Music has always been a thread woven through the fabric of my life, pulling me back to moments both vivid and forgotten. The memories it stirs are as random as they are profound, often triggered by the simplest things.
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I recall several unforgettable moments in my life that revolved around music. It’s fascinating how seemingly random memories surface, tethered to whatever occupies our minds at a given time.
When I was ten or eleven, we lived in a house with a detached garage behind it. My father had built a small music room there, where I set up my first drum kit. It became a rehearsal space for our family band, which played at the Croatian club and other venues for several years. We practiced in that tiny room, but as always, my favorite moments were spent alone.
During those solo jam sessions, I began discovering my singing voice — even though it was often drowned out by the thunderous chaos of live drums. To hear myself, I had to sing at the top of my lungs, unabashed and free from the worry of volume control. It was liberating. With no one listening, I could close my eyes, sink into a rhythm, and completely lose myself in the music. Any artist will tell you this is why they create: to transcend the present moment, suspend time, and dissolve into their chosen medium. And when the dust of creation settles, they hope something remains — something meaningful to share with the world.
At the time, my drum kit was a mismatched assortment — some parts were Ludwig, some were generic. I didn’t care, nor did I know much about brands, tunings, or even matching drumsticks. None of it mattered because I could make music with anything. To this day, my voice remains one of my favorite instruments.
I still remember the smells of that room — the dust, the faint tang of fermenting wine, and the mustiness of timeworn gear. My father’s equipment from his 1970s band days sat among wine bottles and winemaking tools. The floor was covered with old shag carpet, and the drywall bore stains from a fermenting demijohn that had popped its top under pressure. Acoustically, the space was terrible. But for an intensely introverted soul, it was a sanctuary — a place to release creative energy and escape the distractions of the outside world.
Years later, while working in a studio, I had the chance to record and produce my first albums. I was self-taught, as always, and the steep learning curve was as thrilling as it was challenging. I’ll never forget those nights when the sun would set and rise again as I worked on mixes, arrangements, and backing vocals. Sleep seemed irrelevant; I was too immersed in the work to feel tired.
In hindsight, those moments remind me how vital it is to carve out time and space for our true selves. Life has a way of overwhelming us with busyness, much of it unnecessary. The moments we remember most vividly are those when we stop overthinking and simply are — fully present. That’s where the magic lies.
But life often pulls us away from this magic. It’s not that every breath we take isn’t its own tiny miracle, but we don’t always live with that level of awareness. The world, with its relentless demands and distractions, constantly asks for more — more of our attention, more of our energy. If we’re not careful, it can steal from us the most precious parts of this fleeting existence.
So, whenever we can, we should reclaim that magic. Create a sanctuary, however small, where you can lose yourself in something meaningful. Whether it’s making music, writing, or simply being still, give yourself permission to dissolve into the moment. The world will wait.
Musica est vita
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“My World” from Fleshwound