Siichaq is the Iñupiaq name and solo project of 23-year-old Atlanta-based singer-songwriter Kennie Mason, hailing from North Florida, along with her Jazz musician father. She first emerged in Jacksonville’s DIY music scene in high school, fronting bands and finding her footing as the only Native person in her community, shaping her heartfelt approach to making music. Her latest record, Catcher, is deliberate in its literary, political, and personal reach, bolstered by the record’s collaborative spine of instrumentalists Ben Wulkan and Evan Dangerfield. Widening Siichaq’s sonic world through contributions from players of Lunar Vacation, The Slaps, and violinist Annie Leeth, the new project pushed the self-described “control freak” toward trust and even reliance. Over just 32 minutes, Mason pulls you into the doom and delirium of her psyche through the sentimental lyricism from her grueling early 20s.
I met with Kennie on a cold and rainy Sunday night in the back of Bushwhick’s Hart Bar after a long drive from Philly, where she spoke candidly about how writing tames the alien of her subconscious, and why the journey of growing a vast musical community has brought her closer to herself and farther from an insatiable desire for control.
[The interview has been condensed and edited for clarity.]
Honesty and vulnerability are at the heart of the Siichaq project. How does claiming your Inuit name for your solo project represent the idea you frequently mention, “no consequences for spilling your guts in front of the whole world”?
I haven’t always been so confident in my identity as an indigenous person because of the blood percentage. The notion that we can tell people that they’re not “native enough” to be indigenous is a colonizer tactic, and I really didn’t want to give in to that. So I’m gonna claim this as proudly and openly as I can. I always knew I wanted to create something political, and “Siichaq” seemed like a great way to do so. I want people to ask questions about the name, to be open and ready for a range of heavy topics and vulnerability. I want to seize any opportunity to discuss things that are important to me, which include my heritage, as well as broader political issues.
You’ve claimed that going to wilderness therapy at 12 and spending six weeks in the cold has shaped your musical approach. Now you’re on tour, seeing different cities, being celebrated for emotional expression, something that once brought you punishment. How has that felt for you?
Well, we were in Philly last night, and all the other bands seemed really cool and very confident up there, and maybe heavier than the album we’re playing. I was a little scared because everything I’m about to say is so vulnerable. But they loved it, were so kind and welcoming, and embraced the weight of what I am writing. They even mentioned the lyrics and how they personally resonated with them. That’s the whole point, finding spaces where there are people you wouldn’t necessarily expect to be so excited about your emotionally heavy stuff.
Music has followed you from your childhood into your adult life. As your career progresses, I’d like to know if music-making is evolving into something entirely different from what it once was. Was it, and is it still a matter of survival for you?
It truly depends on the day. Music feels like a living being that follows me around, and I engage with it when I feel pulled to, and then there are times when I have to engage with it when I don’t want to. And then I’m like, okay, go away. It’s always omnipresent. I do it for survival, I do it because I have to mentally, but sometimes I do it because I have to. I think being dishonest about that is misleading. Every artist ebbs and flows with their relationship to their art. When you pursue it hardcore, it’s gonna get tiring at some point for anyone, but it still feels like that thing I look to for comfort in times when I just have to get something out.
Where is your momentum right now? In the process of moving out to Atlanta or collaborating with various well-respected musicians, does it stem from the album being released to the public? Is it in the touring?
Touring does not feel very restful, but it is really reigniting that drive. The momentum right now is that I worked really, really hard on the album, but it wasn’t just me, it was so many people who put in days, weeks, months, and even a couple of years. Touring feels like doing the music justice. I didn’t want to just put it out in the void. I can measure if people like it or not by looking at numbers on a screen, but I hate that shit. It’s so impersonal, and this kind of music calls for connection. The momentum comes from wanting to do the music justice and connecting with other people, including fellow musicians and anyone we encounter. The lead-up to the tour was tough, but it’s all paying off, and I’m so grateful. Also, shout-out to Trevor, my drummer.
You went on seven stops on Tame Impala’s Lonerism tour. What did that experience do for your relationship with live music? Did it bring any inspiration for your own shows?
It taught me a lot. If you stay for the show, you’ll see I get really, really awkward. I’m not a very confident entertainer by any stretch of the imagination. Kevin, as if we’re on a first-name basis, Kevin Parker’s music is really about feeling uncomfortable in your own skin and feeling awkward. When he comes on stage, he’s not really dancing around and talking a lot. He lets the music speak for itself, but his stage production is just unreal. It’s insane. It’s literally crazy. It feels like aliens are abducting you, and it taught me the value of translating the sort of metaphysical experience into a visual.
You talk about not being in your own skin on this album. How intentionally is that concept included in Catcher?
Maybe that concert experience didn’t directly inform any of it, but those visuals really did connect with me. They gave that feeling of not being where you’re standing, and that’s sort of how I always feel. Evaluating that sensation of, physically, I don’t really feel present. Mentally, I don’t really feel present. Why do I feel such a disconnect all the time? It definitely inspired me to pay attention to why I am feeling so out of place.
You mentioned earlier that you don’t revise your lyrics, that you write quickly and honestly, and whatever comes out stays. “A Couple Bad People” is the opening track, but it’s powerful and could almost double as the album’s closer. Why start with that one?
That song almost didn’t even make it. I keep saying this about songs, but with “A Couple Bad People,” I just wrote it really late in the process. I had a bunch of songs that were gonna be on the record, but didn’t end up making it, so I wrote “A Couple Bad People.” A lot of the little mentions that I talked about in that song come up again later in the album, but in a more dramatic way that is really drawn out over the course of an entire song. So I thought, let’s start here, and then we’ll circle back and explain.
In “World Equestrian Center”, there’s a shift from the opener, which is brushing on acceptance. But this track leans toward exhaustion. You said, “100 years of racing, don’t you get tired?” How does that song speak to where your energy was in the making of this record?
Yeah, “100 years of racing, Don’t you get tired?” is from a sign I saw at the World Equestrian Center, a real place in Ocala, Florida, that I went to because I’m from Florida. I saw 100 years of racing, and I said, “Holy shit, those horses must be so tired.” I was thinking contextually within my own life, where if you do any medium of art for long enough, you’re inevitably going to get tired. During the writing process of Catcher, I really hit a wall. That happens pretty regularly. Anytime you try to write a body of work, it’s exhausting. I thought, How am I going to do this forever and not crash out? How am I gonna do this and keep up this pace for my whole life?
It suddenly felt very impossible. In the first line, I say, “got a brand new job, but it doesn’t make me any money. It keeps me up at night, and it takes up all my time.” Right now, I do this, and I make no money. I mean, you have to keep at it. I just have to keep going.
I’d love to talk about the title track. It feels rather referential to your literary influences of the time.
The song’s about The Catcher in the Rye, yes, and so it was supposed to be as if I’m singing from Holden’s perspective, and then the deeper voice is from the perspective of his deceased brother. I love that book.
When did you know that you wanted to add that extra male voice over yours in the latter half of the song? What kind of trust had to be there to get your idea across when choosing who would add those vocals?
It was really like a theater production. Rand Kelly and I had met for the very first time when we did “A Couple Bad People.” He came in and was just so excited to do whatever. He just wants to make music, it doesn’t matter when, where, with who, or what it is. He was just stoked to be there. You meet musicians who really love music, but it’s rare to encounter someone who’s got such an unbridled drive all the time, and is so creative and so fun to work with. I wanted an excuse to work with him again, but I also realized, once all of my vocals were finished, that narratively, a male vocalist would really fit there. So I just called him back up and I said, “Hey, do you want to do this part? Can you sing these lyrics, but switch them like you were someone else? If you were a brother? A dead one?” He was like, “Sure?”
“Cannibal” was another track that nearly got left off the record, but fortunately, it remained. At what point did you find it too catchy, but ultimately made the call that it had to stay?
After I played the demo to Ben and Evan, who did the record, they were just so excited. And I said to them, “Guys, I just don’t know. It’s so groovy, and I feel like it disrupts the overall kind of sonic aesthetic of the record,” which is, on the whole, pretty chill, and not groovy by any means. And they were like, “I promise we can make it fit.” We did that one pretty early, and we decided to incorporate the sort of noisy elements from the song into the other tracks after that, so that it all feels cohesive. Once they reassured me that they could still make it feel true to the story and identity of the record, I was like, “Well, fuck it. Let’s do it.”
I’ve noticed that in some of the songs you’re speaking directly to somebody, which feels like your most emotional and intense lyrics, are often layered with those groovy melodies you mentioned. Why is that pattern there, and where does it come from?
I just don’t really listen to a lot of sad, slow, sparse music, so it’s not what I prefer to write. And I’m really conscious of my own taste when I am making something, because I know I’m gonna have to hear it 3000 times and perform it. So I want it to be something I enjoy on my end. I’ll write something very personal, but I’ll put it in a world that would still appeal to me if I heard it randomly, if it were written by someone else. It’s almost a safety blanket. I’ll get deep and dark and whatever, but we’re still enjoying ourselves in the meantime.
I’m curious what the experience of working with new professional instrumentalists was like for you, specifically upon moving to Atlanta. How did their investment in you and your project find its footing, and what did their validation of your “I feel useless at 22” feelings do for your process of making this album?
Well, that sort of experience, as an artist, is priceless. That’s totally invaluable, especially coming from people whose art I just really enjoy. I just respect them, and that, coming from a person you respect, makes you feel like you’re doing something worthwhile. I think their guidance was really important, because the record would have been a bit all over the place lyrically. It validated my desire to be really honest and not hide behind songs that may need to be more personal. I was like, “Let’s make it like a punk song,” and they were like, “It’s okay just to speak.” They taught me that it was okay just to do what comes naturally. I also just loved them already. I love Ben’s band, so I thought, holy shit, maybe this stuff I do isn’t that bad? Like, maybe it is worth doing?
Did the increase in resources and collaborators on this record have any effect on your relationship to your debut record, My Dog Ate My Patriotism? What was it like learning to advocate for what you wanted in the process, and how did you go about doing that? How does the collaborative experience change your relationship to sort where Siichaq started and where it might be going?
Well, the first record I made was with my friend, Drew Portalatin. It was just so fun to make. It was mostly me producing it, and Drew helped by giving input, I just had all the control. It was a great exercise in crafting a vision for a song, but it’s honestly such a relief to have other people with their own vision for the song. I’ll always look back on My Dog Ate My Patriotism with love and fondness, but I also think that it was ultimately just a learning thing. I don’t really love a lot of the songs, but that’s mostly because of my lyricism at the time. But I couldn’t have done Catcher if I hadn’t done that first one, because it taught me how to advocate for the sound I wanted. Having Ben and Evan really advocate for parts on Catcher taught me how to trust someone else to touch my music.
I’m curious how much of that might also be credited to your Dad’s presence on the first album? He played the drums on every single track. Do you feel like that played any role in the learned comfort you associate with that project?
Yeah, my dad is a professional musician, but in both senses of the word. It’s his job, but he also just conducts himself really professionally. Even with me, he came in super prepared, knew all of the parts perfectly, but also gave me the freedom to say, “Actually, no, do something else. Try this.” I have a tough time laying down the law, like when it comes to collaboration or working with people. He gave me the respect and actually listened to what I wanted. And it taught me how to do it with other people, even though I still don’t do it all the time.
On the topic of collaboration, I would love to talk about the album’s music video that you directed. You worked with Carley Thorne, the self-proclaimed “Girl Historian” and Cultural Commentator. Can you tell me a bit about bringing her onto this project?
I had been watching Carly’s YouTube videos for so long. I love her, she’s so funny. I knew that she did acting stuff on the side. I obviously didn’t know her personally, she lives in Canada, and I’m from the South. But I was like, “What would happen if I just hit her up?” I literally just DMed her and said I was making a music video and wanted her to come on, and she was like, “Yeah! Yeah!”
The video runs about 10 minutes long, featuring several minutes of an existential deadpan monologue by Carley that splits the piece into two parts. When in the developmental process was that idea included in your video’s concept, and why?
I knew that it would be hard for people to understand. The pendulum swings far in terms of genre for Siichaq because some of it is so docile and some of it is so heavy, and it will probably continue to get heavier. It felt like an opportunity to explain why some of it’s really angry and why some of it is really sad, and this is why I turned to music for that sort of outlet. Writing that script was easy and fun because the characters are basically me. So I wrote the monologue just straight from the heart, and it’s basically just talking to me. It was a great experience, and Carley was so easy to work with. She fucking nailed that monologue.
She really did. I hadn’t seen her act before, so it was really cool to watch her get into a character instead of seeing the girl I watch all the time on YouTube.
I hadn’t seen her act either, but I just had faith that she could do it. She read the monologue for the first time at her hotel to just me, and I was like, “Are you for real? That was perfect, just do that.” It was special.
Is directing your own music videos, or directing in general, something you’re looking to keep doing in the future? Would you make something like this again?
I don’t know if we’ll necessarily do something quite so narrative or a story like that again, but right now I’m doing a concentration in screenwriting in college, so I really enjoy that aspect of making a music video. Anything that we do as Siichaq, I will definitely have a big hand in, though. I’ll definitely always be pretty hands-on with the visual element for the songs. I like doing that stuff. I wanted the video to just look like someone’s real life, or my life. Not that I’m walking around with a wine bottle in my hand by myself. It didn’t have to be some gorgeous thing, but it ended up being gorgeous anyway, because of Carley.
Looking back at the album in its entirety, from start to finish, do you feel like there’s a track that is your anchor through all of this? Is there one that you feel finished or encapsulates the Catcher story the best?
They’re all little pieces of something that’s so much bigger. But what feels truest to me right now, today, is “Human Impression,” which initially was not my favorite whatsoever, but has really grown on me. Everyone has their moments where they feel a little more regular, and moments of feeling like an alien. I’m kind of in that vibe right now. But I think it does embody the overall feeling of the record, feeling so off. I just feel like I’m out to sea a little bit in life, and I guess maybe that’s just being in your 20s?
How is touring related to that feeling?
Actually, touring is making it better! The tour is healing me. Not sleeping, not really eating well, but somehow it’s been the best thing that’s ever happened. I think it’s just that the album creation process is over, and it’s out there, so I feel more observed. I’m not a celebrity by any means, but I think when I feel like there’s more eyes, there’s also more potential for that human skin to slip, for the mask to fall away.