Year 20. Nice to Meet You. - sty Official Interview [English ver.]
Note:
This is the official English translation of J-POP producer sty's 20th-anniversary interview, reviewed and approved by sty.
Music Doesn’t Need to Be Finished.
Sound slips away when you hold it too tight.
So I let it be—unshaped, unforced.
Not what’s right, but what feels true.
Music appears when it’s ready.
I don’t fill the silence.
I wait for it to breathe.
The gaps, the flaws—they belong.
That’s how music stays alive.
Twenty years weren’t for proof.
Music was simply there.
And I followed.
Somewhere beyond sound, something waits.
I’ll keep walking toward it.
"Year 20. Nice to Meet You."
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[Profile: sty]
sty began his music production career in 2005. Over the years, he has produced numerous hit songs for top artists such as EXILE, Kumi Koda, Girls’ Generation, Daichi Miura, Crystal Kay, BoA, Mamoru Miyano, Sandaime J SOUL BROTHERS, I Don’t Like Mondays, and BE:FIRST. Bringing 15 years of songwriting expertise to the forefront, sty also launched his career as a fashionable singer-songwriter under the name "エス・ティ・ワイ". His alternative and moody musical style continues to attract a growing fanbase. In 2021, his track "接吻マイハート" was selected by Spotify as one of the Top 50 City Pop Songs of the Year, gaining widespread attention. In 2014, he won the 56th Japan Record Award for songwriting, composition, and production of Sandaime J SOUL BROTHERS’ iconic hit "R.Y.U.S.E.I." More recently, he received the Excellence Award at the 64th Japan Record Awards for his lyric work on BE:FIRST's "Bye-Good-Bye."
1. Origins: Where Music Found Me
1-1. The First Time Music Hit Me Like Lightning
In 1996, I flipped on the TV and stumbled upon TLC’s “Waterfalls.” It was like getting struck by lightning.
I’d always enjoyed music—J-POP like Dreams Come True, soulful sounds, R&B. I thought I had a handle on what I liked. But “Waterfalls” didn’t just fit into those preferences—it blew them apart.
It wasn’t a typical soul track with powerhouse vocals. It was cool, laid-back. The drums were thick, the groove was lazy in the best way. That effortless vibe? Unbelievably cool.
From there, I was all in. ’90s music consumed me, especially the raw emotion and swagger of female-led hip-hop soul. Listening wasn’t enough. I needed to understand it, feel it deeper.
That was the moment music stopped being something I liked and became something I lived for.
1-2. The Emotions That Pulled Me In
The first Japanese artist who truly stunned me was Miwa Yoshida from Dreams Come True. I was in sixth grade when “Kessen wa Kinyōbi” dropped in 1992. I remember watching her on TV—drenched in sweat, dancing, shouting—and I was floored.
It hit me: This is what it looks like when someone is completely alive in their music.
Up until then, music had always felt... prescribed. I took classical piano lessons, but it was all about following the sheet music. The sounds that excited me most were from Famicom games—Dragon Quest, Mario—and even then, I was just a listener, a spectator.
But Yoshida was different. She wasn’t performing music; she was music. Her voice, her movements—they seemed to be pure emotion, unfiltered. For a socially awkward kid like me, who struggled to put feelings into words, it felt like hope. Like proof that there are other ways to connect with people—through sound, through motion.
That’s when I realized: I didn’t just like music. I was obsessed with those raw, untamed moments when emotion explodes into sound. That kind of energy—that strength—buried in music is what I’ve been chasing ever since.
1-3. Why "Waterfalls" Shook Me to My Core
In the mid-90s, when "Waterfalls" first hit, I was just a typical Japanese high school kid. And to understand why it hit me so hard, you have to understand what mainstream music in Japan was like at the time.
J-POP, then—and arguably still now—rarely ventured beyond safe, universal themes: love, heartbreak, friendship, fleeting youth. It was polished, pleasant, and designed to be broadly relatable. Music wasn’t a platform for social critique or raw emotional expression; it was more like a carefully wrapped gift, meant to be enjoyed without asking too many questions.
Beyond Japan, the music felt familiar but safe. In the UK, Take That blended polished pop with smooth R&B touches, and in the U.S., All-4-One delivered heartfelt ballads I genuinely liked. But everything seemed carefully packaged—meant to please, not provoke.
And then came "Waterfalls."
The first thing that grabbed me was how different it sounded. T-Boz’s husky vocals hung low in the mix, deliberately avoiding the dramatic highs that most singers chase. Then, Left Eye’s rap verse came in—not tucked into a bridge but taking up an entire section of the song with unapologetic skill. Structurally, it broke the mold I was used to: no predictable verse-chorus-bridge cycle. The melody and harmonies wove together organically, telling a story without spelling it out.
Even the choreography—or the lack of it—felt defiant. The movements were so understated they almost didn’t seem choreographed at all, but that made it even cooler. Looking back, I realize that moment shattered my assumptions about what music had to be. All the formulas of J-POP, the predictable emotional beats—they suddenly felt small.
But the real shock wasn’t the sound. It was the message.
"Waterfalls" wasn’t crooning about teenage crushes or seasonal heartbreaks. It was confronting real, ugly truths—drug addiction, HIV, street violence. It was unflinching, painting a stark picture of how easy it is to chase something shiny, only to be consumed by it.
For someone raised in a musical culture that rarely, if ever, addressed societal issues, this was earth-shattering. I didn’t even know music could do that.
In Japan, it was unheard of for mainstream pop music to tackle uncomfortable realities. Artists weren’t using their platforms to challenge listeners or comment on society. Music was there to comfort, not confront. So for a teenager like me, "Waterfalls" wasn’t just a great song—it was a revelation.
It made me realize that music could be more than just an escape. It could be a mirror, reflecting the parts of the world we don’t want to see. It could question, provoke, and force you to think.
And that idea—that music could hold up a lens to the world and say, "Look at this"—was the most exciting, hopeful thing I had ever encountered.
That’s the kind of power I didn’t know music could have. And once I saw it, I couldn’t turn away.
1-4. My First Dance with Gear and Tech
Honestly, back in the '90s, I don’t think the term "DAW" (Digital Audio Workstation) even existed—at least, not in the way we know it now. I loved music, but turning that passion into something tangible? That felt miles away.
I was always drawn to creative things, though. So when I got my hands on a Windows 98 PC in high school, I dove headfirst into Photoshop, tinkering with designs, writing stories, and spending way too much time on AOL and MSN Chat. (If you know, you know.)
Then, by sheer chance, I stumbled upon a personal website where someone was making music with MIDI data. Keep in mind, this was an era before streaming, even before MP3s became mainstream. So seeing an ordinary person create and share their own music online? It was mind-blowing.
Okay, to be fair, the music itself was... well, let’s just say it had room for improvement. But that wasn’t the point. What struck me was the possibility. Music wasn’t just something you listened to—it was something you could make and put out into the world. That idea had never occurred to me before.
So I thought, “What could I do with my computer?” That led me down a rabbit hole until I discovered Cakewalk—probably version 5 or 6. I started messing around with the MIDI sounds built into my PC. Then I began scavenging for free samplers, EQ plugins, and whatever other tools I could find online. I felt like I was riding the cutting edge.
But let me tell you, back around 2005, most people were still making music with tape decks and mixing boards. So when some kid shows up making tracks on a single computer? Oh, the older guys loved to sneer. “What’s that? You can’t make real music on a PC!” Yeah, that got old fast.
Looking back, though, I get it. New technology can be intimidating. When something feels unfamiliar, the knee-jerk reaction is often dismissal. But that experience taught me something valuable: even if change doesn’t sit well with you, it’s worth keeping an open mind.
Because here’s the thing—whether you like it or not, the future will show up. And how you deal with it? That’s on you.
So, to all those grumpy gatekeepers from back in the day, I guess I owe you a thank-you. (Sort of.)
1-5. From Words and Design to Sound
My dive into R&B and hip-hop wasn’t just about catchy beats or cool aesthetics—it was about self-expression. The raw honesty, the stories, the way those genres could make a message hit hard and still move people. That spoke to me.
But really, that pull wasn’t so different from why I loved writing or design. Whether it was words on a page, visuals on a screen, or sounds in the air, it was all about shaping something personal into something shareable.
Music just became the latest tool in the same creative toolbox. The medium changed, but the goal? Always the same: take what feels true and make it resonate.
1-6. The Moment I Knew I Had to Create
In high school, I was completely consumed by R&B and hip-hop—not just because they sounded cool, but because they felt like rebel music. There was raw honesty in those genres, a refusal to play by the rules. Meanwhile, J-Pop felt too polished, too safe. Love songs and teenage nostalgia were everywhere, but I couldn’t help thinking, Music should be more than this. It should be able to shake things up, not just soothe.
That itch to push boundaries grew stronger when I realized music production was starting to break free from studios. Suddenly, you didn’t need anyone’s permission to make music. No label execs. No gatekeepers. Just a computer and whatever ideas you were bold enough to share. That possibility was electric.
I’ve always been more of a lone wolf creatively—digging deep into ideas until they finally make sense. So turning the sounds in my head into something real? That felt like the most natural thing in the world.
But beats alone couldn’t say it all.
So I thought, Why not sing it myself?
That simple decision was the start of everything. No studio sessions. No industry mentors. Just me, figuring it out in my bedroom. Before the term existed, I was already living the “bedroom producer” life.
I’m sure there were others in Japan doing the same thing back then. Part of me wishes we’d found each other sooner. But maybe the isolation was part of what made the music honest.
2. Stepping In: The Producer’s Path
2-1. My Early Sound Experiments
At the beginning? I was basically a human copy machine. I was obsessed with breaking down the songs I loved and figuring out how they worked. Destiny's Child’s tracks, especially the ones produced by She'kspere, had these bouncy beats that felt like they were alive. I’d sit there thinking, How the hell did they build this?
Same with Double’s "Shake". The way the harmonies in the chorus wrapped around each other—so smooth, so effortless. I couldn’t let it go.
So, naturally, I tried to recreate it all. Layer by layer, beat by beat, I’d stack sounds and vocals, reverse-engineering every detail. I wasn’t trying to create something “original” back then. That thought never even crossed my mind.
I just wanted to take apart the music I loved and understand what made it move. Looking back, I guess that process became the blueprint for how I build music now. But at the time? It was pure curiosity. No strategy, no ego—just me geeking out over every sound.
2-2. How I Landed My First Pro Gig
In the beginning, I was just obsessed with perfectly copying the music I loved. But then, programming music started to feel like solving a puzzle I actually wanted to finish. I scraped together my part-time paycheck to buy a MIDI keyboard. I had some piano skills, so once I got my hands on that keyboard, things slowly started sounding... well, less terrible.
Naturally, the itch to make my own music crept in. The first tracks I made were, looking back, pretty rough. But at the time, that rawness felt like proof I was pushing myself into new territory.
Then I stumbled upon a site called Muzie—basically the SoundCloud of its day. I uploaded a few demos without much expectation. And then, out of nowhere, I got an email.
“Would you be interested in doing music production work?”
It was from an A&R rep at Avex, the same label working with Namie Amuro at the time. I nearly fell out of my chair. Back then, putting your music online was still considered kind of a joke. No one seriously thought the internet was a place to start a music career. But this guy? He was ahead of the curve, scouting talent online before it was cool.
That email was the spark that lit everything.
To this day, I’m still grateful he saw something in me and gave me that first shot.
3. Turning Points: Growth and Change
3-1. The Project That Changed Everything
Without a doubt—Girls' Generation’s "MR. TAXI" in 2011.
By that point, I’d been producing professionally since 2005, fortunate enough to work with big names like Kumi Koda, EXILE, and Crystal Kay. But to be honest, I always had this nagging feeling I was brought on more for my “freshness” or “quirkiness” than for my actual skill.
Like, “Hey, there’s this weird kid making cool sounds—let’s see what happens.”
And sure, getting those opportunities was a blessing. But I didn’t want to be some novelty act, a one-time trick pulled out to shake things up. I wanted to stand firmly as a producer who could create authentic, timeless work right at the heart of J-POP. By my late 20s, I was feeling this quiet, creeping pressure—an itch to prove I was more than just a flash in the pan.
I’d been given chances, yes. But I hadn’t yet made something I could proudly say, “This song hit first, and it hit because of what I brought to the table.” That gap between effort and outcome left me unsettled.
Then came the offer to produce "MR. TAXI" for Girls' Generation.
At the time, K-POP was exploding globally, and Girls' Generation was at the forefront of that wave. Crafting a song for them wasn’t just a cool gig—it was a pivotal moment. One I couldn’t afford to fumble.
So, I dove deep. I studied K-POP’s DNA inside out.
Song structures built for high-energy dance performances.
Hooks engineered to lodge themselves in your brain.
Smart vocal distribution to highlight each member's unique tone.
Before this, I often leaned on instinct, creating music that simply felt right. But for "MR. TAXI," I was deliberate. Strategic. I refined every detail, over and over again.
And that process taught me something crucial: loving the music isn’t enough. A professional thinks beyond personal taste—they ask, “Who is this for? Where and how will it live?” That’s the responsibility of a producer.
"MR. TAXI" wasn’t just a hit. It was proof—to myself and others—that I wasn’t some gimmick. I was a producer who could deliver.
That was the turning point.
3-2. Breaking My Own Rules to Evolve
"MR. TAXI" wasn’t just another track on my résumé—it was a mirror reflecting everything I misunderstood about being a producer.
The song was born through co-writing, and I’ll be honest, that wasn’t my comfort zone. As someone who once proudly called himself a “first-generation bedroom producer,” working on glossy EDM and bubblegum pop wasn’t exactly in my wheelhouse. More than that, sharing the creative process with others? Let’s just say it made me uneasy.
But here’s the truth: collaboration taught me things I never could’ve learned alone. More than anything, creating something designed to sell—to move beyond personal expression and resonate widely—showed me a whole new side of music.
I used to draw hard lines: “If it’s too pop, I’m out.”
“If it’s not my genre, I’m not interested.”
Looking back, those lines boxed me in tighter than I realized.
"MR. TAXI" changed that.
I began to understand that being a songwriter or producer isn’t about sticking to one genre or chasing some notion of authenticity. Pop music is about impact. It’s about results. That hit me hard.
But here’s the part that’s often misunderstood: the demo track for "MR. TAXI" wasn’t tailor-made for Girls' Generation. Demos are raw materials—barebones sketches meant to be reshaped. My real job wasn’t just to polish a song; it was to transform it into something theirs.
I overhauled melodies, rebuilt harmonies, and restructured the track to fit their style. But more than the technical tweaks, I focused on creating a bond between the song and the artists. In the studio, I was hands-on with vocal direction, fine-tuning every nuance to make sure the music wasn’t just something they performed—it was something they owned.
Most demos aren’t written with a specific artist in mind, and that disconnect can be glaring. My role was to bridge that gap—to make it feel like this song had been waiting for Girls' Generation all along.
That experience taught me to let go of this rigid idea of "my sound." Honestly, that was tough. Unlearning the idea of what I should be, and realizing that real creativity often lives in the places I used to avoid.
I learned that sometimes, you have to drop the old tools to pick up better ones. And even after you strip it all away, whatever remains—that’s your true creative core.
Those struggles and quiet battles throughout the 2010s? They didn’t break me. They became the backbone of who I am now.
3-3. The Day I Knew I Was a Pro
It wasn’t that I suddenly became a professional. It was more like being quietly handed a mirror and told, “You’re in this now. Act like it.” That moment arrived during the production of Girls' Generation’s “MR. TAXI.”
Up until then, I was comfortably creating music in my own little world—a beautiful, carefully tended garden where I could play with sounds and ideas as freely as I liked. And honestly, that sandbox was essential. The aesthetics, instincts, and musical sensibilities I nurtured there were what made me me. I don’t regret a second of it.
But working with a global phenomenon like Girls' Generation? That wasn’t a sandbox. It was a battleground.
This wasn’t just about crafting a catchy hook. It was about understanding the weight of their presence—the pride, the emotional gravity they carried—and matching that with a production quality that honored it. Every beat, every vocal layer, every decision had to be deliberate. There was no room for guesswork.
Suddenly, my process couldn’t revolve around what simply felt right. It had to be precise, strategic, and above all, effective.
That was the moment it clicked:
"You’re not just playing with ideas anymore. You’re responsible for delivering something real."
It wasn’t always comfortable. The studio felt less like a creative escape and more like a pressure cooker. But that pressure—that unspoken demand to rise above—was exactly what I needed.
Still, I owe everything to that “beautiful little garden” I came from. Without the freedom to explore and cultivate my own sound, I wouldn’t have had the foundation to step into this role. But stepping into the professional world meant something bigger: transforming that personal creativity into something that could truly resonate—with the artist, the audience, and the world.
That’s when I knew.
I’m not just making music anymore. I’m delivering it.
4. The Work That Defined Me
4-1. The Artists and Songs That Left a Mark
Before “MR. TAXI”, there was one project that fundamentally changed how I approached music production: “24Karats” by EXILE, Sowelu, and Doberman Inc. in 2006.
This wasn’t just another track. It was my first major tie-in project, created for a fashion brand campaign. Unlike my previous gigs—where clients would casually say, “Make it cool” and let me run wild—this one came with a crystal-clear vision. My job wasn’t to simply make a good song. It was to translate their brand identity into sound. Every beat, every lyric had to align perfectly. My creativity had to serve a purpose, not just my own instincts.
And then, the pressure dialed up.
On the way to the studio for the recording session, I casually checked Yahoo! News on my phone. There it was—“24Karats” officially announced to the world. The song wasn’t even finished yet.
I froze.
"Oh no. This can’t fail."
Suddenly, this wasn’t just about making music. It was about delivering under the weight of public expectation. The clock was ticking, the audience was waiting, and failure wasn’t an option.
The next three days in the studio were intense. EXILE’s members were right there in front of me, Sowelu sitting beside me. The air was thick with unspoken pressure. Every decision felt monumental.
"Is this good enough?"
"Am I leading this ship where it needs to go?"
That doubt haunted me until the very last mixdown.
But here’s the thing—finishing that project showed me something I hadn’t seen before. It wasn’t just about pushing through stress. It was about stepping into a bigger role where vision, responsibility, and execution had to coexist.
“24Karats” wasn’t just a hit. It was my proving ground. And it forced me to grow into the producer I needed to be.
4-2. The Struggles Worth Fighting For
“R.Y.U.S.E.I.” (2014) wasn’t just another song—it was a mountain I had to climb.
My musical DNA has always been rooted in R&B and hip-hop. Four-on-the-floor dance tracks? Not exactly my comfort zone. When EDM and dubstep started dominating club scenes in the 2010s, I’ll admit, I wasn’t lining up to join the party. Let’s just say, I was more likely to be found bobbing my head at a grimy hip-hop show than fist-pumping under strobe lights.
Looking back, I realize it wasn’t EDM itself that bothered me. It was my own narrow perspective.
So, how did I get past that mental block? The solution was embarrassingly simple:
"Why not just make something I actually like?"
I didn’t need to drown in EDM clichés or force myself to love drops that sounded like a robot coughing. But if there were elements in EDM that genuinely resonated with me, why not use them? Once I accepted that, the creative door swung wide open.
Of course, that meant diving headfirst into a lot of EDM. And let me tell you, that was… an experience. Imagine binge-listening to a genre that doesn’t quite click with you—it’s like developing a taste for Natto. It’s an acquired process.
But somewhere in that sonic deep dive, I started noticing things:
The way EDM builds anticipation so cleanly.
The rush of its fleeting highs.
The unexpected beauty in its melodies.
Those weren’t foreign concepts to me. They actually aligned with how I already thought about music. From there, it wasn’t about forcing myself into the EDM mold—it was about weaving those ideas into my sound.
The hardest part wasn’t the production itself. It was wrestling with my own biases, breaking down the walls I’d built in my head.
And because I did that, “R.Y.U.S.E.I.” was born.
That track didn’t just expand my musical range—it softened the edges of how I think about creativity. Funny how something you resist can end up teaching you the most.
4-3. The Track That Felt 100% Me
“R.Y.U.S.E.I.” was a defining moment for me, no doubt. But if there’s one track where I felt like I poured my unfiltered self into the music, it’s “J.S.B. DREAM” (2015).
This track was built on a TRAP sound with a heavy drop and punchy hook—the kind of music I was hearing during late-night adventures. It wasn’t overthought, it wasn’t calculated. It was just the sound of where I was at that moment.
Now, I had a hunch the client was probably expecting something more in the vein of “24Karats”—you know, that polished, high-energy anthem vibe. But fresh off the success of “R.Y.U.S.E.I.”, I figured, why not lean into what I was actually feeling? No big pitch, no bold declarations like, "This is the future of J-Pop!" I just quietly made the track I wanted to make and turned it in.
And what did I get back?
Silence.
No feedback. No revisions. No polite “let’s tweak this.” Just a clean, quiet green light.
In this industry, that’s the ultimate compliment. Usually, there’s a back-and-forth—a few notes here, a soft suggestion there. But this time? Nothing. It was like the track simply spoke for itself.
That moment told me everything I needed to know: the music landed exactly how I intended. “J.S.B. DREAM” wasn’t just another project. It was pure instinct, pure expression. And honestly, it was fun as hell to make.
When music connects without explanation, without negotiation—that’s when you know it’s real.
5. 20 Years In: Looking Back, Moving Forward
5-1. Never Chasing the “Producer Ideal”
Honestly? I never had some grand vision of what being a “music producer” was supposed to look like. Sure, I admired lyricists whose words cut deep and composers whose melodies stuck in your head for days. But when it came to producers—especially in Japan—there wasn’t exactly someone I looked at and thought, “Yeah, that’s who I want to be.”
So, I didn’t chase anyone’s shadow. I wasn’t trying to fit into some pre-made mold. That wasn’t rebellion; it was just… natural. Without a target, there was no disappointment in missing. But that also meant I had to grow my own sense of responsibility—to deliver when people counted on me—and the conviction to stick to how I wanted to create.
That didn’t come from mentors or industry guidance. It came from long hours alone, staring down my own ideas, making them work or watching them fall apart. That solitude wasn’t isolation—it was where I learned to trust my instincts.
But here’s the twist: what I thought was “my style” slowly became a box I built around myself. I didn’t even notice it happening. That’s the thing about comfort zones—they’re invisible until you bump into the walls.
It wasn’t until I started collaborating with artists who didn’t think like me—or working on genres I once side-eyed—that those walls cracked. That friction, those creative clashes, they didn’t dilute me. They cracked me open. And with every shift, every uncomfortable project, I wasn’t losing myself. I was evolving.
I didn’t follow some invisible track laid by others. I kicked rocks down my own path. Every random challenge or unexpected opportunity I picked up became part of that path. It’s messy, sure. But that rough, imperfect road? That’s where sty was built. Lol
5-2. What I’m Truly Proud Of
If there’s one thing I take real pride in, it’s this: I never bought into the industry’s idea of what a “music producer” should be.
Look around, and you’ll see it everywhere—producers who find success and suddenly feel the need to be everywhere. They pop up on TV shows, direct films, start fashion brands, or dive headfirst into influencer culture. It’s like success flips a switch, and suddenly making music isn’t enough. And hey, if being famous was the goal all along, more power to them. But that was never the point for me.
I didn’t want to be a celebrity. I didn’t need to flex outside the studio. I wanted to stay a music producer, in the purest sense of the word. My job was—and still is—to make music. That’s it. No side quests, no ego trips.
Of course, sticking to that path can be isolating. I’ve watched the industry move in directions that didn’t sit right with me—values that felt outdated, ethics that felt optional. And I’ve learned to trust that discomfort. When something didn’t feel right, I didn’t fight it. I stepped back. No drama, no noise. Just space.
Sure, that means I don’t have a long list of industry “buddies” to name-drop. But I’ve never regretted that. Not once.
What’s been surprising—and honestly, rewarding—is how many younger creators have started reaching out to me lately. They’re curious, thoughtful, and unafraid to carve out their own paths. Maybe it’s not exactly pride, but it feels good to know that the way I’ve stayed true to myself is quietly resonating with a new generation.
And if that’s the legacy I’m building? I’ll take it.
5-3. No Friends in Music, But Closer Than Ever
Let me clear something up—when I say I don’t have friends in the music industry, it’s not because I’m cold or standoffish. I’m not brooding in a dark corner, arms crossed, glaring at anyone who tries to say hello. It’s just that making music, for me, is deeply personal. Like, “would you be comfortable stripping down to your underwear right now?” kind of personal. Yeah, most people wouldn’t. Music feels like that—a part of me I don’t casually hand out.
But here’s the thing: it’s not about keeping people at arm’s length for the sake of it. It’s about respecting boundaries—mine and theirs. What feels easy for one person might be a big leap for another. I get that. And because I value my own space, I naturally respect others’ too. It’s not about avoiding closeness, but about understanding that relationships don’t need to be forced to have value.
That mindset carries over into how I collaborate with artists. I’m not in the studio to make new drinking buddies. I’m there to create the best music possible. That requires a professional closeness—a kind of trust that lets us challenge each other without getting personal. It’s about crafting something honest and powerful, not about grabbing beers after the session. And honestly? That balance feels right.
So no, I don’t have industry “friends” in the traditional sense. But I have collaborators I respect deeply, and that respect flows both ways. That space between us? That’s where the magic happens. It’s not distance—it’s trust. And trust is what makes great music.
5-4. Music, After 20 Years, Is Still Unfinished
Music isn’t meant to be finished.
Two decades in, and I’ve never once thought, “Yeah, this is it. Nailed it.” If anything, I’ve spent 20 years realizing that music isn’t something you complete—it’s something you chase.
I started by copying what I loved, piece by piece. Then I tried to carve out my own sound. And just when I thought I had it, that “sound” became a box. A box I built for myself. Funny how “being yourself” can start to feel like a cage. So, I broke it. Over and over. Let it fall apart, picked up the pieces, and started again.
It’s never been just about music. Every new challenge—every awkward misstep or outright failure—was a chance to ask, “Is this really it?” And every time I asked, I found something new on the other side.
Music isn’t about reaching some polished, final form. It’s about staying unfinished. That’s where the excitement is. Being honest with who I am as I change, listening closely for sounds I haven’t discovered yet—that’s what keeps me moving.
So, no. I’m not searching for the “right” answer. I never was.
I’m here to keep building, breaking, and rebuilding.
That’s what music is to me now—twenty years in. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
