Bon Iver Is Searching for the Truth

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Bon Iver is the alias of Justin Vernon, a singer, songwriter, and producer from Eau Claire, Wisconsin. Since 2007, when Vernon released “For Emma, Forever Ago,” his début LP as Bon Iver, he has been making formally experimental but gorgeously tender music that seems to take equal inspiration from Bruce Hornsby and the Indigo Girls, Arthur Russell and Aphex Twin. (The project name—a version of the French phrase “Bon hiver,” or “Good winter”—was borrowed from an episode of the television series “Northern Exposure,” a deep and formative work in Vernon’s life.) This week, Bon Iver will release “SABLE,” a three-song EP and the band’s first new music since 2019’s “i,i.” “SABLE,” is only a little more than twelve minutes long, but it feels revelatory, expansive, and raw. Vernon has a couple of different voices—a spectral falsetto; a deeper, throatier bellow—but it’s hard for me to think of another contemporary singer whose vocals carry quite as much pure, unmediated feeling.

Outside of Bon Iver, Vernon remains a wildly in-demand collaborator. He has a track on the newly remixed version of Charli XCX’s “BRAT” (he described the decision to participate as “a no-brainer,” saying “the art and the music, its aggression, its power, its pop-ness—it’s just amazing”), and he worked with Kanye West on “My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy” (2010) and “Yeezus” (2013), two of the most acclaimed rap albums of the past few decades. He also appeared on Taylor Swift’s “folklore” and “evermore,” both from 2020; because of the pandemic, Vernon and Swift didn’t meet in person until long after “folklore” was released. “I wasn’t starstruck,” Vernon told me. “I was, like, ‘Wow, you’re somebody that I would have been very close friends with in high school. You’re real and you’re here.’ To see what she’s been up to, the propulsion, the expansion . . . I don’t know, it’s just unlike anything anyone’s ever seen. And yet there she was, this person who made a lot of sense to me.”

I previously spoke with Vernon at The New Yorker Festival in 2019. Earlier this month, we sat down again to record an episode of The New Yorker Radio Hour, and continued our conversation after we left the studio. This interview, a composite of both encounters, has been condensed and edited.

Justin, it’s so good to see you.

It’s great to see you, too, Amanda. I was pacing around my room today, like, “I’m anxious! Shit.” I haven’t talked to anyone about music in any official capacity since our last conversation, probably. It’s been five years. I was, like, “Oh, that’s why.” Your nervous system’s kinda keyed up, and you have to have a CBD gummy, take a breath. Walk around the block, do some push-ups.

Five years is a very civilized pace, I think, and you’ve hardly been silent during that time. But do you feel any internal or external pressure to produce work on a certain schedule?

Nope, not at all. This one really came from personal necessity. It was just time. Some of these songs have been bubbling for five years.

“SABLE,” is just twelve minutes of music, but, for me, it feels a lot bigger than that. I wanted to ask you about the grouping of these three songs, in particular. You mentioned that they were written at different times, but I hear a very legible arc—a closed circle, almost. I hear the story—and this is quite relatable, to be honest—of a person trying, and then a person failing, and then a person finding some peace with their limitations.

Are you me? [Laughs.] That feels right. They feel like an equidistant triangle, a triptych. It’s three, and it couldn’t be longer. It runs the gamut from accepting anxiety to accepting guilt to accepting hope. Those three things in a row. There’s no room for a prologue or an epilogue at that point. Because that’s it—that’s what everything is.

From a place of guilt and anxiety, how vast is the distance to hope?

My friend Erinn Springer, who made the videos for “SABLE,” was telling me that with [the track] “AWARDS SEASON,” the word for her was “almost.” Time and time again, I’ve been sitting at that feeling of almost: we’re almost there, or we’re just about to get there, I can feel or dream of a place that’s coming soon. And I guess that’s what the song is talking about—change, and how we’re always partaking in it.

This is maybe an incredibly personal question, but—

[Laughs.] That’s good.

When you get to the place of almost—the thing is in reach, you can see it, you can feel it, it’s really close—is that when you panic? Because that’s when I panic.

I think that’s when I have to push further. These songs, they’re personal, of course, but the need to share them is also very personal. These are songs with truth that I’ve located, or been a vehicle for. But they’re true. And I was, like, These have to be shared.

The public piece is complicated. It also seems possible that your relationship to fame might change; maybe you want it one year and the next year you don’t.

I remember there was this moment during the pandemic where I was, like, I could stop doing all of this. I was driving my little A.T.V. around. I needed that—knowing I could stop. But getting back on the road there’s all this excitement, and then, so quickly, the anguish and weariness and impossibility of it set back in.

Do you think you’ll pull back from touring?

I’ll share a pretty vulnerable moment. I knew that we were gonna be taking some time off. It was the beginning of our last run. I was in Duluth. My family was there. I was so happy to be with everyone, but I was really suffering under the weight of everything. I was playing “[715] CRΣΣKS”—there’s no accompaniment. It’s really a crusher to do. It burns a lot of gas. I was scanning the crowd. I was just having a tough month. I was getting ready to start saying goodbye to the last sixteen years, in a way. There were six or seven thousand people out there, and I became overwhelmed with anxiety and sadness. I got choked up and started to weep. My bandmates were all up on the stage, leaning down, because it’s too short of a song for them to leave and come back. I lock eyes with Was [Jenn Wasner], I can see Michael Lewis looking at me. And I’m crying—like, hard. Shoulders-heaving crying. And I feel unsafe, like this is not an O.K. place for someone to be. And the crowd is going wild, you know? I’m not mad at them. I would also be cheering for encouragement. But I was thinking, They want this. Or this is making sense to them. It wasn’t all negative—

But it felt like there was blood in the water?

The rest of the show, I could barely function. If I could do that same touring setup and have somebody else sing the songs, that would be a little easier. But that whole night in, night out, let’s excavate Justin—I’m not built for it. When I say it like that, I think, How is anybody? But, that’s just me, I can’t.

Well, there’s so little distance in your work. I don’t know, maybe Bon Iver doesn’t need to be a road show.

When I used to go to shows, for me, they were excavations. They were explosions, they were unique. They were a band playing four new songs they made up last weekend, at an all-ages venue in Eau Claire. Or seeing Melt-Banana open for Mr. Bungle in, like, ’95—I’m watching something rip me open. And of course they were all also touring and doing the thing and everything, but just . . . I did it a lot, and I’m extremely proud of that achievement. I’m extremely proud of the team. When we were at Barclays, Yo La fuckin’ Tengo opened the show, and we played “Sh’Diah,” and Sean Carey’s doing free-jazz freakouts on drums, and Michael Lewis, my favorite living musician and improviser and soloist, he’s playing, and we are throttling free jazz to an arena that is absolutely understanding what we’re doing. And, like, check mark. Check mark! Thank God. But I can’t go to that well over and over again. It has to be something sacred—it has to renew. I come back to the name of the band. It’s a good band name, a good project name, because it’s like—good death, good winter. Things need rest. A life needs to rest at some point.