Elijah Woods on Why His Music Has to Mean Something

Finding his voice

At first, it was just noise. Elijah Woods, once a behind-the-scenes producer and self-described tinkerer, spent much of 2020 in his basement, yelling into a microphone. The early takes fell flat. His pitch wavered. Still, he came back to it every day, testing sounds and chasing something he didn’t yet have the words for.

This was during the early stretch of the pandemic, when the world pressed pause and all that remained was what you could do on your own. For Elijah, that meant turning inward. “If I didn’t do it then,” he says, “there wouldn’t be any songs coming out. And I had no idea what I’d do next.”

The shift from producer to solo artist didn’t come as a grand reinvention. It crept in quietly, almost unnoticed, as he began writing songs that felt too personal to give away. Friends he trusted listened and said what he already half-knew: You should sing this. His first instinct was hesitation. But the moment didn’t leave room for waiting. So he stepped in, not because he felt ready, but because silence was starting to feel heavier than risk.

A different kind of artist

That’s how Elijah Woods began building what has become one of the most intentional pop careers of his generation. His music doesn’t aim to dazzle with polish or bravado. It stays instead in the emotional truths. His lyrics trace real conversations and specific people. The honesty in his songs feels unusual in the well-oiled machinery of pop, maybe because he doesn’t approach them as complete objects. “They feel like journal entries,” he says of early singles like Matthew and 24/7, 365, both drawn from specific relationships. “Even if I hear things I’d change now, I still hear the me who lived those moments.”

Every creative process reaches a point where instinct collides with overthinking. Elijah knows that tension well. He speaks openly about his tendency to fixate on details, but he also understands that no amount of post-production can save a song that lacks something real at its core. “You have to zoom out,” he says. “Sometimes when something just works, even if it’s rough, you have to take your hands off it.”

His newest single, Could You Love Me?, plays into that idea. On first listen, it’s energetic, even bright, a song that sounds like it belongs on a summer playlist. But the lyrics unravel something heavier: frustration, disappointment, a dynamic that’s gone cold. It started as a slow acoustic track, written with friends about a difficult falling out.

In the studio, Elijah reshaped it. He pitched his voice down, layered effects, spent a full month programming drums, and eventually brought in Jake Reed, a drummer known for his work on the recently released Bob Dylan biopic, to play live. “It had to move, but still carry weight. It’s a sad song, but I wanted it to feel alive.”

Balancing art and independence

This attention to both feeling and function runs through all of Elijah’s work. He doesn’t delegate much, handling the writing, producing, and distribution of his own material. That independence traces back to when he was 14, DJing high school parties under the name DJ Baseline. Back then, the draw was free drinks and a bit of chaos. But one night, after selling tank tops and walking away with $700, he realized the math: if you take the risk, you keep the reward.

It stuck. That logic has shaped not only how he makes music, but how he measures success. “When something wins, I win. When it doesn’t, that’s on me,” he says. “And I like that. I saw in my old band how quickly things fall apart when the momentum stops. So now, I own everything.”

Elijah admits that one of the hardest parts of making music is learning how to disconnect. “For a while I told myself I didn’t really have a job, that I just made music,” he says. “But that’s not true. My job is to show up, to be honest in what I write, and to live in a way that feeds the work.” That presence isn’t always easy to maintain. When everything around you starts to feel like content, whether it’s a lyric, a post, or a moment on tour, it becomes harder to separate real life from the material. The same instinct that helps him capture the right line can also make it difficult to stay grounded.

The weight of showing up

Still, it’s not all isolation. One of the most significant influences on his recent work is his connection to audiences overseas, especially in Asia. The Philippines, in particular, holds weight. “The crowd gave so much,” he says, recalling fans who sang along to obscure lyrics and held up signs with quotes from songs he had nearly forgotten. “The emotional openness, the detail, it was overwhelming in the best way.”

He returns to the region this August with his Goodbye to Sunlight tour, and will also perform at Summer Sonic in Japan. This time, he’s arriving with more intention. “Last year, I was in awe. This year, I want to meet that energy. I want to give people the best Elijah Woods concert they’ve ever seen.”

He’s opened for global acts like Niall Horan and credits those shows with helping expand his reach. But when it’s his name on the poster, something shifts. “That connection’s just deeper. People show up in custom shirts, they bring gifts, they quote lyrics from 2021. That level of care stays with you.”

Full circle

Before we wrap, I ask what he’d do if someone brought a DJ Baseline sign to a show. He doesn’t hesitate. “I’d love that. That’s my origin story. I’d probably lose it.” He pauses for a second, then smiles. “Honestly, I’d bring the DJ Baseline merch back. Give it away for free. Just for the people who remember.”

It’s an answer that captures Elijah Woods’ whole approach. Open and uncomplicated, he’s building something real with his music, piece by piece. He balances risk and reward, memory and melody, with each part his to carry.

Photography Hannah Woods

Special thanks Secret Signals