In the dead of night, on a random Wednesday, I should have been asleep—but I was making history. Hours past my bedtime, I lay awake in the middle of a raging battle between myself and my “teenage emotions.” Grabbing my notebook and a half-broken flashlight, I opened to a random page, brandished a pencil— my weapon of choice— and proceeded to write a list of anything and everything that crossed my mind. I rearranged my thoughts like pictures in a collage to create an everlasting tribute to my feelings: my first song. I was so proud of myself. It was a masterpiece of stanzas marked up with yellow highlighter. But of course, the song was far from perfect. The chord progression? Basic. The themes? Cliche. The lyrics? Mediocre. But it was honest. It was mine. I kept that wrinkled sheet of paper safe and hidden like it was pure gold.
That song was the beginning, the spark that set off an inferno of passion. High school kicked off a time of emotional abundance and self-discovery for me. I developed unexpected feelings that begged to be channeled into music. Time and time again, I would pour myself into a page and emerge thirty minutes later with graphite-covered hands, and a new anthem. One song turned into two, then five, then ten. Soon, I had a notebook full of illegible scrawlings one could only presume to be lyrics. As my repertoire grew, I realized that I had enough material to create an album. The thought was absurd, but my ambition beat my logic. So, just before junior year, I made a life-changing decision: I signed up for Music Production class. I learned the basics of how to actually produce music: EQ, compression, reverb, buses, mics— it was overwhelming. However, I swallowed my reservations; I was determined to single-handedly master it all.
Well, that was my initial plan. Then, in class, I met Ethan. He asked me why I wanted to do everything alone. My songs were so personal that I had wanted to keep the entire thing close to my chest, but he made me reconsider. I could sing and write, but there were many things I could not do. I couldn’t slap the bass, shred on guitar, or bang on the drums. I quickly realized that it would be impossible to accomplish such an undertaking by myself. From that point forward, Ethan was my biggest mentor and fan. He helped me with ideas and production, and played bass for my tracks. He also became one of my best friends.
As I worked on the record, I enlisted my classmates as instrumentalists for what I couldn’t do. Over the course of the school year, I felt myself open up as I worked with several musicians; reaching out to them, sending emails, and recording together . I sacrificed lunch period upon lunch period to steal away into the studio and track vocals, kept a calendar for recording and a spreadsheet of what had to be done. I spent countless hours creating demos and mixing, and above all, I found a haven in collaboration. The studio became my village, my songs became my dialogue, and my bandmates became my community.
I remember the first time I sang in the open-mic, the way people’s eyes lit up at my music. The way my song moved through the room and connected everyone can only be described as euphoric. That shy little girl writing her first song would be so impressed with who I’ve grown to be. I may still write alone in my room, but now I send my drafts to Ethan. I sing for cheering crowds, and have plans to release my inner monologue to the world. Something for myself became something for them too. I used to be a one-man band, but now I’ve found my ensemble.