Meet Red Woodsum | Music Producer & Writer

We had the good fortune of connecting with Red Woodsum and we’ve shared our conversation below.

Hi Red, we’d love to hear about how you approach risk and risk-taking
While I’m now generally seen as the “responsible one” among my friends, there was a time when risk-management was an integral part of my treatment plan. Having been diagnosed with bipolar disorder as a teenager, reeling in my impulsive risk-taking became a primary focus for myself and my doctors/therapists throughout my coming-of-age.

Successfully, I eventually came to a point of adulthood where I no longer took the ride with a stranger or trusted every person in a suit who said they could offer me a business opportunity that would set me for life. I found myself with a comfortable office job for a hospital, complete with health insurance and a 401K. And yet, every change I got, I found myself fleeing to the LA underground music scene, even when it meant driving home at three in the morning to make my hour drive to the office just a few hours later. Against all odds, my impulse-driven self had found stability. Of course, though, I wasn’t satisfied, and I realized that everything I’d been taught to conceive success was wrong.

So, I jumped ship. I quit my job after almost seven years spent in an office, took an extended leave from my literary contract with a novel already out on submission, and decided to spend my time doing and pouring energy into what I was actually passionate about: music. Finally, I was ablet to stop cutting my life into pieces, straining to do both until I collapsed. You cannot live your truest life while spending 40+ hours a week pretending to be someone you’re not.

After months of stagnation, my life opened up, because I allowed it to. Only then was I able to learn how to produce music, host underground shows, find myself in writing in ways that weren’t possible before, and create art that genuinely reflected who I am. I found a way to create art that was congruent with who I was, and participate in the underground and queer music scene while also supporting my favorite artists and friends.

And, without risk–without the flinch, the blind leap to something different, just praying it will be different, I did it. And if not, I would still be sitting in a cubicle.

Alright, so let’s move onto what keeps you busy professionally?
I have a problem with control, or that of letting go of it. In anything I work on or create, I can’t help but feel like I have to do something totally different with it. I was raised around the idea that you have to sell yourself from a young age, and that being different is the only way to truly make yourself stand out. Perfectionism came as a symptom of this. Admittedly, though, much of what I do in my art and my work is to separate myself from that philosophy of life in any way I can.

We never sold tickets for Fluid, it was free to anyone, regardless of if they could afford it, and we paid out all of our artists. We weren’t concerned with making money, we were concerned with putting on a great show and giving our incredibly talented friends jobs for the night. Even in my writing, I’ve often felt conflicted with the idea of creating a book that sells versus creating a work of art that does not follow the traditional rules of publishing.

My music is where I exercise the most control, though. That is where my story, voice, and soul come together into one cohesive three-minute-space of time, and that is why I had to learn how to do everything myself. I have been songwriting since adolescence, since my parents brought home a baby grand piano our church gave them. In every song I write, I aim to both communicate who I am now in a way that I have not found possible in any other medium, and also to lace my history in every sound and melody. I remember presenting my final at IO Academy for my vocal recording class, a song comprised of tens of instruments, an entire rack dedicated to sounds made solely from my voice. I was the only one who had recorded more than two lines of vocals, and it took me almost 40 hours of editing on the main vocal tracks alone. At the end, one of my classmates came up to me, not knowing much about hyperpop or any of the music that I drew inspiration from, and said, It was just so… Red.

That song is called KING and it will be my first single. It holds notes of choir backing vocals, reminiscent of my days in the Cathedral choir before I was asked to leave after kicking a boy in the balls. In the buzz of the synth, I can feel the electropop that made me fall in love with music in high school. And in the bridge, I see myself two years ago, having risked my life for $250 and having survived nearly being trafficked. Mostly, though, in my voice, I hear me, the self I am now, the truest version I have ever been, almost a year on testosterone–I hear how much my voice has dropped, and I feel freedom in every note.

No one else in the world could make this sound, they wouldn’t even know why. That’s why I have to make it.

Any places to eat or things to do that you can share with our readers? If they have a friend visiting town, what are some spots they could take them to?
For food, I would tell them to check out You Kitchen in Alhambra. It’s a bit out there in the suburbs, but they’ll be the best dumplings you’ve ever had. And, for the perfect beef dip sandwich, check out Phillipe’s in Chinatown. My favorite, though, is a private dinner from Chef Abel, host of Aguita Dinner Club.

If you’re looking for a place to party, I’d recommend Church of Fun, a DIY space in East Hollywood that hosts everything from punk to techno. I’d also tell them to go to NonPlus Ultra in South Central or 1720 in DTLA, who hosts Heav3n and various other parties and shows, and to remember that music is always best underground. Some parties I’m loving right now in particular are NiteSlut, Hack the Planet, and, of course, Fluid.

For shopping, get your Sonny Angel fix at Neko Stop or Monkey Pants in Little Tokyo. For upcycled and thrifted clothes that aren’t contributing to fast fashion, check out the Silverlake flea, or some smaller markets like 562 Flea (@562flea) or 88 Trade (@88trade) to support local artists and sellers in Los Angeles.

The Shoutout series is all about recognizing that our success and where we are in life is at least somewhat thanks to the efforts, support, mentorship, love and encouragement of others. So is there someone that you want to dedicate your shoutout to?
There were three things that came together to educate me and push me to be the person I get to be today, and those things were: IO Music Academy, Fluid, and Briana Wolf.

Before IO Music Academy (@iomusicacademy), and my education from the instructors there, co-run by Andy Caldwell (@andycaldwell) and Adam Johan Weimann (@adamfromjoluca), the farthest I could take a song was to the piano. I had spent a year or so writing songs at my keyboard, processing something that I couldn’t yet articulate in more exact terms. I would show my songs to friends, who would tell me, Oh, my boyfriend can help you produce this, or I would meet older men who would swear to me that they could make me famous overnight if I just gave them my real phone number.

Eventually, I grew tired of waiting for someone to understand my music in the way that I did intuitively, but I had no idea how to turn some piano chords and lyrics into a fully-fleshed song, and I felt helpless relying on largely men to help me make something so innately part of who I was, something they could never understand. So, I became the boyfriend, I got to work and transformed myself into the guy in the chair that I supposedly required to make a real song. Through my time at IO Academy, I was able to learn how to actually use Ableton without having a panic attack, and after three years, I can hold my own in the chair so I don’t have to rely on anyone to manifest what’s in my head into what comes out of the speakers. As a naturally impatient person, I truly didn’t want to take the time to learn how to be a songwriter, performer, producer, and audio engineer all at once, but I knew that I was the only person who could conceptualize the distinct sound I needed to create.

Since childhood, I have used songwriting as a way to process, heal, and transform my emotions, trauma, and identity. During this time, I used music and songwriting to process as I came to terms with what was, at the time, the most terrifying and exciting revelation I had experienced: gender. And, for the first time in my life, I found myself experiencing stage fright for the first time in my life. Suddenly, after years of seeking validation in run-down karaoke bars, singing for any willing crowd, the moment that I realized their perception of me (based on my voice) did not align with who I was, I found my throat closing up the second I held the microphone. The spaces I found myself, trying to sing for others, though, were not places where I’d find people that could understand these conflicting, inherently married, parts of me. So, I stopped singing, and for a while, I thought I might just produce other people’s music. Then, came Fluid (@fluidprsnts).

What started as an over-ambitious birthday party in my backyard turned into the trans and queer-run underground space and party that I had been aching for, the space that would cradle me into being able to perform again, and would guide me into truly finding my voice. After spending a winter in isolation, tending to my fragile mental state in my new and empty house, the community came to me, and I was finally able to participate and give to my community what I had been taking for years. Fluid is a queer and trans-run event space, and we throw DIY shows that don’t know how to follow rules. We host everything from punk bands, techno DJs, hyperpop stars, drag queens, burlesque performers, firebenders, mermaids, aerial performers, and more, with tattoos and vendors in the back, and basically anything else that fits the night’s theme.

At our first party, I decided to perform an unreleased song for the first time, and I still had not successfully sung in front of anyone post-stage fright. So, I threw all my focus into throwing the biggest party of my life, trying not to think about the impending performance. I remember thinking: if it doesn’t work this time, that’s it; I’m done. With the help of my co-runner, Ayesha Fernandez (@itsaayesha), though, this was no longer a birthday party. This show was not about me. People came from every corner of all of our intersecting communities to show up for the performers we’d given jobs to, the artists we’d given a space to sell their art, and barely anyone knew it was my birthday. And, when it came time for me to perform, I looked back at the DJ, our sound guy, who happens to be one of my closest friends, Kingston McGeee (@cocoabuttercurtains_), felt a comfort I had not known in a crowded space since I came out, took a breath, and broke the curse in just over three minutes.

From there, Fluid has expanded, we’ve taken every party further than the last, because of the relationship we’ve fostered with our community, with the people who come back every time and beg us not to move to a warehouse. It has given me the faith to go outside again, to meet people who make me fall in love with music all over again, and has led me to some of my favorite people, and allowed me to support them in ways I couldn’t before. Fluid became so much more than a party, than a show, even. At every show, there would be a moment when I would find Ayesha in the crowd, we would make eye contact, during a performance I could not believe was taking place in my backyard. At PYROMANIA, it happened while we crouched at the front of a crowd of over 200 people with our cameras out as Freak Daddy (@topfreakdaddy) performed behind a ring of fire. Moments like those taught me that the risk is always worth it, and that, with the right people, you’ll pull it off, whatever it is.

Which leads me to Briana Wolf (@brianaw0lf). I wish every person I worked with saw the world the way Briana does. I truly believe the music industry isn’t doomed if we have more people like Briana in it. Briana met me during a strange time in my life; the person that they met would be barely recognizable to the person answering this question today. I had spent the past year dissociating on drugs, and was so out of my mind when I met them, I worried I’d messed it up completely by the time we finished talking. Over year later, after crossing paths time and time again between sets at shows where friends were performing or DJing, after talking at Fluid, I received a message from them asking me to be part of their femme and trans-focused songwriting camp that I had been stalking on Instagram for the past year or so. Excited and nervous, I spent the entire day before downloading and upgrading my Ableton subscription to hang with the big kids.

Briana is one of my most present and caring friends, and my favorite person to be in a studio with. We made the best song I’ve ever contributed to that day and performed an unreleased version at the last Fluid show. In one summer, I went from choking every time I held the mic to feeling alive on stage again. I have Fluid and Briana to thank for that. Not only is Briana an incredible producer, though. They are also an amazing community organizer and education advocate. Now, we get to explore a new journey together, and are planning on constructing and offering a trauma-informed songwriting workshop where participants will be guided through expressing, processing, and healing from trauma through songwriting. We’re working to include a combination of sound healing, music therapy, trauma-informed somatic exercises, and pair each participant with a songwriter to aid them in coming out with a song they can listen to throughout their healing process along with somatic exercises they can return to. After spending a lot of time in the studio with them, I am so excited to breathe life into this project with them.

Instagram: @fckboyred

Image Credits
Photo credits: Ayesha Fernandez (@itsaayesha)