Meet Amelia McLean: The Frowned Upon Daughter is Finding Her Voice — And It's Thunderously Quiet

Some artists arrive on the scene with a bang. Others bloom quietly, slowly—like a poem whispered into a crowded room.

Amelia McLean is the second kind.

Her upcoming debut album, Frowned Upon Daughter, out this October, isn’t just music—it’s a beautifully tangled inner monologue, a journal cracked wide open and set to keys, strings, and a voice that somehow carries both ache and clarity at once. If you haven’t heard her name yet, don’t worry—you will. Probably in the middle of the night, when the world is quiet, and her songs find their way into the parts of you that don’t usually speak up.

But let’s rewind, Amelia grew up in Jackson, Michigan, with more notebooks than friends, a piano for a companion, and an imagination that most likely kept her sane. Years of solitude shaped a kind of songwriting that feels... lived-in. Raw. Absurd, at times, because so was her upbringing. Her words don’t perform; they confess.

After escaping to Arizona, she dove headfirst into the gig world—performing every single night in private clubs and upscale hotels, earning her stripes not through viral moments or industry handouts, but repetition, hunger, and sheer will. Seven years of this, y’all. Seven.

When the industry felt too far away, she ran toward it. First Nashville—where her lyrical instincts led her straight into songwriting sessions. Then came LA, where she found her people. Justin Glasco (Paris Paloma, Brandy Clark, Rufus Wainwright) caught her fire early on, and the two began shaping her full-length debut with the help of David Levita (you’ve heard him on records from Alanis to Lana).

But this isn’t one of those polished fairy-tale industry stories. Amelia didn’t wait for a label deal or a manager to make the calls. She funded this record herself, while ping-ponging between cities, sessions, and survival jobs—chasing songs, chasing meaning, chasing that elusive moment where the work finally feels whole.

And now? It's time.

Her third single, "Velvet Glove" drops September 12, a haunting, slow-burn track that drips with femininity, fury, and restraint. It follows "Dark Days," a cinematic, indie-pop gut punch that captures grief, change, and empowerment in one staggering breath. Imagine sitting in traffic, half-crying, half-singing along, realizing you’ve grown in ways you didn’t even notice. That’s "Dark Days".

If you’re in LA, she’s playing Sofar Sounds on September 19—an intimate show that’s bound to feel like church for the emotionally observant. (Grab tickets here.)

Amelia McLean isn’t here to be anyone’s pop princess. She’s here to tell the truth. And she’s doing it in a way that’s delicate, gritty, and painfully beautiful.

Don't sleep on her.

Your album Frowned Upon Daughter feels deeply personal—was there a specific moment or experience that became the emotional catalyst for this project?

Frowned Upon Daughter is the musical culmination of the first two decades of my life—breaking away from an absurd and isolated upbringing, unraveling everything I'd known, and slowly finding my place in the real world. These songs were written over the course of about seven years, during my most fragile stretch of self-preservation. At the time, I was learning how to be out on my own with few resources, and both entranced and overwhelmed by the world I'd been sheltered from. In those days, I hadn't yet set foot in the music industry and wasn't even thinking about making an album—I simply wrote to help keep the stomach aches away. Music has always been the most accessible medium to express my most earnest truths. I consider this album my magnum opus (I can see my future self shaking her head and groaning at me for saying that!), a sort of existential purging that has allowed me to release and finally move forward creatively.

You’ve spent years performing in clubs and hotels before releasing your own music—how did those environments shape your sound and your relationship with your audience?

I'm so grateful that I got to cut my teeth playing music within the hospitality industry before stepping into the world of the entertainment business. When I would play for a dining room of people who simultaneously wanted to be entertained while also not caring about me or knowing who I am, it set a fire that still burns within me today—to engage the room, capture their ears, and earn every second of attention I get. It made me fiercely in tune with getting the pulse of a room, to pay attention to every person, and to spread my energy to the farthest back corner. I feel almost spoiled now when I get up on a regular stage where attention is guaranteed—I never want to take for granted how hard I worked to learn to perform in a way that leaves every person feeling like I was singing only to them. Not to mention, learning hours of classic American songwriter repertoire gave me the opportunity to immerse myself in the minds of some of my heroes and to stretch my muscles by arranging and interpreting bigger pieces down to a solo act. All of those nights in the corner of the club served a greater purpose in making me the musician I am today!

"Dark Days" and "Velvet Glove" both carry a quiet intensity. How do you balance vulnerability and power when you're writing or recording?

I love this question! Finding the balance in songs that are as tender as they are visceral is something I toe the line on with each song I write and record. Oftentimes, the song is in its most vulnerable state during the writing process. I try to paint with broad strokes of emotion and language—when the song is 'in process,' it feels pretty volatile. I need to get my emotion out so that by the time it gets to cutting the track in the studio, I'm able to sing from a different place—still tapping into where I was when I wrote it, without being overcome by it. Although I will say recording 'Velvet Glove' had me quietly shedding some quick tears in between takes. That one takes me to such a raw place—it still gets me sometimes!

Since most of these songs are more journalistic in nature, it feels very cathartic performing them publicly. It becomes less about how I'm feeling and more about the kind of experience I can deliver through performance. I want my music to feel more like an art exhibit of human emotion rather than any kind of personal shrine.

You worked with incredible collaborators like Justin Glasco and David Levita—how did those creative partnerships influence the final shape of the album?

Getting to work with Justin Glasco was the greatest stroke of luck I could've ever had with a debut album. I would've never predicted that I’d step foot in LA, meet someone who grew up about an hour away from me, bond over little niche Midwest things, and end up making a full-blown record together. I remember on the first day, I went into his studio bathroom and there was a fully stocked curation of tampons and pads in a basket—that pretty much sums up how intentional he in a predominantly male production world.

It was the first time I’d been in a creative space where I felt like I could walk in and not have to worry about code-switching or changing aspects of who I am for the sake of comfort. Justin jumped into each song with an acute sensitivity toward my message, my emotion, and my vision. Looking back, some of the demos I sent him were pretty rough, but he always found the direction and made space for me to explore alongside him despite my limited knowledge of his world. It helped me grow so much, and I’ll carry everything I learned from the experience into the rest of my career.

Dave Levita was another cosmic home run of sheer luck—he ended up playing on over half of the record. It honestly makes me want to cry when I think about what a gift it was to be championed by two insanely talented, passionate, deeply feminist men as I created this record in my attempts to heal publicly from harm at the hands of misogynistic, wounded, weak men. I couldn’t be more proud or thrilled to present this album to the world as my very first calling card to Amelia McLean—a frowned upon daughter who never gave up believing that life could be different, better, and more.