What is the biggest musical risk you’ve ever taken?

I started writing the *& *EP as a senior in college in 2011 and I wanted that to be very conceptual and latticed; after reading The Sound and the Fury, Ulysses, and The Crying of Lot 49, I was like, “I wanna make something like that—a love album about semiotics, or a semiotics album about love.” But following that, something clicked, and I realized the more simple I am, the better. It is always more potent to communicate quickly. So I started writing shorter songs that were more conversational. And that was exactly when things starting connecting more deeply with a listenership, with Mixtape Two. That was a real turning point. It allowed me to move towards simplicity. Because complexity is a little bit of a defense mechanism. I challenge myself all the time to simplify.

If you could hang out inside any Virginia Woolf novel, which would it be and why?

The Waves is my favorite book by her. I read it when I moved to NYC, when everything in my life was falling apart. It taught me so much about texture—that it is possible to engage a reader with a practically non-narrative book. There is character development, but it’s almost like the characters don’t even matter that much. That book showed me something about the permeability of self, being in a city with all these impossibly complex moving parts. It made me center myself a little bit and understand the fluidity of personality, and that lead me towards a more humble perspective, because it’s not so much about me, it’s more about my role—how can I help this big thing? Also, it’s so… wavy, in the contemporary sense. It helped me realize that taking an earnest swing at what consciousness looks like on the page is a trippy assignment. You don’t need to be surreal in a classic sense to be psychedelic. If you are rendering consciousness accurately enough, it is going to be trippy.

Which fictional character do you relate to the most?

The writer Ben Lerner’s character Adam Gordon in Leaving the Atocha Station. Ben Lerner is compared to this character all the time because he made a thing that a lot of people have engaged with, and now they assume that that person is him. I relate to that. A lot of people who have listened to Pinegrove want to know just how autobiographical it is. And of course some of it is. But it’s also fictionalized. I select details to make it more of a cogent story, more exciting, to make it rhyme, to make it fit. For example, aphasia is a neurological condition that prevents you from accessing words well, and we have a song called “Aphasia,” and people have asked, “Do you actually have aphasia?” No, it’s a metaphor. It’s a fear of mine that I won’t be able to express myself well enough, or that I’ll be somehow trapped inside myself. Maybe a lot of people feel that way. So I’m using it metaphorically as an extension of solipsism. Not only am I afraid of discovering that I am the only real thing, but I can’t communicate that discovery to anyone because I’ve lost my use of language. That’s what Cardinal is about for me.

What’s the last song you heard that made you cry?

“Golden Days” by Whitney. There are incidental associative memories with it—as a listener or reader or viewer, you’re always bringing your own baggage to whatever art you’re engaging with. A song like “Golden Days” allows you to have a personal moment that is basically independent of the song; there’s a certain intensity-meets-serenity with a song that will allow you to access that space.

What’s a moment in your life when you felt like the smartest person on earth?

I think a real turning point for me intellectually happened when I became less concerned about presentation and more concerned about content and feeling. My most recent revelation was about how being a good artist and being a good person are really similar. Basically, the moment I decided to really dedicate myself to matters of the heart, in an emotionally responsible way, I unlocked my brain, too.