The first gig I ever played was at a club called Pig n Whistle in Hollywood. I sang to a handful of bargoers, pint after pint in hand, and my parents, sitting front row. They were there because they wanted to be—but also because, legally, I couldn’t have entered the bar without them. I was fifteen.

Psychologically, I wouldn’t have made it this far without them either. They’ve always mirrored my dreams, stepping in where I ask, lifting small weights off my back—both figuratively and literally. My dad used to carry my guitar from the house to the car, from the car to the venue—at every single show.

Then I moved to New York.

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