Be Steadwell is a DC-based artist and creative powerhouse. When she didn’t see herself represented in mainstream pop music, Be found her own sound and developed the genre of “queer pop.” She performed at the 2017 Women’s March on Washington, and her song Netflix was featured in NPR’s 10 More Tiny Desk Contest Entries We Loved. Her live performances often incorporate vocal layering, beatboxing, and great charisma.
Beyond her musical achievements, Be is also a passionate and inspired filmmaker. Her most recent film, Vow of Silence, received Best Experimental Short at The Black Star Film Festival (2015). Check out Be’s recently released music video for “Leo,” a song off of her latest album, Breakup Songs.
How do you identify and how do you feel your identity informs your music?
I identify as Black, queer, woman, and that doesn’t inform my music in the most obvious way. My music is for people like me, who are marginalized or invisible in certain spheres. It’s for them to just be human or have fun or be in love or be heartbroken. That’s what I needed and that’s why I created it.
What has your creative path been like?
I’ve always been artistic, but art and music always kind of felt extra-curricular to me. I never really imagined it being a career path, I didn’t think it was smart to make it one—it’s not very practical. But I always expressed myself in every medium I could get my hands on, and when I was in my twenties, during and after undergrad, I started to really need music for healing, for therapy. That’s the point when I started sharing my music and having more of a dialogue with an audience, whether that audience was super small or growing. Now, I’m working to allow my creativity—whatever inspires me—to fit what my job is, to fit the thing that funds my life, which is hard. And it’s sometimes really stressful, because when you’re relying on your creativity for money, things can become really tainted and emotional exhausting. But my goal is to stay creative in whatever way I need to be and to continue getting support and growing my audience.
It’s amazing that you exist and are creating art and doing what you do. In a society that not only devalues artists but also marginalizes Black folks, queer folks, and women, how have you managed to fund and actualize your creative work? Have there been any key communities or resources that have gotten you to where you are?
Yeah, there’s a lot against us. It’s pretty precarious, at least for me. I know people who are maybe thriving a bit more in terms of opportunities and money. But I’ve found that mostly communities of queer women, specifically communities of queer women of color, have been really supportive of my work. Folks will buy my albums and come to my shows.
In addition to that, grants have been an important thing for me. Grants are easier to apply for when you have established an audience and a whole chunk of a career and you’ve already done some things. Right now, grants are kind of the saving grace of my particular work, because the album sales and shows are not really enough.
Do you feel any sort of obligation to brand yourself artistically, especially when applying for grants?
A grant application is kind of like a job application, where you have to make yourself look really shiny and together. But it never feels dishonest, at least with the grants that I’ve applied for. I’m like, “Hey, I’ve done some awesome things, and I want to do more, and I need support. I believe in me and a bunch of other people believe in me and you should too.” It doesn’t feel like I’m compromising anything, except for my time, because I’m spending a lot of time writing these.
That’s great that you feel like you don’t have to compromise yourself artistically in that process. I’ve felt this compulsion as a musician lately to brand/package myself in order to reach more people, but I don’t know if my work can necessarily be packaged neatly.
It’s weird because I do think people like complexity, and any artist that is dynamic can make people feel or hear or see many different kinds of things. But yeah, when I tell people to come to my concert and they ask what kind of music it is, they want a one-sentence answer. They don’t want to think too hard when you’re getting them there, which is difficult, because I think if you’re any good, you can’t be explained in a simplistic way. It’s more like, “You just have to come to my concert, and then you’ll see.” Branding is really important and annoying.
Another thing that people tell me is, “Oh, you call your music ‘queer pop,’ but aren’t you alienating all these audiences that could enjoy your music? Straight people could enjoy your music,” and I’m like, “Yeah, of course. They’re welcome. Allies are welcome to my shows.” And I’ve started saying that: “Allies are welcome, this is not just for Black women, this is not just for queer brown folks. Come through, you can enjoy the music just the same.” But just the way that any mainstream pop music is really about straight white people for the most part, my music is about my experience. It’s of course especially for folks who connect to that, but everyone else is welcome.
It seems like you’ve really cultivated community through your music, which is not something all artists do. How have you done that?
I really love playing with other queer musicians of color. Any time I see someone play, any time I open for someone, or any time I’ve heard of someone, I’ll find their music and say, “Okay, I’m in your city, play with me,” or, “Let’s write a song together.” I think it’s just a matter of really seeing everyone and taking note of all the awesome talent that we have and growing together, because we do need each other.
Another thing I started doing when I would go to a new city, even if I wasn’t playing with these artists, is I would just say, “Hey, get a comp ticket, just come through. I would just love to have you there.” I’m just cultivating relationships, because I’m terrible at “networking” and kissing ass. But I do like good art, so if I know someone who makes it I’ll just be like, “Come through, be in my life, play on my record!”
Connecting with listeners at shows has been important too. They’re all just like me: they’re all weird, awkward queer people. So I’m like, “Okay, let’s hang out!” A lot of the people that I know here in DC and across the world I know through music.
People are super generous, too. My friend Rose who now lives in Portland was living in Oakland a while ago. We were pen pals—she was like, “I love your music, can we be pen pals?” and I was like, “Heck yeah! I love writing snail mail.” After a while, she was like, “Come to The Bay. I’ll find places for you to stay, I’ll find shows,” and she just set up this whole tour in The Bay for me, completely out of the kindness of her heart. Since then, I get my biggest audiences in The Bay, and it’s all because of this one person.
You’re also a filmmaker. Do you feel like your work with film complements and/or interacts with your music?
I think I haven’t hit the sweet spot yet in terms of striking a balance between filmmaking and music. My last film was musical and I scored it and wrote it, but it wasn’t as clearly related to my sound as a musician. I am planning to produce a feature-length film that’s a musical, a love story, using my music. I’m not going to be in it, but it will refer back to my music more clearly, and I think that way my music and film work will feed each other. But again, it’s sad to think with a business lens about a creative piece you’re working on. You just want to tell a good story, you don’t want to think about how to make more money, but you kind of have to.
Do you feel like gaining a following over the years has changed your creative process in any way, now that you know that a number of people will be receiving what you make?
Definitely. I used to literally just be like, “I wrote a song five minutes ago. I don’t know it, but I’m going to make a video on my computer and send it.” The uninhibited rawness of that was beautiful, but sometimes now when I look at those videos I’m like, “I could have recorded this on better equipment. I could have hired a keys player to accompany me. I could have made it more polished and well thought-out.” I still try now to have a little bit of spontaneity and whatnot in my work now, but it’s hard to say, “I’m a professional musician, take me seriously,” if all that videos of you online are not polished. So that’s kind of the shift I’ve made with a bigger audience.
Are there other big ways you feel like you’ve grown over time, personally, musically, or creatively?
I think I’ve grown as a performer. I used to be completely terrified every time. I still get scared when I perform, but the big change was that for the majority of my musical career I had imposter syndrome. I was like, “I don’t know if I’m really supposed to be here, if I’m actually good at this.” Eventually, though, maybe a year ago, I was like, “I’m good at this. I can create a beautiful show. I’m supposed to be here.” That was a good shift in terms of confidence, but it made me depressed, because after that point, when I didn’t have good sales on a show or when a video wasn’t received as well as I thought it would be—any time I had a small failure or setback, I was like, “Why isn’t this working? I know I’m supposed to be here. I know I’m good at this. This should work.” In the end, that’s just now how the music industry works. That’s not how most industries work, where it’s like, “Oh you work hard, you’re good at it, you succeed, the harder you work, the more money you make, the more people support you, etc.” It just doesn’t work that way. So that shift created a lot of frustration in me, because I felt that I was doing everything right and people weren’t seeing it. So that was a weird double-edged sword for me.
Do you know what spurred the shift you mentioned, when you realized that you were a valid artist?
My breakup, a year and a half ago. After the breakup, I started performing like I had nothing to lose, because I felt like music was all I had. It was really incredible. It felt great and freeing and I saw how people responded. I produced an album based on the painful experiences of that, and I just felt like I belonged in music at that point. I don’t know if it was just because the pain and healing through the music, but I was just like, “I’m supposed to be here.”
I think a lot of the doubt also came from not being trained or formally schooled in music. Being a woman in music is really hard. Being Black is hard. Not playing an instrument in the skilled way that other folks do made it hard. Every time I did a sound check, there was a white guy who’s like, “Do you even know what this means?” And I was like, “Yes I do. I actually know all the terminology.” Not that one should have to prove oneself anyway, but there are so many opportunities for you to feel like this is not for you. White people act like they own music! White people who know theory act like they own music, it’s insane.
I have a hard time working with certain instrumentalists and accompanists, because they use the language of music theory and I’m like, “You know that I don’t speak that way and I don’t know what you’re talking about. I learn by ear and I write by ear, so if you are trying to feel extra special, cool. But you don’t have to put it on me.” So that sort of fueled the insecurities, but now I’m like I don’t care.
When did you start writing music?
I wrote my first song when I was 14. At that point I was like, “This is cute and fun. I like music and I like to sing,” but I didn’t really get into it until after I graduated college when I was 21-22. Part of what empowered me was GarageBand, because it made me realize that I didn’t need to play guitar to make music, I could create music by putting together beats or layering my voice. I taught myself how to use it and started going nuts with it. I would be sad and think to myself, “I should probably write a song, because I know that’s going to make me happy.”
What have been some magical moments for with your music, in writing or performing, or in connecting with listeners or other musicians?
I was just in the studio earlier this week, and before that I was in the studio in November for two days. Initially, I was very skeptical of the studio: white dudes, engineers, equipment, pressure, people being shady, whatever. But it was so amazing. I got to come in with my whole band, who is all Black and queer (except for my sister who’s really straight), and they all felt empowered. I felt empowered. The engineer—a white guy—was great. The space was ours, it was our home. We had our shoes off. We played songs that we’d been playing for three years now, and they sounded magical. It was just really nice to feel validated. We had arranged this music together, we’d played it together, but now it was super official and sexy and shiny in the studio. The experience in the studio was great. I sort of wished I hadn’t turned away recording studios for so long, but I did that because I was scared and didn’t know where to find the right space.
You started off as a musician producing your own stuff. Was it hard to transition to working with a studio?
Essentially all that’s shifted in working with a studio is that they are recording the sessions (I’m still recording a lot of vocals and things at home, just for the sake of budgeting). I’m going to sit down with the folks at the studio for two days in February and mix it with them. It’s not like I’m giving up control, but it is empowering somebody who knows much more about sound than I do to facilitate the recording and make sure it’s full and rich and dynamic and just sitting with them to polish it. Some people don’t go this route, some people just send off their music to be mixed and mastered, but I am a control freak when it comes to my music.
A lot of your music emphasizes vocals and utilizes vocal layering. What’s your relationship with your voice like?
I grew up loving to sing but being really shy about it and not really sharing it with anyone. Then I sang in my high school jazz band–I was still super shy–but I was singing jazz standards which was fun. I did a cappella in college. I never felt like I had a belt-y, run kind of voice (which I still don’t), but I love harmonies and the way voice sounds. I love how it can feel spiritual and sort of primal. Even though I am learning guitar and learning to produce, voice is always sort of going to be the focus for me, because I feel like it’s the way I create music and perform music and the way that I connect with people best. It feels like a prayer or a cry or a chant. It feels like it can get right into your spirit and stir it around. My voice is my favorite instrument.
What would your younger self say to you or think of you now?
I think my younger self would be into it. A part of me is sad that I don’t have more of a stable, sustainable career right now, but other than that, I’m doing what I love. I have awesome humans in my life who support me. I have a lot of chosen family. Sometimes there’s a really cool person that I kiss on the lips. I’m doing art. I think my younger self would be like, “Hey, that’s a cool kid. I’m into that.” But the main thing I really want is to create a more sustainable career and a more sustainable future.
Were there artists that influenced and inspired you when you were starting out as a musician?
When I first heard Ani DiFranco’s song She Says, I was in high school, and I was like, “Oh, this is a song about a girl who’s having a connection with another girl.” And it was the first song I’d heard like that in my life. That was the first time I felt connected to a song and my queerness was connected to the song. It was encompassing all of those parts of me. Of course, Ani DiFranco is a white woman, but it was still so impactful. Just hearing pronouns that felt applicable, she’s talking about she.
I was also impacted by Meshell Ndegeocello. She’s from here, and her music is really queering genres. She does rock stuff sometimes and soulful stuff sometimes, and the way she sings is very understated as well. I love that. She’s extremely unapologetic about how weird and outside of the box her stuff is, and people love it. People see it and appreciate it, and that’s a big one as well. Pretty much anyone who is a woman or queer or Black who’s like, “I’m gonna do this weird thing, and it’s not going to make sense with you at first, but I’m just gonna do it and go all the way with it,” inspires me.
You’re a DC-based musician. How do you feel about this city? What is it like to be from here and speak to the people here with your music?
I grew up here, so it’s home. I love so many things about it. I love the musical history, I love people from here, I love the Black cultural history that comes out of DC. It’s not a place that I can live in anymore for very long, though. I’m trying to relocate, because DC is disappearing. Folks are getting displaced, and I can’t even really afford to live here, so that makes me sad. I know it’s happening everywhere, but when it’s your hometown and the playground that you used to play on is now condos, it’s personal. So that’s hard.
I do like how DC is a big little city—it has all the things a big city has but it’s still a small town. It’s nicely positioned between the North and South so it has all of these elements of Southern American culture and Northern American culture. There are so many good things about DC, but it’s just changing so quickly that it doesn’t feel like it’s for me or for somebody like me anymore.
I think I’ve just been here for a long time and it’s difficult to stay and love it and be romantic about it when it breaks my heart one way or another every day. But it is a very special place. I’ll never stop believing that.
What are you most proud of as an artist?
I think feel most proud and grateful and excited when someone tells me that a song or an album or a piece of mine helped them be themselves or accept themselves or get excited about being who they are. That’s all I want. I think the worst thing you can feel in life is not wanting to be you. Everybody deserves to feel passionate and excited about being themselves. If someone says to me, “Your music helped me come out,” or, “Your music helped me asked someone to go out with me,” it feels awesome. Connecting with people in that way feels awesome.
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Featured image by Be.
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