With only an album and an EP to the moniker’s name prior to no place that feels like, Linnea Siggelkow has been no stranger to abyss-gazing while penning songs for her dream-pop project Ellis. Yet the lyrical territory she explores on her sophomore record is far removed from the pandemic-era existentialism we were all plagued with in 2021 when that last EP was released—as we’ve since returned to a something resembling normalcy, Siggelkow has found herself searching for a sense of home, as outlined on the late-album track “home” which she cites as a thesis statement of sorts for no place that feels like. “I think ultimately I’ve just been searching for a place to belong, both in a geographical sense, but also conceptually,” she explains. “What that means has changed for me over and over. I’m still just trying to figure it out.”
Ironically, the album’s musical accompaniment to these concerns feels more comfortable than anything Ellis has released prior, with the zoned-out dream-pop and swells of suffocating shoegaze swapped for a mostly even indie-pop keel throughout these 11 tracks. There’s more space for Siggelkow to recite her dreams, recollections, and stray (and often intrusive) thoughts with her gossamer vocals consistently steering the direction of these songs.
With the self-released LP out today, Siggelkow walked us track by track through the lyrical inspiration for each of these recordings, elaborating on the settings and moods that together shape the overall structure of no place that feels like. Find her words and stream the LP below.
1. “blizzard”
When I wrote “blizzard,” I knew I wanted it to be the opening track to the album. It felt like it set the stage for all of the feelings I was pouring into the rest of the songs to follow. Each verse is a vignette of a very specific time and space—a place that I’ve called home.
2. “forever”
I think the concept of “forever” is so trippy—it can feel so hopeful and exciting or it can seem so exhausting and scary. Honestly, when I was younger, forever felt a lot more hopeful than it has lately. I miss feeling like there was so much still to come. I hope I can feel like that again someday!
3. “obliterate me”
I famously am unable to spend too much time alone with my own thoughts. It’s literally my personal hell. The anxiety spiral is so real and takes me to places I should not go—most often either cutting my hair (badly) with the kitchen scissors over the bathroom sink, or driving too fast down the highway while crying hysterically to Radiohead. I try to keep myself busy and distracted at all costs! This song is mostly about that.
4. “taurine”
“taurine” was inspired by this absolutely unhinged day I spent with my friend Jasmine in Niagara falls that ended with me nearly drowning in the Niagara Gorge—but ultimately it’s a song about friendship and Monster energy drinks.
5. “mouth full of goo”
For as long as I can remember, I’ve regularly experienced all of the very common, recurring, anxiety-related dreams where you’re trying to scream or to run and you can’t. But more recently I started to have this recurring nightmare where I need to speak but my mouth is absolutely stuffed with this goo-like substance and I’m hooking my fingers into the inside of my cheeks, desperately trying to scoop it out—I scoop and I scoop, but the goo just keeps replenishing. It’s horrible every time. Anyway, sometimes that’s what real life feels like, too.
6. “it’ll be alright”
What this song means to me continues to change over time. I think I wrote it because, in that moment, I needed to hear it. This idea that nothing lasts forever can be sad, but it can also be so hopeful. Good things end, but the bad things do too. I’m especially excited to play this song live!
7. “what i know now”
Sometimes I don’t totally understand how I feel about something until I’ve written about it. This song was so cathartic to write, and the cheekiest I’ve ever allowed myself to be. I honestly didn’t think I would ever release it, but I’m glad that I did! Although the verses are about my very specific and personal experiences with the music industry, the chorus serves as this very universal refrain—realizing all of the things you would have done differently if you’d only known how things would turn out.
8. “balcony hymn”
Some songs take me years of writing and rewriting and others take a solid afternoon of deep focus. But every once in a while, a song will just spew up out of my guts, and that was the case for “balcony hymn.” It came about in a matter of minutes while I was both stoned and openly weeping, which is a very bizarre combination. I was so deeply sad when I wrote it, and I still feel emotional every time I hear it. I hope it might mean something to someone else, too.
9. “prelude”
I grew up playing classical piano and, after a long break, have recently fallen back in love with it. As a kid, I sometimes resented having to practice and perform, so it’s been special to return to it on my own terms and to really appreciate it fully for the first time, and I wanted to acknowledge that on the record. Chopin’s Prelude, Op. 28, No.4 is one of my favorite piano pieces ever—it’s so simple, but somehow conveys so much. I’ve heard so many different, beautiful interpretations of this piece, but when I sat down to play it on the old, clunky, upright studio piano, it came out in this sort of dirge-y, unrelenting way that just felt right.
10. “home”
This song is the thesis of this record. Growing up, my family moved a lot, and even in my adult life I’ve struggled to stay in the same place for very long. I think ultimately I’ve just been searching for a place to belong, both in a geographical sense, but also conceptually. I think it’s what we all sort of want. What that means has changed for me over and over. I’m still just trying to figure it out.
11. “devil’s punchbowl”
“devil’s punchbowl” is named after a conservation area in Hamilton, Ontario on the edge of the escapement where this ribbon waterfall flows off of this very distinct, rounded, cliff face. Someone once told me that it got its name because of how many people have jumped there, but I’ve never found evidence to back that up. In the ’60s, someone put up this huge cross on the edge of the cliff that lights up every night. I’ve always found it very beautiful and eerie. The outro of this song was the very first thing I wrote for the record, and I knew I wanted to end it that way—with this tense, chaotic climb to the edge of the cliff. It felt like the perfect place for all of my existential dread to come to a head; where I can let my intrusive thoughts—at least metaphorically—win.
