Formula Indie Sessions _ Interview with Adam Janos
What is your earliest memory connected to music?
One of deep shame. When I was eight years old, my mother rented me a cello and enrolled me in the school orchestra. We had extracurricular rehearsals on Saturdays, with an eye towards a spring recital.
This was supposed to be my debut. But one day, early on, I dropped the cello—cracking its top plate. My mom took it in for repairs, but by the time the instrument was fix, I felt as if I’d fallen hopelessly behind my peers. My first class back, the orchestra teacher got frustrated with me and feigned smacking me with the score when I messed up my line.
A sensitive boy, I was crushed. And after that, every time my mother dropped me off at orchestra rehearsal, I would spend my time hiding under the stairs rather than in the classroom. On the day of our recital, I pretended to play, holding my bow an inch off the strings so as to avoid making any sound. The day after, I quit.
How did your passion for creating music begin?
After the cello I wanted to give up on music, but my mother insisted that I try again, so I took up piano classes at the age of nine. That developed steadily, but ironically I didn’t start making my own compositions until I quit taking classes, as an adolescent.
I’d improvise for hours whenever the mood struck. Soon thereafter they began to take shape into songs.
How would you describe your sound to someone who has never heard your music before?
I’ve recently taken to the term dark cabaret, although I think asking a musician to describe his music is a bit like asking a dog to look at himself in the mirror. But my tunes tend to be lyrics forward, heavily theatrical, and living in a storytelling aesthetic that is an unconventional blend of sad, humorous, and bawdy.
What is one thing you’ve learned that completely changed the way you make music?
I don’t think there’s a singular “a-ha” moment in my creative expression narrative. I learned the piano and everything else has been downstream from there.
What tools, instruments, or software are essential in your creative process?
It starts with piano, pen, and paper.
That pen and paper are really important—it can never start with, say, my Notes app. That’s because I find that my handwriting is pretty illegible, even to myself, which allows me to misinterpret my own lyrics as I write and practice the song in its opening hours. All of that messiness helps with the drafting process.
I don’t notate music, so once I have a decent sense for the song I’ll record the outline of it with my phone. Just so I don’t lose any of that melody while it’s still so new and clean.
Which indie artist or song are you loving right now?
So many. I live in an expansive community of musicians and artists, and I am always blown away by the work they make.
Hayley Oliver-Smith is great, for example. And I love me some Hush Mountain. ABELA. Justin Karas.
And then of course there are the indie artists I don’t know personally, whom I somehow stumbled into because of the wonders of the Internet: Georgia Maq, Jeffrey Martin, Valerie June, Golden Shoulders.
How have your personal experiences influenced your music and artistic vision?
How haven’t they? My personal experiences are all that I am. And my artistic vision, in turn, is just a reflection of that.
What emotions or messages do you hope listeners take from your work?
I want listeners to feel that they have a friend who understands them. And a spokesperson for their feelings. I want them to feel like their vulnerability is not just allowed, but that they have the right to celebrate it—that it is the most delicious, humaniest part of them. Let’s all laugh and cry and be proud to have hearts.
What’s the most important lesson music has taught you so far?
Music—songwriting, more specifically—was the first thing I knew I was good at. I was an undersized unathletic little kid. A dork. As I wanted to be a basketball player and a baseball player and it felt massively unfair that no matter how many hours I put in, I remained firmly below-average. Songwriting showed me that there was place for me to shine.
I’m sure there have been other, more subtle lessons along the way (e.g. “Songwriting can turn my terrible days around!”) but that first bump of self-worth, from my early adolescence, was undeniably the most potent. Ah, to be good at something!
What is a dream venue or festival you would love to perform at?
I’d love to play one of New York’s classier joints. The Beacon Theatre, for example.
If you could collaborate with any artist, past or present, who would it be and why?
It depends on if—in this fantasy—I’m playing a supporting role or a leading one.
If it’s the former, I think it would’ve been amazing to be part of Leonard Cohen’s band. He’s the one I saw at the Beacon.
But let’s be real: seeing Leonard Cohen didn’t make me want to play in Leonard Cohen’s band. It made me want to be Leonard Cohen. I’m happiest in creative projects where I’m leading the charge, so my best-case collaboration would be with someone who works additively to advance my creative vision. And because the nature of that work is so egoless, it’s a lot harder to suss out who’d be my best match for that. All I can do is approximate it by thinking of the projects I love: Kim Deal to the Pixies, Eric Judy to Modest Mouse, Brian Viglione to the Dresden Dolls.
Where can our listeners follow and support your music? (Website,Spotify, IG, links)
Find me on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/artist/0yWXoTcIh3YoejcqdVfBSG
Find me on Apple Music: https://music.apple.com/ca/artist/adam-janos/1724458157
Find me wherever you find your music.
Better yet, send me an email. I’m at adamtjanos@gmail.com. Tell me you love me. Explain to me why.
Looking toward the future, what’s your dream for the next chapter of your musical journey?
I have a great one-man show that’s a nice mix of music and storytelling. I’ve performed it in New York, North Carolina, Vermont, and Philadelphia—but I’m planning on taking that on the road in the spring. I’d also love to put it in residency in New York City. Art loves a cozy home.
But my truer answer is: Inspiration. I’ve been polishing a lot of ideas these last six months. At this point I yearn to move back into the generative phase. I can’t wait until the next time new music is spilling out of me.
What do you hope listeners will discover about you along the way?
I don’t hope that anything particular about me is discovered. That’s not compose.
Which isn’t to say I don’t care what people think. I very much do. For example with a live performance, I am gratified when I feel connected to an audience; I respond to people’s affection and praise. But when someone is listening to my songs on streaming after reading this blog: That experience, for me, isn’t about disclosing. That should be an asynchronous-but-parallel experience wherein my catharsis (i.e. the composition) transmutes into the listener’s (via their consumption).
This morning, I cracked the spine on a new book: Tiny Beautiful Things by Cheryl Strayed. I’d never read Strayed before and so I was blindsided by the depth of feeling emanating from her work. I only got 30 pages in, and yet I had me weeping. How profoundly connected I felt in that moment: not just to her, but to the whole big lonely world.
That’s what I’d hope my music could achieve.
