Julia Jacklin is recalibrating her approach to making music, and there’s a distinct sense of power in that shift. When we spoke about her previous album, Pre Pleasure, in 2022, she suggested that her future self might take a more calculated route to writing and recording. “Perhaps with a bit more time I’d enter with a clear aim,” she told me at the time, “but right now, whatever unfolds becomes the record.” In a brief Zoom chat during the release week for her next project, The Gem, Jacklin arrives with a different perspective: the aim isn’t to clamp down on the process but to loosen the reins. By embracing the unruly tempo of how this album came together, she found a sound that genuinely feels like her.
“I’ve never shown up to a studio with fully formed songs before, and I think every other album left me feeling like I’d missed the mark,” she reflects. “I mistook that for unprofessionalism, not realizing that it’s simply how I work.” I didn’t need to reference our earlier talk; she’s negotiating with her past self in real time. She recognizes the 2022 version of herself and, throughout our conversation, quietly disagrees with that version’s stance.
On this occasion, she also resisted the impulse to rush the music out into the world—a habitual impulse she’s evidently been learning to resist. Instead of coercing the next chapter into existence, she let the process evolve at a calmer pace, riding the natural tides of creation before declaring herself ready to begin another album cycle.
The Gem marks Jacklin’s fourth studio record and her first release for the 4AD label. It finds her softening the ego while doubling down on those instincts she once questioned. The record unmistakably carries the imprint of a Jacklin project: blunt, piercing lyrics; intimate, almost confessional anecdotes; and melodies that pull familiar feelings into sharper relief. Yet there’s a more elusive current threading through the collection: these songs seem less inclined to justify themselves. Tiny moments become meditations that still the nerves; familiar emotional terrain is rendered unfamiliar, even comfortably unknowable.
On the closing track, “I Wish,” which features Australian folk duo the Maes, Jacklin speaks to a past version of herself—someone who struggled and deserved more support than she received. The song is, at its core, about resilience, yet not in a triumphant sense. It’s about evolving into a new person without pretending the person you were before needed to vanish. “Oh I grew/ Into a new shape/ Something new, a foreign landscape/ With no trees, not a drop of rain/ Would not believe things could grow from pain,” she sings in the final verse.
Her voice is pared back by sparse acoustic guitar and the Maes’ warm, nurturing harmonies. Together, they reach for something beyond resolution. Beyond serving as a powerful letter to her younger self, “I Wish” also feels less like a conclusion than a guiding thesis for The Gem: growth has no single correct path, and there is no neat arc that guarantees blossoming. Sometimes you simply become something else, and only later do you learn to appreciate the shape you’ve taken.
Read our conversation below.
Yay! Okay. How are you? How’s it going?
JACKLIN: I’m a little frazzled today—one of those jam-packed days that seems to stretch forever. I just had a haircut that took ages, and I’ve got a handful of tasks to finish. A new song drops in about 25 minutes, so it’s a classic day where the video gets polished at the last moment. I’m feeling a touch off-kilter, but overall I’m doing all right. How about you?
interviewer: I’m good. I woke up not long ago and am in the early stages of the day, hunting for the second cup of coffee. Do you ever feel anxious or excited before a single release because you know there’ll be a flood of reactions?
JACKLIN: It does become easier as the album cycle goes on. The initial single feels like a pressure cooker—trying to choose the one song that represents the start of a whole chapter is hard. Nothing ever seems like the perfect fit. Yet once you’ve released that first track and followed with a couple more singles, the process begins to feel more manageable. I’m actually feeling pretty good about this release, though.
Was there a reason you kicked off with “Get Away From Me (I Think I’ll Love You Soon)” as the first single?
JACKLIN: That choice came from the label—an entirely new relationship—so I figured I’d let them lead the way and trust the rapport. In the past, I’ve always sent the first single as the opener to anchor the album, but this time I didn’t. The campaign has turned into a practical exercise in letting go of a bit of control, and it turned out to be a strong start: a catchy, high-energy track that serves as an entry point rather than a verdict on the whole record.
It’s certainly the most upbeat moment on the album, aside from perhaps “Brand New,” which feels more expansive.
JACKLIN: I wouldn’t say it represents the entire sound of the album, so I was hesitant because I feared people would expect a wave of 1980s jangly rock and sunny vibes. You have to package a body of work into digestible fragments that entice people to listen to the whole record. If you’re an artist in the industry, you occasionally have to shed a portion of your ego and concede that this is the segment that will move the product.
That’s a really interesting point. I’m currently enrolled in a creative writing program, and I’m weighing whether a project should unfold as a series of essays or as a larger, interconnected work. There’s always tension between standalone songs and a cohesive collection.
JACKLIN: Albums are peculiar creatures. I adore them, truly. Yet I also know there are records I love that only truly resonate with me through a couple of standout tracks; the rest might feel like a supporting cast. Sometimes an album exists as a vehicle for two or three killer songs, with other tracks there to support and elevate. It’s not necessarily a verdict on the album’s quality if not every track hits. I’m often asked to name a perfect, skip-free album, and I can’t think of one. There’s almost always a couple of tracks I’d skip, not because they’re bad, but because the album’s magic often rests on a few peak moments. It’s inherently challenging to curate a set of songs that cohesively constitutes one record. It rarely feels entirely right to select a handful of pieces and pretend they stand as a complete universe.
I also recently heard you mentioned you wrote a standout song that didn’t make the cut. It’s the same idea: something remarkable might not fit the project at hand.
JACKLIN: I’ve chatted with a friend who makes a lot of music, and the moment you’re ready to release, everything unravels a bit. My takeaway is that you have to release anyway, because waiting for the perfect album to drop is a fantasy. The real work is in creating, releasing, and experiencing the vulnerability that comes with it. There’s always an element I wish I’d finished—something that would have been brilliant on the record—yet I must accept that I might never realize every idea I imagine. That’s part of the art—an ongoing fantasy, really.
After you finished the album, you revisited some tracks. I’d love to hear more about that—what distinguishes “not ready” from “afraid to release” in your eyes?
JACKLIN: It’s funny because I’m sometimes contradicting what I’ve just said. At the start of my career, I’d write a song, record it, shoot a video, post it on YouTube the same day, and then rush to work with this constant itch to know who’s seen it. I’d dabble in sharing things immediately, and I’ve learned to breathe and slow down. Over time I’ve found a balance, but this record’s creation was driven by a mix of restlessness and discernment. It wasn’t only about making the disc; it was about being emotionally ready to be a public figure and to articulate my work—something I hadn’t managed to do yet. I needed to be stable enough not to let the release derail me.
Releasing records can skew your nervous system in intense ways, and I knew I wasn’t ready in that sense. Yet I kept rushing because I’ve long felt time slipping away. That sensation began to fade last year when I finally slowed down a little. It’s been a personal shift as much as a professional one.
On a personal note, I’m curious about “Real Life.” That track feels like a dream—quietly magical and surreal without needing a dramatic build to a climax. It might be my favorite on the record.
JACKLIN: I’ve always gravitated toward songs that move with a steady, almost ritual pulse. They’re deceptively tricky to craft. “Real Life” used to be a real indie rocker in its earlier incarnation, but when I revisited it, I felt it no longer reflected who I am now. It felt like I was performing a caricature of my younger self, which wasn’t right. I wanted to experiment, and Rob Muinos helped me reimagine it in the studio. We treated it with an attitude more aligned to electronic music—live instrumentation, scrambled textures, and playful manipulations of tempo. The process was exhilarating and reshaped the rest of the album in meaningful ways.
There’s a line you’ve used about really enjoying the album-making journey and feeling satisfied with it—does that imply this cycle was more fulfilling than previous ones?
JACKLIN: It’s a feeling I’m still processing, and I’m not sure I’ve ever articulated it this way before. The sense is that you get the kind of album-making experience you deserve, or at least the one you find yourself able to concede. Looking back at earlier cycles, it’s hard to compare because each project has unfolded under different conditions, with different collaborators, in different headspaces. This time around, I felt more at ease with myself and with the people around me—they accepted my methods rather than trying to reshape them. My approach to creating music has always been a bit chaotic: sometimes I’ll obsess over a verse for years, other times I’ll walk in on the day of recording with nothing written yet. I’ve tried to be someone who arrives fully prepared, but I’ve never managed that with any record. That sense of chaos has always shaped the sound and it’s what made this experience feel uniquely healing. For the first time, I recognized that this is simply the way I operate, and that acceptance from everyone involved was a relief I hadn’t allowed myself to feel before. This was a singular, restorative experience for me as both a person and an artist.
The bio mentions your collaborators as friends. How has your relationship with creativity and friendship evolved during this project?
JACKLIN: That intersection is always delicate in this line of work. Even when you’re not formally friends with the people you work with, you end up spending so much time together that bonds form inevitably. But I also carry the role of employer in this dynamic, which can complicate things and is something everyone negotiates at various moments. The people I’ve worked with on this record—Robert Muinos, Jacob Diamond, Jess Elwood, Olaf Scott, Mimi Gilbert, and Richard Bradbeer—have been close collaborators for a long time. Mimi played bass on Pre Pleasure, and Jacob and Jess have been part of my circle for a decade; we’ve toured and created together across many projects. They’re people I’ve known for years and who have also become genuinely good friends outside the studio. It’s a situation that can become tangled, but with maturity comes a better sense of keeping some aspects of the professional boundary in place. We’re all older now, and we understand that certain conversations and displays of emotion belong at the door when you walk into work. So far, the arrangement is functioning smoothly, and the friendships are holding strong.
One more thing on visuals: the album art has a particular approach that seems to echo the previous release, Pre Pleasure, and this new project as well. Do you see a deliberate link between the way you present yourself as the performer and as a person, or is the overlap more accidental?
JACKLIN: It’s an interesting observation, and it isn’t something I’d previously mapped out, but you’re right—it does align with a similar idea. A lot of my album sleeves come from a fondness for tactile, hands-on work. On Pre Pleasure there was talk that the image might be retouched or that it wasn’t a single photo; in the end it was a shot of me standing in front of my TV. For The Gem, I crafted the necklaces I wore for the shoot. It feels like a shared thread. I’m not sure my mind will ever fully reconcile the split between Julia Jacklin the performer and Julia Jacklin the person, and I don’t think it’s something I anticipated. This job forces you into a persona, to some extent, and you can’t show up as your unadorned self in the room with lights and cameras. I used to get uneasy about that dynamic with Pre Pleasure; now I’m more amused and curious about it. It’s strange and a little bit mesmerizing to realize that my birth name—Julia Jacklin—also doubles as the name of my project, and that I sing about aspects of my life in public. I don’t see a way to separate those elements completely, and I’ve learned to accept that reality as part of the artistic process.
Would you change your mind about performing under your own name if you could relive the journey, or would you keep the same choice?
JACKLIN: Honestly, I’m not sure. I quite like my name; it has a certain symmetry I love. If I had a dull, unremarkable name, I’d probably be tempted to switch it, but with Julia Jacklin I feel there’s a satisfying ring to it. I used to be more sure—on the last cycle I would have said I’d drop my birth name in a heartbeat. Now I’m not so certain. There’s something intriguing about using your real name and letting it inhabit multiple facets of your life. I’m currently in a bit of an “I don’t know” phase, trying to stay open to what feels right without forcing it.
The Gem will be released on 9/25 through 4AD.
