Victoriaâs output may be tiny so far, but her sinister breed of gothic country music already feels fully formed. Set against muddy guitars and not much else, her words are evocative but sparse. Hereâs a song for Atlanta, my sweetheart sweating in the night, she sings on Sea of Sandâs title track. Thereâs a kind of emotional economy in Victoriaâs lyricism, one thatâwith its tantalizingly vivid detailsâpromises to give you everything, but holds a lot back. âItâs the artistry of getting to the point quickly in your songs,â she says, a trick she learned from country greats like Hank Williams and Patsy Cline. âItâs paring down any nonsense and distilling it to its truest form.â
In some ways, Victoriaâs whole lifestyle is an exercise in paring down the nonsense: she lives with her mom and doesnât own a computer or have a driverâs license. When sheâs not working closely with Yo La Tengo collaborator Roger Moutenot on her forthcoming full-length debut, she rides buses around Nashville; she calls it âliving like a ghost.â In her free time, she reads Angela Davis, Maya Angelou, Lillian Smith, Flannery OâConnor, and other writers who âtook a very strict, clinical look at society.â These are her role models, women who successfully dragged outsider narratives into the mainstream. âI wanna keep telling stories of the otherâof those who have had darkness thrown over them,â Victoria says when asked where she sees her music taking her. âI wanna keep prodding underneath that rock and shining a light on these voices who have been chanting.â [Read More]
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