Nellie McKay

Now, McKay seems exhausted by the press juggernaut which fueled Get Away From Me, and anxious to eschew the trappings of major-label servitude. “I just remember when I got that check, I thought ‘I’m never gonna write another song again.’ As soon as you’re legitimatized in any way, you feel like you’ve lost everything,” she sighs. “I like the way Ani DiFranco does things. I know how difficult I am. But once you’ve created even a small niche for yourself, you can get a distribution deal. It’s just the getting out [of the contract] … I don’t know why they won’t let me go, I’m such a surly cuss. Really, I just ask them to let me do my job, and for them to do theirs. Remember in the Bob Dylan film, how they talked about how they used to look for someone with something to say? And now it’s all about the money. It’s about the corporation,” she shrugs.

McKay may lament Columbia’s interference, but she maintains impressive control over both her work and her image: we snicker over a giant list-feature in another music magazine, in which nearly all the men are wearing shirts and pants while the women are squirming in tank tops and making sex-faces, an age-old machination McKay battles regularly (“They’ll take hundreds of pictures, and then use the one where you’ve accidentally got your mouth open,” she says. “I don’t want to be someone’s hot dog.”) Still, McKay’s most impressive bit of self-empowerment is having written, performed, and produced Pretty Little Head by herself: “I loved working with Geoff [Emerick, who produced McKay’s debut, and, perhaps more famously, engineered The Beatles’ Revolver, Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band and Abbey Road], but the way we did this one, it was just whenever we had a day, here and there. I couldn’t have worked with anyone on a regular basis. I know what I want, so this way I just argue with myself instead of someone else.” Still, Pretty Little Head, which was executive produced by McKay’s mother, is not all Nellie alone: the record features duets with k.d. lang (“We Had It Right”) and former tourmate Cyndi Lauper, who co-wrote the explosive duet “Bee Charmer,” which plays like a quasi-tortured phone conversation between two best friends. “With both Cyndi and k.d. you let them boss you around, and you enjoy it!” McKay giggles.

“We recorded mostly at night, just me and my mother. We have our shorthand. I love my mom,” McKay grins. (The one-woman clapping at the end of opener “Cupcake” gives a good idea of the intimacy of their studio teamwork.) “It takes so long to just finish. There’s such bureaucracy. It’s not like you can just write a song and record it and put it out. The recording, in itself, takes enough time. But then you wait and wait and wait. Everything has to have a big build up. I remember this thing Cameron Diaz said where she can’t wait to retire. Just get high on medication and drive a golf cart around. I’d really like to do that.” Unsurprisingly, retirement is not imminent for the songwriter. McKay is currently finishing the score to the musical adaptation of The Amazing True Story of a Teenage Single Mom, based on Katherine Arnoldi’s young-adult novel, and she’s set to star in Wallace Shawn’s Broadway adaptation of Bertolt Brecht’s The Threepenny Opera, alongside The Sopranos’ Edie Falco and Tony-winner Alan Cumming.

As a songwriter, McKay’s sharp, theatrical flair is mostly unmatched by her peers, and she embraces politics and humor as wholly compatible aesthetics. Unsurprisingly, McKay refuses to temper her beliefs for fickle pop palettes (“Cupcake” is a fireworks-and-shimmies fight for gay marriage, “The Big One” lambastes gentrification and the lack of tenants’ rights in New York City). McKay campaigned hard for John Kerry in 2004, writing “Teresa,” a heretofore unreleased ode to Teresa Heinz-Kerry (which wisely cautions “Don’t you insult Ms. Kerry/ Don’t you dismiss Heinz/ Oh-ee, Teresa!”), and remains a staunch vegetarian and an active PETA member. Likewise, McKay regularly reps for ColumbiaCruelty.com, a PETA-sponsored website which offers up the grisly details of Columbia University’s increasingly contentious animal-research labs (located in McKay’s own Harlem neighborhood), behind a grim, stone-faced voiceover from Alec Baldwin. PETA claims Columbia researchers routinely employ insufficient anesthesia for unnecessarily cruel operations on baboons and puppies, and in 2003, the university was forced to pay USDA fines for documented offenses regarding their low or improper anesthesia habits. In response, PETA has been crashing Columbia alumni dinners and awards receptions, and sending letters to prominent alumni (including NBA commissioner David Stern).

Meanwhile, as a celebrity endorser, McKay pulls her weight well: Pretty Little Head features an indictment of the laboratories, aptly titled “Columbia Is Bleeding.” The song opens with faux giggles and pep-rally hollers, before McKay, breathless and livid, coos prettily: “Here comes the footsteps of the man who makes you dream / The tube is fitted in / And there you are / And then a scream / The surgeon is in town / And there you are / The clamp is coming down / And then a scream.” The rest of the verses detail, in rapid-fire, the relative obliviousness of the university population, who ignore protesters in favor of more banal collegiate concerns; the song closes with a pointed howl of “This is the Ivy League!” Vaguely embarrassed, I admit to McKay that I graduated from Columbia. She nods sympathetically. But civil disobedience is in her bones.

“Even when I was a kid, I was writing protest letters. And sometimes, you get a victory. Sometimes it feels like, I don’t know, like you’re in the New Orleans flood, and you’re just throwing back handfuls of water. And then someone comes along with a water bulldozer of celebrity, and you get more help, more attention.”