Interview: From Ukulele To Electric Guitar

For years, the ukulele was the instrument audiences associated with her: bright, portable and seemingly light-hearted, even when the songs carried heavier emotions. Her first record made generous use of its small, warm voice, placing intimate lyrics above simple patterns and leaving plenty of air between each note. Learn more about Why This Artist Spent A Year Collecting Field Recordings For Her Album.

Her second album changes the picture. Electric guitar now supplies the friction, weight and movement, turning familiar songwriting into something more expansive. The shift is less a rejection of the ukulele than a decision to give these songs a larger room in which to live.

Leaving Space Behind

“I loved what the ukulele gave me,” she says. “It forced me to be economical. You cannot hide behind a huge arrangement, so the words have to do their work. That discipline is still there, even when the guitar is loud.”

The first album’s songs were shaped around close-mic vocals, brushed percussion and the gentle, percussive pulse of the ukulele. They belonged to small rooms: a packed Melbourne bar, a living room session, a late-night community radio studio. The new material keeps that intimacy, but places it inside arrangements that can stretch, swell and break apart.

Her change in instrument began during rehearsals rather than in a grand creative meeting. A borrowed electric guitar sat in the corner of a practice room, connected to a small amplifier with a temperamental cable. She picked it up between takes and found that a single sustained note could express what several ukulele chords could not.

“I was surprised by how physical it felt,” she says. “The ukulele is close to the body. Electric guitar reaches out into the room. It creates feedback, noise and tension before you have even played a proper chord.”

Learning The Electric Guitar’s Language

Switching instruments brought an unfamiliar technical vocabulary. She had to learn how to control volume with her hands, how to use pedals without burying the song, and how a slight change in picking pressure could move a part from brittle to soft. The process was exciting, but it was also humbling.

“I had to become comfortable sounding bad for a while,” she says. “With the ukulele, I knew exactly where my fingers were going. On electric guitar, I was suddenly thinking about muting, tone, sustain and whether the amp was helping or fighting me.”

That uncertainty became part of the record’s character. Rather than polishing every edge, she allowed some of the guitar parts to retain their awkward beginnings. A clipped rhythm remains clipped. A note bends too far and stays in the final mix. The result is an indie-rock sound that feels played rather than manufactured, with flashes of folk phrasing beneath the distortion.

The album’s producer encouraged her to treat the instrument as a co-writer. Instead of asking what a conventional guitar part should do, they listened for the emotional role each sound could play. A low, humming chord became a sign of dread; a bright tremolo line suggested escape; a wall of feedback marked the point where a carefully controlled relationship finally came apart.

Songs That Could Travel Further

The songwriting still begins with compact details: a supermarket car park after rain, a voicemail left unanswered, the smell of sunscreen on a borrowed jacket. Those observations give the songs a grounded quality, while the electric arrangements allow the feelings underneath them to become less tidy.

One track starts with a ukulele figure recorded on a phone during a morning rehearsal. By the final version, that pattern is almost hidden beneath drums, bass and a repeating guitar line. She kept the original recording because it preserves the song’s first scale: close, imperfect and private.

“I wanted the album to remember where it came from,” she says. “The electric guitar can make everything feel cinematic, but I did not want the songs to lose their everyday detail. The contrast is important.”

That balance may connect especially well with listeners in Australia, where independent acts often move between very different spaces during the same week. A band can play a seated show in a Brunswick warehouse, drive several hours for a regional festival, then finish the month on a support bill in Sydney. The songs have to survive different rooms, sound systems and audiences, and her new arrangements were built with that flexibility in mind.

She has also paid attention to the realities of the local music market. Australian artists face long travel distances, rising freight costs and limited opportunities for physical releases, particularly outside the major capitals. A song needs to make an impression through community radio, a late-night playlist, a Bandcamp link or a short live set before a listener has any reason to seek out the album.

The Quiet Work Around A Release

The change in sound has been matched by a more deliberate approach to releasing music. Her first album grew through friends, small blogs and word of mouth. This time, she has mapped out singles, visual material and live dates while keeping the campaign personal rather than turning it into a stream of generic announcements. For independent artists, practical digital release support can help create structure without taking the human element out of the process.

“I used to think promotion meant shouting louder,” she says. “Now I think it means giving people a useful way into the music. A live video, a story about a lyric, a list of records I was listening to—those things can make the album feel like a place rather than a product.”

That approach has particular value in Australia, where local discovery often depends on trusted networks. A recommendation from a presenter on community radio, a mention in a Melbourne gig guide or a well-timed set at a Brisbane support show can carry further than an expensive advert. The same is true of the audience habits surrounding independent music: people share links in group chats, buy a record at the merch table and decide whether to attend a show based on the strength of a friend’s endorsement.

She is realistic about the economics. Vinyl is meaningful, but pressing records is expensive and shipping them across the country can make a modest release difficult to sustain. The new album will be available digitally first, with a small physical run designed for listeners who want something tangible rather than as the only route to hearing the music.

Holding Onto The Small Instrument

The ukulele has not disappeared. It appears on two songs, both quieter than the electric-guitar tracks and both positioned carefully within the album’s emotional arc. One arrives after a noisy climax, almost like a person opening a window. The other closes the record with a plain melody that recalls the beginnings of her songwriting.

“I do not see the ukulele and electric guitar as competing versions of me,” she says. “They are different kinds of honesty. The ukulele tells the truth quickly. The guitar lets me circle around something until I understand it.”

That idea gives the second album its shape. The instrument change is audible, but the deeper story is about permission: permission to be louder, less certain and more adventurous without abandoning the directness that first drew people to her work. The songs retain their handmade quality even when the amplifiers are turned up.

Her live set now moves between the two sounds. A stripped-back ukulele number can lead into a full-band guitar arrangement, making the transition feel like a conversation rather than a before-and-after demonstration. In a small Australian venue, where the audience may be close enough to see every pedal change, that physical contrast becomes part of the performance.

The album also leaves room for local connection. She plans to work with independent photographers and filmmakers, support emerging acts on selected dates and make time for regional shows where possible. Those choices are modest, but they reflect the community-centred spirit that keeps small scenes active from Hobart to Adelaide and beyond.

The most revealing detail is that she still carries the ukulele to rehearsals. It is lighter, quicker to pick up and often the instrument that exposes whether a chorus works without decoration. The electric guitar may have opened the record outward, but the little instrument remains a useful measure of its core.

For listeners discovering the album, the best route is to hear the quietest song before the loudest one, then notice what changes when the amplifier enters. The practical takeaway is simple: begin with the bare melody, follow the sound as it grows, and let both instruments tell you why the songs needed more than one voice.