Bobby Makes Music

  There’s a version of me that could have stopped. Full-time venue manager. Husband. Dad. School runs. Rosters. Groceries. Dishes. Bedtime stories. Life stacked neatly into responsibility blocks. No one would’ve blamed me. Creativity is easy to prioritise when you’re twenty and time feels endless. It’s harder when you’ve got rent to pay, a calendar that looks like a war zone, and a small human constantly calling your name. But here’s what no one tells you about becoming a parent: If you’re not careful, you slowly disappear. Not physically. Not dramatically. Just quietly. You become efficient. Reliable. Responsible. And somewhere in the shuffle, the part of you that used to burn for something gets quieter. For me, that thing is music. Heavy, distorted, chest-rattling music. The kind that wakes you the fuck up. The kind that reminds you there’s still fire in your lungs. There were seasons where I almost convinced myself that maybe that chapter was done. Maybe being “grown up” meant l...