Francis’ Scream released his first music this year. The singles are guitar-heavy and scraped clean of anything that might smooth over the edges. They arrived without much warning and without much explanation, which feels about right for songs that sound like they were written because staying silent stopped being an option.

Independent artists right now exist in a strange bind: streaming platforms want predictability, audiences want authenticity, and somewhere in that gap you’re supposed to figure out how to pay for studio time. Francis’ Scream seems less interested in solving that equation than in ignoring it entirely. The music lands where it lands. These tracks have a rawness that reads as foundational—songs built on whatever mood struck first, kept close to that original combustion even when the studio got involved.

We talked about instinct versus overthinking, about working with producers when he could technically do it alone, about the difference between making something and deciding other people should hear it. The conversation moved between the mechanics of recording and the harder question of why you’d bother in the first place. Some artists treat their work like a product. Others treat it like proof they’re still breathing. This leaned toward the latter. What came through was someone trying to figure out how to keep making music on his own terms while the industry around him keeps rewriting the rules.

Hey Francis, thanks for taking the time to chat with me. Your new single “Reef” is quite an unusual track, you know I’d even describe it as if Nirvana suddenly became optimistic. You’re talking about the transformation of uncertainty into clarity through another person’s presence. When did you realize that this moment needed to be captured through such an energetic, almost electrifying song?

Thank you for the interview! I’d say you actually captured the vibe of the song. I wrote “Reef” on January 2023, after a day I had spent with the girl who would later become my partner, and who still is today. Back then I had just moved to a new city, didn’t know anyone and suddenly found myself falling for someone who didn’t even know I existed. My first two tracks (Anna Storm and Cherry Blossoms) represent respectively the longing and the idea of letting go by treating love like a loss. Then Nemo (the affectionate nickname I gave her, after the famous clownfish) walked into my life and the sadness made room for joy. I found a home. I found the reef, a place where I felt heard, safe, accepted. In the end, ‘Reef’ is the story of how we fell in love. A love letter in disguise.

Your previous tracks—”Anna Storm,” “Cherry Blossoms”—lived in a space of longing and contemplation at a distance. There was beauty in the melancholy, in the way you held emotions within a framework of minimalism. “Reef,” however, explodes with life, with presence in the present tense. How did your writing and recording process physically change when you began working with material that demanded such vitality instead of restraint?

I’ve always written on instinct. I follow the mood I’m in, play without thinking too much and only later polish my works. After a period of low mood I regained new energy. I needed to create and the song came out of that. When I recorded the song, almost two years later, I tried to stay close to that first spark. I didn’t overthink it. I just followed the vibe.

What was happening in the studio when you were recording these vocal parts? Generally speaking, how does the recording of your music happen—do you do everything yourself or do you work with producers?

I record in a studio with professional producers. Doing everything alone is possible but it’s easy to get a low quality work. People deserve something listenable. Getting help from professionals isn’t just about quality, it’s a way of respecting whoever listens to your music.

The Francis’ Scream project was born out of grief in 2005. Two decades have passed, and your music continues to be a channel for raw, visceral feelings.”Reef” describes an intimacy that brought understanding and support, but the very process of creating music about joy and connection through the lens of a project born from loss—that’s a kind of paradox. How has your relationship with the original pain that gave life to Francis’ Scream transformed as you began writing about moments of light and presence?

Francis’ Scream technically started in 2005, but I was only 10 years old back then. I began playing guitar and writing songs after the death of a loved one. That grief was devastating and music became a way to turn pain into something else.

Some songs I’ll release soon were written by that younger version of me, I just revisited them as an adult. The grief has been processed, but it left me with the need to create. I don’t really see a paradox between sadness and joy, they just feed each other. And now, when I write, I’m not stuck in that memory anymore. I live in the present.

Your music exists in a lo-fi aesthetic, in the candor of the lyrics, in the way you choose to share the most vulnerable parts of yourself. Meanwhile, algorithms and streaming platforms dictate their own rules of visibility. Is it important for you to establish boundaries between the desire to reach listeners and the necessity of preserving that rawness and honesty that makes your music truly cathartic?

Compromise doesn’t make sense to me, not in a project built on authenticity. I don’t write to chase numbers, I write to share what I feel. It’s almost like a therapeutic circle open to whoever wants to listen. If that means having less visibility I’m fine with it. What matters is staying true to the idea behind the project.

Probably the most painful question for indie musicians is that they often exist within an ecosystem of DIY ethics, where every decision—I’m talking about recording, mixing, production, distribution, marketing—requires personal involvement. You create music that demands complete emotional commitment, and at the same time you need to think about releases, promotion, about how your song will reach people. How do you manage this duality, being simultaneously an artist and an entrepreneur of your own creativity?

The project is personal, but I’m surrounded by people who support me in real ways. I’ve met many of them over the past year. Their presence means a lot. I am not alone.

You started this project way back in 2005, and over these years the music business has transformed radically. Everything has changed: how music is recorded, how it’s distributed, how listeners find it and consume it. How have these changes affected your creative process and how you envision the future of Francis’ Scream over the next five years?

The “scream” happened in 2005, after that loss, but the actual music only came to life this year. So yes, I’m a newbie. When it comes to the future, I try not to plan too much. I stay in the moment. Carpe diem.

You already have several singles that together are beginning to paint a picture of a journey from longing to presence. Are you thinking about a full-length album? And if so, what story do you want to tell over the course of a complete LP?

I’ve thought about putting my first three tracks and the next ones into an LP, but I don’t want to force a direction. Each song lives in its own universe and connecting them into a single vision might be hard. If a first album ever happens it’ll probably be chaotic, even in terms of musical genres, since each track has a completely different sound and set of influences from the others. It’s like a constant experiment in the search for something that will never truly arrive. ‘Cause there is no destination. Only the process leading towards it.

Every artist has songs that remained in the archives, demo versions that seemed too personal for release. Perhaps there are tracks lying there that you recorded in the most difficult moments. How do you make the decision about which song is ready to become a song for the public? Do you have recordings that will forever remain only yours?

Sometimes the perfectionist in me tries to take over, but I’ve learned to quiet that voice. If I had listened to it, I wouldn’t have released anything at all. My idea is to release everything I can, without too many filters.

What feeds your creativity beyond personal experience? Are there artists, filmmakers, writers, or albums that change how you hear your own songs?

We’re shaped by everything around us. We’re like sponges. Anything or anyone I meet can influence me, and I like that idea. But in the end I’m here today because of certain artists who shaped me and shaped the way I hear music. I’ll always be grateful to them.

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