Thanks for having me in the RGM lounge. I’ll take a turmeric tea, warm, earthy, and a quiet corner to drift into the music.
What was life like for you before you got into music?
Music has been in my life for as long as I can remember, so it’s hard to imagine a “before.” I started playing guitar at five, and it became my language long before I understood words deeply. But there was a long period where I put it down, chasing other things in life. I think that absence made my return to music more intense; it came back like it had been waiting patiently the whole time.
Your music feels both cinematic and deeply personal. What’s the message you hope listeners take away?
I want my music to be a reminder that vulnerability is a strength. Every note I play is meant to create a space where listeners can sit with their emotions, whether that’s pain, hope, or something in between, and know they’re not alone in it. My influences, from Buckethead’s raw expressiveness to Yvette Young’s delicate textures, taught me that music can speak in ways words never could.
Your name, Δƒ, is unique, and your persona is masked. Can you share the meaning behind both?
Δƒ is a nod to change — the symbol “Δ” means change, and “ƒ” represents frequency, like in music or energy. Together, it’s about the shifts we experience in life and how they resonate. The mask is not about hiding but about removing distraction. I want people to focus on the music and the feeling, not the face behind it. It also allows me to channel something beyond myself when I play.
It seems like being a social media curator has become added to the many jobs of a musician, how do you feel about this?
It’s a double-edged sword. Social media gives artists direct access to listeners with no gatekeepers, but it can also feel like you’re constantly shouting into a noisy room. For me, it’s about finding the balance: sharing enough to connect, but not so much that the music becomes secondary.
How do you manage engagement on your socials?
I try to be authentic. I’m not interested in chasing trends; I’d rather share something meaningful, a new piece of music, a glimpse behind the scenes, or even just a thought that reflects where I’m at creatively. Our socials are still fairly new, so we’re in the process of shaping how we post and engage. I’m lucky to have help from friends who believe in the project, which makes it easier to keep the content genuine and focused on connection.
What’s your view on the music industry today?
It’s evolving faster than ever. There’s more opportunity for independent artists now, but also more noise to cut through. You have to be both an artist and a strategist, which can be exhausting, but it also means you have more control over your own path.
Where do you feel you currently sit within the music industry?
I’m still building my foundation. My focus is on creating music that lasts, rather than chasing quick wins. If that means a slower, more deliberate climb, I’m okay with that.
What’s the biggest thing you have learned recently as you progress with your music?
That vulnerability resonates more than perfection. People connect to emotion, not technical flawlessness.
What was your best experience on stage?
Playing for an audience that truly listens. There’s an unspoken exchange of energy in those moments that’s hard to describe – you feel it in your chest.
What was your worst experience on stage?
Technical failures. When your guitar or gear let you down mid-performance, it’s a test of composure. You just have to keep going.
Tell us something about you that people would be surprised about.
I collect vintage guitars, some dating back to the 1950s. Many of them are too rare to tour with, but their history seeps into my recordings.
I hear you have new music. What can you tell us about it?
My latest EP, The Sky Blooms Only for You, is a deeply personal collection of instrumental pieces. It’s for anyone carrying silent pain, a reminder that even in stillness, beauty can grow.
What was the recording process like?
It was intimate and unpolished, just me in my home studio, recording in the quiet hours. I’ve always kept a personal archive of ideas: riffs, harmonies, and fragments of melodies that I’ve saved over time.
When inspiration strikes, I revisit those pieces and see if they connect to the emotion I’m feeling in that moment. Some tracks came together in a single take, raw and immediate, while others I played over and over until they felt right emotionally.
What was the biggest learning curve in writing the new tunes?
Letting go of overthinking. Sometimes the first take has the most truth in it, even if it’s not perfect.
Would you change anything now it’s finished?
No. It’s a snapshot of a moment in time. Changing it would rewrite that moment.
Is there anything else you would like to share with the world?
If you’re listening to my music, know this: you matter. Even if you feel invisible, you are not alone.
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