Anika wants you to get the hell outside

We’re discussing her wonderful and cathartic new record, Abyss, a clattering commentary on contemporary injustice, flooded with anger and confusion. Known for her work with Beak> and Exploded View, Henderson has been diligently releasing records under her own moniker via Sacred Bones, the most recent of which is 2021’s Change. She draws lines between the two works and processes, describing Change as more contemplative than its successor.

“This new record is definitely about trying to find what power we have in disempowering circumstances,” Henderson explains. “These last five years – it’s just been a bit of a mission lately. The pandemic, the war in Ukraine, the cost of everything – all of these things lie really heavy on people. I feel like everyone’s holding their breath about these things that are going on in the world, and a lot of the frustration comes from your brain being overly engaged and your body being unable to release it,” she continues. “That’s what live shows and music are for. I wanted to make an album that would be fun to play live, to bring people back into reality.”

Recorded live in Berlin’s legendary Hansa Studio with Exploded View collaborator Martin Thulin, Abyss is “pure release,” according to its creator. Henderson’s decision to create the album within these parameters speaks to her revolt against aspects of modernity: “It feels like everyone is constantly editing themselves, be it through social media – Instagram, where we are constantly editing images and text,” she says. This condition provokes an anxiety that informs Anika’s work, though she notes that she is careful not to ‘sermonise’ while being concerned about the fact that, culturally, there isn’t “much space for imperfection or difference.”

Abyss is a fitting document of these anxieties and conditions; glistening and propulsive, the album is sonically reminiscent of some of the most celebrated goth and post-punk records, of which Henderson’s native Berlin was a cradle. Frenetic, lacerating guitars – courtesy of Lawrence Goodwin from The Pleasure Majenta – dictate the colour of the record, pollocking the soundscape with metallic shades, while Andrea Belfi and Tomas Nochteff’s impeccable, relentless rhythm section provides a solid foundation for this house of confusion and vitriol. Commanding it all is Henderson’s captivating delivery, utilising pulsating repetition to land somewhere between Françoise Hardy and Kathleen Hanna.

During our conversation, there is a constant conflation between late-stage capitalism and the ubiquity of social media and technology. Henderson has a day job outside of her creative practice, and laments what feels like an increase of pressure facilitated by technology: “This 24-hour work culture, it never stops – you don’t get any off-time,” she says. This sentiment is apparent in “Oxygen”, our protagonist gasping for air, having more limitations placed on their time and physical self. The song is a compelling political metaphor that could just as easily be applied to trans rights, or the assault on women’s reproductive rights in the United States. For Henderson, these entrenching restrictions are visible in many walks of life – and are largely for the benefit of capital.

“All the unions have been abolished; you have very exploitative contracts for workers – especially in these very discriminatory cultures,” she explains. “Our perceived weaknesses are being exploited. Whether you’re a woman, if you’re working class, if you’re a person of the global majority – these weaknesses are only perceived, but they are being exploited. It’s all semiotics. So many things are being exploited by this work culture.”

This encroachment and exploitation is visible to Henderson in her lived environments too. “One Way Ticket” details extreme division created by wealth. Coming from Berlin, once a city so violently divided, Henderson is insightful when discussing old habits dying hard: “I’ve been in Berlin for 15 years. When I first arrived here it was so different. There was a much slower pace of life. There just seemed to be fewer rules. Late-stage capitalism has finally hit Berlin; it was a little bit further behind.

“There’s this old punk bar in the centre of the city that was so popular, but now the landlady doesn’t know what to do because people’s socialising habits have changed so much,” she continues. “Rents have gone up, Elon Musk’s building a factory here, the CDU have gained some traction – these should be big incentives for action, but the Left only really seems good at fighting with itself at the moment.”

In spite of the many reasons to be glum about the near future, Henderson’s record and outlook align in their intent: she wants this record to be experienced live and is hopeful about the power held by communal music spaces, while being wary of so much socialising – and socialisation – happening virtually.

“When I was a kid, going to see live music was one of the true places I felt like I could be myself,” Henderson shares. “It’s a positive space for coming together with people in reality. I would meet all of these wonderful weirdos, and these were really experiences that shaped who I am today as much as anything.”

With global assets falling into the hands of fewer and fewer, and oligarchs seizing control of our means of digital communication, Henderson hopes that alternative infrastructure and frameworks for community will to come to the fore, that one social media shouldn’t be merely replaced by another, but that real-life, interpersonal interaction is the true third way forwards.

As she makes clear, Abyss is not a piece of art intended to sermonise – instead, it feels like a cathartic rallying cry, something to shake off the malaise and wake up the listener. Indeed, the record allows one to superimpose themselves and their lived experiences onto the narratives. Henderson has created a space where both she and we can truly be ourselves.