Cover Story: Simply Jean Dawson

Jean Dawson is a fountain of talent, and the fruits of his proverb have grown all the more spectacular in the five years that have passed since his debut album, Bad Sports, came out. I found Dawson’s work during the first quarantine winter, in the throes of 2020’s brain-rotted finale. Pixel Bath had just dropped a month before, its cover brandishing a bodiless head wearing an all-white football helmet with a prismatic visor affixed. The mouth behind the face-mask is open, gemmed-out teeth poke through. It’s one of the most high-definition album covers I’ve ever encountered, and the music within the cardboard sides is just as technicolor—songs like the catchy-and-fly, A$AP Rocky-aided “Triple Double,” the melodramatic, bedroom-pop-turned-punk-rebel-yell of “Power Freaks,” or the acoustic haze of “Pyrotechnics,” or the crunchy, head-splitting rock-n-rap galvanizing “Pegasus.”

Pixel Bath and its reverie of left turns and tone-shifts had become a soundtrack to my, at the time, still-in-the-closet purging of gender—albeit unintentionally. But as I’ve continued to grow prouder in my own body, Jean Dawson has continued to spread out further across the realms of pop. Our evolutions orbit each other. You see, to enter his work is to continue to let boundaries be broken. He doesn’t evade genre, as the musicology of his work is unbound to the idea that listeners aren’t intelligent enough to find out what they like and what they don’t like. “I think the biggest myth that we tell ourselves, or that music tells itself, or that the music industry tells people, is that, if it’s not easy to chew then people won’t eat it,” Dawson tells me. “It’s the biggest disservice we get to music, and then we get, in my irrelevant-ass opinion, subpar-ass music. You get music that’s so derivative. It’s like, ‘Why don’t I just listen to the original?’ I don’t want 15 Lil Uzi [Vert]s. I have one Lil Uzi. That’s all I need. I have one Phoebe Bridgers, she’s awesome. That’s all I need.”

Finding the High Priest of Pop

Dawson’s enjoyment or disinterest in what surrounds him is often radical. He didn’t listen to Bob Marley until he was 19 years old, because kids at his school wore rasta colors. “It was always kids where I’m like, ‘What the fuck?’” he says. “I knew Rastafarians in real life, and then they would wear Bob Marley bags. My brain was fried by it. I’m like, ‘Bro, you like weed—I get it, but that’s not why this is a thing.’” But after going through his first depressive episode—his first episode of wanting to take his own life—Dawson needed something externally, like a vitamin. So, he entered into Marley’s art. “I do this thing where I put music on a shelf in my head, like ‘I’m gonna need that one day, but I’m not gonna spoil it for myself right now—because I know that I don’t understand what it means,” he says. “I remember listening to Bob Marley while I was going through that, and I was like, ‘Oh, shit, this is what you mean—or this is what I assume you meant.’ At that moment, I realized how important Bob Marley’s voice was to me—not to the world, to me—where I was like, ‘Oh, man, nah, I get it.’”

One of the greatest tokens of love in Dawson’s life remains the wisdom of Prince’s music. Everyone has their “Prince moment.” Mine came while watching Super Bowl XLI at the age of seven, when he played during a rainstorm and made me believe in fate, or destiny, or the atoms of existence aligning just right. Dawson’s fascination with the Purple One, which he calls a “Lovecraftian romance,” began at a young age, when he had an affinity for androgyny that he didn’t quite understand. “I always liked how things looked on women,” he says. “I don’t remember the basis of it, but I just remember when I was in high school, I wanted to be a women’s wear designer. I remember feeling like men’s clothes sucked. And also, at that time, skinny jeans were coming back around.” Dawson’s mom would take him to the thrift store, and he’d buy 20 pairs of jeans (for about $5 a piece) from the women’s sections and get his Mexican aunt to tailor them for him. “I remember seeing pictures of Prince and being so confused of how a man could be so gorgeous,” he says. “It was confusing, because my identity for beauty never came from a guy. It was always like ‘women are beautiful, guys are handsome.”

For Dawson, gender was like a fragrance. Men were tobacco and leather, women were floral. Prince, to him, was floral. He was cinnamon, and Dawson wanted to make music that felt like that—music that felt like the Prince face, that nod. “But my ability wasn’t there,” he admits. “And, as I got older and my ability to make music changed—because I’ve spent 100,000 hours doing it—I felt like, ‘Okay, cool, now I can pay homage to something that created the way that I think.’” When I tap into Glimmer of God, the first notes you hear are that of a guitar solo screeching electricity into the air like a curled tongue pressed against a wall socket. I hit play on songs like “Houston” and “Black Sugar” and “The Boy and The Swan” and you can hear a drum machine that sounds like the LinnDrum. There are basslines and chamber vocals, crumbs of brilliance pulled from the textbooks in the schools of Prince and Kanye West and Pharrell and Tyler, the Creator and Jimi Hendrix. Glimmer of God—like all of Dawson’s work—is a vault not just of Black performance, but of cross-generational excellence. It’s ubiquitous in and of itself, much like Prince’s mononymic heritage. “His identity was so his identity, that the only way you can explain that person is by saying their name,” Dawson says. “And that, for me, when I was 13 years old, was paramount to everything. When you explain a fire truck, you have to say ‘big red car.’ When you explain Prince, you just have to say ‘Prince.’”

But Dawson’s work is not a retro-fuck or some revivalist, novelty act. “The reason I wanted to do something that felt inspired by that era of music specifically comes from a few different things, but one of the most important being that kids don’t have that today,” he says. “Sure, they can go back—and they should, and they will—but they don’t have that. I feel like there was something so authentic about that.” There’s ancestry involved—a language etched in what DNA spans the lifetimes of the artists pursuing it. Hendrix and Sly Stone created Prince. They broke down the blocks for him, and then Prince broke down the blocks for Pharrell. And then Pharrell broke down the blocks for Tyler, the Creator. And now Tyler has his own set of musical offspring, like the Jaden Smiths and the BROCKHAMPTONs of the world. “As Tyler’s a baby of Pharrell, I’m a baby of Prince,” Dawson says. “And that, for me, carries the weight of not directly trying to do anything that they have done, but it’s paying respect to the things that they utilize.”

Dawson doesn’t want to use the same chord progressions Prince used, nor does he want to make another Purple Rain. That record already exists. “And the idea of having the gall to even think you can do those things I think is a Prince-ism,” Dawson says. “Honoring Prince is honoring myself, because I know what that means to me and I know what it feels like it should mean to the future of me. If Prince was a trailblazer, he left me a trail to see and if he made me a trail to see, he left me a trail to remap.” And when Dawson remaps it, then the next up-and-comer can walk down his trail. In his own words, “if Prince is gonna leave me breadcrumbs, I’m gonna leave breadcrumbs, too.” And, naturally, those breadcrumbs will lead back to Prince’s line. But Jean Dawson is gonna veer off left, and then the kid that takes his breadcrumbs is gonna veer off right. “And, eventually,” he continues, “there’ll be a whole web of music where you can be like, ‘Oh, here’s the fam—here’s the fucking last name, and it starts here and it ends in fucking Georgia in 1785.’ I’m just playing my part in keeping that family name alive.”

<a href="https://jeandawson.bandcamp.com/album/glimmer-of-god">Glimmer of God by Jean Dawson</a>

Becoming Jean

Dawson grew up in Mexico, living with his grandparents just beyond the border in Tijuana while his father, a seaman in the Navy, spent the majority of his life “being of service to the country.” Dawson moved around a lot, but with his dad rarely in the picture. “It was interesting,” he says, “being displaced in America and in Mexico at the same time.” If you tap into Dawson’s material, one defining attribute is the loudness from which he expands, both creatively and emotionally—a side-effect of a lifelong attraction to the irate band music filling the Tijuana streets where he came of age. One of his most cherished memories is that of his Mexican neighbors partying “really fucking hard and really late.” “Parents don’t tuck the kids in and say, ‘Okay, it’s time to go home. You guys have school tomorrow.’ It’s quite literally like, ‘We’re gonna dance all fucking night, so find a chair and fall asleep in that chair.’”

But Dawson is transparent about that time in his life: “I’m of the people that don’t really remember too much of their childhood,” he says. “It’s slowly but surely evaporating out of my mind, what it felt like to be that child—which is a sad thing, but it happens to all of us.” He remembers his dad listening to a lot of rap music, while his mom’s interests landed somewhere in-between the Eagles and Prince. His friends in the barrio used to call him “50 Cent” because of his Blackness, even though the G-Unit had been a cultural product in the United States for years by that point. But that kind of currency spread slower through Mexico.

Dawson used to go to sobreruedas, a sustainable-living, every-Tuesday flea market where people would set up blankets outside of their houses and “sell off the shit that they don’t need anymore.” “There was this guy that used to sell burnt CDs,” he remembers, “and I used to go to his tent all the time and see what he had that was American. And that was the first time I ever found the Smiths, was off of the burnt CD of some white dude. I was like, ‘Oh, that’s a cool picture,’ and I bought it for $1.50. At the same time, he was selling G-Unit merch. I was like, ‘What the fuck? How is this happening?’”

More than anything, Dawson claims he is the only member of his family to pursue art professionally—that you can trace that creative absence all the way “to the root” of his family tree. “There was nobody that ever did anything in the world of arts, other than my grandfather was an auto body man, but his creativity was in a whole ‘nother thing—having babies and shit.” His grandmother worked as a maid in the same beachside San Diego hotel for 15 years, and his mother was a clerk typist.

“She was the person to get my family organized,” Dawson says. “She took the helm of being… not the most responsible, but she has six sisters and a ton of aunts and cousins and she made sure that my family was getting educated. She put my grandmother in night school. She was the first person [in our family] to have a home address in America, so everybody used our home address to put their kids in school, or go to the hospital.” One thing (among many) that Dawson took from the feminine figures in his life and applied to his own was their work ethics—“the amount of work that you have to do to achieve something.” “My mom’s always had three, four jobs,” he says. “My grandmother was working even when she was 60, 70 years old. That in itself taught me a lot—the world’s not going to give you shit.”

Even now, as Dawson sits in the afterglow of Glimmer of God, his family struggles to make sense of him doing something he loves and getting paid for it. “I’m one of the first kids in my family line that not only chose their job, but also was very stern about what they wanted to do,” he says. “My siblings and my cousins, they’re all in the medical profession or in tech—things that they love as well—but I was the first one where it’s like, there’s no road map, there’s nobody to tell me, ‘This is how you do something.’ There’s no class I can take to be more proficient at this thing.” Dawson’s mother and grandmother both had a rule of thumb: one day at a time. “Take it one day at a time,” he gestures, “or else life is like a treadmill and it’ll spit you out. If you really care about it, treat it like you care about it.”

<a href="https://jeandawson.bandcamp.com/album/glimmer-of-god">Glimmer of God by Jean Dawson</a>

Heading North

After high school, Dawson moved to Los Angeles. I ask him about the places in the city that he gravitated towards upon his arrival. “I’ve had a very big dilemma, since I was a child, feeling a sense of community,” he replies. “And not because I lacked one. It’s because I never felt like that community was something I was an organism in or a byproduct of.” When he moved to SoCal, he was going to indie rock shows and reaping the benefits of the now-expired Burger Records era. He was, as he puts it, a loner who “didn’t feel like” the kids he was at gigs with. As much as he wanted to be in something or a part of a community, he never was. It was seldom that.

And that’s where Dawson’s identity as a musician stems from—from the fact that he didn’t have an outlet where he could “articulate something” that they understood. “I knew that, once I left the venue—the fucking bowling alley where this band was playing at, where everybody’s wearing Dr. Martens and dressing like the fucking Smiths—that my reality was much different from that,” he furthers. “I couldn’t connect to that, none of those kids had a gun in their car like I had a gun in my car… allegedly. None of those kids had the fear of this, of life being very real. It’s like, ‘Oh, I’m doing this because it’s fun and I’m fucking 18 and I’m in a band.’ For me, it was like, ‘Oh, no, this is all I have to care about.’”

Dawson isn’t saying that his stake in making art was higher than anyone else’s, but he’s quick to remark about how East LA helped shape his identity because of what he started going back home to. “I remember walking up and down the street and being like, ‘Wow, this feels like home. And I don’t know anybody!’” he recalls, mentioning how he’d go to a nearby corner store and recognize the importance of a place like that. “I’d sit outside and there’s fucking banda music coming out of somebody’s house. I’m like, ‘Wow, this feels real to me.’” Maybe Dawson didn’t have a “music community” to latch onto on the West Coast, but his neighborhood being engulfed in Black and Mexican culture helped his musical identity by affirming him that it was “okay to be those things.”

His Los Angeles is far from the collective culture’s—it’s not people fixating on the other side of the 10, logrolling the monuments of Hollywood and Beverly Hills, or that one specific shot of the same bridge in the city that makes the skyline look good. Dawson’s home is full of native Los Angelenos, or the deep, grass-rooted culture of the zoot suit era. He talks about how Compton was white before redlining became prominent, about the rich diaspora that you can only feel if you go to the correct pockets of the city.—the wave of commercialism and the “supercharging people’s displacement” that’s been labeled “gentrification.”

“There’s this very, very real, authentic sense of home,” he says. “Some parts of LA don’t have that, because a lot of people, much like myself, come here and don’t necessarily set roots. They’re passive buyers, so there’s no real sense of, ‘Oh, I’ve been here since ‘76, when this block had this dry cleaner and it’s still there and they hire all the neighborhood kids.’ Now, it’s like, ‘We got this Starbucks two years ago.’ Places start to feel like they lack identity, but the beautiful thing about LA is, dude, just drive 10 minutes away—which will take you an hour—and you’ll see something very, very beautiful. I can walk to the store and feel my grandmother’s presence and my mother’s presence.”

Dawson returned to his homeland in March 2024 to play the Ceremonia festival, and it was his first time in Mexico City. He grew up a northerner, and his family come from the Sinaloa state near the coastline. He likens Mexico City to New York in how different it is from where he grew up, but he’s quick to affirm that there was never a disconnect between Mexican and American cultures. “It was beautiful to play to an audience of people that look nothing like me, but I know everything about them,” he says. “It was daunting, but also, in the same breath, it was very validating. Mexican people fucking love music.” Dawson’s mother was a product of that attitude, having grown up, as he puts it, “thinking that Michael Jackson was the most handsome boy on Earth” and bestowing that same cross-cultural love onto him.

<a href="https://jeandawson.bandcamp.com/album/glimmer-of-god">Glimmer of God by Jean Dawson</a>

Application vs. Ambition

Five years after Bad Sports, Dawson still doesn’t feel like he’s a part of the music industry—because there wasn’t a need for outside validation other than his own. “When I started putting out music, I knew that music was going to be my job for the rest of my life. I knew that, because there was no other thing that I was going to do to stay alive,” he says. He pauses, and asks me if I’ve ever seen Freaks and Geeks. It’s my favorite show of all time, I reply. Dawson calls to mind a scene in the show’s sixth episode, “I’m With the Band,” where Nick Andopolis (Jason Segel) is obsessing over getting his band Creation out of his dad’s basement and onto gig bills.

Nick wants to win the battle of the bands and amount to something; he can only talk about Led Zeppelin and Rush. The episode begins with him playing along to “Spirit of the Radio” and feeling every beat and every groove. Then, the sound goes outside of his headphones and a revelation arises: Nick Andopolis is a terrible drummer. “He’s so amped up about music,” Dawson says, “and his abilities didn’t match his aspirations. I feel like, for a long time, in my infancy in music, my ability didn’t match my ambitions—my ability didn’t match the ideas that I had.”

By the time he made it to California State University to study film, it’d been almost a decade since he’d last made music. He used textbook money to buy equipment, but he was still making songs with minimal resources—funneling notes of Kid Cudi, Disturbed, OutKast and Prince into dorm room arrangements. A college friend of his, Lecx Stacy, had access to the 6th-generation of Magix’s Music Maker program—a program even more outdated now than it was six years ago—that was limited in application, but it let Dawson at least record vocals. “It made me a utilitarian because I didn’t have a lot of shit,” he says.

This is all just to say: Nick Andopolis, as a character, felt familiar to Dawson. But there’s a difference between him and Nick. “He loved drums and he loved drumming, and he would wear these headphones and he’d play along,” Dawson says. “And, at the end, he puts his sticks up, and the crowd cheers, because he’s listening to a live recording. And he was playing horribly outside of the headphones. But inside of the headphones, he felt like he was on stage. He put that dry ice in the bucket to make the smoke go up. He had lights. And I think that blindsided him, in my irrelevant-ass opinion. I think it should have been, ‘No, that band doesn’t exist. That fucking headphone is off your head and you’re listening to yourself suck.’ I’ve always been bad at pretty much everything I’ve ever done, and music was the first sign that I could be okay at something or good at something. And I latched onto that so tough because, without it, I felt like such a fucking failure.”

“Kids are good at sports, or math, or fucking science, or talking to girls, or having friends,” he continues. “I sucked at all of it. It’s not dramatic—I really wasn’t good at these things. And then, I found the thing where I was like, ‘Oh, man, this is it.’ And my life became solely about that. And that’s why Jason’s character wears the headphones, because he’s drowning out the reality that he’s not good. I never had headphones. I had to see that I wasn’t good when I was 13 years old, to try and get better—and not for the clapping audience at the end of the track. It was never for that. It was for the simple fact that I want to be okay at something—because, if I’m not, my life is going to be miserable.”

Dawson’s arc matches that ambition. To go from being broke in East LA to playing the Camp Flog Gnaw stage at Dodger Stadium, there’s something rewarding about seeing the way you’ve built your legacy up into that—to suffer in parts of a city you’ve now conquered. But it’s also confusing, because Dawson’s purpose in making music was never to be seen. “I think it was to understand myself a little bit more,” he acknowledges. “I didn’t have a lot of outward connection to people, like [I was] on some Asperger’s shit. I think music gave me the ability to translate something to myself in a way that felt friendly to me. Why make art unless you’re going to share it? And if you’re not going to share it, then don’t tell people you make art. When an audience came, it became confusing, for the fact that I felt like there was some sort of representation that needed to be there that I wasn’t ready to give.”

But his work resonates. He recently opened for Linkin Park, playing sets in spaces full of more people than he’d ever seen before. Even in mass numbers, the gigs felt claustrophobic. “You’re like, ‘Holy shit, I can’t see anybody’s face.’ That’s how many faces there are, playing fucking Where’s Waldo? in real time,” he says. And still, fans were there and feeling a sense of connection to him—and it’s as mystifying as it is gratifying and awe-striking. “You’re like, ‘I don’t know how to explain that I feel like this kid in the front row screaming his head off and crying—like I’m you right now and you’re me,’” Dawson continues. “During my shows, I passed the mic to whoever’s singing. I’m like, ‘Here, you can’t hear yourself—so you’re probably going to sound crazy singing this—but go ahead.’ And that moment, for me, is like, ‘Wow, music gave you everything you’ve ever wanted and all you wanted was a friend. And now you have a lot of friends, so now you got to manage those friendships.’”

He continues, “And, as I stepped into it—being more okay with ‘music gives people identity,’ and it definitely gave me identity, not in terms of making music but listening to music—some people started formulating parts of [their] identity based off of something that I’d said, the weight of my words carried much more. I wasn’t loose with my words before, but there was more of a dictatorship on my language—imposed by myself, rather than anybody else. Before having an audience, it was like, ‘I’m screaming into a void.’ Now, when that void gets populated, it’s like, ‘Watch your tongue, because the shit that you’re saying means something to somebody—not just you.’”

<a href="https://jeandawson.bandcamp.com/album/glimmer-of-god">Glimmer of God by Jean Dawson</a>

Choosing His Own Story

Dawson is the baby of his family, but he knows his role in the spectrum. He says he was “the one drawing and fucking being artsy,” because art gave him the least amount of pushback on what was determined as good or bad. “It’s art, it’s subjective. The subjectivity gave me room to be flawed in a way where nobody could tell me that I was flawed.” To him, art wasn’t just a defense, it was a survival tactic. No one could tell him he sucked. “That’s why I didn’t like sports,” he quips, “because you’re objectively good or bad.” He was never going to settle for a life with a pre-determined outcome. “That makes me uncomfortable,” he continues. “When you leave your house, you’re either going to make some money or you’re going to go spend some money—or you’re going to make some money for somebody else, or you’re going to spend some money on somebody else. You walk to the fucking park, it costs money. Shoes that you got to wear, clothes that you got to wear—it’s illegal to be naked. From the point that you’re born, you’re on this treadmill. Some people go off the grid, but it costs a certain amount of money to do that. There’s very little freedom in this world that we have, and I think the biggest freedom that we have is the freedom that we can impose on ourselves—the truth that we have on ourselves.”

Glimmer of God acknowledges that self-preserved identity—meaning not yet tainted by the rest of the world. In the art for the record, Dawson shows up in this beautiful white wig. He looks like Storm from the X-Men—like some gender-bending, high-art rendering of Halle Berry. Part of it is a nod to Prince’s fabulous hair, but most of it is Dawson’s way of saying, “You think you know me, and you have no idea what’s going on upstairs.” But he’s not trying to confuse anybody; he just doesn’t know what’s going on. “The last thing I need is for somebody to tell me who I think I am,” he says. “I have to either tell you, or those assumptions that you had negates every single thing that I’ve been through in my life. The identity of androgyny, or the freedom of Prince being like ‘I’m wearing heels today’—that’s the coolest shit I’ve ever seen in my entire life.”

He talks about how expression in music is how he expresses his life, that he’s not a sexually-driven person and never has been—that he’s “too Jesse Eisenberg about sexual shit.” “There’s a certain sense of freedom that keeps me alive, knowing that nobody can break me. I’m a horse that can’t be broken, and not for the sake of being combative, but for the sake of ‘You can’t tell me what I am.’ You can’t tell me what anything is, because you have this fucking grace period, if you’re lucky, of 80, 90 years on this earth and the one thing you’re not gonna do is make me feel like I need to fit a mold for your comfortability.”

Dawson might show up to a gig with red eye shadow streaking across his face, or maybe he’s dressed “like a fucking gangbanger” by wearing Chuck Taylors and high socks because he wants to “look straight Cholo.” He’s not playing a character; that’s just what his life is. “I have siblings that are straight up scary-looking and are the sweetest people on Earth. But the assumption of what they are negates you the fucking privilege of ever knowing them,” he says. “And I feel like that is a disservice in and of itself. The idea that I can be these things, I think that gives me hope—no matter what path we take, it’s a success upon creation. You don’t have to worry about the way that it’s perceived. It’s going to be perceived in a way that you can’t control regardless. All I know is I can control my presumption of it. I can see the assumption that I’m making up on myself, and I choose that one to live in. And that one is the most important one. That’s the most real one. That’s the actual truth.”

Since Bad Sports, Dawson has worked with the likes of SZA, Lil Yachty and A$AP Rocky, opening shows for Linkin Park and Interpol. His influences span the globe, from Mac DeMarco and Björk to Motown and the Smashing Pumpkins. He’s been rightfully called a polymath, thanks to his albums fitting into the margins of bedroom-pop, trap, emo, country, hardcore, grunge, shoegaze and indie rock. He’s outmuscled the “tortured artist” trope by writing lyrics that reflect his sober lifestyle. Dawson wanted his song “Napster” to sound like “if Morrissey was Black,” and he’s married rap and alt-rock together in ways that are shattering yet necessary. It’s like Yves Tumor at Warped Tour, or Oasis at Rolling Loud. Glimmer of God is a collage of JPEGMAFIA, TV On The Radio, Blood Orange and Bon Iver, a collection of songs that embrace femininity and womanhood with holistic and curious attentions that keep his modern-day self alive. “Houston” sounds like it could be in the background of Akira, while Dawson’s language changes across each album as he continues to challenge Mexican and Black cultural norms by crafting incredibly personal and hyper-aestheticized material.

But, it’s also incredibly difficult to pin down Dawson’s whims. He’s a trend-setter and a trend-obliterator, turning in excellent ghetto pop records that do as much reclaiming as they do establishing. Elton John loves him, and so do Talking Heads (his cover of “Swamp” was one of the rare glimmers on the doomed Everyone’s Getting Involved tribute)—and the shards that fell from the ceilings they shattered 40, 50 years ago now light the torch Dawson has been invited to carry. Molds are especially outdated in the context of a project like Glimmer of God and its buffet of miraculous cohesiveness. His paintbrush can broaden distortion and drill into fusions of blissed-out rock and singer-songwriter like it’s nobody’s business. How could anyone possibly begin describing all of this to anyone? For now, let’s call it Jean Dawson.

<a href="https://jeandawson.bandcamp.com/album/glimmer-of-god">Glimmer of God by Jean Dawson</a>

Matt Mitchell is Paste’s music editor, reporting from their home in Northeast Ohio.

COVER STORY | Simply Jean Dawson

In our latest Digital Cover Story, the multi-faceted, unpredictable performer talks about honoring Prince, growing up in Mexico, the power of ambition and androgyny, and his great fourth record, Glimmer of God.

Finding the High Priest of Pop

Becoming Jean

Heading North

Application vs. Ambition

Choosing His Own Story