FAISAL RYAN | INTERVIEW + TRACK REVIEW

The last time we spoke with Faisal Ryan, he described his previous EP as a kind of “Viking funeral” for the ’60s pop and rock that had shaped him. Some things, it turns out, survived the fire. The old-school melodies remain, as does that unmistakable ’60s pulse in his drums, but much of the world around them has changed. The polish is giving way to something rawer and grittier, with Ryan now imagining a sound closer to Death From Above 1979 or, in his words, “Motörhead playing Tom Petty songs.”

That evolution goes deeper than production. Ryan is getting better at knowing when a song is finished, discovering what happens when music leaves the bedroom and meets a real audience, and looking back at older songs like photographs of someone he still recognises but no longer entirely is. In our second conversation, we caught up with Faisal about what survived that creative fire, the strange balance between self-belief and self-doubt, being misunderstood through your own songs, and why moving forward sometimes means accepting that an older version of yourself isn't coming with you.

TRACK REVIEW - When The City Had Lights

Smooth. Absolutely smooth.

When The City Had Lights pulls me in almost immediately with those layered opening vocals, carrying that loose, sun-drenched indie feeling that reminds me of Peach Pit before the harmonies begin to bloom into something much bigger. There are flashes of that classic Beatles-style vocal layering in here, but it never feels like Ryan is simply reaching backwards. Instead, those influences are being dragged into his own increasingly distinct world.

What really gets me is the push and pull of the arrangement. The drums seem to sit slightly on the back foot, almost holding the song in place while everything around them threatens to surge forward. It creates this constant sense of anticipation before the chorus finally provides the release. And when Ryan's vocal gets there, that little growl cutting through the smoothness is brilliant. It gives the song teeth exactly when it needs them. Then we're dropped straight back into that guitar lick. And bloody hell, it's addictive.

The guitar work throughout is exceptional without needing to dominate the track. Melodies appear, disappear and wrap themselves around the vocal, while that central lick keeps pulling me back in whenever the song moves away from it. By the time When The City Had Lights is over, it's not one individual element I'm thinking about, but just how naturally everything moves together.

Ryan told us he's moving away from pristine perfection towards something rawer and grittier, and this feels like a pretty convincing argument for that direction. The melodies that defined his earlier work are still very much alive, they've just grown some teeth. Consider me hooked on whatever Faisal Ryan is building next.

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Last time we spoke, you described that EP as a “Viking funeral” for the ’60s pop and rock that had shaped you. Now that some time has passed, what actually survived the fire? Are there parts of that older version of Faisal Ryan you realised you never wanted to leave behind?

I still have an old-school sense of melody and a very sixties drum sound and vibe, but besides that, everything else burned in that Viking funeral. It's bittersweet; I thought that version of me would stick around, but age and time have a way of forcing you to reinvent yourself. Never by choice. Always by force

You ended our last interview with the image of “an audience of empty chairs folded.” That’s a pretty brutal picture of creating something without knowing who, if anyone, is listening. Has your relationship with having an audience changed since you wrote those words?

I’ve started to gig and gotten some real feedback; it’s been nice to know some people enjoy it, some only give feedback, and some don’t care. It's only changed in the sense that I’ve gone from online to real life. So far, the audience response has been more favourable towards the punky stuff, with some enjoying the slower, more melodic moments.

You once said most art isn’t finished, it’s simply abandoned. Has releasing more music made you better at abandoning songs, or just better at finding new reasons not to let them go?

I know now when to say it’s done and move on rather than to slave over it, then listen to it and know I messed up, but I need to master and release it soon, and I’ve become better at making those choices earlier. It's like trying to keep a friendship together but you know your drifting apart; it’s better to enjoy the last moments together and leave while it was fun.

When you were younger, you described life as something like a Rubik’s cube that could eventually be solved. What feels less solvable to you now, and has accepting that uncertainty changed the kind of songs you write?

Self-doubt keeps it interesting; I’m still young enough to take chances and grow but old enough to know what works and what can be achieved in the time given to make a song from start to finish. I believe my self-doubt, or I doubt my self-belief, depends on the day of the week.

You told us I’ll Find You took around four years and 120 tracks before you found a version you believed in. Has that experience changed your definition of a “failed” song? Could something that never gets released still be one of the most important things you’ve written?

Oh yeah, I have a bunch of songs I recorded and never released. They mostly sound like offshoots of I’ll Find you and maybe if I ever get to a B-sides collection I’ll release, but I think for now they all sound like lessons in melody, arrangement, mixing, dynamics, and everything in between.

There’s an interesting contradiction in being a solo artist: you need enough self-belief to think your ideas deserve to exist, but enough self-doubt to keep making them better. Which side of that equation causes you more trouble these days?

Self-doubt keeps it interesting, I’m still young enough to take chances and grow but old enough to know what works and what can be achieved in the time given to make a song from start to finish. I believe my self doubt, or I doubt myself belief, depends on the day of the week.

When you were younger, you described life as something like a Rubik’s cube that could eventually be solved. What feels less solvable to you now, and has accepting that uncertainty changed the kind of songs you write?

As I'm getting older the formula for songwriting is a lot clearer and more rigid, but I still try to find something exciting and or unknown to keep myself interested. I guess my songwriting has changed since I started, it's less romantic and more nostalgic or melancholic with a good hit of anger every now and then.

You’ve said catchy songwriting can almost smuggle a deeper meaning past the listener, where they sing along first and understand it later. Has anyone ever interpreted one of your songs in a way you never intended, but which made you reconsider what you’d actually written?

Rose Sea was about a horrible bout of sleep paralysis along with my last hurrah as a drinker, but it was interpreted as a breakup song by a girl I knew, and she had told everyone it was about her. I now take steps to make the songs as accurate or as dreamy as I can so the listener will know exactly what it’s about or can make up their own meaning.

As your catalogue grows, you’re leaving behind multiple versions of yourself that listeners can revisit whenever they want. Is there anything strange about knowing that a song can preserve a version of you that you personally no longer recognise?

I’ve had moments where I don’t recognise myself in the mirror, but I know I’m there, and it's the same with my music: when it’s out there and not in my bedroom anymore, it’s like seeing an old photo of myself, a bittersweet nostalgia, wanting to go back but knowing the best way is to move forward.

Last time, you gave us a poem to explain where that EP sat in your life. So rather than asking where Faisal Ryan goes next: if the version of you who wrote that poem could hear what you're making now, what do you think he’d recognise immediately, and what would completely surprise him?

It's more raw and gritty rather than slick and clean, with less vocal harmony, and I'm trying to make the next Pet Sounds and now I’m aiming for more Death From Above 1979 or if Motörhead played Tom petty songs. He would recognize the melodies and arrangement but be surprised by the change in sound and attitude.

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