I dreamt of being a music icon, but instead, I’m sweating through my clothes inside a mobile edit bay somewhere in South America, soundtracking an argument between a software salesperson from Bakersfield who’s looking for “someone to settle down with” and a Dallas marketing coordinator “hoping to, like, do something different in terms of dating.”
I supervise the music for Netflix’s multiverse of reality dating shows.
You could say this job chose me—much like the balaclava-clad men who snatched me from that derelict warehouse masquerading as a tropipop songwriters meetup.
You know those songs you like? The ones those syndicated coastal radio guys play in between invasive studio interview segments with artists half their age? I make shitty imitations using an ancient Pro Tools installation, a guitar once owned by a deceased former contestant, and smartphone vocal recordings from our longtime production assistant, who’s an aspiring singer but nevertheless still a production assistant.
I write what I see, and what I see is madness.



