My love affair with journalism began in a Las Vegas airport.
It was July 2007. I was 12 years old, browsing the contents of the magazine rack in the airport gift shop when my fingers grazed the newest issue of Rolling Stone, commemorating the 20th anniversary of Guns N’ Roses’ seminal debut album, Appetite for Destruction. Plastered on the cover was a photo of the band’s original 1987 lineup. Scrawled atop the first page of the story were the words, “Filthy. Sexy. Cool.”
I was hooked.
I tore through the pages, soaking in every description of Slash’s guitar tone and music video shoot. I basked in every quote from the band about their disastrous early tours. I got lost in vintage photos from Los Angeles’ premiere rock clubs.
Then, in a moment of clarity, I thought to myself, I want to do that.
I'm Bryan Rolli.
Failed New Yorker, reformed Austinite.
Freelance music journalist.
I've been performing in bands since I was 15, booking my own tours, making painful mistakes at every turn. My firsthand experience gives me a perspective that most writers lack. Musicians aren't case studies; they're human beings with fears and dreams just like us. Theirs just involve louder amps.
From top-dollar festivals to beer-soaked dive bars, I strive to cover as much music as possible. I haven't seen or heard it all, and I never will, but damned if that doesn't stop me from trying.