Interview: Andrew Flynn

There is pain at the heart of Andrew Flynn’s new release, Love Arsonist, but be assured, this is no victim’s song. Written nine years after the narcissistic relationship that became its inspiration, it looks back from somewhere stronger, transforming shame, confusion and a shattered sense of self into heartfelt electropop. Andrew is a Northeast singer-songwriter and psychotherapist, and that understanding of how we process experience inevitably finds its way into his writing, although, as he tells us, ultimately he is simply Andrew. Love Arsonist is intensely vulnerable, but its declarations of “you don’t own me now” and “you don’t control me now” progressively shift the balance of power. I spoke to Andrew about reclaiming his story, why electropop became the right place to tell it, vulnerability, self-love and the music industry convention he would happily set on fire.

We caught up with Andrew to find out more…

You’ve described Love Arsonist as an act of reclamation, but listening to it, I was struck by how little it ultimately feels like a victim’s song. There’s pain there, but by the end I hear someone standing considerably taller and stronger. When did the song stop belonging to the person who hurt you and start belonging entirely to you?
I wrote Love Arsonist nine years after the experience happened. Writing it from that distance allowed me to reflect on the immense shame, embarrassment, and pain I felt back then—feelings I see so often in my work as a therapist when people realise they’ve been in a narcissistic relationship. But I didn’t want the song to just dwell in that damage. I wanted it to capture the major shift my life took afterwards. It’s an act of reclamation because it focuses on the growth that came next. As hard as that period was, I’m ultimately grateful it happened because I’m stronger for it. The song belongs entirely to me because it’s about who I became, not what was done to me.

The title fascinates me because I can read it two ways. Is the Love Arsonist the person who sets fire to what love is supposed to mean, or could the arsonist ultimately be the survivor, burning down something destructive in order to escape it?
The Love Arsonist is the person who burns people through false love. “The narcissist, love arsonist” is a line in the song and essentially what they do. They burn people in so many ways: they burn you out, they burn you through gaslighting, and they burn down your hope and ultimately your grip on reality

There are some incredibly exposed lyrics here: “I threw myself into Hell”, “silent cries”, “esteem at war”. Were there any particular lines you hesitated over before deciding you were prepared to let strangers hear it?
When I am writing, I am feeling the experience. When I was there, it felt like a version of Hell on earth, but I felt I put myself there too, like it was my fault. The battle to feel confident and on solid ground was impossible. I wanted to leave but I couldn’t, so the silent cries are my inner voice telling me this is all wrong—they stayed silent as I didn’t want to accept it was true.

Conversely, “you don’t own me now” and “you don’t control me now” sound like declarations. Did writing those words feel powerful at the time, or did that sense of power only arrive later when you heard the completed track?
They are declarations that took years to achieve and believe. My sense of self was infected by it for a long time—it shattered my faith and belief in love, trust, and in myself. I always thought I was intuitive and would never be taken advantage of, and I was wrong. So those lines aren’t just lyrics; they represent the end of that process. When you finally feel whole again and know you are no longer controlled by the external, and you’re grounded again—that is a wonderful moment.

What I find particularly interesting is that this painful story sits against an electronic pulse you can actually move to. Why did electropop ultimately become the right home for something this vulnerable? Does it deliver more strength to the track rather than a sad guitar song, for example, might have done?
Andrew: To capture the motion of the experience, it needs a drive and momentum. Music to me is lyrics and truth that connects to the listener, and the music and rhythm help drive the emotion and feeling I want to create. It could work as a ballad, I am sure, but for me and the artist I am today, electro is very much embedded in the gay community—it’s part of my culture. So it feels right that I am creating heartfelt electropop.

The song existed first as the rock demo Narcissist and later as the stripped-back Capsized Heart. What did those versions get wrong that Love Arsonist finally got right?
Andrew: All I can say is the two previous versions were part of this one. I am a bit of a perfectionist where music is concerned. The first demo was rough around the edges and that worked as a first try, but as an artist, I feel it in my gut. Now that I listen to my inner voice again, those previous versions always felt unfinished. Now it feels complete—and that is the tea.

There’s a point later in the song where the layered vocals seem to become stronger as the narrator does. How consciously do you use your voice and harmonies to tell parts of the emotional story that aren’t actually written in the lyrics?
This is a huge part of my artistic identity. I grew up listening to Céline Dion, so there is a lot of what hits me emotionally in the harmonies and the way the track builds. It is very intentional—the song is a journey and an arc that builds and elevates. I think carefully about where the harmonies go and then layer in the ad-libs and the levels. The final chorus is the peak, and I definitely feel it when I listen to it. It’s my own intuition, I guess.

And that final echo really interested me. To my ears, it feels almost like somebody turning around and walking away while the remnants of what happened disappear behind them. What does that ending look like in your head?
Andrew: I love that you picked up on that, as that was again completely intentional. The last word lingers longer as if to say, “I see you, and it’s over.” Mic drop.

You’ve said your songs often begin with pain but don’t necessarily stay there. Do you write from the person you were when something happened, or from retrospective Andrew?
Andrew: It’s a blend of the two. Some songs stay in the experience, and I write about it as the old me. Sometimes those things don’t have a resolution—they are what they are, and I’m not trying to build some false self-awareness into the narrative just for the sake of it. Other songs are clearly me looking back retrospectively. It just depends on what the track needs.

There’s a huge difference between processing an experience privately and putting it into a song that anyone can hear. What happens emotionally when something that personal stops being solely yours?
Andrew: To me, it’s creative expression—it’s like journaling or therapy. It helps me process anything stuck, locked away, allowing me to feel those feelings and see how raw they actually are or aren’t. When I was going through that relationship, one of the main ways I felt seen was through music. I remember listening to Tina Arena’s song “Unravel Me” on repeat back then because I felt like I was slowly unravelling myself. So now, when a song stops being solely mine, it’s about paying that forward: I make music so someone else can feel seen.

You’re also a psychotherapist, and you’ve said that inevitably feeds into how you process your songwriting. Is there ever a battle between ‘Andrew the therapist’, who understands why something happened, and ‘Andrew the songwriter’, who might just want to vent?
The honest answer is I am just Andrew. I have a therapist’s brain now inside and outside of the therapy room. That doesn’t mean I am giving therapy outside of work—it just means the way I process and see the world is through that lens. I am human, so I vent like anyone else. But when I am writing, I ultimately reflect on things at a much deeper level.

That also raises an interesting question about over-analysis. Can knowing how the mind works sometimes get in the way of simply feeling something and writing about it?
Yes, it can. I actually have weekly therapy to process my feelings because I find it difficult to show vulnerability. But I think that isn’t just a ‘me’ problem—it’s more of a male problem, and even more so if you grew up in the 80s in the North East. But through my music and writing, that is when I can be vulnerable, and most authentically so.

Your forthcoming EP, LOVE UNSPOKEN, tells one story across six songs and roughly ten years of your life, rather than being six unrelated tracks. When listeners reach the final track, what do you hope has changed in their understanding of the Andrew or that part of your life that they met in Love Arsonist?
This is not a fairy tale ending—you won’t find unicorns and rainbows. What you’ll find is a man who knows who he is again, and who loves himself again. But it leaves the listener right where I was at the time of writing Love Unspoken. Having been single for seven years, there is still a piece missing—companionship, love, and intimacy. That is out of my control, so the only thing I can declare is that I have love to give when the time comes: a more real and honest love, for sure. The track is meant to say what remains unspoken to most of the people around me, revealing how I actually feel in those quiet, reflective moments.

If you could send one song, not necessarily your own, back through time to the Andrew who had just walked away from music at 17, what would you send him? (No note or explanation needed.)
I would send back TIMES. That song is a love letter to my life and a reminder that all we have is the moment we are in. It has lyric Easter eggs throughout that wink at some of my favourite songs over the years, so 17-year-old me would pick up on those for sure as those experiences happened. The song would say it all without any notes needed.

Love Arsonist talks about fire, Hell, chains and rebuilding. If the song had to exist as a physical object rather than a piece of music, what would you put in my hands?
A phoenix. It sounds obvious and cheesy, but it’s the ultimate symbol of burning down, rising from the ashes, and coming back stronger than before. That is exactly what this song and this whole experience represent to me.

Given the title, I’m giving you one imaginary match. You can permanently burn one expectation, convention or unwritten rule about being a musician. What are you setting fire to?
I’m setting fire to corporate profit over creativity—the algorithms, the major label machine, and the industry gatekeepers. There is so much incredible, heartfelt music out there being made by independent artists that will never see the light of day simply because it doesn’t fit a spreadsheet or a commercial formula. It’s depressing, and it strips the soul out of art. I’d burn that whole system down and hand control back to pure creativity and true connection.

Love Arsonist is one part of Andrew’s forthcoming six-track EP LOVE UNSPOKEN, a collection spanning around a decade of his life and following an emotional journey that doesn’t promise a conveniently happy ending, but does arrive at a man who knows and loves himself again, whilst remaining honest about what might still be missing. For Andrew, making something so personal public is also about connection. ‘Love Arsonist’ begins with what somebody else did to him, but its lasting impression is of what happened afterwards; rebuilding, reclaiming and finally being able to say, “I see you, and it’s over.”