People ask me all the time: “Why rock n’ roll? In 2025? Really?”

My answer is always the same. When’s the last time you turned on the radio—any station, Spotify “Today’s Top Hits,” Apple Music, TikTok, whatever—and heard a real guitar riff that punched you in the chest? When’s the last time you heard an actual guitar solo that made the hair on your arms stand up? Hell, when’s the last time you heard a guitar at all that wasn’t a two-second loop buried under fifteen layers of Auto-Tune and kick drums the size of asteroids?

Exactly.

Rock n’ roll didn’t die. It was quietly escorted out the back door while everyone was busy chasing streams, clout, and algorithmic approval. The electric guitar—the snarling, filthy, beautiful voice of rebellion for three generations—got labeled “dad music” or “boomer nostalgia” and shoved into classic-rock ghettos where it plays between ads for reverse mortgages.

But here’s the thing nobody wants to admit: the world is starving for it.

We’re drowning in polished, focus-grouped, risk-free noise that evaporates the second the next track starts. And deep down, people are bored. They feel it. They just don’t know what’s missing until that first distorted chord of “Sweet Child O’ Mine” or “Back in Black” hits them like a shot of adrenaline straight to the heart. Suddenly they remember what it feels like to be alive.

That’s why I still choose rock n’ roll. Every single day.

• I live rock n’ roll.
• I breathe rock n’ roll.
• I bleed rock n’ roll.
  And so help me God, Creator of all things, I will die rock n’ roll.

It’s not a phase. It’s not a costume. It’s the only thing that’s ever made sense in a world that increasingly doesn’t.

The first time I hit an open E chord and felt the thing roar back at me, I wasn’t a shy kid with braces anymore. I was dangerous. I was free. Twenty years later, that feeling hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s gotten louder.

I don’t care if the charts say rock is dead. Charts lie. Charts are written by people who’ve never stood in a dive bar at 1 a.m. while some three-chord miracle makes 200 strangers lose their damn minds. Charts have never seen a 16-year-old girl absolutely shred “Eruption” in her bedroom and realize she can do anything she wants with her life.

That’s the real scoreboard.

So yeah, I’m still here, still writing riffs at 3 a.m., still chasing that perfect feedback howl, still believing the next generation is going to pick up the torch and burn the whole thing down in the best way possible.

God willing, there’s nothing I’d love more than to inspire just one person—just one—to dust off that guitar in the corner, plug it in, turn it up, and play until their fingers bleed and their soul feels clean again.

Because rock n’ roll isn’t a genre. It’s a lifeline.

I’ve got new songs coming. Real ones. The kind with guitars that bite, drums that swing, and lyrics that don’t apologize for existing. I’m hoping to properly release them this year. No algorithms. No committee. Just loud, honest, human noise.

Stay tuned.

And if you’re reading this and something in your chest is rumbling like a Marshall stack about to take off…

Pick up the guitar. Turn it up. Play one chord like your life depends on it.

Because maybe it does.

For those about to rock—we salute you.
Always have. Always will.

I had a weird moment last week.

I was scrolling through Instagram when an ad popped up for an AI music generator. Out of curiosity (and maybe a little masochism), I clicked through and typed in a few prompts that basically described my own music: “Indie rock with emotional vocals, introspective lyrics about connection and isolation, atmospheric production.”

Thirty seconds later, it spit out a song.

And it was… good? Not great, but definitely good enough that someone could listen to it, save it, maybe even put it on a playlist.

I sat there staring at my phone, feeling this weird knot in my stomach.

The Question Nobody Wants to Ask

Here’s the thing that keeps me up at night lately: What’s the point?

I don’t mean that in some existential, artsy way. I mean it practically. Why spend months writing and recording and perfecting a song when someone can generate something “good enough” in less time than it takes to microwave popcorn?

Why would anyone care about my music specifically when they can just prompt an AI to make exactly what they want to hear in that exact moment?

This fear hits different than normal artist anxiety. It’s not imposter syndrome—that voice that says “you’re not good enough.” This is more like: “Maybe nobody needs you to be good at all anymore.”

And if I’m being honest, that cuts deeper than anything I’ve felt before as an artist.

The Productivity Trap

I’ll be honest—my first instinct was to try to compete.

I started thinking: Maybe I need to release more music. Maybe I need to use AI tools to speed up my process. Maybe the answer is just to produce, produce, produce until I’ve flooded enough platforms that people remember my name.

I actually tried it for a few weeks. Used some AI tools to help with arrangement ideas, to generate social media captions, to optimize everything.

And you know what happened? I felt more disconnected from my music than I ever have.

I was creating content, sure. But I wasn’t creating art. I wasn’t creating me.

Here’s the thing I’m realizing: Trying to beat AI at its own game is like trying to outrun a car on foot. You’ll just exhaust yourself while the car keeps going.

What AI Can’t Steal

AI can generate perfect pitch. It can create flawless production. It can even mimic emotional inflection.

But it can’t actually feel anything.

It can’t write about heartbreak because it’s never had its heart broken. It can’t write about loneliness because it’s never needed another person. It can’t write about hope because it’s never experienced despair.

Every song I write comes from somewhere. From a relationship that ended. From a conversation I had at 2am that I can’t stop thinking about. From the way light looks when you’re driving home after a long day and you’re too tired to pretend everything’s okay.

AI can simulate all of that. But it can’t live it.

And I think people can tell the difference.

The Paradox of Connection

Here’s what’s wild: As AI-generated content floods every platform, I’m noticing something unexpected.

Real human connection is becoming more valuable, not less.

When everything sounds polished and algorithm-optimized and perfectly engineered, the rough edges start to matter. The imperfections become meaningful. The humanity shines through.

I see this in my own engagement with music. When I discover a new artist now, I immediately start looking for signs that they’re real. I read their bio. I watch their Instagram stories. I look for the unfiltered moments, the messy process, the proof that there’s an actual human behind the music.

And I think that’s what my listeners are starting to do with me, too.

That’s the thing AI fundamentally cannot replicate: the need for connection that makes us human.

What This Means (For Me, Anyway)

I’m still figuring this out. I don’t have all the answers.

But here’s what I’m trying to do differently:

I’m done trying to out-produce the algorithms. I can’t win that race, and honestly, I don’t want to.

Instead, I’m doubling down on what makes me human. I’m sharing more of my process—the songs that don’t work, the ideas that go nowhere, the moments of doubt. I’m trying to build actual relationships with you, the people who listen to my music. Not as streams to optimize or followers to monetize, but as real connections with real people.

This is slower. It’s harder. It won’t show up in my Spotify numbers as quickly as gaming the algorithm might.

But it’s sustainable. And more importantly, it’s honest.

If you’re an artist reading this and feeling the same anxiety, maybe this resonates. If you’re a listener, maybe this helps you understand why authentic connection with artists matters more than ever.

The Long Game

I’m not going to lie and say I’m not worried about AI. Some days I am.

But then I remember why I started making music in the first place. It wasn’t to compete with anyone. It wasn’t to generate content. It was because I had something inside me that needed to come out, and music was the only way I knew how to express it.

That’s still true.

The artists who will thrive—or at least survive with their souls intact—aren’t the ones who can generate content fastest. We’re the ones who remember that music, at its core, is one human being reaching out to another and saying: “You’re not alone.”

No algorithm can replace that.

At least, I really hope not.

Thanks for being here. Thanks for listening. And if you ever want to reach out and actually connect—not just as artist and listener, but as people—my DMs are open.

We’re all figuring this out together.