"The entire album is a gift to myself and a commitment to perseverance in creating something simply because it means something important to you," says Magnets.
Magnets (Credit: She Is Aphrodite/Supplied)
Naarm/Melbourne-based disabled artist and advocate Siobhan McGinnity (known to music-lovers as Magnets) has unveiled her debut album, sharing the gorgeous DIPLACUSIS today.
Named for the symptom of Meniere's Disease which McGinnity experiences, leading to a dissonant doubling of sound in one ear, it’s a topic close to her heart. Alongside her work as a musician, she’s also a clinical audiologist and researcher, having just completed a PhD thesis titled ‘Hearing Injury In The Music Industry’, which earned multiple accolades from the National Hearing Conservation Association in the US.
The record itself is as vibrant as it is memorable, with every aspect of its composition and construction being a considered part of the larger project. Offering a compassionate message of self-acceptance that’s hard to ignore, it leans into topics of love, disability, identity, and the confusion of navigating life as a queer, disabled artist, all through a blissful, nostalgic pop sheen.
Magnets’ new album will also be supported by a launch show at the Northcote Social Club on December 1st, planned to coincide with the International Day of People with Disability on December 3rd.
The lineup will feature a handful of disabled artists, including Women in Music Emerging Artist nominee, Mathilde Anne; autistic poet Alex Creece; and Music Victoria Amplify Award nominee Naavikaran, who will perform a DJ set. Tickets to the show are on sale now.
To celebrate the release of DIPLACUSIS, Magnets has been kind enough to give us a track-by-track rundown of the record’s tracks, offering an unparalleled insight into one of the year’s most impressive debuts.
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The album is designed to be listened to from start to finish, with an overture of sounds pulled from various songs, and interstitial music. I first heard this done by Coldplay when I was living on Christmas Island and it blew my mind at the time. It’s long been my wish to do the same, and I’m so grateful to my producer for making it possible.
I wanted this song to be the embodiment of what ADHD feels like to me. Instead of the traditional verse-chorus structure, I imagined all the times I’d overshared and let words spill out endlessly, creating three verses that rapidly follow one after the other. As they do, layers of harmonies and voices are continually added, ‘till they’re gleefully singing ‘I’ll still be late.’
There’s no chorus to land on, just the celebration of self-acceptance in the form of synths and chorus guitar. As naive as the last line in the song sounds, it felt true to the overstimulated need to pull that close friend away from the party to deep-dive in the corner. If that wasn’t enough, my wonderful producer, Terry Mann, added a bunch of environmental sounds that I would easily use to distract myself, study or sleep. I hope someone with ADHD finds this and relates to it.
Speak is a call to step up to the plate, of whatever fight you are facing. My art in activism. During a flare of one of my health concerns, I was housebound, unable to walk for months. The answer to my loneliness was a sale at Spotlight, and a half-price sewing machine on the kitchen table. It wasn’t fancy, but opened my world to sustainable fashion.
In the process of teaching myself how to sew, I deep dived into fibres, manufacturing, the treatment of garment workers and the extreme toll our waste has on the planet. Heavy with all I’d learned, I decided not to buy clothes for two years (including my wedding dress and four bridesmaid dresses which I made myself).
Years on, I’ve shared this process and grown a small like-minded community on tiktok. I don’t know if I feel comfortable calling myself a climate activist – I still eat meat, and occasionally forget my keep cup, but I do care deeply. In this overwhelming fight, focusing on sustainable fashion has helped me feel empowered, taking action every day with the clothes on my shoulders.
Speak came from this urgency. Asking people to “speak” up in whatever way feels right for them. I’m not very good at angry activism – I have so much respect for people with that level of steam – but my safe space is creating art that makes people reflect. Be it glass sculptures that reference my experience of deafness, or clothes made from rice sacks diverted from landfill.
“Wrap me up, I’m feeling down,” were the lyrics that began this song. Trump was in power, Scomo was at Hillsong and Tony Abbot had just paid a visit to Cardinal Pell. Mid-lockdown and my own assault court case, it felt like my chest was collapsing. I phoned 1800 RESPECT (an incredible supportline for victim-survivors), “I’m sorry, I’m not in crisis, I’m just so overwhelmed by the news!”
Rather than end the call, the counsellor breathed out, “I know, it’s a lot. The phones haven’t stopped ringing.” Across Australia women were feeling the same, exasperated and overwhelmed by the inescapable bad news.
Knowing the song was about heavier material, I wanted the music to be light and uplifting. Some of the best songs are where that dichotomy is present. The chords are relatively simple, but the music has energy and momentum. It makes me want to dance! In post-production, the producer and I began to form a short-hand language between us.
I was listening to a lot of Celebrity Skin at the time. Often harmonies are buried in instruments, but I prefer them way up in the mix – like Hole. Whenever I craved this in Down, I’d simply say to the producer, “Needs more Hole,” and he’d know what to do.
I realised every love song I’d ever written had been with a man in mind, but being pansexual, that made no sense to me. So I sat down and reflected on times I’d felt love for women and poured those feelings into a song. What came out was a much softer, slow burn of a song that feels like dancing under the night sky. I hope someone connects with it.
This song feels like the heart of the album. It’s one of the first I wrote for Diplacusis, and also the only song I’ve ever given a title longer than one word. The inspiration came from a few experiences, but at its core it’s about women standing up to speak their truth. The song features a choir of friends and women shouting their boundaries in the pre-chorus (Nat Vazer, Emilee South, Julia Petricevic, Nicole La Bianca).
Perpetrators have a habit of centering themselves as the victim, making it literally, all about them. At the end of the day, I see this as noise. When I sing, “Show me a different side of this,” it’s a call to action for a challenge I know I’ve already one; truth.
I wrote this from a place of pure joy. I’d just finished watching Rupaul's Drag Race with my friends, gasbagging until midnight, then decided to walk home. Usually I wouldn't feel safe alone at night, but I saw a payphone and knew my partner would be up, so I phoned him. He answered on speaker phone post-gig, with a car full of the bandmates (mutual friends).
I began rambling about some story, only to realise a few minutes in that I had a long walk ahead, so said, “wait a moment, I’ll call you from the next payphone”. I then proceeded to walk payphone to payphone from Carlton to Coburg, calling him from each one to continue the story. I’m not sure what I was on about, but there was a lot of laughter and a surprising amount of payphones. I almost called the song Telstra, I was so grateful they’re still free.
When we recorded the song, I asked everyone to bring Melbourne suburban energy into the recording. Specifically Reservoir. I love that big, outdoor, large backyard vibe, so we made sure we felt relaxed and loose the whole way through the process.
No one likes track seven on their album, right? This song stems from a place of hurt. An unhealthy relationship that’s turned sour overtime, yet only one of you is ready to leave. It’s not always possible to leave such relationships, but admitting fault on both sides, I found compassion in allowing that at least, I was bold enough to leave.
With a towel wrapped around my head in a studio apartment in Sicily, I sat at a piano and began improvising. What came out was a piano ostinato and a rhythmic melody that brought to mind Donna Lewis. I selfishly use the word ‘myself’ three times in this song, but it truly is an ode to my dreams.
My connection with the piano hasn’t always been easy, with a history of abuse, but in writing this song I felt peace and closure, reclaiming ownership of the instrument and music for myself. The end chorus speaks of finding that seed of joy and nurturing it till it feels permeable and real.
One of my first memories singing in public, was in a wood paneled school hall to Don McLean’s Vincent, a heartbreaking song that’s always stayed with me in it’s absolute compassion for individuals who pass from suicide. In much the same way, I wanted to bring that care to Sleep, thinking of the people who I love and have lost with gentleness.
Unlike the other songs on the album, which I laboured over vocally, sleep was recorded almost in one pass, keeping it as raw and authentic as possible.
There is an arc to anxiety, the build up, the spending of electric energy, into the gentle hum of an exhausted calm. Whenever I come back into my body after these moments, there is a renewed peace and perspective, this is what this song is about. I wrote it in the Wombat State Forest, on an old family piano at my mother in law’s house.
The piano sits beside windows that see nothing but green and trees. It was the perfect place to first create something as radical as a 15/4 piano segment, the embodiment of that jarring energy, that then resolves into the familiar 4/4. It’s the quiet after a storm; peace at the end of the album.
The entire album is a gift to myself and a commitment to perseverance in creating something simply because it means something important to you. Every artist has their battles, but to get to this point I have had to navigate deafness, the loss of my mother, multiple court cases and chronic illnesses.
I was asked recently if I was excited for the album to be out, but in truth, that sense of achievement was already fulfilled, the moment I signed off on the masters. Anything extra is a bonus.
This piece of content has been assisted by the Australian Government through Music Australia and Creative Australia, its arts funding and advisory body