Interview with Anni IllaNoise
Are you in a relationship?
Not right now. I've had a couple of things that meant a lot, some beautiful disasters, and more than one "what even was that?" kind of story. A lot of my songs live in that space — not the neat love stories, but the messy, unfinished ones.
I fall fast and hard when I fall. Like, embarrassingly hard. I've written whole verses about someone before we even had a second date. That might sound reckless, but for me, writing is how I process feelings. Sometimes the song lasts longer than the relationship, and I'm okay with that.
What's your type?
Kindness is the non-negotiable. I don't care about coolness as much as I care about how someone treats the people around them. A good laugh, hands that know how to hold things gently, and someone who can make me a playlist that teaches me something new, that's attractive to me.
I like people who aren't afraid to be a little weird, or soft, or passionate about whatever they love. Confidence without cruelty.
You've said you're queer - what does that mean to you?
For me, saying "queer" is about keeping space open. I've had crushes on guys, girls, and people who don't fit neatly into either box. Some days "bi" feels right, other days it feels less about gender and more about energy and connection. Queer is just the umbrella that feels true - it holds all the ways I've loved.
I didn't grow up in a place where people talked about this openly, so part of me using the word is reclaiming it. It's me saying: I exist like this, and that's okay.
How did growing up in Watseka shape your music?
Watseka taught me about silence - like the kind that can be comforting and crushing at the same time. That's why my songs often have space in them, pauses that feel like someone taking a breath before saying something hard.
It also gave me grit. There wasn't much to do except ride bikes, hang out at gas stations, or sit in our rooms writing. Boredom became a kind of training. I learned how to turn nothing into a song.
What do you miss most about home?
The dogs, first of all. The way they leaned on you like you were the answer. Also the sky—Watseka has this endless horizon that you can't really find in Chicago. And, of course, Nana and Pop's house: roast dinners, the smell of motor oil in Pop's workshop, Nana's hymnals. It was small and sometimes stifling, but it was mine.
What's it like living in Chicago now?
It's loud, messy, and I love it. The trains screech, the radiators hiss, the city doesn't stop moving, but in all that chaos, I feel more myself. Playing shows at places like The Empty Bottle or Schubas feels like a rite of passage.
I live in Logan Square with Mila, my sister, and even though the apartment's small and the walls are thin, it's the first place I've lived that feels like it's mine by choice. Nights on Milwaukee Avenue, late tacos, bad coffee at 2 a.m. that's the backdrop of the songs I'm writing now.
