Right, here’s something I probably don’t talk about enough. Covering other artists’ music still properly excites me.

Probably because it takes me back to where this whole thing started. Twelve years old. Sitting on my bed. Guitar way too big for me, making my arms ache after ten minutes. Absolute garbage coming out of it, but I didn’t care.

There’s this moment that happens when you’re learning covers. You go from “I like what they did” to “here’s what I would do.” And that shift? That’s the turning point. That’s when you stop being a cover singer and start becoming the artist I am now.

The Hero Problem

Thing is, sometimes I wanted to BE my heroes so badly it hurt. Would’ve done anything to trade places. Be up on that stage with the adoring fans and the sold out rooms and the feeling that you’ve actually made it.

But as I got older I realised something important. I didn’t belong there.

I belonged on my own stage. With my own fans. Playing my own music.

Covers weren’t the destination. They were the training ground.

When MAD Records Collective Changed Everything

So when my mate OCCHIBLU told me about this competition through MAD Records Collective, I lost my absolute mind.

Quick sidebar on OCCHIBLU: I met him during my first online songwriting camp in the pandemic. Songwriter and producer. We clicked immediately, kept in touch after the camp ended, and eventually started working together properly. He co-wrote and co-produced the songs on my first album. Been there through all of it. Great collaborator and friend.

Anyway. MAD Records Collective were running this thing where you could submit cover songs chosen by publishers from their library. If they liked what you did, they’d pitch it onwards.

So Publishers actually pitching our covers?!? Sign me up!

I had a scan through the song list and two tracks jumped out immediately. Songs I’d heard hundreds of times as a kid on road trips across Europe. Dad would cycle through the same CDs over and over again. Those journeys really shaped my taste.

The Cage We Built Ourselves

We got to work straight away. Too quickly, probably.

See, we were so focused on being DIFFERENT that we trapped ourselves. Overthinking every decision. Second guessing every choice. Stuck in this cage of doubt where nothing felt right and everything felt forced.

So we did what any sensible person would do. Took a break. Stepped away for a couple days.

And that’s when it hit me. This really dreamy, expansive interpretation of “Don’t Dream It’s Over” by Crowded House. Could hear the whole thing in my head.

Messaged OCCHIBLU. Played him what I was thinking. We both knew immediately we were onto something.

Everything started flowing after that. Our take on “I Wanna Dance With Somebody” came together almost effortlessly. We’d broken out of the cage.

Easy Is Relative

When I say easy, don’t get me wrong. There were still hiccups. Moments where we hit walls and couldn’t see past them.

But that’s what the community was so good for. The mentors guiding us to make the music the best it could be. The other members supporting with ideas and feedback. It pushed us to understand the crafting process in ways we’d never noticed before.

Just how detailed it actually is.

The warmth of this community has led me to create what I genuinely think is my best work. Helped me develop my sound. Gave me this clear artist compass that guides me along my path.

Eight months of development. And for the first time, I feel truly confident in myself and my music.

And here’s the mad part? Both tracks ended up on desks at Warner Chappell and Primary Wave. Actual publishers. Actually considering our covers.

Twelve year old me with the too big guitar would’ve lost his mind.

I really hope you enjoy these as much as OCCHIBLU and I do. Let us know what you think in the comments.

I WANNA DANCE WITH SOMEBODY

DON’T DREAM IT’S OVER

What song takes you back to somewhere specific? What cover made you realise you wanted to make your own music? Drop it below.

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First year at ACM. Still figuring out who I was, what I wanted to sound like. But I knew one thing for certain, I needed to be on stage. Not streaming to three people. Not busking on the high street.

Proper stages. Proper shows.

So I did what any ambitious first-year would do. Started a band with my flatmates. We’d jam in our spare time, turned my bedroom demos into actual songs, and convinced ourselves we were the next big thing.

Spoiler Alert: We absolutely were not.

The Pay-to-Play Trap

Here’s something embarrassing I’ve never properly admitted. I fell for every single trap young musicians fall into.

Pay-to-play? Signed up immediately. £7 per ticket, had to sell minimum 20 to even get stage time.

Know how many I actually sold to real fans? Maybe five. On a good night.

The rest? I bought them myself. Hundreds of pounds down the drain, too ashamed to admit I couldn’t shift them. My mum bought some. My sister felt bad for me and grabbed a few. Even then, I’d still come up short and panic-buy the remainder an hour before doors.

Absolutely pathetic.

Started killing my confidence, if I’m honest. That voice in my head going on about “If you can’t even give tickets away for free, what makes you think you’re any good?”

When Everything Changed

Then I found HotVox. London-based company running shows with zero pay-to-play bollocks. Their rule was simple: bring more people, play bigger venues.

Perfect for us. We loved intimate rooms anyway. Somewhere we could actually connect with the 15 people who showed up rather than pretending to be stadium-ready.

We got good. Properly good. Tight setlist. Actual stage presence. The whole thing.

Then one night, the email landed:

“Fancy playing The Camden Assembly?”

The Bucket List Venue

Mate. THE Camden Assembly?!?

I’d watched The 1975 do an intimate gig there just months before. Dreamed about standing on that same stage. And now they were asking US?

Course we said yes.

Day of the show, we did our usual ritual - walked Camden, grabbed food, tried not to vomit from nerves. Stood in the green room The 1975 had been in, feeling like absolute frauds but also like we’d somehow made it.

Then we played.

And it was fucking brilliant.

Best show we’d done as a band. Everything clicked. Every joke landed. Every transition smooth as butter. We got off stage absolutely buzzing, convinced this was the beginning of something massive.

So naturally, we celebrated. Few pints. Chatting with other bands. Living that proper musician life, you know? Networking. Building relationships. Being professionals.

Completely forgot to check the time.

The Five-Minute Disaster

11:00pm. Train’s at 11:50.

Should’ve been fine, right? Except the tube had closed. Because London’s public transport has a sick sense of humour.

We laughed it off. Still riding that post-show high. Made a new plan… the night bus. For you Americans reading this, think Harry Potter

Now, anyone who knows London knows the night bus through Camden is sketchy as absolute fuck. Especially when you’re carrying thousands of pounds worth of music gear.

We sat there, silent, praying nobody would clock the obvious students with expensive equipment. Every stop felt like Russian roulette. Every person getting on might be the one who decides tonight’s the night they fancy a free guitar.

Nearly an hour later, we made it to the station.

Five minutes late.

FIVE. MINUTES.

Stared at those closed doors like they’d personally betrayed us.

The Hospital Solution

Reality set in fast: We’re sleeping rough tonight.

Outside the station? Guaranteed robbery. Our equipment alone would’ve paid someone’s rent. We needed somewhere safe. Somewhere warm. Somewhere we wouldn’t get our heads kicked in before sunrise.

Then we spotted it. The hospital.

Doors were locked, needed an employee card. So we did what any desperate students would do and hid in the shadows until someone arrived for night shift. Then we slipped in behind them like we belonged there.

Didn’t even make it past reception before getting caught.

This woman, probably been awake 18 hours already, stops us dead:

“You can’t be here at this time.”

We pleaded. Explained the whole pathetic saga. The gig, the celebration, the five minutes, the expensive gear, the absolute terror of sleeping rough in London.

She must’ve felt sorry for us. Or maybe she recognised that specific flavour of young-musician desperation. Either way, she pointed towards the cafe.

“Stay there. Don’t cause trouble.”

The Best Night We Never Planned

We sat in that 24-hour hospital cafe literally all night. Didn’t sleep a second.

Just talked.

Properly talked. The kind of conversations you only have at 3am when you’re exhausted and your defences are down. Every embarrassing moment. Every insecurity. Every fear about whether we’d actually make it or if we were just delusional kids playing dress-up.

Here’s the mad part, I barely knew these lads. Less than a year. Just some guys I’d met in halls who also played instruments.

But that night? That horrible, ridiculous, shouldn’t-have-happened night?

That’s when we became actual brothers.

One of them’s still my best mate. Long after the band dissolved, after we all went our separate ways, after the dream died and new dreams took its place.

That bond stuck.

What Getting Stranded Taught Me

Made the 5:30am train looking like absolute zombies. Slept through most of the next day. Swore we’d never do that again.

But here’s the thing… I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

Not for the gig. Not for Camden Assembly or ticking off some bucket list venue.

For that hospital cafe. For those conversations. For that moment when music stopped being about the stage and became about the people you’re willing to freeze your arse off in a hospital with at 4am.

The rock and roll life, 100%

Except it’s not really about the rock and roll at all. It’s about finding your people. The ones who’ll sit in a hospital cafe with you because you collectively fucked up and missed the last train.

The ones who get it. Who understand why you spent hundreds on tickets you couldn’t sell. Why you keep showing up even when nobody’s watching. Why this ridiculous, expensive, heartbreaking thing matters so much.

Seven years later, I’ve played bigger venues. Better shows. Made actual money instead of losing it.

But that night? Missing the train by five minutes and ending up in a hospital?

Still one of the best gigs I ever played.

What disaster turned into your favourite memory? When did everything going wrong somehow go perfectly right? Drop it below - I need to know I’m not the only one who finds magic in the chaos.

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Year and a half into ACM Guildford. Finally felt like I knew what I was doing. Had my people. Had my sound. Then March hits and suddenly we’re all getting texts about someone having “the thing” and everyone’s losing their absolute minds.

Remember that pure dread? That moment when someone in your flat coughed and everyone just... froze?

Mad to think I was actually relieved when they cancelled my stage performance exam. Couple weeks off? Great.

What a fucking joke that turned out to be.

The Thursday Night Shows Nobody Asked For

So there I am, stuck in my room, watching the world burn through Instagram stories. And something inside me just snapped. Not in a bad way. More like...

If I don’t make music right now, I might actually die.

Started streaming every Thursday night. Full gig setup in my bedroom. Playing to an audience of approximately three people - my mum, my sister when she felt bad for me, and some random bloke from Belgium who never said anything but always showed up.

Mate, those streams were rough. Talking to yourself for an hour while pretending it’s not weird? Performing with the same energy you’d bring to a packed venue when you can literally see the viewer count?

But it kept me sane. Kept me sharp.

From Bedroom to High Street

Soon as they let us out properly, I took it to Guildford High Street. Proper busking. Amp, mic, the works.

First weekend? £200. Eight hours total.

I was absolutely buzzing. Not just the money (though fuck me, that helped). But being back around actual humans? Seeing faces light up when they recognised a song? That energy exchange you can’t get through a screen?

Pure magic.

The Comment That Nearly Broke Me

But here’s the thing about putting yourself out there - you become a target for everyone else’s shit.

The teenagers taking the piss? Whatever. The shopping centre security trying to move you on? Part of the game. The drunk blokes requesting Wonderwall for the millionth time? Standard.

But this one bloke. Middle-aged. Probably on his lunch break. Walks past, stops, looks me dead in the eye:

“Get a real job.”

And walks off.

No context. No reason. Just felt the need to chuck that grenade and leave.

Why That Hurt Different

Here’s what killed me about it - I was making just as much as the the majority of people working a ‘real job’ doing this, if not more. Four hours busking on a good Saturday could clear £100. That’s £25+ an hour, cash in hand, doing what I love.

But it wasn’t about the money, was it?

It was watching someone my age doing what they couldn’t. Having the balls to stand there, vulnerable as fuck, making art in public while they trudged to their “real job.”

That comment lived in my head for weeks. Still does sometimes, if I’m honest.

The Beautiful Thick Skin You Never Asked For

You know what’s mental? That bitter bastard probably forgot about me five seconds later. But his comment became rocket fuel.

Every time I set up my amp after that, I thought about him. Every time someone dropped a tenner in my case, I thought about him. Every time a kid danced to my music or an elderly couple stopped to listen to their wedding song, I thought about him.

Music will give you the thickest skin you never wanted. The internet will call you shit. Strangers will tell you to quit. Your own brain will agree with them at 3am.

But you keep showing up. Keep setting up that amp. Keep streaming to three people or three hundred.

Because what’s the alternative? Getting that “real job”?

Nah mate. I’d rather die.

Leaving home.

I was 18, absolutely bricking it, counting down days like a prisoner. Eighteen months of staring at Alton’s high street thinking get me the fuck out of here. Small town. Small minds. Same faces, same Friday nights, same everything.

Except when the day came? When September 8th actually arrived?

I wanted to disappear into my childhood bed and never come out.

The Great Economics Disaster of 2017

Here’s something I’ve never properly told you lot. I started sixth form studying Economics, Engineering, and Photography. Proper subjects. Safe subjects. The kind that get you a “real job.”

Ten weeks in, staring at algebraic equations that might as well have been ancient Sanskrit, my stomach properly turned. This wasn’t just “I don’t get it.” This was “I will literally die if I have to do this for two more years.”

Meanwhile, my new mate’s banging on about his Music Tech course. Eight students. Actual proper studio time. Making beats instead of calculating compound interest.

They’ll never let me switch ten weeks in, I thought.

But sometimes the universe has your back in ways you don’t expect.

When Teachers Actually Give a Shit

Those Music Tech teachers? Legends. Absolute legends.

They let me start ten weeks behind everyone else. Gave me after-hours studio access. Taught me Logic when everyone else had gone home. I’d be in there till security kicked me out, making absolute garbage, but my garbage.

First track? Unlistenable. Second? Somehow worse.

But that feeling of watching the waveforms build up, layering sounds, creating something from nothing?

Kid in a chocolate factory doesn’t even cover it.

Bulgaria and the Universe’s Sick Sense of Humour

Fast forward to that summer. Bulgaria with the lads. Standard British abroad behaviour - find other Brits, expand the group, pretend you’re more cultured than you are.

Meet this girl. She mentions ACM Guildford. My mate goes “That’s where Joe’s going!”

We chat for five minutes. Move on. Forget about it entirely.

Now here’s where it gets properly mental.

September 8th. Moving day. I’m unloading boxes at my new accommodation, trying not to have a complete meltdown about leaving everything I know.

Look up.

Same. Fucking. Girl.

Not just same uni. Not just same accommodation. The flat directly below mine.

The Overthinking Olympics

My brain immediately went into overdrive:

• What if she doesn’t remember me?

• Do I say hi?

• What if I say hi and she thinks I’m weird?

• What if I don’t say hi and she thinks I’m rude?

So naturally, I did what any rational person would do. Completely ignored her and pretended I hadn’t seen her.

Proper smooth, mate. Proper smooth.

What Leaving Actually Meant

Three years at ACM changed everything. Not just musically - though fuck me, being surrounded by people who got it, who’d rather make beats than go on the piss, that was revolutionary. Obviously we did plenty of nights out on top of that too. Even better.

But personally?

That anxious kid from Alton who couldn’t even say hi to someone he’d already met? He had to die for MYLWD to exist.

Seven years later (I’m 25 now, feels like several lifetimes), I look back at that move and think: imagine if I’d stayed. Imagine if I’d stuck with Economics. Imagine if those teachers hadn’t taken a chance on that desperate kid who just wanted to touch the faders.

That girl from Bulgaria? We became proper close. The universe wasn’t just giving me a friend that day. It was showing me that when you jump, sometimes there’s already someone there to catch you.

Even if you’re too awkward to say hello at first.

What leap absolutely terrified you but changed everything? When did you know there was no going back to who you were before? Drop it below - these stories matter.

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I took part in this competition. Had to submit a video pitch explaining my whole project, plus a track to back it up. Over a hundred artists threw their hat in, and somehow I made the final three.

Final three.

First time in my entire career I'd properly stood out from the crowd. Not just "oh that was nice, dear" feedback. Actual recognition. From people who know their shit.

I went absolutely mental on that pitch. Every word calculated. Every second planned. Because here's the thing - I knew I deserved that spot. Not in some arrogant way. Just... I'd put the work in, you know?

The Moment It All Went Tits Up

Walked out of that final pitch knowing I'd left everything on the table. Nothing held back. Completely emptied the tank.

Then the results came through.

Didn't win.

And here's the mad part. For the first time in my life, losing felt... good?

Why Getting Rejected Hits Different Now

Look, it stung. Course it did. But something shifted in that moment.

A win would've been brilliant, yeah. Validation. Pat on the back. Maybe even a chance to cruise for a bit, rest on those laurels.

But this loss?

This loss lit something proper dark and hungry inside me.

Because now I've got something to prove. Not to anyone else, but to myself. Every single thing I said in that pitch? Every promise I made about where this project's going?

It's still happening.

Just now with a point to prove.

The Beautiful Thing About NO

Here's what I've learned: every NO is just directions to the YES that actually matters.

All of the voters who didn't see it? Cool. Someone else will. And when they do, I'll be even more ready because this rejection made me sharper. Hungrier. More desperate to prove my vision's real.

Same energy as those early open mic nights when nobody gave a shit. You just keep showing up. Keep getting better. Keep pushing through the terror.

Because eventually, someone notices. And by then, you're not just good. You're undeniable.

The vote didn't go my way this time. So what?

I'm still here. Still making music at 3am. Still chopping vocals till my ears bleed. Still believing the next idea's coming.

What rejection made you better? What NO turned into rocket fuel? Drop it below. Show me and everyone else reading these stories how we're all fighting the same fight.

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First time I heard Ed Sheeran play at the Bedford, that was it. Done. Completely fucked.

There he was, just him and his loop pedal, making hundreds of people lose their minds. Writing these raw, honest songs about love and heartbreak. Playing literally anywhere that would have him.

That. I want that.

So I did what any obsessed teenager would do. Became a proper open mic junkie. Every single week, sometimes multiple nights, hunting down any pub with a PA system and a dream. Didn't matter if it was three blokes and a dog. I needed those reps.

The Terror Never Goes Away

Here's something mental - I'd get so nervous on performance days that my brain would just... short circuit. Couldn't think about anything else. Just me, running through every single chord change, every lyric, visualising everything that could go wrong.

Still happens sometimes, if I'm honest.

The overthinking became this weird superpower/curse combo. Yeah, I was prepared. But being too prepared? That's when you forget the second verse to a song you've played 200 times. Your brain gets in its own way.

That First Open Mic Though

Picture this: Scared teenage me. Acoustic guitar. Playing "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" to a room of actual musicians.

I had to literally remind myself to breathe.

Coming from choir showcases where someone's mum would tell you how "lovely" you sounded, to playing in rooms with people who actually knew their shit? Absolutely terrifying.

But when it was over? That rush hit different. Like nothing I'd ever felt. Pure adrenaline mixed with relief mixed with fuck yes I actually did it.

I was hooked.

When You're Too Keen for Your Own Good

Got so addicted to performing that I started showing up at jam nights. You know, the ones specifically for BANDS to jam together. Full kit, bass, the works.

I'd rock up solo with my acoustic like "Mind if I break up the evening with a few songs?"

The absolute audacity, looking back. But they let me play! Even got my first taste of playing with a proper band there. That full, produced sound I'd been chasing in my bedroom finally happening in real life.

That's when I knew solo acoustic covers weren't the endgame.

From 30 Punters to Actual Crowds

All those open mics led somewhere mad. Audition nights for festivals. And the one that took a chance on me? Guildford Beer Festival.

Look, I know. It's not exactly Glastonbury. But going from maximum 30 people in a pub to a packed tent with hundreds of proper pissed festival-goers?

Different league entirely.

I was absolutely shitting myself. But muscle memory kicked in. Played my songs the way I always did. And that same rush came flooding back, just multiplied by about 100.

Standing on that stage, looking at actual crowds singing along, that's when I knew. This wasn't just some hobby anymore.

This was the path.

Where did performing first grab you by the throat? What moment made you realise there was no going back? Drop it in the comments - these stories keep me going.

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I owe everything to that place. The church that had me from age 7 to 18. But not for the reasons you'd think.

Yeah, the faith thing happened, but what I'm on about is something else entirely. It gave me permission to believe in creative power. To trust that ideas come when they're meant to.

Mad as it sounds, I genuinely believe creativity flows from somewhere bigger. We're just antennas, right? Constantly tuning ourselves to receive the signal and make it real. Sounds well woo-woo, but for us creatives… you get it.

The Absolute Terror of It

Beyond that faith in creativity (and eventually myself), church gave me something else: a stage. A terrifying platform where I had to do the thing that scared me most.

Stand up there. Alone. And sing.

Look, hiding in the choir was great. Nobody except my mum noticed when I held my songbook upside down, feeling the panic as I flipped pages mid-verse. But solo? Mate. That felt like jumping off a cliff with no parachute.

What if they laugh? What if I'm shit?

At 15, being told you're rubbish would've ended me. And honestly? I was rubbish. Proper YouTube-tutorial-for-hours rubbish. Wasn't born with it. Definitely didn't pop out the womb ready to give my best drunken rendition of Wonderwall. Just me, dodgy internet connection, and my mum's encouraging words as I absolutely butchered "Fast Car" for the hundredth time.

Sorry, Mum. Your favourite song deserved better.

From Butchering to Belonging

But here's the thing, progress is progress even when it's dead slow. Each failed attempt, each tiny win. They all stacked up.

Eventually found the bottle to take that first solo slot. Then another. Before I knew it, I was expected to perform. Mental.

Which brings me to this moment I'll never forget. Playing my original song "Paris" in actual Paris! In front of Notre Dame Cathedral. One week before it burned down.

I was absolutely shitting myself, but it was absolutely worth it.

What It Actually Gave Me

That place taught me more than harmonies or how to not look terrified on stage. It showed me that creativity requires faith. Not religious faith necessarily, but faith in the process. Faith that you'll get better. Faith that the fear is worth pushing through.

Now when I'm chopping vocals at 3am or stacking harmonies till my ears bleed, I'm still that scared kid from choir. Just with better kit and the same belief that the next idea's coming if I keep the antenna tuned.

I owe everything to that place.

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I swear, if you told 18 year old me that I'd be here now, he'd have laughed in your face. Back then I was absolutely bricking it at uni. Convinced music was "just a hobby" and nothing more.

Here's something I've never properly admitted - I was terrified someone from school would spot me in church choir. Every Sunday, living in fear that my mates would find out I was spending weekends in those tragic robes. Got my Voice for Life qualifications and everything (yeah, that's a real thing). Even auditioned for Winchester Cathedral choir. Mate, talk about feeling out of place. Picture a normal kid surrounded by proper posh boys who'd been singing Latin since they could walk.

Absolutely not it.

Then my mum and auntie had this idea: youth choir. First time we did "Somewhere Only We Know," everything changed. This wasn't your nan's church music anymore. I was proper buzzing. Actually wanting to be there. Feeling something I'd never felt before. Like, this is what music's supposed to feel like, right?

Me and my sister Tash became those kids. You know the ones. Absolutely rinsing YouTube tutorials, trying to learn guitar and sing at the same time. She was the natural performer, but something about it just clicked for me differently.

When she moved on from music, I couldn't stop. Wouldn't stop.

That obsession carried me from hiding my choir life to releasing a whole album. Now a year later, everything's shifted. New sound. New direction. Still can't believe the journey, and yet still so much to come.

But here's the maddest part. Remember Winchester Cathedral, where I felt like a complete fraud? Remember those Friday night youth choir sessions that changed everything?

Well, somehow that led to four songs on BBC Introducing. And two tracks sitting on desks at Warner-Chappel and Primary Wave Music.

How the fuck did that happen?

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