Talking to Jenny Lewis always feels less like an interview and more like wandering into a conversation already in progress—one that’s looping between jokes, confessions, grief, joy, and whatever song lyric just floated to the surface. When she calls in to talk about On the Line, she’s already laughing about how the album title started as a hashtag, a half-idea she wasn’t even sure she believed in yet. “It’s hard to encapsulate the feeling of ten or eleven songs with a title,” she says. “That’s always the last step for me.”
Eventually, though, those three words stuck. On the line became less a riddle than a prism. “There are many meanings,” Lewis explains. “When someone’s got your heart on the line. Being on the line between two versions of yourself. Being on the brink of your mortality.” Then she laughs and adds the most literal version of all: “I collect old rotary phones. I still have a landline. I’m speaking to you from it right now.” Analog clarity, both sonically and spiritually.
That sense of tension—between eras, selves, emotions—runs through the entire record. The songs feel lived-in but restless, grounded yet floating. It helps that Lewis recorded much of it at Capitol Studios, Studio B, surrounded by a band that reads like the liner notes to American rock history. Ringo Starr. Benmont Tench. Beck. Don Was. Jim Keltner. “This is the band,” she says, still sounding a little stunned. “I’ve never made a record like this before.”
For a solo artist, assembling bands is part of the joy, but this was something else entirely. “I think almost all of them have played with Bob Dylan,” she says, like she’s still processing the fact. “They’re all on your favorite rock and roll songs and you don’t even know it.” Keltner, she adds, is “the heartbeat of rock and roll,” a man whose résumé quietly hums beneath decades of records. “Just listening to them talk was fascinating. And then to have them play on your songs? Unbelievable.”
Lewis knew the only way to survive that room was preparation. “I knew my songs had to be finished before I went in,” she says. “That’s all I had control over.” After that, it was mostly about breathing through the nerves. Still, there was a shared thrill in recording live, something that doesn’t happen much anymore. “They don’t get to make records like that all the time,” she says. “It was exciting to play live in a room together.”
The record didn’t stop evolving once those sessions wrapped. Don Was helped shape the foundation, but Lewis eventually hit a wall. “I didn’t know how to finish it by myself,” she admits. Enter Beck, who stepped in not just as a collaborator but as a guide. “He really mentored the record,” she says. “We ended up recording three new songs together.” Then mixer Sean Everett took the whole thing somewhere unexpected. “We were listening to a lot of hip-hop at the time,” Lewis says, “and that informed the mix.” Live, classic performances filtered through a modern, restless lens.
The emotional core of On the Line is harder to talk about, but Lewis doesn’t dodge it. Songs like “Little White Dove” grew out of the period when her mother was dying. “I wrote it every day,” she says. “In the hospital hallways. In my car in the parking lot. Standing by her bedside.” Their relationship was complicated, but the song became a lifeline. “That song really helped me get through that period,” she says. “That’s the magic of music. I can lean on it, then put it out into the world and hope it’s of service.”
Not every song wears its weight so openly. There’s gallows humor and sharp wit throughout—“Red Bull & Hennessy,” “Party Clown,” “Wasted Youth.” When asked about themes, Lewis shrugs it off with a grin. “It’s your girl. I’m a party clown. What can I say?” She then adds, “I don’t recommend that as a cocktail recipe. It’s a song title.”
When the conversation turns to songwriting motives, Lewis doesn’t hesitate. “People ask why you write songs,” she says. “My friend said he writes songs to get the attention of a girl.” Her answer? “For revenge.” She laughs, but there’s truth under it—the way songs can sharpen memory, reframe pain, and quietly settle scores without ever naming names.
Lewis also wears her lineage proudly. She calls herself “emo as fuck” without apology, tracing that thread back to Rilo Kiley and the bands that taught her how to survive in public with your heart exposed. Lists and accolades don’t mean much to her, even when Rolling Stone names “Portions for Foxes” one of the greatest songs of the century. “Lists are lists,” she says. “But it’s cool to be on one.”
As for what comes next, Lewis stays open. Touring with Death Cab for Cutie looms, raising inevitable questions about Postal Service songs. “I defer to Ben,” she says of Ben Gibbard. “He’s always right. I call him Dad.”
Living on the line, Lewis suggests, is about narrowing choices, learning what works, and letting go of what doesn’t. The road gets smaller. The songs get sharper. And if revenge, grief, humor, and beauty all end up sharing the same phone line, well—that’s just how the call comes through.
Listen to the interview above and then check out some fun stuff below!
