Laura Jane Grace is on the precipice of a brand new life.
The Against Me! frontwoman just got married in a whirlwind, to comedian Paris Campbell. Her Jeep got sideswiped by a drunk driver; when we spoke, the pair were on an Amtrak from Chicago to St. Louis to pick it up from the mechanic. At press time, Grace and Campbell will soon drive it back to their new, shared home in Chicago: they've been handed the keys, and they're in the center of that maelstrom.
"We've moved Paris' apartment from New York to Chicago, and now we're moving my apartment to the house we got," Grace tells GRAMMY.com over the phone, sitting on the tracks with Campbell in Joliet, Illinois. "It's scientifically proven that moving is one of the most stressful things you can do in life.
"Just take my word for it," she quips, when asked if that's true. "Don't Google it."
Grace has done a lot of Googling as of late — to mixed results. Her latest solo album, Hole in My Head — helmed by Drive-By Trucker and Dexateen Matt Patton — dropped Feb. 16, and the press cycle rolls on.
Warm, lived-in and melodic songs like "Dysphoria Hoodie," "Birds Talk Too" and "Tacos and Toast" comprise a satisfying continuation of what Grace does best: yowly, heartfelt punk rock. But presenting them to the world has been challenging. Tidbits from the bio get blown out of proportion. Flat-out mischaracterizations make it to print, and stay there.
She's not bitter about any of it; she's mirthful. "I do think that, ultimately, [you shouldn't] read the reviews, and that you shouldn't live and die by what people say about the art you're making," she says. "But I would rather people are saying good things than bad things. I notice that people are saying good things."
They certainly are. Read on for an interview with Grace about the process behind Hole in My Head, parenting, espresso, Slash versus Izzy Stradlin, and much more.
This interview has been edited for clarity.
I'm sure you've talked about these songs to death. I want to talk about the — let's say indignities — of releasing a record. Like, "Hey guys, it's three weeks old! Do… you still like it?" as it recedes into the rearview.
Yeah. I was thinking that to myself last night, because I'm a little burnt out on social media at the moment. But I feel that pressure of like, Alright, you put out a record, you've got to promote on social media — you'd better make a post or else people are going to forget that literally last week you put out a record that you've been waiting a year to put out!
And it can be a little disheartening at times, for sure.
Psychologically, what's it like to read the reviews? It seems like the doomsday clock for digital media is at 11:59. Reviews used to make or break careers; these days, they seem to comprise an irrelevant sideshow.
It's strange, because I still think of reviews ultimately in the context of how I thought about them with zines. Oftentimes, you would look through zines and you would see the reviews, and that would be your clue and context of what was happening — other bands to tour with if they had a record coming out, or whatever. People that you'd reach out to.
I do think that, ultimately, [you shouldn't] read the reviews, and that you shouldn't live and die by what people say about the art you're making. But I would rather people are saying good things than bad things. I notice that people are saying good things.
And then also, as you said, I'm aware of the layoffs [in music journalism and digital media as a whole], and I'm aware that you've almost got to be thankful for [any press], as a whole community.
Part of my job is promoting those media outlets in a way, too. And that's just through literally just moving your thumb a couple of inches or whatever and pressing repost or retweet or whatever.
You had a funny tweet recently about how the reviews focus on the relative brevity of the songs, even though that's conventional on pop radio. Is that kind of thing somewhat bemusing — or frustrating?
I get frustrated with it, because the record took two years to write, and then it takes however long to record. But then, it all comes down to the bio. The bio is what all the journalists use as their touch points or talking points.
So, if you say the wrong thing in the bio, then everyone is asking those wrong questions for every interview. It's like that the whole time. It's almost like the bio makes or breaks your record.
And then, you're also tasked with trying to understand something that you just made; with a bio, that's oftentimes really hard to do. You're like, "I don't know, I just wrote it. I don't know what it means. I don't want to have to explain it," but then you got to explain it for the bio.
Without naming any names — and you can obscure the language if you like — what's an example of a wrong question you get asked?
The song length thing is one thing, but then the whole thing where people being like, "Oh, the record has a real '50s influence." It's like, "Shut the f— up. It just says that in the bio. Did you even listen to the record? Have you heard it?"
It just sounds like an Against Me! record. It's literally the same process that I've been doing for the past 25 years. I'm not writing songs any differently or approaching them any differently. I read one review that said that it had "handclaps and whoas, which are decidedly not punk." I'm like, What?
Outside of the press, where are we catching you in life, with Hole in My Head out in the world? You're on the precipice of a completely new epoch of existence.
That's what it is. Huge, massive changes happening in life. And that's the thing you don't want to happen in a way, with a record — where a year in between completing it and putting it out because you've got to pull yourself back to that place to even talk about it for interviews then, which can be hard sometimes.
I'm excited about songs that we recorded back in December and then excited about writing new music and just now having a record released holds you in place in that way. So, having it out is a good thing, and [being] free to move forward.
This is a cliché, but whatever: Hole in My Head sounds like a snapshot of where you are in the moment. Some records feel like promotional noise and don't tell me anything about the artist. Have you written in that slice-of-life, "Tacos and Toast" way before?
I think I was building towards that. I am happy with the way that song came out, but it took a lot of work to get to that kind of flow. But I think a song like "Shelter In Place," off of Stay Alive, was a precursor to that style, maybe.
Are you talking about honing your focus on syllables and stresses and stuff? Or themes?
More just relaxing into it.
Tell me more about that.
Like I said, the song "Shelter In Place" was a precursor to that song, because they both mention espresso. So, you're singing about your morning coffee, which to an 18-year-old punk kid probably seems really uninteresting. But when you're in your forties, you're like, Hell yeah. My morning cup of espresso — looking forward to that. I want to sing about that. I'm excited about that.
But I think it takes a nuance to be able to work that into a song. And I admire songwriters like John Prine or Dan Reeder, who were able to sing about their morning breakfast steaks and s— like that and make it good.
I'm a huge John Prine fan. I don't sense he sat down and overworked anything. It all seemed as natural as breathing. So, it's almost like unlearning.
Totally. That is what it is: natural as breathing, if you're writing about eggs, you're not trying, and it's coming off way better. And there we are with a Jonathan Richman reference: "They're not tryin' on the dance floor."
I'm not going to make you explain this song, because it's a song. But "I'm Not a Cop" touched a nerve in me, as per how we police each other day-to-day.
There's that, and then I think also it even relates to being a parent and realizing you don't have the authoritarian bone in your body and that that's not you, but I don't know. There might not be many things I'm confident about in life, but I'm definitely confident about that statement.
And, also the observation of seeing a cop at Superdawg eating a hot dog. It makes me smile every time I sing it.
Tell me more.
Literally, I drove by the Superdawg, which is a famous hot dog place in Chicago, and there was a cop in there eating a hot dog. It's f—ing hilarious.
Has parenting been a mind-bending, acid-like experience for you? Or did it all come naturally?
Yeah, mind-bending for sure. Last night, I got in a pseudo-argument with my kid, because they were criticizing me for only playing rhythm guitar that I never played solos. [Note: Grace's child uses they/them pronouns.]
They were specifically saying this because they're just a better guitar player than me already. And they really have focused on solos and doing really intricate guitar playing parts. I'm like, Goddamn, this is just surreal to have your kid digging into you about your guitar playing style.
Basically, they're saying they're Slash, and you're Izzy Stradlin — suck it.
Are they hitting ultimate-guitar.com? What's going on?
They're rad. They're really, really, really good. I feel like they're seconds away from starting their own band.
What are their influences?
I gave them a Fleas and Lice record yesterday to listen to. They're really into punk, and really into odd stuff. At this point, I'm looking to them to see what's going on and what I should be listening to.
You mentioned that this is the process you've always abided by. But, can you talk about any special production flourishes here, or anything like that?
I was working with what I had. If I had had a drummer with me at the time, it would've been a different record. But I didn't, so the drums came out the way they did.
I think the biggest addition and blessing with the record is Matt Patton. Him raising his hand and going to drive up to St. Louis — having never met me before — and spending a week in the studio. The parts he came up with are so rad; they make those songs. If it weren't for him, it would've been an entirely different record.
One thing I don't like to do when finishing a record, is listen to it comparatively to the record before it. Even sonically, I want to be surprised by it down the road.
Is making a record almost an uncomfortable experience, where you don't want to look at it too long? Is it like staring into the sun?
Yeah. That's ill-advised. I was actually thinking about that earlier. We were driving down and the sun was coming up and I was staring at it and I was like, Don't look into the sun you fucking idiot."
I think the uncomfortable part of the experience is the necessary part of the experience, and you have to push through the uncomfortable to get to the comfortable part — to know that you've got a good record.
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