For Newcastle-based artist Farrelly, his self-titled debut album isn't just a collection of songs, but a personal history. It’s an album that unearths two decades of lived experience, pieced together during the COVID lockdowns, and now free to be heard by all. From the raw grief that bleeds through ‘Somewhere in Uvalde’, a poignant response to unimaginable loss, to the gospel-infused fury of ‘Indignation’, this is a record built to resonate with those who feel the world deeply.

Recently, we sat down with Farrelly to discuss his time crafting this powerful debut, exploring the wellspring of stories it draws from and the diverse sonic landscape it inhabits.

When we first read up on you, your bio mentioned the new album brings together two decades' worth of stories. Can you share a bit more about how you picked and shaped those stories into such a cohesive album?

“It’s funny, I never set out to make a debut album — I just never stopped writing. Over 20 years, songs would emerge in fits and starts: during heartbreaks, political rage, fleeting joy, or when I just needed to make sense of the noise. COVID gave me what I’d never had before — stillness. It forced me to stop, look back at everything I’d written, and ask, “What still matters?” I started picking the songs that felt most alive — the ones that still kicked in the guts or gave me goosebumps. I wasn’t chasing cohesion, but strangely, the themes of grief, resistance, longing and stubborn hope wove themselves together. The album kind of shaped itself, like a protest sign I didn’t know I’d been writing.”

One of the big standouts on the album is ‘Somewhere in Uvalde’. I know it was inspired by a Ted Littleford cartoon, but did that specific image translate into a song for you, and what emotion did you want to capture and convey through it?

“That cartoon by Ted Littleford stayed with me in a way almost nothing else has. It shows a dog sitting patiently at the door, waiting for the kids to come home after the school shooting in Uvalde. But the power of the image isn’t just in the waiting — it’s in the dog’s not knowing. He’ll be sitting there forever, tail gently wagging, full of hope and anticipation, completely unaware that they’re never coming back.”

“That inability to understand — to make sense of the loss — is what broke me. That’s where the power of the cartoon lives. And that’s what I tried to capture in the song. Not righteous anger. Not a policy debate. Just grief and confusion, suspended in time. That quiet ache that sits between love and absence.”

“When the track was turned into an animation by Matt, AKA Lodge Productions, a UK-based animation artist, I thought I was prepared — I knew every note of that song intimately. But the first time I watched the final version, it absolutely floored me. I had to step away. I couldn’t bring myself to watch it again for weeks. Even now, it stings. And that’s how I know we honoured it — we didn’t try to fix the ache, we just let it speak.”

The album spans genres like folk-rock, gospel soul, protest blues, and indie theatrics. How do you see these different genres interacting and contributing to the overall message and feeling of the album?

“To me, genre is just a colour palette. Some songs demand folk — the rawness, the storytelling. Others need the weight of gospel, the catharsis. And sometimes the only way to deliver a message is through dissonance or theatrical flair. The themes across Farrelly — grief, resistance, longing — needed different textures to land properly. You can’t scream every message or whisper every truth. Each genre helped me shift emotional gears, so the record feels like a lived journey, not just one tone on repeat.”

You’ve called the album, “protest music for people who've lived enough to be tired - and still believe change is worth singing about." What does that statement mean to you, and how do you hope the album resonates with listeners who might feel that way?

“That line came from a place of knowing how exhausting it can be to still care. We’re in a time where caring can feel like a liability — too earnest, too intense. But Farrelly is for the people who are still here. Who haven’t given up, even if they’ve felt close. It’s not music to rally the troops, it’s music to sit with them, remind them they’re not alone, and maybe — just maybe — to give them the energy to keep going. Quiet resilience is still resistance.”

One listener brilliantly described your sound as "Bob Dylan being molested by Depeche Mode." How do you feel about that description, and what other artists or musical influences do you think have shaped your sound?

“Look, it’s disturbing and flattering in equal measure. I get what they meant though — the lyrical density and rawness of Dylan, tangled with the darker, synth-tinged drama of Depeche Mode. Honestly, I’ll take it. My influences have always walked the line between poetic and punchy — Nick Cave, The Pogues, Paul Kelly, Arcade Fire, even a bit of The Smiths and The Cure. I love music that dares to mean something and sound like it’s bleeding.”

There’s an ethos behind the album that says, "when words failed, music didn't." Can you discuss a specific moment or song on the album where music allowed you to express something that words alone couldn't?

“’Let Go’ is probably the best example. That track came out of something I couldn’t put into words at the time — a kind of spiritual surrender that wasn’t religious, just necessary. There’s a chord in that song — I couldn’t tell you which one now — that felt like exhaling something I’d been holding for years. The lyrics are simple, but the feeling is bigger than the language. That’s where music steps in — when speaking becomes an echo but sound becomes truth.”

Given your upbringing in the Wimmera region and your current base in Newcastle, how do you feel your sense of place and environment has influenced your songwriting and the themes explored in the album?

“The Wimmera— where I grew up — has this kind of honest brutality. There’s nothing performative about the place. The sky is too big, the silences too long, and the summers too dry for any bullshit. It’s funny — Nick Cave was born in the same region, and when I saw The Proposition, I remember thinking, ‘Right — so it scarred him too.’ There’s something in that landscape that stays under your skin. It teaches you to pay attention. To endure. To feel deeply, even when nobody’s talking about it.”

“I spent 20 years in the bright lights of Melbourne — chasing noise, culture, distraction, whatever felt like escape. And it gave me a lot. But it wasn’t until I landed in Newcastle that I felt at home. It’s a place with its own kind of toughness — a working-class city with cracked knuckles and a soft creative underbelly. There’s a rawness here, but also this surprising openness to art and vulnerability. It reminds me of where I came from — but with more saxophones and slightly better coffee.”

“Both places taught me how to listen. To people, to place, to silence. And all of that made its way into the songs.’

The album manages to balance personal experiences with broader social and political commentary. How do you navigate that balance in your songwriting, and how important is it to you that your music reflects both the personal and the political?

“For me, the personal and the political aren’t just connected — they’re entangled. I’ve been politically active most of my adult life, and I’ve also worked as a psychologist for over two decades. So, I’ve seen both the system and the human cost of that system — the macro and the micro. I’ve watched how policies trickle down into people’s lives and show up as anxiety, trauma, poverty, or rage.”

“When I write, I don’t consciously separate the personal from the political. A breakup can carry the weight of class or shame. A protest can contain moments of intimacy. What I’m trying to do is write songs that feel true — and truth lives in that overlap. I want to hold space for both — the wounded inner child and the fed-up citizen. I think people are hungry for music that doesn’t tell them what to think but reminds them how to feel. If my songs can do that — give shape to something messy and human — then that’s enough for me.”

With themes of pain, protest, and poetry running through the album, what overall message or feeling do you hope listeners take away after experiencing the full record?

“I hope they feel like someone finally put their feelings into sound. That strange comfort of hearing your own story in someone else’s voice. I hope it gives people permission to care again — deeply, angrily, joyfully. To feel something real in a world that’s increasingly numbing. And above all, I hope it leaves them with this quiet but stubborn belief: that we can hurt and still sing, fall and still rise, ache and still build something beautiful.”

Looking back at the 30 years you've been writing and performing music, how does this debut album represent a turning point or a significant moment in your artistic journey?

“There was this moment in the studio — I was surrounded by ridiculously talented musicians, people whose instincts and abilities blew me away. And honestly, I felt like a bit of an imposter. Like I’d somehow bluffed my way into the room. But then I heard what we made — the layers, the heart, the life in it — and it was just pure joy. The only real regret was: why didn’t I do this sooner?”

“It’s taken me a long time to get here, but I’m more comfortable than ever being vulnerable in the songs — not dressing things up, just telling the truth. And weirdly, I’ve never felt more driven. COVID forced a lot of people to pause and ask what actually matters. For me, it was clear: this album was something I had to do. Not for anyone else — for me.”

“Privately, I’m really proud of it. It’s varied, it’s enjoyable, and I think it says something meaningful without trying to lecture. It doesn’t hide anything. It feels like a full stop at the end of a long sentence — and maybe the start of the next one too.”

Ultimately, the album stands as a testament to the enduring power of music to give voice to the unspoken and to connect us in our shared human experience. It's an album that invites listeners to feel deeply, to confront uncomfortable truths, and perhaps, to find a renewed sense of hope amidst the grit. As Farrelly himself has poured his heart and history into this collection, one can only hope that it finds its way to the ears and hearts of those who need it most.

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