by LORRAINE CARPENTER

“In songs, you have to marry the beauty of sound and poetry and try to use language like a paintbrush,” says Sarah Slean. “All that other stuff, the veneer of now, I’m not interested in, and if that’s my financial downfall, so be it.” At only 25, this Toronto-based, classically trained musician and self-taught torch singer has released two albums on her own indie label, which will soon resurface as a vehicle for side-projects, before signing to Warner, whom she convinced to let her peer, Hawksley Workman, produce her major-label debut Night Bugs. The Mirror spoke to the accomplished Miss Slean about personality crises and enchanted forests.

Mirror: I’ve read that your album was deeply affected by the environment in which it was recorded, complete with insects.

Sarah Slean: They were so loud, I couldn’t sleep the first two nights! It was this massive studio in the middle of the forest in New York state, we stayed in cottages there for a whole month. We had friends and family come down and we would have parties and go to Woodstock to see the locals, but at the same time it was so secluded and so quiet. You felt magic twirling around you all the time, drifting through the trees at night and in and around the corners of the studio during the day. It was sublime. And Hawksley is fantastic. The moment I saw him I had this weird feeling, like maybe we were in a circus together in another life.

M: You believe in reincarnation?

SS: Well, I’m a big science geek, and the thing about energy is that it never dies, it simply changes form, and that’s also true of life energy. I think we’re made of stardust, if I may quote Joni Mitchell. Everybody’s made of stuff that’s been here forever, so you can’t help but pick up some crazy, drunken French lady’s ideas along the way.

M: Okay, so what about this “Emily and Vincent” side-project? Who’s Emily?

SS: Emily is an alter ego of mine, a bit of a depressive who drinks too much and stumbles through the alleys of Paris. She lives in a really tiny room and works in a hat store. She comes from this book called Good Morning Midnight by Jean Rhys, one of the French writers from the golden age of Parisian literature, and as I was reading the book, I felt like I knew this person. Something about her was so real to me. On stage sometimes, I feel like she takes over and screams all the stuff that she’s always wanted to scream, all of that tragedy and ridiculous hope, so I thought I should write a record to thank her for that.

M: How about Vincent?

SS: He’s the guy who perhaps lives in the tiny studio apartment next door - that has mice - and he’s got one good suit, but it’s kinda ratty. He’s in love with Emily and she’s having none of it, but they go out for absinthe sometimes.

M: Have you ever tried absinthe?

SS: I have a bottle of it in my apartment, the real stuff. It’s pretty dangerous, you gotta go slow. :

With Danny Michel at Petit Campus
on Saturday, January 25, 8pm, $10

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