There are artists who write songs, and then there’s BC Camplight — aka Brian Christinzio — a singular force who turns the ragged fabric of his life into spellbinding musical narratives. His new album, A Sober Conversation, is not just another chapter in his story. It is the story: one of revelation, reckoning, and release.
At once the most personal and most potent record of his career, A Sober Conversation sees Christinzio confronting the darkest corner of his past — childhood abuse — while embracing drug sobriety for the first time in two decades. It’s a strikingly open and emotionally complex body of work, one that threads themes of trauma, clarity, and growth through lush arrangements and genre-bending pop. And like the man himself, it refuses to flinch.
“There hadn’t been a time where I hadn’t been on, well, to be specific, on cocaine for about 20 years,” he says quietly, in a long and deeply candid interview. “I just woke up one day and I was like, ‘Oh shit, this is a bad route to go down.’”
The date was May 31, 2023 — his birthday. “That was the day I stopped doing drugs.”
The record, then, began with that clean break. Or perhaps more accurately, it began with the fallout. Sobriety, Christinzio soon found, doesn’t come with a soundtrack of serenity.
“You think clarity will just bring good stuff, right? But it opened up a bag of worms. All these awful memories, all these questions. I was just inundated with stuff I hadn’t dealt with in decades.”
Among those long-buried memories was the abuse he suffered as a child at a summer camp in New Jersey — a harrowing experience at the hands of a counsellor, which he’d kept hidden for over 30 years. It is this event that forms the emotional core of A Sober Conversation — not just referenced, but fully explored for the first time.
“I had spent 30 years being terrified to open that door,” he says. “I’ve opened the door. To some extent this album is what was on the other side.”
The album’s haunting opener, “The Tent,” sets the scene with brutal, beautiful precision. What begins as a low hum of synths and footsteps evolves into a pensive piano ballad before exploding into a cacophony of harmonies and tonal chaos. The title is no metaphor — this is Christinzio returning directly to the site of the trauma. The tent was real. The fear was real. And now, finally, the truth is real too.
Later on, the staggering “Rock Gently To Disorder” reinforces just how lasting those early wounds can be. “I might be owning my life, but it doesn’t mean it’s not going to hurt,” he sings. “It’s always going to hurt.”
His path to this moment has been as unpredictable as his music. After two albums in his native Philadelphia, he fled what he calls a “dead end” and relocated to Manchester — an unlikely landing spot that became his creative home.
But even across the Atlantic, peace proved elusive. There was the deportation just days before 2014’s How To Die In The North, the death of his father just before 2016’s Deportation Blues, and a complete mental breakdown that became the foundation of Shortly After Takeoff. Then came The Last Rotation Of Earth, a breakup album of such power it became his first Top 40 hit and earned plaudits from The Sunday Times (“A masterpiece”) and MOJO (“An extraordinary record”).
But critical acclaim couldn’t paper over the cracks. “I realised I was living in this perpetual childhood,” he says. “Messed up all the time, trying to free myself from responsibility and all the bad thoughts I had.” It was time to stop running.
“I thought to myself, right, I’m supposed to be this reputable artist, right? Feel the feelings and make something out of it.”
The creative spark for A Sober Conversation wasn’t about melody first — it was about confronting his truth. Unlike earlier records, where intricate chord changes and playful experimentation took the lead, this time there was a thematic bullseye.
“That’s the big difference,” he says. “I used to be hiding. It was like, ‘Let’s not talk about that, let’s put a timpani there.’ But this one, I asked myself, what’s the most honest thing I can do right now? And I went with the scariest thing.”
The result is a quasi-concept record that dares to go back to the place most people would never revisit: childhood abuse, and the years of silence that followed it. From the sound of the zip of the tent unfastening at the start of the album, every note, every lyric, is an act of reclaiming — of memory, identity, and voice.
Yet for all its emotional weight, the record isn’t grim — in fact, it’s often wry, surreal, even euphoric. Christinzio has a gift for marrying tragedy to comedy, melancholy to mischief. “I mean, there’s a song on there that sounds like ELO drunk on tequila. That’s kind of what I do,” he laughs. “If I didn’t have humour, I’d be dead.”
One such moment is the brilliantly strange “Two Legged Dog,” a twisted, theatrical stomp that threads absurdism with psychological drama.
“That one came out of nowhere,” he says. “It’s like, the whole song is me sort of reflecting on my own instability. I had this image of a dog that’s somehow standing up and walking on two legs — which obviously doesn’t make sense, but that was the point. It was about living in a body that shouldn’t be standing but somehow still is.”
The track features a standout vocal turn from Abigail Morris of The Last Dinner Party, who delivers a fiery spoken-word interjection that cuts through the track’s strange bombast.
“She’s amazing,” Christinzio beams. “I’d met her through mutual friends and I thought — this part needs a voice that sounds like it’s cracking the sky open. She nailed it in one take. I just thought, ‘Goddamn, this is special.’”
“It’s not a ‘feature’ in the sense of a duet — it’s like this presence that arrives mid-song and just completely lifts it. It took the whole thing to another level.”
Christinzio has always been known for complex, shape-shifting arrangements that span pop, prog, soul, and show tunes — sometimes in the same track. This album continues that eclecticism but with a honed sense of cohesion.
“I think it sounds more like a band record,” he explains. “There’s almost no click tracks. The performances are rawer, more real.”
Drums come courtesy of Sidonie Hand-Halford (The Orielles) and Adam Dawson, while Christinzio himself plays almost everything else. His partner, Jessica Branney, contributes backing vocals — she also played a pivotal role in his decision to quit drugs.
But when it comes to songwriting, there’s no fixed process.
“I don’t have a strict policy. I could be cleaning up my dog’s shit and a melody hits me, and I’m like, ‘Gotta go!’” he laughs. “Some songs are done in a day, some take weeks. Some start as one song and end up as another.”
He likens his songwriting to “blacking out” and waking up with something finished. “I’ll be covered in crumbs, I’ve barely moved, and I look around like — oh shit, there’s a song now.”
While A Sober Conversation documents the end of addiction, it’s also about the vacuum that sobriety can leave behind.
“Socially, my life is odd now. I’ll go through my phone — can’t call him, he’ll ask me for drugs. That guy’s definitely still using. So my circle’s changed a lot.”
Yet out of the isolation has come a different kind of connection — more stable, more supportive.
“I love my old friends, but we were all co-dependent. Ten of us doing lines in a bathroom — can’t all be weird, right? But now I’ve got this small group of mature, supportive people. That’s new to me.”
He’s also noticed something unexpected: a long-standing health anxiety that once defined much of his life has simply… disappeared.
“I don’t know why, but it’s gone. That anxiety used to be crippling. And now it’s just — not there.”
As we talk, there’s a sense that even Christinzio doesn’t fully know what A Sober Conversation will mean for him long-term.
“Did I do this as a healing thing? I don’t know yet. It still feels raw. My family’s just finding out about this stuff for the first time.”
He’s acutely aware that this isn’t a typical pop record — not in theme, nor in delivery. And yet, it might be the truest pop record of all, in the sense that every note and every word reflects a lived experience, unvarnished.
“It’s hard, but I just thought — this is what I’ve got to do. I’m not a love song guy. I’m not a party song guy. I’m on this path of trying to be a truth-teller. So what’s my ultimate truth?”
He doesn’t answer the question aloud. He doesn’t have to.
A Sober Conversation is available June 27th via Bella Union. BC Camplight tours the UK later this year.
[…] hadn’t been a time where I hadn’t been on cocaine for about 20 years,” he admitted in an interview. “I just woke up one day and I was like, ‘Oh shit, this is a bad route to go down.’” After […]