Interview: Sun June
on leading a double life
Laura asked if her playlist could be 17 songs long and I couldn’t think of a good reason why not. Catch Sun June on tour with Wild Pink.
Earlier this year, I took Laura Colwell, the lead singer of Sun June, to see some bison. If it sounds like a bit of a wild goose chase, that’s because it was; I had planned to walk us through a tame section of the Conservatory of Flowers, but it was mysteriously closed. It was a gorgeous afternoon, one of those January days in San Francisco that feels like a time machine to the late spring. I pivoted, offering my second favorite attraction in the area: the bison paddock, a strange phenomenon of conservation dropped just within San Francisco’s largest urban park. Something about Laura told me she might like the bison, larger than life in their prehistoric, preeminent calm. The walk was much longer than I remembered—sorry Laura.
Laura and her partner Stephen Salisbury are the songwriters of Sun June, and they’re currently residing in different parts of the country, Laura still in Texas while Stephen pursues a graduate degree in North Carolina. They used to write across “two rooms in a house, down the hallway”; now they navigate the distance of many states and a time zone, difficult for any relationship, but especially for a songwriting partnership. It turned out to be a generative topic for the band; much of Bad Dream Jaguar (2023) traces themes of separation and longing. “We’re very intertwined in the way we write now. Our brains are very similar,” she explains. I get the sense she’s talking about the creative and the personal simultaneously.
After they create a demo, or sometimes even in the middle of the writing process, they send the song to the band: Michael Bain on lead guitar, Justin Harris on bass, and Sarah Schultz on drums. “We’re both very open and ready for someone else to step in with ideas for a song,” Laura says, “It’s all very collaged.” You can hear the hands of multiple artistic influences in their sound, with Laura’s distinctive voice acting as the glue.
The only time they realize the complete vision is recording; the pace of Stephen’s PhD program doesn’t allow him to tour. Something or someone is always missing for Laura, a theme that shows up in the record as well. She’s the only consistent member, as everyone else subs in and out at various points. “It’s kind of a double life that everyone leads,” she muses, in reference to the bandmates’ non-musical career pursuits, which are ongoing even throughout the tour; they do work on their laptops while Laura drives the van. “I’m in my floating era,” she laughs, referencing the ways in which everyone else is grounded, where she is unfettered, but also untethered.
But Laura leads her own double life, in the film industry, where she and Stephen met. I asked her if she ever saw these pursuits—songwriting and film—intersecting, or becoming intertwined in some way. “One could definitely influence the other, and some doors could open to composing or sound design,” she says, “But so far, songwriting and having the band has felt like an escape from film, a way to be an artist.” She experiences imposter syndrome, sadly typical of many female vocalists leading bands: unwillingness to claim musicianship, despite being singers, songwriters, and often playing instruments in addition. “With harmonies and sounds, I know what I want to hear,” she elaborates, “I’m becoming more confident in those things.”
She’s a bit shy in demeanor, pursuing her artistic fulfillment quietly and without ego—something that features heavily in her songwriting partnership with Stephen, with whom she writes from a single perspective. Ironically, she’s become the face of the band, often taking interviews like this one alone. “It’s a good practice to be self-assured and talk about your passions,” she concedes, “But I’m sometimes surprised anyone wants to talk about the band at all.
“I didn’t have a lot of expectations,” she said, addressing the huge growth Sun June has seen since their last record. The band started playing shows in their friends’ living rooms in Austin, Texas, a hub for indie music in the American west. She acknowledges that the small venues in Austin, like those all across the country, are struggling to stay open. “Simultaneously,” she counters, “There’s a program that gives every musician in Austin the chance to apply to get subsidized healthcare.” The mental barrier of insecurity inhibits creativity, and the city works to diminish that, a unique relationship between artists and government. Austin is present in the music itself, showing up lyrically like the other explicit inspirations that are so endemic to Sun June—Karen O, John Prine, the Beatles, Neil Young. Austin is as major a player as these monumental artists.
These references are all memories—Sun June’s writing is centered around this kind of nostalgia, flashes of consciousness grounded in temporal relations. I ask if she and Stephen intentionally choose specific memories or if it’s more subconscious, showing up in the writing without their intention. “It’s both,” she states confidently, “Everything an artist makes is personal—you can’t help it.”
