We recently connected with Ares Kennedy Alternative R&b Singer-songwriter and have shared our conversation below.

Ares Kennedy, looking forward to hearing all of your stories today. We’d love to hear the backstory behind a risk you’ve taken – whether big or small, walk us through what it was like and how it ultimately turned out.

The biggest risk I’ve ever taken was choosing music over the “safe” path I was already on—a career in political communications. For someone like me—a Black, queer man from a tough background—that decision wasn’t just about changing jobs. It was about taking control of my life, healing from my past, and betting on myself in a world that often tells people like me to stay in their place. I grew up in chaos. My parents were in the picture up until I was 13—one was locked up in federal prison, and the other just gave up on being a parent. That left me and my 14 siblings to fend for ourselves. By the time I was 15, my siblings were all in foster care, aside from the ones who were grown. Luckily, my aunt took me and my sister in. At 19, I was homeless, and again at 22. I’ve spent most of my life surviving, taking care of myself, and now raising my 12-year-old brother. I didn’t have a safety net, just a lot of weight on my shoulders.

Being Black and queer made it harder. I grew up hearing that I was an “abomination,” that there was something wrong with me. On top of that, being a Black man means I’ve always had to keep my guard up, hiding parts of myself so I didn’t get judged, hated, or even hurt. That’s a heavy load to carry. Music became my escape—a way to release the pain I couldn’t show, a way to feel free. For years, I stayed on the “right” path. I went to college, got my degrees, and built a solid career in political communications. I worked on seven election cycles and even held important positions, like helping lead the movement after George Floyd’s murder. The work mattered, but it came at a cost. Writing about Black people dying, over and over, broke something in me. It left me empty, drained.

By 2021, I signed a joint venture with Noir Music Group, and by 2023, I had a publishing deal with Page Publishing. But even then, making the leap to music full-time felt impossible. I had bills to pay, a brother to take care of, and a lot of people asking, “How are you going to make this work?” But I knew I had to try. Communication work is great, but it’s not my life’s purpose. Music makes me happy in a way nothing else does. Let me tell you—taking risks, especially for yourself, is one of the hardest and most rewarding things you’ll ever do. When you start prioritizing your dreams and making choices that align with what makes you happy, people will side-eye you. They’ll ask questions like, “Why would you do that?” or “Isn’t that risky?” And in my case, some of those people were my own family.

I’m someone who always put others first. I’ve been the one to give my last, to make sure others were okay even when I wasn’t. But the truth is, when you finally start picking yourself, when you stop carrying everyone else’s burdens, you start to see who truly supports you—and who doesn’t. Growing up in foster care with 14 siblings, without my parents, I always felt the weight of being the “foundation” for others. I’ve spent my whole life figuring it out for myself. So, when I said I was going to pursue music while working full-time as a communications strategist and taking care of my 12-year-old brother, I knew it would surprise people. But I also knew it was time.

In 2021, I signed a joint venture with Noir Music Group, and in 2023, I got a publishing deal with Page Publishing. I poured everything into my first EP, Lilac State. It had a shoestring budget—Noir Music put up $20,000, and I personally covered $15,000 in admin and travel fees. We made it happen, and when it was released, I was proud. But the hardest part wasn’t the financial sacrifice; it was the realization that some of the people I loved most wouldn’t even show up. My immediate family didn’t ask about my album, didn’t buy a CD, didn’t even say congratulations. That hurt.

But here’s the beauty in risk: the people who do believe in you will show up in ways you never imagined. My friends, my chosen family, were there for me. We held a Zoom release party with some in-person moments, and for the first time, I performed in front of people who genuinely wanted me to succeed. It reminded me that you don’t need everyone’s approval—just the right people in your corner. As a Black man and an openly queer artist, I’ve faced my share of challenges. From hearing slurs to feeling pressure to conform to stereotypes about masculinity, there’s always someone trying to tell me who I should be. But I’ve learned that choosing yourself means being willing to let go of people, even loved ones, who can’t or won’t support your dreams. Some bridges need to be burned—not out of spite, but because their ashes can guide you forward.

Today, I’m working full-time, raising my brother, and building my music career with a supportive team. My manager, Sasha, held me down even when I couldn’t pay her, and now, I’m finally in a position to invest in my art without sacrificing stability. I’m also writing a book, Wildfires in Wisconsin, which explores the pain, resilience, and beauty of my journey. I’m proud of how far I’ve come.

No, I don’t have a Grammy (yet) and Vogue hasn’t called. But I have peace. I have joy. And I have the knowledge that I’m living my truth. To anyone reading this: take the risk. Choose yourself. The people who believe in you will show up, and more importantly, you’ll show up for yourself. Dreams aren’t meant to be chased forever—they’re meant to be lived. And I’m living mine.

Ares Kennedy, 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?

Hi Friends! My legal name is Kennedy-Ezra Kastle, but my stage name is Ares Kennedy. My journey as an artist has been anything but straightforward. I’ve been writing music since I was 13, but my love for creating started even earlier with poetry. Growing up as a Black, queer kid in the Midwest—specifically in Wisconsin—I always felt like I was on the outside looking in. I was the black sheep in my family, constantly bullied at home and at school for being different. Writing became my escape, a safe space where I could pour out the parts of myself I couldn’t express openly. At first, it was poetry, but over time, my words evolved into lyrics. I spent much of my teenage years unhoused—from the age of 13 until I graduated high school at 18. That reality forced me to grow up fast and shaped my perspective on the world. Even during those tough years, I found freedom in giving back. I volunteered at Walker’s Point Youth and Family Shelter because I believe everyone deserves a home, a safe space to land. That belief—that every person is worthy of safety, comfort, and dignity—runs through everything I create.

My music, my poetry, and my art come from a place of pain, honesty, growth, and forgiveness. But they are always rooted in the Black experience and what it means to navigate this world as a Black person. That lens informs how I approach my work as an artist and what I hope my audience feels when they experience my art. As an artist, my focus is to remind people of the depth and diversity of R&B. It’s a genre with so much history, full of subgenres, layers, and textures. I miss the time when we had a variety of R&B artists—each unique, each carving out their own sound. I’m not here to be a carbon copy of anyone. I’m here to forge my own path and push the boundaries of what R&B can be. My music blends influences from neo-soul, alternative, and even rock, and I want to bring back the feeling that music doesn’t have to fit neatly into a box. When people listen to my music, I want them to feel something real. I want them to hear the story of a queer Black kid from the Midwest who didn’t have much, who was told he wasn’t enough, but who turned that pain into art.

My work is a testament to the power of growth and forgiveness, but also a reminder of the beauty that comes from melanated creativity. Artists like Rihanna showed me the power of forging your own path, of being unapologetically yourself, and of redefining what it means to be iconic. Watching her build not just a music career but an entire empire taught me that there’s no one way to create, succeed, or make an impact. That inspiration, paired with my own experiences, drives everything I do

Artists like Rihanna taught me the power of forging your own path, being unapologetically yourself, and redefining what it means to be iconic. Watching her build not just a music career, but an entire empire, showed me what’s possible when you align your passions with transferable skills. Rihanna famously said she’s passionate about makeup, and she used her music career to fund and launch her beauty empire. In a similar way, I’m using my education and campaign experience to support and fuel my music career. It’s about taking what you have, recognizing your strengths, and using those tools to build the life you want.

For me, that means pouring everything into my music and art, which come from a deeply personal place. My work is a reflection of my pain, my joy, my mistakes, and my growth. My goal isn’t just to create music or write poetry—it’s to connect with people, to make them feel seen. Whether you’re queer, Black, from the Midwest, or just someone trying to figure out your next step, I want my art to remind you that you’re not alone and that your dreams are valid.

I’m incredibly proud of what I’ve accomplished so far. My education, my work in political communications, and my creativity have all come together to make this journey possible. And while I’ve achieved some incredible milestones, like over 500,000 streams of my debut EP and 2,600 digital sales, I know this is just the beginning. I’m excited for what’s next—not just for me, but for the people my work will touch along the way..

Are there any books, videos or other content that you feel have meaningfully impacted your thinking?

Viola Davis’s memoir, Finding Me, is a book that truly changed my life. I read it in 2022, right after signing my joint venture, and it gave me the push I needed to finally decide I was going to pursue my dreams. Viola’s honesty in the book is unmatched—she doesn’t hold anything back. She talks about growing up in poverty, not being seen as beautiful as a dark-skinned Black woman, and fighting her way to the top of an industry that wasn’t built for someone like her. Her story made me cry because it felt so personal, like she was talking directly to me.

One of the most powerful things Viola does in her book is make you look at yourself. Reading it forced me to ask tough questions about what I wanted for my life and whether I was really going after it. She also made me realize how important boundaries are. One thing Viola said that really stuck with me is, “You cannot be somebody’s foundation if you have nothing to give.” That hit me hard. Growing up as a queer Black man who didn’t fit society’s standards of beauty or masculinity, I often gave too much of myself just to be liked or accepted. Reading her words helped me realize that choosing myself isn’t selfish—it’s necessary.

My favorite part of Finding Me is when Viola talks about her and her sisters becoming a “platoon.” Despite their rough childhood, they decided they weren’t going to let their circumstances define their futures. They stuck together, side by side, and said, “We’re going to build good lives for ourselves.” That reminded me of my own circle of friends who grew up in similar situations. We had to band together and use every resource we had to make it out and move forward. It was a powerful reminder that no matter how hard things get, your life isn’t over—you can always turn it around.

What I love most about Finding Me is that it’s not just a story about pain. It’s a story about survival, growth, and self-love. Viola doesn’t just talk about her struggles; she shows how she worked through them to create a life she’s proud of. She’s raw about going to therapy, setting boundaries, and dreaming bigger than anyone expected her to. Her story inspired me to reflect on my own life, to start journaling, and to think about what kind of artist—and person—I want to be. As an R&B singer and songwriter, I related deeply to Viola’s journey of leaning on talent and grit to carve out a path for herself. I’m not a classically “a very masculine boy” or someone who fits the mold of what people expect in this industry, but I’m here because I know I have something to offer.

Like Viola, I’m turning my pain and my experiences into art, and I’m proud of that. If you haven’t read Finding Me, I’ll warn you now—you’re going to cry. But you’re also going to walk away feeling stronger, inspired, and ready to face your own truths. For me, it’s not just a memoir; it’s a guide to choosing yourself, loving yourself, and never giving up on your dreams.

In your view, what can society to do to best support artists, creatives and a thriving creative ecosystem?

The best way for society to support artists is to start with real investment in music programs at every level of education—primary, secondary, and beyond. That means bringing music back into public schools and funding programs that allow students to explore their creativity without barriers. But supporting artists goes beyond the classroom. We also need to create an ecosystem where artists feel safe, valued, and have the freedom to express themselves without fear of exploitation or retaliation.

Right now, the music industry faces some harsh truths. Artists still have to navigate environments where predators exist, where exploitation is swept under the rug, and where their work is undervalued unless it fits neatly into the commercial mold. That’s not a thriving ecosystem—it’s one that prioritizes profit over people. To change that, we need to create spaces where artists can grow freely and be recognized for their talent, whether or not they fit into the narrow lanes carved out by major labels.

As someone who isn’t signed to a major label but works with a large publisher, I’ve seen firsthand how smaller, independent labels and non-traditional approaches to music can succeed. Countries like the UK actively invest in minority-owned labels and innovative arts programs, understanding that the arts are not just entertainment—they’re a vital part of culture and community. Here in the U.S., artists make the government billions of dollars, but where is the investment back into the people creating that wealth?

Imagine if we had programs that weren’t just about finding one “winner” in a songwriting contest, but were designed to uplift entire communities. What if the government supported indie labels the same way they throw money at billion-dollar stadiums? What if we funded programs for songwriters, singers, and producers to create meaningful art for public events like Denim Day or Labor Day? These are practical, achievable steps, but they require society to value art and artists as much as they value sports or other industries.

The era of gimmicks and nepotism is beginning to fade. Audiences are craving authenticity, and artists who come from smaller labels or non-traditional backgrounds are proving they can create lasting, meaningful art. But to truly support creatives, we have to dismantle outdated systems where certain people are excluded, underpaid, or worse—stolen from or assaulted.

Let’s be honest: the change won’t come from the major labels. It’ll come from people and institutions willing to invest in the artists who are often overlooked. Supporting smaller labels, experimental projects, and non-mainstream genres is how we create a thriving arts ecosystem. And as a society, we have to stop diminishing the value of artists. Whether we start on SoundCloud or in a garage, our work is just as worthy of investment as a football team or a billion-dollar franchise. If we can afford to fund stadiums, we can afford to fund music. It’s not just about money—it’s about recognizing the power of creativity to connect, heal, and inspire. A thriving arts ecosystem isn’t just good for artists; it’s good for everyone. Let’s start building that.

Contact Info:

• Website: https://areskennedyk.com
• Instagram: The best way for society to support artists is to start with real investment in music programs at every level of education—primary, secondary, and beyond. That means bringing music back into public schools and funding programs that allow students to explore their creativity without barriers. But supporting artists goes beyond the classroom. We also need to create an ecosystem where artists feel safe, valued, and have the freedom to express themselves without fear of exploitation or retaliation. Right now, the music industry faces some harsh truths. Artists still have to navigate environments where predators exist, where exploitation is swept under the rug, and where their work is undervalued unless it fits neatly into the commercial mold. That’s not a thriving ecosystem—it’s one that prioritizes profit over people. To change that, we need to create spaces where artists can grow freely and be recognized for their talent, whether or not they fit into the narrow lanes carved out by major labels. As someone who isn’t signed to a major label but works with a large publisher, I’ve seen firsthand how smaller, independent labels and non-traditional approaches to music can succeed. Countries like the UK actively invest in minority-owned labels and innovative arts programs, understanding that the arts are not just entertainment—they’re a vital part of culture and community. Here in the U.S., artists make the government billions of dollars, but where is the investment back into the people creating that wealth? Imagine if we had programs that weren’t just about finding one “winner” in a songwriting contest, but were designed to uplift entire communities. What if the government supported indie labels the same way they throw money at billion-dollar stadiums? What if we funded programs for songwriters, singers, and producers to create meaningful art for public events like Denim Day or Labor Day? These are practical, achievable steps, but they require society to value art and artists as much as they value sports or other industries. The era of gimmicks and nepotism is beginning to fade. Audiences are craving authenticity, and artists who come from smaller labels or non-traditional backgrounds are proving they can create lasting, meaningful art. But to truly support creatives, we have to dismantle outdated systems where certain people are excluded, underpaid, or worse—stolen from or assaulted. Let’s be honest: the change won’t come from the major labels. It’ll come from people and institutions willing to invest in the artists who are often overlooked. Supporting smaller labels, experimental projects, and non-mainstream genres is how we create a thriving arts ecosystem. And as a society, we have to stop diminishing the value of artists. Whether we start on SoundCloud or in a garage, our work is just as worthy of investment as a football team or a billion-dollar franchise. If we can afford to fund stadiums, we can afford to fund music. It’s not just about money—it’s about recognizing the power of creativity to connect, heal, and inspire. A thriving arts ecosystem isn’t just good for artists; it’s good for everyone. Let’s start building that.The best way for society to support artists is to start with real investment in music programs at every level of education—primary, secondary, and beyond. That means bringing music back into public schools and funding programs that allow students to explore their creativity without barriers. But supporting artists goes beyond the classroom. We also need to create an ecosystem where artists feel safe, valued, and have the freedom to express themselves without fear of exploitation or retaliation. Right now, the music industry faces some harsh truths. Artists still have to navigate environments where predators exist, where exploitation is swept under the rug, and where their work is undervalued unless it fits neatly into the commercial mold. That’s not a thriving ecosystem—it’s one that prioritizes profit over people. To change that, we need to create spaces where artists can grow freely and be recognized for their talent, whether or not they fit into the narrow lanes carved out by major labels. As someone who isn’t signed to a major label but works with a large publisher, I’ve seen firsthand how smaller, independent labels and non-traditional approaches to music can succeed. Countries like the UK actively invest in minority-owned labels and innovative arts programs, understanding that the arts are not just entertainment—they’re a vital part of culture and community. Here in the U.S., artists make the government billions of dollars, but where is the investment back into the people creating that wealth? Imagine if we had programs that weren’t just about finding one “winner” in a songwriting contest, but were designed to uplift entire communities. What if the government supported indie labels the same way they throw money at billion-dollar stadiums? What if we funded programs for songwriters, singers, and producers to create meaningful art for public events like Denim Day or Labor Day? These are practical, achievable steps, but they require society to value art and artists as much as they value sports or other industries. The era of gimmicks and nepotism is beginning to fade. Audiences are craving authenticity, and artists who come from smaller labels or non-traditional backgrounds are proving they can create lasting, meaningful art. But to truly support creatives, we have to dismantle outdated systems where certain people are excluded, underpaid, or worse—stolen from or assaulted. Let’s be honest: the change won’t come from the major labels. It’ll come from people and institutions willing to invest in the artists who are often overlooked. Supporting smaller labels, experimental projects, and non-mainstream genres is how we create a thriving arts ecosystem. And as a society, we have to stop diminishing the value of artists. Whether we start on SoundCloud or in a garage, our work is just as worthy of investment as a football team or a billion-dollar franchise. If we can afford to fund stadiums, we can afford to fund music. It’s not just about money—it’s about recognizing the power of creativity to connect, heal, and inspire. A thriving arts ecosystem isn’t just good for artists; it’s good for everyone. Let’s start building that.
• Facebook: Ares Kennedy
• Twitter: @areskennedyk
• Youtube: Ares Kennedy, Ares Kennedy-Topic
• Soundcloud: https://soundcloud.com/areskennedy
• Other: Tiktok: Ares Kennedy :)

Image Credits

Laura Garcia, Tandra Edwards,Kai Kastle-Perez(album art), Oak Theory Designs.