Santigold | Broken Record

Pushkin. Santigold is an artist who exists at the cross-section of punk, dub, new wave, and indie pop. Long frustrated with attempts to classify her music, she's always been a proud outlier among the restrictive categories used to divide music. Santigold's anti-establishment bent was in part a reaction to working as an A&R for Epic Records' Black Music Department. Frustrated with what they categorized as urban music in the early aughts, she left her job, went home to Philly, and started a punk band called Stift. After honing her skills for a few years as the lead singer, she released her debut solo album Santigold in 2008. The album's lead singles, Creator and Elías Artis, were a revelation when they came out and led to Santigold headlining tours around the world and opening shows for Björk, Coldplay, Jay-Z, and the Beastie Boys. Now with 3 more albums to her credit, including last year's soul-stirring Spirituals, Santigold is celebrating the 15th anniversary of her debut release. She's also expanded her artistic endeavors to include a podcast called Noble Champions, where she mines the creative life with friends like Olivia Wilde, Questlove, and Yacine Bey. On today's episode of Broken Record, Leah Rose talks to Santigold about the unique path she took to build her solo career. She also shares why she decided to cancel her tour last year with a heartfelt public letter that shared insight into the financial and emotional toll of touring post-pandemic. Santigold also recalls the moment she discovered she was in a list of influential Black female artists called out by Beyoncé on her "Break My Soul" remix. This is Broken Record, liner notes for the digital age.

I'm Justin Richmond.

Here's Leah Rose with Santigold.

Thank you so much for doing this. I'm really looking forward to it. I know we've been trying to get it together for a while now.

Yeah.

Since I've been researching this, since I've been in your world, you feel so strong and so uncompromising in your work. Has it always felt like that for you? Like, have you always— just been really clear on what you wanted to make?

I mean, it's a process of years of being a kid and writing in my journal and trying to play some instruments and then trying to make some beats. And so it wasn't like, I know exactly what I want to do. In fact, I read through my journals whenever I get a chance. I recently— because I'm actually working on a book, so I actually just read through this whole journal last week. There's this one entry from when I was about maybe like 15 to 17, I don't know, that I was like, I know there's music in me, but I think the kind of music doesn't exist yet. Wow. You know, I wrote that as a teenager because I just— I knew that like I liked so many different kinds of music, but nothing felt like it could hold the full spectrum of what I wanted to make or hear even. So I would just jump around. I would listen to like rock, and then I'd be like, ugh, this this doesn't have enough bass. And then I listen to hip-hop, and I'm like, this is just not crazy enough, you know what I mean? And I just— so I would just go back and forth. And even when I started to make music, which was kind of by mistake, I only started to make music because I couldn't find what I wanted to listen to. And first, I tried writing for other people, but then they didn't do it exactly like I wanted it to sound. So it was just really the art led me to be the performer because I just wanted to make exactly what I wanted to hear. So I wrote a record for an artist called Rhys. And it was like mixing rock and had more soul than I would have put in because it was collaborative. And then I was like, I want to make a punk rock record. And then I did that for a bit. But then that was limiting as well. And so then it wasn't until Santigold where I was just like, I'm going to make whatever I want. And anything I want to go in it is going to go in it. And no one will probably want to hear this music. But I'm going to make it anyway. And so that was the first time that I really just put it all down. And I would say the process of coming to that, becoming that person who was clear in that vision, started as a teenager. And I went to like— I would change my scene and my look all the time. I was like a Philly fly girl with gold earrings and an Ace Metro. And then I was like in a classic rock and vintage t-shirts. And then I was like— going out to house music, you know, I was just literally, like, taking it all in. And it wasn't until I went to Quaker school when I was about 15 that I started to understand that I could, like, hold space for all these things.

What was it about the Quaker school that helped you realize that?

I think it was several things. I think they gave me a lot of autonomy to be an artist at that school. Like, it was like the whole— creed was, "There's that of God in everyone." And so you'd sit in meeting for worship once a week. That was the only religious aspect, was sitting in meeting for worship once a week for 45 minutes. And it was in silence. You'd sit in silence unless you were moved to stand up and say something. And the idea was, anything that you wanted to stand up and say, it could be anything, like, "I had a dream last night," and blah, blah, blah. You know, it could be anything. But if you felt like you wanted to stand up and say it, the idea was that it was sort of worth reflecting upon by the whole community. It was valid. Like, and you know, you call your teachers by their first name. So it was like, oh, my voice is important, you know? And then they had like painting studio. I was a painting sort of major by my senior year, whatever that meant. Like, I took senior studio. So you would get to go and paint for like 3 hours. Build whatever size canvas and do whatever you want. And then I got like— I won the art award. And I like, you know, I knew by that point I had been to this— all-girls private school for 8 years. I went to this public school, which was a magnet school, which had all kids from all over the city. And then I went to this school. And so I knew a lot of people. I knew a lot of people in the city. I knew all the parties happening. And people were, like, valuing that about me, that I could— that I knew about all these different scenes. So I think I started to be like, oh, it's actually cool to sit in the middle of all these different scenes and not have to choose. And I never felt like I met anybody else. Who was doing that until I was about 31, honestly, when I started— when I met, like, Spank Rock. I think when I met Naeem, I was like, this is the first person that actually mirrors me in this way.

Do you remember, like, conversations you had that helped you realize that?

No, I don't even think it was a conversational type of thing. It was just like, you know, energetically, I am a very intuitive person, and I feel people, you know? And it was like, clearly, I mean, what the music he was doing was amazing. The conversation that we had showed so much more depth and perspective. Just going over his producer Triple X Change's house and listening to records, I mean, I just knew what their influences were. And I was like, oh, this is like me. Mm-hmm. And then Naeem became such a support and inspiration for me. So just conversationally, as an artist, it was support as an artist who could actually get their head around the whole thing that I was doing, you know? Just to have community in that way was a huge part of me being able to have confidence and strength because everybody needs community. And I think as an artist trying to do something that's kind of going against the grain, it can feel very isolating and lonely. And then those times you don't really feel as confident. And so when you have the community to be like, you're fucking killing it, you know, like, even if you're not, even if nobody else knows that you're killing it, to have somebody that's like, you're killing it, it just changes everything.

It really does. But it's funny because some people are motivated by the opposite. Like, you think of somebody like a Kanye who's, like, motivated to prove everybody wrong.

Oh, I'm that too. I've always been that. Yeah, I have that in my little kid journals too. Like, if some guy, like, didn't work out, I'd be like, I'll show him. I'm going to make everybody want me. You know, I definitely have that too. It's a competitiveness, but it's more like an internal competitiveness. Like, but that comes from knowing though. It's not really it's not really from wanting to prove everybody wrong. It's wanting to show everybody what you know that you already are. You know what I mean? You have to have confidence to feel that way. Because you're like, they don't fucking see it. They don't get it. Like, nobody sees it. I have to make it visible and undeniable, you know? So that's really a— it's really a drive. That's like, there's just this knowing, you know? That's what my whole thing is. To answer your first question, it's just a knowing that you have. About who you are and about what you can create, really, that I think is what's special about a lot of artists. It's just that intrinsic knowing about their own, like, power and magic, you know?

Has there ever been a point in time where you felt like you've lost access to that part of yourself where you can create from?

Yeah, lots of times. Um, I remember after the first record when I had to turn around and do a second record, and of course on the second record everything's different from the first record. The team isn't the same, and like the pressure is very different. And I remember feeling really overwhelmed. And I had some people there in my corner then too. I remember Pharrell being somebody that I talked to a lot during that period. And he was awesome. He was really helpful and encouraging. A bunch of other friends as well. I remember even when— before my first Santigold record, my father had passed away. And it was just a whole traumatic era of life. And I stopped writing altogether because everything I wrote was so dark. Even the poetry, it was so dark. And I was like, I'm just going to put this down for a second until it feels a little bit different, you know? And it's not that— it's not— I mean, some people need that, need that to come out that way. But I was like, this is making me feel worse, you know? So I just stepped away. And then I moved to New York. I moved back to New York and started going out. And it came out very differently. When I got to New York, it was like I was about it. I was just about the art. And like all these scenesters was around. And that's when I wrote "Elle Es Artista." I was like, get out of my face. This is what I'm here to do, you know? And it came out very different. And it was empowered by that point because— Sometimes I really believe that— I think Joni Mitchell said this in an interview one time— that you just really need to allow your creativity— for me, everybody's not the same, but for me, I need to have fallow periods. I need to have time where it's like I make music, and then I put the music thing away, and I do something else creative, and let that sort of— the nutrients come back, you know what I mean? Because it's all spent after you do the record, and you got to wait for life to happen and perspectives to change and have something new to want to say. And those are fallow periods. And I'm actually— I don't really consider myself like a musician as much as I just consider myself an artist. Like, I have so many different ways that I can create and that I enjoy creating. And I really don't like making music all the time, which is why I think it takes me a long time to put out records because I actually need to do other things. And the fallow periods are crucial.

But you never get worried like, oh, it's never going to come back?

Oh, yeah. Everybody does. But see, what happens is, over time, it's just like you learn that all feelings are welcome. And you thank your feelings. And you say, thank you for showing me that I feel this way about this or that I need to make this change. And with that, you just kind of recognize— you don't hold on to and cling to the feeling and be like, is this ever going to go away? You just let it flow.

Right.

You know? And it's the same thing with moments of feeling uncreative or blocked. You just say, OK, thank you for letting me know I need to do something else, or go do something inspiring. And you don't cling to it like, this is never going to go. You just let it flow. And it goes away. You don't panic. And I think in the beginning, you panic. But then as years— of course— as you hit that spot over and over, over the years, you're like, OK, like, I think I'm just going to go cook.

Yeah, I mean, that sounds like something that comes with age too. It's like you've been through it enough that you know it. Can be like a cycle.

Yeah.

So your debut album came out 15 years ago this year.

Mm. And— That's crazy to me.

Yeah. So, like, speaking of looking back at your old diaries, do you ever listen to the album?

Not often, but I have. Maybe every, like, 5 years. Once.

What's your impression of it now, 15 years after? It's good.

It's a good record. I honestly, it's— For me, I'm one of those people, like, I don't have any tattoos, like, for example, right? Because I'm the type of person, if I get something, years later, I will be so mad and hate it. And I'll be like, I can't believe I got this. I can't believe I dressed like that. I can't believe I had that haircut. I can't believe— you know, I can't believe I wore that makeup. I look crazy. Like, I'm that person. So in music, oh my God, like, please, I can't listen. I cringe. And I just get— I'll, like, start sweating. Sweating listening to something that I did. But I will say that record, I never feel like that way about. And that's really telling. Like, I really like that record.

I wanted to ask you about Elías Artís.

Uh-huh.

You wrote that after moving to New York from Philly. And was that sort of like a response to the scene that was already happening in New York?

Yeah. It was more a response to me being a complete introvert and— going out but not being 100% ready to feel that energy. And it was very scene-y and like—

Yes.

Kind of in the worst way that I don't like, where everyone's like— you know, I literally say everything I thought in the song. So it was everybody just looking at you and trying to get you to look at them and trying to, you know, figure you out if they needed to know you or not. Yes. You know what I mean? It was just— It was too much for me because I was literally just coming out of like— man, I was so raw in that moment. I had just— my dad had just died. And it was like crazy flip of my whole world, you know? And I was just barely ready to even be doing anything. And then to step right back into Lower East Side at that time, it was overwhelming. And that's what I was writing about, just being— really overwhelmed, but being also very much about stepping into that power that we discussed and that clarity and that determination to really make something important, but also contending with the noise and the kind of bullshit, which is part of the music world and social world, music world, the world. And I still don't I didn't like all that stuff very much. And I'm still a total introvert. I get like— I have total social anxiety. But you would never know unless I told you. You know?

It's like— Yeah, I know. It doesn't seem like it.

And it's weird. It comes in times. Like, I have no anxiety about being on stage.

That I don't understand.

Well, because it's fun. It's like— I mean, sometimes it's not fun at all. Like, when I'm having sound problems, which is like 50% of the time, it's actually a nightmare. Or there's also like all kinds of crises that happen as a touring artist. It's not fun. But actually, when things are going well and I just get to sing and be fun on stage, that's fun. And I don't have problems, like, speaking to crowds or anything like that. It's more like little stuff, like when I'm required to give energy in moments that I don't want to give energy.

Yeah.

Small talk, I hate. Or like meeting people that I don't really feel like meeting people, like stuff like that. Causes me some— it's really the energy. I don't have enough energy to just give, give, give all the time. So it actually causes me anxiety to have to show up and give energy when I don't want to.

Because it's draining. How does that work when you're meeting like parents of your kids' friends?

Oh my God, total social anxiety.

Or like school situations?

Yeah, that's when I have it. It's a lot of that. I remember last year around this time, it was like the last day of school and my kids school has something called Step Up. And it's the last day of school. And the kids sing a song. And all the parents of the whole school has to come. And I walked in there. And I almost started crying because I just— I was like, I don't feel like doing this right now. It was like, whatever was going on, I was already super stressed out. Everybody had on masks. And I got confused about one of the moms. And I introduced her to her husband as someone else. And I was like, "Fuck this!" That's so awkward. I know, I know. I know, it was funny.

Yeah, those situations are so hard. But it's so interesting that you could be comfortable on stage. And I was thinking about that watching your Tiny Desk because you did so much talking in it, and I was nervous for you. Like, I was projecting my own stuff on you, and I'm like, "Oh my God, what is she gonna say?" And you were so good, and you were so collected, and you were eloquent. And you, like, were on top of what you were saying?

Well, it was really hard that day because I was told before I got there that there was a possibility that you could amplify your voice a little bit, which I was misinformed. And so when I got there, I was like, oh, I'll do a kind of punky set because it's all unamplified. Like, there's no effects. And I thought it was, like, as raw as it could be. But it's really hard to hear yourself over loud guitars and, you know. And also in my song, I switch voices so much. That's what makes it really hard when you're going from a soft voice to a loud voice and then right back to a soft voice. Because if your sound isn't good enough, if you're yelling over some instruments and then try to go back into soft voice, your soft voice doesn't come back nicely. It's like you scream and you've kind of shot out your voice, you know? And then you can't hit the soft, which happened to me on that performance quite a few times. And I just had to like play it. Oh, I didn't notice. No, thank God, because I was just going with it. And I was just doing silly stuff or just like, you know, to try to just roll with it. But it was hard. And what happens is that when you go to speak after yelling over stuff, your voice is not your normal voice. So I listened to that. And when I heard it, I was like, oh, my talking voice is compromised. Like, it was this weird soft voice that's not my normal voice. It was because, to be honest, I was going to do a different song that was too hard to do on Amplified. And so in the rehearsal, I did it and shot out my voice before I even started. So I did that whole thing with a voice that was already kind of messed up.

We're going to take a quick break and then come back with more from Lea Rose and Santigold. We're back with more from Lea Rose and Santigold.

When did you start actually messing around with music? Like, how did that evolve for you? Did you go from being a fan to trying to, like, tinkering with instruments? Did you start writing first?

I think when I was, like, 9, I was watching Breakin' one day, and they were, like, making a community center performance. And it was like— I was like, "I want to write a song." And I wrote a song called "City Streets." I sang it on another podcast with Tariq with Black Thought. We both sang our early songs. It was like one verse. Not even. It was like a chorus. But I was like, I want to write a song, you know? And then shortly after that, I wanted to write raps. I was really into rap. I was listening to really, really all kinds of rap. I remember being really into 2 Live Crew when I was 11 and writing down all the lyrics and then telling everybody in the neighborhood.

I used to write down lyrics too. I think that's a thing.

With a cassette, you were watching it. Rewind the cassette. I remember LL Cool J, "I Need Love." I had to know all the words. I wrote down every single word.

So sensual.

So I mean, I don't know why I like that song so much. But in the process of writing down lyrics, like transcribing lyrics, and I guess I was just like kind of, in a way, you're studying when you're doing that, right? And then by the time I was like 12 or 13, I was just writing raps. And I wanted to be like, Salt-N-Pepa or Queen Latifah or something. But I didn't want to actually be a professional. I just wanted to be able to— I was like what we called a tomboy back then. Like, there was not a lot of girls who were that into that. And I liked being able to hang with the boys and be able to surprise everybody by how I could do it, you know? So I would try to freestyle and stuff. I was never very good at freestyling, but I was better than some of the guys that would do it.

Yeah.

Then by the time I was about 15— well, I started taking guitar lessons first. And I would practice, like, Led Zeppelin and Jimi Hendrix and stuff. I would never practice, though. I would practice a little bit when I was, like, maybe 14 or 15. But I never— I cannot play any instruments right now. I'm so bad at instruments. But I just will never practice. I'm not a practicer of instruments.

Yeah.

I'm not a practicer of anything, really. Well, that's not true. But I don't practice. I just do it often. You see what I'm saying? So it's not like I'm going to sit and practice. I'll just schedule it so that I have to do it often.

Just think about it differently.

Yeah. But so I played a little electric guitar. I took that for like maybe 4 years total. I took it in college a little while. I played hand drums in college. I studied traditional Ghanaian drumming and Haitian and a little Cuban. And I actually gave hand drumming lessons in college.

Wow.

And that definitely informed my sense of, like, rhythm and syncopation and stuff like that.

Yeah.

And then as I got older, I got into— I chose bass over guitar. Now, not to say that I can really play bass, but bass is just easier for me. And I write on instruments, though. That's the thing. I can pick up, you know, obviously a keyboard. I can write on guitar. I can write on bass. And I can write drum parts. I can write horn parts. You know what I mean? I could just— I write in my head. I'll wake up with a whole bass line that I can't play. And be like, I'll just sing it and be like, play this, you know?

And how do you know it's original and it's not something that's like stored in your subconscious?

Sometimes I don't. Sometimes I have to ask a whole lot of people, have you heard this before? I remember when I did the song with the Beastie Boys, "Don't Play No Game," I swore that was an original. I was like, nobody's heard this before? Nobody's heard it? And everyone's like, no. But sometimes it's just so weird. The place that things come from for me, honestly, a lot of things come in between being awake and asleep. That's where a lot of my ideas come. I get a lot of visions. I've had prophetic dreams. But a lot of my creative stuff comes during— between sleep and waking.

So do you keep a journal by— like, on your bedside table?

I don't really keep a journal anymore. It was like for about 10 or 15 years, like, probably from about 15 to 25 that I really kept a journal. And then— I think when my life got really busy and I was doing a lot of writing for career, I stopped. And I miss it, but there's no way now I could keep a journal. But what I do— I mean, I have so much creative writing in my life now that I think that if you listen to any of my albums, they are a journal of exactly what I was going through. And then in my lyric books, you'll find an occasional— poem or occasional journal entry. Or when I was touring, actually, I would try to keep a journal sometimes. Like, I remember one time flying from Australia back to the States and there being no television on the airplane. I have no idea why. But I journaled for, like, 12 hours. I wrote down my entire trip.

You know what I mean?

Like, so I'll do it in odd moments. But I don't— but if there's something that hits and I know I need to write it down, like, I will find a book and write it down.

Yeah, it sounds like it's really important. It's like a common thread throughout your life.

Yeah, it is. It is. And also just going back and reading some of my journals from when I was little, it just— it's interesting on how it helps form the way that I think about things or the way that I talk about things or the way I kind of mull over ideas. And I'm so detailed and like, it's great that I could talk to myself in that way. You know?

Yeah. So when you were starting to get into music and starting, you know, like taking your guitar lessons, were your parents supportive of that?

Yeah, they didn't care much about my guitar lessons. And actually they helped me, like I got an SP-1200 when I was about 15 and they let me get that. And they— my dad was super into music. Like he's the one who got me into music. He had the best music collection and encouraged us to collect music very early. My sister, had an amazing record collection by the time she was 14, which was great because my dad had, like, every Black music ever made and from, like, whether it's Jamaican, African, American, like, he had everything. But then my sister took it further and she had, like, rock and punk and Fun Boy Three and Suzanne Vega and, like, you know, just, like, weird stuff that my dad never would have listened to. The Smiths and, you know, stuff like that. So I got all this amazing music education before I was even 11 years old. And then my sister—

And that's your older sister?

Yeah, she's like 3 years older than me. And she was going to Bad Brain shows when I was 12 and coming back dripping. And I was like, who are they? You know? OK. And what is this? And I'd listen. And so I just— they really taught me about music. And my dad took us to see shows. Like, he took me to see James Brown. I was too young. I don't even remember. But I just— I know the story that I said, Dad, what's wrong with his leg? And he said, oh, he got soul. I know that. Like, that's the story. That's the only— that's the two-line story. I went to see Fela Kuti with him when I was 7. He took me to see Nina Simone. Wow. And so that exposure— and he used to take us to record stores every Saturday, and we could choose a record. He taught me to buy music and to study music, kind of, you know? And so he was always supportive. Until— well, and also, he was good friends with Kenny Gamble from Gamble and Huff from Philly sound. And so I interned with Kenny when I was 16 and got to know Kenny. And then my dad's like— my dad would have never encouraged me to be a singer because I remember one time I was like, Dad. And I never wanted to be a singer. I had a solo when I was 15. It was a disaster. It was a disaster to me. My mom recently told me that it wasn't a disaster. Like, last week she told me it wasn't a disaster. But after the show, they said, how did you get the solo? That's all they said to me.

Like a school show? Like a talent show type thing?

No, it was something I did not sign up for. It was— I was in the chorus class, and he picked me for the solo. And I was so upset about it because I didn't want the solo. And I was too nervous to sing in front of people. And I was like shaking and hiding behind the page. And so it was traumatic. And I was like, I never ever want to sing in front of people again. And then like— and then because I was so nervous, the feedback was like, oh, that poor girl. Or like, how did you get the solo? And I was like, fuck, I'm never singing again. So that's what I was carrying with me into my music career. And I was like, I think I want to own a record company. And so I started interning at Sony. And then my dad was like, hey, why don't you be a songwriter like Kenny? And I was like, yeah, maybe. And so I started working at Epic Records, actually after my junior year in college, but I finished early and graduated early. And I was working at Epic. And I signed Reese to a demo deal. So I was like an A&R assistant. And I signed her to a demo deal. And I was trying to find—

That seems like a big deal for like an A&R assistant.

It was. It was. And I was trying to find producers to make music that I wanted to be totally different than anything out there. And I couldn't really find— the right team. So I started writing the songs myself. And that's what happened. And the head of the department, who I was really close with, he was just like, that's kind of a red flag that you're writing songs yourself. And I was like, yeah. But then he heard them. And he was like, actually, they're good. Does she want to be in Groove Theory? Like, totally didn't really get that I was trying to do something completely different. I didn't want her to be in some, like, R&B group. And so we left. I left there. By that time, I didn't want to work there because everything coming— I was in the Black music department. Black music is a very specific set of, you know, traits and none of which I was into. And I mean, I was into, but I want to do something that pushed and that didn't fit. And so I was like, let's leave here. And I ended up executive producing and writing that record and signing her to MCA. So those were the first songs that I wrote.

That's so cool. I feel like if that's all you did in your career, that would be a big deal.

It was a big deal. And it was early too. I was like, you know, 21 or something like that by the time when I started. —that, and it was a crash course in a lot of things, like dealing with the music industry and all kinds of stuff.

So at that point, you still didn't know you wanted to be an artist. No, I didn't.

I didn't want to be an artist. I knew I didn't want to be an artist. When I had to show her how to sing a harmony or something, I would sing it so bad. And Doc McKinney, who— he actually produced, like, The Weeknd and stuff. He was the— he produced a Thero back then, which is how I found him. And then he ended up— doing The Weeknd now. But he used to be like, Saji, can you just sing it for real? Because, like, I mean, everybody had kind of already glimpsed that I could actually carry a tune and that I was doing it so bad for no reason. And he'd be like, can you just sing it, like, the way that it goes so she can— and so I would. And so then after that, I was like, well, I really didn't— it didn't come out how it was in my head. So I was like, I'm going to go start this punk band. And I'm going to sing, but I'm never going to perform ever. That was the next stage. I was like, I don't want to stand in front of people and sing. How did you make that change?

Because now you said you have no reservations about standing up in front of a crowd and performing.

Well, I did my first show in Philly, and I only invited my friends. So it was a loving environment. I had a reverb pedal that I put my microphone through, and I was cranking it, cranking it so you couldn't really hear what I was doing. I put all these effects on it. And I was so goofy. And, like, we videotaped it. And it was, like, really fun, really fun. And so because it was so much fun, I was like, I would do this again. So I started this night called The Clap. Now, I had moved to Philly. When I wrote the Reese record, I was in New York. And there was a lot of attention around that record and even starting to get attention around me as a songwriter. So I moved to Philly to start this band away from anybody who knew me as that and sort of hid out in Philly while I figured out how to sing and write songs for myself. But I started a night called The Clap with Rich Nichols, who managed The Roots. Yeah. And it was like a band night. And we had all kinds of people come through. Even like My Chemical Romance, I think, did some of their earliest shows. Cool. And so we would just play every week at this place called The Fire in Philly. And I kind of got over it. I learned how to use my voice as like do all kinds of fun stuff with my voice. And so that I wasn't embarrassed about singing anymore. And— I will say to this day, performing in my band Stiffed, the punk stuff, was the most freeing and fun performances I've ever done in my life. Like, it was no choreography, no technical, like, you know, no syncing track to vocals and this, no dancers. Like, it was just pure free energy. And so that was something that I really learned that was so magical. And I really— I learned that I loved it. Yeah. And as far as my parents, there were times between putting out the Reese record to Stift where my dad was like, OK, it's been like 10 years. When are you getting a real job? That's what I was going to ask you.

Yeah. He would be supportive.

Like, he collected every article for Stift and kept it in a book. He was front and center at every Stift show. But then it'd be times where I was like, broke. And he'd be like, when are you getting a real job? So there was like— because he was, I think, an artist at heart. But he didn't— my dad's from the projects. And he like, you know, he ended up going to like Penn Law School and becoming a lawyer and doing really well for himself. But he didn't have the freedom he thought to be an artist, economic freedom. And so he was torn because he was watching me doing kind of what he probably could have been into. But then he also had that part where there was like, I'm not going to pay your bills. Like, you got to pay your bills. Like, you don't get to do this. So— and then he passed away before Santigold. So— Oh. I know. But my mom didn't. And my mom, I think, was kind of just like fascinated, you know?

Oh, tell me. Tell me more. I just—

I mean, she doesn't say that much about it. But you can tell she's very proud. And she's, you know, she's kind of— she never came to the shows like my dad. That was his thing. My mom came to some. My mom came to some shows, you know?

Is it like a personality type difference, like less creative? Yeah, she's not as creative.

She's a psychiatrist. I've been interviewing her because I'm actually writing a memoir that goes back 4 generations of women in my family to my great-grandmother. Wow. So I've been interviewing my mom a lot. And we actually just had a conversation that she used to be a musician and in the marching band. And she could read music. And so she actually was into music. But we've always been like, oh, mom's not that into music because she didn't have a record collection. But she's like— Well, Dad had the records that I liked. You know what I mean? So she is into music, but it's just very different. You know, she's not like front and center at your show.

Has she given you any helpful advice from like a psychiatrist's perspective about your career?

No. My mom— no. Everyone's like, what's it like to have a psychiatrist mom?

Yeah, what is it like?

It's like having a country mom from Mississippi who is your mom and totally not a psychiatrist. You know, I mean, my mom is smart. You know, I'm not saying that. Like, she's very smart. And— but I don't know. Just, it did not apply to her kids at all.

Like— She doesn't analyze you.

No. But I think psychiatry is— for her and her practice, is very different from psychology. So she did a lot of work, especially later in her career, she did a lot of, like, community-facing things. Like, she worked in prisons for a couple of years— not a couple, for several years. She worked in, like, community health centers and really was dealing with, like, people with severe mental illness and medication and stuff like that too. Wow. So there wasn't that much of that happening with me from my mom's way.

That's a heavy job, though, to come home and have to also be a parent.

Well, even crazier, my mom went to medical school after she had 3 kids. Wow. When I was in first grade, my mom started medical school. So she did 4 years of medical school and 4 years of residency while raising 3 children. Oh my God. Yeah, it was a lot for sure.

It's interesting that your mom had 3 and you have 3.

I know. And I kind of wanted 3 too. But I didn't think I was going to have 3 because I had kids pretty late. But then I had twins. And it was kind of like—

What is twins like? Woo! I don't know, man.

It's kind of like being in a blender.

Oh. I've just been thinking about for like a lot of us, like when— we were kids, like, we were just left alone so much more. And you say, you know, your mom had 3 kids, she was in medical school. And there's something to be said about that because you become so much more self-reliant.

Yeah. It's something great about making your kids figure things out on their own. Yeah. And do things for themselves.

Yeah.

Where I'm so glad that I had the experiences of, like, having to figure things out because I did. I did figure them out. And I'm very capable now. And I think when— And I think the way that we parent now, or that, you know, it's sort of— it's like trying to make everything so nice and smooth and easy. But like, adversity really does build character.

We have to take one last quick break, and then we'll come back with more from Leah Rose and Santigold. We're back with the rest of Leah Rose's conversation with Santigold.

I was thinking about it 'cause I was listening to an interview with some young artists, and I just wasn't feeling the edge and the grit from them. And I was like, I think it's because all these kids were overparented.

I don't know. I mean, there's so many terrible parents out there, and there's so many people who were not overparented, who were just totally neglected and abused and— Yeah. Didn't have anybody, too, you know? So there's so many— there's such a vast spectrum of the parenting that people received. And I think that if I were to say what's wrong with art and artists today, it would have more to do with values and social media and the idea that you can have overnight success for no talent and that there's no dues paying and that you are entitled to whatever somebody has worked for 20 years should be yours instantly. I think that that has created a generation of entitlement and also the values. Like, people don't value art. So art is gonna change because even for me, honestly, like, I hate to say it, but I don't really give a fuck anymore right now. Right now, today, I'm gonna tell you that the effort that I put into my art is undervalued. And I don't really want to put that effort in anymore. That's where I'm at. And I think that that's what's going to continue to happen because it's so hard to make a living at it. It's so hard to connect with the people who actually appreciate it. And it takes too much time. And as a mother, I'm like, actually, I spent all this time and energy last time, and it didn't really do what it needed to do for me to be— for it to be worth it for me to do it again. So I probably won't do that again. For your last album? For my last couple albums, you know what I mean? I'm just saying, like, what the system has become, the way that we profit off of our art. Yeah. The expectation of constant output. Yeah. Constant product. The amount of hustle that we have to do to make money, not from the art that we make, but from doing other stuff that has nothing to do with making the art. As artists, it's discouraging and it's a deterrent for entering the art world. And so the art will definitely reflect that shift of values, which is sad. And I'm hoping that we can actually, like, figure out some ways to sustain art and artists so that that doesn't happen. Because if we have a whole bunch of vapid art, it's going to be a real sad state for culture.

Yeah. Some of that was reflected in your— the note that you put up on your Instagram or on your website. About the decision to cancel your tour. I love that note so much because you took the time to explain exactly where you were at as a businessperson, as an artist, emotionally, how everything was just taking a toll on you and the wheels were coming off. Can you just talk a little bit about your decision to write that and what the process of writing that for you?

Well, I knew I had to let my fans know what was going on if I was going to cancel a tour. I felt really bad about canceling the tour. I really kind of felt that the tour might not happen from before it was announced, but I was pressured to announce it anyway. And which they were like, if you don't announce it, then, you know, then we're going to miss the— you know, if we do do it, we're going to miss the opportunity or whatever. So I kind of announced it, but then I knew it was— I knew it was coming. Like, so I felt like I really owed them an explanation. And like we talked about, you know, I'm a journal writer, so I go in. When I write, I go in. And that letter was originally like 4 pages long. And I wrote it late at night one night. And I was like, who's awake right now? And I called Dave Siddick from TV On The Radio. And I was like, Dave, listen to this, you know? And he was like, wow, that's like an op-ed and a letter and a book. He was like, maybe strip it down and hit these points, you know? And he helped me. He was so great. That's my buddy. I love him so much. But he was like, look, I'm so glad you're saying this because everybody's talking about this and we all are feeling like this, you know? And that was my experience. Like, everybody I was talking to, we were all just silently suffering. And I was like, this isn't helping anybody. And it's certainly not helping our fans and people who care about us and our art to not know what we're going through.

Was this like a pandemic— like, coming out of the pandemic specific issue, or was this an issue that you felt existed before the pandemic?

Well, see, what happened was it's not— there was very specific circumstances of the pandemic that made it so, so stark, you know, like so in our face and so impossible. Like, the inflation is a huge part of it. The fact that gas was so expensive. So your tour buses, I mean, people are out there. They're just out there now. But like a lot of artists are making like at least 70% less than what they normally make. So how many times are they going to be able to continue to do that? There's a lot of people I know people that went out and did full arena tours and ended up millions of dollars in debt. Because you're still spending way much— way more money than you were spending. And you still have to make your show look like at the same level that you are. So some people came out of pocket for that and just did it, you know? But how many times are you going to be able to do that? And a lot of those circumstances have not changed. Like, I think eventually less people will be out on the road at the same time. But then there's the bigger problem of, like, mental health. Which existed prior. And I think a lot of the media picked up on that angle. It's like, there are artists who are out there and touring fine and making money, but they are so depleted. And it's such an unsustainable pace to be expected to tour as the main way that you sustain your career, whether it's financial or just having to stay in the public eye so you're relevant. Either way, it's too much to have to, like, put out music constantly and be on the road constantly. Like, that was never the model. Like, when I was growing up, people put out records about every 4 years. And they sold their records, and they made their money. And they could tour or not tour. But, you know, they did. But they didn't have to spend so much time on the road. Maybe when you're, like, young, it might be fun. Going around the world the first time is really, really fun. Going around the world when you have 3 kids and have to leave your family and you've been there before and you're doing pshh above 5 shows a week, it's like, that's not fun. And when you're doing that every year, like, people are putting out records every year now. Like, I'm not doing that. And I don't even want to do that.

What was it like for you specifically in the pandemic? Like, before the pandemic started, before we knew what it was, and then all of a sudden it became clear that we're going to be stuck inside. What was that like for you as an artist, for someone who had been out and around and used to moving and working with people? How did that affect you?

Well, the hardest part for me was just having all the children and no help in the house. In the initial lockdown where we, like, nobody was coming in the house, that was just pretty impossible. My twins had just turned 2, and nobody else could cook. Nobody else was deep cleaning. It was just undoable. So what happened was I started feeling like I was I was drowning, and I was going to have, like, some sort of breakdown, honestly, if I couldn't have some sort of space to, like, just be my normal self, like, other than mom, and other than just being on everybody else's schedule of needs, and no time for my own needs. So eventually, I was able to carve out, like, the 4 days when my mom would come in. I would get to go to the back house for 3 hours after dinner. And write or record or do whatever I needed to do. And thank God I had just set up my studio at home. And so I started working on my record. And it was like the most cathartic thing because there had been so much— because it wasn't just the pandemic. It was the riots and all the police brutality and like the wildfires. There was so much going on. And I had had no opportunity to even access— I was in survival mode, you know? So I didn't get to process any of it. So it wasn't until I had space in my back house that I started being able to process it through writing and music. That's how I live. That's my lifeline is creativity. So to be able to have the space, I was like, stuff was pouring out of me. So I just wrote this record so fast. And then we got deeper in the pandemic. We went to Canada. And we had a nanny at that point who came to stay with us. And I rented a cabin in the woods and sent all my music equipment out. And that's when I like— I actually, like, made the record. So I was doing virtual sessions with producers. That's incredible. I'd be there, like, 8 hours a day. And that was amazing because then it was, like, fun. Then it was like— I mean, I was getting to have a social interaction with my friends all over the world for hours at a time. We'd spend half the time just talking because we were just all so alone. Pent up.

But yeah, it's like you feel like yourself again. You felt like an adult.

Yeah. And also just to be creative. But then also the wonderful thing about the pandemic was that I ended up— for years, I felt like I was on the this hamster wheel of albums and touring and trying to have kids in between, you know? And I got to kind of step off and start some ideas that I've been wanting to do for years. One was, came up with the idea to do this memoir. And I wrote the book proposal. Another was I came up with an idea for a movie that I wanted to do, which I've just finished the first draft of that. And that'll have an album to go with it. And so I got to take the time to start all these other things. That once I started them, even once the, you know, once things were back going, I just like was like, I'm going to finish these things that I started. So it was actually an opportunity to be creative in many different ways that I hadn't had the time to start.

And if you were on tour, you would have never had the opportunity to do those things. You wouldn't have had the space. Exactly.

Ever. Because I've been wanting to do a lot of those things for years.

So are you playing shows now?

I have 4 shows this summer.

OK. How are you feeling now? Are you— do you think about it differently? Do you feel prepared to be out again?

You want the honest answer? I am so into all the other stuff that I'm doing right now that's not music. And I'm really having an amazing time doing a bunch of things that I've been wanting to do for years. And so I think I'm going to focus actually on some of these other projects for a while. And they are not necessarily— not going to include music, you know? But they're not going to include doing things the way in the traditional, like, make a record and tour. I don't think I'll be doing that for a while. I'm having so much fun. And actually, it's just so much fresher and more exciting to, like, not be doing things the way that I've always done them. Shows right now don't feel exciting. But when I get on stage, I will be very excited to be there with my fans. I do miss my fans. And I generally have fun performing.

Yeah. Have you noticed that your crowd has changed over the years?

Yeah, I mean, some of them are older like me, and then some of them— but the thing is, I got a lot of new young fans. Like, I think a lot of my fans are still like 25, which they were when I first started. So I've got all the fans that were 25 and now are 15 years older, and then I've got actually new fans that are 25 and some even younger. So I love that people are still finding out about my music and it's still resonating with people. People. Like I said, when I listen to that first album, it still resonates. And I think a lot of the things— like, during the pandemic, I noticed Disparate Youth really, like, kind of had a jump. And I think that that's because the messages are really forever, you know?

I'm curious where you are now. Like, what is your relationship to success and to ambition? And how has that changed over just the arc of your career from when you first released the album? Your debut album, till now? Like, how do you think you think differently about success at this point?

I think I'm really, like, coming into a new space in my understanding of a lot of things. I don't know. FOMO just completely disappeared out of my— Great. —my realm. And that used to be a big thing, especially with social media. Like, that whole thing about, like, always needing to be there and be in the scene, or should I have done this, or should I not have done this? That, I don't really see that anymore. My idea of success is balance and to be able to be creative in a way that brings me joy and fulfillment and peace and continuing to evolve personally. I want to be able to make things that are inspiring and that change people's perspectives of themselves and the world. And that's what makes me feel successful is when I can do that. And also, now that I'm, like, responsible for a bunch of people, to be able to support them and myself in doing that. Yeah. I think, you know, at one point, though, I probably would have said that I want as many people as possible to know my music. But I just want the people who are ready to know my music to know my music.

Mm-hmm. Do you feel like— I know you said that you set out to make music that sounded like— nothing that was already out there, and you had it, you heard it in your mind. Do you feel like you've been able to achieve that? Yeah. Yeah, definitely.

I read somewhere yesterday that there's, like, less than 1% of producers are Black women. And I was like, "That's so messed up." But I think that part of my journey in being able to get down what I hear in my head is actually just to become a producer. And be able to direct the musicians and producers that I work with to make a sound that's very specific to what I want it to be. And it's been a skill set that I've learned over the years, and to be able to make that happen. And I think it's— man, I guess it's rare, but I wish more women would do it because it really, I think, would make a big difference into how women are portrayed in music. And give a lot more power to women in creating unique voices and sounds.

Yeah. How was it for you when you heard the "Break My Soul" remix and Beyoncé shouted you out?

I think other people had a bigger reaction than I did. But it was cool. I was very far away from everything. I was in Jamaica. And I was sitting out— like on this thing over the ocean. And my phone just happened to be with me. And it was like, bing, bing, bing. And I was like, ah, it's ruining my moment on the ocean. But then everyone started saying it. And I was like, what are they talking about? I had no idea what they were talking about. And then somebody sent it to me. And I was like, oh, that's cool. It felt good to be acknowledged in that way because I do think, like I said, I definitely know that I have been a pioneer in a lot of ways. And I know that I've influenced a lot of artists. But unfortunately, artists don't always say who has influenced them, or they just, you know— and it was nice that she actually said that. And also the company and the names that she included, that felt really special. So I was really grateful that she did that. And I— not just for myself, but for some of the other artists that she mentioned that I know people didn't know of, you know, like Rosetta Tharpe. I mean, I know Rosetta Tharpe. Like, I know a lot of those people were like, "Who?" And it's like, that's good that she used her platform to bring attention to these women. So.

Yeah, that's great. Well, thank you so much for doing this.

This was fun. Thank you. It was fun.

Thanks to Santigold for sharing her artistic vision with us. You can hear all of our favorite Santigold songs on a playlist at brokenrecordpodcast.com. Broken Record is produced with help from Leah Rose, Jason Gambrell, Ben Tolliday, Nisha Venkat, Jordan McMillan, and Eric Sandler. Our editor is Sophie Crane. Broken Record is a production of Pushkin Industries. And if you like the show, remember to share, rate, and review us on your podcast app. Our theme music's by Kenny Beats. I'm Justin Richmond.