At just twenty-two, the Cape Town-born, London-based singer and producer occupies a strange, thrilling limbo. Her voice—a husky, almost detached alto that can crack open into something disarmingly vulnerable—feels both out of time and perfectly suited for the anxious, glittering early 2010s. Comparisons to a young Beth Gibbons or a less polished FKA twigs are inevitable, but Demellza shrugs them off with a quiet smile. “I just wanted to make songs that sounded like the inside of a rainy car window,” she told me over coffee in Hackney. “Pretty, but smeared.”
“Next year. Maybe.”
The song’s hook is deceptively simple: “You held me like a heavy hand / I let you, I let you.” It’s a gut-punch of post-relationship fatigue, set to a beat that stumbles like a heart missing a few valves. 2013 candice demellza
In 2013, the internet was still a collage—Tumblr’s grainy GIFs, early Instagram’s Nashville filter, and the last gasp of the indie sleaze era. Demellza’s visual world taps directly into that vein. Her music videos (self-directed, shot on a friend’s Canon 60D) feature thrift-store lace, flickering CRT televisions in empty fields, and the kind of melancholic, sun-bleached loneliness that defined the early work of Lana Del Rey —minus the calculated glamour. At just twenty-two, the Cape Town-born, London-based singer
“People keep calling it ‘bedroom pop,’” she says, scrunching her nose. “But my bedroom had mold and a roommate who vacuumed at 2 a.m. It’s not a vibe. It’s a survival sound.” “I just wanted to make songs that sounded
“Lana is a character,” Demellza clarifies. “I’m just… me. But the me that doesn’t text anyone back for three days.”