Discussing the evolution of her sound, the politics of personal expression, and the freedom found in musical experimentation, Lucy offers a glimpse into the mind of an artist unafraid to challenge boundaries and expectations. Enjoy the read and make sure you don’t miss the concert!

If someone were to listen to your full discography in order, what story or evolution would you hope they hear?
That’s a really interesting (and slightly frightening) question to contemplate. I’m not sure. I think it’s a confusing story – but hopefully not a boring or predictable one. I hope they hear experimentation, and a slow shaking off – or dressing up – of fear.
I took the first album I ever made offline a year after its release because it didn’t sound like a beginning. I was trying to skip steps. So I started again. To me, the first EP sounds like searching. It was a young group of friends learning – about how to be in the world, and about how to make, record, and mix a song.
The first full-length Lost Boys album was the same group of friends with a bit more confidence in their musical ideas, and maybe a little less confidence in their ideas about life. Sleeping Tapes stripped everything down – in so many ways – and I think since then, I’ve been trying to rebuild and reimagine what music and meaning-making can be.
I’m less under the illusion that you can represent yourself – or any kind of truth – the “right” way. It’s all a kind of play, however serious it might sound.

Is there a musical or thematic idea you’ve deliberately avoided exploring in your work so far? If so, why?
Thematically, I wish I could be more overtly political – in a nuanced and meaningful way – but I’m not sure how to do that, and it frightens me. Being deeply personal and excavating my own experience still feels like the most possible path for me.
Musically, I grew up on hymns and musicals, so I have to keep an eye on their influence. There’s no way to avoid them entirely, but I try not to let them take over.
In general, I try to find a sound that fits a story or feeling, rather than starting with a musical idea and shaping the emotion around it. I’ve occasionally said, “Let’s try something dancier” or “Let’s make this one faster” – but it usually still comes out slow and doomy. I think even my attempts to deviate get absorbed into our universe, which I don’t mind.

Have there been moments when audience interpretation of your work challenged your own understanding of it?
I went to bed with this question on my mind, hoping to wake up with some kind of thought or memory, but I don’t have anything for this yet. I’m going to take it with me.

Do you consider your music political, even when it’s personal? If so, what kind of politics are you engaging with—or resisting?
I do think the personal is political – but it’s something I’ve heard and said so many times that it can start to lose its meaning. I really admire those who are clear and articulate about their politics in their art, but I am not one of those people and I don’t really create with a manifesto in mind. I have a deep desire for freedom (although I barely know what that means) and explore it (ad nauseum) in my music. A lot of what keeps me from that freedom is political, even if it shows up in intimate, internal ways. I think being able to express the pain of that kind of quiet oppression is a step toward loosening its hold. Maybe I’m just trying to make space for the mess—emotions and contradictions that don’t fit neatly into any system.

Your records resist easy classification—they touch noise pop, dark folk, ambient, post-punk, even ritual music. Do you think genre still serves any function in how you create—or how you’re understood?
I think patterns and frames help humans make sense of experience, so I don’t mind too much where we get placed in terms of genre. We’ve been lucky to play on quite musically diverse line-ups, and I find it interesting to feel our music and performance in front of audiences with different, specific perspectives – to be the pop act at the metal festival, or the goth act at the world music festival.
I’m not very loyal to a particular genre. I’m drawn to elements in music for their capacity to express. I like noise because it stirs something physical, and I like the silence after because it sharpens whatever’s left.
I’m saying all of this, but the truth is I don’t think too much about genre when I’m working. Sometimes in the rehearsal room, we’ll try something and then ask, “Is this too rock?” – so I suppose we are trying to avoid being caught in one particular space for too long. But mostly, we just make what feels good. I think a lot of artists like to believe they’re escaping genre entirely – but from the outside, it’s probably pretty clear where we land.

Is there a question you wish interviewers would ask you—but never do?
They don’t ask me about politics very much, actually. Perhaps that is a bit strange – but after answering your earlier question, I realise it might also be a relief. I feel very strongly about certain things, but I get anxious trying to articulate them – or anxious that I won’t articulate them properly.
Language is a mess, and it feels so final when you put it on paper. Music is a much safer place to make a mess. And I want to make a mess – because I was taught, very clearly, that you shouldn’t.

You played Močvara in Zagreb as part of Europavox, a setting that often brings together artists exploring the edges of the genre. Now that you’re returning to that same venue outside of the festival context, what feels different—either in terms of where the band is now, or what you want to create in that space this time around?
We had such a fun show, and I’m so excited to come back. We only played for half an hour, so it was short and sharp – and sometimes those sets can feel a bit brutal. As if you’re only sharing one aspect of your slightly deranged personality. I’m looking forward to offering a few more layers of madness and sadness this time.

Is there a song in your repertoire to which the audience reacted differently from what you would expect?
They’ve helped some songs grow. Half of a Woman went from a whisper – or a whimper – to a kind of war cry in my mind and body, which was a very lovely thing to feel. I also had no idea how people would respond to Burning Building, which felt adventurous and slightly outlandish for me – so I was pleasantly surprised to be able to make an audience smile.
What do you listen to these days? Do you know about some less known/young  artists/colleagues that you would recommend to us?
I’ve been listening to a guitarist called Hayden Pedigo a lot lately. Between the Lost Boys, there’s also so much beautiful music being released – Crow Baby (Jean-Louise’s band), Alienbaby Collective (Liú’s solo project), and André Leo (an original Lost Boy). Fellow Berlin musicians EERA and Tara Nome Doyle have also just released – or are about to release – new music.

Anita Ulovec (Volontiram u Močvari)