Artist Interview: Haunted Shoes
Haunted Shoes creates music for what they call "the ghosts in our footsteps"—a rich, atmospheric blend of shoegaze and indie that explores uncertainty, failed connection, and the weight of choices. In the run-up to their upcoming EP, Penumbra, we caught up with the artist to discuss their commitment to heart > hype, the architecture of absence in their music, and how a rhythm can act as a pressure gauge for emotion.
Q. Can you elaborate on the elements of shoegaze and indie that most influence your writing process?
A. Shoegaze hits me as texture-first: open chords, parallel guitar lines, and a vocal that sits in the mix. I use negative space and slow-bloom dynamics—like a one-bar breath before a chorus, or dropping the kit so a line lands on its own. The indie piece is about vantage point and restraint: drum economy, human imperfections left in, conversational harmony instead of a big anthem. Together, that approach lets absence do as much storytelling as sound. It’s how I write toward memory, uncertainty, and the paths we choose—as well as the ones we leave behind. I keep the vocal as part of the blend rather than above it—so the hush tells part of the story.
Q. What is it about a specific rhythm that you find so essential to the emotional landscape of your songs?
A. Rhythm follows the feeling for me—the lyric sets the pulse. I sketch the groove after I know what the song is about, so performance and theme pull in the same direction. On "This" (~81 BPM) the beat stays steady and deliberate—straight eighths on the hat, a restrained kick—because it’s basically an inner monologue pacing toward a decision. "Blackout" (~156 BPM) is a slow-burn build—fast tempo, but the arc widens late: heavier downbeats, more space between hits, and a late push in the kit so the realization lands like a weight you can’t shake. When a line needs to feel unguarded, I’ll even drop the drums for a bar before the chorus and let the breath carry the emotion. In other words, rhythm isn’t a grid I play to; it’s a pressure gauge I write from. Rhythm is less a metronome than a barometer.
Q. Your "R.I.Y.L." (Recommended If You Like) lists The National, Radiohead, and The Japanese House. What specifically do you admire and draw from each of those artists?
A. I think of RIYL as shorthand for craft cues. From The National, I’m drawn to drum economy and the baritone vantage point—steady kick patterns, patient hi-hats, and a lyric voice that feels conversational rather than declamatory. From Radiohead, it’s harmony color and textural risk—open chord shapes, the occasional modal turn, and glitch as emotion—and on "Error 404" I work in a touch of buzzy feedback under the second verse, almost like static, to suggest a dropped connection. From The Japanese House, I love the airy vocal stacks, soft saturation, and a subtle side-chain “swell” on pads that keeps the pulse moving without crowding the low end—techniques I lean on in the "Penumbra" coda. Put together, it’s their discipline more than their signatures: space in the drums, courage in the harmony, and clarity in the blend—filtered through the half-light of my own perspective.
Q. You call your music "music for the ghosts in our footsteps." How do you translate that feeling of absence or past regrets into concrete musical structures and melodies?
A. The tagline points to how the songs are built: every step toward something casts a shadow, and I write for what lingers. Musically, that means space and unresolved shapes—open chords and melodies that lean on held notes or fall away instead of landing square on the tonic—so the feeling hangs. I avoid “spooky” signifiers; it’s not about pipe organs or horror cues, it’s about restraint. On "Where This Goes," the form is through-composed—no chorus, no bridge—so the momentum keeps tightening until it just stops; the top-line starts almost trance-like and ends like a door closing that you can’t reopen. "Error 404" uses a more familiar verse/chorus frame, but I push the vocal into a higher register and work in consonant-clip edits so it feels like repeated attempts to rescue something fragile before it breaks. In both cases, melody and structure do the storytelling: they carry the absence without underlining it in neon. That’s where I write from—the residue of choice, the paths not taken, memory refracted by what might have been.
Q. How does the idea of "the space between" manifest in the lyrics of the focus track, "Error 404"?
A. “Everybody knows / nobody sees.” That’s the “space between”: being noticed versus being known. In "Error 404," the lyric keeps circling that gap—“Not found / it’s not here / search all you want”—so I write the melody to reach and stall: phrases climb, then fall away instead of resolving, and the vocal sits higher than usual so it feels fragile and exposed. I leave small breaths before key lines and clip a few consonants to underline that sense of failed connection. The chorus answers with plain language—short, declarative fragments—because the character is out of flourish and into truth. The “space between” isn’t a slogan here; it’s the shape of the line and the way it keeps missing by a hair. The song keeps asking to be seen—to connect—and keeps landing just shy of it.
Q. In your view, what is the most powerful kind of "silence" in your music?
A. The most powerful “silence” in my songs isn’t always a pause; it’s the kind that sits inside a line. It’s the quiet of questions that might never be answered—the almost, the longing, the held breath before you say the thing. I write toward that by thinning the arrangement at the edge of a truth—dropping the kit for a bar, letting the bass hang, or leaving a half-beat breath before a chorus so a word arrives unguarded. In "This," that silence is the moral hesitation—“What if this is wrong? What if I say it anyway?”—so the groove stays steady while the vocal hangs between those lines. In "Penumbra," it’s acceptance without explanation—“Some things don’t have a ‘why.’ Some things just go how they go”—so the harmony stays open and the guitars bloom after the lyric, like the thought keeps echoing. The silence isn’t absence; it’s room—a place where the feeling finishes the thought. The most powerful silence is the one that lets the line land and then keeps space for the unresolved.
Q. When writing the song Error 404, was the fracture or the anxiety the initial spark?
A. Anxiety was the spark—a sense of failing connection. The fracture was how I made that audible: a higher-register vocal with micro-glitches—tiny clipped consonants and short breaths before key lines—like jittery transmissions from inside the breakdown. You hear it from “Words fail me…,” and it holds through the first chorus before the song opens and then tightens again in the second verse. The fracture widens in the bridge—“the losses, the collapses, the sacrifices”—so the arrangement feels like it’s giving way under the lyric. Going into the last chorus and outro we’re “left to our own devices,” which is the emotional endpoint of that anxiety. Overall, anxiety starts it; the fracture carries it, and together they lead to a deletion you can’t recover.
Q. Are you writing lyrics primarily to process personal experiences, or are you exploring broader, more universal questions?
A. I start personal. Penumbra came together as a way to map my own terrain—uncertainty in "This," vulnerability in "Where This Goes," the wreckage of "Blackout," the failed connection of "Error 404," and, finally, the question of where all that leaves us in "Penumbra." I’m not trying to pronounce universal truths; I’m trying to be expressive about what these things felt like, for me. The way it sometimes becomes broader or more universal is by interpretation, not declaration—concrete images, plain language, and room left for the listener to enter. So yes, the writing begins as processing, but it aims at connection, not assertion. I start personal and leave space in the song for listeners to hear something of themselves in it.
Q. The phrase "heart > hype" appears multiple times. What is the significance of this statement to your project and your approach to the music industry?
A. heart > hype is my compass: showing up over showing off. It keeps the project grounded—prioritize the feeling, not the optics—and it reminds me of the value of themes that aren’t necessarily tidy or trending. Practically, it means authenticity over posturing, fewer gimmicks, and choosing release pacing and visuals that serve the music, not the algorithm. It also means measuring success by connection, not just counts: Did someone feel seen? Did a line travel? The industry runs on numbers; I get that, and I’m not anti-data—but I won’t let metrics set the meaning. Heart > hype points both ways: toward what to embrace (craft, care, connection with listeners) and what to avoid (noise for its own sake). Short version: If I have to choose, I’d rather make something true than make something loud.
Q. The focus track "Error 404" is a classic internet error code. Why did you choose this title, and how does that digital-age concept relate to the very human themes of missed timings and missteps?
A. I chose "Error 404" because “not found” is a clean, shared shorthand for absence—everyone knows that page. The code is digital, but the experience is human: missed timings, messages that don’t land, reaching for a lost connection. I write that feeling into the track with micro-glitches—tiny clipped consonants and short breaths before key lines—so it sounds like a signal breaking up. There’s even a subtle “restart” logic in the arrangement—pull back, rebuild, try again—because that’s what we do when it feels like we can’t get through. The title is tech-speak, but the feeling is human. The 404 error code and the “not found” message becomes a way to name that kind of heartbreak.
Q. What role does uncertainty play in either driving or stalling the creative process for Haunted Shoes?
A. Hmm…I’m not sure. OK, seriously. Uncertainty is both the motor and the brake. Ideas rarely arrive fully formed; you’re at a crossroads with only your ear and your heart to guide you. I try to make that uncertainty useful: I time-box early drafts and commit to one choice per pass (tempo, key center, or groove) so the idea keeps moving instead of stalling. If I’m stuck, I write the “wrong” version first—too soft, too ragged—to find the edge; the song usually tells me where it won’t live, which points to where it will. On "Error 404," I went through five drafts—with things like a third verse that came and went, a solo that did the same—before the final shape clicked. In other words, uncertainty drives when I treat it like a tool; it stalls when I treat it like a verdict. Use the doubt for motion, not permission.
Q. You try to avoid putting a face to your art. What caused this decision for you?
A. I keep my face out of the frame because even though I write from personal expression, the songs aren’t about me—they’re about the space a listener can step into. Haunted Shoes is built on feeling and atmosphere; a headshot can collapse that imaginative room, while a voice, a lyric, and a visual world can expand it, inviting someone to bring in their own story. It also aligns with heart > hype: authenticity over posturing, craft over optics. Practically, it means leading with cover art, lyric snippets, and mood pieces instead of portraits; the focus stays on the sound and the images that serve it. I’m not trying to be enigmatic—I credit my collaborators and I’ll show up if and when it helps the work—but I won’t turn the project into a personality feed. The goal is to build an audience that wants to feel something, not just follow someone. If the songs resonate, that’s the face that matters.
Q. If you could collaborate with any artist living or dead, who would you choose and why?
A. Brian Wilson, for the way he writes longing and joy into arrangement—stacked vocal lines that feel like memory, bass movement that carries emotion, and modulations that open the sky without going grandiose. David Bowie, for fearless reinvention and atmosphere: choosing the frame first and letting the song become the person who sings it. Sharon Van Etten, for slow-burn courage and band-driven texture—letting pulse and restraint do the heavy lifting while the lyric stays plainspoken and human. Her recent band work shows how to widen the palette without losing intimacy, and how to write about screens, mortality, and communication gaps without resorting to noise, which I read as good signals for collaboration. All three point to choices I gravitate toward in Haunted Shoes: vocal blends over spectacle, harmony that aches without shouting, and grooves that say more by saying less.
Q. When you aren't making music what's your favorite thing to do?
A. I love to travel—doing ordinary things in unfamiliar places feels like a small victory. Give me a rail pass, a map, and a phrase book I’m butchering, and I’m happy. I walk until a city starts to make sense: where the coffee queues form, which bridge everyone uses at dusk, the corner shop the locals trust. That kind of wandering resets my perspective; it’s the same attention I bring to songs. I’m happiest learning how a place lives and breathes.
Q. What's one quote that's helped you in your music career?
A. A line I come back to is: “ideas don’t keep.” They’re precious, but fickle—if I don’t catch them, they evaporate. So I keep the capture quick and easy: Notes or Voice Memos within 30 seconds, even when I’m in the middle of something else. Later, I give each one a quick pass—title, one sentence, a two-bar sketch—so it doesn’t die in the drawer. I don’t pass judgment in the moment; the point is to keep the door open and come back when the room is quiet. This has saved me from a lot of 3 A.M. spirals—capture in a minute, then trust morning-me to finish the thought. If I honor the small sparks, they can grow, and the bigger ones tend to show up more often.
Q. How does the single Error 404 set the tone for any potential larger project, such as an EP or album, that might follow?
A. "Error 404" is the last single before Penumbra (out Oct 17), and it sets the stage: open harmony, negative space, and a reach-then-fall melodic motion. It carries the thread from "This," "Where This Goes," and "Blackout," but makes the palette explicit—micro-glitches, higher-register lines, and a recovery arc (pull back, restart, try again). Penumbra isn’t a concept record; there’s no linear plot. What connects these songs is quieter: grief and hope, memory and regret, clarity and confusion, all coexisting. I think of the tracks as emotional coordinates rather than chapters—places you’ve been, or could find yourself. "Error 404" names the terrain: the moment when the search for connection and presence returns “not found,” and you’re left to work out what that means. In that sense, it sets the tone for the title track and the EP as a whole.
Q. What do you hope a listener takes away after spending time in "the space between memory and maybe" with Haunted Shoes?
A. I hope they feel seen—like they’re not alone in the moment when answers don’t arrive on demand. If a song can make uncertainty feel livable instead of paralyzing, that’s a win. I hope a line sticks around at 2 A.M., or a small breath before a chorus lets them release one of their own. I hope they hear quiet courage in the restraint—space, open harmony, a melody that reaches and then lets go—and feel permitted to do the same. If it helps them name a feeling without having to solve it, even for a night, that’s enough. Short version: beholding, shared presence, and a glimmer of light in the shadows.
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