I Am a Good Job: Diary of a Goblin Interviewer, Live at Way Out West
I’m Iona, Aka misosoupqueen, and I host a show called Stargazer, where I take underrated musicians into a homemade fort and we stare up at some stars cut out of paper. From Kojaque to Biig Piig to Gao the Arsonist to Nell Mescal, I’ve interviewed an awful lot of incredibly talented people (heart emoji star emoji). When I’m not interviewing in my fort, brands seem to find pleasure in bringing me to festivals and having me ask questions on camera for content. The most recent brand to do this (love u) brought me to Gothenburg, where I interviewed DJs and festival goers at Way Out West festival - one of the biggest festivals in Sweden! What a privilege and honour. I documented my time, thoughts and prayers for Pilot. Enjoy<3
Day 0: i have landed
I have landed. It’s 1:53am and I’ve landed in Sweden. I type from a pitch black hotel room. Scratchy duvet. Moisturised face. An ache in my shoulder that my chiropractor could only dream of getting his hands on.
I’m Iona (I remind myself). I’m here with a brand to interview artists at Way out West (I remind myself). I need to set my alarm for breakfast. Noted.
Festivals are a beast in their own. The Wild West of the Interview. And I….. I am the cowboy with spurs in thy belly. I am the eagle whose talons doth shine bright.
I. have. LANDED!
What many festival goers may not realise, theres an entire ecosystem living & breathing behind the shiny festival façade. I’ve drawn a diagram to explain. Artists are stressed, but their egos might be running high (fair enough though innit). Any sort of media outlet is stressed but their ego is consistently crushed (accreditation gets their name wrong, artists ignore interview requests, talent is typing into her notes app not paying attention to anything being said).
Myself, I fall between artist and media (imo imo imo imo imo imo dont come for me literally imo). So it makes sense I am currently oscillating between ego boost and disheveled - at least this time round.
Anyway, tomorrow is day 1 of a 3 day interview job. My call times are scheduled for 2pm and end around 2am. There are no thoughts in my head after typing that. It’s bed. Good night my sweet prince.
Day 1: fuck
I wake up to the pit of imposter syndrome buried in my stomach lining. Kettle on, instant coffee poured. I decide to get my shit together.
I still haven’t gotten used to being asked and compensated* for essentially acting myself on camera. To this day, I wonder what people find so intriguing about the way I ask questions. One peculiar comment I receive often suggests viewers like the way I act awkward, to which I shrug and correct them: “I’m just being myself.”
I’m just being myself
I’m just being myself
I’m just being myse-Get the FUCK out of bed the little goblin in my head screams.*compensated in this case means my hotel & travel was paid for with a budget for food while working, but it changes depending on client. I’m often working for “exposure” in lieu of payment.
My call time is at 3pm, which leaves me enough time to prepare questions for the festival goers I’ll be interviewing tonight and edit some social content for my show, Stargazer (that damn show where I take artists stargazing in a homemade fort bla bla bla).
In the spirit of productivity I force my phone on silent as messages from industry heads have begun to trickle in, leaving their cool, shiny slime in the form of copy pasta
“let’s meet up for a drink and sEe iF tHeRe ArE sYnErGiEs bEtWeEn Us” like bro I am not part of your machine I am part goblin, part stardust, part longing, what can I do for you. I go on a walk to clear my head and prep in peace.
I arrive on set and work until midnight, or so. My main observation is that Swedish youth communicate social norms by wearing Peak Performance. There’s also an incredible increase in Goths per square meter as opposed to London, which I am pleased with. I always feel safe around Goths.
Day 2: i remind myself to live
The queue for breakfast is massive.
I remind myself life is worth living as I decide between vanilla and plain yogurt. I didn’t realise how many artists I was interviewing today (5+) as there were some last minute add ons so it’s straight back to the hotel room to prep.
One thing im very grateful for, I think as I sashay back to my quarters, is the consistency of my bowel movements this trip - usually im clogged up when I travel.
Call time 2pm. I feel comfort because my uber driver is humming. It makes me feel safe.
For a moment I think God is real and might exist in the sound frequencies of this 2019 Volvo. My trick to a good interview, I decide in that moment, is having 3 coffees on an empty stomach. I feel invincible.
I arrive and scurry backstage with the rest of the team. It is raining. I am sodden. I am pinballed between festival goer interviews and artist sit-downs - whoever wants me in any given moment. Some of the artists seem happy to chat, others seem like they’ve lost the will to live as if they too, were choosing their yogurt flavour that morning in contempt.
The interviews wrap around midnight and I travers on my ones across the festival, ducking between umbrellas, to meet up with a friend, also in Sweden at the festival. An hour passes and she claims she has left. She could not find me.
Coolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcool
I’m too tired to deep it. I leave the festival and return to the hotel, achey and damp.
But fear not, dear reader. I am not sad (werk)
No, this is my favourite part of days on the ground. When the work is done, you’re by yourself, you’re in a clean room and you have the giddiness of impending takeaway food mixed with pride from a full day of work that only you could have really done.
Yes, this is the liminal. I love it here. And having been travelling almost every weekend for some sort of interview job the past few weeks, I’ve developed a routine that keeps me routed both within and without myself. I eat away at my noodles while justifying my desire for routine as a premonition for scale. I repeat my manifestation mantras between each slurp.
Bed at 2am.
Day 3: the day when clothes start to smell
I’ve been told there are minimum 5 interviews today.At breakfast, we agree to go with shorter questions, succinct answers and quick punchlines. This is usually the type of thing I go against. It’s interviewing for the sake of content creation, not interviewing for the sake of investigation. But I am determined to do a good job. I am always determined to do a good job. I am a good job.
Walking back to my room, I’m plagued that the content isn’t good enough for the brand I’m working with. I’m stressed I’m the wrong choice as a presenter. This is when the lines between interviewer and content creator are muddled of which I am nothing but a mere soup sloshing her way through another day. I am determined to do a good job.
Call time is around 2pm. I make my way to backstage, where I am thrown in the orbit of three DJs I’m meant to interview. I laugh at the difference between the artist’s waiting area (sofas, champagne, portable chargers) versus the media waiting area (a box of biscuits and drip coffee is supplied under a tarp). I keep this observation to myself at risk of sounding ungrateful or snooty. I’m just happy to be here, guys. My happy place has become the earplugs in my ears and the vacant look I cast upon a very happy crowd high on who knows what.
The interviews wrap around 8pm and we head to the final venue of the trip for the festival’s afterparty, where I’m scheduled to interview another 3 artists. By this point in the trip there are bags under my eyes and love in my heart and I am ready to finish on a strong note. I push the idea of sleep out of my mind and into the corner of my brain.
1:30am - I manage to interview the DJs unscathed and they’re all wonderful and kind and can probably tell I’m very tired.
I reward myself with a sip of Carlsberg from an artist’s rider and drift out the venue around 2am.
Walking back to the hotel, I wonder what the crime rate in Sweden is and if It’s safe for me to be wandering next to a canal by myself. I look up to the moon and ask her to protect me. She nods in agreement, albeit the type where you tut your tongue in appeasement. I imagine what death might feel like.
I arrive back to my room, not murdered. My head is a smoothie of both dehydration and giddiness. I want to sleep for days, but start packing my clothes away for an early check-out time. I won’t be proud of myself until the brand I’m working with is happy. That is not a good mindset but it’s my stance nonetheless.
As I origami my clothes into my Ryanair-friendly backpack, I catch myself grumbling at the amount of work I’ve done. I stop those mind-goblins in their tracks.I remind myself I am grateful. I remind myself God could be real if we just look around. I remind myself I’m going to die one day so what does it matter. I remind myself that I might be happy and life might be wonderful and this might be the start of a very long career where I am uncovering truths and pains and so what if I got made redundant from my 9-5 job, at least I am doing more than I thought I ever could do. And if I’m being very honest with myself I remind myself that although the goalposts keep moving in terms of my ambitions, this is a very big tick on a very long I-Wish list and so to be grateful god damn it because people are dying across the world and I’m asking silly little questions with my silly little personality and my head hits the pillow and before I know it I’m asleep.