It’s an Inside job.

Inside, the eighth and latest album by Vancouver indie rockers Mother Mother, found band songwriter Ryan Guldemond forced to alter the creative approach that had worked for him on seven previous albums.

Guldemond, also the singer and guitarist for the group – that includes his sister Molly on vocals and keyboards, Jasmin Parkin also on vocals and keyboards, Ali Siadat on drums, and Mike Young on bass – usually likes to find his inspiration through travel,  adventure, personal interaction, and experiences with the outside world.

But the pandemic made that an impossibility; for 15 months and counting, everyone was forced to isolate in order to prevent the spread of the disease. For the first time, circumstances made Guldemond dig deeper into himself.

A Deeper Exploration

“It became a different exploration; one that was internal, and less involving the world, and people, and places,” says Guldemond from Vancouver, about the 14 songs that comprise Inside. “I think you need to listen a bit more deeply and have a bit more patience when you’re exploring yourself rather than the world. There’s less stimulation. But when you do make connections to the infinite nature of your own soul, it can be fairly powerful, and I think some very strong music can come from that place.”

But the Inside concept is as much about the imposition of COVID-19 on our lives as it is about Guldemond’s soul-searching. “Maybe concepts are best when they’re a little loose, and not utterly specific,” he says. “Like, yeah, this came from the pandemic, stay-at-home orders, isolation,  but then the metaphor extended into just going within and figuring yourself out.  So, it’s pretty broad, and it’s pretty basic, and it’s pretty universal.”

Providing more substance to such songs as the reflective “Sick Of The Silence,” the introspective “Weep.” and the comforting “I Got Love.” is the fact that 2020 was a transformative year for Guldemond personally.

A Transformative Year

“I definitely changed a lot in 2020, for a number of reasons, but the music, I think, helped guide that change as well,” he says. “I became a lot softer, and I let go of the need to appear any which way that wasn’t in alignment with who, or what, I actually am. And in truth, I think that’s a fairly soft person.

“I spent a lot of time trying to be hard to maybe protect a vulnerability, and it’s been a process of chipping away at that for the past seven or eight years. But this year, between the pandemic, the writing of this really introspective album, and an incredibly gripping, all-encompassing back injury – those three things really humbled me, and brought me into a softness that I think is a very healthy turn of events.”

In terms of the injury, Guldemond said he “blew my L4 [lumbar vertebrae disc]” from “rigorous exercise,” and basically overdoing it. “It’s been my nature to push too hard… to try to get to a great height by taking short cuts,” he says. “So, while it was a fairly pragmatic diagnosis – like, yeah, you did yoga, you lifted weights, and you went for a bike ride, all in one day, when you were already sore, and blew your disc – to me, it has a deeper symbolic meaning: you weren’t listening to your trip, you were trying to rush ascendence, and therefore you were forced into a state to listen more deeply.”

Guldemond says he’s grateful for the life lesson and intends to incorporate it into his future creativity. “I’ll just listen better and be more patient,” he says. “I think I’ll allow things to develop at their own pace.”

The TikTok Revelation

While Mother Mother was recording Inside, they received word that such band classics as “Hayloft,” “Arms Tonite,” and “Wrecking Ball” were blowing up on TikTok,  the popular mobile app embraced by young people around the world.

“We only ventured to find out because we noticed the streaming platforms were spiking nonsensically, because we weren’t in a new album cycle,” says Guldemond.  ‘We traced it back to TikTok. We were so ignorant to how TikTok functioned. It all felt a bit daunting, and not necessarily of our generation, or our skill set. So, we had to jump on and learn quick.

“When I finally started an account and went digging, it finally made sense: there were thousands upon thousands of homemade videos of kids rocking out to early Mother Mother music in their bedrooms, and I think our hashtag at the time had 35 million views; now it has 500 million views. It was all startling, to say the least.”

The discovery occurred in August 2020, and no matter how you slice them, the gains between then and June, 2021 are impressive: Mother Mother’s following has accelerated from 0 TikTok followers (because Guldemond had yet to start a band account) to 2.2 million; 0 TikTok likes to 26 million; 53,890 Instagram followers to 400,000; 1.52 million monthly Spotify listeners to 7.8 million; 297,200 Spotify followers to 1.91 million; 201,000 monthly Apple Music listeners to 2.8 million; 133,000 YouTube subscribers to more than 745,000; 54.6 million total YouTube views to 234 million, and additions of 20,000+ on both Facebook and Twitter, while accumulating 3.1 million Shazam requests.

“What I think is special about TikTok, is that it’s so mysterious and organic,” says Guldemond. “This success isn’t borne from live performance. There was no strategy. There was no force of marketing. There was no intellectuality behind the introduction – it just happened by itself.”

The Root of the Mother Mother Message

As for explaining the documented appeal of Mother Mother to the LGBTQ2S+ and non-binary communities on TikTok, Guldemond says the band identifies with the disenfranchised through its music. “I think at the root of our music is the thirst to understand how one fits in into a world that doesn’t give a lot of options,” he says. “For those who have a great vastness to their spirit, it can be frustrating. It can feel alienating. We all encapsulate that in our own ways: I certainly do, and that’s definitely what  drives so much of this music.

Guldemond considers himself an outsider. “I definitely don’t feel like the world, like normal society, is where I belong,” he says. “Music is the place that gives me the sense of belonging. And luckily, I’ve, and we’ve, been able to fashion that into a career.

“But there was a time where I was working as a breakfast cook five days and 50 hours a week, and it was really dark… Doing what doesn’t stir your soul doesn’t make sense to me.  But it’s a really unlikely thing to find a place where your soul is stirred continually, and where you can pay the bills… But that’s what we’re telling kids to do – do what lights you up, whatever that may be.”

Behind The Curtain: A Glimpse At the Creative Process

Mother Mother On the creative front, Guldemond – a Beatles fan who says his life changed when his dad introduced him to the music of The Pixies – says that it’s melody that forms the catalyst of the majority of his material.

“The melody and the chord progression,” says Guldemond. “The melody sounds like a shape of a word – and then that word appears – and then you start pulling the theme from it.  Gibberish gives birth to sentiment, all in the arms of melodies and harmonies.“

For Inside, Guldemond said he recognized the direction of the album once he understood the concept. “More thematic pillars would arrive before the songs really did, and it was OK: ‘There’s a conceptual form taking shape, and now I feel ready to write to it.’ And then the songs started to come – you could say easily, but it’s never easy – but they came with purpose, even if you had to work for them, because there was a theme.”

While conceding that earlier Mother Mother albums were less streamlined and more experimental, Guldemond hints that the recent social media popularity of their earlier stuff may result in a return to exploration. “I would wager to say the next Mother Mother record might take some more chances, with time signatures, modulations,  and even lyrically,” he says. “There was so much wordplay back then – it was less about trying to spell out a sentiment, and more about creating an enticing entanglement of phonetics and sounds with the mouth and with language.

“And [the fact that] this younger generation has taken so kindly to it has given me newfound permission to return to that place, and really play, really explore, and be fearless in doing so.  And I think that’s maybe emblematic to where we’re at in the industry: there’s no gatekeeping, there’s no homogenization anymore – it’s an anarchic melting pot of genre and style. The kids like it because they like it, not because they’re being told to.  It’s an exciting time for music.”

Energized and Ready To Go

As the band prepares to kick off their 66-date Inside world tour in Milwaukee on Sept. 17, 2021, border crossings and pandemic willing, Guldemond says Mother Mother have regrouped during time away from the road, and now feel primed to conquer it.

“We’re in a very ready place to greet this energy,” he says. “We’re fit for the stage: we’re fit for what the cycle entails… It almost couldn’t have happened at a better time, because now we can go on the road – matured, grounded, humble.“

In playing live, Guldemond says he hopes that fans take away the band’s primary message: “That there’s nothing wrong with them; that they’re worthy of their own self-love, and that they’re valid – that they’re owed self-forgiveness for whatever’s haunting them, so that they may be here happily – present, awake, and engaged with their own lives.

“That’s become the priority more and more in my [own] life: just to be happy , to untie the knots of my soul, and to rinse out the darkness by navigating it, understanding it, and unpacking it. Because we’re not here for a long time, and it ought to be a good time. It can be: we do have that option. So, if there’s a takeaway, I hope to remind people of that.”

The Tao of TikTok

Mother Mother isn’t the only Canadian band or artist to benefit from the arrival of TikTok, the Beijing-based mobile app that offers users the ability to create short videos of their favourite songs.

Fledgling acts Powfu – his song “Death Bed (Coffee For Your Head)” has surpassed one billion cumulative streams – and JUNO Award nominees Tate McRae, Curtis Waters, and country singer and songwriter Robyn Ottolini, have all benefited from TikTok exposure: in Ottolini’s case, it helped land her a record deal with Warner Nashville, and she says the exposure of her song on the medium led to greater streaming numbers on other platforms, such as Spotify.

Basically, it’s the newest A&R tool on the market: in 2020,  more than 70 artists who appeared on TikTok were signed by major labels.

In an interview with the Toronto Star, Alan Cross, music historian and radio host of The Ongoing History of New Music, noted that the company’s demographics were leaked in April, revealing an estimated consumer base of 818 million users, with the expectation that the platform will host 1 billion users by the end of 2021.

Canada’s CMMRA (the Canadian Musical Reproduction Rights Agency)  just struck an agreement with TikTok that will pay songwriters and music publishers, with the first payments being distributed in 2022, while SOCAN is currently in discussions with TikTok to pursue a similar agreement.  And Bell Media announced a MuchMusic revival strictly designed for the platform.

So, stay tuned: TikTok may become an important source of income for songwriters in the 2020s.

It may come as a surprise to anyone who’s heard Ebhoni’s energetic and unapologetic R&B anthems, but the Toronto hip-hop artist says she hasn’t always been able to express herself. She self-describes as someone who kept her emotions bottled up inside, and in turn, kept her personal feelings out of her music.

That’s all changed with her latest single, “Rep It,” a moody, slow-burner drenched in sultry auto-tune. “I was in a relationship that wasn’t the best, and I was dealing with so much,” says Ebhoni about the origins of “Rep It.” “The only way I could really deal with it was through music.”

Her songwriting process shifted to allow for more vulnerability. “I would go in the washroom and just write,” she says. “It wasn’t like I was writing to the beat per se, it was more so like I was expressing how I felt. But it was so easy for me to write, because it’s almost like I’m a telling a story.”

During the pandemic, Ebhoni also built a home studio at her house in Atlanta – she splits her time between there and Toronto – and started levelling up her production skills. The studio gives her the opportunity to be more hands-on during production, which she says helps her better articulate exactly how she wants a song to sound.

“The last thing I wanted was to walk into a room and not be in control of my setting, my craft,” she says. “[Production] is very male-dominated, and especially being a woman, I don’t ever want to [feel] dominated in a session about my music.”

Although Ebhoni just released the EP X earlier this year, she’s dropping a new project later this summer of 2021. The result of these more personal songwriting sessions, the new songs are a mix of R&B, hip-hop, and some Caribbean influences. “It’s moody, real, and raw, and very experimental,” she says. “I don’t think anyone’s going to expect it.”

The individual going by the stage name of Delachute wears a white mask in all his press photos and videos, but on his side of our videoconference call, the songwriter shows his true, likable face, that of a 30-ish  man who’s not at all taciturn, contrary to what his music might suggest. The masked singer’s real name isn’t exactly a secret, but its owner kindly asks us to keep it so, not just to preserve his aura of mystery, but also for more sensible (and understandable) reasons.

Delachute The truth is that, for a couple of years, Montréal’s indie-pop mystery man was working with the Parole Board of Canada as a regional communications officer, a job involving not only informing the media of Board decisions about the release of prisoners, but also supporting the victims of these criminals through the hearings process.

“My job didn’t involve providing psychological support as such, but one necessarily ends up developing a relationship with these people,” he says, who are often afraid that their aggressor, or a person close to them, might re-offend. “You’re talking with them on a daily basis, and they start telling you their life story, and the reasons why they’re now living in fear.”

Thus, one of the main reasons Delachute insists on remaining hidden is to prevent those victims and their families from recognizing themselves in his lyrics. The son of amateur musicians, the guy behind the avatar grew up in the town of Saint-Alexandre, in Québec’s Haut-Richelieu region, first playing bass in a rock band, then trading his amplifier for an acoustic guitar, as he was about to go to university.

The melancholy of the For Emma, Forever Ago (2007) album, recorded by Bon Iver alone in his father’s cabin, had a powerful effect on him, and gave him the courage to work by himself, in his bedroom, with his instruments and computer. “I’d really been impressed by seeing someone taking an idea and bringing it all the way to its conclusion, like a painter with a canvas,” says Delachute.

Between 2015 and 2020, Delachute’s alter ego refused to share his music with anyone except his sister and girlfriend. The latter persuaded him to send his demos to Mark Lawson (Arcade Fire, Beirut, Timber Timbre), who immediately agreed to mix his first song series.

Delachute’s hypnotic, enigmatic lullabies are based on bewitching rhythms that captivate the listener, with coiled guitars, and the falsetto voice of a singer who loves layering sounds. His sound is a mixture of bluesy despair (he’s a dedicated John Lee Hooker fan), synthetic textures, and strangely lecherous grooves that sound a little like a dance of death.

As for his lyrics, they’re borrowed from the horror stories that the artist has heard in the courtroom, including testimony from killers – who often spoke about love, despite the fact that their stories had nothing at all to do with it. “Songwriting truly helped me when I couldn’t fall asleep at night because I was thinking about everything those victims had gone through, and about those guys describing their murders,” says Delachute. “Those were surreal days, really.”

At no time did he intend to produce an aestheticized representation of violence, the songwriter adds, while at the same time referring to the recent, shocking wave of femicide in Québec. “Out of the 25 cases I became familiar with, at least 20 involved a man who had killed the woman he was either married to or living with,” he says. “I remember one particular story involving a man who was providing a play-by-play account of the murder he’d committed, the same way I’d describe a baseball game to you. He kept saying that he loved her, that he couldn’t bear the thought that she was leaving him. It was truly troubling.”

The enthusiasm on streaming platforms for his eponymous debut EP, which came out in March of  2021, took Delachute by surprise. He’s now busy writing new songs to provide him with a broad enough repertoire for future stage performances. Will he be wearing a mask then, we wonder? On the screen, the mystery man smiles. Chances are, when the rest of us finally get rid of our masks, he, too, will be putting his away.