You were born Sarah Joyce but adopted the stage name Rumer after author Rumer Godden. Why?

My Mum was a huge Rumer Godden fan (1). So was Demi Moore, which was why she called her daughter Rumer. Newspapers sometimes use pictures of her when they're talking about me. I don't mind at all, especially the bikini ones. A 21-year-old in a bikini – that's no problem.

Your new album, Boys Don't Cry, is a collection of cover versions of songs by male writers (2). Was it a conscious decision to do something so male-oriented?

It was mainly intuition. I don't know why. I just had a sense it would be an interesting theme. It's like doing a dissertation: you narrow your study. I wanted to take a period in history, a gender, a style and go into the depths with it.

You spent the early years of your life in an expatriate community in Pakistan where your father was working as an engineer. Do you miss it?

It was a kind of weird, colonial atmosphere. In those days, people would bring their families, so there were loads of children and swimming pools. It was like being on holiday, I do miss it. I miss the freedom. All the photographs from back then are of me wearing nothing but a pair of white cotton pants. The locals called me "Nanga" which means "naked". I was just a sort of brown Mowgli, running around, totally free, enclosed by security.

I love Pakistan, it's an absolutely beautiful country. I went up to the north-west frontier and you can't even believe it exists: mountains, valley upon valley of pine forest. It's a shame people can't travel there. I go, but I have to go with friends who live in Pakistan, and I have to go covered up.

Your first album, Seasons of My Soul, was born out of personal heartache following the death of your mother from breast cancer in 2003 (3). Do you think your music reflects your emotional state?

If you're into psychics or tarot, you think: "How am I picking the cards?" It's the same when you're picking songs. You're in a certain frame of mind, and then you realise at the end how much those songs reflect a period of time and a landscape of experience. For me, this album [Boys Don't Cry] was about the loneliness of being away from friends and family. Even though it all looked shiny from the outside, there was a great deal of suffering.

You had a breakdown following your mother's death and have been diagnosed with bipolar disorder. Is that what you mean by "suffering"?

I think I was vulnerable. The reason culture is so mediocre is because most people who are really interesting are probably under a duvet right now. They are not people inclined to feel confident or promote themselves or put their name on a CD. It's that extreme. What it was, mainly, for me, it was the loss of control. You have no idea how much control you exert over your own life until it's taken away. It's really distressing then, to not be able to choose. When I go into a restaurant I like the mafia spot: at the back, facing the door, I never ever leave my back exposed. I'm vigilant. I'm a survivor. My instincts are very sharp. And that's been dulled. Something's lost and something's gone.

Do you miss your mother terribly?

I do, tremendously. When she died, I lost a friend. I miss my friend.

You describe yourself as "vigilant". When you were 11, your parents divorced and you discovered your biological father was a Pakistani cook with whom your mother had an affair. Are you wary of secrets?

Yes, but there are interesting contradictions. On the one hand, I'm terrified of being vulnerable. On the other, I'm really open. I like human exchanges to be honest and open and true. I feel embarrassed and humiliated and regret some of the things I say and how exposed I feel, but at the same time I feel a responsibility to be open so that other people who don't feel able to will appreciate it.

You sang at the White House earlier this month at a concert honouring Burt Bacharach. What was that like?

Absolutely amazing. I've always had this portrait of Fred Douglas, the abolitionist, on my wall to remind me not to be a victim, and I was having this imaginary conversation with him before I went on stage, saying: "Bloody hell, this is really out there." It was beyond my wildest dreams imaginable.

Did you speak to Barack Obama?

Yes, we had a nice chat. He was very, very warm. He said: "Oh, we've heard great things about you." I said: "I'm Rumer," and he said: "I know!" [laughs] (4).

One of your biggest fans is former deputy prime minister John Prescott, whom the Guardian once commissioned to write a blog about you.

Yes, I actually thought the journalism in that piece was great (5). It was beautifully written.

You've experienced a lot of pain in your life. Would you want to change any of it?

I would never change going through the grieving process [after her mother died]. It was like Braveheart, at the end where he refuses the potion because he wants to have his wits about him. I became vegan, I only drank peppermint tea, I gave up smoking. It was: "I want to feel grief." I had to go through that raw and alone.

I'm very concerned with how dark a lot of my interviews have been lately. I'm trying very hard not to be depressed, even though I am.

OK, a purely trivial question to end on. Do you watch The Voice?

I watched it a couple of times. I thought Lindsay Butler was amazing and I saw her get voted off so switched it off in disgust.

Footnotes

1. Rumer Godden (1907–98) was the English author of more than 60 books; she grew up in what is now Bangladesh.

2. Rumer has also been writing about some of her favourite old songs for the Old Music blog on guardian.co.uk/music.

3. Released in late 2010, album Seasons of My Soul hit No 3 on the UK charts and sold almost a million copies.

4. Rumer also told the Carlisle News & Star that she fell in love with the president's Secret Service agents.

5. John Prescott was asked to write for the Guardian's music blog after he tweeted his approval of Rumer.