What does it mean to be an honest artist? This is the question that I continue to ask myself as I attempt to construct a more current description of the life I have led and how it has shaped my band 36?. There are many things of which I believe hang in the balance when considering one’s artistic integrity, but the one thing that I have come to need in art to consider it authentic is to feel everything unapologetically. Regardless of emotional weight, depth of thought, or scope of relatability, the content has to feel like it comes from a real place. This is why whenever I am asked the question, “what kind of music do you make?” I feel inclined to say, “it depends on my mood.”

36? emerged at a very difficult and incomprehensible time in my life. I existed in a constant state of medically induced psychosis. I wrote and recorded songs on a daily basis, a mechanical imagination running wild in a zombie suit. Appearing as a hazy shell of a human being to the outside world, a blank dead eyed slate sitting at the back of the classroom, but on the inside I was in a constant state of creation.

I suffered.

I felt it all, but I wasn’t in a state where I was confident enough to put my feelings to art. So much of the music I made back then was a translucent mask of angst. Pretending I was alright, I had to feel in control of something. Building myself up in my art in the hopes to paint a picture of my ideal self. So far removed from the withering, fearful, sad boy that I was.

I have written a lot of music for 36? since then. The band has grown both emotionally and physically. What started as the basement musings of an insecure sixteen-year-old boy has become a touring project that I get to share with my best friends. Together we have toured over land and sea, recorded award-winning records in our many suburban basements, and received all of the praise the sad boy from my past ever could have asked for. But, through all of this, one thing that I felt I have never gotten over was the idea that my own personal thoughts and feelings were not worthy of my art. I have always written from the perspective of a caricature, until now. Milk Mountain, named after our immensely talented and incredibly attractive bass player Mike Malkin, is the first record I have ever put out in which I feel like every song speaks to something I have experienced directly. It’s the most real and exciting project I have ever been a part of. In many ways, I’m still that sad boy from the past. I feel like ‘crazy’ is not something I will ever grow out of, but rather grow into with clearer intent. I have grown to realize that my feelings are all that I have, and when I am real about them, people listen.

“So what kind of music does 36? make?”

36? makes pop-punk-neo-jazz-fusion soul music from heaven and hell. 36? makes ballroom dancing music for the disco. 36? makes stupid idiotic music for dogs and fish. 36? makes music that makes you cry and then stabs you in the back. 36? makes music that gives you the finger after buying you ice cream. 36? makes music that comes from the heart even when the heart feels nothing. 36? makes whatever feels right at the time.

Are you intrigued? Then light some scented candles, throw on Milk Mountain, lay down on the floor with some Doritos and paint your best friends face. Or, do something else completely weird and ridiculous. Or, do nothing. I have come to realize that the happiest that I have ever been is when I say fuck the rules and do whatever I want. That's what I think everyone should do, and that's what 36? is all about.