Ruut Knows the Artist She Was Never Really Disappeared
Punk Head: You’ve described Gravity as both a new beginning and a repossession of the past. Which side of that tension feels more emotionally charged to you right now?
Ruut: Such a good question.“New beginning” feels right, although instead of it being like jumping off a cliff, it’s more like growing a new layer to my artistic tree trunk, which means all the former rings are also inside it. Some of those layers of me got overlooked—the young mother for example, who was trying to keep it together for her kids. She was still an artist, and I’m honoring the things she left unsaid. So yes, it is a new beginning. It’s a one-way ticket maybe, but one that took decades of saving pennies to buy.
Punk Head: There’s something almost paradoxical about calling an album Gravity when so much of your story is about refusing to be held down. What does that title mean to you?
Ruut: Years ago, when I was working in LA and writing many of the songs that are on this album, I had a dear, older friend and mentor named David, who really saw me. He knew what I’d overcome in my past, and so when I made a decision to walk away from a deal, return to Baltimore, and become a mother, he understood and pointed out that I had to have a stable home in order to expand as an artist. It was crucial to have that truth reflected back to me, to have my need for emotional stability acknowledged, especially by someone with a lifetime of experience in the music business. Artists are often expected to give up a sense of “gravity” in order to remain prolific. It’s actually a trope that can have really damaging effects. I’ve made a conscious choice not to let anyone define my role as an artist. I get to choose. I get to be happy. And sometimes not being held down can mean choosing stability and healthy relationships over toxic, exhausting commitments. I’ve never regretted my choice to start a family and to create from the stability of my home. Now, this album—and the word gravity—feels like a full-circle celebration of that choice.
Punk Head: “Unbeatable” sounds like a victory song, but its backstory seems much more complicated than simple triumph. What were you actually trying to survive when you wrote it?
Ruut: The person I wrote this song for years ago actually ended up passing away from brain cancer. It was her favorite song for many years, way before she was ever diagnosed. After her death I struggled to sing it until after some time I tried again, moved a word or two around, and it finally clicked into place for me. The word “warrior” suddenly felt new inside fresh context. If someone is intrinsically a badass, life’s lost battles don’t diminish that truth about them. My friend had been a warrior, and being defeated by cancer didn’t make her any less so. She blazed the trail, in life and death, and now “Unbeatable” captures both sides. It rings true, and I love singing it again.
Punk Head: What did Grant Cornish understand about these songs that helped you hear them differently, and what did you need to protect from the production process?
Ruut: I actually think I lost my need to protect. I let go a lot. Grant is very gentle and open-minded, but he also pushes me to dig deeper. For instance, he prefers my more risky, heartfelt vocal takes to more perfect ones. When it came to reworking these songs, Grant completely understood the sense of resolution and devotion I was after. He opted for the overall record to have a cavernous low-end, and for the songs to have a more solemn, steady vibe. It’s like he knew the songs could handle it, the way old, tried-and-true things can. And I trusted his instincts. We learned a lot about my music through making Gravity; I’m so excited about where it’s leading us next.
Punk Head: What happens when you revisit a song written by a younger version of yourself and realize she was saying something you understand only now?
Ruut: I have become more and more okay with all the versions of myself. I look back and understand that my younger artist self needed safeguards, something to grip onto. She needed to know what the work meant, what she was doing, where it was going. Now, when I write something, I know its meaning will intensify and change over time. A song might even know something before I do. Art has become much more of an adventure now. A private escapade. I don’t need all that knowing-for-sure anymore. I can make something without fully understanding it and let it become something else later. I thrive on the limitlessness of that. It just takes time to not give a shit about certainty.
