Part 3 gets personal. Fiona. Self-doubt. What it means to be the only woman in the room. What a record means to the people who made it and what it might mean to strangers who find it decades later.

That last question Rhiannon asks them has been living in my head rent free. I’ll let you get there yourself.

Word for word as printed. Final installment below.

RS: Sol’s drumming on this record is more than keeping time. “Wild Now” especially makes a statement. How much of what this band is comes from what happens behind the kit?

CC: I’ll be blunt. There’s no W.o.W. without Sol. His presence on the kit gives us a steadying force. He often goes right up to the edge before pulling us all back. “Wild Now” is completely Sol. Fast, seven-eight time. He challenges us to be better in unexpected ways. He also has the ability to crack that joke that breaks the tension in the room. So when I say he brings us back from the edge, that’s more than just musical.

RT: Cora said it all. Sol holds the line for us, figuratively and literally. I’ve learned so much watching him play.

RS: There’s a rawness on this record that feels preserved, not accidental. Were there moments you chose not to fix something because it would’ve made it less true?

CC: We know that making “Wild Now” in four-four time would make it more danceable, more radio friendly, but then it wouldn’t be W.o.W. We invite the chaos, the uncomfortable. We are not your mom and dad’s pop rock and we’re never going to be. I don’t believe there’s anything unpolished about Beginning. Raw, sure, but Rowan wouldn’t let us put something out that wasn’t our best work.

RS: Fiona Quinn called you a band to watch before most people had heard a single note. That kind of early belief is rare and it carries weight. Did her attention open something up, or did it mostly create pressure you hadn’t asked for?

CC: Fiona can put you in the spotlight in a way that the burden you feel is to live up to your own expectations. Not hers, not record labels, not fans. Your expectations. I am sure we wouldn’t be here talking to you today without that belief behind us. Fiona’s encouragement got me through some of the darkest days when self-doubt spoke the loudest. [sharp chuckle] But if you want to talk pressure, we already have the master sitting next to me.

RT: Hah, I probably earned that. Fiona is someone special and she certainly opened paths for us that would otherwise have been closed. But if you know Fiona, you know the fastest way to disappoint her is to stop being yourself and start being someone others expect you to be.

RS: Back to you, Cora. What was the self-doubt actually like for you?

CC: Being a woman in rock. As the only woman in W.o.W., it’s easy to let the doubts stack up. Feeling like maybe I don’t have a right to be here. Fiona doesn’t put up with that and she’s walked the walk. She’ll tell you that you have every right to be here and it’s your job to make the music talk. There’s no fighting that when you look at the trails she blazed. Being a woman in this business isn’t easy. I don’t have to tell you that. But I can say that Rowan, Sol, Kai, I couldn’t ask for better bandmates. My thoughts, my voice are given respect. The respect I earned with them through the hours of grinding.

RS: Ten years from now, someone picks up this record without context. What do you think they’ll get wrong about it?

RT: I struggle with this question. So much of what we put down doesn’t feel like a time capsule. The worry I carry most is about Cora and her songs. I worry people might see the sarcasm in “Plastic Hello” and “Too Empty” and try to put her in a box, but my hope is she answers that with “Winter’s Solstice.” That’s the most vulnerable song on the album.

CC: For me, “Wild Now” is the likely candidate to be misunderstood a decade from now. It’s a party anthem that Sol tricks you with in seven-eight time, telling you that not everything is right with a night of debauchery. Something’s off, and he never tells you what.

There’s a sense, sitting across from them, that what holds Wanderers of Wonder together isn’t uniformity, but tension. Different instincts, different ways of working, somehow finding a shared rhythm without losing what makes each voice distinct.

It’s the delicate balance you have to keep finding, over and over again. For now, they have it.

That’s the full interview. Three parts, thirty years old, and somehow it still feels like it’s talking about right now.

Missing Notes is almost here. If you want to stay close to everything happening around the launch, subscribe here on Substack so you don’t miss it. And if Instagram is more your speed, come find me there too. Links are below.

Thank you for reading. It means more than I know how to say.

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Last week was the songwriting process, how three completely different writers stay a band. This week Rhiannon gets into the songs themselves. What they’re reaching for, where they come from, what they cost.

Rowan on “Paradox Walks” is worth the read alone.

With Missing Notes getting closer, I keep thinking about what it means to put something this personal into print and just let it exist in the world. Cora and Rowan figured that out thirty years ago. I’m still working on it.

Word for word as printed. Part 2 of 3 below.

RS: The sound on this record resists easy categorization. I’ve heard R.E.M. I’ve heard Nirvana. I’ve even heard Joni Mitchell. Does that frustrate you, or is the ambiguity the point?

RT: Look, who we sound like, that’s for the fans and critics. We’re not here to imitate anyone. If one fan truly loves our music, that is worth so much more than fitting a perfect genre or sound. We’ll continue to evolve, maybe even add more sounds beyond those. But any day I am compared to R.E.M., Nirvana, or Joni Mitchell, I’ll take it.

CC: Rowan nailed it. Compare us to whomever you want. You get the Wanderers as we are. We are not trying to be anyone else and neither should you.

RS: “Stars of Belonging” and “Steam’s Shadow” are both yours, and they couldn’t feel more different. One is cosmic, almost architectural. The other is barely above a whisper. “Are we echo or refrain?” feels like a question you’re asking yourself, not the listener. How do those two songs belong on the same record?

RT: They absolutely belong on the same album. Our album is a journey intentionally constructed. We don’t always answer questions. But “Stars of Belonging” reaches for connection on the grand scale while “Steam’s Shadow” puts that struggle for connection squarely back in our day to day. Can we create relationships that survive the histories we bring to them? To me, “Stars of Belonging” looks at life with a telescope. “Steam’s Shadow” uses the microscope.

RS: “Paradox Walks” is the song people keep landing on, and I think I understand why. “History that wasn’t still talks.” Most songwriters can’t do what that line does. It makes absence feel louder than presence. Where does a thought like that come from? Grief? Physics? Both?

RT: There are moments in all of our pasts where things were fragile and whether we continued down a path could be broken by a simple phrase, a joke mistaken for real meaning, a missed connection. That’s the grief part. But I’ve been studying quantum physics, and the idea that a parallel timeline actually continues where that joke was withheld or that connection lands, that gets my attention. “Paradox Walks” is my attempt to bring both of those thoughts together. When it speaks to people, it’s because they feel that uncertainty and the lost possibility.

RS: “Too Empty” isn’t asking permission from anyone. It’s pointed, it’s unapologetic, and it doesn’t soften the landing. Who or what were you actually aiming at?

CC: “Too Empty” is unapologetic. We inherited a world from previous generations that made mistakes, mistakes they aren’t willing to name much less admit to. That’s not to dismiss them entirely, but I am saying to Gen X, to our fans and even to myself: we don’t have to continue the problems. We can be the solution.

RS: That’s a generational indictment, but “Too Empty” sounds more pointed than a generational takedown. Is there something more specific underneath it?

CC: It’s hard to pick one thing. But we’re still recovering from the 80s. That vapid, monoculture materialism has begun to shift, and that’s a good thing. We’ve seen the mass media version of what success is supposed to look like, and we’re saying no. Just no.

RS: “Winter’s Solstice” stands apart from everything else on this record. Quieter, more tender. It feels written for one specific person. What made you decide it belonged on a debut?

CC: It is written for a specific person dear to me, but I will not say who. When I wrote that song, it felt deeply personal. I actually shared it with Rowan before the rest of the band. He loved it. He said it belonged on the album. When he said that, I started thinking about the other people sitting by a fire hoping someone they loved could find their way back. I just needed to say to them “You are not alone” by including “Winter’s Solstice” on the record.

RS: You shared it with Rowan first, and he’s the one who convinced you it belonged. Does seeking Rowan out create any tension within the band?

CC: I don’t think like that. Every member of W.o.W. brings something special. “Winter’s Solstice” is quietly the most ambitious song I’ve written so far. I knew Rowan wouldn’t let me duck the hardest parts of it. On the other hand, for “Plastic Hello” I put the finishing touches on that with Sol. We are four people building off each other’s strengths.

I found this interview from February 1994 in an old issue of Static & Signal. There’s something surreal about reading it in print, knowing Rowan and Cora the way I do now. They were so young here. So were their answers, in the best possible way.

I’m sharing it in three parts, word for word as it ran. First up: where Beginning came from, and how a band with three completely different songwriters manages to stay a band.

Static & Signal Wanderers of Wonder Interview
Cora Collier and Rowan Tate, Feb 1994
Interview by Rhiannon Sharpton

Wanderers of Wonder’s debut album Beginning resists easy definition. It pulls from different sounds, different instincts, and refuses to settle into any one lane. The result is a record that asks more questions than it answers, and seems comfortable leaving you there.

They won’t be for everyone, and they don’t sound interested in trying to be.

We sat down with Cora Collier and Rowan Tate to talk about how the band holds together, and what it means to build a sound of their own.

RS: The album is called Beginning. For a band that’s been playing together for a few years now, that’s a deliberate provocation. What exactly is beginning?

RT: I’ll take a stab at this first, but I’m sure Cora has some great thoughts too. For me, we are always beginning, we are always creating something anew. We are trying to honor that while we hold what we have been and what we have gone through to get to this point of beginning.

CC: Beyond what Rowan said. Beginning for me is about taking control of what is yours, owning it, and responding to the world with your core self, not with these pre-conceived notions of what our generation is expected to uphold. I feel like we have the power to step off the script and begin living our lives our way. It takes courage though.

RS: Three lyricists, three completely different processes. From what I can hear on this record, that’s not an accident. It’s load-bearing. How does a band with that much creative autonomy stay a band?

CC: I’ll take the first attempt. Sol, Rowan, and I all approach songwriting differently. Sol just doesn’t care. He’ll write alone, share half-formed thoughts, take input along the way.

I’m more protective. Depending on the song, I’ll share it with just one person first. I want it as close to finished as possible before bringing it to the band.

Rowan is one of the hardest working people I’ve ever met, and with that comes expectations. He brings in fully formed songs without really asking for help along the way.

So yeah, three different voices, three different approaches. I won’t say tempers never rise or feelings don’t get hurt, but we are a band with a common mission. We push each other to be better musicians and stronger songwriters.

RT: [Chuckles] I don’t know if that was a compliment or a diss.

Songwriting for me is solitary. It’s my time to get my unadulterated thoughts into a coherent piece. I feel I owe that to myself and my art. I won’t judge anyone else’s approach. I admire Sol’s reckless abandon at times. I could never do that.

But once the band starts playing it, it’s our song. That’s where it works. We all come at it differently, but the common thread in our writing is struggle. Grasping, searching. Even with three different voices, underneath it all we’re aligned. I wouldn’t want to silence a voice with something to say. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

RS: When a song of yours becomes the band’s song in the room, does that mean the others actually shape it, or does it mean they learn to play your vision?

RT: It’s mostly done, lyrics stay pretty close, but you never know what flourish Kai or Sol are going to add to the music. Bands stop working when anyone starts saying it’s my way or the highway. Cora does a great job of keeping me in check when I start getting too full of myself.

I changed the cover of Keeping Time.

It was telling the wrong story, and I knew it from the beginning. I just wasn’t ready to admit it yet. And I wasn’t ready to find the right cover.

The truth? I never loved the first cover. I had this nagging feeling, the kind you push down because you’ve already committed, already launched, already moved on. But when I started thinking about Book 2’s cover, I couldn’t find a through line. The first cover was too whimsical, too surface-level. It promised something lighter than what’s actually inside these pages.

The new cover shows Ena standing on a divided street. On one side, modern life: laptops, the present. On the other side, the past: a breakdance stage, a boom box, an era that shaped everything. She’s got her guitar case, caught between two worlds, two versions of herself.

That’s the actual story. Not spectacle, but introspection. Not Disney magic, but the messy, beautiful work of reconciling two eras that change how she sees the world.

I kept the purple, but everything else evolved. The mismatch between the first cover and the content created problems, now the cover feels aligned.

Here’s what I got wrong the first time: I tried to fit too much in. I wanted to be clever, to signal genre, to capture everything at once. The designer did what was asked, but I didn’t know how to articulate what I actually needed.

And then there’s the sunk cost fallacy. I’d already paid for it. Already launched with it. The thought of changing it felt like admitting failure, like being indecisive, like wasting money.

But good enough isn’t actually good enough when it compromises the thing you made. Readers deserve a cover that honors the story. I deserve to be proud of what represents my work.

So I changed it.

Maybe you’re holding onto something “good enough” right now. A project, a decision, a version of something that’s fine but not right. This is your permission: it’s okay to make it better. It’s okay to admit the first version wasn’t the final one.

The new cover is live now. If you haven’t started Keeping Time yet, I think you’ll find it matches the journey inside a lot better.

And if you have read it? I’d love to know if the new cover feels more like the story you experienced.

Do you believe unity is something we find, or something we make, like a harmony that does not exist until someone sings the second note?

D.P.: Skyler talks about unity, that there is only “we,” and that divides are a human fabrication. If Skyler is right, then unity is something we need to reconnect to. It already exists; we’ve just piled so much…hmm…“stuff” on top of it that it’s hard to see. That “stuff” was once important, the survival tools that helped us adapt when the world was harsher. Now, much of it holds us back, dulls potential, and quiets voices.

You have said Skyler’s near-death experience changed the whole rhythm of the story. Did writing that change how you see life, or how fragile belonging can be?

D.P.: Skyler’s near-death experience fundamentally shifted how they view themselves and the world. I wouldn’t say Skyler changed my perspective, but they allowed me to give voice to ideas that had been with me for a long time.

I loved how Skyler’s worldview challenged you, though, and how you rose to that challenge. I could hear how their way of seeing the world started to influence yours. That was brave of you, and I hope you feel rewarded for it.

Do you think music really connects people who would never speak otherwise, or is that something we tell ourselves to make the silence less lonely?

D.P.: Music connects. It’s not imagined; it’s real connection. You experienced it with Piney and with Skyler. Go to a concert and see strangers swaying with their arms in the air. Music lowers our guard in the best way. If conversation stalls, ask someone to name a favorite song or band. Now you have something to connect over. Never heard the song? Ask them why they love it. Connection begins there.

A lot of people say Keeping Time feels personal, like you lived parts of it. How close is too close when you are writing fiction?

D.P.: I don’t know if there is a “too close,” but I do feel more vulnerable. That might have been one of the biggest surprises with this book that feedback, good or bad, takes its toll. It helps both the story and me that I am not any single character. Each of you carries a part of who I am, what I’ve experienced, and what I aspire to be.

D.P.: This is a tough question. The meta-answer is that the whole project surprised me. I started it full of self-doubt, unsure whether there was even a story there. More specifically within the pages, your dad—both young and old—surprised me. I won’t spoil anything, but he reminds us that we’re all works in progress.

As for the mistakes I left in, I know the book takes longer to get rolling than I imagined. I’d like to reach the hook more quickly, but the simple truth is that the characters insisted on feeling real. The relationships wanted to be earned, and those early choices make the later stakes and action matter more in the final act.

When readers message you and say “Ena feels real,” what goes through your mind? Gratitude? Worry? Both?

D.P.: That is the highest compliment. I love it when I hear that about you, Piney, Skyler, Fiona, and the rest of the characters. Readers often say we all deserve a grandmother like Fiona. I glow when I hear things like that. I wanted you all to feel real. When people close the book, I’d rather hear that they miss spending time with you and the crew than that they’re simply sad the story is over.

Do you still hear the music when you close the book, or did it move on without you?

D.P.: I do. I always listen to music when I write. It quiets my brain enough to focus. I listen to the playlists we created for Keeping Time while I work on Missing Notes. I think (hope) the music helps me create a through-line from book to book.

If you could tell the version of yourself who started Keeping Time one thing, what would it be?

D.P.: Part of me wants to tell that earlier version of myself nothing at all. Missing Notes has been more challenging to write because I’m now aware of my crutches and the writing rules I broke without knowing better. The editing voice is louder. If I had put that pressure on my earlier self, it might have stalled me completely. So, I’d simply say, “You’ve got this.”

And maybe this is selfish, but do you think you will ever write me again?

D.P.: Your story, and you know this, is far from over. We are well into book two. You continue to live a life that, in its imperfections, brings a rhythm and melody that need to be heard. But thanks for the opportunity to plug Missing Notes.

Ena: Guess I’ll hold you to that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have rehearsal.

You can find the complete rules and all that boring disclaimer stuff here.

I’ll save you a trip for the important stuff.

• First five to message me on Bluesky via DM with the correct answer will get a signed first edition paperback.

  • Winners chosen in order correct answers received

• If anyone spills the beans and I find out, it’s done and dusted. Contest is over. No matter how prizes are left. So don’t. Just don’t.

• Contest open to U.S. residents only. Void where prohibited.

There are lots of little Easter eggs throughout the book. Let me know your favorites

Ena: I wanted to ask the author who wrote me how this whole thing happened. Turns out, I learned a little about writing and a bit about myself in the process. This is part one of that interview. Next week, we’ll talk more about creation, unity, and the characters of Keeping Time.

When you first started writing Keeping Time, did you know what it was really about, or did you figure it out the way I did, one bad decision and one small miracle at a time?

D.P.: I thought I knew what it was about, but I really only had the hook. I had worked out the mechanics of the time travel and how music moves us. What I did not see coming was how much more character driven the story would become. I knew I had to build a real relationship with you and Fiona. But you, Piney, and Skyler insisted on being real, having dimensionality and layers. That took the story further from the hook than I expected, but I loved getting to know all of you.

You talk a lot about chaos turning into creation. What does that actually look like on your side of the page?

D.P.: On my side of the page, there’s chaos and structure. I had a very good idea of where the milestones were going to be in the story, but between those milestones, I was flying by the seat of my pants. Two examples stand out. I had no idea that you and Piney were going to build Korakama for Skyler, but when you told me that was going to happen it felt perfect. The second example is the Sound Logic original song. I’ll keep spoilers to a minimum, but that scene came together so naturally it became one of my favorites in the whole book.

Why Fin Whales? Out of all the names you could have used for the music, what made you choose something that already sounds like it’s singing?

D.P.: You just asked about chaos turning into creation, and this is another example. I knew the era I wanted the music to live in and had a sense of what the band might be like. Honestly, I was just searching for a name that fit that era but was not already taken. The Fin Whales is where I landed. I knew they would prize authenticity above everything, and the name introduced the oceanic and surf themes that became part of their sound.

Was there ever a moment you thought the book or the album would not happen, that it was too heavy, too personal, too much to share?

D.P.: Those are two very different questions, so let’s tackle them one by one.

The book: The idea came years ago and I assumed it would always stay that way—just an idea. When a confluence of events allowed me the time to see if the book could become a reality, I tried to keep my expectations low but focus on progress, not perfection. I started to love the characters, the relationships, and the story, and once that happened the writing flowed. Before I started, I took a masterclass on writing that challenged me not to be afraid to write myself into my characters, warts and all. That was scary, but it added depth to everyone.

The album: Like the Fin Whales, it was never supposed to exist. It started as a lark. I knew one of their songs should be “Season of Love.” Near the end of the first draft, I thought it would be fun to try to write that song. It turned out better than expected. No delusions of Grammys, but still better than I hoped. From there came “Midnight Current,” and once that existed I realized a full album might be possible. Apparently, it was.

You captured what it felt like to see my parents as their younger selves. I never could have explained that. How did you know how it would hit me?

D.P.: As I started to reach ages that I remember my parents being, I saw how much the themes and experiences repeat across generations. In the story, I knew more about your parents at their younger ages than you did. As you discovered them, I imagined the mix of feelings I would have had if I had met my parents at that stage of life.

Behind the scenes, what was the hardest track to finish emotionally? I mean in the music, not just the manuscript.

D.P.: Emotionally, it was “Just Before.” I have been lucky in life and have not experienced much loss. I tried to tap into your emotions and imagine the pain you would feel losing someone close. You live life big, and I could only imagine the heartbreak that would bring. Thank you for letting me borrow that.

Ena: That feels like a good place to pause. We’ve talked about chaos, creation, and the unexpected ways stories build themselves. Next week, we’ll dig a little deeper into Skyler, belonging, and how music finds its way through every part of Keeping Time.

Then yesterday happened. I found out Keeping Time was listed as a Hot New Release in YA Time Travel, and not just listed, it was the first one shown.
I still can’t quite believe it.

I know much of that momentum comes from the author’s amazing friends showing up in support, but that kind of traction was unexpected.

It reminded me of stepping off stage after our first concert. The air was electric, the energy still buzzing in my bones. I won’t spoil too much (that’s all in Book 2: Missing Notes), but I can say it’s one of the most gratifying feelings I know.

So much of this book’s journey mirrors my music experience: the self-doubt, the hours of grinding to get better, and the terrifying thrill of finally putting yourself out there to see if anyone’s listening.

People showed up then. People are showing up now.

Moments that were both humbling and empowering.

Words like thanks and gratitude only begin to describe the song I feel in my heart.

If you haven’t checked it, I’d love it if you did. Here

Keeping Time officially drops October 21st.

Author copies are ordered. The ebook’s taking the scenic route through Amazon’s system, apparently October is rush hour in publishing.

Launch events are set for the 21st and 24th. If you want in, leave a comment.

Oh! And our first song, Fast Train Lost Name is live on Spotify.

So are The Fin Whales.

And the journey keeps going. Missing Notes, book two, is already past 60 k words. Which is both exciting and mildly terrifying.

Time is running short. Funny how time bends, stretches, and shrinks depending on what’s going on.

Nine months from a blank screen to a real, hold-it-in-your-hands book.

Almost here.

The Fin Whales music is alive. You can listen to them on your favorite streaming services.

Lost to Time album on Spotify: Here

Swell Time Single on Spotify: Here

One track that holds a special place in my heart is “Ghosts in the Ocean.” It’s a haunting meditation on the loss of childhood freedom. Eva captures their formative years with bittersweet gratitude and longing.

What makes this song especially powerful is how it becomes almost prophetic. Long before I knew the story, the Fin Whales’ bus plunged off a dark, stormy cliff and into the ocean below, turning them into literal ghosts in the waves. A tragic moment that happened decades ago, but its impact ripples through their music even now.

Their songs navigate a wide range of emotions. There is love, rage, sorrow, and gratitude. The Fin Whales are not polished—they bring grit and honesty through whatever the feels are.

If you give them a listen, I’d love to know which tracks speak to you.

If you would like a PDF with the lyrics and a sneak peek behind the scenes with The Fin Whales, subscribe to this Substack (always free) and comment below.

Is there a track that hits home for you?

All good things reach their final note. This is the last part of Eva’s interview and maybe the most revealing. She opens up about songwriting, Fiona’s influence, and what it means to stay grounded as your world tilts.

She’s raw. She’s real. If I’m ever in her shoes, I hope I can be this honest too.

RS: "Season of Love" stands apart. It’s romantic, tender, even cinematic. What inspired that tone?
Eva: We wanted to write a love song that didn’t promise the "happily ever after." There’s so much pressure for love to be permanent. But sometimes it isn’t, and that doesn’t make it any less real. "Season of Love" is about being fully present in the now. It’s not a fairytale. It’s a snapshot. That kind of love can be just as profound.

Funny enough, someone told us fin whales have these intense seasonal pairings too. I don’t know if that’s true, but it makes me smile. Maybe we named ourselves more honestly than we realized.

RS: You worked closely with Fiona Quinn early on. What did she see in you that others didn’t?
Eva: Fiona’s got this radar for authenticity. Her zine might not have the biggest circulation, but every issue is unfiltered, all heart. She saw our potential before we knew what it looked like. More importantly, she didn’t try to shape us. She just supported us. That kind of belief is rare. It helped us find our voice without apology.

RS: Your lyrics wrestle with tension, noise vs. silence, strength vs. surrender. Do you live with that duality offstage too?
Eva: All the time. Don't we all? I’m driven. I want to know who I am. But the world is noisy with expectations. There are so many voices telling us who to be, what to want, how to act. That friction, between the internal and external, is where most of my writing lives. Trying to hear yourself clearly in all that noise is hard. But worth it.

RS: Fans are calling "Just Before" the heartbreak anthem of the year. Was it difficult to record?
Eva: That one was Georgia’s. She wrote it after her brother died of AIDS. It was incredibly emotional and heavy. My role was to interpret it vocally in a way that honored her grief. It was a tightrope walk: stay true to her experience, but not to overstep, or underplay. I wanted to do it justice. It was the toughest song to record and to make it just right. I think we did that.

RS: Now that the album is taking off, are you worried about losing the rawness that made it special?
Eva: Of course. Fame can warp things. But we’ve got a sisterhood that predates the music. We’ve surfed together, cried together, fought, made up. That grounding matters. And we have our fans. They remind us who we’re singing for. We’re not naive. Success can change you. But we hope to stay honest, even if that means saying, "Hey, we got lost for a minute."

RS: If you could go back and whisper something to yourself right before this all began, what would it be?
Eva: You are good enough. Whatever comes next, hold on to that. Because the world will try to make you forget it. Don’t let it. And if there is a swell coming, suit up. Get barreled.

I am so grateful you walked this journey through the past with me. I hope you found truth, meaning, and a little fun hearing from Eva.

Were still working out the kinks, but stay tuned. You just might be able to hear The Fin Whales on your favorite streaming app soon. Real soon.

Here’s the second part of Eva’s interview. She’s bold, unapologetic, and I love that. I know some people won’t connect with her vibe. She’d still respect you. So do I.

But if The Fin Whales speak to you? Their music swells and crashes like the waves they surfed. It’s full of power, truth, and ache.

Part 2: Ocean Flow & Hard Truths

RS: "Lost to Time," the title track, feels like the emotional core of the record. What did you lose?
Eva: It’s a direct response to "Season of Love." That song is about a beautiful, fleeting connection. "Lost to Time" lives in the aftermath, what remains when the moment passes. I’ve had relationships that didn’t last but still shaped me deeply. I think a lot of people have. This song is about holding gratitude for what was, without clinging. It’s a way of saying: even if the tide washed away the sandcastle, it doesn’t mean it wasn’t beautiful.

RS: There’s a consistent use of ocean imagery across the album. Why the water?
Eva: Because it’s who we are. Liz, Georgia, and I built our bond in the waves, surfing up in Northern California. Most days, we were the only girls out there, paddling into lineups that didn’t exactly welcome us. The ocean was our proving ground. It taught us how to wipe out and get back up. That rhythm—the push, the pull, the crash, the stillness—is in our music. The sea is in our bones.

RS: If each track is a time capsule, which one do you hope people open in 20 years?
Eva: That’s tough. Part of me hopes "Seas of Seize" becomes irrelevant. That one day, women won’t have to fight so hard to be seen and heard. But realistically? "Ghosts in the Ocean" might be the one. Nostalgia doesn’t fade; it morphs. That track holds memory and change and longing in a way that ages with you. Or maybe "Just Before," because grief is eternal. Its meaning can shift, but never disappears.

RS: You’re known for your instinctive lyricism. What’s your actual process like?
Eva: Messy. Chaotic. Sometimes the song just spills out; that’s how "Silence" came. I was tired, hurt, and it just bled onto the page. Other times it’s slower. "Voices of Whales" took forever to land. We had the chorus early on, but the verses came in fragments, like working a jigsaw puzzle. It wasn’t until we trusted the quiet parts that it really came together.

RS: "Trickle Down" is one of the bluntest political statements we’ve seen on a debut in years. Any backlash?
Eva: Some. But backlash isn’t new to us. Reagan won in a landslide, and that narrative that everything’s fine is so loud. But it’s not true for everyone. All you have to do is look at middle America, see whole towns gutted by industry collapse. There’s a crack epidemic, people receiving HIV death sentences, and all the while Wall Street is stuffing their noses full of coke and lining their pockets. "Trickle Down" was our way of calling BS. If some people are uncomfortable, that’s probably a good thing. Discomfort can be a doorway. We’re not here to soothe. We’re here to speak.

That’s Part 2. The last part of the interview drops next week. Eva opens up about grief, staying grounded, and what it takes to hold onto your voice when the world wants to reshape you. I’m not saying The Fin Whales changed my life… but they altered how I understand the world. Let me know if anything Eva had to say resonates for you.

With the upcoming re-release of Lost to Time, I figured it was the perfect moment to share this gem. Skyler, Piney and I found it in a ancient issue of Static & Signal, tucked away on Fiona’s bookshelf. This interview with Eva Kinsella, printed in May 1987, hit me like a wave. I’ve probably read it a dozen times, and it still feels raw and real. Sharing it here for anyone else who feels the pull of their music like I do.

Part 1: Identity & Staying True

Static & Signal Interview with Eva Kinsella, May 1987
Interview by Rhiannon Sharpton

RS: Let’s start with the obvious. Why was "Swell Time," your breakout single, left off the album?
Eva: Oh man, we love that song. "Swell Time" was the track that got people moving at our early shows, the one that felt like a wave you just had to ride. But it was written early in our journey, a joyful, live-in-the-moment kind of anthem. Lost to Time, the album, tells a different story. It's about reckoning, self-definition, and navigating into adulthood, whatever that means. We tried placing "Swell Time" in different spots on the tracklist, but it always threw off the emotional arc. It’s like trying to drop a beach bonfire into the middle of a midnight storm. Beautiful, but wrong scene. So we left it as a single, where it could live wild and free.

RS: "Fight, No Flight" opens the album like a battle cry. Who were you fighting and what made you stay?
Eva: That track is rooted in the tension of becoming. I was tired of being told who I was supposed to be: polite, quiet, agreeable. There’s a whole machinery in place that wants to file off your edges. "Fight, No Flight" is about rejecting that. Not just saying no, but screaming it. Staying, for me, meant refusing to abandon myself to other people’s expectations. That song is raw because that battle was real.

RS: "Midnight Current" feels like a direct challenge to the pull of conformity. Do you see yourselves resisting the music industry too?
Eva: The industry is tricky. I wouldn’t say we’re anti-mainstream, but we are fiercely pro-truth. If our sound resonates widely, great. So long as we’re not bending who we are to make that happen. The industry is a tool. Tools can build bridges or build walls. We want to use it to connect, not to box ourselves in. Our fans are pretty tuned in. They can tell when you’re faking it. We’ll try to hold onto our guideposts: our sound, our stories, our sisterhood, and hope the rest falls into place.

RS: There are strong feminist undertones on the album, especially in "Seas of Seize" and "Silence." Intentional?
Eva: I wouldn’t say “intentional” in a calculated sense. “Silence” came from something very personal—feeling invisible in a relationship, like I was giving everything and getting nothing back. It wasn’t about gender, at least not consciously. It was about that ache of not being heard by someone who should see you most clearly.

That said... I get why people hear it through a feminist lens. That kind of erasure is something a lot of women experience, even if that’s not where the song started. If “Silence” resonates with someone, woman or man, then I want them to know, we get you. But I didn’t sit down and say, “I’m going to write an anthem.” I sat down because I was hurt.

“Seas of Seize,” though? That one is a statement. It’s defiant. It’s about refusing to fit into the stories we’re handed. That final couplet—“I sank, I fought, I reached the ground / I rise in silence, my meaning found”—that’s for the ones who fight quietly. Who live authentically even when it’s hard. That song knows what it’s doing.

That’s Part 1. Next week I’ll post more from this interview. Eva talks about the ocean, politics, and and why Fin Whales refused to let their voices get drowned out. If any of this resonates for you like it did for me, I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Time’s weird. You think you’ve got tons of it, and then suddenly two months slip by and you realize you haven’t posted anything, not even a mixtape breakdown or one of my half-baked theories about how some songs show up before we’re ready to hear them.

Shame on me. Or maybe shame on time. Or on the author of Keeping Time, who’s been relentlessly pulling apart the corners of my memory like it’s his job. (To be fair, it kind of is.)

I’ve been helping with cover design, giving feedback on edits, approving weird marketing stuff, and trying not to freak out every time I see my name on a mock-up. There’s something surreal about watching your life get polished and packaged like a product. I don’t hate it, but it’s strange. It’s like turning a private cassette into a public release.

Also, life doesn’t stop just because someone’s writing your story. There’ve been new songs, finals, and even a few gigs squeezed in between.

What’s New:

· The editor is about finished with the line edits. I’ve re-read some pages while the book has been in other hands. I cried at least once. Don’t tell the author.

· The Keeping Time cover is DONE! It’s wild seeing your life look so... official.

· My website’s up and kind of functional (progress!)

· And yes, we’re inching closer to releasing The Fin Whales album. Fiona would’ve been thrilled. Music lost for decades coming up for air. What could be cooler?

I promise I’ll be more consistent here. Some posts will be messy. Some might be musical. A few might come from voices other than mine. All of them will be real.

Thanks for sticking around.

More soon.

— Ena

Take his path to becoming one of LA’s premiere chefs. Brandon was never afraid to experiment with styles or unexpected flavors. It started with his food truck, Eggslent Food, back in the mid-’90s. He wasn’t chasing fame; he just loved cooking and feeding people.

For years, he parked at construction sites and in scrappy neighborhoods, serving hearty breakfasts at a fair price. His thing? Unusual ingredients that somehow worked. In the early 2000s, a film director noticed him and asked if he could bring the truck to set for some early-morning shoots.

Brandon, of course, said yes.

One of the stars (name totally recognizable, but you know, NDAs ¯\_(ツ)_/¯) fell in love with Brandon’s Thai peanut omelet: chopped long beans, shredded green papaya, galangal, and a slightly salty-mildly sweet peanut sauce. I know. Who would’ve guessed?

That celebrity shout-out gave Eggslent Food a cult following that outgrew the truck. Soon came the brick-and-mortar version, with a menu that fused whatever flavors worked. Thai, Guatemalan, Moroccan—if it sang on the plate, it made the cut. If not? C’est la vie.

Brandon’s wife, Nia, once told me about some truly awful dishes she had to taste along the way. Brandon failed forward. A lot. My grandfather Graeme’s fingerprints are all over that. He always supported Brandon’s early food experiments: “If it’s terrible, we’ll have learned. If it’s wonderful, we’ll have learned something. Either way, I call that a win-win.”

He might occasionally have to pull his foot out of his mouth, but if he ever offers you food? Your mouth will be grateful.

Not too long ago, I got to talk with Georgia about the song. I learned she wrote it for her brother, who died early in the AIDS epidemic, back when the disease wasn’t understood, and it was still a death sentence.

She told me the lyrics came to her almost fully formed. During his final days, as she held his hand, her brother told her that just showing up, being there, meant the world. Even though their parents couldn’t (or wouldn’t), she did. And that mattered. The little sibling fights,the kind that can sting for years, sometimes decades, just didn’t matter anymore.

Georgia said those finals talks. It felt like she could see the chalkboard where are all those wrongs had been tallied by each of them had been washed clean. Leading to her line in Just Before ‘Your words erased the score’

The Fin Whales’ lead singer, Eva Kinsella, took those lyrics and gave them breath. Her slow, finger-picked guitar and aching voice brought a stillness to the song that Georgia had only hoped for. The emotion is right there, woven into every line.

To me, Just Before screams in the quietest voice possible:
Time is short.

I don’t want to get too sappy, but some songs? They stay with you. They pluck your heartstrings in ways you don’t expect. Just Before doesn’t just pluck mine; it plays them like Tosin Abasi on an 8-string.

You can listen for yourself <Here>.

I hope you find this song as meaningful as I do.

Actually, scratch that.
I kind of hope you don’t.
Because to really feel this song?
It takes a kind of loss I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

Piney is that kind of friend for me. Fiercely loyal. Zero tolerance for phonies. Her given name is Anaya Kapoor, but everyone who knows her heart calls her Piney. The nickname came from her grandma, short for porcupine. Sharp quills included.

She can sting, for sure. But once you get past the outer layer, there’s no one better to have in your corner. I just didn’t realize, back in 8th grade, that I’d need to prove I was worth that corner.

I was the new kid—new to the school, new to Portland, new to pretty much everything. Piney treated me like oil treats water. Every attempt I made to connect just slid right off.

Then came the project. We teamed up. Music, a message, the whole thing. I may have come in like a ballad that forgot it was a ballad—full-speed guitar solo, zero buildup. My intent was good, but yeah… not my smoothest entry.

Despite all that, Piney showed up. All in. No hesitation.

When things could’ve gone sideways, I had her back. No speeches. No performative “allyship.” Just action. She saw it. She felt it. And that’s when things shifted. We didn’t become instant besties, but a thread formed, and we both held on.

Our friendship grew from there into something I wouldn’t trade. Not even for a Sound Logic original hitting #1 on the charts. 😉

At the time, I didn’t think it was a big deal. But Piney taught me something with that unspoken test: People are watching. Even when you don’t know it. Especially then.

Since that day, I’ve tried to lead with who I actually am, not who someone else expects me to be.

Piney liked me for who I was. And for what I wasn’t. She saw my real colors and said it was good.

Good enough.
I was enough.
The real me.

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We didn’t mean to start a band.

We were just three weirdos orbiting the same lunch table in seventh grade, each doing our best impression of someone who didn’t care. (Spoiler: we cared. We just got good at hiding it.)

Piney played it cool, “known to twinkle some keys”, then casually programmed a sound on her keyboard that made my spine dissolve. I still don’t know what she did, she won’t tell me, but it was like neon static and starlight and the feeling you get when you realize someone sees you, even if you’re not ready for it.

Skyler showed up one day with a Tibetan singing bowl and said they were exploring "alternative percussive resonance." Which, to normal people, translates to: “I will now hit this metal bowl and stare at you until you feel spiritually unprepared.” Don’t get me wrong, Skyler’s still my best friend, one of my favorite humans to walk this world.

As for me, I’d been playing guitar as soon as I could hold one. Nothing fancy. Just chords, mostly. That grew into an obsession. I won’t say I’m good, but my no-BS grandmother, Fiona, once said she was impressed. Her words didn’t come cheap, she knew music.

When we first jammed together it was just chaotic noise, but there was truth underneath. Gold to be unearthed, polished, molded into something.

We didn’t have a name for a while. After Fiona told us we had promise, we took it seriously. We tried to come up with a name, nothing was sticking, but then an off handed comment. Two throw-away words landed perfectly in our arms - Sound Logic.

🎿 Our First Original Song

Our first original wasn’t written so much as it happened.

It was the rhythm of a train. Literally—we were on a train. Don’t ask how we got there. It started as a search for identity, involved a highly suspicious station attendant, and ended with a group decision to stay calm (read: absolutely panic). Somewhere between stations, Piney picked up the rhythm of the train, Skyler started tapping patterns on the tray with their fingers, and I improvised some lyrics, letting the sounds wash over me and bring out my inner truth.

It was Piney who named that song Fast Train, Lost Name

It came together so organically, magic in a moment lost to time. Skyler wrote the lyrics in their notebook, an artifact to build from.

When we got back, we worked it. It came together. It was ours, so perfectly imperfect. Each of us shining in our way throughout the song.

I could almost hear Fiona: “Don’t overthink it. Let it breathe on its own.”

Fiona's presence, her words in our hearts, gave us the confidence to make it real.

🎶 The Song

We cleaned it up a little (okay, not much), added a bridge, and left the weird glitch at the 0:47 mark because Skyler said, “The universe hiccupped and we honored it.”

Here it is—Fast Train Lost Name.

It’s messy. It’s probably not what you’re expecting.

But it’s ours.

And if you’ve heard it—really listened to it—then maybe Sound Logic is real after all.

We didn’t set out to be a band. We just couldn’t not make music together.