It may come as no surprise that Jack Antonoff — polymath collaborator with Taylor Swift, Lana Del Rey, Lorde and most recently Kendrick Lamar — thinks of his brain as a hard drive.
“Yeah, it’s full of folders,” he says, in the middle of talking about the new Christmas single from his band, Bleachers (and a long digression about Christmas songs in general). “I think of them as literally compartments in a hard drive in my brain.”
It’s an unusual perspective but one that’s certainly working for him, because there really was no other choice for a Variety Hitmakers producer of the decade than Jack Antonoff. Yes, he’s won the Grammy producer of the year award for the three consecutive years, but that’s just one indication of his dozens of culture-shifting collaborations with Taylor, Lana, Lorde and Kendrick, and also St. Vincent, Sara Bareilles, the 1975, the Chicks, and dozens more. And in a characteristically busy year that also saw him releasing and touring behind the latest album from Bleachers (the band he’s fronted for a decade), he’s collaborated on three songs in the Hitmakers 2024 top 25, including Sabrina Carpenter’s shimmering hybrid of Dolly Parton and ELO, “Please Please Please” — a song he and the singer cowrote with Hitmakers songwriter of the year Amy Allen. He also co-produced Lamar’s latest album, “GNX,” and, in a first, did the music for Sam Gold’s raucous Broadway adaptation of “Romeo and Juliet,” including the Rachel Zegler-sung single, “Man of the House.”
He also organizes the annual Shadow of the City festival in Asbury Park in his native New Jersey, and the annual Ally Coalition holiday concert, where Taylor, Lana and dozens of others have performed over the years, the latest installment of which takes place in New York on December 17.
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It’s all a long way from Antonoff’s decade-plus in the trenches, recording and touring with his rock band Steel Train. He first scored success with the one-off group Fun., which won a best new artist Grammy behind their hit “We Are Young” in 2012, and rapidly became a superstar producer thanks initially to his work on Swift’s groundbreaking “1989” album.
Universal Music’s Jennifer Knoepfle, who has been Antonoff’s longtime music publishing A&R, says, “When I started working with Jack 12 years ago, he was adamant that producing would be an important part of his story. His conviction and determination were clear, and he was extremely motivated to make it happen. What he’s achieved as a producer in a decade is certainly extraordinary, but doesn’t surprise me.”
All of that work came full circle on Saturday when he was honored as Variety’s Hitmakers producer of the decade, and was introduced by none other than Lana Del Rey (see video below).
In conversation, Antonoff is rather famously prone to digressions, many of them fascinating: An idea will spark, mid-sentence, and he’s off to the races, drawing all kinds of real-life parallels and analogies, leaving the original topic of the first half of the sentence in the rear-view mirror; similarly, sometimes a casual comment will bring forth an unexpected anecdote about Bruce Springsteen (which is why some of the more-conversational questions have been left in).
Following is an edited version of a nearly two-hour conversation in November.
Your discography, both as a producer and with Bleachers, is massive. Are you just unusually good at time management?
This question comes up a lot, but I don’t see myself as any more productive than anyone else,. In my community, probably like yours, we’re all just working all day. If you do things that you really enjoy doing, you don’t really get tired. Tiredness or sadness, for me, really comes from being somewhere I don’t want to be.
It’s a gift to be able to make a living at something that’s also your hobby. I don’t really do much else.
You know, not to give you unsolicited advice, but this is one of the great things that Bruce has said to me. I was talking about [today’s] culture, where everyone is their own weird version of a renaissance man and has a million side hustles and shoe lines and all these things, and I was feeling like I needed to do more of that. He said, “If you spend your life making albums and touring them, that’s more than enough.” It sounds like a very simple statement but it’s actually very deep, because I think he could tell that I needed someone in his shoes to say, “That’s all you need.”
Have you gotten other great advice from him?
Endless. There are certain people who they make the concept of getting older seem terrifying, like old age is a place where the scope gets more narrow. So if you are lucky enough to find people who make it seem like a wonderful place, where life actually grows and the scope gets bigger and there’s more excitement and more love and more truth, more of a journey, you hold onto them. He’s just one of those people worth believing in. Nick Cave is another perfect example — I’ve been seeing him [perform] for 20-plus years and he’s better than ever, he’s crushing it in a young person’s game. If that doesn’t make you realize what it means to be on a stage and what’s possible …
I read an interview where you compared Sabrina Carpenter to Nick Cave and Leonard Cohen. Those are not the first comparisons I would have thought of – what did you mean?
I meant when someone’s really direct with their personality, although I think the real reason is because Nick Cave and Leonard Cohen are so deeply funny, and so is she. What the three of them have in common to me is a completely seamless, effortless vacillation between the most dark and depressing [lyrics] and the absolute silliest and funniest. Leonard Cohen is literally a comedian, if you’re reading it the right way.
Lana Del Rey’s lyrics are incredibly funny.
All my favorite people are very funny. And some of them can make a sad song that is also a mirror of how, in the saddest moments of your life, there’s probably also laughter somewhere. That’s the way people actually speak and function. The internet has blurred it so that when someone broadcasts something on social media, that thought or sentiment is locked in that moment, so if someone says “I’m mad,” then they’re mad all the time. But the truth is, if you’re mad, you usually cease to be mad pretty quickly. The Beatles are another prime example that, they leave a lot of space for the vacillation of human emotions.
Sabrina is brilliant at it, where it’s like, are these songs about being alone and finding no love and no one to relate to? Or are they also about dating and roasting a bunch of men in their twenties? You choose your own ending. She’s going to be at the Hitmakers [event in Los Angeles], right?
No, she’s got commitments on the East Coast, but [her and Antonoff’s songwriting partner] Amy Allen is songwriter of the year and she’ll be there, Dan Nigro is producer of the year…
It’s not a very often-told story, but Dan and I grew up in the same [New York rock] scene in the early 2000s. There were three or four years where we played tons of shows together, like 20 or 30, when I was with Steel Train and he was with As Tall as Lions. We were really entrenched in the same role.
You’ve been a bandleader for so long, and bandleaders are usually alphas. What makes it so easy for other alphas to work with you?
The thing I love about production is I imagine it like two people flying a plane — we’re going somewhere together. And maybe my love of leading a band, when it comes to touring and corralling the whole thing onstage, kind of eases me up when I’m in the studio, you know? I have my band, so when I’m with other people, I don’t feel this need to be overly seen. I almost feel a sense of joy and well-being as someone’s co-pilot.
My least favorite type of collaborator in any situation, or even a romantic relationship, is someone who has some need in themselves that is un-figured out. So the worst thing that can happen in the studio is to have someone in that room who isn’t happy with their role — when there’s someone who’s supposed to play 10% but has something in them, whether it’s something in their personal life or whatever, where they need to be 30%. I’m not in any way calling myself egoless or easy, but I just know that the people I take that journey with, we’re locked and there’s never that rub — which is why the mythology of the Svengali [as Antonoff is sometimes described] always seems so laughable, because if there’s ever that stress in the room, I fucking walk out.
I’ve just always been this way. When I was 14, I wrote songs, I sang them, I had my band, and then I would go to my friend’s house and I’d help them with their band’s music. I didn’t sit there and say, “I’m an artist and a producer.” That’s just what I enjoyed doing.
But Taylor was the first one who asked you to produce, right?
I would say she’s actually the first person who allowed me to produce, really, because I was already doing it. The way my early collaboration with her came along was, I was making tracks and she would write all the lyrics and melodies on the track, and then we’d get together and record it. It wasn’t that deep — I made exactly what I heard. And when, in the past, where someone would say, “Now we’ll hand it off to so-and-so, who has a proven track record,” she just said, “It’s done.” I was sort of shocked — and thrilled! “She hears what I hear, cool.” She didn’t think twice. I think that’s part of the reason why we’ve had such an incredibly long and beautiful collaboration. Yeah, she really validated me.
What is it about your relationship that has made it so productive, and how do you keep it fresh?
I never know what’s gonna happen next. It’s always an off-the-cuff surprise — dinner at the house that turns into messing around in my little studio that turns into a new idea. It’s utterly organic, which is probably why it’s been so potent. Everything’s pretty spontaneous; I’ll start to bring ideas once I understand the framework of what we’re doing, which is pretty much how I work with everyone.
Would you say your career as a producer really started with [Swift’s 2014 album] “1989”?
100% Not my artistry as a producer, but my career in terms of, that door opened. An industry that didn’t recognize me as a producer started to, right then.
Did your life change?
No, but I had someone in my corner when I wanted to go out and do other things. That vote of confidence from someone who people believed in allowed them to believe in me.
How is your working relationship with Taylor or Lorde different from working with Kendrick Lamar?
Those are all stories for another day.
OK, but related to that, I think some people were surprised that you were working with him — people who don’t know that you made an album with [longtime Lamar producer] Sounwave and [rappers] Brockhampton and Kevin Abstract.
That’s one of those things where, like, the internet is surprised by something when the trail is right there. I’m always like, that’s for you guys to figure out. But — not to intentionally pivot — but I have noticed more and more when I think about that, it’s like, why does everyone need to be so understood? I have come to love all the misunderstandings about myself, and I love when fans run free with their imaginations. When you don’t know every fucking thing about what happened and how it happened, you get to write the story yourself, and it’s and it’s fucking thrilling.
Like, how amazing was it to watch the Beatles documentary [“Get Back”] and realize that almost none of what we thought was true was actually true? George was not exactly how we had him in our heads; the only one who lived up to the exact mythology was Ringo! I feel like there’s almost an epidemic of people needing to contextualize the hell out of everything, people are on this crusade to be totally honest, and I’m like, for what? Please, get it all wrong! Write your own story.
What it was like working on “Romeo and Juliet”?
[Director] Sam [Gold] is brilliant. I originally had met him briefly about something else: I wanted to get the [theatrical rights to John Hughes’ era-defining 1985 film] “The Breakfast Club” and turn it into a musical, but I couldn’t get them. So he just texted me about “Romeo and Juliet” one day and said, “I want to cast young people, and I want to be incredibly not precious about the boundaries of what can and can’t happen on Broadway. It’s not a musical but I want you to write songs.” And he just gave me this really long leash.
Why is your first big hit, Fun’s “We Are Young,” in the show?
That was Sam’s idea! I was gonna write a song for that moment, because in the original text, that’s the point when Shakespeare has the characters say, “This is all too stressful, give me a light heart” or something like that. And Sam had put that in as a joke, but everyone thought it was funny.
I took my theater-obsessed niece and we both loved the show, but I know a few people who didn’t.
It leaves utterly zero room for a passive opinion, right? I love how funny he made it. The more I worked on that show, and the more time I spent with the text, the more I feel like he was kind of trolling with his writing, sort of taking the piss out of kids. I don’t have really precious feelings about Shakespeare, so it was a perfect show for me to work on.
You and Charli xcx have toured together, she played your first-ever festival, and you’ve known each other for years, but have you ever really worked together on a project?
Well, we’re doing this soundtrack for “Mother Mary,” the David Lowery film that’s coming out next year, but yeah, that’s our first project together. We’ve had moments here and there in the studio, but Charli’s mostly just been a friend. We came up at the same time, and we’re in the same kind of generation.
Charli has an unrelenting vision of who she is: She’s been doing Charli for as long as I’ve known her and it’s been growing and growing and growing. There’s no part of her that’s gonna pander in any direction, and she’s always been like that.
How do you know when a project’s done?
You just feel it — “Oh, that’s it.” It’s very black and white to me: done / not done. And the things that aren’t done can hang around forever, right? Sometimes you finish in a day, sometimes things take years and years and years. There’s a sort of powerlessness within what we do, and it’s either something you really enjoy, or it’s the thing that makes people medicate. Because it’s really scary to have skill and a life [based around] something you can’t just sit down and do — inspiration has to happen. I’m always writing, but you go through periods where you’re really cooking, and then periods where you’re just grasping and trying things. And either you either become crushed by the powerlessness or you’re swept away by it. Everyone struggles with it in different ways.
That’s another example of where Bruce has been an amazing mentor: Helping me understand how to let this fire fucking rage, and also be able to walk away from it and just have a life, be present, do the things that seem [mundane] in comparison to that fire but are so important, like watching a movie or having dinner with someone. He’ll laugh and tell me, “You know, when I was making ‘The River’ I had this crazy anxiety and did take after take after take [of a song].” But another thing about getting older is being able to reach yourself quicker. I still can’t control the magic of the fire, but now I can hear it quicker and not hit as many trap doors when I’m trying to get to the heart of something.
Speaking of age, after all these years, do you still love touring — actually touring, not just being onstage but being on the road and everything that comes with it.
I love it. I love the movement. I love how soon the next thing is going to happen — you go to bed, then you’re gonna see everyone in the morning and do it all again. It reminds me of school — there’s something about the annoying parts of touring where because it kind of sucks, the camaraderie is better and you all can make fun of it. And it all leads to the fulfillment of the show. They’re very connected to me: The show is immediately countered by the monotony of the van or the hotel.
When you’re writing songs, do you know instantly whether they’re Bleachers songs or something you might try with someone else? Your collaborations often sound very different from each other: Bleachers songs sound totally different from your work with Taylor which sounds mostly different from your work with the 1975, which sounds totally different from “King,” the Florence & the Machine song you produced that starts off with a minute and a half of just drums, bass and vocals.
I love that song! Well, it’s pretty easy to know what is needed if you don’t have any other motivations.
What do you mean?
Like, if you just listen to people, and listen to yourself, it’s very obvious what’s meant to happen. I actually work with a very small group of people, and we tend to make lots of things together. So when I’m with Lana, it’s very obvious to me how she feels. I listen to her. I know her. I know her past —
You made a record with her dad!
Yeah, I know her family and all that. So if she’s articulating something, and we start messing around, it’s really clear, “This should be concise” or “This should be sprawling.” The easy answer is, you just kind of zero out everything else, which is easy for me to do. I don’t see the studio as a place where the rest of the world exists; I don’t see my shows as a place where the rest of world exists, and that makes it easy [to focus]. Like, with the 1975, it was so clear: “We just gotta tighten up [the songs]. That’s where you’re at.” The songs that they were playing me had a very, very clear vision.
And when Lana and I were working on her last album, it was so clear, based on where she was at. There was so much beautiful darkness, and also a sort of reverence and silliness, and it all just came together. And then as you get to know someone and the more you talk to them — or even what they don’t say. Like, have you ever sat down with someone who’s talking about their relationship and you knew what they meant, whether they were saying it or not? I try to pick up on those signals of where someone’s at.
At your Ally Coalition concert in 2018, Lana played two country songs that she said you had written together that nobody’s heard since. Has the country album that she’s been talking about for ages been in the works since that time?
I’m not really sure, because she’s always got these, like, little planes on the tarmac, and some take off, and some don’t, and some take off and circle back around. A perfect example is that second half of “A&W” [the “Shimmy-shimmy koko-pop” rapping section]. That was around for a long time, and I kept feeling like “We’ve got to finish it,” but she knew … She’s an interesting person, we make a lot of things, and they live in different periods of time, and they grow and they change. I don’t mean to give an overly esoteric answer, but she’s an artist who is completely as she seems. There’s no fucking Oz there. Most of these people are as they seem.
Who would you still like to work with that you haven’t?
I don’t really think in those terms. I don’t get inspired to work with someone until I know them. I love a lot of artists, but I don’t sit around and think, “Well, here’s what I would do.” I’m more just happy they exist. My creative thoughts get moving when I know someone, because then I know where they’re at. Like, I met Florence and we talked, then we met again, and then we went to the studio. And the things we were talking about and the experiences that she was having in her life started to become something that we could hear and play on.
Like, I would never send [an artist I don’t know] an idea — that’s so bizarre to me, to try to imagine where they’re at. I’ve never understood when someone says, “I wrote a song for so and so.” Your only knowledge of that person is the past, you don’t know where they’re at now. To me always starts with a much deeper understanding of where a person’s at, and once you see the framework, that’s when you can be like, “I think I can make something lives in the sandbox here.” With no shade to how anyone else works, I would never want someone to send me ideas.
Who are your favorite producers?
My favorite producer in the world is Sounwave, he’s a brilliant, brilliant producer. He just sees the whole picture — he’s a real producer’s producer in the most classic sense, the George Martin, true sense of standing above the whole thing and seeing all the granular stuff. He’s such a visionary when it comes to understanding the totality of a project. It’s a very rare thing nowadays.
I love George Daniel from the 1975, he’s obviously done great stuff with the band but now he’s done brilliant stuff with Charli, and he got his label now. He’s so weird the way he can sit between synthetic and organic and play with both, the way he can take the feeling of a musician and turn it into something that feels really warped and bizarre and exciting.
You are a next-level music geek — how do you have time to listen to music when you’re making so much?
I really don’t. A lot of that comes from when I was a teenager and I’d listen to music all day long. But around 16 or 17, I kind of gave up on school and was only making music — it went from a thing I was doing to all I was doing. I mean, [today] I pretty much know everything going on and could talk to you about almost any genre of music, but I guess I’m thinking of that emotional relationship of sitting with an album for a long time; that has been completely replaced by the relationship I have with what I’m working on. If I’m listening to something else, pretty quickly I’ll be like, Oh, I gotta get back to that thing.