Interview: Beams reemerge from a tunnel of darkness

We don’t talk about mental health nearly enough. The stigma of hushed whispers, finger-pointing and victim-blaming can be just as tantamount to the illness itself, its winding shadows sucking on your brain until there’s nothing left. The vicious cycle of attempting to claw your way out of the darkness can tear your flesh from your bones, and in the deathly silence, as you lock yourself away from the world, your body falls further into disarray. It’s easy to talk in hyperbolic notions, but unless you’ve lived with the noose around your neck, you couldn’t possibly understand the storm that rages inside the skull, bouncing around like a bird inside a steel cage in the height of summer. Alternative pop troupe Beams ⎯⎯ made up of Anna Mernieks, Heather Mazhar, Keith Hamilton, David Hamilton, Mike Duffield, Craig Moffatt and Martin Crawford, out of Toronto ⎯⎯ depict a series of cautionary and wholly grounded tales of despair with their second album, suitably titled Teach Me to Love, a psychedelic folk-pop record that trembles with personal truths, just-healed scars and a cool daring to never let go.

“It’s not like I don’t want to wake up in the morning,” Mernieks and Mazhar sing on “Pull of the Night,” a ghostly balance of harmony work slicing through the trippy rattle of production. Even when the arrangements are untethered and light, the lyrics unfurl a darker story, generally scrawled in sobering sweeps and embodying what it means to be trapped by your own demons. The band causes quite a grisly stir throughout much of the record, especially on such affecting pieces as “Apartment in My Head,” which inhabits the delirious and cruel headspace that pops up out of nowhere sometimes. That harrowing and brittle place is carved from Merknieks own experiences, a time when she spiraled out of control, emotionally and psychologically. Admittedly, she’s not “totally out of the spiral,” she tells B-Sides & Badlands, in a brutally candid interview. “In fact, I feel like I’m still in a spiral but in a different way.”

From our conversation, you come to fully understand Mernieks and others who have suffered or continue to suffer. “I feel like every year I’m being given opportunities to learn the same lessons in a way that really makes time feel more like a spiral than an arrow,” she says. However, she does stress she is growing, but things aren’t quite as simple as that. “The other ‘downward’ spiral was a lot more confusing. When my actions started getting too out of line, I was so depressed I was really out of touch with reality,” she explains, citing solutions which did serve to help her find a way out. “I started seeing a therapist, and I learned that I had a lot of patterns of thought (and subsequently behaviour) that were maybe at one point meant to protect me but were no longer serving me. As a kid and a teenager growing up in a pretty troubled home, I believed that anything I wanted, I had to get it for myself, and I couldn’t trust anyone to actually be there for me and support me. I had to go it alone if I wanted to improve my situation.”

Subsequently, she was even harder on herself, harshly holding herself up to ungodly standards. “[I] didn’t have the basic self esteem to believe in my capabilities while I was driving myself forward. A lot of my friends and their parents helped me during this time, but I believed that at any moment if I failed at something in some way the people that I loved and relied on would leave me,” she says. But it didn’t stop there. Many of her successes and triumphs “felt really empty,” she concedes, “and I created a distance between myself and most people so that it wouldn’t hurt if they left me behind. I often broke relationships off first. Eventually, I learned how intensely I had adopted some of these traits from someone in my family, and I kind of freaked out. It was all so subliminal.”

Art and music were then vehicles through which she could examine herself, process how and why she was feeling what she was feeling and then craft conceivable steps to get better. “It’s shaky but I’m learning. It’s a daily experiment,” she says. Her songwriting, predominantly ominous in nature, punches of self-reflection and filtered through earthy intonations and strands of folk music and indie-rock, allowed her to reach a state of cathartic release. “Singing about certain hard things over and over can make them less frightening and untouchable,” she says. While she didn’t necessarily heal all of her wounds through writing and recording the new record, it permitted her to reflect in remarkable new ways, outlets in her own journey to redemption. “Writing is certainly a healthy practice, but really the whole act of making that record and releasing it presented me with tons of challenges for my self-defeating, avoidant nature. It was extremely hard,” she broods. “I think that having constant opportunities to live through the moments where I believe everyone is judging me and to practice self-love is probably the most healing thing that came out of writing those songs. Even though there are benefits that come from songwriting, without therapy, I was just drowning in self-hatred over and over again without even knowing what was happening.”

Teach Me to Love was born out of a trip she took back in the summer of 2014, when she hid away in the mountains and took in the scenery with fresh eyes. Ultimately, nature’s heaving and sighing imprinted on her an exciting approach to the song craft itself. “My forest songs tend to be more open and airy, and my city songs tend to be more droney and beat-driven. Music definitely sounds different when you’re listening to it without all the noise of the city in the background,” she says, of how the landscape’s greenery impacted the work. “One thing that I think is important to note, though, is that I wasn’t working alone in the forest, and I’m a very shy writer. I’d be interested in seeing what writing in the forest with a decent amount of uninterrupted alone time would be like, given how much more detailed my hearing is when I’m out there. I think that that experience would have a more lasting impression on my craft ⎯⎯ the time to really develop my ideas and not just try to squeeze them into form when I don’t think anyone can hear me or before I have to get up and go do some other thing.”

“I’ve caught up / I’ve slowed down / And watched the way the world moves around me now,” Mernieks wields on “Dreamcatcher,” flighty and unresisting. “My Second Time at the Mountains” then tumbles freely as a cool mountain spring down the countryside, her vocal crashing against stony slabs on the way. Where “You Are an Ocean” is a bit chewy in execution, “I’m Going on Holiday” is breathy and magnificently supple. Teach Me to Love mounts a nail-biting tightrope act between somber personal tales and ripened, sunny production, which tug the listener ever forward.

Beams is set to play Toronto’s Ontario Space next Thursday (June 21).

Below, Mernieks discusses taking risks, troubles of Berlin and larger world matters and employing courage in her own life.

In an interview with Cut from Steel, you mentioned how you see yourself having a bit of a responsibility, in terms of speaking on things that matter, through your music. Was that something you took to heart as you were writing and recording this album?

Yeah, from presenting the dangers of the ego in “Berlin, Teach Me to Love” to stating an environmental justice manifesto in “Live in the Real World” to talking about the nature of connectivity in “You Are an Ocean” to talking about traumatic memories in “Apartment in My Head,” I wanted to get people thinking. I’m not sure if it worked, but it was always in the back of my mind.

In another feature, you spoke about how the title song proposed crucial questions about risk. For what and/owhom woulr d you risk your life?

I feel like there are two very different types of situations that affect the answer to this question: one being an immediate crisis situation and one being more of an option between taking a risk or settling into a new reality. If someone near me was in physical danger, I would definitely risk my life to get them out of it, no question. But in the Berlin Wall situation, sure there are inherent risks of existing on either side, but the risk isn’t immediate. You can choose to cut ties with the people on the other side and just start a new life with new relationships. The alternative is to create a risky situation for yourself for the sake of love. In order to do that, you really have to believe in love.

In my own past, since I didn’t have much faith in love, whenever I had a convenient opportunity to leave everyone and everything that I knew and reinvent myself, I took it. Honestly, at the time of writing that song, I would have been more on the side of just letting the wall be and reinventing my life, but part of me was also aching to learn how to love so fully that I would create that risky situation where it didn’t exist just for the chance to see my loved ones again. Now, I think I’m there. I would risk my life to be rejoined with my family and loved ones. I can feel the bonds now, that have grown so beautiful with time. They would be worth it.

This song also feels tremendously relevant to things that are happening right now, stateside. The song obviously deals with the troubles of Berlin through history, but what would you hope anyone, anywhere in the world would come to understand through this song?

From what I can see, some people can recognize the seeds of dangerously xenophobic behaviour and some can’t. The second verse goes: “The head, without the body, devoid of reason makes decision, neighbour against neighbour against brother / Suddenly between us, there’s a wall, and I’m getting no signal / I’m learning how to listen too late.” What I’m trying to say is, we can’t wait until there’s a literal, physical wall between us to try and heal the social divides that are happening. I want people to take language and discourse seriously and understand how it can get out of hand. I want people to see how they’re being manipulated to shift blame to scapegoats. I want people to learn how to be critical of what they hear, in general, and learn how to tune in to what they really feel. If you aren’t honest even to yourself about how you feel or why, and you’re already in the habit of looking for an outlet for your restlessness, you’re so much easier to manipulate.

How did you find your songwriting bending to facilitate courage and honesty in your life and the world, at large?

I think my songwriting reflects how courageous and honest I am at any given time more than it actually facilitates it in the real world. At the time of writing the songs on ‘Teach Me to Love,’ I was just starting to ruminate on certain ideas, remove certain censors, and I was starting to take a few more chances in my own life, too, work-wise and relationship-wise. It’s a bit of a chicken-or-egg thing, though. It’s possible that I articulate my questions in song form before I can start to find answers. I think my life bends to mirror the ideas that I propose in the songs.

In talking about “You Are an Ocean,” you’ve stated how it depicts the interconnectivity of the world and humanity. How did you come to thinking about this subject? Was this one of your stream-of-consciousness style poems you flipped into a song?

If I remember correctly, the lyrics for “You Are an Ocean” followed the little banjo riff. I had the riff, and I was thinking about someone and their habit of shutting themselves in their room to hide from the world and started improvising words while I played. Then, I’d work out some lyrics and the music would go from there. The stream-of-consciousness situation occurs more when I have thoughts about something, but I don’t have an instrument in my hand, like when I’m looking out of the van window while we’re travelling.

As humans, we are both attached and detached from nature, which seems to play a role in the record, not only with songs explicitly about nature. What has been your relationship with nature? Do you feel truly connected with the organic matter around you or is that something that has developed over time?

I developed an intimate connection with nature at a very young age. My family is fortunate enough to have a cottage, thanks in large part to my dad’s parents’ choices upon coming to Canada. When we were kids, my mom worked in the home as a stay-at-home mom, so we spent most of our weekends and summers up there. I felt happier in the forest than I did around other kids. I would make forts, explore, find special places, like boulders and cool trees. I liked to move through the landscape in different ways ⎯⎯ jumping, diving, sledding, creeping. I developed a sense of awe for changes in weather, for living things, for the smells of the forest. By being with them so constantly they became part of me. Living in the city has always felt like a denial of that part of me ⎯⎯ a harsh and angular, overstimulated place for someone who likes to lie in the lake at night and pretend they’re in the starry sky. I crave living outside of the city and living at a slower pace, but I don’t feel like I can leave Toronto right now so I work as an arborist just to be outside.

“My Second Time at the Mountains” is one of the record’s most complex moments. It works as both a bright and gloomy meditation on seeing nature again after the first time. Did you have a specific experience that you drew upon here?

Yeah, it grew out of a conversation that I had with someone about travelling. I was telling him about my fascination with mountains, and how I’d love to go back out West and see the Rockies again, and maybe he was from somewhere in Asia that was close to the Himalayas ⎯⎯ I can’t remember ⎯⎯ but when I expressed interest about traveling to mountains he was like, “Why? Once you’ve seen one mountain, you’ve seen them all.” So, that literally turned into the premise for the song but grew into a metaphor for having a second chance at anything to see what you’ve missed ⎯⎯ for example, being given a second chance in a relationship. Or deciding to give anything a second try. “Life is generous and strategic with second chances” is the line that stands out to me from that song.

In the arrangements and instrumentation, did you have stylistic goals from the outset?

When I write songs, I usually have a sort of cinematic idea in my head, and most of the stylistic goals that I come to the table with revolve around creating the accompaniment to go with that image in my head. For example, music that you might listen to while you’re approaching the mountains. Or music that you might hear in your head when you’re feeling invisible walking in a crowd; music that you would listen to when gazing at the prairie going by from a car window; or music that you would hear if you were watching a river slowly flow by in the sunset buggy hour.

In that regard, “I Notice Every One” is a rather spooky performance, vocally and production-wise. How did this one evolve?

Interesting! I never thought that one was spooky. It evolved in the usual way. I wrote it, and then we embellished the parts in the arrangement. I specifically wanted the kind of manic verse part to climax with the ascending line and then descend into what I perceived as a laid-back party in the clouds. Like you’ve ascended and found something unexpected, a different world. Maybe that’s spooky. Also wondering if birds can feel every feather that they grow, and whether or not it hurts, that could be spooky. Or likening myself and my growth to being that bird. Or maybe the effects that Ian chose to put on the voice make it spooky? I don’t know!

When you perform songs from this album, have you found yourself learning new things about yourself, each other or the music itself?

Maybe so, but it’s hard to see the increments of growth from so up close. I do feel like everyone is coming into their own as performers, and that’s really interesting to see. Once we’re comfortable with actually performing the music, then it’s easier to start expressing it with our bodies in how we move. On a slightly darker note, I’ve been learning how hard on myself I am when I’m performing and how much I rely on the band to share the attention. I often don’t feel worthy of being up there, and I’m working through it at every performance.

“America is still beautiful” is a poignant, sharp lyric on the closer “I’m Going on Holiday.” That image would certain work in opposition to what’s been happening in the news. How did you come to that observation ⎯⎯ of digging through the static?

Well, I’ve always felt connected to the USA since my mother is from Oklahoma and a connection to the states was a big part of my life growing up. As a family, we did a lot of road tripping through the Midwest, desert and border states, and now, I’m doing that with the band. The full line is “America is still beautiful / You can see it from the highway when you’re a hawk on the wind.” It’s part sincere, part disappointed ⎯⎯ like, it’s beautiful but only if you’re just looking at the scenery. I would say that America still has a lot of beauty, though ⎯⎯ in the people, their spirit, the land. The hatred and fear gets into our media, but the people who we meet on our travels are incredibly strong, and they stand tall for their communities and do their best to empower people who are marginalized. American talent is also incredible; there’s a certain fire to it. The lyric is a morphing lyric, depending on how I feel. The next lyric kind of portrays that ambiguity, too: “The universe is singing sweet songs if you listen / Yeah, the lyrics are sad, but the music is sweet.” It’s beautiful but it’s complicated.

“Live in the Real World” is another standout, possessing a slithering groove and funky melody. What’s the backstory here?

I was just sitting on the floor playing banjo and came up with that riff, and instead of trying to make it a stand-alone banjo song, I imagined what it would sound like if certain instruments joined in. I let the banjo part stay very minimal. After jamming on that for a while, I decided to let it really open up in the bridge like a polar opposite, and that’s where I decided the biggest lyrical statement of the song should be, too.

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