Off The Record With JBF w/ Special Guest Lavender Fire

There are artists who make music, and there are artists who make space—Lavender Fire does both.

Based in Virginia, Lavender Fire blends piano pop with a deeply personal narrative that’s as whimsical as it is grounded. Think mermaid vocals wrapped in the emotional honesty of Tori Amos, the theatricality of Kate Bush, and the unshakable heart of someone who’s found their truth and refuses to let go of it. She describes her music as a cocktail—with LGBT representation as a key ingredient—and every sip of a Lavender Fire song leaves something real behind.

I listened to her music late one night preparing for this interview and felt that familiar ache in my chest—the kind that tells you someone else has been where you’ve been. In this conversation, we talk about writing from places that used to feel too quiet to speak out loud, the magic of the piano as a truth-telling companion, and what it means to be visible in a world that sometimes wants you to disappear.

You describe your music like a cocktail—with influences from Tori Amos to Disney. When you sit down at the piano, which part of that recipe usually shows up first? The drama, the honesty, the magic?

It always starts with honesty. If I’m at the piano intending to write something, what comes first is what I’m feeling at that moment. And what I’m feeling is usually something that needs to come out and which I can’t express in any other way but through music. I’m a slightly neurodivergent person and so writing songs helps me to express what I’m unable to say in words. Then the drama comes. I want to take the listener on a journey. Yes I do have songs that are in the same mood throughout the whole song, but I like to take the listener somewhere, either lyrically or musically.

Then the magic comes in, with either a particular chord progression or a melody, and a whole lot of time to sit and marinate!

Do you find that writing from your truth—especially around your identity—comes naturally now, or is it still something you have to push yourself toward sometimes?

It comes very naturally now. But it wasn’t always that way. I used to have to push myself to do it. I was bullied mercilessly as a kid for being different, so I learned to hide a lot of my true self in order to try and fit in and be “normal.” I hated it, but I wanted to be like everyone else, so that’s what I did. And in an effort to be “normal,” I dated boys because that’s what all the girls did. I even married one and tried to start a family with him, in the hopes of being “normal.” I just wanted to be like everyone else because I was ashamed of myself. It’s taken years and also many hours of therapy to work through it all.

What really helped me to push myself toward writing from my truth, was working with Charlotte Martin. She’s a piano-based singer/songwriter whose music I was super into back in college and beyond. I was in my 30s when I started working with her over Skype when she started her own music school. For a number of years, she was my voice teacher, mentor, and even a co-writer for a few songs!

Since she also wrote music like I did, Charlotte always encouraged me to write from my “story,” as she called it. She told me my story was one of a woman finding her truth. It took time, but gradually, I began writing more explicitly lesbian songs, all under her guidance.

When you’re composing, do you imagine someone listening who needs to hear the same words you once needed? Does that listener shape your lyrics?

I absolutely do. I know what it’s like to feel alone, like no one understands you, and also the feelings of shame from knowing you’re different from everyone else. I understand what it’s like to feel ashamed of being different and being unable to express that because of what society wants you to be.

So when I’m writing a song that expresses something of my truth, I try to imagine someone alone in their room, listening to my songs the way that I did for my favorite artists, and having my music speak to them and let them know that there is someone out there who gets it. I want my music to feel like I’m reaching out a hand to someone and letting them know it’s OK to be who you are. That’s what the best music has done for me.

Your voice has been described as “mermaid-like”—do you lean into that ethereal, fairytale feeling intentionally when you write? Or is that just how the songs come out?

Not all the time but it does come out that way sometimes! I sound the way I do because of vocal training. When I was a teenager, I took voice lessons and the only voice teachers available taught Western classical singing. School of Rock didn’t exist yet!

So I learned how to sing in this very resonant and rounded way that is very different from modern pop music. If you’re wondering what I mean by this, think Phantom of the Opera. The tall vowels, the voice that can be heard without the aid of a microphone: that’s the singing style that I learned.

I unlearned a lot of those techniques in order to sound more contemporary. I sing in a little more natural style, though the resonance is still there. Also, I still use a lot of those classical techniques to preserve my voice. It’s the reason I can sing for three hours for a brewery gig and still be able to talk afterwards.

What role does the piano play for you—not just musically, but emotionally? Is it an anchor, a mirror, a memory?

For me, the piano is like a mirror. Whatever feelings I put into it reflect right back at me. If I’m happy, it comes out as happy. That’s how my song Lavender Fire started. I was feeling happy that day while waiting for a voice student and I started futzing around in E-flat minor and that riff started forming. It took a bit to get it to where it is now, but it was the start!

Other times, I may be feeling a little more contemplative and what comes out is something languid, flowing, and thoughtful. Or I might be feeling angry. I have an as-yet unreleased song called The Arsonist. When I wrote that song, I came to the piano with a lot of emotion. I was angry and ashamed of how I came out of the closet and of the mess I made when I did and the people I hurt. So what came out of the piano reflecting back at me was truly one of the angriest songs I’ve ever written.

I often feel like the piano is able to express what can’t even be put into words but is instead, pure feeling.

Has your relationship with songwriting changed as you’ve become more comfortable with your identity? Do the themes shift, or does the way you approach them evolve?

Not really! Songwriting has always been an outlet for me in the way I express myself, so the only thing that’s changed are my themes. I’m writing more about mental health, what it’s like to come out later in life, lesbian visibility, and what it’s like to live as your true self. Things that people don’t really talk about. I’ve yet to encounter another song about what it’s like to come out later in life, which was the root of my song Lavender Fire.

Is there a song you’ve written that you wish you could go back in time and give to your younger self?

What a great question! Yes. My latest single She’s My Ocean. I would go back in time and show my younger self that song as a way of telling her that it’s OK to feel love for another woman. And also that you don’t have to love the way that society wants you to be. There’s nothing wrong with you.

Do you ever find yourself protecting parts of yourself in the writing process—or has your music become the place where you can be the most unfiltered version of you?

Great question. I do sometimes protect parts of myself in writing, but not often. Music has really become the place where I can freely express myself. I have a lot of trouble being open with people about things at times, so music is my way of expressing what can’t be said out loud in a conversation.

I also think of Lavender Fire as a bit of a character. She’s the emotional side of myself, the side that was told was “too much” when she was a child. She’s also the proud side of myself, the side that has left the shame behind and is proud to be who she really is, a contrast to how I felt for most of my life.

How do you balance vulnerability and craft? Do you ever write something that’s too raw and then have to step back and ask, “Am I ready to share this?”

It’s a delicate balance. Fortunately, I have a stage name, so I feel I can be vulnerable but through a character that is a part of me but is also separate, if that makes any sense. Part of why I created this stage name was so that I could have a kind of character I could speak through and be that was just a part of me, not my entire being. I play a lot of RPGs (role-playing games), so I’m used to creating characters!

So I use Lavender Fire as a way of being vulnerable through something.

By the same token, I have another album’s worth of songs I could put out, but most of those songs are a little too raw. So even through my character as Lavender Fire, I still feel that “oh no this is too raw, I’m not ready to share this quite yet.” Maybe given time, I’ll feel comfortable sharing some of them, but not right now!

What does it feel like to perform your truth on stage in front of strangers? Is it freeing, terrifying, empowering… all of the above?

All of the above!

If I’m in the right kind of accepting environment (which I’ve been lucky to be in most of the time), it’s the best feeling in the world. Part of my thing is making sure people know we exist. We’re your friends, your neighbors, the people you pass on the street. And we have stories to tell that are just as valid as anyone else’s. And if I’m performing in an LGBT-friendly environment, you better believe it’s really empowering and freeing. Especially when I see other LGBT folks in the audience. I love it when another LGBT person approaches me after a set to tell me that my songs resonated with them and their experiences. That happened to me after I performed Lavender Fire once at an LGBT-friendly church. The lady who approached me after my performance was a late bloomer like me, so she understood those lyrics very well.

But at other times, it’s terrifying and I have to be cautious. If I’m performing in a venue that doesn’t seem LGBT-friendly, song introductions are vague, if I even do them to begin with. I also tailor my setlist to include more general songs and I don’t mention anything LGBT in between songs. Especially if it’s a venue where I hope to be invited back.

Do you ever write with specific visuals in mind—like a scene from a movie, a childhood memory, a glitter-drenched dreamscape?

Sometimes I do, and sometimes I don’t. For the more personal songs, it’s usually something visually specific that’s brought the song to light. For example, I have an as-yet unreleased song called Kinder Eyes which mentions a few sad childhood memories that have shaped who I am.

Other times, it is a scene in a TV show or a movie. There’s another as-yet unreleased song that I’ve so far only performed once because it takes a bit out of me to do, called Sometimes I Don’t Want to Be A Woman. This was inspired by a TV procedural I was watching with my wife. I was triggered by the violence against women in that show, so to process my feelings, I wrote that song.

Some songs feel like healing. Others feel like release. When you’re writing, do you notice a difference in those energies?

Absolutely. The healing ones feel calm, like I’m letting the song’s frequencies heal whatever I may have been feeling that drew me to the piano in the first place. She’s My Ocean was a little like that for me, not just because I wrote it about someone whose love feels healing. Beautiful Alchemy was like that as well. I feel like something deep in me is healing every time I play that song live.

On the other end of the spectrum are the songs that feel like release. Those are the songs that tend to be more dramatic and sometimes angry. A good example of that is a song I released under my old name and which I still perform sometimes, called Martyr. Also my as-yet unreleased song The Arsonist. That one is a release every time I sing it.

In your music, there’s a strong thread of hope woven into even the heartbreak. Is that intentional? Do you see yourself as someone offering a hand to the listener?

It’s not intentional but I realize that it does come out that way! I still don’t understand how inspiration works and when I’m sitting at the piano or if I’m in my DAW working on toplining a song I’ve just written a background for, I don’t always have control over whatever comes to me. I’d like to think that the hope is there because when I decide to write a song, it’s usually to help me find something positive in whatever is happening that inspired it in the first place. It’s to help me make sense of the noise in my head, and on that note, I do see myself as someone offering a hand to the listener. I want them to know that they’re not alone, that someone DOES understand.

Do you think there’s a certain kind of magic in writing queer love songs? Something that rewrites the narrative you didn’t see enough of growing up?

Oh absolutely! Growing up, I heard a lot of love songs, but they were always from a man to a woman, or vice versa. Never between members of the same sex. Not on the mainstream radio stations that my parents always played in the car.

However, a few crept through, even though I didn’t know it at the time.

Damn, I Wish I Was Your Lover by Sophie B. Hawkins was all over the radio when I was a kid, and I didn’t know until years later that it was a WLW song.

Then there was Melissa Etheridge. I heard all her hits on the local “adult alternative” station. Come to My Window, I Wanna Come Over, I’m The Only One…… I heard them all! In fact, I can say that one of the first times I ever encountered the word “lesbian” was in a magazine article about Melissa coming out.

Other than those songs, all the other love songs I ever heard were from straight people. What would it have been like for me to hear more queer love songs growing up? If someone like Chappell Roan had been around when I was a child, my life would’ve been made that much easier. I wouldn’t have felt so ashamed for knowing I was different. It would’ve felt more normal and not so out of place.

What’s one thing you hope someone feels the very first time they hear a Lavender Fire song—and what do you hope stays with them after?

I hope that they feel some kind of connection, like hope and understanding. I’ve mentioned before that I want my music to feel like I’m reaching out a hand to someone, so I hope that’s what they feel at first. And as for how they feel afterwards, I hope that they feel a little less alone, that someone understands you and where you’ve come from, and that it’s OK to be yourself, even if the world doesn’t want you to be.

If your heart had a setlist, what are the Top 5 Songs It Would Play?

What a cool question! Let’s see…. I would probably pick the top 5 songs that “made” me, if you will. The songs that have stayed with me the most through life and which are now a part of my soul.

They would include:

• Kate Bush – Cloudbusting

• Mylène Farmer – California

• Depeche Mode – The Sun and the Rainfall

• Charlotte Martin – Stromata

• Tori Amos – Girl

Finally, what fire are you hoping your music lights in people? Is it comfort, revolution, catharsis — or just a slow-burning truth they didn’t know they needed?

I hope that it’s a little bit of all of those! I think that some of the best music is the kind that makes you feel something and can even make you feel multiple feelings all at once.

Of all of those, I hope that people find comfort in my music. Whether it’s in the melodies, my voice, or the themes that I tackle, I hope my music can offer a comforting fire for others. Just knowing that someone else understands them, that I’ve been there before and you’ll get through it, even if it takes a while.

I also hope that it’ll awaken something in them they didn’t know they needed, or maybe something they’re afraid to admit to themselves. One of the themes I write about a lot is coming to terms with who you are and not being afraid of what’s in you. It’s hard to find who you really are when society wants you to be one way but you know deep down, you’re not that way. It can be hard to admit your own feelings and be true to yourself. No one knows that more than I do. I denied my own feelings and truth for so long, and I know I’m not alone in that.

Talking with Lavender Fire feels like sitting down with someone who not only found her voice—but fought for it.

In every answer, you can hear the years of silence she’s broken through, the truth she’s chosen to live, and the fierce compassion she now sings into the world. Her music isn’t just songs—it’s shelter. It’s testimony. It’s the echo of someone who made it out of the fog and is now lighting flares for anyone still trying to find their way.

She’s not just writing queer love songs—she’s rewriting the kind of stories she never got to hear growing up. And in doing so, she’s giving that scared, hidden version of herself—and anyone who’s ever felt like her—a place to land. A place to belong.

Lavender Fire wants you to know you’re not alone. That your truth matters. That the feelings you’ve been told to keep quiet deserve a melody of their own.

And if you let her, she’ll sing them with you.