On ‘mother’s day,’ Suzanne Jarvie channels grief, mythology, and maternal reckoning into something intimate yet expansive, where folk and Americana intertwine with dreamy allure. Across songs shaped by piano, symbol, and story, personal loss becomes a meditation on mortality, resistance, and renewal. We spoke with Suzanne about navigating sorrow, heroic archetypes, and the quiet power woven throughout the record.
Your new album mother’s day explores grief, acceptance, and the intersection of personal and universal loss. How did you navigate these emotions while shaping the album’s overall tone and structure?
Hard to answer that. Sometimes I navigate complex emotions and other times they navigate me. As we were recording and mixing, the overall musical and story arc seemed to coalesce around a resolute, solemn, soft, and enveloping mood. The turmoil of grief, from the general to the specific, seemed to find its resting place in that mood. Honestly, my rage also dissipated there.
The album blends folk and Americana with mystical, dreamlike, and sometimes unsettling elements. How do you balance grounded songwriting with explorations of the subconscious and symbolic imagery?
I’m not sure there’s conscious balancing. Though subconscious, dreams are full of quasi-reality fragments. Things are going on, there’s action. There’s a headspace I’m in when writing such that no matter how metaphorical or semi-conscious I get in the moment, I’m always writing about something real that is consuming me — something that is happening or has happened which I am reacting to. The imagery and symbolism might feel mysterious, but it’s not abstract. The lyricism is always connected to something real. To me, that’s balance. I do move at times to concrete expression, though personally I’m very resistant to totally concrete songwriting.
Several tracks, including “Honeycomb” and “Caterpillar,” were composed on piano and highlight classical training. How does the choice of instrument influence the emotional or narrative weight of a song?
The piano is so grounding. I was suffering over one of my offspring and playing around with a simple thing, “Frère Jacques” in C, which all children start with on piano. The piano and the melody reflected such innocence, and I was raving on ruined innocence — so frustrated, desperate, and wanting to kidnap and save my child. I wrote the words to “Caterpillar” as I was messing around with the nursery rhyme. The piano was perfect for the soft opening, up to the rumble and down to surrender.
On “Honeycomb,” which is about fear, escape, and sanctuary, the piano helped me find the darkness and the resolute, marching feel.
Mythology, historical events, and personal experience all intersect across the album, from black rabbits to Litvinenko’s story. How do you decide which narratives or symbols to weave into a track?
I pay attention while my feelings and thoughts drift together. I don’t “decide” in a fully conscious way. What moves or inspires me varies. I read a lot and am obsessed with epic sci-fi, mythological, and fantasy “hero with a thousand faces” stories.
While making the record, I was very preoccupied with Watership Down as a primary heroic story. A Cassandra-like rabbit has a horrifying, blood-soaked premonition about the destruction of the warren. His vision is dismissed, but a small band take it seriously and flee. The journey is riddled with perils and evil. They must find does to survive. Even after they find their new home — at the center of which is the “honeycomb” — they have to fight a dreadful war to keep it. There’s a tremendous commitment to sacrifice. Their angel of death is the black rabbit of Inlé, which is “fear and everlasting darkness.” Such things interest me a lot as I ponder loss and mortality.
I’m drawn to symbols of resistance and strength, and the vital role that small or unseen actors play in stories and in life. As Tolkien said, myth is made of “truth,” some of which can only be revealed in that mode.
It’s okay to acknowledge being horrified with one’s own life, and the world, at times. Contemplating loss and death is natural. Experiencing loss can make you feel preyed upon by an unseen predator. I often think of the horror veterans have to cope with. I am not a nihilist — I love being alive and creating: children, music, community. Then there’s the Litvinenko story. I speak to that in another question below.
Collaboration with your daughters on back-up vocals adds layers of familial resonance. How did involving them shape the textures or meaning of the songs they contributed to?
I suppose it creates a sense of continuity and strengthens our bonds and love for each other by making music together. The loss I write about is their loss too, experienced independently and uniquely. Their voices share certain frequencies with mine, which added a mysterious kind of musical cohesion for me.
The album art draws heavily from natural and symbolic motifs, particularly rabbits and the forest. How do visual concepts interact with or enhance the musical storytelling on mother’s day?
Joseph Campbell wrote about the hero’s journey. Great writers and filmmakers have told that story in endless variation in epic terms. But I believe every single person is a hero in their own life. At some point, we all experience the fall, a journey, and a return — by degrees. To awaken us to the real purpose of life, which is certainly not to be comfortable.
The cover has three symbols of death or the “underworld”: the reaper on the branch, the black rabbit, and the large holes in the two main trees as gateways. My four children and I are in the forest because I take refuge in the natural world. My boys look away. My girls and I face the viewer. Our weapons represent tools in the spiritual and emotional wars we face. Rabbits everywhere — innocent, fertile, beautiful, soft, heart-shaped faces. They are prey animals but also fighters: resilient, survivors. Beside me on the tree stump is my own rabbit, Casper, a very mysterious creature in his own right. The blue heron represents my partner, holding the world in his beak.
It’s personal but also reflective of the title song, where I write and sing in the voice of the feminine earth — a mother who gave us everything through her body and has had enough. The artistic vision was in my mind, but I could never have realized it without Kima Lenaghan, who is such a brilliant fine artist.
Themes of motherhood, mortality, and human responsibility recur throughout the album. How do you approach conveying such weighty concepts without overwhelming the listener?
Musically, I weave dynamics, beauty, and resolution into dark lyrical themes to provide space and relief. I’m doing this for myself as well as the listener. I’ve been overwhelmed by my own experience and at times by the experiences of others.
I get very granular and selective when reviewing mixes and takes. Sometimes we just cut things and start over. “Caterpillar” and “Polonium” are good examples. There is so much sorrow in “Caterpillar,” but I was inspired to write something soft and quiet, with a few bars of howling for a moment and then quiet on the F major. Like, it’s okay — I just needed to get that out — but we have calm again. Kind of like parenting. We are all mostly least effective when we overwhelm with too much emotion.
“Polonium” is a song about murder — something horrific, an atrocity. I was obsessed with the facts (my lawyer self). The lyrics reflect the horror and condemnation of what was done. I imagined his wife beside him trying to comfort him as he lay dying. I speak to the perpetrators. But the music starts and ends very soft and spends time in ethereal, airy spaces. The listener can absorb the creation in an eerie space but not a crushing one.
“Mother’s Day” is similar. Mixed in with the rage and despair is beautiful, enveloping instrumentation. I hope others feel that. “Temporary Emissary” is like a review of my entire life, with my youngest daughter at the center. It’s meandering and lonely, but intended to be peaceful.
If you could collaborate with any artist, alive or dead, who would it be?
Right now? Either Leonard Cohen or Laura Nyro.
