Pigeon Spins Featuring an Interview with Exzenya

Exzenya - Captivity

"Captivity" is not a heartbreak ballad — it is a chilling psychological descent into what it means to be reshaped by control.

The track opens with a haunting reinterpretation of the old American folk refrain “Down in the valley, the valley so low”. But here, it’s stripped of nostalgia and transformed into an eerie cinematic device — as if it were playing through a broken speaker in a sterile, windowless room. Hollow wind slips into the mix, evoking the disorienting silence of isolation and setting the stage for the captive’s world: fragile, unsettling, and psychologically contained.

From this ghostly beginning, Captivity unfolds into a slow, minor-key arrangement that mirrors the mechanics of conditioning. Exzenya’s vocal range moves from grounded lows to plaintive highs, embodying both surrender and resistance. Instead of glossing over vulnerability with heavy effects, she embraces grit, breath, and tonal edges, turning imperfection into expressive strength. Sparse instrumentation and cinematic layering heighten the sense of confinement while retaining the clarity and balance of major-label production.

Lyrically and thematically, Captivity pulls from trauma theory, applied behavior analysis, and the documented realities of Stockholm Syndrome. It reflects experiences known by survivors of POW camps, Holocaust imprisonment, kidnappings, and coercive relationships — where loyalty can be conditioned, freedom feels unsafe, and silence becomes survival. It goes beyond “toxic relationship” tropes to ask:

If I leave, will I die?

Can I exist without them?

If I escape, am I broken forever?

Or will I repeat the cycle again?

For fans of Billie Eilish’s cinematic minimalism, Aurora’s ethereal storytelling, Fiona Apple’s raw emotional edge, or Lana Del Rey’s dark romanticism, Captivity is an arresting experience — unsettling, thought-provoking, and impossible to ignore.

Exzenya brings together her background in psychology and communications with fearless songwriting to turn difficult truths into hauntingly beautiful soundscapes. With Captivity, she invites listeners into the uncomfortable spaces where identity is erased and then dares them to imagine breaking free.

Based in Remote, United States, Exzenya emerges as a rising indie artist with the release of her original single, "Drunk Texting." The track, which dropped on 06th May 2025, delves into a satirical yet soulful narrative inspired by a real-life incident involving her son during a chaotic Miami trip. With a blend of pop, R&B, and comedy sketch elements, Exzenya's independent imprint, Exzenya Productions, brings a raw and personal touch to her music, resonating with audiences worldwide. The final mix and master, expertly crafted by a trusted engineer, enhances the layered vocals and emotional storytelling, creating a captivating listening experience.

Interview with Exzenya

What inspired the haunting reinterpretation of the folk refrain in Captivity?

Honestly, it started as an accident — or maybe a joke. I was working on the track and realized it began immediately, without a moment to breathe before the vocals came in. So I started singing something low, just to fill that space. I was playing around in my lower register — which is pretty deep — and I sang it to my husband. It actually freaked him out. He told me, “Don’t ever do that again,” and I laughed and said, “That’s just my sexy voice, baby.” He said, “No, it’s not.”

That moment stuck with me because I could hear the creepiness in it — that hollow, eerie tone that comes from the back of the throat when you sing that low. It wasn’t just deep; it felt warped, like a twisted beckoning or a distorted thought. I realized it carried the perfect energy for Captivity — something haunting but human.

As I developed the intro, my vocal coach mentioned how cool it would sound if I added the wind blowing through it. I’d already started layering textures that felt like static, almost like an old, broken radio in a cold, empty room. So I built on that — the wind became part of the emotional landscape. Everything about that opening — the hollowness, the nostalgia, the darkness — was designed to feel like isolation, like being trapped in a windowless, doorless room that keeps one feeling trapped.

How did you translate psychological themes into cinematic soundscapes?

For me, Captivity plays like a movie in my head. I don’t just hear the song — I see it. I see the scenes, the lighting, the angles, and I build each piece of sound around that projection. It’s never still; it’s like scoring a film that’s already running in my mind.

In that movie, I see a person in a cold, concrete room — no windows, no doors, maybe a single dim light, a bucket, a tattered bed, a filthy mattress. The air feels heavy and stale. You can’t tell if it’s day or night. It’s unclear whether this person is physically trapped or if the room exists only inside their own mind. It might be a relationship, it might be a state of consciousness — either way, there’s no clear way out.

The sounds came from that environment. There’s a static-filled radio somewhere — barely working, maybe catching fragments of an AM signal — but it’s hard to tell if the person is hearing the radio or their own thoughts. That’s where the psychological layer meets the sonic one. You start to lose a sense of what’s real.

Silence became just as important as sound. The pauses, the emptiness — they mirror the control and conditioning that happen in certain relationships. Every sonic choice represents a behavioral response: tension, anticipation, dread. The cinematic scope came from treating emotion like motion — every sound had to move, not just exist. I wasn’t writing a song; I was building a psychological film score.

Which lyric or vocal moment feels the most raw and vulnerable to you?

I wouldn’t say it’s tied to one specific lyric or moment — it’s those moments themselves that felt the most raw, because they truly were. When I recorded Captivity, I’d been sick with bronchitis for months. I was on a nebulizer, which affected my throat and vocal cords, and my throat hurt constantly from coughing. I was exhausted, in pain, and barely had the strength to sing.

Those recordings came from that place of depletion — the kind of fatigue where even breathing takes effort. I was physically in the same space as the character in Captivity: trapped, weak, struggling for air. The performance wasn’t a recreation of that feeling; it was that feeling. It was both lived and performed at the same time.

What you hear in those moments isn’t just emotion — it’s the body and mind breaking down together. The exhaustion, the grit, and the feeling that you may not be in control of you own mind and body — that’s exactly what Captivity is about.

How did your background in psychology influence the songwriting?

I wouldn’t say it completely influenced it, because that wouldn’t be accurate. My academic work is rooted in psychology, behavior analysis, and forensics, and I also have extensive studies in trauma theory and conflict resolution. Captivity is built around the cycle of both reinforcement and punishment — not just one or the other. That’s how behaviors are shaped: by alternating between the two. Pain and affection can be used together to keep someone attached, and that’s the dynamic the song explores.

I’m constantly dissecting what drives people to stay in places that are unhealthy for them — emotionally, psychologically, or physically — or why they trap themselves in their own minds. When I imagine Captivity, I don’t just see it; I feel it. I feel the coldness of that room, the stillness, the weight of the air. It’s a physical reaction, not just an emotional one — like when you watch a movie and your body responds to what you’re seeing.

Every detail in that mental landscape has meaning. I ask myself: What does that dirty mattress represent? What does that broken radio signify? What does each sound say about control, despair, or resignation? That’s where my academic background comes in. It’s a constant process of analysis — looking at the scene not just as art, but as a behavioral study. Part of that comes from who I am naturally, but part of it is the training — the understanding that everything has a reason, even when not all the questions can be answered.

What was your approach to embracing grit and tonal edges in your vocals?

I leaned into the combination of my physical and mental state at the time. I’d been sick with bronchitis for months, coughing nonstop, using a nebulizer, and barely sleeping. My chest hurt, my throat was raw, and my whole body was exhausted. I didn’t fight against that — I used it. I leaned into that state of weakness and fatigue, because it mirrored the character in Captivity.

That exhaustion became the foundation for the grit in my voice. It wasn’t about making Captivity sound a certain way — it was about shaping the sound so people could feel it. I wanted the tone and texture to draw listeners into the landscape of the song — to make them feel what it’s like to be in that cold, dark, isolated room.

That physical struggle gave me the texture I needed vocally, but it also gave me emotional access to the story. Captivity is about exhaustion — physical, psychological, and emotional — and those tonal edges are the sound of that exhaustion. I wanted people not just to hear the song, but to feel it through the landscape and soundscape of sound itself.

How did you balance sparse instrumentation with emotional depth?

Silence became part of the rhythm. Sparse instrumentation forces the listener to sit in discomfort — there’s nowhere to hide emotionally. It gives weight to every sound that’s there, turning minimalism into intensity.

There’s a moment near the beginning of Captivity where you can hear me take a deep breath close to the mic, and that was intentional. It’s not just breathing; it’s a gasp — the kind you take when the air feels stale and heavy, or when you’re trying to steady yourself in a moment of fear or exhaustion. That breath is part of the story.

The silence and minimal sound design work together to create that atmosphere. The pauses give breath to the silence, and the silence, in turn, allows the sound to breathe. It turns silence into something tangible and alive — something the listener can feel and experience without even realizing it. Each moment of stillness carries its own kind of tension, the kind that lets you hear not just the song, but experience the isolating spaces between it.

What does Captivity mean to you personally and artistically?

Personally, Captivity represents a time in my life when I was trapped — not physically, but emotionally and psychologically. I’ve had unhealthy relationships before, but my ex-husband was the one who broke me down the most. We were together almost fourteen years, and we had built a whole family. He had two children from before, I had one, and we had one together. I was deeply connected to his kids, our grandchild, and his large extended family. I knew that if we ever divorced, I would lose all of that — and I did.

Toward the end, he learned how to manipulate people around me, slowly turning staff, friends, and even some family against me. He’d drop bits of information to make people question me or to make me react, and then he’d use those reactions as proof of what he’d said. He convinced others I was unstable, even crazy. I owned my business, but he was on it too, and he used that to gain influence over people there. I was harassed online, threatened through messages, and bullied publicly, which made me retreat even more. I isolated myself at home and worked alone, which is exactly what he wanted — isolation is control.

Even with all my academic background in psychology, trauma theory, and behavioral analysis, I didn’t see it happening to me until it was too late. I was being conditioned — through both reinforcement and punishment — love given and love taken away. That cycle of control is what Captivity explores. It’s about understanding how people get trapped in cycles that damage them, why they stay, and what it takes to finally break free.

Artistically, I wanted to express that entire experience through sound and lyric. Captivity became a psychological study of entrapment and dependency — not through words alone, but through the senses. The song uses silence, texture, and tone to make listeners feel the isolation, the heaviness, and the loss of autonomy. I wanted it to be immersive, like stepping into the mind of someone who can’t tell where freedom ends and control begins.

It also gave me a chance to explore a different side of my voice — my lower to mid-range. Most songs don’t leave much space for a woman’s voice that low, but Captivity did. It was the perfect setting to merge the dramatic, cinematic landscape in my mind with that deeper, more grounded tone.

The song doesn’t give any release or escape — it leaves you hanging, breathless, and gasping for air. There’s no way out, and it keeps you there, because that’s what being held captive feels like. It doesn’t let you breathe. It doesn’t let you go. And that’s exactly what I wanted the listener to experience — the isolation, the suffocation, and the ache of realizing there may be no way out.

How do you hope listeners relate to the experiences of control and confinement in the song?

I think I’ve already touched on a lot of that, but Captivity isn’t meant to just tell my story — it’s meant to reflect the stories of others. I hope people recognize their own reflections in it, but also those of others. Not just to identify, but to understand — to build empathy, sympathy, compassion, and awareness for their fellow human beings who may be suffering in silence. Sometimes the people around us are trapped in situations we can’t see, because not all forms of control are visible.

Control doesn’t always look like cruelty. My ex-husband was very good at making it look like love. He was romantic, sweet, and affectionate — and when it was good, it was amazing. Every touch, every word, every gesture felt genuine and real. That’s what made it so dangerous. That kind of control is wrapped in comfort, and that’s the hardest kind to recognize or escape.

I want listeners to feel that tension — the confusion between tenderness and harm, love and manipulation. To understand that captivity isn’t always about being locked in a room. Sometimes it’s about being locked inside someone’s idea of love, and not realizing it until you can’t breathe.

Which artists influenced the dark, cinematic atmosphere of Captivity?

I don’t know if any artist actually influenced that atmosphere — it really came from inside my own mind. The darkness in Captivity isn’t borrowed from anyone else’s work; it’s more like a nightmare you don’t wake up from. My brain just works that way. I’ve had Stephen King–type nightmares since I was a little kid — so vivid that I can see, smell, taste, and feel them. Even now, sometimes it’s hard to tell the dream from reality because of how real they feel.

I’ve always been fascinated by things that are both dark and bright — the contrast between the two. As a kid, I used to go to cemeteries with my friends and read tombstones by a lighter flame, or we’d explore abandoned mines and caves up in the hills where I grew up. That curiosity for what’s hidden, forgotten, or forbidden has always been part of me. I think that’s where the atmosphere in Captivity really comes from — that fascination with the things that go bump in the night, the things people are drawn to and afraid of at the same time.

If anything, the only artistic influence was on the vocal side. For vocal tone and phrasing, my coach and I used Olivia Rodrigo’s Vampire as one of the references to explore placement and emotional balance. But the dark cinematic world itself — that came entirely from my imagination. The atmosphere is born from the same place as my dreams: where fear, memory, and fascination all live together.

How does this track fit into the broader narrative of Story of My Life?

Captivity is track number four on Story of My Life, and it represents a major turning point in the emotional and psychological journey of the album.

The story begins with Scansion, which is about animalistic lust and desire — that primal, unfiltered attraction you’re not supposed to have, but can’t ignore. It’s that “forbidden want” that feels electric because you know you shouldn’t, which makes it even more obsessive. At first, you don’t know if the other person feels the same way, and then when you realize they do, it’s explosive — sexual, experimental, and magnetic. It’s raw human nature at its most primal and fascinating.

Then comes Regulator of My Dopamine, where that lust transforms into what feels like love. It’s when the attraction deepens, and the person becomes your entire source of joy. They fulfill every craving — emotionally, psychologically, and even chemically. They’re your height. Just thinking about them makes you smile, and it feels good in every possible way.

After that is Intermittent Love, where things start to shift, this is where confusion enters. The love starts to go wrong, but you can’t quite tell why. You start questioning yourself — “Is it them? Is it me? Did I do something wrong?” It’s where the first stages of manipulation, control, and reinforcement begin. The other person gives love, takes it away, and uses that pattern to shape your behavior without you realizing it. You start to feel responsible for the breakdown, wondering what’s wrong with you, why the magic disappeared, and if you’re somehow the cause of it. It’s disorienting and painful — that constant dance between being cherished and being diminished.

And then comes Captivity. This is where the psychological cage fully closes in. It’s when you’ve become isolated — either by your own doing or through the doing of the other person. You’re still trying to function, but everything feels like a trap. The fear of leaving — whether it’s fear of losing everything, being harmed, or just being alone — becomes stronger than the desire for freedom. You’re no longer questioning what’s happening; you’re simply enduring it.

That’s where Captivity sits in the album’s narrative. It’s the moment where love has turned into control, and freedom feels impossible. It’s not about survival anymore — it’s about conditioning, acceptance, and endurance. There’s no release, no escape. You’re there. You’re stuck.

(•)> That's all, Folks! Check out Exzenya on the Pigeon Spins Playlist