Brandon: Music, like nature, isn’t a commodity we should buy and sell: it’s sacred

Brandon is a 27-year-old singer, songwriter and multi-instrumentalist from Riverside, California, now based in Los Angeles. Blending alt-R&B, folk and ambient pop, his music captures a sound that feels both personal and expansive. On 9 May, he releases his debut album Before You Go via Secretly Canadian – a record that follows a run of well-received singles, including his latest track Seeing Stars.

In this conversation, he talks about growing up in Riverside, the role of nature and faith in his life, and how he’s learning to move at his own pace in a world that won’t slow down.

I'm from Riverside, California. It's a place tucked between LA and the beach cities, and I’ve always loved that balance – close enough to the energy of the city but still far enough to find calm. LA is mad. Even the beaches in Santa Monica and Mar Vista are busy, but when you head inland, out to Riverside, it slows down. It gives you room to breathe.

I grew up with good friends and a great mom – honestly the most amazing woman on the planet. She raised me well and gave me the freedom to explore who I wanted to be. Whether it was singing in the kids' choir because she sang in the adult one, playing soccer, or drawing for hours every day, I always had that space to find myself.

Growing up in Riverside, there wasn't much to do. It's a suburb; there are no huge concert venues or endless things to keep you occupied. So you make your own fun. You find ways to entertain yourself. I spent so much time outside, even when it was over 100 degrees. If I wasn't sketching endlessly at home, I was kicking a ball around or heading up Mount Rubidoux with my mom. It’s a little mountain right near downtown Riverside, with trails that wrap around it. We'd hike up together, and at the top, there's this flat space with giant steps leading up to a flag on one side and a cross on the other. I'd always run and jump down the steps, pretending I was flying, while my mom would yell at me to stop before I hurt myself. Those moments of freedom and care stay with me.

Nature was always there for me. In middle school, I got into cross-country and track, and that deepened my connection to the outdoors. Running long distances – sometimes ten or fifteen miles – without headphones, just listening to the world around me, forced me to be present. It built a kind of mental resilience. When you're out there, it's just you and the elements. You have to focus. You have to stay with yourself. I think that's where my creativity was shaped. Ideas are born in stillness, not when you're rushing from one thing to the next.

That connection to nature still feeds me now. I live close to the beach – just a 10 or 15-minute walk. When I'm stuck creatively, I don't force it. I go for a walk. I think, I pray, I reflect. Sometimes the ideas come then; sometimes they don't. But the process of stepping away and slowing down is vital. It reminds me that it's okay to move at my own pace.

I don't drive – by choice. I ride my bike or take the train. It can be inconvenient, sure, but it’s better for the planet. I've even had friends tell me they’re thinking about selling their cars because of me. That’s cool to hear. We only have one planet. We have to look after it. I don't go around preaching about it, though. I just live my life the way that feels right.

The problem is, everything today is rushing. Especially in music. It's this constant churn, always chasing the next thing that's blowing up on TikTok. When you think about it, music is not something we should buy and sell. It’s not a commodity. It’s a gift. For me, music is sacred. And nature is no different.

Why are we begging and pulling and scratching for more, when none of it comes with us in the end?

Travel opened my eyes even more. A few years ago, I went to Trinidad and Tobago, where my family's from. It was a culture shock in the best way. People there work enough to live. They have what they need, and they’re content with that. Here, it's different. Here, we live to work. Constantly chasing more, scrambling for the next thing. When I came back from Trinidad, it hit me hard. I questioned everything. Why are we begging and pulling and scratching for more, when none of it comes with us in the end? What’s it all for?

I wish more people could feel what I felt there – the simplicity, the joy, the grounding. We are so privileged, and we don’t even realise it. We take so much for granted, every single day.

My mom gave me that foundation. She’s where I get my strength from. I’ve never seen her crumble under pressure. Even when things were tough, she'd say, "God's got us. We'll get through it." She prayed, she trusted, and somehow, we always did get through. She came to every one of my soccer games, every cross-country meet, every concert. Always cheering me on, always showing up.

She never forced me down a path. She trusted me to find my own way. Whether it was music, sports, college – it was always my choice. And that freedom made all the difference. It taught me to move through life with intention, not just out of obligation.

When I think back to my happiest memories, it's those hikes with my mom that come up first. The top of Mount Rubidoux, jumping down the steps, hearing her voice telling me to be careful. Feeling free, but knowing she was there. That mixture of freedom and care shaped me.

Music is my way of trying to pass that feeling on. It's my coping mechanism, my release. I write about the things I’m scared to talk about, the things I don't always have the words for. And when they come out in a song, they make sense. It's not always pretty, but it's honest. It's personal. It's real.

The world feels bleak sometimes. There’s no denying that. But I try to stay optimistic. I try to focus on what I can control – my mindset, my circle, how I treat people. If I have a platform, I try to use it with care. Not everything needs to be a statement, but I won’t hide who I am or what I believe in either.

At the end of the day, I just want to be a real person. Not a robot chasing trends. Not someone defined by algorithms and output. Just someone who lives with intention, who stays grounded, who makes music that means something, and who remembers to be grateful – for the beach, for the mountains, for my mom, and for the faith that's carried me through.

Because in the end, that's what matters. Not the rush. Not the noise. Just the things that stay true.

This conversation took place in March 2025 and has been edited and condensed for clarity and flow.

So, What Now?

The ‘So What Now’ section is part of The Skylark’s mission to highlight partner organisations driving action on climate and nature. Interviewees are not affiliated with, nor do they necessarily endorse, these partners.