Some artists make you want to know more than what’s in their bio. Not because of hype or timelines, but because something in their music feels personal and honest in a way that stays with you. Chloe’s sound carries that kind of weight, thoughtful, emotional, and often quietly brave.
In a few interviews, Chloe shared that their artist name, chloe: the brand, came from a family in-joke. There’s a sense of irony in it, but also identity. It made us curious about who they are behind the stage name, what shaped their sound early on, and the little things they hold onto when they’re not writing or performing.
Who are you?
I’m a queer and non-binary artist from Naarm/Melbourne. I write from a place of vulnerability, creating dreamy and synth-laden pop.
What sets your soul on fire?
More than anything else, I love to write – songs, poetry, plays, films. I studied screenwriting at Uni and wrote scripts about lesbian netball teams and Catholic guilt monsters. I am endlessly passionate about Australian music. You’ll find me at a local gig most weekends, a vodka cranberry in hand. I love second-hand clothes and buying books faster than I can read them. Also, chihuahuas.
Your artist name started from a family joke. How does it feel to carry that name now?
My dad suggested chloe: the brand as a joke when I was brainstorming names. At first, it felt silly - I wasn’t confident enough to carry such a bold name. But as I grew into my identity as a queer and gender-diverse person, it began to feel more like me. chloe: the brand is camp. My best friends call me CTB now.
What sounds or memories from growing up still stay close when you write today?
My dad is a big electronic music fan - he’d play M83 and CHVRCHES in the car on the way to school. That synth-pop influence has stayed with me into my twenties. People say my music has a nostalgic 2010s feel, which I think is cool.
How has your queer community shaped your work and life?
Growing up at an all-girls Catholic school, queerness wasn’t even in my vocabulary. My first real sense of queer community came at 18, outside Yah Yah’s. It was a revelation to see people express themselves so freely. Now, when I write about queerness, it can be playful, flirty, mischievous - and sometimes still messy. Representation gave me permission to be myself.
What helps you slow down when you’re not making music?
My biggest comfort is my chihuahua, Billie. She’s my little rock, always curled up in the sun or at the end of my bed. My daily ritual? An iced soy latte, one sugar — even in the middle of winter.
There’s something steady and raw in the way Chloe tells stories. Songs like SPILL and Smoker’s Deck feel less like performance and more like pages of a journal gently held open.
SPILL began as a therapy metaphor. How did that become a song?
My therapist used to talk about cups in our brains, each representing a different need. Some people fill our cups, others pour them out. That metaphor stuck with me. When a relationship I was in began to deteriorate, I wondered if I was pouring them out - or if they’d run dry filling me up. That’s how SPILL was born.
Smoker’s Deck reflects repeating patterns and trying to belong. What was that process like?
I hated the taste of cigarettes but smoked anyway because I had a crush. That relationship (we never actually dated) became about constant self-sacrifice — giving up what I needed, only to find myself back on the smoker’s deck. They were the cigarette I couldn’t quit. It took a year to get the production right, but the chorus drums nailed it — cathartic and true to the feeling.
Artists like Phoebe Bridgers, Taylor Swift, and Mallrat are often named alongside you. How do they influence your writing?
They’ve immortalised diary-style songwriting. They give me permission to be specific - hyperspecific, but still universal. That mix is magic.
Is there a lyric of your own that feels close to you right now?
“I’m drinking absinthe just to feel it burn, we’re playing cards outside but it’s never my turn.” From Nosedive. To me, it captures the Melbourne winter experience - huddled in a share house backyard, drinking for the warmth.
What did it feel like hearing your music on Triple J for the first time?
Insane. I was 16, sitting in the car with Mum outside the chemist, hearing THINKING play. Surreal. It cemented my love not just for writing, but for sharing music.
What was it like supporting Mia Wray and Telenova?
Opening for Mia Wray was a dream. Her fans were so attentive — I felt like I had them in the palm of my hand. That night, Smoker’s Deck got its first Triple J play. Pure magic.
Opening for Telenova was hectic — my first regional gig, my birthday, and someone sideswiped my car so badly a wheel came off. Wild night, unforgettable.
Any moments in the studio that surprised you?
SPILL started as a depressing ballad. Gab (Japanese Wallpaper) added a pulsing kick drum that gave it life, made it explode. Then Hamish (Hamish Patrick) pulled back the production during a verse about a panic attack in a concert line - it felt like your heart was in your throat. That’s now one of my favourite parts of the song.
Is there a sound or project living in your head right now?
Yes. A petty, melodramatic song I wrote after coming home from the club, using only my voice memos and pure gay rage. It may or may not come with a music video. It may or may not come out in September.
If you could write with anyone, who would it be?
I’d love to write a verse on One Of Your Girls by Troye Sivan. That song is so powerful. Troye, if you’re reading, hit me up.
What do you hope people feel when they listen to your music?
I hope they feel validated in being sensitive, overbearing, and messy. My songs live in the horror of situationships, the panic attacks in club bathrooms, and the quiet smokes outside.
If you could speak to your 16-year-old self entering Unearthed High, what would you say?
Release more music! I thought my songs weren’t good enough back then, but they were sick.
