For many, the pandemic enforced personal reflection; unable to retreat outside, an excavation of the past was often a therapeutic way to pass the time. For musician Shaun Fleming, who releases music as Diane Coffee, that time for introspection resulted in their fourth album With People being their most personal yet. Built on top of operatic layers of folk-rock that recall acoustic takes on Marc Bolan or Queen, these 10 tracks pull characters and scenes from Fleming's past with both color and tenderness.
At its most extravagant, With People relies on spacey synth arrangements and seductive Western guitars to conjure a mysterious girl from Fleming's middle school days and a house party that erupts in flames on "Corrina From Colina." "Corrina can't you see / The unfortunate evening show," Fleming sings in a luscious croon. What seems like a subtly psychedelic fever dream is actually Fleming's horrific—yet humorous—reality. Later, they let us in on a fractured long-term relationship, bullies from his childhood, and the passing of his beloved dog. With People is disarmingly honest and playful, allowing for impactful memories to take on a life of their own in song.
Listen to With People, and read the story behind each song below.
1. “Corrina From Colina”
When I heard about the new “super cool” girl transferring to our middle school from Colina—a school in the Valley—I was just as excited as everyone to see what all the fuss was about. I was far from being one of the popular kids, so I figured if I threw an epic party, and somehow she showed up, maybe I could change my social standing. I became obsessed. I had to get Corrina there. Invited everyone who would hear me with whispers that Corrina would “probably” show up…and to my surprise, it worked. People showed up in droves. Popular kids aplenty. I made sure the atmosphere was perfect: music, libations, and a small fire. But still no Corrina.
At some point in the evening, someone found the can of gas we kept on the side of the house. A guest (who I’m guessing never heard the phrase “Don’t pour gas on an open flame”) poured gas on an open flame. As it inevitably traveled up the fuel stream, this surprised guest dropped the whole can into the fire. By the time I knew what was happening there was a wall of flames head high. In a panic, a friend tried to put it out by throwing a bucket of water onto it, which only spread the gas across the yard. At this point it seemed like everything was on fire. I rushed in and called my dad to help. He brought out the biggest comforter he had and smothered the flames in his underwear. As everyone left, I heard that Corrina had shown up just as the backyard was being ignited. I never met her, but in the end I didn’t need to: I was known.
2. “Bullied”
Like a lot of “weird” kids, I was bullied a lot in middle school. Mostly by this one kid and his toadies. Looking back, it almost seems like a Lifetime movie. The bullying was cliché—lunches stolen, being thrown into garbage cans, belittled on the regular—“f*g” became a nickname of sorts. I think I attribute this as one of the main reasons why I denied my truth for so long. I hadn’t thought about him in years until lockdown. I wondered what kind of person he became. I looked him up and almost reached out, but instead I just wrote this song.
3. “Forecast”
You know that feeling when you know the weather forecast calls for rain later in the day, but for some reason you still leave the house without an umbrella? That’s what my 15-year on-again/off-again relationship was like. We both knew it was bound for disaster, that it was destined to fail. But no matter how painful each experience was, we somehow couldn't help ourselves. I think deep down we must have loved the drama of it all. It was molten, and we were chaos. The definition of a fatal attraction.
4. “The Great Escape”
This song was inspired by my first real road trip. In high school, I had this friend who wanted nothing more than to escape the “Agoura Hills bubble.” She was two years my senior and the first close friend of mine to actually leave our little one-horse town for the hills of San Francisco. Clocking in at only a nine-hour drive, San Fran seemed like a world away from me; a city that felt alive with the spirit of countless songs, poems, and other works of art birthed from its inspiration. That summer, a friend and I drove the coast to visit her, and I never felt so alive. I, too, wanted to escape, to explore, to live.
5. “Our Love / The Run”
Without getting into too much detail, this song is about my not-so-fantastic relationship with my mother, and more specifically about a particular night of fear, physical abuse, and running away. But it was also the first night I stood up to her and stood up for myself.
6. “Sharks”
In 2009, I met this person while working at a gay bar/nightclub in Boston. She told me that coming out in high school was incredibly traumatic for her, and that since then she’s felt this lasting sensation that she’s more susceptible to the evils of the world praying on her weaknesses like sharks prey on the wounded. How trauma begets trauma.
7. “Hollywood”
On our last tour, before live music came to a screeching halt, I was able to meet up with my former manager Dave in Los Angeles after our set. We went for a nice walk around the city and had a long chat. During our conversation, I asked him what I could do to possibly better my chances at “making it” in the industry. He proceeded to tell me that moving out of Bloomington and back to Hollywood could open up some doors that couldn’t be open otherwise. This song, as sung from his voice (with the exception of the last line), is an exaggerated version of a manager telling a client that “it’s Hollywood or bust!”
8. “Forever You & I”
I met the love of my life in 2013. I was living in New York and absolutely hated it. While spending two weeks in Bloomington for a Foxygen recording session (that ended up not happening), and finding myself with lots of spare time on my hands, I offered to help a new friend work on a house they had just purchased (mostly scraping popcorn from the ceilings). We were obviously hitting it off, so when I casually mentioned how much I disliked living in the city, they without hesitation offered me one of the rooms to rent. We drove to New York the next day, packed up all my stuff, and before I knew it, I was a Midwesterner. Of course, one thing led to another and we became a couple. We ended up sacrificing a lot for our love, but things managed to work out, and in the end I wouldn’t change a thing.
9. “What Good Is It Now”
The day Bloomington shut down was the day I lost one of the best friends I’ve ever had: our dog, Brando. He was a tan Brussels Griffon who, at this point, was almost 16. That day, we noticed that he was in a lot of pain. In talking with our vet, we were all but certain the enlarged mass in his stomach had finally burst. We were told there would be nothing left but terrible pain for Brando. We called the vet who would do in-home end-of-life services only to be told that, due to COVID, this was no longer possible. We raced to the animal hospital and they told us that, as of that morning, the only thing they were doing was “drop off” end of life services. Like, what maniac would drop their scared dog off at the hospital to be euthanized and not be there!?
Our only saving grace was the fact that by sheer coincidence I had called the vet the day before asking about services, and they remembered talking to me. Somehow, my partner Melinda talked them into letting us be the only ones to come in. That would be the only good thing to happen that day. I remember being in shock, and it took several days to really realize what had happened. I’d never lost anyone or anything that close to me before. All the little things you do/see/hear/smell that are suddenly gone are the hardest. That void gives birth to ghosts, and I still feel his presence everywhere.
10. “Song for David”
I actually wrote a version of this song in 2009 while I was living in Boston. I was renting a couch in the living room of an apartment with five other guys, one of whom was a high school friend of mine named David. One day I was supposed to meet him in the courtyard to play around with a frisbee, and he never showed up. Classic David. It was a catchy tune back then, but lacked any real substance. Years later, while living in Bloomington, I met another David who was a brilliant artist that slowly began to lose his grip on reality. He began lashing out, sometimes violently, at the family and friends surrounding him until he all but retreated from his community, and within himself. Upon revisiting my song, I found many of the lyrics unexpectedly held new meaning, and with a few minor tweaks became a song not about a friend not showing up, but losing a loved one to madness.
