You don't see Fiddlehead crisscrossing the globe over and over; if you miss them in your area, chances are they won't be back in a few months. In fact, there's no assurance they'll return in the foreseeable future — or ever.

"There's no guarantee that it's going to happen again," says vocalist Pat Flynn, in an interview about their new album, Death is Nothing to Us. "Because the band is clearly not our life."

The rhythms of domesticity rumble around Flynn; because "my office was invaded by my children," he's Zooming from another room. (When he told them he was "talking to GRAMMY," the kids misunderstood it to mean Grandma.)

For the hardcore-adjacent supergroup — composed of members of Basement, Have Heart and more — life responsibilities have engendered a "scarcity effect."

But instead of rendering Fiddlehead lost in the shuffle, this has made their performances unforgettable — both for the audience and band.

"I've been in bands where we've toured for three to six weeks at a time, and I can barely remember one from the other," adds their guitarist, Alex Henery, from a parallel Zoom window.

But with Fiddlehead? "I can track down most shows in my brain when I think about it because there's not that many," Henery says. "It really does feel special, and I really never want to wish away that time."

Out Aug. 18, Death is Nothing to Us frequently evokes a feeling of holding onto the present. "Face it all/ Replace with love," Flynn repeatedly exhorts in the combustible "Sullenboy." In the aching "Fifteen to Infinity," he sings of heaven being attainable on the sofa, "in the nothingness of our night."

And the final line, from closer "Going to Die," seems to encapsulate the album's mortality-haunted essence: "See you on the other side/ I know I will/ But I don't wanna die."

Granted, Fiddlehead didn't become a "grief band" by some grand design. But from their first demo, that's been a major component of their emotional landscape.

"It just so happened that I was in a pretty thick stage of dealing with the loss of my father," Flynn says. "So, that first record [2018’s Springtime and Blind] really connected and I think a lot of people connected with it in sharing stories of profound losses in their lives. The positive response was motivating to continue the band."

This theme has seemingly crescendoed with Death is Nothing to Us, a 12-song, 27-minute volley of life-affirming, kinetic rock. Read on for an interview with Flynn and Henery about how Fiddlehead's third album came to be.

This interview has been edited for clarity.

Pat, you grew up Catholic; in "True Hardcore (II)," you sing about scenesters who are "pseudo and false to the core/ keeping the gates closed." What's the overlap between religious sanctimony and subcultural gatekeeping?

Pat Flynn: Growing up in a Catholic education, perhaps I've always been skeptical of those who are trying to draw too firm of a line.

But in just terms of gatekeeping, to me, it's more like that's how you kill art, that's just how you destroy it. When you start to codify too many things and you label the genre, you make it really intensively small.. .it becomes like you have to look a certain way to sound a certain way. 

I'm skeptical of retrospective psychoanalysis, but, sure, I think that there's probably some type of overlap of there being too many strict codes — which is a lot of what a Catholic education has to be. And I've always really appreciated the power of the individual as opposed to the mediator.

[Catholicism is] a top-down structure. And when I was in high school, the top-down structure was definitely a motivator to find something like the hardcore scene really appealing; it was an equalizer.

I know why I felt compelled to write the lyrics for "True Hardcore (II)" more specifically, but the record in itself seems to really follow my own path with my struggles of hitting the low points. 

I can't deny the fact that for the last 24 to 25 years, I've always found hardcore to be a place that's kind of uplifting and helped me bounce back. I just see it as totally precious and valuable.

And so the idea when some people try to make it too exclusive, or a selectively chosen community, it really agitated me. It's taken away the human appeal to thriving in life. I don't know if that sounds all corny, but it's an interesting song.

Has that individual-over-group ethos always been at the core of Fiddlehead's music?

Flynn: I specifically and explicitly remember saying, "Hey, let's just write as if we're never going to play out and play live," so that we can keep a pure sound.

And I think I was definitely burnt out with too much exposure to a community, and dealing with the noise of the community with my previous band [Have Heart]. And so I just wanted to get back to just writing for the sake of the enjoyment of creation.

However, when it began to connect with people in a really positive way, I was very quickly reminded of the value of sharing your art with a larger world around you. It very much went on to inspire writing the second record, and it continues to inspire the band to continue creating art.

Alex Henery: I was thinking back to early shows the other day, and it was awesome, honestly.

Back then, all you'd care about is just playing the show. There were no distractions; we weren't trying to win anyone over. It was purely just that we'd written these songs we liked and we wanted to play them.

We always talk about some of those early shows, as it doesn't get much more pure than that or us. Getting back to the core of it was definitely really important to me.

How would you guys characterize the period of time between Between the Richness and Death is Nothing to Us?

Flynn: It's been pretty positive. We actually started writing this record before Between the Richness came out. Between the Richness was recorded in February of 2020, and obviously, the world kind of stopped.

We didn't know if shows were ever coming back. There was actually no guarantee that we would ever play music live again. And yet we were still meeting up in our barn just putting music together because that just felt right.

We don't play too much, and so it really does create a nice scarcity effect, if you will. People feel like they really have to — and especially, very much so us — really soak up the live moment.

We all have different lives; we all have very different ambitions. It's not that we're always teetering on the brink of breaking up or anything like that. But it does make us savor the moment, and it makes the shows to be as sacred as you can make them — and as intense, in the moment, and cathartic, in many ways.

We're just playing and continuing to write, and allowing for the interactions with the people to inform our ideas about writing. And it's been a pretty great reciprocal relationship with the people who have been supporting us through the last few years.

I think the record has been a bit of a reflection of areas that we wanted to explore musically and lyrically that we had not before.

Henery: I was writing out of the really strong desire, after being cooped up in my room for so long, of getting to play loud — practicing and just turning the amps up loud and letting it out. It was awesome, and I think we all needed that at that point.

Fast forward all the way 'til now — where everything has changed again, and we do have shows and I feel like we appreciate it even more than we already did.

I'm very excited to be able to travel and play music. We're about to go to Southeast Asia. I'm excited to go to some places I've never been before and play in front of a bunch of different audiences, and play this new record for people.

It's crazy to think about it starting all the way back then, and coming to fruition now. I forgot how long this journey's been.

Flynn: [Regarding] the record — it's cool in a sense. We don't really tinker too much with the songs. It's a fairly organic process when we're writing it. Ideas just sort of pop out and we don't want to overdo it, overproduce it.

I think a lot of that has to do with trying to keep the magic of the writing moment. A lot of these songs that end up getting recorded in the studio are pretty raw, other than the fact that we're just recording them again. We didn't change too many things.

I like that. It's special. Nothing is perfect. In a day in which there's increasing motivation to try and make it and do the right thing that the masses want to hear, what's going to be digestible and yada, yada, yada… this has felt pretty pure.

Henery: We've never had the luxury of going in for a month, two months and being in the studio and really just musing over the song. One song is maybe three days, four days.

I don't even know if I believe in the perfect take. I think we all just, we go until we feel that it's good and then we keep it moving. And I think that you hear that in this record. It has a natural feel rather than OK, again, again, again.

I think we're more of a "feel band" and we go off that, so there are imperfections here and there. But I think that adds to the charm of it.

And we have an amazing engineer, Chris Teti. I'm glad that we're not with someone who's like, "No, let's just do it another 50 times; maybe there's something extra we could find in there." Let's just keep it moving and see what else we can come up with.

*Fiddlehead. Photo: Pooneh Ghana*

With that in mind, tell me how you wanted the album to grab people on an aural, visceral level.

Henery: [Alex] Dow, our guitarist, brought the riff for the opening record ["The Deathlife"]. He showed it to Pat, and the two of them instantly had the vision. I was the last person to gain that vision. It just wasn't clicking.

It wasn't until we fully hit the studio that, hearing the lyrics and the way that Pat performed the vocals, [I realized] it's just such a stark contrast to our last record, which is such a build and then a final release. This was just straight "bash over the head."

I love that it is such a different approach and I just couldn't see the vision straight away. But we got there in the end, and maybe it's just that I was hungry and tired or something. I think I'd flown in from a different tour to go practice — not a good combo for me.

It is kind of interesting how we work. I don't have any experience in musical theory, didn't go to music school. It's very feel-based, and Pat really has that too.

Pat, you have a good perception of what story you want this song to tell, or what journey we want to go on. I'm more just like: if this feels good, I'm going to play it. Then I'll go from there and the building blocks then begin to stack up.

Flynn: Yeah, the opening track is definitely a clamoring at the gates.

If you're interested in creating a collection of songs that work together to take a listener on a journey, the sequencing is so, so important. There's a desperation that I thought we didn't really explore on previous records, and I just thought that a really great way to create this [feeling]. We're not ringing the doorbell; we're slamming it, breaking it open.

And then it's followed by a very pleasant sounding song that is very bright, but somehow has some of the most dreadful, depressed lyrics on top of it. So if it's not this sonic bashing, it really is this tug and pull of a variety of emotions.

The record ends at the antithesis, lyrically, of where it began. And it's fun: if you put it on repeat, you're going through a variety of human emotions.

Henery: I definitely think this isn't an unbelievably massive hard left or right turn with this new record. But I think we've established that we're not going to try and recreate what we just did.

Hopefully, that's enjoyable from a listener standpoint: that there's a story here that can continue as opposed to being capped out.

On Militarie Gun's Life Under The Gun, Ian Shelton Invites You Inside His Hornet's Nest Of A Mind

When Code Orange's Jami Morgan came to work with Steve Albini, he knew that he and the band had to be prepared. They knew what they wanted to do, in which order, and "it went as good as any process we've ever had — probably the best," he glowed.

And a big part of that was that Albini —  a legendary musician and creator of now-iconic indie, punk and alternative records —  didn't consider himself any sort of impresario. 

"The man wears a garbage man suit to work every day," Morgan previously told GRAMMY.com while promoting Code Orange's The Above. "It reminds him he's doing a trade… I f—ing loved him. I thought he was the greatest guy."

The masterful The Above was released in 2023, decades into Albini's astonishing legacy both onstage and in the studio. The twisted mastermind behind Big Black and Shellac, and man behind the board for innumerable off-center classics, Steve Albini passed away on the evening of May 7 following a heart attack suffered at his Chicago recording studio, the hallowed Electrical Audio. He was 61. The first Shellac album since 2014, To All Trains, is due May 17.

Albini stuck to his stubborn principles (especially in regard to the music industry), inimitable aesthetics and workaday self-perception until the end. Tributes highlighting his ethos, attitude and vision have been flowing in from all corners of the indie community. The revered label Secretly Canadian called Albini "a wizard who would hate being called a wizard, but who surely made magic."

David Grubbs of Gastr Del Sol called him "a brilliant, infinitely generous person, absolutely one-of-a-kind, and so inspiring to see him change over time and own up to things he outgrew" — meaning old, provocative statements and lyrics.

And mononymous bassist Stin of the bludgeoning noise rock band Chat Pile declared, "No singular artist's body of work has had an impact on me more than that of Steve Albini."

To wade through Albini's entire legacy, and discography, would take a lifetime — and happy hunting, as so much great indie, noise rock, punk, and so much more passed across his desk. Here are five of those albums.

Pixies - Surfer Rosa (1988)

Your mileage may vary on who lit the match for the alternative boom, but Pixies — and their debut Surfer Rosa — deserve a place in that debate. This quicksilver classic introduced us to a lot of Steve Albini's touchstones: capacious miking techniques; unadulterated, audio verite takes; serrated noise.

PJ Harvey - Rid of Me (1993)

Some of Albini's finest hours have resulted from carefully arranging the room, hitting record, and letting an artist stalk the studio like a caged animal.

It happened on Scout Niblett's This Fool Can Die Now; it happened on Laura Jane Grace's Stay Alive; and it most certainly happened on PJ Harvey's Rid of Me, which can be seen as a precedent for both. Let tunes like "Man-Size" take a shot at you; that scar won't heal anytime soon.

Nirvana - In Utero (1993)

Nirvana's unintended swan song in the studio was meant to burn the polished Nevermind in effigy.

And while Kurt Cobain was too much of a pop beautician to fully do that, In Utero is still one of the most bracing and unvarnished mainstream rock albums ever made. Dave Grohl's drum sound on "Scentless Apprentice" alone is a shot to your solar plexus.

"The thing that I was really charmed most by in the whole process was just hearing how good a job the band had done the first time around," Albini told GRAMMY.com upon In Utero's 20th anniversary remix and remastering. "What struck me the most about the [remastering and reissue] process was the fact that everybody was willing to go the full nine yards for quality."

Songs: Ohia - The Magnolia Electric Co. (2003)

When almost a dozen musicians packed into Electrical Audio to make The Magnolia Electric Co., the vibe was, well, electric — prolific singer/songwriter Jason Molina was on the verge of something earth-shaking.

It's up for debate as to whether the album they made was the final Songs: Ohia record, or the first by his following project, Magnolia Electric Co. — is a tempestuous, majestic, symbolism-heavy, Crazy Horse-scaled ride through Molina's troubled psyche.

Code Orange - The Above (2023)

A health issue kept Code Orange from touring behind The Above, which is a shame for many reasons. One is that they're a world-class live band. The other is that The Above consists of their most detailed and accomplished material to date.

The band's frontman Morgan and keyboardist Eric "Shade" Balderose produced The Above, which combines hardcore, metalcore and industrial rock with concision and vision. And by capturing their onstage fire like never before on record, Albini helped glue it all together.

"It was a match made in heaven," Morgan said. And Albini made ferocity, ugliness and transgression seem heavenly all the same.

11 Reasons Why 1993 Was Nirvana's Big Year

What is about the Beatles' Let it Be sessions that continues to bedevil diehards?

Even after their aperture was tremendously widened with Get Back — Peter Jackson's three-part, almost eight hour, 2021 doc — something's always been missing. Because it was meant as a corrective to a film that, well, most of us haven't seen in a long time — if at all.

That's Let it Be, the original 1970 documentary on those contested, pivotal, hot-and-cold sessions, directed by Michael Lindsay-Hogg. Much of the calcified lore around the Beatles' last stand comes not from the film itself, but what we think is in the film.

Let it Be does contain a couple of emotionally charged moments between maturing Beatles. The most famous one: George Harrison getting snippy with Paul McCartney over a guitar part, which might just be the most blown-out-of-proportion squabble in rock history.

But superfans smelled blood in the water: the film had to be a locus for the Beatles' untimely demise. To which the film's director, Michael Lindsay-Hogg, might say: did we see the same movie?

"Looking back from history's vantage point, it seems like everybody drank the bad batch of Kool-Aid," he tells GRAMMY.com. Lindsay-Hogg had just appeared at an NYC screening, and seemed as surprised by it as the fans: "Because the opinion that was first formed about the movie, you could not form on the actual movie we saw the other night."

He's correct. If you saw Get Back, Lindsay-Hogg is the babyfaced, cigar-puffing auteur seen throughout; today, at 84, his original vision has been reclaimed. On May 8, Disney+ unveiled a restored and refreshed version of the Let it Be film — a historical counterweight to Get Back. Temperamentally, though, it's right on the same wavelength, which is bound to surprise some Fabs disciples.

With the benefit of Peter Jackson's sound-polishing magic and Giles Martin's inspired remixes of performances, Let it Be offers a quieter, more muted, more atmospheric take on these sessions. (Think fewer goofy antics, and more tight, lingering shots of four of rock's most evocative faces.)

As you absorb the long-on-ice Let it Be, here are some lesser-known facts about this film, and the era of the Beatles it captures — with a little help from Lindsay-Hogg himself.

The Beatles Were Happy With The Let It Be Film

After Lindsay-Hogg showed the Beatles the final rough cut, he says they all went out to a jovial meal and drinks: "Nice food, collegial, pleasant, witty conversation, nice wine."

Afterward, they went downstairs to a discotheque for nightcaps. "Paul said he thought Let it Be was good. We'd all done a good job," Lindsay-Hogg remembers. "And Ringo and [wife] Maureen were jiving to the music until two in the morning."

"They had a really, really good time," he adds. "And you can see like [in the film], on their faces, their interactions — it was like it always was."

About "That" Fight: Neither Paul Nor George Made A Big Deal

At this point, Beatles fanatics can recite this Harrison-in-a-snit quote to McCartney: "I'll play, you know, whatever you want me to play, or I won't play at all if you don't want me to play. Whatever it is that will please you… I'll do it." (Yes, that's widely viewed among fans as a tremendous deal.)

If this was such a fissure, why did McCartney and Harrison allow it in the film? After all, they had say in the final cut, like the other Beatles.

"Nothing was going to be in the picture that they didn't want," Lindsay-Hogg asserts. "They never commented on that. They took that exchange as like many other exchanges they'd had over the years… but, of course, since they'd broken up a month before [the film's release], everyone was looking for little bits of sharp metal on the sand to think why they'd broken up."

About Ringo's "Not A Lot Of Joy" Comment…

Recently, Ringo Starr opined that there was "not a lot of joy" in the Let it Be film; Lindsay-Hogg says Starr framed it to him as "no joy."

Of course, that's Starr's prerogative. But it's not quite borne out by what we see — especially that merry scene where he and Harrison work out an early draft of Abbey Road's "Octopus's Garden."

"And Ringo's a combination of so pleased to be working on the song, pleased to be working with his friend, glad for the input," Lindsay-Hogg says. "He's a wonderful guy. I mean, he can think what he wants and I will always have greater affection for him.

"Let's see if he changes his mind by the time he's 100," he added mirthfully.

Lindsay-Hogg Thought It'd Never Be Released Again

"I went through many years of thinking, It's not going to come out," Lindsay-Hogg says. In this regard, he characterizes 25 or 30 years of his life as "solitary confinement," although he was "pushing for it, and educating for it."

"Then, suddenly, the sun comes out" — which may be thanks to Peter Jackson, and renewed interest via Get Back. "And someone opens the cell door, and Let it Be walks out."

Nobody Asked Him What The Sessions Were Like

All four Beatles, and many of their associates, have spoken their piece on Let it Be sessions — and journalists, authors, documentarians, and fans all have their own slant on them.

But what was this time like from Lindsay-Hogg's perspective? Incredibly, nobody ever thought to check. "You asked the one question which no one has asked," he says. "No one."

So, give us the vibe check. Were the Let it Be sessions ever remotely as tense as they've been described, since man landed on the moon? And to that, Lindsay-Hogg's response is a chuckle, and a resounding, "No, no, no."

The Beatles' Final Song: Giles Martin On The Second Life Of "Now And Then" & How The Fab Four Are "Still Breaking New Ground"

Yaya Bey possesses a dizzying talent: The ability to draw everything from reggae to house music into her sonic worldview without it ever feeling anything but inventive.

On her innovative upcoming record Ten Fold, the Brooklyn-based artist tethers her R&B sound to pangs of hip-hop, pop, and soul. She's also attuned to the sound and vibration of her city, a reference point shown as early as her 2016 debut, The Many Alter-Egos of Trill’eta Brown.

Whether on record or in conversation, Bey carries that classic native New Yorker duality: She’s well aware that the city’s constantly evolving energy means that no one perspective could possibly speak for it, but she also knows when it needs her to speak up. 

"People who are born and raised here are like unicorns," the experimental R&B/pop artist says — herself having grown up in Queens, the daughter of Grand Daddy I.U., a member of the legendary hip-hop collective the Juice Crew. So when mayor Eric Adams was at an event while raging Canadian wildfires dyed the city orange and covered it in smoke, she put her thoughts to record with the track, "eric adams in the club." 

That fiery critique is only one of the powerful emotions that fueled Ten Fold; the passing of her father (rapper Grand Daddy I.U.) adds a tragic shade, and her new marriage brings a flash of joy, among other prismatics. While 2022’s grand Remember Your North Star were built on thematic cohesion, Ten Fold’s 16 tracks are cathartic  in their ability to bound between extremes and find life’s most powerful moments. "I was experiencing success and grief at the same time, and that set the tone," Bey says of creating the new album.

While she’s continued experimenting as a visual artist and poet, Bey's work as an activist — including time as a street medic at protests — demonstrates the real-world ties to all of that expressive work. "It made me really focus on my responsibility to my neighbor and how I exist in the world, loving and caring not just about myself, but about the collective struggle," she says.

Bey spoke with GRAMMY.com about finding the creative energy to manage all of those practices, weaving her father’s voice into Ten Fold, and the state of music played at New York cookouts.

I need to thank you for "Sir Princess Bad Bitch" because it will never stop repeating in my head! It’s such an incredible track. Did you know you'd hit it out of the park when you were in the studio?

Well, Corey Fonville, who's the drummer in [jazz quintet] Butcher Brown, produced the track and he sent it to me. And I was like, "Wow, I'm about to do a house record?" 

I'd done dance records before, but this one felt different. The words and the melody, it came so easily that it felt right. That's usually how I gauge if something is the right song for me, if the melody and the words come quick. I have that kind of chemistry with Corey. 

If the lyrics and the melody meet in the way this album does, pushing inclusive, all-encompassing empowerment, that must feel so encouraging as an artist. 

You know, when I was making this album, my dad passed away in December of ‘22. And that happened, like, right as I put out another album called North Star. 

That album sort of shifted me into a space where [I was] making a living off of my art, and people are interested in me, and I got a publishing deal, and I went to Europe to play some gigs for the first time in about November. I stayed for a month and I came home and my dad died. 

Right when that happened, I was presented with the option to renew my record deal and put another album out. So I started working on it almost immediately after he died. I went through 2023 making the album and I had to find light. So I put in a lot of songs just trying to encourage myself.  

I’m so sorry. My heart breaks for you. I lost my dad in 2021, right before I started a massive project, and it shifted my process completely. Is that why the album starts with "crying through my teeth."? You’re expressing your grief before anything else.

Yeah. I usually start my other projects with a little rap. But I knew that this project was different and I needed to start it out setting the tone. We're starting out in a dark place and then we try to journey out of it.

 And then you incorporated your father's voice in the intro to some of the songs, like on "east coast mami." How did it come to you to bring his memory into the album? 

To be honest, especially during this process, I’ve just been trying to keep whatever I can from him. One day, I was trying to find voice notes from him. My phone had deleted all of our text messages and thank God I had some screenshots of it. I was looking for what I had left, and I had these voice notes.

It’s difficult enough to determine what message you want to convey with any album, but then having this grief, this audible connection to your dad, must have been a lot to consider.

Yeah. The album is also about more than the grief. My albums are more thematic; this album isn't thematic as much as it was just my life turned upside down. My dad was my best friend. And at the same time, my dad was also a musician and I followed in his footsteps. But in the blink of an eye, I was living a completely different life.

My life changed overnight when I made North Star. I was three months behind on my rent, and in the blink of an eye I had money to pay my rent for the year if I wanted. I had got all these things that I thought I was going to share with my dad. I got married. My whole life just shifted. And so the album is like, documenting that. I had no control. I just had to go with the ebbs and flows of life and make songs as I went along.

Both the good and bad, how do you think all that change affected your actual music? Even just in your quality of life, being exposed to different things. 

I think it gave me more perspective, for sure. I've seen more of the world, I've experienced new things. I can write from a place of joy, too. I made [North Star] in despair, and I'm not in despair anymore. You have more things to write about when you’re not three months behind on rent, not in a relationship with some guy that's driving you crazy. 

Between your music, poetry, visual art, mutual aid work, you're outputting so much creative and connected energy into the world. Were you ever wary of not being able to tackle those things, especially while going through multiple different shifts in your life? 

To be honest, I was afraid that I wouldn't be able to make an album again. I did have those thoughts. But I find that if I just show up, like, I'm going to just tell what's true for me, I'll probably be fine. And it's still working out in that way.

It's still cathartic. It’s still just trying to feel something, express something, even with the dance records, just trying to tap into something that feels good. 

Speaking of those dance records, were there any particular artists you were channeling when developing your take on that sound? 

Phyllis Hyman and Frankie Beverly are really big inspirations for me. Growing up in New York, when you go to cookouts, Black people, they play Frankie Beverly, they play Alicia Myers, they play Phyllis Hyman. It's a certain sound that you're gonna hear at a cookout. I just grew up with the sound. Phyllis Hyman is iconic.

I think that dance music has a long history in that debate about art produced in troubled times. Speaking of, we’ve got to talk about "eric adams in the club", which is a phrase I never thought I'd get to say in an interview. Did you go into the writing process wanting to write about Eric Adams to a dance beat, or was that more serendipitous in the studio? 

Last June there was a wildfire in Canada, and it impacted the air quality in New York. He was in the club with Robert De Niro. And I remember thinking to myself, like, Yo, this is insane. Being a New Yorker, seeing how much people's rent raised when they decided it wasn't a pandemic anymore, in a matter of months — it sent the city into a housing crisis, and he refused to address it. And then that wildfire thing happened, and I was like, Oh, yeah, I'm gonna write a song about this guy, but I want it to be a club record because he's in the club. 

New York is an interesting city. It doesn't care about its natives, in a way that is unique. Gentrification happens everywhere, but the way that it happens in a city like New York is that people who are born and raised here are like unicorns. And there are a lot of things that happen that we don't have a voice on. 

I've also been grieving the city that I grew up in, that it doesn't even exist anymore because of people like Eric Adams. The city is more than just the restaurants and things like that. It's the people and the people that create the culture. And if that's pushed out, it's not even what it was anymore, it's something new. 

Obviously there's so many things that need to change, but by being a musician and being an artist, how do you feel like you can shift some mindsets? 

I think I can have the conversations or make the music that starts conversations. I was listening to a lot of Frankie Beverly and Maze when the pandemic was at its height, and [that was] focused on unity a lot. If you listen to, like, "We Are One," "Happy Feelin’s," their message is love, their message is unity. And it got me through the pandemic. I couldn't stop listening to it. 

It made me really focus on my responsibility to my neighbor and how I exist in the world, loving and caring not just about myself, but about the collective struggle. And they did it in such a beautiful way that I kept coming back to listen to the music again and again and again.

Empress Of Is Here 'For Your Consideration': How Heartbreak, Horniness & Self-Acceptance Led To An Actualized Album

Today, the Recording Academy and GRAMMY Museum announced a total of 215 music teachers as quarterfinalists for the 2025 Music Educator Award. This prestigious award is given to current educators—from kindergarten through college in both public and private schools—who have made a significant and lasting contribution to the field of music education and who advocate for the ongoing inclusion of music education in schools. This year’s quarterfinalists hail from 202 cities and were chosen from more than 2,400 initial nominations. Additionally, 159 legacy applicants from 2024 are also eligible for this year’s award.

Semi-finalists for the 2025 Music Educator Award will be announced later this year. The ultimate recipient will be celebrated during GRAMMY Week 2025.

A collaborative effort between the Recording Academy and GRAMMY Museum, the Music Educator Award invites nominations from students, parents, friends, colleagues, community members, school deans, and administrators. Teachers may also nominate themselves, and those nominated are invited to complete a more detailed application.

Each year, one recipient is selected from among 10 finalists and recognized for their profound impact on students' lives. The 11th annual honoree will be flown to Los Angeles to attend the 67th GRAMMY Awards and participate in various GRAMMY Week events. The nine other finalists will receive a $1,000 honorarium, and the schools of all 10 finalists will receive matching grants. Additionally, fifteen semi-finalists will be awarded a $500 honorarium with matching school grants.

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The Music Educator Award program, including the honorariums and matching school grants, is supported by the Chuck Lorre Family Foundation this year. Additional backing comes from the American Choral Directors Association, National Association for Music Education, NAMM Foundation, and National Education Association, which support the program through outreach to their members.

Learn more about the Music Educator Award and see the full list of the 2025 Music Educator Award quarterfinalists and legacy applicants below:

QUARTERFINALISTS

LEGACY APPLICANTS