The group is nowhere near as tight as we thought
When a member of a close circle dies by suicide, the silence left behind asks hard questions about how well we truly know one another. For Australian alt-country artist Shane Nicholson, the 2019 death of his friend and fellow musician Glen Hannah became both a wound and a compass, orienting his eleventh album, Living In Colour, toward the difficult work of genuine connection. Recorded largely in solitude during pandemic lockdowns, the record holds two truths at once: that friendship must be actively tended, and that the world beyond those friendships grows harder to trust.
- The sudden suicide of a close friend shattered the illusion of a tight-knit group, forcing Nicholson and his circle to confront how little they had truly been checking in on one another.
- Pandemic isolation compounded the reckoning — Nicholson built the album alone in stolen hours, his drummer sending percussion tracks by email from the Blue Mountains, the distance folding into the music itself.
- The album pushes against the protective distance of metaphor, with Nicholson writing more directly about love, loss, and friendship than he ever has before.
- A growing cynicism runs alongside the emotional opening — songs take aim at shock jocks, dog-whistle politicians, and a music industry that rewards formula over lived experience.
- Out of grief, a deliberate new practice emerged: Nicholson and his friends now actively check in on each other, replacing the unspoken codes of suburban Brisbane masculinity with something more honest.
- Living In Colour releases August 20, carrying both the warmth of deepened bonds and the cold knowledge of how quickly those bonds can break.
In May 2019, Glen Hannah — musician, producer, and member of a circle of friends who believed themselves close — died by suicide. For Shane Nicholson, the shock was not only grief but disorientation. "We thought we were a tightly-knit group," he says, "and then you think holy shit, the group is nowhere near as tight as we thought." That rupture became the seed of his eleventh album, Living In Colour, due August 20.
The record was made under unusual conditions. Pandemic restrictions kept his band apart, so Nicholson built it largely alone — early mornings, late nights, between production work for other artists. His drummer sent percussion tracks by email from the Blue Mountains. The solitude shaped the sound: intimate, like someone speaking into the dark.
Hannah's death pushed Nicholson's songwriting toward greater directness. Where he once relied on metaphor as cover, Living In Colour reaches for something more exposed. The album is about friendship and love, but it also carries the weight of a man watching the world with mounting unease. Songs like Home Burns Down and This Is War confront political dog-whistling, while How To Write A Song skewers an industry that prizes manufactured hits over genuine experience.
Two currents run through the record without resolving. One is a softening — parenthood, deeper friendships, a willingness to feel. The other is a hardening cynicism that drives him inward, toward the studio as refuge. They coexist, unreconciled.
What changed most concretely is how Nicholson and his friends treat each other now. Checking in — really asking how someone is — has become deliberate rather than assumed. Growing up in suburban Brisbane, he says, you didn't make that kind of call. That is changing. Living In Colour documents the shift: the warmth of tending to bonds, and the clear-eyed knowledge of how fragile they have always been.
In May 2019, Glen Hannah took his own life. Hannah was a musician and producer, part of a circle of friends who thought they knew each other well. Shane Nicholson, the alt-country artist and producer, was among those left reeling. The shock of it—the sudden absence of someone they believed they were close to—forced a reckoning. "We thought we were a tightly-knit group and then when a member of your tight-knit group commits suicide, you think holy shit, the group is nowhere near as tight as we thought," Nicholson says. That rupture became the seed from which his new album, Living In Colour, grew.
The record is Nicholson's 11th, and it arrives on August 20 after being delayed by the pandemic. He recorded it during lockdown, stealing hours in the early morning or late at night between producing work for other artists. His band couldn't gather in a studio, so Nicholson built the album largely alone, with his drummer Josh Schuberth sending percussion tracks by email from the Blue Mountains. The isolation of the process seeped into the music itself—there's an intimacy there, a quality of someone speaking into the dark.
Hannah's death catalyzed something deeper in Nicholson's songwriting. He has always aimed for honesty in his records, but Living In Colour marks a shift toward directness, away from the protective cover of metaphor. The album is fundamentally about friendship and love, but it's also the work of a middle-aged man watching the world with increasing skepticism. Songs like Home Burns Down and This Is War take aim at shock jocks and politicians deploying dog-whistle tactics. How To Write A Song critiques the modern music industry's obsession with Nashville workshops and radio-friendly formulas, where artists chase hits manufactured by professional songwriters rather than mining their own experience.
What makes the record distinctive is the tension running through it. Nicholson describes two narratives unfolding simultaneously in his life. One is the softening that comes with age—valuing friendships more deeply, becoming a parent, allowing himself to feel. The other is a growing cynicism, a despair at the state of things that pushes him toward the studio, toward a kind of hermitage where the world outside doesn't intrude. These currents don't resolve into neat harmony. They coexist, pulling in opposite directions.
Hannah's death changed how Nicholson and his friends relate to each other. What was once unspoken—checking in, asking how someone really is—has become deliberate practice. Growing up in suburban Brisbane, Nicholson says, you didn't call your mates to ask if they were okay. That's shifting now, at least in his circle. The album reflects this new priority, this recognition that tightness requires attention, that friendship is something you have to actively tend. Living In Colour documents that shift, capturing both the warmth of deepening connection and the cold clarity of knowing how fragile those bonds can be.
Citações Notáveis
We thought we were a tightly-knit group and then when a member of your tight-knit group commits suicide, you think holy shit, the group is nowhere near as tight as we thought.— Shane Nicholson
Since that's happened it's been a real catalyst for checking in more and drawing tighter.— Shane Nicholson
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
When you say the group wasn't as tight as you thought, what does that mean exactly? Did people not know Glen was struggling?
I think it means we weren't checking in the way we should have been. We assumed closeness without actually maintaining it. You can be in the same circle for years and still miss what someone's going through.
And the album became a way to process that?
More than that—it became a commitment. The songs are about friendship, yes, but they're also about deciding to show up differently. To be less guarded. That's the real work.
You mention becoming more cynical at the same time you're becoming more open. How do those coexist?
They shouldn't, logically. But they do. You soften toward the people close to you while hardening against everything else. The world feels more broken, so you protect what matters more fiercely.
The song about Nashville songwriting workshops—that's a pretty direct critique of your own industry.
It had to be. There's a real pressure to make music a certain way, to chase radio play through formula. I wanted to name that, to say there's another path.
Did making the album alone during lockdown change how honest you could be?
Absolutely. There's no one in the room to soften things for. You're just you and the songs. That isolation became the sound.