The Barbican, tucked into the heart of London, rarely feels warm, but that afternoon, the sun briefly caught the concrete terraces, lighting the courtyard just long enough for us to sit outside. Paige Kennedy sat with a flat white, quietly watching the passing crowd. It felt like the right setting for an artist whose work often draws humour and inspiration from unlikely places. That same playful perspective shapes Kennedy’s latest EP, ‘Style Over Substance’. It thrives on contradiction: bright and polished pop melodies sit alongside lyrics that reveal a more vulnerable side. Even the title holds a double meaning; at first glance, it reads as a tongue-in-cheek comment on image and aesthetics, but Kennedy points out that there is another intent; “I liked the idea of ‘Style Over Substance’ first,” they say, “but then I realised there’s this hidden ‘SOS’ in it. You’ve got this bold, performative front in the words ‘Style Over Substance’, but there’s something else going on.” ‘Style Over Substance’ allows humour and vulnerability to co-exist.
Much of Kennedy’s songwriting lives in that in-between space where fragility meets absurdity. Like many artists, their lyrics circle breakups and insecurities, but they rarely linger in darkness for long. Instead, humour becomes a way to navigate those experiences. Through odd imagery and playful metaphors, Kennedy finds a way to approach difficult situations without overwhelming listeners. For Kennedy, comedy isn’t simply a stylistic choice; it’s part of how they process experiences: “Comedy is very important for getting through life,” they explained, describing it as a shorthand for connection. “It's kind of the equivalent of music; when you listen to it, you like it, or you don't, and sometimes you don't really know why. I think comedy is the same, where you either find it funny or you don't. And it creates this sense of understanding amongst people.” Strange ideas have never scared them off. As a teenager, they once wrote a concept EP inspired by a dream in which they gave birth to a worm. This Frankensteinian premise expanded into three interconnected songs (‘Under The Skin’, ‘I Feel You’, and ‘Baby’) exploring the perspectives of both creator and creature. It’s the sort of story that Kennedy recounts with a laugh, but it also reveals something essential about their creative instincts: a willingness to follow unusual ideas wherever they lead.
Lately, Kennedy has been drawn to musicians who blur genres and play with expectations, like Oklou and Hemlocke Springs, whose work moves freely between synthetic production and distinctive personality. “And thinking about legacy artists, I'm into Kate Bush, Prince, David Bowie, and Esperanza Spalding. I love how their work evolves through the decades. I admire their curiosity and how they stay true to themselves.” Despite the conceptual thinking behind the music, Kennedy’s songwriting is surprisingly practical- they rarely release new songs without first trying them out in front of a live audience. Playing material live has become a reliable way of measuring what resonates and what falls flat; the feedback is immediate: enthusiasm is obvious, but so is distraction. If a crowd starts drifting away toward the bar halfway through a song, the message is clear. Back at home, Kennedy turns to a less glamorous focus group: their housemates, none of whom are musicians, and their reactions, or the lack thereof, can be just as revealing.
Several tracks were born out of emotionally intense moments in Kennedy’s life. One song began as a guitar riff saved on their computer under the working title ‘Mournful Punk’, and sat untouched for months before a difficult breakup suddenly gave it new meaning. Not long afterwards, Kennedy found themselves in A&E with heart-related symptoms, a moment dramatic enough to feel almost surreal in hindsight. Rather than leaning fully into the seriousness of the experience, Kennedy recognised the strange humour within it. Eventually, the mix of drama and self-awareness shaped the song, now titled ‘Medical Emergency’. Across the EP, humour is often used to soften the sharper edges of heartbreak; however, not every track on ‘Style Over Substance’ centres on romance. One of the most tender moments comes in ‘Tina’, a song about Kennedy’s best friend- a friendship that stretches back to childhood. The track even includes a short recording the pair made together as teenagers, a fragment of their shared past preserved in the music. “I guess it’s different when you write about friendship; there’s a lack of complication. If you're writing about romantic relationships, there's always the risk that it's going to end sourly. I feel far more secure in my friendship- we're always gonna be friends. I know that they can collapse and break too, but I still feel much more steady in that than I would in a romantic relationship.”
As we finished our coffees, the sun slipped behind the Barbican’s looming towers, and the conversation turned to what comes next. Kennedy spoke about the future with an easy confidence that feels hard-earned. Earlier releases were often accompanied by uncertainty, but that began to shift when songs like ’Lingerie Model’ took on a life of their own and found a new audience online. “I’ve been making music for a long time, and I feel confident in my abilities. I trust what I’m making. People inherently seek external validation, myself included sometimes, but also, I feel I’ve got to be confident in what I’m putting out, otherwise it’s not worth me putting it out.” ‘Style Over Substance’ may be the clearest expression of Kennedy’s sound so far, but it doesn’t feel like a final statement. Instead, it reads as the beginning of something larger, another step in a career they approach with continuous curiosity and humour.
Stefania Mohottige
Image: Stefania Mohottige
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