Issue 113 / April-May 2021

walk.” But the dual meaning of the track also follows her on
her journey along the train line when visiting her parents. The
coupling of these two tales left Pixey fearing that her love
letter could come across as “cheesy” and not the “lo-fi 90s
jingle” she was aiming for. In truth, it is actually a fitting label
for the track. Taking me back to first moving to Liverpool and
discovering the powerful, grounding power of the docks, the
track is undeniably a standout of the EP.
The singles she released in 2020 offered a taster of what
was to come on her brand new EP, Free To Live In Colour.
Just Move, the lovechild of The Prodigy, Nile Rodgers and
60s garage definitely scratched the itch while we waited
to see where her music was heading. “I wanted it to be
huge. But now I’m thinking, how am I going to recreate that
live?” Pixey ponders. It’s a new sound for her, but with more
confidence in her ability, the shoe fits. Although she does
admit to needing “some sort of live budget” to get all the
elements of the track covered.
Her formative track, Young has been overshadowed by
that which has followed. And while she refuses to completely
abandon utilising samples and programming her drums, it is
clear that Pixey has found a more personable sound through
her mastery of an ever-growing skill set. It is the armour
that she speaks of on Free To Live In Colour, her ability to be
self-sufficient. “I know it’s not a phase,” she clarifies, adding
weight to the authenticity she has found since following her
ambitions and goals within the music industry.
And yet, with all of the internal work she has done to
develop her trust in herself, she still faces the internalised bias
of those who do not believe that her work is all her own doing.
She is constantly interrogated about who produces her music
and who writes her lyrics. She herself acknowledges that
these questions are “not meant in a patronising way”, instead
they are a manifestation of the sexism that goes unchallenged
within society, of believing women aren’t capable of being
multi-faceted.
In a male-dominated industry, where according to the
USC Annenberg Inclusion Initiative only 2.6 per cent of
music producers and three per cent engineers/mixers in the
industry are women, it’s unsurprising that Pixey is one of
the victims of such narrow-minded thinking. But she is not a
one dimensional being and it’s clear as she sits in her room,
pointing out instrument after instrument around her, that
she could never be restricted by these limitations. Instead,
she is simply Pixey, an ever-evolving creation. She recites
her favourite quote – “don’t assume, it makes an ass out of
u and me” – and I have to laugh. It perfectly sums up how
meaningless these judgements are.
Following the success of Young, she explains that she was
left with the exhausting task of proving she was “consistent
and can constantly reinvent and create”.
“It felt like I was running an uphill battle,” she elaborates,
“to prove that I could do something after that.” Now, thankfully,
this weight seems to have eased. “I can put a middle finger up
to those people who made me feel like I was only a one-trick
pony,” she states. “I want to do this for a long time.”
It is this refusal to be limited and a constant determination
to succeed that has allowed Pixey’s sound to evolve.
Blending baggy 90s sounds with the ever-renewing list of
instrumentation, her style is a personification of graft and
autonomy, of drive and creative control.
“It’s so liberating,” she explains of her self-sufficient
reality, “to be able to play the main, core instruments on your
own songs and also have the choice to programme them
too if you want.” With this drive to rely on no one has come
the challenge of being comfortable with others wishing to
collaborate and critique, to learn from those around her in
order to better her craft.
She admits being able to loosen her grip on the “personal
thing” she creates is a “struggle”, with it taking time to accept
that she wasn’t undermining herself by reaching out to ask
for help. Instead, it has allowed her to grow as a producer,
refining her skills and ear for what she wants in her tracks.
Her bedroom production roots are yet to loosen their grip
on her overall product. The events of the last year have done
little to usher her out. “Now a lot of people produce in their
bedrooms, which is fantastic,” Pixey observes, “a lot of women
as well, which is really cool.” This is something that visibly
brings joy to her. “Maybe people are more vocal about it now,”
she says, “but it’s really cool, it made me feel much better
about the way I was working.” With her previous illness and
anxiety-driven decision to set up in her bedroom becoming
a necessity for others, it’s clear to see how she went from
feeling like an individual to being surrounded by a community
of fellow bedroom producers.
In what has been a difficult 12 months for so many in the
industry, Pixey is humble in noting how it’s been a good year
for the rising star. “I feel privileged to be able to say that,”
she elaborates, crediting her new-found momentum for this
unexpected positivity amid a worldwide pandemic. And it was
a singular decision to ignore those who told her she “wasn’t
going to go anywhere and was wasting [her] time” that led to
her taking up her music career once more and send demos off
to Chess Club Records.
Boasting the likes of Alfie Templeman and responsible
for early releases by Wolf Alice, Chess Club are a force
to be reckoned with, and 2020 saw Pixey added to that
ever-impressive roster. A singular “vulnerable moment” of
sending off those unheard pieces led to one of the biggest
opportunities in her career so far. “It felt like a dream come
true,” she says, recalling sitting down with Will and Peter of
the label and signing on the dotted line.
The rose-tinted glasses of that experience feel slightly
tainted, she admits, by the music industry’s decline at the
hands of the Conservative government. Joy quickly turns to
anger when we progress into the future our community faces.
“The amount of idiocy,” she screams, “I’ve not given nearly
fucking seven years of my life to retrain.” And just like that,
I see what music truly means to her. While the rest of the
conversation showed love for her craft, it was in this moment
that it clicked. The girl in the pixelated image on my screen
is not comfortable simply succeeding as an individual, but
fights for those around her, too. Having shed the skin of the
nervous newcomer we once met, this is someone who owes
everything to music, who fully grasps the power it holds. And
as her anger rises, the jigsaw pieces itself together and the
image of who Pixey truly is feels complete.
Said image is repeated
in the single Free To Live
In Colour, written prior to
her recent signing. She
explains it as a “fever
dream of confusion”,
combined with “telling
“I’m not just a
newbie anymore”
everyone to fuck off”
because the system, well,
sucks. The song mirrors
Pixey’s own fight for
freedom to live as she
sees fit. It channels former
and current battles, like
keeping “a job as well as
writing and having no
money”, being a “conformative non-conformative person”
and being “free to live however and love whoever you want,
regardless of boundaries”. All of this emotion, combined with
a boundary pushing production, left Pixey impatient to release
the track after having sat on it for so long.
This impatience is mirrored in how she perceives the
world at the moment. Angry at the way creatives have been
undervalued and dismissed by the powers that be. “It’s not
just a piece of entertainment, people make their living off of
this and, for some, it’s a form of therapy,” she expresses. She
speaks from experience. Music was her way out of a dark time.
Her crutch. And following statements from Rishi Sunak about
creatives needing to “adapt and adjust to the new reality,” her
anger is more than justified. And as she laughs, recalling her
short-lived and poorly executed time as a waitress, it’s clear
that retraining just isn’t on the cards for Pixey.
But as venues all around us are being forced to close,
relocate and rethink their business plans, this fear for the
creative community is unavoidable. For Pixey, the way the
pandemic is “just chipping away at all the important little
venues” is taken personally. That was where she started. And
without places like “Zanzibar and Sound”, she wouldn’t have
had the chance to be the nervous, sample happy newbie.
Maybe she would never have had the opportunity to annoy
her neighbours while learning the drums, too. But as she says:
“If your music is worth it, it will have its time.” Her time is now. !
Words: Megan Walder / @M_l_Wald
Photography: Marieke Macklon / @mariekemacklon
Free To Live In Colour is available now via Chess Club
Records.
@iampixey
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