Counting SZA and Lil Yachty among his collaborators, he has carved out a distinct lane, transforming self reflection into a fluid, sharp sound.
In Jean Dawson’s newest album, Glimmer of God, his influences are tangibly vast. Dawson swings from dreamy pop sounds into something more danceable, gliding into smooth R&B. In tracks like “Black Sugar,” clear funk influences fade into tougher or more experimental sounds. On “Darlin’” a rock-influenced guitar riff bleeds into Dawson’s melancholy vocals.
He says it’s funny when people point out these tonal shifts in his music. Dawson sees it differently. “Because I didn’t [shift]. It’s the same key. It’s the same progression. The only difference is that now there’s a guitar playing underneath it, and it feels like a different thing because of the energy of it.” He goes on to make a comparison: “L.A. looks very different at night but it’s still L.A.” The beaches, the highways, might feel unrecognizable when it’s dark, but it’s still the same place it always was.
And it’s true, even as Dawson moves through different genres, the sound is always cohesive. Maybe surprising, but never unwanted. What first seems at conflict is actually working together, to make a more intricate final product. Dawson says his favorite musicians have always done this: “I mean, I have hundreds of pictures of Björk on my wall and… Björk is the queen and king of that.”
Dawson says that one of his goals with the album was to make himself uncomfortable. He wanted to push himself into new musical territory. He sang on this record, which turned out to be a surprisingly big deal for him. He also produced on every track—a more hands-on experience than his previous works. He wanted to be a composer on this album more than anything else.
Glimmer of God’s newly released single “Houston” showcases a blurry view of a large glowing cross. The photo looks like something that could have been taken quickly, as if someone pulled out their phone and took a picture out the car window while driving down the highway. This cross imagery, paired with the title of the album, gives a religious undertone to the work. Religion is important to Dawson, getting to feel connected to something larger than yourself. “I was raised Catholic, and I was raised with Black Jesus paintings in my house… It’s just part of me being a Latin dude.” He says religion is something “I’m willing to share, but not impose” upon his audience.
And the lyrics on the album, overall, feel vulnerable, especially on tracks like “Houston.” The song’s chorus starts: “Ima lose my soul tonight/ Only for the moment right, I/ Sink into the lonely night.” Feelings of loneliness feel authentic and often radiate through the album. But to Dawson, vulnerability is a necessary part of the project: “My job in a lot of ways is to bleed myself. The more I bleed myself, the better the music sounds to me.”
Dawson first got into music because, as a child, he felt lonely. He was the youngest of his siblings, and they had all left the house by the time he was a teenager. And his mom was busy working multiple jobs, at 7/11, at the school district.
“From point A to point B, you’re trying not to think about how fucked up your day is about to be… Not saying that this is for everybody, but for the most part, you’re going to a job, you’re tired, you have to take care of your kids.”
This meant he spent a lot of time at home, by himself, watching TV. “You know, when you turn on the TV to feel like somebody’s home with you, that was my reality. It was like, ‘Oh, Friends is on. The whole cast is in my house.’” During this time TV and movies were a huge escape and source of comfort for Dawson. He started to make music at 13, using music as a way to connect, to express himself to someone who wasn’t there, to try to find someone to talk to.
Adolescence was made more lonely for Dawson by his long commute to school. He would sit on the bus for hours going from Tijuana, Mexico, to San Diego, California, every day to go to high school. He spent that time sitting by himself, listening to music.
Dawson says he was listening to music at that time for the same reason a lot of people are, “because from point A to point B, you’re trying not to think about how fucked up your day is about to be… Not saying that this is for everybody, but for the most part, you’re going to a job, you’re tired, you have to take care of your kids, you have to take them to school. You have to do all these things. And the one thing you don’t want to do is sit there and think about that.”
Music helped him “numb out” during these long trips to school, Dawson says. He felt disconnected from his peers, exhausted from travel between two countries. He would see the other kids whose parents had simply driven them 15 minutes and dropped them off at school, and he felt alienated from them. His experience was so different. But when he put on Prince or Tony! Toni! Toné! for a little while he wouldn’t have to think about that.
In Dawson’s artistic project two seemingly conflicting things are present. The first is the desire to connect, to have someone to talk to. And the second is the desire to numb out, to disconnect from your real life.
Thinking about disconnection, Dawson says he has never been a popular person. He’s 28 now and says, “Even in my musical career I don’t hang out with anybody.” He describes himself as a “world-class hermit,” mostly now just hanging out with his producers. He says he often has a hard time feeling really close to people, feeling like they understand him completely.
“I want family. I want kinship. I want friendship. I want these things that surpass monetary values, surpass all that stuff. Because when you die, the only thing you want around you is people that you love.”
But at the same time Dawson says his main goal when creating music is to communicate and connect: “I want to share my music with as many people as possible. Not because I have anything to change in them and not because I think that what I’m doing is necessary… I just want to be able to play music for somebody and articulate an idea.”
This feels clear in songs like “Die for Me,” where in the chorus Dawson states: “After I’ve died, we’ll see/ Don’t show up at my funeral/ If you won’t die for me.” Then the message is direct, the longing for total loyalty, complete connection. Dawson emphasizes how important this is to him: “I want family. I want kinship. I want friendship. I want these things that surpass monetary values, surpass all that stuff. Because when you die, the only thing you want around you is people that you love.”
Maybe like with his music, these ideas first seem at odds, but they are in fact totally connected. Dawson points out: “I don’t think humans are ever in a space where you’re feeling one way. You could be super-freaking-happy, but in the back of your mind something else is going on. You can be crying in the club.”
The desire to be alone, the desire to communicate and be understood completely. It’s these complex, double emotions that make Dawson’s music what it is, to float between the all-consuming desire to be alone and numb and the fundamental human need to be close to people around you, to have people completely share your inner world.
Dawson says that one of his goals right now is to get his mom to retire. But he says, “She isn’t having it right now.” She’s still working at the school district, making the long commute to her job. But this, too, was one of the inspirations behind the album, to give his mom something to listen to when she drives to work. That’s why some of the tracks are more pop heavy and dancey, so she has something fun to listen to. To distract herself. When Dawson’s mom listens to Glimmer of God alone in her car, she’ll of course be just that, by herself, but they will also be together in a sense, understanding something.
This interview is taken from our New Order issue, guest edited by We Are Family Foundation founders, Nile Rodgers and Nancy Hunt. Photo by Nico Hernandez.
