Carrie Abyss is an artist who builds worlds where myth, power, and lived experience collide. Drawing from her Assyrian-Armenian heritage and a sharp awareness of how women’s voices are policed, her work confronts silence, shame, and authorship head-on.
Her EP Hey, Sinner unfolds as a four-part narrative that moves through accusation, punishment, and self-reclamation, using religious imagery and ancient myth as living frameworks rather than distant symbols. Written and largely produced by Carrie herself, the project rejects obedience as salvation and instead centers survival, self-acceptance, and the refusal to disappear.
In this interview, Carrie Abyss speaks about authorship, transgenerational trauma, spiritual rebellion, and why reclaiming one’s voice can be the most radical act of all.
- Hey, Sinner unfolds like a four-chapter myth. At what moment did you realise this project wasn’t just a collection of songs but a narrative about sin, punishment and reclamation?
I finished writing all of the songs and drafting the production in one night besides Father, Forgive Me. I was struggling with misogynistic perceptions around me, the constant witch hunt that insecure men do, the blame game always ending up on women, and the fact that people always tried to credit the closest man around me for my work and production, even though I do them all myself. It was to a point where I actually thought that maybe I’m not cut out for music production.
These thoughts all came together that night and the first three songs of Hey, Sinner was born as a confirmation to myself that I can do high-quality music production and songwriting with deep narratives all on my own, without a man present. With all the things that I was feeling that night, the songs became the narrative on their own, like I was a messenger.
- Your Assyrian-Armenian background carries histories of erasure and enforced silence. How do those ancestral narratives shape the voice and defiance we hear in CARRIE ABYSS?
It is a complicated issue to be a part of a minority anywhere in the world really. Being Assyrian-Armenian is a tricky one because both of the ethnicities carry lots of pain. It is inevitable to experience transgenerational trauma when you come from a background like that.
A sense of belonging has always been non-existent for me, I’m not saying it in a “look at me I’m so traumatized” way. I’m saying it to explain my artistic perceptions. I write songs about the feeling of isolation and the grotesque realities of being a woman in this society, so basically being a minority and a woman. It inevitably affects the sound, production, lyricism, and delivery.
- In “Father, Forgive Me”, you kept only your voice after your work was taken without credit. How did transforming that violation into art reshape your sense of authorship and power?
Unfortunately, work theft is an incredibly common issue in the music industry, especially from students. I remember the first time I heard my ideas being used in the arrangement by that artist, I was furious. I said to myself “He can steal my idea but he cannot steal my voice”, that’s when I decided to keep only my voice in the production and build a song around it.
It’s empowering to know that he tried to create a replacement of my voice, my creation, but in the end it is my voice. This incident made me think, power doesn’t necessarily mean owning every aspect of a creation, but owning what cannot be replicated.
- The EP critiques a divine presence that is both omnipotent and cruel. What does “salvation” mean in the universe of Hey, Sinner and why did you resist a traditional redemption arc?
In the world of Hey, Sinner, salvation is simply survival. It’s a brutal period piece with witch hunts and mysticism, people could die from anything. Carrie seeks mercy from both humanity and divinity, but doesn’t get any answer that doesn’t harm anyone. The villagers want to sacrifice her, God is cruel, the Seraphim don’t understand human morals and emotions. In the end, there’s no choice but to give yourself to Satan, facing your own shadow self.
I rejected a traditional redemption arc for Carrie because in most religions salvation comes from submission and obedience. These traits are so far from Carrie. Satan represents understanding your own dark sides and self-acceptance in this narrative. I’m not exactly saying love all your bad habits and act on them, I’m saying choose and accept yourself first for psychological freedom. This is how I refuse to disappear in this world.
- You use myth not just as metaphor but as a living force. Which elements of Assyrian mythology and religious storytelling influenced the emotional architecture of the EP?
I was especially influenced by the daimons (demons) being fluid in the spectrum of good and evil. For instance, the demon Pazuzu is known for bringing plagues but also protecting mothers and children from Lamashtu. Rabisu are not inherently evil spirits either, they are described as forces who linger between, acting when they are called upon by a higher power.
The complexity in Assyrian mythology, demons’ abilities to harm and protect, really fascinated me about the grey areas in life in general. In Hey, Sinner, the sacred and the feared coexist. No character in this EP can be described as inherently good or evil.
- The Seraphim from Hagia Sophia appear as beings of light incapable of understanding suffering. What drew you to them, and how did they shape the musical or emotional language of “Seraphim”?
Hagia Sophia is one of the most significant religious sites in the world, and I feel incredibly fortunate to have experienced it while it was still a museum.
I first saw the Seraphim when I was 12. What drew me to them was their persistence. Despite centuries of attempts to cover them up, they resurfaced. They are divine, powerful, and indifferent.
That indifference shaped the emotional and sonic language of Seraphim. The dark, atmospheric sound reflects their divinity, while the heavy bass breaks in the choruses embody their power. It is a sonic reflection of how you feel inside your body as a human, seeing something that is not meant to be seen for the human eye. I felt this sensation when I first saw them after they resurfaced, on a smaller scale of course. The track is an attempt to translate that feeling into sound.
- Among the four tracks, which one do you feel most personally connected to and which was the most difficult or painful to create?
I think Father, Forgive Me was the most painful to create because I had to make peace with the darker places in my mind to be able to write and perform such a song. These are places I would normally avoid.
It’s an extremely vulnerable song and it represents self-acceptance at its rawest form: with all the aspects you don’t like or understand about yourself. Creating it forced me to reflect deeply on my own sense of self.
Finding an ending for the EP was really hard, because I’m not even sure I believe in a fixed “self.” That uncertainty made the process complicated, but also necessary.
- “Sacrifice” portrays the violence of the mob—historical and modern. What parallels did you see between ancient witch-hunt logic and the ways marginalised voices are targeted today?
It is really interesting that throughout different centuries, this act of violence is still coming from the same logic: collective fear and looking for someone/something to blame and punish.
Sacrifice came to life because of the incels that slut-shamed me that time. They tried to blame me for anything that was going wrong in their lives even when I wasn’t even included in it and praised their male friends for the same behaviour. A woman’s existence is a provocation for these kinds of people. A woman being open about her sexuality, loud, or even visible is a threat to these people.
The setting changes but the logic stays the same: dehumanize, isolate, shame, punish, and oppress.
- Your work merges political urgency with spiritual rebellion. How do you navigate critiquing the structures that shaped you while still acknowledging their emotional weight?
I believe these two concepts go hand in hand, power has always disguised itself as God. Religion and patriarchy are structures we are born into, we learn how to act and what to feel from these structures. Especially for women, we learn how to become invisible.
Hey, Sinner is a story where spirituality is reclaimed from power and returned to the individual. I acknowledge the emotional weight through the storytelling and the sound of the EP. The main aim of Hey, Sinner is to shift what is considered sacred: away from obedience and silence towards self-acceptance.
- Now that Hey, Sinner confronts shame, judgment, and divine authority, what unanswered questions or themes do you feel compelled to explore next?
I am now in the process of producing my debut album. In the album, I will be exploring sexual and psychological violence, with the feelings and concepts that come after it like denial, ego, self-hatred, cruelty, disassociation, and guilt. It is not easy-listening but it’s my most complicated and nuanced work so far. I believe it’s important to talk about these topics. This is the reason I created the character Carrie Abyss.
