SPOTLIGHT: TYGERMYLK

Photo Credit: Rob / Head Drop

Meet TYGERMYLK and tune into their debut album “Local Girl, Always Tired”

Local Girl, Always Tired feels like both a reclamation of identity. What does this album represent to you personally after ten years in the making?

While friends fulfilled dreams of getting married and having babies, I got divorced, came out as nonbinary, and birthed an album. It’s been a real labour of love, the culmination of everything I’ve learned, both in life and through producing music.

You’ve described the title track as inspired by overhearing a conversation in a hotel lobby. What about the phrase “Local Girl, Always Tired” struck you enough to turn it into the album’s emotional centrepiece?

This girl was asked, “If you ever make the headlines, what would your headline say about you?” She sighed and said, “Local girl, always tired.” My band thought it was such an iconic, funny, and deeply relatable response that it became an in-joke that if anyone was feeling a bit run down, we’d say, “Oh, I’m a bit Local Girl today.” It encapsulates not just physical tiredness, but emotional and existential too. I really do hope she got that job.

The album was shaped by experiences of love, loss, illness, and advocacy. How did you manage to balance such heavy subject matter with the warmth and humour that still run through your songwriting?

I think sometimes the only way to get through things is to find what’s funny about them, or at least to find the love in them. Humour has always been a survival mechanism for me. The wise mother RuPaul once said, “You can look at the darkness, but don’t stare.” I try to do that - to acknowledge the hard stuff, but not live there permanently. Even in grief or exhaustion, there can be beauty, absurdity, and tenderness.

“Local Girl, Always Tired” captures that aching feeling of being stuck somewhere that doesn’t align with who you are. How did returning to your hometown during the pandemic influence your understanding of self and belonging?

It made me feel disassociated, lost, and like I’d failed. I kept buying things online for a home I didn’t have, and my dad was so cross with me for filling the garage with random stuff! But music has always been my grounding force, it’s where I find myself again. Writing helped me process those feelings of being stuck, and it reminded me that belonging isn’t about place, it's more about the people you surround yourself with and I eventually found the right ones.

Chronic illness is a central thread in your story. How has living with ME/CFS and POTS influenced the way you approach both creativity and self-care as an artist?

So much of chronic illness is about energy management - knowing when to rest and when to seize the moment. I’ve had to learn patience and flexibility. Creativity doesn’t always arrive when my body’s ready for it, so I’ve learned to honour both. When energy comes, I treat it like a rare and precious thing, I never take the good days for granted. At the same time, I’m learning to be gentle with myself on the bad ones.

On “Beast,” you confront internalised shame and the feeling of being unlovable. What did writing that song teach you about compassion toward yourself?

That song was incredibly cathartic to write. It feels like an animal howling at the moon, almost primal. It taught me that sometimes healing isn’t quiet or pretty. I still have days where I feel unlovable, but I now understand that came from being around the wrong kinds of people. “Beast” helped me recognise that narrative for what it was: a story I was told, not a truth I have to carry forever.

“Emergency Contact” is deeply moving, as you open with your father’s voicemail and build into a sonic storm. What was it like to transform such personal grief into art?

I made notes of vignettes and memories, fragments of who he was and the emotional fallout of losing him, and tried to express them not just in lyrics but through how I produced the song. The week he died, a massive oak tree fell on the powerlines by their house, and the power went out. The song builds and builds like a storm to a very abrupt ending - like that oak falling, or the shock of loss itself. I even pitched my voice down for a backing vocal, and it accidentally sounded a bit like his which is pretty haunting.

You’ve mentioned your father’s passing gave new meaning to “Babe III.” How has that song evolved for you emotionally since it was written?

A couple of months before he died, he came to stay and record backing vocals for it. The song was originally written for his father, my granddad, exploring my grief for him through nostalgic childhood memories. I'm still brought to tears when I hear the "dad choir".

Across the record, your lyrics explore queerness, gender, and freedom, particularly in “Confetti.” How has embracing your identity reshaped your art and the way you tell stories?

Before releasing my debut single “What God Would Keep Us Apart”, I was terrified. It was about my first girlfriend, and sharing it felt like coming out all over again. But over the years, my self-acceptance has grown, and I’ve realised how powerful it is to live and create authentically, not just for myself, but for others who might see themselves in my music.

Collaboration seems to play a big role in this record, from your work with Laura Reznek on “The Deverills” to your father’s vocals on “Babe III.” What did these collaborations bring to the album’s emotional texture?

A lot of joy. What a gift it is to make music with people I love.

You’ve spoken about advocating for LGBTQIA+ rights and disability inclusion. How do you see activism and artistry intersecting in your work?

I run a community interest company called Queer Ass Folk that specifically platforms LGBTQIA+ artists. It’s funny because, to me, I’m just doing my job and being myself but as a disabled, queer, and gender-nonconforming person in today’s political climate, that in itself feels radical. Activism and artistry aren’t separate for me, they come from the same place.

As someone who has performed everywhere from Glastonbury to London’s Southbank, how do live shows help you reconnect with the vulnerability that defines your writing?

When I’m on stage, I try to get out of my head and be openhearted, I can't always control what's going to come out of my mouth in the in-between chat so what you get is probably the most vulnerable side of me.

The album’s sound moves between playful indie-pop and cathartic balladry. How intentional was that balance between light and dark?

When choosing which songs to include, I wanted to take the listener on a full emotional journey - not just the heavy moments but the levity that makes them bearable. It opens with a song about humiliation and heartbreak and ends on a song about growth with all of the messy stuff that has made up my life in between.

After years of busking, setbacks, and resilience, what advice would you give to emerging artists who feel “tired” but still dream big?

Comparison is the thief of joy and everyone's timelines are different. Don't feel shamed into hiding your disability and always ask for and sometimes demand the accommodations you need.

With Local Girl, Always Tired finally out in the world, what does the next chapter look like for TYGERMYLK both musically and personally?

I’m going to take my van and chase a bit of winter sun, record a few demos while I’m away. After that, I’ve got a busy spring–summer of festivals and Queer Ass Folk shows.

Listen to “Local Girl, Always Tired” here.