Kat Robichaud on Escaping the Box, Finding Her People, and the Courage to Be Stupid

Sometimes you come across an artist and are instantly transfixed by their every word and every moment they present to the world. When I came across Kat Robichaud’s TikTok stream late one night, I was hooked. Listening to her music only deepened it—her passion, joy, and vivid point of view grabbed me by the neck and said hang on, we’re going for a helluva ride!

SNQLX: There’s a fury that comes from being confined to someone else’s idea of who you should be. When did you first realize the problem wasn’t you—it was the box?

KAT: In high school, I was consumed with trying to fit in. I went to all the parties and wore the cool kids clothing (Abercrombie & Fitch at the time) and listened to the cool kids music. Then one day, the people that I thought were my friends printed and distributed a list of 113 things they hated about me all over the cafeteria. I felt utterly and completely alone. But then I had very sweet classmates that were kind and invited me to hang out with them- to take a pottery class, to attend their youth group even though I’m not really religious. My ex-boyfriend, whom I’m still friends with today, wrote his own list of 113 things he loved about me. I still have it. I started hanging out in the art room more. I started wearing the clothing I wanted to wear. I made it through, and got accepted to a prestigious art school. Years later, one of the people that created the negative list told me that I was disliked because I knew who I was and that was a threat to so many of my former friends who were scared shitless about who they were and were still searching for their own identity. 

SNQLX: You’ve built Misfit Cabaret as a space where no one has to perform someone else’s version of themselves. What did you have to unlearn about performance after being told how to be a performer for 15 million people?

KAT: Well, I didn’t really learn how to be a performer from The Voice. I learned how to be a performer during the 7 years I spent on stage with my first band, The Design. I think the first and most important lesson I learned from that band was how I wanted to be treated as a performer and a human being. I have a scar on the back of my leg from a mic stand that was thrown at me. I want every single performer that shares the stage with me to feel seen, safe, and loved. That’s what it means to be a darling misfit. But yeah, just night after night after night, 5 days a week for 7 years, I learned how to get a crowd going, how to win them over, how to keep them interested, how to connect with them. You can’t learn that from being on a tv show, regardless of how much they coach you. Shout out to all of my vocal coaches from the show, though. After ripping my vocal chords on crappy sound systems for years, they got me back on the right track. 

SNQLX: Being rejected for being too much of yourself hits differently than being rejected for not being enough. How did that shape your relationship with visibility—did it make you smaller or louder?

KAT: Oh, I think I was just too much for some people. You learn quickly that you just can’t please everyone and you need to go where the love is. There were plenty of people who loved me and they all contributed to my first Kickstarter for my first solo album. And then when that album came out, I had a male fan tell me he didn’t feel like the album was for him, but that it was aimed at a more female audience. Yes. And? Not everything is for everyone. I think all of that just made me want to be louder. I’ve never been one to be quiet- to an annoying degree. 

SNQLX: You’ve said Misfit Cabaret is the first place you truly felt you belonged after 30 years. What was missing in every other room before that, and what finally exists in this one?

KAT: Acceptance. 

SNQLX: Being called a queer artist when you’re married to a man seems like a meaningful distinction to you. How do you understand your queerness—not in terms of who you love, but in terms of how you move through the world and make art?

KAT: I’m pansexual. Being married to a man doesn’t diminish that. I have always felt more comfortable in queer spaces, and more specifically queer art spaces. The musicians I grew up idolizing were all queer. I respect the hell out of drag artists and the stories they tell through their art. Even before I was out or realized I was queer, I drew so much inspiration from my friends and the compassion and grace they had in the face of animosity and bigotry.

But it goes beyond being queer- even just being a woman in a male-dominated music industry has often meant being the only woman in a room of men and constantly having to check myself to make sure I was being “enough”- funny enough, smart enough, talented enough, etc. Was I holding my own. It’s taken a long time to stop doing that and just know my worth, and the queer community plays a very large role in that.

SNQLX: There’s something about the way drag performance works—a complete story in five minutes, unapologetic, shameless. When did you start seeing performance not as entertainment, but as a form of survival?

KAT: Immediately. I started going to drag shows in North Carolina before Drag Race was a thing, and my next door neighbor was a drag queen that I’d sit on the front porch with and absorb whatever stories they were willing to share with me. I became WAY more educated after moving to San Francisco. I remember asking a friend why there was penis art EVERYWHERE at Moby Dick (I mean, I get the pun, but you know), and I was told, “Because for the longest time, we couldn’t”. And the fight continues. 

SNQLX: Your songs don’t shy away from the uncomfortable or the grotesque—serial killers, anxiety, gaslighting. What are you trying to name in these songs that doesn’t have language anywhere else?

KAT: Well, with the murder ballads, they’re just morbid fascinations of mine. “The Last Waltz of the Wrights” is inspired by a real person, James Whitaker Wright, who had a lake with an underwater ballroom that utterly freaked me out because I have submechanophobia.

Some of what I write is cathartic. “Red Satin” is tied up with the story of the scar on the back of my leg. I’m not sure exactly what you mean by “doesn’t have a language anywhere else”. I don’t think my experiences are unique, but they’re unique to me. I like to think I write songs that people can relate to and that my songs are sometimes comforting. With “Ouija Board”, I was just writing a song about my long distance best friend and how it doesn’t matter how much time has passed before we see each other. So many people have reached out to say they recently lost a loved one and “Ouija Board” had helped them grieve. I didn’t foresee that happening but I love that so many people are finding comfort in it, and are also sharing it with their friends and family.

SNQLX: There’s a tension in your work between theatricality and raw honesty—wigs and platform boots, but also grief and fear. How do you know when to perform the feeling versus when to just feel it in front of people?

KAT: I don’t know. What you see is what you get. I don’t ever think I’m being fake on stage. I’m ernest in my performance, so if I’m acting like a clown, it’s because I want and need for you to laugh because I need to laugh. If I’m crying, it’s because I want in that instance to be held by the audience. It’s a symbiotic relationship. I trust the audience to come along with me in whatever journey I’m taking on stage, and I don’t always know where or what that is. 

SNQLX: The Bay Area queer art scene clearly shaped you. What did that community teach you about being an artist that you couldn’t learn anywhere else, and what do you owe them?

KAT: If The Voice taught me the importance of being myself, the Bay Area queer art community taught me HOW to be myself. I think I had been searching for my true identity for a long time without knowing it, always feeling out of step until I arrived in San Francisco. And I don’t think I necessarily fit in when I moved to SF, but I found the community that I desperately wanted to be a part of and be associated with. I saw so much beauty on the stage and behind the scenes- so much kindness and empathy and care that I hadn’t seen before. They inspire me to be a better performer and a better person, and I owe them my gratitude. 

SNQLX: Choosing to stay in your weird world of artists and cabaret performers instead of chasing mainstream success is a deliberate choice. What does it cost you to stay on the margins, and what would it cost you to leave?

KAT: I enjoy my privacy. I enjoy having the time and freedom to go and support my friends and their shows. It’s very nice when I’m recognized and I deeply appreciate the support I receive from fans at shows and online. I never really pursued record labels and I don’t know how to “chase mainstream success” beyond creating art that I’m proud of and putting it online in the hopes that people will see it, love it, and share it. I’m very controlling of my art and vision, so I don’t think I would enjoy people telling me what to do or that I should tone it down or try to appeal to more people. It’s fun to take the show on the road a handful of times a year, but for the most part, I just love hanging at home with my husband and cat or puttering around the neighborhood bars and thrift shops. I was on the road 5 days a week for 7 years in my 20s. I don’t want to do that again unless it was some crazy awesome fun opportunity. But I’m done sleeping in vans. I’ve long since paid my dues on that.

SNQLX: When the stage and the community that gathers around it suddenly disappeared, what did you learn about who you are without them?

KAT: Uh. I don’t want to think about that. It sucked. SUCKED. I recently talked to a musician who stopped playing public gigs because he was making enough money through tiktok live, and I asked him point blank how he could stand it. I NEED that shared energy with the audience. It’s a euphoric feeling that you just can’t get by performing in front of a computer. It’s not an experience. 

SNQLX: Your recent work builds a sonic world that’s gothic, campy, dark, and playful all at once. What’s pulling you toward vampire mythology right now, and what does it let you say that other genres don’t?

KAT: Oh, it’s all escapism. It’s always been about escapism. I like to get lost in fantasy worlds, in the romantic simplicity of story-telling. There’s something so nice about a beginning, middle, and end, especially when it seems there’s no end in sight of the current hellscape rollercoaster we’re all currently on. I want my songs to feel like you’re reading a quick little fairytale to reset your psyche, but with bitchin 80s hair. 

SNQLX: You want audiences to forget the world for two hours. In a moment when escapism can feel irresponsible, how do you think about offering people a place to not think—and what’s the responsibility that comes with creating that kind of refuge?

KAT: Oh, I’ve never seen it as irresponsible to provide an escape for people. I think we’d all go crazy if we weren’t able to turn the worry and hurt off for a little bit. It’s not going anywhere. It’ll be waiting for us the second we step out of the theater. But our bodies need sleep in order for us to have the energy to keep going, keep working, keep hoping. Our brains need to rest in order to take in all the new horrors without gouging our eyes out. Art is an important reminder that life is worth living and fighting for. Without artists, we’d forget how to dream. 

SNQLX: If your 17-year-old self could see you now—hosting underground variety shows in wigs and platform boots, surrounded by queerdos and misfits—what do you think she’d ask you? And what would you need to tell her?

KAT: It’s funny…..I think more about what my dad would think of what I do if he were still alive. He passed away before I even made it on The Voice, so he just saw me struggling in my first band. One of the last things he said to me in person was, “This is what you do.” He was saying this as a response to me being nervous about auditioning for The Voice. “This is what you do.” I know for a fact he would be so tickled with what I’m doing now. 

What would my 17 year old self ask me? I honestly don’t know. It’s been 25 years. I don’t think I know that scared little girl anymore. I don’t know if I’d be able to think clearly enough to ask the right questions. Maybe…”What can I do to avoid the heartache?” And I could try to answer that, but I honestly don’t know. My mom always told me, “You have to have one really good heartbreak to be able to appreciate a good love when it comes along.” I don’t think we’re able to grow as people without being tried and tested. But maybe I would say:

“Don’t see things ending as a failure and don’t be afraid to fail.” It’s something I have to remind myself constantly.

Some things only make sense when you can see someone’s face. So we sat down to talk about opening night at that illegal speakeasy, the Edward Scissorhands performance that scared the shit out of her, and what it feels like when the room gives you that energy back.