REPLICA: Why I Shape Shift

Hi, and happy June. I’m currently en route back to the east coast, where I’ll be playing a handful of shows with my incredible friend Alex, aka Daughter of Swords. If you live in or around NYC, Washington DC, or Durham, NC, please come see the cool new band we’re about to start putting together. These will (as far as I know) be the only full band shows in support of their excellent new record, and if you enjoy live music at all, you should try to catch one.

To rehearse a whole new band from nothing is an enormous undertaking, and despite the fact that it’s truly one of my very favorite things to do, it’s a hell of a lot of work. Up until fairly recently (the last handful of years, let’s say?) I mostly played my own music, in configurations that were time-and-road-tested. I often allude to the year my band Wye Oak played 200+ shows in a year (2012, I think) as an example of ‘careful what you wish for’—at that time, I would have given anything to play fewer shows, and resented the expectation (from labels? management? it wasn’t totally clear) that bands who were ‘having a moment’ had to tour endlessly.

Jump cut to 2025: the type of steady, mid-level touring that used to be the backbone of my livelihood has become, for many people, a money-losing proposition. The irony of this is that, in some ways, I got what I wanted—from a creative standpoint, less time to be spent in the trenches of repetition, more time creating new things. But, of course, the tradeoffs for this new reality aren’t something I necessarily would have agreed to, had I known the cost. Ultimately, I think what I miss the most is the feeling of being a part of an ensemble that is truly and effortlessly firing on all cylinders—a great live band. And, as it turns out, there is only one way to achieve this state: by playing shows. Lots of them. And sadly, in 2025, the majority of artists cannot afford to do this.

The alternative, which has become sort of a new normal for me, is to rehearse an entire catalog of music, only to perform a handful of times. I’ve done this sort of thing with many great bands that I admire—last year, playing bass and singing in Hand Habits for a single tour, or in THIS incredible supergroup, back in those heady days of early 2021, or THIS completely different supergroup, put together for Newport Folk Festival in 2022, or even last summer, when Wye Oak rehearsed a trio set to perform—only once!—at Merge 35. The idealist in me loves the purity of this format—create, rehearse, perform, repeat—but, if I’m honest, sometimes I wish it was easier to find more of a middle ground.

Anyway, I digress—this essay was supposed to be about a part of my career that’s always been a bit of a blessing and a curse—the aliases, the sonic shape-shifting. Which, I suppose, is at least tangentially related to what I’ve documented above—both tendencies involve an obsession with newness, the alive-feeling that comes from being inside of something that is still in the process of being born. I’ve had significantly less luck with the repetition part—even when an ability to inhabit those former selves would have made the nuts and bolts of having a career in music a hell of a lot easier.

A lot of people tend to misunderstand songs as an art form, or at least how they apply to the person writing them. I think this is in part a side effect of the narcissism of our culture, or a style of songwriting that is currently en vogue that a friend of mine once referred to as “humming your diary.” Of course songs are meant to be personal, but that doesn’t mean that they are literally true. Because, of course, in order to succeed as an art form, they must also be universal—there must also be room for the listener to see themselves in them, too. A flourish of specificity can be a useful device, but the songs I love the most find a way to be distinctive and broad at once. But, understandably, the singer is still the mouthpiece for the song, the lens through which the light refracts. So it makes sense that it would be difficult for a listener to remember to separate them, that they’re not always one and the same.

Those who have followed me closely (hi, guys!) know that I have always gravitated towards aliases. Similarly, I’ve always been extremely resistant towards releasing music under my given name. The logic behind this move has to do with the fact that it’s a lot easier to start a new band than it is to become a new person. But of course there’s more to it than that. The best way I can explain it is that sometimes it’s easier to decorate a room once you’ve decided on the aesthetic first. It’s always been useful for me to conceptualize an entire world first and let the songs be a natural extension of that. It’s so much fun to remove the limits of how a song is supposed to sound (or what “band” it’s supposed to be “for” and what that “band” is “supposed” to sound like) and just create something you enjoy in the moment.

The downside of this method is that I’ve ended up with a lot of stuff that doesn’t necessarily fit in any of my existing boxes. Or with songs whose aesthetic seems to dictate a certain type of performance. The song I’m sharing on Patreon today is a perfect example of what I’m talking about here. Back in 2010, I was obsessed with Body Talk by Robyn—I mean, who wasn’t, right? It’s a modern pop classic. I wore that record out and I’m guessing most of you did, too. I remember very vividly being on tour with Wye Oak in Europe and noticing a song taking shape in my mind’s ear—I could hear the progression, and the words, everything. It was strange, and of course very Robyn-esque, and the whole thing was quite uncanny. I wrote it down as soon as I was able, and was excited about it, but wasn’t quite sure what to do with it, exactly. I had exactly zero desire to try and be the kind of artist that would create such a thing—that is, to release it would suggest that I would then have to perform it, embody it in reality in some way. I couldn’t quite figure out how it would all make sense. I tried to perform it, karaoke-style, in the early days of Flock of Dimes, but that never felt quite right, either. So, lacking a better option, shelved it.

And honestly, I still think this was the right call—not because I’m not proud of the song, or that I think it’s bad—but because I’ve learned that it’s very important for me to be intentional about the things I put into the world. Because, for me at least, writing and recording and performing are two very different things entirely. And once you release something, whether you like it or not, people form attachments, and with those attachments come expectations. Of course, people will say that artists don’t “owe” their fans any specific type of performance. But I find the experience of knowing I’m disappointing people to be almost as uncomfortable as forcing myself to inhabit something in performance that doesn’t feel authentic to me. There’s an impasse; with no obvious solution to that inner conflict, sometimes it’s easiest to simply abstain entirely.

Fortunately, there is now a sort of middle ground available to me. I’m happy to give this song, called Replica, a kind of semi-official release—it was one of the first things that came to mind when I considered starting a Patreon, and I’m happy to have finally found a way in which it makes sense for me to share it. Listen HERE.

Special thanks to my dear friends Mickey and Chris Freeland, who are largely responsible for this song’s only existing recording, available now.

Thanks for listening.

From my many selves to yours,

JW

(Photo, from Newport Fest rehearsals, by Graham Tolbert, photographer of legend.)