After years of crafting rich harmonies and emotionally resonant folk-pop as one half of Hudson Taylor, Harry Hudson Taylor has stepped into uncharted territory, alone, but not ungrounded. His debut solo piece, “Dear You, It’s Me,” is not a song in the traditional sense, but a spoken-word letter set to sparse instrumentation: intimate, unpolished, and quietly powerful.
In this conversation, Harry opens up about what it means to rediscover yourself as an artist, the creative solitude found in Berlin’s open mics, and the deeply personal moment that birthed this unexpected release. He reflects on vulnerability, sobriety, the gift of mentorship, and what happens when you allow art to be a mirror, not just for the self, but for others who need to hear it too.
This isn’t a new chapter. It’s something more like a soft reset, a clearing of space. And in the silence that follows, something honest begins to emerge.
You’ve been known for your harmony-driven work with Hudson Taylor — what has the transition into solo work revealed to you creatively and personally?
It’s shown me that identity is fluid. With Hudson Taylor, it was all about brother relationship and singing in harmony — we created a kind of magic that I’ll always cherish. But stepping out solo has been a kind of excavation. Creatively, I’ve had to ask: what do I sound like without the familiar blend? Personally, it’s been a journey into vulnerability. I’ve let go of the need to sound polished and embraced the raw, the unstructured, the unfiltered. I’ve noticed.
Berlin has such a distinct creative energy. How has the city shaped your sound, your process, or even your sense of self as an artist?
Berlin gave me permission to slow down — to disappear a little, in the best way. It doesn’t care what your “status” is, which has been a gift. I started going to open mics again, trying new songs without pressure, reconnecting with the joy of music-making. That looseness, that quiet anonymity, helped me experiment, become more real in my work. It’s shaped the sound too — more space, more patience, more rawness. I’m not looking for perfect.
“Dear You, It’s Me” is not a typical single — it’s spoken-word, raw, and intimate. What made you decide to share this letter publicly, rather than keeping it private?
It felt like a message that didn’t just belong to me. It came through like a download — one of those moments where you’re more transcriber than writer. I could’ve kept it hidden, but something in me said: someone else might need to hear this too. And maybe by offering it as-is, in its messy, honest form, it could give permission for others to be a bit softer with themselves too.
You mentioned it began as a diary entry during a café shift — what was going through your mind at that moment, and did you know right away it would become music?
I was in survival mode, honestly. First job outside of Hudson Taylor, trying to keep up, feeling totally out of place. My ADHD was flaring — forgetting orders, bumping into things. I felt like a fraud. On my break, I sat with my journal just to release the noise. And what came out was a voice I hadn’t heard in a while — calm, kind, present. It didn’t feel like I wrote it; it felt like it was given to me. With the rhythm of the café’s hip-hop playlist still in my bones, it naturally landed in a kind of meter — and yeah, I had a feeling it might become something more.
The track ends in a wordless embrace in the film. Who is that older man meant to represent — someone in your life, or a metaphor?
Both. That moment was real — unscripted. Wayne, the man in the video, hadn’t even heard the song before we filmed. That hug became a symbol for what I was reaching for: mentorship, support, the inner loving parent. I’ve had sponsors and guides on my sobriety journey who’ve held that safe space for me. That final moment is about all of them. It’s about grace.
This piece is self-produced and mixed. How important is that kind of creative control to you — and what did you learn by doing it all yourself?
It’s equal parts liberating and exhausting! Wearing all the hats — writer, performer, producer, mixer — means there’s nowhere to hide. But it also meant I could honour the piece exactly as it came. I learned to trust my instincts more, to know when to step back. I also learned how much I value feedback — I had mentors and friends like Dave O’Brien and Brian Speaker offer ears and support along the way. But yeah, doing it solo deepened the emotional fidelity. There’s nothing between me and the listener.
You also released an instrumental version — why was it important for you to create that space for others to reflect or create with it?
The words felt like just one part of the piece. There’s that line: “Words fall short. They can only ever be a signpost at best.” Sometimes music says more without saying anything. I wanted to give people a space to sit with the sound, to reflect, or even to add their own voice — literally or metaphorically. Maybe someone writes a poem over it. Maybe they just breathe with it. Either way, it felt like a natural counterpart.
You’ve said this is a one-off in terms of style — can you tell us a bit about what your next musical chapter will sound like?
The next stuff will be songs again — electric guitar–driven, with a couple of piano-led ones in the mix. More melodic, more structured, but still rooted in that same emotional truth. “Dear You, It’s Me” was like clearing the pipes — releasing the most raw, wierd piece I had. Now that it’s out there, I feel free to explore everything else again. But the honesty, the stillness — that stays.
How do you balance vulnerability with the public nature of releasing music — especially something as personal as this?
It’s a dance for sure. There’s always fear — “Is this too much? Too raw? To out there?” But I try to remember: the more personal it is, the more universal it can be. Vulnerability is only scary if you think it has to be perfect. I’m learning to let go of that. Letting something be real, rather than polished, is actually the most generous thing I can do. It invites connection.
If you could go back and play “Dear You, It’s Me” for your younger self, what do you think they would say back to you?
I think he’d cry. And then maybe laugh. He’d probably say: “didn’t see this coming” And maybe, “Thank you for not giving up on your artistry” But mostly, I think he’d just listen — and feel grateful.
