About me...

I came to sound not through schooling or some clean-lined plan, but because nothing else held me the way it did - not the language of pictures, not the quiet safety of stable work, but the way music moved through a room and how a machine could be made to remember it. I was always good with machines. I was always deep in music. So I began alone, in the soft claustrophobia of bedrooms and borrowed microphones, not knowing what I was doing, only that no one else could capture the music I heard inside me. Education followed like it often does: late, hard-earned, and after the need had already planted itself.

Three countries across two continents in twelve years, and each time the work began again from nothing. The name, the clients, the trust - they don’t travel with you. You carry only your hands and your hunger and start over. That’s the hardest part: not the mix, not the noise, but staying alive long enough to keep chasing what pulled you into this in the first place.

I record, I mix, I design sound. I’ve worked with musicians, with bands, with theatre, and with the screens that never stop flickering. I’ve learned the language of machines - Pro Tools, Dante, QLab - compressors and EQs, analog and digital consoles, like a man learns the feel of his own skin. These are just tools, just shapes on a map to something deeper, something raw. The acclaimed Abandoned Sessions is one landmark, yes, but it’s the session I’ve yet to make that lingers most in my mind - the sound of a grand piano falling fourteen stories to the pavement, the impact, the decay, and the silence that would follow.

Silence is not the absence of sound. It is the place where sound is born and where it dies. It holds the shape of a song when no one is playing. I listen for the perfect drum sound, for guitars whose shape you can see, whose sound feels like something alive, made of both light and shadow. I listen for moments that can’t be recaptured, that fade before you know you’re chasing them.

And when the work ends, when the noise has died down, I still write. Not just songs, but something longer - something that’s been trailing me for thirteen years now: a book that may never be written, but that keeps me company anyway. I carry it, like I carry everything else - the unfinished songs, the sounds that never quite found their place, the spaces where the echoes refuse to fade. This isn’t a job. It’s a condition. It’s how I mark the hours.