GALE Dy | INTERVIEW + TRACK REVIEW

We caught up with GALE at a moment where everything feels like it’s quietly coming into focus. With her debut project Songs from The Chaos Room, she leans into a style of songwriting that doesn’t try to escape the noise of everyday life, but instead finds meaning within it. Blending soft, intimate production with raw, reflective storytelling, her music sits in that space between overwhelm and clarity, not offering answers, but creating room to feel things as they are. Her latest release BREATHE captures that balance perfectly, unfolding slowly and deliberately, and setting the tone for an artist who’s not afraid to sit in the in-between.

TRACK REVIEW -

There’s something immediately immersive about BREATHE. From the opening moments, GALE sets a scene with beautifully recorded instrumentation that feels alive without being overwhelming, placing you right in the middle of a quiet, humming world. The guitars and surrounding textures are handled with a level of care that lets everything breathe naturally, never rushing, never forcing anything forward. It feels observational, like standing still in a moving city, watching everything unfold without needing to be part of it. The visuals come through clearly, not just in the lyrics, but in the way the production carries you through each moment.

As the track progresses, there’s a subtle tension that begins to build, sitting just beneath the surface without ever fully breaking. It holds you there for most of the song, creating this quiet weight that feels intentional and deeply human. Then, in its final moments, BREATHE releases into something softer, almost relieving, a calm that feels earned rather than given. It’s not just a song, it’s a slow unfolding of perspective, capturing what it feels like to pause, observe, and exist in between everything.

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If Songs from The Chaos Room had been written in complete silence and solitude instead of everyday life, how different do you think it would sound, and what would be missing?

I think it would sound a lot more controlled and introspective, maybe even a bit more polished but also less alive.

A lot of what makes Songs from The Chaos Room what it is comes from reacting to everyday life. The noise, the unpredictability, the random moments I don’t plan for those things naturally find their way into the songs. They give it energy and those little details that make it feel real. If I took all of that away and wrote in complete silence and isolation, I feel like the songs would become more intentional, but also more contained.

I’d probably lean more into reflection instead of reaction. The emotions would still be there, but they might come through in a calmer, more measured way. I also think I’d lose some of the contrast between the highs and lows that come from actually being in the middle of things.

At the same time, I’d probably gain a bit more clarity. I’d be able to hear my ideas more clearly and shape them with more precision, so the themes might feel tighter and more focused.

So for me, it’s a bit of a trade-off. Silence would give me more control, but the chaos is what gives the project its energy, its rough edges, and that feeling that it’s really connected to life as it’s happening.

You describe your music as coming from “the chaos room.” What does that room actually look like in your mind, is it physical, emotional, or something you carry with you?

For me, the “chaos room” is both a real place and something I carry internally.

A lot of these songs were literally written in my kids’ messy, chaotic playroom toys everywhere, noise, no real sense of order. But that space ended up mirroring how I was feeling physically and emotionally at the time. I’ve been pretty open about living with an autoimmune disease, and during its worst periods it really took a toll on my body. There was a lot of physical turmoil, and with that came a kind of isolation.

In a strange way, that playroom became a refuge. Even though it was chaotic on the outside, it was where I could sit with everything I was feeling and turn it into something. So the “chaos room” isn’t just about mess or noise, it’s about that intersection of external disorder and internal struggle.

It’s physical, emotional, and something I carry with me. Even when I’m not in that actual room, that state of chaos of trying to make sense of things when they feel overwhelming is still where the songs come from.

There’s a tension in your work between tenderness and overwhelm. Do you feel like you’re documenting those moments as they happen, or processing them after the fact?

It’s honestly both. Sometimes I’m documenting things as they’re happening trying to capture a feeling in real time, before I’ve fully made sense of it. That’s where a lot of the rawness and overwhelm comes from. It’s not filtered yet, it’s just me reacting and trying to hold onto a moment as it unfolds.

Other times, I’m writing after the fact, when I’ve had a bit of distance. That’s where the tenderness comes in more, I think. I’m able to look back, process what I went through, and find some meaning or softness in it.

So the tension between those two tenderness and overwhelm comes from moving between being inside the moment and reflecting on it later. The songs kind of live in that in-between space.

Moving from the Philippines to Adelaide, have you noticed your songwriting voice shift, not just in sound, but in perspective or what you choose to reveal?

Yeah, definitely. Even growing up in the Philippines, my influences were already very westernized, so in terms of sound, that foundation was always there. But moving to Adelaide shifted something deeper for me not so much what I sound like, but how I see things and what I’m willing to reveal in my writing.

Being in a new environment gave me a different kind of distance and perspective. I think I became more reflective, and maybe a bit more honest too. There’s something about being away from what’s familiar that makes you look at your experiences differently, and that naturally found its way into my songs.

So the shift isn’t as much about genre or style, but more about perspective what I choose to say, how vulnerable I’m willing to be, and how I process the in-between spaces of identity, home, and change.

A lot of your influences lean toward emotional honesty. Is there anything you still feel hesitant to say directly in your music?

Yeah, definitely.

I think I value emotional honesty a lot, but there are still things I hesitate to say directly, especially the parts that feel too raw, or not fully processed yet. Sometimes it’s easier to circle around a feeling than to name it outright.

There are also things that involve other people, relationships, family, moments that aren’t just mine to tell. I’m a bit more careful there. I still want to be honest, but also respectful of what belongs to others.

So I guess the hesitation isn’t about avoiding honesty, it’s more about timing and how I choose to express it. Some things come out more subtly, or take longer to find the right words.

You’re releasing your first official body of work, but not your first experiences or stories. How do you decide which parts of your life are “ready” to be turned into songs?

I think I’ve always been ready to share, in a way but this just felt like the right time to actually put it out into the world.

For me, it’s less about whether a story is “important enough” and more about whether I’ve sat with it long enough to understand it, or at least be okay with not fully understanding it yet. Sometimes the time feels too immediate, too raw, and I need a bit of distance before I can turn it into something I’m willing to share.

There’s also a feeling I look for when something stops feeling just personal and starts feeling like it could connect with someone else. That’s usually when I know it’s ready.

So yeah, I’ve always had these experiences and stories in me, but this point in time felt right. I think I’ve grown into them a bit more, and I’m more comfortable letting people in on those parts of my life now. The process was not easy because I need to take a step forward and back, considering how things unfold in front of me.

Your upcoming live acoustic sessions strip everything back. What do you learn about your own songs when there’s nowhere for them to hide?

I learn pretty quickly whether the song actually stands on its own or if I’ve been leaning too much on production to do the heavy lifting. When it’s just me and a guitar or piano, there’s nowhere to hide so if the melody isn’t strong enough or the lyrics are a bit vague, it becomes really obvious in a way you can’t really ignore.

It also changes how I perform it. I stop thinking about it like a “recorded version” and more like I’m just telling the story straight to someone in the room. That usually pushes me into being more honest with the delivery, because any kind of exaggeration or emotional shortcut doesn’t really land the same way in a stripped-back setting.

Sometimes it’s a bit uncomfortable, but in a useful way. It either confirms that the song is solid, or it shows me what needs to be rewritten. And occasionally, it even surprises me I’ll find a different emotional angle in the song just by slowing it down or changing the feel. Something that feels big or polished in the studio can end up feeling more intimate, or even more powerful, when it’s reduced to its core.

Performing at something like the Bastille Festival places your music in a cultural setting. Do you think your songs change depending on the environment they’re heard in?

Yes, I think they definitely change depending on the environment they’re in.

A setting like the Bastille Festival has its own energy, and that naturally affects how the songs land and how I perform them. I’m not just sharing my original songs I’m also playing covers, but in my own version, so they fit the vibe of the moment while still sounding like me.

That said, my originals are always the priority. That’s what I’m really there to put forward, because I want to be heard as an artist for my own music. The covers are more about connection and atmosphere, but the originals are where I’m really saying what I want to say.

There’s something powerful about creating art in the middle of everyday responsibilities. Do you see those limitations as something that shapes your creativity or fights against it?

Yes. I see those limitations as something that shapes my creativity.

Having to work around everyday responsibilities doesn’t really fight against it for me, it forces me to be more intentional. I don’t always have endless time or perfect conditions, so I end up focusing on what actually matters in the song instead of overcomplicating things.

In a way, it keeps me grounded and more honest with what I’m making.

If someone listens to your EP on a day where everything feels like too much, what do you hope your music gives them, escape, understanding, or something else entirely?

I hope it gives them a sense of understanding more than anything.

Not in a “here’s a solution” way, but in a “someone else has felt this too” way. If everything feels like too much, I don’t really want my music to pull people away from that reality I’d rather sit with them in it for a moment, and make it feel a bit less isolating.

If there’s any escape in it, it’s secondary. The main thing I’m aiming for is that feeling of being seen, or at least not being alone in it.