Hiya Lawrence, thanks for joining us in the virtual RGM lounge today. Grab a brew and take a seat.
What was life like for you before you got into music?
Before music, life felt like a blurry photograph—familiar, but somehow missing a dimension. I was always absorbing sounds: the hush of trees, the distant hum of traffic, the rhythm of my own thoughts. Even before I knew the term, I was scoring my surroundings. I didn’t grow up in chaos or glamor—it was more of a quiet tension, a craving for something unnamed. Music didn’t just enter my life—it unlocked it.
What’s the live music scene like in Berlin right now? Anyone we should be looking out for (bar you, of course)?
Berlin is a contradiction—in the best way. You can hear an avant-garde string quartet in a Neukölln courtyard, then end up at a songwriter session in a candle-lit Kreuzberg apartment at 3am. There’s a raw honesty here that inspires me. Artists like Max Arsava, Josin, or Hannes Wittmer are crafting emotionally grounded, hand-played music that resists trends. They might not all live in Berlin permanently, but they embody the spirit of the city: vulnerable, independent, and rooted in sonic storytelling.
It seems like being a social media curator has become added to the many jobs of a musician, how do you feel about this?
Honestly? It’s a weird dance. Some days it feels like soul-selling, other days like storytelling. But I try to see it as an extension of the art—another canvas. If I can use a 10-second reel to share a spark of meaning, connection, or beauty, that’s worth something. That said: the algorithm doesn’t write my songs.
How do you manage engagement on your socials?
Very imperfectly. I try to be present, not just perform. I’d rather share something real once or twice a week than force shallow noise every day. I respond to messages personally whenever I can. I also love using late-night story posts as a kind of digital campfire—where thoughts get softer and truths feel welcome. Sometimes, I talk about creative blocks or imposter moments, just to remind others (and myself) that it’s okay to not have it all figured out.
What’s your view on the music industry today?
It’s both fractured and full of possibility. There’s more noise than ever, but also more freedom. You don’t need a major label to reach someone’s heart. But yes—there’s still inequality, still exploitation, still too much pressure to be a “brand” instead of a human. The challenge is to stay soulful in a system that often rewards surface. And part of that is taking care of our minds—sometimes that means therapy, sometimes it means unplugging, always it means being honest with ourselves.
Where do you feel you currently sit within the music industry?
Somewhere between the cracks. I’m not mainstream, not niche. I think of myself as part of a slow-growing underground current—something handmade, emotionally rich, hard to categorise. I’d rather build a forest of real listeners than chase temporary fireworks.
What’s the biggest thing you have learned recently as you progress with your music?
That chaos is not the enemy. The mess is where new melodies are born. I’ve learned to embrace the in-between moments—the emotional contradictions, the blurry edges—and use them as fuel. Also: rest is part of rhythm.
What was your best experience on stage?
There was this intimate attic show in Berlin—just candles, cushions, and silence between songs. At one point, I noticed someone quietly crying, and another softly laughing. It felt like we were all breathing the same feeling. That night, I wasn’t performing—I was with them. And even though I’m naturally introverted, something about music lets me open up completely—it’s like the only place the imposter can’t follow me.
What was your worst experience on stage?
Once in a small venue, the power went out mid-set. We ended up doing an improvised acoustic set with nothing but candlelight, a guitar, cajon and perm + voice. At first it felt like failure, but it turned into a moment of unexpected magic. Honestly, even the “bad” nights have a strange beauty.
Tell us something about you that people would be surprised about.
I love thunderstorms. I’ll often write during them. There’s something primal and cleansing about them—chaos you can’t control, but also can’t ignore. Also: I’ve got a strange habit of recording random city sounds on my phone. You never know when they’ll end up in a track.
I hear you have new music. What can you tell us about it?
Yes. The new single is called “Good Enough (Still I Try)” and it’s kind of a summer anthem for people who secretly feel like imposters. It blends groove-driven indie with vulnerable lyrics—a bittersweet soundtrack to trying your best, even when you doubt yourself.
The song is both a confession and a reminder: that we don’t need to feel confident to show up—we just need to keep moving. I often wrestle with that inner voice telling me I’m not good enough. But I’ve learned that giving it too much space only feeds the doubt. Instead, when I focus on creating, on the act of making something from nothing, that voice starts to shrink.
This song is me reaching out to anyone who’s felt like they’re faking it, like they’ll be found out. You’re not alone. Sometimes just continuing—messy, imperfect, sincere—is the bravest thing we can do. And somewhere in that chaos, something beautiful begins to grow.
What was the recording process like?
It started as a demo I sang half-asleep into my phone. Then it grew—layer by layer. Old synths, found sounds, rhythmic loops made from knocking on furniture. I worked between Berlin and a lakeside retreat where birdsong bled into the mix. It’s part composition, part confession.
What was the biggest learning curve in writing the new tunes?
Letting go of perfection. At some point I realized: the “wrong” take had more soul than the polished one. That’s always the hardest part—trusting the cracks. Letting the human stay audible.
Would you change anything now it’s finished?
Probably. But only in my head. The version that’s out there is the one that needed to be born. It’s imperfect, but honest. Like all of us.
Is there anything else you would like to share with the world?
Just this: If you feel like you’re not “enough,” you’re not alone. But the act of continuing—of showing up, even messy and unsure—that’s where the gold is. The learning curve can be steep—especially when interacting with others or learning to trust again. Sometimes it takes professional help, like therapy. I often struggle with imposter thoughts, but when I stop feeding them and start focusing on the process of creation, something magical happens.
My heart opens. I dance in the studio—sometimes alone, sometimes with musician friends—and I celebrate the rawness of what’s unfolding. Though I’m naturally quiet and introverted, music gives me a way to connect. Through sound, I try to build a bridge for all of us who’ve ever felt like outsiders. You’re not alone in that feeling—and that’s what my music is for.
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