'Sometimes I Wish I Was In Some Fucking Post-Punk Band'

In Salmon, a standout jam on the second Two Steps On The Water LP, June Jones sings lyrics that are impossibly personal, evocative, heartbreaking: "2002, standing on my bed frame/Arms crossed like a vampire, and I fell/Commanding the gay ghost from my body/I attempted an exorcism on myself."

"That's a very specific memory that I have," Jones explains. "I can't remember what part of that song I started writing first, but there came a moment where I realised, 'This is a song where I'm looking back on my life, and seeing moments of internalising prejudice against your own identity'. That was a really striking incident that I've thought about regularly since. It's such a vivid memory of me trying to expel something from myself, with the aspiration of being something different, more quote-unquote 'normal', to what you actually are."

Such confession, candour and queer themes are standard for Jones, who writes songs about "being a trans woman with PTSD". The band's line-up marshals the Dirty Three set-up — guitar, violin, drums — into tunes that build from frail to furious, with Jones' lyrics at the centre of their gathering storms. "They're really personal," Jones acknowledges. "When I write a song, I really am by myself. There's a lot more freedom to be vulnerable. I'm not even thinking about communicating to other people, that's just a by-product from this process of me talking to myself."

Jones grew up in nondescript Melbourne suburbia (bouncing between Kew and Balwyn), harbouring teenage musical obsessions that would have no bearing on her songwriting future: Red Hot Chili Peppers, nu-metal, pop-punk. Kate Bush, from whose Hounds Of Love Two Steps On The Water take their name, came later, in Jones' early 20s. She founded the band, with violinist/vocalist Sienna Thornton and drummer/vocalist Jonathan Nash, not knowing quite how her musical desires would manifest themselves. "I felt like I wanted to start a folk project, but I also felt like I wanted to start an emo, post-hardcore kind of thing," Jones laughs. "This is my way of doing the two things together. I had no idea if that idea could work, but I feel like what we do does work."  

Befitting their songs, Two Steps On The Water serve as a cathartic vessel for Jones. "I've had forms of mental illness since I was 14 and songwriting is the thing I've found most therapeutic for that," she says. "When I was in high school, I was agoraphobic and had a tendency towards paranoid thoughts. When I look back on it, I think, 'Wow, I had such a deeply skewed view of the world.' I was such a deeply terrified person, from about 14 onwards."

Making music has gone hand-in-hand with personal growth and better mental health; the act of performing carrying pleasing physical associations for Jones. "There's something about the physical sensation of playing guitar, something between the melody and the rhythm," she offers. "There's something about it that's really grounding. And singing is really calming. And, on top of all that, to be able to write words that are very directly about what I'm feeling in that moment — that can be a really good form of release."

As they've self-released a run of records — first the EPs ...In A Shed, Doing ASBESTOS We Can and Having Pop-Punk Feelings In A Country-Western Body, then the LPs God Forbid Anyone Look Me In The Eye and Sword Songs — Two Steps On The Water have played constantly around Melbourne, earning a devoted following by dint of their ultra-emotional live shows. At an early residency at The Gasometer Hotel, the crowd that gathered at the gigs felt like a celebration of the city's blossoming trans scene. Jones has, since, staged a pair of day-long mini-festivals, in 2016 and 2017, under the name Transgenre, featuring a host (Spike Fuck, Simona Castricum, Pikelet, Habits) of trans/GNC acts, hoping to foster a growing community.

In Melbourne, Jones feels like there aren't many acts that sound like Two Steps On The Water's emo-folk, but still feels a sense of belonging among bands playing "honest music, music that's reflecting on personal experience". She's hoping her own music can, over time, involve more fiction and storytelling; but, at this point, "saying something very personal, impulsively, in the moment, that's what [she] feel[s] most comfortable doing".

All that lyrical vulnerability, and music soul-baring, can feel like it's too much, though, when Jones is asked about her songs in promotional conversation. "Interviews can make me feel like I wish I'd never done an interview," she sighs. "Sometimes I wish I was in some fucking post-punk band, singing songs about some industrial setting that I've never been to. That I could make music without people knowing a thing about [me]. But I'm making music that's just so fucking honest."