We caught up with the brilliant and insightful Chandler Borrelli a few weeks ago and have shared our conversation below.

Alright, Chandler thanks for taking the time to share your stories and insights with us today. One of the toughest things about progressing in your creative career is that there are almost always unexpected problems that come up – problems that you often can’t read about in advance, can’t prepare for, etc. Have you had such an experience and if so, can you tell us the story of one of those unexpected problems you’ve encountered?

When I moved from Alabama to Los Angeles nearly 8 years ago, I had high high high hopes of “making it” as a singer songwriter. I knew that it was not going to be easy, but I was aggressively committed. I jumped into working two jobs, as I immediately could not afford to be here. I’d start at 6am-2pm in Calabasas as a quality assurance over-the-phone agent for some personalized arts and crafts online company and then from 5pm-11pm as a watch salesperson in a Macy’s. Then I’d change clothes and go out to parties and to studios and clubs trying to mingle and make friends and start a climb in the industry. My first unexpected lesson was that I was not unique. The pool of people doing exactly what I was doing was already saturated with people of all ranges of talent, and I sat somewhere in the middle of the group in terms of quality of work. This realization was a gradual one, so it wasn’t until I was maybe a year into the game that I recognized what was happening: I wasn’t the only young artist invited to house parties of the vocal coach of the stars that goes on tour with Jennifer Lopez or the only new comer to be asked to sit down at a piano and play a song for Alicia Keys’ producer, or the only one to take a meeting with Katy Perry’s manager, etc etc the list is long and exhausting to think of all the moments I thought were opportunities. And, they were. But they were not and I was not unique. All of the people loved me, and all of them said they knew exactly the right steps and how much it would cost to change aspects of me and my music if I was going to “make it.”
My second lesson – another very long one – was that I should not have listened. Growth was important and adaptability is always necessary, but so is authenticity. I was convinced to delete everything I ever made, to rebrand, to change my clothes and my name. It took 6 years of trying to appeal to the socialites, to the managers of the stars, to what I thought the industry and the listeners wanted before it all added up and broke me.
The third lesson is that none of it is what I thought it was. The industry is a brutal heartbreak for most. Even my dear friends I made along the way that have now “made it” at least to the degree that I wanted to – going on tour, staggering amounts of streams and followers, etc – they’re poor. Others are stuck in a loop of rinse and repeat music. Others are depressed with being forced to put on a face for every social media platform available. I have decided I don’t want that. American Idol, The Voice, they’re shows for entertainment, and thus have an agenda, a storyline with an arc, a need to get viewers to keep watching so they keep making money. The whole industry is about who’s going to make the money. And, sadly, the writers and the artists struggle the most. I have decided to continue making music, but it will be my music, my art. And, even if it (continues) to do nothing and get no streams and go nowhere, at least it will be a truer representation of me.

As always, we appreciate you sharing your insights and we’ve got a few more questions for you, but before we get to all of that can you take a minute to introduce yourself and give our readers some of your background and context?

I started writing poetry as a kid. The first memorable piece I did was on 9/11/01. I was in the first grade, and writing was my way of attempting to process one of my first major tragedies. At some point my parents got me a little keyboard for Christmas one year. That started the whole process of putting music to the things I had written. At 16 I really started spending a lot of time at an actual keyboard late into the night trying to come to terms with a multitude of topics mostly regarding teenage angst. I went off to college; and, a couple years in, decided the music felt more real to me and worth pursuing more than any of the classes I sat through. I dropped out, moved in with my girlfriend, built a studio in her parents basement, spent every dollar I made self producing two albums before I decided to break up with her and leave my family and move across the country from Alabama to Los Angeles, California. I’ve made music on and off for the last 7 years, played some cool shows at some cool venues, collaborated with some amazing writers and producers and other artists. I’m in the process of another round of releases. These, still very singer/songwriter but much less by-the-books pop music and much more experimental, feel like the most genuine works I’ve created in a long time.
These days, I’m really trying to sit into art as a way of living, as opposed to a dream I am chasing. I’m trying to embrace the fact that I may never be on a big stage or be considered a world renowned artist like I once imagined was a sure possibility. I’m still coming to terms with that. It feels good though to sit at my piano in my studio apartment and make music for me again, as just an expression of the world happening around me.

We often hear about learning lessons – but just as important is unlearning lessons. Have you ever had to unlearn a lesson?

As a kid in Alabama, I always felt I struggled to fit in. I wrote songs hinting at the truth of who I was and who and what I wanted. I created elaborate fairytales beating around all the bushes thinking it was a beautiful abstract painting that someday someone might figure out. (Most of that was about me being a closeted homosexual – funny for me to think about now but it was mental torture then.) The lesson I learned after years and years of saying everything except what I was trying to say, was an acceptance speech I overheard at some awards ceremony. It was summed up that “The more specific, the more artistic.” That baffled me. I thought generalizations made it more relatable, but actually all of the music I loved was very specific in the lyrics. Time, place, colors. Were you drinking coffee or tea? What was the name of the street or the name of the person? By saying exactly what it was, it created authenticity that was relatable. So, I started writing differently. I started being as specific as possible.
I wrote a loving song about a breakup and called it “Molly” because that was her actual name. I talked about the red Pontiac she used to drive. I wanted it to feel real to me in the hopes that you can insert some other name and it feel real to you too.
“The more specific, the more artistic.” I believe that to be true for art in any form

Any resources you can share with us that might be helpful to other creatives?

Rhyme Zone is my greatest tool. Whenever I get stuck in a writing session, I whip out my phone and type in “rhymes with (fill in the black.)” Rhyme Zone can function as a thesaurus or my favorite feature is “near rhymes” which can lead you down a creative path you were never anticipating.

Contact Info:

• Website: https://www.whatsupchandler.me/
• Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/whatsupchandler/
• Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/WhatsupChandler/
• Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCS0Payye2gwvdUmpSsj7fMw
• Tiktok: https://www.tiktok.com/@whatsupchandler
• Stream: https://distrokid.com/hyperfollow/chandler15/sugar-baby