There’s a quiet strength running through Underbelly, the new EP from singer-songwriter and producer Hannah Hill. Written and co-produced over two years, the project marks a new chapter defined by introspection, raw emotion, and a renewed sense of artistic freedom for the Wisconsin-born artist. Hannah, whose music blends folk intimacy with cinematic textures, has built a world where honesty is both her compass and her craft.
In this interview, we talk with Hannah about how the record slowly came together over a long period of writing and reflection, how an 18-year-old college producer unexpectedly became her closest collaborator, and how each song emerged as a letter reflecting the different forms of love that have shaped her life.
You’ve been steadily carving your own space in the indie-folk world since your debut. How would you describe the journey that brought you to this new chapter?
I’m always growing and changing as a songwriter, just as a natural result of having new experiences, learning new things, and putting in more hours pen-to-paper. And while my narrative voice stays pretty consistent, I’m constantly being inspired by new music (or old music that’s new to me), which deeply impacts my work. Even something as simple as learning a new guitar tuning completely changed the type of songs I was writing for a while. I feel like I was always as true to myself as I knew how to be at every point of my music-making journey. My sound grew and changed because I did, because the art I consumed did. In the chapter that was written, Underbelly, something very acoustically driven and more folky than in the past is what felt most true.
Your new EP, Underbelly, seems to explore raw emotions and human experiences. How did the concept for this EP come about?
Unlike my last project, there was no singular experience or person that inspired Underbelly. After the release of that debut EP, I decided not to put any bounds on what I would say or how long it would take to build the next thing. I just wrote as I felt inspired to, and eventually I realized there was a glaringly obvious through line—love. I was writing songs about the distinct types of love I have in my life—platonic, sibling, romantic, and self—and how they’ve shaped me into who I am. I also dipped into old song ideas I’d started years ago that I was waiting for the words to finish.
You’ve been working on this project for over two years. Looking back, do you think there was any transformation in the process of creating Underbelly, either personal or artistic?
I definitely made some incredible discoveries during the creation of Underbelly. Most notably, I think, was that I found a lifelong collaborator and friend in the process. In the very early days of this project, I’d made up my mind that I wanted the EP to be entirely self-produced. I wanted my hands to be the only ones to touch this. My mindset completely changed when I met my producer, Lanham, an 18-year-old music production student at the time. I’d heard his work before and thought I’d get his opinion on the production of one of the songs. I knew within minutes that he understood me and the art I was making on a profound level. We spent most days from then on in the studio building a fully formed identity for each of the songs I’d written for the project.
You’ve said that the people who connect with your music are “lovers, heartbroken, and deep thinkers.” What kind of conversations do you hope Underbelly sparks with them?
Something that’s been really cool about sharing my experiences through music is that people share theirs back. I’ve had some incredible and, honestly, life-changing conversations with people who’ve told me about how and why they connect to a song of mine. A lot of these wonderful people want to talk about the lyrics; they want to dive deeper. They want to talk about and examine their pain.
“Build A House” stands out as a powerful focus track. Can you share the story behind it and what it symbolizes for you?
Build a House, to me, is a very simple song. As I was writing it, I found there to be something so profound about that simplicity. It’s about realizing someone is your person; it’s about knowing they’re it. As massive as those epiphanic moments in life are, I believe love like that is so simple. It’s the most obvious choice; it’s the only one.
In your songs, you combine live instruments like the acoustic guitar and the pedal steel. Haven’t you been tempted to include more electronic elements in your songs, or is it a conscious decision to stay true to that organic sound?
The acoustic guitar is always the first instrument I reach for when I’m writing. It’s my favorite sound in the world—always has been. I feel like it is just the obvious choice when I’m writing back home in Wisconsin. The smell of the air, the nature, the quiet—it begs for an acoustic guitar. Another reason for this is that I simply do not have an electric guitar, or any electric instrument for that matter, back at my family’s house—just my old acoustic I’ve had since I was eleven. Working within the limits of what you have can sometimes breed the most special art.
But I will say this—just you wait for the next project…
Your music feels deeply personal yet universally relatable. When did you first realize that songwriting could be a way to connect with others on such an emotional level?
I think there’s a myth in songwriting that you need to be somewhat broad, and thus relatable, to get people to connect with a song. I very quickly found the opposite to be true. My most adored songs are my most specific. My takeaway here is that we all think we’re having such unique human experiences and thoughts, but we’re not. And because that’s true, there’s nothing like hearing an artist put words to something you felt but have not personally found the words to describe. For a moment, you sort of feel called out, maybe in a jarring way, but most importantly, you don’t feel alone.
There’s a beautiful sense of nostalgia in your songwriting—you talk about wanting to transport listeners to their childhood bedrooms or hometowns, and that’s so beautiful! How do you hope to achieve that through your lyrics and melodies?
I do not honestly feel like I can name that thing that makes a song feel nostalgic. Sure, there are production tricks you can do to pull this effect off, but when it comes to the pure instrumental and vocal melodies, like the raw song before it’s put in a computer, it’s just a feeling. When I’m writing a song, I’m looking for that feeling, and it feels amazing when I hit it.
We know all of these are very well-developed and personal songs, but is there one that you could call your favorite, and why?
I’m asked this question often, so I feel like at this point I should have an answer—but in all honesty, it changes. This is typical of me as a listener as well. I’m a die-hard fan of a couple of artists, and my favorite song by any of them changes month to month. Right now, though, it’s If I Kill You. It’s the song I’ve been trying to write for the longest time, and until now, I just couldn’t find the right words. The first version of this song, which doesn’t even really feel like the same song now, is like 4 years old. It feels incredible to have reached what I wanted to say and to have finally told the story.
Finally, when listeners reach the end of Underbelly, what feeling or message do you hope they carry with them?
When I really think about it, there is no universal takeaway or message here, or with most of my songs, really. Not because they don’t mean something to me or have a message in them, but I don’t feel like I can expect other people to take away the same singular thing from a song. Each one could mean something entirely different to each listener, I suppose. In all honesty, I don’t think too much about what will stick with people when I’m writing. My songs are written like letters—they tend to be for a specific person in my life, so when I’m writing, I am mostly just focused on what I, and that other person, will think and feel about it. This doesn’t come from a place of not caring what the world thinks or not genuinely wanting people to like my art, but I’ve just found that the best things are created when I make them because I know I love them. Even if I’m the only person in the world to love it, it would still be worth it to put it out. One thing I do hope, though, and this is true with all of my music, is that something I said made someone feel seen, validated, or not so alone.
Listening to Underbelly feels like reading a collection of love letters left open on a windowsill—each one filled with quiet revelations about what it means to care, to lose, and to begin again. For Hannah Hill, the act of creating is not about control but communion: a way to remind others they’re not alone in their stories.
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