Daniel Monkman (Zoon, OMBIIGIZI) is an artist of distinction.
With a string of Polaris Music Prize nods behind their past three releases, including Zoon’s 2023 longlisted album, Bekka Ma’iingan, and their two debut records (OMBIGIIZI’s 2022 longlisted Sewn Back Together and Zoon’s 2021 shortlisted Bleached Wavves), it’s a sign of exciting things to come from an artist that’s always evolving — and they’re showing no signs of slowing down.
“I’m kind of gearing up for my biggest release,” they drop casually on a sunny September afternoon from a studio in Winnipeg, Manitoba, close to their hometown of Selkirk. Monkman took some time away from working on demos to chat over the phone about Bekka Ma’iingan, their current inspirations, and what’s coming next.
Bekka Ma’iingan (which translates directly from Ojibway to ‘slow down’ and ‘wolf’) could be described as a meditation on loss, but that would be an oversimplification. The first two tracks on the album, “All Around You” and “A Brave New World (Without You),” are about ancestors, the afterlife, and a close friend of Monkman’s that passed away.
“During the recording of this album I finally accepted that the people I’ve lost are actually all around me and will always be,” they say.
The closing track, “A Language Disappears,” touches on a painful and ubiquitous sentiment: the fear of Indigenous language loss, due to Canada’s legacy of assimilation practices, colonial policies like the Indian Act, and colonialism’s present-day forms.
“This was something I started to fear when I became a Born Again Indian in my late 20s,” Monkman says. “For a lot of Native folks, we’re taught to hide our identity, to keep us safe from the outside world. Somewhere along a Native person’s journey, they start to ask questions about their heritage and where they come from.”
Bekka Ma’iingan, a record artfully balanced both sonically and thematically, simultaneously holds “lost” in one hand and a profound sense of “found” in the other.
Monkman speaks to their gender identity in “Niizh Manidoowig (2 Spirit).” The song unfolds like a sunrise. Oscillating, droning guitars are in conversation with the orchestra as horns, woodwinds, and strings bring forth a hopeful, dewy crescendo.
“I wrote ‘Niizh Manidoowig’ while thinking about our ancestors who may have been Niizh. I found a lot of peace knowing that there were others way before me,” Monkman says. “Sometimes growing up not around your own people, you start to forget about your past. This song helped me remember.”
An impressive suite of collaborators helped bring the arrangement to life, including Lee Ranaldo and Owen Pallett.
Motivated by growing as an artist and following their intuition, Monkman is enthusiastic as they talk about their next project.
“I want every record to be showing progress and showing my peers that I’m evolving as an artist,” they say. “People can trust my releases and find something new.”
At home in their creativity, Monkman deals in subtlety and depth with ease. Their next album may not be the “moccasin gaze” that they have become known for; Monkman’s creative appetite isn’t limited by genre or medium, but listeners can be sure that it will be honest.
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How is the recording for this new album going?
I’ve never really worked in a proper studio. Before the pandemic, I was working as a janitor, and I just recorded everything in my bedroom. And then going into the pandemic, no studios were available. I recorded my second record in my bedroom as well, so this is my first time gearing up to do a proper studio record.
How has that affected your writing process?
When I’m working by myself, I’m stressed about making things sound high quality enough for radio. If I can eliminate that, then I can just focus on the songs and put my faith in a producer or an engineer to handle the audio.
I can just move to the piano, the drums, the guitar, the Omnichord, whatever is available, and not really worry about how to, like, figure out a program. Half the battle is figuring out how to record everything.
It’s wild to hear that you felt constrained creatively with Bekka Ma’iingan, because the record feels so free.
Bekka Ma’iingan was such a long process. We were writing all the music for the orchestra, and not being able to write bass parts for it because sometimes bass gets in the way of how they play. There’s a lot going on in that record, but there was a lot that I had to leave out.
It took a year and a half for it all to line up with the orchestra. In that time, I’ve been writing this new grunge record.
Why was working with strings on Bekka Ma’iingan important to you?
I grew up listening to bluegrass music from my home reservation. There’s a lot of Métis people in my family so violin, fiddle, upright bass are all in my heritage, and growing up I watched my cousins and uncles play those instruments.
I started to explore music that wasn’t exactly traditional. I heard Nick Drake on a Lexus car commercial, and all of a sudden, I was like, ‘Oh my god, this is the kind of strings that really, really resonate with me and that I wanna get involved with.’ And that happened again when I heard Daft Punk’s “Random Access Memories.”
I’ve learned to listen to my instincts more. When I listen to something and it makes me feel really good and I’m drawn to it, I try to hone in on that. Like, why am I really into this sound? Why do I really like this? And instead of putting it to the side and doing something else, I just try to do it. And then I feel really connected to the music.
Right, if you’re following your interests and not being too critical of where it’s coming from, that’s where you find the magic.
Yeah, exactly. And sometimes venturing into insecurity and stuff like that is actually really good, you know? It means you’re trying to push to new limits.
Where did you feel that insecurity while you were making Bekka Ma’iingan?
I think the whole process, honestly. My dream was to write an album that could be commercial, it could be for the indies, it could be for my Niizhies, it could be everything. And when I was making this one, the whole process was really intense for me. I was sharing stuff about my personal life through the music that only my close friends and family knew about me, and letting more people into my story.
You mentioned that you’re going for a grungier sound with this new project. Are you veering away from the more atmospheric stuff?
The way I see my trajectory is kind of like Elliott Smith; he had like two more lo-fi records and then for the third he was in Abbey Road Studios. That’s how I feel about this project. I want every record to be showing progress and showing my peers that I’m evolving as an artist and that people can trust my releases and find something new.
Even if it doesn’t have all the signature shoegaze or moccasin gaze sounds, they’re still gonna find something true and authentic. Sometimes I find myself kind of lost in the weeds trying to please everyone. I guess I’m a people-pleaser, so that kind of finds its way into my art practice as well.
When you’re searching for new things to serve your audience, do you also find new things for yourself?
Absolutely. Every time that I’m gonna start a new body of work It’s always because I’ve come to a place of discovery. Maybe I’ve found music that I used to love that I’d forgotten about and rediscovered. Right now, I’d forgotten that I love deep tune guitars and grunge riffs. I love Nirvana and all the ‘90s bands like Pavement. I remember growing up in the ‘90s, it’s very nostalgic for me.
That being said, I never really had an emo phase. I never really had the metal phase, never had the grunge phase. Where I grew up, there were no phases, it was just survive. Especially on the reservation, it was just very desolate and there wasn’t much music and there was no internet or anything, so I never got to express myself in those ways. When I got to music, I just found all this new territory and freedom to really express myself.
You’re in Winnipeg right now, which is close to where you grew up, right?
Yeah, this was just kind of all random, but I guess nothing is random. And somehow, I’m back here now with my producer who I made music with, like, 12 years ago.
Tell me more about your love for detuned guitars.
Growing up learning guitar, it was very hard for me to tune my mom’s acoustic guitar. And this guy who was trying to date my mom had a guitar tuner and I would always be like, ‘Mom, invite that guy over and tell him to bring his tuner!’
After a while he stopped coming around and I just had to learn how to kind of tune the guitar, and I would just move the tuning pegs and kind of strum it. I didn’t know how to put my fingers down in actual chord structures, so I just slowly strummed the guitar, moved the tuning pegs until something cool happened. Now I can pick up any guitar and start just moving the knobs around, and then find a cool tuning, and I’ll be like, ‘OK, this is the new tuning, let’s make a riff.’ And from there it’s off to the races.
Sounds like playing with intuition has been a big part of your practice from the very beginning.
I think it was just something that was pushed onto me, whether I liked it or not. I remember my dad forced me to play guitar. He would be like, ‘Here, sit in a room for a while and figure something out.’ And I would just sit there and noodle around. And then he’d come back and be like, ‘What did you do?’ And I would either be trying to figure out a song on the tape machine or making little riffs.
Were your parents musical, or did your dad just see something in you that he thought needed to be expressed?
My dad was a musician, and so was my mom. A lot of my family too, but everyone kind of just did it for fun, and I was the only person in my family to be like, I want to have a career in this.
Other than a detuned guitar, what is one piece of gear that you can’t live without right now?
My Omnichord. I have been moving my career into the art world and collaborating with Jeffrey Gibson and Raven Chacon and all these types of experimental artists who do visual art and sound installations. And just the other day I was recording with Lee Ranaldo and this artist named Laraaji. Laraaji uses an auto harp and hooks up pedals to it. And when I showed up with my Omnichord, I realized that it was just a digital version of what he does.
It’s so portable, too. I just throw it in my backpack and I can write anywhere; in the hotel, on the bus, whatever.
Where do you find that you write best?
In my home in Toronto, I have my little studio in there and there’s no one there. I live alone and I just find a lot of freedom in that.
I’ve never really had my own space until I started to have a career in music and I was able to move myself into my own place. I treat it almost like a little artist residency.
You’ve been touring so much this year, I imagine you have to carve out really intentional time to create.
My gosh, yes, that’s such an important part of it. I’m starting to understand artists who feel like the material that they release after a successful record is hard to obtain, because you’re spending so much time not writing music and that can be frustrating. But I think that if you just find a healthy balance, that you should be able to keep producing exceptional music.
