Fine Glindvad is a singer-songwriter and producer from Copenhagen. Her new record, Rocky Top Ballads, is out now via Escho.
Fine Glindvad is a singer-songwriter and producer from Copenhagen; Clarissa Connelly is a vocalist, composer, and multi-instrumentalist, also based in Copenhagen. Both artists have new records out — Fine’s Rocky Top Ballads (via Escho) and Clarissa’s World of Work (via WARP) — so to celebrate, the two got on a call to catch up about the creation of them, and more.
— Annie Fell, Editor-in-chief, Talkhouse Music
Fine Glindvad: How are you?
Clarissa Connelly: I’m good. The sun is shining. How are you?
Fine: I’m good. I’ve just listened to your record, walking around the streets.
Clarissa: Yeah, I was just listening to yours, too, walking around in the church yard. It was perfect circumstances. Do you always do that? Listen to a whole record at once? I do it sometimes, but not often enough.
Fine: Yeah, I do it if I set myself up to it. I have to sort of decide it.
Clarissa: What were you thinking about while listening?
Fine: Oh, I was thinking about a lot of things. I love your album. It has this sincere tone to it, yet mysterious. It’s very inspiring. Especially in the end of “An Embroidery” and “S.O.S. Song of the Sword” and “Into This, Called Loneliness” — the ending parts of these songs all give me this euphoria feeling every time. When I’ve seen it live, it’s elastic, but it’s still a loop. I really feel like these parts are like the moments in a movie where the final stand takes place, where the character breaks free so that change can happen or a mask drops.
Sometimes I think music makes us feel emotional because it is like a language that communicates the mathematics of plot. Listening to your album gave me the feeling of a greater story beneath the music, and in these parts I really surrender to that story, even though I don’t know what it is. It just gave me that “nature can’t be controlled” sort of feeling, or [the feeling] that there is an unknown power we’ll never know in the nature around us, in us.
Clarissa: I think each song I write, I get more and more brave. I think I’ve always wanted to step into that kind of too-much, epic rock solo — just going all the way there and trying to find that ecstasy. I wanted to discover that and see if I can write something similar. And of course, it’s never what you think it is. It’s always something else. But I wanted to see how far I could go there, and have some kind of secret being revealed. I feel that way with your record, that you’re telling these secrets. You’re not saying what exactly is — it’s not like I’m like, “OK, now I know a great magic exists” — but I feel like there is a magic in the world, or there’s something that we can’t quite grasp on to. But we can, maybe, if we’re very, very, very lucky. Through the corner of our eye, we can maybe see a little glimpse of it. I know we’ve talked about stuff like this before, when writing, wanting to grasp onto something nearly.
Fine: Yeah. I remember when you do that growl thing on stage — you also do it on the record — and to me it is like the beauty and the beast in you. I always laugh and get tears in my eyes when I hear it. It’s sort of like that one contradiction gives birth to another contradiction in me.
Clarissa: And there’s somehow room for both. Because in life, we have to be clear in our intentions. And we have to do that in music, maybe, too… But there’s that duality, or that uncertainty of what is going to happen or what we want.
Fine: Yeah. You try something new — you try to sing in another way, you put on a a new costume — each day, everybody does that. We go through life that way. And then in music, the funny thing is, sometimes the most superficial is the most real, and sometimes when you try to be real, it gets really phony. You can’t really control that, luckily. But there’s something about that theatrical thing that’s—
Clarissa: So interesting. It’s so funny, because you’ve written so many hooks in your life and you are really, really good at finding these really catchy melodies, and you can sing it in all these different ways throughout the record. And sometimes it sounds you just stumbled upon it in parts of the record, like you woke up in the morning and you heard these guitar chords or whatever, and it’s just what flows out of you. Then on other parts, it feels like you’re exploring these melodies throughout these different characters and angles of yourself, and also of the world and of music and pop culture. It’s so funny how that can sometimes work, and sometimes it also can feel like putting on these masks, as you say. Because when it works, I feel like for me, it gives a huge perspective and freedom. I don’t know if it’s because when that works and when it doesn’t work, it’s about being aware that we’re trying something out and being open to what it means, instead of locking on to some kind of character and then feeling like, This is what I am. [It’s about] not binding yourself to tight to that character and having a distance.
Fine: It’s not like irony, yeah. I don’t feel like trying out masks is an enemy of true emotions.
Clarissa: Exactly. It gives me the feeling of all the possibilities, just open and unfolded, and we can actually be and do whatever. I think that when that works, it’s because you are open to what you’re trying out.
Fine: Yeah. You’re loose in your grip around it. I think that comes with also not being too settled about which direction you’re going when you are composing. It’s more about what is around me at the moment, what people are around me, which instruments are around me that day. To just let circumstances be part of the choice.
Clarissa: Listening to your surroundings.
Fine: I think earlier, I was more into chasing a feeling or chasing a sound, but this time it’s been more about, is there something or nothing? And you can do a little change to an idea and suddenly something emerges.
Clarissa: And what is that? When is that something there for you?
Fine: That’s the question. I just know within two seconds. I find my intuition much more accurate than my intellect. My intellect is so much slower at that. Your intuition can tell you something in a second when it would take you maybe two hours to arrive at it if you were to go mentally. When you’ve done something for a long time, it’s just a muscle. Your instinct is sort of a muscle. When the “maybe” is kept in the music and you still wonder what can come out of it, what could happen…
Clarissa: Don’t you think it’s hard finish it when that [is the case]?
Fine: Yeah. When you can bring the “maybe” into the closing phase of a song—
Clarissa: That is the most beautiful. That’s so important that that “maybe” stays there. With the last record, I made, like, three different productions because I kept on digging. I think it’s what is so special about your record: Somehow you were aware of when to stop digging so it could stay open for the listener to wonder with you. Not define it too much. How did you know when to stop producing and mixing and finish it?
Fine: I often record something, like a small idea, just for the pleasure of wondering how I will perceive it when I maybe find the idea on my computer in six months. A lot of the songs on this record, it’s been like that — I just make something, I leave it for some months, and I open it and I can’t remember it at all and I sort of get to experience it as a new listener.
Clarissa: I totally get that. I do that a lot too. Lots of our friends start writing a song and then they listen to it again and again and again on their way back from the studio to try to find out, “OK, what should happen next?” And I think we both work similar in that way, that we could never keep on listening, because it’s that moment of listening to it again and feeling surprised again — that’s when you know how to add on.
Fine: Yeah. The only time I’ll listen to it is when I have to sort of collect ideas. I think that’s why I was able to finish this album, because I don’t consider it an isolated thing; it’s more a part of the songs I’m making at the moment. There’s a lot of songs that didn’t make it to the album. It was more like curating at the end. There is something about that honesty that’s appealing to me. Like, what do I have right now that I can use?
Clarissa: Yeah. And it has to be that — there’s no searching in other places. You only have what you’ve got.
Fine: Yeah, or it’s like, don’t overcomplicate creating things. You have what you have at the moment, and when you start paying attention to that, you start zooming in and it gives you a lot of freedom.
Clarissa: That is great. That’s a way to also keep the search going. You have these little treasures.
Fine: To just change things a little bit can make a big difference on the outcome. It doesn’t have to be on a big scale every time.
Clarissa: I think I’m stuck in the big scale right now.
Fine: [Laughs.] But it’s good to think like that, because you’re drawn to that. But it can be very small changes that become actually big changes in the music — for example, I’ve always recorded my vocals with a microphone in front of me, not touching it. And just the shift to recording while I was holding the microphone, I didn’t think that would be such a crucial thing, but actually it made me sing differently. It made me compose slightly different melodies.
Clarissa: I feel like you’ve been in a writing and production phase for a long time, where you’ve been really good at going to your studio, working a lot. How do you go about that when there are so many things going on, decisions to be made, people that want stuff from you?
Fine: How to escape the noise, in a way.
Clarissa: Yeah. For me right now, that’s the most disturbing — both the state of the world, where there’s so much action that has to be done that gets me really angry and impatient, and also the people around me that… I don’t know, it’s just emails. Maybe it’s very trivial, but answering all kinds of shit — I just can’t do that at the same time when I’m in the exploration phase. I was just wondering how you go about all that. Because we both work in a way where it’s not defined from the beginning.
Fine: It’s messy.
Clarissa: Yeah, it’s messy.
Fine: I think for me to do the music, to compose, to go to the studio is the relief from all of that noise around me. I have to be in touch with making music a little bit all the time, through the phases where I’m playing concerts or doing other stuff. My urge to create is quite persistent. It’s more all of the things around the music that I sort of escape from. Even an interview — talking like this is great because it’s with you, but it’s still a feeling like I don’t want to answer questions, I just want to make the music.
Clarissa: Yeah, exactly.
Fine: But I think the thing we talked about with the contradictions in life and in feelings — they are annoying in real life, but in the music, they are actually helpful. Because I get caught up by unimportant details in all aspects of life, but with music, it’s not a hurdle. It’s not a problem that I get caught up or get distracted or that my mind drifts off. It actually works.
Clarissa: Yeah, we’re a bit similar in that way. We never pick up the phone. [Laughs.] Doesn’t matter who calls me, I never pick up the phone.
Fine: I don’t think we want to be available all the time.
Clarissa: Twenty years ago, you had to be at home [to be reached]. If you were out, when you go home, then you can listen to your voicemail. Being available all the time is a crazy experiment we’re doing right now.
Fine: Yeah. It’s not healthy.
Clarissa: It’s really fucking with our focus and our concentration, because we’re always two places at once. I know it’s a cliche to say, but it is really crazy that our brain is—
Fine: Working overtime all the time. As a freelancer, you’re doing many things at once, all the time. I feel like if the music making isn’t there, it’s completely meaningless, you know? Then it’s really dark.
Clarissa: Yeah, it’s really, really dark. I have to get in contact with writing more, getting that new beginning. I’m, like, closing off things right now. When in the mixing or finishing stuff phase, I think it’s so difficult to also be in that writing phase. But I have to get into the writing phase too, because that’s where it’s most fun and maybe also makes the finishing, polishing phase better.
Fine: You have to have the experience of that openness so you can pull that into the closing phase and take the mindset with you. Somebody told me once, “you can always do another song tomorrow.” And sometimes when you are closing a song, suddenly the song has to be so many things at once — it has to have all these parts and show everything, all your creativity. You forget that it is a small, small thing you’re doing. You’re doing something else tomorrow. So while you’re sitting there, closing it, mixing it, mastering it, then you’re like, “I’m gonna do a new song tomorrow,” then suddenly your grip will loosen on the thing you are working on right now.
Clarissa: Yeah, that’s really true. Because we have to just let it go and keep on. But do you think it’s always the same thing we’re trying to define? Like, the same memory?
Fine: I don’t think I make the same songs now. I don’t know if that’s your question — that I’m drawn to the same things now as four years ago? I don’t think so. I think there is some kind of core that could be a melodic language that got your attention at some point in your life, maybe in some crucial years, in your teenage years or in your childhood or something. And that entrance to music or to your creativity is some kind of core in you. But I think that core can be shown from a million different angles and with a million different masks on. In a way that, in the end, makes it kind of random to talk about a core. I think nothing is written in stone. What do you think?
Clarissa: Well, I’ve thought a lot about it. And I’ve been very nostalgic — I think I am about wanting to recreate things that have given me a feeling of infinite beauty.
But I think also it’s true that it’s not that specific sound; the [path] there is every time so different that it can never be the same. And maybe it’s not even a sound or something so specific — maybe it’s a feeling of clarity or letting go of something or keeping the world open. Maybe it’s more that feeling of openness that can then look so different every time. I just feel like when the doors open and everything is uncertain, that gives me a feeling of peace and clarity. I’m always going to search for that in music — and your music definitely gives me that feeling, and that’s why it’s so brilliant. Not all music gives me that feeling.
Fine: I heard you said once that you also like to force pieces together, and I also do that with pieces that are often improvised, like longer pieces of free flowing singing or playing. That’s sometimes an efficient way to surprise yourself.
Clarissa: Yeah, exactly.
Fine: To feel like you’re more of a curator.
Clarissa: Yeah, it’s not about having some brilliant idea that’s already defined—
Fine: No, exactly.
Clarissa: But surprising yourself that it nearly fits together.
Fine: It’s like trying to find a logic in something you don’t understand at first. The song “Whys” was actually made like that — the melody was more like a hit or miss situation, like, Will this fit? Maybe.
Clarissa: You did that really beautifully.
Fine: I think that way of working is good to do when I’m on my own. Because I don’t have to use language about the music. I don’t have to justify anything or explain my choices. It’s really like a flow I get into, and I enjoy that. It’s very random and messy — it’s too random to invite others into at the moment.
Clarissa: It’s interesting if that way of writing is even possible to do with others. Maybe it is, but I haven’t tried that way yet.
Fine: You have to really be on the same musical frequency at that very moment. I often record musicians, and I actually often use parts where they didn’t know that I was recording, because there’s just some eagerness to those recordings.
Clarissa: Yeah, just sitting relaxed on the guitar. But then it’s like, “Yep, that was the part.”
Fine: Yeah. It’s sort of like when you look at at someone on the train and you think, If they were actors right now, they would be brilliant actors.
Clarissa: [Laughs.] Wow, I totally get that. That’s really funny.
Fine: I actually thought about that in your music, with those big endings. They don’t reflect emotions — they are that emotion. [Laughs.] I don’t know how else to say it. But it’s the same thing when we talked about not thinking, Now I’m making music, but you’re in that image. But sometimes you have to cheat yourself to get into that by taking the mask on. By playing someone else, then you get into the image. Then you forget you’re making music.
Clarissa: Yeah. Because then you forget that you are playing a part as yourself. It’s funny, because I’ve been looking for the word for being that person on the train. If I’m just moving or just singing, just finding the melody or whatever, I’m like, OK, is it “honesty”? Because you’re allowed to lie. That’s what I love — pretending. Taking on the mask is the exact opposite of being honest, or what we call honest.
Fine: But it’s sort of the same as when we talked about how wearing a mask, or pastiche, is not an enemy to true emotion. It’s sort of a way of investigating how an expression can be a shared thought process, in a way. And not in terms of glorifying an archetype or the past; it’s just a way of exploring what has gone through my brain where you don’t talk or sing your own emotions, but you’re still singing from the heart.
Clarissa: But it’s not about who I am or what I feel or what I can express. And that’s why the song as a mask, or the way of pronouncing something as a mask, can set you free. Because you can look through that somehow.
