In this interview, we talk with Rowan Katz, an artist whose music intertwines emotional storytelling with themes of gender, trauma, healing, and identity. Rowan reflects on her journey from a young age, discovering music as a form of self-expression, and how her lived experiences influence her sound. She also shares insights on the challenges of navigating the music industry and the power of music education.
Your music blends powerful emotional storytelling with themes of gender, trauma, healing, and identity. How did you first begin to connect these themes to your sound, and what inspired you to use music as a form of expression?
I think there’s just no barrier between what I write about and my lived experience, and there never has been. And I think it was never a choice for me to make music. I just started doing it. Like, I just started singing when I was little, probably from the time I could talk. I wrote my first song when I was about eight, and I started writing more seriously when I was, like, ten. I taught myself how to play the guitar, and—I don’t know—it’s just like my body knew what to do. And I think far more than seeing myself as a performing artist who needs to craft art to fulfill that role, I’m just doing what my body knows how to do to make sense of my lived experience. That results in something I’m able to share with other people.
And did you always just know that you wanted to pursue music and arts?
Definitely, I would say. But I also had the really unique experience of growing up in Hollywood, in Los Angeles. I saw—and was, you know, kind of dragged into—some of the best and worst parts of what it means to be surrounded by the industry of art. And it was enough for me to see that at a young age and decide that I didn’t want to prioritize needing to be attractive or desirable to that industry, because it is very predatory, and it is very sexist and racist and all of the above. You know? It exploits people. And at the same time, I do take the business of music tremendously seriously—because I take myself very seriously as an artist, and I take other artists and their work very seriously. So I think when it comes to the idea of pursuing art and music, again, I don’t feel that I have a choice but to pursue them. It’s in my body; it’s in my soul. But doing so in a professional way is… It’s mired in a constant need to examine my values and whether I’m aligned with them, which is very difficult to do in an industry that’s built on exploitation. Finding alternatives to that is not easy.
And is it a first in your family for someone to pursue music, or does it run in the family?
Well, my dad is a drummer, and for a brief period in his life—I would say probably his late teens and throughout his twenties—he did play professionally. But besides him, no one else. And for me, certainly, the degree to which I’ve actually built my career as a working artist and arts educator—that is very, very much the first time anyone in my family has done that.
So, as a vocal educator, how has teaching others to express themselves through voice shaped your own artistic development?
Well, I think that being in pedagogy with what we’re interested in—period—is the most incredible way we can expand upon and stay committed to setting the highest possible standards for ourselves. You know? Because part of that is, like, your students become an avatar of you in a way. And I’m not saying that in the sense that I’m ever projecting my own stuff onto them, but it is a situation where you begin to be like, I can’t give other people professional advice about something if I’m not willing to take it upon myself to do the same thing. Which I think is invaluable. Especially because beyond the technical practice of it—and really holding myself to the standard of practicing and constantly expanding my own vocal technique and range—it’s also like… I don’t have it in me anymore to stay stuck in these psychological or emotional spirals as an artist when I know that the next day I’m going to have to talk to someone else through it. You know? So there’s a level of indulging one’s more, you know, lesser-than tendencies, I will say, when you are also the standard for a lot of other people in your life.
On to a few Make Music Day questions. How did you first get involved with Make Music Day?
I first heard about Make Music Day—actually, I think the first iteration of it that I understood—was Fête de la Musique. I knew about that when I was a teenager. It happened the first and only time I ever went to Paris, and that was really magical and really cool. When I heard about the American version, I was always like, “Oh yeah, that’s really cool, I want to do that.” I was around for it in New York at one point. I think I was there for it in LA, but I didn’t actually do it until this past year in the Bay.
How was the experience in France, and then in the U.S., finally doing it last year?
Oh, the France experience was amazing. Mainly because they take it really seriously, which I think is cool. Everyone all over the city knows about it. I’m excited to see Make Music Day grow even more here in the States. It would be amazing if it were that big of a deal in even one of our major cities, because it’s super magical. And I really want to see that expand more in the East Bay, and I’d be super enthusiastic to see it grow in San Francisco proper.
For emerging artists, particularly those just beginning to explore voice and performance, what advice would you offer them?
The number one thing I experience as an educator—and performer (but I’ll put educator first)—is that people come into work with me every day experiencing what I call performance or vocal dysmorphia. And what I mean by that is, they’re so convinced they sound bad. You know? And I think—how could you not feel that way? We live in a society where it’s impossible to even be in a body that is non-male, non-white, non-cis, all of these things, and feel good about your body. So, how on earth would your voice not be affected by that? The one thing I can say is: when you step into a space of performance, understand that it is revolutionary work and it is relational work. And as we are increasingly under the effects of actual fascism in this country, we need to shift our gaze—our view—of why we are performing. Away from “Oh, I’m doing this to receive accolades or make money or get famous” to “What am I offering to myself and to others that is revolutionary?” Because it is. And deigning—especially if you belong to a marginalized group of any kind—to not only present yourself as an artist, but to truly believe in yourself and take yourself seriously as an artist, that is one of the biggest things you can give to systems that are seeking to oppress, silence, and control you. And I know that’s easier said than done for a lot of people, for whom visibility is also very dangerous. But if you can risk that visibility, it’s incredibly meaningful and powerful.
Finally, one last question. What would you say your goal in music is?
Making music is for myself. It’s a process of understanding myself so I can better show up in the world. It’s a process of self-reflection that I hope makes me a better and safer person to be around, because it means I’m more able to both celebrate the parts of me that I can, and be a compassionate witness to the parts of me that are hurting. And also be accountable to the parts of me that are not the best that I can be. But secondary to that, as a performer, my greatest hope is that it gives somebody permission to feel their feelings, which seems small, but it’s not. I want to permit people to feel their hardest feelings, and also permit them to just be seen. And I hope that—given the fact that my songs are frequently about material I think is really important, like trauma and rematriation and recovery—I also hope that people, and I do know that people, find solace and hope and belonging in at least some of that material. Which I think is the greatest thing I could ever do as a musician or performer.