Q&A: Meet Sybil Creek: Cassie Collins’ New Solo Identity Takes Shape with “Time, Anyway”
INTERVIEW
INTERVIEW
☆ BY JOY VILLANUEVA ☆
Photo by Alex Senior
CASSIE COLLINS HAS BEEN A FIXTURE — in the Boston and Denver DIY music scenes for years, formerly as a member of indie-punk band Vinyl Courier. But her new solo project, Sybil Creek, marks a fresh chapter—one that trades raw grit for a dreamier, more expansive sound.
Her debut single, “Time, Anyway,” is a strong introduction. The song captures the feeling of missed chances and the quiet ache of watching time move on without you. With its fuzzy guitars and layered, shoegaze-inspired production, it feels like it could’ve come straight off a 2000s indie movie soundtrack—in the best way possible.
With Sybil Creek, Collins leans into a more atmospheric, emotional style of songwriting without losing the DIY spirit that shaped her earlier work.
Read on for Luna’s interview with Sybil Creek about the transition from band life to a solo project, the inspiration behind “Time, Anyway,” and where the project is headed next.
Photo by Alex Senior
LUNA: “Time, Anyway” feels like a soft unraveling of grief and acceptance. What was the emotional spark or moment that led you to write it?
SYBIL CREEK: Two years ago, I was going through a really deep mental health episode, and around that time, I actually had vocal cord surgery, and it left me feeling completely lost—like I didn’t have an identity anymore. For about a year, I was just incredibly anxious. I kind of turned into a recluse. I remember watching the world around me continue to move, especially being surrounded by other musicians and artists. I saw their lives changing and evolving because they were taking action—they weren’t afraid to take risks and put themselves out there.
Meanwhile, I felt like I had no place doing the same because I had lost my identity as a singer. I remember so clearly—about a year into that period of doing nothing—just feeling absolutely heartbroken, sad, and disappointed in myself. I’d look in the mirror and notice how much I’d changed physically, how everything around me had shifted. Everyone else's lives looked so different, but I still felt exactly the same.
I wish I had a clearer answer for why I felt that way, but it’s one of those things where I just got struck with this overwhelming realization: I can’t live like this anymore. I missed art. I missed expressing myself. That afternoon, I ended up writing the entire first draft of this song—just pouring everything out—because I was finally ready for something to change.
LUNA: How did your time in the Denver and Boston DIY scenes shape the way you approach songwriting and production as Sybil Creek?
SYBIL CREEK: I would definitely say Boston was much more influential for me than Denver—though I don’t want to discredit Denver either. It was still really valuable. I think the best part of being in Denver was just learning how to be loud—literally—and figuring out how to play in a band. That part was so much fun and really foundational for me.
The DIY scene in Boston, though, is one of the most transformative, beautiful, and community-oriented spaces I’ve ever been part of. It’s incredibly welcoming and accepting. What really inspired me—kind of going back to the theme of time and transition—is how much of a college town Boston is. Everything and everyone feels very temporary, very in-motion. Of course, there are those incredible people who hold the whole scene down and are deeply rooted in the community, but for the most part, people are constantly coming and going. Because of that, you get this huge mix of musical styles, influences, and sounds flowing through the city.
I really felt embraced by that community. There were so many people just doing whatever the hell they wanted to do—expressing themselves in the most honest, unapologetic ways. That’s what I love most about DIY in general. Unfortunately, once you start scaling up—whether it’s to bigger venues or just playing for larger crowds—you lose a bit of that deep connection. Playing in Boston kind of forced me to let go of my ego. It came crashing and burning down—but in a good way. It helped me grow, become more community-minded, more open to others' ideas, and more focused on support and collaboration.
Honestly, everything I do now is because I’ve been helped, inspired, and lifted up by so many amazing musicians. That sense of shared growth and mutual care is what keeps me grounded.
Photo by Alex Senior
LUNA: You’ve moved from the grunge-inspired sound of Vinyl Courier to something much dreamier and atmospheric. What pushed you toward that sonic shift?
SYBIL CREEK: Part of it, I think, just came with age and evolving taste. When I was younger, I was totally obsessed with making noise. I started playing music when I was around 15 or 16, and I was so full of life—so full of teen angst, honestly. I was just completely into the idea of making as much noise as possible, pushing boundaries, being chaotic in the best way. It was exciting.
But over time, I realized that a lot of that noise I was creating was kind of like a coat—it was covering up this much deeper, more sensitive side of me. At the time, I was channeling all that energy into things like angry music and girl power anthems, and yeah, f*ck the world! And while all of those things were—and still are—true to me in many ways, I started to understand that there were also more personal, more complex emotions tied up in all of it.
Back then, I equated loudness and angst with strength—like, if I could be loud and intense, I could say what I wanted without actually getting hurt. It felt like a way to be vulnerable without being truly intimate. But as I kept writing and reflecting, I realized that what I really needed was to go deeper. I needed to create something more chill, more songwriter-driven, more emotionally honest—because that’s what actually helped me process things.
It’s kind of like when you have a fight with someone and you're screaming and yelling, but then later, when you're alone, you realize: Wait...I’m actually just really sad and hurt. And all you want to do is write ten pages in your journal to unpack it. This newer sound of mine—it feels like that. Like I’m streamlining the screaming-to-journal pipeline. It’s more honest. It’s what I needed.
LUNA: The title “Time, Anyway” suggests a kind of resignation or inevitability. What does time mean to you right now, both as an artist and a person?
SYBIL CREEK: Graduating college has made me realize just how finite everything is—and how fast it all goes. I know people say that all the time, but it’s one of those things you don’t truly understand until you start experiencing it yourself. And right now, I’m definitely feeling intimidated by time. I’m intimidated by how much of it I supposedly have ahead of me—and also by how quickly it’s going to pass.
But working on this song actually helped shift my mindset a bit. It’s given me some optimism to just take the time I have and go for it. Not to sound too corny, but the whole idea I keep returning to is: time will pass anyway. That’s kind of become my mantra through this whole process.
From an artist's standpoint, especially in relation to music, one of the reasons I love it so much is because a song can capture a moment so clearly—it becomes this snapshot of what you were feeling at a specific time. Whether it’s a song you wrote or one you were listening to, it holds that emotional timestamp. Like, even now, I can hear a song that was my favorite in seventh grade, and suddenly I’m right back there—remembering when the boy at theater rehearsal kissed another girl in the hallway. That was my “party 4 u” moment.
But at the same time, as more time passes and you gain space to process things, those same songs—or any art, really—can take on new meaning. You can add new layers of understanding to something you already loved, whether you created it or just consumed it.
LUNA: Your music has this blurred, emotional grayness. How do you translate something so intangible into sound?
SYBIL CREEK: Honestly, 90% of the beautiful sonic excellence you’re hearing is thanks to my producer, Cameron Woody. She is a wizard. I don’t even know how to explain it—she sees exactly what I want and brings it to life. I have to give her all the credit first, because she’s the one who made all those beautiful, fuzzy layers come together so seamlessly.
From a songwriting standpoint, I’ve always been super emotionally driven by the guitar as an instrument. For this song specifically, I just kept playing the same riff that’s in the verse—over and over and over. That’s usually how it starts for me. Coming up with melodies and arrangements on guitar is how I can start bringing the emotions together—sometimes more than I can with just lyrics or melody alone.
There’s just so much you can do with guitar—like crafting harmonies or experimenting with different rhythms. I see arranging as a tool to express emotion just as much as, if not more than, lyrics. Usually the lyrics come later. But with this song—and with other songs I’ve been working on—it’s really about building harmonies on top of guitar. You can tweak and fine-tune things until one specific chord or moment hits with a certain emotional weight.
And again, I work with such insanely talented instrumentalists and producers who know how to sing through their instruments. Being in a room with them, where we can just sit, reflect, and feel the same thing together—that’s what helps pull all those weird, unclear, fuzzy, gross emotions into something cohesive.
LUNA: Were there any specific artists, films, or personal memories that influenced the soundscape of “Time, Anyway?”
SYBIL CREEK: Around the time I was working on this, I was listening to Dora Jar’s record on repeat—like nonstop that September. She’s been a big influence for me because I think she really explores more interesting sonic ideas, just pushing things in ways that feel so bold and exciting.
I’m also a huge fan of Slow Pulp. So much of their music captures that kind of emotional wallowing—like a touch of self-pity, but in such a beautifully poetic way. I think there’s something really special about how they lament and reflect through sound.
And not to turn this into a plug—but honestly, my roommate has been a huge inspiration too. She’s my best friend and just happens to be an incredible musician. She was going through her own sonic shift at the same time I was—she used to make R&B music, and now she's in full-on rockstar mode. Watching her transform and fully step into her new sound made me feel braver about pushing my own musical boundaries.
More than anything else, I’m constantly inspired by the musicians I’m surrounded by—the people around me, the ones I share space with and create alongside.
Photo by Alex Senior
LUNA: What was the biggest challenge in stepping into a solo project after being part of a band?
SYBIL CREEK: With the solo project, my favorite part of doing solo work was also my biggest challenge: being solely responsible for the creative vision at the end of the day.
It was tough for me, honestly. I’m a Virgo—I love making things perfect and paying attention to every little detail. And when I was in a band, there was always compromise, you know? You bounce ideas off each other, and that’s part of the fun. But going solo, as freeing as it is to have full creative control, it also means you don’t have anyone else to fall back on when you get stuck.
Sometimes, I struggle to find the right words or tools to explain what I want sonically. And if something doesn’t sound right, or if I’m unhappy with how something turns out, I really only have myself to answer to. It’s a weird kind of pressure.
When you’re in a band, it’s easier to collaborate—you can say, “Hey, I tried this part and I don’t think it worked, but I loved that thing you did here,” and you can meet in the middle. There’s a shared responsibility and rhythm to it.
But in a solo project, you’re not just the songwriter—you’re the boss. You’re not a drummer, you’re not a producer, but you’re the one everyone’s looking to for the answers. And that’s scary, but also really empowering.
So in the end, even though it can be hard, it’s so fulfilling to know that everything that came together did so because you called the shots. That kind of ownership—while intimidating—is also the most rewarding part.
LUNA: Do you see Sybil Creek as a long-term identity or more of a transitional phase in your artistry?
SYBIL CREEK: I think I’m finally ready for this to be my landing spot as an artist—at least for a while.
All throughout college, everything felt so transitional. I was constantly evolving, and I tried a few times to perform under my own name, but that never really felt right. It felt like my personhood was tied to whatever I was making, which is cool in some ways—but also made it hard to separate myself from the art. Like, if the work wasn’t perfect, did that mean I wasn’t?
So stepping into this project as Sybil Creek feels more open to me. It gives me room to breathe. It’s something I can grow with—it’s still reflective of who I am, but it doesn’t feel as tightly wound around my identity in a limiting way. It also makes it feel easier to collaborate. I can bring others in if I want to, and that flexibility feels really reflective of who I’ve become, both as a person and an artist.
I’ve always been someone who likes to do things for myself—independent, a little stubborn, always carving my own way—but I also love building community and creating with others. Sybil Creek lets me hold space for both of those things.
LUNA: Looking ahead, how do you hope listeners feel or change after hearing your music?
SYBIL CREEK: I just want to connect with people who feel kind of lost, misunderstood, or isolated—which, honestly, I think a lot of people are feeling right now. They’ve been feeling it for a while. There’s this shared sense of disconnection, and I think so much of the music I’ve written comes from that place.
When I’ve shared songs—or even just talked with friends about what’s in them—the core feeling that always seems to come up is this sense of being separate. Separate from emotions, from people, from the places you want to be. I hope people who listen can find some sense of community in that. Like, even just hearing it and knowing someone else has felt that way too.
Because sometimes, being understood by even one person can mean everything.
I remember being younger and really wishing I had heard music like this—music that felt like it saw me. That’s honestly what I hope this project does for someone else. Especially for the weird girls. This is music for the weird girls.
LUNA: Is there anything else you’d like to share with Luna?
SYBIL CREEK: To anyone who’s listening, I want you to know all those usual things people say: I hope things get better. We’re in this together, even if it doesn’t always feel like it.
The world can be really scary, but I truly believe that art has the power to change it. Creating art helps us think critically, and that kind of thinking is what will save us and bring us together in community.
So, if nothing else, keep being an artist. Keep listening, keep making things, keep expressing yourself, because art is something we will always have—no matter what happens.
