Transient childhood informs songwriter’s layered works
She has sung to thousands of people from behind a microphone, but Maryn Jones can’t carry on a phone conversation in the company of others.
For a recent interview, she took refuge in a storage room at the Philadelphia coffee shop where she bakes cookies and granola.
“At least if I get stuck, I’ll have someone to talk to,” Jones said with a giggle.
Not that she couldn’t entertain herself.
The singer, who performs as Yowler, will play on Friday at the Big Room Bar. She crafts songs that sound as if they were pulled from the deepest corners of the memory.
On her 2017 debut record, “The Offer,” Jones used sparse instrumentation and a full command of language to explore her sadness and shame, much of it stemming from her upbringing in a strict — and transient — Mormon household.
The 2018 follow-up, “Black Dog in My Path,” expanded both the style and the message of her music, tapping into Enya-inspired synth-pop and selfreflective rock a la Jackson Browne. She will play through the record at the Big Who: Yowler Where: Big Room Bar, 1036 S. Front St. Contact: 614-449-9612, www.bigroombar.com Showtime: 8 p.m. Friday Tickets: $8, or $10 day of show
Room.
In "WTFK," Jones turns her religious trauma into a pop groove inspired by 1980s Scottish pop band Cocteau Twins.
"Petals," spare and dreamlike, represents her attempt to craft a song that she might sing to you alone in a dimly lit room.
“It definitely is a world you can get lost in, like a really good story,” she said of her sophomore release. “I wanted it to be layered and big. I wanted to make very loud songs but also very quiet, (so) you can go inside the song.”
Jones, who moved to Philadelphia in 2015 but spent the eight previous years in Columbus, relished the chance to riff off any bands she liked.
Before her move, she performed with the Columbus avant-garde folk group Saintseneca and the frothy punk quartet All Dogs.
Doing her own thing means she can wander aimlessly rather than cruise the straight interstate of band solidarity.
“I feel like, in other bands, I never really let myself be derivative of other music," she said. "But on this album, I was like, 'I just want to pay tribute to bands I love by being inspired by them.'"
Although her previous roles required less leadership, she slid with ease into fronting Yowler.
“I’ve always had a tendency to be more of a leader or boss people around on accident,” Jones, 30, said with a laugh. “I just like to be in control of my own destiny, in a way.”
Something that hasn’t changed since founding Yowler: her tour snacks.
Standard fare includes a tray of broccoli, hummus and free-flowing beer.
“I like to joke that’s what you actually get paid in when you’re in a band,” Jones said of the beer.
She doesn’t mind the random assortment of hours spent in mildewed green rooms, especially since her childhood operated a bit like a traveling band.
Jones spent her earliest years moving cross-country — from Colorado to southern California, then to Massachusetts and, later, New Hampshire — before landing in Columbus.
At the time, she hated the continual uprooting. Now, though, she’s thankful that she learned adaptability.
“I can adjust to any situation, which is huge on tour,” she said. “You really can’t plan for a lot of things that are going on in your daily life, your comfort or the environment you’re going to find yourself in.”
She’s still figuring out how to settle into a more stable self — Jones left the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints several years ago — but feels more comfortable in her own beliefs than ever.
“That’s what a lot of the songs are about — figuring out how to not be actively hating myself for being my true self,” she said. “A lot of it was sheer experience and pushing myself into an uncomfortable place that felt weird and wrong, and everybody in my life was like, 'What is wrong with you?'”
For Jones, though, life feels just right now.
The coffee-shop job is one of the best side gigs she has ever had, her music is exactly as she imagined it, and she has shed her shame.
Even getting stuck in storage closets has its charms.