Bad Dreams and Real Life: Bindy’s EP Unpacks the Chaos
Bindy’s self-titled EP delves into the concept of home with a depth of scrutiny that is both profound and deconstructive. Across a lifetime of 34 moves, songwriting became the only constant, a stabilizing force amid shifting walls and emotional terrain. These tracks aren’t just reflections; they’re reckonings.
From the aching motion of “Restless” to the lucid dread of “Bad Dream,” the EP captures the tension between material comfort and emotional grounding, between the fantasy of stability and the reality of self.
In this interview, Bindy unpacks the personal artifacts, political undercurrents, and sonic textures that shaped the project. It’s a portrait of someone learning to locate home not in couches or clean corners, but in music, community, and the messy persistence of selfhood.
You’re about to release your EP, which explores home as both a physical and emotional concept. Did working on the album reshape what “home” means to you now?
The one constant through all the moves has been songwriting. Writing these songs about home, at the tail end of my 34th move, was as stabilizing as it’s always been. I still get caught up in that perfectionistic battle of trying to create the perfect place on a daily basis, with all the nice stuff and the right furniture and small comforts. But when I pick up the guitar or keyboard, all the future-tripping and neurosis about “getting there” dissipates.
“Restless” opens the EP with this aching mix of motion and meaning. Was it written during a real-life transition, or did it come from something more internal?
Absolutely. After a lifetime of moving, I finally found myself in my own apartment—no roommates, just me and my partner. It was a little tough because I really did believe having my own place would fix my internal monologue. I’d been so fixated on finding that stability for so long. But I’m still the person I am, no matter where I am. Those problems are coming with me.
“Bad Dream” is haunting in both lyric and tone. Can you talk about the imagery of houses on fire and the feeling of losing control over your own body?
When you move a lot, you learn to prioritize the stuff that matters most. It can be both freeing and oppressive—you’re not weighed down by physical stuff, but the uncertainty of not knowing where you’ll land is pretty heavy. Through all the beds and apartments I’ve slept in, my worst dreams have always been about losing control— teeth falling out, moving in slow motion, not knowing what’s gonna happen next. But writing this song was kind of a lucid experience. I wrote it the morning of November 6, right after the election. That day and every day since, so many people have woken up to the living nightmare of Trump’s America. Losing their homes, their bodily autonomy, and healthcare. It’s all on par with a very bad dream. Unironically, it’s all unfolding while we sleep as Washington conducts sneaky 1 am votes on life-ending legislation.
Was there a specific moment or image that sparked the idea for “She”? Something you saw, heard, or felt?
Nothing specific, no. I think growing up in New York, we’ve all known people like this. It’s not by any means a diss track. I’ve been there too. Some people just yearn so hard for that connection; they get lost in the sauce of social transactions. Paying for people’s time, searching for a home at parties. I think New York has always brought that out in people. In the '70s, the Velvet Underground explored it with All Tomorrow’s Parties. Maybe this song is an homage to it?
Your lyrics feel deeply personal, often like inner monologues laid bare. Was there a particular line on this EP that almost didn’t make the final cut?
For sure. There’s a lot of rage in Bad Dream. I was worried the violent stuff was too explicit, but it’s gotta come out somewhere. I try not to be too literal, but sometimes I can’t help myself. It’s preventative medicine that keeps me from acting out of turn.
The EP grapples with material fixations like spotlessness, couches, and kittens. Is there one object you’ve held onto across all those moves that you just couldn’t let go of?
My childhood cat, Spunky, came everywhere with me. Otherwise, I have a Weldon Slice tobacco box that’s filled with trinkets and memorabilia from teenhood and beyond. Wacky Packs, cheap jewelry, fake IDs, origami stars, beer caps. Little reminders of where and who I’ve been all these years.
You’ve said your sense of home became tangled with material things. Did making this album help untangle that at all?
I got into the bad habit of taking inventory of rich kids’ houses at an early age as I was searching for stability. My parents did their best, but the divorce stuff made being a kid feel like a fantasy. I noticed the kids who really got to be kids had a lot of money. The essentials and so much more were taken care of by the grown-ups, and their homes were clean, expansive, and filled with toys. That said, I always gravitated towards the instruments at these houses. In time, music revealed itself as the constant between these more stable homes and my own. So I kept doing it.
If home is an evolving concept, where do you find it right now—physically, creatively, or otherwise?
We just moved downstairs from our best friends and bandmates, and it feels like a sitcom. There’s a live audience in my head that claps and cheers every time someone walks through the door, lol. It’s awesome. They’re all musicians. If music is home, this is the closest to home I’ve ever been.
With the album wrapping and tour dates approaching, what part of this next chapter are you most excited or scared about?
Tour dates have turned into local shows—we’ll see about doing a tour in October if the stars align; that’s when our full album comes out. I just want to use this record to justify more shows, more parties, more fun. That’s where I’m at.