Neko Case Is Not Nostalgic, but Her New Memoir Is All About Growing Up

Case’s stunning new book doesn’t follow the typical music memoir path; instead, she told Jezebel, it’s “more about the feeling of creativity.”

By Kurt Suchman | February 10, 2025 | 1:39pm

Photo: Grand Central Publishing, Emily Shur Entertainment Music

Neko Case Is Not Nostalgic, but Her New Memoir Is All About Growing Up

Neko Case was always a storyteller, even if her stories were often not autobiographical. The singer is known as a member of the Canadian power-pop heroes The New Pornographers—and also for her acclaimed solo albums.

Throughout Case’s 30-year career in music, she’s made herself into many characters and spun myriad tales from varying perspectives; her songs often contain as much detail and prose as some novels. Take her point of view as a sage narrator on the song “Margaret vs. Pauline” off of her breakout album Fox Confessor Brings the Flood, comparing the lives of the privileged, “cool side of satin” Pauline to the tragic Margaret who “lost three fingers at the cannery.” On her next album, Middle Cyclone, Case reifies her passion as a vengeful tornado tearing through a country town on “This Tornado Loves You.”

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It is no surprise then that Case is just as adept an author when the focus is on herself. Her new memoir, The Harder I Fight, the More I Love You, started as a project in the early days of the pandemic for an alternative stream of income when the future of the economy—and especially that of the music industry—looked bleak. Instead of the novel she intended to write, her publisher expressed interest in Case revealing a previously unseen, more-intimate side.

If you are expecting the same old music memoir from Case, The Harder I Fight…, much like its author, does not capitulate to anyone’s expectations. It is not a play-by-play about writing and recording her albums; rather, it’s a look into the events that make Case both the person and artist we adore today. The chill of growing up in the Pacific Northwest’s wet winters is palpable in her writing, as is the pain of growing up with poisonous family dynamics—including the story of when her mother faked her own death. Music and Case’s own determination are the common threads she holds onto, and she manages to pull herself out of the grief in the end.

Despite the heaviness of her memoir, Case was warm and witty when we met on Zoom earlier this winter. We discussed her writing process, her upcoming album, and her work on an upcoming (and until recently, secret) Thelma & Louise musical due to open in 2026.

The memoir is stunning. It’s such a good read. I ate it up in like, two days. How did this get started?

I didn’t intend to write a memoir at first. I was approached by Grand Central to write a book, but I wanted to write fiction. Then they suggested I do this first, saying “We’ll pay you for your own stories.” I figured I needed the work, it was early in the pandemic, so they got to me. I hadn’t considered writing a memoir before, but I wasn’t upset about it or anything. Obviously, it worked out.

You were publishing on Substack for a bit—more day-in-the-life stuff that I assume fed into writing a memoir. What did you get out of writing the memoir that you didn’t usually get out of your songwriting or your Substack?

I’m a Virgo, and I like to compartmentalize things. So it was helpful to have my memories all in one place that. I know that seems really simplistic, but writing the book felt really organizational in a very satisfying way. I mean, I was a mess with highlighter pens and Post-Its all over the apartment. Even with my Virgo obsession with organization, we Virgos are secretly really sloppy. We are just dying to be Capricorns.

At one point in the memoir, you start talking about your writing process with songwriting and how there is not one rule for it. I love the analogy of how sometimes songs take years to write, and sometimes it is like finding a $20 bill in the pocket of an old jacket. Would you say that writing this memoir was pretty similar?

It was a little bit more collaborative because I had an editor named Carrie Frey, who’s also a really great writer. But sometimes it’s hard; I’m not a person who loves talking about myself. Carrie made it more fun, and when I would get stuck, she had great prompts, she helped me remember a lot more than I think I would have if I had just written it on my own without her input.

I think I just kind of took it for granted that everybody else must feel similarly in touch with this feral side, or everybody else must notice nature in the same detail, and then it turned out that wasn’t the case.

I imagine just having the prompts helps when you don’t really remember a story, but then some little tidbit or something makes a memory come flooding back.

If it’s like a puzzle that needs to be fixed or finished? Absolutely. But starting from scratch sometimes can be hard. Sometimes when I’m starting out I don’t know what pieces to start with, I have no idea where it’s gonna go. But then the puzzle starts, the pieces start fitting together. It’s a thrill when it comes together and seeing where it’s going, just trying to find the next piece, but then I get worried that it’s just gonna disappear if I don’t hurry up and finish it. Like my brain’s just gonna fall out and every thought I’ve ever had is just gonna completely disappear.

A lot of music memoirs are often linear in order of discography. Yours very much isn’t that. How intentional was structuring it differently?

Well, I wrote a lot more than ended up in the book, and early on, the editors said, you know, let’s focus on your younger life, based on what I had written. And I was like, OK, and I still talk about music and creativity, but I don’t specifically get into my own records, and frankly, I don’t remember a lot because I was working so hard and I was so focused on what was coming next that I didn’t get the opportunity to be present. I didn’t learn about trying to be in your body, living in the moment, until much later in my life. And I feel sad about that, but you know, your brain can only hold so much at one time, I guess that is why it is more about the feeling of creativity and the access to it more than specific memories of mine.

I think if I were to write a book specifically about the records, I would need somebody to help me research; it would have to be a collaborative thing where they asked me questions about the record. Because if I were to go from scratch, I don’t know if I would have a firm base to work from right off the bat; it would probably drive me bananas.

In both your memoir and in your songwriting, these themes of animalism and feralness come up. You write about manifesting wild horses with your imagination when you were little, or biting the heads off of fleas when your childhood home got infested. Was that something that you were always aware of, or was that a theme that came up more while you were writing the memoir?

Well, I always knew it was there, but I didn’t have a language to name it. I think I just kind of took it for granted that everybody else must feel similarly in touch with this feral side, or everybody else must notice nature in the same detail, and then it turned out that wasn’t the case. I have better ways to describe it now than I did then. But it’s totally hooked into me; it’s like learning to speak your first language and all of your first sensations are linked there. It’s like all the nerves that run through your spinal column, they’re together. So I don’t really know it any other way, but I’m glad I noticed everything that way.

You’ve said most of your songs are not necessarily autobiographical, it’s a lot of storytelling and taking bits and pieces from a bunch of different things. What was that like compared to writing a memoir, where you had to take a very firmly Neko standpoint?

It is really fun in a different kind of way, trying to remember things and embellish things. Not making them false, but remembering the details and embroidering them to build a story. It helped me remember a lot. Songs are written more in the moment, whereas this takes a lot more thought. There were times when I would just kind of go into writing and, let it be prose, and, you know, still say what I thought was true, but I could be a little more fanciful about it.

It’s funny that it was more fun, in a way, to write my memoir, where a lot of people would assume that you can’t take that much creativity in something like that.

Before the memoir, you did the Wild Creatures compilation and the Gladiator Mule reissue of your entire solo discography. Do you feel like you’re in a very nostalgic or retrospective headspace recently?

No, because I’m working on a lot of things at once, and they’re all very forward. The stories just came naturally along with the process. I just finished a record, so that feels very much in the now. I just finished mastering it this week, and then I’m working on a musical, which hopefully will be out in 2026. I work too much to feel nostalgic, and I’m kind of in this weird phase where I’m coming out of perimenopause, and I’m losing the fog of perimenopause, and I can think and articulate myself better again. It really sucked, but now I appreciate having the ability to be able to articulate things that I think again. I want to write fiction and continue writing songs. And, you know, working on the musical has been a master class in songwriting, so it would be foolish to just squander that. Not that feeling nostalgic means that you can’t be doing those things. I’m just too much on the move now.

I do want to get back to the musical in a second. But because you mentioned perimenopause, did you read Miranda July’s new book All Fours?

No, not yet. I’m very excited to read it.

I did a road trip over the summer and listened to the audiobook. I think I listened to it twice; it was just so good. And I’m turning 30, so before this book, I’d never even heard the word perimenopause.

Well, that’s kind of one of the sad things about our culture, how few people acknowledge perimenopause.

Women have been told to just not talk about it, and it’s actually a really cool thing. It’s super painful but also really changes you psychologically. It is like second adolescence, and it’s really interesting.

Men go through andropause too, which is when your testosterone goes down and it’s a very similar thing, but so many men don’t even know it exists. My partner has gone through andropause, and he’s like, “Oh God, it’s so much easier to cry now.” I didn’t know about it either until a man told me, and I just thought, wouldn’t it be cool if men got to know that about themselves too? Like if we looked at ourselves like we were an amazing episode of the show Planet Earth or something and we learn these amazing things about ourselves as a species. We might like ourselves more.

That is funny you say second adolescence, because I’ve been saying the exact same thing about turning 30. People are always saying how old they feel turning 30, and I feel younger than ever.

Man, I was just a baby at 30. Thirty into 40, you have the most acumen you’ve ever had. Now you get to use it, and you get to test out being an adult, which is fun and unpredictable, but also every phase is painful, in a good way. Congratulations on 30. It’s a really good year.

Well, now I’m really looking forward to it. Thank you. OK, now I want to touch on this Broadway musical you’re working on. I’m sure you probably can’t reveal too much about it,

The producers just told me I can say it: It’s Thelma and Louise. We’ve been working on it for seven years, so it’s exciting to finally talk about it. Callie Khouri, who wrote the screenplay for Thelma and Louise, is writing the musical with so much of the backstory of these women. I know more about Thelma and Louise than I know about myself, I really can’t wait. I am just so proud of everything all the collaborators have done to make it so good.

Did you ever consider that you were ever going to write music for Broadway? There’s not even a mention of musical theater in the book.

I never really had the opportunity to find out if I liked it, which I’m sure I would have. I have a new appreciation for Broadway performers, though. Nobody works harder, I’m so in awe of them. People like to deride musical theater, they think it’s lame, but it is really grueling work.

I too was snotty about theater at one point, but only because I didn’t know what the fuck I was talking about, and I was just being a dick. To still show up every day, from workshops to constant rehearsals, they care so much about getting it right, they always need to bring themselves 1,000%. I cannot say enough about their dedication.

You talk about your insecurities in your memoir a lot and often through your recordings. There is a passage about recording your live album The Tigers Have Spoken, and this part where you talk about listening back to it and finally being proud of your music. Was this a turning point for you?

Well, I think the fact that the Sadies were the band made me feel that confidence because they’re kind of a sure thing, they’re just such good musicians. They’re just so fully formed, and I felt very supported. I don’t know that I always carried that confidence forward 100% but it definitely helped. Once you look around and you’re surrounded by people who you really admire, and then you realize, wait, I am a part of your group too. I have to be good enough, they’re hanging around with me.

You write about disliking your voice because you didn’t think it had power when you were first starting out. I always listened to your music being like, wow, her voice is so strong. And all these reviews will always talk about you and your powerhouse voice. Did that change anything, or do you still think that your voice doesn’t have power?

Well, it’s got volume. I can be very loud, I have huge lungs. But vocal power, I think, comes from range, and my range is OK, I have decent range, but I was comparing myself to people like Shirley Bassey, so of course, I wasn’t feeling satisfied. And that’s what you get when you compare yourself to other people too. It’s just never satisfying, yeah? But it’s got its own thing, though, it’s got a lot of resonance to it. It’s very nasal. It’s got a very strong vibration to it. Yeah, it’s hard to describe what a voice is like, but you know, after learning about things like Bulgarian harmony singing more recently, I felt like I finally understood where I would fit.

I’m obsessed with the phenomenon of how women tend to try to sing pretty without even thinking about it. There are women who don’t, obviously, or who use their voice more as a character. You know people like Nina Hagen who aren’t afraid to just make ugly sounds? PJ Harvey will do that too. I really appreciate them for doing that, because I don’t know if I would think about that if it wasn’t for them.

With the record I just made, I tried to be more of a character than trying to sing “pretty” because I like strength more. I like to have different colors to put in, and that’s what a big range is like. If I could have anything, I would have a nice low voice, like how Cat Power has that beautiful low voice that sounds like beautiful charcoal drawings. It almost sounds like caramel to me, but I just don’t have that. So I have to be happy with what I can do.