Ahead of the release of his fourth album, Changes All The Time, the singer/songwriter takes Kelsey Barnes on a deep dive into the pivotal songs in his life.
James Bay is in flux. We’re sitting in a cafe in a cinema in North London when we speak, which has recently become somewhat of a frequent spot for Bay. “I took my daughter here to see Despicable Me 4,” he says with a laugh.
He welcomed her a few years ago — another big shift that has, naturally, impacted his artistry. “It’s not great,” he admits when asked how his relationship with change is. The concept of change is the crux of his new album Changes All The Time and yet, at 33, it’s still something he struggles with.
“I can't do anything about it most of the time, but I think I try and have control over it. I think maybe we all do to some degree, and I admire those who care less about having control. I care more about handling it, so I will try to write about it.”
There are nine years between the release of Changes All The Time and Chaos and the Calm, his acclaimed debut album. “It's jarring and daunting, but I’m also sort of proud,” says Bay, when asked about the span of time and how that time has shaped his own perspective of who he is as an artist.
“I have two thoughts. On one hand, you have no idea if you're going to get to a point where you'll be sat with someone one day saying, “It’s almost 10 years since your debut, you’ve released four albums and it's all still happening. On the other hand, if I’m being honest, a part of me always intended for four albums in 10 years and so on”, he explains.
“As an artist, life is constantly existing in a split screen existence where you're trying to stay humble and keep your feet on the ground, which can be difficult because of the other half, which is all about self-confidence. It’s rare to exist calmly in both ways, and interestingly, more than ever, not just creatives or people experiencing any level of fame or notoriety, struggle with that.”
For someone so aware of the industry after being in music for over a decade, one could expect a fairly contained, rehearsed interview. With Bay, though, there are no pre-planned calculated answers or withheld thoughts. Instead, he’s as intentional and eloquent with every word that comes out of his mouth, every utterance as important as the next.
Half an hour in and a barista brings over a pot of tea, quickly gaining the tenacity to hand Bay a scribbled note with his own music project, breathlessly saying “I’d always kick myself if I didn’t do this.” Does that happen often? “Not specifically,” he says shortly after snapping a photo of the note. “It’s a lovely notion, because it takes its own courage, doesn’t it?”
Ever since he was a boy, it’s clear Bay has been trying to be courageous in the face of change. First, it was mastering the art of sleeping over at someone else’s house when he longed for the comfort of home. Then it was grappling with the quick success of his debut single, “Hold Back The River” and Chaos and the Calm, that inevitably pulled him around the world.
“There's almost a precarious but undeniable truth to the idea that everything changes all the time that inspires me and frightens me,” he admits.
Bay is a seeker of the truth — the murky, scary, and sometimes downright unnerving truths that require him to make art. It’s the thing that causes him anxiety, but still has to be courageous when standing in front of it for the sake of his music.
“Changes All The Time is a brutal truth that I’m attracted to for all kinds of deep and dark reasons, I'm sure. Sweet and happy realities are fine and good, and sweet and happy, but the idea that for better or worse, things will change constantly, whether you or I like it or not", he reflects. "That felt like something that summed up not only the songs on this record, but the music I always make.”
Of his Nine Songs selections, Bay reflects that “this music has raised” him — crediting them as a medicine, a therapy session, and a proverbial arm around the shoulder. Although he’s not the same 11-year-old James Bay he was when he first heard “Layla” by Eric Clapton, the songs and their meanings have changed for him as he’s grown up.
“Born in the U.S.A.” by Bruce Springsteen
JAMES BAY: My first memory of this song is the reason why I picked it, and it has nothing to do with what the song is about. Before I was a lyricist, the music, melodies, and sounds hit me first. “Born in the U.S.A.” is my earliest musical memory, my dad played it because he's a Springsteen fan.
I probably wasn't any younger than four when I remember hearing it and I thought it was so triumphant and victorious, and it gives you goosebumps. My daughter is nearly three and I’m watching her react to music in film, and it made me think about when I heard “Born in the U.S.A.” in my family living room.
It brought me the same sensations that I had when I heard the theme song from the Christopher Reeve Superman movies. Even as a kid, I was anxious, and those movies and “Born in the U.S.A.” had this message of hope which made me feel better, for whatever reason, at that age.
BEST FIT: How has this song changed for you as you've gotten older?
There's a few different things. On a slightly geeky level, I've examined it. The synth melody is fantastic. "Born down in a dead man's town"—that vocal melody is very close to "Born in the U.S.A." It's like the same melody the whole time. There are two chords. It's so simple. Because I got into it at such an early age, I've never fully appreciated the lyrics until more recently.
I saw him on Broadway, and it was unbelievable witnessing him do that song completely differently from the original, really putting that lyric across. He approached it more like some sort of Delta Blues. It's changed over time, because I've changed. My relationship with it evolves because of me. It's the same, but it still lifts me. It still makes me feel like anything's possible and inspires me to go on stage and write.
It's so lean as a piece of art, and it's wonderfully long in this day and age. It goes on forever, and it's always good. It's always enjoyable.
"Yellow" by Coldplay
JAMES BAY: It's an amazing song. In a way, it's a song that opened my mind. Until I was about 20 or 21, I didn't like Coldplay. I didn't really like a lot of music that I love now.
18 to 21 is an interesting time for music fans. You're trying to figure out what you adore. By that time, you've probably adored stuff for a long time, since you were 11 or 12. That was absolutely your lane and your sort of musical tribe. But changes happen.
When I fell in love with "Yellow" and the whole Parachutes album, the people around me —my closest friends — had always loved it. I had always been, "Yeah, nah." I hate to admit that now. For some reason, I didn't get it, and I can't really tell you why. One day, it just clicked.
The big, fat, delicious, bendy guitar riff around "Yellow" is an awesome bit. As a guitar player, I was imagining how and where I could play it back then, and I've learned to play it since. It's happening on the lower end of the frets, and it feels great. I imagine it's a really lovely thing to play. The melody over the chord changes, the sound, the sonics, the drums, the way it comes down for the verse, what he says — “your skin, your skin and bones” — it's beautifully ambiguous. There's an abstract quality.
It taught me all these things and opened my mind as a songwriter. It wasn't just about doing things inspired by what I'd been listening to for 10 years. I needed new inspiration, and that album provided it for me, in a big way. "Yellow" was my way in, and I adore it to this day.
There's a clip — I can't remember why or where I saw it, maybe on a Coldplay documentary — of Beyoncé and Jay-Z privately at dinner, singing "Yellow." As a teenager, I wouldn't have connected Beyoncé, who does soulful pop, and Jay-Z, who does rap and soulful pop, with something as indie and guitar-driven as Coldplay.
But now, I love that all of that stuff connects. I enjoy celebrating a wide variety of music. It helped me realise it's okay to love more than just bluesy, guitar-y, or folky singer-songwriter things.
BEST FIT: I read it was inspired by Chris Martin looking up to the stars, the word yellow popping into his head, and writing it. Have there been any instances like that where you’ve created a song that quickly?
The first thing that comes to mind is kind of the opposite, but it was just as enlightening an experience. I'll never forget "Scars" from my first album. Interestingly, the verses came immediately and fully formed in all their detail. I was so proud of them — they meant so much to me, and they were so personal and particular.
But I couldn't write a chorus to that song for what felt like 18 months. I tried a couple of times. One of them I really stuck to for a minute, I sent it to my managers, and they were, "It's okay." I was like, "Fuck that. I need more."
Because of a little bit of pushback I thought, "I know these verses are amazing," and deep down, I so badly wanted to show them the verses and show them a complete song. But I settled for a seven out of ten chorus. When I finally got the ten out of ten chorus, the song became, and has become, a real fan favourite. I'm very proud of it. It took a minute, but the verses did the same thing for me as I think what Chris Martin had going on.
There's a couple of songs on the new record. One's called “Talk,” and one's called “Up All Night.” That first single came very quickly. I really love and appreciate my friend and co-producer on this album, Gabe. I wrote those songs with him, and he was the guy in the studio who was kicking me in the ass, saying, "No, if we need to write something, let's just have a go." We probably wrote seven or eight songs, but it was never the main priority.
We captured something in "Talk" and in "Up All Night" that needed to be written. I'm really grateful for that. Going to the studio is expensive, I'm pleased that I'm doing okay, but I'm not able to just go, "We're going to throw another six weeks at the end." The label, even though they support me, would say no. It can be a panicky thing when someone in the room is going, "No, let's just write."
I trust Gabe, and I love him. He was able to hold me in that experience and say, "Let's have a quick go. We've got all day; it's going to be fine." He couldn't change my anxieties, but he could hold me and assure me it would be okay. If I want to be slightly less romantic, I'm quite happy to get romantic with him. "Talk" and "Up All Night" were particularly intuitive experiences where there were things to say, and they got written. The music felt good.
Sometimes music feels so good that you find something to say. That happens too.
"Adagio for Strings" by Samuel Barber
BEST FIT: I was surprised to see this on your list — I wasn’t expecting it. It has a slow, mournful progression, which gradually builds in intensity and emotional depth, and it’s typically played at memorials due to it having a feeling of mourning and reflection. When did you first hear it? Why did it resonate with you?
JAMES BAY: First and foremost, it's the most moving thing. That alone isn't enough for me to put it on there, but it's affected me so much throughout my life. I remember as a kid, 9/11 had just happened. September is the time for the BBC Proms in England. At the time, I didn't understand this because I was just 11, but it was going to be a very emotional Proms.
This brilliant American conductor, whose name I forget, was there with either the BBC Philharmonic or another unbelievable orchestra. I was sitting in the living room watching this, and my mum seemed to know what was about to happen and shushed the room. She said, "Let's just pay attention to this," which wasn't always her way. She'd usually talk over the TV.
There are a few different things in that moment that really struck me. I was 11 years old, I was becoming a teenager and entering a stage of change and growth, going through new experiences. Emotions were becoming multicoloured for me. I was becoming a teenager, and all of this stuff was happening. I remember it was one of the first times I saw my mum cry like that because they played this piece. It was unbelievably moving.
The conductor asked the audience at the Albert Hall not to applaud once the piece was finished. The music ripped people to shreds. My mum, in her outspoken way, was a little bit furious because there was something unbelievably emotional about him asking for no applause.
He wanted to speak to the people we lost through this music. Some people applauded anyway, and that felt really confusing to witness. I think I cried. I struggle to cry at movies for some reason, but seeing my mum so moved was a vulnerability I hadn't witnessed in her.
This piece of music stayed with me forever for that reason. It moves me and has a profound effect on me. I almost reach for that sound whenever I hear it, and I find it hard to press play. Sometimes I make the choice to listen to it.
Do you listen to it often?
In the last year, at some point in March, I found myself listening to it and made a little playlist of music like that. I saw a piece of dance recently that had some really classic pieces of classical music in it. The context of that dance brought these pieces back to me, so I made a playlist of vocal music that moves me.
I've been drawn to this in the last year. I've wanted to hear things that don't have words, because words are no joke for me. I've got this playlist that has that piece of music in it, and it always rocks me to my core. It's as much because of that time and experience. Being so impressionable, starting to grow up, and 9/11 happening—all of that stuff. That moment of watching it on TV and hearing that sound, and seeing my mum's reaction, is no small part of it.
That's why it's in this list. It changed my life. I tried to think of music that did that, and that piece did. So I go delicately to that music whenever I want to hear it, because it's not to be messed with for me.
"Layla" by Eric Clapton
JAMES BAY: Oh, "Layla" is a classic. It's inspired by a poem about unrequited love, and there's an interesting story about Eric Clapton and George Harrison's friendship and romantic entanglements, but we can get into that another time.
BEST FIT: This song has two distinct parts: the punchy rock section, and the beautiful, piano-driven instrumental.
Yes, it's stunning. I remember the first time I heard it. I was in my bedroom, which was at the top of the stairs in my parents' house. My dad was playing the record downstairs, and I heard that iconic riff. I came downstairs and listened to the whole thing.
I was 11 and, with that grandiose 11-year-old energy, I told my parents that I needed to learn how to play the guitar because of that song. It played a massive part in why I even picked up a guitar, because at that age, when you’re changing so much, things mean more to you. "Layla" made me feel like I was tapping into something timeless, even though it was 2002.
It’s interesting — I went on tour with Ed [Sheeran] in 2019, we were having a break, playing football, and he turned to me and asked, “Why did you pick up a guitar?” And I told him the same story I told you. He’s the same school year as me, just six months younger, and he said he also was 11 and heard “Layla” and knew he had to pick up a guitar and learn how to play.
It's wild that a song could have that impact, and then you end up on the same tour with someone who had the same experience.
Yes, and "Layla" is not just a great riff; it's a great song overall. I've watched countless documentaries about its recording. I love Tom Hanks' take on it from Desert Island Discs. He listens to "Layla" and just marvels at it. It's one of those rock and roll records that will always turn you on, like Chuck Berry's "Johnny B. Goode."
I don't listen to "Layla" every day, but it's special whenever I do. The sound of that riff is just incredible. Seeing my dad react to it is cool because he loved it for 30 years before I even heard it. There's something beautiful about that continuity.
"Bridge Over Troubled Water" by Aretha Franklin
BEST FIT: This is a reinterpretation of the original song by Simon & Garfunkel. It definitely has more of a soul feel to it, a statement of resilience rather than a ballad. Why do you think you resonated more with the cover?
JAMES BAY: I think it says a lot about my specific taste in music. Aretha Franklin's vocal delivery is just phenomenal. When I was 18 and travelling to visit my girlfriend in Brighton, I listened to a lot of old music on my MP3 player. Aretha's compilation was always on repeat. It takes me back to those train rides and how I would just soak in the music.
Aretha's cover of "Bridge Over Troubled Water" is a great example of how a song can be reinvented. She does something truly unique with it. As a singer, her voice is an instrument, and the way she reaches and stretches in that song is magical. It’s not just about hitting the notes perfectly; it’s about the emotion and effort she puts into every phrase.
She takes risks, and that's what makes her stand out. She's my biggest influence and inspiration as a singer. I'm always striving to reach the heights she did, even though I know I never will.
Aretha plays the piano on that track, which is another reason I love it so much. There's not enough recognition for her as a musician. She wasn't just a phenomenal vocalist; she was an incredible pianist too. The song opens with this beautiful piano solo that sets the tone for the entire piece.
It's important to note that there’s often not enough acknowledgment of female artists' instrumental talents. Aretha's piano playing is as vital as her singing. The backing singers were also fantastic. They had to match her incredible standard, and they did.
This song changed my life because it inspired me to sing all over again. I was 17 or 18 when I was listening to that song. I was an okay singer, and I'm still trying to get better. But I've always loved learning through listening. Nowadays, we learn through looking more than ever. TikTok, for example, teaches people how to plaster a wall, and you can watch and learn from that. It's helpful, probably. But back in the day, we used to read words and listen to learn how to do things.
For me, listening to people was a profound way to learn. I would imagine, visualise where their fingers were on a guitar, what was happening in their throat, the shape of their mouth. Vocal coaches talk about the shapes happening inside your mouth and everything. You have to work it out for yourself, how you do it.
Listening to Aretha's version of "Bridge Over Troubled Water" was a real lesson. Her vocal performance taught me so much because of the beautiful, gentle, soft, lower-end moments and her control. Yet, she also knew when to let loose. Sometimes you've got to let loose. That record has been one of the ultimate singing lessons to me.
Is there a particular moment or part of the song that stood out to you?
The entire journey of the song stands out, but there's something about how she reaches for those high notes that’s magical. It's about the emotion she conveys and the risks she takes with her voice. It’s always a lesson in what’s possible as a singer. She inspired me to push my own limits and strive for that emotional depth in my performances.
It's a great Simon & Garfunkel song, but Aretha's version will always be special to me. It's not just a cover; it’s a reimagining that brings something new and profound to an already great song.
"Burn" by Ray LaMontagne
JAMES BAY: I remember I was with my family on holiday in Turkey in 2004 when it came out. It was blistering hot, and I had just fallen in love with this music with my brother. It came out 20 years ago and that makes me think, "Shit, that was 20 years ago! I was 13!”
BEST FIT: Why do you think it’s had such staying power, obviously, in your life, but over 20 years?
The whole album is perfect. I think that's a dangerous word to throw around, and I don’t throw it around often, but I’ll stick with that. For 20 years, it’s been probably in my top five. I’m always sad when someone hasn’t heard of it... but also it’s a blessing. You can be like, “Please listen immediately.” I know he’s not Bob Dylan famous, but there’s something special there.
Art can be tricky because it needs to be believable and when he breathes into the microphone, I’m like, “Oh, I feel that too” and all he’s done is breathe. I’m gripped. It’s when he sings, “And I'll stand here and burn in my skin.” We’ve all done that and half of us don’t even want to imagine it in that way because it’s too much.
Something about that tale is so similar to making music because there's an addictive quality to it. It feels really good, even when you're dealing with something heavy—an issue, a problem, heartbreak, sadness, a big feeling. It's something that feels wonderful, and that’s what’s so life-changing about the whole album.
That song always hits me, and there are so many on there I could have chosen. Respectfully, "Trouble" is down the other end of that list. I love that song partly because it got a bit too much popular attention. For some reason, every time someone asks me about the artist who sings "Trouble," I'm like, "Yes, but listen, I promise you “Burn” is just... It's excruciating as well." There’s something in me that relates to it, something deep that’s probably for another occasion. It's that feeling of not being able to have that thing you want.
Is there a lyric that really resonated with you?
He talks about another man in that song — "So kiss him again, just to prove to me that you can, and I'll stand there and burn in my skin." The way he sings all of that... I’ve sat and sung that song to myself a million times. So many lines in that song taught me the thing that all songwriters are trying to learn again and again, which is just to say it. Go on, just say the thing. It will be better if you just do.
There’s this idea that songwriting is a therapy and it will help heal you. But actually, you’re only one person writing it, or just a few people in the writing room creating a piece of art. It quickly becomes about the tens, hundreds, thousands, or millions of people that are receiving it and what the experience is like for them.
Maybe I’m speaking from an overly commercially minded perspective, but that’s where I am. I’ve had conversations with different artists who say, "Fuck all that." And I’m like, “Actually, no, not fuck all that.”
Touching on how truthful Ray LaMontagne is with his work, when you’re writing songs, is it still difficult for you to go to that vulnerable place or has it gotten easier after four albums?
I've done it more on this one than ever before, which I'm really proud of. The caveat is that it doesn't make it any easier to talk about any of it. I'm glad that I know that I did, and I hope people take these songs and feel the things they are feeling, and that the songs are helpful because that's a nice thing … Or an important thing, I should say.
Some medicine is nice, some is disgusting, it's still relevant [laughs]. I’m not trying to say I hope that music isn’t disgusting, but it — going through heartbreak or grief — is, unfortunately, disgusting. It’s a part of life, it will happen. Even that idea feeds back into why the album's name is Changes All The Time and why it's important to say the thing. It's not easy, but it's important.
Does it make it any easier to be vulnerable when people come up to you and say, “Thank you for this song, it helped me”?
Yes, there's something worthwhile about someone else getting something from it. There's a very rare occasion where I might not even let them know, but they might get the same thing from the song that I got from writing it. I haven't had loads of experience with that. What's funny is that sometimes, from a self-deprecating perspective, it's hard to hear someone say thank you. "I really needed this to help me," because sometimes it was just so hard to write.
But ultimately, I get to exist in this capacity, talking to you or doing anything that I do, because they did feel something enough. So there's a selfishness to what I just said that is important to compartmentalise. I confess, I do feel it. I don't necessarily even like to confess that, but I've just done it, so...
I'm still working that out, because it's a big moment when anybody pulls me to one side and says, “Listen, I need you to know…” If I've ever shared that with an artist I love, then it's meant something to me that I was able to. I feel very vulnerable in my answer to this question. I feel a bit revealed — good thing or bad, maybe.
I think I'm always trying to, at a base level, share with someone that I'm fine. You've tapped on a unique nerve, okay? [Laughs]
"The Bad in Each Other" by Feist
BEST FIT: This is the opening track on her 2011 album, Metals.
JAMES BAY: I mean, what an opening. There's one very novel reason why I ended up choosing this, otherwise it was very hard. There's a song called "Undiscovered First" that I really wanted to choose. But there's a million brilliant songs on that album, narrowing it down was very difficult. The whole album really changed my life.
The novel reason why I chose this song is that towards the end of that track, they're kind of rocking out musically. There’s a little bit less vocal at that point, and there’s something that someone does on a bass that you can do very quickly if you run down on the low string, pumping along at a certain tempo. It’s a really weird, offbeat section, and it just hit me in the heart the first time I heard it.
I've enjoyed it every single time. It's so subtle that when I've tried to point it out to people, they're not really dialled in. They're like, "Go again. What?” Which is annoying, because it's just unbelievable. Even the words “the bad in each other” is a set of words that I want to know about.
The lyrics explore the complexities of a relationship where love and conflict coexist, tell me what it is about the lyrics that spoke to you.
I think I can relate more than I’m ever willing to share openly, to the idea that there's bad in each other, as far as two people in any kind of relationship. I saw her play that album at the Royal Albert Hall, and we got tickets to stand in what they call the gods at the very top. They're not even seats. You just stand up on the barrel thing at the top. And maybe there's an idea that the sound's worse up there, but it sounded fucking unbelievable.
I'd been working with my managers at that time for maybe a year. They were really trying to help me with my songwriting and to focus it to something that had a leaner and sharper verse and chorus, and the chorus hopefully had something sort of...
Hook in it?
Yes, it's an important lesson on the journey. I thought I was getting quite good at learning that. Feist has created loads of hooks left, right, and centre on that album. It's very singable, but it's unique. There's nothing vanilla about it at all. "Comfort Me" is a song that says, "When you comfort me, it doesn't bring me comfort, actually." Okay, wow — you really said that thing that's so real. It was a lesson in songwriting for me.
She's a great guitar player. Again, does anyone know that? I fucking hope so, but I don't know if they do. She's an unbelievable guitar player. I'm a guitar player before I'm a songwriter or a singer — I really am inspired by her. She's a seemingly strong fucking woman.
Musically, it changed my life as a songwriter. It opened my mind again, just to talk again about those moments that open your mind. And boy, did it move me to the point that sometimes I say, “Hey, do you know this record?” It opened my mind again to the endless possibilities of songwriting.
This is one where I feel she’s really held a mirror up and decided just to peer right through and say exactly whatever she needed to say.
Exactly. You might not coat something in poeticism and analogies and metaphors, but you still hold the mirror, and the mirror is the scariest thing when you’re saying something directly.
"So Far Away" by Carole King
JAMES BAY: The whole album is unbelievable. "Tapestry" is the least unbelievable, hilariously. No shade, though. The whole album is outrageous. She's an artist, she's not just made marks on a canvas. There's so much finesse and elegance to her composition. It's beautiful.
"Doesn't anybody stay in one place anymore?" It's so rhyming. "It would be so fine to see your face at my door," but she's done that thing that's so hard to do. I believe every word you're saying, it’s like you're saying it to me in conversation, but it's poetry at the same time.
It doesn't have to happen all the time in music, and that's great. It's kind of the opposite to a punk approach, perhaps, but it's all subjective. It was a long time before I started touring that I heard that lyric, and I was desperately sad.
BEST FIT: As someone who tours, longing and distance is something you must be familiar with.
I put it in here because I knew it counted as a life-changing moment for me. Before touring, I found travelling and leaving people I loved to be so deeply anxiety-inducing and stressful, to the point there would be so many tears and I wouldn't go. I don't really like to confess that as a kid, I had times when I sort of bottled it at sleepovers and said, "I’ve got to come home. I'm sick. I'm not feeling this." And sometimes I was brought home, and sometimes my mum on the other end of the phone would be like, "Stick to it." And I'd be like, "No, I don't want to."
I'm watching my daughter, in the earliest stages, doing that kind of thing now and again. It's hard, but I grew up and held on to those emotions. I got better at sleepovers and whatever, but what stayed with me, unfortunately, and what was really examined so well for me in that song, is that eternal anxiety around leaving loved ones.
I get to do what I do and that's exciting, but it doesn't make it any less sad. As a kid, you’re like, "I want to go play football with my mates and then go back to their mum's house and have dinner there, and brush my teeth there, and get my pyjamas on," then suddenly I'm struggling, but I do want to do it.
It’s such a complex thing for a kid and it doesn’t change as an adult — you just get stronger at going and doing the thing, sticking with it, and getting through it. She [King] did that really well. There's such an effortlessness to listening to that song, which I admire as a songwriter.
I think a lot of these pieces of music that changed my life, of course, have been lessons in how to do it, how to make a thing, and how to exist in a world that I wanted to exist in. I read a book she wrote years ago — she was always trying to be this jobbing songwriter. She wasn't desperately trying to be…
A star?
Yes, you read my mind. Thank you so much. She was a jobbing songwriter, working in the Brill Building and all this stuff. I believe that lots of people in her life weren't as static as she was, or wanted them to be, or she wanted to be. So she wrote this song, "Doesn't anybody stay in one place anymore?"
It happens, doesn't it? We're kids, hopefully with some version of a family and stability, and then we're a bit older and more independent, and have our friends and our family, and our friends don't stay in one place. We go to university or whatever, first job, second job, first love, second love, all these things, and people don't hang around in the ways that you wish they would or could.
That song hits on all of those levels. As somebody who travels for a living and goes away a lot, it's always affected me. It’s been life-changing for me in terms of it helping me accept that — even with literally a tear rolling down my face. It helps me make peace with it.
"City Headache" by Scott Matthews
JAMES BAY: I wanted another sort of lefty moment because they're vital and crucial to my experience.
BEST FIT: I’d actually never heard of this record before.
Listen to the album. There's a more famous song on there that I almost chose instead, called "Elusive”. Lianne La Havas released a cover of it that was very popular in playlists and social media. It was a beautiful cover because she's unbelievable, but Scott Matthews is a very salt-of-the-earth individual who's made his work and his art for nothing more than to be able to tour it. He's not up there doing arenas, which couldn’t matter less to affect me as a fan of his.
There's something beautifully stylistic about it. "City Headache" does something for me that something like "So Far Away" does as well, which is it helps me digest quite a grown-up experience, which isn't just about specifically life in a city. I love life in a city, but you grow up and life gets very busy every day. I'm someone who's still quite new to parenting — I've got a two-and-a-half-year-old daughter. Life felt hectic and stressful before that, then it's a different version of that.
This is another song where it's about the sounds and the sonics. It's less the lyrics, but one of the ways that this opened my mind again is production-wise. This track really has sounds of cars and people bustling around in a particularly delicate way and is interspersed with the actual music. It's just bewitching.
I enjoy how immediately and how much I'm sucked into it. It showed me that you can do that. It feels a little bit meta in a way, almost like when someone breaks the fourth wall in a movie and you think, “Oh, me too.” I was 16 or something when I heard this song for the first time, and I was showing it to everybody because I was like, “Do you get this? It's amazing.” It's not even so much at the front of the track, it's at the end. It's the way that it filters back into the street at the end.
It did two things. It soothed me and helped me understand that it's busy out there — not literally the bustling streets but like one's brain when growing up and into the world, but here's a little medicine for that in the form of a song. It also helped me as a record maker on a production level. There are so many other examples now, but this was the first one and that's why I put it in. I think this was the first one that I really had a personal, private moment with.
After starting with “Born in the USA,” I felt we needed to go a little off-piste at the end. All the big guns, they are big for a reason, and they have every right to be in these lists. I almost looked at other people's Nine Songs lists, and I thought it was going to mess me up. It was already the coolest list of people, so I thought, “Let's just appreciate that they've all got cool ideas in the music.” So, between this and strings, I felt safe. I felt credible [laughs].
When you look at your Nine Songs selections, what do you think is the through line that ties them all together? Is it a similar concept to your album — things are changing all of the time?
It does attach to that actually — the idea of change all the time. But the throughline is how this music has raised me. It's helped raise me not just as an artist and as a songwriter, but as a person. It's been an arm around the shoulder, a medicine, a therapy, because sometimes with people, friends, family, their words aren't right or aren't enough. That speaks to the part of me that's been looking for songs without words more recently.
For this selection of songs, it’s stuff that raised me and it’ll keep happening. It’s one part of my brain saying, “You’re 33 now, you’ve grown up and had a kid,” but I’m sort of not done being a kid. We’re always growing up. I’m still doing that as far as making music, but even as a human being.
It’s interesting as well doing this interview, because it's hindsight that helps and that makes me able to answer this last question. It’s good to reflect back — reflection is a beautiful — albeit dangerous — thing.
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