Rehearsal Spaces, A Guitar and A Voice

Two hours spent in a basement. Just a guitar and my voice. No microphone. No windows. Not one of those designer rooms.

Empty walls with a few acoustic foam panels. A carpet that's probably never been cleaned. The noise of cars passing by. The solitude. The disgusting but familiar smell.

It's also the way I remember my beginnings. My first band's rehearsal spaces. Same smell. Same taste on your tongue.

The claustrophobic feeling with the feeling that everything is possible.

If Only You Could See It

An old building. Almost no one there. No kitchen, a barely functioning shower, a room with big windows. That's where I lived for a year.

I spent a few days putting in carpets, acoustic elements, lots of cheap instruments to make and record music.

I spent hours at the piano, on guitars, sitting on the floor writing. Just as many hours outside the window, smoking cigarettes and in a way trying to convince myself I’m living free.

I poured all I had into those days. Most of the instruments I gave back to whoever lent them to me. Same for the studio equipment.

A dance between performer and audience

I’m preparing for a show in Zurich next week to finally play the songs from my upcoming album live.

And while rehearsing, I can’t stop thinking about the purpose of live music.

Why we, as artists, keep returning to the stage.

Is it to move people?

To entertain?

To inspire?

Or just to create a moment together?

I don’t think there’s a single answer.

Most of these songs were born in solitude in an abandoned house on the outskirts of Zurich, where I lived for a few months.

Playing them in front of people for the first time gets me excited.

Maybe because the songs will no longer be mine but ours.

That’s what I love about concerts.

The moment it stops being about me.

And becomes something shared.

A collective experience.

The songs start meaning something different.

I feel like I belong.

And in the best case, the audience does too.

It’s a dance between performer and listener.

And I’m all up for it.

patience vs procrastination

I never really worked a regular job,

though I’ve had plenty of side gigs just to get by.

I worked in a metal factory,

as a bike messenger,

in retail,

and whatever else came my way.

It never lasted long,

but each one taught me something.

But one thing never changed.

Whenever I felt overwhelmed, anxious,

angry, lost, or tired,

the first thing I did was pick up a guitar and play.

And write.

It’s always been more than an escape.

It’s been a home.

The challenge has always been

to know what to share,

and how.

Because there’s no right answer.

You can’t know what people will connect with.

Sometimes a throwaway line hits deeper

than the one I spent days perfecting.

The only thing I try to stay true to,

even though I haven’t many times,

is intuition and taste.

Every time I silence that voice

and let the noise take over,

I look back and realize

I knew it all along.

So this is me reminding you, and more so myself,

to trust our instincts.

To stop rushing every quiet moment.

Not everything is fear.

Not everything is urgent.

Sometimes patience isn’t procrastination.

It’s trust.

songs vs. albums

Some may say an album is just a collection of songs. I disagree. It’s a house, and I’m currently building one.

I released my last album, the world is still beautiful (2023), and after that, I decided to focus on songs and to not make another album. My reasoning: an album is a ton of work, a lot of costs. It takes time and energy to write, record, and make it fit together. And as an independent artist, I couldn't tell if anyone will listen, care or resonate with the music. So it does feel like a big risk.

Yet, at the end of last year, I still decided to make an album. Because it’s fun. Because it’s like building a house. Each song is a room. One is a sparse, light-filled space by a fireplace. Another is a living room with loved ones around. Maybe there’s a private getaway that feels almost too personal to share. A balcony for a late-night drink, a cigarette, and long conversation. A bedroom filled with desire and passion.

And yes, there’s trash laying around, chaos, and whatever else fits in the description of life. You live in these rooms, write about them, explore them, and then present them as part of a bigger space.

I had a plan for this album, but it revealed itself differently. Sometimes, you just have to let it be and play. This way I discovered new corners, like an old photo framed on a wall, a note tucked under the bed, a brief memory of a time long forgotten. I ended up with a space that feels familiar yet scary. Beautiful and messy. Just like life itself.

Finishing is the hardest part. The thrill of new ideas fades, and the temptation to clean the floors, throw out the trash, hide the notebook under the bed, grows. But sometimes that mess is exactly what makes it real.

Sometimes, art isn’t about giving answers or even asking questions. It’s just a place to go, where its meaning reveals itself differently to everyone who enters.

Art needs no introduction. No explanation. Just a place to be.