Jean Dawson remembers sneaking CDs from the public library long before he ever dreamed of releasing an album. Growing up between Tijuana and San Diego, the car rides with his mom’s mixtape — part Prince, part regional Mexican, part Van Halen — became the soundtracks of a border childhood. Rock A Bye Baby, Glimmer of God (Deluxe) is less a continuation than a reflection. Jean revisits his earlier world, bringing fragments of every project before it, testing what still feels true and letting go of what doesn’t.
You grew up between Tijuana and San Diego. What were you actually listening to back then, and how did it shape what you do now?
It was a mixture. My mom would give me CDs and I would also keep records from the public library because they rented them and I just wouldn’t take them back. Most of the stuff I had, I wasn’t familiar with — it was just whatever was around. This was pre-mp3, I didn’t have a computer, so whatever I got my hands on was what I listened to.
My mom learned how to speak English through rap music and Black culture. She went to school in America when she was eighteen, they sent her there to get an education. Her roommate happened to be a Black girl, and even though my mom didn’t speak English at all, this girl was taking her around everywhere. They didn’t speak the same language, but I find that communication through kindness is powerful — you see who’s your friend even if you don’t know what they’re saying.
So my mom, from a very young age, loved Michael Jackson, Prince, and the artists shaping that era, and she also had a really deep admiration for rap music as well as regional Mexican music. She was also a sort of rockera and listened to Scorpions, Van Halen, and stuff like that. The CDs she’d give me were the ones she had laying around, which is why I had a vast interpretation of music — not by choice, but by circumstance.
My mom learned how to speak English through rap music and Black culture. She went to school in America when she was eighteen, they sent her there to get an education. Her roommate happened to be a Black girl, and even though my mom didn’t speak English at all, this girl was taking her around everywhere. They didn’t speak the same language, but I find that communication through kindness is powerful — you see who’s your friend even if you don’t know what they’re saying.
So my mom, from a very young age, loved Michael Jackson, Prince, and the artists shaping that era, and she also had a really deep admiration for rap music as well as regional Mexican music. She was also a sort of rockera and listened to Scorpions, Van Halen, and stuff like that. The CDs she’d give me were the ones she had laying around, which is why I had a vast interpretation of music — not by choice, but by circumstance.
When you’re building a track, do you think about how you want people to feel?
Never. It’s a privilege that people listen to my music, so I don’t want to dictate their experience. I want the song to add to whatever they already feel, like a vitamin. If you’re sad, I don’t want to make you happy; I want you to feel that sadness in a way that helps you understand it. If you’re happy, I want the song to make you even happier. I call it the five-percent rule: I want to add that little five percent that makes it whole. That’s also why I don’t explain songs word for word. Your interpretation lives and dies with you, and that’s the most important part. If I made music just for myself, I wouldn’t release it.
“It’s a privilege that people listen to my music, so I don’t want to dictate their experience. I want the song to add to whatever they already feel, like a vitamin.”
Some songs on the new project start calm and then hit hard. Is that intentional?
It’s intentional in the sense that I follow what the song wants. You can play something in a minor key and still talk about joy. Or start quiet and end up with everyone in the room talking at the same time — sometimes that’s the best part.
White Lighter feels nostalgic but powerful at the same time. What were you exploring with it?
The production on White Lighter was fun because I’m borrowing nostalgia from an era I wasn’t alive in, around 1986. One of my favourite things to do is to preserve and mutate. My favourite music from that time — Madonna, Prince, all those records — had a certain sentiment because of the era. I like to go fishing in those sounds, uncover something that moves me, reshape it, and keep it alive. There’s a reason the drums felt that way, the piano was played that way — it all came from its moment. Even if I didn’t exist in it, I appreciate it. Part of my job is to pay homage to the people before me, alive or not, and give them a small voice through me.
You often describe your process like a conversation between instruments and feelings. How does that work in your songs?
I see it as a conversation between all the elements: the guitar, the lyrics, the voice. Sometimes everyone’s excited and talking at once — that’s the chorus, it feels bright and full. Other times you have to strip it down to just a violin and a voice so the message is clear. Not everything has to speak at the same time. And sometimes when elements overlap or interrupt each other, that chaos is beautiful too.
The original Glimmer of God came out last year and now you’ve expanded it into Rock A Bye Baby, Glimmer of God (Deluxe). What did this new phase teach you?
Glimmer of God taught me a lot more than I expected. It taught me to have patience with myself in a way that felt truthful and honest. The deluxe was a way to revisit old versions of me; not the songs, but the way my brain used to work when I made music. I wanted to include an element from every project I’ve done before and see how I could improve. It’s like those photos of generations together — the granddaughter, the mother, the grandmother. It’s an homage to what I’ve done before and a farewell to certain ideas I probably won’t use again. Where I am now is very different from where I started.
You didn’t have a network, you weren’t signed, you didn’t belong to a ‘scene’.
Yeah, nobody in my family’s ever made art — there are no painters, no sculptors, no musicians. My father’s in the military, my mother’s working at a school, my older brother’s in tech. I’m the only person in my family that’s taking time to be introspective in way that’s shared. So in a way, this album became a thank-you to God, or the universe, for letting me do this.
What would you tell someone starting from that same place?
You’ll find in your path to immortality, you’ll die many times. And also: your life is clay, it’s in your hands. I came into music with no network, no uncle at a label. I’ve been unsigned my entire career. I don’t belong to any scene. I don’t hang out with other artists much, not because I think I’m superior, but because sometimes I don’t know what I am, and I’m okay with that. The worst thing you can do is tell yourself there are rules. If you think there are, choose which ones to break, not which ones to follow. The only people who don’t make it in art are the ones who give up.
“I’m still that kid from the barrio who crossed the border to go to school, with no voice training, no classical lessons.”
You’ve recently had moments like Apple choosing New Age Crisis for the iPhone 17 Pro launch, or being part of Jordan Peele-produced film, Him, soundtrack. Did any of that change how you see your work?
Not really. I don’t care about material things. I’m just thankful people care enough to invite me into their worlds. I could be dead and the fact that I’m alive making music is already enough. My gratitude keeps growing. I’m still that kid from the barrio who crossed the border to go to school, with no voice training, no classical lessons. The fact that I get to make music, direct, collaborate with incredible musicians, and that people trust my vision — that’s more than I could ever ask for.
What do you want people to take from this new chapter?
Everything they want. If this album is a house, I want people to walk in and take whatever they need. I don’t want to die with ideas left in me. I want to give it all away while I can.
