Antony Szmierek is flying high

‘We did it!” exclaims Antony Szmierek, putting down his binoculars to bear-hug me. After five minutes at Cleeve Heronry, 11 miles from his Bristol base, an attentive Szmierek has spotted a heron circling the trees, ensuring our birdspotting visit is a success. He names it “Badger”. Perhaps it’s a descendant of Ken, a stuffed 1920s heron off eBay who fronts the artwork for Szmierek’s second album, Decoding Birdsong. Since lead single ‘The Heron’ dropped, this gangly bird has become the “totem” of his artistry, plus his costume for Bristol’s Birdman contest, where people try (and fail) to fly across the harbour. 

“It’s impossible, but we were cheering people even though we know they’re going to fall,” he smiles, one day later. “I really like the idea of [conceding] to the chaos of everything. You don’t really need to control everything.” It’s similar to the metaphor in ‘Chalk’, exploring how a snooker player’s performative prized possession is “just there for comfort” and doesn’t affect the game, over a sleazy LCD Soundsystem-esque beat. Instead of trying to alter the destiny of life’s cue balls, Szmierek’s natural disposition is to follow the world’s lead, especially in the studio: “You’re always looking for a happy accident,” he says. 

We depart the heronry and grab coffee from a petrol station, accidentally mirroring his album lore. His 2025 debut Service Station at the End of the Universe unified his blend of poetry, pop and post-punk under a concept which included characters from Cleopatra to “a pound shop Geri Horner” in ‘Rafters’). If Pulp had one foot in the rave, you’d be near Szmierek’s signature shtick: expressive, vivid storytelling, narrated by his cosy Manc accent, over floaty electro-pop and house beats. A former secondary school English teacher, the 35-year-old’s relatably witty command of language means he’s equally fit to support The Streets or Getdown Services. 

Two years after debut EP Poems To Dance To (2023), Szmierek had become a Mancunian micro-celebrity. He moved to the south-west in January and though he may still get recognised – most recently by Editors frontman Tom Smith – he’s enjoying the city’s “sincerity and warmth” and community of artists, including Getdown Services and Big Special. “The holy trinity of talky-talky boys,” he jokes. “It’s the nicest group chat in music… all of us being like, ‘I hope you’re looking after yourself.’” 

Self-care is important to Szmierek, who’s admittedly sensitive. Though he’s been single for 18 months and had a messy split with an ex-manager, his experiences with loneliness take a slightly shifted form, by design of being a solo artist in this breakneck industry. “My role is different, inherently, from the rest of the [touring] band, so sometimes I sit in the front of the van because I’m overwhelmed,” he explains. “‘Aussie Gold Hunters’ is about being incredibly lonely in multiple hotel rooms. You start to become in transit, like a parcel that gets delivered everywhere. There’s also the general feeling of loneliness that everyone is going through: ‘What are we doing here?’ One thing that I’m really lucky to have is purpose.” 

Indeed, there is a blunt intent that pierces Szmierek’s music, and he knows communication is his strength. “I can be quite disarmingly sincere,” he reflects. “I’m always trying to be human and overbearingly honest.” Direct, human-to-human connection is a priority, a weapon he boasts AI will never have (“It still can’t do a northern accent, which pleases me greatly”). Whether that’s sharing a moment of being “together, alone” with people in a crowd, or embracing collaboration on Decoding Birdsong with artists like Ellur, Los Bitchos and Pretty Girl, his world view is clearly moulded by his peers. Today, he waxes lyrical about them. When he saw Florence Welch suggest in an interview that all artists live with “divine dissatisfaction”, the dots joined in his head: there are superior factors at play. 

“Even when I’m really happy, there must be a reason for this,” he urges. “Coincidence is a religion. The thing I can’t see, but I choose to believe in, even though all of the evidence points to it not being real. Decoding Birdsong is a larger version of looking to the world and trying to understand what it’s trying to tell you – and also the mistake of that. Are you just seeing what you want to hear? If you see a heron, [does it] mean that job’s gonna come in, or you should text her?”  

The album exists in that dilemma’s grey, cloudy in-between, partly shaped by Szmierek’s tendencies to wander and stare into space. Yet, of the thousands of observations he makes, only a finite number will make the album. “It’s trying to find an anchor in everyday life and make that into something as beautiful and profound as a myth,” he elaborates. “[Albums] get sewn into wax, they’re in everyone’s house, these little bits of my life.

“I won’t be here forever, and I’m always in pursuit of memories. [Collaborator] Imogen [and the Knife] says that about how I live.” A fearful Szmierek “had a panic attack in a park” when he couldn’t remember how he spent last New Year’s Eve. But through music, his anecdotes are immortalised, for a growing audience who take their own meaning from his tales. In October, he’ll headline Manchester Academy and London’s 02 Forum Kentish Town. 

“That’s [a theme of] the album as well, ‘What are the consequences of getting lucky?’” he wonders. “I don’t know how long it’ll last, but I’ve done it. There was no framework for doing this for me as a child… People say, ‘I want to play 50-cap rooms for the rest of my life and I’d be happy,’ but it’s a privilege to be like that. There’s this weird drive that comes from being working class. We’re all terrified of being one big tax bill away from being back at Mum’s spare bedroom.” 

Although he reveals elusive festival slots at End of the Road and Green Man do bug him, Szmierek is an inherent optimist. His conscious decision to err on the side of magic, not caution, flips some of “the most difficult days I’ve ever had” in 2025 into a euphoric electronic record that doesn’t compromise the reality of the emotions he felt. “[Sometimes there’s] quite shit lyrics in dance music, [because] there’s not really much else to say other than, ‘We’re all here together.’ That’s the nuance: ‘Can you say interesting things in the framework of dance music and still listen to it like a studio record?’” 

The creative flurry of ideas that makes Antony Szmierek’s lane of electronic music so layered, lyrically, is what he lives for. Spilling out ideas for album three and four today, he balances overexcitement with the spirit of the heron, biding its time to pounce on its prey. Szmierek, similarly, will await his next sign from the universe and let instinct guide his thoughts, scribbles and songs. 

“That’s the great solace, really,” he concludes. “The act of songwriting is my saving grace. I know that I’ve got this thing that makes me feel better.”  

Taken from the August/September issue of Rolling Stone UK, out now. Order your copy here.