about

I’ve been drawn to sound for as long as I can remember. As a kid, I was obsessed with pressing buttons—so much so that my mum had me tested, wondering if my impulsiveness pointed to something deeper. Turns out, I just couldn’t help exploring how things worked. That curiosity never left; it just found a focus in music.

My first real musical memory was in kindergarten. A teacher would play guitar for us as we sat cross-legged on the floor. That sound hit different. It felt alive. I remember thinking, this is my favourite thing—and no one else seems to care as much as I do. From there, I began learning guitar around Year 5. I struggled with theory, but I was hooked on playing songs. The first solo I ever learned? A Horse With No Name. It was simple, but it felt like magic.

My first guitar was a $400 Magnum acoustic from International Music in Toowoomba. I still remember the smell—freshly oiled wood and new strings. The shop owner, Owen, handed me the guitar and asked, “Which way feels better, left or right?” Oddly enough, I’m left-handed in everything except guitar—and, well, that other thing.

A major turning point came in the summer before Year 8, when I saw Walk the Line, the Johnny Cash biopic. I was completely moved. The suits, the energy, the formality, the crowd’s connection to the music—it all hit me like lightning. I became obsessed with the Gibson Les Paul Custom Black Beauty after that. I didn’t even know what a Gibson was at the time, but I knew I needed to learn more.

Later, in Year 9 French class—where I was often in trouble for not paying attention—I stumbled across the Sweet Child O' Mine music video. For a kid lost in a subject he hated, seeing Slash and Izzy on stage playing those iconic Gibson guitars transported me somewhere else entirely. That was another big spark.

There were other moments—Hotel California, Kill 'Em All, ...And Justice For All, Boy & Bear’s With Emperor Antarctica—but discovering The Strokes was the real game-changer.

I was introduced to The Strokes in a way that changed everything. I already knew Last Nite and Someday, but I hadn’t really listened. One night after a jam, a mate and I were having a session—some pints, a few hot ones—and he put on The Strokes’ $2 Bill live show on YouTube. I didn’t pay much attention at first. At that time, I was still deeply into Metallica, chasing heavier tones and writing long, riff-heavy songs. But something about that performance lingered.

A few months later, after another night out at the RSL and feeling like our hard rock project had run its course, $2 Bill came on again. This time, I watched closely. It started with New York City Cops—tight, raw, and confident. Then Barely Legal—I noticed how all three guitars were locked into downstrokes. The energy was different. By the time Soma played, I was sitting upright. The track built slowly and finished with a powerful, emotional climax that genuinely floored me. It wasn’t flashy—it was intentional. That outro hit like a wave, and I remember saying out loud, “Far out, this is insane… these guys absolutely rock.” Something clicked. I finally understood why people connected to this sound.

From that moment, everything shifted. I dove headfirst into writing music influenced by that stripped-back, melodic approach—less metal, more groove, feel, and space. The tones, the arrangements, the attitude. It was raw, but refined. That one song, Soma, taught me that restraint can be just as powerful as complexity.

From there, I chased music seriously—playing in bands, writing songs, and recording across Brisbane studios like Underground Audio, Heliport Studios, Tyms Guitars (RIP), and Alchemix. Some experiences were better than others, but every session taught me something about what not to do, especially working with engineers who were still finding their feet.

I couldn’t shake the sound of Is This It, so I enrolled at SAE in West End. The program had its flaws—some lecturers weren’t especially helpful—but I made valuable connections that helped launch a sustainable freelance career. One of those connections led me to a job in corporate AV, which in turn introduced me to a mentor booking engineers for venues across Brisbane. That led to my first FOH gig at a grungy dive bar with foldback Yamaha speakers, a kick-and-vocals PA, and a tiled room that was absolute hell on the ears. But I learned how to mix, how to feel the music, and how to work with bands.

Over time, I moved up, mixing in bigger venues from the Sunshine Coast to Northern NSW. I built trust with artists, got tighter with my mixes, and started translating my live sound skills into the studio—though I quickly learned the two disciplines aren’t identical.

Like any career in music, it’s been a grind. The work is competitive, and burnout is real. I’ve made mistakes—leaned a bit too hard into the after-hours part of the job, missed opportunities, burnt a bridge or two. But I’ve also learned the value of owning those moments, offering a genuine apology, and proving that I’m willing to grow.

What keeps me going is simple: I do this for the love of music, the connection between people, and the shared passion that comes with making something real. Whether I’m mixing a set in a dive bar or tracking vocals in the studio, my goal is the same—to help artists sound their best, feel supported, and walk away with something they’re proud of.