Pinc Louds Interview: Claudi on Identity, Breakdown, and Making Magic Real

Few bands embody New York’s chaotic magic quite like Pinc Louds. Helmed by Puerto Rican-born, gender-nonconforming artist Claudi, the project has transformed from subway cult-favorite to one of the city’s most inventive acts. Their new album, You Can’t Eat the Moon and Be a Werewolf Too (Needlejuice Records), produced in part by legendary Strokes collaborator Gordon Raphael, is their most confessional and fearless work yet—equal parts punk spectacle and intimate unmasking.

We caught up with Claudi to talk about the meaning behind the album title, surviving a breakdown, and why puppets, pots, and cheese graters all belong in the same set.

BabyStep: The new album’s title, You Can’t Eat the Moon and Be a Werewolf Too, is wonderfully surreal and theatrical. What does it mean to you, and how does it frame the themes of this record?

Claudi: In a word, it’s about honesty. For the first seven years of Pinc Louds, I led a double life. On stage I was Claudi—this wild punk-rock lady with her heart on her sleeve, howling in subway stations, drinking tall-boys with strangers in the park, loving everything and everyone with inhuman intensity.

At home, I was Federico: quieter, self-conscious, a husband and father. Both were me, but I only allowed myself to feel fully alive in wig, makeup, and flowery dresses. I was a werewolf: WILD Claudi or HUMAN Federico, never both.

The problem was, each transformation into Claudi made Federico shrink. I wouldn’t even acknowledge people I’d met as Claudi if I ran into them as Federico. That’s no way to connect. And that’s where the title comes from—you can’t eat the moon and be a werewolf too. You can’t fully love people if you can’t fully let them in.

BabyStep: You’ve described the album as coming out of a mental breakdown and a period of stepping away from music. How did that experience shape both the sound and emotional honesty of these songs?

Claudi: Well, this whole werewolf / Claudi crisis set everything up for a nightmare year of soul-searching while simultaneously learning to become a father and figuring out how to survive in NYC without being Claudi. How could I go back to making music and performing without her? After so many years of building a career based on her personality, her image, her voice… how could I come out now as my little old self and face the people who had come to love her? What would they say? Did they only like me because of her? Would I lose everything? That’s how I ended up in the psych ward at Bellevue.

When I got out I wanted nothing to do with art. I wanted to be a “normal” person with a “normal” job. So I started applying at supermarkets, which is the only job I felt I could get with my lack of college education and job experience. But when I got denied by Trader Joe’s, I began to sink again. There was a part of me that wanted to play music but I didn’t want the pressure of what people would think of my new songs. So I started learning some Daniel Johnston tunes that I’d always loved. Diving into his words and music was a spiritual awakening. His songs can be so simple and yet they are some of the most powerful I know. And THAT was a revelation.

Suddenly all the fear was gone. I realized that if I was honest and true, it didn’t matter what people thought of my new songs. If I allowed myself to jump off the edge and say everything, I’d be free. Once you jump you can’t turn back. So that’s what I did. I wrote the very intense and confessional “Quotidien” and “Apple Crumble” in the same breath that week and then the other songs started pouring out soon after.

When I decided to play in front of people again, I did it as myself. I stopped wearing the wig. I grew a beard. I’m still a performer and an actor and I still like to dress up and wear makeup at times, but I’m not protected (or crushed) by that “character” anymore. In the end, Federico became more like Claudi and Claudi became more like Federico. And maybe that’s less magical, but sometimes the truth can be more powerful than any magic. In the words of Daniel Johnston: “She said I was a real loser. But at least I'm real.”

BabyStep: Pinc Louds’ live shows are famous for their puppets, theatrics, and participatory chaos. How do you balance that sense of play and spectacle with the heavier themes of identity, disillusionment, and vulnerability in this record?

Claudi: To play, as in “like a child,” is to let one’s guard down. I feel that when we get people participating in a show—letting out their hate on a giant inflatable eyeball or banging on miniature pots and pans during a song, for example—they become more open to receiving what the songs are about. The audience stops being an observer. They are a part of the music now. Nothing I sing about is completely alien to anyone. So there’s a good chance that if you let yourself go, you will find something in the song that you can connect with.

The puppets that Jamie McGann and Madison Berg make are absolutely beautiful works of art. But they also have this childlike aesthetic that invites people to engage with them. They are scary and friendly at the same time; expertly crafted, yet pure, as if made by a giant 6-year-old. You are in awe of the artistry but you still want to touch them and play with them. And once you do, your heart opens up a little more and you experience the songs more fully.

BabyStep: Working with Gordon Raphael, who helped shape The Strokes’ sound, must’ve been its own adventure. How did his approach in the studio impact the textures and energy of You Can’t Eat the Moon and Be a Werewolf Too?

Claudi: Gordon was wonderful to work with. He was in the studio with us for the four songs we put out as singles. Because he lives in the UK, the rest were recorded either in my kitchen or at Tall Juan’s Atlantico Studios in the Rockaways. Then Gordon mixed the whole album from his home.

We talked a lot before the recording sessions and throughout the whole mixing process and he was very sensitive to my vision for each song. My musical and technical vocabulary is extremely limited so I would use images and feelings to describe what I was looking for and he would pick up on it quickly.

Many of the sounds and instruments on the record are not your typical rock band sounds. There’s trash can lids, tap dancing, marimbas, gargling, table thumping, cheese graters, cheap old Yamahas and drops from a faucet, to name a few—and Gordon knew exactly how to mic and/or mix all these things in order to bring out the best and clearest sound from them all.

BabyStep: You started out playing in subways and parks, creating this magical underground community. Now that Pinc Louds are on the verge of a bigger breakthrough, how do you hold onto that sense of intimacy and weirdness that defines your music?

Claudi: I’ve never been able to do anything I don’t want to do. It’s a flaw and a strength, I guess. Sometimes I’ll write a song that doesn’t feel true and maybe we’ll even play it live with the band a few times, but if it doesn’t make me feel anything, we’ll abandon it after a week or so. I just can’t do it. The songs aren’t necessarily always “weird” but they always have to move something inside me. Some kind of magic I can’t put my finger on.

In terms of live shows, I definitely prefer playing in parks or gardens, at ground level, where I can look people in the face and feel their energy. When we play at venues, sometimes the audience is too far away or the lights are too bright for me to see people well. And that frustrates the hell out of me. Usually, if I feel I’m getting too disconnected from the audience, I’ll stop—sometimes in the middle of a song—and sit down, focus on someone, ask them about their day, have a short conversation. This way I remember that I’m actually HERE, with other humans, and that all we want is for this to be the best day possible. Whether that’s by us all feeling extreme sadness and then working our way up to catharsis or by losing our mind dancing or feeling inspired or just by making a new friend. What matters is that the show made this a better day because we felt something real.

It isn’t necessarily true, but generally I believe that if I can’t feel something during the show, no one else can either. So I try to keep myself grounded and in the moment even if we’re playing in front of 500 people or whatever. If I need to ask the audience to jump up and down with me for a full minute or have everyone belt out their ugliest laugh in order to get to that “in the moment” place, then I’ll do it. If I can’t feel things during a show, it’s not worth it to me. And if I wanted to feel those things on my own, I’d just stay in my bedroom. So I always try my best to bring everyone along with me on that emotional journey.