Tracey Yarad discusses All These Pretty Things
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Tracey Yarad is an Australia-born, New York-based pianist and singer-songwriter. She’s been touring her show All These Pretty Things across the world, and is now bringing it to Etcetera Theatre and Camden Fringe for four nights from 28 July.
We caught up with Tracey to find out how she has turned a horrendous moment in her life into a one-woman show about love, loss, reinvention, and starting over.
What can audiences expect from the show?
What do you do when your husband leaves you for your teenage goddaughter? You dye your wedding dress black, write some killer songs, and turn it into a show. #TrueStory.
When I share this line, I usually get wide eyes and jaws dropping. Recently, at a Fringe Festival, I pitched it to a woman in her 30s on the street. I barely got to “”when your husband leaves you…”” before she cut me off with, “”You get over it!””
But here’s the thing: this show isn’t really about divorce. It’s about what comes after – the mess, the music, the madness. It’s about love, loss, reinvention, and starting over.
Is Camden Fringe going to be the show’s first time on stage?
Camden Fringe isn’t the show’s first rodeo. I’ve been performing it pretty intensely over the past couple of years – Adelaide Fringe, Edinburgh Fringe, Brighton, New York, various theatres across Australia… basically, I’ve dragged this wedding dress around the world.
Now I’m finally bringing it to Camden – and I couldn’t be more excited. It’s London! I’ve always dreamed of performing here. There’s something magical about standing on a stage in a city where even the pigeons have attitude.
What was your inspiration behind the show?
Honestly, at first, I wasn’t inspired at all. I was going through a heavy divorce and in no state to write anything. I’d sit at the piano, crying into the music stand, and somehow, the songs just started to come out. It wasn’t a planned project. It was more like emotional leakage.
Friends – especially songwriting friends – started showing up. They helped me make sense of the chaos, turning all those tangled feelings into lyrics and melodies. The stories, the actual show part, came much later. At first, it was just about surviving.
Then a mate in Nashville invited me over. He connected me with a bunch of writers, handed me the keys to his car, and said, “Go. Write.” That was the moment things really shifted. I felt free, fuelled, and finally inspired. It wasn’t about writing a show – it was about reclaiming my voice. And somewhere in all that mess, a show found me.
How long have you been working on the play?
I’ve been working on it for almost eight years.
Is this version how you originally envisioned it or has it changed drastically since you first put pen to paper?
It’s changed a lot over the years – like I have. At first, it was really just a collection of songs I’d written to process what I was going through. I first performed it in 2017 at a festival in Australia, with quite the setup: a modern interpretive dancer centre stage, me off to the side at the piano, a band behind me, and three backing singers. The stories were completely improvised – I’d just talk between songs, off the cuff, raw and unfiltered.
Then I moved to New York and met my director and co-writer/editor, Tessa Souter. She helped me shape the whole thing into a proper theatrical piece. Together we tightened the narrative, refined the pacing, and found the emotional arc. Thanks to her, the show became more than just a song cycle, it became a story.
Now, it’s a one-woman show. Just me, a piano, and the truth. The stories are so embedded in me that I can afford to improvise again, but this time with intention. It’s leaner, more personal, and strangely more powerful in its simplicity.
How challenging has this role been for you?
It’s definitely been one of the most challenging roles I’ve ever taken on, because I’m playing myself, reliving some of the hardest moments of my life on stage. At first, that was incredibly raw. Every night felt like reopening a wound in front of strangers.
But something unexpected happened over time. The more I performed it, the more distance I felt. Now, it almost feels like I’m telling someone else’s story. That shift has been both surreal and healing. I know I’ve made it through, I’m on the other side of it now. So the show no longer feels like pain; it feels like power. And that’s been the real gift of it all.
Being a fringe festival, we all know sets have to be bare minimum, how have you got around this with your set and props?
Fringe festivals are all about doing more with less, and I actually love that challenge. My setup is simple: it’s just me at the piano, one costume change, and my trusty temple gong. But I also use carefully timed slides, audio samples, and video throughout the show. It’s subtle, but very effective. Those elements help shift the audience’s focus, create atmosphere, and give moments of breath, so it’s not just me under the spotlight the whole time.
It becomes a kind of visual and emotional choreography.
What has been the biggest challenge in realising your vision for the show?
I’m a musician, not an actor, so stepping into the role of storyteller has probably been the biggest challenge. Learning how to deliver the stories in a way that feels natural, like I’m just chatting with friends in the living room, took time. I didn’t want it to sound “performed.” I wanted it to feel real, because it is real.
Another big shift was letting go of the drama. At first, everything felt so raw and serious. But over time, I started to see the humour in it all, and now, I absolutely love when people laugh. It means they’re with me. Finding that balance between pain and punchlines is one of the most surprising, and rewarding, parts of the whole journey.
How important is audience interaction to you?
Honestly, they mean everything. The moment I hear a laugh, a gasp, or even see someone quietly wiping away a tear, I feel completely at ease. It’s like a silent agreement – we’re in this together. That connection gives me the freedom to relax and tell the story with more honesty and flow.
For me, the audience is the most important part of the performance. Without them, it’s just a rehearsal. One night, a woman was so shocked by something I said, she blurted out, loudly, “Oh my f… God… what!” I absolutely loved it. That kind of unfiltered, human response is gold. It reminds me that the show is landing, that it’s alive, and that people are feeling it in real time.
Are there any plans for what comes next after the show has finished its run – for you or the show?
After Camden, I head straight to the Edinburgh Fringe for a two-week run, then it’s back to the U.S. I’ve got some festivals lined up there in the fall. Ideally, I’d love a steady run in an off-Broadway theatre in New York City, where I live. Touring is exciting, but truthfully I really hate being away from my dog so much.
Who would play you in the Hollywood adaptation of your future autobiography?
Tilda Swinton
If you had to describe your show as a colour what would it be?
Black & white for the wedding dress and the border collie.
What is the weirdest or most unconventional prop used in your show?
My temple bowl, it’s how I kick off the show. I strike it, I chant, and in that moment, I land. I’ve been a meditator for over 40 years, and this ritual centres me. It’s not just for the audience, it’s for me. It brings me into the space, into my breath, and into the story I’m about to tell. It sets the tone: quiet, focused, open. Before the first word or note, I arrive fully.
What’s the most valuable piece of advice you’ve received during your career, and how has it influenced your work on this show?
Remember why you do what you do – and keep asking yourself that question. Is it about fame? Money? Sold-out shows? Those things can be fleeting. For me, it comes down to something much simpler and deeper: if even one person in the audience feels something, feels seen, moved, or inspired to make a change, then it’s worth it.
Music and being on stage is where I feel most authentic. That’s the anchor. As long as I stay connected to that, everything else falls into place.
All These Pretty Things plays at Etcetera Theatre from Monday 28 to Thursday 31 July.
Prior to Camden Fringe, the show plays at Manchester Fringe 15 and 16 July (tickets here) and Durham Fringe 23 to 25 July (tickets here).
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