Meet Cal — a singer-songwriter and storyteller whose music blends natural imagery, emotional candour, and quiet reflection. Raised in the southwest and now based in East London, Cal’s songs are rooted in memory and feeling, balancing acoustic textures with lyrical vulnerability.
In our conversation, Cal shares the story behind their songwriting, the influences that shaped their sound, and how they navigate the creative process with discipline and heart. We talk fish, family, fashion, and the freedom that comes with finding your voice — one chord at a time.
1. Where does your story with songwriting begin? Was there a moment when you realised music was more than just a hobby?
Unfortunately, my whole family is musical — Dad was a classically trained singer, two of my siblings have become opera singers, and my oldest brother runs a choir. Mum wasn’t classically trained but loves music and singing and came to every concert — never really out of duty, but always armed with a crossword. Plus, we were all shoved into choirs, so music has been around since the beginning.
Songwriting, in that sense, felt like worming my way out of the family mould — one I’d definitely exaggerated in my own mind, in the way we do when we’re young and upset and desperate to feel a bit independent. I discovered my mum’s Spanish guitar when I was around 10 or 11. It was this cheapish relic my dad had found for her in the ’70s. I loved that I came to it more independently than the other instruments, since I didn’t have a teacher and wasn’t made to practise by anyone but myself. It felt quite revolutionary at the time.
I just started using UltimateGuitar obsessively to read tabs and chords for my favourite songs (mainly from the Shrek soundtrack), and from there, I was so drunk on it, I thought I could probably write about how terrible it is to be me. My first song was called “Sitting Under the Tree.” It included experiences I hadn’t had — and later would find out I didn’t want (boys) — and it was really bad. A decent example of being impressionable as hell.
2. Your lyrics are full of natural imagery — rivers, skies, stillness, rain. Where does that language come from? Is nature still a big part of your life?
I live in London now, but I grew up in a pretty rural bit of the southwest — this place called Salisbury where there’s a massive cathedral and five rivers converge. Most people now know it as the place where the Novichok attack happened. Before that, it was just where they kept the Magna Carta — and Sting. The rivers are beautiful and clean because they’re chalk-filtered or something.
Anyway, I’ve always loved the rivers at home, always loved looking at fish from bridges — sort of in the same way my dad stops and looks at a plane when he hears one overhead, trying to work out what make and model it is. It’s definitely an “old man” activity, but like Dad with the planes, I feel very connected to my shoeless, tree-climbing inner child in those moments.
There’s something fascinating and sedative about watching a fish mid-flow — unbothered. You’re just watching a creature behave exactly the way it was meant to with exactly what it has. It’s pointless, but also the whole point.
I’ve definitely felt that feeling — that ease of being — get slapped out of me as I’ve grown up. Thankfully, music and art are two of those rare golden avenues through which we can claw it back. Nature’s there when the city feels a bit much, or when I need to escape my own crap — only to find it reflected back at me by things which just happen and have always happened. Like storms. Or death. Or a fish staying in one spot.
3. How would you describe your sound to someone who’s never heard it before? Is it a feeling, a colour, a memory?
I used to describe it as “self-indulgent sad singer-songwriter,” but I think now I would just say — if I could make it a colour or a feeling — it’s a dark blue catharsis. So, still pretty self-indulgent. In terms of lyrics, I’ll rarely write about “purely happy” subjects, but if I do, it’ll come back to nature — blues and greens — and will almost always be tinged with something else.
In terms of actual sound, it’s acoustic and organic — guitar with sponge mutes and different tuning, violins, pedals, soft piano, and pitched-down Spanish guitar in lieu of an upright bass. I like experimenting with chopped vocals too, but I want everything to sound alive and real.
4. You’ve cited Joni Mitchell, Damien Rice, and Jeff Buckley as influences. What draws you to them, and are there any new artists that inspire you now?
I love Joni’s storytelling and economy of language. Every time you listen to her it’s like entering an emotional MRI. Damien Rice gives you that raw vulnerability — the way silence works as hard as sound in his music is magic. Jeff Buckley has that same weight to his emotion, and his production feels like it’s never trying to impress — just to express.
As for current artists — Ormella, Tamzene, Seegz, Sfven, Alex Connor & The Little Faith — they all make stuff that’s dark, gorgeous, refreshing. Artists who make you feel seen and want to write more.
5. What does your creative process look like? Are you the type to write at 2am, or do you carve out space during the day to create?
I try to write every Saturday. I set up this little folding desk, put my phone away, have a tea, and start laying stuff down in the DAW. More often than not, nothing happens — but sometimes an idea comes back from weeks ago, and then I know it’s worth recording.
That book The War of Art said: the muse doesn’t always come, but you have to keep the door unlocked. That stuck with me.
6. What do you wear when you write or perform? Is there a connection between clothing and confidence for you?
Yes. I need to be comfortable. Baggy jeans, a little T-shirt, chunky boots. Most of my clothes are from charity shops or hacked to fit better — I’m 5’3” on a tall day. Always a chain on my neck, and one ring I keep on while playing.
7. “Small beers and long walks” — where are your favourite places to walk, and what’s your ideal pint?
Locally, there’s a churchyard near my flat I love. Victoria Park too. I’m trying not to wear headphones lately — it’s nice just hearing birds. In summer, I’ll drink a lager or IPA; in winter, Guinness. My favourite weird beer is Siren’s Calypso, but if I go out of my way for it, I might be an even bigger wanker than I already am.
8. What’s next for you?
Live sessions, more gigs, more releases. I’ve been scared to release for ages, but I’m getting over that. “Song-rot” is real — when you sit on something too long, it stinks to you but not to others. I’m trying to stop hoarding songs. Share them, warts and all. That’s the plan.