Foto-© Florence Sullivan

Mit ihrer neuen EP Fleeting öffnet Sarah Kinsley einen Raum zwischen Abschied und Aufbruch. Die Songs wirken wie schwebende Momentaufnahmen – reich produziert, vielschichtig und doch getragen von einer leisen, inneren Transformation. Fleeting bewegt sich zwischen Reflexion und Erneuerung, zwischen dem Loslassen eines alten Kapitels und dem vorsichtigen Betreten eines neuen. In unserem Gespräch spricht Sarah über musikalische Einflüsse, cineastische Klangwelten, radikale Ehrlichkeit im Songwriting und darüber, warum manche Nächte in New York mehr heilen können als jedes Gespräch.

Which three songs influenced Fleeting?
I’m definitely one of those people who can’t just conjure a song off the top of my head. But during the production phase of this EP, I had the longest stretch of time between writing it and waiting for it to come out. That space gave me time to really sit with what I was listening to.
I was listening a lot to The Blue Nile, especially their album Hats. There’s something about absorbing music deeply that seeps into your subconscious. That was definitely happening for me. Their song Let’s Go Out Tonight lived in my head for a long time while I was working.
I was also listening to New Order, particularly their more electronic records. I had Substance on repeat. And I was listening to a lot of Blood Orange.
Those three artists definitely found their way into my bloodstream at some point while I was writing.

Fleeting has a cinematic quality. As you move from Escaper into this new phase, how has visual storytelling influenced your sound?
I’ve always been happy with the label “cinematic pop,” or whatever people want to call it. The bridge between my classical world and becoming a more alternative or pop artist was actually film scores. For me, that felt like the most modern, applicable evolution of classical music. It sounds cheesy, but making music that scores your life has always been a huge dream of mine.
With this EP, I dug deeper into texture and building out the sonic world of each song. I can be a very maximalist producer — I love filling a track with layers — but now I’m more intentional. Something feels cinematic or evocative when you choose very specific sounds and textures.
I’ve been listening to more film scores recently. The score for Phantom Thread is incredible. And after watching a film by Luca Guadagnino, I actually wrote one of the songs on the EP. Film has absolutely seeped into my sound.

What about this project feels healing to your past self?
That’s a hard question. I’ve always been vulnerable in my music, but this feels like a new level of understanding myself — just saying what I want to say point-blank. When I first started writing, I hid behind ambiguity. Metaphors were a protection mechanism. If someone asked what a song meant, I could twist it. There was a wall between what I truly understood it to be about and what others could project onto it. This year I went through a lot of change. I felt stuck for a while. And I realized that being direct — saying exactly what I feel, what I want, what I desire — is actually much more freeing and powerful. There’s less double meaning on this EP. There are still metaphors, still moments of self-protection. But the vulnerability is deeper than I’m used to. And it’s forced me to confront things that might be harder to heal in conversation, but easier to process through songwriting. That shift has been monumental for me.

Is there a particular song you’re especially proud of from a production standpoint?
Lonely Touch is probably my favorite. It was the first song I wrote for the EP. The production is very maximalist — we packed so much into it. I felt bad for my collaborator Jake, who also mixed it, because I was very stern about not removing anything. I was like, “Don’t even think about getting rid of any of it.” I love quiet music — ambient, folk — but sometimes I just love noise. I love being drowned in sound. The outro of Lonely Touch is just layers at full volume. It feels like an unstoppable wall of sound. That was intentional. The song is about this unrelenting desire or yearning you can’t separate yourself from. I wanted the production to surround you and physically make you feel that. I’m really proud of how that turned out. There’s also a ballad on the EP called Referee that I’m really excited about — the production on that is some of my favorite work I’ve done.

On After All you collaborated with Paris Paloma. How did that experience shape the song emotionally?
I’m really grateful that collaboration happened. The vulnerability wasn’t so much about the lyrics — it was about inviting someone into my world of songwriting for the first time. As a self-proclaimed perfectionist, that was challenging. But it turned out beautifully. She sent harmonies and vocal melodies that were stunning. Hearing someone else sing my lyrics was a completely different experience from watching covers online. It felt intimate in a new way. It was quick, it was magical, and I’m really excited for people to hear it.

Much of Fleeting was written in the back of cabs crossing New York City. How did writing on the move shape the EP?
Living in a city is such a privilege — you’re constantly surrounded by newness. The visual world of this EP feels very much like city lights and silhouettes at night. That came directly from lived experience. I remember one night — I’d been dancing, it was incredibly late, I was exhausted. My feet hurt, I was sweaty, I felt gross — but also completely euphoric. There are moments in life where you feel entirely present in your body. That was one of them. It was during a really tough period for me. I got home at sunrise. The sky was this unreal color. The noise of the night was still ringing in my ears. That mix of exhaustion and catharsis — that’s something I only associate with living in a city. Growing up in the suburbs, nothing felt like that. That sense of aliveness, of newness — it absolutely seeped into Fleeting.