everyone that I work was on the label, I have a really deep relationship what. Grant Pavol, I've known him since he was 16. I've been friends with Southwick for the longest, before we started working together, and actually met Paige five years ago when she was interning at NPR. You can actually see her at my Tiny Desk session, when everyone was sitting around me, and then we reconnected a few years later. I was just like, "Hi, nice to meet you." She was like, "We've actually met."

So yeah, I think I have to know the artists inside and out, not even just as an artist, but as a person as well, just so I'm aware of their boundaries. I think the industry in general, when working with artists, doesn’t try to do the work to understand the artist as a person. And so, because of that, they have a very one- or two-dimensional idea of the artist. And I think you have to know the artist as a person as well to get a full scope of who they are as an artist.

To circle back to something that you talked a little bit about in your Billboard interview, you said that were definitely open and hopeful when it comes to perhaps joining a major in the future, now that you have a more well-rounded idea of how the machine works. And part of that is because you want to see a more diverse, intersectional artist roster. Are there any majors—or really any labels at all out there—that you think are doing something right in terms of artist diversity?

Well, I'm not really sure. I have friends that work at majors, but I think for the most part, just being in Philly also has kept me in this bubble away from the majors, which was kind of the point. I came here to focus on myself and my art, and I just also love it as well.

I think now I'm really planning to get an idea of all of the different majors and specifically what they can offer, and specifically what they can offer me. Right now, I'm talking to someone from a major label, and she's been answering every question I have and letting things work, and blah, blah, blah. So, I don't know, I can't really say off the bat specifically any names, but I'm definitely in that process of dwindling down what makes the most sense.

Yeah, we’re living in a time where the industry at large is promising to do better, from a diversity standpoint. Have you seen anything from anyone—whether it’s a company or a specific person—that inspires confidence in you?

Yeah, I'm taking everything with a grain of salt. That's the only reason why I'm even caring about or coming back to reintroducing myself in an accessible way. At the beginning, I was on a fast track of being a major mainstream pop star. But that wasn't necessarily my dream at the time. Maybe not even still now. I just guess I feel more well equipped for it now. But I was like, "I'll step down, and then there would be another black, queer, genderqueer pop star." Right? There has to be. I made such a huge mark. People are literally copying me. People are literally ripping me off. It must happen. And it didn't, and that frustrated me. And so, it's like, "You got to be the change you want to see in the world." I was blessed with this platform, and it never really wavered. So, it would be selfish of me, at this point, not to fully go for it. Do you know what I mean?

Yes, absolutely. Switching gears to the album itself—Shamir experiments with dance, pop, grunge, country, punk. And you’ve said that this the truest representation of you, musically.

Yeah. I finally was able to mix all of those genres in. Does it feel like you're getting whipped?

No, it feels really balanced.

Yeah. That's what I'm most proud of, honestly. It's not so much that it's so different than anything that I've been doing—it's focused, it's super highly focused to the point where I'm able to hit every element without it feeling overwhelming. And I think that's just really it. And so, in that way, it just feels the most me, because it's the most digestible me I think I've been since ever, honestly. I think even in a lot of ways, it's more accessible than even Ratchet, because I think a lot of weird-ass heavy electronic production looks weird in Ratchet.

It's hard to strike that balance, but you make it look easy.

Thank you. Again, this is the longest I've ever worked on a record. Normally, as you've seen in the past, I like to just write the songs, record the songs, put them out there. And this was the first time... even since Ratchet. Ratchet was done very quickly. This is the first time where I wrote the song and let them breathe for a year.

There’s a line that stuck out to me in the single "On My Own." The refrain, "And I don't care to feel like I belong, but you always did." Is that referring to feeling fundamentally out of sync with a partner?

Exactly. I think the song is very generalized, but I think that one specific line is just to that person. To the person, I was like, "Yes. You." They weren't necessarily vain, and I don't think they necessarily felt they need to keep up with the Joneses, but I think they felt the need not to stand out. You know what I mean? And I don't like that. I think that's worse to keeping up with the Joneses to me in a way, because I think... The person was white, I'm just going to say that, but I think there is a certain amount of privilege to being able to still be taken seriously, but also being modest. I think I don't have the privilege [to be] modest, because then I'll just be not heard. You know what I mean? Therefore, I can't be modest, and I think a lack of modesty probably was a lot for that person. 

That's frustrating. And then you might not feel seen.

Well, it's not so much that not even just don't feel seen; it's just like, "This is how I have to navigate, I'm sorry. I've gotten everything that I've gotten right now because I have to navigate like this." I'd rather not. I just think that I'm a low-key person, I'm super introverted, I'm laid-back. I'd rather not, realistically, but I have to.

I was curious—you put out another record, Cataclysm, in March of this year. How did those overlap with each other in terms of the actual writing and recording?

I think Cataclysm, honestly, is very not pop production-wise. It’s very grungy and very fuzzy and very all of those things, but I think some of the best pop songwriting that I've done. There are some songs on there I think that are even poppier than stuff that's on Shamir, but that was the point of Cataclysm. It was supposed to be this very dirtied pop record, because the songs were so very pop and straightforward. So, in that way, that's how they coincide. And often, everyone's just really gravitated towards it as well, because I think I've made the record to sound like the end of the world. I think a lot of people are resonating with that, and I wanted it to sound like an old tape that you found in the ruins of the mess.

Cataclysm wasn't supposed to come out, and when lockdown hit, I was like, "I guess the world needs it." I actually had shot Cataclysm, and I think no one really got it. It's supposed to sound like this. Also, the record is completely a mono as well. It's so weird production-wise, and I'm like, "Yes. It's supposed to sound monochromatic." Yeah, I think it was just timing. I think the universe was just like, "Now. It's supposed to be for now."

On a lighter note, I was excited that you got to interview Mandy Moore for Billboard.

Oh my God!

How did that come together? Did the editors set you guys up, or had you put in a specific request?

No, the editors set us up. I've been talking about how much I love Mandy Moore my entire career, first and foremost. It all started with the Pitchfork Over/Under piece.

Yeah. It's so funny, and honestly ridiculous. But when they came up with the questions, they have to have gone through my Twitter, which I think I've mentioned in the video, because right before that, I had talked about how much I loved Mandy Moore and specifically Wild Hope. I'm not sure if I single-handedly helped us, but at the time, it wasn't on streaming, but then magically, I want to say two years later, it was. So, I don't know if I single-handedly threw the first brick, but I like to think I did.

And I just didn't think anything of it. And then because they mentioned it in the video, everyone started talking about Mandy again, and then she got on that huge show, on This Is Us, and then there was this whole new resurgence of Mandy Moore. And during that time, we actually followed each other, because she had saw the video, and she's like, "Oh, I don't know." So, we had already been internet friends, at least, for the longest. And then she actually specifically hit me up when "On My Own" came out, and was just like, "I love this song," and everything. Actually, we were DMing yesterday. I love Mandy. She's just the best, she's so sweet, and is just genuinely invested in my career.

Has she given you any career advice, whether in the interview or outside of it, that’s really stuck with you?

I can't even really pick out anything specifically, because that whole specific interview was just giving advice to younger people in the industry. I asked her about balancing acting and music, because I definitely want to get more into acting. She kind of confirmed what I [had] already been feeling. A lot of these things, you just have to go with the flow. You can't do it all at once. Just really, really pace yourself. That's what I've been trying to do. As much as I want to like do it all, I have to cut out time and pace myself.

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