There was a period in the last few years when Halsey thought, Am I gonna die or am I gonna be taking medications for the rest of my life?
They recount this realization with near total clarity: “I had a tiny little baby and I was on my tour, and it was my 28th birthday when I got the confirmation of my T-cell lymphoproliferative disorder diagnosis.” Halsey expresses worry that the story seems grim, as she talks through the machinations of fate and the universe. But there is a captivating edge to what the singer often describes as this grand melodrama of life, with all its beautiful irony. “I had to stop asking the universe for shit,” she says. “I had to just stop, because before this record, I remember being at home like, I have my perfect little family with my baby and my partner. What am I going to write about? I have nothing to write about.”
Halsey’s hands make sweeping motions as they continue: “I’m always writing about conflict and tragedy and transgressions, and I felt that I didn’t have anything to write about. The universe was like, ‘Yeah? What about this?’”
It’s clear that the intervention of the universe weighed heaviest on the writing process for this next album. “What kept coming up for me was this question about fate,” Halsey says. “I feel like when you get sick like that, the first thing you start thinking is: ‘Is there anything that I could have done for this not to happen?’ It kept coming up over and over again.” Doctors and confidants warned them the lifestyle of an internationally acclaimed pop star might ultimately be a detriment to the process of healing, of finding stability. “It seemed unfair,” Halsey says, “because the answer was, ‘If you want this to go away, quit your job.’” Broader questions of existentialism have come to define Halsey’s artistic output since 2015’s Badlands, threaded with these higher-minded questions — of fate and who exactly Halsey is in this world. Their eyes light up at my mention of these recurrent motifs: “If I spawned in any other decade, or any other parallel universe, does it always go this way? Do I always end up Halsey? If I end up Halsey, do I always end up sick? I was playing out these alternate realities.”
“Lucky,” the second single from Halsey’s forthcoming album, plays with these themes, too. The song interpolates Britney Spears’ iconic single of the same name: “‘Cause I’m so lucky, I’m a star/ But I cry, cry, cry in my lonely heart, thinkin’/ If there’s nothin’ missin’ in my life/ Then why why, why?/ Do these tears come at night?”
The process of filming the video for “Lucky” was, in its own way, healing for Halsey. “The scene where I’m getting the infusion, I actually had one of my nurses come to set,” they say. “In the video it’s just a nausea infusion, but it was really very solemn and it made everyone stop for a second.” They explain that, throughout their early diagnosis and treatment nobody wanted to freak them out. “I think because everybody was so used to me being in charge and in control, and really confident with a lot of direction and instinct and intuition about what I was doing,” she says. “I needed that little button on the experience to have everyone look around and be like, ‘Fuck, dude, oh my god.’”
Through their next album, Halsey found their writing process completely reinvigorated. “I spent a long time on this one, and looking back on it, I’m like, ‘Being in the studio is perfect,’” they say. “That’s where the perfect lies. That’s where everything is beautiful, and you’re creating and there’s no expectation, there’s no burden. That is the perfect moment. You want to live in that for as long as possible.” The latest material reflects that change, like in “Dog Years,” which plays on her new writing proclivities. “I’d grown out of my habits a little bit by taking a bit of space and it opened up room for more. I also just became way more personal about everything. I made songs that sounded like songs I wanted to hear,” Halsey says.
When it came time to record the next record, Halsey admits she was “a lot braver,” calling on musicians she looks up to like Alex G to work with her. “A couple years ago, I would have never called Alex G. I would have never done that.” The admission stuns me, and they’re well aware of their modest self estimation. “My music is almost always, like you said, about working out why I am so awkward and self destructive and weird. Then there’s this community that has formed around that, but I don’t really make music about anything but myself. I guess I’m quite self involved in that way. I feel like you write about things you have questions about, and the single greatest question that I have is me.”
It’s not a Halsey record without a bit of existentialism. That feels like something you return to frequently in your career.
It’s the only thing I know how to write about. This isn’t unique to me and I know a lot of people who feel the same way, but I just feel especially burdened by the question: “Am I doing it right?” Not just in the millennial kind of way: “I don’t know how to adult, adulting is so hard.” More like, I feel like a creature who’s wearing a human suit and I feel like everyone else can tell.
I guess people everywhere feel like that at times, but I don’t know how we’d feel if there were millions and millions of others watching us figure it out for ourselves.
Sometimes I’m asking myself these questions about what sort of agency or authority some of these people have to judge the way I’m wearing my skin suit. I don’t agree with everybody else all the time, either. The hard thing is that I put out Badlands when I was 19. I wrote it when I was 19. I was fucking 19 and I crashed onto the scene and I was like: “What’s up? I’m opinioned and I’m fucking problematic, and I’m hyper-confident and hyper-political.” I felt brave because I hadn’t failed yet. I hadn’t won yet either, but I hadn’t failed and that made it easier. Then I grew up, and changed and the whole world was like, “No, we already decided who you are! You told us, remember when you were 19?” I’m like, “Fuck, what if I’m different now?”
At one point, I was kind of like, “How much does Halsey reflect?” It’s the problem with music. You’re in a delay. I’ve said this before, but you live, you write, you release, and then this animated corpse of your past goes out and dances a performance of the time you just lived. You’re in a whole other place, but you’re reanimating this other thing that happened and everyone’s seeing it for the first time. I have people all the time right now, especially with the context and the content of the album, being like, “Oh my god! You’re so sick!” I’m like, “No, no, that already happened.”
Badlands feels like this too, going back to it now. It’s this perfectly preserved moment in time that I remember so clearly — us being the same age — from the feelings it encapsulates to the reaction around it. You were called the voice of the internet generation. Now that we’re older, does that ever weigh on you?
I remember the gravitas, and the weight, of that moment. I remember when those first few articles came out and they were calling me the voice of a generation, “the secret language” of a whole whatever. I remember at the time being like, “This is cool!” But there was this other voice inside of me that was like, This is bad, you know what I mean? I didn’t really sign up for it, but I wasn’t really stopping it either. I was making this joke at dinner the other night, talking to a bunch of people, and it was the first time I said out loud: “Do you know the expression about the woke, blue-haired liberal? Do you know that’s not not my fault?”
You’re like, “I sort of invented that.”
I don’t want to take full credit for it, but I was like, “You do understand that I was a teenager and I didn’t realize that there was a whole hyper-political language happening around me.” I’m from New Jersey, dude! What are we talking about? It was a lot, because along with that came this whole division of resources. I didn’t know how to be the voice for everything, but I also care deeply about everything. I care deeply about everything. It just felt like every single time I tried to use my platform or my resources or my access for good, somebody was lurking around the corner who was really angry that I hadn’t done it for them, or for their cause. Then, when I got sick, I couldn’t do anything at all. That was really hard for me, because I was used to mobilizing in a certain way and here I was being forced to deal with my own shit instead. Not in this spiritually healed kind of way, but in a way I was ferociously bucking against.
That’s a great way to get into “Lucky,” which interpolates the Britney song of the same name. How did you come into this song when writing it? How did you want to structure it, and were you always thinking of making these bigger confessions you do on the bridge and elsewhere?
I have this weird coping mechanism where, if I’m not dealing with something internally, I’ll catch myself singing a song that relates to it. Often, the most random songs gets suck in my head, and I’ll be like, wait, why am I singing that? I remember one day, I had a beanie and a mask and a hoodie on going to my treatment center for an infusion. I was hiding because I didn’t want anyone to see me, because I hadn’t shared that information yet. I was in the elevator, and so out of it, and in my head kept going: “I’ll keep you, my dirty little secret.” I was like, “I haven’t heard this song in ten fucking years, why is it in my head? Oh, because you feel like you’re keeping a terrible secret.”
“Lucky” became one of those songs. I would lay there, attached to a pump, like “I’m so lucky, I’m a star.” It was facetious, and then I was in the studio, and was singing it under my breath, and went “Wait, let’s do this. Has anyone done this? This has been done, right? Why hasn’t this been done? There’s no way I’m actually going to interpolate this Britney Spears song in this major way.” I asked my team, “Guys, can you just make sure no one has done this? Like, I’m not missing a huge chunk of culture?” The verses just came to me, and the bridge was the last thing to come. It was obviously the most revealing part. Not to connect it to another Britney moment, but I had never really had a “Gimme More” moment. Most of my Fuck you, don’t criticize me! songs are about being in the world as this femme-presenting person and not necessarily about being a celebrity. I saw that everyone was like, “Oh my god, they look fucking terrible, they lost all this weight, I bet it’s drugs. Did you hear they lost custody of their son? Did you hear that she’s this, and that.” I’m like, you have no fucking idea what’s going on! I can’t tell you because there’s so much going on, but I don’t even know how to update you all without sounding like a histrionic person, or because I didn’t even know that anyone would believe me.
You mentioned this earlier, but the song is clearly not satirizing “Lucky,” and is obviously a love letter to Britney. What is your relationship to her, and did you see any parallels between yourselves, or feel any kinship with her, when making the song?
I mean, a lot! Obviously I will never know what it’s like to reach the magnitude and the monolith of fame and exposure and lack of autonomy that she’s experienced in her career. I will never know that, but in a way, there are some parallels. She was the first pop star I fell in love with and I knew everything about her, and I was in love with her and I worshiped her. I was jealous of her. I thought she had the perfect life, as did most of us at the time, and I’ve always, through every stage of her career, really rooted for her. Not in the patronizing way like, “I’m rooting for you!” But in the way that Femme Fatale is one of my favorite albums ever.
It’s so underrated!
Especially for a Britney album. I’ve just always loved her as a music fan. The landscape has changed a lot, so there’s not the same kind of paparazzi fever or physical stalking. It’s all kind of digital now, but there’s a lot of investigation going on about why I looked the way I looked, or why my hair was the way my hair was, or if I was fit to be a mother, or why I was in a series of failed relationships, or conversations about my mental health and my physical health and all coupled with this conversation that I was washed up. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I realize now it’s a privilege to have people discuss whether or not you fell off. It’s a privilege to get that far. It was an indication that I had been in this business so consistently for so long.
Like, you scaled the mountain.
Yeah, I loved it once I figured that out. The people we have these conversations about are people who really impacted culture. Anyway, I just felt all these conversations happening, and I knew that they were, in a myopic way, relative to a lot of what Britney has experienced in her career, and I watched her experience. I was like, yo, babe, you are talking about Britney Spears. Whatever I’m going through, she’s been through, I better toughen up a little. You know what I mean? It just gave me perspective, and I thought it was so interesting how so much has changed, and nothing has changed. The investigation comes from the public now, it’s not handed to them through like, a log line.
It does feel like something is shifting. Pop stars and musicians, recently Chappell Roan, are speaking up about the treatment from fans and the pressure on them. As someone who has been in this business for a long time, to see that shift, where people might feel they have more agency to talk about these things, how does it feel?
It’s really encouraging, because I’ve always said it for a really long time, and it’s never done well for me and some of my other peers who have spoken up about it, because the initial reaction is like, “Well, you don’t get to complain.” The one thing people say a lot is, “You signed up for this.” That’s tough for me, because I did. I wanted to be famous. I pursued fame, I absolutely did, but I also signed up for this when I was 19, and in good health and had no responsibilities and I had a lot of stamina and I didn’t have the same type of things to protect that I do now. I’ve changed so much. That version of me is subject to change, month to month, year to year. There are versions of me that might not be well-suited or fit or cut out for it. At one point in time, I signed up for something that had no terms and conditions. I didn’t really know how it was going to go or what it was going to be like, and I didn’t know who I was going to be while doing it.
I think that the new generation of artists — and I say “new” loosely, because I know that Chappell has been in the business for a really long fucking time, and I’ve been a fan forever. I literally used to watch videos of her performing in dive bars with backup singers and I was like, This bitch is so cool. I don’t want to reduce her journey by calling her new, but it’s so rewarding to see them be unfiltered and transparent and challenge it. I hope it continues. I’m always going to do my part. It freaks people out when I go online and I’m like, “Hey, you’re being fucking mean. I’m a fucking person, you need to chill.” There are a bunch of people on the other side who lose it, whether it’s the record label or the publicist or whatever, who are like, “What are you doing?”
You just came off a run with Americana, and now Maxxxine. Did it feel refreshing to be someone else other than Halsey?
It absolutely did. I always compare Halsey to Grey’s Anatomy, where everybody who did Grey’s Anatomy, I’m sure they loved it, but after 25 seasons, they’re like, I can’t play Meredith anymore. That’s kind of how I felt about Halsey, which brought up an even greater existential question: “Why do I feel like I’m playing Halsey?” It’s meant to be just a stage name, not necessarily a persona, and I realized at that point it has kind of grown into a persona, which I never really intended for it to. Acting gave me a chance to step out of that, but also it gave me a chance to be a part of someone else’s vision. So much of what I make, the impetus is on me all the time to be in control of everything. It was nice showing up to someone else’s set, and my only job is to serve you in the best way that I can and you have the harder job. It was nice to be new at something, be a part of a community and collaborate. Being a solo artist is a really lonely venture. I don’t think people realize how lonely it is. I would certainly take it over being in a band, because I think I would be a tyrant.
I was talking to film critic friends of mine about SXSW, and the overwhelming consensus seemed to be that people were like, “Halsey surprised us in Americana.” Did that feel surprising for you at all?
I was fully shocked. I was holding my breath. The problem with acting is that sometimes, when actors become very famous, is that people aren’t supposed to know you and they need to believe you are someone else. If someone knows you too well, they don’t buy it. I have let the world know so much about me. It makes the need for transformation even larger, which isn’t great when you’re trying to do more minimalistic, natural acting. They’re like, “Just try to be yourself!” I’m like, “So be Halsey then? I can’t do that!” This is a different world. I was really surprised, and I was super grateful, and so relieved. That whole series of press also came at a really pivotal time in my life during my sickness. I had just become a single mom, I was released from my contract at Capitol Records. I just remember reading those things, and being like: well, if the music thing doesn’t work out, I guess I can always try this. That’s what my life has become at 30! I’m like, well if this doesn’t work out, try something else, which feels like an insane thing to say after the run of the past decade that I’ve had. I think as long as I’m making stuff, I’ll be happy. I just want to make stuff. When I was sick, I got into miniature doll-housing.
Wait, like actual dollhouses? Please tell me more, talk me through this.
It was something I could do inside, and it was something I could do that was creative, and it was something quiet that I could do when my son was asleep. I couldn’t go out, obviously, I couldn’t drink, I couldn’t be in a social environment. I was home a lot, and I just heard about doll housing, and I loved it. It was also great for me, because I had a really hard time with my motor function. My fine motor skills were not great. When I was sick, I couldn’t even open an envelope, or peel a sticker off a thing; it required me to be focused and meticulous with my fine motor action, which I really wanted to retain. I knew if I started playing music again, I wanted to be able to play piano and guitar. I couldn’t practice either while my kid was asleep at night, so I was doing doll housing, and I just got so obsessed with it. I started building furniture from scratch, and then making my own wallpaper.
I guess it’s actually kind of dark when you think about it, because I was making these tiny parallel worlds, because I really didn’t want to be on my own, which is so heady. I definitely think that was a part of it. Sorry, I want to say something really heavy and intense. I’m debating whether I should say it or not.
Please, feel free.
I just felt really fucking ugly the whole time I was sick. I could not look at myself. I didn’t look in a mirror, unless I was putting a contact lens in my eye, for months. I was just unrecognizable. I didn’t like looking at myself. It was horrific, and it would spin me out, and just sitting there and playing with these beautiful tiny things was so much nicer. There was no point. No one was going to try and monetize it or exploit it. All my other hobbies — I write poetry, and it’s like, you should write a book! I do painting and they’re like, we should do a gallery, or we should auction them off. I know I could say no, but I do like sharing the things I make. Doll-housing was making something and putting all this time into it for nobody to see it, and not have it belong to the world, just because. I loved it so much. My son’s getting a bit older now, and he’s starting to get into Legos. I’m like, great, let’s get into Legos.
You said a parallel worlds, which is interesting. Like the parallel world of quiet reflection and solitude you had in your own life. Did it change your relationship to music going back to it all, after coming off that stillness, or retreat from public life?
I wrote way better music. One thing I really stopped to do was check in with myself, and be like, dude, you’ve grown up a lot! You’ve grown as a writer. Coming back to writing, it was just so effortless. I don’t think “Lucky” speaks to this necessarily, since a bulk of the song is interpolated, but I was really surprised with the ease with which I was coming up with nuanced melodies and interesting song structures. They weren’t going back to the same old thing that I was used to. I’d grown out of my habits a little bit by taking a bit of space, and it opened up room for more. I also just became way more personal about everything. I made songs that sounded like songs I wanted to hear. I wasn’t thinking about what I was going to perform. I was referencing a lot of musicians I was listening to during that time, because treatment lasts two hours, and you’re sitting there. Anything from PJ Harvey to Portishead to Minnie Ripperton to Massive Attack and Bruce Springsteen. I brought a lot of that with me into the studio. Trent and Atticus gave me a lot of confidence with this, after making Love and Power with them. I was like, okay, cool, there’s nobody in the world I’m too afraid to ask to work with me.
There’s a quote you gave for one of your first big features in Rolling Stone, 2016. You said, “I’m not just some fucking martyr that’s trying to make all these lost misfit kids feel better. I need them to help me feel normal too.” Looking back now, how does that feel to you?
It’s so funny that you bring that quote up, because I am putting out a song before this cover comes out and the lyric of the chorus is: “I always knew I was a martyr, and that Jesus was one too, but I was built from special pieces that I learned how to unscrew, so I can always reassemble to fit perfectly for you, or anybody that decides that I’m of use.” Obviously, the feeling has not dissipated in almost 10 years. I do need it for me. I need it for me very much, but I need it on my own terms, which is the new thing that I’ve discovered. I’m really an all or nothing person. I’m either going to do this and I’m going to be the best I possibly can, or I’m going to live on a farm and I’m not going to have a cell phone and no one is ever going to see me ever again. I think true happiness for me probably lies somewhere in the middle.
Photography: Sarah Pardini
Styling: Lyn Alyson
Hair: Marty Harper
Makeup: Halsey
Nails: Natalie Minerva
Set design: Payton Newcomer
Photo assistants: Tom Lipka, Devin Szydlowski
Styling assistants: Trent De Groot, Jenny Battye
Market assistant: Kelly Goldy-Brown
Tailor: Seth Pratt
Production assistant: Ricardo Diaz
Production intern: Sophia Martinez
Editor-in-chief: Justin Moran
Managing editor: Matt Wille
Editorial producer: Angelina Cantú
Music editor: Erica Campbell
Zine and cover layout: Callum Abbott
Story: Joan Summers
Publisher: Brian Calle
