Revolutions

I found an old voice memo on my phone that I recorded in September 2014. As I listened to it, trying to make sense of the inane rambling almost a decade on, I realised it was quite profound.

“It seems to me that we are, as a society / Collectively, but individually, living our lives unhappy / But pretending to be happy” really struck a chord with me. Hearing my own words, which I’d forgotten even saying, felt particularly resonant with how I felt in that moment.

I decided to make it the intro track for my new collection of songs, sampling it over a melody and vocal layers, accompanied by the thunking of typewriter keys, giving it the effect of a sonic journal entry.

I pitch-shifted my voice up and down while the words were being spoken, at times sounding sadder and other times more innocent, almost to represent the performances we put on as humans, and the masks we can wear.

It’s subtle, but in the background, you can hear some lines from other songs on the album being sung, including ‘Waiting’ and ‘Backwards’.

This was the first time I’d sampled spoken words onto a song, something I would later experiment with more.

A song about identity not having a fixed shape. I think I was trying to give myself permission to keep changing.

The chorus came first, and once I had it I knew the rest of the song would work whatever I put around it. “All we really are is undefined” was the line I needed to say to myself.

The moment I realised I wasn’t going to collapse for someone again. The whole song is built around the line “I’m not falling backwards”, repeated.

Save me from the place you know / save you from the place I’ll grow.

A song about holding on for the day to come. I was waiting to see someone again. The rest of the song doesn’t say anything that the title doesn’t already say.

A song made in a year that mostly felt like ash. But even embers glow. Even embers remember the shape of the fire.

A song about the moment you realise you can’t keep living the same way. Something — someone — knocking at the door of the life you’re scared to leave.

A song about someone who once felt like home becoming a complete stranger. The grief in realising that the version of them you miss doesn’t exist anymore.

The line “compass set to the northern light” is a quiet callback to Compass earlier on the album. I didn’t notice I’d done it until much later.

A song about survival, faith, and the quiet place you crawl to when everything burns down. The first breath after the storm.