Kimbra’s album comes from the Heart
When Kimbra refers to her third album, Primal Heart, as ‘‘the most confessional record I’ve made’’, she’s willing to go beyond the platitude and get philosophical.
‘‘I liked the idea of making a record where it felt like I was holding a listener’s hand, looking them very, very strongly in the eye, and telling them stories,’’ says Kimbra Lee Johnson, the New Zealand-born, New York-based musician.
‘‘The greatest thing I can give my fans isn’t an autograph or a cheesy photo for Instagram, it’s pouring my heart out and if I’m giving my heart to people ... then I have to be honest.’’
Kimbra uses words like ‘‘purging’’ and ‘‘detoxing’’ to talk about her new songs, which are studies in ‘‘vulnerability’’ and ‘‘self-doubt’’. Working with producer John Congleton, the approach was to keep things ‘‘very simple, very exposed and raw’’. Primal Heart’s sound echoes its title: the songs built around the essential components of rhythm and voice, its beats evoking the pulse of a heart.
The 28-year-old calls the record ‘‘a sonic version of me’’ and is not afraid of asking herself what that means and acknowledging the limits to how much of herself can be conveyed in music. With the release of her debut album, 2011’s Vows, she saw how her videos ‘‘unintentionally created a character, a persona’’, with her opshop outfits seen as making her ‘‘look like some psychedelic Disney character’’.
‘‘You watch yourself turn into a cartoon character, a projected idea of what people see in this thing,’’ she says. ‘‘And you can’t see it, because you’re in the middle of it all and you can never look at it from the outside.
‘‘That’s what inspires artists to do something totally different the next time, because you now have this awareness of how you’re seen by the world, and you want to reclaim your identity. No one wants to be pigeon-holed as one thing, because you’re filled with many contradictions and nuances and shade. No one person can be neatly summarised in a press release.’’
Kimbra doesn’t view social media as an opportunity to convey more of herself to listeners. Instead, she funnels everything into albums and live shows, comparing the latter to a religious experience. ‘‘I think of my music like a prayer and a protest,’’ she says. ‘‘On stage, you’re embodying the anger and fear and the chaos of the world around you, like it’s all coming through the art, the tension in the work, the beats, the resounding vibrations in your body, it’s all so visceral.
‘‘Other times on stage I feel totally naked, like I’m standing there exposed, giving everything. It’s a scary feeling, because if people talk over top of you, or are disinterested or critical, then it makes you question your own identity. Luckily, I can’t think of a concert in the past few years where I felt like I’ve bared my soul only to be met with disinterest.
‘‘People are longing for connection, and inviting them to share in this space you’ve created feels sacred. Which is why I say it feels like a prayer. In some ways, it even feels like a sacrifice.’’
– The Age