In 2013, two years before he helped Adele write one of her biggest songs, Tobias Jesso Jr. was in his childhood bedroom in Vancouver uploading a self-recorded demo to YouTube. He was still reeling from a punishing streak of bad luck. After struggling for years to make it as a musician in Los Angeles, he went through a rough breakup, only to be hit by a car shortly after. A day later, he learned his mother had cancer. So Jesso moved back home.
Reinvigorated, he began writing songs on his sister’s old piano, then sent a few of the demos to J.R. White of the band Girls. White agreed to produce a full record, and Jesso found himself recording what would become his debut album, Goon. While that process had its share of hiccups, Jesso’s profile continued to rise, with critics eager to hype up someone working in the tradition of ’70s singer-songwriters like Harry Nilsson and Randy Newman. In 2015, with a tour under way and Goon receiving critical acclaim, Jesso’s winding journey to stardom seemed to have a happy ending — and then he walked away from it all, canceling the rest of his tour dates and explaining later on that performing left him paralyzed with anxiety. He returned, instead, to his comfort zone: helping other artists write songs.
Since then, Jesso has crafted hits for everyone from Harry Styles to his friends in Haim to Adele again, picking up the 2023 Grammy for Songwriter of the Year along the way. When I hopped on a recent video chat with him to talk about the tenth anniversary of Goon, I half-expected Jesso to say that he had gladly left his solo career in the past. Instead, the musician, jet-lagged and overcaffeinated, shared that he recently wrote and recorded Goon 2. This time around, he says, he’s staying focused on the part he loves most: “Once I’m finished writing the songs, I feel like my job is done.”
There was an almost mythological narrative around Goon when it came out, which was: You burned out as a songwriter, got hit by a car, went through a breakup, learned your mom had cancer, and then moved back home to Vancouver, where an album just came out of you. Would Goon have come together without all that happening?
I guess that is a great story. But Goon didn’t come together from that. All of that stuff happened, yes, but I was in this state of mind where I was like, Writing songs isn’t about making it in Los Angeles. This is about who I want to be as an adult. I started making music where I didn’t care if it sounded like Randy Newman. Well, not like Randy Newman — he’s a legend — but in that vein. When I wrote that first demo of “Just a Dream,” I felt it had more staying power for me. I realized, Oh, I can do this for myself. I don’t have to go through the industry rat race.
You chose to send those early demos to J.R. White of Girls. Why?
I was a huge fan of Girls. Christopher Owens was the reason I opened my mouth to sing. I loved how bratty he got with his voice. When I had those demos, Girls was breaking up. I had J.R.’s email from … I think it was a blog post. So, I emailed him “Just a Dream” and “Can We Still Be Friends.” He replied and said, “Can you please call me? I’ve been crying listening to this stuff. Who are you? Where do you live? I want to do this record.” Then, I was with J.R. for a month in San Francisco, and, man, it was such a crazy experience.
What about it?
The nights, going to parties, drugs and stuff. Everyone’s going into the thrift store and shoplifting. But it was tough for me, because I was like, This is my one chance, and now I’m in this cool crew, and holy fuck, I’m so out of place. There were a lot of things that didn’t make sense to me. I’m like, Wait, it’s 3 p.m., shouldn’t we be awake and in the studio? It turned out that was just how it was done. But a lot of songs went missing. So it ended up being a longer process, because I needed to fill a few gaps in the album with Ariel Rechtshaid and Patrick Carney. When I went to work with Patrick, I thought I was being shelved. Half the songs were lost. The budget was over. My friend Dakota —
Dakota Johnson?
Yeah. Dakota was with Patrick Carney at the time, and she said, “I played him your demos. You should talk to him.” I got in touch, and he was like, “Yeah, I’ll produce some songs.” So I flew out to Nashville to work with him, then came back to Vancouver. We had no money, so it was a big process when J.R. came to L.A. to kind of finish everything up. We used all my friends who were doing big favors for me.
When Goon came out, the critics all seemed to say, Finally, someone’s doing a Randy Newman, Harry Nilsson kind of record. You appeared a little indifferent to that at the time. What’s your relationship to that canon now?
I was listening to Harry Nilsson and Randy Newman. There’s no getting around that. But it didn’t matter if somebody said, “Oh, that sounds like the Cheers theme song.” So what? It’s not like I tried to rip it off. It doesn’t come from an inauthentic place.
Have you met Newman?
The last show I ever played was at the Pemberton Festival; I went to see him right after and I bawled my eyes out. I remember accosting him backstage. I knew it was my last show, and he was just so amazing playing these songs. This full circle of like, I can’t do this anymore. I give this up. I don’t want to do this at all. And then going and seeing him and being like, Whoa.
My favorite bit of Goon promo was that billboard that read “You can’t miss Tobias Jesso Jr. He’s six foot seven.” Whose idea was that?
That was Dean Bein, the brilliant mind behind the Goon marketing campaign. He had pulled up some old Randy Newman newspaper ad, so it was this take on, “Everyone is comparing you to Randy Newman or saying you’re the bootleg version. Maybe we lean into it.” I liked it because it was cheeky.
Are artists ever surprised when you work with them that you’re six-seven?
I’m sure people go, “Whoa, you’re tall.” A weird thing is it’s not usually the people I’m meeting; it’s usually the people I’m seeing again after a long time.
They’re like, I forgot how tall you were?
Exactly. I think my personality is very average, so they’re imagining me, and they’re like, I met him already. And then they see me again, and it’s, “Did you grow?” I’m showing up and I’m taller than they remember, I guess.
You recently worked on the new Haim single. I seem to remember there being unfounded dating rumors about you and Alana Haim. Is that something you joke about when you’re writing a song called “Relationships” together?
Of course. Alana and I will joke about that. And it is purely speculation, there was nothing behind it, so we laughed our way through that whole mess. With them, it’s not like I’m texting a band that I need to work with or something. It’s a lot more intimate.
How does that compare to your working relationship with Adele?
I don’t know exactly what Adele uses me for, but I trust her. It’s a pretty one-way stream, because she can help me, and I don’t know that she needs me. She kind of directs me, then we hammer out these moments of beauty that we both really love. And in the end, I’m just so glad she’s getting what she wants.
Are you guys working on anything now?
Nothing recently, no. Whatever she’s up to, maybe I’ll get the call, maybe I won’t.
You often hear stories about songwriters getting stiffed by big names in the industry or screwed by payment structures. You’re fairly visible as a behind-the-scenes songwriter — do you have thoughts on that?
I don’t feel like I’ve struggled to get paid enough because I have a lifestyle that I never really imagined for myself, which I’m very grateful for. But I could talk off the record at length about the songwriter’s role and how I feel like it’s quite easy to stiff a songwriter because they’re not in control.
This is random, but I have to ask: What’s that behind you? A Sesame Street puppet?
Oh, no, I actually had that puppet made. That’s of my gardener. His name’s Martin Martini. He helped me write my next album.
How did your gardener help you write your next album?
He was gardening my ex-wife’s property in Australia. I really didn’t like him at first. Then he started to open my eyes to see things in a different way. I couldn’t tell whether he was full of shit or not, so it was a confusing journey. He has his opinions about Goon, and he had no problem telling me those opinions.
What were his thoughts on Goon?
Very critical. I think that resonated with me, because I’m critical of myself. I started talking to him about music and liking what he had to say, and feeling like I had weak points when I was on my own and that maybe I was just waiting for someone to figure out those weak points. I was like, Cool, how do I get stronger at this stuff? When I write songs with other artists, I can feel their truth much better than I can for myself. So the Martin Martini version of making an album was for him to do that to me. And we wrote the new songs in two and a half weeks.
Is it similar in sound to the first Goon?
Yeah, here’s the funny thing: You could put those two back-to-back. It really was a return to center.
And you’re calling it Goon 2?
Yeah, it’s Goon 2.
So, working with your ex-wife’s gardener. Is that a strange dynamic to navigate?
Well, he was our gardener when we were married. And then he got fired.
Was that related to you, or no?
Yeah. I fired him.
You fired him?
Yeah, as a gardener, he was not bringing a lot to the table. But as a friend, we remain strong. Through my divorce, he really was there for me. Then, when the friendship evolved, it was kind of like, Oh, could we do this album for real? And I still don’t know, so we’ll see.
You don’t know if you can pull it off?
I’m confident about a few things in my life, but it’s never all-encompassing. I have to let some parts go and say, “Okay, let’s just see if this works.” I know a lot of artists who are perfectionists about every part of their songs, from recording to track listing. And they do very well for themselves. But that’s not who I am. I’m just more of a collaborator.
