On Grief & Music: Conversation about Death in the Family
Do you like the pun in the title?
The day my dad passed away, I played a set with my band at a local bar on Whyte Ave for an open mic show. Before I got the news, I was in the shelter of an English classroom, writing about the particular yearning that comes with the cold months ahead, oblivious to the snowstorm coming my way. I was still on campus when my mother finally called me, the unsettling news spinning me around among the towering bookshelves of the John L. Haar Library, a dizzy spell taking over my consciousness. Nobody ever prepares you for the cold pit in your stomach that sinks you down every passing moment when you realize the absence of someone whose presence once used to be your anchor. Unable to fly back home for his funeral, unable to hold my mom and my sister, unable to let them hold me, I realized I had to do the only thing in my control: play really poorly on a borrowed acoustic guitar as if nothing happened. Perhaps it was the oldest sibling in me, needing to control a situation, or the fear of backing out of something that would inconvenience anyone else. I realized something, amidst blacking out mid-performance (because of grief, not substances): that I would have to be around live music for the rest of my life to get through everything else that was to come my way.
I have spoken to many people about the transformation they undergo when they are on stage, and playing music for a crowd; the answers are always strange in various ways, from people having anxiety after shows to some having spiritual experiences whilst playing math rock. Live music brings that quality to the people playing and the ones witnessing, a strange togetherness and intimacy often unnoticed yet always felt. Of that night, I remember only snippets, like a carousel of flickering scenes, unfocused and out of order in my childhood bedroom: a shoebox turned into a percussion instrument, flirting with men pretending to be cowboys, and the bass resonating through the bar floors, keeping me afloat. Occasionally, a new memory will pop up: taking pickleback shots with my band and D, B, and A, recognizing the subject of my song ‘Stoner’ and dissociating at Steel Wheels as early-2000s music echoed against the paper plates. D had helped me dye my hair red that night, as if changing my hair colour would turn me into someone whose dad was still alive, as if everything I had done in defiance of facing grief would lead me any closer to the reason why. But, I survived the day, and the ones following, when I went to Dylan Ella’s EP release show and was mesmerized by all the music at The Aviary, when I leaned on people in my community I had met through and because of music, and when I let everything slip past me in the practice of being consumed by music. I remember being outside the venue, letting S hold me tight against the 2 am nightlights glowing above us. I have never felt safer pouring out my grief into someone else’s hands.
A few weeks later, I ran into Jillian Triedler at Remedy Cafe on 124th Street, a place always bustling with people, despite the cold, dark evenings and late hours in wintertime. I was waiting for a friend, finishing a song, when I saw her and immediately thought of the night at the open mic. Jillian had just released a music video for her song “Show Me Something”, and everything about it captured how I felt trying to cope with grief and loss. The song is off her new album Death in the Family, so of course, I gravitated towards it immediately. At Remedy, amongst the warmth blasting through the cafe, I told her about how much I resonated with the video and using distractions to get through a night; how, despite the glamour of a party or a show, you’re swimming in murky waters, grasping at any straws floating by you. She was an understanding and empathetic listener, and we bonded over processing losses through writing, and it felt normal to talk about grief with her. I recall telling her how I also felt like making bad decisions—on impulse, to feel better, or feel anything at all. So, when I realized that I would be writing about grief, music, and the community you find through these things, I knew I would have to interview her. This interview took place right after Winterruption in Edmonton, and Jillian was kind enough to talk about her album, the process behind it, and, of course, grief.
M: I think you are the first person I actually talked to [outside of my immediate circle] because you had your music video coming out. And you were talking about dealing with grief, and that [portrayal in the video] being one of the ways.
Jillian: Yeah, I guess I’ll start from the beginning of the process. The album kind of started with a loss I was experiencing three years ago. We (my family) are all here, we are all kind of lost, there is something missing, but everyone is here. So that is kind of where I got a lot of inspiration for the album. I kind of started thinking about the different types of grief. Like getting out of a long-term relationship, there are no break-up songs in the album, but that’s a loss. There are a couple of songs on there about ex-best friends, and that was sixteen years, and it ended really badly, but it's still a loss, and I still think about it, and that was my childhood. Moving out of the house and losing my grandfather were losses. All these kinds of grief and losses are what the album was based on. The whole album goes through the process of it. I was writing — a lot of the songs have changed so severely from angry songs to just: that is just what it is. Realizing you have lost someone, something, and lashing out like in the music video where you are doing these things, it’s hard to feel anything, and then as it keeps going, it turns into an acceptance of ‘okay, well, ouch, it will get better, but it sucks so much’. It’s kinda just working through grief.
M: When did you start writing the album?
Jillian: I started writing — so I kind of wrote this album differently than I have other projects, but I started writing in early 2023. I kinda just started writing songs; anytime I feel something, anytime I want to — I need to just get it out. If I hold on to it, it’s just gonna be horrible. So I wrote 30-40 songs for this album, and then I narrowed it down.
M: I think that is part of the creative process, especially when you are going through a lot of life changes, and you have to write your way out of it, as a lot of people say, right? The way you are describing how you have that anger, but when you start accepting it, I can see how a lot of the writing process would change through those changes, too. The hardest part of grief for me has been accepting things, and how we now have to find ways to cope with it while also not denying the reality.
Jillian: Just kind of, hate to say it, but accepting the loss because sometimes it’s so easy to be fighting it and trying not to feel it.
M: I feel a lot of our culture works around losses is very much like, “You have to bounce back from it, and you have to get something out of the loss, even.” But I think we should just accept that some things kind of suck, and you are not going to gain much good from them, but you can also reject a lot of the bad that comes with them. Did you find any of the songs that were hard to write because you’re going through a lot of these feelings?
Jillian: There is one on the album called “Chasing Daisies”. I rewrote that one four times, and the most recent version, the one that’s on the album, is the one from not my perspective. The first and the last lines of the song are, “You knocked me off my feet/ A love like this, you never see it coming.” That one was hard to write. I showed it to the family member, and I was like, “Is this okay?” They had a really big cry about it. I felt like I could never do this again, I can never sing this again but… It’s going to be played at the show.
M: Did you have any epiphanies about your creative process as you were writing these songs? Especially because it’s almost like a concept album.
Jillian: It is impossible to do it on your own. That is a big one. It was still by the bulk, me, but I could never have it sound how it sounds without my band, the extra band members. I had my friend Conor master it. It would not have worked out without them all.
M: A collective project, if you will. I have been hearing a lot about musicians liking what they want to do their own way, and there’s obviously a lot to gain from it because it is your baby. This is still your baby, but you also have a village raising the baby with you.
Jillian: I agree, and it’s so cool because the people already know the songs, because they help me with it. If no one knew about this album, I’d still have these people to celebrate it with. I've seen a few solo artists where everything is hired out, and they want things a specific way, and it’s awesome and sounds great. When I did it this time around, I said, “Here’s a rough draft to a song, maybe? help?” It is teamwork and just friends hanging out and recording music.
M: Did you feel you were expanding out of your horizons doing more collaborative writing?
Jillian: Yeah!
[We then went off on a tangent about writing with people, and how much more exciting it is to have feedback on songs, especially when you are used to doing it as a solitary process.]
M: It is so much more joyful, too, even when you are writing about really difficult things, because you have someone to riff off of, you can be in it together. Haerim and I write a lot of things together now, and it’s so good to be in a bubble and get excited about the process. An album to do with grief, specifically, you can share that grief as well.
Jillian: The whole thing was super cathartic because I’d show them a song and they’d be like, “Hey, is everything okay?” [We both share a laugh at this.] I showed my entire family this album, kind of individually, and everyone cried about something different, including a family member [who said], “I feel like I know you so much better now”.
M: Is there anything related to music that has helped you? In making your own [music] or listening to somebody else’s, in processing everything?
Jillian: When I used to live at home, I’d have these home-alone moments where I’d lock myself in my bedroom and just play music or listen to music or sing it as loud as I could. On the worst days, that would be how I got out of it. I’d find the saddest songs and go “alright”.
M: I look at it as — maybe this is a bad analogy, but like getting a scab off a wound, it’s already healing, and you go dig into it because you need to feel something about it.
Jillian: I need to feel it, or I’m not gonna feel it, and it’s gonna be worse in a month.
M: Are there any artists you go to for those moments?
Jillian: Daniel Caesar’s a big one. Aurora, she’s one of my go tos. “I Went Too Far” by Aurora, that was one of those where I’d just go home and [sigh]. Then Moses Sumney -
M: Yeaaaah, he is great. Would you like to share anything else about the album, or something you would like people to know?
Jillian: The release date for the album is February 9, which is the day that my grandfather passed away. [She giggles here] Put a note that says I giggled after that. He was one of the first major family losses I went through. Towards the end, I didn't know he was super into music, but the last couple of years, he’d call me just to talk about jazz because I was in jazz school, and he had books that he left for me that I have on a shelf right now. He would get his favourite jazz books, and he would get me to sing standards and stuff all the time. So I knew I had to put out the record this day.
M: A full circle moment for you.
Jillian: Yeah, so, death in the family!
[on the album release show] It’ll be really cool, we got Social Eyes on the bill on the 27th of February at the iconic Aviary! My MD, Morgan, is on guitar; she’s kind of running the show, so it has a really cool introduction and everything. I’m nervous and excited.
I listened to the album within five minutes of its release, lying in my bed, my eyes closed, and ready to cry to it. Beginning with incredible harmonies, the album pulled me into a moment frozen in time, and then suddenly it was the second track, “Sidelines,” with booming drums and Jillian’s agile voice leading me through the world of grief. As the album progressed, I truly felt like I was Dante, led by my very own Virgil, through the depths and valleys of grief and loss, with moody melodies, soothing harmonies, and an incredible band accompanying us through the journey. The record deals with feeling betrayed, coping through different mechanisms, and accepting many losses — all against the background of haunting vocals and lyrics that will knock the wind out of you. My personal favourites are the saddest ones, of course, including “I Tried”, with lines like “I hope one day you will forgive me but be angry/ do what you need" and a piano building up to a crescendo that leaves you hanging on the cliff. Death in the Family will hold your hand through losses, but will not hold back on the particular ache only accredited to grief. In fact, after listening to the album, I think I might have changed my mind about losses; I still do not think they have to be something you gain from, but as Jillian says, maybe we can feel something better. The album release show will be at The Aviary on 27th February, opening with Haerim and me for a little acoustic set, followed by Social Eyes.
Music can be confessional, cathartic, and catastrophic all at once, yet it offers a single door: an exit. An escape was all I needed that first night, but without the attachment that usually holds you back. Playing and listening to music provided exactly that. Not only did I get to escape death and grief for a brief moment in time, but I got to do it with my people. Just like Jillian processed her losses through music, with her people. Grieving is not a straight path; in fact, there is no path to follow — only tireless swimming in the dark. I am grateful that I get to listen to music made about grief during that swimming, that it can be a guide through purgatory, and all the repeating stages of grief I continue to stumble over. I am still unsure of how to process grief, to be completely honest. It still feels like yesterday, yet time has stretched thin and enveloped me in a liminal space with no beginning or end. All I have control over is how I let it hold me, and as someone who never learned to swim, let me tell you, the captivity is maddening, yet here I am. Persisting because of love for music, because of love within music, because of music, because of love.