Nick Mulvey: I didn’t want to be the chief of my life anymore

Nick Mulvey is one of the UK’s most distinctive singer-songwriters, known for blending folk, spirituality, and global influences into music that’s thoughtful and deeply personal. A founding member of the Mercury-nominated Portico Quartet before going solo with First Mind in 2014, Mulvey has spent the past decade exploring themes of connection, creativity and belonging, often drawing on ideas of nature, spirituality and personal change.

Now, after a period of personal upheaval and creative reorientation, he returns with Dark Harvest – Pt. 1, an album shaped by grief, surrender and a renewed sense of faith. In this conversation with The Skylark, Mulvey speaks candidly about childhood, family, prayer, and the practices that have helped him find his way back to music and himself. 

I’ve been immersed in music for as long as I can remember. There was always a deep reverence for it in my family – popular music, classical, jazz, folk – all of it was present in the atmosphere of our home, woven into the fabric of daily life. 

My parents passed that love on naturally, and being the youngest of four siblings meant that by the time I was nine or ten, my older brothers and sisters were feeding me Massive Attack, Portishead, dub music – sounds that were probably quite unusual for someone my age, but which I absorbed without question. It was exciting and formative, and though I wasn’t the only one in the family with a love of music, I was the only one who felt completely devoted to making it; not as a passing interest, but as something that would shape my life.

I grew up just on the edge of Cambridge, in a fairly ordinary suburban setting, but one that gave me enough space and freedom to explore. It was a steady upbringing, and that steadiness created a kind of spaciousness. 

I wasn’t especially preoccupied by tension or instability at home, so I had the freedom to roam the small maze of streets between our house and the local play park, where there was a stream, a patch of forest, some trees. Looking back, I realise how important that was. Not because I was thinking about nature in any conscious way at the time, but because I was outside, often on my own, for long stretches of time. 

Like most kids I was obsessed with football, and a lot of my time was spent chasing a ball around, but I also remember those long, unsupervised afternoons doing nothing in particular; poking around in the dirt, staring at ants, losing myself in that kind of observation that childhood makes possible when it’s left alone.

My parents raised us in a secular household – loving, curious, open-minded – and although religion didn’t play a role, there was always an atmosphere of enquiry and a respect for ideas. Sciences and the arts were encouraged, and I think that created a kind of container where I could grow up asking questions, not just about the world around me, but about the deeper things, about God, about art, about what I was sensing but didn’t yet have language for. I can see now how those early influences shaped the way I think, feel and create. How I was drawn, even then, to the places where nature and sound and meaning intersect.

When we moved to Ibiza, it wasn’t part of some big plan. It was more of a response to a moment. The winter of 2018 into 2019 felt particularly long and cold, and we had small children; life in the UK had become increasingly intense. A few close friends had already made the move, and we were watching their experience unfold. The slower rhythm, the warmth, the sense of spaciousness, and we thought, maybe it’s time to try something different, just as an experiment. So we came out here with that spirit of openness, not knowing what it would mean, or how long it would last, but hoping it might offer a new kind of foundation.

For a while I felt a bit cut off from the world I’d come from, from the vibrant UK music-industry ecosystem

At first, I wouldn’t say it dramatically altered my creativity – not in an immediate or obvious way, at least. In fact, for a while I felt a bit cut off from the world I’d come from, from the vibrant UK music-industry ecosystem that had always been a source of energy and momentum. But as time passed, and as life threw up its inevitable challenges, being here gave me the space I needed to start again, to reclaim something I had lost. The simple, unforced rhythm of making music for no reason other than the act itself.

Before success, before labels, before the pressure of the album cycle, I made music every day without needing to know what it was for, and I’ve found my way back to that now, slowly and with effort, but with a kind of determination. I make something most days – a little piece, an idea, a sketch – and I try not to worry whether it’s for an album, a film, or something no one will ever hear. Sometimes I’m writing songs with my kids; sometimes it’s something instrumental that takes on a life of its own. It doesn’t matter. What matters is the act of doing it, not waiting for a reason, just following the thread wherever it wants to go.

That shift in rhythm; the move away from waiting for a purpose or a product, and towards simply creating, is what led, eventually, to my latest album Dark Harvest. Those songs were born out of a period of real difficulty. Things in my life had started to fall apart, in more ways than one. I wasn’t living in alignment with who I wanted to be. Not as a partner, not as a father, not as an artist. And in the middle of that time, when things were in pieces, a friend said something to me that stuck: “There will be a dark harvest.” She meant that something meaningful could grow from all of this, that the pain wouldn’t be wasted. And as soon as she said it, I felt it land. Even in that moment, even over the phone, I thought, that’s a brilliant song title. And then, a moment later, I knew it wasn’t just a song, it was the album.

That was unusual for me. I hadn’t written any of the songs yet, but I already had the centre; the defining theme. And having that clarity from the start gave the songs a different kind of power. They knew where they were going, and I think that helped me bring more clarity and intention to the writing. There’s something about naming something early, about saying this is what I’m in, this is what I’m exploring, that can really shape the creative process.

We’re being collectively tenderised, in our personal lives, in our politics, in the way we relate to the planet.

One of the songs that’s come out of that is Radical Tenderness, which came from that same place; that feeling of having been completely tenderised by life. The image I had was of being softened, broken down, like muscle fibres being pulled apart. And while that’s a painful process, it also creates space. It makes room for softness. I’ve come to think that’s something we’re all going through, on some level – that we’re being collectively tenderised, in our personal lives, in our politics, in the way we relate to the planet. It’s not easy to live through, but I think it’s necessary. I think there’s something important in that softening, in what it makes possible.

Becoming a parent has deepened all of that. It’s changed how I see everything. What I care about, what I draw meaning from, what I need in order to keep going. It has put demands on me that I never could have anticipated, and those demands have forced me to be more honest with myself; to acknowledge that I can’t do this on my own. That’s been the big shift for me, spiritually. I wouldn’t have said this a few years ago, but now I would: what I’m aiming for is total dependency on God. That might sound radical, but for me it’s been a lifeline, a way to get myself out of the way and, in small, daily and ordinary ways, to allow God to start moving through my life. 

I try to pray every night, out loud and on my knees. I ask God to show me how to be the best dad to my children and I want them to hear me asking Him for that guidance. I believe the best thing I can offer them is my own dependency on God, to give them an example, not one of perfection or control, but of surrender. And that’s shaped my creativity too, because making music is also a place of surrender. It’s another space where I’m reminded not to rely solely on my own strength.

I wasn’t raised with religion; it wasn’t part of my childhood. But I grew up with what I’d call a thirst for living spirit, and for a long time I identified as spiritual-but-not-religious. That’s a very familiar posture in our generation, where you construct your own approach by picking bits from different traditions. But what I eventually realised is that when you’re the one doing the picking, you remain in charge of the whole thing. You stay at the centre; your blind spots are built into it. And for me, that was part of what was breaking down. I began to see that I’d been trying to be the chief of my life, and it just wasn’t working.

So the summer of 2023 marked a turning point. I stopped trying to direct everything myself. I stopped trying to be the one in charge. I said, “I don’t want to be the chief of my life anymore. I want you, God.” I’d always wanted that, but now I couldn’t take another step without Him. And that shift – that act of surrender – was huge for me. I’d never experienced anything like it. And of course, I still have to do it afresh every day. We’re all conditioned to try and push forward in our own strength. It’s deep. But I try, each morning, to give the first portion of the day to Jesus. To say, Lord replace my agenda with your agenda. Show me what the day is meant to hold, I don’t want to force it into shape.

Faith has changed the way I relate to the natural world too. One of the clarifications that’s come through this path is the idea that we’re meant to worship the Creator, not the creation. That might sound subtle, but for me it’s been transformative. In the past, I might have found myself praying to the land, or thanking the elements. Like flying back from tour and saying a prayer to Ibiza itself, asking the island to help me make a smooth transition back into family life. It was sincere, but I can see now that these prayers were misdirected and fairly ineffectual. What I’ve found through this journey is that by praying to the Creator, I become a better custodian of the creation. My love for the Earth hasn’t diminished – if anything, it’s deepened – but I understand now that reverence doesn’t have to mean worship. It can mean care, and responsibility, and love, grounded in something even greater.

Relationship with Jesus is still new for me. Sometimes I hear myself say Biblical things and I feel a kind of slow-motion astonishment. Like, “wow, that’s me saying that?.” But I know He’s real and has changed my life in so, so many good ways. I don’t know what the future holds; globally, personally; any of it. But, although I can’t explain it, I do know this: Jesus defeated evil and we can live – here and now – from within that victory, letting it overcome the evil we have to face. His victory can inform every element of our lives and what a peace it brings! I want to live in relationship with Jesus, to the connection to God that he offers, and I know that right relationship naturally follows – with family, society, with my work and with our Earth. He is the centre I keep returning to, even when everything else feels uncertain.

This conversation took place on 28 May 2025 and has been edited and condensed for clarity and flow.

Nick Mulvey’s new album Dark Harvest – Pt. 1 was released on 6 June. His world tour is currently underway across Europe, North America and Australia into 2026.

Connecting the Dots

Childhood nature connection matters

Research shows that early, unstructured time in nature boosts empathy, wellbeing and lifelong environmental concern. Campaigns like Wildlife Trusts’ 30 Days Wild encourage families to rebuild that lost relationship.

The arts are essential to wellbeing

NHS-backed studies have shown that creative practices, especially music and writing, play a measurable role in recovery from trauma, grief, and depression. Initiatives like Arts & Minds are helping people heal through artistic expression.

Work culture is burning people out

7 in 10 UK workers report feeling overwhelmed, and burnout is now recognised by the WHO as a workplace syndrome. Movements like The Four Day Week Campaign are challenging productivity-driven models in favour of balance, purpose and mental health.