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Declan McKenna is in a transitional state. When Billboard speaks to the British musician in early October, he’s surrounded by boxes while he moves apartments in London. He’s also packing his gear for a string of live headline dates in North America, which include a role as a special guest on Sabrina Carpenter’s Short n’ Sweet tour, his first-ever arena gigs. It’s a period of fresh beginnings and new opportunities.
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Then there’s the biggest change: after a decade signed to Columbia Records, McKenna is going independent. McKenna signed with the label in 2015 aged 16 following the success of his viral single “Brazil” and his victory in Glastonbury Festival’s Emerging Talent Competition. The indie–pop song was a riposte to soccer governing body FIFA and their decision to name Brazil as hosts for the 2014 World Cup without addressing deep-seated inequality and poverty. The track is approaching 675m streams on Spotify.
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McKenna released three LPs on Columbia, most recently What Happened To The Beach? which charted at No.3 on the UK Albums Charts in February. There were shades of Paul McCartney’s 1971 solo record Ram and a looser West Coast feel to the record which was made in LA with producer Gianluca Buccellati, whose credits include Arlo Parks and RAYE. McKenna also played a 10,000 capacity headline show at London’s Alexandra Palace to accompany its release.
As the deal was approaching its end, McKenna started plotting a new path forward. Now, he’s self-releasing his music via his label Miniature Ponies, a joint venture with ADA, a distribution company owned by Warner Music Group.
“I did like the idea of being independent and not having to explain what you’re doing and why you’re doing it,” McKenna says. “I feel quite confident that I know how to do it, and it felt like the right time to try and get something else out.” He’s effusive with praise with some of his collaborators at the label, but says the relationship had met its natural end having fulfilled his obligations for three studio albums.
McKenna toasts to the new era with a double AA-side single “Champagne” and “That’s Life,” the first release on Miniature Ponies. On the two tracks he fuses more electronic elements into his sound, and retains his passion for hooky songwriting; McKenna’s melodies and choruses are some of the best to come out of British pop in recent years. Both songs examine the ludicrous excesses and follies of success, and on “Champagne” we’re drawn into vacuous conversations where the social currency is attention: “Of course I didn’t mean what I said, I just wanted them to laugh,” he begrudgingly admits.
A key reason behind the decision to go independent, McKenna says, was to streamline the decision making process and to work freely with potential collaborators across his music and visuals.
“If I were there advising my younger self I would say ‘you need to stick to your guns on this,’” McKenna says. “There’s a lot of working through fear from all different corners of the industry but pushing past that and letting creativity happen naturally is so necessary and important.”
Outwardly facing, his catalog so far has shown little signs of compromise. His ambitious 2017 debut What Do You Think About The New Car? was produced with former Vampire Weekend member Rostam Batmanglij and James Ford, whose credits include Arctic Monkeys and Florence + The Machine. 2020’s Zeroes, meanwhile, nodded to ‘70s glam-rock and embraced the imperfect nature of the creative process, and boasts one of his finest songs in “The Key To Life On Earth.”
Likewise, McKenna’s voice continues to be forthright. In 2019 he released the single “British Bombs” which highlighted the role that British arms companies play in fuelling conflict on a global scale; it’s now a fan favorite and a staple of his live performances.
The new independent era dovetails with some of McKenna’s biggest shows. From Nov. 1, he’ll join Carpenter as her main support at arena shows in Los Angeles, Seattle, Denver and more. He said the pair met at Lollapalooza Festival in Chicago last summer where Carpenter revealed she was a fan of his work. Earlier this year Carpenter invited McKenna to join as a special guest, following on from fellow British artist Griff who also got the call for the tour.
“It might be surprising for some people, and it was surprising for me to an extent, because I’m not exactly the bookies favorite to do this gig,” he laughs. “Sabrina, along with a couple other pop artists that are quite obvious, has brought a sense of fun back to pop music”
He adds: “Most of the music I love isn’t super clear about the lyric meanings and intentions. Sabrina has a bit of that. She can hammer home a concept, but also have fun.”
After that he’ll head to Australia for a string of co-headline dates with Northern Irish indie heroes Two Door Cinema Club and next summer McKenna will join Imagine Dragons on their stadium run through Europe, his biggest ever venues. The final date will arrive at his beloved soccer team Tottenham Hotspur’s Spurs Stadium in London. “I feel very lucky as that is a dream gig,” McKenna says.
Next step in his journey as an independent artist is to increase the speed of releases. He says he’s still “hoarding” music that he’s keen to share, something that falls squarely on Miniature Ponies’ label boss: himself.
“I’ve always spearheaded what I’m doing and who I’ve worked with creatively, but there’s a different layer to it now where I don’t have someone looking over my shoulder,” he concludes. “It’s a freeing thing.”
Riding a wave of indie success, Chicagoʼs Friko — led by vocalist/guitarist and principal lyric writer Niko Kapetan and drummer Bailey Minzenberger — will embark on a 40-date headlining tour beginning Nov. 2 in Amsterdam (with U.S. dates beginning Dec. 27) and on Nov. 22 release an expanded version of their 2024 debut album, Where we’ve been, Where we go from here — with 11 bonus studio and live tracks, and a cover of My Bloody Valentine’s “When You Sleep.”
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The first track from the expanded album, “If I Am” — which Kapetan says was among the first songs the band played at its initial club shows in the Windy City — drops on Oct. 23.
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This past summer, Friko brought its fiery full-on sound — powered by Kapetan’s turbo guitar-playing and quavering emo vocals, and Minzenberger’s high-energy drumming — to their first festival performances at Lollapalooza, Newport Folk Festival and Fuji Rock, and they recently finished a tour opening for Royel Otis. The group’s November European dates will be their first and include an appearance at Pitchfork Festival London. Tickets are on sale this Friday at 10am local time.
Before one of Friko’s last summer dates, as the band’s van chased Royel Otis’ buses and semi. Kapetan spoke to Billboard about the the evolution of the group, its album Where we’ve been, Where we go from here, the rigors of touring and plans for the future.
For a band that released its debut album in February, Friko has really blown up on the indie scene. How did you arrive at this point?
I had a cover band with friends beginning in sixth grade, and we would play local shops or block parties or whatever. Friko started in 2019, and that’s when we just started doing lives. We played a ton of Chicago shows and in Milwaukee, Minneapolis. By the time we got through making this debut record, we had a lot of live time in our back pocket. We were releasing stuff independently and in the Chicago scene but releasing with ATO introduced us to most of the people that know us now. We’re figuring out our live show at an exponential rate, especially now that we’ve been on a tour with big, sold-out rooms with Royel Otis over the past couple of weeks. Even now, this is the first time it feels like we’re a true band, band. We felt that with the record, too, and we just keep pushing that.
You’ve said that Where we’ve been, Where we go from here was completed before you signed with ATO.
Yeah, pretty much, because we recorded it – Scott Tallarida, a friend who has an event space in Chicago with a studio in the back of it, let us record there for free as long as we were out of the way of events. It could get booked at any time ,so that’s why it took a while, but we were able to do it basically free.
Is that what you hear when you play the album now, or did you sweeten it after signing to ATO?
After we recorded at Scott’s place and then also Palisade Studios in Chicago, we basically mixed it ourselves for months as well. We mixed it with our friend Jack Henry, and it was a learning process for us. This whole first record was just us pretty much doing everything ourselves and learning how to do it. It was a good learning experience, but we’re excited to expand from that. We probably had it done at the end of 2023 — maybe November-ish. We signed to ATO before we were done mixing it, but it was all recorded and half mixed.
Did ATO come to you?
We were playing Chicago clubs, and Erik Salz from Arrival Artists — who’s now our booking agent — came to some of them. Then once we got a small team together, they were pitching labels. It got down to a final few labels, and ATO was very passionate about working with us, not just for a record, but to start our career. It seemed like the right choice.
Were you able to keep your masters?
We definitely did.
The album has a kind of do-or-die urgency to it. It almost demands that you listen to it. Where does that come from?
It’s just a natural thing. Every show feels like that for us, and we play it that way. When you’re opening for another band, and everybody’s there to see them, you need to give them a reason to listen. You need to have the songs, but then you also need to have something for people to look at. I think Mitski said that people are paying to see people go out there and believe in themselves. There’s a bunch of bands coming up now — bands we grew up loving — that just give everything they can, and when that happens, I feel like I can get lost in the music.
I read that you love Nirvana’s “All Apologies.” What other artists do you like?
I don’t listen to The Beatles as I did growing up, but they definitely informed my melodic and cord progressions and learning the basics. I love The Replacements. I like a lot of the more melodic punk stuff that just has all the attitude but also the melody. There’s a lot of cool, new bands I love. Black Country, New Road definitely blew my mind in 2020. We just hung out with English Teacher in New York. They’re super cool. We want play shows with them. Them and Stellar, East. I like the local scene in Chicago, and I like Horsegirl, Genome. There’s a lot of exciting new bands out there.
You do put on a riveting live show, and I think that’s super-important for a band’s longevity. A number of bedroom acts that were signed around the time of the pandemic have faded because they’re not compelling onstage.
I don’t want to speak to TikTok bands. We just want to do the real thing, and we want to feel like we’re doing that every night. The goal is for the show to feel as cathartic as possible. The other day, at one of our shows, I accidentally broke my guitar from going too hard. My head was bleeding. There’s a beauty to that.
What was the inspiration for “Get Numb to It”?
During the pandemic, I dropped out after one year of college and started working in a warehouse. I did that for a few years, and after one particularly bad day there, I was in the car listening to a broadcast song. I started singing along to the song with lyrics that ended up in “Get Numb to It.” The demo came together through that, but then the band started playing it and it took on even more energy.
Is it true you released “Get Numb to It” on your own before it became a Friko tune?
I started off Friko as a solo thing at the start of the pandemic. I was just releasing demos and that was one of them. I remember showing it to everybody in the band one day on my laptop, and then it came together. It was the first song that people started singing along to at the Chicago shows, so it took on a real life with the fans.
How do you and Bailey collaborate. Is it just you two or are more band members involved now?
We probably would be considered a four-piece now. Especially with the live show, we’re writing new stuff, and it has been much more of a band effort from the start of the writing process. Also, Bailey plays guitar too, so there are a bunch of guitar parts. All four of us are the best at guitar in some way, so it has been a realy useful thing.
I love “Crimson to Chrome,” particularly the lyric, “Caught on the wrong side of the shoe” — nice turn of phrase. What are your favorite lyrics on the album?
“Where We’ve Been,” the first song on the record, is definitely one of them. That song came in like an hour or so. All the lyrics just flowed out and felt so natural. It’s what you want to go for with songwriting — where something just spills out and there’s no thought in it. That feels like the magic of it.
Now that you’re about to embark on a headlining tour, will your live show change?
It’s going to be kind of what we’ve been doing on the last tour, although we’ll be playing our new music. We’re playing larger venues — sweet spots that we’re excited to play. On the last tour, we started thinking more about stage design and lighting. For Thalia Hall, which will be a homecoming show at the end of the year, we’re definitely going all out. We’re touring with just five people — the band and our tour manager — so there’s only so much we can do on the road, evening with a headlining tour. We’re going to give it our all until we can have more people along.
When you say you’re playing new songs at your shows, are these slated for the next album?
Yeah, we’re in the talks about whatever the next thing is, whether it’s an EP or an album. For us, an album needs to be a full statement. We love the classic album format. So, we’ll see, but at this point we’re trying to keep writing and see what comes.
Have you started talking about when this new release will drop?
We want it to be fall 2025.
You’re also releasing a deluxe version of the current album. What’s new on that?
There are five songs that we were working on right before the album songs started coming along, and then we kind of pivoted. We were like, these are what we need to work on right now. We’ve always been fans of B-sides, so we’re excited that they’ll see the light of day. We are also including some demos that we released before Friko was playing shows, and some live mixes from our album release show.
What are the best and worst parts of touring?
The best is definitely when the shows are great and then you can — in New York, we went out with friends both nights. That feels like the adventurous part when you’re younger and you dream of going on tour. But sometimes that results in not getting much sleep and, like today, we’re bus-chasing Royel Otis for the first time. They have like a 20-person team — very nice, good people— two buses and a semi. We’re in a van and a trailer; just the band and two managers. So, we’re all driving, we’re setting up everything and we’re selling merch. So, it’s just a different team, amount of people on the road. It’s a lot of driving, which is not the worst thing, but when it’s two 10-hour days of just driving, you get kind of braindead.
Yeah. Do you have any advice for up-and-coming artists? Any survival tips?
Yeah, you have to love the people you’re touring with. Especially when it’s small scale. That’s the biggest thing by far, and just a s–t ton of caffeine. It’s sugar free herbal lattes because it’s the healthiest that you can do. There’s no other way around it.
Tim Heidecker sees a continuum between comedy and music.
“They’re just different modes of expression and communication,” he says. “All I’ve ever done in my creative life is when an idea comes — it could be a funny idea, a sad idea or a musical idea — the goal is to convey that to as many people clearly and in the most interesting way possible. People ask me, do I like comedy or music better, and I’m like, I wish I could exist in a place where I just make stuff,” he continues. “This year it’s the record, next year hopefully it’ll be a show or a movie. I’m just trying to put out interesting things that are coming from my weird brain.”
Heidecker’s latest project is not particularly weird — or funny. It’s a thoughtful, semi-autobiographical album in the classic-rock vein that tackles existential anxieties about growing older and losing one’s mojo: Slipping Away, which Bloodshot Records will release on 18.
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For those who know Heidecker solely from his surreal comedy, such as the Adult Swim series Tim and Eric Awesome Show, Great Job!, his acting (Bridesmaids, Ant-Man and The Wasp) or his Office Hours Live With Tim Heidecker podcast, Slipping Away is actually already the sixth solo studio music album the Glendale, Calif.-based multi-hyphenate has released under his name. He spoke to Billboard about his inspiration for the songs, his song “Trump’s Private Pilot” (which Father John Misty has covered) and the 2025 North American headlining tour he will embark on with his Very Good Band.
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You first became prominent through comedy but when I was researching you, I learned that music was your first passion.
They were concurrent, but music definitely felt more attainable, and it was something you could actually do as a teenager. I remember feeling a great love of comedy but not having any understanding of how to actually do it. I mean, the world doesn’t really want to hear what funny ideas 16-year-olds have. But you could get together with your friends and some practice amps and go in the basement and make sounds and music. I started writing songs at that age.
In college, things kind of shifted towards film — and not even comedy, really. Comedy was a dirty word for us in the ‘90s. It represented something very lame and mainstream. We were just making stuff that we thought was funny and made us laugh, but it wasn’t comedy. That is where we put all our energy, and I stopped focusing on music. But even in making all those shows, there was always music running through it. It was always a big part of the way I express myself.
Who were your musical heroes when you were 16?
The Beatles, Dylan, Pavement, Cat Stevens, Van Morrison, Velvet Underground. I loved my parents’ music. And then, very reluctantly, I started accepting the modern bands, Nirvana and Pavement — that Matador Records prime era.
You didn’t mention Eric Clapton, but listening to the new album your vocals remind me of him.
It’s so weird. You know who told me that? Randy Newman. We had him on my podcast, which was a great honor because he’s one of my heroes. He was like, “Yeah, I listened to your music and you kind of sound like Eric Clapton.” I had never heard that before, and now you are saying it. I’m not emulating him. It may be more of a J.J. Cale influence.
If you were going to draw a Venn diagram of your comedy fans and music fans, how much of those two circles would overlap?
There’s a fair amount of comedy fans that don’t fall into the music category. And I’m just starting now to find the people who are maybe finding the music first. I’ve been doing opening tours with Waxahatchee, and it has been interesting to see people that really don’t know me warming up to my music. She attracts a slightly older, norm-y audience. And I was like, “Oh yeah, I’m kind of making classic-rock genre-sounding music — that’s in their wheelhouse.” I think I’m winning that crowd over. Meanwhile, there’s plenty of younger Tim & Eric younger fans who, well, it’s just not the kind of music they like. It’s taken a little bit of time to warm up my crowd to what I’m doing here.
Tim Heidecker, “Slipping Away”
Bloodshot Records
On Slipping Away, you described the album’s arc as “before the fall and after.” A number of the songs are about losing one’s mojo. Did those feelings originate with you or from observations of others?
I’m 48 years old, and I have the perspective of being a creative adult for 20 years now. I’m past the stage of wondering how this is all going to go. Not that there are no surprises ahead and hopefully, a long career, but the mystery of this business and of this world is not as dark. It’s a little more like, “OK, I’ve actually lived a life for a while.” So when I’m writing, I’m accessing dark, quiet, often unsaid emotions and thoughts, writing them down and then moving on with my life. It’s like the songs are expunging fears, anxieties and questions.
It’s cathartic.
It’s cathartic, yeah. I think all those questions that are in the record are hopefully, like you said earlier, observations or questions or fears that the audience might not know they have. The lesson I’ve learned lately, not only about the music but comedy, too, is we enter these dark or uncomfortable areas, and the benefit of that is getting them out into the sunlight and talking about them. It’s healthy to have these thoughts.
I understand a lot of people have approached you to say, essentially, you are singing about my life. Do you think there’s a lot of anxiety in the world today over the subjects you’re expressing on the album?
A hundred and ten percent. A lot of these songs were written a couple of years ago — closer to the pandemic — and everybody I know was feeling versions of this, while also fantasizing or imagining how they would deal if things got worse. Post-apocalyptic media is fairly popular and that reflects what’s on our minds.
How many cities are you going to play on the tour?
Like 30 or something like that. I’ve done it a couple of summers now and this will be a winter tour, but it’s the most fun thing ever. I’ve done it with my standup character, and this time I’m doing without, but I’m bringing along some friends who are going to open that I hope people are excited to see – Neil Hamburger and DJ Douggpound. I’m trying to be serious about this. We put an album out, we need to hit the road.
You do look like you are having fun onstage. Do you feel like you’ve achieved that dream of really being seen as a musician now?
No, I’m just getting started in a way. On the Waxahatchee tour, I was definitely like, oh, this is paying my dues a little bit. I’ve ridden the coattails of my Tim & Eric fanbase, but I can’t settle for that. We all have huge ambitions and mine are going to be bigger than reality, I guess, but my ambition is to be up there like Phish or Goose. But also when I’m up there with my band, and we’re really cooking and having a good time, I’m like, “This should appeal to a lot of people.”
My career has oftentimes been confrontational, and clearly not for everybody. I don’t think this is for everybody either — but on this tour, I felt a real interesting urge to just put on a good show and not be a d–k. Not that I’m a d–k, but not actively engaged in turning people off for the sake of humor. For example, we did an Asbury Park SummerStage show, and in the middle of the show, somebody passed out. It was a medical emergency, and in the past, it would have been hard to resist goofing on that. I just said, “I’m just going to hang back.” It’s an act of self-control just to be like a proper, professional entertainer, instead of [being] a firestarter all the time.
At Central Park SummerStage, you played a song that you said you’d never recorded. I thought it was fantastic, and the crowd loved it. So why haven’t you recorded it?
It’s called “Why Am I Like This.” It’s a self-examination of, “Why am I like this?” There are a lot of answers for that. Is it my parents? Is it… whatever? It’s just another anxiety song really — but it hasn’t been recorded, because I wrote it right before our last tour and hadn’t gotten into the studio with anything else.
I threw it into the set because it feels like a good live number. We have some recordings of it from that tour, but it loses something when you listen to it at home. It really feels like it’s meant to be a shared communal experience. In the live version we get everybody to sing it. I had people that never saw me before on this tour all standing up and singing it. That’s just a great feeling. I joke that if I release it, it would be a Billboard No. 1 hit. I’m not putting it out. I love having a song out there that people only can really experience in the room.
My goal is to have that kind of career where there’s bootlegs and s–t out there. I’m glad you got to see the show live, because it’s something I’m very proud of. For years, I’ve made music and would go out and play a set in L.A. for fun or to promote something, and it would just be a nightmare the whole time, because you’re nervous and not rehearsed. And to be able to do it every night is such a joy, and I feel like I can just have fun.
Your bassist is also Waxahatchee’s bassist?
Eliana Athayde. She’s been with the band since 2022, when we did our first Very Good band tour. She’s a very important part of my musical career of late. She’s a big key to it, and I’m very grateful. She’s a big part of the record, of course, singing a lot with me and co-producing a lot of it. You know, my career is filled with partners. Comedy and music are collaborative things, and she’s become a true partner.
You’ve said that making the album was outside your comfort zone. Can you elaborate?
Making the album was very fun and very much in my comfort zone. I’ve worked with great people in the past, but it never felt truly collaborative. This album did with everyone there for the majority of the sessions, everyone chiming in, adding their own flavor to it. But the more records I make, the more I’m going into absolute vulnerable, sincere territory which is when I land outside my comfort zone. And there are certain songs — the inclusion of my daughter Amelia at the end of the record felt like I might as well be like John and Yoko nude on the cover of their Two Virgins record.
How did that song “Bells Are Ringing” come about?
We finished the record, and I thought, “This is kind of a copout to end the record on such a downer.” It ended on just, Oh, it’s over. The party’s over. The band is breaking up. And I was like, “Now is the opportunity to really decide if that’s the statement I want to make.” You have an opportunity to say whatever you want on your little record that you’re putting out, and I decided, “No, I don’t want to end on that note.” Meli and I often make little songs in my garage together and I just had this little line and I thought it would be lame for me to say it. It kind of wrote itself in a way.
At the show you did a funny J.D. Vance imitation that was based on his stilted visit to a donut shop. Are you keeping close track of the presidential campaign?
Yes, I’m monitoring it hourly. How can you resist the show? It’s an incredible thing to watch and think about. It’s very stressful and hilarious in a lot of ways. I mean the dogs and the cats and the concepts of plans. It’s all stuff that feels like we wrote seven years ago, and it’s now happening in the world in real time. At the same time, it’s incredibly serious and vital and important to the future of me and my children.
I played a song at the last show of the Waxahatchee tour called “Trump’s Private Pilot.” It’s about the pilot who flies Trump around deciding to crash the plane into a field in Pennsylvania — a very important state or commonwealth in the election — as an act of patriotism. It’s a very emotional song that had the audience cheer, in sort of a bloodlust way. At the end, I said, “Please help keep that motherf–ker away from my kids.” That’s where it comes down to.
Pennsylvania is also where the passengers on United Flight 93 rose up against the hijackers on 9/11 and crashed the plane into a field.
Yeah, I know. It’s a song I rightfully get s–t for, but it also feels really good sometimes to go to that dark place.
In the liner notes for her 2017 self-titled debut LP, Welsh electronic producer Kelly Lee Owens includes a quote by German author and polymath Johann Wolfgang von Goethe: “Whatever you dream you can do, begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it. Begin it now.”
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Released when she was 28-years-old following a stint working in London’s record shops and as an auxiliary nurse in palliative care, Kelly Lee Owens was a culmination of years of absorbing music and beauty on her journey thus far. The dream to create and produce her own music, something she’d harbored since she was a child, eventually became a reality.
On her fourth album, Dreamstate, Owens is still thinking big. The new record, due out on Friday (Oct. 18), sees her collaborate with dance royalty The Chemical Brothers, as well as one of the biggest names on the circuit, Northern Irish techno duo Bicep.
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She’s also newly signed to Dirty Hit – home to The 1975, Bleachers and Beabadoobee – and their dance music-focused imprint DH2 to be their inaugural release. The imprint was set up by The 1975 drummer George Daniel and Dirty Hit general manager Ed Blow; Daniel also appears on the record in a producer role.
“This feels like the beginning of a new phase,” Owens tells Billboard of the move from Norwegian indie label Smalltown Supersound to DH2. “A new team felt right. I’m grateful for the past and the present, but I’m excited about the future because I really do believe that DH2 is really going to show the world some great dance music.”
Where Owens’ previous work was a sparse, sometimes experimental take on techno, house and pop, Dreamstate is more euphoric and maximalist. Lead single “Love You Got” is as radio-friendly as her material has ever been, pairing classic songwriting with pounding drums and synths. “Ballad (The End),” co-written with The Chemical Brothers’ Tom Rowlands, includes a string arrangement by Owens and builds to an emotional crescendo. These were new avenues to explore.
2020’s Inner Song, which reached No.30 on the UK’s Dance Charts, showed hints of this direction. But 2022’s LP.8, a knotty, left field collection, put paid to that clean upward trajectory.
Even so, the collection and her previous work caught the ear of Depeche Mode, who enlisted Owens to join them as a support act on the road for their mammoth Memento Mori tour. She speaks of the awe of opening the band’s shows in US arenas and Mexico City’s Foro Sol stadium, where the Mode headlined to 195,000 fans over three sold-out nights.
“Without knowing it at the time, they really instilled confidence in me,” she says of the selection. The band’s songwriter and keyboardist Martin Gore also gave crucial feedback on Dreamstate during its formation. As did Xavier de Rosnay of French electro duo Justice, who Owens met a decade ago while she was still bassist in the indie band The History of Apple Pie.
The conviction dovetailed with Owens’ role as executive producer on Dreamstate, a new challenge which included recruiting collaborators far and wide but retaining a singular vision. She points to her heroes Björk and Kate Bush as artists who have done so successfully. “It was something that at this point in my career I felt that I wanted and, more than that, needed,” she says. “Initially I thought that that would mean letting go of control more, but when you create with different people across different songs on an album, you have to be surer than ever of your vision.”
Owens was born in rural north Wales and says that Dreamstate taps into some of those formative experiences growing up, even when the creative industries, or simply just taking time to dream and reflect, can feel out of reach particularly for working class artists. “There is no separation between my personal life and what I do music and it’s an all-encompassing thing,” she says. “There’s a lot of sacrifice which a lot of people who don’t do this [career] don’t want to hear about.”
Kelly Lee Owens
Samuel Bradley
She moved to London and began working in record shops including Sister Ray in Soho and Pure Groove in Archway. There she met future collaborators, DJs Daniel Avery and James Greenwood, and began writing and recording her solo material. It has been a story that has stepping stones, gradual increments rather than overambitious leaps. Now she’s at a point in her life where the monumental achievements – she played Glastonbury Festival for the first time in June – mean even more to her.
“I actually didn’t want to be a big, massive, first album success because I watched a lot of my friends or people around me do that and found that they had nowhere to go,” she says. “I want to encourage artists to know that in your 30s you can be reaching a place with your inner confidence. You’ll get those absolutely epic firsts and you know you deserve to be there.”
Another first came through Charli XCX – who is engaged to Owens’ collaborator and label boss Daniel – when she hosted her Boiler Room party in Ibiza, and selected Owens to appear on the bill at Amnesia, her first time performing at the Balearic superclub. She joined a stacked bill including Charli, Shygirl, Robyn, Romy from The xx and more.
She’s a fan of Charli’s Brat and loves that the lines between pop chart hits and the club remain blurred. “We have so many sides to ourselves and as an artist, you need to be free to explore all of it as long as it’s genuinely authentic to you people will feel that,” she says.
Dreamstate is precisely that; all it took, as Goethe wrote, was Owens to be bold enough to begin it.
The old ways are dying. That was the message Spotify CEO Daniel Ek delivered during a headline-generating 2020 interview with Music Ally. “Some artists that used to do well in the past may not do well in this future landscape,” Ek said. “You can’t record music once every three to four years and think that’s going to be enough. The artists that are making it [today] realize that it’s about creating continuous engagement with their fans.”
Perhaps no artist exemplifies this ethos better than the Brazilian rapper Mc Gw. He makes his vocals widely available for sample-happy producers, and as a result, he has already appeared on over 3,700 releases so far this year. That’s more than 10 times as many as any other artist in Spotify’s top 500, according to the analytics company Chartmetric.
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Mc Gw’s jaw-droppingly prolific release schedule, the growing popularity of his chanting vocals, and the rapid rise and mutation of the internet sub-genre known as phonk have combined to fuel remarkable growth on Spotify. He now has around 20 million monthly listeners, up from 3.7 million two years ago. He has become the 11th most popular artist in Brazil, according to Chartmetric.
“Before streaming, if you saw that [an artist with a ton of releases], you would think, ‘This super popular guy spends all his time running around different studios in São Paulo and everybody knows him,’” says Glenn McDonald, a former Spotify employee and the author of You Have Not Yet Heard Your Favorite Song: How Streaming Changes Music. “The fact that you can now take a shortcut to that by having your samples run around instead of you is pretty effective.”
“If everybody did it,” McDonald continues, “it wouldn’t be as effective. But the first person who does it can temporarily get very successful that way.”
And that appears to be what’s happening to Mc Gw. He’s now collaborating with Ana Costa, a revered samba artist, and the producer DENNIS, whose “Ta OK” was a hit in Brazil last year. “It’s just scaling from there,” says Jake Houstle, co-owner of the label Black 17 Media, which has distributed a number of songs featuring Mc Gw. “All these opportunities are coming in, and they’re all based on the fact that people use his vocals on everything.”
Mc Gw grew up in Rio de Janeiro, listening first to more traditional musical styles — samba and pagode — before turning to Brazilian funk, also known as baile funk, in 2011. Baile funk is a home-grown descendent of Miami bass, typically characterized by a distinctive up-tempo rhythm and severely streamlined production that focuses the ear on the boisterous rapping. “My main influences are MCs from Rio: MC Didoo, Mc Frank, Mc Tikão, Mc Vuk Vuk, and Mc Smith,” Mc Gw says. (He responded to email questions with help from a translator.)
Mc Gw is an adaptable performer: 2017’s “Ritmo Mexicano,” which has over more than 260 million views on YouTube, nods to commercial reggaetón. And it’s actually a different genre that has played a crucial role in his rise in the last two years. Confusingly, this style is known as phonk, leading to a nomenclature nightmare — while Brazilian funk is different from American funk, and phonk is another thing altogether, all three share the same pronunciation.
Phonk has been around for more than a decade, one of several styles gobbled up by extremely online listeners. When the genre started to reach a wider audience in 2019 and 2020, it was bleak, militant music, with freeze-dried synthesizers and drums so grimy listeners reflexively reached for the Windex. Samples of Memphis hip-hop legends added a human jolt to the unforgiving tracks.
Most of phonk’s biggest artists — like Kordhell, who has a platinum single in the U.S., and DVRST, whose song “Close Eyes” was synced in a commercial that played during the NBA playoffs — are faceless producers. The music thrives on TikTok pages devoted to weightlifting, careening cars, video game highlights, and anime edits, not on the live circuit. “It’s like a substance: Just keep pouring the phonk over my ears,” McDonald says.
The genre’s commercially popular wing often follows a specific formula, at least for a time. Phonk’s initial streaming hits sampled the likes of DJ Paul, a founding member of the group Three 6 Mafia, and Kingpin Skinny Pimp, a rapper who contributed to Three 6’s debut album and maintained a regional following. Other producers hoping for a phonk hit of their own also lifted vocals from the same sources.
More recently though, Memphis rap textures are out of vogue, and Brazilian vocals are in favor. This has been a boon for Mc Gw. “Nowadays many phonk producers are using [my voice],” he acknowledges.
Mc Gw makes it easy for them to do so by creating packs of a cappellas that samplers can sift through on YouTube, SoundCloud and elsewhere. (They’re initially free, but producers may pay a price — in the form of a fee, a cut of publishing income, or both — for the sample after release, especially if the song is successful.) “He is essentially the Kingpin Skinny Pimp of this movement,” says Houstle, who estimates that close to a third of the phonk records that borrow Brazilian vocals lean on Mc Gw.
The rapper enjoyed more name recognition as he was sampled more frequently. And to an extent, this fire fed itself: “As his notoriety grew, he started being placed on more and more songs,” Houstle explains. That helps increase his notoriety further, and the cycle continues.
Just as TikTok creators use a trending sound in the belief that it will make them more likely to get eyeballs, phonk producers thought an Mc Gw sample would make their song more likely to attract listeners. “If I want to go find new songs that are popping in Brazil, I just scroll through his most recent releases,” Houstle continues.
One snippet of Mc Gw’s vocals found its way to the Argentinian producer S3ZBS, who dropped it into “Montagem – PR Funk” in 2023. This strident, 61-second anxiety attack of a song has nearly 400 million plays on Spotify alone.
Mc Gw calls “Montagem – PR Funk” a new door that opened for me.” But that doesn’t mean walking through it was easy.
Online music communities often operate without regard for music industry convention. Producers tend to sample first and ask questions later, obtaining official clearances after a release — rather than beforehand — if they clear them at all. “Montagem – PR Funk” was no different.
Black 17, which owes much of its recent success to embracing phonk, signed “Montagem – PR Funk” once it started to perform well on TikTok. The label almost immediately found itself in dispute with the owners of uncleared samples, according to Houstle. One was Mc Gw.
Black 17 and Mc Gw’s team negotiated a deal — he was eventually added to “Montagem – PR Funk” as a primary artist — and they now work together regularly. Black 17 previously forged similar business relationships with DJ Paul and Kingpin Skinny Pimp when the phonk community started sampling them.
Mc Gw now employs several staff members whose primary job is to track down uncleared samples of him and negotiate deals with the producers behind the songs. This is a business necessity, the rapper says, since “currently almost 100 songs are released per week with my voice.”
It’s impossible to catch them all, but if Mc Gw puts agreements in place at least with the songs that are earning noticeable streams, this continues to expand his reach, and ensures that he gets paid for the use of his voice. It’s an odd system, but for now it’s working.
The rapper doesn’t only want to rely on the favor of sample-based producers; he is also hard at work on his own album, tentatively titled Phonk Nation. “Every day I’m in the studio,” Mc Gw says. “Thank God the phonk appeared — the work is being rewarded.”
All artists bare their hearts, but none quite like Dana Margolin. Whether she’s rocking out or inward, the frontwoman and lyricist of Porridge Radio sings with an arresting, visceral intensity that never comes across as performative.
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So, it’s surprising — and heartening — to find an upbeat, almost breezy Margolin in pajamas at her London home once the Zoom cameras are turned on. The close-cropped, blond Joan of Arc hairstyle she wore in previous years is now shoulder length and brown, and she punctuates her comments with an easy laugh.
This may have something to do with Porridge Radio’s fourth album, Clouds in the Sky They Will Always Be There for Me, which Secretly Canadian will release on Oct. 18. It’s a breakthrough record for Margolin and the band, and a cathartic sequence of songs in which the former anthropology major reclaims her identity after losing her way in what she describes as the “fog” of an intense breakup, after months of touring and promotion behind the British band’s excellent last album, 2022’s Waterslide, Diving Board, Ladder To The Sky, its first to hit the top 40 in the United Kingdom. “I have let go of my needs to be perfect and to be pure,” Margolin says. “I just want to have a nice life. I want to be with the people I love.”
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Clouds in the Sky finds Porridge Radio putting the hype of its 2020 Mercury Prize nomination well behind it and achieving a new level of artistry and sound. The poetry of Margolin’s lyrics has also evolved. Her songs have become more sophisticated without sacrificing the emotional wallop of her earlier work — a conscious effort on her part, and one of the subjects she discusses below with Billboard, along with the visual art she also creates and her tendency to fall in love easily.
You look very chill in pajamas right now, but on Porridge Radio’s records and at your concerts, you perform with an intensity that most humans cannot or will not approach. Do you live life outside of music like that?
You know I never really realized that not everybody experiences the world as I do until a few years ago. And it was quite shocking to me to find out that most people don’t have this kind of constant experience of their emotions.
What are the pros and cons of living with that kind of sensitivity?
It’s often very painful and exhausting to always feel like that. It’s a lot — but also, I feel that I have very strong connections with the people in my life, and I get to make music and share it, and people come towards me because of it. I always had this fear that it would push people away. It took having a really bad relationship that made me feel like I was too much. Suddenly, I was like wait, other people aren’t like this. They don’t have this intensity and why am I so weird? I’m always experiencing all the feelings of everything past and the future. Now, I’m okay with it. I think some people would kill to feel as much. Sometimes it’s incredibly difficult and painful but it’s given me a lot of love and connection and beauty, Also, I get to be in a band and go travel the world with my friends. I feel lucky even though sometimes I’m despairing.
It’s like in “God of Everything Else,” where you sing, “You always said that I’m too intense/ It’s not that I’m too much/ You just don’t have the guts.”
[Laughs.] That one is kind of cheesy. It’s so on the nose, but in a way, I was just like, right.
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These songs all started as poetry, right?
Yeah, in a way. They all started from me writing with more focus on the words. I was challenging myself to be a better writer. My songs always started as poetry in some way. With these especially, I felt that.
You refer to a swallow in some songs and in one, a sparrow. Did you have specific symbolism in mind in using this bird imagery?
I was looking for a symbol for a particular relationship that I was describing, and I was drawn to birds and the symbolism around birds. Especially with swallows, it was this idea of somebody who goes away and comes back, or somebody who is there and then they just disappear. I was thinking of migrating birds, and this idea of somebody who needs to travel because it’s in their heart. They need to go away. They need to be far away from you, but they always come back. Then I think by the time it turned into a sparrow, the idea of, I thought you were one thing — and you were something else.
You sing about you having to be someone that you aren’t.
Yeah. That’s me.
“God of Everything Else” reminds me of the Porridge Radio song “7 Seconds” in terms of the emotions that it evokes. “7 Seconds” is about a self-destructive relationship as well. Was that the same person, or do you fall in love easily because you’re so vulnerable?
You know, I do fall in love so easily, unfortunately. But no, there are multiple relationships. They’re from different periods of my life and very different people.
Dreams figure a lot into your songs. Is that a literary device for you, or do you remember and record your dreams?
I’ve always had very intense dreams. It’s not even a practice of writing down my dreams. It’s just that I have so many. I enjoy leaning into this idea of a dreamlike state, where the dreams I’m having whilst I’m awake and the dreams I’m having whilst I’m asleep are blending into each other. And I’m not sure which is which. What I like about poem or song is that something can be presented as real life, and you can’t necessarily tell if it’s a dream, something that really happened, a fantasy or a daydream.
Where was your head at when you wrote these songs?
I spent a long time when I was writing these songs feeling incredibly depressed and having this extreme sense of burnout. This feeling of fog that is enveloping me as I go around my life — of being unable to distinguish myself and my surroundings from these fantasies and imagined versions of what’s happening. I really wanted to bring that feeling into the songs which I think is what I almost do. The main one that really does that is “In a Dream I’m a Painting,” which was maybe the most literal version of that.
Was the burnout you were experiencing from a heavy touring schedule and making up dates postponed during the pandemic?
Yeah, definitely. We played over a hundred shows in a year. That doesn’t include the six months before that year that we were touring. We just didn’t stop. We were touring two albums and releasing one of them in the middle of that tour, and I was so tired. I felt like I had to do everything, but this is the first time I have had this opportunity to do this. I really wanted to — had to — prove myself, and I had to do it justice. The end result of that was I said yes to everything. We were playing loads and loads of shows. I was also doing interviews all the time and doing promos, doing sessions. And we were traveling. It took everything out of me.
Then towards the end of that year, I fell in love with someone and all these feelings of intense burnout, sadness and exhaustion were tying into this excitement and potential, and it was quite confusing. Then we got home, and I suddenly had nothing to do. I was just functioning and like, who am I? I didn’t know how to do anything, like go and have a coffee or see my friends. I hadn’t been home for so long, I was like, “Hey, can you ask me to hang out?”
And traveling the world on a tour has to change you as a person?
Yeah, you become a version of yourself that is constantly in motion, that has not quite caught up with yourself.
The covers of previous Porridge Radio albums have been your artwork. The cover of Clouds in the Sky They Will Always Be There for Me, is a photograph of you looking at a birdlike sculpture. How did that come about?
I made this sculpture of a swallow, and I made it whilst I was writing these songs because I was really focused on this idea of the swallow. I’d also been doing lyric paintings that reflected the songs either in their states as poems before they became songs, or after they’d been put into songs. I had all these different images. When we were recording the album, at that point we didn’t know what it was going to be called. I remember talking to Georgie [Stott], who plays keys, about what it should be. And somehow, we both secretly arrived at this idea that it should be a photo.
I was thinking that it should be a photo of the swallow sculpture. I hadn’t finished making it, but I knew that I wanted it to be a mobile which fit into this [Centre] Pompidou show we did in April 2024, which was this huge live show my sister directed which had all these shadows and puppets. Somehow, we realized that I should be in the photo, but then because of that, I needed to find somebody who could take the photo that I had in my head.
A friend sent me the work of about 20 photographers. I saw Steve Gullick’s work, and I thought he could capture this image that I had in my head. Luckily, he followed us on Instagram. I sent him a message that just said would you be interested in doing this. He said, “Yeah, let’s have a phone call.” I described it to him and did a sketch of the album cover and showed it to him. Then we spent a whole day in my art studio playing around with the swallow. My sister was there as well giving movement direction. He managed to capture the image that I had in my head. He really brought it to life. I love this picture.
Weren’t you inspired after seeing some of Alexander Calder’s mobiles and sculptures?
It was around the release of the last record. I was in New York and went to the Whitney [Museum of American Art]. They had this video playing of Alexander Calder’s Circus, and I fell in love. It was so whimsical in such a serious way —and so beautiful. I spent a long time watching documentaries about him and thinking about mobiles and shadows. I’ve always enjoyed the way that sculpture exists and interacts with the space, the world it’s in. I think the swallow mobile I made is very close to his work.
I love your word paintings. Have you gotten a proper gallery exhibit?
Not a proper one, no. I would love to have one, actually. Very fun. I have a lot of paintings from this album that I don’t quite know what to do with.
I first heard “Sick of the Blues” as a single before I heard the album. I loved it then, but where it falls at the end of the album makes it all the more powerful. It functions as both culmination of a journey and the start of a new one. Was that what you were trying to accomplish with the track list?
Yeah, exactly. We were all kind of amused because we didn’t know the first single was going be “Sick of the Blues,” which, for us, was the closing piece that ties the album all together. If you start with [the album’s first track,] “Anybody,” it’s this intense introduction that takes you through everything else that you’re going to experience across the album. Then you end with “Sick of the Blues,” which is just like oh, f–k it.
“I’m going to make it. I’m going to get through this.”
Exactly. It’s like — “I don’t believe this yet, but I will at some point. I’m just going to hope for the best and go for it.” And that was why it came at the end.
In “Sick of the Blues,” you sing, “I’m sick of the blues, I’m in love with my life again/ I’m sick of the blues, I love you more than anything.” It makes the listener think, “What do you love more than anything? Life or the person you lost?” You’ve done that with other songs, like “7 Seconds” — the lyrics are open to interpretation.
I think it is important that people come to the songs with what they have and what they need from them.
Based on the song credits, it looks like you work collaboratively with your bandmates.
This was the first time that I really felt comfortable having those credits with everyone. Even though the process was very similar in that I wrote these songs on my own, I showed them to the others, and over months and months, we arranged them together. We also did the preproduction together, and we were all in the studio together recording. It was all mixed with us together.
It felt like everyone was more a part of it than they ever had been. Their input was what made the making of this album feel fresh, even though we have been a band for years. Me and Georgie and Sam have made music together and been close friends for about ten years now, but this felt like the first time in a lot of ways that it was ours, and that I was really relying on them.
When I was researching this story, a lot of the press was about Porridge Radio’s nomination for the Mercury Prize. Now that you’ve come so far from that, with this album, where do you see Porridge Radio as a unit, a group of artists?
It’s funny. We’d already been a band for about five years, and then suddenly, the industry said, “Oh, this is a hot new band.” We weren’t. It was chaotic at the beginning, with us figuring out where we were in relation to each other. And it was me kind of figuring out I had all this emotional outburst to give and found the space to do it. I was like, “Oh, no one cares about this, but this is for us.”
Suddenly we’re this hype band and I’m getting the Mercury nomination. I was like, “This is amazing, because this means that I’m going to be able to do this as a job at some point.” I also remember being almost cynical about it. Like, the music industry chooses you for a minute, and then it spits you back out again.
And then came the endless touring.
We ended up touring a really long time, and I got so completely jaded by the whole industry — by the way you’re expected to tour and live. It feels like everyone is expecting you to do everything, you’re not really making much money, and you’re supposed to be so grateful for this thing that you have that is extremely painful and physical. I’ve seen so many friends go through this kind of whirlwind and come out exhausted, disappointed and alienated.
And now with this album I think we’ve made the best thing we’ve ever made. It’s so exciting to me. I loved writing and recording these songs. I’m excited to release it and tour it. I’m like, “That’s enough, right?” My goal is to enjoy my life; to just be in it and not worry too much if anyone cares — because sometimes people care and sometimes, they don’t. I’m letting go. I’m releasing my expectations of myself.
You feel like that’s finally happening.
I think this record has allowed me to do that, and even in the process of recording it’s the first time that I felt like I could be anything that I needed to be whilst recording. I mean, I was crying for about a week of making this, and I made it. Maybe what I’ve learned from this is that I’m allowed to be intense, and I’m allowed to have peace.
Last week, rising British pop acts Rachel Chinouriri and Cat Burns released the emotional new single “Even.” The song addressed the pair’s respective rise over the last few years. Chinouriri released her debut album What A Devastating Turn Of Events in May and enlisted actor Florence Pugh for the “Never Need Me” music video; Burns, meanwhile, hit No. 2 on the U.K. Singles Charts with “Go” and was nominated for a Mercury Prize for her debut LP, Early Twenties.
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The song speaks to the double standards Black artists are held to in the U.K. music industry, as well as the mislabeling of their releases. Despite their love of indie music and varied inspirations across genres, they’ve been frustrated with the battles they’ve faced to be heard.
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“Wish I didn’t have to climb twice as high / For them to see me, isn’t it crazy,” Burns reflects on “Even,” while in the chorus, the pair asks: “We talk the same, dress for fame / Why does no one else believe in / Us the same?”
Fellow British artist Master Peace – real name Peace Okezie – is credited as a songwriter on “Even” and knows the issues all too well. He released his debut album, How To Make A Master Peace, earlier this year, which featured contributions from alternative legend Santigold and dance producer Georgia. The record was infused with indie rock stylings and nods to Bloc Party and The Streets, but he says he still faces misrepresentation of his music and feels some opportunities have passed him by.
“We are from a place where we have to work a hundred times harder than the average white guy, because people see as Black artists and just chuck us in the R&B space. It’s a cop-out,” Peace tells Billboard.
In 2020, Tyler, The Creator spoke out against the categorization of his music as rap while collecting a Grammy Award and criticized the use of the ‘urban’ music category. There’ve been similar issues in the U.K. A 2021 study by Black Lives In Music reported that 63% of Black music makers had faced racism in the U.K. music industry, and included testimonies by artists of microaggressions and mislabeling of their music.
“For the work that we’ve put in, we should be further than we already are,” he says of Chinouriri, Burns and himself. “You can easily fall victim to it and think ‘it’s never going to work because there’s no Black U.K. pop stars,’ or you could be like us and step up and cut through.”
How to Make A Master Peace was released in March this year and charted at No. 30 on the U.K.’s Official Album Charts. He’s since landed an Ivor Novello Award for their rising star trophy, collecting alongside fellow ceremony winners like Bruce Springsteen. He supported Kasabian at their massive homecoming show in Leicester, England, earlier in the summer and recently landed a nomination at the Independent Music Awards (AIM) in the best music video category. A run of live dates is now taking place in the U.K., but he still feels like people within the industry and potential listeners need convincing of his credentials.
“On paper when you look at all the achievements you think ‘why would he complain?’”, Peace says. “I wouldn’t say I feel like an outsider in my scene, but do I feel like I’m held up the same way as certain bands or artists? Probably not.”
He signed to Universal’s EMI in 2020 and had a string of releases under the label. He says that hype around his live shows – particularly given the lack of releases – was what got the majors involved. “As a result,” he says, “people had nothing to reference [my music] to” beyond a YouTube freestyle which saw him creatively rap over a-ha’s “Take On Me.”
When his A&Rs left EMI, he followed them and inked a deal with PMR Records, whose previous success stories include Disclosure, SG Lewis and Jessie Ware.
“At EMI it was about dropping tunes, but I don’t think they understood what we wanted to build; maybe at the time I didn’t even understand.” He started again from scratch as an independent artist, but refined his direct, party-starting sound and continued collaborating with songwriters and producers like Julian Bunetta, who has credits on Sabrina Carpenter’s “Espresso” and her 2022 single “Nonsense.”
His album’s release dovetails with the ‘indie sleaze’ hype in recent years, a moment where younger fans on have revisited works by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, The Strokes and more, and been enraptured by Lizzy Goodman’s Meet Me In The Bathroom oral history and documentary. “Where I’ve come from and my background, I’ve always been in fight-or-flight mode. I’ve always wanted to take a leap and risk things,” he says. “It was a big risk making an indie sleaze-inspired album when no one knew about what that was all about.”
Now Peace is keeping the momentum up with How To Make A(nuva) Master Peace, a new EP that acts as a deluxe record to his debut. “Dropping the album when I did got me so many amazing opportunities, so I want to keep it up,” he tells Billboard.
But most of all, he wants the music world to recognize his work and what his contemporaries are doing without stereotyping. “I’m a Black, alternative artist that makes pop music and sits in that space. I want to be that guy who people look at and think, ‘His thing is valid’.”
Shortly after the April release of his breakout smash single, “Million Dollar Baby,” Tommy Richman and his close collaborator and good friend Kavi made a “club pop-out” appearance together. The club, Abigail in Washington, D.C., holds about 250 people — but it was soon clear to Kavi that that wasn’t going to be nearly big enough.
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“The second we stepped out, there was actually, like, paparazzi taking photos of us. I’m walking down to the club, and there’s a line around the block, packed out,” Kavi recalls. “Around 700 people showed up… It was just such a wonderful night.” He pauses, then stipulates with a laugh: “At least for me and Tommy. I don’t know if everyone else [thought so], because it was just so packed at the club!”
Such flashbulb moments have quickly become commonplace for Richman, Kavi and the rest of their inner creative circle — which also includes “Baby” co-producers Max Vossberg and Jonah Roy, recording artist Paco (currently opening for Richman on his Before the Desert mini-tour) and videographer Josh Belvedere, whose kinetic behind-the-scenes clips of the song’s recording helped it catch prerelease fire on TikTok. Kavi says his role on the team is as much executive producer as producer: “When [Tommy] sets down a vision, I can think of people that can collaborate on it that would be best for it and sounds that we can chase — just sort of creatively direct which way it should go.”
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While the 21-year-old Los Angeles-based producer is one of five credited on the sublimely smoked-out, falsetto-led “Baby” — with Mannyvelli and Sparkheem rounding out the group — Kavi was responsible for the song’s “aha” moment. He was going through a sample pack of Canadian producer DJ Smokey’s that he found on Reddit and heard the vocal chop that ended up inspiring the song’s striking, pitched-down opening hook. “I was just like, ‘Oh, this is sort of hard!’ ” Kavi recalls. “And Tommy agreed… So we catered that vibe based off of the chop that I found and just built it into its own world.”
Born Kavian Saleh in Iran, where he grew up in Shiraz and Tehran, Kavi moved to L.A. at the age of 11. Growing up in Iran, Kavi says his musical influences were a mix of alternative rock bands like Muse and The Cure and EDM acts such as Skrillex and Knife Party, “a mishmash of what my parents showed me and what any 12-year-old on YouTube would find.” Not hip-hop, though: “Rap music doesn’t really exist in Iran,” he says. “And if it does, it’s pretty ass.”
That changed upon his U.S. arrival in the mid-2010s, when the future producer was exposed to rappers like Future and Chief Keef. “Wow… This is what it’s about!” he recalls thinking. “It really, like, tweaked me out.” His infatuation with those artists led him to study the techniques that then-rising producers like TM88 and Southside used on their records. “My main focus at first was very, very much just trap beat-oriented,” he says. “That’s all I did for a good four years.”
His relationship with Richman began about three years ago, when Kavi DM’d the singer-songwriter after catching his 2021 song “Chrono Trigger” on TikTok. The two began a creative relationship and friendship, and after pausing on collaborating while Kavi continued his trap production work, they reunited in 2023. When they started recording again, two of the first songs they worked on together were “Million Dollar Baby” and its follow-up, “Devil Is a Lie,” released in June.
Kavi admits that the immediate success of “Million Dollar Baby” — which debuted at No. 2 on the Billboard Hot 100 and spent its first 17 weeks in the chart’s top 10 — was not something his crew saw coming. “We were like, ‘Oh, this is a good vibe, this is sick,’ ” he remembers. “It wasn’t anything where we all sat down and were like, ‘Wow, this is a headbanger! This is crazy!’ It just was another record we worked on.” (Kavi says that he personally prefers the more “swagged-out” groove of “Devil Is a Lie” — which did not quite match the runaway success of “Baby,” but has shown impressive legs, debuting and peaking at No. 32 and spending 13 weeks on the Hot 100.)
Still, he is grateful for the exposure “Baby” has granted his close-knit team — “the best part about this is… all of us are coming up together, and we keep the sound and the circle very sacred and tight,” he says — and for the opportunities it’s now affording him, both as one of the central collaborators on Richman’s debut full-length, Coyote, and with his own work. Since his “Baby” breakout, Kavi has linked up with A$AP Rocky and also has been doing more pop-oriented productions for the first time with Disney Channel star Kylie Cantrall. Kavi says he has begun studying the work of pop super producers like Jack Antonoff and Max Martin as he tries to expand his skills and his portfolio: “I think I’ve developed my sound more now to not necessarily just be one-sided when I’m in the room.”
Meanwhile, Kavi is also working on his own solo music, which he likens to enigmatic alt-R&B singer-songwriters like Jai Paul, and plans on having his newly minted star buddy make an appearance on his upcoming debut project as well — though Kavi hopes that ultimately, his own name starts to stand out.
“Tommy’s my main priority because that’s like my best friend — we’re developing something great here,” he explains. “But I’m trying to build my own legacy as a producer as well. I don’t mind being the guy in the background… But also, I want my name to be known as, like, ‘Oh, this is Kavi’s production. Wow, that’s great.’ Build a legacy around it and just make some amazing music, you know?”
This article appears in the Oct. 5 issue of Billboard.
“I have a question,” Dabeull asked. “Do you have the funk?”
There was only one answer at Brooklyn Steel, an 1,800-capacity venue in New York City — an affirming roar.
The French producer was in New York City in September promoting his new album, Analog Love, with his first ever full-band tour. But the short jaunt, which also stopped in San Francisco and Los Angeles, was freighted with extra importance — less of a tour, more of a mission of renewal. “My job is to make funk a modern music again,” Dabeull says.
He speaks about this goal in unabashedly grand, romantic terms. “I don’t make funk music for money,” he explains. “I make funk music for people’s dreams.”
That is no small task, but Dabeull’s efforts have been more successful than most. His top five songs on Spotify have over 135 million streams combined, outshining many of his funk-obsessed peers — not to mention many of his early influences, whom have often languished in obscurity in the streaming era.
Dabeull “is one of the best, if not the best, modern funk artists out there because of his analog aesthetic — it’s all raw synths recorded live,” says Ivan “Debo” Marquez, one of the co-founders of Funk Freaks, a DJ collective and record label from Santa Ana, California. “Nobody in the modern funk scene has actually had the reach that he’s having.”
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It took a while, though. For years, Dabeull had to prioritize other styles of music, like electro house, to help generate income, as he wasn’t established, and the genre he adored was out of favor.
He grew up in Paris, and discovered American funk through friends and increasingly frequent trips to record stores as a teen in the late 1990s. “I never went to school for music,” he says. “My school is reproducing the Bar-Kays, Kleeer, really good funk from the 1980s.” (Kleeer’s 1981 album is titled, appropriately, License to Dream.)
A young Dabeull would play LPs on repeat, picking apart the grooves: “What bass is that? What guitar is that? What effects are on that guitar?”
In the U.S., much of the vital funk of the early 1980s — often known as “boogie” — never got its due outside of the Black community, “hampered by a disco backlash at pop radio,” as Nelson George wrote in his book The Death of Rhythm & Blues. “Of the 14 records to reach No. 1 on the Black chart in 1983,” George noted, “only one reached the pop top 10.”
This freeze-out still has lingering effects to this day. As Dabeull put it, “for a lot of people, funk music [from this era] is seen as cheesy.”
Dabeull performing in Brooklyn
Lucia Aboytez
It’s an unfortunate phenomenon: Nearly universal love for the hits of Michael Jackson and Prince doesn’t necessarily trickle down to Midnight Star’s “Wet My Whistle” or Kashif’s “I Just Gotta Have You (Lover Turn Me On).” Some indelible music from this period, including tracks from the S.O.S. Band, the Chi-Lites, and One Way, never even made it to Spotify — another obstacle to fandom in the modern era, as finding the good stuff can take on elements of an archival project.
In many of these songs, the bassline is the true star, svelte and muscular like an Olympic athlete. This is why good DJs can still rely on these records to whip up dancefloor mayhem. “Some people like steppers, the slower stuff,” Marquez explains. At Funk Freaks parties, in contrast, “we like the get-your-ass-dancing, sweat-the-alcohol-out feel” of boogie.
And Dabeull’s strongest productions can hold their own alongside the original gems. On songs like “On Time” and “JoyRide,” a track for frequent collaborator Holybrune, the basslines are formidably plump, but still limber. Synthesizers flash like emergency flares; the drums remain curt and clipped; vocalists trace breathy arcs in the space cleared by the bullish low-end.
Holybrune also sings on “You & I,” Dabeull’s most popular song, which sounds as if he took Dennis Edwards’ 1984 classic “Don’t Look Any Further,” crumpled it into a compact ball, and then shot it out of a cannon. Dabeull’s band shores up its bona fides by hurtling through other throwbacks: At the show in Brooklyn, they played a snatch of Earth, Wind, and Fire’s “Boogie Wonderland” along with the Rah Band’s “Messages From the Stars;” one guitar riff evoked “Get Down Saturday Night,” Oliver Cheatham’s sparkling ode to weekend debauchery. (The band also delivered a runaway-train version of Michael Sembello’s Flashdance anthem “Maniac” — less groovy than “Boogie Wonderland,” but no less effective.)
In case anyone doubted Dabeull’s fealty to 1980s funk, when it came time to record Analog Love, he got his hands on the mixing console Jackson had used to record Thriller. “He’s a bit of a perfectionist,” Marquez says. (Funk Freaks released a vinyl-only Dabeull 7″ in 2020.) Dabeull prefers the word “picky.”
“We are not here just to play the songs on the album,” Dabeull says. “We want to bring it back to the way it used to be.”
Lucia Aboytez
The console, which weighs more than 1,000 pounds, had previously been in the possession of the French band Phoenix, who paid $17,000 for it during the sessions for their 2013 album Bankrupt! But the equipment had fallen into disrepair. “They said, ‘If you can fix it, you can have it,’” recalls Julian Getreau, who serves as music director for Dabeull’s nine-person band, and is credited on his releases as Rude Jude.
While that mending process took two months of “working every day,” according to Dabeull, it was worth every ounce of elbow grease: “Making funk on this board was magic,” he says reverently. “To keep the funk alive, you have to do it properly,” Getreau adds. “You cannot go the easy way.”
Maybe it’s the board — there’s a touch of the Jacksons’ “Walk Right Now” in the hard charge of the Analog Love track “Look in the Mirror,” while some of the louche slink of Thriller‘s closer, “The Lady in My Life,” seeps into Dabeull’s “Fabulous Kisses.” “Let’s Play” goes another direction altogether, reimagining West Coast G-funk as tender music for lovers.
A sizable chunk of the crowd at the Brooklyn Steel show was not alive in the mid-1980s when Jackson conquered the world with Thriller — that was their parents’ music. The importance of this is not lost on Dabeull. Many listeners who worship funk are “a bit older; they get nostalgic about what they heard when they were younger,” he says. “We want people that are younger to get intrigued and get into it, so it’s not seen as an old kind of music.”
His plan seems to be working, at least in the three American cities he visited on tour. Because Dabeull’s show in L.A. sold out quickly — “that’s the Mecca of funk,” Getreau notes — some fans hopped a plane to see him play in New York, adding the price of a cross-country flight to their concert ticket. (Holybrune kindly ferried their posters backstage for Dabeull to autograph.) Another fan made the pilgrimage south from Montreal, declaring the show “the most fun she’d ever had.”
After his performance, Dabeull seemed slightly dazed by all the attention Stateside. “For us, it’s unbelievable,” he said. A few minutes later, a member of his team informed him that all the merch had sold out. “It’s crazy,” Dabeull replied. “Why?”
His publicist offered a gentle retort: “Because people like you.” Or, perhaps, they really do have the funk.
It was July 8, 2023, and the locals at the Oregon Country Fair were twirling.
Leah Chisholm had grown up attending the earthy music and arts festival with her parents and brother. Now she was onstage there, performing. The globally popular DJ-producer, better known as LP Giobbi, had recently performed at Coachella and would soon jet to Belgium to play dance megafestival Tomorrowland, but DJ’ing the fair — “my favorite place on the planet,” she says — meant more to her.
LP’s mother, father and other family and friends were in the front row, vibing to her blend of remixed Grateful Dead songs and house music, including tracks from the debut album she had released two months prior. The fair had hosted acts like the Dead, Bruce Hornsby and The Black Crowes in its more than 50-year history — but LP Giobbi was the first electronic artist to headline. This homecoming show could have been a peak moment. Instead, it was a wakeup call.
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“I just felt so exhausted, and that was such a sad thing for me,” she says. “It was like, ‘I got it. This is not how I want to live my life.’ ”
Just from scrolling her Instagram, it had been evident that since rising to electronic world prominence circa 2021, LP had been Doing a Lot. She was hopping across time zones for gigs at clubs, festivals and afterparties. She released her album Light Places in May 2023 and launched her label, Yes Yes Yes (named after the unofficial motto of the Oregon Country Fair), the following September. She founded the organization Femme House, which works to create opportunities for women and gender-expansive people, people of color and LGBTQ+ creatives in music through education, scholarships and more. She was (and still is) the global music director for W Hotels. Raised by Deadhead parents (Mike and Gayle, who’ve been to more than 100 shows since first seeing the band in 1973), LP launched her Dead House party series — where she puts her dance music spin on the jam band’s songs, including at official afterparties for acts like Dead & Company — and officially remixed Jerry Garcia’s 1972 debut solo album, Garcia, in January 2023.
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She was, as they say, killing it. And she was fried.
Ashley Osborn
“I had put so much pressure on myself,” LP says today on a sun-drenched September afternoon in Laguna Beach, Calif. She has been working on music here in a friend’s backyard studio, where we’re barefoot and curled up on the couch drinking purple smoothies. “It was like, ‘This is an opportunity most people never get. You have to give your all into everything you do.’ That took over as me being a workaholic.” Amid the “extreme highs and extreme lows” of what effectively became a never-ending workday, it was hard to really show up for her family, friends, fiancé or “for the music, really.”
It wasn’t unusual for LP’s tour manager to catch her crying on flights while she listened to the Dead’s wistful “Brokedown Palace” on her headphones, feeling both closer to and farther away from her family as Garcia sang, “Mama, mama, many worlds I’ve come/Since I first left home.” “He’d be like, ‘You OK?’ And I’d be like, ‘I’m just trying to process!’ ” she says, breaking into her generous and terrifically oversize laugh.
Figuring out how to grow and enjoy her success while also staying connected to where she came from is why her new album is called Dotr. Out Oct. 18 on Ninja Tune, the project is named for how she signed notes to her parents when she was a kid and didn’t yet know how to spell “daughter.” She tears up several times while talking about them. “They’re everything to me,” she says.
While LP produced Light Places amid the swirl of a rising career, she made her new album as the road “kind of swallowed me whole” during a period of tremendous grief. Three of the album’s 17 tracks are named for significant women in LP’s life who died while she was making it. Her fiancé’s mother, Patricia Lynn, whom LP knew for more than a decade, died in March 2023. Her piano teacher since childhood, Carolyn Horn, died the next month. Then Susan Milleman, a professional singer and close friend of LP’s mother, died the month after.
“I was in the studio trying to finish songs,” she says, “and I was just like, ‘I don’t give a fuck about anything right now.’ ”
But she worked through the pain. Amid house tracks featuring artists like Brittany Howard and Portugal. The Man, there’s Lynn wishing her a happy birthday in a sampled voice message. A sample of Milleman singing centers a track named for her, and “Carolyn” opens with a stunning piano solo that LP recorded when she realized Alzheimer’s was starting to noticeably affect her teacher.
While making the music, a light bulb went off in LP’s head about her 20-hour workdays and infinite to-do lists. “Here I am promoting women and Femme House, and I was not tapped into any of my feminine energy,” she says. “It was all very like, masculine productivity ‘do do do’ energy that just got out of balance. With all these powerful women who passed away who I was honoring, it was just like, ‘Wake up.’ ”
Ashley Osborn
Through “a lot” of therapy, she made adjustments. While her tour schedule and general output are the same, now “I’m just doing it differently,” she says. “I’m not sending as many emails, and I’m not making as many DJ edits.” Plus, the hard work has paid off. “I’m waking up to the idea that I don’t have to prep seven hours for every gig because I’ve become a pretty good DJ,” she says. “I can go to dinner with the promoter and friends and family instead of working in my hotel room until the second I step onstage. My life is still pretty unbalanced, but in that unbalance, I’m finding balance.”
For her aptly titled Way Back Home Tour, she’ll play 21 shows across the United States from October through December. Nearly all of them will be performed in the round, which makes “a really big difference” in how she connects with the audience. The tour will take her through standard U.S. dance hubs like Los Angeles, Chicago and Brooklyn, but also places like Asheville, N.C., and her native Eugene, Ore.
These B-markets have become familiar terrain for LP through her Dead House sets, where she plays Dead tunes crossed with electronic music. These typically more rural, hippie-friendly cities, and the audiences who see her play in them, are more her speed. “Those are my people,” she says.
She means this more literally than most in the sprawling Dead tribe. Mike and Gayle raised her in Dead culture even before she was born, attending the Eugene show of the band’s legendary July 1987 tour with Bob Dylan, when Gayle was eight months pregnant with LP. “I made it all the way to the front of the stage because the crowd just opened a path to let me through, I was so huge,” recalls Gayle, who adds that her unborn daughter was “particularly active in the womb during the ‘Drums/Space’ segment” of the show. Deadhead culture later helped LP — who found her stage wardrobe of vintage Dead T-shirts stashed in the crawl space of her parents’ house — orient her career around the sense of community that is the core of not just the jam world, but the dance world, too. While her parents see themselves in the fans coming together to lose themselves on dancefloors at their daughter’s shows, they’ve also worked to understand her career — Gayle reading up on foundational house music figure Frankie Knuckles, even going to see where he used to play in Chicago. (Now 37, LP listened mostly to jam bands and jazz until her boyfriend, and now fiancé, introduced her to electronic music when they got together 12 years ago.)
But while LP fits elegantly into the long-standing crossover between jam and electronic music, these facets of her career are still different enough to warrant separate teams. WME represents her for her global DJ career, getting her gigs in Ibiza, across Europe and beyond, while she works with Ben Baruch of 11E1even Group — the management firm that also represents jam acts like Goose, The Disco Biscuits and Dead & Company bassist Oteil Burbridge — for Dead House. With Baruch, she has taken her Dead concept to the source, playing Dead & Company’s Playing in the Sand Festival as well as afterparties during its 2023 summer tour and following one of its 2024 shows at Sphere in Las Vegas.
It’s naturally all been a mind-bending thrill for her parents, whom LP introduced to the Dead’s Bob Weir at a show. Gayle thanked Weir “for all the years of joy you’ve given my family.” Weir looked her in the eye and put his hand on his heart. “The pleasure,” he responded, “is all mine.”
“There are moments where I can be like, ‘OK, I’m aware of how cool this is,’ ” LP says, “and that was one of them.”
Another making-it moment came in 2023, when Taylor Swift asked LP to remix her song “Cruel Summer.” When Swift tagged her in an Instagram post about the edit, LP gained 1,000 new followers in 10 minutes. But she was also concerned the project might affect how she was trying to position herself in the underground dance realm. “I’ve been working hard to get the respect of the CircoLocos of the world,” she says, referencing the revered techno party based at Ibiza club DC10. The day the Swift remix came out, she got her first CircoLoco offer — and the team there complimented her on the remix.
“It legitimized me to people who have no idea what dance music is,” she says. “But what I didn’t see coming is that the cool kids were also like, ‘Wow, congrats!’ ”
Ashley Osborn
Her grinding has also given her leverage and a platform. “It’s just so cool that the more I do or the bigger I get, I can use this power [for] the thing I care about most, which is empowering women in our industry.” She initially thought expanding Femme House, which she co-founded with artist management consultant Lauren A. Spalding in 2019, would be an uphill battle; instead, power players have been eager to get involved.
Spotify, Insomniac Events and New York promoter Jake Resnicow have been key Femme House supporters, with Insomniac working with LP on, among other projects, booking rising Femme House artists as openers for the promoter’s shows at the 2024 edition of the Amsterdam dance industry gathering ADE.
“There are so many people in positions of power who have come to me and been like, ‘How can we make our lineups more diverse? How can we release more diverse artists?’ What I’m learning is that people eat what they’re fed, and the industry is finally like, ‘Do we have a balanced meal on our plate?’ ”
Meanwhile, LP and her fiancé recently finished building a house in their home base of Austin. The space includes a studio and room to expand — because the album is called Dotr not only to honor her parents “but also because I want to call in my own daughter.”
With family so close to her heart, it makes sense that she wants to start one of her own. When it happens, she foresees “a time when I have to slow down even more.” But it’s OK, because as she has recently figured out, it’s less about doing the most than about being present for life as it happens.
“I’m not the best producer, the best piano player or the best DJ,” she says. “What my gift actually is is feeling good and whole in my body, finding my joy and being a reflection of that joy for other people so they can see it in themselves.”