Alright – so today we’ve got the honor of introducing you to Pete Wilder. We think you’ll enjoy our conversation, we’ve shared it below.
Pete, looking forward to hearing all of your stories today. What’s been the most meaningful project you’ve worked on?
The most meaningful project I’ve worked on is the one I’m working on right now – American Poetry. Which will be out later this year. It’s been a reset button for me, both creatively and personally. I wrote most of the songs while at work. I would type them into Notes on my phone, then work them out once I got home. It’s been a slow, deliberate process, but every part of it has felt meaningful in its own way.
One of the most meaningful parts of this project has been reconnecting with one of my longtime friends, Seppo. We met in New York City, became great friends, and even toured together for a while. Working with him after all these years has felt effortless – like no time had passed. We’re in different parts of the country, but tools like FarPlay make it easy to collaborate in real time. He brings his ear, his style, and his friendship to these songs – and pushed me to find the sound I’ve been chasing. Creative bonds don’t fade – they just wait for the right time to pick back up.
The songs on American Poetry dig into themes like mental health, love, loss, and memory. Writing them helped me reconnect with myself, and releasing them feels like a way to connect with others. In that way, this release helped me reclaim my sense of purpose. It’s not about polish or perfection – it’s about being honest.
Pete, before we move on to more of these sorts of questions, can you take some time to bring our readers up to speed on you and what you do?
I go by Pete Wilder. I’m a welder/fabricator by trade and a songwriter by heart. My music lives somewhere between Americana, Folk, Punk, and Alt-Country – whatever you’d call that sound.
I got into music at a young age. My best friend and I started a punk band when we were 15. Our moms would take turns dropping us off at gigs before we had our licenses – which is funny to look back on now and hear their perspective – but we were serious about it. We toured, recorded albums, and signed to a label. Eventually I moved to New York, worked a day job doing carpentry, and went on the road with another band as a tour manager for a while – occasionally filling in. Music was my world for a long time.
Then it stopped. I thought it was time to be an “adult.” I drifted through different careers, lived in different states – trying to figure out who I was outside of music. Eventually I ended up in Cincinnati and started welding full time. I figured that chapter of my life was closed. But that part of me never really left. I’ve been diving deep and learning how to record and mix at home – not on an iPad anymore. What I create now is still completely DIY, made with tools I have, and built on intention more than polish.
I’m not offering a product so much as a perspective. My songs are for people that have been through things – people trying to hang on to something in a noisy world and the quiet moments that tend to matter most.
What sets me apart is the honesty. I’m not chasing trends or trying to sound like anyone else. The songs aren’t perfect by industry standards, but they’re real. They’re built from lived in experience. I’m not singing from a mountaintop – I’m down in the mess with everyone else. I clock in and out like most people. I’ve dealt with the grief, burnout, mental health, self-doubt. I’ve lost track of myself and had to start again. My songs don’t pretend to have answers – they just tell the truth as I’ve lived it.
What I’m most proud of is that I didn’t wait for permission. I didn’t have a label or a studio or a team. I just started. And I want people – especially those who’ve put their dreams on hold – to know that it’s not too late to start, or start again. Whether you’re 16 or 36, if you’ve got something inside you, its worth chasing.
For you, what’s the most rewarding aspect of being a creative?
For me, the most rewarding part is when something I wrote connects with someone else. When someone says “That line hit me hard,” or “Hey, I’ve felt that too,” it reminds me that we’re all carrying pieces of a similar story. That kind of connection is special.
I make music to process things that I don’t always know how to say out loud. When someone listens and finds comfort, truth, a sense of not being alone, or hears their own story in my words, that’s the payoff. That’s what makes the long nights, the self-doubt, and the vulnerability worth it.
There’s something powerful about putting something raw and real into the world, and having it come back to you with meaning. It’s the connection between artist and listener – human to human. At the end of the day I’m just trying to make something that means something. And if my songs help someone feel seen, even for a moment, then I did something right.
Can you share a story from your journey that illustrates your resilience?
A few years ago, I hit a point where I didn’t recognize myself anymore. I was working long hours, exhausted most days, and I had all but walked away from music. I told myself that I didn’t have time, but the truth is, I was afraid to start again. Afraid I wouldn’t be good enough anymore. That whatever spark I had burned out years ago.
My wife saw something that I didn’t. One day, she pulled my guitar out of the closet and set it on a stand in the living room. She never said anything about it – just left it there where I could see, with hopes I would start playing again. That small gesture stuck with me. Fast forward to the beginning of this year, she gave me the push I needed to record a demo EP on my iPad and put it out there. It was raw, quiet, roughly mixed, but real. Something shifted in me. I remembered why I started writing songs in the first place. Not for praise or perfection, but to hold onto myself and stay connected with who I was and who I am.
From there, I started rebuilding. I slowly pieced together a home studio, which should show on American Poetry. I began writing more. Diving deep into home recording and mixing, how to keep going when the self-doubt crept in. Just continuing to learn and get better at all of it.
That stretch taught me that resilience isn’t always loud or glamorous. Sometimes it’s quiet, stubborn, and slow. Sometimes it’s just showing up again, pressing record, and trying to carve out meaning one take at a time.
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