Adriana McCassim is a Los Angeles-based, Asheville, NC-born singer-songwriter whose music exists in the realms of alt-country, garage rock, and ’90s indie. Before leaving North Carolina in 2021, she made the four-track EP Quiet Sides with Colin Miller (and featuring Jake Lenderman, aka Wednesday guitarist MJ Lenderman, on drums). Though she enlisted multi-instrumentalist and producer Ryan Pollie to record her debut album, See It Fades, in Los Angeles – where she also opened for Sharon Van Etten at a Troubadour show celebrating the 11th anniversary of Tramp – she went back to her hometown to mix the LP with Alex Farrar (who has worked with Angel Olsen as well as Artist Spotlight alumni including Indigo de Souza, Squirrel Flower, Bnny, Truth Club, Hotline TNT, and Wednesday). Wanting to push her sound in a heavier direction, McCassim has made a record whose emotional frequencies are rowdy, unnerving, and electrifying, while also finding space for restraint and delicate vulnerability. McCassim’s lyricism, like her voice, is sharp, emotive, and prone to change: “I never get lonesome/ But sometimes I change my mind,” she sings at one point, before finally turning around to the listener. “Do you get lonesome too?” The answer, like the lie she suddenly catches herself in simply by asking, is obvious – who doesn’t? But See It Fades is the kind of album that makes loneliness seem, if not exactly an impossibility, then at least more bearable.
We caught up with Adriana McCassim for the latest edition of our Artist Spotlight series to talk about her upbringing, her musical journey, the process behind See It Fades, and more.
What kind of memories come to mind when you think about growing up in Asheville, especially being away from it now?
Growing up in Asheville was so wonderful. We’re in the center of this mountain range, the Appalachian Mountains and the Blue Ridge Parkway. It’s western North Carolina, so it’s just really wooded, and I have so many memories of running through the woods and hiking and, like, playing with salamanders in rivers and streams. That was my whole upbringing. We moved there when I was almost 4, and I largely didn’t leave until college. We moved around a lot – my family flipped houses, so we would move, fix up our house, sell it, and then keep moving.
I grew up with a lot of folk music, bluegrass – my mom worked at this restaurant called Jack of the Wood, which is still around and it’s awesome. After school, I would come and sit while she was finishing her shift sometimes. There was a section of the restaurant where these banjo players would come and sit around one hanging mic and just play all sorts of mountain music. That was very core to me. And it’s funny because, as a teenager and even in my early twenties, I really wanted to move away from that music. I never wanted to make country or folk-leaning things; Asheville was so steeped in that. But now, I’m devouring it. I’m listening to so much of that stuff, and it’s been really fun to reclaim it.
When do you feel like you started developing your own relationship with music that was separate from what you were surrounded by, whether as a kind of rebellion or an extension of it?
My parents brought in two very different scenes of music. My dad was really into heavier rock and metal, like Alice in Chains, Metallica, Chris Cornell, Level 42, and then also everything Motown, like Michael Jackson, Aretha Franklin, Commodores, all that. And then my mom was into the Dixie Chicks, Tori Amos, Alanis Morissette, that kind stuff. So, it was totally all over the map, and I probably didn’t start to claim music for myself until college when I decided to go to school for music. I was definitely hiding for so long behind the idea that I could never pursue music. I didn’t start really exploring and embracing it until I accepted that I wanted to pursue it with my life. I used to say I wanted to be an engineer or a recording engineer or work in live music, doing front of house or something. I was just quietly absorbing for a while; I was kind of an obedient, quiet kid. [laughs] So it was probably in my late teens, early twenties.
And now, since moving to L.A., I have so many friends and bandmates who are steeped in, like, Flying Burrito Brothers, or older California-based music, just things I never was shown. My dad wasn’t a fan of Dylan – I love my dad, but he just didn’t listen to classic rock like that. We didn’t really grow up with the Beatles or anything.
Being into heavy music but not classic rock is one thing, but heavy music and Motown is an interesting combination.
My dad would sit me in the car on the way to school, and we’d be mid-conversation, and he’d be like, “Hold on, you gotta listen to this part,” and he’d turn it up really loud. He’s a bass player and was in a rock band before I was born, so that was his whole world. I just have so many memories of him showing me records in a very granular, focused way. Which now, I can appreciate – at the time, it was so embarrassing, especially around friends. It was very normal growing-up stuff, but now, I’m very grateful for that.
Did you feel like you had to hide your love of music behind technical skill or expertise, to be involved with music in some other way?
Yeah, definitely. I felt like there was no space for winging it financially. Being a performing musician isn’t a lucrative path. [laughs] My parents worked so hard and supported me with whatever I wanted to do, but I think I wanted some approval or security behind the technical side of it, so I decided to pursue that in school. What really flipped things for me was during the last semester of college when I decided to switch what I was studying, and I left for New York. I spent the last year of my schooling in New York City and worked at Mick Management, this independent management company in Brooklyn. That’s where I met Sharon Van Etten and that whole crew of people, and it totally changed my life. I got a very inside look at what that world looks like and also just had conversations about pursuing music as an artist. It felt like a light turned on for me that I couldn’t ignore. No one was telling me to be an engineer or a manager – it was just something I had convinced myself of.
Did your definition of “pursue” change during that time? Did you think a lot about what it even means to pursue music?
Totally. I started writing again when I was living in New York. I was writing in college, but then I stopped playing out and really quieted it. Because I was living in New York by myself, I felt like I could explore writing again. I think the notion of pursuing something is completely out of self-love, and it felt like something that was helping me move through a time in my life. And then I realized it’s kind of always been that way. I started writing songs when I was probably 10 or 11 – they were obviously the kind of songs a 10-year-old would write, but it’s always been there. I started playing open mics when I was little because I just wanted to, so I intuitively knew that that would come back again. But there was something about being in New York, being in a city where so many people are doing that, that it feels like it’s this infectious thing.
When I came back, I made the EP Quiet Sides and fell in with some friends in Asheville, and made this whole little tiny record. It started picking up, and I was like, “Okay, I need to keep doing this.” But pursuit takes so many forms. I’m still learning about it. Right now, it’s the balance of working a day job and figuring out how to be a musician.
We talk about DIY communities, but something that comes up less often is mentorship – Sharon Van Etten is someone you’ve brought up in this context. What role have these kinds of one-to-one friendships played for you as someone who has moved around a lot?
I wouldn’t even be here without the couple of mentors that I have or have had. I think there are several different kinds of mentors. There are ones that you have physically in your life and emotionally, and then there are also ones in books, or through meditation or podcasts or whatever. I was assisting a composer for a while, and he was one of those people. That was in Asheville, and from the beginning, he was like, “You need to leave.” My parents were afraid of me leaving, and I wouldn’t have moved without that.
I’m so grateful for Sharon and her family. Candidly, there was this beautiful moment out here where I spent time working with her family. I learned so much from her writing, her character, her disposition in the world, and how she writes songs. It runs so deep, and I got to see that up close. Then, getting to open for her at the Troubadour was this wonderful full-circle moment of affirmation. Music is so all over the place – you can have these big show moments, and then life returns to normal, and you have to go back to, like, waiting tables. There’s no linear path at all. In my experience, having especially women who have helped me believe in myself has gotten me through those longer stretches of navigating what the hell I’m doing. [laughs] Especially when putting out a record and deciding to complete the life cycle of songwriting. It’s the scariest part, just recognizing that it’s a marathon, not a sprint.
What do you remember about that show? What made it special for you?
Oh, man, so much. The show itself was so fun. My band was so special, and we just had such a blast. The Troubadour is such a historic space. As a kid, I watched so many videos of people playing and performing there. Walking in, there’s totally an energy or spirit that’s very present. But during sound check – I had no idea, but Angel Olsen was a surprise guest that night, so she was just watching. [laughs] I was not ready for that – very, very scary in a good way. But that was really special. They sang ‘Like I Used To’, which was so badass. And then I got to sing ‘We Are Fine’ with Sharon, which is a song from Tramp. It was an anniversary show. I mean, we both cried. That song is all about perseverance and the female experience in a lot of ways, so it was really beautiful. I don’t remember a lot – I think I blacked out a lot of that night, in a good way. It was just a lot of energy.
Going into See It Fades, what kind of goals did you set for yourself, both as a musician and as a songwriter?
I had a few clear pillars about the record once I moved. I knew from the beginning I wanted Alex to mix it. I wanted this big sound that I had never tried before. So many songs that are on the record and that were coming up at the time had this anger that I didn’t know where to place. I’ve never been someone who’s allowed that emotion to come out, so it was coming out in my songwriting. I wanted it to feel like thunder. I wanted it to feel like you would listen to these mixes and there’s elements you don’t know how they were tracked.
When I was looking for people to record with – there’s so many studios in LA, especially on the East side. I was touring some places, and when I met my friend Ryan Pollie, I walked into his house, and it’s like a home studio, it’s all his living room. And I immediately knew, I was like, “This is it.” I wanted analog gear, drums all in a live room, but, like, the kitchen is on the other side. It’s organic, it feels human. I wanted to throw so much paint and just try things – when we were tracking ‘Pretend’, we routed an acoustic guitar through a bunch of pedals, and it made the craziest sound. One of the cables wasn’t working, but it sounded really cool. By the end of the day, we’d layered so much that I was like, “I don’t even know how we made that, but we’re gonna go with it.” That was kind of the ethos for the whole project.
It was cool to have Ryan’s sensibilities, and then Alex just lifted these songs and threw them into the universe. I did get a chance to go to Asheville and mix for a few days, and he’s just a magician. Largely, I wanted to do things that made me uncomfortable, techniques I didn’t know how it was going to sound like – or maybe it was wrong, but it sounded cool and felt good, most importantly. But now, I’m craving to make a more straight-ahead record. I’ve been writing all these country songs.
Throughout the record, you and Ryan have a way of using the guitar in a way that’s very atmospheric, as heavy and thunderous as it can be. What was your approach to layering instrumentation, or balancing that sense of freedom with restraint?
With this record, I wanted some of the songs to have a lot of space. I talked to my friend Jacob Peter, who is a total savant and wrote much of the lead guitar and lap steel parts on the album. He so intuitively was on that same place of understanding. Also, while writing this record, I was still learning so much about guitar. I had written these parts, but I wanted someone to understand my references, where I was pulling from. For example, I was listening to Grace, the Jeff Buckley record, and that record feels so heavy and loud and guttural, and then his voice comes in, and the whole music bed can largely drop out, and it’s still just as devastating. But some songs totally rock and are loud and fun. I wanted it to feel like that, like a thunderstorm, those moments that come in and out. But a lot of it was experimentation. It wasn’t as much part-writing on most of the songs as it was just throwing paint, if that makes sense.
There’s this delicate little dance that happens at the end of ‘Self Control’ between the guitar and piano, which is so beautifully subtle. What do you remember about that moment?
That’s so cool. That was the first song we recorded on the album. It was with my friend Kost [Galanopoulos] and Jacob, and it was so special. I was such a baby, and I brought this very simple song in. They’re both multi-instrumentalists, so we just learned the song and played it through a couple of times. It was me, vocals, guitar, bass, and drums, and it was just the perfect storm. We fell right into it, this simple groove, and I wanted it to feel like a radio, like something you’re hearing through a wall. It’s one of the songs on the record that I tried to make really restrained. And then we added those piano parts that feel ethereal, a little bit sparkly. That song is all about restraint and intuition, but it was fun. It was one of my very first real opportunities to play with a band that’s so good that right when they get there, they know the song. So it’s just like, “Okay, here we go.” But yeah, it was definitely the first song on the record, so it started there, and then it feels like this beast grew. We did ‘Another Round’ pretty much at the end.
I wanted to ask how your relationship with your voice has evolved over time and during the making of this album. How is it different from your relationship with the guitar, for example, as an instrument?
My relationship with my voice has grown so much. I went to school for music, and voice was my instrument. I took classical voice and jazz voice for years, and as much as it was tough, it taught me a lot about how to sing. During this record, I learned more about myself and my voice, how to use power and let takes come through that felt really angry or unsure. It was very unnerving, but there were many times while making the record when I asked everyone to leave the room so I could just try stuff and be alone. That really helped me a lot, especially at the beginning of the record. I was really nervous, and I needed help letting it go. Beyond that, it’s helped me do that in a live setting. I feel like I scratched a lot of the itch of the rowdy, wailing, youthful nature, vocally, of what this record is.
The idea of slow love, as something both grounding and all-consuming, is something that runs through the album, maybe as an antidote to the feeling of anger. To the extent that you’re comfortable sharing, how did you come to the belief you express in ‘Rushin’, that some love lasts because it goes slow?
Halfway through making this record, or maybe three-quarters of the way through, I met someone, and it totally changed my paradigm of belief. When I was writing most of the record and in the very early stages of tracking and finishing writing, I was so – it’s funny, I don’t even recognize that version of myself – I felt so broken. I didn’t know who I was. I was leaving a relationship that I had been in for over five years, and I was so young. I thought I knew what it was, and I thought I could hold on to it and pour myself and enough love into someone else enough to fix it. For the longest time, it was so heavy and somber, and what I deal with, mental health-wise, kind of compounded that.
Then there was just this switch, of feeling angry and allowing myself to explore those emotional explosions. It came up with ‘Touch’ – feeling like the person I was with doesn’t acknowledge me or didn’t want to lift me up anymore. It’s a song about physical intimacy, but it was me finally being fed up with it. Meeting someone and finally moving through a lot of this – exploring and dating and returning to my woman self, knowing her more – I feel like I learned more about love and about self-love, and that slowness is so good. ‘Love Slow’ is the only song on the record that is about this other thing, this little glimmer of what’s next. But man, that took me so long to learn. I think that’s why now, I look back on this record, and it feels so youthful, so different from where I am now. But it is a capsule of where I was. I feel very much on the other side of it now.
How do you feel like that glimmer manifests through the record, or has grown into your life now?
I think it has translated into self-trust. There are so many themes of anxiety throughout the record, and I think there’s also a glimmer of healing from that at the end. All the people who worked on this record helped me process what I was going through – even if we weren’t explicitly talking about it, it translated musically. While I was mixing with Alex, I could tell he intuitively got it. It was confirmation that songs will always be here for me, to help me understand human experience and my life. It’s like that cradle is always there for me, and there’s no shortage of that.
This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity and length.
Adriana McCassim’s See It Fades is out now.