Devonté Hynes

DHDevonté Hynes
EOEmmanuel Olunkwa

Devonté Hynes is a Grammy-nominated performer, singer, songwriter, record producer, and director. He first entered the cultural zeitgeist with Test Icicles, the UK dance-punk trio whose 2005 debut For Screening Purposes Only captured the volatility of the moment. Since those early years in London, Hynes has developed a practice spanning solo work, production, and songwriting, most notably under the moniker Blood Orange. His work resists containment, remaining intimate and expansive, drifting through memory, tethered to the present. He has performed alongside Philip Glass and staged iterations of Julius Eastman’s work at institutions including the Kennedy Center, Carnegie Hall, and the 92Y, while also working closely with artists such as Solange, Sky Ferreira, FKA twigs, and Mariah Carey.

The release of Cupid Deluxe in 2013 marked a decisive shift—a self-produced record that reframed his approach to sound, collaboration, and authorship. Since then, Hynes has continued to work as a composer, performer, and producer, with a practice that is both meticulous and deeply felt. This conversation took place at the Karma Bookstore on November 15, 2023.

DHDevonté Hynes
EOEmmanuel Olunkwa

I was doing research earlier in preparation for this conversation and read something that got me excited. One of them being that you don’t come from a place of needing to be onstage to perform—or rather, being onstage isn’t where you feel the most at home. You approach it more from a place of purely performing to craft an experience and show a visual narration of the music you make. You choose to perform for people.

Exactly. [Laughs.] When I make music, it’s scratching an itch and comes from a very personal place—whether it’s trying to get emotions down, explore my own feelings, or even trying a new aesthetic. When I was a teenager and would hear a band play, it was as simple as wanting to imitate the sound of that band, which has continued to expand for me throughout my career.

In terms of performance—specifically thinking about Blood Orange—it has always felt a little tricky for me, because the fan in me understands the purpose of the live experience. Regardless of where I see the intellectual thing that I twist in my head about not feeling like I can perform because it’s so personal. But I throw that away and think about why I like music, and the live experiences I’ve personally enjoyed the most. Through the years, I’ve realized I’m lucky that I view it the way I do because it means it stays its own separate process, completely detached from making the music.

Really?

Yeah. [Laughs.] In my mind, they’re not even slightly connected.

When you start conceptualizing the visual part of the project and form references, how do you translate the words into images?

In terms of videos, they start to form in my head around the same time, but they come to me from the books I’m reading and experiences I’m having that I want to translate into visual material. Unlike making music, I have to conceptualize and storyboard on a practical level.

Whereas with music, I can’t play everything live. Most of the time the songs aren’t even in a key—they’ve been run in one key and then twisted, and I have to relearn the song in a new way, sometimes in an entirely different key. [Laughs.] And then I’ll find other musicians to help me play the music. I think about things I’m a fan of, and then I think of cultural moments that really excited me when I was younger, and I translate those experiences as well.

Have you ever fully given over control to a creative director for your work?

Well... this is already sounding shady. [Laughs.] I’m trying to be more diplomatic. I think creative directors are meant to look at what someone’s making and figure out how it can exist in another realm—how it can be presented to the masses. They connect those dots. I don’t necessarily need that service because, for me, the dots are already connected before I’ve made anything. What I do need, and frankly enjoy—and this is the same with music—is collaborating with people who are exceptional at what they do.

Yes. You’re really a fan of the entire process of making. I actually really respect how selflessly and effortlessly you collaborate with people, because it’s taught me a lot about giving others the space to find their own magic and work from that place intuitively.

That’s all it is! [Laughs.] Also, I want people’s brains. I want to know what they’re thinking. I’m by myself most of the time, and I get tired of my own ideas.

What’s your relationship to ambition? What did you want from music? Did you always know the work you were making had commercial potential?

I don’t think I’ve ever had ambition, but I’ve had drive. I’m a very driven person—but I don’t know the destination. I’m just moving. It’s weird, because I’ve been releasing music for so long now.

How long is that?

Way too long. [Laughs.] The first Test Icicles record came out in 2004. The music we made as a group has been consumed in a million different ways since then. Up until the third Blood Orange record, Cupid Deluxe, I would just release music into what felt like a void. People might find it, and a year later someone would say something. That third record was when I saw the curve shift. There was more attention, and also a new kind of consumption becoming normal. Streaming changed everything—you’d put something out and immediately see how people felt about it.

Emphasis on immediately. [Laughs.]

I’ve never read a Blood Orange review, so that transition was kind of jarring. Going back to your first question—I’d never really thought about how things would be received. But every now and then, because I’m a mega-fan and obsessed with pop culture, I’d become aware that my train was hitting another train—or cultural movement—at just the right time.

What was that train?

This is a really long time ago now, dude, but the Solange song—

With Theophilus? Or “Losing You”?

“Losing You.” I kind of felt people would like it. [Laughs.] But it’s a weird thing to say, because I don’t mean we made it thinking people would love it. I just had a feeling—it felt ripe for the mood and that moment in time.

Hm. But it’s like when you’re getting ready for your day…

Okay, where’s this going?

[Laughs.] You cut me off, though.

[Laughs.] I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I was narrating my thoughts.

Because of that, I’m going to get you. Watch it. [Laughs.] But it made me think of the song—it wasn’t “Best to You.” What song did you say you wrote in fifteen minutes? You call them “freebies.”

I stole that from someone, but I can’t remember who. [Laughs.]

I know you did—I later figured it out but now I can’t remember either. [Laughs.] You were like, “I made this song,” and I just can’t recall which one it was.

[Laughs.] I now remember who I stole it from, but I don’t want to be that person. Better check the book. Ah—do you mean something off Cupid Deluxe? “You’re Not Good Enough,” maybe?

Yes. I was thinking about that time we were sitting in Washington Square Park in the summer of 2016. You said, “That song just came to me—it was a freebie,” because you laid the track down so quickly.

Super quick.

[Laughs.] I was going to say something very succinct—it’s like when you’re feeling confused, bothered, or nervous, and then you take a shower to shake it off. You get out, lay down the track you’ve been obsessing over, and then just walk away. Then you revisit it days—or weeks—later. Actually, I know this to be your life. And mine. [Laughs.] You get the idea, you execute it, then you leave your house and either go play tennis or head to Guitar Center near Union Square.

Honestly, that does happen to me. [Laughs.] But to be fair, those songs are rare. With the others, I listen to them obsessively—like psychotically. People would think I was losing it. That definitely happened with “Good Enough.” I’ll get the basic idea down, and then I’m just looping it—loop, loop, loop—until the end.

I was really excited to learn about your collaboration with Theophilus London and how that shifted things for your career.

Oh yeah. That’s how I met Solange Knowles. I’ve had some very good creative moments in L.A., for sure.

Tell us what it was like—those first moments with Theophilus London and Laurence Bell of Domino. While you were in Los Angeles, Laurence introduced you to the producer Ariel Rechtshaid, who you ended up working with on your first album.

Come on, come on. Oh my God—I’m actually impressed. I really am. Yes, so this is 2009. I met Theophilus London in New York. I think it started with me playing guitar and keyboard live for his band. It’s much easier for me to play in other people’s bands and play their music. I really enjoy doing that. I was playing with him, and at the same time I was writing a bunch of songs on the side. I was also performing solo as Blood Orange around Brooklyn, selling CDs of the songs I had made. One of those CDs had my demo of “Losing You” and “Everything Is Embarrassing”—which later became the Sky Ferreira track—along with a bunch of songs that would eventually become Blood Orange tracks. One of them was “Flying Overseas,” which I gave to Theo. The version I had was basically just an instrumental chorus.

Around that time, I met Ariel Rechtshaid, an incredible producer. He invited me out to L.A. to lay down the first Blood Orange record. While I was there, Theo was also in town and came by the studio to work on “Flying Overseas.” He was friends with Solange and heard the track and said, “Oh, Solange would sound really good on this chorus.” So she came to the studio—and that’s how we met.

You talked about laying down part of the track in Bushwick with Theophilus.

Yeah—wait, I’m trying to remember where exactly we did it. I was the same then as I am now: I’ll record anywhere I can. If there’s an open studio, I’ll go and try to make something. I need to upgrade the vibe, to be honest. [Laughs.] But yeah—Terrible Records, which was started by Ethan Silverman and Chris Taylor from Grizzly Bear. Chris had a studio on top of a church in Bushwick or maybe Bed-Stuy. I recorded a bunch there, and also at Patrick Wimberly’s place—he was in Chairlift. And now he’s thriving. He did the Lil Yachty Let’s Start Here. album. Theo and I must have recorded at one of those two places. I don’t remember which. [Laughs.]

“Flying Overseas” was a cultural reset. What’s cool is that the palette of your sound and production is already present in that track. In the interview I was watching, you said you gained a new kind of confidence from working with Solange and Theophilus.

Absolutely. I’d had production credits on maybe two things before that, but they were accidental—like, they just didn’t change the demos I’d worked on. That was the first time I was really called a producer. I made a song, and they performed it. I hadn’t even done that for my own stuff yet, so I was kind of shocked. But it took having these people I really respected want my thought process to dictate the sound. After that experience, I just started doing everything myself.

There are so many things I want to talk about. [Laughs.]

Let’s go.

Collaboration. Our dear friend Aaron Maine is in the room tonight—known professionally as Porches. I met you through Aaron in 2015. I learned so much just being in the room with you both—specifically about the sacrality of collaboration, being vulnerable, and what it takes to succeed. So much of what I know, I’m realizing now, I learned from those early years. You’re such a generous person creatively. Has that always been intuitive for you?

Thank you—that’s really nice. It’s very intuitive. Honestly, it comes from playing sports. I grew up playing football pretty intensely, and at the same time, if you want to bring it back to music, I played cello in orchestra as a kid. Being in those environments where you have your role, your responsibility to the team or the group—that taught me everything. That’s why I love working with people who are great at what they do. If I respect someone and like how they think, I can collaborate with them on anything. It doesn’t even matter what the thing is.

It sounds like you have a kind of composer mentality. You’re the organizing principle, but you’re always thinking about what’s missing—and what needs to be added to shape the body of sound.

It’s not a rule or anything, but I’ve always felt like a Blood Orange record is something I start and finish. Everything in the middle is up for grabs. I create the first sound at the beginning—and in the middle, it could be entirely me doing everything, or it could be anyone I like who happens to be in the room. At some point, I tie the knot and finish it. If I like someone, I’ll always listen to them, because I want to see what comes out of that exchange.

Music is a language for you. It’s like you write and reflect in it—it’s like a diary.

Yes. It’s a diary. Which is why it was always tricky to put that language on display—on stage.

I’ve seen you perform in so many different contexts, in so many cities.

True.

I’m the friend that’s like, “Can I get that plus one?”

You are that friend. [Laughs.] How many times did you come to the Harry Styles show at Madison Square Garden? Twice?

[Laughs.] Just once. I’ve gotten better. But I went to the Kennedy Center. The only place I didn’t see you was at the Apollo Theater in Harlem, devastatingly enough—it was too crazy. And then there was another one. Was it a live performance on Seth Meyers?

Those performances are stressful.

Let’s talk about endurance—both in terms of your craft and your lifestyle. You move around a lot, constantly in motion.

[Laughs.] I don’t know why that is. Maybe I do. Yeah, I run around a lot, but I’m trying—this is going to sound very “music”—but when I’m traveling, I always bring my hard drive. And that’s extremely grounding for me. It’s my thing. A lot of the music I work on for records—some of it started as ideas from a decade ago. Things I’ve lived with, that I’ve been listening to for God knows how long.

What does that old material mean to you? How often do you revisit it?

Daily. But it never really feels like I’m digging through old material. I’m constantly tweaking and working through those ideas, and they feel very safe. They’re familiar.

You’re really like a painter in a way. [Laughs.] Especially in how you layer a piece.

It happens a lot. I think nearly every Blood Orange record has a song that’s at least seven or eight years old.

What did it feel like with Cupid Deluxe—specifically its success? It’s having its ten-year anniversary.

Oh my God. Thanks for reminding me. I was thinking of doing something, but I didn’t put it together, so it might not happen. [Laughs.] That’s not even the first or second Blood Orange record. I released a mixtape first, then an EP. And before that, there were two Lightspeed Champion albums. Obviously, it’s nice when people like what you do. But Cupid Deluxe was interesting because it was really the first time I put what’s in my head down, musically. It was the first record I produced entirely by myself—so it felt like I was just chucking something out. And seeing people respond to it really shook up my brain. But it was cool. I got to do things on that record that laid the groundwork for so much of my life.

Like, there’s a song with David Longstreth from Dirty Projectors. I’d known David from around New York and always loved their music.

Isn’t Caroline [Polachek] on that record?

Caroline Polachek and Skepta are on that record. It was all people I’m friends with—people I love. It seems very simple now, but back then, the idea that you could just make music with your friends and do what you want... it didn’t feel so obvious. That was the beginning of me realizing, “Oh, maybe I don’t have to sing on every track. Maybe someone else can—and it’ll be better.”

Can you talk about Solange and the making of her 2012 EP True? That came shortly after recording “Flying Overseas.”

After that song, we talked about working together, but it was actually quite a long time before her record came out. We worked on it from around 2009 until it was released in 2012—on Terrible Records. We found ourselves recording in all these different spaces, working on music together. Then I’d go away to work on my own stuff. I’d write, come back, and bring it or send it to her. It was cool. I mean, it was super organic. I also need to mention this guy named Blue.

Mikaelin Bluespruce. Yes—legendary engineer.

He’s the best. He’s mixed and engineered every Solange record. He mixes my scores, too.

I’ve been in that room. [Laughs.]

You’ve been in Lounge Studios. [Laughs.]

I invited myself into that room, people. [Laughs.] Sometimes you have to invite yourself into places.

That's how you do it.

Or you meet up with Dev at 2:00 p.m. on a Wednesday—

[Laughs.] When I’m on my way.

And then you stay with Dev until 1:00 a.m. But can you talk about the actual creative process? Selfishly, one of my favorite songs you two made for True is “Bad Girls.” But you originally recorded that demo for Terrible, right?

Yes. It was on a 7-inch I released, and then we redid it. Solange had the wild idea to bring someone in to play bass, because I was doing this really intense slap bass on the demo. She suggested bringing in Verdine White from Earth, Wind & Fire. So he came in and played bass. I was just like, “What the fuck?” I’ll never forget it. He showed up and was learning the song in real time, so I had to hold the bass and play it—just to show him the part. We were closer than you and I are now—head to head while the track was playing—and he was just staring into my eyes.

Trying to find the... magic? [Laughs.]

Trying to find the bass. [Laughs.] Trying to find the notes.

Where was it recorded?

The only things that were re-recorded for Solange’s version were the bass and the guitar solo. Everything else was done in my bedroom—which, at the time, was part of a shared space on Wythe and North 4th in Williamsburg. In New York. It’s now a J.Crew. [Laughs.] Actually, this is a bit of a side story, but when Hurricane Sandy hit, I stayed at a friend’s place in Gowanus. Then I got a call that the slumlord was kicking us all out. So I walked from Gowanus to Wythe, and we had to move everything out.

Where did most of the EP take place?

Like 10 million places. It was kind of hectic. Some of it was recorded in Santa Barbara. Some in different spots around L.A. Some in Houston. Some in New York. But it was finished in New York.

But wait—I want to talk about After School in London. [Laughs.]

The club? He’s really done his research. [Laughs.] Yeah, After School Club. It’s kind of cool.

It was the major happening club in London as you were coming up in your late teens. You met Florence Welch there.

Yeah—all those people.

And then you also met Adele?

Not “Adele.” But Tottenham-born Adele.

Let’s talk about these people who just go by their names. [Laughs.]

Okay—honestly, I owe a lot to After School. It’s the origin story of Test Icicles. Basically, we just wanted our song played in that club. It’s kind of as simple as that.

Right. What kind of club was it?

It was at the London School of Economics. At night, they’d turn it into a club. Outside of London, if people know it, it’s probably because of Pulp—that’s where Jarvis Cocker studied and wrote a lot of songs about. “Disco 2000,” stuff like that. So it was a very indie-centric scene.

I met Sam Mehran and Rory Attwell there—and eventually, we became Test Icicles. But I also met Ferry Gouw, who was kind of the catalyst for all of this. I’ll be quick—I don’t want to bore anyone. But we used to form bands every few days and play one-off shows when I was a teenager. One day, Ferry—who’s now a successful graphic designer and also created the Major Lazer cartoons—came to us and said, “Hey, I got asked if Balls”—that was their band name—“could open for the Unicorns in Nottingham.” [Laughs.] But Ferry, who’s Indonesian, had to go back to Indonesia to renew his visa. So he told the promoter, “Balls can’t play, but Test Icicles will.” [Laughs.] Which didn’t exist. He just made the name up.

That was Thursday. The show was Sunday. So he said, “I’m going out of town, but if you show up and play some songs and say you’re Test Icicles, you can see the Unicorns.” So Friday and Saturday, we rehearsed. We had one four-track and one eight-track, worked on some stuff, then took the train up to Narnia.

Boom. Speaking of names—I never knew the origin of Blood Orange. I was excited to learn it came from a drawing you made in high school?

Oh yeah. [Laughs.] There’s also that.

Okay, but you didn’t give me anything about Adele or Florence. What was the scene?

Well, about a year later, I lived with a guy named Simon Taylor-Davis, who later formed Klaxons. At the time, there were really only two clubs: After School and White Heat. If you were born between, say, 1982 and 1989, and were into anything vaguely indie, you went to one of those two clubs.

We’ve talked about your various performances—but we haven’t talked about Philip Glass yet. I’ve seen you perform his 20 Etudes at the Kennedy Center, and again at Carnegie Hall. What does that work mean to you? You’ve said you prefer to memorize the material rather than read sheet music—but your most recent performance, Radical Adornment at the 92Y, where you played Julius Eastman with Adam Tendler, looked like you were performatively reading the sheet music.

That’s because you have to. Julius Eastman writes his pieces to a clock. You have to watch the timer, and depending on the time, you play a different part of the sheet. You can’t memorize it.

So you had to fully submit to someone else’s rules and logic. It was such a treat seeing you perform that piece—your musicianship really came through.

Thank you. I’m unsure about my musicianship, so I appreciate that.

It’s so cool seeing you perform in those spaces. What has it been like reconnecting with that original part of your story?

It’s nice you brought up Philip Glass. The “freebie” thing—that’s actually a Philip Glass-ism. Now I can say it, because you brought his name up. [Laughs.]

Oh yes! It’s Mr. Glass.

You planned that?

No, I didn’t.

Would’ve been cool.

[Laughs.] I actually remember watching an interview Philip Glass did that year, after you said that—and I thought, did he really just—wait. I know he didn’t bite off of Mr. Glass.

No, it’s crazy. I never dreamed of performing in classical arenas or being part of that world—not because I didn’t want to, but because I just didn’t think it was possible for me. It was more about uncertainty than anything. The fact that it’s happening now, that I’m performing as a pianist on those pieces... I’m just kind of enjoying it. That’s the short answer.

But it’s very, very important to me. If there’s one thing I’ve become intentional about, it’s fully showing up as myself when I’m in those spaces. In a rare moment of self-awareness, I think about how classical music was something I did when I was young—and I imagine what it would’ve meant to see someone even vaguely like me up there. So I wear my baseball hat. It makes me feel natural, like I don’t have to metaphorically climb some huge staircase just to be there.

I have one dirty question to ask. None of the past ones were dirty. I’m curious about Mariah Carey. One, because I love her album Caution, which you produced on.

That’s a good album.

There are so many people you’ve worked with on records that felt really of the moment—like Gangsta Boo. This might be a rumor, and I’ve never asked you, but I remember hearing that you worked with Mariah because of Jay-Z?

That’s true. I didn’t just find out, but she told me a while after we’d already worked together. I’m not like... friends with Jay-Z, by the way. [Laughs.] I think I need to clarify that.

How do you feel having accomplished so much?

It’s a complicated question. Honestly, especially in recent years, I’ve had a real sense of... almost survivor’s guilt. I have very complex feelings about success and what it means. At the same time, I feel incredibly privileged and lucky that I’ve been able to help out my family through the years. But maybe simplifying it—it’s just life.

Coming from Essex, in East London, I think about everything I’ve experienced in the last few years, and I don’t really understand why I was so driven. But I see what it’s done. There are positives—and negatives.

Of course.

The positives are great. But there are definitely hard parts. Especially as I get older and more people have passed—like Sam, who I was in Test Icicles with. And more recently, Gangsta Boo.

The struggles these people went through... and knowing there’s only so much you can do to help. It’s a mixed bag. But I hold onto the good. Like being able to do things for my family.

And then earlier this year—I know this might sound silly because I’m 37, about to turn 38—but I had this moment where I heard a song, and it felt like someone was speaking from my mind to me. That’s different from connecting to a song. I’ve felt understood by music for as long as I can remember. But this time, it felt like the sound came from my own soul—like someone was voicing something I hadn’t yet found words for.

Audience Member 1

How did the collaboration with Deana Lawson come about for Freetown Sound?

I was a big fan and reached out to her. At the time, I was still working on the album, and I thought we might collaborate on something visual—like a video. I’d send her songs, play things for her.

And, honestly, one blessing was that we’re both very flaky. [Laughs.] We’re hard to pin down. There were moments where we wouldn’t reply to each other at all.

[Laughs.] Stars—they’re just like us.

We both thought the other was annoyed, but really we were just being weird and flaky. So the video idea never happened. But there was this one photo in her book I kept coming back to—I couldn’t shake it. And then I realized, if I’m returning to it like that, there’s a reason. Why was I trying to find something else? She was super gracious and really into the idea of using it for the cover.

Audience Member 2

Of course hindsight is 20/20, but if you could redo any song in your career, what would it be?

That’s a good question. I’m not usually this person—but I actually have an answer today, because I was thinking about it this morning.

There’s this English band called Mansun. One of my favorites. On Cupid Deluxe, I covered one of their songs, “I Can Only Disappoint U,” but I retitled it “Always Let U Down.” I’ve been revisiting their records this week, and I almost forgot I covered that song.

So I listened to it this morning—and I had this moment where I thought, “Not gonna lie, my guitar is a little annoying.” [Laughs.] I changed the chords slightly, and I think I laid the guitar too neatly. It just keeps going and going. So yeah, that’s the one.

Audience Member 3

Are there any movies that serve as a visual or emotional reference for your music?

You’re a big cinema person.

[Laughs.] I’m definitely a big film person. I’m a nerd. And there are different visual references for different Blood Orange projects.

For the record I’m working on now, it’s a lot about where I grew up—Essex. I haven’t rewatched them yet, but early Andrea Arnold films are a strong reference. Wasp, especially. What she portrays in those films—that’s what it was like growing up there. So that’s definitely a visual anchor for me right now.