Yazmin Lacey on the Music Industry, Lovers Rock, and Being True to Oneself

This is a free post from Larry Fitzmaurice's Last Donut of the Night newsletter. Paid subscribers get one or two email-only Baker's Dozens every week featuring music I've been listening to and some critical observations around it.

And today marks the kickoff of my first subscription sale in a minute or two, in time for the holiday season—50% off monthly and annual subscriptions, as good of a deal as any. You can grab the monthly sale here, and the annual sale here.

OK, let's get down to business: I loved British singer-songwriter Yazmin Lacey's first record Voice Notes, and if you're a paid subscriber (and remember what I just said, you could become one for a nice price right now) you've already read me write about her a little recently. Yazmin just released a great follow-up record Teal Dreams, and I was very honored to have her hop on a call earlier this month to talk about her latest as well as her experiences across the music industry and life in general. Check it out:

You've had a busy few years, which is all the more impressive when you consider how quickly this record is coming after the last one.
I've had a busy couple of years, but I'm not one of those artists that can just churn a record out after churning a record out, to be honest. The bulk of it came together between March and July. There's probably two tracks that I'd worked on over the past couple of years. As an artist, I only write from self-experience, and that means I need a little bit of time to go about my life, experience some things, and process some stuff. It was a really concentrated period of writing time compared to the last album, because I went away in January and then I came back and I was like, "OK, it's time to lock in." And it was really fun.

I really pushed myself on this one in working with lots of new people. I'm a creature of comfort, so sometimes I'm like, "Oh, new people." But it's been a really good opportunity. When you're working with new people, it stretches your creativity and you learn how they work. I really enjoyed it, and I also surprised myself.

Tell me about what's changed for you artistically in between records.
It's weird to track my music in an artistic way, because I approach it so emotionally. Rather than "I need this to be better and more polished," it's more like, "What did I learn last time that I didn't like, and that I loved?" Some people have said that this record feels like a big progression—and I try not to think about that, but I suppose I've done one. Before I'd written the songs, I'd go into the studio and record myself singing them. I hadn't really learned them.

In terms of leveling up, I've learned about process a lot more. That changed the way I deliver on the vocals, as well as my will to attempt things that I would've been scared to approach three years ago. A song like "Longest Way Round" is so classic, and it's a big song. It would've frightened me to even attempt that years ago. There's this ability to deepen my world now. If the first album was a moodboard, this is a more direct approach to these songs. When we were starting to work on the beginning bit of "Teal Dreams," I so wanted to go for it—but I was battling with imposter syndrome. Like, "Can I do that? Is it weird?"

Every single time I'm making a song, there's a whole world in it. I have a whole visual concept for "Worlds Apart"—I just don't have the budget to bring that to life. But because I've gotten more confident about making music, I can start to execute that. I directed my first little short for "Wallpaper," and the video for "Two Steps" was directed by Frances O'Sullivan—and that all came to me when I woke up at 7:30 in the morning. I was like, "This is the visual that I'm getting. This is the story that I'm telling." It's been really fun to experiment with that.

Even with the album cover—last time, I wanted everything to feel as if I was in a photo booth. This time, I was like, "Okay, maybe I should go for something a bit and stretch my imagination." With "Water," I had this concept where it's a conversation—not a traditional duet, but this literal conversation between two friends. I want to execute these ideas, and it's been really fun to do that. What people are noticing more is the commitment to my own ideas, and trying to see them out in a really full way.

I'm hearing you talking about the desire to be involved in a lot of different facets when it comes to how your music is represented, and I'm wondering what challenges you've run up against when it comes to realizing your own vision.
I had a really unique entrance into the world of music. I never wanted to do music. I never had any desire, and people always try and get that out of me—"I bet you did, though, when you were little"—and I'm like, "I literally didn't care." I've always enjoyed it, but I've never even been a music geek. My fascination is with storytelling above all else, and that's what attracted me to music.

I properly committed to music when I was 30 years old, and I'm 37 now. One of the biggest challenges is realizing that so much of the music industry is smoke and mirrors—these challenges that the average person has no idea about—and that's the thing that I've found hardest thing to overcome. Personally—financially, emotionally—even with this campaign, I have these ideas and, to be really frank, a label will be like, "You know, when you see an artist do that, they've paid someone to be there." I'm like, "What? Are you fucking kidding me?" Sometimes, exposure equates to how much money someone can front for you.

From the first album to the second album, it's blown my mind learning about all this, but it's really comforting, because it's like, "Okay, many people are struggling with this." Your general exposure and success progression isn't directly linked to your input and skill set—your talent. But I found that really hard to comprehend, and it's been disheartening sometimes in terms of, "Wow, this is really the industry that I'm in."

The whole structure of the industry versus the artist has been a real eye-opener. I'm like, "Wow, this is actually how it works—crazy." That's not to say that everything in music is contrived and all that. But even just the whole element of getting your music from completion to a live show, that blew my mind. "I was like, sorry, what? This costs how much?" This is why people aren't doing it. You're telling me that all artists—even artists that are selling out all shows—are also struggling with this? That has really blown my mind.

People don't like you to comment on it, because it ruins the illusion. They just see a glossy video and are like, "Oh wow, she's made it." But this is the frankness of it, and for the average joe that's buying gig tickets and going to festivals, it's a real eye-opener to the realities of the music industry. But the plus side of being really hands-on with it is that I'm getting to experience everything full-throttle. Maybe it could be said that trying out all these different visual ideas and experimenting with different sounds is not the thing to do if you want to be seen as this or that type of artist—but I'm not trying to be seen as anything other than the experiences and the stories that I'm telling, which could change from album to album. Being hands-on, taking ownership, and experimenting gives you a freedom that's really exciting as an artist.

One of the promises I made to myself is that I'm always gonna excite myself first and foremost. I never expected to have any success. When I put out my first record and saw five people had bought it on Bandcamp, I remember thinking, "Fuck me, this is crazy—five people literally investing in my record." I still get that same buzz now if it's 500 people, But you could easily fall into the trap of, "This feels really great, people like what I'm doing, I can stay here." I wanted to make the promise to always excite myself, because when I started, I didn't know anything was going to come from it—and that risk is what's got me here.

Issa Rae had a really good quote about the music industry a few years ago. Have you ever seen it?
No, what was that?

She was asked if the music industry is a place where good ideas flourish, and she said, "Absolutely not. It’s probably the worst industry I’ve ever come across...The music industry, it has to start all over again. There are lots of conflicts of interest. Archaic mentalities. Villains and criminals! It’s an addiction industry, and I really feel for artists who need to get into it." I'm curious to hear you talk more about your own experiences in the industry, especially in the UK specifically.
When I first started out, I put all this work in myself and was like, "Well, it's just because I'm not a big artist. Maybe if I sell out a show one day, then I'll have money and things will change." I was comfortable with that. Then, in 2023—and this is actually crazy—but I sold out every single headline show that I played. I was like, "Okay, cool," and then I looked at the minus from that, and I was like, "This is blowing my mind." The illusion that, as things get bigger, there's a lot of money rolling in is insane.

People would never believe some of the challenges [you face], and you also feel this shame—embarrassment, maybe—to talk about that. And I think it's very British not to talk about money. To put on a good show costs far more than a promoter—and I'm not even blaming the promoters. I understand their challenges, especially since COVID. But the reality is, you get paid for a show, but what happens before the show is all the organization—which is not just by the artists and band. It's management, it's your finance person—if you have one—and it's also the tour manager. There's a whole legal thing if you're going overseas with visas. There's also all the rehearsal time, as well as many other contributing factors.

When you get to a certain stage—and, I mean, to talk quite frankly, I'm facing that now—the reality is it's going to be really difficult for me to go on tour. It is 100% factually going to have a financial disadvantage on me, which will then have repercussions in the long term and also take a toll on my mental capacity. Sometimes I say this stuff out loud and am like, "Fucking hell, all artists are mental because it's like, what are we doing here? This is insane."

But there is something really magic that happens, which is what we're all in it for, right? It's not a tangible thing that can be measured. It's also not for a lot of artists with heart. It's not a fame or kudos thing—it's this ability of expression, connection, vulnerability, and emotional processing. I never wanted to be an artist, but when I started doing it more, I was like, "This is unspeakable, in some ways." It feels spiritual. When I think about the ways in which I've grown as a person, and how that can affect my wider community, I'm like, "Wow, this is something bigger than what's going on here."

But I do sometimes wonder what the tipping point is, versus your mental capacity, nervous system regulation, and financial stability. It's more on my mind than it was when I first started experimenting with music in my late 20s, because I'm heading towards 40, and something about that feels different. Not old—I don't think 40 is old—just different in the way that I might want some stability for myself. But I also can't see that coming anytime soon, so I'm like, "You better fucking love it, girl."

There's many perks of it which, from the outside, you confuse with success and riches. If I was looking at my social media, I'd be like, "Well, she's been here, there, and everywhere this year." I'm in New York now, I'm in a hotel, I'm eating dinner outside of the hotel room with people that I've met here. Some of those experiences, to be honest, are definitely greater than any monetary value. To travel the world when the first album came out—I went places that none of my family or close friends have ever experienced, and that is huge for someone like me and where I come from. Like, I went to fucking Japan. I literally did that.

I wouldn't change those experiences out for money, so I'm really grateful, even though I'm sitting here whinging and bitching, because that's the reality of it. But I was in Australia and people were singing word-for-word. I'm not a pop star, and I never went to school to create this artist persona to become this thing that I'd seen other people do. These are my lived experiences that I'm trying to talk about. So when I see another Black woman in the front room and they're crying when I'm singing "Where Did You Go?," I'm making her feel seen when she felt like she was lost—and I wrote that when I feel lost. Suddenly, the gap between these emotional disparities is much smaller, because we're seeing each other—and that's something that makes me feel choked up even now.

Even this week, someone messaged me on Instagram—this young woman in her 20s— and she was like, "I play 'Bad Company' so much, and I just want to know how having this song makes me feel less crazy." I was like, "Fucking hell, that's actually so deep." That kind of stuff is so amazing and healing for me, as much as it is for anyone telling me that they receive healing from it.

Talk to me more about expressing yourself lyrically and how that's evolved for you across these records. We're about the same age, and I was talking to a friend in our age range recently about how this time in your life can result in achieving a lot of new clarity.
When I look back at my life so far—hopefully, there's a lot of it to go—I think about how much the world has conditioned me to be smaller or apologetic. Even in my previous job of working with young people in lots of various situations, it's about holding yourself in a way where you're a good role model. I remember when I first started, it was so fucking liberating to say anything I want.

There's this line in the beginning of "Teal Dreams": "It's a revolutionary act when Black girls dream." That's what I feel like I'm doing with these lyrics—affirming myself in in a world where Black women and dark-skinned women can be overlooked, bigger women can be eradicated or seen as invisible, and people from working-class backgrounds like myself can be hushed, used, and silenced.
In this moment, when I make music, none of that is happening. Whether it's successful or not, my voice is loud and clear, and that's really healing and transformative.

I don't write about huge things. I'm just writing about my personal life—a snapshot into my thoughts and feelings, and the world as it stands right now. It's important, as someone coming from an ancestral line of people that has been oppressed, to exercise in my voice in whichever way I see. That's really healing for me. I write a lot of sad songs sometimes, but there's this power and alchemy that happens when you you go into a room with these thoughts and feelings and express them with a group of people. You work together to transform it into this thing that can be sent out into the world for people to connect with.

I definitely feel braver in my songwriting than I do in actual life. Someone asked me the other day about my first song, and I looked back and thought, "Oh my God, what the fuck was I on?" The first line is about sliding between my thighs. I was like, "Wow, that's quite bold." But it's really cool to have that freedom to express myself. I also realize from the young people that I've worked with and looking around the world as it is that, even though I'm complaining about the hard bits of it, it's a privilege to have a voice. Obviously, I'm running a business, but the crux of it is me expressing myself, and I feel privileged to be able to do that because so many people don't get that opportunity.

Talk to me more about your past work in charity with young people and how it's shaped you.
It helps me have perspective. Sometimes, the stuff around making music doesn't feel very grounded to me, so I have this reference point of something that does feel very grounded—and that's really important for when things are spiraling. It gets so heightened with music and social media that I have to remember that I used to work in a job where it literally did directly impact life and death. We've all had a song that's pulled you out of depressive slumps—but no one's gonna die if I don't release the thing or make a shit song. That helps me keep this perspective, because you go into this bubble where a lot of musicians only know other musicians, and they're all just talking about all our magical moments and cool people that we meet.

I'm glad that I have a point to touch base from where I can be like, "OK, cool, but there's a lot of deep things going on in the world, and they also need just as much gravitas and attention and importance as how everyone feels about your next single." I always used to tell the kids about stepping out of their comfort zone and trying something new, and I think about that every time I'm nervous in a situation. If I was one of my young people now and they had a show and were freaking out... you know, I did a show the other day, and I sang terribly. The sheer fear of it, I absolutely shat myself. I just completely blacked out. Afterwards, I was like, "I don't know what pitch I was singing to, but it wasn't the songs that I'd written."

But after feeling like I wanted the ground to swallow me up for a day, then I was like, "Okay, cool, you live and learn." All you can do is try your best, and that's what I would tell my young people—to experiment, take up space, trial-and-error over and over again. I was dealing with kids that were going through puberty—when their worlds are changing and they're becoming aware of themselves more. I'd be like, "There's only one you," and that's how I think about music sometimes. When I'm like, "Fuck, what if I'm not good enough?," I reframe it as, "It doesn't matter. I don't need to be the best." I just need to do what I do, 100%. If people fuck with that, then they can fuck with that.

One thing that I've found very appealing about your sound is the amount of lovers rock in it. You do it really well. I'm curious to hear you talk about your general relationship with that sound.
My family are Caribbean, so I grew up on a lot of that music. Subconsciously, that feels like my home base to work from. I love a good bass line, and I love a good melody, and that's at the crux of a lot of it. It's at a pace that feels really comfortable for me. There's something about that lovers rock and reggae where it still feels really raw. Also, let's be honest, it's quite hard to play stuff straight back. I'm not discrediting reggae musicians or all that, but there's something that makes it feel like Janet Kay or Louisa Mark pulled up to the studio, had this situation, and it rolled off the tongue.

That music really speaks to me because it feels raw and direct. You'll have lyrics—not necessarily in lovers rock, but in reggae—where it's like, "The people outside, they ain't got shoes." What do we not understand about that? It feels timeless to me, and I'm just trying to pay homage to it in my own way. I don't think I can recreate a sound that came in the '80s, but I can do my interpretation of what I heard in my home in the '80s, and what that feels like today for me in London.