MISS VELVET: THE ART OF REINVENTION AND SONIC FANTASY
In our exclusive interview for The Untitled Magazine, Indira Cesarine sits down with the multifaceted musician, performer, and style icon Miss Velvet to explore the journey behind her fearless artistry. From her early years backstage in New York’s opera houses and Broadway theaters, to discovering a voice forged in both grief and liberation, Miss Velvet has continuously transformed her personal experiences into powerful, genre-defying music.
Her latest release, Triptych, a three-song cinematic short set against the Mojave Desert, marries rock, soul, opera, and fashion into a bold celebration of self-love, empowerment, and storytelling. In this conversation, she reflects on the influences that shaped her, the evolution of her unique voice, the interplay between fashion and performance, and the challenges and triumphs of balancing motherhood with a demanding creative life.
With original photography by Indira Cesarine capturing the essence of her larger-than-life persona, this interview offers an intimate look at Miss Velvet’s world—a space where fantasy, music, and authenticity collide to create an unforgettable artistic experience.
What experiences or moments in your life first sparked your passion for music and performance?
From a very young age, growing up in the excitement and hustle of New York’s art and theater scene, I was surrounded by creativity. My mom ran an avant-garde production company, so I was constantly backstage, exposed to every form of performance. There was a kind of magic in watching the curtain rise—the transformation from one world to another. It was beauty, escapism, and connection all at once. As a child, that showed me that any version of yourself was possible. Fantasy could be reality, and reality could be elevated into something magical.
What stayed with me most was the camaraderie I saw backstage—the way people became a family, concentrated and joyful, all working toward creating something meaningful. Even rehearsals struck me deeply—the preparation, the discipline, the sense that something extraordinary was about to unfold.
And then, in complete contrast, I had these intimate, ordinary moments with my dad—like watching him shave in the morning while Annie Lennox blasted through the house. He would be so alive in those moments, with Walking on Broken Glass filling the air. I can still picture that CD cover with her boa, sitting in his bathroom. It was so visceral and incredibly cool. Those mornings made me realize how deeply music could shape a mood, a memory, even a family’s rhythm. Both worlds—the theater’s grand transformation and my father’s personal soundtrack—ignited my passion for music and performance.
What was life like for you as a child? Were your parents also creatives?
As a child, I truly did grow up backstage. My sister and I would be doing our homework in the wings, watching the Mark Morris Dance Company’s final dress rehearsals, or wandering through the halls of the Metropolitan Opera. We felt like Alice in Wonderland, surrounded by this magical, endless world of sound, color, and movement.
Both of my parents loved Broadway—they even produced shows like Into the Woods and Damn Yankees. So yes, in many ways, showbiz has always been in my blood. What struck me most was the balance they created: one moment, life could feel grand and larger than life inside the theater, and the next, it was the intimacy of family at home.
That energy inspired me to recreate it in my own small way. I would leave a show and immediately want to stage it at recess. I made costumes at home, printed out scripts, and soon kids from other grades wanted to join. For me, it was always about sharing as much as I could—creating these fantastical worlds even during the school day. Recess became this moment for fantasy, these little explosive blips of imagination in the middle of reality.
That same energy continues to fuel me today. It’s the ability to weave fantasy and reality together—the intimacy and the grandeur, the everyday and the theatrical. It’s something my parents modeled beautifully, and it’s something I now try to navigate and carry forward with my own family.
At 13, you experienced a profound loss that affected your musical expression. Can you tell us more about it and how that tragedy influenced not just your voice, but the way you emotionally connect to your music?
Thirteen is such a strange age—you’re no longer a child, but not quite an adult. For me, it was also the year I lost my father in a tragedy that turned my world upside down. At that age I was shy, especially with words. Singing was always easier than speaking, but grief brought emotions that felt impossible to articulate—sadness, anger, confusion, fear. Suddenly, my voice became the only place I could put them. What came out wasn’t polished or perfect. It was wild, imperfect, untamed—a kind of primal release that gave me the ability to survive something monumental.
In that period, I started hunting for music that matched the intensity of what I was feeling. I became curious about rock and roll because it felt so different from the classical music I’d grown up with. But it wasn’t just rock—I found myself drawn to orchestration, strange tones, unusual voices, anything that felt extreme and uncontained. They were wildly different forms, but what tied them together was authenticity. Each carried an honesty that resonated with me, and at 13, I desperately needed that.
Looking back now in my thirties, I realize how deeply that shaped me. When you’ve experienced great loss, it takes years to feel safe enough to even speak about it. For a long time, I held a kind of death grip on the voice I discovered then—because it had saved me. The difference now is that I don’t live in that grief every day, but I can choose to access it when I need it. That’s been the real healing: the ability to use that voice with intention, when it feels right, rather than being consumed by it.
And in that space of safety, new tones have emerged. There’s a more feminine, tender quality that’s coming forward now—one that feels like it’s finally able to step into the light and say hello. So yes, that grief-born voice will always be part of me, woven into my music forever, but now it lives alongside something softer, freer, and just as powerful.
You’ve trained in classical music and opera. How did that formal training help refine your voice and technique? How do you reconcile that training with the rock and soul influences in your music?
I trained in classical music and opera programs for many years, and I’ll always be grateful for that foundation. I’m a huge believer in technique—the same way an athlete warms up their body before competing. A vocalist’s instrument is no different. You need consistency, discipline, and ideally a coach to keep an ear on your form. I’ve always felt: if an athlete would never dream of competing without preparation, why should a singer treat their vocal muscles any differently?
That training gave me a deep toolbox to pull from. Over the years, I’ve studied with many different teachers, each offering their own methods, and I love exploring how different techniques unlock different tones and colors in my voice. I think you can hear that in my music, especially the new work that’s coming. There’s a freedom in being so prepared that you can let go. That’s when discovery happens—when you hit a note live that you’ve never sung before, and it comes through in its purest form because you know your technique will hold you.
For me, that’s the greatest gift of training: the ability to sustain the intensity night after night, and the confidence to release fully into a performance. In the old fantasy of rock and roll, it was about whiskey and a cigarette before hitting the stage. But if you want to sing three-hour shows, tour relentlessly, and pour yourself out in every performance, you need that foundation. Technique doesn’t take away the wildness—it makes it possible.
What artists would you consider your biggest influences to your sound and your style?
That’s such a great and impossible question, because influences arrive in waves. Some are constant, and others appear more strongly at certain moments in my life or during certain albums. Annie Lennox has always been there for me—not just for her voice, but for the sheer force of her expression. Tina Turner, Janis Joplin, Heart, Led Zeppelin, Carly Simon, Barbra Streisand, Carole King… each of them has carved out a space in my creative DNA.
What inspires me most is how singular they all are. Every one of those voices is unmistakable. Their careers arc like living testaments to individuality, resilience, and artistry. I’m always humbled when I listen to them. They weave in and out of my life constantly—sometimes it’s the storytelling, sometimes the aesthetics, sometimes just a single vocal phrase that stays with me. In one way or another, they’re always on my playlists, circling around me like a constellation that guides my own sound and style.
Your voice has often been described as raw and primal, channeling elements of Janis Joplin and Robert Plant. How did you discover your unique vocal style, and how did your personal experiences shape it?
First of all, I don’t take those comparisons lightly. I remember the first time someone compared me to Janis Joplin—I was playing a Saturday night residency at Rockwood Music Hall in New York, and it became this “thing.” Huffington Post even picked it up. To hear your name alongside artists you’ve idolized is humbling. At the same time, you want to honor that influence while putting your own stamp into the world.
For me, there have been moments where I’ve needed that level of primordial, almost expressionistic form—that raw scream of life. And then there are other chapters where the voice shifts, softens, evolves. That’s the beautiful thing about style—it isn’t fixed. It moves with you.
When people call my voice “unique,” I hold that close. There are many great voices out there, but “unique” is what I’ve always gravitated to when I listen to artists I admire. It’s a quality that feels genre-less and gender-less—something that carries you to a place where music feels truest, where the voice is a mirror of the artist’s life at that exact moment.
That’s what I hope to continue to do: to let my vocal expression evolve in real time with my personal life, and to invite listeners into that journey. Because the voice isn’t just sound—it’s the unfolding of experience. And when fans witness that evolution as it happens, it creates the most honest, beautiful kind of relationship between artist and audience.
How would you describe your music style, especially when blending genres like classic rock, opera, and soul? What draws you to mix these elements?
With Triptych, my latest sonic and cinematic short, the blending of genres is very intentional. Rock, opera, soul, orchestration, choir—it all comes together as a kind of nod to the vast soundscapes of the 1970s. Each project I take on with Miss Velvet is about diving fully into a world—sonically and aesthetically—that reflects that moment in time for me.
For me, blending genres is a lot like blending vintage and modern fashion. Sometimes the most unexpected pairings create the most powerful results. I find it exciting as a creator to have the confidence and freedom to ask, what would it sound and look like if I combined these things? And then to chase the answer.
Triptych became a 15-minute music film that embodies that juxtaposition. From the wardrobe to the score, it’s modern and vintage colliding in a way that feels bold, theatrical, and alive.
How do you approach blending performance art with music, and what role does storytelling play in your work?
With Triptych, the blending of performance and storytelling came from something very real. I was navigating a devastating betrayal—something so personal and all-consuming that it felt too big to hold inside. The only way I could process it was to release it into the hands of my larger-than-life counterpart, Miss Velvet. That’s how Triptych was born: a real event transformed into a fantastical world.
We filmed in the Mojave Desert, where Miss Velvet confronts the betrayer face-to-face. Through music, visuals, and performance, I could express something that in real life felt impossible to untangle. The desert became a stage, and the score became the language to face that heartbreak head-on.
As Triptych unfolded—in the film, in the music, and in my own life—it revealed itself as a full-circle story. Even after the deepest betrayal, there is still a path toward peace. There is even a way to find love for your enemy. That’s the bigger message I hope people feel: that storytelling, when paired with music, can take something unbearable and transform it into something healing, universal, and larger than ourselves.
How did relocating to Los Angeles impact your creative process and musical direction? What was the biggest shift you experienced during that transition?
We moved to Los Angeles at the height of the pandemic, and it felt like stepping into both a dream and a reset. So many musicians I admired had made that pilgrimage west, and for me it came at the exact moment I had just married the love of my life and was holding my eight-month-old baby in my arms. It was a fresh start, but one with deeper meaning—it became an incubation period for my family and for my art.
The universe has its own timing. As my first child turned one, I found out I was pregnant with my second. So “incubation” was literal for me—as a mother, as a wife, and as a woman figuring out who Miss Velvet was going to become in this next chapter. I gave myself permission to grow at my own pace, and that space opened the door to two solo albums, to launching my own label, to finally being my own boss. It also connected me with an extraordinary community of musicians, producers, choreographers, and directors who shaped the world I was building.
Living in Malibu during that time felt like being held by nature itself—the mountains meeting the sea, eagles soaring overhead, a landscape that took your breath away. That Laurel Canyon sonic spirit seeped into the music. For those years, it was exactly what I needed: safety, protection, and beauty, so that I could evolve as both an artist and a mother. And through that, another side of me revealed itself—a deeper understanding of the kind of creative I wanted to be. That was the greatest gift Los Angeles gave me.
Becoming a mother must have added new dimensions to your music. How has motherhood influenced your songwriting, performances, and the themes you explore in your music? How do you balance the demands of being a musician and a mother?
Motherhood deepened everything. It became this all-encompassing, untamed adventure—sometimes terrifying, often beautiful—that forced me to learn more about myself, my artistry, and the voice I wanted to grow into. It pushed me to sing about what I was actually living through.
Balance, of course, is never perfect. Any mother with a career knows that. But while it’s hard, it’s also profoundly powerful—because you’re showing your children, in real time, that dreams are possible. I wanted music woven into the fabric of our home the way it was when I grew up with my mother. I wanted my babies in my arms while I recorded vocals, their laughter in the background, music sewn into those early years of their lives.
During that time, another shift was happening in my voice. The tone, the style, the interplay of masculine and feminine—it was all evolving. Embracing motherhood felt like embracing Miss Velvet in a deeper way too. It was as if the character, the music, and my own life were folding into each other, and new colors of my voice were revealing themselves.
It’s not easy. Some days it feels like spinning a thousand plates. That’s why grounding myself each morning through meditation has become so important. It reminds me to give, as much as I can, 100% to both worlds—the art and the motherhood—and to honor the space in between. That space is where the real balance lives, even if it’s imperfect.
Your debut solo album, Traveler, is a big departure from your previous work. How did it feel to step into a new chapter as a solo artist, and what creative freedoms did that offer you?
Traveler was all about embracing departure. It leaned into the Laurel Canyon soundscape of where I was living at the time, with storytelling at its heart. But there were also moments of harder rock woven through it—little nods to where I had come from. That balance felt important, because the record was both a farewell to what I’d done before and a conscious step into new sonic worlds. It was me tiptoeing into unknown territory while still carrying the DNA of my past work.
Most importantly, Traveler was the moment I claimed a solo identity. I was very pregnant while making the record—the final vocal takes were done when I was nine months along. That in itself became a kind of metaphor: the music and the motherhood arriving together, entwined.
Looking back, I see that album as the catalyst for everything that followed. It was the beginning of learning how to straddle both worlds—the artist and the mother—and realizing that this balancing act is not temporary. It’s the shape of the rest of my life as a creative, and I’ve learned to embrace it wholeheartedly.
Your latest release, Triptych, explores themes of self-love, betrayal, and empowerment. Can you tell us about the inspiration behind this album and what message you hope to convey?
Triptych was born from a deeply personal place—transforming a raw wound of betrayal into cinematic catharsis through the lens of Miss Velvet. But beyond that moment of pain, the project became much larger than me. It was conceived as both a sonic and visual experience: a short film, a score, and a fashion statement all rolled into one.
At its core, Triptych is a three-part narrative of transformation—moving from confrontation, through self-love, into resolution. It’s a trilogy of emotional states set to music, unfolding over fifteen minutes like a miniature opera or rock film. From the orchestration to the choir, the wardrobe to the desert landscape, every detail was crafted to carry the listener through that journey.
The message is simple but profound: betrayal doesn’t have to define you. You can emerge from heartbreak, reclaim your power, and, perhaps most surprisingly, find love again—even for the parts of the story that once caused you pain. Triptych is proof that art can alchemize suffering into strength, and that self-love is always the foundation of healing.
The song Strut celebrates self-love and confidence. What does self-love mean to you, both as a personal philosophy and as an artist, and how do you express it through your music?
Self-love is a core philosophy for me, and in Triptych it’s expressed in the most grand and celebratory way. Strut is the second act of the film, where Miss Velvet steps onto a gold runway in the middle of the desert, surrounded by her band and a vibrant mix of humans in shades of gold, brown, and earth tones. I’m wearing a gold Gabriela Hearst suit; the dancers are in Dries Van Noten; the choir in spray-painted golden robes; the band in vintage hand-picked pieces. Together, it creates this living metaphor: life as a runway, and the act of strutting through it unapologetically.
In the story, it’s the moment after Miss Velvet has faced her enemy and won. She’s surrounded not by vengeance, but by love—by every kind of human expressing themselves in their most authentic form. It’s a scene of rock and roll wildness, freedom, and celebration, set against the stark beauty of the desert. For me, it was also a personal act of imagining myself “winning” during a time in my real life when I was navigating betrayal. Winning, in this sense, meant choosing to continue loving myself.
The suit itself carried layers of meaning: its sharp cut and power represented fire, masculinity, strength—yet the gold embodied feminine radiance, goddess energy, and the protectiveness of motherhood. Together, it became a symbol of duality, and of what self-love can look like: fierce and tender, protective and radiant all at once.
Self-love, to me, is about checking in with yourself—asking whether you’re truly showing up, giving yourself the stage and space you deserve. It’s about living with honesty and authenticity, and in doing so, extending that same dignity and respect outward, even to strangers. Without that foundation of love, nothing else makes sense.
Fashion has always been an integral part of your identity. How did your style evolve over the years, and what role does fashion play in shaping how you express yourself as an artist?
Fashion, to me, is one of the great forms of expression—saying everything without saying a word. What you put on your body each day, whether it’s tied to the mood of an album or simply the mood you wake up in, carries such significance.
With each project, I find myself immersing in the world I’m creating sonically, and the aesthetic naturally follows. There’s always a consciousness to the fashion of each Miss Velvet chapter, and I go deep down the rabbit hole in building those worlds. It inevitably spills into my day-to-day style. Even on casual days, there’s often a subtle nod to whatever Miss Velvet is embodying at that moment.
What excites me most is the element of fantasy. Fashion allows you to become whoever you want to be—for a day, for a moment, for a season. As artists, I think it’s our duty to evolve, to transform, to keep ourselves curious and on our toes. Playing with fashion keeps that energy alive. It’s one of the greatest joys: to embrace change, to let style reflect not only what we’re going through but also what we’re dreaming of.
You’ve mentioned that Triptych represents you stepping into the unknown and leaving your ego at the door. How did that mindset influence the creative process for this album?
Triptych truly began as an act of surrender—a decision to trust my gut completely and let go of ego, stepping into unfamiliar territory with nothing held back. This creative freedom allowed me to move through vulnerability and into something far larger than myself. It felt like walking into a dream I didn’t know I could inhabit.
That release of control opened a door to discovery. Without ego in the driver’s seat, every moment—whether crafting lyrics, building orchestral arrangements, curating fashion, or performing—became about truth over impression. It freed me to be experimental, fearless, and fully cinematic. Triptych became not just an album or a film, but a ceremony of transformation—for Miss Velvet and for me.
Looking back on your musical journey—from your early days performing in New York to now—what would you say has been the biggest turning point in your career?
I know this is where I’m supposed to point to one lightning-bolt moment, but my truth is different. My career has been thousands of tiny turns—rehearsal rooms, late-night lyric edits, a new tone that shows up in a warm-up, a braver outfit, a braver choice. Those micro-moments compound until, from the outside, it looks like a sudden “turning point.” From the inside, it feels like a long, patient build—and then a cosmic catapult.
That’s how it’s always worked for me: small, honest decisions stacking quietly until they tip the scale and the next chapter arrives. And I can feel one of those buildups now—the hush before the downbeat, the shift in the room before the curtain rises, the runway lights warming. So my biggest turning point? It’s the accumulation of all the little ones… and the next one that’s already on its way.
What’s next for you? Any new releases or performances we can share?
Triptych will finally be released in its full form at the end of September, after completing a beautiful festival run where it’s been honored with many awards. We needed to finish the film circuit first, so I’m especially grateful and excited to share it widely now. It will be available on YouTube and on my website, giving people the chance to experience the project in its entirety.
At the same time, I’ve just begun writing a new record, which I’m diving into layer by layer. To bridge this moment between albums, I created something called the Velvet Live Sessions. Each month, I’ll record and film about five songs live in a single day, then release them every couple of weeks in real time. It’s almost like a musical diary entry—an open window into what I’m singing, what I’m working on, and even early versions of new songs from the upcoming album.
The first Velvet Live Session will be released next month. It will include a mixture of covers I love and brand-new material in its raw, unfinished form. I wanted to share that process as it happens, to invite people into the journey of the songs as they’re born.
Photographer: Indira Cesarine @indiracesarine for @theuntitledmagazine
Talent: Miss Velvet @miss_velvet
Hair And Makeup: Kate Kats @katekatsmua
Styling: Kris Fraser @krisfashion1
Assistants: Chloe Amyx, Lucy Li
