SYNTHPOP’S NEW LOVER BOY: An Interview with ARTEMAS

Words by Kimberly Haddad

Artemas has a talent for making emotional messiness feel romantic. The Oxfordshire- born alt-pop troublemaker went from producing beats on his childhood laptop to nearly sending the internet into cardiac arrest with “i like the way you kiss me,” a hook so addictive it practically rewired dopamine receptors. Fresh off dropping his mixtape LOVERCORE, a synth-heavy diary of lust, heartbreak, and whatever lives in between, he’s already back with a new single, “you and i could never be friends,” proving he has zero interest in slowing down while the world is still catching up.

Spend five minutes with him and you see it: that slip of arrogance he can’t hide, the charm that instantly follows, the quick “don’t make me sound like that” cleanup. He doesn’t do restraint on the page either; subtlety isn’t really his register. Creativity, for him, works like an Ouija board—hands off, don’t overthink it, just let it move. He grew up mostly on his own, raised on Nirvana and the Red Hot Chili Peppers, searching for identity in theater before eventually pouring everything into making music of his own. Somewhere along the way, he also learned a simple truth: girls notice when you can play piano. Now he’s touring globally, racking up billions of streams, and gathering a cult of fans who like their pop a little feral. Artemas is building his imprint intuitively and obsessively—like someone who knew, long before anyone else did, that the future was already his.

When you look back at your childhood, what do you think shaped you more—the place you grew up, or the way you felt growing up?

A big thing for me is that I’m an only child, and I spent a lot of time by myself. That’s kind of how I found hobbies, creativity, and music. Maybe it shaped me as a person, but musically and in my artistry, I don’t think the place or the people I grew up with had much involvement. My mom has great taste in music, though, and she was always putting me on bands like Nirvana, Red Hot Chili Peppers, and R&B stuff as well. Now that definitely shaped it.

Was there someone in your early life who made you feel truly seen—or was music the first place that happened?

I was always a theater kid when I was young, and that felt like my identity for a bit. I used to play piano when I was young too, and that would get me attention from the girls when I was around 11 [laughs]. That definitely had a huge effect on my psyche. And then, you know, that age when you’re around 15 or 16 and you’re desperately searching for an identity? I watched the Nirvana documentary, and that was pretty much game, set, match. That’s what I wanted to be from then on.

What do you wish people understood about the difference between Artemas the artist and Artemas the person?

When I’m sitting down to make a song, I’m always drawn to the more exaggerated, high-stakes stuff. And the reality is I’m not going to be feeling these intense feelings that I write about all the time. But I also don’t really want to overly explain anything, because that’s kind of the fun of it. I’ve always been more drawn to mysterious artists who don’t give so much away and let their music say it.

What artists are you most drawn to currently?

I have no idea what this new band Magdalena Bay is like. Everything I know about them is just sick music and the amazing videos they put out. That’s really cool to me. Also, historically, The Weeknd barely did any interviews until he started making movies and stuff. I don’t know, I think that’s cool. I think there’s a lot of artists nowadays who are almost like influencers or personalities, and their music is more of a thing they do on the side. Oh, and Montell Fish. He is amazing, and he’s still pushing so much of his music out into the world. He almost drip-feeds it to people. I’m trying to be on some shit like that.

Does the term “lovercore” describe the music, or does it describe you? Where do those edges meet and where do they split?

I had been touring nonstop for nearly a year and a half, and I finally had some time for me. I had this almost manic, frantic night of ideas. I was at my parents’ house about an hour away from London, and all I had was my laptop. I was making these simple beats and writing about a lot. I was listening to stuff I already had, and it was all about these intense feelings. I was singing about when you first meet someone and how you don’t just like them—you really, really like them. You know, the horny shit. And then the breakup songs where you don’t just feel bad—you feel really fucking bad. I’ve been doing this synthpop new wave thing for the last year. I kind of had to just scratch that itch, and while I was trying to define what I was doing, the lovercore thing just felt like exactly it. Then, we got the artwork, which was a chance thing. I was doing a shoot, and something went wrong with the camera and it blurred my face out, but I’m in the shot and it’s dark, and it felt so cool to me.

I love when an accident becomes something beautiful.

I truly think that everything I’ve done—like all my favorite things I’ve ever done—has been that way. It’s when I’m not trying so hard to make something. I want my music, my art, my career, my life really, to be kind of like an Ouija board, you know? Just let it happen rather than trying too hard. It wasn’t until a couple of years ago when I started putting a song out every three weeks and just pushing every day that I started to let myself develop as an artist. As soon as I started doing that was when I really started building. It’s difficult because I’ve had these big successful moments, but I have to be careful that I’m not falling into the trap of overthinking things.

Was there a moment making LOVERCORE where you realized, “Oh—I’m building a new sound, not just making songs?”

Yeah, I think so. I handed this project in three months before I put it out. It doesn’t sound like a long time, but genuinely, most of the time I’m frantically handing in a song less than 24 hours before it’s supposed to come out. It’s like a week old, and I’m just in the moment feeling it, so I just put it out. It was a strange moment for me to have all of these songs I made that felt like memories. It was cool, though, and I learned a lot from it. The problem I have is that I make so much music that it’s hard sometimes to know what exactly should come out. There’s a lot of shit on my hard drive that really should be out in the world.

What kind of magic needs to happen for a track from your hard drive to finally make its debut to the public?

I just collected all of these songs together and it felt like they were all the same thing. I felt like I needed something out there that was more intentional and cohesive because I haven’t really had that before. My first two mixtapes were songs I made at a time when I was having these huge moments, and I love mixtapes and putting music out without overthinking. But putting a full album out has made it easier to get back in the studio because I know people are digging into this thing I spent time on. Now I can get going with the next thing.

A lot of artists use songwriting to metabolize things they haven’t fully processed yet. For you, is intimacy something you document after the fact, or something you explore through the music itself?

It’s definitely after the fact. I’m not crying my eyes out on the mic or anything [laughs]. A lot of my heartbreak songs are a little tongue-in-cheek and over the top. I’m trying to make my music give me the same feeling that my favorite shit gave me growing up. That’s what I’m chasing—not trying to get over some girl. I can tap into that feeling, but I’m not one to get broken up with, pick up an acoustic guitar, get drunk, and bam, write a good anthem. I’m writing shit the whole time. I just love the metaphor of an Ouija board. I have no idea what’s going to come out. Sometimes you just mumble shit and you’re like, holy fuck, that’s it.

Some artists need suffering to write; others need a quiet space to create. What does your ideal “internal weather” look like when you make your best work?

You need the suffering, but you also need some time to actually tap into the suffering and realize what’s interesting about it. The difficulty with touring is that it can take you out of that, but I just need to be obsessed with the work and really push myself. I think confidence is a big thing. You can’t feel any insecurity about what you’re doing—your voice, the lyrics. You just have to be feeling yourself.

Which song on the mixtape taught you something about yourself you didn’t know before?

That’s a great question. There’s a song called “love is a knife,” and it’s kind of a super blown-out anthemic heart-break ballad, and I don’t think I’ve ever really made a song like that before. I don’t know if it necessarily taught me anything about myself, other than I was lit. I’m just kidding [laughs].

When fans say your music hits their “dark romance era,” what do you think they’re actually responding to?

Lyrically, a lot of time is spent making things intentional and trying to create a chorus or a verse—or even a single word—that gives it that crack that makes people feel something. I want to take it to the next level, not just give random melodies and words. If something feels really good but I haven’t quite cracked the lyric yet, I’ll sometimes sit for two hours thinking about it. And it’s just something I’ve developed because it’s all I’ve done for the last seven years. Maybe that’s it.

Was it “i like the way you kiss me” going nuclear—or something earlier—that made you realize your life wasn’t going to be normal anymore?

I think I could feel it. There’s a song called “if you think i’m pretty,” which is also really big. Starting around March 2023, which was before the song was released and about six months before “i like the way you kiss me” came out, there was this constant, everyday growth and excitement I was seeing. By the time of “if you think i’m pretty,” I just felt dialed in. I got a phone call the day before “i like the way you kiss me” from the head of the label and he told me it was going to completely change everything and go all the way. That was definitely a cool experience. I think you can only really get these moments if you believe them already. I don’t think it would have been possible for me to make “i like the way you kiss me” if I wasn’t feeling really good about where the project was. I hadn’t done anything like that at the time either.

Yes, that part. When you’re trying to achieve something, you really do have to live like it’s already yours.

Yeah, there were six or seven months where I had finally stopped overthinking everything about my art and just let myself develop for the first time. And actually be fearless. Then it all just climaxed once “i like the way you kiss me” was released.

With a breakout hit as massive as “i like the way you kiss me,” what changed in your relationship to pressure, confidence, or fear?

About two weeks after the song was out, I read some negative things about myself and my music, and that was the first wave of pushback. Then there was some crazy stuff online, and that’s not an enjoyable thing to go through. I feel like my confidence did suffer, but it’s natural. Now, a lot of the craziness has died down a bit, and I can be in a place where I can build it up again and have a clearer head. There’s not this constant pressure to be in people’s faces the whole time.

You’ve hit Coachella, Lolla, Gov Ball, Outside Lands—which performance taught you the most about how your music lives in other people’s bodies?

Festivals are interesting sometimes because you’re not playing for your audience. I think Coachella was a life-changing moment—the scale of that festival. I also went both weekends and saw all the other acts and was in the artist areas. I was so nervous the two weeks before the show. I really hoped people would show up, and it couldn’t have gone any better. When you’re headlining or playing to your fans, it’s such a rush and you really get to feel them. Sometimes we’ll be making a song in the studio and not even thinking about it that much, just having a fun time—but then I’ll see some girl in the audience crying while she’s singing it, and it’s just amazing. I cannot believe—especially spending as much time on the internet as I do, seeing how much negative shit there is out there—that there are also just so many people hyping you up, loving your music, or dying to meet you after. Sometimes even other musicians send me their SoundCloud link, and it’s so cool.

Music really is a love language—the way people carry it and respond to it.

Totally, yes. It can be difficult as well because I’m always in the studio or on tour, and when I get downtime I don’t necessarily want to go to concerts. But it’s great that people do.

I actually went to my first solo show recently.

No way, that’s awesome. Who did you see?

“I think confidence is a big thing. You can’t feel any insecurity about what you’re doing—your voice, the lyrics. You just have to be feeling yourself.”

The Brian Jonestown Massacre.

Hell yeah.

If you could freeze one moment from the last year and live in it for 10 more minutes, which moment is it?

I wish it didn’t feel as good as it did, but “i like the way you kiss me” came out on an 11-hour flight home from LA. I was coming back from a trip where I had written the song. I had posted it and it had blown up. It was coming out on the plane—it had only released in Australia and there were about five or six thousand people listening to my music at once. Then I landed and I couldn’t get service for ages, and I was dying to see what people were saying. When I finally got service, I saw that 40,000 people were listening at once. I really do wish it didn’t feel as good as it did, because it’s kind of an unhealthy thing, but it felt really sick.

What’s the most lovercore thing you’ve done lately?

Oh, I don’t know about that one. I don’t know how to answer that in a way that isn’t…[laughs]. I think LOVERCORE is a fantastic description of where I’m at in my life at the moment. I’m always doing lovercore shit.

Come on, don’t dodge the question—just tell me.

I mean, I’m by a beautiful pool surrounded by palm trees in Miami, and I’m sitting inside writing songs about sex. That’s pretty lovercore.

What’s something you wish I would ask you—but no one ever does?

This is probably my fault, but I need to get across more that I’m kind of like Kevin Parker. I write all my own music, I mixed a lot of these songs, and I’m in the studio a lot. I just feel like I haven’t done a great job of showing that to people. It’s probably one of the biggest selling points of me as an artist. Music is a very DIY thing. But maybe people don’t give a shit about that stuff.

If you could describe your life in three words or less, what would you say?

I spent a lot of time in my bedroom making shit and nothing was going on, and it felt like I was shouting at the clouds. Then suddenly I’m a year and a half into being a successful artist. I get to do a lot of cool shit and I have to keep reminding myself how lucky I am. It’s just so sick. So yeah—luckiest fucker ever.

BUY ISSUE 29