CONTENT WARNING: Sexual violence, sexual assault, and discussions of trauma.
When is art successful? That’s an obvious rhetorical question. Yet Vancouver quartet PISS — vocalist/lyricist Taylor Zantingh, guitarist Tyler Patterson, bassist Gavin Moya, and drummer Garreth Roberts — and their debut album you made me / skin on linen, compel us to ponder profound, unsettling inquiries. Why do a raw scream and abrasive guitars sound so compelling? Why do we transform pain into sound? Why do we experience pain, and why do we inflict it? What do we gain from witnessing another’s suffering? These are just a few of the challenging questions PISS’ music provokes.
you made me / skin on linen seized my attention immediately. This 30-minute record is a powerful blend of guttural vocals, evocative poetry, samples of feminist thinkers and activists, relentless basslines, unyielding drums, and punishing guitar work. It traces the arc of personal development in a society that has historically tolerated sexual violence, scrutinizing the norms that have perpetuated such injustices and exploring divergent paths toward resistance and healing.
Each sample serves as a portal into deeper layers of comprehension and disintegration. The album opens with children’s voices sharing their childhood aspirations. On the subsequent track “i wanted to be a singer,” Zantingh delivers a haunting reflection on how one person’s actions can redefine another’s entire future: “I wanted to write romance novels/ Now I need perfect control over my victim narrative/ The story of a girl who was silent and powerless/ But it’s cliché to write about being powerless as a girl.” The album weaves between voices of influential feminists: Andrea Dworkin critiquing pornography as a human rights abuse; Manon Garcia examining the Gisèle Pelicot case and the scope of sexual violence; and Toni Morrison discussing morality, self-forgiveness, and grace.
PISS lays bare the multifaceted ways individuals cope with pain and injustice. This is more than noise — it’s a visceral sonic representation of violence inflicted upon bodies, identities, futures, and lives. It grapples with contradiction and tension, mirroring how existence persists through perpetual friction.
For two years, PISS performed the same setlist. Now, that material has evolved into their highly anticipated Sub Pop debut. What began as a project driven by a singular artistic vision has expanded into a broader dialogue about bodily autonomy and systemic oppression. As I spoke with the band via Zoom before their nine-hour tour drive, I was struck by how art like this resonates most powerfully when experienced—live or through headphones—rather than dissected.
Preview you made me / skin on linen below and read an edited version of our conversation below.
Are you excited to go on tour? When was the last show or shows you guys played?
TAYLOR ZANTINGH: We did a weekend trip in Toronto, and we were supposed to play a festival in Kitchener, Ontario. Unfortunately, I lost my voice at the first show, so I’m a little nervous. I’ve been doing vocal exercises and focusing on my health. I love touring, but it’s a constant state of hypervigilance—I’m always listening to everyone’s breathing, jumping at coughs and sniffles.
Your vocal strength is incredible. Screaming requires immense stamina. Can you share your journey to finding your voice as a performer?
ZANTINGH: I never had formal vocal training. I took lessons as a child, but my teacher quickly shifted to teaching me guitar instead. For me, being loud felt natural early on. At 16, I screamed in my high school boyfriend’s punk band, and I loved it. In PISS, years of intuitive performance merged with my background in creative writing, shaping my approach to vocals. While I focus on lyrics and emotion, my delivery remains instinctual.
My body has become both an instrument and a source of vulnerability. Losing my voice reminds me how fragile everything is. This project revolves around the body—its strength, fragility, and resilience. Vocal warmups, physiotherapy, and therapy keep me grounded. My instrument can’t be repaired like a machine—it demands constant care.
I see a powerful parallel between the body and mind in your work—their struggle and harmony. Your album masterfully tackles tough themes while maintaining raw intensity. How do you balance emotional vulnerability with controlled chaos?
ZANTINGH: During the writing process, I viewed the music as an environment where my story unfolds. The music feels violent because the narrative demands it. Live, we maintain precision—even through technical issues—to create space for authentic connection. On stage, I sometimes remove my earbuds to fully immerse in the chaos, trusting my bandmates to anchor me. It’s crucial to protect my hearing, but certain moments require surrender.
This album challenges how art confronts trauma. Do you grapple with creating something meaningful yet difficult to revisit repeatedly?
ZANTINGH: The Mount Erie record A Crow Looked At Me resonates deeply—it refuses to commodify grief. Similarly, this album demands presence rather than passive consumption. Art should force listeners to sit with discomfort, not romanticize pain.
GAVIN MOYA: Carrie & Lowell by Sufjan Stevens also captures grief with visceral honesty—it’s not meant for daily listening.
How do you navigate the tension between expressing trauma and performing it nightly?
ZANTINGH: It’s multifaceted—exorcising emotions while containing them creatively. I’ve learned to release expectations of how things should feel. Some days bring joy; others, stress or fear. Somatic therapy helps me sit with emotions instead of analyzing them. Trauma processing is ongoing—old wounds resurface alongside new ones. Accepting this organic evolution keeps me functional.
The album’s structure mirrors collage-like conversations. How did assemblage influence your approach?
ZANTINGH: I saw assemblage as a metaphor for self-creation—an environment shaping growth, especially for women. Using conflicting feminist voices challenged clichés. Each sample represents an object fragment, resisting completion. Some estates withheld permission, fearing militant associations, but excluding nonviolent voices skewed the record’s message. These pieces fit like puzzle fragments—complex and necessary.
Do live samples differ from the album versions?
ZANTINGH: Legal issues forced changes on three samples. Initially, we cleared nothing—I assumed no one cared. Howard Stern’s team promptly disagreed. One sample intended for the next record had to suffice here. Legal constraints shaped the final product, but we made the best of it.
How does planning the next record feel after completing such a personal statement?
ZANTINGH: We’ll follow the same intuitive process. I need solitude to write meaningfully. Good art takes time—I won’t rush unless inspired. For now, we’re touring and focusing on the present.
The full band joins mid-conversation, coffee in hand.
What made you realize this collaboration would work?
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