JOY CROOKES
Astrophe was lucky enough to be (virtually) invited to Joy Crookes sunlit apartment in south London to talk creative processes, her upcoming Album ‘Skin’ and the importance of setting boundaries to overcome the pressures within the digital age.
How did you migrate into becoming an artist?
I’m still not really sure. It’s a lot for me to even say that I’m a musician. When people ask me what I am, on a night out, I just say I study history. No one really cares, so no one really asks any questions. So, yeah, that’s just how it goes with being a musician. I feel like it was a very natural thing, but it also took a lot of time, and I think that that’s why I have a weird imposter syndrome of being able to call myself a musician - because it’s taken so long. And although I’m recognised now by other people, even last year and the year before, which didn’t feel that very long ago to me, I wasn’t seen as that by many people. Not that I feel like I need other people’s validation, but there’s such a large lack of representation of people like myself. I found representation in people because of the way they thought or the way that they wrote, but I just didn’t see myself as one of those people. So, it’s difficult for me to know how that migration happened. It was a very slow process and it involved so many moving parts; It was very individual to my journey and my career.
How does your work explore feminine power?
I mean, it’s not like I sit down and go, “I want to write a feminist song today”. I don’t think it’s something I insert in my work, it’s just how I am as a person. And because my work is autobiographical, and really honest, and generally very truthful, it seeps into my music. But it’s just something I care about; I care about anyone who, I think, is voiceless. I don’t think every artist needs to have this responsibility, but I definitely feel like I have to use my voice, especially for those who can’t use theirs or who aren’t heard. I guess, I’ve been a woman my whole life, so the narrative is always going to be there. And then when it comes to power, I think that’s just about ownership. So again, it’s just something that I practise in my life, which will naturally seep into my music.
Art serves as both a catharsis and a call-to-action; what have you found both unifying and invigorating as a purveyor of message?
Just the people that come up to me. My friends and I always have conversations about my, quote-unquote fans and the people that approach me in the street, and they’re generally just such real people, varying massively in age, sexuality and gender and all sorts. I think that is probably the biggest fruit of my labour, especially when I play shows and see the audience and crowd, and how genuinely diverse they are. I don’t think it’s my job, necessarily, to be changing the minds of people. I simply offer an opinion, but it is really beautiful to see genuine diversity at shows. I played a city in the UK called Birmingham and it was the brownest show I’d ever been to. And it was my show. It’s just really special.
Feet Don’t Fail Me Now explores the pitfalls of online activism; what was the creative process like for both sound and visuals? Was this a cathartic writing experience for you?
It was a long writing experience. I started the song in winter last year, and I remember finding it really hard because I was coming from a political angle. I think any song that’s political, whether you like it or not, you are speaking on behalf of some kind of human being - be that a good or bad human being, you’re still entering the shoes of other people or other perspectives. Especially because I’m playing an ironic character in the song (I’d never really written from that point of view before), it was a challenge. But it was a challenge I wanted to accept. I started with lyrics like, “I cry like crocodile”, and “I’ve been posing with red skies”; these are abstract, slightly humorous lyrics so I knew that there was something there. For me, it was about tying it all together and making sure that it made sense, especially because it’s a political, or semi-political, song. I wrote it over a period of time and I was writing it up until the point that I was recording the final vocal. I was writing the song over the space of three or four months, even though I’d had all the melodies. One melody got scrapped, then it came back in; I was chopping up verses. So sonically, it was a journey, it was long, and it was all because I was trying to have a message with the song. To get the very final message, it took work.
When it came to the visuals - again - because the song is so dense in meaning, and because it’s a conversation-starter song, I spent hours (probably 12 hours all together) working with the director and talking to him about my ideas. “Okay, this is cool, but then how do we symbolise this through visuals”, et cetera, et cetera.
So, the process of the entire thing was long. Yes, it was cathartic. I was going through a lot of emotional pain at the time, so it was nice to have not a distraction, but somewhere to focus my unfiltered nature. And when I’m in pain, I’m very unfiltered, so it makes the working process much quicker. I enjoyed channelling that.
What does resilience mean to you in your personal life, mental health, artistic practice and role in society? In your opinion, how does one practice resilience in a digital age and what are the most vital pressures to stand up to?
In a digital age, I think resilience comes from boundaries, and knowing what you deserve and don’t deserve. I think that, inevitably, it comes from spending time by myself; It comes from tuning into myself; It comes from listening hard to my instinct and listening to the voice that says, “I like being here” and “I don’t like being here”, “I want to be in this space and hang out with this person”, or “I don’t want to be in this space and I definitely don’t want to hang out with these people”.
I become more resilient when I’ve survived something and acknowledged my survival. When I say “survival”, I mean in situations I didn’t think I could pass, like thinking back to how it felt to finish my album and how many things could have stopped that process, but didn’t. Those moments remind me of my resilience and that’s how I practise resilience in my life - through knowing I’ve done it before, knowing I’ve survived before. I’ve survived many, many situations I’d never thought I’d survive.
Then, there’s also boundaries, and using that power of survival in saying, “I’m not going to accept that anymore and I’m not going to take that anymore”, and “I took that once, and I knew how it ended, and I’m not going to do that again”. And practising the word, “no”.
What are some of the other themes we can expect from your upcoming album Skin?
Just a really, really good album. I’m so proud of it. It’s a very honest album and it touches on topics that I struggle to talk about as a human being, let alone write about and sing in front of loads of random people. Hopefully, people find that refreshing, because I pride myself on being that person who talks about the thing that is the hardest to talk about on a table. I guess, you can expect a little bit of an emotional journey.
Lastly, do you have any advice for young artists wanting to change the world in their own way?
If you’re a musician, the strongest currency is songs, so work on that and your craft. Even if you don’t write your own, work out what you like and don’t like. If you are someone who feels restricted by the people you work with, there’s nothing wrong with learning skills that you wouldn’t necessarily associate yourself with. For example, being a female producer, and being sick of working with male producers because they don’t understand you - just go and learn it yourself. Take initiative, hone in on your craft. No one can fault you if you’ve written a good song.
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