other people

Thinking back on the last two years of his life full of album releases, filming schedules and tour dates, Finn Wolfhard requires squint-inducing concentration to keep it all straight.

“Jesus, a lot has happened,” he says, looking surprised. That’s an understatement.

In that time, the 23-year-old not only finished filming the Netflix hit show “Stranger Things,” which catapulted him to global stardom, and promoted the final season upon its premiere. He also released his feature film directorial debut (“Hell of a Summer,” co-directed with Billy Bryk, which hit theaters in April 2025). Then, he starred in another movie (A24’s creature feature “The Legend of Ochi”), directed a posthumous George Harrison stop-motion music video, wrote, recorded and put out his first solo album (“Happy Birthday”), and embarked on a 22-date tour before recording a new album.

On a video call from his family home in Vancouver, Canada, where he lives with his parents and older brother, he’s chatting about the release of that record, the eclectic, guitar-driven “Fire From the Hip,” which dropped Friday.

“I think it’s a nice day?” he offers when I ask what’s happening in Vancouver. “I don’t know. I’ve been in my basement studio all day, so I don’t … I think it’s nice.”

He’s been down in the basement doing press calls like this, he explains, undoubtedly a familiar routine after so many years in the limelight. He wears a baseball cap and an oversize brown sweater, tugging on the sleeves while he ponders.

Even if Wolfhard is exhausted by the press marathon, he doesn’t show it. He’s excited for the chance to be known on his own terms. He never fails to express gratitude for the projects that afforded him recognition and opportunity, but he’s ready to “take control of the narrative.”

“I spent my whole childhood standing on marks that other people told me to stand on and saying lines that other people told me to say,” he says. “Why wouldn’t I want to make my own stuff?”

Being in control also means being the face of the operation. Before “Happy Birthday” and “Fire From the Hip,” Wolfhard released a total of two records and an EP, plus a whole bunch of singles, with his previous bands, Calpurnia and the Aubreys. Being in a band was a natural fit for Wolfhard, who thrives in an ensemble where he can “hide behind the band name.”

Touring last year was his first time seeing his own name on the marquee.

“It’s just straight up me, and if I suck, I suck,” he laughs. “It’s not like I can be like, ‘Oh, man, we’re having disagreements in the band.’ It’s like, no, that’s you. So there was a little more pressure early on.”

Finn Wolfhard released “Fire From the Hip” on Friday.

(Victoria Stevens)

Stepping into the spotlight required Wolfhard, who admits he shies away from conflict, to own both the pressure and the power of being the one audiences came to hear.

When he got sick and had to cancel a show in Portland, Ore., he remembers feeling crushingly sad “letting down” his fans and bandmates — who, of course, assured him it was outside of his control and urged him not to be so hard on himself.

Wolfhard introduced many of the songs that ended up becoming “Fire From the Hip” to his bandmates while they were still on tour, and he says playing them live “cultivated the spirit” of the eventual recordings. Despite his collaborative ethos, there was a moment during the process where he had to learn how to put his foot down in real time.

“I remember suggesting something and people being like, ‘Ah, I don’t know if I want to do that.’ And I was like, ‘No, you don’t get to do that to me. It’s my record,’” he remembers. “It was very innocent — I don’t think there was much ego on either side. But I think I maybe set up too collaborative of an experience that day.”

“I think I sometimes make it feel like a democracy, which it is in a lot of ways,” he adds. “But also, in the end, it is up to me.”

That thought is echoed in the album’s cover art, an image of two miniature Finn Wolfhards facing off, donning colonial garb and brandishing weapons. It’s meant to represent dueling impulses inside of him, he explains.

Wolfhard, a true-blue music nerd, has been described online as an archetypical example of the “child of a Gen X cool dad,” in the same vein as Olivia Rodrigo. (His dad, a former screenwriter turned lawyer and Indigenous rights researcher, does sound cool, but it was his mom who first introduced him to the Beatles. His parents apparently met over a Stone Roses record.)

That sensibility is evident in his musical influences — “I wanted everything [on drums] to sound like the first two Wilco records,” he says — and in his approach to recording. “Happy Birthday” was recorded almost entirely on four-track cassette tapes, while “Fire From the Hip” uses 24-track reel-to-reel.

The album runs the gamut from its cheeky, surf-rock opener “I’ll Let You Finish” (yes, that is a reference to Kanye West’s infamous speech at the 2009 VMAs) to more ’90s alt-inspired tunes to a surprising dose of straightforward country-folk.

Lyrically, Wolfhard divides his songs into two categories: the “very personal” and the story songs written around books he was reading (“Knockemstiff” by Donald Ray Pollock) or quotes that made him laugh. The personal themes he explores are exactly what you would expect from an early-20s rocker raised in the public eye — namely, relationship expectations and existential fears about the future.

On the nostalgic piano ballad “Good Morning,” he imagines what it might be like to settle down somewhere “with a dog and a wife.”

“I haven’t lived that part of my life yet,” he says now. “So I can really easily get lost in thinking about what that looks like.”

When it comes to sharing his music, especially the more vulnerable tracks, Wolfhard knows his “Stranger Things” fame is the elephant in the room. Anything he sings can and might be used against him in the court of public opinion.

“I could either kind of say nothing and be totally private, because it is scary knowing that everything I say, at least one person will take it a certain way that I wouldn’t want them to. But I just don’t have the control,” he says.

“So if I don’t have the control, then there’s nothing really that I can do, other than try to be as truthful and passionate and well-meaning as I possibly can, you know?”

The double-edged sword of fandom hasn’t stopped Wolfhard or his musically-inclined “Stranger Things” co-stars from pursuing this path. Fellow Hawkins alums Joe Keery (who releases music under the moniker Djo) and Maya Hawke are indie darlings in their own right, and Wolfhard has previously referred to Keery as a mentor. None of them face the unique challenge of relatability in quite the same way, however.

“I’m aware that my specific problems are maybe not as relatable because of how specific of a life I have,” he said. “The only thing I can hope for is that some other person out there listens to it and relates to the same things that I do.”

Sometimes an air of wistfulness accompanies these admissions. When asked about how he feels about Los Angeles, he tells me that it’s complicated: “I think if I wasn’t a young actor, it would be a very different situation.” His favorite parts of the city are its repertory cinemas and lush neighborhoods like Mount Washington, where his godfather resides, because they look the most like Vancouver.

That said, he’s not through with Hollywood. He’ll be back in L.A. for an Oct. 13 show at the Fonda Theatre, and acting and directing are still on the agenda. He would like his next film project — other than the Matt Johnson and Bong Joon Ho projects he’s already committed to, of course — to be something more “personal.”

For now, though, the focus is music. Wolfhard launches a new tour this month, and he’s most looking forward to “doing dumb s—” with his friends.

He tells a quick story to illustrate: When he and the band last toured in Glasgow, Scotland, he was trying to leave the venue without being noticed. (“I have a hard time dealing with fan interaction,” he says.)

“We kind of made it into this joke thing, knowing it wouldn’t work, where me and Rand, my guitarist, were like, ‘let’s switch clothes.’ Rand pretended to be me and I pretended to be Rand,” he says. Miraculously, it worked up until the “very last second” before they stepped on the bus.

“I couldn’t help myself,” he says: He instinctively made eye contact with someone in the crowd. “They did a double take, like, ‘Wait, what?’”

It sounds like a scene straight out of “A Hard Day’s Night” — or maybe inspiration for his next film.

“I’m pretty in my head about things and want them to be a certain way,” he says. “The thing that I have to remind myself all the time is that, like, dude, you’re with your friends, you’re playing music — it’s the best.”

Theo Burrell, an “Antiques Roadshow” star and cancer research advocate, has died. She was 39.

A family member announced Burrell’s death on Instagram on Saturday, writing, “It is with great sadness that I share the news that Theo passed away peacefully surrounded by her family on Wednesday afternoon. Neither she nor her medical team foresaw this happening quite so quickly.

“She was an incredible person who fought hard for her family, friends and raising awareness of this cruel disease,” the post continued. “She saw life events like her son’s first day at school and her wedding that a little over 4 years ago we thought she’d never see.”

Burrell, born Theodora Helen Burrell on Sept. 1, 1986, was a ceramics and decorative arts specialist on the BBC’s “Antiques Roadshow,” a reality series that features antiques experts appraising family heirlooms, garage sale gems and more. Off screen, she worked as a specialist and auctioneer at Lyon & Turnbull, the oldest auction house in Scotland.

“One of the things I love about antiques is that they have survived so many years, witnessing life changing events such as coronations & world wars,” Burrell wrote in the caption of an 1840s-era white marble bust.

In June 2022, Burrell was diagnosed with an incurable, aggressive Grade 4 brain tumor, and was told she had a year to a year and a half to live. She subsequently underwent brain surgery, radiotherapy and chemotherapy in an effort to keep the cancer at bay. In June 2023, she organized a star-studded auction to raise money for the British cancer research nonprofit the Brain Tumour Charity and raised the equivalent of about $93,500. She also became a patron of the charity Brain Tumour Research.

“We are heartbroken that we have lost the phenomenal, determined and truly inspiring Theo to this devastating disease,” Dan Knowles, chief executive of Brain Tumour Research, said on Instagram. “She constantly inspired us with how big her heart was and we will continue on our mission, driven by everything she taught us. Our thoughts are with her family, her friends and with all those who had the privilege of knowing her.”

During a January 2024 BBC “Morning Live” appearance, Burrell said that six months before she was diagnosed, she started to get unusual symptoms including headaches, nausea, feelings of pressure in her head and issues with her vision. After multiple trips to various physicians and a CT scan, doctors found an about 2-inch-diameter brain tumor in the right side of her brain.

She spoke candidly about her battle in the media and across social platforms, telling BBC, “I really felt that with a small public profile which I had from the ‘Roadshow’ that if I could do something good with that, then I should. And I have watched other people, such as Tom Parker, who sadly lost his life to a glioblastoma, really work so incredibly hard when he was so ill to try and make a difference for people like me.”

Burrell’s family said in the statement announcing the antiques enthusiast’s death that the cancer community provided “so much comfort and strength to her in her darkest moments.”

“But most of all it provided hope and I think what she would want most of all is for other people to find hope in her story. Hope that the statistics aren’t gospel and that one day they’ll be very different.”

PARIS — There’s a present-day answer to the question that was posed in verse by the French medieval poet and street brawler François Villon: “Where are the snows of yesteryear?”

They’re right here, in high summer, on Paris’ oldest bridge, the Pont Neuf, where an enormous art installation, a trompe l’oeil inflatable snow-clad mountain range, has arisen over the river Seine.

Using about 200,000 square feet of printed fabric, Paris-born street artist JR has created “La Caverne du Pont Neuf.” It’s his version of and homage to the innovative work of groundbreaking environmental artists Christo and Jeanne-Claude.

They’re the fabled duo who first wrapped the arches of this same bridge in straw-colored fabric in 1985. Over the years, they also surrounded 11 islands in Florida’s Biscayne Bay with flamingo-pink cloth, hung saffron-colored fabric “gates” in New York’s Central Park, installed a “running fence” of billowing white material across nearly 25 miles of Sonoma and Marin counties and, in 1991, planted 3,100 yellow umbrellas, blooming like 20-foot-tall poppies, through the Tejon Pass north of L.A.

I interviewed Christo in 2011, and he was eloquent about how his and his wife’s work alters perceptions of nature, and about the deliberately transient character of the art itself. JR, an acolyte of their work, told me in an email that “an ephemeral artwork forces you to come now, and usually to come with other people. The visit becomes a shared moment … and this moment becomes a memory.”

In a city celebrated for artworks that have survived for centuries, this installation was very nearly too transient. A kooky hailstorm in late May, a heat wave in June, followed by ruthlessly ripping winds, delayed the opening by days. At last, beginning one midnight, the air pumps began and the work arose like a limestone-colored soufflé. It will be open around the clock until June 28.

Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose. Back in 1985, Christo’s engineer on the Pont Neuf project, Ted Dougherty, pointed out that above 25 mph, “wind is not our friend.”

The piece works from two vantage points: from afar — visible from a lot of central Paris — and also from inside it, in the “cave” part. Pedestrians crossing the bridge pass through a fabricated interior, a cavern-like space printed in 3D realism and enhanced with a specially designed scent to evoke the dank, earthy aroma of humankind’s early habitations.

JR and Thomas Bangalter in “La Caverne du Pont Neuf” in Paris.

(Tara-Jay Bangalter)

JR intended it to be both. “From the start I designed two works in one. There is the silhouette — what you catch from the quais, from the bridges, from a boat on the Seine or simply walking past on your way somewhere else. That image belongs to everyone, including the people who never chose to look at art that day.”

And then, he said, “there is the inside, which is slower and more intimate, almost in the dark, hard to photograph.” That aspect is “a journey to cross the bridge, to go from darkness to light.”

When Christo and Jeanne-Claude wrapped the arches of the Pont Neuf more than 40 years ago, it took years of planning and permits to make it happen. “La Caverne du Pont Neuf” was a breeze by comparison.

JR, whose other vast outdoor works have delivered double-takes of humans’ scale and their architecture, told me that cities have come to understand “that public art brings people together and that the image travels around the world. Once Christo showed it could be done safely and beautifully, the conversation changed. It was much easier for me to have my project accepted, thanks to them. They also proved the economic positive impact to the cities they worked in. I believe there should be more large-scale, ambitious public art projects.”

It’s one thing to conceive of such a project and another altogether to make it happen — so much technology, compared to, say, mixing paints and choosing a paintbrush. But the science that “La Caverne” required “is the art, not an obstacle to it,” JR said.

“Trompe l’oeil turns adults back into children,” JR said.

(Elea Jeanne Schmitter)

All the canvas, the engineering, the meticulous assembly, the permits — “none of that is preparation for the work, it is the work. Christo taught me this. The process is visible, and even more after the storm we experienced a couple of days before opening to the public. Nature always reminds you who is in charge. When the wind tore the canvas before we opened, we took it down, re-sewed it, reinforced it,” all in full public view.

“Where I stay careful is in not letting the technology become the subject. The augmented reality by Snap’s AR Studio adds to the project, doesn’t take you away from it.”

That air should be JR’s vital collaborator — no complex and costly scaffolding for these magic mountains — is nothing new in Paris.

The first free flight of humans above the earth, on Nov. 21, 1783, sent aloft two men in a hot-air balloon crafted by the Montgolfier brothers from silk fancifully painted in blue and gold with figures of the zodiac. It wafted across Paris for about 25 minutes at about 3,000 feet. Ephemeral, yes — and unforgettable.

Artists and couturiers are fond of the whimsy of trompe l’oeil, the trick of the eye, the illusion of reality. I am a sucker for it, for fashion like that of clothing designer Elsa Schiaparelli. JR has used it often, as a massive-scale magical deception to make the Louvre Pyramid “disappear” into the old Louvre, and opening up an imaginary subterranean world below the Eiffel Tower.

“Trompe l’oeil turns adults back into children,” he told me. “You know it isn’t real, you know that ‘La Caverne du Pont-Neuf’ is not made of rock, that this is printed canvas. And yet your eye wants to believe it, and for a moment you let yourself. That gap between knowing and believing is where the play happens, and people love being inside that gap.”

Lyle Lovett performed Friday evening in Stagecoach’s Palomino tent with the group of killers he calls his Large Band. After the show, I sat with the singer and actor in the front seats of what I’ll call his Large SUV. “It’s a rental,” he said.

We’re in here because you want to protect your voice?
You know, I don’t smoke marijuana.

Anymore, or period?
Period. I have no moral judgment for other people, but I don’t think it’s good for me. When I smell it, I get concerned that it’s going into my body, and so I just try to stay away from it. In the artist tent, there were plumes everywhere. In fact, at our set, two songs in, I called over our assistant tour manager and I said, “Can you put some fans blowing back out into the audience?”

To send the weed back from whence it came.
Well, I don’t want people to waste it either — they paid good money for it. Jackson Browne asked me once in the parking lot of Conway [Recording Studios] — we were doing “The Road to Ensenada,” and he said, “Is it true you’re not cool with weed?” I said, “You know, I’m not.”

Where do you live these days?
In a couple of places, but in Austin, mainly.

People from Texas have strong opinions about the hierarchy of its cities. What’s the best city in Texas?
I can’t answer that.

You wouldn’t deign to.
It’s your thought, not my thought. The cities in Texas are distinct — wildly different from one another. Houston is one of the most international cities in the world. Austin is the most liberal city in Texas but it’s also being transformed by tech money. What’s going on there is analogous to what the oil business did in Houston and Dallas. San Antonio is the gateway to South Texas — it’s like 85% Hispanic. You feel the difference in culture there, and that’s wonderful. That’s my answer.

Did you ever have a move-to-L.A. moment?
I leased houses three different times. The first album I made in Los Angeles was “Joshua Judges Ruth,” in 1991, and the house belonged to a college professor who took a job at New Mexico State. It was on a street called Multiview, one switchback down from Mulholland — between Laurel and Nichols Canyon on the Valley side. I had a beautiful view of Universal City and the 101 as it came in. I remember this professor, when he was showing me the house, he called it “the river of lights.” So I lived there and then later rented the same house two different times, years apart, on a street called Torreyson, right below the Lautner [Chemosphere].

You’re set to get a star this year on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.
I don’t know if that’s true. I think I’m eligible.

It’s true — I checked.
We’ll see.

Let’s say it happens, which it will. How’s that strike you?
I think it’s always an honor to be recognized by any official organization. But that sort of stuff seems completely separate from the work I’m concerned with. What’s important is the work and how you get to do it.

Which of your albums would you say is your best?
It’s impossible to say. I’m proud of the Nashville records — the budgets were smaller and I had to record those records more quickly. But when I went to Los Angeles and spent too much money recording “Joshua Judges Ruth,” that was one of the most expansive creative experiences I ever had.

Define “too much,” right?
It was too much. Instead of recording three or four songs a day, we recorded two songs. Two weeks later, you didn’t love the take, let’s record it again. There was time to search for ideas, not just document ideas — that was the biggest difference for me. The natural way of doing things — just knocking it out — is absolutely valid. But from my point of view, I was more comfortable spending more money [laughs].

Where’d you like to eat when you were working in L.A.?
When we worked at Conway, we’d have lunch every day at Lucy’s El Adobe to the point that I gave them a credit on the albums.