Dawn Richard

Dawn Richard, Alexander Le’Jo,  Khaelyn Jackson, Olya Yakovleva , Omega Lewis, Dwayne Collections, Tamara Camille Soublet, Kasii Mimms, Christiani Nix, Tina Rudasingwa, Malcolm-Aimé Musoni, Crwpitman

You have a new album with Spencer Zahn, Pigments. The 11-track album is an unexpected left turn that blends classical, jazz, and, of course, electronic music. Can you talk about the decision to work with Spencer on this album and switch things up sonically?

Dawn Richard: Working with Spencer was a no-brainer; I’d already done a record with him prior to that called “Cyanotype,” and it’s one of my favorite records. I’ve always been into the classical space because my father is a pianist. My father got his master’s degree in music theory, and I saw him go through [it] with Porgy and Bess and learn Debussy, Bach, and Beethoven. 

Black women are always pigeonholed, and I refuse to be that kind of artist. I want to be known as a versatile artist, and I want to never just delve into something without intention. The electronic and soul space will always be present in everything I do; it is the through-line. The way in which I use my voice will always be soulful. The love of electronic pads, synth, and analog will always be present within the things that I do, it was present since Danity Kane. We were a pop group signed to a hip-hop label, but our biggest records were dance records.

I’ve been wanting to do a contemporary record, but I always felt scared because I just never felt like I’d be able to do it. After working with Spencer that first time and working with Kimbra, and going on tour and doing an upright bass/piano performance...seeing us sell out? What is there to be afraid of? I am an artist that can do these things and do them to speak to the Black culture in any genre. 

Your voice is used on this album in a really beautiful way that complements Spencer’s compositions and really helps the listener be still and deal with what’s going on. Were you in the studio together, or was he making things and sending them to you? 

COVID gave us a separation, and I didn’t know [if] it would work or not. Spencer recorded most of his stuff in New York and sent tracks, and I sent vocals via New Orleans because I was stuck during COVID in New Orleans. We never were able to do the project together until toward the end when I went to Brooklyn to finish the record. Originally it wasn’t supposed to be a project; we were just doing music together. I hit him up and said, “I really love “Cyanotype,” and I just want to make more music with you as a composer.”  It was me feeding my soul. I was home during COVID, and I was like, ”Maybe it’d be great to feed my soul in this space.” Because, at that time, it was challenging. One record turned into four; four records turned into five, and I kept seeing color. If you know me, my entire career has been based around the colors; from the trilogies to what records are named. I just dream in that space. I see color to be a powerful tool of storytelling and as an emotion; I find it to be cathartic as well. After like the 13th record, I hit Spencer, and I was like, “I think we have a project here.”

Dawn Richard, Tina Rudasingwa, Malcolm-Aimé Musoni

My first initial response to this [potential project] was, “I don’t want to have to force myself to be on these records. I don’t need to be singing runs.” I never have been that artist where I’m like, “Look at me vocally!” Ad-libs are beautiful to me; backgrounds are even more important to me as someone who grew up loving Brandy, Imogen Heap, and even Bjork. If you know Danity Kane, most of my presence on our albums were backgrounds. That’s always been more important to me than the vocal being some type of stick-out thing and [being] more of an instrument. Some of these records, it’s just breath. Like you said, it’s stillness and it’s contemplative. I want people to start to understand what it means to truly envelop and embrace your own pigment. 

Pigments is accompanied by a short film that you directed. Did you always plan to make a short film?

I did not know I wanted to do a short film until I listened to the project and was like, “I don’t want to be the dancer here; I’ve always been the dancer. What if I get young girls who have the same story as me? Dance saved their lives and [they can] speak on their journey of  Pigments and what it is to love their own skin.” That became the story of Pigments, a musical stillness, as well as a short film embracing the concept of movement.

All of your music always features a music video that relies on movement to tell a story. A short film is a different beast. What was it like making your directorial debut and putting together the short film as an indie artist that has to wear different hats?

I did not have money for this short film at all; I am still indie. Even if I am with a label, it’s still an independent label. I’m funding all my projects because indie labels have no money. If anyone tells you otherwise, trust me, they have no money; they’re trying to figure it out just as well. New Orleans has always been the narrator throughout my entire journey. I collaborated with NOCCA, New Orleans Center for Creative Arts, and I auditioned girls and boys who felt this music, understood this music, and it spoke to them. From ages 15 to 18, gay, straight, queer, and everything in between, I was able to find dancers whose stories are these. 

I’ve seen tweets where Tinashe’s fans are like, “I wish Tinashe was less underrated.” One time, she clapped back and said something to the effect of, “I’m fine where I’m at; I’ve been independent for a year, and I’ve made the most money I’ve ever made before.” How do you measure success for yourself when you’re not in the machine that is telling you that you have to sell this many or get this or do this? 

First of all, kudos to her because she was mainstream and had to go indie. I know that journey; I’ve lived it for nine years. I’m proud of her, and I’m glad she is finding her voice and living her best journey. In some cases, you do make more money, but you also put in a lot to give the quality. When you put something out, no one really cares if you’re independent. We’re living in a world where people want things now, and we’re competing against all these other artists who are putting out content fast because they have the money to do it. Once you realize as an independent artist that you don’t need to compete with a damn person but yourself, that’s when you start to make good money. That’s when you start to see a real growth for yourself. Because the truth of the matter is; those people who are signed are going through their own journeys too, and most of them are trying to get out of their label situations because they have no creative control and they’re stifled. Being independent is severely hard work, and it is not for people who are not strong of heart and not willing to make sacrifices and have several failures and be rejected tons. Most major artists would never be able to survive as an independent artist because it is that difficult.

You can sing, you can write, you can dance. Have you ever had those moments where you’re just like, “What if I go and just write for these other pop girls? What if I go and take all these songs, all my ideas, and give them to someone else?” Has that ever happened? Or have you always been deadset and been like, “This is mine. I care. I love this. I don’t care about the other stuff.”

The pop girls never ask; the pop girls don’t ever address me. No one addresses you unless you’re popular. They may think you’re great, but they’ll never say it in public. They’ll watch everything you do. But the reality is; if you’re not making money or your name is not in lights, nobody wants you, and you can’t take it personally. I don’t. Where I live and where I sit is what’s good for me. 

I want to talk a little bit about the role that media plays in terms of marketing and promotion for indie artists. When you’re an indie artist, every look matters so much more because they’re not giving you that many looks. In the past three or four years, we’ve seen a lot of publications that extensively covered indie artists shut down. How have you managed to navigate these waters when there are so few looks to get? How have you found opportunities for yourself to be like, “Hey, it’s me! I do this thing!”? 

I don’t do publications based on who’s popular. People like Rated R&B, you, Soul Bounce, and Rap-Up before Rap-Up was Rap-Up. I’m very consistent in the sense of being intentional. I did Paper, and then I did Rap-Up; I did everyone that I thought was beneficial. I always look to independent journalists to make sure that I’m showing just as much love on that front as well. 

Also, I have no problem creating the platforms for myself. Meaning, if it ain’t there, I’ll create it. When I first started, I cold-called Vogue and Pitchfork to develop relationships with them. It was important to be humble. It didn’t matter who it was; if I didn’t have the opportunity, I was trying to create it.  I took note of things that weren’t there. I made sure the next time; I would create a platform for myself and others like me; thus, the Adult Swim collaborations, thus, working with Pitchfork. 

With NPR’s Tiny Desk. I didn’t even have a PR team. I cold-called Tiny Desk and was like, “Yo, give me a shot.” By the chance of God, I had one person that had happened to be a fan on the staff, and they begged to have me, and then I showed up. It’s one of those things where I’m okay with the littlest to the biggest opportunity, and you have to be as an independent artist. Never forget that the independent journalist is just as important as the major one; I never forgot that. 

You’ve had a long relationship with Adult Swim and have used that relationship to shine a light on Black animators. Can you talk about using your platform in that way and the origins of your relationship with Adult Swim? 

Originally, I wanted to go to a Black network, but if you look up Black networks…let me know when you find one in animation. I grew up loving Adult Swim, Tsunami was my stuff; that’s where I discovered anime. I was an independent artist, and I needed money, and I was trying to figure out how to cultivate that. I just so happened to know how to draw, and I taught myself Maya, learned animation and developed the animation reel, and sent it to Adult Swim. But I didn’t even do that until three years after I asked them if I could license my music, I own my masters. I did not want to come asking for favors. I wanted to prove myself. So first, I just did three years of licensing my music, and they really loved what I was doing; they had done [work with] Flying Lotus, and they were putting all these Black really cool artists to the forefront. But I always felt like the content wasn’t Black. The music was Black, but all the animation was not except for Black Dynamite, Boondocks, and maybe two other shows. For the most part, Adult Swim did not have a lot of Black animation.

Year three, I created an animation reel and said, “I really love our relationship. I really want to work.” I think they were all kind of thinking, “What?” I [think] they thought it maybe was a joke. And then they saw the work that I was doing, and they said, “Okay, you really do anime, let’s try one-offs.” And one-offs became more and more. What I realized is, “This is really good for me, but how is it helping anyone else?” On Juneteenth, I asked them, “If I show you numbers about how many Black people watch and how many you aren’t targeting…”  Keep in mind, when I was taking over the Adult Swim Instagram, there was so many racist comments. I was called “monkey,” “pig,” you name it, that was being said.  They were like, “I’m so sorry, you know, we love you.” I was explaining to them, “I’m from the south. I’m from New Orleans. On top of that, I’m not ignorant to what’s going on. But there is also a large demographic of us who watch Adult Swim, who love Adult Swim, and who want representation. I’m going to show you.” And that’s what I did.

300 people signed up in like an hour, and they were like, “Okay, maybe we should put you in this creative direction job, and let’s see what happens.” Since then, we’ve had way more Black content, and it’s not just the animators being Black; it’s the music, the production, and everything across the board. My hope is that I can continue to create platforms but hopefully get to a place where we have our own networks to facilitate these things. I don’t think it’s racist to have a space for us culturally because there are so many places that are all white that they have access to, and I think that’s fine. But I do think it wouldn’t hurt us to have a space where we can really shine for ourselves in a great way. 

This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity. Download issue 7 of Blacks Rule as a PDF for free here and buy a physical copy here.