A few weeks ago, I turned down what Might’ve been steady monthly work.

The kind of reliable booking that any new business would normally jump at without thinking twice.

I said no.

Not because the music was poorly written. Not because we couldn’t technically handle it. I said no because the songs weren’t really songs—they were weapons. Coded messaging wrapped in verse-chorus-verse. Nationalist imagery that wasn’t subtle. Lyrics designed to make specific people feel unwelcome, unsafe, or less than.

I won’t engineer that.

This studio exists to serve music and the people making it. The whole point is creating space where someone can be vulnerable enough to perform honestly, where the technical stuff disappears and what’s left is just the truth of what they’re trying to say.

But there’s a limit. And that limit is harm.

I’m not going to lend my gear, my expertise, or my space to amplify messaging that dehumanizes people. Immigrants, women, LGBTQ+ folks, any vulnerable community—if your song is designed to make those people feel targeted, this isn’t the right room for it.

This isn’t about politics. It’s about refusing to participate in cruelty dressed up as art.

I have plenty of clients whose politics don’t match mine. Sometimes we disagree significantly—about policy, about governance, about how things should work. That’s fine. People see the world differently.

But when they’re here, they’re not recording manifestos. They’re writing love songs. Breakup songs. Stories about their grandfather’s Chevy or the night they quit their job or the friend they lost too young. We work together because we both care about the music, and that shared focus is enough.

That’s the community I want to build here.

Music has always been the thing that cuts through everything else. It doesn’t care about your voter registration or where you grew up or what sticker is on your car. Two people with completely opposite worldviews can both get chills from the same Otis Redding song. Someone with an NRA membership and someone wearing a pride pin can both feel their chest tighten when the bridge hits just right.

That’s the power I want to honor at Panama Sound—music as the thing that reminds us we’re human first, before we’re anything else.

The client I turned away wasn’t interested in that. His songs weren’t exploring ideas or working through complexity. They were recruitment tools. Ideology delivery systems. And the way he framed the conversation made it clear this wasn’t about collaboration—it was about “are you with us or against us?”

I’m choosing neither. I’m choosing music.

If I’d said yes—if I’d taken that income and become known as the place that records that kind of content—Panama Sound would’ve been defined by it. Not because I personally believe those things, but because in the absence of boundaries, association becomes endorsement.

And that would’ve destroyed what this place is supposed to be.

The indie bands, the singer-songwriters, the DIY artists, the queer musicians, the people making music in their second language—they wouldn’t feel safe here anymore. The room that’s supposed to feel like a refuge would become a minefield. They’d walk in wondering, “Does the person running this session think I belong here?”

I’d be trading short-term income for the soul of the whole operation.

Here’s what Panama Sound is built on: respect for human dignity, authenticity in the work, protection of people who are vulnerable, and belief in music as something that connects us instead of dividing us.

This studio is a small act of resistance against the things trying to turn us all into people who’ve forgotten how to sit in a room together and make something beautiful.

What This Means If You’re Reading This

If you’re wondering whether you’re welcome here, the test is simple: Are your songs about the human experience, or are they about hurting people?

If you’re writing about heartbreak, hope, anger at injustice, celebration, identity, confusion, joy, grief, or the weird beauty of being alive right now—you’re welcome here. I don’t care how you vote.

If you’re writing recruitment anthems for movements built on exclusion and fear, this isn’t your studio.

That’s it.

I know this might cost me clients. Some people will read this and think I’m being self-righteous or unnecessarily divisive. Some will say I’m “bringing politics into music.”

But the politics were already here. The person who wanted me to engineer hate speech brought them into my space. I’m just making explicit the boundary that should’ve been obvious from the start.

Panama Sound isn’t neutral. It never was. It’s built on specific values, and one of those values is that we don’t use music to make people feel less human.

If that’s controversial, I’ll live with it.

Panama Sound exists to carry authentic sound through all the noise. But that means the door has parameters—not to exclude people based on who they are, but to protect what the space is for.

If your music comes from genuine human emotion—joy, pain, confusion, celebration, grief, wonder, all of it—let’s work. If it’s designed to make someone else feel less human, I’m not your engineer.