Dead on the Floor has been a live staple for a while before getting this studio release. What does it feel like finally letting a song that’s already lived a life on stage go out into the world as a recording?
That’s kind of how it’s been for all my songs so far, because I’ve always relied on funding to put them out. A lot of the time, it’s the way I decide what to release. If I’ve been gigging a song for a couple of years and people keep asking when it’s coming out, that makes it a pretty easy decision. It’s interesting listening back to my first voice memos of writing it, you make unconscious changes you don’t even realise until you compare the two versions. I think playing it live just naturally lets it settle into the best version of itself.
Does it mean something different to you now than when you wrote it?
Yeah, definitely. It’s been on the same journey I have, moving from home to here, going through a few different band lineups. It’s settled where it is now and I’m really, really happy with that.
How did you decide on this being the final version?
I had a demo I made myself in my first year of uni, in my dorm room. My band now knew we wanted to tighten it up before we played it last summer, and through gigging it with them I got to know what they’d bring to the track if given the chance. Then I got a grant from Sunday for Sammy, which meant they could come and record it with me. By the time we were in the studio it was a real collaboration, pulling together everything from the last couple of years. The studio itself was really fun.
Without giving too much away, what’s the inspiration behind Dead on the Floor, and does it set the tone for the EP, or does each track have its own world?
I wrote it when I’d just turned 18. At that age your world feels really small, especially in the Northeast; you don’t realise there’s a whole world waiting for you. I was at a point where I felt sick of my own mental health being this repeating cycle I couldn’t get out of, and it felt really isolating. But I don’t think I’ve met a single musician who hasn’t struggled with their mental health in some way, I think that’s a big part of why we make music. It was one of the first songs where I was really brutally honest, and I realised I enjoyed writing that way, so that’s continued through the EP. None of the songs are born out of particularly glamorous moments. Another song is literally about being hungover every day in my first year. I think telling it like it is has the best impact, because people see themselves in it. That’s the stuff that connects; when you show the ugly truth and people go “I see myself in this.” It brings people closer to the music.
You’ve had backing from Generator’s First Notes scheme, Sunday for Sammy, and the Alan Hull Award, three very different forms of regional support. What’s made the biggest difference?
The Alan Hull Award was the first regional funding I got directly for myself, and it just felt like this massive vote of confidence. At 17, having a group I looked up to that much turn around and say “you’re the young person we’ve chosen because we believe in your songwriting”, that kicked off so much. It helped me get into uni, it helped with meeting Sam Fender, and I still use the equipment it helped me buy to make demos; those recordings are in the tracks I’ve released. It really hit home how amazing the Northeast is for funding emerging artists. Especially since moving away, I’ve realised most regions just aren’t like that. Same with Generator, beyond the financial backing, it’s about bringing artists together and building community, which is so important. And it’s the same with Sunday for Sammy; the Northeast is a small place, and the music scene within it is even smaller, so you end up running into the same people again and again. It’s lovely watching each other benefit from these grants and schemes. I think the region is genuinely underrated for how well it looks after its emerging artists.
Sam Fender lives in London now too. Do you bump into him on a regular basis?
I didn’t for a while, but we do have similar music tastes, so a few months ago I randomly ran into him three times in a row. I was with my friends from London, and they were just like ‘oh my God’. Everyone in the Northeast has a story about how they know him, and I used to wonder if people down here thought I was exaggerating, but he’s honestly just such a friendly, normal bloke. Every time he sees me, he’s like “hey,” and my bandmates, who are usually really confident people, go completely quiet behind me. It’s nice having that kind of role model. From what I’ve heard in interviews, he doesn’t speak that highly of himself, like it could have been anyone, but I genuinely think he’s one of the best songwriters around, and the way he’s proven there’s incredible talent in the Northeast has had immeasurable benefits for all of us. I see Imogen and the Knife around occasionally too, and she’s super inspirational to me. It’s important to know there are people about, because it can get lonely. I’m the only person from the Northeast on my course, and it’s kind of crazy that the few musicians I know from home are actually, to me at least, incredibly famous.
Tell us about Mouth of the Tyne last summer, on the main stage. What’s your memory of walking out, and was it what you imagined?
It pretty much was, because I’d thought it through in my head so many times, one of my great talents is overthinking. So when I got on stage I felt like I’d done it a million times already. What I wasn’t prepared for were the massive screens; there was literally the world’s biggest version of my own face right next to me, and I kept looking over going “ooh.” One thing I really loved was having a lovely view of the sea while I played, and I could see a bunch of friends who hadn’t got into the festival stood by Gibraltar Rock, waving at me. My hairdresser was there, so many random people from my life. It kind of hit me afterwards. I used to busk on Front Street, and I’d hear soundchecks, and now here I was on that stage by the time I was 20, without any major backing, just people around me believing in me. I was really proud of myself once I let myself think about it. It was great.
This year you’ve got Last Train Home in September with a full band. How does having the band behind you compare to performing solo?
It’s really nice. We’re all on the same course at uni, so we’ve been through everything together. We’re all completely stressed at the minute. My drummer and bassist both have finals, and I’m singing in my guitarist’s final this week. It’s actually nice to flip it around and be in their bands for a change. They’re some of my best mates and going from home, where I have wonderful friends who aren’t musicians and it can be hard to explain this side of my life, to being surrounded by people who are all musicians or creatives is amazing. They’re so talented, and I feel really lucky they even want to be in my band. They push me to be a better musician, and I’m always thinking about writing songs that they’ll enjoy playing too. It’s just a great thing.
You’re known for your witty rapport with crowds. Does that come naturally, or have you had to learn how to work a room?
I think it makes sense that I’m a songwriter because I genuinely have so much to say at all times. I remember the exact moment I realised I could chat while performing. I was about 11, in a Guides talent show, around the time Theresa May had that coughing fit during a speech that went viral. I started having a coughing fit mid-song and just said “I’m just like Theresa May”. Nobody expected an 11-year-old to say that, and everyone burst out laughing. I realised if I just say whatever comes into my head, often people find it funny. There’s been some trial and error; sometimes I talk for too long and my drummer just starts playing behind me. I genuinely don’t always know what I’m going to say before I say it, which is risky, but I’m not that controversial. I like clocking people in the audience before I go on and filing things away to talk about. I don’t have the most dynamic stage presence, I stay pretty still when I’m playing guitar, so I think I make up for it by chatting. It makes me feel better, it makes the audience feel better, and honestly, being a musician is great because you get to stand on a stage, talk, sing at people, and they can’t really do anything about it.
You’ve had comparisons to Joni Mitchell, Sam Fender, and CMAT. That’s quite a mix. Do you lean towards one, or do you think you’re genuinely somewhere in the middle of all three?
I think I am a mix, and it depends on the day. When I used to busk, older men would come up and say “you’re just like Joni Mitchell” because of the hair and the open-tuned guitar, but I actually got that from beabadoobee back in 2020, and it turns out her influences came from Joni Mitchell, so I guess it came full circle. I started listening to Joni Mitchell properly after that and loved her. Sam Fender and CMAT are both people who are really honest in their music and don’t smooth over the uncomfortable parts. I saw CMAT support Sam Fender at St James’ Park last year and it changed my life. Seeing a woman who’s not afraid to be herself on stage made me think I have just as much right to be myself making music. I look up to all three of them because they’re honest, themselves, and funny, and I want to be that too. I think I’m somewhere in the middle of the Venn diagram of all of them.
Who are you listening to at the moment that might surprise NARC readers?
My bassist and a lot of my friends got me into Underscores recently, which is hyperpop; it’s not the music I make, but I find it really inspirational for how I produce and blend things into my own sound. There’s also an artist called James Ivy who put out an EP called ‘Everything Perfect’ a couple of years ago that I talk about constantly, kind of indie with a bit of hyperpop, like a 2000s throwback, and he’s teasing new music too. But the album I’m most excited for is Ryan Beatty’s new one. He’s an incredible songwriter. His last album, ‘Calico’, completely changed how I make music.
You split your time between the Northeast and London. Does that distance change how or what you write?
It almost feels like I live different lives in each place, so yeah, I get different inspiration. When I’m at home, I get a lot of inspiration from my surroundings, being by the sea, going on walks, hanging out with my dogs. I live a much slower life there. Here it’s busier, there’s more going on, I can be in lots of different places. So at home there’s a lot more introspective writing, because I have the time for it, whereas here I write more about what’s actually happening around me and in my life, because with thirty 21-year-old musicians in one year group, there’s always something going on, everyone’s very dramatic, me most of all. It’s great for writing, but it gets to the point where I think I need to go stare at the ocean for a while and reset. It’s nice having the balance of both.
You’ve been busking since you were really young. Any specific memory, good or disastrous, that’s stuck with you?
This one I’ve never gotten to the bottom of. I was busking on Front Street on my ukulele, which was already a lot for everyone around me, and I must have been about 13 or 14. Some adult man came up and just stood next to me, and I was like, what’s about to happen here? He pulled out a harmonica and started playing. But not along with what I was doing, just making noise on it, while I had to keep going. I think that’s part of why nothing fazes me on stage now. I’ve always thought the years might reveal the truth behind it, but the older I get, the more perplexed I am. I genuinely cannot understand what that was for.
If Dead on the Floor were a film instead of a song, what genre would it be and who’d play the lead?
It would be the prequel to Fleabag. It would have to be about a teenager, because only a teenager could be that melodramatic about a situation that really isn’t that bad. That feeling that every decision you make is the wrong one, perpetually mortified by everything, classic teenage hormones. But it’d have to be set in the Northeast too, so I’m not sure how that would work; lots of sitting at the Metro station with your head in your hands. Maybe not as miserable as Fleabag, more like Miranda, actually. Miranda’s been a huge influence on me in general, just because she makes me feel better about myself.
Last one, if you could open for any artist, living or dead, who would it be and what would you wear?
Oh my gosh, there are so many. I think I’d love to open for CMAT, because I think we’d be friends. I’d wear something really fun that I could dance in, because I know I’d end up in the pit afterwards. I always have to think about what I won’t overheat in and what I can actually play guitar in; a lot of my favourite clothes have huge sleeves or swishy skirts, and I’m clumsy, so anything near my hands gets stuck in the guitar. But I’d go all in on the colours. I’d basically try to look like one of CMAT’s fans. I think her crowds would be fantastic too, and they would be expecting someone to chat between songs, so I’d be ready for that.
