It’s easy to say that some tectonic life shift inspired you to make art. That’s the common narrative for most people—including myself in the past. But that wasn’t exactly the case with Georgie. It wasn’t the aftermath of some great tragedy. Instead, it was created on a wave of energy heading toward what I suppose will be the most monumental moment of my life so far. I was putting the finishing touches on it when my father, somewhat unexpectedly, fell very ill and passed away. In some ways, this process has helped me understand myself more in music—not needing any particular point of inspiration but instead feeling through the present. That’s what this album was about for me—the here-and-nowness of music. Incidentally, there’s a song about my father on the record. Headless Hero (the release focus track) is a brutally honest piece that sounds more like a goodbye than I was able to give him in life.  I start with all that, but Georgie was born out of a challenge I set for myself—to honor something I find so important, something that has often been labeled a weakness of mine. My lack of commitment to genre. Being the son of a white Jewish New Yorker and a Black Dominican, I resent—strongly, to my core—being forced to pick a lane, a side, or otherwise. Since the beginning of Twin Shadow, I’ve resented labels, affiliations, and claims of influence. To me, making art is about melting down innumerable inputs into something exciting and unrecognizable—something that can’t be explained by a single source. Hybridity.  I had to devise some way of doing it, some way of taking my genrelessness attitude and going for it. In a moment, I closed my eyes and said: no drums and yes! instruments without frets. I leaned heavily on fretless bass and pedal steel to write these songs. Programming drum machines has been a passion of mine for a long time, but drums always felt like clear markers for “style.” And I didn’t want to be "in fashion." I didn’t want anything slick. I’ve tried all that. I wanted to feel my own internal pulse—my own clock. Once I committed to no drums, that was enough of a blueprint. The songs poured out quickly. I had a session with a writer named Sophie Hintz, and there was something about the way she just loved finding the perfect thing to say in a song. Her genuine excitement for writing was infectious, and we started having sessions where we were just so excited—finishing most of the song in a day. Four of the songs on this album we wrote together—most of the singles. If Georgie has a theme at all, it’s about commitment. To self. To art. To family. To love. Not a New Year’s resolution kind of commitment, but an absolute understanding of the things that matter—and committing to them, however wavy my steps might get. I also included songs like Funny Games, which I wrote eight years ago. That one wasn’t my story—it was the story of a friend who was getting the runaround from a guy she liked. It felt important to put a song like that on this record. Tell someone else's tale.  I’ve been fortunate enough to have many great lovers and friends who have taught me so much and kept me honest. As Soon As You Can, begs those same friends to be honest with me. I can’t tell how honest my father was when we learned about his cancer diagnosis. I don’t know if the gravity of the situation hit him in a way that he could communicate any clearer to me his worries. His health failing felt like a wild unraveling that my sisters, my mother, and I couldn’t keep up with. It all happened so fast. Urgency is very honest.  Just weeks before things got really bad, I called my father and asked him if he would make the album art, not knowing at all what was coming. His name is George, and I told him that I wanted to name the record Georgie. Because only the closest people to me ever called me Georgie, and with this record, I wanted anyone listening to feel close. My dad was intimidated by the task. I told him, “All you gotta do is sign your name.” He asked, “What kind of handwriting?” I said, “Your handwriting.” He said, “I hate my handwriting.” I said, “I’ve always loved your cursive.” It was beautiful. He got a notebook from the local grocery store in San Cristóba, Dominican Republic. l and jotted down his name in Sharpie. He sent me photos, page after page, and there on the first one, I saw the one he hadn’t overthought—the one with his DNA.