Neko Case is a singular voice in music. Across 11 albums, she has crafted a canon of songs that are sharp, haunting and vulnerable.
Case, who was raised in the Pacific Northwest but lived in Chicago in the 1990s, has written a new memoir, “The Harder I Fight, The More I Love You.” In it, she talks openly about her isolating childhood and her long journey to embracing her identity as a musician. She also writes poignantly about her love of the outdoors and animals — and how her love of the natural world has helped her overcome anxiety and grief.
Case spoke with WBEZ while on the road for her book tour. This interview was lightly edited and condensed for clarity.
Q. You start the book with your girlhood in the Pacific Northwest. Your parents were two teenagers, and they didn’t really know how to be parents.
A, Nor did they want to know.
Q. You spend a lot of time alone, and then your mother dies — but there’s a twist.
A. She actually had faked her death and returned later.
Q. Why did you want to start your story there?
A. Well, it doesn’t really start there. It’s just kind of chronological. I was pretty young when it happened. I was in second grade. It’s just kind of where it fell in the timeline.
Q. Music for you, though, was a solace, even when you were very young. But you were kind of a listener and a fan until your teens. What led you to pick up the drums?
A. I was a very aggressive kid, and I was also kind of a shy kid. So, it doesn’t seem like those things go together, but they do. So, there was this really amazing physical outlet [the drums]. And then also, there was a barrier between me and the audience, you know, [that] being the drum set.
Q. How did you move, then, from the drums to singing and writing songs?
A. I played drums in bands, and I would sing along. Singing was really always the thing I really wanted to do, but it’s not something I could have admitted to myself at the time. So, I just kind of naturally would sing along while I was playing the drums, and then eventually, I got a microphone. And then eventually, you know, I was in a band called Maow, and we were all writing songs together. One day, I was writing a line for a song, and I [asked], ‘Who wants to sing this?’ And they were, like, ‘Sing it yourself.’ They didn’t mean it in a mean way. They were just, like, ‘Why wouldn’t you sing it?’
Q. Were you then ready to put down the comfort barrier of the drums at that time?
A. Then? No, probably not. But at the same time, I was feeling a lot more confident. And I think that’s because I had two friends who were these women I really respected. We were really in it for each other, and it was a really wonderful friendship. So, I think that just gave me a lot more confidence. And so, we would sometimes just set up, all three of us, across the front of the stage.
Q. In your book, you describe a pretty brutal life early in your career as a touring musician. There were really dirty clubs, and audiences weren’t really interested, and there was a lot of sexism. And so much of your book is about the art of persevering. Why did you keep going?
A. I guess I didn’t really care if people liked me or not. I just had the desire to sing so badly, and I liked being with my friends. I had spent so much time alone as a little kid. Being with three or four other people and having a common goal for the night, kind of like you’re in a gang, but you’re not there to beat people up. You’re there to play music with them. A much kinder gang.
Q. Do you ever offer advice to other musicians who are female, and if you do, what do you tell them?
A. I don’t really get asked all that much. I just try to tell people to check inside for jealousy, or check inside for, you know, the voice that tells you you’re not good enough to do it. And try to, you know, backward-engineer that into something else.
Q. Is that what you tell yourself sometimes too, if you’re nervous about something? To backwards-engineer?
A. It’s a constant practice. I don’t really usually feel nervous going on stage ever. I generally have a good relationship with the audience. I’m always really excited to see them, and I trust them. I trust that they’re there because they want to be there. And that has cured most of my problems — when I started to learn to trust the audience.
Q. You’ve lived in so many places around the country, but it was during your years here in Chicago that you really embraced being able to say, ‘I am a musician.’ It was hard for you to do that for a long time. What do you think changed?
A. Well, I mean, I didn’t feel like I was good enough, and I was raised a girl in, you know, the ‘70s and ‘80s. There just wasn’t really any sort of validation or affirmation or even interest in what, you know, little girls were interested in, let alone girls who wanted to play in bands. So, I just had this desire, and I just kept following it. It just was so intense that I just followed where it took me.
Q. How did being in Chicago help inspire that for you, that change?
A. [Before Chicago,] I was living in the city of Seattle for a while, and the city of Seattle isn’t as friendly as Chicago. Chicago is much warmer, and the music scene in Seattle had kind of played out a bit. There wasn’t a big unified music scene anymore around 1998 and 1999. Going to Chicago, it was a very everyone’s-in-it-for-each-other kind-of-thing. And I just found it so warm and exciting and inspiring.
Q. Your career has flourished. You’ve got awards behind you, multiple albums, long-standing collaborations with groups like The New Pornographers, and so, you’re a success story. But at times, it has been a pretty lonely road. What do you hope your readers take away from your story?
A. I think that it is sort of the rock-and-roll mythology that makes me look like a success story. I am, you know, respected, and that is a part that I’m very grateful for and I cherish. But as far as monetary things, I’m not successful, because COVID-19 and streaming have decimated, you know, money-making avenues [for musicians]. So, success on a personal level is a totally different thing. I have that, and I feel it. And I have wonderful bandmates and friends. I look back very fondly on everything, and, you know, I’m still in the middle of it, but financially — as far as what you have to do to get things done — things are just not sustainable. It’s in kind of a bad place for everyone, not just me.
Q. You also write a lot, quite beautifully, of a love of nature and horses, even when you were really young. So now, once you reach your 40s, you realize you have this childhood dream and you own a horse. How have animals helped you process your experiences with your anxiety and grief?
A. From a very young age, it was just very obvious that the most consistent behaviors came from animals in my house — the most consistent affection, the most consistent attention. And it was unconditional, so it was very positive. I wasn’t guided in any direction as to how to think about nature or that people were separate from nature, you know, which is, I think, a very harmful idea, which we all don’t even realize we’re embracing really hard in Western culture. And so, I just kind of had my own relationship from the ground up [with animals], and I’ve always trusted it. It doesn’t let me down.
Q. The book is a very detailed account. You’ve got names of people, clubs and songs you heard along the way; all the vans that you drove in. How do you remember it all? Did you keep journals or notes?
A. Well, I did. I used to keep journals, but my house burned down in 2017 and I lost all those. So, I had to kind of reconstruct it. I asked friends, because there’s a lot of my touring years that I was so anxious — during those years, there’s a lot of things I don’t remember. I did go back and ask people some things. But then, the conjuring-up of what it’s like in a crappy club, I didn’t write in a way that’s a complaint. There’s a very loving side to just calling it out for what it is, because I could not wait to get to those dirty rock clubs. That’s the only place I ever wanted to be.