MAPLE GLIDER: “I DIDN’T WANT TO BE THE PERSON I HAD GROWN UP AS”
Following the release of her poignant debut album I Get Into Trouble, Maple Glider caught up with Megan Graye about growing up in religion, overcoming trauma and how music gave her a voice beyond her songs
Trigger warning: This article contains references to sexual assault
“It's mind blowing how many times I've thought I’d never be able to write music again,” laughs Tori Zietsch – aka Maple Glider. We’re speaking via a video call from opposite sides of the world; it’s dawn here in the UK, but the Melbourne folk musician is cosying up for the evening in her low lit kitchen. Occasionally a distant shape in a robe shimmies past in view of the screen. “We’re very much a dressing gown house,” Zietsch giggles. She’s telling me about how she walked away from music a few years ago to discover if it was really for her. “I stopped performing and went travelling… but then I bought a guitar, moved to Brighton and wrote my album,” she says smiling.
If Zietsch’s debut album I Get Into Trouble is anything to go by, then her return to music should offer a great sense of relief. Released back in October, the heartbreaking, ethereal record is stuffed full of painfully intricate lullabies that detail her life’s highs and lows with a touching candidness. Zietsch’s voice is both soft and harsh, delicate and demanding, as if an extension of her existence. Throughout the songs, music surrounds her breathy call as cathartic piano and acoustics slowly envelop her. There’s a texture in her conviction that feels familiar to the rawness you might find in an Angel Olsen track, but her sound stands alone in its authenticity.
And whilst the 10-track record might be soft in sound, it’s by no means an easy listen. There’s trauma and hurt and sweetness in the crevices of each song. Themes of childhood, religion, family, assault, and her “shame in relation to sex” make for an extremely emotional listen. Tracks such as ‘Don’t Kiss Me’ and ‘Dinah’ address these topics directly, tackling blame culture in assault cases head on. “The same thing happened to me when I was only 17 / Do you think I got what I deserved?” she sings on ‘Dinah’, while in ‘Don’t Kiss Me’ Zietsch reasons: “My safety should not have to be earned / I was just a baby until you made me into a lesson to be learned”.
Zietsch grew up in rural Australia, where religion was embedded into every aspect of her life. She was discouraged from taking part in extra curricular activities because it meant spending more time around outsiders. When Zietsch picked up a guitar aged 11, she found that music gave her a sense of freedom that she hadn’t yet experienced. “It became such a big part of my life because it was one of the only opportunities where I could hang out with people outside of my religion,” she explains.
While her mother was supportive and drove her to lessons, there came a point aged 14 when she was no longer allowed to pursue playing. “That was a real turning point for me, because I decided: ‘I choose music and I'm leaving this shithole!’”. From that moment onwards, Zietsch refused to attend any further church meetings; her belief in music was far superior to her belief in religion. For her, writing songs was a way to have a voice in a space where she had never been heard.
On so many occasions since, music has stepped in to save the day. It’s as much a way of communicating with others as it is a way to understand herself, as turmoil is aired out more fluidly via the process of songwriting. This was the case for recent single ‘You’re Going To be A Daddy’, which was written when her younger brother suddenly and unexpectedly found out he was going to be a father. “He was opening up and there was an opportunity to restore our relationship,” she says, explaining how they had been in and out of contact for a while. “I just had so many emotions come up.” The pair had been separated when their parents divorced; she went with her Mum, and her brother with their Dad. For Zietsch, writing became a freeing and private way to express herself while creating a result that was later shareable. “There had been such broken lines of communication for so long; the song meant I could be unguarded with my emotions.”
Photograph by Bridgette Winten
In conversation, Zietsch is smiley and silly, but also sincere and at times self-deprecating. “I often think the album is so ugly,” she laughs. “But then I let myself sit in those emotions again and I think, no, it’s actually beautiful.” I’m curious how it feels to put such personal, trauma-based songs out there in such an unambiguous way. “It feels really good,” says Zietsch assuredly. “I've had this settled feeling and contentment with it; I feel lighter, but it took so long for it to feel that way.”
For a while Zietsch didn’t delve into any of her past. “I can’t believe how vacant or disjointed I was,” she recalls of the time before the album. “I couldn't accept things that had happened in the past and I completely disassociated,” she says. “Essentially, I did not want to be the person that I had grown up to be; I wanted to be entirely different.” Zietsch even moved from Melbourne to Brisbane in an attempt to reinvent herself, but that didn’t work either. “I had no great level of joy and no great level of sadness,” she remembers. “I had this big realisation and it completely unfolded.”
That’s when I Get Into Trouble was born. “I've only just realised that there are so many songs on [the record] that talk about the process of losing someone, or feeling like you should lose someone,” she says. “There's still so many little pieces I'm fragmenting together. It's my real life, and there are so many things that I have talked about within the music that are just the beginning of the conversations I want to have in the real world.” It wasn’t the writing that was hard, but instead the reflecting and sitting with the songs. Making the decision to share them was worse still. “I thought I’d processed this stuff and then I rocked up at recording and bawled my eyes out,” she tells me. Inevitably, there’s a tangible difference in the permanence that a studio promises. “It's interesting to have recorded them, because some are quite angry and defensive – and I think I was afraid of that. I can’t control the spaces in which the music exists anymore.”
While this is true, her bravery in sharing her traumatic experiences has given a voice to many listeners. “It's been kind of wild and a bit sad,” Zietsch tells me of conversations with fans at gigs. “A lot of people have said that it’s nice to hear those experiences out loud – and that’s the same feeling I get from singing [about them]”, she says. “It's almost like a sense of ownership; I don't know if that's real, but it feels like you're controlling the narrative. It's not just this wave of emotions and feelings of pain, it’s articulated into words that I can now hold and express.”
Unsurprisingly, the emotional impact of Zietsch’s songs is further exaggerated in a live setting – an environment in which she is truly at her best. The singer has been able to gather momentum in this space, performing shows in Australia, the US and Europe. “I've actually had moments where I've literally nearly cried on stage when I've been really into a song,” she says. “I think there is a level of safety that you have to have. There needs to be a bit of guardedness because you don't want to melt down!”
Whilst visiting the UK a few months back, Zietsch performed two intimate shows at Servant Jazz Quarters in Dalston, London. It was just her and an acoustic guitar, which had been purchased that very day. Down in the dark cellar, the audience – lulled into some sort of hypnosis – were so still that you could hear street noise outside. Between tracks, Zietsch told the stories of the songs like she was chatting to a close friend, and there were both tears and laughter. “The night before was so much lighter,” she recalls, reflecting on the poignant evening. “I felt quite vulnerable after the show”, Zietsch admits. “I've come to accept that it’s just a part of what music is for me and what compels me to do it,” she explains. “I'm just allowing myself to view every song as capturing a moment in time; I’m not defining myself by those moments, but allowing them to pass.”