Photo courtesy of Chris M Stanton & Sandra Jamaleddine

“The stars will never align, and the traffic lights of life will never all be green at the same time. The universe doesn’t conspire against you, but it doesn’t go out of its way to line up the pins either. Conditions are never perfect…just do it and correct course along the way.” – Timothy Ferriss, The 4-Hour Workweek

"The moment I knew" wasn't a singular event, but rather a culmination of moments. The conditions were never perfect from the start; I simply felt a need to take action. The Motion Epic had always been a passion project, a guilty pleasure I longed to pursue but lacked the confidence to do so. I doubted myself - whether it was my appearance or my perceived lack of eccentricity just like icons Elton John and David Bowie.

Then, it hit me. If Phil Collins could achieve monumental success despite his receding hairline, what was holding me back? With newfound intention, I put pen to paper and began composing the music I had always envisioned writing. I had been warned it wouldn't be easy, yet the more I trusted my instincts over the doubts of others, the smoother the creative process became. Writing music was second nature by the time I turned 26, and soon I found myself assembling a band of like-minded individuals who believed in the music as much as I did.

Another pivotal moment occurred with the release of our third album, Boardwalk Arcadia, when Max from Sofa King Vinyl informed me that all pre-orders had sold out within the first weekend of the album's announcement. Yet another reason to persist with this project and keep crafting music with the team.

Working with Andreas, Nick, Aaron and Ben, it was evident that our chemistry could elevate the project beyond my solo efforts. As I listened to their material, I realized our musical interests were aligned. Bringing us together felt like the secret sauce for success. More than anything, I've always wanted to create music that tells stories, and now I get to do it alongside my best friends, who I now consider family.

With all being said, "the moment I knew" wasn't just one instance but a series of milestones. These achievements needed to intertwine for me to realize that this project was destined to take off.

Photo courtesy of Alec Preissler

When I think about our band, it’s clear that our cohesion stems from a shared love for music and deep-rooted friendship. We’re a relaxed group who just wants to make music and have fun along the way. Alongside fronting the band, I handle administrative tasks like lyric writing, booking and management, and I organize our rehearsals. Aybars, our main audio engineer, drummer and producer, is crucial to our sound, especially since we all hang out in our studio, Apricot, which Aybars and I run together. Lachlan, a long-time friend from music school, contributes his progressive rock background, and Amanda, who I used to gig with as a duo, joined later and brings a classical touch on the keys. Davis, a close friend and Aybars' best friend, rounds out the group with his exceptional guitar skills.

Our strength lies in our diverse musical interests and backgrounds. Aybars loves fusion music, Amanda has a classical background, Lachlan brings his progressive rock influence and I have a rock/metal background. This blend of influences ensures that our music is fresh and multifaceted, appealing to a broad audience.

I trust these people with my life, so this group feels incredibly special. We’re very comfortable with each other in any scenario and we can always rely on one another. This mutual trust and camaraderie underpin our musical journey, fostering an environment where creativity can flourish.

We all grew up in households that were very encouraging of our musical ambitions. This supportive background provided the foundation for our musical exploration and growth.

Forming the band was a natural progression for us. Lachlan, Aybars and I have all played together in various groups since music school. I wanted to helm my own band, so I got those two together for drums and bass. Davis fit in with the group perfectly and, being a wickedly talented guitarist, it was a no-brainer to get him involved. Amanda came in later after her and I did a couple of duo gigs together, and the other guys were excited to add a keys player to the group. This lineup has evolved into a cohesive unit.

Over the years, our band has experienced significant growth and development. It’s been great! As a typically shy person, I’ve had to learn to be a front-person, which has been a valuable learning experience. We’re always experimenting, and this willingness to push boundaries keeps our music fresh and exciting.

What motivates us to keep creating music together? I can’t see myself doing anything else! The others feel the same way, and we all enjoy working together. Let’s just see where this goes! Our shared passion and commitment to our craft drive us forward, eager to see where our musical journey will take us next.

Photo courtesy of Nathan James

We met through a chance match on Tinder, which I'll admit is an unconventional way for a band to meet. We both connected over our love of music. Greg was pursuing a career in musical theater at that point and I was trying to make it as a singer-songwriter. Our first date lasted over 12 hours and soon we became a couple. We immediately bonded over our shared music tastes as two gay men who were into emo/pop-punk music. Many of our first dates involved going to open mics and singing together. That was nearly seven years ago, back when we lived in New York.

We spent nearly a year as a couple before we played our first show together. After seeing so many cabarets in New York that were, frankly, terrible, we put up our own cabaret called "You And Me (But Mostly Me)". It ended up being a massive success, and we toured it in Austin and it even went off-Broadway. Through that experience, we had another opportunity to play a musical residency together at a fancy hotel in SoHo and things grew from there. In spring of 2019, we got signed to Sony Music Latin and started working with a Grammy-winning producer.

We continued to make music under the name of Fab The Duo until 2022; going through a global pandemic, a failed record deal and a cross-country move to LA together. We had some incredible experiences with that band, including touring the country and even opening for our idol, Betty Who. But our music style changed so much from the start of Fab The Duo that we could no longer justify being the same band. We started as flamboyant pop artists, wearing high heels and bright colors at every show. But we always knew deep down that we weren't popstars and didn't fit in that world - besides, JoJo Siwa hadn't even invented Gay Pop yet!

We started to feel like imposters and started to relate less and less to the music we were making. So after completing a full-length album, we took a break from music to take time to figure out who we really were. We knew we would always want to make music together but we had to go back to our roots and start over to become the emo rock stars we always knew we were supposed to be. We eventually started over as BOYR!OT, an edgy, in-your-face, pop-punk band, and released our first single, “MA!N CHARACTER”. This time, we're doing it our way, writing the music we want and working with the people we want to work with.

To make a long story short, there were hundreds of little moments that led us to this point but I think deep down from the second we met, we'd always be making music together. As Greg asked me on my first date what I've always wanted to be, I told him something that I'd never told anyone before, that would change our lives together.

"I want to be a rockstar," I told Greg.

"Me too," he told me.

XOXO, Brendan

Photo courtesy of Emily Tingley

She was my best friend, but that blonde bitch Katy M. at church had no business performing the role of Virgin Mary in the Sunday School nativity play in 1989. The part should have been mine.

I wanted to do drag before I knew what it was. My mom’s closet wasn’t particularly flashy - she was a bank teller the first few years of my life. But there were white pumps and a couple of netted hats and one green silk skirt that I was particularly drawn to. It was nearly floor-length when Mom wore it, so I had to pull the waistband up around my neck and let it drape down my entire body like an armless choir robe. It was fabulous.

Femme roles always called to me. When my sister and I would cosplay our favorite Disney cartoon, Chip ‘n Dale Rescue Rangers, I consistently commandeered the role of Gadget, a mouse mechanic and the show’s only female character. Hey, at least she spent her time working on engines - that butch realness had to count for something. My sister was relegated to the role of Dale, the more free-spirited half of the show’s titular duo. Every once in a while, she would beg me to let her be Gadget. Sorry kid: you were born second in command to an absolute nightmare of a diva who wouldn’t be caught dead in the Hawaiian button-up Dale wore.

Later on during my senior year of high school, I begged our drama teacher to choose Hello, Dolly! for the big spring musical. I attended a tiny, private Christian K-12 and with only 24 people in my class and three prior years of proving and honing my stage chops in Oliver!, The Sound of Music and Fiddler on the Roof, I was all but guaranteed the lead role in my final year. The Barbra Streisand/Walter Matthau masterpiece was and remains to this day my favorite musical, and I desperately wanted it to be part of my legacy. It wasn’t until my drama teacher asked, “Do you really want to play that cranky old Horace Vandergelder who only has one song?” that I realized the lead I actually wanted was an ambitious Jewish matchmaker in a low-cut golden gown belting “Before the Parade Passes By” with her full, heaving, perfectly lifted chest. My conservative teachers had already balked when I chose Gloria Steinem as the subject of a book report in sophomore history, and clutched their pearls when I spun Sheryl Crow’s “Hard to Make a Stand” in Bible class as part of a worldview assessment project, so I knew my chances of playing Dolly Levi were about as good as my sister’s chances of understudying the role of Gadget.

Thanks - or no thanks at all, really - to my deeply fundamentalist evangelical upbringing and the pressure to perform masculinity (my greatest role, 1996–2015), it would take me until the seasoned age of 37 before I would ever actually try my hand at drag. There’s a lot of religious shame to unpack when you grow up gay as hell in the Bible Belt, but I finally came around. I slid right down that slippery slope and into my first pair of six-inch pumps and haven’t looked back since.

But the inclination was clearly always there. And I can trace the moment I knew I wanted to perform back to that church nativity play when Katy M. was bestowed with Mary’s pure white robe and baby blue sash. It really was a travesty. As I mentioned, she was blonde. And if my deep brown, thick head of hair poking out from the hooded costume weren’t enough to qualify me to play this middle eastern mother of the Christ child, my singing voice should have sealed the deal. Katy M. was my best friend, but we both knew that when it came to singing, I was Sandy Patty and she was Twila Paris. Or, to put it in terms accessible to a secular audience, I was Christina and she was Britney.

Our casting director (one of the wise men’s moms? I don’t remember) clearly felt differently, however, and in a harrowing blow to my sensitive and still-developing psyche, assigned me the supporting role of Angel #2. The outright indignity.

I turned it out, of course. At least Angel #2 was an androgynous celestial creature and had a featured verse in “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing”. My tinsel halo hovering above my head and an oversized terry bathrobe draped about me, I took the congregation of Asheville Gospel Chapel on an emotional journey that would make Roma Downey herself hang up her wings.

But I will never forget how I stood off to stage left, mouthing along as Katy M. flatly recited the Virgin Mary’s lines and then offered a passable but hackneyed rendition of Silent Night. Even then, I knew the audience deserved so much more. And I could have given it to them.

The first song on the first album I recorded under my drag persona, “What Did You Drag Me Into?” is a rollicking, bluesy account of my journey into the art of genderfuckery performance. And it’s almost entirely true. The one bit of revisionist history it contains comes in the second verse, where I took the liberty to rewrite the story the way it should have gone:

Imagine this, it’s Christmas Eve
Time for the church nativity
Papa’s in the front row trying to see
Rubs his eyes, cause he can’t believe
Mary, Mary, mother mild
Is played by a familiar child
His son is walking down the aisle
To “a virgin shall conceive”

Eat your holy heart out, Verna Bloom. There’s a new virgin on stage, and her name is Flamy Goddamn Grant.

I think our greatest strength comes from our differences. Difference in music taste, different personalities, our different approaches to writing songs. It’s like organized chaos. As far as “the moment we knew”, it was the first time we jammed. It became deafeningly obvious we had something there.

None of us grew up in a particularly musical household - none of our parents played music, and we were never pushed to learn an instrument, but music was something we all naturally gravitated towards in similar ways. As music fans growing up near Toronto, we got music history lessons from Q107, stayed up watching MUCH Music (Canadian MTV), and were lucky enough to catch some inspiring concerts at a young age. The desire to actually create our own music grew from there.

Alex and Nick started playing music together on the grade school playground. Bonding over an early love for rock and roll, they picked up the guitar and drums and started a band with other like-minded kids at school. They wrote rinky dink songs partially credited to AC/DC or Aerosmith, and recorded them on a primitive mp3 recorder.

Alex and I met in high school and immediately connected over a strong desire to write music. We started a band with some close friends, and it was here where we really grew as musicians. We played frequent gigs in Toronto, got our first taste of recording in a real studio and even released an EP. Naturally, the band drifted apart as we each entered post-secondary, but Alex and I continued to write and make music. It wasn’t a question to us whether we’d continue playing, but we knew we needed a drummer. Our lineup came full circle when Alex suggested we reach out to Nick. Despite having not spoken to each other for several years, let alone touch his drums, we booked a jam room to test the waters. We walked away from that night knowing we had a band.

Seven and a half years later, we’re on our way to releasing our second album, and the three of us continue to write music that draws from each of our wide range of influences, with the hopes of finding our own sound. Somewhere along the way, it became clear to us that the music we truly want to hear isn’t out there, so we have to make it ourselves. I think it’s even safe to say that the “moment we knew” happens every time we get together and play. It never gets old.

Photo courtesy of Chet Tilokani

When I was young, nightmares haunted me and I struggled to fall asleep. I'm convinced our house was haunted as my brother suffered from night terrors too. Strange noises, eerie shadows and unexpected phone calls added to the terror.

In the dark, I'd lie in bed, listening for horrors, but most nights, all I heard was music wafting through the vents.

To soothe my nerves, I'd sneak out of bed and crawl to the basement vent leading to my brother's room. Pressing my ear against the dusty grate, I'd hear drums, guitar and singing. It calmed me and sometimes led me to brave the dark hallway to surprise my brother while he was jamming out.

I definitely scared the shit out of him some nights, appearing in his doorway at 3 a.m.

That’s where I discovered that music rules, and my brother knows what’s up. He made mix CDs for me as a kid and it helped evolve my taste and appreciation for all sorts of sounds.

Over the years, I watched him perform in several bands on various stages. He’s the brains behind this operation. I've always enjoyed contributing lyrics and melodies to his ideas.

Finally, here we are, making music together and it’s so much fun. We get to pull from all of our childhood references and experiences and come at each song from two different perspectives. Our single, “You’ve Changed”, is the first of many.

Instead of making a song about a lover or another, we thought it was more interesting to write about ourselves. This song was something my brother and I could instantly relate to. Looking back on our lives or even just looking back on the past few years, we saw huge changes in the way we interact with the world. These changes were for the better and that was a nice reason to make some music about it.

Photo courtesy of Dustin Seabrook

THE MOMENT WE KNEW? THAT’S EASY. Collectively we can all say we realized in the womb. We all grew up in homes filled with music even before we were born, which meant we were rocking out in utero (Nirvana pun intended).

WAIT, OR WAS IT WHEN WE GOT OUT? All of our parents played instruments and/or sang. We were fortunate to be exposed to real instruments before we could walk. AJ got drums before most kids get their second set of teeth. Katrin’s parents only stopped strumming their guitars to make sure their singing and dancing daughter didn’t get too close to the campfire. And the old acoustic guitar in Jordan’s dad’s closet was brought out to explore at every single request - of which there were many. And all of us were surrounded by loving encouragement. Pretty darn lucky.

BUT THEN AGAIN, MAYBE IT WAS LATER. There is something extremely magical when you realize that thing you are hearing and singing along to, you don’t have to JUST copy it. The same notes are at your disposal and you can rearrange them any way you like. You can make them your own. Take three chords and sing over top of them. If it sounds like a song, it is. That’s a crazy realization. Write a song. Then another. Then a hundred others.

OH CRAP, IT WAS WHEN WE FOUND EACH OTHER. The trick is finding people to make music with. People you love. People who make you good and make you better. All of us have been playing and performing music for decades, but sometimes you find that magical secret sauce with a new combo of people. Family band. Zero blood relation.

NOPE, IT WAS LAST SUMMER. Playing at our hometown festival, Hillside, in a sweaty packed tent, with 20+ beach balls flying through the air, people we don’t recognize singing along, our producer/pal helping us tune guitars, our other pal ripping solos, our pregnant persevering drummer locked in. It was pretty effin awesome.

BAH, WE CAN’T DECIDE.

xoxo RC

Photo courtesy of Michelle Grace Hunder

Before I could even talk, my dad would put headphones on me in my cot while he was mixing his original music. I’d stare wide-eyed, clearly fascinated by the sounds, and cry uncontrollably when the song ended. Not much has changed, really. Growing up in a household full of musical instruments with a father who wrote songs and played bass in a rock band meant that music always seemed so normal to me. Everyone spent their weekends underage in a pub watching their dad’s Led Zeppelin cover band, right? Mum never played music herself, but she did have great taste in songwriters. I got Violent Femmes from Dad and Elton John from Mum - it was the perfect mixture of ballsy attitude and emotional sincerity that still informs my own writing to this day.

One Christmas when I was 8 years old, I was bestowed with the coveted role of “rockstar” in the family play my cousins and I used to put on (we were always little show-offs). My parents noticed I had a good voice and asked if I’d like to get lessons. For the next 10 years, I’d learn to sing classically with a teacher named Aleda Johnsen in Western Sydney, competing in eisteddfods and singing at charity events every year. Aleda was old-school and strict, and I’m convinced the techniques she taught me back then keep me from injuring my voice during a hectic touring schedule now.

I was so lucky. There were instruments everywhere. I picked up Dad’s acoustic guitar at 12 and pretty much never put it down. I started learning how to play and sing all the songs I loved, from Martin Sexton to Lucy Wainwright Roche. Soon my classical singing was taking a backseat to the cover gigs I’d play in local cafes, pubs and clubs, and this became my job for pocket money throughout high school. It definitely beat working at McDonald’s (although I’d probably have witnessed less fights breaking out at McDonald’s).

At 14, I wrote my first song. I was too scared to play it at any of my gigs, until one night my friend came to see me play for tips in the corner of a café in the Blue Mountains and encouraged me to be brave. Feeling the tiny audience respond to something I’d written, a story about my own life in my own words, was a feeling I’d never experienced, and one that I never wanted to stop. That was the night I decided that playing music was wonderful, but I only wanted to do it if I could play my own songs.

I don’t believe that purpose is written into our lives in any kind of predetermined way. I don’t believe it’s that organised. I do believe we create our own purpose and instil our own meaning to being alive, and I feel immensely lucky that I found something that brings me such joy and fulfilment so early, so I didn’t have to spend my whole life searching for it.

Photo courtesy of Jen Squires

Music has always been my sanctuary; a refuge where I could try and make sense of the complexities of life experiences and human behaviour. But, like most things, the journey to becoming a professional musician was not a straight path. It was a weaving tapestry of serendipitous experiences, timing, emotions, courage, moving through self-doubt and fear, and endless curiosity and self-discovery.

Before songwriting and composing took shape, I found solace in the written word. Writing was my first love, a tool I used to process life’s ups and downs. Poems became my outlet and canvas. Through words, I could try and capture the essence and make sense of my experiences, the nuances of my emotions and the intricacies of the human psyche. Writing was more than a hobby; it was a lifeline, a way to integrate life’s experiences and find meaning in the chaos.

Then came my first guitar, a gift from my father. It wasn’t just any guitar; it was a symbol of love, a token of a father’s affection. A music store owner, indebted to my father, gifted him the guitar in lieu of payment. Little did I know that this guitar would become my confidant, and my gateway to a lifelong passion. My father’s passing shortly after gifting me the guitar added an emotional depth to my musical journey. I cherished that guitar like a precious heirloom, a tangible connection to my past and a beacon guiding my future.

As I grew older, my passion for music intensified. While pursuing my undergraduate studies, I joined a band and eventually had the opportunity to record my first album. It was a defining moment, a crossroads where I had to choose between my academic aspirations and my musical dreams. With unwavering conviction, I decided to take a year off from school to pursue music wholeheartedly.

For the next 15 years, I toured internationally as a songwriter, played in different bands and immersed myself in the world of music. It was a whirlwind of experiences; a rollercoaster ride filled with highs and lows, but through it all, writing and music remained my constant companions. However, life has a way of coming full circle. Amidst the global pandemic, I felt a calling to pivot and explore a new/old path. Fuelled by my lifelong curiosity about human behavior and the complexities of our subjective understanding, I returned to school and became a psychotherapist.

Today, music continues to be my tool, my medium of expression and my passion. My new project, Chorus of Courage, marries all my passions, allowing me to use the healing power of music to support others. By honouring the stories of survivors through the voices of artists, I aim to facilitate community healing, advocate for a more just and consent-based world, and help integrate difficult experiences.

In retrospect, the moment I knew I wanted to make music was not a single moment but a series of interconnected experiences, a journey of self-discovery, resilience and growth. Creativity has been my compass, guiding me through life’s twists and turns, and I am forever grateful for the gift of expression it has given me.

I vividly recall the moment I first sang in front of a crowd. It was during a St. Patrick’s Day talent show in third grade, where I took to the stage and belted out a Miley Cyrus song (naturally). Despite a flutter of nerves, I had a much larger sense of excitement. Looking back, I realize that this moment lit a flame within me that would shape my future, even though I may not have known it yet.

Throughout my schooling, music became more than just a hobby; it became my passion. From enthusiastically participating in musicals and chorus in middle school to joining the exclusive jazz choir in high school, I immersed myself in every musical opportunity that came my way. My high school jazz choir even had the opportunity to sing with the New York Voices at an eastern choral conference, an experience that left a mark on me and helped shape my lasting love for jazz music.

Even in the midst of choosing between pursuing music or skiing competitively at a school in upstate New York, the path became clear. I followed my heart to a city where music, jazz specifically, thrived - Chicago. It was a decision rooted in logic, driven by the certainty that music would always be a part of my life, whereas skiing held a less certain future. I later transferred to a school in the Bronx where I was able to find more inspiration and opportunities closer to Manhattan (especially after turning 21) and I was able to attend more jam sessions and shows.

College me continued the musical journey, balancing academics with band meetings/performances and a cappella rehearsals. However, the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic forced a hiatus, prompting our band to adapt and record remotely. It was during this period of introspection that I made the tough decision to part ways with the band and venture into solo pursuits.

Leaving the band was not easy, but it opened doors to so many new opportunities and experiences. As I delved deeper into the music scene of the city, surrounded by fellow artists striving towards similar aspirations, I felt a surge of inspiration. It dawned on me that music was not just a passion but a potential career path - one that I could envision myself pursuing for a lifetime.

The journey into pursuing music has been quite a transformative one, marked by moments of uncertainty and so much self-discovery. With each chord and every lyric, I find solace and purpose. As I continue to carve my path in the music world, I carry with me the conviction that the decision to follow my passion was the right one. In music, I have found not just a potential career but a mission.

Photo courtesy of Denisa Rahma

I grew up in a musical household. My mum was a music teacher and my parents met doing community musical theater together. I was always musically inclined. My mum wrote in my baby journal that I was singing songs fully in tune as soon as I could speak.

My mum brought me to my first opera when I was 8 years old. My friends from choir were cast in the children’s chorus of Engelbert Humperdinck’s Hansel und Gretel. This was the day I fell in love with opera. I was absolutely driven to be cast in the next opera. I worked very hard and at 10 years old I was cast in the children’s chorus of Bizet’s Carmen with the Calgary Opera.

I will never forget the moment I first stepped out on stage on opening night, marching across the stage with the heat of the stage lights singing “Avec la Garde Montante”. It was at this moment that I decided I would dedicate my entire life to opera. I became absolutely obsessed with classical music. Diving head first into music theory, music history, international phonetic alphabet and the stories of the great opera singers.

My musical journey wasn’t all sunshine. I went to McGill University and by the end of my degree, music was killing me from the inside out. Music was my biggest love and my biggest heartbreak.

It was my entire identity and letting go of that dream was the hardest thing I’ve done. I never thought I’d come back to singing but as the great saying goes: “If you love something, let it go. If it comes back to you, it's yours forever. If it doesn’t, then it was never meant to be.”

I went on to become a professional standup comedian, I won a drag TV show, and all of that in a wild series of events brought me to this album deal. I had to step away from singing in order to let it find me again. This album has made me fall in love with music all over again. It wasn’t until after I graduated that I was told by a voice teacher, “You know singing should be easy, right?” I truly had never heard that in my life. Hard work and joy don’t have to be mutually exclusive. I hold myself to a high standard but am slowly learning that I can have fun and still have a good (or perhaps even better) product.

Photo courtesy of Victoria McEwan

When I was younger, I had a lot to say but didn’t necessarily have the guts to say it all. I struggled to find my voice. I would say I spent a majority of my life trying to please others, much to my own detriment.

In college, I worked many late nights at this Toronto venue, working their coat check. Through that I came in close contact with some of the greats - Liam Gallagher being the one I was most starstruck by - even after he left the stage after two songs because of a dead crowd. I was in awe of everyone I saw perform; as soon as I was done taking everyone’s coats I would go stand at the back of the venue and just vibe out to their sets.

Everything changed for me when I decided to drop out of college. I was basically losing my mind and had lost all sense of direction. I was super depressed. I decided to reroute and signed up for classes at this music production school in Toronto. They taught me how to spin on vinyl and produce from scratch with Ableton Live (a digital audio workstation designed to be an instrument for live performances as well as a tool for composing, recording, arranging, mixing and mastering).

I decided I wanted to be a festival DJ. However, I had met a guy in those classes that pushed me to try using my voice as my main instrument, and to be in a band with him instead. I caved. Our band didn’t work out but my time with him made me certain of my own path. It made me realize that I finally wanted to use my voice. During all of this, I also worked up the guts to leave a pretty unhealthy relationship that I was in. This inspired me to write, and it all started flowing so easily to me.

The road so far hasn’t been easy. I’ve lost friends, I’ve been in a tough place financially, but this dream of mine keeps me going. They say you have to be a little delusional to get what you want out of life, so I like to think of myself as the most delusional person in the entire world. I have had countless obstacles stand in my way, lots of rejections and things like that but I’ve learned to let the hard times just propel me forward. The path I’ve chosen has been a lonely one at times. Realizing who has your back versus who doesn’t is never the best of times, but it’s also been the most rewarding and fulfilling thing I’ve ever done.

Photo courtesy of Bruce Borland

My enthusiasm and interest in music have always been present since I was a little girl, though I was too shy to realize it or embrace it until much later.

I grew up with my mother and brother; my parents separated when I was an infant. My day-to-day life was not in a musical household, though a few times a year, my dad would come to visit. Being a musician, he would bring his guitar, or we’d sit by my grandmother’s piano, or he’d bring his latest album he’d recorded to show me. I was always moved by what he could create. One day, in particular, I remember him telling me, “you can write a song about anything,” and he started singing about the most trivial item. It was a pivotal moment for me, witnessing him create a beautiful song out of seemingly nothing.

With every visit, he’d continue to encourage me to explore music. I started piano lessons when I was young, though I did not enjoy practicing. I dabbled in writing songs that I’d never share with anyone. At the end of high school, I was bitten by the drama bug and continued studying acting post-secondary. In one of my classes, we were instructed to do something that scared us or made us extremely uncomfortable in front of the class. For me, that was singing - singing a song I’d written.

I decided to sing my song “Mr. Yellow”, written many years prior, which somehow still resided in my head, a jazzy ballad. I got up in front of the class, knees literally shaking to the point I could barely stand, and I sang my song a cappella. There was no fanfare, no high praise, but when it was done, I realized how exhilarating it was and how much I loved singing my song in front of others (even with the shaky knees).

I then sought out open mics and started writing more seriously. I built up a little open mic community where I felt comfortable trying out my new songs, working out the nerves and building up my confidence.

From there, I played in bands, in solo projects, and even tried stepping away from music at times, thinking I needed to pursue a ‘responsible’ path. But what I learned was that I’m happiest, I feel most myself, I feel free when I’m creating, writing, pouring my deepest emotions out in a song, and then sharing it, performing it. Music is an extension of me. Even as a kid, though I was too shy to share it outwardly, it was always rattling around in my head.

The moment I knew I wanted to make music has been growing for many years, perhaps more than I’d like to admit.

Photo courtesy of Steven Fugitt

People should tell you how hard it is. Someone should. Then you would have a better idea of whether you REALLY want to accept a life of frustration and rejection and become one who makes music. You probably won't listen anyway. My father tried to tell me how hard it was. He just simply did the math for me. He said, "Let's just say you're the best guitarist in Norwood." That's Norwood, Mass., a suburb south of Boston, my hometown, and, as a matter of fact, I was not the best guitarist there. Even as an egomaniacal 13-year-old I knew that. It was a town that put a lot of emphasis on music. The high school had a national champion marching band and a national champion jazz band. And there were a ton of good guitar players. Dad said, "Even if you ARE the best guitarist in town, there's a lot of towns in this country, in this world." The point didn't really get through to me, although the fact that I remember it must mean it had SOME kind of impact.

The "moment I knew" I wanted to play music was not one moment, but a progression occurring through many moments. I think it probably is for most artists. Things don't happen in art as quickly and neatly as they seem to in the public imagination, in the Hollywood biopic. That moment in movies about Elton John, Elvis, Hendrix, whoever, when the as yet unknown rock star walks out onto the stage, and no one in the audience knows who they are. The mic feeds back, the mic ALWAYS feeds back, and at first it doesn't look like it's going to go well. Maybe they say something to which the only reply from the audience is silence. But then they compose themselves and start ROCKIN' OUT and by the end of the song the audience is losing their minds and singing along to a song they've never heard before. It doesn't happen like that. Obviously different people have different experiences. I have no doubt that Elton John was absolutely enthralling when he first played in Hollywood in August of 1970. But there was about 10 years of struggle and frustration and rejection and hard work before that that made that moment possible.

So it wasn't one moment for me. It wasn't like I heard David Bowie and I was like, "Well that's it, I'm going to make music", and then I went to the store and bought a guitar instantly knowing I wanted to dedicate my life to it. The seed had certainly been planted well before I actually made the decision to learn to play the guitar. I was probably 10 when the seed was planted, maybe younger. When you're 10 your whole life is ahead of you. You can still theoretically be anything. One day I wanted to make movies. The next day I wanted to be a basketball player. Later that week I wanted to be Eddie Van Halen. The Eddie Van Halen seed started to grow and take over, until it started to, maybe a couple years later, fully consume me. And the sum of all those moments had come to bloom, and now I found that I was a musician. Which is great and wonderful and really one of the best things to be, and also terrible and gut-wrenching and filled with all-consuming non-stop frustration.

Photo courtesy of Sanjay Suchak

I grew up in the mountains of North Carolina in an interesting, musical family. When I was tiny my daddy would sing lullabies to my sister and I every night and taught us how to harmonize with him. We’d all harmonize with the hum of the opening garage door in the chilly mornings on the way to school.

My dad was a lot older than my mom (when I was born he was 61 and she was 28) and had previous marriages and children. As a result, I have half-siblings who are around my mom’s age, and many of them are incredible musicians.

I remember my dad carrying me on his shoulders into the old Ziggy’s bar in Winston-Salem, N.C. to see my brother’s bluegrass band. My sister and I were so young, I’m not sure how he got us in. When the lights came up on the musicians and they started to play, I felt a rush of excitement. I thought to myself, ‘that’s what I want to do.’

Before we had a piano in the house I would play my grandmother’s piano every chance I got. I’d sit and make things up or play things I’d heard my parents listening to. I remember picking out the beginning of “The Rose” when I was about 5 years old. My mom asked, “How did you learn that?”

“I eared it out,” I said.

My parents listened to a lot of old country music - Hank Williams, Patsy Cline, Emmylou Harris, Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson - as well as some big band jazz and 60s rock and soft rock such as Creedence Clearwater Revival and James Taylor. But before I could drive we’d listen to current pop/rock in the car in the late 90s and early 00s, and a lot of that rock really turned me on. I continued “earing out” songs on the piano; Billy Joel, Ben Folds, early Coldplay songs, Radiohead. In high school my friends would shout out requests when we found ourselves around a piano, and we’d have sleepover singalongs.

When I was 18, my daddy died. (He was pretty old, after all.) Three weeks later, I went to college and found myself in a real mental health pickle. I realized fairly quickly that when you’re meeting all new people, the fastest way to make it super awkward is to tell them that you’ve just suffered a personal tragedy. Bonus awkward points for breaking into tears. I became very closed off, isolated and depressed. Luckily I went to school as an acting/musical theater major. I’d auditioned and been accepted to the program at the last minute after falling in love with acting my senior year of high school. I think my freshman year Meisner acting class saved my life by providing an emotional outlet. Still, I struggled.

I started to treasure the practice rooms in the performing arts building. A tiny cubicle-sized soundproof room with a piano in it was heavenly for my current mental state, and I’d go there when I couldn’t sleep and tinker around on the piano. More than a year after my dad’s death I guess I’d processed some of my grief, and one late night in one of those rooms, I scribbled down what I consider to be my first real song on a cocktail napkin.

It wasn’t long before I’d take all my problems to the piano, as I do to this day. These days I’m challenging myself to write the songs that don’t come easily, the songs that don’t come out in one burst. I’m learning to tinker with them until they capture what I want to express.

I always knew I wanted to play and perform onstage, but I didn’t have much to write about until I experienced some real life and real loss. Music was always a part of my childhood home, and I carry that with me. Music itself has become a home to me wherever I am.

Photo courtesy of Ariel Kassulke

The moment I knew I wanted to make music was actually a series of moments. The feeling first hit me when I was about 3 years old and I saw the Michael Jackson video for “Bad”. I started trying to do all of his moves and I even found a fedora and did my best to dress like him. It was a pivotal moment for me.

After that, my little sister and I started putting on singing shows for my mom and grandma and really anyone who stopped by our place. Then we took the show to the street corner and would sing songs outside. We even made a few bucks as people walking by would tip us sometimes. After we’d gone back into the house, it was sitting up watching VH1 and MTV, and we’d take turns singing our favorite songs to practice. My sister always wanted to be a singer, but I wanted to play an instrument, so I’d strap up the broom and start working on my moves. We were super poor and lived in the projects so there was no hope of getting a guitar at that time, but I would use that broom every time.

Around age 9 or 10, I started to draw pictures of guitars. I was sneaking to watch MTV late at night and saw the video for “Rhinoceros” by The Smashing Pumpkins. I remember wondering how they were making the guitar sound like that. I was instantly drawn to that band. I was talking about them at school one day and one of the kids in another class gave me the Smashing Pumpkins CD, Siamese Dream, that his older brother had given him. It only solidified my want, no need, to play guitar even more. That CD just did something to me, I felt it in my soul. That music wasn’t just an inspiration to play guitar, it was my escape from being a poor kid in the projects.

By the time I turned 12 I had gotten really good at drawing guitars. I drew them daily just to get my point across to my mom that I really wanted one. I spent two more years drawing guitars and collecting free catalogs from Fender and Guild. At age 14, I remember my mom unexpectedly got a child support check. It was a back payment so it was more money than we’d seen at once and my mom asked me, “How much can you get a guitar for?” I didn’t even hesitate and said, “$250 plus tax for the strat pack! It comes with an amp, picks, strap, bag and tuner.” She told me, “OK, let’s go get it.” I remember on the way over there she said, “You better stick with it, because I can’t afford lessons so you’re going to have to figure it out.” I swore on everything sacred to me that day that I would stick with it and not give up! I told her I wanted to play guitar more than anything and that I’d get super famous one day and buy her everything she ever wanted!

After about 90 days of playing the guitar, I had figured it out. I started jamming in my first bands, and even got a gig at the country bar nearby playing in the house band. It was a small town in western North Carolina, so no one really thought much of a 14-year-old kid playing guitar with grown folks in a bar. I was able to keep up and play all the songs you’d expect to hear in a local country bar - everything from “Freebird” to “Sweet Home Alabama”. I didn’t care what I was playing. I was happy just to be able to play.

I would spend every waking hour playing guitar that I could. I would even get suspended from school on purpose just so I’d get the extra six hours a day to practice. I wrote my first song that same year at age 14. It sounded very similar to The Smashing Pumpkins style of playing. I still remember it to this day. I have been on this journey ever since.

Photo courtesy of Kate Dockery

The "band" M'Grasker is unavailable for comment as they have returned to their vats for hibernation. However, their creator, the humong scieneticist Dr. Gorp has this to say:

Ah, the epochal saga of M'Grasker's genesis - 'tis a tale most rambunctiously steeped in scienetic marvel, I vouchsafe! In the waning hours of a storm-rattled eve, amidst the clashing odors of ozone and goij, the conception of M'Grasker did verily unfold in the hallowed yet chaotic sanctum of Lab #7, my dear, dear bean.

Y'see, I, Dr. Gorp, was engaged in most intricate explorations betwixt the sonic waves and the seismic ripples of euphoria brought forth by the eternal green delight, the goij. "To achieve the eclectic resonance that the orbs of the universe did hymn since yore," thought I, nurturing a vision splendid. These mere mortals around me, they knew nary a thing of the elysian symphonies lurking in the subatomic hum 'neath our very noses!

'Twas in Lab #7's murky shadows, where beakers burbled and retorts resounded, that my supple and dexterous hands, led by a mind both unhinged and unshackled, did mingle the very essence of quantum harmonics with organic virtuosity. Hark! The spectrophonic incubators were thus imbued with tuneful vim - the members of M'Grasker took nascent form as notes do cling to one another in an opus.

Dashes, beeps, and beeps they cried out, chaotic and riotous as they coalesced into beings of both flesh and frequency. I bestowed upon them limbs for rhythm, hearts for melody and voxes for wondrous harmonies. They grew like wardlings of a most melodious thicket, nurtured by the vibrations of the universe and the intoxicating vapors of goij – or mangoloij, on those exceedingly heady evenings.

Lo and behold, 'twas during a serendipitous jamboree of goij smoking with comrades aplenty - fog as thick as pea soup, it was - that M'Grasker sprouted their destined prowess. Midst raucous laughter and the passing of many a goij-stuffed corn cob pipe, the members of M'Grasker did let their voices and instruments aloft. Thunderstruck by the clarity of their sound, a sonic tapestry unfurled like an intergalactic frigate setting sail 'pon the cosmic sea. A shiver ran through the hull of existence, and I declared, nigh upon toppling off my reclining apparatus, "Eureka! Thy propitious pedigree shall henceforth marry the cacophony of space with the terrestriality of mirth!"

Mark my pronouncement: They were always fated for greatness, but 'twas that moment - amid clouds of goij and camaraderie - that M'Grasker’s destiny did solidify like curdled milk in a sennight's tea!

And so, traveler, grows the legend. Forget not, the details are many and oft I am called hither and yon by mine insistent Aunt Molly, her telephonic summonses a veritable barrage. Forgive me if I embark upon tangents aplenty; the mind is aflutter with aeolian thoughts! Yet fear not the digressions, for in them lies the marrow of truth.

The Tail Waggin' Cuties, I daresay, were naught but stomping and yapping glee 'til M'Grasker did enkindle a fire 'neath their tails. And though Mr. Jeebs often upends my vials of indispensability, I hold a fondness for the rapscallion. Mayhap it's his own musical heart, as yet unleashed, that cements my reluctant patronage. But I digress, oh I digress. Where was I? Ah, yes, the recent horascope does portend that the prophesied single, "She's Drugs", permeates the aether at the nonce. Doth the world not seem cooler, old bean? Yes, the very coolness of the cosmos confirms its release, despite the chronal turbulences vexing my calculations!

And thus! Out they soar upon the melodic zephyrs, M'Grasker and The Tail Waggin' Cuties - bardic children of scienetic meddling, ambassadors of the utmost principles of liveliness; goij, camaraderie and the universal undulations of sound. They dare play the tune of the spheres and dance with the constellations, all the while I chuckled most rapturously from my laboratory perch, enveloped in the arcane and the auditory.

I remember crossing the railroad tracks driving across town early in the morning to take violin lessons before preschool started. I think the lesson was at 6 a.m. or something. My mom would take me in her little black Honda hatchback and we would wait on a little bench in this sort of atrium between the front door and the studio, and I remember the way the light came through the windows first thing in the morning, shining on the houseplants. Then my teacher, Jeannie, would open the door and I would go into this room that was sort of dark and wooden and there were violins everywhere hanging from strings going across the walls. We would have our lesson, just playing together and learning new songs. I still love the way the violin smells when you first open the case, even though I can’t play violin at all anymore!

Throughout my childhood I was part of “the fiddling friends”, consisting of basically anyone in my teacher’s studio, and we would do regular recitals and gigs and play together as a pack of violin children, suzuki style. We would play at various festivals and events, as an opening act for my teacher and her husband who played lots of Zydeco music together. I didn’t really think anything of it at the time. Then one day in kindergarten I brought my violin to school for some reason and played for the rest of the students on the playground. I remember this odd feeling where I realized their perception of me changed because I knew how to play an instrument and they were acting like it was a big deal. I guess I had assumed it was something that everyone did up until that point. I remember feeling good about it all of a sudden and thinking, “oh this is cool, I should probably keep this up then.”


In fourth grade, I found my dad’s old bass wedged between a shelf and a concrete wall in our laundry room. It was caked in dust and beaten to hell. I didn’t know what a bass was, or that my dad ever played it. But I did know that I wanted to play that thing - whatever it was.

There was something about playing along with a pile of burned punk rock CDs from my older cousin that made complete sense to me. I never questioned it. Playing music was the most obvious thing for me to do, and so I kept doing it.

I never had one of those “Aha!” moments, or profound and convenient “l didn’t choose music, music chose me” stories. Music just became my way of relating to the world - a tool, a lens.


In third grade, we were given the option to play flutophone, which is basically a recorder. It was my first time playing an instrument in an ensemble-type setting and I really enjoyed it. There was just something really exciting about me and a bunch of my friends tootin’ out Hot Crossed Buns as loud as we could together. Fourth grade was when we could pick a real instrument and I chose the saxophone. I think the influence of my decision mostly came from the cartoon show Arthur and my appreciation for the Muppet character, Zoot. When my saxophone arrived in the mail I remember thinking, “this is the big time.” I loved music and I loved my sax but it wasn’t until I started playing guitar that I knew I wanted to be a musician.

At the tail end of eighth grade, just a few months before we graduated and got ready for high school, our general music class teacher told us we were going to finish out the school-year with the guitar. Two of my close friends in the class already had some guitar experience and started to teach me some Nirvana and Black Sabbath. I immediately took off with it and my music teacher said, “you’re really good at this, you should keep going after you graduate.” A friend’s older sister leant me her guitar and I was completely hooked. All I wanted to do was learn and write guitar riffs. Brian May’s guitar solo on “Killer Queen” made me want to get an electric guitar. Once that was acquired, I started a band with some close friends.

Photo courtesy of John Harold Perez

Growing up, I was a shy kid. Not just a little shy, I was painfully shy. If I was out in public with my family and a friendly child my age dared to say hello to me, I would ignore them and turn my head until they went away. (Much to my parent’s horror!) This was a stark contrast to my older sister, who was naturally extroverted and would go on to become a competitive dancer and Prom Queen.

Along with my shyness came a big imagination, introspectiveness and a touch of melancholy. (Or as I like to call it, The Holy Trinity for Introverts.) I would eventually grow out of my shyness, but that wouldn’t start until I discovered music. Enter Silverchair. Thanks to my sister and her friends, I had access to what the older kids were listening to in school. One day, I grabbed one of her burnt CDs and popped it into my Walkman. As soon as I heard Daniel Johns’ longing voice backed by electric guitar, I was hooked. The emotion, the grit, the attitude, the controversial lyrics… For a shy, rule-abiding book nerd, this lit me up more than Nancy Drew ever could.

After Silverchair came Rooney, The Strokes, My Chemical Romance, The Distillers and Marilyn Manson. Music transported me into a world where I had an outlet to say and feel the things I didn’t yet have words for. While my friends lusted after rockstars and daydreamed about being with them, I dreamed about being them. As I got older, the more shocking and heavier the sound, the better. I knew I had unlocked a passion that would never go away, and that passion was singing.

But there was a problem. I was still way too shy.

During the week, I had exactly one hour from the time I came home from school to the time my dad came home from work. This meant I could sing along with an album for about 40 minutes and still have time for a snack. (Pop Tarts were a fav!) If I sang any longer, I risked someone hearing me, and if that happened, I felt like I would shrivel up and die. Despite this fear, I talked about my rockstar dreams constantly. My mum would ask if I wanted to sign up for singing lessons, but that was always met by a hard “no” from me. They told me I needed to do some kind of extracurricular activity, and since it was clear I wasn’t going to follow in my sister’s dancing footsteps, my parents asked me what I wanted to do. “You have to pick something!” They would threaten. I knew I wanted to sing, but I wasn’t ready to “perform” so I tried soccer, figure skating, Girl Guides, etc. When everything I signed up for inevitably became a chore, my fed-up mother begged me to pick something I actually liked.

“How about singing?” I looked up and my eyes grew wide. My mother had pulled the car into the Connor’s Music parking lot, the music store in town.

After a few more encouraging (and threatening) words from my mother, I finally went in and signed up. This. Changed. Everything. I slowly became more confident and better with singing. I went from a shaky-legged kid to a full on ham. I did musical theatre, I sang in voice competitions, I even got into Humber College’s Theatre Performance Program where I would study with opera legend Fides Krucker. I performed Shakespeare, I did improv and I joined a band. While working on my technique, I also had the chance to see my heroes in action. I saw My Chemical Romance, Coheed and Cambria, Marilyn Manson, Deftones, The Distillers, Silversun Pickups, Mother Mother, the list goes on!

By this point, I knew music would always be essential to my happiness. I still tried other jobs: flight attendant, video editor, server. But much like the doomed extracurricular activities before them, they fell by the wayside. Now I am focusing solely on music. I spend my time writing, performing and releasing my own music as well as coaching other vocalists! Voice lessons were a huge part of why I became an artist, so I like to share my knowledge with other singers whenever I can. (Especially those shy, introverted, rule- abiding ones!)

I grew up in a small town in an Eastern European country most people only know for vampires and high inflation. It was an upbringing not necessarily well suited to the hedonistic, self-driven rock lifestyle I would eventually pledge my livelihood to. None of the rest of my family played instruments, although a general interest in the arts runs in the family. I became interested in music to combat the largely pastoral, painfully mundane reality of my existence.

Such is the way with small town boys.

As puberty made its unwelcome advances, music became a tactic for survival. I, like many other musicians (and songwriters, in particular) have a largely melancholic disposition. That is to say – I have a tendency towards brooding, masochistic introspection. Songwriting is exactly that. Or, at least, it should aim to be. You write 100 songs, and out of those, maybe 10 are worth your consideration. Of those, two to three get introduced to the band, and a band is very often a marriage of (four, in our case) very different personalities. And “very different” is really a euphemism’s euphemism. I’m talking about four people whose general outlook could not be more different. Of those two to three songs you introduce, one may make the setlist for your next show.

You yearn for a 1% success rate.

I wish I was joking.

I write most of the songs in the band, and I write in a variety of genres, for lack of a better term for it. Genre is, ultimately, a dirty word, because all it is is a suggestion for how something should sound. Artificial sonic parameters. It is, more often than not, a long-established tradition rooted in aesthetics. And tastes change, or they can be combined, or, we would like to think, re-discovered in a new light; that proverbial envelope has a lot more depth beneath it than most people realize. You can push it, and, if you do it right, it can linger on the edge without tipping over.

Succeeding in the music industry is an uphill battle that Sisyphus would be envious of. Once you dedicate yourself to the pursuit, gone are the overarching dreams that spurred this little Romanian boy. You hope (and work meticulously) for little victories. The small wins, the meager gains.

You (yes, you) reading this right now is one of those wins I count among them.

Music is an end, not a means.

Within the confines of a 8-10 song album, there are no failures. Where persistence exists, all it leaves in its wake are opportunities for improvement and emotional moments cemented in time.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

Thanks for coming to my TedTalk!