Sisterly Kōrero & Coffee: Nadia Reid on Storytelling, Music, and Motherhood.
Words by Rosa-Lee O'Reilly. Images by Doug Peters, Ebony Lamb, and Si Moore.
Growing up, my sister was, by the book, my 'half-sister.' To me, she was my 'half-sister' not in the conventional sense, but because I only understood half of her.
Where did she come from? Why did she only visit for a little bit and then leave? Why couldn't she just always be around?
Families were always complicated. They held many mysteries, many untold and unfinished stories. However, there was something in the way my sister and I communicated that expressed a deep desire to fill in these unvoiced, genealogical gaps, as we were the natural storytellers of the family.
Attending Nadia's shows was something I had done since I was a little girl; sometimes working on the door, handing out special Nadia Reid merchandise and welcoming people into the intimate space of The Tuning Fork. It was there I became somewhat of a holy temple, in which Nadia's fans were the pilgrims. They would offload their worship and adoration onto me, saying things like: "your sister is an angel"… "your sister's music is a gift."
As we metamorphose as human beings, music changes with us. Certain melodies suddenly feel familiar and foretold, as certain songs reflect glimmers of our nostalgic experience. Music matures on you, or maybe you mature on music? That is the mysterious, yet magical parallel.
As I have endured the rite of passage to musical mysticism, my sister's music has become a common prayer. I now understand the melancholic yet mesmerising lyrics she crafts, as I no longer simply see her, I hear her. I not only see my sister as the angelic folk superstar she truly is, but I hear the stories she is destined to tell.
For four years of our lives, we serendipitously both found home in the same city; the wonderful Ōtepoti. Sharing this special, intimate, geographical location connected us in ways words and stories cannot. In between her touring the world and me partying for weeks on end, we managed to find regular rendezvous. Although our lives were inextricably different, they felt somewhat shared through the art of our storytelling.
Meeting up for coffee was one of our favourite ways to catch up and confabulate– as conversation simply flows a whole lot better when one is caffeinated. Through this simple ritual, we have shared old stories about our old lives and subsequently opened up a new story: our relationship as sisters.
On a sunny day in Tāmaki Makaurau earlier this year, I sat down with my sister to do what we do best: talk shit and drink coffee.
R: Do you like talking?
N: Depends who to.
R: Do you like talking to me?
N: Yeah, I like talking to you. When it flows, I like to talk. But I am quite happy to sit in silence. I don't enjoy small talk. I like to talk about the intense things.
R: The meaningful things?
N: Yeah.
R: And what conversations do you like the most?
N: I like the real ones – about the nitty gritty, the matters of the heart and significance. The fleshy stuff. I like the self-improvement kind of conversations.
R: Mastering the art of veracious conservation is quite similar to storytelling. Do you feel a desire to story tell?
N: Definitely. I reckon that is the whole point of music. Interpreting emotions, events, made-up stories, and true stories.
R: So, you feel like storytelling and songwriting have an inherent connection?
N: Yeah, hard-out. I feel they are one and the same. I love hearing people's stories if they are good storytellers.
R: Do you feel somewhat of a spiritual connection to your songwriting?
N: Like a channelling?
R: Yeah… The muse or God or whatever.
N: I guess I have always felt quite spiritual. Songwriting is quite mysterious. I feel like I don't have a lot of control over it. When it flows, it feels a bit divine. You can tell when something isn't divine or channelled because it is generally pretty bad… or manufactured, or forced. But yeah, when a song resonates with people, I still don't feel like I am owed the full kudos.
R: That is probably the art of storytelling in a sense. Listening to someone else's story helps people resonate and make connections to their own story. People like to feel understood and familiar with something.
N: Yeah, even if it is melancholic or sad, it turns an individual story into a collective story. It is the worst feeling in the world to feel alone in your own mind or in your own heart. Or feeling as though you are the only person in the world that feels a certain way.
R: Well, the pandemic most definitely made us experience that collective emotion. How did the pandemic affect your wairua (spirit)?
N: I had a particularly blessed experience. I was at the bottom of the South Island in a very positive environment. And although it was very disappointing at times musically, I felt very still. I really enjoyed stopping and going inward.
R: Yeah, you had more time to notice things you would not have noticed before. But as you say, you had a blessed experience – not everyone had the same experience. There was a lot of fear and worry. How do you deal with fear and worry?
N: Sometimes I just ruminate – which is not good.
R: I am a guilty ruminator. There is this quote that I feel is the story of my life: "I have spent my life worrying about things that never happened."
N: Exercise combats that in a good way, as well as saying your thoughts out loud. So, if I have a worry – I say it out loud.
R: When you say it out loud, it sounds less… what's the word–
N: –it just breaks the internal monologue.
R: Yeah.
R: And so, what are your favourite forms of peace?
N: Walking Joni (the Golden Doodle) through a nice bush. The ocean.
R: For those who saw your last tour (2021), they would've noticed you were carrying an extra band member with you. What was it like to tour & perform with a baba growing inside of you?
N: It was pretty cool. I mean, it was also pretty cool when it was over. I felt a huge sense of accomplishment. I was high after that Dunedin show. Because I felt like I couldn't do it and then I did it. But overall, I think it has contributed to her nature.
R: I know some people feel sceptical about bringing new life into this world in its current state; I somewhat feel that way sometimes myself. What are your feelings about this?
N: I feel like horrible things have been happening forever. I mean, climate change is a real thing, but everything else has been blown up by the media.
R: Well, everything that we could ever possibly worry about is right there at the click of a button, on our screens every day, reminding us to be scared.
N: Yeah. Having babies is fine. But at the same time, it is so important to make sure you have the means to support your baby. I am so glad that I did it.
R: How has motherhood changed/grown you?
N: I feel softened. I feel a lot more loving. And I now see everyone and think they were once a baby. It makes me feel tender towards the mistreatment of people. I have a lot more reason to be productive with my time because I don't have the same amount of time that I did.
R: Now you must get up early! *giggles*
N: Yeah, before, I would sleep in till mid-day. Now, I am a lot more determined… to provide the best life for her. It really takes you out of your self-indulgence.
R: Has she helped you connect with your inner child?
N: Definitely. I feel like in loving her it has helped me in a way.
R: Your first performance after becoming a mother happened to coincidentally fall on Mother's Day (May 8th, 22). How have you combined music and motherhood?
N: Well, I have kept things going as they would. I am not going to give into any doubt. I am just going to keep going. And ask for help, whether that is having someone on tour or bringing her with me.
R: Do you feel like you are being reborn as a musician post-baby and pandemic?
N: Maybe with this new album, I will, as well as playing new material. Maybe not reborn, but I feel more determined. I feel like I can do anything now after giving birth. I think of music now like a sport, like an athletic sport. And I must be really disciplined when I am about to tour.
R: What does the future hold in store for you?
N: Moving back to Auckland. Recording my fourth album. Being with Elliotte, doing cool shit, loving my dog, teaching my dog new tricks. Next year I will have a new album, and it will be another round of touring, and it will be like what 2021 was meant to be. And then release another album, have another baby.
R: You are simply regenerating. New album, new baby – it is all quite cyclical.
N: Everything in my life is quite cyclical. I do sort of like two to three big tours a year, and then the rest of the time, I am quiet. Quiet time to write and be with Elliotte.
R: What do you want to be VOCAL about with your daughter?
N: That she can just be who she is; that she doesn't need to be worried about anything; that she can be kind and loving to others. And that life is joyful and peaceful; plenty of playing and laughing.
Music, in all its grandiloquence, continues to reinvigorate my sister and I’s close bond. It seems Nadia prophesied my Canadian wanderlust in her rose-coloured 2020 song Oh Canada (Out of My Province), as I have recently made the journey from little Aotearoa to British Columbia, Canada, where I plan to live for the next two years. Maybe my sister wrote it in the stars for me, and the stars aligned just right.
I have come to believe that maybe my sister was one half, and I was the other. And as we have come to understand each other, we have completed each other in a way. Just as she was my half-sister, I was also her half-sister. Our natural conversationalist skills make us whole.
Nadia will always feel like home to me. But I know I cannot always have her around. So, when I miss her, I know to put one of her songs on and make myself a strong cup of coffee.