TGCA Editor Jacob York spoke to American-based artist Thomas Austin about his creative processes and upcoming album.
TGCA: Tom, you’re about to release an album called Eternal Life. Tell us about it.
Thomas Austin: This album’s been a long time in the making (and in the releasing, for that matter; the first single, “Hopeful,” was released in 2021). It’s finally done, and the rest of it will be out by your winter. My friend Jason Wozniak produced the whole thing (except for one song produced by my friend Chris Renzema).
I’m not sure I’d say that a piece of art can be “about” something, any more than a person’s life can be “about” something. But the recurring theme of the record is the intersection between eternity and time. I grew up in a church (which I loved, where my dad still pastors, and towards which I have no resentment) where the question was constantly asked, “If you were to die today, are you 100% sure you would go to Heaven?” The sentiment behind that question is noble. It’s a good thing to have hope, and a better thing for that hope to be God. But the specifics of it—the implication that Eternal Life is a place we go when we die, rather than a Person who comes to us while we live—felt small and unreal, like merely kicking the promise of “life to the full” down the road toward an esoteric future.
I resonate with how C. S. Lewis put it:
There are far better men than I who have made immortality almost the central doctrine of their religion; but for my own part I have never seen how a preoccupation with that subject at the outset could fail to corrupt the whole thing.
I also love Switchfoot’s summary, “Why would I wait til I die to come alive? I’m ready now; I’m not waiting for the afterlife.” On the record I put it this way: “If Eternal Life’s worth living, shouldn’t it start now?” To live is to learn to recognise God in each moment in front of me—each person, each flower, each sadness. The songs on the album all have to do with that idea, with time and timelessness, and the human predicament of being sentient, free, future-obsessed creatures, spending so much of our effort on the “Not Yet” at the expense of the “Now.”
Most of the songs on the album contain poetic allusions more than explicit gospel references. Would you say you fit into an established genre? How does that shape your hope for your music?
I have a friend who got rejected from playing his songs at two separate venues. One venue said they didn’t host religious artists, and the other said his music was too secular. Taken together, those rejections made the best compliment he’d ever received.
That’s the same target I tend to hit, whether I’m trying to or not. I’m a Christian, but I don’t spend my time writing Christian songs any more than a Christian baker would spend his time baking Christian bread. But genres are helpful. So I’ve taken to calling it Theofolk, theo for God and folk for people.
I think writing honestly about mysterious and personal things, like God and people, necessarily requires a lot of metaphor (although your term “poetic allusions” makes me sound way cooler). Metaphors, like God, aren’t exactly safe. They’re open to interpretation in a way black and white statements are not. If I say God is good, that’s that. But if I say God is an oak, it opens up a lot more room for a listener to take the song into their own hands, to input their personal experiences and make meaning. When it comes to song lyrics, I prefer the second to the first.
Soren Kierkegaard says a poet is “an unhappy man who hides deep anguish in his heart, but whose lips are so formed that when the sigh and cry pass through them, it sounds like lovely music”. Would you say your music has been mostly born out of anguish or joy?
Ha! I’m reading Fear and Trembling right now, and I never know whether I agree with Kierkegaard or not. That’s probably a sign that he was onto something.
I think I write my songs in moments of joy, but it’s tricky because that word has very little to do with whether I’m happy or sad. I write when I feel numinous, and that can come with tears or laughter or neither. The closest word I have for the feeling that causes me to write is nostalgia, but nostalgia without an object. Lewis called that joy, so I guess I will too.
Tell us about how a song gets started. Do you tend to return to the same people or places for inspiration?
I’ll tell you when I find out. I’m not one of those gifted people who can sit down and write a song like it’s as structurally predictable as pouring a bowl of cereal. But in general, it starts with a moment of grace and a numinous feeling which solidifies somehow into a line or two. Then I follow it like logic to the end.
One summer I was making the daily trip from Franklin to Nashville, a twenty-minute snake of a drive through the Tennessee hills. The hills look like mountains in the distance, but then you pass each one and realise in the rearview they weren’t that big after all. Prompted by those hills on one such drive, the line “big things from far away” came to me. I liked the rhythm of the phrase and the images it conjured. The song demanded itself after that and was written the moment I got home. There wasn’t much work to be done; life is full of things that loom large and small, and we humans aren’t skilled at telling them apart until they’re in the past. The things that seem important upon approach often end up insignificant in the rearview, and the small-seeming things often turn out to be the points on which our lives turn.
I don’t usually seek out inspiration for the sake of being inspired, but some things inspire me without my asking. Nature, my wife, my brothers, C.S. Lewis, and John Mark Comer are the recurring sources. And on another peculiar note, I only ever write in silence. The first time I make any noise is when I sing the full song into my phone for the first time. After that happens, the creative magic is over and I put my boring old editing hat on.
Have you managed to avoid the dreaded writer’s block? How long does the process take from first idea to final product?
I definitely don’t avoid writer’s block, but I also don’t exactly try to. My current arrangement with grace seems to allow me to write about five to eight songs each year. Each song feels like the first song I’ve ever written and maybe the last song I’ll ever write.
If I’m paying attention, most songs are done in 20 minutes. That’s about the time it takes to type it out and sing the first draft into my phone (editing is a different thing, and done in a different mindset). If I have to work harder or longer for it, the result is never as good.
What’s it like being married to another singer-songwriter in Skye Peterson? I can imagine your pantry is more likely to be stacked with sheet music than crushed tomatoes.
Ha! Skye is the best person I know and an outrageously gifted artist. She’s one of those people who writes five songs a week and they’re all great. Music is a large and joyful part of our little household. Unfortunately I don’t co-write, so we don’t co-write. But we bounce ideas off each other all the time.
And for curiosity’s sake, our pantry is mostly peanut butter and granola bars.
Have you stolen each other’s ideas?
She stole a piano part from me once. But she used it to write one of the most beautiful songs she’s written, so I let it slide. I’ve probably stolen a few of her melodies, but I’ll never admit to it.
What are you working on at the moment?
I’ll be releasing a single every month for three months to round out the album. I also do some creative writing, stories and essays and such, which I mostly send to my email list. You can sign up for those on my website. And I’m trying to improve at badminton so I can finally beat my friend Gabe.
Finally, when are you booking flights to Australia?
Ha! Challenge accepted. Skye and I play loads of house shows. A house show is my preferred medium for sharing my songs. If you or anyone else wants to cover airfare, I’ll come play for free. I’ve heard you guys have big spiders, though, so I’m a little scared.
You can listen to Thomas Austin via any streaming service.
