Treehouse: "It Feels Like We're Living in a 3D Kids Animation" - Crimson Red Member Exposes the Dark Side of the Music Industry
Here I am—stage lights blinding, crowd screaming, living what a year ago was just me in my bedroom with a dream. Crimson Red. Our single blasting through the speakers, and I’m up here giving it everything I’ve got.
But honestly?
I’m not sure if this gig is going to take us to new heights or not.
Something feels a little off.
Don’t get me wrong—this is incredible. A year ago, I was nobody. Just another kid with a voice and a dream, singing into a hairbrush, imagining what it would be like to have thousands of people screaming my name. And now here I am, living it. But it’s not exactly how I pictured it.
A year ago, I got cast into this boyband. That’s the word they used—cast. Like we’re actors playing musicians instead of actual artists. They held auditions, picked us based on our “look” and our “vibe,” put us together like pieces of a puzzle they’d already designed. I remember walking into that room, nervous as hell, hoping they’d see something in me. And they did. They saw exactly what they needed to complete their vision.
I used to daydream about being a rockstar, you know? The real deal. Writing my own songs, playing my own instruments, connecting with fans through music that actually meant something to me. I’d imagine the freedom of it all—the creative control, the authenticity, the raw emotion of performing something that came from my soul. I thought that’s what this would be.
Then we got called into that meeting.
I’ll never forget it. We were riding high, thinking we were finally making it. Our single was getting some buzz, we had shows lined up, fans were starting to recognize us on the street. We thought they were calling us in to talk about the next album, maybe give us some creative input this time. Instead, it felt like someone dumped cold water over my head.
They told us we wouldn’t be performing at our next show. Just like that. No discussion, no negotiation. We were confused—had we done something wrong on stage? Was the performance not good enough? Were ticket sales bad?
No. It was because we were using profanity on the tour bus.
Yeah, you heard that right. Not on stage. Not in interviews. On the tour bus. In private. Just us being ourselves, blowing off steam, talking like normal people our age talk. Apparently, someone reported it. Apparently, that’s a problem.
And get this—they said the producer who’s over our label didn’t need to know about it. Like it was this dirty little secret they were handling internally. They made it real clear: if we complained, if we made noise about missing the show, if we tried to go over their heads, we’d be served legal documents. Breach of contract. Professional misconduct. All these terms they threw around like weapons.
I sat there thinking, “Is this really happening? Is this what the music industry is?” I’m not too familiar with how all this works—the contracts, the legal stuff, the politics of it all. But sitting in that room, listening to them talk about us like we were products on a shelf that needed to be managed, it hit me hard.
This feels… I don’t know, man. It feels like we’re living in a 3D kids’ animation. Everything’s bright and colorful and controlled. Every word we say is monitored. Every move we make has to fit their perfect little narrative. We can’t swear on the tour bus. We can’t post on social media without approval. We can’t even choose what we wear on stage without running it by three different people.
Sometimes I look around at the other guys in Crimson Red and wonder if they feel it too. This weird disconnect between what we thought we were signing up for and what this actually is. We’re performers, sure. We’re on stage, sure. But are we artists? Are we musicians? Or are we just… employees?
But here’s the thing—and I mean this—it’s still amazing to be part of something special. Even with all the weirdness, even with the restrictions, even with that nagging feeling that something’s not quite right, there’s something incredible about standing on this stage. About being in Crimson Red. About having people actually care about the music we’re making, even if we didn’t write it.
When I see the faces in the crowd, when I hear them singing along to our single, when I meet fans after the show and they tell me how much our music means to them—that’s real. That connection is real. Even if everything else feels manufactured, that moment of connection isn’t.
And maybe that’s enough for now. Maybe I’m overthinking it. Maybe this is just how it works, and I need to pay my dues, learn the game, play by their rules until I’ve earned the right to make my own.
Or maybe I’m lying to myself.
I just wish I knew where this was all heading. I wish that feeling in my gut would go away. The one that says something’s not quite right. The one that wonders if this single we’re performing right now is going to be our big break or our only moment. The one that questions whether we’re building toward something real or just riding a wave that’s going to crash and leave us right back where we started.
In our bedrooms. Alone. Daydreaming about what could have been.
But for now? I’m here. The lights are on. The music’s playing. The crowd is screaming.
And I’m trying to figure out if this is the dream or just a detour. If this is the beginning of something incredible or a cautionary tale I’ll tell someday about the year I almost made it.
I guess time will tell.
But right now, in this moment, under these lights, I’m going to give it everything I’ve got. Because even if I’m not sure about the destination, I’m damn sure going to make the journey count.
That’s all any of us can do, right?
Perform. Hope. And try not to think too hard about the legal documents waiting if we step out of line.
Welcome to the music industry, kid.