Best Of: Julian Brave NoiseCat / Laufey

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From WHYY in Philadelphia, this is Fresh Air Weekend.

I'm Sam Brigger.

Today, Julian braved Noise Cat.

He co-directed an Oscar-nominated documentary of personal and historical import.

It's about the Canadian missionary boarding schools that Indigenous children, including members of his family, were required to go to get assimilated.

Many children were physically and sexually abused.

While making the film and writing his new memoir, We Survive the Night, Noisecat learned why, minutes after his father was born, he was abandoned in a boarding school trash incinerator room.

Also, Grammy-winning Icelandic musician Leve plays guitar and sings some songs for us.

That's coming up on Fresh Air Weekend.

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This is Fresh Air Weekend.

I'm Sam Brigger.

Terry has our first interview today.

Here she is.

Minutes after being born, Ed Archie Noise Cat was thrown away.

Literally.

The infant was discovered with the garbage ready to be burned at St.

Joseph's Mission School for Indigenous Canadians.

He was rescued from incineration by the night watchmen.

St.

Joseph's Joseph's was one of the 139 missionary boarding schools that Indigenous children were required to attend as mandated by the Canadian government in 1894 to help solve the, quote, Indian problem through assimilation.

There were 100 such schools in the U.S.

The last one closed in 1997.

An investigation that was opened in 2021 in Canada revealed that rape and infanticide were not uncommon in these schools.

My guest is Noise Cat's son, Julian Brave Noise Cat.

Julian's father is from a reservation in British Columbia.

He left the reservation and moved to the U.S.

and married a white woman.

Julian is their son and he grew up in Oakland.

His parents divorced when he was six, but his mother was determined to find ways to connect Julian with Native culture.

She succeeded.

She made sure he spent a lot of time on his paternal family's reservation and with a native group in California.

He became a champion powwow dancer, a journalist covering indigenous-related issues, and an activist.

Last year, he co-directed a documentary called Sugar Cane about the investigation into the mission schools, their often brutal treatment of children, and the infanticide.

Julian and his father are among the people who appear in the film.

The documentary also explores Julian's relationship with his father.

Sugarcane is the name of a reservation near St.

Joseph's.

The documentary won won the Directing Award at the 2024 Sundance Film Festival, won Best Documentary from the National Board of Review, and was nominated for a Peabody and an Oscar.

Now Julian Brave Noisecat has written a new book called We Survive the Night.

It's part memoir, part indigenous history, and part coyote stories.

Coyote is the shape-shifting trickster who was regarded by many native tribes as the ancestor sent by the creator to finish creating the indigenous world.

Julian Brave Noise Cat, welcome to Fresh Air.

I enjoyed the book and I also learned a lot, which I appreciate.

Thank you so much.

It's an honor to be on Fresh Air.

This is honestly a dream come true for me, Terry.

I really am honored to hear you say that.

So the investigation into St.

Joseph's mission found that infanticide was common there.

Students were sometimes raped by the priests or other staff, and when a student was pregnant, the baby was often aborted or disposed of.

But rape wasn't your father's backstory.

Tell us, to the best of your knowledge, what his story is.

So, my father was discovered in the trash incinerator at St.

Joseph's Mission on the night of August 16, 1959.

The night watchman, Tony Stoop, described his cries for life as sounding like the noise of a cat, which I only bring up because my last name is Noise Cat, which is kind of unbelievable to me because it only became Noise Cat, my last name, after after it was written down wrong by those same missionaries who came to our land to turn us into Catholics.

Aaron Ross Powell, and it was written down long before your father was born, so they didn't know his backstory.

Aaron Powell, yes, so it was a story and a name that really found its meaning in his survival, which is,

you know,

there are subjects in the book that I think get at

questions of the presence of ancestors and forces greater than human ones in our in our present life.

And,

you know,

I didn't know the story of my father's birth until I set out to write this book and to make sugar cane.

And so there's also an element of telling these stories that is about

touching the family histories that even your own family is too scared to tell.

And so while there's a piece of this story that, of course, the church and the government, you know, is not talking about, there's also an element of that silence that has been internalized by Native families like my own.

Aaron Powell,

so you're saying that you didn't know your father's origin story until you started doing the book and the documentary?

No, he did not either.

All that he knew was that he had been born somewhere near Williams Lake and found not long after in a dumpster.

And it was kind of a hazy story other than that.

We didn't really know that there was much involving the residential school.

And we really didn't know the circumstances around all of it until the documentary in the book.

And it's remarkable that he survived.

So what did you learn about why it was his mother who actually put him there?

Well, you know, I think that this is part of the history of colonization that has often been remarked on by scholars of colonialism.

You know, Franz Fanon, for example, talked about the way that the colonized subject sometimes internalizes the oppression of colonialism.

And I think it makes discussing these subjects that much more difficult for the very people who sometimes survived them.

You know, the truth of the matter is that at these schools, children were abused, and sometimes those children grew up to themselves become abusers.

That at these schools, native children were separated from their parents and therefore did not necessarily know how to parent.

So when it was their turn to do that, they turned around and abandoned their own.

And I think that the story with my father is one where, you know, my grandmother at the time was a very young unwed mother.

My grandfather was a bit of a womanizer, as I write in the book.

And there was this process at the residential school wherein unwed mothers with unwanted babies had a certain set of protocols, it appears, that they might be able to follow if they wanted to get rid of that unwanted native child.

which mirrored really, in a sense, what was happening to Native children more broadly in society, because we were, of course, considered an Indian problem, and our way of life, if not our people as a whole, were supposed to die.

Your grandmother tried to keep this a secret all her life.

Yeah, she, um, we actually learned through the research in We Survive the Night and the documentary Sugar Cane that she's the only person who was ever punished for the pattern of infanticide at St.

Joseph's Mission, even though she was just a 20-year-old mother at the time.

And as the local paper itself commented, back when this happened in 1959, there's no way that she could have delivered the baby and put it into the incinerator minutes later without someone else's help.

And that, of course, that pattern also raises questions about, in the words of the paper back then, quote-unquote routine procedure at St.

Joseph's Mission.

But, you know, I think that there's also a lot of, understandably, a lot of guilt and pain and shame associated with having done something like that.

And so to this day, her and my father have never really been able to have a full conversation about that circumstance of his birth.

Was she devastated when she found out that you knew and that he knew, your father knew?

Well, the curious thing about it is that it was kind of an open secret in a sense.

So on the one hand, my family never talked about it and my father didn't really know the specifics around what happened when he was born and how he was found.

On the other hand, when I was a teenager, I had heard what I assumed at the time were ghost stories about babies being born at St.

Joseph's Mission being put into the trash incinerator there.

And just to give you a sense of how internalized the denial was, even within native communities and families, I did not believe those stories when I heard them back then.

You know, when I went to learn language from my Kia'a, who is one of the last two remaining fluent speakers on the Cannon Lake Indian Reserve, it's her and her sister.

Kia means grandmother?

Kia means grandmother, yes.

You know, I asked her a little bit about what happened at the residential schools, and it became very clear with the couple stories that she was only willing to tell that it was not a subject that she ever felt, you know, willing to open up about.

And that remains her truth.

And at the end of the day,

that is how she has survived.

And

I think that that is very understandable given the weight of the pain that she carries.

Did your father or did you try to talk to her about that?

Yeah, actually, the culminating scene in Sugar Cane is a scene where me and my dad go visit Mike,

and he

tries to have a conversation with her about it.

And you hear her break open.

She cries.

and she says that she still struggles to talk about it and that it's something that hurts her to this day.

Aaron Ross Powell I'm assuming that just about everyone or everyone on the reservation was forced to go to one of these

missionary boarding schools where part of the goal was to

convert Native people into Catholicism.

Does the old religion or you know lore still

get followed?

Or are people like genuinely Catholic on the reservation now?

It's a big mix.

Our way of life really did nearly die out until recent decades it started to finally come back.

But my kea, for example, still goes to church.

I go to Christmas Mass with her.

I could do the hymns in Sequat Mochin, our indigenous language.

One of them goes, Ot Kel Tet Mi Ch.

You know, we do the whole thing in our own way.

And at the same time, you know, we have our own belief systems, our own way of worship, of prayer.

We have our own way of telling stories and accounting for the creation of the world.

And those were nearly lost because of schools like St.

Joseph's Mission.

You know, for example, I had never heard anyone other than a single uncle tell a coyote story except for once in my entire life.

And so, you know, we really did almost lose so much of

our way, of our culture, and our language is almost gone now.

But it is starting to come back, which is a really beautiful thing.

What's an example of a custom that still remains, for instance, surrounding death?

Well, that's one of the most interesting things about our culture, I would say, is that despite the fact that we've lost so many different parts of what it is to be Sequet Mach, what it is to be a Shushua person,

we still bury our dead in a way that remains true to our customs and practices, which I think is because our people want to make sure that when we send our own to the afterlife, that they remain a part of us.

And, you know, there are some mixtures in of Catholic rites and things like that, but ultimately the way that we do it, which includes playing the gambling game lahal late at night, singing a crossover song for the person as they go to the other side, giving away their goods and materials, abstaining from certain things for an entire year.

Those are practices that go back generations, maybe even thousands of years.

Why a gambling song as part of a death?

or mourning ceremony?

You know, I've thought about that myself.

Lahal is about, in part, the spiritual power of the people who are playing it.

So

the way that the game works is one team is singing a song and trying to hide two sets of bones.

Usually it's deer bones, and one bone has a mark in it, and the other bone is unmarked.

And the other team is trying to guess which hand the unmarked bone is on the opposite team as they're singing a song and trying to sort of fake them out and use their spiritual power to hide the bones.

And there's an element of like sort of reawakening your spirit and acknowledging the greater than human power that we all sort of carry in our soul in that.

I would also say that it's a way to sort of redistribute goods and wealth and these sorts of things.

Part of what happens at the Lahale games is that money or different goods, I mean back in the day like horses and guns and those sorts of things would be given away.

And that's to redistribute what belonged to the family of the deceased, to honor that person and also to get people to come to these

funerals.

It's really important for us that our whole community comes together to honor the dead.

And when you go to a funeral in Cannibalake, you know, it is a real event.

It's a real celebration.

Hundreds of people show up.

Can you sing the song that you just referred to, or would it be inappropriate to sing it now?

There's a lot of different versions of Lahau song.

So this is kind of a mix between a lahal song and a protest song.

So it goes like this:

Hey ahoo, hey ya heyo hoo, hey ya ho,

hey ya hey oh ho ya hei ya ha

Hei ya ho ya hei ya ho

hey ya ho

Canada is

all Indian land

Canada is

all Indian land Oh Canada is

all Indian land, yah, hey yahoo,

hey-yah-hoo.

I see what you mean by protest, song.

Sometimes they do sing that for LaHal, though, so that counts.

Okay.

We're listening to Terry Gross's interview with Julian Brave Noise Cat.

His new book is called We Survive the Night.

We'll hear more of their conversation after a break.

I'm Sam Brigger, and this is Fresh Air Weekend.

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Your father left the reservation when he was in his teens or 20s.

How old was he?

He was in his 20s, early 20s.

Why was he anxious to leave?

Well, when you were called the garbage can kid when you were growing up, you know, there's a lot of stuff to run from.

And that was just the beginning of his story.

You know, he had a very troubling childhood.

It was a dysfunctional time to be an Indian anywhere in North America, and particularly on the Cannem Lake Res, where our people were really messed up by what happened at St.

Joseph's Mission.

People were dying left and right.

There was all kinds of abuse.

Alcoholism was rampant.

I mean, it was a pretty dark era.

So he got out essentially as soon as he could.

He went to Vancouver, where he attended art school, which was a complete accident.

He actually was intending to take classes to become a PE teacher.

And then the campus that was closest to where he lived, they didn't actually have those classes.

So they just enrolled him in some art classes.

And he ended up getting really good at this technique of printmaking called stone lithography.

So he went on to Emily Carr College and then found his way into a job at a printmaking, fine art print press in New York called Tyler Graphics,

which is actually where he moved and then met my mother in a bar outside the city.

I should mention here that he has work in the Smithsonian.

He does, yes, in the collection of the National Museum of the American Indian.

And he's also a wood sculptor.

He is, yes.

So he began his career as a fine art printmaker, but he could never really suffer a boss.

So he ended up becoming an artist.

And when he was in Vancouver in the 80s, it was a really interesting place to be for Native art.

There was kind of a renaissance happening in the...

art of the northwest coastal native peoples.

Your listeners might be familiar with like totem poles and masks and those sorts of artworks.

Well, that was really what was coming back in Vancouver in the 1980s.

So he got to see some of of the greats of that era, guys like Bo Dick and Bill Reed, who did a piece that was on the Canadian $20 bill for many years.

He got to see them actually work.

And he had been building houses when he was in his 20s.

And his father was really good with his hands.

And he watched them do it.

And he was like, you know what?

I think I could do that.

And so he embarked on his own artistic career wherein he started carving and he got really good at it.

Yeah, so your father is a very gifted artist, but he also became an alcoholic.

He became irresponsible

after he married your mother.

And your parents divorced when you were six, and you felt abandoned.

You really, like, loved your father and really looked up to him.

And

later on, you realized

that he was abandoned by his mother, and you felt like and then he abandoned you.

And I want to play a scene from the Sugar Cane documentary in which you're talking to your father and you're basically confronting him about this.

I guess I just feel like I'm here trying to help you when you don't really fully recognize the thing that we share.

Your story is someone who was

abandoned, but also who abandoned.

You're looking for some kind of acknowledgement from me.

No, I just feel like...

yeah.

Well, tell me what you want.

I'll write it.

Whatever you want.

You know, it's just like

I didn't leave you, son.

Yeah, you did.

What was I supposed to do?

And I was lost and I'm drunk, just going like a madman.

At the time that I told your mom,

I don't know what the hell is wrong.

I'm crying my fing eyes up

every day and I don't know why

that's what I said to her.

Doing a scene like that on camera and including it in a movie

W did it make it easier to have that conversation or make it more difficult with both of you being kind of self-conscious having this groundbreaking confrontation, your father in tears and he wasn't the kind of guy who cried a whole lot.

Somebody's not.

And you're doing it like in public.

Yeah.

Do you have any regrets about it?

No, no, definitely no regrets.

You know, I think that part of what made it possible for us to go on that road trip and to have, you know, intense conversations like that confrontation that you see in sugarcane was that I moved in with my dad actually and lived with him for two years while we worked on sugarcane and while I wrote my first book, We Survived the Night.

And so, you know, after not living together for 22 years, I mean, he left when I was about six years old.

Suddenly, we were living across the hallway from each other, and he'd spend his days out in the carving shed, you know, in the garage, and I'd be working on my book and working on sugarcane.

And then at night, we'd hang out.

And we got to know each other a lot better.

I'd turn on my recorder, and he'd tell me stories from his life that I'd never heard before.

He learned a little bit more about mine.

And we really did become like best friends.

And so I think that that

relationship that was really rebuilt because we I did make the choice to move back in with him to create some opportunity for reconciliation also made it possible for us to have real and hard conversations like the one that you see in the film.

Well, I thank you so much for talking with us.

It's really been a pleasure.

Cook's Jam Terry, it's been a dream come true for me.

Julian Brave Noise Cat's new book is called We Survived the Night.

He spoke with Terry Gross.

John Candy, the comic actor who rose to fame in Second City TV and in such films as Stripes, Splash, and Spaceballs, died at the age of 43 in 1994.

Now, 31 years later, a new documentary pays tribute to Candy and does so in a very intimate and affectionate way.

It's called John Candy, I Like Me, and it's now streaming on Prime Video.

Our TV critic David Biancoule has this this review.

This new movie-length documentary about John Candy is subtitled, I Like Me for a Reason.

That's the line that Candy says to Steve Martin partway through their film Planes, Trains, and Automobiles, after Martin's character has bombarded Candy's character with a string of increasingly mean insults.

By the end of that movie, the vulnerability and likability of Candy's character has won Martin's character over.

This documentary has the same effect.

Even if you know little about John Candy, by the time this film is over, you'll miss him a lot.

John Candy, I Like Me, takes a chronological approach to its subject, but not a typical one.

It's more than 20 minutes into the movie before we see any real samples of Candy the Performer.

We first learn about the type of person he was growing up in Canada.

He listened to Firesign Theater comedy records and played football, until he injured his knee and had his kneecapped removed.

Not replaced, removed.

We hear from his widow, his now adult children, his friends and other relatives, and also from a ridiculously long list of colleagues, co-stars, and fellow celebrities, all of whom seem all too happy to share the most personal of stories.

One of them is Bill Murray, who joined Toronto's Second City improv stage group when Candy did.

We started the same time, and we were the worst.

We jumped into a show, and they gave us stuff to do, but then you'd have to, the second part of the show was you had to improvise, and no one wanted to work with us because we didn't know what we were doing.

So we'd only work with each other.

But we were confident.

We had a lot of confidence.

I don't think people today realize how bad you have to be in order to be a perfectionist.

You have to be bad and know you're bad because there's nothing like being really bad to make you want to be better.

Murray talks about some of the alter egos Candy adopted on stage and off stage too.

Like Johnny Toronto, who acted like he owned the city.

Eventually, Murray points out, John Candy would become Johnny Toronto, beloved by that city, co-owning a Canadian Football League team with hockey superstar Wayne Gretzky, and becoming famous as a TV and movie star.

That fame started with Second City TV, also known as as SC TV, which began in Canada in 1976 and quickly was imported to the U.S.

It was a low-budget syndicated alternative to Saturday Night Live, which had begun on NBC the year before.

I loved SCTV the first moment I saw it.

And so did Tom Hanks, who recalls stumbling upon it while touring a stage show in Canada as a member of Cleveland's Great Lakes Shakespeare Festival.

The first sketch he saw was a long parody of Leave It to Beaver, with Harold Ramos as the neighbor kid Whitey and John Candy as the Beaver.

It was kind of like the promise of that very first time that I saw him.

This subtle big grown-up guy dressed up as Jerry Mather saying, I don't know, gee, Wally.

That eddy haskell, he really makes me mad.

Why don't you kill him?

Nah, I could go to jail.

Besides, it's against the law.

But Beaver, no one would have to know that you did it.

I don't know, Whitey.

I don't even have a gun.

Come on, Beaver.

Tom Hanks is the father of actor Colin Hanks, who directs John Candy, I Like Me.

That may explain why Tom Hanks is interviewed, but it also might explain the appreciation Colin Hanks shows as both director and interviewer for the process of acting and of what being the friend or loved one of an actor is like.

Because of Second City, we hear from Catherine O'Hara, Andrea Martin, Martin Short, Dave Thomas, and others.

Because of John Candy's long string of movies, we hear from Steve Martin, Mel Brooks, and Macaulay Culkin, who speaks admiringly of Candy's many films with writer-director John Hughes.

Those films include Planes, Trains, and Automobiles, and, with Culkin, both Home Alone and Uncle Buck.

If you're going to associate an actor with John Hughes, a lot of people will think like, oh, Molly Ringwald or something like that.

And it's like, no, it's John Candy.

I've done as many John Hughes movies as Molly Ringwald.

We've both done three.

I think

Candy did nine.

You should associate those two.

One scene from Candy's film career that this documentary is smart enough to present intact comes from Uncle Buck.

It features John Candy and eight-year-old Macaulay Culkin meeting and asking questions of one another in a parody of the interrogation style of dialogue made famous by Jack Webb in Dragnet.

It worked in 1989, and it works now.

Where do you live?

In the city.

Do you have a house?

Apartment.

Own a rent.

Rent.

What do you do for a living?

Lots of things.

Where's your office?

I don't have one.

How come?

I don't need one.

Where's your wife?

Don't have one.

How come?

It's a long story.

Do you have kids?

No, I don't.

How come?

It's an even longer story.

Are you my dad's brother?

What's your record for consecutive questions asked?

38.

We also hear from others.

like Conan O'Brien, an unabashed John Candy fan in college, who invited him to visit the Harvard campus and specifically the Harvard Lampoon, which Conan edited.

Conan was astounded that Candy came, amazed by how nice and how present he was, and influenced by a piece of advice Candy gave him at the time.

I remembered admitting to him that I was very interested in comedy,

and I might even want to try it.

I'll never forget this.

He looked me square in the eye and he said, you don't try it.

You either do it or you don't do it.

You don't try it, kid.

And that spoke to me, like, all in, kid, all in, or not at all.

I wish this documentary included more samples from Candy's brilliant characters on SCTV.

And there's virtually no mention of the David Steinberg show, the Canadian TV series preceding SCTV that gave Candy an even earlier break in 1972.

But I felt happy and at times a little sad watching John Candy I Like Me.

Colin Hanks does a fine job of profiling a gifted comic and actor, and by all accounts, a very sweet human being.

And after you watch the documentary, Prime Video has a handy selection of John Candy movies to dive into, including Uncle Buck, Planes, Trains, and Automobiles, and Spaceballs.

I highly recommend taking that plunge.

John Candy, I like him too.

David B.

Cooley reviewed John Candy, I Like Me, which is streaming on Prime Video.

Coming up, we hear from Grammy Award-winning singer and musician Leve.

This is Fresh Air Weekend.

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resembles her personal identity in that both are hard to categorize.

Her songs draw on her deep knowledge of classical music and jazz, as well as from pop and classic musicals.

She grew up in Reykjavik, Iceland, and Washington, D.C., with a mother who emigrated from China and is a violinist with the Iceland Symphony Orchestra.

Her father is from Iceland, and Leve grew up listening to recordings from his jazz collection.

She started piano lessons at age four, cello lessons at age eight, and performed on cello with the Iceland Symphony Orchestra when she was fifteen.

She describes her music as taking inspiration from the past with lyrics firmly rooted in the present.

Her concerts are filled with listeners in their twenties who may not know or care much about jazz or classical music.

Leyve is twenty six.

She started attracting an audience during the COVID lockdown when she began posting videos of her singing jazz standards and originals, accompanying herself on cello, guitar, or piano.

She brought her guitar with her today to play and sing some songs, including music from her new album, A Matter of Time.

Let's start with a track called Clockwork.

It's an upbeat love song with an obvious jazz influence.

So here's Clockwork.

Swore I'd never

do this again.

Think that I'm so clever, I could date a friend.

He just called me, said he's running late.

Like me, he probably had to regurgitate.

I know

it's a rational

athlete.

I'm self-aware.

I'm shivering.

Maybe I'll stay home.

Oh no, he's in my

head.

It's a wild place.

I've considered every way.

Words of forget, deeply regret.

He'll run

Levy, welcome to Fresh Air.

It's a pleasure to have you on the show and thank you for bringing your guitar with you.

We'll hear some music in a couple of minutes.

You're so popular, especially among people in their 20s.

Your first music festival was when you performed at Lollapalooza and you brought an orchestra with you.

What insights does that offer about who you are and about your music?

Well, thank you so much for having me.

It's such a pleasure to be here.

I mean, Lollapalooza was such a perfect moment for me of showing exactly who I am to the world because I mean, Lollapalooza is a music festival that I would say is for modern music and for young people.

I've never viewed myself as anything other than a modern artist, but I've always, of course, loved classical music and jazz music and had a love for

all things a bit older.

So to get to bring an orchestra and that sound onto such a modern stage, I mean, we had a K-pop act playing after us and a rapper before us on that very same stage.

I think it's so beautiful that all of these different styles of music can exist in one.

And what does it say that you'd never been to a music festival?

I mean, I'd been to Newport Jazz Festival, so

that might answer your question.

I guess,

I mean, I grew up in Iceland, so I just wasn't very close to that culture.

We had our own smaller festivals.

Let's talk a little bit about your musical origin story.

Your mother plays violin in the Iceland Symphony Orchestra.

What did you learn about music from hearing her practice at home?

I learned a couple of things.

I think,

like, hard work is really, really important, and it's something you need to keep up.

I mean, my mom

has been in the orchestra for almost 30 years, and she still practices every single day for every single concert.

It's not something you shelve after you grow up.

But it also has taught me that it's something that never really leaves you growing up in a musical family.

I mean, my grandma's 80-something now, and she still plays piano every single day, just like as she did when she was seven.

So it's taught me that it's kind of this thing that can follow you forever but my mom always talked about especially like the beauty of music and and how it has to come from your heart and i think that's been such an important through line with with my music no matter what genre it's leaning towards did you grow up backstage oh absolutely i grew up on stage i think I have stories of my mom playing some contemporary Icelandic composers and it was really loud and every break she would like check her tummy like I have a twin sister so the two of us were in there and she was like are they still moving like

did we silence them

when you started taking music lessons would your mother ever holler from another room wrong note every single day really not from another room the same room oh she yeah did that make you self-conscious practicing with a pro with an airshot all the time

it was like having a teacher every single day i would practice practice piano while my sister was practicing violin and then we would swap and she would practice piano and I would practice cello and my mom spent the entire afternoon just drifting back and forth from the piano room to the string room to the piano room to the string room.

And it was very disciplined but I'm so thankful for that.

And my mom still tells me if I'm playing out of tune and I'm so thankful for her for that.

And I think it's one of the reasons I'm I'm the musician I am today.

So you listened to a lot of jazz growing up because your father had a big jazz collection.

What era or what songs or singers particularly influenced you?

I think Ella Fitzgerald was the very first singer that I really felt that I vocally resonated with.

I think she just sounded like a cello.

So I immediately was like, oh, I want to sound like her.

And I was having trouble finding songs in my range to sing.

But Ella's range, though more than my bigger than mine, still,

her singing style, I seem to

fall most naturally into that kind of style.

Same with Billie Holiday, and I also loved Nat King Cole and

Julie London and Peggy Lee and Doris Day.

It was kind of, you know, that type of era of mid-century singing that I really was drawn to.

Would you play a standard for us that

you particularly liked?

Yeah.

Do you want to do It Could Happen to You?

Yes.

And let's mention here that this is one of the things that kind of put you on the map because you recorded this on your phone during COVID and I think it's the first and one of the first videos that you put out on YouTube.

Yes.

COVID started and I had what I thought would be a two-week break.

So I thought I'd use that time to to just post videos of myself singing online.

And it started with a lot of jazz standards.

And I was playing the jazz standards on cello and singing along.

And yeah, I did a cover of It Could Happen to You

and also of the song I Wish You Love.

And the two of those kind of hit the algorithm or whatever you say.

They kind of...

Definitely were the first things that I think people were like, what?

Why is this girl, this young woman, playing cello and singing?

It was like multiple things they hadn't seen combined together.

Yeah, and Chet Baker has a great recording of this.

Yes, yeah, that's my favorite Check Baker album, the It Could Happen to You one.

So, okay,

and this is Leve

your heart from sight,

lock your dreams at night,

it could happen

to you.

Don't count stars, or you might stumble

Someone drops a sigh and down

you tumble

Keep an eye on spring

Rung when church bells ring

It could happen to you

All I did was wonder how

your arms would be,

and it happened to me.

Thank you.

That was Levy singing and playing guitar.

And she has a new album called A Matter of Time.

So,

you grew up in two extremes.

You grew up in Iceland, but you also spent a lot of time in Washington, D.C.

What were you doing there?

What was your family doing there?

My father was working for the Icelandic government there, but my mom would sub with the Baltimore Symphony when she was there.

So I kind of got to be a little bit of an American kid for a bit, which I think

having a childhood in America is really where I fell in love with a great American songbook.

What was your father doing in the government?

Oh, he was working for the IMF.

The International Monetary Fund?

Yes.

So two extremes.

Like, Iceland is like remote.

It's a small country.

It's very cold.

Washington D.C.

is one of the capitals of the world, not just the capital of the U.S.

And it's it's so busy.

What was it like growing up in two pretty opposite worlds?

It's certainly a lot warmer and swampier than

Iceland.

Yeah.

I think it's one of the most important experiences that I've gone through.

I had a very deep understanding of how big the world was from a very early age because I would still spend my summers in China

and the three are so so so so different I think from

what I really learned from from Washington DC I think especially was just how multicultural it was I mean I went to a public school in DC and even within just my neighborhood school.

I think 90% of my class was

international kids.

And I was such a naturally multicultural kid, it made me quite happy.

I also loved all the museums, and I remember going to the ballet at the Kennedy Center and the symphony, and I just have very beautiful memories from growing up there.

And like, I remember moving back to Iceland when I was eight or nine, and I remember that it felt like the world fell dark for a little bit because there was so much brightness in Washington, which sounds like a crazy thing to say right now, but

I think it really just opened my eyes up to how very big the world is.

Because Washington, D.C.

is also such a unique city within the United States.

Well, since you're half Chinese and half Icelandic, and you grew up in Iceland, not a lot of Chinese people in Iceland.

So being half Chinese was probably considered unusual, maybe even like, quote, exotic.

But growing up in Washington, there's like lots of people from China and other Asian countries.

So what was it like for you to be so unusual in such a homogeneous place as Iceland?

It was really difficult.

I think Iceland is so small and it's lovely and I miss it every single day, but it was very hard as a kid to comprehend why I didn't look like everyone else or how my interests were different.

There weren't many kids around me taking a competitive pre-professional classical music route.

There weren't many kids around me whose who had to go back home and practice every single day.

And I often felt like my voice wasn't being heard.

And

I was ready to do anything to get my voice to be heard.

And I knew that the first step to that was trying to get out of Iceland and

see if perhaps my voice would resonate more in the big world where I wasn't an odd fish.

I want to ask you to do another song for us, and this is Castle in Hollywood.

Would you give us the backstory for the song?

Yeah, this song is written about a friendship breakup.

I found that there are not many songs about breaking up with a friend, but it's a pain that can sometimes be more painful than breaking up with a romantic lover.

So I wanted to write about this experience that I had.

And I think especially when women fall apart with women, there's such an interesting line of empathy that's between them.

It's kind of like I'll love you forever, but just not don't be around me

I rack my brain, spend hours and days, I still can't figure it out

what happened that year in your house.

Still learning to live without you.

I wonder what you tell your friends.

Which version of our fairy story?

The one where you walk out in glory,

or the night I moved out in a hurry.

I think about you always

tied together with a string.

I thought the lilies died by winter, then they bloomed again in spring.

It's a heartbreak, mark the end of my girlhood.

We'll never go back to that castle in Hollywood.

Thank you.

That was Leve performing for us.

And what was the castle in Hollywood?

Was that a fantasy of what you wanted your life to be?

No, I lived in the first apartment I moved into was this English storybook house in West Hollywood that had a turret.

And it was commissioned by Charlie Chaplin, actually, in 1928, I believe.

Wait, wait.

The first apartment that you rented was one that Charlie Chaplin commissioned?

How did that happen?

Yeah.

Pure internet luck, I think.

It was definitely a little scary.

It was very dark, but my bedroom was circular.

It was inside a turret.

And I had a tiny little window with bars on it, like a proper Rapunzel window.

And

yeah, it was a really, really weird apartment, but so charming and exactly what I, my storybook heart craved when I first moved to LA.

Since you have a jazz set in the middle of your concerts now when you're on tour, I'm going to ask you to play a jazz original that you wrote.

And this is one of your early songs.

It's called Valentine.

I've been playing a much more swingy version of this on tour, so it's going to be weird to go back to this version.

But

this is how I wrote it, so it is how it shall be performed.

I've rejected affection for years

and years.

Now I have it, and damn it, it's kind of weird.

He tells me I'm pretty, don't know how to respond.

I tell him that he's pretty too.

Can I say that?

Don't have a clue.

Every passing moment I surprise myself.

I'm scared of flies.

I'm scared of guys.

Someone please help.

Cause I think I've fallen in love this time.

I blinked and suddenly I had a

valentine.

That's a nice song.

It's sweet.

It's very naive.

It reminds me of being 21.

Falling in love for the first time?

Yes.

Well, Levy, I want to thank you so much for talking with us and for doing some songs for us.

Thank you so much.

I wish you well on your tour.

And,

you know, thank you.

Thank you so much for having me.

It's been such an honor.

Oh, my pleasure.

Levy's new album is A Matter of Time.

She spoke with Terry Gross.

But who think you're so poetic?

Quoting epics

and ancient probe.

Fresh Air Weekend is produced by Teresa Madden.

Fresh Air's executive producer is Dana Miller.

Our technical director and engineer is Audrey Duncan.

For Terry Gross and Tondi Mosley, I'm Sam Brucker.

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