Sharing the incredible “Cruel Love”, revered British artist Leon Vynehall shares an exclusive essay about doubt, self-criticism, epiphany and belief.

Inner worth, self confidence, belief in oneself: these are some of the most difficult, mercurial human instincts. They are mountains to climb, often without a summit. We all go through doubt, it plagues us, only cured from within. It happens to everyone — from sporting heroes to pop stars, politicians to personal trainers, taxi drivers to journalists (can vouch). 

Not many of us have the strength, the perpetuity, to look our grievances straight in the eye. But Leon Vynehall does. The acclaimed polymath is an undeniable presence in the UK scene, having built a near flawless discography across the last decade. He’s your favourite musician’s favourite musician, an insight of influence, an encyclopaedia of sounds and styles. And he’s back this year, better than ever — a third studio album set in stone for 19th September, named In Daytona’s Yellow and to be shared via Ooze INC. 

The Ivor Novello-nominated DJ and producer has just unveiled the latest teaser single from the forthcoming body of music. “Cruel Love” is its title, a sprawling near seven minute visual masterpiece that channels his inner most artistry, and his rawest being. With vocals from underground maven Beau Nox, the track is icyly ethereal, a twisting and transient journey through phases. The video accompaniment, directed by previous Vynehall collaborator Alex Takacs, is quite simply one of the best of the year.

The track, and wider album, tackles themes of grappling with imperfection, overcoming your own uncertainty. To further dissect the feeling through his singular lens, Vynehall has put together an essay, exclusively on Wonderland, reflecting on his personal odyssey to clarity. It’s a remarkable read — keep scrolling…

Watch the video…

Read the essay…

I met him when I was eleven. I had seen him around before, but it was only when I started secondary school that we became properly acquainted. 

At first, his brash tone and put-downs were unwelcome. Despite that, we spent most days together, and I soon became accustomed to him. I began to embody his negative mockery. He was convincing, confident — everything I was not. He had a way of speaking that could disarm you enough to let the words seep in. 

At that age, I was incredibly self-conscious. I walked around carrying what would affectionately be called ‘puppy fat’ and I disliked how I looked. My school uniform would have pinch marks on the front where I’d pull on the material, trying to conceal my body shape. It didn’t help that I wasn’t overly sporty — having asthma and doing any sort of physical activity was at best uncomfortable. Playing football on a cold February morning in the south of England made me sound like one of those old Victorian fireplace bellows before I had to pump on an inhaler. 

Having a sense of place within the social structure of school at such an informative age gives you a sense of belonging. It’s a type of validation. I never really felt like I belonged to any particular group, and truth be told, that came with a lot of positives. 

I could hang out with the more alternative kids and feel comfortable there. Arguably, I was most aligned with them. I’d play drums and guitar with people on our lunch breaks and smoke menthol cigarettes around the back of the music block. We thought the minty smell would cover up the waft of fag breath – it did not. I was also okay with the ‘jock-lads’ and the typical popular girls. I didn’t like them much, and I was never truly part of their clique, but they never bothered me, and I was friendly enough with them. 

On the surface, this sounds fine, but I just felt as though I was floating between social groups, like a bee collecting nectar from flowers, never really having a genuine attachment to anyone in particular. I had friends, but I don’t see or speak to anyone from that time now, which says a lot. Mostly, I felt like I was just trying to get through to the end of it all so I could get out of the town I was in and be somewhere else. 

All that bouncing between factions felt like a matter of survival, and I developed multiple masks that I would wear for each group of people. I wasn’t insincere, but I would turn up certain parts of my personality that were more favorable to who I was in front of. Perhaps that’s normal for some people, but it left me feeling like I didn’t know who I was. 

This was like a red rag to a bull for my friend, who really knew how to get to me. His words went from teasing to outright nasty. I wore them like a weighted backpack — my shoulders shrugged forward — the pinching of fabric continuing to create little hills on the front of my clothing.

It was also at this time that my parents went through a divorce. I don’t have a relationship with one of them. There was no single, significant catalyst event that happened, but as I grew into a young person, forming my opinions of the world and collecting life experiences like sought-after memorabilia, they just sort of stopped trying with me. The effort to stay in touch and the responsibility they felt towards me dwindled. The time between phone calls became longer and longer until there weren’t any more, and the chasm between us became so large it was hard to figure out how to cross it. I’m omitting other details I’d rather keep private, but it left me feeling like I wasn’t worth trying for, that I wasn’t good enough. That belief has followed me into adult life. 

When I left secondary school and went to college to study music, I had finally found the people with whom I could connect. I was learning about a subject I was obsessed with, and I was surrounded by others who shared my passion. But my friend, that critical megaphone, thought this was an excellent opportunity for self-comparison. He would tell me I was inadequate and that I needed to be better. I would look in the mirror at my face, but he would stare back at me. Nothing I did was good enough to satisfy him. This behaviour became so normal that it bled into all aspects of my life. I wished I could just be someone else. I was good at hiding this, though. Humour became my weapon – the self-depricating quips were the perfect deflection, and I drank, smoked, and used drugs to help suppress the internal noise. I rarely took care of myself because deep down I didn’t believe I was worthy of it, and this carried on into my twenties.

All this began to change when I met my wife. She showed me that the way I spoke about myself was not okay. She shone a light on things I would do without even thinking. For example, I’d often become so angry at myself for not doing something correctly that I’d feel embarrassed for even trying, and the orchestra of the internal negative monologue, conducted by my critical inner companion, would play as loudly as a symphony in a concert hall.

But more than that, she loved me for who I was. She truly saw me, and in doing so, encouraged me to do the same for myself. I went to therapy and did a lot of work trying to undo all my destructive behaviour. I learned that what I felt about myself was shame, and in giving the emotions I felt a name, I was no longer confused by them. I could see them for what they were and then trace back the reasons why they came up. I learned that being abandoned by a parent taught me that I had to seek approval from others in order to survive, because if I didn’t, I just thought I’d be rejected again. 

My critical voice and I are okay with each other now. In one session of therapy, I finally spoke back to him. I told him that I could see that deep down, he was just doing what he thought was best for me. He genuinely thought he was looking out for my best interests. I even recognise that his harshness helped at times – I don’t deny that. I know that part of it played a valuable role in shaping who I am, but he was excessive, and despite him thinking he had love for me, his was a cruel kind of love. One that set the bar of self-acceptance so high that it was unattainable.

But we seem at peace now. We walk side by side instead of him dragging me around. My shoulders aren’t slouched, and my clothes no longer bear the marks of pinching. Some of what he says has value, but I can distinguish the constructive from the destructive, and I tell him that it’s okay; I’ve got it from here.

We can all be our own worst enemies. Often, we talk to ourselves in ways we would never speak to others. We can be the harshest critics of all. 

It’s no surprise that our social media feeds are filled with self-improvement videos. We are encouraged only to show the best parts of ourselves online, to contour the blemishes from view. The world is full of people taking advantage of those who are uncomfortable in their own skin. Young people are so much more exposed to toxic and harmful content than before, and it’s shaping the way they think about themselves negatively. Our capitalist society promotes productivity as a measure of worth. 

But this is bullshit. We need to let young men and women know that its okay not know what the fuck you’re doing all the time, especially at an age where you’re still figuring it all out, and not to listen to charlatans who claim to have the answers for everything, only to sell them a fitness plan, or a set of beauty products, or worse yet, indoctrinate them into toxic ideologies. 

Life is messy and imperfect, and so am I. God knows what would have happened to me if I had social media algorithms feeding me content from the ‘manosphere’ at such an impressionable age. 

I have found so much more strength in the vulnerability of knowing who I am, and in turn, realising I have so much more to learn. I now know I am far more capable of things than I thought I was before, and I’m a well-rounded person, but there’s so much I am unaware of. Being open to, and okay with, learning hard truths has given me so much more freedom within myself. 

My hope in writing this, and speaking some uncomfortable truths, is that those of you who have read to this point can all learn to give yourselves, and each other, a bit more grace. When you learn to be compassionate towards yourself, you’re able to extend that compassion to others. And we all know we could use more of that in the world right now.