Foto-© Jessica Foley

Manchmal muss etwas auseinanderbrechen, bevor es in neuer Form zurückkehrt. Genau dieses Prinzip prägt keiyaAs neues Album hooke‘s law, das am 31.10.2025 via XL Recordings erscheint. Über fünf Jahre hinweg zog sich die Künstlerin aus Chicago von der Musik zurück, um sich persönlich und künstlerisch neu zu finden, ihr inneres Kind zu heilen und Erinnerungen, Sehnsüchte und Schmerz zu erkunden. Diese teils dunkle und harte Phase spiegelt sich in einem Album wieder, das Verletzlichkeit, Widerstandskraft und Selbstentdeckung auf eine Weise vereint, die gleichermaßen roh und kunstvoll ist.

Bekannt für ihren Neo-Soul- und Jazz-Hintergrund, verbindet keiyaA auf hooke‘s law elektronische Experimente, selbst erstellte Synthesizer-Klänge und intime Songwriting-Momente. Parallel entstand ihr Theaterprojekt milk thot, in dem sie sich rituell ihrer eigenen Schattenseiten stellte. Diese Erfahrung prägte sowohl die Struktur als auch den Klang des Albums und zeigt, wie eng ihre künstlerische Arbeit mit persönlicher Heilung verbunden ist.

Im Gespräch mit uns berichtet keiyaA über ihren kreativen Prozess, die Konfrontation mit inneren Stimmen, ihre Suche nach Ausdruck und Freiheit und darüber, wie sie es geschafft hat, ihre Kunst trotz aller Herausforderungen immer wieder neu zu definieren. Als Black queer woman reflektiert sie zudem über Sichtbarkeit, Selbstwahrnehmung und gesellschaftliche Erwartungen. Dabei spricht sie offen über Unsicherheiten, die durch Farbe, Körperbild und feministische Selbstdefinition geprägt wurden, und darüber, wie sie diese Grenzen innerlich und künstlerisch herausfordert.

Thank you so much for taking the time to speak with us and congrats on the upcoming release of hooke‘s law. You‘ve mentioned that it took more than five years to grow. What changed for you during that time, musically, emotionally, or personally, that shaped its final sound?
There was a lot going on. I was still navigating a tough transition from right before I released my first album because I was housing and financially insecure. When COVID hit, rents dropped for a bit, and there was more government and mutual aid, so I became a little more stable during that period. But I never really cared for my mental or physical health. I was just like, gotta go on tour, gotta be a star. I’ve always had this way of compartmentalizing pain and suffering if I have to show up for something, and I got really good at that. After Forever, Ya Girl came out, that energy kind of expired and wore off. I think music lives forever, but there’s sort of a natural emotional cycle for an album. Once people started asking, “what’s next?”, I was left to sit with myself and realized I was in a lot of pain, exhausted, still financially unstable and housing insecure, but now with more pressure and attention. I’ve had depression and anxiety since I was a kid, from a pretty traumatic life, sadly. But, you know, throughout my two years in college I learned about mental health and had gotten some support. So by the time the second phase of life, I thought maybe I’d be all right. But then this deep wave of depression hit again which was really debilitating. You know? I started seeing a therapist who practiced IFS, Internal Family Systems, a trauma-informed approach where you see yourself as made up of different parts, all born from past experiences. The goal is to tap into your core self, which the practitioners believe everyone‘s core self is inherently curious and compassionate. And with that you get enmeshed with these other parts. Through that, and some breathing and Ayurvedic practices, I found myself doing a lot of inner child and inner teen work. Simple exercises, like asking my inner teenage self how she feels, and she’d say, “She’s mad. She wants to scream-cry.” My therapist would say, “Then go do it.” And I‘d be like, “I‘m not screaming in public,” you know? And eventually I did. That process made me start listening to the music I loved as a teenager which gave me a lot of new context around music. Nu-metal, heavy metal, black metal, hardcore, punk, post-punk — all this “dark” music that the general public dismissed in the early 2000s. I was just like, “Oh, I still love this!”. I felt a lot of shame when I grew up about my past loving nu-metal because I thought it was white male hubris appropriating hip-hop. Like, this is anti me, you know? But listening to it again, I was like “oh, this shit still hits.”. I understand now why my teenage self liked it, because it has elements of my people‘s music – of rap and hip-hop. It was also super technical and super melodic. The vocals were hitting and they just expressed emotions and rage in a way that was just really simple and direct. That resonated with me. And I’ve always loved how rappers express anger too. I feel like there’s a connection between hip-hop and punk. But as a young Black girl, I got messages like, if you’re Black and a woman, you do this; if you’re Black and a man, you do that; if you’re white, you do that. So I didn’t think I could just yell, ahh!, even though that’s all I wanted to do. At first, I felt ashamed about it. The next keiyaA album can’t sound like Slipknot, that’s just for me. But then I was like, “no, no, no!”. I realized that those “critical manager” voices — the ones that say “don’t do that,” were holding me back creatively. So I realized that my homework in my art is directly tied to my personal healing. My challenge is to express myself the way my inner teen wants to which is fucking mad, pissed, sad and unedited. To thank that critical manager part for trying to protect me, but tell it to relax and that I’m safe now. Once I had a batch of demos, it clicked: I was making art the same way I was healing, which was by not editing myself, just letting whatever needed to come out, come out.

It sounds like a lot of the work you’ve been doing is quite confrontational, but also about embracing your inner child and those different parts of yourself. When I first read the album title, I immediately liked it and it somehow felt familiar. Then I thought, wait, isn’t that from physics? And it actually connects to what you just described. hooke’s law is about pressure and how something bends before reaching its breaking point. That really mirrors what you went through over the past few years – bending, then breaking, and finally accepting. So what does that metaphor mean to you in this context? Was it intentional?
It was intentional, but I only fully realized it at the end. My art kind of has a life of its own and it’s something I learn from and devote myself to. I feel very spiritually tied to it, like I’m supposed to be channeling something through my work. My personal allegories are just reflections of that in some way.
At the time, I was already thinking about spirals. Not in the sense of “I’m spiraling”, but more about understanding the spiral intellectually. Then I saw a tweet from a writer I really respect, Mindy Harris-Williams, who wrote something like, “A downward spiral is a love of spring.” I had seen her tweet that once or twice and I was like, “wow, that‘s super poetic”. And as you said, that sounded familiar like something from physics.
When I finally looked it up, I realized there really is a physical phenomenon around the idea of pulling something down to its breaking point until it snaps back and propels forward. And I thought, maybe that’s the mantra that keeps me tethered to living. I know that sounds heavy, but during those deep depression episodes, I definitely had those dark thoughts. So yeah, the title was intentional but it’s also something I think I would’ve clung to even if I weren’t a musician, if that makes sense?

Yeah, it really does. It’s such a complex metaphor, but I found it really interesting. You also mentioned earlier that your process is very hands-on, and that’s something you’re known for – building your sound layer by layer. You produce everything yourself, sampling and arranging, which already makes your music feel so intimate. So I was wondering, how did you approach the sound design on hooke’s law? Were there any new tools or textures you wanted to explore this time?
Yeah, I mean, in general, I just love trying stuff. I love gear, I love drum machines. During lockdown, modular synthesis got really trendy and everyone was spending thousands of dollars on it, which definitely influenced me. I thought, “Okay, I produce in the box, I use Ableton, but I’m not a real producer until I’m using actual gear.”
I think that mindset came from growing up playing instruments which was my entry point into music — so I wanted that tactile connection again. I used an Octatrack drum sampler for a lot of the drum parts, and the new Roland remake of the old 808 on a few things. But a lot of it was still Ableton synths and VSTs, and just me digging around online, reading gear and VST forums, trying out new virtual effects modules and synths.
I‘m trying not to give away the fact that I pirated a lot of stuff. I won’t mention the names of the brand because I want them to give me stuff later. But yeah, I definitely torrented hella shit.
I think I’m most proud of the modular synthesis patches I made myself. One of them, for I Hate You and the intro track, took me hours to build from scratch, but it was so worth it. Still, I definitely feel like a beginner because now that I finally know how to use the gear: I really want to step up my sound design on the next album.

For someone who’s never heard your music before, that experimental sound really stands out. How would you describe it yourself? I know a lot of artists don’t like putting labels on their music, but if someone were listening to your songs for the first time, with all those different influences from R&B to soul and beyond, how would you describe what you do?
Soul music — experimental electronic soul music. There’s a lot of electro-jazz in there too. I actually didn’t realize how jazz it was until like a month ago. I was like, oh, this is the jazz I’ve been looking for.
I still see myself as making Black music, specifically soul music. I come from the school of neo-soul, which already has jazz, experimentation, and improvisation baked into it. That’s my foundation, just through a very electronic and experimental lens.

That makes sense. You also created the experimental theater piece Milk Thot, which you described as a kind of ritual encounter with your shadow self. What is it about, and how did working on that project influence the making of hooke’s law?
The deadline for the play came before the deadline for the album, so I had to finish a lot of hooke’s law in order to pull the play off. I already had a lot of beats, ideas, and demos written, but the way we blocked and staged Milk Thot, the writing, and the choreography really shaped the arrangements of some of the songs used in it. Those arrangements then influenced how I ended up recording the final versions on hooke’s law.
For example, songs like devotions, where there’s a lot of repetition, came directly from the play’s arrangement, and I wanted to honor that on the album. That’s one way the two projects interacted with each other.
I think it’s rare for people to make albums that come from different places or themes in their life. I felt like I was acting inside this sort of pseudo-fictional world based on my own problems before I completed the album. In a way, the play gave me the world to build the sound from, even though the sound originally created that world to begin with. Does that make sense?

It does. So they kind of depend on each other, the album and the theater piece. They both need each other in a way, right?
Absolutely. Yeah, absolutely. I’ve never really heard of or seen that done before. Part of what took so long to make the project was that I felt a bit of apprehension. I kept wondering, is what I’m doing the right thing? Does it make sense? Is it counterproductive? But yeah, that’s the relationship.

For those who haven’t seen the theater piece, how would you describe it? What is it like at its core?
At its core, it’s about the journey we all carry in a single cycle of a day that often goes unsaid. It’s a convergence of so many things. It’s very spooky, very witchy. Honestly, it’s hard to describe, but that’s what I would say.

I want to talk about stupid prizes now. You’ve mentioned being very spiritual, and that really came through when I listened to this song. At first, it felt like I was floating through this angelic soundscape, like I was in the clouds. But then the lyrics are the complete opposite. They really hit with raw honesty. When you’re vibing to the song and then pay attention to the words, it really hits, especially the line, “Tell me how I’m supposed to thrive when all I’ve known is to survive.” I was wondering, what is this song about, and where did that line come from emotionally?
Yeah, it came from what I described in the first question about having a sad childhood. Growing up, being free from that, going to college, stumbling and bumbling through your early twenties, realizing, “Ooh, that was rough.”
I thought I was healed, coming out with an album that talks about that healing, seeing people resonate with it, and then suddenly going right back to those same feelings as before. That’s what inspired the question: “How am I supposed to move on from this if I can’t escape these feelings?”
I wanted to paint a picture that no matter where I go, I still feel this pain. Depression is hard to talk about because it’s invisible for a lot of people. Many people who are depressed function in ways that seem productive to society, so it may not even look visible. This song was my way of trying to plainly describe what that experience is like for many people.

Yeah, and that makes sense because you talk about your whole life as a journey. Then there’s the contrast between the softness of the song, which now that you’ve told me about the inner child and the confrontational work, really captures that aspect of being very pure and innocent, like a child obviously is. And then lyrically, having those raw lines, that contrast feels intentional. It was really striking for me when I first listened to it, the soundscape versus the lyrics. Now that you’ve explained what happened over those five years, how much of it was about confrontation, it makes a lot of sense.
Yeah. Because I was already doing inner child work, it made it easier for me to access a younger voice that posed questions in a very simple, direct way. So yes, that was intentional, but once the song was done and I listened back, I realized I was having a conversation with my inner child. I didn’t even fully recognize the weight of that until later. That’s why I feel like I’m kind of a vessel. It wasn’t just accidental, but the main thing I focused on was not editing when it came out on the page. Just letting it be.

Another single, take it, which was just released on September 17th, feels much more physical and sensual, yet also layered with power and vulnerability. What side of yourself were you exploring in that song?
The side of myself that desires and longs. I’m a little touch-deprived, I think, so there are a lot of horny, touch-deprived vibes on this record. Part of my confrontation is my relationship with my own desires and sexuality. There are internal things specific to me that created shame around sex, but also external messages that say, “Women aren’t sexual beings,” or if they are, it’s only in the context of finding a husband, or it’s this mammification sort of thing.
Even though feminism has helped our generation a lot, we’re still confronting a lot of bullshit and sometimes regressing. All of that combined made me realize I needed to confront this. Take It was me not editing, just being like, “Yeah, I’m okay.” Sometimes that’s viewed as desperate — it has a negative connotation when a woman openly wants sex and says, “Please.” But I felt like it would be fun to play with that, and also to name it, to declare it.

In general, your lyrics often read like fragments of poetry, with a lot of imagery, rhythm, and double meanings. When I was reading through them, I wondered, is there someone specific, a writer, thinker, or musician who has influenced you, both your sound and your lyrics in general?
I think there’s a handful. Whoever I’m reading at the time tends to influence me. I was reading a lot of Simone White, and that’s where I got the name “Milk Thot” from. Her book of poetry, Dear Angel of Death, especially, where she wrote a lot of it while she was pregnant. She talks about her body changing and becoming a vessel for another human to thrive in and how strange that felt for her. She was like, “These are my milk thoughts now, I’m a milk girl.”
Jane Cortez is probably a big influence, especially for my last album. Her voice is kind of all throughout the album. She’s very confrontational, and I love the way her voice rings. The way she speaks in a speaking tone inspired me. When you sing, your voice is an instrument and you can make it pretty, but her speaking tone comes through a lot, and I really drew from that.
Also, more experimental jazz vocalists inspired me, like Gene Lee. Sarah Vaughan inspired me to lean into my lower register. On my last album, I realized I was writing songs above my actual register. Especially with stupid prizes, I was inspired to write more in my speaking voice. I got a lot of that influence from listening to Sarah Vaughan and Abbey Lincoln.

You basically just mentioned women, and that’s a topic you touch on a lot – womanhood, especially Black womanhood, queerness, visibility. I’d like to go in that direction if that’s okay with you.
Yeah, let‘s talk about it.

I was wondering, as a Black queer woman navigating both visibility and vulnerability, how has your sense of self shifted in the music industry since your debut?
When I first gained a certain amount of visibility, I think it sent me back into a level of insecurity that felt similar to how I did in my teens. I grew up in an environment that was pretty fatphobic and colorist. Even though Chicago is very segregated and I spent most of my young life around Black people, there was still a lot of colorism and fatphobia at school, at home, and in the neighborhoods.
So I kind of grew up believing I wasn’t really allowed to be feminine, or that I wasn’t that feminine, and just lowkey ugly. I internalized that idea, and it carried through college. Studying jazz and playing saxophone brought its own politics — being a woman instrumentalist versus a singer. Because I played an instrument, I got more respect from the guys, but I also lost opportunities to express femininity.
It took a lot of time, reading, and unlearning after jazz school to really divest from that mindset. Spending time around rappers and deciding to intentionally be feminist helped me. But then, becoming visible sent me right back there. I found myself in an industry where everyone’s younger, lighter, skinnier. And it was reinforced by the fact that my music became a kind of balm, a healing force for people. That made some expect me to be this ethereal, sage, wise, “come on baby” type woman. But I’m like, no – I’m just chilling. I’m clumsy, cynical, funny, kind of alt.
I even noticed myself subconsciously trying to mold to that image, the same way I did as a teenager. That’s what I mean by regressing. But then I remembered – I’m an artist. It’s my duty to be myself, to reinvent and challenge myself. So many artists have done that, even down to their look, their eras, their image. I realized I actually have the opportunity to confront that again through my artistry.
So yeah, it sucked, but it also became inspiring. It gave me juice. I was like, I can do whatever I want, look however I want. And now, in this era of my life, I find myself daring myself and if I want to do something, I ask, “So are you gonna do it?”. Whether it’s my hair or anything else, I’m kind of challenging myself to be myself.

It sounds like it took you some time to realize that as an artist you have this kind of freedom or even duty to explore those parts of yourself. But like you said, with visibility also comes vulnerability, and those thoughts of assimilation can always creep back in. It kind of reminds us that even artists who seem really big or untouchable are still just human, you know? So do you feel like the space or the visibility in general has expanded since then, or are you still pushing against the same walls sometimes?
I find it to be both, but I think the walls that I’m pushing up against are more in my mind. Outside, I think yeah, I still find myself getting surprised where, when I really lean into myself, that’s when people are like, “I love you, girl.” And I’m like, what? You know? So sometimes I still need to get reminded of that. But I find the walls expanding, my mental walls expanding more.

Lastly, after such a long and intense creative process, and since you mentioned still seeing yourself at the beginning sonically, where do you see yourself going next musically and personally? What can we expect from you, or maybe not expect?
What I will say is that I feel more like I want to sing more and explore my voice, vocal production, and songwriting more. This next phase I’m really interested in exploring what I can do in the studio with songwriting and vocal arrangements. Even though I want to dig into my sound design more, I also want to collaborate with more producers so I can focus on writing and singing. So it’s going to be more experimenting.

keiyaA live:
01.11.25 Hamburg, Überjazz