Beats Per Minute caught up with the acclaimed Australian songsmith about her latest album I Just Need to Conquer This Mountain – a collection of songs addressing many big elephants in the room: the grief for lost ones, the everyday life vs. the afterlife, and how music from the past still teaches her fresh insights. ” I don’t really know what’s coming afterward, and I’m okay with not knowing.”
Sarah Blasko’s latest album I Just Need to Conquer This Mountain – out via MVKA – has taken awhile to be released – a good two years even. Which is quite ironic, as the acclaimed Australian songwriter has never made a collection of songs that flowed so effortlessly out of her. During the stillness of the pandemic, Blasko had sufficient time on her hands to finally process what has been a pretty hectic life, with the piano – the first instrument she has learnt to play – at the melodic fore.
It’s a record that’s easy on the ears, much like Cass McCombs’s Wit’s End, Cat Power’s The Greatest, and Bill Callahan’s Apocalypse – three albums Blasko herself references during our conversation. But the words leave no stone unturned – in particular concerning Blasko’s defection from her religious beliefs in her early 20s, her first marriage and divorce not long after, and a prolific career as a recording artist – a balancing act of maintaining her integrity, but also staying playful and open about the possibilities of her chosen craft.
This receptiveness has taken her from her debut The Overture and The Underscore, the baroque folk of I Awake, the more electronic driven Depth of Field, the rich textural art pop of As Day Follows Night. And now she has arrived at the self-produced, homely I Just Need to Conquering This Mountain. We link up just a few days prior to the album being released, and Blasko has been in a more coping state than a celebratory one, as one of her best friends had recently passed away.
“It has thrown my world into a bit of chaos,” she admits. “I’m just trying to get through it. It’s a very strange time—on one hand, I’m really excited about my new record coming out, but on the other, I’m dealing with this profound sadness.” The fact that I Just Need to Conquer This Mountain explores grief in such an intimate way, in some ways, feels bittersweet.
There’s a song on your album called “Dream Weaver” dedicated to another deceased friend of yours, your longtime tour manager?
Yeah, Greg Weaver was his name. He was my tour manager and sound engineer for a really long time. I think people don’t always realize the depth of the connection between crew members—like sound engineers—and the artists they work with. They’re often as much a part of the band as anyone else.
For me, there was this invisible thread between Greg and me. He did my sound from the time I started performing professionally. He was so experienced, and I was just finding my feet. He was incredibly gracious and played a big role in helping me build confidence in my music. I was really shocked when he passed away. It happened so suddenly, about three or four years ago now. It’s been a while, but it still feels raw in some ways. That song is my way of honoring him.
Are there any parallels between Greg and your friend who recently passed away? Did they have a similar effect on you?
They both had a huge impact on me, but in different ways. The friend I just lost was much younger than me—I always called him ‘my young friend.’ It’s unimaginable that he’s gone. He came into my life when my children were very young, and as you get older, you don’t always make new friends as easily. He brought this incredible youthful joy and enthusiasm into my life. At a time when I might have become cynical about what I do, his fresh perspective reminded me of how amazing it all is. He was in awe of everything I was able to do, and it was a beautiful reminder of why I love what I do.
The thing about Jack—Jack Colwell—is that he’s one of those people you can never forget. He makes an immediate and lasting impression on everyone. I remember being amazed by this one song he wrote called “Don’t Cry Those Tears“. When I first heard it, I couldn’t believe it wasn’t a cover. It was so good, it made me angry that it wasn’t already a massive hit. We worked together on his first album, and even though it didn’t get the attention I thought it deserved, it didn’t change how incredible he was. I think what both Jack and Greg had in common was their openness and honesty. They were the kind of people who wore their hearts on their sleeves, and I’ve always loved that about them.”
You’ve talked in the past about being an introvert and how performing on stage transforms that. It helps having people around you who you can draw energy from. I read that your dad has a background in theater.
Well, my dad wanted to be an actor but ended up becoming a teacher. I think that happens a lot—people who dream of being actors or musicians often find their way into teaching instead. But he’s definitely a frustrated actor. I always tell him there’s still time for him, you know.”
I saw a little documentary where your dad shows some poems you wrote when you were very young, and they were really good. It was cool that he seemed to recognise your talent early on.
I think he just encouraged my interest in music and writing. He was an English literature teacher who loved acting and music—he even wanted to be an actor himself. He introduced me to music through his record collection, which included all sorts of strange and wonderful finds from garage sales. His passion for music and art was infectious. I don’t know if he specifically saw a hidden talent, but there was this one particular poem he really liked. That kind of encouragement means a lot when you’re a kid. I remember someone at church leaning in when I was about 10 and saying, ‘Oh, you can sing.’ I thought to myself, ‘Can I?’ And it stuck with me.
Those little moments can have such a huge impact on children—good or bad. I still remember when my Year 7 teacher told me I didn’t have a musical bone in my body because she was angry with me for making fun of her behind her back. That comment stuck with me for a long time too… and not in a good way!
The story of you, Sia, Greg, and the bunk bed is so funny—it sounds like something that belongs in your memoirs. Pun intended, I felt it debunked a lot of myths about recording artists. I mean, you’d already had that big breakthrough debut album under your belt. But at that stage of your career, you were still sleeping on floors and dealing with all sorts of challenges. It’s surprising for some people to hear, I suppose.
Yeah, it’s true. I had a career in Australia, but I was still trying to break through internationally. That’s always the challenge when you’re from so far away, like we are in Australia. The mindset is, ‘Okay, people know my music here, but now I need to introduce it to the rest of the world.’ Then you get to a place like America and realize just how massive and difficult it is to make an impact. So, yeah, even after some success, you find yourself sleeping on floors again. It’s humbling, but it was also part of the journey.
I think a career in music requires always being ready for that moment. There have been many times when I’ve thought, ‘Oh, is this it?’ But that’s why it’s so important to stay focused on what you want to do. At any moment, things can change—something unexpected can happen. And the same goes for the positive side—anything good can happen at any moment, too.
It seems like life was a really fast lane for you for a long stretch of time —moving from project to project, recording one album after another. It sounds like things just kept piling up, with little to no time to pause. Now, with this new record, it feels like you’re reckoning with a lot of the past. Do you feel like you might have been putting off dealing with some things until now?
I think you’re absolutely right. I didn’t realize just how honest I was being with this album until I saw it reflected back at me. I’ve made videos for the whole record, and one of them is a lyric video. When I watched it and saw the words flashing on the screen, it hit me: ‘Wow, this is a really personal record—what have I done?’
There’s a song called “To Be Alone”, and the first line is, ‘I came out of a marriage when I was only 26.’ Seeing that written out was a moment of reckoning for me. That part of my life—losing my mum at 23, ending a marriage just a few years later—it’s something I’ve touched on here and there, but never really delved into. It all happened right before I released my first record. Around that time, I was also finding myself after leaving the church and stepping away from religion, which had been a big part of my earlier life. That process of fully letting go and figuring out who I was took years.
Once I started putting out records, everything moved so quickly. It was like I was on a roll, constantly moving forward without much time to look back. But in the last few years—especially with having children and the world slowing down for a while—I finally had the space and time to reflect. Enough time has passed now that I feel ready to talk about it openly and honestly.
I think in the past, a lot of my music was veiled. As a younger artist, I often tried to cover my tracks, which I think is pretty common. But as I’ve gotten older, I’m more interested in being plainspoken—cutting through to what matters and being honest about what’s really going on. There’s a power in that kind of directness, even while still preserving a sense of poetry.
On “To Be Alone” you describe yourself as a fugitive. Do you think those feelings you mention may have appeared in your earlier work but perhaps didn’t have the time or space to fully manifest until now? Or maybe there wasn’t the same ability to reflect on them back then?
I don’t think I could have been that honest at the time. I felt a lot of guilt back then, so I wouldn’t have admitted to feeling that way. That guilt stayed with me for a long time. But now, when I look back, I actually respect myself for the choices I made. Many of those decisions, even the difficult ones, were meant to be.
For a long time, I wished I hadn’t had to go through all of that, but I’ve come to accept that those experiences brought me to where I am now. I needed to be alone and figure things out because I hadn’t really done that before. I didn’t have a rebellious teenage phase like many people do, so I ended up doing all my rebelling in my late 20s and early 30s. It was only in my late 30s that I finally settled down, which feels quite late—but it was the journey I needed to take.
It appears as if your religious background surfaces in some of your past songs, like “Everybody Wants to Sin”. That one feels almost like your Pet Shop Boys moment—very synth-pop with cheeky, subversive lyricism.
Well that one was all about how much I can’t stand people being on their social media all the time. I feel it so ugly sometimes—like when you’re at a train station, and everyone’s just looking down at their screens. You just want them to look up, take in their surroundings, and actually be present.
It has this sedative effect on people. The idea behind the song was, ‘Yeah, sure, everybody wants to sin, everybody can all just do the wrong thing,’ but what’s the point of that? It’s about that sheep mentality—everyone just following along, no one actually being rebellious. They’re too busy being hypnotized by their phones.
Your kids are growing up in a world where technology has this stranglehold on life. I’m not a parent myself, but I imagine it must be really hard to manage things like screen time. How do you handle it?
Oh yeah, it’s a nightmare out there. It’s honestly depressing. These days, letting them watch TV feels like you’re letting them do something really wholesome! I’m like, ‘No, you cannot have that device, but you can watch TV,’ which has become the least exciting option for them. I’m pretty strict about it—I can’t stand the overuse of screens.
My oldest son, who’s nine now, was interested in computer games a few years ago but didn’t get much access to them early on. I remember a couple of times when he felt emotional because other kids were talking about Minecraft or whatever, and he didn’t understand. We held off for years, and now it’s not a big deal to him. I think introducing these things too early can lead to a major addiction.
Thankfully, he’s really into sports now, which has been such a relief. I never thought I’d say this because I’ve never been a sporty person, but I love sports for the role they’ve played in his life. He just wants to get outside and play all the time, and I’m fully behind it. Whether it’s sports, music, or anything else that gets them active and engaged, it’s a good thing.
Having a family seems like such a powerful tether. Do you think being a parent gave you the bravery to reckon with things from your past, like leaving the Pentecostal church? Does a grounded element like that gives you the energy to face those challenges?
Yeah, definitely. I don’t think enough is said about the strength you feel as a woman, as a mother. It’s not just about physically not having time—I mean, that’s part of it—but more that I don’t have the tolerance for certain things anymore. A lot of the unnecessary stuff gets pushed aside, and only the essential things remain.
Before I had my first son, I remember this conversation where someone, a parent, gave me some advice. People love to give advice when you’re expecting a child, and at the time, most of it sounds overwhelming. This one guy said to me, ‘Oh, just wait. You’ll have a child, and it’ll shatter you into a million pieces. You’ll be down on your knees, putting those pieces back together, and when you’re done, something completely different will be in their place.’ I remember thinking, ‘Why would you say that to me? That sounds so depressing!’ But actually, it was true—and it wasn’t depressing.
All the big things in life—whether they’re difficult or just significant—can make you feel shattered. Then you work through them, and in the process, you find a new strength and discover more about who you are. Having a child is one of those big life events. There are only a few of them: birth, death, and moments of great change. Of course, becoming a parent reshapes you. It absolutely emboldened me to do what I want to do. Life is short, and you never know what’s going to happen.
Did solitude play a part in putting this album out into the world?
No, no, I didn’t record on my own. I just wrote on my own. All my records have been made with other people. But this one was done in a really relaxed way because the studio was so close to my house. I didn’t want to overproduce it—I just wanted to keep things really simple. Sometimes you can feel like you’re shaping the songs into something else during the recording process, but with this album, I wanted the songs to stay as they were.
At first, I was a bit embarrassed that musically, a lot of the songs felt quite similar. But then I started listening to albums I love, and I realized there’s a place for records like that. They don’t have to take you through a range of moods; they can just sustain one feeling or atmosphere throughout. That realization helped me let go of worrying about it. So we just recorded naturally, played as we felt, and did it all very quickly.
There’s a surrender to this collection of songs—a rawness, like you’re not overthinking things or filtering too much. I also noticed gospel elements in the music, which is interesting given your religious background and how you’ve defected from it. I wonder if there’s still a part of you that wants to preserve the feeling that there’s more to life than what’s right in front of us—a sense of something greater. Is that something you’re conscious of?
Yeah, I think I do always defer to that in some way. I do believe there’s more than meets the eye, but I don’t want to fixate on it the way I used to or make it the be-all-end-all of why we’re here. I still love certain elements of church—like the music and the atmosphere. There’s definitely a side of me that holds on to that feeling. I wouldn’t call myself an atheist; I’d say I’m agnostic.
I don’t really know what’s coming afterward, and I’m okay with not knowing. For me, the point is to love and to be kind. Beyond that, there’s so much to learn and experience, but I don’t think any of it needs to be tied to certainty about what happens next. I guess I feel like if there is some kind of energy or universal connection, it all leads to the same thing in the end. Religion, though, unfortunately feels more divisive than unifying. The teachings can be beautiful, but the structures and organizations around them tend to divide people rather than bringing them together. That part of it doesn’t make sense to me, that aspect of it.
Not to dwell too much on the religious aspect, but you’ve had moments where you’ve had to fend off pressures, maintain your integrity, and resist being too ingrained in the industry side of things. At the same time, there’s an openness to your work—a willingness to put yourself in different creative situations and see where they take you. That’s a pretty impressive balance to uphold. Since this record is so much about looking back, have you felt a sense that your whole discography fits together now? Do older songs feel connected to these new ones? How do you feel about your work as a whole?
It’s hard not to be critical of what I’ve done in the past—I definitely feel that sometimes. But at the same time, I wouldn’t change anything. If there’s one thing I’d criticise, it’s that I wasn’t more confident back then. But I was just talking about this recently at a songwriting event, and I realized that everything is just a series of projects—little ideas that you pursue over time, quietly building on them. That’s what it’s all about.
I have really vivid memories of all my records—the places I chose to make them, the situations I put myself in. I’m proud of that. I think if I’d worked with the same people every time, something good might have come out of it, but it wouldn’t have been the same. While I’ve mostly played with the same band, I’ve often gone off to make records with different musicians, which has been a big part of my process.
Now, looking back, it can be hard to see how some older songs fit with where I am today, but I’ve found that stripping them back to just piano and voice makes it easier to connect with them. It helps me hear the core of what I was trying to say, beyond the production. For example, there’s a song from my first record called “Always Worth It”. At its heart, it’s a really sweet song about how, even though life is difficult, it’s always worth it because it’s precious. Rediscovering that message has been meaningful for me.
Of course, there are moments where I wish I could re-record everything, like what Taylor Swift has done. I’m sure that would be exciting. But there’s also a magic in those original recordings—a snapshot of who I was at that time. Even if I could change things now, what’s the point? They’re documents of a moment, and that makes them special.
Order a copy of I Just Need to Conquer This Mountain here. Follow Sarah Blasko on Instagram, X, Facebook and her official website.
