Michael Angelakos is willing to admit to uncomfortable truths about himself—get past the sugar coating of Passion Pit’s songs and you’ll find bitter pills that detail the singer’s struggles with depression, bipolar disorder, suicidal ideation, drug abuse, and familial strife. It has to be the darkest music ever expected to sell Tropicana orange juice and Doritos Locos tacos.

That said, a major disclosure at the center of Passion Pit’s forthcoming third album, Kindred, is kind of innocuous by comparison: On “Five Foot Ten (I)”, it’s revealed that Angelakos has been exaggerating his height by one inch this whole time. But that little lie betrays a larger truth for the 27 year old; it’s indicative of the younger version of himself who started Passion Pit nearly a decade ago. “I was scared and wanted to be something bigger and more exciting,” he recalls, “banging my head trying to figure out what the fuck is going on with my life.”

Downsizing is a common theme surrounding Kindred. For one thing, it’s Angelakos’ most concise record by a good measure, distilling the high-fructose melodies and synth glaze into something like Passion Pit concentrate. The hooks are meant to hit instantaneously, inspired by the economic methods of classic songsmiths Cole Porter and Irving Berlin. (“Holy shit, no one gets to the chorus faster than they do,” he beams.) The singer also parted ways with his longtime bandmates after the exhausting process of creating, recording, and touring the last Passion Pit album, 2012’s Gossamer.

But the most important reduction in Angelakos’ approach is directly tied to the reason Gossamer was such a grueling experience to begin with. From the first moment we meet, it’s impossible for either of us to proceed without acknowledging the obvious: The last time Angelakos spoke to Pitchfork, he publicly opened up at length about his bipolar disorder for the first time, and the piece concluded with him checking into a hospital. Shows were cancelled (and, Angelakos notes, later rescheduled). Meanwhile, his worst fears were confirmed as his private pain was subject to public scrutiny and cynics called it all a marketing ploy. It all led to plenty of anger and bitterness for the singer as he spent much of 2013 clearing up misconceptions about his condition and his motives. “I didn't think it was going to be this huge dramatic story that followed me around everywhere,” he says. “I was reacting. And now I'm just done reacting.”

At this point, he says it was ultimately a good decision to be so candid, though the experience’s choppy reverberations play out on Kindred’s “Whole Life Story”, where Angelakos uses a giddy two-step beat as a means to apologize to his wife for the immediate fallout. “Sorry darling,” he sings. “How could you forgive me when our life’s some story out for them to buy?”

These days, Angelakos keeps a steady balance by leaning on a close group of supporters, including his wife and his assistant. “These are the people who help me make sure I'm able to record and work while I'm touring and also maintain my mental health,” he says. “I’ve been told I can't do this, but I found a way.”

But for all that growing up and paring down, Angelakos hasn’t entirely done away with his maximalist tendencies—once the reborn Passion Pit hits the road this spring, the touring band will actually increase to a half-dozen members. “There are about twice the amount of keyboards on stage,” Angelakos boasts. “I think we beat out Hot Chip on this one.”

And the fact that our conversation takes place in Los Angeles’ swanky Chateau Marmont cuts against any idea that he is taking some kind of vow of austerity. But this setting brings contrast, not contradictions—the legendary West Hollywood hotel is a fairly common destination for conflicted artists to sort shit out (see: recent guest Father John Misty’s lost weekend of a second honeymoon and Death Grips pissing away Epic’s advance money).

Angelakos proudly speaks of earning his keep as a burgeoning gun-for-hire producer and songwriter, too, citing recent work with pop upstarts Madeon and Ryn Weaver, and aligning himself with au courant producers such as Cashmere Cat, Skrillex, and Benny Blanco. But at the same time, he feels it’s best to opt out of the social aspect of being a part of pop music’s machinery. “I'd like to see what it's like to hang out with those people on a regular basis,” he says, “but at the same time, it sounds terrifying.”

Likewise, the lifelong East Coaster and current Brooklynite is frightened by the fact that he might actually enjoy some of the Hollywood sparkle. “I'm getting used to [Los Angeles] and it scares the shit out of me,” he says. “I just pretend I'm not in L.A. when I'm in L.A.” It’s nearly impossible to do that as we talk, though, because it’s early March and L.A. is roughly 45 degrees warmer than NYC—plus, a glimpse out the Chateau window offers a wide-angled view of the Sunset Strip, and “American Idol” judge Randy Jackson is hanging in the lobby.

And yet, despite the sunny disposition of his music, this isn’t Angelakos’ speed. He can’t do calm silence—the songwriter plowed through his schoolwork in college with ambient artists William Basinski and Steve Reich in the background, and at the time we meet, he’s listening to Oval’s 94diskont, a revered IDM album that mostly sounds like a scratched Aphex Twin CD. It’s an appropriate soundtrack for a guy who claims he can only focus on writing when everything around him is in chaos. Talking about the new record, Angelakos sees it as finally finding signal through the noise, as expressed through its direct artwork. “You saw the pixels of Chunk of Change, the murkiness of Manners, the slightly out-of-focus but really hazy color photographs of Gossamer,” he says, chronicling his previous LP covers. “And with Kindred, you see the kid staring right into the fucking camera.”

Pitchfork: While advocating for the understanding of mental illness can create powerful connections with the outside world, were you surprised by how people accused it all of being a stunt or an excuse to back out on shows?

Michael Angelakos: At this point of my life, I feel like I can fight that fight by just shutting up and doing things. I think a lot of artists should probably heed that advice. Social media is essentially a battlefield and it's for publicity, and I'm not interested in that at all. I have so much that I want to make and do and I've got how many years left on this earth? I’m so lucky to get to make music for a living, so I should just be making stuff. There are so many great things going on. People kill themselves trying to get to this point, and if I didn't put 100% into what I'm doing right now, I would feel like I'm spitting on the faces of all these musicians who are trying to do this for a living, too. I don't think most people in my position really understand that. I think they take it for granted, though I don't think they mean to.

Pitchfork: When you mention “doing this for a living,” I think of how Passion Pit has been very open to licensing, syncing, and other corporate tie-ins. Do you feel those things affect the perception of your music?

MA: How do you feel about all the corporate alignment that [Pitchfork] or everyone else does? That [Taco Bell commercial] was for no money, by the way. Taco Bell puts so much money into bands that go on the road because they have an awesome music program. I was like, “OK, their food is whatever.” I don't eat fast food. I told them that. But the program is actually legitimately about music, so I was like, “This is going to end up being like the fuckin' theme song for Taco Bell, but I get people's attention and then they're going to listen to this other stuff that's not associated with Taco Bell.” And by the way, I wasn't so emotionally attached to that song [“Take A Walk”]. I didn't want it to be on the record. It’s my least favorite Passion Pit song—and not because of the Taco Bell thing.

Like any other artist—from the smallest to the biggest—we've all gotta eat just like you guys gotta eat. You guys will take ads from bands that you don't want to cover because that's how you pay for the site. I gotta pay for production and to be able to tour all these places—I can't afford that right now. I will after I play a few shows. But there's nothing wrong with [corporate tie-ins] because it's the new radio. When you're on the radio, there are advertisements on there for car washes and all this other stuff too. I don't even feel like I need to defend it at this point. Everyone does it.

"I just desperately wanted to be

happy again in a way that wasn't forced."

Pitchfork: Looking back on the reviews for Gossamer and Manners, what stands out is how many of them denigrate Passion Pit’s music as “too happy.” Have you gotten used to critics ignoring your lyrics?

MA: With all the records, I intend to to be understood—which is funny because it's never understood. Passion Pit is this character to me; I don't have the guts to be as honest as I am with Passion Pit on my own, as Michael Angelakos. There’s always been this veneer, whether visually or physically, and I've always been hiding behind maximalist overproduction. It’s my way of being brutally honest with myself about what's happening in my life, and the only way I can slip that across is through this seemingly happy music; I can talk about these extraordinarily dark periods in my life as long as I've got this sonic palette that I can tap into.

Pitchfork: Are you worried that your high-pitched vocals might give out on you at some point?

MA: That voice is the easiest thing for me. My muscles are built up in that register because I'm running around screaming like that for a year and a half on tour. People say, "It sounds like Passion Pit." Exactly. If I was to change the sound of this project, I would completely defeat the purpose. Passion Pit has always felt like musical theater to me—and I know everyone has this "eh" reaction to musical theater.

Pitchfork: That's what pop music is, though, right?

MA: I think so. You're singing standards almost. And those hyper-formulaic songs that are on Passion Pit records—that's the point. It's pop. I'm not trying to make any other statements.

Pitchfork: Kindred appears to address many of the people closest to you, is it completely autobiographical?

MA: Everything is autobiographical. Everything is honest. This record was written around the time when I was trying to figure out what constitutes family: who loves you, accepting love, giving love. On Manners, I was like, "I have no idea what's going on and I wish I did but I just don't have the answers." Gossamer was like, "This is what happened, I'm so sorry”—acknowledging what happened but not saying that I'm going to do anything about it. Kindred is like: "I'm really trying to make this work and be better."

I'm actively trying to improve all my relationships and my lifestyle and my way of working and interacting with people. Everything. And that's a really hard thing to talk about because it's embarrassing. I just desperately wanted to be happy again in a way that wasn't forced. I wanted to feel like I accomplished something. I did this. I finished this record. I'm doing all the promo. I'm doing everything that I said I was going to do. I really wanted to be happy and normalized and I was tired of people saying I was volatile. I'm not. I'm a pretty normal person. I have problems like anyone else but I've worked so hard to be OK and I don't think that I gave myself enough credit for that.