After two decades writing music, Mulubinba/Newcastle-based singer-songwriter Farrelly is sharing his music with the world. His self-titled debut album is packed with powerful tunes that explore the human condition and society’s injustices. I recently caught up with Farrelly to chat about the album, how it came together when the world shut down, and how he plans to bring it to people around the globe.
You’ve been writing songs for your self-titled album for the last 20 years. Why do you think it’s taken so long to release it?
Honestly? A mix of things. Imposter syndrome played a role — this feeling like I hadn’t earned the right to take up musical space. Life, work, other obligations filled the gaps. But truthfully, it just never felt like the right time until it did. Lockdown stripped everything back. It gave me a moment of clarity where I realised if I didn’t do this now, I might never. That urgency cut through all the excuses.
How do you think your writing has evolved over that time?
When I’m writing now, if something sounds a bit uncomfortable, if it feels a little too naked — that’s where I go. Once upon a time, I would’ve written around something and called it poetic, but really it was a facade. It made the songs sound clever but hollow. These days, if the lyric makes me wince a little or feel exposed, I know I’m onto something real.
This album really came together over the lockdown periods. What was it like putting together an album during that strange time?
It was disorienting, cathartic, and quietly liberating. There was this sense of pause, globally. And in that quiet, I felt a loud call to finally give these songs a home. With so much noise in the world, it felt like the only meaningful response was to make something that cut through it — something honest.
How important was music for you during the pandemic?
It was the outlet. But more than that, it was the method of reflection. Interestingly, I turned to the piano during lockdown. The weight of the keys and the rawness of the sound just felt like the right medium to express what I couldn’t say any other way. It allowed a slower, more contemplative approach. It grounded me.
You grew up in Apsley (Jandwadjali), which is a quiet rural area in Victoria, but you now live in Newcastle (Mulubinba). That’s a real change of pace. How has it impacted your music?
Apsley has this brutal honesty to it. It’s raw. Rural life doesn’t pretend to be anything it’s not. And that honesty sticks with you. Funny enough, Nick Cave was born not far from there, and when I saw The Proposition I remember thinking, “Ah, so it scarred him too.”
I lived in Melbourne for 20 years — the lights, the buzz, the burnout. But moving to Newcastle changed something. It’s gritty but creative, working-class with a strong artistic undercurrent. It feels like Apsley and Melbourne collided. That’s the backdrop for this album.
You recently launched your album at the Hamilton Station Hotel. What was it like to play it for people in your adopted hometown?
It was electric. There’s always that internal fear that maybe no one will come, or worse — that they will and it won’t land. But when we played “Shadows,” something changed in the room. People were holding their breath. I know because I was holding mine. Newcastle crowds don’t fake it. When you get their attention, it’s real. It felt like connection in its purest form.
“Sign of the Times” and “Indignation” are some of the amazing protest songs from this album. What issues are firing you up at the moment?
There are too many to name. Sometimes it feels like the entire system is designed to overwhelm us with injustice. Even before we get to anything local, the sheer emotional fatigue of Trump-era politics is exhausting. But here at home, I’m gut-punched every time I see Australians slipping into homelessness — people who did everything asked of them, followed all the rules, and still lost.
That’s what “Heroes of the Day” is about. It’s for the people who did the heavy lifting while those in power hoarded the rewards. Our youth are inheriting a harsher world: more expensive, more unequal, and far more hostile thanks to human-made climate change. I write because it helps me process. I sing because I feel I have to try.
There’s a real authentic Australian feel to your album, but the opening track “Somewhere in Uvalde” was actually inspired by an American school shooting. What was it about that event that made you want to write that song?
I get asked this one a lot. In fact, I’ve had audience members come up after shows and ask if I lost a relative in the Uvalde shooting. I hadn’t. But when I was recording in the studio, the news broke. Normally, I don’t give much attention to US domestic issues — I’ve always believed that’s their business. But then I saw Ted Littleford’s cartoon. A dog sitting joyfully in front of a door, waiting for children who would never return.
It broke me.
I sobbed uncontrollably. And I couldn’t stop. That one image said more than any speech, policy, or outrage post ever could. That dog would sit there forever, unable to make sense of the absence. And that’s where the true heartbreak lies — in not being able to understand. Understand what happened, and understand how can it be allowed to keep happening. I wanted to honour that beautiful, tragic brilliance with a song.
When Matt from Lodge Productions, a UK based animation artist created the clip, and I watched it for the first time I sobbed all over again. I know every note of that track. But seeing it paired with that imagery made it hit all over again. That’s when I knew we had done it justice.
As a side note, I was at school and had a teacher whose parents were killed in the Port Arthur massacre. That kind of violence and grief casts long shadows and stays with you. Maybe the cartoon triggered something– I honestly can’t say.
Your album sees you playing around with rock, folk, punk, and blues sounds. What musicians influenced your sound?
Nick Cave, for sure — both musically and emotionally. The Pogues gave me permission to be messy and lyrical. Nirvana taught me that vulnerability could roar. Arcade Fire’s theatricality, The Smiths’ melodic melancholy, and The Cure’s dark pop sensibilities all crept in.
And then there’s Paul Kelly — not just the protest songs, but the voice-as-truth-teller ethos. I’ve had people describe my sound as “Paul Kelly/Dylan being molested by Depeche Mode,” which is disturbing and oddly accurate. What unites all those influences is that none of them were trying to be perfect. They were trying to be honest.
I also owe a lot to the band I played with. Gareth Hudson (producer and lead guitar), Mick Rippon on bass, and the horn section added new dimensions that lifted my songs into something I never could have created alone. They shaped the sound every bit as much as I did.
Now that this album is out after such a long gestation period, what’s next for Farrelly?
I want to show off the album — take it around Australia. It seems to be getting a bit of love in Europe too, and strangely in Brazil. Honestly that would be a dream come true. I’ll be in Ireland this September and I’m planning to perform there. And then? Back to the studio for album #2. The next batch of songs is already forming a line in my head. I don’t intend to wait another 20 years.
Farrelly’s self-titled debut album is out now on all the major streaming platforms. You can also purchase a digital copy from his Bandcamp page. Make sure you follow him on Instagram or Facebook to learn about Farrelly’s shows as soon as they’re announced.
Images used with permission from Farrelly