This month, Paramore—a buoyant and nimble pop-rock band fronted by the thirty-four-year-old singer and songwriter Hayley Williams—released “This Is Why,” its sixth album, and the first since 2017’s “After Laughter.” Though Paramore is still considered a pillar of the early-two-thousands pop-punk scene—a now mostly bygone era of neon-streaked hair, exuberant riffs, white belts, urgent and plaintive lyrics, and Vans in varying stages of purposeful disintegration—the band has spent much of the past decade making dynamic, tender rock music that’s rooted in rhythm and blues and feels at odds with the wounded grousing of its former colleagues.
Paramore officially formed in 2004, in Franklin, Tennessee, but the major labels started scouting Williams—hungrily—when she was just fourteen. (It was Williams who insisted that she wanted to be in a band, rather than embarking on a solo career.) Since then, Paramore has undergone several lineup changes, some tumultuous, and went on an indefinite hiatus in 2017. Williams released two aching but ferocious solo records during this time: “Petals for Armor,” in 2020, and “Flowers for Vases/Descansos,” in 2021. The band has since re-formed and is enjoying a curious surge in popularity, due in part to a revival of interest in the bands that people now in their early thirties worshipped when they were young. Its current lineup includes Williams, the drummer Zac Farro, and the guitarist Taylor York.
“This Is Why,” the new album, is boisterous and elastic, bridging the punchiness of Gang of Four and the chewy sweetness of Blondie; it seems designed for dancing alone and having an excellent time. In November, the band performed the title track on the “Tonight Show,” collecting more than a million views on YouTube in just a couple days. “This Is Why” is about feeling utterly exhausted by whatever chicanery (political, personal) exists beyond one’s front door: “This is why / I don’t leave the house / You say the coast is clear / But you won’t catch me out!” Williams chants. She is an instinctive, jubilant performer, bouncing about the stage with her persimmon-colored hair gathered into a loose topknot, her eyes bright, her limbs animated by the groove. Williams does not have the dead-eyed iciness of an over-rehearsed pop star; instead, she is spontaneous, relaxed, and confident. It’s difficult for me to think of another contemporary singer who appears quite as effortless onstage. Paramore has been praised by Elton John, Phoebe Bridgers, Steve Lacy, and others, and it seems likely that the band’s influence will continue to balloon. I recently spoke to Williams via Zoom, from her home in Nashville. Our conversation has been condensed and edited.
What was it like growing up in Meridian, Mississippi?
Oooh . . . oh, man.
A big question right out of the gate!
No, it’s good. I like to dive straight into the trenches! [Laughs.] I always had a sense that I just wasn’t in the right place. I don’t know if there’s a better way to put it. My mom and I recently went to see a cousin of mine who still lives in Mississippi, and, as we were driving back, we drove through Meridian. We got snow cones, the same flavors we got when I was a kid. It was weird—we both had very visceral reactions to being there. My mom and a lot of the women on my mom’s side went through a lot; there’s a lot of history of domestic abuse and not-good relationships. The women in my family, in my mind, they’re so independent and so strong, but they went through hell. So Meridian kind of encapsulates all that for me. As a child, I had friends; I remember being a pretty hyper and happy kid when I was around people. But my inside didn’t really match the way I presented. There was a lot going on in my head, and I really wanted to get out. And then we did. Mom and I ran away as I was turning thirteen. I knew almost immediately, when we got past the state line—now my life is starting. You know?
Mississippi is so central to the history of American music and literature, to the civil-rights movement, to so many things. I’m curious how the culture of the place—its particular Southernness, and the way you escaped it—shaped you, if at all?
I think it shaped me more than I was willing to admit for a very long time. I changed my accent pretty quickly. I got made fun of, and then I was, like, I’m done with this. When I was in school in Meridian, the music that I was drawn to was gospel music, Motown, R. & B. My granddad was obsessed with Elvis, so I listened to a lot of Elvis. And I was very focussed on the fact that one of the Temptations—David Ruffin, who doesn’t have a sparkling reputation—was from Whynot, where I went occasionally as a kid. When I think of Mississippi, I think of my Black friends; I remember learning about D’Angelo from my friend Sheena. We would get back from basketball practice and go to third period, and she would still be in her basketball shorts, putting shea butter or cocoa butter all over her legs. Class would start, but she would just be drawing D’Angelo. I’d be, like, “Who is that?” As an adult, I’m putting together why I get really swept up in amazing singers like Aretha, or Etta James. I think Black history—which is American history—was placed in me while I lived in Mississippi. The people who were very helpful to my mom in the early days, when she was going through this horrible marriage to my first stepfather, were Black women. I remember them being honestly heroic to my mom. And they were heroes for me as well. I don’t get to talk about this a lot, and it doesn’t usually feel appropriate to bring this up. But I think that’s what Mississippi is to me. It’s like a connection to a really rich history, some of which I have no part of now. But it’s in there.
I sometimes hear unexpected blasts of Motown and R. & B. in Paramore; I think it’s certainly present in the way you exist onstage. I’m interested in what you were saying about the generational trauma in your family—your mom, your grandmother, all the women before that—and how that has somehow seeped into your DNA, into your blood. I would think there might be some inherited trauma from the landscape, too.
Yeah, totally. I feel really thankful to be from the South, as much as I get frustrated by the typical political point of view in the South, or how Nashville is just a little blue dot in a red state. My mom’s family were from Slidell and Baton Rouge, Louisiana. So I spent a ton of time in both places. There’s just something. There’s an incredible grit to all of it.
Does it feel as though Nashville is where you belong now?
Yeah. The guys and I were just talking about this yesterday, because Zac [Farro] finally got a studio space here. We work in L.A. a lot. But it’s hard to describe the sense of community a person can find in Nashville. Even with all the tourists and all the shit that we don’t love, the artistic community and the people we’ve found a home with here—it’s not like any other creative community in any other city. I love it, man. And our families are here. My family and Zac’s family live south, in Franklin, and Taylor [York]’s family lives in the city. So it is home.
You were just fourteen when you signed a production deal with Atlantic Records, which means you’re coming up on nearly twenty years in the music business—in fact, this new record is the culmination of that deal. Are there things you wish that you could tell your younger self about how to navigate the strange and treacherous waters of the record industry?
Yeah. And about so much more than just the business! That deal was the very first three-sixty deal in . . . history. We didn’t know anything! My family didn’t know anything. The guys’ families didn’t know anything. My mom and I didn’t really have much. She would babysit, and then I would be, like, “Well, I’ll go sing a country demo.” I was taking writing gigs and demoing gigs just to make extra money. The very first song [Paramore] wrote was called “Conspiracy.” I wrote it about finally feeling like my dreams had come true, because all I wanted as a kid was to meet music people. Then, the next thing I know, everyone wanted to draw me out of the band setting. I chalk that up to what was working in pop music at the time: the Avrils, the fact that Kelly Clarkson was making a pop-rock album. We didn’t only meet with Atlantic Records. I mean, God, I met Clive Davis, L.A. Reid. It was such a whirlwind. “Conspiracy” was about my parents telling me that these great opportunities are coming to me, and I might have to make sacrifices. And I was thinking, I just don’t care if we never play a show as long as I can play music with my friends.
Being fourteen and feeling like an adult decision was looming was really scary. I wish I could just go back and just tell Little Me that a lot of my gut instincts were right. Even though I was really young and didn’t have a lot of experience, I knew what I was O.K. with. I constantly felt at odds with my own leanings or proclivities toward certain things, because I wasn’t an adult. That being said, if we hadn’t done all of that, who knows where we would be? They wanted to sign me, but I still got to bring my friends along for the ride, and we ended up making it what we wanted in the first place. It just took a lot of trial and error. I think I would just want to hug that person, because she was so confused. She was, like, fuckin’ little girl in a big city. I was just trying to figure out the world while also getting my homework done by Monday.
Fourteen is so young! Though it also makes me think of a great Taylor Swift line: “I knew everything when I was young.” In a funny way, you have great, pure instincts at that age, but you don’t know to trust them yet; the whole world is telling you that you don’t understand anything.
We were so wide-eyed when we started. In the beginning, we would do everything and anything just to get to hop in the van and make it to the next show. As we got older, I think it did start to take a toll. We kind of realized that, oh, man, we’re just on the ride—we’re not really steering anything. By the time “Brand New Eyes” came around, we started saying no to a lot. Then “Ain’t It Fun” and all the shit that happened between “Brand New Eyes” and “After Laughter” was a big season of saying yes to everything. And then, sure enough, Taylor [York] and I would just be in the back of the bus crying and wanting to go home. By “After Laughter,” we had finally learned enough lessons to be, like, “Yeah, we want to do this, this, and this, but if it’s not these things, then maybe it’s not worth it. Maybe we’ll just play our shows to our fans and see where the ride goes.” Those were the smartest choices that we ever made, and it set us up to be able to say no for four years. Now we’re getting our sea legs again and trying to figure out: Do we want to say yes to more? Or do we need to plan on being tired and human?
I think every artist alive struggles with some of those questions: What’s the right amount to give over to this thing? What do I hold on to and keep for myself?
Damn. I really do wish that there were guidebooks, but there aren’t. It’s the same with love or anything in life. I think about that Taylor Swift lyric you mentioned all the time, because some days I feel like I was so much wiser as a teen-ager. And yet I have a home, a household, I take care of a dog every day, I’m responsible for so many things. I’ve got a couple of businesses. I’ve never done business! Are you kidding me? I’ve been in a band my whole life. So a lot of the time I just feel like I’m fuckin’ winging it. I hope people don’t see—I hope I’m not that transparent. Everyone’s got this little petty demon inside of them that’s just trying to fuckin’ . . . I don’t know if it’s trying to sabotage things or what, but you can make your own life hard when life’s already complicated and hard.
You’ve been incredibly open about your P.T.S.D. diagnosis. I’ve very recently found myself struggling with P.T.S.D., too—I’ve had to figure out a way to not believe everything is going to fall apart at any second, though sometimes I believe that so thoroughly that I very nearly manifest it. “C’est Comme Ça” addresses some of the tedium of that work. How have you found a way to keep at it?
I’m still figuring some of it out. I don’t know if everyone’s experience differs, or if we can all commiserate on this, but it was my physical body that started demanding that I pay attention to choices I was making and ways I was living my life: people I was around, my past relationships. All those things that I ignored—my body didn’t want me to let it go. So it kind of broke down on me. That looked like an adrenal crash, and I had to manage my cortisol levels. I got very good at science, suddenly—I was really enjoying reading science books and learning shit about the human body, trying to understand what burnout is on a scientific level. We can talk about it, and there’s plenty of think pieces about it, but in my life it has manifested as deep exhaustion. And when I get scared, when I have those moments like what you’re talking about, where you feel like you’re about to basically just manifest everything around you falling to pieces . . . I used to describe it as waiting for the piano to fall, like in a cartoon. I had to start actively looking for ways in my daily life [to treat it]—whether that be talk therapy or physical therapy. All this shit becomes physical if it doesn’t start out physical. I’m always on the lookout for people I can relate to about it, because it tends to feel isolating when you’re thirty-four but you just want to be cozy in bed, always. I’m just always expecting that something bad will happen. You’ve got to find support; you’ve got to find people that can relate or empathize in some way.
Writing “C’est Comme Ça” was me laughing about it. I think you have to laugh about it at a certain point—you have depression, and you’re just, like, Oh, my God, my lens on the world is a fuckin’ Leonard Cohen poem. Everything has got this dark heaviness to it. But there’s also levity in those moments—or maybe that’s just my dark sense of humor. But what else are you supposed to do? There’s mass shootings weekly in America. There are new articles all the time about how if it’s not an asteroid that’s going to hit the Earth, it’s a cyberattack in two years. You’ve gotta find rhythm, and for me, because of P.T.S.D., my rhythms are that I have to do some type of Pilates or movement, at least a couple of times a week, and I’ve got to not drink coffee as much. If that means having a little bit more of a boring life but I can stay healthy and enjoy it, then that’s great. I don’t need to be a rock star.
You write about that a little bit on “The News,” too—the work of setting boundaries, of knowing when it’s O.K. to bolt the front door and be, like, Fuck it. There’s a guilt that can come with that—thinking it’s a function of your privilege to be able to tune out the horrors of the world. But sometimes the horrors are too much.
Yes. [Pauses.] I’m sorry, is that a . . . pencil sharpener?
Yes.
I love that! My mom’s a teacher.
Mine, too. Both my parents, actually. The smell of a freshly sharpened pencil—that’s my Proustian madeleine. That takes me somewhere.
That’s beautiful. I love that. There’s one in our garage, because I think whoever lived here before must have had a shop of some type. I’ve wondered if it needs to come in. I think it might. I don’t think I’m gonna walk to the garage to sharpen my stuff. [Laughs.]
Both Paramore’s “After Laughter” and your solo début, “Petals for Armor,” address, in some ways, the fallout of your breakup and divorce, in 2017, from Chad Gilbert of New Found Glory—or at least the cognitive dissonance of thinking your life is headed in one direction, and then things take a hard left turn. What was it like for you to write through that?
With “After Laughter,” I didn’t know, you know? I wasn’t really aware that I had anything more than just some bad days. It was my physical health that jolted me awake. And, even after I started to tackle that, it only allowed me to make a few better decisions for myself. It helped me to get out of a toxic, bad relationship, but it did not answer any other questions for me. We would do interviews for “After Laughter” and people would say, “What made you want to write a depression album?”—an album about depression? I was so in denial! I was very ignorant about what depression really looks like in your day-to-day life. By the time I was writing “Petals,” I had been diagnosed. I went to an intensive treatment center, and this [therapist] was so gentle with me. I really needed someone who wasn’t my family but was an older, wiser figure to hold me in that moment, and say, “This really affected you. Not only your marriage but things you went through that you’ll never really talk about.” I’d make passing jokes about all my family’s divorces, running away, and all that shit. Those are huge things! I know that now, but it wasn’t really a topic I thought I needed to research very much until I got into what I wanted to be a really good relationship, and we weren’t healthy enough for it. Around the same time, my nana had this horrible accident—it wasn’t the cause of her death, but it was ultimately the catalyst for a lot of things. And it really fucked me up: I have not lost a lot of people in my life. It’s not something I’m well versed in, and I wish that we didn’t ever have to be. I also was untangling my feelings about God, and growing up in the church, and what I believe in. I still don’t really know where we go or what happens.
Death stirs up so many of those questions.
Yeah. It . . . man, it’s just . . . it’s a lot, isn’t it? With the two solo records, I was able to dredge up a lot of things that really needed to be seen and heard. That was good for me. This record, I think I was kidding myself a little bit, thinking that I had arrived at a good place where I’m wiser, I’m more stable. I could see very quickly in the middle of recording the record, and even now as we’re more public—oh, shit. There are no answers. I think it’s interesting to just be learning with people.
Oh, my one-year-old daughter is here!
Hello!
Hayley, this is my daughter, Nico. Nico, this is Hayley.
Hey! Nice to meet you. Nico! Your necklaces are so cool! You look so cool!
Nico, say bye-bye.
Aw, that was very sweet! That was such a great gift, thank you.
I’m really sorry—
No, don’t be sorry. That’s what it is, man. That’s what it should be. That’s how work should be. It should be part of your life, not everything.
For me, the last couple years—both living through the pandemic, and then becoming a parent—made me think, O.K., where exactly does real life happen? I’d imagine this is something touring musicians struggle with all the time: Is this real life, out on the road, performing with my band? Or is my real life like when I’m home hanging with my friends, feeding the cat? Or are they somehow both my real life? I am not a touring musician, but for me, at least, the pandemic brought all those questions into stark relief, because our boundaries either dissolved completely or got incredibly permeable.
I enjoyed aspects of it, like being able to perform whenever I pleased—just playing a song on guitar on Instagram or whatever. I watched Rufus Wainwright play a bunch of my favorite songs in his house. There was something that was so human about that. It made me realize that so much of what we do when we travel and play shows doesn’t feel human, because people only see a kind of 2-D version. They see this projection that you’re putting out. What you’re talking about is what has been going through my head as we prepare to leave again—I’m a little scared, and I’m also really excited, and I’m also bracing myself for getting my ego petted every single night, and what that does to you when you come home and it’s silent. My therapist is about to be so sick of me. [Laughs.]
On “This Is Why,” there’s a lot of what I think of as post-punk energy, and a little nineteen-seventies, New York City, Talking Heads, Blondie sort of vibe. Do you think at all about ideas of genre when you’re writing and recording?
I think the only time it really enters the conversation is that I wish I knew what we were—but I’ve never really known where to put our band. While that can feel a bit torturous, it’s also completely liberating. It’s just whatever we feel like doing: “What if we just made stuff like the kind of shit we like to listen to around the house?” There’s not any place that I think we would be afraid to go, and that’s because there’s no home for whatever our type of music is. But I do know that post-punk, art-punk shit is some of my favorite music. It’s one of the coolest subgenres, right before post-hardcore, another one of my favorite subgenres. Talking Heads and Blondie have been pretty constant influences on all of us since we became adults. We also listened to a lot of the Rapture, and a lot of New York bands that Taylor [York] and I loved when we were teen-agers. But there’s also tons of British influence, because they’ve always just done music the best—the fucking best. It’s annoying. [Laughs.] It’s been a really great way to push back on some of the ways people do try to box in the band, or put us in this emo scene that I never really felt like we fit into. The best part is being surprised: “I didn’t think I could make something like that.” Listening back and being a fan of something that you’ve done is such a gratifying feeling. I don’t get it in other places in my life. I’m hard on myself with music, but I’m so much harder on myself with other things.
You’re such a joyful, magnetic performer. For a long time, we didn’t see that so much in rock bands—for decades, the reigning idea was that serious music required a kind of reserved, almost tortured performance. Have you always enjoyed being onstage?
I’m reserved and tortured offstage. [Laughs.] Up there, it’s so freeing. It’s interesting that you can be in front of that many people and feel safer. We wanted to do a run of theatre shows [last fall] because of the intimacy. We just wanted it to feel beautiful and close and sweaty. We’re gonna open for two of Taylor [Swift]’s shows in Arizona, for her “Eras” tour. I know I’ll be nervous, but when I get up there I feel so free. I’m with the people that I trust most in the world. My bandmates are family. We’ve grown up together.
On the fall run that we did, it was tough—a lot of us got COVID. I was getting over COVID when I had to sing “All I Wanted” at the Vegas show. I was, like, What am I doing? Why did I say yes to this fucking song? Aside from the health stuff, it was just weird to be back on the road again. I had some days that were pretty tough. But, as soon as we got onstage, I felt so comforted by all those faces. Our crowds, thankfully, are super diverse. They really reflect the world that I would love to see. That aspect also made me feel safe. It made me feel like—all right, well, the news sucks, but there are still these beautiful faces, and these people that are getting through things, too. We all just need a release. We need to feel safe together for a moment. That’s what brings me joy.
There’s a particular tension on the record that I think of as Home vs. Not Home, for lack of a better way to put it. I’m curious how you think about the idea of home, both in a literal sense—buying and furnishing and living in a house—and then the broader, more spiritual idea of finding your place in the world.
I think that’s my favorite thing I’ve ever been asked in an interview, because it’s my favorite thing to talk about. Anyone who grew up in a chaotic home environment and has trauma around that would understand why. Brian [O’Connor], who I run a hair-dye company with, he’s my best friend—we talk about this constantly. All that he and I have wanted, our idea of success consistently throughout our life, has just been having a home. A home that is the same place every time. Whenever I’ve had to move, I really go through a lot internally, because it’s tough. I did a lot of moving as a kid, and I don’t like that kind of change. Even just going back and forth from your mom’s and dad’s when they’re divorced . . . it feels easy when you’re in it, but as an adult I’m realizing, Oh, there was never one place where all my things were. And so that’s the way I think about it. It’s all the things that bring me peace and comfort. And I can decorate, too. I love story; I love textures; I don’t need things to be really nice. When I got a divorce, I moved into this shitty little house that was infested with bats. I had to do quite a lot of work to it to make it feel really mine, and cozy—but, oh, my God, if I could have stayed there for the rest of my life, I would have been fine. Loved my neighbors, my tiny little yard, and my dog Alf just barking at everyone who walked by. I don’t need a lot—I just need consistency. I love shopping for vintage shit, because it has a story. I love scuff marks; I don’t need things to be pristine. That’s why I love that you have a pencil sharpener on the trim of your door. That looks like my idea of home. You’re, like, The smell of freshly shaven pencils brings me something that a super expensive vase—which might be beautiful, and you might really appreciate—can’t. It doesn’t give you the same sense of peace, of being known like that. I feel very known when I’m at home. I’ve got to get used to the discomfort of pushing myself to be more social, because I’m realizing that I’ve isolated myself for a really long time. Now I’ve got to live—I’ve got to see my peers again, I have to be willing to be uncomfortable, at least for a little bit of time. Because I love home that much.
That’s such a beautiful answer. You mentioned Brian O’Connor, your partner in Good Dye Young, a hair-color company. How do you think about style, if at all, and how does the visual presentation of your music figure into your writing?
With some songs, I’ll have a picture of what I’m doing, why I’m saying certain things, if I’m setting a scene. It’s really nice to be doing this with Paramore again, instead of my own solo shit, because, even though I had a lot of fun making the videos for “Petals,” I enjoy the collaboration, not only musically but visually. Realistically, we care the most about the music. We show up to a shoot, and as long as we have people we trust there—like Lindsey Hartman, who has been styling me since “Petals,” and now she styles all three of us—for my own sake, I have to think, This is just work. This is not my identity. It’s part of Paramore, and it’s part of us showing people what we made. But me wearing a dress in a photo shoot doesn’t mean that I’m a hyper-feminine person all the time. I’m realizing that I have to make the distinction so that I don’t confuse myself with how everybody out in the world perceives me, whatever that perception of me is. I can be really sensitive to that. But, anyway, all that to say—we just made probably the most ambitious video that we’ve ever done, for a song called “Running Out of Time.”
Paramore has had an unusual trajectory, in some ways. You saw a resurgence of interest in your work when the band was technically on a hiatus; Paramore suddenly got swept up in what’s been called a pop-punk renaissance. What do you think led people back to your music? “Nostalgia” seems like too simple of an answer.
I don’t want it to be that, but I was just reading an article about why people in my age group, in our thirties, want the comfort, or the dopamine hit, of good memories. I agree with you—I don’t want it to be that simple. I want there to be other threads to pull. But, you know, for better or for worse, there’s just a lot of really unique angst in the music of that time period. We had the Internet and we had social media coming up. There were a lot of different ways to express and connect, but there were still a lot of frustrations. This was obviously not too long after 9/11, and pop bands were making political records again. Then again, more recently, people finally had time for the conversation around racial injustice, after George Floyd’s murder—I think it was just a perfect storm, right? We were all stuck, and the nostalgia probably felt great, too. People were uncomfortable and anxious and angry. I don’t know. But it is interesting to kind of feel like this is the first time in our career that people have said, “Oh, they’re this kind of band—they’re an emo band.” Back when it was all happening, nobody knew where to put us. I think it kind of feels better not knowing where to be placed than to be called emo because, as much as I can get really nerdy about that whole subculture, I don’t really want Paramore’s artistic legacy to be pinned to that word. I don’t think it’s accurate. Even the people who were around when it was coined didn’t like it.
Hayley, it was such a pleasure talking to you.
Thank you. I appreciate you taking the time, and I loved meeting your daughter. Oh, my God. I’ll be thinking of y’all. Hopefully, she can come out to a show at some point this summer. ♦
