Alex G

EO

When you first started making music, what did it feel like in those earliest years? What was the ask when you were sculpting those first albums, like the one for Domino?

AG

Honestly, with Domino and with RCA—really with all my label experiences—there have never been guidelines or constraints on the creative process. Going from DIY to Domino, even touring, it didn’t really feel like a jump. The biggest difference was the advance. At the time it was crazy to receive a chunk of money like that. It meant I could drop out of school, stop working other jobs, and just focus on music. Outside of that, the creative process was basically the same.

The one thing that did change was Domino requiring the album to be mixed and mastered professionally instead of me doing it myself. In hindsight, I don’t even know if that was a contractual obligation or just a strong suggestion. I was 20 or 21, not super clear on what was official. Either way, that’s when I started working with Jake Portrait—he’s mixed my records since Beach Music, the first one I did for Domino.

EO

Did that change what kind of music you wanted to make?

AG

Not really. The main change was technical. The context shifted, but the way I approached the songs didn’t.

EO

What about the year between DSU and Domino?

AG

DSU came out on Orchid Tapes. Warren, who ran it out of his apartment, was awesome—extremely helpful, but it was small. He had probably done a few releases before DSU, but it wasn’t established the way Domino or Run For Cover were.

EO

At that point, music didn’t have to compete with work or survival—it was something you could reach for anytime. How did that change your relationship to it?

AG

Yeah, I see what you’re saying—like the music was right at my fingertips, no more barriers. But I guess I always felt that way. I wasn’t a great student. At Temple, when I wasn’t in class I was making music. Or if I had to work, I’d go to work and then record. Looking back, it was a slow process. It didn’t feel like something massive had happened over night, except that I was being paid by Domino. That was awesome. But otherwise, it was just: keep doing the thing.

EO

What does your process look like—how do you move through the world when you’re making?

AG

The real shift happened earlier, which is why it didn’t feel like such a big change later when I signed with bigger labels. I had already discovered music as a kid—my siblings were into it, and my mom always played the good stuff—so I grew up appreciating good music. But when I was 13, my parents got a Mac with GarageBand. Realizing I could record, layer things, and even mess around with my voice—all inside that one program—was explosive. I started making songs and burning them onto CDs to hand out to people. That was the biggest shift of my life. I got obsessed with the craft because it was more rewarding than anything else I had at the time.

EO

Oh really?

AG

Yes, before that I was into drawing, doing creative things you could do on your own—stuff where people would clap for you after you finished and showed it to them. But recording was immersive. It was like drawing, but on the computer, and you could make this whole world, an experience inside headphones. I became obsessed. So that’s what I did after school: I’d come home and make music. I remember in high school I’d go to class, then work at a retirement home until 7:30, and after that I’d record all night because it was so fun. Thinking about it now, I can’t imagine putting that much energy into something at the end of the day instead of zoning out and watching TV. But as a kid I had endless energy for it. It felt like a high. Like a drug.

EO

You took to it like, fish to water.

AG

Yes.

EO

Does recording feel like meditation? What does it feel like when you’re making music?

AG

I’m not sure what meditation feels like. Making music is nice because it’s really an inward journey or something, not that I like that choice of words. [Laughs.] But it definitely is a private, personal process. What does it feel like? It’s like looking around for something that excites me—if I’m trying to come up with a song—I’m usually sitting with a keyboard or guitar, just fiddling around or exploring until something sparks. It feels like fishing in a way because of that. And there’s this element of—I don’t know if gambling is the word—maybe just chance. But sometimes it does feel like gambling. Like, this might be the one. I’m never thinking in terms of “this will be a hit,” but: this might be fucking awesome, in the broadest sense.

EO

I always say the best artwork is like a skate trick—the documentation of landing it.

AG

Yeah. I’m not sure this is related to what you’re saying but I think a big part of why making it is so enjoyable is the process. It’s the best part.

EO

It’s bearing witness to that moment in real time.

AG

By the time the song is finished, I’m usually a little disappointed. I can’t afford to just work on songs forever—I’m grateful to put records out—but the finished track is never what it was in that first moment. When I first find the idea, it feels like the best feeling of all time.

EO

When you’re inside that process—say you’re fishing and something tugs the line—is it the same every time you pull it in?

AG

Oh, wow. Damn. Great question. Before the idea comes out, you mean? I’ve never thought about this, but each one feels like a different fish. And the fish is almost like an expression or something.

EO

Are you going back to the same pond, or do you need new lakes to find new sounds?

AG

I think it’s the same pond. For me it doesn’t matter where I am, as long as I can be by myself.

EO

I wanted to ask about the drum lessons. The way I imagine it, your biography could almost be written in episodes: drum lessons, jazz band, training. Do you still think about that period?

AG

Yeah, I wanted to be in the jazz band but I didn’t make it. I don’t remember why—maybe because I couldn’t read sheet music. I was taking drum lessons at the time, getting ready for the audition, and I thought it would be cool because my older brother played saxophone in the band. Not making it was disappointing, but the lessons were valuable. They gave me discipline. I don’t always think about it directly, but I know it’s somewhere in there.

EO

What does playing the drums feel like to you?

AG

In general, I’m not great at knowing what I feel like or being able to communicate it. But I love playing the drums. That’s probably my favorite aspect of making a record—figuring out what the percussion is going to be, or even the absence or lack of percussion. I obsess over the drum arrangements.

EO

Is there anything else you obsess over?

AG

Not as much. With guitar, I’ll usually DI it. Do you know what DI stands for? It means “direct input”—basically plugging the guitar straight into the computer without an amp. Some people spend a lot of time deciding which amp to use, which mic to put in front of it, and where to place that mic. I’ve tried that, but most of the time I’m happiest with the direct sound. It’s quick, it’s clean, and it lets me get to the idea right away.

But with drums, I’ll do tons of takes—especially as I get older. I like trying out different types of snare drums now that I have access to more studios.

EO

Keep going on this train of thought. What does that look like? Are you still alone in this process?

AG

Well, no. For Headlights I went to different studios, but mostly I was at this one near me called Spice House. There’s an engineer there named Eric Bogacz who I worked with a lot, and he’d be helping me. [Laughs.] I’d be like, “What types of snare drums do you guys have? What other drums do you have? What can we do to make it—” It’s hard to describe, because each song is different, but most of the time I’m just focused on making the drums either more different, or more themselves.

EO

As alive as you feel or something?

AG

The opposite. There’s always an obvious drum part for any song, and I’m always trying to subvert that—without making it sound like I’m subverting it. Not rhythmically, like throwing a crazy beat on top, but through textures. Specific textures and patterns—that’s what I notice. [Laughs.] I’m realizing this now as I’m saying it. I never thought I was that person, like guitar players who obsess over tones, but I guess I am when it comes to drum sounds.

EO

I’m curious what these instruments make you feel. It seems like playing the drums is where you’re most confident, where you have the most clarity about what the song needs.

AG

[Laughs.] It’s funny, because this is hard for me—I usually don’t know how to communicate stuff like this. I see what you’re saying, but I don’t know how to put it into words. Maybe it is like a meditation, because I can’t really tell you what’s going on in my head at those times.

EO

What are you feeling before you get to the studio?

AG

Nothing. Truly nothing. Just normal thoughts—like, “don’t forget to pay the water bill.” Then I get there and spend the whole time hacking away, trying to make myself feel something. That’s what writing or mixing is for me: making myself feel.

EO

Are you writing on the spot or ahead of time?

AG

It depends. A lot of the stuff that turns out pretty—the catchier stuff, in my opinion—usually comes when I sit down with nothing in mind and just pick up a guitar. It happens in-between things, when I’m busy or moving from one thing to the next. Sometimes it’s like, “Okay, I have two hours today.” Or, “This record’s almost done, I need one more song, maybe I can write something if I sit down.”

But if I block off five hours, I might end up with something mediocre. The good stuff happens quick—when I’m passing my guitar, pick it up, do a couple things, and suddenly a melody and chord progression fall into place. And that does something for me in the moment. It feels intense, almost addictive. Like an addicting melancholy feeling.

EO

What do you do with your time outside of writing? Do you keep a diary or journal?

AG

No, I don’t keep a diary or a journal. And I don’t think much outside of writing. I’m boring otherwise. Making music is the only time I think. It’s like I postpone the thinking until I get to write, and then that’s what I’m thinking about—in the studio, or whenever I’m composing songs.

EO

Has that always been the case?

AG

Yeah, pretty much. I’ve never really dove into myself otherwise. Maybe that’s why I became obsessed with music—it gave me a way to cultivate self-expression.

EO

You mentioned working at the retirement home—what was that like?

AG

Oh, that was nothing. It wasn’t some pivotal part. I only brought it up to say—how did I even have the energy back then? Now, if I get home from work, I just want to watch TV. But when I was younger, the obsession was crazy. That’s the difference: back then it was pure drive.

EO

You also mentioned once that working with other people complicates the process.

AG

Oh, yeah. When I’m recording myself, it’s not about finding the “best” music—it’s just about making it, making something that’s mine. Working with another person can be nice, but usually only if it’s someone close to me, where it feels natural, like they’re already part of my life. Then I can anticipate what they’ll bring, which is really nice, because we’re close. It feels good to say, “You’re part of this, you’re part of my life in this way too.”

But sitting down with someone just to write—I don’t really do that well. That’s just not how I’ve ever written. I wouldn’t even know how to communicate my ideas. I don’t even know where to start.

EO

I read about how you felt with collaborations and that commission you did, and it struck me—you’re almost like a novelist who happens to be a musician.

AG

I appreciate that. I think the way novelists go about their business is cool. They just make their books, and no one’s constantly scrutinizing them. I don’t really read profiles of novelists, you know? That’s closer to how I think about music.

EO

It’s like you write the book, and then you have to figure out how to talk about this foreign object you don’t even remember making.

AG

Exactly.

EO

So how do you listen to music that isn’t your own?

AG

Not as much as when I was younger. Maybe it’s because I know how the meat is made, or maybe it’s just age. My emotions don’t get tapped as easily. But if I like something, I’ll listen obsessively—just the one thing, over and over, until I burn it out. Then eventually I’ll find something else, usually because someone shows it to me. I’m not great at finding music on my own.

EO

What kept you motivated when you were younger aside from family?

AG

Oh, it was definitely an outside force—the DIY scene in Philly was huge for me. A massive part of the equation. There was this whole scene of house shows every weekend. I grew up in Havertown, a suburb of Philly, but it’s only 30 minutes from Temple or Drexel. My friends and I had a band in high school, and we’d play shows there on weekends.

EO

The Skin Cells?

AG

[Laughs.] Yeah. Exactly. And seeing other kids record themselves—that’s what made me realize I could do it too. Hearing something a peer made that was so impressive—it floored me. And I just wanted to emulate that.

EO

Do you still live in Philly?

AG

Yeah.

EO

What’s it like making music in different places?

AG

You mean shows or recording?

EO

Recording inside of Philly. Does the city feel essential to how you work?

AG

No, not essential. I’m here because it’s where everyone I know is—if I moved, I’d have no friends. [Laughs.] But as far as making music goes, no, I don’t think it’s essential. I love Philly, but it’s just my process is pretty solitary. And at this point, the studios in Philly are great, but I don’t rely on any specific place. I just use whatever I can get my hands on. If I were in another city, I’d make it work.

EO

Do you still record mostly by yourself?

AG

Yeah. On this record, my band played on “Logan Hotel,” and my partner, Molly, wrote string arrangements for a couple songs, which were performed by string players. But otherwise, I recorded everything myself.

EO

Where are you usually working?

AG

Whatever studio I can book that day.

EO

You don’t have your own studio?

AG

No. I mean, I have a spare bedroom here with a mic and guitar, but not a proper studio. I’d like to, eventually—it’d be convenient. That’s kind of the goal now.

EO

Why hasn’t that been part of your setup yet?

AG

For years it was just me, a mic, and a laptop. I’d go around and borrow whatever I needed—drums from one friend’s house, a bass from another—and record it wherever I could. Everything was scattered. House of Sugar I basically did in my apartment the same way.

God Save the Animals was the first time I started going to studios to track stuff. Until then, I’d been satisfied with the quality I was getting with just my mic, but I realized there was a world where the sound could be upgraded, where it could feel like something you hear on the radio. So I started trying that out, recording some of God Save the Animals at studios and some of it at home. The quality was great, and I was drawn to it. That experience got me hooked.

EO

Almost like a scavenger hunt.

AG

Yes, exactly. Headlights ended up being about ninety percent studio. I’m only just getting into the whole studio thing. For me, a home studio has always just meant a mic. If you’d asked me five years ago, I would’ve said yes, I have a home studio. But now I think of a studio as thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment—all this stuff you really have to dive into.

EO

Since you brought up the albums—what were you trying to accomplish with each body of work? Because you’ve built this whole world, and even visually there’s a specific language. Does that come from video games, trading cards?

AG

The visuals are my sister, Rachel. She’s painted all my covers. We’re really close—she’s eight years older, and when I was a kid, she basically dictated my taste in music. So it made sense that every record, I’d just ask her to do the art.

EO

I read she suggested Dream State for DSU?

AG

That’s right. She said “Dream State,” and I thought it was funny to call it Dream State University.

EO

And for Headlights?

AG

At first I wanted to call it Afterlife. I told Rachel maybe she could paint a car or something. Instead, she sent me this painting of a kid with a sword. It was amazing. But “Afterlife” next to that image felt too on-the-nose, almost predictable. So I changed it to Headlights. She also took that photo of the car covered in LED lights that ended up on the back cover. She just texted it to me one night, and I was blown away.

EO

Your work carries commercial appeal, but it still feels handmade, like a private joke between you and your sister. Is that how it feels to you?

AG

Yeah, I see it. It does have some commercial appeal, but I don’t really understand it. I feel like I’m just doing what I always did. If I think about it too much, I get suspicious—because it doesn’t feel commercial from the inside. I just make my music. It’s nice to get paid, but it all still feels the same to me.

EO

Beyond money or stability, what’s been nice about being known in this way?

AG

Feeling almost normal. Like, before Domino, I was just this weird person obsessed with making music. Having a label behind me made it feel like a job, in the chillest way—it justified the obsession. It gave me assurance, like I wasn’t doing all this for no reason.

EO

Justified how you spend your time.

AG

Exactly. I’d be doing it anyway, but having that validation made me feel like a normal person.

EO

I want to ask about performing. How has that changed for you?

AG

Yeah, it’s definitely changed. Something I had to get used to was being filmed a lot. Back in the day, my goal was just to make my band laugh or make people interested—whatever I could think of in the moment. It would just be absurd. Not ridiculous, but silly.

Now it’s different. Being filmed most of the time, and then having those videos posted, that’s something I had to adjust to. I don’t really fuck around as much on stage. Instead, I try to make a show that’s palatable for everyone—for every type of music listener.

EO

Do you still feel alone? I mean, how do you live in the music when you’re making it versus when you’re performing it? Are those two separate people?

AG

Totally. A hundred percent. Making the music is so specific—it’s like a ritual. Performing is completely different. It’s collaborative. I try to share the load with my band—Sam, Tom, and John. We’ll practice the songs, like we’ve been doing this past month, just figuring out how to play them for the show and make it interesting for people.

When I’m performing, it feels more like putting on a costume or throwing a party: Do you have enough to drink? Do you have enough to eat? That’s the feeling. Whereas writing and recording is so self-involved, so internal.

EO

And what do you look for from the audience?

AG

I don’t really check in directly, but it’s always in my mind: I hope we put on a show that makes people want to come back to the next one. That’s where my head is at. I want people to enjoy it so this thing keeps working.

If I’m looking at the audience, it’s not that I need them to be moving around or singing along, but if they are, it’s nice—it tells me they’re enjoying it. That’s pretty much my only gauge. Otherwise, it’s hard to tell.

EO

You’ve said you want people to enjoy themselves and come back—but is there a moment on stage where you feel it click?

AG

Not really. It’s more like the carrot at the end of the stick.

EO

You’ve used that metaphor before—say it another way.

AG

[Laughs.] I only have a couple metaphors.

EO

[Laughs.] But you have a lot of guitars.

AG

[Laughs.] I don’t, actually. Just two.

EO

Okay, but what happens when you leave the stage? Do you just become Alex the person again?

AG

Yeah. I make an effort to get out of that headspace. If I stayed in “stage mode” after, it would be unlikable—hard to be around. So I try to treat it like a really enjoyable job.

EO

Like clocking out of your job.

AG

Exactly.

EO

Last one. When do you feel most free?

AG

Writing. Making music feels free—and driving around feels free.

EO

Do you write music for the car?

AG

I don’t know if I write it for the car, but that’s where I listen to most music.

EO

I’m from LA, so that’s always how I’d listen—when a new album dropped, you had to hear it in the car to know if it really slaps.

AG

Yes, 100%. It’s the best listening experience, especially driving at night.

EO

Are you editing that way too—testing tracks in the car and then editing them?

AG

Yes. [Laughs.] For sure. I do that all the time.