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.