mary in the junkyard talk debut EP 'this old house' and London's grassroots music community for DIY's Class Of 2025 • Interview • DIY Magazine

In a year that’s been nothing short of triumphant for left-of-centre art-rock bands (see: Fontaines DC, English Teacher), there’s been one who’ve emerged as a standout candidate for the next in line. As soon as they landed onto London’s small venue circuit, a word-of-mouth buzz surrounded mary in the junkyard unlike anything an algorithm could muster. Still only teenagers, it quickly became clear that this trio weren’t a run-of-the-mill indie band; nor, as it happens, did they fit the blueprint of the archetypal ‘South London sound’. Instead, Clari Freeman-Taylor (vocals, guitar), Saya Barbaglia (bass, viola) and David Addison (drums) craft something entirely atypical. And, from those excited early murmurs, came last year’s self-described “fearless” debut single ‘Tuesday’; its uncanny vocals and ebbing bassline speaking of a band who, in more than one sense, firmly inhabit their own world.

“We need to go and collect a moth before heading to the venue tonight,” David tells us cheerfully, speaking from the centre of a pink yarn spiderweb during today’s shoot as the greatest hits of Girls Aloud jangle in the background. “We’ve got a secret show at Windmill,” Saya says by way of explanation. “It’s just for our mailing list.” For those in the know, said moth is part of a fantastical menagerie of papier-mâché creatures that populate the stage at their every headline show. Usually, it can be found in the company of a yeti; both are of the band’s own making, and feature in a number of their superlative music videos. “I think visuals are really important,” Clari picks up later, as we settle into the cosy confines of a nearby coffee shop. “Like in the way you would read a storybook and have pictures [in it]… whenever we have a song, I always get quite a clear picture in my head of what the video should be, or what the art should look like. That feels like a really exciting part of [the band].”

Indeed, there is something endearingly uncynical about mary in the junkyard – not because of their age, or their experience (which is considerable, anyway), but because their approach to their work is so unconstrained and playful. Discussing the differences between playing live – their preferred medium – and recording, Clari notes that “if you just take all the lumps and bumps out, you’re making it more boring.” Instead, the way they write is “more through-composed”; as with classical music, “it’s all about the dynamics”. “You don’t really return to anything that’s been there before, it’s more like a journey,” she continues. Thematically speaking, the band talk of monsters and fantasy realms with the same nonchalance as they do this cafe’s toastie menu; far from the grey slate of realism, theirs is an intricately textured artistic landscape in which imagination is king.

Latest single ‘this is my california’ is a prime case in point. Due to be released the very evening of our conversation (“Oh shit, is it out yet?” asks Saya), it’s their first new music since this summer’s debut EP ‘this old house’, and posits a visionary alternative to the notion that Hollywood-like materialism is somehow universally aspirational. “That song is quite nostalgic,” Clari says, musing on their new offering. “[It’s about] the idea of success or happiness that I felt were the things you were meant to want [growing up], but instead feeling much more connected to the sky, or trying to get really, really high up on stuff.” She pauses, considering how to best convey her childhood thought process. “When I was younger, I used to be in this kind of dissociative state. I used to like climbing on a lot of things; that was the main thing I did to feel better, because it was kind of taking me out of the world. I think for me, investing in this kind of fantasy is really cathartic.” Her dream, then, is less West Coast beaches and more other-wordly wonders. “Yeah,” she laughs softly, “that’s my California.”

“If you just take all the lumps and bumps out, you’re making it more boring.”

— Clari Freeman-Taylor

Following the eerie beauty and creeping claustrophobia of ‘this old house’, their new release also marks a subtle but significant shift towards warmer, more spacious sonic climes. “To be honest, I think I’ve been changing recently,” continues Clari. “I feel like I don’t want to write so much about dark things. I know this song is kind of dark, but in songwriting I’m trying to explore a bit of a softer side – something a little bit kinder or just less spiky.” Sometimes, this can be the harder feat; shadowy landscapes and mysterious visions, we suggest, provide more effective emotional camouflage. “Writing in more of a fantasy way is a bit easier for me,” she nods. “It feels nice to be able to tell a story. Sometimes you don’t want to write in an obvious way about your own life, because that feels a bit… I mean, I used to do it a lot more, but now that we have audiences and people to show the songs to straight away, I guess I feel a little bit more shy.”

It’s no wonder really; at any given London show, it’s more than likely that a decent number of people know mary in the junkyard not just as performers, but as people too. Having grown up in the Hertfordshire market town of Hitchin, David and Clari first gravitated towards each other because, she explains, “there were a couple of bands, but it was definitely like, ‘Woah, you play guitar? I want to be your friend’.” Not only did this mutual love of music serve as a rock-solid foundation for friendship, it also proved to be quite the contrast to their current life in Saya’s capital city stomping ground. “I feel like I haven’t met anyone who’s not alternative in such a long time, that I’ve forgotten what the world is actually like,” Clari smiles.

All three of them had dabbled in various projects prior to forming the band. Clari and Saya had met aged 14 at classical music summer camps before working as session musicians, while David and Clari were part of an indie-rock outfit called Second Thoughts back in Hertfordshire. This time around, however, David affirms, “has definitely been more serious”. From busking on the weekend in St Albans to playing their first show at Stockwell’s Cavendish Arms, mary in the junkyard was their shared introduction proper to the close-knit community of London’s independent scene. “To be honest, I hadn’t really listened to or heard much rock and alternative music before [then],” notes Saya. “This band and this community was the turning point.” Far from feeling oversaturated or competitive, joining the scene, David says, “felt more like being embraced by a music sphere that was already there.”

Continuing, he explains: “Especially after we started playing at Windmill – Tim [Perry, booker] was really supportive of us, and gave us two shows a week for about a year, just playing first on; we got to meet lots of different bands and play on lots of weird lineups.” More than perhaps any other venue in London, Brixton’s Windmill has a certain mythology surrounding it, thanks to the significant part it’s played in the stories of shame, black midi, Goat Girl, Black Country, New Road and countless more. Have the band ever felt any sense of pressure with respect to joining this lineage?

“I do think it feels quite cool to be part of a scene or a history, so I’m happy to be associated with it,” David offers, while acknowledging that “I really love those bands, but I don’t think we continue that sound as such.” Clari agrees: “I think the way we connect with Windmill is more through its DIY-ness – the personality of the venue is really nice.” Its magic, Saya says, is thrown into particularly sharp relief “when [the band] go to different countries or places with much smaller music scenes, and people have found this thing called Windmill on Youtube [via the likes of beloved gig chronicler Lou Smith] and they really, really connect with it.” She shrugs: “What I’m trying to say is, in London some people are like, ‘No, we’re not a Windmill band’ because that’s basic or something, but it’s actually just so special.”

“There was someone called Matty from Germany who came over because he was doing his school dissertation on Windmill – in German!” David laughs. “So he interviewed us about what we think about it and stuff.” “A lot of people do that,” Clari rejoins, “we’ve had a couple of documentaries talk to us. There was also this magazine made by a guy living in Mexico; I don’t think he’d been to London, he was just self-publishing a whole magazine about its music scene.”

“I feel like I haven’t met anyone who’s not alternative in such a long time, that I’ve forgotten what the world is actually like.”

— Clari Freeman-Taylor

As a band that has essentially come of age in such venues, and as people who have been shaped by the communities therein, the current crisis of survival faced by the UK’s grassroots sector is a blow mary in the junkyard feel deeply. “Everyone in London – musicians, at least – has a lot of love for these places,” says David. “I don’t know if anything will be properly protected unless the government cares to do it… and I don’t have much faith in that really. But,” he continues, “I do think that live music is such an important thing to… well, all humans really, [so] that whatever happens, new places will start up.” “In spite of everything,” Clari murmurs, almost imperceptibly, before smiling: “Fuck the government.”

In an age where art is increasingly internet-centric, and artists are increasingly confronted with industry oversaturation, mary in the junkyard are symptomatic of a live-focused, engaged musical underbelly that’s not just enduring, but thriving. As Saya puts it: “Confidence is something you don’t really think about consciously, but the people who are listening are extremely dedicated – to the point where they’ll get on the bus and sacrifice an evening to come and see us live. That’s already about 20 times more effort than following [on Instagram] or watching a reel.”

We check the time again, to see if ‘this is my california’ has arrived yet, before the band’s attentions turn back to their imminent show at their spiritual home (and the whereabouts of that pesky moth). “It sold out in about an hour,” Saya says of tonight’s celebratory single launch. “It’s free, but still,” she smiles, “they clearly care.”

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