“Next year. Maybe.”
“People keep calling it ‘bedroom pop,’” she says, scrunching her nose. “But my bedroom had mold and a roommate who vacuumed at 2 a.m. It’s not a vibe. It’s a survival sound.” 2013 candice demellza
“Lana is a character,” Demellza clarifies. “I’m just… me. But the me that doesn’t text anyone back for three days.” “Next year
As we part ways on a drizzly Kingsland Road, she pulls out a battered notebook. On the cover, scrawled in silver Sharpie: Candice Demellza – LP1 (do not steal). She catches me looking and winks. It’s not a vibe
In 2013, the internet was still a collage—Tumblr’s grainy GIFs, early Instagram’s Nashville filter, and the last gasp of the indie sleaze era. Demellza’s visual world taps directly into that vein. Her music videos (self-directed, shot on a friend’s Canon 60D) feature thrift-store lace, flickering CRT televisions in empty fields, and the kind of melancholic, sun-bleached loneliness that defined the early work of Lana Del Rey —minus the calculated glamour.
The buzz is real but contained. She played her first London headline show last month at The Shacklewell Arms—a sweaty, sold-out room where she performed barefoot, looped her own breaths into a pedal, and nearly cried during the last verse of the unreleased track “Holloway.” NME called it “fragile and furious.” The Guardian listed her as one of “10 new artists for autumn.” But the major labels, so far, have been kept at arm’s length.
There’s a certain alchemy to the best kind of debut. The kind that doesn’t announce itself with a billboard or a buzz single, but instead travels on a USB stick passed between friends or a late-night SoundCloud link buried under a cryptic caption. That’s how Candice Demellza arrived this past spring. And if you haven’t heard the name yet, you will before the leaves fall.