Photo by Angel Ceballos
Over the last four years, Zola Jesus' Nika Roza Danilova has relentlessly chiseled away at her own sound. To observe the evolution up-close, consider the three versions of her ballad "Sea Talk". The first, from 2009's Tsar Bomba EP, is caked in noise, her voice bellowing out of a crackling phone line. Next was Stridulum II's smoothed-out remake from 2010, with heavenly synths replacing the distortion. And now we get the clearest take yet from her forthcoming album Versions-- out August 20 on Sacred Bones-- which offers tasteful orchestral re-imaginings of her songs arranged by experimental vet JG Thirlwell. On this latest "Sea Talk", her siren blare of a voice is toned down, exposing an understated vulnerability.
Versions began with a collaborative show with Thirlwell at New York's Guggenheim Museum last year, which Danilova calls "the most defining performance in my career" thus far. "I realized I didn’t have to bark, scream, or turn myself inside out," she continues. "I could express the songs dynamically, which was something I was afraid to do before. I thought being quiet was like being afraid but, in fact, it’s screaming all the time that's being afraid."
The 24-year-old is calling from a small island near Seattle, where she's currently writing music for her fourth album, due out next year. While the record is still in a nebulous stage, Danilova's planning to record it in a proper studio, unlike her previous, home-recorded LPs. And though she's still deciding the exact direction the music will take (for now, she describes it as "kinetic" and "very big" and "forward-moving") one thing is certain: It will not sound like anything she's done before.
"If I were to make a record like Stridulum again, it would be artifice," she says, talking about her breakthrough 2010 release. "The record I’m working on right now is completely different, and that’s fine, because I’m a different person now. I can do whatever I want. I don’t have a band or a contract. It's exciting, but it's also daunting."
"I envy those people who make a debut album, and it's
like: bam! Everything is there. For me, it’s been
a slow process. But it’s getting there."
Pitchfork: What attracted you to redoing your songs for Versions?
ZJ: I’ve always felt like I let the songs fall short, like they were never able to become final. And working in an orchestral world is fun because the songs don't have to be reliant on production tricks. It's just the essence. I take pride in having the ability to communicate my songs with just a piano, or a string quartet, or my voice. If I could do an a cappella album, I would. All I care about is the vocal melody, everything else seems like dressing.
Pitchfork: Are you generally hard on yourself when it comes to your music?
ZJ: I feel like I haven't gotten to that point where there’s this universal feeling that I've done my defining work-- and that’s really stressful! [laughs] I’ve endured this feeling from people, like, “Wow! You had something that was pretty good-- can't wait to see what you do next!” Even if you don’t want to think about it, as a musician, I’m like, “Well, what do you want from me? I’ve given you everything I have.” I envy those people who make a debut album, and it's like: bam! Everything is there. For me, it’s been a slow process. But it’s getting there.
But the more music you make, the more you struggle, because your instincts become tired, in a way. So I’ll sit down at the piano and play [mimics heavy chords] and I’m like, “Oh, that’s ‘Run Me Out’, can’t do that.” I’ve spent those instincts. So now it’s time to experiment with sevenths and diminished chords and try to find myself in those things instead.
Pitchfork: You wrote your early material in Wisconsin, where you grew up, and then you wrote Conatus in L.A. Now you're writing on an island in the Pacific Northwest-- do you feel like you're especially influenced or inspired by place?
ZJ: Definitely. But being here is so peaceful-- I almost feel this sense of completeness, which is not good for writing. If you feel complete, there’s nothing you could possibly want to say in a song. It’s actually starting to make me go insane. I’m moving out next week and I feel very ready because I can only be a domesticated hermit for so long.
Pitchfork: You also got married a couple years ago, do you feel like that’s affected your writing at all?
ZJ: Not being concerned with love-- because I’ve already got that handled-- makes break-up songs hard. And, I mean, musicians love to write break-up songs. It’s an endless well of creativity. But I don’t want to write love songs anyway. I’m a highly self-deprecating person, so I get inspiration from self-loathing-- no need to find drama from the outside. [laughs]
Pitchfork: Where are you thinking about going lyrically for the new album?
ZJ: That’s the one thing that I’ve struggled with the most, because, on Conatus, it was all about an inward sense of awkwardness and anxiety. But I cannot write another song like that, because having to tour on those songs gets really tiresome. It makes you not enjoy anything. For instance, “Collapse” is one of my favorite songs on Conatus because it's the most forthright. The lyrics are “hurts to let you in,” and I’m singing that about the people listening to the record. I want to offer everything I have, but at the same time, I’m so scared of peeling the layers back. So while that record is very cathartic, it was also very destructive. And from that comes progression. So, on this new record, I'm making a conscious decision to sing songs about overcoming, which can be a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Pitchfork: You studied philosophy in college, are you still interested in it now that you've graduated?
ZJ: For my past couple of records, philosophy has been really important because, to me, it's the study of people, being, life, why we’re here-- not in a theological way, but in a more practical way. And that’s spilled over into my lyrics. I have my shelf with all my mainstay books that I go to when I feel like I need to consult someone: Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, all the bleak men. They’re like my therapists. But right now, I look at them and think, “I can’t go down that road.” I want to feel hopeful, and while they do give me hope, the idea of nihilism frustrates me, too. Like, if there’s no point in doing anything, I won’t do anything. And I’m at such a fragile moment in my creativity that I can’t seek those writers at the moment.
Pitchfork: There must be more positive philosophers out there, too.
ZJ: There probably are, but they aren't on my bookshelf.