Pigeon Opinion Featuring an Interview with Pick Up Goliath

The track “Black Sugar” by Pick Up Goliath is a very intense one dealing with the conflict of self-awareness and dependence. Being a part of the concept of Salt & Static, the song captures the feeling of being trapped within the vicious circle of something terrible but inevitable.

Interview with Pick Up Goliath

What personal experiences informed the depiction of addiction in “Black Sugar”?

The depiction of addiction in “Black Sugar” comes directly from lived experience. I developed a dependency on alcohol from the age of eighteen, and part of what made that difficult to confront was the environment I was in. In the UK, binge drinking culture is so normalised that the line between social behaviour and personal reliance becomes very blurred. It allowed me to rationalise things for a long time, to convince myself that what I was doing wasn’t really a problem.

At the same time, I’ve always had a highly addictive personality. That tendency doesn’t just attach itself to alcohol, it shows up in different forms, whether it’s nicotine, caffeine, sugar, or anything that offers a quick shift in state. So, the song isn’t just about one substance, it’s about that underlying pattern, the way dependency can manifest and move.

What shaped the narrative most was the full cycle of it. Recognising there might be an issue, then denying it. Trying to stop and failing repeatedly. Watching things start to fall apart. And eventually reaching a point where it became an all or nothing decision, where I had to confront it properly or lose everything. That moment of forced clarity is really at the core of the track.

I’m now six years sober, and it’s only at this distance that I feel able to speak about it openly. “Black Sugar” is part of that process. It’s not written from a place of resolution as much as reflection, and the hope is that by being honest about that experience, it connects with people who might be going through something similar, even if it presents differently in their own lives.

How do you approach writing about mental health without making it feel abstract or detached?

I can only really speak from my own experience so far, but for me it starts with honesty. The only way a story feels genuine is if it actually is genuine. That might be your own experience, told from the inside looking out, or it might be someone else’s story that you’ve connected with deeply enough to represent it from the outside looking in. Either way, that personal connection is what stops it from drifting into something abstract.

I also try to resist the urge to overwork or embellish it. When you’re dealing with mental health, the reality is already complex and intense enough. The events themselves, the thoughts, the contradictions, the behaviours, they carry their own weight. If you start stretching or fabricating things for the sake of drama, it often ends up feeling less believable, not more.

So, the approach is quite restrained in a way. Stay close to the truth, keep the language grounded, and let the substance of the experience do the work. If that connection is there, the listener will feel it without needing to be pushed.

What does the contrast between awareness and dependency mean to you in this track?

For me, that contrast is really the heart of the track. There’s a common assumption that awareness leads to control, or that if you truly understand what you’re doing, you’ll naturally stop. But that’s not how it works in reality. Awareness doesn’t mean acceptance, and dependency doesn’t mean denial. You can be fully conscious of the damage something is doing and still feel completely unable to step away from it.

That tension, between knowing and still doing, is what “Black Sugar” is built around. There’s a voice in the song that understands exactly what’s happening, that can see the pattern, the consequences, the repetition. But that awareness is constantly being overridden by the pull of the addiction itself. The seduction of intoxication, or whatever form that dependency takes, is stronger than logic in the moment.

So, it becomes less about ignorance and more about conflict. You’re not lost; you’re trapped in a cycle where clarity exists but doesn’t translate into action. That’s a much harder thing to admit, and I think it’s also a more honest reflection of how dependency actually feels when you’re in it.

How did you decide on blending metalcore aggression with cinematic and electronic textures?

Truthfully, it wasn’t a difficult decision at all, it’s just a natural collision of the things I’ve always been drawn to. I grew up loving emo, post rock, and metalcore during my time at university, and at the same time I had a much earlier foundation in orchestral and romantic period music, playing in traditional ensembles and absorbing a lot of film score work.

What’s interesting is that, on the surface, those worlds feel quite far apart, but emotionally they’re actually aiming at the same thing. Both are very expressive, very dynamic, and very focused on creating a sense of movement and weight. So, when you bring them together, it doesn’t feel forced, it feels like they’re reinforcing each other.

The aggression of metalcore gives you that raw, immediate intensity, while the cinematic and electronic elements allow you to expand the space around it, to shape atmosphere, tension, and release in a more controlled way. It becomes less about blending genres for the sake of it, and more about using the full palette available to serve the emotional direction of the track.

What role does melody play when working with such heavy emotional subject matter?

Melody is fundamental when you’re dealing with heavy, emotional subject matter. It’s what gives you nuance, the different shades and colours that allow you to express something complex without having to over-explain it lyrically. The melody carries a lot of the emotional weight, often in a way that words alone can’t.

That said, I don’t usually start with melody. I start by mapping out the harmony first. I need to understand the tonal centre of the song, where it’s moving, where the tension and release points are, and what I want the listener to feel at each stage. Once that framework is in place, the melody becomes something I can weave into that structure, rather than something that sits on top of it.

A lot of that comes down to detail in the harmony itself. Chord extensions and substitutions play a big role in shaping the emotional colour, and I’ll often lean into less familiar scales or modes to avoid things feeling too predictable. That gives the melody something more interesting to interact with and helps the overall piece feel more distinctive without drawing attention away from the core message.

So, melody isn’t just an added layer, it’s the point where the emotional intent of the harmony and the meaning of the lyrics meet and become something tangible for the listener.

How does “Black Sugar” expand or deepen the themes introduced in “Hope is a Hell of a Drug”?

“Black Sugar” doesn’t so much expand on “Hope is a Hell of a Drug” as it complements it. The intention with Salt & Static is for each track to explore a different facet of men’s mental health, rather than revisiting the same idea from multiple angles.

“Hope is a Hell of a Drug” focuses on depression and the cyclical nature of hope itself, how it can keep you trapped just as much as it can pull you forward. “Black Sugar” shifts that lens onto addiction, looking at dependency and the internal conflict that comes with it. Then you have other tracks moving into areas like grief and the complexities of fatherhood. Each one is its own self-contained perspective.

The common thread is that all of it comes from lived experience. None of these themes are abstract or hypothetical, they’re grounded in real events, real emotions, and real situations. I think that’s why the songs are connecting with people. Even though each track deals with a different subject, they all share that same level of honesty and personal investment, which ties the project together as a whole.

What makes Salt & Static feel more personal compared to your previous concept projects?

To state the obvious, it’s more personal because it’s about me. This record is drawn directly from my own experiences, and in many ways, it’s been a form of personal therapy. With previous concept projects, even when they were emotionally driven, there was still a layer of distance, a narrative framework, characters, or ideas that sat slightly outside of myself. Salt & Static removes that separation.

A big part of that has been the need to confront things head-on. Some of these experiences leave a lasting impact, and the only way to really process them is to face them honestly rather than abstracting them into something more comfortable. Writing these songs became a way of doing that, of putting those thoughts and moments into a form that I could actually examine.

There’s also something powerful in the act of sharing it. Experiences that feel overwhelming or isolating on your own often become more manageable when they’re spoken about openly. You start to realise that most people are carrying something, even if it looks different on the surface. Very few people move through life untouched by any kind of emotional or mental challenge.

So, the personal nature of the record isn’t just in the subject matter, it’s in the intent behind it. It’s not about telling a story at a distance, it’s about opening one up and allowing other people to find themselves in it.

How do you structure music when the goal is to reflect a psychological experience rather than a traditional narrative?

For this project, the approach was quite different to how I’d usually work. In this instance, I started with the lyrics, essentially writing them as poetry before any music was in place. The subject matter felt too important to compromise, so I wanted to be very deliberate with the wording and not end up reshaping ideas later just to fit a pre-existing structure.

That meant the music had to follow the lyrics, rather than the other way around. The phrasing, pacing, and emotional shifts in the words dictated how the sections evolved, where things expanded, where they pulled back, and how the dynamics unfolded. Instead of forcing everything into a conventional verse-chorus format, the structure grows more organically out of the psychological flow of the piece.

In that sense, it’s actually a more traditional method of writing, even if it’s less common in modern production. You can look at partnerships like Elton John and Bernie Taupin, where lyrics and music were developed separately but with a strong respect for the integrity of each. That mindset was important here, allowing the message to lead, and the music to serve it.

When the goal is to reflect a psychological experience, that flexibility becomes essential. You’re not trying to tell a linear story, you’re trying to mirror a state of mind, and that doesn’t always move in predictable or symmetrical ways. Letting the lyrics set the framework helps preserve that authenticity, and the music then becomes a way of shaping and amplifying what’s already there, rather than constraining it.

What was the most challenging part of translating men’s mental health into sound?

The most challenging part was doing it justice without closing it off. It’s my experience, but it isn’t a unique one. A lot of people are dealing with their own versions of the same struggles every day, even if the details look different on the surface.

That created a bit of a balancing act. I wanted the material to be honest and rooted in something real, but not so specific that it felt exclusive or inaccessible. If you lean too far into personal detail, it can unintentionally distance the listener. They start observing the story rather than finding themselves in it.

That’s why I’ve been quite selective about how much I’ve anchored the lyrics to specific events. The focus is more on the emotional states, the patterns, the internal conflicts, because those are the things that tend to translate across different people’s experiences.

So the challenge wasn’t just expressing something personal, it was shaping it in a way that leaves space for others. The goal is that someone can hear it and recognise their own situation in it, rather than feeling like they’re listening to someone else’s story from the outside.

How does running Mammoth Sound Studio influence your approach as a creator on your own projects?

Running Mammoth Sound Studio has a huge influence on how I approach my own work, mainly because it removes a lot of the usual limitations. Having that space and the tools readily available means I can explore ideas freely, follow instincts in the moment, and fully realise something without compromise.

On paper, that’s ideal, but in practice it can actually be overwhelming. When there are no constraints, the number of possible directions becomes almost endless, and that can slow the process down rather than help it. You can end up chasing options instead of committing to decisions.

That’s why I’ve come to really value working to a clear brief, even on my own projects. By defining the subject matter or the intent upfront, it narrows the focus. It gives you a framework to operate within, which makes the creative decisions more purposeful. Instead of asking “what could this be?”, you’re asking “what best serves this idea?”

So, the studio gives me the freedom to execute anything, but the discipline comes from deliberately limiting the scope at the writing stage. That balance between freedom and constraint is what allows the work to actually move forward and reach a finished state.

How do your experiences as an educator at The BRIT School shape how you think about artistic development?

Working with artists at The BRIT School has given me a clear view of what artistic development actually looks like at its earliest stages, and what tends to separate those who grow from those who plateau.

The first thing is experimentation. At that stage, it’s essential to try a lot of different approaches, styles, and processes without overthinking it. You’re not supposed to have all the answers yet. The point is to explore enough territory that you eventually land on something that feels natural and authentic to you.

The second is a refusal to become complacent. Skill development is ongoing, and in many cases, the only thing standing between where someone is and where they want to be is knowledge. Whether that’s songwriting, production, arrangement, or performance, there’s always something to refine. The artists who improve consistently are the ones who stay curious and keep pushing that boundary.

The third is developing a clear sense of identity. A unique selling point doesn’t have to be extreme or revolutionary, but it does need to be recognisable. If the immediate comparison is “this sounds like A, B, or C,” then it becomes very difficult to stand out. The goal is to reach a point where someone can identify you from what you do, not just who you resemble.

Seeing that process unfold repeatedly has reinforced that development isn’t about waiting for a breakthrough moment, it’s about building the habits and awareness that make those moments possible.

What do you want listeners to take away about addiction after hearing “Black Sugar”?

I think one of the biggest things is separating addiction from shame. There’s a real fear around admitting you’re addicted to something, because it carries this implication of weakness or a lack of control. But if control is the goal, then the first step has to be acknowledging the reality of the situation. You can’t take something back if you’re not willing to confront it.

Another important point is that addiction is rarely something you overcome in isolation. There’s a tendency to frame it as a purely individual battle, but in my experience, support is essential. You need people around you who can step in when your own strength drops, who can offer perspective, energy, and accountability when you’re struggling to find it yourself.

So, if there’s a takeaway from “Black Sugar,” it’s that confronting addiction openly is not something to be afraid of, it’s actually a crucial part of regaining control. And doing that publicly, or at least not in secrecy, can make the process far more manageable. It allows others in, and that shared support can be the difference between staying stuck and actually moving forward.

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