The six instruments behind a fearless debut album

For most musicians, a debut album is an exercise in choosing what to leave out. For Montreal-based artist Clara Venn, it became a chance to keep every useful sound within reach. Her first record, Rooms With the Windows Open, moves between indie rock, electro-pop, folk detail and softly distorted ambient passages, with Venn playing six instruments across its ten tracks.

The result feels carefully made without becoming overly polished. A dry kick drum sits beside fingerpicked guitar; a bowed violin line slips beneath a bright synthesiser; bass parts arrive late, giving the songs a gentle sense of imbalance. It is the kind of record that rewards headphones, but its hooks are sturdy enough for a small venue with a loud bar at the back.

Venn spoke about building the album from a bedroom studio, learning when to trust instinct and discovering why a multi-instrumentalist does not necessarily want to sound like an entire band. Her answers offer a close look at the practical and emotional work behind an independent debut.

A song begins with movement

“I usually start with something physical,” Venn says. “It might be a rhythm I tap on the kitchen bench, a guitar pattern that makes me move, or a bass line that changes how I’m standing. I don’t begin by thinking, ‘This is going to be an indie-pop song.’ I begin with the feeling of a body in a room.”

That approach explains the album’s unusual sense of space. The songs rarely charge directly towards a chorus. Instead, they gather momentum through small shifts: a hi-hat opening up, a vocal doubling at the edge of the frame, or a synth note held just long enough to create tension.

The first single, “Blue Hour Receiver”, began on piano but became a guitar-led track after Venn recorded herself playing both instruments. “The piano gave me the sadness, but the guitar gave me the nerve,” she says. “I needed the song to stand up straighter.”

Six instruments, one point of view

Venn plays electric guitar, bass, piano, analogue synthesiser, drums and violin on the album. The list sounds expansive, though she is quick to distinguish between playing many instruments and showing off technical ability.

“I’m not trying to prove I can pick up something and perform a perfect part,” she says. “The question is always what the song is missing. If it needs weight, I reach for the bass. If it needs a human wobble, I try violin. If it needs to feel slightly artificial, I use the old synthesiser.”

The drums were the biggest surprise. Venn had played basic patterns before recording began, but she had never considered herself a drummer. She built several tracks around restrained, imperfect takes rather than replacing them with programmed beats.

“There’s a track called ‘Under the Carpet’ where the snare is a little late,” she says. “I kept it because the whole song is about hesitation. A perfect performance would have made the lyric less believable.”

Her process sits in interesting contrast to the highly designed performances explored in a recent lighting interview, where technology becomes part of the live spectacle. Venn’s technology stays mostly behind the curtain, shaping texture rather than announcing itself.

The bedroom studio becomes a bandmate

The album was recorded in a compact room with a second-hand interface, a modest microphone and instruments collected over several years. The piano belonged to a neighbour who was moving house. The violin came from a charity shop. Her synthesiser required a repair that cost almost as much as the original purchase.

“That limitation was useful,” Venn says. “I couldn’t have endless options. I had six instruments, a small number of microphones and a room that sounded the same every day. It meant I had to listen harder.”

She recorded most parts alone, then sent selected sessions to friends for remote feedback. A drummer in Halifax suggested removing a bridge. A Montreal producer heard too much low-end in one mix. Venn accepted some advice and rejected other suggestions, gradually learning that outside perspective works best when it identifies a problem without dictating the solution.

The isolation also shaped the lyrics. Many songs describe domestic scenes—a kettle left boiling, a coat on a chair, a neighbour’s footsteps overhead—but they avoid turning private detail into confession for its own sake. “I like emotional distance,” she says. “A room can tell you what happened without explaining every feeling.”

Writing for the stage without losing the quiet

The album’s arrangements are layered, yet Venn intends to perform them with a four-piece group. That decision forced her to identify which details were essential and which could disappear when the songs moved into a venue.

“On the record, I can play bass, guitar and piano in the same song,” she says. “Live, I have to choose. That choice has made the songs stronger because I’m discovering their skeleton.”

The band version of “Static in the Hallway” replaces the record’s violin with a jagged guitar figure. “It’s less delicate and more immediate,” she says. “The audience should feel that the song is happening now, not that we’re trying to recreate a file.”

That distinction matters in Australia, where an independent act may travel several hours between useful rooms and still play to a modest crowd. A Melbourne show, a Sydney support slot and a Brisbane festival appearance can involve very different audiences, budgets and technical setups. Venn has learned to travel lightly and build arrangements that survive unfamiliar backlines.

She is also aware that Australian listeners often discover new artists through community radio, triple j Unearthed, local playlists and word of mouth rather than expensive advertising. “If someone in Adelaide hears one song and sends it to a friend in Perth, that can mean more than a campaign,” she says. “Independent music grows through trust.”

The album’s balance of craft and accident

Rooms With the Windows Open is most compelling when Venn allows the recording to retain its fingerprints. The piano in “Half Lit” carries a faint mechanical clack. “Borrowed Weather” ends with a breath before the final chord. These details make the album feel inhabited rather than assembled.

Venn says she edited heavily, but her goal was never spotless sound. “I’m interested in the border between control and accident,” she explains. “You need enough control to communicate, but if you remove every strange thing, the song stops having a personality.”

The six instruments each occupy a different emotional role:

Instrument	Role on the album	What it adds
Electric guitar	Melodic and rhythmic anchor	Urgency and rough edges
Bass	Structural foundation	Weight and forward motion
Piano	Harmonic starting point	Intimacy and vulnerability
Analogue synth	Atmospheric colour	Glow, tension and artificial warmth
Drums	Physical pulse	Human timing and momentum
Violin	Occasional counterpoint	Fragility and unease

This balance gives the record a broad palette without making it feel crowded. Venn’s voice remains the centre, often mixed close enough to reveal breath and consonants. The instruments support the songs’ emotional turns rather than competing for attention.

A debut that leaves room to grow

Venn does not describe the album as a definitive statement. She sees it as evidence of a particular moment: a period when she was learning to record, arranging songs around available equipment and resisting the pressure to present a perfectly fixed identity.

“I used to think a debut had to announce exactly who you were,” she says. “Now I think it can show the process of becoming. I’m sure the next record will use different sounds, and I hope it contradicts this one in places.”

That openness gives the album its quiet confidence. There is no attempt to disguise the scale of the project or inflate a bedroom recording into something grander than it is. Instead, Venn makes the small scale meaningful. A piano, an old synth and a slightly late snare become enough to create a complete world.

For Australian listeners, the record should appeal to anyone who values discovery over polish: fans browsing a local record shop, tuning into community radio on a long drive or finding a new voice after a support set in a dark room. The next step is to play Rooms With the Windows Open from start to finish with headphones on.