State Champ Radio

by DJ Frosty

Current track

Title

Artist

Current show
blank

State Champ Radio Mix

12:00 am 12:00 pm

Current show
blank

State Champ Radio Mix

12:00 am 12:00 pm


indie

The Billboard staff’s list of the 100 best songs of 2005 highlights the macro-trends in modern rock from 20 years ago: veterans like Green Day and Foo Fighters were still scoring mega-hits, relative newcomers like The Killers and Coldplay were coming into their own, and bands like Fall Out Boy and My Chemical Romance were helping emo reach the masses. These bands headlined arenas, earned radio play and were constant fixtures on MTV. For a generation scouring a pre-smartphone Internet, however, there was an alternative to the rock bands that were already labeled “alternative.”

Explore

Explore

See latest videos, charts and news

See latest videos, charts and news

Indie rock existed for decades before 2005, but the mid-point of the 2000s was the year that blogs started becoming more ubiquitous, their left-of-center recommendations started reaching wider audiences, and artists that previously wouldn’t have believed that they could cater to large audiences suddenly started playing to them. Thanks to a “Best New Music” Pitchfork declaration or a prominent print-magazine writeup, the floodgates would suddenly open for artists signed to indie labels. This was still a few years before the mainstream fully began intermingling with the indie scene – by way of Jay-Z infamously showing up to Grizzly Bear’s Brooklyn show, but in the meantime, several artists saw their profiles balloon and their crowds swell, thanks to some of the most daring and thought-provoking indie albums released that decade.

Trending on Billboard

To celebrate Billboard’s 2005 Week, nine indie artists opened in separate interviews about the year that their lives transformed thanks to a breakthrough album release. 

These artists discussed their memories of the indie scene in 2005, shared pinch-me moments about their unplanned success reflected on how the music industry evolved in the following years, and offered advice for independent artists hoping to break big today. Read through all of the conversations below.

(Ed. note: These interviews have been condensed and edited for clarity.)

Clap Your Hands Say Yeah

The Brooklyn-by-way-of-Philadelphia group’s self-titled debut album, a collection of joyful indie rock arrangements fronted by Alec Ounsworth’s yelping voice, was heralded as a DIY sensation by critics upon its release. Ounsworth looks back on the band’s out-of-nowhere launch, and how his feelings about the first CYHSY album have evolved.

It seemed like people were paying attention as we were playing live shows from 2003 to the album release in 2005. I was confident in what we were doing, but I didn’t think, “Everybody’s gonna love this.” I just generally don’t have much of a point of view regarding what people find attractive in music, so I was surprised that anybody showed up.

You never really know what’s gonna come of what you’re doing — you try and be honest with yourself and your work. I’m a bit of a music snob, I mean, and I was just trying to do something that stood up to my standards, you know? I really like kind of haphazard stuff — like a lot of bands, one of my major influences was Velvet Underground and some of Brian Eno’s early stuff, so I wanted to promote experimentation and disregard the minute details to a degree. So it was sloppy! A lot of the live shows especially were sloppy. But I was like, they get the idea.

I had heard here and there that people had blogs? But I thought of them like zines, essentially, and I didn’t really think of them. I was very appreciative of anybody who paid us any mind — but I hear about this term “blog rock,” and I had probably less to do with that than most people.  In a way, I wish I had been digging into that a little bit more, but I sort of preferred to be surprised to go up to New York, and then there would be a show by Menomena, or Scissor Sisters, or The National, or whoever. And I was just like, “I’ve never heard these guys!” And it was just always my own first impression, never what anybody else was saying.

We actually had the first album ready in 2004, before we had a true team on board, so we did a mini-release that preceded the bigger release in 2005. I didn’t expect my voice, or a lot of other aspects, to translate on a bigger level. I was just shocked. We were selling all of these records out of people’s apartments, and I remember packaging CDs with my mom, because we were getting a lot of orders — sending stuff to to New Zealand, and to other places in the world. That’s when we started to think, “This might have some following.”  I would go and deliver boxes of CDs to record stores in New York and Philadelphia, and they’d asked me what my position on the team was.

I remember trying to rush the second album. For me at the time, it was this stubborn naïveté — thinking, “Well, heroes of mine like Bob Dylan released albums all the time, we should just do that.” Some Loud Thunder came out of that mentality of ‘Let’s just keep going and push and push.’ We toured a bit on that, and I decided to take a lot of time off, five years between albums. I was struggling to manage the belief that I had in it. I wanted to be genuine — I didn’t want to go through the motions out there, and I didn’t think that was fair to people. I was easily worn down.

The five years off didn’t really help a lot in terms of the trajectory, and then streaming services kicked in. I still am learning to deal with that and trying to understand — not only streaming services, but the social media platforms kept shifting. We had a pretty reasonable following on MySpace, and then it switched over to Facebook. And Facebook is still in existence, but it’s sort of been taken over by Instagram. It’s a constant shift of, “How do we now rebuild, based on the services that have nothing to do with us?” I’m not so great at that, because I don’t naturally project myself into the digital world. It’s a little bit difficult for me, and kind of overwhelming, to get on track, particularly for this kind of band.

I think at the beginning I didn’t appreciate the first album a lot. I didn’t even really want to release it, because at the time, I didn’t know that you’re supposed to be, like, 60-to-70 percent happy with your album. It’s not always exactly what I have in my head, and I’ve learned to let things go. I have a lot of trouble being happy with what I’ve produced at the moment, and then a couple years later, I’m like, “Huh, that actually was pretty decent.” I am very thankful that, despite my judgment at the time, I made an album that I am still proud of, and I am not embarrassed at all to perform.

The Mountain Goats

Singer-songwriter John Darnielle’s musical project had been a lo-fi cult favorite for years, but 2005’s The Sunset Tree, a poignant collection of stories inspired by his childhood and the abuse he faced from his stepfather, helped deliver the Mountain Goats to a much wider audience. Darnielle unpacks the album’s place in his greater legacy.

We were on a three-album contract from 4AD — I was going to make three albums with them no matter what, and the third one was the last one on the contract. Tallahassee had not lit a fire under the world at all, and We Shall All Be Healed had been received with pretty mixed reviews. We were so proud of that record — I was micromanaging in those days, writing the press kit, committed to a sort of obscurantist vision of how to present stuff. But after We Shall All Be Healed, I was like, “I don’t really think that I’ll be doing this much longer.” 

At the same time, I had written these songs that were important to me and I thought were good. But the whole time I’m making the record, I’m thinking that this is probably the last time we get to do this. When the touring started for The Sunset Tree, I was volunteering at a local animal shelter and planning on finding a day job. My assumption was that my two-year experiment in living as a musician was about to come to an end.

I say this with nothing but love for all the people who worked for me at 4AD in New York, but they didn’t know my stuff well, and I didn’t have the money to fly from Iowa to New York to have a meeting to talk about the record. So they just got the record, and they listened to it, and they said, “Well, what does this sound like?” They’re looking for RIYL stuff on the sleeve. Well, the Mountain Goats don’t really sound like anybody at that point, but they wanted to compare it to somebody. So on the promo, the RIYL was Cake, and They Might Be Giants. The Mountain Goats are something you have to come to terms with, and if you try to compare them to other things, it usually doesn’t work out. Everybody thinks that, obviously — I don’t think we’re so completely unique that you can’t compare us to anybody. But that had been the case that, for two records, people seemed not to know what to make of us.

Usually when I’m writing a record, I’m thinking about the stories I want to tell, but The Sunset Tree was half-written on tour, and I never used to write on tour. But my stepfather died, and I was touring constantly then, and tour is an emotional pressure cooker — especially if you sleep very badly on tour, which I do. If you deprive a person of sleep, their emotions come to the surface.

Pitchfork was entering their kingmaker phase. That’s when you really would lose sleep thinking, “Are they going to review it on release day, and what’s the number grade gonna be?” It makes me feel a little sheepish to admit what a big deal it was, but it was a big deal — a very good review would literally put you into bigger rooms on your tour. 

The main thing I remember is the New Yorker story — that was the giant deal of that cycle for us. We heard that Sasha Frere-Jones was going to be writing a thing, and he talked to me, and he wound up writing about me and Craig Finn, and we had a photo shoot. The night the New Yorker piece hit the stands, we were in Boston, and it was an electric atmosphere for us. To have a piece affording our work some serious analysis was a giant deal, and to be in a print magazine — print still mattered a lot more than the web did at that point.

When The Sunset Tree came out, we were selling out shows, we were growing – but The Sunset Tree was not a hit. We joked about charts, but they were not on our radar at that time. We shot a video for “This Year,” which was great, but it wasn’t a hit. Now, that was different in Australia — “This Year” was played by Triple J, the national youth station, and it actually did quite well. And when we went down there, it jumped off — that’s when it was like, “Whoa, we are bigger than we think.” In Brisbane, I believe we opened our show with “This Year,” and it was a big mistake, because the room just exploded. We had no idea!

When I was making tapes and 7-inches and stuff, it was not my day job — so when I got money from it, that was a nice bonus. But the bottom dropped out of physical sales, and people would straight-up ask me, “Why should I buy this from you? It’s free.” They would say that to me at the merch table! That vibe didn’t go away, but it grew, and people began to think of art as labor, and wanting to compensate the people who make it, which is great. But there was this window then, when there was a very routine occurrence for someone to say, “Hey man, I got all your stuff off of Kazaa. F–k the record industry!” And it’s like, “I’m trying to make a living that industry, but I’m not gonna argue with you about it.”

But at the same time, I always thought that, if you put love and commitment into the thing you’re making, it will find its people who want to buy it. And I think that was true then, and it’s true now. If you’re setting goals like, “I want to sell 20,000 of these” — good luck to you. I’ve never thought of things in those terms. I always think, I’m trying to make something, I hope it finds an audience that connects with it. And then I will see how big that audience is on the other side of that process.

I’m always using that term, “a record finds its audience.” Over my entire life’s work, across making records and books and whatever else, The Sunset Tree occupies a unique position. It is the one that ends up telling me, “This is your life’s work, for at least the next 20 years.” This record, uniquely at that time in our catalog, was speaking to a certain type of situation of abuse that people wanted to hear — not in massive numbers, but in numbers that it reached gradually over time. 

As an artist, this is the best thing that could happen to you. It’s sort of like a light that doesn’t extinguish, that shines on wherever it needs to shine at a given time. At that point, it has nothing to do with me. I made a thing. The thing that I made turned out to have endurance. It’s an immense blessing.

The Decemberists

Thanks to the success of 2005’s Picaresque, the Portland indie-pop troubadours graduated from indie label Kill Rock Stars to major label Capitol Records for its follow-up, 2006’s The Crane Wife. Band leader Colin Meloy shares memories from a transformative year, and how a fan favorite almost got cut from the album.

I was aware that it was going to be a big record for us — I think the momentum had been there leading up. Right after Castaways & Cutouts, everything was pretty quiet, but signing with Kill Rock Stars and doing Her Majesty The Decemberists — I was really nervous about making that record. I have vivid memories of recording Her Majesty and being really nervous editing vocal takes, and feeling like there was this incredible pressure. For some reason, with Picaresque, that had just vanished a little bit. I think I was more certain of myself, more certain of the songs and the songwriting. We were well aware that we were also riding this tailwind behind us, with what was happening with the previous records and tours.

I remember the moment being really exciting. It was this nice coming together of critical and fan excitement about the band, and then on top of that, I felt like I was at a place in my writing, and the way that I was approaching the voice of the band, where I was at the top of my game. And I think that there was this sense that there was this groundswell around us — not only just like, indie writ large, but in the Pacific Northwest. We were recording with Chris Walla from Death Cab, and the guys from The Shins were stopping by while we were recording, and other stuff was happening with Sleater-Kinney and Modest Mouse. It just felt like we were at the dawn of this moment that “indie rock” was having, but also Portland and the Pacific Northwest, and that just felt really exciting.

For whatever reason, in the early days of Pitchfork, we were on their good list — that didn’t last very long. And I look back And I’m like, How did that happen? It seems so strange now — I remember they had breathless coverage of us, and people were joking about, “They’re reporting about what you’re having for breakfast.” I think they were tapped into that world, and everybody was excited to be along for the ride, to a certain degree.

When the record came out, it was just a wild moment. The day that our record release celebration was supposed to happen in Portland, at the Crystal Ballroom, our gear had gotten stolen. We had just come back from Seattle, and Jenny had parked the van that had the trailer on it in front of her house, and she woke up that morning and looked out and the trailer was gone. They had taken the whole trailer, which had all of our gear and all of our merch. So the day of our record release was spent in this place of panic: talking to the police, and then canvassing all over town to try to get enough gear together so we could play the show that night. The record was out that day — it was, to that point, the biggest day of my career, of my life, really. I remember showing up to our show with a borrowed guitar and a tote bag with some cables in it. We did all that tour just collecting gear in every city we went to.

A lot of the songs I still really love, and I still play often. “The Mariner’s Revenge Song” became this blessing and curse. The take that we kept — because we did it all live, just in front of a microphone — had Chris Walla shouting at the end of it, just out of the excitement that we had nailed it. But when we were sequencing the album, he was like, “I think that should be a single or an EP. I don’t think you should put that on the record.” But I was defiant. I was just in this mood where it was like, “I don’t care, I want to do what I want to do, and I feel like this song is achieving that mix of folk song and nerdy musical theater. This is what I’ve been leading up to, and it would break my heart to leave it off.” We didn’t really have any idea what it would be like playing it live, or if people would like it. Once we got on the road and started playing it, it became this fan favorite, and sort of a calling card. And I was like, “See? Proved you wrong, Chris! We would have been stupid to leave it off!”

I would tell indie artists today, do as much as you can —that was the advice that we were given at that time. When you’re aware that you’re in the middle of a hotbed moment like that, try to work as much as you can, although be careful, because you can also burn yourself out, which I think we also did. But it is important to capitalize on that time. I remember those times really fondly, but be aware that critical tides change. The Pitchfork 8.7s are not always going to be there for you! And I think I was aware of that. 

Even though moving to Capitol at the end of the day was a good move, there’s part of me that wonders what it would have been like if we had stayed on Kill Rock Stars and eschewed that jump to the major labels. But I think I was just going off of the bands that I loved and followed, you know? And that was what you do when you have a critical and fan groundswell — you move to a major label. You’re just following a blueprint. Maybe “don’t follow a blueprint” would be good advice? Try and do things at your own speed.

Deerhoof

After earning acclaim for their noise-pop records in the early 2000s, the San Francisco band’s 20-song 2005 album The Runners Four became their first to land in the top 10 of year-end critics’ lists. Singer-bassist Satomi Matsuzaki and guitarist John Dieterich discuss how the band’s hands-on approach has helped them in the two decades since its release.

Satomi: We were trying to make this double album, and it was a lot of just going back and forth. The Runners Four was the longest time we’d spent together up until then, and I felt so much struggle. We just disagreed on so many things.

John: Nowadays, we’re often all separate, so somebody will record something real quick on their own, and then we’ll all work on the idea that they already started. For Runners Four, though, we were really trying to get in each other’s business — the idea was all four of us would completely commit to being inside every note that’s played. We were trying to get in each other’s headspace, and it was very difficult and intense, but also really fun.

Satomi: We wanted to respect each other’s creations, and didn’t want to step on each other’s toes. 

John: The industry landscape has changed completely, but the way we operated then is similar to the way we operate now — we didn’t take tour support, we didn’t take money to help us make our records, we always just did everything on the cheap and ourselves. Part of it was to be frugal, and part of it was because we wanted to learn about this stuff. When I joined the band in ’99, they had already been going for a while, but I went out to Oakland to go to recording school, to take a recording and composition program. We basically taught ourselves how to use that stuff, and we’re still using those skills that we’ve developed over the last 26 years. 

Satomi: People would tell us, “You’ve got to come to Europe!” And I would go, “How?” We didn’t have any money to fly to Europe. We used to be an exclusive Bay Area band, for a long time — the indie world was very normal for us, and we were happy. I was going to school, and then had this fun band. But we became more serious around 2004’s Milk Man, and then The Runners Four we toured most of year — I think we were home one month out of the entire year. I was like, “Why am I paying rent?”

John: But we were very much a part of the community in San Francisco at that time — in the early 2000s, we basically played shows almost every week, at our venues in town, and then sometimes we’d go to L.A. for a one-off thing. We had friends that we played with a lot, and we felt like we were part of a family together. It didn’t feel like a movement — it just felt like a bunch of people who were curious, and digging weird little holes separately from one another, and curious what each other was doing. Then you would go to a show and get to see what the other people were digging up. Those relationships are really meaningful, even if we didn’t really hang out very much with other bands. We played shows, and then we went back to our holes.

Satomi: Now, there are so many artists because of social media and TikTok — I don’t know where you draw a line between what’s indie and what’s not. In a way, it’s really great that everybody can become an artist and get seen, but it’s also a very difficult time for us to to make a living from playing. We don’t get paid if somebody listens to our music. We used to go to the record store — I used to go to Amoeba and buy records all the time, and you don’t have to do that anymore. It’s easier now for everyone in the world to be able to listen to our music, but there’s this downside, where an artist cannot live without another job.

John: I think what sustains these things is community — that was true for us back then in some ways, and I think it’s definitely true now. Being self-sustaining helps, to the degree that you can, but people need each other. If you happen to have tons of money, great, be self-sustaining, congratulations! But for everyone else, you need to lean on each other and teach each other how to do things. “DIY” is such a misnomer — DIY happens by people talking to other people and learning new skills. And if your friend needs to record something and they don’t have a microphone, you loan them a microphone.

Art Brut

Led by the shout-along single “Formed a Band,” the British rock group’s winking, shambolic debut album Bang Bang Rock & Roll placed at No. 3 on Pitchfork’s best albums of 2005 list, fueling an unlikely ascent. Frontman Eddie Argos explains how his expectations for the band’s commercial prospects were quickly upended.

“Formed a Band” came out on Rough Trade, as a single — that’s the first thing we ever recorded. We recorded that to get gigs and stuff, but then it got on a CD, and then Rough Trade picked it up. It was too soon — we didn’t have an album’s worth of songs. Literally every song we had written to that point is Bang Bang Rock & Roll. I was writing the lyrics to “Stand Down” the day we recorded it. But then it came out quite slowly — it was on Fierce Panda, which is quite a small label in the U.K., and then it slowly grew through the Internet. It kept being released again — Downtown released it in America, and then we signed to EMI, and they re-released it with a double CD. 

All the bands that were coming through at the time, like Bloc Party and Franz Ferdinand, were all playing these big festivals, and Christian, our old guitar player, was like, “Oh, maybe we get to play a big festival!” I’m like, “Nah, don’t be stupid.” It wasn’t even on in my brain that that would happen. The first time we toured America, we were like, “Oh, this is the only time we’re going to be here,” so we weren’t taking it seriously. I didn’t even really know what Pitchfork was — I didn’t have a laptop or anything, so I was like, out of the Internet. We were just excited to make a record.

The U.K. music press is quite cynical, and I’m quite heart-on-sleeve in my lyrics — “Emily Kane” is real. I think in the U.K., people thought I was joking or something? I’ve got a sarcastic voice, maybe. The first time we played in America, people believed me, and would say, “Oh, Emily Kane was your first girlfriend, you must have really loved her.” That’s what I wanted! In the U.K., people thought I was playing a character. 

My favorite bands are American — it’s the Mountain Goats, Jonathan Richman, The Replacements — but I had no idea was Pitchfork was, and it’s mad now looking back at it, because we were the third-highest album on their best albums of 2005 list, and only Kanye West and Sufjan Stevens were above us. At the time, I had no idea how big a deal that was. I just thought, “Oh, that’s nice to be on that list.” Then we played Pitchfork’s festival in 2006, and it was so hot that day, and I was so sweaty. I came offstage at the end, and John Darnielle gave me a towel and a bottle of water. I was like, “Did I die and go to heaven?”

YouTube didn’t exist when we started the band, and MySpace was getting big at the time, but that was right ahead of us. Bands didn’t have to have other jobs, like they do now. There were a lot more working-class bands, because it was easy and affordable to do it, whereas now it’s such a risk. Everything like streaming and Spotify happened over the course of the past 20 years, and it just feels different. Although I’m old now — it didn’t matter as much when I was younger, because I could live off noodles.

My advice for artists today would still be, just do it. I always think about how our guitar player Christian he booked us our first gig, and the rest of us were like, “What’s he doing? We’re not ready!” We were really hesitant, and I think, if it wasn’t for him, we’d still be rehearsing. You have to go do it, and don’t worry about being embarrassed about something. I worry about how much art gets lost because people think something is cringe. Ignore that feeling, and try not to be embarrassed.

Wolf Parade

The Montreal group’s debut album, Apologies to the Queen Mary, was an exhilarating mix of indie rock sing-alongs – Spencer Krug and Dan Boeckner split vocal duties, Modest Mouse’s Isaac Brock served as producer, and the band started playing packed clubs in North America. Krug looks back on the unlikely ways that Wolf Parade measured their success 20 years ago.

I’m a really naive person, and it’s only in retrospect that I realize when things are a big deal. But I think as a whole, we could tell that something was brimming. We had been signed to Sub Pop, because Isaac Brock wanted to make our record, and the shows we’d been playing in Montreal had been buzzing a little bit in Montreal. We weren’t sure why all this was happening, but as we were making the record, I think we knew that we should try our hardest at the very least, and that something might come of it. We had Isaac from Modest Mouse, right after “Float On” had come out, and he was becoming famous and stepping up a level. He was getting used to that as he was trying to produce our record — I think it was the first record he tried to produce that wasn’t his own, and he did a great job. 

Isaac wanted to record it in Portland, Oregon, and we all lived in Montreal. He was sort of working for Sub Pop as a scout, and that’s how we ended up on Sub Pop — Dan Boeckner had a band called Atlas Strategic way back in the day, and they ended up opening for Modest Mouse down the West Coast. We all knew Modest Mouse, so the fact that Isaac helped get us on Sub Pop, and then he wanted to produce our record — we understood that that was a big deal. 

So we drove to Portland from Montreal with our s—tty, s—tty tour van full of our old gear. Sub Pop probably didn’t even know what was happening — they probably assumed we were flying like normal people. I remember sitting around an apartment and watching Chronicles of Riddick, and being like, “If we don’t leave now, we’re not gonna make it to Portland on time!” We took turns driving, and arrived exhausted, but we were young enough that it didn’t matter if we were tired. And Isaac was like, “What are you guys doing here?” And we said, “We’re here to record the record!” He’s like, “Oh yeah, s—t, that’s today!” 

We definitely had goals, in terms of what songs we wanted on the album. We put out these EPs already, and we were just selling them at shows. At one point, we were just burning CD-Rs on a CD burner, writing “Wolf Parade” on them, putting them in Ziploc bags and selling them. But people were buying them, so we were like, “We’ll put those songs on the record, for sure!”

We had a very DIY ethos in the beginning, which wasn’t necessarily political — we appreciated the punk ethos of doing things DIY, but it was just that we were all super poor, honestly, and we were doing everything on the cheap. I remember pulling an all-nighter before a show so we could burn enough CDs to sell. It was fun times, and in Montreal at that time, that was just the norm. CDs were still a thing, and mini-CDs were a thing, where people were putting songs and 10-inches on mini-CDs. There was a small community of indie bands where everyone knew each other, we all jammed in the same spaces, and it was mostly supportive, not too competitive. Being in it at the time, it was hard to sense what was really going on — we were goldfish in the fishbowl. 

But after being active for maybe six months, suddenly there were lines around the block to get into a Wolf Parade show. It was just at a little club, but we were like, “Oh, something’s happening. This is weird.” And then SPIN magazine put out a piece around that time that was just about the Montreal music scene and the bands that were coming out of it. I remember looking at that, and our picture was in there, and I was like, “Well, this is crazy.” It was all about little things like that to see that our music was resonating with people. There was no metric to really measure anything against — we couldn’t, like, check our social media numbers, and Sub Pop wasn’t emailing us and telling us, “Congratulations, here are your sales numbers.” All you could really gauge it by was print media, and how many people were coming to your shows.

The indie scene got really hyped up in mid-2000s. Do you remember how big commercial corporations started investing in indie? Like, you’d go to a loft party with The Unicorns playing or something, and there’d be, like, free Levi’s on a table. “Do you want some free jeans?” Or “Do you want these sunglasses?” We’d go to festivals, and the amount of swag that was backstage at these festivals, like Coachella and All Tomorrow’s Parties, in the 2000s was so weird, because it didn’t really align with the origins of these bands that came out of nothing. You learn later in life which of your peers came from money and which didn’t, but when you’re 20, you’re just like, “We’re all starving artists.” And then you’re like, “Yes, I will definitely take some free jeans.” Jeans are expensive!

I think for any band, you could feel the ground shift underneath when streaming took over. For me, it’s gotten more and more difficult to get stuff out there. I’m always trying to gauge whether it’s the music industry or I’m just an aging artist, and that this is normal — probably, it’s a combination of both. But it’s not such a straight game anymore — put out a record, get a good review by Pitchfork, and then you can go on tour and make money, and you’ll make a bunch of money in royalties. The way that social media is the only game in town now to get people to know that you’ve done something is kind of interesting, and kind of sad. You have to decide how you’re going to navigate that, or if you’re going to participate at all.

I would encourage bands to maybe not worry so much about getting on a label, because what a label can do for you has changed so much with the way DSPs have taken over, and having a good distributor is maybe more important than having a good label at this point. DIY has always been a powerful thing — building small communities, instead of trying to reach everyone in the world all at once. I think it’s maybe a more meaningful way to work, instead of trying to go viral on TikTok or something. But then again, what do I know? I’m not on TikTok. I’m f—king 47, so I’m very wary of giving advice to young people.

Andrew Bird

The Lake Forest, Illinois native spent years tinkering with ornate indie arrangements before 2005’s Andrew Bird & The Mysterious Production of Eggs earned the most press acclaim of his career. Bird talks about why the album endured multiple false starts, and why, after years of distance, he’s come around to its charms.

This was definitely the album that almost broke me — maybe it did break me a little bit. It took me three tries to get it: I was searching for something that I didn’t have the vocabulary for when I started, and then I had to grope around in the dark and make a lot of mistakes. I had two fully mixed, mastered albums that went into the garbage. And in between the first and second attempt, I made Weather Systems, which I thought was going to be this little experimental EP that ended up really working. I never had a proper producer for any of that stuff, and I think that was a good thing. If someone was too decisive during that time, I wouldn’t have made those mistakes that I needed to make.

It was a transitional time in the music industry — if you drew a graph of the ascendance of my audience and the descent of physical product in the music industry, the actual album sales, they’re totally inverse trajectories, and cross over each other in about 2005. I was not super new at that time — I’d already put out three or four records, and I’d been working and touring since ’98, on a very indie DIY level. I was very committed to that, almost to a fault — I should have probably been scaling up.

When I started off, we’d play a show and put out like a binder with our mailing list. It’s so quaint when you think about it — you get people’s names and addresses, and you’d send them postcards about the next show. It was all about making posters and going around town, and if you could afford the silkscreen ones, you’d put up really cool posters on telephone poles. And then at a certain point, you graduate to having a street team, where you enlist fans to help promote shows and stuff. It was still very grassroots. My ambitions at the time were just to pay my band, and to pay my band, I thought I needed to get 300-to-400 people to come to a show, anywhere I go. There was no world-dominance expectation.

I felt like a little bit of an outsider in Chicago, because the post-rock thing was so austere, and the late ‘90s were very anti-virtuosity. I was very fancy compared to them, and so I kind of fell in with the alt-country scene, just they were the nicest people that I found in the music scene, and more approachable. I played a lot of the shows with them, but the first band that was on a national level that I fell in with was My Morning Jacket. Jim James really championed me early on, when I was touring solo — I remember he came to a London show where I was the first of three on the bill, and he brought the whole band, and the audience was being annoying, and he just made everyone shut up. He recognized what I was trying to do, and saw the value in it, and he took me on tour with them when they were still building an audience.

Listening back to Mysterious Production of Eggs — I was kind of down on it for a while, because when you spend that long in the studio, far away from being on stage, the more the energy becomes like a bedroom, headphones kind of album. But that’s part of what’s appealing about it, too. It may not have that live energy, but there’s a lot of detail, because there are so many layers, so many attempts at making these songs. Only one of them survived every attempt, which was “Opposite Day,” because I did such interesting stuff at the barn with the loops and creating this weird melody that I couldn’t replicate again. So I just kept pulling back the layers, and then adding more paint, and then pulling back the layers. I’ve never made an album that was this obsessive. My ethos since then has grown more live and free-wheeling.

I talk to a lot of young artists that don’t want to reveal what they’ve been working on until it’s absolutely perfect. I just say that mentality is not going to work. I have this built-in aversion to that sort of codified, this-is-how-you-do-it thing. Get on stage as much as possible, and don’t be precious.

Anohni

In 2005, I Am a Bird Now scored an upset win at the UK’s Mercury Prize for Anohni & the Johnsons, which was followed by acclaim for the chamber-pop tour de force by U.S. blogs and outlets. Anohni reflects on the album’s continued resonance as a defiant piece of trans expression, and why 2005 was the perfect time for I Am a Bird Now to break through.

I knew that this was my one chance — that things were as lined up as they were ever going to be to get me through the keyhole into the daylight culture. And as a person of my demographic, or whatever you want to call it, there was a lot of support for me from from the underground and from the indie world. A lot of artists had supported me to that point, and really ushered me across that line in a way that the industry was never going to. And then the really unexpected happened when I won the Mercury Prize, and that was almost like the whim of a panel of artists and cultural figures in the U.K. that transformed my life and career with that gesture. But it was a culmination of a sort of swell of underground support for me — not really from the business of music, but from my colleagues.

A lot of the songs on I Am a Bird Now were written more than five or 10 years earlier, in the mid-90s, when I was living a very insular, creative life in New York City. One or two songs on the record I wrote later, most notably “Hope There’s Someone,” shortly before I did the record. We recorded it, and I said, “That should be the first song on the record.” Everyone was like, “Really?” I was like, “Yeah, that’s definitely the best song on the record. We should just put that first and front-load it.” And that really did make a big difference, I think. 

I’ve always talked about the album as a story about a family living inside me, that everyone contains a family of archetypes, and that they’re in conversation. I remember writing “For Today I Am a Boy” in like 1995 and thinking, “I could never play this to anyone. This is the most embarrassing song I’ve ever written, the most shameful — how could I even sing this? It’s so freaky.” And then I thought, “Oh! That’s great!” It made me uncomfortable when I wrote it, and there must be something in that, so I’ll just try it. And I ended up singing that song for the whole, bio-diverse world. I ended up singing it for nature and for every living thing. 

Those songs were all transformed 100 times over from the touring I did on those records, and because of my practice as a performer, learned from Kazuo Ôno, everything was always changing in my body when I was singing the songs. It was always new imagery pouring forth — that was part of the delight for me as a performer, to have that chance to just reach toward an ecstatic process. 

I never thought of myself as an indie artist. I thought of myself as kind of a muse to certain indie artists, but honestly, I thought of myself as a New York artist, and my international forays had always been at the invitation of other artists, like David Tibet, who’s an underground U.K. artist who’s super subcultural. He was the one who released my first album, and his support brought me out to the U.K. to do a concert with him and stuff like that. My friendship and work with Lou Reed brought me to do some concerts in Naples and Milan, and then Lou brought me on a world tour as his backup singer, and that was transformative. And then the producer Hal Willner started to promote me, and introduced me to the broader, dare I say, heterosexual music world.

A lot of those artists heard me sing and embraced me, and as a trans artist, identity hadn’t been pecked apart in the public sphere in this kind of Roman Coliseum way that it has now, so people weren’t necessarily perceiving my identity as grounds for not listening to my music. They were just curious about the music. So I Am A Bird Now was very interestingly marketed to the general public, whereas the album I just released, My Back Is a Bridge for You to Cross, it’s very difficult to convince anyone not to market it solely to a queer audience, just because that’s the way that demographic commercial marketing has taken this ugly turn. It’s crude and myopic. I’ve been writing albums about the environment and our relationship to the natural world, but you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone that listens to PJ Harvey or Nick Cave still listening to my music, because they don’t think it’s their lane. I find that really perverse, and it’s been mostly true in the U.S., but it’s less true in Europe.

My experience with I Am A Bird Now has been my lifelong experience – which is that, as a person like me, your survival depends on the kindness of strangers: your own family, your own community, your own church decides if you live or die. They decide if they’re going to “tolerate” you, and the extent of your freedom in the community is based on the extent of the space allotted to you. And that’s true of many minorities, but it’s particularly stunning when you’re a minority within your own family, your own like racial, ethnic, economic demographic. It’s a very specific experience, which a lot of LGBTQ people could relate to. 

I would say 2005 was kind of a Goldilocks zone for something like my work to emerge, and I don’t think my work could have emerged at any other moment. It was post-AIDS enough that people were willing to entertain androgyny as a component, and even the addressing of some gender stuff. It was pre-#MeToo enough that there could be feminist concerns that hadn’t been weaponized yet. Look at where we are now politically with Trump — I mean, it’s like everyone who’s ever been canceled has been released from prison. It’s a full pardon for every canceled rapist north of the Equator. 

And that’s all part of this — I Am a Bird Now was a moment on the other end of that pendulum when a conversation was tolerated, entertained and considered in the heterosexual media. Are we going to let this in? Does this pose a threat? And it was before the hibernating powers that be saw a rejuvenated opportunity to take massive power from a public conversation gone awry about the existence of trans people, to a point where a president literally got f–king elected off of like, perverted, disgusting anti-trans ads.

I feel very privileged — I had that upswing in my career when I was able to buy myself an apartment on the back of I Am a Bird Now. If that album came out today, I don’t think I’d even make 10 cents, because the tech industry hadn’t yet mobilized to upstream all of the income of the music industry, in such a way that music just became a pheromone inside everyone’s device. People in 2005 were still buying an artist’s work — there was still a transaction that was meaningful around the recording and selling of music that allowed musicians to to support themselves, and that’s disappeared now, pretty much.

I would say income is probably an eighth of what it was — maybe a tenth? You probably earn $1 for every $10 you would have earned in 2005 as a recording artist. Everyone’s just comfortable with that, and has been gently boiled in the pot, and accepted the terms of engagement from Apple and Spotify and whoever else. As musicians, we had the privileged seat in 2005 of watching that transfer of agency, and riding the last moments of an old view of 20th century agency as a recording artist, and watch that be replaced by something just way filthier.

I don’t actually talk to many young artists — my circle is pretty closed. But I’ll give the advice that Lou would have given me, which is, just don’t trust anyone that wants you to sign anything. Understand everything that you’re signing, understand what you’re giving away. That sounds very proprietary, but Lou was the one that prevented me from selling all my publishing for just a few dollars, at a moment when I was desperate. He just said, “Never, ever. Even if no one is telling you that you’re valued, continue to retain knowledge of your value.” 

Whether or not it ever translates into money, according to the culture and the temperature of the era, your value is eternal. I turned down a lot of opportunities before I finally did what I did — I Am a Bird Now came out when I was 35, I wasn’t young. I was 10, 15 years older than most of the other people in my peer group who were coming up that year, and I was worldly in certain regards, but I wasn’t worldly traveling through the media and understanding what that transaction was. It took me a long time to understand how a culture eats an artist, and now I am very clear about it. 

That’s what I would talk to young people about — to understand that this is not a world that has your best interests at heart. You need to consider the structures that support you, first and foremost, in any level of disclosure or spelling of interior value. You need to fully vet and understand the consequences of that, to the best of your ability, before you throw yourself into it.

I’ve become much more aware of how meaningful the music has been developmentally for young trans people, in the same way that Boy George’s music was meaningful to me when I was 14 or 15, and I’m super grateful to be seen as representation of difference in culture. At the same time, I also resent the quarantine of the messaging — I resent that the music isn’t heard because of the algorithm, because of the way that culture is contained. I got a career because a bunch of heterosexual musicians said I was a musician, and because a bunch of straight, respected guys decided that they were gonna force the issue, that I should be allowed to participate in music. 

That’s what happened with I Am a Bird Now — everyone heard it at the dinner table, because it was thrust into the imagination of the entire UK after the Mercury Prize. During the tour in 2005, there would be gangs of football players singing “For Today I Am a Boy” in Spain. It was nuts — heterosexual kids were listening to it too, because it was just considered part of the fabric of the year.

I’ll always be grateful for my life — I can’t believe I got a chance to do it, because so many people of my demographic could never get a chance to do anything like that. I really was one of the very few that’s had a chance to fully express my feeling. I’m able to mirror and voice how it feels to see the world through eyes like mine. And that’s a miracle.

Okkervil River

Will Sheff’s indie-folk project spent seven years trying to find a larger audience in Texas before its third album, Black Sheep Boy, finally broke Okkervil River on a national level. Sheff explains why his group’s “ramshackle” third album was their last chance before he called it quits.

We started in 1998, and it felt like we had been slugging away in the shadows for forever. When I made Black Sheep Boy, I was in a pretty low emotional and psychological state, because it was like a permanent cloud over me. Half the time I was thinking, “Once I finished this, I’ll just hang it up, and I’ll be proud of myself,” because I knew that Black Sheep Boy was the best thing I’d ever done. At least I’ll know that I made one good record, and then went out on a high note — that was the best I could see for myself at that point. 

That album came out without very much fanfare. When it came out, it really felt like I remember that my publicist accidentally CC’ed me on an email that she had written to the label with a spreadsheet of press reactions, and she said in the email something like, “This has been really hard and frustrating. I’m sorry we’re not getting more pick-up.” The spreadsheet that was included was just like, so-and-so passed, passed, passed, they liked the second one better, not his thing, passed. I was feeling really despairing, because I felt like, “If people don’t like this, then I’ll never make anything that anybody likes.”

It wasn’t until halfway through the touring cycle that Kelefa Sanneh wrote a big piece about us and the Decemberists in the New York Times, and that was when things started to turn around. It was just a wild year, because I put out this record that was maybe my last statement, and then I dutifully toured on it — we weren’t playing very well, and people didn’t seem to care. And then midway through, word of mouth made that album resurface. Suddenly, after seven years of chasing, we kind of caught the car.

I was a lonely, unhappy child who fell in with a group of artsy kids, theater and band kids, in high school. And I really felt like art was spiritual to me — I felt like it had saved my life, but I felt like there was a second part of the equation, which was that I had to prove myself in the arena of art, or else it wouldn’t have meant anything. I started Okkervil River with those same high school friends, but then they gave up on it. The drummer didn’t think it was going to be successful, and then the bassist was like, “I need a real job.” I had to hire all new players, and I was just slugging away, and I didn’t have a backup plan. 

That was part of why I was so f—ked up in my head when I made Black Sheep Boy: in the pursuit of this, I had torched all my relationships, I had no money, I was not getting any sleep, and I didn’t have a place to live. I felt like I just had all this ambition and all this need for it to succeed, and I also was not psychologically getting the care that I needed to be a balanced human. Sometimes I would be like, “This is gonna make me a star,” but then other times I would be like, “I’m just gonna go back to New Hampshire and become a school teacher, I guess.” I look back on it now, and I think that relentless focus on this need for success meant that I didn’t really appreciate what good things had happened to me in my life to that point. 

When I look back on it now, I’m like, “What a lucky window that we we ended up making our way through.” In the ‘80s, everything was big business in the music business, and there were bands like REM, but there weren’t that many of those bands that were really succeeding financially. In the indie rock boom, it felt like there were so many bands — because, I think, of the holdover from the ‘90s, where people were really prizing anti-corporate, alternative, independent, not selling out. And also the critical apparatus was still very whitewashed, and so a “musician” to a music critic looked like a white guy with a guitar, and really prized intelligent songwriting. 

The reason that I made it was because I put in a ton of work, I looked more or less like what you’re supposed to look like, and I was doing this thing that we all were very interested in. There was the Hold Steady, the Mountain Goats, the Decemberists — and we didn’t compare notes, but we were all making vaguely literary smarty-pants rock, and we had all independently arrived and some of these values. 

Now, it’s just a different landscape, and a band like Okkervil River or the Mountain Goats or the Hold Steady or whoever just wouldn’t break through in the same way, because the hunger isn’t there. The culture had a hunger, but then I watched that hunger intensify to where, suddenly Bon Iver was collaborating with Kanye West and appearing in a Bushmills ad and winning a Grammy, then being on Saturday Night Live and being satirized on Saturday Night Live. And then Zooey Deschanel was like, “I want an indie rock career, too,” and suddenly everybody had her haircut. The way people would talk about Vampire Weekend when they were first coming up, it was like they were talking about a particularly promising college basketball player. It started to seem like, instead of the alternative to mainstream corporate rock, indie rock was like the minor leagues.

I remember riding in a car with my sister, and she was listening to a bunch of songs on shuffle, and she had a song from Black Sheep Boy playing, and then right after that, a song from the Killers came on. The Killers made us sound like our record was recorded in a garage, which in fact it was. And I just felt really insecure. And so for a period of time, I was like, “I have to sound like I’m real” – like, a real musician. 

And now I look back and I think the opposite is true. I love that Cindy Lee record from last year, and part of what’s cool about the record is how f—ked up it sounds. That album just goes to show that you don’t have to sound any way at all. If it’s good, it doesn’t f—king matter how it sounds. And I think that Black Sheep Boy doesn’t really sound like any other record. It’s very odd, it’s ramshackle and acoustic, and very dark, and a weird mix of electronics and acoustic guitars. It sounds pretty handmade to me. And at the time, those were all things that bothered me. And now I’m like, that’s really special.

Throughout his career, Kele Okereke has never been one to stand still. When Billboard UK calls the Bloc Party vocalist and guitarist to discuss The Singing Winds Pt. 3, his new solo album released Jan. 17, Okereke paces around his London home for the duration of our chat, working his mind (and body) while he reflects on an illustrious career in music — one that has never remained in a single place.

Explore

See latest videos, charts and news

See latest videos, charts and news

Okereke’s new project is his seventh solo studio album since 2010, and the third installment to his Elements project, which has taken inspiration from the forces around us. It kicked off in 2021 with The Waves Pt. 1 and was followed by The Flames Pt. 2 in 2023, both born out of a necessity to create during lockdown. Each collection is written and produced solely by Okereke in his home studio and with minimal tools.

Trending on Billboard

“It was important to me to do everything myself and for every sound to be made by my guitar,” he says. “During the lockdowns, I was at home and not really sure what I was going to do with my life, but I knew that I still wanted to be creative. It forced me to go back to the guitar. It gave me a new appreciation for the instrument.”

In the coming months, Okereke will head out on the road to tour this project, his first time using loop pedals and building each song live on stage. Then it’s back to Bloc Party to celebrate the 20th anniversary of its beloved 2005 debut album Silent Alarm, which the band will be playing in full across the U.K. at some of its largest outdoor shows to date.

Upon release, the LP landed to No. 3 on the U.K.’s Official Albums Chart and has endured as an essential of 21st century indie rock. A sonic fusion of influences from post-punk to electronica, plus lyrics that touched upon the British government’s disastrous war in Iraq and Afghanistan during the mid-’00s, set the group apart both from chaotic, romantic contemporaries like The Libertines and fashionable, sexy art-school graduates like Franz Ferdinand. 

The group released a number of records in the ensuing years, notably 2007’s cult classic A Weekend In The City (No. 12 on the Billboard 200) and more recently 2022’s Alpha Games. Okereke still leads from the front with founding member Russell Lissack (guitars), plus Louise Bartle (drums) and Harry Deacon (bass) now completing the lineup; other founding members Matt Tong and Gordon Moakes left the band in 2013 and 2015, respectively.

As he releases The Singing Winds Pt. 3 and preps an upcoming tour with Bloc Party, Okereke speaks to Billboard UK about the project, his upcoming memoir and the enduring appeal of Silent Alarm.

You’re on the third installment of this project with The Singing Winds Pt. 3. What has it given you creatively?

It started very much as an accident or chance. It’s given me a focus and has been a somewhat indulgent but incredibly enjoyable way to throw myself into music. When I started making solo records [in 2010] it was very much a reaction to the fact that with Bloc Party, we were a guitar band and I wanted to get away from that. I wanted to explore other worlds and that’s what I did with the first four records – they were all coming from different places.

You started releasing the project in 2021. Did you anticipate it unfolding over this time period? 

I always knew that it was going to take a while. When you’re writing these songs, you have to live your life and be inspired. Back then when I was working on The Waves, I didn’t really know what the next records were going to sound like, but [after] a year of living and experimenting, and being creative with Bloc Party and working on something very different, it shows you where you need to go next. I knew it was going to be a longer form project, but I really like the pace. I’m composing and writing a lot at home and you’re waiting for inspiration to spark. 

Is each LP a reaction to the last in the series?

Doing these interviews and looking backwards retrospectively you can see a path, but at the time you’re just inching around in the dark. When I was making The Waves, it was tonally all in one place so I knew that I needed to go somewhere different next. To me when you listen to that record, it feels like you’re bobbing on water – there’s no drums or percussion, it’s just this floating thing. Whereas with The Flames the sounds are very brittle and abrasive and extreme, and it’s been interesting to see that in the writing process.

The point about this project is that I wanted each of these elements to have quite a different sonic and emotional personality. They’re all connected to the classical elements and it’s interesting to consider how I could refer to those elements in the song and the lyrics and the textures of the record. 

On this release there’s a lot of candour, particularly on “The Arrangement” which highlights a broken romantic relationship. You’ve always been vulnerable in your songwriting, but as you get older and have your own family, do you censor yourself at all because of the real-world consequences?

There are moments of vulnerability in this record, and throughout my career I’ve always written from an emotional place, but in the past things would be hidden in abstraction and just glimpses of my personal life; for the most part I’ve been quite guarded in things.

With this next Bloc Party record, it’s very personal and confessional, and I’ve never really done that as a songwriter. I’ve always preferred an element of distance. But in the past year I’ve been through quite an unbelievable time and had some very difficult relationships with people, and this is the only place to put all of that. 

This next [Bloc Party] record I’m making will be about the study of a fleeting relationship from start to finish. And it’s going to be incredibly personal, but I’m excited about that because it’s something I’ve never really done before. I’ve never really spoken directly, and this time I will.

Can you tell us anything more about what listeners might hear?

Without wanting to go into too much detail, I had a relationship with someone that wasn’t honest and I think I need the world to see that. So this next Bloc Party record is going to come from a place of necessity. We’ve written everything and we’ll be recording soon, and hopefully will be out in 2026. The only thing I will say is that ‘heartbreak’ is a term that people keep bandying around about these songs. It’s going to be emotional, for sure.

You’re heading out on the road this summer for the 20th anniversary of Silent Alarm. What’s your relationship like to that album?

Obviously I’m thankful that it has resonated and stood the test of time. Before we made that record we had a bit of a name for ourselves and a song or two out and it was this underground, exciting thing. But when we made the record we knew we had to strive further than what people were expecting of us.We knew it had to be expansive and there was this fear that we might be pushing it too far when we were in the studio, but we didn’t succumb to that, and I’m glad that we managed to express what we wanted to express. I’m glad that it worked and we made the best record we could, because it has stood the test of time.

Kele Okereke

Eleanor Jane

At the end of last year you released Another Weekend In The City, a companion record of B-sides from around the time of your sophomore album. It must be nice to see that excitement towards other pieces of music from throughout your career, not just Silent Alarm…

It’s nice to be able to go back and listen to those records, and to remember where I was when I wrote them, the conversations that I was having and the people that were in my life. That’s the stuff that comes back to me when I go back to these songs and I don’t really do that so often. I had to do it for Silent Alarm as I had to relearn the songs. I’ve always been obsessed with looking forward, but I am recognizing that we’ve done something quite good and it’s nice to bask in that sometimes.

Both records and 2008’s Intimacy had instant success on the charts and took you around the world. How did that feel in the moment?

Growing up when we were listening to music and going to shows, they weren’t bands that were on the cover of the NME and weren’t that in your face. So when that stuff started happening for us it was surreal to feel like we’d leapfrogged somehow where we thought we were going to be. 

On top of the success we were having, it was nice that people were noticing us outside of the U.K. in the US, Europe and Australia and that we weren’t just a British band. There are still a lot of bands that are successful in the U.K. but don’t necessarily translate to other territories for some reason, but for us it felt quite immediate that people all around the world were curious about us – and that’s maintained.

I’ve heard that you’re in the process of writing a memoir. How’s that going?

I can’t say much about it but I’m about halfway through. I’m enjoying it, for sure. I was a little bit reluctant before because I’ve always been quite a private person, and there was something about the idea of writing my life in my words and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to do that. But I started it and it’s amazing what has come back to me and my life over 20 years ago. Things that I never thought about or remembered unless I was doing this process. It’s giving me a perspective on things that I wouldn’t have had unless I forced myself to stop and look back.

I suppose it gives you the chance to write your own story in your own words. The discourse when you started your career was written by other people, particularly the indie press which had a bigger influence back then…

Having been around for so long, you have the sense that people have an understanding or belief about who you are or the perception of who you are, so it’ll be fun to present my story in my words. That was something I found very frustrating at the start of our career: you’d do interviews with journalists and you’d talk passionately and have a great conversation, then you’d read the interview and it would just be a reduction of everything you said. The one line where you inadvertently mentioned another band, it’d get taken into the pull quote where you slagged someone off. 

There was so much of that at the start of our career, and I realized very quickly that I had to insulate myself from that. I just stopped reading the interviews, reviews and features because even though we were successful and it was a positive time, it also felt like a bit of a caricature of who I knew we were. 

Alpha Games got a great response from fans. Does the wider response to your music from fans or critics impact you these days?

I think very early on that to do this job the right way, I had to not listen to what anyone else said… from our immediate team to the fans as well. I know that might sound controversial, but once the record is out there it’s not mine anymore. I only listened to Silent Alarm recently to relearn the songs; I’m never going to have the experience that other people have listening to my music, but I’m fine with that. Why I do this job is that I love creating music, and pulling ideas out of the air and making them come back through the speakers. The only thing I serve is that process is bringing songs into the world. So once they’re done and out there, that’s it for me. 

Maybe that sounds naïve, but that’s the way I’ve been operating for the past 20 years, and probably the reason why I’ve made so much music in these past few years — because that’s why I do it. I know I’m in a fortunate position with the success I’ve had, but also this is my life and I love it. I feel grateful that 20 years later I’m still able to create.

The Singing Winds Pt. 3 is out now on Kola.

On Sept. 27, indie labels and distributors around the world received a letter from Merlin, the coalition that negotiates their licenses with TikTok and other digital services. “With no warning, TikTok walked away before negotiations even began… they do not want to renew our deal, which expires on October 31st,” Merlin’s letter said.
Instead, Merlin explained, TikTok wanted to forge deals with most of the labels and distributors the coalition represented directly, a move that Merlin read as an attempt to “fragment” its membership and “minimize” payments for indie music. (TikTok says it walked away from negotiations with Merlin due to concerns about fraudulent content from certain Merlin members making its way onto the social media app. The company also says it wanted to form closer relationships with Merlin members.)

TikTok and Merlin both declined to comment for this story. 

Trending on Billboard

Since then, 12 different labels and distributors among the thousands represented by Merlin have spoken to Billboard about what they would do when their licenses expire after Halloween. Will the indies walk away, attempting to take a stand against TikTok in solidarity with Merlin? Will they renew their licenses individually? And if they do, how will those deals compare to what Merlin negotiated previously? (Nearly all of the executives who spoke to Billboard for this story requested anonymity, given most of their respective companies have non-disclosure agreements with TikTok.)

At first, one distribution executive said their company was not yet negotiating its own license with TikTok — because this exec said they were still hopeful that Merlin and TikTok might come back to the negotiating table. “We want to make sure there is no possibility with Merlin first,” the executive said. John Carnell, CEO of Phoenix Music International (PMI), had a similar view. In an email to Merlin, obtained by Billboard, Carnell said that while TikTok has approached Phoenix individually, “There is no way we would undermine Merlin’s position.”

Unlike Universal Music Group (UMG), which pulled its entire label and publishing catalog from TikTok earlier this year when its license with the platform expired amid renewal negotiations, antitrust laws prevent Merlin from forcing its members to move off of TikTok. It can’t even ask its members to collectively strike against TikTok, leaving the coalition with little choice but to accept TikTok’s decision.

Carnell ultimately decided PMI would “not be entering a deal with TikTok,” according to his email, but the other executive holdout took a different tack. This week, in a second interview, the executive said their company had decided to sign a direct deal with TikTok after all. “If I still thought that not signing would help Merlin get a new deal, or could help the independent music community, I would try to not sign,” the distribution executive said. “But even when Universal didn’t sign [a licensing deal], [TikTok] didn’t care… We have no choice [but to sign a new licensing agreement] because our artists want to be on TikTok — perhaps too much — but for them, it is very important.”

This is a commonly held sentiment among Merlin members, many of whom say their artists want to be on TikTok, and they need to oblige — or risk losing talent to competitors. In the last week, both UnitedMasters and Ditto announced that they had signed new agreements with TikTok. Steve Stoute, founder and CEO of UnitedMasters, told Billboard, “I believe we struck a fair deal with TikTok for UnitedMasters and our artists, who understand how valuable promotion can be for their reach… Merlin has done a great job representing independent labels across the world, and I am a proud Merlin member.” TikTok says that now the vast majority of Merlin members have signed direct deals with the company.

Multiple members say TikTok offered them new agreements around the time that Billboard broke the news in late September that Merlin’s negotiations with TikTok had collapsed. But not every member received an offer — which tracks, considering TikTok’s claim that fraudulent activity allegedly stemmed from specific members of Merlin. TikTok’s music licenses typically last two years, and most of the new deals offered this October will expire in late 2026.

Three sources say that the compensation terms provided under the new, individual offers from TikTok are not significantly better or worse than what Merlin previously negotiated, but that there have been some key changes. First, TikTok is now paying out music licensors based on views that videos featuring a song receives, rather than “creates” (how many videos are created with a given song in the background).

Specifically, TikTok will calculate market share based on views, and then the payment will be divided up from there. This does not mean TikTok now pays a certain royalty per view. “It makes sense,” says one indie executive. “I don’t know why they didn’t always pay based on views.” Another exec added, “It won’t lead to a major difference in how much we are paid. We are still doing the math, but it seems like there will be about a 4% difference in what we take in from TikTok, give or take.”

“TikTok was always paying us badly, so none of this is a financial problem in the short term,” says the indie label executive who initially wanted to hold out. “They are one of the biggest social media companies in the world, and the smallest revenue earner for a music company.” Another indie label source had a similar feeling. “It’s a promotional avenue more than anything else,” this person said. “I think there’s value in TikTok deals, but it’s, like, 1% of every company’s books. It’s not a big part of anyone’s business. I truly think the royalty conversation wasn’t the deal breaker, but there were other material terms that we wanted.”

One of those key term changes had to do with “ad credits,” which can also be referenced as “marketing credits.” Three sources said that the deals TikTok sent them did not include these credits, which amount to money offered by TikTok that a label can put toward advertisements and marketing on the app. One source says the previous, Merlin-negotiated agreement guaranteed a budget in the millions for ads and marketing on TikTok, with the sum of credits divided among individual members based on their size. Now, at least some labels, particularly the ones with less bargaining power, might not get them at all.

The three sources also said that while the previous contract included a “most favored nations” (MFN) clause, which gives licensors the right to the same terms and benefits as other licensors who enter similar contracts with TikTok, the new agreements did not. One also said their individual agreement included a new clause requiring “know your customer” (KYC) checks — which would require verification of artists’ identities before allowing them to upload songs — something TikTok says is designed to curb bad actors and fraudsters from getting their music on to TikTok. It also serves to place more responsibility on the labels and distributors for the content they deliver. The executive also claimed, however, that the provision’s language is vague and seems difficult to enforce.

Four sources suggested UMG’s previous licensing dispute with TikTok was the catalyst for TikTok to walk away from Merlin. “[UMG] definitely emboldened TikTok,” says one source close to the situation. “They lost that war, and they created a really bad situation for Merlin. Sony and Warner are up next year, too. If I was them, I’d be terrified right now.”

Still, another indie label executive, whose releases run through a Merlin distributor, holds a different view — that, maybe, TikTok is not so important now after all. “We’re sticking with Merlin,” the executive says. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. If this happened a year, two years ago, I’d be freaking out. But these days, TikTok isn’t moving the needle for our artists like it used to.”

While his artists used to “easily get tens of thousands of views on most TikToks without any spend,” he says the social media platform is too “saturated” now, and he’s watched as his artists’ impressions have tanked. He’s not alone. In a recent Billboard story about the modern creator campaign on TikTok, multiple digital marketing sources expressed that it is harder than ever to get a song off the ground on the service. But, as one source put it, “It’s still the best thing we have.”

“But what does not having a deal even mean at this point?” another indie label executive asked. “When these things come down, it just encourages the bootleg use of songs on these platforms. The music will be up, just not properly attributed.” During UMG’s boycott of TikTok earlier this year, it was common to still find Universal songs on the platform, just as bootlegged remixes, not as official audio. Sometimes, to skirt the effects of the boycott, top UMG stars like Olivia Rodrigo would even use these bootlegs to promote their latest releases.

TikTok originally told Merlin members that the deadline to finalize their individual agreements with the service was Oct. 25, but one label executive said they have heard that TikTok has offered extensions to certain members. Three sources believe that smaller Merlin members won’t have room to negotiate past the original boilerplate offer, but the larger players will find more wiggle room. Those who received extensions or finalized deals will not have their music removed from the app today, but TikTok says it has already started removing songs from those members that chose not to strike a deal. The company assures that the vast majority of Merlin members have already cemented their deals. 

“I wish it had worked out differently between Merlin and Tiktok,” one Merlin member says. “But if our partnership needs to be direct with ByteDance in order to serve our clients, then you know, that’s the avenue that we have to take. Only time will tell how this all plays out.”

Additional Reporting by Elias Leight

British indie band The Maccabees have announced that they will reunite for a live show in London next summer.
The band split in 2017 and released their last album, Marks To Prove It, in 2015, which landed at No.1 on the U.K. Official Album Charts. The Maccabees will perform their first live show in eight years at London’s All Points East festival in Victoria Park on August 24, 2025.

Tickets go on general sale at 10 a.m. GMT on October 31 from the festival’s official website. Special guests for the 50,000-capacity show will be announced in due course.

Explore

Explore

See latest videos, charts and news

See latest videos, charts and news

Speaking of the reunion guitarist Felix White said in a statement: “In the intervening years we’ve been to All Points East a lot, separately. It’s become a bit of a landmark festival for us, always checking who’s on the line-up. I’d go and have a great time throughout the day, but there was always this pinch of regret watching headliners that we could’ve done it ourselves one day too. I thought that moment had passed, and it was something I was prepared to come to terms with that I was always going to miss. I think we’re all kind of shocked and excited that we get to do it together again.”

Trending on Billboard

His brother, guitarist Felix White, added that The Strokes‘ performance at the festival in 2023 was part of the motivation to get the band back together. “I could see that they were enjoying it, realizing how great what they had created together was. Being a band, you are usually in a mindset of, ‘We can do better’ and you’re always chasing something else,” Felix said.

“This is an opportunity to realize that whatever we had in that moment was pretty special and get to enjoy it again. It’s a chance to appreciate everything, and especially how it impacts other people and created a community.”

The band formed in London in 2004 and released four studio albums: Colour It In (2007), Wall Of Arms (2009), Given To The Wild (2012) and Marks To Prove It (2015). They split in 2017 and performed a farewell tour in the U.K., which included three nights at the capital’s 10,000-capacity Alexandra Palace.

Following the band’s split, frontman Orlando Weeks released a string of solo records, while brothers Felix and Hugo White formed 86TVs, which released its self-titled debut in August.

They are the first act to be announced for 2025’s All Points East festival. This year’s edition included headline sets from Kaytranada, Loyle Carner, Mitski, LCD Soundsystem and more.

We’re very excited to say we are getting back together to headline @allpointseastuk on Sunday, August 24th. Pre-sale is Wednesday 10am and general on sale Thursday 10am.Good luck. We’re looking forward to seeing you at Victoria Park. With love,The Maccabees x pic.twitter.com/tmrizZvJ0m— The Maccabees (@themaccabees) October 28, 2024

“It’s always interesting to meet your peers that you’ve influenced,” says Zac Hanson.
As the trio Hanson, Zac and his brothers Taylor and Isaac have, after all, been making music together for 30 years — the equivalent of an entire career for many artists. Those peers have included some of today’s biggest hitmakers, who’ve looked to Hanson’s success and stability as a potential model for their own.

“We sat in our studio with Billie Eilish and FINNEAS when they happened to be in town, [with] their parents talking to us saying, ‘We basically decided they should make music ’cause we saw Hanson and you guys seemed like you were OK,’” Taylor recalls. “Like, that’s insane … and here they are, they’ve done incredible, beautiful work.”

Other artists, the brothers reveal, have visited Hanson simply looking to get their take on new music. “In the same studio, Ed Sheeran, when he was opening for Taylor Swift, [was] like, ‘I wanna play you some songs.’ … And you’re just going, ‘This is really fun!’” Isaac says with a laugh.

Hanson is currently celebrating 20 years since going independent and starting their own label, 3CG Records, where they released their third album, Underneath. The band is on a North American tour in support of a deluxe re-release, Underneath: Complete.

“These songs are all richer, layered, we produced a great deal of it,” Taylor says of Underneath. “It’s a record that really works well in a live setting and it’s exciting to go back and really lean into those songs,” which include the radio hit “Penny and Me.”

In a wide-ranging and loose chat with Billboard News, the Hanson brothers also talk about their foray into beer-making with their Mmmhops Pale Ale, also getting a re-release, alongside a new beer, Pink Moonlight Hazy Peach IPA, created in collaboration with noted independent craft brewery Destihl.

Watch the full interview — in which the brothers also discuss their thoughts on how to, as Isaac puts it, “fix the music industry” — above.

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.

Explore

See latest videos, charts and news

See latest videos, charts and news

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.

Trending on Billboard

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.”

Neon Gold and Avenue A Records have joined together to create Futures Music Group, a tech-forward collective of indie labels with an artist-first mentality.
Distributed through Virgin, Futures was co-founded by Neon Gold’s Derek Davies (Charli XCX, Tove Lo, Marina & The Diamonds, Passion Pit, Matt Maeson) and Avenue A’s Dave Wallace (Barns Courtney, Blossoms, Palace, Self Esteem) in early 2024. When the label group’s first release as Futures, “Home” by Good Neighbours, quickly went viral in January, the song quickly put the band on the map and served as a proof-of-concept for the Futures model. Perhaps the biggest debut single by any artist this year, “Home” was certified platinum in less than nine months.

The Futures roster also includes Phantogram, The Knocks, Barns Courtney, Palace and Mt. Joy, the latter of which was signed through a joint venture with the band’s own Bloom Field Records. (Good Neighbours first EP, including “Home,” are also through Futures until the band’s deal with Capitol/Polydor kicks in January 2025).

Trending on Billboard

Over time, Futures Music Group will grow to include more indie labels (and artists) under its umbrella. It also intends to build an internal team for digital marketing, sync licensing, sales, content production and more that can be shared between the individual labels.

At Futures, artists are signed to license-based deals, keeping master ownership in the artists’ hands, and the royalty split is kept equitable between the label and artist. In some instances, the split moves further into the artist’s favor after certain profit thresholds are met. This allows for what Davies calls “maximum incentive alignment” between both parties, and it rewards the artist for success.

The deal terms and options are “shorter and less onerous than most competitors,” Davies adds. “Our thing is if we do a great job, then we hope people will just keep rolling through and working with us,” says Wallace. “Keeping artists happy is the name of the game. We don’t want to work with an artist who is only working with us because of a contract. There are not many successful record campaigns that come out of a relationship where the artist is unhappy,” adds Davies.

The company also wants to do right by songwriters. The label group has pledged from now on to give points on every master to any non-producing and non-performing songwriter from the label’s share. (Exact deal points for this are handled on a case-by-case basis).

Along with their commitment to artists, Davies and Wallace of Futures have also spent the last few years studying and investing in how new technology will disrupt the music business. Davies, for his part, co-founded the start-up Medallion, which helped artists like Santigold, Greta Van Fleet, Tycho and more build and own direct relationships with their most passionate fans using web3 technology. The co-founders have also been strategic investors in Big Effect, a digital marketing platform founded by Spotify and UMG alum Mike Biggane, and Notes.fm, a royalty management platform from Stem co-founder Tim Luckow.

“We believe the future of the music industry has never been brighter for artists and the independent sector,” says Davies. “The industry has reached what we believe to be the largest inflection point in the history of the label system, as we are moving into a new music economy that is rightly trending towards artist ownership. We believe there’s a meaningful opportunity for a well-financed and resourced label group with a proven track record to deliver major results for artists on indie terms, which is what we’ve set out to build with Futures.”

The founding team includes: Davies (co-CEO), Wallace (co-CEO), Sarah Kesselman (CMO, general manager), Nicky Berger (COO) and Jeff Lin (CFO).

2025 marks the 20th anniversary of the acclaimed indie film Garden State – and on March 29, a star-studded celebration will take over the Los Angeles’ Greek Theater. Explore See latest videos, charts and news See latest videos, charts and news Nearly every artist featured on the Grammy-winning soundtrack – including The Shins, Iron & […]

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.

Explore

Explore

See latest videos, charts and news

See latest videos, charts and news

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.

Trending on Billboard

“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’.”

The Leeds, England-based English Teacher released its debut EP, Polyawkward, in 2022, and its first album, This Could Be Texas, in April. So it surprised even them that they sold out New York’s Bowery Ballroom in June — on a Monday, no less.

Explore

See latest videos, charts and news

See latest videos, charts and news

Frontwoman and lyricist Lily Fontaine and lead guitarist and producer Lewis Whiting chalk it up to relentless touring, which has honed the band into a tight unit that melds Radiohead-style guitar and synth sonics with hard funk flourishes and elegant melodies that showcase Fontaine’s literary lyrics about place, identity and broken relationships. (The quartet has actually been playing together since 2018 when they were a very different dream pop band called Frank.) At the Bowery Ballroom, Fontaine’s electric stage presence also galvanized the crowd, as she paced the stage and alternated between rhythm guitar and synth.

English Teacher ‘This Could Be Texas’

Courtesy Photo

English Teacher’s road work and original sound resulted in This Could Be Texas garnering stellar reviews and a Mercury Prize nomination this year. At the end of August, they continued their momentum with a new EP, English Teacher: Live From BBC Maida Vale — which includes covers of Billie Eilish‘s “Birds of a Feather” and LCD Soundsystem‘s “New York I Love You But You’re Bringing Me Down” — and on Sept. 15, they return to the road, playing a slew of dates in North America and Europe.

Trending on Billboard

Fontaine and Whiting (briefly) Zoomed in from the United Kingdom to talk about the band’s success, the origin of its name, its songwriting process and its plans for the future.

You’re a very tight band. Is there a lot of practice involved?

Whiting: Less than you think.

Fontaine: We’ve been on tour for at least the past four or five months, and we’re about to start up again. We don’t really have time to practice because we’re playing the set over and over again.

That’s practice of a sort. I do think that strong live shows are crucial to building a fan base. Lily, you’re riveting onstage. Were you influenced by any other artists in terms of stage presence.

Fontaine: It’s not really a conscious thing to be honest. I’ve been doing it for such a long time — 10 years — that I feel quite confident now on stage. I also think that being a music fan, the affectations of people that I have enjoyed slip in with my stage personality.

How did the band’s name come about?

Fontaine: Ugh.

Whiting: It was a name Lily came up with quite a while back. There are different ways of looking at it. Like, a lot of our family members we’re English teachers and it’s a bit of a connection.

Fontaine: Now, I like the idea of what an English teacher is. We go to so many different countries, and the English language is so prevalent— people do speak it everywhere now — that people sometimes resent it. I hate the name, but also I like the idea of an English teacher being perceived negatively or positively depending on which country you’re in.

How did you all get signed to Island UK?

Fontaine: It was baby steps.

Whiting: Yeah. We’d gotten some support slots, Our guys were floating about. Nothing happened for a long, long time after that. They must have been aware of us and then yeah, the EP came out, we started to play more and they started sniffing around a little bit more.

A number of bands are striking deals with labels that enable them to keep their masters. Was that something you did?

No. It was like a split. We have a percentage.

What are the best and worst parts of touring?

Whiting: The best parts are being able to travel to places and play music that we’ve written to people who don’t know it as well. That’s the best bit, and then I suppose all the rest of it is the bad bit. The traveling is taxing for sure.

The price of touring has ratcheted up, which particularly effects indie bands. What has your experience been?

Fontaine: We don’t really make money. We only ever break even or lose money.

Regarding the title of your album, This Could Be Texas, you could have chosen any state or city here. Why Texas?

Whiting: It must have been in our minds subconsciously because it had just come up on the news about [us playing] South by Southwest. I think it was the best descriptor for where we stood. It was a really hot day and we were at a car park. At first it was a bit of a joke phrase, but then it morphed and attached itself to the song, which is about the process of writing the album. Then it became us saying this should be the title for the album. It wasn’t a sorted-out thing from the start. It just kind of presented itself.

Lily, on “The World’s Biggest Paving Slab,” you sing, “I’m the world’s biggest paving slab, and the world’s smallest celebrity.” Can you give me some context behind that?

Fontaine: I grew up in Colne, Lancashire, and outside the town hall there’s a giant paving slab and that’s one of the town’s local celebrities if you will. The song is about exploring this great display and not necessarily ever leaving the town. It’s a juxtaposition of exploring feelings of grandeur and feelings of self-deprecation.

There also seems to be a little bit of, “Don’t tread on me.”

Fontaine: Yeah, definitely. I think that’s the grandeur element.

Do you and the rest of the band write songs collaboratively?

Fontaine: It’s different every time. Sometimes, one of us will come in with a song quite finished and sometimes just a bit of poetry and a riff come together. Sometimes it’s separate songs. Sometimes it’s all together. It’s different. We like to work like that. So far, it’s been all right.

Whiting: It’s a quite chaotic approach. It’s kind of just throw things together.

Another standout song on the album is “R&B.” On it, you sing, “Despite appearances, I haven’t got the voice for R&B.” Is that subtext about expectations of you as an artist because of your skin color?

Fontaine: The whole song isn’t about that, but part of it is. At the time, I had writer’s block and the only thing I could come up with in my head was a melody for an R&B song. I thought that was so ironic because that is the genre that people always assume that I make when they look at me. Not always, but there’s been times when we meet another musician, and the look on their face is a big shock when I say that I make guitar music.

You come from a mixed-race family?

Fontaine: Yeah, my dad’s side of the family are from Dominica in the Caribbean and my mum’s just I don’t know, England I guess. They’re both British.

Now that Kamala Harris is a presidential candidate, race issues are at the forefront of the campaign. I don’t know if it made news in the U.K., but Donald Trump made headlines here when he said that Harris only recently had decided to identify as Black instead of Indian. Is that kind of racism familiar to you?

Fontaine: Definitely. It’s so funny because it depends on who you’re with. It depends on how Black you are, how white you are. So, if I’m with my white friends, then I’m the Black one, but if I’m with my Black family I’m the whitest person in the room. Race is fluid in a sense — and what a prick [Trump] is. Sorry.

Are you following the presidential race here?

Whiting: I’m following it closely. Biden dropping out was an extremely good call. I can’t say I knew a crazy amount about Harris before this, but I like following American politics. I’m an avid American politics podcast listener.

Fontaine: I don’t have as much knowledge of [politics] as Lewis because I don’t listen to any podcasts or anything. I’m glad that Biden dropped out. I think that was an obvious decision. We’re going to be in the U.S. when the election is happening, so it will be an interesting time to be there.

Lily, the lyrics to “Broken Biscuits” are quite powerful and sound very personal. Is there an autobiographical element to it?

Fontaine: That’s probably the most personal song on the album actually. Yeah, it’s really personal. There’s this John Cooper Clarke poem, “Evidently Chickentown,” that has a lot of repetition, and I wanted to see how many different ways I could use the word “broken.” Then I was seeing how I could use all those different ways to relate to things in my life that were broken or that have been broken.

There are references to all sorts of things: breaking in shoes and broken homes, but also “Smithereens,” which is a Black Mirror episode and the show’s creators [Charlie Brooker and Annabel Jones] call their company Broke and Bones, which I use in the lyrics. There’s lighthearted stuff in there as well. It’s not all sad. But a lot of it is quite dark actually.

Do you come from a broken home?

Fontaine: That’s me. Yeah, my parents split up when, I don’t know — maybe I was like one. It was when I wasn’t conscious, which is a blessing probably.

I noticed that the band worked in more melodies on This Could Be Texas than you have on prior work. Has that been a natural progression?

Fontaine: That’s probably because when we were writing the first EP and some of those earlier songs. I was listening to more post-punk. That was the time of the post-Brexit, post-punk resurgence in the U.K., and I was quite influenced by that. That trend wore off, and I was listening to a lot of classic songs — not classical music. I’m coming to music as a singer, and I felt it was just natural that I would probably go back towards that eventually.

At the end of August, English Teacher put out a live EP that includes covers of Billie Eilish’s “Birds of a Feather” and LCD Soundsystem’s “New York I Love You But You’re Bringing Me Down.” Why did you choose those?

Fontaine: LCD felt natural, because we all really like them, especially that song. I think it felt like a song that we could tackle given the instruments that we had at our disposal. With “Birds of a Feather,” we were asked to do a cover for BBC Radio One which is as you probably know is more of the pop end of the spectrum. So, we looked at what had come out recently — and my boyfriend said, “You should do this song.” We listened to it together, and I was just crying. I found it really moving, and I was like, “I want to do this.” We put it together in a day, and it felt right.

Are you working on the next album?

Fontaine: Yeah, we’ve got a few songs written actually. It seems like it’s come around so fast. Yeah, I’ve got ideas of the concept for it and everything.

Can you share the concept?

Fontaine: It’s too early to say really, and it’s not entirely up to me. But I don’t think I would want to put out a body of work that didn’t have some kind of unifying aspect to it. It happens naturally when you pull everything together that something connects it. It’s not exactly a concept album but always a bit of a through narrative. Thematically, it will probably be a sadder and darker album.

You are clearly into literature, poetry and media. Is there anything that has your attention these days?

Fontaine: Yeah. I’m going through a big phase with Octavia Butler, the science fiction writer. I’m obsessed with her and I just finished the second of two of her books. I’ve immediately ordered the next one because I want to read it whilst I’m still in that world.

She’s my focus at the moment. I’ve been watching The Bear. I think it’s amazing. The writing is brilliant, and the acting is so realistic that it’s kind of scary that people can act but also be so human at the same time. I love food as well so it’s a good one.