Photo courtesy of Shannon Earl

The moment I knew I wanted to make music was in third grade when I wrote my first song. I don’t remember what it was about, exactly, but it had all the hallmarks of an Ava Earl piece - longing, imagination, hopeless romance. Much like running, another life-long passion, it felt freeing to create music.

The moment I knew I wanted to make music was my freshman year of high school. I played my biggest crowd to date and opened for then-up-and-coming pop star Maggie Rogers. I sang a couple of wrong lyrics and played a few wrong notes, but no one seemed to notice. I was presenting myself truthfully and, not for the first time, was met with a kind and listening audience.

The moment I knew I wanted to make music was a year later, when I first attempted actual banter. I told a true story about the inspiration for my song, and made the audience cringe and laugh and applaud when I had finished. After years of practice, that night my stage presence felt natural, like something I was made to do. Singing became like breathing; something I did constantly, not always thinking about it.

The moment I knew I wanted to make music was the first time I recorded music with a band. It was my fourth time in a studio but this felt different. It was as if the music were weaving itself around me, wrapping me tightly in a cocoon of creation - my music imbued with the beauty and talent of everyone I was working with. I truly learned what it was like to create in that moment, and I swore I had never been happier. I thought to myself, “I could do this forever.”

The moment I knew I wanted to make music was at cross country practice, when a male teammate asked me why I was self-promoting “so much.” Why would I not pour everything into something I loved, something I was proud of? The answer felt so obvious for me, that it didn’t matter what anyone else thought or if I was being obnoxious. I would suffer greater embarrassments to be heard.

The moment I knew I wanted to make music was when my sibling looked me in the eyes and told me how much they loved my new song. Usually my mom would be the first to hear it, but it was a present and I wanted to run it by somebody trustworthy without ruining the surprise. Most songs I write for myself, but giving a song away places an extra weight and I wanted it to be great. Even if I just played songs for my family, I knew I would always write music.

The moment I knew I wanted to make music was when a girl referred to me as a “campus celebrity” in college. There is nothing I would rather be known for.

I’m looking forward to more of these moments; times in my life that underscore what I knew when I wrote that first song: that I am doing exactly what I was meant to do.

Photo courtesy of Dana Gorab

V Festival 2004. We were young (well, younger), carefree and happy. A ragtag group of friends and lovers that spent most of their time together. Although we had all started going to festivals in the 90s, this was our first V… well, maybe not some of the others but it was certainly my first V. And my only V but that’s another story.

Now, being the sort of people we were (still are?), we were fully loaded. Enough alcohol to fill a swimming pool, an amount of mushrooms to give us some real feels (and no we’re not talking mushrooms you can buy in Sainsburys), at least an eighth of smoke each (remember when it was empirically measured?) and a cache of pills. Our usual festival stash.

Now, as you can imagine, my memory is not picture perfect of this event, so before you continue reading please be aware there may be inaccuracies regarding who played where and when, and even what day I’m talking about. That being said, let’s move on with the story.

I’m not gonna mention the names of people I talk about here as I don’t know if they’d appreciate me talking about their hedonism during their early, or earlier, years. We had myself and my girlfriend at the time; her sister and her boyfriend who was also the bass player of the band I was in; my longtime friend of many, many years and his wife; and finally the guitarist from the band I’d mentioned previously. We’d spent that Friday indulging in all our vices and watched many good shows and when we awoke on that Saturday we were still feeling it.

After a slow start to the day, the Saturday vibes were picking up. The beer was flowing, the smoke was burning and the pills were popping. I think the remainder of the shrooms were for Sunday. We were having a lot of fun, I know that for certain. But I couldn’t tell you who we saw play that day. I think we may have seen The Dandy Warhols at some point, and I remember Pink and Muse playing on a large stage round the corner, but like I say I could be wrong about that. All I do know is that we kind of split up doing our own thing and we reconvened once people had seen what they wanted to see.

We all got together again and there was a gap in the acts, but we were in the mood so someone checked the lineup for the day. Five out of the seven of us were 70s-born 80s kids and we spotted The Human League was about to start. None of us had owned any of their music and at that point we thought we knew at least one of their songs so we thought it’d be worth a look and headed to the tented stage they were playing.

The Human League started and we were pleasantly surprised that we knew the first song. Don’t ask me what it was now, I really do not know. But then they played the second song, and lo and behold, we knew it. And we knew the third. And the fourth, and so on and so on.

The gig was absolutely amazing. The feeling of pure joy at this unexpected performance, all the while surrounded by the people you love. The overwhelming feeling manifested itself by way of tears of joy from everyone in our group as we hugged, jumped and sang along with what we now consider to be classic after classic.

Even though that entire festival is a bit of a blur and memories fade and merge with other festival memories, that experience will stay with me forever. I can still remember the exact spot in the tent where we stood.

Thank you, The Human League, for one of the best and most memorable shows I have ever been to. Thank you, The Human League, for making me cry.

Photo courtesy of Ted Simha-Webster

While I know magic doesn’t exist, the feeling that music can instill might be the closest thing to it.

At a young age I always associated music with positive experiences. Early mornings in the car with my dad driving to hockey practice we would blast songs to get hyped up. We’d sing along to the radio on a warm summer day at the cottage. There were so many little life experiences that were enhanced to a level only music could bring. People just generally seemed happier while music was playing and when my parents would turn on the speakers the day would instantly get better.

I began playing trumpet at a young age through my school’s music program. I instantly fell in love with creating melodies and with the idea that I could provide people with an experience. I felt that I could achieve a greater sense of personal value if I had the skills to create an experience for people that I associated with such positivity. I constantly listened to CDs of my favourite trumpet players and wished so badly that I would be able to play like them someday. My first experience at a live concert was seeing one of my favourite trumpet players, Herb Albert. It was also the first time that I had ever heard songs that I spent hours listening to being played right in front of me. I have to assume my jaw was on the floor. There was something so undeniably cool about being up on stage and having a group of musicians collaborate so well together to make something so sonically beautiful. I thought it was such an entrancing combination of talent, creativity and confidence.

I have long been a fan of rock music so naturally I aspired to play the guitar. During high school I idolised bands like Hollerado, The Sam Roberts band and the Arkells. Playing music had instantly become a huge passion of mine and I wanted to be like the people in all my favourite rock bands. I knew joining a band was something I needed to do and when I first took lessons, I heard that bass players “didn’t grow on trees” so I immediately started learning. Meeting like-minded people through the music scene and being able to hone a skill where I could express myself really solidified my love for playing. It is a feeling that has only continued to grow throughout the years.

Music is a lifelong pursuit and even though I now know how the trick is done it still feels like magic. I feel very grateful to have music as such a large part of my life.

Our music is a balance of speed and control, with moments of intense acceleration and sudden shifts in tempo that keep the listener on the edge of their seat.

It wasn’t always like that.

In the beginning it was James and Mike, playing in a country band called William Joseph James. Those two met while shoveling their driveways one winter and realized that both were musicians and like beer so they should play music together and drink beer.

With Mike on drums and James on bass, they played frequent residencies as they grew in popularity. But as any band knows, it lasts as long as it lasts, and then it doesn’t.

Members of that group knew Michael and heard his self-released solo record, which was a mix of folk and indie songwriting. Michael spent most of his musical past behind a drum set, playing in bands like The Burning Paris and The Living Sea. After a tryout for the new version of their band, they heard something different In Michael and began to play as The Additions. A new sound that was more rock centric, exploring crunchy tones and introspective songwriting.

The Additions had a strong start with a quick ending.

The story continues like they all do; the drummer switches to guitar and reveals that he’s actually a super technical guitar player in disguise. Heavier pedals are introduced, heavier riffs are written, no drummers in sight. Drummers are one of the hardest positions to fill in a band. You need commitment from them, but you need chemistry more.

The band's debut album, You Are Not What You Do, is a raw and honest portrayal of personal struggles and experiences. Released just as the pandemic lockdown began, it hit college radio and built an online audience with limited, yet favorable reviews.

Marc’s name was mentioned several times by Mike as a potential new drummer. They are friends who go on winter hikes together and hurt themselves frequently on mountain bikes. In other words, chemistry.

The night after their first practice with Marc on drums, they immediately knew he was a way better drummer than Mike, HA! Seriously though, he is, and Mike knows it. We sounded… Great.

Trailer Swift's sound is a blend of moody melodies and distorted riffs, soaked in various sub-genres of rock, creating a sound that is both unique and familiar. By drawing from different styles and influences, they have created a sound that is distinctly their own, while still being accessible and relatable to a wide audience. Their music commands attention and leaves a lasting impression. Their songs are a delicate balance of strength and vulnerability, with lyrics that speak to the heart and melodies that stay with you long after the music has stopped.

So, it appears they have themselves a new and committed band again. Their writing is collaborative, and they have energy and ideas to spare. All of them contribute with parts and arrangements, mixing ideas and pulling from 25+ years of musical influences. They get to be loud, hard, fast, technical and moody. They get to play what they are feeling and explore. That’s not work, that’s play.

What sets Trailer Swift apart?

There is a unique and modern approach to their songs. A raw infectious energy, driving rhythms and catchy hooks. Their lyrics are often accompanied by melodic and dynamic guitar work that ranges from gentle strumming to powerful, distortion-heavy riffs. Emotive and gruff vocals conveying a sense of vulnerability and honesty… And yes, their name.

Ok, so, hear us out. We think band names are cool, but they are all taken, and you know it. Every band out there is White Lion this, White Lion that. We can’t keep track, and no one remembers your name. Tell us the last time someone came up to you and said Hey! How’s (insert White Lion band name here) doing? Never. No one remembers your band name! They always say, what’s it called again? And then forget it all over again.

People remember the name Trailer Swift. It makes them laugh and we think that helps. When people come up to us they ask how Trailer Swift is doing and we say great!

It’s also a trucking company, and now that you know that you’re going to see those Swift trailers everywhere! You’re welcome.

In all seriousness, it’s silly and we love it. It was either that or Wack Nicolson.

If you’re not sold on us yet, please just enjoy this distracting bit of Game of Thrones fodder to help change your troubled mind.

*The music is full of unexpected twists and turns, like a labyrinthine maze that is constantly shifting and changing. The melodies are both haunting and enchanting, like the songs of the forest sprites that dance among the trees. The bassline rumbles like a giant dragon's roar, while the guitar riffs shimmer like the scales on its back. The vocals soar above the instrumentation, like a hawk soaring high above the treetops, their words carrying the weight of the universe as they explore themes of self-discovery, identity, and personal struggle. The end.

*Written by ChatGPT

Ever since my teenage years, I've been immersed in the world of music. Back then, I was driven by a relentless pursuit of success and recognition, seeking external validation to affirm my worth. I convinced myself that reaching the next milestone or earning another accolade would somehow prove my deservingness of happiness.

Ever read The Velvet Rage? Anyways, as I recently turned 30, I know deep down that I have been gradually unlearning these damaging beliefs over the past several years.

When was the moment I knew I wanted to make music?

Surprisingly, the answer came to me more recently than I had anticipated. I could easily say that I knew it from the moment I opened my mouth at the age of 8 and started to sing. However, the genuine realization struck me when I returned home to my parents' house amidst the peak of the pandemic.

During those uncertain times, I reconnected with my voice and my keyboard in a way I had never experienced before. It was during this period that I wrote a song called "Twenties", which transformed my perception of myself and my career. It was no longer a mere desire to make music; it became a need within me. Creating music allowed me to explore my pain, reflect on my upbringing, decipher the intricacies of my relationships and grow into a kinder human being.

In my parents' attic, I felt like a child again, rediscovering the pure joys of life without the weight of financial obligations and survival. It was a time of queer liberation, where I could freely embrace my emotions, channel them into artistic expressions and truly live. But as the demands of reality knocked at my door, I faced the challenge of maintaining that spirit out in the real world.

Nevertheless, today I stand with newfound clarity and an overwhelming sense of excitement. I am eager to share the musical reflections that emerged from the depths of my parents' attic, encapsulated in an album I aptly titled The Garden. As a younger version of myself, I used to proclaim, "Dad, I'm going to sell out the Garden." Although I haven't achieved all the things I once envisioned, I am here, and I am content. And unexpectedly, I've come to realize that this, in itself, is the greatest triumph - the victory I never knew was a victory.

So, let me ask you: Are you okay? Are you truly present in this moment? If not, please know that I'm thinking of you. And in any way possible, I would love to be your friend and remind you that you possess immense goodness within you. The world needs you, and so do I.

Photo courtesy of Bobby Murphy

I started playing piano at a very young age and was always praised for my musical abilities growing up. I knew I craved attention from performing, but the only art programs I had access to was community theater and a pretty sad marching band in my tiny, rural, western Kentucky town.

My years of piano study landed me a scholarship to attend college in Memphis, Tenn. Memphis was a big city for this small town boy. I was quickly thrown into jazz ensembles, rock bands, and even formed a small trio with my friends and started to perform around town. I don’t remember the exact moment but it was somewhere around my freshman year that I knew this is what I was meant to be doing.

The feedback that you get from a live audience is incredibly validating. I knew I had something and that started to quickly evolve. The greatest decision I made was to move to Memphis permanently. I know a lot of people who have careers in entertainment that wouldn’t necessarily agree. However, Memphis taught me to hustle while giving me daily opportunities to perform and evolve as an artist without busting my ass in New York City or Los Angeles waiting tables five nights a week. Instead, I was on stage, honing my craft.

Had I moved to Los Angeles in my early 20s, I might not have had as much success. I spent 12 years in Memphis and now in my 30s, I finally live in LA. I got to cut my teeth in one of the most legendary music cities in the world while being able to afford to live as a working artist. And I also grew the fuck up, so I have some sort of wits about me out here in the great Wild Wild West.

Photo courtesy of Lucia Lombardo

It was probably a Wednesday. Music has always been a therapeutic and cathartic experience for me, and thus far my greatest form of expression. Dancing is a close runner up, but music is my go-to because it feels constantly available.

I grew up in a midwestern Christian household outside of Cincinnati where my mother led the church band and my father was the sound engineer. Some of my favorite memories were of myself and my mother singing harmonies on our way to church. She has always been a fantastic performer, and though I moved away from the religious piece, the passion always stuck with me.

Even still, I didn't know that I wanted to pursue music until I was in college studying psychology. In high school I had a band with my brother for fun, but I never took things seriously until I joined an eight-piece funk/jam band. We would tour around and play at festivals, connecting with people while traveling and sharing experiences together. The energy was absolutely addicting, and from there I knew it'd be a life-long love affair.

After college I pursued music, as well as my career as a therapist while living in Asheville, New Orleans, Los Angeles and finally Memphis. I continued to write and record my own music, all the while gaining influences from the places I lived in. You can hear a little bit of everywhere I've been in my voice as well as lyrics - and I mean that both geographically as well as emotionally.

I've sung in just about any form you can think of: show choir, acoustic, cruise ship performer, industrial bands, country and so on. These days I've settled back into my consistent writing style which falls along the folk/alternative/retro genres. I've found an amazing music community here in Memphis whom I respect and love, and in return I've gained support and inspiration.

Photo courtesy of Mark Maryanovich

I don't remember an exact defining moment when I realized I needed and wanted to make music. The feeling just seemed to always be there. It felt natural, quite like breathing.

I'd have to say, some of my earliest memories of music being a part of my existence include the sound of old ABBA records playing to help me fall asleep. Just as music, insomnia always followed me and music was the one thing that could calm me enough and make me feel safe enough to fall asleep.

My mother understood that from a very early age. Although my parents were not at all musical, they were huge music fans and music was always playing in the house. I think because they weren't musicians themselves, they had an exceptional amount of respect and admiration for musicians, especially the ones on MTV.

As children, we tend to follow the trend or influence of our parents. In my case, seeing my parents treat the annual broadcast of the American Music Awards and the Grammys as special as a national holiday made me assume the same view of music and the seemingly superhuman characters that delivered that music into our lives.

While other kids dreamt of becoming an astronaut, a teacher or a doctor, I was listening to music of all different genres. Soul, indie, pop, rock, alongside classical music which I was learning as a young child in my piano lessons at Toronto's Royal Conservatory of Music. All I could envision and fantasize about was the day I would walk on stage and perform a song which I had written myself.

It took years, but that day finally did arrive. It was especially sweet when I was able to share the stage alongside my brother, Fernando, who is the other half of The Manic Boys And Girls Club. Having been raised in the same tight knit household, it was only natural that Fernando too would share the same passion and love for music and performing. The moment we both understood our purpose, we knew that life as we had known it would never be the same.

Music has always been a soundtrack for our lives, accompanying us through almost every major life experience, and helping us cope with even the toughest ones. It has served as not only inspiration but also as therapy.

For my brother and me, to now be in the position of producing, writing, and performing our own music in The Manic Boys And Girls Club, I hope that we can inspire and be the soundtrack to the lives of those who are going through their own experiences, whether it be heartbreak, regret, love, fear or just wanting to escape reality for a while.

I was born into a musical family, so for me, music was normal. Performing and practicing were things I was exposed to since I was a young child. I suppose I really didn’t even think it was “special” until I got a bit older. 

Photo courtesy of Dana Gorab

I’ve been a massive fan of Mastodon for a very long time. Actually, I can pinpoint the exact date to when I grabbed their album, Leviathan, from Best Buy back in 2004. I’m actually a huge nautical nut also, and their album cover with the stylized art of Moby Dick caught my eye. So, I sat there in the parking lot waiting for my tattoo session and listened through this amazing and new sound of this band that has been in my top three for nearly two decades now.

Fast forward to the COVID era, recounting the highlights in the intervening years: marriage, moves across the country, a second degree in music, career changes, more moving, the loss of our first child, the birth of our twins and more career changes.

I’ve noticed that since I’ve become a parent, sometimes even benign things can heighten my emotions, so it made a lot of sense to me that when I went to see one of the first post-COVID shows with Opeth and Mastodon, I was very receptive to the experience, especially owing to the fact that despite the fact of how much I loved this band, this was going to be the first time I’d seen them live.

So, I jockeyed my way close to the stage and was four bodies back directly in front of Brent Hinds, and Mastodon proceeded to play an amazing show. They played pretty much all the songs that I would want to see (though, to be fair, if they played every song I wanted to see, their hands would probably fall off).

Anyways, they played some amazing stuff, and quite a few songs from their newest album, Hushed and Grim. I wasn’t as familiar with this release as their previous stuff, so it was fun to almost go in with no expectations. I also know how personal their music is to them, and how it speaks to many of their personal experiences, so when they played their song “More Than I Could Chew” I was floored. The melodies, and vocals, and the song’s structure spoke to me and because I have also experienced loss in a very specific way, it brought the emotions hard.

Mastodon continues to be a huge inspiration to me and the music I create with Cthulhu Dreamt, and a band I can listen to regardless of the mood I’m in.

Photo courtesy of Dana Gorab

So, when I was a teenager, one of my favourite things was when I got home from school: I'd throw my bag down, chuck my blazer on the bannister and me and my mum would watch an hour of music TV. You know Kerrang, MTV2, Scuzz, etc. It was my favourite time of the week.

Before we found these channels I listened to mostly Brit-pop and punk bands my dad listened to on cassette. I fell in love with the angsty lyrics and guitar riffs on display; it felt highly relatable to me and my puddle soaker jean lifestyle. But king among them for me was Linkin Park.

They were basically my gateway drug to modern rock. I'd never heard such a fusion of pure aggression, melody and throwback hip-hop.

So then, picture the scene: it's the summer of 2003 and Meteora had just come out earlier in the year. With YouTube not being invented, I had no idea what to expect at my first ever live show. All I had to go on was glitzy music videos.

So there, in the crowd with my mates anxiously awaiting what was to come. As soon as the lights came up and the band exploded on stage… the energy, the performance. I was just overwhelmed. It was an experience you can only live once.

The crowd singing to every word, the jumping, the circle pits. I was overwhelmed with emotion that I couldn't keep inside my stupid teenage body. I desperately wanted to be the one on that stage making people feel that way from that day forward.

Photo courtesy of Will Shellhorn

I always knew I loved music, but I didn’t know I couldn’t live without it until I didn’t have it. When I went to NYU to play basketball and study finance, I had it in my head that I would pursue opportunities in music on the side - as if that’s how it works. I even wrote in my basketball profile bio, “Aspires to either work on Wall Street or become a singer/songwriter.” I was naive and afraid. Naive to the fact that defying all odds takes everything you’ve got, not just what’s left over. And afraid of jumping ship without any sight of land or another ship. But here I am, going on a few years of treading water wondering if my legs or my lungs will give out first.

The moment I knew I was going to make music as a career was not when I jumped; it was when I wound myself up so hard that not jumping would have left me so unbalanced that I would’ve gone overboard anyway. It was the summer of 2019, when I worked a miserable unpaid internship in FiDi while living in Washington Heights. My commute was an hour each way. I was working from 7 a.m. to 4 p.m. Monday through Friday, then going to work out for two to three hours, and finally making it back to my apartment around 9 p.m. or so where I ate my first meal of the day. On top of everything, I had no piano, no guitar, no way of writing or playing music. The real punchline is that I’m sure there would have been a lot of great melodramatic songs that came out of that summer had I been able to write them.

Around the end of that summer, my whole perspective changed. My biggest music influence growing up, Ben Folds, came to town for an event talking with Sara Bareilles about his new memoir. It was at the Cooper Union near Washington Square, so I was back on my “old” NYU stomping grounds. I remember walking around to kill some time before the event started, listening to my favorite Ben Folds music. Then his song “Evaporated” came on my playlist. It was my first-ever concert in 2014 (which led me to write my first song a few weeks later) and I’d seen him perform four times since then, but he had never played that song. I remember it resonating with me more than usual. I remember letting myself feel emotions I’d been pretending I didn’t have. I remember pressing “replay”. Again. And again. I remember thinking, “I need him to play this tonight. I need to hear this tonight.”

At the event, Ben and Sara talked for about an hour. I hung onto every word - listening to two people who dedicated their lives to doing exactly what I wanted to do, talking about what it’s taken to actually do it. At the end, sure enough, he went over to the grand piano onstage and announced that he’d be playing a couple of songs before signing our copies of the book. He launched into a beautiful, more recent song of his, “So There”, as the audience all practically craned their necks in unison to see his hands move across the keys. When he finished, he started describing the writing process of the song he was going to play next. “I sat down at the piano and played these two notes over and over again,” he said (loosely), “And it somehow perfectly described the emotional state I was in.” I already knew what song it was and I could already feel my eyes start to tear up.

“What I’ve kept with me/And what I’ve thrown away/And where the hell I’ve ended up on this glary, random day/Were the things I really cared about/Just left along the way/For being too pent up and proud?” That’s how the song starts. I felt every word as deep as one can feel words, maybe even deeper. For a moment, it was unclear what were my own thoughts in my head and what was being sung on stage. All at once, I realized exactly what had made this summer so miserable and what I needed to do to change and get things back on track, even though I had no idea how to do it yet.

The rest of the evening was a blur besides when I met Ben which seemed to move in slow motion. I shook his hand and told him how I started writing songs because of him and how the first song I ever wrote was basically a rip-off of his song “Fred Jones, Pt. II” and how grateful I was for all his music had done for me. A flurry of words carefully crafted to let him know how he fits into my life story, while simultaneously conveying to him between the lines that I’d love to work with him someday and that I believe it will happen. You know… keeping it cool. But he was so gracious and humble; he looked at me and said something like, “That’s exactly how it’s supposed to start. If this is what you want to do then you gotta just keep going.”

I didn’t know it yet, but I was ready to jump - properly wound up, far past the point of no return. Over the next year, I discovered just how necessary the jump was. I think most of that discovery was realizing that sure, it’s scary to jump ship with no sight of land or another ship, but less so if said ship is on fire. Then you’d better put as much distance between you and the ship as possible. I think the biggest lesson I learned from that summer is that I was on a sinking ship, and I could either go down with it or I could jump into the water and pray it was warm.

Turns out it’s not too bad down here. It’s just pruned fingers, sunburns and every shade of endless blue. Like I said, it’s tiring treading water, but at least I’ve floated far away from the ship’s wreckage by now. I almost can’t even remember being on the ship at all. And I have no choice but to believe that if I tread water long enough, I’ll wash up on some shore eventually.

Growing up in a small town in Maine, I learned very quickly that I didn’t exactly fit in with most of the other kids.

While my friends were playing outside, I was discovering “Make It Big” by Wham! and “Please Please Me” by the Beatles. I spent countless hours exploring my parents’ record collection, finding old instruments in the basement (or even the dump) and writing songs in my room. My father tried to get me interested in sports, but I just couldn’t find the same passion for it. Music was my calling.

To my benefit, my parents recognized very early on that music was my thing. They encouraged me to pursue my dreams, even if it wasn’t a traditional career path. From open mic nights to American Idol auditions, they did everything to get me there and were my biggest cheerleaders. They saw the joy it brought me and knew that I had the potential to do great things with it.

As I grew older, the infatuation intensified. I started taking lessons, performing at local events and collaborating with other musicians in the area. I was always seeking to improve my skills and learn more about music theory, composition and performance.

By age 15, I was recording and releasing my own music and playing shows booked by my best friend, Jason, who just so happens to now be my manager.

Now, 20+ years into my career, I can confidently say that choosing a life of music was the best decision. I’ve had the opportunity to perform on stages across the country, collaborate with some of the most talented musicians in the industry and share my music with countless people. It has given me a sense of purpose and fulfillment that I never could have found in any other career. It all started with the unwavering support of my family and my own passion to step out and be a little weird.

Photo courtesy of Emma Lee Photography

I was home-schooled until my university years, so my family and I had the chance to travel to the United States quite a bit. Given that there are a lot more country radio stations in the United States than back home near Montreal, I was initially introduced to the country music genre that way. My mom also introduced me to singers like Shania Twain, Reba McEntire, Lady A and Carrie Underwood, and through these experiences, I fell in love with the genre for its down-to-earth lyrics and catchy melodies.

When I was 11, I was hospitalized for sepsis and a burst appendix. I spent three weeks in the hospital recovering from an invasive surgery. I was just a few weeks from turning 12 years old and I felt as though I had gotten a second chance at life. As odd as that might sound coming from a 12-year-old, experiences like the one I had just gone through really did change my view about life.

At the time, I also heard about this 13-year-old opera singer who was rapidly rising to fame for being so talented. I figured if she could do it, I probably could as well.

I began taking singing classes and tried to sing opera. I entered a variety of competitions and won first place when I was 13 years old. Winning first place meant that I got the chance to tour Quebec and parts of Ontario with a brass band and have my own set. That experience really made me enjoy performing on stage. I continued to sing opera music until I was 15 years old. Even so, I had no attachment to the genre, so I decided to switch to country music after a conversation with my singing teacher. I’m sure that my first trip to Nashville a year earlier might have had something to do with that. Once I started singing country music, I began to write it as well.

When I was 16 years old, I got the chance to return to Nashville for the second time and to perform at the Bluebird Cafe during an open mic night. It’s a moment I will forever remember because it was a step forward towards being the performer I wanted to be in the city where I wanted to do it. It was the moment I wanted to make music and share stories that I believed that listeners would relate to and that maybe someday, I would be able to share their stories as well.

Today, I live most of the year in Nashville. I’ve written and performed with amazing musicians around town and I’m wrapping up my debut EP of tracks I’ve recorded right here in town. Never would 13-year-old me singing opera have ever believed that I would be living out my country music dream in Nashville. But here I am, and this dream came true.

Photo courtesy of Dana Gorab

Destin Cavazos, vocalist/bassist: Hey there! This is Destin, Alec and Henry and we are exPorter out of Santa Barbara, California. Usually we’re out here promoting our shows but this time we’re going to tell you all about shows that have made us cry… or almost cry. I don’t know how many shows we’ve seen between the three of us but it’s a lot and there have been some pretty special ones for sure.

Henry Kish, drummer: Well, I can't say I've ever cried at a show but whenever I see a band I love live for the first time, I always have this weird feeling of realization that these people actually exist. It’s almost a guilty thing, as if, “how have I never heard of this band before” but no crying.

Alec Cavazos, vocalist/guitarist: Yeah, I’ve cried at a couple of shows and they’re mostly Blink-182/Tom DeLonge related. He’s the reason I play guitar today and one time Blink came to the Santa Barbara Bowl so we were all stoked to go see that show. 

Photo courtesy of Dana Gorab

Back in 2019, Otherworldly Entity was lucky enough to open for the legendary nu metal band, Cold, at Buffalo Iron Works in Buffalo, NY. It was such an amazing experience because we didn't just play the show and do our opener thing.

We loaded into the venue about five hours before the doors opened, so we had a lot of time to kill. I lived in Buffalo for about 10 years, and even though I had moved away by this point, I still had a lot of friends around, so we invited a couple to the venue to hang out with us. We ended up spending a large chunk of the day sitting around with Sam, Lindsay, Jon, Nick and Scooter, better known as Cold. It was such an amazing, eye-opening and surreal experience. But why?

For this, we need to rewind back to 2001. I had just started dating a girl named Meg, and it was the day of her birthday party. We were both 14 years old; I had just started playing in my first band the same month, and I invited my friend Phil over to help us set up for the birthday party. The day before, I purchased Cold's 13 Ways to Bleed On Stage album, so while we were setting up, we put the CD in. By the time we made it to track four, “End of the World”, I was absolutely in love with what I was hearing. There was a darkness to it; a genuine humanity, the raw emotion coming out of those speakers spoke to me. I turned to Meg and Phil and said, "Some day, I will play with Cold." Phil said, "I think your band needs to get better." I said, "I don't care if it takes 20 years, it'll happen."

In 2008, I married Meg. In 2011, Phil lost his battle with depression and took his own life. In 2017, Meg and I went through a difficult divorce, and I ended up surviving a serious suicide attempt as a result. By the time 2019 had rolled around, I had lost these two people that shared in that decisive moment with me in 2001, and to some extent, I felt like I had lost myself, too. Two of my closest friends for over a decade, and my own sense of self. But here I was, 18 years later, sitting in lawn chairs behind Buffalo Iron Works, smoking cigarettes, having drinks, warming up to share a stage with these legends.

We killed our set, we really brought the energy. We even covered System of a Down's "Spiders", an homage to Cold's spider logo. When Cold took the stage, I went nuts. That is, until I heard "End of the World". My world had ended multiple times since that day in 2001. But here I was, in the most epic of circumstances. I had to go backstage and just relax for a while.

After the show, when the fans had all left, Scooter came up to me and gave me a hug. He said that he saw my story of my divorce, my suicide attempt and my unlikely survival. He said, "I'm glad you're here." I said, "I wouldn't miss it for the world." He said, "No...I'm glad you're HERE." I knew what he meant. He didn't need to say more. That day changed my life - it started a new chapter in my life, and a new push in the future of Otherworldly Entity.

Photo courtesy of Dana Gorab

It began with a movie. A British movie that was released in 1990 starring Martin and Gary Kemp as East London gangsters, titled The Krays. As a child I was obsessed with this movie. I was 9 when I first saw it; 9 years old and I’m watching the true story of the Kray brothers causing carnage all over East London. Martin Kemp as Reggie, and Gary Kemp as the slightly more sociopathic Ronnie.

It was during this period that I discovered that my new favourite east enders were the bassist and guitarist from the 1980s, new romantic powerhouse unit, otherwise known as Spandau Ballet. So, after successfully completing a full decade of existence, my parents decided to take me to see my new favourite band as a birthday present.

Now this is where my now 10-year-old mind got a little confused. I believed I was going to see Spandau Ballet. I did not know that Spandau Ballet didn’t exist as they once did. I was also unaware that Martin and Gary Kemp were the actors/musicians who played the characters of the Krays in a movie. I believed they were them, if that makes sense? So I genuinely believed that I was going to actually see the real Ronnie and Reggie Kray playing in my new favourite band.

Instead I ended up going to see Tony Hadley perform with some original members of Spandau, but not Martin and Gary… and definitely not Ronnie and Reggie.

I was sold a lie by my parents. I felt betrayed.

“Where’s Ronnie and Reggie?” I would inevitably ask. My mum laughed.

“Martin and Gary you mean?”

“Who?” I replied.

It was during the show that my mum explained to me that Ronnie and Reggie Kray, although they were real people, were not the people in the movie. They were merely portrayed in the movie by actors, who also happened to be in Spandau Ballet, but were no longer in the band. I was utterly disappointed.

It was pretty much instant. I lost all interest in what was going on in front of me. I looked down at the greatest hits CD I’d brought along with the hope of meeting the Krays and getting them to sign it, and felt deflated. I leafed through the inside cover looking for some hard evidence that my mum was wrong, but instead I found the exact opposite. Written evidence that she was telling the truth. How could I have been so blind?!?! Reggie was in prison and Ronnie died in prison. The mathematics of them ever being able to form a 1980s, new romantic powerhouse unit was impossible.

Although quite upset, I decided to try to enjoy the rest of the show. To my surprise, I thoroughly enjoyed it. It was back-to-back hits, from “Lifeline” to “Gold”, from “Chant No.1” to “Through the Barricades”. It was awesome. I’d almost forgotten that my two favourite east-end gangsters were not here. I even enjoyed it so much I still wanted to get my CD signed, so I begged my parents to let us stay a little longer with the hope of meeting Tony Hadley, the charmingly charismatic frontman of my favourite band. After about an hour of loitering, I got lucky. There he was: Tony Hadley. The only man to ever fight with the Kray twins and live to tell the tale.

Now was my moment. I plucked up the courage, felt my marker pen in my pocket and shuffled over to say hi. I can’t remember what I exactly said to him at the time, but I do remember him shouting, “Here’s a little geeza,” at me. I held out my CD and marker pen with enthusiasm. He reached out his hand to take them from me and then abruptly paused.

“Naaaah sorry mate, I can’t touch that.” He exclaimed tapping his finger on the pictures of Martin and Gary Kemp on the front. “That’s naffin’ to do with me mate. I could get sued.”

He then chuckled, turned his back and left the venue, leaving me stood there with my pen, my CD, my parents and a single tear trickling down my 10-year-old cheek… I hoped the Krays would get him.

That was the time I cried at a Spandau Ballet show.

Photo courtesy of Jessica Paige Photography

Music was a part of my world before I was even born. It runs through me.

My grandpa was a fantastic country musician, playing in a band in the early 1970s. That music gene was passed down to my dad and my aunts, who are incredible singers and players. I remember countless evenings, curled up by the campfire while they played the nights away.

I grew up surrounded by music, and I just blossomed right into it. I was always singing and dancing as a child, and really connected with music from a young age. I started piano lessons at the age of 6, and I used to make up these whole musicals and elaborate concerts that I would make my relatives sit and watch. It was mostly me just improvising lyrics on the spot!

I always wanted to be a “star” and had this huge sense of confidence. It wasn’t until I started tuning into pop and modern music culture that I realized it was my true desire to make music in a professional way.

A huge turning point happened when I was about 12 years old and Taylor Swift came onto the scene. I was enamoured. I wanted to do that so bad… to write my own songs and play them. I convinced my dad to teach me the basic chords on guitar, and I completely dedicated myself to it. I started posting cover videos on YouTube, and writing my own songs on guitar and piano. Then I joined choir, band, vocal jazz, and basically immersed myself into all music outlets.

These experiences brought me to where I am today…

I truly believe I was born to make music.