The subject matter follows the listener through the dissolution of a relationship and the ultimate acceptance of its end — a story drawn from Bates’ real life. “It’s been three years since we’ve broken up,” Bates reminisces, “maybe two-and-a-half years since I’ve written the album, and I have so many walls built up, still.”  

Bates says this confusion led him to acknowledge a rift between heartache and libido, and “how they can’t symbiotically exist without one uprooting the other.” Bates explains his theory further, saying the breakup left him particularly inflamed with no outlet for it. “I was just figuring out where it stems from, and it stems from my search for validation and my wanting to feel sexy because, near the end of that [breakup], I was feeling insecure because my partner didn’t want to hook up,” Bates recalls with focused eyes. “I’m just thinking, ‘What did I do? Am I not attractive enough?’”

One choice line from the eponymous interlude, midway through the album, spells it out: “I just want to fuck around, and maybe I’ll forget, all the sadness in my mind got me hanging by a thread.”

Having moved to Toronto during the pandemic to make connections and grow his profile, he’s since been commissioned for shows and Pride events from Brampton to Toronto to New York City.

Quarterback Baby originally found success in his hometown of Victoria, making connections with a range of bands and producers. In spite of growing his profile in the city’s arts community, he quickly reached the peak of what the city could offer for his social and working life. “Not to be a hater. I have a lot to thank Victoria for, but I did feel like an anomaly there.” Bates found himself questioning his place in the West Coast scene, sharing bills with indie rock bands—among friends, yes, but not truly satisfied.

Toronto scratched a necessary itch. “There’s just… more bad bitches here. There’s actually Black people, there’s a Black community.”

Of course, seeking a community doesn’t mean just letting anybody into the inner circle. He frequently leans on a rotating cast of friends and collaborators, some of whom appear on Hypersexual Heartbreak – namely, Prado Monroe, who he cites as a best friend and confidante. 

“We’ve just been through so much together, and it’s nice to have those people in your corner to get insight and advice and opinions,” says Bates. Monroe appears on “DOMDADI.”

He’s also leaned on fellow collaborator and friend Myst Milano. He contributed backing vocals to their 2023 Polaris Prize-nominated album Beyond the Uncanny Valley and even found a credit among the special thanks. Of their collaborative friendship, Bates says he admires Milano’s taste as a defining characteristic. 

“They’ll be so honest with me. If I make something and it sucks, they’ll be like, ‘This isn’t your best one.’ They listen through my album and genuinely think it’s incredible. To me, that’s a stamp and that’s enough for me. I don’t even care if anyone else likes it at that point.” 

After a video grant found him in Toronto to create a music video in 2019, he set up roots in the city, connecting with producers and organizers. Bookings for Pride events in various cities followed, and by the fall of 2019, he was living in Toronto. Like many artists in the city during the onset of 2020, he felt the sting of an industry bled dry by pandemic measures. “The people I was working with,” he recalls, “they were all freaking out because the whole industry was up in flames.” 

Labels and booking agents couldn’t take a chance on new arrivals – they could hardly support their own artists. “So it was like, ‘No hard feelings.’ It’s just what it was.” 

The lack of connection, both at home and in the industry, and the desire to prove something to himself led him to learn to produce. Bates says 80 per cent of Hypersexual Heartbreak was produced in the timeframe, drawing from his love for the range of early aughts R&B and swiping beat packs from the hyperpop producers. The crisp production shines throughout the album’s runtime, as the beats run the gamut from ballroom to Jersey club.

The track “Hit it Right” combines muted synths with filtered guitars and stuttering rhythms that wouldn’t be out of place on an Aaliyah album. Far from simple revivalism, the song is an earworm that’s so soft and sweet that it betrays the topic at hand.

As for audiences, he says walking with him into the world of Quarterback Baby should be a way for them to find an escape into a safe space to do whatever the fuck they want to do. Part of his early experience in opera concerts was railing against the rigidity of the structure of musical theatre.

“You clap at this certain time. You can’t get up and use the washroom. You have an intermission. It’s very structured.” His shows, by contrast, centre catharsis. “You want to wail and scream, throw up and get drunk, you want to piss in the corner. And you can do that, you know?” 

As the evening winds down, he’s on his way to scout possible venues for an album release party, another opportunity to convert the uninitiated into disciples for Quarterback Baby.

“Fuck the fame, I don’t really care about that.”

— Quinn Bates (Quarterback Baby)

“Fuck the fame, I don’t really care about that,” he adds. “I just want to be financially stable and I want to tour. I’m a great performer, not to brag, but that’s where I shine the most.”

Making your way as an independent artist in an industry that undervalues queer and racialized art is, of course, no small feat, and Bates makes no shade of his desired outcome for Hypersexual Heartbreak, an album that came together as a patchwork of grant funding. He leans directly into my recorder to say, “I couldn’t have got [the album] to where it’s at without that, I’m forever grateful for that government funding. Please give me more if you’re reading this, give me more money. Give me more funding to create more hot art for the gays and the queers.”