In conversation, Chris Carrabba talks in hushed, gentle tones. His speaking voice is candid and remarkably on brand (= “emo”), not unlike the sound made by a soft flutter of dandelion wishes scattering in a warm breeze. It's kinda palliative. As if Chris Carrabba were in a constant state of telling you, and only you, the most special person in the world to him—at least for those 35 minutes and 32 seconds you’re on a spotty phone call while he’s somewhere up in Canada on tour with his band, Dashboard Confessional—a cool secret. His heart is yours to fill or burst. Or maybe break or bury. Or wear as jewelry.

Now 42 and happily married, Carrabba has carved out a career as an artist whose whole deal is plumbing the innermost sanctums of feeling stuff, oftentimes without subtlety: heartbreak, revenge, the best days, not-so-good days—those are all his bread and butter. That sort of raw and naked earnestness that Dashboard traffics in (“you are the best one of the best ones!”; “I wish that I was anywhere, with anyone, making out”) acts as its own kind of force shield in that it renders Carrabba impervious to ordinary people shit like “feeling awkward” or “being embarrassed.” Why use irony as a deflection tool when you’ve already put all the potentially cringey stuff out there? It’s not very 2018, but it is kind of genius. There is a purity to the Dashboard pathos that is unimpeachable.

In his band’s new album, Crooked Shadows, which Carrabba recorded “in [his] basement” because “I've realized that maybe you're most connected to the song in those moments where you're still writing it,” he grapples openly with what it means to feel stuff and make art that still resonates with fans as your own bones get creakier. We talked about chasing feelings, his role in helping shape rock music today, toxic masculinity in emo, and everyone’s favorite topic...

GQ: So, Taylor Swift. Can you tell me the story of how that video of you playing her party came about?

Chris Carrabba: I mean, I want to make it more of a great story that's filled with mystery. But the fact is that Taylor's been a good friend! She's come to my shows. Everybody's a regular person, no matter how incredible they are. She just asked me to come and play the party, and asked if I would sing, and I said yes. It was a lovely gesture, because it was a song that [she and all her friends] had really embraced together and had some special moments to. I got to be included this time.

In your new album’s first track, "We Fight," there’s this lyric that jumped out at me: “We found a way to make some tracks / we didn't snicker and turn our backs." You sound relieved that you were able to make a song again. Is that a fair read?

I think so. But it was also a sense of conviction that we haven't finished yet. I think that, in that line, I was accepting that we had gotten popular. Sometimes that can just really undo your relationship with the people who listened to your music initially, and also the scene that you're from that shaped you to become the musician you are. I think I'm proud that we didn't do that. We withstood. We didn't get sucked into the trappings of fame or popularity. And I'm so glad that that was unappealing to us.

That idea of release—of catharsis, I guess—is the defining trait in your biggest hits. “Hands Down.” “Vindicated” had it, too. Is that something you still find yourself chasing as you've matured as an artist? Is that feeling harder to find?

It's not harder. It is a feeling that I'm looking for as a writer. But it's not harder. It's always been hard!

I ask that because when you're young, everything you're feeling feels very new and foreign. That’s why emo was so forceful. You're experiencing an emotion like heartbreak essentially for the first time. As you get older, reality forces you to harden yourself. Is it difficult to reckon with that as you get older as an artist? Is it harder to make art when you're contented with where you are in life?

Well, you have to allow yourself to be contemplative. Continually. It's easier to get wrapped up in the rigors of what your life is—in the confines of it—instead of dropping everything to write a song because you got the hint of an idea. I think I've just set myself up to be willing to chase it when there's a hint of it still.