Anomie feels like a line in the sand. Did you know you were making a “chapter opener” while you were writing it, or did that realisation only come later?
When I was writing these songs, I was really in the thick of it – the loneliness, the existential angst, the fear. But recording the songs came so much later, so I’ve really been able to look back on it all as a specific time in my life, to reflect more objectively, and to more neatly package it up for presentation. The 12 songs on Anomie are all from my twenties, and reflect how I was feeling then. Not that everything has changed necessarily – I don’t think I’ll ever be free of existential anxiety. But one can hope!
Dropping a triple A-side straight out of the gate is confident. Was that decision about showing range, or about setting the emotional tone early?
A three-song release is unconventional, but felt right for me. It was definitely about showing range. While ‘Woo Me’ is the lead track, it’s very big, bright and shiny, which is not necessarily the tone of the whole album. I wanted to back it up with some more mellow, intimate tracks. That way there’s something for everyone. It’s nice to not have all the pressure on one song too. I’m not sure any one song on the album represents the project as a whole!
‘Woo Me’ has that bright, almost glossy optimism to it. When you wrote it, were you actually feeling that confidence — or reaching for it?
Woo Me is a very old song. I think when I wrote it, in my early twenties, I was genuinely a lot more bright, confident and optimistic as a person. I have since been a bit humbled – and slightly traumatised – by the world. Not necessarily in a bad way, it’s good to be aware. But you’ll see that as the album progresses I go into some much darker and more existential places. I do come out the other side though. I want it to be hope, not self pity, that’s left lingering in the listener’s ear.
You sing about wanting someone to put in effort and “show me something better than the city lights.” What does effort look like to you now? Has that definition changed as you’ve grown?
I still think it’s important to have standards and to not settle just because you’re lonely. But it’s also important to be realistic. We’re all humans at the end of the day. Crushingly imperfect. I’m lucky to now have a caring partner who makes me feel adored. But I think it’s good to aim for peace in a relationship, not necessarily heady sparks. And it shouldn’t all be about finding a partner. Your friends are often the ones who’ll be able to show you things better than the city lights.
There’s a sense in the song of being done with half-hearted love. Was there a moment where you genuinely thought, “I’d rather be single than settle”?
I think we all get that feeling. And then we forget, when in the grips of loneliness. And then we remember again. But it’s true. Don’t settle. Hold out for someone great. Who makes you feel calm. In the meantime, at the very least, you can use your big feelings for making great – and terrible – art.
Working with Benjamin Stewart, did he pull anything out of you that surprised you? Maybe a take or lyric you weren’t sure about at first?
Ben taught me so much, and took each and every song to a new level. He made sure we got what we wanted, rather than giving up when it was hard. He’s an incredibly hard worker. There were many times when he pushed me to try something new, like attempting ad libs or adding harmonies, and the final result was much better for it.
The three tracks each live in slightly different sonic spaces — from lo-fi intimacy to bigger emotional swells. Did you overthink that balance, or did it all come together pretty naturally in the studio?
My aim for most of the album was “pathos pop”, which means having a poignant quality that evokes sadness. But Ben, the genius behind Slowly Slowly, is amazing at making arrangements big and powerful. So some of the songs take it up a notch. For some, I wanted a specific feel. For example from the start, I wanted A Song About Root Vegetables to have a crackly lo-fi bedroom recording style vibe – because it’s a really vulnerable song. I’m just so grateful to Ben for helping bring these songs to life in the way I wanted.
‘A Song About Root Vegetables’ is such a left-field title. Where does that playful, almost absurd edge sit alongside the more existential parts of Anomie?
It’s a melancholic album, but there’s a lot of humour to it too. I navigate life with a lot of absurdity and playfulness – you have to right? Humour is a much more productive alternative to despair. So it makes sense that that’s come out in the songs.
Adelaide has really backed you over the years. When you step onto bigger stages or release something nationally, do you still feel that hometown energy with you?
I love the Adelaide music community. The only reason I make music is because my friends here have been aggressively supportive over the years, pushing me onto stages and making me put myself out there – even when I didn’t know what I was doing. It’s a big part of why we started Girls Rock! Adelaide, a music mentorship program for girls, trans and nonbinary young folk. I just wanted everyone to feel as accepted and encouraged as I did as a young person.
When someone presses play on Anomie for the first time, what’s the feeling you hope lingers after it ends? Not the review-ready answer – the honest one.
Music is a place where I can open up free of judgement and reflect. In sharing my songs, I give others permission to do the same. I hope that it can help listeners feel less alone: that it helps them recognise and accept their loneliness, and reassure them that their griefs and disappointments are not so strange or shameful. I hope it’s cathartic. And that it encourages listeners to consider, however tentatively, that things might just be alright.
