Music Interviews

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We’re premiering ‘Cocaine Soul’ and ‘From…To…’ — they feel like very different sides of your songwriting. Was that intentional, or just how the songs came out?
Writing them wasn’t intentional — I don’t really think or plan before writing (I edit as I go when needed), so it’s basically just how they came out. They’re two of my favourite songs from the new album, and I liked the idea of releasing them together as they’re so different from each other. I’ve always liked that I’m quite diverse with the types of songs I write (within the indie rock genre), and these two hopefully showcase two of my main styles, moods, and emotions in songwriting.

‘From…To…’ feels really honest and reflective. Do songs like that usually come from a specific moment, or are they built from a lot of different experiences over time?
I think generally my songs come from a build-up of different moments, feelings, and experiences. This is a heartbreak song (with moments of hope), and I tried to be as honest and as unfiltered as I could, whilst adding some bits of fiction.

‘Cocaine Soul’ has a lot of energy and feels very story-driven. When you write songs like that, do you start with the story or the music first?
I liked the idea of the verses being mini stories, but held together with a big chorus, which is hopefully anthemic and catchy. I’ve always kept notepads and notes in my phone with lyric ideas, words, sentences, phrases, and I used a word, phrase, or name to start me off. I remember the verses being a trail of thoughts that just came out. I had the guitar chords and chorus phrase for a while — “A cocaine soul will steal your rock and roll.” Two of my favourite songwriters, Bob Dylan and Bright Eyes, both have an amazing ability to spew out incredible verse lyrics (especially in the early parts of their career). They were an influence on me, amongst some other artists.

Do you remember where you were or what was happening in your life when you wrote these two songs?
I was living in Edinburgh in my early twenties when I wrote ‘Cocaine Soul’ — it’s one of my earliest/oldest songs. I wrote ‘From…To…’ a few years ago, so I’m a little older now and I’ve been living in Brisbane since 2019.

You’ve lived in a lot of different places over the years. Do you think moving around so much has shaped the way you write or the way you see things?
Yeah, I think it has, even subconsciously. The diversity of styles has definitely been encouraged by moving, experiencing different places and situations, and meeting lots of different people. One of my previous songs, ‘Home is the Hardest Place to Find’, is partly about this feeling — not really having a fixed home or that strong sense of home. A more positive way to look at it is that a few different places feel like home, but no one place feels like home in a strong, permanent way.

When you listen back to your earlier releases now, do you feel like you’ve changed a lot as a songwriter, or does it still feel like the same person writing the songs?
I feel partly the same and partly like I’ve changed and matured. The punk aggression, attitude, and visceral rawness has mellowed as I’ve got older, which is totally normal. I feel like I’ve improved at finding more interesting musical backdrops and sections in my songs. I do think the rawness and punk edge is still there, but it’s more subtle now and comes out in different ways.

Do you write pretty regularly, or do songs tend to come in bursts when you’re feeling inspired?
As I’ve gotten older, it’s more when I have the time — so more in bursts when I want to start a new project. When I was younger I was writing pretty regularly. That feels really normal, as we get older and naturally busier in life.

When you were putting the album together, did you have a clear idea of what you wanted it to be, or did the direction reveal itself over time?
The direction revealed itself over time. Like my songwriting, I don’t really like to plan what a song or album is going to be about — I let my gut naturally lead me. I’m pretty happy to be patient with it all.

What do you hope people feel when they hear ‘Cocaine Soul’ and ‘From…To…’ for the first time?
I just hope they enjoy one or both of the songs, and if they do, they’ll listen to the new album when it comes out on 29 May and spend time with my back catalogue. Like we were saying earlier, if you enjoy raw, visceral punk rock and roll you should enjoy ‘Cocaine Soul’, and if you like gentle, introspective, honest and heartfelt songs you should enjoy ‘From…To…’.

Looking at the album as a whole, what do you think this record says about where you are in your life right now?
I think it shows I still have that early-20s version of myself in me, and that I’m still improving and exploring ways to get better as a songwriter — to convey feelings and experiences that we’ve all had or can relate to in interesting and different ways. I’m generally happy and settled in Brisbane, so hopefully it has a solid foundation, like I’ve found in my life here.

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How did the idea behind midlife first begin to take shape, and at what point did you realise it was becoming the centre of a full album rather than just another collection of songs?

I’d released an album of instrumentals in 2024 and wanted to follow up with another album featuring vocal collaborations, so I knew right away this was going to be a full album. I just didn’t know how many songs it would include or who I’d end up collaborating with.

You wear many hats as a composer, producer, mixer and sound designer. When you start building a Julia Sound track, which part of that creative identity usually leads the process?

At the start of the process, it’s the composer and writer hat that takes the lead — exploring sounds and ideas and being relaxed about the outcome. I try to enjoy the process and see where it leads.

The record moves between mellow synth textures and moments of sharper energy. How did you approach balancing those atmospheric elements with the more urgent tones across the album?

Pretty much everything on the three previous albums has been chill, mellow and mid-tempo. But after playing a few live shows and seeing how audiences reacted to the music — and how they started moving and dancing on some mid-tempo tracks — it made me want to gently ramp up some of that energy. That was particularly to build momentum for future live shows.

I think I struck a good balance. It’s all different variations on a theme of electronic music, which I’ve always loved. The end-of-the-night hands-in-the-air dance floor moment and the 4am ambient chill vibe are all part of the same thing in my mind.

Several collaborators appear on midlife, including Dolly De Guerre, Yo Megasonic, Keely Halward and Kinnie Starr. What made each of them the right voice for those particular tracks?

These are all trusted collaborators I’ve worked with before, and I know each of them has unique talents, voices and perspectives. As I’m building each track, I tend to let the music inform me about who might best match the mood I’m creating. Every time, what each of these vocalists brings fits seamlessly.

Songs like “One Love” and “Shelter” carry a nostalgic warmth, while others feel more confrontational. Did that contrast develop intentionally, or did it emerge naturally as the songs evolved?

We’re living in very strange times, so I think it emerged naturally, likely influenced by the daily twists and turns we’re all experiencing. We’re watching the AI broligarchy and some absolutely insane narcissistic, nihilistic administrations in the US, Russia and Israel wreak havoc on the world. So a bit of edge and confrontation is bubbling within everyone, and it’s not surprising that this is coming through in people’s art.

But I always carry a thread of hope as well. I strongly believe that good humans outweigh the bad ones, even if the bad ones are controlling the narrative right now. I want to highlight themes of peace, calm, comfort and hope. It’s important that we don’t lose hope.

You’ve spent years working across film, television and video games as well. Do those worlds influence the way you shape music, almost like building a soundtrack for a scene or story?

I don’t think so, at least not consciously. When I look at my work in game audio in particular, there are layers and layers of complexity involved in creating those experiences, which I love — collaboration between artists, programmers, designers and writers all working together to build immersive worlds and fun player experiences.

Composing music for interactive systems requires additional skills and approaches. Creating four-minute songs is almost an easy antithesis to balance the complexity of interactive audio.

There’s a thread of social awareness running through the album. Were there particular moments or experiences that pushed those themes to the surface while writing?

I’m a bit obsessed with the news, which is probably not the healthiest habit. But very few people create in a vacuum. Using music to express my dismay about the state of the world — or to express values like peace and hope — is a way I process the messy experience of being human in the 21st century.

In an industry that increasingly prioritises constant output and online presence, how do you protect the space needed to actually create meaningful work?

I’m lucky. I’ve been working in music and audio for three decades and have achieved a lot in that time, including the realisation that views, followers and those kinds of metrics are ultimately meaningless. Because of that, it’s quite easy for me to shut out the noise and the nonsense.

The process of creating is the most important thing for me. Of course I still put some effort into making sure someone hears the work, but there’s a certain liberation in not really caring about numbers, likes or views. I do feel a bit sorry for younger generations who have only known this strange, fake “content creator” driven version of the music industry. I can confidently say that music appreciation — and the industry itself — felt healthier through the 80s and 90s.

Looking back at your earlier releases, what do you feel has changed most about your approach to songwriting and production over time?

I don’t think anything has radically changed. Different plugins and synths can help carve out a particular sonic identity for each release. That said, I’m definitely considering the next Julia Sound release being 100 percent faster-tempo, EDM-inspired house music, which would mark quite a shift.

When someone listens to midlife from start to finish, what do you hope they take away from the experience once the final track fades out?

Overall I think the album has a balanced emotional arc. It opens and closes with a sense of calm and peace, encouraging the listener not to lose hope and reminding them that empathy still matters. The middle of the album ramps up, leaning into personal angst on “Finally I’m Free” and political frustration on “Fk Leaders Who Don’t Lead,” before settling back down again.

Humans are complex emotional beings, and a healthy dose of anger at the world is sometimes necessary — perhaps more now than at any other time I’ve lived through. But we also need to stay focused on the positive aspects of our species. That’s why the album closes with the song “Make Empathy Great Again.” “MEGA” is far better than that other acronym I won’t even name. In the end, love is still the answer.

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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.

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“You Won’t Call” captures that sinking moment when you realise something isn’t right. When did this song shift from being your personal story to something you knew others would feel too?

Connor (Lyricist):
You often get caught in your own world when writing. Memories, personal emotions, and your own experiences swirl around your head, and then lyrics and ideas are extracted and written down.

When I finished the first draft of lyrics and played them for Harry to get his thoughts, it was actually quite difficult, just because of the nature of those emotions and how personal they felt.

But that process of revealing the lyrics to someone you know helps to kind of “let go” of that private lens you view the song through.

Throughout the process, we play drafts and demos to people we trust, and each reaction and everyone else’s way of connecting to the lyrics and song helps us to be more comfortable with sharing.

So I think the song will always be a personal story, but that distinction in my head continues to be broadened the more people listen to it and connect with it themselves. This is the beauty of creating art, and we are so glad that people connect with our music in their own way.

The track moves with that pendulum-like tension that keeps building underneath the emotion. Did the groove spark the song, or did the lyrics shape the rhythm?

On this track, the 6/8 feel and groove definitely laid the foundation for a very raw and musical expression.

The feel and rhythm were one of the first elements to be locked in, and this style of music just has a way of pulling out emotion. So we would say for this one, the groove did spark the song.

There’s a raw punch to the guitars and vocals, but it never feels messy. How do you decide when something is perfectly imperfect versus needing refinement?

Great question. This is always a difficult balance point. We love our layers but we knew that “You Won’t Call” would have to be approached with a lot of care so as to not override the main focal point — the vocals.

The guitar and drums drive the song, but the vocals are front and centre.

When in the studio we take an approach where we throw things out there and record them. We give ourselves heaps of layers to work with in each section, and then we start with very basic instrumentation and layer as we see fit.

We tried very hard on this one to keep the balance right, as we needed the emotion and meaning to maintain the emphasis. At the end of the day, it’s a whole lot of trial and error. We’re really happy with how it’s turned out though.

You handle everything yourselves — writing, recording, producing, mixing. Does having complete control make you more instinctive, or more ruthless with what makes the cut?

It definitely makes you more obsessive over the song. It becomes like a child that you’ve spent so many hours with and have watched grow up.

On one hand, doing everything yourself is fantastic because it gives you the time and space to really bring every aspect to where you want it to be. You can be absolutely meticulous and spend as much time as you want on every aspect, which we definitely do.

But on the other hand, it becomes a struggle to say things are done. Because we’re so particular about the sound and feel of the song, it can be easy to overdo it — to overproduce, overmix, or record too many parts.

Because of this, every now and then while creating, we take a couple of days away from the process and then listen with fresh ears before continuing onto the next section. It helps a lot to keep things on track and not go too far.

The bottom line is we are definitely less ruthless and slower than the traditional process, but we are always extremely proud of the work we put out, and always content in the sound of every release.

You grew up around everything from classic rock to traditional Greek music. Where do you feel your heritage naturally seeps into LamBros, even when you’re not consciously trying to reference it?

We think it’s played a big role in shaping our style creatively and on stage. Greek music is extremely emotive, passionate and expressive, and there is often a dance associated with any given genre of traditional music. The passion and cultural significance of the music was something we grew up with, and it has bled into how we see our own music.

Traditionally at Greek functions and events, everyone knows exactly what to do when certain songs come on. The music can’t be ignored, and when it is played, it immediately becomes the focus. It incites joy, and it is always the centre of attention. When you hear zeibekiko or kalamatianos, people’s ears prick up and they start dancing immediately. And if you’re not dancing, you’re most certainly watching.

Similarly for us, our songs are more than just a cool sound or a mood. They are more than a playlist filler or background music. They stand up on their own with their own stories and connections. Our music is impossible to ignore, which was not intentional, but definitely a product of our musical education and upbringing.

From a musical and technical standpoint, Greek music features unique scales, odd time signatures, distinct feels and grooves, and a whole set of unique instruments like the bouzouki.

These are all elements we ourselves have learnt over the years, and form another part of our technical musical education. From hitting the Greek drums until our hands are red, or blazing through scalic runs on the bouzouki, these experiences are baked into our performance style, and influence our playing, writing, and energy on stage and in the studio.

So our culture has definitely formed a large part of our subconscious, and it joins together with our own Australian culture, and the cultures of a host of other countries around the world that we have studied and experienced to make our own distinct “LamBros”-coded sound.

The video plays with repetition and emotional frustration. Did directing and shooting it yourselves change the way you see the song now?

For us, the video is a natural extension of the song, and we hope that it might provide another way for people to think about “You Won’t Call.” Directing and shooting it was a lot of fun, and helped us to hone in on certain themes of the song — exasperation, feeling stuck and pent-up, finding clarity about how you feel.

Busking in Manly’s Corso was the beginning. What did those early days teach you about reading a crowd and earning attention in real time?

It taught us so much about entertainment, audience engagement, and working a crowd. Honestly, busking was pivotal to forging our on-stage dynamic. It’s a wild experience because when you’re busking no one is obliged to watch you. In fact, they didn’t even know you were going to be there. They can leave anytime they want, and they don’t have to interact in any way.

So when someone stops to watch a full set, video on their phone, or leave us a tip, it really hammers home that you must be doing something right. It means a lot.

We had no expectations initially when we decided to go busking all those years ago. We just wanted to have some fun and test out some material live, but the response from the outset was honestly overwhelming.

We learnt so much so quickly about how audiences react to things, and we learnt to read when we were pulling an audience in or losing their interest. It allowed us to naturally read an audience and adjust our level or set to fit. Live music is most definitely a two-way street, and the audience plays such a huge role in extracting the best out of the performer, but the performer has to give them something to cheer about first.

Blues carries a long emotional history. What does making blues now mean to you, and how do you keep it feeling alive rather than nostalgic?

We listened to a lot of blues growing up, and we learnt from a young age just how pivotal the genre was in the progression of modern music. When we were kids, blues was vocals and guitar, or vocals and harmonica. It was simple, but meaningful. Listening to the music painted such a crystal-clear gateway into the world of the artists.

You’ve touched on an interesting topic though because blues is often thought of as nostalgic, but I don’t think a lot of people realise just how much blues is baked into what we listen to every day.

From the scales, melodies, song form structures, and lyrics, blues is the foundation of modern music. Similarly, as LamBros, we really draw from the origins of the genre and the marvellous artists that have made their mark on the blues, and fuse it with our own influences and style to make a very modern blues sound.

Your live shows are known for improvisation and unexpected moments. How much unpredictability do you intentionally leave open when you step on stage?

It kind of depends on the show, to be honest. We have a large enough repertoire that we can definitely chop and change sets on the fly, and we are musical enough to adjust sections and musical moments. None of it is ever planned — it’s honestly just feeling the moment and the audience and going where we feel.

When someone leaves a LamBros show after hearing “You Won’t Call,” what’s the one feeling you hope they carry home with them?

Dread. Nah, just kidding.

We hope they feel entertained, joyful, and like they want to share what they experienced with someone else. We also hope they carry a LamBros T-shirt home with them.

LAMBROS – UPCOMING SHOWS:
 
SAT 28 FEB | FRESHWATER BREWING CO. SYDNEY NSW | ALL AGES

Free Entry, information available at https://freshwaterbrewing.com.au/pages/live-band

SAT 7 MARCH | 7TH DAY BREWERY, SYDNEY NSW | ALL AGES

Free Entry, information available at https://www.7thdaybrewery.com.au/

SAT 13 MARCH | TOWRADGI BEACH HOTEL, TOWRADGI NSW | ALL AGES

Free Entry, information available at https://towradgibeachhotel.com.au/whats-on/

SAT 14 MARCH | DUCLIE’S COTTAGE, MERIMBULA NSW | ALL AGES

Free Entry, information available at https://www.dulcies.com.au/events-1

SAT 21 MARCH | PLEASURE CLUB, SYDNEY NSW | 18+

Free Entry, bookings available at https://www.oddculture.group/venue/pleasure-club

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What was the moment you realised TEKOSA wasn’t just a collection of sketches but a body of work that needed to exist as an album?

From the beginning. I started out with a full length in mind, and used a few loose parameters to try to keep the whole thing together.

Ambient can often feel weightless. You’ve described wanting to bring “fire” into the genre — what does heat mean to you in a sonic sense?

Ambient that is maybe a little more in front of you, commanding your attention, rather than drifting off.

There’s a tension running through the record that never quite resolves in obvious ways. Were you consciously holding something back?

Intensity is one of the things I was aiming for. To resolve the tension would have undermined the aim.

Do you write from emotion first, or from texture and sound design, and let the meaning reveal itself later?

I always start with sound design, trying to arrive at a compelling sounds that I can work with, which then naturally leads into phrases and meaning.

Silence feels just as important as sound on this album. How do you decide when to leave space rather than fill it?

For both the sound and any silence, I just listen to the track, to see if it is what I was going for and to see if it works.

Was there a particular track on TEKOSA that unlocked the tone for the rest of the record?

Laleno kind of anchored the album. A few of the tracks I even went back and reworked long after I initially completed them, salvaging them as best as I could, because they sounded too separate from the others.

Ambient music often becomes background listening. Do you think about how your music is consumed, or do you let go of that once it’s released?

That’s out of my control. I just try to get it out there to people who might be interested.

Did the album come together quickly, or was it built slowly over time?

It came together very quickly, in the span of three months or so. I initially set a deadline, to help facilitate production, and kept getting sidetracked with various things. That compression of time ended up helping me finish, because I would have been really ticked off if I missed that deadline.

What does the name TEKOSA represent to you — is it conceptual, personal, abstract?

It’s a little personal. Like all my other titles up to this point, it’s just a made up word, a mixture of different Greek words. I think some of the titles I’ve used actually have meanings in other languages. I double checked them by doing a search, to make sure they didn’t reference something egregious. I think the word for one of my singles not on this album, Tiskata, means a type of stew in Norwegian.

Now that the debut is out in the world, do you feel exposed, relieved, or already thinking about what comes next?

Thinking about what comes next! Very excited to have a platform to release my work, and hopefully reach people who will enjoy it.

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