Voice, Unlocked

I’m a music fan first. Always have been.

Every year, I make sprawling annual playlists filled with hundreds of artists—dozens of hours long—spanning everything from indie pop to darkwave, hip-hop to hyperpop. I obsess over production styles, vocal tone, structure, rhythm, restraint. The deeper I fall into music as a listener, the more I want to contribute—not out of ego, but out of love. I hear things I wish existed. I feel the absence of certain voices, certain energies. And for the longest time, I didn’t think there was anything I could do about that.

When I write movies, I don’t limit myself to writing only cis male characters. I’ve written women, children, animals—entire lives and personalities far from my own. That’s part of the joy of screenwriting: the ability to express truth through character, not just autobiography.

But until recently, when I made music, I was restricted to characters who sounded like me. Male voices. Male perspectives. Even when I was writing from someone else’s point of view—some persona I built in my head—it still had to come out of my mouth, or be interpreted through a traditionally masculine voice. That limitation was frustrating, especially for someone who’s always been drawn to the sound and spirit of girl pop, girl punk, and female-fronted rock. I didn’t just want to admire it. I wanted to join it.

Now I can.

I make music under a variety of personas. Jewel Pod is outspoken, synthetic, and rooted in trip-hop. Clouds of Acid leans more punk and grunge-forward. The voices are female. The sound is feminine. And yet none of it is about trying to “be” a woman or replace any real artists. I don’t identify as female. I don’t consider what I do an act of gender performance. I do it because I love this kind of music—and I want there to be more of it in the world. Not because it could sell, but because I think we need it. Because I miss it.

In a way, I’m not trying to take up space—I’m trying to fill a void.

These projects began as creative experiments. Pure fun. But that’s exactly what surprised me. In the middle of having fun, I realized how powerful this technology could be for people who aren’t just playing around. For people who do feel misaligned with the voice they’ve been given. For those exploring their gender identity, or those unable to transition for social, medical, or financial reasons. For people who’ve never heard themselves in the art they love—not really. Not fully.

That’s when I understood the weight of what I was doing.

I have the privilege of playing with identity, of experimenting for enjoyment. But for others, these tools could mean finally being able to sound the way they see themselves. To write a song in the voice they’ve always imagined. To feel heard—not metaphorically, but literally.

AI didn’t give me a platform. I’ve always been creating. But it expanded what I could create—and more importantly, who I could create as. It allowed me to explore musical styles I’d previously only admired from a distance. And in doing so, it made me think more deeply about whose stories are being told, and who gets the tools to tell them.

That’s the thing: the tools themselves are neutral. But access to them? That’s revolutionary.

I take this seriously because I respect the communities I could accidentally misrepresent. I don’t want to be careless with analogies. I’m not making a statement about what it means to be non-binary, or trans, or anything else I haven’t lived firsthand. What I am saying is this: when I created music in voices different from my own, I felt a kind of creative freedom that shocked me. And if that freedom feels this meaningful to me—someone doing it mostly for fun—then I can only imagine how vital it could be for someone who’s truly longing to be seen and heard.

This isn’t about replacement. It’s about resonance.

And in the right hands, this technology isn’t just expressive.

It’s liberating.