Baby Jane has never really been interested in staying in one emotional lane. Her world has always lived somewhere between shadowy electronic dreamscapes and the kind of emotional honesty that doesn’t ask permission to take up space. With her latest album Winter Forever, she leans fully into that duality—turning isolation into rhythm, and melancholy into movement.
The project began, as she puts it, in a colder place than where it ends.
“I set out to write an album about desolation, loneliness, and the final frontier of romantic cynicism,” she explains. But Winter Forever didn’t stay there for long. “Through the process of making the album, it gradually evolved into freedom, escapism, and a reverence for dance music.”
That shift didn’t happen all at once—it cracked open through individual songs, each one nudging the record toward something more expansive. The first, “winter 4ever,” was meant to anchor the record’s original emotional landscape. It instead became something like a thesis in contrast: “I was exploring generational apathy, trying to mirror the bottomless void in my spirit with the brutalism my soviet ancestors were surrounded with.”
But the real pivot came with “One Night in Berlin,” a track she describes as a turning point. “She decided she was going to be much more liberated and positive,” she says, almost as if the song itself made the decision for her. “Through the process of making this album I found the portal to hopefulness I had given up looking for.” It’s also the track she’s most proud of: “I think it’s close to perfect.”
If that sounds like a dramatic transformation, the making of Winter Forever wasn’t exactly serene either. Baby Jane describes the process with a kind of self-aware contradiction—creative turbulence paired with denial-fueled momentum.
“I wrote the album in denial as I was complaining about having writer’s block the whole time,” she admits. “Slowly each song took shape, but the challenge was not overthinking it.”
That tension between instinct and restraint also defines her creative partnership with producer John [Flynn], who helped shape the album’s sonic world. Their workflow is intentionally intimate and deliberately unpolished in structure. “I write the songs to a scratch beat that I make at home and then I go to his house and we finish making the production,” she says. “Then he finalizes it and mixes it while I record my vocals at home. It’s really in-house. Just the two of us from start to finish for the tracks.”
It’s not always smooth sailing. “We fight a lot, in a healthy way, about creative choices,” she adds.
Still, the friction seems to serve the music rather than fracture it. The result is a record that feels deliberately built in real time—less polished artifact, more living document of two people pushing sound into shape.
For Baby Jane, Winter Forever is also about letting go of control in favor of instinct. “I am not one of those artists that needs everything to be perfect. It’s not my place to judge the work.”
That philosophy extends to how she hopes listeners will experience the album itself—not as a collection of songs, but as a fully formed world.
“I hope that listeners feel like they are stepping into a world completely singular,” she says. “I hope they feel my heart through the lyrics and melodies and feel like this album is very much Baby Jane. As uniquely Baby Jane as it can possibly be.”
That world-building is central to everything she does, especially as she continues expanding a visual and sonic universe that already spans synth-heavy trance, synthwave, and what she describes as an emerging “angelcore” aesthetic. It’s a space populated by surrealist imagery, digital decay, and emotional extremes that never quite resolve cleanly.
Even so, beneath the stylized atmosphere is something disarmingly direct: gratitude.
“I want the world to know and feel how much I love making music,” she says. “How grateful I am for a sliver of their attention and the opportunity to share my spirit through these songs. It’s all love. Even when it’s pain, it’s honesty, its vulnerability, it’s my truest self, it’s the joy of music.”
That balance—between pain and joy, isolation and release—is the central paradox of Winter Forever. Baby Jane doesn’t resolve it so much as inhabit it, turning contradiction into structure and emotion into propulsion.
The album itself thrives in that tension: introversion meeting escapism, sadness dissolving into liberation. Or, as she frames it more simply, a transformation that happened almost without permission.
Looking ahead, Baby Jane isn’t slowing down. “I plan to start working on new music (I already have),” she says. “I am looking to do some shows in Europe and other cities in the U.S. I haven’t gone to yet, especially Chicago. Will be rolling out new visuals for this album and I am doing special DJ sets, too.”
If Winter Forever is the sound of someone finding the exit through the dancefloor, then what comes next already feels like motion—continuous, unsettled, and deliberately alive.
Winter Forever is out now, listen to it here.
Photo Credit: David Nikolic
