Few artists have dissected the complexities of their inner lives as thoroughly or productively as Kevin Barnes. Across a 30-year career that began with the celebrated Elephant 6 collective, of Montreal remains one of indie rock’s most restless works in progress, constantly reinventing itself, though never at the cost of the emotional candor that’s long defined Barnes’ songwriting. That instinct remains front and center on Aethermead (Polyvinyl), an album deeply attuned to upheaval, transition and the difficult process of starting over.
A failed relationship and subsequent move to New York City sparked the longtime Georgian’s latest creative burst. He assembled members of his live band at Brooklyn’s The Honey Jar studio for an intense five days to capture the core of Aethermead. Stripping back some of the electronic textures coloring recent releases, the album’s more immediate approach still retains the unpredictability that’s always been part of the of Montreal brand.
In an interview with MAGNET’s Hobart Rowland, Barnes comes clean about the personal journey that shaped one of the most revealing entries in of Montreal’s 20-album catalog.
You spent some time living in Vermont before relocating to Brooklyn. Does New York feel like home now?
It’s been about a year. There are obviously way more people here, and it’s much noisier. But it’s also a lot more convenient. Living in Vermont was a good experiment. I lived in like a truly rural area—and a more liberal rural area.
Was the reality of living somewhere so isolated different from what you’d imagined?
It’s like one of those things that’s supposed to be really inspiring. You’re like, “Oh, I’m going to go the middle of nowhere and write the great American novel or whatever.” But once you get there, you’re like, “Wait, there’s nothing. I’m not inspired. I don’t really feel inspired by anything.” Because you’re in this weird echo chamber of your own thoughts.
Did that lack of stimulation affect your songwriting?
To a certain degree. I was there for two years, and I only wrote maybe four or five songs that whole time.
What brought you to Vermont?
My daughter got accepted to the School of Visual Arts in Manhattan, and I was trying to find a place closer to her. And I was also really sick of living in Athens (Ga.) and the South. I wanted to live somewhere with more like-minded people. My girlfriend at the time had gone to high school and college in Vermont and loved it. She was like, “You should go there.” And I was like, “I don’t even know if it’s even physically possible for me to move from Athens.” I’d wanted to move forever, and it just never happened. It was almost like an experiment … a test. Like, “OK, am I actually trapped here?” So I sold my house in Athens, bought a house in Vermont and took the plunge.
Was there a specific moment when you decided it was time to leave Vermont?
No, not really. I mean, I didn’t hate it or anything like that. I got really into downhill skiing, and it’s obviously really beautiful. Because we lived on 10 acres of forest land, I’d just take the dogs up into the forest every day. But at a certain point … my relationship was falling apart, and I just didn’t want to stay there anymore.
You’ve described Aethermead as one of your most confessional records. How is that any different from past of Montreal albums?
I think it might just be more direct, more obvious, not as abstract. It’s stuff straight out of my personal life in the moment, as I’m experiencing it and processing it.
Once you settled into New York, did you find yourself in a better creative place?
Definitely creatively, but not so much romantically, emotionally or whatever. I had a lot of process, because I’d just left this eight-year relationship. I was using songwriting as a form of therapy, laying it out in front of my mind so I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t happening … investigating my emotions.
How quickly did the album come together once you started recording?
We only had four or five days booked at the studio, so we did the drums, bass, keys and some guitars. Then I finished it in my home studio. I did all the vocals, a bunch of the guitars and stuff like that. The whole thing was basically mixed, recorded and mixed within a month.
The album feels more guitar-driven than some of your recent work. Was that intentional?
I wrote most of the songs on acoustic guitar, playing by myself in the kitchen. I just elaborated on that a bit further with a few more instruments. But it’s a pretty bare-bones production style.
Meditation became important to you during this period. Did it help?
I’d never really done any self-regulating. I sort of lived like a wild animal. At some point, I realized it might be helpful for me to have a little bit more clarity by meditating—to figure out ways to sort of vent the madness. I also started getting into acupuncture.
The album’s title is a play on Nethermead, a meadow in Prospect Park. What role has the park played in your adjustment to Brooklyn?
What I really missed once I moved here were trees and grass and plants … you know, fresh air. Prospect Park is incredible—so huge and beautiful. Getting out of the concrete jungle and into this more natural state helps me so much. I’ve made a bunch of friends through having a dog. There’s an area where everyone hangs out with their dogs, and I go almost every day. It’s like a fun, cute little community.
And the nice thing about a park is that you can always go back to the chaos of the city whenever you want.
And you don’t feel as trapped.
See of Montreal live.