King Princess talks leaving her label, returning to Brooklyn, and latest album 'Girl Violence' • Interview • DIY Magazine

King Princess is great with names. The singer, songwriter and actor born Mikaela Straus originally chose her musician’s moniker because it “encompasses the complexity of gender”, and she recently described herself as “literally fifty-fifty”, though she’s comfortable with any pronouns. And now, Mikaela has opted to name her third album ‘Girl Violence’ because she’s experienced both sides of the coin as “perpetrator and victim”. Many times over. “I’ve always loved women and been gay, and I think there’s something really unique and special about the way we commit emotional war crimes against each other,” says the 26 year old New Yorker. “There’s just something about the lesbian experience - and I mean that in the most encompassing way possible - that is so incredibly feisty and dramatic and chaotic. I wanted to put a name to that, and then dig into the different sectors of girl violence in each song.”

Can Mikaela still be surprised by “girl violence”: is it always taking new forms? “Yes! That’s what’s so cray-cray about it: there’s a constant evolution,” she replies with a knowing smile. “Like, shit goes down with my friends, and I’m like, ‘Wow, that’s a new one.’ I think in a world full of this aggressive, masculine violence that is so consuming - and [which] we think about constantly - what’s really going on underneath that surface-level violence is girl violence. And it’s been happening for centuries.”

The album’s thrilling second single, a rambunctious banger called ‘Cry Cry Cry’, casts Mikaela as a girl violence survivor who’s now wielding the sword. “You got rich, got higher demand,” she snarls over chugging guitars. “But everybody wants me - just ask your man, babe.” The huge chorus hook is almost taunting: “You’re gonna cry, cry, cry when you hear this.” When the song dropped in July, she said it was “about a friendship with a lady that did not work out”, then added wryly: “Sometimes two divas create an explosion.” Does she know if the other diva has heard it yet? “I don’t know, I hope she has!”

“I’m not one thing: I’m not a girl, I’m not a boy. I’m not a pop star, I’m kind of a rock star, so I’m in this grey area.”

Mikaela is chatting today from her home in Brooklyn, where it’s a “grey, rainy, poopy day” that she’s ready to embrace. “The great thing about New York is you get such different weather,” she says. “I just feel it’s good for your brain - or it’s good for my brain. It’s a little bit schizophrenic, and I feel like I thrive in that chaos.” Two years ago, Mikaela moved back to Brooklyn, where she was born and raised, after seven years in Los Angeles. She also left her label of seven years, Columbia, where she was signed by Mark Ronson under his Zelig Records imprint. “Mark was like a parent to me. He was gracious enough to let me go,” she said recently, showing no little grace of her own.

Back on home turf with no one to answer to, Mikaela knew exactly what kind of album she “didn’t want to make” - namely, one that would require daily Uber rides across LA to assemble. “What I didn’t want was to make an album that felt like I took a bunch of [songwriting] sessions,” she says. “I wanted to make an album that was stationary - [me] at the same studio with the same people [where] we’re playing all the instruments.”

She chose Mission Sound in Brooklyn for a simple reason: “It’s the one I know best.” Run by her recording engineer father, Oliver Straus, Mikaela has been hanging out there since she was a kid. “I trust the way that room sounds,” she says. “I’ve been listening to music in that room for my entire life, so it’s really easy for me to build through lines in the music, sonically, in a place where I’m really familiar with the sound quality.” Perhaps wary of getting too technical, she lightens the mood with a joke: “Also, my dad gives me, like, friends and family discount.”

No freebies? Mikaela shakes her head. “I can’t fault him because, you know, he’s got to make a buck,” she says. “Being a recording engineer is like being a mechanic - it’s not the same as being a producer or an executive. It’s less glamorous than people think, so yeah, I’m always down to pay. But it is kind of gaggy that he charges!” Though Mikaela also built a studio in her basement, the bulk of ‘Girl Violence’ was made at Mission Sound with a core group of collaborators including Jacob Portrait of psych-rock band Unknown Mortal Orchestra and SZA collaborator Aire Atlantica. “I really just wanted to feel like I was going into work every day,” she says.

Mikaela made ‘Girl Violence’ entirely on her own terms, allowing the album to prowl from the psychedelic vibes of ‘Say What You Will’ to the low-slung groove of ‘RIP KP’ and onto the elegant lament ‘Alone Again’. She then shopped it to section1, an imprint of indie label Partisan. “I wanted to prove to myself that there was something different out there,” she says. “As a major label artist, you’re sold this myth that indie labels are broke and, like, podunk and the reason that artists aren’t successful anymore.”

“There’s just something about the lesbian experience that is so incredibly feisty and dramatic and chaotic.”

She launched her career as a major label artist, releasing dazzling debut single ‘1950’ a year after putting pen to paper with Zelig. A loping guitar bop charged with queer pride (“I hate it when dudes try to chase me”), it became “a textbook hit” - Mikaela’s words - that has now amassed nearly 600 million streams on Spotify alone. She followed it with two compelling albums, 2019’s indie-R&B hybrid ‘Cheap Queen’, and 2022’s ‘Hold On Baby’, before she hit a brick wall with LA and the major label system.

“There’s no gatekeeping that can be done by them now,” she says. “They can’t make a phone call and [hope] it becomes the number one radio song. It’s about fan engagement and artists self-promoting.” When Mikaela met with the section1 team, she saw they were “hungry” and on the same page as her. “They care about commerce, but they also care about art,” she says. “And honestly, I have more people working on my team now at an indie than I’ve ever had [before]. I have beautiful budgets. I’m kind of gagged!”

As Mikaela was recalibrating her music career, she was also branching out into acting. This year, fans have already seen her in streaming drama Nine Perfect Strangers, a rich-people-in-paradise mystery starring Nicole Kidman. Next up is the musical movie Song Song Blue, scheduled for December, in which Hugh Jackman and Kate Hudson play an ordinary Milwaukee couple who form a hugely popular Neil Diamond tribute band. Mikaela plays their “buttoned-up” daughter. “She’s this really calm presence in the film, which I think is interesting, because that’s not at all who I am,” she says.

She intends to continue playing against type. “I haven’t done anything yet where I’m a literal gargoyle, but I want to,” she says. “I would love to play something cray-cray or be the bad guy. I’m interested in the dress-up element of acting because I am a dress-up diva.” Mikaela isn’t exaggerating: she named her debut LP ‘Cheap Queen’ after a colloquial term for a drag performer who’s thrifty and resourceful, and duly rocked dramatic, drag-style make-up on the album cover.

Mikaela fizzes with energy today and really seems in a great place, but the press release for this new album describes her as “perennially underestimated”. Does she really feel that way? “I mean, I do think I’m underestimated,” she replies. “Like, I’m not one thing. I’m not a girl, I’m not a boy. I’m not a pop star, I’m kind of a rock star, so I’m in this grey area.” Because King Princess is impossible to pigeonhole, the project is often ahead of the curve. “Sometimes I feel like I’ve done stuff where, like, five years later, I’ll see, ‘Oh, now that’s popular,’” Mikaela says. “And I think that’s OK. It means I should trust my gut and my brain.”

One descriptor she doesn’t like is “sapphic pop” - because “lesbian is not a genre, it’s an activity”. She says things have improved since she started doing interviews seven years ago, and invariably got asked: ‘What’s it like to make art as a gay person?’ Today, she dismisses the question bullishly - “you’d have to ask every single artist ever, because they’re all fucking gay!” - but also speaks thoughtfully about how she handled it at the time.

“I feel a little tinge of sadness for my 19-year-old self being asked questions about the entirety of the queer community, as though I’m supposed to know everyone’s experience - like, that is diabolical,” she says. “But that being said, if I played a small part in expanding that conversation and making it less polarising for artists to talk about their work and not be asked stupid fucking questions, then great! That makes me happy.”

‘Girl Violence’ is out now via section1 / Partisan.

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