call me by my full name, please

some lucky bastards are born with the right name. some choose theirs carefully. for some it never aligns. wrong name or wrong personality or wrong time.

I‘ve been called many things.

some almost holy.

some broken.

some whispered.

some just a little more real than the others.

you can call me by our relation.

lover.

friend.

brother.

dad.

closer than any of my names.

To Be Late Is Better Than Not Showing Up

it's one of those nights. a missed train. a missed connection. a thousand reasons to call it a night.

leave. quit. back down. go home. or take another train.

watch the sun set through a moving scenery.
overhear a grandfather telling his grandson about those mountaintops.
how he used to hike up there. back when he was young.
before all the tourists arrived.

my friend played his last song.
i drink a glass of wine. red this time.
and i miss the old cigarette.

shook hands with a girl trying to convince me of some theory about love and lust.
ran into my old friend harrison. glad he's doing better.

life is where you are. probably.

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.