Regina Spektor on “Home, Before and After”
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Listener supported. WNYC Studios. This is the New Yorker Radio Hour, a co-production of WNYC Studios and The New Yorker. Welcome to the New Yorker Radio Hour. I'm David Remnick. Twenty years ago, Regina Spector, who was born in Moscow, was just another aspiring musician in New York. She was lugging around a backpack full of self-produced CDs and playing at little clubs in the East Village, anywhere that had a piano, really.

But Anonymity Inspector's case, it didn't last long. She toured with the Strokes in 2003, and once she had a record deal of her own, her ambitions grew well beyond the borders of indie music. I never loved nobody fully Always one foot on the ground

Her album Begin to Hope went gold, and Spector began moving into more of a pop vein, writing anthems about love and heartbreak, loneliness and death and God. And she even wrote the theme song to Orange is the New Black. Spector's music is powered by years of classical training on the piano and a voice that goes from a whisper to a roar.

She's about to launch a tour of the U.S. in support of the record called Home Before and After. It came out last summer, and The New Yorker's music critic Amanda Petrusich joined Regina Spector in a living room with a grand piano to talk about the album and to listen to some of the songs. So, Regina, it's been quite a while since we've had a record from you. Who's counting? But 2016 was the last time, and it feels like...

Since that moment, the world has kind of turned itself inside out a few times. I'm curious how the last six years have been for you. And I know there's been some performances and a residency and some kind of one-off recordings. But how have you been spending that time? Well, you know, it's one of those things where...

As I've been doing some interviews with this record coming out, that's how I found out how much time has passed. I'm not really aware of time in a kind of useful way, so...

I think I have a serious time management problem. And I think that a lot of the time when the world is normal and when there's structure, I sort of rely on that to kind of push me along like that famous line of like, there's nothing more inspiring than a deadline. And for me, that's very, very true.

So what I do is I end up writing songs just as I live life. Like they're kind of like a byproduct of me in the world. But also I guess every dream has its, you know, its shadow side. And my shadow side is that I will stretch time unless somebody tells me that I have to do something. Is that...

Is that isolation kind of typically an essential part of your process, that sort of old jazz idea of woodshedding of, you know, I just have to go away for a while and kind of live with this work and be in it and be free of distractions for a moment to sort of focus and make art that speaks to me?

Well, it's funny. I never get to go away and sort of do that thing for writing. Like I always hear about people. They're like, I went to a cabin and I wrote a record. I'm like, how? How did you? Because to me, it's like a lot of the time I have friends. They actually know how to, you know, every day at this time they will go and they'll work. You know, I'm not like that. I have to feel inspired sometimes.

And I could almost, when I talk about it in an interview, I could almost like hear eyes rolling. I can almost like feel it. It's like this horrible thing where, I don't know, I must have put this idea into my head. Like I remember reading some interview in some music magazine on an airplane like years ago and it just somehow like it kind of wounded me like a little paper cut where it was some

I don't even remember who the musician was, but I remember it was a man and he was kind of legendary. And he was saying that, you know, I'm just so sick and tired of people talking about inspiration, like music writing is craft and it's hard work. And

And I was sort of like, I don't know what he's talking about. I have never experienced that, you know? And it's just like, I know hard work in the studio. I know long hours. I know throwing yourself into deadlines. I know hard work of practicing for hours and relearning all these songs that I basically forget fully from time to time.

But I only can write when I'm inspired. And I only, you know, if I sit down to the instrument and I start to play and it just feels like nothing, it almost disgusts me on a physical level to like continue. It just, I step away, I do something else. I'll cook something.

I'll take a walk. I'll do all of the things on my endless to-do list. But I can't force myself to try and write a song. You know, I am not a famous old man, but I thought the way that you were describing songwriting was so beautiful and lovely. And it's, you know, it's organic and it's kind of a part of your life and you haven't compartmentalized it or professionalized it in a way that makes it sort of an island, you know, in the stream of your existence. It's really, it's like breathing. And I...

I think in some ways, I would imagine that leaves you really open to sort of the whims of the day. You know, it's anything can kind of blow through the window in that moment. Yeah. Yeah, that's exactly it. And yeah, that's... Oh, that's beautiful. Yeah, I love that image. I do feel like...

there's some part of me that's like, well, this is just how you make art and everybody's got these different systems. There's almost 8 billion of us on this planet and we really vary. And so it's like maybe my type of system is just kind of needed for this kind of music. And then there's all this other music in the world that, um,

I mean, that's sort of the blessing, like how diverse we are. It's just, I mean, we pay so many terrible prices for being humans. One of the good things is let's enjoy the good stuff. Yeah, no, I love that idea. Could we, Regina, could we hear a bit of Loveology? Oh, yeah, sure. An incurable humanist you. An incurable humanist you. An incurable humanist you.

An incurable humanist you are. Let's go to the movies. I will hum you a song about nothing at all. Let's go to the movies. I will hum you a song about nothing at all. Let's go to the movies. Let's go to the movies. Nothing at all. Nothing at all. Nothing at all. Nothing at all. An incurable humanist you are.

An incurable humanist you are. Let's go to the movies. I will sing you a song about nothing at all. Let's go to the movies. I will sing you a song about nothing at all. Let's go to the movies. Let's go to the movies. Nothing at all. Nothing at all. Nothing at all.

Sit down, class. Open up your textbooks to page 42. So speaking of time, Regina, there's a line in Up the Mountain, a new song, or two lines, actually, that I think about a lot in my own life.

You ask us to hurry, hurry, but also slow down, slow down. And I feel like, God, is there anything else that sort of better encapsulates, you know, the tension of life in the 21st century? I was hoping you could talk a little bit about that song, about the mountain in that song, and maybe play us a tiny bit. Well, you know, when I started writing this song, I didn't even realize that I was writing it at first. I kind of just got that little, you know, the little...

Like this little rhythm in me. And I would just walk and I was always hearing it. It was like a tiny haunting. I would be at a stoplight. I would just be like...

Like this little, and I would just be like wiggling like a crazy person, like through that little rhythm. It's a little sinister. Like I like that just tiny bit of eeriness to that bit. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. And it was just kind of like always tapping me on the shoulder, you know, and I would just be at home and it would be doing it and I would just be, and it was just around me. Whenever it would get quiet, it would just kind of sneak in and just be there. Yeah.

And then one day, I started kind of pulling on this thread of it, and it really, and then that little, you know, that little, like... In the ocean, there's a mountain. On the mountain, there's a forest. In the forest. In the forest, there's a garden. In the forest, there's a garden. In the forest, there's a garden. In the forest, there's a garden. Gotta get in there, gotta get in there.

And it was just this kind of fairy tale started to kind of emerge, almost like, you know, those old fairy tales that have like a... I know that some of the Russian ones would have this, but where you would have a sort of this ball of yarn and it would just roll and you would just follow the thread and you would pull on the thread. And it was kind of like this...

mysterious little fairy tale emerged. Yes. Your music is so sophisticated. It's so gorgeous, but there is this sense of wonder that's almost childlike, right? There's, there's a imagination that's kind of clearly fueling this work in a way that seems extraordinary to me and so singular to you and your work and, and,

There's almost kind of a fairytale quality to some of the narratives. And it's interesting to hear you talk about how those things are linked. Yeah, I mean, I am very, very happy sort of when I'm not necessarily in the mucky muck of the logistics of the world.

I'm very happy to be like in the world of the like unconscious and the symbolic and the archetypal, you know, and all that. Or I'm really, really happy sort of just being like,

you know, in the like whimsical and the surreal and the, and the kind of, I think that, you know, life pushes you, especially as an adult, and especially when you're responsible for other little humans to be, um, a present in this kind of logistics sort of way. And I, I think that

I try as much as possible to just integrate fun because I love fun and I love beauty and I love magic and this world is really full of that. And I will not have anybody take that away.

I'm very much like, I fight for certain things and that's one of the things I fight for. It's like I protect the borders of my land from like the invasion of the unfun and the dreary and the dull and the boring and the, you know. It's such an important idea, right? Because I think the culture of the world, you're saying as adults, it tries to teach us that playfulness and seriousness are somehow at odds, that that's a binary. Those things can't exist at the same time.

You know, certainly I think your music proves otherwise, but it is a practice to sort of say like, no, this can be joyful and light and buoyant and silly and also be, you know, a serious composition. It can also be a real piece of music. Yeah. And you know what? One of the things that I truly, truly, I guess I'm like holding a torch for is like the idea that fiction is,

can be really, really true and emotionally true. I think

at least at the moment, it seems that for the most part in our culture, in our society, the consensus is that, you know, things that are autobiographical or biographical are true. And it's sort of all interchangeable. And I'm just kind of out there holding a torch for like, you know, like Gregor Samsa and like Anna Karenina. Yeah.

They're as real to me, you know, as real people. And they're as personal, they're as authentic. And I think in the world of art, you know, I pledge allegiance to the imagination. And in writing songs that oftentimes end up in the realm of stories or fairy tales or maybe have

There's also a song on the record called Becoming All Alone. And for me, I think the most sort of stark and intense quality of that song is the way that it's written.

you know, these last couple of years is, you know, the isolation and kind of alienation. And I'd love for you to play us a little bit. Sure. I went walking home alone past all the bars and cornered when I heard God call my name. And he said, hey, let's grab a beer. It's awful late. We both right here. And we didn't even have to pay.

Cause God is God, and he's revealed Why isn't it getting better with time? I'm becoming all alone again Stay, stay Let the ones who want it bad Get all the things that make them bad Let the ones who don't care Just wanna ride But this whole world, it makes me carsick Stop

I'm becoming all alone. Stay, stay, stay. I went walking home past all the bars and cornered. When I asked God, please call, call my name. And I said, hey, let's grab a beer. It's awful late.

Regina Spector at the piano playing Becoming All Alone. Why is music so f***ing hard to play?

She's talking with staff writer Amanda Petrusich. We'll continue in just a moment. This is the New Yorker Radio Hour.

I'm Maria Konnikova. And I'm Nate Silver. And our new podcast, Risky Business, is a show about making better decisions. We're both journalists whom we light as poker players, and that's the lens we're going to use to approach this entire show. We're going to be discussing everything from high-stakes poker to personal questions. Like whether I should call a plumber or fix my shower myself. And of course, we'll be talking about the election, too. Listen to Risky Business wherever you get your podcasts.

This is the New Yorker Radio Hour. I'm David Remnick. Our music writer Amanda Petrusich spoke last year with Regina Spector, the singer and pianist and songwriter, and will return now to that conversation. Spector came to this country as a child from Russia. Amanda asked her about the war in Ukraine and this moment of tension between the U.S. and Russia.

Regina, you were born in Moscow and lived there until you were nine years old. Curious, you know, lately Russia obviously has been occupying the national imagination as we all kind of look on as this conflict with Ukraine continues. I just wanted to ask you about your perspective on that war from afar. Well, I mean, I think in some ways my view into it is probably different

It's just colored by all of these different layers of everything I've experienced. Like in some ways, I'm just like every other single like sane person on the planet looking at a war that's begun in this day and age with these weapons on an absolutely, you know, on civilians, on a country, like an unnecessary war. In another way,

just having come from the Soviet Union, where really all of those republics and all of those kind of countries were united. Granted, they were united through absolute like repression and oppression. But, you know, when I was little, like we had all half of my family are like from

and half are from Russia. They're all over the place. My grandparents grew up right, they're from Zhytomyr, my dad's parents. And my other grandparents are from Belarus. And my, you know, my great uncle is from Siberia, from Novosibirsk. And I have all these relatives from Siberia. And then I have all these relatives from Odessa. And then I have all these friends from Kharkov. And now it's St. Petersburg, but Leningrad and all these other places. And so to me, it was just like,

We all had the same music. We all had the same films. We all had the same food. Everybody fought the Nazis, you know. And so to me, the only, I guess, little bit of without...

without speaking out of both sides of my mouth and with complete acknowledgement of the horror and the nightmare of it and that there's obviously a wrong party and a right party, the only thing that rises up in me is this vilification of the humans, the Russian people. I do not believe that this is people. I do not believe that. I don't believe in cultural bands. But I think if you have it in you, if you have the soul strength to

to not dehumanize the Russian people and to not start creating another boogeyman and saying, well, the Russians this and the Russians that, then you will be part of the solution to this. Because the more we vilify and isolate and sort of bad dog, when you start to take away a nation's dignity, when you start to make them,

feel like they don't have a seat at the table as people, you are literally working in partnership with those leaders.

Because propaganda works. That's why they all do it. And I think that you're basically helping. You're helping the people just be corralled, be walked right into the prison of, well, they don't respect you. They don't understand you. They hate you. I love you. I will help you. I'll take care of you.

And I think that the more we can connect culture, the more we can keep people realizing that it's the same feelings, the same songs, the same films, that same art, that we value these things together. That we, like, it's not like somebody in St. Petersburg is sitting there not worrying about their child anymore.

Or wanting to hurt somebody. And that's the thing. It's like, I don't want to carpet bomb any city.

But somebody could be doing that in my name right now. Of course. I mean, I think you're right, too, that music and art can be such a clarifying and powerful force in terms of kind of reminding us of our own humanity and our sort of shared experience of this earth. And I'm curious if that has been an experience for you sort of touring and performing globally. You know, these stories you're telling feel very singular and kind of unique to you, but here they are resonating so broadly. Yeah.

Yeah, I mean, that's, I think I have gotten just the privilege of it hasn't worn off at all. But I definitely remember just when I first began touring all like the world, just being shocked, even just that feeling.

people would know the songs that they would connect with them and even just with the idea that that that these weren't english-speaking first english first language countries but also i really would feel it i have this one song um called après moi and it has it has um

It has a stanza from Boris Pasternak in it of a poem and I sing it in Russian. And it's the way that the audiences all over the world would connect to me speaking Russian, like to them or singing Russian rather. It was just so beautiful because it almost felt like

With them not being English as their first language audiences and with me not being an English as my first language performer, that we would meet in sort of this whole other place that was like beyond...

sort of national kind of boundaries and that we could all just be really together. And it's really like there are no boundaries, no language barriers. We're all just here together. We're all blown about. And one day you can be in another country than your own and you will connect with people

and bring something of your culture there. It's such an important and comforting idea. Could you play a bit of that song or are you not ready for that at all? It's okay if you can. Let me see. I figured I'd ask. I must go and stand You can't break that which isn't yours I must go and stand

I'm not my own, it's not my choice Be afraid of the lame, they'll inherit your land Be afraid of the old, they'll inherit your souls Be afraid of the cold, they'll inherit your blood

after me comes the flood i must go on standing you can't bring that which is yours be afraid of the lame they'll inherit your legs

Be afraid of the old, they'll inherit your souls. Be afraid of the cold, they'll inherit your blood. Upon the wali deluge, after me comes the flood.

Be afraid of the lame They'll inherit your lexa Be afraid of the old They'll inherit your souls Be afraid of the cold They'll inherit your blood I've been wild and deluge After me, flood February To stop, ink and tears Write about February

♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪

Be afraid of the lame, they'll inherit your legs. Be afraid of the old, they'll inherit your souls. Be afraid of the cold, they'll inherit your blood. Après moi la deluge, after me comes the flood.

I must go on standing. You can't break that which isn't yours. I must go on standing. I'm not my own. It's not my choice. I must go on standing. God, you can't break that which isn't yours.

Your psycho must go on standing. I'm not my own. It's not my show. La-da-da. La-da-da-da-da-da. La-da-da-da-da-da-da.

You know, we were talking a bit earlier, you were saying time has always had a funny sort of place in your mind. And I think that emerges frequently in your work. You know, time is a sort of rubbery kind of nonlinear concept of

That's something I love about your songs because it feels like there's sort of room to kind of disappear in them. I don't know, they're propulsive and they sort of push me in a certain direction, but it also feels really free. I was hoping you could play a bit of Space Time from the new record and maybe talk a little bit more about that idea. Yeah, yeah, I'd love to. This song actually, it kind of...

born of this idea. I got invited to speak at an event at Pioneer Works and it was called Universe in Verse and it's something Maria Popova puts on where she kind of combines science and poetry. And she was saying, you know, yeah, you could play a song. And I kind of got

I kind of got ambitious because she said, well, some people were writing a new poem or a new thing. And so I was like, oh, I could do a new thing. And of course, I started thinking a lot about it. And I was talking to a friend of mine in Paris, actually, who'd done a lot of reading on the science of it. And he said, you know, I keep getting these very deep, very complicated technical books. And every time the scientists run out,

of sort of the math, they go to philosophers and they're all quoting poets and philosophers. And so at the end, I think that, you know, at its most, it goes all around, it goes all through science and math and physics and quantum physics. And then it just comes out at like

philosophy. It just pops out. And it's like, actually the best way we still have to describe this absolutely bizarre, surreal experience on this planet is with, you know, these abstracted human ideas. So, so I think that I started, um, working on this song for them. And of course it was, it, it turned into this massive big song. Um,

And then it kind of became, in a strange way, the heart of this record to me. ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪

I know there's no such thing as The fairy tales begun So listen up my son The pages may have Words can just Return of time spans Of space spans Of light spans of death My mind is full of They search for homes inside of me

Like begging, pleading refugee But I can't find the time I know there's no such thing as time I know there's no such thing as mine I try to calm and still the raging Keep listening my son 'Cause the story just goes on

Each time a theory proves the mystery, just move your feet. Slow time, breathe and feel the beat of time. Move slow around your mind, slow beat of time.

This world began outside of time. Some days it's yours, some days it's mine. Some days it's cruel, some days it's kind. It just can't stay the same. I know there's no such thing as time. I know there's no such thing as... I try to sing a melody.

The story must go on, so keep listening my son. And if you get too tired, just build a little fire. The pages they may burn, but words can just return.

pages burn but words return just watch the flames and you will learn pages burn but words return just watch the flames and you will you will learn you will learn you will learn

Regina Spector. That was Space Time Fairy Tale. Spector's latest album is Home, Before and After, and she spoke with The New Yorker's Amanda Petrusich. I'm David Remnick, and that's our program. I want to thank you for joining us. See you soon.

The New Yorker Radio Hour is a co-production of WNYC Studios and The New Yorker. Our theme music was composed and performed by Meryl Garbess of Tune Yards with additional music by Louis Mitchell. This episode was produced by Max Balton, Brita Green, Adam Howard, Kalalia, David Krasnow, Jeffrey Masters, Louis Mitchell, and Ngophen Mputubwele, with guidance from Emily Botin and assistance from Harrison Keefline, Michael May, David Gable, and Alejandra Teket.

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