"T

oday, I'm going to rehearsal. That’s about it." As openers go, it’s pure Hannah Jadagu: understated, friendly, direct. There’s a second album due on Sub Pop, a calendar of US, UK and European dates gathering pace, friends pinging her about new tracks, and she leads with a line that sounds like someone checking a to-do list. The signal is deliberate. The volume around her might be rising, but the temperature in the room stays steady. She prefers it that way; the music goes further when the noise recedes.

That calm sharpened the writing. The real beginning of ‘Describe’ was a summer spent away from routine, long days that let the work stretch out. “I went out to California to record demos I had already begun making, and also started writing new bits and pieces that eventually became songs on the album as well,” she says. The change of scene wasn’t a postcard; it was a method. “I was very reflective during that time, and was in a headspace that solely revolved around making music.” You can hear it in the songs’ patience: verses arriving with air around them, choruses opening because the arrangement clears a path rather than grabbing at a bigger drum.

From the outset she set herself a bar that reads simple and ruthless. “I was super obsessed with making an album that felt timeless, and also obsessed with the idea of growth,” she explains. Then she breaks the ambition into practical steps. “For me, that growth and timelessness was rooted in trying new things, like working in California, trying a different songwriting process, working with someone new, etc. My main goal was to create new sounds and reach for something that felt fresh to me, also.” That’s how ‘Describe’ separates from ‘Aperture’. The debut opened the door; this one decides where to stand once you’ve walked through. “I think ‘Describe’ is a totally new chapter,” she says. “‘Aperture’ exists in its own world and so does ‘Describe’.”

The change registers first in texture. Where her early tracks wrapped late-night melodies in warm guitars, these songs lean on stacked synths and quietly insistent programming. It’s not a switch for the sake of it; it’s a grammar that suits the new voice. “It allowed me to express myself in a new way,” she says. “I felt free, but also guided by synths and electronic drums. A lot of my inspiration came from artists who do a lot of that as well.” The arrangements keep their hands visible. Pads glow rather than blaze. Drum machines tick forward with just enough grit to stop the edges turning soft. Nothing here feels over-arranged; it feels selected.

That selection helps the words land. Jadagu is unusually comfortable writing from the middle of a thought, when the feeling hasn’t cleared yet and the line carries more question than answer. It’s the kind of lyric writing that asks for close, unshowy production - chords that hold a note so the voice can lean against it, a bass that moves just enough to keep the mood lit without dragging the song to a conclusion it doesn’t want. “Writing about ideas that aren’t fully formed is kind of my favourite thing to do,” she says. “I’ve found that within the songwriting process, I am able to understand myself more, and also articulate myself in a way that is true to me, yet vulnerable.”

None of which means she lets first ideas go unchallenged. The songs sound relaxed because the process was exact. You can hear the edit in the final cut. The synth bed shimmers without crowding, the tempo sits steady, the vocal is close enough to feel confessed rather than staged. Then she tells you what the line carries. “The feelings that can arise when you’re apart from someone you love – longing, excitement, gratitude,” she explains. “Although I’m usually someone who trusts my first instincts, I also learned that being willing to keep trying and trying when it comes to production, vocal delivery, and overall song making, can be super beneficial,” she says. “ ‘My Love’ is a song that is a great example of making many versions until landing on something that perfectly suits the song.” “It’s simply a love song that makes a plea for being with that person.

The long-distance theme didn’t end at the lyric. As the record moved from sketches to takes, the map got involved. The practicalities shaped the aesthetic: decisions made on the clock, parts committed rather than endlessly auditioned, a neatness that comes from knowing which version says the thing cleanest. “The hardest part about pulling the album together was having to do some of it virtually,” she admits. “My producers, Sora and Max, are located in Altadena and Paris. And I was in New York. So pulling it together at the end was a big team effort for sure."

For all the new tools and the time zones, the writing impulse remains rooted where it started - a small circle, a laptop, a melody you can sing without thinking. “I think it mainly still comes from the same place,” she says. “I have a similar process, but have allowed other people to help shape it at times, if that makes sense.” The difference is when she opens the door. That trust changes the feel of the finished record. Instead of guests being patched on at the end, you can hear hands and ears solving problems in real time, nudging a drum sound forward, pulling a harmony back, leaving a bar clear so the line can breathe. “The only thing that has changed from what I used to do is I’m more willing to begin the collaboration process much earlier than I used to be,” she confirms.

Closeness is the point, and she says it plainly. “Yes. I think this record is very intimate, and I dive into topics that are very personal,” she says. “There’s intentionality behind every song, and the way in which the vocals come across, all the way down to the strings. Intimacy is a big part of this album.” Listen for the small decisions that back that up: backing parts arriving on the second verse rather than the first so the voice feels nearer at the start; bridges that shift the light without halting the song for a speech; final choruses thickened by harmony rather than sheer volume. The record invites you in by choosing what to remove.

You might expect the growing live profile - tours with Faye Webster, Arlo Parks and Beach Fossils; sets at SXSW, Roskilde and Pitchfork - to push the writing toward bigger gestures. Her answer undercuts that assumption in a way that explains a lot about these songs. “Live shows have shaped my songwriting in the way where I get inspired by seeing shows,” she says. “It's less about playing my own shows and more about the ones I go see. Seeing someone else's show always gives me fun ideas that I take with me to the studio.” She isn’t writing to inflate the moment on stage; she’s clocking the small moves that tilt a room and figuring out how to bottle them without losing the quiet that makes them feel true.

Ask what success looks like and you get the same clarity, stripped of scoreboard language. “People connecting with the music,” she says. “I am very grateful to be making music all the time, and success would be people finding their way to it and bringing it along with them throughout their own lives.” The line matches the method. She wants songs that move, not just point, records that can live past the first week because they carry something you can take with you.

And in the end, she prefers not to put too many words in front of the work. “I want the music to speak for itself,” she smiles. “So I just hope people go listen!” ■ 

Taken from the November 2025 issue of Dork. Hannah Jadagu's album 'Describe' is out 24th October.